#my fest fics are both so heavy it was nice to write something light and funny for a change

[daddyfordaeddy]

Pairing: god of time! San x f! Reader

Word Count: 2113

Warnings: cursing, dub con (it's a planned scenario but only shown to be one at the end so read with caution) (smut warnings under cut)

Genre: smut, rated E for explicit, established relationship au

Summary: Strange things keep happening, and your best friend may know something about it

Smut warnings: fingering, oral (female receiving, male recieving but only like a sentence and implied), unprotected sex (wrap before tap guys🔫), dirty talk, slight begging if you squint, felching (again), cum play, praise, light breast play, dub con, roleplay (they're roleplaying that san is her best friend who takes advantage of her), creampie i think?

I’m only doing a couple of the February Filth Fest, and this is day/track 25! free use/spit play, and i chose the former! this is a pretty heavy fic (dubcon) ad if you don't like it, please click away! while at the end it's mentioned that this is just a scenario, it's not really said outright and it's only at the very end so please!! read with caution!

And this is the last of the FFF i'm writing! i hope you enjoyed the burst of smuts from me and maybe you'll see more in the future ;)

ALSO! as threatened by @sanjoongie...dedicated to her and it's for topaz's eyes only lol /hj

-

A strange taste fills your mouth and you stop mid-sentence, clearing your throat and chugging the rest of your water. Your best friend, San, is watching you with concern on his face. “You good (Y/N)?”

You nod, clearing your throat again and swallowing down the strange bitter taste in your throat. “Uh. Yeah,” you say, smiling at him. “Just got a weird taste in your throat. Probably choked on my spit or something.”

San hums, brushing over the incident, but when he’s left for his apartment and all you have to keep you company is silence, you rush to the bathroom to cough and gargle the familiar taste of come out of your mouth. That has been happening to you for the past few days. You’ll be in the middle of the most mediocre task and in the blink of an eye your mouth or ass is sore and there’s cum dripping somewhere.

You remember the first time it happened like it was yesterday (and to be honest, it was only just the past Saturday). You were just doing your laundry with San playing video games as he usually does since you just ‘have the better router’, when you felt your underwear grow sticky and your legs quiver like when you use your Hitachi in privacy. With a glance at San, you slid into the bathroom and yanked your underwear down, staring for a good moment at the wetness that covered both the cloth and your thighs. There was no mistake about it. You had orgasmed.

You had brushed it off as just some random body thing, but then it happened again. And again. Some days you’d just be having dinner, and on others, you’d just be reading a book and you’ll find yourself ass up and underwear soaked. Every once in a while, you’d even have the taste of come on your tongue.

You swear you’re haunted, but no amount of salt, or incense, or candles kept whatever entity it was from coming and using you in the blink of an eye.

But one day, you were just trying to have a nice shower when this time, when you blinked, you were laying on the ground with come all over your face and your cunt ached and gaped more than you were used to. Tentatively, you pushed two fingers inside you, subconsciously letting out a sigh at the stretch. When you draw them back out, your eyebrows raise at the white, sticky release clinging to your fingers. That was a first, and you hate that you grow wetter at the idea.

This needs to stop.

-

“San, I think I’m being haunted,” you cry, launching yourself into his arms as soon as he opens the door at eleven at night. “I swear I can’t stop it.”

San’s brows furrow the slightest bit. “What do you mean? Why so late?” Even through his confusion, he lets you in and locks the door behind him, a fact you’re eternally grateful for.

“Okay, hear me out. I think a ghost is haunting me and using my body as a toy.” You know you sound like a fool with how San’s expression changes to that of slight amusement. “You don’t have to believe me, but I swear it’s happening!”

With a sigh coming from the depths of his soul, San opens the blanket he had swaddled himself in, and you quickly curl up under his arm. “Do you want to stay here tonight? We can check it out tomorrow.”

You nod as best you can with your face in his warm, sturdy, chest and the two of you waddle your way to his bed. The covers are thrown off haphazardly and you almost feel bad until you remember what happens to you when you’re in your apartment and you let it go.

As you melt into the bed, San throws an arm around you and mumbles in your ear, “You did look pretty good sprawled out in the shower.”

It’s almost embarrassing it takes you a minute to register what he says but your eyes snap open to find San staring at you right in the eyes with a smirk growing on his face. You jerk away from him but you’re tangled in the sheets and you just fall to the ground.

