#anyway autumn's ficlet lives in me now

[anna-scribbles]

loveybug and catwalker from @blur0se @pisoprano and @asukiess beautiful minds

[neonponders]

I’m not particularly fond of how this turned out haha so I don’t think I’m going to put it on ao3. This is really showcasing how I struggle with short stories haha  but anyway ~

A small Little Red Riding Hood ficlet ~

• • •

Billy stepped off the pavement and crossed the cracked asphalt. Hawkins was due for a refresh to its roads but this side of town seemed to be last on the mayor’s list. New developments on the mall side of town were all the rage. The migration of everyone’s curiosity and interests made the original Main Street, suburbs, and school lots look like a ghost town in comparison.

Billy’s black Converse made leaves crunch and soft grass whisper as he stepped into the woods. Hawkins had a lot of those. For every new neighborhood and new business, it seemed like the fingers of woods stretched deeper into Hawkins. The mayor was ironically losing a battle he probably didn’t even realize was happening. New suburbs stayed empty because Hawkins didn’t have the people to fill them. It was all neon gilding.

Billy lifted the fabric of his red hoodie over his head. Out of view of annoying, judgmental eyes, he could cover his head without being accused of being up to no good. Like every teenager who actually used their clothes in the brisk autumn were up to criminal intent.

It was a long walk, but he enjoyed it. The drug addicts and homeless stuck to the side of town around the mall; ghouls hiding in the neon’s shadows. Billy used to like standing in that pink and blue light. Now he just wanted to be alone, and he got it in these woods. He’d long since cleaned up the fast food boxes, bags, and wrappers from dickheads loitering in the past. Without all the trash, the woods almost looked like summer, flourishing with green pockets wherever the sun broke through the canopy of stubborn trees.

He hopped over a creek and knew he was close. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and reached behind for the other. Wearing a backpack was hard. He didn’t have the flexibility to wear both straps usually. He had to stop his stride, meditate on his breath, and wince through the delicate stretch of his muscle fingers to get the backpack on properly…

A bird stopped twittering nearby.

Billy looked in the sound’s direction and saw only the usual scenery. A small, vulnerable part of him felt cold fear slip into the back of his torso, resting against his spine. The rest of him felt warm with a mixture of indifference and comfort.

I know these woods. I’m safe.

And, Come and get me then. Do me the favor.

He rubbed his chest where it felt like the muscle fingers of his pectorals had frayed off his sternum, and resumed walking over the beaten path. Not enough to expose the dirt, but he came here often enough that only low-growing, hardy plants could tolerate him walking on them. The old woman had once talked about low-growing raspberries replacing grass. He wondered when she’d make him plant that all of the place.

He could see the house through the trees, and then he stepped across the rough-edged, flat stones of a pathway he’d laid down himself some months ago. The lady liked giving him work. He used to despise it, but…then he admitted how he only knew peace out here.

The cottage was a suburban farmhouse like a lot of the original homes in Hawkins. What set it apart was the amount of foliage trying to overtake the place. Gone were the open fields for harvest; the woods had long since overrun the property. More than that, window boxes under every window were bursting with plants. Billy didn’t know what they were but he knew they smelled nice. More than one beehive lived in the trees, but with the transitioning seasons, the insects weren’t obnoxious today.

Billy let himself in with the key the woman had given him, only to pause and turn around at the sound of a jingling, like keys or a chain. Seeing nothing in the yard or the woods beyond, he finished with the lock and stepped into the house. Shoes left by the door, bag on a kitchen seat, he filled a glass of water at the sink before examining the pot on the stove.

“It’s your least favorite,” the woman assured. Billy disliked how silently she walked around but by now, he was used to it.

Sure enough, he recognized the green, leafy balls amongst the reddish bubbling broth. It had cooked long enough to look like brown, decaying eyeballs in gravy. “Pretty sure brussel sprout soup is a crime against God.”

“Then She shouldn’t have created them. Grab a bowl.”

He slumped a bit, but obeyed. Even if the soup tasted bad, the bread wouldn’t be. Apart from the funk of the greens, the soup was savory and the beans replenished him. Just in time for the woman to inform, “I have a pet for you.”

Billy grimaced as much as he could with a mouth full of stew. He swallowed, “A what?”

“A handsome wolf hybrid. I think you’ll like him.”

Billy had heard stories of old people’s whims, ranging from eccentricity to outright dementia. “Is this wolf the size of a raccoon?”

“I’m old, not delusional. I caught him last night, pilfering the garden.”

“I don’t think a cannabis farm counts as a garden. It’s more like terf shrubbery.”

“And yet, all who seek paradise come to my Eden.”

“That’s gross, don’t talk like that.”

The old woman laughed and got up to pull something else out of the oven. She set a chocolate muffin next to his bowl. “For the pain.”

Billy grit his teeth. He loathed being reminded of his injuries but he wasn’t passing up a THC muffin. He was almost too full from soup and bread to enjoy it, but the deep chocolate and fuzzy cannabis hiding in the recipe sent him into a better lull than food alone could ever do.

How wound up on the sofa with a chunky blanket over him, Billy could not say. There was a lot about Hawkins Billy didn’t have any words for. He still can’t explain what happened to him this summer. The only word for it was possession but that meant that Hawkins made the Overlook look like a carnival ride. Ghosts bound up inside walls? Hawkins had them walking around freely.

Billy had wondered if he was one of them now. He sure didn’t feel human most days, but it’s not like he had extra powers. If anything, it was the opposite: he just…lost some of his humanity. Got physical and mental chunks taken out of him. Nothing supernatural filled in the spaces…

He squinted his eyes, caught between fighting off sleep and wanting to drift back into slumber’s warm waters. But a distinct whine of a voice kept reaching his ears, insistent and distressed—

He sat up all at once and regretted it. His ribs felt like the bone were biting into the meat of his body and the sun slanted in the harsh angle of evening turning into night.

That voice cut through the air again, rising to the devastation of a scream that got hushed by the lower tone of the woman. A thread of cold fear dripped down Billy’s spine. For a split second, he became acutely aware of how little he knew about this random grower and dealer who lived in the woods. A bonafide basket case had become his best friend in a handful of weeks, and now something awful was happening in the backyard—

He resolved himself to push aside a scratchy wool curtain and peek outside. His brows furrowed, because when the woman said something about a wolf, he hadn’t thought she was serious.

Billy carefully opened the backdoor so the sound did not frighten the creature lying on its side. Billy could identify the sour green smell of fresh leaves burning in the bowl on the ground, but why the woman was fanning the smoke into the wolf’s face churned up his distrust all over again.

He deliberated on saying something, and chose to come forward instead, hoping that his presence would ask his questions for him where a new voice might scare the wolf—

She held her hand up to stop him. Billy felt the jerking motion of panic inside himself, eyes darting to the wolf and back to her, and then all over the impressive creature. It didn’t really hit how different wolves are from dogs until one was lying right in front of him. Long legs and large bodied, the creature’s ribs expanded with rushed breaths. Every exhalation carried a whine and sometimes bigger. A scream or growl.

“What are you doing?” Billy finally demanded.

“He’s almost done,” she rebuffed.

“With what? Dying?” he commanded, because why would a wolf need a forest fire experience? Still, she flapped her paper fan over the bowl, billowing smoke into the wolf’s face.

Instead of answering, she all but cooed, “Relax your mind. Let your body take control. It knows what to do.”

The wolf moaned a pained sound, giving Billy pause. However, he did not get the time to think about it as a great deal of bone gnashing and ligament snapping made him flinch back. His eyes could not keep up with what happened; somewhere amidst the smoke and grass and fur, skin and legs and shoulders emerged. The spine curved like a man’s, and the stacked strength of the creature melted into the curves of a human being.

Most jarring of all, Billy’s stomach fell, swooped, and flew at the growing realization that he knew who it was.

“Get a blanket and a bowl of soup.”

At least she didn’t insult him for staring, but her tone brokered no patience. Billy went inside for the blanket he’d just used and ladled from the pot on the stove. On his way back outside, he got to properly appreciate the long backside of—

“What’s your name?” the woman asked as she put out the smoldering leaves.

Billy answered, “Steve Harrington,” and tossed the blanket over him. Then he realized, “When you said a wolf hybrid…”

The woman confirmed, “He’s followed you here many times now. It took me a while to realize he wasn’t a wolf at all. Just stuck after the full moon.”

But instead of sitting up and accepting the bowl from Billy, Steve’s fingers curved into the dog collar around his throat. Billy crouched as much as his body allowed and reached for the dog tags hanging off…

One of them wasn’t a tag. It was Billy’s surfing pendant that he thought he’d lost. Saint Christopher for protection in water and for balance. The actual dog tag seemed new since it shined without scratches in Billy’s fingertips. He frowned deeply at the information on the tag. “Why is he carrying my stuff and information?”

“In case he gets stuck again. If someone else captures him, he won’t live his life at the dog pound or worse. Indiana has been without wolves of all kinds for a long time, but I won’t scare you with that history. After he wets his throat, he should be able to speak. As for the necklace, he already had it on him. I figured he couldn’t lose it if it was on the collar.”

She lumbered to her feet, and wandered elsewhere for…whatever crones did in the woods.

Billy didn’t wait for Steve to eat. He set a hand on the grass and leaves of the lawn and demanded, “Why are you wearing my necklace, Harrington?”

Steve’s big brown eyes looked more apt for a deer than a wolf. He couldn’t seem to focus anywhere with his irises made glassy and the whites bloodshot from how much smoke he had to ingest for the shift. Billy tried again, “Steve?”

Those eyes found him. Billy pushed, “Why’ve you been following me into the woods?”

Steve blinked slowly, his eyes gradually wandering like he were waking from a stubborn dream. “Steve!”

“Just a taste,” the guy finally groaned hoarsely.

Billy stared at him, deadpan. “What? Steve.”

“Ugh, what a mouth you have.”

Steve was higher than a satellite. Billy sighed, “The better to dish your shit that you can’t take.”

For whatever reason, which Billy would soon find out, Steve giggled. “Just wanted a taste.”

[woobienation]

Jancy Week 2022: Woven/Sweaters Ficlet

Jonathan Byers fell in love with Nancy Wheeler on an overcast autumn afternoon in October, 1979. It was Halloween eve, actually, "Devil's Night" to the criminally mischief element of Hawkins, Indiana, although when his mom couldn’t come up with the extra money to pay for the off-the-rack Spider-Man costume he’d had his eye on at Melvald’s General Store since early September, Jonathan decided that he was too old for the holiday anyway.

Halloween was kids’ stuff. Now that he was twelve years old, he didn’t have time for kids’ stuff. He had a job to do.

Presently, he was carefully raking around the gray plastic gravestones in the Wheeler family’s front yard while Mrs. Wheeler repositioned two cheerful, store-bought scarecrows in rocking chairs on either side of her front door. Mrs. Wheeler had told his mom that she would pay him five dollars if he would rake up all of the fallen leaves and an extra fifty cents per bag that he hauled away to his own backyard to burn.

“Jonathan? When you’ve finished with the raking, will you help me bring out another pumpkin?”

Mrs. Wheeler stood back to appraise the decorations. Sighing and stretching, she rested a hand on top of her pregnant belly, which pressed out against a tent-like maternity jumper embroidered with dancing orange and red leaves and smiling candy corn.

“The last one that Mike carved is too heavy for me to carry.”

Annoyed, she blew her feathered, straw-blonde bangs back off of her forehead. Sweat and a swirling autumn breeze had clumped them together and stuck them there, and they fell back down limply, clinging to her temples.

“The pumpkins are too heavy. The groceries are too heavy. The laundry baskets are too heavy. Even the candy bowl is too heavy this year. Everything is too heavy--just like this baby.”

She frowned and straightened a scarecrow’s red gingham collar, then arched her back uncomfortably. Jonathan glanced at her quickly from across the yard, then lowered his eyes to the leaf pile. He actually thought she looked pretty like that: flushed, fussing over little mom-nothings, put-out, and heavily pregnant.

“Sure, Mrs. Wheeler, I can help you.”

He finished sweeping up the last brittle leaves into a pile with a wooden-handled rake several inches taller than he was and then followed Mrs. Wheeler into her family’s tidy, vacuumed living room.

Mr. Wheeler was still at work, and Nancy wasn't home from school yet. (“Where is she?” Jonathan wondered, because he and Nancy were in the same class, and school had let out over an hour ago. And then, when he didn’t hear the usual joyful cacophony coming from the Wheeler’s basement game room: “Where’s Will? Aren’t they finishing their Elder Tree campaign today? He was so excited. He couldn't stop talking about it at breakfast.”)

“Well, here is the pumpkin Mike carved last night,” Mrs. Wheeler said, leading him to the kitchen island.

It’s enormous, bigger than a Thanksgiving turkey, with thick rectangular eyebrow cut-outs slanting downwards into a ferocious scowl and an open, jagged mouth with yellow pumpkin guts spilling onto the clean kitchen counter like vomit.

Mrs. Wheeler sighed and shook her head, unrolling some paper towels so that Jonathan can carry the pumpkin outside by the base and stem without losing hold of the slippery, stringy gore.

“I wish Mike were more…well, more like you, actually, Jonathan. More responsible. Not so into fantasy villains and blood and filthy stuff he finds in the woods and turns into weapons…”

Mrs. Wheeler trailed off, and Jonathan ducked his head, hiding a small smile while he carried the large pumpkin back through the house and placed it beside the others on the front step. He was thinking of the VHS tape waiting for him at home on top of the VCR: "Halloween,” with all of its gore and bloodshed and an implacable, blank-faced villain intent on evil. Jonathan knew that if he lived with pretty, pregnant Mrs. Wheeler, he would have a tidy, vacuumed living room, unwrinkled laundry, weekly piano lessons, and probably an off-the-rack Spider-Man costume to wear to school tomorrow on Halloween, but Mrs. Wheeler certainly wouldn’t be willing to stay up late with him to watch a horror movie on the couch while she hid her face behind an old pillow like his mom, laughing at herself every time she screamed and spilled Jiffy Pop onto the cushions.

“Mike’s a nice kid, Mrs. Wheeler. He looks out for Will.”

At that moment, Jonathan heard a familiar sound: rubber bike wheels whizzing over pavement, followed by the hoarse shouting of happy boys, and--peculiar that this particular noise makes his heart beat a little faster--the cheerful, hollow clattering of the plastic spoke beads on Nancy Wheeler’s purple Schwinn bicycle.

"Mike, wait, no, that's not fair!" Dustin yelled, his voice breaking, "Tanar'ri demons are immune to fire. You just put that succubus in last second so that Will won't be able to use his spell slot..."

"He'll figure it out!" Mike hollered back, rolling up to the clean-raked lawn and dumping his bike onto a leaf pile, followed by Lucas, Dustin, Will, and Nancy. "He's smarter than you!"

The four boys are wearing monster face paint from a school Halloween carnival, and they're out of breath, sprinting across the yard with their heavy backpacks to be the first to the side door to the Wheeler's basement. "Hi, Mom!" Mike yelled, followed by a loud chorus of "Hello, Mrs. Wheeler!" And also from Will, smiling: "Hi Jonathan! Bye, Jonathan!" Nancy followed last, carefully lowering the kickstand on her shiny, purple bike and propping it up in the driveway. She is wearing plastic, flesh-colored, pointy ears and an orange sweater with a grinning jack-o-lantern face on it. Everything about her is small, sharp, and elf-like.

"Hi, Jonathan," she said, as she walked quickly past him, pink backpack slung over one shoulder. "Hi, Mom." Then, gently, pausing, placing a hand on either side of her mother's swollen belly: "Hi, Baby Holly."

It felt like a private family moment, and Jonathan realized that he'd been holding his breath while Nancy walked past, wondering if she'd say anything else to him besides 'hi.' Her wavy brown hair was drawn back into a low ponytail, and the wind gently lifted it up and tenderly placed it back down against her back, ruffling it like an affectionate parent while she spoke to her sister. Something twisted painfully within Jonathan's ribcage, and he suddenly felt like a clumsy voyeur, wishing he could stay within this warm family circle and be invited to touch Mrs. Wheeler's stomach, brush his fingers through Nancy's soft, windswept hair, whisper his own hello to Baby Holly.

He ducked his head, chewed on his inner lip, and crossed the yard, preparing to bag up the leaves before they blew away.

