#I might float on AO3 though but I’d end up on a list somewhere after I published it

[youreyeslookliketheocean]

youreyeslookliketheocean’s DSMP Fic Recs!!

Figured it was about time for one of these... :)

Mostly SBI-centric because they’re my favorite dynamic. I’ll probably add to this list as time goes on, and I also want to go back through my ao3 history and find some lesser-known fics I really enjoyed to rec them all. But for now...

* oneshot  ** unfinished work

** the lights go out (my heart goes still) by curseworm

With his old home unwelcoming and his new one gone, Tommy is alone. After hours of staggering through the freezing snow, he finds a cabin.

Technoblade’s cabin.

He hides himself away in the deepest corner he can find, taking only what he needs to survive, wasting away in the cold and the dark. He’s petrified at the thought of being found out, terrified of what he thinks Techno would do to him.

When Techno finds his injured teenage brother huddled in a filthy little cave beneath his basement, the rage he feels is immeasurable. The voices demand blood, and blood he will give them. Dream won’t be getting away with this one.

(On the other side of the world, in a country that floats on a man-made lake, Philza gets himself in a bit of a pickle.) 

** The hearth down under by Crystalquill

A tiny change gives Tommy the courage to flee to the Nether instead of the cold tundra, finding an unlikely ally in the midst of a fiery hellscape.

But tiny changes can alter the course of history. The SMP will never be the same.

(Lots of cool Nether worldbuilding in this one!!)

to be a wanderer, wandering by hydrangeasheart

Tommy's feet drag in the snow.

It's so, so cold. He's so cold. His toes are freezing. His exposed shins feel like they’ve been cut open-- even the one that’s bandaged. His wings have gone numb, which is almost, almost good, because now he can’t feel the shifting, broken bones inside of the left one, just under feathers and muscle.

He doesn’t know why he’s still walking.

-

Or, Tommy leaves the exploded ruins of Logstedshire behind, and walks until he finds somewhere safe.

And things keep going from there.

(A canon-divergent AU, splitting off somewhere around when Tommy started hiding out below Techno's house.)

that’s, like, a hundred miles by No_one_you_know (and then “as long as i’m here”, and “he’s my brother, i just raise him”)

Dream would kill him. Dream was going to kill him- he was going to- no, he wouldn’t. Dream was his friend- friends don’t hit each other- Dream was supposed to take care of him- Dream /was/ taking care of him.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. He couldn’t clear his thoughts as he stumbled to the family computer, pulling up a tab on google and frantically typing the name into the search bar.

The words Technoblade Watson stared back at him, the little black bar at the end of the letters blinking slowly, mocking him.

Why, of all people, did it have to be Technoblade?

in short: the one where dream sucks as a parental figure, tommy runs away, and visits his least favorite family member technoblade.

passerine by thcscus(blujamas)

Do I really need to put the summary here? Pretty much everyone knows this fic. Also, though, if you enjoy this one you should totally read thcscus’ connected fic, “shrike”!! It’s only at 2 chapters right now but it’s already really good and has this dark, foresty aesthetic I love...

not with a bang but with a whimper by dip_dyed_ghost

He knows Tubbo doesn’t care about him anymore. He knows that. He’s been shown that. But it doesn’t stop Tommy from caring about him. He brushes the pads of his fingers over the compass’s glass and wonders how he’s doing, if he’s tired of it all yet, if he needs help. He watches the way it points strongly in the direction over the ocean. He hopes he’s alright.

Even after everything, he hopes he’s alright.

During his exile, Tommy finds a drugged and hurt Tubbo on his doorstep. He can’t not help him.  

(This one has a neat take on potions, in my opinion. Also it’s only 4 chapters so it’s a quick read!)

take this compass, follow it home by lightning_anon

Tommy's a fuck up, he can't pay attention, and never sits still. He taps his hands, pushes people away, and has never had a best friend. He's a screwed up, forgotten kid lost in the foster system. He's also just been placed with a new family. Tommy knows how this goes, he never ends up staying long. After all, no one wants a fuck up like him.

Why would this house be any different?

Or: the obligatory sleepy bois foster fic, but with a focus on the neurodivergent kids that inevitably get lost in the system.

(Genuinely want to see more books like this in original fiction. It’s part of what inspired my newest og wip, “To Build a Home.” So sweet and I feel like I had my eyes opened to some neurodivergent tendencies I never knew existed. I read this in a day and can’t rec it enough.)

bloodlines by youreyeslookliketheocean

Tommy’s an orphan on the run from his previous guardian. Philza’s a king who prides himself on keeping his kingdom in an era of peace. Wilbur’s the crown prince, and Techno’s right beside him as his adopted brother. When Phil’s kingdom of Pogtopia is threatened by the bloodvines—a strange, brainwashing plant infecting many of the surrounding kingdoms—the four must work together to keep the kingdom, and their family, safe. --- A royal au sbi fic... + the bloodvines, for spice.

(Yes I’m self-promoting. But, in my defense, I’m very proud of it. If you checked it out it would mean the world to me :’))

Heat Waves by tbhyourelame

Dream has always held a gentle admiration for George, but when their nuanced friendship trickles into his sleeping mind, he awakens to a new world of conflicting emotions and longing. Lost in the midst of a heat wave, he continuously listens to a song that works itself in to the very core of his heartache. Floridian nights, unsent messages, spiraling infatuation, and terrible, terrible weather.

Another fic I think pretty much everyone knows about. Listen, listen... I was once an idiot who said “Oh no, I’ll never read Heat Waves. It’s irl, not characters, and it’s probably cringe”... No. I was so wrong. This fic is wonderfully written, with a pretty quick moving plot and great characterizations. You do need an ao3 account to access it, though. Just to let you know. (Also read “Helium”, unfinished and hasn’t updated in awhile, but it’s the continuation). 

Guitar Strings and Keyrings are What it Takes to Build a Home by Anonymous

Techno was adopted by Phil when he was 12 years old.

He'd been enjoying his morning before Phil came to him asking if he would mind them taking in another kid. Against his better judgement, Techno agrees and ends up with two new foster brothers who he was determined to not get attached to, no matter what.

Tommyinnit’s unbeatable method of avoiding sudden death by eneliii

“I uh,” Tommy starts, not knowing how to break this to the hero lightly. He hates to be the bearer of bad news. “I think your powers are broken? It’s not a bad thing of course, but like, I swear you tried to mind control me and it like, totally failed. Which is fine, honestly, don’t feel insecure. Everyone’s power stop working sometimes… I think.”

Sheesh, this is very awkward. Why is no one else talking? Why is Philza looking at him like he grew three heads? Why is the Blade staring at him so intensely? Why is Willow still frozen?

“Did I, did I hit a nerve? Yikes,” Tommy hisses, “Well um,” He steps back, bracing his legs and bending his knees, “This was like super fun, but I’m - I’mma head out.”

or,

in which Tommy manages to annoy the hell out of Phil, Techno and Wilbur by being both impossible to catch and irritatingly endearing.

or or,

a crack fic where Tommy is a vigilante and Phil, Techno and Wilbur are the heroes hunting him down.

(Feel like I am obligated to say how incredibly funny this fic is. Seriously. I have a distinct memory of sitting on my neighborhood park’s swing, giggling hysterically, while reading this. Well...until the end... but we won’t get into that...)

** bones in the ocean by bunflower

“Your reputation precedes you, y’know.”

“Does it, now?” Philza watches him coyly from where he’s now leaning against the wall, arms folded around his chains and gaze half-lidded, his lips curled in an arrogant, cat-like smirk.

“The Angel of Death, the ferryman of the Styx, the terror of the western seas. One of the most feared captains ever to sail, and yet, I have to wonder… how did a man like you end up all on his own? We searched the area where you were found—not another soul in sight. So,” He fixes him with a long look, allowing the silence to hover like a dark cloud, the words rolling off of his tongue with all the venom and smugness he can muster, “—tell me, Philza. Where is your crew?”

OR: Technoblade is a naval captain, and Phil his unwilling prisoner. Somehow, they manage to come out of it as friends in the end.

(Is this fic considered popular like passerine/Heat Waves now? Cause I feel like it’s reputation precedes itself, at this point... Pirate au.)

****

Okay! That’s it for now. Like I said, though, I want to add to this over time and also dig back for some older things I’ve read. Also, if you have any recs feel free to send them in! I’m about to go back to school and therefore might not have time for reading fun stuff, but whenever I get the chance I’d love to check them out!!!

Happy Reading!!

[yamisnuffles]

Blitzed

On the night a church is bombed and books are saved, Aziraphale gives in to what he wants. Crowley can't understand it but is more than willing to follow wherever the angel will lead him.

Rated E. Read on Ao3

Based on my art.

- - - - - -

Crowley was deeply familiar with pain. Every demon was baptized in that sulfur pit, their former grace a smouldering ruin. There were myriad other examples each and every one of the Fallen could list, bother utterly merciless and utterly mundane. Crowley had gotten used to most of it. He was up on Earth and free as he could hope to be, barring some unforeseen miracle. Could maybe be a little better off but that would require him to be without his own very unique brand of suffering. A near century long nap had taken some of the edge off hard denial. Off fraternizing .

The problem was, as familiar as he might be with pain, he wasn’t the best at handling it. That was why he’d added a fresh layer in the form of charred feet. It was why he was talking too much. He tended to do that, he knew. Unfortunately, knowledge of a problem didn’t magically cure it. If it did, his life would be much easier and he wouldn’t be rattling on about decades he knew nothing about firsthand because he’d been asleep and Aziraphale couldn’t know he’d been asleep. If the angel noticed he was bullshitting, he didn’t let on. Didn’t really let on to anything. He’d been about silent since Crowley handed over the books and currently looked a bit like he might be sick as he clung to those same books.

Were the books a mistake? Probably a mistake. A step too far. He was always overstepping and ending up with his foot in his mouth. Or his… everything in that pit of boiling sulfur. And so he talked to stop from thinking, even if Aziraphale wasn’t listening. Especially if Aziraphale wasn’t listening.

He very nearly sent up a prayer when they reached the bookshop at last. Instead he said, “Here we are.”

Aziraphale still didn’t say a word. Crowley dared a proper, straight on look rather than the surreptitious side-eye he’d been giving. Just above a powder blue shirt collar was a pulse that looked to be going faster than the Bentley had a moment before. Neat fingers gripped the handle of the case of books like Aziraphale was afraid he’d fall right off the face of the planet if he let go.  Wide, mirror eyes reflected what little light there was in that bomb filled night and then were hidden behind fluttering lashes. Then, with no warning or obvious cause, Aziraphale stilled completely. Closed eyes. Not a single breath.

When he finally moved again it was to just about throw himself bodily from the car. Crowley made a more measured exit. His eyes were glued on Aziraphale’s every hurried step and a good thing, because the angel nearly fell on his face tripping over the curb. Wouldn’t have been nearly at all if Crowley hadn’t caught him.

Worry overcame his usual restraint and he held firm to Aziraphale’s shoulders. He dipped his head so that he could look Aziraphale in the eyes. “Are you alright?” One thunderous beat of his heart and Crowley pushed further. “I can stay. If you need me to. Want me.”

Aziraphale started doing that rapid blinking thing. Something too complicated passed over his face and was replaced by surety before Crowley had a chance of understanding it.

“Yes. Yes, I think you should stay.”

Crowley’s heart drummed again. When Aziraphale turned, smiled, Crowley forgot all about the need to breathe, the pain in his feet, anything that wasn’t a smile so bright it felt deadly in the middle of a blitz. This close he could smell hints of the near century between them. There was a new cologne and old books, life during a war and peace in the back of a musty old shop. Crowley wondered if he still fit in somewhere amongst all that. He was frozen in that moment, pondering, until he realized the thing grounding him there was the solid weight of Aziraphale against his palms. He quickly removed his hands and shoved them deep into his pockets.

“After you,” he said with a nod toward the door.

“Right, of course. Silly me. I should unlock that, shouldn’t I?”

Aziraphale finally broke eye contact and Crowley felt like he could finally breathe again. He shuffled a careful distance behind. He slipped inside as smoothly as he could given the pain of each step. The moment he was able, he leaned against a wall and tried to arrange himself in a way that surreptitiously took pressure off his feet.

Aziraphale locked the doors and, just like that, the world outside ceased to exist beyond the blacked out windows. Lights in the back of the shop sprang to life with a snap. Apparently no miracle was frivolous in a time like this. Or maybe Aziraphale had stopped caring so very much. Crowley wished he’d been around to find out which.

“Would you care for some wine?” Aziraphale asked, already winding back through the shelves. “I for one could use a good drink after tonight. I have a lovely Cheval Blanc that I’ve been saving.”

“Don’t open it on my account. Can’t imagine it will be easy to get a replacement anytime soon.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t seen you in nearly a century. I think this is as good an occasion as I’ll get. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I could use an excuse. I’ve had few enough recently.”

“Well then,” Crowley said, “don’t let me stop you. Demon. Meant to inspire you to indulgence.”

Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek and gave a smile that strained to be bigger regardless of his best efforts against it. “It’s settled then.”

He puttered off, deeper into the shop, and Crowley was pulled inexorably after. It felt like walking through a dream to be back in the shop with Aziraphale happily chattering away about everything that he’d been up to in the last seventy odd years. How many times had Crowley had that very dream? And yet not a one of them matched up to the reality. He never could have guessed how it would feel to step back into a life so changed. Yes, the world at large was different and he was glad to have woken up with time to figure it all out. The thing, though, that got him was how his memory matched up to the current reality of the shop.

There were new books. New furniture. But it was all only new to him. There was love written into well handled texts. Chair cushions showed where Aziraphale had sat countless times over years, if not decades. It was all thoroughly lived in and every minute of that life devoid of Crowley, all because of a stupid argument and an even stupider decision to sleep his despair off, as though it was something to be quickly gotten rid of.

Aziraphale hadn’t settled into any of his well loved furniture nor had he retrieved the bottle of wine. Instead he was floating about, putting his books of prophecy down one place only to immediately pick them back up and put them somewhere else. Crowley flopped down into the corner of a leather sofa and watched as the angel flitted to and fro.

“Are you hot?” Aziraphale asked. “It seems rather a bit too hot in here.”

Putting words to action, he immediately stripped off his coat and tossed it on the couch next to Crowley. His hat followed soon after. Crowley tried not to think too much about that golden banded halo, so thoughtlessly discarded. Instead he let his eyes flick over to the coat rack and then back to the angel who was currently toeing off his shoes. At this rate, he’d be down to nothing in a minute or two. Crowley swallowed over his increasingly dry mouth.

“Are you sure you’re alright, angel?”

Aziraphale stopped, fingers on the buttons to his waistcoat. “Yes. Absolutely fine. Finer than a frog's hair split five ways.”

“Finer than…? Do frogs have hair?” Crowley shook his head. He took off his hat and placed it delicately next to Aziraphale’s and then pushed out of his seat. His feet screamed at being used again but he grit his teeth and ignored them. He put a hand on Aziraphale’s wrist. “Just stop for a second, would you?”

And he did. When he looked at Crowley, the blue of his eyes had gone grey under a furrowed brow. He stilled completely for a moment and then reached up to take the sunglasses from Crowley’s face. He folded them, gently opened Crowley’s coat, and placed them in a pocket there. His hands lingered on the lining and moved up to the lapels where they stayed.

Crowley’s feet could have caught on fire in that moment and it wouldn’t have been enough to get him to move. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. When he saw Aziraphale track that movement, his breath was aborted in his throat and he was fairly certain he blacked out for a moment. When his brain started again, words tumbled out too fast to stop.

“Are you- What is- You seem like… Was it the thing about the frogs? I know frogs have- don’t have- hair. You know what, maybe I should just leave. Survived one bomb tonight and so I’m feeling pretty good about my chances out there.”

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“Please shut up for a moment, would you?”

“Yep. Shutting up. Now.”

The moment Crowley shut his lips he found them covered by Aziraphale’s. The first thing he thought was that he couldn’t believe he had Aziraphale’s lips on his own. The second was that there was a word for that and that word was kiss. He was kissing Aziraphale. Or, at least, Aziraphale was kissing him. Finally came the thought that he really ought to be kissing Aziraphale back. Like many of his best thoughts, it came too late.

Aziraphale released Crowley’s lapels and broke away. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I shouldn’t have presumed. It’s only that, with my books…”

Crowley let one of his incisors dig deep enough into his lip to draw blood. “Was that all that was? Some way to thank me for the sodding books?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “No. Of course not. I only realized, well I’ve felt it for so long that I’d almost stopped noticing, but tonight confirmed it.” Those lips that had so recently been pressed together in a kiss, curled up into a beatific smile. “You lo-”

Crowley swallowed the rest of the word with a kiss. He couldn’t hear those three words, not said for him and certainly not if Aziraphale wasn’t going to say them back. For an excruciating moment, he thought Aziraphale wasn’t going to kiss him back now that he’d had time to think better of it. That moment fell away when the angel sank into it with a small, sweet whine. Crowley tried to focus on that, on the noises he could draw out and the taste of ethereal lips, instead of anything that might have been said or wouldn’t ever be said.

With his wits about him this time, he was able to appreciate just how blessedly soft everything about Aziraphale was. His lips were pliant. His stomach and thighs filled in every bony gap Crowley had. Then there was the worn velvet of his waistcoat under one hand and a cloud of curls under the other and Crowley gripped both as tight as he dared. Some foggy corner of his brain wondered if he pressed himself close enough if he could lose himself entirely in Aziraphale. Only way to find out, he supposed, was to try.

He pressed his tongue to the seam of Aziraphale’s lips and was granted entry with a soft moan that grew louder as he roved ever deeper. He was suddenly glad they’d skipped the wine because now all he could taste was Aziraphale and it was the only thing he wanted to taste for the rest of his innumerable days. He pressed tongue to tongue and licked along even teeth. He was too intoxicated by it all to realize that his own heady, hungry sounds were being added to the chorus.

Crowley could never have imagined he’d want more but there was so much more of Aziraphale and he wanted it all. He kissed along the gentle curve of an angelic jaw. He nipped, testing, at an earlobe and licked down, over tendon, thrumming pulse, and to the small peak of his Adam’s apple. He let his tongue fork slightly over that charming colloquial, just enough to savor the irony and cause Aziraphale to let out a needy whine. Or maybe it had been Crowley himself. He was no longer particularly interested in finding that line where one of them ended and the other began.

Nor, it would appear, was Aziraphale. He all but ripped off Crowley’s jacket and cast it aside before fumbling with his tie. While Azirphale went high, Crowley went low. Aziraphale himself had already done away with his waistcoat while Crowley was occupied elsewhere, so it was a simple task to unclasp braces and flick open the button to his trousers. They fell into a pile around Aziraphale’s ankles. Crowley worried it was too much— he was too much— and yet, for all his softness elsewhere, Aziraphale was half hard already and rolling his hips in search of friction. Of Crowley.

Crowley gripped the flesh and tugged Aziraphale closer. Head to head and mouth to ear, he asked, “Tell me, what do you want, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale dug his fingers into short cropped hair and tugged so that they were looking each other in the eyes. This close there was no mistaking how much black had overtaken stormy blue. “You.”

That one word shuddered through Crowley and undid millennia of hedging and denial.

“Fuck.”

Breath ragged, he surged forward to close what scant distance remained between them. He could feel desire rolling off Aziraphale in waves and he wanted to drown in it. Instead of letting it wash over him, he lapped up every bit. It wasn’t pretty. Noses bumped and teeth clashed. It was frenetic and sweaty. It was, in a word, perfect. That should have been Crowley’s first sign that it all was gonna go to shit.

In the midst of all that twining of tongues and limbs, Aziraphale stepped onto Crowley’s foot. Not hard. Not the sort of thing he would have noticed any other time but this time, when he had a cock pressed against his stomach, this time of course he had scorched feet. He jolted and hissed in pain. He bit his tongue, hoping his pain somehow had gone unnoticed. It hadn’t. Of course it hadn’t.

Aziraphale stilled and stepped back. “Sorry. Clumsy of me to step on-” His eyes widened in horrified understanding. “Oh! Your feet! Why didn’t you say anything? How could I forget?”

“It’s fine. Just… twinged a bit when you stepped on them.”

Aziraphale paced in place, over one step and back, as though he didn’t have his cock out. Crowley was tempted to grab it and make him forget all about his stupid, bloody, inconsiderate feet.

He realized he hadn’t taken the time to appreciate it. Appreciate any of it. He’d always imagined, when he’d dared, taking things slow and relishing every article of clothing removed. Instead, he barely remembered half of it. He felt certain he would have remembered stripping away Aziraphale’s boxers and yet, there they were, in a pile on the rug with his trousers. He was caught staring at them when Aziraphale stopped fluttering about like a very fussy butterfly.

“Come here,” Aziraphale said.

The Principality didn’t wait for a reply. He put one arm behind Crowley’s knees, the other behind his shoulders, and lifted him as though he was nothing. Crowley flailed in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to take care of your feet.”

“ Now ? We were sort of in the middle of something.”

“That can wait.”

“It can-” Crowley sputtered, losing the war for words in the haze of his lust addled brain. “I think your dick, which is poking me in the back right now, by the way, would argue otherwise.”

Aziraphale ignored him and carried him across the room, back to the couch. He was gently deposited on top of some of their discarded clothing. “Stay there,” Aziraphale said.

“Stay- where are you going?”

“I need to retrieve a few things.” Aziraphale only made it a step before he came back to prop Crowley’s feet on a chair. “There. Stay right there.”

There was a small edge of divine command that Crowley was certain Aziraphale hadn’t intended but which made the skin on the back of his neck tingle. It also triggered that part of him that very much wanted to disobey every firmly given order. Had it come from anyone other than Aziraphale, he probably would have, no matter the damage to his own feet in the process. So he crossed his arms and had a good sulk. He tracked Aziraphale’s movements by the tremendous amount of noise he made, first turning his kitchenette upside down and then crashing through his flat upstairs.

Aziraphale returned with an assortment of fluffy towels over one arm and a large ceramic bowl held out before him. The bowl was placed on the ground with enough care that the water within it barely rippled. The largest of the towels was spread out next to it, and then Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s feet and moved the chair they’d been resting on aside.

Crowley watched it all unfold, strangely transfixed, until Aziraphale started to untie his shoes. “I can take those off myself, you know.”

“Nonsense. They need to be removed with care. Your socks as well.”

“Aziraphale-”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was sharp but it softened right along with his expression. “Let me take care of you. Please.”

“Hrnngf.”

Aziraphale rightly took that as assent. Crowley could hardly watch him but he also couldn’t look away. An angel was kneeling at a demon’s feet. An angel with a flagging but still very much present erection, without a stitch on below the waist beyond a ridiculous pair of tartan socks and even more ridiculous garters to hold them up, and pale skin marked by the drag of blunt nails. And somehow that was all nothing next to the gentle curl of kiss stained lips or eyes that sparkled with something private and warm and liable to kill Crowley on the spot if he looked too deep.

Luckily there was pain to distract him, a far more familiar distraction than... whatever that had been with Aziraphale not long ago. Or was going to be before his traitor feet had interrupted. He was tempted to spend the rest of eternity as a snake just to spite them for their impudence.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said when a hiss escaped from between Crowley’s clenched teeth.

“It’s nothing.”

No matter how easily the lie came to Crowley, the sibilance of it gave him away. Probably Aziraphale would have known anyway. He pursed his lips as he slowly rolled up the bottom hems of Crowley’s trousers.

