#I now have 3 wedding fics under my disposal

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Fireplace

Written for @lordoftherazzles. Have a little cosy warm ficlet <3

(Sorry, I posted the fic for the 25th yesterday, so we do a switcheroo)

Characters: Thorin x Bilbo

Words: 1 760

Warnings: elves, dwarves, men, a fireplace...very fluffy, very legal, very cool

Thorin scowled but wiped the discontented expression off his face almost instantly—after all, distasteful as it might have been to him, this project was his very own.

Usually, he and Bilbo spent the winters in the Shire where the climate was more clement and the cold not as biting, but due to the upcoming wedding of his nephew, they had decided to stay in Erebor this time.

The brave Hobbit had not expressed any unhappiness about it, but the King knew, nevertheless, that the howling wind and the pervasive chill were gnawing on him relentlessly.

Bilbo, for all his inner fortitude, was not wrought of hard, non-corroding metal—his was a world of soft comforts, and Thorin was determined to provide as much solace as he could to his beloved.

Thus, he had invited both Bard and Thranduil—loathsome, overly critical intruders—to his realm to help him devise a fireplace that would bring not only welcome and much-needed warmth but also earnest joy to his gentle consort.

Even though Bilbo had expressed genuine, enthusiastic admiration for all the dwarven crafts and mechanisms in Erebor, Thorin suspected that the great furnaces and functional grates were not entirely to his liking.

As the little smial had been discreetly decorated with the angular, geometric patterns of Thorin’s home over time, the King of the Lonely Mountain considered it only proper and fair that he’d make some allowances for the aesthetic sensibilities of his cherished partner in return.

“It’s beautiful,” Bard now commented, grinning widely at their masterpiece.

“It is good,” Thranduil admitted while meticulously straightening the tassels of an intricately embroidered rug that had been sent all the way from Imladris. “He deserves nothing less.”

Smiling grimly, Thorin nodded. He was aware that Bilbo was much more popular than he would ever be, and despite his profound distrust for the Elves and all their creations, he was happy to see how generously they had contributed to the small sitting room he had prepared for Bilbo.

“Now get lost,” he rumbled when Ori slipped in, his arms bending under the weight of a stack of books he was carrying as a last addition to the homely sanctuary. “I don’t know how long Fíli and Kíli can distract my love before he comes looking for me.”

As foreseen, Thorin found Bilbo—red-cheeked and laughing—in the Great Hall where he was engaged in a complicated game of dice. By the looks of frustration and dismay on his nephews’ faces, the Hobbit was also winning which gladdened Thorin’s heart even further.

“Ah, my dear, I shall soon own all the riches of Erebor,” Bilbo hooted as he tilted up his face to receive the forceful kiss he knew Thorin would give him. “This is a hostile take-over!”

“Erebor’s resources are at your disposal,” three Durins said at the same time, in the same self-evident tone, and Bilbo hid his face in his hands for a moment.

They always seemed so ruthlessly efficient and lethally competent that he seemed to regularly forget how sweet and gentle their hearts were—thankfully, they found enough opportunities to remind him that, beneath a tough veneer of polished metal and unyielding stone, they had the best, bravest, and most loyal souls.

“Come, leave the princes to lick their wounds,” Thorin prompted and pulled the other up by a pudgy, soft hand. “There is something I want to show you.”

Confusion and earnest curiosity shone on the handsome, homely face of the Hobbit as he let himself be dragged out of the room without putting up any resistance.

“Ah, the winters in Erebor are a sight to behold,” Bilbo babbled as they walked towards their bedroom. “Thorin?” Smouldering, sensual excitement thrummed in his voice now as he realised in which direction they were headed.

“As much as I wish…” the dwarven king laughed and pointed at the door that had been off-limits for his consort for a whole while now.

“Oh? I finally get to see what secrets you’ve hidden in there? I tried to pry it out of the princes—and I almost got Kíli to the point of letting something slip—but, ultimately, I could not learn anything I didn’t know already.” Visibly peeved by this, Bilbo accelerated his steps, so eager was he to finally get to the bottom of the mystery.

When the door swung open, a soft gasp escaped him.

“What is this then?” he murmured dazedly, even though he was much too astute not to recognise a sitting room when he saw one.

The bare stone walls had been covered with warm, dark wood and a comfortable-looking armchair sat on a beautifully woven rug—both had clearly been made by the Elves, and Bilbo’s head swivelled around slowly to gaze at his lover in speechless shock. He knew only too well how much Thorin objected to his neighbours and their faraway kin, so he could hardly imagine him inviting their craftsmen and artists to work on a room inside his hallowed, jealously guarded mountain.

“Let me,” Thorin grinned and went to kneel by the main draw of the private sitting room: the immense, intricately carved fireplace.

If his hands shook a little while he coaxed the reluctant embers into roaring flame, it was only understandable after all the trouble he had gone through to create this warm, cosy, safe space for his husband.

“You had this made for me?” Bilbo asked in a choked voice as he stepped closer to the richly adorned mantelpiece and traced the impressively detailed decorations of dragons, forests, and acorns. “This is the story of our adventure,” he whispered, entranced by the beauty of the craftsmanship.

“Your adventure, to be exact,” Thorin corrected gently and, getting back to his feet, tapped his finger against the first carving on the far left that depicted Bilbo’s little smial. “I am not entirely convinced by the way these pointy-eared bastards decided to represent me,” he grumbled, frowning at the burly, long-bearded, overly surly-looking doter in the middle of the fireplace’s border, “but I think that they did a solid job otherwise.”

“You…for me?” Bilbo repeated, his eyes starry with wordless delight and deep gratitude. “Why?”

“Well, there is a small smithy in the back garden of Bag End,” Thorin replied sheepishly. “You’ve been so very good at making space for me and ensuring that I’d feel welcome and comfortable in your home. As we stay here for the winter…”

“OH! But I love being here,” Bilbo exclaimed. “Bofur will make me a sleigh, and the boys and I shall have a wonderful time in the snow!”

Cupping Thorin’s bearded cheeks between his warm, slightly trembling hands and pulling that serious face down for a passionate, tender kiss, the Hobbit smiled indulgently. “I love Erebor,” he said. “It is cold and draughty, sure, but it has its own charm. I would not have agreed to stay here for the season if I did not honestly want to.”

His button nose twitched expressively—they both knew that, by now, Bilbo was indeed rarely the kind of creature to hide his displeasure or unwillingness. “More than anything, though, I love being here with you,” he insisted, “and this is wonderful, but it was not necessary.”

Leaning his still furrowed brow against the smooth one of his darling, Thorin gave a deep, shuddering sigh.

“You are the very best partner any Khâzad could ever dream of,” he murmured and slung his strong arms possessively around the lighter, narrower frame of the Hobbit. “Mahal be blessed—I often think that I do not deserve the love of one so kind and understanding.”

“Have you fallen on your head?” Bilbo laughed, reminding his spouse that he had forced him to clean and air out all the stuffy furs of last season only that morning. Thorin had grumbled extensively but had ended up complying. “If anything, I have become even more spoiled since knowing you.”

“Nonsense,” Thorin objected. “You are the very soul of bravery and resilience, dealing with my kin and people, charming my sister, and keeping Erebor up and running like clockwork without ever raising your voice!”

Chuckling sheepishly, Bilbo leaned into the embrace of the dwarven king he so adored and hummed happily as he felt tiny kisses being peppered onto the crown of his messy curls.

“Bombur shall bring up cupcakes soon,” Thorin whispered, his icy blue eyes warming as Bilbo’s head flew up and warm hazels lit up with eager delight. “He thanks you very kindly for your recipe—he said he might have added a distinctly dwarven twist to the rich creaminess of the sweet syrup.”

“Meat, you mean?” Bilbo laughed.

“You really did think of everything, haven’t you?” he then murmured and sank back into the strong, protective arms that would have been more than enough to keep the biting cold at bay as far as he was concerned. “I am so grateful for the immense effort you’ve made. Tell me, do I see foreign influences?”

“You’ve been so enamoured with the Elven designs.” Embarrassed, Thorin rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly—at the time they had passed through Rivendell, he had still pretended that he was in no way unduly interested in or attracted by their burglar.

The small squeak of emotion and joy escaping a much more sedate and fully claimed Bilbo now was worth a moment of painful truth though.

“You are well-liked, my love,” the King admitted. “Everyone has fallen over their feet to help.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Bilbo teased and pressed a soothing, tender kiss onto the warm skin of Thorin’s throat, just above the richly embroidered hem of his handsome tunic. “You needn’t be. As gratified as I am by the willingness of our friends to contribute to my happiness, I really only need you by my side!”

Mollified by this reassurance, Thorin led him over to the soft, inviting sofa and, together, they sat down with a low grunt of relaxation. Soon, Bilbo’s legs were swung over the armrest and his head was resting in Thorin’s lap while thick, blunt fingers carded through his soft hair distractedly.

“You are such a romantic—you’ve remembered all the things that we would have done in the Shire. I’ve never thought that you’d pay that much heed to our silly little habits.”

Snorting in vexation, Thorin tilted his bearded chin down to look at his most precious of gems.

“Maybe,” he said playfully, “it was I who missed the comforts of Bag End.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November

[secrettastemakerland]

Summary:

Kawaki and Boruto help Himawari with some wedding details.

@sunshinesiblings

[tteokdoroki]

saccahrine sundays | k.bakugou

♡ pairing: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader.

♡ word count: 5.3K

♡ rating: mature, 18+, mdni.

♡ genre: pro hero!au, married!au, fluff + smut.

♡ summary: katsuki can never find enough time to get some sleep. between being a full time pro hero, a father and a husband— hours of rest are hard to come by. unless it’s one of those sweet, sweet saccharine sundays.

♡ warning(s): please read ! heavy smut, pwp ( characters aged up to late twenties ), somnophilia, unprotected sex ( wrap it before you tap it, kids ), fingering ( female recieving ), tummy bulges, mating press, pregnancy!kink, daddy!kink, breeding!kink, light!exhibitionism, cumplay + needy bakugou has a praise!kink... <3

♡ author’s note(s): brrr hey guys! it feels like forever since i last posted a full fic, january was bleh so im happy to get this out !! special thanks to @greenchild for feeding me this idea and thank to all of you for your love, support and 2.8K. i love you all, enjoy <3

♡ masterlist | requests

katsuki bakugou couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full nights sleep. between being a pro hero and family life, the full eight to nine hours of pure rest wasn’t easy to come by— now he wasn’t complaining, he was far too grateful for the life he lead to whinge and whine about the finer details. bakugou was right on track to becoming the number two, he had a beautiful wife who loved him and supported him no matter how reckless he might have been and two little brats that he adored more than anything. he was miles ahead of his high school classmates, never letting up or resting so like he said, there was no room to complain.

but even as the faintest wisps of light slip through drawn curtains and a vermillion gaze settled on the old all might digital alarm clock ( reading 9:01 AM ), katsuki bakugou can’t help but feel grateful for the sleep he just had. no interruptions from wailing toddlers or infants who need changing, no late night call ins for patrols— none of that, just an arm around his wife’s waist and the soft sound of her breathing to coax him out of his sleepy state.

bakugou remembers now, a distant yet far from faint memory of where he and his wife spent two days of their honeymoon under slumber’s spell, having ravished each other the very night they arrived in paris for their honeymoon ( all mina’s idea, she had told katsuki it was the perfect destination for newly weds in love— and whilst the several districts his alien friend recommended did appease you, the blonde had promised to take you on a more luxurious getaway when he was hire up in the hero rankings ). of course that very honeymoon lead you to fall pregnant with your first little miracle— taiga bakugou, the very spitting image of her father except or the slight tilt to her nose and the sparkle in her eye that only her mother possessed.

raising her had proven to be both an enjoyable and exhausting experience for katsuki, with a matching explosive personality to rival even her daddy’s— there were many restless nights the pro hero spent butting heads with his daughter while his sweet spouse was away on missions and getting used to the field again. even during the pregnancy, full nights of rest were little to none— the cravings taiga gave you were almost unbearable for the blonde, not to mention the 2AM labour his little girl put you through...and yet he would repeat the last four years of lack of sleep all over again if it meant reliving every single moment with you. raising tatsumo was much better; however.

so as the weight of well deserved slumber lifts from katsuki’s shoulder’s he’s forced to deal with the memories of your sweet cries from the night (or rather, nights) he made you his wife. he stirs under cotton sheets, a familiar hardness pressing against his inner thigh as he recalls the way you tightened around him— “honey baby,” the desperate whisper tastes foreign, bitter across his tastebuds as he licks his lips. katsuki was usually much more composed when it came to sex, he could hold out for hours while you pleaded and begged of him to give you more. but this morning was different, very much so.

skilfully, the ash blonde slips a hand between your sheets, finger tips calloused with years of training and battle, dancing up your bare thighs from where you wear only his shirt and a pair of panties. the fingers trail up to your underwear, pressing them against your cunt as bakugou watches your face for any reaction— you twitch once before falling back into a deep slumber, letting your husband know that he can continue. he peels like orange silk away from your core and down your legs, half resisting the urge to sniff your undergarment like the dirty man he is but he decides that he can longer wait, already turned on by the feeling of your bare pussy against his hand.

the pro knows exactly how to turn you on, dragging is nails down your thighs just an inch from your wetness and his mind fogs with lust at the thought of the sounds you’d make for him if you were awake...not yet, he says to himself. his next move is to fuck your mouth, two of his digits sliding past parted lips from where you snore— gathering the drool that pools on the surface of your tongue. back and forth; move bakugou’s fingers until he’s satisfied with how wet you’ve made them with your spit. returning those very same fingers to your cunt, he parts your folds— already slightly sticky and hot with the nectar he’s used to savouring. if this were any other time, bakugou would be eating you out like a man starved of his last three meals but the rising sun tells him that his moments to fuck you are very few.

so now, he slides those lubed up fingers right into your tight little hole, shuddering under the sheets at how you automatically clamp around him— even while you sleep. katsuki’s vermillion eyes seek out your face in the warm light of the dusk, watching as your expression contorts into that familiar look of pleasure— lips blossoming into a cherry pout, brows furrowed as if you’re focusing on the way your husband makes you feel.

“fuck, honey baby, so good ‘n pliant for me even when yur fuckin’ sleepin’,” katsuki slurs against saliva that slips along his tongue, he’s hungry to fuck you, make you moan and scissors his fingers deep inside your obedient cunt in away that makes your slumbering body jump. pressing a thumb to your neglected clit, bakugou twists his fingers in search for your g-spot, pumping them into you with vigour. “gonna make you cum angel, baby, please cum while you’re like this s’you can take my cock.”

if there’s one thing pro hero dynamite knows, it’s that your body is a slave to him, no matter what state it’s in. your thighs part instinctively; giving your husband room to curl his fingers and press down hard on your pleasure spot— gummy walls sucking him in deeper. he makes you cum while you sleep, juices staining  your supple skin, honeyed from the warm light outside.

“atta girl, cummin’ for your husband like that even when you’re sleeping— so fuckin’ naughty...” katsuki grunts, locks of sun kissed hair beginning to plaster itself against his forehead. his body shakes with the desire to be inside of you, his internal temperature rising with every second that he’s not sheathed within your walls. pulling his fingers away from your twitching mound, bakugou slides them, cum soaked and all, into his mouth to taste your very sweetness. “would eatcha out like a starved man, honeybee, but we don’t gotta lot of time left baby...”

with that, bakugou shuffles his sweats down enough for his cock to spring free, tip bright red and leaking against his toned, scarred abdomen. with practised ease, he hooks your right leg over his waist and positions your dripping cunny right over the head of his length. it takes everything katsuki has not to plunge deep inside of you, to abuse your tempting cunt until it’s formed into the shape of his cock but for once he wants to take you slowly, enjoy his time with your limp body at his disposal.

pressing his girth against your slick entrance, your husband sighs, coating himself with the remainders of your delightful release. the mess you made just for him, makes it easier for him to guide his cock between your velveteen folds that take him so well. his free hand comes up to brush over your cheek and even in the depths of your rest you manage to nuzzle into katsuki’s palm and make his coo— what a precious little doll you are, so good for him and always so obedient no matter what state you’re in. fuck, it drives him so insane that he can’t even think straight.

“...suki....”

fucking hell. the way you sigh out for him so mawkishly whilst you dream makes him twitch, not even half the way inside you.  “c’mon honey baby, don’t go moanin’ my name like that when i haven’t even had a c-chance to make you mine yet—“ the blonde shudders, eyes screwing shut as he finally bottoms out inside of you. katsuki let’s out a choked moan, from deep within his chest while you welcome him into your lethally syrupy cunt. “ohh, fuck, that’s the stuff, good girl...”

bakugou’s thrusts start slow yet, forcing your limp body to jolt up the bed and your tits to bounce in tune with the rhythm of his hips— your little hole sucks him in so greedily, so selfishly, clamping down on him as if to prevent him from leaving your body as a whole. pro hero dynamite is shaken to his core, how can his precious baby take him so darlingly while she’s asleep, refusing to let go of him and keep his cock tucked away inside of you.

shit, shit, shit.

he wants to defile you, asleep or not, ruin how pure and angelic your body appears even after years of being together. it’s your fault he’s like this anyway, you deserve to have your pussy destroyed no matter the circumstances— ruby framed eyes threaten to roll back into his skull while bakugou picks up the swirl of his hips between your sticky thighs, you flutter and squeeze around the girth that’s stretched you out so many times before and yet you still remain a tight hole designed for your husband and your husband alone.

lips map their way up the column of your neck, committing every dip and scar and blemish to memory even though katsuki knows where each of them are. the amber colour of the morning sun highlights each of your marks, your husband giving you as many lovebites to match each one. “nn, suki...more..” you whimper, so quiet he almost misses it underneath the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin. could you feel how he deflowered you in your sleep? ruining such a good girl while you resting? he wants so bad to corrupt you from the inside.

static stretches across katsuki’s brain, crackling as his neurones fire and dopamine fizzes in his veins. cum. cum. breed her. it’s too soon but the blonde can’t help it, pent up and high on the morning sunrise— addicted to the taste of your skin licked with light perspiration. it’s been ages since he’s had you like this, can you blame him for not hanging on so long? bakugou lifts your thigh higher on his waist, using it as leverage to plough into the deepest parts of you, his precious wife, desperate to cream inside you before wake up.

“mm, know you’re close lovebug, won’t you cum for me suki?”

katsuki’s gaze hones in on you, vision blurred and hazy with lust from his impending orgasm. your own eyes are heavy with sleep but the soft smile on your face is filled with a familiar adoration and saccharine love that the blonde can never get tired of. he knows that you know your voice alone is another to send him speeding off of the cliff of release— your hole squeezing around him, beautiful hips that once brought his children into the world gracefully moving up and down to coax his girthy cock to its final release.

