#or salvage it somehow even if that is just throwing it into a post with a bunch of other bad things and going 'lmao look at this shit'

[10thmusemoon]

"Pride and Pest-ilence"

X-Posted from twitter and ao3 Rating: M Fandom: SVSSS Ship: MoShang (M/M) Word Count: 5,736 Tags: Comedy, c!blocked by administrative duties, ADP vs the sect, the horrifying ordeal of having coworkers

Summary:

An infestation has come to Cang Qiong Mountain sect. Shang Qinghua is so exhausted trying to resolve it and keep his disciples from actively committing (justified!) murder, why did Mobei Jun choose now of all times to try and seduce him?!

-

Shang Qinghua is going to throw up. Mobei Jun is straddled above him, carefully peeling back his robes and running his hands over all his exposed skin. Groping shamelessly at the softness of his stomach, and chest leaving Shang Qinghua so hard that there is no way he doesn’t feel it. He definitely feels Mobei Jun pressing against his thigh. Just as Shang Qinghua is tensing up, anticipating the tongue descending down his chest, there’s a thumping at his door. Mobei Jun pauses for just a moment, long enough to meet his eyes in a question and receive a shake of a head for an answer. “Not unless the peaks are on fire.”

Undeterred, his king continues his descent and at the first touch of that cold tongue against his nipple he- -Is pushing Mobei Jun off the bed. The emergency alarm bell system he set up, the one only the sect leader or his head disciple can activate is going crazy.

They are only meant to activate it at the most crucial of emergencies, ones that need An Ding Peak’s immediate all hands on deck attention. In the 30 years he has been a peak lord, it has never gone off. Until now.

Shoving on his robes, he looks over at his king apologetically and places a finger to his lips. “My king this- this is an emergency! Just stay here for a moment, just a moment and I’ll find out what it is.”

Mobei Jun slumps back against the floor, the tent in his pants still obvious, and Shang Qinghua wants to cry at the sight of it. The promise land was so close!! Someone better be dying!!

Someone is not dying. It’s worse than that. Instead all of An Ding Peak is about to want to die and leave the sect in shambles and Shang Qinghua wouldn’t blame them.

It’s telling of the situation that beore he even has the chance to say anything, t his cute (terrifying) head disciple’s hand shoves through the crack in his door to yank at his sleeve. “Promise Shizun, promise me you won’t leave.” That’s not good!!! Not good at all!!

The last time she made him promise not to bail on the sect was when an enterprising pair of senior Zui Xian Peak disciples had exploded several barrels of wine, lit a store house, two dorms, and a whole orchard on fire. It had taken a full week to isolate the fires to a portion of the peak and another to  finally put them out. An Ding Peak disciples then spent three months of nonstop work reconstructing the lost buildings, helping salvage the orchard, and take inventory of what was lost.

An even then, Shang Qinghua's emergency wards had not been rung! So somehow... this is worse. Wu Zhao's fierce grip is threatening to tear his robes and he tries to pat at her hand comfortingly. Her expression only darkens. "This...master promises. What is it, what's happened?"

It's worse than anything Shang Qinghua could have imagined. After closing the door he's running back to his room to dig through his chest of items, there's- there has to be- "Qinghua." This will come in handy too and- "Qinghua!"

Spinning to face his bed, Shang Qinghua's anxiety momentarily shuts down and his brain shuts down. Mobei Jun is naked. On his bed. Shang Qinghua wants to cry. "My King, I...I cannot tell you how badly I want to stay, there is nothing more I want to do-"

Mobei Jun's expression is akin to that of a prize winning luxury cat coming across dollar store kibble. There is a stilted, and quite frankly offended, air to the way he pulls together his clothes. "Qinghua knows how to call this king." Aaaahh he's moping!!

Even the summoned portal feels a little dejected in it's wobbliness. -

An Ding Peak is at war. Shang Qinghua has worked day in and day out, his disciples are dropping one by one in exhaustion. Each is one poorly worded request away from murdering their off peak martial siblings. There's been an infestation.

Blinking Silver Crawlers have been brought to the sect. What was once a throwaway plot device to have Luo Binghe go on an Indiana Jones style quest to find an artifact in a lost library has become Cang Qiong Mountain Sect's nightmare. Specifically An Ding Peak's nightmare.

These insect on steroids eat all sorts of organic materials. Paper, wood, glue, cloth, you name it! And to make matters worst, they blink in and out of existence and reproduce at a rapid rate. Catching them is nearly impossible. They could be anywhere. The are everywhere.

The thing is, this shouldn't have happened. It shouldn’t have been possible. An Ding Peak has devised an extensive pest management system that has been integrated across all peaks and vendors. There isn't a single person that is exempt from participating in it, including the sect leader! There are pest logs, weekly sweeps, that are supposed to take place on each peak. There’s very detailed isolation procedures for new cargo brought up the mountains. There are specialized wards to deter insects that must be up kept!

Which means, someone hasn't been doing their due diligence to follow proper procedures and reporting practices. Shang Qinghua and his Hall Masters have resorted to confiscating the traditional An Ding Peak Welcome Knife that Wu Zhao gifts the new disciples after their first year. All it took was for a single incident of a disciple implying that It Wasn't That Serious for a sleep deprived group of An Ding disciples to go stab happy. Shang Qinghua doesn't blame them. Zhangmen-shixiong, however, does.

Zhangmen-shixiong can stick his morals where the sun doesn’t shine!!!! By the end of the first week since the infestation was reported, they've lost eight storehouses across five peaks!!! It has been, thankfully, mostly laundry houses, restock locations, and extra lumber. But there have been sightings near the libraries, which is a disaster waiting to happen. Cang Qiong Mountain sect is a purveyor of knowledge, all sorts of rare texts exist across all the highly specialized peaks. Everything from cultivation techniques to the last hundred years of farming history, to even the migration patterns of local fauna is stored in the libraries. And An Ding Peak is responsible for all of it.

In theory, each peak should be responsible for managing the upkeep and care of their own libraries. In reality, no one in this sect can be trusted to wipe their ass without an An Ding disciple telling them how and then doing it themselves when it isn't done correctly.

There is a reason why An Ding Peak’s head disciples have to be nominated by Hall Masters to even be considered for the position, and even then there is stress testing involved with in a rigorous apprenticeship regiment program. They have back ups. That's also why the An Ding Peak Lords are Like That.

It's a certain type of personality that can be the head of customer service, housekeeping, construction, negotiation, and IT all in one. Definitely no one sane and ethical can succeed in the position. It's one of the rare peaks where entitled nobles do not thrive, and are actually at a disadvantage. After so many years of this, it's not uncommon for the senior disciples to become cutthroat. Shang Qinghua sabotaged his way the top, and Wu Zhao has done the same.

That is the An Ding way. So, it is not an exaggeration to say that Shang Qinghua is acting in the capacity likened to that of a war general. Every morning he meets with his 12 Hall masters over giant map of all the peaks located in the An Ding meeting hall. They go over where the infestation has been spotted, what wards have been recently renewed, and what tactics have been tried (and failed) to quarantine locations.

There are daily report on the state of their disciples and the rising tensions among the other peaks based on who have clearly not been doing their part in the integrated pest management system.

Then, every evening, Shang Qinghua summarizes this knowledge to the other peak lords who have, quite frankly, an obscene range of understanding of the severity of the situation. Shang Qinghua wants to kill his martial siblings.

There is a meeting where Wei Qingwei, whose peak works mostly with inorganic materials, makes a joke about the pest logs and Liu Qingge comments implying that he didn't even know they existed. It makes Shang Qinghua sees red, leaves him wishing Luo Binghe had actually burned the sect down.

Before he has time to leap over the table and die at the end of Liu Qingge's sword, sweet beautiful Qi Qingqi is chastising them until they are shamefaced and silent. By the time he heads home at the end of each night, Shang Qinghua is nothing more than a pile of tension headaches stacked a top one another, and held together by a soggy noodle.

He is definitely, not in the mood to have rigorous demon sex with a Mobei Jun that keeps showing up in varying states of dress. Despite how he desperately wants to! Despite how Mobei Jun looks increasingly dejected and pathetic each time he turns him down!

Don't blame this servant, my king! Little Airplane cannot shoot towards the sky when existence is a prison and life is an insect fueled nightmare. No matter how nice your tits look in that sheer robe!

When Mobei Jun shows up with nipple piercings, intricate jewelry connecting the two heavenly peaks, Shang Qinghua turns around and leaves his house without a word. He's halfway to Qiong Ding Peak to resign when his head disciple catches him and drags him off to eat in the An Ding Peak communal cafeteria that has quickly turned into a 24 hour spot. It has developed all the liminal energy of a city diner that never closes. Surrounded by his crying, angry, disciples cursing the other peaks to the high heavens, Shang Qinghua feels truly seen.

By the fourth week, when cultivation manuals start to be devoured and the usual laundry services have come to a stall, the rest of the sect wakes up to the reality of the issue. An Ding Peak almost wishes they hadn't. Everyone has solutions. Everyone is so creative.

Some solutions are tame, if ineffective. Qian Cao disciples, sick of having their bandages devoured, start leaving out sticky traps in the hopes of deterring and capturing the insects. Which would be fine!!! If not for the Blinking part of Blinking Silver Crawlers.

The bastards get caught in the trap, blink out of existence next to it, then eat the glue trap. Mu Qingfang looks especially embarrassed at this development and all Shang Qinghua can do about is pat his favorite shidi on the back in sympathy.

And then there are the idiots. Zhangmen-shixiong, the coward, can't even tell Shang Qinghua himself when it happens. Instead, he sends his head disciple, the one he knows Shang Qinghua's head disciple has a soft spot for, with the message. In an attempt to make the environment inhospitable to the insects, Qiong Ding Peak disciples teamed up with both the beast peak and Zui Xian Peak to develop an alcohol based pesticide. It's highly flammable.

They lose food stores on two peaks to the flames, not the insects. When they dispatch An Ding disciples to, once again, control the fires, Shang Qinghua has to hold back his head disciple from going with them. To avoid a public execution, he steals her away to the noodle stall at the base of the mountain where they drown their sorrows in food and alcohol. Shang Qinghua is absolutely shit faced when Mobei Jun arrives that night. He isn't even trying to seduce him, this time. He's wearing his normal opened court robes when Shang Qinghua bursts into tears and buries his face in that beautiful chest. The cold does wonders for his headache and alcohol induced flush. Claws gently card through his hair as Mobei Jun holds him until he falls asleep.

A week later, Mobei Jun shows up with his chest heaving and flushed, clearly under the effects of an aphrodisiac of some sort. Shang Qinghua, having predicted this and prepared for this, grabs the all purpose healing spray he made and douses Mobei Jun until he portals away with all the dignity of a wet cat. Head pressed against his table, Shang Qinghua wonders at what his life has become.

The next day, after the morning meeting with his Hall Masters, Shang Qinghua receives news that Shen Qingqiu has returned to the peak and flies over to immediately. Cucumber bro has been gone for the majority of this nightmare and he needs his obsessive insights on these pests immediately. He's barely touched down on Qing Jing Peak when he sees the tell tale signs of disciples running around with their head's cut off. "Shishu! Shang-shishu! Wait!" "Is it a library?" They’ve started shutting some down on other peaks, if they have to do so for Qing Jing Peak then the shit really has hit the fan. "No but-" "Later then!"

He's barely touched down in front of the Bamboo House when a chill starts going down his spine. The screens are gone, eaten through by their tiny nightmares. The door frame is only barely there at all. "Uhhh, Cucumber -bro?" The door is partly open, unable to close due to the state of the wood, and there is the sound of movements coming from inside the house. Normally, all of this would be enough to warn Shang Qinghua away from entering. The last thing he needs is to be dragged into their deadly exhibition kink and yet- An ominous feeling has come over him. "Bro?" Cracking open the door further, his heart drops out of his chest.

The Bamboo House has been ransacked. Or better yet, invaded. The shelves that once held an assortment of scrolls are empty, the infrastructure of it barely standing. The low table they used to eat at is half gone, walls that once had beautiful tapestries draped elegantly across them are empty.

And in the middle of it all, is the remains of a cargo box.

Noticeably missing the bright green approval mark of An Ding Peak's containment and isolation procedures. Seconds after the shocking sight sets in, Shen Qingqiu rounds a corner and his frantic eyes tell Shang Qinghua everything he needs to know. "YOU!"

"Airplane- it's not- wait! WAIT!" Shang Qinghua excels at surviving, he has a healthy appreciation for not doing anything that puts him at risk. Especially when a certain protagonist is involved.

However. There comes a time in every man's life when he has to throw self-preservation to the wind and let instincts, an animalistic drive for vengeance, take over. This is that time for Shang Qinghua.

He has spent the better part of two months fighting for his life to keep the peaks standing. And he knows, he knows, how this is going to play out once everyone finds out. Yue Qingyuan, OG simp for Shen Qingqiu, will not even give him a slap on the wrist. (He thinks, bitterly, that Shen Jiu never would have let this happen.)

The only justice that will be served here will be at Shang Qinghua's hand. And so. Shang Qinghua tackles Shen Qingqiu.

For two immortal cultivators, their screeches are more suited to an elementary school's play ground. The stars have aligned for Shang Qinghua. He is not immediately murdered by the protagonist.

And so he bleeds every second of life dry to pull at Shen Qingqiu's hair and use that god forsaken fan to punctuate each of his words. "HOW! COULD! YOU!" It's not a question, not at all. "I didn't know!!! We had to leave so quickly!" "WE! HAVE! PROCEDURES!"

“Airplane! Stop! Stop- DID YOU JUST BITE ME?!” He did. He’s not proud of it. But also he kind of is.

The moment he feels the threatening aura of death enter the peak, Shang Qinghua calls on his escape vehicle. “My KING!” Mobei Jun, who has grown progressively desperate for Shang Qinghua’s attention, doesn’t hesitate to rip open a portal to him. Throwing Shen Qingqiu’s fan, and some strands of hair, back at him, he points two fingers to his own eyes and then back at the other transmigrator. “We’re not done here!” Then he steps through the chilling portal back to his room, where he proceeds to curse Shen Qingqiu to all heaven and hell. Mobei Jun, now used to these tirades, waits patiently on the bed for Shang Qinghua to run out of steam. When an appropriate stopping point presents itself, he shrugs off the top layer of his robe and opens holds out his open arms.

Like a moth to the flame, Shang Qinghua immediately changes course to end up in Mobei Jun’s arms. The Northern King forces him to lay down, holding him gently, though just tight enough to apply a comforting pressure. It’s not long before Shang Qinghua’s insults sputter out and he’s simply laying, face deep, against Mobei Jun’s sternum. Enjoying the moment, the demon rybs tiny circles into Shang Qinghua’s lower back until he relaxes further. “Junshang might kill me.”

That was nice while it lasted. Exhaling, Mobei Jun tries to keep the fear from his voice. “Why?“ “I bit Shen Qingqiu during our fight.” Ears twitching, Mobei Jun’s anxiety wars with his jealousy. “Did you break skin?”

Shang Qinghua lifts his head enough to rest his chin in the muscles of his chest instead of between them. The offended huffs of air give him an answer before Shang Qinghua can verbalize it. “I’m mad, not stupid.” Mobei Jun hums in the affirmative and they lay wrapped up in each other a little longer. When the emperor of the demon realm does Not come bursting through the door, he decides to push his luck and kiss and bite at the line of Shang Qinghua’s throat until he’s squirming with interest.

“My- My King!” Shang Qinghua’s heart is beating like a war drum through the artery in his neck, and together with his panting breaths, it’s the sweetest song Mobei Jun has ever heard.

Gaining in confidence at finally having a victory, he slowly worms a clawed hand between the yellow robes of An Ding Peak to massage and pinch at Shang Qinghua’s chest, relishing at how arches into the touch. That same hand starts untying his lover’s belt when Shang Qinghua completely stills.

“No, absolutely not.” Immediately, he retracts his hand and raise his gaze to Shang Qinghua’s panic stricken face. Afraid he’s done something wrong he also stills. “Shang Qinghua…” But Shang Qinghua’s gaze isn’t focused on Mobei Jun, instead it’s trained on the opposite wall.

“Not in my home!“

Shang Qinghua is going to Qi deviate. His leisure house has even more wards against pests than any of the libraries still standing. The only way this, this abomination he created, could have made its way in is if he brought it. From Shen Qingqiu’s infested home.

Scrambling, he tries to pull himself from Mobei Jun’s arms. He can’t- he can’t let this live!! There is too much at stake in his home for the sake of both the cultivation and demon realm. Strong arms only tighten further until he is flaying to get free.

“My King, let-LET GO!! I have- I have to Kill it!! Before it blinks away and it too late-“ It’s teleporting! Aahhh!!! In his struggle, he misses the way Mobei Jun’s pupils, which had been pleasant orbs of black only moments before, snap to the tiniest sliver of darkness. “Shang! Qinghua!”

A furious blast of cold air goes through the room, Shang Qinghua flinches and draws into his king’s chest for protection from the sting of it. A light tapping sound is heard and Shang Qinghua watches as a portal drops the lifeless bodies of four Blinking Silver Crawlers to the middle of his floor. “This is the plague you face?” The disdain, no the loathing, bleeds in Mobei Jun’s voice.

“The great Cang Qiong sect brought to their knees by Starlit Nuisances?” Shang Qinghua shakes from where his eyes remained glued to the immovable pile of insects. “What- no, no these are Blinking Silver Crawlers.” An offended sniff. “Qinghua doubts this King?”

“What! No, no my King of course not!” Rushing to placate Mobei Jun involves a lot of soft petting of his hair and face. “But, uh, what do you mean by… Starlit Nuisances?” “They’re children’s playthings.” They are, apparently, the Northern demon equivalent of rollie pollies.

Shang Qinghua has no choice but to lay there, mouth ajar, while his beautiful king explains that the menace of archivists in the south are nothing more than barometers for demon children’s qi.

His cousins from his mother’s tribe would predict where they would blink to next and open a portal to drop them at another location before they could do so. While the ice demons from his father’s side would create elaborate mazes to watch them escape out of. There is also, apparently, a specific temperature that will kill them instantly. Children would take turns freezing them at colder and colder temperatures until the loser would reach that temperature, finally killing the insect. Morbid but well…demons.

Mobei Jun, quite smugly, informed him that he had been the best at all these games, having always been in perfect control of his qi. Shang Qinghua indulgently nodded along and praised him despite remembering, vividly, the times he had frozen things unintentionally in their youth.

But also, hmm….. Slowly, a plan starts to formulate in his mind and the more he thinks on it, the more feasible it becomes. Shang Qinghua feels a satisfied smile stretch across his face.

Sliding his hands down that firm chest, pausing a moment for a nice long grope, Shang Qinghua pulls in closer as he dips his fingers beneath Mobei Jun’s belt. “My King,” he whispers, “tell me more about your qi control.”

Right before the peak lord meeting is set to start, Shang Qinghua gets one last kiss in and leaves behind a happily purring and disheveled Mobei Jun in his bed. Despite the obvious strain in his legs, there is a spring in his step and he feels the lightest he has in years. Not even Luo Binghe’s glowering face, just outside the door to the meeting, is enough to deter his mood. Well, mostly. “Shang-shishu.” !!!!!!! So he’s not dying anytime soon! Cucumber must feel really, really, guilty. Perfect!

Elated, he grins back at the demon emperor whose life he’s about to ruin and bounces his head in the imitation of a nod. “Luo-shizhi! So good to see you!” When he steps into the meeting, all his sect sibling look various degrees of exhausted. Shen Qingqiu, he notices, has already pulled out his fan to hide behind. A quick glance over at Yue Qingyuan’s smiling, and tired, face tells him everything he needs to know about whether the truth has been revealed. Perfect!!!

Discretely, he sends a hand signal to the An Ding disciples in charge of catering this meeting and waits for them to sign back the affirmative. The leading disciple approaches him with an aid of nervousness and says, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“This disciple regrets to inform Shizun that the kitchen in charge of the meal tonight was also infested and, well, there will be no food for this meeting.” The downcast look of embarrassment deserves a Golden Rooster!! He loves his little scammers!

Paying careful attention to the discontent grumble of his martial siblings, Shang Qinghua squeezes his disciple’s shoulder with one hand, and taps a practiced pattern against it with his fingers. His disciple nods silently.

“This shizun understands, there’s nothing to be done about it! It’s a good thing all peak lords practice inedia.” They do, but everyone prefers to eat when stressed! The deep sighs around him seem to agree.

“Take the rest of the evening off and go get some rest, if the work schedule is correct, I’m certain the disciples beneath you are all on their 15th hour of work cleaning this mess.”

They’re not, Shang Qinghua’s work schedule for disciples has become so elaborate to ensure they weren’t dropping from exhaustion anymore. But the guilty looks of the peak lords around him means they don’t know that.

Reaching into his bag, he pulls out a jade ring stamped with his seal. “Take this to head disciple Wu and inform her to start Emergency Gold Procedures for tomorrow morning. Any non-essential An Ding disciple is having a late start, we’ll follow up with the rest later after the morning meeting.”

The dramatic gasp his disciple lets out before running off is enough to draw everyone’s attention to him. He’s a little breathless when he says,“Yes Shizun, right away!” Whatever they think is happening is almost certainly wrong.

Emergency Gold Code, as An Ding disciples know, simply means “Shizun is about to spoil you lavishly so be good and be quiet.” It was only partially made up so Shang Qinghua could bribe his disciples into cooperating when in front of non An Ding ears. The other part was an excuse to embezzle-ahem- appropriately distribute sect funds to spoil himself and his disciples. Shang Qinghua may no longer be broke but he’ll never forget what it was like to be the little guy being pushed around! (Though in some ways he still is.)

Yue Qingyuan’s kindly, yet punchable, face is trained on him when he turns around. “Is everything alright, Shang-shidi?” Humming, Shang Qinghua goes to his seat and only winces slightly at having to kneel. Maybe they were too enthusiastic earlier.

“There’s been a development in the case.” The despair in the room is palpable, the last Development In The Case involved losing another two laundry storehouses and a year’s worth of supply of talisman paper. Sealant glue and corks devoured, they also lost a storehouse of wine.