“The shoes were the easy bit, I’m afraid.” His hands were on Crowley’s ankle, the thumbs rubbing gently over the bone. “Perhaps I should get that wine after all. To help with the pain.”

“Just get it over with, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded and peeled off the first sock. The fabric clung to Crowley’s raw sole. He clenched his teeth until he heard them creak in his jaw. Once one foot was bared, it was lowered delicately into the basin of cool water and Aziraphale was on to the next foot. Crowley sighed at the immediate relief the water brought.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Erm, thanks.”

Aziraphale fiddled with the rolled trousers, though the hems were in no danger of getting wet. “I suppose you already tried to heal them yourself?”

“Yeah. Think something about the consecrated ground. Divine retribution or some such. Can’t fix it with a demonic miracle.”

“Right. So I thought.” Crowley shivered as Aziraphale ran thoughtless fingers under the water and to the edge of wounded flesh. “Do you mind if I try?”

“Sure. What’s the worst that can happen?”

The water could, he suppose, get accidentally blessed and reduce him to a steaming pile of nothing goo. Not that he would say that. He didn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate the visual. Aziraphale must have had a similar idea because he pulled Crowley’s feet out of the water and went so far as to push the bowl aside.

Hands once more gingerly cradling Crowley’s ankles, Aziraphale closed his eyes. The miracle probed gently, slower and more tentative than Aziraphale usually worked. His miracles always left a taste something like honey and paprika on Crowley’s tongue, sweet with enough of a kick to make things interesting.

“There now, that’s better.”

Aziraphale kept his hold on Crowley’s legs but lifted one so that Crowley could get a better look. The soles were the bright, slightly dewy pink of new skin.

“They’ll still be tender for awhile, I’m afraid, but your trespass has been forgiven,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle to punctuate.

Even knowing it was meant in jest, there was a squirming in Crowley’s chest that he didn’t care to examine. He wriggled in his seat but that movement only served to tighten Aziraphale’s grip on him.

Crowley frowned. “Gonna keep me here forever?”

“I don’t think,” Aziraphale said slowly, rubbing circles over protruding ankle bones and working his way up to Crowley’s calves, “that I’m quite done taking care of you. If that’s alright with you, that is.”

“Hrnf. It’s whatever.”

Aziraphale shifted his grip so that he had more freedom to move. If Crowley cursed moving too fast to savor things earlier, he’d changed his tune. Aziraphale was looking at him like a buffet and Crowley felt a mix of awe and terror at being on the menu. He held his hands aloft, not sure where to settle them. Yes, Aziraphale had his nose pressed somewhere just east of his cock but he couldn’t put his hands on him. So he started with his fingers digging into his own scalp and stiffly moved to drape arms over the back of the couch in a show of false bravado.

He wanted to protest. No, he didn’t want to do any such thing but he felt like he should protest. Should at least want to protest. There was Aziraphale, bent in reverent supplication and handling him like the most cherished thing in the world. No matter what he did, he made sure to hold Crowley’s legs in a comfortable position, his feet never so much as whispering over the carpet below. He kissed over the exposed edge of sharp hips, up along lean sides, and then down. Every press of his lips was a benediction that only burned for the rush of blood that followed.

With his hands occupied, Aziraphale was forced to use his mouth to do everything. When meandering progress brought him back to Crowley’s now rather tight trousers, Crowley moved a hand to intercede.

“If you’re going to be so precious about my feet, at least let me get that,” he said, waving at his fly.

“Don’t you trust that I have everything well in hand?” Aziraphale asked. “Or, I suppose I should say, in mouth.”

And then, as though it was just the kind of thing he did all the time, Aziraphale used his teeth to undo the straining button and caught the zipper pull between his teeth. He slowly dragged it down, all the while maintaining eye contact with Crowley.  That was the nail in Crowley’s proverbial coffin. He let out a fully undignified keen, the pitiful pitch of which he couldn’t be fucked to care about.

Once freed, his cock sprang out with a sort of eagerness that might have been mortifying if he had a spare thought beyond the heat of Aziraphale’s breath and his intense gaze. Why was Aziraphale staring? Was there something wrong with his cock? Was it all the garishly red hair around it?

“Look, you don’t have to-”

Aziraphale’s tongue hit the base and moved slowly up. Crowley’s eyes slammed shut involuntarily as his head flew backward. He forced them open and forced his head back up. He wanted to paint that image onto his retinas. He didn’t ever want to see anything else. He’d seen that mouth around food, around forks, around fingers even. Now-

“Fuck,” Crowley panted.

Aziraphale let out a pleased hum that turned Crowley’s insides molten. His whole world reduced to the feeling of that mouth on him. That tongue. Those lips. In even his wildest imaginings he had never thought to see this, to have Aziraphale between his legs sucking him off. And he was entirely at the angel’s mercy. His hips ached to move, to get more , closer , but the angle of his legs didn’t allow it. He needed something, though, and so he finally relented and put his hands on Aziraphale. His fingers dug into the meat of Aziraphale’s shoulder and tangled in his curls. It had to hurt but Aziraphale only moaned and smiled around Crowley’s cock.

Crowley couldn’t understand any of this. He couldn’t fathom Aziraphale actually wanting this, enjoying this . How long had Aziraphale wanted this and why had he finally acted tonight of all nights? Was Crowley going to have to don his best suit and burn his feet every night from here to the end of the world? Because God knew he would. Oh, what he wouldn’t have given to be in Her head at that moment, to know what She thought about the Guardian of the Eastern Gate sucking down the Serpent of Eden’s cock like it was the Cheval Blanc that was still collecting dust somewhere.

That thought made his muscles spasm. Contract. “Aziraphale, I-” I love you. Have for the past six thousand years and maybe you’ve finally found me out. Maybe that’s all this is. Pity. And maybe it’s just tonight. But even if it is, I’ll love you still. Always. Always. Always. “I’m close.”

Aziraphale moaned and took him deeper.

“Fuck. Aziraphale. Fuck. I-”

His jaw snapped shut with a clack, his back arched, and his eyes closed against the explosion of color behind them. A supernova, he thought somewhat deliriously. He’d had his hand in a few, back when he’d been good for creating things. Now, Aziraphale had as well. Or a mouth, rather. Maybe Crowley would suggest he name it. The humans only ever gave them a series of numbers and letters.

Crowley melted into the couch, panting. He opened his eyes just in time to see Aziraphale licking his lips as he stood.

“Jesus Christ.”

Aziraphale only smiled as he took Crowley’s legs up with him and swung them around so that his feet could be propped up on the arm of the couch. Crowley was too insensible to protest. What he did protest was Aziraphale stepping away. Crowley quickly sat up and caught the fleeing Principality by the wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I was going to fetch our clothes and then perhaps finally break open that bottle of wine.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley looked pointedly at Aziraphale’s flushed and leaking cock. Aziraphale’s cheeks turned a similar color before he turned his head away.

“Tonight was about you. I wanted to show you how much I… how thankful I am.”

Crowley’s heart twisted, a flaming sword to the chest. “Yeah, well, I’m feeling really fucking thankful now, so come here.”

He didn’t give Aziraphale time to make excuses. He used his grip on the angel’s wrist to pull him down on top of him. Aziraphale yelped in surprise but did nothing to fight against it as Crowley adjusted them both so that Aziraphale was between his legs. Crowley rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

One by one he undid the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt. Every stretch of skin unveiled was a thrill. He ran a thumb over the pert, pink flesh of one of the nipples. He swept his knuckles through the near white cloud of chest hair and followed its trail down, over a soft stomach, to the place where it darkened to blond in the juncture between thighs. He let the pads of his fingers sink into plush flesh, not yet moving to his intended target.

“Why did humans ever invent clothes?”

He hadn’t expected an answer because he hadn’t entirely meant to say that aloud. Aziraphale gave one anyway. “I believe it had something to do with a tree. And an apple. And a snake.”

“Right. Well, time to do my penance for that, I suppose.”

He took Aziraphale’s length in hand. Aziraphale drew in a sharp breath and pressed back into Crowley. A guttural sound escaped Crowley’s mouth before he buried half his face in the thick muscle of Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Crowley had some hands-on experience. As in, his own hand on himself. He knew what he should do, in theory, but the reality of having Aziraphale in his grip, both hard and velvety soft all at once, was a different thing altogether. What did Aziraphale like? Did he enjoy the same pressure? The same speed? Crowley prided himself in being a quick study of things Aziraphale enjoyed and he was damned sure he was going to get it right. He was willing to spend all the time in the world to find out. He carefully catalogued every reaction, each wiggle, moan, and gasp until he had Aziraphale panting in his lap.

“ Oh .”

He sounded so surprised to find himself cared for. It spurred Crowley onward. He slowed the pace just enough to get Aziraphale thrusting up into his fist in search of more. And Crowley would give him more, give him whatever he wanted. That Aziraphale wanted him only served to make Crowley’s head swim.

He was going to lose his mind. He grabbed onto Aziraphale’s chest with his free hand. There was fat there, that wondrous softness that he adored, but also muscle. Strength. He remembered how easily Aziraphale had hefted him up earlier. So damn strong and so damn much. He’d let himself be pulled down and he was letting Crowley control things now.  Everything felt suddenly hot and hazy.

“What do you want?” Crowley asked, desperate for a focus.

Aziraphale put his hand around Crowley’s and guided him. “Like that,” he gasped. “Just like that.”

Crowley followed his lead to the letter. Aziraphale bucked upward and it was all Crowley could do to try to hold him close. He could feel all those glorious muscles tense on top of him. Crowley’s own hips stuttered in rhythm with Aziraphale’s movements.

“Crowley.”

A demonic name sent up like a prayer. Aziraphale said it like he’d never had anything more blessed on his tongue. Crowley blinked away the moisture that had gathered in his eyes. He buried his face deeper into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale’s entire body shuddered and in another moment, Crowley’s hand was painted with the wet heat of him. Crowley rode the crest of that wave with Aziraphale and did his best to guide him down again. He felt entirely boneless by the time it was all over. It was all he could do to snap away any mess so that Aziraphale wouldn’t fret after it and would, perhaps, lay with him a moment longer.

Aziraphale shifted but didn’t get up. Instead he pulled an exceedingly rumpled suit jacket from underneath him. “Oh dear.”

“Don’t worry about it, angel.”

“But you looked so dashing in your suit.”

A small squeak escaped Crowley’s mouth and he cleared his throat. “Eh. If it makes you feel any better, think I’m sitting on your waistcoat.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale scrambled up to his feet. Crowley might have been offended by being cast aside in favor of a piece of clothing, but he was too distracted by the fact that Aziraphale had lifted him up to retrieve said clothing.

Aziraphale put Crowley back down and then held out his waistcoat to examine it. “I’ve had this for nearly a century and now look at the state of it,” he said.

“It’ll be fine, angel. Just get it laundered.”

Aziraphale looked at him with his bottom lip wobbling and Crowley sighed. He gathered up what energy he had left and snapped his fingers again. Aziraphale was dressed tip to toe once more in regular immaculate fashion. He was about to do the same for himself when Aziraphale caught his hand.

“Let me clean them for you,” he offered as he gathered up the discarded clothing. “You really shouldn’t be back on your feet just yet and I can take care of them while you rest.”

“Rest,” Crowley repeated. He blinked. “Wait, you mean here?”

“Well, not there, precisely. I have a small flat upstairs that you can use. I assume the bed would be more comfortable than the couch but I haven’t used it, myself, so I can’t speak definitively.”

“Right. Here. Sleep. Uh…”

He felt like he should say something. There were a lot of unsaid somethings hanging in the air between them still but he was worried if he mentioned any of them, whatever little bubble they were currently in would burst. It couldn’t be too bad to shove that all under the rug for one night, could it? He’d lived through a lot of pain and would gladly live through more if it meant just this one night in Aziraphale’s good graces. Even if it made a space inside him ache so keenly he thought he might split in two.

“Yeah, sure. Why not? Lead the way.”

Aziraphale stooped and gathered Crowley up into his arms once more. “Your feet, remember?”

Crowley’s brain rang with the high pitched squeal of a tea kettle. Once he was sure it wouldn’t escape his mouth when he opened it, he said, “Right, just go ahead and manhandle me. When have I ever gotten in the way of what you wanted to do?”

Aziraphale beamed at him and pressed a featherlight kiss to his temple. “Never, dearest.”

That one word had the power to fell Crowley and perhaps tomorrow it would find its place amongst his many handpicked scars. For the time being, though, he thought he could forget to hurt.

[youichi-kuramochi]

dearest viv,

how the FUCK do you connect scenes?

i forgot what sign off i was gonna use

started with an r

umm

fuck. whatever

i cant remember if it was regards or respectfully. maybe respectfully?? yeah since i was yelling?? ok

respectfully,

honey ʕ ﹒ ᴥ ﹒ ʔ

ALDFKJGALDFKGDLFJ THIS WAS THE FUNNIEST ASK TO WAKE UP TO THANK YOU FOR THAT OMG

ANYWAY............ do u mean like in general or me personally lmao bc my answer to the second is probably like. totally unhelpful bc I just kinda vibe it most of the time when I’m writing adflkjagdfk at least first drafts. editing is another story (standby. we’ll get there lmao)

[sidebar: OH MY GOD THIS ANSWER GOT SO LONG I’M SO SORRY IF THIS WAS A JOKEY ASK AND I JUST RAMBLED UNNECESSARILY FOR LIKE FOREVER I am just. I am very passionate about writing even though my own process is a Mess aldkfjglkgf anyway I’m putting this under a cut bc uh. this really got away from me]

alright so theoretically??? I think transitions are less important than like. there should be a point each scene is trying to make. it either develops character or plot or relationships or any combination of those, and you need to have enough to make that point and then it can end (though I overelaborate a lot so. idk. I don’t think I follow most of this advice even though I understand it In Theory adlfkgjlkf). similarly, when you string the scenes together, they should to build towards a larger narrative arc. like because character a learned this thing about themself in the previous scene, now they can confront character b about something else. or because of this character establishing moment, we can now have this character do this thing because we, the readers, now have some insight into their motivations/fears/desires/etc. or whatever. I guess this is sort of about transitions lmao but the point is that the larger narrative should connect, not that you need to be super careful always about making the words/physical scenes themselves connect, if that makes sense

imo scenes can start and end abruptly and like as long as the narrative point is made you don’t really miss out on much. I’m terrible at actually doing this which is why my fics all wind up so long but I don’t mind it at all when I’m reading. I think it’s really cool when someone can make a really powerful point with far fewer words than I ever could. idk who told me this maybe a professor or maybe I just read it somewhere but it’s often a good move to drop readers right in the middle of the action like you don’t need that much buildup to it (unless the buildup serves a purpose. maybe your character is hesitating. maybe they’re overthinking.) you might need more buildup/general exposition in the beginning to get us acquainted with the world of the fic, but especially as you go on, exposition only as needed can be a good move. something something kill your darlings, y’know?

actually this last bit I do follow sometimes lmao I often wind up with several pages of just. unused text that I’d written and then decided was extraneous to the point I was trying to make or made a scene drag on or just didn’t click. like for my current ongoing fic, I have entire scenes I’ve cut. I wrote 2k of a high school scene that I ended up only using slivers of for flashbacks. there was a scene when onigiri miya opened at one point. for my bkak big bang fic I literally have over 6k that I took out completely that if I had kept in would’ve given the whole thing a completely different tone that I decided I didn’t like after I’d already written like half the fic. so I scrapped them. I usually save these, not do anything with really but just because deleting text forever is hard lmao so saving the writing somewhere, if not in the fic itself, makes it easier for me to cut

ALL THAT SAID it’s also totally cool to just trust your gut and run with a vague idea. like this kind of writing should be fun and I wouldn’t let worrying about this stuff get in the way of having a good time. and also everyone’s process is different!! everyone’s writing style is different and your writing probably won’t have the same tone or style as writers you admire and that’s okay!! it’s a good thing, even, imo. that’s what’s so cool about writing and honestly a lot of my favorite writers do not write like I do and I love that

and when I said I vibe it w my fics I really honestly do 90% of the time. I usually have a general sense of where I’m going but it’s more enjoyable for me discover things on the way. some people swear by outlines, I fundamentally do not other than like. AT MAX writing a short bullet point list of scenes I want to include as I think of them bc my brain is like a sieve. and usually weeks after starting something, I’ll write a line/paragraph/scene and have an epiphany like oh my god. oh my god I get what this whole piece is trying to say. (this is my favorite part of writing tbh. discovering that moment) and once I have that, it’s much easier to figure out what belongs and what doesn’t when I go back and edit earlier scenes and make sure that everything ties together

and also, finally, (sorry I know I’ve been rambling for a while now I swear this is the last point) I want to note that all of this gets easier and more natural with practice. I’ve been writing for over 10 years, on and off. ao3 says I have 500k+ of published fic, not to mention I probably as much if not more from abandoned wips that will never see the light of day AND a bunch of stuff floating around on livejournal (lol) from the pre-ao3 days, so I have written. a LOT. and over time you sort of hone your intuition about what works for you and what doesn’t and at least for me, now I think a lot less abt the nitty gritty and just go wherever my writing takes me and I’ll usually land in the general vicinity of making sense. I think anyone can get there (or wherever it is you’d like to be if this isn’t your style). the trick is just to keep writing! it’s a skill like everything else ☺️

[tellthestoryofmybrokendreams]

Rollercoaster

Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender

Pairing: Zuko/Katara

Status: Complete

Words: 1,927

AO3 Link 

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Desc: Katara has her ups and downs. Sometimes they’re bumps in the road, and sometimes they’re a ride on an Omashu mail cart. Zuko learns more about her everyday as she surprises him and they grow together. But these surprises are the things he loves about her.

(Or, a story of Katara being everything Zuko could ever want or need, and an examination of just how exactly they got together.)

A/N: Hello again my loves! This is second in my new series based on my love of Zutara, my love of Bleachers, and the ways they intertwine. I explain better in the first fic, but these are in track order, not chronological order, and the whole set contains two continuities.

Now, let's get on with Zuko drinking his loving Katara juice lmao. Enjoy!

If someone were to ask Zuko to list Katara’s flaws, he supposes he could. She has a temper, she holds grudges, and she tends to make impulse decisions without realizing the consequences. She cares almost too much, especially about the people she loves, to the point where he thinks if any of Team Avatar had to die to defeat the Fire Lord she might let Ozai and Azula win. Though, really, the same could be said of him.

And it’s not like he particularly cared about or looked for her “flaws” anyway, he’s just heard Toph and Sokka complain about her. Or maybe he got annoyed once or twice at her attempts to help everyone they come across, despite the weight it puts on her shoulders.

Everyone has a flaw or two, everyone has a negative aspect to their personality. He would know, he’s got a top twenty list for himself. And he spent his childhood surrounded by people dominated by their flaws.

That doesn’t mean she’s not incredible, though. He thinks often about their own “life changing field trip”, and how powerful she was, how that trip changed how he saw her and made everything make sense. Before they left, he knew she’d had lessons with a waterbending master, and that she was teaching Aang. But whenever he imagined her, thought of their last fight, he hadn’t even imagined her full power. She’d been good, but he’d thought it surely was just because of the full moon. To see her reach inside someone and take control of the water inside them? That was the moment he recognized that she was a true master, probably one of the best water benders in the world.

That trip overall had been a lot for the two of them, the tension was thick and she went out of her way to avoid touching him. Their last meaningful interaction was weighing on them both.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the team, Katara had come to his room for a second time after he returned from Boiling Rock. She wanted to know exactly what had happened, and her brother refused to tell her. She’d perched herself on his window sill as he sighed, sat on his bed, and thought back to try to give her every detail. Spirits knew he’d want to know everything if she’d brought his mother back to him.

He hadn’t noticed at the time, but as he recounted their daring escape, tears had slowly filled her eyes. She’d curled herself into a ball slowly as she took in the information. And when she heard him describe their final fight with Azula and Ty Lee on top of the gondola, and coming so close to dying, she stood suddenly. He finished explaining how he knew if Azula was there, she’d have a war balloon before looking up, noticing her sudden movement and startling.

She took a tentative step closer to him, then hesitated, “What would you have done? If Mai hadn’t saved you I mean.”

He shrugged, “Well, I’d grab Sokka, Suki, and your father, and try to do that move Azula did. Shoot fire and use it to propel me as I jump. If I couldn’t make it, I’d throw them up, either to the rim of the volcano or so they could grab the other line and climb it.”

She considered for a moment, nodding, before freezing and narrowing her eyes slightly, “If you did that, you’d die.”

“I’d die if I didn’t do it-”

“No, the gondolas are probably built to float.”

“Well either way, it was more important for them to survive. You and Aang need Sokka, Sokka would never forgive himself if Suki died, and I refuse to let the two of you lose your second parent. Aang progressed quickly with firebending, he could have gone on and taught himself decently without me. It would be an honor to die and save some of the most important people in this fight.”

Katara almost seemed to tremble as her mouth fell open. She took a small step, then another, before practically sprinting towards him and throwing her arms around him. Shocked, he almost didn’t return the embrace. After a second she pulled away, still leaving her hands on his shoulders despite the slightly awkward distance between them, and he stared at her in confusion.

She looked conflicted, unsure of herself, as she looked him in the eye before whispering, “Th-thank you Zuko. That was good of you,” she paused, before returning to her normal tone when addressing him, “But I...I still don’t trust you. This doesn’t change that.”

He deflated a little, “I kno-”

And she suddenly shot up on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his. This time, it was almost instinctive. He kissed her back fiercely and went to wrap his arms around her waist.

Before he could, she was out of his reach, a look of shock and horror on her face that morphed into anger as she quickly bent the water from the glass by his bed to fall over his head. She turned on her heel and stormed out, muttering under her breath. Her words were rapid and blended together, and his head was spinning, so even his above average hearing couldn’t make sense of it.

They hadn’t discussed it, not even on their expedition, but he knows it’s the reason she was so hostile between then and when they faced Yon Rha. At the time, he was completely bewildered. He was certain she’d kissed him, but then she was so angry and disgusted, like he’d forced himself. He knew he hadn’t, and she probably would have done more than released water over his head if he had, anyway.

And then she was yelling at him about her mother when he tried to talk to her about how she was acting, and he figured out what she was thinking. Really, it was just what she’d said beneath Ba Sing Se. The Fire Nation took her mother, and when she thought of the Fire Nation she pictured him. Throw in her bizarre fury over their even more bizarre...incident, and of course she was cold and angry with him.

He knew he had to make it up to her, make everything up to her, and he figured getting closure for her mother was exactly what she needed. Whatever closure meant to her.

Their adventure to get said closure was...eventful. She proved herself a force to be reckoned with, and he silently thanked the Spirits that he’d switched sides when he did. He was certain she’d now be able to stop his heart with a flick of her wrist if she wanted to.

And when they climbed back on Appa’s back, she’d immediately curled up in a ball in the saddle. He pulled a blanket from his pack and gently laid it over her, before taking the reins and steering Appa toward Ember Island. All this time discussing her past had made him think of his own, and a safe haven it held.

“I know somewhere we can stay for now,” he called back to her, “And I’m gonna take us there and drop you off before I go get the others.”

He thought he saw her nod.

But when they touched down at his family beach house, and he explained what it was and led her to a bedroom to rest, the rain outside became a heavy storm with far too much lightning for Appa to fly safely. So he stayed the night in the house with her, waiting for the rain to let up. He’d given Katara his mother’s room, but as he stood upstairs in the hallway he knew his childhood bedroom was not where he should stay.

