#here there be lemons what i wrote LITERAL YEARS AGO

[callmearcturus]

the au everyone but me is sick of

so while i was super depressed and sad, i did the Extremely Predictable and wrote more fallout AU to comfort myself. someone left a comment suggesting i write out the full epilogue so I started doing that just to ensure I was writing SOMETHING.

i have no idea if I will finish, so here is what I have so far for your amusement.

this will make literally no sense if you haven't read out here the good girls die.

Even now, Karkat had never learned how to be a morning person, and so assumed he was just never going to make that switch. Here in the late California summer, the mornings were blessedly cool and forgiving while his beloved nights were balmy until the moon was high in the sky. For comfort's sake alone, he should have adapted.

But no. Like clockwork, every morning found him here, sitting at the kitchen table with his eyes mostly shut, his head heavy on his neck in a way that let him doze for a while, yes, but also ensured he was going to get a knot lodged right at the top of his spine. This was the devil's bargain he took Monday to Friday, except for the Fridays where he decided the office could just open later, he didn't care.

"Are you conscious, ranger?" 

"No," Karkat said, managing to make one syllable into a vehicle conveying his ire.

"Poor baby," another voice said, and something was set down in front of Karkat. He blurrily opened his eyes and looked at the plate. A nice little pile of roti with a generous scoop of chutney. 

Karkat smiled to himself at the sight. He'd missed his father's breakfast as soon as he left home some ten years ago. Getting to have it again as Dave picked up on a few recipes was heartwarming in a way that threatened to cause a brush fire in his chest.

Tearing one roti, he dabbed it through the chutney. "The lemons came in?"

"They're, like, almost oranges? I dunno, your dad says citrus crossbreeds a bunch." Dave knuckled his hip and looked across the kitchen at Rose.

She shook her head silently; Rose didn't eat breakfast most days. Apparently that was the default for her, divorced from her life in the Mojave where everyone ate whenever they could, unsure of when their next meal would be. "The free lovers of the produce world," she offered in bemusement.

"Ugh," Dave said, nose wrinkling.

"Contain your prudishness."

"M'not a prude, I just don't want to think 'bout the orchard orgies this early, it's perfectly fuckin' reasonable." He held out a spoon to her. "Will you just try this, it's the first one pops let me do on my own without hoverin'."

"It's good," Karkat confirmed as he ate.

"Your constant need for approval is truly your greatest failing," Rose told him sternly as she bent to taste the chutney. Dave tried to swat her; she dodged nimbly. "Don't, I just did my hair." Swallowing, she gave him one brisk, prescribed nod. "Tart. Anise?"

"Yeah, I don't dig anise, but baba fucking insists on it."

"It's good," Karkat said again.

"What is his name?" Rose asked suddenly. 

"Who?" Dave picked up a roti for himself and spooned in some chutney, rolling it like a little burrito.

"The elder Vantas."

"Dunno. At this point, I'm playin' the long game, seeing if I can go the my entire life without knowing."

Rose crossed her arms and looked at Karkat, eyebrow lifted.

Shrugging, Karkat chewed slowly and offered no answer.

"Fine, please yourself," Rose said. She always referred to Karkat's father with dignified appellations, Father Vantas and Monsieur Vantas and such. Karkat was pretty sure her mouth refused to form diminutive sounds like *baba.* It was fun to watch her verbally dodge each one while Dave tacked more on.

He wasn't about to spoil that for them.

"You have an appointment with the teacher's union in an hour," Rose announced. "When you have sated yourself, let's be off, councilor."

"And who's your meetin' with?" Dave asked sunnily.

"What could you mean, brother-mine, I'm just the secretary." She opened the fridge and took out a nuka. Cracking the top of with a precise strike against the counter, she took a swig. "Hurry up, Karkat."

If working with the military had taught Karkat anything, it was how to march.

=

As of the last regional election, Karkat worked out of the council house. Vineyard wasn't such a political foothold in the Republic that it had been contentious, and there were enough other former military people peeled off the Navarro base that Karkat's commendation had actually meant something.

It hadn't been how Karkat intended to spend his retirement, but also Rose was right; he was civic-minded and liable to go fucking stir-crazy if he didn't have something to do. So in the end, he let the whole thing happen.

And here he was, his schedule peppered liberally with meetings, trying to figure out how to not piss off too many people, and to really piss off very specific people.

But on some level, he never stopped being a ranger and probably never would.

The representative of the teacher's union talked about their back order of textbooks from the closest press, how they'd put in the order two years ago and there was still nothing to show for it. It wasn't fair that children around Shady Sands had whatever materials they wanted while anyone even slightly off the highway had to make do.

Karkat asked what kind of books they needed, and took notes.

"Are we going somewhere," Rose asked when she caught Karkat in the living room with a map on the table.

"Another errand," Karkat muttered, walking his fingers from Vineyard to the spot on the map he needed. "You two can stay, it'll only be a few days."

"What sob story tugged at your overflowing bouquet of heartstrings this time?"

"School needs more books. Press is taking its sweet fucking time and kids are having to share texts."

"Sounds like the work of a strongly worded letter to the capital."

"Already sent one. Now it sounds like I can cut out the middle man and just hit this old vault for what they have."

"You hate vaults," Dave said from down the hall. "Why are we talkin' about vaults?"

"It's not really a vault," Karkat said. "Old Brotherhood bunker, remnants from a chapter that folded some fifty years back. All the tech got claimed by the Followers, but they'll let me have extra books for if its for education."

"And this something that must fall squarely on your own shoulders?" Rose asked, dropping herself into the armchair as she observed Karkat's manual cartography. As she did, Dave wandered in, his hair curling around the nape of his neck, damp from a shower, walking around barefoot with a towel around his hips.

"It's just…" Karkat frowned at them. "I know where to go, who to talk to, what to say. Why would I rope in some daytripper who doesn't know their ass from their elbow when I can just do it myself, the point is eliminating the middleman. I'm not going to add in another middleman for kicks."

Rose sighed loudly, leaning her cheek on her hand, as if Karkat was being disappointing in a predictable way. 

"You're staying here, I don't know what your issue is," Karkat said. "If I didn't know better, and I fucking do, I'd say you were concerned and were going to miss me."

"Luckily we do know better," Rose said dryly. "No, but Dave will, and I will have to deal with his longing looks and whimpering in your absence."

"Oh, fuck you," Dave said, turning right back around and leaving the room. "Bye, California, try not to step on a deathclaw's foot while you're out."

Pointing over her shoulder, Rose said, "See? He'll be like that the entire time you're away, and I will have to deal with it."

"Shut up, Rose," Dave called down the hall.

"I'm not even leaving yet, can you both relax," Karkat said with a sigh.

"Do try not to abandon us for too long," Rose said.

=

He didn't mean to abandon the twins for very long at all. The trip down southeast to the Follower operation was a two-book journey at most.

Karkat tended to estimate his time in that way. When he first was stationed in the Mojave, he got stopped at the Outpost. A security officer had gone through his stuff because generally speaking new people were only supposed to have one gear bag and Ranger Cancer had two.

"Is this thing just books," the officer had asked after awkwardly shifting the books around without removing them from the bag. They were very precisely arranged and stacked inside to maximize space, and the officer didn't seem like she wanted to fuck up the careful engineering.

"I'm on a two year tour," Karkat had said.

"This bag probably weighs more than a bodybag."

"Yeah." Karkat had already had this argument with his superiors back east. If Karkat was willing to carry the fucking thing, he could do what he wanted. However, if he dropped dead of exhaustion from carrying an extra bag through a goddamn desert, they'd leave him behind and write his cause of death as Stupidity.

Karkat hadn't dropped dead, and he'd read through his entire bag during his tour. He'd even given some books out to First Recon as gifts; he knew sniper work was a whole lot of waiting around in boring places.

But now, in California, Karkat took two books with him. They were perfect for passing time before nightfall; the perfect barometer of when he needed to get moving was the necessary light level for reading a yellowed Old World novel. As soon as he started to squint at the words, it was time to go.

Walking through California was different than the desolate quiet of the Mojave. Back in Vegas, Karkat had walked with his rifle in hand. The sight of anyone or anything moving on the horizon was a possible threat; raiders, mutated animals, motherfucking cazadors.

And there was still danger in California, but things were less…. ornery, as Dave would say. People were less willing to tempt death by ambushing a guy in ranger gear.

At Olompali, Karkat checked into an cabin. After cleaning up, he deliberated exactly how he wanted to handle this one. The Followers of the Apocalypse were not fans of the New California Republic, but generally they respected the rangers as a self-managing volunteer group. If the Followers believed in anything, it was anarchic altruism.

Karkat left his helmet and his mantle, keeping his armor light, with his patch on his shoulder. After more deliberation, he left his service pistol and kept his rifle on his back, hoping that would be a sign he was here to be useful but not a threat.

Rose was mortifyingly right about him, Karkat thought with a scowl. The careful picking and choosing of himself to make sure he got the reaction he wanted, it was all very political of him. Thank fuck she wasn't around to see it, to needle him and ask him to explain his precise choices.

Sighing, Karkat went to the old bunker.

The whole ordeal was familiar; the Followers were very sympathetic to Karkat's plight and were openly interested in providing assistance to educational efforts. And what a coincidence, they did have most of the hoarded library the Brotherhood had collected.

But there were just a few things they'd appreciate help with, if Karkat had some time. After all, he did bring a rifle.

Karkat liked the Followers but for fuck's sake, this wasn't his job anymore.

Dave and Rose:

Made it to the Followers safely. Stuck with their honey-do list before they'll give up the books. Will be a little longer than expected. Please remember to actually go shopping and pick up food so you don't starve.

Love you, see you as soon as I can.

California

For ten minutes, Karkat deliberated on the sign off. He'd been witness so many times to the particular distaste the twins had to outright shows of affection and emotional statements.

But it was a letter and he wouldn't be there when they got it, and thus would dodge all of their sarcasm and irritated hissing.

Sealing the letter, he found a courier on the way to Navarro and asked him to detour to Vineyard.

With that handled, Karkat geared up and stormed out on the trail of the raiders the Followers wanted to disappear.

=

The little venture out to the Followers took a few weeks, which was both longer than Karkat intended and shorter than he feared.

These things usually wound up being worth it in his experience. There were times when he showed up in the name of the NCR, carrying some kind of orders from on high, and knew the way people bristled at him, at the way that kind of control chafed against them.

He also knew if he showed up and did shit like this, crossing out items from the honey-do list with blood and dust under his nails, he'd usually luck into a more longterm relationship. People who actually did shit were the truest currency of the New World, more than caps and dollars.

So with a lingering sense of satisfaction, Karkat talked to the doctor running the outpost and verified there would be a caravanner up to Vineyard soon with all the books a brahmin could haul. And just as a bonus, they'd send one of their own instructors along to give a few lectures on science and medicine.

Perfect. With that promise secured, Karkat put his back to the camp and headed home.

By now, he'd traded his books for new ones. He barely read them, eager to get home and traveling straight through one night and into the next day.

Karkat enjoyed being a ranger, but he also enjoyed being home. Having a home still carried its own novelty bias.

With the accelerated pace, Karkat had the good fortune to return to Vineyard at night. As he walked through the streets, one watchmen wandered his way, suitably concerned about someone in full armor with a rifle just out and about in the city.

Karkat waved to him, and got a thumbs up. Just the local ranger, nothing to see here.

Well, ex-ranger.

Arriving home quiet as he could, Karkat divested of his gear in the living room. It was much easier to walk quietly without the extra tonnage weighing him down, less of a risk of waking the twins when the house was dark and quiet like this.

Drinking a full glass of water and washing up briefly, Karkat wandered down the hallway. Checking the double bedroom, he found both beds empty.

Frowning silently, Karkat walked over to his own bedroom, and nudged the door open further. To his relief, someone was sleeping there. The covers were pulled up high enough that he could only see the curve of an ear and some cornsilk white hair, so saying definitively who was impossible.

He could hazard a guess and slipped inside.

When he finally put a knee on the bed, there was a sleepy mumble from under the blankets, but nothing else. Which felt a bit like dousing the warmth in Karkat's heart with moonshine. He was prepared for the usual consequence of disturbing the sleep of a New Vegas citizen, the flash of a knife, the viper's strike. But all he got was a muffled slur of consonants that might've been Rose's name with a question mark attached.

Moving over Dave, Karkat dropped himself down behind, his body fitting into the space under the windowsill, back against the wall. He couldn't help the deep sigh loosened from him at the feeling of finally being off his feet.

For a few moments, he assumed that was that, and it was time to sleep. He certainly could just fall the fuck asleep now, the weeks of work and travel coming up from behind him to smother him into slumber.

Then, Dave shifted, and the back of his hand thumped against Karkat's chest, turning to let his fingers coast over his clavicle. "Not Rose," he muttered, turning more and opening his eyes, pale little wet crescents in the dark. "Look what blew in with the tumbleweeds."

Karkat closed his hand around Dave's, pulling it up to press his lips against the knuckles. "Hey."

"Been a while." His fingertips touched Karkat's jaw. "Mammillaria."

What? "What?"

"They don't got razors in the F-O-T-A?" There was a huff of laughter. "You are so prickly."

"Was kind of busy doing their goddamn busywork," Karkat grumbled. "Didn't have time between the raiders and setting up gecko traps and investigating their water filter theft thing."

"Fuckin' itinerant do-gooder." Dave pressed his thumb against Karkat's scratchy jaw, eyes shutting again.

"Shit got done." Karkat was perfectly fine with the little touches, the point of connection stretching across the gap between them, a soft landing after so much time away. "Where's Rose?"

Dave sounded drowsily amused. "Prob'ly shouldn't tell you."

"Why?"

"Think she's, uh. Having a sleepover with the hospitality guild. Talking about… plans."

Karkat's eyes popped open as he considered that. Rose out for a clandestine 2AM meeting with the local sex workers. Which, he would probably be supportive of whatever the fuck that was about, but also he needed some plausible deniability. Karkat was a terrible fucking liar. "Yeah, don't tell me that."

"Sorry, councilor," Dave chuckled. His fingers were still skating idly around. A little considering noise escaped his mouth.

"What's wrong?"

There was enough of a pause that when Dave said, "Nuthin'," Karkat knew he was lying. Squinting at him in the dark, Karkat watched Dave press his head further into the pillow. "You know how the dust out there can make someone's skin all shiny? You're rockin' that look pretty nicely, California."

He did know it pretty well, how there was that grace period between fresh-washed to grime where it was almost like every speck of dust caught some ephemeral light and shone, making someone look like they were carved by some lost Old World master. Many times, Karkat had seen that sheen over Dave's skin and had stared for way too long, wanting to touch but certain he'd smudge it, ruin it.

Also, that was back when touching Dave was less of an inevitability.

Closing his eyes and soaking up the attention, Karkat hummed quietly.  Curling his hand around Dave's arm, he thought he could definitely sleep like this. It had the possibility of being the best sleep of his life.

"Are you for real tired?" Dave asked. "You, mister sun hater? Mister night tripper?"

"I've been traveling for almost two days straight," Karkat pointed out mulishly. "I wanted to get back to you."

"Oh. Well." Dave blew out a breath, and sounded almost a little disappointed, which made Karkat squint at him. "If you are going to conk out then you at least gotta give me somethin'."

Bracing with his elbow, Dave slid in closer to Karkat and kissed him, hands curling around his neck, thumbs stroking Karkat's cheeks.

[megabadbunny]

Cartography and Ritual Observation

In all the time that she plotted and worked and strove for a happy ending, Rose realizes, she had planned for all manner of contingencies and failures. She never actually figured out what she would do if she succeeded. (She never actually planned to be happy.)  

* lemon-free version on fanfiction.net *

***

She never expected to see the Doctor in her universe, in her living room, in her flat. Yet, here he is. 

(Here they both are.)

The Doctor is eager to inspect everything the moment they get in from Norway, peeking inside Rose’s bedrooms and her bath, opening the refrigerator and cabinet doors, inspecting the light fixtures, overturning the few knickknacks she has accumulated in her time here. His fingers glide over everything; impossibly, Rose has almost forgotten how much he sees with his hands. He listens to her house tour with rapt attention and she can see him filing every detail of her home away.

Rose doesn’t keep much food in the cottage, so she orders some takeaway and pretends to eat it while the Doctor tucks in. She’s too unsettled to eat properly, for reasons she can’t quite explain. She turns on the telly and they watch it for a bit—it’s a “documentary” on aliens, naturally—and Rose tries not to think about the weirdness of this situation, the mundane bizarreness or strange normalcy of it all, while she plucks out and eats all of the shrimp in her fried rice. The Doctor keeps up a running commentary on the film’s inaccuracies and Rose smiles, remembering how they used to do this on the TARDIS just a few years ago.

It’s almost disturbing, how easy it is for Rose to pretend that everything’s all right—except it isn’t pretend at all, is it? Everything is all right, just not the sort of all right she’d imagined, not the kind she’d planned and worked and hoped for. But her dislike of having decisions made on her behalf (yet again) notwithstanding, she can’t deny that she ended up with a pretty good deal. A fantastic deal, even; she got everything she wanted, and more besides—the Doctor, with her, and her family and her friends and her home, and the promise of adventures in the TARDIS once more, all in the same universe again. Which, as brilliant as it is, still doesn’t answer the question niggling in the background-noise of her consciousness, growing ever-louder by the minute:

What now?

For the first time in four years, the next step is completely unknown. It’s as if, upon arriving at her destination, someone ripped the guidebook out of Rose’s hands and set it on fire right in front of her. There’s no longer any map, no itinerary, no plan. And how the fuck is Rose supposed to deal with that?

Rose’s hands long to fidget, but she forces them still, locks her leg to keep her foot from tapping impatiently. She’s doing a magnificent job, she thinks, of looking like a normal person, one who isn’t about to vibrate right out of her skin with the utter need to just get up and complete the next step of the plan already. Whatever that next step may be.

Glancing sidelong at the Doctor, Rose wonders what, besides factual inaccuracies about aliens, might be going through his head right now. If he feels Rose’s gaze heavy on him, he doesn’t say, too busy glowering at the images of the Great Pyramid of Giza flashing across the telly because according to the documentary, humans only could have built the Pyramid with the help of aliens, but according to the alien in the room, that’s a bunch of hogwash, and all that business was 100% ancient Egypt, 100% of the time; I didn’t offer so much as a tidbit of advice on the construction, only popped by long enough to nab a snack from Khufu’s coronation, you can’t beat a pomegranate grown in the cradle of the Nile. At any rate, he doesn’t look worried about plans or the future, or indeed, anything that happened fewer than 4500 years ago. Rose wonders if she should snuggle up to him, for the simple comfort of it and also just because she can, just like she used to. She remembers when she would tuck in close on the settee in the TARDIS library under the feeble pretense of being cold; the Doctor would tut at her cold hands and feet and snag her a blanket, toss it over her. But he wouldn’t make her move. He’d still wrap an arm around her shoulders, wouldn’t budge if she nestled against his side.

(She had always wondered, then, how long the sense of normalcy would last if she had leaned up to press a kiss to his throat or his cheek or his mouth, if she had tried something more. She never found out. She never did try.)

They watch another film after that, and another, and finally, just when Rose is starting to wonder if he won’t need sleep to speak of in this body either, the Doctor stretches and lets out a yawn.

“I’m a bit knackered,” he announces. “But I suppose a metacrisis-regeneration will do that to you.”

After the two of them wash up for the night, there’s a brief, awkward question of which bedroom he’ll sleep in. But before Rose has to make a decision—put him in the spare room, or offer to share hers? Would offering the spare room make her seem cold and aloof, would offering her room make him feel claustrophobic?—the Doctor opens the door of the guest bed, deciding for her.

“Well,” says Rose, only a little awkwardly. But before she can say Good night, the Doctor surprises her by reaching out and pulling her in for a kiss.

It’s a very short kiss, but Rose’s brain still goes fuzzy and she’s warm everywhere he touches her, heat blossoming from his mouth, from his fingers on her shoulders, sliding down into her belly. He pulls her in close, her chest against his, and he’s so much warmer than before, so warm she can feel the heat of him even through both of their shirts. His lips part in millimeters and she can taste peppermint on his breath, the not-unpleasant reminders of toothpaste mingling with his own oh-so-human traces, working in gentle countermeasure to the softness of his lips, and the peppermint and the hormones and the warmth of him flood her mind like a pleasant buzzing fog. It’s a short kiss, yes, but her toes curl anyway and her heart races in her chest. She tells herself that it’s probably only because it’s been a while since anyone’s kissed her quite like this.

(She won’t admit that no one’s ever kissed her quite like this.)

Afterward, the Doctor pulls her into a hug. A proper hug. Arms wrapping around her body, bringing her toward him like gravity. Holding her snug and tight. Her own arms encircle him before she can even think to stop. It’s an automatic process. Touching the Doctor is still so engrained in her system, it’s right up there with breathing and blinking.

“Sorry,” he exhales into her hair, and he sounds almost out of breath—that’s a first. “It’s just—I’ve wanted to do that for ages.”

Rose can feel his heart hammering against hers. Fluttering like a creature in a cage. (A cage built for two.)

Should she invite him into her room? Is that what he wants? Is that what she wants? Is this part of the plan, now?

(What do they do, now?)

In all the time that she plotted and worked and strove for a happy ending, Rose realizes, she had planned for all manner of contingencies and failures. She never actually figured out what she would do if she succeeded. She never actually planned to be happy.

“Rose?” asks the Doctor. “Are you all right?”

Rose hesitates. She isn’t totally sure of the answer, and even if she was, she doesn’t know if she feels levelheaded enough to deliver it right now. But she can see that, despite his casual and placid demeanor all evening, now the Doctor is incredibly tense, concerned, even; she can spot it in the purse of his lips and the furrow of his brow, feel it in the rigidity of his hands on her arms.

Something eases up a little in her shoulders. He’s better at hiding it, but he’s just as nervous as she is, isn’t he? And probably feels just as lost, too.

“This isn’t really what either of us had in mind, is it?” Rose realizes aloud.

The Doctor frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...it’s not like either of us woke up the other day deciding to come back to this universe. And I can’t imagine you planned for your metacrisis-thing to happen.”

“That last one’s true enough,” says the Doctor, scratching his neck uncomfortably. “But, erm. As for the former. I had already made a decision about where I’d end up, regardless of what the other me decided.”

“You wanted to come back here?”

“Given the circumstances, yes.”

When Rose doesn’t reply, just furrows her brow in confusion, the Doctor averts his gaze. “I wasn’t so concerned about the specific location,” he says, slowly. He swallows hard. “All I knew—all I know—is that where you are, that’s where I want to be. Knew it from the second I woke up in this body. I just want to be with you.”

Rose stares at him, mouth parted in surprise.

“Only—only if that’s what you want too,” the Doctor stutters, cheeks flushing pink.

“I do,” says Rose, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as something goes fluttery in her stomach and warmth suffuses her from head to toe. “Of course I do. But I—it’s been a long few years, right? So I might need a minute, to get my thoughts and feelings and everything in order. Okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” the Doctor replies quickly. “Naturally. Makes sense. Completely.” Suddenly jittery, he steps back, hands fluttering about frantically in search of something to do before depositing themselves firmly in his pockets. “Totally understandable, imminently relatable. Molto bene. Hunky-dory. Bleh, not hunky-dory, never hunky-dory, what a dreadful-sounding phrase, please feel free to erase it from your memory immediately. But of course, take all the time you need, Rose, however long you need, I’ve got all the time in the world—well, I’ve got a good sixty years—well, could be fifty, with the way Donna’s cholesterol is going, and thanks for that, Donna—but then again, could be longer, depends on how things go with the baby TARDIS and whether anyone or anyplace in this universe has got any Werinian lipid stabilizers—but please, yeah, take whatever time you need, Rose, that’s fine by me, absolutely top-notch, spiffy, even—”

“Doctor, wait,” blurts out Rose, grabbing the Doctor by the elbow before he can sprint off to goodness-knows-where. “You don’t have to swan off.”

“I was not,” says the Doctor, who looks very much like he may bolt into the next dimension at any second, “going to swan off. Or duck off. Or goose off. Or any-other-sort-of-waterfowl-off, for that matter.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Rose teases him, smiling weakly.

“I was merely adhering to my promise of, you know. Being considerate and giving you what you need, and all that.”

