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scottspack · 4 years ago

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SO YOU JUST FINISHED THE UNTAMED AND YOU WANT TO READ SOME FIC

Congratulations Jen @jlf23tumble on finishing The Untamed (tomorrow)! Now that you’re done with the show (tomorrow), you can finally dive into the wide and wonderful world of untamed fic!!! I’m ecstatic to be personally curating your reading experience! LET’S BEGIN!

I’ve started off with a list of 5 fics I think you should read in this specific order to 1. get some resolution from the end of the show and 2. get you acclimated to untamed fics! Then, I’ve listed a bunch of fics in different categories for your perusal to read at your leisure! This is an unbelievably long post holy shit brace yourself.

I’m like fairly certain that all of these follow the tv show canon BUT also its very typical for authors to combine many aspects of all of the different forms of canons to their liking. Therefore, I feel like I need to give a quick explanation of a couple things from the novel that show up frequently in fics that idk if you know already or not:

In the book, when Wei Wuxian is resurrected, he is brought back in Mo Xuanyu’s actual body and has his face and everything. Mo Xuanyu was pretty young when he died, I wanna say maybe 17 or 18??? and he was also short and pretty and flamboyantly gay. This is where the references to their crazy height difference come from, but again, I think I tried to include mostly fics that skew more heavily to the tv version where WWX keeps his same body and he and LWJ are more evenly matched physically.

Its novel canon that LWJ smells like sandalwood incense and has golden colored eyes. This is mentioned in like almost every single wangxian fic ive ever read, even if the author said they were strictly adhering to show canon lol

At the end of the novel wangxian run away together and elope! Obviously in the show that’s not how it goes down, but I think a couple of the fics I’ve recced might mention it in passing. (Oh also when they elope they make a pact to fuck “everyday,” a concept that might be mentioned as well.

Obviously, we have to kick it off with some fics that both reunite wangxian and give more resolution to the actual show. If you’re like me, it both took you a while to get all the way through the show AND took 100% of your brain power to remember all of the characters and plot lines. If that’s that case: these fics should be helpful in serving as a kind of emotional refresher for the show to wrap up some loose ends and to dive deeper into some of the things the show glosses over for one reason or another!

1. A Lot of Edges Called Perhaps by hansbekhart (Wangxian, E, 21k)

The funny part is - and it is a little funny, even if Wei Wuxian has no one left to share the joke with - they never have. Not anything. He has never kissed any part of Lan Zhan besides his slim hands; never been even partially undressed with him anywhere besides a miserable, xuanwu-infested cave. It’s always been like this between them, this simmering need, this desperate understanding: a knowledge so deep that it lives somewhere in his bones, that if he wanted to have Lan Zhan he could have him, and if Lan Zhan wanted Wei Wuxian he could have that too. But they never have.

I found this fic on someone’s blog when they said that it was the definitive fic to read directly after finishing the series so i saved it, read it directly after finishing the series, and felt COMPLETE. Beautifully written, seamlessly fits with canon, and has a super fulfilling resolution. The perfect way to kick off reading untamed fic!

2. One Rogue Spark In My Direction by hansbekhart (Lan Wangji/Xiao Xingchen/Song Lan, E, 5k)

He’d thought, in Yueyang, that they’d seen something in each other, something familiar. That maybe they’d recognized something in him. But it’s been many years, and many things have happened since, and he’s guessed wrongly at other people’s hearts before. Lan Wangji looks back down at the table, at his steaming, bitter tea. He’ll beg if he has to.

In “A Lot Of Edges Called Perhaps” Wangji mentions that he has had sex before and this is the in-universe story of that time and WHEW BABY!!!! AHHHHHH!!! While this fic is like, almost pure smut, I think there is a ton of value to it in terms of emotional perspective on how fucked up LWJ was after WWX’s death. Also, it’s very hot.

3. Gathered Herbs & Sweet Grasses by hansbekhart (Laz Sizhui & Lan Wangji, G, 19k)

Later, when he’s older, it’s this that A-Yuan will remember most: the stretch of silence, the two of them both dirty and shaking with fever, as he looked at Brother Rich, and Brother Rich looked back at him.

This is a fic about Lan Wangji raising Sizhui from when he rescues Sizhui from the Burial Mounds until they bring WWX back to the Cloud Recesses after he’s resurrected. It made me cry about 18 times and I consider it fully canon in relation to the show. I think this gives a lot of emotional depth to the Wangji/Sizhui family relationship that is very important in most fics, so this acts as a good base since the show doesn’t really talk about it too much.

4. Your Name, Safe In Their Mouth by astrolesbian (Lan Sizhui & Wei Wuxian, G, 10k)

“You’ve got a fever,” Wei Wuxian says soothingly. “You just keep still as well as you can. We’ll have you fixed up soon.”

Lan Sizhui recognizes his tone—this is the voice that Wei Wuxian uses on hurt people and young children, a very calm and no-nonsense voice that has none of the mischief and cheer of the way he sounds the rest of the time. Lan Sizhui looks up and meets his eyes, and they are dark, stormy gray, muddled and concerned.

“I’m all right,” he croaks.

“Hush,” Wei Wuxian says, in a low croon, like someone quieting a baby. Then he blinks, and looks away, awkward. “I mean—you shouldn’t speak. You’re tired. Rest if you need to.”

or: lan sizhui gets sick on a night hunt. wei wuxian comforts him. they both have a lot of feelings about it.

The Wei Wuxian and Sizhui bonding fic that I so desperately desperately needed to read. Since we got the emotional depth to Wangji/Sizhui in the last fic, here’s some emotional resolution for Sizhui and his other dad!!!!!!!!!! Scratched the very particular itch of “but have they REALLY talked about what it means that they’re reunited after 16 years???”

5. climbing up that coastal shelf by Sour_Idealist (Jin Ling, Jiang Cheng, & Wei Wuxian, T, 15k)

Jin Ling had begun to suspect years ago that there were parts of his family history that had been crossed out; long streaks of black where Wei Wuxian had been. The truth is more like whole books being brought up from their hiding places again.

Or: Jin Ling tries to figure out what family means, now.

OKAY!!!! Last emotional resolution before I send you on your way to explore! This is the emotional resolution for the other half of WWX’s family. Featuring just a FUCK TON of family feels and a lot of TALKING that this fucked up family needs so damn bad. *chefs kiss* muy delicioso! ALSO i think this is a good introduction to a lot of the naming conventions that are used frequently in untamed fic that took me a while to pick up on!

WHEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now that you’ve gotten some post-show catharsis in the form of a few extremely well-written fics, it’s time for a full rec! I’ve divided it up into seven categories: long fics, smutty one-shots, 3zun (lan xichen/nie mingjue/meng yao) fics, fics about the juniors, family fun fics, some miscellaneous fics, and then some yizhan RPF! I wouldn’t have put any of these fics on here if I didn’t think they were worth reading, BUT! I did mark my particular favorites with asterisks to demark the crème de la crème of the bunch. SO! LET’S DIVE IN!

EPIC TALES (LONG AND/OR IMMERSIVE)

My Age Has Never Made Me Wise by idrilka (Wangxian, E, 63k) ***

“We hear that His Excellency might be married by summer’s end,” the merchant’s wife says and Wei Wuxian freezes, his heart in his throat. “The Gusu Lan sect has been buying enough red silk and brocade that the merchants in Caiyi can’t satisfy the demand.”

He feels himself grow brittle inside, like a flick of a finger to his temple might make him shatter. His ears are ringing.

“Who’s the lucky bride?” he asks despite himself. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Or: The story of a marriage.

I LOVE THIS FIC. YOU MUST PROMISE ME YOU’LL READ THIS FIC. The absolute best kind of slow burn and I think such an extremely accurate representation of the canon material. I’m always surprised by the authors in this fandom’s ability to write shit that is so concretely grounded in the universe. This could and should be a real companion novel. Amazing. I love it. (Also I know you said you’re not into fics that are long just to be long and I think this fic is the exact opposite of that, it’s long but for good reason and has such an insanely satisfying payoff that it’s completely worth dedicating a few hours to!)

The Year of Drought by idrilka (Wangxian, E, 24k)

Wei Ying could not be contained by the walls of the Cloud Recesses, alive again and overflowing with it, bursting like a dam in spring with the force of two lives unspent. And so he had to go. Lan Wangji understands that—he understood it when Wei Ying told him of his plans, looking at Lan Wangji above the rim of his cup with an apologetic smile, like craving freedom was something to apologize for.

Wei Ying would go, and Lan Wangji would see him off; this has always been the only way it could be.

Or: In the absence of Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji waits.

The previous fic but from Wangji’s perspective. Absolutely required reading if you read the other one. Wangji baby.......i love you.....

further than the grave by idrilka (Wangxian, E, 32k)

There is something about grief that turns Lan Wangji numb. He cannot be certain if it is not some kind of defect inside him that makes him so. But just as he grieved his mother’s passing with dry eyes and a stone in his chest, so he grieves Wei Ying: quietly, frozen inside, without tears. Beyond the Jingshi window it might be spring, but Lan Wangji’s body and mind are still held within the winter’s grasp.

As the anniversary of his leaving seclusion approaches, Lan Wangji ponders the nature of grief and healing.

One last fic from the same verse as the previous two, this talks about Wangji post-WWX’s death and then them dealing with the past post-marriage. Its just as good and immersive and amazing as the previous two parts, but this is the only untamed fic that actually made me gasp out loud and if you read this and can guess what it was we will be best friends forever. (There are two other fics in this verse that are also good but these three in particular are god-tier in my eyes.)

Vagabond by xantissa (Wangxian, E, 66k)

Wei Wuxian comes back to Cloud Recesses after a year of wandering the world, hoping to start a relationship with Lan Zhan. He doesn’t expect to come into the middle of a case of sleeping sickness mysteriously killing people, nor does he expect what follows, putting everything he holds dear on the line once again.

OOOWEE CASE FIC! CASE FIC! This is truly the twisty turny intense and INTERESTING type of fic from this fandom that blows my mind. This could fully be a stand alone novel its that good and there’s that much to it. Another one that isn’t long just to be long, it has so much PLOT!!!!! REAL GOOD SHIT!

Seldom All They Seem by Fahye (Wangxian, E, 25k)

or, one hundred and thirty-three principles of the Gusu Lan, pertaining to the state of marriage

***

He bows to Wei Wuxian, sword in hand, sleeves falling properly. Wei Wuxian bows in return, and the sect leaders begin the opening courtesies, and for all of ten minutes Lan Wangji is under the impression that he is betrothed to a boy who is perfectly normal and acceptable apart from an unfortunate tendency to fidget with his clothes.

That impression does not last.

A canon-divergent fic exploring “what if Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian were betrothed from when they were young like Yanli and Jin Zixuan?” It’s extremely good and very compelling and also made me cry multiple times. (The confrontation in the rain doesn’t get any easier even if they’re betrothed!)

Half Cloak & Half Dagger by Fahye (Lan Xichen/Meng Yao, E, 13k)

Jin Guangyao lifts his head and smiles. "I'm considering a problem."

"Can I be of any assistance with it?"

He drops a kiss on Lan Xichen's chest. With the nail of one finger he lightly traces the characters for irony on Lan Xichen's side. "Not this one, er-ge."

A follow-up fic set in the “Seldom All They Seem” universe but focused on xiyao. Has hands down the best written characterization of meng yao in any fic ive read so far. I continuously come back to this fic just to read the absolutely genius way this author writes the Head Bitch In Control of the cultivation world.

The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts by aubreyli (Wangxian, T, 20k)

Wei Wuxian’s hand jolts, spilling a drop of wine onto the tabletop. “Love?” he croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. “Lan Zh— uh, Hanguang-jun, in love?”

“Have you not heard the story?” the other young woman asks, looking pitying. “You must, it is a truly heartrending tale of star-crossed romance and mutual pining — go to any storyhouse in town, everyone has been requesting a reading of this book.”

“There’s a book?” Wei Wuxian says blankly.

In which the junior disciples (namely, Lan Jingyi, Ouyang Zizhen, and a reluctant Lan Sizhui) turn to RPF in an attempt to rehabilitate Wei Wuxian's reputation so that he and Hanguang-jun can get together and get married and live happily ever after. It's... surprisingly effective.

I kept avoiding this fic, even though it was really high up on the list of most popular fics in the fandom, bc the premise sounded pretty goofy BUT I finally bit the bullet one day and AHHHHHHHH!!!!! Very very very cute and fun, made me smile like an idiot throughout the entire thing. Heartwarming and very well written!!!

never let me go by yiqie (Wangxian, E, 69k)

Wei Wuxian has certainly hoped so ardently in his two lifetimes, for so many different things, in so many different ways, that he could have summoned the demon to his front door with his bare hands. His eyes wander to Lan Zhan, settle on the back of his head, the blue-black curtain of his hair. Oh, how he has hoped.

Another extremely good and super immersive case fic. If you ever just want to sink really deep into an untamed fic, this is a great one for it.

hunters seeking solid ground by Attila (Wangxian, E, 24k)

“Hanguang-jun,” Wei Wuxian repeats. His heart clenches. He wants—but he’d really meant to have this nightmare stuff down before they met again, so he wouldn’t find himself relying on Lan Wangji’s nearness. He’s not supposed to go back yet. But he’s so tired, and his will crumbles. “Yeah,” he says. “All right. Take me back to Gusu with you.”

You want hurt/comfort? I gotcha hurt/comfort RIGHT HERE!

shadows in the sun rise by Yuu_chi (Wangxian, E, 25k) ***

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, voice slow and a pitch too quiet. A second later Wei Wuxian understands why. “I cannot hear.”

Or; Lan Wangji is cursed into internal isolation. Their ability to understand one another remains as unwavering as ever.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD. I have been thinking about this fic nonstop since I read it. It is…..fucking incredible. One of the best qualities of wangxian is that they’re so in tune with each other and able to work so cohesively with little communication and this fic is like “what if we take that and DIAL IT UP TO ELEVEN” and i was like AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

I hope that you will come and meet me by feyburner (Wangxian, M, 28k) ***

The second time Lan Zhan said Wei Ying, come back, Wei Wuxian did.

okay so this is literally getting added to the fic rec one day before i send it to you because i just finished it and WHEW BABY!!!!! YES it is just another wangxian post-canon reunion get-together fic, BUT 1. i cant get enough of that specific brand of fic and 2. ITS SO GOOD. ITS. SO. GOOD. achingly tender and incredibly soft but also funny and sweet and very in-character! i love it!

THE BONE ZONE (WANGXIAN SMUT)

Sweet Night by corteae (Wangxian, E, 10k)

It was like coming back to life again, like being restitched into existence, cell by cell, nerve by nerve. From the surface of his skin to the marrow of his bones, everything new and purposeful. Like being pulled back from oblivion into an embrace of pure light. A feeling of absolute asylum.

That’s what it felt like, to realize Lan Wangji was in love with him.

An in-show au of “what if they just admitted they’re in love and fucked during episode 43?” Soft and romantic and hot!

the crucial point by dissembler (Wangxian, E, 7k) ***

Months after parting on the mountain, Lan Wangji makes up his mind, plots his course on a map, and has faith.

I LOVE THIS FIC! Very realistic and sweet wangxian reunion fic from wangji’s perspective. Has so many good little details and is very true to their characters. Good shit. Great.

Stainless by Fahye (Wangxian, E, 6k)

"I'm starting to feel," says Lan Xichen, "that this was a counterproductive suggestion."

Wei Wuxian looks down onto the pristine, tranquil cold springs of the Cloud Recesses. Sitting in the water, their bare shoulders rising like dumplings carefully spaced in a steaming-basket, are a large number of Lan disciples.

"They seem to be doing better," he says, encouragingly. "If they--oh, no, I see what you mean."

At the near bank, someone has pressed someone else against the rocks and is kissing them frantically.

What is getting into a new pairing if not an excuse to read sex pollen in new and exciting ways!

To Recklessly Confess by la_dissonance (Wangxian, E, 8k)

Lan Wangji has a fantasy. Wei Wuxian gets several clues.

The “what if they just fucked in episode 43” au but from a different angle.

all the depths of me, real by northofallmusic (Wangxian, E, 15k)

Wei Wuxian is dealing with a curse a little worse than he'd like to let on, and Lan Zhan is a little less than willing to let it slide.

Another “what if they just fucked in the show” fic, this time set when WWX has the curse on his leg and Wangji has to carry him back to the inn.

Every Day, Learning More by phnelt (Wangxian, E, 6k)

The pink was high on Wei Wuxian’s cheeks. “I mean I haven’t been able to… that I can’t. Not without you.”

Lan Wangji stared. “In this body, the whole time you’ve had it -- you’ve never…”

Wei Wuxian kicked his heels into Lan Wangji’s back. “I just said that!”

I knew at least one of these was more book verse than show! WWX hasn’t been able to jerk off in his new body, LWJ helps him out :-)

the meaning of the ritual by newamsterdam (Wangxian, E, 8k)

“Lan Zhan… wants to bed me?”

The hand on his chest is shaking, slightly. “Mn.”

“Oh,” Wei Wuxian breaths out.

There’s something— something powerful, about that. Lan Wangji wants to bed him. Lan Wangji wants to sleep with him. Lan Wangji wants to touch him, and kiss him. The immovable, implacable Second Master of Lan, with a face and principles both carved from jade, wants him.

“Is this a fantasy of yours?” Wei Wuxian asks. “Forcing all the demonic energy out of me with your—”

Lan Wangji claps a hand over his mouth. “Silence, now.”

When the entire cultivation world turns against the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian makes a risky gamble— he'll agree to participate in an ancient ritual for cleansing the spirit, so that his character can no longer be called into question. The catch? He has no idea who his partner for the ritual will be.

This is also book-verse! As the tag says “Let Lan Wangji Fuck the Yiling Patriarch”!!!!!!!!!!!

Hurricane by gdgdbaby (Wangxian, E, 6k) ***

"Haven't you heard?" Nie Huaisang replied, clicking his tongue, though he was clearly pleased that he could be the one to break the news. He leaned in to announce with a dramatic flourish: "Lan Wangji just took emergency family leave this past weekend."

WANGXIAN AS SPIRK STAR TREK PON FAR AU!!!!!!!!!!!!! WEEWOO WEEWOO WEEWOO!!!!!!!! This was actually recced to ME by CHI and I have not stopped thinking about this fic for a full month. It’s like author gdgdbaby sat down one day and was like “Tumblr user Liv Scottspack deserves everything she wants in this life.” and then wrote this fic. Thank you author gdgdbaby, I love you.

WORLD’S WORST THROUPLE (3ZUN)

The body is a blade by rheawrites (3zun, E, 2k) ***

In which Lan Xichen is taken by surprise, Nie Mingjue takes what he can get, and Meng Yao gets what he wants.

This was the first 3zun fic I ever read and whew baby, got it in one! It’s actually a slight AU but it gets their characterization so right and is a very fun read. One of those fics I go back to frequently because it does so much with so few words.

shang tiantang by fuckwarlock (3zun, E, 4k)

They wanted so much, and with the way A-Yao gasps at the saber-calloused hand unfastening his belts, he does, too. The night air twirls with the scents of osmanthus and cinnamon and melon. Lan Xichen smiles, leans in, and ghosts his lips over the crook of A-Yao’s neck. What kind of brother would he be if he didn’t give A-Yao what he wanted? “I think it’s your turn to ascend, A-Yao.”

