#in the most platonic way probably but still

[dolleffable]

BE STILL MY FOOLISH HEART .ᐟ

PAIRING. Aziraphale x Crowley x Reader GENRE. Fluff. REQUESTED? No. WORD COUNT. 1.5k SYNOPSIS. Mornings with your local angel and demon would seem chaotic to most, but to you, nothing could be more soothing. WARNINGS. Can be read as platonic or romantic.

NOTE. This is my very first Good Omens work. Please bear with me as I am also particularly new to the fandom. Suggestions and corrections are welcomed! You can also send requests through my ask box! <3

The streets of SoHo bustled with busy crowds as you made your way down to the coffee shop. It was still early, only a few minutes past 8 am. You woke in a cheerful mood, excited to spend another day with your two most favorite people.

They weren’t exactly people, but who’s asking?

You push the door to Nina’s coffee shop open, and you’re immediately greeted with the smell of coffee in the air, along with the figure of Nina standing behind the counter.

“Good morning, Nina!” You greet her with a smile, walking towards the counter.

“Morning,” she greets back. She offers a kind smile, but she is busy, drying off some glass mugs by the counter. Nina takes a quick glance at you. “You’re awfully cheerful this morning.”

You give her a shrug. “Woke up feeling like this, I guess.”

“Good for you,” she muses. She places the last dry mug to the side, before turning herself towards you. “What can I get you, then?”

“One black coffee, one flat white, and a serving of Eccles cakes, please,” you quip.

“To go, I’m guessing?” Nina responds with a smirk, inputting your order on her register. The machine dings with the total of your order, and you grab your wallet from your bag to pay.

“You already know it,” you reply with a laugh and hand her a wad of cash.

Nina takes the money. “You’ve been over Mr. Fell’s a lot recently,” she points out. “Almost as much as that Crowley fellow.”

MORE UNDER THE CUT.

“I like it there,” you simply state. “I have nothing much to do at home, anyway.”

“I see,” Nina hands you your change. Her tone of voice shows no judgment, but her face says otherwise. You know she means no harm behind it, so you let it go.

She leaves the counter for a minute and returns with a paper bag and a disposable tray filled with your drinks. You bid her thanks and a goodbye, before grabbing your order and stepping out of the shop.

You cross the street into Aziraphale’s bookshop. The sign at the door says “closed” but you pay it no mind, pushing the door open with your hip and entering the familiar establishment.

“I’m afraid we are still closed,” the man announces into the room, back towards you, as he seems to be busy arranging books by the counter, but once he turns, his face lightens up, immediately delighted to see you. “Ah, it’s you! Come, my dear.”

You give Aziraphale a grin, stepping further into the shop. Aziraphale runs around the counter to help take the items off of your hands, placing the bag on one of his tables, and the drinks by the counter.

“I bought us breakfast,” you timidly say, still a little embarrassed to be barging in so early that Aziraphale hadn’t even opened up shop.

“Oh you didn’t have to, deary,” the angel crooned and offered a smile. “But thank you.”

You grinned, happy to have made the angel smile, but your curiosity continued to pique as moments passed, and no sign of your third companion came.

“Where’s Crowley?” You couldn’t help but frown. As much as you loved Aziraphale’s company, not having the demon around felt almost wrong. Incomplete.

“He’ll be here a moment. He’s a bit… preoccupied,” you’re not quite sure what the angel means, but you don’t pry further. It was probably about angel and demon business, anyway. “Shall we start on breakfast?”

Albeit you feel sad at the absence of your other favorite being, you try not to let it spoil your and Aziraphale’s mood as he settles on the couch, patting the space beside himself for you to sit.

You take a seat just as he begins to set the drinks on the table, grabbing the cakes from the paper bag and placing them on the table as well.

“I didn’t buy tea because I knew you liked to make your own,” you explained before Aziraphale could even speak, worried that he might have gotten upset at the lack of drinks.

But this was Aziraphale you were talking about. The angel never got upset, especially never at you.

“You know me so well, dear,” he smiles, before standing from the couch. “I’ve already got the kettle boiling!” He cheers, almost as if he’s proud of himself for thinking ahead. You can’t help but grin from ear to ear as you watch him shuffle into the kitchen.

You spend a moment by yourself in silence, humming away as you watch strangers pass by through the window. You are tapping away on the coffee table when the bell by the front entrance chimes, and the doors swing open, and a figure walks in.

“Having breakfast without me, are you?”

“Crowley!” You chirped, delighted to see your favorite demon walk into the shop.

“Missed me, love?” He gives you a cheeky wink and you hide your blushing face with a laugh, rolling your eyes at Crowley’s playfulness.

“Crowley, what took you so long!” Aziraphale emerges from the kitchen, with a cup of tea in his hands.

“Long line at requisitions, had to cut in line, in front of an old lady just to get things done,” Crowley sighs exasperatedly.

“Cutting in line, how very ill-mannered!” Aziraphale complains, now having sat back next to you on the couch. His tea sits next to your coffee, which you hadn’t yet touched. “In front of an old lady, no less!”

“Why was the old lady down there in the first place, hn,” the demon begins to take quick strides towards the two of you, grabbing his cup of coffee by the table. “Must’ve murdered her husband’r something.”

You sat in silence and grabbed your coffee from the table , listening to the two bicker back and forth amongst themselves. Your days usually start this way anyway, drinking coffee and listening to the angel and demon argue on about some nonsense you knew almost nothing about. It was therapeutic, in a way.

You had yet to tell anyone this, but you loved mornings like these. It’s been a little while since you’ve moved to SoHo, but the one-bedroom apartment you rented just a few blocks away seems so foreign to you now, since you spend nearly all of your time in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Of course, sometimes you’re elsewhere, like Nina’s coffee shop, mostly, buying treats and drinks that you knew Aziraphale would like. (Crowley likes them too, but wishes Nina would branch into an alcoholic line of drinks).

On rare occasions, you’d visit Maggie’s record shop with Aziraphale. Even though in the beginning, you viewed records as “impractical” (to which Crowley had given a hearty chuckle to), you’d grown to love it, asking Maggie for the latest copies of Hozier or, if she was lucky to land a copy, Laufey.

Your fondest memory, however, was during a time when the three of you decided to dine in the French restaurant across the road, Marguerite’s. Usually, the two preferred to visit the Ritz, but you managed to get them to try out the local shop. The three of you dined under the sun, sharing stories and laughing as Aziraphale yet again attempts to avoid Mr. Brown, the chairman of their Street Shopkeepers’ Association.

In truth, you’d only been staying with Aziraphale and Crowley for a few months, but you’ve honestly felt more at home here on Aziraphale's couch than your own.

You suddenly realized you had been daydreaming, as you’re rudely awakened from your thoughts by the sound of someone snapping their fingers.

“—hello? Earth to, [name]? You with us, sugar?” It was Crowley, still standing in front of where you’ve set yourself down on the couch, wearing a worried expression, despite the sunglasses on his face.

“Are you alright, dear?” It’s Aziraphale who asks this time, and you turn to the side to meet his worried face as well. “You’ve been really quiet this morning.”

“I’m alright, really,” you reassure them both, and Crowley takes this time to seat himself next to you, opposite of where Aziraphale is. “It’s just a little too early, I think.”

“Would you like to take a nap here?” Aziraphale offers. “There is another couch in the back room, if you’d like to settle down there.”

You shake your head. “I’ll be fine, thank you. Can we eat breakfast now?”

Aziraphale nods, but you can hear Crowley tsk quietly from where he’s sat beside you. “Bit too sugary for breakfast, don’t ‘ya think?”

He’s looking right at the Eccles cakes, and you frown, wishing you had chosen another treat from the coffee shop.

Aziraphale immediately notices your saddened expression. “It’s fine, Crowley! A little sugar won’t hurt.”

“Won’t hurt you! What ‘bout [name] over here?” Crowley complains.

“You’re the one calling her sugar all the time—!” Aziraphale retaliates.

You merely sip your coffee and grab a pastry, tuning out the tones of the two idiots arguing beside you.

Mornings were always the same.

NOTE. This wasn’t the best but I’m not too ashamed of it! Please do send in requests! <3

© dolleffable 2025.

[tldrthor]

Not even death (2) | bucky barnes

// Summary: In the wake of the attack, (y/n) and Steve are moved to DC for protection. Rumours of corruption within SHIELD come to a crescendo, and they learn the identity of the man who attacked them at Bucky's grave. The world is turned on it's head.

// warnings: ws!bucky barnes x avenger!wife!reader, lots of grief, canon-typical violence, angst, f!reader, platonic!steve being a cutie patootie

// word count: 4.1k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

part one | part three

The second best day of her life was the day Bucky came back from the POW camp in Europe. The day that Steve Rogers, her tiny, frail friend, was suddenly two feet taller and double the weight. It was the second best, but probably the most confusing.

To describe it, we have to start somewhere else.

Colonel Phillips sat behind his desk, the heavy weight of authority evident within his posture. His fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the paperwork in front of him as he studied the transfer forms with surgical precision. His words came clipped, almost dismissive, as he finally looked up at the young woman standing before him.

"Nurse Barnes," he began, his voice cold and matter of fact. "I need you to understand that you've been given special treatment here." His words were sharp, cutting through the sterile tension of the office. His eyes flicked to the top of the paper, then back to her. "I see that Sergeant Barnes is your husband. We understand him to be missing, but I am sorry to say... it's unlikely he is still alive."

He spoke softer, then. Like he had realised halfway through that the girl in front of him – she couldn't have been older than 25 – was likely a widow.

"Yes, sir." The girl answered, her words as flat and mechanical as she could make them. Her sweaty palms smoothing her creased white uniform.

"You'll be sharing a cabin with the other women on base – Agent Carter here will show you around, get you situated. You'll start in the infirmary tent tomorrow."

He dismissively waved towards a figure in the corner of the room -- an image of perfect composure in her neatly pressed uniform and pinned hair. The nurse suddenly felt inadequate, vulnerable even. She hadn't been thinking straight since she got that awful, awful telegram. The one she had prayed would never come.

Agent Carter stepped forward with quiet grace. Her smile was warm and genuine, a soft hand outstretched to the nurse, which she quickly shook with her own.

"Peggy Carter," she introduced herself. "Come with me, I'll show you to our cabin."

"(y/n) Barnes." The nurse introduced herself, unable to say much else in the wake of the worst few weeks of her life.