“honey baby,” katsuki whines like a broken man when you cup his face, hot puffs of air warming up the space between you.  his hips don’t let up though, driven by the way you move against him beneath the sheets, he’s so close he can almost taste it. “c-couldn’t wait for you to wake up, needed you so fuckin’ bad...”

your mouth hangs open in a quiet groan, getting lost in the claps of sweaty bodies against one another and katsuki latches onto your lower lips to swallow your noise— breathing it in and letting it spread through his body like oxygen. “oh, lovebug, y-you don’t...” you pause, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the angry tip of your husband’s cock grazes against your gummy spot, sending your walls into a flurry of flutters that make katsuki twitch. “ ...you don’t ever have to wait with me, d-don’t hold back, kay?”

you’re a breathless mess, a sight to behold and he can’t take not having you filled with his seed any longer. the lazy push and pull of your bodies smacking wetly against each other become erratic thrusts, heat pooling in the abdomen of the pro hero boiling him alive in feelings of desire for you and you alone.

bakugou quivers from his lips to his toes when he cums, filling your slippery walls with a creamy white and lining your insides with the claim of your man. your man. your husband. “fuck, fucking hell,  h-honey, gimme that pussy...gimmie that fuckin’ pussy,” his groans linger in the crisp early morning air, dancing with the static while he orgasms within you, endless bouts of white stuffing you to the brim. you kiss in an attempt to calm him, squeezing around his thick cock to ride out his high. you taste of orange liquor  and manuka honey, addicting while he sucks lavishly on your tongue and spares you the air you need to breathe. ‘cause at the end of the day call you need is him.

“did you cum, precious one?” ever the gentleman, katsuki has to ask but even you can see in his blood red ruby eyes ( no matter how tired they may seem ) that he’s gearing up for a second round, shallow thrusts pushing his own release  deeper into your fertile womb. there’s about thirty minutes until the kids wake up, but your lover can make you see stars in fifteen.

you shake your head once as bakugou rolls you onto your back— strong arms caging you into the prison if his love. large hands dance tenderly up the back of your thighs and you meet his eyes with such a saccharine smile his heart bursts at the sight of you. “you’re insatiable, lovebug,” the tingling notes of your moan caresses bakugou’s cheek as he manoeuvres your legs to fold you into a mating press, shifting his weight above you. “did you really need me that much, daddy bear?”

“think y’already know the answer to that, honeybee,” katsuki drawls, tripping over his words filled, oh so generously with blazing desire. he still remains sheathed inside you, a darling whine dripping from his cherry lined lips— the ones sore from kissing you— as he gives an experimental thrust into the tight heat of your core. you accept him willingly, opening up for him like a blossoming flower which makes katsuki’s hot breath stutter from the overstimulation. neither of you can look away, sharing the intimate moment of his length sinking into you— katsuki groans as you suck him in inch by inch before leaning over and attaching his lips to yours, licking at the seam of them in order to coax them open. his wife is a tease however; denying him the pleasure of sucking on her tongue...for now at least.

but it’s all worth it, for katsuki wants to burn the erotic sight of you beneath him into his mind forever. your skin shines like it was kissed by the setting moon, eyes hooded and holding a lust that only burns brightly for him while your chest heaves in anticipation of your husband claiming you for the second time that morning. “m-move suki, please—c-can’t...” the tail end of your pleas fall away with the fading night sky.

the man doesn’t need to be told twice.

save for a few shallow thrusts to get going, katsuki soon finds himself pistoning into you at an unruly, god speed pace. the blonde revels in the way one hand of yours twirls strands of his hair between your fingers whilst the other digs crescent moons into his blemished honey skin. helpless huffs and candied cries tickle bakugou’s ears while he presses your body flush against his and pins you down with his hips.

their movements don’t ever waver, cock catching on every ridge your damp pussy has to offer him, each thrust calculated amplify your pleasure that rolls in heatwaves throughout your body. katsuki’s mind grows blank, thick with the mirage you’ve cast over him from the way you push back against him, taking more of his inches into you.

“ngh, lovebug,” you say, high off of euphoria while katsuki’s leaking cock bears down harshly on your g-spot and you smile up at him deliriously— looking like the eighth wonder of the world. you grab the hand your husband uses to keep your thighs up and bring it down to your tummy for him to feel what you feel. “can feel your cock inside me, love, so big...makin’ my tummy bulge like a good daddy bear...”

something snaps within katsuki at the sound of your breathless praise; a feral blaze setting alight deep inside his chest— spreading throughout his body as his cock drives deeper and deeper inside your spongy, wet cunt— just about breaching the gates of your cervix. breed her. fuck her. make her swollen with your cum. bakugou can’t even think straight; intoxicated by the way you move against him, the way you look so full of him and his thick length.

he wants you to look full all of the time. so katsuki does with the only way he knows how. dropping his head to your neck, sharp attack your neck with blossoms of bruises forming under your skin in the name of love— you whine, a gorgeous symphony of his name against his ear while you tangle your fingers in the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. “y’can’t jus...jus say stuff like that to me, honey...” bakugou croons against your skin, screwing his eyes shut while his hips pick up the pace and plunging his length right into your womb. the sounds of your arousal wetly spill into the sex scented air— fuelling katsuki to thrust into you faster. “not if you...n-not if you don’t want me to fuck another one of those shitty brats into you.”

as stuttered as his words are, bakugou means every single one of them. a primal desire activates in the back of his mind, overriding every single of senses. just the thought of lining your womb with his pungent seed, making you pregnant once again and seeing you round and full with katsuki’s child is enough to drive him off of the rails. And the pro hero knows that you feel the same, he can tell by the way your heat clamps down on his cock and strangles him, as if to milk him of every ounce of his cum.

“yes, want you to make me pregnant suki, make me a mommy again, please—!”  you simper out loud, desperate tears springing to your eyes while the bed groans beneath you. visions of you round and swollen with a baby drives him to thrust into you harder, faster so that more and more of his precum spills into you. “know you want it, want it too...your cum, deep inside me—ohmygod suki—yes!”

bakugou slaps a hand over your mouth, watching as your sweet doe eyes brim with tears at the languid roll of his hips against yours. “careful honeybee, don’t want the kids to...fuckin’ hell... h-hear—“ he stutters, eyes rolling, limbs shaking violently. his other hand drops between your conjoined bodies, drawing vicious circles into your swollen clit to draw you closer and closer to the edge. star dust is littered behind your eyes, the bright white signifying the race to your high that only katsuki can give to you. “or do you want to be heard, you want everyone to hear how full you’re gonna become when i get you pregnant again. how you’ll whine and beg me to suck on your tits when you start makin’ that sweet milk for our baby. is that what you fuckin’ want, yn?”

you can’t help the way your pussy flutters around his cock that brutally grazes your g-spot— the dirty words your husband speaks like music to your ears. a symphony with his moans and the sounds of his balls slapping against your bare ass.  “oooh, shit baby, you must do with the way your lil cunny clamps down on me—just like that...”

“oh god, lovebug please...cum...cum! need it daddy bear—can’t take it anymore,” you babble against katsuki’s hand, brain turning to mush at the unbearable pleasure. the knot in your tummy becomes tighter, close to snapping as the white light of pleasure clouds your view.

patterns drawn diligently against your clit speed up; turning to quick figure of eights to tease your orgasm. “‘course you fuckin’ do honey baby, my little breeding bitch. my sweet little wife who can’t wait to be a mommy again. take this cock, you dirty whore. take it and I’ll give you my fuckin’ baby.” bakugou slurs, losing all control as the pace of his hips begins to falter. you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, tip pulsing with the need to paint your insides.

your gazes lock within the frenzy, while your back arches and hips lift to take your husband deeper inside you. dynamite is feral like you’ve never seen before; an animal reduced purely back to instinct. unfocused red eyes become teary like your own with hot pleasure while they lock onto you but you know that behind lust; loved the adoration and love your husband holds for you. thats all you need to reach the edge and tumble into your orgasm,

it takes but a few more thrusts and a pinch to your clit before you’re cumming— release squirting out and splattering against bakugou’s toned abdomen.

the blonde never lets up while you cum undone on his iron hot rod, letting him pump into you with unrelenting feverishness. katsuki is desperate, needing an extra push even with you strangling his cock with your insides. “s-say you’ll make your daddy a daddy baby, say you’ll give me another fucking kid. fuck, fuck yeah...please honey baby—“ bakugou damn near sobs, trembling violently above you as his breath hitches with ever hiccup.

smiling gently, you pull his head to your neck, cradling your husband while his pace slows to circular grinds. “i’ll make you a daddy again, you can cum for me now lovebug...”

“shit, shit, oh god— cummin’...” thats all bakugou needs to hear before bottoming out inside of your abused hole—  screaming against your bitten flesh and forcing his cock into your fertile womb as he sprays with his thick, sticky seed. white coats every ridge and crevice of your pussy while impatient thrusts slow to sensual grinds. you feel the tears of neediness soak the supple skin of your neck, rocking your hips against katsuki to milk his cock for all it’s worth— even if slow waves of his cum seep down your folds and to the sheets below.

“g’morning, katsuki,” you sigh blissfully, fingers combing through your lover’s sweaty mop of sun kissed locks. the pair of you lie still, limbs still intertwined as you catch your breath under the orange hues of the light outside.

your husband shifts his head to look at you, eyelids heavy over blood red eyes with a satisfied look on his face. he’ll never get over having you all to himself first thing in the morning— katsuki bakugou will always consider that a luxury and as he looks to you, a great smile soon takes his features. “yeah...good fucking morning to you too, angel face,” bakugou doesn’t dare pull out of you, intent on keeping his word. “love you yn, you’re always so good to me...”

katsuk’s lips mould into a pout as you continue your earlier ministrations of brushing back sweat slicked hair away from his face before pressing a chase kiss to his lip and making his cock twitch from over sensitivity, inside of you. he was always a sucker for the romantic moments after a passionate round of sex, he was a domestic, love struck son of a bitch what could he say? “suki...lovebug, you know you can pull out if it’s too much,” you remind him, the sound of your voice pulling his attention back to you. as he stares; katsuki maps out every detail of your face, the way your eyes glitter in the mellow light that peeks from between closed curtains or the slight dip across your cheek in the form of a scar from where you’d been injured on the field— he spends time committing it all to memory as if it’s the last time he’ll get to witness such beauty. “you’re staring, bug.”

“nuh uh, not pulling out.” huffing, bakugou leans up for another kiss, which you happily provide him with as he curls up onto your chest like a kitten seeking warmth. “keepin’ you plugged full s’you can get preggers like i fuckin’ promised.”

“you were serious?” you question him first, earning yourself another grouchy huff before your eyes roll and a comfortable silence sweeps across your bedroom, periodically interrupted by the morning birds waking up and chirping. “always a man of your word, huh bug? don’t worry, we’ll make you a daddy bear soon, but i’ve got to clean up before the kids wake up.”

“don’ you fuckin’ move— leave the dumbass kids, they’ll be fine on their own.”

“not with taiga’s quirk coming through, now move, you’re heavy.”

with that, you manage to shove bakugou off of you and he only hisses lightly as his softened cock hits the cold air, already missing your heat. the banter between you both as husband and wife is always light and you always win; he wants to bite back but anything he says will be soft on his sharp tongue. damn you and you being the love of his life. bakugou watches as you fix his shirt over your frame and head to your en-suite bathroom to make yourself more presentable to your kids— mumbling something about how many times katsuki came inside of you.

sure there was a lot of it, but he’d only cum inside you twice and he was trying to give you a baby. again.

the shower turns on and he can hear the sound of water running but it doesn’t cover your sweet voice as you call for him. he could never miss that. “katsuki bakugou, you horny bastard, i love you, my daddy bear!” you sing for him; making the blonde smile.

“i love you more, honey baby,” he chuckles back, tucking himself back into sweats before settling back into the ruined sheets.

bakugou was so luckily to have you and you’re beautiful children— he wouldn’t trade any moment of his life for the world except for maybe more time with you. he swore, he’d spend forever loving you if he could.

“daddy?” sweet thoughts are cut off by the groggy voice of bakugou’s eldest daughter, taiga, who stands in the doorway of his bedroom rubbing her cherry red eyes.

the blonde grins, rising from his place in bed and crossing the room in three short strides. he quickly crouches down in front of his little girl and ruffle her unruly mop of matching blonde hair. “g’morning brat, what’s up?”

taiga clutches her shoto plushy tightly, the one uncle todoroki had gotten her for her first birthday ( the one that bakugou hated because it was his daughter’s favourite— kirishima hated it too because he had always thought he was the favourite uncle ), and pouts down at her father, scowling sleepily. bakugou knows if you could see the two of them now, you’d be saying she was the spitting image of him. “tatsumo woke up n wouldn’t stop whinin’, fink he’s hungry, daddy!” the little girl grumbles, clearly still reeling in the after effects of her sleep that got cut short.

“how about we go get him and make some pancakes then?” katsuki suggests softly, hauling his daughter onto his bare shoulders and being mindful not to drop her stupid fuckin’— i mean her plushy to the ground. “y’gonna help me mix up enough batter for ya ma n’ brother, you got that brat?”

taiga squeals as at the new found height, wrapping a singular chubby arm around bakugou’s head for support, making his heart burst at the tiny hand that grips his chin. fuck, he loved his life. “only if we can add choco chwips, daddy!”

“oi, don’t you push your fuckin’ luck with me brat, ya mommy might let you get away with eatin’ shit like that but not me—“ bakugou makes an attempt to scold his daughter while they make way towards his son’s room, but he already knows he’s going to give into her. he can’t say no to taiga.

“i’ll tell mommy you cursed at me!”

“why you little sh—“

“careful, katsuki, if you keep cursing her out i might have to put you on punishment later,” taiga bursts in to wriggly giggles on bakugou’s shoulders, making it harder to keep her in place as you brush past him to grab tatsumo from the nursery.

“daddy’s gonna get in trouble!”

the teasing tone to your voice lingers in the air while you fetch your son, who seems groggy and pouty when he comes into katsuki’s view— wrapped up in your arms while you wear a cleaner shirt of his. there’s that glint in your eye, similar to the one your children posses when they’re doing something mischievous. and  that alone tells the ash blonde he’ll be getting punished in ways that could lead to another little one rushing through your house.

bakugou can roll with that.

but for now; he reaches up and pinches taiga’s nose— telling her to stop running her mouth and sending you into giggles while you carry your children downstairs for breakfast. katsuki bakugou couldnt remember the last time he’d gotten a full nights sleep, but what he did know is that he’d always remember the very saccharine mornings he’d get to spend with you and your beautiful children after.

bonus:

“taiga, did you put chocolate chips in the batter even though i told you no?”

bakugou had turned his back for but a mere second to grab some milk for tatsumo; who played happily with smooshed bits of banana in his high chair— and suddenly, the batter was littered with the offending, tiny pieces of candy.

“no, it was mommy!”

“yn...”

you quickly throw your hands up in the air as defence, dropping the packet of sinful treats to the counter. “what? i’m having cravings, bakugou!”

“you’re not even pregnant, yn!” the man himself raises his spatula at you accusingly with a scowl, biting down on his tongue to prevent himself from cursing again.

you smile up at your husband, knowing he can’t stay mad at you for long. “but i will be, katsuki, it’s the thought that counts.” your eyes flicker up as you wipe the melted chocolate on your finger tips off with your tongue before moving to settle your daughter down for breakfast. bakugou splutters, cheeks flaming with a reddish rose at the thought of your soon to be baby and all the activity that comes with making one which makes you laugh. “oh and lovebug? your pancakes are burning.”

with a jump, katsuki turns to flick off the flame and save his batch of pancakes while you tend to your kids— leaving him to contemplate over your chocolate chip breakfast, how lucky he was to have you.

“i crave chocolate, can i get a pregnant?” taiga squeals shortly after.

“not a chance in hell, brat.”

♡ taglist:

@ozzy-bozzy @bakugous-mamas @meg-mystic @runningon-5percentsleep @cyans-bliss @husband-to-tomura-shigaraki @paintedr0ses1 @69meggg69 @sapphoscolonoscopy @toshidou @saucey-kneecapzz42020 @candybabey @alrunemara​ @greenchild​

[carryonthroughtheages]

Hello everyone!

Another year of Carry On Through The Ages is over and done! We have emotions and exhaustion, but we're so happy that this year had the hype and excitement that it did.

Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, to all of the AMAZING creators who spent the last several months working away at their historical content!

Thank you also to the hard-working mods: @bazzybelle, @giishu, @palimpsessed, and @xivz . This fest would not have been as successful as it has been without you!

We encourage everyone to look under the page break for all the fics and art. They're all fantastic!

Here is the link to the AO3 Collection: Carry On Through The Ages 2021!

Thank you all, and until next year! 🧡🧡🧡

MONDAY:

1) sun on the sea (T) - @trenchcoat-moth : AO3 // Tumblr

Tensions run high in England, and Malcolm decides it's for the best he sends Baz to live with Fiona, where he'll be safer.

That is, until Baz's ship is attacked.

2) The Words I Long To Say (M) - @bazzybelle : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow was dead.

Baz Pitch was sure of it. Simon had gone away seven years ago to fight a war in the jungle and he hadn't come home.

So, when Simon shows up in Baz's club, investigating a string of brutal murders, all Baz wants to do is hold him close and never let him go.

But these aren't the same boys from 1960 and Baz has a lot of processing to do before he's ready to believe in Simon again.

3) we are slaves to gods, whatever gods are (M) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 // Tumblr

I don’t fully understand what plagues him, but I know it’s bad, and I know it goes deeper than guilt. He didn’t want to kill his father, not really, but we were instructed to do so by Apollo. Cleanse the house of its sins, dispose of a murderer to set things right. It was only right that I join him; he was avenging my mother as much as his. Clearly, Apollo didn’t seem to consider that such an act would make Simon a murderer in his father’s place. It seems I got off fine, but as far as Simon is concerned, the vengeful spirits that once spun and danced on the roof of the palace now hunt him down, determined not to stop until he rids the world of himself.

4) World War II Era Art - @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr

TUESDAY:

1) the art of loving you (E) - @one-more-offbeat-anthem : AO3 // Tumblr

1955. London. Young love.

Forbidden love.

A year ago, starving artist Simon Snow met Baz Pitch, son of a wealthy art patron, at a party, and their days (and nights) together have been a wonderful secret.

But Simon is tired of being a secret and knows it's time for things to end.

(Baz has other ideas.)

2) Reliquary of an Arsonist (T) - @tea-brigade : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow grew up a ward of Watford Abbey, but when his magic manifested in an explosive accident as a child, he became the Abbey’s anchorite—never to leave Watford’s walls, for his own protection. That is, until Abbot David sends him on an important errand…

Basilton Pitch paints portraits for his patron, Lord Grimm. But he’s never forgotten the magic he learned from his mother—nor the men who condemned her to death as a heretic. When Simon arrives and offers Baz a commission from Watford Abbey, he sees his chance to avenge his mother once and for all...and he’s willing to burn down everything in his path to that end.