The Venerated Triad celebrates the Mid-Autumn Festival the best way they know how.

Truly the only way the venerated triad works is if meng yao gets Destroyed :-)

Favour and Fate by soulgusttheguardian (3zun, E, 8k)

There have been times in Meng Yao’s life when he couldn’t help but wonder how he came to be in his current situation. Found himself reflecting on the choices leading up to whatever misfortune had befallen him that day, and pondering why fate hated him so.

Granted, there had also been times when he couldn't help but wonder just what he had done to earn the favour necessary to be rewarded with certain things...

The current situation he found himself to be in, however, was definitely the latter.

More of the same! Truly I personally can never get enough of the 3zun dynamic in smut fics its just too goddamn motherfucking GOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!

the stars do not take sides by everyearning (3zun, E, 4k)

Mingjue isn’t sure he’s ever seen Xichen do anything other than treat the boy like a porcelain doll and it’s laughable to him, to think of Meng Yao as something breakable, instead of the sharp, deadly object he is.

Okay one last “Destroy Meng Yao” 3zun fic! Enjoy!

never as alive as we are right now by ThirtySixSaveFiles (3zun, E, 12k)

Three perspectives on three sworn brothers, at three different times in their relationship.

(Or, three times 3zun got it on and some of the feelings they had along the way.)

Wait actually I want to end the 3zun fics on this one because it has true Emotional Resolution at the end and I think they deserve a little healing.

BABY BOYS. BABIES. (THE JUNIORS)

A Civil Combpaign by Ariaste (Jin Ling/Lan Sizhui, T, 20k) ***

“And,” said one of the pompous ministers, “there’s the matter of a marriage to consider as well!”

Jin Ling, who at the beginning of that sentence had expected to slam into the very last wall of his patience and lose his temper entirely, paused. “A what?”

Thing was… it wasn’t such a bad idea.

A MUST-FUCKING-READ!!! Jin Ling gets it in his head that as sect leader he should get married and sets his sights on Lan Sizhui. I cannot stress enough how FUCKING CUTE this fic is!!! Sizhui being the best boy! Jin Ling having more uncles than he knows what to do with! Jiang Cheng being the worst at relationship advice! It’s so fucking good it love it so much.

Anyway, Here’s Wuji by kakikaeru (Lan Jingyi/Lan Sizhui, T, 18k)

The melody gets a little clearer when he breaks out of the trees, and Jingyi changes course with certainty, barreling down the back hill and through the Cloud Recesses, dodging scandalized disciples left and right. He throws open the doors to the Receiving Hall without announcement and bows nearly double, eyes on the floor instead of on the shocked faces of the Mei delegation and the impenetrable gaze of the Chief Cultivator.

"Forgive this disciple," Jingyi shouts, because he's going to get punished for rule breaking regardless. "From the back hill, Hanguang-jun, there is a song in the wind!"

Lan Jingyi comes of age.

A Jingyi-central fic about Jingyi growing up and falling in love and being a hero and being the second best boy of my heart right after Sizhui. Not only is this fic sweet and romantic but it’s another one that explores a lot of interesting things within canon and all of the supporting characters are written very well and are just as interesting as second best boy Jingyi.

Ok, JiuJiu by kakikaeru (Jin Ling/Ouyang Zizhen, T, 16k)

Uncle's jaw works in the way that suggests he's about to say something irredeemable. Jin Ling, in a move of diplomacy he hopes the Chief Cultivator appreciates, distracts him with spicy food and his favourite subject: the incompetence of his own officials.

"I hear the lakes in the south east are having drainage problems?" he asks nonchalantly, sticking three big slices of braised pork belly into his Uncle's bowl.

Jin Ling just wants to get through the Discussion Conference with his Sect, his dignity, and his heart intact.

A follow up fic to “Anyways, Here’s Wuji.” I LOVE the Jin Ling/Ouyang Zizhen dynamic of Jin Ling having been raised by Jiang “I keep all my emotions right here and then one day I’ll die” Cheng AND being hopelessly charmed and smitten with Ouyang “President of the I Love Love Romance Novel Book Club” Zizhen! I LOVE IT! EXTREMELY CUTE!

Lan Sizhui's Guide to Courtship by Kimblydot (Lan Sizhui/Lan Jingyi, T, 23k)

In which Jingyi is a little oblivious, Sizhui is patient (and should have said something in the beginning), and everyone else is resigned to watching them dance around each other for far longer than necessary.

(Or: five things Sizhui tries to do in his courtship, and the one time Jingyi realizes there was one happening in the first place.)

I’ll stop describing fics about the juniors as being “cute” when they stop being SO FUCKING CUUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!

His Merit All My Fear by violettressed (Lan Sizhui/Lan Jingyi, G, 16k)

It’s too late for any of Hanguang-Jun’s rabbits to be awake -- one of the sundown chores for young disciples is to herd them back into their hutch -- but the rabbit field is as good a spot as any for quality sulking, so Lan Jingyi makes his way there.

Someone has beat him to it.

Lan Jingyi stares at Hanguang-Jun. Hanguang-Jun stares passively back.

When Lan Sizhui is swept away with the Ghost General, off on a new adventure, Lan Jingyi is the one who returns to Cloud Recesses alone.

Not only another extremely cute Sizhui/Jingyi fic BUT one that includes a Wangji/Jingyi friendship??? Incroyable! *chefs kiss*

spirit running wild by idrilka (Lan Sizhui/Lan Jingyi, E, 17k)

He doesn’t know, exactly, when the friendship he shared with Sizhui over the years has changed into something that’s made Jingyi finally understand why Hanguang-Jun always wears that expression whenever he looks at Senior Wei. There hasn’t been one single moment that he can point to and say, yes, this is where it started, because the thing about falling in love with your best friend is that it happens gradually, until it’s impossible to tell which step has been the deciding one.

Jingyi goes to Baling with a crush.

Written by the same genius that wrote the first three fics I made you read so you know it’s good. Its truly the childhood best friends to lovers of it all! Sizhui is adorable and Jingyi is a mess! *muah!*

FAMILY FUN TIME (NO ROMANCE, JUST FEELS)

Grow by cafecliche (Lan Sizhui & Wei Wuxian, T, 14k)

“Okay,” Jingyi says, as Sizhui puzzles this out aloud. “Okay! So the demon has been turning its victims into children.”

“I think so,” Sizhui says.

“To make them easier prey,” Jingyi says.

“Yes,” Sizhui says.

“So—” Jingyi’s voice cracks here, “this kid is Senior Wei.”

Wei Wuxian, still tangled in his own massive robes, blinks politely at them.

(Or: Wei Wuxian is cursed on a night-hunt, and the junior quartet rapidly finds themselves in over their heads.)

What I expected to be a goofy, silly fic turned out to be extremely emotional and made me FULLY CRY! It’s a very moving fic about Sizhui coming to understand himself and Wei Wuxian a lot better AND features all of the juniors arguing over who’s turn it is to hold 6 year old Wei Wuxian. A true win/win of a fic.

To The Act of Making Noise by words-writ-in-starlight (Lan Sizhui & Lan Wangji, G, 19k)

His father in white plays the song late into the night, and when A-Yuan wakes up confused and afraid, the guqin lulls him back to sleep.

Lan Sizhui hears his father play the same song every night for his whole life, and never, ever get an answer.

Another very moving and heartwarming fic about Lan Wangji raising Sizhui and Sizhui figuring out Wangji’s past and then eventually reconnecting with Wei Wuxian. It’s cute and soft and Sizhui is my best boy!

History (Proud To Call Your Own) by words-writ-in-starlight (Wen Ning, G, 5k)

“A-Yuan? Um—Lan-gongzi,” Wen Ning corrects, trying to set a good example. The children are young, seven and eight, exactly a dozen of them lined up in two crisp lines of tiny blue and white robes. Wen Ning can feel them staring at him, even though most of them have already mastered that Lan trick of neutrality. The smallest, a little girl with liquid dark eyes, is clinging to her nearest shijie’s sleeve and half-hiding. “Can I—what can I do for you?”

Wen Ning gets himself recruited for services, while he and Sizhui are visiting Cloud Recesses. Wei Wuxian gets a fan club.

Set in the same universe as “To The Act of Making Noise,” a very cute fic about Wen Ning finding his place in the post-canon world and being proud of Sizhui and being the world’s best substitute teacher. As the official Wen Ning Fan Club President, I had to include this.

the stone-filled sea by yukla (Lan Sizhui & Wei Wuxian, T, 9k) ***

He forgets how quickly Wei-qianbei changes faces, sometimes. Like pulling a theater mask over a bruise—color over color, a diversion with the swipe of his hand.

Lan Sizhui navigates a world that hates his father, one endless wave at a time.

Oh man oh man. I will never get enough of the fics where Sizhui (and the rest of the juniors) get ANGRY on Wei Wuxian’s behalf!! That’s their dad and their teacher and their friend and they will DEFEND HIM!!! YEAH BAYBEEEEEEEEEE!!!

PICK & MIX (MISCELLANEOUS)

This Side of Paradise by greenfionn (Wei Wuxian/Wen Qing, E, 3k)

Wei Wuxian does some very quick math in his head that goes something like this: He is pretty sure he’s in love with Lan Zhan - Lan Zhan is not here and likely never will be here - Wen Qing is here, not to mention very hot and let us not forget, actually interested in sex with him - there’s a solid chance he goes genuinely crazy or dies, or both, in the next few months and really, who wants to die a virgin?

Listen.......the fic premise is “Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing, noted bisexuals, figure life sucks enough at the Burial Mounds, they might as well have any fun they can before they die” and........I Am Looking Directly At It. It features Wen Qing bossing Wei Wuxian around and Wei Wuxian’s canon he-wants-to-be-pregnant kink. It’s........I liked it.

palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss by iodhadh (Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen, M, 15k) ***

The realization strikes Song Lan like a bolt of lightning: Xiao Xingchen laughs, and he wants with a sudden, stunning desperation to kiss the mirth from his beautiful mouth. How, precisely, he is meant to manage that—that, he has no idea at all.

Or: introspective meditations on touch, trust, and the problem of desire.

I Am Baby and for some reason cannot handle how sad the entire Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen storyline ended up so I rarely read songchen fics, and when I do they’re always soft pre-canon fics like this one. Luckily there are some very beautiful and moving pre-canon songchen fics!!! I love you fandom!!

purpose and ritual by iodhadh (Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen, E, 8k)

Song Zichen has beautiful hands. He's a powerful swordsman, strong and skilled, unfairly impressive and unreasonably handsome. He is devoted and self-disciplined and he takes direction like a dream. And he doesn't touch people—no one at all, if he can help it, except for Xiao Xingchen.

The poets might call him a saint, but Xiao Xingchen is so very, very human.

More of the same :-)

born to sweet delight by la_dissonance (Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen, E, 10k)

Xiao Xingchen lightly jumps into the center of the pool, the water a shock that cools his sticky, heated skin, and does nothing for the heat building inside him. When he surfaces, pushing the hair out of his face, he finds Song Lan's gaze and meets it. Between them, everything goes both ways. What Song Lan will offer, Xiao Xingchen will freely give too.

Or, Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan meet, pledge their lives to each other, and then fall in love.

This is about the angstiest I will go for songchen and its still absolutely Baby Soft lmfao!!!!!!

Pin it down by rheawrites (Jiang Yanli/Jin Zixuan, Jin Zixuan/Nie Mingjue, E, 2k)

“Yanli, I did not lie on our wedding night. You are the only woman I have gone to bed with. But… there was a man.”

“Oh?” Yanli blinks up at him. She does not appear horrified, or betrayed, which is surely a good sign.

Jin Zixuan swallows. “It was Sect Leader Nie,” he says quickly, as though that will make it easier.

“…Oh,” says Yanli, and her eyes are dark.

Jin Zixuan tells his wife a war story. Or, two thousand words of Jin Zixuan getting railed.

Have you ever looked at Jin Zixuan and been like “I bet that mf likes getting PEGGED!!!!!!!!” Well here’s the fic for you.

*YIBO VOICE* DIDI LOVES YOU! (YIZHAN RPF)

never really over by gdgdbaby (Yizhan, E, 10k)

The thing is: it would be good to see Xiao Zhan again — if Yibo could just trust himself to be normal.

Author gdgdbaby is the yizhan master, so here are five of my personal favorites of their fics, starting with this post-filming reunion fic that was the first yizhan fic I ever read and HIT real good after having just finished the show myself.

pedagogy by gdgdbaby (Yizhan, E, 17k) ***

Yibo opens his mouth and says, "I want to learn," barreling past the rapid rise of Xiao Zhan's eyebrows. "To last longer. Will you teach me?"

Quick-fire Yibo comes too easily and Xiao Zhan helps train him to last longer :-)

you’re the reason that i just can’t concentrate by gdgdbaby (Yizhan, E, 10k)

Xiao Zhan hears about it from Yu Bin, which probably should've been the first warning sign.

Yibo was only 20 when they filmed the untamed, which lends itself perfectly to fics like this.

a truth so loud you can’t ignore by gdgdbaby (Yizhan, E, 5k)

It's their last day of filming in Hengdian when the secret comes out.

If yibo has to be a fictional virgin than SO DOES XIAO ZHAN!

if you would only let you by gdgdbaby (Yizhan, E, 32k) ***

"Well?" Yibo demands. Past the severe frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, a flicker of the old him slips through, the persistent boy who shoved his way into Xiao Zhan's space without a second thought and made a home for himself there. "Are you coming or not?"

Xiao Zhan's heart twists. He forcibly settles it back in his chest. He's only told Yibo no once in his entire life, and it was already the hardest thing he's ever had to do. "Okay," Xiao Zhan murmurs, quiet but decisive, and thumbs his phone off. "Let's go."

Like I said, all gdgdbaby fics are incredibly good, super well written, and very hot, but this one does stand out from the bunch for being a Full Epic Romance! This is one of Chi’s favorite fics so that should speak to it’s quality!

baby, who’s counting by nobirdstofly (Yizhan, E, 12k)

Xiao Zhan gasps, trying to rein in another peal of giggles. “What do I owe you anyway?”

Yibo shrugs one shoulder, and his smirk deepens. “Haven’t decided.”

Xiao Zhan’s still staring at him, laughter gone in his dry throat, when he hears someone yell for a reset. Yibo’s eyes are so, so dark, and he hasn’t stopped watching Xiao Zhan this whole time. Xiao Zhan swallows, nods, and pushes every dirty thought out of his head.

(Or: Yibo bets Xiao Zhan he'll break first during a take, Xiao Zhan loses, and it's all downhill from there.)

Ah sex bets, who doesn’t love sex bets!

Mystery Dance by mrsronweasley (Yizhan, E, 16k)

"That? That's your confession?" Yibo's toppled onto Xiao Zhan's side and is clutching his shoulder, trying not to fall over. "That's pathetic!"

"Oh, what, you can do better?" Zhuocheng is pretty flushed and there's a challenge in his voice that Yibo just can't walk away from.

"Hell yeah, I can. Hit me, Yu Bin." Yu Bin cheers and refills Yibo's shot glass. "All right!" Yibo downs the shot, gags only slightly, and says, "Everyone! I'm a fucking virgin!"

WHAT’S better than a Yibo virgin fic? A SECOND YIBO VIRGIN FIC!

This author also writes extremely good yizhan threesomes so here’s three of them!

Some Nights by mrsronweasley (Yizhan/Xuan Lu (Jiang Yanli), E, 2k)

Xuan Lu opened her legs to him and Xiao Zhan wasted no time diving in. He pressed his mouth against her pussy, licking her out steadily as her thighs trembled around him. She was nestled between Yibo's legs and if Xiao Zhan looked up, not only could he see the planes of her body, her small breasts going up and down with her breathing, ribs expanding, her tipped back head and open mouth, but Yibo, gaze boring into Xiao Zhan's as he ate Xuan Lu out.

The entire cast is hot and there is no reason they shouldn’t ALL fuck! Not one reason!!!!!!

gege loves you by mrsronweasley (Yizhan/Wang Zhuocheng (Jiang Cheng)), E, 7k)

"We are very sorry," Xiao Zhan murmured as he unbuttoned Zhuocheng's jeans while Yibo kissed his ear, "for how we've been acting."

"Is this how you apologize to everyone," Zhuocheng panted, hands already going for his zipper to help Xiao Zhan along, "or am I special?"

WHEW LORD!!!!!!!!! WHEW!!!!!!!

Talking in the Dark by mrsronweasley (Yizhan (Side Xiao Zhan/M/F), E, 14k)

Xiao Zhan has a light-hearted romp of a threeway with some friends, then makes the mistake of telling Yibo. It goes down.

A non-yizhan threesome BUT features jealous!yibo which is a ton of fun.

Finally, a couple AUs!

With Joy and Purpose by feenwitch (Yizhan, E, 30k) ***

Yibo has been alone for approximately five Earth years when Xiao Zhan crash lands on his planet.

YIZHAN ANDROID AU!!!!!!!! This is a very star trek-esque universe which is fun, but the fic itself is also CRAZY interesting and moving and beautiful!!!!!!!!! It’s A LOT! This was a rec from Nina, so thank you Nina!

Bound With a Same-Heart Knot by mrsronweasley (Yizhan, E, 59k)

London, 1892. Xiao Zhan, a promising young attache at the Chinese embassy is tasked with showing the new ambassador's son Wang Yibo around London. The inevitable happens.

Victorian AU! I actually think you already read this, but included for posterity.

AND SCENE! This is the result of two months of daily fic reading, having 50 tabs of fic open at any given time, reading truly anything and everything, and Loving The Untamed. I’m SO EXCITED you’re diving into fic for this show and I can’t wait to talk to you about all of them and to have someone to scream with! WOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

#the untamed #fic #the untamed fic rec #holy gosh diddly darn moly #this is long as hell and has approximately 950k words of fic in it #my magnum opus!!!!#what's even more wild is that this literally doesnt even scratch the surface #i am constantly reading more #from the time i started putting this rec together until now #i added two new fics that i read and thought were amazing #there is no dearth of good shit to read in this fandom #ANYWAYS congrats on finishing (tomorrow)!#i cant wait to talk fic!#i hope you enjoy this list!#sorry it is genuinely absurdly long!

73 notes · View notes

aminiatureworld · 4 years ago

Text

The Music of the Night

Ship: Geralt x Jaskier

Warnings: Someone gets stabbed

Premise: The family goes to a music concert, courtesy of Jaskier, and Geralt gets to experience something he never has before.

Author’s Note: I was hoping to post every five days, but unfortunately with classes starting and the larger Medieval AU this fic was a long time coming. I was more liberal with Geralt and Jaskier being open about their feelings, or at least I tried to be.

Hope you enjoy this fanfic and thank you so much to the 42 people who liked my last Geraskier fanfic as well as the 6 people who reblogged it. Know that every single one of you contribute so much to my happiness and my determination to continue writing!

