#i guess this is technically a ficlet

[enjoythesilentworld]

more than just a minute

in honor of 500 (!!) kudos on one of my favorite things I've ever written, just if for a minute, aka the fake marriage-friends to lovers au, here's a short little drabble I wrote about what those two (not) fake married boys are up to now 💜 and thank u so much for 500!!! wtf!!!

“Baby?”

Simon’s voice comes back slightly muffled from across the apartment, “Yeah?”

“Have you seen that blue button up of mine?” Wille calls back, shuffling through their mess of a closet. “The nice one with the stripes?”

There’s a pause, then Wille hears a loud sigh and the quiet pat-pat-pat of Simon’s socked feet on hard wood. One moment later, the exasperated face of his darling husband — husband! — appears in the doorway.

“Wille,” Simon says softly, as if speaking to a naughty child. “Darling. Light of my life. It’s a beach vacation. Grab two pairs of swim trunks and call it a day.”

“It’s not just a beach vacation,” Wille pouts.

With another small sigh and fond shake of his head, Simon steps fully into the room and loops his arms around Wille’s neck. Though Wille is still pouting slightly, it’s mostly for show, and his hands find their place on Simon’s waist, thumbs slipping under his sweater to rub small, gentle circles into warm skin.

“You’re right,” Simon nods, tucking his face into Wille’s neck. “It’s not just a beach vacation. But seeing as it is our honeymoon, that makes clothes even less of a necessity.”

The teasing tone in Simon’s voice and small nip of teeth on the sensitive skin under his ear pulls a giggle from Wille, and he buries his face in Simon’s curls, inhaling the calming scent.

Two months. Two months since their wedding, which had started out fake and very nearly been a total disaster but was saved at the last minute by a long-overdue (and luckily mutual) love confession. Two months since their wedding, which is altogether not very long at all, in the grand scheme of things, even if they had technically been in love with each other for the past few (many) years.

As such, the fact that Wille is standing here, in the bedroom of their shared apartment—shared before but is now shared in a wholly different way—with Simon, his husband, all wrapped up in his arms still makes his head spin. And, technically, it’s their second bedroom, formerly Simon’s bedroom which is now more of an office space—also, the very handy storage place for summer clothes while they’re in the thick of Swedish winter.

The words husband and shared and honeymoon swirl around in Wille’s brain as Simon wiggles out of his arms and turns to search for the shirt Wille’d asked about. Simon is right, it’s a beach vacation, and though they have been married for two months, the holiday season has been a whirlwind, and Wille has not been able to have Simon all to himself as much as he’s wanted to. This honeymoon will finally allow them to have that, a week and a half in the sun and sand, clothing optional.

“Did you pack that new sunscreen I bought today?”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to bring clothes, but you can bring seven tubes of sunscreen?” Wille teases, following Simon as he slips out into the hallway and across to their bedroom, with their bed, that they sleep in every night together. His husband.

“The fact that you’re not allowed to bring clothes,” Simon retorts, “is the reason for all the sunscreen, Dracula.”

“Hey!” He pinches at Simon’s hips, then gets tackled back onto the bed in retaliation.

They roll together over the winter quilts, laughing and wriggling fingers under sweaters to tickle at soft spots of skin. Simon yelps when Wille gets him on the bum and quickly manages to win the wrestling match, pinning Wille back to the bed, wrists over his head and pressed into the pillows. He hovers over Wille, cheeks flushed pink and chest heaving, a big, proud grin on his face.

Wille smirks at him. “This is not the win you think it is,” he says, glancing down at where Simon has settled into this lap.

Fondly, Simon scoffs and rolls his eyes, starting to move away, which simply won’t do. Using his newly freed wrists, Wille loops his arms around Simon’s waist and flips them, wrapping himself around his husband like a koala.

“Wille!” Simon squeals, squirming and giggling. “We’ve got to finish packing! Our flight is in the morning!”

The last few words get partially cut-off by breathless laughter, but he stops trying to get away when Wille murmurs, “Just a minute or two more,” into the skin on Simon’s neck, nuzzling his face there.

They’ll probably stay there a bit longer than a few minutes, but they don’t mind. Simon is right, anyway; it’s their honeymoon, being clothed is way further down on the list than just being in each other’s arms as much as possible.

[chronicowboy]

His breakup with Marisol is about as unremarkable as the rest of their relationship. There's no catastrophic muffin mess in his kitchen or divorce papers. Just a quiet I don't think this is working out, I'm sorry. Marisol hadn't even cried. She'd just nodded like she'd been waiting for it and left, didn't even need to grab anything from the house before she went and really that just reassured Eddie that this was the right choice.

So, his breakup with Marisol is unremarkable, except that it's not. It's pretty fucking remarkable when he thinks about it because it's not just that they weren't working out, not just that he really didn't care about spending time with her, not just the clench in his gut every time she touched him. No. It's pretty fucking remarkable because he realises he's in love with his best friend.

That's what pushes him over the edge, gives him the last kick he needs to actually break things off with her. Because Eddie may have sworn himself to secrecy about it the moment he realised, but he could never string someone along just because he couldn't have the real someone he wanted.

It's a fucking revelation once he has it. Not a ton of bricks, but the sun peeking out from behind the clouds on the greyest of days, bright and blinding. And the way Eddie has always thought of Buck in terms of sunshine maybe should have tipped him off sooner, but with the way Buck has been beaming over the past few weeks. Well. Eddie doesn't really think he can be blamed for only just taking his sunglasses off and daring to look directly at the light.

And, okay, so Eddie maybe makes it a full week before he decides his self-sworn secrecy absolutely is not a viable option when Buck walks through life now like a drop of sunshine in human form. It's after Buck leaves the Diaz house, walking out from a day of giggles and joy at the go-kart track they'd finally managed to convince Chris to be seen with them at, leaving behind a cosy heat like sun-warmed skin, that Eddie realises he cannot go another day without telling Buck that he's desperately, deeply in love with him.

And so, that's how Eddie finds himself at Buck's door on a random Sunday morning, knocking for the first time since Natalia waltzed out of the picture. Buck opens it a few moments later looking perfectly sleep-rumpled and soft and downright golden where he's backlit by the early morning sunlight pooling in the loft.

"Eddie," Buck breathes out, eyes darting up the stairs before refocusing on Eddie and what must be the most hopelessly lovesick expression painted across his face. "H-hey, what are you doing here?"

"I, um." Eddie takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous, and wipes his clammy palms on his jeans. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Now a good time?" And Buck must hear the slightly shaky steel in his voice because the surprise on his face morphs into a concern so quintessentially Buck that Eddie just wants to kiss it away.

"Y-yeah, of course, come on in." Buck holds the door open for him, and Eddie migrates to the fridge as Buck closes the door with the gentlest touch. "So, um, what's up?"

"I..." Eddie swallows against the heart in his throat, loses himself in the shining blue of Buck's eyes like an ocean he'd be more than happy to drown in. "I broke up with Marisol last week."

"Oh, Eddie." Buck slumps, and Eddie tries not to think that it looks a little like relief. "I'm so sorry, man. That sucks."

"No, no." Eddie waves him off with a laugh. "It's good. Was a long time coming actually." He shakes his head at himself. "I think I was dating her just to tick a box, you know? Realised you probably shouldn't be more excited about a phone call from your new buddy than one from your kinda long-term girlfriend. You definitely shouldn't be relieved when you see your best friend in the restaurant you're taking her to and disappointed when you realise he's just leaving."

And then, Buck blushes, ducks his head, does that little smile that could light up every house on South Bedford Street just like Eddie had been hoping for.

"Yeah." Buck looks up at him from under his lashes. "Probably not."

It bolsters Eddie. Buck's sunshine giving him that one last push he needs.

"There was something else I wanted to say," Eddie starts. And there isn't really any fear in him, knows they'll make it through this no matter what, just an overwhelming sense of peace to come. "I..." A deep breath, gathering all his love and devotion in his lungs so it's ready to pour out on his next inhale and—

A groan from upstairs has the words dying in his throat. A masculine groan. And then:

"Evan?"

"D-down here," Buck calls back.

Eddie can't take his eyes off the loft, stuck there like a car crash he can't look away from as a very shirtless Tommy Kinard appears at the top of the stairs and quickly blanches.

"Shit. Um..." He looks down at Buck in a panic.

Eddie finally manages to drag his eyes away from the very chiselled curveball that just hit him at a hundred miles per hour and finds Buck's face. Small, scared, shaken. He knows the feeling. And because he loves Buck, because of just how deeply he loves Buck, it's the easiest thing in the world to lock that love away and let his face crack into the most genuine of grins. Because if Tommy's been the thing making Buck shine like every fucking star in the sky, well Eddie will absolutely not be getting between them.