"So," Peggy's voice broke through the silence as they walked. "Where were you stationed before?"

The nurse swallowed hard, the words scraping out of her dry throat. "The French front." She could feel Peggy's widened eyes on her, but she kept looking towards the cabin they were marching towards.

She let out a quiet, nearly reverent sound. "God, so you've seen warfare then." It wasn't a question, rather an acknowledgement, a small recognition of the horrors of the front.

The nurse's heart quickened at the mere mention of her previous station, a cold shiver moving down her spine. She didn't want to remember the chaos, the blood, the screams. But it hadn't left her mind since the moment she was deployed.

"Yes." She muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. There was so much more to say than just ‘yes’,  but there wasn't a way to succinctly describe some of the horrors she had seen.

They climbed the steps to the simple wooden cabin, Peggy opening the door with a soft creak. "Well, here we are."

The room was simple – clean, functional and small – but the nurse barely registered in the space.

"The top bunk at the end is yours." Peggy said gently, motioning towards the far corner. "I'll let you get set up, if you need anything let me know."

She swallowed, looking upon the nurse who seemed so... defeated. She spoke, perhaps out of turn; "Colonel Phillips hasn't given up on the men. There's still hope."

"Thank you," The nurse whispered, her throat too tight to speak. Peggy stepped back, giving her space.

"Take your time. I'll check on you later."

In the present day, her dreams – as they always were – were filled with memories of Bucky and the war. The sound of his voice was a particular issue, recently. She felt like she was forgetting it. The way his arms had felt around her on their wedding day, and then the day they said goodbye before he shipped to the Italian front and she to the french front. It all felt like the memories were slipping away.

But tonight, on Steve's couch, the dream shifted. She found herself walking through a foggy graveyard. She knew immediately that something was off, but it felt real enough. She could hear his voice – just faintly, calling her from a distance. 

She tried to run to him, but her legs felt like stone.

"Bucky!" She called, nearly crawling along the floor in her desperation to get to him.

The fog parted just enough to reveal a figure. Not quite Bucky, but tall and hauntingly familiar. It was wrong, though. As the figure stalked towards her, she saw the glint of his left arm.

It wasn't Bucky. It was the man who attacked her in the cemetery, the one who had bestowed on her what she was sure was at least four broken ribs. His eyes were cold and empty as the all-too-familiar metal arm reached for her.

"(y/n)?" She felt something on her shoulder, and suddenly she jerked awake with a gasp, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

Steve sat in front of her, whispering soothing things, his hand on her shoulder. He had bags under his eyes, and didn't seem like he had been asleep. A lamp in the corner cast soft shadows over Steve's living room.

"Sorry, nightmare." She whispered, once she got her breath back.

He nodded, a sort of half-smile on his face. "I know. You were calling for Bucky."

His hand still rested on her shoulder, his touch steady and gentle. It reminded her of how she used to comfort him when they were just kids -- whenever he got into a stupid fight, or the neighbourhood kids took to showing him what for. The weight of it anchored her to the present, even as his mind drifted back to the foggy graveyard and the nightmare she couldn't shake.

She inhaled sharply, still failing at steadying her breath. "Sorry... it's just –" she faltered, her eyes on her lap as her hands shook. "It's like I can hear him, feel him. But I always lose him again."

He nodded, humming in recognition.

"I was thinking about the Italian front, the other day. Do you remember?"

He smiled, the memory of the first time he disobeyed orders to save his best friend. The day he promised his other friend that he would do everything he could to bring home her husband.

One of his greatest victories.

"I remember. You were so angry at us – and he couldn't stop grinning because you had come all that way just to tell him off."

Her pensive face broke, at that, revealing a reminiscent smile.

"God, I'd do anything to go back to that."

The atmosphere in the crowd crackled as Captain America walked back, his best friend at his side, and a sea of men trailing behind them. Their victory hung thick in the air.

"Prepare yourself," Steve murmured, his voice low but edged with something akin to amusement. Maybe he should have warned him...

Bucky's gaze flickered to a ripple in the crowds in front of them -- the crowd parted with the ease of moving water, but it wasn't a force of nature that cut through them.

No. It was something more personal, smaller than all of them but ten times as dangerous.

She emerged from the crowd, eyes blazing, shoulders tight with fury.

His wife.

"You two," she shouted, her voice slicing through the charged air like a blade, "are two halves of one whole idiot!"

"Oh my god, what the hell are you doing here?!" Bucky rushed forward with a rather aggressive passion, very nearly knocking her to the ground. If she wasn't so apoplectic with rage, the hug would have softened everything.

Unfortunately, she was very nearly vibrating with anger.

She screwed up her face, wiggling out of his touch. "I came to get you, James." She jabbed a finger in his face, her hand trembling with an uncontainable rage. "Do you know how worried I was," She frowned, "that damn telegram nearly killed me!"

The men around them chuckled before giving the not-so-happy couple some space. He smiled at her with a soft, love-sick smile. He didn't even have it in him to feel guilt, although he was sure he would eventually. He knew military transfer orders, he knew the bureaucracy behind all the paperwork. She had probably fought tooth and nail just to find her way closer to him.

"You transferred here?" He spoke as his hands moved up to hold her face, his thumb stroking her cheek as she furrowed her eyebrows and scoffed at him, slapping away his hand before turning away to the other moron in the situation.

The crowd around them had dissipated now, leaving only the both of them, and a much, much taller Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. The kid she had spent most of her life protecting in some way or another.

"Don't even get me started on you." she snapped, her voice venomous. She stared him down, his new stature making no difference in how uncomfortable he felt with her intense gaze. He had the decency, at least, to sheepishly look at the ground. "What the hell were you thinking, Rogers?"

"I- " He started. He held his hands in the air like she was holding him at gunpoint. He wished she was, he was much better at that than dealing with grief turned relief turned anger.

She hissed, "Save it. Get yourselves to the infirmary tent, now." She turned on her heel, leading to where the men were beginning to line up to be checked over.

"Fury wants us to move to DC, says we’re better protected there.” After a full breakfast, the situation didn’t feel as dire. She looked at her friend with skeptical eyes, her fork clinking on the plate as she put it down with more force than she had meant to.

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. “Fury’s up to something.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know if you have the clearance but…” She hesitated. The weight of the words she was about to speak was almost too much, but she couldn’t back down now.  “We’ve had some intel. Someone’s using unauthorised SHIELD resources. We think whoever it is… is based at the Triskelion in DC.”

Her word’s hung heavy between them. She could see the suspicion on Steve’s face, the flicker of concern. He leaned in slightly, his eyes piercing as they met hers. “You think Fury’s hiding something?”

She sighed, dragging her hand through her fresh-washed hair. It was the last thing she needed, the organisation she had built up with her bare hands and dearest friends to be compromised. “I… ever since I stepped down as director, I’ve felt like something’s wrong. I regret putting Alexander Pierce in control, I’m worried it’s completely compromised.”

“I think Fury knows something I don’t – the question is what.” She shook her head, her words faltering for a second. 

Steve didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t have to. He could see it in her eyes – the frustration, the fear, the doubt. They both knew that if SHIELD was the next big bad, it was going to be harder than just killing aliens that come out of a big hole in the sky. It would be questioning the very thing they fight for in the first place.

“Okay.” Steve finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “Let’s just be careful. We’ll figure it out together – Nat’s already out there anyway, we can ask her to keep an eye out.”

Days later, they were on the move. The rumours they were tracking seemed to grow louder, and a certain name that neither of them wanted to ever hear again kept popping up through the cracks. 

HYDRA.

Natasha met them at the new apartment – they had decided to all move in together for safety. Fury assured the commander that there was nothing behind the move, that he didn’t expect anything from her.

“You think we’ll investigate the rumblings about SHIELD being infiltrated.” She frowned at him, finally figuring out his motive.

He smiled, his cards on the table. “Commander, I know you will.”

She couldn’t help but feel a disconnect between her life before and her life now. She didn’t know what had caused it – maybe something about the attack. She had been targeted before, the victim of many plots over the years. Who wouldn’t want to take out an enhanced, seemingly unaging artefact from a time period that was quickly fading from living memory.

But this one felt… different. She couldn’t help but think of Bucky when the knife-edged memory of her assailant made its way to her consciousness again. Something in the way he moved…

She looked up at the Triskelion, her new place of work. It was somehow familiar and unsettling at the same time. A place that had always symbolised SHIELD’s strength – her own blood, sweat and tears – now felt like the beginning of something far more dangerous.

Weeks passed. She almost forgot about the potential mole within SHIELD, she was kept so busy with work given to her by Pierce. She hated being around him, even though she had seen him rise the ranks as a young man nearly from the beginning of SHIELD. Something about him… she could tell he didn’t have good intentions anymore.

Steve and Natasha were starting to dig into the activities that SHIELD was covering around them. There was money, moved around so much that it was impossible to trace it to its destination. Weapons missing from the armoury’s logs. People who walked like they had more power than they should.

And then Fury was attacked in broad daylight. Declared dead. Steve crashed down stories into the foyer of the building, having been attacked by the STRIKE team that (y/n) once commanded. Pierce himself marched into the Commander’s office and declared she was being held on suspicion of treason – she would never have gone quietly, and she got a nice gash across her upper arm to prove it.

They found each other in the hospital after their no good, very bad day.

“Thank god.” Steve wrapped his arms around her as she found him outside the hospital.

She reciprocated. “Is it true? Fury’s dead?” She demanded, a tone in her voice that showed more vulnerability that she would have liked. She looked between him and Natasha, who had tears in her eyes for the first time in a long time.

He could only nod in response.

The truth hit them hard – the realisation that SHIELD had been compromised so thoroughly that it was completely unrecognisable. HYDRA was back, and it was using their own creation to cement itself again.

After that, everything changed. The triskelion was under siege. The situation had escalated faster than anyone could have predicted, and suddenly, they were fighting not only for their lives but for the world. They had picked up Sam Wilson, an ex-air force special forces pilot with helpful strategy ideas and even more helpful wings.

“So, how’d you make it to commander so young?” He had asked her.

Steve, Natasha and (y/n) had just laughed in response.

And then her world shattered even further, even more maliciously. Sitwell grabbed and thrown out of the car in front of a truck – a most effective way to shut him up. Each of them was attacked by an assailant that had haunted her since that moment at Bucky’s grave. She had been so distracted by the return of that memory that she hadn’t seen the knife coming.