“Yeah, except I asked for time,” says Rose. Her smile deepens. “Not space.” 

“Right,” says the Doctor.

“An important distinction, don’t you think?”

Something about him seems to loosen just a little bit. “Very important.”

Rose grabs his hand, squeezing it reassuringly, just to make absolutely certain he knows where she stands, and feels immensely relieved when he squeezes her fingers in response. But not half a moment passes before Rose has to stifle a yawn of her own.

“All right, then,” she says quietly, almost shyly. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice soft.

“Good night, Doctor.”

He beams down at her. “Good night, Rose.”

 ***

 Tomorrow, of course, ends up being something of a loose concept, because tomorrow is full of exciting things like Rose sleeping in (until past noon, somehow), Jackie and Tony bursting into the cottage (because it’s after noon, Rose, you haven’t stayed in that late in ages, are you dead?), Tony being so terribly excited to meet the Doctor that he wets himself just a little bit (The Oncoming Storm meets The Oncoming Piddle), and Jackie announcing that it’s time for a trip to the shops (they need to buy the Doctor things now that he’s human and here and forever).

“All right, but let’s keep it a short trip,” Rose tells her mum as the four of them head out the door. “Just for the basics.”

“Oh, of course,” Jackie replies, waving her hand dismissively. “Only the essentials.”

“One hour,” Rose says.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Jackie calls over her shoulder.

Naturally, one hour becomes two becomes five.

It’s about as weird as Rose anticipated, or rather, as weird as Rose would have anticipated, if she’d ever thought of such a thing. She half-expects the Doctor to bound away at any moment, impatient with the quaint little Earth shops and their decidedly terrestrial wares, but he seems content to poke around, to good-naturedly ignore all of Jackie’s fashion suggestions, to answer all of Tony’s many strange four-year-old’s questions. Rose keeps to herself for the most part—it’s only sort-of on-purpose, there are all sorts of feelings crawling around under her skin and she isn’t sure what to do with them—and she trails behind the rest of the group, hanging back, watching.

Her mum, Tony, the Doctor. In the same universe. In a shop together. Picking out socks and deodorant and hair gel. Years of dimension-hopping and traveling all of time and space have somehow failed to prepare Rose for how very weird this is.

Not bad, of course. But weird. Probably weird for him, too, Rose reminds herself.

“Awful quiet,” Jackie remarks at an upscale suit shop, her voice low so that only Rose can hear. She rifles through a clothing rack and pulls out a suit jacket (in blue, not brown; she’s cottoned on quickly).

“How d’you mean?” Rose asks.

Tilting her head, Jackie holds the jacket out at arm’s length, surveying the garment and the Doctor in the same glance. The jacket’s skinny, but not as skinny as he is. “Thought you’d be bouncing off the walls, the both of you,” Jackie explains. “That, or tangled up in the bedsheets.”

Rose groans. “Oh my god, Mum.”

“Don’t give me that. I know how it is. Lose the man you love, spend years pining after him, finally find a parallel version of him in an alternate universe. Bound to be some celebratory shagging, isn’t there?” Jackie replaces the jacket on the rack and grabs a different one. “Especially when he keeps wearing those tight trousers. You buying what he’s selling, or what?”

Rose closes her eyes and prays for mercy. “Mum, I’m pretty sure he can hear us.”

Both of them glance across the store to check, but the Doctor seems absorbed in the necktie display, smiling when Tony points to a tie in a shade of nearly-TARDIS-blue.

“Nah,” Jackie sniffs. “Even his hearing isn’t that good, I reckon.”

As soon as she turns away, the Doctor looks up at Rose with a wink.

(Is she imagining things, or did it suddenly get a few degrees warmer in the shop?)

 ***

 Days pass and he hasn’t kissed her again since that first night. But to be fair, she hasn’t kissed him again, either. Rose knows it’s only because they’re each trying to respect each other’s space or personal boundaries or sensitivities or whatever, which is quite frankly silly, given that in their time together before, neither of them seemed to really know what boundaries were, much less how to respect or enforce them.

Well, that isn’t quite true, she supposes. There were plenty of boundaries that they never crossed. It just didn’t feel so obvious before.

Take, for example, nighttime habits. On the TARDIS, each night they weren’t assisting some planetside uprising (or stewing in an alien prison for assisting in said planetside uprising), there was a distinct ritual: Rose would plop down on the jumpseat or the library settee or a pallet of cushions on the engine-room floor, reading a book or trashy mag or painting her nails or simply lounging about while the Doctor researched or tinkered or plotted. Rose would often have a snack with her as well, which the Doctor would insist he wasn’t interested in, but would ultimately eat half of. Lulled into relaxation by the TARDIS’ gentle hum, Rose would eventually doze off, at which time the Doctor would quietly rouse her and remind her to go to bed. After a bout of protesting that she wasn’t really that tired (punctuated with a deep and satisfying yawn that made the Doctor raise an eyebrow in amusement), Rose would then sleepily stumble-shuffle down to the hall to her room, scrub her face and brush her teeth, and go to bed. Neither of them would see the other until the morning (or sometimes the very early morning, on days where the Doctor excitedly burst into her room without warning and subsequently had a pillow chucked at his head), and that was it. That was the ritual, with all of its implicit steps and rules and boundaries. Hands could be held, food could be shared, cuddles could be had, but certain things were not discussed, other certain things were overlooked, and each night Rose went to bed alone. It didn’t need to be spoken or thought about; it just fell into place, a river following its own daily flow. It’s much the same, now, except there’s no hand-holding and no cuddling and no touching at all, just daily business, time together in the evenings, and then separate beds in separate rooms. This is the new ritual, it seems; this is the new plan.

This explains how a whole week passes before Rose decides she has to do something about the Doctor’s nightmares.

Wrenched awake by the sounds of shouting (again, same as the previous six nights), Rose waits just long enough for her heart to stop pounding before she throws off her duvet and pads down the hall, to the spare room where the Doctor sleeps. She presses her ear to the door, listening for any additional signs of agitation, and only spares half a thought for boundaries when he cries out again in the dark and suddenly she’s pushing the door open and climbing into the bed, time and space and rules be damned. Slipping beneath the bedclothes, Rose snuggles up behind the Doctor as he hyperventilates in his sleep, snaking a hand over his stomach and ribs and chest, pulling them both close. He awakens with a jolt and a gasp, grabbing Rose’s hand with a grip like a vice.

Rose freezes, feeling the Doctor tense to stone beneath her hand and arm. She wonders if he’s angry at her, if he’s embarrassed, if she did the wrong thing, if she should have waited to come up with a better plan.

“Rose?” asks the Doctor quietly, his voice rough.

“Yeah, Doctor,” she replies in a whisper. “I’m here.”

A few moments pass in thick silence before the Doctor relaxes, sinking back down into the mattress. He loosens his death-grip on Rose’s hand, but doesn’t let go entirely; instead he tugs, just a little, until Rose snuggles in closer, cushioning herself to him completely and eliminating even the thought of space between them. Her cheek pressed against his shoulderblades, her chest to his spine, Rose can feel the precise moment he slips back into sleep, his breaths expanding and evening out into liquid slow smoothness.

He doesn’t move her hand from his chest, and it’s a long time before he lets her hand go.

 **

 Probably they should just start going to bed together, but this all becomes part of the new ritual—go about their daily business (together), stay up late (together), wash up (at the same time), go to bed (separate beds, in separate rooms), awaken at the sound of nightmares ripping the calm night air (from down the hall), climb into his bed and go to sleep (next to him), wake up (alone). It’s another rule they both follow; the Doctor may need more sleep now, but he still needs less sleep than Rose does, overall, so she isn’t too surprised that each morning she awakes in it, his bed is empty. Until one morning it isn’t.

Honey-warm light drips in lazily through the gap between drapes and Rose realizes, her eyes slowly sliding open, that for once, she isn’t entangled in a mess of bedsheets, but rather, she seems to be intertwined with rather a solid fellow-human-shaped thing. One may even go so far as to say that she is, in fact, tangled up in the limbs of a fellow human. Probably she should slip out before he wakes, do what she can to preserve this boundary she’s drawn, but she hesitates, her breath warm and trapped between her face and the Doctor’s chest. Her legs are twined with his and her arms are wrapped around his torso and one hand, the cheeky little thing, has snuck up the back of his sleep-shirt, so her palm is pressed flat against warm, pliant skin. 

It’s nice, all cuddled and close like this, pressed together in their blanket-cocoon. It’s very nice. But Rose suspects it’s breaking the rules; she asked for time, so that means she’s got no right to be touching him now, like this. Besides, there’s no indication that he’s interested in anything beyond hugging, or holding hands, or the occasional wayward kiss. He could very well be totally asexual, for all Rose knows. And if that’s the case, she doesn’t want him to feel pushed, or pressured. So she pulls her hand down, hoping that a slow, gentle motion won’t disturb him, but that’s almost worse than if she’d just whipped her hand out straightaway, because now it probably feels like she’s stroking him, which, not that she minds, but what if he does? Nevermind that when she glances down (oh, that’s a mistake) she can see that his shirt has ridden up in the night to expose an entire agonizing expanse of rarely-before-seen skin, stretched thin over his hipbone and smooth over his stomach and smattered with a sparse scattering of hair leading southward, and warmth blossoms between Rose’s legs at the thought of her fingertips tracing a line down, down, down, over his flank and his hip and straight to his—

His breathing has gone shallow. He’s awake now. With Rose’s face pressed to his chest, her lips right over his heart, and her hand still half up his shirt. And with one of his legs sandwiched between hers, there’s no way he can’t feel the heat of her.

Fuck.

“Sorry,” Rose whispers anyway, because she feels like she should. She shifts in a halfhearted attempt to extricate herself from the Doctor. “I’m sorry, I just woke up like this—I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, you’re fine,” the Doctor stutters. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Rose laughs. “I was afraid I was making you uncomfortable.”

“Well, I appreciate the consideration, but I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about.”

Brow pinched in confusion, Rose shifts in the bed, extricating herself from the Doctor just enough that she can scoot up to his eye level. “Really?” she says.

He nods. “Really.”

“Oh,” says Rose, suddenly breathless, thinking of the Doctor’s wink in the shop the other day. Her hand has stilled on his lower back, near the waistband of his pyjama-bottoms and she can’t decide if she should keep moving away or if she should slip a finger beneath the elastic and see what happens next, sod the rules.

“I’m not in any particular rush,” the Doctor says, as if he can hear what she’s thinking. Or maybe it’s just that evident on her face. “I said I’d give you time, and I meant it. For whatever you need.”

Rose smiles at him. “You know just what to say to a girl, don’t you?”

“Well, it helps to have one buzzing about in your DNA.”

Rose abandons his waistband in favor of fisting her hand in the back of his shirt, squeezing him in a hug as she buries her face against his chest.

“Thank you,” she says.

He doesn’t say anything, but hugs her tightly in reply.

 ***

 It’s Tony’s birthday party—hard to believe he’s five years old, now, feels like just yesterday that Rose was visiting him and her mum in the maternity ward and marveling over the downy-softness of his sweet little baby head—and he has decided, with all the solemnity a small child can muster, that he wants a proper garden party, something fancy and grown-up, all suits and ties and dresses and pumps. (Rose has a sneaking suspicion about the correlation of this interest in suits and the sudden arrival of the Doctor in this universe; she keeps it to herself, but can’t hide her smile when she asks Tony what he’d like for his birthday, and his immediate response includes a pair of his own red Chucks.) Of course, once the day arrives, after the cake and biscuits and presents and fancy-proper-adult-party have worn out their novelty, Tony decides he wants to play a game of hide-and-go-seek. And naturally, he starts by tagging the biggest child present.

“You’re it!” he shouts, slapping the Doctor on the leg before he and the other children run off laughing and screaming.

The Doctor glances up at Rose in question, a half-eaten treat in one hand. “I’m what?” he asks incredulously around a mouthful of biscuit.

“You’re it,” Rose laughs. When the Doctor just raises an eyebrow, confused, Rose laughs even more. “You know. You’re the one that finds all the children hiding. Haven’t you ever played hide-and-go-seek before?”

“Well, of course I have, but it’s called different things in different places, isn’t it? Not to mention it’s been several centuries and just a few planets since then.”

“At least you look good for your age,” Rose teases.

“I do, don’t I?”

“Oh, yeah. Barely have any wrinkles or grey hair or anything.”

The Doctor mock-glowers at her. “Rose Tyler. I most assuredly do not have any ‘wrinkles, or grey hair, or anything’ anywhere on my person.”

“What about the freckles?”

“Those are hardly indicative of old age. And besides, everyone knows freckles are charming. Like a bunch of little kisses from the sun, just kissing you all over.”

“Has the sun been kissing you all over, then?” asks Rose, her tongue peeking out playfully between her teeth. “Should I be jealous?”

The Doctor’s eyebrows pique with surprise as Rose registers the implications of what she just said. She begs herself not to blush.

“Just to clarify: for this particular hypothetical, are you asking if you should be jealous of me,” the Doctor asks slowly, a grin playing across his lips—and a smug grin, at that!—“or if you should be jealous of the sun?”

Huh. It’s been a little while, but Rose is fairly certain she’s being flirted-with.

“You’re a smart lad,” she says, grabbing the biscuit out of his hand. “You’ll figure it out,” she tells him, offering her own smug grin as she eats her stolen treat.

“Mr. Doctor!” shouts Tony from across the garden, drawing Rose and the Doctor’s attention to where he has decided to hide in a very obvious spot. “Come find us!”

Turning back to Rose, the Doctor clears his throat. “So I should, erm,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder toward where all the children ran off, and have the tips of his ears gone pink? “Probably go put the seek in hide-and-go-seek, right?”

“Right,” Rose says. “They’re not gonna find themselves, after all.”

“Well, it’s a good thing they’ve got me, then, isn’t it?” 

“A very good thing,” says Rose, smiling.

The Doctor beams at her for just a second before darting off in search of all the children, pretending to carefully examine every nook and cranny in the garden, even those that children couldn’t possibly ever hide in, ignoring the titters of laughter that float his way from all of the poorly-hiding five-and-six-year-olds.

(He catches Rose watching him a few moments later and shoots her another wink across the garden. Cheeky bastard.)

An hour or so later, as the sun is setting and the sky darkening, the party has begun to wind down, and the staff has begun cleaning the mess away. (It still feels surreal, the staff, and the mansion and the money and the not-having-to-worry-about-every-penny, but it’s a good sort of surreal after twenty years of scraping by, and the staff are very well paid.) As Jackie and Pete start the goodbye negotiations with other sets of attending parents, Rose sets off in search of Tony and the Doctor, to lure them back to the mansion with the promise of dinner. She pokes around the poolside and the trees and the flowerbed, and has just come round the old shed when something seizes her by the shoulder and tries to pull.

With a blink Rose’s UNIT-honed instincts take over and she grabs her assailant’s hand and arm and lunges to the ground, yanking him bodily over her shoulder. He hits the grass in front of her with a solid thwack and Rose springs back, hands held defensively between her and the Doctor, just in case he—

Oh. Ah. The Doctor.

“What the hell was that?” Rose demands.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses back at her, staring up at her with wide eyes.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rose splutters. “Are you—”

She doesn’t have a chance to say Okay because the Doctor has already scrambled up from the ground to grab her once again (by the hand, from the front, this time, where she can see him coming) and he’s pulling her up to the shed with him, throwing open the doors so he can draw them both inside. It’s a tight squeeze, the two of them in there with all the old tools and tarps and equipment, but the Doctor closes the doors behind them anyway. Rose starts to ask what on earth’s gotten into him but the Doctor cuts her off with a finger held to his lips.

“Rose?” asks Tony’s voice, a few meters off to their right somewhere. “Mr. Doctor?”

Rose rolls her eyes. She opens her mouth to say that playtime is over now, ta, but before she can say anything, the Doctor switches his hand from his mouth to hers, putting his finger to her lips and stoppering her words. Normally, Rose might bat him away or grimace in irritation at him hushing her up like this, but right now, with these invisible lines drawn between them, heightening every touch to something near-electric, all Rose can think about is his finger against her mouth and his other hand still grasping hers. And as close as they’re standing, Rose notices (just like she used to back then) just how good the Doctor smells. It isn’t quite the same as before; there’s the slightest tang of sweat that never used to be there, but not in a bad way. He still smells like him, and he still smells good. (Christ, he smells good.)

The pitter-patter of little feet in the grass nearby isn’t quite enough to pull Rose out of her thoughts, though she knows it means Tony is close, and therefore close to finding them. But even if the stakes are so different now (no physical danger here, not unless the Doctor decides to surprise-attack her again), she can’t help but recall all the other times like this, the two of them holding close in a dangerous situation, before. Rose thinks of hiding from palace guards and harrowing space station escapes and prison breaks with held hands and held breaths and pounding hearts and god, she wants to kiss the Doctor so badly, she really, really does. So maybe she should, Rose thinks as the Doctor’s gaze drops from her eyes to her mouth, where his finger rests. Maybe she should just pull his hand away and push up onto the balls of her feet and press her lips against his and kiss him. Maybe it doesn’t matter that they still haven’t properly talked yet. Maybe it doesn’t matter that this dirty dingy old shed is possibly the least romantic setting she could have chosen. Maybe she should snog the everloving daylights out of him regardless. Maybe—

“Rose,” says the Doctor, his voice low, his eyes locked on hers. He leans forward, and Rose’s pulse races in her throat as his lips brush against her ear.

“Run for your life,” he whispers.

“Found you!” Tony shrieks, tossing open the shed doors. Shouting in mock-fear, the Doctor cinches his grasp on Rose’s hand and yanks her out of the shed before Tony can tag either one of them, pulling her along in a run. Rose stumbles at first, taken by surprise, not to mention that she’s still wearing her pumps. But the Doctor is laughing like a madman, pulling her along as he sprints with seemingly no effort whatsoever, and it feels just utterly glorious to be running again after weeks without and soon Rose is kicking off her pumps to better keep up with him, relishing the stretch and burn in her lungs and calves and thighs. Tony giggles and yells behind them and the Doctor laughs and whoops next to her and he’s still clutching her hand and the wind whips her hair and air expands her lungs and happiness swells in her chest and spreads to her head until she feels giddy with the rush of it and it’s been weeks since Rose grinned this hard or felt this good, it’s been months, it’s been years.

“Run for your life!” the Doctor shouts, and Rose laughs.

 ***

 Rose may not have foreseen the Doctor returning to this universe with her, and thus may not have been able to plan for such an event, but some things still just make sense and fall into place naturally, and the Doctor working with UNIT is one such thing. (Working with, mind, not for; it’s an important distinction, he insists, and Rose rolls her eyes but plays along.) Thus it’s in the breakroom for the Applied Sciences department that Rose finds the Doctor late one night, dozing on the couch after a long day of research and alien negotiations.

Biting her lip, Rose watches him, taking a moment to appreciate this rare unguarded view. The Doctor has always looked youthful with this face, but right now, he looks young, downright vulnerable, head bowed and specs slipping down his nose and lips parted ever so slightly as he sleeps. Pale blue light from the breakroom telly bathes his face in ghostly hues, reflecting in his glasses, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Something warm swells almost uncomfortably in Rose’s chest; this may not be exactly what she was working for all these years, but damn it, he’s wonderful, and he’s beautiful, and he’s here. With her. The enormity of such a massive thought in such a quiet moment is enough to make her head spin.

Biting her lip, Rose checks the clock. It’s nearly midnight. She’s more than ready to go home, but she sort of hates to disturb the Doctor right now. There are a few more things she can do, she decides, before she rouses him and they go home. Let him sleep for a few minutes longer, she thinks.

Rose has just turned to leave the breakroom when his hand reaches out to wrap around hers.

“’Lo,” murmurs the Doctor, his voice thick with sleep. “Time to head out?”

Rose smiles. “In a minute. You can close your eyes again.”

“Nah, I’m not tired,” says the Doctor, sitting up with a great yawn.

Rose piques an eyebrow in suspicion, her smile deepening. It is immensely gratifying to be on the opposite end of this conversation for once.

“…maybe I’m a little bit tired,” the Doctor admits.

“Just a little bit,” Rose teases.

“Only the littlest of bits,” says the Doctor, yawning again. With his free hand he reaches up beneath his specs, rubbing at his eyes. “Just give me a moment and I’ll be good to go. Yeah?”

“All right,” says Rose, moving to leave.

He still hasn’t let go of her.

“Did you want me to wait?” Rose asks.

“Only if you like,” he says casually—a little too casually, Rose thinks—so she nods, plunking down in the break room’s old comfy armchair, her fingers still twined with the Doctor’s. While they’re waiting, Rose figures she might as well watch some telly, but whatever the Doctor’s got playing looks dreadfully boring, not to mention so quiet she can barely hear it. So Rose reaches for the remote, only for the Doctor to pull it away at the last second.

Rose’s lips twitch. “Do you mind?” she asks.

“Do I mind what?” he asks, eyes trained forward on the telly.

“Do you mind if I change the channel?”

The Doctor shrugs. “Have at it.”

Maybe it was a misunderstanding, Rose reasons. He was asleep just a moment ago, after all. Probably he’s just not thinking. She reaches for the remote again.

He pulls it out of her reach again.

Rose’s eyes narrow. Her fingers drum on her thigh. Tap-tap-tap.

(Is he messing with her?)

She pretends to settle back in the chair, wriggling her bum comfortably into the cushions. He places the remote on the sofa arm between them. He rests his hand mere centimeters away. After a moment, Rose can tell he’s relaxed a little, sees the tension easing from his arm and neck.

After another moment, Rose pounces.

She dives across the furniture and naturally he’s too quick for her once again, snatching up the remote just as Rose’s fingertips glance against it.

(He is messing with her.)

(This, of course, means war.)

Rose pushes up on her knees and reaches one arm out as far as it will go, holding on first to the chair-arm and then the Doctor’s shoulder for balance, and he holds the remote just out of reach. His arms are longer than hers and he knows it and he’s using it to his advantage, the bastard. He just sits there with a slowly-spreading smug grin on his face, pretending to watch the telly even with Rose’s arm waving madly in front of his face. With every swipe of her hand, he just holds the remote further and further away, until his arm is fully extended and Rose is practically falling out of her chair. And when Rose jumps up, thinking she’ll just catch him from the other side, he switches hands, chuckling quietly to himself.

The urge to laugh bubbles up in Rose’s gut, but she pushes it down. She doesn’t have time for laughter. She only has time for vengeance.

With a quiet hmmph! she sits back down, trapping the Doctor between her body and the sofa-arm. The Doctor opens his mouth to protest and Rose takes full advantage of his tiny slip in concentration, throwing one leg over his lap in a deep lunge while her hand strains toward her prize.

Close—! She can practically feel her fingernails scraping the plastic casing, she’s so close—

—until the Doctor’s free hand grabs her by the waist and pulls her back, hard.

Rose can’t help laughing now, and he’s laughing too, both at her and with her, while she struggles against him, pushing at him with her chest pressed into his shoulder and thigh slung across his lap. (Damn, but he’s stronger than he looks; of course, so is she, but she has no desire to prove herself by harming him. The other day was a close enough call.) Writhing in his grip, Rose makes one last valiant effort, her hand straining desperately to close itself around his wrist or his shirtsleeve, maybe yank his arm closer, before he finally manages to pull her away, and she falls back with a solid thump.

“You unbelievable ass,” Rose laughs, pushing her hair away from her face.

“Me?” the Doctor asks innocently. “I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when I was assaulted—”

“I’ll show you ‘assaulted’,” Rose mutters under her breath, but she’s still grinning.

“—and then you decided to crawl all over my body like it’s some kind of sentient obstacle course!”

“Oi,” Rose chuckles, moving to stand up, “It’s not my fault you’re all arms and legs and—”

Her thigh brushes over his lap as she moves, and she freezes. Over the last few years she hasn’t had much chance to accrue what one would label a wealth of experience in the matter, but she’s fairly certain she just accidentally touched something that was neither a hand nor a leg nor a part that’s traditionally considered public touching material. And she might not be an expert, but she doesn’t think it’s typically quite that, well, hard, either.

Oh. Oh.