"You've been so happy," Eddie chokes out, still smiling.

"I have," Buck whispers.

"And I'm so happy for you." Eddie covers the distance between them in three long strides and pulls Buck into a hug so tight and clinging he's sure it's a confession in and of itself, but Buck only buries in deeper, taking shaky little breaths in the crook of Eddie's neck.

"Thank you," Buck murmurs into his skin. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears.

"Sorry you didn't get to tell me on your own terms," he murmurs back, letting Buck pull away, but lingering with a hand on his hip, on his shoulder. He should maybe be worried about what this could look like to Tommy who had basically never heard anything apart from rambles about Buck, except when he glances up the stairs, Tommy is nowhere to be seen.

"I was going to tell you," Buck rushes out. "I-I just wasn't sure how."

"That's okay," Eddie says. It's okay. It's okay. "Well, I'll stop gate-crashing for the... Second time?" He raises an eyebrow, and Buck flushes a pink Eddie will never ever get to taste. "Yeah, okay. That makes sense." He remembers the pure fear on Buck's face, the indecision on Tommy's and the sudden tightening of his own chest despite his smile. "I'll leave you guys to it." He clears his throat. "Kinard, if you hurt him, they'll never find your body," he shouts up the stairs.

"Copy that, Diaz," Tommy shouts back.

"I'm really proud of you, Buck." Eddie wraps him in another hug then, a quick thing, just one last touch before Eddie seals every desire away for good.

"Thanks, Eddie." Buck walks him to the door, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and Eddie wants to hug him again. Wants so badly it hurts. But if he hugs Buck again, he doesn't think he'll ever let go. "See you at work tomorrow."

"See you at work." Eddie prays Buck is too distracted to hear the wobble in his voice.

"Wait, sorry, what did you want to talk about?"

Eddie freezes on the threshold, the stutter of his heart painful like he's back in a suit store, and he catches himself on the doorframe with a shaking hand.

"It can wait."

[martyreddie]

conscious of nothing (the will to survive)

post 8x10 voices | pre-relationship | eddie pov | introspective | hopeful ending | 2.3k

For a split second, Eddie sees Buck's face in his mind's eye, brows pulled together and a twist to his mouth. Are you sure you want a trailer? There is a much higher risk of trailer sway when you're driving a truck. Head laid to the side, knuckles dragging across the table, I'll be fine, Buck.  Bit of a miscalculation maybe, Eddie thinks.  Then the truck flips.  

read on ao3

[a-most-beloved-fool]

I wrote a whump-y little tos/spirk ficlet thing that i was gonna post on tumblr today, but looking at it again...it's nice enough that i could edit it a bit and stick it on ao3 👀

hmmm. well, give it a few hours. i don't have time just yet (or rather, i don't want to mess with ao3 posting on my phone), and i might want to add a scene first, if I'm making it "official"

[bangtanagan]

to end up at the sea

minimoni + sentinel/guide au. 2.1k. for @/trueto7 on bluesky // bsky

He feels it like the last gasp before drowning, a black wave of water and a gut-clench panic. The nausea comes a heartbeat after, the thick claustrophobic misery of touch and too much, and he straightens up on instinct, elbow cracking into the side of his chair and sending sparks all the way up his arm to and down to his littlest finger. He bites back a curse, cradling his elbow, and the panic gets heavier. Smothering.

“Jimin?” Next to him, Taehyung startles, pen drawing a thick line through his notes. The lecturer down in front keeps droning on, oblivious to the distraction in the back row of the lecture hall. Whatever he’s saying is lost on Jimin, in one ear and out the other. His attention is caught instead on the blackwater terror echoing around his head and between his ribs. It’s hard to breathe. “Jimin-ah?”

“I’m okay,” he says, remembering to whisper. It’s hard when all his attention is turned away from class to whoever it is in the building caught in this horrible feedback loop of overwhelming panic and sensation and pain. It’s hard to remember it’s not his hurt, not his fear. “I’m fine, I just—"

“What is it?”

Jimin takes a breath. Not his fear, he reminds himself, though it’s hard to believe that when his heart is rabbiting and the sensation of drowning is so close. Someone in the building, he thinks, and that—the reminder of space, of distance, of closeness and the world—helps a little. He takes another breath and lets the crash of overwhelmed wash over him and pass on. He knows how to do this.

“I gotta go.”

“Go where? What—"

“Just— Can you watch my stuff?”

Taehyung, bless him, doesn't hesitate to nod. “Yeah, of course. But why?“

“I just…” He’s never had to explain it before, not to someone who doesn't know already. He shakes his head. “I gotta check on someone.”

“Who? Jimin-ah—"

He stands, fingers still stinging, and squeezes Taehyung’s shoulder as he slips down the row of students, too distracted to offer more than a mumbled apology for knocked-over bags and unplugged chargers. Then he’s out of the hall and into the bright, hot lobby of the sciences building, and someone is—

Stop it, breathe, stop it, get it together—

Jimin takes another breath. He can do this. He can follow it, find them. Can’t help if he’s not there. He just needs whoever it is to hold on a little longer.

He takes another breath and closes his eyes, blocking out the sunlight streaming through the wide windows and the chatter of students cutting through the lobby and the buzz of the air conditioning, and focuses on the echo of feeling sluicing through him. Find the line, his mother always says, and Jimin has never entirely understood what she means by that. Right now, he understand perfectly.

He opens his eyes and follows his feet.

There’s a crowd waiting for the elevator so he forgoes it, shoving into the stairwell hard enough that the door clangs against the wall and thuds shut behind him. He doesn’t care; he’s already pushing himself upwards, feet slapping against concrete, breath coming short in a way that’s half exertion and half whoever is on the other end of the tether, reeling him in. It’s nothing like guiding his brother on the playground, or finding his dad across a crowded mall. There’s something urgent about this, a hook under his belly, and it drags him all the way up to the sixth floor labs.

He crashes out of the stairwell and pauses to gulp down air, pushing his hair out of his face. They’re nearby; he knows they're nearby. But this close, the fuzzy jumble of a spike is overwhelming—he feels it in his teeth and behind his eyes, and it makes the effort of pinpointing the source twice as difficult.

“Hey,” says a student coming out of a classroom, and Jimin has to blink twice to bring their face into focus. “You looking for somewhere?”

“No, um,” says Jimin. “No. Thanks though.”

“You alright?” asks the kid, but Jimin’s already moving, letting instinct guide him. Down one hall, past brimming classrooms, then down another full of offices, and around a corner—he’s always known the science building was a maze but this is ridiculous—and then he’s down a quieter, dimmer hall, where all the doors are marked with warnings and the lights are mostly off, and somewhere nearby is the sound of—

It’s not sobbing exactly, but it’s close. The too-harsh cut of heavy breathing, air scraping in and out. Jimin picks up the pace, shoes loud against the linoleum.

He almost misses him. He’s curled between some machine that looks like it's from the eighties and a cart full of dusty folding chairs, curled in his makeshift bolthole with his knees drawn up and hands over his ears, head bent low. The surging waves of panic and nausea and disgust crash over Jimin, endless. If this is how it feels to him, he can barely manage how it feels to the boy.

“Hey,” he says, modulating his voice quieter as he kneels down in front of him. His hands shake a little. He's never had to do this for a stranger. “Hey, can you hear me?”

He gets no response save for the same rasping wheeze. Jimin hesitates, then reaches out and touches the narrow sliver of skin peeking out between the boy’s sock and the cuff of his pants.

Immediately, everything gets worse.

For a moment, Jimin sinks in it, swallowed by the maelstrom of touch—shirt sharp-rough-tight, jacket claustrophobic, shoes leaden and crushing his feet. The wall is searing cold and the accidental brush of an elbow against the chair cart is the worst sort of shock, and all of it is endless, a sweeping wash of misery that crashes again, and again, and again. Jimin’s breath sticks in his throat, and his stomach turns over, and his head throbs.

But it’s not his. It’s not his skin, not his panic, not his hurt. He can turn it down. He knows how to turn it down.

His mother always talks about it like dials on the radio, tuning things to the perfect station between the static, but for Jimin it’s never been like that. Jimin’s always felt guiding like dancing—knowing the right distance to extend an arm, or the right amount of weight to put down. His mom says he must be very visual, but he thinks he must explain it badly because it’s not about what it looks like. It’s about how it feels. About making his body the right shape.

Only now it’s not his body, or his brother’s, or even his father. Right now, it’s this boy, coiled up in the hallway like the world itself is out to harm him.