But it was no coincidence that pulled these two unlikely souls together. Something more sinister is underway at Watford Abbey, and only Simon and Baz can uncover the truth before everything goes up in flames.

3) Westward Son (E) - @aristocratic-otter : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon and Baz have found each other again, but there's nowhere in Brooklyn or Virginia where they can safely be together. So now, they venture the hazards and struggles of the Oregon trail, to perhaps find a little homestead in Oregon of their own.

4) A Way Out (T) - @lying-on-the-sofa : AO3

I frown at him..“You don’t know me.”

He offers his hand. “Simon.”

Simon. I feel the name around in my mind and assign it to his face. Simon. I don’t shake his hand. They’ve still got my arms pinned. “Basilton.”

Simon nods at me. “Now we know each other. Let him go.” Very casually, he takes his other hand from behind his back. A sword, flashing. He leans on it and smiles invitingly. “Let him go.”

This time, they listen.

--

Simon Snow has been trained for years to become a tribute—one of the fighters Athens sends every ninth year into the Minotaur’s labyrinth. He wants to know the way out, if only for Penny’s sake. Luckily for him, Prince Basilton of Crete also wants a way out—off the island, where no one will know he’s the half-brother of the Minotaur.

Unluckily for both of them, they don’t exactly form the most agreeable pair.

WEDNESDAY

1) long is the road the leads me home (G) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 (Version 1) (Version 2) // Tumblr

Baz has a rather unremarkable life, and he's fine with that. Running his late mother's beloved inn with his temperamental aunt, estranged from his father and step-siblings, he's successfully convinced himself that he's better off without attachments.

Then Simon barrels into his life, guns blazing and rapier drawn, and Baz is swept up in dramatic plot he never bargained for.

Worse still, he finds he quite likes the thrill.

2) New Romantics (T) - @ninemagicks : AO3 // Tumblr

Basilton Pitch, twenty-two years old and a famed poet of the Romantic era, has fled to the countryside. In Mummers House, the fabled haunt of literary greats, he sulks himself into oblivion and awaits a sad, disappointing end to his brief years of brilliance. The cause of his downfall? None other than Simon Snow, the so-called “bad boy of English poetry”, breaker of rules and eternal thorn in his side. Baz hopes that Mummers House might mean an escape from London, from Snow and his increasingly virulent popularity... but the rain that comes has other ideas.

3) thnétos (T) - @snowybank : AO3 // Tumblr

thnétos: subject to death, mortal

a retelling of Apollo and Hyacinthus

4) A Medieval AU art piece - @thewriterxj : Tumblr

THURSDAY

1) From Eden (E) - @orange-peony : AO3 // Tumblr

I wonder if his skin is warm or cold to the touch. I tell myself it’s simple curiosity, that I’m an artist and capturing things on paper or canvas is my way to make sense of the world. That drawing him feels so natural, so I should just follow my instincts. Ebb used to say it all the time. Follow your heart. It knows where you’re supposed to go.

I wish I could. I wish I had enough money and freedom to just draw what I want. To paint him in his unattainable beauty. To draw him the way I want to. Naked and vulnerable, raw. Without frills and expensive suits.

Just Baz on paper, my fingers tracing his delicate and beautiful lines with simple charcoal.

2) Slings and Eros (M) - @palimpsessed : AO3 // Tumblr

Young god of love Simonides is tasked by his father, the god of war, to bring about the ruin of a mortal prince to punish his blasphemy. However, once Simonides sees his intended victim, he begins to have misgivings. Prince Tyrannus might have offended the gods with his very existence, but all Simonides can see is how beautiful and lonely he is.

Or, a very loose interpretation of the Eros and Psyche myth.

3) I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire (M) - @knitbelove : AO3 // Tumblr

September 1940: Going back to Watford feels different this year, and not just because England is at the brink of war with Germany and Italy. Penelope seems unsettled by everything, and Agatha is distant, and Baz is … simply not here.

What if Carry On but during the Blitz?? Yeah.

4) A Fool's Oath (M) - @thewriterxj : AO3 // Tumblr

A simple soldier is invited to join the ranks of the royal guard. He and his appointed mage arrive at the royal city to find themselves at the mercy of an unmerciful court. As he struggles to find his place in this foreign environment, he also finds himself entranced by music that only he seems to hear that floats out about the city. He makes an oath to wed whoever makes such beautiful music.

Too bad that person is the crown prince.

FRIDAY

1) Stranger Tides (T) - @tea-brigade & @xivz : AO3 // Tumblr

“If some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure…” Captain Simon Snow of the Chosen One is many things—cunning, handsome, ruthless. Greedy. It’s no surprise that Snow finds a way to piss off the God of the Sea, he always manages to get himself into some type of trouble. This time, however, he’s not the only one who will suffer the consequences. Poseidon promises to not stop his pursuit until Snow and all of his men are dead.

Enter Basilton Pitch—rich, beautiful, mysterious. Suspicious. He offers the crew of the Chosen One a hefty sum to take him back to Europe from the Caribbean. And who is Captain Snow to refuse so much coin? After all, Greek gods aren’t real.

Right?

2) The wayward heir [comic] (M) - @letraspal : AO3 // Tumblr

Like a folk song, our love will be passed on. Simon Snow wants to be an artist. He used to live in Fiesole where he worked in the wool shop of his good friend Ebeneza Petty. He has now chosen to return to his native Florence in order to participate in an art contest hosted by the Pitch family, the most important bankers in all the three continents and Simon’s last chance for an art patronage. No matter how much he hates them.

But being back in Florence also brings back the memories Simon wanted to leave behind : his days as an orphan, the mystery about his mother, and once more being under the inquisitive eyes of his godfather, the new archbishop Davy. The archbishop is very same man who would never forgive him for dropping out the priesthood and ruining his secret plans against the Pitches.

The last thing Simon needed was an unbearably handsome jerk getting him into trouble on his very first day in Florence. How can focus when this man is the most annoying person he has ever met and yet his major source of inspiration.

3) Prohibition Blues (T) - @heyyyandrea : AO3

Simon Snow is a baker and aspiring playwright in Prohibition Era New York City. When he meets a handsome man at Shepherd's speakeasy who is interested in his work, he can't help but think it feels too good to be true.

4) Earth Below & Sky Above (M) - @phoxphyre : AO3 // Tumblr

In the depth of the palace of King Minos of Crete lurks a creature known as the Minotaur.

Baz, prince of Athens and chosen of the god Poseidon, has heard the stories. And now he’s volunteered to come to Crete as one of the annual tributes—to dance with the king’s bulls and fulfill his destiny. He just wants to survive the bulls, protect his people, and go home.

But what if the Minotaur isn’t a monster—but just a boy? And what if instead of slaying him, Baz fell in love with him?

A Carry On retelling of the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, set in Bronze Age Crete.

5) A 1980s AU Art piece by @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr // Instagram (Slightly NSFW)

[quillyfied]

Mega Good Omens Fic Rec Post 5

What up, it’s back!

77 carefully-curated titles for your perusal today! As always, the fics are broken into the following categories: Jaunts through History/Canon, South Downs, Post-Apocalypse, Bus Ride/The Night Before/Heaven and Hell, AU/UA, Just Soft, Touch-Starved/Body Worship/Wings, Bonus, and H/C /Whump/BAMF. I don’t read smut fics but sometimes there are sexual elements to the stories and sometimes you get invested and then suddenly the author drops a smut chapter, so warnings where applicable.

Mega GOmens Fic Rec Post MASTER

LET ME KNOW IF A LINK IS BROKEN OR MISATTRIBUTED AND I WILL FIX IT RIGHT AWAY.

JAUNTS THROUGH HISTORY/CANON

1.     Get Thee To A Nunnery – Owenjones (T, the one where Aziraphale is put in a nunnery and needs a bit of a rescue. More or less Ineffable Wives time, but warnings for Aziraphale being forced into a female corporation against his will, that’s pretty icky (three guesses for who the offending Archangel is). Crowley is posing as a little lady known as Julie D’Aubigny, which, if that rings no bells, you should Google her immediately and then go into this fic cackling like I did. Very sweet, a fun little adventure!)

2.    Bibliophilia – @wingedspirit (G, the one where Aziraphale has a book nemesis and Crowley always seems to have the perfect book as a gift, what a coincidence. This is so funny, you guys, seriously. We stan ONE (1) oblivious angel in this house. And when Aziraphale finally catches on, it’s so cute, I can’t even. I cannot EVEN. Go read it right now immediately.)

3.    The Heart Goes To Heaven, The Head Goes To Hell – Dekkles (T, the one where Crowley has intentions of making an angel Fall and it kinda…backfires. Guys fair warning, this one’s version of Hell is really gross, if you’re squeamish tread very carefully bc WOW it can get a bit graphic. Y’know what’s also gross? The PINING (obviously not gross in the same way but the pining is awfully feelsy and part of it does happen in Hell). Watching this Crawly go from an honestly nauseating portrayal of Hell to watching Aziraphale and kinda awkwardly twitching in his light is so delightful and I hope for more in the future (though maybe less visions of Hell, I will be so glad if and when the fic leaves that place because yikes).)

4.    i like this place (it feels spooky) – @asideofourown (G, the one where Warlock manages to convince Nanny and Brother Francis to take him to a haunted house and it’s so cute. You guys. It’s SO cute. You really get a feel for little Warlock’s personality and how he sees things (and he sees ALL). Just a really cute “family” outing, really, and someone gets spooked at the end and it’s not who you think!)

5.    Doubt the Stars are Fire – LilithReisender (T, the one where Aziraphale bails Crowley out of prison and they spend time together in an Italian villa. This one has cool history bits, really fun banter, and Crowley actively on the job while trying to pretend he isn’t on the job. It’s a delight, and it’s just getting started! Jump on this bandwagon, folks, it’s great!)

6.    The Hellfire Club – @amarguerite (NR, the one where greater measures are taken to make sure Aziraphale isn’t promoted back upstairs. This one is so hilarious, you guys, I can’t even tell you which bit is my favorite. And the cherry on top? Wing grooming! (I can also tell you that something highly unpleasant happens to Sandalphon, if that sweetens the pot for anyone.) If you have a Thing for Crowley and Aziraphale being melodramatic and overacting, then stay put, friends. Also continue reading this list, there’s a few more that’ll catch your eye later on.)

7.     The Immortal Look – MickyRC (G, the one where Crowley puts Aziraphale in some kohl and it’s awesome. A written entry for the Prince of Omens DTIYS, and even independent from Prince of Omens this fic is a winner, in my book. Crowley going dewy-eyed over Aziraphale’s looks in any capacity is always My Jam and this fic really goes for it.)

8.    Merry & Bright – @peppervl (G, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley go undercover as a married couple in the Regency. You like fem!Aziraphale but don’t see it often enough? SIT DOWN, FRIENDO. Not only does this have a lovely Miss Fell for us to fawn over, but it’s a Miss Fell in possession of a fortune and surely in want of a husband, according to prim-and-proper London, and who better to help her out than one Mr. Crowley who happens to need some help on a temptation? Fun, romantic, and with a cute little twist at the end I shan’t spoil but you should really stick around for.)

9.    Putting the Endearment in Dear – @joyandotherstories (G, the one where Aziraphale starts calling everyone “dear” just so he can also call Crowley by endearments. This one is sweet and a little sad and has the softest possible ending, y’all don’t even know. Read it, the point in time where Aziraphale doesn’t have to hold back his mountain of endearments anymore is a sight to behold.)

10. Between the Lines – cyankelpie (G, the one where Crowley and Aziraphale’s feelings are known but not spoken, at least not directly. This one is a historical jaunt where they have a lot of double-meaning conversations (and Crowley is very rightly lost through a lot of it, poor dear), and it aches, you guys, it just hurts. Not finished yet as of this review but WHEN IT’S DONE—I’m sure it’ll be worth it. Hot dang.)

11.  No Matter How the Stars Align (They Make Me Think of You) – silentsonata (G, the one that covers stars that Crowley and Aziraphale have met under. Every once in a while there’ll come along a fic that shakes the ground as it walks. I understand the Big Bang events usually churn these out, and there are quite a few on this list, but this fic here? A masterpiece. Pitch-perfect in every way, just a stunner. I want to tell y’all to pay special attention to certain chapters but they all took my breath utterly away and it would be unfair to single any out over the rest, the whole work is a monument. Just beautiful.)

12.  Too Wise to Woo Peaceably – purewanderlust (T, the one that’s five times they see “Much Ado About Nothing” throughout history. I love me some “Much Ado,” personally, and this fic knows what it’s on about. Wonderfully romantic and ends with the single most perfect conversation, I swear 2 someone. Hits right in the feels.)

13.  Just Another Sword Fight – DemonicGeek (NR, the one that’s a 5+1 about Crowley swordfighting. If you’re here because Aziraphale taking on the role of the swooning maiden to Crowley’s dashing hero makes you, in fact, be the one swooning, say hello to your new best friend. If you like to follow all that up with Aziraphale taking charge when needed, I might suggest building a home here, because ABSOLUTELY that’s what you’re getting.)

14.  A Few More Rescues – @poetic----nonsense (T, the one with, predictably, a few more rescues. If the previous fic had you reeling and begging for more, welcome to the buffet, children. These are some really fun rescues by Crowley on behalf of Aziraphale, and they’re unconventional and historical AF (especially the bit with the dragon) (you bet your sweet keister there’s a bit with a dragon). This fic is so much fun and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.)

15.  Floriography – Frenchmeister (T, the one where Crowley doesn’t get flower language. The premise is, Crowley slept through a large chunk of the Victorian era, so he doesn’t know what Aziraphale keeps trying to say as they work at the Dowlings’ estate raising Warlock. He does know that the philodendron is a menace, no matter what it’s supposed to mean. Funny and nerve-wracking and so, so sweet.)

16.  The Interplay of Illusion and Magic – SoulJelly (T, the one where Aziraphale tries to join a magicians’ society. This one has some delightful history and Aziraphale trying to perform sleight of hand magic to get in a secret magicians club and a surprising twist near the middle, all told; it’s a lot more exciting than I initially thought it was going to be (I was just expecting some fluff and that was not all I got; it’s always a good day when Crowley has to come to the rescue).)

SOUTH DOWNS

17.  There goes the neighborhood – @bestoftheseekwill (G, the one where Crowley’s retirement peace is threatened by construction. If you’re here for Crowley wiles, anti-capitalism, and flashes of protective Aziraphale, get ready to take a load off because this is primo.)

18. Teatime Revelations – Cardinal_Daughter (T, the one where God invites Herself over for tea. This one is strained and it’s emotional and it’s all the softer for it. Aziraphale being quiet and protective while Crowley has a come-apart in the face of God is iconic, tbh; pretty sure this fic inspired a lot of my own portrayals of the GOmens God, looking back on it. A wonderful and light-hearted take.)

POST-APOCALYPSE

19.  Lose a Kraken, Gain an Angel – MistressKat (T, the one where Hastur has an expected friendship. This fic has everything—Hastur being a sympathetic character, the Kraken, Crowley pining after Aziraphale, the Antichrist, and is hilarious from start to finish. A fun and tonally accurate diversion, please read.)

20. Something Old, Something New – shippityshipship (G, the series where Crowley and Aziraphale are involved in weddings. Short and hasn’t updated in a while but still excellent reading, I find; great characterization, some fun OCs, lovely atmosphere, oblivious pining while everyone else thinks they’re dating, it’s amazing.)

21.  The difficulty with disposable demons – @areyougonnabe (T, the one where Eric the disposable demon shows up and it’s a madhouse in Crowley’s apartment. This is a really funny take on what happens to the disposable demons and why they are the way they are, and with the added bonus of driving Crowley up the wall and some mild miscommunications with Aziraphale that are all sorted out in the end.)

22. Care and Keeping – @arcafira (M, T, the series where Crowley is shedding and Aziraphale tries to help. Not rated M for anything violent or sexual, really more of a T than an M but there is a bath scene and a lot of self-loathing. There’s a lot of convincing Crowley to let Aziraphale care for him and a lot of working through Fall-related issues, but it leaves off in a wonderfully hopeful place.)

23. The Clockwork Days – redwinehouse (T, the one where the world’s ending again. There are many fics that have tackled possible sequels to Good Omens and this is one of the more tonally accurate ones, I feel; it’s very tongue-in-cheek and matter-of-fact, and the little twist at the end was a genuine surprise to me. Whack in plenty of mutual pining and a Bentley that has had it up to HERE with these idiots and you’ve got a recipe for a good little story.)

24. don’t leave me here alone – Elvendork (T, the one where Crowley asks for holy water again. This one is a tense argument, right up until it isn’t, and absolutely delectable, really. If you’re a fan of Aziraphale bringing up hellfire to go toe to toe with Crowley on the issue, BUCKLE UP BUTTERCUP, this one is dunking itself into Soft Town with that accelerant to really drive it home.)

25. The Next Time We Wed – seashadows (T, the one where a mix-up leads to marriage. If drunken mistakes and their aftermath is what you’re after, welcome to the party, folks, because this one’s a whopper. Can people pine while being married to each other? The answer is yes. Can it have a soft ending? Also yes. Can it include the mothers of such characters as Anathema and Newt being wonderful characters in their own right? The answer, incredibly, is yes.)

26. You Can’t Un-See A Dog – @holycatsandrabbits (T, the one where Crowley is summoned and there’s shenanigans afoot. I won’t talk too much about the plot of this one bc I don’t want to spoil it but suffice it to say that this one is hilarious and has some especially gratifying Ineffable Husband silent communication at play. If your entire reason for existence, like Crowley’s, is seeing Bastard!Aziraphale at work, then bunk down here, friendos, you’ve arrived.)

BUS RIDE/NIGHT BEFORE/HEAVEN AND HELL

27. Crowley, Big Bad Demon, Can Keep His Cool Around His Crush – @edennovik (T, the one where Crowley…well, see title, and then immediately disregard. Crowley cannot, in fact, keep his cool around his crush. Crowley is doing the opposite of keeping his cool around his crush. Crowley is a ball of anxiety and screaming pining gooey mess and Aziraphale might just like him anyway.)

AU/UA

28. If Not Now, When – @ineffablefool (T, the one where trans café worker Crowley strikes up a conversation with fat pretty Aziraphale. Listen. Y’all know ineffablefool. Y’all know he is a force that cannot be stopped or reckoned with, when it comes to Soft Fat-Postive Asexual Romance. So I do not say this lightly when I say that this is possibly his masterwork. There is a lot of good, good content in his catalogue but the emotional work put into this makes the whole thing stand straight up and resonate. It’s tender and respectful and handles conflicts of gender and sexuality with grace and gentleness and oh no I’m tearing up pls send help I’m DROWNING—).