"Nance, C'MON!" Mike hollered up at her from the basement door. "And tell Mom to bring down the candy! We're starting!"

"Not without me, you're not!" Nancy hollered back. She straightened up, adjusted her plastic ears, and headed for the door.

"Nancy," Mrs. Wheeler said, "Wait. Hold on a second."

She ducked through the front door ahead of Nancy and returned with a crisp five dollar bill. "Will you give this to Jonathan? For raking the leaves."

"Mom," Nancy balked, eye wide, "Why can't you pay him?"

"Like this?" Mrs. Wheeler wiggled her toes and rolled her eyes. "You want me to cross the front yard--barefoot--with my feet and ankles swollen up so big I can't even get my house slippers on anymore? Really, Nancy? Just...give him the money, please."

Then Mrs. Wheeler's voice dropped low and quiet while Nancy remained standing with her skinny arms crossed at the threshold of their house, looking obstinate and embarrassed. "You know that Jonathan and Will's dad left them, Nancy. With all those debts. Their family needs the money. Why do you think I asked him over here to rake? Really, how selfish can you be?"

Her voice was low, but it wasn't low enough.

Jonathan overheard, and his cheeks and ears caught fire. His heart hammered within his narrow chest, and a lump formed within his painfully tight throat. He thought he might actually be sick right into a crumpled paper leaf bag.

Nancy is crossing the yard now, apparently shamed into bringing him the money that his shrunken family now needs so desperately. The awful thing is that they really do need it. The sleeves on Will's blue winter coat from last year are too short, the colors are faded and ugly, and kids are cruel, always cruel.

Jonathan is suddenly aware of his own secondhand sweater: brown, striped, threadbare, with a rip at the cuff and collar, and covered in bits of fall leaves. His mom bought it for herself on half-price day at the church-run thrift store. Last year.

"Um, here, Jonathan." Nancy shyly thrust the five dollar bill out towards him. "I, ah...I liked your poster about the Code of Hammurabi. I thought yours was the best one in our class, actually. Do you need any help with bagging the leaves?"

He shook his head and stuffed the money into his denim pocket. The tops of his scuffed sneakers had suddenly become very interesting.

"Okay," Nancy replied, but she doesn't leave. "Jonathan..."

"Yeah?" He risked a glance at her eyes, and they are wide, kind, and cautious. Her plastic elf ears are jutting out at odd angles.

"I think I know someone who needs your help. Here--c'mon."

Nancy grabbed him by the fraying sleeve of his brown sweater and tugged him across the cul-de-sac, up a cracked blacktop driveway, to a red front door with a pretty brass knocker and a front stoop covered in golden leaves. When they arrived on the doormat, she kept tight hold of him and knocked boldly on the door three times: clack, clack, CLACK. While they waited, Nancy threaded her arm through the crook of his elbow, and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, bright orange interlocked with faded brown, him surprised and a little frightened, her with a set, tense jaw and fiercely determined eyes.

After what seemed like a very long wait, the door swung open, and Jonathan saw an elderly woman with a halo of soft, gray curls around her head standing in front of them in a floral housecoat.

"Nancy Wheeler," the woman says, "What a lovely surprise! But it isn't Halloween yet, is it? I hope I didn't get my days wrong! I don't have my treats ready."

"No, Mrs. Wheelock, we aren't trick-or-treating. You didn't get your days wrong. Halloween is tomorrow. Um, this is my friend Jonathan, and...he's really good at raking lawns. He charges less than the high school boys, only six dollars an hour, and he's more reliable than the bigger boys because he doesn't go away to basketball games or hockey tournaments or anything. He's always over here because his brother is best friends with my brother. And it seems like you could really use some help with your yardwork."

Nancy lifted her pointed chin boldly.

Her gaze is steady and insistent. Her spine is straight.

Jonathan glanced over at her, feeling the warmth of her arm woven with his, and it is this moment, while Mrs. Wheelock is nodding and agreeing that, well, yes, how lovely, she most certainly could use the help with the yard, and six dollars an hour is a very reasonable price--it is this moment that Jonathan realized that doors would continue to open for him if he can just find some way to stay beside Nancy Wheeler, and that his life, currently colorless and shrunken and arid, will become more expansive and bold if he can find the courage to hold on tight. And then he realized, when Mrs. Wheelock's door closed, and Nancy turned toward him grinning triumphantly with the autumn breeze playing with her brown hair and her elf ears on a bit crooked, than he had stumbled wonderfully, incurably into love with her.

[hotdamnhunnam]

Shades of You

A/N: Here’s the next in this ‘Kutte Too Deep’ series of flashbacks set in the AU of Kutte to Black! These fics can be read as standalone one shots or as part of this ‘KutteVerse’. This one is just a short ficlet of fluffy smut about you being Jax’s muse and the two of you having hot passionate sex outdoors…

Pairing: Jax Teller x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, dirty talk, a fuck in the park (it’s a secluded little spot of greenery – no one else is actually watching but they could be in theory)

Word Count: ~1.2k

“Babe, can you do that again?”

You glance up from the book that you were just about to begin. In these few weeks since you and Jax became a thing, you’ve spent the better part of all day and night fucking, though you pause from time to time to take his Harley for a ride or something. Head off someplace far from all the dusty streets of Charming. Pack a picnic so that you can spend a lazy afternoon feeding each other grapes and talking. 

For today’s outing Jax also packed a notebook, as he told you that he’s recently been bursting with a surge of inspiration for the novel he’d spent years struggling to write. Apparently just finding the right muse was all it took. He wants to churn out a whole chapter sitting in this park with you, admiring the sunlit view. Promised he’ll let you read his work after he treats you to another epic fuck later tonight.

Meanwhile you’re reclining on this big plaid picnic blanket with the paperback you’d packed, to catch up on some summer reading. But your badass biker boyfriend seems determined to distract. You’re not sure what he means by what he asked—‘do that again’ when you’re not doing much of anything—you’ve literally just been breathing.

From where he’s sitting on a rock nearby with his manuscript spread across his jean-clad thighs, Jax catches the confusion in your eyes. And so he clarifies. “The way you blinked real quickly twice. It was just really nice. Your lashes looked like butterflies.”

Oh Jesus Christ. He’s so fucking adorable, it’s honestly deplorable. You swoon and giggle, playing into it a little. Batting your lashes theatrically and shooting him a sultry look. Still have no clue, just what he sees in you, and yet somehow his every move makes you believe you’re the loveliest thing in the world. “Now if I didn’t know better, Mr. Teller… I’d think you were sketching me rather than writing a book. Draw me like one of your French girls.”

He laughs sunny and bright, shaking his head at your reference to the tear-jerker the two of you just watched the other night. Never did Jax Teller think he would spend a weekend getting all sappy romantic. Asking his girl if she wanted to cuddle and stay up late watching Titanic. 

“Hey, I’d take any excuse to get you naked...” your tall blonde prince charming admits as he sets his notebook aside and strides across the grass to join you on the blanket, “but I promise I’m not a nude lady artist. Just an aspiring writer in love with his muse and everything inspiring about her because she’s the hottest.”

Jax brings his big strong body down to yours and then blesses your lips with a soft kiss to prove that he’s honest. Pulls back to adore you with his gaze of blue. “You’re in everything I do. I see the world in shades of you.”

Fuck—every word that he breathes is a sonnet. This love is a drug, and you’ll live and die riding high on it. “You’re corny as fuck and I love you.”

Grins darkly and grinds the stiff bulge of his cock against your crotch as he knows how badly you want it. “I’m horny as fuck, too.”

“Mmm, what else is new...”

Without words, with the crush of his summer-lush lips against yours, he replies though you already know this is true: Everything is shiny and new when I’m with you.

Every damn time feels like the first. Everything blurs, present and future ever fading into past. The thrust of untold fate—the rushed soul-crushing weight, the fucking curse—compels you both to take each time like it’s the last.

The man in him loves smooth and soft and full of slow sensuous passion. But the beast in him moves rough and hard and fast. The fucking sex god that is Jackson. Barely even needs a second or a fraction, for his huge cock to get rock solid once he is at half-mast.

Moan into his mouth at the feeling of his denim-covered length. Rubbing against the flimsy fabric of your skirt, so hard it hurts. His hand caresses your cheek, giving you the strength, to take this love that makes you weak. Love beyond words. Your tongues were made to tangle up and taste the truth too big to speak.

Sometimes he says it anyway, though you both know he means more than the words could ever say. Says it a thousand times a day.

“Love you so fucking much,” he murmurs and the love tastes so delicious, in the blissful midst of kisses, as you melt beneath his touch.

Jax’s hand wanders from your face down toward your chest, shape of his grip made for your breasts. Beat of your heart rewrites the lines across the palm to which it’s pressed. His other hand is frantically unfastening his fly, then hiking up your skirt with a firm squeeze against the slick flesh of your inner thigh. So pleased yet not surprised to find that you’re already a wet mess. Both know there’s no one else nearby... no witness, other than the sky... but still out here it seems safest, to free his meat and push your panties to the side but otherwise stay dressed.

And so he does and wastes no time driving in deep until his dick hits home inside your soaking hole. So deep it hits your fucking soul. Hits every time and it’s the motherfucking best.

Something so blessed... has to be cursed. You think that way sometimes and it’s the fucking worst. Like fate is twisting you to tempt the pearly gates ahead and this is just a test. 

But when his hips are thrusting perfectly in sync with yours... his throbbing cock pounding and plowing through your pussy till it bursts... there’s nothing else on earth that matters—nothing else in all the universe... just ride this crest of pleasure, high together, as you crash the pearly gates until they shatter, and to hell with all the rest.

Sun spreads its golden heat and sheds light through the overhanging tree. So long content to shine upon this rock that orbits in its gravity—yet seething now in envy—so enraged at the eclipse, the air you’re breathing off his lips, the fire in his fingertips, so hot and heavy—heavenly. He is the only sun you’ll ever see.

The sun and shadow all at once. Heaven is here on earth yet someday hell will come claim what it wants. Can’t beat it back. But you don’t have to when he’s buried in your cunt. Beneath the shade of Jax, all else just fades to black.

You see the world in shades of him. Just as he does of you.

You love him, as he loves you, and you’ll make this love until the jealous sun burns out above you... even if it tempts the other stars to take it from you.

***************

Hope you enjoyed this and would love to hear if you did! 🤗❤️

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[supercalvin]

Hello, may I request a Merthur ficlet where they’re teens during war ish times and they dance to O Children I just know you’re a potter head and thus there is no way you don’t know which scene I’m referring to 🤧 (Also I’m actually frequently on your page and we’ve interracted and I’m so fun and quirky that I decided to go anon for this one just to spice things up hoho) BONUS POINTS for soft cheek touching and sweet first kissing but whatever yk not that important 👉🏼👈🏼

This is a hilariously late reply to this prompt. Thank god tumblr doesn’t put dates on asks, because I’d be too embarrassed to post this ficlet. Anyways. I had to look up this scene lol, but it was very cute and I loved this idea. Soft cheeks kisses here we goooooooo.

ficlets

---

The radio on Merlin’s shoulder crackled, and he quickly turned it down. The forest was quiet, and Merlin’s magic hadn’t detected anything besides animals in a mile radius, but that didn’t mean he was going to let a radio give away his position. He crouched down and waited for a minute, listening to the sounds of the forest around him. The pack of supplies dug into his shoulder, but with only a mile left to go, he knew he had better keep it on his back and feel the relief later, rather than try to get it back on his sore back.

With another quick spell to ensure that no one was around, Merlin continued on his route. His boots crunched in the autumn leaves and the air was crisp. Merlin could feel the magic in the forest like electricity before a storm.

There was limited access to electricity in the forest, it was mostly used for lights and any emergency medical equipment that Gaius needed. Otherwise everyone endured without it and magic was used when it wasn’t being used to defend the camp. Before the war, the thought of living without constant electricity seemed unreal, but after three years of living in the forest and running supplies between encampments, it was hard for Merlin to remember what life was like before.

When Merlin pictured the end of the war, the only luxuries he longed for was a warm bed and a large bath. Mostly he wished for his people to be free once again.

When Merlin entered the edge of the camp, he felt the wards shimmer around his form. Although invisible to most people, Merlin could always see the magic, it glimmered in the light like dust motes in a sunbeam. As soon as he passed through the wards he heard the commotion. His hackles raised and instinctually looked around for danger, before he realized that the sound wasn’t screams of fear but rather the raucous sounds of celebration.

The supplies tent was at the back of the encampment, where it could best be protected. Merlin wound his way around the tents until he found the large green tent. When he stepped inside, he was greeted by a young Druid woman, Ferridel.

“What’s happened?”

“Oh Merlin, you’ve returned. The battalion came back with news of victory while you were gone. We’ve taken the valley.”

Merlin nodded, his heart racing in his chest. Too many questions to ask, he was left dumb.

Merlin dropped off the supplies, but he was too anxious to stay and speak with Ferridel. He rushed to the center of camp, where a large bonfire was blazing and soldiers were gathered with tankards in hand. Their coats and rifles were strewn about the benches around the bonfire. Some soldiers raised their hands in greeting, but Merlin was looking for a familiar face.

“Looking for someone?”

Merlin whipped around to see exactly who he was looking for.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, his breath leaving him in a whisper.

Arthur smiled, looking far too pleased with himself as he cocked his head to one side. “You look awful, Merlin. What have you been doing? Rolling in the dirt while we fight this war?”

“You’re an ass,” Merlin said, but his harsh words were soon softened as he engulfed Arthur in a tight embrace. Arthur’s arms wrapped around him and he could feel Arthur shake a little. Despite his bravado, Arthur wasn’t a fool. Every time he stepped onto that battle field, it could be the end. Merlin knew that when Arthur left last month, it could have been his last time seeing his best friend’s smile.

Arthur pulled back and gripped Merlin’s shoulder, “Now you look like a man who could use a nice glass of scotch.”

“You have scotch?” Merlin said.

Arthur tilted his head towards the residential tents. “Come on,” He tugged on Merlin’s jacket.

Before Merlin knew it, Arthur had gotten Merlin a warm basin of water and a large pile of food. As Captain of the battalion, Arthur was granted some privileges, and usually Merlin would tell Arthur he was a spoiled prince for it, but now the warm water felt nice and the Merlin was starving. When he was travelling between encampments Merlin usually only ate jerky and whatever bread hadn’t gone stale.

As Merlin ate, Arthur told him about the battle. He was brief, very limited in his details. Merlin was grateful. He hated hearing about battle plans but he also knew that for every positive note Arthur said about the battle, there was a price they had paid. Merlin knew that as the men celebrated their victory, they also mourned their fallen brethren.

“So where is this infamous scotch?”

Arthur smiled, crooked and sly. He opened up a trunk and pulled aside clothes that cushioned a large bottle of amber liquid. Merlin raised his brow. Alcohol was hard to come by nowadays. Merlin ran essential supplies between encampments, and alcohol was rarely on that list.

Arthur cut the wax seal with his pocket knife and poured a heavy serving for both of them.

“To victory,” Arthur raised his glass.

“To freedom,” Merlin said, and clanked his glass against Arthur’s.

The scotch was warm as it ran down his throat. He coughed, not used to the feeling anymore. Arthur laughed at him and pounded his back. They drank and told each other stories of friends and foes alike. They talked about before the war and they dreamed about afterwards. Soon enough, both of them were laughing in drunken delight. Perhaps on a different night the scotch would have made them somber. But not tonight, after an essential victory.

Music had started to play outside and Merlin could hear the shuffle of people dancing and drunkenly singing along to the music.

Arthur stood on unsteady feet, a warm smile on his face as he reached for Merlin.

“What are you doing?” Merlin laughed as Arthur hauled him to his feet.

“Dance with me, Merlin,” Arthur whined, pouting like a spoiled child.

“You don’t want to see me dance, Arthur. You know how clumsy I am.”

“That’s not true,” Arthur pouted. His hands had settled on Merlin’s waist. He was warm from the alcohol, and it burned Merlin to be this close to the sun. “You’re not clumsy when you do magic. Come on, do some magic for me.”

“You’re such a spoiled prat.” Merlin held his hands against Arthur’s chest, but did not push him away. Despite his words, Merlin was not one to deny Arthur anything, especially when he was inebriated. So he let his magic loose. Dozens of small lights filled the tent, bobbing in the air like fireflies.