Rose feels like she should flush with embarrassment, or jump back and pretend nothing’s happening (observe the ritual, adhere to the boundaries, stick to the plan), but she can’t seem to move, stuck in partial suspension above the Doctor. His face is eye level with her chest, which he seems adamantly unfocused on, eyelashes fluttering just a little too rapidly, and oh my, but she’s suddenly noticing just how warm they both are, how short her skirt is, how his thighs are bracketed by hers, just how much they’ve been touching each other this whole time.

The Doctor swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the force of it. “Yes, erm,” he says quietly, and is he blushing? “I see you found my mobile,” he lies, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Your mobile,” Rose repeats.

“Yep. My mobile.”

“Right,” Rose nods. She points at the coffee table behind her, at the Doctor’s phone lying there. “That mobile?”

The Doctor closes his eyes. Rose can almost hear him silently cursing himself. “Yep. That’d be the one.”

“Of course,” Rose laughs. “So, you don’t feel anything when I…?”

“Nope,” the Doctor rushes.

Rose arches an eyebrow at him.

He sighs in frustration. “I used to have much better control over this sort of thing, you know,” he complains. “Now it’s all…misfiring synapses and…signals shooting all over the place willy-nilly, and, and, quite frankly ridiculous hormones.”

“Tell me about it,” Rose teases.

The Doctor chuckles under his breath, unable to meet her eyes. His hand is still snug against her waist, hasn’t left its spot where he pulled her down, and she can feel the warmth of him through her shirt, feel his fingers curling against her. Rose wonders if he’s even aware of doing it, and he must be, because a second later, his hand moves, spasming like he burned it. His hand settles awkwardly on the sofa next to him and Rose watches as he determinedly looks at anything but her.

God. He must be mortified.

She knows she should back away. She should. And yet…well, she notices he’s not exactly trying to get away, either.

“Do you want me to move?” she asks anyway, because she should.

The Doctor thinks about it for a second. “Interesting choice of words, move,” he says slowly. “Sort of…different connotations, aren’t there? Multi-layered word. Several different meanings.”

Rose grins. “Which one do you mean?”

He swallows again. He still can’t meet her eyes. “Erm,” he says. Followed by, “Well.” He looks like he’s thinking about it. Trying to decide. Rose thinks maybe she should help him with the process. (She’s never been afraid to cheat just a little.)

Rose eases forward until she’s straddling him, bookending his hips with her knees. She’s careful to leave some space between their bodies, just in case he changes his mind, just in case this isn’t what he wants. She can tell by the rise and fall of his chest that his breathing has sped up. She feels his thighs tense beneath her.

It never occurred to her that she could affect him quite like this. The prospect of it all is giving her a rush, hormones fizzing together in her head like a potent cocktail. Like a drug.

(They still need to talk about all these things, Rose knows.

So. She’ll talk.)

“Which one did you mean?” she asks again, conversationally, like none of it means anything. Like she isn’t sitting in his lap, feeling the faint predictions of arousal in her own body now, stirring somewhere low in her abdomen. She’s so sure she knows, almost entirely certain she can predict what he wants, but she needs to hear it. Needs to make sure she’s not taking advantage of him, that this isn’t just his fresh new human body reacting without his permission. 

His fingers nervously tap the cushions next to him. He starts to ask her something, stops, glances over at the breakroom door. It’s still open, Rose realizes, and anyone in the lab could hear them. Well, it’s only Ripley in the lab, this late at night, and it’s doubtful he’s heard anything up to this point, but if their volume increases at all, he’s going to get an earful.

Rose reaches for the remote control, pulls it easily out of the Doctor’s hand. 

“Was this all part of the game, then?” the Doctor asks, amusement bleeding through his nervousness.

Smiling, Rose turns around and aims the remote at the telly, turning up the volume just loud enough to mask any suspicious noises that may arise out of the room. When she turns back to the Doctor, he’s finally looking up at her face, making proper eye contact now. He doesn’t look away this time.

He looks so open and wide-eyed and pretty and god, Rose just really wants to fuck him. 

“Do you want me to move,” Rose starts, sliding forward in his lap until their hips meet, her skirt rucking up around her hips until her legs are almost entirely exposed, “like this?”

Their faces are quite close now, close enough that they could kiss, if they wanted. And Rose does want. So that’s the next step of the plan. Rose does exactly that, leaning forward to press a kiss next to his lips, on his jaw, near his ear. She arches her hips into his and hears a soft breath escape him, watches in her peripheral vision as his eyes shutter closed. She does it again, until she can feel him pressing into her through her pants. His hands fly up to her hips but he doesn’t move against her.

“Doctor,” Rose breathes, her lips grazing the shell of his ear, “you need to tell me if you want me to keep going, or if you want me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs. “Please.”

“All right, since you asked so nicely.”

The Doctor lets out a half-laugh at that, but the sound ends in a hum when Rose starts rolling her hips against him again. She sets up a slow and steady rhythm that she knows is going to drive them both mad, even with all of these layers between them. Rose wants to look at his face, wants to see his guard slipping, but he ducks his head. He plants feather-light kisses while they move, dotting her neck and throat and collarbone with a touch that’s so faint, it simultaneously makes Rose want to squirm away and squirm closer for more. She opts for the latter, pressing into him until their chests touch and she can feel his heart hammering against her stomach. She can feel the exact size and shape of him through her pants, hot and hard and just begging for release. He still doesn’t meet her thrusts, but his hands settle on her hips, fingers skirting the edge of her waistband.

It’s been quite some time since anyone has touched Rose like this, anyone that wasn’t her anyway, and even taking that into account, it’s been a while; it doesn’t take long for her body to start crying out for more. His hold on her hips is too gentle, his kisses too light, his movements too careful. She can’t tell if he’s afraid of chasing her away or if he genuinely just doesn’t feel the same urgency she does. It feels like every single fiber of her existence is straining for him and a needy ache is growing between her thighs and she just really wants friction and heat and more and now.

“I’m heading out,” Ripley’s voice calls from the lab, startling them both. The Doctor gives a jump beneath Rose. She claps her hand over his mouth before he can make any noise. Both of them freeze, adrenaline pumping through their veins. Rose waits with bated breath for the sounds of Ripley approaching.

“Have a good night!” Ripley shouts, still in the lab.

“Thanks, you too!” Rose replies. She is supremely pleased with how normal and not at all out-of-breath she sounds.

The lights in the lab go dim, clicking out one-by-one. The breakroom plunges into darkness. Only the telly remains on, casting shadow-shapes that flicker gently over the room, voices and music shockingly loud in the quiet. Rose listens closely for the sounds of the lab door closing and locking after.

Once Ripley is well and truly gone, the Doctor relaxes a little. He heaves a sigh of relief, his breath warm against Rose’s palm. He looks up at Rose like he’s asking her what happens next.

She moves her hand out of the way and replaces it with a kiss.

The Doctor is surprised, but he warms up to the idea quickly, his lips moving against hers. He almost seems perfectly content with the close-lipped kiss, languorous and slow as it is, but his grip on her hips tightens just a little bit and he arches into her just a fraction. The sensation makes Rose’s head swim and her body flush with anticipation and want.

But it isn’t enough. Rose doesn’t need him calm and slow. She needs to see him out-of-control—needs to see him wanting her. Needs him to know how badly she wants him.

She hits the “off” button on the remote, cutting off the noise from the telly, and she scoots back just far enough that her fingers have space to unbutton the Doctor’s trousers.

“Close your eyes,” she says, brushing her lips against his jaw. “And keep them closed.”

The Doctor opens his mouth like he might protest, but he doesn’t. He licks his lips, nods, and complies.

Once Rose is certain his eyes are properly closed, no movement beneath to indicate that he’s peeking, she kisses him again, a little harder this time, and she unzips his fly, as quickly as she can without getting him caught. She strokes him through his pants, watches his brow furrow and his teeth flash as he bites his lower lip. His breaths leave his mouth with a ragged edge to them; he’s trying to breathe evenly, possibly trying to engage a bypass system he no longer has while he tries desperately not to thrust into her hand.

Good. Better.

Still not enough.

Rose hooks her fingers over the edge of his waistband and pulls it down, carefully. She edges back as she goes until she can extend one leg behind her, then the other, lowering herself to her knees on the floor.

The Doctor, eyes still closed, frowns. “Rose...?”

She leans forward and takes his cock in her mouth.

A strangled gasp tears out of him and his entire body goes stiff. Rose quickly pins down his hips with her hands and takes him in as far as she can, hollowing her cheeks. She swirls her tongue around him, applying as much pressure as she can muster. She can tell he wants to thrust, can feel it in the way he trembles; she rubs circles against his exposed hips, urging him to relax as much as he can. She moves her head up and down, slowly at first, torturing him just a little bit before she picks up speed, moving one hand to stroke whatever expanse isn’t covered by her mouth.

His hands fist helplessly in the cushions beside him. Rose looks up to find his head thrown back, teeth biting into his plump lower lip hard enough that it’s gone white. She redoubles her efforts. She hums around him, pressing her tongue firmly over where he’s most sensitive. At that, he starts panting, his stomach muscles pumping overtime with the effort of it.

Rose has never seen him like this before, never watched all the rules slip away like this, and the sight of him, gasping and desperate and so, so close to breaking, is enough to make her grow ridiculously wet and needy. She rubs her thighs together for any shred of friction she can get. A series of strained noises escapes him and that only makes it worse, so she tightens her lips around him, tightens and swallows.

“Rose,” the Doctor gasps, “Rose—ah. Stop. Stop. Let me—please—”

She ceases moving the moment the message reaches her brain and she releases him with a wet pop, sits up straight to ask him what he wants, and he leans over and shows her: framing her face in both hands, he presses his lips to hers in a punishing kiss. He urges her mouth open and his tongue slides over hers, and there it is, there’s that sense of urgency she was looking for. As his tongue explores her mouth, she wonders what he tastes there, what’s more overwhelming, the bare traces of him or the taste of her arousal—whatever it is, it stirs a moan deep in his throat and suddenly he’s pulling her up and back into his lap.

He’s still hard beneath her and in the midst of her increasingly intoxicating head-fog, Rose thinks that must be terribly uncomfortable. Rose moves to help him, to finish what she started, but he stops her. His grip on her wrist is surprisingly firm. “Not yet, please,” he says hoarsely between kisses. He holds her close with one hand while the other snakes up under her skirt, skating over her inner thigh on its way to her pants. Fingers press into her through warm, soaked cotton.

“Ah,” the Doctor mutters to himself, as if he’s just now realizing something. “Yes, that’s very—you’re really quite—”

His words fade to a satisfied hum as his fingers explore the edge of her pants, slipping under, gliding over slick skin. His strokes, gentle at first, grow firmer. Rose’s eyes fall closed at the sensation. She presses into his hand, hips tilting forward and drawing back in time with the motions of his fingers, and she lets out a whimper when he grazes over her clit. The pressure sends pleasure spiraling through her and she chases after that feeling, rocking her hips and fucking his hand until she’s so wet she thinks she might explode from need. He slips a finger inside her and she bites down on a moan.

She can feel the Doctor’s gaze on her face, gauging her reactions. A delicious thrill shivers through her but no, that won’t do, that won’t do at all, not when she’s still desperate to see him come undone.

Pulling herself up by the back of the sofa, she tries to sit up on her knees, starts to push down at her knickers. She lets out a surprised little yelp when the Doctor stops her, grabbing her hip with his free hand. At first she worries that maybe this isn’t what he wants after all, maybe he doesn’t want things to progress any further, but when he pushes her knickers to the side, she realizes that’s not true at all—he just doesn’t want her to move away from him, not even to take off her pants. He doesn’t want to wait. Which is brilliant, because Rose doesn’t want to wait anymore, either. She slides back down until she can feel the tip of his cock nudging at her, and, shifting her hips just so, she sinks down onto him, slickly, taking him in as far as she can.

The Doctor grits out a groan, his eyes losing focus, lips parting just the tiniest bit. Rose can’t help the grin that spreads across her face at that. (Can’t help the gasp that leaves her when she pushes down just a little bit more, taking him further in, the two of them sliding together deliciously.) She takes advantage of the breach in his defenses, leaning forward for another kiss and slipping her tongue along the seam of his mouth. She tilts her hips back and forth, drawing up and pushing down and pushing just a little further each time until he’s fully sheathed inside her, easing the swollen ache between her legs. When her muscles clench around his cock, she feels him tense beneath her, his legs and stomach going rigid while his brow furrows in concentration.

“Just relax,” Rose murmurs against his lips.

“Seems unlikely at this juncture,” the Doctor laughs weakly.

Grinning, Rose clutches at the Doctor’s back, nails digging into his shirts and his skin as she increases her pace and pressure, rocking her hips up and down and just losing herself in the heat and the wet and the friction of it all. For a bloke who has almost certainly never had sex—not in this fresh new body with all its sensitive new nerve endings—he is holding out magnificently, lasting far longer than Rose would have imagined. She thinks, maybe, as she feels her climax building, as the warm-tickle-yes-yes-yes builds low in her belly, that he must have held onto some truly extraordinary Time Lord willpower. Or, the thought dawns on her…

She slows her movement, hips grinding almost to a still. “Have you been practicing?” she whispers in his ear.

“What?” he asks, distracted, his voice strained and ridiculously breathy.

Rose sinks back down inch-by-inch and feels rather than hears the groan rumbling in the Doctor’s chest. “You’re holding out remarkably well, especially for the circumstances,” she says. “Have you been practicing? Touching yourself?”

When he doesn’t answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, Rose nips at the pulse point beneath his ear, her tongue darting out to taste his salty-sweet skin. She slides a hand between them and rubs at where they’re joined. As her fingers ring the base of his cock, stroking him, the Doctor’s head lolls back on the couch, his eyes slamming shut.

“Yes,” he gasps out, like the admission pains him.

Rose rewards him by sliding her hips up and down, her movements agonizingly slow as she torments them both. “What do you think about?”

“What do you think?” the Doctor asks with another strained laugh. When Rose stops moving, his eyes open again and his gaze meets hers.

“You,” he confesses, panting. “Just you.”

Rose smiles and presses a hard kiss to his mouth the instant the words leave him. One of his hands flies up to grasp her by the jaw, suddenly possessive, claiming, and Rose’s lips part without hesitation as he plunders her mouth with his tongue and finally (finally) starts to move, arching up into her. She rocks against him and he meets her measure-for-measure, thrust-for-thrust. No longer content as a passive player, the Doctor slips his hands under Rose’s shirt and pushes it up over her breasts, planting kisses on every inch of skin he can reach. His thumbs circle and tease her nipples until they’re peaked and straining through the thin fabric of her bra. 

Her climax quickly begins to build up again, warmth blooming through her; she’s close, she’s close, she’s so close, dancing right on the edge, pleasure rippling through her body in waves. She slides her hand back between them again, teasing her clit with fingers slippery with sweat and sex. As her muscles flutter desperately, clenching tight around him once more, the Doctor pumps his hips harder, his breaths leaving with a moan. He grasps her by the back of the head and pulls her down for one more kiss, his fingers tangling in her hair. When he bites her lower lip, flooding her with pain and warmth, Rose shudders and breaks around him and he swallows her cries. She strokes him and fucks him through her own climax into his, where he breaks the kiss in favor of burying his face in the join of her neck and shoulder, shouting as he spasms and empties into her.

Their movements slow and still until they’re both motionless, panting in the quiet dark. The Doctor winds his arms around Rose in a lazy embrace, his face still buried against her shoulder. His specs are digging into her almost uncomfortably but she doesn’t say anything, hugs him about the neck and idly strokes his sweat-dampened hair instead.

Her brain is mostly empty except for a very pleasant hazy hum. She hopes the same is true for him. Still, there’s that nagging little thought cropping up, quieter than usual, but still there, as always: What’s next?

“Are you, erm,” she tries to ask amidst shuddering breaths. “How are you doing?”

“Dunno yet,” is the muffled reply. “I’ll tell you when my legs stop feeling like jelly.”

Rose chuckles and kisses the side of his head.

 **

 They end up taking the train home, or as close to home as they can get, anyway. It’s the first time Rose has been on a train in years; she decides this is to blame for why her legs are so much wibblier than usual, why she has to shift her stance and cling to the pole so much harder than before. It’s certainly got nothing to do with the pleasantly warm soreness throbbing between her legs, certainly nothing to do with the source of said soreness.

Of course, the Doctor doesn’t seem to be having any trouble staying upright at all, jelly-leg comments notwithstanding. Of course he doesn’t.

“So,” Rose says, casually. “Not a fan of blow jobs, hm?”

It is incredibly satisfying to see him wavering just a little, his grasp tightening on the pole. “Huh?” he asks, very intelligently.

“You stopped me, earlier. You know. When I had you in my mouth.”

“Erm, well,” says the Doctor, scratching the back of his neck while flushing as brilliant a carnation-pink as Rose has ever seen. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Why?”

The Doctor glances down at the floor, as if he finds it suddenly fascinating. “Just wanted to hold you, is all,” he murmurs.

Something in Rose’s stomach feels almost unbearably fluttery and tender at that, but before she has a chance to reply, the train gives a lurch, jostling her. She braces herself against the Doctor, one hand on the pole while the other snakes beneath his jacket, grabbing a fistful of shirt. Strictly for balance reasons, of course. It’s got nothing to do with what he just said, or the fact that she’s so very glad to be on this train with him, or how very much she loves him, or the fact that she’s planning to kiss him again.

(It’s a good plan. Very good. The best she’s ever had, possibly.)

Rose pushes onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to the Doctor’s cheek. He’s warm, beneath her lips; warm from blushing, and other things too, maybe. She kisses him again, lower, and again, on the corner of his mouth, and this time he turns his head to catch her lips with his. It’s slower than the other kisses they’ve shared, and softer. Rose has to hide her face against his chest, after, to counteract the overwhelming sweetness swelling between her lungs.

There are still things they need to discuss, of course. Big things. Big, important things. But they can wait a little while longer.

Well, most of them can, anyway.

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” Rose says quietly, to the Doctor’s chest.

He rests his head against hers, exhaling slowly. “Me, too.”

  ***

[hermannsthumb]

possible prompt for a university au: newt is the biology major who maintains all the fish tanks in the physics building at 11pm and hermann is the physics student who likes to wander the halls to think. newt accidentally flings water all over the ground and hermann trips, hijinks ensue.

earlier today I was thinking about how I wrote a college AU fic almost 3 years ago to the date, and how I wanted to do more bc its fun thinking about newt and hermann as dumb college students

----

Newt's not really sure how he ended up with the weirdest work-study job on the planet, but honestly, things could be much, much worse (he could be stuck down in the dining hall, or dealing with confused freshmen in the school bookstore) so he keeps his thoughts on the whole thing to himself. Every Friday at eleven sharp, Newt pulls on his grodiest t-shirt and a pair of long rubber gloves and treks all the way over to the physics department to set to work scrubbing down the fish tanks that line the classroom walls. Why does the physics department have fish tanks? Newt's not really sure about that, either. It's kind of an insane amount of them, too, more than even the marine bio department has. Maybe it's supposed to boost morale or something. Hey, look at these crazy cool tropical fish who get to do nothing but eat and swim in circles, sorry you're stuck inside calculating velocity and shit.

Whatever, Newt's not complaining about that either. Let the physics nerds have their fun. It'll be good for them to branch out a little, realize there's life beyond robotics club meetings.

Also, Newt likes the fish. They're cute. He likes to think they like him, too, because they're very well behaved when he has to scoop them out of their tanks and plop them into smaller fish bowls (the kind goldfish in movies always use). He's going to teach them tricks eventually—he had a beta fish once who would do a little flip when Newt tapped the glass a certain way because he knew he'd get rewarded with dried worms, so Newt knows it's possible. Just imagine, a hundred fish doing flips on command. Newt Geiszler, fish whisperer.

Yeah, maybe the job could be more glamorous. It's really hard to get algae out of the gloves, and he hasn't been allotted the budget for a new pair yet.

"Hey, guys!" he shouts as he pushes in the door to room 214. The fish don't acknowledge him: they just continue swimming in their giant tank. In and out of plastic plants and rock caves. The rock caves were a gift from Newt three months into the job, and so were some of the moss balls—stimulation is important for fish! He wouldn't want to be trapped in a glass box with nothing to do, either. "I bet you missed me. Ready for a clean tank?"

Newt always talks to the fish, even if they don't talk back, because he thinks it's important to build their trust. He'll usually keep a running commentary of his week as he scrubs the tanks, just get everything off his chest that he needs to get off. Stuff he's worried about. Stuff that went well. Stuff that went badly. Therapy's expensive, and Newt's student health insurance can only cover so much, but talking to fish? That's free.

That's also kinda why he does it so late at night and over the weekend. The last thing he wants is an audience. Because, one, talking to fish is admittedly weird, and two, no one wants a glimpse at Newt's psyche like that, probably not even the fish.

The first step in cleaning the tanks is relocation. Newt digs his stereotypical goldfish bowls and an industrial-size mesh wand out of the supply closet, fills the former with some of the special tank salt water, and begins the slow and arduous task of scooping out the fish and depositing them into the bowls. "I had the lamest week," he announces once he's about three clownfish in. "I was working on a group project Saturday—"

Then Newt stops, because he hears footsteps in the hallway just outside the classroom.

Serial killer, Newt's instincts supply helpfully.

No, Newt corrects himself, that's dumb. Why would a serial killer wander into the physics building at eleven o'clock at night? Why would anyone, period? He's probably imagining stuff. Lack of sleep, stress over his upcoming projects, residual embarrassment from his disaster study session Saturday, all of it culminating in Newt thinking there's someone there. No, definitely imagining it. Newt can only even get in this late to the department because his ID swipe card is set up with the right permissions—not even the physics students have the permissions he does to be in this late at night. Well, not unless they clean the kitchenette in the student lounge or something.

Or if Newt left the door unlocked.

More footsteps. Closer now.

Newt's pretty sure he didn't leave the door unlocked, because he thinks it locks automatically behind him, and he would have to literally prop it open for anyone to get in after him. But anything's possible. The door could've caught on a dropped pencil or a paper scrap or other weird shit that physics students leave around, and a serial killer could've noticed and taken the opportunity to sneak inside on the off chance a hapless young biology major was scrubbing slime off fish tanks in the middle of the night. Any minute now, Newt's about to end up on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. The Physics Department Murder. The Disappearing Biologist. (Nah, neither of those are very good titles, but that's why Newt isn't on the creative writing track.)

Step-tap-step. Closer now; Newt's heart leaps to his throat. Step-tap-step. Step-tap-step. Pausing just outside the door of room 214. God, why didn't Newt turn the lights off? Why didn't he shut the door?

Newt reaches for the first vaguely weapon-shaped thing he can find—an empty fishbowl, because Newt's not going to sacrifice any of the fish for this—and, as the door swings open, hurls it with a cry.

The bowl clunks on the ground. Except it turns out Newt grabbed the wrong fish bowl, because (even though it doesn't shatter, thank God) water quickly begins to seep across the slate floor tiles towards Newt's serial killer, a pathetic little clownfish (Newt thinks this one is named Albert, because the physics department is made up of nerds who do shit like name their random pet fish after their kind) flopping around in the puddle. Newt's serial killer, meanwhile, cries out similarly, his arms windmilling as he loses his footing and slips backwards, his cane—

Oh, fuck.

The intruder is not a serial killer. It's someone possibly worse, actually: Newt's mortal enemy, Hermann Gottlieb.

Newt's not really sure at what point Hermann became his mortal enemy and not just some guy I have class with that I hate, but he can pretty easily say that they've hated each other since the moment Hermann walked through the doors of Engineering 101 and was deigned Newt's lab partner by the Alphabetized By Last Name Seating Chart god. Something about Hermann just gets under Newt's skin. It's not his prissy English accent, or his oversized sweaters, or his absolutely horrendous haircut, and it's not even that he takes every opportunity to savagely rip apart every single thing Newt says in class. Don't get Newt wrong, that's all super fucking annoying, but it's annoying levels he can deal with.

It's the stuff they have in common that makes Newt hate him. It's like Hermann's a slightly broodier and more angular mirror that reflects all of Newt's most egregious faults—his arrogance, his stubbornness, his social awkwardness, his desperation to be taken seriously—right back at him. It sucks.

Plus, one time Newt caught Hermann ripping down the flyer he put up on the quad for Anime Club to advertise his stupid chess club instead, and he's never managed to forgive him for that.