29. Trip the Light – @summerofspock (M, the one where Aziraphale falls in love first. M for a sex scene near the end of the fic, second half of Chapter 17, so keep an eye out for that if you’re sensitive to it. Oh, y’all. This one goes through canon and a few scenes outside of it and the recontextualizing of those scenes as Aziraphale hopelessly in love and Crowley as oblivious is amazing. Even more amazing: once Crowley finally catches on and then it becomes Aziraphale once again in his role of holding back. Guys. Y’all. My DUDES. I am in the throes of agony. It’s so good.)

30. one love (only for you) – @weatheredlaw (M, the one that’s a vague Snow White AU. It’s truly unfair how poetic and romantic this one is, how lovely. It has fantasy elements and ridiculous vengeful brothers and soft, soft boys in love. A sweet little way to spend an afternoon, tbh.)

31.  in the house we remain – @commodorecliche (M, the one where Crowley’s a ghost in the house Aziraphale has bought. M for masturbation, weird ghost sex, and a harrowing backstory for Crowley; if you’re squeamish about sexual things and not good at gauging how to skip them, or if you can’t stand abuse stories, I would pass this one up. Y’all. Y’ALL. So thoroughly upsetting, this one; the horror elements are real but so is the romance and it’s a beautiful balance of the two. What’s wild is how believable it is; it could easily have been a story about Aziraphale just becoming obsessed with and romanticizing a dead person who used to live in his house but it feels like an actual love story, with Crowley learning how to trust Aziraphale, as well, despite their planar incompatibility. The ending is so unbelievably sweet. And there’s art now! There wasn’t, when I first added it to the list! Huzzah!)

32. pop! goes my heart – @areyougonnabe (E, the one that’s a Music and Lyrics AU. E for a sex scene near the end of Chapter 6 that’s a bit difficult to skip, since there’s a couple of relevant paragraphs after it that set up the next chapter, but if you’re up for the challenge, godspeed. First things first: this fic has ORIGINAL MUSIC RECORDED BY THE AUTHOR AND IT’S AMAZING. Music and Lyrics is one of my personal favorite romcoms, and what’s been done with it is not only accurate to the actual music industry, but accurate to the characters, as well. It’s such a fun story, adapted well, and the writing style is just charming. Fantastic!)

33. For the First Time in Forever – @nicnacsnonsense (T, the one that’s a Frozen AU. I am excited for this one, y’all. The adaptation is already so much fun and it’s only going to get funner. Aziraphale as Elsa and Crowley in an Anna-adjacent role (but not actually bc no incest) is amazing, the Olaf stand-in outshines the original, and the emotional toll is already pretty high. Absolutely worth a read.)

34. Sailor’s Omens – NeverNooitNiet (G, the one where Crowley’s a pirate and Aziraphale is his prisoner. There’s a touch of historical homophobia but that doesn’t matter much out at sea, really. If the boys being clever and bickering and also one-upping beloved series antagonists is something you enjoy, welcome to the party, friends. It’s a good old-fashioned piracy romp that’s sure to satisfy.)

35. Pomegranate Seeds – @nicnacsnonsense (G, the one that’s a Persephone and Hades AU with Aziraphale as Hades and Crowley as Persephone. This one has a unique tone and is also romantic as all get-out; throw in genderfluid Crowley, love at first sight, and Aziraphale being a sweetie, it’s a story well worth its salt, imo.)

36. Laws of Gravity – @brightwanderer (T, the one where Aziraphale invents pining for Raphael. Listen. I think we all know at this point that brightwanderer, or Atalan on ao3, has earned her clout as a GOmens fanfic heavyweight. She didn’t NEED to write an awkward and earnest Raphael trying to go incognito as Crowley into the Garden of Eden. She didn’t NEED to write about how incredibly awkward Aziraphale is while heels over halo in love. She didn’t NEED to have an engaging plot and a wonderful twist on the Temptation of Eve and also the most awkward and obvious besotted angels in the universe. But she did. And we are blessed. So go partake.)

37. Incubus!Crowley – GenericUsername01 (G, T, the series where Crowley is a sex demon and we get to see what that means. This fic threads the very specific needle I personally enjoy where sex is an element of the story and has bearing on it, but the story doesn’t have any actual sex scenes in it. I love this writer’s style and where they take Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship; I love the view of Hell in the first bit; I love all of it, really. A+++.)

38. Everyone But You – @summerofspock (M, the one where Crowley is hired to seduce an angel. M for some saucy makeouts and some post-coital afterglow but nothing explicit. If y’all like stories where a conman is hired to do a job and starts to have complicated feelings about it, especially if those feelings are falling in love with his mark, then here you go. It’s amazing as all heck and hilarious to boot; Crowley learning what falling in love is like is always a treat but omg. Poor Aziraphale. And the most DELIGHTFUL resolution, my goodness.)

39. In Mixed Company, or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell – @theoldaquarian (M, the one where Heaven and Hell have a joint corporate retreat every so often and Crowley and Aziraphale are doomed. M for some adult themes but nothing explicit. Y’all. TheOldAquarian must be stopped. They cannot continue to be so funny and engaging. They cannot continue to have the most corporate and hilariously mundane depiction of Heaven and Hell. They are a MENACE who, in the space of one fic, has packed all the pining of the ages in so tightly that when it finally bursts free, my shoulders physically relaxed and my spine uncoiled. This fic in particular is too much and too wonderful. I really must protest.)

40. Loosely Ballroom – marginalia_device, @mortifyingideal (T, the one where Aziraphale is a professional dancer and Crowley is a contestant on a show with him (for American viewers, think Dancing With the Stars). This fic is so good and so funny and so achingly in-character. I love Crowley as the washed-up old star trying to kick his career back up, I love Aziraphale as the put-upon dancer on his last legs, and I love that they’re both the victim of a studio gimmick and then decide that malicious compliance is their best bet. It’s still early in the fic (…at over 40k words wow it’s gonna be a monster and I’m ready), but it’s going to be so good already, I can just tell. There’s already some art for it floating around by naniiebimworks for the interested.)

JUST SOFT

41.  Repeat the Sounding Joy – @allonsy-gabriel (G, the one where they decorate a Christmas tree. This is a short and sweet look at what the holidays are like for an angel and a demon post-apocalypse and it’s so adorable, you guys. Crowley having FEELINGS and Aziraphale being fussy about his decorating, it’s just a treat.)

42. The Nesting Habits of Angelus Principalum – @obaewankenope (NR, the one where Aziraphale nests and is gently protective. This fic is quiet and understated and so unbelievably romantic without being over the top about it; it’s a quiet coming together that creeps up on you, much like how the realization of Aziraphale’s nesting habits creeps up on Crowley. A lovely little thing.)

43. we’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow – @tonyhawksmovingcastle (E, the one where Crowley and Aziraphale wind up faking a relationship on a couple’s cruise. E for Chapter 7, which is completely skippable without ruining any plot. This one gets a double whammy for both engaging plot and wonderful OCs that add to rather than distract from the story. Fake dating is fun enough but when you’re fake dating and also being wingmanned by well-meaning possibly supernatural sapphics, while also having fun in the tropics, it’s a recipe for a good time all around (at least for the audience). So lovely and sweet and that moment when Crowley and Aziraphale finally get together is magic.)

44. Road Trip Games and Love – rgfalso (T, the one where Crowley and Aziraphale go on a road trip together. This one almost takes place in real time, and has the most intense and emotional back-and-forth while these poor saps try to work out the Thing between them without actually talking about it for as long as inhumanly possible. Of course there are lots of road trip games, and of course those road trip games are a vehicle of conveyance for what they’re actually trying to say, and cue all the misunderstandings in the world. It’s frustrating and cathartic and amazing and the end especially is so, so sweet.)

45. The Most Stylish Wedding of AZ Fell and AJ Crowley – @leapoffaith1489 (T, the one where Aziraphale is determined to discard tartan for the wedding. Y’all. Omg. If relatively low-stakes cute wedding shenanigans are your thing, welcome home. If Aziraphale being pleasantly surprised is your thing, welcome home. If Aziraphale working through minor insecurities is your thing, welcome, truly, home. Featuring a lovely cast of side characters and a soft-as-butter plot.)

46. The Newlywed Game (Not What You’d Think) – @heavenslittlehellion (NR, the one where a game of drunken truth-telling goes a little farther than anticipated. Hello, welcome to the emotional gut-punch fic, you’ve arrived. The only thing that saves this from dunking into the last category on this list with the other h/c and whump fics is how low-stakes it is and how soft it is when they get past the unpleasant bit. People who love theories on what the Fall felt like, welcome to the table.)

47. On the Road to Love – Mizmak (G, the one where Crowley enters a motor rally race with the Bentley, with Aziraphale as navigator. While there’s great fun in Crowley and Aziraphale needling each other, there’s greater joy in their friendship and tenderness towards the other (and asexual bed-sharing fans, rejoice). It’s a fun concept all around and definitely worth the read.)

48. Mr. Fell’s Bookshop ficlets – @holycatsandrabbits (G, T, the series where Mr. Fell has regular customers and they love the place as much as they love its weird and eldritch owner. For folks who love seeing the Ineffable Duo through others’ eyes, this is a fun series to scratch that particular itch, and has spawned a number of spin-off fics, unless I’m mistaken. It’s a relatively low-stakes series, for people wanting something like that these days, too.)

49. Quiet Reflection – @shinyopals (T, the one where they have to duck into a church to avoid demons. If the phrase “spicy Jesus crackers” holds any appeal whatsoever, go read this fic immediately. It’s heartfelt and hilarious and really that’s all you can ask for in a good fluff fic. Also Crowley being held. Really, that’s all any of us want from life.)

50. Deck the Halls – forthegreatergood (G, the one where mistletoe should really not be this hard to get a hold of. Y’all you simply MUST stick around for the hijinks in this one. They are manifold and hilarious. Does it end in makeouts? Possibly. You’ll just have to read it, won’t you?)

51.  The Secret Dress – GlitterSkullFairy (G, the one where Crowley has a secret wedding dress. This one is very dramatic and sad…and then Aziraphale pops in. Like with all things concerning these two, it immediately takes a turn from there. If putting Crowley in pretty dresses is a thing you enjoy, have a seat and enjoy the show, it’s a softy.)

52. Well…That’s New – @almaasi (G, the one where Crowley doesn’t realize he’s in love. If oblivious Crowley is more to your taste, this is the one for you. Takes the concept “what if Crowley was in love but didn’t realize it” and runs with it for all it’s worth. Hilarious and sweet and wonderful.)

53. serpent, serpent-bearer – @elsajeni (G, the one that’s about horoscopes. I realize the Soft section of the rec list is for things that are Soft but hhnnngkk you guys. This one is so cute. My heart can’t take it. They’re so gosh darned precious, with their newspaper and their horoscopes and their welcome invasion of each other’s personal space.)

54. If Only You Were Mine – @somethingscarlet13 (G, the one where Crowley gets so drunk he can’t remember who Aziraphale’s husband is, just that he’s married. This is a little sugar shot for your day, folks—short, sweet, silly, and did I mention sweet? It is so worth having a giggle at drunk Crowley’s expense, please do read it.)

55. Cupboard Love – @copperplatebeech (T, the one where Crowley is a cranky snek. I would also highly recommend this for folks who enjoy Madam Tracy, especially Madam Tracy being utterly unaffected by being face-to-face with the supernatural and cooing over things like the wonderful lady she is. Fun and a little silly and a lot adorable.)

56. affirmation, appreciation – pearlwaldorf (G, the one where Aziraphale helps someone in need a little differently than expected. This one has Aziraphale taking on the persona of an interested male party looking to pick up the spirits of a woman on the tail end of a messy divorce and Crowley understanding but still getting a little jealous. It’s so sweet and so lovely, both what Aziraphale and Crowley do for this poor woman and how Aziraphale reassures Crowley afterwards. Top notch.)

57. Forget-Me-Not – @dietraumerei (T, the one where Crowley gets amnesia. Not as dramatic as others, he just loses 200 years and it’s temporary, but it’s ever so sweet, watching Crowley fall back in love with the modern world and be gobsmacked that he and Aziraphale are finally together. There’s a lot of reassurance and tender sweet nothings thrown about and I’m pretty sure I developed a heart condition just from reading this, it’s too good.)

58. They Shake The Mountains When They Dance – @copperbadge (T, the one where Crowley finds Aziraphale’s scar. Operating on the theory that Aziraphale was injured in the War in Heaven and that’s why he clutches his leg and limps when he’s discorporated, this is the sappiest, sweetest rumination on the subject I have ever read. Crowley gets so protective and defensive, and Aziraphale is so gentle in talking him down. On the whole, it’s just wonderful and so, so cute. Omg.)

59. Familiar Care – ginger_mosaic (G, the one where the Ineffable Dads have to take their snabies in for medical help. This comes from the Wiggleverse, which on the whole I cannot strongly recommend enough, but this fic in particular centers around the most delightful OC veterinarian who handles Crowley and Aziraphale’s strange family very well. There’s also a fun twist at the end, so absolutely keep reading to find out what that is. And also, immerse yourself in adorable snake baby shenanigans, because they are the best sort.)

TOUCH-STARVED/BODY WORSHIP/WINGS

60. Rituals (or the Seven Layer Bean Dip Approach to Sex) – SleepySelfLoathing (T, the one where no seriously metaphysical angel/demon sex is super weird. Fans of truly esoteric ethereal/occult mating rituals rejoice, for this is your new home. It’s abstract but no less beautiful for it, I think; the imagery and emotional accompaniment are all lovely, even if they don’t meet conventional human romance standards. You can really tell that it means a lot to Crowley and Aziraphale, the ways they show how much they love each other. A weird and delectable little dish, by all accounts.)

61.  Under Pressure – @copperplatebeech (M, the one where Crowley steals kisses. M for sensuality and body worship but nothing too explicit; also could be construed as dubcon kissing, for those of you sensitive to that. Hhhgkk y’all. Crowley thinks he’s being sly getting away with smooching Aziraphale throughout history while they’re both drunk off their rockers but does not count on Aziraphale actually remembering, and then once the Apocalypse is done with and they’re On Their Own Side and Can Aknowledge These Things…well. They do. Crowley is a mess and Aziraphale is a mess and they love each other so much. The writing is so tender and I’m CRYING.)

62. London Calling – forthegreatergood (G, the one with slow-burn wing grooming. There’s so much crammed into this bad boy and it balances it admirably—Crowley’s relationship with Aziraphale, Crowley’s relationship with Hell, Crowley thinking about retirement, Crowley getting preemptively banned from a certain European country for being a pest outside of its consulate, Crowley losing his cool over getting to touch Aziraphale’s wings. Humor, aching tenderness, the kind of longing that feels like a high, quavering violin note, tension and release. A beautiful piece.)

63. Elmie’s Ineffable Fireplace Fics – @almaasi (G, M, M, the series that is completely unrelated except for the physical and also figurative appearances of warm fireplaces. M for sensuality but nothing explicit. The first two are mainly short fluff; the third is a long Regency-esque AU with some gender and sexuality shenanigans on top of Real Danger and Intrigue. True to the writer’s promise, all three fics are pretty comfortable and warm, even if the third has some action and tension. They’re absolutely lovely, imo.)

64. The Hands Applauded (And This Was No Sin) – @ticketybye (G, the one where Crowley as a preoccupation with Aziraphale’s hands. Deals with both touch-starvation and touch-aversity in the same fic and weirdly enough it works. The fic is heartbreaking but it has a good resolution and that’s important.)

65. Moult – @sameoldsorceress (T, the one where Aziraphale molts and Crowley doesn’t. This is typical wing-grooming fare…right up until it isn’t. I won’t spoil the twist but rest assured that there is absolutely a twist. Other than that, it’s supportive and sweet and lovely and lord knows we all could use some of that right now.)

66. never get to heaven on a night like this – RestlessWanderings (G, the series where the Ineffable Wives are touch-starved and pining. The only reason this fic goes here instead of in Jaunts Through History is because especially in Crowley’s side of the story, the touch starvation is so horrifically visceral I very nearly bought myself a weighted blanket out of sympathy stress. They are both so afraid and so desperate for a bit of connection, the pining is absolutely ridiculous. And it helps that there’s worldbuilding there that’s both thematically appropriate and interesting to read. Engendered by lesbianism and catholic guilt, I believe the author said, and in this case what a delicious combination with an absolutely amazing ending.)

67. Strength in Modesty – flandersmare (T, the one where Aziraphale has a secret wardrobe. Y’all. I have a special love-hate relationship with clothes and my body and this fic somehow felt very soothing on both of those fronts. Corsetry is front and center, and it’s all very well-researched and well-presented. The story is so quiet and understated and is really told through excellent sensory details. The ending about broke my heart for tenderness. It’s a double love letter to Aziraphale and to fashion throughout history and I love it.)

BONUS

68. Tales of the Them – @lyricwritesprose (G, the series where Crowley and Aziraphale are the Them’s godparents, too. This is such a fun series, with a lot of stories that are not just funny in bits, but also meaningful. For fans of the Them and people who like stories about children that aren’t dumbed-down or grimdark.)

69. Stans in High Places – @doomed-spectacles (G, the one where there’s someone in the Earth Observation department keeping an eye on Crowley and Aziraphale. Another take on the angel(s) in charge of Earth Observation, this time featuring a singular angel called Grigori, and boy is he a cutie. His friendship with fellow angel Pravuil is also blossoming and sweet throughout, and the amount of innocent cuteness throughout is just spectacular. What an adorable story.)

70. Anthony J Crowley, Retired Demon and AirBnB Superhost – @theoldaquarian (G, the one where Crowley turns his flat into an AirBnB. Told as if reading a comment section, it is hilarious and paints a horrid picture of what interacting with Crowley—and Aziraphale!—is like for normal humans. I can’t give you any more details than that, you are just going to have to read it and laugh your head off about it like I did.)

71.  A Guide to Fame for the Enterprising Demon – @asideofourown (T, the one where Crowley writes a book and accidentally becomes a queer icon. This is…so funny. And so sweet. And like most fics where human bystanders try to piece together what’s happening and come away with completely wrong conclusions, it’s utterly charming. You almost start rooting for the internet conspiracy theorists trying to unearth what exactly Crowley is from his (presumably) evasive or strange answers to interview questions.)

72. Hell Of An Angel – WaitingToBeBroken (T, the one where everyone thinks Crowley is a mafia family. This one is funny in a dramatic irony way; the way that every narrator in this is CONVINCED that Crowley is A. a family of redheads that all look eerily similar, and B. extremely dangerous, is entertaining all on its own. It helps that the writing is smooth and the characters are all fairly engaging, too. A fun little diversion for your day.)

H/C /WHUMP/BAMF

73. the only one i want – @qorktrees (T,  the one where Crowley needs some convincing. The hurt in this one is real, folks. But so is the comfort. At last steps are taken to assure Crowley of how much he is wanted, of how much his love is cherished and his touch desired. If you cry while reading this, congrats and welcome to the club, we are all miserable touch-starved fools here.)

