#get warmed up for may trope mayhem

[unforth]

Three sentence fic meme

Drop me a comment or ask with a trope or setting or kink or whatever, and a ship for any fandom you've seen me interact with (I'm in too many to list rn but like mxtx, 2ha, a few priest fandoms, other danmei, spn if you feel you must lmao, star trek, many others) and I'll write a more or less 3 sentence ficlet.

Thanks for prompts in advance!

[dianneking]

It’s not too late if we’re alive (Brienne/Reader)

A/N: It’s Day Two of May Trope Mayhem by @duckprintspress​ and I’ve never felt so inspired to write! Today’s prompt is War Setting so you get a WWII AU Brienne x Reader fic, because why not! (thanks to @weemssapphic​ for our historical AU talk, that made me buckle down and write). As always, link to AO3 in title below.

Disclaimer: I didn’t have the time to properly research this, so there might be historical inaccuracies on technical stuff like how war hospitals were organized etc. Disclaimer # 2: I seem physically unable to keep my fics under 1000w, blame the angst, not me.

Tags: War, WWII, Hospitals, Wounds  (not graphic), Talk of Death, Talk of Bombing, Smoking, Second-person Narrator, Angst, Breakups, Angst with a Happy Ending, No use of Y/N.

Fandom: Game of Thrones Pairing: Brienne of Tarth/Reader Wordcount: 1258w

It’s not too late if we’re alive

Any day that passed, you knew it could happen. You were at war after all. Day in and day out the battles raged, and humans fought against other humans, machines against other machines, metal ringing against metal, their screams loud in the smoke-filled air. 

They fell in troves. Some made it to you, others weren’t so lucky. And you knew that Brienne was there in the trenches, amongst her soldiers, leading them, the first woman to ever serve in the British Army, the first one to rise to the rank of officer.

Every time you woke up from your fitful slumber, every time a wounded soldier was brought in for treatment, you prayed not to recognize her on the stretcher, not to see her cornsilk hair matted with blood underneath the helmet. One day your prayers went unanswered.

“Chief Nurse! Hurry! It’s the lieutenant-general!”

After all this time, her figure was still so achingly familiar to you as the litter bearer brought her in, her long limbs limp on the stretcher, soot and blood marring the uniform she was so proud of.

Up until now you had managed to avoid her, only catching glimpses of her when she came to visit the wounded, but now here she was, bare inches away from you. She was still beautiful, even with the inevitable traces of time and war. It took all of your strength not to reach out and brush your fingers against the soft skin of her jaw. You shouldn’t.

After all, the last words you had exchanged had not been the friendly sort.

*

“Will you at least promise me you’ll come back?” you had asked. She had already donned her uniform, and the coarse wool scratched your palm as you put your hand on her elbow.

“You know I cannot promise you that.”

“But I love you.”

Her face had hardened, as it always did when you told her how you felt. You had told yourself that she was simply unused to being loved. But a dark voice within you was starting to ask whether it was because she was ashamed of you, or frustrated with your clinginess. Whatever the reason, she never said those words back.

“You shouldn’t say those things so lightly.”

“Just because you refuse to accept my feelings for you doesn’t mean that they are not real.”

“You are young, but you were never naïve. This was never something that could last.”

You had been young at the time, true. You had never experienced heartbreak before. Even the simple act of breathing sent searing pain through your chest. Your eyes had filled with tears, and your mouth with rage.

“Is that all it was to you? Just something to keep you entertained between wars?”

She had not dared to answer you. To this day, you still wondered why. Was it because it had been more for her as well and she didn’t want to lie to your face, or was it because she didn’t want to admit that she, Captain Brienne of Tarth, paradigm of righteousness, had used you for your affection just for as long as she had needed a warm body?

You had been young at the time, and first love is never easily forgotten. Even if unrequited.  

*

“Is God so unmerciful then?” The sudden sound of her voice in the silence of the officers tent almost made you drop the bandages you were carrying. You turned to her, wondering if she was growing delirious due to the high fevers she was running. But her eyes, wide and feverish though they were, were trained on you, with razor-sharp focus. “Have I not atoned for my past mistakes with my deeds? Why must He torture me with cruel visions?”

Oh.

She thought you were a fever dream, one sent to torture her. You pretended it didn’t hurt. It shouldn’t have, not as much as it did. Not even if she had been your first love.

Your only love, corrected a voice inside of you that sounded a lot like your younger self.

“Lieutenant-general, I am not a vision. I am merely the chief nurse. You should try to rest. You have been injured on the battlefield.”

“Is…is it truly you?”

“It is. But I am only here to treat your wounds, not to dig up the past.”

“How are you alive?”

“How is anyone alive these days? Luck, probably.”

“I thought you died in the Coventry bombing.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I sent you letters, and you never answered. I came over last year, but nobody could tell me anything about you. Our house was nothing but a pile of rubble. I thought…”

“Oh, is it our house now? I don’t recall you showing any particular attachment to it when you left.” She was surprised at your vitriol, you could see it in the way her deep blue eyes widened, and in the uncharacteristically hesitation in her answer.

“Darling, I-“

You suddenly felt ashamed of how easily her mere presence could drag out all of your pain, making you feel like that day on your doorstep, watching her walk away, her military boots crushing your heart with each step.

“There are no darlings here. It’s Chief Nurse if you need to address me. But right now, I don’t have time for idle chatter.”

You turned away from her, leaving her behind as she did to you so much time ago.

*

She found you some days later, as you were trying to enjoy the luxury of a short smoke break hidden behind the hospital barracks. She was still limping, but her skin had lost most of its sickly paleness, and she looked even more like the Brienne you used to know. The Brienne you used to love.

“How did you end up becoming a nurse?”

“I was told to do something useful with my life since I refused to marry. I did.”

“You…refused to marry?”

“Lieutenant-general, I hardly think…”

“Brienne. It’s Brienne to you. It’s always been.” You committed the mistake of looking up into her eyes, and instantly felt the irresistible pull they had on you. As if she had never left. You averted your gaze angrily and took a deep drag from the cigarette in your hands, trying to center yourself once again.

“What is your purpose here, Brienne?”

“I thought I had lost you, and I thought I would never be able to tell you. Seeing you here, alive, accomplished, breathtakingly beautiful, it…it felt like a second chance I never deserved to have.”

“Tell me what?”

“Not a day goes by that I don’t regret walking away from you. I’m sorry.”

The unexpectedness of the apology took you by surprise and you turned to her, only to find her much closer than you expected. The words you were thinking of saying died in your throat as you drowned in the maelstrom of feelings within her eyes. She hesitatingly reached a hand over to cup your cheek, as if afraid you’ll suddenly disappear, and her voice was low and broken with a heartache you instantly recognized. It was twin to your own.

 “I love you. I always have. I’m sorry I’m only telling you now. I know it’s too late.”

Her eyes swam with tears, and her face was suddenly getting closer and closer. You reached with a hand behind her neck and pulled her even closer, whispering against her lips, as if it was a secret meant only for her and her alone.

“It’s not too late if we’re alive.”

Liked it? You can find all of my fics on my fanfiction masterlist!

[petitmonde]

May Trope Mayhem Day 26: Isekai or transmigration

In which I could not resist a cliché for @duckprintspress May Trope Mayhem.

Tags: Sashnetra, Anetra, Sasha Colby, RPDR s15, Isekai

Gravity always felt weird in the void, as if nothing tangible was tethered to anything in it. One step could feel like you were walking in water, the next on solid rock. Head held high, Anetra made her way towards the blue light.

Anetra opened her eyes. She was once again in the all too familiar void of darkness, illuminated by the blue crystals at the far end of the eternal Hallway of Rebirth. So, she had died. Again. She still wore the garb of a Hero, all of her weapons intact and where they were supposed to be.

One day, she'd learn not to get cocky fighting a high-ranking demon all on her own. That day wouldn't be today or the next. She never learnt not to dive head first into danger. There was no reason to, if she died, she would wake up here, talk to a god, then be on her merry way onto her next life.

Only to find someone who definitely was not the goddess she expected to be on the throne. On it sat a woman who could only be described as the sun. Long, black hair wrapped in a ponytail, adorned with jewels of gold and glitter. Green piercing eyes stared right into her soul, warm but distant at the same time. Skin that glistened like diamonds, the goddess barely wore anything that could be classified as clothes, putting everything on show. In her hand was a sceptre shaped like the sun.

The shock on Anetra's face must have amused the goddess.

"Welcome to the Hallway of Rebirth," the goddess' voice was loud and welcoming. She snorted and shook her head lightly. "No, that isn't right. It's welcome back, isn't it? You sure have been here a lot."

"I haven't seen you here before," Anetra said. She didn't dare speak out of turn. There was always a chance that this deity wasn't as kind as the others. "What happened to the Lady of the Moon?"

The goddess laughed at her. Yeah, no, she was an asshole. Anetra's initial faith in her was entirely misplaced, and along with it, any hope that she would help her.

"She's too busy running around with the Spirit of the Forest to take care of her duties, so here I am." The goddess raised her sceptre only to slam it down with a big thud. The action lit up the sun with a strong glow, replacing the blue that had preceded it. "I am the Goddess of the Sun, but you can call me Sasha."

Sasha didn't let Anetra get a word in. She clearly had a lot to say, and with a captive audience that had no option but to listen, she dug right in.

"I must say, you sure have died a lot. 237 times, wow, I'm almost sure that's a record. Is it recklessness? Incompetence? Or–" Sasha stretched the last syllable in taunt, "were you meeting someone here? Oh, right, right, you were, weren't you? I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you've been dumped."

"I've been... what?" None of the words that left Sasha's mouth made any sense. She didn't die on purpose. Most of the time.

"Dumped. Broken up with. Never to see her again. It's over. But that's not the only bad news you're getting today. I hate to diminish the work of a fellow god, but it truly is sloppy to revive the same person this many times."

"I see," Anetra sighed dejectedly. It was bound to happen at some point, only she didn't think she would get the news from a god she hadn't met before. "This is it, then?"

"Not quite. Seeing as I am a kind and benevolent goddess, I'll give you one more life in a new world, one without demons or monsters. You will never have to fight another troll again or worry when the Demon King's army is advancing on an innocent village."

Sasha tapped the ground with her sceptre once again. A ring formed around Anetra, trapping her in it.

Sasha continued, "as one last divine gift, you can make any one wish for something to bring to the new world. As soon as you speak it, the two of us will part."

An idea formed in Anetra's head. There was no telling what kind of world she would be sent to or what dangers that lurked, but with a companion, maybe it would be easier to get by.

