#fic series in question is thirty-five ways he said ‘i love you.’ on ao3 by an orphan account

[akechi-if-he-slayed]

im reading persona yaoi in ap lang oh im Kms..

[exasperatedcrowleystan]

The mistletoe conspiracy

Pairing: Crowely x reader, Dean x Castiel

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo​

Warnings: none, but there a couple of curse words.

Summary:  you and Sam have placed a bet on Dean and Castiel, and set the limits for it. You can't push them, but the mistletoe tradition gives you an opening. When Crowley decides to help, for the sake of creating mayhem, the rules are bent.

A/N: you can find this fic on AO3, here. The whole series can be found here. It’s a series, so you can read each one individually, but they are written to work better together!

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You and Sam are discussing in one of the library nooks, keeping your voices low to avoid unwanted attention. When you realize that, subconsciously, Sam is signing the words, you tease him a bit, smiling.

“You picked up new habits, uh?”

He looks confused for a moment, then he realizes that his hands are still signing something. He grins, definitely at ease. “Yeah... good ones, from time to time.”

“Yeah... anyway, creating the right circumstances cannot be seen as disqualifying.”

“You can't shove them together and tell me that it's not a manipulation!”

“You don't think you can conspire without your favourite demon, right?” Crowley's voice behind you makes you both spring and turn to him. “Guess I should have made myself heard.”

“Yeah, you should have” Sam deadpans, making Crowley grin.

“What were you discussing with such secrecy, then? I thought that with the new world order you finally realized the benefits of telling things. Are you feeling nostalgic already?”

Before Sam snaps, you explain to Crowley what's going on. If you didn't, he'd just keep tormenting you until he gets an answer, spoiling the whole thing.

“We have a few bets going on in the bunker, about Cas and Dean. Sam insists that if I should weaponize the mistletoe to encourage them, it would be unacceptable. Clearly, he's just scared to lose fifty bucks.”

Crowley thinks about it for a moment. “I want in.”

“It's not a pool, Crowley. And I wouldn't take money from you in any case.” Sam spits out, a sour look on his face.

“Come on Sam... what's the harm in letting him in?”

“Why is he still here again?” Sam asks you, definitely annoyed.

“Because I asked him.”

A moment of silence and bedazzlement falls on the three of you. Since you arrived, Crowley just stayed around you, coming and going, but mostly sticking by your side. The most you did was not protesting about this. Admitting you actually want him there... that's not something Sam or Crowley were prepared to hear. Surely you were not prepared to say it.

Sam manages to untie his tongue first, and gives you a knowing look. “Of course you did. Fine... mistletoe allowed, then, but no pushing, ok?”

“Yeah, got it.”

“Eileen and I are going out for a milk run and then dinner. We're picking up the last things for Christmas dinner and a few more bottles. We'll be back later tonight. If you think of anything while we're gone, just send me a text, ok?”

You nod and try to focus and understand Sam's words, but the feeling of Crowley's stare on you is hard to ignore. When Sam leaves you two alone, you finally look at Crowley. He's studying you, apparently.

“What?” you snap, unable to stand the tension or his silence. He knows how to make you uncomfortable, and he enjoys it immensely, or so you think. The truth is a bit more shaded than that.

“Nothing. I just don't recall you asking me to stay.”

“Well... I called you, didn't I?”

“Yes, but...”

“And I asked you to... come pick up chestnuts with us, and you helped with the decorations, right?”

“Correct.”

“So... that settles it, I guess.”

He nods, biting lightly the inside of his cheek. You noticed he does that when he's thinking about something, and you'd die to know what's now going on in his mind. Instead, you look at the high ceiling of the bunker. You're going to use the doors for your plan, that's for sure.

While you walk away, Crowley follows you, once again, without even having to ask for it. He still looks like he's plotting something, and your curiosity can only be kept at bay for so long.

“What are you planning?”

“You know... there might be an easier way to convince Dean and Castiel to act on their ridiculous mutual pining and free us all from this tired show.”

“Of course you just happen to have a plan lying around.”

“You know me. Now... do you want to hear it, or the less you know about it the better?”

“What do you want in exchange?”

“Can we consider this your Christmas present?”

“Hell, no!” you laugh it off. You surely are not expecting the former king of Hell to give you anything, and in any case you wouldn't waste your present on something that's just a matter of time before it happens.

“... half of the revenue of your bet, then?”

“Half of my... what do you plan to do with twenty-five dollars?”

Crowley surprises you brushing the tip of his fingers on your cheek, closing in on you. “Do we have a deal?”

Without even talking, you nod at him. He leans closer to you, his grin impossible to ignore. You instinctively move closer to him, inhaling his scent and trying not to gulp, but he draws back.

“Good. I'll see you later, love.”

“What? I thought you'd help me!”

“I will, I keep my word. Do your thing, I'll do mine. Oh, and... tell the kid. I'm sure he'd like to be involved.”

You don't even have time to protest that Crowley is gone, leaving you alone. You take a deep breath, trying not to overheat and be irritated. You just openly told half of the Winchester family that you are the reason why their once nemesis is casually spending the holidays with you, and said nemesis just decided to bail. “Fucking typical.” Is all you mutter through you teeth before heading to Jack's room.

About two hours later, you and Jack are done. You skipped dinner, but during the holidays it's not really possible to stop eating, so neither of you is hungry. Jack has been touching the mistletoe and working a bit of his mojo on the twigs to keep them fresh. He then hanged them around with his powers, following your precise instructions.

Dean has kept to the Dean cave for the whole time, while Castiel is in the library, reading and just showing up from time to time to cast a curious glance or an amused smile at Jack, who seems absolutely ecstatic about this new discovery.

What you don't realize, is that Jack is indeed a kid, but he's also much more acquainted with feelings than what you think. He's not part of any of the bets placed in the bunker, which might as well find a new life as a gambling den, but he's been looking closely at all of you. And he brought Crowley back for a very specific reason.

“So... do you think it's going to work?”

You wink at him, confident. “Sure. We basically plastered the doors with mistletoe. They are bound to find themselves under these together, especially if you think about Cas' idea of personal space.”

“Oh. So... what shall we do now? Just... sit here and wait?”

“Well... Crowley has a plan for this, too. I think it's fair to assume that tonight we're going...”

“SON OF A BITCH!” Dean's voice echoes through the bunker, interrupting you. By now you've learned to read the interjection like any other of his phrases, and he doesn't sound on high alert, just very exasperated. Jack looks at you, quickly catching on.

“Crowley's plan?”

“You heard how pissed he is? Of course it's Crowley.”

Not even thirty seconds later, Crowley stumbles in the war room from the corridor, walking backwards to not turn his back to a furious Dean. The same Dean who has what looks like a halo of mistletoe floating about a foot above his head.

“Crowley, if you don't take this thing off I'm ganking you, I swear to God.”

“God is dead, Squirrel, and your ex girlfriend is hands off, remember?”

Dean lunges at Crowley, who simply moves aside, avoiding the assault. “You know, it really goes well with your eyes.”

“Alright, listen here you son of a bitch. Now you're gonna take this off, or I'm ripping your head off.”

“Now, Squirrel. That's not really in holly jolly spirit, is it?”

Despite your best attempts, both you and Jack cannot stifle a laughter. The look of Dean, going around with a gracious little mistletoe crown gracefully hovering above his head while he tries to catch Crowley is simply too amusing to stay serious. Unfortunately, judging by Dean's stare, he's not enjoying the whole situation as much as you do.

“Y/N, this is entirely your fault for bringing him here.”

You openly laugh at him. “I don't know, Dean. I think it gives you the right touch of holiday spirit.”

“Take this thing off or so help me!”

When Castiel joins you in the war room, he tilts his head on a side for a moment, looking at the scene in front of him. Crowley is now standing next to you and Jack, while Dean is glaring murderously at you all.

“What's going on?”

“That damn bastard stuck this stupid thing on my head and it won't come off!”

“I see. How?” Castiel asks Crowley, who just smirks.

“It does come off, actually. You just need to respect tradition. It's magic, so I wouldn't waste grace on it.”

“What?” Dean seems shocked at the idea, and looks at you, awkward and angry. “Well, after all you brought him here...”

“I wouldn't do that, Squirrel.” Crowley's tone is controlled, but extremely threatening. You shoot him a questioning glance, but he keeps staring at Dean, who grabs the twigs and tries to pull them away again, with no success.

“Crowley, I swear.”

Castiel sighs and looks at Dean. A surreal silence falls on all of you, while you all try to anticipate what's going to happen and simultaneously look away. Well, except Crowley, of course.

“Come on, Feathers. Your protégée is under the spell of an evil demon. Your action is needed.”

If looks could kill, Crowley would probably be reduced to a smoking pile of ash on the floor by Castiel and Dean. With a sigh, Castiel moves closer to Dean and puts his hand on the unwanted ornament over his head.

“He's right. This is magic.”

“Yeah, Cas, we established that already.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

“Well...” Dean hesitates. He'd rather die than do this in front of Crowley, but all in all... it's not going to be that big of a deal. And if things go as he plans for them to go, it won't be the only time he's going to have to. Not judging by how close to you he's standing now, at least.

“What is it, Dean?” Cas asks, and Dean is left speechless once again. Finally, the urge of not wasting another chance outweighs everything else: the expectations, the fears, the doubts and the shadows creeping in the darkest corners of his brain. The only thing that matters now is that Cas is there for him, once again, and he is not going to waste another chance like he did with all the other.

He leans in, moving closer to Cas, who just stays still, the faintest hint of an understanding smile pursing his lips.

Their first kiss is barely a kiss, the lightest brushing of lips against lips, eyes fluttering close for a moment, and then a quick, awkward drawback. Dean is so up in his thoughts that he jumps when he feels something falling on top of his head. Smiling, Castiel takes the twigs in his hand and walks to Crowley.

“Next time you want to practice magic, I suggest you involve a willing participant.”

“That didn't go too bad, didn't it?” he remarks with a very satisfied grin on his lips.

Knowing that Dean won't stay quiet and awkward for much longer, you wisely opt for getting away from there. You also know, by Castiel's look, that they could use some privacy. You nudge Crowley and Jack and hint at the end of the library with your head. You quickly walk away and give the two the space they need.

Once Jack happily sinks in an armchair, you head for one of the cabinets and fish one of the good bottles and two glasses, offering one to Crowley. He steps close to you, and carefully takes in the sight of you. He looks at your hands holding the glasses, moving them on the small space, the focused stare on the neck of the bottle when you try not to spill even the little drop that sticks to the glass. He loves the care that you put in every small gesture, and when you offer him his glass his fingers graze yours lightly while he takes it.

“Thanks, kitten. To what shall we toast?”

“To another one of your brilliant plans, I'd say.”

“And to you winning a bet.”

You smile and click your glass against his one. “Cheers to that!”

You smile, happy to see Dean and Castiel finally acting on their feelings. It was long due, and the idea of Crowley, despite being really simple, was exactly what was needed.

You are so focused on finishing your scotch that you don't notice Jack walking away, leaving you two alone.

Meanwhile, Crowley is staring at you, completely absorbed in his thoughts. He could spend hours studying the way your eyes twinkle reflecting the lights of the hall. He could write pages filled with love and lust about the way your lips curl in a barely-there smile. He'd pass his time grazing your neck with the tip of his fingers, just to kiss the goosebumps away from your body.

You feel the weight of his stare on you, and turn to look at him with a curiosity so innocent that he can't hold back a smile.

“What is it, Crowley?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were... looking at me. I thought you wanted to tell me something.”

He shrugs, taking your empty glass from your hands and setting it down next to his one. “I appreciate beauty. Is it so strange?”

“And you look at me?”

His smile doesn't dim while he answers you. “Where else?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me?”

You laugh, awkward. He always finds a way to keep you on your toes, and he surely has no will to be subtle about it... but that's him. That's the demon you grew to care for, definitely too much.

You missed him more than you'd ever thought possible to miss anyone when he was gone, and when he was brought back... you were happy. So happy that you didn't care about Dean or Sam staring at you, and just went to hug him. If they noticed how emotional you were, they were graceful enough not to mention it. You almost lost it when Crowley hugged you back.

Just when you are finally about to take a step back, something brushes the top of your head. You curiously look up, just to see a small branch of mistletoe floating midair.

“Crowley?”

“Not my doing, kitten. Maybe someone is expecting you... us to follow tradition.”

“I...”

Your stare falls on Crowley's lips, only to find them curved in the softest smile he's ever given you. You nod, not trusting your voice enough to speak. He places a hand on your cheek, brushing your cheekbone with his thumb. You study his dark green eyes, taking in the imperceptible streaks of blue almost hidden in the dim lights.

He moves as close as possible to you, stopping just a second before touching your lips. “God, you're beautiful.”

You close the distance between you and smile against his lips. You smile for everything: his words, his hand on your cheek, the warmth of his soft lips.

He kisses you gently, without hesitation or rush, savoring the moment and your taste on him.

His hand rests on your skin, while you open your mouth and deepen the kiss. His tongue touching yours sends a pleasant shiver down your spine and you inhale sharply. You can feel his signature smirk making an appearance while his hand slides on the nape of your neck and buries through tour hair, pulling you as close as possible.

When you finally break the kiss, you rest your forehead against his one, grinning. “How's that for tradition?”

“I'm sure we can do better than that.”

“You know... I've heard the naughty list is incredibly funnier than the nice one.”

“I'd be a lousy demon if I couldn't move you there.”

You giggle and peck his lips, taking his hand and heading to your room.

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Thank you for reading my work! If you enjoy it, I hope you’ll leave a like, a comment, or reblog it (I really need reblogs with the problems I’m having with the site).

Please, DO NOT REPOST MY WORK OR PART/S OF IT, even if you give credits. Thank you for your support!

[keelywolfe]

FIC: The Elephant in the Room ch.1 (baon)

Summary: Jeff has started working at the Embassy. He's got a new job, a new car, and a new place to live. Now if only the rest of his life could fall into order, that'd be great. Any time now...any time at all...

Tags: Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationships, Prejudice Against Monsters, Angst,  Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Past Suicidal Thoughts,  Mental Health Issues, Friendship

Notes: Don’t skip the tags, okay? Not wanting to trigger anyone. 

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

If someone on the street had told Jeff a year ago that not only would he be working at the Monster Embassy, but he’d be living in New New Home with a Monster as a roommate and helping out his best friend (who was also a Monster and only called him Andy) on the weekends with weird experiments to entertain the local kids, well. Truthfully, if anyone had tried to tell him that fortune on the corner of Euclid Avenue, Jeff probably would have walked a little faster and hopped on the next bus.