“Beautiful,” Arthur said, but he hadn’t turned his head to look at the lights.

The song outside was slow, but the tune was uplifting. Arthur took Merlin’s hands off his chest, cradling one in his palm and the other he slid up so that it rested against Arthur’s shoulder. They danced, albeit horribly, but nonetheless they did dance. Merlin stumbled over his own feet and Arthur did not know how to keep a beat, but they laughed and that was more important than skill.

As the music dwindled, they heard cheers outside. Someone was speaking to the crowd by the bonfire. Then someone started playing a somber tune, the same they always played at the end of any victory or defeat. They lost men, no matter the outcome. Their mood had changed just as quickly as the songs had changed.

Merlin felt his throat close up. He reached up to touch Arthur’s face, cradling his jaw in his palm.

“Thank the gods,” Merlin said, the rest of his sentence stuck in his throat. The thought of losing Arthur was too overwhelming, any words to express it were lost to Merlin.

“I’m right here,” Arthur said, holding Merlin’s wrist, “I’ll always be here.”

Merlin shook his head, “You can’t promise that.”

“I’ll always come back to you.”

Merlin shook his head, feeling tears run down his cheek even as he closed his eyes against them. He was always an easy crier, and usually Arthur would make fun of him for it. But Arthur stayed silent this time.

“Oh, Merlin. I hate when you do this…” Arthur shook off Merlin’s hand and cradled Merlin’s face in his own hands, wiping the tears with his thumbs. “I fight this war for you… For your freedom. For your happiness. One day, I will never see you cry again.”

Before Merlin could answer, Arthur leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Merlin’s cheek and then pulled away and kissed the other, right at the edge of his lips.

Merlin gripped Arthur’s wrists, his eyes flickering between Arthur’s trying to read his expression. But he was so grimmly serious, as if Arthur was vowing that he would fight every enemy soldier himself just to protect Merlin.

“Live through this war...that’s what will make me happy.”

“I will,” Arthur vowed with a solemn nod.

Just a few inches of air separated them, but they felt like miles. Arthur looked Merlin in the eye, and then down, and before Merlin could register what was happening, Arthur was kissing him. Merlin gripped him tight, feeling Arthur’s hands tighten on his jaw.

Arthur pulled back, “Is this...? Are you alright with…?”

“And you say I talk too much,” Merlin said, and shut him up with a kiss.

***

Ficlets

[baronessblixen]

Hi ! Today is my birthday, and i'm in self isolation :/ I really love your fics. Could you write a birthday fic ? Maybe UST to RST ?

Happy birthday, anon! Sorry you have to spend it in self-isolation. I hope you will have a lovely day anyway ❤ I have written several birthday fics in the past and I’ll link them here: Birthday Surprises, You did this for me?, Birthday Cake

Tagging @today-in-fic

Here’s a ficlet for you! 

The knock on his door startles Mulder out of his lazy stupor. A glance at his watch tells him it’s 12.01 a.m. He rubs his eyes as he makes his way over to the door, wondering if his TV was on too loud again. Last week, Mrs. Heller took him aside and let him know in no uncertain terms that if she had to listen to another woman’s fake orgasm through the wall, she would call the police.

“I will turn the TV down, I promise,” he says as he opens the door, but is surprised to see his partner standing there instead of his neighbor. “Scully? Is everything okay?”

“Happy birthday,” she says, a soft, shy smile on her lips. She holds out her hands, presenting him with a pink cupcake liner full of sunflower seeds and a crooked birthday candle.

“It’s not my-“

“It’s after midnight,” Scully says, lifting an eyebrow. The sight, as well as her sweet gesture, makes him smile.

“Come on in.” Mulder touches her back to lead her inside his apartment. “You could have waited until morning, you know. What if I’d been asleep?”

She throws him a look as she takes off her shoes. So she’s planning on staying. He watches her, trying to catch up with her mindset. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming.

“I know you, Mulder,” she replies easily and walks into the living room. He sees her glance at his TV screen, at the now paused sex scene. She just chuckles and sits down on his couch. “Is that another one those videos that aren’t yours? I wonder who put it in your VCR. Must be a conspiracy.”

“Very funny,” he mumbles, quickly turning it off. She’s still smiling when he sits down next to her. “So, Scully, why exactly are you here?”

“It’s your birthday.” She points at the sunflower seeds and the candle.

“It would have still been my birthday eight hours from now.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admits after a moment. “I was thinking of something you said to me once.” She avoids his eyes.

“I say so many things, Scully,” he nudges.

“You do,” she says, looking at him. “But this was about your birthday. You said that after your sister was gone… that you stayed awake all night, thinking that if you didn’t sleep, your birthday wouldn’t happen and you wouldn’t be reminded that she wasn’t there.”

He stares at the cupcake liner again. After Samantha, he stopped celebrating his birthday. It wasn’t always a choice; the first year after his sister’s disappearance, his parents forgot. After that, he decided it didn’t matter anymore. His birthday was just another day, another reminder that Samantha was no longer with them.

“I wanted you to have a happy memory.” Her voice is so soft that Mulder barely catches it.

“Thank you, Scully,” he whispers and then reaches for her, hugging her tightly and burrowing his face in her neck. She’s cool there, the cold, crisp autumn air still clinging to her. He breathes in deep until he just smells her underneath.

“I have an actual gift for you,” she says, running her fingers through his hair. “It hasn’t arrived yet. I only ordered it a few days ago.”

This is enough of a gift for him, he thinks. What else does he need?

“Don’t need anything else.” His words disappear into her skin.

“Oh, you need this,” she says with a chuckle.

“What is it?”

“You’ll have to wait and see. Why don’t you blow out your candle and make a wish?”

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from her. Her cheeks are red, look like they’ve been pinched. They have nothing on her half opened lips, though, beckoning to him.

“Mulder?” she says, drawing his attention away from her mouth. Well, she tries to, anyway. “Make a wish.”

There’s only one thing he wants tonight. He feels greedy for wanting it, for even thinking it, but he closes his eyes and blows out the candle.

“I hope it comes true,” Scully says and he turns to her.

“I hope so, too.” He takes her hand into his. “It’s my birthday, right?” She nods. “So if my wish were this…” Slowly, to give her enough time to stop him, to complain, he leans closer to her. She doesn’t move away. Instead, she moves towards him, meeting him halfway. Her lips against his feel like a promise. He feels like a new man; happy birthday, indeed.

“Was this your wish?” Scully murmurs against his mouth.

“Part of it,” he says, teasing her bottom lip. “It was a little less PG than this.”

“Hmm, then maybe we should move this party elsewhere. I know you have a bedroom, Mulder.”

“I do.” He kisses her again, needing to taste more of her. He’s never been patient and with her so close to him, with him being allowed to do this, no one can stop him. “But we have to be quiet,” he says, thinking of Mrs. Heller. The memory of his 70-year-old neighbor makes him cringe and his cock shrivel in fear.

“Why?” Scully, to his greatest joy, is as impatient as he is, her hand wandering under his shirt, brushing the waistband of his jeans and making him shiver.

“My neighbor,” he says in between kisses, trying to steer them towards his bedroom, “said if she hears another fake orgasm through my wall, she will call the police.”

“Oh Mulder,” Scully says, laughing against him. “I doubt anything she'll hear tonight will be fake.”

“Let’s go celebrate my birthday.”

They aren’t quiet.

[mydarlingwitcher]

Jaskier bribes Geralt into coming to one of his classes to show some point about how life on the road blah blah blahblah and Geralt just sits in Jaskier's chair glaring at all the giggling students, one of them even calls him Mr. Pankratz on their way out

First of all, I need you to know that when I read this in bed last night I snorted so loudly at Mr. Pankratz! You genius, you.

I wanted to write a short drabble about it, because the idea is just so good (and we’re all in love with the professor!Jaskier art, right?), then it somehow snowballed into a 1k ficlet. Because I have no control over my brain. So now let’s slap a very dignified title on this thing and call it a day lmao

Professor Pankratz brings his himbo husband to class

Geralt surprises Jaskier by travelling back from Kaer Morhen a fortnight earlier than planned.

Of course, when asked, he simply states that they’ve had a mild winter and there was no sense in loitering inside the castle walls when he could have picked up a few contracts along the way.

“Naturally.” Jaskier agrees with a knowing smile. For once, he refrains from calling the witcher out on his bullshit. That’s one of his many ways to show Geralt that he missed him, being mindful of the man’s appreciation for quiet after a taxing journey.

Just like Geralt is always more prone to soft touches and casual gestures of affection, after he’s been away from his lover for so long. It’s the sweetest thing, really. Like the first bite of a warm pastry filled with jam.

And not even Jaskier, for all his lyrical prose and dewy-eyed emotions, could have imagined a future like that for the both of them. But against all odds, it works. Summers circle back to misty autumns, icy winters give way to springs and their bond grows fonder, steadier and all the more fiery for it.

The bard doesn’t say much that night, but he does draw a hot bath for Geralt and he scrubs his back, unknotting the tension in those broad shoulders with a nimble touch born of intimacy.

“Hmm, I needed that” Geralt murmurs once he’s drying his hair with a towel that smells like lavender. It means thank you, but also come here.

They tumble into bed together not one minute later. It’s been four months and they’re eager, so thrilled to stroke and lick and bite, to plunge and sink deeper.

They’ve dreamt of this so many times.

After, when the window is cracked open and the smell of sex blends with their languid breaths, Jaskier rolls over and slings an arm across Geralt’s flank to draw him closer.

“Come teach my class with me tomorrow.” He whispers in the witcher’s ear. He’s sporting a neatly trimmed beard these days, and it tickles Geralt’s neck in the most tempting way.

Geralt chuckles dryly, but the lack of an immediate quip tells him that Jaskier is serious. It’s a little scary how often they can read their minds by now.

“Don’t think so. You’re the teacher, Jask. I’ve got nothing to tell them.”

“But you’re the reason I’m still alive and teaching in the first place. Besides, you can just sit there, look pretty and answer some questions. My students have heard a lot about you, they’ll adore you.”

“Jaskier, no, you know I don’t-”

“If you say yes now, I won’t ask you for another three years.”

Geralt considers it as Jaskier nips at the nape of his neck. “Deal.”

How awkward can it be anyway, the witcher asks himself as they walk inside a small classroom on the following morning.

Pretty fucking awkward, as it turns out.

“Good morning, professor!” A couple of students pipe up, before a dozen pairs of young and excitable eyes zero in on the massive, leather-clad man standing next to their teacher. Even without his swords, there’s no mistaking who he is.

“Melitele, is that-”

“It’s Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier’s muse!” Someone hisses with unabashed glee.

Geralt glares at them, wide-eyed and scowling, and they stare back. Trust a bunch of green singers and poets in training to call him, a witcher of Kaer Morhen, a blasted muse to his face.

“Yes, we have an acclaimed guest with us today, and I’m expecting you all to be on your best behaviour.” Jaskier announces with a flourish of his hand and a smile that’s equal parts dazzling and menacing.

And fuck it if that doesn’t turn Geralt on a little.

But this is decidedly not the time for it, so he dumps all of Jaskier’s books and scrolls on the desk and he just sit there, feeling very much like he’s trapped in a Kikimore’s nest.

Meanwhile, Jaskier prompty busies himself with returning the lastest assignments, taking the time to bestow a comment or two on each student. It’s clear that his pupils hold him in high regard, but they’re not afraid to interact with him.

Geralt remembers a couple of tales about Jaskier’s education, and how literacy was beaten into him with a stick, to quote the bard. It’s a thought that sits uneasy in his stomach, even now. Which is why he feels a surge of admiration witnessing his lover in his element.

He’s not playing the lute yet, but he’s composing a symphony nevertheless, carefully guiding and encouraging every young man and woman.

Then he launches into a full analysis of an epic poem and the merits of adapting a story to the metrics of a contemporary ballad, talking fast but never rambling, and no one is staring at the witcher anymore.

Geralt crosses his arms and listens, his cool exterior still in place, though Jaskier can definitely tell he’s amused. He flashes him a smug smile.

The class soon nears its end and Jaskier goes to stand behind Geralt, placing a hand on his shoulder. A couple of students most definitely mask an aww with the turn of a page or a cough.

“Now, as you’ve been such lively listeners, let’s see if our guest would like to, um” He tilts his head and meets Geralt’s wary gaze, “Answer a few questions, absolutely not related to his personal life?”

Four hands shoot up immediately. Geralt groans.

The questions are actually nothing like he expects.

“Did you ever meet Filavandrel again? Would you say your advice had some influence on his decision to change the rules of succession?”

“Was your life any different during the plague?”

“How does it feel to have inspired many tales that will live on as popular folklore?”

Geralt does his damnedest to give passable answers using as few words as possible. He’s sure no one is very impressed, but if they’re disappointed, they don’t show it. Smart brats.

As soon as Jaskier declares that their time is up, he stands up in one fluid motion and he heads towards the door with a brief “Hm. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Pankratz!” A girl answers politely. That stops him dead in his tracks.

Mr. Pankratz?

“What the fuck, Jaskier.” He mutters as he turns around and fixes his lover with a stunned glare. The man throws his head back and chortles, and the whole classroom bursts into laughter after that.

Geralt doesn’t remember ever blushing for such a trivial thing. For a second, he’s legitimately hoping some monster will emerge from a dark corner and swallow him whole.

Jaskier teases him about it later, but not that much. And he more than makes up for it when he drags Geralt to his chambers.

All in all, Geralt doesn’t regret visiting him in Oxenfurt. Quite the opposite.

[roselightfairy]

Last 20 Stories: First Lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag [up to] 10 authors! (Feel free to link your fics in the titles.)

Tagged by @unnamedelement - thank you!

Stories:

Going Viral (this is a cowritten fic, so I picked the first line I personally wrote): Signing out for the day was one of the things Gimli did miss from in-person teaching – there was just something less satisfying about closing the Zâram window, rather than his usual routine of chatting with any stragglers while he packed up his things and actually locking up and leaving his office.

Living Conditions: Rostinnariel finished tucking in her covers and frowned down at her newly-made bed.

Heals All Wounds: Time passes strangely in Valinor.

Nothing You Can Give: “Laerwen.”

Not in Service: So many times, over that long, strange Willowless summer, Buffy finds herself wanting to call Tara.

the hunter’s heart, the hunter’s mouth: The sun is setting.

Ripples in the long, long stream - this is a collection of ficlets, but I’m pretty sure at least the last three are in the latest 20 fics I’ve written, so I’ll include those here:

The sun in Minas Tirith was hotter than in Mirkwood. (ch. 18)

Gimli’s head ached. (ch. 17)

The rain started in the early evening, after they had retired for the day. (ch. 16)

Insufficient Appreciation: In the back of Rivendell’s great Hall of Fire, listening to a long droning lament in a language he did not speak, Gimli hid a yawn behind his hand.

Plenty: “Hot apples – with cinnamon?”

Drink-Drowned: “Gimli! Gimli!”

Chiropteran: “Stay close.”

Loose Ends: The sun was sinking, gold light searing through the window and streaking Gimli’s vision, and still Legolas had not returned home.

Strange Favors: “Suki. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Light into Gray: Aragorn comes to fetch him in the smithy when it happens.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place: This, Gimli thought gloomily, staring down at the bed he had been given in Rivendell, was a quandary he had not anticipated.

Roads Converged: Early autumn was the most pleasant time to travel in Rohan.

(the next three in my AO3 are unfinished WIPs from several years ago, so I’m skipping over them)

Acceptable Losses: The arguing voices are the first sound to reach Gimli’s ears – the muffled sound of discord an awakening that would not be gentle, could he hear more clearly through the haze around his mind.

Full Moon: There were times that Gimli wished arranging to meet his secret lover were as simple as slipping away at night: tiptoeing out of his apartments in his parents’ manor and hurrying off down the hall, his only concern being silent enough to escape notice.

Patterns...

Well. This isn’t exactly news to me, but I have three main trends:

starting in media res, with the main character just doing something

starting with dialogue (which I suppose is sort of a subset of the first one)

starting with some short, environmental/situational-overview sentence that will lead into a longer, more atmospheric scene-setting paragraph (usually, though not exclusively, happens in present-tense stories)

This task mostly reveals, I suppose, that the strength of my writing is not really in the opening line, even the ones that I try to make sound snappy. Or rather, that the opening line is often very heavily dependent on what comes after it, and doesn’t stand on its own very well.