"Anything?"

"Didn't I say so? Do hurry it up, please. I have other things to do than entertain a godchaser."

Anetra smirked. She knew exactly what she wanted to bring. "Then, I'm taking you with me."

"Wait, what... you can't do that–"

Another ring enveloped Sasha, lightning up and lifting her off the throne. In desperation, Sasha hit the invisible walls of the ring. "What the hell, you can't do that."

"I'll see you on the other side."

The last thing Anetra saw before she was enveloped in the light was Sasha's angry face yelling something she couldn't hear. She was sure to hear the other end of the rant once they both woke up wherever it was they were going.

[davlucies]

here are all the fics i wrote for @duckprintspress's may trope mayhem. they ended up all being balance fics... surprising no one ;u;

this list is ordered chronologically by when in canon the fic takes place !

there's a flame i know, hotter than hot (davenport/lucretia, "mutual pining")

It wasn’t right, his stupid infatuation. His taunting thoughts and unasked-for feelings. The way his heart ached when she laughed, when she looked at him, her joy and beauty warming him as if stoking a roaring hearth. He loved her, he truly did. It took years for these feelings to accumulate, but now, a decade into their journey, they’d coalesced into a deep yearning. He needed her, but he couldn’t have her. He never would.

small enough to slip inside a book (18+, davenport/lucretia, "secret relationship")

Another ten years, or twenty, and maybe their love would be as mundane as engine maintenance or sitting on watch for the Light to fall.

two shades in sunlight (davenport/lucretia, "outsider pov," bonus info: the title was inspired by "bleeker street" by simon and garfunkel)

She gawked at them, a little. Lucretia was glowing, open and joyous. Dav was admiring her, his expression warm and fond.

heisting (davenport/lucretia, "fake relationship")

“You guys don’t look married at all,” Magnus heckled. Lucretia awkwardly reached for Davenport’s hand, and he took hers. They’d never so much as held hands in front of the crew before. “Nice and natural,” Taako joked.

so stand me by that column (18+ davenport/lup, "wound tending")

“Well…” he’d said, not looking at her, “It’s cathartic, hearing it from someone else. In this context.”

every look is a truce (gen, "accidental ownership")

“I have no qualms as long as we can retrieve the Light,” Davenport said, but his tone was sharp and too defensive. Of course he had qualms.

reassembled (barry/lup, "reincarnation," bonus info: i misread the prompt a lil eheh)

The first time Barry reformed, Lup threw her arms around him. “We missed you,” she said, resting her cheek against his shoulder. All Barry could do was hug her back. His crush bloomed to love in the warmth of her attention, and he was so relieved to be home.

the warmth i missed (barry/davenport/lucretia/lup, "there was only one bed")

Davenport stepped inside, staring at the room. Or, not the room. The bed. That was the thing: there was only one bed.

still waiting for the swollen Easter tide (18+, davenport/lucretia, "forced proximity")

“Hopefully the others will get the Light,” he said. He watched her shiver. Even after the long weeks they’d spent here, they were still unused to the dungeon’s cold. It was a perpetual chill, a perpetual discomfort.

bottom storage (gen with background ships, "bottom storage")

“This is the worst day of my life,” Taako said. “It might be the best day of mine, if I’m being fully honest,” Davenport said, still fishing random crap out of his pockets. 

no dog in the yard (gen, "keep your dog on a leash")

Davenport looked behind the counter. The man’s face was clear, at least, but he was glaring at them. At Davenport. “You keep that thing away from the merchandise, alright lady?”

once more, just to dream (18+, magnus/lucretia, "mistaken identity")

It’s not that he’s in love with her. Just, it would be hot to bend her over her desk and fuck her like she's a normal person. Like she's his.

an unexploded shell (18+, davenport/lucretia, "vampire")

She knew he hated when she spoke like this, when she was honest. She destroyed everything she touched, everyone who got near. It would have been better if she had died during Story and Song. His life would be easier with her dead.

it's just a jump to the left (gen with background ships, "time loop")

Lucretia shifts, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Davenport remembers this, her defensiveness. And how quickly her shield had been shot down. “You don’t know that,” she says. “We don’t know anything about what the Light is capable of."

tomorrow, you can go back to being alone (18+, davenport/lucretia, "love requited too late")

Davenport’s stomach twisted. She was leaving them to be alone, to stew in grief and regrets like she always did. Like he did when he was at sea. “I’m leaving too,” he said.

[libraryofchlo]

BOOK REVIEW: Wake-Up Call by Beth O'Leary

Okay, saying I love Beth O'Leary as an author would be an accurate description. But it wouldn't really capture how I feel about her. I read my first Beth O'Leary book back in 2019, when I was starting my first serious job, and getting introduced to the world of Bookstagram.

The Flatshare was a kind of game-changer for me. Because it not only introduced me to romance as a genre, but it presented it in a way that to my - jaded and vaguely patriarchal - eyes, didn't perceive as romance. It allowed me to enjoy the book without all of the nonsense surrounding what women read and whether or not it's worthy.

And then her sophomore novel 'The Switch' was released. And yes, it was a little more conservative as far as tropes and plot, but it was still her voice, and that irresistible comfort that comes with it. I truly don't know how she does it, but it's like she hands you a cup of hot chocolate and a blanket when you open up those first few pages.

And so on and so forth, until we get to book five, which is kind of crazy to me. But five books later, and she is still magically sending the warm and fuzzies through the pages of her books.

So Izzy and Lucas are our dysfunctional couple this time around. And immediately it's tense. There are few tropes in this world that will bring so many to their knees, but it is the enemies to lovers, my friend, that will do so. And these two are as enemies-to-lovers as they come. Izzy is the sunshine, to Lucas' grumpy, and yes, it is cliche, and a little bit goofy, but at no point do I care.

Because what could so easily become a boring, repetitive tale of two lovers finding themselves, instead turns into a surprising, funny tale of two people pining so hard that they wouldn't know a confession of love if it hit them in the face. And toward the end of the book, it may very well do.

But while they're dancing around each other and their feelings, there is a beautiful, stately hotel quite literally crumbling around them. And they are tasked by the homely yet manic Madame of the house to try and fix it as best as they can. Marriage proposals, mistresses and mayhem ensue, which causes for some true barrelling laughter at some points, that really lead me to believe that Mrs. O'Leary might just be our modern Bridget Jones-maker.

So, despite The Wake Up Call sitting firmly in the genre, it manages to balance ever so delicately on the border of 'old lady reads', and 'contemporary romance'. It manages to dwell in the vicinity of our Marian Keyes and Debbie Macomber, while dipping its toes into the modern contemporary tones of Emily Henry and Christina Lauren. And for that reason, The Wake Up Call, was a knockout.

[vintage-fanzines]

Smarm #1

Fandom: The Sentinel Date Published: 1998 Publisher: Oddbalz & Mayhem Press Cover art by: Warren Oddsson

Read my review of the zine below.

This zine is separated into three parts: fic by Rhonda Hallstrom, fic by Becky and Robyn, and fic by Tate. There is also black and white art by two artists - Jean Kluge and Warren Oddsson. My favorite pieces are a set by Oddsson - one depicts Blair in an oversized holiday sweater, holding a young panther, and the other shows Jim with a wolf pup on his lap. I love that Blair is holding the panther incredibly casually, as if he’s holding a needy pet cat while chatting with a fellow grad student at a holiday party he’s hosting at the loft. Meanwhile, Jim’s piece is reminiscent of a portrait taken at Sears, if they allowed wolves in their studio. This may sound like I’m dragging the drawings, but I’m not. I genuinely like them. 

The five stories by Rhonda Hallstrom are actually parts of one long story. Blair has noticed that Jim seems able to read his thoughts, and wonders if this is a sign that Jim has a heightened “sixth sense” in addition to his five other heightened senses. In each story this new sense is put to the test, sometimes intentionally and sometimes by accident. There’s also a pretty good twist where it turns out Jim’s new sense isn’t exactly what it seems.

I liked the character voices in these stories.  I think out of all the stories in this zine, these were the least traditionally “smarm”. Certainly the bond between Jim and Blair was the focus, but they didn’t have the romantic, are-you-sure-this-isn’t-slash trappings I associate with smarm.  They were also my favorite stories in the zine. 

The “Becky and Robyn” section of the zine contains 17 short stories -- 13 by Becky, 3 by Robyn, and one by Becky and Robyn. Although I found these stories pleasant enough, I don’t think they’re best suited to be read all in a row.  With one big exception, they’re mostly vignettes, moments where Jim and Blair feel compelled to appreciate each other’s friendship, to muse over how much they mean to each other, and to express that appreciation. It’s like drinking hot cocoa (something that they definitely do in one of the stories, after getting caught in the rain) -- it’s warm and comforting, but too sweet to drink frequently. 

Of these, my favorite might be “Evening Treat”, where Jim and Blair run into Simon and Darryl at an ice cream shop. Jim notices Blair doing a small kindness for Darryl, something subtle that most people would miss. In turn, Jim does something nice for Blair. It’s a simple, well-crafted story, and I liked that it used a small moment to illustrate a friendship. 

The last story in this section, “The Memories of Angels” is different. It’s longer and has a plot with sci-fi/fantasy elements. Although it was a nice change of pace from the plot-lite stories that preceded it, there wasn’t enough set-up to make the sci-fi elements work for me. It did often achieve a wistful, bittersweet atmosphere.

The final section of the zine consists of three stories by Tate. All three have very similar themes; in the first one, Jim has a dream that Blair dies and has a hard time shaking it. In the second, Blair gets concussed and becomes convinced Jim is dead. In the third, Simon dreams that Blair gets killed in a bust gone wrong, and it’s the bust they’re supposed to do the very next day.  

The first of these stories is the longest and the most interesting, but suffers from piling too much whump on Blair and making Jim too eruptive.  After the nightmare about Blair’s death, Jim accidentally breaks Blair’s wrist while zoned out.  Blair doesn’t blame Jim, but Jim feels incredible guilt and lashes out verbally. Blair grabs his keys and goes, which leads to even more trouble. The later whump does feel intentionally repetitive -- It gives Jim a chance to react better to a similar situation -- but that doesn’t stop the series of unfortunate events from becoming Too Much.

Notably, this story played with a trope I’ve seen in other gen Sentinel fic - original characters who think Blair has an abusive boyfriend because of his injuries and some out-of-context comments he makes about Jim. I’m not entirely sure why this is a trope that appeals to hurt/comfort fans (it must feel good to see even strangers react protectively towards Blair) but I’ve seen it written by other authors, so it does seem to be a trope, if a rare one.

