#like “oh oversleeping” or “drawing the whole day” because then i would be making myself a little miserable

[cepheusgalaxy]

Okay yall so my therapist just gave me the BEST idea: Since im working on the espa wip to get used to actually finishing the things i start and working on them to the end and she was like...hey how about you set little prizes for yourself at the end. And i was like. Oh. My god. This is an incredible idea actually

So I decided to set on a few landmarks:

-> when I finish worldbuilding the Shelfes + the Corp + characterizing Ciça (aka preparing everything i need to actually Start)

-> when i finish the first stage of the first arc

-> when finish the first arc

-> when i finish every arc

-> and then a BIG prize when i write the whole story and post it here. I am not sure of what the other ones would be, but for this one I have a pretty good one: I can save up to buy myself a whole box of books, like, an entire trilogy or so. Either like All For The Game or The Murderbot Diaries which i'm pretty interested in getting.

Anyways i plan on doing a little roadmap of completing the story when I get home, with all the treats listed on every 'checkpoint'! Perhaps we could have something small for each session too, but not sure about that.

[sushiandstarlight]

Lockdown Voicemails

Read this story on AO3

There was an extremely annoying sound blaring outside his cocoon of blankets.  No matter how much he growled and hissed at it, the sound wouldn’t cease.  In fact, it was only getting louder.

Crowley reached out and grasped his phone, swiping the alarm off without even looking.  He drug his now-cold arm with the phone back into the warmth of the blankets and sighed.  Maybe five more minutes.  What was five more minutes after months of sleeping?

He gave up on it two minutes in, an antsiness spreading out into his limbs making them want to move and slither.  He pulled the phone up in front of his face and blinked a few times to clear his vision only to startle and sit up, throwing the blankets back.

There were 24 missed calls, all from Aziraphale.  His heart started racing, thinking something had gone horribly wrong while he slept.  But, really, if it was something so bad surely Aziraphale would have popped over and woke him up, right?  He jabbed the first voicemail:

“Ah, I see I did miss you.  I had hoped, well... I had hoped to catch you before your nap,” and here Aziraphale’s voice waiver and lowered a bit, “It is just a nap, I hope.  I hope you won’t be gone until July.  Just... er, just call me back when you get up, I suppose? Okay.”

Crowley stared at the phone.  So, Aziraphale had been okay on May 2nd.  That was good.  He tapped the second message:

“I guess you were telling the truth about your nap until July.  That’s okay, really.  I mean there’s not much to do, is there?  I was enjoying my baking... The whole process and, of course, the tasting.  I don’t know.  It’s lost a bit of it’s shine, I’m afraid.  I thought about leaving some of my cakes on the neighbor’s stoops.  Not sure how well that would be received.  Is that a thing humans do anymore?  Unprecedented times, they keep saying,” there was a long pause where Crowley could hear him breathing, “I suppose that’s it then.  I hope you’re resting well.”

He scrolled down a few voicemails and tapped the one from the last day of May.

“I spent some time reading human accounts of ‘ancient Rome’ today,” Aziraphale began without preamble; Crowley thought he sounded tired, “not all accurate, but they do a pretty good job for what information they have.  Doesn’t quite capture the feel of the time.  You can’t capture the feeling if you haven’t experienced a culture though, can you?  Do you... do you remember the oysters?  I thought they were divine, but I remember your face when you tried them.” There’s a soft chuckle and then, “I miss our dinners.  Ordering in isn’t the same, even if I can get whatever I want these days.”  There was another pause and then a click.

Crowley’s heart was doing a funny little sideways wobble.  That was the end of May.  He was a little afraid to click the next few messages.  Maybe... maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to leave Aziraphale behind just to skip a few months.  He scrolled past a few more voicemails and tapped one for the middle of June.  There was hardly a sound at first, but an occasional soft sigh or the creak of floorboards gave away that someone was there, pacing.  Crowley held the phone closer.

“... the thing is, as you say... I miss you, Crowley.  I don’t miss our dinners so much.  I can order in what I like.  I don’t miss the plays; I can ‘stream’ those.  A lot of museums are putting so many interesting things on the internet for me to visit.  I can have the majority of the world right here in my bookshop with me.  Imagine, human ingenuity,” Crowley swears he can actually hear Aziraphale swallow hard over the phone, “But you’re over there sleeping and I miss your company.  Which is silly, isn’t it?  We’ve gone longer apart, I know...” there’s another near-silent pause before Aziraphale seems to collect himself, “Do give me a ring when you wake up, dear.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes with his free hand because they were itching from being closed for so long.  It’s the brightness of the phone, that’s all.  Still, his chest is aching solidly now.  There were a couple more messages before the last one and he skips those, opting to listen to the one from two days ago.

“It’s- It’s nearly July now.  I find myself a bit excited to hear from you.  I hope you don’t hit the snooze,” the laugh that follows sounds hollow and a bit forced, “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, though.  Especially if you check the news before your phone.  Things are not...  they’re not as far along as we’d hoped.  I mean, the world is trying to open back up.  Humans treat economies like living things, you know.  Some of the sellers on the street have lost their shops.  And, one of them got sick.  She’s still in hospital.  I would like to visit her... maybe help... but they aren’t allowing visitors due to the infectiousness of the virus...” there’s another one of those long, painful pauses that gnaws at Crowley’s chest before, “When you wake up you’re more than welcome to come here now.  I should have... I should have let you pop over to begin with.  It’s still hard to remember, sometimes... that there aren’t rules for us now.  Not even human rules, really.  You can drive as fast as you like in London.  We can’t get sick.  You can come here.  I wish.  I wish you’d come here.  Call me when you’re up, won’t you?”

Crowley tossed his phone and the blankets aside, sliding to the edge of the bed and rubbing his face with both hands.  Taking a nap had been a mistake.  He should have insisted and tempted the angel into giving in.  That’s what he always had done, wasn’t it?  Spin words differently until something that had sounded impossible started to sound like something allowed.  It was just that, after everything, he had wanted Aziraphale to invite him willingly.  But, what had that stubbornness really accomplished?  With a snap of his fingers he was clean and dressed.  He grabbed a few of his things and a bottle of wine and headed for the Bentley.

Strangely, a knock at the door of the bookshop door yielded no answer.  Crowley had seen plenty of humans out and about on the streets on his way here.  Maybe the angel had gone out at last.  Still, it was being advertised as a bad idea, so he didn’t think that was the case.  He snapped open the door and crept inside, locking it again behind him.  The bookshop was dark and still inside.  He kept walking through the maze of books and the collected clutter of all the angel’s lifetimes.

He found Aziraphale in a pool of light in the back room.  He was curled up at the end of the sofa where they’d spent so many nights talking and drinking.  A blanket was draped over his lap and a book that had been in his hands was now on the floor.  He was sleeping, unbelievably.  Crowley had never seen him sleep before.  But, here he was: asleep with his silly little glasses still on.

Crowley set the wine down on a side table and stooped down to pick up the book, closing it gently and setting in on the sofa beside Aziraphale.  He didn’t stand back up, instead crouching there and observing his friend: his face was lax in sleep, all the fussy lines smoothed out.  Crowley found he would rather have those lines back if it meant he could see his eyes.  He reached out and gently shook the angel’s knee.

Aziraphale startled which made Crowley jump, losing his balance and pitching backwards to sit on the floor.

“Crowley!”

“Yes, it’s me!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale flustered, going about straightening his bow tie and his collar, “How did you... Did you really pop over here?”

“You were asleep.”

“Nonsense, I don’t sleep.”

“You rarely sleep.”

“I don’t sleep at all.  You sleep.  For months.”  There was a hurt edge to his voice that cut where the voicemails had ached.  He had.  He had left him alone here for months.

“Okay, you weren’t asleep.  I just snuck up on you.  Very sneaky, me.”  He was back up on his knees now, unsure what to do with his hands.  He wanted to touch, but that hadn’t seemed so welcomed a moment before.

“That isn’t much better, is it?”  Aziraphale was fiddling with the edges of he blanket in his lap, “Did you have a good nap?”

“Nothing to speak of, really, I was unconscious,” Crowley wanted to rest his hands on Aziraphale’s knees at least, some form of grounding connection, instead he tried to use words, “I’m sorry-”

“I do apologize-”

They shared a long look.

“I’m glad you didn’t oversleep,” Aziraphale swallowed glancing from Crowley’s eyes to his own lap, “It’s been a long couple of months...”

Crowley placed a hand on one knee and when that wasn’t met with more than a cautious gaze he grasped the other and gave it a squeeze.

“I would rather have been here.  I’m glad to be here now, with you.”

“I’m relieved you’re here.  I missed you terribly, Crowley.”  Soft, impossibly warm hands covered his own and Crowley’s heart gave a lurch.

“Next time,” Crowley watched more lines cross the angel’s face, “if there is a next time, I mean.  Next time I’ll set my phone so you can ring through.”

“Oh, would you?”

“Anything, Angel, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Maybe next time- if there is a next time,” Aziraphale pulled back his hands and fussed with them in his lap, “Next time you could just sleep here.  So I... So I know where you are.”