One second, she was fighting with everything she had to hold her ground and protect the civilians around them, and the next – pain. Cold metal cutting into her side. A scream of shock that didn’t even escape her throat before her body crashed to the ground.

The world blurred around her. She heard Steve’s voice, desperate, calling her name as he fought to hold the line. And then… the mask fell. For a split second, she thought she must be hallucinating. The pain from the stab wound – and the steady trail of blood seeping through her top – was enough to make her think she could be.

She couldn’t tell which outcome she would have preferred in that moment – for her husband to be dead, or for her husband to be killing her.

The air felt too thick to breathe.

And then, she heard Steve speak his name, stopping in his tracks, too. And her heart stopped.

It couldn’t be. Not after everything – she had mourned for decades. So how could her dead husband, body somewhere in a ravine in Europe, be standing here, now. How could her Bucky – her wonderful, generous, brave husband – have caused the sea of thick crimson that had started to pool around her.

The man who had broken her ribs, and tried to murder her only weeks earlier. That same man, the one with no memory, with no soul, stripped of everything he’d ever been and replaced with a cold, mechanical weapon. A ghost from the past, a soldier she couldn’t recognise.

Natasha had told them the name earlier. A name that sat bitterly on her tongue.

The Winter Soldier.

Her chest tightened as the world seemed to freeze around her. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the grief, the shock, the guilt.

Her hands shook violently as she struggled to push herself up, the pain almost unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the agony in her heart. The man who was supposed to be dead, the man who was supposed to be lost forever, was standing right in front of her — twisted and broken nearly beyond recognition.

But she would recognise him anywhere, anytime. Her Bucky.

The world seemed to tilt, everything spinning around her in a dizzying blur of emotions. How could this be? She couldn’t reconcile the image before her with the man she remembered, the boy she had once loved. She had grieved him. She had clung to every inch of him like it was her only lifeline – his touch, his smile, his cheeky jokes that made the burden of what they were just that little bit easier to manage.

Now, everything she thought she understood was unraveling.

She couldn’t fix this.

The sound of Steve’s voice reached her through the fog of her emotions. She knew he was moving toward her, his panic filling the space between them, but she couldn’t focus on that. She couldn’t focus on anything other than the man standing in front of her.

How could he not remember her?

How could he not remember them?

He locked eyes with her as he raised his gun. Those blue eyes that had looked at her lovingly since the moment they had met, now replaced with emotionless disdain. She decided that her only course of action was to close her eyes and accept whatever this cruel twist of fate had in store.

The Winter Soldier.

A name that would haunt her forever.

Both Bucky and Steve had been sitting outside the infirmary for what felt like hours. The sounds of the camp were muffled around them, but they could hear the laughter and celebration from the mess hall starting already. Closer, the occasional sharp sound of boots on gravel as men trickled in and out of the infirmary, patched up and sporting bandages in various places.

Dugan passed by, a small bandage wrapped expertly around his forehead. “Hell of a woman, Barnes. You’re a lucky guy.”

Morita, who had a nice bruise forming on his cheek, waggled an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her anger.”

Bucky only grinned and shrugged, his attention never straying far from the door. “Hey, you should be so lucky.” He smiled.

Finally, the line in front of him cleared. He stood, wincing slightly as his leg protested the movement, and made his way into the infirmary. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic and sweat. The soft sound of hospitalised soldiers and the rattle of medical equipment filled the space.

And there she was.

The moment his eyes met hers, the world around him seemed to still. Her frown deepened, but the way she looked at him told him all he needed to know. She was mad. Madder than he thought he’d ever seen her, maybe aside from the time he and Steve decided to play baseball indoors and smashed her favourite vase.

Bucky took a hesitant step forward, trying to make light of it. “Hi, Nurse.”

She didn’t even look up at first, but when she did, the way her brow furrowed made his stomach twist. She motioned for him to sit, a sigh escaping her lips as she set the clipboard down next to him. 

“Sergeant Barnes.” She said, a quiet edge to her voice. “What did they do to you?”

Bucky winced as she touched a bruise near his cheekbone. He had been through a hell of a lot worse in his life, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood to pretend like it didn’t hurt. “Nothing too bad. A little blood, some bad food… the usual.”

The corner of her mouth twitched like she might’ve smiled, but it disappeared almost instantly, replaced by that serious look. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him.

She frowned. “You really shouldn’t joke right now.” She murmured as she worked, pulling out some supplies. The cotton swab was rough against his skin, and he winced as she dabbed at one the cuts across his eyebrow. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Bucky could feel the tension even in the way her fingers moved – quick, precise, anxious.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was small and fragile: “I thought you were dead.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, his throat going dry. There was no anger to her words now, just a quiet, raw vulnerability. He looked at her then – really looked – finally seeing the bags under her eyes, her red-raw hands from sanitising and scrubbing them over and over and over again. The shine over her eyes from tears that she fought not to spill.

He leaned forward slightly, covering her hand with his. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand gently, “I’m sorry, baby.” His voice was gravelly but soft, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. The anger was still there, tucked away beneath the surface, but it was quieter now – he saw it for what it really was. Love.

She nodded slowly, swallowing thickly. “I know you say that,” She muttered. “But sometimes I wonder… how much longer I’ll get to hear it.”

Bucky’s chest tightened at the implication. He couldn’t imagine what she’d gone through in receiving that telegram. Living with the fear of her husband, gone forever. He knew that if it had been him in that position, he’d have gone mad. 

He pulled her hand toward him tilting his head so their foreheads touched, his voice low and steady. “You’re stuck with me, you hear me? No one’s getting rid of me, not even you.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. It was just the sounds of their breath mingling in the quiet of the infirmary. There was finally a moment of peace amongst the chaos of the war, even if it wasn’t perfect.

But the reality of their lives could never stay far for long, and she pulled away gently, putting that professional mask back on. Bucky had to fight the urge to pull her back, to keep her in that soft, quiet space. She had always been strong and capable, but he felt that she was different now… hardened to the world in a way she wasn’t before. He wondered if he would ever see the sweet, innocent girl he left in New York again. 

“I’m on the clock, Barnes.” Her tone returned to being sharper, but it had a softer edge now. “You’re gonna have to send Steve in. I need to check him out.”

Bucky’s mind returned to his alarmingly big, formerly small-friend. “What the hell happened to him, anyway?”

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@sprout341 @ironwinnerwonderland @loview321 @Torntaltos @am-3-thyst @kay270000 @yelena-belovas-wife @sc4rrc @parkers-gal

@wintercrows @salemslostwitch @alexandra-001 @nofingjustaninchident @crazyunsexycool @Whiskytoast

-> taglist form!

-> masterlist!

[babeluda]

Belgian Cats are going to the semifinals let's fucking gooo (against France though so that homecourt advantage the crowd gave them so far is probably done for)

Also excuse me while I fucking cry Emma Meesseman has been giving point guard Julie Allemand who got re-injured just before the tournament and had to pull out shout-outs on every. single. one. of her post game instagram posts and wrote her fucking nickname and jersey number on her shoes that she wears on the olympic court I can't even

[astriiformes]

One thing they don't tell you about planning a wedding when you have no money and one of you is very sick is that it will be fraught in ways you never could have imagined.

[hephaestuscrew]

“This has both our names on it”: Viewing Fleet and Clara’s relationship in Victoriocity through a queerplatonic lens

TL;DR: By Season 3 of Victoriocity, Fleet and Clara have developed a committed emotional partnership that certainly moves beyond the purely professional. Whilst very much operating as a duo, they can be interpreted as often rejecting or subverting romance-coded elements in their relationship, instead embracing a unique dynamic that can be read as resonating with the concept of a queerplatonic relationship (QPR).

Buckle up because this is over 2,500 words long! If you'd rather read it as a document, you can access it here: Fleet & Clara QPR Google Doc

Disclaimer: I'm not making any claims about creator intent, nor about how anyone else ought to interpret Fleet and Clara's dynamic. It's also worth acknowledging that queerplatonic relationships are inherently defined by the people in them and any attempt to apply such terminology to a story set in 1887 is obviously anachronistic (although whether that should matter when said story also contains a cyborg Queen Victoria is up for debate). 

With that said, if we define a QPR as a committed personal partnership which is not entirely captured by the typical expectations of either friendship or romance but may contain some elements typically associated with either (other definitions of QPRs are available), I enjoy viewing Fleet and Clara's relationship through a QPR lens, and I want to talk about some of the reasons why I think this reading works.

***Spoilers for all three seasons of Victoriocity and the novel High Vaultage***

Detective duos

Even before we actually get into Fleet and Clara's particular bond, detective / crime-solving duos as a general concept have QPR energy to me (which probably predisposed me to this interpretation). It's the Holmes-and-Watson legacy. It's the use of the word 'partner' in a non-romantic context (‘associate’ or ‘companion’ can also serve a similar purpose). It's the intense trust and reliance on each other. It's the sense of being a recognisable pair, always appearing together, known as a duo, with skills and attributes that complement each other. 

Romantic assumptions

Moving on to Fleet and Clara specifically, one aspect of their relationship that can be read through a QPR lens is how they are often in situations where other people believe or imply that there is a romantic relationship between them. Sometimes this is a deliberate strategy of theirs, and sometimes it’s imposed upon them by others. But I’d argue that there’s never a point where they both simultaneously seem entirely comfortable with that romantic narrative for their relationship. Usually one of them will actively deny the assumption or react negatively to the implication:

When Mrs Hampshire interprets Clara and Fleet as a couple experiencing “young love”, Clara might be happy to adopt this as an effective cover story, but Fleet seems unsettled and keen for them not to be perceived this way: “No. No. You’ve misunderstood, we are not, that is to say I am…” (S1E2)

When Warden Hughes assumes Fleet is the new Warden and Clara is the new Warden’s wife, Clara says “I am certainly not”, with emphasis on the ‘certainly’. (S2E2)

Fleet definitely doesn’t sound enthused when he realises Clara has gone for a married couple as their cover story at the Grand Salcombe: “I am sure I’ll regret asking, but by any chance am I [Mr. Theasby?]” (S2E2)

When Titus Byrne tells the pair “I take it you're happy sharing [a room]”, Clara responds with a horrified “What?” (S3E4) (Obviously sleeping in the same room isn’t inherently romantic, but it is often perceived that way.)