[dianneking]

The Disease (Larissa/Laurel)

The product of my Sunday evening Angst writing addiction, presented to you with only minimal editing and proof-reading. Written (belatedly) for day 5 of May Trope Mayhem 2023 by @duckprintspress​, with the prompt: Hanahaki. Crossposted on AO3 (link here and in the title below).

Tags: Angst, Hanahaki, Not Actually Unrequited love, Angst with a Happy Ending, Spoilers for Season 1 Finale of Wednesday (2022), Fear of Death, Disease Diagnosis, No Lesbians Die, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Marilyn is Laurel but Laurel is Good, Feelings!, Alcohol consumption.

Fandom:  Wednesday (2022) Pairing: Larissa Weems /Laurel Gates | Marilyn Thornhill Wordcount: 1774

 The Disease (Marilyn|Laurel x Larissa) 

The first time it happens, Laurel thinks it’s a cruel prank from one of her students. Teenagers are cruel, she thinks, and outcasts teenagers can be even more creative in their cruelty (little freaks she used to call her in the privacy of her mind, but recently she hasn’t been able to do so without picturing how sad Larissa’s face would be if she’d be able to hear that). And she’s sure it’s a funny prank in their eyes: the botany professor coughing up lungfuls of petals? How poetic.

But no matter how much she tries, she cannot get her students to confess who had it been, and she’s too ashamed of being the victim of a prank and unable to discover the culprit to go complain to Principal Weems (she wouldn’t mind the excuse to spend more time in her study, but she feels pathetic to go and complain like a little girl). She tries to forget the shame and when Larissa’s warm eyes meet hers that evening over both of their glasses of wine, she can passably lie and state that her day had been ‘alright’.

Except it happens a second time, and this time it is only her and Larissa when it happens, interrupting what had been an intense moment, when, made bolder by the alcohol in her veins, their faces had been getting closer to each other, as if pulled by an invincible magnetic force. Laurel had seen her own desire mirrored in her principal’s eyes, and she had seen how the taller woman’s tongue had come out to wet her lips in anticipation…but when their mouths were but a breath apart, she felt the tell-tale pressure behind her breastbone and she has to turn away, her hands clutching spasmodically at her mouth, trying to hide the colorful petals from sight.

She is unsuccessful, and Larissa’s horrified face is all she needs to see before running away from it all: the almost-kiss (her father and her brother and her mother are all screaming at her from their tombs, asking her why hasn’t she started on her plan yet, why wasn’t she extracting revenge on those monsters who had ruined her family), her boss who she most definitely shouldn’t be falling for, and the embarrassment of those petals still coming out of her airways. Or trying to run away from it.

She does a decent job of hiding in her conservatory over the next few days, thankfully helped by the weekend, but the cough attacks come about in increasingly frequent bouts, and on Monday she has no choice but to visit the nurse office.

She sees the pity on the nurse’s face before hearing it in their voice. I’m sorry, they say, you seem to be suffering from Hanahaki disease. The name doesn’t tell her much, but the tone is not that of good news. Laurel wonders if she’ll die of it before avenging her family, and the thought gives her more comfort than it should have (it’s not just Larissa - a part of her is starting to come to love her girls in Ophelia Hall, and the way her students’ eyes sparkle when she shows them particularly deadly plants - and she now realizes that no matter her prognosis, the plan for revenge has already died before she does).

She pretends to know what the nurse is talking about and looks up the disease on internet as soon as she gets to her classroom. She had to sit down to process the news. The words stare at her unrelentingly from the screen.

When afflicted by Hanahaki disease, the patient is subjected to cough attacks with production of copious amounts of flower petals, if and only if the patient is concomitantly affected by one-sided affection towards another person. The natural cure for the disease is for the recipient of such affection to return the feeling, or through surgical intervention. The inevitable side effect of the surgical procedure is the assured loss of the feelings the patient had. If left untreated, Hanahaki disease leads to certain death within the timespan of a few weeks.

A few weeks. That was all she had. The next few days go by in a haze, as her brain processes the information. Even if her insurance paid for the surgery, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to how her life was before falling for Larissa (she had been plotting to slaughter a school full of children for something that happened way before most of them were born, that was not a good place to be in mentally).

She wonders if she should tell Larissa. But that would serve no purpose, other than let the other woman feel guilty of her inevitable demise. And Laurel thinks she knows Larissa enough to know that she would feel guilty. She would add Laurel’s condition to the ever-growing burden on her shoulders, and possibly try to take on the costs for her surgery as well. No, she wouldn’t tell Larissa.

“Marilyn, we need to talk.”

When she hears that name falling from the other’s lips she knows that there is another secret that she doesn’t want to take to the grave with her. She doesn’t want to die as a lie. So when she meets up with her principal that night, she asks her to listen first, and Larissa looks at her with a stony expression as she retells the story of the Gates family and of how little Laurel had come back to her hometown to extract revenge but ended up finding a new, happier family in Nevermore, among the outcasts.

When she finishes her story, Larissa takes a sip of wine, and Laurel wishes she was able to go back to when those blue eyes looked at her with warmth and desire, instead of being unreadable as they are now. Guarded.

“Why are you telling me this, after all this time?”

And Laurel apparently is uncapable to lie to her anymore, because the truth falls from her lips in all of its ugliness, as she looks away from the unspoken accusations she thinks she can see in the icy depths that she so loves (She loves her so much, her chest constricts even when she’s not coughing up petals).

“Because I’m dying.”

In the stunned silence that follows, her lungs seize up once more and she (once again, it was starting to become a habit) runs away from the principal’s office. She doesn’t want to see the pity mix with distrust. She wants to remember the way Larissa looked at her when she was just Marilyn, and she wasn’t dying (at least, not quicker than any other person).

But she lives in a school, and the location of her quarters is not only well known to students and staff, but also clearly marked in case anyone forgot (Larissa never forgets anything about Nevermore, she’s sure of that) so her escape was always doomed to be a short-lived one. That night, Larissa enters through the door without knocking, her normally pristine appearance disheveled, with creases in her clothing, and flyaway hair sticking up in all directions (her makeup looks smudged as well, almost as if she had cried, but that’s impossible, so Laurel explains it as a trick of the light). Laurel drinks in her appearance from where she’s sitting at her own tiny desk overflowing with botany books (God, she’s beautiful even when she’s agitated).

“Who is it?” Larissa asks, her voice commanding as if she was herding her students during a school trip.

“Who?” Laurel asks, even if her gut already knows, and it feels like it’s been filled with ice and dread.

“You have Hanahaki, right? Who is it that you have feelings for?” She looks even more agitated, making her way towards Laurel, then apparently thinking better of it and settling for pacing the length of her tiny office (with her long legs, it takes her barely a couple of strides in either direction, but that doesn’t seem to stop her).

The ice had turned to lead in Laurel’s insides, and she can only whisper: “Please don’t ask me that.” The answer seems to physically hit Larissa, because she recoils and stops dead in her motion, before once again crossing the room, and falling to her knees besides Laurel’s chair. Laurel can only watch her, feeling as if her eyes are bulging out of her skull in surprise (What is the meaning of this?).

But then Larissa’s eyes are looking up at her, pleading, (she’s definitely been crying, there’s no denying it from this up close) and she begs her: “Please, at least let me take you to the nearest specialist. I can pay for the surgery. Please don’t just give up.” And there are tears in Laurel’s eyes too because she cannot explain to her, because Larissa is a good person who feels bad for her friend and she wouldn’t be able to understand. So she just shakes her head, no, she wouldn’t go to the surgeon. (She’d never give up her love).

She’s surprised when Larissa grabs her shoulders and shouts (Larissa Weems is not a woman who shouts when she’s angry – she only shouts when she is scared and overwhelmed). “BUT YOU CANNOT JUST DIE!” and Laurel brings her hands tenderly to Larissa’s face and tries to wipe away her tears, and tries to put on a brave face, and tell her boss that everybody has to die sooner or later and that is a fact of life (she doesn’t tell her how scary the thought of dying is).

And then Larissa is not only crying, but she’s shaking with sobs, and her voice is small and soft and broken when she tries to argue against that. “But you cannot just die, because, because…” And then, smaller, softer, and even more broken “…because I love you.”

And just like that, the oppression that was getting heavier and heavier against Laurel’s breastbone suddenly lifts, and she is cured of her ailment. And she feels lighter and more alive and happier than she’s ever felt is her life up until now because she’s not dying, after all (at least, not quicker than any other person), she’s not going to cough up petals anymore, and, most importantly, her feelings are returned.

Her lips find those of Larissa, and taste the saltiness of her tears on them, lightly, tenderly, before pulling back slightly and murmuring, still unable to fully believe it:

“It’s you. It’s always been you.”

And then their lips meet again and this time it is passionate, overpowering, and filled with requited love.

Liked it? You can find more angst (& other stuff too) on my fanfiction masterlist!

[petitmonde]

Written for May Trope Mayhem

Day 2: Curtain Fic | Fandom: RPDR | Ship: Bratpack Warnings: N/A | Tags: fluff, domestic life

Swedish furniture

It was with the full intent of impressing their partner that Synthia and Gia began their project of building the dining room table. The three of them had recently gotten the keys to their first apartment together, a big step in their relationship. The place was still sparsely furnished, most of their previous furniture being unfit for a more permanent residence.

How hard could it be to assemble a couple of legs to a flat surface? Kendall had been the one to assemble their bed all alone, so it couldn't be too difficult if the two of them worked together on the project. That hubris soon bit them in their tails as Gia cursed under their breath as the screw slipped from their hands for the fourth time, the leg going down with it. Synthia was engrossed in the manual, turning it around and flipping the pages, all in all not being a great help to the cause.

"Maybe we should wait until Kenny gets home?" Synthia huffed, clearly frustrated that they were getting nowhere. She dropped the instruction manual unceremoniously on the ground before plopping down on the floor.

Gia dropped what they were doing to sit next to Synthia, equally as done with the project as she was. Gia wrapped their arm around Synthia, giving her a squeeze. "Think of how happy she will be Synth. She'll come home to a functioning dining room, warm meal ready at the table."

"When you put it like that, maybe we should give it another try." Synthia leaned into Gia, content to just stay down at the floor. "Just can we stay like this for five more minutes?"

"Five more minutes." Gia agreed, kissing Synthia's temple. It wasn't long before they were laying on the floor on their backs, gently caressing one another innocently.

Time was a lost concept as the two laid on the floor, the stillness filling the apartment. The only sound that could be heard were their calm breaths.