He made his way to his father’s old room at the end of the hall and stepped inside. This room had the most dust, despite their servants usually cleaning before a trip, since Ozai hadn’t come to the house with his family for years even before they stopped going altogether. Zuko shook out the bedding before climbing in and falling asleep quickly as his exhaustion hit him.

These circumstances usually led to dreamless sleep, but he was still chased through his subconscious by long, dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, just as he had been every night since his return from Boiling Rock. If he was truly honest with himself, she’d haunted him since he first laid eyes on her at the South Pole.

The next day, the rain was still pounding down outside. He lit a fire and they sat down together in front of it, drinking tea that had probably gone bad. They were silent, until he asked how she was doing and she sighed and turned to face him.

“I’m ok. I feel better than I have in a while. I don’t know if it was weakness or strength that I didn’t kill him, but I don’t think he deserved it anyway. He is a cowardly, empty man, and death would be too kind. I embarrassed him by beating him so easily, and by finding him too pitiful to bother killing. He will suffer with his crimes for the rest of his life, be imprisoned once we win, and die a slow death in his old age, hopefully from a painful disease. I think I did the right thing.”

He smiled, “If you feel it was right, then it was.”

She stared at him all morning, and he pretended not to notice. When he finally was able to leave and get the rest of the crew, she looked at him unabashedly, smiled, and said goodbye.

When the whole Team Avatar came back and saw that she wasn’t in the house, he and Aang went out to look for her on Appa. Finding his favorite waterbender sitting on the dock and swishing the ocean with her feet, he stood back and allowed Aang to talk with her. He wasn’t really listening, it was a private conversation, and probably a repeat of their own exchange. He did tune in when he noticed her stand up angrily.

“I didn’t forgive him. I’ll never forgive him,” she told Aang, hard and direct and letting him know he was wrong this time. But then she softened and turned to him with a smile, “But I am ready to forgive you.”

She walked toward him, and he stayed still, waiting for her next move. And she launched herself at him and threw her arms around him. He felt his inner fire expand as another drive cemented itself in his soul, “Be everything Katara needed him to be.”

And from then on, she was always by his side and he was always by hers. They were Yin and Yang, and they made each other better. Even before they told their friends, they knew they were each other’s one and only. She led him into battle and adventure alike, and he loved every bit of her. She was fun and incredible, his favorite person in the world. She continues to surprise him as she did on that first trip together, and they run free together with no plans to ever stop. Stuffy Fire Nation politics couldn’t even begin to hope to contain them. Each of her flaws only makes her more beautiful, another aspect of the woman he loves. He never knew what would come next with her, but he knew and trusted every bit of this girl with every bit of him.

[gaystardust]

Domesticity [Kanera Week Day 3: love languages/show of support]

Synopsis: Love Languages were created to explain the different ways that people show love to those around them. They are: physical touch, acts of service, quality time, words of affirmation and receiving gifts. Hera and Kanan have been together long enough that these are routine - but that doesn’t make them less important. And Kanan has a plan to prove that. Rating: General Audience Warnings: Mentions of Kanan’s past, mentions of dysphoria involving a non-POV character. AO3 Link: [link] A/N: Please note, this fic also contains badly used Mando’a, trans!Ezra, and some very out of character behaviour. But I refuse to believe that Kanan, raised in the Jedi Temple, which is objectively a communal society, wouldn’t have a streak of domesticity hidden not-so-deep in his personality. @kaneraweek

  The ship was finally quiet, no kids running around, no Lasat causing problems, no calls coming through from somewhere or another. It was a peace they didn’t often get, and one Kanan had looked forward to for hours - days even.

He didn’t bother knocking before he entered Hera’s quarters, kicking off his boots as the door closed behind him.

Hera was sat on her bunk, leaning back on the pillows, datapad held up in front of her face. Her nose was scrunched up as she read, her focus so complete that she didn’t react to Kanan entering the room, even though she must have noticed.

Kanan padded over quietly, sitting on the end of the bed so he could pull her legs over his lap.

Hera didn’t even look up from her pad. “Hello, love. Everyone in bed?”

He ran his thumb over her ankle in little repeated circles.

“Just about,” he said quietly, not wanting to break the quiet feeling hanging over the room. “Zeb is walking Kallus back, and I dropped the kid back in his bunk.”

Hera laughed as she continued to flick through her notes. “Didn’t manage to beat you at being awake, then?”

He hummed instead of replying, leaning back against the cool metal wall. His eyes flickered shut, fingers still running over smooth skin.

Hera’s voice was light and beautiful even in her teasing. “Looks like he only just lost.”

A hand looped behind his neck, gently pulling him sideways until he was lying on his side. His forehead pressed against Hera’s thigh and a hand reached to scratch against his scalp.

The noise he made was one of complete bliss, followed by a huff of frustration when the hand moved away.

“Come on love, come here,” Hera said quietly, leading him with a hand under his arm, until Kanan lay directly beside her, head on her shoulder, arm over her waist. “Want to watch some more Starstreaks?”

It took a moment for him to process the question. “I thought you were doing work?”

“It can wait until the morning.” Hera pressed a kiss to his temple as she scrolled through the options on the datapad. “Right now, I just want to spend time with you.”

Kanan melted further into her, but almost immediately felt more awake. It had been weeks since they’d managed time to themselves, and months more since it had been move than a few stolen minutes between jobs or wrapped in post-mission exhaustion.

His arm wrapped tighter across her body.

He’d missed it.

“As long as you’re sure.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” Hera pointed out quickly. “So, Starstreaks?”

“Ehhh, I’d rather watch something with a little more action.” Kanan reached out to flick the screen further, pulling up the other series they were watching. They were almost all long-running series they hadn’t seen before, with a few comfort comedies thrown in. Nothing caught his attention.

“What? Don’t want something that’ll make you cry?” Hera asked, making Kanan snort.

“I don’t think we’ve ever watched something that makes me cry.” When Hera broke into laughter, he did too. “I’m serious! We haven’t!”

Hera shushed him, putting her fingers ever so slightly over his mouth. “Okay, okay! I don’t believe you, but the kids are asleep and we don’t want to wake them up.”

Kanan hummed to himself, looking over the list. “Are we actually going to watch it, or are we just using it for background noise?”

He felt Hera shrug more than he saw it. “I don’t mind.”

Nodding to himself, Kanan hovered over West of Jeddha, an action film old enough that he could remember smuggling it into the Creche with Cal and Ferren. He didn’t say anything, just waiting for Hera to react.

Hera knew all of the layers of what he wasn’t asking. She settled back against the pillows, reaching to tap it herself.

She pulled him closer as the film loaded through.

The opening monologue was one Kanan knew maybe a little too well, mumbling the words as they were spoken in that one Outer Rim accent used in the films, the one that barely covered the actors’ own Core Worlds accents.

“Nothing we did could have saved us. People said we had to hope.” His voice dropped lower, crackling over the next words with over-exaggerated emotion. “No. Hope would get us nowhere. What we had to do was fight.”

Hera scoffed. “I hate that line. You might need to fight, but you still need hope. Otherwise you’d burn through your energy for the cause without accomplishing anything.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kanan rolled his eyes, jabbing her in the side. “You say that every time we watch this.”

She hummed in quiet agreement, watching the opening credits roll. Kanan shuffled to get more comfortable before he spoke up again. “How was your day?”

“Busy,” Hera huffed to herself, reaching up to scratch her nails across the back of his head. Her fascination with his hair had its benefits. “Reports, meetings, planning. The same things I do every day, but still exhaustingly different.”

“That’s the nature of rebellion.” He didn’t bother keeping the infuriation out of his voice.

Hera shoved him slightly, fingers tickling across his side. “How was training?”

“It’s going well, I think,” he replied with a small frown, “Ezra learns quickly, but his focus is… well, it’s not great, is it?.” Again, Hera hummed in her agreement, nodding. “But I know he’s trying, and it seems to be going well, so I can’t complain.”

“Good,” Hera turned to press her lips to his forehead. “I’m glad, I was worried how it would go today after so many missions without a training session.”

Kanan shrugged. “Hey, every mission’s practice, even if it’s not the kind we’re hoping for.”

They fell quiet again, and Kanan let him become absorbed in the characters on screen. One, a monk who cared for the Temple of the Whills, was staring across a long, winding river covered in brightly dyed flowers. Around him were crowds of people, enjoying the festival of light and colour.

“If we ever get out of this,” he said quietly, not wanting to speak the words out loud, “we should visit Jeddha.”

There was a pause, but he could feel Hera watching him. “Did you go there? Before?”

‘Before’ was a tenuous concept, but one he felt settle around him. Something bubbled in his stomach, a feeling of deep sadness he took hold of for only a moment before releasing it with a long exhale.

“No. We talked about it, how we should go so I could visit the Whills - every Padawan back then did, at some point during their training - but, well…” He didn’t mean to trail off, but he couldn’t say out loud what he needed to say, “You know.”

Hera’s arms tensed around him, a comforting amount of pressure settling around his body. On screen, the monk had returned to the Temple. Red materials floated around him, caught on the same breeze as the smoke from the burning buildings just out of shot.

“Are you sleeping in here tonight?” Hera spoke just as quietly as he had done, as if the quiet felt important to her as well. “I might need to be up early, for a briefing with Ahsoka.”

Kanan just nodded, unwilling to break it. He settled himself further into her warmth, letting comfort wash over him like it rarely did. “Of course. Always.”

——-

Kanan woke when Hera stirred, twitching her legs as she finally woke up. He was alert instantly, but Hera took her time before leaving the confined space of their bed with a kiss on his temple. Moments later, she padded out of the room towards the fresher and the highly coveted water shower that was only available when they docked for long enough.

Kanan, on the other hand, preferred showering later in the day. Maybe it was the difference between her jobs and his, but he would rather wait until he had wrangled his unruly padawan into some kind of physical training, making him sweaty and actually in need of a shower.

And, besides, he had a plan to get on with. A very, very important plan.

He pulled himself upright, heading for the collection of clothing that sat in one of Hera’s draws (one that he maybe should count as his, but still didn’t). His trousers would be clean, there was no point replacing them, but he tried to change his shirt every day when he could.

He left his jumper on the floor where he’d thrown it the night before. It would be fine - it had survived worse.

He didn’t bother with his boots either, his socked feet padding quietly along the corridor to the living area.

The kitchen space on the Ghost was cramped, not great for cooking anything complex, but they made sure to keep it well-stocked for the crews’ favourites - including the recent addition of some spices Kanan had never heard of, but Kallus seemed to enjoy.

From the cupboard, he pulled the fluffy grains Hera preferred, and some of the flatter oats the kids did, settling for mixing the two together in the same pot with plenty of water and some powdered milk. Into there he added some of the seeds he’d left out to soak overnight to turned a sticky, pale pink. They would keep the porridge thick and silky, despite the lack of real milk they had on board.

As they cooked, the orange and red of the grains mixed with the blue of the milk, washing the whole meal out to a strange pink-grey. He dropped in a collection of sweet-spices at random, along with some sugar they had lying on the side.

Keeping half an eye on the pot, which was cooking slowly on the low heat, Kanan turned to the hydroponics unit on the opposite side. They had handfuls of berries and a few meiloorun they’d managed to steal from an Imperial supply line a few days before, and honestly, it was impressive any were left.

Slicing the fruit was meditative, the bubbling happening on the back, the smell of warmth and comfort. He could sink into the feeling of preparing breakfast for his partner, the kids, whatever Zeb counted as.

Moving meditation was not his favourite, but Kanan could appreciate it on a morning like this.

The door slid open, revealing a sleep clothing-clad Sabine, still rubbing her eyes. She looked, if anything, a little lost. “Kanan?”

“Hey, ad’ika.” Rex had called Sabine that when they first met, and the look on her face had made Kanan adopt it. He didn’t regret it yet. “Everything alright?”

Sabine’s hair fluttered as she shook her head, the blue and green of her fringe mixing from its neat lines. “I can’t find my paints.”

Kanan blinked at her, moving to stir the porridge again. “Isn’t it just in your room?”

“No!” The amount of pain in her voice - definitely a side effect of just waking up - showed her age in a way she normally didn’t. “I can’t find it anywhere, Kanan. I think Ezra moved it.”

He shook his head, not doubting it but also unwilling to wake Ezra and Zeb up to find out. He folded his hands over his arms, “You sure he moved it? You haven’t just run out because you keep ‘losing’ paint cans while we’re on missions?”

If looks could kill, Kanan would be thoroughly dead. “I’m pretty sure I would remember if I’d lost it all.”

“I’m not doubting that,” he hummed, smiling at her. “How about breakfast before we start looking?”

Sabine sighed for a moment, but sad down without argument. “Where’s Hera? She might have seen them.”

Kanan shook his head. “She’s busy today.”

It took a moment for Sabine to accept, but eventually, she pulled out her datapad and started to scroll through… whatever. Kanan turned back to the porridge, pulling it from the hob just as the door slid open again.

Hera made a happy noise, wrapping her hands around his waist. “Kanan, I could kiss you.”

He leaned over to oblige, just as Sabine called back, “Please don’t!”

Hera laughed pressing a kiss to one of his shoulders instead. “Thank you, love.”

Kanan just smiled. “I thought I’d give you more time to relax this morning.”

He ladled up two bowls, carrying them to the table. The door slid open again before he reached them, the padding and force signature reading as Zeb. He would serve himself whether Kanan let him or not, so he didn’t bother rushing back.

The Lasat was already holding his own bowl and the plate of fruit when Kanan turned around. “Thought I’d give y’ a hand.”

“Thanks, Zeb. Is Ezra up?” He was already heading to the door, assuming the answer already.

Zeb laughed. “That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?”

He could hear Hera and Sabine chipping into the conversation, but quickly shifted himself away. Ezra and Zeb’s room was further down the ship than his and Hera’s, but it wasn’t as if the ship had that much space anyway.

The door was open, propped open by what looked like one of Sabine’s paint crates. Ezra was on the top bunk, doing a rather good impression of a nesting tooka.

“Ezra,” Kanan said carefully, moving to nudge the boy awake. He didn’t have to do much physically, the Force bond between them prickling awake as he sent the feeling of morning towards the bundle of fabric and tuft of hair. “Breakfast’s ready - come on.”

Ezra rolled over to face him. He was still mostly covered, just letting his eyes show above the scrunch of blanket. “Do I have to?”

Kanan nodded. “Yeah, you do.” He reached out to ruffle Ezra’s hair, making him jump upright, still holding the quilt in front of him. “We should ask Sabine to cut your hair today as well - you said it was annoying you?”

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s a bit uncomfortable now.” There was nothing in his tone that explained what he meant, but the feeling of discomfort sparking at the other end of their training bond said enough.

And if more shielding practice was quietly added to Kanan’s list of necessary training, then so be it.

Kanan nodded. “I’ll let you get ready, then.” He reached down to take the crate - small, but strangely heavy - from where it blocked the door. Ezra wouldn’t get up unless he thought he had privacy, which Kanan already knew. “Come and join us soon, alright?”

He spotting the washed out, greying binder in the last second before he left. It meant a quick calculation of the training plan, but he tossed it to the fabric pile that was his padawan. “We have Force training today.”

He stepped out of the door before Ezra could reply, heading back along the corridor. Sabine’s room was locked, so he left the crate outside of her door, hoping beyond hope that Ezra wouldn’t be stupid enough to take it again.

Then, on his way back to the rec, and the food that was waiting for him, he stepped into the room he and Hera shared. As much as he would like to sit and have breakfast while the food was still warm, there were other things he needed to do to finish his plan of making Hera’s morning easier.

He made the bed quickly, just pulling the sheet over so it looked straight, before pulling out her flight suit and folding it onto the bed. Hera rarely wore it on a morning, content with being comfortable rather than trying to look the part, but she always wore it to briefings. On top of that, he placed the datapad she’d been reading from the day before. He took a moment, giving it one last look to make sure everything was there, before heading back on his day.

The kitchen itself was warm and full of laughter, making Kanan feel happiness in his bones.

“Sabine?” She looked up as Kanan spoke. “I’ve put your paints outside of your bedroom door. They were just in the hall.”

It was a blatant lie, and Sabine clocked it immediately, but she didn’t argue. “Thanks, Kanan.”

He smiled, collecting his bowl to sit down and eat. “Hey, since I’ve done you that favour, maybe you can do one for me.” Sabine gave him a hesitant nod, picking at the berries in front of her. “Can you cut Ezra’s hair today?”

Her face brightened. “Oh, yeah, sure. Easy.”

Speaking of the nightmare, the door slid open as Ezra stepped in, mostly dressed but still quite dishevelled. He would never have survived growing up at the Jedi Temple. He didn’t greet them past a half-wave, moving straight to the pan and the leftover porridge.

Hera shot Kanan a look, which made him shrug. If letting him be messy meant Ezra would get out of bed on a morning, he was happy to allow it.

When Ezra finally reached the table, Hera stood up to give him her seat “I should go and get ready for this briefing. Kanan, can I talk to you for a moment?”

It was not what he expected, but it was fine. “Sure,” he said with a smile, taking his bowl with him as he went to follow her. No sense leaving the porridge to get any colder.

Hera led him back to their shared room without any indication of why, just moving her way around their space. She didn’t necessarily look surprised when she saw the clothes ready for her, but her shoulders did melt a little. “You even found my datapad.”

Kanan shrugged. “It wasn’t hard to find. It was on the floor where you left it.”

“Still, Kay, you’re doing so much. You always do so much.”

Kanan stepped forward, pulling her into a hug before she could say anymore. Maybe it was because he needed to hide from the compliments, but he wasn’t comfortable letting Hera talk about him without holding her close.

Sadly, Hera could read him too well. She knew his deflection tactics and wasn’t about to let them stand. “Do you know how wonderful you are, Kanan? You do so much for this ship, for the crew. For our family.”

They only said it in the quiet of their room, when they knew the others couldn’t hear them. The weight of it settled on his shoulders.

“I like looking after you all,” Kanan muttered, pulling her closer so he was speaking directly against the top of her head. It was easier to talk like that. “Not that you need it. I like being, well…”

“Domestic?” Hera laughed, the vibrations making him warm. “I know you do. That doesn’t make it any less good.”

He shook his head. “I just made breakfast.”

“You found what I needed for this meeting, just because you could. You helped Sabine find her paints, without causing a fight. You organised a haircut for Ezra before his dysphoria got too bad, before I’d even realised - don’t argue with me, Kanan Jarrus, that isn’t me being hard on myself. Just me saying how incredible you are..” She shuffled backwards so she could see him, but her hands still rested on his arms. “Face it, love, you’ve done a lot this morning. And all of it is so incredibly helpful, I’m not sure how I’ll ever make it up to you.”

Kanan laughed, shrugging as he pulled her back in to press kisses over her chin and nose, up her cheeks, across her forehead and her lek, skipping the band of her head covering. “Watch the sequel to West of Jeddha with me tonight?”

Hera winced, which was fair. The sequel was awful, but he could make it up to her later.

“Please?”

She huffed as if it was a difficult decision. “Fine! Fine. I’ll do it. But you better find some more meiloorun in the next supply run.”

His laughter dropped, but not completely. “You have yourself a deal, Captain.”

Hera looked rather smug. “Good.”

[myghostmonument]

Shadows

Summary: Graham finds something in is closet that the Doctor’s been looking for. He’s not amused; everyone else is REALLY amused.  Warnings: None! WC: 3400 Notes: I wrote this for the @thirteenfanzine weekly prompt of, you guessed it, ‘shadows’! I haven’t uploaded writing on here in ages, figured I’d yeet this one out and see how people felt. Do you like reading it here? Would you prefer an ao3 link instead? Let me know if you have a Strong Opinion on this very crucial matter. 

“Oi! Where is everyone?”

Yaz looked up from her phone, craning her neck around the couch cushion to peer at Graham as he burst into the library.

“What’s up?” Ryan asked without looking up. He was draped over a chair and scrolling through his own phone of the week (his last one having ended up at the bottom of an astroid crater, something the Doctor still maintained as absolutely not her fault in the slightest).

Graham scowled at them, and Yaz’s brows lifted. He looked out of breath. “I’ve been yelling for you,” he said, jabbing an accusatory finger.

“You could have texted, mate,” Yaz yawned, turning back around on the couch and resettling herself into a more comfortable position. “How’re we supposed to hear you hollering and carrying on from half-way across the TARIDS?”

Graham didn’t respond immediately, but his indignation was a palpable thing. Yaz caught Ryan’s eye, and they shared a grin; downtime on the TARDIS could be boring, especially with the Doctor vanished as she was on some mysterious errand. Needling Graham into outbursts was a favored way for them to liven things up a little.

“What’s so important you had to yell at us?” Ryan asked, taking pity on his grandad.

“You won’t believe what I found in my closet,” Graham said, and Yaz blinked. She didn’t know what she had expected him to say, but details on his closet certainly hadn’t been topping the list. She also couldn’t tell if he was outraged or excited; with Graham it could be the same thing. Especially if he was hungry.

“What?” Ryan asked, after a beat.

“You have to see it to believe - where’s the Doc? This is her doing, I know it is.”

“What’s up fam?”

Yaz sat up at that, swinging her legs to the floor and turning to watch as the Doctor appeared at Graham’s elbow. She had swapped out her coat for her favorite pair of goggles, which sat on top of her head. She’d pushed up her sleeves, and Yaz noticed her arms were spotted and smudged with grease. At least, Yaz hoped it was grease; with the Doctor, you could never take the most likely option for granted.

The Doctor’s curious gaze bounced from Graham to Ryan to Yaz, and Yaz felt the light of it touch her, filling her and brightening the room. She smiled automatically, and the Doctor smiled back, though the expression still held a quizzical air.

“Don’t know, Graham just burst in here and started shouting,” Ryan answered. Yaz noted the way he held his phone closer to his body as he spoke, unconsciously protecting it from the presence of the Doctor as if she might pull misfortunate towards it like some sort of blonde, chaotic blackhole. The thought made Yaz snort, and Graham shook off his torpor.

“I’d like a word with you Doc,” he said, and she turned, eyes brightening with interest.

“Just one?” she asked, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “That’s a lot of pressure, for a single word. Effervescent, maybe? That’s a good word.” She tilted her head as she considered Graham. He was goggling at her, cut off mid-steam. “Or perhaps voracious? That’s a good one for you Graham!” She beamed, waiting for his word, while he continued to goggle. Yaz stuffed a fist into her mouth, which did nothing much in the way of muffling  her giggles. That made Ryan laugh, and the Doctor switched her beam to them, clearly unsure what the joke was but enjoying it regardless. She was just… like that. Genuine. Giving back more than she took.

Graham threw his hands up. “Do you know what I found in my closet?” he asked the Doctor, striving for ominous but ending up somewhere between sulky and indignant.

“That’s a loaded question,” Ryan muttered, and Yaz stuffed her fist farther in her mouth, for all the good it did. The Doctor looked Graham up and down critically, clearly taking the question at face value, something Yaz knew was rarely a good thing.

“A nice jumper?” she guessed, seriously, then considered his current clothing. “Wait, no, a bad jumper?” Graham’s face underwent a series of emotions in rapid succession, but the Doctor wasn’t done. “Couldn’t have been a sandwich, you’d be far less grumpy if it were. A tea set? Oh, did you find my scuba kit?”

“How about a lion or a witch?” Ryan asked, innocent.

“Maybe a wardrobe?” Yaz couldn’t help adding, dissolving into more giggles at the contrast between the looks the Doctor and Graham bestowed upon her and Ryan.

“You’re not so far off, you two,” Graham said darkly, turning and moving out of the doorway. “Come on, come see this.”

