#anyway the one who wrote To Pause Time With You has a modern au that i loved the premise of

[tathrin]

I should probably wait for when I get around to posting this whole chapter, but. I just wrote this section and I like it a lot and I don’t want to wait, I want to share it now. And this is from like chapter seventeen or something, and I only have up to chapter six posted and I really don’t want to wait that long ugh. So please have some peaceful, before-the-storm, out-of-context (but you don’t really need the context for this, I promise) pre-gimleaf interaction from my zombie au fic.

(Spoiler Warning for the Zombie Au Fic, I suppose, although nothing that’s particularly plot-relevant, I don’t think. Y’all knew they were going to meet eventually, and the fact that it’s happening in Rivendell is not much of a give-away imo. But stop reading now if you’re reading that story and don’t want to read anything out-of-order, I suppose.)

Strange as Rivendell is, however, it is nothing compared to the strangeness of the elf who flits up to Gimli now, his loose golden hair bouncing like tufts of dandelion in the breeze behind him.

"Legolas," Gimli says; a flat acknowledgement rather than a greeting.

Legolas smiles brightly and hops onto the bench beside him, crouching on his heels rather than sitting like a proper creature, as seems to be his wont. (Gimli tries to remember if he has ever seen this elf sit in a chair the way people do, then wonders why he is wasting the mental effort on someone for whom he cares so little.) Legolas is holding some kind of long stem in one hand, and he pinches a small purple bud off of it and sticks it in his mouth.

"What are you eating?" Gimli finds himself asking before he can remember that he doesn't care.

"Lavender," says Legolas. He holds the stem out. "Would you like some?"

Gimli blinks. "No," he says. "No, thank you."

After a pause while the elf plucks at his lavender and tilts his head back to stare up at the trees that line the street beside their bench, Gimli cannot help but to say anxiously, "Lavender. Which you…plucked from someone's garden as you passed?"

Legolas tilts his head, apparently thinking the possibility over. Then he says, "Yes."

"Ah," says Gimli.

He does not know much about gardens or flowers, but he thinks of the humans of Dale, and how territorial some of them can be about their homes and the surrounding grounds.

"Perhaps…perhaps you should not do that again," he says gently.

Legolas turns his silver-bright eyes on the dwarf and blinks at him. "Why?" he says, tilting his head the other way now before breaking into a grin again. "Oh! No, you do not need to worry, Gimli, it will not hurt the flower to lose a few buds. We grow lavender in Mirkwood, too, and I know its growth well. It flourishes in the south of our trees especially, or—or it did," he finishes, his voice going soft and a shadow passing across his gleaming eyes. "I do not know how it fares now, of course." Legolas ducks his head and turns away.

Gimli does not know what to say that will be of any comfort, and he cannot bear to make this strange creature feel worse while he is mourning for his homeland, so he abandons his attempt to explain the concept of private gardens and potentially possessive gardeners. He has a difficult time imagining that anyone in this peaceful valley will take offense to someone plucking a single strand of lavender from their garden, anyway.

He hopes.

I love writing about Mirkwood elves as these weird forest cryptids, and one of my favorite parts of this modernized-Middle-earth AU I’ve got going on here is how while everywhere else is a little bit more like our world due to the modern technology/society/etc innovations, Mirkwood is just even weirder than it was in canon, and Gimli is just like...what the fuck, what is this weirdo elf and why won’t he leave me alone. what the hell am I getting myself into. fuck.

Anyway whether you’re reading the zombie fic or not I hope you enjoy this little moment of out-of-context levity from it.

[singlecrow]

For the fic meme! Any of these that you feel like answering I'd love to hear about! I saw in an earlier ask that one of your 'guilty pleasures' is miserable h/c and also I know you love your AUs so I'm following up on those by asking:

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with?

and

L: What’s the weirdest AU you’ve ever come up with?

and I swear I didn't just go down the alphabet in order on purpose but I'd also be very curious to know:

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you’d care to share?

Hi Rosie! thank you for these excellent questions I like them a lot!

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with?

I tend to dither about angsty ideas and then go ahead and write them anyway. The angstiest story I have ever written (in modern times? I was much worse about this when I first started writing fic) is Samhain (when you hear the river rising). Hawkeye, in that one, turns out to (maybe?) be escaping within his mind from a horrible abusive reality. It's meant to be a scary story, but it came down on the angst as well as creepy sides. There's also a couple of apocalyse AUs in various fandoms, and this odd dystopian MASH AU though the notes say I wrote it for a friend so maybe it wasn't entirely my idea!

One thing I don't do even in angsty stories, though, is violence against women. It's a conscious decision which I've always stuck to. I'm not sure why that's different, but it feels like it.

Also, I am way in my Murderbot feels and I don't think that's a fandom you and I share but I hope you'll forgive me for manifesting an idea that is lingering at the back of my mind that I don't want to write! really don't! but is sticking with me anyway.

For the Murderbot folk then: on this reread I've been wondering about the canon divergence AU where Murderbot doesn't have the hacked governor module on the first PreservationAux survey. Everything goes wrong similarly, but without it, the PresAux gang don't escape. But, Mensah can't be killed by GreyCris because killing a major political leader will start a full-on war.

So this is a cheerful story that starts with Murderbot killing the rest of PresAux and then standing guard over Mensah while the corporates try and negotiate with her as a hostage. BUT. as we know, the governor module doesn't change an individual's personality, only their means of expressing it. So it's had the same experiences. it still loves her, it still wants to save her, it just... can't. And she has no idea that it's even a person rather than a faceless killing machine.

The thing is, I think this is a good story! That idea of a prisoner and a captive, Mensah as prisoner in body and Murderbot as prisoner in mind. But, ah. Angst. Maybe.

L: What’s the weirdest AU you’ve ever come up with?

Definitely the roller derby AU. And, I don't know if you'd call it an AU, but triple shot and extra hot raises the important question of what would happen if Starbucks opened an establishment on Deep Space Nine. What I like about that one is it absolutely follows the premise to its logical conclusion. Someone in the comments was like, I thought this was a joke and it was just a series of vignettes of various characters meeting in a cafe but no it's actual Starbucks on actual DS9. I was very proud of myself.

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you’d care to share?

I am trying to focus on my other work right now so don't have anything fanficcish that I'm working on (except my little project for your exchange). But I'm still really fascinated by the cis girl Hawkeye idea and I've actually got about 2000w of it stowed away. Here is a bit.

“Here,” BJ says, throwing Hawkeye a spare blanket. “Our stove unionised a couple of days back. Better to just wrap up before it goes out.”

Hawkeye grabs it. “Who are you writing to, your wife?”

“Yeah.” BJ pauses, then reaches behind him for another letter, with every inch covered with dense, narrow script. “Listen, what do you think that says?”

Hawkeye follows his pointing finger. “I’m taking Erin to Mom and Dad for a week,” she reads. “That way she’ll get some experience of— huh. Your wife is taking your kid to your in-laws for dysentery?“ 

“I thought diabetes,” BJ says. “Potter thought dressmaking.”

“Dystonia,” Hawkeye says thoughtfully. “Dreams. Dracula.”

“It’s definitely not a capital D,” BJ says. “Which is of course the only reason my wife isn’t taking my daughter to Ohio to meet the king of the vampires."

Hawkeye laughs. It’s warm in here, despite the stove withdrawing its labour, and she’s starting to relax a little as the nightmare lifts. “You settling in okay around here, then?” she asks. “I remember my first few weeks. They were brutal.”

“Yeah,” BJ says, holding up his hands. He’s looking at Hawkeye like he’s never seen her before: Hawkeye in bathrobe over pyjamas and sweatshirt. Hawkeye is average height for a woman, which makes her about a foot shorter than BJ, and keeps her hair tied back in plaits. She never eats enough because the food here tastes like used sanitary napkins, so she’s slighter and more angular than she was in civilian life. She knows that if she hadn’t met BJ off the transport plane; if she hadn’t been driven him across hostile country for forty miles while being shot at, he would think she was fragile.

“Hey,” BJ says gently. “How’d you end up doing this? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Hawkeye tilts her head. “If you mean, how does a woman end up doing this, then that’s what you should say.”

“You.” BJ is stubborn. “I figure, you and I are going to be working together a while. Why shouldn’t we get to know each other?”

“You’ve just got a ‘satiable curiosity, haven’t you, Dr Hunnicutt?” Hawkeye murmurs, worrying the frayed edge of her sleeve between two fingers.

“I have to,” BJ says. “Not like there’s much else to do, here on the banks of the great grey-green greasy Limpopo.”

So I would like to finish that! But it has a plot and stuff, which I don't have time for right now. In due course.

[theunconcernedembalmer]

(For mun) you mentioned that there were a couple of good writing for Aesop's character, I'd really like to read those recs if you're okay with sharing them!

boi i have not read these fics in a very long time, mostly cos i got tired filtering out all the horny all the time n all the AUs i dont dig. n is it just me or i really cant find good joseph n aesop fics in the tag. hmm. also if u have been looking through the tags in ao3 u probably have read all these before aha. also i just realized u meant aesops character n not. joseph n aesop.. to which i will apologize first cos thats all i ever read aha. but i promise aesop is ok hand sign in these uwu

anyway if anyone has good reccs pls hmu i’ll share them here XD i am pretty picky with my fics tho so i guess i shouldnt be complaining when there isnt much Food. anyanyway the gucci is under the cut

its really not a lot HAHAHAHAH the post just got uncomfrotably long with text. i definitely did not waste so much time on this rereading everything i probably missed a few since i dont actually have them saved n had to trawl through the tags for them, but here are some of my favs, all finished. minimal horny stuff, though if there is its part of the plot.

Truce Day- a day where hunters and survivors team up for a game in the manor. i really like aesop’s character in this where he realizes that joseph is his favourite kind of person: dead. very slight horny warning

Local Frenchman Becomes Uncle to Rich Headless Boy- modern AU where joseph calls aesop in to cover babysitting duty for robbie, a very unhinged little boy. i love the dynamics between aesop and joseph but especially joseph and robbie.

Will you give me a drink?- modern barista AU. barista and regular customer pine for each other from across the cafe counter. some parts are incredibly cheesy but its really really sweet, and i especially love That One Chapter. that chapter really sold it for me (its the bitter sweet drink one)

To Pause Time With You- post manor AU, slow burn. this one has pretty heavy themes including homophobia n religious stuff (ngl some of it made me feel a little uncomfortable), so a huge heads up. also some horny, but the author made it such that u can skip it entirely without affecting the story. its not recommended for minors to read, but when has that stopped yall really. anyway im a sucker for slow burn n there’s really not many slow burn fics for these two so

and if you’re just here for left aesop with no joscarl i can only recommend Emma Woods Direct Identity V Stage! high school theatre AU oneshot, that n everything else is in the title really HAHAHAHAH this one has a lot of characters everywhere with no particular relationship in focus but everyone is very well characterized and overall a joy to read. sorry im just here for the pairing so u get this HAHAHAHAH

[tennessoui]

Pleaseeee do 43 or 46. I love your work btw

(insert months late panicked noises about how I thought 45 was 'falling in love with best friend's partner' and so wrote hold me fast for it, but actually 43 is 'falling in love with best friend's partner' very whoops very my b)

so i did 43 again anyway, but in a modern au and where the couple is actually in love (but it is an obikin happy ending because kit did write it)

(wife is unnamed the entire time so no character bashing it could literally be anyone ive been calling her rebecca in my head lmao)

43. Falling In Love With Best Friend's Partner (2.7k.......)

Obi-Wan’s kettle goes off with a whistle right as there’s a fierce banging on the door. He almost drops his favorite mug in surprise, which puts him in a bad mood from the get-go. But for the love of Christ, who would come call at his house at nine at night? It’s more than rude; it’s downright indecent.

He stalks through the house until he can unlock the door to give the person on his porch a piece of his mind, but then he sees who it is.

It’s Anakin, and he’s crying.

If there’s anything that can make Obi-Wan quiet his temper on a normal day, it’s Anakin Skywalker. A distressed Anakin Skywalker brings out every ounce of his compassion.

“Anakin?” He asks immediately, stepping forward to touch the man on his arm gently and guide him inside. He doesn’t even have to suppress a sigh when Anakin doesn’t remember to toe off his shoes in the entry way--that’s how worried he is at Anakin’s tears and the way they only increase in frequency and sound when Obi-Wan moves his hand to his back and pushes him further into his house, all the way to the dining table where he urges him to sit down.

Anakin still hasn’t said anything resembling actual words yet, so Obi-Wan goes to the kitchen to make them both a cup of tea. It’s either that or give into the temptation to thumb the tear tracks off of his cheeks and that’s a little more revealing than Obi-Wan likes.

He’s not that brave, for one.

For another, Anakin is a married man. A man married to one of Obi-Wan’s closest friends, a previous grad student turned co-author of at least seven publications, with more on the way. He can’t risk tenderly wiping away her husband’s tears because Obi-Wan Kenobi has been at least a little in love with him since they were introduced four years ago, when he’d swanned up to him holding two champagne glasses in one hand and stuck out the other to shake. “My wife talks about you nonstop, Professor,” he’d said. “I used to be so jealous until I sat in on one of your lectures when I was still in school. Made sense then.”

Obi-Wan had not known what to do with that, but had taken the proffered champagne glass and assured this strange man he had nothing to worry about.

After all, Obi-Wan wasn’t the sort of man to chase after former students or people in marriages.

Over the next few years, however, it became quite clear to him that there was a big addendum needed in his moral code: people in marriages to former students drew his eyes apparently the way no one else has ever managed to in his life.

Or perhaps it was just Anakin. Perhaps it’s always been just Anakin.

Coming to terms with the shameful, quiet love he carried for a man who flirts like it’s second nature and always has a warm touch or word to bestow on Obi-Wan had been difficult, to say the least.

Anakin’s wife had been one of Obi-Wan’s closest friends. His inconvenient and persistent feelings for Anakin had turned her into one thing only: his wife. They could not be friends when Obi-Wan spends half his nights wondering what it would be like to sleep with his arms around her husband. They could not be friends when the last dozen times the married couple had invited him over for dinner, he had paid more attention to her husband than to the food or to the other topics of conversation or to her.

And she has to know. She has to know why their latest paper has taken eight months to write. She has to have seen the way Obi-Wan perks up so obviously when Anakin brings his wife her lunch, the way he has to turn away from their chaste kisses, the way he listens keenly to any information she gives him on her husband, the way he had excused himself from the room when he heard her tell another colleague that they were trying for children.

In academia, you learn fairly quickly that it is useless to resent someone for having what you do not. It seems that Obi-Wan has to learn this lesson all over again when it comes to people. It’s hard. It’s selfish. He hates that he loves Anakin. He hates that he loves Anakin the way he does, that it’s been four years and he still loves him, that not even his happy marriage, his love for his wife, the fact that his wife is Obi-Wan’s friend, can change it.

Anakin considers them friends now, which is so much worse and yet still more than a pathetic old man like Obi-Wan deserves. Worse, because when Obi-Wan had started rejecting dinners at the Skywalker household, Anakin had pushed back with worry. When he’d noticed that Obi-Wan’s lunch most often consisted of whatever cold cut sandwich was on sale at the gas station next to campus, he’d started bringing Obi-Wan a lunch along with his wife. When Obi-Wan had stopped responding to his texts, he showed up to drag him to a night out.

Worse, because being Anakin’s friend is nothing like being his husband, and the differences make him ache as much as the acts of kindness make him want to weep.

It’s still more than Obi-Wan deserves. He knows that intimately, the way he knows that nothing can ever happen between the two of them because Anakin loves his wife. And his wife--

“She cheated on me,” Anakin gets out between uneven breaths.

Obi-Wan promptly drops his favorite mug and watches it shatter on the floor.

“Oh!” Anakin exclaims at the loud noise, peeking around the corner, and looking like he’s about to offer to help. Obi-Wan shoos him out of the kitchen, and grabs the remaining mug of tea to follow him. The mess can wait for a later time.

“What did you say?” he asks carefully, nudging the mug over to Anakin, who wraps his hands around it.

Anakin blinks up at him wetly. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Obi-Wan drags his chair closer and dares to lay a hand over Anakin’s arm, watching his face for any negative reaction. Anakin just looks at it though, as if he can’t even comprehend it.

“Please, tell me what happened,” he entreats softly.

Anakin blinks and takes a sip of the tea. It’s chamomile, which is the only tea blend Obi-Wan knows Anakin likes.

“I, um.” Anakin clears his throat and reaches up to wipe at his eyes. Obi-Wan thinks his breath leaves his body for a second when he sees the slighter lighter ring of skin around Anakin’s fourth finger. He never thought he’d see what that sliver of skin looks like.

“I came back early from a work trip, cause. Um. Cause we’ve been having problems,” he starts with a quick side glance at Obi-Wan. “Just some fighting. Going to bed angry. I guess stuff you’re never supposed to do.”

Obi-Wan tries to arrange his face in an expression meant to convey that he definitely knows what stuff one is supposed to do in a marriage.

“So I thought I could, you know. Surprise her. But when I got in, there was someone else in the house. In our bed, Obi-Wan, she fucked someone else in our bed. I--” Anakin starts crying dropping his head into his hands and dislodging Obi-Wan’s arm completely.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan murmurs, at a loss for what to say. He settles for kneeling down next to Anakin and rubbing his knee. This is platonic.This is fine. This isn’t taking advantage of Anakin in this state.

Obi-Wan has absolutely no desire to take advantage of Anakin in this state, not when he’s so hurt and sad and in need of comfort. Obi-Wan just wants to provide him with comfort, but it feels like a grievous violation to touch Anakin like this willingly. It breaks one of his most cardinal rules.

But it turns out he’d break a lot of rules for Anakin, apparently.

Especially when Anakin responds so well to his touch, practically throwing himself out of his own chair and into Obi-Wan’s arms, tea forgotten on the table.

“How am I supposed to go back there?” He sobs into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “I thought...we were supposed to raise kids in that house and she...she’s been...she’s been cheating on me in our bed--”

Obi-Wan tentatively strokes through his hair, adding pressure when Anakin reacts positively. He hates seeing him like this, so torn up and aching. He’d loved his wife, it’s so clear to see.