When the sound of a key jostling the door disturbed their peace, Gia stiffened, knowing that time had run out and their partner was finally home. Synthia seemed to be unaware as she nuzzled into their neck with a sigh. She must have fallen asleep.

"I'm home!" Kendall's voice boomed as she entered the apartment. "And I have brought... oh, I see you guys have been busy."

Busy had been an understatement, as they had managed to cover most of the room with cardboard and the different parts for the table. The boxes for the chairs were also opened.

"We wanted to surprise you." Gia nudged Synthia to wake her up. "Since you've already done so much."

"Mhm, happy birthday Kenny." Synthia mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Kendall snorted at the outburst, "It's not even my birthday."

"Oh yeah, it isn't." Freeing herself from Gia, Synthia sat upright, their partner following suit.

"Well, I bought us some takeout from down the corner, so let's eat." Kendall lifted the bag that she was holding to show what she had brought, before joining her two partners on the floor. "You two look so cozy down there, let me join you."

"You're not mad we didn't finish the table?" Synthia asked, worried she had disappointed her partner. Kendall smiled at her before giving Synthia a kiss.

"We can work on it later. It's more fun if we do it together." Kendall reassured her.

"Sometimes I worry that you baby her too much, Kenny."

"Says the one who slept on the floor when their partner wanted cuddles." Gia stuck out their tongue at Kendall's teasing. She definitely knew them too well.

[h3trappedcollection]

Author Interview Part II

Another interview with one of our fabulous Trapped fic writers, this time with skuld aka @the-wintry-mizzenmast Stories written for the Collection:

The right to Thursdays

Unplanned parenthood

It takes a village to bake a cake

Not All Has Gone Astray

Interview:

How did you come into the Trapped fandom?

Indirectly through the Guardian fandom, which I was only on the periphery of, but was exposed to via @for-the-flail (Naye). At some point, I was lamenting the lack of homosexuality in Guardian and other c-fandom TV canon due to mainland Chinese censorship. I believe it was @bonibaru who told Naye about HIStory3: Trapped, and all the amazing tropes and actual queerness that it contained because it’s Taiwanese BL.

So we watched it, and were instantly delighted by how the series was basically the writers seeing how many tropes they could smash together into every episode. I fell in love with it.

I remember finishing the last episode and thinking, “Well, good thing I’m a TangFei shipper, because there’s so little for the B-couple.” Then I spent four weeks trying to think of some good ideas for TangFei fic and drawing blanks before the Househusband idea took root. And the rest is history, as they say.

Who’s your favourite character?

Jack. 

I like the way he’s presented as this enigmatic trickster badass who enjoys riling up Li Zhi De, is the biggest TangFei shipper, and falls for the most innocent cinnamon roll in the Criminal Investigation Division. ...And he’s stacked, to boot. What is there not to love about Jack? 

What’s your favourite trope?

My two favorite tropes of all time are Found Family and Enemies-to-Lovers, and both of the main couples fulfill these incredibly well in the Trapped storyline.

And then there’s other things that they just put in there for pure fun, like handcuffed together, having to huddle in an abandoned hut for warmth, the huge amounts of hurt/comfort with Meng Shao Fei and Tang Yi. I mean, this series is a Greatest Hits of everybody’s favorite tropes. 

What do you like about writing for Trapped?

That it’s such a rich, open world, and that there are so many possibilities. Trapped has done such a good job at depicting just a short slice of what you know is an ongoing story. The writers give you just enough direction to let your imagination soar. 

You know that Tang Yi and Meng Shao Fei have clashed multiple times in the past, and you know that everything will be fine going forward at the end, even though Tang Yi turns himself over to justice. You know that Jack is a mercenary who has been in the employ of Interpol for some time, and that he quits his dangerous lifestyle to be Zhao Zi’s househusband. You know that Andy and Dr. Jiang have been friends with Tang Yi for years, but we don’t know how they met, how those friendships formed, what they’ve been through together. 

There is so much that we know that happens, but we never get to see, meaning that there are huge, empty spaces to play around in everybody’s pasts and everybody’s futures. And that is what I love so much about writing for Trapped. It strikes the right balance to spark creativity.

Care to elaborate on your writing process?

I usually start with an idea or a scene that I want to write, something that I want to play with or something I think is fun that I want to show the reader. Then I flesh out around that. Sometimes I will write an outline and then start writing, or sometimes I will just start off with ‘Jack/ZZ PWP’ and see where the characters take me.

I always try to hammer out a first draft without worrying about editing or if it’s any good, before I then start going through the whole thing for a round of edits or rewrites. Once I feel confident enough in what I have, I’ll send it off to my betas, just to catch anything egregious idea-wise or pacing that I may have overlooked. Having this outside perspective is essential, and is good reinforcement for what a writer is doing right, and what a writer might need to improve.

Your favourite Trapped fic by another author?

It’s difficult for me to pick just one, because everybody who writes in the fandom brings a different perspective, style, and ideas that they want to play with, but there are some amazing, cute, and fun fics out there being written by bonibaru, florbexter, issen4, micuko, stebeee, and weilongfu.

What do you want to write but never had the nerve to?

I love cars and motoring, and am a big fan of the Fast & Furious film franchise, so I would love to write Jack and Zhao Zi starring in an action blockbuster with fast cars, sense-defying stunts, and mayhem. We never really get to see Jack pull out all the stops in Trapped itself (Meng Shao Fei gets to hog almost all the fight choreography), so I’d really like to explore the boundaries of Jack’s physical capabilities and his emotional scars. 

I always second-guess myself on this idea, because is there anybody else in fandom who would want to read something like this?

But after the reveal in the Fast 9 trailer, I’ve realized that I’m not the only one familiar with the saga nor the only one with a penchant for speed. 

So, this could happen, because I might have a headcanon where Jack has previously spent a year working undercover for Interpol in Tokyo...

If you want, please share a snippet of your current Trapped WIP! 

Jack did his best to hide a smile as he heard the soft slide of Zhao Zi’s bare feet on the stairs. He continued slicing a block of tofu into a neat, regular dice, keeping one eye on the pot of water on the stove, almost at a boil. He set his knife down and reached for the head of bok choy lying next to the cutting board, whirling around just as Zhao Zi approached. 

Jack tapped the leafy greens gently against his boyfriend’s forehead. “Gotcha.”

Zhao Zi batted them aside. His lips protruded in an exaggerated pout, his plan to sneak up on Jack foiled. “I could’ve sworn I had you.”

Jack chuckled. “Nice try, but my instincts aren’t that rusty yet.” He raised an eyebrow as he noted that Zhao Zi had descended the stairs with naught but a towel around his waist, but he turned back around anyway, letting Zhao Zi’s arms wrap around him from behind. “Lunch is almost ready.”

Zhao Zi’s embrace tightened. “Mm, I can think of something better than food,” he whispered, his breath warm against Jack’s ear. 

Jack craned his neck to regard his lover with suspicion. “Okay, who are you, and what have you done with my Zhao Li An?”

“Jaaaack!” Zhao Zi’s voice was plaintive above the water boiling in the stainless steel pot. “I’m trying to seduce you here.”

“And I’m trying to play hard to get.” Jack put the bok choy down on the cutting board and switched off the stove. “Is it working?”

Thank you so much @the-wintry-mizzenmast for taking part in this interview!

Previous Interviews:

- dangerliesbeforeyou

[imaginexmeintheuniverse]

Counting the Years

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Gryffindor!Reader

Word Count: 4, 023

A/N: just an idea I had that i thought might be cute~ i may have messed with certain events to make this work

You've become close to the whole Weasley family over the years, and you'd always gotten along great with the twins, but there was something about Fred that always seemed to linger in your thoughts after he'd leave the room.

You've also fallen hopelessly for one of your best friend's older brothers— how pathetic and typical of a trope is that?

Let's count through the years to see how you came to free fall for years without even noticing until now.

Year 1

You had just been sorted into Gryffindor, and you couldn't be happier as a crowd of students welcomed you to the table.

You had been worried about sitting under the sorting hat, especially after all your newly made friends from the train ride here had been sorted into the same house. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had all been so kind to you, despite you being so shy and stumbling into their cabin after all the others being full. You really liked them, and after the unfortunate exchange between Harry and that nasty Malfoy boy in the hall, you were even more afraid due to your blood status, which seemed to matter a lot more than you thought it would. Walking up the steps to the stool, your anxiety had taken over as your mind raced, you knew for sure the hat would see how scared you were and thought it wouldn't deem you brave enough. You were so shocked upon hearing the sorting hat shout "Gryffindor!" after taking so long to contemplate.

You were so surprised, in fact, that you froze on the spot long enough to embarrass yourself, earning a some nasty snickers from the same group of boy from earlier. Thankfully though, Hermione snapped you out of your daze and led you to the table to be welcomed enthusiastically by wizards and witches in red-accented robes.

Among those students, was none other than Fred Weasley, who had at first introduced himself a George along with his brother who introduced himself as Fred, and kept switching names throughout the welcome dinner, making you feel like you were home.

Year 2

It was Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, the game that was to be a major showdown between Harry and Draco, and you couldn't wait to see your team take the match.

From the start, you and Hermione noticed that something felt off. It became clear when the bludger kept targeting Harry, and you nearly had a heart attack when it almost killed him after he was already down. Rushing to the field close behind Hermione, you could already the damage from his fall. Everything was taken care of in the end, but if that incident proved anything, is that you're Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was a bloody imbecile.

You had gone to check up on Harry later, when you saw the twins were already there. They saw you approaching and waved to you in unison. George continued to speak with Harry whilst the other Weasley walked over to where you stood a short distance away.

"Hi," you greeted him, casting a glance past his shoulders to wave at the other boys.

"Hey," Fred wore a sullen expression, something clearly on his mind.

"How is he?" You asked, reminded of the reason why you came.

"He'll be all right I reckon," he looked back at Harry as he nervously scratched the back of his head. "I'm really sorry, Y/N."

"What are you sorry for?" You inquired, registering his defeated tone.

"Georgie and I are the beaters, we should have—"

"No," your voice was stern, but still as soft as always. "You did what you could, that ball was cursed, and Harry made the decision; an 'accident' was bound to happen."

"We didn't want to leave him alone—"

"Fred," you stopped him, reaching up to place a comforting hand on his shoulder as you offered him an emphatic smile. "It wasn't your fault, okay?"

Your hand held his attention for a moment— long enough to make you feel self-conscious about the gesture and you instantly brought it back to your side. Fred nodded, as though not to argue about the guilt he felt any longer, and you gave him another smile in return.

"Here," you pulled out a bag of sweets from your robe. "I brought these for Harry, but I'm sure he won't mind you taking one."