Of course, fake dating and external assumptions of romance are very common tropes in romantic will-they-won't-they dynamics, and these moments could definitely be interpreted that way for Fleet and Clara. But I prefer to read these instances as reflecting a different kind of closeness between these two characters. They have a sense of emotional partnership that allows a marriage cover story to seem plausible to others and that other people sometimes automatically assume to be romantic (obviously with some period-typical heteronormativity at play). But to me, it doesn't seem like either of them are fully comfortable with their relationship being perceived in a directly romantic way. Perhaps they are a couple in a different sense…

Proposal via door plate 

The way that Fleet asks Clara to be his business partner has always seemed to me like a platonic version of when people find personal ways to surprise their romantic partner with a proposal:

CLARA: You bought me a door plate for your office? [...] This has both our names on it. FLEET: What do you think? CLARA: I like it. (S2E7)

Fleet could have just asked Clara outright, without going to the trouble of buying a sign that would have been useless if she’d said no. If it was purely a professional business proposition with no emotional meaning behind it, I think he would have just asked verbally. But instead, he gifts her a sign with their two names paired together: Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. There's something so intimate about that to me: about Fleet asking Clara whether she would like to be a duo with him in a more formally-defined but still non-romantic way; about him choosing to present this offer in the form of a gift; about the way he presents her with their two names joined together etched into metal and asks what she thinks; about the significance that this gesture attaches to their partnership; about him having enough trust that she'll say yes that the effort and vulnerability of presenting her with that sign seem worth it for him. And the gesture means an awful lot to Clara:

She thought about the door plaque he’d had engraved with both their names on it as his way of inviting her to be his business partner – typical Fleet, refusing to tell her so much as his favourite breakfast food and then to go and do something like that. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. (High Vaultage, p187). 

Anniversaries

In the special episode ‘Murder in the Pharaoh's Tomb', Clara says “And you know what else is a big occasion Fleet? It's our one-month anniversary.” She wants to celebrate the anniversary of Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. Their partnership holds a significance for her that means key dates associated with it are worth remembering and remarking upon. 

When Clara first mentions their anniversary, Fleet nearly chokes on his drink, which seems like an instinctive reaction to the usually romantic connotations of an anniversary (see my point above about Fleet not being comfortable with their dynamic being perceived as romantic). But when Clara clarifies what she means, Fleet seems much more cheerful about the notion of their anniversary: “Ah, so it has.”

“Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner”

I get extremely strong QPR vibes from this moment, when Fleet introduces Clara to the sailors at Grave End:

FLEET: This is Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner - in business, my business partner. CLARA: I'm also his friend, but he doesn't like to say it. (S3 E3)

Fleet and Clara are partners, but not in the way the average person might assume from that word, which Fleet realises mid-sentence here. This is another instance of Fleet reacting negatively to the idea that their relationship might be interpreted romantically (see above). And yet, 'partner' (rather than, say, ‘colleague’) is the word that comes naturally to him in this moment to describe who Clara is to him. He then frantically emphasises the professional element of their relationship so as to avoid the romantic implication, but Clara is keen to proudly assert that there is a personal, emotional aspect to their dynamic too. They are first-and-foremost partners, and they are friends, and they do not want to be seen in a romantic light - this post basically writes itself... 

“Her ridiculous detective.”

When Clara fears for her life at the display of the Lanterns, the narration tells us:

“she thought of her brother, her sister, her parents... Her ridiculous detective.” (High Vaultage, p172) 

The fact that Clara thinks of Fleet in this moment of fear clearly indicates his importance to her, but I think the phrasing of this quote is particularly interesting. The narration lists Clara's immediate family: two of whom are dead (her sister and father), one of whom is publically mourning Clara's life choices (her mother), and only one of whom we have any real evidence of her having a positive relationship with (her brother). And then, separated from these complicated familial relationships by an ellipsis, the narration tells Clara also thinks of Fleet, “her ridiculous detective”. 

Parents and siblings are familial relationships that tend to come with established expectations, in which the use of a possessive pronoun (i.e. her brother) to indicate the relationship is a norm. ‘Detective’ does not fall into this category; unlike ‘brother’, ‘sister’, ‘parent’, ‘friend’, ‘partner’ etc., ‘detective’ is not a word that inherently implies a relationship or that we'd usually expect to see preceded by a possessive pronoun. The idea of ‘her detective’ therefore stands out, giving the sense that there is a unique relationship being indicated here. The way in which Fleet is ‘hers’ is something that Clara has chosen for herself, something that they have shaped together. Who they are to each other can't necessarily be fully expressed using standard phrases that traditionally describe relationships between people. But Fleet is Clara's detective, of which she only has one, and who she'll think of in the midst of “the screaming of the heavens at the end of the world”.

Fleet is also the only one in this list of Clara's loved ones who gets an adjective - her love for him has detail. And while “ridiculous” might often be perceived as negative (it's certainly not a classic romantic endearment), it seems to me like there's such fondness in it in this context: the recognition of and affection for eccentricities, the idea that his importance to her is not (purely) based on his professional strengths but on Fleet as a whole - perhaps at times ridiculous - person.

“Settled”

When Clara and Fleet talk about Clara's mother’s expectations for her, they have this exchange:

"She's still living in hope that one day I'll settle down."  "You're not settled?" asked Fleet. "I am." (High Vaultage, p259) 

By ‘settle down’, Clara's mother of course means ‘marry’, ideally into “at least a minor baronetcy”. But Clara already considers herself "settled", just not in a way her mother would understand or appreciate. She's not looking to "settle down" into a lifestyle other than her current one. She is settled in a situation where Fleet is certainly her closest personal connection in London (and perhaps anywhere), and where the two of them work closely together, operate as a duo, and then go back to their separate homes. And this partnership with Fleet is a comfortable set-up that feels right for Clara exactly as it is, rather than being a precursor to, or a distraction from, the marriage ambitions that her mother wants for her.

I think this exchange also contains an implicit sense of the commitment between the two of them. Fleet wants to check that Clara is ‘settled’ in her current situation, of which working closely - and platonically - with Fleet is obviously a major element; Clara confirms she is. There's a subtle indication of their shared intention to be in this for the long haul.

As a sidenote, Fleet and Clara’s implicit assumption that their partnership is a long-term one can manifest itself in joking contexts as well as serious ones. Look at this exchange from S3E5: 

FLEET: We're not bandits, we're just going to flag it down. CLARA: We'd be terrific bandits! FLEET: Let's just see how our current line of work goes.

I think it’s notable that, in this joking speculation, both Fleet and Clara use ‘we’ and ‘our’. The joke could have been phrased just as effectively if they were imagining only Clara becoming a bandit. But the suggestion is that, if either of them was a bandit, they’d be bandits together. Even if they changed their lives entirely, they'd still approach life together.

Inseparable 

Fleet and Clara have become a nearly inseparable duo in a way which is noticed by others. For example, after Clara and Fleet fall out in High Vaultage, Fleet meets with Keller, who says: 

"You're here with me instead of barrelling across town with her, so I'm just assuming there is some thickheaded puffinry for which you need to apologise to Miss Entwhistle" (p335)

Keller, hardly the most emotionally perceptive man in Even Greater London, automatically infers from the fact that Fleet is on his own that he has had a falling out with Clara, rather than that they just happen to be in different places. When all is well, Keller expects to see the two of them together, whether or not they are in a position to be actively working a case.

Going back earlier in their partnership, Keller makes a similar assumption about Fleet and Clara being inseparable in S2E6. When Clara shouts her name amidst Keller's anti-Vidoc booby traps, Keller asks "Entwhistle? Which means… Fleet?" Again, there's this idea that if one of them is there, the other is likely to be there too - they come as a pair. (It's worth noting that this scene takes place less than two weeks after they first met.)

“Like a friend might?”

At the end of S3E7, Fleet suggests that he and Clara go to the theatre together. It would have been easy for this invitation to have been explicitly framed as a romantic proposition, or even for the nature of the offer to have been left more ambiguous. But Clara says "Archibald Fleet, are you inviting me to a social activity? Like a friend might?" The use of the word 'friend' directly labels this as a platonic interaction. And it's with that platonic lens on it that Clara is extremely excited to spend non-work-related social time with Fleet.

“Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.”

CLARA: My grandmother's ring, I don't suppose you managed to hold on to it? [...] FLEET: Oh, it's been crushed.. I'm sorry Clara [...] CLARA: No, you keep it. FLEET: What? No... CLARA: Keep it. Maybe it'll remind you not to run towards trains. FLEET: Maybe. Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.

In S3E7, Clara gives Fleet a ring, which - as a gift from one person to another - is traditionally a symbol of a particular, legally recognised, kind of personal commitment. But when Clara tells Fleet to keep the damaged ring, down in the Underground tunnels after the destruction of the beast and Fleet's latest brush with death, it is quite a different situation to a wedding or a proposal. A married man would traditionally wear his wedding ring on his finger for all to see, but Fleet won't ever wear this ring like that. The ring itself has been bent into a different shape between the wheels of their misadventures, subverting the usual associations of a ring given from one person to another. (In a heteronormative world, those associations are particularly strong when the two people in question are a woman and a man.) 

That ring is not an engagement ring, but it is Clara’s grandmother's ring, an inheritance from the blood family she never really felt she belonged in, now given to the man who might be a very different kind of family for her in London. That ring - with which Clara saved Fleet's life - is a symbol of their bond. And it therefore serves as a reminder for Fleet “not to run towards trains" and as a “good luck charm”. I like to think he'll carry that ring with him, perhaps in his jacket pocket - a little piece of his partner, kept close to his ticking heart…

Thank you for reading all of this!

If you’ve read all of this, I'm assuming you also enjoy the concept of Fleet and Clara as a QPR (unless you're really a glutton for punishment) and that makes me very happy! This was long because there's so much to say about them… And I wrote all of the above without even getting into: the potential to headcanon Fleet and/or Clara as aspec (which I don't think is necessary for QPR headcanons, but which is also fun); Clara's baggage around and discomfort with marriage in general; the speed with which Fleet and Clara become a ride-or-die duo; and the many other demonstrations of care, understanding, trust, respect, and affection between them that didn't feel as directly QPR-coded to me but are nonetheless wonderful. Please do feel free to share your own thoughts!