But Anakin has always struck Obi-Wan as the sort of person to put loyalty over everything else. For his wife to break his trust so suddenly and quickly must spell the death of his love for her. That must be what Obi-Wan is witnessing now, with Anakin, sans wedding ring, sobbing into his arms like this. This must be how Anakin’s love dies.

“I’m so sorry, Anakin,” he murmurs into the man’s temple, pressing his nose there at his hairline and inhaling as softly as he can. He’s disgusted with himself. He can’t help himself. He--

“She said she loved him,” Anakin sniffles, seemingly unaware of anything but his own pain. Obi-Wan gathers him closer at these words and rubs at his back, offering silent comfort. To have Anakin close like this is agony, but to be an appropriate distance away from him as he fell apart would also be agony of a different sort.

And if the last four years have proven anything, Obi-Wan will choose the agony that causes Anakin any modicum of happiness he can give him.

“She said--” here Anakin pauses and takes several deep breaths against the cotton of Obi-Wan’s now damp sleepshirt. “She said she didn’t when they started, but then I--I didn’t notice and it--she said it just happened, but--”

He breaks off and freezes in Obi-Wan’s arms quite suddenly. Obi-Wan stills his own hands in response. “But?” he asks, barely more than an exhale.

“But she said she couldn’t feel sorry about it,” Anakin whispers back, pulling away so that he can look at Obi-Wan’s face.

Obi-Wan stares at him, uncomprehending. Anakin’s wife is the unapologetic sort of woman, yes, but to be caught cheating on her husband and then refuse to apologize for the betrayal? That’s something else entirely. “What?” he stutters out in a completely unflattering way.

Anakin’s eyes glisten, but he purses his lips and flexes his jaw before he speaks again. “She said she couldn’t feel sorry about falling in love with someone else because it’s quite clear I’ve done the same thing. And--and she may have physically cheated on me first, but I’ve...I’ve been emotionally unfaithful to her for years now.”

Obi-Wan blinks quite a bit and very fast, tightening his hold on Anakin before pulling away just as quickly. “That’s absurd,” he spits out, trying to calm his rushing heartbeat. “Anakin, you’re the most loyal person I know. You would never--”

“She was right,” Anakin cuts him off, breaking eye contact with him to look over his shoulder and then down at...at his lips. “I didn’t even realize she was right until she said it, but. But I’ve been in love with someone else for three years of my five year marriage. I--I’m not who we thought I was.”

And his eyes well up with tears again and Obi-Wan isn’t strong enough this time from stopping himself from reaching out and brushing one of his tears away with the pad of his thumb.

“Anakin, you’re not…” thinking straight, serious, in your right mind, in love with anyone but your wife. “You’re hurting, Anakin,” he settles on saying. “You need to...sleep. To rest.”

You need to stop saying things that will break my heart in a few days when you realize you don’t actually mean them.

But Anakin has always been stubborn, especially when it comes to Obi-Wan’s demands. “Obi-Wan,” he insists, shoving his face forward so that their heads connect with a thump. “Obi-Wan, it’s you. It’s been you. For. For longer than I knew. For three years at least. Maybe longer. It should have been you from the beginning. When--”

“Anakin, please,” he finds himself begging, scrambling up and off the floor and away from this troublesome man. “Do not say anything you cannot take back. You are in distress, you’re not thinking clearly.”

Anakin follows him to his feet. “I need to say this,” he says, voice breaking. “Please, Obi-Wan. Let me say this.”

Obi-Wan has never known how to say no to Anakin. He closes his mouth instead.

“Before we even started dating, that’s when I sat in on your lecture. When we were seniors. I just wanted to see. Wanted to know why she liked you so much, measure up my competition. But then I liked you, more than I’ve ever liked a guy before. And it only got worse after I met you again, at that party, I don’t know if you remember, but. The days after, I drove my wife insane asking questions about you and your work and your interests and your hobbies, and I didn��t even realize I was doing it.

“You were just...you were so amazing. But I loved her so much I didn’t even notice I had any love left in my heart to give to anyone else, but then there you were. There you were and every time I saw you it was like...coming up for air. Like I was living someone else’s life and then sometimes I just got to be myself and it was only ever when you were around and--I didn’t know it was love until my wife told me tonight that she fucked another man because she couldn’t stand that I fell in love with one first, and I knew immediately who she was talking about. It was you. It’s...Obi-Wan, it’s always been you.”

Anakin closes the distance between them slowly, as if he’s giving Obi-Wan a chance to run. Obi-Wan does consider it, he won’t lie, but he stands stock still as if frozen to the ground. Anakin reaches up gently and wipes at one of his tears. Obi-Wan hadn’t even realized he started crying.

“Please don’t cry,” Anakin whispers through his tears. “I understand if you--if you don’t feel the same way, but I couldn’t be quiet about it once I realized. I don’t know how to love quietly.”

Obi-Wan does. Obi-Wan’s spent four years loving Anakin quietly, and now he doesn’t have any words left in him to love him out loud.

Anakin’s hand falls away from his face at his continued silence and he looks, if possible, more heartbroken. “I...I understand,” he murmurs. “You don’t feel the way I do. I--yes. I get it. I...deserve it.”

At this, Obi-Wan has to say something because it’s been one of the tenets of his world for years now that Anakin Skywalker deserves all the love there is in the entire universe. “No,” he says roughly, dragging the words kicking and screaming from the pit of his stomach. “It’s not that. It’s--”

Anakin looks at him with wide, wet, blue eyes.

“It’s that if you...if I say it and then...tomorrow you decide you don’t mean it...darling you have to know there would be no recovering from that, for me. I’ve been so obvious.”

Anakin blinks as the words register in his brain, and Obi-Wan can tell the exact moment they do because he inches closer and clutches tightly onto his shirt. “You’ve not been obvious at all,” he murmurs, eyes still shining, even as he directs his entire attention to his lips.

“What would I need to do?” Obi-Wan breathes, aching to wrap his arms around his waist and terrified that doing so will startle Anakin away from him. “What would I need to do for you to understand how much I...how much I’ve loved you for all these years?”

“Kiss me,” Anakin whispers, leaning down as if drawn by some magnetic pull.

Obi-Wan knows he will hate himself in the morning for giving in when Anakin is so obviously grief-stricken and looking for no-strings-attached physical comfort. And yet, he meets him halfway anyway.

[catcze]

hey it’s kiwi anon! i’ve been melting at the thought of musician kazuha lately so i just knew i had to let it out somehow. ^^;;

*before reading, i’d like to note that this is somewhat of a modern au where the reader and kazuha attend a prestigious music school known for raising successful musicians. only the best of the best are accepted, so it’s certainly a privilege to be there! (though, of course, it has its downsides but we’ll get to that later..)

and i wrote it in second person (gn!) this time!! >:)

(tbh i’m not particularly proud of this one but i really hope you guys like it anyway. ><)

“The stray melody:

its echo reverberates

such sad solitude.”

“Only at the right time shall the day come when I may ride the infallible winds of freedom to the place where creativity bears no bounds.”

“You are bound?” “How so?” You questioned.

After a long awaited interlude, you were finally face to face with the (formerly) faceless musician.

—

About a month ago, you were assigned a new practice room. Although most students would view this as a blessing from the archons, you found yourself in an unfavorable situation. Suddenly being thrown into playing in a new environment made you uneasy, and though your stance on this was unwavering, there was no disobeying the school.

But the first time the sound of violin seeped through the walls and filled your room with its charming tune, you were bewitched. For some strange reason, it was comforting to know that someone else was on the other side of the wall. Occasionally, you would pause practice abruptly only to listen to the chords, losing yourself in thought with the way they blended together in the most musical way possible; but before you could notice, an hour or two has passed and you’ve barely done much of anything.

Maybe this was a curse, but you surely weren’t one to complain about it.

One day, with no warning, it seemed the violinist began to play along with you. It never occurred to you that they could also listen through the wall, so it came as a complete surprise. It became a chivalric battle of wits; melodies fighting for dominance but only ever resulting in a satisfying draw. You couldn’t help but imagine their fingers dancing along the stringed instrument as your own strutted along the keys of the piano. And the way you two subconsciously created a heavenly harmony was enough to spark your interest and unhinged curiosity. Who are you?

But before you could ask, a faint voice spoke, “My dorm is located on the top floor near the gardens. I… do not expect you to meet me, but this could be considered as a statement or an invitation, however you perceive it.” That is what he said that day. God, even his voice was musical.

You, too, had no intention of meeting him directly. The thought of the school suspending the two of you for doing the bare minimum brought you back into your shell. You had limits, and there was nothing getting between you and your music career.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to give some small effort into discovering the truth. Into the late hours of the evening, you took a casual stroll around the school’s gardens. Fortunately, you were alone. The silence was pleasant, but it didn’t last for long. As the familiar sound reached your perked ears, you searched around for the source of the noise. And there he was, standing on his patio with his long, bright hair tied back as the evening winds stroked each strand in its clutches— a violin held in his hand.

Everything about him was musical— even the way he pressed his delicate yet calloused fingers along the strings of the violin's neck. It didn’t take long for you to catch interest in the ruby-eyed violinist.

There was no explaining the way you two locked eyes for the first time. Though joyous, it seemed you both were lost— since when had you cared so much for someone you’d never met?

As it turned out, your dorms happened to be in close proximity with each other. It became routine for you to lean expectantly against the edge of your patio and for the violinist to leave his doors open so you could listen to his music as the sun would find its slumber, resting upon the horizon.

It didn’t take long for you to grow rather greedy. You longed to learn more about him, but everything about him was shrouded in an empty veil of unanswered questions and an identity you failed to identify.

Luckily, fate has its ways.

Curiosity led you to find yourself exploring into the deeper, abandoned depths of the school’s halls. You entered into a seemingly empty music room before shortly realizing you weren’t alone. The feeling of eyes staring daggers at your back made you prickle with fear until you turned to realize that such eyes belonged to the skilled violinist himself.

“Comedic coincidence always has its ways,” he remarked, the corners of his lips lifting into a gentle grin.

—

His face was always melded into the shape of endless pondering. He had a relaxed nature that was simply unchanging. And though he often appears to be a simple man at first glance, Kaedehara Kazuha was anything but simple.

It surprised you to see a vulnerable side of him, because you never expected him to have one. First impressions were surely deceiving.

He crouched over, his hand supporting his head in a lazy manner.

“I sense that I am suffering from a lack of passion— the kind that children may experience as they wrap their fingers around a bow for the first time,” a stray shadow came across him as he breathily sighed, “The walls of this school are suffocating, but I, like many others, can endure this drowning feeling.”

Kazuha often spoke in a unique manner— resembling a loud whisper.

“So, I wasn’t the only one who noticed,” you noted, “I’d hate to admit it, but this school is a living nightmare.”

Kazuha’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“And neither of us can wake from it.”

Momentarily, he shifted his position so he sat closer to you. His shoulder shrugged as his arm straightened and his hand held onto the edge of the seat to support himself, his handsome head hung idly backwards.

“But, I feel like I have a reason to keep going, but as of now it lingers in my head as an enigma of sorts. Perhaps it is odd to find myself blindly following passion without reason, but I have a feeling that perhaps,” he paused, his fingers traced along the seat and his pinkie linked delicately with yours, “you have a role to play in this.”

Your face burned slightly at the sudden display of physical touch.

His speech was vague. You naively wanted to question his use of words (and actions), but it didn’t seem timely. Until, next time.

You beamed slightly, “Perhaps so.”

Kazuha’s pinkie finger squeezed against yours before letting go. He stood up with his eyes still burning into your own.

“It appears I have surpassed my original practice time,” his eyes shifted towards the door, “We must take our leave before someone discovers that we are here.”

With his back facing you, Kazuha wrapped his hand around the door knob, but before he could turn it, he turned his head to look at you once more, flashing that signature smile of his.

“If you don’t mind me asking, would you like to be my accompanist for the upcoming concert?”

To you, Kazuha was like a hatchling, growing each day and itching to spread his wings and fly to places that are unheard of. He worked constantly, trying to rewrite the textbook definition of music into something more meaningful. He was ambitious, highly so; but you adored that about him.

It is silly, but you began to think that perhaps one day, you could be the one who frees him from the school’s heavy shackles.

- kiwi ! (hopelessly falling for ridiculously complicated plots to write about-)

(and no, i don’t play the violin hahah so sorry for any errors. :/ i play multiple instruments and have taken and still take music education so i hope that suffices.. might go for something more sweet and simple next time with more snarky kazu <3)

Holy shit!! Kiwi, babe, you never fail to impress akjndajks 😭

ajndkjsdPLEASE this is so good oh my goddakjsdas <33333

BABE you just keep outdoing yourself I–– 😭💞

This was literally so good?? Like, all of it? ajksndajks holy shittt <3333

Kiwi I am at a literal loss for words but I really, really hope you see how in love with this I am from my keysmashing akjsndkja <33333

[qqueenofhades]

Whew!

Darklina + academia AU? (Professors, students, whatever dynamic you find most interesting)

Alina Starkov has always loved maps.

There’s just something about them: the deeply human struggle to understand the world, to sketch it out, to imagine fantastic beasts and lands and people on the margins, here be dragons. It’s half illusion and half reality, a guidebook both to what lies out there and what is dreamed of. She is fascinated by the relative accuracy of maps drawn long before satellites and space photographs – that, say, the sixteenth-century Europa recens descripta à Guileilmo Blaeuw does look pretty much like the modern continent. Well, mostly. She wrote her undergraduate senior thesis on the fictional island of Frisland, long believed to exist in the North Atlantic Ocean just south of Iceland, and its role in premodern cartographic and geographic imagination. Rereading it now gives her a twitch, as it always does with academics trying to revisit their past work, but it’s not all bad. It won her a prize and it impressed Professor Baghra Morozova, the fearsome head of the Department of Medieval Studies at Central European University, Vienna. (Best method to survive her class: Pray.) And it’s why Alina, still feeling very, very much like a terrible fraud – though she’s been assured this is likewise common to academics, so yay? – is working late in the main library on Quellenstraße, stifling yawns. She has a supervision meeting tomorrow, and if she half-asses this, Baghra will eat her alive.

Alina has been working for a while, pausing only to slug lukewarm coffee from her travel mug and answer texts from her flatmate Genya, when she becomes aware that there’s some other late-night diehard skulking in the stacks. This isn’t uncommon, but this guy doesn’t look like your usual desperate slacker. He’s tall, lean, and elegant, wearing a black shirt and crisp slacks, and – Alina has eyes, sue her – he’s extremely good-looking. Thick dark hair with a bit of a curl, a sharp dark gaze, and although he has his own stack of books, he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to any of them. In fact, he is looking – a little unsettlingly – directly at her.

Oh, hell. Alina hasn’t spoken to him before, but she knows who this is. Aleksander Morozov is an urban legend at CEU, for rather ominous reasons. He is rumored to be in some indeterminate year of his own PhD, but disappears at long stretches for “research trips,” and nobody is any the wiser about what he’s actually doing on them. Noting the similarity of surname, Alina once asked Baghra if they were related, and got a face that looked like someone had died. “Unfortunately,” her supervisor said, lips pursed, “he is my son. But I assure you, his presence on this campus has nothing whatever to do with me.”

Understanding that familial relations were, to say the least, chilly, Alina hasn’t pushed it. She’s also not sure what to make of her professor’s estranged (and disturbingly attractive) offspring sitting here and watching her study, as if he has nothing better to do than haunt first-year PhD students like the Ghost of Bad Decisions Yet To Come. At last, she gets up and marches over. Keeping her voice at librarian-approved levels, she hisses, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

She speaks in English, the lingua franca of CEU, though the Morozovas are political exiles from the Putin regime, like White Russians fleeing the Bolsheviks once upon a time. Alina herself is ancestrally Russian – born in Moscow, adopted by a nice British couple out of an orphanage and raised in suburban Sussex – and as Aleksander Morozov flicks those onyx eyes up at her, she can sense him weighing how to respond. As if he wants to test her, examine her bona fides, and Alina’s Russian is limited to “da,” “privyet,” and “dosvidaniya.” Not that he should know that. Not that he should know anything about her.

“Good evening,” he answers, also in English. His Received Pronunciation is even more posh than hers. “I wasn’t aware that I was disturbing you.”

“You’re – ” Alina wrestles with herself, tells herself not to be rude. It’s not a crime to sit and watch someone study, even in a mildly creepy fashion. “You’ve just been watching me for, like, an hour now.”

“Ah.” He doesn’t apologize or explain why that might be. He sits back in his chair, studying her like a piece of rare porcelain. “My apologies, Miss Starkov.”

Alina glances at him again, despite herself. There’s an undeniable thrill at actually talking to the campus heartthrob, even if the reason for it leaves something to be desired. She should say something else, when she becomes aware that he’s addressed her by name, and she doesn’t remember introducing herself. That doesn’t exactly do anything to convince her that he’s not a stalker. A little uneasily, she says, “How do you know my name?”

“You’re my mother’s student, aren’t you?” He cocks his head. “Alina?”

“I – yes.” That does explain it, although she didn’t realize the two of them were on speaking terms, or that they discussed her. Her name sounds unusual in his mouth, deliberate in a way nobody has spoken it before, and all at once, he gets to his feet. He stands several inches taller than her, and he starts piling his books into his bag, as if to discreetly absent himself now that she’s noticed him. “You don’t – ” she starts. “I didn’t mean to – ”

He looks at her again, sidelong. Then he says, “I should go home and get some sleep. I’m returning to Oxford tomorrow morning anyway.”

“Oxford?”

“I went to school there.” He utters a short, dry laugh. “All the good Russians do. And they live in Londongrad.”

That explains the accent, at least, and he seems to have some other business there, whether it’s another of the “research trips” or a guest lecture or whatever else. (Alina hasn’t seen his CV, but she has a sneaking feeling it’s the kind of thing to make her throw her drafts in the trash and never do anything in academia again.) Despite herself, she’s curious, and even though she has just told him to get lost, kind of, she wants to know. “Will you be back?”

Aleksander Morozov studies her with utter, unblinking intensity, as if he sees past flesh and bone, blood and sinew, to the very core of her, something that even she does not fully comprehend. Then he shrugs, his eyes never leaving her face, until Alina feels a shiver travel down her from head to toe, cold and powerful, twisting in her stomach. “Perhaps I will. Good night, Miss Starkov.”