Notes about pieces, historical accuracy, and other such things in end note. Ao3 link in reblog

“Alright, are we ready to go?” Yennefer shouted down the hall. Geralt ground his teeth, staring at the array of weapons laid out in front of him. It was a very important night, one that Jaskier hadn’t shut up about for the better part of three months. A guild of musicians was in a town neighboring Yennefer’s newest stronghold, and the house’s resident bard had been adamant that this would be a perfect family outing, and that no one was getting out of it. This hadn’t entirely been surprising, and Geralt had begrudgingly agreed to the whole endeavor, not being a huge fan of enclosed crowds. When he’d realized that maybe going to a concert unarmed in the middle of what could only be described as the Continent losing its collective mind was a bad move, his intensely minute planning, something that both Yennefer and Jaskier teased him mercilessly about since he’d properly brought Ciri into the family, had spun out of control. Now there the Witcher was, staring at the various knives, daggers, swords, and other miscellaneous weapons that he’d found lying around the house, wondering which to take and which to leave. The two usual swords were among the bunch, of course, but somehow Geralt knew that Jaskier wouldn’t take kindly to them being brought, something along the lines of ruining the atmosphere. Still, he had to bring something and as the banging in the hall grew louder Geralt wondered how he’d ever easily made up his mind about arming himself before.

“Geraltttt!” Jaskier’s voice came singing down the hall, followed almost immediately by the banging of the door. Rushing over, he planted a quick kiss on Geralt’s cheek, something which never failed to bring on a blush, and shook his head excitedly. “You look lovely in everything darling, I promise no one will be in the mood to glare.” Geralt smiled fondly, if a bit exasperatedly, at the bard, before shaking his head.

“That’s not it. I, well, was trying to choose.” He gestured towards the table and Jaskier, turning around and surveying the paraphernalia, nodded thoughtfully.

“Hmm… tough choice.” He brought his hand to his chin for a moment, before his eyes lit up and he picked up a dirk sheathed in black leather. “I’ll take this one!” Checking to confirm the blade was indeed steel, Jaskier smiled up at the, admittedly baffled, Geralt, who couldn’t understand the bent that Jaskier was taking.

“Jaskier, I-”

“Oh and of course the others will need something too!” Jaskier scurried into the hallway. “Guys!! Geralts got his weapons laid out, better get one!” There was an incoherent reply from Yennefer, and the quick footsteps of Ciri, who, running into the room, grabbed a thin knife, this one wrapped in ordinary leather with green silk woven into the hilt, an old gift from a grateful pawnshop owner if Geralt could remember right. Geralt frowned as Ciri ran back out of the room, but before he could raise a protest Yennefer had waltzed in, scanned the table, and ran off with an elegant dagger, a whirling pattern built into the blade. Geralt immediately gave a grunt of protest at that, but Yennefer simply raised an eyebrow and walked out. Jaskier, returning, walked up to the poor Witcher, who was running about three paces behind the entire ordeal, and gave him a smile. “Thank you for thinking of that! This should be a relatively calm affair, more serious you know, but hey, protection is always a must!”

“I… those were for me.” Geralt shook his head. “I couldn’t choose which to pick.”

“Well, we’ve whittled down the selection haven’t we?” Jaskier smiled indulgently. “Now hurry up and choose yours now, you know how much I’ve been longing for this, and nothing is going to stop me from enjoying tonight. Especially not a late indecisive witcher.” And, pressing a kiss on Geralt’s nose, and nearly falling on him in the process, Jaskier ducked out, leaving the slightly bashful Witcher to pick up a weapon, another dirk, this one wrapped in old worn leather with half rubbed off runes cut into it, and run after him.

The venue was already quite crowded when they arrived, and the front seats full. Jaskier gave a dramatic groan at that, but Ciri, muttering a quick word of assurance, ducked off to find four seats. Geralt could barely make her out, as she slipped quickly and quietly between various patrons, but he trusted in her abilities not only to find a good spot but to be able to take care of herself. The latter part of that trust had been harder to build up, the first few weeks they were together Geralt felt as if he were walking on melting ice, worried about the various ways he might put his newfound family in trouble. It had taken a lot of lectures from Yennefer and coaxing from Jaskier for the Witcher to finally accept that Ciri wasn’t a waifish girl in need of coddling; after all, hadn’t she survived without him? Through war and death and a cult chasing after her? No, Geralt now knew that being a good adoptive father didn’t mean locking one’s daughter away, even out of paternal worry.

As Ciri waved the band over to a set of seats in the third row, Jaskier admitting that the choice was “not bad at all”, Geralt reflected for a moment on where he was now in life. He’d never thought at the beginning of his life he’d be a witcher, and he’d never thought at the beginning of his witcher life that’d he’d be destined for anything other than a lonely life, walking the Path with the cold determination of someone who knew no other way. How odd fate had proved out to be, and how grateful Geralt was that he’d been wrong. How happy he was that his life had changed, that he had changed, for the old Geralt knew nothing about either reflection or hope, not in the way current Geralt did, and as he slipped into one of the creaky wicker chairs set up around the semi circled stage, Geralt glanced at the family around him. Yennefer was enquiring after Jaskier the type of music that was to be played, the bard replying with a garble of songwriter facts and music theory that no one but himself understood, while Ciri was scouting the people around them, trying to determine where they were from no doubt, as she’d once confessed to Geralt seeing Cintran refugees always gave her pause, even if she no longer felt the urge to walk up and say hello. It was a happy sight, despite everything that had happened, the mistakes, the goings, the years apart. It was nice to have a night such as this, and as Jaskier turned to glance at the Witcher he seemed to wink, as if to say to Geralt, see, I told you this was a good idea. Geralt lifted his eyebrow, but he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face, and as the people hushed and the musicians came out Geralt found himself very happy he’d let that bard follow him around.

Geralt wasn’t entirely sure what he expected out of this night. He knew that it wouldn’t be the same experience as tavern songs, that this wasn’t going to simply be a group of bards, that the singing would be minimal, and that the songs would be longer and more complicated. What he certainly wasn’t expecting was the sheer beauty that hit him. The song started with one musician playing a fiddle, a low pleasant sound, which rose up in a variety of trills. It put Geralt in the mid of early springtime, the birds just emerging from their nests, or coming up from where they’d left. It made him think of the fields right after a frost, buds beginning to dot the trees, the world coming to life again. Slowly the other musicians, of which there were about 60, began to join in with the lone player, adding to the effect of a world waking. The music chased away the rest of Geralt’s thoughts, and he found himself leaning forward, as if somehow he could envelope himself in the notes floating around the theatre.

A glance over at Jaskier made evident that the bard was also feeling affected by the music, for the bard had clasped his hands over his mouth, though every once in a while one would float up, as if guided by the music, and Jaskier’s eyes would close. It was a side that Geralt hadn’t really seen before, for though he knew of course that Jaskier loved music, loved it in an all consuming way, he didn’t show it often, mostly joking that no one wanted to hear the intricacies of Dorian mode, or listen to him sing the praises of men and women long dead. A warm feeling filled Geralt’s chest, and he was almost choked by the sense of fondness that he felt, surrounded by what Jaskier loved best, watching him in his element. Turning back to the performers Geralt thanked every god he could think of and all the ones he couldn’t that Jaskier had brought the family, and that Geralt got to be around such a beautiful being and share in such a beautiful experience.

The music continued, each song more beautiful than the last. After what Geralt could only call the springtime piece came what seemed like four, but Jaskier later told him was only one split up into different “movements”. Their, or rather its, tone was dark, and even when the song seemed faster Geralt only felt agitated, rather than happy. Deciding he didn’t like that as much as the first song, though Ciri rather seemed excited by the frantic energy of it, Geralt was glad when four guild members stepped out and began playing a calmer song, this one another split in four, why did songwriters do such a thing? The second part of the four songs was quiet and soft, almost like a lullaby, and when the third part started again at a bright tone Yennefer, who’d dozed off, jerked up in her seat, to the great amusement of both Ciri and Jaskier, who giggled so incessantly that someone behind them told them in no uncertain terms to either shut up or go home. After that was a song much more based in the flutes and the reeded instruments, which consequently sounded much more fluid and loose, bringing to mind a great city with lazy morals and interesting sights. Geralt was enjoying himself immensely, a happiness only added to by Jaskier’s occasional squeals of glee and raucous clapping at the end of each song, as well as a whisper in Geralt’s ear whenever the Witcher seemed to get lost.

The night was fading away and as the musicians announced that this was to be their last piece the crowd moaned, and shouts of encore echoed through the hall. The musicians stood up and bowed, causing many in the audience to jump to their feet in applause, and some even to begin to walk out, much to Jaskier’s annoyance. “They’re going to miss the best of it.” He scoffed, sitting back down as the stage emptied. Emptied that is except for one woman. She paused, waiting for the noise to calm down, before placing her fiddle on her shoulder. “This is it.” Jaskier whispered, and then she began. Immediately Geralt was blown away. Although there was only of her, multiple notes were certainly coming out of the instrument, at a breakneck pace, which had Geralt in mind of a horse, frantic and wild. The song developed, as a sweet melody came out of the endless pounding of hooves, only to be brought down by another melody, this one thick with panic and fear. The momentum kept going, pitches rising, melodies crashing into each other. It felt more like a torrent than a song, so swept away Geralt felt, giving him an odd sense of dread. Suddenly everything smashed into one another, and the song dropped, giving one the lingering feeling of discomfort. Turning to Jaskier, Geralt looked at the bard with raised eyebrows, not entirely sure how to convey what he’d felt. Jaskier glanced back at him with what seemed like satisfaction. “Based off a poem,” he explained, “of a man trying to save his son, only to be chased by a specter, one who promises the boy happiness and luxury if he goes with him, only to take his soul and kill the boy.” He sighed, seeming much happier than Geralt felt, for a pit had begun to form in the Witcher’s stomach. “Imagine your writing being immortalized in such a way… one day that’ll be my piece Geralt, just you wait. I’ll be the one striking fear into your heart.”

“I hope not.” Geralt responded, a bit brusque for he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. “It sounds like a terrible poem.”

“Tragedy is immortalized better than glory. I’m sure you understand that. Besides, it’s just a story, and one that can bring all people together. You thought her playing was beautiful didn’t you?” He gestured towards the woman, who was receiving heaps of deafening applause. Geralt nodded slowly. He couldn’t deny the talent of both the musician and the songwriter. Still, the music sat uncomfortably over him, and as the family made ready to leave, he couldn’t help but let everyone pass in front of him, thinking of how even if the scenario in the poem itself wasn’t true, the general idea certainly was real enough.

Outside the air seemed to clear a bit, and the group fell into happy chatter. Ciri was still on about how bombastic that second song had been; “I can’t believe how loud they got sometimes! It was like the roof was going to fall!” Yennefer said nothing, rubbing her eyes slightly, but the look on her face was one of contentment. And, of course, Jaskier seemed ready to burst, talking this way and that about all sorts of things. “Did you see the way the fiddle bows were all together? And the vibrato on that first flautist, I couldn’t believe it! Shame that vibrato isn’t exactly a lute thing. And I can’t believe how much work the composer must’ve put into those pieces! I mean, I can barely read two clefs, imagine being able to read four! Maybe I should consider that for the next big project…” His voice carried off, and Geralt smiled indulgently, knowing that for the next few months there’d probably be horrendous amount of noise as this bard tried to put all he’d seen to good use in his own music. Inhaling the cool, fresh air, Geralt began to feel the shroud of that last song shake off, reminding him of how beautiful he’d thought the first song was.

The reverie didn’t last forever though, for as the group made their way out of the stables – Yennefer had insisted on no stays at the inns, for who would spend that much money when there was a perfectly fine home only five miles away – and into the woods the atmosphere seemed much more oppressive. When two men stepped out of the shadows Geralt tensed, wishing he’d brought his swords after all. “What brings you to stop in these dense woods?” Jaskier called out, swinging out of the saddle, a move which caused Geralt’s throat to constrict, and made him simultaneously want to protect and strangle the bard. The men said nothing, and Jaskier shook his head, shrugging his shoulders and holding his hands out to the tall, ragged figures. “Well if you say nothing I cannot help you, and will assume that you’re playing a rather insipid game of hide-and-seek. Now if you don’t mind it’s late, and I’d rather spend a cold night like this in bed than staring a statues.” Going to turn Jaskier stopped in his tracks when one of the men piped up.

“Those are some nice horses. Nice clothes too.”

“Oh you think so?” Jaskier turned around. “I’ll admit I do agree my fashion is impeccable, I’m glad you can see that. But unfortunately I think your judgement on horses is rather lacking. I mean of course Lyra is the loveliest girl, but honestly could you say Roach is anything close to nice?” He gestured towards Geralt, who gripped the reins. The men on the road had the sense to look slightly uneasy at the realization that a witcher was amidst the party, but “evidently they had a scarcity of sense, common or otherwise” Jaskier would later say, for they both looked back upon the bard, and the bulkier of the two drew a ragged sword out of its sheath.

“We’ll be taking Lyra and Roach now. And the horses of those lovely ladies.” The second began walking towards Yennefer and Ciri, the former of who raised her eyebrows, and the latter of who looked extremely unimpressed.

“Do what you want.” Jaskier threw his hands up, as if in surrender. “I must warn you however that one such lovely lady is unused to having her horse stolen out from underneath her, and I daresay mages aren’t known for their forbearance.” The two men halted for a second, and the one closer to Jaskier turned towards the bard. Geralt by now had begun to slide off Roach, looking backwards to make sure there were only two such men, and taking care to be as silent as possible. Jaskier looked as unruffled as ever, and even when the bulky man took a step towards the bard, he stayed in his position, leaning slightly against Lyra, arms crossed at his chest.

“It’s no good lying to us.” The bandit, for that was most surely what these two people were, had a voice that could only be accurately described as gravely. He pointed his sword towards the bard. “I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”

“How menacing of you.” Jaskier deadpanned, and as the man lunged and Geralt made for his weapon it seemed for a moment as if Jaskier was truly about to get struck.

The surprise on the other man’s face was one of complete terror, as his compatriot dropped like a stone. Jaskier pulled his dirk, now drenched to the hilt in blood, out of the man’s ribcage, turning to Geralt, who was likewise frozen. The last bandit distracted Yennefer made quick work snapping her fingers, and in place of the man soon stood a very confused rabbit. Whirling off her own horse Ciri stepped towards the animal, who made a weird sort of strangled sound before bolting into the forest. Walking over to Geralt, Jaskier handed the Witcher the dirk. “Could you hold this for me? My handkerchief is in my pocket, and this doublet is newly made.” Careful to avoid using his right hand, Jaskier pulled out the square of linen, and wiped his hands and the dirk, before sliding the blade back into its sheath. “Thank you darling!” Jaskier planted a kiss on Geralt’s hand, causing the inevitable blush. The poor Witcher still felt like he’d somehow missed something, and as he looked around at the rest of his family, already back on their horses and starting to move on, the Witcher wondered how he’d become the pacifist in the family.

The rest of the ride was quite a jumpy one for the Witcher, who kept expecting various monsters, highwaymen, and other of the sort to come jumping out of the trees at any moment. By the time Yennefer’s place was in sight, Geralt felt an immense sense of relief, and as the group all untacked their horses, Ciri, determined to be the fastest of the group, already combing Melusine, Geralt stayed silent, ears trained on the soft sounds of the night outside. The cleaning done and the hay placed in the stables, the family filed back into the house, Geralt at the rear, locking the bolt to both the stables and the house firmly behind him. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Jaskier immediately asked.

“A bit too long for my taste, but you couldn’t deny the talent.” Yennefer yawned. “Thank you for having us attend Jaskier.”

“Of course my dear Yennefer.” Jaskier dipped into a short bow. Yennefer snorted and walked up the stairs, the bath was definitely going to be hogged for the next hour or so.

“I liked all of it!” Ciri declared, plopping down on the rug in front of the fireplace in the main hall. “It reminded me of the kinds of concerts my grandmother liked to see. I was glad to go to such a thing again.” She smiled softly, and Geralt and Jaskier both walked over to the girl, enveloping her in a group hug. Ciri hummed happily. “Thank you both.” And giving each of the two a quick hug she too went up the stairs, closing the room to her door with a bang, as was custom.

“And you?” Jaskier looked over to Geralt. “Don’t you dare say anything about a filling-less pie this time. I know you lied through your teeth then, and I’ll know you’ll be lying now.” Geralt smiled, old memories swirling through his mind, how long ago that seemed now.

“I liked it. It was…” he paused, trying to find the right words, “different. All the songs were different, but they all fit together. And I felt, carried away.” He lay back on the carpet and sighed. “I felt almost as if there was a spell in the air.”

Jaskier nodded, flopping down besides Geralt. “That’s how I feel too about it. You hear this piece sometimes, and, I can’t even describe it but your entire soul is lifted up, and you just start to drown in it, but you don’t even mind, you want to be further enveloped, further dragged in. That’s what true music can do. Cast a spell without magic.” Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, who himself was staring into the fireplace. “One day I’ll do something like that.” He continued, his eyes warm and full of determination. “I’ll create something like that.”

“I think you already have.” Geralt said, and Jaskier turned to smile at the Witcher.

“Truly?”

“Yes. I think, well, I’ve seen how people react to your music. Even those in the shittiest taverns in the shittiest towns. They seem, almost younger, as if their cares have lifted.” Jaskier’s smiled widened, and he pressed a kiss to Geralt’s jaw.

“Thank you my dea, you have no idea how much that means to me.” Standing up, Jaskier reached out his hand and helped pull Geralt up. “Now be a darling and help wash this dirk, I know that you have your fancy way of cleaning these blades of yours. Then come to bed, it’s late, and I’ll chase away the spirits of the forest.” He laughed at Geralt’s expression. “What? You think I didn’t notice? That last piece seemed to send you out of your skin! And even before that idiotic attempted attack you look ready to throw yourself in front of everything.”

“Cruel of you to notice.” Geralt replied, and Jaskier laughed.

“Well then I must be cruel indeed, for I notice everything about you.” He kissed Geralt softly then, and the Witcher felt the familiar feeling of love and contentment wash over him, something he never thought he’d be able to feel in his younger years.

“There’s nothing cruel about you. Even if you’re wicked with a knife.” And, returning the kiss, Geralt went quickly to take the dirk and wash it off, the music of the evening still in his head and the love for his current life in his heart.

End Notes: For all the music nerds out there, I know that these would all be considered songs rather than pieces, one of these are based off a full symphony, and another based off a string quartet, but seeing as I don't think Geralt would use such terminology, indeed most of said terminology didn't exist in the 13th/14th century, which is the time period I would put this series into the real world, I chose to refer to pieces as songs, composers as songwriters, and make vague mentions of most instruments.

String instruments such as violins, violas, and cello originate from the 16th century, most likely around the 1530s. I took creative liberties again, after all this is a fantasy series.The pieces that are vaguely referenced are as follows: The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams, Dvorak Symphony No. 9 "from the New World", Dvorak String Quartet 12 "American", Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin, and Erlkonig originally by Schubert for piano and voice, adapted for solo violin by Heinrich William Ernst and based off a poem by Goethe. The last one is my personal favorite of the lineup and I would highly recommend checking out both the piano and voice lieder and the violin solo (Hilary Hahn's my favorite).