Weird to think it was only a little over year ago. Not that they’d gone out for an anniversary dinner or anything. That would’ve been weird, yeesh, opening up some champagne to celebrate their ‘didn’t let someone kill you’ moment. Come to think of it, it was probably a good thing no one brought it up because that seemed like exactly the kind of thing Stretch would celebrate, complete with paper hats and balloons. Maybe next year they could celebrate getting arrested together, instead.

For today though, Jeff was on a mission.

He’d spent the morning at the Embassy with Cathryn, one of his co-workers in Public Relations, a short, plump Monster who distinctly resembled a cat. So far, everyone was very nice, and if Cathryn was a little giggly and a lot gossipy, she was also very good at her job. A knack for information gathering was not necessarily a bad thing in this department.

This afternoon he was supposed to be heading to ‘Classic Books’ to wrap up everything with Thomas. He’d already be on his way except Stretch was supposed to be coming with him and he was currently late. Not that it was his fault; Stretch had suggested they meet in the middle at the Beanery instead of Jeff driving all the way back to New New Home and it looked like the bus was running behind.

Not that Jeff would have minded making the drive. His new little car ran like a dream and if he still felt a little guilty having it, he soothed it with the knowledge that he was going to work his ass off at the Embassy to make up for it. It’d been a long time since he’d driven much and he’d never owned a car of his own. But there was something freeing about having a car; no waiting for buses that only went to certain areas and left him to walk through the heat or the cold, slushy mornings.

Or ran late.

He could go out whatever the time was without worrying about making the last bus, down the roads of Ebott and to the Embassy. Which, okay, was pretty much as far as he’d driven so far, today would be his first trip downtown and he was impatient to get on it.

Eh, it was all right, though. He was pretty sure it was less the time saving and more the coffee behind Stretch’s suggestion. There were already two cups sitting in the drink holders, still too hot to drink, but that was fine. This time, he was the one who got to buy the coffee and Stretch wasn’t here to stop him. That was how friendship was supposed to be, give and take, fighting over the check and actually being able to pay it. This time, Jeff was playing to win, and Stretch was going to have to deal.

Thinking of which, the bus pulled up just then, and people streamed off, Humans and Monsters alike headed for the Beanery. Stretch was about a head above everyone else, clambering down the stairs on the bus, almost tripping as he tried to pull out his headphones at the same time. From the sidewalk, he looked around briefly, brightening as he caught sight of Jeff. He waved across the parking lot and then he was suddenly there, right next to the car and hopping into the passenger side. Jeff had seen that trick about a hundred times now and it was still startling. He wondered what other Humans thought when they saw it, wondered if the PR department worried over it.

“hey, handy andy!” Stretch said cheerily, sliding into the seat. He only made it about halfway, grimaced immediately and reaching down for the lever to push the seat back as far as it could go. It was enough for him to settle his legs so they weren’t crammed into the dashboard, even if it almost put him in the backseat.

“Sorry,” Jeff chuckled, “no one else has ridden with me yet.” The seat probably wouldn’t get moved too much again, come to think of it, almost everyone Jeff knew was well over six feet tall. Then again, Blue, Sans, and Red would all be lying if they tried to claim they topped the ruler at five feet, so depending on who needed a ride, it might get quite a workout.

“it’s all good,” Stretch said dismissively. His eye lights landed on the coffee cups and lit up, “ooh, sacrificial beverages, whatcha get me?”

Jeff tapped one of the cups with a finger, “Pumpkin spice latte with an extra shot and sprinkles. I know that’s not quite up to your usual standards, but I didn't want to chance being creative. Only took Debbie like thirty seconds to make.”

“of course it did,” Stretch scoffed, “she’s a professional.” He snatched up the cup greedily and took a deep swallow, heedlessly of the steam still pouring out of the little drinking hole. Honestly, being able to eat or drink something no matter how hot was a damned handy trick, a seriously underestimated superpower. Jeff had already burned his tongue on his first sip.

He left Stretch to savor his rich caffeination and started the car. But before he pulled away, he glanced automatically to make sure Stretch had his seat belt on. Edge was infecting him with his protectiveness, and he trusted Stretch, but he’d promised. From the way Stretch rolled his eye lights, he caught the look, but he didn’t say anything, only moved his arms pointedly so Jeff could see the strap across his chest.

Good enough.

The noontime traffic wasn’t too bad and Jeff guided them through it carefully, not quite confident enough in his driving skills to relax completely, especially with a passenger. Not that Stretch seemed very worried, he only chatted about his week between sips of coffee, and Jeff couldn’t help laughing as he heard about Edge’s chicken rescue mission.

“…i mean, seriously, a chicken and about six kids, all following behind him like some kind of demented conga line,” Stretch laughed. “edge in the lead and you know i love him, but he always looks so serious, i swear, sometimes i think he’s afraid he’ll give himself another crack if he smiles in public. so there he is, leading them straight-faced as an accountant and nugget is on his heels like a lovesick idiot. me, i have to bribe them with food to get them to come with me anywhere and they’d follow edge into a kfc.”

Jeff laughed too, imagining Edge solemnly leading a chicken along the street. “Wish I could’ve seen that.”

“yeah, i never have my damn phone on me when he decides to get up to the chucklefucks. pretty sure it’s a conspiracy.” He took a long sip of his coffee and Jeff took advantage of the pause to ask a question of his own.

“How did your visit with Alphys go?” He’d already known about it from Blue, but to his surprise, so did Cathryn. Gossip about Stretch was prime material for the Public Relations department, which was a little unnerving until Catty pointed out that whether he liked it or not, Stretch was an unofficial symbol of Monsterkind. His Twitter following was massive as was his Instagram, and he’d been in the news several times now over attacks on Monsters. If his health problems ever went public, it would be plastered across the internet. The P.R. department needed to be ready if that ever happened to handle any fallout.

Knowing that made Jeff a little uncomfortable and that was a conversation he wanted to have with Edge. He wasn’t about to allow his friendship with Stretch to be used in any capacity and he wanted that to be clear from the start.

Stretch scowled at the question, hunching down in his seat. “fine.” That was a pretty firm hint that he didn’t want to talk about it, but to Jeff’s surprise, he went on with an impressive amount of disgust, “she thinks i should quit smoking.”

“Really? Why?" Jeff had always been under the assumption that cigarettes didn’t really have much of an effect on skeleton Monsters, unless—he involuntarily glanced at Stretch’s midsection, hidden beneath his baggy sweatshirt.

Stretch paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, staring at him with narrowed sockets, then burst out laughing. "holy shit, no! you knucklehead, i'm not pregnant!"

Jeff cringed down over the steering wheel. Well, that was a year’s worth of embarrassment all dumped out at once. “Fuck, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have even thought that.”

"it's okay," Stretch was still snickering. "i get it, it's a little confusing for humans. not all monsters have kiddos in what you guys would consider a traditional way. just for reference though, nope, can't get pregnant, my anatomy don't work that way. neither does edge’s fyi, so you can skip picturing him in a maternity getup. can’t wait to tell him you think he’s enough of a stud to knock me up.” He grimaced then, a shadow eclipsing his humor. “actually, never mind that. let’s keep it between us.”

“Okay.” Every time Jeff got answers from Stretch, he ended up with a basketful of more questions. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“more personal than checking if i’m preggers?” Stretch grinned, “i’ve never stopped you before.”

“Why don’t you work at the Embassy?” Stretch blinked slowly, his good humor visibly fading, and Jeff hastily added, “I mean, everyone else in your family does, even Red. I only wondered, it’s not a big deal if you—"

“eh, not really my thing,” Stretch said carelessly. He shifted to look out the window, his fingers absently peeling away the cardboard sleeve around his cup in long ribbons. “they do good stuff but i…” Stretch trailed away and ducked his head, swallowing hard, and that casual façade faltered. For a moment, there was nothing but the radio, playing a soft counterpoint of incongruous pop music as Stretch spoke again, strangled and low, “because when we first got here i was teetering on the edge of suicide. took a while to get past that and once i decided jumping off a bridge wasn’t for me, well. didn’t really feel like starting a nine to five.” Stretch shrugged. “the place i came from wasn’t so great.”

Jeff swallowed hard against the knot of emotion that settle into his throat, the taste in his mouth like metal shavings. He knew Stretch had some issues; he’d told Jeff himself that he had PTSD, but not why. It was probably shitty the way he managed to keep bringing it up, but somehow, he couldn’t feel too bad about it. That Stretch had been honest with him meant something and maybe he wasn’t sure exactly what, but it was about being friends. That much he knew.

Stretch abandoned his mutilated coffee cup in the drink holder and let his hand drop on to his knee, the skinny bones clenched into a fist. Jeff hesitated, wavering, then finally reached over and touched the back of it lightly. Immediately, Stretch turned his hand over, his fingers closing over Jeff’s tightly. They pinched a little, unforgiving bone against his fleshy fingers and Jeff didn’t care, only held on tight as he asked quietly, “You mean under the mountain?”

“that, too,” Stretch agreed. His other knee was bouncing, agitated energy spilling out, and Stretch let out a shaky sigh, his grip forcibly relaxing. “anyway, i still have some issues,” he laughed again, sharper, “issues, back issues, microfiche, i’ve got the works. took a while for me to even be able to go to the embassy if you want to know the truth.”

“Why?”

“the labs. had some bad times in another lab. i’m getting past it, doing all the good chitty-chat with my therapist, but i still don’t want to work in one full time. my own little setup is enough.” His smile was still a little weak. “guess i’m meant to be a homebody. good thing edge doesn’t mind.”

“Why would he?” Jeff teased, lightly, “he’s got the good end of the deal, he gets to come home to you!”

Stretch’s next laugh was more honest. “thanks, andy.”

“No problem,” Jeff said. He had more questions, always more, and what did this have to do with Stretch's issues with cats? Whatever it was, Jeff was letting it go for now. They'd probed deep enough into the back issues of Stretch's mind for the moment. Stretch promised him once that eventually he'd explain everything and Jeff believed him. One of the first things he'd ever learned about Stretch was that he kept his word and if he needed time to do it, Jeff would let him have all he needed.

He let Stretch keep his hand until he was ready to let it go and when he did, instead of shaking away the ache, Jeff picked up his own coffee. It was only lukewarm at this point but that was fine. Pumpkin spice lattes tasted pretty good any which way you drank them.

~~*~~

tbc

[azfellandco]

Hiya! So, please feel free to ignore this, but I just listened to Good Omens for the first time with considerable enjoyment, and I was wondering whether you have/know of any good fic rec lists for the book?

hi and welcome and i’m glad you enjoyed the book!! 

General

Something Ordinary by literature_and_ocean_waves (9k)

Summary: “You kidnapped the Antichrist?!”Aziraphale’s shrill screech echoed harshly throughout the dingy bookshop.

Crowley looked sheepishly at his expensive, snakeskin shoes. “Kidnap is such a strong word,” he said. “I rather like liberate.”

This is following what, if you ask me, is a plot this fandom can never write enough of: what if Crowley had kept baby Adam and he and Aziraphale had tried to raise him together? 

Never Mind the Gravitation by Argyle (2k)

Summary: Sure, there’s life on Mars. But Crowley can hardly call it living.

This is not as angsty as that summary makes it sound. …okay it is a little bit, but in a bittersweet kind of way, and it’s so funny as well. This is one of those fics that has the tone of the book down really well and it takes what I feel is an inherently sad concept (humanity moving off world and the places Aziraphale and Crowley call home changing again) and makes it feel hopeful and optimistic. Also scifi is my real true love so like… of course I love this fic. 

Even Without Looking by maniacalmole (18k)

Summary: Aziraphale gets requested by the heavenly court to prove that romantic love is real, and makes a valiant effort. He’s read about it so many times, in all the most romantic books. How hard could it be?

Everything maniacalmole has written is brilliant, funny, whimsical, and so in character, but this one is my favorite. 

Habitual by goingsparebutwithprecision (4k)

Summary: In which Crowley wears lipstick and Aziraphale is flustered.

The mutability of angelic/demonic gender and sexual presentation is one of my favorite things about these characters and about writing for them, and this fic is one of the first I read that got me really thinking about it. 

Guests On Memory Lane by Holoxam (5k)

Summary: “Whatever you go around telling yourself, angel,” Crowley said over his morning-coffee, “some of us have to work for a living. The girls and I can get into some shenanigans around the shops, you know.”Aziraphale looked up from his Telegraph, and sent Crowley a wary glance. He was torn between asking Crowley if he remembered his fruitless attempts at influencing the presumed antichrist back in the 1980’s, and sternly telling him off for even thinking about attempting to corrupt humans at such a young age.The Dynamic Duo babysit Anathema’s cousins for the weekend.

Crowley and Aziraphale being friends with Anathema? Yes, please. Crowley and Aziraphale taking care of children? Yes, please. 

Teen

Five Times Crowley Wanted Aziraphale by Mitsuhachi (3k)

Summary: Wanting and wanting and wanting, in many ways over many years.

This and it’s sequel, Five Times Aziraphale Wanted Crowley (The One More Night Remix) (rated M, mind the tags) are one of my favorite fics in this fandom. I love historical stuff especially that traces Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship over vast tracks of time and this delivers on that in a huge way. 

here i am, leaving you clues by Lvslie (10k) 

Summary: It’s all the same burning bookshop, and I’m always inside shouting your name. 

[Aziraphale is recalled to Heaven, but leaving proves more difficult than anticipated. Written for the tumblr prompt: ‘Actually….I just miss you.’]

Another one that I just adore. This fic is poetry in all the best ways and I think about the summary line, “it’s always the same burning bookshop”, pretty much every day of my life. There isn’t a plot as such (or if there is I’ve forgotten it because I am mostly just focused on how beautifully written it is) but I highly recommend it anyway. 

Everything Leslie has written for this fandom is like this, actually, beautiful and poetic and sort of dream-like. 

Modern Love by punkfaery (7k) 

(I podficced this last year)

Summary: “The crux of it, Crowley decided, was that demons were not supposed to want.

Or – well, that wasn’t strictly true. Certain things, such as material wealth and the corruption of innocents and the eventual triumph of Hell over Heaven, and possibly Earth as well, were perfectly all right. The fact that he didn’t particularly care about any of these things just served to add a little extra salt to the wound.

It wasn’t a question of wanting. It was a question of wanting the wrong things.”

Crowley, Aziraphale, and a series of religious buildings.

No Pain, No…Loss? by NotASpaceAlien (7k)

Summary: Aziraphale has a horrifying realization and decides he needs to lose weight.

This is so goddamn funny. I love Aziraphale with all my heart but he is very foolish sometimes and this fic… is such a good instance of that. 

There’s No Pancake Too Big For My Heavenly Father To Flip by dwarvenbeardspores (6k)

Summary: After a few exceptionally busy months, the forces of Heaven and Hell attempt to outwit each other in Aziraphale’s kitchen.

