#fic: but boys spring infernal

[autisticsheith]

“slav has been greatly and painfully misunderstood by this fandom” - a manifesto, by me

Okay, this started in a fandom saltiness discussion on — in which I literally said, “I AM ALWAYS UP TO BE SALTY ABOUT SLAV.… More specifically, about how fandom treats Slav” — so that’s where it’s coming from, and I have done very little to clean it up after copy-pasting.

TL;DR: The VLD fandom tends to treat Slav as either hilarious or completely above reproach (sometimes both), which annoys me — because he actually is a fascinating character (at least, he is to me), and I dislike the way he is boiled down to either a joke about, “LMAO SPACE OCD!!!” or turned into a “~pure precious cinnamon roll uwu~” who only resembles his canon counterpart kinda vaguely, if you tilt your head a bit to the left and squint

As a character, I think Slav can be fascinating because, if you actually examine his actions? He is a fucking dick

He’s a reclusive genius who has the intelligence and skill and talent to get away with being a fucking asshole, and yes, he clearly has SOME kind of issue (whether it’s ““space OCD,”” literally seeing all of the possibilities in alternate realities, or some cracked out combination of both)…… But he also isn’t an ~uwu precious cinnamon roll~ and his legitimate issues are not an excuse for the ways that he treats other people (which are largely abysmal)

Like, let’s get this out of the way: Slav is not completely ignorant of how the fuck social cues and nuances work, the way that I’ve seen some people try to say of him in fandom. He picks up on them pretty well, actually, and he figures out exactly why Lance mistook Laika for Slav when Lance had spent however long with her, only hearing her go, “YUP!!” and didn’t put two and two together

So, it stands to reason that Slav KNOWS what he is doing and KNOWS how to act in ways that DON’T make everyone get pissed off at him — but he CHOOSES NOT TO ACT LIKE THAT. Instead, he CHOOSES to act like a big bag of dicks and make everyone else do things his way, even when his way is obstructive as Hell and slows everything down

And let’s be real: Shiro had to all but bodily drag him out of Beta Traz, even going, “Hey man, we’re working with the Blade of Marmora to take down Zarkon, we need you” didn’t get him up and at’em at first, and Slav fought Shiro about everything, every step of the way.

Consider this: Slav fought to stay somewhere that he was constantly tortured and pumped for information that would be used against and used to oppress the people of the entire known universe because he was so completely certain (despite acknowledging, when it’s convenient for him, that there are infinite possibilities and things could always go in so many different ways) that fighting Zarkon was a lost cause and didn’t want to be bothered. He is so certain that he is going to die that he doesn’t even want to TRY (“Oh noooo, even worse. In 98-and-three-one-hundredths of a percent of realities with a prison break, I DIE.”)

When Shiro shows up to break him out, he tries appealing to Slav as a potential rescuer (”I’m here to rescue you, I’m a paladin of Voltron”).

That fails, so he tries appealing to Slav out of some belief that Slav might care about the life and freedom of the peoples of the known universe (“What? We’re finally going to stop Zarkon. We have the Olkari and the Blade of Marmora on our side. But without you, we can’t do it.”)

Slav only finally relents because the Blue Lion can emit a frequency that falls within his lucky range of terahertz — and even then, he fights Shiro every step of the way, about absolutely everything

While Shiro is, y’know, putting himself on the line and risking death to save this asshole who he just met and doesn’t even know for sure can help (—which, yeah. Ulaz is trustworthy and Shiro cares about him, and Kolivan clearly backs up his recommendation if saving Slav is so necessary to the plan. But Shiro is still going on hearsay rather than direct evidence, and he doesn’t really have a choice on that, but still. He is risking his life for an asshole who might not even be all he’s cracked up to be, because Shiro believes that Slav is necessary to take down Zarkon)

And then Slav gets going with the, “YOUR ROBOT ARM IS FANTASTIC DON’T YOU WANT TWO OF THEM” shit

Just. Oh my god. I get it, he doesn’t know how Shiro came to have that arm, but COME ON. It’s understandable that Shiro might not appreciate that shit, and Slav is so flippant about it because thinking about other people’s perspectives or experiences is not a thing that he cares about doing

AND THIS! IS!! AN INTERESTING!!! CHARACTER!!! (to me)

Slav is interesting because he’s an asshole. He’s someone you would only put up with if you needed him, because he uses his intelligence to make himself totally necessary and uses his legitimate problems to generate enough fucking sympathy that people feel bad about trying to argue with him

It isn’t even entirely the fandom’s fault when we mischaracterize him, because Show treats all of this as funny — and okay, yes, I laughed at some of it as much as anyone else did because Josh and Iqbal Theba sold it with their voice acting — but if you take a closer look at what Slav does and how it affects the people around him, literally none of this is fucking funny

And he clearly has the potential to NOT BE THIS GUY, because Mirror!Slav is a badass. Yeah, he still talks out his ass about alternate realities — and apparently he does it enough for Sven to be Exasperated by it, but Mirror!Slav puts himself on the line to save other people (both when he tries to help the Paladins and in general, as a member of the Guns of Gamara)

Mirror!Slav LISTENS to people — like, yeah, he’s all, “None of you have ever rescued me from any goddamn place” but in that particular scene, he isn’t exactly acting in a way I’d call unreasonable. He and Sven just wandered into five armed, unknown combatants who started babbling about Sven being some dude called Shiro AND one of them is Altean, when the Mirror!Alteans are an evil empire (and she’s the spitting image of their evil empress from 10,000 years ago)

But then, when push shoves, he listens to what they’re saying and makes the same, “OH GOSH YOU’RE FROM AN ALTERNATE REALITY” conclusion as Pidge, and HE CHOOSES TO TRUST THEM. Sven is the one going, “dude are you sure about this, it’s dangerous” while Mirror!Slav is all, “If they’re really my friends from an alternate reality, they are probably cool people and we can probably trust them, now let’s go fuck shit up for the cause of galactic freedom”

Mirror!Slav tells the paladins to get the Hell out of dodge while he patches Sven up when Slav Prime is That Asshole who, after the big fight with Zarkon when they have no idea if Shiro and Allura are going to be okay, is all, “IT’S COOL GUYS, I’M OKAY” (“Oh great, Slav made it” — Lance, being 5,000% Done and rightfully so).

Slav Prime is also the one who refuses to let Shiro step on a crack because of some infinitesimally small chance that it MIGHT break his mother’s back IN SOME FUCKING REALITY — NOT EVEN THE PRIME REALITY SPECIFICALLY, BUT IN SOME REALITY. And the one who refuses to go on one of Shiro’s alternate escape routes because you can hear the water running — it isn’t even running into the escape hatch, there is no direct risk of drowning, but OH MAN you can HEAR the water running!!! and Slav is afraid of drowning

Thing is? I get it. Triggers suck. I have triggers of my own. I have dealt with panic attacks, OCD, intrusive thoughts, and so many other things that the fandom likes to attribute to Slav (whether there’s a good case for that in canon or not) — but when it comes to triggers? Sometimes, they are unavoidable and you have to deal with them, and yes, it fucking sucks, but you CAN do it.

An example of a moment when enduring the triggering material and dealing with it would be helpful? When the fate of the entire known universe is on the line and you are obstructing the fight for freedom and peace by being a difficult, egocentric asshole who expects everyone else to cater to you

This is basically where my characterization of Slav in the latest chapter of my fic came from. In my AU, he’s…… well. A difficult, egocentric asshole who gets annoyed when people don’t give him what he wants because Fuck You He Is A Genius, Y’all Just Can’t Keep Up, and he wants Shiro to be his friend because he actually acknowledges that Shiro is kind of a genius in his own right, but Slav just…… Doesn’t Understand

(Read: CHOOSES NOT TO UNDERSTAND)

[this is where @dratiniquest chimed in to say that my take on Slav is kind of like the fusion of Rick Sanchez and Sheldon Cooper]

He doesn’t/chooses not to understand why Shiro doesn’t agree with a life philosophy that basically boils down to, “I am a genius, therefore I should get what the fuck I want, when I want it, and everyone should just agree with me unless I acknowledge their genius, everyone else is too small-minded to keep up”

He also doesn’t get why Shiro…… has no desire for “greatness,” like?? You are a genius, Takashi. It is so rare that Slav acknowledges this for other people, so you are pretty amazing. Why don’t you want to do great things

Shiro: “……Because I already tried doing that out of loyalty to the grandfather I was named after, and it made me miserable and eventually suicidal (whether actively or not), helped me develop an eating disorder, kept me in an abusive relationship that almost killed me more than once, and landed me in rehab for alcohol and opiates at twenty-three. Greatness is overrated”

Shiro: “I just want to make my music, stay sober, keep not hurting myself, maintain the relationships I care about, and someday, wake up next to the guy I love and be able to genuinely mean it when I tell him, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is’”

Slav: “……………freaking weirdo”

Also belatedly: yes, Slav kind of is a fusion of Sheldon and Rick, like. He’s a Fluorite level fusion. Sheldon, Rick, Slav Prime from canon, a little bit of Mirror!Slav, and my conspiracy theorist father.

[and then the conversation kinda turned to yelling about how Sven is fine because he got to the space hospital and anyway, the point is that Slav is really interesting in canon, but oh my god, the majority of fanon!Slav is nothing like how Slav acts in canon]

[yellowocaballero]

FIC MASTER POST

I write a lot of AUs, and also just in general. A lot of it is too short, bad, or weird for AO3, so I post them here. For ease of access, I'll put links to every short story here. Those that belong to a greater AU will be sorted under the AU. Miscellanea will be posted just under the fandom. They will be ordered in a mix of size and chronology.

4-26-22 EDIT: I changed my URL, so I changed the links to suit the new URL. If I missed anything and any of the links are still broken, please let me know so I can fix it!

Fic under the cut.

MARVEL

Best Life

A pseudo fusion of the MCU, 1970s-80s Marvel Comics, and completely made up backstories. Exclusively utilizes the lamest superheroes I could find, including Moon Knight.

AO3 Fics [Starring Moon Knight]:

Mens Rea

Good Luck, Jake!

and Letter Column, an AO3 collection of the side stories listed below and more.

Side Stories [Starring other lame people, and sometimes Moon Knight being lame again]:

Dr. Strange Works Retail and Peter Parker Makes a Multiversal Mistake

Ghost Rider visits the Hell DMV

Colleen Wing and the Immortal Iron Fist Participate In A Cultural Exchange Program During The Weirdest Spring Break Ever

Moon Knight: Marc & Steven Meet Jake; Realize Youngest Siblings Are The Worst

Worldbuilding Notes & Meta

Matt Murdock: Ninja Union Organizer & Normal Guy

Assorted Marvel AUs

Moon Knight AU where Jake's the worst teenager you've met in your life; Jake Plays Minecraft, Marc’s a Wine Mom, and Frenchie & Layla Meet a Serial Killer

And companion piece Jake Stays Up Past His Bedtime, Meets His Contemporaries, and Wants a Dog So Fucking Bad.

STAR WARS

Roleswap AU

Roleswap AU set from the Clone Wars era to three years after ROTS. Family is found and lost. Children grow up and become angsty teenagers. Badly parented children become bad parents. Child soldiers become pirates. Local kitten adopted by pack of wolves thinks it's a wolf.

AKA: Rogue Jedi, Rogue Queen, and Rogue Clone go on a space adventure to rescue a dad, cry instead.

AO3 Fics:

Reel to Reel

Less Than Zero

SIDE STORIES:

Cody POV Interquel of Less Than Zero

Obligatory Canon Crossover

Mandalorian Crossover

Book of Boba Fett Crossover

[REDACTED] POV of Clone Liberation

NO CHIP AU: An extensive detail of situations in which, hypothetically, many people would be very bad parents.

Order 66: More Like A Suggestion This Time

Bly: The Perfect Boyfriend?

MORE than Zero?

Torture Adventures of Rex, Supernanny

SW:Rebels Depa Bilaba vs. Cartoon Villain Cody

Fox Takes A Really Nice Nap and what Mace Windu does during the nap

Rex, Padme, and Ahsoka's zany family hijinks

REALLY COOL SHIT THAT OTHER PEOPLE DID THAT I LIKE A LOT

@bobafett's Interquel Outsider POV

@nirelaz SUPER DOPE fanart of Ben & Blanche and another one!

OTHER STAR WARS

Boba Fett's childhood existential crisis

Fox & Leia's Holiday Special - this one is a less depressing AU of my other work Twilight on Owl Creek Bridge.

Obi-Wan is a depressed teen dad

Fishhooks (Jango Fett obtains a mail-order child, regrets it highly when child adopts two million clones)

AOTC Continuation of Fishhooks, just to make Obi-Wan Kenobi confused and miserable

THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES

(oh boy...)

WEB!JON AU

AO3 FICS:

Sucker's Bet

The technical nonsense that started this don't worry about it

SIDE STORIES:

Web!Jon roleplays canon Jon with mixed results

He's Just Not That Into You: Martin & Jon (this one is a sort of pilot to Sucker's Bet, it's not canon)

Not Your Queer-Coded Disney Villain: Annabelle & Jon

Desolation Destroyed My P----: Gertrude & Jon

THE CROW'S FUNERAL AU

Jon gets involved in local politics, regrets it

AU of AU Where Martin prevents the story from happening

Prequel: How Agnes, Gerry, and Jon met

HUMAN RELATIONS AU

Jon and Sasha versus Bad Telenovelas

Semi-Sequel, Never Completed

Jon and Tim versus the Internet

Jon and Jonah versus the Sixties

ROLESWAP AU:

People are bullied. Nobody does any work. Lesbians flourish. And, since being trapped in an infernal contract with a fear demon means that nobody can get ahead, everybody gets even.

Podfic of the entire series by @stonesfromglasshouses

Fear Demon Intern Michael Does Michael Things

Crossover With Canon

OTHER TMA:

Jon's Trapped In Temporal Time Out: A TMA Time-Travelling Tale

Fandom History: pleasedontaskpleasedontask

American AU: PLEASE don't ask

A short post-canon story of Bell, Book, and Candle & No Sin But Ignorance: Daisy Crashes A Date, Fuck You

NARUTO

Most demented roleswap feat. the worst decisions Obito has ever made

Uchiha Family Values

Sasuke and Obito's Post-Massacre Bonding Hour

Kakashi’s a wifeguy, Rin’s a Girlboss, and Itachi gets adopted

FIRE EMBLEM: THREE HOUSES

WEEKENDERS (AKA BYLETH'S CHILD CULT):

AO3 Fic:

Weekenders

SIDE STORIES:

Byleth gets turned into a cat; Felix causes problems on purpose

Byleth and Three Houses Search for Rat People

Worldbuilding Notes & Meta

OC lore and snippet don't look at me

Dimitri and mental illness

OTHER FE3H:

Ashen Wolf Byleth & Teen Dad Yuri

MISCELLANEOUS FANDOMS

Percy Jackson: Percy Jackson meets a Landlord, a Tax Accountant, and a Tree Growing in Brooklyn

Loki: Loki Suffers His Own Personal Hell and Participates in Game Shows

New Wave: Jason Todd vs. Annoyingly Perfect Cheerleader Barbie Stephanie Brown

Omniscent Reader's Viewpoint: YJH Commits the Improbable and Reads a Webnovel

Transcendence AU Nostalgia

This is MY Hero Academia

Chicken on a Raft: Chicken on a Raft

[toomuchofabastard]

O Unhappy Dagger

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: T for violence and language

Warnings: Major Character Death, tragedy, violence, mind control, implied suicide, bonus happy ending available in linked post

Word count: 3,711 (+ 760)

Fic Summary: Crowley should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

This is my fic for @darkomenszine Vol 1! Vol 2 will be available soon if Good Omens darkfic is your thing 😈

READ ON AO3

___

The sign on the door of the bookshop read ‘closed’, but that didn’t stop Crowley.