You try again, but this time, something’s off. Your limbs aren’t moving how you want them to…or moving at all. San’s smile only grows wider as he leans over the edge of the bed to stare at you. “Surprise,” he hums, reaching down to pull you back onto the bed like you weigh nothing. “You were just too easy, (Y/N)ie. Running straight to my arms like I’m the one to save you? Pathetic.” He scoffs, his hands wandering down your sides. It would feel ticklish but as much as you try to squirm, nothing happens and his hands keep moving.

With a glint in his eye, his large palm comes to rest on your cunt, still soaked through from what he did to you in the shower. And within a second, he pushes your panties aside and presses his fingers into you, groaning at how loose you are. “It was so fucking easy,” he moans, moving closer to you so his breath fans over your face. You can smell the mint toothpaste and you want to spit in his face, but you can’t. “You don’t even remember anything, right? Just what happens after. But God, now you finally can see exactly what I do.”

His hands slide up your torso, pushing your bra up to play with your nipples. “So pretty and pliant for me,” his lips twist into a smile and he presses a kiss to your slightly open mouth. “God, I’ve waited for this for so long. You never saw the way I looked at so, what was a guy supposed to do? Now I finally have you.”

His breathing becomes laboured as his mouth trails down your neck before nipping at the soft flesh of your breast. You can feel his hard-on pressing into your thigh, twitching and forming a wet patch at the front of his grey sweatpants. San’s hand reaches between your bodies to shove his pants down enough to free his cock, slapping it against your cunt before lining up and pushing in slowly. “Fuck,” he groans, his eyes rolling back in his head at the feeling of your hot pussy swallowing him up. “Just as sloppy and loose as I like it.”

He presses his lips feverishly against your unresponsive mouth, thrusting harshly. Each time he pulls out and slams back in, you can hear every squelch and you want to moan at how his thick cock hits the perfect spot every time. You hate that you love the feeling of him stretching you out and kissing your walls so sweetly. But the worst part is the fact that as much as you can feel every little bit of pleasure he’s serving you, you can’t move an inch to chase your own pleasure. The slow pressure building in your gut stays stagnant and you won’t come, not until you’re free from this prison of time.

San’s still mouthing at your parted lips, his hands wandering around your torso and gripping at your skin. His thrusts have become more erratic, pistoning in and out of you as his cock throbs. “Oh my God,” he groans, high-pitched and almost whining as he comes deep inside of you. With each rope of cum, you can feel it filling you up so well and if you could, you would relax at the end of it. San pants against your lips, his eyes squeezing shut as sweat falls on you.

His hands are still gripping onto your hips like there’s no tomorrow, but his hips come to a still as he jerks once, twice, and the last bits of come spurt out of him.  “God, still so perfect,” San hums, biting at your lower lip. “So much better when you look at me like that. So pretty.”

His hands cup your face and stroke your cheek. He slowly pulls out of you but to your surprise, instead of letting you regain control of your body, he shifts, sliding lower. It takes you a moment to register what’s happening but as soon as his warm breath hits your core it hits.

As he licks a broad stripe up the pool of his come and your slick, you jolt with a gasp, your body finally back to yours. Before you can do anything, struggle, moan, even blink, San sucks harshly at your clit and your hands fly to grip his hair as you half scream half moan. “Shit–” you whine out, voice broken as if you’ve forgotten how to speak. “San– please–”

As a response, his tongue flicks your clit and his grip on your hips tightens as he pulls you even closer to him. “Fuck, taste so good, and you taste even better begging for me.” His voice is so raspy as he mouths his way down to your fluttering hole, shoving his tongue in and working it against your clenching walls.

You squeal, legs jerking but you can’t move too much before they suddenly are still and you lift your head to see San staring right at you as he tastes you. “Isn’t it so much easier that way?” he murmurs into your dripping cunt, eyes burning with desire. “No struggling, just feeling?”

Before you can respond, his teeth scrape against your sensitive bud and the slow build-up of your orgasm finally crashes over you. Your brain goes fuzzy and your vision burns white as you throw your head back onto the mattress and your hands grip his hair so tight you fear you might’ve pulled out some hair. You swear you’ve gone deaf for a few blissful seconds before you come back down from your high and San’s slowed his licks as he groans, sitting up and pressing just the head of his dick into you as he cums again, painting your folds white. Gently, he pushes his come back inside of you around his dick while thrusting shallowly into you, moaning as his come foams up around his fingers. “God, you’re such a fucking dream," San moans, crawling up to meet your tired face and kiss you deep, his tongue working its way into your slack mouth, and you can taste his come on his tongue.