Oh, also, that I skew towards Gimli POV, which I have noted elsewhere as well.

Favorite opening line?

Oof. Well, none of these really stands on their own, I think - a lot of them need the line that follows to really get the context. (Given just these as hooks, I don’t know if I’d read any of them!) I suppose the one that hooks me the most is Between a Rock and a Hard Place - “This, Gimli thought gloomily, staring down at the bed he had been given in Rivendell, was a quandary he had not anticipated.” I think this line indicates at least a little of the true hilarity that is to follow. But also, because Im in a craving-Gimli-whump place, I might have to go with Acceptable Losses - “The arguing voices are the first sound to reach Gimli’s ears – the muffled sound of discord an awakening that would not be gentle, could he hear more clearly through the haze around his mind.”

Tag other writers!

UnnamedElement already tagged most of the people I would have wanted to tag, but I’m going to do some repeat-tagging anyway just for fun - so if you’re tagged twice, you only have to do it once! But I’ll tag @deheerkonijn (since you now have 20 fics to do this with and also I wanna pick on you to do some self-bragging), @enide-s-dear, @katajainen, @the-dwelf-ao3, and anyone else who wants to do it! But please, no pressure!

[pebblysand]

[SEPTEMBER ‘21] - THE LIFE/WRITING UPDATE NO ONE ASKED FOR (AND SOME QUICK LINKS)

well, hello hello, welcome, it is september first and hogwarts is back in session, haha! where’s your letter, did you get it? i hope so!

in true gryffindor fashion, i’m a summer person. i like parties, the beach and hot weather, so i’m currently working hard, trying to delay the inevitable return of autumn and the dreaded back-to-school mood by staying in sunny southern france for a few more days. i’ll be back in dublin on saturday where, as per usual, rain has been scheduled to occur upon my return lol.

Anyway, before diving into more life/writing updates, here are some quick links to different blog pages you might not see on mobile :

to read my fics [updated]

to read my original work

fic recs

to read my tumblr rants about stuff

[NOTE: i am currently not accepting prompts. i already have a backlog, folks.]

Castles (chap 9) ETA: optimistic? 19 September. realistic? october.

links extended a/n-s: chapter v ; chapter vi & vii ; chapter viii

[more life/writing updates under the cut]

what i’m reading:

i’m actually quite happy with my book reading this month. i read a friend’s short-ish (27k) story, as well as two full books, and started a third. i wanted my holidays to be a time of catching up with missed reading opportunities, and it definitely was.

first, i read three rooms by jo hamya. i picked this one up because it was recommended by my bookshop, was written by a BAME author, marketed as a ‘millenial’ literary fiction novel which i’m always a sucker for, and the cover looked intriguing. the story is that of an unnamed narrator in her early/mid-twenties, navigating the end of her masters degree and her first job in london. to be honest, as i previously said in another post, i don’t particularly fancy myself as a book critic so i don’t really like to say negative things about the books i read. as an author, i know how hard things can hurt when people are talking about your writing sort-of behind your back and i’m always paranoid that the author might one day see what i’ve written, lol. this being said, what i will say about this book is that while not bad, it wasn’t really a fit for me. the writing is very good, crisp and quick just the way i like it (though if you get irritated by the current trend of not using quotation marks for dialogue, you might get irritated by this), but i just found it hard to relate to the characters. i think you will like this if you like books that are more about their setting and their world rather than plot or character. the author is really good at describing current britain, life in london, the book is brilliant at describing the millennial ‘world’ of social media, politics, etc. but its main character seems to just aimlessly float through her life without any sense of self or purpose, which i personally found very frustrating. the book addresses issues of class, poverty, temp contracts, housing prices, discrimination but it feels very much like a matter-of-fact statement rather than an actual argument to change things. the other characters are mildly more purposeful but very single-purpose and while the novel is interesting but it didn’t really make me feel anything beyond an intense desire to grab the narrator by the shoulders and scream: do something! three stars.

then, i read incendiary by chris cleave. full review here. this book is just unreal and the best fiction i’ve read in close to a year. if i could give ten stars i would.

i’ve now started an american marriage by tayari jones. unless you’ve been living under a rock, this has probably been recommended to you a billion times already, but what can i say, i’m always late lol. i’m only about 100 pages in but seems promising.

in terms of fanfic, i honestly haven’t read much bar this one fantastic spooks au of which i really wish there was more of. i have trolled all of livejournal and dreamwidth to find the rest and came up empty. tragic.

what i’m writing:

funny how the girl on a writing break still managed to put out circ. 9,000 words in a month, lol. granted, pick me choose me love me was written in july, but still.

this being said, i do feel like i took time off and i do feel way better than i did back in july. looking back, i was exhausted and burnt out and felt like i was mostly writing to fulfill people’s expectations, rather than to make me happy. i’m now feeling much more confident with my words. the story that i did write this month was a self-indulgent bit of fun because it was written for a fandom no one cares about, and rather liberating, if i’m honest. i think i needed to write something for me and my audience of three again, and it was great. i genuinely love that story. i do think that if you want to give it a try, it might be one of those that can be read without having watched the show in question because it’s about a side character so a lot of what’s in there is original rather than show-related. if you do want to read it, it’s here: listening to that angel choir.

in terms of upcoming projects, i’m happy to announce that i’m actually excited to get back to castles, which is exactly what i wanted this break to achieve. i’m waiting until i get back to dublin to get back to work but i’m ready to dive back in and honestly can’t wait. as i said above the cut, i would love to put it on the 19th September but i’m not sure that i’ll manage to whip out next chapter this quickly. it’s not unheard of, so we shall see. also, castles is turning a year old on 16 sep, which is absolutely fucking insane. i certainly did not think it would be this massive of a project when i undertook it, lol. the numbers on it both in terms of wordcount and appreciation/hits give me vertigo so i try not to look at them but honestly, i can’t thank you all enough. i know i always say this but i come from very small audiences and fandoms and the amount of love i’ve been getting this past year thanks to all of you has meant the world. thank you.

in terms of one shots, i’ll be mostly focusing on castles this month, so i probably won’t write anything else. this being said, for those of your on tumblr, just be aware that you might see me repost some of the tumblr ficlets that i posted on tumblr these past few months on ao3 soon-ish. i initially decided to keep them on tumblr alone because they were too short but i’ve been having anxiety about tumblr collapsing and these things disappearing into the ether. so, don’t be alarmed, they should be the same, just reposted.

what i’m doing:

honestly, this month has been amazing, especially the past three weeks. i’ve been able to relax, see family & friends, went hiking, had my birthday, hired a boat - it’s been fab. as alluded to before, i’ve also been having fun rewatching spooks, which is definitely a series worth watching, even ten years after it ended. i find it even more fascinating in light of what is going on in afghanistan at the moment, and of course the presence in the show of rupert penry-jones whom i think every straight woman with a pulse fancies, is an added bonus.

anyway, i hope you’re all doing well. see you next month for pumpkin spice lattes (yeah, look, i’m a basic white girl) and the beginning of my seasonal depression.

lots of love,

pebblysand.

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die, Chapter 8

TITLE: Many More To Die (Chapter 8)

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: Roman and Logan reconnect. Remus and Virgil find some common ground. There are too many secrets--but the royals finally expose a big one to the Crofter brothers: the one that ultimately led to Logan's imprisonment and the destruction of their family.

Meanwhile, Janus is looking for some information from his treasure trove--and Patton is more than happy to provide it to him.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), Moceit (Patton/Janus) and future Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: I’m nervous about this one, ‘cause it sucks? But I also don’t care cause there are cuddles for my fave ships and I do what I want.

I am, however, SO SORRY FOR THIS TERRIBLE CLIFFHANGER, but the next chapter will come out much sooner. Promise. XD

Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more…hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1033, A.A.

Logan asked Virgil to leave. With murder in his eyes, Virgil acquiesced.

And when the door clicked shut...they were alone.

For long moments, the silence was deafening. They sat there, staring at each other—Logan seated on the edge of the bed, and the king with the blankets pooled around his waist, bare chested and staring at Logan as if...

Logan's mouth suddenly went dry as his heart seemed to grow in his chest, swelling to the point that it compressed his lungs against his ribcage, preventing him from drawing breath.

Silently, Roman extended his hand, palm up. It took Logan abruptly back to the visitations in his dreams, anchored by the feel of human contact he thought he had only before imagined. The reality of it was so much more, so intense—so necessary he could hardly stand to think about it.

And yet, with the king's silent offer, Logan was helpless to resist it, reaching out to slide his hand into Roman's. Their fingers meshed with the ease of experience—through dreams or through the history that had been stolen from him, Logan could not say, but that alien ecstasy of skin on skin felt so right it hurt.

“I have dreamed of this for so long.”

Logan looked up from where he'd been staring at their joined hands, spellbound. For a day now, he'd been in the presence of his Green Man, seen his true face, but this was the first time he'd actually been alone with him since...

“So have I.” he confessed. “Every time you came to me.”

Roman blinked, confused—then a light went on behind his eyes, making them snap with something electric and so alive it made Logan's chest tight.

“They...were real.” he realized. “I wasn't dreaming.”

“You were, but... we were inhabiting the same dream at the same time.” Logan explained softly. “Knowing who you are now, it's unsurprising. Conduits cannot use the magic within them, but it does make certain forms of involuntary magic possible—such as dream walking.”

“I've never done it with anyone else before.”

Logan frowned. “That is unusual. If that was the case, the ability would be consistent.”

He paused, then felt something in the core of him tremble with...a feeling he could not name, even reluctantly. It was light and fragile and enormously powerful—and Logan wasn't totally sure if it was good or bad.

“Did...did we share dreams...before?” he asked hesitantly.

Roman smiled, sad, tremulous, and hesitant in his own right.

“It's...a complicated thing to explain.” he confessed. “I don't have all the answers.”

“Do you have any?”

“I do. If you want them.”

“Why would I not want them?” Logan asked.

Something slid through Roman's eyes, dimming their light, and it ripped through Logan with a fury that had no root, no real cause.

Only that something dared to darken his demeanor, and with terrifying clarity Logan knew he would even destroy himself were he to discover that he was the cause of it.

“Because I'm a royal?” he pointed out. “Because my family did this to your people...because I did this to you?”

“Falsehood.”

Roman smiled, and Logan felt suddenly powerful. He felt...he felt, with no anchor for any of these feelings. It was deeply disconcerting—and it was also intoxicating.

“Hearing that again is almost as comforting as hearing you call me an idiot.” Roman laughed, squeezing his hand. “I missed it.”

Logan felt dizzy with the gaping hole in his chest, the warmth of Roman's touch—the world, every breath, every second that ticked by, it all suddenly felt like too much to hold inside of him. If he could remember, maybe he could bear it, maybe he could handle the things that his fingers and his heart seemed to know as he clung to the king's hand and stood on the edge of a chasm of years that stretched between them with no memory of how it got there.

“I do not remember,” he managed to choke out, “but...I think I did, too.”

“Oh, Starlight...”

Roman pulled him forward, and suddenly Logan was being held, cradled against acres of bare flesh and solid muscle. His lungs were filled with the scent of warm cotton and sweet skin, tinged with something that reminded him of fresh earth and damp stone—not the rank stone of the dungeons, but granite and petrichor, fresh from a gentle, cleansing rain.

Logan could not have stopped himself from clinging as Roman held him, not even if he wanted to—and he didn't want to stop.

“Tell me?” A question, whispered against his shoulder as he was held in strong arms and drowned in the warmth of safety and affection.

Roman did not hesitate to open his mouth and start talking—and he kept talking until there was nothing left.

Until Logan finally knew everything.

********** 1022, A.A.

“Okay, wait, so—familiars are human?”

Logan laughed—one of the greatest sounds in the world, as far as Roman was concerned. It was rare as diamonds, soft as a whisper, and always so filled with bright, gleaming emotion that it made him happy even if he was having the worst possible day.

Roman lived for his laugh—among other things. Logan's eyes, Logan's intelligence...Father called it that 'special age,' told him that he'd started noticing how certain boys made him feel when he was thirteen, but this wasn't just...

Logan was younger than him by two whole years—it might as well be decades. Besides, Logan probably liked girls, and oh yeah, he was a Weaver. Being one of the Necromata was one thing, but Weavers were revered among his people. Even if liking a necromancer wasn't a crime, Logan's family wouldn't want him to have anything to do with an outsider like Roman. He'd learned that much in two years of friendship with him.

Two years of hiding how he really spent his afternoons away from the tutors. Two years of learning the truth about how good and kind and generous the Necromata were...how good and kind and generous Logan was.

“Yes, familiars are human.” Logan replied, sweeping the flat stone marker of the grave they were tending. “Virgil—my little brother, the one I call Stormcloud—is my Spider, the keeper of the Loom of Memory.”

Roman risked peeking out from under the hood of the cloak hiding his face to follow the tilt of Logan's head to the eight year old boy on the other side of the open field. He was small and slight, with a shock of black hair like Logan's, save that his gleamed blue-black in the sun where Logan's shone with the most subtle red-brown hints of dark cherry wood. When he faced them, beaming up at the massive redhead that Logan had identified as their grandfather, Roman could see that Virgil's eyes were dark compared to Logan's startling blue.

Over the last couple of years, Logan had gradually shared the True Names of his whole family with Roman. Outlaw was his grandfather, Josiah. Rainbow was his pari, Talyn. Joan was his geni, Elliot. He'd trusted Roman with that knowledge...but Virgil, his little brother, the person Logan loved more than life itself (and possibly more than jam tarts), he'd protected.

Until now. Now, he'd let Roman in all the way—in more ways than one, given where they were.

While Logan finished sweeping the headstone clean, Roman watched the countless other families among Logan's tribe attending similar areas just like they were. Some were cleaning other graves, others were scouring the ground for signs of unmarked ones, others still were tending the trees in the open field that needed pruning or fertilization to grow healthy and strong over the graves they stood as markers for.

The Festival of the Forgotten that came every autumn was a day Roman had only ever known as one of solemn remembrance for those who had fallen to the Animator's slaughter a thousand years ago. He got dressed up in his formal attire, stood by Father's side while he gave speeches at the palace memorial, and basically spent the day being as quiet and unobtrusive as possible.

Logan had treated the whole thing with open disdain and offense when Roman explained it to him—then told him what the real Festival was all about.

The Festival wasn't happening for a week yet, but the Necromata were already preparing. For Logan's people, it was a week long celebration of the dead that involved hard work and loving attention. The field they were in had once been a graveyard in the time before the Animator, and many of the dead who lay in repose below the earth had been lost to time. Some had no names to be remembered, others had no lineage to go after them, still more were buried carelessly without even a marker to their name.

The Necromata took custody of these dead, trying to give them remembrance even if they couldn't give them names. All week, they carefully cleaned the field up, tended what few graves they could identify, looked for others—and at the end, had a giant party full of food, music, and drink. They decorated graves, left offerings for the departed, and kept the forgotten souls company with laughter and song. They would soak the earth and the air with enough joy and celebration to ensure that these lost ones would have comfort enough to take them through the year, when they would do it all over again.

Roman had been humbled by the true story of the Festival—and so Logan had invited him to attend. Both the party, and the stewardship of the dead.

“Familiars enhance the power of their necromancer in different ways.” Logan continued once Roman had given him his attention again. “A Black Dog has their Wolf, who acts as their spirit guide through their visions. A Reaper has their Raven, who helps them take the pain away from those they heal or release—and a Weaver has their Spider, who spins the fibers for the Loom of Memory. When a Weaver reaches the Loom, it's very much like the real thing: a visual representation, where a soul to be resurrected is mounted like a half finished tapestry, and the Weaver completes it with the connection he has to his Spider.”

“What does the fiber represent?” Roman asked as Logan stepped back, dropping his broom and moving to crouch before the worn headstone while Roman quickly followed suit. “The fiber your Spider spins?”

“Focus. Virgil gives me his focus to aid me in retrieving the memories I need to restore the soul to life. With his mind working in tandem with mine, it's like I'm weaving with a shuttle wound in spider silk, and it allows me to finish my work much more quickly. It ensures the tapestry lasts longer once it's taken off the loom before it unravels...before the soul I raise to life slips away again.”