“An Ding Peak has lost five storehouses, three of which provide food for the sect.” They haven’t. Airplane always thought it was a dumb oversight to have the supply guy and money guy be the same person. Yeah he wrote it in, and it’s served him and the OG nicely, but logistically, it makes no sense. “So we will continue rationing procedures until the sect’s quarantine is over.” Hesitant, Qi Qingqi asks, “Shang-shixiong, will the procedures….worsen?”

Looking around the room, he catches the grimaces of several peak lords who were not vigilant in following the pest management system. It is not a coincidence that their food rationing has been more on the bland side of things. Those that did exceptionally well maintaining their logs, and proved to be helpful, and decent to the An Ding disciples during this time, have ended up with what is considered a more normal delivery of food. On the down low, of course. Qi-shimei owes Liu Mingyan her fucking life.

With a genial smile, he says. “No shimei, things will continue as they have been.” Relief washes over her and she nods a thanks. Liu Qingge, who has been bound to the peak until the quarantine lifts, pipes up. “When can we leave?” Which is just what Shang Qinghua needed.

Bai Zhan Peak has been hit especially hard by the flavorless food rationing, a slowdown in repairs and laundry services, the peak quarantines, and the suddenly stab happy An Ding disciples. Wu Zhao has received no less than 6 marriage proposals. She only stabbed four of them too! From what his sources say, the Qiong Ding head disciple started sulking after the second proposal. Oh young love!

So when Shang Qinghua replies, “Soon, shidi.” He is amongst the most eager to sit up at attention. Ever their fearless leader, Yue Qingyuan is the one to ask, “Is An Ding Peak close to solving this matter?”

Shang Qinghua’s smile and tone stay warm, as if nothing can touch him in this moment.

“Yes, Zhangmen-shixiong,” here he pauses for dramatic effect, just long enough to let the peak lords work themselves up. “After finding out the infestation started with Shen-shixiong on Qing Jing Peak, we found the solution shortly after.”

The man in question fans himself faster, eyes darting from peak lord to peak lord, all of which have immediately gone silent. Even Yue Qingyuan’s face looks irritated and strained.

“This is a good reminder that the isolation and containment procedures for new cargo brought to the sect must always be followed. Especially before leaving the item unattended.” And there goes any plausible excuse. The room erupts into chaos.

Peak lords are sprinting over their tables to surround Shen Qingqiu, who keeps frantically looking over at Shang Qinghua and Yue Qingyuan. The sect leader, in all his exhausted glory, remains seated with his eyes close, alternating inhaling and exhaling deeply. He can’t subcome to the desperate silent pleas if he can’t see them! Shang Qinghua’s respect for him raises a few points from the depths of hell it had dropped to during this time.

As the shouts escalate, Shang Qinghua makes his way over to sit next to the first character he ever made for PIDW. The conscious effort he's making to not go defend his favored shidi reminds Shang Qinghua why he liked him so much.

"Zhangmen-shixiong." "Yes, shidi?" "I have some demands." Ah! A sigh so deep from the man who has the weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders. Shang Qinghua has been fielding all the inner sect complaints but Qiong Ding Peak received all the ones coming from the outside. The quarantine of a great sect is no small deal, especially one as vast as Cang Qiong who's various specialties impact all manner of day to day lives. "Of course, please inform this shixiong how he can help."

He had drafted his list of demands between refractory periods, blissed out and dazed from Mobei Jun's attention, he had let nearly every thought make it onto the list. Even the petty ones. Especially the petty ones.

"The contractor that will be managing the removal of the infestation must be paid out of Shen Qingqiu's personal stipend." Given that he was rich from his husband's side as well, this wasn't the real punishment. "Of course, what else?"

"Shen-shixiong must remain on the peaks to oversee the reconstruction and supervise the contractors." At that, the sect leader finally opens his eyes. Thick brows climbing high on his face. "How long is that expected to take?"

Technically, Mobei Jun could probably take care of it in about 2-3 weeks time if he worked diligently. But the small army of demon children that they will be contracting out to will not have that attention span, and Shen Qingqiu will need time and patience to wrangle them. The rebuilding efforts will take some time too.

"Three to four months at minimum." Yue Qingyuan does nothing to hide the pleased little smile that brings him. A quarter of the year with the Qing Jing Peak lord in house, communicating constantly with Qiong Ding on the state of the recovery.

"This shidi will also be on vacation during that time." The smile drops. Shang Qinghua does everything possible to look into Yue Qingyuan's very soul and communicate how absolutely non-negotiable this is. "Y-yes, that can be arranged. Is there more?" There is.

The sounds of Cucumber trying, and failing, to defend himself in the background is such a sweet sound to hear during their negotiation. That Luo Binghe hasn't come in storming in to massacre them all is telling of the quality of the silencing talismans that An Ding has built around this room.

The other demands they agree on are as follow: 1) Qing Jing Peak’s non-essential requisitions will be de-prioritized for the duration of the recovery period.

2) Shen Qingqiu will also handle the paperwork involved with overseeing the recovery, as well as any other relevant issues that arise during Shang Qinghua’s absence.

3) An Ding Peak disciples will have mandatory rest days every week where no non-essential work will be conducted. Absolutely no off peak labor will be done during these days.

4) Shen Qingqiu will also oversee coordinating the transcription and reproduction of lost library materials, on all peaks.

The Qing Jing Peak lord will be kept so busy, as busy as Shang Qinghua has been, that he's almost certain Luo Binghe will be facing Mobei Jun's recent, sexiled, fate. And none of these issues can be fixed with heavenly demon blood or demonic qi!

Cucumber bro's dejected face as they leave the sect leader's office to finalized the agreement is delicious. Shang Qinghua is committing it to memory and determined to make it worse.

Shang Qinghua entwines his fingers together and brings his hands to oh so casually stretch above his head. "I'm so ready for this vacation!" The half assed grunt he receives is all the conversation he needs. “I'm even going to start this new novel I've been planning."

The crack in Shen Qingqiu’s neck is almost audible with how quickly he snaps to turn to face Shang Qinghua. "Yeah!? Ab-about what?" He hums, dithering a little to draw out the suspense. "An action story, fantasy, or I guess real world in this case?"

So that's what sparkling anime eyes look like on a human face! Cucumber bro's a little breathless when he says, "Do you need a beta reader?"

Putting a hand on his shoulder he says, "Thanks bro!" and when that excited little expression reaches it's peak he says, "But Liu Mingyan already agreed to.”

“What?”

“My King!" The black rift appears and out walks his king, rumpled robes and hickey on full display.God he loves him!

These next few months are going to be amazing and he's not going to be able to walk for most of them if he has anything to say about it. He only feels a little bad at the fate he's leaving his favorite daughter to experience. Luo Binghe is going to be so jealous at how much Cucumber bro is going to pester her. But well, that's not his problem, is it?

#moshang #svsss #svsss fics #an ding peak #shang qinghua #mobei jun #10thmusemoon fics

[charmwasjess]

Hi! Found you on Tumblr and recently finished your 'what if both Sifo and Dooku were Sith' post which was horrifying and made a horrifying amount of sense and sounded just so...them, but my brain also went the opposite direction:

In a Star Wars Mirror!verse where all Jedi Characters are Sith and vice versa, what do you think Rising Sith Dooku and Sith Sifo Dyas would be like?

HI!❤️I'm happy you're here! Do I recognize your username from Ao3?? If so, I have you to thank for a lot of this extra serotonin I have hanging around from your kind and generous comments!! Oooooh, Mirror!verse! There is an interesting irony if Dooku is taken from Serenno to be raised as a Sith in a Sith Temple, since I've long suspected the whole canon "Count Gora hates baby Dooku for being Force sensitive" goes back to a cultural memory of the time when the Sith ruled the planet, before the ancestors of House Serenno finally threw them out. Force sensitivity being a negative taint on the family; the implication that someone was sleeping with the enemy way back down the family line. What a funny twist if Dooku is salvaged out of that situation with the intention of deliberately making him into a Sith! Either way, the real question to me is not if Sith Rising Sifo-Dyas and Dooku wipe out House Serenno, but when.

I think Dooku would be a once-in-a-generation prodigy with Force Lightning. He throws more lightning, more comfortably and predictably, than any other character in the series. And this is former Jedi Dooku; nobody ever taught him how to use it, it seems like a natural affinity related to his spiritual connected to the lightning element of the Tirra'taka. And this is after he spent at least half his life actively trying to train himself not to grab for it. If this was treated as a particular gift in Sith Mirror!Verse, encouraged in him and taught, I think he would be an absolute artist of it. Really exquisitely beautiful, horrifying shit. I bet he could control ball lightning, or create those megaflash lightning events that travel for miles. (The longest lightning branch on earth traveled almost 500 miles. Presumably, he could take out literal armies with something like that.)

Sith Sifo-Dyas is of course totally fascinating. So if this is a complete reversal Mirror, does he have terrifying visions of Dooku getting redeemed and saving the galaxy?? Is he haunted by the light clinging to him, the hidden good that only he can see? Somehow, I don't think the solution Sith Sifo-Dyas reaches for will be a shield, as he images the Clone Army is in the canon timeline. I think it would be a dagger. --Ooh, maybe even a Death Star-shaped dagger.

#sifo dyas #count dooku #star wars meta #answered asks #some fun what if headcanon #sith #sith boyfriends #in every universe they're doomed to destroy each other

[rui-drawsbox]

Hi um I really like the Arashi magical girl au so I hope it's alright if I talk a bit about what's in my head. I wrote down a few scenarios and did a quick storyboard for one (will draw everything out later). er here one of the scenarios I wrote (don't wanna make this post too long)

Scenario based on how Nazuna left Shu and how Mika does the same later

Mika: I still remember that day when Nazuna left…

Dark, dreary bg colors, Nazuna’s back is facing camera.

Mika: Nazuna-nii? Where are you going?

Nazuna pauses. He turns his head a bit. Close-up of his mouth.

Mika (Voice over): His words were a whisper… but I heard him clearly.

Nazuna: Sorry. I hope you'll understand one day...

Back in present. Mika holds a burned photo of him and Arashi. The side with Arashi is burned but bits of her hair and clothes can still be seen. (Shu was the one who burned the photo after seeing Mika look at it. Me thinks he threw it in a fire and after he left, Mika managed to salvage it but the side with Arashi is completely burnt)

Mika: I understand now. And I know what I have to do now.

Um there is a scene where Mika screams at Shu. Mika grabs Shu by the front of his clothes and flings him to the ground. Mika then walks away, now his back is facing camera.

Shu: Don’t you dare take another step or I’ll-

Mika (turns around): Or you’ll what? 

Close-up of Mika’s face.

Mika: I won't let you control me anymore.

Mika walks away.

Flashback to another scene in the past when Nazuna was still working for Shu.

They have come to Earth for the first time. They somehow come across a photo booth. Mika is very excited about what it is and Shu is about to scold him, telling him that their mission is more important. Shu then looks at Nazuna, who is quiet but is clearly interested in photo booth too. Shu relents and they take photos. At first they don’t know how it works so the photos turn out goofy. Then after getting the hang of it, Shu makes them pose a certain way. When he sees the photo strip, he does admit that the humans are interesting to have this sort of method to store memories. He cuts and throws the goofy trial photos away but Nazuna secretly takes them out. Perhaps when he betrays Shu, Nazuna’s final way to move on is to burn those photos, although Mika and Shu do not know. (yes photos being burned for dramatic flair)

In present, when Nazuna meets Mika after he leaves Shu, they hang out. They see a photo booth again. Nazuna makes a small remark about the previous photo with Shu. He asks Mika if he wants to take another photo. Mika asks if the Knights could take a pic with them too. In this pic, Mika is far happier. 

was thinking of parallels for Nazuna and Mika

Nazuna left quietly (was afraid of confronting Shu so he just wrote a note) Mika left with a bang! screams at Shu and grabs him by front of his clothes and throws him on the ground :D The photo that Nazuna kept of him, Shu, and Mika made him stay longer than he would have. Looking at it made him guilty for wanting to leave. Mika's photo of him and Arashi makes him realize that he has to leave Shu.

ok I will run away now. have a nice day :]

hihi! hello ask from 4 months ago haha /sobs/ im glad you enjoyed the au! sorry for not answer before haha,,

actually i loved this idea sm that i made a drawing about this at the time! i didn't liked the result and burned out lol, tried to make like a fake screenshot but it looked wonky tbh

i edited it a bit today (mabye i went overboard with those two, it looks kinda too dark even for a night and it looks unsettling lol) so it wasnt too gray (and mabye cuz i wanted to use these new cool effect in clip i learned the other day)

and my friend let me say that i loVE when photos have a heavy sentimental value for characters, im a sucker for the burned photo trope

+ Shu, Mika and Nazuna not being from earth makes me laugh for some reason, like, does this count as scifi if arashi is fighting vs technically aliens?/j

but if i think about it it would be like Madoka Magica(?), like, Arashi's cat should be an alien so why not the villians? i makes sense for me at least

also the parallels between Nazuna and Mika?!??!!"?!? im in love!??!?!??! the way they leaved Shu in such different ways?!??! the way their actions get affected by a simple piece of paper that means a lot for them?!?!??! thats my favorite part fr

and yeah go mika go! tell him his truths! he deserves it! *cheer moves*

byee! i loved this sm!! sorry for not answer this before!!!

#ensemble stars #enstars #arashi narukami #rui draw smth #?¿ it counts if its from 4 months ago? #mika kagehira #nazuna nito #shu itsuki #enstars magical knights au #(omg magical girl arashi)

[carlos-in-glasses]

Hi CIG!!!!

Happy Nice Ass(k) week to you!!!

I have to ask- how long did it take you to write your “where all this love comes from” fic? Did you write a chapter at a time or multiples? (I’m trying not tk nerd out too badly and be sobbing and ask how is one person able to write this well, it’s like magic”

For season one of LS, you could add one thing/scene that you think should have been included- what would it be??

Are there any episodes of TV shows that are like comfort episodes- you just throw them on and it makes you feel better?

Are there any foods that are really popular you just cannot get behind??

Hello! ❤️ Thank you for this question and for being so amazing about Where All This Love Comes From! I started writing it in March (fun fact: from March until the week before I started posting in November, it was called Blue Moon!) and the plot was very different...Gabriel needed to be alive after the wedding for it to work, so it was panic-stations when I realised they were going to smoke him! But before that happened, I also started writing When Soulmates Swim in March, which totally consumed me. By the time I picked up Blue Moon again, Gabriel had been killed off - so I had to come up with a way to salvage what I could. I considered making it an AU and have him alive, but somehow that made me even sadder, so I stayed with canon and worked through my ~*emotions*~. The fic, as it is now, was dreamed up and written between mid-May and late-August, and contains about 20k worth of the writing from March. I did a massive edit through September and October, where I broke up big chunks of writing into chapters (some chapters were already self-contained, but for example chapters 6 and 7 were one large piece). Every week I do line edits for the upcoming chapter, and sometimes I write more into them. In that sense it’s still a WIP and it won’t be fully posted until February, so will have been an ongoing project for almost a year!

There's a lot I'd love to have seen in season 1 that we didn't, but if I could only pick one thing: An extra scene in which TK is dealing with his recovery. Maybe an N.A. meeting that Owen goes to with him, or somewhere where he opens up to Carlos a bit more about it. Ideally when they’re lying in bed together.

Comfort episodes of TV shows (outside of Lone Star): Any episode of Gavin and Stacey but especially when they all order a curry; there are episodes of Sex and the City I love – Carrie getting broken up with via a Post-It; I grew up watching Only Fools and Horses endlessly. The episode where Rodney gets married is genius.

A popular food I can’t get behind is ice cream. Or anything very richly creamy. I understand it’s a nice taste and sensation on a hot day but the tummy ache is unbearable. I haven’t eaten ice cream for about seventeen years.

#ask #cig answers #nice ask week #Where All This Love Comes From

[dvandom]

Retief and the Peter Principle

Inspired by James Nicoll's essay on SF and the Peter Principle.

For those not into 70s SF, Jaime Retief is the protagonist of Keith Laumer's more light-hearted ironic post-Golden Age space opera stuff, a counterpart to his grimmer Bolo stories (albeit potentially set in the same universe, or Retief is in an AU of Bolo). He works for the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne (CDT), a secret agent of the James Bond mold masquerading as yet another ineffectual CDT drone. The typical story involves the CDT trying to do something stupid on an alien world, and while technically following orders Retief manages to salvage the situation by just being So Much More Clever than his ostensible superiors. A common point of tension is that the Terrans have the military might to crush any opposition, but without Retief (and possibly a few others like him scattered about), the Groaci would eat our lunch and dominate known space.

It's basically read as a broadly satirical take on U.S. attempts at diplomacy, a comedy of errors against an enemy that shouldn't be that much of a challenge but somehow is (Groaci war tech is mostly knockoffs of older Terran tech, and they don't have nearly as much of it). So, Retief has to make sure he has the proper hemi-semi-demi-formal leisure suit for the afternoon meeting, while also keeping the Groaci from stealing a planet out from under the CDT. Retief's boss is good at covering his own ass, taking credit for Retief's actions (especially those that were ostensibly direct violations of orders), etc. Classic struggle of the only competent guy at the company to keep things from falling apart when the institutional culture is just crap, right?

Now...it's quite possible that this surface reading is all that Laumer intended. But, while it's been many years since I read the books, I never got the impression that Retief himself though "blow the Groaci away" was actually a preferred solution. Whoever Retief really answers to seems to be generally okay with the "diplomats, not armadas" policy.

Potential Death of the Author time. Regardless of what Laumer really meant, these days I see the situation as a case of the entire Terran government suffering from the Peter Principle, in which they have been promoted above the level of their competence.

They are very good at military solutions. It's often pointed out that they could throw a switch and roll over the Groaci-held worlds on a moment's notice, without scratching the paint on the dreadnaughts. But at some point in the relatively recent past, they decided to be Better. To work towards diplomatic solutions, make allies rather than vassals. And the ludicrously incompetent actions of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne demonstrate that no one really knows how to do that. The warlike phase went on long enough that institutional memory of diplomacy was lost, and they're forced to fall back on historical records going back to when Terrans were restricted to Terra. They desperately want to be the United Federation of Planets instead of being the Empire, but it's outside their competency. Meanwhile, the Groaci (and probably some other minor powers) have realized that this levels the playing field a LOT. They can do stupid and bad diplomacy as well as the Terrans can, and it's a lot more likely to get them what they want than trying to pick an actual fight in which they'd get vaporized. Some of them might even be honestly better at diplomacy than the CDT.

Retief's job, then, is to troubleshoot the process. The true brains behind the Terran government are smart enough to know they have no idea what they're doing, a lot of wheels are being reinvented and turning out to be rectangular. So Retief is put in a position to chisel them into a more round-ish shape before disaster happens.

Retief is the sergeant who keeps the newly minted lieutenant that is the CDT out of trouble, while being careful to maintain the illusion of the chain of command. Hemi-semi-demi-usually.

#retief #keith laumer

[secretagentfan]

Not us (No never)

FE Three Houses - Russian Doll (2019)

Dimisylvix

Thought I'd share here too because it's been a minute since I've posted a fic and this one has been fun.

On Archive!

     “Come on Eileen” echoes through walnut floor-standing speakers proving that, despite having a streetwise best man capable of getting private reservations at the nicest bar in town, Ashe’s taste is an affront to mankind.

     Yuri, the best man in question, is currently walking away after playing sommelier to a tipsy, giggling Mercedes. Felix glares at him.

     “Eyes elsewhere Fraldarius,” Yuri drawls. “It’s Ashe’s last day of bachelorhood, so allow him his terrible taste in Celtic folk pop, and be glad I spared you all the trip to Medieval Times. There are limits to what I can do.”

     “That’s a blatant lie.”

     “Why Felix, I’m flattered you believe me so capable.”

     Perfect timing— Felix has been aching for a fight. He throws the verbal gauntlet: “Everything about this place screams mob connections. Not a single thing happens under this roof without you, his best man, allowing it to happen. That includes the shitty music—”

     “Hm, someone really got up on the wrong side of the bed today. You really want to talk about my alleged mob connections at our sweet friend’s bachelor party, or shall we walk that back?”

     “Walking it back sounds good,” Sylvain interrupts, returning from the open bar. His red hair is mussed and he smells like some combination of cologne, brandy, and cigarettes. So he’s started smoking again. Annoying. “What are we talking about?”

     “Felix seems to be in a grouchier mood than usual.”

     “Oh, don’t tell him that; he thinks he’s being subtle.”

     Felix scoffs. He’s fine. Fuck them. The caramel-colored shot in Sylvain’s hand is significantly more important than whatever’s leaving his mouth, and Felix overlaps the familiar fingers with his own to tip it back.

     “Whoa, hey, at least ask, Felix,” Sylvain complains but lets it happen. He winks at Yuri. “I’ve gotta say, you’ve done a great job on the party. Not at all what I expected from Ashe.”

     “Sometimes he needs a reminder that he can actually be fun. Have you seen him?”

     Sylvain gestures behind him, and Felix can make out Ashe alone on a barstool. He’s obviously a little drunk, openly fiddling with his engagement ring, a dopey grin on his face. Yuri shakes his head.

     “He makes a terrible barfly. I’ll go liven things up before he pulls out a book. Enjoy yourselves, you two.”

     “Later Yuri.”

     Sylvain’s drunk too, right hand drifting to Felix’s waist in a way that would never happen sober. His breath tickles Felix’s ear. “How’d my shot taste?”

     “Bad,” Felix replies, not stepping out of the half-hearted embrace. They’d fucked twice before. Maybe they’d fuck a third time. Maybe that would salvage the day. Dedue and Ashe were somehow getting married, anything could happen.

     That was unfair. Felix didn’t mean to think that. The truth was, they deserved it, deserved each other and the surprisingly nice bachelor party even if it was undoubtedly procured through means that would probably piss Ashe off. Felix was just—

     Somewhere behind them, a glass breaks. There’s laughter so it’s probably Annette’s doing. Everything was too damn loud. Felix still hadn’t seen him anywhere.