With that, he nods to her, then turns on his heel, vanishing into the shadows as effortlessly as if he is made from them. No sound, no breath. Simply there one moment, and gone the next. Alina rubs her eyes, but she is alone in the library. Just as she wanted. Wasn’t it?

She can’t help her eyes from searching for him, or rather the vanished impression of him, the flutter of a curtain after someone has left the room. Before she can stop it, she has the thought that he very much is a map of his own, a path that leads into a strange dark land beyond the boundaries of the known world, a dragon or a doorway, a dream of what could be. Maybe something entirely ordinary. Maybe something not.

Alina shivers again, and returns to her carrel. She sits down and pulls the next book toward her, forcing her tired eyes to focus. Just because Aleksander Morozov – Aleksander Morosov – is a map, albeit the strangest one she has ever seen, it does not mean she needs to follow where he leads. She knows damn well the danger.

(And yet, despite herself, she wants to.)

[1-800-seo]

1-800-SEO’s 𖣘 ‘Healing of the Heart’

- pairing: Taeyong X Y/N

- genre: drabble, fluff, alternate timeline, non-modern AU, herbalist/apothecary!taeyong, pining best friend!y/n

- warnings: mentions of mice and ill health. I wrote this ages ago for another idol and it has been sat in my drafts for a year and a half, I apologise if the writing is subpar ://

- words: 1307 (unedited + open ending)

Taeyong felt the patter of tiny feet running all the way up his arm as the brown mouse made its way to the hood of his cape. It rested there, its tiny head poking out and sniffing the air. Taeyong lifted his arms up and felt around in his hood until he touched the warm furry body of his pet mouse, Ida. He picked her up in his large hands, scooping her tiny body, and brought her down to rest on the desk before him. She walked in a small circle before deciding to climb up his stacked pile of encyclopaedias, making her way up them like an enlarged staircase. To avoid her falling off, he picks her up again and places her back in her cage, and then turns back to his large boiling pot of mixed herbs and roots. The pot bubbles and sloshes as he mixes the contents around with a wooden spoon, the herbalist thinks of what to add next. His latest concoction is a blend intended to soothe a fever, something his village will most likely need as winter draws near.

The autumnal sunlight seeps in through the adjacent window and the small beams light up Taeyong’s shop. It illuminates the plants sat in the window who are assumably soaking it up, and sheds light through the glass herb jars along the dark wooden shelves. Taeyong racks his brain for the correct herb combination for his creation. As he lands on an appropriate root he has in his collection, you walk through the door of the shop, little bell alerting him to your presence. It’s not the first time you’ve been in Yongie’s shop, in fact it’s not even the 20th time, since you’ve been in ‘TY’s Herbal Healing’. Your regular visits to his shop had become a daily thing, the title of best friend had been bestowed after you became his regular customer ever since the opening of the shop. The only good thing your ill health had brought about was you meeting Taeyong, ever since you’d met him that day he’d opened the shop up, you had been inseparable. Your shared love of plants being the building blocks of that once budding friendship with him.

“Hey Yongie” you say, unwrapping your scarf from your neck and placing it on the counter. “How’s your latest broth?” “Not bad, thank you, I’ve just been attempting to level out the acidity in it, I’m thinking of adding some ginger to make it more palatable. Could you pass me some from the shelf please?” “No problem.” You reply whilst taking some from the shelf and jumping over the shop counter to his brewing quarters. The front of his shop is arranged neatly, the counter clear, bar from his old bonsai stood stout over in the corner. This neatness isn’t carried over to his brewing quarters; open jars of roots and herbs lay open on his worktops, the stove is on heating the bubbling broth, a few books are open and strewn across the sides. Even Ida’s cage is a bit untidy although you doubt this is Yong’s fault, she has a habit of upending her little wooden house and throwing her bedding everywhere.

You pass the ginger to your herbalist and watch as he works, picking up a chunk of the root and chopping it up on the board he has off to the side. He then promptly tosses it into the pot and stirs it a few times. You love watching his deft hands work, seeing how much care he puts into each and every one of his creations. His love and care doesn’t just extend to how he makes his medicines. You can see his loving touch in his shop, in his home, in his music. It’s demonstrated through his care for his plants that litter his shop, through the carefully arranged displays, his well thought out diagnosises to patients. You see it in the delicately handsewn patchwork bed sheets he has, the expertly placed candelabras, the devotion to his pets. And most of all you see it in his beautiful songs, the way he arranges for the lyre is unearthly, and only in the sense that the songs he creates are so ethereal it sounds as if it was plucked from heaven.

The time’s when you are so lost in thought like this lead you to wonder how close you are to your precious Yongie; and your precious friendship, would you prefer if it was something else? Something more intimate, something where you could greater witness the inner workings of his world. You could watch all day his loving works and his caring deeds, you could love him with all your heart. You wonder, whether it would be so bad belonging to the village herbalist, you don’t think it would be hard to cross the boundary from friend to lover. You stare into your herbalist’s deep onyx eyes and realise you could get lost in them forever.

Your thoughts had lead you to make a move, you had to do something. Spending all your life single wasn’t your plan anyway; having resided yourself to a life alone, convinced no one would love you with your many ailments and need to be looked after. But with Taeyong, that didn’t feel the case. You were sure he could love you properly and care for you in all the right ways, the question is, would he want to? You longed to find out. Those days you’d spent pining for him as you weaved a basket or baked some bread. He permeated your thoughts, seeping into the the fabric of your mind at all hours of the day and night, never did you stop thinking about him and you were a little ashamed to say that. But time had come to say what must be said, and so, you did.

“Taeyongie? Have you ever thought about courting anyone?” You query, legs swinging as you sit on the counter, an anxious tremor making itself known through your fingers.

“I have... I’ve thought about this before, I’d like a doting partner, I’m not sure if anyone could love me though. Who would want to put up with me?” He replies, following his sentence with a nervous chuckle.

You gulp at his words, mind racing. “I-I could put up with you. I wouldn’t be ‘putting up’ with you though, I’d give you all my love.... I’ve thought about you for so long Yongie, I wasn’t sure if you liked me, loved me even. I want to be the one who loves you. Will you let me?”

His mouth hangs open, eyes wide with shock. He’s stopped staring his broth and has paused his actions. “I- I’m so sorry for springing this on you. It doesn’t matter. I was stupid to think you would ever love me like I’d hoped.” You look at your hands, head hung low.

Taeyong interrupts before a tear can make your way from its eyes. “No— no! I love you y/n, I really do. I was just so shocked you felt this way.” He takes your head in his hands and rests his fingers on your cheeks, hands splayed. “How long have you felt this way?” He asks.

“Umm, about a year.” Embarrassment flushes your cheeks, staining them rose red. “You should of told me, I’ve loved you for so long. I just thought no one could love the clumsy healer at the edge of the village. I told myself I was ok alone. Now hearing you say this has made me realise how much I need you in my life.” He punctuates his sentence with a tender kiss on your forehead, such a sensitive and emotive action, you feel see his shoulders release tension as he does it.

Some risks are worth taking.

[robincantfunction]

requested: yes/no(requests are open)

word count: 1201

warnings: slight mentions of racism nothing detailed in anyway at all though(mentions the black family as racists)swearing, one sex reference

lemme know if i missed any.

summary: fred and y/n are in a popular band together, and they're dating. the ships get too much and they have to tell their fans. but during an interview someone questions y/n about her racist family. but luckily fred is there for her, her hero. her lover boy.

song prompt 2: lvr boy - awfultune (i have to be honest i didn't really stick too much to it, but i had this idea so we are gonna go with it.

a/n: this is a modern au- the band is kinda supposed to give maneskin vibes but idk, although lvr boy isn't the best example of that-

toujours pur. one of the most popular bands globally, they were so frequently spoken about by all age groups, and just all people to be honest. they really were great. there music varied so much in genre, there was always something for everybody. the bandmates where what really made people love the band- on top of their killer vocals and riffs and just talent in general, their interviews, their youtube videos, their instagram lives, all of it made the public see what amazing people they truly were. fred weasley (lead guitarist) george weasley (rythm guitarist) y/n black (lead vocalist and ukulele player) harry potter (bass player) hermione granger (pianist) ron weasley (drummer) ginny weasley (acoustic guitarist). that summed up to a lot of gingers and a lot of talent. after endless obliviousness and shipping, ron and hermione finally got together- much to the fandoms satisfaction. harry and ginny were frequently shipped, but once ginny came out they started shipping her with luna, a known friend of the band. it was fun to both y/n and fred at first, all their friends were being almost nagged to get with the people they so obviously liked. it wasn't a safely guarded secret that fred and y/n were an item, they just never directly stated it. i mean what was the point? they loved each other, why vocalize it to the world? but then it happened. the tweets, the instagram posts, the tiktoks, every social media platform had to know if the hand holding, the cheek kisses, the 'i love you's', and the loving looks were all just out of friendship- or something much more. it was still fun initially, watching people try and figure out their relationship, but then it was brought into the interviews and the livestreams.

"why don't you guys just tell them? its so obvious anyway, and it's not like your hiding it." george asked after the band attempted a livestream, but ended it when the only comments were about fred and y/n. "why is it their business?" she responded softly. she wasn't wrong, but everyone except fred was still confused. "we know it's not. but come on, we're not gonna force you to do anything you're not comfortable with but it would stop all of that" ginny said, pointing to the livestream set up they have at the end of her sentence. fred and y/n knew they were right, but they were so comfortable how they were, they didn't want their relationship to be completely demolished. it was the last thing they wanted. and the last thing that either of them saw coming, but they were still cautious. "we have a couple interviews tomorrow, tell them or don't tell them. but it would be a good chance." both of them instantly knew what the other was thinking. the time has come. they're gonna tell them.

the next day were all sitting in front of an interviewer, and then another one, and then another one. and finally this one. "so, i know your name has never really been spoken about" the interviewer said, the band nodded "so what's with the band name?" everyone looked at y/n. she chuckled slightly and started explaining "so most of my family, not good people. they were pretty commonly associated with a racist organisation. like i said, not good people. well they have this family tree, personally i've only seen it once. me and my dad don't go to the family home often. it gives us the heebie geebies and they hate us. well anyway, the family tree says toujours pur, always pure. so i thought i'd mock them and suggested it as a band name. trust me, i've received many a message about it. they aren't happy." everyone chuckled, if y/n was one thing it was spiteful. "so just out of interest, has the band received any backlash about your family?" the entire band shifted in their seats, if there was one thing y/n rarely talked about it was her family. and fred was preparing to go into protective boyfriend mode. she shook her head "um, no not really." the guy looked somewhat hurt "oh. so racist family isn't something your fans have a problem with?" ok this guy was obviously being bitter, but before fred could say anything y/n jumped in "family by blood. not by nature. the only thing that correlates me with them is dna, and clearly they drew the short straw because they're missing some necessary brain cells. i'm not my 'family'. so no. i don't get backlash for something people who i've only ever had one conversation with did." the rest of the interview was very awkward. like, very.

"ok one last one and then we're done for the day" lily (their self appointed manager- not that anyone minded, she was a life saver) said, sending a sympathetic smile to y/n "i'm not doing it." everyone frowned, but understood somewhat. "y/n/n, love, one more. we'll tell them we're shagging like they want and then bounce" that made her chuckle, he always managed to that "lovely description of our relationship dear" everyone started laughing at the two. "ok. but if one more thing gets said about the fucking black family i swear to shit i will start throwing things."

the last interview was a lot more smooth. especially when fred held y/n's hand the entire time. that didn't go unnoticed by the interviewer, who commented on it a few minutes after she sat down. "so, fred and y/n. i know you to are" she paused and cleared her throat, whilst looking at their hands "close. and i know you're probably sick of hearing this but, what are you?" they chuckled a little "um... we're sorta dating" the interviewer smiled, and so did fred and y/n. it felt good to say it out loud. "i have to ask you, really quickly. is fred weasley your lover boy?" she asked, referencing their latest single "lvr boy". it was well known that y/n wrote the majority of their songs- specifically the slower bedroom artist vibe songs. y/n nodded sheepishly, never actually admitting that directly to the group no matter how obvious. "my room mate now owes me a tenner, thank you" everyone laughed, this was ok. she was ok.

"i'm sorry about earlier, love." she sighed "it's ok." he shrugged "no it's not. that was fucked up" both of their features softened "i was ok. i am ok. because you were there. and because you're here." they kissed "y'know 'm sorry bout your name. i know people give you shit for it" she pecked his lips again "don't worry about it." he shook his head "why didn't your dad take remus's name?" they both looked at each other "cause a name shouldn't be a burden. and with the person yuo love, it eases it all y'know. they don't care when they have each other." he smiled "can't wait till you have my name" he didn't mean to say it, panic evident in his eyes she smiled a genuinely happy smile "me neither" and she put her head in his chest.

he was her lover boy.

he owned her heart.

he owned her heart like no one else did.

she was always his.

[aurora-australis-tumbles]

22, 25, 30 for the prompts, please!

WHY YES, I AM A GREEDY BITCH 😈😈

Oh, my darling @arlome, I’m afraid this got rather complicated. As soon as I saw your prompt list I knew exactly what I wanted to write, but, unfortunately, it was a continuation of my AO3 modern AU series and thus not a particularly wise choice for a Tumblr prompt.

But no one has ever accused me of being particularly wise, so… 😂

Anyway, I wrote it.

Below are spoilers for that series, New Found Lands, should that be something you care about. All I suppose you really need to know, though, is that in that series Phryne is a writer.

I used all your prompts for this - wanderlust, string lights, and summer reading - and I very much hope you enjoy it. ❤️

-------

Jack had always loved reading outside in the summer.

There was just something special about it… the extra hours of daylight, the muted sounds of nature, that little extra bit of freedom that was the hallmark of the season. A warm breeze and a cool drink and an ambient sense of possibility to keep him company as he explored the wild west, ancient Rome, the roaring 20’s, the distant future.

It felt as close to true magic as a pragmatic man like Jack was ever likely to get.

Recently, though, he’d also found that this enchanted feeling was actually intensified by reading in Phryne’s backyard garden, where she’d strung up pretty string lights throughout and given the whole place an almost ethereal feel.

Of course, it was only ‘Phryne’s garden’ on the paperwork; in actuality, Jack spent far more time there than he did at his own place, and had for a while now. Lately they’d even begun skating around the topic of him moving in, but neither had landed that particular triple Axel.

Yet.

But Jack felt no hurry, either, especially on a night like tonight - comfortable and happy, with a book and a whisky to savor, like he had all the time in the world.

The sound of a well-maintained car parking out front reminded him of just why he was so happy, and Jack smiled down at his book as he turned another page. A few minutes later he heard a noise at the fence and spotted a familiar silhouette behind the pickets; Phryne was home.

“Hello Jack,” she greeted, coming in through the fence gate. “I thought I might find you out here.”

“Predictable, am I?” he asked, without looking up.

“I prefer ‘dependable’, darling,” she corrected, kissing his cheek and depositing her various bags on the ground before dropping into the chair beside him. She snagged his glass off the table and peered over to see what he was reading. When she spotted the title, she shook her head.

“Why on earth are you reading that?” she asked.

“I like it,” he replied, his eyes still on the words before him.

“But you’ve read it before,” she noted, propping her feet up on the small table in front of them. “Or, so you told me.”

Jack finished his chapter, placed a bookmark inside to hold his spot, then turned to face her. “I did,” he agreed. “And I have. And I liked it then too.”

“But it’s my book,” she reminded him, finally getting to the crux of her confusion. “Why are you rereading my book?” She nodded her head vaguely in the direction of the house, where she’d caught him once or twice doing the same thing with some of her other novels. “Or, I suppose, books plural.”

Jack shrugged. “I like finding you in them,” he said simply and Phryne tilted her head to the side in consideration.

“How so?” she asked, curious as ever.

Jack paused, trying to think of the right words to answer her question. But how could he?

How could he explain that passages he’d read in passing before, evolved and expanded as he learned more about the woman who wrote them? How her descriptions of the long shadows of Paris and the grassy banks of the Yarra held new meaning now. How, when he read her dialogue these days, he could perfectly hear the delivery of a quip or imagine the length of a pause. How being privy to her misadventures on Ben Nevis and her fear of spiders and her love of old movies informed small details or full sentences or entire chapters for him now in ways he found surprising or funny or sad or lovely.

How could he adequately explain that, for him, the incredible characters and stories and worlds she’d created remained entities onto themselves, but, also, how the essence of the writer was so deeply threaded throughout the pages that he couldn’t help but delight in the weave, and how it was not pride, but privilege, he felt in knowing her well enough to see it now.

How on earth could he find the right words for all that when he himself sometimes struggled to understand it?

Then he remembered that right words were her domain, and he went for the simple truth instead.

“When I read these now,” he said, holding up her book, “I still love the story, but now… now there are new facets for me. I see your humour, I feel your wanderlust, I hear your voice. I recognize the heart of you in these, Phryne, and it just makes me love them more.” He shrugged self-consciously at the confession - which had, perhaps, been less skating around and more leaping headfirst than was their usual style - and stole his whisky back just for something to do with his hands.

She looked at him then, a funny sort of smile on her face, before leaning over to kiss him softly.

“You’re a terrible romantic, Jack Robinson,” she said, her usual teasing tone only slightly undercut by the unusual roughness of her voice, and the fact that she sounded so exceptionally fond as she said it.

He chuckled, relieved by her reaction. “Well, you’re the only one who thinks so, love.”

“Good,” she said definitively, then winked as she stood. “Less competition that way.”

He shook his head; as though she ever had to worry.

With one last smile at him, Phryne gathered her bags back up and headed towards the house. She opened the door to enter, but stopped herself short, pausing for a moment in the doorway before turning back around to face him.

“You know, Jack, I’m just about through with my new book. If you’d like to read the first draft.”

“Absolutely,” he said eagerly, knowing how rare it was for her to share a story before it went to print.

“Good. And I think… well you might find yourself in that one.”

“Why?” he asked, with some trepidation, remembering the last time she’d named a character after him; he still got grief about it down at the station. “Are you giving Fern a great romance, or perhaps a long-suffering copper to harangue?