Roman didn't like the way Logan's features fell a little at that. Ever since his Warping, Roman knew that Logan was troubled by the idea that there were people he couldn't fully resurrect—those not meant to die, he could save, but those whose soul had slipped through the opening in the Barrier carved for them at the moment of their death? Those were temporary—and the few times he'd half restored a soul like that as part of his training lingered with him.

Knowing he could say nothing to comfort him, instead Roman turned his attention to the smooth granite surface before them.

“You said this grave was new, right?”

Logan nodded, shifting to kneel while Roman remained in his crouch—and with hardly a care, rested an arm on Roman's knee so he could lean forward and peer at the gravestone. The touch made Roman's heart flip in his chest, but he tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Grandpap discovered it last year while they were digging out the roots of a dead tree. We replanted it over there to better mark the site because the stone's been worn so flat.”

Roman frowned, reaching down to run his fingers over the stone. “This poor person will never have a name now.”

“Sadly, no.” Logan agreed, reaching down to lay his hand against Roman's atop the stone. “Whatever epitaph was on this stone was worn away hundreds of years ago—“

“What's that?”

Roman, reluctantly, slid his hand out from under Logan's to run his fingers along the base of the stone.

“See this ridge? There's something beneath it...here, help me...”

The earth was damp, and for a moment Roman was left to dig on his own, fingers sinking into the loamy earth at the base of the stone. In truth, it was fun—feeling the grit under his fingernails, the ache of muscles as he clawed at the dirt.

Only when he started to uncover a broader base on the stone did Logan move to start helping him dig.

After about five minutes, they had exposed a second, broader slab beneath the stone. This one, heavily covered by dirt, seemed to be part of a larger piece that appeared to just...keep going.

“This isn't a headstone.” Logan realized. “It's a burial vault.”

Roman nodded. “I actually know what those are—big boxes for dead bodies, right? So they don't rot in the dirt. For the coffin to sit in!”

“Correct.” Logan murmured. “What's more, it's not buried all that deep. Perhaps, once upon a time, it wasn't buried at all.”

Roman thought about the last burial vault he'd seen—that of an adviser in his father's court council. He hadn't been buried in the royal mausoleum, being of common birth, but he'd been given a special place in the surrounding cemetery: an above ground burial vault, bearing the royal seal and just beneath it...

“This isn't a headstone.” he realized aloud, furiously going back to digging.

“That's what you said—”

“No, I mean this part! The crest of the royal family sits here, not the epitaph! We have burial vaults like these in the palace cemetery, and the name is always under this piece! Help me, Logan—we can find out who this is!”

Glancing to the side, he was pleased to see Logan adjusting his glasses, a restless sign of pleasure as he crowded closer to Roman's side.

“If the name was not exposed to the elements before it was buried, it might still be preserved.” he agreed.

“So we can help them?”

Logan nodded eagerly, making Roman grin. He was so happy, and it warmed Roman's heart—but so did the fact that they might actually be able to give some poor, forgotten dead necromancer back their name. The fact that Roman, himself, was helping to do this thing for one of the Necromata, an heir to the throne helping these good and caring and generous people that just wanted to make sure that the dead were remembered...

It gave him so much hope for the future. Logan gave him this hope by letting him in.

That was the moment Roman knew...

Refocusing on their new task, Roman began to dig in earnest. Logan shifted to reach for the broom, trying to scrape away the earth from the stone vault with the end of its handle. Gradually, they worked down a couple of inches until the edges of a very clear engraving became visible. First the frame, then what looked like...

“Numbers. These may be the dates of birth and death, if this person died Before Animator.” Logan murmured, jostling Roman in encouragement. “Keep going.”

Voices buzzed around them. The cool autumn air stung Roman's nose. His fingers were sore, cuticles caked with dirt. Logan was pressed securely to his side, digging tirelessly alongside him.

Time stopped. Nothing existed but the two of them, crowded close and digging, all heavy breath and exertion and movement, bumping and jostling in a strange rhythm that blurred the line between where one ended and the other began...

“...Roman.”

Roman blinked, shaking his head. He glanced at Logan, who'd gone ashen as he stared down at the inches of earth they had uncovered.

With a start, he realized they had finished. There, in worn but very clear lettering, was the epitaph of a forgotten corpse. Beneath the confusing dates of birth and death, there was a name.

Reading it, Roman could feel the blood leaving his face just as it had left Logan's.

“This...cannot be right.” Logan murmured.

“No, it can't.” Roman agreed softly, flopping artlessly back on his behind. Logan collapsed with him, half across Roman's lap, with Roman too stunned to fully take it in. “You said this was a burial ground for the Necromata.”

“It is.”

Roman met Logan's gaze, something sick and panicky forming a lump of ice in his throat.

“Then why, in the Seven Hells, is one of my ancestors buried here?”

**********

1033, A.A.

Few things in the world scared Remus—but that scrawny little necromancer fucking terrified him. The cadet wasn't much better, mostly because they were brothers.

Remus was smart. It was a problem, had been his whole life. For all that he knew, easily and quickly, there were few things he really understood, important things like personal boundaries and courtesy and the difference between things that were fascinating and things that were disturbing.

Brothers, however, he understood. Which was why the cadet was so fucking scary: look at either one of them wrong, and the other would take your fucking head off to defend them.

So Remus stayed in the shadows, watching the pipsqueak stomp around outside Roman's suite like he wanted to get caught by some other member of the palace guard, cursing just loud enough to be heard but not understood, vibrating with tension and so furious the air seemed to ripple around him with heat waves rising from his skin.

“Why is your brother alone with mine?”

Scary as the situation was, Remus found some deeply satisfying pleasure in watching Virgil Storm leap about six feet into the air with fright, choking on the scream he fought to stifle.

“Shadow's Balls, you miserable son of a bitch, what the hell are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?” he spat, clutching his chest with both hands.

Remus shrugged. “Hey, not my fault if you don't have the nerves for guard duty, toy soldier. Should've tried hiding in the kitchens instead. The wash boys bring the dungeon prisoners their daily meal.”

“I'm not guarding anything.” Virgil shot back, turning to glare at the closed door of Roman's suite. “I was sent away. By my own damn brother—doesn't remember shit, and he's still treating me like a little kid.”

“He's your big brother—that shit doesn't change with age.” Remus huffed. “Ro Ro's got a half life on me, and he makes use of ever second of it.”

Virgil looked at him strangely. “A half life? I thought you were twins.”

Remus shrugged. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Can you speak in anything but sarcasm?”

“Can you address the crown prince with a little respect?”

“Not when I've seen the kind of people you sneak around with. Cadets pull a lot of graveyard shifts.”

Damn—the game of questions was just starting to get fun. The toy soldier wasn't just cute, he was feisty and totally lacked any fear of the throne. That was a problem, because Remus was actually starting to like the little shit.

“You're lucky I'm into that.” Remus quipped, but finally rolled his eyes and leaned back against the opposite wall of the corridor. “Fine: we're half-twins: identical, born one hour apart on the cusp. Roman came at eleven and I came at midnight. We celebrate our birthdays on the same day to hide that fact.”

Virgil went eerily still—and Remus's estimation of the kid went up a couple notches because of it.

“You do remember I'm Necromata, right?” he asked slowly. “Everyone in this castle knows you and your brother are both well versed in the ways of necromancy. You know what we can do with half-twins.”

Remus sobered, wondering for one irrational second if he'd been wrong. Wrong about the scrawny necromancer, wrong about the toy soldier, wrong about the limited amount of sense Roman had in his thick skull...

“Does anyone else know?” Virgil asked in the silence of Remus's brain spinning away from him.

Remus shook his head. “No, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“...you gonna kill me, Highness?”

Remus rushed him then, pinning Virgil to the wall with a hand wrapped around his throat.

“Only if I have to.” he warned quietly. He could hear his own heart beating in his ears, but it was slow, steady, far too calm. He could already imagine those gleaming dark eyes going flat and dead, that lovely pale skin going ashen as he choked the life from him, hear the bubble from his lungs as they gave up their last breath...

He'd do it. He'd sleep easy. He wouldn't regret a thing.

Not for Roman.

“I'm a little brother, too.” Virgil reminded him quietly, breathlessly—and for one split second, as Virgil reached up to wrap his hand around Remus's wrist, gentle but firm, he was kind of breathtaking. His pulse was jumping in his throat, every exhale was shaky and his lips were parted as he sucked down oxygen...

Remus let him go, but he didn't move away. He couldn't quite make himself, not when he suddenly felt like swallowing the terrified little spider whole.

“No one can know what Roman really is.” he whispered. “No one.”

“Make you a deal,” Virgil shot back, “you protect my big brother, and I'll protect yours.”

Remus narrowed his eyes...but it was what he wanted, after all, so he offered Virgil his hand to shake.

“Mutually assured destruction it is.” Remus agreed. “Can't trust a royal and all.”

Virgil had just wrapped his hand around Remus's when he blinked, startled. “I...yeah?”

Laughing, Remus shook his hand firmly, and let the world fall away for just a moment. His grip made it easy: firm, warm, strong.

“You're right about us, toy soldier: Roman and I? We're both pretty into necromancy. That means we know more than most about the royal family—at least I do. Roman...I'm not quite sure what he remembers anymore.”

“About what?” Virgil asked.

Remus released Virgil's hand, then sighed and shifted to press his back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground.

“Park it, Storm. There's a few things you need to know about my brother...and yours.”

**********

1022, A.A.

“It has to be a mistake.”

“It's not.” Logan insisted, reaching up to tug at his mask—he would have adjusted his glasses if he'd been wearing them, but he couldn't with the domino that covered his features, heavily adored with thick black feathers. Roman reached up to stop him before he could remove it.

“Can't be rude to the dead, can we?” Roman chided gently.

That got a smile out of Logan, despite the circumstances—almost as good as his laughter, and once again the spirit of the evening swept over him.

Five days had passed since the discovery in the graveyard. Earlier in the day, this day, he'd done his duty: donned his formal dress, stood beside his father, pretended to be solemn and respectful while, all the while, he'd been vibrating with excitement for this.

The final day of the Festival—the final night.

The real Festival, an actual festival with music and food and costumes. The Field of the Forgotten was now clean and well cared for, lit up with torches and free floating luminaries. There were tables laden with food and drink and plates and cups—large for the living, smaller ones for graveside offerings. It was a celebration of life lost, a gift to the dead.

And the costumes—they were so much fun, and yet even these carried meaning. Roman hid his face behind a domino adorned with white feathers to Logan's black, and rejected his name to call himself Muse for the evening. Because these souls they honored no longer had names or faces, forever lost to time, the living hid their own with masks and costumes, gave up their true names and identities for the night out of respect.

It was magical, all of it. He enjoyed himself, drinking sparkling cider and eating meat skewers, burning his mouth on sweet-searing phoenix taffy, wrapped in wax paper printed with tiny black skulls. He even pocketed some for later, vowing to enjoy them slowly and remember the forgotten as he let the cinnamon tingle sting his tongue.

He celebrated instead of mourning, gave his own joy to the forgotten dead for a year, and for the first time dreamed of being king one day instead of crown prince so he could show this to the citizens. After all, they would understand if they knew—how much the Necromata cared about the dead, how hard they worked for those who were gone because it made things so much better for the people that were still here.

They weren't messengers of death, they were guardians of life, and one day Roman would set them free. He'd show everyone...he'd watch Logan stand beside him before the whole kingdom and smile when he realized that he was no longer feared, but loved. Just as he deserved to be.

Smile like he was smiling now. At Roman, because he stopped him from removing his mask, and for one really stupid second, Roman almost hoped Logan would...maybe reach for his hand or press against his side like he had earlier in the week, huddled before the final resting place of Thomas Roman I.

Roman's namesake. Roman's ancestor.

“Can we be sure?” Roman asked, the brief euphoria stolen from him as they walked side by side, trying to be discreet about returning to the grave in question. “I mean...what's the likelihood that a necromancer would name their child after a king? It's done, you know.”

“Not among our people.” Logan insisted with a shake of his head. “The royal family are our oppressors, have been for generations. As much as it pains me to say it, my people view the royal bloodline much as the population at large view necromancers. They are cutthroat, bloodthirsty, power hungry demons that will stop at nothing to see every single one of us destroyed. No parent would ever do that to a child.”

Roman felt a little like he'd been punched in the gut, but he said nothing. Logan wasn't great with feelings—better, a little, since his Warping, but it always made him squirmy to try and confront them, in himself or in anyone else.

“I want to change that.” Roman replied quietly, vowing he'd say no more on it.

“Falsehood.”

“What?”

“Falsehood.” Logan repeated, as if he hadn't just called Roman a liar. For a second, Roman wondered if he'd done or said something that...oh, gods, did Logan know how Roman felt? Was it bothering him that badly? Were they—

“You will change that.” Logan pressed on before Roman's thoughts could spiral any further. “This is simple fact.”

“Lo—er, Starlight, I appreciate that you have so much faith in me—“

“It's not faith, Muse. It's fact.” Logan insisted, stopping in his tracks. “This revelation is confusing, life changing...dangerous for what it could represent, but the facts are thus: your ancestor is buried on sacred Necromata ground. For generations beyond the Animator, we have taken great pains to ensure that no outsider has ever been interred among us for the simple reason that necromancers cannot be resurrected because we have no souls—it would be sacrilege to allow a resurrection to disturb the rest of our dead. This can mean only one thing: the royal family is either of our tribe, or of theirs.”

“Whose?”

“The Lazari.”

Roman's stomach dropped clear through his shoes and into the sacred ground of the Necromata. “Seven Hells, do you think that's truly possible? W-w-what about the Animata?”

Logan shook his head, then turned to keep walking. They were nearly at the grave—the pair of them had hastily covered up the name they had unearthed, pressing the dirt flat and scattering some leaves to make it look like nothing had been disturbed.

“The Animata are not necromancers—not all of them were even fully human, given their twin souls. It would be easy to resurrect one of them. No, the only other creature it could possibly be is a Lazari.”

“But they're a myth—they're not even real.”

“Myth to you, theoretical to us.” Logan replied as they reached the grave. Sitting in front of the tombstone, he beckoned Roman to join him. “The Lazari are, essentially, an evolution of Weavers. They cannot merely recall the dead to life, they can change the fate of the dead. Their power is such that they can weave a soul not from memory, but from the Spider's Thread. They can change fate.”

Roman fell silent, staring down at the careworn tombstone before them. Reaching out, he ran his hands over the smooth stone that once likely bore a royal crest—the crest of his family, above the name of his ancestor.

“How can you change fate?” he asked softly, forcing himself not to look at the boy beside him. Not when he felt so...weird. So full, like his lungs were being crushed against the inside of his ribcage by his heart and his soul, and everything he was feeling.

He wanted to not be of the house of Sanders. He wanted Logan to not be of the Necromata. He wanted to live in a world where nothing separated them, where one day he could court Logan as proudly as his own father had courted his dad, as proudly as his dad had courted his mother...

Roman wanted, wanted, wanted in that moment, and he was afraid to look at Logan...suddenly afraid of what would happen if he did.

“Knowledge.”

Logan's quiet utterance nearly stole his resolve, his head twitching, but remaining down as Logan continued.

“Knowledge is how. It is an incomparably valuable, multi-purpose tool that is instrumental in identifying and solving any problem.”

He paused—then Roman felt his hand on his shoulder.

Don't don't don't don't don't...

Roman looked up, and found Logan meeting his gaze with a look that briefly stole his breath.

“If you're worried about getting hurt? Then seek knowledge. It is our greatest weapon...and our greatest defense.”

The words felt oddly weighty, like he was trying to make Roman remember something for later. That, or...

He couldn't give the feeling words, and so he didn't. He held it inside himself, embraced the crushing weight against his lungs and the way his entire body felt too small for his bones.

“And the Lazari would be a pretty powerful weapon—especially if they were members of the royal family.” Roman mused softly.

A necromancer on the throne—if it was true, it could destroy his family. However...

It could save Logan's people. If the world knew that one of the royal family had been a member of his tribe? Maybe the Necromata could finally be free to live in the open, free and unafraid.

Looking into Logan's face, Roman realized there was no decision to make.

“Where will we find it?” he asked finally. “This knowledge...the knowledge we need to prove it, one way or the other?”

Logan fell silent at that. He still had that strangely intense look in his eyes, high color in his cheeks—and at some point, his hand had found its way off Roman's shoulder and down to mesh with Roman's fingers.

Roman's face felt warm, and the world felt kind of spinny.