74. Always One More Time – boughofawillowtree (T, the one where Aziraphale has remaining psychological scars from Heaven. This one is tough, y’all, real tough. Aziraphale has a couple of abusive flashbacks and intrusive thoughts and his anxiety flaring up is a constant, so people sensitive to that should take heed. That said, this is a very healing fic, with a lot of underlying hurt that floats to the surface. But throughout Crowley does his best to be patient and understanding and even with a disagreement, it remains gentle and loving throughout.)

75. Smote and smitten – @nohaijiachi (G, the one where Aziraphale is a badass and we are ALL here for it. Screaming Hastur, briefly-sentient flaming swords, Aziraphale being amazing, and starry-eyed Crowley are all the ingredients chosen to make a wonderful little fic, and we are all grateful for it. What a guy, that Aziraphale.)

76. Nearly Romeo and Juliet – bisexual_dumbass (T, the one where Crowley’s hiding his panic attacks. This one hurts, friends. This one has miscommunications and fear and boundary communication, all while being so tense even the gentlest touch will snap something. It’s got learning to take care of yourself and value yourself and live FOR yourself. It is very important and I hope a lot of you read it because gosh dang.)

77.  Pigeon Girlfriends With A Long Preamble – SleepySelfLoathing (T, the one that’s exactly what it says on the tin. This fic has it all: humor! Torture! Terrible humans! Wrathful Aziraphale! Pain and suffering! Tenderness and care! Pigeon girlfriends! The Hurt and the Comfort are present in about equal measure, but fair warning that what Crowley is made to do just before his rescue is more than a little disturbing, both to readers and especially to Crowley.)

[sourwolfstories]

Hi! I know you're probably slammed with requests but i was wondering if you could rec some long fics without smut or skipable unimportant smut scenes? I'm sex repulsed and it's surprising difficult to find fics that don't make me uncomfortable

Okay so these are all at least 20 or 30 thousand words long each and are all either rated general audience or teen and up and I made sure to go through all of them so they shouldn’t have any smut or sex but if I did miss anything please let me know. Hope you enjoy!

Ghosts In The Suburbs by KaytiKazoo

Stiles gets cursed by a witch and can see dead people.

Here’s to the Static by matildajones

Stiles spends most of his college break in a coffee house where he stares after Derek Hale. For some reason, Stiles is unaware of the fact he’s quite the musician, and Derek amuses himself at Stiles’ obliviousness.

Cupboard Love by mklutz

He’s carefully balancing the sandwiches and the two biggest tupperware containers he could find that both had functioning lids when the front door opens and he almost drops everything right there in front of the stupid fountain.

If that’s Derek Hale, he’s definitely not a mountain man.

Strangers Like Me by Alphaboner

“Stay back! Don’t come..don’t come any closer! Please don’t! Wh..what are you doing?” he let out a little laugh when Derek started to play with his toes “Ah-haha, no, please, don’t, that tickles!” Derek’s hand traveled from Stiles’ toes to his leg “No, get off, get off!” …to his belt “GET OFF!” he kicked Derek in the face, leaving him confused and aching, looking at Stiles with a scowl.

Get Back Up by Hepzheba

After taking the blame for his so-called friend Jackson and his stupid pot, Stiles is forced to work for the Hales at their horse ranch the summer before his last year in high school. At first he absolutely hates it but he comes to realize that there is actually is something fun about this ranch thing and that horses are more likable and complicated than he’d previously thought. He also comes to realize that it’s not only the horses that are interesting; there’s also Derek Hale.

Scowl and Sarcasm by dr_girlfriend

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single alpha in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a mate.

Whether or not Derek Hale felt that way was hardly a concern to the neighborhood — the very fact of his arrival was enough that the surrounding families seemed to consider him the rightful property of one or another of their eligible sons and daughters. That was, of course, before they met the man.

Only You, Sterek by im2old4thisotp

Derek gets the name of his soulmate off a Ouija board when he is ten. He’s obsessed with finding them, but then his life irrevocably changes. He erases the name from his life and determines to live free of those stupid words, “fate” and “destiny”.

But on the eve of his wedding, he gets a phone call that will change the course of his life forever, and show him that maybe destiny does have a hold on him, after all.

Or, the Sterek rewrite of the movie “Only You” that you never knew you wanted.

sorry about the elbows, sorry we lived here. by dreamer_of_dreams

“You’re doing it again, Derek. You’re running away. I know, alright? I’ve always known… You looked at him the way I wished you’d look at me. You came close some days, when you’re folding my tank tops and we’re talking about small, insignificant things. And I thought that was enough for a while. But it was plain to see, you were sitting around, waiting for him to call you home. He never did and you just carried on.”

“I wasn’t really waiting for him to call. I knew he wouldn’t. I don’t know how you got that impression.”

“Hmmm…Maybe because when we both thought you were dying, I leant over and kissed you… and you whispered his name.”

Just the Same by ericaismeg

Something is seriously up with the captain of the lacrosse team. There’s just no way Derek Hale is human.***“I was wondering if you’re even human. You move so quickly. I mean, it’s ridiculously fast. No human should be able to move that fast, y'know? It’s unfair for us. I mean, it’s obvious you work out, and I don’t, so that could be why, but like…I was just wondering if you were human, that’s all.”

“Stop talking, Stilinski, or I'll—”

“Put me on the bench all season?” Stiles asks knowing full well that Derek Hale can’t threaten him with shit.

To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before by Halevetica

What if all the crushes you ever had found out how you felt about them… all at once?

Stiles Stilinski keeps his love letters in a box his mother gave him. They aren’t love letters that anyone else wrote for him; these are ones he’s written. One for every boy he’s ever loved-five in all. When he writes, he pours out his heart and soul and says all the things he would never say in real life, because his letters are for his eyes only. Until the day his secret letters are mailed, and suddenly, Stiles’ love life goes from imaginary to out of control.

If I Followed You Home by tryslora

Stiles is living on his own in New York when he sees the unthinkable: one woman pushes another onto the tracks just before a subway comes. With Scott not moving in for several days, he is on his own with his grief and horror, and he decides to find closure by attending the dead woman’s funeral where he discovers that (1) the guy he’s been crushing on is the dead woman’s brother, and (2) her family somewhat adopts him, and (3) the woman who killed her might just want to kill him now. Life just got complicated.

Notes:

Wolf Pack: Beacon Original by Beerwolves, fearfrost1211

When his father landed the Deputy Chief of police position in Beacon Hills, Stiles moved to his new town gladly, embracing the chance of a fresh start. What he didn’t expect was to find himself hopelessly drawn to the gruff Vice President of the local motorcycle gang, the Wolf Pack.Derek Hale, resident bad boy of Beacon Hills, spent his time helping his sister lead the Wolf Pack and working on motorcycles at his family’s automotive garage. Then, one hot summer afternoon a bright-eyed boy walked into his life and turned his world upside down.

There’s No Escape for the Potato Man by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“Who is this? Where’s Erica?”

“Wrong number, asshole!”

“Stop calling me an asshole,” the man on the other end snapped aggressively.

Stiles could understand. He’d be pretty aggressive too if he’d murdered someone and texted a wrong number to ask for help burying the body. This guy obviously failed How To Be a Serial Killer 101.

“What kind of idiot thinks I murdered someone?”

“The kind of idiot who got your text messages, you fucking dumbass!” he retorted hotly. “Maybe double check your contacts before sending a random stranger details on your nefarious plans to dispose of a freshly cut up body!”

“What?!” the guy on the other end demanded, crossed between horrendously confused and livid.

home isn’t a place by Spikedluv

Ithaca, New York is known as a sanctuary within the supernatural community, and Cornell University is where creatures such as Kitsune and Selkies can safely attend college. Though Stiles doesn’t think he’s anything special (despite having a ‘spark’, whatever that is), he attends on Satomi’s recommendation; he wants to learn everything he can about the supernatural world so he can return to Beacon Hills and help Scott.

The last person Stiles expects to run into at Cornell is Derek Hale. Derek is gruff and grumpy, but despite that Stiles is drawn to him. When someone begins murdering supernatural students Laura Hale takes Stiles under her wing. Between attending class, hanging out with Kira, adopting a dog, and keeping score for the baseball team, Stiles investigates the deaths to figure out who’s killing his fellow students before he ends up a victim himself.

Through it all, Stiles learns the real meaning of ‘home’.

SuperWing, Stucky and SlaDick, Oh My! by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“Well,” Nightwing said with an awkward laugh, “this is embarrassing. You are definitely not the Superman I was expecting.”

“You mean I almost missed out on having Nightwing leap into my waiting arms?” Derek asked teasingly. He couldn’t help it, the guy was adorable, and while he wasn’t exactly light, he already knew it was all muscle. This guy definitely worked out.

Nightwing let out a loud, boisterous laugh that had people around them turn to look, but he just grinned down at Derek before speaking.

“In that case, didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He waggled his eyebrows and Derek let out a small huff of a laugh. “I should probably, uh—get down.”

“Probably.”

Thanks for Thumper, But I Prefer Cheeseburgers by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

The wolf’s head whipped around so fast, Stiles felt like he was watching The Exorcist.

Stiles wondered if he could just stand still enough to make the wolf think he was a tree. A very bright red and jean-clad tree. He doubted it, but one could hope.

He knew it was a lost cause when the wolf turned fully, lips pulled back from its sharp teeth—so very sharp, good fucking Lord!—and began walking towards Stiles.

“I didn’t see anything!” Stiles shouted, both hands out in front of himself and sweat instantly breaking out across his skin. “I swear to you! I didn’t see anything! I didn’t see anything! I won’t tell anyone! I won’t! I’ll keep this to myself, until the day I die! I promise! I promise!”

An Unexpected Familiar by BabyWeWillRise

Homework over break sucks, right? Harris is at it again with making Stiles’ life horrible by giving him an essay over Christmas break and Stiles could not be anymore displeased.

Except…this stupid assignment leads him to something he didn’t think he was missing.

Or…

After his mother died when he was eight, Stiles (and his father) ran away from reality without looking back.

Now, ten years later, when the eighteen year old runs into a familiar face, he’s thrown back into a life he had completely forgotten about and is welcomed with open and loving arms.

To say he’s freaking out would be an understatement.

[hermannsthumb]

Hey dude!! Never done this before so I’m sorry if I screw it up but love the prompts you reblogged and thought I’d give it a try. Newmann wedding fics are the cutest things in my opinion so I thought possibly write a combination of 16, 7, and or either 2 or 9. Your newmann fics are the absolute best, I read them whenever I’m having a really bad day and they always cheer me up. Your a fantastic writer and you have such and amazing personality! I Hope you have a lovely day

16: Weddings, 7: Beach, 1: Fireworks, 2: Sunburn AND 9: Stargazing, 

from summer prompt memes here

combining yours with @francissaintgermain​ for a double whammy of wedding...AND THANK U BOTH for the really sweet words :’)

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

“Seems a bit of a hassle, if you ask me,” Hermann says. “All this bloody planning, and money, and effort—”

“It’s not a hassle,” Newton says. “I mean, it is, but—it’s gotta be worth it, you know? It’s romantic.”

It takes Hermann a great deal of effort to not roll his eyes. Newton’s idea of romantic includes necking on the couch while Ghostly Encounters plays on the television set and showing Hermann how many pieces of sushi he can cram into his mouth at once. (His record is ten, and he would’ve kept going if Hermann didn’t remind him that they were in a very nice restaurant and he paid quite a lot for the reservation.) It isn’t what Hermann meant, anyway. “I’m not talking about weddings in general,” he says. “I mean this sort. With all the—” He waggled his hand vaguely. “Extravagance.”

Extravagance did not fully encompass everything this wedding was. Hermann’s cousin and his fiance—wife, now, Hermann supposed—-had rented out a massive chunk of beach for it, with all the trappings of the sorts of things you’d expect for a beach vacation. Bouquets of tropical flowers. Bridesmaids in flip-flops. Seagulls swooping down every few minutes. Tiki torches at the end of each aisle of chairs, one of which had nearly caught the sleeve of Newton’s gaudy Hawaiian shirt (“I have to dress for the theme, babe,” he insisted) on fire when he passed it. It would’ve been nice if they hadn’t set the damned thing at midday, with the sun broiling overhead and making everyone squint and almost certainly burning Hermann alive, despite the long-sleeved linen shirt and sunhat he donned, and the fine layer of sunscreen Newton took a bit too much sensual pleasure in applying to him back in the hotel room. None of the other Gottliebs (genetically predisposed to pastiness) appear to be faring much better: Hermann spies his aunt a few rows up, who’s beginning to resemble a surly, dark-haired tomato.

Still. Hermann’s the only one of his immediate family to be invited, and his cousin paid for their airfare and hotel room, which is in some outrageously expensive resort with a spa and mimosas at the complimentary breakfasts that Hermann thinks Newton would call bougie, and they’ve got it for a week at that, so Hermann can’t bring himself to complain too much. It’s not as if he’s had the chance to go on many vacations in the last decade. The break is well-deserved and nice.

Newton leans in close with a grin and a nod to the front of the aisle, where the bride and groom have taken each other’s hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Gottlieb that happy in my life.”

“Nonsense,” Hermann says, and then realizes Newton does make a fair point: it’s not just Hermann’s aunt on the groom’s side of the aisle who’s surly. (Genetic predisposition to pastiness and melancholy, he supposes.) He goes for a different approach. “I’m certain I looked that happy on our wedding day.”

“You were kinda just crying the whole time, dude,” Newton says.

Hermann flushes. He had cried a little bit. “It was—er—overjoyed crying.”

“It was cute,” Newton says, grin softening out into something a bit dopier. He slings his arm around Hermann’s shoulders, and Hermann can’t help but lean in to his touch and smile back.

They both startle a moment later when the crowd suddenly begins clapping; the couple have finished reciting their vows, it appears. “Thank fuck,” Newton whispers. “I’m starving. I hope they have those tiny cream puff things at the reception.”

They don’t, but they have plenty of seafood (apt for the theme). Newton settles on filling a plate with a comical amount of jumbo-sized shrimp and some crab legs. The reception is likewise on the beach, under a great big tent lit up with lanterns and more torches only a short walk down from where the ceremony took place, and Hermann has to admit he’s beginning to see the appeal of the extravagance of it all. The oppressive heat’s dissipating, finally. The sea breeze’s picked up enough to ruffle the ends of Hermann’s hair and even make him shiver (and lean in a touch closer to Newton). The sunset’s gorgeous on the horizon. Even the live band is pleasant, and Hermann recognizes one song as something Newton’s played for him on the guitar before.

After dodging a fair number of his relatives, most of whom give Newton (with his tattoos and ear piercings and tiny Godzillas patterned on his shirt) side-eyes even before he lunges in and catches the bride’s bouquet, only to guiltily throw it back when he realizes it’s for the unwed partygoers, Hermann and Newton find their assigned table at the edge of the dance floor and sit down to watch the fireworks show overhead. Because of course the wedding party sprung for fireworks. “God, I fucking love this,” Newton says, beaming like an overeager child. “We should’ve had fireworks at ours.”

“Ours was indoors,” Hermann reminds him.

“I didn’t mean inside the building,” Newton says.

He downs a third of the frozen daiquiri he got from the bar and offers the rest out to Hermann, who shakes his head. “Do you wanna dance?” Newton says. His lips look sticky, vaguely red, and terribly inviting, so Hermann steals a quick kiss before he bothers responding.

“In a bit, perhaps,” he says. His hand drifts up to cup the side of Newton’s face. His cheeks are rougher than usual: he forgot to pack his razor, and they haven’t had the time to find anywhere that sells disposable ones yet. Hermann doesn’t mind it, though it’d tickled like mad in bed last night when Newton tried to kiss his throat. “I think I’d like to go for a walk.”

Newton nods and unhooks Hermann’s cane from the back of his chair, then, almost as an afterthought, crams several of the shrimp from his plate into the top pocket of his shirt. Hermann makes a face. “No use in wasting them,” Newton says. He holds the cane out to Hermann.

They walk, arm-in-arm, far enough down the beach that the tent becomes a dim glow and the music barely audible before they ease themselves down on the sand and spread out. Above them, stars are beginning to appear. The night sky is far clearer and far more devoid of light pollution out here than anywhere else Hermann has been before; Newton, excitedly, points out three shooting stars before Hermann’s even made himself comfortable. (Another pleasant benefit of this all.)

Newton’s shirt is unbuttoned enough to give Hermann a glimpse of the kaiju piece that spans across his chest. Hermann used to hate it. Hermann used to hate a lot of things about Newton. “I ran into your uncle at the buffet table,” Newton says. “Mustache. Looks just like your dad. He didn’t believe me when I said I was your husband. What constellation is that?”

“Hercules,” Hermann says automatically. “Do you regret it?”

Newton turns to frown at him. “Do I regret what?”

“Our wedding,” Hermann says. “It wasn’t very—flash.”

It’d been quick. In and out. Courthouse affair barely even two months after they closed the Breach. Newton wore a bow tie borrowed from Tendo, Hermann slacks with a coffee stain on the left leg. They didn’t even have a honeymoon. It seemed romantic at the time, almost as if they were eloping—they loved each other, after all, they had in silence for a decade, they saved the world together, they drifted together. They’d been in each other’s heads. It seemed foolish to wait.

“Oh.” Newton laughs. “Of course I don’t regret it.”

“You wouldn’t have preferred all this?”

“Dude,” Newton says. “We have, like, two friends, and you hate half your family. Who would we have invited?”

“Fair point,” Hermann says, satisfied.

“Besides.” Newton rolls onto his side and drapes his arm over Hermann’s waist, and he rubs his scratchy cheek against the crook of Hermann’s neck. “You gotta know I would’ve literally married you anywhere.”

“Ah, Newton,” Hermann stammers, “stop—”

“Nope,” Newton says, mistaking Hermann’s reticence for bashfulness over the public display of affection, and nuzzles and kisses at him this time. “No way. Anywhere.”

“‘S not that,” Hermann says, and winces in pain, because Newton’s stubble is suddenly feeling a hell of a lot sharper, “Newton, it’s—sunburn—”

Newton rolls off of him, giggling madly. “How?” he says. “I put a whole fucking bottle of sunblock on you. You were wearing that stupid hat.” He prods at the sunhat, resting on the sand a few inches away with Hermann’s cane.

Hermann ghosts his fingers over the skin of his neck gingerly; it’s hot and tender to the touch, as is the skin of his shoulders and upper arms through his clothing. Bloody figures. If it’s this bad already, mere hours after the ceremony, he doesn’t even want to know what it’ll be like tomorrow. “I certainly don’t know how,” he says.

The kiss Newton leaves on his reddened skin is far more delicate this time, without a hint of his stubble. “Poor baby,” he says, with a mocking pout. It turns suggestive in seconds, aided by the hand that he slips up under the hem of Hermann’s linen shirt and massages circles with over his abdomen. “I’ll just have to rub aloe all over you when we get home tonight, yeah?”