     Sylvain’s fingers squeeze his waist.

     “Seriously, what’s eating you, Felix? You’re not usually this tense.”

     “I am.”

     Sylvain actually laughs. “You know I’m just going to keep asking, right?”

     He will. Felix could stonewall him, but he isn’t a coward. They can talk around this. “Lost the cat.”

     “Aw wait, seriously? The one that’s been following you around?”

     “Is there another cat I’d be referring to?”

     “Okay, okay. Well, sorry. That’s awful. What happened?”

     “I don’t know. It hasn’t shown up in a few weeks. I’ve been feeding it—”

     “Hold on, you’ve been feeding it—”

     “You know what, I’m not having this conversation.”

     “No, no no. Just hang on Felix.” Sylvain grabs his hand. “You want to go search for it?”

     It’s a stupid offer. The cat doesn’t matter, but still, something dead stirs in Felix. Sylvain means it; he’d ditch the whole party to search for a stray. Felix yanks away, rubbing his wrist. “Of course not. If it’s dead it’s dead, I’m not going to waste the night looking for a corpse.”

     “It might not actually be dead, though. What if it’s just shivering in the park somewhere? We could—”

     “Do you want to have sex or not?”

     The words leave Felix before he can think them through fully. It’s the alcohol, probably, but the surprise blossoming on Sylvain’s face is starting to feel pretty rewarding too.

     “Seriously? Now? Today?”

     Felix shrugs. “I don’t have condoms so we’ll have to buy some somewhere. I trust that won’t be an issue?”

     Sylvain frowns. “You’re…sure? Felix, I’m a little—and aren’t you…?”

     “Drunk? Yeah. It isn’t like we haven’t done it before. Take it or leave it.”

     Those are the magic words. Sylvain’s expression snaps to a neutral grin— unreadable.

     “Well when you put it like that, I’ll take it. We should say bye to Ashe and Dedue first though.”

     They do.

     Sylvain calls the driver he’s supposed to use for necessities only to take them to one of the worst 7-11’s Felix has ever laid eyes on. Scratches on the walls give the distinct impression a trapped rodent gave his all before letting death claim him behind the humming slurpee machines.

     Before they leave Sylvain calls “Felix,” in a low, quiet way and sloppily kisses him against the checkout counter.

     Felix pays way too much for a box of condoms and doesn’t notice the eyes on them.

     They agree to fuck at Sylvain’s place because it’s closer, and Sylvain once found a crusty half-fossilized piece of pizza on Felix’s couch and has never let him forget it.

     Sex isn’t difficult.

     Touching Sylvain feels good, warm and simple. He kisses too hard and hugs too tightly, even when their clothes are on, but it’s an alive sort of feeling that fills Felix when they’re in bed together. Electricity under his skin. Still fresh enough there’s a novelty to the act.

     It helps that Sylvain is stupidly adventurous. Curious and clever with his fingers and mouth, eager to test limits and see what he or Felix can take. He doesn’t complain when Felix bites more than he kisses, and maybe that’s why they keep ending up here.

     Every time it seems Felix notices something new about Sylvain: how strong his thighs are, white vein-like scars on his fingertips, under his nails.

     Wait.

     “When did you get these?” Felix asks, catching Sylvain’s hand. It’s still damp from Felix’s saliva. Ugh. Weird.

     “You’re asking that now?” Sylvain breathes out, pupils dark. “Just kid stuff, don’t worry about it.”

     What kind of kid stuff would lead to finger scars? Felix almost asks, but all thoughts temporarily abandon him as Sylvain sucks down hard on his neck, making him grunt.

     “Got you,” Sylvain grins, tongue flicking over the mark he undoubtedly just left. “Told you I’d pull some sounds out of you eventually.”

     “That wasn’t a sound,” Felix lies. “Air was just leaving my mouth.”

     “Yeah with a vocalization attached.”

     “So?”

     “That’s a—” Sylvain actually pulls back, eyes narrowing. “C’mon Felix, have we really reached the point in this process where you’re denying what a sound is?”

     “Shut up.”

     “Guess I’ll have to remind you, over and over again.”

     “Hm, get to work then.”

     Sylvain’s good at undressing him. He doesn’t waste time. For someone who spends all his time talking about romance and fucking and girls, girls, girls, Sylvain knows how to handle a dick. Knows exactly the amount of pressure to put around Felix to make him gasp, arch, cum.

     It works, enough.

     Felix crawls over him after, kissing him in the rough way he likes, and thinks, infuriatingly, about the stupid cat, shivering in the cold somewhere. Sylvain tangles his fingers in his hair and makes to turn them over. Felix blindly grabs for his boxers.

     “I have to go,” he says. Now Sylvain’s looking at him in that sleepy-fucked-confused way that means he’s about to insist on another round, but Felix is already on his feet, pulling his coat off one of Sylvain’s stupid abstract sculptures.

     “Wait, now?”

     “Yeah, I’ll be back later.”

     “You going to tell me where you’re going?”

     “Do you need to know that information?”

     Sylvain swallows. “Well, I can’t say I’d mind knowing it, but I guess you can just take off cryptically into the snow instead.”

     “There’s nothing cryptic about it. I’m just leaving. Shut up and wait here,” Felix demands.

     “Sure, sure,” Sylvain replies, digging in his nightstand to pull out a cigarette.

     Felix crosses his arms, just looking at him. “Really?”

     “What? You’re the one choosing the unforgiving snow, I’m just keeping it warm and lonely here.”

     It’s obviously bait. Felix doesn’t have time for this.

     “Be warm and lonely then,” he says, slamming the door before Sylvain can light up.

     There’s a park near Felix’s apartment. They used to have snowball fights here when they were small and stupid. Contests at the lakeside: who could dash from one end of the lake to the other quickly enough so the ice wouldn’t crack. Ingrid partially fell in once, scraped up her leg. She still has the scar. A metal fence got put around the perimeter soon after, but it didn’t matter. None of them wanted to go near the lake after that.

     Felix is taller than the fence, now. It always felt so big.

     He walks around, searching for the cat, knowing he won’t find it but needing to anyway. The snow builds up gradually until Felix realizes he’s leaving footprints. What the fuck is he doing out here, really?

     His phone rings and he silences it without looking at the name. He knows who it is, and he’s not dealing with that now. Felix doesn’t want to think about him. Felix doesn’t want to think about anything.

     He keeps circling.

     Felix finds the cat only after it’s dark and he’s given up. Point for Sylvain: it’s not dead, but it’s not looking great either. It’s too small, too thin. Its matted tail drags behind it like it can’t be bothered to hold it up anymore. Felix almost calls out to it, but he’d rather die than be caught expecting a response from a dying animal. It’s upsetting.

     He hurries into the street instead, scooping the trembling thing to his chest at the crosswalk. It accepts the rough handling without protest.

     “Shit,” Felix mumbles, voice softening in a way he’ll never admit. It’s so light. Skin, bones, and a persistently beating heart. He digs in his pocket for his phone to call Sylvain — he’s closest. “Let’s get you someplace warm.”

     The sound of brakes and swerving tires pulls him out of it. Felix has always had good reflexes—second only to Glenn in military school. They don’t help him here.

     The cat leaps out of his arms with strength Felix didn’t know it had and a yellow cab crashes into him. The windshield cracks and Felix slides over and off it, skull slamming hard onto the curb.

     He can’t move.

     His head is tilted toward his phone. The screen is broken, but it’s lit up with notifications. They’re still coming. One after the other.

     1 missed call from Dimitri

     7 missed calls from Ingrid

     4 missed calls from Sylvain

     The texts are moving too quickly, and Felix’s brain is too full of colors to register the names.

         Forgive me.

         Where are you?

         Felix I need you to fucking answer right now

         Call me.

         Felix please please answer your phone.

         Felix, call me now.

     There’s so much blood. Felix is dying here, on the sidewalk outside the stupid park. The realization is oddly tepid, considering. His life doesn’t flash before his eyes— in fact, it just drains out of him.

     He wonders if the cat made it.

     “Come on Eileen” echoes in his ears and Felix downs his stolen shot, coughing after.

     “Whoa, hey, at least ask, Felix— serves you right,” Sylvain complains, yanking the glass out of Felix’s grip. “I’ve gotta say Yuri, you’ve done a great job on the party. Not at all what I expected from Ashe.”

     “Sometimes he needs a reminder that he can actually be fun. Have you seen him?”

     Sylvain gestures behind him, and Felix doesn’t follow his gaze. His palms are sweating. Something feels unplaceably, impossibly off for a moment. He swallows hard, running his palm over his face.

     He’s at Ashe’s bachelor party. Yuri’s probably part of the mob. Felix stole Sylvain’s drink. It feels like he’s taken a few steps away from his body. He breathes out, slowly, focusing enough to catch Yuri’s next sentence.

     “He makes a terrible barfly. I’ll go liven things up before he pulls out a book. Enjoy yourselves, you two.”

     Everything is…so… Sylvain’s hand slides distractingly around Felix’s waist. Felix slaps it away— dammit he needs to think.

     “Man,” Sylvain whines. “Guess it’s going to be like that.”

     Something vague slides into place in the very back of Felix’s head; he grips the hand he just slapped.

     “Don’t grab me now, I’m thinking,” he grouches. He’s forgetting something important. Sylvain studies his face for a moment, a previously missing clarity slipping into his relaxed, drunken expression.

     “What’s eating you, Felix? You’re not usually this tense.”

     Wires connect. Felix finds one of the things he’s looking for.

     “I lost the cat,” he says, testing.

     “Aw wait, seriously? The one that’s been following you around?”

     Felix can’t believe he has to explain this again. “Yes, the one that’s been following me around. What the fuck was in that drink?”

     “Huh? The one you just stole? It was brandy, I think. You’re not dizzy or anything are you? I swear I watched the bartender pour it and everything—”

     Felix steps out of his hold. “Shut up, you’re the last person I need mothering me. I’ve done this before.”

     “I should hope so, Felix. I’m pretty sure I was there for your first drink—”

     “—Not the stupid alcohol, the cat! I went to find the cat after we…”

     Felix trails off, very clearly remembering Sylvain’s breath at his throat, palming his dick. Scars on his fingertips. He turns Sylvain’s hand, examining— sure enough, they’re there: faint and white.

     It’s Sylvain’s turn to pull away. “Not that I’m opposed to all this contact, but what are you doing Felix?”

     “Have you always had those scars?”

     Sylvain’s face goes slack, just slightly, in the way it always does when Felix cuts too close to the quick. Maybe that wasn’t the thread to pull at. Felix cringes. What the hell is he doing, grabbing Sylvain, interrogating him about his scars?

     Sylvain shakes it off, fingers closing tightly around Felix’s. “This cat really has you shaken up, huh? You want to go search for it?”

     Felix’s heart pulls, Sylvain’s hand feels deeply necessary for a moment, a grounding force in a collapsing reality. He looks away.

     “Yeah.”

     Sylvain lets go, offering him a small smile. “You got it, then. We should say bye to Ashe and Dedue first though.”

     They do.

     “Let me get this straight, Felix. You’re saying we hooked up again, and you went out here to find the cat and got hit by a taxi in…what? Another reality?”

     Snow’s starting to fall. It catches in Sylvain’s hair. Felix glares at it.

     “When you say it like that I sound insane.”

     “Well, I can’t exactly say you sound totally right in the head Felix. You’re pretty light, but the cab would have to be going pretty fast to get you to roll over it. I’m not even sure that’s possible— just gravitationally speaking.”

     “I’m telling you it happened.”

     “I’m just saying, what’s more likely: another universe, or you had a little too much and had one hell of a waking dream?”

     “I’m not making it up!” Felix growls. “I don’t know why I expected you to get it. Just leave me alone. I’ll find the cat myself.”

     “No way, I’ve got to learn more about this other reality.”

     “Fuck you.” Felix glares, cheeks hot as he tries to scrape together a defense for whatever absurd thing is happening inside him. “I don’t know, okay? I just know it felt real.”

     “That real, huh? I’d like to think I’m better than whatever dream me showed you. If you want a demonstration, I’m happy to get your mind off things.”

     Sylvain’s hand brushes Felix’s and dammit he really can turn any moment into an awful line, can’t he?

     “I’ll pass,” Felix grunts, pulling away. “I’m still thinking about bleeding out on the side of the road.”

     “Oh, come on! I left more of an impression than that, right?”

     “Trust me, I’ve already forgotten you.”

     “Ouch!” Sylvain’s dry laugh echoes in the empty park. They’re leaving behind two sets of circling footprints now. Something pricks unpleasantly in the back of Felix’s skull. He reaches for his phone, checks the messages. No calls. No texts. His head throbs. Something is missing. Something is wrong.

     It’s starting to get dark. Felix pulls his jacket tighter around himself.

     “Hang on, hang on, stop walking for a sec,” Sylvain says suddenly, crouching in the snow.

     For a moment, Felix thinks he’s found the cat and gets down to join him, but then scarred fingers wrap around his wrist, and Sylvain’s entirely too-warm left hand covers Felix’s.

     “What,” Felix bites out. He realizes, with mounting exhaustion, that this was a trap all along. Sylvain held his hand like this all the time when they were kids and he had to ask for Felix to cover him while he did something idiotic. As if tonight wasn’t enough already.

     “Don’t bite my head off yet,” Sylvain says, voice uncharacteristically serious. “Look, we’ve talked around this enough.  Dimitri’s been out for two months now. He’s always asking about you. When are you going to actually have a conversation with him?”

     Felix bristles, yanking out of Sylvain’s grip and standing up. His heart squeezes in his chest.

     “What does the boar have to do with any of this?”

     Sylvain’s measured voice only serves to make Felix’s ears ring harder. “Felix it’s been five years. He was at the party, even if you didn’t see him. I know you still care.”

     “Like you understand any of it! You weren’t there!”

     “I wasn’t,” Sylvain allows, and repeats, softer. “I wasn’t. So maybe I jumped the gun and you’re not ready to talk about this now but—”

     “Maybe save psychoanalyzing me for when you can spend one night alone in your own bed, Sylvain.”

     Sylvain takes the sentence as the blow it was intended to be, expression hardening.

     Felix spots the cat. Still malnourished, limping across the crosswalk. His body acts on reflex, dashing into the street.

     Brakes. Swerving.

     Felix’s life does flash before his eyes this time: he sees himself as a child, snowball fights with Glenn, Ingrid, Dimitri, sneaking out past curfew in military school to trade blows, Glenn and Dimitri’s deployment, bloody teeth on the counter, Dimitri’s trial, his promise with Sylvain, the fucking cat, bleeding out on the sidewalk, two sets of footprints—

     And he’s yanked back onto the curb.

     “Felix, shit! That was way too close. Are you okay?”

     He’s looking at Sylvain, wide-eyed and breathless.

     For some reason, the first thing out of Felix’s mouth instead of the intended thanks is: “A fucking taxi cab. I told you.”

     “So watch where you’re going!” Sylvain shouts, visibly agitated. “What the hell, Felix?”

     Felix’s heart is in his ears. He almost died. No, he almost died again, and for what? Words leave him him without permission, like Sylvain knocked loose the seal on a fire hydrant.

     “Fuck off Sylvain, I would have been fine! I didn’t ask you to protect me!”

     “You’re not serious,” Sylvain repeats, incredulous. “You’re really yelling at me, now. Right now?”

     “I said fuck off! Just leave me alone!”

     And now Felix is running. Legs taking him as fast as he can away from this moment and toward whatever’s left of that stupid cat. He chases it back into the park, scooping it up before it can shimmy under the fence to walk across the iced-over lake. It goes lax in his arms.

     Felix, in a moment of exhausted triumph, leans against the short fence. He’s older now. He’s fine. The cat purrs quietly in his arms, and Felix feels a little better.

     Then he doesn’t.

     “Dammit,” he whispers.

     He should probably apologize to Sylvain when he sees him next. He doesn’t know where to start with Dimitri. What the hell was he supposed to do?

     At least he got the cat. Everything else can fall into place when Felix is somewhere quiet, indoors, and unlikely to kill him. The cat is just as cold as it was earlier, ribs still protruding. Felix wonders for a fleeting moment if it needs a vet and then he isn’t holding the cat.

     His arms are empty, cradling nothing at all. There’s no heartbeat in his arms, no mangy creature.

     He’s still outside. It’s still snowing.

     The cat was there, he was holding it, and now he wasn’t.

     The fence creaks, tips, and before Felix can think twice about it, he falls into the frozen lake.

#dimisylvix #sylvix #dimilix #fire emblem three houses #my fic #been a minute since I've posted -anything- tumblr is a different place now #yet somehow the same #hi

[pikapeppa]

Garrus Vakarian x f!Shepard: Crick

Hello friends and loved ones: I am dipping my toe into Shakarian fic. Haven’t quite decided yet how much to commit to writing this pairing in detail, so here’s a little oneshot set just after the Horizon mission in ME2. ~2400 words. (Tumblr only for now, but I’ll post on AO3 if I decide to write more.)

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

Garrus sighed as he made his way to the main battery room. There was a stiff feeling in the left side of his neck and shoulder when he tilted his head, and he was annoyed by it. It was his own fault, really; he’d fallen asleep at his weapons modification table again last night and woken with this crick in his neck that wouldn’t go away.

It was one of those times when he really wished he could get a proper hammer massage. There was that one place on the Citadel that did real Palavenese massage, the good kind that you really felt vibrating all the way through your carapace into your bones, but Garrus wasn’t sure if Shepard would be ordering them back to the Citadel anytime soon.

It’s just a crick, he reminded himself. It could be so much worse. The fight they’d just gone through on Horizon had been… a tough one, to say the least. Any fight with an unfamiliar new enemy could be unnerving, but seeing that Harbinger thing jumping from body to body during the fight had almost been enough to make Garrus pause.

Almost, but not quite. Archangel never hesitated or missed his shot. 

He stepped into the main battery room and took a deep breath, then released it in a satisfied sigh. The air in here smelled like clean plastic and a hint of metal, and he savoured the relaxing smell just as he did every time he stepped into this room after a hard fight. 

He flicked on the monitors and cracked the joints in his fingers, then started his usual routine of checking the gun settings – a routine that was more for comfort now than necessity, if he was being totally honest. Cerberus might be a pack of crazies doing their twisted human experiments, but they sure made a mighty fine canon. 

He finished up his calibrating routine, and he was just about to move on to studying the Collector particle rifle that Shepard had salvaged when he heard the distinct beep-and-shunk of the door unlocking. A second later, the doors slid open, and Shepard stepped through. 

She nodded briskly. “Garrus. Just checking in. You doing okay after that fight?”

“I’m just fine, Shepard,” he assured her. “I was about to start looking at your new toy here, actually.”

“That’s great,” she said. “It looks like a powerful little piece of tech. Something we can turn to our advantage, you think?”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “There’s nothing I find more satisfying than using the enemy’s own weapons against them.”

A small smile crossed her face, just as he’d hoped it would. He hadn’t seen a smile on her face all day, not since the Collectors had gotten away with the population of Horizon’s colony. Kaidan’s angry lecture probably hadn’t helped things, either. 

She huffed and leaned an elbow on the weapons mod table. “That’s pretty bloodthirsty of you, Garrus.” 

“Bloodthirsty? Me? Never,” he said. “Thirsty for justice, on the other hand…”

She laughed — a husky rolling sound that always reminded him, for some reason, of brandy-filled chocolates. “What a line. Did your time on Omega inspire you to dip your toe into writing noir mystery novels?”

“What if it did?” he said playfully.

“Then I’d tell you stick to your dayjob,” she replied.

It was Garrus’s turn to chuckle. Shepard smiled at him once more, then straightened up and nodded at the particle rifle. “I know you just got started here, but I’m interested to see what you find. Mind if I watch you working for a while?”

“No problem,” he said. “Might ask you to throw up a barrier for your own protection, though. This thing doesn’t use conventional heat sinks. I’m not sure yet if it can even be fully turned off.”

She nodded and cast herself a barrier with a quick clench of her fist, and Garrus got to work studying the Collector rifle. He scanned it to build a schematic and explained the exploded view to Shepard, and she frowned thoughtfully and asked questions about the weapon’s uses and disadvantages, and all the while, as he often did, he wondered what she was really thinking. 

By any objective standards, it had been a bad day. They’d just watched most of a human colony get taken away by the Collectors. Her former lieutenant had accused her of crimes against her race right after a really tough fight, and when they’d boarded the Normandy once more, the Illusive Man had told her that he’d actually incited the Collectors to target Horizon. 

If Garrus was in Shepard’s place, he’d be vibrating with anger by now. But here she was, watching him dismantle a gun with the calmest look on her face. 

A solid half hour later, when he’d finished thoroughly surveying the rifle, he tapped his visor from its analysis mode back into its resting mode and looked at her. “I think that’s about all I’m going to do with this rifle for today. You need me for anything else?”

“Nothing else for now,” she said. “Thanks for the demonstration. I’ll talk to you later.” She stepped back toward the door. 

On a sudden whim, he opened his mouth. “Shepard, hang on a second.”

She turned back to him. “What is it?”

He hesitated. Now he was wondering if the question at the tip of his tongue was too personal. He and Shepard were friends, sure, but his question might touch a bit of a sore spot, given what had happened today. If Garrus knew anything about Shepard, it was that she wasn’t much of one for talking about her feelings when missions didn’t go as expected. Not that Garrus was a talky-feely sort of guy, either, but still… 

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, and he shook himself. He’d called her to turn around; he had no choice but to ask now. “Are you doing okay?” 

Her eyebrows rose higher. “Sorry?”

“This whole Collector business on Horizon,” he clarified. “I know it didn’t go down the way we wanted, and then with the Illusive Man being, you know… illusive.” He lifted his shoulders. “It can’t have been easy.”

Her blue-black eyes crinkled at the corners. “You worrying about me, Vakarian?” 

“A little, maybe,” he said. “You’ve only taken a dig at me once today.”