Of course, it wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but this time was different. Rather than sauntering up to the threshold with a subtle spring in his step and a ready grin for his angel, Crowley’s heart pounded with terror as he approached the entrance to A. Z. Fell & Co. He felt as though some phantom hand had a grip around his throat, applying a pressure so crushing that he couldn’t speak and could barely breathe. What breaths he could draw were rapid with panic. His footsteps rang out against the flagstones as he strode forward – except that they weren’t his footsteps. Oh, it was his body, drawing closer and closer to the familiar doorway. But Hell’s footsteps. Hell’s oppressive malice invading every corner of his mind, and Hell making him grip the object behind his back so tightly that his knuckles hurt.

He should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

Tucked behind him, the flames continued to burn. Gripped in his hand back there was a dagger, a dark, cruel-looking thing, not just viciously sharp on its own, but also wreathed in infernal flame. The billows were gnawing away at his back, leaving his rather expensive jacket charred and ragged – not that Hell would give a blessèd fuck about that. In this moment, he didn’t either. There was only a single, dreadful thought clawing at his brain.

Infernal flame could be meant for only one thing. Aziraphale. The only thing that could kill an angel.

Crowley shuddered inwardly with revulsion at the thought. He could actually feel Hell’s evil intent coursing through him, as he ascended the steps and watched his own hand reach for the door handle. Hell’s control had overtaken him so suddenly that he hadn’t even had a chance to fight back. He kept trying to, struggling with every fibre of his being, but to no avail. He could hardly even feel his own corporation, let alone exert control, and seeing it moving against his will was intensely disturbing – violating, even. It was Hell’s way of proving that they could take whatever they wanted from him, just use him as their puppet and then discard him. It made him want to scream, but he couldn’t even do that. He felt himself push the door handle down.

Crowley stepped through the threshold and into the quiet of the bookshop. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the cosy dimness, but then the mountains and spires of books and papers revealed themselves.

Aziraphale stood in the hollow underneath the eastern archway, facing away from Crowley. He looked completely in his element, humming distractedly to himself as he leafed through some old volume. He turned as he heard Crowley shutting the door behind himself.

“Crowley!”

The angel beamed at him, and suddenly the whole room seemed lit up from within, like the sun itself had appeared in their midst. For a brief second, the panic and revulsion in Crowley’s chest was forgotten as the luminosity of Aziraphale’s smile dazzled him. That smile – especially when meant for him – never failed to take his breath away.

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted downwards as he noticed Crowley’s hand tucked behind his back, and the angel’s eyes twinkled, creases forming at their corners as his smile grew even wider. Crowley’s heart lurched again, and the panic returned. He guessed Aziraphale was probably anticipating another box of chocolates, or a nice bottle of wine for them both to share – the sort of surprise Crowley might often reveal with a sly smile, to be met by a paroxysm of delighted wiggles. He was painfully aware of how unlikely it was that Aziraphale would ever even suspect that what was really hidden there was not a doting treat, but a weapon of evil, meant specifically for him.

At his back, the flames had scorched their way through both layers of his jacket and shirt, and were beginning to lick painlessly against the bare skin along his spine. They didn’t leave any marks. Infernal flame could glance off of his corporation just like beads of water off a duck’s back – the perks of being demonic in nature – but Crowley knew it would be devastating to angelic flesh. That knowledge terrified him.

He felt his body start to slink loosely across the room towards the angel, the disobedient muscles and sinews of his legs dragging him involuntarily closer and closer. Run, angel! He tried to scream at Aziraphale, but the words choked in his throat, only echoing emptily inside his mind. His heart was clenched so tight with dread as he approached that he could swear it was no longer beating. Not that Hell needed it to be. Apparently they could twist and use his unwilling body however they liked now, whether it was still functioning or not.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows creased into a puzzled frown as Crowley moved nearer, the smile freezing slightly on his face. The real Crowley would have said something by now, or revealed the gift, or at least returned a crooked grin, rather than the blank expression he could feel was fixed on his face. He was almost surprised the angel couldn’t smell the burning coming from his clothes, but it seemed Aziraphale had eyes only for him.

“What’s wrong, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley drew near to him, a light note of concern in his voice.

Angel, it’s not me, Crowley responded desperately inside his head. He felt himself step close. Please run. Please get away from me. Aziraphale stayed where he was. Why wouldn’t he? His trust in Crowley had always been complete, whether Crowley felt he deserved that or not.

Behind his back, Crowley’s fingers flexed on the grip of the dagger and began to draw it out from its hiding place. No no no, Crowley thought. Don’t make me do this. He fought again to regain control of his own arm, but could only watch as it rose menacingly of its own accord.

“Crowley–?” Aziraphale began, sounding shocked, and he was suddenly cut off as Crowley slashed the blade forwards towards his neck.

The chorus of screams in Crowley’s head crescendoed. No!

Aziraphale stumbled backwards out of range – thank Satan – but Crowley found himself quickly attacking again, this time trying for a low, plunging blow to the angel’s stomach. Aziraphale managed to squirm out of the way and the knife sliced instead through the back of his coat, only missing his skin by a hair’s breadth. The acrid stench of burning filled Crowley’s nose again.

“Crowley! What are you doing?” Aziraphale’s voice was aghast as he tried to retreat from Crowley’s oncoming assault. Panic and confusion contorted his face, and he held his hands up in front of him, as if in surrender. “S–Stop!”

Crowley wanted nothing more, but apparently the powers controlling him weren’t going to take that for an answer. The awful marionette of his body continued its relentless advance, numb to his attempts to reassert control, as he pursued the angel speechlessly around the bookshop. He could barely sense anything except for the throbbing echo of his heart as it hammered inside him, and the all-encompassing reek of fire and burning and smoke. That smell sent him almost blind with fear as his worst associations with it invaded his mind. Burning, burning; everything burning. The bookshop was burning, and Aziraphale was lost forever. The world was ending, the ground shaking itself apart, flames spilling up from the cracks. Plummeting downwards through wings of fire. Visions of what infernal flame could do to flesh, the screaming and the sizzling… His own screams reverberated inside his skull.

Aziraphale continued to back away from him, dodging or shrinking from each attack, but Crowley knew – and Aziraphale must also – that he couldn’t evade forever.

He’d never seen Aziraphale look so afraid of him. It was horrific. Just as much as with terror, the angel’s gleaming eyes were wide with disbelief, desperately searching Crowley’s for understanding as he was backed into a corner, clearly unable to conceive that Crowley could do this to him. Even if he could have got them out, Crowley didn’t have the words to reassure him.

The blade in his hand swung up again and speared downwards towards Aziraphale’s face. This time, Aziraphale was able to grab Crowley’s wrist and stop its path, though the point hovered fearfully close to his tearful eyes. Crowley felt the angel’s considerable strength pushing back against him, but the determination he was being filled with was enough to match him. They grappled for a moment.

“Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale begged, his voice cracking with a sob. “Please, I–I don’t want to hurt you!”

Oh fuck, hurt me, angel, Crowley thought, do whatever, just don’t let me–!

His pleas were interrupted as his traitorous body shoved Aziraphale roughly away, freeing himself from the angel’s grip. Aziraphale staggered backwards, and then tripped on the corner of a stack of books and fell down heavily onto his backside. Crowley advanced. Aziraphale still held his hands up in front of him, the heels of his oxfords scraping vainly against the floorboards as he kept trying to shuffle away. Tears were running like dewdrops down his cheeks.

Crowley lunged down onto him and thrust the knife at his breast. Aziraphale caught it again and they struggled against each other, Crowley pressing his whole weight down as the tip hovered perilously above the angel’s chest. The flames from the blade flowed up Crowley’s straining arms until he could feel them licking monstrously at the edges of his cheekbones. His teeth were gritted together. Then, underneath the flicker of the flames, he began to feel a hum vibrating up through him from where Aziraphale’s hands gripped his wrists. His heart pounded harder as he recognised the feeling of divine power – the angel’s – flowing out from the place where they were connected and fusing into him. It stung, but it wasn’t enough yet to smite him – although if Aziraphale kept pressing, he knew it would be.

“Please,” Aziraphale whispered at him. He stared up, distraught, into Crowley’s eyes. Crowley could feel him holding back the full surge of what he was capable of.

Do it, angel!, he tried to yell. Goddammit, just do it!

I’d rather be dead than spill a drop of your blood anyway.

The knife-point inched dangerously closer to the angel’s chest. Aziraphale let out another sob, but his grip on Crowley’s wrists tightened, and then his watery blue irises slowly vanished as brilliant light began to pour out of his eyes.

Crowley felt the light build inside him; scorching hot and bitingly cold at the same time, blinding white. It hurt – fuck, it hurt – but the immense feeling of relief overwhelmed the pain. Hell’s power was ebbing away, banished back into the darkness and out of his body as the light invaded. It was going to be ok. Well, he was going to die now, or whatever the equivalent process was for demons, but that was ok. Dying at Aziraphale’s hands – and in order to protect him, even if from himself – wasn’t such a bad way to go.

Suddenly, an inhuman snarl cut through his thoughts. It took Crowley a moment to realise that it had come from somewhere inside of him. Aziraphale jolted with surprise at the sound and the light wavered for an instant. It was all Hell needed.

With fiery fury, Hell’s control rushed back into Crowley, throwing him almost into a spasm as it gripped his body again. His blood seemed to ignite as it ripped through him. As his mouth opened in a silent scream, the blade in his hands dropped downwards and pierced through the angel’s breast.

No.

A gurgled cry slipped from Aziraphale’s throat, and his eyes widened in shock, his grip on Crowley’s arm clenching.

No.

As quickly as Hell’s power had overtaken Crowley, it vanished, leaving him empty. Crowley thought he could hear a triumphant laugh echo in his head as it fled.

No.

The blinding light faded away from Aziraphale’s eyes, revealing again his blue irises; full of pain, the only light in them now the glimmer of his tears and the reflection of the cursed flames burning in his chest.

For a few moments, Crowley, petrified with shock, could only return his stare. Then suddenly, his senses rushed back to him and he noticed his hands still gripping the fiery blade which was buried in his angel’s body. He hastily ripped it out – causing Aziraphale to let out another strangled cry – and flung it aside.

“Oh shit,” he gasped, scrambling over to cradle Aziraphale in his arms. The angel jerked away as Crowley lifted him into his lap, though whether from the pain of the movement or from fear of him, Crowley didn’t know. He pulled Aziraphale close and cradled his head to him, one hand in the back of his blonde curls. Aziraphale gazed up at him, his expression heartbroken and disbelieving, as he tried to gasp for breath.

“Angel!” Crowley began, finally able to use his voice again. “Angel, I–I didn’t mean to– it–it wasn’t me, I didn’t–… oh, fuck.” His free hand fumbled aimlessly around the wound in Aziraphale’s chest, as if trying to close it up. Golden blood quickly coated his palm and smeared messily across Aziraphale’s waistcoat, but worse was the infernal glow that smouldered at the edges of the wound, slowly infecting its way into the angel’s being. Deep down, Crowley knew that the damage was already done. God, how could he have done this?

“I’m sorry,” he gasped at Aziraphale. “I’m so sorry. It–it wasn’t me!” He didn’t know how else to explain it. “Hell, they– I– … I’m so sorry, angel.”

Slowly, a flush of understanding dawned in Aziraphale’s eyes, and the horror faded, but then they quickly scrunched closed, his face twisting as another spasm of pain convulsed through him. Crowley could only hold him close until it had passed.

Aziraphale coughed weakly and his eyes opened again. “It–it’s alright,” he stuttered, and then reached a trembling hand up to caress the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley’s heart flipped as the angel’s fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek. “Crowley…” Aziraphale murmured. His voice was already growing distant, the light in his eyes beginning to dim.

“No, sshsssh, don’t… don’t try to talk,” Crowley gulped, absently stroking the angel’s forehead. He clasped Aziraphale’s hand in his and squeezed it tight. “It’s ok. It’s gonna be ok, just– just hold on, yeah?”

Would it? His heart pounding in his chest knew otherwise, and Aziraphale didn’t look fooled either.

The angel was suddenly seized with another fit of agony, and this time a few tiny shining flecks of blood appeared on his lips as he coughed and spluttered. A poorly-stifled groan left his mouth between the wheezing breaths.

Crowley cast his eyes around the room desperately as Aziraphale writhed in his arms, distractedly pressing the angel’s knuckles to his lips and rubbing his fingers with his thumb, as if that would do anything to ease his pain. There was a hole ripped in his chest, burning him up from the inside. Shitshitshit. There had to be something he could do. He could fix this. Somehow. He had to. Come on! He couldn’t lose him like this.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice drifted weakly up to him again. Crowley looked down and met his watery gaze. Despite the pain, a look of peace seemed to settle on the angel’s face. A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth and his eyes, fixed on Crowley, shone with affection, even as they dimmed further.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered tenderly up at him.

“No, angel, don’t say that,” Crowley hissed back. He didn’t like how final that sounded. “H–hold on, come on, you have to stay with me.” He shifted and clutched the angel closer.

Aziraphale blinked up at him like he hadn’t even heard. Then his face darkened as if in thought, his brow creasing briefly into a frown and his concerned gaze scanning Crowley’s face, before he spoke again.

“I forgive you.”

His voice, though shaky, was earnest and meaningful, full of empathy. A single tear overflowed from his eyes and slid down his still-smiling cheek.

Crowley could only shake his head, mouthing wordless no’s at the angel. He faintly felt matching tears streaming down his own face. Damn him. Dying in his arms, and he was still the one trying to offer comfort. Blessed, perceptive bastard. He knows I’ll always blame myself for this.

Even as Aziraphale’s eyes remained fixed on him, Crowley could see the focus in them wavering, dwindling away. The interval between each gasped breath the angel tried to draw in was growing longer. A precious few seconds seemed to pass like an entire lifetime, and then the gasps stopped altogether, and the light inside him finally faded away into nothing. Aziraphale went still.

“No, please,” Crowley begged. “Stay with me, angel.” Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“Come on! Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled, and shook him angrily, panting with the desperation for a response. Aziraphale’s body lolled limply. Crowley stared at the angel’s sightless eyes and something within him seemed to collapse, the anger fleeing as a wave of grief came crashing, tearing through him.

“Don’t go,” he whimpered, clasping at the side of Aziraphale’s face. His voice shook and he felt his lower lip begin to tremble uncontrollably. “Please don’t go.”

It’s too late. Crowley’s face screwed up with pain as the thought broke upon him, and he found himself crumpling, pressing his forehead close to the angel’s as choked sobs began to wrack his body. “Don’t leave me,” he snivelled quietly into him. No.

“Please!” He suddenly jolted upright and screamed up at the sky in anguish. “Don’t–…” He choked again, staring at the ceiling. Then he looked back down at Aziraphale’s body, slumped loosely in his arms, and his voice became terribly small, almost child-like. “Please don’t take him from me.”

Whatever reply he had been hoping for, none came. The bookshop was almost eerily silent around him, no sound but his own breaths echoing throughout the now empty and cold-seeming space. No one was listening to his calls, as ever. He was abandoned, cast out. There was only one person who had ever truly cared for him, and now… They’d made him kill the only person he’d ever… ever…

His eyes ran compulsively up and down the angel’s body and face again. He felt himself trembling and starting to hyperventilate, and a grief like something inside him was shattering, as he finally collapsed into Aziraphale, burying his face in his chest, and howled. He clutched brokenly at him, rocking himself through the pain, and squeezing so tight it was like he was trying to merge the angel into his own being. Wrenching, wretched sobs forced their way out of him, muffled by the angel’s breast, his whole body convulsing with the strain, and along with the cries came whimpered fragments of words; pleases and no’s and angels that tumbled feebly out of him. He had no other words left to say. He just wept – pressing his body against Aziraphale’s, with his hands gripping him close and his face burrowed into the side of his neck – until he could cry no more. And then he stayed that way for a long time.

◥|⧗|◤

Some weeks later, a dove managed to find its way into the bookshop – probably through an open window left forgotten – and flitted about in the upstairs rafters.

The fluttering of wings was enough to stir Crowley from his stupor. His closed eyelids slid sluggishly open, revealing serpentine irises dull with pain. He lay, unmoving, for several minutes on top of Aziraphale’s body. In his mind, he was trying to muster up something to think, but the grief was so crushing that it was as though all conscious thought had just been bled out of him into the dirt. He was nothing but pain.