“Mm,” Hermann agrees, eyelids drifting shut. It’s nice, more than nice, and, for a moment (there’s no one around to see, after all), Hermann is considering indulging Newton in some light touching and kissing in return. Then he wrinkles his nose. “You smell like shrimp, darling,” he says. It’s killed any lust that Newton may have been inspiring in him. Newton retracts his hand.

“There’s still one in my pocket,” he admits.

[a-very-fond-farewell]

Bagginshield North & South au 1/4

Ok folks, I thought about how to make a North & South au (based on the BBC miniseries, not the actual book) without looking at any fic on the matter, because I didn’t want to be influenced by their (certainly brilliant) adaptations. So bear with me for the time being.

This is just a list of things that I would like to see in a N&S!au fic... but I have no energy to write that myself.

ATTN!1: I have changed many things, and it came out pretty angsty, with lots of pining and secrets that must be kept at all costs. 

ATTN!2: I would have loved to explore the trans!Bilbo trope (either transwoman!Bilbo or transman!Bilbo), but I feel like I’m not the right person to give this idea the justice it deserves. I’m sure someone else could feel empowered in exploring that particular trope on their own, so it would be better for me not to rob them of such an opportunity.

ATTN!3: I’m just a nonbinary bean with terrible grammar and a knack for angst, also English is not my first language. I WILL ADD TO THIS.

Enjoy!

First Part:

In the mining town of Erebor, up north where the weather is crisp and the fog is as blinding as ever, the main source of income comes from the mithril veins hidden deep into the Lonely Mountain. Still fairly unknown to the masses as a viable alternative to steel for industrial products, mithril is considered to be nothing but a lower metal of very little use a part from being modeled as framing works for jewelry coming from the west.

Bilbo Baggins has followed his parents in this particular corner of the world after certain indiscretions had spread in the southern town of Bag End. At his cousin Prim’s wedding in London the previous summer, in fact, Bilbo had found himself rejecting the unwanted advances of a certain gentleman right before being discovered by his mother as the two men were parting ways from a very heated discussion in a secluded room.

In order to not let others know about such circumstances, Belladonna had shared her intention with her sister Mirabella to uproot in the north, at least until the rumors had dissipated. Bungo, as loving and trusting as ever, had simply accepted her decision and disposed for them all to move to Erebor. In doing so, he had consequently left his position as a parish in Bag End, not wavering in his faith, but merely willing to give his family what they needed to be happy.

Bilbo himself is no longer a lad: close to reach his thirties, many have speculated around the truth about his sudden return to his father’s home leaving his studies at Oxford out of the blue. Up until now, Bungo had protected his son by simply stating to the citizens of Bag End how needed Bilbo was, and Belladonna had made sure no mouths could run and shame her son in the meantime. But those days are over now, and their new town might not be as easily outsmarted this time around.

Heavy with sorrow for making his family move, Bilbo has resigned to keeping his life on check from now on, willing to sacrifice his happiness in order to keep his parents safe and healthy. Not being able to walk without a cane after his last days at Oxford, Bilbo finds himself constantly torn between revealing what had happened there and run away from all those eyes watching his every move. Luckily, in Erebor no one expects much of him, and any possible question regarding his lack of employment while he could no more benefit from being the only son of a parish is met with a simple gesture towards his bad leg. People seem complacent enough to overlook his poor excuse of a lie as long as they can speculate over his father’s decision to move up north.

Filled with guilt at the inability to defend his father against the rumors, Bilbo is reassured over and over again by his mother that they had made the right decision. The price for her understanding, however, seems to be an even greater burden for Bilbo: never speak of his true nature ever again, not even to his parents. Not even to himself.

Gandalf Gray, an old friend of Bungo’s, close enough to the family to understand the implications of their sudden uprooting, has decided to take Bilbo under his wing and show him around while his father has a chance to meet the pupils Mr. Gray has gathered for him to talk to. Having traveled all other the world, Mr. Gray is not new to the hardships Bilbo has encountered and his honesty and desire to help comforts Bilbo while he navigates the wastelands of melancholy that moving so far away has ensued.

While visiting one of the many mines belonging to the Durinson household, Bilbo finds himself shocked at the sight of its master beating one of his miners out of the mountain in a fit of rage. Little does he know what perils hide into the tunnels eroding the Lonely Mountain one inch at a time, or what are the dangers that fire and gas can bring to those working in the dark, with only the aid of candles and caged birds to save them from death.

Still, Bilbo tries to reason with said master, not knowing Thorin to be their landlord and one of his father’s pupils on top of that. Only thanks to Mr. Gray Bilbo is spared from Thorin’s anger by introducing him as a dear friend of his, but this doesn’t protect Bilbo from receiving yet another shock as the man simply turns and strides away after the worker he had just beaten up.

Meeting the man in his own home later that very same week, Bilbo is confronted with the absolute necessity from his part to embody a perfect son and the perfect guest, no matter how much he despises sharing a room with their landlord. But given the circumstances, he tries not to think about him too much while Bungo teaches Thorin all about philosophy and literature: he listens to their lessons half expecting to be invited to share his thoughts on his father’s many interpretations of the ancient sources... but eventually feeling much more at ease staying quiet by his armchair while the other two talk.

Judging from Thorin’s curiosity and will to learn, Bilbo convinces himself to have misjudged the man based on what he had seen at the mines, and later on investigates the matter further with his father and with Mr. Gray over a cup of tea. Apparently, after the sudden death of both of his parents when he was just a child, Thorin, his brother Frerin and their older sister Dis had been entrusted to the care of their grandfather, Thror: a man driven mad by his lust for gold to the point he had closed the mines twenty years before just to barricade himself inside the mountain in search of a vein of gold that never existed. Thorin’s little brother Frerin, small enough to wiggle his way in between the wooden bars Thror had used to close the openings, had looked for his grandfather anywhere before the main tunnel had collapsed on both of them one cold night of December.

Horrified by such a discovery, Bilbo has already spent many a day trying to find the courage to apologize to Thorin by the time he meets Bain, Sigrid and Tilda. The boy and his younger sister approaches him one day at the park, reminiscing of the way he had confronted Thorin at the entrance of the mine, where Bain works as well, while their older sister seems a little wary of Bilbo and apologizes to him for disturbing him so suddenly. On the other hand, Bilbo is overjoyed to have been met with such enthusiasm after weeks of isolation from actual social interaction and offers the siblings to walk them home... just as their father Bard comes into the picture, assuring Bilbo his services are not needed.

Intrigued by that little family, Bilbo tries to know more about them by lurking around the wooden houses destined to the miners skirting the suburban area at the bottom of the mountain, determined to pay them a visit with a basket of food to thank the kids for their kindness to him. Here, Bilbo gets to know the families of many of the miners, all relatively close to each other be it for family ties or friendship alone, that -surprisingly enough- seem more than happy to teach him a thing or two on how to survive the likes of Erebor and its masters.

From them comes the realization of how exactly Thror had compromised the economy of the city when he had closed the mines twenty years before. Many of the workers had found themselves jobless that year and, after the main tunnel had been deemed too dangerous to cross, new masters had come to the city and made their way with new holes into the mountain with no regards for safety.  So many holes, indeed, that some workers avoided entering the Lonely Mountain for fear it could fall onto itself at any moment. 

In all this, Thorin had been only sixteen and had to provide for his family now that his only guardian had perished in the depths of the main tunnel along with his little brother. Dis had been twenty then, and married a man coming from one of the richest families in town, who had provided for her and for their two sons up until his death, fifteen years before. Thorin, who had been fired to leave his studies in order to gain back his family’s honor by working for other masters, at twenty-one had made enough of a name for himself to be able to care for his older sister and nephews once more, as the customs required.

Dis, on the other hand, after losing her parents, grandfather, brother and husband, had accepted to go back home to her younger brother feeling like a caged animal, but not ungrateful enough to disregard the importance of the mines that brought them stability and wealth. Thorin, on the other hand, getting sterner by the year and low in spirits because of his newfound role as the head of their household, had become extremely protective of his family... just as much as Dis herself, the both of them manifesting some of the traits their own grandfather had shown by the time his obsession had piqued. 

Even Bard and his kids had been willing to share some information with him by the time Bilbo discovers exactly how far the Durinson’s had prevented the growth of the town by limiting the number of caves under their watch. Bard himself seems set on hating the siblings for life, convinced the mountain could offer work to everybody without restrictions if only the Durinson’s were to let more people inside. He insists that gold lies under that mountain and that not even the Durinson’s should claim that vein for themselves while other masters have promised a job for everyone in town were the Durinson household to perish.

Struck by all those new revelations, one day Bilbo finds himself too overwhelmed to properly welcome Dis Durinson and her sons inside their home while his mother gets dressed upstairs. The woman strikes an imposing figure, just like her brother, dressed in all black with sober, yet quite beautiful blue earrings bringing out the coldness of her light-blue eyes. The oldest of her sons, affectionately called Kili by her, is roughly eighteen or nineteen years old and seems agreeable enough, asking Bilbo what wonders he has seen in London and what the south has to offer: curiosity getting the best of him contrary to his mother’s best judgment. Fili, instead, looks more lost than anything, not young enough to depend on his mother approval, but still not quite old enough to rebel against her composure and regal attitude. 

Then, just as his mother welcomes them in her house, Bilbo notices how Belladonna has lost weight and how skirmish she looks. Being so distracted himself by his quest for knowledge in regards of Erebor and its history, Bilbo has completely overlooked him mother’s conditions and guilt overcomes him once more. Knowing that people were still talking about them because of the insinuations about his father’s decision to leave the Church, Bilbo is faced with shame and anxiety just by thinking how hard it must be for his parents to endure all of that pressure from the telltale coming from the upper society in town.

As he looks at Thorin’s sister and her impenetrable mask, he wonders how she must have felt when she had been married off to a rich man in order to save the family from disgrace. Because that is what the Baggins’ and the Durinson’s have been foreclosed to address, even if I’m different ways: disgrace. Profound and nasty disgrace. 

Bilbo finds himself jealous of their luck in regaining control over their fate by hard work alone, but doesn’t voice his feelings as the woman and her sons leave. Nor does he want to speak of the matter with Thorin... until he does, while listening to his and Bungo’s usual lesson one day: feeling left out of the conversation, fed up with the way his family walks on eggshells around him, and impossibly frustrated with himself for not being able to seize Thorin’s character in his head, Bilbo accuses the man of being too full of himself to even care about the struggling miners, ready to strike in order to be allowed to look for gold in the mountain.

Immediately regretting what he has just said, already missing the opportunity to listen to Thorin’s deep voice asking intelligent questions, knowing how the man has been desperate to educate himself now that he had the opportunity to do so...Bilbo can only watch as Thorin greets him coldly and leave their house. Possibly to never return.

[backtothestart02]

Human Error - Prologue: Part 1

A/N: After several imploring reviews, I’ve decided to put my Host fic on hold to start up my fic inspired from the movie, The Riot Club. I had four chaps on ffnet, so I’m going to slowly have them beta’d and posted on ao3 before continuing. Feel free to skip over this if you’re not interested. But if you are, please tell me your thoughts! I have a little traffic for it on ffnet, and I’d be thrilled if I got some over on ao3 too. :)

*many thanks to @valeriemperez who betas things she’s never seen before. XD

Synopsis: Final year at Oxford...Lauren's threat to call him out was enough to keep him quiet, but when they're forced to work together in a class neither of them can get out of in their final semester, will even that interaction push her over the edge or will she give him another chance? Miles/Lauren. Multi-Chap.

Prologue - Part 1

There was a light dusting of snow on the ground when the car finally rolled to a stop at the end of a seemingly endless drive leading to their country home.

"We're here!" Ollie announced, unbuckling his seat belt so fast it was a wonder it didn't slap him in the face when he thrust open the door and dashed into the yard.

Miles, who had been trying to achieve a sort of lapse of consciousness against the cold glass window, tried to ignore the enthusiasm bursting from his brother, but the slam of the door and the gentle nudging from his mother ended the 3-hour struggle.

"Sweetheart," she cooed softly. He opened his eyes reluctantly. "We're here." She smiled and turned back around to let herself out of the vehicle. No doubt to keep his younger brother from mischief, Miles mused.

His father caught his gaze and he grinned.

"Snow's come early this year." He beamed. "We'll have a roaring for the holiday party next week."

Miles could only blink. He didn't even want to try to register the impact his father's words made. Had he forgotten so quickly the serious trouble his son had gotten into? Was he just going to forget it even happened just because he hadn't been expelled?

As if he'd sensed his thoughts, his father's gaze suddenly sobered and he turned around in his seat to face his son. His tone was as deadly serious as ever.

"About Oxford," he began, "don't tell anyone what happened."

Miles brows furrowed in a mix of frustration, outrage and confusion, but his father raised his hand to silence any words that would have spilled out of his mouth.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Miles," he said. "No one is perfect. We are all human." He paused to take in his son's conflicted expression. "Whatever it was exactly that you did, you need to put it behind you. Learn from this experience and look to the future. If you don't, history will only repeat itself and the next time it might not be quite so easy to get out of."

Miles tried to let the words sink in, to put stock in them, but it was proving difficult to figure out if they were words of wisdom or words from a rich man not wanting to lose his position in the world and afraid he might if word got out that the Richards wasn't the perfect family in every way.

Before Miles could settle on which option was most likely, his father's face had morphed back into a silly grin and he was joining the rest of his family where they stood on the front porch locked outside of their holiday home. Freda, their house maid, wouldn't be arriving until tomorrow, it seemed, and only his father now held the keys.

…

As advised, Miles did his best to not think about his first semester at Oxford. He tried to focus on life before Oxford and life after Oxford, on academics and family, not false friends and a lost love. For a while, he succeeded.

On Monday he went Christmas shopping with his mother. On Tuesday, he took his brother ice skating, telling him it wasn't as easy as it looked, and quickly delivering hot chocolate when the sheer number of falls became too much for the younger boy's pride. On Wednesday, the whole family went together to chop down their own Christmas tree in the heart of the back woods on their property. The rest of the week went on in this fashion, providing either purely fun activities or planning ones that became fun either thanks to his mother's perfectly tuned singing voice or his father's expertise on the violin. By Saturday afternoon, a mere hour before the party would begin, everything was as blissful as if this was a regular Richards holiday on any year but this one.

"I ran into Bridget this morning when I was in town, Miles," his mother mentioned as she came through the door with flowers to display throughout the room.

"Hmm?" he asked, not looking away from where he stood watching the snow fall at the front window.

"Bridget," he repeated, making her way to him. "Stephanie's mother."

Miles tensed slightly, hoping his mother wouldn't notice. Stephanie had been the belle of the ball to both his parents, and anyone else they were friends with if he was being honest. She was beautiful, smart, well-educated and she came from excellent family background. If you were anyone in the upper class of England, you wanted your son involved with Stephanie Bellington.

To his misfortune, Miles had briefly allowed himself to be swept up in her charm some summers ago. He had been the one to break it off, much to everyone’s surprise. His parents had been devastated, though the relationship – if you could call it that – had lasted little more than a month. Until recently he hadn't really understood why he'd felt the need to cut it short so quickly. It was by far his least tactical break-up. So…we should break up, he'd said, and winced at the memory. To her great credit she'd been neither dramatic or numb about his announcement. Classy as ever, as he recalled.

Fresh off his break-up from Lauren though, which had been both dramatic in the moment and numbed him in the after math, the last thing he wanted to do was endure another scene with Stephanie Bellington that would include his parents – or at least his mother – lingering blatantly in the background, hoping they would decide to give it another go.

As luck would have it, and as he knew was inevitable, she was invited to the infamous Richards' Holiday Party.

"Miles—" His mother forced him away from where he stood stacking logs by the fireplace and to the door where the Bellingtons had just arrived in the front hall, despite his protestations. "You remember the Bellingtons, don't you? Mrs. Bellington, Mr. Bellington, Ni—" she frowned mid-sentence. "Where is—?" she addressed the lady of the family.

"Niles is away at boarding school, I'm afraid," Mrs. Bellington said. For some reason that got Miles' attention.

"For the holiday?" he asked.

She nodded somberly. "Yes. We begged him to come home, at least for Christmas, but he's loving it there in Ireland and he's on his final semester, so he said he'd just be staying with friends."

Miles nodded vaguely, wondering if he would be doing the same thing had his parents lived farther away and the outcome of the incident with The Riot Club not been quite so friendly for him.

"And of course, there's Stephanie," his mother continued, urging the blonde out from beneath her parents' wings and relieving her of the caramel-colored fur coat she was wearing. "How are you doing, dear? You certainly look lovely." She glanced over at her son pointedly. "Doesn't she, Miles?"

He nodded politely. "Stunning."

She blushed faintly. "Thank-you, Miles." She turned briefly to his mother. "I'm doing well, Mrs. Richards." Her eyes found Miles again. "Better now."

His mother was practically beaming with delight, no doubt designing the wedding invitations in her mind as she scurried off with the coat of only one of the Bellingtons in her hands. Freda, as well as their butler, Theodore, were both around to receive coats and dispose of them in some upstairs room, but Miles offered to take the other Bellington coats anyway to get away. Whether Stephanie had never gotten over him, despite appearances before now to the contrary, or she'd just sparked a sudden interest potentially after learning he attended Oxford, he was sufficiently over her and had been for years. The last thing he wanted to think about tonight was his love life, and certainly not anything Oxford-related.

Despite his best efforts, Miles found Stephanie joining his company sometime after dinner when a portion of the guests were sinking in the rest of the evening with champagne and the beauty of Mister and Misses Richards' duet.

"So, my father tells me you're attending Oxford now."

Miles closed his eyes, suppressing a groan.

"Your parents must be on cloud nine."

He forced a smile.

"They were, yes." He didn't look at her, but he could sense her frown and knew he had to erase it somehow, if only by lying to her. "When I got accepted, they were thrilled," he clarified to which she looked instantly relieved. "They're even more thrilled now that I haven't been kicked out."

She laughed coquettishly, and he knew he was in trouble, but made a valiant effort to ignore any flirtation on her part.

"They shouldn't have worried," she said, her eyes shining with admiration and boundless confidence. "There is nothing you do that you don't succeed at." She took a sip of her champagne and murmured, "I should know."

To his chagrin, he blushed a light pink and was grateful for the atmospheric lighting in the room. She was referring to their first time together – his too, entirely.

"We're all human," he said, repeating his father's words. "Eventually we are bound to make mistakes." She was about to say something else and likely slip her manicured hand high up on his thigh discreetly when he excused himself to attend to some matter or other that he didn't actually need to be bothered with.

He didn't escape the party altogether, because surely his mother would have condemned him for that, but he did manage to avoid all the placements of mistletoe throughout the house that Stephanie might stand under.

"Where did you disappear to last night, Miles?" his mother asked him far too sweetly the next morning after she'd had her first full cup of coffee. "It looked like you and Stephanie were getting on so very well."

He forced a smile and set out to involve himself with his brother's morning activities.

"I was around," he said, and that was the end of the conversation.