[velvet-games]

shipping jayvik out of spite now smh

[k1tty5]

hello :D please tell me more about your mezalian (is that how you spell it??) smalletho I will forever be indebted to you

(they are gorgeous I love them sm)

hey hi !! it would be my pleasure … (and I’ve been spelling it mezalean ??? but i have no idea LOL. there might be a canon spelling but i havent watched joels esmp1 since… probably since it ended. i will have to check sometime)

apologizing in advance because i will probably get very ramble-y!!

ummm. Oh god. How to start. Lets see. WELL. In this silly little au (i guess it has become a bit more than just me doodling designs LOL) in my head they have like this sort of zelink dynamic? obviously without all the zelda lore & stuff, just that kind of … okay forgive me I haven’t brushed up on my zelink lore for a good many years but. Like the princess and her personal knight that doesn’t really talk much sort of thing.

this made more sense in my head. But yeah. They have the vibes of zelink ? At least if i remember zelink right, I have a really bad memory :’) not exactly the same, i do think etho talks to joel (whereas if iirc link never really talks) - especially after getting to know him a bit - but just. they have the Vibes. You know?

I reckon Joel’s definitely very into sculpting in this au, maybe dabbles a little in painting - I imagine mezalea to be very heavy on art and expression in general. think you’d especially see lots of pottery and textiles all around the place. He probably also has an interest in some form of like. um. whats the word. Some sort of … fighting. lmao. Specifically thinking of fencing, i had this idea in my head that he’s watched Etho practice outside the palace at some point and is just absolutely fascinated and enamored. by both the practice and etho himself haha.

and for etho… talented swordsman? he is Not washed. i dont really have many ideas for his character in this au To be completely honest, mostly just of his personality. Although, I alsooo think he’s probably not actually from mezalea? I like to draw him with those pointy elf ears, and i think mezaleans are just humans. I cant remember if thats canon or not but um. mezaleans have human ears, so i’d imagine etho’s probably from like.. rivendelle? Is that. What it’s called. The elf guys? Are they elves??? Goodness I cant remember. Grimlands would make sense too since i THINK they’re kind of like. technical engineer guys? but i dont know what species they are um so ,,, yeah,,,,

i think joel’s probably a bit put off by etho at first, mostly just because he’s not super enthused about the idea of a personal guard, but also because the guys a bit odd, you know? but he’s also probably suuuper intrigued by him. he wants to figure this new guy out, and when they start talking a bit more, i think. They are both incredibly charmed by the other. head over heels? possibly.

most of my ideas of this au are just little scenes that are cute and silly but dont follow any main plot. I would love to write some one-shots of some of the ideas i have in the future, but as of right now im experiencing a bout of creative burnout and am busy with the holidays - spending time with family, so… not right now lol!

hopefully this is what you wanted,,,, i tend to get very ramble-y when talking about literally anything, so i do apologize for that haha, i am Not good at explaining things in simple ways, as i’ve said many a time before.

[possamble]

I'm not allowed to be on social media for more than two seconds today but I just wanted to say that Laios will absolutely have his own reaction to all this as someone who would die for Falin but has also imprinted on Marcille as his Emotional Support Comphet White Girl Not-Girlfriend along the way

[pharaohbean]

my ramblings about a fire emblem awakening au

(if you’re wondering why im explaining some things its bc i sent this to some friends that dont know anything about fea except what i send them in waves)

bonus: me trying to get them to understand how insane robin can be (neither of them were online)

[createandconstruct]

Posted this on Twitter but

Idk man… I think what gets me is the weight of this chapter. 430 had a bittersweetness to it but this feels doubled. Perhaps because this is very likely the last time we’ll see these characters but the send off in this extra chapter feels so quiet and melancholy…

[flowercrowngods]

hi my inbox is full of so much love and affection right now and i swear i am not ignoring anyone, i see all your "you make me happy" asks and your cat pics and your "i hope you have a wonderful day" messages but i swear i'm not ignoring you, i'm just gonna bask in them a little longer 🥰🤍

[advestager]

I feel like saying Josuke doesn't have any daddy issues whatsoever isn't entirely fair (I've seen some fic and comics go further into how he and his mom might have been treated due to the circumstances of his birth that were pretty compelling) but people who act like he grew up without any father figure are definitely off base imo. Every single adaptation and extra material have always had a focus on his close relationship with his grandpa for a reason!

see, that's precisely the thing. it is literally impossible to be a grown up human without having internalised some sort of illogical Feeling about oneself or the world – but fandom as a whole tends to just assign arbitrary ones to characters based on stereotypes rather than what they actually are like.

i do think josuke feels some sort of way about his lack of a father growing up, but that's as inevitable as joseph himself (or giorno, or jolyne, or even jonathan) having feelings about his own dad, and yet somehow jorge's absence does not get brought up despite joseph and josuke's fairly similar upbringings. the fact is that most of western fandom tends to view the JJBA characters through a (white, usa-centric) lens that simply does not lend itself to a fair or accurate reading when most of the cast is either POC or from an entirely different cultural background. that's why i'm so resistant to label josuke as having 'daddy issues'; the term means something entirely different to me than it seems to do to most of the fandom, based on all the fic, comics, and discussions i've seen (and had) about the topic. it's not exactly like the organised crime aspect of VA, but it fills me with a similar kind of frustration. i don't think one needs a degree in cultural studies or history or whatnot to enjoy a silly series about people punching each other with slutty soul-ghosts, but it's exhausting to see the same thoughtless, very specifically westernised takes being regurgitated over and over as Absolute Truth until the characters are so flanderised they seem nothing as much as a caricature of their original versions. i love transformative works as much as any other fan creator, but i also happen to like the source material. it is infinitely more interesting to me to think about what kind of relationship josuke might have to his heritage as a mixed-race person, or his identity as the son of a single mother or the obviously cherished and spoilt child of a family such as his own (especially in a place and period like canon's late-90s/early 00's japan), than to hear yet another iteration of 'haha, josuke has daddy issues' where the person saying it has no intention of analysing that premise beyond the puddle-depth obvious.

at barely sixteen years old, even as interested in high-end fashion (and as very much part of a working class family who could definitely use the nest egg) as he is, josuke's immediate reaction to being told his missing father is incredibly rich and wants to take care of him is to say that it's not necessary, and he's fine as he is. sixteen. i worked as a teacher with kids as young as a year old and people as old as mid-seventies; that kind of ease of mind is one-in-a-million and not something you'll find on someone who fits fandom's definition of 'daddy issues'. he's not angry at joseph, he's not grasping for money, he hardly even wants to find out more about the missing part of his origins. his only thought is to wish he wouldn't be the reason other people were hurt, and to protect his mother once there is a risk she might find out and be distressed about it. his entire morality system is (from what i remember of canon) mostly based around the question What Would Grandpa Do?, with some leeway allowed for the temper he clearly got from tomoko and for the fact that he is, again, a big and slightly spoilt sixteen year old.

so yeah. it might not sound fair to say he doesn't have daddy issues, but i don't think the terms fandom's operating under are fair to start with, so i'd rather recuse myself (and my interpretation of the character) from it all til we're playing the same game. the sandbox's wide and wild, and the block and mute buttons are there for a reason, so i'll just stay in my corner writing about higashikatas wielding their feelings like sledgehammers til my mum says it's time to go home.

[imaginedisish]

Lover, You Should've Come Over (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Get ready to cry. This is based on a request I received yesterday where the reader gets jealous of Jean. I tried to take this in a different direction just because I feel like this is a popular trope that has been done by many fantastic writers. It's also inspired by "Lover, You Should've Come Over," by Jeff Buckley. Hope you guys enjoy.

Summary: You've been pining after Logan since you joined the X-Men, and you're convinced he'll never love you back. He’s obsessed with Jean—always has been. Or...maybe he's not.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, Oral (f!receiving), fingering, PIV (unprotected...pls WRAP IT UP THIS IS FICTION!), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, f!reader/afab!reader, telepathic!reader, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan (kinda? yeah.), non-canon compliant (you'll see what I mean...no spoilers), cursing, angst, feelings, implied mutant trauma (kinda a given in X-Men), probably some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,197 sorry

Wanting someone you can’t have—it’s that crying in the shower, pulling your legs into your chest, screaming into your pillow kind of heartache. You’ve come to know the feeling intimately. It’s an awful, horrid, stomach-churning kind of pain.

But you want him. Despite all the pain, you want him. Logan Howlett. You can’t seem to keep him off your mind. For the few months you’ve been one of the X-Men, Logan has been a constant. He’s always there—whether it’s to train or just to talk. But you know he’ll never want you. You see the way he looks at Jean. You wish you didn’t. You wish you were oblivious to that sort of thing. But you don’t need to use your telepathy to reach inside his mind for proof—you just know. 

You keep holding on, savoring every moment, every interaction you have with Logan. You sit on the lawn of the mansion with him, watching the sunset. You’ll come down to the living room late at night to find him sitting in front of the T.V. and join him. Sometimes he’ll drape an arm around your shoulder. He’ll draw circles into your side as you drift off. You’ll wake up the next morning back in your bed, Logan having carried you there long after you’ve fallen asleep. 

You’ve decided you’ll take all he’ll give you, even if it means nothing to him—even if it's platonic. 

But tonight, you wish something would come up through the floor and swallow you whole. A void, a black hole maybe. That would do the trick. Disappearing would make everything so much easier. The second-best thing to disappearing is sitting in the kitchen of the mansion, alone, with a pint of ice cream. You decide to practice your powers, moving the silver spoon with your mind, concentrating as you dig the spoon into the top of the pint and into your mouth. 

You hear a warm, familiar chuckle from the doorway as the spoon lands on your tongue. You look up, and there’s Logan, arms tucked across his chest. “Wish I could do that.”

You can’t help but smile around the spoon as he strides over to you, taking a seat on the stool next to yours. You slide the spoon out of your mouth and rest it on the napkin next to the ice cream. “Hey,” you mutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

His shoulder brushes against yours. He’s so close it hurts. You try to shove the pain down and enjoy the moment. 

“Was hoping I’d run into you down here. Thought maybe you’d be in bed already,” Logan says, his eyes locked on yours. 

You shake your head, doing your best to keep that fake smile plastered on your face. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

You can see the sudden concern appear on his face. “Everything okay?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. Fuck, you think to yourself. Maybe he’s catching on. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the ice cream. “Just still having a hard time adjusting.” It wasn’t a lie. You had always struggled with your powers, longing to hide, to shove them down. Your whole life, you were either a freak or something to be used—whatever was most convenient in the moment. The struggle between visibility and forcing yourself to be “normal” was an impossible battle. You were no stranger to being taken advantage of or being experimented on.