Another smile flashed across her face, but it was gone a second later, smoothed back into her usual businesslike expression. “I’m all right,” she said. “It’s a hit to have lost the colony, but we’ll save the next one. I’ll make sure of it.”

He nodded. “Seeing Kaidan was a bit of a shock, huh?”

She huffed and folded her arms. “It wasn’t ideal, but that’s the way it is. He’s got his mission, and we’ve got ours. We can’t lose our focus over personal feelings.”

Garrus nodded again. Everything she was saying was reasonable and true, and her calm attitude was envious, really. If Garrus was able to keep his calm like Shepard did… well, he’d tried to channel Shepard’s calm while he was on Omega, but it had only gotten him so far. Garrus had never known anyone, human or otherwise, who kept their cool all the time quite the way Shepard did. 

And yet, for some reason, he just… he wasn’t sure. Her manner struck him as a little bit off, somehow, like the feeling of the crick in his neck.

She lifted her eyebrows. “Anything else?”

“How do you do it?” he said bluntly.

She blinked. “Do what?”

“Keep it together all the time,” he said. “You never seem uncertain. You always seem to know what you’re doing, even if you can’t possibly know. I have to admit, I envy you,” he admitted. “How is it that you always manage to keep it together?”

She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she just stared at him without speaking, and Garrus started to feel a little awkward. It was hard to tell from the look on her face, but he thought that maybe she was… was she angry? Surprised? Bored, maybe? He couldn’t quite tell. Human expressions were usually easy to interpret, with their fleshy lips stretching and pouting and their eyebrows leaping up and down. But when Shepard was in her ‘commander’ mode, she could be so damned hard to read. 

She glanced at the closed door. Then, to his surprise, she walked over to him and sat in his chair. 

She raked her long black bangs back from her face and looked up at him. “You want to know my secret?” she said.

“Secret?” he said blankly. “To what?”

“To staying calm all the time,” she said. “Can I tell you my secret?”

“Um, sure,” he said. 

She leaned toward him, and he instinctively stooped down a bit to hear her better — a good thing that he did, since her voice was low and conspiratorial when she spoke. 

“I cry in the shower,” she said.

His guts twisted in a funny way. “What?”

She leaned back in his chair. “I cry in the shower,” she said. “When something really fucked up happens, I get in the shower at the end of the day and I cry like hell.”

He stared at her wordlessly. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say, but it wasn’t this. 

A little smile curled the corners of her lips. “What’s wrong? Not the answer you were hoping to hear?”

“It’s — it’s not that,” he said. “I’m just, uh, surprised. You cry in the shower?”

“Yep,” she said. “Not bullshitting you, I promise. This is not a bet with Joker or anything like that.”

He tried to gather his wits. “So… what, you cry in the shower, and then you just… get back to being Commander Malin Shepard, saviour of the Citadel and resident Reaper conspiracist?”

She chuckled. “Exactly. It’s like a purge. Works perfectly every time.”

He nodded slowly, feeling like he needed some time to process this, and Shepard huffed and punched his arm in a friendly manner.  “Not so impressed with me anymore, huh?”

That wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t that he was unimpressed. But now he was actually worried about her. In all the time Garrus had known her, he had never once imagined her crying about anything. If what she was telling him was true, though…

Hang on. How often did she cry in the shower, exactly? No, he couldn’t ask that — it would definitely be overstepping. 

He scrambled to find a clever reply. “It’s not that,” he said. “Actually, I’m jealous.”

She laughed. “Jealous? Why?” Then her eyebrows rose. “Wait, can turians cry?”

“Sure,” Garrus said. “But we don’t do it often.”

“Is it hard for you to cry?” she asked.

“Well, the turian military doesn’t exactly encourage you to curl up in the corner for a little weeping time,” he said dryly.

She snorted. “Not what I meant. I was more wondering if, uh, since you have deep eye sockets, maybe your tears collect in there somewhere…?”

He flared his mandibles in amusement. “Tears don’t collect in a little reservoir under our eyes or something, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he drawled. “But yeah, we can cry. It just doesn’t happen much. Which leads me to the jealousy,” he added. “You get to sit in your shower crying whenever you feel like it? Forget the private cabin: that’s the real luxury of being the commander.”

She laughed again, more heartily this time, and the husky warmth of her laughter was such that Garrus could almost taste the sweet bite of brandy and bittersweet chocolate. “Well, if you ever want to try it sometime, let me know.”

“Try what?” he said. “Crying in the shower?”

“Yep,” she said. “You can borrow my private shower instead of using the shared showers down here, if you want. The walls are soundproof, so nobody can hear you wailing.”

For a split second, an image flashed across his mind: Shepard’s private shower. No, not just Shepard’s private shower: Shepard’s private shower, with Shepard in it. Shepard naked in the shower — what did her body look like under those clothes, he wondered? — and he, Garrus, joining her in the shower —

Wait. Wait a second. Why was he thinking about that? He shouldn’t be thinking about that. It was Shepard, for crying out loud: his friend and his CO. Who did he think he was, to imagine his human female CO naked in the shower? 

He scrambled to get his thoughts back on track. “I’ll, uh, let you know,” he said. “Might have to train my eyes how to cry, it’s been so long.”

She smirked. “Nice try, Vakarian. Something tells me you’re not quite that heartless.”

He chuckled — a little weakly, to be truthful, but Shepard didn’t seem to notice; she was rising from his chair with a smile. “Well, I should go. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later,” he echoed, and he watched her surreptitiously as she left the room. Once she was gone, he sat in his chair and closed his eyes. 

Crying in the shower… he honestly wouldn’t have guessed it. He’d expected her to give him some kind of encouraging advice or bolstering words of wisdom, like the sorts of things she said to the team before they set off on a mission. But somehow, hearing her say she cried in the shower was… interesting. It made him think about her in a different way. He was worried for sure, but also… comforted, somehow, to know that even Shepard got overwhelmed enough to cry. It seemed that under all that heavy N7 armour, she really was a regular person, too. 

Under all that heavy N7 armour… A flash of a thought projected itself on his closed eyelids: Shepard stripping off her armour, her slender human fingers raking her sweat-dampened bangs back from her face, the small bare patch at the nape of her neck where her short spiky hair faded into light golden-brown skin… 

He snapped open his eyes. Was he drifting off? He must be more tired than he thought. No other reason that he’d keep thinking about Shepard like this. 

He rose from his chair and rolled his shoulders, then clicked in his mandibles in annoyance as the crick in his neck announced itself once more. “Really could use a damned massage,” he muttered. Well, he’d just have to suck it up and wait until they got back to the Citadel.

In the meantime, he’d just have to cope with the strange nagging feeling of the crick in his neck.

#garrus vakarian #garrus #shakarian #garrus/shepard #garrus x shepard #garrus x femshep #Fun fact: Garrus is actually my OG videogame husbando from back in the day #but when i first played the ME trilogy i wasn't a writer #so i could not process my feelings like a thirsty madwoman with too many emotions #I AM A WRITER NOW HOWEVER #AND MY FEELINGS CAN ONLY BE PROCESSED BY BARFING THEM ONTO A SCREEN #pikapeppa writes

[intergalacticwanderer]

(Fuck it, have a fic based on this post, I'm still laughing way too hard at the idea)

Beau had had plenty of hangovers before, but this was something else.

She came to with a disgusted groan, scrubbing at her face and having a rare instance of regretting her life choices. Usually a night of drinking wouldn't be that big of a deal, but somehow the night celebrating her stay on The Nein Heroez had devolved into a drinking contest between her and King, followed by typical Jester shenanigans, and then of course there was that weird ass demon organized death match-

Beau blinked several times. Huh. That last one was... huh. Booze induced fever dream? That seemed like the most logical answer, but that didn't explain her weirdly vivid memories of the thing, and wait, was she feeling kind of sore...?

"Beau! BEAUUUU!!! OhmyGOSHIhadtheCRAZIESTdream-!" A whirlwind of blue tiefling barged into Beau's cabin and she let out a second loud groan, clutching at her pounding head.

“Jes, c’moooon, why,” Beau said, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“It was so cool though Beau! It was this crazy death match and we were fighting this bird guy and some gnomes and there was so much stuff going on and Fjord turned into-”

“A T-Rex, yeah,” Beau said, finishing Jester’s sentence without really thinking about it. There was a pause for several seconds before Beau took the arm off her face and slowly sat up, looking at a wide eyed Jester. No fucking way. “And... I caught some bullets from a rich dude with a gun?”

“OHMYGOSH!!!” Jester shrieked, dragging Beau out of bed and out of the cabin before she could get a word in edgewise. “We have to find Fjord RIGHT NOW!”

It didn’t take long for the two of them to run into Fjord on the deck of the ship, the captain of The Nein Heroez looking slightly dazed and while not as hungover as Beau he was definitely still out of it. He ran a hand down his face as the two of them came over.

"Oh, uh, hey! Sorry, very weird night of sleep, what do you guys need?"

Jester beamed and Beau just knew that whatever dignity Fjord was trying salvage was about to die horribly.

"Oh, you know," Jester said casually, "I was just thinking about how cute your butt was hanging out last night." Fjord went stock still and Beau let out a strangled snort. "You should totally wear those again sometime, even when we're not in some crazy death match."

Fjord stayed still for several more seconds before slowly bringing his hands up to his face. "I take it that wasn't just a weird dream last night?" he said, voice slightly strangled.

"Or we at least all shared the same dream," Beau said, giving him a consoling shoulder pat. "And hey, you were still pretty bad ass, and T-Rexes are cool."

“What the FUCK?!”

Beau heard the muffled but LOUD shout from below deck and before she could figure out what was happening a half crazed Kingsley charged up the stairs, skidding to a halt in front of all of them and wild eyed, pointing accusingly.

“What did you fuckers do?! What was that death match, why do I have two names in my head now, WHERE ARE MY SWORDS?!”

“Oh fuck you Molly!” Beau responded, head throbbing, and she froze, shit, did she just-

“Well fuck you too Beau!” he said, giving the familiar reply with no hesitation and a toothy grin before his face scrunched up and he groaned. “I guess I'll have Molly as the middle name now, fuck! I’m still blaming you all for this, but fuck it! We’re still alive after that bullshit, that’s good enough for me!”

Beau’s mind scrambled to catch up with the sudden shift in reality but after a moment she decided follow her friend’s lead and just say fuck it.

"Dude I am JUST as clueless as you are, no idea." She hesitated and then gave him a light punch in shoulder, Kingsley (Molly? Both? What the fuck) rubbing his shoulder but still grinning. "And good morning to you too," she said.

"And time for BREAKFAST!" Jester yelled while throwing her arms in the air, everyone else wincing from their hangovers and the loud volume. "Don't worry, I can heal the hangovers if you really need it. But let's go eat!"

The four of them started on their way to the galley, Beau watching as the tieflings started a rapid fire back and forth conversation. She laughed when they stuck their tongues out at each other simultaneously, Fjord groaning, and once again she decided to say fuck it. Knowing what was going on or not, this was good enough for now.

***

("Wait, what do mean I was stuck in a rock?!")

(Part Two)

#Critical Role #cr spoilers #Beauregard Lionett #Jester Lavorre #Mollymauk Tealeaf #Kingsley Tealeaf #Fjord Stone #Mollymauk #Fjord #VM vs M9 #Critical Role fanfiction #my writing

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

So more on the Beauford Swan AU, how do you think Alice and Rosalie's relationships with him are different? I assume Rosalie doesn't compare herself to Beauford the exact same way she compares herself to Bella, and Alice's Barbie Bella dream probably doesn't translate directly into a Ken Beau. How would that effect their initial relationships and the eventual family dynamics (Let's just assume this is the Beau Gives Up and Asks Carlisle to Turn Him version)?

Ooooh, interesting question anon.

For reference the Beauford AU: one, two, and three.

Specifically, we're in post number three, where Beauford survives Edward (huzzah for Beauford).

Rosalie

Rosalie's relationship with Beauford is a rollercoaster of weird.

At first, Beauford is a nothing special human. Rosalie's a little amused the girls are going wild for him, and she sees the appeal if you're into sensitive pretty boys (not Rosalie's type), but it has nothing to do with her.

As you point out, Rosalie doesn't have that conflict with her own beauty and comparison to Bella. Just per being a man, Rosalie will not compare herself to Beauford constantly.

Then Edward has his Biology breakdown and becomes increasingly weird.

Rosalie probably still suggests they kill off Beauford for nearly being crushed by a van. While Rosalie did have inner conflict over Bella, most of what informed that was Rosalie's lack of desire to move, that wouldn't change because of Beauford.

She probably wonders what the hell Edward's deal is, why is he obsessed with this guy, and then she has her "oh" moment.

Edward is gay.

Edward has always been gay.

Suddenly everything makes sense. The fact that Edward has shown 0 interest in Rosalie, that he showed 0 interest in Tanya who was practically throwing herself at him, that he shows 0 interest in any woman period.

Rosalie never suspected as much before, or at least, never put two and two together. But of course Edward is gay, it all makes sense now.

Edward doesn't like that idea, not at all, and accuses Rosalie of being a jealous shrew who is so offended by the idea that Edward isn't attracted to her that she accuses him of homosexuality.

Rosalie never said a word of this out loud.

The family has the biggest fight they've ever had. And, somehow, it's not over the murder of Beauford, but Edward's sexuality. No definitive conclusion is reached, but if you ask Edward, he is most definitely a heterosexual hot blooded man. Now, if you excuse him, he's going to go sneak into Beauford's room to crush the spiders that might sneak onto his pillow.

But back to Rosalie and Beauford.

Rosalie becomes increasingly exasperated as Edward romances Beauford without admitting he's romancing Beauford. He also does ridiculous things like adamantly refuse to turn Beauford into a vampire.

Rosalie tries to point out that he and Edward have no future like this. Edward doesn't care, he'll nobly leave Beauford anyway, as soon as he has the strength to. Rosalie tries to point out that a man doesn't take another man to a romantic Italian dinner (where he can't even eat anything) unless he's romantically interested. Edward tells Rosalie that she's never been as beautiful as she thought she was!

Rosalie decides, "fuck it", and she will be a part of Beauford's welcome committee when Edward invites him to meet the family. She's only given a few hours notice, but she just feels so bad for this guy. Edward's stringing him along, but is too in love with his own closet to ever have a real relationship.

She has no idea what Beauford thinks about it, but she's just dying of secondhand embarrassment. And yes, she thinks that Beauford should probably live a human life, and that Edward should either leave him alone or turn him, but at the very least she has to explain that her brother's an idiot.

Well, turns out, Beauford is also an idiot. And he's weird.

Rosalie finds herself meeting the most sensitive, womanly, man she's ever seen in her life. This guy is a delicate flower, she feels like if she breathes on him he might shatter into a thousand pieces.

He's very polite, very charming, but she watches as he does things like cry at Edward's piano playing and then let Edward eat his tear.

What the fuck?

Rosalie throws her hands in the air. There's no helping these two, they deserve each other, Rosalie out. Well, the baseball game happens, which turns into a disaster and a half.

Rosalie still likely gives her "Why are we risking our own deaths over this guy we don't even know" and Beauford assumes that Rosalie hates him (not helped by Rosalie giving him "are you crazy" looks all the time as well as Edward telling Beauford that Rosalie is jealous of his beauty and Edward's very platonic affections for him).

That summer Rosalie barely sees Beauford. When she does, he and Edward are cuddling on the couch. She asks if Edward's admitting he's gay yet, the answer is always no. She rolls her eyes and leaves to work on her cars.

New Moon happens, Rosalie doesn't know what to think anymore, but she supposes this is a decent outcome. Beauford gets to live a normal, human, life and move on.

They're back six months later.

Fast forward a bit and Beauford is turned by Carlisle. Rosalie sits down to think about it, Carlisle makes it clear why this happened, and she's back to feeling bad for Beauford.

Edward treats him like trash, he's downright vicious to Beauford, and Beauford looks like he's about to cry constantly. Rosalie reaches out and the pair have a good long talk about life, the universe, and her Pig Brother Edward.

Rosalie assures Beauford that Edward will get over it, he'll forgive Beauford eventually, and someday he'll stop being an ass. Beauford is comforted, but Edward never stops being an ass.

Rosalie and Beauford end up best friends instead.

They have nothing in common.

Alice

Alice still makes Beauford her Barbie Beauford, but with a slightly masculine twist.

She buys him fabulous clothes, so that his closet is filled with blazers, turtlenecks, and very tight pants. She still throws him a sweet sixteen eighteen, only instead of a million pink candles the candles are now blue.

Beauford is still utterly mortified.

She gets him a tux for Prom and Beauford ends up going with Edward though neither Edward nor Beauford realize they're in fact going to Prom together as a couple.

Alice still sees Beauford as her best friend and is absolutely ecstatic for his and Edward's "friendship". As Alice never sees the pair having sex, she is absolutely fine with the platonic label and fully agrees with Edward that theirs is a very platonic relationship.

Alice is still the best friend Beauford ever had because he has no friends and doesn't know what friendship is. Though he kind of wishes she'd stop buying him clothes.

Their relationship goes down the drain after Beauford is turned.

As Beauford and Edward's relationship falls apart, he looks to Alice for comfort, but she has none to provide. She doesn't see him and Edward working out any time soon and, well, glad you're a part of the family?

Alice realizes that her and Beauford's friendship isn't going to work out either. She's upset about this, but doesn't see any way to salvage it without completely alienating Edward. Alice will choose Edward.

Alice ponders over might have beens and wonders when the future shifted but quietly watches as Beauford becomes closest with Rosalie.

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #beauford swan #bella swan #edward/bella #anti edward/bella #edward/beauford #anti edward/beauford #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #rosalie hale #alice cullen #anti alice cullen #meta #headcanon #opinion

[ddarker-dreams]

Unwanted Intrusions. Yan Childe x Reader

Warnings: Unbalanced power dynamics and suggestive themes. Word count: 1.3k. Note: Reposted due to tumblr’s awful not showing posts in tag problem : ))))

It’s no exaggeration to say this order could keep your parent’s business afloat.

For once, you feel as if the Geo Archon has heard your prayers and answered them. Maintaining your composure has never felt so challenging. Standing just to the side of this godsend customer, a genuine smile adorns your face, hands clasped behind your back. She examines the petals of every blossom with scrutiny. You’re more than confident that the assortment will be to her liking, pearly white qingxin’s that took arduous days to obtain.

All she needs to do is confirm what she spoke about earlier. Lian, as she had introduced herself, is a wedding coordinator for a wealthy merchant in Liyue. As funding isn’t an issue, she had considered purchasing your entire stock for the event. It’s a rather last-minute affair and you can’t imagine any other florists could pull it off. How overjoyed your parents will be when they hear this news, they’ll finally be able to rest easily at night. The financial burden that you’ve sought to relieve them of is just within reach.

Lian straightens her posture and looks to you, clearly pleased and reaching for her Mora purse. “It’s as you said, these qingxin’s have undeniable quality. Now then, let’s--”

“Ah, there you are, [First]! Working hard as ever, I take it. Though, if memory serves, isn’t this your day off?”

No. This can not be happening to you. The timing is far too cruel -- an insult, if anything -- blood draining from your face at the grating sound of Childe’s voice. Lian looks at the Fatui standing by the entrance with palpable disdain, and words escape you entirely. It’s no secret that the Fatui have put a hurting on local business, including the very merchant this wedding is meant to be for. Clearing your throat, you struggle to find your verbal foothold, hoping to salvage the rapidly devolving situation.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m incredibly busy at the moment.” Your tone is aloof as you can manage. Childe leans against the entranceway, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head. You recognize that damned expression. It’s the look that comes right before Childe throws you to the wolves for his entertainment.

“I don’t mind waiting. We have a lot to go over since our discussion was cut short last time, remember?”

Lian pivots on her heel, already making for the door. “It seems you’re otherwise preoccupied at the moment. Best of luck with your… future endeavors.”

Your jaw is agape as Lian exists with haste. It feels like the Mora you were so close to obtaining slipped through your fingers, hot indignation flaring at Childe’s purposeful interruption. It’d be naïve to think this a mere coincidence. As soon as she’s gone, Childe makes straight for you, sizing up your displeased body language.

“What a shame,” Childe sighs, running a hand through his tousled copper hair. “Do you think it was something I said?”

“Why are you here?” You snap, arms crossing over your chest. The paper-thin patience you have when speaking to Childe is nonexistent this time around. It’s inevitable that every time you’re free of him for a while, that he makes up for it by intruding in the worst ways possible. The past three or so weeks without Childe lingering like a bad omen have been divine. A much-needed reprieve cut short far too soon.

Childe hums, canting his head down to get a closer look at you. “I think that’s rather obvious, [First]. I missed our little chats.”

He sounds pleased with himself. Frowning, you put your hands on his chest and push, hoping to create some space. Childe doesn’t so much as budge at your feeble attempts. His strength might not be noticeable at first glance, as his body is rather lean and slim. Unfortunately for you, it’s on display now, your force not even making him blink. Arms falling limp to your side in defeat, you recognize he’s not going to be giving personal space anytime soon.

“That’s great, but you’re scaring away my customers.” You grumble, standing on your tiptoes to glance over his shoulder. The situation outside makes your stomach churn in displeasure. Just outside the window, you catch the distinctive outfit of two Fatui guards, standing watch on the premises. Any passerby, Liyue natives or not, will undoubtedly be repelled by the sight.

“I would never,” he lets out a dramatized gasp, laughing at the deadpan stare you give in return. “Wow, what an intimidating glare! Endearing as that is, I much prefer how you look when your lips are on my--”

“Be quiet!” You hiss quietly, cheeks set ablaze, the room suddenly feeling too hot. “My parents are upstairs, you idiot.”

There’s a gleam in his eyes at the mention of this that fills you with despair. “That’s actually what I’m here for. I’ve never had the opportunity to introduce myself to them as your partner, isn’t that a custom in Liyue? Family is important, after all, it’s best to respect these things.”

Is that what he considers himself to be? Your partner?

You have no positive emotional connection to Childe, considering the Harbinger to be a persistent blight on your life. Every deplorable favor you exchanged -- at his behest -- was for the sake of alleviating the financial burden on your family. Carnal pleasure for the Fatui to cease harassing over their unpaid debt. What was done in the dark should remain there, as the humiliation attached to it is too great.