Newt may hate Hermann, but he's not about to let him land on his ass in a puddle of fishy water (especially not on a freezing November night) just because the subsequent bitching would be unbearable, and, yeah, it would be supremely shitty of Newt, so he leaps forward just in time to catch Hermann and his cane before he hits the ground. He's so impressed with himself with his amazing catch that it takes him a few seconds to realize that Hermann is shouting and probably has been shouting since he slipped.

"—bloody maniac! What on earth are you doing in here? How are you in here? Did you just assault me? I'm going to phone campus police, you wretched—"

"Hold that thought," Newt says.

He rights Hermann and snags the mesh net and rescues poor Al before it's too late, dropping him back into the big tank with the rest of his friends. Newt can't be sure, but he thinks Al blows a bubble in thanks at him. Maybe he needs to make friends outside fish.

Hermann is still yelling at him.

"I am going to tell the head of the department you're—you're skulking about in here after hours!" he declares. "You're a menace. Pay attention to what I'm saying to you, Newton!"

Newt sighs and turns around. Hermann's turned an interesting shade of red—sort of like an over-boiled lobster, or if he fell asleep in the sun for too long. Newt wonders if it's from embarrassment (almost falling on his ass) or anger (almost being knocked on his ass). Probably anger. "Look, dude, I'm sorry," Newt says. His face twists like he ate a lemon, and he hopes Hermann doesn't notice. Newt hates apologizing to Hermann. "It's my job to clean the tanks every weekend. You scared the shit out of me and I freaked out—it's just that, like, no one ever comes by this late. Ever." He decides not to mention the serial killer thing. Hermann might make fun of him for being jumpy or paranoid or something.

Hermann's scowl doesn't lessen, but he does nod. Plus, he stops shouting. That's as much as Newt's gonna get of forgiveness. "Hmph," Hermann says. "You clean the tanks?"

"Every weekend," Newt repeats. He realizes he got some fish tank slime on Hermann's button-up when he caught him. Oops. Hopefully Hermann won't notice until Newt's in the safety of his dorm. "Gotta pay for my textbooks somehow." Then he frowns. "Wait, so what are you doing here? I didn't know you had access to the building this late."

Maybe Hermann is the kitchenette-cleaning guy after all. But, to his surprise, Hermann sniffs and casts his eyes to his dorky Oxford shoes. "Er," he says. "It's just—I was having trouble working out a solution to a problem, and thought a walk might do me good. Chilly nights like this one always do. And I quite like this building at night—it's calm, and much quieter than my dormitory." He fidgets. "And—well—only don't say anything to anyone, but I rewrote the permissions of my ID card so I could come and go wherever I please ages ago."

"You rewrote the permissions?" Newt says. "What the hell, wouldn't you have to hack into the security system or something to do that?"

"Well, obviously," Hermann says.

Despite himself, and despite Hermann being his Mortal Enemy, Newt is genuinely impressed. "Dude," he says. "That is so badass." Since when has Hermann been a badass?

Hermann's eyebrows jump, and he blinks at Newt behind his dorky librarian glasses. What twenty-one-year-old wears librarian glasses? With a chain? "You think so?" he says.

"Uh, totally," Newt says. "What problem were you stuck on? The one from Saturday?"

Being lab partners for engineering means Newt and Hermann have to collaborate on pretty much everything, including their midterms. Their midterm is what they've been working on for the past two weeks. On Saturday, though, they met in neutral ground to work on it (a reserved study room in the library), and, after a stupid and massive argument that had the librarians hoisting them out by their shirt collars and threatening to ban them for life, Hermann called Newt an idiot and stomped off into the night. Newt still hasn't gotten around to giving the problem another shot. Whatever, they have another week before the dumb thing is due. Plenty of time. Hermann nods. "Yes," he says. "Er—that one."

Newt glances at the clock ticking away on the wall. Quarter after eleven. Hermann's delayed him a whole fifteen minutes. Technically, he reminds himself, he doesn't actually have to have the tanks scrubbed by Friday night—he has the whole weekend to get it done. Also, he kind of feels like he owes Hermann for attacking him the way he did. Accidentally attacking. "Listen, Hermann," he says, feeling totally insane for what he's about to suggest. But he kind of wants to know more about Hermann The Badass. "What if we went back to my place and worked on it together? I'll buy us pizza, and I have, like, a bunch of energy drinks." The pizza place nearest campus is open until three in the morning, almost definitely because they get all of their business from sleep-deprived undergrads. Plus, they have midnight specials where you get free breadsticks with every pizza. Newt could go for some breadsticks. "It might be...fun," he adds.

Fun? With Hermann? Hermann will think he hit his head or something.

But to his surprise, Hermann doesn't hesitate even a second before saying "Alright, then."

"Oh," Newt says. He honestly thought Hermann would put up more of a struggle. "Cool!"

"But I might need to borrow a jumper," Hermann says. "If you'd be so...courteous, that is. I'm a bit chilly."

For some reason, the thought of Hermann (Newt's mortal enemy, but also a secret badass) curled up in one of Newt's baggy sweatshirts makes Newt feel all weird and warm all over. He swallows a few times, because his throat feels a little weird, too. Too tight. Like he just ate something he's allergic to. "No sweat," Newt says. "Let me just get these fish back in the, um, the tank. And—" He waves his slimy, gloved hands. "Take these off. And clean up that puddle. Gimme—um, gimme like, ten minutes?"

"Of course," Hermann says, and gives Newt a small, terse nod.

From Hermann, it's a smile. Newt almost slips on the puddle he's so blindsided by it. Stupid Hermann, making him feel all weird and clumsy.

[gracetoldmeto]

Happiest of Birthdays to my favorite character, Mello!!! I wrote something for him and Matt a little while ago and I planned on making this into a full fledged fic, but a good friend of mine (@mamaturtle11 😘) convinced me to post it today to celebrate our beloved Mello's birthday. Keep an eye out tho, I will be adding to this eventually bc I am in love them so much...so without further ado...

Lashes

Matt x Mello: ~450 words, I'm just so happy im finally writing for THEM

No Warnings, Literally just cute af fluff

The boys are 14 here

If you like this read Lemon Boy

The winter was cold. Easily the coldest England had seen in the last 14 years. That was probably what Mello and Matt thought anyway. Two boys that were barely skin and bones, and that was a generous description. The two of them clung to each other. Each trying to shield the other from the brisk and freezing wind. Snowflakes were like bee stings burning their faces. The moisture in their exhales condensed on their long eyelashes and froze into tufts of cotton wisps adorned with frozen beads of tears. They could barely keep their eyes open in the strong, piercingly cold gusts.

“I can’t see!” Matt stuttered in a slight panic. He was shivering from fear of losing the best of his five senses, but the cold was not helping.

Mello ignored him and continued to pull him along. He was also having trouble seeing while trying to lead the both of them through this blizzard, but Matt was just being a crybaby about it. Even so, Mello gripped Matt’s hand tighter.

Matt’s free hand poked at his eyelids trying to peel his bottom eyelashes from the top. Unfortunately, all this accomplished was making himself tear up even more and his lashes began to freeze together even harder and more painfully. “Mello, oh my god please, Mels, help me, I can’t see!”

Mello let go of Matt’s hand and turned toward him, annoyed. He was freezing too, but at this point he would do anything to get Matt to shut the hell up. “Hold still,” Mello commanded.

Matt obeyed as Mello let go of his hand and shifted his body to block the wind from his best friend’s face.

Mello carefully cupped his bare hands completely covering Matt’s left eye and gently blew deep rich warm air onto Matt’s lashes.

Matt flinched and shuddered.

The ice on Matt’s lashes began to melt and Mello gently wiped away the dripping beads of moisture with the sleeve of his black shirt in between more warm puffs of air. When he was finally able to gingerly peel apart Matt’s lashes, he lightly dabbed the remaining moisture on Matt’s lash line with his sleeve one last time, and repeated the whole process with his other eye. Both of Matt’s anxious but golden eyes were boring holes into his and Mello somehow felt warmer.

“Better?” Mello asked sternly, but concerned.

Matt nodded, shakily.

“Let’s keep going.” Mello turned and took Matt’s hand again. “We gotta get a move on before it gets darker…” he turned his head slightly to assess Matt’s state before he continued, “…and colder.” He gave his hand a squeeze and continued to lead them through the storm.

It wouldn’t be the first one the two of them would face together.

[alex-ruins-everything]

The Witch Lives Across the Street

Inspired by this post of mine that lived in my head rent free so I wrote it.

Pairings: Prinxiety

Words: 1421

Virgil was used to knocking on his door all the time. He hated it, but he supposed it was what happened when you lived next to a witch but fit the gothic aesthetic much better than the actual witch. The house across the street was white with red shutters and a red door. There was no sign or anything saying that a witch lived in the house, nothing odd at all about the house. There was even a garden. Virgil’s house on the other hand was very different. Black with purple shutters and no garden in sight. Even the bushes the house had come with were wilted and brown along the walkway to the front door and the iron gate was rusting. The constantly drawn curtains added to the mystery that apparently made everyone think he was the witch of the area.

So he’d get knocks on the door, begrudgingly answer it and tell the person, “No, the witch lives across the street.” He had seen the witch in question a few times, always wearing some combination of white, red, and gold. Virgil had never bothered to meet his neighbor up close, though. A few weeks ago another car had shown up in the driveway next to the red one that usually resided there. Green, it made Virgil think of Christmas when it was put next to all of the red. He started noticing someone else lurking around the witch’s house, this new neighbor spent a lot of time outside in the garden and suddenly when people knocked on his door they asked about witches instead of one witch.

Virgil was currently in his kitchen feeding his cat when the knock hit the door. Another one of the witches’ clients he guessed, considering no one really came to visit him, it wasn’t too far fetched of a guess. He moved to the door, grumbling a little as he opened it.

“The witches live across the street,” he said, blinking at the person on the other side as gay panic hit his mind for a moment.

This man was easily the most beautiful person Virgil had ever seen. Tall and broad shouldered with swoopy brown hair and the most gorgeous brown eyes. He was wearing a white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a red sash tied around his waist. Layers of gold jewelry matched the gold eyeliner that sat atop deep red eyeshadow.

“Actually, the witch is indeed here this time,” the man said, flashing a dazzling smile.

“Uhm-” Virgil said, trying to get his brain started again.

“I figured it was about time I came and introduced myself. Three years of you deferring my customers, I should have done it sooner. I’m Roman,” the man - Roman - said, holding his hand out. “Virgil, right?”

“How did you-?” Virgil asked, shaking the witch’s hand.

“Not magic this time,” Roman said with a small laugh that sounded like bells. “I get your mail by accident sometimes, I always just stick it in your mailbox. Seems nobody can get our houses right.”

“Right...thank you.”

“Actually, my brother and I were just about to have some tea. I was wondering if you wanted to join us?”

“Your brother?”

“He’s been staying with me, seems two witches are much more popular than one,” Roman answered, smiling at Virgil again. “So. Tea?”

“Uhm...yeah. I can do tea,” Virgil nodded.

Roman gave another one of his dazzling smiles, taking Virgil by the hand and leading him across the street. The other man - the one Virgil had noticed more recently - was outside digging in the garden. He was covered in dirt, wearing a tanktop that showed off various symbols tattooed onto his arms.

“This is Virgil!” Roman introduced. “He’s joining us for tea. Virgil, this is Remus. My twin brother.”

“Virgil?” Remus asked, looking Virgil up and down.

Virgil squirmed a little, feeling like he was under a microscope, but upon his own inspection, he could see the similarities between the brothers. If you looked past the mustache, the streak of white hair, and the dark gaudy eyeshadow, Remus and Roman were identical.

“Virgil, are you a witch?” Remus asked, tilting his head a little bit.

“No, the witch lives across the street,” Virgil replied, same as he always did.

“Get cleaned up, Remus. I won’t guarantee that we’ll save you any cakes,” Roman said, pulling Virgil inside.

The inside of the house matched Roman, all red and gold with hints of white. It smelled like cinnamon and cloves and-

“You have a lot of plants…” Virgil observed.

“Oh, yes. Remus tends to like them. I wouldn’t touch, though. I never really know what he’s growing,” Roman chuckled, pulling out a teapot and a few different jars of herbs.

Virgil watched as he added the herbs to the pot, seeming to know what he was doing. He poured in cold water and with a wave of his hand, the pot was steaming like it had been boiling all along.

“Magic,” Roman winked. “Come, you can sit in the living room. I’ll bring the cakes, you simply have to try them, they’re delicious.”

Virgil couldn’t do much more than nod. Roman directed him to the living room where two couches sat on either side of a coffee table, obviously where Roman took his clients. Remus came in, mostly dirt free and holding a plant clipping in a small jar that he set by the window.

“Are you sure you aren’t a witch?” he asked Virgil, plopping down on the couch across from him. “You have a very bright aura.”

“First of all, I don’t have a bright anything,” Virgil replied. “And secondly, I think I would know if I was a witch.”

“Not necessarily,” Roman said, setting a tray on the table that held the teapot as well as some sugar and cream. “Lots of natural born witches go their whole lives without knowing.” “Yeah, but that isn’t me,” Virgil said, watching as Roman left and came back with a small plate tower of cakes and tiny tea sandwiches.

“You have to try the lavender cake with the lemon glaze,” Roman said, distributing small plates and starting to pour tea into teacups. “Anything in yours?”

Virgil shook his head, content to drink whatever tea it was plain. It smelled good, much better than any tea he had had before. He waited until his hosts had their cups and had sipped some before trying it.

“Oh...this is really good…” he said, having another sip.

“Thank you, thank you,” Roman said. “It’s a special blend of herbs and a little spellwork.”

“You sound creepy when you try and give random guys magic drinks,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“Virgil isn’t a random guy! He’s been my neighbor for three years!”

“And yet you only first spoke to him today because somebody was intimidated by the cute boy who lives across the street. It took you losing a bet to get the balls to go talk to hi- mmph!” Remus couldn’t finish his statement as Roman slapped a hand over his mouth.

“You were intimidated by me?” Virgil asked, shocked. “You’re literally a witch. I just saw you boil water with a wave of your hand. If you told me you studied at Hogwarts I wouldn't be shocked.”

Roman seemed to blush a little bit at the compliments, shaking his head. “No Hogwarts,” he said. “But of course I was slightly intimidated. You’re very mysterious, you know.”

“Me?”

“Yes! You live all alone in that big dark house and you hardly come outside which makes it very hard to snoop on the cute boy across the street.”

Now it was Virgil’s turn to blush a little bit. “You’re literally a witch,” he reminded.

“Oh my god you two are super hopeless,” Remus rolled his eyes. “Roman, just ask him out already.”

“Shut up,” Roman said, throwing a bite of cake at his brother before smiling at Virgil. “But I would like to get to know you better. Perhaps we can go to dinner some time, I can make up for all those times you had to answer the door for me.”

Virgil would have to be a complete idiot to say no. A gorgeous man in red and gold wanted to go on a date with him? And dinner didn’t sound too bad either.

“Okay…” he nodded. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Tomorrow night perhaps?”

“Tomorrow night works,” Virgil said. “You do know where to find me.”

“Of course. The cute boy lives across the street.”

[thefledglingdm]

Umm can I request directors commentary for literally any Leopika fic you’ve written??? Love your stuff!

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

ahhahaha thank you so much! yes, absolutely! this is going to be long, because i have decided to do that scene in light of my life, pain of my ass. beware LONG BULLSHIT and spoilers below the cut!

ok to set the scene. i was TERRIFIED to write this part. because this is the climax, you know? we've had 150k words of build-up and emotional tension to this scene. while this has been a romantic story, this is the actual climax of the story. we've spent all this time in kurapika's head as he's dealt with his anxiety, his need for control, his fear of letting go. how he's changed as he's opened up his heart and his life to people outside. and finally he's actually working through all of his emotions and the progress he's made out loud, in front of everyone. and because he forgot about giving his speech until like five minutes before (sorry, kp), he is forced to speak from the heart.

For five agonizing seconds, Kurapika stood alone in the middle of a silent room. Above him, the string lights coalesced into a single shared point of soft white light that illuminated his space.

i so wish this could be adapted to, like, netflix or made into a movie. i put so much into this imagery. the play on light? the cinnamon topography? *chef's kiss* yes please netflix CALL ME.

Everyone in his life was staring at him expectantly, Pairo and Altair and Gon and Killua and Nanika and Alluka and Kalluto and his parents. And approximately a hundred other people on top of that, extended family on both sides, industry insiders, coworkers. All staring at him and waiting for him to say something amazing and powerful and deep about love and what did Kurapika know about love, anyway? He was a thirty-two year old trans man so terrified of his own emotions, so paralyzed by his fear of loss, that he did not figure out he was in love with his best friend until three weeks ago.

this is me screwing the knife in deeper for poor kurapika, sorry. this is so incredibly horrifying for a person with anxiety, as someone with anxiety. behold, the terrifying ordeal of being known.

Five seconds. Kurapika finally found Leorio standing near the back, leaning against the bar. He wondered if Leorio picked the same spot where they sat together the very first time they came here on purpose. Leorio sent him a wink and a thumbs-up.

the terrifying ordeal of being known and being so, so loved anyway. it was great to write in a way that showed leorio realized he was in love with kurapika first (indeed, realized that kurapika was in love with him before kurapika knew himself), because these little interactions shows so much how leorio is inviting and allowing kurapika to come to him on his own time. and supporting him the whole way, because they are friends!!!!

Breathe, Kurapika thought. Just breathe. It’s going to be okay.

this statement was not supposed to be a running theme/motif, but i'm super glad it did! i wrote it as a one-off line for melody, but then i was like, hang on, that's kinda good? every other time i write i'm like, hey, you could make a theme out of this!

“Um,” Kurapika started, his voice cracking. Christ, he sounded seventeen again. He cleared his throat.

my friends told me about how their voices changed and dropped on T. any trans person is stronger and more powerful than any us marine.

“For those of you who may not know, I’m Pairo’s brother. Kurapika. His older one, just to be clear.”

this is definitely something that has happened like a hundred times.

There was a smattering of chuckles around the room. He twisted to look at Pairo. “I’ve known Pairo since he was a toddler dragging a ragged, threadbare T-Rex plushie around behind him. I was there when he read his first chapter book on his own – Dino Hunter, of course – because he came bursting into my room at two o’clock in the morning to tell me about it.” Another round of laughter. “I was there when he got his first notebook, when he won his first writing contest, when he was published in his first magazine. I was the first person he told about liking boys instead of girls. I’ve watched him grow and learn and fall in love. And now Altair is part of our family, too.”

pairo and kurapika's lives as brothers were amazing. dino hunter is a reference to the book they both read in the manga that led to kurapika wanting to leave the kurta and explore the world.

i also thought that writing fit pairo well because it's a pretty accessible career for his eyes. he could type, he could enhance the screen and font when he needed, and he could do talk-to-type. one day i want to write a side-story of when pairo and altair met, because i have it perfectly formulated in my head and it's adorable.

Kurapika took a deep breath, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. He confessed, “To be perfectly honest, I was scared when Pairo asked me to do this, because I’ve run out of things to teach him. He’s run on ahead of me in life. Settled down, moved in with his boyfriend – now husband, congratulations on that by the way – and gotten married, while I’m perpetually single and living alone in my loft apartment with an absolutely spoiled monster of a cat. Stop laughing, that wasn’t supposed to be a joke.”

emperor the cat was also not intended to be a character. i came up with him like, right before i started writing the chapter.

i think it was hard for kurapika to watch his brother fall in love and move on ahead in life. even if he was genuinely happy for them both. i had a conversation with a coworker a few months ago where we both talked about how we feel like we are "behind," even though we're both very accomplished. she felt like she was "behind" because i have a master's degree; i felt like i was "behind" because she was happily married and already had a child on the way (who is here and beautiful and perfect). and i imagine kurapika wondered if he was falling behind or missing something when he saw his brother succeed in love and business without really trying.

but there's no competition at all, of course. the world spins on, and we grow and change and find our place in our own time. there's no race.

The room quieted again. Kurapika went on, his eyes flicking over the crowd. He was starting to smile, too, now.

he's starting to realize this is okay, he's not going to mess up, he may actually have something worthwhile to say or share. he's getting more comfortable in all this.

“But I’m also a wedding planner – I know, ironic – and I’ve learned a lot about love from my clients. So if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to share some of those lessons now.”

No one from the back shouted at him to shut the fuck up, that he didn’t have a single clue what he was talking about, so he thought he was safe to carry on.

how funny would that have been??? like, it would have been fucked-up and humiliating, but in any other situation?? hilarious. just killua looking like that dude in mean girls being like HE DOESN'T EVEN GO HERE except it's like HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT LOVE IS.

He thought back to Light of My Life’s various couples, musing over their own rocky paths to the altar and the beautiful, fractured glimpses into their lives they gifted Kurapika and his team. What did they teach him? What did they teach his heart, that terrifying, terrified lump of meat frantically beating in his chest?

More than you think, his heart seemed to be telling him. Trust me; I will guide you through this. Trust me, trust me, trust me.

*"listen to your heart" plays in the background*

also like. trusting oneself and your perceptions and your feelings and your heart is so necessary. it's an important part of healing. and being honest with yourself and your feelings is part of a foundation for all healthy relationships, i think.

also i really like writing alliteratively. the play on words with "terrifying, terrified" was. inspired? terrifying, because kurapika for a long time feared his own heart and feelings, viewing them as a loss of control; and terrified, because his heart is afraid, too. and they are taking this leap together!

And Kurapika explained: “Love isn’t just found in eloquent professions or grand, romantic gestures. It’s supporting each other through your lowest, worst moments and coming out the other side stronger for it. It’s standing together, hand in hand, against the world. It’s in looking at someone simply existing in the world and seeing them as they are: good, beautiful, strong, intelligent, kind. It’s in your communication and your foundation and trusting that all good things will come together in time. It’s in the family that you build together. It’s in the work you each put in to get through the hard times. Together.”

me: yeah uh-huh jj you really did summarize the fic so far.

this is also where i started being sappy and thinking about love. friendly and romantic love. the love i've seen in my friends, the love i feel myself in my relationships.

There. That’s what his clients taught him. Menchi and Buhara; Morena and Theta; Pokkle and Ponzu; Knov and Morel; Knuckle and Shoot; Canary and Amane. But so many more people showed him what love was. He pictured Pairo and Altair on his couch, laughing at him and judging him and helping him put his own puzzle-piece heart together into something cohesive and beautiful. He smiled at his brothers and saw the way they were clutching each others hands, mouths beaming and eyes dewy.

they LOVE their brother so MUCH. their view of the outside looking in for the past year, watching kurapika fall in love, go soft, be happier than they've ever seen him.

He told them, “It’s in the way you can communicate in gestures and looks, and sometimes, without looking at all. It’s in banter and private jokes and finishing each other’s sentences. It’s in casual touches and... pouring their coffee before your own.”

my coffee is never as good as when my partner makes it. my honey-lemon tea is never as good as it is when my partner makes it. my jokes are never as funny as they are when my partner and i finish each other's sentences, build off of each other's quips. we can communicate across rooms with nothing but a look. these little signs of love are everywhere and expressed in so many tiny ways. these examples here are between people in romantic relationships, but these apply to platonic friendships as well.

His eyes swept the room and found Killua and Gon. Gon had his camera hefted onto one shoulder, and Killua stood behind him, arms around his waist and chin on his shoulder. “It’s on the first day you wake up and realize the way you look at the world has changed. The way you open your hands and your heart and give what you have, simply for the joy of being received.”

to love? transcendent. to be loved? incandescent. to love and know that it is valued and cherished and requited?

and this was a callback to killua talking about, of course, how he fell in love with gon like melting ice. like sinking into a bath. and this was also a quieter callback to how gon fell in love. because it wasn't just that he had/has so much love to give, but because for the first time in his life, he got to see it truly received. accepted.

Kurapika saw Killua’s breath catch and Gon’s hand flex over the fingers interlaced over his middle. Heedless of their surroundings and of the running camera, Gon twisted to kiss Killua on the mouth.

SMOOCHES ahahaha!