A pause, and he cups your face and presses another, lighter, kiss to your lips. You respond this time, pulling him closer by his shirt collar. “I wasn’t too rough with you, right?” His voice is much smaller now, and your eyes crinkle as you smile at him fondly.

“Of course not. You never are. Sure, I was a bit sore after you used your powers, but hey, that’s what makes it good.” You press a kiss on his cheek. “I’m just happy I got to be with you. I mean, who else can boast they’re dating a god of time?”

San chuckles, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer. “And I’m lucky to be dating the one and only (Y/N).” He presses another sweet kiss to your temple. “You did so well for me too. Now, let’s get you in the bath and clean you up.”

You chuckle, winding your arms around his neck and kissing his jawline. “Or…we could use another round.”

“Ah, you’re not tired yet? I just used you for a good hour,” San scolds, but you can feel him growing hard against your hip again. “Maybe I should tire you out for real.”

With a smirk, you reach down and palm his growing erection. “Maybe you should,” you start to say, but you’re soon cut off by his lips on yours. He picks you up, making you squeal as he carries you to the connected bathroom. “Aw,” you pout, but San kisses it away and you see the darkness in his eyes.

“Don’t ‘aw’ so soon, baby. If you want a round two, it’d just be easier to do it here,” San teases and your eyes brighten at his implications. “Now be good for me and get on your knees.”

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself already ready in position on the cold tile and heat pools in your core as you smile and open your mouth wide. Your body freezes, but your mind relaxes as you let him slip his half-hard cock into your mouth. There are many perks to dating him, and this is just one of them.

[leogichidaa]

Nose Goes

For @foratmysidewalkshope, who inspired this. I cannot tell you how much fun I had writing it, thank you for the Evan Rosier nose fetish hc I didn't know I needed <3

Evan nudged his mate in the ribs and nodded towards the man in the center of the audience. He stage-whispered, “He cuts a nice profile, you have to admit.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. He was beginning to regret inviting Evan along to come listen to Lord Voldemort speak. “Must you?”

Evan nodded earnestly and grinned at Regulus. “I must. I mean, look at him. Gorgeous nose. Even you would agree that he’s handsome, surely.”

“Do not drag me into this, Evan,” Regulus said, holding his hand up in protest. “I want no part of it.”

Evan reached over and pinched Regulus’ nose. “Whatever you say.”

Regulus shot him a stern look. “We are in public, Evan. Do try to exhibit some self-control.”

Evan made a face, but he kept his hands to himself for the rest of the Dark Lord’s speech and made no further comments.

*

“It’s just such an aristocratic nose, do you know what I mean?” Evan said enthusiastically.

Lucius looked at him in abject horror. “I do not know what you mean.”

“There are some thoughts that should stay inside your head, Rosier,” Alecto drawled.

Evan scowled. “Bellatrix gets to wax poetic over him all the time and you all call it devotion. Why is it wrong when I do it?”

“Bellatrix isn’t obscenely fixated on his nose, Rosier. And she isn’t nearly as bad as you.”

*

“If any of you have any suggestions…” Voldemort said, looking around at his gathered Death Eaters. Evan’s hand shot up. Voldemort gestured at him. “Go on, what are your thoughts?”

“I think you would look great with a nose ring. Have you ever considered that?”

Voldemort stared at Evan for a full minute. Nobody said anything. Nobody moved. Half the Death Eaters hardly dared breath for fear of laughing and angering Voldemort further. “About the raid. Does anyone have suggestions about the raid.”

“Oh, well then, no. Never mind,” Evan said. “Still think it’s a good suggestion though,” he muttered under his breath.

Voldemort was so thrown off that he called the meeting early. On the way out, Regulus murmured, “What kind of nose ring?”

“I thought you wanted no part of this,” Evan replied.

Regulus shrugged. “Call it morbid curiosity.”

“A proper ring,” Evan said. “Studs are for sissies.”

Regulus nodded. “It shows lack of commitment.”

“Exactly! You get it. I’m right, aren’t I? It would look good.”

“Not everything that is true needs to be said out loud, though, Evan.”

“He can read our minds anyway. Might as well.”

Regulus sighed. Evan had always been woefully lacking in decorum. “That is not a reason to broadcast your every thought to the entire room.”

Evan shrugged. “Says you.”

“No, I assure you, everyone is in agreement about this.”