“You’re no such thing to me,” comes your detached response, cutting through the air like a knife. Childe’s lips curl into an uncharacteristic frown at your unhesitant rebuke. “For the last time, please leave so I can do my job.”

Silence. There’s no playful quip or arrogant laughter. Only an icy, piercing stare that sends shivers down your spine. You’ve never been on the receiving end of this look from Childe, who always seems to hold nothing but boundless adoration and favor on you. Swallowing thickly, you hold your ground, somehow managing to maintain eye contact.

“No such thing, huh?” He murmurs, your words bitter on his tongue. You shift uncomfortably, fists clenching by your side. Outside, you can hear the sounds of children playing, merchants bartering, and carts going by filled with various goods. The world is at a standstill in your humble store. Neither you nor Childe makes a move, tension steadily increasing as each second passes slower than the last.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Your heart drops. What does he mean by that? Sensing your newfound distress, he pats you on the head, in an act you can only describe as demeaning.

Childe reaches into his pocket, pulling out a personal belonging that sends your head reeling. A dainty necklace, unmistakable in its origin, glistening in front of you temptingly. That’s your mother’s necklace. A family heirloom for centuries, that she painstakingly pawned off to keep the flower shop afloat amidst financial turmoil. Wide-eyed, you reach out for it, only for Childe to lift it above your reach.

He shakes his head, smiling maliciously. “I guess I won’t be needing this any longer. I was hoping to win your parent’s favor with this little gift, but if that’s how you feel, why should I bother?”

“Childe, I’m--”

“Hm, not so cold now, are we?” He laughs, a sound devoid of humanity, placing the necklace away as fast as he took it out. Is this guilt that weighs on your soul? Agony? Hatred? You’re uncertain. Everything is happening too fast to mentally keep up with, Childe once again making a fool of you. You grit your teeth, taking in deep breaths to steady yourself. He stares at you with feigned disinterest.

“If you happen to change your mind,” he starts, turning to leave, “You know where to find me. I’ll be waiting.”

At that moment, you realize, it wasn’t you who had a semblance of control over Childe.

It was him that had you wrapped securely around his finger.

#everyday tumblr makes me more tilted than the last #lets see if it uncucks me #childe x reader #yandere childe x reader #childe #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #yandere tartaglia x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact imagine #my stuff

[ickle-ronniekins]

black & white

request: from nonnie: ASDFGhjkl. Why are your fics so CUTE? 😭 Can I request a cute and cheesy George proposing to the fem!reader—and they’re wedding? 💜

desc: a love story unfolded via a timeline of events and colors. based on the song ‘black and white’ by niall horan

pairing: george x fem!reader

word count: 5.5k

warning(s): lil bit of angst, alcohol, some sexual content if you squint but it stops before things ~heat up~

A/N: this is just pure fluff. may or may not have cried at the cheesiness. idk. i’m a cheesy gal. can’t help it. i’m in love with a fictional character. sorry i went a tad overboard with this. also let’s pretend ~voldy~ doesn’t exist in this k? reminder that my requests are currently closed, i am merely working through the requests already in my inbox. i do not give permission for my work to be posted on any other platform.

Red

Red, hot fury swept through your bones as you watched him laugh hysterically alongside his brother. You balled your fists together, ready to throw a punch, but you knew your mum would lock you in your room until you were forty years of age if you even thought of throwing hands.

George Weasley was a pretentious little git. It was bad enough that he was your neighbour and you had to see him and his equally annoying twin in the village nearly every day, but what made it even worse was that for whatever reason, he’d chosen you to be on the receiving end of all of his pranks. His mother, Molly, was not for it -- she often gave her sons a solid tongue lashing, but it clearly never made an impact, for each and every day they were back to their normal mischief, seeking out ways to make you shake with anger.

“Weasley!” you squeaked as he and his brother ran back across the field toward their home. You loathed the idea of being in the same school as him in just two years time. At least here, at home, you could escape to your own house and your own room, far away from the boy who teasingly threw a red paint balloon all over you and your new dress. But at school, well -- the castle was only so big, wasn’t it? You weren’t sure how far away from him you’d be able to get.

You watched as he and Fred ran away, their giggles echoing through the air on top of the hill. You looked down at your ruined dress and screamed. You reckoned you’d never be able to love the colour red ever again -- not when it had ruined your beautiful purple dress, and especially when it was the colour of his annoying, messy hair.

Yellow

“I’m really sorry.”

He was standing across from you in the field. You thought about telling him that you needed to take four showers in order to get all of the red paint from your hair, and that your dress was permanently stained, but instead you folded your arms across your chest and huffed a bit. Not even magic could salvage it.

“I promise, I mean it,” he squeaked, as if he could read your mind. He seemed sincere, but he was always getting into all types of trouble, wasn’t he? Perhaps he was as good a liar as he was a pranker.

You kicked at the dirt, unsure of what to say. “You ruined my dress.”

“I know, I’m really sorry,” he said again, “it was all Freddie’s doing! I know he normally takes charge of pranks, but blimey, I told him it wasn’t a good idea.”

You arched your eyebrows up in surprise. “You did?”

“Yeah,” George told you. The wind ruffled the leaves on the tree next to you both, and you watched him tentatively as a big smile split his face. He wandered over to the tree trunk and picked at the flowers that were growing at the base. Then he turned around, marched right over to you, and handed them to you.

Yellow dandelions. You peered down at them, and then looked up at him in surprise. This wouldn’t fix your dress, but he was trying, at least. You noticed the dimples that appeared on his cheeks when he smiled. “Pretty flowers for a pretty girl.”

You couldn’t help it; you blushed and looked toward the ground. You picked a bit at the flowers and met George’s gaze once again. “You still owe me, Weasley.”

You both heard Molly calling him for dinner. “Okay, mum!” he called back, his voice echoing against the wind. He turned back toward you. “Promise. I owe you. I also promise to kick Fred’s arse since it was his idea anyway.”

A squeak of a giggle emitted from your lips and you watched as George Weasley skipped all the way home.

Blue

All of Ravenclaw house erupted into cheers as the colours of the Great Hall changed to celebrate the momentous occasion of your house winning the Quidditch Cup. It had been a neck to neck match against Gryffindor, but had you not caught the snitch before Harry, they would have had it in the bag for the third year in a row.

“At the risk of sounding like I’m pro Ravenclaw, I’ve got to say, you guys put up a great match,” you whirled around in the crowd and saw George standing in front of you. He had his hands in his pockets and he shrugged, clearly upset at a Gryffindor loss, but at least they hadn’t lost to Slytherin, right? “You really are a wicked Seeker.”

“Thanks, Weasley,” you said triumphantly, both pleased with yourself for winning but also feeling a little bit guilty for beating Gryffindor.

“When did you get so good anyway?”

“Hmm,” you placed your hand to your chin and pretended to be deep in thought, “do you mean, how did I get to be so incredible? I don’t have an answer for you, truthfully, reckon I was just born with it.”

Students filtered around you both, and you watched him laugh as blue confetti fell around the both of you and the rest of the Great Hall. Personally you thought it was a little much, but the captain had insisted. You met George’s gaze again though, and rolled your eyes.

“Oi, mate,” you heard Fred call. He reached his twin and threw an arm around his shoulders, “what’re you doing over here, conversing with the enemy?” You rolled your eyes yet again, something you found yourself doing quite often with the two of them, and Fred just grinned obnoxiously at you. “Only joking, Y/N. I suppose if anyone had to beat us, we’re glad it’s Ravenclaw. But if you repeat that, we’ll deny it, I swear to Merlin.”

“My lips are sealed, Freddie.”

You bid them both adieu before turning back to your house, celebrating and clinking your goblets of pumpkin juice together, and through the yelps and the cheers, you missed George say to Fred that he actually quite liked the way the Great Hall looked, all decorated in blue.

Orange

“How about you get to work on the ground Unicorn horn, and I’ll try and get this water crystalized?” you offered.

Today’s lesson was to brew the Oculus Potion, in the event any of you ever needed to restore someone’s sight. In an attempt to separate them, Snape had paired George with you and Fred with another Ravenclaw who didn’t look happy at all at the prospect of having him as her partner. You peered over the cauldron at George and said, “No worries. We’ve only got thirteen steps. I reckon if we keep at this without any distractions, we’ll be finished before the rest of class.”

“Better get cracking, then,” George replied.

The two of you worked in comfortable silence; you tensed a few times when Snape meandered by your table, peering down into your cauldron and scoffing, for you were certain that an attempt at any type of potion would never live up to his unrealistic expectations of two sixteen-year-olds.

A little while later, you realized that the heat emitting from all of the cauldrons was making the entire classroom incredibly warm. “Blimey, could he open a bloody window, or something?” you asked, ignoring the fact that there were absolutely no windows in the dungeons. George laughed and continued to add the crystalized water into your cauldron as you pulled your sweater over your head, leaving you in your white button down and blue and grey tie. You pulled your hair back off of your neck and said, “Alright, be sure to only add the water until it turns indigo, George.”

The poor lad hadn’t been paying attention, because your potion was far past indigo at this point. In fact, it looked as though it had turned a deep, navy blue, bordering on black, as George peered at you with soft eyes and continued to pour in the crystalized water, not realizing that he was messing up your carefully brewed potion. A snapping noise pulled him from his thoughts, and a slight explosion erupted from your cauldron and caused black smoke to cover George’s face and hair.

Most of the class began to laugh, but Snape angrily shushed them and sauntered over to the two of you, clearly giddy beyond belief that he was able to deduct points from both of your houses for causing such a ruckus in his precious dungeons. George wiped a bit of the soot from his forehead as you poured in the antidote and giggled.

“Merlin, I’m sorry -- didn’t mean to get points taken from your house.”

“Eh, it was bound to happen sooner or later.. don’t worry about it. Look! Good as new,” you clapped your hands together as the potion turned to the desired shade of orange before the final two steps. You met George’s look through the orange haze over your cauldron and asked him, “What had you so distracted anyway, Weasley?”

“Oh, erm -- nothing,” he replied a bit quickly. It didn’t go unnoticed how he’d stumbled over his words and immediately went back to looking rather intently at the directions. You bit back a smile and looked back down at yours too, unable to rid yourself of the nerves bubbling up inside of you as George looked up once again, stealing glances at you through the orange mist as nerves overtook him, too.

Green

“You had no right to do that! What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

George was standing across from you on the empty dance floor; the Yule Ball had ended abruptly and each and every student had filtered from the Great Hall and back to their respective dormitories, per the teachers. The two of you had managed to stay somehow, now more than ten feet away; you looked at one another with envy as a dramatic scene unfurled between you both.

The entire night had been nothing but a dream, up until that one dance. You’d waltzed in, your light green dress swaying beautifully near your ankles, your hand wrapped around your date’s arm. You waved to your friends, who stood with their respective dates as well, and promised yourself you’d catch up with them at the end of the night when you’d undoubtedly have stories to tell them of the most magical evening of your life.

Except that wasn’t how it worked out, had it?

“He was all over you!” George called, and you noticed how prominent the veins in his hands were when he threw them up in the air. “You said no, didn’t you? He asked you to come back to his dorm and you’d said no. Did you expect me to stand there and do nothing when he grabbed your wrists and tried to pull you there?”

George was right. You had said no, and truthfully, the way your date had grabbed you and attempted to drag you back to his room had really frightened you. You reckoned it was the firewhisky he’d drunk earlier that evening -- he wasn’t violent or anything, but he seemed desperate to get you there. All George had done was step in and stand up for you, so why on earth should you be angry at him?

You didn’t want to give George the satisfaction of letting him know that he was right. You were mad at him for other reasons, anyway. It should’ve been you that he asked to the ball, not that other disturbingly annoying Beauxbatons girl. It’s like he’d picked her particularly because he knew her annoying, bubbly personality and thick French accent would get right under your skin.

You softened a bit as you took a deep breath. “I appreciate what you did, George, but it wasn’t your place. I can take care of myself. He nearly knocked you right out!”

George winced at your words and brought a hand to his black and blue eye. He hadn’t even had the time to grab some ice and place it to the injury, and it was now rather swollen. “I don’t care if he knocked me to the bloody ground, I wasn’t going to let him do that to you!”

You couldn’t help it; anger took you over and you were saying things you shouldn’t have before you could second guess yourself. “Well you know what, George? Perhaps he wouldn’t have had the chance to try anything with me if you’d just bloody asked me to the ball first instead of that stuffy Beauxbatons girl!”

You knew your words hurt him, but you didn’t care. He looked as though he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him; he stepped backward and faltered a bit. His breathing became heavy and irregular. “You already had your date when I asked her, Y/N -- don’t you dare try and pin this on me.”

He was right, yet again. You couldn’t help it. Big, fat tears were falling down your face now and you reckoned you wouldn’t be able to salvage the rest of the hideousness that was this evening. You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and noticed the smears of black mascara and eyeliner on your skin. He inched forward now and opened his arms, but you backed away, still not ready to show him any affection.

You were being a git, but the truth was, you’d waited until the very last possible second for George to ask you to the ball. So when he didn’t, you begrudgingly agreed to the Hufflepuff who’d stepped forward and asked you himself. And as you walked swiftly passed George and up the steps to your common room, you realized that though you’d said yes, your heart had been with the Weasley boy you so adored the entire evening.

In truth, what he’d done was brave and full of love and passion. But you were still filled with hurt.

The green monster of jealousy that you’d felt when you’d watched him dance with his date was such a vice, but you just couldn’t help how you felt.

You left George alone in the desolate Great Hall as he let his head fall into his hands, pushing down his fury and tears.

Grey

You hadn’t gone back to him, that boy from the Yule Ball. You thought about it, but you figured you’d spare George more anger.

He’d approached you, your date, the day afterwards, apologizing profusely for his behaviour and how embarrassed he was at the whole ordeal. He’d asked you for lunch, only if you were okay, and you politely declined. “Friends,” you’d said, and he smiled pitifully, but gratefully, and took your hand in his to shake it.

It was so stupid, wasn’t it? Fighting with George over this. So he hadn’t asked you to the Yule Ball, so what? It wasn’t the end all, be all, was it? And he’d stood up for you, hadn’t he? When things had gotten a little out of control. He hadn’t been your date, but he had been your saviour.

It had only been a week since the dance and you two hadn’t said a word to one another. Fred had begged you too. “Come on, Y/N, you know he’s real sorry. Can’t you just forgive him? Blimey, it’s a right difficult thing to do, splitting my time between you both.”

You merely pressed your lips together and huffed. “He can come apologize to me himself, Fred. He doesn’t need you to do it for him.”

But later that afternoon, you figured, why wait? This whole thing was so dramatic and stupid. And so after rereading the same page eight times due to your lack of concentration, you jumped up from your chair in the Ravenclaw common room and made way toward the Great Hall, as fast as your legs could carry you. You were just going to tell him exactly that -- that this entire thing was dumb, and that you were thankful for him, and that bloody hell, you missed him. Perhaps it was a bit dramatic -- it had only been six days, right? You couldn’t help it. You missed him. You missed him a lot.

The thought of finally speaking to him after a very dramatic week apart made your heart flutter, and a very wide smile split your face just as you were about to round the last bend before the Great Hall.

And then you saw it. Them. Tucked away in a corner near a deserted classroom -- tangled together, George’s hands on her waist, hers in his long red hair. Her lips nearly on his. Smiling, giggling. Kissing him.

That bloody annoying Beauxbatons girl.

You stopped short and nearly tripped over your own two feet. You opened your mouth to speak but just let your mouth tremble in silence as you watched them snog one another. Her laugh was so painfully sugary sweet, you felt as though you’d like to rip your own hair out.

You were surprised how quickly the sight of them had sent your heart plummeting into your stomach. Somewhere in the few moments when you stood there in shock, your vision had become blurry and your face had become wet. You wiped at it with your sweater sleeve and sniffled quietly so they wouldn’t hear you. You spun on your heel and sped back toward your common room, wondering what the bloody hell had come over you when you thought of apologizing to him. You just wanted to get back to your dorm. Or perhaps back to your house in Ottery St. Catchpole. Stupid, silly girl you were.

If only you knew that George had spotted you before you’d left and froze solid in the spot he was standing, ignoring the forwardness of the Beauxbatons girl attached to his arm, his heart and mind chasing you all the way home.

Purple

The Ravenclaw common room was completely empty except for you. You always did this, though -- each and every year, you were always the last to finish packing. Not because you were a procrastinator, but because you hated admitting to yourself that another year was over, and you were another year closer to impending graduation.

Someone popped through the door and said your name softly. You turned and saw George standing there with a small smile on his face. “Hey,” he said, “train’s here. You almost ready to go?”

You groaned and looked back down at your trunk, now fully packed. “If I’ve got to be.” You felt like an absolute idiot that those few words brought tears to your eyes so easily. “Oi, here I go again.”

George laughed lightly and pulled you into a hug. “We’ll be back in no time, you’ll see again how quickly the summer holidays go.”

“But George, it’s our last year!” you cried. And then you took a deep breath to calm yourself down, because you didn’t fancy the idea of boarding the train with smudged makeup and a red nose. “Anyway, shall we?”

When you grabbed your trunk and headed toward the door, George gently took your hand in his and turned you around. “I’ve got something for you actually.”

You wiggled your eyebrows at him and clapped your hands together. “A present? It’s not even my birthday.”

But then you wondered if it was actually a present he wanted to give you, because he took your other hand in his and squeezed them, a serious look on his face. Your features twisted into that of confusion, and you’d be lying if you said that your heartbeat didn’t increase at the sight of him looking at you so earnestly. “What is it?”

“I’ve been a real git this year. Specifically, the Yule Ball. And a little while after that.”

You laughed and playfully shoved him. Though you still felt the sting of those few weeks, you two had managed to patch things up. He hadn’t lasted that long with that Beauxbatons girl anyway. “George, we’ve been over this, c’mon -- you were only doing what you thought was right. I’ve forgiven you, you know.”

“I know,” he smiled, and you could tell that he was equally as glad as you were that you two had placed that argument behind you. But what you two hadn’t touched on since then was what you’d said to him in a fit of fury: Perhaps he wouldn’t have had the chance to try anything with me if you’d just bloody asked me to the ball first instead of that stuffy Beauxbatons girl!

Of course he’d wanted to ask you. He’d wanted to ask you more than anything in the entire world, but each and every time he’d opened his mouth to say something, he couldn’t. Bloody nerves, and all that. Then he went and acted like a prat, making you cry, and he vowed to himself that he’d never make you cry again, unless it were happy tears.

“I realized I’ve never properly made it up to you -- not asking you to the the Yule Ball in the first place, and that time when we were nine.”

You raised your eyebrows suspiciously. “When we were nine? What the bloody hell happened when we were nine?”

And then he pulled from his pocket the most beautiful lavender pendant you ever did see. The circular stone was outlined in the same silver as the chain, and the sun flooding in from the windows made it sparkle more than anything you’d ever seen in your life. Your breath caught in your throat and you looked back and forth from the necklace to George, and back again.

“I ruined your purple dress, remember?” he asked you. He laughed a bit, probably thinking about the ridiculous way you’d looked with red paint splattered all over you. You couldn’t believe he remembered that. “Now, it’s not a dress, but seeing as we’ve grown up a bit since then, I reckoned you’d prefer something a little nicer.” He swallowed over a lump in his throat before continuing. “I never fancied her, you know. That girl from Beauxbatons. I just...” he trailed off, searching for words he couldn’t seem to muster up. You wondered if he could hear the dramatic thump of your heart, beating loudly in the heavy silence. “It doesn’t matter. It was you I wanted to be with that night, and long after. I still do.”

Then he brushed aside your hair and placed the pendant around your neck. You peered at him through blurry vision, and surprised yourself that you were now crying due to the tenderness of his touch and the emotion in his gift and not that you two were about the board the train and leave school, no longer the same two people you were just a few moments ago.

You did the only thing you could think of and you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. You felt his shock, but it took him only mere milliseconds before he was kissing you back. In truth, you’d been wondering what it would feel like to kiss him -- the taste of him, the feel of your limbs entangled together, exactly how high your heart would soar. It was exactly the way first kisses were meant to be -- slow, and easy, and warm, the way it’s supposed to feel after having swam all day long -- your body limp and muscles de-tensing. You moulded perfectly with him, and when gravity (or rather, the first signal of the train’s departure) pulled you from one another, he peered at you with such affection that you felt as though you might explode.

You grabbed the pendant and held in gently in between your fingers, already having memorized the outline of the silver and the different shades of purple within it. “I am so bloody happy you threw red paint at me that day, Weasley.”

He laughed haughtily, throwing his head back before swinging an arm around your waist and pulling your trunk toward the exit of the Ravenclaw common room. “Merlin, me too.”

White

You were sitting at your kitchen table, ignoring the massive amount of work in front of you to admire your other hard work. Your cozy little flat looked just as you always imagined it would, with the added bonus of your boyfriend in the corner of the front entrance, fixing a loose coat hanger on the wall.

Never in your life did you imagine that things could be as perfect as this.

You couldn’t help but wonder if it would be a flat you two would share one day.

You got up and brought with you his half empty glass of wine and handed it to him. Gratefully he took it and sipped before pressing a feather light kiss to your forehead. But then you gently traced his jawline with your finger, down his neck, across his collar bone until he followed your move and leaned in to kiss you. It was soft and chaste and everything like your first one had been. But as the alcohol worked its way through your veins, you found yourself pressing yourself harder against him.

A moan of content escaped him as you bit down on his lip and slipped your hands underneath his shirt, hands pressed against his chest. Unashamedly, you pulled him toward your bedroom, and he placed his empty wine glass next to yours on the table as he kicked the door closed.

The two of you fell backwards onto the bed in an entanglement of limbs. He hovered above you, dropping down a bit to press light kisses to your neck, in between your collarbones, behind your ears, against your jawline. You so desperately wanted to feel his weight on top of you, and so you yanked him firmly against you and kissed him in a way that there was no aching way that he wouldn’t be able to tell exactly what you wanted.