He flinches when Jimin touches him, a new and miserable sensation, but Jimin eases it like a limb, takes the weight away. And then, slowly: the prickling shirt. The stifling jacket. The weight of shoes. He takes the slump of his back against the wall and makes it gentle, slow. Draws out the space between the boy’s elbow and the cart, marking the distance and its absence to make both simpler. Gentler. He choreographs kindness in each shifting sensation, until touch doesn't break or brand. Until the waves settle, and the boy’s breathing evens.

“Hey,” says Jimin again, and this time there’s a stirring of movement, of unwinding, in response. “Are you okay?”

The boy’s head lifts. He has a plain face, except for his sharp eyes, which are glossy with tears. The boy reaches as though to brush them away, then hesitates, then wipes them anyway. He seems almost startled by the ease of it. Jimin is still touching his ankle.

“You,” says the boy, voice rough, and then he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is even and deep. “What did you do?”

“I turned it down.” Jimin’s never had to explain this to someone who doesn’t know before. “I— I felt you. I wanted to help.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Have you… Has that happened before?”

“It’s never been bad like that,” says the boy, rubbing at the back of his neck, a faint flush high on his cheeks. “Usually I can deal with it.”

Jimin watches his face shift as he speaks, then shift more as he falls silent, thinking. After a moment Jimin pulls his hand back, slow, and the boy flinches but doesn’t spike again.

“Do you know what it was?”

“I’ve read about it,” the boy says. “Spikes, I mean. I didn’t realize it would be like that.” He blinks and looks at Jimin with newfound attention, his gaze sharp and deep. “You stopped it.”

“I— Yeah.” There’s no point in lying. “It’s sort of what I do.” He doesn’t say that guiding for the boy, for this stranger, felt clearer and more important than it's ever felt with anyone else. “Park Jimin. Third year.”

He holds his hand out, and the boy eyes it warily for a moment before he takes it gingerly. Jimin adjusts his touch minutely, softening his grip, and watches the boy’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Kim Namjoon,” he returns. “Fourth year.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Namjoon-ssi.”

“You too, Jimin-ssi. Do you do this a lot?”

“Not really,” says Jimin, laughing a little at the improbability of it all. He’s still holding Namjoon’s hand, he realizes, but it’s sort of nice. He has a big hand, a sturdy grip now that he’s not afraid it’ll hurt. Jimin’s distantly proud of that, of being able to not-hurt. “Just my brother, usually. You were really loud.”

Namjoon winces and tugs his hand back. “Sorry.”

“No! No, I didn’t mean it like that.“ He frowns, not sure exactly what he meant it like. “I’m glad I could help,” he settles on. “I mean, I’m sorry about whatever triggered it, but I’m really glad I could help.”

“It was just a bad day,” Namjoon shrugs. “Lab was bad. Makes things loud.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It's alright. I'm lucky you were here.”

“Yeah,” agrees Jimin, though he’s not sure luck was the only thing to do with it. His mom says, sometimes, that these skills have a sense of their own. Like they know when the right person is around. He swallows the thought down. “I’ve actually never met anyone else like me. Or, us I guess. I mean, here on campus.”

“My roommate does it a bit,” says Namjoon, which is a surprise. It must read on Jimin’s face, because he shrugs, looking embarrassed. “We figured it out when we both kind of set each other off.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. You can get a kind of feedback loop sometimes, without a guide for balance.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Well.” Jimin shrugs, embarrassed. “My whole family is— I mean, we all do it a bit.”

“Oh. So then you know a lot. Maybe you could— only if you want of course—but maybe you could tell me more about it?”

“Yeah,” says Jimin. “Yeah it would be, y’know. Nice to talk about it with someone. If you want.”

“Yeah,” says Namjoon. “I think that would be nice. Maybe somewhere less cramped.”

“Oh,” says Jimin, realizing suddenly that they’re both still crouched on the dusty floor in some back hallway of the science building, and also he’s going to miss the end of his lecture. “Oh, right, yeah. I actually— I have to get back to class, but if you’re around later, we could maybe do coffee? Or, uh, some other beverage of your choosing?”

“Coffee is good,” says Namjoon with the start of a smile. “When are you done with class?”

“In, uh.” He checks his phone and winces. “Ten minutes.”

“I’ll meet you out front after?”

Jimin hesitates. “It won’t be too much? After, y’know.”

“I think I’m okay,” says Namjoon. He flexes his hands and rolls out his neck and gives Jimin a look that Jimin can't begin to read. “If not, I’ve got you, right?”

“Yeah,” Jimin agrees, face warm. He pushes himself to his feet and offers Namjoon a hand, helping him up. He’s tall, as it turns out. Has easily half a head on Jimin, and a dimpling smile, and a warm, firm grip, and in the touch of his skin he feels like the steady, even wash of the sea. Jimin holds on a little too long, and hopes Namjoon doesn’t notice. Namjoon squeezes his hand a little before he lets go, and Jimin thinks maybe he does notice, and that maybe also he doesn’t mind. “Yeah, you’ve got me.”

[faux-mance]

thinking about geno's impostor syndrome

his own world replaced him. it tore apart his code to make another version of him that lived his life, and he was forced to watch that sans fill his

and maybe he was glad after was taking care of papyrus, but that doesn't make it hurt, any less. geno was supposed to be the one doing that. it wasn't supposed to come to this. it wasn't fucking fair that he'd suffered so much, only to see another version of him be with geno's brother.

but maybe it was fair. maybe it was what he deserved. he couldn't save his friends. he couldn't save his brother. he couldn't even save himself. it was why he gave up the name sans, wasn't it? he didn't deserve that name. he didn't deserve that life.

— the surface doesn't change how geno feels. sure, the sun on his face and his feet in the grass feel nice. but geno can't help thinking it wasn't supposed to be for him. like the very code in the world is calling him a fraud. this ending wasn't for him. it was for frisk and sans and papyrus. it was for toriel and undyne and alphys and asgore and all the other monsters. why should geno intrude on any of that? what right did he have, to claim this world as his own? he couldn't even save himself. it'd been frisk's idea to use the pie to get him out of the save screen. he didn't deserve to be here. maybe that was what led him to go back into the mountain. to walk through soft, undisturbed snow. not many would step foot here again. not many would want to. that was fine with geno. he found it under a house all too similar to the one now on the surface. that one felt foreign to him, just like the sunlight and the grass and the smiles of his family. this one, he knew well. the click of a lock opened a back door into a dark room, one that hadn't seen the light of day for quite a while. he slid the syringe out of the drawer, the viscous determination inside swirling slowly, the light emanating from it casting a soft red glow on geno's hand. at the same moment, his gaze fell on a familiar silhouette under a purple curtain. the corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile.

[millenari]

Drop a wip update? It’s been a minute 👀

Well I've made very little progress on the Tugger pov gold rush. I've been stuck on the Skimble argument scene for weeks at least, though I worked on part of it a few days ago. Luckily after this single hard scene is like 20-30k or so of easy scenes that I'll be able to breeze right through.

Otherwise I started editing my human/celeb/soulmate au and I've discovered that the first draft is actually in excellent shape in comparison to my other first drafts. I've gone through 60k worth of the first round of editing for that one in like three days. And admittedly 60k of 300k doesn't feel that impressive in context but for the Tugger pov gold rush I'm basically killing it if I edit 1k a day.

Haven't made significant progress on anything else other than a new fic I started writing; it's a shorter one about the junkyard flooding. It looks like it'll come out to around 40-50k and it's more of a tribe fic than a tuggoff fic. I initially started out with this one with the intent of giving every single character a chapter but I Dont Think That Will Be Happening.

[amethystina]

💔 Is there a fic of yours that broke your heart?

Several, I'd say.

Many of my fics contain difficult subjects or end up having very heartbreaking storylines, some more tragic than others. But the thing with my writing is that my heart never stays broken since I always insist on a happy ending. So even if my heart has been broken many times, I usually make sure to mend it, too.

The only exception — where my heart has stayed broken — is a short fic for The Losers comics called Grief.

Which, as the title suggests, is a fic about grief. A case of Major Character Death that I chose not to fix, basically. That's not to say that the fic is all gloom — it's actually about moving on after you've lost someone important to you — but it would be wrong to call it happy. And I would be lying if I said it doesn't still break my heart, partly because I used that fic to work through some of my own thoughts on grief.

Which, admittedly, is something I still do in many of my fics, but I just tend to make them happier than this one xD

So yeah.

I've broken my own heart many times while writing, but only once did I let it remain broken.