*

Voldemort sat in his study, his jaw clenching repeatedly. It had been a mild annoyance at first, the Rosier problem, but it was getting completely out of hand. Voldemort was used to being admired, he was accustomed to having people compliment his good looks, but it was unnerving to have someone spend 45 minutes staring at his nose. And it was frankly getting difficult to maintain authority with the increasingly unsettling comments Rosier made.

“I am at a loss,” he said to Nagini, who lay at his feet. “I may have to kill the boy. He is driving me mad.”

“Men like him make me grateful I no longer have a human body to gawk at,” Nagini responded.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, an idea forming in his mind. “That’s brilliant,” he muttered. He knew exactly what his next Horcrux was going to be.

*

“Evan, are you crying?” Regulus asked, incredulous.

“No!” Evan insisted. “It’s just dusty in your house, Wilkes, does your house elf never clean?”

“Oh, shove off, Rosier,” Wilkes replied. “You know she doesn’t. Sodding elf is half demented.”

Evan sighed heavily, looking at the Dark Lord’s altered appearance. His nose had been replaced with reptilian slits. “It was a thing of beauty. And just like that, it’s gone.”

Amycus leaned over, grinning wickedly, and said, “Hey, I heard Snape is thinking of getting a nose job.”

“WHY?!” Evan demanded, somewhat hysterical. “It’s his only good feature!”

Amycus cackled and Voldemort put his head in his hands. “You are all dismissed.”

Wilkes hesitated. “My Lord? This is…my house.”

“I said you are dismissed.”

Wilkes glared at Evan. “Mark my words, I will get you back for this. Getting me kicked out of my own house because of your freaky nose obsession…”

[pensivetense]

A List Of (Mostly TMA) Fic Recs Sorted By Vibe

Not an exhaustive list by any means, just a few favourites that caught my fancy. I shortened many of the summaries for space.

I’m going to pin this here and update it as I go.

Also, I’m pensivetense on ao3

MELANCHOLY VIBES

for when you want to feel comfortably muted

(sad but not utterly bleak endings here)

Hope, Etc. (Dickenson, et al.) by yellow_caballero

Jonathan Sims, six months after the Unknowing, wakes to find himself without a daemon - without humanity, without a soul. It’s a cursed half-life, but existence as a shell without a heart isn’t so bad: between solving the mystery of a persistent illusion cast over his friends and some light pseudo-cannibalism, a life as a monster is better than no life at all. At least, it would be, if it wasn’t for the fucking Owl.

A freaking. Amazing. Daemon au. Ties the lore of Dust with TMA lore very satisfyingly, but is mostly about Jon navigating what it means to be human, or, in the absence of that, a person, and doesn’t require prior knowledge of His Dark Materials. Cannot recommend highly enough.

after one long season of waiting by nuinuijiaojiao

Annabelle is not used to having nice things. or, Annabelle heads to Upton House, muses a little, and gets some well-deserved rest

I love survivalist Annabelle and also the concept of the Web as kind of a horrible Patron, actually.

i love you. I want us both to eat well. by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse

At the safehouse with Martin, Jon decides it's time to quit statements once and for all. The Eye disagrees. Martin just needs Jon to be okay. It's quite possible that nobody is going to get what they want.

Scottish Safehouse Era, Jon and Martin coping with their respective Entities... really, really good.

the friend by doomcountry

He always greets a new spider when he meets it. It’s instinct, born in childhood, the same way he instinctively counts magpies, or flicks salt over his left shoulder. A little harmless superstition. A bit of politesse.

A great Martin character study with eldritch spider horror included. The imagery regularly haunts me (in a good way).

autumn’s rare gift by bee_bro

Annually, the two meet, renewing the binding ritual where it had all started. The procedure simple: a waltz.

Singlehandedly made me ship Gertrude/Agnes so there’s that. It’s so bittersweet and bee_bro’s writing is, as always, incredibly poetic. (I’d recommend everything they write, actually.)

smile, you’re trending by Goodluckdetective

During an encounter with another Avatar of the Eye, Jon faces his past, Martin takes a turn at playing Kill Bill and Basira has a second look at the monster she’s determined to see. For three people associated with the Eye, they could all use some perspective.

Features an original Eye Avatar character who’s a YouTube personality; she is infuriating and inspired and genuinely frightening and I cannot say enough good things.

Humility by The_Lionheart

have you no idea that you're in deep?/i've dreamt about you nearly every night this week,/how many secrets can you keep?