He began to undo the buttons on your shirt, taking time to press kisses into your chest at the exposed places before he stopped himself and gently ran his hands across your hips, and then your cheek. His voice was merely a whisper in the deafening silence, “Are you sure?”

He gazed at you with such tenderness and love that you knew he’d stop, if you’d asked him to. He wouldn’t go another inch further if you weren’t ready. And for you, that was more than enough.

“I’m sure.”

He sucked in a breath and dipped down to press lips to yours gently before continuing to make light work of your clothes. He explored every inch of you, and the sensation of his lips gently grazing your skin caused you to arch your back in pleasure. You could feel him smiling against you, wildly in love, handling you with such care as if you were a tiny glass figure he was afraid of breaking. He held you so delicately and worked his way through each and every single one of your wants with slow and gentle hands.

You’d known it was love with him; maybe not consciously, but you’d known it long before now. Love, filled with intensity and desire and longing, in its most vulnerable and fragile form -- pure, and blinding white.

Pink

The summer air wafted in through the open window in the kitchen, and you listened to Mrs. Weasley hum some Muggle song as she set the table for dessert. You placed the finishing touches on the lemon meringue pie you baked, special because it was George’s favourite and Mrs. Weasley had insisted.

You had to admit, he’d always had the outside exterior of a tough guy, but owning a business did absolute wonders for his confidence. You noticed the way he stood up a little straighter, smiled a little bigger, and most of all, just how much he gushed about all the plans you two would be able to act on, now that you were both making income of your own.

“Merlin’s beard, Y/N, you’ve absolutely knocked it out of the park with this pie, if I do say so myself.” Arthur’s praise was nothing short of wonderful; you felt the tips of your ears turn pink at his compliments. By the way Ron slouched back in his chair, looking rather chuffed indeed, you could tell he felt the same exact way. Especially when he reached for the last piece, but Hermione slapped his hand away.

“Oh my!” Molly yelped suddenly. You jumped in surprise in your seat. “Oh, Georgie dear, would you mind wandering into the field before dark? I’d love some wildflowers for the table,”

“Sure thing, mum.” George replied before turning to you and squeezing your hand. “Want to tag along?”

You said, “Of course” at the exact same time Ron said “I’ll come along too, I could use a good walk” and if you hadn’t been so focused on George’s tender gaze, you almost would’ve missed Fred silently hissing at Ron and Hermione slapping his hand yet again. “On second thought,” Ron swallowed thickly, “I’d better stay here and help you clean up, mum.”

“Atta boy, Ronniekins,” Molly said. To you and George, she continued, “You two better get going -- not long now before it turns dark!”

George stood and pulled you to your feet. “You coming, love?”

“I go where you go.”

About twenty minutes later, as the setting sun had blended with the light purples and pinks of the sky, you’d found yourself with a rather beautiful bouquet of wildflowers for Molly. You turned to George, who was leaning against the tree and smiling at you, and asked, “Shall we get going darling? Don’t want to be too late. I reckon your mum will come out here searching for us if we spend an evening among the stars.”

“Doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea, actually.” His grin deepened, and then he said, “you’re lucky I don’t have any pranks up my sleeve right now.”

You look up at the tree and recognized the place where he’d infuriated you all those long years ago. You rolled your eyes and shook your head before twirling in your dress. “I am lucky. I was able to get a new dress after the one you so lovingly ruined. Though I will admit -- I wasn’t all that big of a fan of those puffy sleeves. This one’s much more adult.”

George arched his eyebrow in surprise before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. “Oh yes it is.”

You slapped him playfully and pointed your finger at him. “Alright you prat, calm yourself, you’ll have to wait until we get back to our flat for any funny business.”

But then you realized, as George’s features turned from mischievous to genuine within the matter of seconds, that there was definitely more pressing matters than funny business on his mind.

And then he was telling you how he’d only teased you back then because he’d found you so bloody cute, and how he should’ve asked you to the Yule Ball and regretted every single day that he didn’t, and how he’d never met anyone who could play Quidditch quite as well as you, and how bloody happy he’d been when you’d kissed him that day in the Ravenclaw common room. And then knelt down and he asked it, the words you’d imagined since you were a little girl, strung together with such fondness and emotion and tenderness that you weren’t quite sure how you were standing upright.

You’d already begun to nod quickly through your tears before he finished, but would he really be George Weasley if he didn’t tease you, just a little? “Say yes,” he laughed, “say yes and marry me and be my wife for as long as you’ll have me.”

He slid the ring onto your finger and kissed you and picked you up and whirled you around in the field and held you gently in his arms as though you were a precious glass figurine and he was doing everything in his power to hold you delicately.

“Yes. I say yes.”

Black & White

You asked, When did you first know?

And he answered, I always knew.

You both ran back up the aisle, your white dress fluttering around your ankles, his black suit hugging the curves of his arms, and into the field and away from the party, momentarily, to celebrate your first moments as husband and wife in the place where he’d figured it all out.

He’d known since that afternoon when he’d handed you those yellow dandelions that he would bring you back here one day, to ask you to be his wife. He’d known, in the Ravenclaw common room when he gave you that purple pendant, still dangling from your neck, that one day he’d also give you a ring. He’d known, all those long years ago, that he wanted to marry you, and that you would say yes, when he’d finally ask.

And now, in front of your friends and family, he’d vowed to love you -- love in it’s purest and simplest form, love -- with all it’s sentiment and emotion and vulnerability. He vowed to love you and only you for the rest of his life.

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[lydias--stiles]

“The simple act of being in love with you is enough for me.”

jiara | post-s2 | pining idiots | title: quote by Pacey from Dawson's Creek

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“Kie.”

“Hm?” The girl’s mop of curls obscured her face as she mumbled out some vowels, clearly still buzzed from the night before. An amused smile ticked up his lips and slapped her calf again. She sighed. “What?”

“Leggo,” he pushed, “we gotta get to Pope’s place.”

“Why?”

Even if everyone else would deny it, JJ swore Kie was as bad as he was: slow and fucking lethargic before eleven in the morning. Sure, she had better grades in school, but he wasn’t gonna give her more credit than that. Speaking of, “Helping him with that new scholarship, remember?”

The girl groaned and rolled over to face him, droopy eyes cracking open to scowl at him. She slept where he used to crash whenever his dad’s place became too much, but since the old man fucked off to Yucatán, he found peace in the quiet walls and cracked windows. Regardless, it was weird seeing her sprawled on this mattress, the boy almost able to envision himself beside her. A dangerous fantasy to linger on, so he pushed it aside and kept on trucking.

“C’mon, Kie.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered and sat upright. “How did you even get in the Château?”

JJ grinned and snagged a key chain from his shorts. “Spare key. Duh.”

She rolled her eyes, uttering, “John B’s stupid,” and then pushed him out the guest room, telling him she’d get ready. His mouth opened to make the joke if he couldn’t stay and watch, but the door slammed in his face and that was that.

Having a crush on Kiara was the freakiest thing ever. First of all, JJ and emotions didn’t mesh well — it only led to trouble, a perfect example being his dad and him with the most fucked up dynamic to boot. He preferred to not even think about the man, though one glance in the mirror often betrayed his mind and brought a rush of memories to the forefront, whether it was a shiner against his eye, or the fact that he resembled his father when he was young.

So yeah, he didn’t like anything ‘love’ related. It was stupid. It was more reckless than buying a jacuzzi or trying to steal a golden cross from a boat with dozens of armed men. Friendship, however, was easy. He told the Pogues just that: they were ‘it’ for him, he’d go through fire for them, through hell and fucking back.

But he didn’t think he’d actually die for them, which almost happened when he tried saving Kie on the Coastal Venture — to which she ended up saving him. (A vision illuminated by a golden sun, hovering over him. He’d never forget it.)

While he inspected the contents of the fridge, embarrassingly filled with only beer, eggs, milk and junk food, the door creaked open and revealed a dressed and less-wrecked Kiara. His gaze flicked up and down her frame, quick, and then averted it back to the fridge.

“You got no food, man.”

She chuckled. “I know. It’s not exactly The Wreck type of food…”

“You haven’t gone back?”

“Nope,” she replied, curt, and moved past him to shove a container of sausages aside to grab a bottle of almond milk. Even if she wasn’t with her parents, she still somehow kept up her ‘no dairy’ principles.

Also, Kiara was hella beautiful. He hadn’t let it register when she walked in, but it was true. Her soft-looking, shiny skin, sporting the prettiest smile in all of the OBX, and she was just hot. Especially when she propped herself on the kitchen counter, to which he settled beside her to not look at her legs.

“How many scholarships are there?” she asked. “Like, I’m obviously proud of him, but…”

“He told us last night,” JJ laughed. “You were that fucking high?”

She giggled, “Yeah! You were there, I was just on my ass.” And then, quieter, “And… I don’t know, I guess I’ve been kind of distracted.”

He perked up, surprised. Though the Pogues were family, openly talking about emotions when it wasn’t prompted by anything, remained rare. They were better at talking shit and smoking and napping on boats. Whatever, he took the bait.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “It’s stupid, JJ.”

“Kie, you’re talking to me,” he nudged her shoulder, “throw me a bone here. Is it Pope? You got the hots for our favourite nerd again?”

Taking a sip from the bottle, her brow quirked up as though that was the stupidest thing he ever said, and retorted with, “Why’re you always doing that?”

His hands raised instantly, defensive. “Doing what?”

“You’re always digging, like, when I was with Pope you got all weird.”

“I don’t dig.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. Kie, what’s up?” He kept it moving before she found the core of his problem, and bounced back to the original issue. “Before I start saying shit to Pope.”

She scoffed. “You're full of shit.”

“Oh, Kie,” he drawled with a smirk. “You can do better than that.”

Silence fell. He waited, fiddling with his fingers, and quietly hoped Pope wouldn't be too annoyed when they arrived late — then again, they were begrudgingly coined 'tortoise and tortoise' by the group anyway.

She placed the bottle back in the fridge and sent him a rueful smile, one he often saw her showing Sarah before they went aside and had a private talk. Their eyes locked and she finally spoke.

“Sometimes, I… I miss my parents. And it's like, I don't get how they don't just accept that I'm a Pogue, that I'm friends with you guys, you know? But I still miss them.” She looked down at her feet, crossing at the ankles like a little girl waiting to be reprimanded by the teacher. “I miss my dad's hugs.”

Instantly, his arm swung around her for a gentle side hug, a grateful smile pulling on her lips as she leaned into him. Both knew they should savour a moment like this, as hugging with a twitchy JJ and often irritated Kie happened once every blue moon.

Ignoring the guilty look in her eye — yeah, he didn't understand missing a paternal embrace, rather used to a blow in the stomach or a crude remark, but that didn't mean he lacked empathy — he resisted the urge to encourage her to reconnect with them. Knowing her, she'd just close up and glare at him for the rest of the day.

So no, he wasn't going to ask her. And no, she shouldn't feel guilty. P4L 'til the end, baby.

“Thanks, JJ,” she whispered.

He snickered and pushed her off. “You can't tell the guys I'm becoming soft, dude. Theyʼll give me so much shit for it.”

“They know you're soft,” she teased, “don't even try.”

“I'm tough,” he tried.

“Like Play-Doh.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled and motioned at the kitchen door. “Let's go, Carrera. Before John B and Sarah come back and act all married.”

Now that was fucking annoying. After John B and Sarah faked their death, they got married by a bandana strip and hadn't let that notion go after returning. Sure, there was that small blip when they were fighting the crazy religious chick, but that was old news.

John B made him swear he wouldn't tell a soul, but the guy waxed poetry about Sarah whenever they were drunk and alone. It was hilariously sad. Another man lost to a girl.

(“She wants a beach wedding,” JB sighed a couple nights ago. “Nice, right?”

“I– yeah, I really don't care about this, man.”)

JJ knew that when he got a girlfriend (Kiara unintentionally but also very intentionally crossed his mind), he'd act normal. No mushy shit. No poetry. Definitely no creepy Romeo and Juliet references thrown in as if that shouldn't freak the Pogues out. Their behaviour better not be infectious.

Expectedly, Pope's scowl reached them all the way from the car, Kie and JJ sharing a sheepish look before stepping out.

“Gee, guys,” the boy deadpanned, “thanks for making haste. Really appreciate it.”

JJ's wide grin hoped to salvage it. Slapping his friend on the shoulder, he pushed past him and yelled, “Kie was dead, dude!”

Pope grimaced. “Don't joke about that.”

He watched as Kie stopped beside Pope with an apologetic expression, telling him she overslept and was sorry and that he knew how JJ was — “Always joking.”

His chapped lips pursed, a familiar punch hitting his chest with him then pretending it didn't hurt. She always did this. Even if she claimed she didn't, she always took Pope's side. Relationship or not. JJ knew she didn't owe him her 'side', but it'd be a nice change of pace either way.

Whatever. This wasn't the JJ Pining For Kiara Show. Pope needed their help.

A state-wide scholarship competition gave Pope another shot at winning a huge chunk of money (no gold type of rich though) and getting his ass out of OBX, hopefully launching himself into some fancy college when he revealed to be of Denmark Tanny's lineage. Those hibrow assholes loved a good sob story.

All Pope had to do was score hella high on some test — easy — and impress the panel — not so easy — and he'd be the luckiest Pogue of all.

But that did mean Kie and him had to sit on his creaky bed with a freaky amount of flashcards while a stressed out Pope paced around his room. He was pretty sure the floor was eroding.

Also, he had no fucking clue what any of the flashcards meant. Did Pope's smarts really attracted Kie that much? Was it the brain? Brain over brawl? But where was the fun in that? JJ loved Pope to death, but the guy had to be fully medicated or high before his brain shut off and he acted carefree.

“Pope, do you even know what this all means?” Kie bemoaned, flipping the cards around.

“You got a dictionary somewhere?” added JJ, squinting at the word aberration. It sounded like some weird disease. He showed him the word.

Pope dismissed it. “It means: different from the norm.”

“Dude, why not write that then?”

“Because they want aberration.”

He didn't get it. “No one uses it though.”

“JJ, that's just the way it is,” Pope pressed.

“Guys, stop,” Kiara interrupted. “But honestly Pope, it's so, like, elitist. None of these questions are important to the world, or the well-being of the people.”

“Sorry, Kiara, but unfortunately not everyone cares that much,” he sighed. JJ could tell they were starting to annoy their friend, their tortoise bullshit bleeding through.

Her nose scrunched up, peeved. “Right. Because there's a planet B just waiting to be used by us. Duh.”

“Ooh,” JJ drawled, nudging her arm. “Are there donkeys shitting money?”

Kie laughed. “Yes. All beaches, clean air, no Kooks, and money-shitting donkeys.”

“Nah, I want it to be hella Kooky,” he joked, gesturing wildly. “I want a yacht and tell people someone else does my laundry, or something.”

“You don't even do your laundry anyway,” she bounced back with a roll of the eye. “I know you force John B.”

“He's already playing House with Sarah, might as well wash my underwear, too.”

Oh, man. He could do this all day. Talking shit with Kiara went as smooth as fishing for him. Each time he thought he one-upped her, she threw more on top and kept it going 'til neither knew what the point even was anymore. Sarah dubbed it as 'banter' which he believed was a rich way of saying 'talking smack.'

“I don't believe you even know how to do it,” she challenged.

JJ huffed and crossed his arms. “I can do it.”

A smirk bloomed on her lips as she kept jabbing. “It's kinda cute, how you need John B to be your mom.”

“I don't.”

“You literally said it five seconds ago.”

“Guys,” Pope groaned, followed by an exhausted sigh eerily similar to Heyward. “Can we get back to the flashcards?”

Kie and JJ were too far into their discussion though, jabbing at each other at rapid speed. Then she threw her cards at him and all bets were off. He yelled she should make a goal with her hands, to which he folded up a flashcard and shot it straight between her fingers.

And that was when Pope kicked them out. JJ presumed it was a victory they lasted as long as they did. Kie kept apologising over her shoulder, prompting Pope to ask Cleo for help instead.

For a beat, they were silent stepping out of his place and back into the car. JJ felt a stab of guilt for fucking up Pope's study time, but it was hard to dial his brain to school when his friends surrounded him. Just when he wanted to ask if she felt bad too, she went off about the climate — as usual.

“It's so dumb how there were no questions about the environment or human rights or, or anything like that! It's all science and lit, like, there's more to life than fucking chemistry formulas!”

“I skipped those cards. Didn't get them.”

“It's so fucked,” she hummed. “And I'm obviously glad that you drove to the Château to wake me up and all—”

“Yeah?”

“—but I really wish those questions would matter. We almost died, JJ!”

“No, shit,” he grumbled, quickly starting to lose his patience with the ranting girl. She didn't even realise what the fuck she was saying anymore — what she did to his heart, skipping like some elemtary school girl on the playground, when she slipped some nice words in.

“Died!” she pressed. “Why even care about stuff like that?”

“Fucks sake, Kie—”

“And I didn't want to say it, but did you see how many flashcards there were? How many trees were cut for that? It's like, hello, Quizlet exists!”

“Kie, shut up!” he yelled.

Her mouth fell slack, gobsmacked, gawking at him like his interruption was a slap in the face.

Gesturing wildly with one hand, he exclaimed, “You know, you can just go on and on and I hear you talking and it's like, yeah, we get it, Mother Earth needs to be saved, we're fucked, you don't gotta repeat it twenty-four seven.”

“What the hell, JJ!”

“You have an opinion about everything! A man gets tired!”

“A man?” She scoffed. “You're not even eighteen.”

“Point is you don't gotta act all preachy all the time.” He turned the corner, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

Kie scowled. “Where is this coming from? I'm not preachy, I'm educating you.”

Now that was just fucking with his head. Incredulous, he exclaimed, “You think I don't listen? Kie, I'm the only one that does. JB is on Planet Sarah all the damn time and Pope only did shit 'cause—"

"That!” she yelled, throwing her hands up with frustration. “That's what I mean! You're doing it again! You dig!”

“What?!”

“Every time you mention Pope and I, you dig. You needle!” Twisting in her seat, his gaze flickered to catch her disgruntled expression. “Why do you do that? It's so… sus.”

JJ laughed. “Sus?”

“You don't ask John B about Sarah.”

“'Cause they're fucking obvious.”

“Still,” she pressed. “Did I do something to piss you off? Is that it? Is it me constantly asking you to recycle and yet — shocker! — you never do?!”

“Fucking God,” he grumbled under his breath.

With frazzled thoughts and shaking hands, adrenaline coursed through him as he swerved to the side of the road and stopped the car. If he fought with Kie any longer to this degree of fuckery, they were gonna crash.

She frowned. “What're you doing?”

“You, Carrera, are driving me insane,” he deadpanned, matter-of-fact. Then he slammed the door open and stepped out, desperate to catch his breath.

In the back of his mind, he had an inkling as to why he was so keyed up. Kiara would call him a Neandethal, but fuck it, here was the truth: Kiara was hot as hell when she argued with him.

Following his lead, she got out, her sneakers stomping against the asphalt. The sun steeped low on the horizon, the light hitting the hood and reflecting onto her face; her curls shifting from dark brown to gold. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was so fucked. He almost missed the start of her spiel, too enthralled.

“I'm driving you insane? I'm always getting you out of trouble, because you never think things through! You never see the bigger picture!”

He rolled his eyes. “Bigger picture? The only thing I see, Kie, is you going on about nature. That easy.” And then, before he could stop himself, he spewed out, “And you don't have to do that.”

“What?”

“Getting me out of trouble,” he said, pursing his lips. “That's not your responsibility.”

“Right. Duh. Because after everything we've been through, I can't care about you,” she exclaimed, face twisting up in pure fury. She got in his space, shoving his shoulder, but when he didn't budge, it only seemed to anger her more.

JJ didn't know what was going on anymore. Why was she so mad? Even if she didn't want to admit it, he was telling the truth. Of course all the Pogues had each other's back, but Kiara doted over him more than was necessary. The constant checking of injuries, limiting his day drinking, all that. Like he was some child!

He leaned in and mumbled, “I can take care of myself.”

Kie smirked. “Then do your own laundry.”

It happened naturally. One second he stared at her furious eyes and thought about how much he loved arguing with her despite the bullshit, the next his fingers curled into her hair and pulled her in a fierce kiss.

At first, her hands laid frozen on his shoulders, surprised, but the moment he realised his impulsive decision was a mistake, they slid around his neck and kept him close.

JJ sighed in relief and deepened the kiss he'd been craving ever since they were fourteen and Kie went from gangly to statuesque. Her lips were warm and soft and her hands were soft and she hadn't let go and holy shit — he was kissing Kiara Carrera.

The kiss lessened when her mouth quirked into a smile, their grins pressing flush together, and JJ shivered from delight. Oh, man. He was gone.

“You drive me damn crazy, Kie,” he murmured, voice dropped to an undeniably soft tone.

She bit back her silly grin and whispered, “Good.”

Taking a deep breath, he tried focusing up, but all he could do was stare at her face. A shy hand grabbed hers.

He had to get it out of the way now, or else he'd kick himself later. “I'm… really into you. I'm– oh, fuck, uh–”

“Maybe we can talk about it not on the side of the road?” she suggested, amused.

JJ grinned, elated (What was the word he saw on the flashcards? Exalted!), and kissed her again, because he could.

On the ride back to the Château, he confessed to seeing her in a different light for years, while she couldn't really pinpoint a time or moment, that it just happened. It didn't matter, though he was in utter disbelief that he and Kie were having this conversation. No jokes, no BS, all seriousness. Tomorrow, he'd wake up and it wouldn't be some sick dream. Kie liked him back.

JJ was sure he'd doubt himself or overthink it in the future, but today, he'd bask in the certainty and the major ego boost.

“Okay, but did you ever legit like Pope then?”

A sheepish smile crawled up her cheeks as her gaze averted to the window. “I thought I did. But we have, like, no chemistry, so…” She shook her head. “I was confused.”

“That's okay,” he uttered. He couldn't give her shit for it. Even if he did torture himself with their short-lived relationship, he understood.