Fanfic Writer Emoji Ask

[alectoperdita]

Hmmm, I expanded on that Monsters Halloween ficlet, but now I'm wondering if less was actually more/better. 🤔

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <3 💖🍁

[premise29]

Bro check out my spell! The power of the sun in my hands! YEAH!!!

*sword takes on a purple hue*

Ha ha that's weird... I guess I don't have it mastered yet... right bro? What's with that look? You look like you know something I don't. Do you know how this miracle works? C'mon tell me what I did. Bro, c'mon!! Tell me, tell me, tell me!

One of my favorite implications in dark souls's lore is that Gwyndolin's transness accidentally created a whole new branch of magic on accident. Like, trying to cast sunlight blade while trans just turns it into Darkmoon blade.

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

L Lawliet x reader Ficlet CONTINUATION: The billionaire and the Prostitute

Technically a chapter 1! Expect these to be episodic, light on plot, and heavy on smut...maybe. I'll get them out when I can, so please bear with me! This is all subject to change, I don't really have a plan for this other than writing what I imagine. The best way to support this fic is letting me know what you think! I do my best to respond to each and every comment, because I love hearing from those who read my work! Tysm for choosing to read this!!!

Warnings: vaginal sex, PinV (Implied birth control), prostitute/bought sex

People are like magpies.

They flit to any pretty, shiny thing. And by God, are you pretty and shiny. You know because they say so, and they empty their pockets to prove it. Anyone could be susceptible to your charms: the structure of your face, the curve of your body, or the wit of your words. Even someone with values that discourage attraction or attachment, whose very life and livelihood rests on the comfort of distance from others, on the peace they may feel from knowing the reason for their own existence is only to be a servant to the will of justice.

But that's neither here nor there, all you're worried about right now is the lip gloss you're applying in the reflection of the rearview mirror. It's some fancy, expensive brand, but it all feels the same to you. Not like it matters in the first place, it'll be gone in a few hours. Still, you layer it on your lips, just in time for the driver to pull to the corner. You pay, thank him, and walk away. You can feel him staring.

You walk down the street, your hair rustled by the slight wind, and your tight, glittery blue dress riding up your thighs. Your stilettos clack against the pavement, and you shiver as a particularly nipping gust of air brushes past you. It was well-lit, at least. You were in the middle of a busy shopping district, stores and hotels and restaurants illuminating your way with their bright, polluting light. Despite the light, however, there was no warmth, and yet another gust of wind reminds you that you're still wearing a tiny dress in the middle of fall with three blocks to go.

Think of the money, you remind yourself. That's all anything was ever about, money. It's not like you don't have enough of it, your income was kept steady by eager clientele. You were greedy, you guessed. You, despite your comfort, accepted this new contract, went through the motions of hiring a cab, getting dropped off at a corner, walking 4 blocks to a hotel, asking to meet someone on the 5th floor when you were really going to the penthouse, and getting gawked at the whole time. The gawking, you could stand. The cold and the walking? He better hope you imagine buying a house all night, because that's likely the only way you're finding an orgasm, or at least the will to look like you're having one.

When you reach the hotel, shivering and clutching your handbag, you're greeted by the beautiful comfort of heating. And ornate decore, though it's not nearly as awe-inducing as being warm. It's a nice place, but you're used to them. All you're clients liked to go to nice places, pretty hotels to hide from their wives. You wouldn't be surprised if that's what this guy is doing. You speak to the attendant, tell her what you're supposed to, and she asks what room. You follow the script, room 345, and she calls it. After a short conversation, she gives you the go-ahead. You thank her, and turn to walk to the hall where she said the elevator was. You can feel her staring. They always try to be discreet, don't they?

You get to the elevator, and head to the penthouse. When you get to it, you're met with a long hallway, furnished with gold sconces against yellow walls, and a deep red carpet. And a camera. You look up, straight into it. You see it's lense focus.

You walk to the dark wooden door and hesitantly knock. Why were you so nervous? You've done this plenty before. Maybe it was the mystery around it. With the way he wrote his submission of request and signed his contracts, you only knew the first initial of his name: L. That, and the fact that he had no STDs, no criminal record, and the funds for at least the downpayment.

"Come in," a voice calls, far inside of the room. His voice is calm and low, as if he has all the time in the world.

You turn the knob, and find it's unlocked. What would you be met with? Was he old? Most were. Would he be naked? That's happened once or twice.

You walk in, and are met with...

nothing.

A sleek, modern kitchen with marble countertops and a stainless steel fridge, contrasting the more vintage nature of the hotel itself, and...no one.

You carefully walk farther in, past the island counter and accompanying chairs. By now, you're at a swinging door. Should you go out, investigate further? Hell no, you know how it goes, you should leave now before you become a statistic.

"Cake?"

Just as you're turning around, you hear his voice, and it's enough to make you jump out of your skin.

So imagine the sound you let out when you see him, too.

You're faced with a man, holding a plate of fluffy strawberry cake. He's tall and thin, though the slump of his shoulders brings him down to your level. He's pale too, His black, searching eyes a deep contrast against his skin, just as contrasting as his black, messy hair. His features are incredibly gaunt; his chin is narrow, his eyes are big and moony, and his nose is arched and sloping. His mouth, resting in an unbothered line, is quite nice looking, with a defined cupid's bow and a plump bottom lip. He looks casual, wearing only a white T-shirt and blue jeans, and despite his heavy dark circles and slouching posture, he's very attractive, in an odd way.

He's unfazed by your jumping, as well as your analyzing of his face, and simply stands and waits for you to speak.

"No...thanks..." you say slowly, straightening up. Your face was hot, embarrassment trying to seep through your confident aura.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, taking a spoon from the counter and breezing past you.

You stand there for a moment, stunned, before following him out. The living room is as plain as the kitchen, designed most prominently with two black couches and a glass coffee table in between. There's a big, floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to the setup, the twinkling lights of the city outshining the twinkling of the stars. It's dimly lit, only the city and a few lamps giving any clarity to the space.

He walks to one of the couches, sticking the spoon in his mouth as he maneuvers to sit with the dessert in hand. He settles in a crouch, his knees to his chest as he finally sets the plate on the table. He takes the spoon from his mouth, eyes more attracted to the cake than you as he takes a bite.

"Sit, please. I'd like to talk," he says casually.

He...does know you're a prostitute, right? He doesn't seem anything like the people who have hired you before. You take a seat on the couch opposite to him, and he doesn't look up.

"You're a prostitute," he states.

So he does know. "I am," you respond firmly. Why shouldn't you be confident? You deserve to take pride in your work, and you have a right to enjoy its spoils.

"No need to be so defensive," he says lowly, almost...with amusement.

"I'm not," you huff. Nothing about your previous answer should have come across as defensive. You're in your right to be defensive anyway, plenty of people feel it's their right to judge.

This time, he looks up at you. "No need to be so serious, either," he hums cooly, taking another bite of cake.

You scoff a little, watching him eat. You sort of wish you said yes to his offer earlier. "What's your name," you ask, changing the subject.

"I'm not sure yet..." he sighs. He chews thoughtfully, before swallowing. "I suppose you can call me L, for now."

So an alias. Why not, it makes sense for him. "You on the run or something," you joke, trying to ease the tension.

That seems to please him, a slight, entertained smile on his face. "I could be. You'll never know. You have to be cautious in your profession, don't you?"

"I do," you nod slowly. "But I'm not too worried about you."

"I have to be cautious in my profession as well," he says softly. With another bite, he's nearly done with his snack. "I have to admit, this is not something I expected of myself."

"What? Hiring a prostitute?"

"Yes. But I've heard sex can provide many benefits to one's mental acuity, and it would be much better for all parties involved to hire someone, rather than attempt to go about finding a partner to sate something so intimate."

"So then...this is a trial." That's what you gathered, anyway. If he doesn't find you to be helpful, he won't hire you again. This is a test, to see if you're worth keeping.

"In a sense, it is." he sets his spoon on the now-empty plate, his gaze meeting yours. "This is new to me. I'd appreciate your patience, as well as your guidance."

You nod slowly. "Alright," you agree. That was doable. It worked better, anyway. This won't be too bad if he lets you tell him what to do, it should be enjoyable enough for both of you. "So then, what have you done?"

"Nothing."

"ok..." Nothing was difficult to work with.

"I'm a fast learner."

"I'm sure." You pause to think. "Come sit next to me."

He, for just a moment, seems surprised. Then without a word he obeys, standing from his perch on the couch and stepping over the coffee table, seating himself beside you and tucking his knees to his chest, just as he was before.

"Have you been kissed?"

"No."

"Face me, and...hold still."

He turns his head to you, his posture slouched as his big, tired eyes meet yours.