“We start with the king.”

**********

1033, A.A.

“What're you thinkin' about, Janny?”

Janus drew a deep breath—not quite a sigh, but very close to it, not over Patton's question but his own inability to function properly.

He should be looking over the shoulders of his lieutenants, currently investigating the king's death. What he was doing was walking through the North Gardens in the dark with Patton, their hands firmly linked together between them. Patton even went so far as to swing them occasionally, making something deep in Janus's core twist in a manner that made his baser impulses nearly impossible to control.

“Nothing I can discuss with you.” he replied.

“Oh, wow. You're telling the truth—it must be bad.” Patton breathed.

Janus squeezed Patton's fingers, uncertain if he was trying to reassure Patton or himself.

“You have no idea,” he admitted softly, “and if I get my way? You never will.”

There was no immediate answer as Janus scanned their surroundings, double and triple checking to make sure they weren't being spied on. He was well aware of the fact that Logan had already absconded with the cadet—his brother, now that was never going to stop being funny to Janus—and could give a damn. He knew Logan well enough to know he'd be careful...he had to admit, reluctantly, that Storm was a damn capable soldier...and by holding up the pretext that the prisoners were safely ensconced in their quarters...

He could steal this time with Patton. Stealing, sneaking, taking things he had no right to, things that didn't belong to him.

“You're gonna ask me things again, huh?”

Janus stopped dead in his tracks, looking at Patton sharply. Patton, the gods love him, was just smiling that smile he always had when he told Janus things that Janus didn't ask for, much less the things Janus did make a point of requesting.

“That's not why we're out here.” he replied instead of rebuffing Patton's assertion. It felt more important, even if it wasn't...

It wasn't.

Patton giggled—actually giggled at that—and wrapped Janus's hand in both of his.

“Janny, I asked you to spend some time with me, remember?”

How could Janus forget that desperate plea, wide eyed and beaming through the tear tracks that lingered on his cheeks after he was done crying in Janus's arms earlier, done warning Janus about what was happening to Logan in another part of the castle? How could Janus have ever said no?

How could Janus admit that, even if Patton hadn't asked, Janus would have come anyway—just because he couldn't stay away?

“You couldn't possibly know I wanted to...ask you things, as you put it.” Janus pointed out.

Patton stepped closer, looking up into Janus's face from his diminutive height. The moon was nearly gone, but its few stray rays caught his mop of curls, forcing Janus to ball his hands into fists to resist the urge to touch one.

But, of course, because Patton still held one of his hands, he only succeeded in holding on tighter, sending a ripple of warmth and softness through Janus that ought to be more troubling than it was.

“I always know.” Patton pointed out gently. His dark blue eyes were black in the low light, his face shining and open and so dazzling it made his very bones hurt with the primal dragon's urge to grab him and hide him and claim claim claim mine mine mine...

Patton sank to the ground, tugging gently on Janus's captive hand. Janus followed—but rather than sit on the ground as Janus did, Patton got to his knees and immediately deposited himself in Janus's lap with a merry giggle that Janus swore lit up the garden if only for a heartbeat.

Janus let go Patton's hand, wrapped his arms around his waist instead, and felt the dragon in his bones settle back to sleep.

“You always know.” he finally echoed with a sigh and narrowed eyes that did nothing to taint Patton's bright smile. “Fine, I want to ask you things.”

Visibly pleased with himself, Patton rested his hands on Janus's shoulders, shut his eyes, and took a slow, deep breath.

“Okay. I'm ready.”

Janus gave Patton a gentle squeeze, taking a deep breath of his own.

“I need to know how to kill the necromancer.”

Patton didn't move or speak for a long time. Janus just held on, waiting.

His eyes slammed open—solid, pale sky blue and glowing faintly in the dark instead of the impossibly dark shade Janus knew so well.

In hushed, faraway tones, Patton spoke...and Janus listened closely.

[sincerelyreidburke]

OK PROPOSAL?? HOUSE HUNTING?? CHILD ADOPTION??? WHAT??? CARE TO ELABORATE??? Also can I just say that all med students really are the same? I have personally threatened my own Dutch bf into delaying any proposal ideas until both of our degrees are done bc the Future is my only motivator and if I get it too soon it won't be good lol. It cracks me up to think that as soon as quinn's criteria are met nando the simp trips over himself to propose (literally?) lol

Okay, people, because of this ask, and because I feel like it, it’s time to talk about far-future Quindo. I will answer some of your questions that have been looming based on my continuous dropped hints. Come with me on this journey.

And by the way, Brenna, it continues to entertain me how you and Quinn are literally the same.😂😂 Quinn would absolutely personally threaten Nando not to get too many creative ideas until they at least have gotten a place to live together, and Quinn has started in medical school.

Let’s hop under the cut and I’ll tell you some details! (This got so long, but no regrets.)

- So I think I’ve talked about this in a few places now, but something that’s always true with Quinn and Nando, even early on, is that they understand their relationship is long-term. Neither of them is really looking to date casually, and once they’ve been together for a reasonable amount of time to draw this conclusion (six months, I’d say?), they’re each already pretty much planning on getting married. Do I think they necessarily talk about this that early on? Probably not. But the long-term future conversations come along eventually, and they’re very much on the same page about everything.

- I also did this post semi-recently about the fact that their relationship very much contributes to each of them wanting to settle down. They both knew they wanted, like, marriage and kids one day before they had each other, but the presence of each other makes it much more real for both of them. With each other, there’s a person in those daydreams of the future, a more concrete plan in mind. Instead of just thinking of my future husband, they can think specifically of each other.

- Anyway. As I’ve said, Nando is already sort of thinking about proposal plans before they graduate. (Here’s a glimpse into his simp brain circa graduation.) But they also have a lot of other plans and things to do around the time of graduation. Here’s where they wind up at the time of graduation.

- Nando has secured a job, to start mid-summer, with the Phoenix Dept. of Social Services. Is this a real department that exists? Let’s just say I hope so. I feel like it has to. Anyway, it’s very much related to everything he studied with his sociology major, and it’s exactly what he wanted, and he’s very happy.

- Quinn is going to medical school. I feel like this has been heavily implied. Bear with me and suspend your disbelief a little, because, look: I fully understand how difficult medical school admissions actually are. And I also understand that you can’t necessarily be choosy with where you go based on geography, since the aspiring medical student in my life is always going on like I’m just going to apply to like fifty schools all over the place and go wherever I get in. But I want Quinn to have nice things and also geographic stability, so....

- Let’s just say Quinn puts a lot of eggs in the U of Arizona medical school basket. I think he submits other applications, but as we’ve discussed in mostly theatre contexts, Quinn is somehow an extremely confident person and also the king of underestimating his ability to succeed. He always expects disappointment, because he believes this is the key to never actually being disappointed. (See this ficlet for a theatre dive into his mentality on that topic.)

- For this reason, I think Quinn maybe anticipates a rejection in med school admissions. His plan, for if/when this happens, is that he’ll take a year off. He’s fully aware that that might hurt his chances with getting into medical school at all, but I think this is a good time to remind everybody that Quinn, for a hot minute, doesn’t really have a home. Nando and his family welcome him in when his grandparents disown him to ensure that he has a place to go, but the only reason Quinn isn’t homeless for awhile in there is because he’s living at college.

- And yes, I know that, like, renting an apartment and going to medical school is a thing you can do. But for Quinn, trying to establish stability in a life with Nando is the most important thing. He wants, desperately, to go to medical school, but is willing to delay that if the only way he could go would be to be very far away from him.

- We have to just imagine that things work out for Quinn, because, spoiler alert, he does get in at U of Arizona, to start the autumn after graduation. Senior spring, he gets a letter from them, puts it on his desk, and literally doesn’t open it for an entire day because he thinks it’s a rejection. The reason he does open it is because Nando sees it and freaks out.

- Anyway. For Quinn, I want good things. Therefore, he is simultaneously able to start a life with Nando and live out his academic and career goals.

- So this is an extremely long-winded way of telling you that Nando and Quinn move to Arizona after graduation, which I’ve told you in passing before. Because they are college graduates and neither of them has a whole lot of money, they actually move back in with Mama Hernandez.

- Please understand that Maria Hernandez, as a very Catholic Latina woman, welcomes Quinn into her home with open arms— but absolutely refuses to let them share a bedroom.😂😂😂😂

(On the phone, like a month before graduation.)

Maria: I’ve been cleaning the basement up for Quinn. Do you think I should clean out the closet, or will he only use a dresser?

Nando: Uh... Mama? What do you mean, cleaning out the basement?

Maria: Well, it’s where he’ll be staying.

Nando: .......... But we’re getting married?

Maria: Oh, not so fast, Sebastián. You aren’t married yet, are you? And unmarried couples under my roof—

Nando, who has heard this before: I know, I know, but—

Maria: It’s just the same as last summer.

Nando: But we’re looking for a house together—

Maria: It’s a matter of under my roof. No buts.

Nando, who has literally been sleeping in the same bed with Quinn 80% of the time for the past four years of college: Mama—

Maria: No buts, Sebastián!

- So they move into separate rooms in Maria Hernandez’s house.😂😂😂😂

- That summer, Quinn does another theatre thing the way he did with Gabi and Rosa the summer before, and Nando works at his Tio’s restaurant part-time while he waits for his new job to start. He keeps working for Tio, even if only a shift or two per week, even once he’s started his new job, because that restaurant was his papa’s along with Tio’s and he’s incapable of not helping out his family.

- They settle into a routine, and it’s a very lovely summer while they wait for the rest of their lives to begin. :)

- By the way, somewhere in the area of senior spring, Nando bought an engagement ring. It was the result of a lot of saving and planning, and it’s a simple ring but it’s very suited to Quinn’s tastes, and basically he’s just low-key bursting at the seams to get engaged. (Not that it’ll change Maria’s bedsharing policy😂😂😂😂 but he just really wants to be his fiancé.)

- But here’s the fun part. Quinn has also been thinking about proposing.

- Now let us all cry together while I tell you that Quinn goes to Maria to ask about proposing to him. It’s while Nando is at work at the restaurant one night, I think, and Gabi and Rosa are, idk, either out or just in bed. They’re 11 or 12, so they’re probably in bed. Quinn and Maria get along really well, so they’re just having a conversation out on the back patio at the house. They spend a lot of evenings like that while Quinn waits for Nando to get home from work and give him the one (1) goodnight kiss that Maria allows them before they retire to their separate chambers.

- The conversation is pretty standard of most ‘asking the parent because I want to propose’ conversations. Maria, of course, loves Quinn, and wants him to be an official part of her family by becoming her son-in-law, so she gives him her blessing. (By the way, I do think that Maria is aware that Nando is planning a proposal, but she’s possibly entertained by the fact that they’re racing each other to do it.)

- Maria leaves, for a second, during this conversation with Quinn, and goes up to her own room. She comes downstairs with something and puts it in Quinn’s hand.

- It’s Nando’s papa’s wedding band.

- She tells him that this is what Ángel (Papa’s name) would have wanted.

- Quinn is incredibly, wholly touched by this gesture. When he tries to propose, this is what he’ll use.

- And house hunting!! Obviously, they don’t plan to live with Maria forever. Getting a place of their own is their top priority as soon as they graduate, but they don’t have nowhere near enough money saved up to do so.

- I think I have to make a whole other post about how they get a house and also how the engagement ultimately goes down, because this is getting so long, and even though those two things are set in place and planned, I feel like they’d each double the size of this monster bullet-list. So... feel free to ask me about them, and I’ll elaborate!!!!

- I’m also going to elaborate on the adoption/accidental baby acquisition thing in a separate post. But what happens, and when, and how? Stay tuned and I’ll tell you.

Thanks for enabling me, Brenna!!! I’m grateful for your asks, as always. :D

[apparentlynotreallyfinnish]

Mistakes Were Made

The first of those mistakes was probably writing this thing. It’s angsty as hell and somehow very wrong. I’d probably should advice you guys not to read it, but here it is anyway. 

I’ve been feeling like crap today so I channeled it into an angsty ficlet about Link trying to fuck Rhett out of his mind and Rhett intervening. (So, if you don’t like reading about the boys being with other people, you should probably skip this one.)

---

Rhett barges into the room, banging the door open so hard it almost jumps out of its hinges.

“What the hell, man?! Occupied!”

The man who spoke is standing next to a king-sized bed that makes up most of the room’s décor. He’s not naked, but his sweatpants and underwear are pulled mid-thigh, and he’s rucked up his t-shirt into a fist around his chest. His other hand is gripping onto a slim waist of another man lying on the edge of the bed.

“Get the fuck out!” Rhett growls and takes a step towards the pair.

“Wait for your turn, asshole,” the guy spats at him and cants his hips to drive his dick deeper into the propped up ass of the man on the bed. He moans but doesn’t move. His head is turned away from the door, but Rhett would recognize the dark brown mess of hair in his sleep.

The rage that’s been coursing through his veins ever since he stepped into the house flares white-hot. Rhett straightens into his full length and glares at the guy with what must be murder in his eyes. The guy’s moving hips stutter and stop. He stares at Rhett, eyes blinking wildly. Rhett takes another step towards him.

“Now,” he says, voice even and dripping with unspoken promises of violence.

“Fine. Whatever. What is he? Your boyfriend or something?” the guy says with a sneer and pulls out, making the man on the bed mewl a low “No, please.”

Rhett turns his gaze away from them and fights a shudder and a wave of nausea.

“No, he’s my best friend,” Rhett mutters as the guy steps around him and out the open door. “At least, he was…”

Rhett closes the door after him and turns to look at the bed—and Link, who is still lying on it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rhett says. His anger left him the moment they were left alone, and he sounds more like he’s begging.

Link finally stirs. His head turns slowly, and his gaze trains on Rhett for a beat before it wanders off again.

“What are you doing here?” Link asks, his words slightly slurred.

“I came to find you. To take you home.”

“Home?” Link asks with a hollow laugh.

“Yeah. Our place. You know, home,” Rhett repeats, wondering how drunk Link is.

“I don’t live with you anymore. Leave me alone.”

“Don’t do that. I—You know I never meant that… I was just surprised. ” Rhett fumbles as he tries to find the words to explain.

“Get out, Rhett. I’m doing just fine without you,” Link mutters.

“Fine? You’re doing fine?!” Rhett growls, feeling the anger slowly seeping back in. “You’re in a shady-ass orgy house, getting fucked by God knows how many guys and you think you’re fine?!”

Link laughs again—the sound is harsh and void of emotion, and it pierces through Rhett’s chest, shredding his already hurt heart into even smaller pieces.

Link lifts himself up and turns on his back. He’s naked apart from a blue bandana around his neck. As he folds his arms under his head, Rhett turns away. He refuses to look at Link exposed like that.

“It’s only been like four so far. I’m only getting started,” Link says with a self-satisfied drawl, blue eyes flashing towards Rhett in a challenge.

Rhett’s hands curl into fists so tight his nails dig into his palms and draw blood. He’s trying not to think about it—not to think about strangers filing into this room and touching Link, seeing him like this, fucking him. Rhett shakes his head and feels like he might throw up.

“What?” Link asks. “Don’t wanna hear about my gay shit? Does it make you uncomfortable? Oh, poor baby. Having to live with—“

“Shut up!” Rhett interrupts, eyes closed tight, trying to calm his quickened breathing. “Link, shut the fuck up!”

Link huffs and goes silent for a minute. Rhett’s breathing through his nose, trying to unclench his jaw.

“It’s not that… You got it all wrong,” he finally mutters. Link scoffs and sits up.

“Oh, yeah? So, you don’t think I’m a disgusting deviant?”

“No!” Rhett yells. He feels exhausted and emotionally raw. It’s been a long day—long week if he’s really thinking about it.

Link’s face falls. His knees come up, and he wraps his arms around them. “No?” he asks quietly.

“No, of course not. Why would you—? God! You’re so fucking clueless,” Rhett groans and sits on the edge of the bed. He leaves a gap between them and buries his face into his palms.

“Well… Fuck you,” Link snaps. “Tell me then. Explain. I told you everything and you just—”

“I know. I’m sorry. I panicked. I shouldn’t have— But couldn’t you have given me the benefit of the doubt? Or at least a little bit time to wrap my head around everything you said? We’ve been friends for fifteen freaking years!”