Year 3

"I heard the news, great job guys!" You exclaimed, pulling both twins into a hug where you'd be sandwiched in the middle. They both thanked you, chuckling and making a few jokes about cheating, but you knew they wouldn't. "Who knew the Weasley twins had brains?" you teased them.

"Oi! I take offense to that," George put a dramatic hand over his chest, and you laughed at his antics before once again congratulating them, and bidding them goodbye.

"Hey, Y/N," Fred caught up to your smaller strides in a few seconds, lightly tapping you shoulder as he continued to walk by your side in the hall. "I heard about what those Slytherin girls said to you and Hermione," he brought up the topic on a more serious tone, genuine concern in his expression as he spoke.

"Oh," is all you thought of as a response. That scene was something you had tried to keep quiet about, but it was bound to reach him. The same group had always bullied you and called you that dreadful name since the first time you held the top scores back in your first year. Hermione of course played the situation off perfectly like she always did, but you stood there frozen, like you always do.

"They're probably just jealous that the two of you alone basically got Gryffindor all the points for the cup— you're bloody brilliant, you know that?" he chuckled, and you bit back a smile at the compliment. "Are you okay, though?" You nodded your head up and down without speaking. "Just say the word, and I'll make sure that word never leaves their mouths again— seriously, I'll hex them all if I have to." You laughed, knowing that he was half-kidding, and probably wouldn't do anything those unpleasant girls.

You then felt a gentle grasp on your shoulder, halting your steps. With a light pressure, he swiftly spun you to face him and pulled you into a hug— a surprising gesture, and once you processed what was happening, you gladly wrapped your arms around his taller frame and let yourself sink into his chest.

It was then that you noticed the comfort and support that came with being close to Fred Weasley.

Year 4

"George!" Arthur Weasley shouted through the oncoming crowd. "Ginny is your responsibility!"

That was the last familiar voice you heard before you got lost in the mayhem. You tried to follow your friends, but Harry was the first to be separated, and upon trying to get to him, so did you.

People around you were pushing and shoving their way through the mass of others that were doing exactly the same thing and you were being propelled around like a ping pong ball. A certain motion sickness settled in with your anxiety and you thought you might start crying or throw up— perhaps both. How the hell were you supposed to find your way to the portkey now? To make matters worse, you were then knocked to the ground, stepped on, and kicked.

Your saviour came in the form of an unidentified tall figure who lifted you off the ground and seemed to be examining— wait, could it be?

"Y/N! Are you okay- are you hurt?" Feeling immense relief, you grabbed onto whatever part of him you could.

"Fred," You felt like a complete coward clinging to his arm in the midst of all this chaos. Despite everything you've already been through with your friends, you were still scared out of your mind, and you grew absolutely terrified when you saw the ominous mark appear in the sky. "Fred, I-I'm—"

"I know," he told you, looking down at you with an intense, yet soft and comforting expression. "It's going to be okay, but first we have to get out of here— hold on!"

Grabbing your hand, he weaved his way through, never letting go of you. You almost fell for a second time, but he was quicker and pulled you to him.

After stumbling through more people, the two of you finally had a moment to catch your breaths away from all the madness.

"Thank you, Fred," you breathed out, pulling him into a tight hug like you could lose him at any second.

"Hey, are you okay?" He asked you again, giving you a once over to check for injuries with his eyebrows knit in concern.

"Yeah, I'm—"

"Bloody hell, that's a big one," he uttered, gently holding your arm where there was a huge patch of skin turning purple already.

"It's all right, it's just a bruise—"

"It's massive- and you've got a scratch here," he observed aloud as he pushed back stray hairs from your face to reveal the split skin at your eyebrow.

"Really, Fred, I'm okay," you reassured him and he gave you one of his signature grins. "Thank you, I don't know if I would have—"

"Of course you would have, although it certainly helps to have a handsome lad like me, doesn't it?"

"Yes," you agreed jokingly, rolling your eyes. He wasn't wrong though; it did help to have a handsome lad like him lead you out.

Year 5

You had heard of the Weasley twins' grand exit plan that would take place during your OWLs before anyone else did, but despite being close to them, they still hadn't told you exactly what they were doing yet.

It was approximately an hour before your first examination that Fred pulled you aside to wish you good luck.

Well, not only that but also to tell you, "I'll miss you."

"Of course you will," you said in a cocky, joking manner to rival his.

"Of course I will," he repeated, the humour notably less present in his tone as he spoke softly. There were a few seconds of silence that seemed like it stretched on for hours as you fell victim to the trance his warm, fudgy eyes put you in. But of course it was only a few seconds before he stayed true to character and resumed his usual shenanigans. "How could I not miss this face?!" He took your face between his index finger and thumb and squishes your cheeks together to make you look like an adorable chipmunk.

"Fred!" You shrieked as you attempted to wiggle your way out of his grasp.

"C'mon, admit it, you'll miss me too," he laughed as your efforts proved futile, and took the opportunity to tickle you.

"Okay, okay!" You succumbed to his expert knowledge of your vulnerable spots and backed away panting. "I'll miss you too," you said, returning to a calm, mellow tone. His lips curved into a soft smile as he reached forward to grab you gently by your shoulders and pull you to him.

You could have been imagining the light pressure, but you swear you felt him press his lip to the top of your head before letting go.

"I think you're what I'll miss most about Hogwarts, love," he remarked cheekily before running off, leaving you to wonder exactly what he meant by that.

Year 6

It was during the holiday break that you paid the Weasley twins a visit at their shop. You had gone before the school year started with the gang, but hadn't gotten to see them since.

The shop was bustling with customers searching for gifts and you scanned the aisles as you tried to spot the familiar red head of hair. You had already seen George since he greeted you at the door, and now you really wanted to see Fred.

As you continued your search, it became shorter than you expected as he came to you. He tapped on your shoulder and you were so excited to see him that you practically threw yourself into his arms.

"So, have you missed me?"

"You wish, Freddie," A small laugh escaped your lips as he dramatically acted hurt over your words.

"Merlin, Y/N, you could at least try to spare my little heart!"

"Thank you for that, ehm, cough potion by the way," you chided him, clearly not pleased. "I was actually ill, by the way, and instead of helping my symptoms, I ended up followed Seamus Finnegan around with heart eyes for a whole day!"

"Huh, only a day? I they're supposed to last longer than that..."

"Yeah, thanks to Harry! At least he knew what to do after the same thing happened to Ron as well!" You grumbled, shoving his shoulder lightly as he laughs at your unfortunate past predicament.

"In all honesty, though," he calms down, catching his breath. "I have missed you quite a bit." In a classic Fred manner, he coughed, and added, "W-We both have- Georgie and I that is—"

"Don't worry about your reputation, Fred Weasley, I won't tell anyone that you missed me SOOOOOOO MUUUUUUU—"

"All right, all right, I missed you a lot," he laughed, covering your mouth with his large hand. "Come and visit more often, yeah?"

"Will do, Freddie," He then pulled you into another one of his hugs you love so much, this time holding you so tight that your feet lifted off the ground, and let you go before you were ready. "I guess I'll be going, then."

"I wish you could stay longer."

"Me too, Freddie," you gave him a small smile that has a hint of sadness in it. You really did wish you could stay with him longer.

"I'll see you soon, Y/N."

Year 7

Yesterday had been the mission to get Harry to the safe house, and you had volunteered yourself to take the polyjuice potion.

You had been the last one to arrive, and it was an understatement to say you were quite shaken from the trip. After being separated from your own partner, you saw that Mad Eye had been left for dead by Mundungus, that weasel. Since you were disguised as Harry and didn't no linger had your companion, you tried to reach him as fast as you could, but you were too late. You bore witness to the fall of a great auror, and an even better man.

You hadn't come out of the journey unscathed either, you had a nasty gash on your shoulder from when you had been knocked off your broomstick. Thankfully, you had been fairly close to the ground and that's all you got away with, but you did nearly get hit by a bus in the street.

When you did finally arrive to the safe house, you assumed you were the last one since you could see a crowd formed around what seemed like an injured person laying on the couch through the living room window. Taking a moment to catch your breath, you walked slowly, faintly hearing Bill explain what happened to Alastor as you approached the entrance.

"What a-about- wh-where's Y/N?!" The sound of frantic concern in Fred's voice pierced through the walls. You focused on transforming back into yourself and ditch Harry's awfully dense glasses before entering quietly.

"I-I don't know where she is- sh-she went after Moody—" Bill never got to finish his explanation because that's when everyone notices your arrival.

"Y/N!" Fred was the first to run to you, causing you to stumble back from the sheer force of his body colliding with yours. If it weren't for how tightly he held you, you probably would have fallen backwards.

"Oh my- Georgie- is he oka—"

"What happened to your—"

"Y/N!" Your best friends rushed over to you, swerving around Fred, and your quartet was reunited with a massive group hug. Your eyes welled up from the immense relief you felt knowing that they were all safe, and came out of this mission without any serious injuries. Three pairs of arms hugged you tight, and although you were overjoyed by the heart-warming moment, you couldn't help but let out a small wince of pain at the pressure on your wound.

"Y/N, you're hurt," Hermione pointed out, her eyebrows knit together in worry as she observed it.

"It's just a scratch, really," you shrug— with your good shoulder— not wanting anyone to fuss over you when George clearly needed the medical attention more than you did. "Barely grazed the pavement," you tried to laugh it off despite it starting to burn now that your adrenaline levels were dwindling.

"I've had quite a few of those in my day," Remus declared, making his way to you. "Let me have a look, dear." You tried not to let your mind picture the worst and most irrational scenarios while you gauged his reaction as he examined the gash. At least it wasn't from a magical attack, the worse that could come from it was an infection. "A nasty one, but isn't too deep, should be easy enough," he stated, following up by taking out his wand and mumbling a spell that cleared away most of the blood caked on the skin surrounding the laceration as well as closing it up enough so that you wouldn't need stitches or any additional external healing procedures.

You started to thank him, but your words were cut short by Fred tackling you with yet another hug. His long arms wrapped around you and held your head tight to his chest as though he was trying to whisk you away from all possible harm.

"I almost thought I lost you," he whispers into your hair, and you could have imagined it, but you swear you heard his voice start to crack.

Now

There were countless other instances, of course, where you'd establish certain levels of intimacy and fall into the relationship you have now— which is fairly close, but a lot more platonic than you would like. As you watch him joke around with George from across the wedding tent, you come to the seemingly obvious conclusion that he must just see you as his little brother's friend, as well as his, and nothing more.