Hope any of you found this enlightening and once again thank you for reading.

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bipercabeth · 5 years ago

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Hi you are such a good writer I was hoping you could give me some advice! I’m trying to write more consistently and more understandable for people to read, because I tend to just write my stream of consciousness and hope it sounds coherent but whenever I try to do that I totally lose my train of thought and the ideas I had trying to write it in a way people would understand? Idk if this makes sense, but how do you tackle writing out a story and not forgetting the details you want in it?

phew okay! i got all of these within 24 hours so i’m going to combine them and hope that i can answer them all. i’m both honored and terrified that i’m the person y’all came to for advice, that’s wild! i’ll do my best to be coherent. (also thank u ur all very sweet). i made a post about this a while ago, but it’s pretty half-baked. i’m putting this under a read more because i know it’s going to get out of hand.

as far as software, i don’t think you need anything more than google docs! it’s what i use for everything and it’s so functional. you can access it from any device with internet, it automatically saves, the mobile app is decent, it’s easy to share, easy to format, and you can download different docs to work on offline! the share feature is versatile depending on who is reading, so friends can just view and/or comment and betas can edit/suggest. it has never let me down.

plotting really is its own beast because it’s different for every writer. i’m just going to take you through my process and hope there are parts that will work for you! i’m also going to use examples from a few of my outlines (mostly roommates but i’ll probably dip into a bellarke one or two) to make more sense of what i’m sure is going to be a slightly feverish post. i really love plotting and talking about writing and i’m already getting excited.

with writing, there’s kind of a spectrum of plotters vs pantsers. plotters stick by outlines and planning out their writing whereas pantsers go by their gut. i know people who write both ways, and there’s no difference in the quality of their writing or plots! it’s just about what works best for each person. i’m a pretty hardcore plotter, but i leave myself room to improvise and for the story to grow.

okay, so my general first step once i’ve got an idea for a story is to open up a google doc, make a bullet point, and just word vomit every single idea i have onto the page. separate bullet points for each idea, but if i have multiple ideas that relate to each other, i indent to keep them together. the point of keeping similar things together is to make the next step easier: organize them. once it’s all on the page, put it in chronological order, or if your story has flashbacks, the order the scenes appear in. here’s an example of what i mean (from my bellarke superhero au):

it’s quite half-baked! pretty vague language, but it ended up being enough for me to write the scene. each indent further explains the point before, making it a lot easier to sort your thoughts and structure scenes once you get to them. it’s by no means a blow by blow account of what’s going to happen, but the language is just enough to make me recall what i was thinking when i wrote it.

after that, i look at what is usually several pages of scenes told through bullet points, and i start to look for common themes to separate them into chapters. this is also where i try to fine tune scenes and clear up any immediate plot holes i find. i try not to force myself to completely outline everything in the beginning because i end up changing several scenes anyway! sometimes you get to the actual writing part and realize a scene you thought was perfect misses the mark. sometimes you write and realize there’s a theme or issue you need to address through a specific moment. leave yourself some room to grow! this is also a great time to weave in parallels, callbacks, and important themes you want to include throughout the story.

this is usually where i start writing! if it’s a complex story with lots of research, formatting, or character building, i might take more time before jumping in, but these asks are fanfic-specific and fanfic tends to be pretty straightforward. for writing, i like to use a different doc than my outline. there’s less scrolling that way, and i find that having my outline open on the same screen while i’m writing really cuts into my flow. i end up staring at point a and point b trying to figure them out rather than starting at point a and letting the scene run it’s course. it’s much easier for me to switch tabs when i get stuck.

that’s the majority of my plotting process! i’m going to leave a few miscellaneous tips that have helped me immensely down below.

i find that certain things just don’t help me in an outline. scenery, description, and most body language are things i think about when i’m actually writing and fully immersed in the story. my outlines tend to be dialogue, bare-bones plot points, and quotes/lyrics/links for inspiration. dialogue comes very easily to me and sets the tone of the scene, so having it the outline helps me get into the flow of a scene, after which everything else follows. and if a whole scene of dialogue comes to you, why risk forgetting it? some of my best scenes have come from two pages of dialogue in my outline. sometimes you just know how a scene is going to go.

nobody is seeing your outline except for you and maybe a trusted friend or beta. it should serve you! there’s no right or wrong way to write a story, so find the things that work for you! there’s a lot of advice in this post, and it all works for me, but there are some people who wouldn’t benefit from any of it. a lot of figuring it out might be trial and error.

let yourself be indecisive! you don’t have to have every moment figured out right away, and some room to breathe usually serves your story better in the long run. i really didn’t have any clue where i’m going in either of these parts of my outline, but once i got to these points in roommates it became more clear what they needed to be.

finding inspiration to get back into a fic after a while away is really hard for me, so i like to leave myself reminders of art, other writing references, reminders of the Energy i’m going for, song lyrics, etc. like so:

writing can be stressful! make yourself laugh in your outline! most of these are me objectifying percy but it’s okay i’m valid

okay those are my general tips! i know it’s a lot! you might not use any of this! but i worked for a long time to find the things that work for me and maximize my ability to write, so i hope this makes the search a bit easier for people who are starting out. feel free to come to me with any writing problems you have, whether that’s through my inbox or dms. always happy to talk about it. happy writing!

#anon #iris messages #this was a doozy to write y'all i put a lot into this #i love posting new chapters bc everyone remembers i'm a writer and they send me their questions #that sounds sarcastic but i mean it i genuinely love talking about writing #my writing tips

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you-andthebottlemen · 6 years ago

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57 - Requests: Dating Van in secret + hearing Hourglass for the first time

Based on these my requests:

'Hi!! Can you do one where Van plays Hourglass to you for the first time? I adore your writing 😍

Can you write a fic where you and Van are secretly dating until you accidentally call him "Ryan" in front of the rest of the band? Thank you, love x

************************************************************

Van was in the shower and you could hear him softly singing through the drone caused by water hitting the tiles. You smiled to yourself as you folded his clean laundry and placed it back into his empty suitcase, ready for the next time he would be up and leaving for tour. Having him away for so long on the last one was hard enough, you dreaded to think about the times to come.

“Baaabe!” he called.

You put down the fuzzy, moth bitten black sweater and slipped into the small bathroom across the hall from his bedroom. It smelt of strongly of your sweet strawberry body wash. Van stood under the water, his hair dark and wet hanging around his face. He was washing his body with a loofah and had suds caught in his chest hair.

“Yes?” you smiled sweetly, leaning against the door frame.

He motioned for you to come closer.

You shut the door behind you and when you were close enough, Van leant forward and drew a heart in the steam on the glass. You placed your hand over it and met his eyes.

“I’ve missed you,” you said.

Van drew some kisses beside the heart.

“Come join me.”

How could you say no? You stripped out of your clothes, leaving them discarded on the floor and stepped into the shower with Van. He reached for you and pulled your cold naked body into his wet and warm one. You wrapped your arms around his middle and buried your head into the crook of his neck, letting the water rush over your hair. With a heavy sigh, you shut your eyes; you’d never felt more relaxed. Van’s arms were curled around you and his hands rested on your lower back. You began to kiss lines down his neck and collarbones, over his shoulders then back up along his jaw to his lips.

It was the small moments like this that you adored the most. You could have stayed there forever, basking in the way Van felt against your skin and how time seemed to stop.

The universe had other ideas, though.

“Mate!” Larry yelled through the house, his voice just audible over the sound of the shower.

You and Van stood bolt upright in panic. Larry was meant to be out all day.

“Yeah?” Van called back, still holding you to his chest under the water.

Larry shouted back something muffled then you heard a knock on the door. Your heart lurched, Van pushed you behind him and your arms instinctively went to cover your chest.

“Uhh hold on a second mate,” Van called back, trying to sound normal and not panic stricken as he quickly turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed a towel, tossed it to you and you wrapped it around your cold, anxious body.

You and Van were dating in secret. No one knew, especially the boys. To them, you were just another mate, one of the guys. For now though, your relationship with Van was something you kept to yourselves; mostly to save the teasing and embarrassment that would surely ensue once the guys found out. You kind of liked having it as your own little secret though; just not in moments like these.

You heard the door handle turn and froze on the spot.

“Give me a minute!” Van yelled to Larry. The door handle stopped turning and you heard a sigh.

Van poked his head outside the door, keeping it as closed as he could.

“Jeez, what you got company in there or somethin’?” Larry teased.

“What? No. Just want some privacy is all,” Van replied. You bit down on your lip and tried to stay quiet.

“Right…”

Larry told Van whatever it was he so desperately needed to, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sight of Van curled around the door, bare ass sticking out. You breathed a sigh of relief too that Larry hadn’t just walked in; something not uncommon for those two. Neither of them had any boundaries with each other. The fact they’d posted videos of them in the shower together on Instagram before was proof enough of that.

Once you heard Larry tread back down the hallway, Van shut the door then crept back into the shower and wrapped his arms around you again. Both of your faces held a look somewhere between an amused grin and a relieved, yet shocked grimace.

“Close call,” you whispered then kissed him slowly.

Van was shivering slightly so you went to fling the towel away and restart the water.

“Sorry love, I gotta bounce. Band stuff.”

Your face fell into a pout and Van smirked at your neediness. He snatched the towel that was loosely draped around your body. The force of it made you spin around a little bit and Van quickly squeezed your ass cheek that now faced him.

“Ryan!” you whisper shouted, turning back around.

Van just smirked once again and tied the towel around his waist then leant in to kiss your cheek hastily as a goodbye. You knew he hated being called Ryan so what started as simple teasing had become somewhat of a habit now and he didn’t fight you about it anymore either.

“What am I going to do with you…” you sighed and shook your head at his cheekiness.

“Well, later, if Larry lad doesn’t interrupt again, you can do whatever you want with me,” Van replied quietly with a wink but his tone serious.

Trust him to make it dirty. Van disappeared out the door, leaving you standing there cold, alone and kind of turned on.

Once you heard the door close and lock behind Van and Larry, you floated back into Van’s room, threw on one of his t-shirts and settled yourself in his bed. Cuddled up in the warm duvet you breathed in his smell, missing him already even though he’d only just left. With a deep breath out, you gazed around Van’s room and looked at all the bits and pieces that filled it. The lighter and pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, a bookshelf filled with records and other miscellaneous items, a few pairs of boots by the door. His chest of drawers with clothes haphazardly stuffed inside. The bedside table littered with an ashtray, chewing gum, deodorant, various cords and plug adapters and a small leather-bound notebook.

The notebook bit at your curiosity. Van was always scribbling away in it, but he never really shared its contents. You looked away, knowing you shouldn’t invade his privacy. You snuggled down into the pillow and tried to sleep away the hours until Van came home. However, the thought of what lay hidden inside Van’s head tugged at you and left you restless. You were just so infuriatingly curious.

Gazing around the room again, as if worried you’d be seen, you sat up and reached slowly for Van’s notebook. You couldn’t help yourself. As you flipped through the pages you smiled at his scrawly handwriting and little doodles. You didn’t really pause on anything too long, feeling a bit shitty for prying. Though you stopped flicking through the dog eared, scribble covered pages when you found a song that appeared to be called ‘Hourglass’. Your heart melted at the lyrics; all fragments of things you and Van had said to each other throughout the course of your relationship about missing each other or keeping things secret, about being in love and wanting to be together in every way of the word.

“Dreams of you fucking me all the time”…. You rolled your eyes and grinned to yourself. Only Ryan Evan McCann would ever put those words in a song and still manage to make it come off as romantic. The bit about being a soldier’s wife made you smile too; you remembered the night you’d said that to him vividly. You wondered how the song sounded when he sang it, if he’d even worked out that part yet.

Your phone suddenly buzzed, making you jump. You quickly closed the book and put it back. Van probably wouldn’t mind you peeking at his ideas, but you still felt guilty as hell. Speak of the devil; it was Van texting to say he’d be later than anticipated at the studio, but you could drop by if you wanted.

Hanging with the guys these days, given the circumstance, was equally anxiety inducing and exciting. Fuck it, you thought. You pulled on some clothes, making sure they were definitely your own, and headed out the door. As you left Van’s bedroom, you gave the little notebook a final glance.

On your way to the studio, you stopped to pick up a box of donuts for the guys and a milkshake for yourself.

“I come bearing gifts!” you loudly announced as you walked into the small cosy studio, holding the donuts up in all their glory.

“I’ll take that,” Bondy replied, grabbing the box from your hand and tucking into a pink sprinkled treat quicker than you could blink.

The studio consisted of a few rooms. The actual recording booth with the small mixing room or control room or whatever attached, a snug lounge that was now littered with mugs and ashtrays and then another little room for instruments and other miscellaneous gear. You sat beside Bondy on the couch and both Bob and Benji emerged from the gear room. They greeted you with hugs and thank you’s and both took donuts as well before slipping back to whatever they were doing before you arrived.

Van was still in the recording booth, wearing large headphones that pushed back his hair and made his face look small and delicate. He was tracking some harmonies apparently. As you watched him, you wanted nothing more than to drag him out the door and back into the shower where you could be warm and close and kiss every inch of his body. You tried not to gaze at him for too long in fear of the other’s noticing, but you couldn’t stop your eyes from flicking back to him. He’d not seen you yet.

“So uh, what you doing here y/n?” Bondy asked.

“Van texted,” you shrugged, trying to maintain eye contact and not guiltily look away.

Van eventually bounced through the door and you both had to pretend you were only mates. Excruciating yet weirdly somewhat of a turn on; knowing you’d be anything but just mates, later in private. Van was now sat beside you on the couch, your knees touching as he ate the last of the donuts.

“Finished anything?” you asked, always eager to hear new songs.

You glanced over at Van and saw he had some sprinkles stuck to his chin. Instinctively you reached out to wipe them away but Van swatted your hand down quickly and your eyes widened in realisation.

“Uh, sprinkles,” you said awkwardly, looking at him without blinking and pointing at your own chin.

“Cheers,” he replied, wiping his face. “But uh, no not yet, though I reckon soon this one…it’s gonna be perfect for the album.”

Van glanced back at the recording booth as he spoke, referring to the song he’d just been working on. He began to rant about what he’d been doing in the studio when you’d arrived. All hand movements and funny sounds mixed with the odd remarkable big word you’d never expect him to know let alone use in a sentence. Bondy took it as his cue to go outside for a smoke. When Van talked about music, or the band, his eyes just lit up differently. He beamed and it made you feel weak at the knees. You thought back to his lyric book; guilt washed over you again and you looked away.

In that moment, Van caught you unawares and snatched the milkshake out of your hands and began loudly slurping on it.

“Oi! Ryan! Give that back!”

You reached out to grab your drink back and Van just grinned, leant back and continued slurping. You all but climbed into his lap and reached for it but he just held it further and further away the more you stretched and whined. He put a hand on your lower back where your t-shirt had ridden up, to steady you as you leaned over him to reach up and take back the cup. Even when he was being an annoying shit, he was still thoughtful. It killed you in the best way.

“Ryan?” Bondy questioned.

You whipped around and saw Bondy standing in the doorway looking confused. Shit. Van’s hand flew off you.

“Just teasing him,” you replied with a forced laugh. No one called Van ‘Ryan’ except his mother. And now you.

You moved off of Van, letting him have the last of your milkshake. Bondy was watching you both closely with squinted, suspicious eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you guys are fucking,” he said with a sigh of disgust.

“What?” Van spluttered, choking on your milkshake. “No way mate,” he added, trying to sound casual.

You stayed quiet.

“No no, I can see right through you two! She called you Ryan and you said nothin’ of it!”

Bondy laughed and came back to sit beside you. You were stunned and didn’t know what to say. As you opened your mouth to spurt out some more bullshit, Bob and Benji walked back into the room.

“Guys. These two are fucking,” Bondy chuckled.

“No way,” Benji said in disbelief. Bob looked bewildered.

“But Van…she’s like….a guy? Like one of us,” Benji added.

You were slightly offended at that. One of the guys sure, but ‘like a guy’?

“I’m super womanly thank you very much!” you snapped and threw Benji a scowl.

“Van would know,” Bondy teased in a suggestive voice and they all burst out laughing except for you and Van.

Your cheeks burned. You knew this would happen.

“Cut it out lads,” Van responded as he placed the empty milkshake cup down on the floor by his feet. His voice was slightly stern now; you could tell he was pissed off.

“Someone’s sensitive,” Benji said quietly and raising his eyebrows, only making Bondy giggle more.

You looked between the three boys, then back at Van whose face was unreadable apart from the eye roll.

“Er- how do you...know…?” Bob asked softly.

“Y/n called him Ryan.”

“As a joke!” you defended, trying to cover your slip up. “Why is it even a big deal!?”

“Didn’t sound like a joke,” Bondy smirked and you huffed.

“Oh my god they so are,” Benji laughed.

“Y/n and Van sitting in a tree…!” Benji and Bondy began to chant. This was followed by crass roleplays of you and Van flirting; Bondy acting as you with a high-pitched voice and batting his eyelashes and then Benji as ‘Ryan’. It was hilarious but also made your stomach turn and cheeks flush red.

“Fuck’s sake lads can we not do this?!” Van barked, taking you all by surprise. He hardly ever spoke like that.

Everyone went silent and looked at him. Van nudged you with his knee and you gulped. You turned to meet his gaze and you knew what he was about to do.

“We aren’t like, fuckin’, okay? Me and y/n are together, like proper,” Van admitted, his voice a little quiet and less angry than before. He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up funny at the front. “So get over it lads,” he added with a knowing glance at Bondy.

“Okay….Ryan,” Bondy replied and then burst into another fit of laughter.

Van muttered something under his breath then took you by the hand and led you out into one of the other rooms in the studio. He shut the door behind him then leaned against it, closing his eyes and tipping his head back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding frustrated.

“It’s fine. They were going to have to find out at some point, it’s a miracle we lasted this long in secret,” you sighed. “Anyway, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have called you Ryan.”

You moved closer to Van and pressed your shoulder against his. He rolled his head to look at you, his fringe falling into his bright blue eyes.

“Secretly, I love it when you do that,” Van admitted quietly, looking down and licking his lips. Your jaw dropped in faux, sarcastic shock.

“Don’t tell anyone or I’ll kill ya’,” he laughed, as he pulled you into him and curled his long arms around you.

Van smiled down at you and you couldn’t help but think of how beautiful he looked. You kissed him slowly, happy to be able to touch him and feel him like this again. You tangled your fingers into his hair, his hands slipped under your shirt and trailed up and down your back.

“That was a mess out there,” you chuckled as you pulled away. Van nodded and pouted accompanied by a soft groan.

“It’ll be okay,” you whispered and rested your forehead against his, your eyes closed.

“I have something to show you,” he whispered back.

Van let you go but led you by the hand over to a chair in the corner. He made you sit and then went to grab his acoustic guitar.