That is, Aziraphale makes pancakes and Crowley eats them.

I love cooking, and cooking headcanons, and Aziraphale and Crowley cooking for each other. This fic is delicious. 

Read everything by this author, actually, everything they’ve written is wonderful. 

Mature

Goodbody by copperbadge (3k)

Summary: Aziraphael’s new body is causing some problems.

Again, I love a good exploration of the relationship between angels and demons and their bodies and this fic is so much fun on that count. 

Only Human by abstractconcept (9k)

Summary: Aziraphale loses his job. Humor/romance A/C

Fics exploring the fallout of Aziraphale and Crowley’s disobedience towards their bosses in trying to avert the apocalypse is definitely A Fic Type in this fandom and this one goes the route of “one of them is fired and turned into a human”. It even takes a humorous angle on this and not the obvious angst route. 

Explicit

fires of the flesh, both literal and figurative by mercuryhatter (3k)

Summary: Pretty standard “there’s a sex curse and Crowley has to have way too many orgasms or be discorporated” stuff.

Genderfluidity/trans Crowley!! Discussion of feelings!! Fuck or die!! What’s not to love? I really love this fic. 

No Cause for Alarm Clocks by HJ Bender (archived by the GO_Library_archivist) (2k)

Summary: A short story detailing one of Crowley’s infernal household gadgetries, and why he’ll never have sex in front of it ever again.

This is wild and funny and I have read it about thirty times. 

Figurative Language by alamorn (2k)

Summary: It’s two years after the apocalypse that wasn’t and the only thing that’s changed is Aziraphale’s dick. That is to say, he has one now.

A Classic. I have read this probably thirty times, as well. 

Rarefied Air by Vulgarweed (4k)

Summary: Earth is getting older, news is getting worse, and an angel has to go to extreme heights to get any peace and quiet at all. But as close as you can get to Heaven, you’re still never far from Hell. (Hell hasn’t frozen. Crowley nearly has.) Giftfic for Allthisnonsense in 2006 GO Holiday exchange. 

This is another author who has written a lot of really good stuff but this one is my favorite. 

And here is my ao3 as well, I’ve written a lot of GO fic in the last year. Here are some of the ones I’m most proud of. 

Where a Heart Would Fit Perfectly (Teen, 2k)

Summary: Aziraphale shrugged and gestured for Crowley to sit down, “I’ve come back from the battlefield; no need for all that muscle anymore.”

“You’ve gone a bit in the other direction, though, haven’t you?” Crowley said conversationally as he took a seat and flagged someone down for a drink. “You’re a bit… pudgy.”

In 600 BCE Assyria, two man-shaped beings meet up after a long absence.

Nothing Like The Sun (Teen, 6k)

Summary: One tended to go through a number bodies in six thousand years, even if one was as cautious or sturdy as Aziraphale. Crowley, who was neither cautious nor sturdy, had gone through a large number. He’d changed appearance so many times that in Aziraphale’s memory he was often just his eyes, for no matter if Crowley was tall or short, lithe or stocky, blond or raven-haired, his eyes stayed the same.

Touch Me Gently (Explicit, 2k)

Summary: Aziraphale had started manicuring his nails.

Yours, Truly (General, 3k)

Summary: A love in selected letters.

Snapshots (General, 2k)

Summary: Five photographs on the wall of Aziraphale’s shop. An expansion of a headcanon I posted on tumblr.

And that’s about what I got! Happy reading, anon. 

[bevioletskies]

bring it on home to me [1/5]

summary: The fight of everyone’s lives may be over, but for Nebula, Peter, and the rest of the Guardians, the search for the person they love most has just begun.

a/n: MAJOR spoiler warning for Avengers: Endgame, though I am a little vague about the events of what happened. Regardless, please don't let me spoil it for you!

Fic title is, of course, from the song Bring It On Home To Me by Sam Cooke.

word count: 2.6k | ao3 | tag

Peter woke to a cold bed, his teeth chattering and his feet numb, and promptly rolled over to blindly pull his tablet off his bedside table - if one could call it that, given that it was an old crate he’d found in a junkyard on Knowhere - and attempt to remotely adjust the Benatar’s temperature controls. To his utter lack of surprise, it didn’t work. He wasn’t sure Rocket’s recent rewiring of the ship was to blame, but he was sure he was going to say so at the next team meeting, anyway.

He stumbled out of bed, got dressed, considered for a total of thirty seconds as to whether he wanted to shave the slow-growing beard he’d been developing with little success over the last few months or so, and then waved it off, making his way out of his tiny little bunk and into the ship’s communal area. There, sat at the console table, was Nebula, her feet propped up on its surface and her inky black eyes fixated on him like she knew he was coming (she probably did).

“You eat yet?” Peter asked, yawning loudly. She recoiled at the sound.

“No,” she said shortly. “Our rations are lacking. We need to make another stop before we unnecessarily starve ourselves to death.”

Peter grinned. “I like that you said ‘our’. Gives me the warm fuzzies.” Nebula glared, her eyes following him all the way around the room as he tapped into the ship’s operating system on the main holoscreen. She didn’t miss the way his face fell the slightest bit, the way he took a sharp inhale to prepare himself for his next line of questioning. “Find anything yesterday?”

“Nothing. The same as the day before that, and the day before that, and the weeks and months before that,” Nebula said. She turned away, suddenly finding it too hard to look at him, to know that every emotion written on his face was on par with every emotion that stirred in her chest. “We know that. You know that.”

He swallowed, his hand hovering over the screen. Subconsciously, or instinctively, really, he’d taken himself to the criminal records that the Nova Corps had written up on them what felt like decades ago. The picture that stared back at him looked familiar but not quite close enough, the detailed write-up that sounded like someone he knew but not the someone he knew now. Or maybe had known.

“Don’t mean we have to accept it,” he finally said, turning to look at her. “I’m done being passive. Passive is gettin’ us nowhere. We don’t have the right to call ourselves the Guardians if all we do is sit around like a bunch of a-holes.”

“Then it’s good that I’m not one,” Nebula retorted. Peter shoved the screen aside and stomped right up to her, face-to-face, slamming his palms down on the table. He almost detected a twitch in her otherwise stone-cold expression, a betrayal that revealed how affected she truly was.

“You’re a Guardian, Nebula, okay?” His voice was dangerously low, the kind of pitch and tone he usually reserved for when he wore his mask, but there was no finger on the trigger of his quad blasters, just the wetness of his eyes and the intensity of his gaze. “No matter what anyone says. Including yourself.”

She stared back, standing up slowly; he followed her inch by inch. “I’m far beyond letting anyone tell me who or what I am. So you take your self-hatred for what you’ve done and what you didn’t do, and keep it to yourself, Quill. When you stop by the nearest planet to pick up supplies, I suggest you drop me off. This is no longer a ride I want to be on.”

The closest planet they came across was like many others they’d been on before - nondescript in every shape and form, lacking distinguishing features or unique characteristics that would make it any more memorable than the last. For Rocket, all he wanted whenever they touched down somewhere new was a junkyard and a bar, preferably within spitting distance of one another so he could walk in sober and stumble out drunk.

Upon returning to their landing site an hour after they’d first arrived, he apparently came back just in time to see Nebula stomp her way down the Benatar’s ramp and out the loading bay, snarling at the nearest attendant who had gingerly approached, wondering if Peter needed any help with the engine. Peter was stood by the nose of the ship, running his fingers through his hair agitatedly, but made no move to follow her. “She’ll be back,” he was saying to a concerned-looking Drax and Mantis by the time Rocket joined them. “Look, Rocket came back and he talks about leavin’ all the time!”

Rocket fixed him with a long, haunted stare. “Don’t even joke about that, Quill.” Peter’s face crumpled. Rocket turned and made his way up the stepladder and directly into the ship’s engine, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. It was hard for anyone to look anyone else in the face these days, but Peter was especially difficult to take, Nebula even more so for how numb she seemed to be.

He poked around aimlessly for a few minutes, trying to find the cause of their latest ship-related issue. If it wasn’t the computer system, it was the pipes, or it was the engine, or it was the fact that the Benatar was a piece of crap when they got it and was still a piece of crap now. Rocket huffed impatiently, nudging the casing with his foot. “C’mon,” he grumbled. “What kinda engineer would I be if I can’t fix the damn engine?” Another swift kick, harder this time, but all it resulted in was a stubbed toe and a bruised ego. It was a testament to how distracted Peter was that he didn’t even bother chastising Rocket for it, instead disappearing back inside the ship with the others in tow.

Another low growl, and Rocket sat back on his haunches defeatedly, pushing his toolbox aside for the time being. He leaned forward, resting his head in his paws, pulling at the bits of fur that seemed to be falling out of his temples in worryingly large patches, the grooves where his claws had dug near-permanent welts into his cheeks. “I am Groot?”

Rocket lifted his head to see Groot approaching him apprehensively, still clutching his beloved handheld Defender in one hand, the other outstretched in Rocket’s direction. “What d’ya think? We shoulda gotten rid of this rustbucket a long time ago.”

“I am Groot,” he protested, climbing up to sit beside him, his legs swinging over the edge of the ship’s hood. “I am Groot.”

“Yeah, well, nothing’s ever gone right for us, why should it start now?” Rocket let out a hysterical laugh. “Out of the last five jobs we had, two were a complete and utter failure, and one shorted us on units. All ‘cos Quill’s too busy dragging us around the galaxy to find her. ‘Cept that wasn’t her. That wasn’t...that wasn’t our Gamora. That was a Gamora. And I dunno if she wants to be ours, or if she can be in the first place. But he’s done it, Groot. He’s gone and lost his mind, and now we’re the ones who gotta pay for it.” The engine sparked pathetically. “More like not get paid for it.”

“I am Groot.” They both fell silent, Groot politely ignoring the loud, shaky breath Rocket took that certainly wasn’t related to the engine issue. Then, Groot began to hum. It sounded a little thin and reedy in his voice - “tree puberty”, as Peter had so delicately once put it, looked and sounded a lot like human puberty - but it was instantly recognizable.

“Don’t - don’t do that, man,” Rocket said half-heartedly. “We haven’t heard that since you were no bigger than a boot.”

“I am Groot,” he shrugged. He still remembered every note, let it linger in his head sometimes when he needed it most; only he remembered it in her voice, heard the joy when she first remembered the lullaby her parents had sung to her as a baby, how she sang it to him when he was fussy or scared or just wanted to keep her by his bedside for a few more minutes. He’d grown out of it eventually, scoffing at everything and everyone around him like a typical stubborn adolescent, but now he longed for it again, even if just for one more time. “I am Groot?”

“Nah, I don’t think she would’ve known how to fix this.” Rocket twisted a series of wires around his finger, nearly slicing through them with his claw in his absentmindedness. He quickly withdrew his paw before it could happen. “Hell, I’d ask Nebula if she wasn’t in such a...Nebula mood.”

He glanced around the hangar where they’d parked, how very average it all seemed - sky-high ceiling heights, long stretches of metal and concrete as far as the eye could see, and people of all kinds milling about, fawning over a cool ship someone had brought in or arguing over how to best fix the reason they’d landed here in the first place. They had been in a place very similar to this the first time she asked him if she could help, mere weeks after the Guardians had officially formed, with everyone still cautious and nervous and new to existing alongside other people.

“I spent years helping Nebula with her implants,” she had said with her arms folded across her chest, watching him yank at the wires fruitlessly. “Let me take a look.”

“Ship mechanics and implants ain’t the same thing,” Rocket had retorted without sparing her a glance. “Look, I’m sure you were a big ol’ help to your wacko sister, but leave the engineering to me. You go...swing your sword at somethin’ or whatever.”

“You insult me by insinuating I’m only useful in a fight.” The cadence of her voice had been even, measured, but there was a hint of danger to it that gave Rocket the impression he wasn’t going to win this one. “I’ve also shadowed some of the best engineers in the galaxy and made countless minor repairs before. At least let me watch so I can learn. No one ever gets anything done just standing by.”

Rocket had sighed, moving aside so she had room to hover over him, her gaze intensely focused on the meticulousness of his work. “Is that what you told yourself when you first went after the Orb?”

“Yes.” The quickness, the sureness, even, of her reply had surprised him. “I spent years watching Thanos destroy homes, destroy families. Knowing his plans for the Stone, I couldn’t watch any longer.”

“But your sister could? She’s a real piece of work.”

“Watch yourself, Rocket.” She had reached out, gripped his tiny wrist with her long, battle-calloused fingers far too tightly. “My sister and I, we’re like you. Built for someone else’s purpose. Taken apart to fulfill another’s desires. Her lack of morality may disappoint me, but I can’t deny that not too long ago, I still felt the same way.”

He had yanked his arm out of her grasp, shaking it, mulling over her words. “So what changed? Why did you turn your back on the big purple man, and not her?”

“It could be anything that kept her from doing so - disposition, personality, personal traumas…” She had trailed off, tapping one fingernail gently on the glint of silver in her cheekbone, a particular piece that outlined the sharp planes of her bone structure a bit too well. “...repeated body mutilation and a craving for validation that will never come would break anyone’s spirits. You know that as well as we do.”

Rocket had cleared his throat, turned his attention back to the work at hand. “Alright, honesty hour’s over. You gonna pick up a wrench of your own or what?”

“I am Groot.” Groot’s voice brought Rocket back to the present, his chest aching with something he could identify, but wanted to deny. Melancholic longing had always been part of his life, but never his vocabulary, and he wasn’t about to start now. He didn’t want to sound like one of the morose love songs Peter had taken to playing on the ship through to the early hours in the morning. He didn’t want to wake up crying, chest heaving, gasping for air, the way Peter did sometimes, the way they all pretended he didn’t do, for the sake of what was left of his dignity. “I am Groot?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Stop starin’ at me, you’re making me nervous,” Rocket spat, his tone harsher than intended. His ears drooped when Groot’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. Groot hopped back down onto the stepladder and started walking back to head inside the ship, his footsteps heavier than they had been when he first came out. “Wait, Groot...look, we’re all on edge, I don’t mean to be a dick about it. C’mere, let me show you how this junkpile works.”

Groot sighed, his shoulders heaving, and he went back into the ship without another backward glance. Rocket stared after him, his chin dropping to his chest as he hung his head. He could vaguely hear Peter and Drax arguing inside, with Mantis trying her best to moderate without using her powers, something Peter had sorely been against as of late, something about not wanting to numb himself to how much everything hurt (Rocket hadn’t really been paying attention, mostly because it hit too close to home).

“I am Groot.” Rocket lifted his head to see Groot walking back up to join him. Instead of carrying his video game, he was carrying a familiar-looking book, one that was dusty from lack of use, its spine still in perfect condition. He held it up to Rocket in a sort of peace offering, smiling tentatively. Rocket’s breath shook as he accepted it, brushing away the residue so the title could be read: Engineering Basics, Volume XI: Spacecraft.