He turned his head back to Leorio. The man had not moved; indeed, he looked like he was nailed to the floor. His eyes were so intense as they watched him that Kurapika was almost surprised he had not yet burst into flame. Kurapika said, “It’s in the moment you see someone you’ve never met before, but you look at them and just know, to your core, that this is really going to be something.”

leorio realizing something is happening here. something huge is about to happen, is about to change. and he's trying so hard not to dare to hope it might be good. it might be everything.

A chorus of oohs went around the room. Even from this distance Kurapika saw the way Leorio’s face went red, and he ducked his chin, looking bashful and embarrassed.

leorio: holy shit holy shit holy SHIT IT'S HAPPENINGGGG

How was I such a fool before, Kurapika wondered, How was I so blind, so willfully ignorant and oblivious. How did it take me so long to realize you were talking about me. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I’m sorry I made you wait for so long.

this is important because it's not just kurapika realizing and accepting his feelings for leorio. this is kurapika's version of realizing that leorio feels the same for him. leorio is in love with him, too. and he's wondering how it was possible he was so scared and blind for so long. he fears he may have hurt leorio by holding off on this for so long, so he wants to be brave, take the leap, and see what they could be.

Kurapika did not want this man to wait another second. He did not want Leorio to spend another moment trapped in this limbo. So he confessed in the middle of a silent room in front of over a hundred people, “It's the first time you hear them laugh, and your entire world’s axis shifts beneath your feet.”

i remember the first time i met my partner. i remember the first time i looked at them and felt my world shift a little to the right. i remember falling in love and thinking that this one was unlike all the others. it was warm, golden, comforting.

Kurapika watched the confused frown on Leorio’s face when he heard that, amused by the almost puppyish tilt to his head as he considered it. He knew the moment Leorio realized what he meant when his eyes blew wide, amazed and awed and achingly soft. His lips parted.

gOD he is so CUTE. he's like oh hmm huh what does that mean

and then he remembers

i promise, he's not a huge dickwad!

and leorio laughing at gon's accidental gaffe and his sweet earnestness. and kurapika walking in. leorio realizing kurapika wanted to know him before they ever even met.

Kurapika made himself turn away from the arresting sight. “One of my favorite venues lately was the Roseview Ballroom downtown. Among its many beautiful, gaudy attractions are its murals depicting scenes from Shakespeare’s plays all across the ceiling. One is a famous quote from Twelfth Night: ‘journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man’s son doth know.’ But the more I think about it, the less I agree.”

i'm such a WHORE for shakespeare, as any readers of mine will know. check out my modern college adaptation of much ado about nothing.

He turned to meet Pairo’s eyes again, repeating, “‘Journeys end in lovers meeting.’ But nothing is ending here. It’s just changing.”

life does not end when we start relationships! or when they end! or when we move, change jobs, graduate, go to school, drop out of school. happy endings in stories still aren't endings. the greatest constant in life is change.

“Because what I’ve learned in this job, Pairo and Altair, what nugget of wisdom I have to give you, is this. Love is looking at a world that can be terrifying, cold, capricious, and indifferent, and finding the person whose hand you want to hold through it all anyway. Because you want every laugh, every tear, every wrinkle, every spark of joy. Love is life’s greatest leap of faith, because you don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. But you know exactly who you want to spend all those tomorrows with.”

me finishing this: dammit i just wrote out my wedding vows.

Kurapika looked around the room again. At Gon and Killua; at Kalluto, Nanika, and Alluka; at his parents; at his brothers. At Leorio.

He concluded, “So you simply breathe. And you trust it will be okay.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room when Kurapika dropped the microphone.

DAMN ME TOO THIS SHIT WAS GOOD TF?????? sorry my writing has peaked here.

[durotoswrites]

For the writing meme thingy: 🍄how do you get yourself in the mood to write? 🍑 do you/would you write smut? 📒 any fics planned?

🍄 How do you get yourself in the mood to write?

Getting in the mood to write and actually wanting to sit down and start writing are two very different things, but they're connected, so I'll explain both.

To set into “creative mode” it helps me to do these things:

Listen to music that makes me think of a character/situation in my story/stories. I've got playlists separated by character and pairing. Sometimes I also just work on curating those playlists for fun and get my brain going.

Bounce overall ideas off of my friends and husband/editor (but he's my best friend, too 💗)

Reread old chapters or recent ones and future snippets based on what I want to do.

Once I actually want to put words down, I get a little more strict with myself. I get distracted verrrry easily sometimes and I have to fight the urge to open a million more tabs when researching a small detail.

I move to instrumental music (I have playlists for different moods like “emotional”, “soft”, “sad”, etc. I usually listen to “soft” as a general soothing background sound, as I can get pretty dang emotional when I write, especially with the stuff I've been churning out lately.

So, yeah, I need tissues within reach if I get upset. (Wow, I'm not making this sound fun at all, lmao)

After sound has been established, I like to eat a snack (something with protein) because I can be under for hours, lol. Eat it and finish it. Otherwise, I get distracted.

I also like to have drinks available. I always have a bottle of water, but I also like having a hot cup of tea. I think it's the time of year for me to switch to cold barley tea.

I write while seated on a recliner with my feet up. I have my laptop on a lap desk and it's a pretty cozy setup.

I basically try to remove any excuse I have to get up once I start writing, because I am the worst procrastinator I know.

🍑Do you/would you write smut?

Heheh... heck yeah, I do. Waaaaay more than most people realize. Stuff I've actually posted? It's pretty limited. I posted a couple pieces (Let Me Love You and You're Like the Sunshine) a few years ago, but I've been practicing ever since. One of my planned stories literally has what I refer to as a “smut dump” in the draft where I've been experimenting with writing different moods. I like the intimate scenes to play a role in the overall plot or have it be a bonding experience.

Despite that, I do have a shameless Gray x Mary story I should just get out there that has zero plot, just two cuties in love. In my mind it's so naughty and kinky and I get flustered thinking about it (Mary is hot, okay?), but it's probably hella vanilla, lmao. I really am grateful that people have been really supportive about my writing smut despite what I usually write, and they've been so encouraging, too! I honestly feel like the smut I've posted is really stilted because I was so self-conscious about it. I don't feel like they are terrible for first attempts, but I have definitely grown more comfortable writing it.

Will The Shy Newcomer become explicit? I kinda really want it to, but I might separate the chapters for those who don't care for that content. Overall, I'd like to write more and post more, and I want to write more than just male x female smut as well. I have some of those in my planned pieces (more about them later).

📒 Any Fics Planned?

Firstly, I'm super tickled more than one person was interested in this. I copied the answer I wrote earlier.

Short answer: Yes. I also plan to bring more of my stories over from ffn to Ao3.

Long answer under the cut, heheh. I rambled quite a bit.

Ask me about my writing processes and stories!

I have so many WIPs that haven’t been touched in years that I’d like to finish, so new planned fics aren’t posted yet. Some of them have more adult themes than most of the stuff I’ve been writing, so I get flustered sharing them. I’ve been at a crossroads, as I feel that you can’t have growth without changing things up. On the other hand, I feel like a lot of my readers associate my works with a specific “wholesome” feel-good mood. It’s kinda nice to be known for something, although that might just be my ego talking, thinking that people recognize my work as a “type”.

Regardless, in the end, I feel growth is necessary.

I don’t want to leave a lot of unfinished WIPs waiting because they stress me out and I have too many of them already, so I’d like to have a bulk of my new stories with a good chunk written before I decide to post them.

Among those include:

A longfic featuring Pete’s farm in Forget-Me-Not Valley (A blend of HMDS with the FoMT plugin and AWL). It takes place in the same universe as The Shy Newcomer (Claire in Mineral Town) and there are a few overlapping moments, although Pete’s story starts first. Pete’s personality is verrry different from Claire’s, and his story was kind of supposed to be the yang to TSN’s yin. Pete’s best friends in his story are Ruby (not sure if I’m adding Tim yet), Nami, and Rock. Readers will be treated to a poorly-socialized pre-Mineral Town Cliff (if you think he was bad at the beginning of TSN, well… heh… he’s a wreck here).

Another planned unpublished story is a crossover of Harvest Moon and the movie “In This Corner of the World”, based on a manga of the same name by Fumiyo Kouno. It was written as a gift for a friend. I have the entire outline figured out and have slowly been filling it in. My friend asked for an AU where Claire and Cliff have an arranged marriage and live with his family in Akiyama, the hometown I had created for Cliff in The Shy Newcomer. I took the opportunity to expand the characters in his family. I have it written during the same time period and society as “In This Corner of the World”, but had decided to write a spreading disease as an allegory for war, but then COVID happened and some parts of it just got really hard to write. There are also a lot of sexually explicit content as Claire slowly grows and learns from her spouse that it’s okay to express what she wants despite sex being a taboo issue. If there’s enough interest in the story, I’ll post it, but I worry it’s a little too niche for there to be many people into it.

Pastor Carter and Doctor Trent are one of my favorite rare pair ships. I’ve had a partial draft for a story about them for a few years now, especially focusing on Trent growing up and acknowledging that he has an unhealthy addiction for things that he knows he can’t have. There are some more adult/sexual themes in this piece, too, including the main character lusting after a married woman (who also happens to be his patient) and some lemons. (Does anyone call it that anymore or is it just referred to as “smut” nowadays? Haha) I always feel so bad for neglecting the folks at the clinic in-game and wanted to write a piece that focused more on them, Trent specifically. It’s a multi-chap fic, but I don’t think I’m going to let it get as long as some of my other pieces.

I also really want to write a short romantic oneshot for every marriage candidate in Mineral Town, around 1,000 words each. So far, I have one for Cliff and one for Gray. I want to write Claire with everyone, because I think it would be fun to explore all the different personalities.

I have more installments planned for A Single Day, including a day in the life of the following characters, all with drafts in varying degrees of progress:

Anna

Doug

Nora (yes, I’m writing from the point of view of the cat living at the inn)

More to come – I think Lillia and Thomas would be especially interesting to explore

I do still have that Legend of Zelda Majora’s Mask piece I’ve been pondering where Link befriends the soul of the deku scrub child while possessed by the mask. I don’t have much written about it, but I really love the world of Majora’s Mask. Such a fun game.

I also think about the lead carpenter’s son in Ocarina of Time and that weird side quest involving the blue chicken and the son being lost to the forest. Then that unique-looking kokiri girl explaining that all who get taken in the lost woods become stalfos. Like, did the guy die? Was he sick? Did he want to die? There’s just so much going on there that would be fun to explore.

I also have played OMORI recently and have like… A LOT of feelings about it. I don’t know what I’d write, but I’m still damn impressed at how well the characters are developed in such a short game.

Other games I’ve had vague ideas about writing for include the following:

The Flame in the Flood: I’m thinking a survivalist/action story fleshing out Scout’s backstory a bit more and her thoughts as she’s traveling. I feel like she’s a very lonely person, but isn’t given the chance to really dwell on it.

Night In the Woods: I’d love to write more about Mae’s dreams and what they mean to her. She doesn��t really talk to anyone about them openly, so it’s really hard to tell her feelings about them in some regards. We know that she’s distressed about them, but I’d like to dive a little deeper. Do the nightmares end after the games does? What about Bea’s new nightmares?

Hades (Supergiant Games): I think it would be fun to write more about the events that take place before the game starts, like Zagreus’s duties in the house of Hades, and expand on the strained relationship with his father.

[sitabethel]

Fic tag game, and I was tagged by @rochelle-echidna, @isisishtar, and @ninjam117

1 - how many fics do you have on ao3?

Like any good Suikoden protagonist, I have 107 Stars of Destiny in my castle

2 - what’s your total word count?

2,445,507 (Daddy...Imma get that to 2.5 mill by the end of the year. Watch)

3 - what are your top fics by kudos?

The Lemonade Stand

Out From the Cold

King of Thieves

Safe

Talk Dirty to me

wtf, y’all. The puppyshippers are giving out more kudos than the thief stans. Shame. Shame. Talk Dirty To Me isn’t even a fic??? It’s an RP supersteff posted for funsies??? 

4 - do you respond to comments why or why not?

Most of the time (as long as I’m not overwhelmed with life). Responding to comments is how I’ve made most my friends in this fandom, so A++ would recommend. 

5 - what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Definitely Three Nights. My only fic w/a sad ending (which is why I wrote Three More Nights b/c I couldn’t handle having a sad ending. I had to fix it.)

6 - what’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I honestly couldn’t say. I’m here to have a good time and to make sure all my favs also have a good time, so I’m always actively trying to give them the happiest possible endings. 

7 - do you write crossovers?

Nope.

8 - have you ever received hate for a fic?

I sure the hell have

9 - do you write smut? What kind.

ROTFLMFAO

10 - have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes. It was kinda funny b/c out of all the fics, it was “Me” a 5k deathshipping one shot that is one of my least popular works. But like...I don’t really think they were *trying* to steal it so much as homage it? But they were too young and unskilled to know how to rework something properly, so it was almost an exact copy of my fic. I tried to go over it and show them how to rewrite parts in order for it to be more original (Like, you can give YM piercings, just don’t give him the exact same piercings. You can have YM play with his hair/clothes/presentation in order to explore his identity, but pick different things that are more unique and how *you* would imagine YM being as his own person, instead of just copying exactly what I did). 

11 - have you ever had a fic translated?

There’s an Italian version of Storm of White on ao3 (go kudo bomb it!)

12 - have you ever co written a fic before?

Lots! I love colabs <3 The last one I did was Conspire With You, but there was also A Way Home, and I’ve co-written a few things with SuperSteffy. Please support all the other writers who worked hard on these fics with me! (kudo-bomb the hell out of them)

13 - what’s your all time favorite ship?

*Cries in polyamory* 

I can’t...choose one. Thiefshipping and Deathshipping were my first favorites, but like...damn, Kingshipping and Trapshipping have honestly ruined me. And Arrestshipping...Euroshipping...Rustshipping...Boundshipping...LISTEN!!! If it’s any combination of Seto/Atem/Yugi/TKB-YB/Ryou B/YamiMa/Malik it’s my favorite, okay? I’m a dragon who hoards ships. Especially polyships. I will literally froth at the mouth at any combo of those 7. Now let’s move on to the next question before I add more characters to the list........

14 - what’s a wip that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

That demon/angel au I was working on years and years ago. A shame, since I think there was a lemon that spilled into 3 chapters in that and it’s what Bakura deserves, but the plot was just...meh. 

15/16 - writing strengths and weaknesses

Strengths: Dialogue, sometimes imagery, projecting the right trauma/personality traits on the right characters in a way that can make scenes relatable/authentic. 

Weaknesses: I can be lazy with some plot points b/c it’s fanfiction, and I’m only here to have a good time, so eff it. And I will absolutely “sum up” certain chapters in order to finish a story at 80% potential. Anons used to get on my ass about this, and some commenters too, but I refuse to repent of my hasty ways. I write a lot of stories, and sometimes it’s better to get 3 80% stories out instead of one 100% story (for me. absolutely nothing wrong with ppl who want to write their best all the time. Like, mad respect to those peeps). Anyway, the ppl who complain are 100% accurate, right, and valid, but again, If you call me out on this I’ll just shrug at you and remind you of my commission prices b/c I’ll be happy to personally tailor a story for any angry anon-- if they want to put their money where their critique is *blows kiss*

17 - what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Depends on the context and how it’s used. 

18 - what was your first fandom you wrote for?

FFVII, but I never posted any of it thank god

19- what’s your favorite fic you’ve ever written?

I honestly love so many of my stories. I honestly re-read my own stuff all the time for comfort/self-care. I especially love a lot of the more intense, emotional pwp one-shots. It’s extremely difficult to pick one, but let’s go with humor and link 

Measuring Up 

Gotta love Bakura’s monster **** And the interaction involved with writing that story made it so much more fun. I really miss the days where you could slap a vote on tumblr and get a lot of responses, and dammit I miss Abby throwing random things into my ask box (like Bakura’s monster ****) 

Not going to tag anyone, since so many ppl are in the same little thiefshipping circle and I’d probably just accidentally tag a lot of ppl who have been tagged by others already. 

[jimlingss]

Sugar and Coffee [8]

Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

➜ Words: 3.3k

➜ Genres: 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst, Pâtisserie school!AU

➜ Summary: It isn't hard to be a pâtisserie chef, but it's not a piece of cake either. It seems like for you in particular, life keeps throwing in one wrench after another. It always finds ways to make your sweets bitter. The cherry on top is Jeon Jungkook — a rival with a sensitive sweet tooth who always finds ways to complain about you.

cr.

You always thought you would be happy to see him again.   To come face to face with the man who you miss the most — who you’ve yearned to see so much. Like reuniting with a close friend who you’ve lost contact with. Like rediscovering a piece of yourself that you had lost.   But you didn’t know it would be so painful. That your heart would be so heavy.   “H-hey.”   “Hey.” Seokjin smiles and your heart stutters but then constricts. It’s hard to breathe. “Are you on your way to class?”   You hold your books closer to your chest as if they could do anything to protect you. Your eyes sweeping over his features, trying to freshen your memories of him. You can’t recall the last time you heard the sound of his voice. “Y-Yeah. Are you?”   “I’m on my way to the library to meet up with some people for a group project,” he says casually with a good-natured smile.   “Oh. A group project already?”   “Yeah, I know right.” Jin sighs lightly, lips falling into a slight pout. “Well it’s my last ever semester, so it’s the last push.”   “Totally. I...get it.”   “I should go now before I’m late. It was nice seeing you, Y/N.”   You nod and without waiting a beat, he brushes past you, continuing down the hall.   You hate it. The way he looked at you, talked to you so nonchalantly, how he didn’t even blink thrice. Jin was friendly, but you know him — and he treated you the way he treats strangers. There weren't any softened gazes, gentle words. None of his actions had a trace of lingering feelings. His polite smile is the same one that’s reserved for mere acquaintances. Distant.   You’re no less than a stranger to him.   And as you watch Jin’s backside fading down the corridor, you quickly wipe away the tears that shed down your cheeks.   //   “You ran into him?”   You nod, toying with the hem of your sweater.   “That’s great news,” Jungkook murmurs from the corner of his mouth, preoccupied with choosing a game.   “Yeah, I know, right?” You're stiff, but he doesn't pay enough attention to notice.   You’re sitting on the floor of Jungkook’s dorm room, knees gathered together as you watch him set up. He’s finally cleaned up after you insulted him that he was a pig living in a pigsty, and he was offended enough to clean up after himself and do his laundry.   Jungkook switches on his PS4 and flops down on his small couch with the controller. He glances up at you when there’s ongoing silence and realizes he should say something more.   “That means there’s hope, right? If he’s willing to talk to you and all. I know a lot of exes who would run in the other direction.”   “Yeah. That’s true, I guess.”   Jungkook is optimistic. “If you keep talking to him, who knows, you might get back together before you even realize.”   There’s a loud knock on the door, someone’s fist banging on the surface. The boy in his gray sweatpants and black, boxy shirt sighs, gets up and opens the door. The person on the other side glares at him. “Dude, about fucking time. Was standing out there for an eternity.”   “Shut up, I literally took ten seconds.”   “Yea, but ten seconds we could’ve used playing. Hey, Y/N!” Hoseok grins, plopping down on the couch and stealing Jungkook’s controller. Jimin follows in, greeting you with a smile, and Taehyung and Yoongi are the last with the former harshly nudging the latter forward.   “Alright, alright,” Yoongi grunts quietly and then faces you with his hands dug into his hoodie pocket. “Y/N. I wanted to apologize for my behaviour last time.” He looks less sorry and more disgruntled and reluctant, but it’s enough to amuse you.   You snort. “It’s no big deal.”   “Okay, cool.” Yoongi exhales and sits beside you.   Taehyung shakes his head but redirects his attention to Jimin when he steals his favourite controller. “Hey, hey, hey, paws off, bro.”   “What?”   “That’s mine.”   “Who says?”   “I wrote my name at the back in pencil. Look. See?”   “You wrote on my controller?” Jungkook is outraged, snapping into their argument.   In the meanwhile, Yoongi scrolls through his phone and notices you’re blankly staring at Jungkook's old flat screen — the one he stole from his parent’s home months ago and somehow set it up here. “I meant it.”   “What?”   “I know it looked like Taehyung made me,” Yoongi mumbles, “Which he did. But I meant to apologize anyway. Eventually. I know I’m an ass.”   “You’re an honest one,” you admit with a small smile. If there was anyone who was going to be frank and truthful, it would be Yoongi. He won’t sugar coat it, won’t string pretty words together to make you feel better, so that’s why you pick him to inquire, “Can I ask you a question, Yoongi?”   “Sure.”   “Do you think I’ll ever be able to get back together with Jin?”   “No.” His gaze connects with yours. “You won’t. Usually people break up for a reason and that reason always stands.”