“This is what I was workin’ on when you arrived. It’s probably not gonna be as good as the one on the album but I wanna show you now, not wait.”

You held your breath as Van knelt down on the floor in front of you and began strumming a soft yet clunky and catchy tune. Then you heard it. The lyrics from ‘Hourglass’ that you’d seen in the notebook.

As he sang each line, the moments and memories associated with each flashed through your mind. The lyrics made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. The guitar sounded slightly out of tune but that didn’t matter. God, you loved him. Nothing felt more special than when Van sang to you; now he was singing about you. The song was beautiful, filled with sweet words and high notes. The thought of this being on the album, their first album…you couldn’t fathom it. You felt as if your heart had burst open on the spot and love was pouring out of you.

When the song finished, you slid off the chair and onto your knees in front of Van. You grabbed his face in your hands and kissed him hard, the guitar resting between your bodies.

“So, you like it then?” Van chuckled.

“I love it, Van. And you,” you replied, your voice a little shaky.

You pulled him into you again and held him tight. Van nestled into your neck and you could feel his warm breath on your skin.

“I have to tell you something though…”

“What?” Van mumbled into your hair.

“I peeked at your notebook and saw the lyrics…” you squeaked; eyes shut tight bracing for the fallout.

Van tipped his head back and brushed hair out of your face and behind your ears.

“God, you really do know how to drive me up the wall, don’t ya?” he chuckled.

“You know I love to…” you replied, referring the lyrics with a smug grin on your lips.

“What am I going to do with you, y/n?” Van answered, repeating your words from earlier with a smile and making your heart skip a beat.

#van #vanfic #van mccann #van mccann fan fiction #van mccann fanfiction #catfish #catb #Catfish and the Bottlemen #johnny bond #benji blakeway #Bob Hall #larry lau #bondy

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burliforti · 5 years ago

Text

Rose of England

My entry for the Good Omens fanwork exchange arranged by @transarmageddon. I created this based off a prompt from @vecieminde. The prompt that I was most heavily inspired by was “Aziraphale and Crowley exploring an abandoned place which glory days they might have witnessed”. Full disclosure: I am a bit of a history nerd and so one abandoned place turned into many which turned into a road trip across rural England with a pit stop in Wales. At certain times I veered a bit further from the main prompt than I was hoping but I hope you still enjoy! (About 9.5K and no warnings apply. I’m having a beta review it and then I’ll probably post to AO3) Heavily inspired by the Vera Lynn album “Rose of England” (I am bad at titles and simply borrowed that.) Definitely recommend a listen, it’s a wonderful album. Fic under the cut.

Prologue: London

It had been three weeks since the very last day of the rest of their lives. Not surprisingly, in the aftermath of perhaps the most chaotic week in all of creation Aziraphale and Crowley had been having some difficulty slipping back into their old routines. The sudden lack of oversight was a relief but left them both with a degree of freedom that they weren’t quite sure what to do with. Crowley no longer had to plan elaborate schemes to generate widespread low-grade evil and Aziraphale found himself without his usual laundry list of miscellaneous miracles and holy interventions, leaving both with a sudden and dramatic increase of spare time. Heaven and Hell had, apparently, taken their warnings to heart and had left them alone.

They managed to slip into parts of their old routines. Aziraphale would go out to lunch in small french bistros and read Virginia Woolf in the plush reading chair in his study. Crowley had continued to scheme for a time out of habit but eventually tapered off to random pranks and messing with people who drive below the speed limit on highways and members of parliament. His house plant hobby had flourished into a full horticulture obsession. The apartment whose predominant palette had been black and grey for several decades now found itself green, green, and green. He wasn’t really one for flowers, preferring varieties such as ferns, ivy, and more recently, mosses. Crowley had acquired an impressive and wide array of mosses, spanning continents and centuries, quite literally finding himself with the only remaining iteration of certain ancient mosses (Crowley’s imagination did not know that these had gone extinct. He simply remembered soft, curling greenery on teak trees and there they had appeared).

Aziraphale had also picked up a few hobbies. He had a tendency to do so. Dancing, magic, prophecies. They weren’t exactly phases (for he did still truly enjoy all of these things), but Aziraphale had a meandering mind that was always eager for new knowledge. Recently, he had come across an antique store looking for any interesting books. Instead, he had left the premises with a vintage camera that stood on a wooden tripod, that by all accounts should not have been able to work anymore, but miraculously, did indeed take photos. This began a new collection of vintage cameras and various other photographic contraptions. He particularly enjoyed taking pictures of nature (trees were much better at sitting still than wily serpents who would fidget and blur the images). Eventually, Crowley bought him a polaroid camera. He was annoyed of being forced to sit still for the negatives and dealing with Aziraphale hauling his many apparatuses on their walks. The polaroid was a bit newfangled for Aziraphale’s taste, but he enjoyed not having to develop negatives and being able to immediately see the images. Crowley did not mind this hobby as much as he had others (nothing could be worse than the magic. As long as taking photos of birds and elms prevented Aziraphale getting into card tricks or whatever nonsense than he would limit his complaints.) Yet even as they settled into old routines and found new ones, both beings found themselves on edge despite the apparent resolution to most of their problems. You see, Aziraphale and Crowley were bored. And Aziraphale had just the idea.

“A vacation?” Crowley replied as they sat in St James Park, sitting on a bench watching the ducks bob in and out of the water.

“It’s been so long since we left the city. Not since all that nonsense, and even that was barely two hours outside London. Before you mostly got around for work, and since our, well, retirement, I don’t believe either of us has really traveled much. Thought it might be a nice change of pace.”

“And where exactly were you thinking?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular. Although there are a few sites that I’d like to revisit. It’s been so long since I properly traveled. Human beings have created some truly marvelous places.”

“Destroyed just as many too.”

“And then rebuilt. I’m sure even you have an old spot or two you wouldn’t mind revisiting.”

Crowley paused, considering this with a great amount of reluctance. “I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve been ‘round the countryside.” He replied, begrudgingly.

Aziraphale’s face lit up in a bright smile. “Splendid! I suppose there is no point in waiting around. I’m already packed, I will see you at the shop tomorrow, bright and early!”

Crowley looked at him in disbelief. “Tomorrow?!”

Rochester Castle

Crowley did arrive early, although it wasn’t a particularly bright October morning. He pulled up in his Bently and had hardly gotten out of the car when Aziraphale burst through the shop door, hauling a large two-piece antique luggage set and two vintage cameras.

Aziraphale flashed a brilliant smile “Good morning, dear boy!” Crowley walked over to Aziraphale and grabbed the luggage out of his hands. “Let me take that.” Aziraphale let him take the bags and took the cameras in both arms. “Why, thank you.” Crowley dragged the luggage toward the Bentley. “What on earth do you have in here? You’ve been wearing the same outfit for over a century.”

“Books, mostly. Some light reading I’ve been meaning to do.”

“Hardly light,” Crowley complained, lifting the luggage into the trunk with great difficulty. Aziraphale carefully laid out the camera equipment in the backseat, with the exception of the polaroid which he kept in a small camera bag over his shoulder. Crowley slammed the\trunk and sauntered over to the drivers side.

“So where are we off to, angel?”

“Well I didn’t want anything too adventurous, and I know you’re hard-pressed to leave your vehicle. Perhaps a week or two, just in the countryside. Breath of fresh air, maybe even revisit some old favorites?”

“Fine by me.”

“And I thought it best to start south and work our way up. What do you think?”

“Any destination in mind?”

“Oh, not really. It’s been so long since I’ve been that farther south than London.”

“Ever been to Rochester Castle? Less than half an hour from here.”

“Rochester? Off the Medway? Shouldn’t that be at least an hour– Crowley slow down!”

They arrived 40 minutes later. Aziraphale was not incorrect in that it should have taken an hour and Crowley had also not been mistaken in that it could have been merely half an hour, but at Aziraphale’s continued pleas of “Slow down Crowley!” they had met somewhat in the middle. Luckily tourist season tended to slow down this time of year. The employees of the estate had kindly left them to their own affairs. Aziraphale had picked up a brochure and was reading it as the two of them explored the keep.

“They say it had originally been given to Bishop Odo, probably by William the Conqueror.”

“Never met him.”

“Oh you weren’t missing much, I didn’t find him to be particularly charming. Although it is possible that I insulted him upon our first meeting. Never could wrap my mind around french. All that gender and tense. Feminine chairs and male houses, utter nonsense.”

“I believe houses are also feminine.”

“My point! Completely arbitrary. And the tenses, what language needs nine different types of past tense? They live such short lives I don’t see the point.”

Crowley let Aziraphale rant as they continued to stroll along corridors and in and out of almost accurate historical reimaginings of bedrooms and parlors. Crowley hadn’t been to Rochester Castle since the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381. He really had absolutely hated the 14th century. He had gotten so fed up, in fact, that he had whispered in a handful of ears of ‘injustice’ and ‘revolution’. He hadn’t had much of an end goal in mind, just anything to shake up that dreadful century. It hadn’t really gone anywhere, unfortunately. He didn’t see much of Aziraphale that century, not with the war and the plague. Such a bore and with awful fashion. It had been such a relief when the Renaissance properly took off.

“You’ve been awfully silent, Crowley.”

He quirked an eyebrow over his glasses. “Let’s go to the gardens.”

They made their way into the Castle’s exterior and into the gardens that encircled the estate. English roses, bright Dahlias, twisting ivys, and sweetly scented Begonias dominated the courtyard. Aziraphale was enjoying the vibrant colors and heavenly floral perfumes while Crowley glared critically at pests and withering leaves.

“I think this is going to be a marvelous holiday.”

Crowley wandered over to one of the bushes and picked one of halfway decent begonias, sauntering back over to Aziraphale. He walked directly in front of him and stopped just shy of the other man.

“If you say so.” He replied, pinning the flower to a blushing Aziraphale’s lapel.

“Oh, no need for all of that.” He said waving his hand toward the plucked stem. An even more vibrant flower bloomed in its place.

“So,” Crowley asked, returning to his place by Aziraphale’s side, “where to next?”

Bodiam Castle

Aziraphale had asked one of the local historical guides, who suggested Bodiam Castle, which was an hour south of Rochester Castle near Robertsbridge in East Sussex. She had also suggested a local family run pub for lunch. Aziraphale had given Crowley a wide-eyed look to which Crowley could only roll his eyes and say “Yes, yes alright. It’s your holiday, angel.” Aziraphale had taken note at some point of the increase of Crowley’s use of ‘angel’ to describe him. He had subsequently filed away the observation to ‘thoughts that need no further introspection or deliberation’. They ate (or Aziraphale ate) a slow and peaceful lunch. He seemed to enjoy his fish and chips and was particularly impressed by the tartar sauce (homemade apparently, an old family recipe). The batter was also very pleasant but he didn’t much care for the chips. Crowley picked a few off of his plate absentmindedly. They ate mostly in silence, Aziraphale enjoying the fish and Crowley enjoying Aziraphale.

They continued on their journey, arriving in Robertsbridge in significantly less than an hour (much to Aziraphale’s terror). Aziraphale had in fact once visited Bodiam Castle, many years ago during the war of the roses. It had been abandoned in picturesque ruins for decades but had been restored in the early 20th century. Crowley and Aziraphale explored the property. While the exterior had been well preserved, the interior was now in ruins.

“It had been quite nice when I had visited. I was presenting as a clergyman on the road back in those days, you know. Made seeking shelter much easier and people would listen to me, which was quite helpful on certain occasions.”

“I imagine it explained all those Bibles you carried with you.”

“Well yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“There is still a beauty to it now, albeit a different sort of beauty.”

“Seems like regular old ruins to me.”

“You don’t feel any sort of, oh I don’t know, whimsy or appreciation?”

“I don’t really go in for whimsy, angel.”

They continued to explore for quite some time, Aziraphale taking full advantage of their solitude and the picturesque ruins by taking many photographs, both with the antique camera on a tripod and the polaroid. Aziraphale had started off carrying the larger camera but Crowley had soon taken over after a passing mention of discomfort by Aziraphale. They made their way outside, strolling along the edge of the moat as the sunset.

“Oh, what a beautiful sky it is tonight. Crowley, do you mind putting down the camera? I’d like to get some photos, lighting is simply marvelous.”

“Not like we’ve seen the sunset a million times already. The same sky and the same sun for 6,000 years.”

Aziraphale ignored him, setting up the camera into the correct position. The tripod was close to the water's edge, overlooking the horizon. Aziraphale watched the sky change from red, orange, and yellow to deep purple and pitch black from behind a camera lens. Crowley watched Aziraphale burn brilliant in a fiery sky to softly glowing in the moonlit night.

Tintagel Castle

Crowley suggested the next location: Tintagel Castle. It was quite a ways away on the southwestern coast but he insisted that the view was worth it, and besides it had been ages since either of them had been to the Celtic sea. It was by far the longest drive they had undertaken so far. A direct route would have taken five hours (perhaps three with Crowley behind the wheel), but Aziraphale had asked if they could drive past the channel on the way there and Crowley wasn’t exactly in the habit of denying any request or desire the angel had. With the scenic detour, the drive should have been close to 7 hours but ended up closer to five anyways, accounting for a lunch break.

Aziraphale was able to manage (tolerate, more accurately) Crowley’s breakneck speeds on the lonely country roads. Rolling hills with the occasional grazing livestock and farmhouses turned into rocky cliffs and blue-grey waters. Aziraphale enjoyed the picturesque landscapes and lack of the usual urban chaos, while Crowley enjoyed the lack of other vehicles and an open road where the speed limit was hardly a thought. They hadn’t talked much, Aziraphale occasionally putting on a CD (he didn’t quite grasp the concept at first but he was getting the hang of it.) Most of the disks had been left in the car and forgotten for more than a fortnight, and Crowley could only tolerate ‘We Will Rock You’ by Benjamin Britten or ‘We Are The Champions’ by Handle so many times. Thankfully, he had remembered to bring in some CDs from the apartment that had yet to become a compilation of Queen’s Greatest Hits. Aziraphale preferred classical, so they listened to Bach, Vaughn Williams, Holst, and various other (although predominantly British) composers. They were listening to Simple Symphony (actually by Benjamin Britten) when Crowley finally slowed and pulled into a half-full parking lot. Luckily the castle and surrounding expanse were quite large and the two could easily keep away from any crowds.

They explored the ruins of a castle for a time, Crowley relaying stories of his time in Richard of Cornwall (both from his time in the castle and during the Barons’ Crusade. Aziraphale had been preoccupied at the time by some work further west in Southampton.) Eventually, the crowds started to bother both of them and they naturally wandered away from the ruins and over the large bridge.

“You know I rarely made it out to this part of the country, but it’s quite lovely. The view is spectacular.”

Crowley squinted and peered upwards towards the gathering clouds. “Looks like it might rain.”

“Oh, I’m sure it would only take a slight miracle to ensure clear skies until the end of our visit. I was thinking for after– oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as the unfortunate combination of a strong gust of wind off the sea and a damp patch on the footbridge made him stumble and lose his footing. Before he could find purchase on the guard rails he felt two hands reach out and grab his arms, helping him upright. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley who in turn looked down at him in concern.

“You alright?”

Aziraphale laughed nervously, brushing himself off. “Oh yes, I’m quite alright, just taken a little off guard I suppose…” He trailed off. There hadn’t been any danger really, the footbridge had quite a high railing and Aziraphale had wings for heaven’s sake but peering down at the cold water crashing up against the stony cliffs made his head spin for a moment. “Thank you.” He finally said.

Crowley made a noise of displeasure in return, “Can’t have you being discorporated middle of your vacation abandoning me in Cornwall of all places.”

“Our vacation. Besides, you suggested Tintagel.”

“Ngk.”

Neither of them made the first move, remaining stationary on the footbridge for another beat.

“You can let go of me now, Crowley.”

He looked down at his hands which were indeed still wrapped around the other's arms. His cheeks turned slightly pink as he let go, refusing to look at the other as they continued on.

Glastonbury Abbey

Aziraphale insisted they stop by Glastonbury Abbey the next day, tentatively starting northward.

“I’m shocked you never made it out there yourself back in the day, dear boy. Frightfully important, I can recall quite the drama and importance for quite a long stretch of time. Second only to Westminster.”

“I avoided abbeys as a general rule. Parishes, monasteries, cathedrals, whole lot of them. Not exactly my scene.”

“Shame really, some truly exquisite architecture. The food wasn’t exactly top-notch, but some of the better dining from that era at any rate. I’d imagine you’d be quite fine now, been in ruins for centuries.”

The sky was clear and blue, the grass a vibrant green. There were a few tourists who were wandering about the grounds but left the two beings be. They wandered through the decrepit cathedral, ceiling completely gone and missing good portions of the walls. While Aziraphale doubted that any previous blessings were still in place, Crowley was wary and remained outside of the ruined Holy buildings.

“It really was quite a marvel. I had the occasion to visit on a number of occasions throughout the centuries, sent here quite often for holy interventions, miracles, enlightenment, heavenly visions, the whole nine yards as they say. You’re sure you never made it over here during, well, the Arrangement?”

Aziraphale quieted at the last two words. He had always been much more prudish, more embarrassed regarding their previous understanding. Perhaps it was because Crowley had much more experience rebelling and bending rules, but if they were being honest with themselves (although they rarely were), Aziraphale also had a fair bit of experience bending rules, he was just more adept at making excuses for it and felt much more guilty about it afterward.

“Nope. Besides, I believe the heyday of the great Abbeys predated our agreement.”

“I suppose that’s true. Those old Catholics enjoyed their drama. I tried to stay out of it mostly, politics was never really my forte. I recall having to give a vision to one of the old Abbotts back in the 12th century. Something about inspiring a new sermon, I can’t quite recall.”

Crowley made some noise to indicate that he was still listening (which he was in fact doing. He liked to put up an air of indifference but he always listened, and Aziraphale knew this.)

“You know I was able to get a first edition of “On the Antiquity of the Glastonese Church”? Signed by William of Malmesbury. Wonderful historian, and splendid company. He had a terrific collection at the Malmesbury Abbey and was kind enough to give me a number of his books, all with signed inscriptions. Later in his life, he was kind enough to gift me some of the notable works in his personal collection. His second edition of Gesta Regum Anglorum is a classic.”

Aziraphale continued to ramble on as they explored the Abbey grounds. Crowley listened quietly but intently. Their conversations usually involved both of their active participation but Crowley had never minded whenever Aziraphale would stumble into his ramblings. They occasionally reminisced, exchanging amusing stories and recounting shared adventures, but on that rare but treasured occasions a topic would arise and Aziraphale could literally talk for days on end, one story spilling into the next. Crowley’s original thought to describe it had been cute, but that couldn’t possibly be it.

“It’s impressive how long these have stayed standing, even if they have fallen into a bit of disrepair.” Aziraphale finally quieted, inviting a response from Crowley.

“‘Spose. They always did like to show off. Always obsessed with posterity.”

“And these are hardly the oldest, even just in England. And we’ve been there for all of it.” Aziraphale spoke softly, his eyes unfocused as he gazed far beyond the old Abbey. Crowley glanced at him. He had a tendency to be sentimental after these long trips down memory lane. Crowley himself had never quite at the proclivity for the sentimental.