“I can’t tell this is a gift or an insult,” she had said dubiously when Rocket first gave it to her. It had been two months since their encounter with Ego, and everyone was finally starting to feel more settled, more at peace with who they were and who they were with.

“You said you wanted to learn,” Rocket had protested. “Look, I spent a whole fifteen units on this!” She had fixed him with a look. “Okay, so I found it at yesterday’s trading post, the attendant said it was a gift from his parents, never used, wanted to get it off his hands. Isn’t it the thought that counts or some crap?”

She had laughed, an unexpectedly soft, musical sound that made Rocket’s ears perk up. “If you say so, Rocket. And thank you. I’m not sure when I’ll have the time with everything that’s going on right now, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I am Groot,” he said gently, now placing a hand on Rocket’s.

Rocket inhaled. “Guess she never got around to it. Thing’s never even been opened!”

“I am Groot,” he said, looking pensive. Groot looked younger then, a little bit more like his toddler self, his eyes round and liquid and perpetually in a state of nervous, uncertain energy. The lullaby continued to play in his head; he felt the ghost of a slightly calloused hand cup his cheek as if to say hello, goodnight, goodbye.

Nodding slowly, Rocket opened the book, running his paws over the glossy pages that were otherwise untouched. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I miss her, too.”

a/n: I just watched the movie yesterday and I have to get on a plane tomorrow but I just really, really needed to get some feelings out! This is more of a character relationship study than a strict "The Search For Gamora" fic, mostly because I needed a place to explore all the little headcanons I have about her relationships with each Guardian. And I know Thor was there with them at the end, but as much as I adore him, I wanted to strictly keep the focus on the team, so let's just say he left for a hot minute to check in with Valkyrie in New Asgard or something.

This fic probably exists in a dozen other forms already but regardless, this was oddly therapeutic to write and I hope you enjoyed it all the same! Thanks so much for reading, likes and reblogs would be much appreciated, and see you next time :)

[bubblemoon66]

Doesn’t She Know (It’s the End of the World)

Fandom: Skulduggery Pleasant Rating: T Warnings: Major Character Death Pairing: Valkyrie Cain/Skulduggery Pleasant Genre: Angst, Suspense Wordcount: 3715 Summary: According to the clock on the Bentley's dashboard, it was 06:23. About 37 minutes before the world had been scheduled to end. Notes: Written for the Skulduggery Pleasant Fic Exchange 2018. Based on a prompt by @edwardssallow Title inspired by the Skeeter Davis song.

You can also read this fanfiction on AO3, FF.net and Wattpad.

It was a clear, crisp spring morning. All blue skies, not a wisp of cloud in sight.  And the promise of a sunny afternoon to follow, if the meteorologists were right and the sensitives were wrong.

According to the clock on the Bentley's dashboard, it was 06:23. About 37 minutes before the world had been scheduled to end. 

Valkyrie Cain was worried, but not as worried as most people would be under the circumstances. Her life so far had been one series of apocalyptic disasters after another. She hadn't grown used to them exactly, Armageddon wasn't something you could get used to, but she had learnt to deal with them in her own way. Denial, mostly. With a dash of fatalistic humour and a superiority complex thrown in for good measure. The way Valkyrie saw it she could either accept that the world was going to an end on her watch or not. And life was much much easier to bear when she chose the second option.

The Bentley, Valkyrie and Skulduggery Pleasant were currently speeding through the Tipperary countryside. It would have made for a nice drive had they not been going twice the speed limit around a hairpin bend in a rural lane. Unfortunately, that's what they were doing. Valkyrie's stomach twisted as they whipped around another corner. Overgrown hedges scraped the car's bodywork. Tires screeched. There was a smell of burning rubber and hot metal. 

There was tension in the car, but nobody wanted to acknowledge it. Is was there though, regardless of what they wanted. It was in the set of Skulduggery's jaw and the pit of Valkyrie's stomach. It was in the space between them, displayed on the dashboard in fluorescent red light. 

06:24. 06:25. 06:26. 

"I don't suppose there's time to stop for a coffee?" Valkyrie asked lightly, once the tension had become too much, even for them.  Of course, she knew there wasn't time. They both knew, but that wasn't the point. 

"After," said Skulduggery, in a tone as light and fake as her own.  "I'll take you to that cafe by the river. And we can sit and talk under the awnings while you sip one of those overpriced frothy concoctions you've developed an obsession with."

"It's called a caffelatte and you know it. You've bought me enough of them. And it's too cold to sit outside."  

 "It'll warm up. The day's only just beginning."

 06:27. 06:28. 06:29.

The alarm clock in her parent's bedroom would be going off any second now. If she closed her eyes, she could hear its shrill shriek. She wondered if she should phone them, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. A call this early in the morning would only worry them. And they worried about her enough as it was. 

"How close are we?" Valkyrie asked.

"Eight miles,"

"Do you think they have a coffee machine there?"

"Do you think of anything besides where to get your next caffeine fix?"

"Not in the AM," was her reply. She stole another glance at the clock.  06:30. Thirty minutes to go. "It's kind of inconsiderate scheduling an apocalypse for seven in the morning." 

"Genocidal maniacs aren't exactly known for their consideration," 

"If I was planning the end of the world, I think I'd leave time for a lie in and a full Irish breakfast." 

"Not everyone has your vision, dear."

06:31. 06:32. Seven miles. Six miles.

"They must have a coffee machine. Or at least a kettle. I mean, I just can't see anyone destroying the world before their morning cuppa. Unless they're destroying it because they don't have their morning cuppa, I guess I could understand that."

 Skulduggery tilted his head, in that way of his when he was amused.  Good. That had been her intention. 

"If you're desperate for caffeine there's chocolate in the glove compartment,"

Valkyrie checked. There was chocolate in the glove compartment. A pack of four full-sized mars bars to be precise, her favourite.

"You spoil me," she said. 

"I know,"

Valkyrie closed the door to the compartment without touching the chocolate. Nerves wracked her insides and made the concept of eating anything impossible. 

"Not hungry?" Skulduggery asked gently. He must have known how she was feeling, but that wasn't the point of his question. 

"I stopped eating chocolate for breakfast. Unless it's inside of a pastry or drizzled over waffles." 

"Since when?" 

"Since I hit thirty," 

"I saw you eat an entire box of chocolate dipped strawberries in bed Valentines day morning." 

"Doesn't count. The fruit negates the chocolate. It's practically diet food."

Skulduggery laughed. "You know, I would love to live in a world governed by your logic. Just for a day, to see what it's like."

A small smile crept across Valkyrie's lips, "That would be fun."

06:34. 06:35. Five miles. Four miles. 

In the distance, she spotted the water tower on the hillside. It was tall, built from ancient grey stones eaten away by time. 

The smile fell from her face, "We're nearly there."

Figures stood guard around the base of the tower. At this distance, they looked human. But she knew from the sensitives' reports they were nothing more than empty shells reanimated with hot air and magic. Hollow Men. Unpleasant to deal with, but not the worst thing they had faced, not by a longshot. 

06:35. 06:37. The tower loomed closer. 

Her family would be sitting down to breakfast around now, still in their pyjamas. Alice would be on her phone no doubt, texting one of her friends to arrange a meetup before college. Her mother would be in the middle of buttering a round of toast. While her father fiddled with the radio antenna until someone reminded him that he had to turn it on at the wall before it would relay them the morning news.  

06:38. 06:39. The Bentley raced up the dirt tracks scored into the hillside. Mud flew through the air. The engine roared. Hollow Men turned to look at them; their movements, clumsy and slow.

"Ready?" Skulduggery asked.

"Always," she said. 

They flung the car doors open in sync. Fire and white lightning flying from their hands. The hillside lit up like a Christmas tree aflame. Heat and light consumed the leathery skins, igniting the gas inside with a pop. 

It took them a minute, or perhaps two, to clear the ground between the car and the base of the tower. 

There was a door, made from solid oak and cast iron. As ancient as the stone walls, but far steadier looking. There were sigils carved into the wood. She couldn't read them, but she could guess they were there to keep out intruders. 

"Can we deactivate these?" she asked. 

Skulduggery traced the pattern of a sigil with a gloved fingertip, then shook his head. "Not in time. We're going to have to go through the walls." 

She nodded. 

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Valkyrie closed her eyes. There was a rumble. They melted through the stone together. It was cold and rough. Her skin felt raw like she had been caught in the path of a sandblaster. It was an impressive piece of earth-magic, even if it was unpleasant. 

A moment later, they stumbled out of the wall.

Valkyrie opened her eyes. She wasn't sure what the inside of a water tower was supposed to look like, but she suspected it wasn't this.

"Woah," she said. 

"Woah, indeed,"

"I know we're a bit short on time, but do you mind if I take a moment to state the obvious?"

"Go ahead,"

"It's bigger on the inside,"

"I know. I can see that,"

Valkyrie took a deep breath. Taking in the impossibility of it all. The corrugated metal beams supporting the high ceilings, the fluorescent tube lighting stretching down long corridors, the steel grates fixed to every couple of metres - all of it the wrong shape and size to fit inside the tower. She took it all in. And then exhaled.

"We're going to have split up, aren't we?" 

Skulduggery glanced at the watch on his wrist, a 440th birthday present from her. "I'm afraid so." 

"You take the corridor on the left. I'll take the right."

He nodded. "Call me the second you find anything," he said, before shooting off down the left-hand corridor, propelled by the air and magic. 

Valkyrie ran. Boots pounded against the metal floor, echoing like thunder. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, blood roaring.

She ran and ran and ran. The corridor seemed to go on forever. Beam after beam after beam. Vent after vent after the vent. 

Later, when all this was over, she would take time to marvel over it. Maybe she'd even take her family on a day trip up here. Her dad would appreciate the weird sci-fi-ness of it all. Her mum would just be glad that Valkyrie wasn't shutting them out from her life again.

Valkyrie's legs began to ache. Her lungs burned. She was slowing. How far had she run? How much longer did this corridor go on for? How much time did they have left? Why the hell hadn't she passed any doors? What was the point of a corridor if it didn't lead anywhere?  

Valkyrie stopped running. 

There wasn't a point. That was the point.   

She ran her fingers over the corrugated walls. They were cool and rough to the touch. It felt solid. It felt real. She knelt down to inspect one of the grates. It was too dark to see what underneath. She took a few steps forwards and inspected the next grate. And then next. They were identical, down to every last nut and bolt. The way she had come looked identical to the way she was going. And she now, she realised, she was going nowhere. 

Her phone rang. She answered. 

"Have you noticed anything odd about this place?" Skulduggery asked through the receiver. 

"It's not real,"  she said. 

"Yes, I noticed that too. It's a bit of a problem."

"Any idea of how we get out of the weird magic-simulation-thing?"

"None, at all. You?"

"Nope,"

They stood there in silence. Painfully aware of the seconds ticking by. 

"Maybe we could try hitting it really really hard," suggested Valkyrie. "That's worked for us in the past."

"I suppose it's worth a shot," There was a muffled metallic clang from the other end of the receiver. "I don't think it worked."

"Damn,"

"Could you use your aura-vision to see what's going on?"

Valkyrie considered, "I could try."

Doubt plagued her mind, but she ignored it; screwed her eyes shut and concentrated. When she opened her eyes the scene had changed. She saw two worlds overlapping. Another impossibility she couldn't understand. She didn't have time to understand. Later, she'd think about it later.

The reality that she had been experiencing glowed in a nauseating shade of green. Somewhere behind it were stone walls and an ancient door in pale yellow. And in a beautiful vibrant red, was the outline of a man, stood maybe four metres to her left. 

 "I can see you," she said, rather breathlessly into the receiver. 

"Can you reach me?"

"I think so. Hang on."

She put the phone back in her pocket and took a tentative step through the two realities nestling on top of one another. Her stomach somersaulted and bile rose up in her throat. When nothing worse happened, she took another step and another. Until she back where she belonged, by Skulduggery's side. And he was holding her like a drowning man. 

"I think I might be sick," she said, as the world which may or may not have existed spun. 

"Please don't be. I don't want to save the world covered in vomit. Can you see a way out of here?"

"There's a door. The one we couldn't get through earlier."

"Anything else?"

Valkyrie looked around. "There's a maintenance ladder fixed to one of the walls. The tower walls. Not the ones you can see. It's about ten steps in front of us, directly across from the door."

"Can you take me to it?"

She nodded, taking his hand. They moved through time and space together. 

Valkyrie did not know exactly what Skulduggery saw when they moved. She liked to think it was something really impressive. Like her melting through a steel wall, hair billowing behind her like it did in the movies. 

As soon as she touched the ladder, Valkyrie's normal vision snapped back into place. The world came with it. They were stood now, in a room that made sense. Next to a rusted ladder fastened to crumbling stone. 

Valkyrie knees buckled.

"Steady," said Skulduggery, catching her. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. Just need a minute."

"I'm not sure we have another minute to spare."

Hands shaking, Valkyrie took the phone out of her pocket. 06:55. Shit. 

"We need to go up," she said. "Now."

A familiar arm snaked around her waist. "Hold on."

She held on. They hurtled upwards, as fast as a bullet. There was a hole in the ceiling where the ladder was, they shot through it. 

The upper part of the tower was wider than the base. It was just as ramshackle, but gloomier. The light from the high windows barely reaching the floor. Skulduggery set them down. He clicked his fingers and a flame appeared. 

A man lunged. He through a stream of energy at Skulduggery, who dodged, the bolt missing them by a hairbreadth. The wall behind them exploded into a cloud of mortar. The man crashed into Valkyrie. He dragged her to the floor. Legs straddling her waist. His hands started to glow again, lighting up with power. She kneed him in the groin and rolled. They landed in a shaft of light, coming from the newly made hole in the wall. She was on top now, forcing him to the floor, pinning his arms above his head with one arm, so he couldn't aim. 

"Where's the doomsday clock, Eschat?"

Eschat grinned. A feral thing. Broken yellowed teeth and rotting gums. "Not telling," he sang in a shrill voice. 

Valkyrie punched him in the face. Fist shattering cartilage. Blood trickled from his broken nose. 

"Still not telling," he said. Then he started giggling. 

 It wasn't right for a grown man to giggle like that, thought Valkyrie. Especially an old man with rotten teeth, uncut nails and long matted hair. It was just asking for trouble. 

She punched him in the face again. He spat out blood this time. 

"Eschat," she growled. "You know who we are. You know what we do. And you know what we'll do to you if you don't tell us where the clock is right now."

"Doesn't matter," he sang. "Doesn't matter. We're all going to die in a minute anyway."