You lean in, giving him a simple peck on the lips. You notice he doesn't close his eyes, though you suppose it makes sense given the experience doesn't last longer than a few seconds. His expression doesn't change, but his cheeks get noticeably pinker. It's sort of cute.

"How was that?"

"Sticky."

You look down at his lips, marked with your red lipstick, the gloss shining slightly in the low light.

"A good sticky," you ask teasingly.

"Not exactly. Though it wasn't entirely unpleasant." He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, the lipstick lightly smearing across his cheek.

"Do you want to try again?"

"it would be pitiful if I didn't. Though I'd like you to take off your lipstick."

You reach into your handbag and pull out a makeup wipe, contained in a single-use, papery package. You open it, carefully remove your lipstick, and put the used wipe back in your bag to throw away later.

"There. Ready?"

He nods curtly, and you lean in to kiss him the same as before. This time, he mimics your movements. You tilt your head, and he mirrors it, leaning in just as you do, meeting you with gentle pressure. It was nice. It lasts just a little longer, and again, his eyes stay open. You pull back for just a moment, your eyes on his, before you lean back in for another kiss. You can't warn him every time, after all.

He meets you in stride, and this time your hand gently rests on his cheek. These kisses are short but continuous, they're gentle and slow. His lips are incredibly soft...and when your tongue flicks out on the instinct to taste them, they taste like sugar. He flinches at the new feeling, and you're about to pull back and apologize. You don't want to push him too fast.

He doesn't give you the chance, however, because he repeats your actions. The only difference is he makes it inside. As his tongue slips inside your mouth, your eyes flutter shut again, and he leans in further. Your hand slides down to his shoulder, and the other steadies your body on the cushion behind you. He really was a fast learner.

He lets out a low hum, not of satisfaction but of interest. After just a few more seconds, you gently pull away, and he sits back from you.

You take in a breath and speak first. "How was that?"

He considers it for a moment. "Pleasurable. You taste like lemon."

That makes sense, you had tea before you came over. "Do you wanna keep going?"

"I don't see why not. This is proving to be very insightful."

"Do you always approach these sorts of situations so clinically?"

He shrugs. "I'm not in very many of these situations."

"Right."

With that, you lean back in, kissing him once more. He wastes no time slipping his tongue into your mouth, and as your hand finds his cheek again, he hesitantly reaches out to trail his fingers down your own cheek. His touch is light, and it sends shivers across your body as he gently traces your skin. The pads of his fingers move down your jawline, to your neck, then down to your shoulder to feel your collarbone.

His touch is so reverent, that it pulls a gentle hum of pleasure from your lips. The sound leads him to bring his hand to the back of your neck, taking hold and carefully pulling you farther in. He liked that.

You smile against his lips, and kiss him with a little more fervor. He meets your passion, imitating your movements, trying to predict what you'll do next and accommodate it before it happens. It was almost like some kind of puzzle to him, like he took most pleasure from anticipating your movements correctly.

If he thought he had it down now, you'd have to up the ante. You move past his lips, kissing his jawline. At first, he tried to turn his head to find your mouth again, but at the gentle, tingly feeling of your kissing elsewhere, he wanted to allow the progression.

You trail your lips down his neck, and when his shirt gets in the way, you pull the collar to the side. When you've kissed all you can there, you look up at him. He's staring intently. "Can you take it off?"

He pauses, before quickly removing the fabric. He's as skinny and scrawny as he looks with the shirt, but there's some clear muscle beneath his skin. You kiss his clavicle, being sure to take things slow and easy. You can feel him watching, and eventually, he awkwardly rests his hand in your hair.

As your lips travel across his chest, leaving little pink stains from what's left of your lipstick, You can feel his heartbeat jump beneath his skin. He likes this, you can tell.

After a few minutes, he puts a hand on your shoulder. "Stop," he says plainly.

You pull back, looking up at him for some sort of distaste. He doesn't seem upset, only...curious. "It's time to move on."

You smile and sit upright, already unzipping your dress. "Feeling confident?"

He watches as your clothes peel back from your body, the way your soft, supple skin could barely hide behind the lacey black bra that was...admittedly a size too small. Strategy, he determined. "No. Impatient. I'd...rather not take longer than necessary for this."

You stand with your back turned to him, shimmying the dress off of your thighs. Matching underwear, too. A true professional. "Trust me, this won't take long."

You glance back at him, at his crouched position and his intrigued expression. "Take off your pants. Underwear too."

"There's no need to specify. I know that much."

"Well, you know what they say about assuming," you tease, unclasping your bra. He was staring. You could always feel it when people were staring. You slowly pull down your panties, and when you bend all the way down, you peak at him between your legs. It was showy, sure, but people liked it.

He met your gaze there, his head tilting slightly as he began to ease his boxers off of his legs. He didn't look enamored or lecherous, just...interested.

You quickly stood upright, your body now completely available for view. "I'm gonna sit in your lap. Is that alright?"

You turn around to face him, but his eyes stay on your breasts. Bold, you supposed. He was naked now, his knees not to his chest but halfway bent. "Can I stay like this?"

You look up at his face, and he's still staring at your body. "Sure," you shrug. It makes no difference to you.

You slowly walk closer, your hands finding his shoulders once more. You look down, finally able to see his cock. Apparently what they say about skinny guys is true. He wasn't particularly thick, but clearly long, despite not being fully erect. There's a trail of sparse, whispy black hair coming from below his navel, though it doesn't make it to the length of his member. He was just as pale there as the rest of him, with a dusty pink tip just barely oozing precum. What a pretty dick.

You carefully straddle him, not yet settling on his lap but resting back on his thighs, leaving plenty of space between your hips. He allows it, and his eyes finally meet yours.

"I'm going to use my hands for a moment, just to get you ready, ok?"

"Do what you must."

You smile, your hand reaching out to take him. He watches closely, and when your fingers wrap around his length, he sucks in a near-silent gasp. Carefully, you begin to stroke up and down, taking it slow. He kept his eyes on your movements all the while, his breath becoming shaky. How cute.

He was quick to harden, something you attributed to him being younger than most of your clients, and when he became fully erect you pulled your hand away. "was it terrible," you ask sarcastically, your fingers idly drawing circles on his tip just to gather a little pre, which had come to bead and leak vehemently down his cock.

"No," he says, a little quieter than he was before, but no less frank and no more meek. Out of curiosity, as well as for the sake of looking even more sinful than you already did, you brought your fingers to your mouth, licking off the sticky fluid. To your evident surprise, it tasted...sweet. Not just not bitter, but actually sweet. Like a musky candy, or something. "What do you eat," you ask incredulously, moving to position yourself above him.

He shrugs, watching rather helplessly as you do all the work. "I find that a constant supply of sugar assists in brain function...and I enjoy the taste."

"So you eat only sweets? Must be nice," you scoff.

"It is," he nods.

You smile an amused and toothy grin, one that was a little more genuine than the other smiles you gave. It had his eyes tracing your features a little more closely. You take his hands and bring them to your hips. "It helps if you hold on," you explain gently.

His long fingers curl around your sides, his grip firm. You reach down and take his member in your hand, positioning it at your entrance as you lower.

When the tip touches your entrance, he almost flinches, his hands tightening as his neck cranes forward, just to watch himself slip inside you.

Slowly, you take him, inch by inch, the tight channel of your vagina sucking him in. He swallows, his breathing even solely because he makes the effort to slow it. It's an entrancing sight, watching you take him deeper, and deeper, and deeper...until eventually your hips meet.

He was just long enough to poke at your cervix, the sensation a delicious addition to the way his breath hit your collarbone. You gave him a minute to adjust to the feeling, it was surely a lot. Eventually, he looked up at you for what to do next, and with that, you began to ride him.

You were gentle, careful not to overexert him, and you paid close attention to his reactions. He found it most comfortable to rest his chin on your chest while he stared at your face, his eyes becoming more bleary as time went on. He couldn't focus on much besides the pleasure, his panting turning into quiet moaning in the back of his throat.

You focused on the feeling as well, grinding and bouncing at a relatively slow pace, letting out a moan every once in a while when he hit the right spot.

After only a few minutes, he let out a huff, his head tilting down to watch himself once more. He must be close.

You began to speed up, your movements becoming a little more sloppy, just to help him to his climax. Then, he did something unexpected. He pulled you a little closer, tilted his hips a little to one side, and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot with every bounce. You gasped and moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly as you moved with even more purpose.

"Fuck," you pant, finding a true orgasm to be fast approaching. He moaned, not loudly, but enough to where you knew he was there, and with the involuntary rolling of his hips, he came deep inside you. You were quick to follow, your lashes fluttering and your moaning rich with blissed-out pleasure.