How would he react though? John B and Sarah wouldn't care, or Cleo, but Pope? He didn't want one of his brothers hating him. Being iced out by the guy fucking sucked, as it meant he was truly hurt and therefore meant JJ truly fucked up. He couldn't handle disappointing him.

Kie read his mind. “He'll be fine with it.”

“I dunno, man…”

“He will,” she repeated. “We're Pogues. We've all narrowly survived death. And besides…” She turned back to him with a secretive grin. “I think he has a thing for Cleo.”

Whoa. He did not see that coming. His brows shot up to his hairline, mentally kicking himself for being so focused on Kie that he didn't even notice the shift of interest between Pope and Cleo. They made sense, too. Know-it-all's, but well-meaning, and only speaking when needed.

If the idea didn't relief him of worries, he'd be concerned as to why they were all seamlessly coupled up like in some 90s sitcom Big John had on VHS.

“What a player,” he joked.

“Tell me about it.”

They arrived at the house, the Twinkie and Sarah's bike sprawled on the overgrown front lawn. JJ frowned. He had hoped to have some alone time with Kie, not to jump her bones and fulfill a regular dream of his, but to talk. To figure it out. He wanted to do this right. Because after everything, they deserved to have good things, to start on a high note — he deserved it.

Kie noticed it, too. Puckering her lips on contemplation, her gaze trailed from him to the rest of the property, ending on the trusty ol' hammock. She jabbed her thumb at it.

“Let's sit there.”

Normally, they laid on opposite ends on the hammock, if they even shared one to begin with. But now, she pressed herself right beside him and he felt like heaven dropped down on them in the best way possible. He suddenly understood what John B was lamenting about — the company, intimacy, the ease. Nerves rippled through his body like a summer storm, but he figured that was what it cost to lose one's mind over a girl.

He didn't know what to say, so Kiara spoke instead.

“I don't want us, the way we are around each other, to change, you know?” she said. “Like, I don't want you to think you have to act like some mellow ass boyfriend all of a sudden.”

He smirked. “Who said anything about boyfriend?”

“Bye.”

“Hey, wait,” he grinned, latching onto her arm before she pushed herself out. “C'mon, Kie.”

Her nose scrunched up. “I don't do this usually, okay?”

“You think I do?” he asked. His hand softly slid down to wrap around hers, to which she hooked their fingers together. Okay. Wow. It felt so damn nice that it propelled him to say, “I wanna be your boyfriend, Kie.”

The girl smiled and then surprised him by leaning in herself, pressing a gentle kiss on his chapped lips. It was overwhelming having her instigate it, his gut twisting up in excitement like when he was about to backflip from a boat, or cliff dive, or something similar like that.

He let go of her hand to cup her cheeks, only to whisper, “That's a yes, yeah? Gotta get a yes.”

“Yes, JJ,” she uttered back. “Here's to not fucking this up.”

“Cheers, baby.”

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

#jiara #outer banks #obx #obx fanfiction #otp: cause i'll come #It's messy but in a cute way

[shades-of-stony]

Post CA:CW Fix It Stony Fanfics

Making Amends by TheseStoriesAreWrittenOnMyHeart

Summary: Everything about them happened in seconds. Their first meeting was quick, with Tony landing next to the Captain, each man giving a curt nod and name in greeting. Their argument on the hellicarrier took mere seconds to escalate. Until Steve was goading Tony into putting on the suit and going a few rounds and Tony not so subtly reminding Steve that he wasn’t afraid to hit an old man. It was only seconds of staring at Tony on that New York City Street, his arc reactor dark, no rise and fall of his chest, for Steve to know that inside the tin can, was a good man. Then Ultron happened, and it took seconds for their world to change, seconds for Steve to throw his shield at Tony and for the billionaire to send a repulsor blast back. They went from laughing and relaxing to standing on an edge thousands of feet above solid ground. And now…now everything’s changed. And all it took was a combination of seconds; of decisions made, actions performed and words spoken that they couldn’t get back. Just a few ticks of the clock for their world to shatter.

It’ll take more than that to make things right.

Note: This one deals with amending the accords. It is about how the avengers pick up after the civil war and how they learn to be friends again. It is an incredibly detailed and well written piece! Also, NO TEAM CAP OR TEAM IRON MAN BASHING. I was only supposed to re-read a few chapters to recall the story and give a few-word review but I ended up re-reading the whole goddamn thing. It’s a masterpiece. 

maybe love is the reason why (we're seeing it eye to eye) by parkrstark

Summary: "I'm sorry. Repeat that again." Tony leaned forward in his seat from across the table. He even stuck a finger in his ear as if he was cleaning it out. "I don't think I heard you right."

Fury rolled his eyes-- or well, eye. "You and Rogers need to go undercover as a married couple in a community out on Long Island."

--

After Civil War, Tony and Steve are sent on an undercover mission as a couple to try and find Hydra informants. Somehow, they end up with Peter as their undercover son who decides to play matchmaker even if the two of them are doing their best to ignore their feelings after Siberia.

Note: My latest Fix It read! It just completed today. This fic is a phenomenal read, with its fake relationship, superfamily, undercover, and sexual tension elements! A definite 1000/10!

and this is the map of my heart by CydSA

Summary: The Avengers are splintered - spread out across the world.

There are many things to regret. The biggest one is what could have been.

Tony refuses to have any more regrets. Steve realizes that perhaps he made the wrong choice.

It starts from here....

Note: Here is some sweet, sweet, Civil War Fix It. It dwells deep into the Accords, how Tony fixes it, and the downfall of Ross. 

floating point exception by ooka

There is something, he knows, to see a man as mortal. To see his fault lines and jagged edges instead of the smooth surface they present. Most people don’t like the illusion, whether it be good or not. They don’t want people like him to be human.

But that’s what he is, under the suit and the smile and the sunglasses. Under the bravo and the quick grins. He’s just a man, trying to hide his broken pieces, the dents in his heart, the washed out color of his soul. He’s just a man, trying to solve problems and make the world better. That’s why he’s Ironman, just a man in a suit. Nothing extra.

The place where the arc reactor used to rest in his chest aches so fiercely for a moment that Tony can’t breathe.

He takes in a few breaths and does what Tony does best - pushes it down and goes to work.

(Tony, after the Civil War. Post CA:CW)

Note: A 150k+ fanfic that is centered on Tony, his issues, and his struggles. PREPARE TO CRY.

Not Enough Scotch for this Matchmaking Scheme by desolateice:

Summary:  After Civil War and a lot of healing the Avengers are fed up with the stubborn silence between Steve and Tony and try to take things in their own hands.

Note: A Fix It where the ‘kids’ play matchmaker to bring their fighting ‘parents’ back together! 

Never Eye To Eye by vorkosigan for mrsgingles

Summary: After the Civli War, the Avengers were back together.

How is everything going, Tony? Pepper had asked in her email. It's fine (Tony had written back). I'm fighting with Steve all the time. Everything is going to hell. I'm okay (you know I'm always okay).

(Or: How Tony and Steve learned to be a bit gentler with each other)

Note: A 26k+ fic where Steve and Tony learned how to be friends again, and more. It deals with the struggles and frustrations they had just to salvage their friendship.  

Fly One More Time (Alternately Titled--The Phoenix) by RavenLost2187

Summary: Steve couldn't see them before.

But then he woke up and there they were.

There's a small problem though.

One of his teammates doesn't have wings like he should.

And that's Tony Stark

Note: Some winged fics anyone? This has a bit of a Team as Family element and not to mention that glorious Civil War fix it theme! 

What it’s worth by masterlokisev159

Summary:  Tony's scent is off. Wanda realizes why.

Note: Here is a Hurt and Comfort fic for you with a dash ABO elements in it! 

Sunrise Over the End of the World by Sapphic_Futurist

Summary: When Dr. Strange arrives at an Accords Committee Meeting and warns of the coming of an alien megalomaniac set on destroying the world, the Rogues are pardoned and Tony finds himself exactly where he never wanted to be. Back at the Compound with Steve, who still can't take a hint and won't leave him alone.

--

In which Tony is broken and Steve finds redemption.

Note: A Bad case of Tony acting like nothing happened and doing his goddamn best to avoid Steve. It’ll work all out in the end. Well, it will get worst first before that though.. 

We stand together (or not at all) by Jana_C

Summary:  It’s so easy to hate this man, so painfully easy. He’s the embodiment of rich, white male privilege. He’s irritatingly arrogant, and he doesn’t always think before acting, and even when he does, he manages to twist his logic around and shape it into something that will always benefit him, and yet, here he is, building the guy who killed his parents an arm, without having been asked; working his way through diplomacy and politics, even though he hates it with every fiber of his being, just so he can correct the mistakes all of them made. She watches him go and sighs, small and tired, before texting a single line to Steve. Get ready to come home.

Note: Anyone up for some Tony Whump and Appreciation fanfic? 

You Don’t Only Get One Shot by janonny

Summary: In which Tony voluntarily carries a tracker around, and learns how to talk to Steve all over again in-between and during kidnapping attempts.

“Leave you alone for two months, and you have an operation all set up to track wayward Hydra cells and rescue innocent billionaires,” Tony said, his tone skating the line of annoyance and admiration.

Note: a dose of Stalkerish!Steve (but not in an entirely creepy way because he just wants to keep Tony safe dammit). 

You've Got A Sister Now by ZaraMelMercury

Summary: It's been a year since the events of the Avengers' Civil War. Tony Stark is trying to pick up the pieces of his life, while juggling his work, his remaining friendships, getting therapy sessions for Rhodey and dealing with government politics, as well as the Accords.

It is a bit rough, but he's got Pepper (always a steady rock by his side), Rhodey, Happy and the Kid- Peter Parker. Tony would never admit to it up front and center, but you could always catch a proud look on the man's face whenever the young Spiderling was mentioned!

Life seemed to be looking up...

Except for one, minor detail:

Steve Rogers.

The hope for one reconciliation, surprisingly, led to another!

A new bond that would form that Tony would ultimately always be thankful for.

"Oh, I wanna take it back!... " "No, no, no, you can't retract it!"

Who would've thought it?

Tony Stark has a sister looking out for him, after all.

Note: Here are some Tony and Nat friendship for you! This one isn’t exactly a solid fix it but one with a more of hopeful ending. 

The Bro Code by Sullen

Summary: In a world where the Winter Soldier is found years earlier and is named Tony’s godfather, Zemo plays a different R-rated video and Siberia goes a little differently.Or –Steve breaks the bro code.

Note: This is just too cute and wholesome not to include. 

WIP

Used to be Mine by Fangirlingmanaged

Tony can't even recognize himself nowadays.

Note: This one certainly deserves a place at the heavy angst category because that’s what it is. HEAVY ANGST AND HEARTBREAK.

#stony #stony fics #stony fanfic #steve and tony #stevetony #stevetony fanfic #stevetony fic rec #SUPERHUSBANDS #steve and tony fics #stony fic rec

[manonblaqkbeak]

Group Hang

..........me again. i haven’t written in so long and it feels good to start it up again. this time it’s a human au. just fluff and aelin’s bad cooking and rowan defending her bad cooking because he actually likes it

3083 words

When Aelin had suggested a dinner at their house for the next group hangout, Rowan was more than happy to accommodate that suggestion.

The last hangout was bowling, and while Rowan excelled at many sports, bowling was strangely not one of them. He almost got banned from the local one when he started swearing his head off when his last bowl was close to becoming a strike when it veered to the side and didn't knock down a single pin.

All their friends behind him starting laughing, Aelin too, when he started going on about how the floor was uneven, the game was rigged and just had a general hissy fit that he never had in his entire adult life.

To be fair, he had one too many beers and it was hot as hell in the bowling alley, the air conditioner barely working that night. So he blamed those conditions on his attitude.

To make it worse, Aelin had managed to snap a picture of him sulking in his seat, posted it on her Instagram with the caption 'when your old man sucks at bowling and comes last'. Rowan hadn't realised it until the morning when he woke up to dozen of notifications from people tagging him and laughing.

Apparently, according to his comment, Fenrys saved the picture and made it Rowan's contact photo. With others saying that they were going to do the same.

Even Lorcan, the stoic bastard, had found it funny.

Aelin laughed at his expression as they laid in bed together, and laughed harder when he sputtered, “I'm only five years older than you!” and fucked her with the vigorous strength of a thirty year old healthy man (Aelin had never climaxed so hard, which made Rowan puff up with pride afterwards, with Aelin rolling her eyes, even though her blood was singing in her veins and a dopey grin was on her face—it was her her secret joy to ruffle Rowan's feathers whenever she could).

So yes, while the aftermath of the bowling night was much better than his losing, he was more than glad to have a quiet night at home; although his friends weren't really the quiet bunch, especially when Aelin, Lysandra and Fenrys had one too many.

However, what he wasn't expecting when he and Aelin went grocery shopping that Saturday morning was when Aelin claimed that she was going to be cooking.

Now, Rowan loved Aelin, loved her so much that he had started planning the night he would propose to her, but the thing about Aelin was that she couldn't cook—at all.

But he grew to love her cooking; came to love the burned crunch that always accompanied it, came to love the under-cooked and overcooked food, loved the dryness of what she piled on his plate when it was her night to cook, the lumpy and misshapen cakes that she made whenever the desire to bake came to her.

Aelin was skilled in many things and cooking was just something she completely sucked at—like Rowan and his bowling. Truly, he didn't mind, although it did stump him how she managed to ruin a sandwich when she sometimes made his lunch for him for work.

Unfortunately, their friends were not him. Dorian, Gods bless him, still went on about the time Aelin accidentally gave him food poisoning on his twenty-first birthday with the homemade cake she gifted him.

Which was why Rowan was the cook in the relationship. His father was a chef and while Rowan wasn't as good as him, he knew enough to cook well and how to present food on a plate.

While they started their weekly shop, Aelin claimed that she was making lasagna, and Rowan was all ready prepared for the under-cooked pasta sheets, salty marinara sauce and overly milky Béchamel sauce and dry mince meat.

He offered to help but she said she would be fine. They continued their shop, with Rowan always appreciating the sight when she had to bend over to pick up something, with Aelin in turn appreciating the sight of Rowan's muscles moving smoothly when he reached for something on the high top shelves.

So here they were, hours later, Rowan watching Aelin as she moved around their kitchen, adding things in from time to time (he was fairly certain he saw her dump some cinnamon in the mince meat, but didn't say anything). She did ask for his help to stir the Béchamel sauce as she made her homemade salad dressing (which would more than have too much olive oil in it, but again, Rowan didn't mind).

He noticed that the sauce was lumpy and on closer inspection, realised that it was large chunks of onion (and why were there large onion chunks? Because she was wanted an obscene amount of onion, she said when he asked about it).

It smelled good though when it was all done and his stomach grumbled as it rested on the kitchen counter, with Aelin rushing to have a quick shower.

Her quick shower always meant twenty minutes, but Rowan tidied the kitchen as she showered and placed the store-bought garlic bread in the oven when the doorbell rang.

Sighing at the incoming whining that would occur when everyone realised that Aelin had cooked, Rowan trudged over to the front door, painted a beautiful shade of Terrasen green.

Rowan barely opened his mouth to greet everyone before they made themselves at home—Fenrys holding a large pink box from Nesryn's bakery, but the woman wasn't in the group, she had a dinner with her fiance's family tonight.

What did surprise him was Yrene's curly head as she walked in with Chaol, the man's hand wrapped tightly on his walking stick as the couple made their way inside. Yrene was a nurse at Terrasen hospital and worked insane hours, so it was a nice surprise to see her.

Dorian and Manon walked in, the latter holding three bottles of Dorian's fathers expensive wine (which either one of them probably took without asking), her black diamond engagement ring sparkling even at night. Dorian claimed that he stole it from his father when he was a teenager and he never even noticed, apparently his father didn't bat an eye when he saw the ring on his future daughter-in-law's ring finger.

Elide and Lorcan followed Lysandra and Aedion, the dark haired man having to duck slightly to walk inside.

The only people missing, other than Nesryn and Sartaq, were Vaughn and Connall—but he knew that the last two were now working night shifts and that it would be hard to catch up with them from now on. Nehemia too, as she was currently on vacation visiting her parents.

Aedion sniffed at the air as they all made themselves comfortable in the lounge room. “Where did you guys order from? It doesn't smell too bad.” And truthfully, the food did smell good—that was something that surprised Rowan about Aelin's cooking, that while somehow everything tasted bad, it always smelled like it came from a five star restaurant.

“Aelin cooked lasagna,” he said and all eyes turned to him, “and there's plenty for everyone,” he added, before any of them could make some flimsy, bullshit excuse about how one of them should maybe order a pizza.

“What do you mean, she cooked?” Dorian asked, eyes wider than everyone else's. His tone implying that she somehow managed to create a radioactive bomb.

Rowan rolled his eyes. “I mean, she's been in the kitchen all evening preparing a dinner for all of us, so you better shut up and eat it, is what I mean when I say she's cooked.”

The timer went off for the garlic bread so Rowan went into the kitchen, but before he did, he deliberately locked the front door, making sure everyone watch him do it.

He wasn't about to let them upset Aelin just because she was a bad cook.

“Yrene, do you have, like, a food poisoning kit on you, by any chance?” Dorian asked.

Yrene snorted. “No, Dorian, you'd have to go to the hospital for that.”

“Oh, Gods,” he cried.

“Dorian,” Chaol sighed, having witnessed many moments of Dorian acting like he was minutes away from dying. “You're twenty-five now, and you're not dead. I'm certainly not, and I dated Aelin for a year.”

“Yeah, when you were eighteen and she was seventeen, I don't think she even went near an oven at that age.” Dorian and Chaol were Aelin's oldest friends, as well as Elide, so they would know.

“I can hear you, you know,” Rowan said from the open kitchen, cutting the garlic bread in equal slices.

“It's okay,” Fenrys said, smiling. “I've got cake from Nesryn's and Manon has good wine, so tonight will be salvageable.”

Rowan pointed the knife at his friend, silently telling him to shut up.

Aelin chose that moment to exit the bathroom, her towel wrapped tightly around herself. Her smile was warm as she smiled at everyone and greeted them. “I'll be done in a couple of minutes, so everyone sit at the dining table. Rowan, could you see to the serving?”

“Of course.” She quickly came over to place a kiss on his cheek and rushed for the bedroom. Everyone went to the table, Dorian acting like he was walking to the electric chair, Manon rolling her eyes at his theatrics.

The glass dish was still hot as hell, so Rowan walked over carefully, hands wrapped in giraffe oven mitts, Lorcan snorting at the sight.

“Shut up,” Rowan muttered as he placed the dish down, took the mitts off and started cutting up the lasagna. He plonked down the slices, pointedly looking at everyone as he did so (except Yrene and Chaol—the young nurse saying that she's had worse cafeteria food, quickly throwing a no offence when she realised what she said, and Chaol, like he had stated, he had Aelin's food before and was fine—joking that his spinal injury was from a freak accident rather then from Aelin's cooking).

Dorian still didn't look happy, and Fenrys was frowning at his plate. Elide poked at it with her fork, Manon inspecting it with narrowed eyes. Lorcan was stoic as always.

“I swear to the Gods I can smell cinnamon,” Lysandra said. “Rowan, did Aelin put cinnamon in this?”

Rowan shrugged and acted like he didn't know.

Sitting down, Rowan looked at his friends and said, “I know Aelin's cooking isn't the greatest—”

“She's definitely not winning any prizes in the future,” Aedion muttered but promptly shut up at the scathing glare that Rowan sent his way.

“But she's been in the kitchen all evening, as I said before, and she's really excited for you guys to try it. It may be under-cooked and dry, but you if you cannot even afford the common decency to offer her respect after making everything from scratch and act like adults instead of sulking children, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave. And Dorian, do not bring up food poisoning for the rest of the night."

Rowan got mumbled apologies, with the man feeling like a scolding father, but they all sat up straight as Aelin entered, dressed and her hair thrown into a messy bun.

They all dug in, and as expected, the lasagna sheets were under-cooked, the Béchamel sauce a little too milky and far too onion-y, the marinara sauce too salty and there was definitely a hint of cinnamon in the meat, but everyone ate it, with Lorcan claiming that it wasn't too bad—which was high praise coming from him, but then again, it could be a lie, he was fairly good at that, something Rowan knew from experience. The salad did have too much olive oil, but the dressing was nice.

Dorian, though, still looked like he was being sent to his death, but ate his food, only lightly gagging once. Aelin didn't notice, thankfully, too caught up in her conversation with her cousin about the upcoming Whitethorn family reunion that she and Rowan were expected to attend. They both had mixed feelings about it since Rowan had a large family and he couldn't stand a number of his cousins and everyone would bring up his dead parents, whose death still hurt even after ten years, as they passed away suddenly. Aelin wasn't looking forward to it, since one of his cousin's was dating his ex-girlfriend Remelle and Aelin could not stand the woman for multiple reasons.

Everyone ate everything on their plates and once the wine was emptied and the cake reduced to crumbs, everyone left, thanking Aelin and Rowan for their hospitality and everyone starting to suggest what the next night out would be as they left.

Aelin and Rowan cleaned in tandem, Aelin changing into her stag pyjamas as Rowan had a quick shower himself (which was actually a quick one) and soon joined her in bed, kissing her cheek as she settled in for the night, picking up his current read.

After long minutes, Aelin said, “I heard what you said to everyone.” Rowan's eyes snapped over to hers, finding Aelin lying on her side, a soft smile on her face. “Is my cooking really that bad?”

“Not to me,” he said truthfully. “I like your brand of cooking.”

“Even the burnt toast?”

“Especially the burnt toast.”

Aelin leaned over and kissed him on the lips, once, twice, three times. “I can't believe that Dorian still goes on about the food poisoning. I think he'll still be going on about it when he's on his death bed.”

Rowan snorted at the imagery that popped up. “He probably would.”

“I have to admit that I liked how authoritative you sounded,” Aelin said, “it turned me on more than it should have.”

Rowan ran a hand up and down her arm. “I'll have to use it more often then.”