Valkyrie spared a glance at Skulduggery. He was moving quickly around the room. Darting from wall to wall. Searching through the rubble of the wall.

"Have you found anything?" she called. 

"No. Not yet," he said, back towards them. 

"Keep looking. It's here. It has to be."

"You'll never find it," said Eschat. 

Skulduggery paused and turned to look at them, "Try his pocket."

The shit-eating grin faded from Eschat's face. 

Valkyrie rummaged through his clothing. It wasn't an easy thing to do, not when you were trying to pin someone's arms to the floor. She tried his jacket first and found nothing but gum wrappers in the outer pockets. She moved to the inner pockets. Nothing in the right one. But there, in the left - her hand closed around a small metal object. A pocket watch. She could feel the patterns engraved into the casing, could feel their power. 

 "Got it," she said, wriggling it free, pulling it towards her. 

That was when Eschat struck. Freeing one of his still-glowing arms, he went for her head.  She had to throw herself off him to avoid having her face melted off.  The shot went wild, blowing a hole in the ceiling. The watch went flying from her grasp. Dust and chunks of stone rained down on them. Blinding her. Covering Skulduggery. 

"Shit!" she gasped before her lungs seized up. She coughed violently, uncontrollably as mortar filled them. 

 Eschat was throwing more streams of energy. The movements were wild, erratic. If he had been aiming, it might have been easier to dodge. But he wasn't, he was throwing blindly. Tearing down the building one blast at a time. 

Valkyrie scrambled to her hands and knees, still coughing. Sifting desperately through the rubble. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Skulduggery burst through a cloud of dust, hands ignited. He crashed into Eschat and the two went flying to the other side of the room. 

More streams of energy flew through the air. The floor in front of her exploded. She clambered back, scrabbling across the stone before it crumbled away. Blood trickled from a dozen cuts where debris had hit her. She didn't have the time to care.

Keep moving.  Keep moving. Keep moving.  

Her hand brushed something cold, metallic. Relief struck Valkyrie like a train. She grabbed the watch, flicked open the case. 

15 seconds. 

She realised that she no idea how to stop it. 

10 seconds. 

The sense of relief was torn from her. It couldn't end like this. She needed-

5 seconds. 

An idea. Her only shot. 

Valkyrie dropped the watch, balled up her first, and brought it down. Hard. 

Three things happened as the clock struck seven. Firstly, the pocket watch alarm went off. Secondly, Valkyrie's fist connected with the metal casing. And finally, Eschat Imera let loose a final stream of energy that brought the tower crashing down. 

Valkyrie's world collapsed. There was a boom. Stone rained down. Blue skies rushed by. The ground quickly approaching. Her hand reached for something to grab, tightening around the only thing it could - the remains of the pocket watch - as she fell. 

Valkyrie never hit the ground. She slammed into one of the ladder rails. The rusted metal had been bent and snapped in half as the tower collapsed, leaving a sharp point at one end. That edge was what stopped her. It slammed into her back piercing the skin; piercing the tissue and the muscles. Rail emerging bloodied and sinew covered from her chest. 

"Oh," was all she could think of to say as she hung there suspended in the air. Weightless for a moment, before the metal gave way and she fell again. 

Skulduggery caught her this time. Grabbing her arm, pulling her close. Her shoulder had to be dislocated after a grab like that, but it didn't hurt. 

They floated gently to the ground, light as a feather. She buried her head in Skulduggery's shirt. They touched the earth. Her legs buckled, only Skulduggery's arm around her waist kept her upright.

"Valkyrie," he said. "I'm sorry."

She looked up at him and then down at her chest; saw the way the bloodied metal had skewered her and knew she was going to die. 

 She pressed the watch into Skulduggery's gloved hand. "Did we win?"

Skulduggery didn't say anything. He took the watch. Looked at it and dropped in the dirt. His expression unreadable. 

"Tell me this wasn't in vain," she said. 

"It wasn't in vain,"

"I saved the world?"

"A hundred times over,"

She sighed, "It's not as painful as I thought it would be."

"You're in shock,"

Skulduggery set on her on the ground. Gently. Gently. He knelt next to her, placing her head in his lap. She reached up to stroke his cheekbone. The movement was more difficult than she had anticipated. Her arm felt heavy, clumsy. Like it no longer belonged to her. 

 "Do you want to call your parents?" Skulduggery asked. 

"No," she whispered, letting her arm fall. "It'll only make them sad. I just want to talk to you."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"We could start with how much you love me,"

"You already know how much I love you. You don't need me to tell you."

She smiled faintly. "Then tell me something I don't know."

"I used to breed wolfhounds,"

"Did you really?"

"Of course, it's not something I'd lie about,"

"Did you have a favourite?"

"Ol. Great big brute, but soft as butter. He liked to sit on my feet everytime I stood still for more than a second."

"You used to complain when Xena did that,"

"Only to wind you up,"

Valkyrie's vision was beginning to fade. The edges were growing darker. She closed her eyes. Breathed in as deeply as she could. 

"Can you hear that?" she asked. 

"Hear what?"

"That ticking noise,"

"I can't hear any ticking noise,"

Valkyrie opened her eyes again. She struggled to turn her head towards the sound. Her eyes fell on the small silver disk lying in the dirt. 

"It's coming from the pocket watch,"

Skulduggery tilted her chin back towards him.  "You're imaging things, dearest."

She stared up into empty eyesockets. "Are you lying to me?"

"It's not something I'd lie about," he repeated. 

Valkyrie closed her eyes again. 

"Stay with me," he said. "For just a little longer."

"Until the end?" she murmured.

Skulduggery didn't say anything. He moved, shifting her weight slightly. There was a pressure on her mouth. Teeth pressing against lips. Bone meeting flesh. Neither too hard or too soft, but over too quickly. 

"I wish you'd kissed me sooner," she breathed.

"And I wish we stopped for coffee," he said. "And sat under the awnings and talked."

"Don't be daft. It's too cold."

"It's not that cold out."

"I'm cold."

He kissed her again. She felt like they were back in the sky, drifting, weightless. She wished this moment could have lasted forever, but it couldn't.

"Will you be okay?" she asked. Only able to speak in the faintest whisper now.

"I'll be fine."

Now she knew he was lying. She opened her mouth, tried to speak. Tried to tell him as much. 

The earth trembled. With a great effort, Valkyrie willed her eyes back open. Skulduggery looked back at her. There was a flash of white light.  And then, there was nothing.   

[thelastspeecher]

Stan Pines, Farmhand - Chapter 16: This is How the World Ends

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   Chapter 5   Chapter 6 Chapter 7   Chapter 8   Chapter 9   Chapter 10   Chapter 11   Chapter 12 Chapter 13   Chapter 14   Chapter 15   Chapter 16   AO3

Holy shit, it’s finally done!  I’ve been working on this fic since October, and this AU series for over a year!  But it’s done!  I mean, as done as I’ll ever be; the multichaps are over, and all that’s left are random posts or ficlets I might make about it.  Thank you guys for all your support, it has been lovely, and so wonderful to write this, with all the love you guys have given me for my nonsense.  I love y’all, and I hope this is a satisfactory ending.  In this, the final chapter, plot lines are resolved, there is yelling and hugging and reconciliation, and Angie tells Ford off.  Enjoy~

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August 14, 2012

               Emily winced as the shouting from her parents’ bedroom reached new decibels.

               “I’ve never heard them fight like this before,” she said quietly.  

               “I wanna know what they’re saying,” Mabel said.  “But the last time Grunkle Stan caught me eavesdropping, he grounded me.  And then he said that if he caught me again, he’d cut off my ears, so I couldn’t do it anymore.  He probably won’t do that, but I asked for some cute earrings for my birthday, so…”

               “Ya don’t wanna risk it,” Emily finished.  Mabel nodded.  “I can try to listen, if ya want,” Emily offered.  “It’s not like they can really ground me anymore.”  Mabel beamed.

               “Thanks!”

               “You got it, cuz.”  Emily ruffled Mabel’s hair on her way to her parents’ bedroom.  She pressed an ear against the door.

               “I’m not gonna apologize for protectin’ you.  You and the kids,” Stan said firmly.

               “Ya didn’t protect me!  Ya lied to me!”

               “Bullshit.”  Stan’s short response was enough to stop Angie in her tracks.  

               “Excuse me?”

               “That’s bullshit.  I protected you.  I protected the kids.  Do you have any clue what woulda happened if I hadn’t kept all of this a secret?  Even with all the precautions I took, Bill still almost got the house this summer.” Emily’s eyes widened.

               Dad knows about Bill?  Did he overhear Uncle Ford talkin’ ‘bout him?

               “Who the hell is Bill and what does he have to do with ya lyin’ to me fer thirty fuckin’ years?!”  Emily’s jaw dropped.  

               I didn’t know Ma even knew real swear words.

               “Bill’s the asshole demon that possessed Ford and pushed ya down the stairs thirty years ago,” Stan said.

               Wait, what?  Bill hurt Ma?

               “All the more reason ya should’ve talked to me ‘bout this!” Angie said fiercely.  “If Bill is such an evil, manipulatin’, powerful bein’, ya needed someone to help ya out.”

               “Clearly, I didn’t,” Stan snapped.  There was a long, drawn-out silence.

               “Clearly,” Angie said in a subdued voice.  

               “Angie,” Stan started.  Emily could picture him moving toward her mother, reaching out his arms to comfort her.

               “Leave,” Angie said.  Emily blinked.

               That’s not usually how fights end with them.

               “…What?” Stan asked, like Emily, taken aback.

               “Leave me be, Stanley Pines.  I need some time to myself.”

               “You just got back, though.”

               “I know.”  Emily winced at her mother’s choked-up voice.  “I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want to be apart from ya.  Yer not the only one with old issues resurfacing.” Stan said something so quietly that Emily couldn’t make out what it was.  “Yes,” Angie said.  “So ya can understand why it hurts me to send ya away.  But- but we can’t sleep in the same bed tonight, Stan.”  

               “…Fine.”  There were footsteps.  Emily moved away from the door just before it opened.  Stan looked at his daughter.  “Squirt, how many times do we have to tell ya not to eavesdrop?” he said tiredly, closing his bedroom door.

               “I wasn’t eavesdropping!” Emily protested.

               “Kid.”

               “Okay, maybe I was.  But it was for a good cause!”

               “Mabel asked ya?”

               “Yeah, but I was gonna do it anyways.”

               “Figures.”  Stan took a seat on the floor in the hallway.  Emily sat down next to him.

               “Are ya sure you’ll be able to stand up again?” she asked.  Stan sighed.

               “Now’s not the time,” he said.  Emily looked down.

               “Sorry.”

               “Not yer fault.  Nope, it’s my fault.  All of it.” Stan groaned.  “This isn’t how today was supposed to go.  The first day of seein’ yer ma in months, well, if I hadn’t messed up like this, there’s no way we’d be spendin’ it in separate beds.  Can’t really do what we planned on in-”

               “Dad.”

               “Right.”  

               “It does suck, though,” Emily said.  “You thought Ma would be happy to have Uncle Ford back, and that Uncle Ford would be happy to be back and wouldn’t punch ya.  And ya didn’t think you’d be worried about yer twin stealin’ yer family from ya.”  Stan looked at Emily, startled.

               “What?”

               “Dad, I was there.  I was there durin’ yer very questionable run for the mayor of Gravity Falls.  I was there when ya started gettin’ worried over Uncle Ford and Dipper playin’ that weird graph paper game.  The same one Danny ‘n Daisy like fer some reason.  I’ve seen how nervous ya are that Mabel and Dipper like him better.”

               “Damn.  You’re too smart for yer own good, kiddo,” Stan said quietly.  

               “I know.”  Emily leaned against Stan.  “Things’ll work out.”

               “Ya keep sayin’ that.”

               “That’s ‘cause it’s true.  It’ll just take a while is all.”

               “Don’t have much summer left fer that.”

               “So?” Emily asked.

               “Never mind.”

               “No, tell me!”

               “Nope.  Help me up, will ya,” Stan said.  Emily groaned.

               “I guess.

----- 

August 17, 2012

               There was a gentle knock on Ford’s door.

               “Come in,” Ford said, concentrating on shaving.  The door opened.

               “Uh, Stanford, why are ya holdin’ a lighter so close to yer face?” Angie asked, staring at him.

               “Hmm?  Oh, I’ve found that this is much faster than traditional shaving.”

               “And more dangerous,” Angie said.  She took a few steps into the room and closed the door behind her. “Stanford, I didn’t get a chance to talk to ya yet.  Between the jetlag and the…emotional roller coaster, I’ve been too exhausted.  But I’ve gotten some rest, and feel refreshed. Which means we need to discuss what happened thirty years ago, and what’s happenin’ now.”

               “Okay.”  Angie took a seat on the couch and patted a spot next to her.  Ford reluctantly joined her.

               “Look, I’m glad to see ya.  But you made one hell of a mistake back then,” Angie said shortly. “Fidds told ya not to get dark magic involved, but ya still made a deal with a demon, and just about all of us paid the price.”

               “I’m sorry about that.  I didn’t think Bill was-”

               “Ya didn’t think a literal demon was bad news?  Stanford, yer supposed to be a genius.  Act like it,” Angie snapped.  Ford stared, surprised to hear such a cruel tone from her.  “Ya don’t owe me an apology just fer makin’ a deal with Bill.  Ya owe me an apology fer pushin’ me down those stairs. Ya put me in a coma.  My arm was broken.  I had to go through speech therapy ‘cause my stutter came back.  And my fam’ly was put through hell worryin’ ‘bout me.  Worryin’ ‘bout Fidds, and Stan, and you.  Stanford, we were terrified fer you.”  She sighed. “And then Stan told us that you were dead.”

               “I know.  I’m not very pleased with that.”

               “Don’t matter whether yer pleased with that.  Ya still owe some apologies.  And ya need to thank Stan fer bringin’ you back.  Emily told me ya never did that.”

               “I’m not going to thank Stan for endangering the entire universe,” Ford snapped. “And I’m sick of your judgmental tone!” Angie glowered.  Ford immediately regretted his words.

               “Yer over fifty years old, Stanford Pines.  So why are ya actin’ like a child?  And I should know what a child acts like.  I raised five of ‘em.”

               “…Five?”

               “Someone had to help Fidds with Tate.  You left a mess behind, and instead of thankin’ folks fer cleanin’ it up, or apologizin’ fer makin’ it, yer lashing out at yer own damn fam’ly.  My tone may be judgmental, but I’ve got good reasons to judge ya.  I have no clue what is so broken between you and Stan that ya can’t even recognize what he did fer you.  Was it perfect?  No. But it was still an enormous undertaking.”

               “I can’t thank someone who put my safety above others’.”