It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since the intense trip to the safe house that resulted in a death and the loss of George's ear, and here you are sitting alone at a table while guest dance about at Bill and Fleur's wedding. It might seem like a ridiculous time to have a wedding, but that's the precise reason why now is a good a time as any— you don't know what will happen next.

"Hey," You greet him with a smile as he takes a seat beside you.

"And how is the lovely lady enjoying her evening?" Fred asks in a terrible posh accent.

"The festivities are simply delightful, and I have the most dashing suitor," playing along, you perfect your posture and add dainty hand gestures.

"Yes, I hear your suitor is quite the sophisticated gentleman," he says, adjusting his tie.

You both break out in laughter simultaneously, momentarily forgetting about the ongoing war. He's always had this way of making you feel like happiness is still an option, no matter how dire the circumstances may be.

"And would the lovely lady care for a dance with her dashing suitor?" He stands, extending his hand for you.

Smiling, you place your smaller hand in his and he leads you to the dance floor. He places his other hand on your waist, you place yours on his shoulder, and he starts to sway the both of you to the music that has coincidentally slowed down upon your arrival on the dance floor.

"Infuriating, isn't it?" You quip, noticing that you both cast a glance in Ron and Hermione's way at the same time. Fred hums in response, as though to ask what you're referring to. "You would think that with the impending doom, they would finally confess their undying love for each other."

"Tell me about it," he chuckles, and you feel his chest rumble against yours. You don't catch when his focus shifts to you, and there's a moment you're totally oblivious that he's taking in every detail of your face, making sure he never forgets.

"Georgie caught Ginny and Harry snogging in the kitchen earlier," blurts out, not knowing what else to do with his overwhelming surge of emotions. Then, he breaks out in a fit of laughter thinking about all the ways he and George will tease her and Harry incessantly.

"Talk a out seizing the moment," you laugh along with him.

"Meh, I reckon Ron and Hermione will confess to each other any day now," he suggests nonchalantly.

"I hope soon, for their sake." Fred gradually slows the pace, and you continuously subconsciously gravitate towards one another until there is little to no space between your bodies. "The possible end of the world as we know it seems like a good time to confess such feelings, don't you think?" You say absentmindedly, only realizing the impact of your words when you turn your full attention back fo him. Fred swallows nervously, and his eyes dart around the room before meeting yours again. "Oh, I-I'm so-sorry- have I made you uncomfortable—"

"N-No! Not at all," Those chocolate brown eyes of his widen in panic for a split second before mellowing out again. "I-It's just that I-I—"

"Oh, just tell her already!" George calls out with his hands cupped around his mouth.

"All right, all right," he chuckles, not being able to take himself seriously on top being totally clueless about how he could possibly tell you that he's been in love for you for years and—

"Fred," you say his name slowly, snapping him out of his daze. "What did you just say?"

"What- n-no- I—"

"Fred Weasley, did you just say you're in love with me?"

Shit. There's no way he thought he was saying all that out loud. They were all mumbled murmurs, but you did manage to make out those three words.

"Y-Yes?" He answers truthfully, although it sounds more like a question as he observes your reaction. A huge wave of relief washes over him when a soft smile graces your lips.

"Me too."

And just like that, it's feels like a huge weight you've carried around for years has been lifted from you’re shoulders, and feel like your walking on air when the goofiest lovestruck grin appears on Fred's face.

"So, are you going to kiss me, or...?" You ask him, playfully raising an eyebrow. "Or are you going to wait another—"

Fred cuts off your teasing by pressing his lips to yours. Suddenly, all oxygen leaves your lungs, and the only way you can breathe is by kissing him back. It's passionate, and full of emotion, it definitely isn't slow, but it's also far from rushed. Your lips move in synch with each other like one knows exactly what the other feels. If he weren't completely immersed in the moment, he'd be kicking

"Took you long enough," you mumble breathlessly, finally letting your eyes flutter open to meet his melting chocolate orbs.

"Hey, it takes two," he protests with a light chuckle. The smile you give him right there is enough to make him weak in the knees.

He soaks it all in; taking in every curve and edge of your face, and memorizing how your body fits perfectly against his as he leads you in slow circles with your head leaning peacefully on his chest.

You're in the midst of an all out war, and there's no telling what tragedy will strike next. Too many lives have already been lost, and anyone can fall victim. So for now, you choose to forget about the rest of the world and live in this moment with Fred Weasley, vowing to never let him go.

[susandsnell]

whaaat Hadestown sounds awesome!!! i’ll definitely check both those out but it sounds like Hadestown is like, the style of my dreams. also anything that starts as a folk opera is awesome bc i love the concept of a folk opera. follow up: i’ve seen some things about Be More Chill and somehow missed its jump to Broadway? what’s it about?

Sorry I took a day to get back to you, musical anon, but I just had to write my penultimate final first thing this morning! Hadestown is the style of everyone’s dreams, and I really hope you like it when you do check it out. It’s incredibly unique. 

As to your second query, permit me to have some obnoxious gif usage because life is short and I am now permanently on my bullshit. And, well. You just asked me, Coco, about Be More Chill.

WELCOME TO HELL. YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE NOW. 

(Festive, right?) 

So! 

Be More Chill is a very loose adaptation of a (vastly different and quite offensive) 2004 novel by the same name. It did the work of my dreams, which is combine my two favourite genres, science fiction and musical theatre, in a big way, while also stealth being a narrative about mental health, recovery, friendship, love, and sexy computers.  Also, the songs are absolute bops and the music style is contemporary but still unmistakably Broadway. It’s also openly inspired by Little Shop of Horrors (while also being very much in the vein of other wacky, culty musicals like Reefer Madness, a bit of Rocky Horror thrown in, etc), which is a major plus. 

It’s a darkly hilarious, sci-fi-horror-teen drama-romance-musical, in short. 

In long??? A little gist: 

So, our leading man, Jeremy Heere, is a (canonically Jewish! Canonically Jewish! CANONICALLY JEWISH!!!) typical high school geeky outcast who struggles with severe anxiety, self hatred, and a vast panoply of other issues. He’s badly bullied, only has one friend, Michael Mell, who is quite literally the savior of the universe, and crushes on the local theatre kid (and a literal queen), Christine Canigula. In an effort to impress her, he takes the advice of the local bully, Rich, and buys a pill from the back of a Payless shoe store called a SQUIP (short for Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor), which, if ingested and activated by Mountain Dew (just go with it I promise it’s worth it), installs a computer chip in his brain that can manifest the illusion only he can see of a personification that is an intensely attractive person (has been cast as multiple genders depending on the production!!!) who will instruct him on what the right thing to do or say is so that he can overcome his perceived social and personal failings, and improve himself, and maybe get the girl. 

Of course, this thing goes evil, and absolute epic mayhem ensues. 

Where do I even start with what I love about this musical? 

The characters are incredibly true to life; literally nobody is who they seem to be in terms of typical high school, sci fi, or even theatre tropes. which is part of the ultimate message (and I love that!!!) Jeremy’s narrative is very much a subversion of the typical entitled-nerd-boy-goes-wild-trying-to-get-the-girl, because his actions and mistakes are steeped very much in long lasting mental health struggles (he literally mentions having to go to the nurse constantly due to his anxiety attacks), as well as a heartrendingly realistic and depressing home life, and the show is very clear about this, pulling no punches. He’s flawed, he’s sweet, he’s funny, he’s tragic, he’s redemptive, he’s just…wonderful. 

Michael, who in any other show would be ‘the goofy best friend’ character and that’s it gets an incredible arc showing his brilliance, and his own inner demons, including the big showstopper Michael In The Bathroom, which is famous not only for being an incredible song, but because it goes there; it depicts the entirety of a severe panic attack in gut-wrenching detail. All set to awesome music, of course. His depth is revealed in that the otherwise cheerful, happy-go-lucky best friend character whose life seems to revolve around the protagonist’s brought to the logical conclusion of this archetype; extreme codependency and other mental health struggles. This is by no means all that he is – I’d explain why, and what an incredible, positive, heroic character he is, but I won’t dare spoil where his arc ends up going. 

Christine Canigula, our leading lady, is a badass feminist and so much more than a perky theatre kid; she’s shown to struggle much in the same ways Jeremy and Michael do, she’s politically involved and dedicated, while still being desperately uncertain about what to do with her life, her entire character is dedicated to subverting expectations (all her big numbers end with a subverted rhyme to prove this!!), she’s developed so much more than other love interest characters, and is in so many ways so much more than a love interest. She’s fiercely intelligent, but tempted to take the easy route to popularity in different ways than Jeremy, while being more inclined to being true to herself, and her autonomy drives the plot. She’s also canonically a woc who has ADHD and she’s a gun control advocate. Like??? When will your faves ever?  Her romance is believable and wonderful and driven by what she wants and her arc, while subtle, is integral to the plot. 

I could do a paragraph for each character (and if you’re on my blog, I’ll probably get around to writing meta for each of them), but the popular kids, the bullies, even the apparently useless parent character…none of them are what they seem. As for the SQUIP, I don’t dare reveal the awesomeness of that particular villain, except to say that it’s a metaphor for…a number of things, while incredibly enthralling, and The Pitiful Children, the big villain song, is honestly up there with any of your Disney villains for a truly epic sci-fi experience. It’s a completely irredeemable villain whose appeal lies in its irredeemability, especially fascinating because it’s a machine, and hence gains no sadistic pleasure from it’s evildoing; it merely seeks results, which is just chilling. 

The cast is incredibly diverse, and there is a TON of LGBT+ representation, including Michael having lesbian mothers, a completely non-stereotyped bisexual male character who ACTUALLY CALLS HIMSELF BISEXUAL OUT LOUD, and who is arguably the most tragic character in the show, but that tragedy is separate almost entirely from his orientation, and more. 

While being lighthearted sci-fi fare, it deals pretty straightforwardly with a number of heavy topics, such as mental illness, suicidal ideation, extreme loneliness, self-hatred, isolation,  trauma, abuse, sexual orientation, dysfunctional families, dysfunctional friendships, existential crises, near-death experiences, brainwashing, addiction, bullying, torture (of the sci-fi variety but still pretty damn hard to watch), and even (albeit briefly, but it still bears mention) male sexual assault, and handles all of them exceptionally well, never overdoing it on any of them (they’re interwoven and sometimes entirely subtextual to the plot) but also being honest enough about the fact that some of our darkest moments include incredibly dark comedy, all while never making light of these serious issues. That being said, consider this the trigger warning paragraph if any of that’s a limit for you! They’re so wonderfully balanced by a narrative of healing and forgiveness and loyalty and love that it makes the story all the stronger; seeing everyone facing these awful things, and being able to overcome them together. 