“You will,” Aelin agreed, leaning in to kiss him again. Aelin snuggled into him, tucking her head under his jaw with Rowan wrapping his arms around her.

Rowan was on the verge of drifting off when he felt Aelin placed her chin on his chest. “Rowan?”

“Hmm?”

“Rowan, will you marry me?”

He woke up at that and found Aelin's blue and gold eyes shining brightly in the lamp light. “Pardon?” was all he could manage.

Sitting up, Aelin placed a hand over his heart, Rowan's hand covering hers instinctively. Giving him a beautiful smile, the one he fell in love with, she said clearly, “Rowan, I love you so much that I can't even put it into words how much I love you—but I do know this; you're my soulmate and I don't ever want to be away from you. I love you with everything I am. So, Rowan, will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

Tears filled Rowan eyes as he looked at the woman he loved with everything he had. “Of course, I will.”

Crying happily, Aelin launched herself at him, kissing him wildly, wrapping her arms around him. Until she suddenly pulled away and almost fell off the bed in her haste to reach for the velvet box she had hidden in the bottom draw of her nightstand.

Inside it was a gold ring, inlaid with a brilliant ruby and engraved in the band were the words 'to whatever end', their promise to each other.

The ring fitted him perfectly and Rowan sat up, capturing her face in his warm hands as he kissed her, their tears falling.

Pulling back, Rowan gave her a smile and went to his own nightstand and showed Aelin the velvet box he had hidden away. Aelin gasped in delight at the sight of it, a wide blooming on her face as he opened it and saw his mother's gold and emerald ring.

Also engraved in it were the words 'to whatever end'.

Aelin was sure she was going to die from pure happiness.

“Aelin, I love you more than anything. I'm so glad I met you in that dingy gym all those years ago. And I don't ever want to be away from you, too. Will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

“Yes, of course, yes,” she said, crashing into him again. Rowan's fingers shook as he placed the ring on her finger. “Thank you for loving me and all my bad cooking.”

Rowan laughed heartily and kissed her soundly. “Thank you for loving me and all my sucking at bowling.”

“You really are bad at it,” she said, laughing.

“I know,” he agreed, kissing her.

This was better than any idea he originally thought of when he started thinking of ways to propose. And it was perfectly Aelin that she proposed first, considering that she was the one that asked him out first all those years ago, to say 'I love you' and to ask to find a house and be Adults together with a mortgage and everything it entailed.

And in the morning, after a rare sleep in, she called her parents and told them the news, Evalin barely able to get any words out as Aelin told them how it happened, even Rhoe, who was a bit of a stoic man, teared up at the story.

They went to their favourite cafe afterwards, getting a slice of chocolate cake on the house as Aelin told their regular waitress their news.

They went to the local garden, after visiting his parents grave, with Aelin snapping a picture of their jewelled hands, the sun making their rings sparkle in a brilliant glow and posted it on her Instagram with a simple caption stating, 'We both said yes'.

Rowan posted the same photo, the first he had in months, since he didn't post often, and he much preferred the streams of congratulations that came their way, their phones soon blowing up with calls after calls.

And as the the sun shone brighter on the beautiful day, Aelin let loose a snorting laugh that had her choking when Dorian pleaded, “Please don't bake your wedding cake. I really don't want to be sick on your special day, I'll feel like an arsehole.”

Rowan promised that she wouldn't and laced his fingers in his fiance's hands as they went to his car towards their home, deciding that last night was the best group hang that they ever had.

#rowaelin #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin fanfic

[hauntedpearl]

okay. god, I love that confession scene for what it did for society at large but dear lord I hate despair so much as an episode outside of that one scene. like it's very very clear that they did not think about the charcaters or the plot in context to the story that they had already somehow built upto that point. they basically just. threw an entire season's worth of semi-decent stuff into the trash so they could fit in cas' Big Sacrifice, and honestly, it's so fucking stupid, my godddd

a non-exhaustive list of things about despair that are infuriatingly dumb -

Billie is NOT a villain! As far back as s12, even, their character has always been a very neutral entity. Yes, she's tried to kill the winchesters on multiple occasions, and yes, she lowkey hates their guts for being annoying and not staying dead when they do die, BUT, she also literally has NO SKIN IN THE GAME! Victory is not a personal vendetta here. She really doesn't care if she dies. (WHY WOULD SHE?? SHE'S DEATH!!! like if anyone understands the natural order of things, it's them!!!!) Whatever Billie was trying to do in s15 was an attempt to hold the world together. if anything, they're literally the protagonist of the story!!! but of course, that wouldn't have served the purpose for despair so whoop! character assassination, and dumb shit about infected wounds like istg ISTG why don't angel wounds get infected then when they get nicked by angel blades, then??? god fucking dammit!!!

again, love what the bloody handprint did for society at large and also my own personal brainrot, BUT cas literally just drawns an angel banishing sigil on the door 😭😭😭 I am crying as I'm writing this, I'm screaming into the void like sir??? SIR???? HELLO)???!?!?! (i mean isn't that shit part of the bunker's warding what the fuck my dudes. like okay I get that they got in from the inside or whatever but shit man wouldn't your stupid dungeon hold on its own then???)

okay, so. I know we have, as a fandom, have adopted the headcanon that human souls would fuck up the empty, and while I do love the idea of that very much, I also think it's definitely possible that some insane bastard is definitely sleeping in there will all the angels and whoever else. Also there's that part where Billie threatens to throw the boys into the empty the next time they die so they don't keep coming back to life. So like. canonically. there is a possibility right? so why did dean get left behind? this is an honest to god question that's bothered me for a while now. it's not like dean is exactly in the empty's good graces, and it did take Billie, no questions asked. are you telling me like moving across the room is enough for the empty to leave you behind???? like??? if billie had swerved left, they'd have been fine??? what the fuck??? isn't the empty a sentient entity that's intelligent and vengeful?? so why did it turn into a broken claw machine at the arcade when the deal was evoked?? why did dean live???????????????

And lastly - but this is like the least of my problems tbh I do look the other way quite willingly when it comes to this - the show's temporary amnesia when it comes to these people's emotional problems is so annoying damn. like just an episode ago dean was literally losing his shit and doing all the things that cas' confession of him very directly contradicts. i even made a dumb crack-ish post about it which turned angsty because like..it is!!! like the thing is, they did not have to make dean do half the things that he does atleast from after moriah (like moriah in and of itself is lowkey a point of no return but it can also be resolved (imo) because there's A Lot going on at that point and chuck's reveal is like 0.2s after, and also dean doesn't shoot - which admittedly is like the barest of the bare minimum, but it's still something to build from in context imo- so it's like. not completely unsalvageable. very little to salvage from but STILL. i could see it in the show. and the trap does go some distance is righting the wrongs. as does last holliday a little bit. but unity just undoes everything so wtf???). so like. as much as i do think cas is just that insane about dean and will literally forgive him anything, I also think it wouldn't have killed them to not have unity the way it was. like!! like if they(the characters) were in that position, why didn't cas summon the empty to get rid of the actual antagonist and also save his kid from his misguided attempt at seeking absolution from men who don't deserve that kind of respect in their life anyway??? like there was a way to make the plot work here that would've helped them further the character development and reach a natural conclusion one way or another but THEY CHOOSE TO DO THIS????? STUPID SO STUPID OH MY GODDDDD

essentially, when they say that they wrote this scene first, I believe them because they did not do anything to fit it into the larger context of the season (let alone the show). i mean metatextually, again it's lowkey genius because if chuck is doing all this, then they have The Most Excuse Of All Time for being bad at their jobs afsjwfsjshsjjd. anyway. stupid fucking episode, despair. only saved by misha's heartfelt confession tbh. like they basically did whatever they wanted because they knew people would be more invested in that one scene anyway. (also i did not even mention the sam plot side of things in the episode because like WHY WOULD THEY EVEN THINK BILLIE TOOK THEM like AHHHH that's a post for another time)

#long post #doe is talking again #i am so so so frustrated by these people doing these things #yk how we say that the show lost its plot with s15e19? i disagree. i think it lost its plot with s15e17. #i mean it never really had a plot but ykwim #anyway. this is despair crit..look away also dont come at me #despair #15 x 18 #supernatural #spn meta #Frustrating Things About The CW Supernatural

[ashesandhalefire]

i know, you know

alex, michael, and a lonely hearts club gone slightly awry.

-

inspired by @malex-cupid day one and three themes: wooing my way into your heart and valentine’s day.

-

“Okay, here’s a nightmare scenario,” Michael says as he eases back down onto the couch with another slice of pizza in his hand. He crosses his ankles on the coffee table and bites the tip off. Alex raises an eyebrow expectantly, drawing a sip from his beer, and Michael nods. After a rough swallow, he wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “I once hooked up with a girl on February thirteenth. Totally lost track of the date.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “That’s not a nightmare scenario for someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael takes another bite of his pizza and tries to talk around a mouthful of cheese, face twisted with playful indignation. “Someone like me?”

Alex leans his head against the back of the couch and says, “Charming people never end up in nightmare scenarios because they can, by default, charm their way out of anything.”

Brow furrowing, Michael wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called charming in my life. A few other choice words, sure, but not charming.”

“Well, I guess my perspective is a little different from the sheriff’s department. In my experience, you have a tendency to be very good at saying the right thing.” Alex wiggles his left foot where it sits, tucked beneath the center cushion on the couch, and rubs distractedly at his right knee. The knot in his sweatpants jostles close to Michael’s hip.

Entirely by accident, he’s significantly more dressed-down than Michael is in his slim jeans and crisply colored flannel. Neither piece of Michael’s outfit has the well-worn softness of his usual wardrobe, none of the torn seams or threadbare elbows, but the top two buttons of his shirt are undone like always and the collar hangs wide against his clavicle. Alex tries not to let his eyes linger.

As he chews through another bite, Michael stares back at him, and the gaze feels heavy enough that Alex turns away. “And, please, you’re sitting on my couch, watching my television, drinking my beer, and eating my pizza. If that’s not the direct result of charm, what is it?” 

“Dumb luck,” Michael says. Amusement glints in his eyes as he licks his lips. “Besides, this whole lonely hearts club thing was your idea.” 

“Yeah, but it was originally a party of one.”

Alex had quickly opted out, making his answer a polite but firm no, when Kyle mentioned the flier on the Crashdown’s front door that advertised the latest Wild Pony cash-grab attempt, but that hadn’t prevented him from running face-first into Isobel’s advertising efforts all over town for the next week and a half. General buzz at the post office and hospital implied that her reputation for event planning had drummed up some genuine interest from the locals, and that in and of itself cemented his plan for the weekend as pizza, beer, and whatever cable had to offer. His plan had, at no point, included running into Michael in the candy aisle at RiteAid at three o’clock in the afternoon on Valentine’s Day.

With an armful of personal care items marked with discount stickers, Michael had taken one look at the prescription envelope in Alex’s right hand and the box of chocolates in his left and said, “Got a hot date?”

“No,” Alex had said, wishing he’d chosen to put on something neater than his faded sweatpants. Michael rarely looked presentable by general standards, but he always looked good. “Just chronic pain and a sweet tooth.”

“You should come back tomorrow,” Michael had suggested. “Better sales after the holiday.”

“True, but then I won’t have anything to eat tonight.”

Michael had visibly perked, even though his face stayed neutral. “You’re not going to the singles night thing at the Pony? I thought Valenti would have roped you in for sure.”

“No.” Fleetingly, Alex had considered the idea of wandering through the crowded bar, equally decorated in distasteful neon and garish party store hearts, and trying to pick which of the Pony’s regular stock might like to have his drink bought by an openly gay veteran with one leg while his friends watch from the sidelines of their depressingly stable relationships. “There’s not enough booze in the world.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Michael had laughed. He hadn’t quite met Alex’s eye as they both carefully side-stepped the rest of the conversation. Alex had stopped paying attention, so he wasn’t sure if Michael had retaken to running up a tab yet. “Is is completely pissed at me, but I told her there was no way in hell.”

Alex had swallowed. “Got a hot date?”

“Totally,” Michael had said. He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. “I think you’ve met him.” 

In retrospect, Alex blames the rest of the conversation on the fact that he’s been unshakably in love with Michael since he was seventeen. For the better part of a month, he’s been trying to work up the courage to throw out a line. But they exist in a strange no-man’s-land of casual acquaintanceship that borders on friendship and romance simultaneously, and Alex hasn’t quite found the right way out yet. 

“If you don’t have plans tonight, you could swing by.” Michael, already at the end of the aisle when Alex called after him, had looked mildly startled when he turned around. “We can get pizza. Or something. Whatever goes with beer.”

“Everything goes with beer in my world.”

“It’ll be a lonely hearts club type of thing,” Alex had said, primarily for the deniability. 

Michael had cocked his head. His eyes drifted lower and lower until they paused and climbed back up Alex’s body at a crawl. “Are you lonely?”

“I had a nose ring, remember?” Alex had clutched the prescription bag in his fist with a crunch and forced himself to laugh, even as bashful panic squeezed at his throat. “You don’t end up with a nose ring and Danger posters on your walls at seventeen unless you’re deeply lonely.”

A slow smile had stretched across Michael’s face, and he ducked his head like it was too private to share with the open aisle. When he looked up again, he wrinkled his nose to help steady his armful of bottles with a nudge of his telekinesis. “I’ll see you at six, then. Pizza and beer.”

Now, Michael breaks a wayward string of cheese away from his last bite and asks, “You want me to go home? Leave you to your pity party?” 

“No. I’m enjoying the company. I think it’s because you’re so charming.”

Michael laughs. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Fine, don’t believe me. But hooking up with a girl who was looking for a hookup on the day before Valentine’s Day is not a nightmare scenario.”

“Alright,” Michael says, nudging Alex’s bent knee, “so give me a better example.”

“Uh, pizza and beer with a guy that never learned how to chew with his mouth closed?”

Michael tears into the crust of his slice and says, muffled by food, “I’ll leave anytime. Just say the word.”

Alex pulls his foot out from under the couch cushion and rolls his heel into the side of Michael’s thigh. “Don’t be disgusting!”

Mashing his teeth, Michael chews with his mouth open for another two bites and then relents. He drops a hot palm into the exposed skin of Alex’s ankle, holding it in place, and Alex manages not to react until Michael strokes his thumb into the hollow beside his Achilles tendon. 

“I need a refill. Do you want another beer?” he asks, pulling his leg away and turning to plant his foot on the floor. He bends down to grope beneath the couch for his crutch. 

“Yeah, I’ll take another one.” Michael stands, taking his empty bottle in hand, and says, “I’ll get it. I know my way around the fridge.”

As he shuffles between the couch and the coffee table, he drops a hand onto Alex’s left shoulder and squeezes. The touch is gone almost as soon as it starts, but Alex still lets out an audible squeak on his next exhale. 

Being touch-starved is hardly new, but it makes him feel like an especially pathetic rescue cat when his body shivers at the barest graze. Twice it happened when Kyle leaned over to look at his laptop and put a hand on his back while they worked on the salvaged hard drives together, and Alex had barely been able to hide the heated flush in his cheeks. It’s more humiliating with Michael, somehow, because Michael has always been exactly the same. He’s always turned into Alex’s touch with eagerness, always looked for the most contact he could find. Something about touch between them turning casual and unaffecting on his end while Alex is gasping like an Austen heroine is especially unsettling.

He takes three deep breaths, holding the air in his chest and releasing through pursed lips, and then Michael squeezes between the end table and the chair with two beers. He twists the tops off with a twitch of his nose, and Alex watches the bent metal land on the coffee table with a ding. 

“Show off,” he says as Michael hands him a bottle. Their fingers brush against the glass. “You’ve never fought with a jar of pasta sauce in your life.”

Michael eases back down onto the couch, snagging the last garlic knot from the crimped tinfoil on the coffee table on the way, and says, “Rubber band trick works wonders. Not that I’ve ever needed it.” 

“Smug bastard.”

Alex watches the bob of Michael's throat as he takes a long draw from his beer. 

“Oh, here. Almost forgot.” Michael pops the rest of the garlic knot into his mouth and lifts his hips off the couch to give himself room to root around his pocket. After a moment of tugging, he tosses something across the couch. It lands on Alex’s thigh. “For your sweet tooth.”

Alex stares down at the packet of SweeTARTS heart candies, emblazoned with the same sentimental phrases as classic conversation hearts. “These are sour.”

“Well, yeah, but aren’t those the ones you like?”

Fingers toying with the crimped edges of the paper wrapping, Alex nods. 

“Then Happy Valentine’s Day.” Michael sucks a spot of oil and garlic from his thumb. “I had to go to, like, four different CVS stores to find them.”

“Thank you,” Alex says. “You didn’t— I didn’t get you anything.”

Michael shrugs. “You paid for dinner. Least I could do was pick up some candy.” 

-

-

Darkness creeps up on them while they trade sarcastic commentary about the fake detective comedy marathon they found on a higher cable channel. The lone bulb still on over the sink casts a warm yellow glow across the kitchen and dining room, and the living room flickers between dark and light as the scenes change on the television. 

Alex glances down at Michael, who has made himself comfortable with one leg dangling off the edge of the couch and the other curled up against the arm. His head rests on a pillow that he laid atop Alex’s right leg, and he has Alex’s left leg stretched out in front of his chest to keep it from blocking his view.

The shift was gradual: he slumped sideways and curled his legs up; he leaned on his elbow and tried to stretch out; he whined about his neck and grabbed the pillow off the floor, checking that it wouldn’t bother Alex’s knee if he put pressure on it; and he grabbed Alex’s left leg by the ankle to straighten it out while complaining that he couldn’t see. And now Alex’s shin is pinned beneath Michael’s palm, feeling the rise and fall of Michael’s chest whenever he chuckles at one of the jokes. 

They’ve spent hours together, rolling around in Michael’s cot and the back of his truck and motel beds, but Alex isn’t sure they’ve ever been more intimate. Quiet stillness has always been difficult for them to come by, and he can barely remember the last time they spent an afternoon together without some sense of doom hanging over their heads. They’ve certainly never laid on a couch together for four hours. 

Michael shifts, rolling onto his side, and his hand drifts down towards the top of Alex’s foot. The calluses on his palm catch against the weave of his sock, and Alex listens to the faint scratch of material without breathing. After a moment, Michael’s fingers slip beneath the elastic at the bottom of his sweatpants, and he strokes absently at the ball of Alex’s ankle. 

The fears and the doubts are as present as they’ve been for the last few weeks. All of their baggage is exactly the same. 

Alex winds one of Michael’s curls around his finger, and he feels the stutter in his breathing. 

With empirical evidence like that, he has to be brave. 

He mutes the television and says, “I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Michael glances up. “Is this…new information? Should we be celebrating?”

“No, I mean—” Alex swallows. “I don’t have to go out tomorrow, so if you stay over afterwards, we can talk.”

Michael stares at him. “After what?”

Alex shrugs, but his eyes linger pointedly on Michael’s mouth. 

“Oh,” Michael says. He turns onto his stomach slowly, like he thinks moving too quickly will turn Alex skittish, and then he eases up onto his knees between Alex's legs. Carefully, he pushes the pillow on Alex’s lap out of the way and onto the floor. “Yeah. Yeah, I could stay over. Afterwards.”

Light from the silent television flickers against the side of his face, and Alex reaches for the loose collars of his shirt. Michael bends pliantly, anchoring his hands beside Alex’s shoulders on the arm of the couch, and lowers himself until their noses brush. Then, he hesitates. He nuzzles against Alex’s cheek, rolls their foreheads together, and sighs out a laugh. 

Alex giggles back, a nervous sound he has no control over, and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I just— I don’t wanna screw up. This has been a no-fly zone for weeks.”

“It really hasn’t.”

“It really has. I have the bruised ego to prove it.”

A missing piece slots into place in Alex’s chest, loosening every ounce of tension left in his body, and he sags down against the couch cushions. He takes a moment to look up at Michael, at the vulnerable pinch of anxiety that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and then he reaches up to smooth his thumb over the crest of Michael’s cheeks. The wrinkles worsen, so he tows Michael in by his hips and shakes his head. “No. No, you’re— you’re cleared to land.”

“That’s not— ” Michael blinks, and then says, affectionately, “Oh, fuck you.”

He laughs, deep in his chest, and finally presses his mouth to Alex’s. Alex surges into the kiss, letting it linger until the smile splitting across his lips forces Michael to pull back. He tries again, but Alex can’t relax his grin, so, for a moment, they just breathe, silhouetted in the dark. 

Then, Michael says, “No regretting it tomorrow?” 

Alex shakes his head. “No.”

“No nightmare scenario? No backslide with my ex?”

“No.”

“No… I scratched my itch, now get out of my house?”

“No!”

“Okay, good. Good. Because I’m playing for keeps this time.” He settles his weight between Alex’s thighs, and Alex is struck suddenly with the realization of how easy it is to be happy, how earned it feels after all this time.

They kiss, lazy and unhurried, until the cable box starts to idle in the background and leaves them in a nearly pitch black room. The last three buttons of Michael’s shirt come undone under Alex’s fingertips, and Michael’s unshaved jaw scrapes his mouth almost raw.

“Next year,” he mumbles against Alex’s cheek in a moment of reprieve, “I’m gonna fill this house with roses.”

Distractedly, Alex hooks his heel around the back of Michael’s calf and says, “If you somehow have a quarter of a million dollars to waste on that many flowers next year, we will not still be living in this house.”

Michael’s whole body jolts.

“We?” he teases gleefully, and he digs his fingertips into the soft back of Alex’s knee. “Did you just forget we don’t have a joint bank account? Oh, fuck, you really do like me.”

A hot flush rises in Alex’s cheeks as he squirms. “I like your fake money.”

“I think you mean our fake money.”

Alex laughs. “I fucking hate you.” He turns away, and Michael bends down to kiss the exposed line of his neck. 

“You don’t,” he says between nips. “You really don’t.”

“No,” Alex agrees. “I really don’t.”

#michael x alex #malex #malex fic #malexcupid21 #roswell new mexico #alright it's DONE it's out of me so now i can read all the other ones lol #it's been a long while since i posted fic but!!! i kind of need them back together ASAP #my fic