“Oh no, darling, it’s much better than either of those; I’m giving her a partner.”

Then Phryne disappeared into the house, leaving Jack alone once more with his summer reading for company.

And, just like that, he loved her even more.

Beneath the twinkling lights in their backyard garden, Jack smiled to himself and went back to his book, feeling closer than ever to true magic.

-------

August Prompt List

[honeypiehotchner]

i knew you (Bucky Barnes soulmate AU) -- part one

I know, I know. I just finished a story and I started another one and now I’m posting a different one...I’m insane. But I’ve had this idea for a while, just never wrote it down until last night! Enjoy xx.

Also! It’s Bucky x Reader, but it might read as Steve x Reader. I promise it’s platonic!Steve x Reader, though. Steve has no intentions of stealing Bucky’s girl. He knows Bucky would haunt his ass if he did (this is set in The Winter Soldier movie, so Steve still thinks Buck is dead).

Warnings: just some general sadness and angst, mentions of depression, it’s angst city honestly it made me cry

You watch as the old footage replays of Bucky’s wide grin. The only kind of smile that his best friend, Steve Rogers, could draw out of him with one single look or gesture. The only kind of expression that knocks the wind out of your lungs and sends chills down your spine.

“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable both on schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.”

You hastily wipe a tear away. It’s been months since you put the pieces together. Months since your parents told you that they had known for years. Months since they told you they didn’t want to tell you because they didn’t want to see you hurt. 

Months since you’ve realized the man you keep seeing in your dreams is Bucky Barnes.

At first, you thought you were crazy. People dream of faces they’ve never seen all the time, right? 

Soulmates are said to be rare, but not nonexistent. You’ve always thought they were real, just that the world was so cynical to really talk about them. The idea that there is one person out there whose soul is connected to yours is exactly the kind of thing that would send this generation walking the other direction with their middle fingers raised and eyes rolling in disbelief.

Then you started remembering your dreams. You started to see his face more clearly. Granted, you had no idea it was Bucky that you were seeing. 

You came to the Smithsonian almost half a year ago now with your best friend. She realized you both had never been before, and she basically said fuck it one day and took you with her. Her exact words were, “How have we gone to college here for a year and a half and we’ve never been to the damn Smithsonian?”

You weren’t expecting to meet your soulmate that day. 

Of course, you use the word “meet” very loosely. Your soulmate isn’t alive, which explains the emptiness you feel on a daily. It’s been said that soulmates can feel what the other is feeling. Often times it’s muted, but recognizable. 

You got to see his face, to finally realize that it’s Bucky. The Bucky Barnes. 

It sounds ridiculous — and God, you love your best friend for not calling you pathetic that day — but when you walked up to the very exhibit you’re standing at right now and saw Bucky’s smile...you knew. Instantly, you knew. And it moved you to tears.

It was like your soul had finally found her counterpart, here, grinning like a madman next to his best friend, all the way back in the 1940s. 

Your parents knew simply because of things you would say, offhandedly, without even realizing it. 

Your interest in WWII caught their attention, but it surprisingly didn’t last long -- only from about the time that you turned thirteen to a few months before your fourteenth birthday. You would’ve found Bucky a lot sooner had your interest in the war itself lasted much longer, but it didn’t. You wonder now if you subconsciously knew it was Bucky, but steered yourself away from it in an attempt to save yourself the heartache at such a young age. 

Your taste in music has been the constant that they didn’t quite understand at first. You listen to modern tunes, sure, but you’re a sucker for the music of the 40s. Even clothes. You sometimes found yourself leaning toward the styles of the 40s in subtle ways, not realizing it. 

The true confirmation of their suspicions came, though, when your mom said she heard you say Bucky’s name. The first time was on a road trip. You had fallen asleep in the car. You were sixteen at the time. You were dreaming and you have no recollection of ever saying his name. You weren’t even aware that you said his name while you were dreaming until she confessed that day.

You haven’t told anyone about it. Your best friend doesn’t even know. She still believes you got too excited about seeing Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, that’s all. She doesn’t know the real reason, the real aching pain that you feel every day. 

The only thing that eases the ache is this. Hogging this exhibit. Watching the footage over and over again. Watching Bucky’s smile and being unable to hold back your own, despite your tears.

You know the staff must think you’re delusional. Somehow you haven’t cared enough to entertain the thought. But you have seen the security guard give you strange looks when you walk in almost every other day.

It used to not be this bad. You came every day for a few weeks, but then you were able to calm down to once a week, sometimes twice a month, if you were too busy with school to think about Bucky much.

But lately, something has changed. You don’t know what it is. You still feel the emptiness, but something is different. It’s...troubled. That’s all your mind can come up with.

It makes no sense, though. How can Bucky be troubled? He’s dead. You believe in ghosts and all -- you’ve never been given a reason not to -- but you’ve heard more stories than you can count from people whose soulmate has died. They all say the same thing. They felt it when it happened. Because it was like a switch was flipped. They were feeling everything one moment, and the next, it was all gone. Empty.

Empty. How you’ve felt since the day you were born. You’ve been to therapists and they all told you the same thing. It’s just your thinking. Change your thinking processes. You’ve never slipped or spiraled far enough for it to be classified as a depressive disorder or anything else, just...empty.

When you found out about having a soulmate, and even more so when you found out it was Bucky, you still felt empty, but not as much. It was like everything suddenly made perfect sense. The emptiness had a purpose, a reason for existing.

When you see him smile, everything makes perfect sense. You feel like you have a reason to exist.

“Excuse me, miss?”

You slowly drag your eyes away from Bucky, preparing yourself to deal with a disgruntled museum-goer or staff member complaining about how long you’ve been standing here. But that’s not who you see.

He’s wearing a hat, but the resemblance is unmistakable.

Quickly, you glance at the video before looking back to the person beside you. That’s him. Steve Rogers.

“Hi,” you say hesitantly, quietly. He’s obviously hiding, which he is right to do. If anyone got wind of Steve Rogers walking around here, there would be mass chaos.

“Hey,” he replies just as quiet. “Um...Wanna get a coffee?”

You have no idea why he’s asking, but you nod anyway. Who would say no to coffee with Captain America?

Outside the Smithsonian and down the block, you bring Steve to your favorite spot to get coffee. Your best friend turned you onto it when you first got here for college, and you’ve gone here weekly ever since.

After grabbing your coffees, you pick a table far enough away from everyone else on the patio to talk without anyone listening in.

“So, uh…” Steve exhales, shifting in his seat. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” you shrug, holding onto your cup with both hands. “Why did you ask me to get coffee?”

“You looked familiar,” Steve says, slowly. “What’s your full name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Y/N L/N. Why?”

“Y/N…” Steve mutters under his breath, a crooked smile crossing his face. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“Huh?”

“Bucky used to talk to me about you,” Steve continues, and you swear your heart stops. “He had me draw pictures of you. He couldn’t draw for crap, but he kept describing you to me from his dreams. I’ve drawn so many I’d recognize your face anywhere.”

“He dreamt about me?” You whisper. “Really?”

“All the time,” Steve nods, smiling sadly. “So you’re his soulmate?”

“I guess,” you say. “My mom says I used to say his name in my sleep all the time. I dreamt of his face, too, but I never knew it was him. Until my friend took me to the exhibit a few months ago.” You pause. “It sounds stupid. But seeing him there makes me feel...better.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says suddenly. “It can’t be easy being born in a completely different generation.”

You smile softly. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. I can’t imagine how hard it is to still be here after all this time. And without your best friend, too.”

“Yeah, it hasn’t been easy,” Steve admits. “But thanks. I appreciate it.”

“If it’s not too much to ask,” you begin, pausing to think about if you’re going to regret this. “Would you tell me about him? Just anything. It doesn’t have to be anything profound, just...anything you want to talk about. But if it’s too hard, don’t worry about it.” You wave your hands in front of your face, already preparing yourself for Steve to politely turn you down.

But he doesn’t.

“Bucky, he…” Steve pauses, shaking his head. “He was a lot wealthier than me back in the 40s. I had no business acting the way I did, picking fights with people three times my size, but I still did it. And Bucky was always there to pick me up off the ground and give me a ride back home.”

“Yeah?” You chuckle. “You used to be super skinny, right?”

“I was really sick, actually. Bucky had every reason to treat me like anyone else, but he never did. We grew up together -- though I used to joke that he grew up. I stayed the same size. But he never made fun of me for it.”

You can’t help but grin. “That video in the museum -- his smile. I see it in my dreams all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah that was Bucky’s signature grin. He could give any woman that smile and they were his.”

“I can see why,” you admit quietly, averting your eyes when Steve raises his eyebrows. You change subjects, not wanting to talk about how attractive you find Steve’s dead best friend -- despite him being your soulmate. “What was his favorite thing to eat for breakfast?”

Steve takes the bait, and for the next four hours, the two of you sit on the patio, talking about Bucky Barnes. 

His favorite color? Your eyes. Which you think is a little ridiculous, but Steve swears it’s the truth.

His favorite thing to do? Go dancing. Hands down.

His favorite thing to talk about? You. Again, you give Steve a stern look, and again, he swears it’s true. But when he wasn’t talking about you, Steve says Bucky talked a lot about the future. He was an optimist. Steve has no idea how, but Bucky always saw the brightest side.

Bucky was kind. Kinder than a lot of men his age, at the time. He had that blinding smile and instead of hiding it and going for the mysterious, brooding attitude, he chose to smile as much as he could, to anyone who looked like they needed it.

Realizing that the sun is beginning to go down, Steve decides to get you home.

“It’s alright, I can walk,” you tell him, feeling high on everything Bucky. “It’s just up here. I go to college here.”

“At least let me walk you to the campus,” Steve offers.

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Bucky would kill me if I let his girl walk home alone. Especially when it’s getting dark.”

“Fine,” you cave. Hearing Steve refer to you as “Bucky’s girl” sends chills down your spine -- the good kind of chills. The kind that makes you wish it was the 1940s. The kind that makes you wish Bucky was here, holding your hand, walking you home.

Once you reach campus (you decide to let Steve walk you all the way to your dorm building), you ask Steve the question you’ve been wondering about ever since you first saw Bucky in the museum.

“Hey Steve?”

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Steve turns his head toward you. “Yeah?”

“If this was the 40s...do you-- Do you think I’m the kind of girl Bucky would want?”

Steve’s steps falter. You slow your pace to match his until you’re both stopped, looking at one another.

“What is it?” You ask.

“Yes,” Steve says simply. “Yeah. I do. I know for a fact he would’ve torn down every building until he found you. Because he tried.”

Your breath hitches. Deep down, you had convinced yourself that you weren’t the kind of girl Bucky would want. Not that it’s your fault because you were born this side of the millennium. But to hear Steve tell you otherwise makes you freeze.

“What?”

“Bucky didn’t have me sketch you because he wanted me to practice my drawing. He did it because he wanted to see a picture of you. Something he could keep in his wallet and look at every night. He was a ladies man, yeah, but every single one...he wanted them to be you. But they never were.” Steve shakes his head. “It really tore him up, that he never found you. He still held out hope, though. Until the very last second.”

Tears have sprung to your eyes before you even realize it. 

“Before he fell, he--” Steve pauses. “He told me to promise that I’d find you. I guess I kept my promise after all.”

He looks up to see the tears in your eyes, streaming down your cheeks. Without a single word, Steve pulls you into his chest, and without hesitation, you let yourself cry.

He’s not Bucky. And you’ll never find your Bucky, but he’s close enough. Steve promised Bucky that he’d find you, and he kept that promise. Now he’s going to do everything in his power to keep you safe.

Because he knows for a fact Bucky would’ve wanted that, too.

[cavalierious-whim]

Love, Misunderstood (FE3H)

Sylvix | Modern AU | Fake Dating | Teen So, here’s the thing: Felix doesn’t date anyone that isn’t his sabre.

----

A/N: I wrote this for the Sylvix Server's Secret Santa Event last year. Read here on AO3 for better quality! And follow me on Twitter here! @Satodee1 on Twitter drew an AMAZING fanart for this fic as well! I cannot believe I've been blessed so. Please take a look here and give them a follow!

----

Let go the fear of falling in love.

#

So, here’s the thing: Felix doesn’t date anyone that isn’t his sabre.

One, there isn’t time. By day he’s almost a professional athlete with dozens of fencing titles to his name, and by night he’s a business student double majoring in Marketing and Finance. His days are full of workouts and conditioning, a carefully maintained diet, and when the sport isn’t on his mind, his academics are.

Two, there’s no interest. None. Whatsoever. Felix has never once looked at another person and thought, Yes, I would like that one.

Which brings him to his current problem: there’s an annoyance in his face that some might think is pretty if they liked overly bleached hair and heavily lacquered nails. Gum pops in her mouth. She twirls a long tendril of hair around a finger like the love interest from a nineties sitcom.

Felix doesn’t just hate; he loathes and despises. Less so the girl and more so at being perceived as a romantic option. He feels as though he does a pretty good job selling the fact that he’s entirely off of the market, even going as far as snarling at hopefuls. Apparently, some people are just infuriatingly stubborn.

Or maybe just oblivious. Felix is starting to lean towards the latter, watching carefully as the girl stares back at him, dreamily.

“So, like,” she says, punctuating the words with a giggle, “I’m a big fan. Of you and you know, your fencing.”

Felix is a hundred percent sure that she has no idea what she’s talking about. What he says instead is, “I’m studying.” Neat and simple, and not even mean. Hopefully enough to fend her off. He’s almost proud of himself.

She blinks at him like she’s trying and failing to process what he’s just said. “So, that bout last weekend,” says the girl, relentless in her pursuit. “You really honed in the touches, winning before the time limit.”

This surprises him; maybe his earlier assessment is incorrect and she’s honestly a fencing fan. Felix meets her gaze and she stares back, smacking her gum, hair still wrapped around her finger, and eyes glinting.

Right, no, she’d just done her research.

“Thank you,” says Felix because he’s not entirely an asshole. “But as I said, I’m studying, so if you would--”

“It was truly riveting,” continues the girl, clasping her hands before her. “Your form is just exquisite.” She says the word like he’s a prized pig.

Felix is losing his patience, his fingers tightening around his pencil and squeezing tighter and tighter. It might snap under his grip. It’s happened before.

“Look,” says Felix, his tone hardening just a modicum, “I appreciate--”

“So, how about grabbing a bite to eat together?” asks the girl, batting her eyes at him in an exaggerated flourish.

Felix opens his mouth to say something rather nasty, but he’s interrupted by someone dropping into the chair next to him. “Darling.” An arm finds its way slung around his shoulder and Felix goes rigid. “I’m sorry that I’m late; got stuck in traffic. You know what rush hour is like.”

It takes everything for Felix to not grab the man’s arm and break his wrist.

Before he can do so though, the man looks to the girl and says, “A bite to eat? All of us? Group dates are always fun.”

The girl, to her credit, looks about as flabbergasted as Felix feels. “Um--”

“Unless you meant alone with my boyfriend?”

Felix immediately starts, turning to look at him incredulously. “Boyfriend--”

“My mistake,” the girl apologizes immediately. “I didn’t, um, realize that you… Anyway, thank you for the chat!” And with a wave, the bleached-blonde bimbo takes her leave.

Felix whirls onto the man next to him, immediately shrugging out of his grasp. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man is lightly tanned, cheeks dusted with a spattering of warm freckles. His hair is auburn and unruly, curling wildly around his forehead and ears. His smile is crooked, a dimple forming at the left corner of his mouth. Handsome, if Felix likes people. He doesn’t, he reminds himself.

“Saving you,” the man says. “Really, she just wouldn’t let you go. It’s astonishing really, I could feel the leave me the fuck alone vibes radiating off of you from across the shop.”

Felix blinks at that. “I didn’t need help.”

“I think that you did.”

“I didn’t,” repeats Felix, unable to let go of his stubborn need to get the last word in. Glenn used to say that it was the best and worst part of him.

“You could have just told her no.” The man pauses, thumbing at his chin as though he’s amused. “You don’t seem the type to be nice and gently let someone down.”

Felix isn’t; he’s the type to throw books at people instead, and be brutally blunt about what he does and doesn’t want. “I was distracted,” he finally says, “I’m studying for an exam and she just caught me off guard. I promise you, had I been on my game I would have done far worse.”

The other man cocks his head to the side, watching him, and Felix already hates the calculating gaze. “You really go all in, don’t you?” he asks. “Just no fucks given as to what people think about you?”

“I’m not here to date, I’m here to go to school.”

“How boring,” says the man.

“I like boring,” says Felix.

There’s a beat and then, “I’m Sylvain.” Sylvain holds his hand out for a shake. Felix stares at it as though it might bite him, but Sylvain waits patiently. “You owe me at least yours.”

There isn’t a chance in hell that this man doesn’t know who Felix is; his face is plastered across every Garreg Mach University billboard this side of Fodlan. Still, Felix has been raised with manners and he can hear Glenn rolling over in his grave.

Felix hates manners but sucks it up.

“Felix,” he says finally, still ignoring Sylvain’s hand. “Thank you for the help, but I don’t need it. Now leave me alone. I don’t have time to entertain jockstraps like yourself.”

Sylvain eventually puts his hand down and watches Felix for a long moment. Felix doesn’t like the slightly amused grin that seems permanently attached to his face. “Got it,” says Sylvain eventually. He stands and throws his bag back over his shoulder. “Then this jockstrap will take his leave.”

Felix almost feels bad, prompting him to say, “My appreciation is honest. If you hadn’t stepped in I might’ve snapped the girl’s neck instead.” He expects him to run off at such vivid imagery, like so many do.

But instead, Sylvain just throws his head back and laughs, before leaving him be.

#

“Do you like Adrestian Barbecue?”

This one cuter than the last, pert little nose and wavy locks of brown framing her face nicely. Felix still isn’t remotely interested. “I’m studying,” he says, trying his best to sound at least polite. He’s not very good at it, but the woman pays it no mind.