…

Two days before holiday ended, Miles began to pack for his return to Oxford. He didn't know how it would play out, and frankly he was afraid of everything. He didn't think he could really trust anyone, and the ache he would feel whenever he was likely to spot Lauren in a courtyard or down a hall or in her own secluded library was inevitable. He felt it even now as he packed, and any time he saw a brunette on the street, any time his mother mentioned Stephanie too because Lauren had been so much better than a pretty blonde with a nice inheritance and the class of an heiress to the throne.

What weighed on him heavily was that he was starting to feel not at home in his own home, with his own family now too. The pressure about Stephanie had been only amusing before, but now it irritated. His father's flaunting of money and insistence on it, he'd brushed aside, but now he became angered by it. His brother's eagerness to attend Oxford had made him laugh before. Now he wanted to warn him on all the horrors of the world and try to persuade him to join any university but that one in the hope there would be no temptation like the riot club.

His experience at Oxford had started to change him immensely. He was not just the down-to-earth rich kid he'd been when he first arrived. Now he was angry, cautious, resentful, and if he was honest, a little bit hopeless.

All he could do was focus on his studies, and not cut any corners. While Hugo had once said in great amusement that some people attend Oxford to get a degree, Miles now planned to do only that. He would not make mistakes the way he had in his first semester. And he would go in with eyes wide open. That was the only way to avoid the kind of catastrophe he'd been sucked into before. If people wound up hurt this time, it would not be on account of him.

His guilty conscience already had enough to bear.

*Also posted on AO3 and FFnet.

[tap-dat-agent]

Who Knew? - Merlahad Fic By Me

Part 2 // Part 3

“John Denver.”

“What?”

Eggsy sensed Harry enter the room but couldn’t stop the tears just yet. What they had lost had finally gotten to him more so now than when he and Merlin had a sob in the tunnels under Kingsman.

“Sorry,” he whimpered, wiping at his eyes with aggression. “I got caught up for sec.”

“Might I join you?”

Eggsy watched the older man close the door behind him, draw nearer from the darkness, but he quickly glanced away to hide the red of his eyes in the light of a crackling fire. He snorted and blinked profusely, ignoring the weight of Harry’s presence as he sat in the empty armchair situated next to him.

“It’s alright,” Harry said, his voice a cultured utility of reassurance, and Eggsy almost believed him.

“No, it bloody fucking isn’t,” Eggsy said, dragging a hand down his face in the hopes of ridding all evidence of weeping. “I’m just…coping, I guess. We get to mourn now, right?” Eggsy slouched over, desperate for the heat of the fire to consume him. “Only after we save the world, yeah?”

“…Did Merlin tell you that?”

Eggsy shrugged, staring down at the floor, the mere mention of Merlin’s name causing the corners of his eyes to burn with a familiar prickly sensation. It wasn’t rare for him to cry. He cried epically, all the time, but the traumatic experience of growing up with a dick of a stepdad who liked to punch him in the gut and smack him about whenever he dared to shed a tear had trained him to hold back the waterworks in front anyone who wasn’t Mum.

That changed when Tilde came into his life, his newly-wedded wife, one of the only people he trusted enough with his feelings.

Then there was Harry who, given his resurrected status, remained to Eggsy a walking, talking, false sense of security, a constant reminder that all that was good in his life could easily be taken away just like that. Harry moved to rise and Eggsy felt a sudden pang of panic that he might leave.

“I believe the occasion demands a stiff drink, don’t you agree?” Harry mused, a trying but somber pep in his tone. “No offense to our American brethren but I’ve been looking forward to indulging in a fuller body only on offer at Kingsman.”

Kingsman…Eggsy couldn’t remember when last he hadn’t felt ache in his chest at anyone mentioning Kingsman.

Kingsman had just started to feel familiar, like his mates, like his mum and his sis. Apart from the professional zeal, the demands of duty, the Machiavellian façade, there was among them a common core of modern model gentlemen-like sensibilities about honor, bravery, and camaraderie that made the organization more like brothers-in-arms, like family, offering the kind of devotion and respect Eggsy had lived his whole life longing for but never got in an unstable home round a fuck-all stepfather.

“Cheers,” Harry quipped, handing him a two finger, neat, of an aged single malt Scotch whisky, before situating himself back down with a Scotch glass of his own in hand. “To life of holy matrimony,” he said, raising his glass in Eggsy’s direction, but Eggsy kept his own glass clutched in both hands, too despondent to drink to his own wedded bliss. “Alright, then. To the fact that, despite all odds, we have reached a full week of active duty, unscathed, secured in our finances, and at no loss for work.”

Eggsy watched in his peripheral as the glass in Harry’s hand inched its way toward the older man’s thin-lipped mug before its contents disappeared in one fell swoop.

“Right well,” Harry set the now empty glass down on an empty coaster on the small end table between them. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question was that then, Harry?”

“Did Merlin tell you not to mourn…not to show any emotion or feelings, or some other hogwash like that, until after we’ve fought the good fight and saved the world?”

“Yeah, he did,” Eggsy barked out, beside himself with grief. “What fucking of it?”

Harry remained unfazed by the outburst. He was the ever so patient and understanding parental figure Eggsy was too old to have or want at this point and yet there he sat, cross-legged, watching and waiting for Eggsy to rediscover some semblance of composure.

“Yeah, he did,” Eggsy repeated, an apology laced in the lowered tone of his voice. “Shit lotta good that did, too. After we went into Doomsday protocol, yeah, we got steaming pissed on a full bottle of Stateman’s straight bourbon.” Eggsy smiled at the memory, his eyes wandering to the Scotch in his hands. “We balled like dickheads, goin’ on and on about losing Kingsman, and Merlin insisted it was his fault but it wasn’t. It was my fault. It was. I let that Charlie fuck back in and now Roxy’s dead, my mate Brandon, J.B. …”

Fuck, Eggsy thought, and the lure of the clear caramel-colored liquid at his disposal finally overcame him. He downed it without a second thought, basking in the smooth burn it left in his throat. His eyes watered because the shit was truly strong and not at all because he couldn’t stop crying about all the good people in his life who were no more.

“That’s what he said.”

Eggsy all but slammed his now empty Scotch glass against the surface of the end table.

“What an absurd thing to say to someone who’s grieving.”

“Fuck no?”

“The man had cultivated quite the stony veneer, over the years.”

“Merlin grieved, alright? Kingsman keep their shit together but he fuckin’ grieved—that’s how it was,” Eggsy insisted, suddenly on the defensive. He glared at Harry, the older man’s unwavering one-eyed stare an aggravating sight. “Or did you forget? We had the mission.”

“Incapable of having a little cry while simultaneously doing what is necessary, are we?”

“Why are you riding this, man? We kept our head in the game, alright? Isn’t that what a good little soldier does? Fuck off, there’s nothing absurd about it.”

“Of course, there is,” Harry insisted himself, looking off into the fire. “I should know. Who do you bloody well think told him that?”

Eggsy didn’t know what to say to that but, at a loss for words already, he simply stared into the flames that danced in the fireplace before them. The snug room drew quiet and nothingness pounded in his ears. In the heat of their exchange, Eggsy had managed to replace tears with anger and do away with thoughts of loss and self-loathing.

Now he felt nothing.

“John Denver.”

“What?”

“I knew who his favorite singer was,” Harry said, as if it were the most blatant thing in the world, like that was at all what either of them had been on about. “I knew everything about that man.”

Eggsy looked over to Harry, his curiosity piqued, the drift of Harry’s voice sounding with some semblance of pain that Eggsy had never been privy to before now. Harry’s one visible eyes glazed over with certain memories, glistening in the light of the fire, and Eggsy found himself all ears to the regret lingering at the tip of Harry’s tongue.

“His favorite colour is green, like the sprawling Highlands of his motherland. He’s three years younger than I and yet held a place in the same year at boarding school. I was inconsolably miffed to find some young pleb had outdone my top marks and so I went to confront him. We ended up having it out like two common blokes outside a pub in Moss Side of Manchester.” A small but strange smile withered across Harry’s face. “We subsequently settled on an acquaintanceship.”

Eggsy eyed Harry with rapt attention. “Go on.”

“He had a flare for the dramatic, though, you wouldn’t know it at first glance. Before gadgetry it was painting—a technological genius and he wanted to be an artist. Then I enlisted, obligated by a sense of duty, but then he enlisted because I did. Kingsman had him on their radar before they ever gave me a fleeting consideration. We somehow managed to succeed in our respective candidacies and remained happily unforthcoming on how we knew each other. Mother…”

Harry fell silent, his dance down memory lane having stumbled upon a subject clearly hitting too close to home. Eggsy would swear he stopped breathing, in that moment, in fear of disturbing the aura of the man’s confessional state. Eggsy could barely get him to divulge a request when making a lunch run, so close to the chest did Harry play his cards. The only other time Eggsy had ever heard Harry mention his mum had been shortly after discovering he was still alive, when he told Merlin he wanted to see her.

Merlin knew his mum, Eggsy realized.

“Mother adored him,” Harry eventually carried on, “and he her. She took a disliking to me, in the advance stages of her condition. Confused me with my father. I asked him to look after her, when I was off on missions for an indefinite amount of time, and he relished in the excuse to spend more time with her. When she finally succumbed to her illness,” Harry paused again, lowering his gaze to the expanse of his immaculate apparel, and Eggsy waited on his every word, “it devastated him.”

The silence of Harry’s sadness felt like a sucker punch to Eggsy’s face.

“I was a coward. I was cruel. He needed me and I…I wasn’t there for him. I told him I didn’t want him, didn’t need him, and he adapted in time. I told him not to mourn, because I hadn’t. I swept it under the rug, insisted on the mission. We can feel when we’ve saved the world but the world is never truly saved, is it?”

“Harry?”

“I killed him,” Harry said, staring pitifully into the fire, a helpless but resolute inflection about him. “I’m the reason he’s dead.”

“That ain’t fucking true and you know it,” Eggsy urged. “I killed ‘im. Okay? Not you, me. He pushed me off that mine, not you.”

“He saved you because he knew that’s what I wanted.”

“What, for the mission?”

“I should think,” Harry breathed, sulking, and Eggsy shared in his angst. “I lied, Eggsy, before… Alone was not all I had. Alone was not all I ever was. I had him, Eggsy. I had him and I took that for granted. I miss her... I never told him that. I should have told him that. Why didn’t I tell him that? There was so much more I could have said…”

Silence again.

Eggsy fixated on the fire, afraid to look over. There were no sobs, no whimpers, not even the slightest movement of distress. Harry was ever the epitome of nobility, the kind of posh, yuppie, high class wanker Eggsy used to despise mainly because posh, yuppie, high class wankers usually despised him. Not Harry, though.

Harry treated him better than anyone.

Eggsy looked to his senior colleague, summoning the balls to acknowledge a grief beyond his own, the single tear trailing down Harry’s eye remaining unfettered in its descent. Harry’s face screwed up only slightly as he fought back the full extent of his emotions, and Eggsy didn’t press him for more than that.

In fact, Eggsy found himself doing one better. He clambered out of his chair to stand behind Harry and, before losing his nerves, wrapped his arms around the older man faster than he gathered Harry could protest. He latched on, unwilling to let go, burying his chin against the backrest for good measure.

Harry said nothing but didn’t push him away and, eventually, Eggsy felt the older man relax into the embrace. Eggsy had practice with consoling his mum on what used to be a daily, wrapping her up in his arms to relieve her of all her anxiety and grief and hopelessness. Of all Eggsy’s skillsets, both the bad and the good, looking out for the people he cared for was the only one that ever truly mattered to him.

They stayed like that for what felt like ages until Eggsy’s phone went off.

“It’s Whiskey,” he said.

“Any idea what she might want?”

“No clue,” Eggsy admitted, staring at his phone’s screen in surprise. “I’ll take this, yeah, and then will get right proper shitfaced.”

“I wager I should pass on the offer,” Harry lamented and, just like that, Harry sounded contained again. “I had a full bottle, already, before joining you.”

“You what?” Eggsy raised his phone to his ear. “Galahad.”

“Galahad,” Whiskey greeted, her voice urgent. “I’ve got news for Kingsman and it’s a bit shocking.”

“We’re all ears,” Eggsy assured her, placing her on speaker. “What’s up?”

“Galahad, we found him.”

“Found who?”

“On our last sweep of Poppy’s hideout, we discovered a secret lair among the temple ruins and he was there.”

“Who was there?”

“Merlin,” Whiskey said, getting to the fucking point. “He’s alive.”

Eggsy looked to Harry, the alarm and disbelief and hope in his eye as he unwittingly clutched the back of his seat fucking heartbreaking.

Eggsy’s gaping mouth grew dry.

“Fuck me, Whiskey.”

“Uh, no thank you,” Whiskey said, in polite dismissal. “Tequila’s on his way. We’ll have you guys back in Kentucky by this time tomorrow.”

“We’ll be ready,” Eggsy said, looking to Harry with careful consideration.

“Let’s go,” Harry said, rising to his feet, and the two shared a determined nod.

[artificialqueens]

Royals (A "The Selection" AU Fanfic) Prologue - TheQuartzMermaid

Summary: The time has come for Prince Casey to find a wife. Millions of girls signed in, but only 35 are chosen. One of them comes from a successful lineage of Russian aristocrats. Another finds herself in the palace after a series of broken rules and problems with the law. The idea of being a One is tempting and the life of a princess looks fantastic, but do they really want the crown that comes with it?

AN 1: Hey! This is my first submission, hope you like it! Special thanks to miss Tiffany for being an amazingly amazing beta <3 You rock!

AN 2: This prologue doesn’t feature any of the Drag Race inspired characters because it’s the real (like the REAL) Author’s Note. The world of “The Selection” has so many details and I wanted people to understand this fic without having to be familiar with the original books by Kiera Cass. The author’s note ended up being waaaaay bigger than I expected, so I turned it into a prologue.

Royals - The Author’s Note Prologue

No one could be prepared for what happened after 2024. The United States of America collapsed and still owed China a lot of money, which ended up with their becoming a colony again, having it’s name changed to the American State of China. This happened during World War III which China had won.

Not much later, Russia was also trying to conquer a number of territories. Their first goal? Take the American State of China from the hands of its colonizers. Of course the Chinese wouldn’t let that happen, resulting in World War IV. With their leaders too busy fighting Russia, the American State of China got some help from their fellow North American countries, rebelled and got their independence. The country, which is now a fusion of North America and part of Central America, was renamed into Illéa, in honor to one of the few rich families that helped their nation rise again.

The Illéas ascended to power when Gregory Illéa married his oldest daughter, Katherine, to a prince from Swendway (that’s the fusion of Sweden and Norway), becoming the first king of Illéa. His wife, Bethany, lost her life due to an accident (or was it a suicide attempt?) and his older son, Spencer, died under mysterious circumstances just a few years after his sister’s wedding.

If that wasn’t enough to worsen Illéa’s image, try adding a caste system. People started receiving letters from the monarchy, telling they were now Twos, Threes or even Eights. Most of the families had their names changed to match their new castes, that now determined what occupation one would have. If you are a celebrity, a professional athlete, a politician, or an officer, you must be a Two. Three is for doctors, lawyers, teachers, writers, inventors, therapists… Great minds, in a nutshell. If you own a business or work in a farm or factory, your caste is Four. Artists are Five. Six are the drivers, secretaries and other indoor workers. Seven is the caste of manual laborers. If you are homeless or in a situation in which you can’t prove your caste - like being an illegitimate child or being abandoned by your family - Eight is your caste. The Ones? Only the royalty and religious figures, of course.

The morale of the nation was not in a good state: the caste system was just implemented followed by two royal deaths in a short amount of time. What would King Gregory do? Marry his heir, Damon, to a commoner. A random commoner. Thus, The Selection was born.

The mechanics of the competition are simple: any single girl between the ages of 16 and 20 can apply. Only one of each province will be selected and sent to the palace to try to win the prince’s heart. The winner not only becomes the princess – and later, the queen – of Illéa, but also brings her family to caste One with her.

The first Selection ever was a complete setup. Prince Damon slept with half of the girls and sent them home after it. He ended up marrying his father choice, Grace Lowell. They had only one son, Justin.

When it was time for Justin to go through his own Selection, he chose Abby Tamblin. She liked him, but was more attracted to his cousin, Porter Schreave.. They conspired to get rid of Prince Justin, and Gregory, who was close to death and had no idea of what his lovely granddaughter-in-law and great-nephew did, encouraged the princess to marry Porter. They didn’t have a happy marriage, though. Porter was constantly afraid his wife would dispose of him like she did with Justin. They had a son, Clarkson, who grew up listening to his parents’ fights.

Prince Clarkson didn’t get a chance to have his Selection. He was killed during a rebel attack by the age of 13. Queen Abby saw everything. She did give the crown another heir, a healthy boy named Laswell, but she wasn’t mentally able to take care of another child. The prince was raised by the maids, only talking to his parents when needed – that means the government stuff. Queen Abby died only weeks before Laswell turned 19 and started his own Selection. He was devastated, of course, but the show must go on. Danica Harding was chosen. They got married two months later and had two children: Princess Agrippa Schreave and Prince Casey Schreave.

Time passed by and now is the time for Casey to find a wife. While the royal family enjoyed the prince’s birthday party, thousands of letters were being sent to every house in which there is an eligible girl. Of course the ladies eagerly filled the form that came with the letter, some for the money – much needed when you’re born in a lower caste –, some for the fairytale feeling the contest had. Soon 35 of them would be prancing down the halls of the palace in beautiful gowns and expensive jewelry, doing whatever it takes to snatch the crown and the title of Princess of Illéa.

35 girls, one crown. The competition of a lifetime.

Let The Selection begin.

[laurent-ofvere]

HEARD SOMEBODY WAS FEELIN DOWN

“@safetytank sorry life’s kicking ur ass so here’s most of wedding fic chapter 1, hope stuff looks up for u soon <3<3″

It was dark when Damen opened his eyes again.

The familiar sight of his bedroom’s painted ceiling sent hazy thoughts adrift, thinking what a strangely detailed dream he’d woken from. One that felt as if it had lasted for months.

He moved to sit up, but the attempt sent pain spiking through his stomach. A muffled groan escaped him as one hand grabbed at the source, finding thick cloth bandages wrapped tightly around his bared middle, but it was the shock needed to bring him fully awake.

Vere. Arles. Ravenel. Ios. Kastor. Laurent.

It was no dream. They’d been in the palace, then in the baths, and then…

He cast his eyes about the darkened room as much as he was able. He lay in his own bed, comfortable but for the stinging reminder of having a blade plunged into his abdomen. His old furniture all remained intact, if bare of any personal articles. A mental aside supposed that everything of his had been disposed of after his falsified death, but that realization was a pinprick compared to the lonely silence that hung about the room, broken by window draperies rustling in the nighttime breeze and the distant sound of breaking waves.