Eventually, he slowly lifted his head and looked once more at Aziraphale’s face. In the time they’d lain there, a fine layer of dust had settled across the room, coating the angel’s body as well as his own. Aziraphale’s glazed eyes were shrouded underneath its grey film, staring up at the ceiling. It hurt to see.

It was just the husk, Crowley told himself. Only his Earthly corporation. Everything that had been his angel was long gone.

It still hurt.

Achingly, Crowley peeled himself off of Aziraphale and lurched to his knees. Looking down, he noticed the smears of golden blood – now dried to peeling flakes – all across his necktie, jacket and sleeves, mirroring the angel’s chest. His hands itched with it too. There wouldn’t be enough water in the world to wipe the feeling away.

He still had some holy water somewhere.

The thought registered suddenly, without prompting, and without emotion. Oh. Yeah. His ‘exit solution’. A way out… and maybe a way back to him.

Crowley considered that. It could be that there was no life after death for their kind, only emptiness and nothingness, but he realised that he didn’t much care either way anymore. He had a penance to pay. And he was ready to join Aziraphale, in whatever lay beyond. He nodded to himself. Yes. He’d made him wait long enough already.

Still feeling empty inside, he bent down close over Aziraphale.

“I’m coming, angel,” he whispered to him, his voice hoarse. “Wherever you are… I’m coming to you.”

He placed one final, soft-lipped, lingering kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. He paused against him for one final moment, eyes closed, taking shaky but even breaths. Then he straightened, and rose, and then turned and headed off, in search of a tartan thermos.

◥|⧗|◤

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Need a happy ending? No prob, check out the bonus one here [tumblr link]. 💙

[thejollyroger-writer]

Heart and Soul - Part 2

SUMMARY: Private music teacher Killian Jones wakes one morning to the sound of his ten year old neighbor playing the bane of his existence: the recorder. In order to keep his sanity, he offers to teach Henry to play any other instrument – though partially because it means he gets to spend more time with Henry’s mother, Emma Swan.

READ PART ONE: ao3 // tumblr // // PART TWO ON AO3

TW: mentions of alcoholism, abusive parents, backstory that goes a little deeper than necessary -- you know, the things I do best, apparently.

a/n: This fic was inspired by waking up one morning over the summer to hear my neighbor playing the trumpet – though, thankfully, Sam is a much better musician than a beginner recorder-player. I complained about it on discord, and bam! this story appeared, a joint effort between myself and Meredith (@captainsjedi​) . Even though she was unable to help me finish it because of her busy work schedule, her ideas are riddled through the story, not to mention the incredible art she made for it.

Thanks to @csconcertseries​ and @clockadile​, who gave me a reason to finish this story! It feels really good to actually finish something that I’ve been working on in the midst of the chaos of the world right now, so even though the event was a month ago, I’m still super thankful for the opportunity. 

-- -- --

Waking up to a message from Tink Greene on an October Thursday morning is one of the last things he expected, not having spoken to her besides the friendly neighborhood hellos since he broke off their dalliance the previous spring. 

The contents of the message are even more of a surprise: 

I've been hearing Henry Swan play in one of the practice rooms, and I think he would make a great addition to our student showcase for the Winter concert. He told me you've been teaching him, which explains a lot. Do you think you and he could work together on something by the beginning of December for him to play? 

Of course, the first thing he wants to do is share the news with Emma. He should probably shower first. And maybe actually answer Tink. 

I think that’s a grand idea. Henry has shown more growth than some of my adult students. Could you get me a song in the next week or so? 

Her response comes rather quickly, given the original message was from two hours before, but he imagines there’s not much for the elementary music teacher to do all day. I’m thinking either First Noel or Hark the Herald Angels. It depends on which the recorder students are better at. He also may play it with a beginner violin student, Violet, who’s doing exceptionally well. I think he knows her. 

He wonders if this is the same Violet from his soccer team, the one the boy has brought up a few times in conversation — but Tink doesn’t need to know that. Hell, he probably shouldn’t even know that, though he’s thankful that Henry trusts him enough to update him on his life during their lessons or some of the nights Killian finds himself staying for dinner. 

But he still needs a response. Thanks again for those recorder students, by the way. I turned down a whole dozen of them within the first two weeks of school, the infernal instrument. 

When Tink only responds with a few emojis — he tosses his phone back on the bed and pulls himself up, wondering if he is too late to meet Emma for her morning run. 

So he texts her. Because that’s something they’re doing now, after her inviting him to some of Henry’s games and his joining them for dinner most nights after Henry’s lessons. It wouldn’t even be the first time she has allowed him to join her on her morning run, invited him into her place of safety and security. 

(He would like to think of himself as a relatively fit human, but even he will admit that three miles, Emma’s regular distance, is a little much for him to start with, though he has been working on it more and more.) 

Is it too late for me to join in on the day’s physical activities?  

Even he is surprised by the pounding of his heart in his chest as he rummages through his drawers to try to find his athletic shorts, waiting for her answer, hoping for a positive. 

The soft ding of her response almost causes him to jump out of his skin. Just getting ready to go, actually. I’ll meet you outside? 

Perfect, is all he needs to say, splashing some cold water in his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t even realize the strong grip he has on the edge of the sink until he lets go to reach for his toothbrush. 

“Christ, Killian,” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head as he runs his toothbrush under the water. It’s only a run.

But his nerves don’t disappear. If anything, they only grow exponentially, and by the time he meets her on the sidewalk outside her house, he is almost shaking from the adrenaline. 

Good thing they’re going for a run, exerting this pent-up energy. He may even be able to keep up with her the whole time. 

He spends the first block trying to figure out how to bring up his exciting news. And the second. But when she starts to slow down, asks him how his week has gone, he can’t keep it in any longer. 

“Henry’s music teacher asked me this morning if I thought he should perform in the winter showcase.” 

He can sense her excitement almost immediately, even before she slows to a stop, wiping the smooth sheen of sweat off her forehead with the bottom of her t-shirt before turning to him, the smile on her face making the physical exertion worth it. “And?”

“Of course I agreed. I know I’ve told you before, love, but your son is a very talented musician.” 

She is still for a moment, looking somewhere over his shoulder, before she nods, gesturing for them to continue. “So, what, would it be a solo? Or would he be playing something with you?” 

“Actually, Tink mentioned asking one of the girls in his class to play with him. A violinist, I think.” 

“I wonder if it’s the same girl from his soccer team. He told me they met in orchestra, and I think that’s what she plays.”

“Violet, right? That’s what Tink said”

“Yeah, I think so. He’s got a bit of a crush, if you ask me, but don’t say anything to him about it.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, love.” 

“That’s so exciting, though. The kid deserves some excitement, with all the shit his dad is putting him through.”

At first, Killian isn’t sure that Emma even meant to say it, if they’re at that point in their friendship where she shares things like this with him. 

“You know he’s trying to move away? Something about his dad giving him a job in the city, a corner highrise apartment, a position as a big shot in his company, when Neal can’t even manage to get his child support in on time every month.” 

Now he really doesn’t know what to say — but she continues anyway. 

“I try not to say anything bad about him around Henry, but my god, he just makes it so fucking difficult.” 

Killian can’t help the chuckle that pushes through his lips. “I would assume my mum would have said the same about my father, if she ever had the chance.” 

A moment too late, he realizes that it’s only the second time he’s mentioned his father, the only other being the first time they really talked when they shared lunch in her kitchen. 

She doesn’t answer. He counts the time ticking away by their footsteps on the pavement, by the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

She says nothing. They go almost a full block, slowing only to make sure they’re safe to cross the street. 

He doesn’t know what he did. He doesn’t know what to do. So he just focuses on the pounding of his shoes against the pavement. Left, right, left, right. 

“Sorry, I…” she says finally, the words going nowhere, but he feels the warmth of her fingers around his wrist, pulling him to a stop. “Can we go get lunch? Maybe that little place on Main Street? I know that’s not our regular route, it’s a little far out of the way, but—” 

“Sure, love,” he says, not even needing to hear the rest of what she’s trying to say. Whatever it is, he will give her the time she needs to tell him — but there are more appropriate places for these sorts of conversations than on the sidewalk. 

She asks the waitress for a table in the back, further away from the door and the line of regulars sitting at the bar, spending what feels like hours looking over the menu before the waitress returns with their drinks and to take their order. All she orders is a bowl of soup, Killian strangely in the mood for one of their salads, but the silence between them only returns when the waitress leaves their table. 

Killian doesn’t mind, really. She decided that she wanted to tell him something, unlock some of the secrets of her past, which is more than he could have asked for. 

“I was, uh, found outside an orphanage when I was just a few days old.” 

Okay, it’s certainly not what he expected. It’s far more personal than he expected — but she’s telling him, and that’s the important part. 

“I have no idea who my parents are, anything about my family, only that they wanted to name me Emma.” 

Pausing, she takes a deep breath. A sip of her water. Her eyes don’t leave the spot on the table that they’re glued to. 

He doesn’t mind. 

“I was in and out of fosters for most of my childhood, and that’s how I met David. His mother was my last-ditch effort when I was seventeen, and if she didn’t work, I was going to be on my own. But, thankfully, she was an angel on this earth, and I spent a good few years with her, even after I aged out and as I went to college. I still think that’s why I kept coming back to Storybrooke, because it was the only place that felt like home, especially after everything that happened with Neal, except now he wants to leave Henry even more, move hours away to the city and see his own son even less than he does now.” 

Still, Killian stays silent. If he’s honest with himself, he really doesn’t know what to say in the first place, and he gets the feeling that there aren’t very many people who just let Emma talk. 

He will gladly be the one as often as she gives him the opportunity. 

“Does Henry know that he’s trying to leave yet?” 

She scoffs, looking up at him for a moment. Just a moment. 

“I told him he had to be the one to tell Henry, to answer all of his questions. That he wasn’t allowed to just up and leave. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to do it anyway.” 

“I know it might not be want you want to hear, love, but sometimes it’s better for the parent to just up and leave if that’s what they need to do. He’ll still have to get you child support, no matter where he is.” 

“Are you speaking from experience?” 

He doesn’t even know how to read her voice. She doesn’t sound upset, per say, but there’s definitely something much deeper than just curiosity. 

“It’s just what my mother used to say, that we’d probably be better off without him than with him. But I can only hope that Neal is nowhere near the terror that Brennan Jones was.” 

She nods, the very corner of her lips ticking up for just a moment. Says nothing. 

And then it hits him: “Though, I suppose having a terrible dad around is something compared to having no one, no matter how much you may wish he wasn’t there.” 

“Jackpot,” she mumbles. “But as hard as it is to admit, Neal really isn’t a terrible person. He can even be a good dad, when he tries to be, and Henry really looks up to him, which I don’t think he realizes. I just don’t understand how he can choose a job over his own son.” 

“Granted, I don’t have the pleasure of offspring yet, but I would like to believe that I would feel the same as you do.” 

Finally, she smiles. Actually makes eye contact with him. Warms his heart a few degrees. Just as the waitress brings their food. 

Henry practically perfects the song — The First Noel — before Thanksgiving break, a whole three weeks before the concert. Killian even reaches out to Violet’s parents to offer to have them practice together in his studio instead of after hours at the school — or at either of their houses, which is a move that both Emma and Violet’s parents appreciate. 

(Plus, with Henry taking the lead on their rehearsals, it gives him more time to sit in the corner of the studio, talking with Emma.) 

They’ve built up a fine friendship since the first day of school, adding more weekly dinners as a trio, with Killian even joining Emma’s gym to work out with her with the weather getting colder. 

Killian would even go so far as to say Emma and her lad have become a regular part of her life, though he still didn’t expect the day when she asked him out, sitting across the table from her brother and next to her at the Thanksgiving dinner table. 

(What was different about this time? He had been to dinners with them, had spent time alone with Emma, but there was something about this that was different. He would be willing to bet it was the setting, the pressure of the situation.) 

“So, Henry, your mom told me about your solo in the winter concert!” Mary Margaret says excitedly, trying to find a subject that Henry can take part in, since most of Emma and David’s conversation has centered around work. 

Killian turns to the boy, seated at the far end of the table, just in time to watch his face light up in a smile. “Technically, it’s a duet, me and this one girl in my class, Violet —” 

“The one from your soccer team? With the purple streaks in her hair?” David asks, the rest of the table watching Henry’s face turn bright red. 

"Oh!" Mary Margaret practically squeals, which makes every eye at the table turn towards her, which Killian is sure Henry is thankful for — until she continues. “Do you have a crush on her?” 

Henry sighs, his eyes falling back to his plate as his cheeks continue to turn as red as his shirt. Instead of answering Mary Margaret’s question, he says, “You know, I never understood why that’s what they call it.” His voice is small, incredibly embarrassed, as he swirls his fork around his pile of mashed potatoes. “Why is it a crush?” 

Emma laughs, gently setting her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Aw, come on, you don’t have to embarrass him,” she jokes. 

“Well, then,” David says, setting his fork down on his plate so he can cross his arms across his chest. “Should we talk about your little crush instead?” 

“David!” both Mary Margaret and Emma say at the same time, and Killian can’t keep the heat from rushing to his face. 

Why are you embarrassed, you idiot? he asks himself, trying his best to keep his thoughts off his face. They’re not even talking about you. 

Unless… they are. 

He almost doesn’t allow himself to even think it. Because it’s insane to even assume it. 

And then Emma rolls her eyes. 

Looks at him. 

Pulls her bottom lip up between her teeth. 

Blushes deeper. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

He tries to act like he missed her look, turns his attention down to his plate of food, but he’s sure it doesn’t work. 

“Why can we bring up Henry’s and embarrass the poor boy, but I can’t do the same to my sister?” David asks, a wide grin spread across his face. Without even meaning to, Killian’s gaze rises, meeting David’s from across the table. 

David winks. 

Shit. 

“You’re at least going to his concert together, right?” David asks, the same smirk still covering his features. 

“I mean, we hadn’t really discussed it, but—” Emma starts, but Henry cuts her off: 

“You mean, like a date?”

“No,” both Killian and Emma try at the same time, but it doesn’t work. 

Mary Margaret’s poker face falters, turning into a grin that seems to brighten her already-shining aura. David somehow looks even more smug, though Killian wouldn’t have thought it possible. 

And Emma, whose gaze Killian is very purposefully avoiding, is turning redder by the moment. 

He’s sure he is, too. 

(Because he desperately wants it to be a date.) 

The next three weeks pass in a bit of a blur, between the holiday drunks that Emma has to deal with at the station and the last-minute lessons before recitals and concerts. It feels like the blink of an eye between their conversation at Mary Margaret and David’s thanksgiving dinner and Killian knocking on the door of the Swan’s house, making sure his light blue shirt is tucked into his dark jeans as he waits for someone to let him in. The waistcoat may have been a little more than necessary for an elementary school concert, sure, but there was talk before of Neal taking Henry and some of his friends for ice cream, giving Emma and Killian a chance to go out for dinner together. 

Maybe even like a date, he allows himself to think. 

It’s Emma that opens the door, and when he sees the same red dress that he remembers from last year’s concert, he’s glad he decided to go with the waistcoat — he would have been undoubtedly under-dressed without it. 

Because, damn is she perfect, her golden hair falling softly over her shoulders and her lips a shade of red almost as vibrant as her dress. He tries his best to hide it, but his breath gets trapped in his chest.

She smiles. “Hey.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Killian, speak. He clears his throat. “Uh, hi. Is the lad almost ready?” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Henry yells from just out of Killian’s sight, most likely from around the corner in the living room. 

“How are you feeling, Henry?” Killian asks just as he comes around the corner, the bowtie of his suit unbuttoned but otherwise looking incredibly dapper from his gelled-back hair to the tips of his polished dress shoes. 

He shrugs. “A little nervous, I guess, but that’s normal, right?” 

Killian smiles. “Aye. Completely normal. But I know you’re going to be exceptional.” 

At this, Henry smiles, slipping past Killian and out the front door. “Thanks. Now let’s go!” 

 Emma fiddles with her nails when she’s nervous. This is something Killian learns very quickly, sitting beside her in one of the front rows of the auditorium, especially after having noticed it in the car on the way here. It doesn’t distract him, per se; instead, it gives him something to focus on instead of his own nerves, the shaking of his leg, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“He’s going to do great,” Mary Margaret says from the other side of Emma, probably sensing her nervousness the same way. 