“This’ll only take a moment,” she says. “I’m wondering if you’d like to go get lunch or something? There’s a great new place that’s just opened up off of Twenty-Fourth Street, and--”

“Babe,” someone cuts in, leaning over Felix’s shoulder, their cheeks barely inches from each other. Sylvain, Felix’s mind supplies before being annoyed that he’d remembered. Felix hadn’t seen him in the shop for a few weeks. Sylvain to his credit doesn’t sling his arm around and immediately drop into the chair without permission, he just hovers next to him. Waiting.

A slight improvement.

“Sylvain,” says Felix. Then pauses, unsure how to continue. He swallows and then, “You’re late.”

Sylvain chuckles. “Traffic.”

Felix huffs, a little emboldened. “That’s the excuse you used last time.”

“And it’s still true,” says Sylvain.

“Um,” says the woman who’s been interrupted. “I was trying to ask--”

“My boyfriend to lunch,” cuts in Sylvain. “Yes, I saw that. I can barely get him to go out with me, what makes you think that he’d have a go with you?”

Felix’s eyes nearly bulge at the aggressive raking. Sylvain seemed like a nice man the last they met, but perhaps Felix has underestimated him. It sounds like a jab straight from Felix’s book.

The woman’s mouth falls open and she gawks but quickly recovers. “Right,” she says. “My apologies, I’d thought-- Never mind that. Have a wonderful day Mr. Fraldarius.”

Felix cringes as she turns and walks away.

“Mr. Fraldarius,” drawls Sylvain, falling into the chair next to him. “I really do have a habit of coming to rescue you.”

“I didn’t need to be rescued,” says Felix, acerbically. “It isn’t my fault that you insist on butting in where you aren’t wanted.”

“So, you wanted to go grab lunch with her?”

Felix closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a frustrated grunt. “Absolutely not.” Sylvain doesn’t say anything, just watches him with unwavering patience. Eventually, Felix says, “Look, I appreciate your willingness to help, but--”

“You know, I could just pretend to be your boyfriend and they’d leave you alone for good.”

Felix blinks and then he scowls. “What?”

Sylvain shrugs, noncommittal. “You study here nearly every day. I study here too. I finally stepped in because you seem to get attention all of the time and it does nothing but annoy you. Seriously, people have no boundaries.”

Felix wants to tell Sylvain that he has no boundaries either, but decides not to fuel the fire. Instead, he says, “There’s no reason for you to help me, you would gain nothing from it.”

“Some peace and quiet. Do you know how hard it is to focus on schoolwork here when women and men are trying to approach you? I come here for the quiet, not to watch the latest episode of Blind Date.”

Sylvain has a point; the people who approach him tend to be rather loud about it. Felix thinks about the proposition for a moment. “No,” he finally says. “You don’t have to study here. Go elsewhere.”

“It’s preferable to my dorm,” says Sylvain, not bothering to elaborate. “And, I think that’s why you study here as well. You hate people and would do anything to avoid them entirely. Even if it means studying in public.”

Felix cringes because Sylvain’s nailed it on the head; the general public is less invasive than Ashe is. His roommate is nice but needlessly curious. “I don’t need your help.”

Sylvain opens his mouth to answer but stops when the barista comes by their table. “Felix,” he says, smiling kindly. “I’ve brought you a refill, yeah?” He drops a take-out cup to the table. “Just let me know if you want more.”

Felix nods, his lips quirking the slightest bit. The boy has always been nice to him and unfussy. “Thank you,” says Felix, genuinely.

The barista leaves and as Felix reaches for the cup, Sylvain raises his eyebrows. Felix’s mood immediately sours. “What?” snaps Felix acerbically.

Sylvain points to the cardboard sleeve around the cup. Felix turns it around to find the barista’s name and number written in curling script. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Felix. But, at least the barista has the decency not to accost him publicly. Felix rubs at his forehead.

“Say that I take you up on your offer,” starts Felix, already wanting to pull them back, “what are you expecting in return?”

“Nothing,” says Sylvain. Felix meets his eyes, narrowing his gaze as he watches him carefully. “Honestly,” continues Sylvain under the scrutiny. “I also like to study in peace, but I don’t like to sit at tables alone. I work better when there’s someone else there, even if it’s not to talk.”

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” says Felix.

“So is every person on this campus thirsting after your mangy ass. It’s a mystery to me.” Sylvain bites back just as hard as Felix, it seems. Felix respects that, if only slightly.

“Fine,” says Felix. “But only because I’ve got tests coming up and I’m tired of being bothered.”

“It’s a deal then,” says Sylvain. “We study and pretend to be dating, reaping the benefits of a quiet and quaint coffee shop.”

“You’ll have to be convincing,” says Felix.

“So far, it’s worked.”

Sylvain holds his hand out to shake on the deal and Felix looks at it warily. Then, with a resigned sigh, he takes it. Sylvain’s hand is wide and warm, and it makes Felix want to pull away. He hates closeness and doesn’t do well with physical contact. When they part, Sylvain smiles and then finally drops his book bag from his shoulders, settling in.

Felix hopes to the Goddess above that he’s not making a mistake.

#

Felix wants to hate Sylvain on mere principle, but they fall into an easy companionship. Felix hates it, hates that he doesn’t dislike Sylvain. But, Felix doesn’t quite like him either, and it’s the last thread of hope that he hangs on to.

A week into the charade, Felix is still stunned by the fact that Sylvain actually studies. He expects Sylvain to joke or flirt incessantly. He hasn’t; Sylvain’s quiet when they sit at their table in the corner of the coffee shop, nose-deep in a math text.

Felix’s gaze narrows slightly when he reads the title. “You’re taking Calculus III?”

“No,” says Sylvain, eyes not leaving his book. He flips a page, looking bored. “It’s a prerequisite, so I’ve already taken it, but sometimes I have to revisit.”

“Already taken it?” Sylvain taps another textbook to the side and Felix’s eyes widened. “Ordinary and Partial Differential Mathematics?” Felix can not for the life of him, think of a degree that would require a course like this.

Sylvain hums. “Yeah, it’s my required math for this semester.”

“For a jockstrap like yourself?” The nickname has stuck and so far, Sylvain hasn’t stopped Felix from using it.

Finally, Sylvain looks up, eyes crinkling in amusement. “I like math,” he says simply, “and I’m good at it. It’s an easy course for me.”

Felix isn’t sure what’s easy about math that he doesn’t even grasp the purpose of, but Sylvain’s only proven himself to be a weird man at his core. Sylvain looks at Felix’s book in return.

“Statistics,” says Sylvain. Felix has a distinct impression that he’s not remotely impressed.

“A requirement,” says Felix. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t take math at all. But it’s part of a Business degree.”

“Business.” Sylvain snorts. “What a boring degree. Aren’t you here for fencing?”

“On a fencing scholarship, yes. There’s no future in a sport, though.” Felix narrows his eyes at him. “Something that you should probably learn.”

Sylvain’s got the build of a footballer, though, so Felix knows that he’s likely on that track. But, Sylvain doesn’t really talk about himself much, let alone his schooling. He has a tendency to watch people carefully with a gaze that’s far too knowing.

Felix never likes that look, like Sylvain’s mind is far away and thinking. A thinking Sylvain is likely a dangerous Sylvain. It’s always the ones you least suspect. Glenn would have been best friends with this dolt.

“What?” says Felix, annoyed.

“Nothing,” says Sylvain, turning back to his textbook.

Felix frowns but doesn’t push to ask more.

As the weeks pass, things shift from a tentative, peaceful study, into an actual friendship. Felix wants to hate it; a large part of him wants to loathe it because he doesn’t like people, nor does he like it when people admire him in return.

But, Felix has learned in their brief time together that it’s not all bad. Not every person who is friendly with you wants something in return. Being a Fraldarius has severely skewed the way that he views the general public, but Sylvain seems to have no idea what his roots are, thank the Goddess.

It’s led to a low-key relationship, full of quiet jokes and genuine care. Felix grudgingly accepts it.

Like always, Felix finds Sylvain holding their table in the corner, a cup of coffee already ordered and waiting for him. Bernadetta’s handmade mugs might be odd and a little bizarre, but they serve drinks all the same, even if it loses its heat more quickly.

Sylvain once berated him for his wasteful use of to-go cups and Felix relented without much of a fight. Much to his irritation.

“One large red-eye, black as your soul,” says Sylvain, pushing the cup towards Felix. “I think he threw in an extra shot this time.”

Felix grunts, noncommittally, drops his bag to the ground and slumps into his chair. The mug is hot to the touch, so it must be fresh, and Felix leans over to inhale deeply. Sylvain makes a gagging sound which causes Felix to glare at him.

“No judgment,” says Sylvain. Then he pauses. “Actually, a lot of judgment because only stone-cold dicks can drink that dredge--”

“Go back to the field,” snaps Felix, before taking a sip. It’s dark and bitter as it burns through his veins. Perfection, really. Sylvain just has bad taste.

“Always with the jock references,” says Sylvain. “At least you haven’t called me jockstrap yet.”

“Apt name for someone like yourself.”

Sylvian blinks. “What does that even mean?”

Felix huffs. “An athlete, you dolt.” He takes another sip. “You make fun of my sport enough that it's only appropriate that I do the same.”

Sylvain is quiet for a long moment and then he bursts out laughing. “Wait, wait,” he starts. “You think I’m an athlete? Why?”

“You're built like a footballer,” says Felix. “Infuriatingly tall and broad.”

“Not to say that jocks are dumb, or anything, but with my courseload what makes you think that I even have time to think about playing a sport?”

Felix thinks for a long moment, coming to realize that even with their burgeoning friendship, he knows next to nothing about Sylvain. He’s easy to get along with, they’ve fallen into an easy routine and Felix even finds that studying flies by with little to no thought by his side. Something about Sylvain’s quiet presence in the coffee shop makes it easier to focus.

Still.

“Wait, you don’t?” asks Felix. “Why didn’t you ever say--”

“I thought that you were just insulting me, I didn’t think that you actually thought that I--” Sylvain stops, laughing again. “I’m sorry, this is hilarious. It shows just how bad you are with people. Pure comedic gold.”

“You said you were on scholarship!”

At that, Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, an academic one. Astronomy and Astrophysics.”

“Astrophysics?” blurts Felix incredulously.

In retrospect, it’s painfully obvious, he thinks. Suddenly, the textbooks of differential calculus and other various maths and sciences he can’t pronounce make a hell of a lot more sense. He reaches out, lifting the book that Sylvain’s currently working from, eyeballing the title.

“Steller, Galactic and Extragalactic Astronomy,” Felix reads. Then he moves to the next. “Statistical Quantum Mechanics.” Felix meets Sylvain’s sheepish gaze. “You aren’t joking, are you?”

“I’ve wanted to understand the planets ever since I saw Star Trek as a kid--”

“Are you really basing your degree on a television show that you watched growing up? One that isn’t even that good?”

Sylvain’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, you did not just disrespect the best television show to ever have been created.”

“I’m not having this conversation,” says Felix. “I have an essay for Business Statistics, and it’s going to be hard enough to focus knowing that you’re doing experimental math over there.”

“Theoretical math,” says Sylvain, coyly correcting him.

“Whatever,” hisses Felix. “Honestly, being a footballer would be less annoying.”

Sylvain frowns slightly. “Than being smart?”

“What?” Felix scowls. “No, that isn’t what I meant. I don’t give a rat’s ass how smart you are, but really, Sylvain-- Star Trek?”

Sylvain lets out a long breath and Felix realizes that he must be used to being judged. Sylvain doesn’t have the typical look of a scientist when you think about it. He’s handsome and well built, looking like he spends more time on a beach than a mechanics lab.

Felix has the decency to be at least a little bit embarrassed for assuming, not that he’d publicly admit to it.

“Look, just go back to your book,” says Felix. “I’ll go back to mine. And if I have any math questions, I’m going to expect your help.”

At that, Sylvain lets out a little chuckle, different from his usual boisterous laugh. It takes Felix a moment to realize that it’s a genuine moment from Sylvain, one where he’s let down all those walls he’s carefully put up.

It seems that he’s even more guarded than Felix is, something of mild interest. If Felix took an interest in things. He doesn’t, he thinks, but it’s more like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Alright,” says Sylvain. “But I don’t know how much help I’ll be. Simple math confuses me more than this does.”

What a ridiculous thing to say, but it’s not as annoying as the way that Felix’s mouth twitches into a near smile.

#

In the aftermath of Felix’s assumed snafu, Sylvain makes irritating strides to get to know Felix better. Irritating, because Felix has come to learn that he likes spending time with the genius of a chump, be it lunches between classes, or dinner after their study session. A variety of low-commitment activities that are usually full of small talk that Felix is angered he doesn’t hate.

“Just to be more convincing,” said Sylvain, doing most of the talking like always. Felix was inclined to agree, considering that Annette told him that Sylvain wasn’t his type and the idea of the two of them together seemed frankly, odd.

“I don’t get what the issue is,” says Annette, one day that seems like eons after Felix struck his deal with Sylvain. It’s past winter holiday and creeping into the spring, warm enough to catch a snack at the crepe stand after Annette’s yoga class. “Are you bothered that you like to spend time with him?”

“No, that’s not--” Felix pauses. “I’m not good at making friends.”

“We’re friends,” says Annette, shoving a mouthful of crepe into her mouth.

Felix wants to remind her that they met after she asked him to dinner, and it was the one time he’d said yes. It lasted about thirty minutes before they both decided dinner was a bust and went bowling instead. Annette kicked his ass, looked pretty while doing it and he’d felt nothing in return.

Instead, he says, “You're persistent.” It’s half-hearted and he doesn’t really mean it, but Annette’s cheeks puff up anyway.

“Oh, Felix! You’re evil,” huffs Annette, but she never stays mad at him for long, turning her attention back to her food.

“Sylvain is… different,” says Felix, as they sit down on a bench.

Annette nods sagely. “I mean, yeah, isn’t that why you like him?”

“He’s sufferable.”

“I mean, I’ll admit, he’s an odd choice and definitely not your type but--”

“Wait, Annette,” says Felix. “Do you think that I actually like him? As in romantically?”

She blinks at him, confused. “I mean, don’t you?” asks Annette around a mouthful of food. She’s never been very ladylike, but it’s a breath of fresh air at the end of all things. Normally it would endear Felix. But.

“ What?” snaps Felix, eyes immediately narrowing. “Of course I don’t, this entire thing has been a ruse to get people to leave me alone.”

Annette chews at her food thoughtfully for a second and then says, “But you enjoy spending time with him.”

“I’ve made that apparent,” says Felix. “It vexes me.”

“You’ve admired how smart he is.”

“Infuriatingly so, but it’s useful when we study.” Felix pauses. “Don’t tell him that I said that.”

“You spend your free time with him,” says Annette, gesturing at Felix with her crepe. “This is the first time I’ve seen you face-to-face in like a month, but you go out of your way to see him every day.”

At that, Felix starts, mouth snapping shut as he thinks. Annette’s right, he does go out of his way to spend time with Sylvain. And if they can’t meet properly, it’s texting. Sylvain’s usually the one to greet him in the morning with a corny horoscope that neither of them believes, but still laugh about. And Felix is usually the one to say goodnight, even if it isn’t warranted.

It feels wrong if they don’t share words at least once a day.

“Annette,” says Felix.

“Hm?” hums Annette, cheeks bulging around the last bite of her crepe.

“Am I in love with him?” It’s rhetorical, of course, and dreadful in tone, but Annette answers anyway.

“Would that be a bad thing?”

“No,” says Felix, mouth parted in awe as though the heavens had just been explained to him. Or, Sylvain explained theoretical warp theory and Felix finally understood it. That’ll never happen, but--

“I love him.” The words come easier than he expects and they fill him with unexpected warmth. He wants more of it. He’s also afraid of it, but if there’s anything that Felix is good at, it’s striking something head-on with force.

He hasn’t lost a fencing match in nearly three years.

Annette, blessedly, is quiet for once, just watching him process his feelings. And when he’s done, when Felix comes to his conclusion, she asks, “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” says Felix, and it’s honest and true, and strangely welcome. He hasn’t felt this good in years. Certainly not since Glenn passed.

“Good,” says Annette, “Now go kiss him.”

Felix’s answer is dumping the rest of his crepe directly into her lap, the loss of his snack well justified.

#

Because Felix’s life is apparently a romantic comedy, he expects things between him and Sylvain to become awkward.

It doesn't. In fact, everything is disgustingly normal. They keep their study dates, emphasis on the study part. Sylvain still greets him with his coffee order, and on the few occasions that Felix beats him to the shop, he greets Sylvain with his ridiculous white mocha, extra whip.

There are a few differences, Felix supposes.

When Sylvain leans over to help with a math problem, Felix turns to him. They meet eyes more often than not. Felix willingly covers Sylvain’s dinner, which raises an eyebrow because he’s notoriously stingy.

But, if Felix seems off, Sylvain never mentions it or broaches the topic. It’s aggravating, how easy it is to just keep to the routine. And it’s not that Felix doesn’t want more; ever since his talk with Annette, he finds himself entertaining the idea further.

He’s done a lot of thinking. Sylvain’s handsome, there isn’t a doubt about it, but that’s not what pulls Felix to him. Sylvain’s smart as a whip and doesn’t mince his words. And yes, he puts walls up and dances about things personal, but Felix does the same.

And lately, Sylvain’s started to pull those walls down, comfortable in Felix’s presence.

No one’s ever comfortable around him and Felix is struck by how much it means. Feelings are hard and love is even worse. Felix isn’t quite sure that it’s worth it.

But, he hasn’t written the idea entirely off.

“Felix?”

Felix blinks. “I, er--”

Sylvain’s mouth tugs slightly downward at one side. Concerned. “Are you okay? You seem distracted.”

“Fencing,” blurts Felix. “The big tourney coming up.”

“You mean the one two weeks ago?”

Okay, so, Felix has been more distracted than he cares to admit. It’s all Sylvain’s fault. “Sylvain, it’s nothing. I’m just tired. School is draining. The usual.”

“Tired,” says Sylvain, unconvinced. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed and watching Felix carefully. Curse Sylvain’s perceptiveness and his ability to look right through people.

“Look, Sylvain--”

“Felix Fraldarius,” drawls another voice. They both turn to find a familiar face framed by bleach blonde hair and twirling a lock around her fingers. There’s the snap of gum in her mouth as she chews open-mouthed and unflattering.