You spent a few seconds afterward grinding against him, before quickly dismounting. You sat there for a moment, him panting, you...admittedly a little more winded than usual. You weren't used to cumming so soon, or at all if a client was especially selfish. You didn't mind, of course, it was your job, but it was a fun surprise when pleasure managed to happen.

You glance over at him, watching as he catches his breath, the bob of his throat as he swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth.

"Was that so bad," you laugh airily.

He turns his head to you, his big eyes peering into yours. Then, he smiles. It was a real, genuine smile, one that was too sweet not to smile back at. "It was extremely enlightening," he says softly.

God. Oh God.

Your face suddenly feels too hot, and your chest too tight. You quickly sit upright, brushing your hair from your face. "Yeah, cool. I mean, good. That's good, I'm glad...Anything else?"

"No, I've gathered all I need." He stands, grabbing his shirt and tugging it on. "I'll have a chauffeur drive you home," he says, the fabric of his shirt still covering his face, slightly muffling his voice.

"Thanks..." you nod, quickly pulling on your underwear. "You had to get out of here. "And the rest of the money?"

"He'll give it to you. I...don't handle cash."

Rich guys. "Okay," you sigh, tugging on your dress. It was a little nerve-wracking, there was nothing worse than being stiffed.

"Wait in the lobby. I will personally call down when your car is ready." He tugged on his jeans, his movements uncoordinated and awkward, as if he wasn't used to dressing himself.

"Alright." you grab your clutch and head for the door, not a moment wasted. Before you know it, you're in the car, a limo driven by an older man with a mustache. There are fewer protocols taken over your leave, the driver simply takes the long way to your apartment. When he parks, he hands you an envelope. "Thank you for your visit," he says, his voice dry and rich with age.

"Yeah...ditto."

It isn't until you're inside that you open the envelope. You should've opened it in the car, but you were too wrapped up in the fact that you said "ditto" to someone thanking you for coming over.

It's heavy, and when you finally cut it open, you're hit with that fresh money smell. How you loved the smell of money. Each bill was worth 10,000￥, so if you counted it all up...plus the down payment...

10,000,000￥.

You knew it was what you agreed on, but having it here in your hands...even your wealthiest clients didn't pay this much. Most people who were well off made this in a year, and you made it in one night.

L, was it? You would be good friends.

[alms4oblivion]

So my friend and I are currently OBSESSED in the eyes of a child it’s so fucking good props to you! But she wanted to know (and not so secretly so do I) if you have read any avatrice fics that you’d recommend for us. We’ve read through nearly all of yours and simply Korra’s stuff but we need something that’ll keep us busy while we wait for your updates! (Bridgeton AU is 20/10 hands down best fic ever just saying)

🥹 First of all, those are "make my whole day" compliments, so thank you so much. Like make me want to cry happy tears compliments.

Second, do I have any Avatrice fic recs? Do I have any Avatrice fic recs!? I think most of my original following were people who liked my fic recs, but I guess I've fallen out of the habit. Must mean it's finally time for me to make a massive fic rec post!

I'm going to start with hidden gems, and move in no particular order through different categories and authors, with the goal of more or less ending with fics that most people seeing this will have read, because they're among the most popular in the fandom. I've read...a LOT of fics, so this is really just scratching the surface, and I probably should make an SMAU section at some point, but this should be enough to get you started.

HIDDEN GEMS

Beyond Our Space and Starlight - so good and creative it should be a novel or TV show or something, but the world fits perfectly for Warrior Nun's cast and themes. Brilliant sci fi, incredible action and emotional depth, and the FLIRTING. A must-read hidden gem of the fandom (since you mentioned SK, you'll find her in the comments section if you look, talking about how incredible this fic is). It's technically AvaBeaLil, but the Lilith side is just tension and feelings through the first seven-chapter arc (which is what's currently published).

Casper (daisychiansandbowties) - a person rather than a fic, they are the best prose writer in the fandom, in my opinion. Their writing is dense, the subjects are diverse, but if you want to get knocked flat by a phrase, read them. Notable fics: chess tournament AU, Alien (1979 film) AU, Interview with a Vampire AU, Pokemon trainer Bea AU, Critical Role AU, 17776 AU, Star Wars video game AU, Napoleonic dragon riders AU. Note that if you absolutely cannot stomach AvaBeaLil, chess, Pokemon and 17776 are your safe bets.

SCP AU - Stormy has a lot of great fics, including tboy Ava, a great AvaLil (unusually with zero Beatrice romance), and a Dragon Age Inquisition AU, but this is the one for me, Ava is a subject at a secret research institute for unexplained phenomena and Beatrice is the researcher who's just been assigned to her.

Summer camp AU - LongWindedAnswer is too well known for this to be as under-read as it is, so I guess it goes here. Ava's got some serious chronic medical issues, they meet at summer camp, and we've got sweet camp hijinks followed by angsty stuff as they grow up with a happy ending.

Post-It Notes AU - I can't believe this has been out as long as it has and is as under-appreciated as it is. Starts funny crack, then turns poignantly beautiful.

ONE SHOTS

Lots of one-shots are hidden gems all their own, and a lot of these authors have written a LOT of them, so check the authors' other works as well! These are just my favorites, or one of my favorites, for each.

Dead mom recipes - a MUST READ, the framing device and the emotional tenor are too good (and jt also does phenomenal ficlets here on Tumblr).

Citadel of Immortal Daylight - reads like the beginning of something bigger, or the middle of it, in the best way. Ava is undead, Beatrice might be a vampire, in a city that hates both.

Dog and cat AU - I'm a sucker for creative premises and I think Sheep absolutely nailed this one (another standout from her is Religion, but she has so so many one shots).

60s small town AU - waitress Ava x photojournalist Bea. One shot is kind of a stretch, this is really a long, deep romance novella.

Wedding artist x wedding musician - omomoification is a guarantee of excellence. Read all their stuff, they have some truly fantastic one shots, including this one.

Blood; Orange - post-canon angst with a happy ending, dealing with the trauma of the Holy War. Collab between MsWitsEnd, Wyper (willowedhepatica), and LongWindedAnswer (whose name got taken off the author list when she temporarily hid her ao3 account). Fantastic piece.

Museum AU - Ava is the curator of program animals, Bea is curator of the Planetarium. Just adorable fluff.

Artist Bea x actress Ava - it's just really good. No spoilers, just read and enjoy.

sunday people - roommates AU where Sundays are for the girls, until Bea starts dating someone who isn't Ava. Jealousy and angst and humor (happy ending of course).

You're My One Regret - Ava is an actress who gives an interview about the one who got away in high school. People figure out she's talking about Beatrice.

MATURE ROMANCE

Leaves of an October Sky - mom!Ava meets married Bea, soulmates but without any of the common soul mates tropes, they just literally get reincarnated and always find each other. This is part of Noel's brilliant Mobius series, which is arguably better read in order, and you really should read them all (chem professors in particular is a classic), but I think this one is my favorite so far.

a little broken, a little new - exes to lovers romance on a road trip. Nothing fancy, just really nice relationship dynamics as they try to work through what went wrong the first time around and forgive.

Call the Midwife AU - 60s midwives AU, tremendous depth and sense of place and time in this one. Lots of tough topics with a nice mature slow burn, and a fantastic early setup.

MOSTLY FLUFF

Timely Suited - demisexual autistic Bea my beloved.

Bookstore x coffee shop AU - Bea works at a bookstore and is roommates with JC, who works at the coffee shop across the street. Beatrice and JC as besties agenda is in full effect. Fluffy and fun.

Coda - ballet dancer Bea x lighting designer Ava (ambulatory wheelchair user Ava too!). Really sweet, plus Adler did some great art for it.

Museum curator - slow burn where Ava is helping Bea with a museum event, but it's really them falling in love.

If You Missed the Mistletoe - autistic coded nerd Bea gets together with her childhood crush, Ava. All fluff.

Hook, Line, and Tinder - pop star Ava goes on Tinder and finds Bea, who thinks she's being catfished. Very fun and cute.

DEADLY ANGST

Liturgia - ongoing at present, incredible music stars AU where more established singer Ava and up and comer Bea fall for each other, but struggle to make things work without damaging the prospects of Beatrice's band. They both have emotional trauma. They hurt each other. It's fantastic.

Failed LDR - Ava and Beatrice broke up when Ava moved away, they meet again at Mary and Shannon's wedding and they're both still broken as hell. Super angsty, really good, still in progress, they're not together but they're in a relatively OK place at the moment.