An OC centric story but don’t let that put you off, it’s amazing. Very heavily focused around Jonah Magnus and the other Avatars as they change through the years. Also, I’d die for the OC.

oh, for one sweet second without the eye series by faedemon

Beholding does not like in the way humans do, but it likes its Archivist all the same.

I’m just so fond of the way this is done stylistically. I have a great weakness for dialogue only/dialogue heavy writing, not to mention all of the wonderful character beats and interplay of humanity/inhumanity for Jon and Melanie.

Rewind by WhyNotFly

It takes eight days of forced confinement for Jon to start hallucinating. [...] It’s Martin, though, that his exhausted brain conjures, because of course it’s Martin. After all this time, of course it’s Martin.

Jon willingly allows himself to be confined rather than hunting for statements, and examines his relationship with Martin.

for a firmament series by supaslim

There is beauty in destruction. There is art in becoming. In which Jon becomes the Archive, and the Archive becomes Jon.

Part two posted this morning and uhhh. Good. Also if you’re here for weird eldritch body horror (I am), this one’s for you.

ONES THAT JUST HURT

for when you want to feel sad

(somewhat bleaker endings here/everyone is NOT okay)

Feste by yellow_caballero

If asked, Martin would say that he became the shadow director of the Magnus Institute by accident. But nobody ever asked, and nobody ever cared, and it was in this way that Martin stopped lying to himself. Or: break free, Martin. All you have to lose are your chains. And your sanity.

Oh, this one totally didn’t go the way I expected it to. A study in isolation. Could go into the category above, as the ending is not bleak, but the tone of the whole is somewhat more depressing than most there.

Ghosts of Love by RavenXavier

Nothing made Martin more grounded in the world than yearning for Jonathan Sims.

Lonely!Martin that really captures a sort of visceral ache. Hurts me and yet I keep rereading.

i do desire (we may be better strangers) by godbewithyouihavedone

For ages, it only knew how to worship, taking human bodies and living off the fear of those who remembered. It never knew love until it became Jonathan Sims. Now it must fight against every instinct to save Martin Blackwood. Archivist Sasha, Not!Jon/Martin, and the worst kind of Fake Dating AU.

Oh, this one just made me sad. The poor not!them, which is something I never thought I’d say.

Apple Of Your Eye by fakeCRfan

In which the Eye is fond of Martin. Perhaps a little too fond for comfort.

Somehow manages to be both sweet and horrifying—the characterisation of the Eye is incredible. ‘The Eye loves Martin’ is a scenario that’s so utterly doomed to failure and yet the writing is packed with so much pathos that I just want them all to be happy. A fantastic use of themes of agency and choice, and the single best use of Beholding as a source of horror I’ve read.

The Last Press by copperbadge

Jon Sims is awake, and has begun preparations for the Rite of the Watcher's Crown. Peter Lukas, who woke him, would be content to rule at his side. Martin is very upset about all of this, and the Lukases aren't thrilled with it either.

I really can’t say anything without spoiling the end and it’s so good. An alternate take on the Watcher’s Crown. Not a pairing that I ever thought would work for me, but this made it work.

watch the blood evaporate by 75hearts

It starts, like so many things in Jon’s life have started, with a nagging itch of curiosity. Jonathan Sims uses his healing abilities throughout s4. Read the tags.

Dear God please read the tags. But this is some high quality pain if it’s for you.

the lighthouse series by low_fi

Peter Lukas is a lighthouse keeper. One evening, he gets a call from a cryptic overseer tasked with monitoring his work.

This is such a vivid and yet subtle story—from the setting to the emotions portrayed, it creeps up on you slowly. The ending was like the gentlest possible gut-punch. The sequel just completed, and yeah, just as wonderful. This one is very much LonelyEyes but I listed it here because it is just exquisitely painful.

SATISFYINGLY HOPEFUL VIBES

for when you want to feel cozy

Clutching Daffodils by Gemi

Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight. It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs. He always liked the idea of it. And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.

Somehow manages to be lighter and fluffier than most hanahaki fare, despite the setting. I’ve reread this one a lot.

the least he could do by Prim_the_Amazing

Martin should in fact not pick this man, specifically because of how attracted he is to him. It would be the responsible thing to do. Except he’s already following him. And he’s hungry.

Fluffy vampire au which everyone’s probably already read, but was too good not to mention.

rather interesting by bee_bro

Jonah Magnus realizes that, for some reason, when he comes in contact with weed, Elias Bouchard's consciousness will come into his life banging pots and pans.