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Emma says, never taking her eyes off of the index finger she is focused on. “I just—” she lets out her breath through pursed lips, turning to look over her shoulder to where Neal is sitting at the end of the row behind them. Killian follows her gaze there, only to watch his attention turn from the cell phone in his hand to the watch on his wrist. “He wants to tell Henry tonight, that he’s accepted his father’s job offer. He leaves at the end of the month, but I told him he wasn’t allowed to ruin Henry’s concert by telling him before it. I can’t really even argue with it, he at least listened to what I told him.” 

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret mutters, setting one of her hands on top of Emma’s, which halts her ability to pick at the skin around her index finger. 

“I’ve always been surprised he stuck around this long in the first place,” David— helpfully— adds, arms crossed over his chest. 

Killian can feel the daggers that Mary Margaret shoots at her husband when she turns to him. 

Emma manages to let out a single, breathy laugh, shaking her head. “You’re right, though, David. I never expected him to stay around after we broke up, so the fact that he’s waited this long is a bit of a miracle.” 

“That’s not going to make it any easier for Henry, though,” Mary Margaret comments. 

Emma just shrugs, but when she goes to respond, the house lights quickly dim to black, the spotlight shining on Belle French, the school librarian and interim principal, standing at the podium. In moments, the entire room is hushed. 

“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” she says, the gooseneck mic only catching the last few words, the auditorium humming with low feedback. “As you all know, we here in Storybrooke love to do all we can to ensure students have the opportunities to practice the arts they choose, and music is at the core of this. Every year, we are proud to hold this showcase for our elementary students, giving them the opportunity to show off their talents to the community, as well as our elementary band and orchestra groups, who have all been practicing regularly since at least the beginning of the year. To open our concert for tonight, we have the elementary orchestra group, led by our music teacher, Miss Tink Greene.” 

The auditorium fills with applause as the spotlight fades away and the curtains open to reveal a stage full of musicians, smiling out at their families and friends in the audience. When Emma turns her attention to Killian out of the corner of her eye, the smile spread across his face conjures one of her own. He looks so proud, with many of the students on the stage students of his own. 

Halfway through the second song, Mary Margaret leans towards Emma, setting her hand on her arm. “I always forget just how awful elementary orchestra concerts are,” she whispers. 

Emma lets out a light laugh, nodding. “Like, I’m glad Henry found something he enjoys doing, don’t get me wrong, but listening to him play a botched song on a piano and listening to a bunch of them play half-tuned violins are two different worlds.” 

“Swan,” Killian whispers, his eyes never leaving the stage, even as he reaches over to set his hand on her arm. “Shush.” 

Even as she rolls her eyes, Emma can’t help but smile at him. But she also can’t help herself from leaning closer to Mary Margaret and whispering, “Killian wants us to stop talking.” 

He doesn’t even try to hide his sigh, but he doesn’t move to respond to her. 

He leaves his hand on her arm, though. 

Neither of them seem to care. Neither of them make a move. 

The second song comes to an end, and they quickly begin the third — the final song, Emma is relieved to hear. 

They’re followed by a blonde girl in a bright red shirt and black slacks, who plays “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” on her cello; a small group of students introduced as the “elementary jazz band” who play a somewhat-recognizable jazzy rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”; and a trio that plays “I Saw Three Ships” in a round on their flute, clarinet, and violin. 

Killian, of course, knows many of them, whispering things like, “Her mother tried to ask me out during one of our lessons,” and “They have the cutest little dog that really likes to lick my legs when they bring it with to pick him up,” when they are introduced. 

(Emma wonders what Killian would say about her if he were whispering to someone else.) 

And then next up is Henry. When the curtain opens, she doesn’t realize that she has changed her grip to holding Killian’s hand in her own — or, at least, one of them moved to hold the hand of the other — until she feels the way he straightens his shoulders, sucks in a breath between his teeth. But when she turns to him, taking her eyes away from her son, getting ready to perform, for just a moment, he meets her eyes. 

Smiles. 

Winks. 

(The bastard.) 

And turns back to the stage. 

She’s glad they’re in a darkened auditorium, because she feels the way her face warms at the realization, hopes that Mary Margaret can’t hear the pounding in her chest that is only silenced when Henry starts to play, Violet playing along with him. 

It’s much better than the sound of the full orchestra, Emma notices almost immediately, or any of the other groups that have played. It at least doesn’t sound like a bunch of screaming, dying animals. 

Just sitting there watching him, she is overwhelmed by a sense of pride, something that washes over her like a wave as his fingers move perfectly across the piano keys. (Sure, it might not be completely perfect, maybe a handful of notes a little off between the two of them, but Emma doesn’t care.) 

Killian turns to her, just slightly, if only because he knows just how bright the smile spread across her face has to be. 

(He’s right.) 

It warms him. It makes his heart pound in his chest, just how happy her happiness makes him. Of course, that’s not the point of taking on dedicated students like Henry, but if one of the perks of being able to share the joy of music with the lad is spending time with (falling absolutely head over heels for) his mother, he will certainly be the last to complain. 

But, in looking over at her, he also happens to glance over her shoulder, where Neal is still sitting at the end of the aisle behind them. 

Not even looking at the stage, his cell phone still in his hand. 

Over the shoulders of Emma and Mary Margaret, David makes eye contact with him, raising one of his eyebrows in question, which Killian only responds to by nodding in Neal’s direction. David turns around, and Killian can tell by the rise and fall of his shoulders that he sighs. When he turns towards Killian again, he rolls his eyes. 

The last group to play is the elementary band, who proves to be much easier on the ears than the orchestra. It’s not very large, just a dozen or so students spread across the three rows of chairs, with three percussionists standing in front of various instruments at the back of the stage. 

And then, after the first song, out come the recorders. 

It appears Emma spoke (thought?) too soon, trying her best not to wince through their rendition of “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas,” thankfully aided by some of the other band members to make it somewhat less terrible — but by a very small margin. 

(Killian, however, does not have the same self-control, and every scrunch of his face is paired with the tightening of his hand, which still happens to be wrapped around Emma’s — though neither of them are complaining.) 

The first words out of Neal’s mouth, while everyone else praises his performance, are, “You ready to get out of here, kid?” 

The question is met with a glare from the rest of the group, all except Henry who just looks confused. 

“Aren’t we taking some of my friends? We have to wait for them.” 

Neal sighs, looking at his watch. “Well, can you rally them together? I have to be up early tomorrow so I don’t want to be out too late.” 

“If you want us to, David and I would be willing to take Henry instead,” Mary Margaret says, her grip on David’s hand tightening to stop him from reacting. 

Henry doesn’t answer, just turns his attention up at Neal, as if waiting to see how he responds. 

He grinds his teeth together. “No, of course I’ll take him, I just — it’s been a long week and I’m a little exhausted.” 

“I’m gonna go find Avery and Violet,” Henry says, obviously a little let down by Neal’s response, before walking away from the group — and, now that he’s gone, Emma allows herself to finally respond to him. 

“I can’t believe you!” 

Neal just rolls his eyes. Killian feels his jaw tighten, and David crosses his arms across his chest. 

“God, Emma, just stop overreacting. You all knew this was going to happen someday, even Henry.” 

“That doesn’t mean you have to tell him today. He just had his first performance, his first solo, and all he wants from you is for you to be proud of him, not to hear that you’re moving away.” 

“Listen, you told me I had to wait until after the concert. The concert is over.” 

“You know damn well this isn’t what I meant!” Emma moves to lunge towards him, but Killian catches her arm, holding her back. 

“Not here, love,” he whispers. For a moment, Emma’s eyes are wide with anger, but when they meet his, they soften, and she nods. 

Neal scoffs. “You want to call me out for being inappropriate, yet here you are, dating Henry’s music teacher.” 

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes. 

We’re not dating. Killian feels the words on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back — this is neither the time nor the place, and besides—

“That’s none of your damn business, first of all,” Emma bites. "I will kiss and date and sleep with whoever the hell I want to, you have no say in it anymore." 

"You slept with him?!" 

"Again, it's none of your business whether I did or not, Neal. That's the point. God, I don’t have the patience to deal with you right now. Just make sure Henry gets to soccer practice on time tomorrow, please.”

“Now you’re going to tell me how to be his dad? Like I haven’t been doing it for ten years?” 

Killian has a feeling that if his hand weren’t still wrapped around Emma’s wrist, she would have lunged again. 

“Come on, Emma, let’s go,” David says, stepping between them. “He’s not worth it,” he whispers. 

Still, Emma doesn’t move. 

Killian tugs on her hand. “Come on, love.” 

She takes a breath, apparent by the rise and fall of her shoulders, before she nods, finally turning back to face him. 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

They find Henry in the music room behind the auditorium, gathering his belongings. “Hey, kid,” Emma calls, walking towards him. “We’re gonna head out, okay?” 

He whips around, stopping in the middle of his conversation with Avery. “Okay!” He rushes across the music room to wrap his arms around Emma’s middle. “Thanks again for coming!” 

“Of course we came, lad,” Killian says, mussing his hair with a smile. 

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mary Margaret chirps from behind them. 

“But you have fun with your dad, alright?” Emma says. “Want me to take your dress shoes home?” 

“I don’t want to stay at dad’s tonight, I want to come home with you.” 

“Henry, come on, we talked about this already. Your dad asked for you to stay there tonight even though it’s not his night, and you have practice in the morning anyway. Please?” 

Suddenly, his eyes light up. “Why? Are you two going on a date?” 

David scoffs. Mary Margaret laughs, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. Killian is useless against the drop of his jaw. But it’s Emma’s answer that Henry laughs at: “What? No, come on, we’re—we’re—” she stutters. 

Henry puts his hands on his hips, his eyebrows high on his forehead. Killian recognizes the look immediately; he’s gotten the exact look from Emma before, on quite a few occasions. 

“I can assure you, lad, I’m just taking your mother home.” 

This time, it’s David who laughs, just a single bark — but it’s all Killian needs to really hear what he has just said, and he quickly feels as heat rises to the tips of his ears. 

But Henry doesn’t hear it that way, thankfully, and instead flashes a large smile at them. “Then you can just take me home, too.” 

“Henry, please,” Emma says, crossing her arms over her chest. Henry’s smile disappears, and he nods even as his gaze falls to the ground. 

“Okay, mom.” 

He goes to turn away from them, but Emma reaches out to put her arm on his shoulder. “Hey,” she whispers, waiting for him to look back up at her before she smiles. ‘C’mere,” she whispers, leaning down as she holds her arms out to him. 

Henry complies, even managing to crack a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow after practice, alright?”

“You’ll pick me up?” 

“Sure. I’ll be there.” 

“Thanks, mom.” 

After quickly hugging Mary Margaret and high-fiving David and Killian, the four of them make their way out of the building to their cars. 

“So, are you guys going on a date?” The question practically explodes out of Mary Margaret, and David is useless against the smile that spreads across his face. 

“No,” Emma says, but Killian takes a chance and shrugs. 

“What do you say, Swan? Want to get something to eat?”

No one looks more surprised by this turn of events than Emma herself. Killian’s glad they’re out from under the harsh phosphorescence of the school lights so the redness of his face is (hopefully) less obvious. 

David’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “Do I have to give you guys the talk?” 

Killian doesn’t know how to respond, truthfully; instead, Emma hits his arm with the back of her hand. “Oh my god, David.” 

Mary Margaret giggles — honest-to-God giggles. 

“We’re leaving now,” Emma says, and Killian certainly doesn’t argue. 

“So, do you want to eat, or not?” Killian asks, finally breaking the silence in the car as they pull out of the parking lot. 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Emma mumbles, failing to hide the way she fiddles with her nails. “Wherever you want to go.” 

He smiles. “I know just the place.” 

Much to Emma’s surprise, he takes them home. To his house, more specifically, though for a moment she fears that he will drop her off at her front door and disappear forever. Instead, he holds open his front door for her, as nervous as she is. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, helping her shrug out of her coat, which he then drapes over the back of a dining room chair. “Water? Wine? I probably have some whiskey somewhere around here, if you’re looking for something harder.” 

Emma smiles, finding his obvious nerves charming. “Wine would be great.” 

He hums, pulling a bottle of white out of the fridge. Of course, with the way his nerves have been acting up, he’s surprised he hasn’t already started rambling, so he’s not surprised when he opens his mouth and is unable to stop words from falling from his lips. “Liam always told me that the best way to impress a lady is to cook for her, but I was probably not supposed to divulge that information on a first date.” He hands her the glass of wine, then pours one for himself. “I was half-hoping this is where we ended up, you know. That’s why I prepared a little bit, why I thawed this piece of salmon and made sure I had what I needed for my mother’s favorite pasta recipe.” Quickly, he turns to face her, unable to stop his hand from scratching the spot behind his ear. “I hope that’s okay, now that I’m thinking about it, I never even asked—” 

Emma holds her hand out, resting it against his hand on the counter. “Killian,” she says softly, and between that and her smile, he snaps his mouth shut. “Whatever you have planned, I’m sure it will be perfect.” 

He wants to dive across the kitchen counter and kiss her right there, the salmon be damned. But that’s not what he does, holding himself back. Instead, he just smiles at her. 

“You have too much faith in me, love,” he says, forcing himself to move to begin readying dinner. 

“Maybe I’ve just gotten to know you enough to be sure that I can trust you.” 

God, I love this woman, he thinks to himself, only allowing himself to pause for a moment as the realization hits him, knowing that more will draw her attention for sure. And if he called her out, asked what he was thinking about, he’s not sure he would be able to stop himself from telling her. 

Because it’s true, he realizes — there’s no use hiding from it anymore. It’s true that he has fallen absolutely in love with Emma Swan, and there’s no going back now. 

But the silence of the kitchen — of the whole house — gets to him before the oven is even preheated, and he has to find something to talk about before he absolutely loses his mind. 

“Your lad did a great job tonight, you know,” he says, daring to glance at her over his shoulder, if only to catch the smile that he knows is on her face. 

“Well, he had an incredible teacher,” she says. 

“That may be true, love, but he had real talent when he started.” 

“Which really is a surprise.” Emma tells him, not for the first time. “I know neither Neal or I have any musical ability, or Neal’s dad. Mary Margaret used to play the flute, but she’s not actually family, and probably hasn’t picked one up since college.” 

“I know you never knew them, but maybe it’s from one of your parents.” This time, when he glances over his shoulder, she has her thumbnail between her front teeth, so he adds, “Or maybe it’s just him. It’s not unheard of.” 

She attempts to smile, but it doesn’t stick. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he turns back to the counter, adding the last few sprigs of rosemary to the pan with the salmon before sticking it in the oven. 

“That’ll take a little while longer than the pasta, so I’m going to wait a bit before I start that,” he starts, but when he turns back to her, she’s gone. 

Shit. 

“Okay,” she calls from the living room, which slows the terrified pounding of his heart almost immediately. Even after months of friendship with Emma Swan, he still somehow thought she would have walked out on him. 

“So we, uh, have a little bit of time,” he says, finding his own glass of wine before following her voice into the living room. Much to his surprise, she’s sitting on the piano bench, her long, thin fingers moving gently across the keys, but not making a sound. 

“You know,” she says, turning towards him as he fills the space between them. “I do know how to play one thing on the piano.” With a shy smile, she moves over on the bench to give him room to sit with her, patting it gently when he doesn’t move to join her. 

But he’s useless against her, and can fight it no longer, so he does, trying to focus on something other than the warmth of her leg pressed against his. “Oh yeah? What is that?” 

He's afraid to hear the answer, knows what she's about to play down deep in his soul, but he still cringes when he hears the first few notes: “Heart and Soul.” 

"Anything but that, love. Literally anything."

“I don’t know about you, Killian Jones,” Emma says, letting him slip her jacket back over her arms before he leads her to the door. “But I don’t think I’ve ever had a better first date.” Even in the low light of the entryway, Killian knows that Emma can see the blush rising to his cheeks. “And I know I said it before, but that pasta was incredible. Really, one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.” 