“I could do that, too,” Crowley’s voice sounded rough even to him.  The distance between them, though scant, was still unnerving him.  He stood slowly and sat beside Aziraphale, knee pressed against his thigh, “You sounded so sad on the phone.  I should’ve been there to answer.  I won’t make that mistake again, I promise.”

There was a pause.

“You believe me?”

“I do.  You haven’t lied to me yet.”

Crowley felt his shoulder’s relax for the first time since he’d started listening to the messages on his phone.

“So, tell me: you’ve been here all this time wishing I was here, yeah?  What would you like to do?  I brought some wine!  We could play some board games.  Promise not to cheat... overly much.”  Crowley smiled at him, hoping to draw a smile from the angel.

Aziraphale smiled a little and then a worried shadow crossed over his face.

“Whatever you want, I’m at your disposal: a fully charged demon.”

“I... you don’t have to, you know?  It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale was rambling on like Crowley usually did and that was unnerving to say the least, “Could I... well, could I hold you?”

Crowley’s brain fizzled to a stop.

“You can say no,” Aziraphale’s breaths were coming faster now and he was blinking rapidly, “you don’t have to.”

Crowley sat up and threw a knee over Aziraphale’s lap so he could settle into it.

“Oh.”

“Whatever you want.  I meant it.”  Crowley watched for a moment as Aziraphale took him in, drinking him in really.  Then the angel was reaching for him and pulling him into a tight hug.  Crowley snuggled closer to him, burying his face in the angel’s shoulder.

“You’re what I want,” one warm hand was on Crowley’s back while the other was stroking up into his hair, “I missed you and now I only want to know you’re here.”

“m’here,” Crowley murmured into the shoulder he was pressed into, arms looping around Aziraphale’s neck, “Not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale squeezed him again and Crowley felt the tension in the angel’s body drain out, taking his along with it.

[damienthepious]

So I Heard You All Like Lizard Kisses

Keep Your Head Above The Blue

[ao3] [Companion piece to Toss and Turn In Undertow and A Little Remedy]

[Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Suicidal Ideation

Summary:  In a relationship, you take care of each other. Before that, you have to learn that it's okay to let yourself be taken care of.

Notes: Extra warnings because I am a nervous bean: there's discussion of medication, discussion of eating habits which might be triggering for people with disordered eating, and a glancing mention of the possibility of self-harm, but no actual self-harm.

The narrative voice in this is very mean at times which is ENTIRELY in the head of the viewpoint character and not my own opinions to be perfectly clear. Also I am in no way a psychologist- I HAVE depression, but I'm not on any medication myself and I can't afford therapy, so like, I did my research but I'm just doing my best here. A lot of the... bad thoughts here are cribbed from my own brain. Projecting mental illness onto your fave fictional characters: it's what ya do!

Title taken from the song Library Magic by the Head and the Heart, 'cause I literally don't know how else to title shit at this point. ]

-

Arum feels the creep of darkness in his veins, some days. It’s part of who he is; a monster, born of the darkness and belonging to it, and there are times when it crawls beneath his skin and settles there, weighing his muscles until he can’t make himself move from the petals of his bed.

The world is too loud. Too full of conflict and pointlessness and chatter, and he wants the weight within him to seep out and curse the world dark, and silent, and easy.

In the time since Damien and Amaryllis, the feeling hasn’t lasted more than a few days at a time, thankfully. Arum, for the most part, can always wave it away as a bad mood or momentary distraction. Eventually, though.

Eventually it lasts. Eventually it creeps in, and it settles down to nest. He manages a few days without arousing suspicion in his mates. He is too curt with them, too distracted, but he apologizes and they believe easily that he only made himself over-tired, working late into the night and then oversleeping. They still have enough difficulty parsing his reptilian expressions that he can convince them that it is nothing more than exhaustion. Only exhaustion, and not a hollowness as if he is a termite-infested tree. For a few days longer he responds too slowly and they pull a little harder, trying to draw him out. Amaryllis holds his hand across the table when they eat together, an anchor he feels very distantly through a sort of fog. Damien recites a poem when they finish eating and Amaryllis laughs beside him at all the moments she should, and Arum can’t even remember the words the moment they are past.

They are so bright, his humans. They look right together, and Arum is-

He thinks, out of nowhere, that Damien would have been better off if he had only carried through with that knife in the cell. If Damien had merely taken the blade, and pushed. It would have been better for everyone. The two humans could go back to how they had been before Arum interfered. The Keep would have produced a new familiar and the new creature would certainly have done a better job than Arum had; they would not work the Keep to killing itself, would not be so filled with conflict and casual cruelty and this dull, unending weight-

The thoughts pass as easily as Damien’s story, when they are done, and he doesn’t mean any of it. Not really. He knows the Keep would have died if he and Sir Marc had not been here to protect it, and even if he does not feel it he knows that Amaryllis would likely have not forgiven Damien his murder, but there is a small, heavy part of Arum that remains convinced that it would have been easier to just let go.

If I still had the Hermit… he thinks, sluggish even in his own head, but he does not allow the thought to close. It is a pointless hypothetical, and it’s not as if there is any guarantee it would work even if he did.

He slips off alone, finds a shadowed corner for the Keep to grow him a place to rest, curls into the petals and wills himself unconscious.

When he wakes, Damien’s hands are pulling the petals back open, filling his dark little space with dappled green light, and Arum can barely summon the energy to blink the stars from his eyes. Damien says something, curious, and it feels important, but Arum simply… can’t.

Damien says something else, quieter, and then he’s climbing into the petals as well. He’s too close for Arum to ignore, suddenly, warm-blooded heat and blessed softness and he cups the sides of Arum’s head in his palms. He gently settles closer until their legs are tangled together and they are pressed forehead to forehead, and Arum feels just a little more solid, a little more real.

“What’s wrong?” Damien murmurs, his voice finally piercing the fog, and Arum hates himself because he has no answer. Nothing is worse than it has been, he has no reason for this grayness that clings to him, no curse and no cause-

Arum curls his tail around Damien’s back to pull him closer, giving a rumbling purr deep in his chest to let the knight know that he has been heard, even if Arum can’t make himself respond.

Damien relaxes into the embrace, though Arum can still taste the worry on him. “Arum,” Damien begins softly, “I don’t wish to- to overstep. You aren’t ill, are you?”

Arum smiles wryly, dishonestly, then just barely shakes his head. They are close enough that Damien can feel the movement anyway. “Not ill,” he manages in a dry, cracked voice. What he wants to say is that there is nothing wrong with him at all, but- clearly that isn’t true. Clearly he is flawed in some way, or he could just- rise, speak, become more himself again. “Nothing physical.”

Damien nods, as if somehow this is the answer he was expecting. “Rilla has been… worried,” he says, and Arum pretends not to wince. “She said that you- you had a look in your eye like you did when you were on trial. When you refused to defend yourself.”

Arum supposes that he felt similarly then, when he thought that both Amaryllis and Damien were lost to him, when he thought that he would be personally responsible for their deaths as well as the deaths of their entire species if all went according to the Senate’s plan- but at least then he had reason. Now, the weight is formless.

He can’t understand the shape of it, and so he cannot lift it.

Expressing any part of that feels exhausting, though, not to mention too embarrassing to stand, so Arum only sighs.

“I am worried about you as well,” Damien admits.

“Don’t, takatakataka.” Arum growls low in his throat, clutching him closer.

“I do, though. Of course I do. I…” Damien pauses to laugh, a little roughly. “I know what it is like, to fight a battle with yourself that no one else can see, even if my own thoughts plague me quite differently than I believe yours plague you.”

Arum thinks, this does not feel like a fight, and shakes his head.

“Arum… both Rilla and yourself have been… instrumental in holding me steady when my fears betray me, in keeping me from succumbing to the falsehoods with which my mind tries to torment me. I only hope that you will trust me- trust us to care for you in return, when you so need.”

Very distantly, Arum thinks that he should be riled to offense by the very idea that he needs help, needs care, but he can’t grasp the anger in his claws, can’t make it stay. Damien’s body heat is radiating into the space inside the flower, permeating Arum’s scales, making him sleepy again despite the many hours of rest he must have had between dinner and now.

“I only wish for you to be safe, and happy,” Damien says, a keening note in his voice. “And for you to know that you are loved.”

Arum’s throat suddenly feels tight, his eyes hot, his ribs constricting around his thudding heart, and he reflexively closes his eyes before they can do something ridiculous. Damien must have felt his body stiffen, though, because he makes a sympathetic noise, one arm wrapping around Arum’s waist and the other cupping his jaw just gently.

“Oh, my lily,” Damien says in a whisper, “I wish I knew better how to help you.”

Arum grits his teeth and growls, as if that will make it better when he feels the tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Anything you need from me, anything at all-”

“If you say another word I swear I will bite you, honeysuckle,” Arum says in an embarrassingly uneven voice.

“If that helps you in any way, so be it,” Damien declares, and Arum chokes on a laugh that devolves into something else. He nips Damien’s ear so as not to make himself a liar, then presses his snout into the crook of Damien’s neck where it is warm warm warm and he is surrounded by the scent of leather and vanilla and the faint hint of Amaryllis that clings to his skin as well, where he can just breathe as his poet holds him and pretend that he is not debasing himself with something as ridiculous as tears. Damien makes a humming noise and Arum is close enough to feel the vibration of it, soothing and overwhelming at the same time. “There, love, I have you,” he says in a gentle sing-song, stroking his hands down Arum’s back. “I have you. You are unpracticed, I think, in allowing others to take care of you, so I do not hold your reluctance against you. You must know, however, that I have learned from the very best in the art of care and comfort, and so you may take from me whatever you need. I will still be here when you are yourself again, and I will love you the whole way through.”