Logan was the first person who understood that—understood you. He made you feel seen in a way that no one ever had. It’s part of the reason you’ve fallen so hard for him. 

His hand is suddenly on your back, yanking you from your thoughts and back to reality. “I’m here,” he whispers. “Whatever you need, anything.” 

Anything. You wish he really meant it. 

“Thanks, Lo.” You smile up at him, letting your eyes linger on his lips for just a second before looking back down at the ice cream. “Want some?” You ask, nodding at the pint. 

“Only if you feed it to me the way you did when I walked in.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he taps the spoon. You side-eye him incredulously. “I mean it. Wanna see you do it again.” There’s a husk in his voice, a shift in his timber that sends a chill down your spine. You try not to think about it too much as you pick up the spoon with your mind. 

You guide the spoon inside the pint, scraping the top, and lifting it up towards Logan’s mouth. He opens wide as you lead the spoon inside, his tongue hitting the bottom as his lips close around it. The implications of the moment don’t dawn on you until he’s grabbing the spoon with his hands and sucking on the metal. There’s something undeniably suggestive about this. 

Heat rises to your chest as you replay the image of him taking the spoon into his mouth in your mind. It’s so intimate, so domestic. And, certainly, something else—something that makes you tick, that makes that familiar fire grow deep within your belly. 

But—like always—the moment doesn’t last long. You wince, feeling someone itching against your thoughts, prodding at your mental shields, begging to be let in. Suddenly, there’s another voice in your mind. 

I gotta try that myself. You flinch at the sound, taking the spoon from Logan’s hand and shooting it across the room to where you sense the person’s presence. You turn around, and there’s Jean, resisting the spoon’s trajectory with her mind. 

It's almost pressing into her skull, shaking in mid-air, ready to break her skin. You gasp and drop the spoon, embarrassed to have registered her as a threat. “I’m so sorry,” you say, watching as Jean crouches down and picks up the spoon. “I didn’t know that was you in there, I swear.”

You expect Logan to stand from the chair and rush over to Jean, but he stays next to you, glued to your side, the palm of his hand resting gently on your back. “Jean.” His voice is firm, almost cold and harsh. “What was that?” You’re surprised at how curt he’s being with her, surprised he remembered that you’re sensitive to people probing around your mind, even if it’s friendly. 

Jean mutters a curse. “I was just communicating with her. I didn’t think she’d—” 

Logan stands, his hand still steady at your back. “Don’t do that again. Ever.” His voice is louder now, heavier. 

She whispers an apology, setting the spoon on the counter and walking towards the doorway. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says. “I should’ve remembered given your…” she pauses, searching for the word, “past…that it wouldn’t be a good idea.” She takes another tentative step. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, and she slips out. 

Logan settles back into the stool next to you. You’re shocked that he’s still here, that he hasn’t run away yet. You can hear him breathe—in and out—gentle, long breaths. You close your eyes and listen, the sound calming you down. You’re still expecting him to leave, to walk away, but he doesn’t. 

“You okay?” He asks, your eyes fluttering open, his voice hanging in the air. His head is tilted to the side, worry painted across his face. 

“Y-yeah. I’m fine,” you stutter, your voice cracking. “You don’t have to stay with me. You can go check on her if you want.” You nod towards the doorway—to wherever Jean wandered off to. 

“And why would I do that?” Is all he says in return, furrowing his brows. 

You put on that fake smile again. “I almost jammed a spoon into her forehead because she spoke to me telepathically.” You shake your head. “Don’t really think my reaction was particularly friendly—or something that good people do.” You break eye contact with Logan and look to the other side of the kitchen. “Plus, you two are…close.”

“Hey.” His voice is firm again, but gentle this time, reassuring. His hand slips across your back and rests on your waist. You’re so shocked by the contact that you almost miss what he says. “First of all, she knows better. Charles warned her about what you’ve been through. And second…” He trails off, smirking at you. “I’d rather be with you.”

Oh? Oh. He’d rather be with you. 

“I just thought, you know, you and Jean were…” You’re too embarrassed to finish the sentence and too nervous to hear him say the words you’ve been dreading most. 

He shakes his head, that smirk still spread across his lips. “No, it’s not Jean I want. Never has been.” 

Your breathing becomes shaky—your heart beating rapidly in your chest. “If it’s not Jean, then—” 

Logan cuts you off as he suddenly moves. His arm lifts from your waist as he stands, turning your stool around so your back is against the cold countertop. He’s gripping the arms of the stool now, caging you in. Your mind is hazy—you can’t concentrate with him this close. 

“You think I do the shit I do with you with Jean too, hm?” He’s towering over you, his head cocking to the side, his voice self-assured and confident. “Think I’m watching movies and sunsets with her? Carrying her to bed, too?” 

You’re overwhelmed, dizzied by his words, his size, him. “Just thought that—”

“Just thought what?” He cuts you off again. “That I didn’t want you, darlin’?” He brings his lips to the shell of your ear, one hand moving from the counter to your hip. “Wanted you this whole time,” he huffs, goosebumps rising on your arms. “Only you.” He presses a kiss to your ear, and then just underneath your jaw. 

“Logan,” you whisper. “W-want you too,” you choke out, your hands coming up and around his back. “B-but someone’s gonna walk in on us.” 

He’s ignoring you, biting your pulse point lightly and licking the pain away. “Let them,” he husks, refusing to stop. You instinctively bring your hands up to the nape of his neck, your nails digging in slightly. He groans at the contact, his chest heaving against yours. 

“One of the kids is catch us in here, or somebody else,” you mutter, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. “W-we should—”

“Go to my room.” He finishes your thought. 

“Please.” 

And then he’s picking you up from the chair, his hands under your thighs, grabbing your ass. You wrap your legs around his waist as he prowls out of the kitchen. He looks both ways as he crosses the hallway and makes his way to the stairs. There’s no one in sight. He carries you up the steps and down the hall to his room, practically breaking down the door as he swings it open and slams it shut. 

And then he’s laying you down on his bed, crawling over you, pressing his forehead against yours. “Wanted you in here sooner,” he murmurs, his lips just inches from yours. “Hoped you’d come over one night. You should’ve.”

His lips crash down onto yours before you can find the words to say. He’s starving for you, swallowing your moans as his hands slip under your shirt, his nails digging lightly into your sides. “So fucking beautiful,” he rasps against your lips. Everything is desperate and rushed, hands pawing at bare skin in the dim light of his room. 

Logan tugs on the hem of your shirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the side as he sits up on his knees, taking you in. He curses under his breath, looking you up and down. 

“Logan,” you whine, arching your back. You need his hands on you again, his lips. Something. Anything. 

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes, his fingers hooking inside the waistband of your shorts. “Gonna take care of you.” He yanks them down your legs, leaving you in just your bra and panties. 

He pulls off his own shirt, tossing it carelessly, letting it get lost on the floor. He settles back down over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand finds your waist. He slides up to the bottom of your bra, teasingly pulling on the fabric before slipping his hand behind your back—skillfully unclasping the bra with one easy motion. You arch your back again, the bra straps sliding down your arms as Logan tosses the bra to the floor, too. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, his hand tracing the curves of your breasts, massaging gently. “Perfect.” He captures your lips in another kiss as his thumb ghosts over your nipples, just barely giving you the relief you need before pinching softly. The pressure feels so good, so right, but it’s not enough. 

He draws circles around your nipples with his thumb, the sensation feeding the aching fire between your legs. Your hips involuntarily lift off the mattress, meeting his. “Need me that bad, huh?” He is always so incredibly cocky, even now—especially now. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and what to do next. 

Logan grinds his erection into your core. You can feel how big he is, the weight of him heavy against your cunt even in his jeans. You clench around nothing, whining his name as his strained cock teases your panty-clad pussy. “You want me to make you feel good, pretty girl?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter, biting your lips as his hand leaves your tits and sweeps down your stomach, stopping just above your clit. He slides his fingers down just a bit more, feeling where your arousal seeps through your panties. 

“Already soaking for me, sweetheart.” The bassy timber of his voice stokes that flame deep within your belly. Without warning, he’s hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanking them down your legs. “Can’t wait anymore, pretty girl,” he whispers. “Wanna taste this pussy.” He kisses your belly button, leaving a trail down the rest of your stomach as his mouth travels to where you need him most. 

There’s something depraved about the way he’s crawling down your body, taking in every inch of you. He spreads your legs apart with the palms of his hands—his thumbs brushing against your bare skin, licking teasingly at your inner thighs as he settles in between them. 

He pauses, looking at you under hooded eyes. You can see the want—no, the need—in the way his muscles flex and how he works his jaw. But he’s hesitating, his breath hot against your core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your eyes searching his for his next move. 

He finally presses a kiss to your clit. “You don’t understand how you make me feel,” he mumbles against your heat, licking a long stripe through your folds and back to your clit. “No idea how long I’ve fucking wanted you.” You throw your head back, whimpering his name as he laps again and again. He’s starving, and you’re the only thing that can satiate his hunger. His tongue swirls around your clit, flicking it, taking it in between his lips and sucking hard. 

Your hips lift off the mattress and Logan quickly moves to hold them down. “You’re not going anywhere, darlin’,” he grunts against you, the vibration of his voice going straight to your core. 

His free hand slips up the inside of your thighs, teasingly climbing higher and higher, his nails skimming your flesh. He’s toying with you, leading you on, taking his time. His fingers finally ghost over your folds, exploring you, stroking up and down as his tongue laps at your cunt. 

Logan prods your entrance with two fingers, slipping in just a bit, testing the waters. “Please,” you beg, pushing your hips down in an attempt to sink his fingers deeper into you. He stops you, his hand still firmly holding your hips down, refusing to give you the release you’re dying for. 

“So fucking impatient, aren’t you?” He tuts. And then he’s shoving two fingers all the way inside you, down to his knuckles. “Such a pretty pussy.”

“F-fuck!” You cry out, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he sets a relentless pace. He’s drinking you in, sucking roughly, his long fingers pumping in and out with a vengeance. 

“’This what you wanted, pretty girl?” He asks condescendingly in between laps. You’re too fucked out to form a sentence, your legs trembling underneath him. You know he’s loving this—loving that you’re a wet, needy, whimpering mess. 