Immediately, Sylvain is on the defensive. “Hey--”

“Hold it, golden boy,” says the girl, “I know you aren’t really dating. Heard it one day after you grabbed a bite to eat.”

Sylvain’s face darkens. “Have you been following us?”

The girl makes a face at the accusation. “Ugh, as if. It was a coincidence, I swear, but what a wonderful one. Means that I’ve got a chance.”

Felix immediately bites back, hackles raised. “I already had little interest, but as of right now, there’s not even a remote possibility of you having a chance.”

“Is it really so hard to just give it a go? You might even like me.” She bats her eyes in a pathetic attempt to appeal to him, but all Felix can think of his tanned skin dotted with freckles and sun-kissed auburn hair.

“Doubtful,” says Felix, dryly.

It takes only a second for her features to change dramatically, from coy and shy to contemptuous and sneering. “I wonder why I even bothered,” says the girl, before nodding to Sylvain. “Clearly your taste isn’t as good as I would have thought. Haven’t you heard the rumors about him?”

Yes, ad nauseum. From friends, the general public, even Sylvain himself. His problems with women and dating, and commitment issues. His brother and father, and the pressure of family legacy. At first, from those around them who’d heard of their dating, who’d seen them hanging out. People who felt it their duty to warn Felix.

And eventually, Sylvain himself who’s recently opened up about the heavy baggage that he carries around, shouldering it without much of a complaint. If anything, Sylvain’s the one looking out for others.

So yes, Sylvain doesn’t have a stellar reputation, but there’s a lot more to a person than what’s seen on the surface. A lesson that Felix has spent the last half-year learning quite unwillingly.

“Do you think yourself superior?” asks Felix, eyes narrowing at her. “You have no concept of personal space, nor do you seem to comprehend the words ‘no’ and ‘not interested’. Sylvain could murder someone in cold blood and still have twice the worth that you hold.”

“It’s a wonder, why you would even consider him,” scoffs the girl.

“Obviously it’s because I love him and despite the terrible things the lot of you gossip about, he makes me perfectly happy.”

The table goes quiet, both the girl and Sylvain staring at him. Likely, for different reasons. Felix didn’t mean to say it so plainly, but he’s never been good at pulling his punches, even when it comes to verbal lashings.

Besides, she brought it upon herself.

And against all odds, Felix feels wholly and utterly satisfied, not a moment of regret at his confession. He takes a sip of his coffee, fingers curled around his mug tenderly, meeting her gaze head-on.

“You should leave,” says Sylvain, before the girl can even respond. She opens her mouth to retort, but stops when Sylvain smiles at her. Only it isn’t a smile, it’s a nasty-looking smirk, more like a wolf that’s about to pounce its prey.

Wisely, she backs off, huffing in annoyance as she turns and leaves.

And then there are two, sitting at a table in silence. Felix is oddly comfortable, sipping at his drink while Sylvain’s mouth opens and closes. Thinking about what he’s going to say. Felix supposes that he’s opened the inevitable can of worms.

“So,” starts Sylvain, “correct me if I’m wrong, but when you said that you love me, it sounded pretty genuine.”

Felix scoffs, he can’t help it. “I always mean the things that I say.”

He expects Sylvain to bolt, to run away, to want nothing to do with this. Instead, Sylvain smiles, small and real, regarding Felix with a kind of warmth that immediately sets him on high alert.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” asks Felix, testily. But Sylvain only chuckles, soft at first and then louder. “Really Sylvain? You’re laughing? Right now?”

“Sorry,” says Sylvain, “It’s not actually funny-- okay, that’s a lie, it’s hilarious.”

Felix frowns, sneering defensively. “Is the idea of me loving someone, least of all you, so entertaining?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” demands Felix, exasperated. Sylvain’s not one to beat around the bush, but he can’t seem to find his words, too busy being amused by Felix’s feelings, to his utter embarrassment.

“It’s because I love you too.”

Felix’s mouth falls open because that’s the last thing he expects Sylvain to say. He doesn’t answer, gaping openly at Sylvain, floundering for an explanation. Eventually, Sylvain finds himself, clearing his throat slightly.

Sylvain looks to Felix’s face and then his gaze drops to where his hand rests on the table. Considering. Felix really hopes that he’s not planning on taking it, but Sylvain does, fingers tugging at his palm gently.

Felix lets it happen, settling on the explanation that he’s just not like himself at the moment.

“Felix,” says Sylvain, this time quieter and more serious. He thumbs at Felix’s knuckles, the touch soft and hesitant. “I’ll admit, I’m a little bit relieved.”

“I’m annoyed,” says Felix. “I’ve been annoyed since the moment I realized it because all I’ve been able to do is think of you. It’s infuriating in the worst of ways.”

There’s a moment that passes as they watch each other, Sylvain’s hand practically burning around Felix’s. And then, Sylvain says, “Felix, can I kiss you?”

Yes, Felix thinks. It’s such a foreign feeling that he nearly pulls away but he doesn’t. He’s determined to indulge. It’s about time he’s enjoyed something in his life.

So, what he says instead is, “If you must,” the words clipped but his usual crustiness softer than normal. It makes Sylvain smile at him again, looking at Felix like he can see right through him.

Sylvain leans forward smoothly, cupping Felix’s jaw in his other hand. He’s still looking at him, like he’s some sort of treasure, paused right before Felix’s mouth. And that makes Felix impatient.

Felix is the one to close the distance, sealing their lips together like a promise. Sylvain’s mouth is soft under his, but he responds eagerly, his han moving to the back of his neck. Felix has never really put stock into the whole sparks flew and things were felt nonsense. Turns out that he’d been wrong and that kissing is kind of everything. All he can think of is Sylvain’s presence and the solid weight of him as he leans in.

Sylvain licks into the kiss, but only just barely, coaxing a tad more than just a mild response from Felix. And Felix can feel his skin burning bright red with strain, or embarrassment, or maybe just the idea that they’re doing this in public.

He doesn’t care, Felix wants more, fingers curling into Sylvain’s shirt and tugging slightly.

Eventually, they part because breathing is necessary and even Felix requires air. Regrettably. He wants to go back in, to kiss Sylvain again, just one more time before he gains his senses back and thinks better of it.

But first.

“You know, I’ll kill you if you hurt me,” says Felix, fingers tightening their grip around  Sylvain’s shirt.

Sylvain laughs, leaning close to Felix's ear and pressing a soft kiss there. “I know. But that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

[isolemnlyswearpevensie]

And This Is How It Starts | Susan Pevensie x Reader Soulmate AU

Warnings: Slight homophobia, shitty friends???

Time/Era: Modern AU

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Everything your soulmate loses, you receive. Turns out, Y/N’s soulmate is very forgetful. 

Request: helloo. can you write a sapphic susan fic please! take it whatever way you'd like :)

A/N: I’m not sure how many people read Susan fics, but I really like this one :D

masterlist | narnia playlist | read on ao3

“Gross, can you guys please cut it out?” Y/N stated, watching her best friend suck faces with her soulmate. She was on his lap and their make out session was starting to grow more intense than Y/N was comfortable with. Hannah pulls away from Alex with an exaggerated groan. 

“You’re just jealous you’re still stuck in the ‘lose it and receive it’ phase. Not my fault you haven’t found him yet.” Her voice was light and teasing, but Y/N couldn’t help but fell her heart rip. 

“I’ll find her eventually,” Y/N sighed, taking a book out of her schoolbag. It was a small, very beat-up copy of The Hunger Games. 

“Her?” Alex responded, tearing his gaze from Hannah’s face. “How do you know it’s a her?” 

Y/N opened the book delicately to reveal “Susan Pevensie” written in perfect cursive on the back of the front cover. The book had multiple stains on it, most likely tea judging by the color, and the same perfect cursive riddled the pages. Whoever Susan was, she adored this book with her life. Y/N’s fingertips lightly traced the writing before turning the book for her friends to see. Hannah scrunches her face at it. 

“It could be his friends, you know. Like she lent it to him and he lost it,” Alex kisses Hannah’s cheek. 

“Or this Susan girl is his girlfriend,” Hannah smirks.

“Or,” Y/N was growing frustrated. Whenever she hinted that her soulmate might be a girl, everyone dismissed her suspicions. “My soulmate is Susan Pevensie and she keeps losing her things. And besides, this book is really loved, she wouldn’t just give it to someone.” 

Hannah scoffed, tossing her hair in a very I know everything, and you don’t kind of way. “Fine, believe what you want. Not sure why you would want a girl soulmate anyway, I know I wouldn’t.” 

“Well, yeah, of course you don’t. You’re straight,” Y/N flipped to a random page and read the gorgeous handwriting that was scrawled in the margins. Her mouth twitched slightly at how perfect the script was. 

“What? And you aren’t?” 

“No, I’m not.” Y/N’s eyes didn’t move from the page as she spoke. The teens sat in silence. “Is there a problem?” 

“No! No, of course not,” Alex answered quickly. ‘I guess we just, uh, didn’t expect it… I guess.” 

“Well, surprise. Now that that’s out of the way, do you guys like The Hunger Games?” 

The two grew even more uncomfortable at the sudden tension they were feeling. “No, not necessarily.” 

“She seems to. A lot. And there’s a cute little strawberry bookmark on page 47,” Y/N sighed dreamily picturing what Susan must look like. Based on her cursive alone, she must be absolutely jaw-dropping. 

“Has, er, Susan lost anything else recently?” Alex asked. Y/N nodded excitedly, digging in her bag again. She pulled out a set of keys with a feather pendant keychain, a light pink lipstick, a glass water bottle, and a small fabric coin purse. Y/N grinned down at the items then looked back towards her friends. 

“Oh, she must be quite forgetful. Do you have any other stuff?” Y/N’s grin brightened even more. 

“Oh, loads, this is just what she’s lost within the past week,” The keys jingled as she moved her hands. “The keys must’ve really ruined her day. I wonder what they’re to.” 

“Hopefully somewhere in England. Where’s the money from?” Hannah gestured to the yellow coin purse. Y/N shrugged and tossed it towards her friends. It was rather small, barely the size of Y/N’s palm, and it had a gorgeous diamond quilt pattern. 

“No clue. I haven’t opened it if I’m being quite honest.” Alex’s noble fingers undid the clasp and looked inside. 

“Well, it’s definitely British currency, which is helpful.” He tipped the pouch and emptied the contents into his hand. As expected, a variety of different coins came toppling out, along with a folded piece of paper and various pins. “Can I have this?” 

“No, you cannot have my soulmate’s belongings. Give me that,” Y/N grabs ahold of all the bag and its contents. With her hand cupped like a funnel, the pins and money fall smoothly into the coin purse. Y/N discards the pouch into her bag and begins to unfold the paper. 

She had expected the paper to be riddled with text, like a to-do list or a small reminder. Instead, it appeared to be a little photograph of a family. The paper itself seemed to be fragile as if it had been handled a lot or had gotten wet, so Y/N handled the photo with care. 

The scene depicted the smallest of the group, a little girl, giggling up at the oldest as the other two looked on with large smiles. Y/N turned the photo to look at the back, just in case any date was included with the photo. In the same gorgeous script as the book, Lucy laughing at Peter because Ed insulted him “in the name of justice.” June 15  was written in black ink. Y/N turned the picture over frantically and scanned the faces of the family. 

Susan was absolutely beautiful; her dark brown hair was styled in effortless waves and her lips were painted with a cherry red color. Her eyes were wrinkled in the corners, due to her contagious smile, and she looked like she was filled to the brim with happiness. Y/N had never seen such gorgeous baby blue eyes. 

The poor girl was speechless, her mind running a mile a second and vision focusing on only Susan’s portrait. 

“She’s gorgeous,” Y/N murmured breathlessly. 

“Who is?” 

Y/N looked up at her friends, turning the photo to show them. 

“Susan, my soulmate.” 

~ 

Susan read over the essay that sat in her lap, taking in every detail of the writing. It wasn’t hers, but it was her soulmate’s misplaced homework. The topic wasn’t overly exciting, an analysis of a book Susan hasn’t read, but just the way her soulmate wrote captivated her. Y/N L/N, which was the name written on the top of the paper, had such a poetic way of writing. It was as if she was telling Susan a story, rather than writing about an 18th century novel. 

��Reading the essay again, are we?” Peter snickered from next to her. Susan would have hit him with the paper, but she didn’t want to risk damaging it. 

“Yes, what’s the problem with that?” 

“Nothing, Su, I just don’t think rereading missing homework is going to bring Y/N any closer to you. It’s over a year old.” Peter had found his soulmate when he was young, so he didn’t quite understand his siblings’ desire to find their other halves so quickly. 

“Not physically, but I already know a lot about her from this one paper. I know her handwriting, how she talks, the way she feels about some things…” 

“Yeah, how she feels about classic literature. Not exactly groundbreaking.” Peter sunk deeper into the couch cushion in an attempt to get comfortable. 

“Maybe not to you, but to me it is. You don’t have to be such a happiness drain, you know.” Susan was growing more frustrated by the minute. She didn’t want her older brother to snatch the paper away from her, so she gently creased it and placed it into her notebook. 

“I’m just taking the piss.” 

“Well, it’s not funny. And shouldn’t you be doing your wash? We leave for school tomorrow.” Susan stood up, lifting her bag off of the floor and onto her shoulder. 

“Yes, alright mother.” 

~

“Y/N! Are you coming?” Hannah hollered over her shoulder. She was walking towards the train station with a large group of her friends. Y/N waved her off. 

“I’ll meet you there! Save me a seat, yeah?” Hannah shrugged her off and continued the conversion she was more invested in. 

Y/N sighed, watching their backs disappear into the distance. She never quite liked the group Hannah was friends with, so them leaving her out never quite bothered her. Especially when she could get sandwiches for the train ride. 

The teen was waiting at a crosswalk when she spotted her. Susan was stood at the newspaper stand outside of the corner store Y/N was going to. She looked stunning as she flipped idly through a Vogue magazine. The sun shone across her hair and Y/N thought she looked similar to an angel. 

When the light turned green, Y/N scurried across the street in order to meet her love. However, she paused a few paces away to steady her breathing. 

“Excuse me, are you Susan Pevensie?” Y/N spoke, voice shaking. Susan turned around, utterly confused. Y/N was right in her assumption; Susan was in fact an angel. An angel that looked even more heavenly in person. 

“Yes, and may I ask who you are? And how you know my name?” 

“Oh, right, um I’m Y/N L/N. I’m not sure if you know who-” Susan’s eyes widened and she couldn’t help but cut Y/N off. 

“You’re my soulmate.” Her red lips were slightly agape as she took in Y/N’s appearance. “Excuse my bluntness, but you’re even prettier than I imagined.” 

Y/N’s cheeks grew hot and her fingers fumbled with the buckles on her bag. She was much more nervous than she had hoped, but Y/N couldn’t help it. Once the bag was open, she gripped Susan’s possessions and held them out. 

“You need to keep better track of your things, love.” Susan’s perfectly manicured fingers brushed Y/N’s as she took back her book and keys. Y/N’s legs felt like jelly. 

“How could you possibly know what I looked like?” 

“You lost a picture of your family. Well, I suppose a coin purse with a picture folded inside. Still, a picture was lost and I saw it.” Y/N rambled, making Susan giggle. “I’ve been looking for you for ages,” 

“And I you, darling.” Susan placed her belongings into her bag and embraced Y/N. Y/N didn’t quite know what to do; Susan smelt of rose petals and honey and her hair was so soft as it brushed against Y/N’s cheek. All the same, Y/N wrapped her arms loosely around Susan’s waist. 

“Am I allowed to kiss you?” She whispered into Y/N’s ear. Y/N could have fainted on the spot, but she squeaked out a small yes. 

Susan kept her arms wrapped around Y/N’s neck as she kissed her gently. Y/N’s thumbs danced across the floral patterned fabric that covered her hips as she kissed back. It was light and fleeting, but it still made Y/N feel like she was going to burst. The pair pulled away and looked into each other’s eyes. Susan’s were even bluer in person. 

“Can I buy you a sandwich?” Y/N croaked, cutting the tension. Susan giggled happily. 

“As long as you let me cover the dessert.” 

[thefactsofthematter]

we’ve all lost our way before

a bittersweet, jack-and-medda-centred prequel to this fic i wrote last year. no one requested this, i just felt like pouring out some emotions, so if you’d like to Feel Things with me, be my guest! this can be read as a standalone fic as well, if you haven’t read the original.

read this on ao3 if you want!

javid (sort of); 2.3k; modern au; warning for drug abuse, addiction, and overdose. 

- 

Jack is nineteen when he overdoses for the first time.

The saddest part is that he sees it as a strange sort of victory. He's been playing with fire for four or five years now, but only just OD'd. No one— at least not anyone important to him— will know that he was hooked on drugs as a literal child... they'll think of this as a recent problem, that art school was the catalyst in turning him into a junkie. He thinks it might be less shameful this way.

Medda is there when he wakes up in the hospital. He knows exactly what's going on as soon as he comes to consciousness— the familiar ache in his joints tells him that a withdrawal is starting to hit, and the rhythmic beeping, in sync with his heartbeat, is enough to fill in the story of just what happened. He overdid it.

"Mama..." he groans, hardly able to open his eyes. He reaches weakly towards where he can see her sitting in a chair and typing on her phone, with a nervous scrunch to her eyebrows.

She looks up, and then she's there in an instant, right beside him to take his hand.

"Oh Jack..." she whispers, wrapping both her hands around one of his and squeezing. Her voice is wet, like she's been crying. "What've you done to yourself, baby?"

There's a lot he wants to say— that he's ruined his own life, and he's sorry, and he can't believe he's done this to her, and he probably should've just died from the overdose so she wouldn't have to deal with him anymore, and he's so so so sorry for everything. None of those words leave his mouth, though.

"I did something bad, didn't I?" he mumbles, feeling his fingers twitch between her hands, but not quite in control of the movement. The doctors must be medicating him somehow, because this isn't a normal comedown. Why is he so tired?

"You sure did," she sighs. She pauses and swallows, as if she's trying to figure out what to say. She finally shakes her head and continues. "You overdosed on heroin, Jack— I found you on the bathroom floor, and your lips and fingers were blue. I thought you were dead."