“And they’ll keep building places of worship and keep writing history books. Come on, I saw a sign for a nearby for an italian restaurant, we’ll grab you some lunch.”

Bath

After lunch, they drove a bit farther north to the city of Bath. This had been the largest city they had visited so far. They stopped by bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the town, preferring the larger space, quiet countryside, and easy parking it provided. They took the day to explore the city, visiting various historical sites. They walked by the Abbey (although they did not venture inside as a courtesy to Crowley), Pulteney Bridge, strolled down Royal Crescent, popped briefly into Holburne museum but quickly left when Aziraphale got fed up with the minor inconsistencies and incorrect speculation. They continued their walk and eventually came across a beautifully restored Georgian home with a bronze plaque that reads:

Here lived William Herschel

A.D. 1781

and a sign above that that read ‘Herschel Museum of Astronomy’. It looked to be mostly vacant, which made sense seeing as it was about 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday during the school year, with the peak of the tourist season being a few months behind them.

“Oh, I remember that fellow. Quite the eclectic man; astronomer, biologist, musician, and composer, though if memory serves his scientific career fared better than his artistic one. I saw the premiere of his eighth symphony and you know, I really did enjoy it. I’m not sure why he’s been relegated to the background of classical composers. I suppose now it’s so strongly dominated by Mozart, Haydn, Shubert, and a few other fellows that it didn’t leave much room for others. Truth be told I think Haydn might be slightly overrated. You write 107 symphonies but only a handful are noteworthy in any way. You knew him, didn’t you? I recall you hanging around with the Royal Astronomical Society for a time before sleeping through most of the next century.”

Crowley hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, hung around with that lot periodically end of the 18th century. He and his sister, Caroline, pushed the field miles forward. Shall we head inside?”

Crowley held open the door for Aziraphale and they headed inside the quiet Georgian household. They handed over a few pounds to the receptionist who put a little stamp of a planet with stars on each of their right hands. They quickly passed through exhibits pertaining to more recent events, preferring to linger in the sections that focused on Herschel and his discoveries.

“I liked him. Quite sharp. Corrected a few older discoveries, which I appreciated. It was annoying having to sit through some of those Royal Society lectures calling some of the star clusters nebulae. He and Caroline discovered and cataloged a boatload of nebulae, clusters, comets, the like. Nice to finally have your work properly appreciated after nearly 6000 years. We used to gossip about the bores over at the Royal Society and I helped get Caroline get a paid position at the government. I mean why would they be paying him but not her?”

“That was very kind of you, Crowley.”

He made a face of displeasure in return, “Hardly. If she hadn’t been employed who else would have discovered my comets and cataloged my nebulae? Quite proud of those, you know, and no one there to appreciate all my hard work. ‘Oh look at the beautiful waterfalls, the beautiful forests’, please. Hardly any craftsmanship in a waterfall. Some rocks and a river. But a planetary nebula? A red dwarf? Combustion, gravity, electromagnetism, a delicate balance of helium, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and however many other elements. When old Will finally got that telescope of his up and running, the look on his face when he saw them all, it was like finally, someone can appreciate some true artistry. I will say the nerve of those two constantly referring to it as ‘the heavens’. Heaven wished it looked like that.”

Aziraphale looked wistfully at a newer photo of the butterfly nebula. “You know, during all that time it took humans to properly observe the cosmos, I appreciated it. All the stars and nebulae, pulsars and supernovae. I wasn’t able to get out much personally, but I was lucky enough on a few occasions. It was breathtaking. And on earth, we can see much farther than they can, even with some of their telescopes. I’ll spare a glance here and there when I get the chance, and it really is unparalleled.” Aziraphale stopped, still looking firmly at the nebula in front of him. He spoke softer this time. “Dare I say it, maybe even more beautiful than anything here on earth.” A pause. His head turned slightly towards Crowley and met his eyes beneath the shades. “Or rather, almost anything.”

Crowley’s head snapped violently back towards the image, not daring to look back at Aziraphale. Earth had been almost entirely God’s pet project, the vast majority anyways. Some details had been relegated to other angels. But the earth had always truly been Hers. Aziraphale’s proclamation of the superior beauty of the cosmos was… a lot to process. Not to mention the meaning of the angel’s pointed glance at him. It was a bit too much for Crowley. He coughed, still not meeting the other’s eyes.

“Off to the Baths then?”

Kenilworth Castle

“Kenilworth, now this is a real castle,” Crowley said, picking away at the grapes on the fruit platter. They had driven north from Bath that morning, exiting the South West and entering into the West Midlands. Crowley accompanied Aziraphale to a hearty breakfast before their departure. They continued to avoid the main roads, Crowley speeding through old dirt roads in the countryside. Aziraphale would point out every herd of sheep, every single baby calf, every mangy looking old goat while a look of utter delight and whimsy. He had become completely enamored with the countryside and Crowley was beginning to worry about how he would ever get him back to the city.

“Oh look at those horses! There’s a small black foal, isn’t it just darling? Shall we stop by to say hello?”

Crowley glowered at the animals that were grazing the field they were driving past and pushed down even harder on the gas in response.

“You’re no fun, my dear.”

“Awful creatures. They smell, they buck, they attract flies, painful as all hell to ride, and generally terrible. Not even properly evil, just badly designed and poorly executed. The automobile is definitely among the greatest human inventions along with alcohol and sunglasses. Shame when they stopped making glue out of the bastards.”

Aziraphale smacked him (not so lightly) on his arm, “Crowley! What an awful thing to say!”

“What? They deserve it.”

“My goodness, what on earth did horses ever do to you.”

“What didn’t they do? Centuries of sore buttocks, horse flies, and manure. The smell, Aziraphale, do you remember it? The streets were absolutely disgusting, it’s no wonder I stayed inside for most of the 18th century.”

“I think you’re being too harsh on them. I find them quite majestic.”

“Nothing majestic about your teeth taking up more room in your skull than your brain.”

“Well, I quite like them.”

He rolled his eyes, “Suit yourself, angel.”

They continued north for another hour or so, eventually stopping in Stratford-Upon-Avon to pick up some food for a picnic (actually Crowley’s suggestion) and to pay respects to an old friend. They continued on, taking many detours, arriving at the castle just in time for lunch. Crowley pulled out a picnic blanket from the trunk (whether it had been there the whole time or if he had just miracled it then, Aziraphale didn’t know. Regardless, he was touched by the gesture.) He laid it out under the shade of a nearby Ash tree that grew just a bit outside the central keep.

“Yes, it had its fair share of excitement back in the day.” Aziraphale agreed.

“Came to see King John here once. What a prick. That whole family was a mess. Richard and Henry weren’t that awful in the grand scheme of British royalty, although that’s quite a low bar. Oh, but John, totally insufferable. I was supposed to tempt him into rebelling but the bastard was already scheming before I got there, and not very well mind you. Didn’t bother helping out when it failed, I didn’t really feel like getting involved.”

“I accompanied Elizabeth here a few times. Very intelligent woman, difficult life though. Popped in every-so-often to lend her a helping hand. I remember tutoring her briefly when she was a child. Incredibly bright and kind for a child of her age. The crown hardened her considerably, but who could blame her.”

“Oh yes, she was a feisty one. One of the few British royals I had any respect for at all, although she still had her fair share of flaws, but who am I to judge?”

They continued to eat, somehow always remaining in the shade despite the passing of hours. Aziraphale was usually quite silent when he ate, his mouth constantly full with the next delight Crowley had packed away into the wicker basket, so Crowley took it upon himself to fill the silence by recounting his many tales of Kenilworth and the events surrounding it, sprawled out on his side, one arm supporting his head.

“You know the tennis balls had been my idea. I had meant it as an insult but I think Henry overreacted a little bit.”

Aziraphale paused his enjoyment of some shortcake, “At least we got a good play out of it.”

“Fair enough. The old Bard never really bothered with historical accuracy but I didn’t mind with him. Made it better usually.”

“I’d be inclined to agree.”

Eventually Aziraphale had had his full and pulled out a book, leaning up against the Ash. Crowley moved closer, laying down beside him.

“What are you reading?”

“The Anabasis of Alexander.”

“He was a drama queen.”

“This is a classic.”

“I’m sure.”

Aziraphale ignored him and pulled out his reading glasses. Crowley had never said this out loud, but he loved Aziraphale’s reading glasses. The glasses were practically ancient, picked up sometime during Crowley’s respite in the 19th century. He didn’t need them, and Crowley didn’t know why he wore them. A fashion he had picked up? Perhaps he simply enjoyed the completion of his ‘old bookkeeper’ look? At any rate, Crowley never complained when Aziraphale opened a large tome and took out the spectacles. He looked up at Aziraphale; ‘Cute’ he thought. There that word was again. The glasses made Aziraphale look intelligent, sophisticated, extremely out of date, and certainly not cute. Or at least, that’s what Crowley thought (or did he?)

“Read a bit for me. I’m sure it’ll put me right to sleep.”

The angel huffed at the minor insult but settled in closer to Crowley anyways. The demons head was up against his thigh, arms at his side and legs bent upwards. There was a gentle warm breeze and songbirds that flew in and out of the ash. The sun was bright and hot but they were cool and comfortable in the shade, both subconsciously leaning into the warmth of the other.

“In Ecbatana, Alexander offered sacrifice according to his custom, for good fortune; and he celebrated a gymnastic and musical contest…”

Plas Newydd

They stayed the night in Kenilworth after allowing themselves the luxury of a lazy afternoon followed by a warm meal at a local pub (in this part of the country, most options for dining out were pubs). The next morning they took the Bentley further northwest, crossing the border into Wales. The signs changed into a jumble of consonants and seemingly misplaced vowels.

“I haven’t been to Wales in so long. I adore the people here, very charming folks. I do hope my Welsh hasn’t fallen out of shape, it has been quite a while.”

They drove down the old country roads, Crowley for once not doing nearly double the speed limit, perhaps as a courtesy to Aziraphale or maybe because even he couldn’t bring himself to disturb the sleepy atmosphere of the small villages they passed through (although the most likely cause was simply extending their time on the road. He enjoyed the peace and solitude he shared with Aziraphale while they rode in the Bentley.)

Aziraphale looked quizzically down at the map they had picked up in Shrewsbury. “I believe you take a right up here, dear boy.”

“Hope you aren’t getting us lost in the Welsh countryside, angel. All these villages look the same to me.”

He looked up from the map and up to the signs with arrows on the side of the road, “No, we’re still in the correct direction. My navigation skills were unparalleled back in the day, I’ll have you know. Served on a privateer ship for a number of months and guarded over an exhibition or two back in the age of explorers.”

Crowley looked up at the signs, recognizing one of the names, “Off to Llangollen then, are we?”

Aziraphale looked over to him surprised, “You’ve heard of it?”

“Visited it to, a couple of centuries ago.”

Aziraphale looked delighted, “So you must have met the ladies then! Can’t imagine what else would bring you to the north-eastern Welsh countryside. I never realized you made it out to see them.”

“Yeah, I visited them a handful of times while traveling between London and Dublin. Eleanor and Sarah. Haven’t thought about them in quite a while. Kept hearing about them and got curious.”

“They were a delightful pair, wonderful hosts too. Elenor and I would sit in the parlor and discuss the recent literature. Poets, in particular, seemed to be drawn to Plas Newydd and most had left behind a copy or two of their work. I recall walking around the estate with Sarah and exchanging thoughts on current events. They were both surprisingly insightful despite their isolation.”

“Bit too fond of horses for my taste, but I could respect how they rebelled against the system. Caused quite a stir for a while, and I enjoy good gossip. The scandal, the outrage, pretty funny if you ask me. Had a few interesting chats with them over tea.”

What Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t realize is that on multiple occasions, they had both shared details of each other to the ladies of Llangollen. Crowley and Aziraphale were both singular personalities in their own way and it had not taken much for the two ladies to connect the dots between both ‘men’ (or what both had assumed to be men) stories. Aziraphale had visited them first, introducing himself as a friend of William Wordsworth. He had indeed discussed literature and current events, but sometimes over dinner one evening he had begun disclosing certain details about a dark fellow (certainly not a friend) that Aziraphale was doing business with whom he had some conflicting emotions. Within a year, a dark fellow with bright red hair had strolled up to Plas Newydd and introduced himself as a friend of the Shelley's. They had welcomed him in, but he was much more reserved than some of their previous visitors. However, after a bottle of gin, the stranger was much more open and willing to share some strange stories of his travels. He was well journeyed and quite connected, having stories from famous scientists, authors, criminals, and even royals. After a bottle of brandy had been opened, he started talking about a friend of his, or perhaps more of a coworker. They had known each other for quite some time but in recent years it seemed as if their relationship had developed a few more layers. As he continued to describe the acquaintance, Eleanor and Sarah had both glanced sidelong at each other with the same realization.

As the two beings came and went, bringing new stories and sharing new details of their other half, the glances between the two women while the otherworldly being relayed their most recent thoughts on the other become more frustrated and knowing. It had been difficult not to intervene but they had both known it was for the best. One day, Aziraphale (or simply “Mr. Fell”) had come to visit. He discussed literature and current events like usual but never seemed to bring up his mysterious coworker. When they asked him about it, his face contorted like he had eaten something sour. They had had a falling out and were not talking to each other at the moment. The two women looked at each other in concern but didn’t attempt to press the issue.

They had never seen Crowley again.

Crowley and Aziraphale pulled up to Plas Newydd a short time later. Both Aziraphale’s navigation skills and Welsh had thankfully remained intact despite the disuse. The house had been well maintained throughout the centuries. Crowley purchased admission for them both. It had been turned into a museum a number of years ago, but both of them weren’t focused on the exhibits, sparing only a pacing glance at the displaces and descriptive plaques. Instead, they took in the house itself and the memories that returned to them with each room that they passed through. As they strolled within the many rooms: bedrooms, parlour, kitchen, library, and outside of the estate in the vast gardens and green rolling fields, the two cast sidelong glances at each other, not unlike two Irish ladies from centuries ago.

Hadrian’s Wall

They continued north on the same day, stopping for lunch in the village before they resumed their journey. After lunch, before they set off onto country roads, Crowley thought they should pick up some more CD’s. They had burned through most of the ones he had brought in from the apartment, and he was starting to get sick of not only “Killer Queen” but also “Fantasia on Greensleeves”. There was a little music shop in the quaint downtown that sold a handful of instruments, some sheet music, a bin of records, and yes, an assortment of CDs. It was a shame Aziraphale never slept since he had been mostly unable to listen to some of his personal favorites as the other being would be awake for the duration of their car rides. Aziraphale had fallen behind the times recently. Back before the advent of recorded audio, Aziraphale had needed to go out into the world to enjoy music, which kept him fairly up to date with the trends. However, after the advent of recording, Aziraphale had been able to enjoy the pleasures of the symphony from his own home, able to read or eat while he enjoyed the sweet melodies. And so he stopped attending the opera, symphony, or any sort of concert almost entirely. He still got out occasionally, when they were playing Beethoven series or one of his favorite Italian operas, but after the 19th century he was pleased to simply keep returning to old favorites (certain notable examples exist. Aziraphale was a fan of Kafka, Vaughn Williams, Rachmaninoff, Ravel, Bartók, and a handful of others.) He had listened to some ragtime and bebop, but he hadn’t been a fan and had simply abandoned all popular music afterward. Crowley drifted through the aisles but was mostly with content to let Aziraphale pick out the music. He was mostly hovering through the classical section, already with half a dozen new CDs. He wandered through a few other sections before walking back over to Crowley.

“Nothing for yourself?”

“You seem to have enough already.”

They walked over to the cashier, Aziraphale setting about all of the CDs and Crowley pulled out his wallet. The old woman behind the cash rung up their purchase and Crowley pulled out the exact change out of his wallet. She accepted it graciously.

“And where are you two from? Don’t get many visitors this time of year.” She spoke with a thick Welsh accent but must have overheard them speaking in english.

Aziraphale smiled warmly, “London. Just taking a bit of a holiday, driving around the countryside.”

“Oh that’s lovely. I prefer the weather this time of year anyway. I like the heat, but in the summer, a bit too hot in recent years. My husband and I drove up to Edinburgh back in July to visit our Lizzie for her wedding. We used to travel all over Europe in the summer months. A bit more difficult after the kids but we were able to bring them along when they were a bit older.”

“Oh yes, Edinburgh has become quite lovely in recent years. It’s been quite a while since I’ve visited myself.”

“Well if you and your husband are continuing north, I would definitely suggest you stop by.”

Aziraphale went red at her assumption. He sputtered in response. “Oh, um, well yes, thank you for the suggestion.”

She gave him a wide smile, “No need to be embarrassed, dear. Our Lizzie was marrying her girlfriend, Mackenzie, up in Edinburgh. Most people in these parts are quite accepting.”

Aziraphale could only redden and nod his head. She handed Crowley a receipt.

“Diolch.” He replied coolly, face unreadable behind the tinted glasses.

“Cael diwrnod braf!” She replied as they walked out of the shop.

They were finally back off onto the road. Aziraphale pulled out one of the new CDs.

“Look what I found, Crowley. I thought you might like it.”

It was a collection of William Herschel recorded by the London Mozart Players. Crowley returned with a neutral grunt of acknowledgment that didn’t convey any particularly positive or negative sentiments regarding the recording. Aziraphale ejected the previous CD and put in the new one.

“So where are we off to next, angel?”

“You know, I’m not quite sure. I thought we could just… drive for a bit, and see where we end up?”

Crowley grinned, “Not your usual style, ‘going with the flow’, ‘seeing where the road takes you.’”

He shrugged in response, “I’ve been trying many new things these last few months.”

And so North they went, out of Wales, up through the West Midlands and into the North West. They continued to bypass the highways in favor of country roads. They drove along the Irish sea, passing by Liverpool, Southport, and Blackpool. At Lancaster, they continued due North towards Kendal instead of continuing along the shoreline. Crowley made most navigational decisions, simply following his intuition. Every so often he would ask Aziraphale for input, but mostly they drove in silence. The angel mostly watched out the window, every so often cracking open the book he had with him.

After another hour or so, Aziraphale finally perked up.

“Ah.”

Crowley looked over to him, “What?”

He pointed to one of the signs. It read “Hadrian’s Wall” and had an arrow pointing right.

“We should go there.”

And so Crowley make a sharp turn to the right, and off they went.

After only another 10 minutes (Crowley’s maniacal driving had returned in full force), the two found themselves at the base of about a 5ft 2000-year-old wall.

“Sort of a dumb plan if you ask me.”

“Hm?”

“Not sure what Hadrian was thinking with this one. Bloody long wall on the fringe of the empire, middle of nowhere? Always seemed like nonsense to me.”

“Perhaps.”

“Next guy pretty much completely abandoned it. Did it ever serve any useful role at any point? Not like it was ever that high in the first place, not sure what he thought he could stop with it. Humanity has found its way across rivers, mountains, and deserts, but oho, not a five-foot wall, that’ll stop ‘em.”