Your walls squeeze around his fingers, your swollen clit throbbing as he laps at you. You’re so close already. “Lo,” you call out, fisting the sheets of his bed. Everything in here smells like him: pine and mint and musk and tobacco and that thing that’s uniquely Logan. It’s all so overwhelming and overstimulating. You’re ready to fall apart, to melt into nothingness. “S-so close.”

He squeezes your hip. “I know, sweetheart,” he soothes, his pace unwavering as his fingers fuck into you, scissoring inside you, drawing you closer to your climax with that come-hither motion he does so well. Your walls flutter again. “That’s it,” he coos. “Wanna feel you come—wanna know what it tastes like.” He licks harder, faster. “Let go for me, darlin’.” 

He pushes you over the edge, pleasure warming your belly as you let go. It washes over you in waves, his fingers still pumping in and out, his tongue still hanging on to the taste of you. You ride it out, his thumb brushing your hip, coaxing you through it. His fingers slip out of your cunt, but his head is still buried between your legs. You shudder as he licks long, slow stripes through your folds. 

“So fucking sweet,” he growls, still starving for more. “Not done with you yet.”

Fuck. 

But you need more—need his cock deep inside you, pounding into you. You need him in front of you, his lips on yours. 

“Logan,” you whine, your voice shaky and trembling just like the rest of your body. He finally lifts his head, his hair a disheveled mess, your juices glistening on his lips and his chin. The sight of him makes your breath hitch in your throat. There’s a feral, needy look in his eyes. He’s starving for more of you, and you’re not quite sure he’ll ever get enough. 

But he can see your chest heaving and the desire in your own eyes. He knows what you need—he always does. He sits up on his knees, staring at you while he slowly unbuckles his belt. The tension is palpable, the clinking of his belt against the hardwood floors cutting through it like a hot knife—the only sounds the melding of your quick breaths and the shuffling of bed sheets as Logan finally comes up to meet you. 

He's balancing on his forearm as he unbuttons his jeans, undoing the zipper and shoving the denim and his boxers down his legs. You swallow at the sight of his cock springing against his stomach. You had felt his erection before, but he is far bigger than you ever anticipated. 

With one hand on his cock, he lowers himself in between your thighs. You instinctually spread your legs for him, inviting him in. He nudges against your entrance, taking his time. 

His forehead meets yours, your chests flush against each other’s, panting in sync. You’re both waiting with bated breath, his tip slipping inside, but stopping short before going any farther. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Thought I’d never have you,” he confesses, pushing his tip a bit further in. “Would’ve given up anything for this. Would’ve waited forever.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur.  “I’m right here. I’m yours.” 

“Mine?”

“All yours.”

And then he’s pushing deep inside you, down to the hilt, bottoming out. He swallows your moans with a kiss, biting your lip, drawing blood, and licking it away. “All fucking mine.” He stays buried inside you, unmoving. “Wanna stay inside you forever, sweetheart,” he growls, your heart bursting at the thought.

He pulls himself all the way out and all the way back in, stretching you out, working you open. You look down in between your bodies and watch as his cock disappears inside of you. “Feels s-so fucking good,” you stammer, already drunk off him. 

“Like watching me fuck into you?” Logan husks, picking up his pace, his hips snapping into yours. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper. His muscles flex as he ruts into you. He takes the hand that was on his cock and brings it in between your bodies, his fingertips quickly finding your clit and giving it a soft pinch. Your back arches off the mattress at the sensation. 

Logan hums at your reaction. “So sensitive,” he groans. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.” You can feel him losing control as he rams into you, his thrusts growing harder with each pump of his cock. He’s drawing firm, fast circles into your core. 

It’s all too much, him, his cock, his fingers. Your skin is on fire, your nipples pushing against his chest—the friction absolutely delicious. You’re already so close, just a few steps away from the ledge, and you’re ready to fall. 

“Know you’re close, darlin’,” Logan moans in between kisses. “Can feel you squeezing me.” 

You hum in response, but Logan refuses to let up. His pace is beyond brutal, pounding into you over and over again, his fingers working your clit in tandem. Your muscles contract around him, gripping tightly. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So fucking tight, so fucking warm.” His praises are more than you can handle. “You gonna come on my cock, just like this?” 

“Yes, fuck, Logan!” You’re a babbling mess, his name the only thing on your mind, on your lips, hanging in the air like it’s a sacred prayer. Everything is him, and it always has been. In this moment and in every other, he is your end and your beginning. 

 “Let go for me, sweetheart. Know you can do it for me.” His deep voice is all you need to walk you through it. You’re breaking down, coming on his cock, the pleasure coursing through your veins, spreading like an untamable fire. 

He’s stroking your clit long after you’ve come, still snapping his hips into yours, still working up towards his own orgasm. His pace is getting sloppier, but he shows no signs of stopping. You can feel yourself growing overstimulated, his cock rubbing against your walls, his fingers circling your clit. “S’too much,” you whine, your nails digging into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

Logan presses himself closer to you, as close as he possibly can be. “You’ve got one more in you, sweetheart,” he coaxes, not letting up. “Know you can take it.”

You’re breathless, clinging onto him helplessly. You’re clamping down on him again, taking him deeper than you did before. He’s hitting that sweet spot with every thrust. “Lo,” you whimper. “I’m gonna—”

“I know, darlin’,” he grunts. You can feel him throbbing inside you. “Let it happen, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” 

The tension is snapping again, breaking in half as he pulls another orgasm from you. You shudder as you come for a third time, overstimulated and beyond fucked out. You know he’s close behind, his hips slowing down, his forehead pressed against yours. He slips his hand away from your clit and around your back, pulling you closer to his chest. It’s so intimate, so perfect. 

“F-fuck,” he mumbles. “Where do you want me to—”

You hold him closer. “Stay,” you whisper. “Want you inside. Wanna feel you come.”

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, plunging deep inside you, his muscles tensing as he fills you up, your name on his lips. His thrusts slow, pumping in and out every now and then before finally stopping. 

You stay like this for a few minutes, his arm keeping you tight against his chest, his cock still buried inside you and your foreheads still pressed together. 

He brings a hand up to your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. You sigh, your eyes fluttering open and closed. 

He shakes his head. “I always wanted you,” he says, his voice low and raspy. “The whole time. It was only ever you.” 

His words could make you cry. It’s everything you’ve ever hoped to hear. You smile, his hand finding its way to the crook of your neck, his fingers lightly stroking your sensitive skin. “Can’t believe I didn’t see it,” you breathe, your voice laden with sleepiness. “I never knew. Thought you’d never want me.”

“I’ll always want you.” His cock finally slips out of you, leaving you feeling empty. His legs tangle with yours, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “Would’ve waited forever for you, darlin’.”

“Forever?”

“Longer.”

[babycharmander]

(BOOK OF BILL SPOILERS)

I just finished reading The Book of Bill and I am kindof losing my mind over some of this stuff.

I had wondered if Alex Hirsch might make Bill sympathetic in some way and oh boy I was not expecting him to do it so successfully (and without cheapening Bill's character).

So, we learn that Bill was born into a 2D world... as a mutant who can see into the third dimension. He claims he was absolutely loved by all, but when talking about his powers, he mentions under Pyrokinesis:

"Cipher, Cipher, he's insane / Starting fires with his brain." The kids in grade school could be so cruel. But where are they now, huh? WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

So probably not quite as liked as he was letting on. To add to that, there's the silly straw page, which looks like silly nonsense until you decipher some of the codes:

"EYE DOCTOR OF A DIFFERENT KIND / WHO WANTS TO MAKE HIS PATIENTS BLIND" "THE DOCTOR SAYS / THREE SIPS A DAY / WILL MAKE THE VISIONS / GO AWAY"

I wasn't sure what this meant until I saw someone point out... he was seeing a third dimension that no one else could see. His parents probably took him to the eye doctor to try to "fix" him. Which, speaking of his eye doctor, the coded message in the section about human eyeballs says something interesting:

"MY OPTOMETRIST NEVER SAW IT COMING"

It could be a joke given beforehand he's talking about dissecting a human eye, but given the previous hints of medical abuse, I wouldn't put it past him that he tried to get revenge on his eye doctor.

Oh yeah and the whole thing about him setting his entire dimension on fire? Yeah it turns out it was entirely a mistake (he just wanted everyone to understand the third dimension he was seeing so they could be free of only two dimensions), he was so traumatized by it he blacks out when trying to recall it. He deeply, deeply regrets it, and...

"What? Your ENTIRE home dimension? destroyed? How? By what?" Bill looked distant, more distant than I'd ever seen him. "By a monster."

He sees himself as a monster.

And yet, he's not some innocent, misunderstood being. He still revels in causing pain and chaos. He's terrible in general, but becomes incredibly abusive toward Ford.

"YOU'RE MY PROPERTY. DON'T FORGET IT. The hillbilly abandoned you, your father won't want you returning without millions, you have no friends, and if you died out here in the snow, who would even miss you?"

Which... speaking of him and Ford...

Yes, yes, I know people ship them. But like, whether you see their relationship as romantic or platonic (I see it as the latter), there's some interesting parallels to be made here.

Both Bill and Ford are mutants who were mocked for their being different. (Bill was not physically a mutant, as far as we know, but more in the sense of him having vision stronger than that of everyone else in his dimension, and also having special powers. And he does describe himself as a mutant.) Both became social outcasts, separated from their families but still haunted by them (Ford seeing commercials of Stan on TV and running across old photos of him and his brother, Bill being haunted by his family in some form). Neither could return home for one reason or another. Both more powerful than their peers (Ford intellectually, Bill in terms of actual powers). Both of them isolated and alone. (Yes, Bill does have the Henchmaniacs, but they seem like shallow friends, and only really seem to follow him out of a desire to have a place to party.)

Ford was not aware of most of this, aside from knowing that Bill could not go home because his dimension was destroyed. But Bill absolutely saw himself in Ford. There was no other person he tried to use whom he felt a stronger connection to.

And he actually seems to care about Ford--he actually gave him a birthday present, and when Ford didn't like it, he decided to get drunk and party with him instead to make up for it.

And then when Ford realizes what Bill's plan actually is and refuses to go along with it, and fights back no matter what Bill does, Bill completely breaks down.

After living for trillions of years, he met someone who was like him, and that person rejected him.

He goes berserk, wreaking havoc, being caught by the dimensional authority that he's been taunting for most of his life.