Jack feels a horrible, horrible little ball of shame start to twist in his gut. It's not regret, necessarily, but he feels bad that she had to see that. He feels bad that he scared her, and that he's making her deal with all this now. He's a horrible son.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his words shake and his fingers twitch again, the nervous jitter that comes with the drugs leaving his system. "I didn't mean to."

She closes her eyes for a second and then nods. He can tell she's trying to be empathetic, and that she's angry with him but she doesn't want to show him that.

"I know you didn't," she says. "I know, darling." She rubs her thumb in little circles on the back of his hand. "But did you even think for a second, when you decided to shoot up in there, that one of the boys could've found you?"

This is a point that she likes to drive home whenever he's in trouble. Jack is the oldest of four, and he needs to be responsible because his brothers look up to him. He was a teenager when she adopted him, and he knew that by joining the family, he was stepping up to be a role model for Crutchie, Race, and Albert. He'd been so honoured, and he really thought he could do it, at the time.

"No," he finally croaks, because of course he didn't consider it— he wasn't planning on overdosing. "I'm sorry."

The youngest, Albert, is only twelve— and even at that, he's awfully naive for his age. He probably doesn't even know what heroin is or what it can do, and now Medda's going to have to tell him that his brother almost died from it. Of course the boys are going to ask questions, and Jack knows Medda will answer them honestly. She's not a fan of keeping secrets.

"How long have you been doing this?" she asks, after a moment. She sounds so hurt, like the thought of Jack's addiction physically pains her. It makes him want to vomit. "The doctor said some of the needle marks on your arms look like they've been there for years. When did it start?"

Jack can't bring himself to answer. It's too embarrassing.

He was such a stupid, gullible fourteen year-old that he let the older boys in his last foster home before Medda's place do this to him— it was a group home where they were horribly abused in every way you can possibly think of, and everyone was searching for a way to cope. They told him drugs would make everything better, and they held his arm still while they injected him with the tiniest amount of heroin, and suddenly he wasn't scared or in pain anymore. He couldn't feel anything. It was the best he's ever felt, and he knew right then that this was going to become a problem. His parents had been addicts, he knew it ran in his blood, but he let himself fall into the trap anyways. It's horrible.

"I want to go to sleep now," is all he says, purposefully avoiding the question. His eyes feel droopy and heavy, and the ache of the withdrawal is growing stronger, and he knows that if he doesn't sleep now it'll only get worse.

"Please, Jack," Medda whispers, not giving it up. She's squeezing his hand almost desperately. "How long?"

He lets his eyes fall shut and weakly attempts to wrench his hand away from hers.

"I'm tired, Mama."

A heavy sigh.

"Okay."

She lets go of his hand and moves instead to pet his hair, even as he turns his face away from her and tries to roll onto his side in a pitiful attempt to show that he wants to be left alone. She hums softly as she does so, and it makes Jack's chest feel tight like he's going to cry. He finally has a mother who loves him, after all these years of wishing for one, and all he can do is disappoint her.

-

Medda is on the phone the next time he's awake.

"Did you know he was abusing drugs, David?" she asks, and her tone is almost accusatory, like she thinks Davey had something to do with this. "He overdosed on heroin last night."

Davey must panic on the other end of the call, because her tone suddenly goes much softer.

"No, no, he's okay. He's in the hospital, but he'll be alright." She pauses and sighs. "The doctor said it looks like he's been using for a couple years, at least. You didn't know?"

Jack decides not to open his eyes just yet— he's nauseous and his stomach aches. He's sure that if he were to force himself to vomit it might alleviate it somewhat, but he wants to hear what Medda and Davey might talk about, so he just doesn't move.

"Okay," Medda sighs. "I understand. I had no idea either— it's scary how well he hid it. He overdosed in the bathroom at home; he must've been using drugs in the house this whole time, and I never caught on."

Jack's awfully ashamed of that bit. He didn't used to do it at home— he only did it on occasion when he was younger, and he'd save it for when he was with friends, or if he had a really bad day. It's just the past few months that have gotten so bad... he can't go a day without it anymore. He gets dope sick, craves his next dose until he can finally shoot up, and it doesn't even really get him high. He needs heroin to feel normal these days. He's been at home, around his little brothers, with that god-awful drug coursing through his body. He hates himself so, so deeply for that.

He needs help. He knows he needs help. But he somehow doesn't want it— he knows it won't work. He'll end up checking himself out of rehab, or wherever Medda tries to send him, and he'll go right back to the drugs. Being sober is hard, and being high is easy. He likes that easy, relaxed feeling, and he knows that any amount of time he spends sober will just make the next high feel even better.

"I'm going to try to get him straight from the hospital into rehab," Medda says on the phone, which makes Jack feel horrible that he's already planning on refusing that idea. "You've got school, sweetheart, this isn't your responsibility. Come by for a visit if you'd like, but don't get to thinking you have to look after him or anything... oh, I know you love him. I know, dear. But you have to put yourself first, alright?"

Jack doesn't like listening to this anymore. Medda's going to convince Davey to break up with him, isn't she? She doesn't think Jack deserves to have a boyfriend as lovely as Davey, since he's such a disappointment— she's right, but it makes his chest ache anyways.

"Mama," he groans, finally letting her know he's awake. He feels like a helpless little kid as he reaches out for her yet again. "I feel sick. I'm gonna puke."

The light hurts his eyes as he opens them, and he barely registers Medda pressing a little paper bowl into his hands for him to vomit into. He leans forward and gags into it, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the sunlight while she rubs a hand gently up and down his back.

"I'll let you go, Davey," she sighs into the phone. "Text me when you get here, alright?"

Jack tries to ask if that means Davey is coming to see him, but it comes out a little garbled when he realizes he's not done throwing up. He interrupts himself to shove his face back in the little bowl and heave yet again. It takes until he's finished puking to realize that he began to cry somewhere in the middle of it, hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Mama, I'm so sorry," he finally says, once he's sure it's over. He leans his head back against the pillows and finally says the words he's been dreading. "I... If you don't want me anymore, I understand. It's okay."

This must catch Medda off-guard, because it takes her a second to process it. She's perfectly calm as she takes the little bowl from him and sets it somewhere for a nurse to take away, but then she turns back around to him with a confused frown.

"Hang on, what?" she asks. "Jack, baby, what are you talking about? Where did you get that idea from?"

Truthfully, the thought hasn't fully left his mind since the day they signed the adoption papers, a little over two years ago. He's always figured that she'd get sick of him at some point— he's even looked into how an adoption can be annulled, so that he's prepared for when the day eventually comes. She'll realize he's not worth all the trouble he causes, she'll see how messed up he is, and she'll get rid of him for good.

"I ruined everything," he mumbles, not quite able to look her in the eyes. He wipes pitifully at the tears on his cheeks and forces himself to keep talking. "If you want to, like, cancel out the adoption... that's alright. It's not fair that you have to deal with me when I'm so awful."

She's silent for a second, and Jack is sure that this is it. She'll undo the adoption, kick him out of the family, and he'll be all on his own again. He doesn't want that, of course, but he understands why she would do it.

"John Francis Kelly," she finally says, and she comes over to the bed to cup his cheeks and hold onto his face. "Look at me. Nothing you could ever say or do could make me even consider that. Not in a million years. Do you hear me? Nothing could ever, ever make me stop loving you."

This is where Jack finally breaks. She's too good to him— he can't understand what he's done in his fucked-up life to deserve to meet someone like her. He's done nothing to earn her love, but she gives it to him unconditionally anyways, and he simply can't comprehend it. He sobs, leaning forward into her arms; she hugs him tight and just holds him there.

"You're my son, Jack," she whispers, as his head rests in the crook of her neck and she rocks him back and forth. "Okay? It doesn't matter that I've only had you for a few years... that doesn't make it any less real. No matter how many mistakes you make— no matter what you do or where you are, I'll always be your mother. You're not getting rid of me." She gently combs her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. "You got yourself into a tough spot, but we'll get you out, baby. You're gonna be okay."

"I'm sorry," Jack sobs, as if he hasn't said it enough today. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know," Medda replies. "I know, baby. You made some mistakes, but it's not the end of the world. We're gonna fix it together, alright?"

Jack can do nothing more than cry at this point, so Medda just rubs his back and pets his hair. She shushes him softly, as if she's soothing an infant, and he simply clings onto her for dear life. He doesn't deserve how wonderful she is.

[koala-otter]

gaang modern AU part ii

here’s part 2 to this modern AU I wrote 

this is coming a day later than I said it would, but in my defense it got really long, and now I simply can’t keep looking at it

I’m not sure if I want to write a part 3, but it’s been fun, so we’ll see!! 

anyways, have some toph beifong and gaang pool shenanigans and a couple of kisses and some light drinking

3.5k words

Suki understands what her friends have been trying to explain as soon as they roll into the driveway. 

“Oh,” she breathes, looking out the window. She turns around to look at Katara. “It’s a villa villa.”

An ancient, eight-foot high stone wall stretches in front of them, with a wide set of wood doors that open to reveal the structure they can already sort of see behind it. The Beifong summer home is a stunning example of old Earth Kingdom architecture, an elegant stone structure built around a courtyard on a raised platform. The house’s front holds a wide entryway decorated with enormous pillars, and between its bright colors and delicate construction, the house itself almost looks like a tiered cake. The central section of the building is four stories, and each of the upper floors is surrounded by a wraparound balcony with its own pillars, all pulling the viewer’s eye up to a roof of spotless, yellow, glazed ceramic tiles that shine under the blue of the cloudless sky. 

Everyone in the car takes a moment to gaze up at the edifice, this testament to the longevity of the Beifongs, their symbol of power and endurance. 

Except one. 

“Yep, it’s old as hell,” Sokka says, putting the car into park. He turns off the engine. “Wait until you see the movie theater inside, though. Now that’s something to look at.”

“Sokka,” Katara says disapprovingly.

They all pile out of the car and begin pulling their bags from the trunk when a voice rings out across the courtyard. 

“Look alive, knuckleheads!”

Toph comes barreling out of the entrance in a way that is only possible through years of familiarization, and she stops in the middle of the courtyard. 

“All right, you all have to come to me now,” she says, her arms outstretched.

“Toph!” Sokka cries excitedly. He rushes over to her and scoops her off the stone tiles and into a tight hug.

Toph sounds like she’s choking. “Keep me on the ground, dumbass,” she says, “so I can know where I am.”

He releases her, and her feet hit the ground with a slight thud. She keeps a tight hold on his arm. 

“Thank God you’re all here,” Toph says. “My mom didn’t want me to be alone before you guys arrived, so she made Yu stay with me.” She rolls her eyes. “Let me tell you, it has not been fun.”

As if having heard his cue, Yu pops out of the house and starts after Toph. The older man, one of the most senior servants in the Beifong household, looks thoroughly exhausted as he approaches the group.

“Miss Toph,” he calls, “you left your balled melon untouched. If you leave it for too long, it’ll get warm!”

Katara and Aang snicker behind their hands, but they stop abruptly when Toph’s face tilts threateningly toward them. 

Toph ignores Yu’s statement once she hears him stand next to her. “Yu, my friends are here,” she says, shaking Sokka’s arm almost in demonstration. “You can go now.”

“But, Miss Toph, I’m sure your mother—”

Toph sighs loudly to cut him off. “Did you buy the groceries?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Yu replies hurriedly.

“And the rooms are ready?”

“Yes.”

“And the pool’s open?”

Aang feels Katara perk up next to him as she waits for the answer.

“Yes,” Yu says again, and Aang can’t help smiling when he hears a hiss of excitement leave Katara.

“And the bar’s stocked?”

“Of course,” Yu says, now with a slight roll of his eyes.

“And my friends are here,” Toph says with a sweeping motion of her arm. No one tells her she’s just gestured toward a bush. “Now if I remember right, this is the part where you go.”

Yu bows to the group. “You’re right, Miss Toph,” he says. “I hope you all have a wonderful stay here.” 

He turns to go back into the house, but pauses to face them once more with a grimace. “Please don’t break anything this time,” he adds before he goes, too full of worry for his words to have been an afterthought.

“He’s so dramatic,” Toph says with a wave of her hand once he’s gone. “It was just a Quartz Dynasty vase.”

“Right,” Sokka says sheepishly, exchanging a furtive look with Zuko, who’s suddenly taken great interest in the Beifongs’ landscaping.

“All right,” Toph says, tugging Sokka’s arm. “Let’s go to the pool before Katara loses her mind.”

“Really?” Katara cries excitedly, already stepping in line with them.

“It was cleaned this morning just for you, Sweetness.”

Zuko stops them. “Hold on, I think Suki’s still taking it in,” he says in an amused tone.

Suki snaps her head back down and grins self-consciously. “I was looking at the little people,” she says in a high-pitched explanation, pointing to a small, ceramic procession of a dragon, a camelephant, and a winged boar on the eaves of the roof. She grabs her bag and follows them.

They walk clear through the first floor to reveal that the house stands on the crest of a hill, the rest of which tumbles before them as a garden full of sprawling lawns and blooming peony bushes and trees thick with pink and white blossoms. Before the drop of the hill, overlooking the lush green landscape, is the swimming pool full of crystal clear water. As soon as it comes into sight, Katara drops her bag and pulls her shirt off to reveal she already has her swimsuit on underneath, a simple white bikini. 

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” she calls, kicking off her shorts, and before anyone can say anything else, she’s crossed the grass and the sandstone patio and dived into the pool in one precise, fluid motion.

“That’s not fair, she already put her suit on,” Sokka says. He notices Aang suddenly dropping to his knees, rifling through his own bag and grabbing something before running toward the poolhouse. “And where are you going?”

“I don’t wanna be a rotten egg, Sokka!” Aang yells. The door slams behind him so he can pull on his orange trunks.

Once everyone’s changed and finally joined Katara in the pool, it turns out Toph is the rotten egg, because she refuses to join them in the water. 

“Come on, Toph,” Aang pleads once more.

“You know I don’t like swimming,” she says from the side.

“Won’t you just come to the shallow end? I’ll stay with you the whole time.” He holds his hand up in an oath even though he knows she can’t see it. “Promise.”

Toph considers him for a moment. 

“All right,” she finally says, holding out her hand for him to take. “But if you let me drown, I will murder you.”

Aang only laughs and helps her down, keeping a hold on her hand as they stand side by side in the water.

The wind whistles through the leaves of the garden’s trees and ruffles Suki’s chin-length hair. She plunges under the water.

“We should have a hawk-rooster fight,” she says when she resurfaces. She slicks her wet hair away from her face with her hands. 

“You’re right, Suki,” Sokka says brightly. He turns to Zuko and pats himself on the shoulder. “Zuko, hop on.”

Katara pauses mid-lap. “Are you kidding? That’s not a fair team.” She swims over to Zuko and pulls him by the arm. “Come on, Zuko, you’re helping me beat my brother.”

Zuko sighs as Katara clambers onto his shoulders. “Why does everything have to be a competition between you two?”

“You sound like Bato,” Sokka laughs. “Every game night he—”

“Sokka, quit talking and help me up,” Suki says from his back.

“Sorry, sorry, okay.” Sokka lifts her easily onto his shoulders and plants himself in front of Zuko. 

“Ready?” Zuko asks.

Sokka leans forward and places a quick kiss on Zuko’s lips. “Don’t get upset when we beat you,” he says with a smirk.

Zuko wears a small, dreamy smile as he replies, “I won’t.”

He feels a repeated, urgent patting on the top of his head. 

“He’s trying to distract you,” Katara hisses. “Focus! Do not lose this for us!”

Zuko rolls his eyes and falls into his stance, his hands clasped around Katara’s ankles. 

“One, two, three, go!” Sokka yells shrilly, and Suki and Katara fall into grappling.

Toph crosses her arms. “I think I’d be good at this game,” she says idly.

“Probably,” Aang replies, smiling when he sees Sokka narrowly avoid a foot to the eye— “Jesus, Suki, be careful!” he cries—and patting Toph on the shoulder. “You always beat me up on land.”

Toph snorts. “That’s nothing. Talk to me about how I pinned Sokka last week. Now that was fun.”

They keep watching the fight playing out in front of them, Suki and Katara’s hands intertwined, each trying to push the other off. Both yell at the young men beneath them to hold steady.

“Oh, shit,” Toph suddenly says. “I forgot to ask Yu to pick up ice before he left.”

Aang glances at her before looking back in time to see Suki nearly lose her balance. She recovers and jabs Katara in the shoulder. “I can go,” he offers. 

“You don’t have to,” Toph says.

“No, I will.”

With one more well-timed shove from Suki, Katara goes sailing off of Zuko’s shoulders and into the water in front of Aang and Toph with a loud splash.

Toph pulls herself closer to Aang. “A little warning for the blind girl next time!” she yells in the direction of the group.

Katara comes up laughing, trying desperately to push the hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, Toph,” she says.

“It’s really Suki’s fault,” Sokka points out before plunging under the water himself to let her off his shoulders.

“Wow, nice scapegoating,” Toph says dryly. “No wonder you guys broke up.”

Suki laughs. “Actually, I think it had more to do with the huge crush he had on his best friend,” she says, tilting her head in Zuko’s direction.

Zuko shrugs with an awkward smile. 

Sokka’s head and shoulders emerge from the water. He tugs on his wolftail to stop its dripping. “Are we playing again?” he asks.

“I’m out,” Zuko says. He swims toward the shallow end and hops out to sit on the side of the pool. “I don’t think I can take Katara yelling at me anymore.”

Katara narrows her eyes at him before turning to Aang. “Looks like I need a new teammate,” she says. “Do you want to play?”

 Aang smiles at her regretfully. “I would, but Toph just asked me to go pick up some ice.”

“In town?” Katara asks, wringing out her wet hair.

“Yup.”

“I’ll go with you,” she says brightly. She starts making her way toward the pool steps.

Aang’s lips spread into a goofy grin. “Okay,” he agrees. 

Katara towels off while Aang gets Sokka’s keys from Zuko and guides Toph up on the side of the pool next to him. As he rises from being bent over Toph and Zuko, laughing at something Zuko’s said, Katara cannot help staring at him. He’s been taller than her for a long time, so his stature is nothing new, but he’s filled out significantly in the past couple of years, and she does not often get the opportunity to see the evidence in full display. The broad planes of his chest and shoulders practically shine in the late afternoon sun, and the clean lines and ridges of his abdomen contract with his laughter, guiding her gaze further down to the angled cut of his hips, across which his shorts are slung low. 