Two weeks pass by as you ignore the thoughts lingering in the back of your mind. You overlook it like an assignment on your desk that needs to be done or like that messy drawer you should clean out but keep procrastinating on. And it’s easy to distract yourself when the entire school is stirred.   Of course it would be. After all, the most competitive holiday was coming up.   “What are you going to make for Valentines?”   “Me?” You blink. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it yet….”   The atmosphere hyped — even the dining hall is louder, the air buzzing.   The holiday simply dedicated to love has long been replaced by alumni years ago and became a competition. After all, this was the place where everyone could make sweets after all. No longer was Valentine chocolates simply melting chocolate from the store and pouring them into molds — every single person here can properly judge the quality, taste, texture, flavour, and the presentation.   According to rumours, the tradition started between three people, specifically when a girl told her two potential suitors that she would become the Valentine of whoever baked better. It sounds like some ridiculous Shakespearean tragedy, but as people went head to head to win the affections of their crushes — it essentially evolved into a competition.   And at this point, it doesn’t matter who gives it to who. It’s who bakes it better.   “I’m still debating if I want to do raspberry possets or raspberry religieuse,” Taehyung hums, chin resting in his propped up hand, and he turns to his side. “Which one do you like, Yoongi?”   “Why the fuck do you care what I like?”   “Well obviously because I’m going to make it for you,” he giggles.   Yoongi glares. “Fuck off.”   “Who else am I supposed to give it to? You have no one, I have no one.”   “What about Jimin?” you ask, trying to hold back laughter with said brunette.   “He has his mom.”   “Hey,” Jimin whines, “I have the Valentine’s Day fundraiser at the hospital this year too.”   “So you’re not going to make anything for your mom?” he deadpans.   “Well, no.” Jimin pouts. “I’m going to make her red velvet cupcakes.”   “Don’t make fun of him,” you chide Taehyung and turn to the other. “That’s really cute, Jimin.”   Jimin grins, eyes crinkling into half moons. “Don’t worry, Taehyung can say whatever he wants. He’s just jealous my mom’s the best. She raised me all on her own and I wouldn’t be here without her.”   “Okay, I’ll admit she’s really nice,” Taehyung has a dreamy expression. “I miss her warm hugs.”   “That’s weird,” Jimin deadpans, pleasant smile switching into a face of comical disgust. “Don’t talk about my mom like that, dude.”   You laugh and look over at the sleepy man lazily chewing on his mac and cheese. It’s always funny to watch Yoongi eat. He looks physically pained to chew and swallow — you wonder if he would blend all of his food to just drink it if he could. “Are you going to make anything, Yoongi?”   “No. Who would I give it to?” He ignores Taehyung when he exclaims ‘me’.   You direct your attention to Hoseok and he shrugs. “I might...make lemon and poppy seed cupcakes or strawberry rhubarb shortbread bars.”   “For who?” Jungkook asks, brows raised.   “Uh, no one.” But it’s obvious that the answer is too suspicious, so he gives in with a sigh. “I owe Y/N’s friend, Aeri, a favour, so I’ll probably make something for her.”   “Ooh, I haven’t heard you talk about Y/N’s friend before.” Taehyung leans in closer, eyes glistening.   “Shut up,” Hoseok quips. “What about you, Y/N?”   “I...haven’t decided if I will or not. Maybe I’ll make something for Jin.”   Yoongi’s eyes flicker up, brow cocking, and you stare back at him blankly.   Jimin catches the quick exchange and intercepts. “You should tell Jungkook to make you his chocolate-covered strawberry cupcakes.”   “Holy fuck, I remember those!” Taehyung slaps the table, startling both you and Jungkook. “Those was so fucking delicious, I thought I was going to cream my pants when I ate them. I can still taste it.” He slurps up the spit that’s accumulated in his mouth.   Jungkook’s nose wrinkles. “No. It’s too much work to make that.”   Taehyung bats his lashes. “You wouldn’t make it for us?”    “That’s an even harder no.”   “Psh. Valentine’s Day hater.”   “Fuck off. It’s not my fault that the holiday is stupid.”   “You just hate it because you’re alone.” You pat your friend on the back. “It’s okay, Jungkook. You’ll find love someday.”   “Okay, fuck you too,” he spits without much malice, making Yoongi smirk.   “Jungkook just knows his small package can’t satisfy any man or woman.”   Yoongi’s insult rouses laughter from everyone and the man being grilled has his brows shot to his hairline. “For your information, I have a substantial size and I’m probably bigger than everyone here. Especially you, Mr. five foot nine.”   You blanch. “Gross.”    But while Yoongi doesn’t seem injured by the retort, Jimin’s the one who’s sitting straight and he whines, “Why do you have to bring height into this?”   They ignore him in favour of Taehyung’s questioning, “Really? Bigger than everyone here?”   “Okay fine.” Jungkook points at Taehyung. “Except you.”   You look between the pair of them. “Did you guys have a dick measuring contest or what?”   “We will not speak of the past,” Jungkook deadpans, making you laugh even more.   //   You know that you shouldn’t. With what Yoongi’s told you, with what you know yourself, you shouldn’t go out of your way to do something so unnecessary. You shouldn’t put your heart on your sleeve to get hurt again when it’s not going to be worth it. But in your life, there've been a thousand shouldn’ts and you’ve always grasped onto the one should.   It never hurts you to try, and that’s how you’ve made it this far.   “Hey, Jeon.” You catch up to him. Jungkook’s legs are unbearably longer than yours and when he walks fast it puts you out of breath within seconds.    Luckily, he sees you and has the decency to slow down. “What?”   “I need your help.” Jungkook’s steps slow even more until he outright stops in the middle of the hallway. He looks so apprehensive, you have an urge to slap that expression off his face. “Hey! It’s not like I’m not going to ask you to kill someone for me!”   “Yeah, well, the last time you asked for a favour, we destroyed a kitchen trying to temper chocolate. I’d rather you kill me, thank you very much.”   “Pretty please? Promise it’s not bad.”   “Ew, ew. Don’t look at me like that and stop pouting, you’re not cute.”   You frown at him. “Look it’s not a huge, huge thing, promise.”   “What is it?”   “Well, you’re Jungkook, World’s Best Chocolatier, right?” You nudge him with your elbow and it only makes him more suspicious with how you’re thickly laying down the praise. “And you know chocolate hates me. I definitely don’t know about it as well as you do either, so I need you to bestow your gifts onto me—”   “What is it, lady? Get a move on! I don’t have all day.”   “Can you help me make something for Jin?”   Jungkook pauses. He stares at you. Maybe his brain finally died — not like there is anything to die considering it’s always been a little on the empty side. But then he finally opens his mouth. “What are you planning?”   “Just something simple. Like truffles. What do you think?”   Jungkook hesitates, then he looks at you. “Fine.”   “Really?”   “Yeah, yeah.”   He waves his hand away, but you grin at him. “You know you’re my best friend, right, Jungkook?”   “Yeah, well, it’s something I never really signed up for,” your best friend mutters and continues walking while telling you that you’ll owe him and that means more notes from multiple lectures. But it’s worth it.   On the fourteenth, right on Valentine’s Day, you meet with Jungkook.   He audibly sighs when he sees you tie up the back of your apron. “What?”   “Nothing. I just can’t believe I’m spending Valentine’s with you.”   “I thought you didn’t care about the holiday.”   “I don’t. But that still doesn’t mean this isn’t lame. Whatever. The quicker we get this done, the quicker I can leave and avoid all this.” He motions around, but you know what he means.   Love is in the air and it’s sickening — couples were holding hands, kissing each other on the tips of their noses, rubbing their cheeks against one another, dialing up the PDA to an uncomfortable amount. But you can’t blame them. You and Seokjin were once like that.   “Do you know how to make ganache?”   “Do I know how to make ganache,” you mimic him mockingly. “Of course I do! What am I, an idiot?!”   “Well, you didn’t know how to temper chocolate so you tell me.”   You glare at him. You would mouth off but can’t risk him storming out.   The two of you gather the eight ounce semi-sweet chocolate, a half cup of whipping cream, cocoa powder and some vanilla. Jungkook helps you heat the cream to a simmer in a small saucepan, looking over your shoulder at every step along the way. While you’d usually mind the way he’s intruding in your personal bubble, you don’t want to get anything wrong.   “Make sure it doesn’t burn.”   “It’s not going to burn.”   “You said that last time.”   You snap. “Keep bringing up last time and this will be the last time you step into the kitchen, Jeon.” A second later, you’re begging Jungkook not to leave. But thankfully, he has enough mercy and lets you off with a warning.   The pair of you continue making the ganache, placing the chocolate in a bowl before pouring the cream and adding the vanilla to it. You allow it to stand for a few minutes before stirring it into a smooth, deep mixture.   You place the ganache in the fridge for half an hour to chill. In the meanwhile, you clean up the mess and wash whatever dishes you have. Jungkook, on the other hand, shows you Yoongi’s reaction of Taehyung proposing to him with some cupcakes in front of campus in which the former man straight out walks away.    Jimin who’s filming is giggling hard enough that the camera is unsteady, but his laughter is infectious and makes the both of you grin. Jungkook says he’s glad he wasn’t there lest Taehyung turned to him and started to declare his fake affections and cause a crowd to gather. Apparently it’s happened before.   When the ganache is ready, Jungkook helps you roll it into balls and dust with cocoa powder. You pull out a box you had prepared to place them in, and you could not be prouder when it’s complete.   It looks like a product that you could buy in-store. Simple yet elegant.   “All done.”   “All done,” you repeat after him, viewing your final product. Chocolate doesn’t hate you so much when you’re with Jungkook, you realize.   “He’ll love it.”   “Yeah….”   You can imagine it — calling out Jin’s name. He’d spin around, regard you with his surprise. You’d extend your arms to give him the box. You’d try to show through this small gesture that you still love him, but you wouldn’t speak the words in case the moment would be ruined. But with your courage mustered, you’d tell him that you miss him in your life. That you don’t want to be strangers anymore. Whether that means remaining friends or being lovers again.   But you know that it’s just your fantasy.   A delusion — your optimistic imagination running wild with the semblances of hope still left within you. A sweet dream you would have in your slumber only to wake up to reality. The grief of your heartbreak morphed into a wishful thinking. The image and scenario you’ve constructed in your mind is simply part of a chapter in your life that would never happen.   “He wouldn’t take it,” you whisper.    It's a truth that’s hard to face, that you’ve been running from and turning yourself blind to.    But you know Seokjin. After nearly two years together, you know the kind of polite smile he gives to strangers. You know how he treats acquaintances. You know when he’s being distant, how he acts when things don’t matter to him anymore. And you know that— “He wouldn’t….”   He would never take this.    He would never accept the chocolates you’ve made on Valentine’s. You would never be able to muster the courage to tell him how much you miss him. And he would never agree to being friends after your extensive history together.    Your head lowers, and tears drip down your cheeks. Jungkook is rendered speechless but you feel his hand on your shoulder. He squeezes comfortingly.   You sniffle, wiping your face with the back of your hand, and you take a truffle to throw into your mouth. You chew in your cheek and look at Jungkook with your reddened, teary eyes. “I-If he won’t eat it, we should.”   That’s how you end up on the floor of the kitchen with Jungkook beside you.    The two of you are leaning against the kitchen island, hidden away from the window of the door and any intrusive eyes peering through. The tips of your fingers are stained with melted chocolate — the fruits of your labour gone in an instant.   The realization sinks in. After months of what you’ve tried to keep a hold on it. Having hoped aimlessly that you could change this back around. What had shattered into sand and slipped between your fingertips, but you tried to catch it again. It hits you in an instant.    Harder than it ever has.   “It’s really over, isn’t it, Jungkook?” you ask in a murmur, in a broken voice. “It’s over.”   The relationship ended. Any form of a relationship with Seokjin is gone forevermore.   Jungkook turns his head, gazing at your profile. He pats you on the back.   He’s learnt long ago that he wasn’t very good at speaking, but that his words don’t mean as much as his actions do.   So in silence, Jungkook eats the truffles with you. It’s not bad, he muses internally. You’re getting better at chocolate despite how you never had a knack for it. Well, technically he made them but whatever, your effort still means something.   He chews and keeps to himself how the chocolate truffle strangely tastes sweet and bitter, like both sugar and black coffee.

[butterflies-dragons]

Sansa, Jon and Sweetness

I know that “sweetness” could be a bad omen for other characters in different contexts, but in these quotes of Jon and Sansa “sweetness” means innocence, family, dreams, beauty, desires and love.     

Sweet Lady

Remember when Jon Snow called his mare “Sweet Lady”?

The mare whickered softly as Jon Snow tightened the cinch. “Easy, sweet lady,” he said in a soft voice, quieting her with a touch. Wind whispered through the stable, a cold dead breath on his face, but Jon paid it no mind. He strapped his roll to the saddle, his scarred fingers stiff and clumsy. “Ghost,” he called softly, “to me.” And the wolf was there, eyes like embers.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

As I said before, there are so many things to say about this quote:

Jon Snow, the guy who is supposed to like the warrior woman type, whispered to his mare “Easy, sweet lady”. He could’ve said “Easy, girl”, but he said: “Easy, sweet lady”. Oh Jon, you are such a romantic dork.  

Lady is also the name of Sansa’s direwolf.    

Lady and Ghost are mentioned together and linked in many passages of the Books. I love it.

At this point Lady is dead, so she is literally a ghost.

Later in the Books Jon also dies. So we have a direwolf with a dead master and a master with a dead direwolf.

And guess who is the female character that is called ‘sweet lady’ the most? Yes, the answer is Sansa.   

Red haired girls calling Jon Snow “Sweet” & Jon Snow calling red haired girls “Sweet” 

Ygritte:

Tormund frowned down at Jon. "Best go, if it's the Mance who's wanting you."

Ygritte helped pull him up. "He's bleeding like a butchered boar. Look what Orell did t' his sweet face."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

Sansa:

“There's a new High Septon, did you know? Oh, and the Night's Watch has a boy commander, some bastard son of Eddard Stark's."

"Jon Snow?" she blurted out, surprised.

"Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose."

She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

Jon:

Blood meant little and less amongst the free folk, Jon knew. Ygritte had taught him that. Gerrick's daughters shared her same flame-red hair, though hers had been a tangle of curls and theirs hung long and straight. Kissed by fire. "Three princesses, each lovelier than the last," he told their father. "I will see that they are presented to the queen." Selyse Baratheon would take to these three better than she had to Val, he suspected; they were younger and considerably more cowed. Sweet enough to look at them, though their father seems a fool.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XII

Red Hair exists Jon Snow: Lovely! Sweet!

Sweet Dreams of Winterfell

Jon and Sansa really want to go back to Winterfell, their home:

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us.

The dream was sweet . . . but Winterfell would never be his to show. It belonged to his brother, the King in the North. He was a Snow, not a Stark. Bastard, oathbreaker, and turncloak . . .

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so . . .

She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

Sweet flowery smelling

Jon is OK with sweet flowery smells:

"Maybe he never washes, so he smells as rank as a bear."

"Then I'd push him in a stream or throw a bucket o' water on him. Anyhow, men shouldn't smell sweet like flowers."

"What's wrong with flowers?"

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

The shield that guards the realms of men. Ghost nuzzled up against his shoulder, and Jon draped an arm around him. He could smell Horse's unwashed breeches, the sweet scent Satin combed into his beard, the rank sharp smell of fear, the giant's overpowering musk. He could hear the beating of his own heart. When he looked across the grove at the woman with her child, the two greybeards, the Hornfoot man with his maimed feet, all he saw was men.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon VII

Sansa smells sweet like flowers:

Sansa Stark, he mused. Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces. He felt as though he was back on the bridge of boats, the deck shifting beneath his feet.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III

On the morning her new gown was to be ready, the serving girls filled Sansa's tub with steaming hot water and scrubbed her head to toe until she glowed pink. Cersei's own bedmaid trimmed her nails and brushed and curled her auburn hair so it fell down her back in soft ringlets. She brought a dozen of the queen's favorite scents as well. Sansa chose a sharp sweet fragrance with a hint of lemon in it under the smell of flowers. The maid dabbed some on her finger and touched Sansa behind each ear, and under her chin, and then lightly on her nipples.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

Sweet as Song

Jon seems fond of sweet voices and singing:

The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte's hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons.

At a lord's court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he'd seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn't seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

With their black hoods and thick black cowls, the six might have been carved from shadow. Their voices rose together, small against the vastness of the night. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins," they said, as thousands had said before them. Satin's voice was sweet as song, Horse's hoarse and halting, Arron's a nervous squeak. "It shall not end until my death."

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon VII

Sansa sings sweetly:

It wasn’t fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. 

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly. All I could ever do was shout the words.

—A Storm of Swords - Arya IV

He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XIII

Sweet Bran

Jon and Sansa remembering Bran’s sweetness: 

When the dwarf grimaced, his scar tightened and twisted. "The boy's earned himself a dagger, wouldn't you say?" Thankfully Tyrion did not wait for her reply. "Joff quarreled with your brother Robb at Winterfell. Tell me, was there ill feeling between Bran and His Grace as well?"

"Bran?" The question confused her. "Before he fell, you mean?" She had to try and think back. It was all so long ago. "Bran was a sweet boy. Everyone loved him. He and Tommen fought with wooden swords, I remember, but just for play."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

When nine-and-ninety hostages had shuffled by them to pass beneath the Wall, Tormund Giantsbane produced the last one. "My son Dryn. You'll see he's well taken care of, crow, or I'll cook your black liver up and eat it."

Jon gave the boy a close inspection. Bran's age, or the age he would have been if Theon had not killed him. Dryn had none of Bran's sweetness, though. He was a chunky boy, with short legs, thick arms, and a wide red face—a miniature version of his father, with a shock of dark brown hair. "He'll serve as my own page," Jon promised Tormund.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XII

This post was so sweet to write ♡  

[milkweedaspiring]

Strawberry Lemonade

I wrote this for a flash summer romance prompt, and thought it turned out pretty good! I though it was cute and figured I’d post it here :)

The only time anything exciting happens in a secluded town like Wittersvile is either, when the towns mayoral election takes an unexpected turn, or when the summer festival roles around. More so the second option than the first unless you’re a fan of small town politics. I guess that option isn’t so great either if you’re the ones who have to work through it, stuck trying to make a little extra cash during summer by serving rowdy kids and snooty adults. Watching the fun from a cramped and overrun lemonade booth. The smell of overly sweet lemonade most likely haunting you for the rest of her life at this point. Hours and hours sitting here watching the festival from what feels like a yellow prison cell.

Marnie places her uniform on the counter of the lemon shaped establishment and headed off to the break room for a drink of literally anything but lemonade. She stands outside of the ticket booth when a jacket catches her eye. A strawberry bomber with a pink collar. A stark contrast to the hand-me-down farmer aesthetic of most people out here in the middle of nowhere. That includes her though. Marnie looks down at her red plaid button up and worn jeans she’s had for a few years now.

Marnie tosses the stark white paper water cup into the garbage and follows the girl, now with a cup of that damned lemonade in hand, almost out of intrigue and instinct alone. Passing though crowds of old friends and familiar faces from a few counties over, she tried to recognize the girl through all the chaos. Her hair was long and fiery, her skirt was too short for anyone in this god-fearing town. A city girl. Marnie follows her passed the whirling rides and screaming kids to the forest behind the clearing. Marnie squints to try to keep her eyes on the city girl, picking up the pace.

Before Marnie could even see the river, she could feel the cool summer evening become even colder. Marnie feels her face heat up and she turns to head back, realizing how creepy this all seems when suddenly a hand grabs her arm from behind. Turning in a panic she see’s the girl with her deep blue eyes, looking straight through her.

“I’m sorry!” Marnie panics looking for a way to explain herself, as the girl laughs

“No, I should apologize, I moved here a few days ago, and saw you working the lemonade stand. I was too nervous to say anything so I though it might be better if we were alone.”

Marnie raises an eyebrow, looking back at the festival, “How’d you know I’d follow you?” She shifts, accidentally kicking up the dry dirt under her feet.

“You look so bored all the time, I thought you might want something or,” She paused, looking at the moon reflecting on the water, “someone more exciting.” The girl looks back over to Marnie, her eye’s more like the river than the ocean, “I grew up here, I’m surprised you haven’t recognized me yet, Marnie.” She smiles softly.

The other opens her mouth to answer, trying to figure out who this could be. But with a blank mind she touches her face, confused and flustered. Until she notices the caramel routes sitting just above the fiery red, “Jess?” She announces, more with hope than confidence.

Jessica mimics the sound of the carnival ‘prize one’ sound “Ding Ding Ding. You won.” She laughs, “it’s been awhile, Marnie.”

Marnie still in a state of shock responds in the only way she could think of at the time, somewhat unable to handle the tension of the moment, “What have I won?” She laughs semi-forced, “Like as a prize I mean?” Trying to lighten the conversation.

Jessica, walks slowly over to the small town girl, her hazel eyes, reflecting the moonlight on the water, and her dark amber hair, cut short and choppy. “A not so boring summer?”

Marnie ended up to be quite the fan of that overly sweet strawberry lemonade.

[tirednotflirting]

when you're next to me and the music's loud

i joined the crew of people who wrote like, love letter fics to their city (though i will be back to do it again bc i’m a romantic about this place lol). so here is jalex in austin !

title and inspo from the ungodly number of times i listened to don’t come down by the maine. thank you to literally rian dawson on a podcast for getting me to sit down and finally listen to all of lovely little lonely lol

i don’t mention the name of specific places for the sake of allowing you to kinda picture whatever you want while reading this thing but if you’re curious, the boys are seeing a show at this restaurant/venue called stubb’s (the indoor part of the venue which i’m not sure if they ever actually played but they DID play the outdoor bit in like 2011 or something).

feel free to come chat w me about austin or the couple of other places i halfway mention if you wanna. i love my city w my whole little heart and miss dancing and singing at shows 

here it is on ao3

Watching Alex watch a show is probably Jack’s favorite view in the world.

He’s traveled around the world more times than he can keep track of at this point. Watched the sunrise over a few different oceans and sunsets over crowds of thousands singing along to words Alex scratched out into journals over a decade earlier. He’s watched meteor showers and solar eclipses and yet none of them hold a candle to the smile he can see on Alex’s face as he looks back at him from the crowd in this tiny, packed room.

He just barely catches the wink Alex throws in his direction before the bartender is tapping his shoulder to hand him his card back. Jack thanks her and weaves his way back through the crowd to Alex’s side. A lemon-vodka-flavored kiss is placed against the corner of his lips in thanks as Alex starts singing along to the song he’s somehow already learned the words to despite having never heard of this band before they started playing an hour earlier.

Jack knows he should be watching the band up on stage thirty or so feet in front of him but his attention just keeps getting pulled back to the boy next to him. To the way the blue and pink lights shine against Alex and paint his hair a bright purple (he makes the mental note to mention to him later that he should consider it next time he decides to dye his hair). To the way Alex bounces on his toes in the same way he does when up on stage himself. It’s always been one of Jack’s favorite parts about going to shows with Alex, the fact that he watches shows in the same way he performs one. It’s further evidence of how in sync he always is with the people who come to see them play.

It had been Alex’s idea to find a show to go to on their off night in the city. The venue’s website had no notice that tonight’s show was sold out so after dinner they wandered down the street and bought tickets at the door. Jack bought the tickets and Alex bought their first round (This is like a rock and roll version of dinner and movie, right?). 

He closes his eyes for a moment then and takes a breath before bringing his drink to his lips again. Jack has always loved coming to Austin. He’s spent his entire life in love with live music. He loves the volume that leaves his ears ringing and bright lights and screaming along with singers from crowds. It’s always been his favorite part of being in a band, that he gets to help create those moments. Sometimes he forgets what it’s like from this end though. And this city always feels like the best place to come to for a reminder. The city always feels like it’s singing, like there’s music coming from every corner. It’s a different feeling from LA or Nashville or any other big, bright city. It feels more pure and alive but in an unpolished kind of way. Austin is what live music is meant to feel like.

“What’s going on up there?” Jack hears as Alex’s lips brush against his ear while tapping a finger against his forehead. He opens his eyes to the bright lights and blinks a few times so he can focus on the room before turning to let his eyes lock with Alex’s. Jack watches the stage lights flash in the dark brown of his irises, another view he should be so familiar with by now but still knocks him out every time. His free hand drops to wrap around Alex’s waist to pull him into his side and his cheeks warm at the laugh he receives in response though the music is loud enough he can’t hear it.

“Just happy. To be here, to be with you,” Jack leans in to say so he can be heard above the music. He watches Alex close his eyes and smile in the flashes of colored light coming from the stage and Jack returns the grin when he feels Alex lean more into his side and drop his head against Jack’s shoulder. He reaches for Jack’s free hand with his own and presses his lips against the back of it and Jack figures it says more than what he would likely be able to hear over the crowd and the music.

Jack knows it’s a ridiculously cheesy thought but there really is something so intimate about standing in the middle of a crowd with the person you love. He can hear the music, see the lights and the colorful crowd around them, taste the tequila on his tongue but his head is full of nothing but a static of Alex Alex Alex. As he’s gotten older, Jack found he was proud of himself for his ability to be more present as he moved about life and the world around him. But every once in a while his heart clouds up what’s in front of his eyes and the weight of his smiling, singing boy against his chest is the only thing in the world. It’s a peaceful feeling. For as long as he can remember, even when they were rowdy, screaming kids, Jack’s brain has always automatically associated Alex with peace. It’s something he’s been thankful for, to grow up in this wild world they created for themselves while holding the eye of the hurricane against his chest.

Alex lifts his head from Jack’s shoulder then and returns to shouting and jumping along with the crowd. The song comes to a close soon after and Jack wraps an arm around Alex’s middle to sway them back and forth as they listen to the singer introduce what is to be the final song of the night. He thanks the crowd and tells them to come out back to say hello after they pack up. Jack smiles fondly as he remembers hearing similar words from another lead singer in the same room nearly a decade earlier. He hopes the boy standing at stage right all those years ago would be proud of where he’s at now, playing to bigger rooms further downtown and holding the boy he loves against his chest. (A younger Jack would probably be most surprised that he’s drinking tequila though, if he’s being honest.)

“Where are we headed after this? Zack and Rian are asking if they can join,” Alex says into Jack’s ear to bring him back out of his nostalgia.

Jack drops his head to rest on Alex’s shoulder, his arms wrapping further around his middle. “Girl at the bar was recommending this other bar basically across the street. Said they have a food truck too if the boys are wanting food. I’ll drop the location for it when we’re heading out.” “Always one step ahead, aren’t you?”

“Only when playing tourist,” Jack laughs before turning to press his lips to Alex’s hair. He stands up straight then as the song starts and this time he instinctively starts jumping with the rest of the crowd as he recognizes the tune coming from the stage. Alex joins him and then they’re both bouncing and dancing around in the middle of the packed room, loudly singing to a chorus they both only barely know. 

Soon enough, their eyes are sparkling as they laugh and try to catch their breath, the room already clearing out as the crowd heads for the merch booth and the bathrooms. Jack shoots the name of the bar to the group message while Alex spins around in circles while tying his flannel around his waist, bopping his head along and singing to a song that’s no longer playing. “Come on,” Jack says while pocketing his phone and reaching for Alex’s hand. “The food truck has chili fries.”

“God, I love you,” Alex says dazedly as they reach the stairs to take them back to the street level. 

Jack laughs. “Because I know where to get chili fries at nearly midnight in downtown Austin?”

“For so many reasons, my love, but at this moment, yes. Because of the chili fries.”

“Alright, silly boy. Love you, too.” 

And then they’re back outside and somehow the magic of the crowd and the band and the lights hasn’t faded as they head for the crosswalk. Jack is used to leaving a show and stepping back into a reality that just doesn’t feel as special as the energy of a show. Maybe that’s the most special part about Austin, that the entire city carries that magic in the gentle breeze blowing under the hem of his t-shirt. He’s turning to Alex as they cross the street to describe the feeling to him and see if he even understands what he means, when the grip Alex has on Jack’s hand tightens momentarily. 