               “That’s what Stan does,” Angie said softly.  Ford looked down, her words connecting with the guilt he’d had in the back of his mind.  Angie played with her hands.  “Okay, I just have one thing left to say ‘fore I go hide from my husband some more.”

               “What?”

               “Don’t try to keep Dipper and Mabel away from the weirdness of Gravity Falls.”  Ford stared at her, thinking about what Stan had told him.

               “Why not?”

               “They’re kids.  They’ll mess with things ya tell ‘em not to.”  Angie sighed.  “Over thirty years of bein’ a dad, you’d think Stan would’ve figured that part out. But I prefer that you encourage them to look into things.  To be curious.  That way they know how to be safe ‘bout it.  Stan was right, Gravity Falls is dangerous.  But only if ya don’t know what yer doin’.  So show ‘em.  But show ‘em how to be safe, too.  No matter how difficult it is to break yer habit of throwin’ caution to the wind.”  Angie smiled weakly.  There was a hesitant knock.  

               “Yes?” Ford said.  Dipper opened the door.  

               “Great-Uncle Ford, I was wondering if you had any research you wanted to do today.  Mabel wants me to help plan our birthday party, so I thought I should check in first.” Dipper noticed Angie sitting next to Ford.  “Oh, hi Grauntie Angie.”

               “Howdy there, kidlet,” Angie said.

               “Actually, Dipper, yes, I do have something I could use your assistance on,” Ford said.  Dipper’s eyes widened eagerly.

               “Really?”

               “Yes,” Ford said.  Angie patted Ford’s leg.  

               “I’ll leave you two kooks to do yer research.”  Once the door had closed, Dipper looked at Ford.

               “So, what do you need me to help with?”

               “You recall the containment for the rift, yes?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Well, it’s cracking.”

----- 

               Emily hesitantly opened the door to her parents’ bedroom.

               “Ma?” she said cautiously.  Her mother looked up from the book she was reading and smiled.

               “Hey there, sweetling,” Angie said, putting her book to the side. Emily sat on the bed next to her. “What’s the reason fer ya stoppin’ by? Thought you were workin’ in the gift shop right now.”

               “I had Wendy cover me fer a few minutes,” Emily replied.

               “That Corduroy girl is somethin’ else,” Angie said.  

               “Yeah.  Look, Ma, here’s the thing.  Dad is- he’s really upset.  Like, really upset and-”  A stormy expression gathered on Angie’s face.  “-and that’s clearly not what I should be talkin’ about.”

               “I know yer dad feels bad fer what he did,” Angie said slowly.  “And he should.”

               “I know!  I know he should feel bad.  But maybe give him a break?” Emily suggested.  Angie shook her head.

               “No,” Angie whispered in a broken voice.  “No, I can’t.  Not yet. He lied to me longer ‘n you’ve been alive.”

               “Ma-” Emily started.

               “Leave me alone,” Angie said suddenly.

               “What?”

               “Em, I need some time alone.”

               “But-”

               “Emily Marlene Pines, leave me be!” Angie snapped.  Tears were standing in her eyes.  Emily bit her lip.

               “Sorry, Ma, I didn’t mean to-”

               “I know you didn’t, but I just can’t handle talkin’ ‘bout yer father right now,” Angie whispered.  She rubbed her eyes.  “Go, sweetie. I don’t want ya to see me cry like this.”

               “Ma-”

               “I mean it!  Get goin’!”

               “O-okay,” Emily stammered.  She stood up and walked over to the door.  Before she left, she looked back at her mother.  Angie’s head was in her hands, her shoulders shuddering from the force of her sobs.  

               “Yer ma’s still angry, huh?” a voice asked, the second Emily had closed the door behind her.  Emily spun around, startled.  Stan was in the hallway, looking abashed.  Emily rubbed her face.

               “Dad, I think she’s beyond angry right now.  Ya know how important tellin’ the truth is to her.  Everyone’s upset, including Mabel and-”

               “Wait, Mabel’s still upset?” Stan interrupted.

               “Uh, yeah.”

               “I thought I talked her down.”

               “Well, I saw her a few minutes ago and she was crying.  And I was goin’ to ask Ma fer help, but I brought you up, and that pissed her off, so I had to leave ‘fore I could ask.”  Stan frowned.  Emily recognized the look.  “What are you thinkin’ ‘bout?”  Stan rubbed his chin.

               “I’ve been wonderin’ if I should try that McGucket conflict resolution thing with Dipper and Mabel.”

               “Is that the same thing you and Ma had me do with Daisy?”

               “Yeah.  It worked with me and Ford, and we were way past what Dipper and Mabel are dealin’ with, so it should work for them.”  He sighed. “I’ve just been hopin’ that I wouldn’t need to, that they’d figure it out on their own.”

               “Dad…”

               “I know, I know.  I shoulda tried to fix things sooner.”  They heard the bell of the gift shop door jingle.  Voices carried to where Stan and Emily were standing.

               “Dipper and Uncle Ford are back,” Emily said quietly.  She looked at her dad.  “Now’s as good a time as any.”  

               “Yer right.  Go fetch Mabel, I’ll handle the nerds.  A fam’ly discussion is long overdue.”

----- 

               Soos walked into the living room, closely followed by Angie.

               “I brought her, dudes,” Soos said, gesturing to Angie.  She frowned.  

               “Jesus, you weren’t serious about the salamander you claimed to have found, were ya?”

               “…No,” Soos admitted.  Angie sighed and took a seat on the floor.

               “Fine.  What’s goin’ on here?  An intervention?”

               “I think so,” Mabel said slowly.  Her eyes were still red-rimmed from crying earlier.  “But I don’t know what it’s about.  I mean, after the last one, I stopped using glitter in everything I bake!”

               “This isn’t about glitter,” Emily, who was standing near one of the exits, said.  “It’s about how everyone in this house is upset, but no one’s doin’ anything ‘bout it. Ma’s avoiding Dad, Uncle Ford won’t explain whatever he’s doin’ in the basement, and I guess forgot how manners work, and now Dipper and Mabel are havin’ issues, too!”  Angie looked at Dipper and Mabel, concerned.

               “Is that true?” Angie asked.  Mabel looked away.  “What happened?”

               “Ahem, I’m the moderator,” Emily said. Angie raised her eyebrows. “…Ma.  But anyways, yeah, Dipper and Mabel, go ahead and explain what happened.”

               “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dipper said, crossing his arms.

               “Yeah right, apprentice,” Mabel scoffed.  Dipper stared at her.

               “How do you know about that?”

               “The walkie-talkies!  Doy!”

               “Wait, catch me up here,” Angie said, “Dipper’s an apprentice?”

               “Great-Uncle Ford asked me if I wanted to be.  I’d stay here in Gravity Falls and help him with his research,” Dipper explained.  Angie crossed her arms and glared at Ford.

               “He asked ya that, huh?”

               “And Dipper agreed!” Mabel burst out.  She sniffled.  “He’s- he’s gonna stay, and I’m gonna leave, and-”

               “But this is a huge opportunity for me,” Dipper said to Mabel.  

               “It’s a horrible opportunity for me!” Mabel shouted.  “You’re- you’re supposed to be the person I can count on.  I don’t wanna leave Gravity Falls behind, but- but when I thought you were gonna come back home with me, that was all right.  Now you’re not?  I- I don’t wanna grow up without you!”

               “Hold on,” Angie interrupted.  Mabel and Dipper looked at her, but she was still staring at Ford, clearly furious.  “Stanford, ya didn’t consult anyone about any of this.”

               “I-” Ford started.

               “If yer goin’ to ask a boy to leave his fam’ly behind, talk to ‘em first! I mean, I don’t think Caleb and Amelia would actually be comfortable with this.  But now ya went and got his hopes up over somethin’ that, logistically, won’t happen.”

               “Caleb and Amelia would be ecstatic, given my educational background and experience,” Ford said.

               “Just ‘cause yer smart don’t mean ya make good decisions,” Angie snapped. Ford glowered.

               “The boy needs space to develop his intellect!  He’s been suffocating, tied down by a twin that he’s never been apart from!”

               “Is that what you really think?” Mabel whispered.  Dipper stared at his twin, devastated.

               “No!  I- I never said that, Mabel, I promise!”

               “But you were gonna leave me.”

               “I-”  Dipper stopped.  “I don’t want to,” he said quietly.  “I don’t think I ever wanted to.  I just got caught up in, y’know, the coolness of it all.  Being an apprentice to the author of the journals.  Saving the world and whatever.  But I’d be spending my teen years cooped up in a basement, and without you.  And I don’t want that.”  Mabel smiled weakly at him.

               “And Mom and Dad would freak,” Mabel said.

               “Yeah.  They would,” Dipper said.  “Awkward sibling hug?”

               “Sincere sibling hug.”

               “See, Mabel?” Stan said, watching the two embrace.  “Like I told ya, you’ve got your brother with you. You’ll be fine.”

               “You’ll be fine, too, Grunkle Stan,” Mabel said confidently.  She patted Dipper on the back twice and they broke apart.  Stan smiled, but it was clearly insincere.  

               “If you say so, kiddo.”

               “Actually, Dad, that’s a really good segue,” Emily said.  She looked at Dipper and Mabel.  “You two can leave, if ya want.”  

               “And miss out on all the juicy gossip?  Please,” Mabel said, waving a hand.  Dipper nodded.

               “Yeah, like we’d leave of our own free will, when things are gonna start getting good?”  Emily looked over at Stan.

               “Dad, you can decide if they stay or not.  It’s yer business that we’re dealin’ with next.”

               “Great,” Stan muttered.  He sighed. “They can stay.  They’d eavesdrop even if we kicked ‘em out.”

               “You know it!” Mabel chirped.  Stan cracked a half-smile.

               “All right, then.  Onto Dad’s issues,” Emily said.  Stan closed his eyes with a groan.  “Who wants to go first, Ma or Uncle Ford?”

               “Ladies first,” Ford said, gesturing towards Angie.  Angie frowned.

               “Sure, yer quite the gentleman when yer tryin’ to avoid talkin’ ‘bout yer feelin’s,” she said snidely.  “You Pines folk ‘re all stunted emotionally, I swear.”

               “Ma,” Emily intervened.  Angie sighed.

               “Guess I’m up first.  Stan, ya did the wrong thing fer the right reason.  But I can take care of myself.  I don’t need unsolicited protection.”

               “I know,” Stan said.  “But when ya were comatose in a hospital bed, or gettin’ frustrated over how slow yer speech therapy was goin’, really didn’t seem that way.”

               “The lyin’ went on past that,” Angie replied.

               “Yeah.  It did. I’m sorry, Angie.”

               “This is the sort of thing married folks aren’t supposed to have. Secrets that go on fer thirty years. Is it any wonder I have issues lookin’ ya in the eye?” Angie asked, her voice breaking.  “Is it any wonder I can’t hardly be in the same room as ya? All that time, all that time spent together, happy, raisin’ our kids.  Now those good memories are- are poisoned.  ‘Cause you were lyin’ durin’ ‘em.”  Angie bit her lip and looked away.  “Sometimes…sometimes I wondered if ya were cheatin’ on me.”

               “What?  Angie, I would never-”

               “Cheat?  But how can I trust ya ‘bout that now, knowing yer lies?”  Angie shook her head.  “Maybe the blame’s on me, too, though.  I ain’t blind.  I knew somethin’ was happenin’.  I knew there was a reason you were runnin’ yourself more ragged than usual, that there was a reason ya suddenly developed an interest in what Stanford was workin’ on, that there was a reason ya had us move into yer dead twin’s house, and start up, of all things, a tourist trap.  I told myself you were just grievin’ in yer own way.  But I knew there was more, and if I hadn’t been too scared to actually figure out what else was goin’ on, maybe- maybe we wouldn’t be in such a rough spot right now.”  Angie finished her speech with a decrescendo, getting quieter as she neared the end, until the last few words were almost a whisper.

               “Angie, when we got married, you said there wasn’t anything that could make you leave me,” Stan said.  He swallowed. “Is that still true?”  Angie looked down.

               “It hurt every day I was in Maine,” she said softly, after a pause that was far too long for Stan’s liking.  “But not from old age.  From missin’ you.  I’m furious ‘bout all of this.  But I love you and the life we built together more ‘n I’m angry.”  She looked up, and there were tears standing in her blue eyes. Eyes that still had the same brilliance Stan had first seen forty-one years ago.  “Stanley Pines, I can’t think of a single thing that would make me leave.” Stan smiled weakly at her.  “Even with the lyin’, and my nightmares comin’ back, and everything feelin’ like it’s fallin’ apart, I- I can’t get over how much I love ya.  I ain’t leavin’.  I ain’t plannin’ on ever leavin’.”

               “I’m sorry that I dragged us into this mess,” Stan said.  

               “It- it is what it is, I s’pose.  All’s we can do now is try to move forward.  Work on the trust stuff a bit more.”  Angie and Stan shared a tentative smile.  Ford, who was standing near the tank Angie kept her favorite amphibians in, frowned.

               “Nightmares?” Ford asked.

               “Nothin’ to write home ‘bout, I don’t think.  Had ‘em a bit ‘fore Stan showed up at the farm, had ‘em a bit ‘fore you showed up at the farm, and they started up again while I was doin’ research in Maine this summer.”  Angie shrugged.  “But they stopped when I got back.  Put me in an awful mood fer Stan tellin’ me he got you home, though.  I was so exhausted and frustrated, even without the nasty things I was dreamin’.  With all of it together, I almost didn’t come home.”

               “Shi- shoot, Angie, if you didn’t come home,” Stan said, “I…I don’t know what I’d do.  Send the kids home?  Kick Ford’s a- butt for bein’ the reason?”

               “Mm.  Prob’ly both, knowin’ you,” Angie said.  She suddenly registered the concerned look she was getting from everyone else in the room, other than her husband.  “Wh- what’s the problem?”

               “Bill has the ability to cause nightmares,” Ford said.  

               “So?  The human psyche can make ‘em, too,” Angie said.  Ford nodded.

               “Yes, but the timing seems odd.  Your nightmares tend to have surges at crucial points.  Stan arriving at your house, and therefore not becoming a homeless criminal.  Stan and I meeting at your house, and therefore patching things up before we became too distant.  Stan telling you that I’m back, and therefore we can put a stop to Bill’s insanity once and for all.”

               “When yer stressed-” Angie started.

               “We set somethin’ up around the house,” Emily interrupted.  “It keeps Bill’s influence out.  He can’t peek into any minds here, can’t cause any nightmares. And yer nightmares stopped when ya came back.”  Angie was silent.

               “Violynn said that yer nightmares got so bad the first time, that yer folks almost didn’t leave,” Stan said quietly.  Angie looked at him.  “If yer folks didn’t leave when they did, they wouldn’t have found me.  And the second time, they talked about not lettin’ Ford come over.  And now…”

               “…Now I almost broke yer heart, which would’ve ruined everything else,” Angie whispered.