The Doctor shrugged cheerfully at Ryan and Yaz, obviously at as much a loss as they were regarding the contents that lurked so offensively in Graham’s closet. They followed in Graham’s wake, the Doctor cataloguing many of the varying things she had found in closets over the years, seemingly oblivious to Ryan’s increasingly pointed metaphorical suggestions. She had no idea why Yaz exploded into laughter at the thought of the Doctor herself emerging dramatically from a closet, and proceeded to regale them with all the times she had done just so. Yaz thought Ryan’s composure might break at that; she could barely breathe.

“A right set of donuts,” Graham complained as they entered his room and he looked back over their hysterical faces. He moved to the wall across from his bed to stand beside a slim, unassuming door. “Now. Doc, explain this to me,” he said, and with a dramatic flourish, threw the door wide. The Doctor gasped dutifully. She then hesitated, and looked back to Graham.

A beat of silence followed.

“Wow, coats,” Ryan deadpanned.

“Behind the coats, you absolute -” muttering, Graham shoved several of the offending clothing articles to the side and, with a last baleful look at them, stepped through. He did not reappear, but his voice floated out, slightly muffled.“Come on! Look at this! Unbelievable -”

“Oh, I love a good trick closet!” the Doctor said brightly, and darted after him. Yaz and Ryan stood alone in Graham’s room for a silent, contemplative moment.

“You don’t er, think it’s actually Narnia in there do you?” Ryan asked, his brow furrowed. From somewhere inside, the Doctor’s voice rose in wordless exclamation. They exchanged a weighted look.

“I hope not, that white witch always gave me the creeps,” Yaz said. She squared her shoulders, and Ryan took a breath. “Here we go,” she muttered, and they stepped inside. They had to push past several old coats of varying and occasionally indeterminable fabric - they certainly didn’t belong to Graham, these coats. One felt like water woven into cloth as it slipped through Yaz’s fingers. She wanted to turn and examine it closer, but Ryan was close on her heel and she was pressed onwards.

Light bloomed just ahead, faint but growing brighter. And then Yaz and Ryan had stepped out of the dark. They were greeted by a blast of humid air and dappled light, and it  felt viscerally familiar, almost like -

“A pool?” Ryan said incredulously, moving around Yaz. She was standing with her mouth open, speechless. “An actual pool? Oh my days - “

“You see?” Graham cried, vindicated. “In my closet? An olympic-sized pool? Who does that?”

“You found it!” The Doctor said happily, clapping her hands. “Oh, I was wondering where it had got to. Well done, Graham! I was starting to think she hadn’t given me the pool this go ‘round.”

“You have a pool. On the TARDIS.” Yaz’s voice was faint as it returned to her. She moved up next to the Doctor and they stared out across the still, silvery water.

“Usually do,” the Doctor said, hands on her hips and nose wrinkled in a delighted smile. “She likes to move it around, though, keep me on my toes.”

“Your toes?” Graham repeated. “What have your toes got to do with my closet?” But the Doctor wasn’t listening, instead kneeling and trailing her fingers through the glass-like water. Yaz watched her hands as they moved, pale flashes that sent ripples across the surface. The surface shimmered and fractured as the ripples spread far beyond the Doctor’s touch, shining and winking in the darkness almost as if they were -

Yaz looked up. “Oh,” she said faintly. She knew, in some rational and distant corner of her mind, that she was looking at a ceiling. She had to be, had to still be inside the TARDIS. Indeed, closer inspection later would reveal the delicate filigree and arching supports that lifted the curving, clear dome of glass (or something similar to it, anyway) above her head. But right then, all she could see was the stars. They twinkled down at her, reflected in the water beneath Yaz’s feet and suspending her between them. Between worlds. Her arms tingled, breath catching in her throat.

“Show-off,” the Doctor muttered fondly, standing back up and moving to Yaz’s shoulder as she too craned her head up at the cosmos spanning above them. “She really wants to impress you lot.”

“Wicked,” Ryan said, also staring up into the depths of space.

Graham however was still fixated on the offending pool, and had yet to look above him. “What’s that?” he called, realizing that they were no longer paying attention to the water. “I’d still like to know what this is doing in my closet, Doc. And now you’re not even listening to me -” he broke off, gasped, then continued in a voice that had gone distinctly strangled and, more importantly, distracted. “Is that space? Are we in space? Oh, no, I don’t like -” He was moving towards them, and not watching his feet. It was the first time he had forgotten about the pool, and the pool exacted swift revenge for the lapse.

There was a splash, intersected interestingly with the cessation of his complaints.

It was followed almost immediately by a series of gurgles, curses and exclamations, all of them half-muffled by mouthfuls of water.

Also by choked, howling laughter from Ryan. The lights at the edges of the room pulsed and brightened, the TARDIS reacting to the sounds of laughter bouncing off her walls. Yaz wondered, idly, if she absorbed it somehow, made the shadowed joy a part of her makeup. It was a nice thought, and Yaz wondered then why it made her feel an ache, the shadow of some unknown emotion. She blinked, focused again on the people around her. The Doctor had moved to the edge of the pool to watch Graham.

“Bit keen, aren’t you?” the Doctor observed as Graham kicked his way murderously to the ledge. “Though you might’ve taken some clothes off first, that seems a bit difficult to swim in. Or is that the point?”

Graham spat out a mouthful of water. “I’m done, no, I am, I really mean it this time, I have had it with pools in closets and nonexistent space ceiling and deadly turtle armies and ungrateful grandsons - ”

“You should see the look - on your face -” Ryan wheezed, also moving to the edge and grinning down at Graham who was searching, futilely it seemed, for a way out of the pool. Ryan pulled out his phone and centered it on Graham. “This is so going on my story.”

Yaz found her eyes straying to Ryan’s shoes as he filmed Graham… and the way they poked just the slightest bit over the pool’s ledge. They almost seemed to be daring her to do something about it, those shoes, hanging so precariously over empty air and with Ryan’s laughter echoing around the room.

Yaz glanced up, and met the eyes of the Doctor from Ryan's other side. A silent moment of perfect understanding stretched between them. An inevitable choice was made.

When they moved it was together, as seamlessly as if they had rehearsed. And the teetering, arm-flailing, caterwauling cacophony that was Ryan’s entrance to the pool was a thing of beauty. Unnoticed by all of them, the TARDIS lights pulsed and flared again, as if capturing the sounds and emotions before drawing them back into the shadows.

Even Graham was laughing, leaning back and kicking away from Ryan as he surfaced in a fountain of water and indignation.

“My phone,” Ryan spluttered. “My new phone!” Oh, Yaz thought. Oops. She was still smiling, and knew she ought to feel bad. But it had really been worth it.

“Ah, sorry Ryan,” the Doctor said cheerfully.  She pulled the goggles off her head and tossed them aside, not looking sorry in the slightest. “We’ll get you a new one! There’s this planet that makes mobile devices out of semi-sentient crystals, they’re amazing.”

“Sort of like the TARIDS?” Yaz asked, watching the Doctor hop on one foot and then the other, tugging off her boots and socks.

“Sort of,” the Doctor said, then followed it immediately with “a bit.  Not really.” Yaz rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Now listen up boys,” the Doctor continued, stepping back to the edge with her hands on her hips.  “This is how you make a splash.” She had delivered the words in one long, rapid breath, and thus the boys were caught largely by surprise as the Time Lord proceeded to launch herself into the air with a truly shocking roar of “Cannonball!”

Given her relatively diminutive size, the resulting splash was impressive; it certainly swept over Ryan and Graham in a deluge that left them yelling anew and scrambling away.

The Doctor surfaced with a laugh, the stars that wheeled above flashing in her hazel eyes and reflecting joy and life and something else, something uniquely her. Yaz had no other way to describe it, that light in the Doctor’s eyes. She sometimes saw shadows of it in other places, places like the plunging depths of a rock-face, or the burning of a star, or the sinking sun glittering on an ocean’s horizon. Things that were never quite the same, no matter how many times you looked at them.

Ancient, ephemeral, wild things.

The Doctor and Ryan had reached a sort of truce, and were harassing Graham as he swam towards distant stairs, complaining the whole way. The light shifted on the Doctor for a moment, and it threw Yaz back in time, a visceral memory gripping her and sweeping her away. 

She saw the Doctor, not hauling herself laughing and joyful from a star-studded pool with friends, but dragging herself instead from a grim and uncaring lake, the mark of chains still printed on her arms, still lurking in her gaze. A grim, unyielding gaze, something of the lake yet in its depths. A chill bites into Yaz, the memory of an icy wind knifing through her and revealing her a coward as she stands and watches a friend drown. The iron-hard ground is cold, beneath her feet, seeping through her shoes and into her bones.

“Come on Yaz, don’t be spoilsport,” Ryan called, and his voice was a ray of light, pushing away the shadows clinging to Yaz. He launched himself back into the pool in a much more credible cannonball than the Doctor, not that she seemed afraid of the challenge as she stepped back to the edge and swung her arms back and forth, limbering up. Yaz blinked, anchored again in the present, the cold wind and grim lake retreating.

“Yeah, come on then Yaz,” Graham said, backstroking his way across the pool to make room for the Doctor who, despite her size, could jump quite the distance when she put her mind to it. They’d learned that about her the first day they’d met, when she had hurled herself across two cranes into the unknown, just to save a stranger. And, Yaz realized, even earlier, when the Doctor had crashed through the roof of the train. Yaz hadn’t been there, but Graham still talked about it sometimes, about the tiny, mad woman who had splintered her way through metal and glass and untold distances. How she had bounced to her feet without a scratch, and had immediately acted to save complete strangers. She had seemed impossible in those moments, invincible. Was invincible, there, preserved forever in the triumph of memory.

A tightness gripped Yaz as she watched the Doctor let out a whoop and plunge into the pool, surfacing with wild, water-plastered hair in a field of stars and friends and laughter. Yaz tilted her face up, again looked at the stars that wheeled overhead, and felt that tightness increase, draw closer around her. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Perhaps the memory of it. But that wasn't quite right either. Could you remember something that hadn’t happened yet, Yaz wondered? Could you regret it? She watched the Doctor, and she knew the answer.

A sudden weight against her shoulders, gone in a breath and followed immediately by a weightless moment that hovered in the space somewhere between instantaneous and eternal, stars shining above and below, tethered neither to the ground, or the sky, or to time. Her ams spreading, reaching, as if her grasping fingers might gather the ephemera, or else leave trails in it of their passage. A breath, caught between her lungs before it can be born, or die.

It was a moment frozen in time, and space, and possibility; it had not yet happened, might not yet happen, has happened a thousand times, in a thousand universes, was happening now.

Clear water, closing over her head.

Time snapped back into place with not so much a bang as a splash. Yaz surfaced, sputtering and choking. She could see Ryan through her streaming eyes, doubled over on the ledge of the pool and entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’m going to kill you,” Yaz gasped, though the words were somewhat undercut by the smile spreading across her face.

“Oi,” the Doctor scolded from where she was kicking herself leisurely through the water. She was gazing up at the clear ceiling as she moved, perhaps imagining that she swam through the stars. Well, who was to say she didn’t? The TARDIS was drifting through space after all, cradling them all within the infinite void. Yaz watched as the turning of the cosmos painted shadows on the Doctor’s upturned face, panes of shifting light and darkness writing themselves across her skin. 

Or maybe it was the opposite, Yaz thought, watching as she treaded water and bobbed up and down. Maybe it was the story of the Doctor, painting itself across the universe. Again, she saw the Doctor diving into a cold grey lake after a stranger, saw her place her body between theirs and a sonic mine, between theirs and a bomb on a plane, between theirs and so many things, over and over. Saw her face down an enemy stripped of the trappings of a friend,  betrayed but resolute. Saw her help dozens, hundreds, thousands of people who neither knew nor appreciated her, would never know what she did for them.

Yaz watched the stars play across the Doctor’s face, and saw her hurl herself through the cosmos, a trail of good intentions and bad decisions in her wake, heedless to the ripples that spread behind her but striving, always, to be better.

Heavy thoughts, not best suited to a time-and-space traveling swimming pool. The spray hitting her face as Ryan attempted a flip into the water was a sharp but welcome distraction, and Yaz laughed as Graham shouted at Ryan for nearly squashing him. The Doctor hauled herself out of the pool, ready to best Ryan’s flip, and Yaz cheered her on as she leapt - and bellyflopped - in truly spectacular fashion.

Light and shadows still danced over the surface of the water, but on its turbulent, wild surface they were fleeting and unnoticed, banished to the corners of the room by by laughter and shouting and water, and they were all of them interwoven into something more, not less. Shadows without light were flat, inescapable things, but so too was light without shadow rigid and unyielding, blinding in its arrogance.

The balance between them, Yaz thought, was found best in the stars. Shadow and light, past and future, ancient and new. She looked to the Doctor, whooping her way through a splash-off contest with Ryan, and she smiled.

[w-k-smith]

The Deetz-Maitland-Beetlejuice family is coping pretty well with shelter-in-place, until Adam invents an extremely complicated board game that no one else can understand. As more of them stop playing, the more obsessed he gets with perfecting the rules, leaving Lydia worried about what the endpoint might be.

Read here on AO3, or below the cut. All my off-topic ramblings author’s notes are on AO3, though.

 Day 1

No one knew what Adam was up to until it was too late.

The Maitlands loved their hobbies. Barbara often said picking up and putting down new hobbies was their only consistent hobby, and Lydia considered it to be one of the most fun things about them. Every couple of months, Adam and Barbara found something new they wanted to try, and asked a living member of the household to pick up supplies at the craft or hardware store.

The Maitlands would be the first to admit that they often had more enthusiasm than talent, but sometimes one or both of them turned out to be really good at something. They’d knit sweaters for every person, living and dead, in the house for Christmas. Beetlejuice refused to admit how much he loved the pullover his boyfriend and girlfriend made for him, and wore it nonstop for weeks, and only Barbara’s puppy-dog eyes had convinced him to part with it for one afternoon so she could wash it.

So Lydia was curious when Adam gathered an armload of scrap paper and cardboard and disappeared into the attic. She hoped it would be fun, or at least interesting, because she was anxious and bored enough that she was starting to miss school.

Connecticut’s shelter-in-place order had cast a new energy on the house. Lockdown was going fine, with a few bumps. Even with the protection of Beetlejuice’s sandworm-wrangling skills, the ghosts didn’t leave the house much, and were happy for the extra company. Beetlejuice had volunteered to do grocery shopping, but wasn’t one for sticking to a list or following directions, and had come back with eight boxes of Kashi cereal, a kumquat, and fish food. Delia was coping by meditating and doing yoga in the backyard up to six hours a day. She’d banned any discussion of the news in her presence, and Lydia still found her stress-vaping on the porch at three in the morning.

Lydia was annoyed at how well her father was doing. Charles was adept at sewing masks out of scrap fabric, and kept his hands busy by making piles of them during his endless Zoom work meetings. He’d also forced a quiet hours rule for those Zoom meetings after Lydia and Beetlejuice played a game of tag that ended with a broken window.

“Restricting the movements of the people is a symptom of a fascist state,” Lydia told her father.

“Go do your schoolwork,” he said.

“It’s Saturday. And I did it already! How do you think I know so much about fascism?”

He pressed his thumbs between his eyebrows. “I don’t care if you play around with Lawrence all day.” Charles had taken to calling Beetlejuice by his first name, because he had to explain Beetlejuice’s presence whenever Beetlejuice was around when visitors came over, or, these days, whenever Beetlejuice barged into his office while the webcam was on. “This is Lawrence, my oldest,” Charles typically said, quickly and gruffly, and people seemed to assume he meant “my oldest son, who I have from a previous marriage,” rather than “my oldest dead roommate who is my daughter’s best friend and is in a committed relationship with the deceased couple in the attic.” And Charles himself seemed fine with the assumption. It delighted Beetlejuice utterly. “Please just be quiet for a few hours.”

Lydia sighed, and stormed off. “We have to make as much noise as possible today,” she told Beetlejuice when she found him sitting at the top of the stairs.

“Normally, I’d love that, but we have a new problem,” he said. “Adam’s being weird.”

“Everyone in this house is weird,” Lydia reminded him.

“Adam’s destroying the living room.”

Lydia leaned over the banister. Adam had covered the living room floor with scribbled-on pieces of paper, figurines, and little improvised game pieces. He was speaking intensely to Barbara, but her head was tilted to one side, like she did when she was confused.

“What are you doing?” Lydia asked, walking downstairs. Beetlejuice floated behind her.

“I invented a board game!” Adam said.

“He did. It’s called, um…?” Barbara trailed off.

“It doesn’t have a name yet,” Adam said. “But it’s part Risk, part Monopoly, part Dungeons and Dragons.”

Lydia frowned. “That sounds–”

“Do you want to try it?” he asked, and his eyes were so bright and excited Lydia couldn’t turn him down.

“Let’s all play,” she said. “I’ll get Delia.”

“I’ll get Da-CHARLES,” Beetlejuice said.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone was sitting in the living somewhere that wasn’t covered with paper. Adam gave them all a set of pieces, but they each seemed to have a different assortment, because, as far as Lydia could tell, they were playing against each other. Except where the game was collaborative. Except where they had to group into different factions.

“I’m very confused,” Delia whispered to Lydia.

“I am, too,” Lydia whispered back.

“Why don’t we all ever play the games I make up?” Beetlejuice asked.

Charles didn’t look up from the board. “Because, Lawrence, much like you, most of them are very messy and hard to understand.” The roots of Beetlejuice’s hair started to turn purple. “Ergo, you are not allowed in charge of family game time.”

“Family game time?” Beetlejuice repeated, and the purple faded back to green.

Lydia saw Barbara catch Beetlejuice’s eye and mouth Oh, he loves you right before Adam announced he had an idea for a new challenge play.

 Day 2

One by one, the players dropped out of the game.

Charles was the first to go, because he got an emergency call from the vice-director-of-blah-blah-blah. Beetlejuice kept cheating, was ejected from the game by group consensus, and spent several hours sulking behind the couch.

Delia gave it a valiant try. She put more effort into following along than anyone except Barbara. Her enthusiasm started real, became fake, and ended with her asleep on the floor wrapped up in her caftan.

Lydia stopped playing, but stayed in the living room. She messed around on her phone but kept an eye on the Maitlands, wondering how far the game would go.

Finally, right before midnight, Barbara gave up. “Are you going to be OK on your own for a while?” she asked.

“Sure!” Adam said. “I���ll have this perfected in no time.”

Lydia watched him tape two pieces of poster board together, then went upstairs to go to bed. She hoped he’d be done by morning.

 Day 3

Lydia began to get worried. Adam’s game spread across the living room like a spider’s web, as he added more pieces, more levels, more intricate steps that only he could understand. It still didn’t have a name.

“Ghosts can get obsessed,” Beetlejuice told Lydia. “How do you think some of them keep haunting the same hallways for centuries without imploding from boredom? I’ve never seen a ghost get this wrapped up in a board game, though.”

“Something you haven’t seen?” she said. “That’s concerning.”

 Day 4

Lydia made Barbara and Beetlejuice sit down in the kitchen.

“I need your help,” she told them.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Barbara asked.

“Whose body do you need me to hide?” Beetlejuice asked.

“We have to stop Adam.” Lydia pointed behind her at the living room. “This is madness. And not good madness. You guys have to stop him.”

Barbara nodded. “We have talked to him. But he’s pretty determined about this game. I suppose we could start another conversation…”

“I don’t mean that,” Lydia said. “I meant other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” Barbara asked, frowning. But Beetlejuice was grinning, because of course he was.

“I mean distract him romantically,” Lydia said. “Look, kissing is gross – you’re just mashing your food holes together. But this house is getting desperate. If you alloromantic people can’t use your wiles–”

Beetlejuice choked on nothing. “Wiles?”

“–What’s the point of having them?”

“That’s not appropriate, Lydia,” Barbara sighed.

“I’m offended you assumed I hadn’t tried already,” Beetlejuice said.

“We have to scare him out of it,” Lydia said. She and Beetlejuice stood in the foyer, right outside the living room, watching Adam drift around his enormous board. “Like the hiccups.”

“I’ll do the snake face,” Beetlejuice said. He started to storm in, but Lydia grabbed his sleeve.

“He’s seen the snake face. You do it all the time,” she said.

“Ooh, oh, what if I make the furniture come alive, and they all behave like different wild animals, and they all have teeth–”

“That’s not shocking enough. How about that thing where you turn yourself inside out?”

Finger guns. “I like the way you think, scarecrow.”

Beetlejuice strode into the living room, out of Lydia’s line of vision.

“Hey, sexy,” she heard him say. “Having fun – aaagh!” A squelch, splattering sound, a howl through an inside out mouth.

“Hi, BJ,” Adam said, his tone distant. “Can you hand me that deck of cards?”

“There are cards now?” Lydia whispered.

She heard a wet snap as Beetlejuice put himself back together. “Sure. Happy to. This isn’t disappointing at all.”

 Day 5

“Hey, guys?” Adam asked from the other room.

Lydia walked in cautiously. The debris of the game was still strewn all over the living room, so you couldn’t tell if the current round was in progress, or if a tornado had hit a hobby store.

“This is nothing, isn’t it?” Adam said, in a tired, defeated voice.

Lydia nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I just wanted a distraction,” Adam said. “I know we’re all as safe as we can be in here, I just get so worried.”

“Adam’s back! C’m’ere, hot stuff” Beetlejuice charged down the stairs, tackled Adam onto the sofa, and kissed him on the mouth. “Babs and I thought we’d lost you for good!”

“We didn’t think that,” Barbara said. She squeezed Adam’s shoulders.

“I completely understand, Adam,” Delia said, coming in from the kitchen. Charles was close behind her. “I’ve found diversion to be the best way of coping when life gets upsetting. When I was kicked out of that all-women ska band in the ’90’s, I threw myself into underground poker tournaments, and long story short I was briefly engaged to a prince of what turned out to be a micronation.”

“I’ll clean up the mess,” Adam sighed. Lydia suspected that would be easier said than done, because Beetlejuice was still sitting on Adam’s lap and wasn’t acting like he was planning to move.

“Then let’s do something fun together,” Delia said.

“Monopoly?” Lydia suggested, unable to hide her grin.

A chorus of “Absolutely not!” and “That’s not funny, young lady!” with Beetlejuice adding a mock-offended “Lydia Cordelia Deetz, who raised you?” though that wasn’t even close to her middle name.

“I’m kidding,” she said.

“How about a movie?” Barbara said, scooping up the closest pile of papers.

“Make it something with a lot of sequels,” Charles said. “We’re at home for the long haul, after all.”

“We’ll have to remember all this for the next plague,” Beetlejuice said. Lydia could have asked him why he sounded so sure when he said “next,” but decided it was just better to get some popcorn and ignore it.

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

All Those Things They Couldn’t Say - A Runaway Baudelaires AU

{ao3} {tumblr} {masterlist}

Chapter Thirteen - Violet is ready to snap

“And that is the telephone.” Josephine said, carefully gesturing towards an old phone at the end of the kitchen counter. “I never use it, for fear of electrocution.” 

“Phones are fine, Ms Anwhistle.” Violet sighed. “I’ve taken them apart to see how they work before, I can do it again to show you.” 

“Oh, no, no.” Josephine shook her head. “That’s alright.” 

“I’ve read books about telephones, I could explain them to you.” Klaus said. 

“No, I’d rather not.” 

“Delmo.” Sunny said, which meant, “If you wish, I will bite the telephone to show you that it’s harmless.” 