Aziraphale was setting up his camera. The wall was surrounded by kilometers of green fields speckled with trees that were changing color in the autumn season. There was a small lake about a kilometer down from the stretch of the wall that the two had found themselves at.

“Sit still, won’t you? You’ll blur the image.”

Crowley pulled his crossed arms slightly closer in. “Don’t see why you wanted a picture in the first place. Can’t you just get a couple of snaps of the herons over there and be done with it?”

“I have so few photos of you, dear. I’d like a few from this vacation. I’ve had such a lovely time so far. Maybe I’ll make a scrapbook when we’re back in London. Have you heard of those? Came across the idea a few weeks ago and I’ve been meaning to try my hand at it.”

“Don’t see why I need to be in them. Why do you need a photo when I’ll be around anyway? I’ll just ruin your landscapes.”

Aziraphale looked up from the camera and directly at Crowley with a twinkle in his eyes. “You know I think you look positively lovely, dear boy. Now shut up, I want at least one good one.”

And shut up he did.

Tynemouth Priory and Castle (Edward II and Piers Gaveston + Duel?)

They found a little country inn in one of the nearby villages. Crowley slept soundly in his single bed while Aziraphale stayed up reading. They ate the continental breakfast that was provided, Aziraphale putting a fair portion of homemade strawberry jam that the owner’s son had apparently made onto his rolls while Crowley enjoyed his cup of Lady Grey.

“I feel like going to the coast today,” Aziraphale said in between mouthfuls of toast.

“Which one?” Crowley replied, leaning back in his chair on the outdoor patio.

“How about the North Sea? We did the Irish Sea, the Celtic Sea seems like the next logical step.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“Have you ever been to Tynemouth? There’s an old Priory and Castle. I was there all the way back in the 7th century. Nice little spot on the coast.”

“Yeah, I’ve been, later though. Briefly in the 14th century, with Edward II.”

“Well?”

“Fine with me.”

They left a bit later that morning, going towards the morning sun due East. It was starting to get a bit chillier as they stretched further into autumn and the closer they got to the sea. It wasn’t a long drive by, even without Crowley behind the wheel. Soft piano music that Crowley didn't recognize was coming out of the stereo. It was pleasant, music that sounded like it came right out of a 19th-century parlor. Aziraphale was humming along while he read (a new book, yet again. He seemed to burn through a new one each day.)

They drove up a hill right beside the coast to the ruins. They were the only ones there when Crowley pulled the Bentley off to the side of the dirt road. They got out in tandem and walked toward the abandoned castle.

“Long time since I've been around here. I wouldn't mind making a habit of these little excursions.”

“I guess it's not half bad when you avoid tourist season.”

“You said you'd been here before?”

“Yup, I was briefly a part of Edward II entourage trying to rile up some tensions within the court. You ever meet him?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Eh, weren't missing much. He and Piers Gaveston had been inseparable. Bit annoying but mostly harmless. Tragic end, but that was pretty common for that lot back in the day.”

“Nobles?”

Crowley laughed, “Not quite, angel.”

They walked through the main archway. It had obviously changed significantly throughout the centuries, the brick and mortar now exposed to the elements, large chunks were missing and covered in moss, and yet in some ways, it hadn't changed at all. All of the roofs had crumbled away centuries ago, leaving the bright blue sky above them, with clouds blowing in from over the sea and the sun creeping higher into the sky. Birds nested throughout the ruins in little nooks and crannies, perched atop old towers and in between the remnants of windows.

“I had my fair share of adventures here as well,” Aziraphale remarked.

“Oh really?” Crowley said playfully, grin on his face. Aziraphale enjoyed the frequency with which Crowley had smiled during the trip.

“I did return once after the 7th century, mid 16ty century after it was taken over by Henry VIII. Got into a bit of a tiff with a few visiting Italians.”

“‘Bit of a tiff’? What'd you do, get into a heated argument about the marinara sauce?”

“Don't mock me, old boy. No, we handled the affair like men.” He replied primly.

Crowley turned to look at him, “You didn't duel them, did you?”

Aziraphale blushed a little, “It's not my usual style but the situation quickly escalated.”

Crowley laughed, and it echoed around them. “Did you win?”

Aziraphale looked insulted, “Of course I won! I wasn't given a flaming sword for no reason.”

“What was the argument?”

“I can't quite recall where it started but I believe it ended when he called me a son of a bitch and I replied with something along the lines of 'You dare refer to the Lord that way!?' and drew my sword.”

Crowley gave him a wicked grin, “Would have liked to see that.”

“We should spar sometime. I may be a bit out of shape but I'm sure I could show you a thing or two.”

“Definitely not. I was always rubbish with weaponry. Never really bothered with it. Prefer using my wits, and when a sword was necessary I just got someone else to do it.”

“Maybe I could teach you?”

The offer was left unanswered, the two naturally returning to a comfortable silence as they continued their exploration of the old castle and priory. It was an old place, humans had been occupying the land for 2000 years, and yet they were still much older. This castle had been in ruins for centuries, and they had been there before, during, and after. They did not feel old within the new metropolises that had popped up in the last century but in the ruins of the civilizations that they outlived by millennia. They were old, but they were old together, and now nothing was there to stop them from being so.

“Shall we go home?”

Home. Crowley liked the sound of that when Aziraphale said it.

“Yeah, let's go.”

Epilogue: Dover Castle

They drove south along the coast. Aziraphale had gone through nearly all of the CDs he had acquired in Wales, except one.

“Vera Lynn? Didn’t realize you were a fan.”

“She had such a lovely voice. They broadcast one her performances on BBC during the war and I bought a record the next day."

“How modern of you.”

“This one apparently came out this year. I like the cover art. Technology is unbelievable nowadays, over 30 tracks on a single side of this tiny disc.”

It was later in the afternoon now, Vera Lynn serenading the duo as rolling hills passed them on one side and choppy grey waves on the other. It had been a well-needed disruption in their daily routines, a literal and figurative breath of fresh air. If Crowley was being honest (which he rarely was with himself) he enjoyed spending all this time with Aziraphale. The angel had allowed himself to enjoy their vacation much more openly, but Crowley had enjoyed it too, in his own way. He was old, which he did not care to admit. Humanity had aged him. 6000 years in the pits of hell was nothing, but 6000 years amongst billions of the busiest and most diverse animals on the planet had a way of reminding your how ancient you truly are. Most humans believed that the earth was billions of years old, and that was a length of time that Crowley did not care to imagine. Revisiting all of these old castles and villages reminded him just how much he had experienced already, so much more than any person could imagine, longer than any given human civilization. Up until now, the future had been finite, but now, thinking about all that he could still experience here on earth with seemingly no expiration date was equal parts exciting and terrifying. He looked over at the angel. He kept doing that throughout the trip. Glancing over at Aziraphale in the passenger seat, either reading a book or looking out at the scenery and on one extremely treasured stretch of the drive when he closed his eyes and ‘slept’ (Crowley doubted he had been completely successful in his attempt but it was a marvel to behold regardless.) How many more vacations would they have? How far would they go? The anxiety that had hovered over their previous encounters still loomed slightly, but it was quickly fading with each passing month. Where would they be in a year? He was nervous, terrified even. But looking over at the angel, the knot in his stomach seemed to disentangle itself slowly but surely.

Aziraphale’s thoughts were significantly less deep. He was extremely happy with how the vacation had shaped up and was excited to plan out the next. He was still ready to be back home in his bookshop, he could only handle so much excitement and travel, but it had been energizing and thrilling in its own way. This trip had reminded him why he had settled in England. For all its flaws (notably the weather. Crowley would have also said the politics but Aziraphale didn’t make a habit of keeping up with current affairs), it was a beautiful country filled with kind and well-intentioned people. And had produced its fair share of good music. He had not listened to Vera Lynn in a while but somehow all those old tunes were still in his head as he hummed along watching the sun descend closer to the horizon. He saw a sign that said ‘London’ and when Crowley did not turn onto it, he looked over at the demon curiously.

“Thought we’d make one more stop before heading back home. Just a bit further south.”

Aziraphale was in no rush, so he made no objection. He slid back into his spot up against the window, head perched on his hand. They view slowly grew more and more populated, quaint villages into small towns and then again into cities. Aziraphale closed his eyes, just enjoying the music, enjoying the peace, enjoying Crowley. Even though he was not saying anything the demon's presence was so easily felt. He let himself soak up that feeling and they carried on. They crossed over the Thames and slowly returned to those quaint villages and green fields. The drive wasn’t very long (almost certainly to do with the incredibly dangerous speeds the Bentley had been driving at). They got out of the car and Aziraphale gazed upwards towards the imposing structure in front of them. It was well preserved, in a much better condition than the other castles they had visited. The main keep was surrounded by enormous walls on all sides. The castle itself stood upon a hill overlooking the English Channel. The sun was setting over the water far in the distance. Crowley hadn’t driven them up to the main castle, instead of off to the side closer to the rocky cliffs.

“Dover Castle, the Key of England.”

Crowley got out off the car without turning it off so the music continued to pour out of the Bentley. Aziraphale followed, meeting Crowley who had walked around the car to his side. “Red Sails in the Sunset” faded out and familiar flute and string orchestra began to play.

“They’ll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover.”

Aziraphale began to blush, “Oh my dear, you didn't.” Except, when Aziraphale said ‘my dear’ the accent was not on the my and full of disbelief or frustration, but on the dear, and was not so much of an exclamation than a term of endearment, gentle and full of care. Crowley would never say it aloud, but he adored the way it sounded out of Aziraphale’s mouth, and especially since it was directed at him. He didn’t respond, instead, leaning against the angel watching the sunset over the castle, which he hoped was in of itself enough of an answer.

Now it should be noted that ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ was that in fact included in the recording Aziraphale had purchased, but Crowley did not know that and imagined that it must be, and so there it was, just in time. The song (miraculously) matched up perfectly with the setting sun. Crowley (or maybe it had been Aziraphale. Both had slowly drifted into each other as night fell, hands brushing up against the others) slowly slipped his hand into that of his best friend. A quiet display of affection that meant so much as the stars began to emerge from the darkening the sky.

“Tomorrow, just you wait and see.”

#fanfiction #good omens #original work #gofanexchange #apologies for my tangents on classical music and historic queer people #and I am 100% sure I missed a few typos here and there #Hope you enjoy!

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shadowsong26x · 5 years ago

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Author Ask Game

I was tagged by @spell-cleaver, so here we go!

Author name: shadowsong26, or shadowsong26x. Or just shadowsong, but on my sites/whatever I have some part of the number.

Fandoms you write for: At the moment, primarily Star Wars (as well as some original stuff), but I’m trying to get back into some of my BSG fic. Apart from those two, my prior main fandoms that I did a lot of writing for were Supernatural, ATLA, and HP, but I’ve done bits and pieces for MCU, miscellaneous crossovers with other things, way back when I did some Dragonlance and LOTR and Wheel of Time...

Where you post: At the moment, mostly AO3 for fanfic stuff. And my writing tumblr.

Most popular one shot: Judging purely by hit count on the stuff that’s been crossposted to AO3 (since that’s easiest to track) - for Star Wars, either The Magic of Midwinter or To his family, send him. Which, incidentally, was the first thing I wrote when I came back to this fandom, lol. Uh. Sanctuary also did pretty well, I think. Most of my SPN fic never got that popular, but some of my ATLA one-shots got a fair number of hits, as well.

Most popular multi-chapter: Precipice, by a wide, wide, wide margin, lol. Uh. Leaving that one outlier aside, Distaff is the next most popular, followed by These Three Remain and then Asajj Ventress and Her Tiny Time-Travelling Conscience. For my non-SW stuff, The Promises of Angels did fairly well for a very long genfic about a tertiary character who (at the time I wrote it) had been dead for five seasons...

Favourite story you wrote: GDI. I hate this kind of question, lol. Uh. I’m still fairly proud of Promises, which I mentioned earlier--at the time, it was the longest contiguous story I’d ever written. Precipice has its ups and downs, but I still love it and have no intention of leaving that AU/timeline anytime soon. The Devoted turned out really well, I thought. Looking back at most of the stuff I have out there, there’s bits I would change, to make things more cohesive/coherent/whatever, but I like what I did with a lot of my stuff. ...also, my AU outlines are a blast, I really should update one of them/write another...

Story you were nervous to post: Lord. Uh. Mostly the more niche/self-indulgent things (or...things that I’m concerned will come across as self-indulgent*?) and/or unusual formats--so, crossposting Ventress to AO3; some of the Jedi of Valdemar bits; the portions of Precipice that deal with Lavinia. It’s Like Deja Vu (All Over Again), too. I was waffling about some of the way chapter 2 plays out. Oh, and Sanctuary, mostly because I don’t hang out in the ST corner of the fandom very much so writing Rey was a little weird for me, but I think it turned out okay?

*Because, while I’ve long since decided to stop feeling guilty/ashamed of such things, I like getting good responses when I share my work??? And I don’t like getting bad ones. So putting that kind of stuff up in a place where it’s intended to reach a wider audience can still be a little nervous-making, if that makes sense.

How do you choose your titles: Oh, all kinds of places. Words that sound cool/feel appropriate, various quotations...I think I did a list on some of my title sources at one point...aha, here it is!

Do you outline: Not..really, no, lol. Like, for Precipice, I sort of have a vague idea of the Major Plot Points that happen in most of the arcs, but I don’t really have it written down anywhere. I had a kind of outline for Heaven on Their Minds, I think; and when I’m working on a Big Bang project or something else with a Deadline, sometimes I’ll have placeholder chapter/scene titles in there? (Like, in The Devoted, there was The Heist(tm), and Obi-Wan and Padme Cannot Ethically Seduce Anakin, and Bail is In Trouble, and Dramatic Confession Scene(tm), etc., but nothing like a Formal Outline. ...come to think of it, I do that with Precipice, too. But not usually very far in advance, just when I’m actually sitting down to organize the next two-three chapters/scenes/plot point/whatever. Oh, I do have kind of an outline for Jedi of Valdemar, mostly because it’s an enormous timeline and I wanted to get the order/relative dating/ages straight. But that’s not super detailed.

Complete: Uhm. Well, in SW, mostly my oneshots. These Three Remain is complete. Deja Vu is technically complete, but I might do a sequel at some point? The Devoted, I have more stories to tell in that universe, though the individual fic itself is complete. The Phoenix I actually do plan to write sequels to, and have them vaguely planned out (The Hercinia will be sort of two parallel storylines, one on the planet and one with Luke and Vader; or possibly three, since the two of them will be mostly split up. The Caladrius will bring everything back together, probably, though I haven’t worked all the details out.)

In progress: Precipice, Distaff, Asajj Ventress and Her Tiny Time-Traveling Conscience; in addition to the probably-continued AU worlds mentioned above, Auxiliaries and Jedi of Valdemar universes (Auxiliaries, at the moment, has only been posted to tumblr, not AO3). Some unposted things, such as our faces like a mirror; a few things in other fandoms (Serenissima, for one; I’m considering rewriting For Sorrow Sung and/or actually getting my notes for The Other Battlestar into some kind of postable fic format, but we’ll see.)

Coming soon: Uh. Well, like I said, our faces like a mirror; I’ll do something for next year’s SWBB; more in various established AUs; probably another AU outline at some point...

Upcoming story you are most excited to write: All. Of. Them. <--I’m just gonna leave @spell-cleaver’s answer here because Mood.

Do you accept prompts: Yes! Preferably at my writing tumblr (shadowsong26fic). I do prompt calls every so often (usually for holidays or for Bonus Fics celebrating specific milestones), and I’ll sometimes reblog prompt lists/memes and the like, but I am always open for prompts. It’s just if I haven’t made a specific call or whatever, there’s no promises on when I’ll fill it. I reserve the right to refuse prompts, if it’s something I don’t feel comfortable writing or something I don’t think I can do justice, but you can always feel free to send me an ask if there’s something you’d like to see from me!

Tagging anyone who wants to do it!

#meme #ask #spell-cleaver

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edenfalling · 6 years ago

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[Fic] Random fragments that I will never finish

#liz writes stuff #liz talks about random stuff #fragment #harry potter series #homestuck #daredevil (mcu)#riddlemaster trilogy #fairy tales #all my original fiction (which you can find on dreamwidth)#liz is thinky #decluttering

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bruhhemianrhapsody · 6 years ago

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jasper’s ultimate mcu fic rec! (pt.2)

shuri’s harem:

★ undertow *incomplete by lilithenaltum

Words: 44,454, Rating: Explicit

I've been baptized by your voice that screams

From deep beneath the cold black water that's

Half as high as heaven

Half as clear as reason

part I: riptide (Chapters 1-5)

On the long list of bad decisions that Tony has made in his life, seducing the young queen of Wakanda might very well be the worst. It takes two to tango, though, and the rules never did apply to Shuri.

part II: hightide (Chapters 6-10)

Tony and Shuri live with the consequences of their actions and try to carve out some sort of happiness even in spite of the hell that they’ve made. Somehow, they manage to make do with the cards they’ve been dealt.

Set post Infinity War.

serendipity by lilthenaltum

Words: 5,589, Rating: T

Loki recovers from his fight with Thanos in Wakanda and finds love with not one, but two, beautiful people.

family portrait *incomplete by oopswakanda

Words: 10,441, Rating: T

Bucky remembers one rugby training weeks ago when he nearly went out of his mind because his teammates kept thirsting after his foster sister, including the team captain Steve Rogers. Pietro wondered how it would feel to spin Shuri in the air since she's so lithe. Bucky is also reminded of Sam's comment about Shuri being marriage material. Or Thor praising the way she radiates love and light and fun. To this day, this is the most dangerous comment to him because the blonde hearthrob said it with a longing that mirrored his own.

darling, i died for the sun rays *incomplete by rxinventlove (disclaimer! this one of my fics, and the only one that will ever be on this list.)

Words: 2,395, Rating: M

Natasha’s got nothing left, both SHIELD and the Red Room have long since fallen, and James is nothing but dust at her feet. What’s left of the Avengers are trying to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of Thanos’ destruction. Taking refuge in Wakanda, Natasha agrees to help in whatever way she can, but falling in love with the newly crowned Queen doesn’t seem to be helping anyone; least of all Natasha herself.

While Shuri struggles to balance an entire kingdom on her shoulders and desperately tries to bring her brother back, she finds safety in the arms of the infamous Black Widow. Secret meetings and stolen moments in quiet corners slowly become more than just a coping mechanism, but when Shuri’s sure the final tendrils of grief are fading Natasha starts to pull away from her. As the last of Earth’s mightiest heroes finally start making headway in reversing the snap, Shuri must deal with the return of Bucky Barnes—both of the girls former lover—and a steadily retreating Natasha.

—

winterhawk (clint/bucky):

★ lost and found by mariana_oconner

Words: 89,972, Rating: M

Clint Barton’s got a bag full of stolen money and a burning desire to stay under the radar. His old friends in the Carnival will be looking for him and they sure as hell won’t be happy. In a desperate attempt to stay off their radar, he ends up in Timely, a small town so far off the beaten track he’s surprised he even found it, and waits for Barney to comes and get him. Because Barney will be coming. Clint knows he will.