It’s also the type of sci-fi that I love; the kind that, like Back to the Future, Weird Science, and Stranger Things embraces a retro aesthetic, and is a smaller, singular fantastical/sci-fi element contained in a setting that is otherwise very recognizable to our world; the kind of adventures you feel like you could have between your own classes. The sci-fi effects and costumes are incredible, especially in Act 2. 

AND, and and and, It’s an underdog story within an underdog story; it opened in a regional theatre in Jersey for a limited run in 2015 and closed very quickly, and everyone assumed it would never be picked up again, but in Winter 2017, it blew up by sheer word of mouth due to a combination of the original cast album being on Spotify and the popularity of certain amateur productions since it got licenced; eventually, it got a 2017 regional theatre revival at Exit 82, and that sparked an online fandom so strong that the show got a second chance with an off-Broadway run that happened this past summer, which in turn got so successful that the show is transferring to Broadway. All the way from a seemingly failed regional limited run, with most of the original cast (who are darlings, as are the creators, incredibly empathetic people bringing this wonderful, weird, warm story to the forefront). And who doesn’t love the meta of the show itself being an underdog when the cast is entirely of underdogs?

Just. Please. Do yourself a favour and check it out. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll cheer.  I heard about it only peripherally since around mid-2017 ish and then only really got into it this past May/June, and….gosh. My life’s gotten so much better since. I’ve met dear friends through the fandom, dragged other dear friends into this glorious pit, and the show, as a narrative of healing, is helping to heal me, too. 

Possibly a new all-time favourite. 

[tryslora]

Also available on AO3.

Fandom: Teen Wolf Pairing/Characters: Stiles/Derek/Jackson Trope: #17 -Sharing a Bed FMF: #433 - Eye of the Storm Summary: Stiles thinks that maybe he’s going to have to thank Hurricane Delilah after this.

Notes:

This was written in combination for Prompt #433 - Eye of the Storm at Fullmoon FIclet, and for Prompt #17 - Sharing a Bed at May Trope Mayhem. It is also part of my year of Sterekson.

1. Yes, I know, I left a part of a scene to your imagination. I'm working against a deadline. :)

2. This is a one shot.

3. Hurricane Delilah is a fictional hurricane name because I liked it.

Weathering the Storm

Stiles lies on his back in the grass, staring up at the blue sky. He lifts one hand and lazily drags it across, like stroking his fingers over a touch screen; the faint fuzz of new clouds follows the path of his fingers.

The wolf beside him rolls over, worrying at his haunches with his teeth. As soon as Stiles’s hand drops into his ruff, Derek returns to human form so that Stiles’s touch falls along his neck. Derek cranes his head, a low sound in his throat, and Stiles obliges by scratching behind his ear.

“Feels good,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles still has one hand free, so he drags it across the sky the other way, sketching in a fresh stroke of white, the clouds slowly building. Now that he’s called a few, more are coming to follow them.

“What’re you doing?” Derek doesn’t sound upset. He still sounds sleepy, the words low as if they’re pulled from him despite wanting to fall back into slumber.

It’s been a lazy afternoon. Stiles curled up with Derek several hours ago, while Jackson shifted into a bearded dragon and crawled out onto a hot rock, where he’s still basking in the sun.

“Nothing,” Stiles says, trying to keep his heart steady and his tone innocent.

Derek tenses under his touch, and he rolls over to face Stiles, brow furrowed. “You say nothing like I don’t know you.”

Stiles touches a finger to his lips, then points to where Jackson lies in the sun, scaly face lifted to the sky in warm bliss.

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs warningly.

“Sh,” Stiles whispers. “What’s the fun of being a Weather Witch if I can’t actually play a little with the weather? Jackson should know better.”

Stiles whirls his fingertip in the air, and the clouds darken. The air feels heavy and dead around them. Derek becomes a wolf again, crouched and softly snarling, his hackles raised.

Jackson inches further out on the stone, trying to find that warmth with his eyes still closed.

Stiles uses both hands to conduct the clouds, bringing them out in the gentle calm, like a soft symphony before he raises both hands and drops them abruptly to bring the storm.

It falls in an abrupt deluge. Jackson shifts back to human, falling off the rock and onto the ground, already soaked before he reaches Stiles’s side. Derek’s fur is limp, plastered to his back, and he whines while Stiles laughs.

“You jackass,” Jackson grumbles.

“The best part is, you fall for it every time,” Stiles chortles.

“The skies were clear!” Jackson protests. “Where the hell did you even get a storm from?”

“A little bit of cloud here… a hint of moisture there. And I am a very, very skilled Weather Witch,” Stiles reminds him. “Almost as skilled as certain Clan I know who can do very unusual things for a lizard. And our wolf,” he says, his hand resting atop Derek’s head. “So. Should we go home and strip and dry off?”

“You should warm me up,” Jackson grumbles. “Strip me and warm me up. You owe me.”

Stiles can’t think of anything he’d rather do than warming up both of them. “Of course. And you, too,” he promises Derek.

The storm is already fading, the sun peeking out and shining brightly, by the time they reach Derek’s SUV. For a moment, Stiles thinks about suggesting that they stay and enjoy their picnic, but it’s a public place, and they really do need to get out of their wet clothes. For some reason public nudity is still frowned upon.

On the other hand, the SUV has tinted windows, and if they take care of stripping and drying off in the back long before they ever make it home, well, no one will know.

It’s not like Stiles planned it to work out this way.

Except, it always does. Like he said, Jackson always falls for it, and Derek never stops him.

He might think they enjoy it as much as he does, and oh by the way: yeah, he enjoys it very, very much.

If you enjoy my fic, you might also enjoy my original serial available at Welcome to PHU!

[tryslora]

May Trope Mayhem: Yours, For Always

Also available on AO3.

Fandom: Welcome to PHU Pairing/Characters: Ángel/Tony Trope: #5 -Wedding Day Summary: For always ~ 2022

Yours, For Always

Ángel sits on the roof, his bare feet pressed against the shingles, his arms wrapped around his knees where they are drawn up close to his chest. The moon is rising, but it’s not quite there yet. He can feel it in his bones now, after five years with the Lince. Maybe it’s true when they say he’s one of them, even though he’s not a cat.

The window behind him slides, and he turns to see Tony wedging the piece of wood in it so it can’t close accidentally. “You forgot,” Tony says.

He’s beautiful in the moonlight. His dark hair shines, and his scruff is shorn close and neat. His skin is still tanned from the summer sun, dark against the white of his dress shirt which is rolled up nearly to his elbows. His ink is vivid, the skin still red against the newest addition of tiny script, nestled in close to the angel’s wings.

For always ~ 2022

The script stings against Ángel’s skin as well, lining the edge of the moon on the inside of his wrist. It isn’t a part of their soul mark, but it’s a part of them and their lives, freshly added today.

Their wedding day.

“I forgot the window’s broken,” Ángel agrees. “I thought Gabi was going to get it fixed.”

“She said since she doesn’t live here anymore, even though she’s the one who broke it, she’s not dealing with it. Because it’s still my room.” Tony settles in next to Ángel, his hip warm against him.

They are both putting creases in their tuxes that don’t belong. Doesn’t matter; that’s what dry cleaning is for. Because Ángel owns the damned thing; they wouldn’t let him rent.

Mollicones can be very insistent about doing things their way.

“You’re a Mollicone now,” Tony murmurs, his lips pressed against the side of Ángel’s throat.

“And that’s distracting.” Ángel grumbles when Tony laughs, because obviously that’s why he’s doing it. To make Ángel trip over his words and speak inside thoughts aloud. “Besides,” Ángel reminds him. “We’re the Mollicone Cruz family. Both names. Both heritages. Italian and Cuban, Lince and Mage.”

“Mm.” Tony cradles Ángel’s face and Ángel is going to argue when Tony’s mouth descends, meeting his for a slow, sweet kiss.

They break, and end up forehead to forehead, with Tony lazily head-butting Ángel like the cat he is. Ángel strokes along the back of his neck, scritching him behind the ear.

“Did everyone try to talk you out of getting married?” Ángel whispers. “They wanted to know if I’m really ready. Because I’m young. And I’m still in school. And you might want kids, and it’s not like I’m going to produce those.”

“I’ll support you in grad school,” Tony punctuates the statement with a kiss. “You’re not too young. We’ll figure out the kids when we’re ready.”

“That’s what I said. Besides. It’s already been five years. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

Tony snorts. “You do realize I was with Daphne for—”

Ángel covers his mouth with his hand. “No. We do not talk about the dark period of your life before you had me in it.”

“Before you flung out your drunk hand and branded me with your soul mark and didn’t even know it,” Tony counters dryly. He shudders and looks up, gaze drifting toward the moon.

“Is it time?” Ángel asks.

“It’s close,” Tony murmurs.

“Do we need to—” Ángel doesn’t manage to finish the question before Tony is shaking his head, distancing himself from Ángel on the roof.

Zita’s voice rises clear from the ground, even though Ángel knows she isn’t shouting. “There’s no need to resist any longer. Let your cat come.”

Tony’s cat is as familiar to Ángel as his human form. Tony burrows close, butting his head against Ángel’s chin until Ángel grips him and rubs his chin against Tony’s forehead, roughly saying hello. Tony burrows closer, rubbing his cheek against Ángel’s throat, then flops across his lap.

Ángel strokes along his stomach, rubbing gently until Tony rolls over, belly up, purring throatily.

It’s peaceful like this, sitting on the roof outside Tony’s room while the rest of the gathered Mollicone and Cruz combined families run and play beneath the light of the moon. Ángel slides his fingers through the soft fur of Tony’s belly.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “There was nothing anyone could say that would convince me not to marry you. I’m yours, for always.”

He takes Tony’s deep, rumbling purr to say, “I love you, too.”

“We’re going to have everything we could want, you know,” Ángel murmurs. “A house full of magic and cats.” Because ever since Helga broke down, that’s what he’s wanted. And tonight is their first step down that road, together.

-

If you enjoy my fic, you might also enjoy my original serial available at Welcome to PHU!

[unforth]

May Trope Mayhem Fill Day 13: First Kiss

Fandom: Star Wars Eps 7 - 9

Ship: Finn/Poe Dameron

Rating: Gen

Tags: Post canon, fluff with a splash of angstful pining, love confessions, first kiss

Words: 1,987

First time in like a week one of these fills was short enough that I felt it was appropriate to post the whole thing to Tumblr. Also, first time since the event started that I didn’t write either Chinese or Japanese fandom. :D Here, have some Stormpilot.