“Well, thank you, Swan,” he says, ducking his head to avoid her bright eyes. “I’m glad you think so. Both about the pasta and the date.” 

“I may even let you walk me home.” 

He’s at a loss for words — and even questions his own ability to speak when she follows up by running her tongue across her bottom lip. 

“It would be my pleasure.” 

“You’re a true gentleman, Killian Jones.” 

“Always.” He even feels brave enough to wink at her, holding open the front door to let her through. 

Their walk across the street is silent, save the light chuckle Killian allows when Emma threads her arm through his. 

“This is my stop,” she says, turning to face him on her front porch. But instead of moving to open the door, she reaches out to take one of his hands in hers. Then the other. 

“Yeah, I should, uh, let you get home,” he says, realizing that it is, in fact, the very last thing he wants to do. 

She looks up at him, her green eyes bright in the front lights. “Yeah,” she whispers, barely audible. Swipes her tongue across her bottom lip again. And then leans forward, letting go of one of his hands only to wrap hers around his neck, and presses her lips against his. It’s soft, it’s gentle, it’s — 

Perfect. Everything he imagined kissing Emma Swan would be. 

And that’s why he loses himself in it, in her, for just a moment, living for the swipe of her tongue against his, before backing away. She takes a deep breath before opening her eyes, a soft smile spread across her lips. 

“I don’t usually do this on a first date, love,” he whispers, leaning closer to her so he can rest his forehead against hers. 

“Me neither,” she says back, her smile growing. “So take me out again tomorrow night and we can do it again.” 

“Deal.” 

She kisses him again, a single peck on the lips, and turns away.

tags: @let-it-raines​ @shireness-says​ @wellhellotragic​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @stahlop​ @kmomof4​ @teamhook​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @thisonesatellite​ @superchocovian​ @carpedzem​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @lfh1226-linda​ @singersdd @tiganasummertree​ @alexannam16​ @therealstartraveller776​ @spartanguard​ @jennjenn615​ @pepperspotts​

[minteacutiewrites]

Stubborn Snakes

A fic requested by @nyx-is-forgoten-stuff For Crowley being stubborn and sick refusing to admit he’s got the flu since he was supposed to be picnicking with his favorite angel. I hope that they Iike it!

Crowley stared down at the thermometer glowering at the numbers displayed as if glaring at them would lower it to a more favorable number.[1] Growling frustrated, he tossed the device aside, going to his bathroom to look for something that would bring down this infernal fever.

He flung open his medicine cabinet, digging around in search of something to help with his symptoms because he’d been planning this outing for weeks with his angel, and he was not about to miss it for a silly cold. Eventually, Crowley managed to scrounge up some cold/flu medicine, and some fever reducer that wasn’t expired.

Downing the medication like a shot, he winced slightly as it stung his aching throat, reminding him to pick up some cough drops on his way to go pick up Aziraphale.

With that, he grabbed a bottle of wine and was out the door on his way to the quaint little bookshop, nestled in the middle of Soho.

~

It was rare that Aziraphale closed his shop[2], but he could always make an exception for Crowley. After all, it was nice to be able to go out together, especially with all that nastiness of the not-pocalypse.

It would be nice to relax.

He could feel his heart skip a beat when the little bell above his door jingled, signaling the arrival of the demon. Turning on his heels, Aziraphale opened his mouth to greet Crowley, “Oh, hello dear.” He exclaimed, letting his eye roam over Crowley.

Something was off about the demon, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was exactly. His whole presentation seems more forced than usual, the usual slouch in his body appearing more exhausted than usual.

“Hey angel,” Crowley said, giving a little nod to Aziraphale’s greet, trying not to wince at the slight hoarse edge to his voice, hoping that his angel hadn’t noticed it, “read to go?” He asked.

Aziraphale was snapped out of his thoughts,” Oh, yes, of course.” He said, grabbing the basket, chewing his lip, feeling an uneasy feeling tugging at the pit of his stomach. “Crowley dear, are you feeling alright, love?” He asked.

Crowley silently cursed, trying to brush off the question as nonchalantly as possible,” Yeah, of course, angel,” He answered, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The angel sighed, realizing it would be a bit harder to coax out what was wrong, “Are you sure, love?” Aziraphale asked, “You sound a little hoarse.”

“That, it’s nothing just woke up before I got here probably just leftover from that.” Crowley fumbled, trying to explain away the slight croak in his voice. Giving his nose a quick swipe, a tickle worming its way into his nose.

If he sneezed now, it would ruin all his hard work, definitely give everything away. “Let’s get going, Angel.” He said impatiently, trying to hurry things along,” Don’t want to waste such a lovely day.”

Aziraphale huffed, not enjoying being rushed along in such a manner,” Alright, alright, I understand.” He said, “I suppose we should be off.” Distracted from his worry for the moment.

However, being that it was still early in spring, it was still a bit nippy out, and well, the temperature change from the cozy bookstore to the brisk spring air. Crowley’s poor nose simply couldn’t take it,” Hah’AHTSHIEuw!!!” He bent practically in half sneezing into cupped hands flushing bright pink.

Aziraphale jumped a bit, startled,” Goodness bless you, my dear boy.” He said, reflexively cursing under his breath when he realizes what he’d said.

The buzzing itch crawled through Crowley’s flushed pink nose at the unexpected blessing, ““Hhh’tssSHUuh!! H’tsshuUh!! Hih’GgXXSSHUuh!!” He sneezes thrice more each one harsher than the last groaning a little afterward.

“Gesundheit love.”Aziraphale answered, already tugging his handkerchief from his breast pocket, letting the demon get cleaned up a bit before ushering him back inside, “You should have told me you were feeling poorly.” He scolded Crowley.

“It wasn’t this bad this morning,” Crowley mumbled defeated,” besides, I was looking forward to spending time together.”

“Don’t be silly; we can still spend time together.” Aziraphale said,” We’ll just have to move our picnic inside, that's all.” He said with a snap of his fingers. A fire now roaring in the fireplace, and a couple of cozy blankets on the couch, “There that’s better.” The angel said with a grin, “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Crowley nodded, flopping down onto the plush couch, burying himself in warm blankets, drowsily musing to himself, thinking maybe today wouldn’t be such a bad day. Not with Aziraphale taking care of him.

[1] Knowing Crowley’s track record with plants it would be unsurprising if he could, scare the thermometer into producing a more favorable temperature.

[2] Despite the fact that he took no enjoyment in actually selling books he was still a punctual person that enjoyed keeping to a schedule.

[ixeliema]

Insecure - Shane x my farmer, Terra

By popular demand (sort of, I mean I have never posted content on Tumblr out of fear it would get stolen or that I’d get harassed for it, so “popular” means like 2 reblogs and around 30 likes, THANK YOU ALL), here’s my fic about Shane being an awkward scared bean!

Summary: Terra and Shane had grown really close over time, and have formed somewhat of a routine. Shane goes to the saloon after work, Terra meets him with a beer for conversation. When Terra stops coming to the saloon, Shane begins to wonder what he did wrong, and if he messed up.

TWs: Implied self harm near the end, Talk of Suicide and Suicide Attempts, Anxiety and Depression, General Angst, Language (let’s be honest, Shane definitely swears a lot)

Word Count: 5373

Thursday, 18 Spring, Year 2 – 3:40 PM

 I hadn’t seen her in days, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d done something wrong.

Stocking those infernal shelves day after day made it hard for us to see each other as it was, even though we’d been dating over half a year by now.

At the end of last summer, she’d approached me shyly and handed me a bouquet and a beer. The beer, I’d come to expect, as she’d began greeting me at the saloon on a nightly basis when I got there at 6, drink in hand, and during the summer, sometimes with a freshly grown hot pepper.

Even after starting my therapy, she was always there with something, whether it was a beer because I’d “earned it” or a sparkling water because I was still trying to get away from my past emotional crutch and she knew that. Hell, she knew that all too well.

But two days ago, she wasn’t there. I was worried so I sent her a letter, and even then, no response. With work, I didn’t have much time to ask around town or visit, so I’d asked Jas and Marnie to tell me if they saw her anywhere, and even then, nothing.

I was becoming increasingly more convinced that I’d upset her somehow. What had I done in the last week to upset her? Had it been my tone when we talked on Saturday? Was it the beer can on the floor when she came to see me at home on Sunday? What WAS it?

I shook my head. Deep breaths, Shane. I channeled my counsellor’s advice. “Don’t panic, just breathe.” I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

“SHANE.” Morris’ voice boomed behind me. Startled, I stood up quickly, can of chili still in hand.

“Yes, sir?” I somehow managed to say without stuttering, despite my nerves still being high from the voice behind me.

“Your shift ends in an hour and a half, and you still have two aisles to stock.” Morris didn’t really sound angry at me, but he wasn’t exactly known for being a pleasant person to work for. There was a reason the girl with the ginger hair at the counter looked like a corpse from dawn until dusk every day.

“Sorry sir, I was taking a quick breather.” I made up the excuse knowing that Morris wouldn’t care whether I was 5 centimeters from a mental breakdown or not. He wouldn’t care what I said.

“Just don’t let it happen again. You still have plenty of work to do.” He smiled at me, and I felt ill.

He turned around quickly at the sound of the doorbells jingling. “Hello, welcome to JojaMart!!”

I rolled my eyes. What, am I not allowed to breathe here anymore?

“Oh! Miss Terra!”

My shoulders shot up from the pouty slumped state they were in upon hearing her name. Terra? What was she doing here? She hates JojaMart almost as much as I do at this point.

I heard a hushed voice to Morris and rapid footsteps away from my direction. I rushed to the edge of the aisle, desperate to see her face, to ask what was wrong, if she was okay. If WE were okay.

Nothing, just the same tired cashier, and no Terra, no Morris.

I looked around a bit, but to no avail. She must have gone to his office to talk with him in private.

What for though? She literally talks shit about him every time we hang out. What would be so important that she’d be willing to talk to Morris PRIVATELY?

With a sigh, knowing that Morris would fire me if I was caught loitering around the aisles, I went back to work.

 Thursday, 18 Spring, Year 2 – 7:20 PM

 Never in my life had getting blackout drunk sounded so appealing as I sat in the corner, completely alone, and with far too many questions spinning around in my head.

Seriously, what was this afternoon all about? Even after changing out of my uniform and clocking out, Morris wouldn’t talk to me, and even if he did, I doubt he would have said anything. Not like he owes me anything, I’m just a pawn to him, and he has always made it clear he doesn’t “care” about us.

I felt my heart sink again as I remembered watching Terra walk away from the store through the glass doors in the rain, wanting desperately to call out to her but feeling completely powerless in the face of my fears and my douche of a boss.

Not even Lewis and Willy’s banter about fishing off the docks when they were young, or Gus’ finest pizza could snap me out of the funk I was in. The only thing I could understand tonight was that Terra blatantly didn’t want to see me today.

I stood up and left the saloon, far earlier than I ever had before. Maybe, just MAYBE, I could run into her, especially if she was trying to avoid me. She knew my schedule well, not like it was difficult to memorize. Wake, eat, work, drink, sleep; rinse and repeat. She knew exactly where I’d be and when, and if I had any chance of finding her, I needed to use that to my advantage.

 I started out toward the forest. Maybe she was fishing by the lake? She had a particular fondness for the dock where we’d first sat down and really talked, and she loved fishing there. Something about a “constant flow of 25-inch-long smallmouth bass.”

Upon finding nothing, I checked my phone. 8 PM. Maybe she was home? It was a longshot, at this hour, but worth a try. She really pushed her body to the limit when it came to sleeping.

I headed north to Vervain Farm, sidestepping some weeds and a fallen tree branch as I headed up the docks. Her farm was very much right in the middle of a number of small rivers, and the numerous “isles” that made up her farm were traversable only by small bridges.

“Terra?” I asked softly, almost as if my voice didn’t really WANT to be heard. Clearing my throat and shaking my head, I called again. “Terra?”

My voice echoed in the wind, as a chilling breeze swept through my tattered jacket and into my bones. No response. I approached her cabin and stood on the doorstep in the rain for what seemed like forever before I finally gathered the courage to actually knock louder than a pathetic tapping.

I heard silence, then a shuffle, and then nothing again. I knocked again, hoping she was there, but all that answered my knock was a muffled “mrow?”

Terra’s cat, Citrus, emerged from the cat door and rubbed up against my leg, before realizing I was soaked and shaking his head indignantly at me.

“Hey boy,” I said under my breath, well aware that it was cold enough to see my breath fogging up the night air. “Have you seen Terra?” I asked, stroking his fur with my cold hands.

He looked up at me, green eyes wide and curious. “Mrow?”

I sat down on the porch beneath the gable, petting Citrus for another few minutes, listening to the rain and his purring, and trying to breathe normally.

Where is she? My mind was going crazy, and I swore I felt hot tears welling up in my eyes.

I grabbed Citrus close and let out a single sob. The cat, more than a little disgruntled by my actions, meowed loudly in surprise and growled at me until I loosened my grip.

“S-sorry.” I stuttered, feeling my jaw tensing up and chattering from the cold. “I’m sorry.” I repeated, scratching the cat behind his ears.

The orange tabby mewled at me once more before reentering the house, and I sighed heavily.

Alone again.

I stood up and shook my head aggressively, feeling the raindrops flying out in all directions from my messy purple hair.

The rain had lightened up, and I knew that this was the only chance I had to get home without receiving another cold shower from mother nature.

As I descended the stairs, I swore I heard a voice inside, but then again, at this point, I was too tired, cold and sad to know if it was merely an auditory hallucination or not.

I fell into bed at Marnie’s place at 9 PM on the dot, and as I did, I tried to empty my mind of all these thoughts. Terra, my insecurities, my loneliness, everything. And as I eventually drifted off the sleep, around 2 in the morning, I dreamed of Terra and I’s first date.

The gridball game with the Tunnelers, the game where I kissed her suddenly out of excitement, and panicked, thinking I’d just ruined my chances with this wonderful woman who had given me hope again. As she kissed me back, I remember feeling everything fading into the shadows. The game’s noise, the crowd’s screams, the tipsy feeling inside my head, everything was gone. Only her and me.

And god, was it wonderful. The last Sunday of Fall, and the last game of the season. We’d won, but I barely even remember that part. I remembered the taste of her lips on mine. The faint scent of beer and fried food as I inhaled deeply, taking it all in.

Moments like that could drive an atheist to Yoba, because in that moment, I had kissed an angel.

On the bus ride home, she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, hair messy, and a little bit tipsy herself. She was just so beautiful. Even as she drooled a bit on my jacket and made strange noises in her sleep, I just fell harder and harder for this woman every time I took a breath.

“Terra, I love you so much.” I said under my breath. “You give me hope that there is a future for me after all. You make me feel like I actually mean something to someone. You give me a reason to try harder, and I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”

A small snort answered my statement and I felt my face start to hurt from how wide I was smiling. “Terra, I think that I want to marry you someday. No, I know I do. Terra, I want to make me the happiest man alive…god this sounds so cheesy. I’m trying to say that…I love you. And I hope I can make you happy for the rest of my life.”

After the bus stopped in Pelican Town, I woke her and walked her home, thanking her for the wonderful time, and laughing at her jokes and her story about a funny dream she had on the ride home.

Of course, she didn’t know what I’d said, but I did. And those words were tattooed on my heart now. I want to marry her. I really, REALLY do. But I can’t propose without a Mermaid’s Pendant, and lord only knows how the hell you get one of those anymore.

Morris appeared in my dream, sly and shrewd. I knew he knew something, but there was no point in asking what he knew, because he would never tell me so long as he lived and breathed. He owed nothing to a stupid subordinate.

The night was long, and full of miniature dreams and nightmares in which I was alone and drowning in my fears.

God fucking damn it.

 Friday, 19 Spring, Year 2 – 8:20 AM

 A rolling fog had settled over the valley, and the walk to work was much chillier than usual.

The milky white haze was so thick that I could barely to the end of Marnie’s cow paddock. As I continued my walk, I wondered if maybe Terra would answer her phone.

I dialed her number and stared at her contact name as it rang. It read “Brat” with a purple heart emoji. I always wondered if she had me named something in her phone, especially since she was literally the only person in my contacts WITH a nickname.