“I can feel it, too.”

Jack can only laugh in response, because of course Alex gets it. He always gets it. Later when they’re dancing around their hotel room, Alex will compare the feeling to something having to do with the formation of galaxies and exploding supernovas. Jack will smile and agree with every comparison Alex makes but when asked for his own, Jack will remember the weight against his chest during the show and the reflection of the city in dark brown eyes and give an answer with a more simple, four letter name. 

*

[karlacri]

27. favourite national celebrity? 16. which stereotype about your country you hate the most and which one you somewhat agree with?

oh, I didn't think they would ask me something so fast 😅 xDDD I don't know if this counts, but I think it's important to mention that although I live in Chile my parents are Peruvian, so the answers are probably mixed between the two countries xD

27) Favorite national celebrity: As I am not very aware of the entertainment world, I think that here the groups or people of whom I know 2-3 songs or something like that could enter  😅 and those would be:

*From Chile: The folkloric, Andean and Latin American rhythms groups 

Los Jaivas, canción Mira Niñita song Look little girl sub english   Todos Juntos song All together sub english Todos juntos full hd xd  Sube a nacer conmigo hermano sub english 

Inti Illimani, Samba Landó   I did not find a video with the lyrics, but I did find a web page that translated it (I hope it is ok)  Sirviñaco I did not find the lyrics in English, but in the comments it is in Spanish and it is about a young man proposing to a young woman that they marry Carnavalito de la Quebrada de Humahuaca (popular Argentine)

Illapu     Paloma Ausente  the lyrics are by Violeta Parra, but Illapu sings it xd  Lejos del Amor  Far away from love  Surviving /Sobreviviendo  lyrics in english  "Vuelvo para vivir" (I'm coming back to stay) (I feel that this song needs context xd from 1973-1990 in Chile there was a dictatorship where these groups were exiled due to political differences and when the dictatorship ended and they were able to return, Illapu wrote this song. The song Sobreviviendo I think was not written by someone from the group, but it was written during the dictatorship)

and Violeta Parra (who is famous for collecting and disseminating Chilean folk music and representing things like that in hers songs) Run Run se fue pal norte lyrics in english  La jardinera/ The gardener  lyrics english  Volver a los 17 Returning to seventeen sub english in youtube  Rin del angelito/ Rin of the little angel (rin is a musical genre from an island in southern Chile. In the song Angelito is a child who has died very young, Violeta wrote the song when her baby died and in this video there are scenes from that moment in a movie about her life. I say it in case someone is affected )

Thanks to life Gracias a la Vida  (is her most famous song and one of the last he wrote before her death)

As a curious fact, I can say that all of them were more or less contemporary during the time called New Chilean Song in the 60-70s that sought to recover folk music and was also combined with rhythms and instruments from other countries on the continent.

*From Peru: Group 5 which is a cumbia group, and I just discovered that it is practically the same age as my dad xd Motor y motivo/ my life’s mission song   Que levante la mano 

Yma Sumac who was a well-known soprano and has a star on the walk of fame. She was famous for her very high voice, she said that she had learned to sing like this by imitating birds singing as a child her duet with flute   Interview

Gastón Acurio who is a chef and promoter of Peruvian gastronomy, as far as I know he is one of the greatest ambassadors of Peruvian gastronomy (I don't always pay attention to everything his recipes say, but I do take some advice xD)

Juan Diego Flores: He is a light tenor that according to the internet is one of the best tenors on the current scene Ojos Azules / Valicha  

he singing the National Anthem 

  Juan Diego Flórez: What happens when an opera star goes onstage?

 Apart from them, I need to make an honorable mention to Los Kjarkas (Saya San Andrés  my favourite song xd saya is a bolivian dance), one of the most important groups in Andean music. The group is Bolivian, so technically I shouldn't mention them, but for me they are celebrities and they are the only group that I follow on facebook and of whom I have wanted to go to a concert xd

16) Stereotypes: I haven't seen this on my internet for so long that I probably mention outdated things, sorry From Chile: I remember there was a moment on Facebook where a couple of memes came out about how in Chile people were retarded and ate dogs. I do not know how widespread it was, I did not see much of it, but more than annoying me, it puzzled me because I did not know where that could have come from although a while ago I had a hypothesis about the matter of dogs. 🤔

meme on the matter and incidentally shows the myth that Peru eats pigeons

The best known among South Americans of all is that the accent and the way of speaking of Chileans is unintelligible to other Spanish speakers and that in Chile Spanish is spoken very badly xD Looking around, I saw that apparently so much is the case that in 2015 a Chilean linguist wrote a book about how Spanish was not badly spoken in Chile, it was only spoken differently xd According to me, the origin of this is that in Chile people tend to speak faster than everyone else, combined with the jargons that seem to be very different from those in other countries. I think I agree with this moderately, because there are people who speak quite fast, interrelated and / or it is difficult to understand the expressions they use, but it is not unintelligible as the meme says (in fact, I have a friend who speaks slowly, and even the Chileans themselves drew attention xd) and I can understand my teachers and classmates most of the time

meme about Spain laughing at France because most of their former territories don't speak their language, while the former territories of Spain learned their language ... or almost all of them xd And something I forgot to say, apparently it is quite distinctive that in Chile "asjkssjaskka" laughs while others laugh "jajaja" apparently xD

From Peru: I think the best known is still the one that Peruvians eat pigeons. As I read once years ago on Facebook (high scientific rigor xd 😅) the myth arose in Chile when in a certain place in the capital where many Peruvians came to live, the pigeons that had always been there began to disappear. From what I remember, sometimes the meme is shown as if the pigeon were the flag dish of Peru and that you cannot live without it, but it is a lie xd I know it is eaten, my mother at least ate pigeon with noodles and she told me that were raised to eat (and in fact he told me that it was possible that there really were people who had hunted in the plaza at some time 😅), and I also saw Gastón Acurio prepare pigeon ocopa (ocopa is like a cream and is eaten with rice, potato and lettuce). However, the case of Gastón Acurio was that he was preparing forgotten recipes from a 1950 cookbook, so I highly doubt that many people prepare it and it is definitely not very representative (there are much more widespread and famous dishes). About the noodles, it may be prepared, but it is much more common to see the chicken noodle.  Anyway, it does not seem very serious considering that there are other places where you eat or ate pigeon cake xd    

It is also that Peru claims everything as its own, but it is more because of a fight it has with Chile over whether the pisco sour (a drink with lemon) is Peruvian or Chilean and something similar happens with ceviche. Anyway it is exaggerated and I think that most people on both sides do not really care about the matter xD

Peru meme claiming things like yours

Chile and Peru fight for pisco sour. "wn" can mean from friend to idiot depending on the context and is one the best know chilean slang xd

Anyway, it is a meme that is almost always taken with humor (or at least I do) xd  😅  

I guess that's it, I'm sorry I literally answered you almost a month later and I'm also very sorry for how long the answer is, at first it was hard for me to write something and suddenly I ended up with this xd 😅

[christineeej94]

Singing for you❤

a/n: another request, another day in quarantine 😂😂. Also my exams will start in a few weeks, but who cares😂. I don’t know but today I had a fucking good mood. Thank you guys for your support, I appreciate very much. I hope you gonna love it. Stay safe and I don’t know, be cool 😂. Kisses🌻

Anonymous said:

hi I love your writing & I wanted to request an Aron Piper imagine where he’s filming a music video for his song ‘Sigo’ & he casts his best friend as the love interest since he wrote the song about her but she doesn’t know & at the end they end up together (however you’d like them to end up together is great!) I literally listen to his song everyday bc it’s so good 😩

Warnings: fluff I think and bad language. 

Word count: 1.798

Arón Piper x Reader

♠♠♠♠♠

Flashback

I was in 6th grade when I first met my best friend. I was staying alone on a bench in the school yard, eating my lunch. Any of my colleague didn’t want to spend time with me because I was different than other girls. It was a difficult time for me, but in that time lunch in the school’s yard, everything changed. I was hit in a face, with a ball, by a boy who bullied me all time in school. Then, a curly boy with a cute face hit that guy somewhere when the sunshine never rose (You got the point). “Run, (Y/N).” he caught my hand in his and we start to run together because a group of boys were running after us. 

 “You are okay?” He said and I figured out who it was. It’s Arón from the 8th grade. I nodded and he touched gentle my face. “You are going to have a bruise on your nose. Here, take this.” He handled me a patch with flowers on it. I smiled and then we turned back at school. “Thank you” I mumbled and he smiled. “No problem, we can met after school and go together home.” “Sure” I smiled softly and I waved my hand to him while I’m going to my class.

 End of Flashback

 From that day, me and Arón are best friends. We changed a lot in those years. He became a famous actor and artist, he is having every girl at his feet. Arón is looking different now, his body is more muscular and he is taller. He is still very beautiful but more masculine and I see why when I going somewhere with him every woman or girl is looking at me hateful, because they want to be with him. His is breaking a lot of hearts, including mine.

 Me, I started my fashion career when I was in my last grade in high school. I moved to Madrid a year ago and now I can be closer to Arón. He just released his first song ‘SIGO’ and I’m so happy for him. I couldn’t be at the released party because I was gone in Paris, Milan and New York for the Fashion Weeks but now I’m back.

 I’m going to surprise him at the casting where he needs to find a girl for the video. When I arrived at the hotel where it takes place the casting I asked at the reception where is the meeting room. After I took the elevator to the exact floor and when I entered in waiting room, I put my sunglasses on. I text a message to a friend of his telling him that I’m here. He texted me back and informed me that I can enter after the girl who’s inside. I’m so nervous and excited in the same time. I missed him so much and I barely seen him on FaceTime while I was gone. The girl gets out and I go in. Some chairs, a table where he is staying with two of his friends and some other people I don’t know. He doesn’t notice because he is looking into his phone. Arón always is staying on his phone when he is bored. “Sorry, mister I don’t care about the person in front of, I’m here.” I said and his friends laugh so hard. He got his look on me and froze.

 “(Y/N)? You are home?” he run towards me and lift me in his strong arms. I giggle and my heart is melting when he lets me down and kisses my forehead. “I missed you so much, chica. I thought that you aren’t coming home soon.” He smiled and I pinch his arm. “Surprise and I don’t like your hair.” He laughs and we go outside. Arón light up a cigarette and get out the smoke. He is so sexy when he’s smoking. “It was for ‘Élite’ and you know that I love my hair.” He winked. “Tell me how it was. You bring me something?” I pinch him again and he imitates a painful face. “I think that I have something, a Balenciaga hoodie, an Off-White jacket or maybe a LV belt.” I smiled and he got so excited when I said this. He hugged me again and for a second I thought he is going to kiss me. But he let me down quickly and he continue to smoke.

“I’m happy that you are back, I’m really thankful that you are back.” He grins and I didn’t say anything because my mind is somewhere else. “Do you want to be in my video? I think you are perfect for the role of the girl.” He said and I froze. ”Are you insinuating that I’m your type?” I smirked and he laughed. “Of course.” He winked and throw away what’s left from the second cigarette. “Do you accept?” “Give me time, chico, I just got back and you ask me this. I wasn’t ready.”

We go back inside and I let him to finish his casting. “I will be tonight at your apartment.” He yelled before I got out of the meeting room. I showed him my middle finger, habit which I took it from him, and he laughs hard. “¡Joder! If you didn’t tell that she is your best friend I would have believed she is your girlfriend.” I heard a man saying when I closed the door.

  At 6 p.m. I had a shower and now I like to stay in my robe watching the sunset from my balcony. I couldn’t take off the imagine of Arón face all day and I’m thinking all the time about his existence in my life. He helped me so much, he was there at my first shoot and when he was at the casting for ‘Élite’ I jumped in the first train to Madrid and I was there to support him. He throwed up all morning and I still laughing about that.

“You look very sexy in this robe.” I jump scared from my lounge chair. The curly head boy is laughing so hard. “Fuck, Arón, why don´t you called?” “I wanted to make you a surprise, so here I’m. And you forget that I have a backup key.” I really forget. I pointed the chair next to mine and he sits. “Bad habits never die.” He speaks about my pleasure to stay outside in a robe and watch the sunset. Actually, it’s freezing right now and I’m feeling my feet very cold. “You think about my suggestion? It’s okay if you don’t want, but I like you to be in my music video.” He smokes slow a cigarette and get out the smoke. “I can do this for you, you are my best friend. I will do everything for you, cabrón.” I entered back in apartment and I take out a bottle of limoncello which is lemon liqueur. “I bought this from Rome when I was there to meet someone and we go together to Milan. It’s for you.” He smiled and kisses my cheek. “Te quiero, chica” “Te quiero.” I replied and we hugged. I’m hurting myself right now but for a moment I let everything to flow by itself.

 It was 2 days from that night and now I’m on set. A girl done my hair in some wavy curls and I’m dressed up in some black jeans and a lace bra. We filmed the heaviest part and that’s the part when we should kiss. When I found out I freaked out. I locked myself in the bathroom and thinking to run away. I got back after 15 minutes and everybody was staring at me. “We can’t do this if you want.” Arón rubbed my back to relax me but I’m so stressed. “It’s alright, it’s just a kiss.”

And now I’m in front of the scene. A room with obscure red light and fluffy black couch where my best friend sings his song.

“Todo ese money, ahora es clean, clean money

Ahora solo me hace "ring ring" el phone

She's on my dick, eh

Ahora contamos los E's de to's los colores

Me baila tu ex (Ex), champán y flores”

A boy pushed me from behind to get there. I sit in his lap and putting my hands around his neck, but…

“I can’t…” I going back to bathroom leaving the entire team alone. I’m such a coward. “(Y/N), open the door and let me in.” I heard his softly voice behind the door. I open it and he locked it. I was looking in his beautiful eyes and I can say that I’m in love with him. I scared because after I kissed him, I’m going to fall deeper and deeper and when he is going to refuse me, I’m going to collapse. “Why you run away like that?” “I’m scared.” I respond and Arón puts his hands round my waist. “I write the song for you. I keep looking for you and I want to tell you that I love you.” I froze then my cheeks got very red. “I don’t know what to say, because I love you too and I don’t want to lose you.” I said sad and he smirks. “You don’t lose anything. Now I can kiss you because I was waiting for this day for a long time.” I got on my tip toe and pressed my lips against his. First, he is in shock, then he lifts me in his arm and hold my body tight to his body. “We should go back in there, they will think that we do something else.” I said blushing. “We can do this later.” He smirks and kisses my nose. “I love you, boo. Let’s go and let’s show them what are you made of. My bad ass girlfriend.” He slaps lightly my butt and I turn around and pinch his arm. “Very bad ass.” He comments again and I rolled my eyes.

After we filmed the video, which is going to be release in 2 weeks and I’m so excited. He got me to his home and we stay on the couch in each other arms. “I still can’t believe you wrote this song for me. You are an old fashion boy.” I mumbled and he kissed my hair. He’s perfume give me so much dizziness and I’m feeling like I’m staying on a cloud. “You are telling me that I’m old? Because I’m not ready to be your daddy.” I hit him lightly. “Oh, shut up, you know what I wanted to say.” I continue. “But why don’t you tell me earlier?” he giggled softly. “I guess we are both scared of losing someone we love.” 

[rubyzizes]

IF YOU’RE WONDERING WHICH WAY TO GO

WHO: @ivystjamess​ & ruby zizes WHERE: their hotel room, devil’s head ski restort WHEN: sunday, 1/17 WHAT: After publicly roasting Ivy, Ruby goes back to their shared hotel room only to find it empty. Although there was no Ivy in sight, there was Ivy’s diary. Against her better judgment (thanks to being a little drunk), Ruby takes a peek inside the pages and is caught in the act.

IVY: ivy couldn't handle criticism unless it was coming from the mouth of a director telling her to smile more, her father telling her she was a little flat, or davis talking about mckinley high. after ruby's roast that was going to be uploaded everywhere, it was only predictable that ivy run off. rather than venting on her finsta, she actual sobbed as she wrote furiously into her journal about how everything with julien was impacting her, how ruby made her feel in that moment, and everything from A-Z when it came to her heart. after that she went and spent a little comforting time with eli. what she hadn't been expecting though was to return to her and ruby's room to find the other flipping through the journal she'd left on their bed. "um" she said, announcing her presence. ivy could feel herself wanting to cry all over again, "what do you like think you're doing?"

RUBY: ruby was sure that she was hitting the nail on the head with the whole ivy-davis situation. she was positive that a coldhearted snake like ivy st. james was capable of being that sneaky and that evil and that disloyal. she just...gave off those vibes. after ruby's dare-induced roast in the game room, she was determined to get to the bottom of the whole debacle. when the night was over and ruby had returned back to their shared room, she was surprised to find it empty. with not a single tiny soprano in sight, ruby's eyes landed on the journal she had left on her bed. hm. ruby glanced at the door and then back at the journal. it was basically asking to be read. ruby rushed to ivy's bed, grabbed the diary, and began flipping through it and skimming. she flipped page after page only to come up empty handed. not only was there no tea, but it was actually...kind of sad. by the time she'd reached the latest page, ruby found herself actually feeling kind of bad for ivy. enthralled by the written confessions about feeling heartbroken over julien schuester, her inadequacy, etc., she didn't even notice when ivy walked in until she made her presence known. "fuck," ruby jumped, dropping the journal immediately, "you scared me." A pause as she cleared her throat. "I think I owe you an apology," she admitted with a shrug, "is...is this really how you feel?" she asked, glancing down at the journal.

IVY: "i don't need your apology." she did but ivy didn't want her to know that. she scoffed as she rushed to pick up her journal and informed ruby, "don't you know it's like, kinda rude to read people's journals." she murmured as she held the little pink book close to her chest. it was a replica of the one from honey, honey in the first mamma mia movie, and ivy cherished it. it was obvious in the way she looked at ruby, protective of the object held against her chest and beneath her hands. at her question, ivy hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. ruby had just read her journal, she wasn't exactly in a place to be tough. and yet, there she stood rolling her eyes, "well yeah i like wouldn't write all this for fun." she said, plopping down on her bed with a sigh. journal still in hand, ivy could feel her hands growing clammy. now that ruby had some dirt on her, ivy was sure half of lima's population would know by tomorrow. setting the journal down, she looked up at ruby, "look can you just like, promise not to tell anyone what you saw?"

RUBY: despite the fact that ruby was a little drunk and that she loved gossip more than anything, she knew when to keep her mouth shut. "i know you don't need it," she said, softening, "but I'm gonna apologize anyway. I'm sorry I said those mean things to you and I'm sorry for this complete invasion of your privacy." Not only had Ruby read things about Julien and Davis and Carmel, but she'd unfortunately gotten glimpses of Ivy's time with Leo and Lemon and Dayton. "Of course you wouldn't," Ruby said in agreement, offering a small smile as she sat on the edge of her own bed across from Ivy. Ruby watched sympathetically as Ivy hugged the journal to her chest. At Ivy's request, she nodded. "Your secrets are safe with me," she promised, and then let out a laugh, "I know that like...probably doesn't mean much to you...but you'd be surprised the amount of things I know that I haven't said. So...I mean it." A pause. "And I'll drop the whole 'Icy' thing and all my suspicions about Davis." Ruby stared at Ivy for a moment, squinting her eyes curiously. "But like...since we're here, why are you doing all this? If it like...makes you sad or whatever?"

IVY: this was horrifying. like every worst nightmare come true. of the revolving door of company she kept, only three knew everything about her. and it boiled down to just her sister, joey, and the infamous j word. so ruby suddenly learning too much about her made ivy wanna run to the bathroom then hurl. at her question, ivy rubbed her lips together. what could she say? she was a bad liar as is and having a vague idea of what all ruby might know, she might as well tell the truth. pushing the journal behind her, ivy turned to face ruby and spoke quickly, "look, i like don't expect you to understand and if you relay this to literally anyone i'll deny it, but, i didn't think it was going to work out like this, you know? but, i'm happy. i think." there was no conviction behind her words, yet she carried on "i like winning, i'm a winner, being on vocal adrenaline will make me a winner you know? it's like a birth right! and they only made me do that stupid egg thing with julien because my dad like, did it to my mom a million years ago." moving past the rambling, ivy sighed and slapped her hands down on her legs, "it's kind of a whole thing i guess, but, once i win regionals. . . all this pain? it'll be worth it, you know?"

RUBY: All Ruby could do was hum in acknowledgement of Ivy's reasoning once she was done talking. Lady Gaga had once said: if you're wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn't love you anymore. However, Lady Gaga had also shed very real tears in her documentary years later and said: I'm alone, every night. And all these people will leave, right? They will leave, and then I'll be alone. So, even though Ruby understood Ivy's whole 'ambition is everything' shtick, she wasn't sure she agreed. It was lonely at the top and love was the most important thing in the world. But it wasn't exactly her place to chime in though, was it? Especially since she'd just been caught red handed. "That makes sense," she fibbed, shrugging, "and I really do hope it's worth it." For her sake. It would really suck for one Ivy St. James if at the end of all this, she came to the same lonely conclusion that one Stephanie Germanotta did. That wasn't Ruby's business though, and for once, she'd stay out of it.

[enchanted-prose]

#20 A Circle of Stones

learn the name, not the face

Word count: 5,552

Characters: Tobias, Merry (original character), Regar, Ayvar, Oberson’s men, the Faola, Alistair, Jolly, Renlyn

Notes: this one is literally and figuratively dark, tw for violence

Enjoy!

There were better ways to spend a midday break than being in the dungeons. The Roving River was starting to rise due to the recent storm, which meant that there were plants to be harvested. If Tobias wanted to feel musty, he could crawl through a cave with Fink.

And yet, there he was, talking to a man suspected of treason.

Talking to a man who’d helped somebody escape after attacking the king.

It wasn’t like he was helping various prisoners escape. He was checking in on those who were locked away.

There was no way he could go out into the city to help people if there were others suffering below his feet.

“How are you, commander?” Tobias asked, pulling at his dark green shirt sleeves. “I know you’re not from Avenia, but I figured you might like to know that King Jaron agreed to send aid to Avenia.”

The dungeon was illuminated with summer sunlight, which meant the flea-ridden rats would hide for a little while longer. Tobias wanted to see Regar, wanted to let him know that his situation wasn’t as dismal as it could be with somebody to talk to. However, talking to him was almost like talking to a brick wall.

“I thought I’d mention that Jaron- ah, the king will likely let you go, free of charge. He thinks you didn’t have anything to do with the Faola escape.”

Regar coughed, “That’s kind of him.”

“King Jaron is a good man, he’s trying to set a precedence of treating people with respect,” Tobias rambled. A spider crawled up the bars in Regar’s cell.

“Good, good, the world needs more men like that. You should see every person as a living, thinking, feeling thing. You muddle lines when you don’t.”

“You’re feeling chatty today! Not that I’m complaining, just noticing.”

“I’ll be getting another visitor,” Regar brushed down the front of his leather jerkin. “I don’t speak much, but it’s still odd being in silence.”

He was right about the silence.

The Carthyan dungeons were almost empty. Prisoners were kept at various distances apart when they could be. Apparently, it was in an attempt to prevent anybody from leading a prison revolt, but Tobias had only heard whispers of this.

Silence grew painful after a while.

If Jaron knew Tobias was talking to a man who was suspected of treason, he’d probably forbid Tobias from speaking to Regar. Or he wouldn’t. With each passing day, it was getting harder and harder to predict what Jaron was going to do. Just that morning, he’d canceled every meeting he had planned.

Only a fool would try to control Jaron, and only Imogen and Mott could get him to slow down long enough to tell somebody else what he was up to.

Regar plucked a piece of straw from his massive beard, “Tell me, Lord Branch, is it true that they caught Mireldis Thay and locked her in her rooms?”

“Ah, well, uh, we think we have Mireldis Thay,” Tobias kicked at the ground.

“Perhaps she has you. Have you considered that?”

“She has- oh! You’re joking. My wife isn’t sure about it, about Mireldis being our prisoner, she thinks it’s dangerous. Ah, well, especially because she was able to hurt the king.”

“And the king imprisoned me for taking justice into my own hands.”

“Roden justifies it by saying you let Mireldis go.”

“By slipping?”