“And if I-” Arum’s breath hitches and he buries the noise in a more intentional sounding hiss. “If I cannot lift this fog from my mind, honeysuckle? What then? My entire long life this has sat on my shoulder like a parasite and struck whenever it pleases, and then I am merely- this. Wretched and empty and unshakably tired-”

“Do you love me less when my tranquility leaves me, Arum?”

“Of course not,” Arum growls quickly, buffeting his cheek against Damien's. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I do not ask for the purpose of coaxing comfort for myself,” Damien says, “but only to make the point. You are suffering, Arum. It is not your fault, and it does not change how I feel about you. I love you even when you are unhappy, my lily. I love you when you are tired, when you are irritable and stubborn, when you are distant, when you need affection but are too proud to admit to it.” Damien chuckles when Arum growls at that. “I love you, and nothing will change that.”

Arum breathes slow, the tightness in his throat easing as Damien’s hands stroke gentle circles on the scales of his back.

“Is there any more room in there, or is it a bit too crowded?” Rilla says, muffled from outside the flower-bed, and Arum jolts in surprise. Damien smiles, putting a hand on the petals around them and pushing until the flower blooms wide, allowing Rilla to quirk an eyebrow and smile down at the two of them tangled together. “Looks cozy,” she says.

“Amaryllis,” Arum mutters, eyes flicking nervously away. It’s bad enough for Damien to see him acting this atrociously weak (he can still feel the wetness of tears on his face, ridiculous), but for his shortcomings to be laid bare before the both of them-

Rilla’s smile softens, and she lifts a little tray he hadn’t noticed yet. “I brought coffee and breakfast. Thought some caffeine might help, at least a little. Keep?”

The Keep gives a short soft song and raises a little shelf of vines beside the flower so Rilla can set the tray down, and she thanks it before she climbs onto the petals beside the lizard and the knight, gently shoving them to make room. She pushes until they’re halfway sitting, Damien sideways in Arum’s lap, an arm around his back. Then she slots her own arms neatly around Arum from the other side, kissing his shoulder and humming softly.

After a moment she pulls a hand back and grabs one of the steaming mugs, and then she presses it firmly into his hand. Ordinarily he prefers tea to the bitter beverage Amaryllis enjoys so much, but… he is tired, and he trusts Amaryllis to know how to mend things. He flicks his tongue through the steam and takes a mildly begrudging sip.

“So,” she says after a long moment of quiet, sliding her fingers through his own and squeezing his hand. “Do you want to talk about what’s been going on with you lately?”

Arum takes another sip to delay answering the question, but she’s still looking expectantly at him when he finishes. “Not particularly,” he grumbles, and then he hugs the knight in his arms possessively. “Our little poet said more than enough for the both of us already.”

And Arum is grateful for those words; they feel like bright spots amid the grey, points of light he can summon back through memory, but Arum does not know how to put that gratefulness to words of his own. He does not share Damien’s skill.

“I think…” Rilla sighs, “I think you should try to talk about it anyway, Arum. I know it’s difficult, I know you’ll hate to do it, but… I think it could help. Or, at least it will give us an idea of how we can help.”

“There isn’t anything wrong,” Arum growls. He winces the moment the words leave him.

“That… does not seem quite true, my love,” Damien says gently.

“I cannot tell you how to help me,” he exhales, ducking his head. “because I do not know what is wrong with me.”

“Okay,” Rilla says. “Okay. So- what are your symptoms, Arum? There are a few things I can infer, but I’d rather not assume anything.”

“Symptoms, I’m not ill-”

“Humor me,” Rilla says, her thumb pressing lightly on the back of his hand. “Please.”

He hisses out a long breath. “I… it…” he cannot find the words to explain the grayness, the weight. Instead, he tries to think what came with them; how other parts of his life have suffered when this thing strikes. “I have been… having difficulties keeping my mind attentive, I suppose. I cannot work on my projects, and I… I don’t care much for any of them. I have eaten because you expect me to dine with you, but I have not felt hungry, though I know I should have. And I am weary, Amaryllis.” His eyes slip shut, defensive. Saying all of this – admitting this much weakness – if this were anyone but Amaryllis and Damien he would sooner cut out his tongue. “I am weary to my bones. Even now, despite all rest. Too weary to lift my head, at times.”

Rilla inhales, deep and steady, and when she exhales she breathes out, “Thank you. I know that’s not the easiest sort of thing to talk about.”

Arum grumbles noncommittally under his breath, then finishes the coffee and sets the mug aside so he can ensure that two of his hands are free to hold each of his loves.

Rilla squeezes his hand after another long pause, almost like a warning. “I think you have depression, Arum,” she says, her tone blank and professional.

“What?” Arum says, spine going rigid, and then, “Don’t be ridiculous.” And then, “It’s not- I couldn’t possibly-”

The Keep warbles a triplet of dawning realization, and Arum scowls as his tail lashes a denial.

“Mental health might not be my exact area of expertise,” Rilla admits wryly, “but I do have a little experience at least, and I can recognize common symptoms easily enough. Have you-” she hesitates, “have you been thinking about- hurting yourself?”

He flinches, genuinely surprised. “No, of course not.” He pauses. “I- not hurting myself. Nothing- nothing so- nothing so active.” Arum can feel Damien’s posture going bit by bit more tense in his arms, but- “Only- only I have perhaps been thinking of- of moments when- this is impossible, Amaryllis. I can’t talk about this.”

“Take your time, my lily,” Damien murmurs roughly, his face hidden against Arum's shoulder. “We aren’t going anywhere. Take your time.”

“… I have been thinking more than is normal about death in the general sense,” he admits in a detached voice. “About times when I was close to death. About- about what would be different, if I…”

“Arum,” Damien breathes, his hands warm and steady against Arum’s chest. “Oh, love-”

Rilla nudges Damien’s shoulder with a hand before he can get too carried away. “All of what you described just now lines up really solidly with depression.”

“But there is no reason for me to-”

“That’s not how it works, Arum.” Rilla smiles, the expression a little strained, a little pained. “Sometimes the brain just- doesn’t function the way it’s supposed to, same as can happen to the body.”

“As we all, by now, are aware,” Damien adds wryly.

The Keep sings a trill of trust, of hopeful warmth towards Amaryllis and her skill, and Arum sighs deeply.

“If that is your diagnosis, doctor, then I must trust to it,” he rumbles quietly, and Amaryllis breathes a laugh at the word doctor. “But what does that help? I- so I know the name, but-”

He can know the shape of it, now. That thought makes him pause, brow furrowing.

“There are some pharmaceutical treatments of varying effectiveness for depression in humans,” Rilla says, voice slipping back to professional for a moment, “but trying to figure out how to modify those for the brain of a reptilian magical construct is- it would be a bit much, even for me. Too far outside my usual wheelhouse, unfortunately. But,” she says when he tries to turn his face away, “but knowing will help, Arum. Knowing, and talking about it, which- don’t make that face at me!”

“I simply don’t see how demeaning myself will be of any use at all.”

She flicks the tip of his nose and he gives a little snarl automatically. “If Damien got stabbed when he was out doing his knight nonsense it wouldn’t be demeaning himself to come tell me he needed me to stop the bleeding and treat the wound, Arum.”

“You said not moments ago that you don’t have a way to treat-”

“I said that I probably wouldn’t be able to make medication that would work for you. That doesn’t mean that we can’t figure out ways to help you. And telling us when you’re hurting is only way for us to even begin that process.” Arum huffs, and Rilla scowls in response before she stops herself, taking a breath and then quirking a small smile. “See? Even this. You’ve- you’ve been so- I’ve missed arguing with you.” She pauses. “I’ve just missed you. I know you’ve been here, it’s silly, but-”

A pained noise slips from Arum’s mouth without his say-so. “Amaryllis. I- I apologize. I did not expect… I did not think this would persist for long enough that either of you would notice. It was not my intention to- to cause you worry.”

“We’re always gonna worry about you,” Rilla says softly. “That’s part of the deal. You care about someone, of course you worry about them.”

“That…” Arum scrapes his claws lightly, carefully down Damien’s back, and nuzzles his snout against Amaryllis’ temple. “Yes. I have learned that quite well.”

“Promise you’ll try to talk to us when it gets bad like this, Arum?”

“I will… try,” he says, wincing. “As our poet so gracefully put it, I am unpracticed in allowing others to care for me. But I will try.”

“And we will do what we can to help,” Damien says. “If you need be reminded to keep yourself fed, if you need be be told that there are people who care about you, if you wish to sleep for hours in the sun and have meals and affection brought to you, if you need distraction from darker thoughts…” Damien lifts his head just enough to press a kiss to Arum’s jaw. “Anything at all, if you only ask. We love you. If there is anything we can do to make your life less difficult- that is what love is for, my lily. Love is a path walked side by side, a journey you ease by taking it together, step by difficult step.”