Josephine narrowed her eyes. “Delmo is not a word. It’s not grammatically correct whatsoever. Violet, Klaus, don’t you find grammar to be one of the most important things in life?” 

“Sure.” Violet sighed. She sat at the table and said, “I’m assuming you want an explanation for our existence-” 

“I’m a bit afraid to hear it, but I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?” 

“Yes.” 

Josephine sighed. “Would you children like soup?” 

“Hot soup would be nice, it’s very chilly.” Klaus said, sitting beside Violet and bouncing Sunny on his lap. 

“Oh, no, it’s cold.” Josephine said. “I’m afraid to turn on the stove, in case it bursts into flames.” 

Sunny gave her the most bewildered look she possibly could, opened and closed her mouth several times to try and find words, and finally managed to mutter, “Fuck?” 

“Sunny’s a bit confused.” Klaus translated, as Josephine started pulling bowls out to dish out the soup. “I’m not sure that’s possible for most stoves.” 

“Well, you never know.” Josephine’s eyes darted around. 

Josephine brought them their bowls and spoons and nervously sat across from them, and Violet said, “Well, Klaus, I did the last explanation. You wanna go?” 

“Not especially.” 

“Sucks to be you.” 

“Oh, please don’t fight…” Josephine said. 

“We’re siblings, it’s our job.” Violet said. “It’s also how we cope.” 

“Yeah, and we need a lot of coping.” Klaus said. “We did a bit of crying on the way over but now we gotta move the fuck on.” 

“So, catch you up to speed, Bertrand and Beatrice are alive, have been on the run for about fourteen, fifteen years.” Violet said. 

“Had us.” Klaus added. “And about… a few days ago? Yeah, Count Olaf found us.” 

“Olaf?” Josephine jumped. 

“Yeah, he’s got our parents held hostage.” Klaus nodded. 

“Hideo.” Sunny said. 

Violet quickly translated, “They gave us a list of safehouses to go to in case we got separated. We went to Monty but that didn’t…” 

She paused, getting choked up, suddenly feeling a pang in her chest. Don’t think about it, just move on. Just move on… 

“Olaf found him.” Klaus shook. “Our… our parents told us to go to you next.” 

“We don’t think we’ll be found here.” Violet said unconvincingly. “We just need someplace to lay low until our parents break out.” 

“Oh dear.” Josephine reached for a handkerchief to wipe her brow. “Oh dear, this is absolutely terrifying. You children must be so frightened.”

“We’re sure our parents will get out.” Violet said. “They’re very resourceful.” 

“Nire,” Sunny said, which meant, “And so are we.” 

“Again, we just need to lay low somewhere.” Violet paused. “Can you help us? Without calling the police.” 

“Oh!” Josephine gave her a nervous smile, and reached over to pat her on the hand. “I would never call the police here.”

“Really?” Klaus looked relieved. 

“Of course.” Josephine nodded. “I would have to use the phone to do that.”

The Baudelaires fell into a grimly annoyed silence, and Sunny said, “Pleh,” which meant, “Get her help.” 

“But I must admit, children, I am a bit overwhelmed.” Josephine said. “This is a horribly horrifying situation. Are you quite sure you’ll be safe here?” 

Violet smiled grimly, glancing around the kitchen, and then she said, “I seriously doubt Olaf will think we’re with you.” 

“Well, if you think so…” Josephine paused. “I’m afraid I’m not prepared for guests.” 

“We have our own food that should last about a week.” Klaus said. “And we have money to buy more.” 

“Well…” Josephine paused. “I believe I do have an empty room you all can sleep in. And it may be nice to have someone in the library to study with.” 

Klaus brightened. “You have a library?” 

“Yes! It’s full of all the books on grammar it can hold.” 

Klaus deflated. “Grammar?” 

“Yes! My greatest joy in life, I believe I said? What do you think, don’t you agree?” 

“Um.” Klaus gave Violet a look. “Yes.” 

“I want to die.” Violet said. 

She flopped onto the bed, groaning. There was a guest room with two, and they’d managed to fill a basket with blankets for Sunny to sleep in, though it seemed more likely she’d sleep on Klaus’s pillow. 

“This is our safehouse?” Violet said, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. “That woman is scared of her own shadow!” 

“Well,” Klaus said carefully, “At least she’ll be scared of Olaf when he arrives and she’ll get us out of here.” 

“If she doesn’t fend for herself.” Violet rolled onto her stomach, shooting her brother a look. “It’s what we would do.” 

“Mother and Father appointed her a safehouse for a reason.” Klaus said, flipping open his commonplace book. “Who knows? Maybe she was braver when her husband was alive.” 

“Is her husband dead?” 

“Ike doesn’t seem to be here.” 

“Could be on a trip.” 

“I dunno. I haven’t seen anything that suggests more than one person lives here. Sunny, any thoughts?” 

Sunny bit onto the edge of the pillow and shook her head, causing the pillow to fly around a bit, some stuffing flying into the air. 

“Well, we can make the best of it.” Klaus said hesitantly. “We just have to hold on until our parents escape.” 

“...yeah. Until they escape.” Violet said quietly. She laid down, curling up around her own pillow, and said, “What are the next safehouses again?” 

Klaus flipped his commonplace book back to the first page. “After the Anwhistles? The VFD Hideout in Paltryville- remember, that’s the one father says doesn’t have much contact with main headquarters, and the volunteers positioned there would be sympathetic.” 

“Yeah, they owe Mother and Father for some shit.” Violet waved her hand. “That it?” 

“Prufrock Preparatory School.” Klaus read. “And… that’s it.” 

“Well, hopefully they catch up to us here.” Violet said. 

Sunny spat out the pillow, crawled onto Klaus’s lap, and then faced Violet. “Vee?” she asked, and Violet sighed. 

“Klaus, how do we explain VFD to a toddler?” 

“How did Mother and Father explain it to us?” 

“I don’t know, I was eight.” 

Klaus sighed. “Well, Sunny… sometimes people band together into groups. To learn the same things, or protect each other.” 

“Yee.” 

“And sometimes those groups can turn… bad. They convince you that if you ever leave the group bad things will happen, and then make you do dangerous things for them, or give up your money and life for them.” 

“Vee?” 

“Yeah, that’s VFD.” Violet said. “Mother and Father were given to the organization when they were young children, and raised there, so they didn’t know anything but serving VFD. They did… bad things, not knowing how bad they were.” 

“And they tried to leave,” Klaus said, “And then people found out about the bad things, and… and Lemony was trying to clear their names…” 

“So that we could stop running.” Violet sighed. “But they can’t tell anyone about VFD, because it’s very secret, and good at covering its tracks.” 

“Scary.” Sunny said. 

“Yeah.” Violet nodded. “But we don’t have to fear. Mother and Father will get us, and we’ll… we’ll find some other way to clear their names.” 

“And avoid VFD.” Klaus said. 

Sunny quietly nodded, and then nuzzled against Klaus’s chest. “Tired.” 

“Go to sleep, Sunny.” he smiled and ran a hand through her hair. “We’ll be right here.” 

Violet glanced at the ground, and then nodded. “Always.” She curled up on her bed, and said, “Goodnight, Klaus. Let me know if you want me to come over there.” 

“Goodnight, Violet.” 

He rolled over, too, cradling Sunny in his arms. Violet laid on her bed, but faced them. She waited until she heard their snores before quietly getting up, sliding her socks against the wood floor to prevent noise. She crept past her siblings, knowing they were, like her, light sleepers, so she’d have to be very quiet. 

She moved into the hall, before peering through doors. Searching. 

It took a while, but she finally found the library. It was a sprawling room, shaped pretty circular, with most of the walls made up of shelves. She stepped through, and her eyes locked on the far wall- a round, tall panel of glass, behind which was a rather impressive view of the lake. Violet wasn’t one for aesthetics- even if she didn’t live on the run, she didn’t see the point in caring about the appearance of something if it was functional- but even she had to admit, it looked gorgeous. She moved to the window and slid to her knees, putting a soft hand against the glass as she stared at the rushing waves, reflecting the waning moon ahead, and the sprinkle of stars surrounding. 

It looked black, the lake beneath her, but she could still make out the waves, to and fro, to and fro. She remembered once, she was sitting on the beach on her father’s lap, playing with some shells she found. She asked, if she threw the shell into the water, would the waves push it back? He’d smiled and said, “Yeah. It might take a while, depending on if it sinks or floats, or how the waves are moving, or if something hits it, but it’ll be back. Could take a few seconds, could take a few years. But everything washes up eventually.” 

“Everything comes back.” Violet whispered to herself, once again looking at the waves beneath her. 

Then she stood and moved to the shelves, running her hand over the spines of the books, eyes narrowed. She knew what she was looking for- she knew where and how people hid things in libraries. Sure enough, halfway across the wall, there was part of the shelf indented behind the rest. She grabbed the edges and yanked, pushing it back into the wall. 

Behind it, above her, was a portrait of a man Violet guessed was probably Ike. Well, added to the “dead” theory. Beneath that was a safe, which piqued her interest much more. 

She knelt down, feeling around the fob and fuming a little. There’d be a thousand different combinations to try… 

Well, good thing she had Klaus. And, well, if he couldn’t get it open, she could just invent something to break the door off. 

She stood up, sliding the shelf back into place. Soon as Josephine was gone, she and Klaus could break into that no problem. She kept moving around the room, looking for something else suspicious. She paced from one wall to the next, scanning titles and trying to see if there was anything she could investigate now. But most of the books seemed to be about grammar, so they were probably just boring. 

Then she spotted a book, a bit tilted on the shelf, that didn’t have any writing on the spine. She pulled it out, noticing that it was quite tall, and bound with a ribbon. Perhaps a scrapbook? She slipped off the ribbon and flipped it open- yes, scrapbook. 

She knelt on the ground, flicking through pages. Pictures of Josephine and Ike, her fishing, skydiving… shit, wrestling lions. She did used to be cool. The photos weren’t very interesting, but she kept on, until she reached somewhere in the middle of the book, and froze. 

There were photos of some of Josephine’s friends- people she didn’t recognize, for the most part. But in the center was a picture taken of three people at a picnic on the beach- maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. 

She recognized her mother first, with the shape of her eyes and face, so similar to Klaus, and the waves as her hair fell over her shoulder, tied into a ponytail. Sitting cross-legged on the far left was her father, with his glasses and slight curl in his hair, and the way he smiled that looked so much like Sunny. He was sitting beside his future wife, a book on his lap, looking like he’d only just glanced up at Josephine behind the camera. 

She didn’t recognize the third person beside them- a boy about their age, his face a little blurred. But he had an arm around Beatrice, and had a frown on his face, like he was very invested in a conversation that the other two thought was humorous. 

It was funny. That was the same frown she got, when Klaus was annoying her. She’d seen that same look, when she glared into a mirror while something was going wrong with her latest invention. 

Hmm, she must have picked up that look from one of her parents, who got it from him… that had to be Lemony Snicket, then. 

Her parents must miss him a lot. 

Slowly, Violet put the photos away, taking a deep breath, and tried not to think about the obvious question: without him, would they be on the run forever?

[emospritelet]

Kiss of Life - Final chapter

So, after months of poor Dr Gold being socially awkward and emotionally constipated he finally (with the help of his friends) got his girl.  It seems fitting to leave them in their happy place.  Thanks to everyone who followed and commented and sent asks to these idiots!  This is the end.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] [Part 17] [Part 18] [Part 19] [Part 20] [Part 21] {Part 22] [Part 23] [Part 24] [Part 25] [Part 26] [Part 27] [Part 28]

AO3 link

Belle coughed, her eyes watering as she choked on the dust and what felt like the desiccated remains of a hundred insects, swept from the top of the stacks. She blinked rapidly, rubbing streaming eyes as she told herself to get higher on the ladder before trying to clean.  Pushing herself up the rungs of the wheeled ladder, she tucked a dust-covered lock of hair behind her ear and coughed again as she looked over the top of the bookshelves.

After almost a full day’s cleaning, the library was looking much better.  The books had been taken down and sorted into piles depending on whether they were staying or going, and she had made spreadsheet catalogue of everything she was keeping.  She needed to start making a list of the titles she wanted to procure, as well, but that could wait.  The Mayor’s allowance would have to be used wisely.

All the stacks bar the one she was standing on had been cleaned, the windows washed, light bulbs replaced and the blinds taken down and scrubbed.  The library was brighter and lighter, almost free from dust (she still had to mop the floor once she’d finished with the stacks) and smelling of orange oil and Windex.  The circulation desk was clear, awaiting the new computer system she had been promised, along with a new chair and the children’s supplies she had ordered.

She finished cleaning the shelving, rubbing vigorously to ensure the last speck of dust was removed, and heard a faint creak from the library door, followed by a rhythmic tapping.  Smiling to herself, she kept her back to the noise.  She had a fairly good idea who was making it.

“Well, there’s a lovely sight.”

Gold’s voice floated upwards, and Belle grinned, turning a little so that she could eye him over her shoulder.  He was smiling up at her, hands folded over the handle of his cane, in the black suit and red shirt combination she liked so much.

“I could say the same about you,” she said.  “What are you doing here?”

“We had a date, remember?”

“At seven,” she reminded him.

“It is seven,” he said gently.

“It is?”  Belle groaned.  “No wonder my feet hurt!  I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

“No matter,” he said.  “It’s not as though we made a reservation anywhere.”

He held up a hand, and she turned to take it, using him for balance as she stepped down to the floor.  She dropped the dirty rag into a bucket of murky water and wiped her hands on her overalls before stretching up on her toes to kiss him and then dropping back onto her heels.

“Sorry, I’m a disgusting, dirty mess,” she said.

“You look beautiful.”

“I bet I have dust on my nose,” she said, and he grinned, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, that’s true, but you’re still beautiful.”

“Flatterer.”  She slipped her arms around his waist, letting out a contented sigh.  “Want to come upstairs and check the apartment out with me?  I could do with taking a shower.”

“Why don’t I let you do that?” he suggested.  “I seem to remember you telling me that the apartment is somewhat lacking in furniture.”

“Nothing but a rickety old kitchen table and chairs,” she confirmed ruefully.  “I need to get that sorted.  Ruby said she’d drive me out to the next town to pick up a bed on Monday.”

“Does the shower work?”

“Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with the hot water,” she said.  “The whole thing needs a good clean and a lick of paint and a little TLC, but it’ll be nice and cosy when I’m done.”

“And do you have something to change into?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Brought over a bunch of my stuff this morning,” she said.  “I figured I might as well start moving in.  It’ll encourage me to clean the place up.”

“In that case, I’ll wait down here,” he said.  “I’ll see if I can rustle up some dinner for us.”

“Good, I’m starving!”

She kissed him again, and trotted off to the door that led to the staircase up to her apartment.  The place looked somewhat forlorn, the single bedroom empty of anything but the suitcase she had brought over, a fine layer of dust and two dead flies on the windowsill.  Belle was certain that she could make it into a home, and was excited by the prospect.  She took a towel, toiletries and a clean outfit into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.  At least she had thought to clean the bathroom, so she had somewhere clean to get changed.  She would have to return to her father’s that evening, though; she didn’t have the energy to clean any more of the rooms, and she had nothing to sleep on in any case.

The water was pleasantly hot, a decent amount of pressure coming out, and she spent some time in the shower, scrubbing the dust and grime from herself and washing her hair.  Once out, she dried off and dressed in a little woollen dress in dark green over tights and comfortable boots.  A small cardigan kept the chill from her, and she brushed out her hair and applied a little lipstick before heading back down the stairs.  The gentle sound of music was floating up from the library, something classical and soothing that made her smile.

“Sorry I took so long,” she said, as she rounded the corner into the library.  “I was—”

She cut off, mouth falling open.  The library blinds had been drawn, the light dim except for thick candles flickering on the circulation desk and around a thick blanket, set with cushions.  Gold was standing next to it, looking by turns nervous and self-satisfied, his jacket draped over the desk to reveal his waistcoat and the red silk shirt beneath.  There was a vase of flowers, red roses and lush greenery, and an ice bucket with an open bottle of champagne sticking out of it.  She could smell something savoury, garlic and herbs and wine, and she caught his eye with a grin.

“A picnic?” she said, and he shrugged.

“We did have a date, after all.”

Belle smiled broadly, and wandered over to the blanket, settling herself down on the cushions.

“How did you manage to arrange all this?” she asked.

“Well, Dorothy and Jefferson helped me carry everything to the car,” he said, getting down beside her.  “As for the food, I arranged for that to be delivered.  Fresh pasta from Marco’s.  I hope that’s alright.”

“Delicious.”

She settled back with a sigh as he went about preparing their meal, opening up dishes and setting them down between them.  The savoury scents were stronger, and Belle sniffed eagerly.

“Baked rigatoni, and ravioli with a squash and sage filling,” he said.  “There’s a little basil pesto on that one.  Help yourself.  There’s garlic bread, too.”

Belle took a fork and dug in, watching as melted cheese stretched and snapped before taking a mouthful of the rigatoni.  Rich ragu sauce made her mouth water, and she made a contented noise as she chewed.  Gold grinned, and reached behind him for some champagne flutes, pouring them each a glass.  Belle put her fork down to take hers, and he raised his own, holding her gaze.

“To us,” he said quietly, and they clinked glasses before taking a sip.

The champagne was crisp and fruity, foaming on her tongue, and Belle set down her glass and sighed happily.  He was grinning at her, eyes twinkling, and she took up her fork again, this time aiming for the ravioli.

“This is amazing,” she said.  “You’re just the best, really.”

“We should start as we mean to go on, don’t you think?”

“Candlelit pasta picnics in the library?” She winked at him.  “I’m in.”

He grinned, taking a forkful of rigatoni, and there was silence for awhile as they ate.  Belle mopped up pesto sauce with a piece of garlic bread, and then speared a piece of ravioli and popped it into her mouth.  Gold licked oil from his thumb and shifted a little, lounging back against the cushions.  He glanced across at her, raising an eyebrow.

“How is Operation Librarian going, then?”

Belle chuckled, and reached for her champagne, taking a sip.

“I’ve mostly sorted the books into what’s staying and what’s going,” she said. “I need to make a list of the titles I need, and get the equipment in her and set up.  At the moment I’m thinking we should be able to open in a week or so. Providing the computer system works and the books I order arrive.”

“Exciting.”

“It is.”  She dipped bread into the rigatoni sauce, enjoying the pungent taste of garlic and herbs and the richness of tomato sauce and olive oil on her tongue. “I had a talk with the elementary school.  I’m going to run some after-school classes with the kids.  I thought I’d keep the hospital library service going too, only this time I should have more of a selection of books for the patients to choose.”

“Sounds as though you’re really finding your feet,” he said.  “If I can help at all, let me know.”

“I may need kisses and snuggles after my long days,” she said, pouting, and he grinned.

“Consider it done.”

She smiled, and took another sip of wine before digging into the pasta again.

“I told my dad I was moving out, too,” she said.  “He wasn’t happy.”

“Ah.”

Gold’s voice was neutral, and Belle sighed.

“It wasn’t just about you,” she said.  “Although he was a pain in the arse about that, too.  It’s just - I don’t think he wants to be on his own.  He doesn’t seem to get that I might want my own life, that I have things to do other than look after him.”

“He managed when you were at college, I presume.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.  Guess he got used to having me around.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to put your own life on hold, however.”

“Good, because I have no intention of doing so.”

They shared a smile, and Gold reached for his drink.

“Well, here’s to your new life,” he said, raising the glass.  “Belle French, Librarian Extraordinaire.  Keeper of the Secrets of Storybrooke and Bringer of Knowledge.”

“Granter of Library Cards, Protector of the Stock, and Seeker of the Overdue Tomes,” added Belle.

“Long may she reign,” said Gold solemnly, and they clinked glasses as Belle giggled.

They finished off the pasta, and Belle wiped the last piece of garlic bread around one of the dishes, chewing it up before sucking olive oil from her fingers with a contented hum.  Gold was watching her, a tiny smile on his face.

“Done?”

“Done,” she said, with a sigh.  “That was delicious.”

He cleared away the dishes, packing everything into the bag it had arrived in, ready for the trash, and poured them another glass of champagne.  Belle settled back against the cushions, pleasantly full and happy, and he shifted a little, edging closer.  Belle turned on her side, leaning over to kiss him gently.

“This was perfect,” she whispered.  “Thank you.”

Gold reached up, gently brushing a curl back from her cheek, finger trailing along her jawline.

“That was only the first course,” he said, and she groaned.

“I couldn’t eat another thing!”

“All the more for me, then,” he said, with a grin, and she frowned.

“Wait, what is it?”

“Tiramisu,” he said.  “But it can wait, don’t worry.”

“Not too long…”

She leaned in, pressing her mouth to his, and his hand slid around to cup her head, holding her as they kissed, his tongue gently stroking against hers.  He broke the kiss, soft lips parting, and his eyes were gleaming darkly.

“There are other things we could do,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with promise.  “Things I know you’ll like.”

“Hmm.”  She smirked at him.  “Getting you naked one time appears to have improved your confidence.  I like it.”

“Well, it was a very memorable experience,” he said, brushing a thumb over her lower lip.  “Life-changing, in fact.”

“For me, too.”

She kissed him again, more urgently, and he shifted closer, his hand sweeping down her back and tugging her closer before slowly rolling her onto her back. Belle moaned, stroking her fingers through his hair, enjoying the taste of him and the firm weight of his body atop hers.  Gold pulled his mouth from hers, kissing down her neck and making her shiver.

“Fooling around in the library,” he murmured.  “We’ll get in trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” she gasped.  “I’m not expecting either of us to stay silent.”

“Good.”

He kissed lower, hands sliding down her body, cupping her breasts and tracing the curves of her waist and hips before tugging at the dress and pulling it upwards. Belle pushed up a little, shrugging off the cardigan, and he knelt up, tugging the dress over her head and tossing it aside before lowering her back down.  The air was cool on her skin, but his body was warm, his touch welcome, and she let her head roll back against the cushions as he kissed down over her belly, fingers hooking over the waistband of her tights and underwear and pulling them down in one.

It felt strange, lying there in the midst of the candlelit library on a pile of blankets and cushions, practically naked.  Belle closed her eyes, losing herself in the press of his lips and the sweep of his tongue as he pushed her thighs apart, and she rose up with a moan of pleasure as his tongue flickered over her clit.  Gold groaned, hands flat against her thighs, his breath hot against her tender flesh, his tongue soft and wet.

“That’s so good!” she whispered.

He began to lick her in a slow, steady rhythm, sending jolts of pleasure through her with every circling pass of his tongue.  She had curled her fingers in his hair, soft locks wrapped around them, and his tongue flickered and swirled, making her moan, a flush blooming in her cheeks and at the top of her chest.  His hand moved a little, one finger stroking through wet flesh, gently pushing inside her as his tongue swept over her clit.  The feel of it increased the sensations, and she moaned, pushing her hips upward a little to let him slide deeper.  Slowly, he drew out the finger almost all the way before thrusting it in again, and Belle let out a tiny cry, feeling her body grow taut, feeling her climax approach.  He thrust into her again, tongue flickering, and she whimpered, rocking her hips, wanting more of him inside her, wanting all of him.

She sucked in a breath and held it, her pulse pounding in her throat, and exhaled loudly as she came with a loud cry, her body jerking.  Gold groaned again, pulling the finger from her and putting his mouth to her once more, his tongue swirling over her flesh.  She tried to catch her breath, letting an arm fall over her eyes as her chest heaved, and he began kissing his way back up over her belly until he was braced on the palms of his hands.  She let the arm fall to the side, and he was gazing down at her, a smile on his face and a soft look in his eyes.  His mouth and chin glistened with fluid, and she watched as he wiped it off with a swift movement of his palm.