“Hi this is Terra,” Her voice jolted me out of my daze.

“Terra, oh thank god, I was so worried—”

“Unfortunately, you caught me in the fields, on in the mines, or…whatever. Anyway, I’m not able to talk right now.” I exhaled. God, I was so stupid. Was I so desperate to hear her voice that I didn’t realize I’d gotten her voicemail? It’s not like I hadn’t heard it before.

I hung up. Even if I could competently leave a voicemail without enough “Uh’s” and “Um’s” to outdo Jeff Goldblum, I didn’t know what I’d say to her, much less if she wanted to hear it at all.

I sighed heavily, feeling like all my happiness was draining out of my fingertips into the foggy air.

I clenched my fists, in a vain attempt to stop myself from feeling so rotten. I didn’t have much say right now. After work, I could go to Pierre’s, or sit outside her house until she got home…actually no, the last one would just come across stalker-y. And at this point, the last thing I needed was to drive her further away.

God damn it! Damn it damn it damn it!

I kicked a rock into the mists of oblivion, hearing it splash into the river. I needed to get my dumb ass to work before I lost my job. Not like anyone else in town was hiring, so I’d be fucked if I lost the job.

So, dragging my feet more than I ever have in the past, I dragged my shallow corpse of a body into JojaMart.

 Friday, 19 Spring, Year 2 – 4:40 PM

 10 minutes until my shift ends. I said to myself, feebly attempting to ground myself in reality after the most out-of-it shift I’d ever had, even including all the ones I’d been forced to work while hungover.

The clock’s incessant ticking had me so high strung I was convinced that the next tick I’d hear would make me break the fucking thing over my knee.

A constant reminder of where I was, that ticking. A steady reminder that I’m wasting away stocking canned goods in a dead-end town for a corporate dunghill while the love of my life refuses to speak to me.

My eyes felt hollow, like they weren’t really seeing things, more like they just stared off into the blackness of nothingness and stayed there.

The snapping of Sam’s fingers in my face startled me back into reality. “Earth to Shane, hellooooo.”

“Sam?” I sounded almost drunk in my bewilderment, which wasn’t ideal right now. The last thing I need is for my coworker to think I’m zoning out because I’m drunk off my ass on-shift.

“Yeah, me.” He grinned his borderline obnoxious sunshiny smile. “Your shift ended like, 3 minutes ago. You’re usually out of here in a flash.”

I stared back at the clock I’d been fantasizing about murdering, surprised. He was right somehow.

“You’re one to talk, your shift ends at 4, what the hell are you doing here still?” I retorted, indignant at the younger man’s tone for no good reason.

Walls up.

“I fell asleep in the break room, don’t tell Morris.” He sniggered; way too proud of himself. “You going to the saloon? I’ll come with. I’ve got about twelve games of pool to lose tonight.”

I wasn’t thrilled by this bright and smiley tagalong, but it wasn’t like he was wrong. Where the hell else would I go? Not like anywhere else felt right today.

May as well let myself relapse like the coward I am.

“Sure. Give me a second to get out of this shitty uniform.” I said, disappearing into the break room.

 Friday, 19 Spring, Year 2 – 5:10 PM

 Sam wasn’t a bad guy really, but right now he was the worst guy for me to be around. He was too cheery, and far too talkative.

I thought the clock was annoying, but Sam reminded me far too much that I was a total wet blanket just by breathing with a smile.

“How was work, dude?” My mind didn’t really register the question until I heard the bells jingle as the door shut behind us.

“Uh?” I answered gracefully. “Oh, right. Work. Uh, um.” I stammered. Pathetic, Shane, you seriously suck shit at conversation. Why does anyone bother with you to begin with?

“Yeah, work. Good ol’ Joja.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Long day, huh?” He seemed sympathetic, but to me, that meant pity. And I didn’t need his pity.

“Yeah, sure.” I said.

Walls fortified.

“You okay?”

The fucking worst question of all. In the deluge of questions this kid asked me, that one bothered me most, and for really no good reason.

It made me angry, it made me want to cry, it made me want to scream, and it made me, most of all, just feel empty.

“Not really, Sam. Please stop talking.” Was the politest response I could manage.

Sam raised his finger as though he had something to say, but quickly decided against it.

Good. Please stop pressing me before I throw myself in the river and pack my coat full of stones.

We walked in silence for a while until we were passing the Mullner’s house, when Sam piped up again with a smile. “Hey Shane, I think tonight will help you get your mind off of…whatever’s going on.”

I stared at him, actually stopping in my tracks. Why did this kid sound so fucking condecending? And why did he give two shits about my mental wellbeing?

No one gave a shit about that, except Terra, and now she was gone.

“Why are you acting like you know me?” My voice was steeped in venom, probably more so than I’d intended. “Why do you give a fuck what’s going on with me?”

Sam stopped too, staring at me, worried.

“Stop acting like you understand me. It’s pissing me off.” I felt my face getting hot. It wasn’t anger, it was tears. “Get lost, kid.” I suppressed a sob, hurting my chest and making my eyes burn with tears.

Sam stepped toward me. “Shane, I didn’t mean—”

“SHUT UP!”

I turned around quickly as the tears fell. “Just…please…go away.” My voice choked. “Pl…ease.”

Sam took a deep breath, and then grabbed my arm, dragging me around the corner and through the door of the Stardrop Saloon.

“What the fuck are you--? Get your hands off me! Let me go! Get off!—” I struggled against his grip, but to no avail. I fell to the ground, and Sam dropped me. Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice.

“Shane?”

Turning around in a daze, I saw Terra. Golden earrings, brown hair tied neatly in a bun, familiar purple sweater, leather boots, and gorgeous blue eyes. My heart stopped for a moment, and then began rushing again as I realized I was still crying, on the floor, and in complete disarray.

“Terra—! I, um, hang on, I, wait, uhhhh…” I panicked and basically spilled out words like a semi-truck carrying nothing but alphabet soup crashed into a wall.

“Shane, what’s…?” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh my god, Shane.”

Her arms were around me instantly, her lips on my forehead, and suddenly I couldn’t feel anything. Numbness covered me the instant her hands made contact with my skin, and I couldn’t hear anything.

None of the noise from the tavern, none of the eyes staring, none of the tears on my cheeks, just her arms around me. I felt like I was home again.

I snapped out of it to hear Terra apologizing profusely, on the brink of tears, as I stared into nothing. “I’m so sorry, Shane, I didn’t think about how you’d interpret my actions, oh my god, I’m so sorry…”

“F…for wh…what?” I rasped, throat dry from dehydration. “It’s…my fault. Right?”

She stopped moving, stopping to stare at me. “Wh…what?”

“I fucked up…and…you…you finally realized…that I’m…just a…piece of shit.” I was dizzy, and Terra was growing increasingly more concerned.

“Baby, baby no!” She shouted her pet name for me, turning a few heads from the arcade area. My face was burning. No no no no don’t look at me. I bit my lower lip, suppressing a sharp inhalation that would have certainly made me start hyperventilating.

“Baby I…” Terra stopped and sat back, staring at me. “I was gone because I was…” She paused, pursing her lips.

“I was looking for this.”

She reached into her sweater and revealed a blue conch shell on a leather string.

It was a Mermaid’s Pendant.

Everything went white for a moment. Wait. She wasn’t serious, was she?

Me?

 I stared at her in complete shock, jaw gaping, breathless and completely incapable of saying anything. “Terra, you…”

“Shh.” She put her index finger to my lips and put the necklace around my neck. “Shane. Breathe.”

Right about now I noticed exactly how many people were surrounding us. Almost everyone from town was here. A Friday night at the saloon was busy enough already, but there were some new faces, like Jodi and Caroline, both of which I’d never seen in here before.

Everyone. Sebastian, Abigail, Alex, Willy, even LINUS, was staring down at us, as I felt my face heat up in embarrassment. She’d been planning this for days. Everyone was here. For us. For me.

“I…” I cleared my throat, scrambling to sit up straight, and try to recover whatever dignity was not currently ablaze in the depths of hell. “I…”

Terra looked concerned. Oh my god, she thought I was going to say no.

She’s just as scared as I am about what this means.

“I accept!!” I shouted.

Silence, then eruptions of applause.

Terra tackled me with a hug and began to cry into my chest. And unbeknownst to even myself, so did I. Gus cheered and turned on the jukebox to the oldies channel he always played. Sam smiled down at me, Sebastian congratulated me…Lewis tried talking to me about how to go about arranging a wedding, but I couldn’t hear him.

I was far too busy crying. Someone, no, not just anyone, TERRA, just told me that they want to spend the rest of their life with me. ME!

Part of me wondered if it wasn’t somehow just an elaborate prank, but the tears in her eyes and the pendant around my neck snapped me out of that illusion immediately.

Terra was going to be my wife.

Holy shit.

 After the commotion died down I asked her everything I’d been meaning to ask over a well-deserved beer and basket of chips. “Why did you actively avoid me for the last week?”

“I’m a really bad liar and I know how perceptive you are, and I was really worried you’d find me out. I wanted to invite everyone because they’re all really important to me, but it was hard getting around without running into you.”

She looked incredibly guilty, and I felt my heart tighten at the sad look on her face. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” I laughed a little. “Just…give a guy a warning…or something.” I took a huge sip of beer. “I mean, I was basically staying up all night thinking you were ghosting me because I left a beer can on the floor when you visited on Sunday.”

“The what?” Her oblivious question made me realize exactly how stuck up in my head I was about the whole thing, of course she hadn’t even noticed.

“Wow.” I exhaled. “I feel…stupid.”

“That makes two of us.” She replied, putting her head gently on my shoulder. “I didn’t even think about how this might affect your anxiety.” She bit her lip. “God, I’m an idiot.” She slumped, seeing her so broken up over my mental state destroyed any lingering doubts I may have had about how genuine she was being with me.

“Terra, baby…I…” I stopped. I was about to tell her that she wouldn’t have HAD to worry if I were normal, but I stopped myself. I wasn’t great at sitting and talking feelings with a borderline stranger, but there was one thing I’d learned in abundance in the short time since I began therapy.

I couldn’t keep blaming myself for everything. I would consume myself and end up even worse off. And it had been a battle to stop, especially considering recent stressors.

“We both messed up, baby.” I answered. “You made a mistake, and I got super worried and convinced myself that you were breaking up with me in a slow and painful way. And worst of all, I was convinced I deserved it.” I paused as Terra looked up at me. “Baby, I want to marry you. I’ve wanted to marry you since that night at the gridball game, but I’m such a goddamn trainwreck that I wanted to get better before I proposed. I…”

“I wanted to be worthy of you.”

Terra looked into my eyes with a lot of confusion and a lot of love.

“That’s when I decided I wanted to marry you, too.” She blushed a deep pink and looked at the floor. “I…heard you saying how much you loved me in my dreams.”

I froze. Wait. Had she also heard the—

“I heard you tell me you wanted to marry me, too.”

I felt my face burning. Fuck. I was hoping she wasn’t going to say that.

“After a few days of thinking about it, I decided to look into how to propose.” She continued, laughing. “I eventually found out, about halfway through winter, that I needed to propose using a Mermaid’s Pendant, which can only be received from a ghost you can find in the RAINY season.” She scoffed. “I was really angry about having to wait, actually.”

Seeing her pout about this was adorable, even though I had no goddamn clue what she was talking about with a “ghost” and the “winter” and “rain.”

“I only got the pendant yesterday, actually. I was on the beach at like 6 PM and I saw the Old Mariner standing on the island across the bridge.”

“It cost me a lot of money, so I spent the rest of the night at the beach, fishing up some big fish to sell to repair the dent in my funds.”

Wait. “How much did it…cost?” I said, concerned.

“It’s…not a big deal now. I got the money back from a good harvest and quality fish.” She smiled a toothy grin. She knew what I was doing. I was fishing for a reason to blame myself, and she put an end to that right quick.

“Hey Shane,” Sam’s voice came from behind me. “Hey dude.”

I turned to face him. “Hey…uh, I’m sorry about earlier.” I scratched the back of my head awkwardly. This kid was just trying to help and I’d just yelled at him and made myself out to be a total ass.

“No, no, I get it, man.” He held up his hands as his two friends ducked out the doors of the saloon. “I would have been really confused and angry too. And I know now that you have a lot of anxiety and…a lot of baggage.” He paused, glancing at me, as if looking for approval. “I shouldn’t have forced you, and I’m sorry too.”

I smiled, and Sam looked at me as though he were witnessing a unicorn cantering through the fields of heaven. I guess it really was true how little I smiled in public, good lord. “I appreciate what you did for me, Sam.” I put my hand out to shake his hand, and he reluctantly accepted. “Thanks.”

“For…wait, what?”

“Thank you for being such a good friend to Terra, and for helping me out, even though I’ve been nothing but unpleasant to you.”

“Uh, no problem, man, I just…I’m glad that it all worked out.”

Sam ducked out, and I felt my nerves cough and sputter out like a dying lawnmower.

“Shane,” Terra said my name and snapped me out of my drowsy stupor. “You should get home. You’ve had a long day.” She smiled. “We can get together and plan the wedding tomorrow. I’m thinking the 22nd would be a good date.”

Wedding. God that word sounded foreign to me.

“Alright,” I sighed. “Let’s blow this joint.”

Waving at Gus and Lewis as I left, Terra and I ventured out into the cold.

As we started toward Marnie’s ranch, I paused.

“Wait, Terra, the 22nd is a Monday.” I felt my heartbeat trying to race, but falling victim to my slightly intoxicated bloodstream. “We can’t possibly get married then, I have…ugh…work.” I grimaced.

“Oh, about that.” Terra laughed. “I may or may not have prematurely gotten the next week of work off for you by talking to Morris.”

The pieces connected suddenly. “Wait, that’s what you were doing?”

“Well, yeah, what, did you think I went in there to blow the bastard? I’d rather die.” I laughed loudly at her crudeness, spooking a rabbit into a bush nearby. “It wasn’t easy. We can do Monday, Tuesday, any day. I just think that Monday is best because then we’ll have a whole week to move you in and get adjusted.”

Moving in? Oh god, that was something that made my heart leap. I’d be living with Terra. Holy shit. Married and living with the love of my life, and by MONDAY? This was clearly all a ridiculous dream.

“Fuck, pinch me.” I said breathily. “I have GOT to be dreaming.”

“Why so?” She laughed. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.” She added coyly.

“Oh shaddup.” I retorted. “I…still can’t believe any of this is real.”

She leaned over and kissed me square on the lips, tilting her head to the right and bending into me with a passion that not even the horniest dream could manifest.

Her tongue danced behind her lips, asking permission, and I opened my mouth, allowing her access, grunting slightly as her hands caressed the back of my head, stroking my hair.

She pulled away, leaving me wanting more. “Are you convinced now?”

I shook my head. “God damn, how did I get so fucking lucky?” Laughing, I caressed her cheek, kissing her forehead. “Seriously, what did I do to deserve you?”

She beamed at me, grabbing my hand and continuing to walk toward Marnie’s. “You went through hell every day, waiting for someone to love you.” She turned back. “It took me…a long time to realize what I felt for you. I realized rather suddenly actually, after…that day.”

She couldn’t meet my eyes for that moment, and I knew that it still haunted her. The blood, the broken glass, the cuts, the beer, everything. I realized in that moment what I would have lost, had I succeeded. I would have missed out on everything good that had ever happened to me.

She interlaced her fingers with mine. “We fit like a pair of puzzle pieces.” She said. “And without you, I don’t feel like I’m complete anymore.”

“Terra, I…I don’t think I knew what “complete” felt like until I heard you talking to me when I was resting at the clinic after…all that. I heard you saying that you might love me, but that being in love scared you. You kissed my cheek, my bandages, and when I officially “woke up”, I just remember feeling…whole.”

Terra blushed. Clearly we both had said things to the other when they were “sleeping” that we were shy about saying to the others’ faces. “Terra, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world, and EASILY the happiest man in Stardew Valley.” I said, turning to her.

I took her hands in mine and kissed her gently, feeling all the worries and fears of the day wash away like the tides rolling out to sea. “I will never stop loving you. And I will do my damnedest to make you the happiest woman alive.”