Frankenstein - Mary Shelley AU, this goes under angst because of chapter 3, chapters 1 and 2 are smut and humor, but chapter 3 alone makes this, for my money, the saddest fic with a happy ending in the fandom. The dialogue and prose are sensational in this as well.

holier than thou - Ava and Beatrice went to boarding school together, and Bea broke Ava's heart (BADLY). The run into each other again years later on the streets of New York. Pretty fluffy by the very end, but it's very angsty for a while.

FANDOM CLASSICS

Would You Be My Wife - not fair to Pinechips to call this a classic because it came out pretty recently, but it became an almost instant classic, one of the most beloved fics in the fandom despite releasing well after the show's cancelation. Fake marriage AU, absolutely brilliant.

Do a Flip - sunsafe's super fluffy slow burn told almost entirely from the POV of Diego as Ava's friend from the orphanage who becomes more or less her kid brother/son, with occasional interludes to show the POVs of other observers. My go-to "feel better" fluff fic and a big inspiration for my decision to make In The Eyes Of A Child from Mira's POV. Technically part of a series (and technically incomplete, even though the story has everything it needs), read it all.

Love Thy Neighbor - first long-form fic I ever read, puppybusby's classic "will they or won't they" slow burn romance where Ava moves in down the hall from Beatrice with the help of her more or less adopted sister Lilith, only Beatrice thinks Ava and Lilith are together. Hijinks ensue.

Art Therapy - Beatrice is an art student, Ava is a model who becomes her muse. Intense, emotional, erotic, a must-read.

Death Doesn't Dream - sled dogs AU, one of the best meditations on grief in the fandom.

Lumberjack Beatrice AU - more or less what it says on the tin. It's really good. It has Beatrice as a sexy lumberjack. Ava moves in next door.

Just to Stop the Thoughts - chem professors AU from the Mobius series. Funny, cute, romantic, fluffy slow burn.

Order for Ava Silva - Bea is a delivery rider who always gets assigned to drop off food for Ava, for some reason.

choose the devil I know (over the heaven I don't) - firefighters AU, all about grief and trauma, very well written.

pull back the curtain for venus - Alien!Bea AU.

The thing about love - college AU where they pass each other in the morning and develop crushes on each other and don't realize they're neighbors who annoy each other through the wall.

Sublime - pro soccer AU. Super slow burn, the confession scene and its immediate aftermath are CLASSIC, absolutely hilarious, some of my favorite writing in the fandom.

The to do list - changed how I thought about confident Bea, big inspiration for how I approached the Practical Guide, Ava makes a list of things that she thinks might turn her on if a woman did them to her and wants Beatrice's help experimenting with her sexuality. Beatrice gets competitive with the hypothetical person who inspired Ava to think she might like women.

Your vows - best use of second person POV in the fandom, professional level framing. Bea is an airline heiress who meets Ava at airports. Trust me.

can i get your house key? - forever roommates AU. Absolutely love this one. Slowburn where they're so clearly in love, but who will make the first move when there's so much to risk? OK, that sounds like a lot of fics, but trust me that this elevates the tropes, and is a classic for a reason.

will you find me (after life) - ghost Ava AU. Beatrice, Lilith, and Camila move into a house that happens to be haunted. Sort of. You'll see. Adorable slow burn.

The trials and tribulations of Snapchat - college AU, fluff and smut and a hint of angst and jealousy where Ava and Beatrice get each other worked up with risque photos.

5 excuses and a confession - 5+1 fic of times Ava finds an excuse to kiss Beatrice and Beatrice can't take the hint. Tagged as fluff, but I think it's actually fairly angsty for most of it. Really, really good.

divine intervention - what if they had sex and acted like they weren't in love with each other and THEN caught feelings? Angsty and smutty, and technically incomplete, but the author got to the love confession so read it.

Lakehouse AU - Ava is finally coming back to visit and get Bea back when everyone goes to Lilith's lake house, except "everyone" includes Beatrice's new girlfriend whom no one told Ava about. Super angsty with a happy ending, absolutely love it.

Mastermind AU - established actress Bea x up and coming actress Ava. A must-read.

in my veins - arguably THE vampire Bea AU, certainly the most popular, and for good reason. Funny, sexy, dangerous, a huge amount of worldbuilding that mostly serves as an obstacle to Avatrice being together as often as they would like. Incomplete at 209,069 words, but they're together, so read it.

Wrong Number AU - Ava texts the wrong number. It's Beatrice. Things get cute.

To climb a tree - the second long-form fic I read. Personal trainer Beatrice tries to help Ava reach her goals for physicality after Ava regains mobility and finishes physical therapy. Very smutty, but also very sweet.

on the run from a losing game - if I was forced to go back and told I could only reach one Avatrice fic but I could pick which one, it would probably be this one. Chefs AU, and it's so, so good.

...is that enough to tide you over?

[watcheraurora]

The Ballroom

Ficlet that I wrote in like an hour instead of getting ready for bed. I watched the episode when it came out but the vibes just hit me now 1.2k words

For the record: this one is not shipping. Platonic only.

—

Etho stepped into the ballroom and tugged to make sure his mask was secure over his face. He was aware that masquerade balls usually involved full-face masks or one that covered the area around the eyes. Not so much a simple cloth covering the lower half of his face. But he preferred keeping his nose and mouth covered. Kept his peripheral vision free.

He wandered aimlessly through the crowd. If he was honest, he wasn't entirely sure why he was here. He wasn't really a high-society sort of person. Sure, he was friends with the princess, but he would never have imagined that she'd bother to reach out to him for such an occasion. They weren't that good of friends.

In the center of the dance floor, couples were spinning around. Almost dizzying just to watch. Most everyone was in much looser, flowing clothing compared to Etho's close-cropped formalwear. He also noticed his black color scheme and white hair was quite stark against the lighter, desaturated neutrals. Creams, beiges, tans, a bit of a sage green splash here or there. The colors and the loose clothing were all typical of this country and their solar-powered technology.

Etho lived in the jungle—though he didn't consider himself one with it, the way this princess' people considered themselves. He knew he was separate from it.

And he'd never felt the difference more starkly than being surrounded by hundreds of people in masks all in airy, light clothes while his were exactly opposite.

Eventually—thank the gods—he found his way to a punch table. Though he didn't really know how he was going to drink it without removing his face mask. He saw some people pushing their masks out of the way to drink theirs, but he wondered if that didn't defeat the whole purpose of throwing a masquerade.

"Had a feeling I'd find you lurking in a corner, sir," a playful voice remarked.

Etho twisted to see a familiar figure—almost as tall as himself—emerging from the crowd. Slipping between two people with an easy grace.

The princess wore a light, flowing green dress. Accented with gold jewelry. She wore no tiara. Instead a ring of sunflowers was woven into her long brown hair and a mask of gold vines covered her eyes. Though it couldn't hide how bright blue they were. The dress was shorter at the front—not quite reaching her knees—and longer at the back. Revealing the knee-high strappy sandals.

Etho was pretty sure he was the only one in the room who'd noticed that despite the rather flimsy appearance of the dress, she was armed.

"Well, this isn't really my usual gig, now is it, Your Highness?" he asked.

"Stop with the formality. Pearl is fine. You know that." She waved dismissively. "We don't really bother with such things here." She held a hand out for him. "Walk with me."

He crooked his elbow and offered it to her. She rested her hand on the bend to allow him to escort her properly.

"I wanted to invite you," Pearl began casually as they walked around the edge of the ballroom, where the crowd was thinner, "because I appreciate all the work you put into building the infrastructure around here. Just because I have the idea for putting together a postal system doesn't mean I have the technical knowledge of how to create one."

"I guessed as much," Etho replied casually. "That's why I accepted the invitation."

Pearl grinned. "I do appreciate all the effort it took. I mean, you practically built every mailbox by yourself."

He shrugged. "Happy to help my friends," he said. "And Tango helped. Especially with the most complicated work that I didn't want to do myself."

"Yes, well. He declined my invitation."

"Oh, if you think I don't like fancy balls, he detests them. I don't think you could pay him to wear formalwear." Etho snickered behind his mask. "I don't think he owns anything more dressy than cargo pants, come to think of it."

Pearl chuckled.

They reached the platform where the musicians were playing. "Just a moment," she said to Etho. She released his elbow and started moving the flowing folds of her skirt. "Do you dance, Etho?" She glanced up at him.

He snorted, his mask muting the noise a bit. "Not as much," he replied. "The 'dancing' I learned involves a lot of sharp and pointy things."

Pearl grinned. There was something trickster-ish about the glint in her eyes. "Well, allow me to teach you, then," she said.