               “If Stan and I got in a physical altercation, or the kids went home, Bill would have found it much easier to gain access to the rift,” Ford said. “Frustration, anger…those emotions are ones Bill relies on.  He can finetune righteous fury until it fits his own perverted needs.”  Angie put her head in her hands.

               “I have a million questions,” Angie said quietly, “the first one bein’ what ‘the rift’ is.  But- I don’t think I’m ready fer the answer right now.  I thought it was bad enough, that demon puttin’ me in a coma.  But playin’ with my mind?  I-”

               “Yeah, it sucks,” Dipper said firmly.  Angie nodded.

               “Sure does, kiddo.”  After a long pause, Emily cleared her throat.

               “So…Dad and Uncle Ford?”

               “Are we seriously still doin’ this?” Stan demanded.

               “Yes.”

               “It’s been a long day, I think we could use a break,” Ford said.

               “Nuh-uh.  If we stop now, we won’t ever finish,” Emily said, shaking her head.  “So.  Dad and Uncle Ford.  Talk.”

               “Ford, up yours.”

               “What?!” Ford said.

               “Dad.  Not helpful.”

               “Fine.  Ford, thirty years ago, ya asked me to abandon my fam’ly, to save yer skin. Sure, that fight might’ve ended in me pushin’ you through the portal.  But it never woulda gotten that far if you didn’t put your own bullsh- crap above everyone else,” Stan snarled.  Ford glowered.

               “I put my problems above others’? Stanley, you were willing to risk the universe’s safety for your family, and then later, for me!”

               “I did what ya asked me to!” Stan snapped.  “You asked me to help you.  I did it.  And after thirty years of breakin’ my back to do what ya told me to do, we won’t even talk! Goddam- gosh dangit, Ford, I thought we were past this!”

               “So did I!” Ford shouted.  Dipper and Mabel exchanged a wide-eyed look.  “So did I,” Ford said, in a more reasonable tone.  He ran a hand through his hair.  “Why do we keep having this argument, over and over again?”

               “‘Cause whenever ya have problems, it always happens at the worst time,” Angie suggested.

               “Ma, yer not allowed to contribute,” Emily said.  Angie rolled her eyes.

               “No, that- that sounds right,” Ford said.  “Maybe we are emotionally stunted, unable to talk things out, until it builds and builds, and the only possible result is explosive.”

               “Does that mean yer gonna thank me?” Stan asked.

               “Only if you apologize to me,” Ford replied.  Stan frowned thoughtfully.

               “I’ll think about it.  But no matter what, I ain’t apologizin’ in front of the kids.  They’ll think I’m soft.”

               “You already said sorry to Grauntie Angie about ten times,” Dipper said.

               “Eh.  That’s different.”  

               “Are we done?” Ford asked Emily.  Emily nodded.

               “Actually, yeah.  Huh, and it took less time than me and Daisy did.”

               “Stanford, what is the rift?” Angie asked suddenly.

               “Essentially, it’s a rip in the fabric of the universe, a portal of sorts between our dimension and that of Bill’s.  It was created by Stanley turning on the portal,” Ford explained.

               “The big problem,” Dipper jumped in.  He stopped and looked at Ford, who nodded.  “The big problem is that Bill can come through it if it gets too big. So Great-Uncle Ford sealed it in a snow globe.”

               “The containment device is more durable than a snow globe, but continue,” Ford said.

               “But now, the containment device or snow globe or whatever it is, is cracking.”

               “Which means that the rift isn’t actually contained,” Angie said slowly.

               “Yes.  Dipper and I went to the UFO site today, to find alien adhesive to seal the containment device shut,” Ford said.

               “Seems like yer tryin’ to put a bandaid over a gunshot wound,” Angie said. “That ain’t goin’ to work in the long run!”

               “I just needed to buy some time, until I find a better solution,” Ford said.

               “Didn’t you meet anyone in other dimensions who might be able to help out?” Emily asked.  Ford paused.

               “Actually, yes.  But Jheselbraum is busy, and I don’t have a way of visiting her dimension.”

               “Does she have a cellphone?” Mabel asked.  “You could call her.”  Ford rubbed his chin.

               “No, she doesn’t have a cellphone…but you’re right.  I could call her.  Through other means, of course.”

               “Great!  And now that all the end of the world things are taken care of, we can finally start planning the birthday party!” Mabel said enthusiastically.  Angie chuckled.

               “You really have a one-track mind, don’t ya, darlin’?”

----- 

September 2, 2012

               Ford stood on the porch of his house, if it could be called that anymore, given the discussions that were going on about the Mystery Shack’s future.

               “I can’t live here anymore,” Ford said abruptly, the night of the “intervention”.  He, Stan, and Angie were enjoying some much needed alcoholic beverages.

               “Why not?” Stan asked.  

               “It’s just changed so much.  It’s not the same place I left.  Even if I wanted to live in a house that also functions as a tourist trap, I can’t do that if it doesn’t feel like home.”

               “Then where will ya go?” Angie asked, idly stirring her rum and coke.  

               “Not sure.  Unless…maybe I could get the Stan O’War up and running.”

               “What?” Stan said.  “You- you wanna go on an ocean adventure?”

               “Yes.  I think it would be a nice break from all of the…”

               “Drama,” Angie suggested.

               “Bullshit,” Stan said.

               “Well, yes, this summer has been full of both of those things.”  Ford looked down at his glass tumbler.  “But I don’t think I could crew her on my own.”  Stan was silent.  “I don’t want to take you from your family, Stan-”

               “My kids are all grown up, Angie’s busy findin’ evolutionary missing links.  All I do is sit around, bein’ old,” Stan said.  He grinned.  “Finally doin’ a trip on the Stan O’War sounds pretty great to me, Sixer.”

               “You two could use some bondin’ time,” Angie added.  “So’s long as ya don’t disappear off the face of the earth, I think I can handle bein’ apart from Stan fer a few months.  Done it before.”  She looked at Stan.  “But the two of ya wouldn’t be able to leave fer a bit, y’know.”

               “Oh, yeah, there’s a thing.  The whole fam’ly’s goin’.  I can’t go until after it.”

               “That’s fine.  The extra time will be useful.  I can put some affairs in order, adjust the ship to be suited for my research, et cetera,” Ford said.

               “Or you could come to the party,” Angie suggested. Ford blinked.

               “Um, I don’t know how wise that would be.  I don’t even know what it’s for.”

               “A birthday.  Yer welcome to come,” Angie said.  She picked up on his hesitation.  “But you can think about it a bit ‘fore ya make up yer mind.”

               “Geez, Angie, what do ya take us for?  People who think before doin’ things?” Stan asked sarcastically.

               “Clearly ya aren’t, since ya haven’t discussed what you’ll do with the Mystery Shack.”

               “Shut it down, obviously,” Stan said.  Angie stared at him, aghast.

               “And break poor Jesus’s heart like that?”

               “Why do ya call him by his full name?”

               “Why do ya not realize how much this dumb ole place means to him?” Angie retorted.  Stan sighed.

               “Like always, you have a point.  Soos is a good kid.  He shouldn’t have to watch the Shack shut down.”  He frowned thoughtfully.  “Hmm. I bet the Mr. Mystery suit would look good on him.”  Angie smiled.

               “That’s more like it.”

               Ford shook himself out of his memories and watched his twin load up the Stanleymobile.  Emily tossed Stan a large duffel bag.  Stan caught it, but stumbled slightly under the weight and force of the throw.  Ford smiled as Emily laughed.

               “Yer losin’ yer touch, old man,” Emily said teasingly.  Stan rolled his eyes and stuffed the duffel bag into the trunk.

               “I’m just goin’ easy on ya.  What with you bein’ my daughter and all,” Stan said.  Emily snorted.

               “Sure, Dad.”  Ford heard the front door open.  Angie walked past with another bag of luggage.  

               “Geez, how much crap do you guys have?” Stan asked.  Angie went over to her husband.

               “This is yer stuff, darlin’.  And it’s the last of it.”  Stan took the bag from her and put it in the car, then closed the trunk.  “All right, you two, we ain’t stoppin’ fer a while. Bathroom break now or hold it,” Angie said briskly.  Emily shook her head.

               “I’m good, Ma.”

               “Then let’s load up,” Angie said.  Stan opened the door of the Stanleymobile for her, eliciting a laugh. Angie kissed him on the cheek before getting into the back seat.  Emily joined her mother.  Stan closed the door.

               “So, where are you headed, again?” Ford asked.

               “We’re gonna stop by San Diego to pick up Emmett, and then go to the farm,” Stan replied.  “The whole fam’ly’s gonna be there to celebrate the triplets’ birthday.”  He looked at Ford.  “Includin’ Fidds, Tate, and Tate’s kids.  You made up yer mind about comin’?”  Ford rubbed the back of his neck uncertainly.  On the one hand, he was eager to see his son and grandchildren. On the other, it had been thirty years.

               The McGuckets probably wouldn’t want to see me.

               “You probably need the extra space for Fiddleford,” Ford said.  Stan shook his head.

               “Nah.  Fidds headed out yesterday,” Stan said.  Angie rolled down the car window.

               “I didn’t sit in the back seat fer nothin’, Stanford!” she shouted teasingly. Ford cracked a small smile.

               “I really don’t know if I should intrude…”

               “Intrude?  Ford, it’s pretty damn difficult to crash a fam’ly gatherin’ if yer fam’ly,” Stan said. “Seriously.  Ya comin’?”  Ford looked at his house.

               I don’t think I can call it that anymore.  He looked back at his twin, his sister-in-law, and his niece.  His smile grew broader.  

               “…Yes.”

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi, I wanted to ask you if you know any fanfictions about Johnlock texting/letters/internet messages, something connected with that? :)

Hi Lovely!

I thought I didn’t have many of these, so I was so excited that I would be able to get this done in 10 minutes... it’s now 4 hours later and I finally got a rough list done for you and I STILL can’t find the one I wanted to add to this list! I’m so angry, because I THOUGHT it was an FFNet fic, but i can’t find it urg. Oh well. I hope you like what I have picked for you instead!

SEXTING / TEXTING:

Unquantifiable by 221b_hound (M, 2799 w, Ao3) - John remains a terrible and foul-tempered patient, but he does try to make up for it with pet names and text message silliness. In the meantime, Sally Donovan visits Baker Street for a hint about the Milverton case, and has to deal with a Sherlock Holmes who can’t find words big enough to thank her for saving John’s life at the warehouse. For afters, there’s a viewing of The Princess Bride. Part 33 of Unkissed

Happy anniversary by Salambo06 (E, 3772 w., Ao3) - John inhaled deeply, feeling his cock pulse under the silk gown, and he let his eyes travel on the lean body in front of him. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, their bed, and the picture had been taken so John could perfectly see his bare chest and pelvis. But what mattered most, what made John harden rather quickly, was the pair of panties Sherlock was wearing in the picture. Black, string over each hip and laces that outlined Sherlock’s erect cock barely hidden under the soft underwear.

A Brand of Gold by aquabelacqua (M, 12,757 w. Ao3) - John sank deeper into the pillows, let the mist and blur of the wine settle around him, let it shore up his nerves and dim the warning signals that flashed dully in the back of his mind. He let the rest of the disappointment about Lucy and his strange accommodations and about the weekend as a whole fade into obscurity. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there. He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes. **MUST READ**

Come Home by hudders-and-hiddles] (E, 3763, Ao3) -  When John leaves for a medical conference, Sherlock tries to entice him back home.

A Study In Auto-Signatures, Sniper Dolphins, and Sex Holidays by cwb  (E, 32,690, Ao3) John and Mary go on their sex holiday, and Sherlock is grumpy and pining about it. Part 1 of HOT DOLPHIN SEX **MUST READ**

The Real Meaning of Idioms by feverishsea (T, 21,691 w., Ao3) - After two weeks away, John finally texts Sherlock. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to respond. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to keep texting him. And he really doesn’t expect things to spiral out of control so rapidly.

Bread and Wine and Curry Once a Week by cwb (E, 8737 w., Ao3) - "I am not agitated. I’m just tired of it. The insinuations, the comments, that I have no… no interest in relationships, or sex.“ John and Sherlock muddle through a relationship. **FAVE!**

Entanglement by orphan_account (G, 3218 w., Ao3) - On Christmas Eve, snow covers London, John visits Harry, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson untangle some knots. Lovely pining Sherlock fic. Love this one!

Definitions by siennna (T, 101,528 w., Ao3) - Throughout his life, Sherlock Holmes has always taken facts and held them close like treasures, because in a world of complex emotions, unpredictability, and the unknown, logic has never failed him. Puzzles can always be solved and equations will always have an answer; he seeks and finds comfort in the steady absolution of facts and the knowledge that everything has a definition: an unchanging, consistent meaning. However, at age thirty-five he discovers the exception to all of his neat, tidy logic when he meets John Watson, the one person who evades definition and refuses to be easily categorized—and who makes Sherlock question his own previously unshakeable ideas about everything from life to love. (Apparently a WiP, but it feel complete enough, as the “last chapter” has been waiting for over 2 years)

Tease You Till You Come by phoenix089 (E, 6090 w., Ao3) - Initially, Sherlock was rather put out by John’s lack of presence on the case. But then he starts to recieve pictures, several of them, of an unexpected nature. The case is forgotten rather quickly after that.

Text Me When It’s Over by immaculately-flawed (K+, 1K+ w., FFnet) - After the fall Sherlock starts writing texts to John. Of course, he never sends them… Until he does by accident. Post Reichenbach fic but not angsty.

Texts and Tea by JillianWatson1058 (K, 959 w., ffnet) - A John who is woken up at 2:30 in the morning is not a happy John. Sherlock, frankly, doesn’t care. He just wants his tea.

Message Not Sent by Queerasil (K, 762 w. ffnet) - Sherlock texts John after the fall and during the hiatus. The messages are sent, but never received. Sequel to WORDLOCKED, TSTM, and Wait, How Do You Play This Game Again?

Iunctum by Fudgyokra (K, 221 w., FFNet) - He stood still for a long time, staring not so much at the words he’d been sent, but at the signature that marked them: A simple ‘SH,’ neatly tucked at the close of the words ‘I’ve missed you.’” A 221B ficlet; Sherlock’s return from the fall.

The Art Of Communication by StillWaters1 (T, 2K+ w., FFNet) - Lestrade was used to getting odd, non sequitur texts from Sherlock. But when “John went out for milk” was followed by a terse “two hours ago,” Lestrade immediately understood three things: John was missing, Sherlock was quietly panicking, and this could all end very, very badly.