“Well, look who’s overdressed,” she said, a little breathlessly, and reached up to tug at the knot in his tie.

It didn’t take long to get him naked; he remembered to take off his shoes before his pants this time, as he dryly remarked upon.  Belle giggled as she pushed the shirt from his shoulders, his own hands shoving frantically at his underwear.

“Patience, Dr Gold,” she chided.

“Fuck patience,” he growled.  “You taste too good for patience.”

She chuckled, reaching for one of the condoms he had dropped on the blankets, and tore open the packet just as he finally tossed his underwear into the darkness beyond the candles.  Within moments he was pushed up against her, Belle’s hands on his shoulders, her chest heaving as she met his eyes.  He was breathing heavily, and pressed his forehead to hers, a moment of calm.

“I love you,” he whispered, and she nodded.

“I love you too.”

He moved, pushing inside her slowly, and she gasped, knees drawing up, feeling him sink deep, a low groan coming from him as his body pressed against hers, his cock buried within her.  She wrapped her legs around his back, holding him close, feeling the heat from his body, the wetness where they were joined.  He began to move with slow, grinding motions of his hips, tight circles letting him rub against her as he pushed deep inside, and Belle moaned, clinging to him, nails leaving crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his back.  It felt incredible, and she let her hips lift and fall, increasing the friction between them, sending waves of pleasure through her body.

“God, that’s amazing!” she whispered.

He bent his head to kiss her neck, mouth sucking at her pulse point, his tongue sweeping over her skin.  She could smell her own scent on him, her arousal mixed with the musk of his sweat, and she tightened her grip on him, holding him close, pressing kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his throat.  Gold thrust deep with a groaning gasp, his cock hard and rigid inside her.  He quickened his pace, hips pumping, and let out a harsh cry as he came, his cock pulsing.  Belle moaned, pumping her hips against his, the sensations taking her with him in a wave of pleasure and a rush of heat.

He was still moving with short, shallow thrusts, and she kissed along his jaw, nipping at his chin.  His mouth found hers, and his movements slowed and stopped as he kissed her, a deep rumble of contentment vibrating through them.  Gold let their lips part, breathing hard, his nose just brushing hers, and Belle smiled happily.

“Well,” she murmured.  “That was wonderful.”

He grinned, kissing her again, and shifted a little, pushing himself up on his elbows, fingers idly stroking her hair as their breathing eased.  Belle glanced around, noting that one of the candles had gone out.  Bookshelves were square blocks of shadow beyond them, thin strips of yellowish light coming in through the blinds from the streetlights outside.

“I wonder if that’s the first action the library has seen,” she said, and Gold chuckled.

“With any luck it won’t be the last.”

“Not if this librarian has anything to say about it, that’s for sure.”

His grin widened, specks of gold gleaming in his eyes, his skin warm in the candlelight.  There was a softness in his gaze, a look of tender devotion that made her heart thump a little harder, and his finger trailed across her cheek, tracing its curve.

“Move in with me,” he murmured, and Belle blinked.

“What?”

He smiled.

“Move in with me.”

She opened and closed her mouth, her heart thumping.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”  

“Wow,” she remarked flatly.  “So it takes you months to work up the courage to ask me out, and now you have there’s no stopping you, hmm?  What happened to Mr I Overthink Everything?”

He shrugged.

“Maybe it feels right to ask precisely because I spent so long overthinking everything.”

“So you’ve thought about this a lot, then?”

“I have.”  He kissed her forehead.  “My house needs you in it.  I knew it the moment I woke up with you.  Actually, fuck it, I knew the moment you left after having the flu, I just didn’t want to admit it.  I love you, and I want to wake up beside you and make you breakfast and snuggle up with a book every night.”

Belle smiled, her heart swelling with love for him, and stroked his cheek with a gentle finger, brushing a lock of his hair away before it flopped back.

“Tell me more,” she whispered.

“I want to buy groceries together and cook while we drink wine and sing along to music,” he said.  “I want to dance with you in the kitchen and take bubble baths and drink tea on the back porch while we watch the snow fall.”

“You didn’t even get to the hot sex part and I’m sold.”

He grinned at that, leaning in a little.

“Oh, there’ll be plenty of hot sex,” he growled, and Belle giggled.

“Well, since you’re so full of surprises and clearly have no intention of taking things slow, are you planning on proposing any time soon?” she asked, with a wry grin.  “Be nice to have a little warning, if so.”

“That was my plan for Tuesday,” he said gravely, and she giggled again, stroking her fingers through his hair.

“Okay, now I know you’re not serious.”

“Well, not about that,” he admitted.  “Not yet, anyway.  But I do think it makes complete sense for you to move in.”

“You sound sure of yourself,” she teased.

“Yes.”  He kissed her nose, and then winced.  “But not that sure, so please put me out of the misery of this budding anxiety attack.  Will you move in with me?”

This time she kissed him, a generous, open-mouthed kiss that took a little time to wind down.  Belle pulled back, smiling up at him.

“I’d love to,” she whispered.  “But can you wait a few months?”

He blinked.

“Of course,” he said.  “We can wait as long as you like.  What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.  “It’s just - well, I went from my dad’s place to college, and then from college back to my dad’s, and if I come straight to you - well, I’d kind of like to prove I can make it on my own first, you know?”

“I understand,” he said gently.  “I’ll even help you decorate this place, if you like.”

“And risk getting paint on one of your suits?” she said, tutting.  Gold grinned.

“I was thinking we could wear painting overalls,” he said.  “Or just do it naked, that could be fun.”

“We could get a canvas and throw paint at each other and roll around on it,” she said.  “Create a background art piece for the next nude calendar you do.”

She giggled as he tickled her, and kissed him again.

“I love you,” she whispered.  “I really do.”

“Well, I love you too,” he said.  “How long are you gonna make me wait?”

“Hmm…” She pursed her lips.  “Let’s say first of May.  That seems an excellent time, wouldn’t you agree?”

He smiled, a sudden flash of sadness in his eyes.

“Neal’s birthday,” he whispered, and Belle bit her lip.

“Oh,” she said.  “Oh, I didn’t realise.  Well, we can pick another day, if you—”

“No,” he said quickly.  “No, it’s perfect.  The two best things in my life, coming to me on the same date.  It’s perfect.”

He kissed her again, lips gently pulling at hers, and Belle thought as though she would burst with happiness.  She settled back against the cushions with a sigh, reaching up to cup his face with her palm.

“So, this is it,” she said.  “The doctor and the librarian, making a life together.”

“Against all the odds,” he added.  “The misunderstandings, the insecurities…”

“The doctor putting his foot firmly in his mouth every five minutes…”

“We got there in the end,” she said.  “And I love you.”

“Yes.”  He kissed her nose.  “And I love you too.”

She reached up, lips finding his, gently pushing them apart so that her tongue could slide inside.  Gold rolled onto his side, his arms going around her and hugging her close as the candles sent out their flickering light into the dark of the library.

[lilaclily00]

Apologies (3)

Danny Fenton secretly sort-of joins the family business. 

(DannyMay 2019 Day 23: Scream [It’s still the 23rd somewhere in the world, right?]

DannyMay 2019 Week 4: Dreams)

Hopefully, this is a decent concluding chapter! And decently uses the prompts! They helped so much to get this written, but I struggled a lot, so I am mostly happy for it to be finished.

Part 1 and Part 2

AO3 link

@goinggoblin and @pigte

Val was missing.

That was the consensus when all the other A-listers had met up at lunch and realized that none of them had seen her in morning periods and no one's texts had been answered.

Dash wasn't an idiot. He would've noticed if anyone on the A-list wasn't at school, then would’ve proceeded to not worry about it. He wouldn't have even bothered with checking up on any of them by text. With how often some of them (read: Paulina) skipped anyways, there was no need to worry or feel responsible for them, besides perhaps cover their backs if a teacher was suspicious.

But this was Val.

Val, who spent the whole day on her phone.

Val, who always prided herself on having everything, including good grades. She just about never missed school, where she had the opportunity to achieve and show off her newest clothes.

Val, who took MMA after school for years.

Val, who recently became kind of literally dead, a secret that could lead to a lot of bad stuff if it came out--which admittedly seemed very likely to happen with how impossible she'd found it to control her new powers.

He couldn't say for sure what, but something had to have happened to her.

"Should someone go check on her?" Paulina voiced, biting her lip, picking at the questionable school lasagna on her tray.

Dash deliberated for a couple seconds. "I can. I rode my bike to school," he offered, shoveling lasagna into his mouth. After swallowing, he added, "And I don't have any absences for History yet."

"You sure, man?" Kwan frowned. "Your parents won't be happy about you missing a class if it wasn't because of football."

Dash shrugged in lieu of a vocal response, seeing as there was lasagna in his mouth again. He could live with his parents throwing a tantrum later. He tried to keep them happy most of the time, but they hardly ever were. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered.

After a few more mixed messages of encouragement and caution from his friends, Dash waved them off and pushed the rest of his tray to Kwan. He meandered out of the cafeteria and hid out of sight from staff wandering the halls, then snuck to the bike racks and successfully made it off school property.

It didn't take long to reach Val’s place. He wasn’t terribly fazed when he knocked harshly on the front door and no one answered. He went around back to right under her curtained bedroom window and searched for something to throw at it, ultimately settling on a small rock on the ground. It only took a few seconds for him to get a reaction, a frustrated growl that was so Valerie, especially because he could hear it from all the way down there.

“So you are alive!” he shouted up with a grin, then winced internally. Not the right word to use. “Let me in!”

“I can’t!” she shouted back, some sort of strange echo in her voice.

Dash looked around them; no one in sight. “Why not?”

“I... I physically can’t,” she enunciated behind the curtain, something that sounded like pain in there behind the echo. If his suspicions were correct, it was more likely painfully embarrassed--she must’ve found herself unable to touch anything.

“Then come outside!” he tried, ignoring the pang of guilt that hit him at that realization.

"...Can’t do that either."

Dash threw the rock again. This time, a white-haired girl poked her head out the window--wait, through the window--to properly glare at him with glowing red eyes. He startled at her appearance; he'd only seen it once before, in the accident. She blinked and eeped, flinging herself back out of sight into the room.

"Give me a minute," she called again, her voice nervous but resigned. "Go to the back door."

Dash scrunched his eyebrows, but nodded and walked to the back end of the house. He stood there, tapping his foot, mind ruminating on Val's altered appearance at the window. He felt a strange sensation on his arm, like when things were so cold they felt hot. He yelped, then yelped louder as the sensation yanked at him and pulled him through the unopened door. It immediately released him once he had stumbled inside, and he rubbed at his arm for the tingling to go away.

"Sorry, that's the best I could do," Val's voice said. He flinched, hearing it right next to him. It still sounded like her, but not quite, and not just because of the echoing quality. He couldn't help but feel like it sounded like a supernatural imitation of her.

"At least it worked," Dash muttered, dropping his arm even though it had not ceased the apparent after-effects of... whatever that was. He glanced over to his friend, then corrected his gaze when her face was higher up than usual. She floated at his own height, her mouth twisted apprehensively.

"Yeah. You're the first person I've seen or talked to since I got... stuck."

Dash had a hard time looking at her in the eyes, the unnatural glowing eyes, and turned his sights instead to watching her hair float around her. It seemed he was going to need to get used to this. "When'd you get stuck?"

"In the middle of the night. I couldn't sleep, so I figured I might as well practice." Valerie hugged herself, curling up in the air. "I've been trying to go back to normal all morning. I was hoping I'd at least manage to do it before lunch ended, but now I don't know if I ever will!" Dash's eyes were drawn back to hers when her haunting gaze turned harried and desperate. "Am I just gonna be a ghost now?"

"No," he told her, face hardening with determination. It was his fault she was in this mess in the first place, and he refused to believe the mess could be even worse than they thought. They did not kill her. He did not kill her. "There's gotta be something you haven't tried yet."

"Yeah, like what? You know even less of what's going on than I do!"

"Two heads are still better than one." Dash glanced to the door. "I think first, you need to chill a little. I think it's easier to calm down outside, so--"

"Not happening!" Valerie stepped--no, floated away. Dash suddenly realized her legs were gone, replaced by a tail sort of thing. It was so strange he couldn't look away. "I do not want anyone seeing me. Why else would I have stayed in my house all day?!"

"No one's going to see you in your backyard," he said slowly, as if she didn't already know that. Everyone was at work or school. "And can't you, like, turn invisible and stuff now? You said that a couple days ago."

"I'm trying to stop turning invisible, Dash," she muttered, curling her tail around herself agitatedly. "Let's just say things didn't go well last time someone saw me while looking like this. I don't want to take the chance."

He frowned, but didn't push it; with how much her powers acted up, it wasn't too surprising that she ended up in ghost... mode(?) by accident or something. Hopefully, it was only one person. "Alright, fine. You still need to stop panicking. What will make you relax?"

"I dunno. Most of my efforts to relax have failed because they require being able to touch stuff." Val glared at her tail, flicking it back away from her. "I hate what this feels like. It's like... everything's too numb and too much at the same time. After hours like this I'm going insane. Please tell me I'm not just a ghost now."

"You're repeating yourself," Dash said, only to distract himself from the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at her description. He didn't know whether he wanted to understand it better or not--understand better just what his own stupidity was putting his friend through. "What about... music? That doesn't need touch." Not if he took charge of whatever was playing it, at least.

Val gave a single, slow nod, then hesitantly added another one. "It's worth a try."

He found some songs on his mp3 player that he knew Val liked, and sat at the kitchen table, lazily bopping his head, as Val slowly took to lounging in the air. She swayed to the beat, but it didn’t seem like she was really relaxing.

"C'mon, I thought you were always the life of the party," Val's ghostly voice teased halfway through the third song.

He raised his eyebrow; that comment was better reserved for a situation that wasn't this. But maybe she needed some sense of normalcy for a second.

"And I thought you were the queen of karaoke," he tried, folding his arms challengingly.

She did not react to that quite like he had hoped, glancing away and looking like she didn't know what to do with her hands. He realized belatedly that she probably didn't like the distortion in her voice at the moment any more than he did.

He drummed his fingers on the table for a few seconds, then turned back to the player. Perhaps what she needed was a hype song. He put on Dumpty Humpty's classic hit "I Punch You in My Dreams (A Lot)", one he knew by heart because the majority of it was just the title repeated a bunch of times.

"I punch you in my dreams!" he shouted more than sang, and Val cringed, putting her hands up to her ears, then stopping to glare at her palms.

"Ugh, that doesn't even work," he heard her groan as he stood up, a giant grin on his face.

"I punch you in my dreams!" He pointed at her to finish the line, but she was instead staring at him like he grew a second head.

"This song stopped being cool in middle school!" she shouted over the insane instrumental.

"Nothing stops being cool until I say it is," he declared, watching as she reoriented herself to a standing position, rolling her red eyes.

Something about that so-very-human action eased a bit of his worry. He couldn't put what the worry was into words, but... it was there. His friend really was there in front of him, no matter how different she seemed.

The next line came up, and he "sang" along gladly. "I punch, I kick, I scream in your face! I hit you over the head with a bass!"

Dash air-guitared as the bassist audibly destroyed his instrument. Luckily, the bass line always picked back up soon on a spare.

"If you think this is supposed to relax me, it isn't working." Nonetheless, the corners of her mouth twitched up.

“I punch you in my dreams!” he repeated loudly, pointing at her again. She shook her head at him, fighting a smile. “If you don't sing, I'm not inviting you to my next party.”

“I don't want to go to your next party anyways!” Nonetheless, she finally started laughing.

“I punch you in my dreams!”

She tacked on grudgingly, “A lot.”

Dash grinned; maybe this was a good plan after all. “Louder! I punch you in my dreams!”

“A lot!”

Together they finished the chorus, “I punch you in my dreams a lot!”

She joined him in rocking to the next instrumental, white ethereal curls flying as she head-banged, her giggles infectious.

Dash held her gaze, making sure she was singing aloud, as they shouted in unison, "I punch, I kick, I scream in your face! I punch, I kick, I scream, I scream, I SCREAM!!!"

They both screamed, but Val's was significantly louder, and Dash ended up stopping to cover his ears and watch her, horror in his eyes. Val, however, didn't notice and kept screaming and screaming, eyes screwed shut. When the scream section of the song was over, a bright light formed around her waist; Dash now covered up his eyes to not go blind. He heard Val topple onto the ground and hurried to help her up--her human body up, dressed warmly from the previous night.

"We... we did it!" Val breathed, patting herself down once standing, a relieved grin stretched across her whole face. "That worked!"

Dash turned off the music and wore a smile, but more of a mask, as she continued to ramble, pacing the kitchen. She pondered aloud the possible reasons why it worked--though she admitted screaming was therapeutic, she liked connecting it to the practice of shouting in her MMA class to move more energy from oneself out.

Val turned back to him, triumph in her eyes. "Would you mind waiting a few more minutes so I can get ready for school?"

"Well, duh," was his reply, and he sat back down at the table as she hurried out of the kitchen to her room. With her gone, he let out a sigh big enough to sag his whole body. He propped his elbows onto the table and buried his face in his hands. He hadn't expected to be so affected by that.

Dash remembered Val's scream.

It was really only a few days ago when he heard her screaming in agony, undergoing torture as the portal did something to her, put her through the kind of pain he couldn't even imagine. The kind of pain he was this close to going through himself.

This scream wasn't the same, he knew that, but... apparently, it was close enough.

He was glad to help somehow, but hated that it ended up being that way, a way that unexpectedly made his heart ache and pound. But he had no right to complain, not really. He couldn't complain about what he was going through, because he wasn't going through anything. He wasn't the one living through this, he was just the one that almost did, and had to watch someone else do it instead.

He rubbed his eyes with his hands, and quietly groaned out, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" He jumped and turned to the doorway--Val had just come in, more silent than she'd ever been before, in a sweater and jeans.

He opened his mouth, then closed, then tried again. He didn't really know how to explain it. His face flaming, he helplessly gestured. "Everything?"

She breathed out, hands at her hips, and watched him for a second. "Apology accepted, but no more, okay?"

He stared at her dumbly, then stood and moved out of the kitchen, feeling the weight of glowing red eyes that could’ve been his on his back. "Okay."

Dash huffed as he finally got to hang up the phone and shove it into his pocket. “Yep, just got grounded.”

“I don’t get them sometimes.” Kwan shook his head as they walked out of school--after classes this time. “Still better than what Val’s dad might’ve done if she was still stuck like that when he came home. How did she get stuck anyway?”

“I dunno. I’m just hoping that was a one-time thing.” Dash shrugged, holding onto his bike’s handlebars. “Guess I’ll see you later.”

He hopped onto the bike as Kwan split away. He cruised down the street, suddenly aware of what being human felt like. The October chill on his bare skin and the warmth of his letterman jacket. The air beating on his face and through his hair as he glided down a hill. The droning, grating noise of the bike’s wheels and chain over the wind whistling through trees and the occasional car passing by. A surprising amount of sun coming through the cloud cover to blind him. How much of that would Val have experienced?

He narrowed his eyes and made his turn around the corner block sharper than necessary. He’d been distracted by these thoughts all day and they didn’t help at all. He needed to stop, and at least try to not feel sorry. He was rarely sorry for anything in the first place. It was easy to act in the few other insistences, but actually not being sorry when he already was was impossible!

He needed something to take his mind off of all... that. School didn’t work, but he didn’t expect it to anyways. Maybe food? Chowing down on leftovers sounded good right now. Or--

He veered to a stop to glance back behind him, up in the sky. Did he--? Yes, that really did look like a person. A person, hovering in the air! Decked out in a futuristic blue suit and helmet! On a surfboard-looking thing shooting fire out the back! He started to wonder whether he really was looking at a time-traveler, because there was no way hoverboards were already a thing.

He nearly fell as he scrambled to turn his bike to get a better view. They barely swerved to go over one of the taller trees, and made a slightly unsteady recovery. Apparently, they were inexperienced with this. It was still so cool, though!

“Hey!” he shouted up, pedaling after them. The startled person lost balance for a second, but successfully froze their position in the sky to glance down to him. He continued, “Can I try out your hoverboard?”

After a few seconds, a fake-deep voice replied, “No,” and returned to flying away.

Dash couldn’t help but pout as he watched the figure disappear behind some houses--surely intentional so they (he?) couldn’t be followed so easily. He thought of taking on the challenge, but his stomach beckoned him to go home instead.

Well, perhaps he could catch a flight with Val, if she ever left the house, he considered as he turned back around for the last stretch home. Hey, if that dude showed up again, Val could hang out with him in midair! Even she would have to admit that’d be cool!

...And there he was, feeling guilty again out of nowhere.

What else could distract him? Using Fenton as a punching bag always worked pretty well, but Val asked him not to for a while. Wanted to try to start on good relations with the loser, she said. He didn’t think it was worth it, but agreeing to a favor like that was the least he could do so she wouldn’t be as miserable.

Not to say that he wasn’t going to watch Fenton closely. The favor ran the risk of him getting out of line in some way, and Dash wasn’t going to accept that. If Fenton pulled anything on Val...

He was going to be more sorry than Dash could ever be.

[edsbrak]

Seeing Double

summary: 1990!Richie has a chance meeting with 2017!Richie and it’s just a whole bag of fun, really. yep.

a/n: hey yall, I know this isn’t the final SW chapter, don’t worry, I’m still finishing it, I was just in a lull so i thought I’d write this to get my inspo back! I hope you enjoy this ridiculousness! 

Read on Ao3

It was strange, being back in the place where it all began.

At this moment in time, the ground was decorated in a canopy of oranges, greens and browns. Occasionally, a group of leaves would float up in a gust and around the interweaving paths, catching in between the cracks made over countless decades of use.

Up above, the sky was cloudless and pale, warming up his exposed hands and face against the cold nip of the autumn wind. His glasses, tinted to shade away the sun’s glare, were pushed back up when he felt them begin to slip down. There were a pair of mothers sat over beneath a large tree, their toddlers by their feet as they shout at them for attention.

Beyond that, standing proud and stark in the centre of the small park, Paul Bunyan stared out ahead with his looming, fake grin, and Richie tried his best to ignore the distasteful curl in his stomach. He scoffed once, partly at his irrational fear and partly at the town for still having the lumberjack on display.

It wasn’t surprising to notice how little things had changed over the years.

Richie wouldn’t say he was back here by choice.

With the passing of the seasons comes old age, and lately, regrettably, his old man wasn’t in the best physical shape anymore. He was growing more forgetful, unable to perform the labour of maintaining a home for much longer. So really, Richie always knew he’d find himself in this town again. He just hadn’t expected that time to come as soon as it did.

His mother, God bless her, had the patience of a saint and made sure to keep up her reassurances that things would be fine and there was no need for their son to worry. Not too long afterward, Wentworth had pulled Richie aside to make him promise to look after her if things were to turn sour. Richie had agreed, resting his hand atop his father’s crinkled own as he swallowed back the reality of everything that was happening.

Convincing himself it was just to stay on the safe side, the next day he looked into nursing homes listed in the tri-state area, and as an extra step, made a few calls back home on the west side.

The rest of the visit turned as light-hearted as his mother was determined to make it. Richie would stand in the kitchen doorway, watching on as she moved back and forth between the stove and fridge and sink, humming a faint tune that Richie thought she might have sung to him as a child.

A thought, shrouded by something dark and unknown to his consciousness, whispered to him how lucky he was to be alive.