She finally located whatever she'd been searching for in the folds of her gown—a music box made of red mangrove wood dangling from a gold chain off the leather belt worn over her corset. She twisted the key beneath it a few times and tapped the conductor of the musicians on the arm. He turned expectantly. She passed the music box over. He accepted it with a nod.

Pearl turned back to Etho. "Shall we?" she asked.

Etho offered his elbow again. "I can try. No guarantees I'll be any good."

Pearl smiled. "I have faith in you," she remarked, taking his arm.

She led him out onto the dance floor and showed him where to place his hands. One on her shoulder blade, the other holding her other hand.

They slowly made their way through the slow, simple, but airy waltz the musicians were playing. Etho was coordinated. He wasn't hopeless. He just wasn't used to such things. He got the basic steps quickly. He could follow the line of dance. He just wasn't going to be pulling off any complex tricks any time soon.

The musicians faded out their song.

"And now," the conductor said, "a special request from Her Highness, Princess Pearl."

The conductor held the music box up to a microphone.

It began plunking out a gentle melody.

Etho tilted his head to turn his ear to hear better. "I know this tune," he said softly.

"Hmm," Pearl hummed mischievously. They began dancing again. Carrying on the waltz as the music box carried on.

Something seemed to click. The tune sped up and the musicians started to play along with the box.

The other dancers slowed to a stop. The whole ballroom went silent apart from the music.

Etho and Pearl were the only ones still moving.

Etho looked around. "What is this? How did you do that?" he asked.

Pearl lifted his arm to twirl herself under it.

As she did, her beautiful dress turned into body armor. Her hair braided back.

A weapon appeared in her hand. "Well," she said with a grin, "I thought we should have an opportunity to dance in a way you're more familiar with as well." Her tone was light. Playful.

Etho couldn't help but smile behind his mask. "Let's dance, then."

Pearl tossed him the mace in her hand. He caught it easily. Another appeared in her other hand. "I do so love this song," she remarked as she swung.

[les-pompiers118]

Don't Worry Baby (a 9-1-1 ficlet)

Buck/Tommy | Rated Teen and up | 2K words

Summary: It's technically not their second date, but sometimes you just have to see where the night takes you. In this case, to the ocean. Notes: Set between 7x05 and 7x06, and incorporating some of Lou's backstory for Tommy from this video.

“Well,” Buck exhales, when he and Tommy step out into the muted hum of a balmy Los Angeles evening, “I think that went a lot better than our first date.”

Tommy stops and holds up a finger in admonition. “Ah, ah.”

“Right. Not a date. Just a— What did we call it?”

“A low-stakes, no-pressure evening of fun and getting to know each other.”

“Yeah, that.” 

No matter what they’re calling it, tonight was actually great, Buck muses while they walk toward the lot where Tommy parked his truck. Buck’s not a great bowler himself, but he’s found that—as with a lot of games—the competitiveness and friendly trash talk are at least half the fun. He felt more in his element, more relaxed. Buck didn’t mind at all that Tommy won both rounds easily, with his usual confidence and charm. And he looked damn good doing it, too. God, there’s something about the sheer fucking size of him and the way he carries himself that make Buck a little weak in the knees.

“You did have a good time, I hope?” Tommy asks, sounding cautious after Buck apparently got lost in his thoughts for a few beats too long.

“Totally. Yes.” Buck glances back at the bowling alley entrance with a rueful expression. “Though I kind of wish…”

“Mmm?”

“I kinda wish that we could’ve had more of the ‘getting to know each other’ part, I guess? On the other hand, with all the noise and the music, I was a lot less likely to put my foot in my mouth again. So that was a plus.”

“Evan.”

“I know I kind of blew it last time,” Buck winces.

Tommy steps in front of Buck, forcing him to stop. He touches Buck’s wrist lightly. “Hey. If that were true, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Here… on our evening of low-stakes, platonic fun?” Buck asks with a small, playful smile.

“Hmm. I don’t remember ever using the word platonic.” Tommy lets that sink in for a second as he pointedly looks at Buck’s mouth. “Tell you what. I’ll take you to one of my favorite places in L.A. and we can talk for a while. That is, unless you have a shift in the morning.”

“No. No, I don’t.” Buck ducks his head, grinning. Feeling just so goddamn buoyant, all of a sudden. “I’d love that. Where are we going?”

“Why don’t we let it be a surprise?”

Read the rest on AO3

[therealjambery]

Year of the OTP: March

I am trying to write ficlets each month for all of 2025. I mean for them to be written in one sitting and minimally edited. This is my second attempt this month, as the first try is now far, far longer (stay tuned for that one!) and has nothing to do with any of the March prompts.

Fandom: MCU (technically no powers AU, not that you could tell) Pairing: Winterhawk Rating: Gen Prompt: "what are you doing with that?" Wordcount: 798

"Hey, what are you doing with that?" Clint jogged over to Lucky. 

The dog was practically prancing with excitement, a long blue scarf hanging out of his mouth. Clint extracted it gingerly, wrinkling his nose at the soggy, slightly chewed middle section. The rest of the scarf was a squishy waffle pattern that he guessed would be amazingly warm and soft against the skin.

"Where did this come from?" Clint glanced around the park, looking for anyone who seemed to be missing a scarf.

"I think that's mine," a deep, gravelly voice said behind him.

Clint turned around and nearly dropped the scarf. Possibly the most beautiful man he had ever seen was standing there, one hand tucking his long brown hair behind his ear. He was wearing black skinny jeans, a red henley, and a leather jacket. His eyes, crinkling up in amusement at Clint's expression, were a striking slate blue.

"Sorry, so sorry," Clint said, stumbling a little over the words. He held out the scarf. "I don't know why he took it. He normally isn't interested in clothes. Except for my dirty socks." He bit his tongue to stop himself from rambling and revealing even more embarrassing details of his life.

The guy smiled and Clint's mouth went dry. "Probably it's my fault. Spilled bacon grease everywhere this morning." He lifted the scarf out of Clint's grip, inspecting the damp spot ruefully. "Thought I got it all, but I guess not."

"Oh, yeah, that'll do it." Clint nodded. "Lucky loves bacon. I mean, who doesn't?"

Lucky perked up at his name. He barked once and sidled over to the scarf's owner, sniffing at the scarf hopefully.

"Hey there, Lucky," the guy said. He knelt down, holding the scarf behind his back with one hand while he gave Lucky some head scritches, laughing when Lucky licked his cheek.

Clint's stomach did a stupid swoopy thing and his heart stared beating faster. He knew he was staring like an idiot, but he was also pretty sure he was falling in love. "I'm Clint," he blurted out.

Still chuckling, the guy stood up and held out his hand to shake. "Bucky," he said. "Your dog's great, despite his petty larceny."

"Thanks." Taking a deep breath, Clint said, "Can I buy you a drink or something? To make up for the scarf. Or like, a hot dog? Cover the dry cleaning?" Or a two bed, one bath bungalow with a big back yard and a white picket fence? He realized he was still holding Bucky's hand and dropped it, feeling his face heat up. "Sorry."

"You don't have to," Bucky said. "It was my fault, really." He glanced over his shoulder, then tucked the scarf under one arm and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"I just," Clint said, and then trailed off. He just didn't want to let Bucky walk away and out of his life.

"Listen," Bucky said, stepping closer. He pressed a few keys on his phone screen and then held it out to Clint. "I'm with my friends right now, but give me your number. I'll take you up on that offer of a drink, but only if it's because you want to, not because you feel bad about my silly scarf."

"I definitely, definitely want to," Clint said, taking the phone. He put in his number and handed it back.

Bucky typed something out on his phone and Clint felt his own phone buzz in his back pocket. "There," he said. "It was nice to meet you, Clint. And Lucky," he added, giving Lucky another pat on the head.

"Yeah," Clint said. His stomach was still swooping around, giddy this time. 

"Text me later, okay?" Bucky lifted a hand , then turned and walked away, heading toward a bench where two men, one white and one Black, were sitting.

Clint clipped Lucky's leash on his collar and turned toward his own apartment, not wanting to be caught staring as Bucky walked back toward his friends. As he walked, he pulled out his phone to see what Bucky had written in the text.

Hey there, handsome.

He knew he should wait at least a couple hours, play it cool, but when had he ever been cool? He texted back as soon as he had gotten back to his apartment, only pausing long enough to take off his shoes and flop down on the couch.

Luke's at 8?

Bucky responded right away and Clint felt a little thrill. I'll be there. 

Clint hugged his phone to his chest. Lucky padded over, snuffling at Clint's hoodie and sticking his cold, wet nose in Clint's face. He dropped the phone and hugged Lucky instead. "Good boy," he said. "Best boy. Extra treats for you today."

Lucky barked happily.