Katara almost gasps when Aang addresses her. 

“Ready?” he asks, pulling a T-shirt over his head. 

It seems he hasn’t noticed her staring.

“Let’s go,” she replies in a rush, grabbing her sunglasses and following him back through the house and out to the car. 

The doors slam shut behind them, and Katara concerns herself with rolling all of the windows down so they can still feel the summer breeze. Aang checks his mirrors and starts out of the driveway when he notices what Katara’s wearing. 

“Uh, I’m pretty sure the ‘no shirt, no service’ rule still applies all the way out here,” he teases her as he guides the car back onto the winding, mountain road.

“It’s not like I’m not going to wear it at all,” Katara says defensively, though she’s smiling. She holds up her shirt in her hand. “I need to dry off first.” 

Aang glances at her from the road and realizes she means the bikini top, which is more or less still soaked through. If she put the shirt on now, it would only seep through and leave an obvious stain on the front. He turns resolutely to look back at the road, swallowing hard.

The last time he saw her in the white top, with just the two of them together, was on a road trip to Omashu to celebrate Zuko’s college graduation. On the last day before they reached the city, Katara insisted on going to see a little-known cave nearby with an underground spring, and that night, after several cupfuls of terrible Earth Kingdom grain alcohol, raised the idea of going to swim in it again, under the full moon. Aang was the only one who could be convinced to go with her. They ventured back into the cave with a flashlight and turned it off once they got to the pool at the bottom, the night quiet but for the occasional sound of droplets falling from the stalagmites. They stayed close to each other in the dark water, but it was Katara who wrapped herself around Aang, and after a while, pressed her chest to his, separated only by the fabric of her white top. She looked up at him with her half-lidded eyes and boozy blush and only hesitated briefly before kissing him under the silver light of the moon. 

Katara woke the next morning with a wicked hangover, and Aang drove the rest of the way to Omashu with Sokka sitting next to him, any hope of talking to Katara about their kiss drowned out by Sokka’s elaborate stories about another student in his department named Wing Fan. Neither mentioned what happened the night before, Aang wondering whether Katara even remembered it, and it never happened again, so they let it go. 

But Aang remembered it. And if he had asked, he would have known that Katara did, too. 

The winding road lets out to a stretch devoid of surrounding trees, and the glare of the early evening sun hits Aang right in the eyes. He pulls the sun visor down, but the light still shines through and makes him squint. 

“I should have brought sunglasses,” he said absentmindedly, vaguely holding up his hand to see the road.

“Here, have mine,” Katara pipes up, and takes them off to carefully place them on Aang’s face. She giggles at the sight. “They look perfect on you.”

Aang sneaks a grin at her, his gray eyes obscured by the bright blue flowered frames thrifted by Sokka for Katara’s birthday. “Thanks, I try.”

He keeps them on even when they drive into town and walk into the supermarket, Katara pulling her shirt back on on the way in. He refuses even to push them onto his head, looking at the signs above the aisles through the darkened lenses, insisting, “But, Katara, I still need them for the ride back.”

Katara only shakes her head in amusement and pulls him after her toward the frozen aisle.

“Oh, mangoes!” Aang cries, and he stops in the middle of the produce to admire the piles of fruit. “These are Gyatso’s favorite.”

“Should we get some?” Katara asks. “Or any other fruit? Or snacks for the house or something?”

“If you think so,” Aang says noncommittally. 

“What do you want?” she asks. She examines the assortment and wrinkles her nose when she notices the papaya. 

Aang shrugs. “Ah, you know me. I don’t really care what we eat.”

“Really?” Katara asks disbelievingly. “This from the vegetarian who tried to convince Sokka to participate in meatless Mondays.”

Aang laughs. “It was worth a shot.” He picks up a mango. “Besides, it worked on you.”

“Hey, I’m meatless everyday now because of you, and you better not forget it,” Katara says, poking a finger to his chest. 

Aang looks down at her hand, those goofy sunglasses still hiding his eyes, and then grins widely at her. “I won’t,” he says sincerely. 

“Good.” Katara swipes the mango from his hand and grabs one more before taking off again toward the frozen food aisle. 

They drive back to the house in no rush, the ice and the mangoes safely stowed in the backseat. They don’t talk but they don’t need to, the sound of the radio tangling with the air rushing by outside and through the windows. Katara smiles contentedly as she sits next to Aang, occasionally sneaking glances at him, at the veins of his forearm as he keeps his hand on the wheel, and at the angle of his jaw. Before they reach the house, she silently leans toward him and reaches for the back of his neck. His chin tilts up as her touch startles him, and he looks at her quickly out of the corner of his eye, but she feels him relax beneath her hand as soon she tucks the tag back into the collar of his shirt. Her fingertips brush lightly against the back of his neck before she brings her hand back to her lap, and she spies a small smile on his face as they pull back into the driveway of the home.

They’re both quiet, feeling content and a little contemplative, as they walk back through the house. 

“You made it!” Suki cries a little too loudly, standing next to Zuko at the outdoor bar on the right side of the pool patio. Her arms rise above her head, and she reveals a tall glass in her hand that’s now only a quarter full.

“So this is what you’ve been up to while we were gone?” Katara asks in an amused tone. 

“Not all of us,” Zuko says, exchanging a look with her. 

“Yeah, some of us were waiting for ice,” Toph chirps, abandoning Sokka at the pool’s edge to walk up to Zuko. “You promised me a frozen marg, Sparky, let’s go.”

Aang laughs and brings the ice over to Zuko, while Katara balances the mangoes on the countertop. 

Zuko pulls out a blender. “Do you want one, too?” he asks the pair. 

“I will have another,” Suki declares.

“You’ve been cut off,” he replies, only half-serious. He notices Katara eyeing the water again. “As you can see, I do have experience in poolside service,” he says, pointing out Sokka floating idly in the pool, an empty glass near the stone’s edge.

Katara smiles and touches his arm, kissing him quickly on the cheek. “You’re the best,” she says before tossing her clothes off again and jumping once more into the water.

“Katara!” they hear Sokka shriek.

Aang laughs and turns back to Zuko. “Need any help?” he asks enthusiastically.

“Not now that we have the ice,” Zuko replies. He looks at Aang curiously, but before he can say anything, Sokka stops splashing Katara to greet Aang.

“Hey, Aang! Nice glasses.”

Aang’s forgotten he’s wearing them; he blushes once his hand comes up to touch them. “They’re Katara’s,” he explains.

“Cute,” Suki comments before sucking once more on her straw.

Zuko chuckles. “Makes sense.”

Sokka rolls his eyes, and Katara splashes him in the face.

“Aang, are you coming?” she calls. 

“Yeah, just a second!” he calls back. 

He turns back to Zuko and misses the sight of Sokka picking Katara up and throwing her into the deep end.

“Go hang out with her,” Zuko says quietly to Aang, a light smile on his face. 

“Yeah,” Toph says, significantly louder, “go with Katara. And Zuko,” she says, slamming her hands on the countertop, “what is going on? I hear no blending.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aang says, taking the sunglasses off and folding them carefully next to the mangoes.

“I may be blind, Twinkletoes, but I’m not an idiot,” Toph says, crossing her arms. 

“Toph sees things,” Suki says seriously from her perch on the bar counter. Her eyes widen as she faces the group. “Below-the-surface things.” 

“Thanks, Suki.” Toph grins mischievously.

Aang laughs good-naturedly. “You guys are crazy.” 

Zuko watches as the younger man throws off his shirt and walks toward the pool, only to stop dead at the edge. Katara emerges from below the water’s surface, smoothing her hair back into a thick curtain of waves falling behind her. The soft evening light creates shadows across her form that only soften her curves and make her skin look even smoother. She looks almost ethereal, like one of the benevolent spirits of the sea.

She notices Aang and looks up at him eagerly. “Are you coming in?”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” he replies, shaking himself out of his reverie and finally slipping into the water next to her. 

She grins in delight and holds his hand under the water. “I’ll race you to the bottom,” she challenges him. 

“You’re on,” Aang laughs, and the two disappear into the deep end.

Sokka turns around from retrieving his glass to find himself alone. “Where did they go?” he asks the trio at the bar. 

They ignore him. 

“Twinkletoes just did it again, didn’t he?” Toph snickers.

“Yep,” Zuko says, and he switches on the blender.

[daisylincs]

AO3 Stats

Thanks for the tags, @loved-the-stars-too-fondly, @justanalto, @aleksandrachaev, @eowima and @everythingirl44! Oh hey look, a list of some of my very favourite people, and authors!! ily, guys, and thanks for thinking of me 😍😍💜

I officially joined AO3 and posted my first fic on the 22nd of May 2020, and have been too actively posting since then, coming in with a total of 47 works this year, in two fandoms. (Holy shit 🤣🤣😱) And the results of said "holy shit," apparently, we shall see below!

What are your five most popular works of all time? (starting with the most kudos)

time can break your heart, have you begging please with 132 kudos, 1133 hits (Agents of SHIELD, post-7x10 Dousy hurt/comfort)

my, my, just how much I missed you with 131 kudos, 1171 hits (Spider-Man: Tom Holland Movies, ten years post-Far From Home Peter and MJ meeting again in an airport)

square with 107 kudos, 959 hits (Agents of SHIELD, post-finale Dousy fluff)

mountains and valleys, and all that will come in between with 106 kudos, 1006 hits (Spider-Man: Tom Holland Movies, Spideychelle roadtrip and bed-sharing AU)

blue with 95 kudos, 849 hits (Agents of SHIELD, Daisy character study focusing on the colour blue)

What are your five least popular works? (starting with the least kudos)

peace with 9 kudos, 40 hits (Agents of SHIELD, Staticquake relationship study)

all I want for Christmas (is you) with 9 kudos, 52 hits (Agents of SHIELD, Dekesy Christmas Musical AU)

i just wanna be with you with 9 kudos, 70 hits (Agents of SHIELD, Staticquake Modern Royalty AU)

we wish you with 12 kudos, 58 hits (Agents of SHIELD, Staticquake & Fitzsimmons New Year fluff)

all the comforts of home with 12 kudos, 79 hits (Agents of SHIELD, post-canon Mackelena domestic fluff)

Are you surprised about any of these lists?

I'm always surprised by time can break your heart's popularity, lmao, because for a long time, I even completely forgot I wrote it 🤣🤣🙈 And it was cobbled together in like one hour on my daily train ride, too!! I was convinced it was crap at the time, but... apparently not, lol! Also, I suppose it's Dousy, which was SUPER popular mid-season 7. And as for the rest of my most popular things, well... I'm just flattered :D

Regarding the less popular stuff, well, I've only written oneshots, and often for rarer pairings, too, so I was never expecting HUGE amounts of kudos. Staticquake, Mackelena and Dekesy, for example, while I like all three of those ships very much, they're not the huuuuge ones in the fandom, so, RIP. 🥺 I adore and appreciate all my regular readers much more than words can say, though 🥰💜💜

Optional, if you want to calculate it (remember that ao3 will count all the words in a multichap towards the year it is completed, regardless of how much was actually posted that year): How many words did you publish in 2020?

Wellll, in my case, AO3 absolutely cannot lie to me, since the one and only year I have actually posted fic in was our friend 2020. So my total wordcount for this crazy year: 204317. *pause to almost drop phone* I'm sorry but HOLY SHIT, I what???? Unbloodybelievable 😱😱😱 in a good way, though!

What’s a favorite fic you published this year?

arghhhhhsgkldjgksaskldjfks I agree with Kat, asking me to choose one favourite fic is like asking me to pick my favourite child! But in the end, I think I'll have to call a tie between ever after, which is the single fic that I'm proudest of, and a VERY emotional post-finale Daisy character study; and you could call me babe for the weekend, which was a gargantuan labour of love in the form of a 19k Spideychelle fake dating AU.

How do you feel like you’ve improved as a writer this year?

Well, since this is my first year of actually writing fic, there's not much I can say here... I have become a lot more confident with what I put out there as compared to when I posted my first fics, though, so that's a good thing! :D

What is something new you did writing-wise in the past year? (new fandom, pairing, setting, genre, collab, etc)

Lolll, well, technically, everything?? I'm seriously someone who thought I'd NEVER write anything creatively again after passing my English A Level, so just the fact that I posted any fic is new to me.

A little more seriously, though, I'd say... polyships? They're something I wasn't against, per se, but would also never read or write personally. Until I met @bobbimorseisbisexual and their writing, though!! My entire stance has changed thanks to Al, and I now greatly enjoy both reading and writing polyship content.

In that vein, I like to think I've become a lot more accepting with what I'll read and write, ship-wise? I used to only write a very narrow few ships that I enjoy, and not broaden out at all - but through the course of this year, as I met more and more incredible writers and friends, with an equally incredible spectrum of likes, I gradually started reading for more and more ships, including some I'd never think of myself. Now, I'm proud to say that you can persuade me to read almost anything if it's well-written and the story shows me a way for the characters to fit together (with the exceptions being abusive/non-consensual, pedophilic or otherwise morally wrong things, but that, I do believe, is just general decency.) The same goes for me and writing, nowadays - if you ask nicely enough, I'll do pretty much anything. And honestly, I'm proud of me for that.

What is something writing-related you would like to try in the future? (check back at the end of the year and see if you did it!)

Oh, gosh, I'd LOVE to do a collab someday! I think it's SUCH a cool and unique challenge to write something with someone else, and I'd very much like to try it out one day. My wife has promised me we can try one someday, though with both our jobs, no idea when it'll ever actually happen... it's definitely on the wishlist, though!!

But it's not necessarily just with Kat, I'd be thrilled to do a collab with pretty much anyone, from any of my fandoms. Ahhh, I just think it's such an awesome goal, and it's definitely one of mine for 2021!

Today’s date, so you can see how your results might change if you do this again in a year.

3 January, 2020

I have been the laziest ass this weekend which is why I'm only getting to this challenge now instead of on the 1st someone please drag me away from my Netflix but doing this was actually super fun, and cool! And insane. Yup. So insane!!! Anyway, to join me in the fun-and-cool (but hopefully not insane, lolll) I tag @ohwriteiforgot, @apathbacktoyou, @springmagpies, @nazezdha321, @maybebrilliant, @the-9muses, @fitzsimmonkeys, @besidemethewholedamntime, @libbyweasley, @infinitestarsintheskye and @bobbimorseisbisexual! 🥰💜

[rattlingbrainbox]

More John and Arthur modern au brotherly stuff.

I think a lot about John and Arthur and their dynamics as brothers.

And I like to imagine a modern timeline where Hosea adopted Arthur, and shortly after Hosea gets together with Dutch while Arthur is still kinda young and they raise him together. But then they adopt John later on and Arthur & John become brothers that still have that big age gap.

And Dutch and Hosea run some sort of small business that takes up a lot of their time. And Arthur has a rotating array of minimum wage jobs to help with bills, and takes classes sporadically at the local community college (at Hosea’s behest mostly, but he likes his art classes). But that leaves John as a kind of latch-key kid that has to fend for himself a lot of times, and so Arthur does his best to look out for him.

Anyway...

This is all a big preamble to the fact that I wrote a short little blurb about this modern timeline and I wanted to share it with y'all. Lol

Disclaimer, I am by NO MEANS a writer of any sort. But this was a funny little idea that I kept kicking around in my mind. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as I did.

Spare Change

Arthur pulled his truck up to the front of the house and let out a long sigh. He slid out of the driver’s seat and walked around to the passenger side to grab his delivery bag, slamming the door a little harder than he intended. 

“Here we go” he muttered under his breath, turning to walk up the driveway. 

The front door of the house swung wide open before he had a chance to knock.

“What? I was hungry.” John said, already anticipating the sharp glare his older brother was wearing. He was standing in the doorway looking up at Arthur with his arms crossed defiantly. 

“Yeah, I'm sure you were.” Arthur grumbled, “Alright c’mon. Pay up, I got real orders to get to.”

There was an expectant silence. They stared at each other for a long moment before John cleared his throat.

“...they didn't leave me any cash.”

“Are you shittin' me, John!?” Arthur snarled in disbelief, pressing his palm to his forehead in exasperation. If only it had been the first time the kid had tried to pull this stunt. At least then he might've felt a little bit bad about it. 

“C'mon, Arthur! I'll pay you back.” John pleaded.

"You better believe you will" Arthur threatened, "And I mean you, not them" he said gesturing toward the house, implying fathers who weren't home. 

He muttered to himself again as he used his free hand to remove his wallet from his back pocket. He looked inside for a few moments, mentally counting, and then put it back. 

"You're lucky I have cash...What the hell did I teach you to make omelettes for, huh? Ordering a damn pizza with no money. From my damn job no less...”  

“I didn’t want an omelette! I ate like six omelettes this week!” John protested. 

Arthur scoffed and relinquished his grip on the pizza box with palpable dissatisfaction. John ripped the box from Arthur's hands with victorious glee, instantly abandoning his appeals for sympathy. 

"This is the last time, John, I swear. I ain’t payin’ for it next time.”

"Okay, okay...Thanks! Don’t forget to give yourself a tip!”  the younger boy teased, clumsily attempting to shut the door before his older brother could retaliate.

“Ha! Uh huh. Little shit” Arthur shook his head, almost turning to leave when he saw the dim electronic glow emanating from the living room. 

“Hey!” 

Arthur caught the door with his hand, prying it back open before John could close it completely. 

“I can see that tv on, John. Do your homework. You can’t get another F, you hear me? I can’t drive you anymore if you change schools again.”

“Yeah I know. Thanks third dad” John said, rolling his eyes. 

“Alright, get in the damn house. You’re lucky I drive you at all.” Arthur retorted, shooting his younger brother a particularly venomous glare. He paused, his expression softening just a touch, and then added, “I’ll be back in two hours.”

“Ok bye. You got real orders to get to!” John replied impatiently, balancing the pizza box in one hand. 

The door slammed shut the minute Arthur released it from his grip. He could hear the lock click into place instantaneous, followed by the volume on the tv blaring back up.

"The nerve of this kid" he mused to himself, heading back to his truck.