“And step one, I think,” Rilla says, “is for the three of us to actually eat the breakfast I brought before all of it gets cold. And I don’t care if you’re hungry, Arum, you need to eat too.”

“No, I…” Arum gives a single breath of laughter. “I do feel somewhat hungry this morning, as it happens.”

Rilla smiles, bright as morning, and Arum can’t help but nuzzle against her cheek until she chuckles and places a kiss at the corner of his mouth. She taps the tip of his nose again, then, teasing, before she untangles their limbs and starts passing her loves the food she and the Keep prepared.

Damien asks a question about one of Rilla’s experiments as he blows across the top of his tea to cool it, as if this were any other morning, and Rilla sighs dramatically before she launches into her answer. Arum eats, and listens, his mouth curling into a slow smile of his own.

There is warmth and sunlight and laughter, there is the gentle pleased song of the Keep, there is filling food and a long unmapped day ahead of all of them, and Arum feels-

Arum feels more than he has in near a week. More than he knows what to do with.

He is not fixed, his mind is still unmended and may sink down again without warning. He knows that none of this will be easy-

Not easy, but Amaryllis and Damien are determined to make it easier, to hold out their hands for Arum to lift himself with. That is better than was true yesterday, Arum thinks. It is one more step, a stumble and catch, down this path they are walking together.

-

[End Notes: Hope you enjoyed! I'm going to count this as complete, but there's a chance there will be two companion pieces to this one, because I want to see each of our flowers being taken care of lovingly and tenderly. I just related most to the way Arum needed it, so his came the first and easiest.]

[lamptracker]

FIC: You need a blue sky holiday (Peter Parker/Reader)

Not sure where this came from. But here we are.

FIC: You need a blue sky holiday

Pairing: Peter Parker/Reader

Summary: You had a bad day, Peter vows to turn it around.

A/N: Title from the song “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter. 

It was, thankfully, the end of the school day. You couldn’t get out that door fast enough.

It had been, to put it mildly, a terrible day. You overslept, you nearly missed the bus. You forgot your lunch, which was okay because the cafeteria was serving pizza. But when you went to get your lunch the kid in front of you got the last slice and you were stuck with meatloaf. You failed an algebra quiz. Flash was being his usual annoying self.

You were hoping to sit with your best friends - Ned, Michelle, and Peter - but it was Peter’s day to help in the library and Ned and Michelle were working on something for chem. So you sat with some of the other members of Decathlon. It wasn’t so bad, Abe was in the mood to entertain today so that kept your mind off things for a bit.

And then, on the bus ride back to your apartment?

You got a text.

You’d been kind of flirting with this guy, Ryan. He was cute and funny and played baseball. You guys had gone out on a couple of dates and he even held your hand during the last one.

Things were going great… you thought.

Ryan: Hey, (y/n). Listen I’ve been thinking

(y/n): Oh yeah? ;) What about?

Ryan: Us. I hate to be the jerk that does this over a text but… I think we’re better off as friends

Oh.

You felt your heart drop, right through the soles of your feet. Just when this day couldn’t get any worse…

Ryan: (Y/n)?

(Y/n): Okay. If that’s how you really feel about it. I thought we had something special going

Ryan: Me too but… it’s hard to explain. No hard feelings?

(y/n): Sure w/e

Both your parents are still at work, so you’re home alone. Just as well. You go into your apartment, lock the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your bedroom floor and collapse onto your bed face-down. And then, out of nowhere but maybe a place of frustration, you start crying. Just full-on tears. First the oversleeping, then the lunch fiasco, then algebra, now this.

You’re in the midst of your breakdown when you hear a faint tapping on the window.

You sigh, knowing what’s causing the tapping - Peter.

He told you his secret- that he was Spider-Man - not long after he turned down the chance to be an Avenger. Since then he’s come to your apartment after fights, because he likes your gentle touch when helping bandage up his cuts and scrapes and how you don’t make fun of him like Ned does.

You raise your head and shuffle over to the window, raking a hand through your hair. You open it just wide enough for him to crawl through. Sighing again, you reach under your bed for the first aid kit.

“Nah, I don’t need that yet,” Peter says as he removes his mask, his curly auburn hair sticking out in twenty different directions.

You snort. Yet. “Then what’s up, Parker?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “I just… you seemed sad today so I came to check up on you. Make sure you’re okay, you know.”

“Thanks, Pete. That’s so sweet of you.” You sit down on the bed and pat the space next to you; he plunks himself down next to you and instinctively wraps an arm around your shoulders. “It’s just...today was bad from the start, y’know? I overslept and almost missed the bus. I forgot my lunch. Bryce got the last piece of pizza in the cafeteria so I had to eat meatloaf.”

“Ew.” Peter winces; you laugh.

“I failed my algebra test, I-”

“Whoa, you had an algebra test? And you didn’t ask me to help tutor you?”

You shrug. “Well, I know how busy you are with this whole…” you gesture vaguely at his suit, “Stark Internship thing. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Peter smiles softly at you. “(Y/n), you are never a bother to me.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm at the comment, but then you sigh and continue. “And Flash was being...you know, Flash. But the worst was on the way home, when Ryan texts me and says he thinks we’re better off as friends.”

“Oh, no.” Peter wraps his other arm around you, pulling you into his chest. “(y/n), I’m so - I’m so sorry, that sucks. I know how much you liked him, and I thought he liked you too, and yeah that meatloaf is gross and...and I’m rambling so I’ll shut up and let you wallow now.”

“Sounds good.” You sob into his shoulder for what seems like forever.

“You’re okay,” Peter says softly after a while. “It’s going to be okay.”

You smile a little as Peter gently rubs your back. He always knows just how to cheer you up.

“It’s just one bad day,” Peter says to you. “But I’m going to do my best to turn it around for ya.”

“Oh, yeah?” You raise your head to look at him. “How you gonna do that?”

“By talking shit about Ryan.”

You laugh loudly. “Go on.”

“He is such an idiot! You are one of the coolest, funniest, smartest, and prettiest people I’ve ever met. Any guy would love to be with you. If he doesn’t want that, well, he must have been taken too many fastballs to the head during baseball practice or something.”

You laugh… but then you think about what Peter has just said.

“Wait a minute… you think I’m pretty?” you ask quietly.

Peter runs a hand over his face as the tips of his ears turn pink. “I...yeah. I just… ohhh.”

“Peter.” You turn your head to catch his eye, but he’s looking everywhere except at you.

“Peter,” you say again. “Peter, do you have a crush on me?”

An embarrassed Peter shoves his mask back over his head. You hear him whisper quickly - “Karen, I just told (y/n) I liked her and I didn’t mean to, what do I do?!”

You can’t help but laugh. He’s asking his suit’s AI for advice? What a nerd. What an adorable nerd. Wait. Adorable?

You think about it as Peter seeks help from his computer. Well, why not? You and Peter already know each other really well. So there’d be no awkward getting-to-know-you stage. He’s one of your best friends for a reason - he’s funny, he’s super smart. He is extremely loyal to his friends - you know, once he got his priorities sorted after Tony Stark initially took away his suit. He’ll do anything to help a friend. From rushing over to Ned’s house with extra Lego pieces after the Lego Millenium Falcon he bought second-hand was short (“it said 1,329 pieces but it only came with 1,321!”) to bringing Michelle a coffee during finals week (“She said she needs it if we want to live”) to stopping in the middle of his rounds to see how you were doing because “you seemed sad today.” He’s super, super sweet. And, if the last school dance was any indication, he’s a heck of a dancer. And Peter’s the kind of guy that, even if you don’t work out as a couple, will make sure you’re still friends after.

And now that you think about it, he is kind of cute. He really filled out after that spider bit him. You’ve always thought he had a great smile (“that is the product of thousands of dollars of orthodontics, much to May’s disappointment” he once told you).

So would it be the worst thing if you and Peter gave it a go?

Peter takes his mask back off and sets it down on the bed. He draws in a shaky breath and releases it slowly. “Yeah. I do. Have for awhile, actually. I just… I didn’t think you were interested. I had myself convinced you never saw me as anything more than just a friend.” He nervously rakes a hand through his hair again, then rubs the back of his neck. “Um… do you? Do you see me as more than that?”

You look into his eyes - big, brown, full of love. His breathing has gotten faster, and he’s biting his lower lip.

He loves you. And he’s so scared you don’t love him back.

But…

You lean forward slightly, bringing a hand through his curls and letting it rest on the back of his neck. You smile softly as you press your lips to his.

Peter jumps in surprise for a moment, but then he’s kissing you back. He rests a hand on your waist, whining slightly as you pull away.

“What does that tell you?” you ask coyly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Peter laughs quietly. “You see me as more than that.”

“I do.” You kiss his cheek. “What do you say, Parker? Wanna...wanna be my boyfriend?”

“Um...yeah!” He clears his throat, clearly embarrassed that he seemed a little too eager. “I mean, uh, sure. Sounds good.”

It’s your turn to laugh as you take his hand. “Well...okay.”

“Okay.” He squeezes your hand. “I hate to do this now, but I have to go finish my rounds. Can I come by after, for dinner?”

“Sure. My parents are working late anyway. I can make spaghetti.”

“That sounds awesome.” He leans over to kiss you again, then pulls his mask back on. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”

“Sounds great, Peter. Bye.”