And despite the circumstances of his unofficial visit to Derry, Maine, Richie could be grateful for one thing, and that was having Eddie Kaspbrak accompany the journey with him.

Eddie had insisted on checking into the local hotel in town when they first arrived, not wanting to impose on Richie’s parents despite the claims that they have room to spare. It was nice, though, after a long day of sorting through his parents finances he then had the option of retiring to a night in with Eddie instead.

Occupying the space on the bench to his left sat his backpack, and inside it, a cellphone waiting for a call from Eddie to come through. He promised he would phone before leaving the hotel, with a plan to meet Richie here in this park before heading over to the Toziers for dinner.

He almost didn’t hear the ring, because in that moment a group of kids decide to rush past him, shouting at full volume as if something wicked was chasing after them.

He reached into his bag to retrieve the clunky, heavy phone, pressing the green coded button to accept the call and resting it against his ear with a smile.

“Y’ello, this is Richie,” he answered, just to be sure.

“Hi Rich,” Eddie’s soft voice came through with only mild static. “I was just about to leave to come and meet you. Are you at the park?”

“Yep,” Richie said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m in the middle of a stare down with good ol’ Paul here.”

“Please,” Eddie laughed gently, the sound wrapping around Richie in a pleasant tingle. “I know for a fact you could never look that God awful statue in the eye.”

“Alright, you got me.”

Even without seeing him, Richie knew Eddie was still smiling.

“I also wanted to ask if I should pick up some coffees on the way there?” Eddie tacked on, and the sudden need for caffeine hit Richie quickly. Ever since his recent attempts to cut back on alcohol he had turned to coffee, figuring it was better than a possible relapse.

“Sounds like a plan, Spaghetti Man.”

“Richie, please,” Eddie whined through an exasperated laugh.  

“You love me,” Richie taunted, glancing around briefly to make sure he had been out of ear-shot. Eddie clearly sighed on the other end, but Richie took no offence.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Bye.”

The line went dead, and Richie took a moment to stare at it before putting it away. He fidgeted around until he was comfortable along the back of the bench, arms spread wide and head tilted up toward the sunlight. Moments like this one had been hard to come by lately, so he soaked up all he could, not allowing his mind to linger on anything that might send him into another spiral of worry.

Having Eddie here with him helped. In fact, in the past few years, they had both helped each other to grow; to be the people Richie thought they were always meant to be.

There were parts inside of him, memories; still there but as if they’d simply just been swept under a rug. No matter how much he tried, no amount of struggling allowed him to remember. Some days he could see the frustration mirrored in Eddie’s eyes as well, mouth pulled down as he stopped whatever task he had been doing to focus his attention on the whispers and murmurs in his head.

Richie knew he had gotten off easy, whereas Eddie had to live with the reminder of their last visit to Derry in the form of a missing arm.

Over the years, through the pain and the physical therapy, there were some days when it was almost second nature to his day to day life. But on the bad days, where Eddie would struggle to drive or clothe or bathe himself and he would shut himself off in hopeless tear-stained rage, Richie would wait. Because no matter how long the recovery may be, Richie had no plan to leave Eddie again, and vice versa.

He didn’t know how he managed to find this second chance, and with Eddie as well, but there was no way he was about to waste it.

Suddenly, an object (that Richie thought might have been a frisbee) narrowly avoided a collision with his nose before landing somewhere off to his right. He turned in the direction of the culprit to see it was those kids from before, still shouting as some of them pointed or shoved each other in worry.

After the shock wore off, one of them finally started to walk over to retrieve it, and Richie could hear the boy muttering under his breath – something about “hating physical activity, I mean, this is so stupid,” and Richie could honestly relate pretty well.

The kid bent down to pick up the fluorescent coloured toy, pushing familiar shaped glasses up his nose as he began to walk back over to his friends. But then he stopped in front of Richie, movements awkward as he gestured to the frisbee weakly.

“Sorry, dude. About almost knocking your nose right off,” he said, voice cracking from what Richie could only assume was puberty striking hard.

“You’re alright kid, just watch where you throw that thing next time.”

“Yeah, sure,” the kid said, and Richie made a point to look away, waiting for the kid to start walking again and return to his friends. Only Richie didn’t hear any retreating footsteps, so he glanced back over to see the kid now had his head tilted, eyes slightly squinted behind his frames. “You… look familiar. You live here or something?”

Richie quirked a single brow at him. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to interact with strangers?”

“Trust me dude, you’re one of the least weird people around here,” he said.

“How are you so sure?”

The kid shrugged, his oversized button-up swaying in the breeze, and Richie was beginning to suspect this boy was perhaps not the most logical thinker amongst his group of friends. But then that thought paused, and he reconsidered it. This town was full of some shady characters, so really, Richie should be classifying himself as someone trustworthy, right?

“What’s that gadget you got there?” Richie asked, gesturing to the toy in the kid’s hand.

“Oh, uh, a frisbee,” he said. “You, like, throw it and stuff.”

“I got that, yes.”

There’s some more shouting coming from the group again, presumably telling him to hurry up, and the kid made an exasperated sound and huffed out, “In a minute!” to his friends. None of them looked particularly happy that their friend was talking to a stranger and wasting their important play time, and Richie still had no clue as to why the kid hadn’t left his space yet.

“But seriously,” he continued, “I swear I’ve seen your face before. Like, on TV I think? Are you like, famous or something?”

Once upon a time, maybe when Richie was around this kid’s age, hearing those words would have been music to his ears. He can remember the days when he would boast to his friends after school about being the next best voice actor; dazzling audiences with his voices in the hopes he could bring them to tears with laughter. He had told Bill and Eddie and everyone his dreams to make it big – take Hollywood by storm one act at a time.

And he had, for the most part.

But as it turned out, that life, that glamour… it wasn’t what he thought it would be.

He’d convinced himself it had been enough, that he was content with what he had and there couldn’t be much else he was missing from his life. But he knew that lifestyle, that attitude, was probably what caused all of his relationships to fail, each woman leaving him with the same speech but phrased differently every time.

Returning to Derry and seeing the Losers again, seeing Eddie again, had been what he believed to be his wake-up call.

So Richie lifted up his sunglasses so the kid could see his face more clearly. “You’re right. I did used to be on TV. Not anymore, though.”

“Dude,” the kid almost laughed, “What the hell are you doing in Derry? And I’ve seen some of your stuff. Your jokes are so old, what’s up with that? My dad finds you funny.”

Richie huffed. “Everyone’s a critic,” he muttered under his breath.

“How come you left TV? Did they fire you? That would’ve been shit,” he said and dragged out the word ‘shit’.

“I quit, actually,” Richie answered and brought his shades down again.

“What?” the kid said. “Why’d you do that? Being famous would be fucking ace! Not to mention the attention you get from so many babes!”

Did I swear this much as a kid? Richie thought briefly. “Let me give you a piece of advice, kid,” he said, hoping to be done with this interaction soon. “Being in the spotlight isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. One day you’ll learn there are much more important things in life.”

The kid pointed at him accusingly. “That’s what a washed-up comedian would say!”

“Rich, what the fuck is taking you so long?” another boy ran up to them, face pinched in anger as he glared up at his friend.

A memory, faded and distant, made an appearance in Richie’s head as he watched the two boys proceed to bicker back and forth, snarky and strikingly familiar. It was uncanny, almost, how much this kid was reminding Richie of himself.

The newcomer snatched the frisbee out of Rich’s hand before forcefully throwing it back over to their friends.

“Hey, you stole my shot,” Rich said.

“Shut up. You don’t even like frisbee,” the smaller one said.

“Okay, are we done here?” Richie asked no one in particular.

“Huh?” Rich turned to him. “Oh, right. Well, nice meeting you, dude. Sorry again and all that. But no offence, I’m gonna make sure I become so famous I’ll never have to come back to this town again.”

Rich’s friend smacked his shoulder. “Don’t be fucking rude, idiot.”

“I said ‘no offence,’” Rich argued, mumbling as he was finally dragged away to leave Richie in peace.

Richie let out a deep sigh, rubbing at his temple and thanking his lucky stars he never had any children of his own.

After that, it wasn’t much longer before Eddie arrived at the other side of the park, bags slung over his shoulder as he balanced a tray of their coffees in his hand. Richie couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips, watching as Eddie drew closer, his soft blond hair bouncing in the wind. Once he was close enough, Richie offered to take the coffees so Eddie handed them over. He took a sip straight away, enjoying the warmth as it filled his stomach.

“Were you talking to some kids before?” Eddie asked him curiously.

“Yeah,” Richie said, seeing that group had moved on from frisbee and were now walking down the main street. “One of them seemed dead set on making sure I knew my comedy skits were outdated-dad-joke-garbage.”

“What’s that? Children of today not understanding your middle-aged humour? Shocking,” Eddie teased.

“What is this? Make-fun-of-Richie day?”

“That’s every day, honey,” Eddie said, using his hand to gently wipe away some milk foam that got caught in Richie’s moustache.

“You really need to stop doing things that make me want to kiss you in public,” Richie murmured. He knew they shouldn’t, but that didn’t stop him from imagining it.

“Sorry,” Eddie said bashfully and looked to the ground.

“Ready to head over to my parents?”

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”

As they began the 15 minute walk back over to his childhood home, Richie took one last look at the kids playing in the street, jumping out of the way of honking cars as they passed by. A small part of him he’s not entirely sure of tells him they did something good here – that the kids growing up in this town have a better chance to live the lives they were given.

“As much as I came to despise this town, I have to admit some good things did come out of it,” he said as they crossed over the kissing bridge and out of sight of peering eyes.

“Yeah?” Eddie asked. “And what’s that?”

Richie made sure their fingers brushed together as he turned to smile at Eddie.

“A fighting chance.”

[leonawriter]

Second Chances

Read it on AO3

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Characters: Cloud, Shelke, Genesis, various others.

Summary: Following on from First Encounters, Shelke helps bring certain things to light about their new acquaintance. When Cloud finally finds him again, his attempts at getting answers are less than fruitful.

Written for @strifesodosweek, though this one’s mainly platonic again.

...

It happens while Genesis is away, and no one knows where he's gone. It isn't the first time that's happened, and they weren't too bothered about it, because everyone had things they didn't want to talk about, something that Cloud understood more than most.

It's one of those rare occasions when there's more people around than there aren't, too, which he'd be suspicious of if it weren't for how sometimes, that's just how things are. 

Vincent's talking to Tifa, Yuffie's stroking Nanaki's mane, and Cid's taking a drag of a cigarette by the door when Shelke comes walking in, looking vaguely uncomfortable and saying that she had 'information that she believed that everyone present might benefit from'.

...

"The man who is now staying here, I believe that he is the one that Deepground referred to as 'G'," she continues as soon as everyone is settled down. "He introduced himself to Cloud as a SOLDIER First Class, am I correct?"

Cloud nods. He doesn't look her in the eye.

"G... as we now know him, 'Genesis', was the origin of Deepground, in many ways, according to all of the information I was able to obtain on the matter, and the one whose cells were used in order to create the Tsviets. Shinra seems to have made extensive attempts to delete his existence from history, so what I was able to find was... at times inadequate, and often inconclusive, but does point to the indubitable fact that the Genesis we know may be the very same as the SOLDIER who despite Shinra's efforts, will agree caused a considerable amount of damage and loss of life up until some years ago."

It took effort for Cloud to not let the ringing in his ears overtake him, to keep listening to what was being said, to not grip the table so hard that Tifa was going to have to get a new one.

Tifa sighs, and he looks up, to see her sharing a look with Cid, who looks grim, but...

"Yeah, I figured as much," the man says. "I mean, with a name like that? There's only so many in the world, y'know? And damn, but I was around in those days - they can pretend it didn't happen as much as they like, but the Genesis war was a thing, and people tend to talk when there's something going on like a SOLDIER gone rogue. All hush-hush of course, but what wasn't."

His head- his head... 

The world flashed green, just for a split second, enough to put him off balance.

A voice-

You were a test subject in Hojo's new experiment. 

The monster has been harvested, and can be discarded.

"...thought I knew him from somewhere."

Tifa's voice snapped him free, but he still felt the sweat on the back of his neck. Her words registered to him only vaguely, as he tried to remember how to breathe again.

"Cloud?"

He shakes his head. 

"I'm fine," he says. Vincent doesn't look much like he believes him any more than Tifa does, but the last thing he wants right now is for them to start fussing over him, when they have bigger problems at hand than whatever his memories are up to this time. He's thankful when they just let the matter drop.

"Like I was saying, I thought I knew him from somewhere. His face seemed familiar, you know? And his name, somehow."

"So this guy waltzes in here like he doesn't expect anyone's gonna remember him, is that it?"

"I don't know, something about this seems-"

"He saved Raye and Este before I could get to them," Cloud cuts in, his eyes still squarely on the surface of the table and no one and nothing else. It's almost as though he's hearing someone else speak, and doesn't know whether to hate himself for speaking up for the person he didn't know if he could trust any longer, or feel relieved that he was saying it at all. "If all anyone's got is incomplete data and rumours," including me, he added silently, even now, I wouldn't rely on anything I remember from back then unless someone else is able to back it up, "then... even if nothing else... we can't judge him like that until we know everything."

When he eventually looks back up, Shelke's eyes are on her hands, crossed on her lap.

"I merely thought that additional information would be useful," she said. "Especially if something came up where a lack of prior knowledge would have caused further divisions."

...

Genesis doesn't return for several days, and it's long enough for some of the others to start wondering if he'd merely been toying with them, stringing them along, using their hospitality.

Cloud doesn't know what to think, and he doesn't really know what he wants to think, either. The two images in his head - that of the man who saved a couple of kids and their dog just because he was there, and that of someone who'd had a war named after him - clashed, irreconcilable.

He finds that his feet are taking him to the church in Sector Five, and wonders what Aerith would make of all this. What Zack would make of it.

The last thing he expects to find in the church are black feathers. His heart stops, hand going for his sword - the last time he had seen feathers like these... it hadn't been here, but Loz had been here, and fought Tifa, too.

A quick scan of the rest of the church suggested that there hadn't been another fight here, that nothing was out of place, that the pool of water that Aerith had called down that cured Geostigma was still as it should be. 

He finally sees the source of the feathers when he looks up to check that the Buster Sword is still in its place, and he feels himself go cold at the sight.

The wing was on the wrong side. Misshapen, compared to Sephiroth's. 

Instead of silvery-white hair falling straight down, the owner's hair was red, and fell over black and red leather, what little could be seen from behind, and with the way that the winged man was hunched over.

Cloud puts one foot in front of the other, and sees Genesis - because there's no one else it could be, no matter how much he wishes it wasn't - tense at the sound. 

"Shelke told us a few things," he says as he walks. "And we figured out a few other bits by ourselves."

He pauses several feet away, but Genesis still hasn't risen from the pew. He hasn't even turned to face him. A nervous tension pools in Cloud's stomach at the idea of Genesis, who had been unarmed the last he knew, taking Buster Sword and using it to turn on them all.

"What are you even doing here?"

When Loz had come, it was supposedly to find him, although he'd taken to fighting Tifa and stealing their materia. He had no such understanding of this man's motives. Not anymore, at least, if he ever had.

"My soul, corrupted by vengeance, hath endured torment... to find the end of the journey in my own salvation and your eternal slumber." Genesis let the church echo for a few moments before saying anything else, the words ringing familiar to Cloud, but not explaining anything. "I came to pay my respects, of course."

The wing shook itself out slightly, before settling down again.

"You knew Zack," he says, and it isn't a question. It's the only thing that fits.

"I... suppose you could say that."

Genesis says it in such a way that Cloud knows there's more to it, that it's complicated, and he wants to take the man by that stupid coat of his, and shake him until his feathers fall out along with some answers.

But he doesn't. Because Aerith's flowers aren't that far away, and he knew better than any that her presence still hadn't truly left them. There'd already been enough fighting in this place.

"I spoke up for you," Cloud hears himself saying. "I thought you deserved a chance."

Perhaps some part of him had intended it to come out as anything other than confrontational, but if it did, then it failed - it sounds like nothing more than an accusation.

"All in all, a terrible decision, really," Genesis says flatly. "I could list off any number of reasons why you and everyone else I've come into contact with should hate me." Something about the way he said it gave Cloud no doubt about that, either. "Unfortunately for you, however, I have promises to keep, and none of them include dying any time soon."

Genesis stands, and the wing stretches out as the man sorts himself out, head tilting up, as though attempting to judge the size of and distance to the hole in the roof.

"Promises?" Cloud asks, reaching for something, anything, to help him understand. "What sort of promises?"

"Nothing you need to worry yourself over, Cloud."

Genesis' head tilted, and Cloud wondered why hearing this man say his name already felt so different from when Sephiroth had  - there was something similar but off that he couldn't quite put his finger on. 

Then again, that was Genesis all over, it seemed. Full of contradictions, constantly shifting. Like fire.

The wing flaps once, and before Cloud can react to say or do anything else, Genesis is gone, leaving a trail of feathers floating down in his wake. 

He walks over to where the man had been, half expecting to see something there, some kind of trap, but finds nothing.

There is, however, a single Banora White apple sitting on top of a few black feathers in front of the Buster Sword, and Cloud almost thinks that he can feel a memory on the tip of his tongue before it disappears on him, like a whisper on the wind.

Zack... I hope I made the right decision. 

A single feather fell onto the water's surface as he walked back to the open doors, creating ripples as the wind blew it this way and that.

...

AN: I don't often write about 'how do the gang find out about Genesis' past', but I do feel like it should ideally be handled really carefully, and yeah, if people hadn't thought about it and then it comes up later, then there are going to be issues there. 

Timeline-wise, I'd also put this as before 'Spar With Me', which gives an idea that things do indeed get better.

[neubauje]

BEGT ch. 6

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 AO3

After a few minutes, Toshinori emerges once more from the bedroom, changed into a baggy old t-shirt and shorts, his hair sloppily pulled back into a loose tie, and brandishing a roll of masking tape. He takes a moment to pull the blinds shut on the window and the balcony door on his way over to the table. To his surprise, Aizawa has abandoned the last of the soup, dragged his chair around to the other side of the table, and somehow managed to use the straw to get the laptop open and turned on. "Oh! Sorry bud, I didn't think to offer to let you use the computer for a bit, I suppose you'd want to check the news and your email, right?" With a soft chuckle, Yagi swipes the stray droplets of soup off the keys with a paper towel, and plucks the bowl away, making to toss the abandoned soup.

"You should eat that." Aizawa mumbles around the straw in his mouth, not faltering in his hunt-and-peck typing technique as he does. "You hardly eat anything at all." Pausing for just a moment to look up with a soft glare at his host, he emphasizes, "And when you're shopping tomorrow, don't forget to get food for yourself too." (more under the cut)

He turns back to the screen and pokes at the enter key with a flourish, completing the log-in process to get into the school email server.

Yagi blinks at the command, frozen in place as he realizes once again just how observant Eraserhead is. Breaking his stare, the emaciated hero chuckles softly and lifts the bowl to his lips to down the rest of the broth. "Yeah," he acknowledges a moment later, "I can't really eat much anymore. Even after all the reconstructive surgeries five years ago, I've got hardly any stomach left to speak of." He turns to set the bowl in the sink and rinse it out, "I'm supposed to be having tiny meals or snacks every couple hours, but it's too much trouble." Drying his hands, he leans against the end of the half-wall, arms crossed, and nods at the laptop. "Tell you what, while you're here, I'll leave that laptop set up and logged in for you, and just stick to my phone. And if you get tired of typing like that, just let me know and I'll type for you. Sound good?"

"Yeah, thanks..." Aizawa trails off as he skims over the several hundred emails he'd missed while recovering from the USJ attack. "It looks like a lot of parents are still concerned, even though their children are fine. I'm guessing you got a lot of these too?"

Toshinori sighs and bows his head. "I did... But I hadn't responded yet. I still have no idea what to tell them."

"Trade me, then. Open up a mass email response to them all, I'll tell you what to write." He sets the straw aside and rises carefully to his feet, trading places with the more able-bodied teacher to lean against the bar instead. "To whom it may concern,

"This is the report of the USJ attack, committed by the villain alliance. The Hero course class, 1-A, was involved in a rescue practice and became involved in the incident. Just as the training began, the alliance struck. The alliance used a powerful quirk to separate the students. As the class' teachers, Thirteen and I fought against the villains, however Thirteen was gravely injured in the battle with Kurogiri. I was also gravely injured combating two other villains, and was eventually left out of the fight. Afterwards, the teacher All Might joined the fray and reversed the situation. The class president, Iida, contacted the remaining professional Heroes on staff, and the incident was resolved. As a result, we three teachers were injured to varying degrees, but the first year students all managed to overcome the incident and were left with a great experience. We realize, however, that UA must now regain the trust of the public. We are an entity which trains the future defenders of your livelihood and security. Perhaps three years to do so are too short a time, so we ask that all students remain present and engaged in their studies. We apologize for having worried the families of the first year students, but we hope to continue counting on your trust and support. Sincerely, Hero class 1-A homeroom teacher, Aizawa Shouta."

"Wow," Toshinori murmurs, reviewing the report quickly before sending it off, "It's like an officially-worded version of the 'I am here' slogan I'd be trying to tell them, if it were in person. Couldn't have said it better myself! You really are a lot better-practiced at this teacher gig, huh." He turns to Aizawa with a sheepish grin, then stands and cracks his fingers after shutting the lid of the laptop. "Ready to get down to business?"

"If it means getting to bed sooner, then yes. We finished that just in time, I think the painkiller is starting to kick in..." Almost as an illustration, Aizawa sways slightly in place as he stands up straighter and lifts his arms an inch or two away from his chest. "I'll help where I can, but for the most part, this is going to be in your hands."

"Of course. I'll just-" Yagi steadies his charge carefully with one hand, ducking around him to un-tuck the loose black shirt from his waistband and the tops of the casts. He hesitates at the long bandage-like scarf, draped in multiple loops around Aizawa's shoulders, but before he can puzzle out how best to get it off, the air grows light and everything in a half-meter radius starts to float upwards, the scarf included. "Ah, nice, that's much easier." All Might snatches the bundled scarf from mid-air and hangs it over the back of the kitchen chair, then carefully tugs Aizawa's shirt up and over his head, and off from around the casts, taking extra care not to knock the injured limbs about too harshly, and shuddering at the foot-print-shaped bruising at the small of his back. And then, remembering the check-list's warning about changing out the bandaging, Yagi unbuckles the neck brace and carefully plucks the gauze free of Aizawa's face, grimacing at the sight of the gash on his cheek and the muddy purple and yellow blooming all along his nose, cheeks, and chin. As soon as the last of the wrapping is removed, that silent thrum of power dissipates from the area, and Aizawa blinks a couple times as his hair drops back down around his bare face and shoulders. "I guess it's a good thing I don't need my quirk for this, huh? That floaty side effect comes in handy." Yagi sets the shirt and brace atop the scarf and bustles into the kitchen, discarding the bandages and plucking two wrinkly plastic grocery bags from within another one hanging by the sink.

"I think I might be able to use my secondary quirk to at least manage to pee on my own, yes," Aizawa follows Toshinori with his eyes, shivering a little with the air hitting his rarely-exposed chest and back, combining with the drugs in his system to make him a little chattier than usual. "But it's not something I have a lot of conscious control over, so that might get a little messy, and WHY do you just HAVE those?" He eyes the plastic bags warily as Yagi unfurls them and gingerly encloses the first one around Shota's left arm, then the other around his right, then grabs a few more and fashions a crude water-proof sling out of them to replace the bandages holding the weight of the casts up.