“I love you.”

[salamander-joe-jones]

ten first lines from last ten fics

@juniperluann this is for you. I haven’t published basically anything so all except number 10 and 9 are unpublished wips.

I started thinking I’d have ten but apparently I only have seven fanfics, the last three are original stories I’m working on.

10) my NiF fic, planting seeds (flowers you never get to see)

Marquis Yan was a solemn man at the prime of his life. He’d calmed down much from the impetuous days of his youth; the brilliant, assertive boy had matured into a man of quiet authority, and if his smiles were both smaller and harder to come by, his eyes were as warm as ever.

Some said that his old, quicksilver grins had died with his wife, a plain but lively girl with a deep passion for music.

9) my fmab au royai short fic: The Hawkeye Array

It was a couple days after the funeral.

“Your… your father said to come to you, for his research notes.”

Riza blinked at him for a handful of seconds, the words barely penetrating through the haze of grief. Roy – sheepish and guilty and red-eyed – seemed to crumble a bit as she stared at him, the dashing soldier flaking away to reveal the lost little boy who’d been her father’s protégé.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Of course.”

8) The fmab short fic I keep forgetting to publish (it’s gen, I swear) Goodbyes and Farewells:

“So I hear you’re heading back east.”

Roy turned away from his packing. It was a bit after noon, and he’d dismissed everyone from the outer office for lunch with orders to bring him something back, ‘something edible this time, Lieutenant Breda’, which was probably the only reason Ed had been able to sneak up on him this way.

He looked... good, Roy noted with mild shock. He wasn’t sure why that fact was so surprising, other than that it was.

7) a bones centric Star Trek TOS fanfic based loosely on the episode Friday’s Child:

McCoy followed the sobs.

“Your Eminence,” he said, when he’d finally stumbled upon the hidden side chamber where the Regent of Capella IV had sequestered herself in. At his entrance, the proud woman he’d seen preside so coolly over her late husband’s court curled further in on herself, nearly huddling against the back of the low couch that was the only piece of furniture in the tiny room. “I thought that might be you. What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

6) a gay version of the movie White Christmas that I’m in the process of finishing and serial scrubbing:

A warm hand dropped heavily on Ricky’s shoulder, startling him.

“Say, Ricky, what do you got there? Writing another letter to your Ma?” Captain John Gale sat on the cot next to him. The old springs creaked loudly in protest.

Ricky could feel warmth and the rough fabric of the captain’s uniform as he leaned in to look over his shoulder. Ricky considered folding the paper in his hand and shoving it down his shirt, but quickly discarded the idea. Gale wasn’t the type to rag on his men, especially not for something like that. Plus, the ink would smear.

5) a super like ten years old post-Star Trek 2009 fic I started and never finished

“Captain.”

“Yup.”

“Fucking captain.”

“Mhmm.”

“Of the Enterprise?!”

At this, Pike finally put down his PADD to look at Jim. Pike had been out of the hospital for a week now, and was finally back to work – even if it was light duty for the foreseeable future.

4) my Fraser/Kowalski DS fic

They went to a small 24-hour diner often frequented by law enforcement officers and beloved for its cheap, plentiful portions and bottomless coffee.

“So, I spoke to the Lieutenant. He… explained the situation to me,” Benton began a trifle awkwardly after they’d placed their orders.

Those extraordinarily long fingers, which had been jangling up and down on the sticky tabletop, faltered in their rhythm. A dark-blond brow rose. “The situation?”

3) original fic:

It started, like most things in Jaime Soto’s life, with a dead body.

“Well someone’s not getting their deposit back,” Detective Morrison, standing at the far end of the small, rent-controlled apartment, commented.

“For more reasons than one,” Jaime murmured, three-fourths of his attention focused on the victim’s still-intact hand. Her fingernails – long, even, unbroken – were painted a uniform red-orange.

2) original fic:

“Entering the tournament? In the name of all gods good and infernal, why? It’s not even a cash prize.” Eamin Choi looked up – and up – from his journals to glare balefully at his friend and nominal master.

Remis, the leader of their fledgling mercenary company and one of the premier fighters in all the land, ducked his head under the stern gaze, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting his feet like an errant boy. “Well, what else am I supposed to do while you’re spending your days in the temple?”

1) original fic:

Vani Goodman’s heart skipped as the plane jerked. Strong winds and a rough landing was combining with her own frayed nerves to form a black aching pit of nausea in her gut, resulting in a never-before seen anxiety that the airplane was going to remember it was actually a ton of metal powered by human hubris and an internal combustion engine and fall right out of the sky.

Vani pulled up the window cover and pressed her cheek to the cold glass, trying to ignore the sour taste of bile coating the back of her throat and instead focus on the view.

I’ll tag @serpentine-someone and @sewingfrommagic

[sheithauzine]

Stargazing Zine Contributor Spotlight

Get to know the contributors that are a part of Stargazing: a Sheith AU Fanzine!  Next up is @amorremanet​, who did a roleswap AU fic!

A special thank you to Andromeda Zine for allowing us to borrow this concept!

Amorremanet

“Keith says, ‘Nothing is worth Shiro’s pain.’ I say, ‘Yeah okay, honey, you can take care of him when I’m done’”

Amorremanet on AO3 @amorremanet​ on Tumblr

Your piece for Stargazing has Shiro and Keith with their roles reversed: Keith on the Kerberos mission and Shiro as the half-Galra Garrison washout.  Without giving away too much beyond what has been shared in previews already, can you give us some insight into the inspiration behind this AU, and how you picture it changing up the events and interactions of canon?

Role-reversal AUs are a favorite trope of mine. All AUs offer the opportunity to explore pieces of the characters that might not come out as easily in more canon-adjacent fics. What I love about role-swap AUs, though, is the creative challenge of exploring how the “cores” of the different characters can both change and not when they’re literally placed into another canon character’s shoes. As for how the swap in “The Oncoming Storm” changes things, the Galra reveal would also go very differently, because Champion!Keith would fight Allura harder in defense of Shiro than canon!Keith does in defense of himself. But most of the changes that I see coming in this AU are subtler at first, and end up having some cumulatively huge effects. For instance, I think Shiro would still be the Black Paladin at first, while Keith would still be in Red. But that changes the eventual build-up to the Galra reveal: Shiro can’t fight Zarkon head-on and hear the, “You fight like a Galra” line, as canon!Keith did; he would have been ejected by the Black Lion. That line is easy enough to transfer onto Sendak during their fight in “The Fall of the Castle of Lions,” because it’s something that he’d say (and with Sendak, he’d probably mean it as a compliment). But the significance of that fight changes if Shiro is running into a fight with someone who has such a huge advantage because Sendak hurt Keith, Shiro’s beloved. This changes Shiro’s astral plane confrontation with Zarkon, and it all adds up to a very different Galra reveal. The worst part of it for Shiro, though, would be feeling responsible for Keith’s trauma. He blames himself for “pushing” Keith onto the Kerberos mission, but for him to be a member of the species that harmed Keith? In canon, Shiro doesn’t blame Keith and loves him fiercely. But sadly, Shiro wouldn’t show himself that same understanding. So, yeah. A mix of obviously big changes, and little ones that add up to big ones.

I was going to ask you about your favorite minor character in Voltron, but given the contents of this fic, it's not exactly hard to guess!  Tell us a little bit about why you chose Iverson as a major character in this fic, and how you went about developing his character.

A: In fairness, I love a lot of the minor characters! That said, I do have an Iverson bias, and I feel like he gets a raw deal. He can be abrasive. His first scene is him chewing the Garrison Trio out. While doing so, he says things about Keith and Shiro that can sound pretty negative. This makes it easy to write Iverson off as a jerk, even a villain. That reading of him doesn’t hold up for me, though. There are several reasons why not, but his relationship with and treatment of Shiro are the most telling, for me. He doesn’t blame Shiro while talking about the Kerberos mission. Iverson doesn’t mention Shiro at all, which is strange when he’s so direct about everything else. Then, when Shiro crashes, Iverson is present in the med-tent for unexplained reasons (which could be personal). When speaking to him, Iverson uses the name, “Shiro.” This isn’t a super-intimate nickname (Lance uses it despite not knowing Shiro personally before Team Voltron). But if Iverson were sticking to protocol, he’d call Shiro, “Lt. Shirogane” (or similar). Before anything else, Iverson tries to reassure Shiro that he’s safe. He only makes the call to put Shiro under because they don’t know what his prosthetic arm can do or not (which is a fair concern). The way Iverson talks about this sounds regretful, too. He doesn’t like drugging Shiro, but his options are limited. That’s how I see Iverson in general. He’s in some difficult places, facing dangerous and high-stakes situations. He isn’t a monster; he’s just a man who’s trying his best with very limited choices and seemingly insurmountable odds. Which is how I tried to portray him in this AU, too, Also, I have a Shiro bias, and canon!Shiro doesn’t have very many non-Keith personal connections before Team Voltron. The way Iverson treats him makes me think Iverson might have been one of them. And I liked exploring that possibility in this fic.

After reading that, definitely consider me a convert.  It's always fascinating to see different trends and countertrends in fandom.  Related to that, you've mentioned that you've been indulging in fandom between frantic work on your thesis, which is… also about fandom?  What's the premise there, and and how are you bringing your own experiences as a fan into your academic work?

A: My MA thesis is about fandom, yes! It’s been through a few different versions before ending up where it is. First, it was going to be a more traditional academic paper, focused about how fans write about LGBTQ experiences and issues in fics/headcanons, and focused on trans and/or non-binary representation in particular. (I worked on this version in 2013-14, so there were even fewer trans fics/hc’s than there are now. Also, the main fandoms in it were Supernatural and Teen Wolf, not VLD.) But my school’s program in women’s/gender studies has three options for the final project: the thesis; the practicum (basically, an internship where you write a paper at the end); and the creative project (which still has a research component, but isn’t). In a required class, our prof had us list ideas for how we could pursue our interests in all three of these options. The creative project that I came up with was, “I mean, I write fanfiction? I guess I could do that.” I expected my prof to tell me how ridiculous this sounded. Instead, she got excited about that idea, which got me excited. Which got my poor advisor excited (especially because my original fic ideas were for HP, which is her pet fandom). Then, everything got derailed by IRL drama for a while. But now, I’ve written my fic (“But boys spring infernal,” my overgrown monster of mutual pining Sheith) and I’m finishing the paper about it. In general, the project is about the LGBTQ and feminist potential of fanfic, with a focus on hurt/comfort and AUs, which are sadly under-researched. Aside from canon-divergence fics, AUs especially get a raw deal. Most fan studies scholars write them off as original fic with fandom characters pasted on. That bugs me both as a fan who loves AUs, and as someone who sees the field of fan studies stagnating because we aren’t adapting as fandom evolves. So, I’m bringing my fannish experiences into my project because they are the project (or a pretty big part of it). In addition to the research that went into this, there’s an autoethnographic element to the paper. I have to write about the process of writing BBSI, as well as the different personal experiences that went into the fic, and it’s been fun but incredibly challenging. On the other hand, I got to cite Legit Sources™ like Michel Foucault while justifying my love of long-haired Shiro. That’s probably my personal peak of questionable academic arguments, and I probably shouldn’t be so proud of it? But I am.

Long-haired Shiro, the Shiro we all deserve.  Also, I am totally jealous that you've gotten to write fanfic for a school project. Final question!  After reading your piece, I think I ascended to another plane of existence.  I absolutely loved it.  So I have to ask for your blessing: may I have your fic's hand in marriage?

Oh my god, fgkdhf, thank you! For that compliment, for letting me babble about this fic, and for giving me the chance to write for this zine. As much as I love this role-swap AU idea, “The Oncoming Storm” might not have gotten to exist without Stargazing giving me the push to actually write it. (Which I could write another long answer about, because I find the different levels of communal writing/collaboration that go on in fanfic so fascinating.) With that said? You absolutely have my blessing to marry this fic. I’m so glad that you’re so excited about it, and I’m excited about getting to read everyone else’s fics and see the art pieces when the zine comes out! <333

You can pick up your own copy of Stargazing here!  All profits will go to the Center for Victims of Torture.

[amorremanet]

“rec your own fics” meme

Tagged by @obstinatecondolement — Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers.

Confession: I’m torn on which fics to rec because most of the ones I actually like best are “problematic” in at least five ways each and/or will probably trigger somebody, and my impulse is to go, “I pick the tall, smart, good-looking one and plead the Fifth.” But anyway, I’m in a, “Fuck it” sort of mood and working on a different recs list that I just have to suck it up and go, “Fuck it” about, so here we are, yup. I have hit, “Fuck it.”

Please, for the love of god, heed the tags and warnings on all these fics.

When It All Comes Down To Dust (Doctor Who, Mature, Tenth Doctor/Face of Boe!Jack Harkness; it’s rated M but there is sexual content in it, also it’s a tentacle fic that runs on angsty bullshit character study).

I am more proud of this fic than I have any right to be, entirely because somebody once told me, “Oh shut up, you did not write tentacle porn. This is too pretty, you wrote tentacle erotica.” That’s still one of the best compliments that I’ve ever gotten on anything.

consider your best friend’s mouth (Teen Wolf, Teen, Scott/Stiles — second-person Scott POV hurt/comfort prose-poem bullshit).

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re riffing on, “You Are Jeff” for the umpteen millionth time in the name of angsty Skittles friends-to-lovers make-out sessions for the same reason that I always write Scott as autistic: because fuck you, that’s why.

tell me we both matter, don’t we (Teen Wolf, Explicit, Derek/Scott; look, this is angsty character study bullshit cosplaying as smut).

Also: Derek is 25 in this fic and Scott is 17. They were having sex when Scott was 16 because Derek went, “Well, he kissed me fist” and didn’t think he needed to ask. This is treated as a Not Good thing in the fic, period.

I could just title this fic, “Derek and Scott make bad life choices and really should not be sleeping together, but they’re werewolf disasters and they have sex anyway” because that is literally all that happens. Also, Derek realizes he was wrong about, “Well, Scott kissed me first, so I am absolved of all responsibility for my bullshit choices” (but only because he goes, “Oh shit, I might be enabling Scott’s self-destructive tendencies,” not because he recognizes any other reasons why he was wrong).

But boys spring infernal (Voltron: Legendary Defender, Mature — all of the emotional hurt/comfort, so much angst, it’s another, “I like making fictional characters deal with mental health issues bc it makes it easier to deal with mine” sorta fic, wrapped up in a punk/college/hot mess AU).

This is the tall, smart, good-looking one, mostly because of how it reminded me that holy shit, writing fanfic used to be fun? And wow jeez, it can be fun again.

Anyway: Bi!Keith is (almost) 24, autistic, periodically the source of his advisor’s (Kolivan’s) worst headaches because he’s such a mess and so bad at letting people help him, and really fed up with the punk band rehearsing in the garage under his shitty apartment right before midterms when he wants to be asleep.

Gay!Shiro is a 27-year-old recovering addict with long hair, PTSD, panic attacks, a stuffed black lion, and a serious fanboy streak for George Michael. He and Keith didn’t expect to see each other ever again after some Bad Shit and a supposed disappearing act that went down almost five years ago, but guess who’s the lead singer of the band that’s been keeping Keith awake.

Also, Kuron is Shiro’s twin and we’re calling him Ryou because of GoLion. Bi!Lance is 23 as of July, ADHD as shit, well-meaning but overprotective in his self-appointed capacity as Shiro’s emotional guardian, and pining over Bi!Hunk, who doesn’t notice (because you could hand Hunk a cornucopia of hints, wrapped up in pretty box that has his name on it, and he would go hand the box to Shiro because duh, everybody knows that he’s The Pretty One).

A punk cover of “Genie In A Bottle” is involved, nobody is straight or neurotypical, and I may be in a contest with myself to see how many canon characters I can work into things in some capacity. (For example: Slav is Ryou’s best friend/roommate. I imagine him looking like, “What if Danny Pudi cosplayed as L Lawliet from Death Note.”)