Link is silent. His chin is propped on his knee, and he stares at the bare wall across from them. Rhett can’t read his expression, Link’s gone inside his head. He does that sometimes. He decides how things are and won’t let go of his interpretation even when confronted with an overwhelming amount of evidence that he’s wrong.

“Can we—?“ Rhett starts, but the door opening interrupts him. Someone peeks in, making Rhett turn towards them and roar: “Get out!”

“Jesus. Chill out, man,” a voice calls out and closes the door with a thud.

Rhett takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again. “Put your clothes on. We’re leaving.”

“What if I don’t want to leave,” Link says, sounding annoyed. “You’re not my guardian. You’re not my b—”

“No, Link. I’m not your boyfriend. But I do love you, and I’m not gonna have this conversation on a bed where— Ugh, on this bed,” Rhett mutters, gets up, and walks to the door.

“Rhett…”

Rhett stands at the door, holding the doorknob, back turned towards Link. His shoulders slump. Suddenly, he’s just tired—exhausted by the sheer amount of thoughts and emotions filling his mind. It’s too much.

“If you want to stay… I—“ Rhett starts and pauses when his voice cracks. He swallows around the lump in his throat, fighting the tears that keep prickling his eyes. “You’re right. I can’t make you. But I’m asking. Please come home with me.”

“With you? Or with you?” Link asks — pleads — and the difference between the two choices is clear. Rhett heart breaks all over again when he opens his mouth and says: “I can’t—“

Link doesn’t let him finish the sentence.  “Fine. Go. Just go,” he orders, voice tight.

And Rhett goes. He opens the door and walks through the hallway. Ignores the sounds—sighs and moans and groans—coming from other rooms. Ignores the ache in his chest. Ignores the ever-present nausea. Ignores the tremble of his hands. Tries so fucking hard to ignore the images that are crowding his brain—images of Link pliable and slicked up, opened up by stranger’s fingers and cocks. Tries even harder to ignore the fact that he’s hard as a rock and aching to turn back and fuck Link into that dirty mattress he’d found him on.

He’s out of the house, standing on the porch, staring at the sky that’s opened up while he was inside. Rain hammers the streets, and Rhett feels it in his bones—the cold, damp chill of the late Autumn weather. He draws a deep breath, fills his lungs with the air that smells like decaying leaves and fresh rain on the pavement. He remembers another day like this. It was years ago, but the memory is still as fresh as the autumn rain.

A moment, under the tree, trying to get cover from the rain. Link’s hair mussed and dripping wet. His eyes bright blue and enticing. The curve of his lips and the way it was calling for Rhett to trace it with the tip of his finger. A shy look from under his eyes. A laugh that made Rhett’s stomach coil with tight heat.   

And suddenly, it clicks. A piece of a puzzle in his mind finally settles into its place. Rhett’s heart misses a beat. How have I been so stupid?

Rhett turns on his heels and heads back in, walks briskly through the hallway, pushing someone out of his way, getting an annoyed string of curses thrown after him. He barely registers the words. 

Link jumps when Rhett slams the door open. He drops the shirt he’s holding. He already has pants and socks on.

“Rhett—“

Rhett never finds out what Link’s about to say. He presses Link against the peeling wallpaper and kisses him silent. Crushes their lips together and licks into Link’s peppermint-tasting mouth. Jams Link between the wall and his body, grinding against him—making sure that Link feels the hardness in his pants. Link moans into his mouth and wraps around him. He’s a shivering mess of wandering hands and twisting tongue and his leg crooks around Rhett’s thigh, pulling them closer together.

After an eternity, Rhett pulls his head back, ignores Link’s soft whimper, and presses his forehead against Link’s.

“I’m not gonna fuck you on that bed.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to—“ Link rushes to say.

“But I will fuck you on mine. Come home.”

Soon, they’re running hand in hand through the rain towards their dorm.

[lothiriel84]

Overjoyed

Oh I feel overjoyed When you listen to my words

A Cabin Pressure ficlet. Aromantic!Carolyn. (Arthur-centric, background Carolyn/Herc.)

Freshly fallen leaves crunch under his feet – brown and yellow, orange and red – and he strays outside the path on purpose, every playful kick punctuated by Snoopadoop’s excited yaps.

Autumn has always been one of his favourite seasons, almost up there with summer; winter is also brilliant, as is spring, of course – and he laughs out loud when Snoopadoop dives straight into a pile of raked leaves (much to the chagrin of the park maintenance workers, he suspects).

“Bad girl,” he scolds her, though he knows she can tell he doesn’t really mean it. Hastily, he pushes the leaves back with his foot into some semblance of a heap, and scuttles away with Snoopadoop hot on his heels. She’ll be needing a good brush when they get home – he won’t hear the end of it from Mum if she starts shaking off dead leaves all over the house – but that’s okay, he likes brushing Snoopadoop anyway.

Today’s the day, he suddenly remembers, his face breaking into a huge grin. He’s actually quite proud that he and Herc have talked about it; he likes Herc, he always treats him like a proper grown-up, which is not at all what Dad used to do, or still does, when he gets the chance – not that Arthur is planning to give him any in the foreseeable future, and, oh, he’s getting distracted again.

The point is that Herc told him he’s going to ask Mum, and it’s today, and he knows how Mum gets sometimes, but he told Herc it’s nothing to be worried about, not really; Arthur may be a clot – or was it a clod? he can’t quite remember – but he can see how much Mum likes Herc, and that for all her complaining, she’s happier now than she’s been in a very long time.

So he gets home, and brushes Snoopadoop, and makes himself a cup of cocoa – with marshmallows on top, the way he likes it – and waits for Mum and Herc to get back home, and then they can maybe go out for dinner, the three of them; or perhaps they will want to be left alone, and if that’s the case, Arthur’s more than happy to make himself scarce for the rest of the evening. After all, Tiffy has made it very clear that she doesn’t mind him staying the night, provided that he brings his own pyjamas and toothbrush, that is. (She’s also suggested he bring a spare to leave at her flat, but there’s only one pair of pyjamas Arthur finds comfortable enough to sleep in, and as for the toothbrush, he quite sensibly pointed out that she always keeps a brand new one at the back of her bathroom cabinet anyway.)

Snoopadoop has long dozed off on the carpet by the time Mum storms in – alone, and muttering to herself, which doesn’t seem terribly promising, but if there’s one thing Arthur’s learned, is that you should never jump to conclusions, least of all where Mum and Herc are involved.

“Hi, Mum,” he says, because he knows it won’t be any good if she launches into one of her tirades only to find Arthur sitting on the sofa, when she wasn’t expecting an audience. She throws her scarf across the back of a chair and strides into the kitchen, to make herself a cup of tea, presumably.

“The nerve of that man,” he can hear her grumble as she runs the tap, her hands almost but not quite trembling with suppressed fury as she puts the kettle on. Arthurs sighs and leans back against the doorframe; as far as outcomes go, this isn’t entirely unexpected, but it’s still not ideal, all things considered.

“Oh, Mum,” he starts, and he doesn’t flinch under her glare, but it’s a near thing. “It can’t be all that bad, now, can it?”

“Arthur, light of my life, I swear to God, if you and Herc have been – scheming, behind my back, all this time – ”

“Of course we haven’t. Herc just said he wanted me to know first, because I’m family – and isn’t that what we are, now? A family?”

Mum’s face does something complicate he’s not sure how to interpret, and then she lets herself fall onto a chair, taking her head between her hands.

“To think we’d been doing so well,” she huffs, as if talking to herself. “Why did he have to go and, and ruin it?”

Arthur frowns, still not entirely sure why things should change at all, proposal or not. “Herc’s been living here for months now, how is this any different?”

“Because!” she splutters, indignantly, only to trail off almost immediately. “It just is, I don’t know how to explain it any better than that. I’m sorry, dear heart, I know you like Herc, but sometimes things are – complicated, and they can’t always be fixed by a last-minute miracle, the way it happened with G-ERTI.”

A reluctant grin tugs at the corner of his mouth; he still remembers the astonished look on Tiffy’s face as he recounted the entire adventure, down to the fact that every time he’d walked into the flight deck bringing teas and coffees, the plane was already partly made of gold, only Douglas still hadn’t figured it out back then.

Speaking of Tiffy, why does he feel like he’s on the brink of – well he’s not sure of what, exactly, something important, anyway. It’s got something to do with the way Mum gets upset every time Herc does something silly, like buying her flowers, or kissing her cheek in public, or, well, asking her to marry him; and it’s not as if he’s planning to ask Tiffy, not really, and he knows she wouldn’t want him to, but his point still stands, he thinks.

“Mum,” he starts, tentative, but he feels like he’s getting close, somehow. “Is this about – you know Herc doesn’t mind that you’re aromantic, right?”

The astonished silence that falls is broken only by the whistle of the kettle. Arthur blinks, then steps into the kitchen, fetches cup, saucer, and spoon; Carolyn doesn’t breathe a word as he pours the tea – black, warm, and strong, the way she likes it – adds a splash of milk, and drops two sugars into the cup. It’s only when he’s debating whether or not he should stir the beverage for her that she startles back to life, and he takes a step back, making a detour for the cupboard where they keep the biscuit tin.

“…that I’m what, now?” Carolyn exhales at length, and there’s something in her voice Arthur can’t quite place, but a small part of him would swear it sounds quite like – relief?

Arthur opens the tin, slides it across the table. He thinks he would quite like to have some custard creams, later on, when they’re done talking about whatever this is. “You know, like Tiffy is? But it’s okay, because we talked together, and we have a list of things she’s fine with, and one for the things that are maybe fine but I should always ask first, and you know how I sometimes forget, but that’s still okay because I taught her how to use Code Red on me. And I know it’s rude to assume, and maybe you’re not, well, aromantic, or whatever, but either way, Herc said he knows you love him, only not in the way he does, and it’s all good, so long as he gets to spend the rest of his life with you.”

The spoon clatters loudly against the saucer, and Arthur pretends it’s enough to cover Carolyn’s sniffle – Mum doesn’t like it when other people see her cry, it makes her all embarrassed and angry. From where she’s curled in front of the fireplace, Snoopadoop raises one ear, sniffs the air cautiously, then decides she might as well continue her nap.

“Arthur, my dear,” Mum enunciates, carefully, over the lid of her cup. “Why don’t you go and take Snoopadoop for a walk? I believe your – stepfather, and I, have something we need to discuss.”

He refrains from telling her that they’ve only just been; he grabs a handful of biscuits instead, ignoring her disapproving look as he stuffs them in his pockets. “Will do,” he smiles, grabs his jacket, Snoopadoop already wagging her tail in anticipation as he reaches for the leash.

They’ve barely crossed the lawn when they see Herc’s green Mercedes turning into the driveway, Snoopadoop sprinting forward to welcome him home.

The car stops, and as soon as the driver’s door opens, Snoopadoop hops in, demanding to be petted. “There you are, you ridiculous thing,” he hears Herc chuckle, fond and wistful at the same time. “Who’s a silly dog, now?”

“Hello, Herc,” he waves, patting his knee to get Snoopadoop’s attention. “Come on girl, let’s go.”

He knows well enough what he’s attempting can’t quite be described as a wink, but Herc seems to get it anyway, and relaxes into something close enough to a smile.

“See you later, Arthur,” Herc says, even as Snoopadoop scampers off towards the main road. Arthur grins, nods, then sprints to catch up with her before she runs into trouble.

“Yellow car,” he calls out, triumphant – he knows Snoopadoop can’t play, not really, what with being a dog and everything, but it’s nice to pretend, now and again – and puts her on the leash.

[leafenclaw]

Elementary Sheriarty Fic Recs

I’m a picky reader so there’s a good amount of well-written stories that nearly made the list but in the end didn’t, often because of characterisation. If you want a list of those as well, or if I missed something you think I might like, please feel free to drop me a note.

Enjoy!

Sheriarty-centric

9:26 pm Friday, by makokitten [Sherlock/Jamie] His schedule is almost always clear where she's concerned.  She's not so generous with him.

And Silver In Our Lungs, by paperclipbitch [Sherlock/Jamie] The London rain falls like an inevitability, and Irene Adler is waiting for her lover.

Burning Landscapes, by lonely_is_so_lonely_alone [Sherlock/Jamie, freeform poetry] After Jamie Moriarty is set free, Sherlock wonders just how like Irene she really is.

Фальшивые слабости (Fake Tell), by Elsfia  [Russian. Sherlock/Jamie] She smiles, lips pressed in a thin line, and he, to his own chagrin, is unable to discern whether this is a bluff or a double bluff; he only knows that he cannot trust Jamie, and therefore always looks for the signs of deceit.

got a lot to not do (let me kill it with you), by kathryne [Sherlock/Jamie] “I dearly hope you'll write soon.” 

hiding, by mine_eyes_dazzle [Sherlock/Jamie] But really, it is simple, is it not? She makes him human, and he will not admit it.

Inevitably, by 235413 [Holmes/Moriarty across fandoms] Various Moriartys and inevitably, their Sherlocks. (ACD canon, The Woman in Green, A Game of Shadows, Sherlock, Elementary) 

Not Tonight, Josephine: a duet, by paperclipbitch  [Sherlock/Jamie, Sherlock & Joan] There’s only one letter’s difference between ‘deduced’ and ‘seduced’.

post love, by singsongsung [Sherlock/Jamie] Sherlock, now, is post love. He is objective.

Pumpkin Spice, by TheTeaDetective [Sherlock/Jamie] In which Jamie is secretive about her drink order, and Sherlock finds out by accident anyway.

She Is, by luridCavum [Sherlock/Irene, written pre-reveal] She’s not like the drug, or the syringe, or the smoke. She’s not like. She is.

sorry i came to your party, by Rabbitt [Sherlock/Jamie] A list of things Sherlock Holmes no longer misses: London, cocaine, Moriarty.

Splinter, by Verbyna [Sherlock/criminal!Irene, Sherlock & Joan, written pre-reveal] The night before she was killed, Irene asked Sherlock if he’d ever seriously considered crime instead of law enforcement.

stealing away into the night, by 100demons [Sherlock/criminal!Irene, written pre-reveal] They play cat and mouse through fifteen different countries.

Subtler Tones, by Verbyna [Sherlock/Jamie, role-reversal] Consulting detective Irene Adler always suspected she’d wind up in love with her archnemesis. It seemed like the sort of thing that might happen to people who only live because death sounds duller.

The Moriarty Letters, by Danielle Shelton Walczak One, Two, Three, Four [WIP, Sherlock/Jamie, references to Sherlock & Joan] A re-imagining of the letters written by Jamie Moriarty to Sherlock Holmes, leading to their correspondence through season 2 to 5.

untitled soulmate drabble, by Writerly Ramblings [Sherlock/Jamie] Sherlock/Moriarty, mostly-canon-compliant soulmates AU.

waiting for a lover, by mine_eyes_dazzle [Sherlock/Jamie, freeform prose poetry] and you wonder how you got here / you were supposed to be above / such fickle matters as love / and yet here you are in the burning rain / waiting for a lover.

you can’t cry, by mine_eyes_dazzle [Sherlock/Jamie] Hunger Games AU. The conversation they had, that morning, comes back to her a lot - comes back because of the harsh truth of his words. They never did win anything.

Background Sheriarty

Other dynamics take central stage, but Sherlock/Jamie’s relationship is implied to be impactful/significant to the story and is treated respectfully, not as a stepping stone to another “better” relationship.

mornings after, nights before, by yonderdarling [Sherlock & Joan, mention of Sherlock/Jamie & Joan/Andrew] Joan and Sherlock in bed together on various occasions. and waking up together, on others.

not david bowie, by paperclipbitch [Sherlock & Joan, Joan/Marcus, mention of Sherlock/Irene, written pre-reveal] Slightly AU. When Joan walks into the brownstone, she nearly garrottes herself on a skein of yarn strung across the hall.

Sign of Three, by YourFairyGodfather [Unfinished/abandoned WIP. Joan & Jamie, Joan & Sherlock, Sherlock & Jamie, past Sherlock/Jamie] There was no hint of it in her letters, no warning of her coming. She simply arrived one afternoon in late September, the autumn wind tugging at her coat and a small suitcase at her feet as she waited patiently on the front porch for one of them to open the door.