But there’s something about the town. Maybe it’s the strange wolf that watches him from the trees, and the way people finish conversations when he enters a room. Or it could be the bartender, Bucky, who decided to hate him on sight. Something’s going on in this small town, and Clint’s not sure if he’s jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

love pitch by bookdancer

Words: 21,980, Rating: T

Clint is a starting pitcher for the Manhattan Avengers, Bucky Barnes is a rival pitching for the St. Petersburg Hydras. Any sort of relationship should be impossible… too bad nobody told them that. Winterhawk MLB AU.

★ historic features by flawedamythyst

Words: 19,254, Rating: T

“Electrical surges with no source, and music coming from the air, and that damn baseball game no one was watching, and I swear I sometimes hear voices right on the edge of hearing when I should be alone,” said Tony. “What does that sound like to you?”

“Sounds like-” said Steve, then hesitated. Tony gave him a pointed look. “Sounds like a haunting,” he finished, reluctantly.

“Oh no,” said Clint, in tones of mock-horror. “Ghosts!”

Bucky laughed and kissed him. “Man, I hope they’re friendly.”

Clint and Bucky are haunting the new apartment that Tony bought in Brooklyn to try and impress Steve.

—

★ nobody lost, nobody found *incomplete by claraxbarton

Words: 73,342, Rating: E

“Look, dude, I get it. You’re fucked-up. HYDRA fucked you up. I’ve been there. But you’re my fucking Soul Mate!”

“I can kill you. I could kill you without even realizing what I was doing. I’m not fucked-up, I’m a monster. I’m a nightmare. You can’t be here. You can’t- All the people I’ve killed- I will not murder my Soul Mate too. Not after everything else I’ve-”

Clint worked his left hand between their bodies and managed to land a punch to the man’s right side, forcing him to shift his weight, and Clint brought his right hand down on the place where the man’s metal arm met his torso - hidden by the shirt he wore, but on full display in the video Clint had watched.

The man released Clint with a grunt of pain, and Clint pressed his advantage, landing another punch to his abdomen, backing him up against the opposite side of the RV and then pressing the kitchen knife he had pocketed while cleaning up earlier to the man’s throat.

“Like I said, I’m not a Boy Scout. I’m plenty dangerous myself. We clear on that?”

OR:

This looks bad, because it is.

OR:

How Clint Barton met his Soul Mate

—

miscellaneous:

★ loki is sorry cakes by anno_hreog (gen)

Words: 3,427, Rating: T

Years later, as penance for leading the Chitauri to attack New York City, Loki bakes cupcakes. Coffeeshop/bakery AU, without the AU, and mostly an excuse for fluffy crack.

★ the lewis rule (MARRY, FUCK, KILL) *series by sevenfoxes (darcy lewis/steve rogers, darcy lewis/steve rogers/bucky barnes)

Words: 15,374, Works: 2, Complete: Yes, Rating: M

The ladies of SHIELD play a mass game of MARRY FUCK KILL, Avengers edition.

Wherein everyone marries Steve, kills Tony, Jane betrays science and Darcy hypothetically turns Thor into a llama.

on each other’s team by audreyii_fic (jane foster/loki)

Words: 27,110, Rating: E

Jane Foster, college student on a semester abroad in London, fights her way through Philosophy of Quantum Mechanics, dates a golden boy, and gets tutored by a compulsive liar. Which situation is most unsustainable is a matter of opinion. (College!AU. The author regrets everything.)

is that what they listen to in missouri? by poorwendy (peter quill/thor)

Words: 12,017, Rating: E

The thing is, Peter always kind of thought he'd visit Terra again to find his family, retrace his lineage. Something like that.

But here he is, in a dirty, smelly basement, nowhere near Missouri, watching a three-piece rock band play way too loud. Even if they are kind of awesome.

of blood and kisses by celyan (chris hemsworth/tom hiddleston)

Words: 4,134, Rating: T

Tom does not believe in vampires.

—— The vampire walks towards him, slow and purposeful, and Tom backs away against a conveniently located wall of a building that has spat out its diligent workers hours ago, only to be left cold and dark and empty just for them. He keeps his eyes trained on the vampire even when one of his hands comes up to touch the side of his neck, finding the two tiny puncture marks that are his souvenirs from that fateful evening two weeks ago.

how we swallow the sun by voices_in_my_head (loki/stephen strange)

Words: 25,558, Rating: T

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you back so soon,” Strange said just as Loki had crossed the threshold. He was standing in the middle of the entrance and Loki could feel power in him, but it was different from that which he was used to. More�� raw, perhaps.

“I do live to disappoint,” Loki said with a smile.

Or: After deciding to stay on Earth, Loki is forced to come to terms with his actions while trying to deal with the people in his life, old and new.

★ oral sorcery by inetrabang (peter quil/gamora)

Words: 3,900, Rating: E

During a mission for Nova Corps, Peter starts whispering naughty things to Gamora, only to act like nothing happened. Fortunately for him, she likes it.

takes from a supply closet *series by catrinasl (bucky barnes/darcy lewis/loki)

Words: 7,049, Works: 4, Complete: No, Rating: E

A collection of Darcy/Bucky/Loki fics set in the same universe. Not necessarily in chronological order.

★ mokusatsu by shadesfalcon (clint barton/bucky barnes/steve rogers)

Words: 125,474, Rating: E

Clint Barton has been strung along from abusive relationship to abusive relationship all his life. Not that he would use the word “abusive”. He would argue that, as a sub, he was born to take whatever it is his dom feels like throwing at him.

But even with that attitude, he’s nervous about his current situation. Trapped in a bureaucratically mandated relationship with not one but two doms is going to be difficult and dangerous. Especially since these two doms are both members of the Avengers themselves.

He hopes that whenever he disappoints them, they’ll have at least a little pity on him, even though he knows he won’t deserve it.

#abt #fic rec #fanfic #mcu

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neednothavehappenedtobetrue · 7 years ago

Text

got some positive response so I’m doing Fic Amnesty and posting all the things in my drafts that won’t get properly finished probably ever.

this was my attempt at a one-shot. content warnings for ghosts and violence. it’s a little long.

Cassie was sketching idly when the man in the hospital gown walked into her office. When the living walk into Cassie's office, they wince or cough, assaulted by the smells of sandalwood, anise, wormwood, and lavender. For ghosts, who can't ask directions in the maze of the police station, the smell is a signpost. Also, he's wandering around barefoot in a hospital gown, which would have gotten him flagged on the way in here if anyone else could see him.

"Hey, mister sir, how are you doing today?" Cassie asks. The man gives her a despairing look and makes a weak gesture with one of his arms.

"Not so great. Okay, well, why don't you have a seat, I'll fix you up something warm to drink, and we can talk when you're ready to talk."

The ghost slumps into one of Cassie's chairs. Cassie pours him a saucer of milk, heats it on the hot plate, and stabs herself in the finger with her pocket knife. She lets a generous few drops of blood land on the milk and sets it on the little table beside Mr. Ghost's chair. He lets his hand fall into the dish and a little color starts to come back to his skin.

"You just say hey when you're ready to talk," Cassie says. The ghost nods a fraction. He must be really and properly tired out, Cassie thinks. At least a few days dead.

"We got one for you, Lieutenant," says Charlie, standing awkwardly in the door of her office, handkerchief over his face. The rest of Tau Ceti's police department treats the resident ghost talker with unnerved respect to her face and it doesn't matter what behind her back.

"He beat you here," Cassie says.

"He? No, we found a woman's body, still warm. Red dress, dark hair. Strangled. Pretty sure it was the boyfriend. Captain said to call you in, just in case."

"All right," Cassie says. "Mister sir, you stay right where you are please, and I'll come back and get you as soon as I can. I can't help you if you wander off." She squeezes a little more blood into the saucer and Charlie looks away.

The ghost shrugs minutely, holds one palm slightly up. Where else would he go? She leaves him, follows Charlie back to the crime scene.

The ghost of Lena Pavel is vibrant and kicking. "Hey! Those are my computers, don't you touch them. I didn't give nobody permission to cart off all my stuff. What is this?"

"Hi there, lady ma'am. My name is Cassie and I'm a witness liaison. Can you tell me what's happening here?" Cassie asks. The trick is not to let them know they're dead until you've got as much as you can out of them.

"I woke up on the ground with cops crawling all over my apartment. Cops who don't listen!"

"They're astonishingly bad listeners," Cassie agrees, ignoring the snorts in response. "My job is to listen. Can you tell me what happened before you wound up on the floor?"

"Some guy was mad as hell. I know him. I know his face, but I can't remember his name. Must have clocked my head. Maybe I ought to go to the hospital.I knew exactly who he was. I said, hey, it's not your business what I do for a living."

Names are the first thing ghosts lose, their own, other's. Faces last longer. "Could you sit with me and help me get a sketch of the man's face?" Cassie asks.

"I can do you better. The webcam was on, three-sixty degrees. He'll be on there. If you can get that sweaty cop away from my expensive camera set, I can show you;"

"What's your password?" Cassie asks, a second before Lena Pavel reaches for her laptop and her hand moves through the screen.

She stares."I'm not... " she says.

"You're very recently deceased, which means you're going to have some trouble with your motor skills for a little while until we can get that taken care of." Cassie says. "I can input your password for you, you just have to give it to me." The trick is to talk faster than your ghost can think, when they're teetering on the edge of realization. Don't lie, just keep it moving.

"M0xie?719?" says Lena. She spells it out. Cassie types it in. The camera has been running all this time. By the time the tech has rewound the video, done facial recognition and announced that, in fact, the murderer was not the boyfriend, but the victim's uncle, irate to have found his niece on a camming site, Cassie is sitting with Lena and a cup of bloody tea, because there's no milk in the apartment. Lena bends down to sip thirstily from the edge of the glass as Cassie walks her through Sorry You're Deceased 101. No, there's no coming back. No, Cassie doesn't know what happens once you pass. Yes, Cassie can call someone of Lena's choice to handle the funeral arrangements. Yes, Cassie will attend Lena's funeral. Cassie attends a lot of funerals.

Lena winks into nothing as soon as Cassie helps her write a letter to her mom. Some cases are simple like that. Get the nice lady to solve her own murder and that pretty much takes care of unfinished business.

Cassie heads back to her office to deal with Mister Ghost.He's still there. The milk has turned a kind of greyish color and she dumps it down the drain, refills it, pricks her finger again. She does not bother asking the ghost his name, or how long he's been dead. It just upsets them when they can't remember.

"Did you come from City Hospital?" she asks. The hospital has its own ghost-talker who should have caught him then, but stranger things have happened. He shakes his head.

"Do you feel up to talking?"He opens and closes his mouth mutely."All right then. I'm gonna do some paperwork and make some calls.".

She watches him out of the corner of her eye while she files the Lena Pavel paperwork and logs his arrival, a form mostly full of question marks underneath a drawing of him. Bare feet, thin face, underweight, hospital gown with a pattern of blue stripes. He glances around occasionally, but doesn’t move much. She calls Mina on her personal phone.

“Hey, babe, I’m going to have to sleep here tonight, I’ve got a guest. No, not that girl who got murdered on the news, she passed on. We’ve got to do a night interview.”

Mina sighs. She doesn’t rehash the old argument, but she lets the sigh do it for her. “If you’ve got to,” she says. Mina runs an apothecary and keeps strict nine-to-fives. Sure, there’s work for the civic-minded witch that doesn’t require regular overnights, but Cassie’s always been good with ghosts.

“All my love,” Cassie says.

“Love,” Mina says, and hangs up.

All right. Cassie tugs her cot out of her closet and puts do-not-disturb on her door. She makes herself a little dinner on the hot plate and watches a grainy holoprogram until she feels sleepy. She pops a pill to make sleep stick and then conks out on the cot.

She wakes up in her dreamscape, an eclectic museum. A few standard exhibits, some dinosaur bones and old tech. Paintings of everyone she’s invited here. Miscellaneous scenes behind glass. She finds Mr. Ghost staring at the lake in its exhibit case.

“Hey there,” she says. No need for the fast talk. This is a man who knows he’s dead.

He gestures at the lake. “How does this work?” he asks. “It doesn’t look like a scale model. The perspective’s wrong.”

It’s a small lake, a muddy pathway around it, two rickety docks, an adrift canoe. Grampa left it here when he came to say goodbye. Cassie has never actually seen a lake. She’s never been out of Pollux, Tau Ceti’s big, hot, dry city.

‘We’re in a dream, sir. Things don’t have to work quite right.”

“I don’t like magic. Bunch of egos swanning around taking shortcuts,” he says.

For a living normal, Cassie would have a rebuttal to that. Cassie does not bother with the dead.

“Well, here you are, sir,” she says instead. “Now what can I do for you?”

“I came to report a crime. I came to the police station to report a crime,” he says.

“What crime, sir?”

“Unlawful working conditions leading to my death.” He says.

“Where do you work?”

“I was a driver. I drove a... big bus. But that’s not how I died. I came to report a crime.”

“All right, sir. Let’s see if we can establish some identity. Were you married, or did you have kiddos?” She does not ask him his name.

“I had a daughter. She had leukemia. Her name was. Fuck.”

“It’s normal, sir.”

“She had brown hair. She had leukemia. She was... she loved pickles. She loved lemon pickles. Her mother named her after her grandmother. I don’t. She could read early for her age. Why can’t I remember her name?”

“It’s very normal sir, you’re doing great. Look at the clothes you’re wearing, please.”

He looks down. “I wasn’t in the hospital. They had a private hospital under the complex. I was there. They treated my burns there but I must have died. There was a bad lab accident. A chemical spill. There are regulations. We didn’t have protective gear. I thought if I lived I was going to report it. And then I was up and moving around again, so I thought I’d report it. I figured out I was dead when I had to deal with the elevators, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do so I came to report it. It’s against the law not to provide employees with adequate protective gear, isn’t it?”

Damn. “It usually is, sir. I’ll look into it, all right? Do I have permission to contact your family?”

“Sure. Yes.”

She walks him down to the museum cafe, sets him up with a chicken sandwich and some pickle chips. He looks just like a man here, underweight, barely dressed, but as solid as she is.

“Any questions?” she asks.

“When do I go somewhere else?”

“I don’t know, sir. You did a very good thing, reporting the crime. You did all you can do for now. If there’s anything else, I’ll let you know, but you did plenty. It’s commendable what you did, sir.”

“Do some of them leave when you tell them that?”

“More than a few. Look, sir, I can transfer you to a postmortem therapist if you want, or you can stay here while I pursue your case.”

“Here,” he says, and eats a pickle chip. Damn. She doesn’t mind when they stay, but Mina does. She’s starting to mind that Mina minds so much. It’s not like they bother, or snoop, or peep. They stay inside Cassie’s dreams when she’s not in the station.

She wakes up. The candle tree has gone out. She walks over, lights them, washes up in a just-cleaned public restroom, swallows a plate of canteen scrambled eggs, and goes back to her office. There’s a note on her door about a body in the morgue making paper clips twitch, so she meanders down there and finds the ghost of a teenage boy loitering by his own corpse, trying to flick scraps of paper at the coroner. As Cassie approaches the boy manages a slightly more robust throw and a shred of yellow paper hits Dr. Lai square in the nose.

“Ugh. I told them we had a lively one down here. What took you so long?”

“Witness interview. You got a name for our friend here?”

“You were sleeping.” Dr Lai hands over a file.

“Yeah, witness interview. Hey, Harry. How’s it going tonight?”

“I’m fucking dead,” the kid grumbles.

“That’s right. Did you see the car that hit you?”

”I don’t want to talk to the fucking police. Do I get a lawyer?”

“You’re not in any trouble with us, Harry.”

“I ought to get a lawyer. I’ve still got rights.”

“You were hit by a car, Harry. You’re not being accused of anything. I can help take a message to your mom or your girlfriend if you need.”

Harry tells her to fuck herself so she leaves him down there. He’ll come up when he wants to talk. He’ll follow the smell. Meanwhile, she has an interview to document and log.

She searches the last week’s obits for men with young daughters, searches the daughters for current and former cancer patients, finds John Snyder, survived by his daughter Emily, age eleven, who beat leukemia last year, with a little help from, damn, a NemoCorps employment-collateral loan.

Four years ago, NemoCorps moved their headquarters to Tau Ceti, chased out of New York by the lawsuits. They’re a pharmaceutical company and most of their employees are also their debtors. If you owe them enough money they’ll hire you on the spot and take it out of your wages every month. Snyder died nonspecifically of “an illness.” She combs through the past month and finds four more people in their thirties and forties who died of “an illness” with outstanding medical debt. Everyone knows about the fierce pneumonias that sweep through the Nemo employee dorms every few months. People who get out come home with skin conditions and wracking coughs, chronic fatigue, vision and hearing loss, cancer. John Snyder came to her to report a familiar crime. But Nemo is a multi-trillion dollar company, providing jobs out here in the boondocks, Nemo is a generous pillar of the community. Nemo is a machine guarded by its own vast output.

“I’ve got to talk to your family. You coming?” she asks. Snyder shakes his head. She doesn’t understand that, ghosts who don’t say goodbye. Still, she goes out without him to visit Mrs. Snyder, who is polite but terse. No, she doesn’t think a crime was committed here. His body was donated to science, with her permission, so no autopsy can be performed. She is transparently afraid and Cassie cannot bring herself to press the issue.

“Give him our love,” she says. People are like that with ghosts sometimes, distant, like the ghost isn’t family. Once they’ve been buried or cremated or donated or “donated,” whatever’s left is maybe an acquaintance, if that. People who can’t speak directly to ghosts are sometimes desperately keen to talk to a ghost-talker and sometimes... not.

Cassie goes back to the precinct. She calls up Nemo. A ghost’s testimony, legally, is supplemental, not enough on its own to warrant an investigation. People say ghosts get confused, and that’s true, but misleading. Cassie has never known a ghost to lie. They’re too disoriented to make anything up. What they bring to you is true as rocks. She gets a copy of his medical records, from the on-site medical bay where he was treated and died. Pneumonia. Yeah. The debts will be transferred back onto Mrs. Snyder, who has six weeks to demonstrate ability to pay or show up at NemoCorps for her brand new job.

Cassie comes home at the end of the day and Mina makes her sleep in the guest room because the ghost occupying the inside of her head is a man. In dreamtime, she sits in the grim little museum cafe and explains to Snyder that there’s not a whole lot she can do, at this point.

“You expect me to go now?” he asks.

“You’ve done all you can do. If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

“I came to report a crime!”

“And I logged it, sir, and if a living survivor ever comes by and sues, they’ll be able to use it as supplemental evidence, but there’s not a whole lot you can do on your own. I recommend you let me refer you to a postmortem counselor.”

“No. There’s someone else I want to talk to. Bobby Stokes. You said a living survivor. Well I’ve got one.”

It rarely ends well when the dead crusade, but she has an obligation to try.

The next morning, Harry has gotten bored of the morgue and saunters up to her office to describe an orange Ford Gravity, license plate number he didn’t fucking see it, he was too busy dying and all. She passes this tidbit onto Traffic and carts two ghosts with her out to see Bobby Stokes, a wheezing man who wears heavy gloves.

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