Xposted to AO3

@duckprintspress​

Rolling onto his side, Finn swung a hand behind himself to catch his balance before he could tumble off the edge of the narrow X Wing nose (was it even called a nose? Finn wasn’t sure, and wasn’t in the mood for the good-natured ribbing he’d sustain if he asked). Poe lay beside him, so close that their sides had been pressed together before Finn moved; he made holding his position look effortless, as effortless as he made flying look, as effortless as he made rebelling look, as effortless as he made smiling look. Lips spread in a relaxed grin, Poe stared up at the night sky over D’Qar, reflected stars sparkling in the depths of his dark eyes. A breeze tousled brown locks over his face and shifted the folds of his loose shirt.

He’s gorgeous.

Am I allowed to think that? I wish I knew. I wish I could ask. And...maybe I can...I wish I knew why I feel like I can’t…

...don’t be an idiot, FN-21-- Finn. I feel I can’t because I’m scared of what’ll happen if I say something I shouldn’t.

I can’t risk losing what we have now.

So - let’s keep things safe, instead.

“What happens now?” Finn asked. Even speaking barely above a whisper, Finn’s voice sounded loud in his ears in the forest night. Insects chirped, branches creaked, leaves rustled, something called low and eerie from the darkness, and Poe’s breathing ebbed and flowed in sof rushes of air. Speaking seemed to shatter something, and Finn wished he hadn’t, but Poe didn’t react as though he’d done anything wrong; he wiggled onto his side, slid an arm under himself, set his elbow on the hard metal of the X Wing and propped his head up on the hand, and directed toward Finn the same easy look that, moments before, had stared up at the sky. One of those gusting exhales brushed over Finn’s face, warm and humid, and stole Finn’s breath away.

“What doesn’t happen now?” Poe replied avidly. “The sky’s the limit, literally. Rey’s got that whole Jedi-Sith fusion plan going on, and the politicians are doing, I dunno, the same crap they always do, and I’m still training folks at the academy...there’s sure enough to keep busy with! I guess the question is - what do you want to happen now? What do you want to do, Finn?”

(read more)

“I want to stay by your side.” The answer, the truth, slipped from Finn before he could stop it. A dash of panic set his heart to racing - what if Poe misunderstood what he meant? What if Poe understood what he meant? - and he continued in a rush, “You know. Rehabilitating the former Storm Troopers. Helping them integrate. Retraining the ones who want it. All that kind of…” Searching for the right words, he raised an arm and waved vaguely at the ait; tiny bugs flitted away as though he movement threatened them; it didn’t - the only threat was to his own precarious perch, and he caught himself with a foot thrown behind himself and a boot stomped hard against the angled side of the ship. “...stuff like that.”

“Awesome stuff like that, yeah.” Poe’s eagerness was spectacular, his implicit support calming. “But honestly? Not exactly what I meant.”

“No?”

Poe shook his head; even that didn’t damage his positioning. Truly, the man was a wonder in everything he did.

But he didn’t answer.

“Something wrong?” Finn asked leadingly, nervously.

“No...and yes,” Poe sighed, slumping onto his back and pressing his palms into his eyes. “Fuck, I’m bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“Usually, it’s so easy.”

“What’s easy?”

“I just...go to the person, say how I feel and what I’d like to do, they go, ‘cool, yeah, let’s do that!’ or ‘I’d rather not’ or, at worst, ‘ew, no, get away,’ and that’s that - it’s all good, we do what we do, we don’t do what we don’t do, and life goes on.”

“I literally couldn’t have less idea what you’re talking about.” Finn scowled, disgruntled. He knew that Poe was forward in stating his desires and approaching people he was interested in. That was part of why Finn felt so sure he wasn’t allowed to want - all that confidence had never been directed toward Finn, at least not ‘like that.’ If Poe wanted what Finn wanted, why hadn’t he just said something?

Takes one to know one, Finn - I feel how I feel, and I want what I want, but I haven’t said anything either…

“But you…” Poe directed his speech toward the fathomless sky, not sparing Finn’s interjections a reaction. “...Fuck, I don’t know. What am I even saying?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Finn. “ ‘Cause it almost sounds like you’re suggesting that you’ve got feelings and...doings...that you want to say, except for whatever reason, you’re putting me in a different category than...like...everyone else?”

Please don’t...please tell me I’m just another person…

“Uh, duh?”

...or say that. Oh, that stings.

“Oh,” muttered Finn. Shifting his leg, he let gravity take him and did a controlled tumble down to the runway, landing in a squat.

“Finn?” Poe called after him. Glaring at nothing, Finn rose and stalked toward the barracks.

“Wait up!”

He knew he was being unreasonable.

“Come on, don’t be like that!”

He knew he was being unfair.

“Will you just stop?”

He knew that, if he wanted Poe to talk to him, his current behavior was guaranteed to produce the exact opposite result.

“You don’t understand!”

He knew, knew, that Poe didn’t see him as merely an ex-Stormtrooper, merely a former soldier, merely a murderer who had to learn to assume the facsimile of personhood.

“Aaargh, you’re being impossible!”

He doesn’t see me that way.

“This is exactly why I didn’t know what to say!”

I see me that way.

“I love you!” Poe’s voice, breathless and sincere, shouted out loudly enough in the night that the birds and animals went silent.

Finn froze.

Pounding footsteps raced up behind him and Poe sprinted to his side, overran by several steps, stopped huffing and puffing with his hands on his knees and his breath making foggy clouds in the chill night air before him.

“I know...I know what you’re thinking,” Poe said. “I get what you’re afraid of. And you’re not wrong.” I’m not? “I don’t see you like those people. Because you’re not those people. They could be anyone, but you’re Finn.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” asked Finn acidly. I’m sure it is. He said he loved me. He said...he really said…

“If I cared less, I could talk about it more.”

“...that sounds like something I’ve heard before…”

“Whatever, it’s from some book the General recommended, it doesn’t matter,” said Poe, waving away Finn’s words. “What matters is you. You matter too much for me to risk hurting you. You’re too important for me to take for granted. You’re too special for me to sanguinely accept that if I say the wrong thing, you’ll walk away. And then I said the wrong thing anyway, and you did walk away, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

He looks so earnest, so genuine, so beautiful, that Finn’s heart ached.

“Can I fix it?” Poe implored.

His concerns sound so similar to my own...he comes from a place of experience, and I from a place of inexperience, but the fears are the same.

“Tell me how, and I’ll do it.”

And now I know - there’s nothing for me to be afraid, because he’s told me how he feels, and I know it’s the truth.

“Because I’ve lost everyone - almost everyone - and I can’t lose you too, Finn.”

I’ve told him nothing.

“You won’t,” Finn said; a moment of shame and worry had him looking around, looking down, his toe scuffing the dirt of the path...and then he shook his head, crossed the couple steps separating them, threw his arms around Poe’s shoulders, and pulled him into a rough hug. “You never will.” A helpless noise burst from Poe and then he relaxed into the embrace, putting one arm around Finn’s waist, another around his shoulders, and holding him like he never meant to let go.

“Finn…”

“I love you, Poe,” Finn murmured, shifting his head against the side of Poe’s face, delighting in the tingle of scruff tickling against his cheek, adoring being able to whisper the truth into Poe’s ear. “Seriously.” Poe breathed a word - it might have been yes! but Finn wasn’t sure - and hugged him more tightly. “I really, really, love you.”

“Really, really?” asked Poe, voice rolling with laughter.

“Really, really.”

“Just to be abso-fricken-lutely clear, you don’t mean, like...bro-love?”

“I mean, like, I can’t remember the last time I looked at your face and didn’t imagine kissing you senseless.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s...that’s really, really.”

“Yup.”

“Awesome.” And Poe dropped an arm, leaned back, and hesitated a moment as he gazed at Finn’s face...and he lifted a hand to Finn’s face, ran calloused fingers over his cheek, and then leaned forward and brought their lips together softly, slowly, gently.

Finn had seen a lot of people kiss since he joined the Rebellion.

Finn had been kissed, and kissed others, a whole mess of time - in grief, in celebration, in relief, in greeting. So many cultures kissed casually, he’d learned to do the same.

Finn thought he knew what a kiss was.

Easing into lip-on-lip contact with Poe, Finn realized with crystal-clear, fuzzy-warm clarity, he had no idea what a kiss was.

And he was really, really looking forward to finding out.

He and Poe would have to experiment a great deal until Finn understood, profoundly, how all those other kisses were different from exchanging tender intimacies with the man he’s loved and wanted since roughly 10 Standard Minutes after they met.

Too soon, the kiss ended. There was a soft mwap as they drew apart. Finn’s lips tingled pleasantly, warmth suffusing his chest; flicking out his tongue, he moistened the skin and delighted at the flavor of Poe in his mouth.

He opened his eyes.

Poe was staring avidly at his mouth.

“That good, Finn?” he asked, voice low and throaty.

“You tell me,” Finn replied.

“How about we both work on the sharing-and-caring?”

“It was fantastic, Poe.”

“Right?! It really was!”

“Really, really!”

“Super really, really!”

“Ultra really, really.”

“Mega really, really.”

“Ice-cream-with-a-cherry-on-top really, really.”

“Where did you even learn that?” laughed Poe. “Ginormously re--”

“Question.”

“Anything, Finn.”

“Why are we talking about it when we could be doing it again?”

“...valid. Really valid.”

“Really, really valid?”

Snorting, Poe smacked a quick kiss on his lips again - Finn chased him futilely as he leaned away - and broke their embrace to take Finn’s hand.

“My bunk or yours?”

“My bunk is literally a bunk,” replied Finn.

“And mine isn’t?”

“Yeah, but yours is in a room, with a door, and no bunkmates.”

“...they haven’t given you your own room?!”

“How do you not know that?”

“You literally saved the galaxy.”

“We all literally saved the galaxy.”

“I...you...fucking damn, okay, tomorrow, we’re going to fix that.”

“And right now?”

“Right now...my bunk. Definitely my bunk. Right, Finn?”

“Really, really right, Poe.”

“Stop that,” groaned Poe, laughing again.

“Never,” promised Finn with a grin, and delighted in the matching grin he got back.

“That’s right. Never. Never stop.”

“I really, really won’t.”

“Fuck, do I love you…”

And, beaming, beyond happy, Finn allowed himself to be drawn to Poe’s room.

Had he truly been so worried about how things would go if he spoke his heart?

Now, he was really, really not worried.

And he knew - he was in for a really, really, excellent night…

...and he’d never have to really, really, worry about Poe’s heart again.

Really, really.