He waves slightly at you as he climbs back out your window to finish his rounds; you smile at him as he shoots a web and swings away.

Just then, your phone dings. It’s a text.

Ryan: I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t thinking straight. I do want to give us a try, can I take you out to dinner?

(y/n): You’re a little late on that Ryan. I have a boyfriend now

Ryan: Really?

(y/n): Yep. Peter Parker. Just asked me out a little bit agp

(y/n): ago

Ryan: Well I guess that’s no surprise. You two would be perfect together. See you around?

(y/n): Yeah

You shoot a quick text to Peter - You are never going to believe this, Ryan just texted. Said he wasn’t thinking straight, tried to ask me out. I let him down gently

Almost immediately, Peter calls you.

“Who responds to a text by calling back?” You tease as you answer the phone.

“It’s easier when I’m on patrol,” he explains. “And, no way! That’s too hilarious.”

“Right?! I can’t believe I ever tried to waste my time with that guy.”

“No kidding. I’m so glad you want to be my girlfriend, (y/n).”

“I’m glad you asked me. See you in a couple hours.”

“I can’t wait. Bye. Karen, end call.”

You smile to yourself as you pull some homework out of your bookbag. Today started out absolutely horribly. But, thanks to Peter, your day got much brighter.

[arituzz]

Party Games 6

-SNOWBAZ-

How to fall for your enemy—A Dummies Guide

[1. Set the game] [2. Play like you mean it] [3. Keep playing and don’t ask] [4. Poker Face] [5. Play dirty] [6. Show him what you’ve got] [7. (Don’t) Fall in the trap] [8. Cards on the table] [9. Play the game of love]

Summary: Playing games is an innocent and harmless thing to do. Except when you get so caught up in the game that don’t know if you are playing or not anymore, and then… Well. Then you burn

Chapter word count: ~3.3k

Rating: M

Tags: Watford, eighth year AU, alcohol, enemies to lovers, enemies with benefits, NSFW, smut, mutual pining, fluff, alternating POV first person

Also on AO3

Thank you @eroticgropefest for being my amazing beta!

Notes: I made up some spells

6. Show him what you’ve got

SIMON

I would be lying if I said the smell of cedar and bergamot isn’t my favourite scent. It’s what I fall asleep to at night, and the first thing I notice in the morning.

And it’s because of Baz.

I have the sensation that lately everything is because of Baz. Not only the bad things, but also the good ones. And that’s new. I’m not sure how to feel about it.

“Good morning, darling,” I hear him saying behind me in the bed. No, I must have imagined it. Baz is never going to call me “darling”. The fact that we have a sort of truce doesn’t mean he’s going to magically develop romantic feelings for me. Not that I want him to. We’re good as friends--or whatever the fuck we are now.

Baz’s arms are wrapped around me and I feel him pulling me closer to him. I wouldn’t mind if we stayed like this all day.

He breathes on my neck and it sends shivers down my spine. But that’s not the only thing I notice that causes a reaction over my whole body.

Baz has morning wood.

I feel it pressed against me and I’m not even sure if Baz is aware or even awake but he’s definitely going to be after what I do: I grind against him.

I hear a gasp behind me, so I turn around. And before he can protest, I kiss him.

He moans against my mouth, which only makes me deepen the kiss and move faster against him.

The sound of Baz whimpering because of me makes me feel things I didn’t know I could feel. I pull his shirt up so there aren’t any clothes between my hand and his chest, and let my mouth travel there. Baz’s hands slid down my bare back as I kiss his abdomen. Then, I follow the trail of hair from his belly button, knowing exactly where it leads.

“Snow--”

Baz never calls me Simon. I swear he does that to spite me. But he’ll regret it. I’m going to blow his mind until all he can mutter is my name, over and over again.

I pull Baz’s pyjama bottoms just a bit and hook my thumbs into the elastic waistband of his briefs, tugging them only two or three centimeters down.

I bring my head down and blow there gently, causing an audible as well as visible reaction from Baz. Then I take the waistband between my teeth and gradually ease his pants down, my lips brushing Baz’s skin.

 BAZ

Aleister--fucking--Crowley.

 SIMON

As I get rid of Baz’s underwear I look up at him for a second. He’s staring back at me like I’m the only person in the entire world, and I almost forget what I’m doing. But it doesn’t matter how he looks at me -- this is obviously still a game for him. So I look away.

And then I take care of his hard-on.

I bring one hand to Baz’s mouth, for him to kiss and lick and suck. Because I know he likes it.

Pleasuring Baz comes as naturally as fighting him: I know what annoys and hurts him, but I also know what makes him moan and groan in pleasure. It’s like I’ve taken a thousand classes on Baz’s subject. I have a master’s degree in Baz.

Not long after, Baz tugs at my hair, letting me know that he’s about to… well, finish. “Simon--”

I pull away and give him one last lick before finishing him off with my hand.

 BAZ

I seem to have lost the ability to form coherent words. Snow has that effect on me.

When I’m done, Simon lies back down beside me. I’m not used to that. Usually he would run away. “How are you feeling?” I ask.

He’s fidgeting with his hands. “I’m okay.”

“Do you remember last night?”

“Yeah,” Simon replies. He’s clearly avoiding my stare. “Sorry about that.”

And then I notice the tent in his pants. “Simon,” I say. And I know he’s going to say no but the words are out before I can even process what I’m offering: “Do you want me to…” My voice comes out low and muffled.

Snow meets my eyes. There’s a long silence and I’m about to get up when he mutters the faintest “yes” that only a vampire could hear.

Simon Snow is the sun, the earthquake, and the summer storm, all in the same day. He’s a walking plot twist. And I love it. (I love him.)

I creep my fingers under Simon’s shirt and slowly lift it up. And I kiss his skin. (I never thought I’d ever kiss Simon’s skin.) (Outside of my dreams, that is.)

I make sure to kiss every mole and freckle on Simon’s body, memorising them, drawing a map on my head. Simon is made up of constellations: Cassiopeia, on his left arm; Corona Borealis, surrounding his belly button; Perseus, on his chest; Orion, on his upper back; Pegasus, on his right upper thigh. It’s like the whole Universe belongs to him. And I want to study it forever; like a star chart.

I lose myself in Simon’s infinity while I pleasure him. And before I can find myself again, Simon grabs my hair with his fist, pulls at it and moans as he goes over the edge.

 SIMON

Baz makes me feel like I’ve never been kissed before. (I’ve never been kissed this way before.) I should probably be more worried about the fact that this is by far the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Baz walks out of the bed abruptly and I look at him, confused.

“I need a shower,” he says.

“Oh. Uhm. Do you want me to join you?” I ask. (I actually need a shower, too.)

“It’s okay,” Baz hurries to say. “You don’t have to.”

He says it in a way that sounds like a polite gesture but I think he’s just bothered by me right now. So I shrug and say, “Hmm. I’ll just wait, then.”

 BAZ

As soon as Simon gets in the shower, I head for Dev and Niall’s room.

“Hey Baz,” Dev says, opening the door.

“Dev,” I say, inviting myself in. “Where’s Niall?”

Dev may be my cousin but when it comes to being alone with someone in a room, I’d say I’m more comfortable with Niall. Or even Snow.

“I don’t know,” Dev says, rubbing the nape of his neck. He sits down on his bed and looks through the window, clearly distracted. There’s obviously something going on between him and Niall that they aren’t telling me.

If I didn’t know Niall, I’d think he walked out in a hurry: he left his bed unmade and there’s clothes scattered all over. I spell it tidy and sit down on Niall’s bed.

“I didn’t know you and Snow had gone from sworn enemies to sworn boyfriends,” Dev says, turning the uncomfortable silence that had settled in the room into an even more uncomfortable conversation.

“We’re not sworn anything,” I say. “It’s just a game.”

“Really? He almost went off because Niall was kissing you.”

“You almost went off because Niall was kissing me.” I still can’t believe Dev and Niall are mad at each other. This is the first time in eight years.

I’m about to tell Dev that whatever little quarrel they have going on can be solved, when he says, “I think Niall likes you.”

What?

Wait. No. I’ve been so wrong all this time. Dev and Niall aren’t mad at each other. Fuck, no. They are mad for each other.

“Baz?” Dev looks at me, waiting for my reaction. I believe I’ve been stupidly staring at him for the best part of a minute.

“Dev,” I say, as calmly as I can. “Niall doesn’t like me that way.”

“Yes, he does!” he almost yells. “He spells his eyes every day now.”

I massage my forehead with my index finger. I can’t believe I have such a stupid cousin. “He wants to impress you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Dev,” I say, standing up. “What colour does Niall spell his eyes?”

“Muddy blue, why?”

I cock an eyebrow at him. How can he be so oblivious? I refuse to acknowledge we have the same blood. Had. “Have you ever wondered why he spells them that precise colour?”

Dev’s eyes widen in realization. (That’s his favourite colour.) “Oh.”

“Yes. Now go talk to him,” I say and reach for the door. I’m sick of this conversation. “Or… whatever you want to do with him.”

“Yeah,” I hear Dev saying as I leave. “Okay.”

 SIMON

Baz is not in the room when I step out of the bathroom. I’m not surprised. He’s probably still disgusted about what happened before and doesn’t want to see me.