Tobias frowned. He had to stick with Roden’s account. Regar let the Faola go on purpose, not by tripping over his own feet. “It’s just to make sure that what you did was completely an accident.”

“You don’t need to explain,” Regar held his hands up. “But take this warning with you, my lord, there aren’t many people as forgiving as your king.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, not at all. I learned long ago not to go head to head with royalty. Mireldis Thay is a princess no matter what she wears or how she hides,” said Regar. He rubbed at both of his eyes, and sat down on his cot. “She knows how to play multiple sides while wearing a smile. It is a sin to assume a princess will remain in her tower. They are much more deadly than any headstrong prince.”

Had Regar ever said so much in one moment before? Tobias wasn’t sure. He hadn’t said that much since Tobias began coming to visit him.

There was an edge to his words. Something lurking.

The hidden truths and twisted facts were tiring Tobias. He missed the days of honesty. When people didn’t hide behind names and faces.

Although, he was a member of the royal court. It was very hard to find sincerity even without the threat or Mireldis Thay and her lust for Feall’s head.

“Did you know her?” Tobias asked, clasping his hands behind his back. “Did you help Mireldis Thay escape on that day Jaron was attacked?”

“You’re luring me into the noose, aren’t you?”

Tobias took a step back, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how to react to Regar’s comment.

He’d almost forgotten how close he was to Jaron, the supreme power in Carthya. Of course Regar would see Tobias not as a friend, but as somebody trying to draw out a confession.

And it stung.

It hurt knowing that Regar’s silence was weighed down by an impending punishment. It kept him quiet. Regar’s hesitation to speak came because he didn’t trust Tobias.

Didn’t trust him to keep their conversation between the two of them.

He tried to shove his shock away with a chuckle the same way Jaron pushed through awful news by making a joke. “Don’t worry, Regar, I’m a doctor. I save people, rather than leave them to die. And I think you’ll be able to plead your case tonight.”

“I did help someone that night,” Regar nodded. “But I didn’t help the bandit you and so many

others are bent on finding.”

“Then who was it?”

Somebody’s footsteps echoed down the stairs. Regar’s beard twitched up. He was smiling. “I

mustered the courage to speak to my daughter. I helped her chase chickens back into a pen.”

“They should make chicken chasing a sport,” Tobias said, trying to keep the conversation even.

It wasn’t his intention to catch Regar in a lie and turn him over to Jaron.

“I didn’t think you’d be here, Lord Branch,” said Merry, bowing till her short hair brushed the ground.

“Making a new friend. Have you met Commander Regar?”

She nodded, “I have. But I came here for another friend of mine. Have you seen Ayvar? She’s been here for several weeks, she has red hair.”

“They moved her to the tower ages ago,” Regar said. “Word is that the king released her yesterday.”

“They moved Ayvar?”

“Aye, lass, you won’t find her anywhere near here.”

“What do you have in the basket?” Tobias asked, he’d heard tales of the legendary lemon tarts being served at the Dragon’s Keep. Maybe he’d get one.

“It’s not important anymore,” Merry shrugged, but she withdrew two wrapped muffins. “You’re welcome to have these, I was going to give them to Ayvar, but it seems that my morning plans are canceled.”

“How’s your tavern?” Regar asked, holding his hand out for a muffin. He smirked when Tobias conceded and gave out one of the muffins.

A wide smile broke across Merry’s face, “It’s going well! Dawn’s convinced that I’m out drinking every night because I have a tendency to sleep in, but I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Best be getting your sleep, girl. Or you’ll be strung out like Master Branch here.”

“Hey! I am not strung out!” Tobias exclaimed, crossing his arms.

There were too many things that needed to be taken care of. Too many people to be patched up. Tobias knew that he was the best at doing what he needed done. It was useless depending on another person when he was completely capable of handling a situation on his own.

Besides, he didn’t want to be let down by relying on another person, nor did he want to disappoint a person who was relying on him.

That’s why he wrote every paper, sewed every stitch, and checked on every patient.

Maybe he was a little high strung.

All he needed was his own.

And Amarinda, of course, but she was a force of nature all on her own. He kept up with her, and she kept up with him. Amarinda rose to every challenge. Nothing scared her. She knew her abilities, and she knew what was expected of her.

It was her efficiency and understanding that caught Tobias’s eye all those years ago.

Merry was laughing. Laughing in front of a man convicted under suspicions of treason.

He caught himself thinking about how nice it must’ve been to walk into a dungeon and be able to talk to anyone in sight. Merry’s fearless friendliness was something many people lacked.

It was a good talent to be envious of.

“I am, I am,” she insisted. “Do you know where Ayvar went, Lord Branch?”

Tobias shook his head, “I’m not the person to talk to regarding her. Captain Harlowe probably knows, you could ask him.”

“I’d hate to leave the two of you, it’s a little rude to come barging in on a conversation and then leave less than a minute later.”

“The muffins make up for it,” Regar’s beard was littered with crumbs.

“Glad you liked them, Dawn’s selling them to pocket a few more garlins today,” Merry said.

Market day! Farmers and crafters from all over Carthya selling their best products. Tobias had a list of things he needed for the physician's chambers. He’d try to take Amarinda with him this time as he pawed through every peddler’s stash of herbs.

He’d heard somewhere that somebody was bringing tools from Mendenwal to sell. Those tools would be the envy of every doctor in Drylliad.

“Ah, lass, do you mind taking a message back to my men?” Regar asked. He then looked to Tobias, “You don’t need to worry about me giving away secrets.”

“I’d be disappointed if you tried with me so close,” said Tobias, stepping a little to the left to make room for Merry.

“I’ll do my best to remember,” Merry nodded.

“Tell them to wait for a command from me,” Regar said, he didn’t appear to be hiding anything. “Unless they’re told about lines, they know what I mean when I say that.”

“But I don’t,” Tobias pointed out.

“It’s code. If Lord Row leaves without me, my men are to stay near until I can return to them. If I return to them.”

Merry held her hand to her forehead, and brought it down. “Sir, yes, sir! Now, if you two will excuse me, I’ve got a friend to track.”

Tobias watched her spin on her heels and race back up the stairs. She seemed nice enough, a little rushed, but nice. And the muffins she made really were delicious. Ayvar was lucky to have a friend who’d track her down.

He looked back to Regar, who’d steepled his fingers together.

“I think I’ll take my leave too, there’s much that needs to be done today,” Tobias clasped his hands together. “I hope you can understand.”

“Your conversation makes things a little more bearable,” said Regar.

“Thanks. Some people grow bored.”

“Don’t worry about them.”

“I’ll try not to, but I am a doctor. And my dearest friend is a king who knows no fear. It’s my job to worry.”

------------------------------------------------------------

Amarinda ultimately declined going to market day when Tobias offered.  King Oberson finally worked up the courage to return home on the premise that  Mireldis Thay was locked away in the castle tower. He’d leave as soon as market day ended. Lord Thomas Row also expressed his desires to leave, but only after Regar was released from the dungeon.

It was entirely possible that Lord Row would be staying there for several months.

Market day was bursting with people and food, even as the sun began to set.

Tobias wouldn’t let himself be tempted with the scent of spun sugar and roasting pears. Not again. Not this time. He’d saved as many garlins as he could for these tools, and he wouldn’t waste them on food.

Although he’d love at least-

No! He had to think of his profession!

Tobias pushed his hair out of his eyes, and soldiered past the carts and carts of food.

The fabric and ribbon carts came next. A page wearing an official looking tunic held out his  hand for a green ribbon, giving a handful of garlins in return. The page bowed at Tobias, and then continued to his next cart.

He wondered who would be wearing that ribbon the following morning.

Vendors left and right hawked their wares. Some vendors had already left, leaving empty spaces every so often. The noise and temptation would’ve been much stronger during the afternoon. Tobias wouldn’t have stood a chance. He would’ve bought every bucket of spun sugar he could, even if it meant throwing it all up the very next day.

Lamplight glinted off of a cart full of throwing knives. He’d finally reached the metal carts.

Please let the tools still be there.

“Excuse me,” Tobias said, marching right up to one of the vendors. “I’m looking for medical tools, do you know where I could find them?”

It was like he’d walked into one of the hunting kennels with a piece of meat. Every vendor began shouting all of their items.

It almost reached the level of madness that some regents’ meetings had.

There were too many options, too many vendors to choose from. Tobias had to check every single one. If it weren’t for the list he’d made, he would’ve bought every single tool available for purchase.

“They used this tool to pull an arrow out of King Aranscot’s face!”

“This tool saved a queen from the western lands!”

“Only the best surgeons carry these! You’ll need it for cutting demons out of a man!”

Unfortunately for the last vendor, Tobias had no intentions of slicing an unseen entity out of a patient. His whole goal was to save, not to kill.

The tool that was supposedly used to pull an arrow from King Aranscot’s face resembled a pair of tongs. However, unlike the average pair of tongs, this pair had a screw in the middle with a series of tiny hooks at the end.

Arrow wounds were uncommon during days of peace, but it never hurt to be prepared.

The tongs felt heavy in Tobias’s bag, but welcome. This tool would save, and maybe Tobias would be known for pulling an arrow from somebody’s face.

Hopefully it wouldn’t be Jaron’s.

He stood in the middle of the street several strides away from the other vendors, watching the life and bustle of market day. Oberson’s soldiers intermingled with the other civilians. Pages darted left and right to fulfill their tasks before the vendors all left.

Ahead of him was lamplight and spun sugar.

Behind him was the scent of sorrow and the gaping holes leading down to the Vaults.

He frowned at the sight of the gutless buildings. People used to live there, but they’d been driven out.

Driven out by thieves and plague.

Driven out by the wicked presence of the Vaults. They’d always be there. Always lingering below the city.

Testifying that not every Carthyan wanted to move forward to a better kingdom.

They would fester in the ground for eternity like the corpses it hid.

People might be there- might be hiding in the Vaults. Roden told stories about what he’d seen down there, but only after he’d had an unhealthy dose of Libeth’s liquors.

Tobias was ready to return to the castle. He’d done what he needed to do. It was time to snuggle up to his wife and write letters to King Aranscot’s court to find out who’d pulled the arrow from King Aranscot’s face.

It wouldn’t hurt to check behind him. Wouldn’t hurt to locate a person in need.

The tugging of his heart grew too strong, but he ignored it. Tobias took one step forward, and then another. One of Oberson’s men stomped past. He was followed by two others.

One more step, one more step.

A man was selling toys. He held up a winding monkey that played the cymbals.

The music playing monkey almost drowned out the sounds of a scuffle.

Tobias spun on his heels, his bag smacking his leg and the tool inside jostled. The soldiers that walked past were gathered together. They moved together in perfect sync. A girl with scarlet hair struggled to get above them, and yet, she hadn’t screamed for help.

She didn’t need to.

Shouldering his bag, Tobias bolted toward the soldiers, trying to gather the courage to yell.

Somebody in a patched black cloak came rocketing from a second story window, landing on one of the soldiers before Tobias could reach them.

“Stop!” Tobias shouted. “Let her go!”

But not one person listened.

The patched cloak was all too familiar. Tobias skittered to a stop and pushed the hair from his eyes. The Faola had returned despite Renlyn Karise still being under a watchful eye. He kicked at the knees of one soldier, but the other three were focused on their other target.

How could he help? How could he help?!

Tobias called for help, foolishly turning his back to the Faola and Oberson’s soldiers. Was he too far? He swore he saw a page looking at them. Maybe it was too dark. Maybe the fight was encased in too much shadow to be seen by one of the vendors.

Somebody grabbed the back of his shirt.

Somebody dragged him back into the tight grip of a seasoned warrior.

An ice cold blade came too close to his neck. Tobias’s heart began to beat as if it knew it would soon have to stop.

“Let him go,” the Faola barked, his voice carried the harshness of a snakebite.

The harshness of a fatal wound being washed with salt water.

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” The soldier laughed. “You’ve got to choose. King Oberson is no fool. He knows that the girl in the castle is just a cover for you, he knows the man in the dungeons isn’t who he says he is.”

“Nobody is who they say they are anymore,” Tobias choked, the sword at his throat threatening to cut his skin.

The Faola took a step back, moonlight glinting off of the messy stitches in the shoulders of his tunic. “I will not ask again, let him go.”

“You’ll have to choose between the girl and the regent.”

Tobias watched the Faola as he stepped back again. His saber hung at his side, waiting to be used. The man who’d once held Tobias hostage was now the only person who could save him.

“You’re not stupid enough to kill the ambassador’s husband,” the Faola bowed ever so slightly. “Please forgive me, Lord Branch. You’re more capable than you know.”

Picking up on combat signals was something Tobias never mastered. He couldn’t figure it out no matter how many times Roden tried to teach him.

But this time was different.

As the Faola charged towards the soldier, Tobias flung his head backwards as hard as he could. Stars shot across his vision. A sword clattered to the ground. He stumbled, tripping over the fallen soldier. The Faola dragged him out of the way, and kicked the soldier in the head.

“He won’t be waking up for a long time,” the Faola mused. He turned to face Tobias. “Get out of here, you’ll get hurt.”

Tobias rubbed the back of his throbbing head, “Ayvar is going to need help, I can’t-”

“Stay out of this, you’re going to get into trouble and it’s not your concern. If you really want to help, you’ll leave.”

“But-!”

The Faola didn’t stay to listen to Tobias’s argument. He jumped to his feet, the buildings all twirling around him. The spot where he’d thrown his head back into the soldier’s face was still tender.

With a swirl of his patched cloak, the Faola vanished into darkness, braving the impenetrable darkness of the Vaults to drag Ayvar back to the surface.

Tobias wasn’t the type to lead hundreds of men across a muddy field in hopes of winning a battle.

He was the type to fix the first person he saw.

To ask him to stay behind despite knowing somebody was in the hands of death was to ask the sun to cease shining.

He had no lamp and no sword, but he had his bag full of bandages and a knowledge of right and wrong.

Staying behind in this situation was wrong.

Tobias shoved his hair from his eyes, ignoring the metallic ice scraping in his veins, and took a step. He took another step, and another. His boots slapped against the moonlit stones.

Courage raced through his bones faster than his heart beat. No turning back, no turning back.

Abandon all hope, said the door to the vaults. There is no kindness here.

But they were wrong. Tobias nearly stumbled as he stepped into the Vaults, darkness threatening to close his throat. He would bring kindness. He would stop the soldiers from harming the Faola and Ayvar, and bring them all back to the surface.

The steps seemed to grow longer.

So he stepped even farther.

“Let go!” Someone bellowed.

“Catch him!”

“It’s a her, you idiot!”

“Catch her!”

Swords left their scabbards, they hit against each other in the darkness. Tobias paused for only a moment to rub his eyes as they adjusted to the moonless Vaults.

“I got her!” Yelled one man, followed by “She’s gotten away!”

Somebody shouted for Ayvar. The answer came in the form of a loud thud.

Tobias stumbled into a wide room, one of the walls was missing, a low archway letting in minimal light. Five figures fought against each other. Three longswords against a saber and a dagger.

“Hey!” Tobias yelled, freeing his pack from his shoulder.

What in the Devils’ names was he doing down there!?

A soldier charged toward Tobias, and he swung his bag as hard as he could at the soldier’s head.

Though he missed the blow, the bag swung around the soldier’s sword. Tobias recognized the entanglement before his opponent did, and he tugged, tossing both the bag and the sword to a shadowed corner.

He could barely make out the silhouette of the Faola and Ayvar, who were fighting side by side. Other gaping holes punctured the walls. They had to be staircases down, but Tobias didn’t know. He’d never been this far into the Vaults before.

The soldier roared at Tobias, and lunged for his neck.

However, that was the one defense Tobias managed to catch onto after hours of training with Roden. The soldier was attacking from the front, he could see the action unfurl. Tobias ducked down, and stepped to the side. His opponent’s shins smashed into the stairs leading to the surface.

“Take the path!” Ayvar said to the Faola, stepping in front of him. “I’ll follow you!”

The Faola nodded, and dashed into the farthest darkened doorway. Ayvar’s dagger locked against one of the soldiers’-

And the fight almost came to a standstill.

“Take us to her, and we won’t slit your throat,” said the soldier facing Ayvar.

She turned her face to Tobias. “And what about him?”

“He’s seen too much.”

They were going to kill him.

Tobias backed towards the open wall, his hands balled into pathetic little fists.

“No,” Ayvar snapped. “I won’t move.”

“Then I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

The soldier who’d initially fought with Tobias recovered from the blow to his shins. He drew a knife, a short little thing used for cutting meat.

Soon it would be cutting through Tobias.

Swords clashed again. Tobias looked to the two soldiers by Ayvar as they rushed down the steps after the Faola.

She was running towards him.

The third soldier ran past Ayvar, following his fellow men down the stairs. Tobias stared. There was a hand threatening to rip his arm off.

For the second time that night, somebody was dragging him backward.

“No!” He pushed away from Ayvar. “Can’t you see? They did this on purpose! They’re going to kill him!”

“Her,” Ayvar corrected. “Patches has a foot in the grave. We need to-”

“Save our own skins!? Is that what you’re going to say!?”

He was too angry to feel the chilling fingers of fear that surely reached for his heart. His hands shook.

There was something he needed.

Tobias pulled a ring from his fourth finger; his wedding band. “Get to the first Carthyan soldier you can find, and tell him Lord Branch needs help. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

“You can’t just go down there, lordship,” Ayvar grunted.

“Oh, but I can.”

Silently, Ayvar nodded. She took the ring, and darted off into the night.

They were both depending on the Saints to let someone be near enough to help.

The scent of burning metal was what guided Tobias down the right path. He ignored the lines of blood made by victims trying to drag themselves away from their abusers. There was no light to guide him; only a smell that rose above the stench of human suffering.

How much time had it taken him to fumble his way down the stairs?

He had to pat the wall and tap around the floor to find the next step.

His attempted rescue wouldn’t be grand. Wouldn’t be filled with chivalry and a gleaming sword. It would be stumbled and slow.

But a rescue all the same.

Tobias winced as he stepped down the last stair. The room he’d stepped into was much darker than the one he’d left. He shuffled forward, trying to listen to sounds of scuffling.

The toe of his boot hit the hilt of a discarded blade.

A discarded saber.

Dull thudding soon joined the scent of hot metal. The Faola was still fighting. Tobias shuffled forward again, the dull light of a fire catching his eye. Shadows danced around it.

There were no other rooms or halls that Tobias would investigate.

“Let me go!” Bellowed a girls’ voice.

“Hold her still, the mark needs to be-” said a man, one of the soldiers. A dull thud ended his sentence.

It was matched with a sharp slap.

“I said hold her down!”

“Let me go!”

Time. The Faola was running out of time. Tobias was running out of time.

Fabric tore. Somebody’s screaming was muffled. Ringing echoed out of the firelit room.

Just another step, Tobias. Almost there. Almost there.The stone doorway was within his reach. He could race in, grab the Faola, and get out. Sword or no sword. Nobody needed to get hurt. It was his duty to save. He could do it- he could-

The first thing he focused on was the circle of stones around his feet, not the muffled shriek and sudden change in smells.

The soldiers inside the room rushed out, one of them holding a cooled branding iron.

Tobias didn’t bother to hold his hands above his head, he knew what was coming.

A blade met the swinging iron.

Alistair Derforgall grabbed the iron, and threw it at the  soldier on his right. Tobias turned his head, looking behind him to see Jolly brandishing his lute, Ayvar, and surprisingly, Renlyn Karise.

“You’re not out of the woods yet!” Renlyn barked, dragging Tobias into the firelit room with her.

Jolly’s lute crashed through the head of one of the soldiers, sending him down to the ground.

Tobias would rather watch the fight in the hall rather than look at the vomit covered Faola in the room. Burnt flesh seared his nose. He was almost ready to vomit himself. A small fire burned in the room, hot enough to heat a sword.

“Saints, neither of you were supposed to get into trouble,” Renlyn growled. She rushed to the Faola’s side, and peeled off the scarf covering her mouth. “Tobias, turn around.”

“Let me help, I can-!” He tried, but Renlyn’s emotionless voice reared up for the first time since he met her.

“By the Saints Lord Branch, you will look away! You can’t talk about what you can’t see!”

Mireldis Thay. He was standing beside Mireldis Thay. She was there at his feet, covered in her own vomit and nursing a branded hand.

All it would take was one look and the entire ordeal would be over.

But he couldn’t.

He’d been told not to.

It was his fault that Mireldis was lying there. He’d let this moment happen by stopping Roden from executing her on that summer afternoon so many eons ago.

None of this would’ve happened if he’d forgotten his compassion for one moment.

So he looked away.

Jolly slipped into the room, followed by Alistair. His face fell. “What do we do?”

“Describe the wound,” Tobias said, his eyes glued to the wall. “Chances are that she’ll need to be taken somewhere cleaner to keep the wound from getting infected.”

“They branded her. The flesh has bubbled and she threw up,” Renlyn explained.

“Just cut- just cut the hand off,” begged Mireldis Thay. Her voice, so strained and pitiable, was too familiar. “It’s too hard. It hurts.”

He’d spoken to her before.

Renlyn coughed, “Come hold her, Jolly, she’ll respond to you.”

Tobias clamped his hands over his eyes. “The wound needs to be cooled, apply a lavender compress once you’ve done that.”

“We’ll have to smuggle her into the castle, nobody would have that this late at night,” Jolly said. “Alistair, how do you feel about sneaking around?”

“Call it by another name, something a little more honest,” said Alistair. He was standing near Tobias, judging by the volume of his voice. “I will not lie.”

Mireldis groaned, earning a tiny hush from Jolly. “We, ah, we’re taking a cloak up to Renlyn’s rooms to compare certain soaps.”

“Exactly,” Renlyn said. “We’ll compare a hair soap against a skin soap. Jolly, you lead, that way Tobias can look.”

“Don’t use this as an excuse to leave me behind,” Tobias muttered as somebody shuffled past him.

“You can open your eyes,” Renlyn set a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Don’t ask me to do that again. I could help-”

“And then you would have to turn your patient in for crimes against the crown. It’s better this way.”

A blue hair ribbon lingered on the ground.

A shadow crossed Renlyn’s face as she began walking forward. Her brows knit together, and for a moment, Tobias swore her bottom lip began to tremble.

However, Renlyn forced a frown on her face, “I’ll explain my relation to Thay if you want.”

“I don’t want all of it,” Tobias shook his head, bile rising in his throat. “Did you know her before coming to Drylliad?”

“We met on the night I came to serve her Majesty. Not before then.”

“Has she told you why she wants Feall dead?”

“Not exactly, but our mutual friend isn’t as clean as he claims. Tonight is an example of that. Ayvar was released as a sacrificial lamb, if Alistair hadn’t agreed to let me walk the streets tonight under his supervision, you three would be dead. You would’ve been left as rat food.”

Tobias rubbed his temples. He didn’t want to think about ‘what ifs’ any longer.

They were unavoidable.

“I’ll help you smuggle Mireldis to safety,” Tobias stood up, the firelight that heated Mireldis’s branding iron throwing his shadow into the hall. “A friend of yours is a friend of mine, Renlyn, and I won’t send a friend to the executioner’s block. But she can’t stay in Drylliad. Not while she’s trying to kill Feall, regardless of his past sins.”

“And if he’s trying to kill her too?” Renlyn didn’t look back as she climbed up the bloodied stairs. “I won’t let you keep a secret from your friends Tobias, they’re too important to you.”

“We need somebody to tell the truth.”

“No, it’s time to let Mireldis go. I’ll have her taken-”

“Don’t tell me where, I won’t keep it secret.”

“You’re a good man, Lord Branch.”

The moonlight stung his eyes once he and Renlyn finally left the vaults. Jolly nodded at Alistair, and hugged Mireldis even tighter to his chest.

She looked small.

Nothing like the furious bandit willing to throw a blow at the king in order to fulfill her lust for revenge.

He couldn’t think of any words to say as he trudged to the castle, Renlyn, Alistair, and Jolly all slightly ahead of him.

Thoughts filled his head, swimming through everything he knew. He’d chosen to let Mireldis Thay go. He was smuggling her into the castle.

All because he couldn’t bear the thought of a young woman succumbing to a treatable wound.

Tobias made a choice long ago. He’d dug his own grave, and now he was settling into the coffin that would soon fill it.