The last thing he could clearly remember was Laurent. Laurent repeating his name with wide eyes, and Damen staring blearily at where he’d bled all over their joined hands. Then he’d woken, alone. The lack of Laurent’s presence wasn’t something he’d expected to feel so severely, but he returned his gaze to painted waterlilies on the ceiling and told himself it was unfair to demand such things after all the two of them had been through. Laurent deserved to rest in a proper bed just as much as Damen did. He was probably sound asleep not two corridors away in the palace’s guest quarters.

His assertion shattered like a dropped glass at a sound poking tentatively through the silence, so quiet he nearly missed it altogether. A tiny, near-inaudible snore.

Trying to roll over onto his side was a fool’s errand. Any attempt to bend or twist at the waist sent another jolt of pain radiating outward from the bandaged wound. The best he could manage was to carefully slide across the sheets, using arms and legs to minimize any muscles contracting in his torso, enough that he could crane his head to one side and peer over the edge.

A heap of blankets and pillows lay tucked into the shadow the bedframe cast from the faint moonlight eking into the room. A padded cover from one of the palace’s reclining seats had been spread out over the marble floor, with a familiar and intricately-embroidered bedroll piled on top. At the corner closest to Damen, a head of pale hair rested half-sunken into a cushion, letting out the slightest of snores with every breath.

His heart ached. He made to reach out, to brush fingertips over yellow locks and entice the blue eyes behind them to open, but halted with his wrist outstretched. He knew from experience how much trouble Laurent must have had getting to sleep after the events of the previous day. Giving it more thought, Damen was surprised Laurent hadn’t stubbornly kept vigil over his bedside by candlelight. He’d likely only slept out of sheer, unavoidable exhaustion.

Damen withdrew his hand, laying it across the cloth wound around his stomach. Hanging his head over the bed’s side was beginning to give him a sore neck, but he was willing to endure it for the sight of Laurent, safely asleep and snoring no louder than a gust of wind whispering through a grassy meadow.

The second time he woke, it was to voices. One higher-pitched and deferential, one accented in Veretian, both barely above a murmur.

Morning sunlight streamed into the room, lighting up polished marble and painted ceilings in all the resplendent colors he remembered. Under the voices speaking in hushed tones, the quiet rush and rumble of the sea against rocky cliffs remained, with the tang of salt flavoring fresh, clean air.

To his right, green and yellow and pink blurred together until his vision focused itself, picking out two figured draped in airy summer fashions. One pale and upright, one bent submissively at the waist with gold glinting at a bared throat.

Out of a trained instinct not to meet the gaze of a superior, the slave’s head was bowed enough that her eyes were veiled by a fall of dark hair. Knowing the action would not have been caught, she chanced a look in Damen’s direction.

A momentary flinch was all that preceded a shocked gasp of “Exalted,” before the slave dropped to press herself against the floor.

Her conversational partner turned, and the sight of him stole all the breath from Damen’s lungs. The last time Damen had seen Laurent he’d been ashen and worn down, with pale hair sweat-dampened and tangled from exertion. All of that had been washed away over the course of a night and a morning, leaving behind bright eyes and surprise that was subdued, but not forced behind a neutral façade.

He looked like a man who’d been relieved of a terrible burden and hadn’t yet grown used to the lightness that came with his newfound freedom.

“Inform Nikandros,” Laurent ordered the slave, who was all too happy to scurry out of the room. Then, to Damen as he approached the bed, “You’re awake.”

Damen smiled. “I am.” His pushing aside the bedsheets earned him a raised eyebrow until he patted the spot he’d cleared. “Come sit with me.”

Laurent seated himself beside Damen’s blanketed hip, showing no signs that the previous day had taken any toll on him but for a careful hesitance to his movements. He’d also relieved himself of the bloodstained chiton he’d worn during the trail and everything that had come after. Damen didn’t know what member of the court had generously donated a replacement of spring-green silk, but the color looked exquisite paired with a wrapped golden sash that echoed the yellow of Laurent’s hair. Damen would have to find whoever had insisted Laurent be dressed like an Akielon prince and give them his thanks, but that could come later.

“How is the wound?” Laurent asked, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather.

“I’ve had worse,” slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Laurent made no acknowledgement of Damen’s stricken expression, looking at him with unreadable blue eyes.

“Laurent—”

“It’s all right.”

“That’s not what—”

“I know.”

In apology, Damen reached out to lay a hand over Laurent’s where he’d folded them demurely in his silk-covered lap. The guilt roiling inside him calmed when Laurent didn’t immediately pull away, and dissipated when the other, with the golden cuff glittering around a pale wrist, placed itself over his in turn. “I’ll be all right,” Damen amended, giving the hand underneath his a gentle squeeze.

Laurent’s fingers tangled with his own. “Ios is yours. Word has been sent to Karthas to inform the rest of the troops.” His tone changed to a shallow deadpan. “I suppose now that you have me here alone and unprotected, you’ll have to shackle me in gold and parade me around as your prisoner. Will I be serving you wine, or would you have me fan you in this intolerable heat? Shall I sleep at the foot of your bed as well?”

He took the bait. “It won’t be on the floor, if that’s a concern.”

If Laurent was surprised that Damen knew, he made no show of it. “Having furniture dragged in might have woken you,” he said, as if it was something anyone might have done. “Paschal said you were not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

“I’m glad you were there,” said Damen, hoping to turn the moment back to quiet and tender. “I didn’t know where you’d gone at first.” I was afraid you’d left, he did not say.

“You should be thanking Nikandros.” The pink tinting Laurent’s cheeks was the only sign he’d heard Damen at all. “Your guards weren’t keen on allowing me into your sickroom without his assurance I wouldn’t murder you in your sleep.”

“I’ll be sure to express my gratitude.”

“If I’d wanted you dead, waiting until you’d been treated and put under guard would have been incredibly inefficient.”

He could tell Laurent was retreating behind pithy comments, closing down each attempt to touch something vulnerable as if shutting a portcullis over the most unprotected parts of himself. It hurt, there was no point in pretending it didn’t, but Damen could see the purpose in retreating behind the comfort of walls and barricades after being laid frighteningly, helplessly bare only a number of hours ago. “How are the others?” he asked, turning the subject to more neutral topics.

“Shaken, but alive. They’ll be tramping in here the moment they hear you’re awake, so enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

“The Council?”

“Deliberating how to earn their way back into my good graces while under guard in the guest wing.”

“And…?” He swallowed, the words sticking to the base of his tongue.

Pale eyes softened by degrees. “My uncle’s body is to be burned,” Laurent said steadily, with only the tightening of muscles at his throat any indication that the words were difficult to speak aloud. “With your permission, I would prefer that no part of him returns to Vere.”

“We’ll have the ashes swept out as waste,” Damen agreed, tempering the prickle of anger that sparked in his chest. It was no better than that monster deserved.

“Kastor has been set aside,” Laurent continued. “That decision should be yours.”

“Thank you.” Damen let his eyes close for a moment, leaning back to rest against the cushion propping up his head. “I want him given his last respects. I want him to be at peace.” This time it was Laurent’s fingers that squeezed his. “He was my brother.”

[missmichellebelle]

bonus fic: a heart of paper cranes

so originally when I started plotting A Heart of Paper Cranes, it was going to be a one-shot told from Victor’s POV that was only going to cover 10 cranes out of a thousand. it didn’t end up working because I just couldn’t tell the story I wanted to tell in such a short time-frame, so I switched gears (and POVs) and ended up with the fic I’m working on now.

this is NOT the fic from Victor’s POV, though. I changed quite a few details going into the final draft. but it is like a bare-bones sort of deal, I guess?

but here is the original draft of the fic, which essentially bridges the same content of the first three chapters of Paper Cranes as is. <3

one.

They share a small round table in a coffee shop—it’s not the sort of place Victor would pick for a first date, but then again, he hadn’t picked it. He’d been given an address, a time, and told to look for the boy with the blue glasses, because that’s generally how blind dates work.

Victor doesn’t normally do blind dates, but somehow the stars had aligned, Mars was in retrograde, and there was a gaping hole in Victor’s life that he couldn’t seem to find and fix, and he’d said yes when Chris had proposed the idea.

Some friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend deal.

He’d watched the boy with the blue glasses for three minutes before he’d decided to sit down, as he fiddled with his fingers and kept his head ducked, eye’s a flashing movement behind his glasses. He tapped the screen of his phone every twenty seconds to check the time—Victor was early, because he was a firm believer in punctuality, but something about the tense line of his potential date’s shoulders told him that if he was even a second late, the man would bolt.

So Victor was early.

It took him 46 minutes to figure out why Chris would ever set him up with someone like Yuuri Katsuki. He’s clearly so nervous he can barely speak, and he’s hardly been able to look Victor in the eye even once. While Victor has no problem talking about himself, and is happy to have a willing party to receive all of his charm and stories, it’s nothing… Special. Plenty of people listen to him talk. Plenty of people fawn over him.

At 45 minutes, Yuuri Katsuki is as bland as a grey wall, and Victor is starting to come up with an escape plan.

And then, one minute later, Victor notices that Yuuri Katsuki’s napkin antics have actually been with purpose. He’s not even sure what he’s talking about when he happens to glance down and sees that, rather than nervous, Yuuri’s fingers have turned deft. What was a napkin (Victor suspects, based on the shreds and bits of napkin scattered beneath Yuuri’s hands) is much smaller, formed into a shape that reminds Victor of a fox’s head.

Yuuri doesn’t notice his gaze, fingers pulling the pointed ends up and then folding them. He pinches the bottom, and then grabs the points at the top and… Pulls an origami crane out of a napkin.

It isn’t until the small, delicate creation is complete and held aloft between Yuuri’s fingers that he seems to notice that Victor’s constant stream of conversation has trickled to nothing, and he meets Victor’s eyes with a start, as if he’s been caught in the middle of something embarrassing.

“Ah—” he starts, and then his hand shifts, and Victor is quick to grab Yuuri’s wrist before he can crush the crane in his palm.

“No, don’t,” he adds. His eyes flick down and then back up again, his eye’s holding Yuuri’s gaze steadily.

(They’re pretty. Brown is such a deceiving color, trying to blend in as normal or boring or bland. The longer Victor looks at Yuuri’s eyes, the less they become any of those things.

Blue eyes might be the ones people sink into, but brown eyes are for melting.)

“What did you make?” Victor asks, voice turning gentler, even though he already knows the answer. Yuuri fidgets, shoulders shifting, and breaks their eye contact to look down at the tiny bird that he still has pinched by the tip of its wing.

“It’s… It’s just a crane.” He blinks rapidly, eyelashes fluttering like hummingbird wings. “N-nothing important, I just.” Yuuri’s fingers flex, like maybe he might try to crush it again, so Victor very carefully plucks it from Yuuri’s hold and brings it to his eye line.

“Were you bored?” Victor’s mouth tips up at the corner, his smile teasing, and Yuuri blanches, waving his hands about frantically.

“No, no, no, I—”

Victor can practically see the words seize up in Yuuri’s throat, watches the struggle to swallow them down, to sort them out. He follows the lift of Yuuri’s shoulders as he takes a deep breath, traces the motion to the way his eyes close and then open again.

“When I get… Nervous.” The word is forced. “I.” His fingers flex again. “It just… Helps.”

Victor cocks his head to the side, twirling the napkin crane in his finger.

“Making cranes?”

Yuuri’s shrug is more or less confirmation, and Victor nods thoughtfully.

It’s… Endearing. It is helplessly, wonderfully, ridiculously endearing.

“Can I get you another tea, Yuuri?” Victor asks, and Yuuri gets that startled look on his face again, like Victor actually did something surprising. It’s intriguing. It makes Victor wonder how Yuuri will react when he’s actually surprising.

“You… You want to get me another tea?” He asks, as if maybe he misheard the conversation.

Victor understands, because this would have been his out. His latte is long drained, Yuuri’s tea is cold, and it’s the perfect excuse to tie a bow on this blind date and for both of them to continue on with their days and their lives and most likely never see or hear from each other again.

Two minutes ago, Victor would have taken it.

But now…

Victor twirls the crane again.

“I would.” He sets the crane carefully down on the table and moves to stand. “And maybe when I get back, I can do a little less talking and a little more listening.” Using his arm as leverage, he leans over the small table, pushing the boundaries of Yuuri’s personal space enough that he actually presses back into his chair. “I feel like there’s more to you than meets the eye, Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri smiles—small, shy, a hint self-deprecating—and there’s that word again. Endearing. Victor wants to run the pad of his thumb over the smudge of color on Yuuri’s cheeks, but he figures that might be a bit much today.

“I doubt that.” He looks down, and Victor can’t help but tip his chin back up. That is certainly too much, if the rapidly darkening shade of Yuuri’s face is any indication, but Victor’s touch still lingers.

“Don’t,” he says simply, and then draws back. “Earl grey with a bit of milk, right?”

Unable to find words—either from the shock of Victor’s touch, or because he actually remembers what Yuuri ordered—Yuuri simply nods.

“Good.” He takes one step away, and then turns back. “You better not crush that crane while I’m gone. I plan on keeping it.” He keeps his expression and tone light, but there’s an underlying steel to it. He is far from joking.

Yuuri splutters. “Why?”

“Because it’s adorable. And beautiful. And interesting.” The shade of Victor’s smile turns slightly darker, and Yuuri looks away, but Victor can see the redness on his neck and ears. “And I want it. Consider it a memento.”

Victor is horrendously sentimental, but he usually attaches his memories to things that couldn’t also be mistaken for junk or clutter. His grandmother’s childhood matryoshka dolls, his father’s cufflinks from his parents’ wedding, a snowglobe that houses the Church of the Savior from his first visit to St. Petersburg, the cords from his college graduation. Nothing like this. Nothing like a very small, very disposable, easily destroyed paper crane.

But perhaps there is something about its potential to be short-lived that makes it seem so valuable.

(The far wall of Victor’s bedroom has a chunk of exposed brick running along the bottom, leaving a small ledge just under two inches thick and approximately five feet high—a space that is useful for practically nothing, except perhaps housing this tiny crane.)

When he comes back with two cups of tea, Yuuri has the napkin crane by the wing again, and is frowning at it thoughtfully.

“I can make a better one,” he insists, and then tacks on a shy thank you as Victor slides his cup of tea across the table.

“Okay.” Victor takes the crane back, and deposits it as delicately as he can in the pocket of his coat. “You can make me another one tomorrow.”

Yuuri blinks at him owlishly behind his glasses.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

*

twenty three.

Victor runs his thumbs over Yuuri’s knuckles, lamenting his gloves and the way they keep him from that ever elusive skin-on-skin contact. They’ve been… Well, not really dating, but certainly seeing each other for just over three weeks now, and Yuuri is shy in the affection department. Even holding hands like this outside the lobby of Victor’s building is a rare gift.

He doesn’t fight the urge to lift one of Yuuri’s hands to his lips and press a chaste kiss to his fingers, making Yuuri duck his head in embarrassment.

“Would you like to come up for some tea?” Victor asks, the words spoken in hot breaths against Yuuri’s hand. But then he feels the already familiar pullback—quite literally—as Yuuri pulls his hands from Victor’s hold and takes a step back.

“I—”

“Just tea.” Victor assures, and holds out his hand again. “I promise.” He wiggles his fingers. “Plus, you’ve never seen my apartment before.” Not that Victor has ever been inside Yuuri’s, but he’s under no illusions that they’re anywhere close to that particular step in their… Whatever-this-is. “And I really want you to meet Makka.”

It’s a sneaky thing to do, bringing his dog into it, but Yuuri’s hesitance falters, and he glances at the doors leading into the lobby and then back at Victor.

He shifts his weight. Glances at the doors again. Scuffs his feet. Looks at Victor.

“J-just for a little bit.”

“Excellent.” Victor takes Yuuri’s hand and doesn’t waste a second leading him inside the building. It’s not too cold outside, but it’s mid-October now, and autumn has settled firmly over the city, leaving their fingertips chilled and their breath fogging the air after the sun sets. It makes the lobby feel slightly stifling in their coats, but it also gives Victor an excuse to remove his gloves and hold Yuuri’s hand properly.

(Never in Victor’s 27 years did he ever imagine that holding someone’s hand would feel so incredibly intimate.)

(But, in 27 years, Victor had never quite imagined anyone like Yuuri, either.)

“Good evening, Michele,” Victor tosses casually over his shoulder, not even bothering to make eye contact with the security guard as he makes a beeline for the elevator banks, like Yuuri might change his mind at any moment.

He can see Yuuri casting his eyes around, taking in the lobby and all its shiny, polished surfaces. It has Victor appraising the infrastructure more than he has since he moved in two years ago. He knows it’s one of the lesser buildings in Chelsea—smaller, not as visually stunning. But it works for his needs.

“This is where you live,” Yuuri mutters, more to himself than to Victor, when they finally cross the threshold into his loft apartment on the ninth floor.

“Yep, this is home,” Victor says with a smile as he drops his keys into the bowl beside the door, and seconds later there is the sound of nails on the hardwood and the thrum of heavy paws. Victor turns with arms open when Makkachin bounds around the kitchen counter, only for his beloved dog to bowl right into Yuuri’s legs. If Yuuri’s back hadn’t been practically pressed to Victor’s front door, Makka would’ve knocked him straight to the ground with that kind of force.

“And this is Makka.” Victor smiles fondly as he scratches his fingers through the curly fur on top of his poodle’s head, and Makka barks at Yuuri. While most people have best friends or family members they introduce a perspective significant other to, Victor mostly has his dog. He does have friends and family, of course, but Makka’s opinion is the one he probably values the most.

And it would seem, with the way Makka nuzzles into Yuuri’s offered hand, that he approves.

“Nice to meet you, Makka. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Yuuri’s voice is gentle, but his smile is gentler, and Victor feels a pulsing fondness in his chest—and maybe even a little resentment, that Yuuri’s sweet smile isn’t for him.

“All right, boy, down, down. Dinnertime.” Victor gives a pat to his thigh and then strides into the kitchen, and Makka trots obediently behind him. Yuuri follows suit, eyes dancing around the inside of Victor’s apartment with a lot more attentiveness than they’d had in the lobby.

“So, ah… This is home.” Victor gives a small, presenting flick of his hand, suddenly feeling a tight spiral of nerves at having Yuuri in his space. Did he remember to clean off the coffee table? Is his laundry tucked away in his closet? Oh god, there’s that picture of him with his grandmother on the bookshelf from when he was six.

Yuuri looks around one more time.

“You are never seeing my apartment,” Yuuri finally says, when his eyes land on where Victor is setting down Makka’s dinner. He pauses, still crouched near the ground, and blinks at Yuuri.

Is Victor’s apartment that bad? Are his living habits so horrible that Yuuri doesn’t want Victor anywhere near his own quarters for fear of catching them? There are three plates and two sets of silverware in his sink, a saucepan full of water that has been “soaking” for four days, and Victor wishes he could throw them all out the window—he’ll just buy new ones.