"Oh, these bags? I uh... well, I guess I got in the habit of keeping them around back when I had a cat. And I never stopped thinking of them as useful." Still taking great pains not to mis-handle any sore areas, Toshinori goes in with the masking tape, sealing off the openings of the make-shift wrappings around the tops of the casts. "There, that should do it." He ducks to loosen the laces on Aizawa's shoes, and the buckle on his utility belt, then stands back up with a soft gulp, ready to face the elephant in the room head-on.

But instead he's met with tired eyes, blown wide in surprise as Aizawa mostly ignores the process of stepping out of his shoes, socks, and pants, his morphine-addled mind instead focusing on the most important subject. "YOU had a cat? When?! Here?!?"

Surprised by the sudden leap of topics, Toshinori hesitates before breaking into a sunny grin, leading Aizawa down the hall to the bathroom. "Not here, at my last apartment. But yeah, back before I was injured, Maru was my chick-magnet. And for a little while after that, she was my reason to come home again at the end of each day. Come on, I'll tell you all about her." As it turns out, the difficulty of keeping a very intimate task contained somewhere on the plane of professionalism tends to be a lot easier with a slightly-loopy patient and a common topic to keep focused on. As they trail off talking about Maru's funny habits and cats in general, Shouta is scrubbed clean and dozing off against the wall of the shower stall as Yagi runs his fingers through the long black hair, making sure the last of the conditioner is rinsed out before he reaches past Aizawa's waist to turn the water off. "There we go, bud, let's get you dried off and into some pajamas, huh?" He glances down at himself, impressed that he'd managed to keep the bath mat and his own clothes as dry as he had by assisting from the side.

"I don't really have... pajamas..." Aizawa mumbles, eyes squeezed shut against the water dripping down his sore face.

"Ah, no worries, friend, you can borrow mine." Toshinori chuckles, assuming Aizawa to be one of many people who choose to sleep in the nude. He plucks one towel from the linen closet and wraps Aizawa's hair up into it, then another to dry off the rest of him. Once his guest is safely not dripping anymore, Yagi carefully peels the tape free from the bags, replaces them with fresh gauze support, and re-wraps his face before squeezing out most of the moisture from his hair and removing the second towel. "Just wait here, I'll be right back." He dashes off to the kitchen and bedroom and returns with the neck brace, another baggy American-flag-themed t-shirt, and a loose pair of sweatpants with a drawstring, and quickly fits them onto Aizawa's shorter frame before relaxing visibly, wondering if he looks that ridiculous in his own over-sized clothes on a daily basis. With a soft but fond sigh of relief, Toshinori runs a coarse-toothed brush through Aizawa's hair, smiling to himself as the younger teacher leans into the pampering as best he can. The doped-up pro hero seems about ready to fall asleep on his feet, so Yagi wastes no time in guiding him to bed, where he's set up a veritable throne of pillows, couch cushions, and blankets, ready to prop up both broken arms and keep Aizawa comfortable.

After a bit of fussing and tucking him in, Toshinori fetches every ice pack and bag of frozen vegetables from the kitchen, and piles them up atop both casts to help reduce swelling. He glances at the time to make sure to come back and remove the ice after twenty minutes or so, and busies himself with setting up the couch in the meantime. It's not his favorite place to sleep, since he'll have to curl up to fit his legs onto it, but it's a welcome sacrifice if it means Aizawa gets the better support of the real mattress.

"So what happened?"

"Hmm?" Toshinori is surprised Aizawa is even awake when he comes to fetch the thawed ice packs a half hour later, berating himself for being loud enough to wake him. "What happened to what?"

"To Maru. Why don't you have her anymore?" The soft, sleep-roughed voice in the darkness tugs at Yagi's heartstrings as he struggles to reply.

"Oh, she uh... I got her back when I was still quir- uh, when I was young. So by the time I got hurt on the job, she was already very old. She lasted just long enough to see me through recovery, but not much longer than that. She's buried out at Coruscant pet cemetery." He tucks the packs into the crook of one arm, and uses the other to brush a stray lock of hair out of Aizawa's eyes, and a stray tear out of his own. "Now get some sleep. You need to get some more healing in before we re-do the rescue training with Thirteen tomorrow."

Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 (rated M) - Chapter 11 (rated M) - Chapter 12

[justalittlebluetiefling]

Chapter 43: Sometimes I Can’t See Myself

Rating: T Fandom: The 100 Pairing: Bellamy x Clarke Chapter: 43/68 Word Count: 1774 Words

Chapter Summary: The one where Clake isn’t happy with her art history TA.

Also on AO3; Start from the beginning on AO3

It was still unclear how her alarm didn’t get set, but most of the seats were full by the time Clarke made it to class. She found a seat as close to the front as possible and set up her stuff. Some students always gave her weird looks on the first day of any class. Most of the people she knew used laptops for note taking, but she preferred to write things out. She also needed somewhere to sketch while she waited for the class to start.

A stack of papers landed directly on top of her notebook, forcing her to mess up on the bunny she was drawing. She scoffed and glanced up at the TA, who was apparently an asshole, and gasped loudly.

Bellamy put on a stern face. “Take one and pass it down please.”

Clarke didn’t have time to formulate a response before he smirked and continued down the line. Usually, syllabus days were Clarke’s favorite. An entire overview of the course material, a layout of all the assignments, the schedule of all the quizzes and tests? Structure was… calming. But today, all she could do was watch him doing whatever the hell his job was as the TA. It didn’t help that he kept catching her eye with some fake innocuous expression that might fool anyone else, but she could read him like a fucking book. Like the world’s most obnoxious fucking book.

He had laughed at her when he saw ‘From Athena to Lady Gaga: Art in the Modern Imagination’ on her schedule. She had tried to counter by listing everything in the class description.

“The Lascaux caves, Bellamy.” “Lady Gaga, Clarke.” “Raphael. Michelangelo. The Baroque movement. The neo-classicist movement.” “Lady Gaga.” He smirked. “Monet. Picasso. Jackson Pollock.” “Lady Gaga’s in the fucking name, Princess. How am I supposed to take a class seriously when Lady Gaga’s in the name? What does she have to do with art history?” “Oh, come on. Have you seen her outfits? Have you read anything about her?” “You refuse to listen to her music. You refused to go to that concert with O last year.” Clarke shrugged. “I’m not a fan of surrealism and her outfits are a little much for me. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the fact that it’s technically art and some people may enjoy it.”

The professor started to discuss the assignment list, snapping Clarke back to reality. She refused to look at Bellamy’s stupid grin. But that was when it finally dawned on Clarke. Two short five-page papers, a midterm, one longer ten-page paper, and then a final… and Bellamy fucking Blake would be grading all of them.

There were fifteen minutes left when the professor said, “That’s about it for the day. My TA, Bellamy Blake, has the list of groups for discussions and peer edits. Stop by and get your group info before you leave.” There was an hour before her next class, so Clarke let most of the class rush to line up at the front before her under the guise of packing up her stuff. She ended up behind a pair of girls who wouldn’t stop giggling about the “hot TA”. One even pulled her shirt down a little before she leaned over the desk to look at the list. To his credit, Bellamy only glanced at her before looking up at Clarke. She stuck a finger in her mouth and pretended to gag, smiling when he had to choke back a laugh.

She smirked at him when she finally reached the desk. He plastered a grin on his face. “Name?”

“Clarke Griffin,” she said, struggling to hold in a smile.

Bellamy ran his finger along the list and put his chin in his other hand. “Hmmm, I’m not seeing any royalty on this list.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and pulled the list away from him, leaning in. “Lady Gaga, huh?” She barely exhaled the question.

“I’ve heard she’s a fantastic artist,” he muttered.

“You saw this class on my schedule.”

He nodded and murmured assent with a serious look, as though they were talking about assignments or attendance or anything else.

“You knew.”

He nodded again.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” She looked up from the paper she was writing her group information on to see a stupid grin on his face again.

The person behind her chose that moment to clear their throat loudly and she realized it probably looked like they were flirting. Bellamy was already starting to glare at them when Clarke turned around to glare herself. She absentmindedly hoped that the guy wasn’t in her group as she turned back to Bellamy and tried to sound as cheerful as possible. “Thanks. See you Wednesday.”

The science building was on the other side of campus. Clarke dug her phone out of her purse to check it as she made her way through the masses.

Monty 10:10am Calc isn’t the same without you. Jasper’s been moping the whole class. Why did you decide to take Stats instead?

Wells 10:16am Did you wake up on time? I told you that hiding behind that bench waiting for Miller to come by was a bad idea. He wasn’t even that scared.

Octavia 10:21am Important question. How many classes do you think I can skip and still pass? Like, you still have all your old psych notes right?

Bell 10:27am Surprise, Princess!

Clarke stopped walking so she could angrily type out a reply to the last one. It wasn’t even entirely clear to her why she was suddenly so mad at him, but the more she thought about it, the angrier she got.

Clarke 11:51am How in the hell did you land a TA gig for an art history class?

She stared at her phone for a few minutes, waiting for a response, until someone bumped her as they walked by. She was about to yell, but realized she was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Frustrated, still for no real reason which was even more frustrating, she shoved her phone back into her purse and finished her walk to the science building. Once she found an empty bench nearby, she sat and took her phone back out.

Bell 12:01pm Your Roman art history class last quarter really piqued my interest. My grad advisor hooked me up.

Clarke 12:06pm You didn’t even tell me you were going to be a TA for any class. You told me you were thinking about it. Not that it was a real thing that was happening.

Oh. That’s why she was mad. She’d looked into being an undergrad TA, but opted not to in the long run. It was pretty demanding just as an undergrad. It would be twice as much work for a grad student.

Bell 12:07pm You’re not going to lose your hookup at the café. I’ll still be there on the weekends.

Clarke You’re not going to have time to hang out anymore. Isn’t that basically a job? When am I even going to see you?

Bellamy didn’t respond. He was ruining syllabus day for her and he didn’t even bother to respond. Clarke stared at her phone for a solid five minutes before she grabbed her things and found her class. Thankfully, there were no surprises during her physics class, but she had another hour to kill before statistics. The math building was right by the science building so she found a place to sit again and pulled out her phone. It was still blank.

She was halfway through typing out a moderately scathing text when a floating iced coffee drink covered in whipped cream appeared in front of her. Well, it wasn’t floating. It was attached to a hand that was attached to an annoyed looking Bellamy. She glared before reluctantly accepting it. He just had to pick that moment to remind her that he knew her coffee order in any weather. A white paper bag landed in her lap as he sat next to her, too. There was a turkey sandwich inside.

“Bribery isn’t going to work, Blake.”

“Come on. I know you’ve got some time to kill. I also know that you weren’t going to eat lunch and that you probably skipped breakfast.” She scoffed and took a bite of her sandwich. He nudged her knee with his and smiled at her. “I mean, I don’t know about you, but I did not want to get up this morning. Miller was still super pissed, by the way.”

Clarke snorted and took another bite. Miller’s face was priceless. It was what he deserved, telling them his routine. Campus security guards were supposed to be more random with their routes and they agreed that he needed some encouragement.

They ate in silence for a few minutes and it gave Clarke a little time to calm down. When she was done with the first half of her sandwich, she folded her hands in her lap and looked over at him. He was happily chewing a bite and lost in people watching, so it took him a moment to realize she was watching him.

“Don’t be a creep, Princess,” he said after he swallowed.

Clarke frowned. “Sorry for getting freaked out. You know I—”

“You don’t like surprises on syllabus day. I know.” He put his sandwich down in his lap and shrugged. “I thought I’d be a nice surprise.”

“Oh, come on.” Clarke elbowed him gently. “Of course you’re a nice surprise. If I have to be surprised, I’d rather it be you.” He smiled at her and she frowned. “You’re going to be so busy, though. You’re not going to have time for the little people.”

“You know you’re never going to be little people. Come on.” He slung his arm over her shoulder and pulled her into his side. “Plus, you’ll see me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for at least an hour and a half. I’m like a built-in lunch date this quarter.”

“And you’re a creepy stalker who remembered that I have a break between my classes on Monday and Friday.”

“And an even longer break on Wednesdays, because you don’t have Physics.” Clarke laughed out loud and set her head on his shoulder. He squeezed her one more time before pulling away. “I’ll be busier this year, sure, but you’re my… one of my best friends. Plus, you live with my sister. You’re never getting rid of me.”

Clarke looked down at her lap, trying to hide her smile. Bellamy Blake was probably the best surprise she’d ever had in her life.

[skkcnh]

The Story of A Work In Progress

So, I figure it’s only right that I start this thing off with my own story.

But before I get into that, I wanna talk about where the idea comes from. I’m not going to try and pass it off as an original idea because it’s not and, in all honesty, I’m not in the habit of taking credit for anyone else’s idea. The truth is that the idea comes from another fandom, the SPNFamily, and a book called Family Don’t End With Blood. For anyone who’s in the SPN fandom, you’ve probably heard something about the book or you know the line at least, know the depth behind it. For anyone who’s not, I’ll give you the brief version – else I might just ramble on forever.

One of the main themes of Supernatural is family, and the fact that family doesn’t start or end with biological relations. Family is made up of the people that are there for you, the ones who care for you, the ones you can always turn to. As Dean Winchester says, ‘A wise man once told me, 'family don't end in blood. ' But it doesn't start there either. Family cares about you, not what you can do for them family's there; for the good, bad, all of it. They got your back, even when it hurts.’ And that’s what the book is about. It’s about how the SPNFamily, the fans and the actors and the crew, they’re more than just a bunch of people who have one thing in common. It’s more than the show, more than the actors. It’s bigger than any of us.

Reading the stories from actors and fans alike about how they found a place, a community, friends, acceptance within this fandom, well it made me think about how I’d experienced something like that too.

Yes, I experienced it recently on discovering the SPNFamily but I’d experienced first here, in the Varuniac family. And that led me to thinking that I’m probably not the only one who’s experienced it, that I’m not the only one who’s life was changed by a fandom, specifically this fandom. It also made me remember that there was a time before that, a time where I felt like being a fan was something that shouldn’t be advertised. You just didn’t tell people about that, you kept it to yourself, hid behind screen names. And, the most important rule, you didn’t let anyone know anything about the real you; don’t make friends with strangers on the internet.

If it weren’t for this fandom, I’d still be hiding, still be denying who I am.

I’ve not been here since the beginning. In all reality, it doesn’t feel like I’ve been here all that long at all.

When Student of the Year first came out, I was living in San Antonio, Texas – not exactly a place where Bollywood movies were easy to come by, especially when you didn’t know anything about the city. You had to wait to get them when they came out on DVD or popped up on Netflix, something made difficult by the fact that I never knew anything about the films that were coming out. Most of the Indian movies that I watched at that point were the ones I’d stumbled on by chance or, in the case of SOTY, the ones whose songs ended up stuck in my head after YouTube recommended them to me. Having grown up in Leicester, a city that’s multicultural, a city where catching the latest Bollywood film was no more difficult than going to the local Odeon, a weekly occurrence in my family, it wasn’t exactly my idea of a fun place to live – no offence to anyone who does live there.

I was living in a place where it was hard to be proud of my heritage – even within the Indian community that did exist. Coming from a Gujarati family that had made its way to England via Uganda, it wasn’t easy to fit in with the predominantly Hindi speaking community who weren’t exactly fond of ‘banas.’ Especially when I didn’t understand Hindi beyond the dialogues of films like Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.

So I kept to myself, buried myself deeper in books and somehow ended up watching Doctor Who – but that’s a different story.

SOTY changed things a little bit. I didn’t join the fandom when I first watched it, that came a couple of years later still. But, for the first time since I was about eleven years old, I was looking for Bollywood films again. And I’d forgotten how much I loved them. Sure, I’d watched KKHH, K3G and films of the like about a million times over but it wasn’t the same as watching one for the first time, watching something new.

Not long after, I ended up with a concussion which kinda completely changed my life. A long series of events lead to me finishing high school before I was supposed to and my parents finally deciding to move back home – which was exactly what I’d been wanting.

In my head, moving back home would be some magic fix it. After six and a half years of being the new British kid in a different school every year because, for some reason, we couldn’t seem to just settle on one town, being unable to fit in, I would be going back to the place where I felt I belonged.

And coming home did fix somethings but it couldn’t fix the fact that I’d left. That, while I was missing my friends, waiting for the day I’d see them again, they’d all moved on and didn’t really care too much about me anymore.

So I was back home, in yet another new school, and there was still something missing.

Fast-forward a year and a half and I’d made three pretty good friends – though only one of them managed to last past the end of college – and I was pulling good grades. I had my books, had Doctor Who, the one TV show I was still watching at this point, and a little one-and-a-half-year-old monster who kept me entertained. I wasn’t a loner at school anymore either.

Despite all that, I didn’t quite feel like me.

I don’t think I really noticed it at first. I kept doing the things I had been, kept reading, kept writing, kept doing all the things that I thought made me who I was. The thing that sixteen-year-old me didn’t quite understand was that I was only still doing those things because I was desperate to cling to the things that had always been part of me. Apart from reading, which has always and likely will always be my escape, there wasn’t the same feeling to doing those things.

I kept writing and drawing and doing those creative things because that had always been the way I defined myself, the way everyone else defined me too. I was the creative one, the imaginative one. And to feel like that was slipping away, well that sucked. Because, for as long as I could remember, the only things I’d really wanted to be were an artist or a writer. Even when those things were deemed to be impractical, when my dad insisted that I follow a career path that would ‘actually get me somewhere in life,’ I clung onto those dreams.

And then, one night, I’m in Edinburgh for an open day at a uni and I ended up watching Humpty Sharma ki Dulhunia and, for the first time in like ever, I found myself wanting more of a film.

So, I did the logical thing and tried to figure out if there were any deleted scenes floating around on the web and stumbled across promotions and interviews instead. I figured there wasn’t much harm in watching one or two, especially when I didn’t have much else to do. And then one or two turned into three and four and five. 

Again, I won’t lie, it was Varia that hooked me first, purely because shipping was something that I understood. Every TV show I have ever watched and every book I’ve ever read has ended up with me adding at least one more ship to the ever-growing list. But ships aren’t exactly fandom – even if this one kinda has its own little fandom. And, like I said, being part of a fandom was still something I didn’t really know how to do. But eventually, I started searching for more about the actors individually, watching and reading interviews

I’d never really watched any kind of interviews before. Sure, I considered myself to be part of some fandoms, sure I enjoyed the shows and books and movies, but I didn’t look for the behind the scenes info, didn’t really think about the actors or anything beyond what I saw on the screen. In all honesty, I hadn’t ever really realised that there was more to any of it, that fandoms existed for things beyond the content, hadn’t really understood the full extent of them.  

But here I was, looking for interviews of this actor, itching to get my hands on the two other films in his filmography and eagerly awaiting the next one on the list.

And not only was I looking for interviews and films, actually buying DVDs for myself for the first time in my memory, but that creative spark that had all but been extinguished, that was back too.

It’s strange really, how somehow all of a sudden, the desire to write was back. Some might call it nothing more than a coincidence, that it just so happened that I found something to write about again at the same time I ended up in this fandom. But that’s not true. Not only did I feel like writing again, I could literally hear dialogues in my head, hear them being delivered perfectly, ready to be written. Which is something that had literally never happened to me. Dialogue had never really been my forté in all honesty, I was more about the detail.

I’m not gonna say that my writing was brilliant right from the get go because, let’s be real, we all know that’s not true – especially for any of you who might know of my account on Wattpad – but it was a start at least. A start that lead to me actually writing and publishing a novel, reaching that dream that had always seemed kinda impossible. I already had an account on Wattpad at this point, one that I’d written an NCIS story on but, other than that, used only for reading. I had no idea that Wattpad has a pretty massive Indian community to be honest. In all honesty, the only reason I’d signed up for a Wattpad account in the first place was because I’d been through most of the NCIS archive on fanfiction.net and hadn’t yet discover AO3.

You can imagine my surprise when, I’m not even sure how, I stumble across a story tagged with #varundhawan. And, even more surprising, there’s a lot of them.

Seeing that, I decided to take a chance and type up the words that were floating through my head and post them as a story. I’d posted fic before but I’d never really got a response to it and just kinda stopped trying. But, I posted this story, nervous as all hell, and then tried my best not to think about it. Because everyone always says to write for yourself but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to post a story and get no response, to see that nobody is reading it.

Which is why I was a little shocked to see that I was getting reads and votes and comments.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that awkward human mode is pretty much my default setting so I had a hard time responding to comments but I made myself do it and, slowly, I started to talk to people. We had little conversations in the comments and then we started messaging.

Next thing I know, I’m getting on twitter and discovering that this fandom is even bigger than I’d ever imagined. I’d never really used twitter before; I’d signed up to be able to follow authors, get updates on books because it seemed Facebook was becoming obsolete in that respect, but after a couple days of trying to navigate that app, I’d found myself confused and deleted it.

But this time I made myself figure out how to use it, something that feels like a small accomplishment now when I use it every day but, back then, felt like something huge. I didn’t really interact with people too much thanks to that annoying little friend of mine called social anxiety but it didn’t matter because the people I did interact with, they welcomed me warmly and spoke to me freely and they are, to this day, some of the best friends I have ever had, friends who I still talk to on an almost daily basis. Friends who reminded me what friends are really supposed to be. Friends who encourage me and support me, who are always there for me when I need them. Better friends than almost anyone who I’ve ever met in real life.

Those friends and that support got me through some of the shittiest times I’ve ever had. Talking to them has been the bright spot in some of the darkest days, the thing that got me through days at uni when I felt like I was just being completely overwhelmed and I wanted to give up – even though they might not know it.

And besides that, seeing the way people within the fandom interact, the way they support each other as well as the actor we’re all here for, that is one of the most uplifting things I’ve ever experienced.

I know that I don’t really participate in the fandom, I don’t know many people, despite the fact that I feel like I want to, I just don’t know how to talk to people. But I’m learning to, trying to. And I don’t think I ever would if it weren’t for this fandom. It’s given me a voice – or rather, helped me to find my own. I’m still developing it, I probably will be for a long time, and I don’t doubt that it will take me some time to find enough confidence to be able to talk to people freely, to not overthink every single time I want to tweet, but I’m getting there.

I don’t hide as much as I used to, don’t try to stop people from knowing who I am. I don’t care if people think I’m a dork or nerdy or whatever the hell else because I’m a fan. It took me a really long time to realise that there’s nothing wrong in it, that being a fan isn’t something to be looked down on but something to be proud of. And, most importantly, it’s a part of who I am, part of what makes me me.

I don’t know if I ever would have discovered that if it wasn’t for this fandom. Being part of this fandom has helped me to figure out who I am – and that who I am isn’t something to be ashamed of. I found myself and I found my best friends, I found my voice and I found people who want to listen to it.

And no matter how many years pass, no matter what anyone might think, I will always be thankful for that. There are other fandoms that I’m part of, other fandoms that I’ve allowed myself to embrace, to be a part of in almost the same way but that never would have happened if I hadn’t found myself here first. And no fandom will ever be the same because this is where it all started for me.

And now, I’m gonna wrap this up because I think I could go on forever and I know I’ve already gone on a while. So, if any of you took the time to read this all, thank you and I hope at least a little of my rambling made some kind of sense. And, if there is anyone out there who needed to hear that, to hear that it’s okay to be a fan, to be different no matter what the world might say, I hope that this might’ve helped, even just a little bit.

One last thing before I go though: remember, your perception of weird depends on your definition of normal so you do you, whatever and whoever that may be. Because you are definitely awesome