LETTERS / EPISTOLARY

Letters by Jenna Flare (T, 2K+ w., FFNet) - John leaves letters on Sherlock’s grave as a method of coping. Sherlock reads them every week. Sherlock/John, John/Mary. T for swearing. Post-Reichenbach

Letters From Beyond by LittleBabeBlue (K, 637 w., FFNet) - A letter for John was found in Sherlock’s coat after he jumped. Post-Reichenbach.

Dear John by starwarsfreak95 (T, 601 w. FFNet) - Not all Dear John letters are bad. Sherlock tries to explain to John why he did what he did and how much John means to him.

Pen Pals by WerewolfDoctor (K, 2K w., FFNet) - Most people don’t become pen pals by one of them writing a not-suicide note. Then again, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have never exactly been normal, have they?

In the Dark Hours by hubblegleeflower (E, 51,639 w., Ao3) - John, wounded and silent, drifts back to Baker Street for healing…and then goes home again. He visits, gets more upbeat, chattier, smiles, jokes… and still goes home again. Sherlock wants him to move back in - it just makes sense - but John shows no signs of doing so. This is the story of how John and Sherlock learn to say what needs to be said when they’re both so very, very rubbish at talking.

There’s Something Living in These Lines by teahigh (orphan_account) - (M, 4676 w., Ao3) - Two men, complete opposites in almost every way, who speak only in letters and pages torn from books.

Correspondence by Cleo2010 (T, 8031 w., Ao3) – Sherlock’s been spirited away on a case for Mycroft. Part of the deal was that he and John could communicate via letter until the case was completed. Maybe the cliche is true, absence does make the heart grow fonder. Or perhaps something is growing on the feet in the fridge. Read their letters month by month. Written after series one.

White Blank Page by SarahCat1717 (M, 11,936 w., Ao3) – Post-fall, Sherlock is off eliminating Moriarty’s crime web. He finds he misses John. He can’t divulge that he still lives, but he placates his need to communicate with John and still feel a connection with him by sending him blank letters. But over time, this writing exercise lends itself to Sherlock exploring his feelings for his friend. What will happen when Sherlock returns to London and the man he has been “writing” to regularly for the past two years? NOT S3 compliant. Mary who?

Get It All in Writing by aceofhearts61 (T, 2423 w., Ao3) – Sherlock and John write each other love notes. Part 8 of A Love with No Name

and stand there at the edge of my affection by coloredink (G, 2683 w., Ao3)

Winter of Life by You_Light_The_Sky (T, 5178 w., Ao3) – It was an experiment, really. On Christmas, Sherlock wrote to Santa asking for a friend. He got a broken toy soldier instead. This is the story of how he finds him again and again.

Dear John by wendymarlowe (E, 3 Parts, 30,802 w. Ao3) – With Sherlock dead, John eventually (under duress) makes a profile on an online dating site. And falls into a long-distance relationship with an enigmatic partner who reminds him of Sherlock in all the right ways. (Hint: it turns out to be Sherlock.)

BLOGS / SCRAPBOOKS / JOURNALS

The Case of the Vanishing Blog by Hekateras (K+, 2K+ w., FFNet) - Sherlock is in it for the hunt. John is in it for the action. Even so, the events at the Pool leave a mark on both, unwilling as they are to admit it.

One-Way Mirror by StormyNight108 (K+, 830 w. FFNet) - Post-Reichenbach one-shot. It’s been months since the incident, where a man lost his best friend. Slowly but surely, John’s life is starting to turn up a little. That night, his blog is updated to share good news to his followers, and one anonymous commentator is quick to share his happiness. It’s about as close to his friend as he can get right now.

Don’t Go Without Me by MirabileLectu (T, 1K+ w. FFNet) - Deep in the recesses of the cluttered space under John’s bed, far from the prying eyes of nosy landladies, there is a box.

To Sleep, Perchance to Smother Your Flatmate with a Pillow by Linpatootie (G, 5308 w., Ao3) - Sherlock wants to conduct a sleep study of sorts. John contemplates smothering him with a pillow. Part 1 of Two Coffees One Black One with Sugar Please

Journal of Truths by Goddess_of_the_Night (T, 2317 w., Ao3) - When John escorts Sherlock back to Baker Street from the tarmac, he discovers a journal that Sherlock has kept secret…that he has kept secrets in. What he sees when he opens it is nothing like what he expected. He expected scrawling notes of observations, or maths equations, or drawings of plants…anything but what he actually finds: confessions.

You fit me, Sherlock Holmes by orphan_account (G, 10,077 w., Ao3) – An unfortunate series of events leads to John accepting being a part of Sherlock’s study in physical intimacy. As the days pass by, John realizes he might be in for more than he bargained for. He doesn’t entirely mind.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder by cypress_tree (E, 10,669 w., Ao3) – John helps Sherlock with an experiment: for an entire month, they are not allowed to touch each other and must remain at least one metre apart at all times.

The Great Sex Olympics of 221B by XistentialAngst (E, 58,611 w., Ao3) – John Watson thinks Sherlock Holmes should admit that he, Watson, is more of an expert on sex than Sherlock is. But Sherlock refuses to concede the point. He comes up with an experiment plan that will resolve the issue. The results will determine who wins the prize. But sometimes even the best thought-out scientific study has unexpected consequences.

POST-ITS / LISTS

I Believe In Sherlock Holmes by Cennis (K, 2+K w., FFNet) - When John came to Baker Street one Sunday about six months after the funeral and found an elegant wooden cane, expensive-looking yet sturdy, stuffed away in the shoe cupboard, he began ‘blogging’ again. It began with post-it notes. POST-FALL.

In case of emergency by AlessNox (K, 520 w., FFNet) - Sherlock is charged with making a list of what supplies they would need in case of an emergency.

The Three-Word Tin Collection by TheBookshelfDweller (K, 1K+ w., FFNet) - What happens when Sherlock has to store the things he wants to say to John while deconstructing Moriarty’s web, but the Mind palace proves an inadequate place to store them?

206 Reasons by whitchry9 (K+, 1K+, FFNet) - John won’t wake up, so Sherlock lists all the reasons why he should. Because he appears to be a bit besotted. How inconvenient.

Because Blah Blah Blah Happy by cwb (E, 4,578 w., Ao3) – John is entirely done with the milk situation and gives Sherlock a list of shit he’s pissed about. Sherlock sets out to make John happy. John is happy. Sherlock makes his own list. They are both very, very happy.

The Trouble With Being Subtle. by VictoryCandescence (NR, 5429 w., Ao3) - In which Sherlock experiments, John misinterprets, and everyone else stands back and waits for the light to turn on.

The Importance of Torn Papers by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock (G, 2427 w., Ao3) – Little things make a big difference, even little notes of thanks. Small reminders to show he cares.

Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained by withoutawish (M, 32,961 w., Ao3) – The list that is tacked haphazardly on the refrigerator of 221B reads, ‘Kidney(s), and/or a full cadaver (preferably male, late 30s, under six feet tall), bag of fresh toes, sixteen cow’s eyes (corneas retained), dual exhaust hand –held flame thrower, an unopened first edition copy of Joseph Conrad’s 'Heart of Darkness’, and no less than ten abhorrently gruesome murders in the upcoming month.” The one neatly hanging next to it simply reads, “Sex.” One of these lists is not John Watson’s. If John Watson were to put what he really wanted in list form, to live in a land somewhere beyond ‘almosts’ now that Sherlock Holmes has indeed returned to him, he would never be able to look his flatmate in the eye ever again.

See Recipe for Details by pandoras_chaos (E, 4,981, Ao3) – John knows Sherlock’s mouth will never water over the sweet smells of baking chocolate biscuits or a lovely roast chicken, but he’s watched Sherlock nick mince pies out of Mrs. Hudson’s fridge often enough to deduce that the man does have taste, albeit confusing and obscure.So John makes a list: Things Sherlock Likes

And I have a few on my Marked For Later List which also have this theme. I HAVE NOT READ THEM, so I don’t know what they are like; I was waiting for them to finish before I do. As well, Alexx has a tonne of lists you can check out too!

The Pieces That Fall to Earth by Itsallfine (T, WIP, Ao3) - John and Sherlock have hit rock bottom, but with all their armor stripped away, they can finally speak honestly and find the truths that matter most.

Letters from Sussex by sussexbound (E, 3 Parts, 160,298 w., Ao3) – In the wake of the Mary/Moriarty affair, John and Sherlock have fallen out, and are living apart. But Sherlock isn’t content with this state of affairs–not one bit. He’s tired of dancing around the obvious.

A Small Drop of Ink, Falling by la_novatrice (fleurs_du_mol) (M, 4019 w. Ao3) – John starts keeping a notebook about Sherlock, for Sherlock to read. This is a small look into it.

Alexxphonix42′s Fic Rec List: Epistolary

Alexxphonix42′s Fic Rec List: Journals

Alexxphonix42′s Fic Rec List: Sexting and Texting

Alexxphonix42′s Fic Rec List: Wrong Number Texting

Alexxphonix42′s Fic Rec List: Met Online or Texting

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Without a Mark

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Summary:  Edge didn't really need an alarm but he certainly didn't mind being woken up another way.

Tags: NSFW, Morning Sex, Respectful Consent, Established Relationship, Possessiveness 

Series: By Any Other Name, Stocking Stuffer shorts

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Read More Below!

~~*~~

The alarm going off early in the morning was very familiar to Edge. Five-thirty am, no matter what time he’d gone to bed. He’d never needed as much sleep as his brother, or Stretch for that matter.

To be perfectly honest, he hardly needed the alarm. He would be awake even without it no matter the day or the time of year, whether the sky was wintry black or starting to show the deep purples of sunrise. This morning his alarm went off and Edge rose with it, perfectly familiar. The slim arm that wrapped around him as he turned it off, holding him in bed, was not.

“don’t get up yet,” Stretch murmured. His voice was still languid with sleep.

Edge sank back down, intrigued and willing to skip his morning run if Stretch had something interesting in mind. He wasn’t often awake when Edge got up and it was best to take advantage of it when he was.

To his surprise, Stretch pushed the blankets down, leaving himself bare bones and Edge in his pajamas. Wordlessly, he shifted to straddle Edge’s back, a hand between his scapulas urging him to stay down.

Edge struggled not to tense. This was different than their normal. Stretch's light weight was always welcome in his arms and lap. He'd never had it pinning him down before and it left him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

"Wait," Edge said low, and Stretch went still. He started to slide back off and Edge reached aback and caught one of his femurs to stop him. "No, don't move. Give me a moment."

Stretch stayed where he was. The warmth of his hands was starting to bleed through the thin material of Edge's pajama shirt, each finger-bone a delicate line of heat where they rested on his ribcage.

He focused on that. Edge loved Stretch's hands, the long, slender bones were pale ivory, marred only by a yellowed stain between two fingers left by his cigarettes.

His own bones were rough, scarred. It would be more difficult to find a bone that he hadn't broken. Stretch never seemed to mind, he stroked over the smoother bone the same as the scars, not lingering in any appreciable way. Those hands were always eager to touch him, to clutch at him, to cup his jaw, his skull, and now, to rest gently against him as he waited.

“All right,” Edge sighed at last. His own hands were gripped together beneath the pillow, but he still managed to close his sockets and focus on the careful movement of Stretch’s fingertips over him.

His pajama shirt was thin flannel. It was warm against the coolness of the room at night but no protection whatsoever against Stretch’s touch. Following the long curve of his ribs as far as they could before returning to his spine, the pressure increasing until Edge had to stifle a low moan into his pillow.

He rarely gave Stretch the opportunity to do anything like this; his own eagerness to touch often overshadowed Stretch’s amicable laziness. Perhaps he should allow it more often. Stretch’s hands moved cleverly, gripping his lower spine through his shirt with tantalizing skill.

His weight eased as Stretch moved lower, his knees on either side of Edge’s femurs. He never delved beneath clothing. Those slim fingers found sensitive places through fabric knowingly, the sensation teasingly blunted as they wandered over his pelvis, his iliac crests, the nodule of his coccyx.

Stretch shifted behind him and his weight was suddenly heavier, all down the length of Edge’s back. There was a telltale firmness against his pelvis through the back of his pajama pants. Slowly, Stretch moved against him, one hard drag of the shaft against his sacrum, then he paused.

"is this all right?" Stretch whispered. He was close enough that his teeth scraped the side of Edge’s skull when he spoke.

"Yes," Edge husked out. The rock of Stretch's pelvis against his own pushed his hips against the mattress. Edge was already hard, his magic had pooled down in his pelvic girdle the moment Stretch started touching him. The burn of friction from his pants against his cock was almost painful, unlike the softness of Stretch’s cunt or mouth. Strange and enticing, and Edge canted his hips, the angle increasing the pressure.

The rhythmic grunts breathed against his skull as Stretch thrust against him spoke of his pleasure, low and eager, despite the layer of cloth between them or perhaps because of it. Edge couldn’t say what was driving his husband, didn’t know why he was intent on rutting against him like this. He didn’t care; if Stretch wanted this, he was more than willing to give it to him.

The movement of his hips sped up, blunt fingertips digging in to Edge’s hip bones. That faint pinch of pain made him inhale sharply, letting it out as a moan as Stretch shuddered against him, his own breath hissing between his teeth and Edge could feel the wet blurts of heat falling across his sacrum and lumbar vertebrae, soaking into the thin material.

It may well be perverse that it was the feeling of Stretch’s come falling over him that tipped him into his own orgasm. If so, Stretch didn’t seem to mind; his fingers were dragging lazily through the wet streaks with obscene approval.

“there we are,” Stretch said thickly. His voice was blurred with satisfaction.

Edge turned his head enough to look up at him. His own satiation was colored with curiosity. “Is that what you wanted? To come all over me?”

A flush of orange rose in Stretch’s cheekbones, but he didn’t look away. “yeah, i did. problem?”

“Not if you’re going to allow me to shower before I go to work.”

To his bemused delight, that flush of color heightened and Stretch flicked his tongue over his teeth nervously. “can you wait a little longer?”

Edge only looked at him for a long moment, letting that bright flush linger, before saying, “Of course.”

The quiet sigh of relief that Stretch exhaled brought up questions that Edge wasn’t going to ask, not right now. Not with Stretch shifting them to spoon up behind him, heedless of the mess on the clothes and sheets.

If Stretch had the occasional urge to mark him in a more visceral manner than their rings, Edge certainly didn’t mind, particularly if he was willing to return the favor. He closed his sockets, absently tracking the time until he needed to get out of bed even as he pictured it, the stark crimson of his own magic on Stretch’s pale bones.

Something to look forward to for tonight.

-finis-

You can read more of this series on the Masterlist:

keelywolfe.tumblr.com/post/178224395713/masterlist-by-any-other-name