Things They Don’t Talk About, by PhoenixFalls [Gregson/Sherlock, mention of Sherlock/Jamie] Tommy's hands on Sherlock's shoulders; Sherlock's inability to say "I'm sorry." Tattoos, involuntarily acquired, hidden away. Their silences speak volumes.

waltz across naïve wood floors, by paperclipbitch [Sherlock & Joan, mention of Sherlock/Irene, written pre-reveal] "You're wearing my underwear again, aren't you," Joan says.

With a Whimper (A Sexy, Sexy Whimper), by fluorineandsilver [Crossover with BBC!Sherlock. Jim/Jamie, mention of Sherlock/Jamie, hints at future Jim/Sherlock and Sherlock/John] All the universes that contain Sherlock Holmes are collapsing in on each other. It’s the end of the world. Jim Moriarty is not wearing any pants.

@dynamics-of-an-asteroid also insisted I added my own stuff to this list, so here you go. Hope you enjoy it!

Composite, by Leafenclaw [Sherlock/Jamie, Sherlock/Irene, Moriarty-centric, Sherlock-centric] Collection of 221b Ficlets in the Elementary universe. Currently very Moriarty-oriented, may eventually cover a wide range of characters and pairings depending on where inspiration takes me.

[mksc77]

A Little Friday Afternoon Shandy Autumn Ficlet

I’m going to add a more detailed version of this in a future chapter of Freaking Out and expand upon the events written here, as well as events before and after. I don’t know when I’ll get to that, though, and I’ve been itching to write this, so here’s a preview. For those of you who are reading Freaking Out, please let me know if there’s anything you’d like to see for when I revisit this part later.

Sharon shivered slightly as she tried to hold on to sleep, but the feeling of not knowing where she was caused her mind to drift more toward wakefulness. Andy was beside her, but this wasn’t their bed. Their bed at home was bigger than this. And not so damn cold. As she spooned her legs against Andy’s, snuggled into his back, and tightened the covers around her, she remembered that they were in Park City for a long weekend with her brother and sister and their spouses. No parents, no children. The men were staying until late Monday afternoon, but Sharon, her sister, and her sister-in-law were staying through the following weekend. They’d left the windows in the house open during the day, but they must’ve forgotten to close the one in their bedroom the night before.

Andy was starting to stir, and he slowly rolled over and pulled Sharon into his chest. Without opening her eyes, she tilted her face up for a kiss. From the way Andy kissed her eye before he fumbled around for her lips, she figured that he either hadn’t opened his eyes yet, either, or he had the blurry half-slitted eyes that made him walk into walls and furniture for the first couple of minutes after waking up. “Why is it colder than a penguin’s ballsack in here?” He muttered against her lips.

“Guess we forgot to close the window,” Sharon mumbled. She pulled away from Andy’s kiss and shivered again as she entwined her legs with his and pressed herself closer to him. Sleep had left her, though, and the cold, crisp air of the early morning and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen was enough to lure her out of bed. After pulling on a pair of flannel pajama pants under her nightgown and slipping on a sweatshirt over it, she stepped into the hall. She looked ridiculous, but she was freezing her ass off. Taking her nightgown off in the frigidity of their bedroom wasn’t happening.

It was notably warmer in the hall, but Sharon hurried to the living room to turn the gas logs on. It was 7:30 according to the clock on the mantel, so she probably wouldn’t have slept much longer, anyway, but being woken up on account of freezing to death wasn’t the best way she could think of to start the day. As long as windows weren’t left open overnight, it wasn’t cold enough to turn the heat on or hot enough during the day to turn the air on. The weather was perfect. Sharon sat as close to the gas logs as she could get without actually being in them, and Andy brought her a cup of coffee and snuggled beside her.

“What’s with you guys?” Beth asked.

Sharon looked over at her sister-in-law, who was sipping a mug of coffee on the couch and watching the news. “We left our window open last night, so we woke up freezing. Have you guys been up long?”

Beth rolled her eyes. “You know William. He was up at dawn, and he thinks that if he’s awake, the rest of the house has to be awake. How are you guys just waking up? He’s been making a racket with breakfast.”

“I learned to tune him out years ago. He’s just like Dad. I think my body just naturally tunes them out by now when they’re on their ‘I have to wake up the rest of the house at 6:00 in the damn morning’ missions.” Sharon accepted her coffee from Andy and took a long sip. “Thanks, honey.” The coffee warmed her up, and the heat from the gas logs on her back would be uncomfortable in a couple of minutes, but the warmth felt nice for the time being. The shadows in the living room were different than they’d been when they were here just a couple of months ago, and the sunlight wasn’t quite as bright. Autumn was definitely underway with the promise of Winter soon behind it. With the fall-scented candles in the house, the brightly-colored leaves outside, and the fog drifting across the mountains and the lake, the early-October Friday morning made for a cozy scene. Sharon couldn’t wait to eat breakfast and take her coffee and a blanket to the porch to enjoy the morning.

After lazing around the house for a while, the couples went their separate ways. Sharon and Andy changed clothes and headed for a hiking trail near the house. The trail had expansive views of the lake for much of it, and there were several wooden bridges over smaller streams that led to the lake throughout the trail. The day was warming up, but the air was still cool and crisp, and the smell of leaves and smoke from nearby houses where people were already building fires filled the air. When they were approaching the house again, Sharon was thinking that she loved feeling leaves crunch beneath her feet and of how long it had been since she’d experienced true Autumn weather. She noticed Andy take a large step to the side. “What...Oh, you saw a really crunchy-looking leaf, didn’t you?” She asked with a knowing smile.

Andy nodded. “Can’t pass one of those up.” He grabbed Sharon’s hand and led her toward the hammock in the yard.

“I need to take a shower first,” Sharon protested. She felt disgusting after hiking for over an hour.

“Nah, that can wait.” Andy pulled her down into the hammock and gently pulled her hair tie out of her hair. With one hand gliding through her hair, he softly lifted her chin with his other hand and slowly kissed her.

After lunch, Sharon finally got her shower, and everyone was discussing whether to do something together or separate again for the afternoon when a low rumble of thunder outside made the decision for them. “Ooh, let’s go watch the storm roll in,” Kate said.

“I’ll get the wine and some glasses,” Sharon added, agreeing with her sister. Her hair was still wet, and she was wearing sweatpants and one of Andy’s Dodgers t-shirts. It suited her fine to hang around the house for the rest of the day.

The color drained from Andy’s face. “Watch the storm? What do you mean—“ He paled even more when Kate, Beth, James, and William headed outside. “You mean from out there?!”

Sharon gave him an amused look. “Can you think of a better place to watch a storm?”

“Yeah. From inside.”

Sharon tilted her head. “Are you afraid of storms?”

“I’m not afraid,” Andy insisted, “I just prefer to enjoy them from inside, like God intended.”

“No, honey, storms are why God gave us porches. We’ll be perfectly safe, I promise.” Sharon grabbed a couple of bottles of wine and a few wine glasses. She and Andy hadn’t had the chance to enjoy a daytime thunderstorm yet, and it had been a while since she’d experienced a storm that didn’t happen in the middle of the night, in general, and she was excited. She loved a storm, especially an Autumn one in the mountains.

With a glass of red wine in her hand, Sharon cuddled into one of the large chairs on the porch with Andy. The temperature had dropped with the incoming storm, but there were still rays of sunlight peeking through the growing clouds. The reflection of the colorful leaves in the mountains could still be seen in the smooth water of the lake. With each louder clap of thunder, Sharon could feel Andy tense up. “Honey, you can go inside if you want to,” she whispered.

Andy wouldn’t have minded changing into a dry t-shirt, as Sharon was lying against his shoulder with her wet hair, and taking a little nap, but the smell of her shampoo and the warmth of her cuddled into his side quickly dissuaded him. Normally, a nap inside, like a normal person, would’ve been his idea of enjoying a storm, but, hey, a man could change. As the rain began to fall and Sharon curled even more closely into him, with her long legs and bare feet tangled up with his, he knew he wasn’t moving until the storm was over.

That night, as they were climbing into bed, another rumble of thunder sounded outside. The first storm had cleared up less than an hour after it started, and the rest of the day had been cloudy and foggy, but another storm was obviously on the way in. Sharon had already moisturized and done whatever else she usually did before bed, so when she wordlessly got out of bed to go back to the bathroom, Andy knew she had the same idea he did. After seeing a flash of lightning outside as she was getting back in bed, Andy nipped at her neck. “Let’s see how far away the storm is.” He kissed her at her jawline. “Two, Mississippi.”

Sharon giggled and returned the kiss behind his ear. “Three, Mississippi.”

Given the California weather, making love during a thunderstorm was a first for them, but they soon found out that it had been well worth the wait.

[sincerely-us-imagines]

Fool me once (evan hansen x reader)

 “Request for #2 of the hilarious writing prompts with Evan x Reader (and a lot of fluff pls my boyfriend just dumped me I need to live vicariously through these ficlets) thank you!!!” Requested by anonymous

I’m sorry to hear that dude :(  i hope this helps!

As usual, I’m too lazy to proofread things, so let me know if there are any mistakes! Also this gets super ooc near the end i’m really sorry.

warnings: swearing? i think thats it??

Fall was always Evan’s favorite time of year. He loved watching the leaves change colors and drift off the trees. He loved the feeling of crisp autumn air on his face, turning his cheeks and nose a little pink. He loved being able to walk around in nature without getting uncomfortably sweaty or freezing his ass off.

He had called you early this morning, buzzing with excitement at the first cool day of the season. He invited you to go apple picking with him; something you had never done. You agreed, of course, and promptly hopped out of bed to get dressed and run a few errands before picking him up.

Now you were strolling hand in hand back towards the old barn at the entrance of the orchard in your light jackets and knitted hats. Evan swung a wooden basket half full of red apples at his side, talking excitedly about everything he wanted to do with you this fall.

“...and Ellison State Park does this scavenger hunt. Oh! And the old farm at the edge of town, you know the one? It does this- this haunted corn maze thing! I don’t actually like scary things, but if you do-” he approached the counter in the barn to weigh and pay for the apples. You saw the way he faltered when he realized he was about to have to talk to the cashier. You squeezed his hand gently and stepped forward, paying and making polite small talk with the woman at the old fashioned cash register.

“Thanks,” Evan mumbled, not looking at you, once you were headed back to your car, “Y-You really didn’t have to. I could’ve--” You waved his statement away with a smile.

“It’s fine. Now what were you saying about a corn maze?” He looked up with a smile and kissed you on the cheek before continuing telling you about every-- every- harvest time activity in town.

You unlocked your front door and made your way to the kitchen to set down the apples.

“Oh! I got caramel squares this morning so we could make caramel apples!” You told him, digging around in the cabinet to find the aforementioned candies, knocking a box of Kraft macaroni into the floor in the process.

When you finally found them, you stood up and turned on the stove, dumping them into the pot to melt.

Evan stood beside you, skewering the apples through what he called “their belly buttons” and lined them up on some wax paper, bumping his hips into yours as you stirred the caramel sauce.

Evan’s phone rang in his pocket. He stopped to dig it out and checked the screen.

“It’s Jared.”

“Well, answer it then.”

He made a face but swiped the screen to answer anyway.

“Hello?” you could faintly hear Jared’s voice on the other side.

“I’m at (y/n)’s.” Jared said something and Evan’s face turned the color of the apples on the counter. “I- Jared!! NO! W-We’re not-- we’re making caramel apples!!” You heard Jared cackle and continue taunting him. Evan gestured towards the back door and you nodded, watching him hurry out, repeating “Shutupshutupshutupshutup,” the entire time.

You laughed and leaned back against the counter, looking around the kitchen. Your eyes locked on an onion on the island and a devious plan began to unfold in your head. You bit your lip and glanced out the back window. Evan was flushed, talking to Jared with grand hand gestures he couldn’t see. You grabbed the onion and a skewer and rolled it in the caramel until it was evenly covered, following it up with a couple apples for camouflage, snickering the whole time at your brilliant plan.

Evan would probably want something to wash the taste out of his mouth, you figured, eying the box of Kraft mac and cheese. You dug an empty plastic pitcher out from a cabinet and began to fill it with water.

“Sorry,” Evan came back inside after a while. “He was being… him.”

“Don’t worry about it.” you took a breath to keep yourself from laughing. “I dipped a couple apples to make sure the sauce was thick enough.”

Evan’s eyes only briefly drifted over the wax paper.

“And it’s good?”

You nodded. He grabbed an apple and dipped it in the pot, accidentally slinging the caramel all over the place as he turned it.

“Oh! (Y/n), I-I’m so sorry!” Evan grabbed a towel and tried to wipe the caramel out of your hair but ended up just rubbing it in. His eyes went wide as he watched your sticky hair grow more tangled.

“Oh no…” He wet the towel in the sink and tried again, only succeeding in making a slimy mess in your hair.

“I am so sorry, oh my god.” Evan looked close to tears.

“Baby, baby, it’s okay.” you grabbed his face between your hands and placed a small kiss on his lips and giggled, “I promise.”

His cheeks were hot to the touch.

“Let’s finish the apples first and we’ll worry about it after, okay?”

He nodded and dipped the remainder of the apples very slowly and carefully.

“Let’s go fix this while they cool, yeah?” you suggested, gesturing towards the clump of sugar in your hair.

“I’m really sorry, (y/n).” Evan apologized for probably the hundredth time as you leaned over the side of the bathtub. He took a plastic cup and dumped warm water over your hair before reaching for the shampoo.

“It’s okay, Evan. Really.” your voice echoed in the tub. “I’ll get back at you later if it’ll make you feel better, okay?” he couldn’t see the smirk on your face from your position.

He mumbled something you couldn’t hear over the running water and began to lather the shampoo in your hair.

You sat on the sofa with your hair wrapped in a towel and Evan laying between your legs while you watched television.

“Think it’s been an hour yet?” you asked casually, despite the giddiness in your stomach.

“Jared called at 2:30 so,” Evan checked his phone for the time. “Yes. Do you want me to get them?” he started to sit up. You slipped out and pushed him back.

“I’ve got ‘em!” you sang, skipping into the kitchen.

“Oh. Um, okay.”

You returned to the living room seconds later with a caramel covered treat in each hand.

“Here!” you held your left hand out towards Evan with a wide grin. He returned your smile and took his “apple”.

You watched as he bit into the sweet sugary lie. He was fine at first, but as he began chewing his face contorted into an awful expression. A giggle escaped your mouth.

“What the fuck??” he coughed around a mouthful of onion, eyes watering. Your giggle evolved into a full belly laugh. Evan didn’t usually swear.

He stood quickly, running to the kitchen and spitting the onion into the trash can, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. You were right behind him, unable to control your laughter. Evan looked up to glare at you, spitting again to get the taste out of his mouth.

“What the hell?!” he shrieked.

“We’re even now.” you wheezed, gesturing to the towel on your head.

“Wha-- But- But you did that before I even got in here! And my thing was an accident!”

You grabbed the plastic pitcher from the fridge and poured a glass.

“Here,” you handed him the glass, still giggling, “Wash it down with some orange juice.”

He drank half of it in one swallow before sputtering and retching, spitting what was left in his mouth into the trash on top of the chewed up onion.

“What is that?!” he looked at the glass, bewildered.

You were absolutely wheezing when you picked up the empty mac and cheese packet from the counter behind you. He leaned over the sink and drank water straight from the tap.

“Y’know,” he leaned back against the countertop, crossing his arms defensively over his chest, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on you again for taking advantage of my compassionate and forgiving nature! How dare you!” he said with no real conviction.

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. He kept his arms crossed and turned his head, pouting.

“I’m sorry, baby.” you kissed his cheek.

“You are not! You’re still laughing!”

You pressed your face into his shoulder to try to stifle your giggles.

“That was pretty mean, (y/n).”

“It was,” you agreed, calming down.

“I guess it was kinda funny, though.”

“It was.” you repeated.

“You’re taking a bite out of every single one of those before I eat them.” he gestured towards to apples still on the wax paper.

“Fair enough.”

“And,” he looked at you. “We’re not even anymore.”

“What? What do you mean?” you questioned, suddenly not finding much humor in the situation.

He only shrugged.

The next week you were at Evan’s house watching a movie when he entered the room with two Drumstick cones, handing one to you. You mumbled an absent minded thank you and bit into it, not diverting your attention away from the screen. An awful taste filled your mouth. It took a moment for you to register what it was.

“Is that toothpaste?” you asked incredulously.

Evan laughed and took a bite out of his own cone.

“Revenge is a dish best served cold.”