And then after dying and being cast out of hell for being too annoying, he winds up faced with the Axolotl, who sends him to therapy, where he continues to break down further, sending out the book in a desperate attempt to find someone, anyone who will help him break loose and wreak havoc once again.

"You have no friends, and if you died ... who would even miss you?"

I don't know, Bill. Who would even miss you?

In short,

[ID: The front and back of one of Bill's Valentines cards. On the front is a black void with Bill Cipher lying down without his hat, gazing blankly upwards, with the text "I DON'T WANT TO DIE ALONE" above him. On the back is a simple white "TO/FROM" in red, with a red outline illustration of Bill spontaneously growing a mouth and eating a realistic, bloody heart. /end ID]

[paganinpurple]

AO3 Etiquette -UPDATED

Based on both decent and not so decent replies, I have made some changes to my original post below.

It would seem a whole new kind of AO3 reader/writer is emerging and it is becoming clear not everyone quite understands how the website community works. Here is some basic guidance on how most people expect you to go about using AO3 to keep this a fun community archive that funtions correctly:

As well as likes, kudos is for when the story was interesting enough to make you finish reading. If it sucked or was badly written, you probably left. If you finished it, you liked it - so kudos.

If you really liked it, you should try to comment. It can be long and detailed or a literal keysmash. Writers don't care, we just love comments.

No critisism unless the author has specifically asked or agreed to hear it (so use your notes to say if you want some constructive feedback). Even constructive critisism is a no-no unless an author note tells you it's okay. No, posting it online is not an open invitation for that. Many people write as a fun hobby or a way to cope with, among other things, insecurity and just want to share. Don't ruin that for them. I've seen so many authors just stop writing coz they can't handle the negative emotions the critism brings, and it's only meant to be a fun thing shared for free (pointing out tagging errors is not included in this).

Do not comment to ask the author to write/update something else. It's tacky and off-putting and will probably have the opposite effect than the one you want.

There is no algorithm, it's an archive. Use the search and filter function to add/remove the pairings/characters/tropes etc. you want to read about and it will find you the fics that fit the bill.

For this to work, writers must tag and rate stories. This avoids readers finding the wrong things and missing the stuff they want. I don't care how cringy that trope is in your eyes - it gets tagged.

The tag exception is if you don't want to tag a million things or spoil your story, you can rate it as "chose not to use warnings," and maybe tag the bare minimum.

Don't censor tags. How can someone exclude a tag if the word isn't typed out correctly? There are no content bans for terms so don't censor them.

If the tags are mostly content/trigger warnings, especially if they are things considered very fucked up or graphic, you might want to use "dead dove - do not eat" to ensure people know that you're not messing around with tags and what they get is exactly what you've warned them about.

Character A/Character B means a ROMANTIC or SEXUAL relationship of some kind. Character A&Character B is PLATONIC, like friendship or family.

Nothing is banned. This is an rule because banning one thing is a slipperly slope to banning another and another, until nothing is allowed anymore. Do not expect anyone to censor for you. Because of the tags system, you are responsible for your own reading experience.

People can create new chapters and sequels/fic series any time after they "complete" a story. So it's considered perfectly normal to subscribe, even to a finished story. You can even subscribe to the author instead just to cover your bases.

Do not repost stories or change the publishing date without an extremely good reason (like a complete top to bottom rewrite or an exchange youve written for going public). It's an archive, not social media. No one cares what's the most recent, only what fits their tag needs.

Instead of deleting a story you wrote if you hate it - consider making it anonymous or orphaning it so others can still enjoy it, without it being connected to your name anymore. If you still want to delete it, fair enough.

It's come to my attention that metaworks ARE allowed on AO3, which is something I wasn't aware of. So if you do post an essay or theory, please tag it as such so others can choose to search for it or exclude it. Art is also allowed.

The only reason this archive works is because NON ONE PROFITS. Do not link to your ko-fi or patreon or mention monetary gain in any way or you violate the terms and risk having your account removed. If anyone does link, it leaves the archive open to people claiming it's for profit and having the whole thing removed.

I KNOW there's plenty more I missed but I'm trying to cover most of the basics that people seem to be struggling with.

I invite anyone to add to this, but please explain, don't berate.

[pomefioredove]

only one bed room

summary: it's the sdc and everyone's staying over at ramshackle but, oh no! you're one room and one bed short. being the generous (or gullible) soul that you are, you agree to share characters: all sdc competitors, separate additional info: fair warning I have no replayed book 5 in a while, reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, rook is rook, most scenarios end in cuddles. can be interpreted as romantic or platonic (nix vil and rook's part)

Deuce Spade

"I don't mind sleeping on the floor!"

it's a big fat no from Vil. waking up sore and tired is unacceptable, and will affect his performance during practice. he will use the bed, end of story.

you offer to take the floor or one of the many stiff and uncomfortable couches in Ramshackle, but he refuses

what kind of aspiring honor student would he be if he kicked you out of your own room?

so, yes, you end up sharing the bed

he's a perfect gentleman about it

he insists on sleeping on the complete opposite end of the bed

to give you your space, of course

not because he's nervous

obviously it doesn't pan out- he's kind of a messy sleeper, and on the first night you wake up with him sprawled on top of you

you decide not to wake him up

you'd been thinking about saving for a weighted blanket, anyway

Ace Trappola

"you better not hog the blankets,"

takes it like a champ, though he might be screaming internally

he already sleeps in a dorm with three other guys- this can't be any different, right?

it totally is

sharing a bed with someone? someone he likes, who he isn't just forced to live with for convenience?

he's not sure how to tease you about this one without coming off as nervous himself

so he just shuts his trap about it (for once) and accepts his fate

in the end, it's no big deal for a player like him

he ends up hogging the blankets, though. hypocrite.

Kalim al-Asim

"YAYYY SLEEPOVER!"

he means exactly what he says

not a care in the world

all he's thinking about is how fun this is going to be! just him and his favorite Ramshackle prefect (Grim heard the news and will be staying in deuce's room to avoid any cracker mishaps)

Kalim, admittedly, is not a creature of great thought. he tends to be dictated by his feelings, and he can be a little selfish sometimes

so when Jamil pulled him aside and asked him to just buy another bed for ramshackle, he ignored him entirely

why would he do that? the situation is resolved, and everyone's happy!

well... not everyone, but Kalim's happy!

he stocks up on Vil-approved snacks, insists you two braid each other's hair and stay up late into the night talking with no one to remind you to go to sleep

(he tried to invite Jamil and got the door slammed in his face)

this arrangement lasts approximately one night

when Vil sees the dark circles under your eyes, it's over

you are confined to the couch, and Kalim is forced to sleep alone

Jamil Viper

"okay,"

really. he's totally fine with it.

besides the fact that he doesn't want to cause any more trouble, he's shared beds with his siblings before. no big deal

he just wasn't expecting to wake up with you snuggled against him

but this is fine

totally fine

he's barely conscious and it's early morning, still dark, the time he's used to getting up at

Vil has things covered, right? he can stay here for a little while longer. it would be awkward trying to get up without waking you

it feels nice having something all to himself for once

he smirks, imagining how jealous everyone else would be:

the beautiful, kind, intelligent ramshackle prefect in his arms? oh, the looks on their faces would almost make this whole thing worth it!

but in the end, he decides to say nothing

he wants to keep you all to himself, after all

for just a little while longer

Epel Felmier

"ain't no way I'm sharing!"

that's what he says in his head, anyway. but it's late and he's worn out from practice (and being shouted at) so he just sighs and accepts his fate

of course Vil would make him do it. it's probably because he's the smallest, isn't it?

you can tell he's unhappy with the arrangement (not that he's making much of a secret of it- he's grumbling under his breath all evening)

he starts coming around to the idea when he wakes up holding something warm

his heart jumpstarts and he nearly panics before remembering where he is

and then he realizes the thing he's holding is... you. somehow the two of you had ended up spooning during the night

but, more importantly... he's the big spoon!

he's almost tempted to wake you to announce that he, in all his manly glory, had naturally assumed the most masculine cuddling position!

(yes he sounds ridiculous. just let him have this one)

he lets you sleep, though. just a little more won't hurt anyone, right?

he's okay with the arrangement after that

Rook Hunt

"I will do it!"

Vil isn't even able to finish his sentence before the vice housewarden is practically jumping up and down

pretty much everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief; a volunteer! thank the sevens. otherwise, this could get awkward...

of course, he quite intentionally ends up with you in his arms

but not for any nefarious purpose, he insists!

he's a light sleeper, and can be stirred by any sudden noise or movement

you appeared to be having some kind of nightmare

it reminds him of a small animal caught in a trap, struggling for its life. he can't bear to see it- it's cruel to let a poor creature go on suffering before you can make the kill

of course, instead of killing you (thank the sevens), he decides to comfort you

he presses your head against his chest so you can hear his heartbeat, and he runs his fingers through your hair until you calm down.

then he keeps you there, just to be sure you don't have another bad dream

if you gave him permission, he would gladly be all over you in seconds. kissing up and down your shoulders, caressing every perfect inch of your body, whispering words of admiration

but he's perfectly content just cradling you for now

hopefully, you will continue to have these nightmares and give him excuses to do this again

Vil Schoenheit

"don't argue with me,"

initially, you just gave him the bed

maybe you were afraid of him; maybe you like him; maybe you just wanted to avoid a conflict altogether

either way, you spent the first night on the terribly uncomfortable floor, and trudged through Ramshackle like a zombie the next morning

Vil was feeling guilty watching you

what? he's not a monster

and he's a leader, which means he has a responsibility. and you had so graciously invited them all into your home...

fine! he'll share. he insists, even

when you try to argue, he shuts you down, repeating all that stuff about responsibility and hospitality, blah blah

and he doesn't want the team manager dead on their feet

arguing with him is pointless, so you just agree

he wakes up with you against him, sleeping peacefully

now, if it were you clinging to him- he might have had a good chuckle. can't keep your hands to yourself, prefect? I'm just that irresistible?

but the way he's holding you, the way his arms are so tightly wrapped around your waist, the way he's so clearly pressing you against him...

he hates to admit it, but you're an elegant sleeper. it's almost cute

the tension is relieved from your face, your breathing graceful and steady, and your perfect lips open just a sliver...

he is a perfect gentleman, and would never dream of doing anything without your explicit permission, but for one shameful second he thinks about how easy it would be to kiss you

... and then he quickly puts those thoughts aside and tries to get back to sleep

he doesn't want any dark circles, after all