Having the room all for myself is great, though. I can do things I usually can’t when Baz is around. Like doing homework and playing with my pen without Baz telling me I’m bothering him. Or humming.

Baz hates it when I’m humming or whistling. I think Baz just hates things that are funny. (He hates everything, really.)

He loves hating. And plotting.

Baz is one of those people who can spin a pen around his fingers effortlessly. (The tosser can do anything effortlessly.) I try it once but the pen falls on my lap. I try it again and it lands on the floor. I try once more and the pen goes flying right to Baz’s bed. Now Baz would scorn me. I grab the pen and go back to my bed.

Yeah, maybe this isn’t so funny without Baz, after all. I guess most of the fun of it lies in Baz getting pissed.

It’s almost lunchtime, so I decide to go find Penny.

As expected from someone like Penelope, she finds me before I find her. (No idea how she does that.)

“Simon,” she presses as we head for lunch. “I was starting to get worried.”

“Why?”

“You skipped breakfast,” she says. “Again.” She says it in that unique Penny tone that is equal parts concern and accusation.

I shrug. “I overslept.”

We take our trays and sit in our usual spot in the dining hall. Then, Penny turns to me and in a funny voice she asks, “Did Baz oversleep, too?”

Baz is at the other side of the hall, all by himself. I wonder where Dev and Niall are. He’s looking boredly at his lunch, his hair still perfectly waxed and slicked back, which only increases my urge to pull at it and mess it all up. (While I kiss him.) 

He catches me staring, so I look away. “Yeah…” I say to Penny. Agatha is eating lunch all alone, too, not far from where Baz is. “Why doesn’t Agatha sit with us again?”

“I don’t know. I guess she isn’t ready yet,” says Penny. “Give her some time.”

“Penny,” I say, and watch how she takes a bite of her food. “Are you and Agatha together now?”

Penny starts coughing uncontrollably until a piece of sausage comes flying out of her mouth. Guess I should have waited for her to finish eating. “What?” she asks in disbelief when she’s recovered.

“Are you going out or not?” I repeat.

“What the fuck, Simon?”

“Answer me, Penny.”

“No. Merlin and Morgana, no. We are not together,” she says. I notice some people are staring at us.

In a lower voice, I say, “It’s okay if you are.”

“But we aren’t! Remember Micah? My boyfriend?”

“You could be going out with both.”

Penny pauses for a moment. “Of course I could. But I’m not,” she says. “Simon, I love Agatha but that was just part of the game,” she continues. “You more than anyone should understand.”

“Huh? Why?”

“You and Baz?”

“Oh.” Okay, I see her point.

“Simon...” Penny starts, “Are you in love with Baz?”

“No,” I say, hurriedly--almost as a reflex--but something inside me stirs.

And Penny is about to drop it, I can see it. But then she adds, “Are you sure?”

I stare at Baz who is now leaving the dining hall. A strand of hair falls across his face in a wave. I imagine myself tugging it behind his ear the way he likes it. Then, for the second time in the last twenty minutes, I imagine myself kissing him. “No,” I say at the same time I realize that I’m utterly and completely fucked.

BAZ

When Snow comes back to the room I look up from my textbook and he smiles at me. I almost smile back.

He flops down on his bed and starts playing with a pen until it inevitably goes flying to my lap.

Every. Damn. Time.

Simon stands up and comes closer to my desk. He fakes an apologetic face and extends his hand.

And I… I take it. (His hand.) (With my hand.) (We’re holding hands.)

Fuck.

There’s a long silence in which neither of us moves nor says anything and it feels like we are trapped in this awkward moment forever.

We stare at our--intertwined--hands. Then I look up at him. Snow meets my eyes, then looks at the hands. Again.

Then back up at me.

For Crowley’s sake, this is stupid.

Not without a great deal of difficulty and reluctancy, I let go of his hand.

I clear my throat and grab the pen. “Your stupid pen.”

“Uhm. Yeah. Sorry,” he says. But he doesn’t move. “There’s a game this evening,” he blurts out. “Are you coming?”

Definitely. “Maybe,” I say. “What game?”

“Truth or dare.”

I pretend to think about it. “If I finish my homework, I'll go.”

“Good. It’s after dinner,” Snow says, still standing before me. “Should we go tell Dev and Niall?”

“Since when are you and me a ‘we’?” I spit, crashing any chance I had to turn this thing between us into a something.

“Right. We aren’t. Shouldn’t you go, though?”

“They might be busy.”

“Oh. Okay,” Snow says as he falls back onto his bed.

I actually finish my homework before five.

Dinner isn’t until seven, so that gives me plenty of time to get bored. I take a book and try to read for a while, but I can feel Snow’s eyes on me, which makes it a Herculean task to concentrate.

I light a fire in my palm and watch as the flames grow larger.

“Baz!” Snow shouts. “You’re flammable.”

“So is everything.”

“I’m serious,” he insists.

“So am I,” I say, but extinguish the fire anyway.

Snow sits up so that he’s facing me, and looks at my hand. “Can you teach me?”

“It’s not something you can learn to do,” I say. And then, because he looks hurt and thinks I think he's stupid, I add, “I mean, it's in my blood, it comes as naturally as breathing to me.”

“Oh.” Snow seems to think about it. “Do you have blood?”

I scowl at him. “I could teach you some spells, though. If you want.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, yes. Please.”

I try teaching him blessing in disguise and piece of cake, but his magic is too strong and chaotic he can���t make the spells work correctly. (He ends up dressed as a priest with a piece of pie on his hand.) (Not that he complains about that.)

“Nothing else matters,” I mutter, to help Simon focus on his magic; but, at the same time I cast the spell, he puts a hand on my shoulder and something happens. A surge of magic--Simon’s magic--runs through my body as the spell takes form and the room disappears. Everything disappears. It’s only Simon and me, nothing else.

Then Simon pulls back.

“How did you do that?” he asks.

“I didn’t. It was you.”

I try again without him and the spell works just normal. Simon tries doing it himself but it doesn't work, either.

“It only works if we do it together,” I say.

Simon’s hand is back on my shoulder. “It’s almost like--”

“We are…”

I can feel Simon’s blood pumping and his lips are getting closer but so is his neck and I think I might bite him.

So I step away. “Sorry, I need to--” I say as I walk towards the door.

Somehow Simon seems to understand. “Do you want me to come with you?” he offers.

“No. Stay here,” I tell him.

“I’m coming with you.”

 SIMON

We end up going to the catacombs.

Baz must be mental if he thinks I’m scared of him.

“Don’t look,” he says.

“I’m not scared,” I tell him. “I’m not disgusted, Baz. Just do it,” I insist. “It’s okay, I promise.”

That seems to reassure him, so he lets himself relax. His fangs pop out as he catches a rat.

Wicked.

 BAZ

“Do you want to go back to the room?” Simon asks when I’m done feeding.

It’s way past nine. I don't tell Simon about the game because I want to spend more time with him. Alone. (Plus, I don’t want him to drink.)

“I want to see the stars,” I say before I can’t stop myself.

If Snow is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He just looks up and says, “Let’s go to the ramparts.”

I didn’t know it was possible to feel this much. To be so in love that your heart doesn’t fit in your rib cage.

“Hey, Baz.” We’re lying on the floor. Snow’s head is resting on my chest and he makes my body vibrate as he speaks.  The wind is blowing gently on our faces.

“Yes?”

“What’s the name of that bright star over there?” he asks, pointing somewhere up in the starry sky.

Simon, I think, looking at him. Then I look up to where he’s pointing. “That’s Alpha Persei,” I say. “From the Perseus constellation.”

“Oh, nice.”

I take my wand and make a spell so lines of light come out of it. Then I trace the constellation for Simon to see.

“Wow. It’s amazing,” he says. “I knew you’d know.”

“You have it. On your body”

“What?”

I place a hand under Simon’s shirt, right on his chest, and trace the moles I memorized before. “Here.”    

Simon meets my hand on his chest.

“Let’s do it again,” he says.

“Do what?”

“The magic.”

I point my wand at the stars and say, “Nothing else matters.”

Everything around us disappears and then it’s just us. And the stars. I’ve never seen magic like this before--it’s like I’m drunk on magic. (Drunk on Snow.)

 SIMON

Magic takes a whole new meaning when I’m with Baz.

We talk about a lot of things. Important stuff. Meaningless stuff. I know the game must have started hours ago. But I’m right where I want to be.

It’s nice being Baz’s friend for once. It’s really, really nice. Too bad that it’s not what I want.

I want to be more than his friend.

I prop myself on one elbow and shift my body so that i’m looking at him. My hand is on his cheek. Baz is looking back at me.

When I was little, I used to sneak out to watch a science programme on TV. I remember this bloke called Neil something saying that when a subatomic particle is accelerated to near the speed of light, time slows down.

I think my heart might have just done that.

Slowly, I lean over and kiss Baz, because I can. (Because I want to.)

(I kiss him because I need to.)

 BAZ

I didn’t know a single day could hold so many breathtaking moments.

[Next Chapter]

[trbl-will-find-me]

High Society (1/2)

Pre- EU/EW. Lt. Commader John Bradford and Dr. Elizabeth Regan are called upon to represent the XCOM project. Too bad she’s jet lagged, and he’s more than a little distracted.