Rain (Teen Wolf, General, Danny/Jackson) — Literally the only fic you don’t have to heed warnings for, because it’s G-rated. Welcome to the AU wherein merman!Jackson grooms cecaelia!Danny’s tentacles, because somebody once told me that it was impossible and I couldn’t write a G-rated tentacle fic, and so I did.

And I tag: @lostemotion @lesbiancleophas @derekslaura @sleepy-skittles @irresistible-revolution @morethanslightly​ @machidielontheway​ and @morphenomenalbabe​ — but no pressure if any of you don’t want to do it. And anyone else who wants to do the thing can just say that I tagged them. Blame me, it’s totally fair ♡

[ao3feed-keithshiro]

But boys spring infernal

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2hyoZwB

by Anonymous

It all starts at four in the morning, when exhausted student Keith goes to yell at the punk band practicing in the garage below his shitty apartment, and gets far more than he bargained for.

Words: 2155, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Keith (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Lance (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Hunk (Voltron)

Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Band Fic, Angst and Humor, Shiro Has Long Hair, I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY FOR MYSELF, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I lost control of my life, Reunions, Arguing, Frustration, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, POV Keith (Voltron), References to Drugs, i.e. references to casual drug use, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Autistic Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Originally Posted on Tumblr

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2hyoZwB

[autisticsheith]

Uh. I have nothing to say for myself and absolutely no idea where this thinks it’s going, but it it’s brought to you by the fact that shaggy, long-haired!Shiro/Kuron/whoever apparently makes me crave Sheith-flavored punk AUs, featuring grungy punk Shiro and beleaguered college student Keith.

I literally tossed it off in about an hour-and-a-half, so there is absolutely no plan here and I promise absolutely nothing because I don’t have a clue what I might or might not be promising in the first place. Your guess about what happens next is as good as, if not better than, mine.

Unbeta’d, but it’s really not even a complete fic anyway. Pretty tame, though it contains a few references to casual drug use.

“Okay, guys. How about let’s take it from the top again? And, uh, try to sound better this time?”

Even though he knows the people tormenting him can’t hear him, Keith groans and slams his fist against his desk. The cheap, secondhand lamp rattles, briefly threatens to fall off the edge, then settles down. Rubbing his eyes, Keith glares down at his notes on Jane Eyre, and they might as well be in Ancient Greek, with how much they’re swimming for him right now. Another yawn slips loose as he glances at the alarm clock beside him. Its red digital display reads back 04:06 AM like it gets some perverse joy out of Keith’s current misery. Knowing his luck, it probably does.

For the umpteen-thousandth time tonight, some loud, boisterous asshole in the garage below his shitty little apartment calls out, “And one! Two! One, two, three, four!”

The drums come first, banging out a rhythm that Keith couldn’t make heads or tails of, even if he had gotten a decent night’s sleep this week. Next, comes the keyboardist, who makes no sense as part of a punk band (last Keith heard, this genre was supposed to be stripped down or something), but at least they actually know how to play. If not for constantly interrupting his ability to rest, Keith could probably forgive the bassist, who only sounds garden variety inept. But the lead guitarist charges into the song like a stampede trampling an entire row of china shops. Whoever they are, they make their instrument wail like a cat that’s having its neck broken, and can’t stay on-tempo to save their life.

Keith never made it far in music lessons. His second set of foster parents had tried to make him learn, but Keith had failed to understand a lick of anything his poor teacher had thrown his way. Lessons ended after one afternoon’s practice, when his red plastic recorder had wound up mysteriously embedded in the basement wall. Still, even he can tell that it takes dedication to suck as hard as this band’s guitarist.

“Are you sure those Galaxy Garrison punks are really all that bad?” Allura asked him over lunch the other day, after she’d spent the majority of their Gothic Literary Traditions And Society lecture nudging him so he wouldn’t fall asleep. “I certainly don’t begrudge you being annoyed that they’re so disrespectful. But perhaps you might enjoy the music more under other circumstances.”

Not to be spiteful or anything, but Keith wishes that she were here right now. That’d settle the matter pretty easily. About the only redeeming feature of this alleged music, is that the singer doesn’t suck. Sure, their diction leaves a bit to be desired, and if they helped write the lyrics, then they could’ve done better than all of this derivative man, fuck the system but not in a nice way garbage. But vocally, they’re almost decent.

Still, if Keith could spare the cash, he’d literally pay them to stop singing.

He’s twisting the tab off another can of Mountain Dew as the song abruptly stops. The drums drop out first, then the keyboards, then the strings. The singer cuts short a scream that Keith guesses is supposed to sound artfully anguished. Keith almost lets himself breathe easier. But the chorus of yelling is ten times worse:

“Hey, what’s going—”

“Dammit, Lance, you missed the cue again!”

“Don’t look at me! I was following Pidge!”

“Whoa, hey, excuse you! Since when are your screw-ups suddenly my fault?!”

“Dude, you have to get the cue right or I won’t know when the tempo-shift’s supposed to happen!”

“Stow it, guys! Battle of the Bands is in two weeks, and we’re not gonna beat The Ultraviolents unless we work together and focus on the practice.”

Cringing, Keith digs his fingers into the bridge of his nose. In the back of his mind, a voice that sounds way too much like Allura’s Dad tells him not to grind his teeth, but that only makes Keith do so harder. Whatever, Coran’s not here to chastise him in person, and he doesn’t have to deal with these jack-offs for several hours every single night. He, and Allura, and her Father get to live in a nice penthouse uptown, in a swank building that Keith can’t even look at without feeling underdressed and vaguely nauseated. If anyone like Galaxy Garrison ever tried to hold their shitty band practice at this hour of the night, Alfor and Coran could call the cops and get an actual response.

Keith, on the other hand, can only rely on himself. It’s always been that way, but has gotten truer since he moved in here.

Although the singer’s attempt at a rousing speech should’ve cut this nonsense off, the other three keep shouting. Keith hears the words, but for the moment, they make no sense. Next thing he knows, he’s stomping out into the hall. He doesn’t slam the door, because it might bother Rolo and Nyma in the other flat, and unlike some people, Keith at least tries to respect his neighbors, even when they’re overly friendly and perpetually stink like weed and stale hot dogs.

But that’s about the only thing that Keith can spare a thought for, heading to the rickety stairs, practically on autopilot. He’s halfway down before he notices that he isn’t wearing shoes. God, he hopes there isn’t too much broken glass around tonight.

“Guys, listen up!” the singer cuts in again, as Keith pauses on the bottom stair to yawn. “I know we’re all tired, and I know we’ve all been working hard. But none of us is any better or worse than the others — and we’re only as strong as our ability to work together. This band can’t do well by our music, much less win anything, if we’re fighting like Lennon and McCartney all the time, okay?”

“Oh my god, fucking Beatles references? Really?” groans another one. “Dude, could you sound any more like my abuela?”

“Lance, I’ve known your abuela since we were six, and I have never heard her once talk about the Beatles, or speak anything but Spanish.”

“Totally not the point, Hunk!”

From the sound of it, this Lance one kicks a can against the nearest wall. Keith huffs, closing in on the door.

“All I’m saying is that I can’t get my cues right if Pidge keeps trying all this overly complicated bullshit and—”

“Do you assholes have ANY idea what fucking time it is?!”

It’s not until he’s spit it out that Keith realizes how loud he was. Hovering in the doorway into the garage, he almost regrets that. But he can’t show these punks any weakness or they’ll keep on doing this. So, he glares at them. First, at the big guy behind the drums (who’s cute, actually, with his floppy hair and his belly and his big, strong arms; he looks like someone Keith might not mind, under other circumstances). He wilts as Keith frowns at him, and the way he hangs his head kicks Keith in the regret again.

The petite, bedheaded keyboardist calls a glare her way next, but only because she pipes up, “Excuse me?”

Seething, Keith steps out of the doorway. “I said, ‘Do you assholes have any idea what fucking time it is’?” He folds his arms over his chest. “It’s not a hard question, thanks.”

“Well, what if we don’t want to answer it, man!” The one called Lance is tall and spindly, and looks like a guy Keith might consider going home with, if he’d had a couple drinks and felt particularly lonely. “I mean, who the Hell are you to tell us what time it is, anyway!”

“I’m the guy who lives upstairs, jackass,” Keith snaps. “I’m the guy who lives upstairs who would rather be asleep, instead of dealing with you little shits at four in the fucking morning—”

“Hey, we talked to the other two, and they didn’t mind—”

“I’m not them, though, am I? And unlike them, I can’t afford to knock myself out on cough syrup just to sleep through all your goddamn racket.”

“‘All our goddamn racket’?” Lance drawls back in a mocking tone. He even folds his arms like Keith and cocks a hip. Glancing over at the singer, he says, “Asere, come get this! He sounds even more like my abuela than you do. What’s next, man? Are you gonna tell us to get off of your lawn?”

“I don’t have a lawn, you idiot. I barely have an apartment.”

As Lance and Hunk and Pidge barely manage to hold back their laughter, it occurs to Keith that maybe he should not have taken that insult literally. His cheeks flush hot, and his ears start tingling, because of course, his entire head has to blush in situations like this. Whatever he’s doing, it makes the Pidge one snicker, and when he glares at her again, she doesn’t even try to stop.

Hugging himself tighter, Keith groans and turns toward the singer, ready to verbally eviscerate him, since as far as Keith can tell, he’s the ringleader. The other three respect him (more or less), and in the past few nights’ rehearsals, he’s the one who’s made the most decisions about what songs to go over and who was right or wrong about which dispute or other. This means that he’s the most responsible for this mess out of all of them, and the one who most deserves Keith’s outrage. But the words all die before Keith’s even spit out one of them.

The guy in front of him probably has a good six inches on Keith in height, and the body of someone who you wouldn’t want to mess with. Sure, his ripped jeans hang low on his slim hips, but his weathered Pansy Division crop top shows off a pretty toned set of abs. Even worse, the ripped sleeves highlight a really nice set of arms. There’s a gnarled, nasty-looking scar on the right one, up by the singer’s shoulder, and another one, Keith notices, that goes across his nose and cheeks. Now that he sees it, he can’t believe he’d ever miss it, but in fairness, the singer’s hair falls to his shoulders with a devil-may-care ease about it, mostly black, except for the shaggy forelock that he’s bleached white.

Keith frowns as he takes in the guy’s face. Something about it seems… familiar? But that makes no sense, or does it? Whatever it is, Keith can’t place it. He would remember a jaw like that, and definitely that scar… Maybe he has one of those faces? Or maybe he was in a local commercial? Or—

“Keith?” the singer says, his voice soft and his eyes wide. His lower lip quivers and he knots his brow…

—and realization slams into Keith, and makes him freeze. No, that can’t be right. This singer can’t be who Keith thinks he is, and that person can’t be here — this cannot be happening, because that’s bullshit — even if it weren’t, things like this don’t happen to Keith — this cannot be happening—

“…Keith, right?” he says again. “Keith Kogane?”

Hunching his shoulders, Keith whispers, “…Shiro?” — but he knows it can’t be, because that’s stupid, because Shiro’s gone and things like this don’t happen to Keith. They just do not. Ever. Never, ever in his life has anything like this happened, so why would it decide to happen now.

Except the singer beams at him, and Keith would know that smile if he were blackout drunk. He wrestles his guitar off of himself and hands it off to Lance, and before Keith knows which way is up, there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder. That lasts for maybe half a second, then he’s getting pulled into Shiro’s chest and hugged around the shoulders. Keith’s heart is going so fast, it feels like maybe it just stopped beating. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. There is no way in Hell — Keith must’ve bummed some Nyquil off of Rolo after all, and now he’s passed out upstairs, and he is dreaming some truly fucked up dreams, because this. Shit. Cannot. Be happening.

But Shiro squeezes so tight, it starts to hurt. He lets up and mumbles an apology when Keith wriggles, then tells him, “I thought I’d never see you again…”

It takes Keith a moment to nod, then another one to even think of saying anything. When he gets his mouth around the words, all he can come up with is, “I didn’t… Me neither.”

Dimly, Keith’s just glad that Shiro buries his face in his shoulder instead of asking why Keith sounds weird right now. Keith might be on the spectrum, but even he knows better than to admit that what he’s really thinking is more like, Oh, fuck my life.

[ao3feed-voltronlegendarydefender]

But boys spring infernal

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2hyoZwB

by Anonymous

It all starts at four in the morning, when exhausted student Keith goes to yell at the punk band practicing in the garage below his shitty apartment, and gets far more than he bargained for.

Words: 2155, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Keith (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Lance (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Hunk (Voltron)

Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Band Fic, Angst and Humor, Shiro Has Long Hair, I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY FOR MYSELF, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I lost control of my life, Reunions, Arguing, Frustration, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, POV Keith (Voltron), References to Drugs, i.e. references to casual drug use, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Autistic Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Originally Posted on Tumblr

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2hyoZwB

[tribblemaster]

Rules: Answer the 20 questions and tag 20 amazing followers!

Tagged by: @spockt​ and @s-chn-t-gai​ ! thank you loves!

Name: María Sol

Nicknames: Sol

Zodiac sign: pisces

Height: I have no idea, like 1.60 mts?

Orientation: pansexal

Nationality: Argentinaaaa *waves the mate*

Favorite fruit: cherries and tangerines

Favorite season: I kind of like spring because its not that hot/cold? also goes for fall, but now its getting cold and I dont like it so much

Favorite book: mmm hard question, I dont know if I can pick only one. Lets go for fics then(?) Poets by ashesandhoney (Will/Tessa/Jem, Infernal Devices saga)

Favorite flower: sunflowers

Favorite scent: earth after rain, clean clothes, new books

Favorite color: violet/golden?

Favorite animal: i like the cuddly kind

Coffee, tea, or hot cocoa: All of them!

Average sleep hours: from four to twelve at a time

Cat or dog person: raised with dogs, but I like cats too

Favorite fictional character: Q from James Bond. Didn’t like his Spectre version much but well, thats what the fics are for :)))))

Number of blankets you sleep with: four, I get cold easily

Dream trip: Ireland!!!!!! Scotland!!!!! Colombia!!!! Italy!!!!

Blog created: I think it wassssss last year? I cant remember!

@aestheticallyspace @andromeda1023 @back-to-the-stars-again @mccoy-is-my-boi @datathestarfleetofficer @metalghosthunter @classictrek @ds9vgrconfessions @enjolras-was-a-feminist @rafaellightwoodbane @swnews @fuckyeahlesmiserables

[ao3feed--sheith]

But boys spring infernal

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2hyoZwB

by Anonymous

It all starts at four in the morning, when exhausted student Keith goes to yell at the punk band practicing in the garage below his shitty apartment, and gets far more than he bargained for.

Words: 2155, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Keith (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Lance (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Hunk (Voltron)

Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Band Fic, Angst and Humor, Shiro Has Long Hair, I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY FOR MYSELF, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I lost control of my life, Reunions, Arguing, Frustration, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, POV Keith (Voltron), References to Drugs, i.e. references to casual drug use, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Autistic Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Originally Posted on Tumblr

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2hyoZwB

[autisticsheith]

canon: clone or not, Kuron is noticeably thinner than Shiro was before

me, tapping away at fic: okay, but the Kuron-inspired Ryou in this fic’s AU is the soft, short-haired, chubby twin who’s pretty confident in his body but insecure about almost everything else. Shiro has the long hair and a history of being worrisomely thin, even if he’s doing more okay now. Ryou still low-key thinks of Shiro as His Superhero Big Brother. This way, I can have my cake and eat it, too :3

canon: so what is the purpose of my pointing out things like this if you proceed to totally ignore me

me: *shrugs* as long as you pass the butter and keep giving material to play around with, you can do whatever you want, I don’t care

[autisticsheith]

Keith has only been to Michigan once, on his way out here after he left Chicago. He was bumming rides again, and one of them made him get out at a rest stop plaza off of I-75, about twenty-some-odd miles from the Ohio border. The roads were mangled bullshit and the air was so humid that Keith thought he’d choke — but after a few hours of digging around in trash, he managed to make a solid twenty-five bucks, returning 250 empty Coke bottles and beer cans at a supermarket down the road from where he’d been let out.

tbh, I will take pretty much any excuse I can get to mock the place where I was born and raised, but our cash deposit for returnables (10¢) is still twice as much as it is in every other state that does this