Her phone keeps buzzing.

Her phone keeps buzzing, but she doesn’t have the energy to investigate why.

Her phone keeps buzzing, but she doesn’t have the energy to investigate why, and in truth, she really doesn’t care.

She stares at the offending object, vibrating against John’s coffee table, and briefly considers shoving it under a bed. That’ll teach you.

But that would require getting up, and right now, that feels like the gravest of all impositions.

–

John Bradford stares down at his phone, brow furrowed.

He knows for a fact that Elizabeth isn’t lecturing somewhere. He knows this, because he’d picked her up at the airport last night, woken her up for breakfast this morning, and made sure she’d eaten before he left for work. On a good day, Lizzie isn’t to be trusted in a kitchen, and this is by no means a good day.

Briefly, he considers texting his neighbor: Quick question – is my house still standing or no?

Two emails, six texts, and two phone calls. He sighs. Guess I’m taking lunch early.

– 

She is vaguely aware of someone standing over her. She realizes this should be a source of some concern — didn’t John lock the door when he left? — but can’t quite bring herself to move from her position curled on the couch. She hopes if it’s an intruder, he’ll take what he needs, leave the wine, and leave her be.

“So, this is why you haven’t answered your phone.”

Definitely not an intruder. Definitely John.

“It won’t shut up,” she groans. “Why won’t it shut up?”

“It won’t shut up because I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all morning.”

“Kitchen too much work. Just couch.”

“I appreciate your dedication to not burning my house down, but you have to get up.”

She rolls over just enough to give him her best attempt at a dirty look, the effect somewhat diluted by the tangle of hair covering her face. He brushes the strands back without a moment’s hesitation. “Absolutely terrifying, Lizzie.”

She leans into his touch. “I manage to sleep the whole day?”

He shakes his head. “It’s only about eleven.”

“You have the thing tonight still?”

He draws a deep breath. Like ripping a bandaid off, he tells himself. “We have the thing tonight.”

“We? Oh, no,” she says, pushing herself up. “Nope. Uh-uh.”

He nods. “Curran’s in the hospital. You’re up, per his orders.”

“What does he expect me to do? Sleep on people?”

“I would go with represent the XCOM project before I went with sleep.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“If it were just my job, we wouldn’t have spent the last eighteen months on the road together.”

“Okay, fair. But, I’m nowhere near ready to handle any sort of formal event. I don’t have make up here, or a hair appointment, or a dress, or …” She trails off, hugging a throw pillow to her chest.

“Which is why you have to get up.”

“Why would you do this to me? I am so jet-lagged.”

“It’s black-tie, so you can’t go in pajamas. And I didn’t have any say in it, so stop looking so betrayed.”

She looks up at him with her best attempt at puppy dog eyes. “Tell him I’m dead.”

He chuckles and settles next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “If you’re dead, then I have some serious things to reconsider about myself.”

“I’d like to think you’ve got pretty good taste in dead girls,” she says, snuggling against him.

He shakes his head. “I’d like to think I have good taste in living ones, too.”

“Not sure you’ve got much proof for that conjecture right now.”

“It’ll be better once you’re up.”

“Time to call in my fairy godmother.”

“What, are you Cinderella now?”

“No, I’m the child of diplomats. That comes with its own set of perks.”

–

He’s on a call when his phone buzzes.  Nothing fixes this, the text reads.

He sends her a question mark.

So cold. So tired. Have dress, have appt. Back to bed for now.

That was quick, he responds.

Literal godmother. She’s great. Probably murdered her husband, but we all have our faults.

He reads the text twice to make sure he hasn’t made it up. Can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.

Text has no prosody. Interpret as you will.

He rolls his eyes. Don’t oversleep.

No guarantees.

–

Elizabeth Regan knows she does not fit in here. Here, the women are well dressed, and well made up. They do not look roused from the depth of sleep by a shrieking iPhone and a call from a doting godmother.  John’s sweatshirt stares at her from its place, folded up at the top of her bag, tempting her to slip it back on, or bury her face in it, and go back to bed.

She can’t imagine its owner would be pleased.

Neither would the aesthetician, come to think of it.

She has to admit: she looks good. Her godmother has never led her wrong in almost thirty-two years of life; it’s not like she really expected her to start now. Still, the conversion from sleep-deprived, jet-lagged hobgoblin to presentable, well-appointed project representative would be a tall order for anyone.

She drums newly manicured nails against her phone screen.  Her last text stares back up at her, unanswered.

You’ll see him later, she tells herself. He has work to do.

–

He scrolls through his texts on the way home.  His mother’s sent him pictures of the St. Augustine shoreline, the Colonel’s sent him a small novel’s worth of briefing notes, and Lizzie has sent him her own idea of a masterpiece, a screenshot of the evening’s weather forecast, covered in lime green profanity. He chuckles, and texts her back: That’s XCOM, Lizzie.

–

She clambers into the back of the cab, feeling absurdly overdressed. Her phone buzzes and she looks down, embarrassingly happy for a response.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. Isn’t that what I used to tell you when I missed targets?

–

He realizes Lizzie is home about thirty seconds after stepping out of the shower. He can make out the sounds of padding up the stairs, something bulky in her arms, still wrapped in a winter coat, swearing under her breath.

He chuckles to himself as he grabs his razor. At least she’s awake.

–

She is really beginning to question her career choices. Yes, moving from teaching to consulting had been an exciting decision, one that ultimately freed her from the politics of academia, at least the politics of academia never demanded she wear heels and a dress in fifteen degree weather.

She screws on the earring back, and checks her make up in the mirror. Her lipstick is already fading, but that’s well within her power to correct. There’ll be nothing for her to do when she shows up as a popsicle tonight, though.

–

He’s almost dressed when the knock comes at his door.

“In!” He calls.

“Look,” she says from somewhere behind him. “I hate to offend your good Boy Scout morals, but I need help with a zipper.

“I think my good — Wow.”

She shrugs. “I was only sort of exaggerating on the fairy godmother bit.” She reaches a hand up, rubbing the back of her neck.

“If that’s what you can do on minimal sleep and short notice, I can’t imagine what a well-planned take would look like.”

She blushes. “More like ‘what my godmother did,’ but thanks.” She turns. “Can you do me a favor and zip me up? I don’t have the energy to play contortionist today.”

“Did you eat anything after breakfast?”

“Are you counting the carton of orange juice I downed?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

He sighs and shakes his head but the gesture is lost. He fights the urge to ghost finger tips over bare skin, reminding himself that he is a professional, she is his colleague, and he really really doesn’t need distractions, let alone self-made distractions, on a night like this.

But then again, they’d crossed the just colleagues line not long after they’d met, and had been dancing around just friends for months. In truth, they haven’t been just anything for some time now, and they’re both all too aware of it.

He brings the zipper up and closes the hook and eye.

“I take back my comment from this morning. Cinderella was an understatement.”

She turns and smiles at him. “Let’s just hope I come home with both shoes.”

“Suspect we’ll have a problem if you don’t.”

“Never know. Someone might want an interesting night.”

He slips his jacket over his shoulders, and offers her an arm. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

[popcultureliterary]

Tropes: When You’re Fairly Certain You’ve Seen These Odd Parents Before

Anybody who watches cartoons or anime might recognize today’s topic: tropes. These literary devices act as a mostly visual way (at least, on screen) for the creator of a work to quickly and easily convey a concept to their audience. They can take many forms: a figure of speech, a character type, a plot device, a location or location type, a pattern of storytelling, a sub-plot, and other repeatable elements.

I originally intended to focuses on the anime Silver Spoon for today’s post, but after whipping out a Fairly Oddparents reference, I couldn’t stop myself. The series sucked me in with its abundant tropes, clichés, and stereotypes (which are all related, as you will see shortly). For the sake of keeping this post at a reasonable blog length, I didn’t cover every example (or even one tenth of them) appearing in this ongoing series. If you have a favorite example that didn’t make the cut, be sure to share it in the comments! I would love to see which ones you like.

Hey, I’ve Seen this Before!

Did somebody oversleep and run to school with a piece of toast in their mouth? You’ve got a trope! Did a romantic scene feature beautiful tropical trees and a placid lake? You’ve got a trope! Did an unsavory character in dark clothing with a thin mustache and shifty eyes slink in and declare their evil ways? You probably didn’t need them to proclaim their badguy status because… You’ve got a trope!

Although often considered the mark of lazy writing, these literary devices are not inherently bad. They allow an author to quickly communicate an idea without spending too much time elaborating on it. Imagine if the last cartoon you watched spent five or more minutes elaborating on the personality of every single side character. That’s nearly half of its 10-12 minute episode run time per character. Doing so would really take away from the main story and characters, slowing the pace and bogging everything down. Instead, the writer or artist can throw in a few characters with pre-established types: the aloof cool kid, the absent parent, the shy poet. These character types quickly establish each character’s role and clues the viewer in on their purpose and personality.

Let’s take a look at a few examples found in Butch Hartman’s The Fairly Oddparents.

Characters

The most common examples are character tropes. As discussed above, character types appear in cartoons in order to quickly establish background characters’ personalities and relations to the story or other characters.

Timmy’s friends AJ and Chester, for example, represent the genius friend/idiot friend combo. One is a brainiac, while the other arguably wouldn’t find his way out of a paper bag even with a map. Both types of characters typically fall into the unpopular category at school, with AJ and Chester being no exception. Audience members have seen this character dynamic in other series, and don’t require an in-depth explanation. They know what to expect, and draw the correct assumption that Timmy is most likely as unpopular as his friends.

Social Structures

Speaking of Timmy’s popularity, a trope might also convey larger concepts such as social structures. In The Fairly Oddparents, we see a common social hierarchy: the popularity food chain. This hierarchy often comes in to convey where the main character stands in relation to their peers, as well as quickly establish more information about the story’s setting.

It’s easy to spot the popular kids Trixie, Veronica, Tad, and Chad in The Fairly Oddparents. They are well dressed, travel as a group, and say disdainful things about their peers. Additionally, they never miss an opportunity to brag about their family’s massive wealth, relying on it to get them into and out of every situation they come across.

In order to demonstrate that the main character, Timmy, is not on the same social level as them, the popular kids regularly treat Timmy poorly. Trixie even refers to him as “Empty Bus Seat,” indicating his low standing in the social order. With the inclusion of these characters, Hartman sets Timmy up as the unpopular underdog, and shows that the world he lives in is just as unfairly tipped in favor of money and status as our own.

These characters also allow Hartman to create contrast, cause tension, draw parallels, and achieve other desired effects throughout the series.

Story Arcs

Everybody usually has their favorite episode type: the beach trip; the everybody-swaps-bodies; the school festival; the year that so-and-so almost ruined Christmas (because, sadly, the other holidays rarely ever get their own special episodes…). Narrative patterns like these are also tropes. Many creative works will use similar episode storylines for a variety of reasons. They often introduce new information about the characters while using a familiar narrative to do so. The audience easily settles into the familiar pattern, freeing them to focus on the characters rather than getting caught up in the conflict of the episode.

First season alone contains a number of notable tropes without even looking at the other 9+:

The trope of a child becoming trapped in an adult body appears in the episode “The Big Problem,” the first full-length episode following the shorts released for Oh Yeah! Cartoons. Tired of being picked on and pushed around by older kids and adults in his life, Timmy wishes to become an adult. He expects to enjoy all of the privileges that come with adulthood, but it all blows up in his face (as often happens with this type of episode) when he fails to consider the drawbacks and responsibilities of adult life. Episodes like this often appear in order to highlight the similarities and differences between children and adults, as well as demonstrating that adult life isn’t all fun and games like it sometimes seems.

Successful use of a trope requires some level of ingenuity as well. If every child-in-an-adult-body episode was exactly the same, nobody would like them. Hartman does this brilliantly. The episode serves to establish Timmy’s relationship with the adults in his life, as well as shining a light on Timmy’s tendency to try and take the easy way out. Using this particular story arc also allows Hartman to introduce the concept that Fairies can only grant the wishes of children. As soon as Timmy ages to adulthood, Cosmo and Wanda lose the ability to grant him wishes and receive a new child assignment. The same concept could have been established using dialogue, but using dialogue for key concepts often creates flat characters and boring conversations that feel forced and fake.

Other trope episodes include “Power Mad!” (characters enter a videogame world), “Transparents” (characters pretend to be someone’s parents to get them out of trouble), and “Tiny Timmy” (characters shrink and enter another character’s body only to discover a literal civilization inside). And what kind of late 90’s, early 2000’s cartoon would it be without the “Christmas Everyday!” episode? The first season concludes with an episode in which Timmy wishes for Christmas every day. Naturally, the wish backfires, leaving Timmy and his Fairies to set things right.

Comics inside of Cartoons

World building elements such as magic systems, television shows, or hover cars are also tropes. Authors can provide some fast world building by including everyday things that their viewers can relate to such as comics, cartoons, or other media from the fictional world. These elements reveal characters’ personalities, add commentary on real social issues, or make characters more real and relatable.

Timmy loves reading The Crimson Chin comics. Every month, he eagerly awaits the next issue, devours it, and repeats. Whenever he doesn’t want to wait, he simply wishes himself into the heavily inked panels (look, another common story arc!). These superhero comics add depth to Timmy’s personality and to the world as a whole.

Turning the Cliché Trope into a Joke

Unfortunately, when used too often, either in the same work or in multiple, tropes become a problem. If ten series on the same network utilized a scene where a character falls down the stairs and wakes up in another world, things would start to feel a little stale. Audience members would grow bored. They know what’s going to happen and knowing yanks them out of the immersive experience of watching. When this happens, the well thought-out device becomes a dastardly cliché. Just like a pair of underwear worn unwashed for a month, nobody likes clichés.

One of the things that I love best about Hartman’s work is that he often takes clichés and skillfully flips them into jokes. He sees tired tropes turning into clichés and shines a spotlight on them so brightly that they become jokes in his works.

Take a look at Timmy’s mom and dad. Who are these characters? Simply Timmy’s mom and dad. No explanation needed. They act as the authority in Timmy’s life, the symbol of traditional family structure, and the oblivious parents who don’t understand their son’s life. Parents appear in many stories with no further explanation behind them, presenting the assumption that the character simply needed a mom and dad. In many series, especially older cartoons, moms and dads rarely receive names because their only purpose is to represent the authority and family structure in a character’s life. Hartman takes this and turns it into a running gag in his series.

What are the names of Timmy’s mom and dad? Why, their names are…. Actually, we never learn their true names. The episode “Father Time” addresses the question when Timmy travels back in time and meets his parents’ childhood selves. Whenever someone goes to say either character’s name, a conveniently timed loud sound drowns them out, and the audience catches the follow-up of “but you can call me Dad/Mom.” Accordingly, we can only assume that their names are Mom and Dad.

How Stereotypical!

When used carelessly, Tropes can easily become stereotypes by mistake. If a character or location isn’t fleshed out enough, they tend to take on vague concepts often used to characterize a particular type of person or place, creating a stereotype or cliché. People generally feel negatively toward stereotypes as they do not reflect the true characteristics of the people or locations being portrayed. In many cases, stereotypes present harmful representations of people or groups.

For an example, let’s consider the popular girl mentioned earlier, Trixie Tang. Trixie seems like the stereotypical popular girl. She cares about makeup, her social standing, clothes, and anything girly. On top of that, she treats all unpopular kids with disdain (or simply acts like she can’t see them) and sucks up to the adults around her who can get her what she wants. Characters in her role typically don’t care about the less popular kids, carry around a snarky attitude, obsess over their looks, and float through life in relative bliss.

In many cases, stereotypes and clichés are not only boring, but also harmful. Many create a generalization of what a particular type of person acts like, whether maliciously or not, that makes it seem like all people who identify that way must act similarly. Like other popular girl stereotypes, Trixie does not accurately represent real girls and young women who consider themselves to be popular. Sure, there may be a number of individuals who act similarly in real life, but this is not true of all popular girls and young women. Every person is their own unique individual with layers upon layers that shape their personal and social identities.

At first, Trixie receives very little screen time with which to build her personality and show her as anything but a cookie-cutter representation of popular girls. Anybody who has seen the gender-swapping episode “The Boy Who Would Be Queen” knows that Trixie just puts on the stereotype persona for the sake of her popularity. She actually really likes The Crimson Chin comics, and admits that she wishes girls could do more boy stuff and vice-versa.

Bonus: If the popular-girl-secretly-does-unpopular-things storyline seems familiar to you… you guessed it—you’ve got a trope! The concept comes up in countless other narratives in order to convey the idea that people are deeper than their social presentation allows others to see.

Bet You Didn’t See This Coming!

Overall, tropes are useful literary devices that allow creators to develop and convey new ideas using familiar sequences, characters, locations, or other narrative elements. They work as a type of short-hand utilized by all, understood by most.

Now that you know what they’re all about, it’s time to tackle finding some and identifying their significance on your own! You can find them in your favorite games, shows, movies, books… they’re everywhere in pop culture. If you’re coming up blank, here are a few suggestions to get you started. Come back and share what you find!

The competent new kid (The Backstagers)

Annoying laugh (Spongebob Squarepants)

Salvage pirates (Firefly)

Carrying a cutlass between your teeth (Muppet Treasure Island)

Superheroes wear capes (The Incredibles)

A bus full of innocent people put in danger (Detective Conan/Case Closed)

Body swapped (Gravity Falls)

School festival (Ouran High School Host Club)

It was all a dream (The Wizard of Oz)

Your hero is a jerk in reality (bonus points for finding an example! I’m chagrined to admit that I drew a huge blank here!)

If you’re an anime fan and want to see more examples, check out KawaiiPaperPandas’ great post listing ten of the most common occurrences and cliches in anime!

Wrapping Up

I wanted to extend a huge thank-you to the amazing minds over at TVtropes.org for their ongoing work in discussing and rounding up tropes in the narrative worlds around us. Their extensive work helped me to put simple names to long-winded ideas. If you enjoyed reading about this literary device and want to learn more about it, check them out!

What’s your favorite trope? Share it in the comments! You can also connect on Twitter at @Popliterature, or send a message on the “contact me” page of my home blog.

And as always, if you have a literary device you want to know more about, or a game, comic, show, or movie that you want to see make an appearance on the blog, leave a shout-out in the comments!