Oh boy. So these are all favourite fics but this one is a favourite amongst favourites. The way Jonah is characterised (i.e. incredibly sensitive to scrutiny) is my favourite depiction of him, and the slow-burn between him and Elias is far sweeter than it has any right to be. Also, it’s hilarious.

The Magnus Records series by ErinsWorks

In a world parallel to that of the Archives and the Institute, a supernatural sanctuary stands against a cruel and uncaring world: A world of bureaucracy and tyranny, of murder and carnage, of loneliness and surveillence, of plague and death. But in this world of fear and misery, 14 entities born of the hopes of the world have emerged. And one of them has made their home here, at The Magnus Sanctuary. Perhaps, the employees within may lead happier lives than their counterparts did in the Archives.

This is just so goddamn pure. The author writes a really imaginative, fleshed-out alternate world and alternate Entities with engaging, well-written short statements. All of the character voices are absolutely on point, and it’s overall absurdly hopeful without ever feeling overly saccharine. I love this series so much, you guys, you don’t even know. I want to print it out and paste it on my wall. I love it.

HARD APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel dark and angsty (and eldritch)

Most of these are shorts/oneshots because it’s just that kind of genre, y’know?

Ashes to Ashes by marrowbones

A conversation at the end of the world.

Oliver Banks is one of those minor characters that I am overly attached to. Love him here.

Employee Benefits by equals_eleven_thirds

The Magnus Institute offered some normal employee benefits: a pension plan, holidays, travel subsidies, free lunch on the last Friday of each month. Rosie makes it work.

This manages to hit that perfect sweet spot of satisfying and hilarious. Rosie gets to torment Elias, as she well deserves.

a rose by any other name by Duck_Life

Part of Jon blooms in Jared Hopworth’s garden.

This one was sad and honestly too gentle to really belong in this category, but I love it.

Eye to Eye by Dribbledscribbles

In which Jonah Magnus attempts a post-apocalyptic pep talk.

Unreliable narrator at its finest, and the implications are suitably horrific.

commensalis by doomcountry

The tower is endlessly, impossibly tall, but Jon’s work is taller.

If you’re here for the eldritch imagery, then this has some of the best.

SOFT APOCALYPSE

for when you want to feel gently triumphant

apocalypse how series by sunshine_states

Humanity adjusts. The Entities have Regrets.

Some nice vignettes set in a kinder apocalypse.

ceylon series by Sciosa

The one in which Jonathan Sims decides that no, actually, he isn't going to let the world just end.

I include this only for the sake on completeness, as everyone has no doubt already read it.

rituals by doomcountry

Martin is the first person to knock on the Archivist's door since it arrived, fully, into its little waiting temple. The Archivist saw him coming from down the hall, but decides to feign interest when the knob turns, and Martin—still a little bit smaller, a little more translucent than before—stands uncertainly just outside the room.

This one’s a little less focused on the world at large and more on JonMartin specifically.

we raise it up by savrenim

Jonathan Sims reads a book and saves the world; although maybe the real salvation is the friends he makes along the way; (although perhaps the world itself and the darkness that exists behind it isn't quite as out to get everyone as it seems).

More ‘soft revolution’ than ‘soft apocalypse’, but has the same vibe. A time travel fix-it. Incomplete but worth it if this is a mood that appeals to you.

Scarred Ground by DictionaryWrites

“You see," Elias said softly, "people always have this idea that only living things can be scarred - and they're right, of course. But a building is a living thing, Martin. And the ground can be scarred, too." "I don't have any scars," Martin said. "Yes, you do," Elias said. "You just need the right light to see them.”

Falls somewhere between ‘Apocalypse’ and ‘Soft Apocalyse’ but I’m putting it here because I feel like it. Also technically a LonelyEyes fic. I found it hard to follow at first but it’s worth sticking with; things will eventually begin to make sense and come together.

LONELYEYES

for when you want to feel lonelyeyes

marrying anguish with one last wish by procrastinatingbookworm

In which Elias isn't Orpheus, and Peter isn't Eurydice, but Elias brings Peter home anyway.

Lives in my head rent free forever. My favourite lonelyeyes fic.

ouroboros by Wildehack

“You know,” Jonah says, a muscle in his calf quivering agreeably where it’s slung over Mordechai’s shoulder, “it’s really quite--fortunate--that I don’t care for you at all.”

Oh, this one hurts in the best possible way. The endless cycle of their relationship, the way it comes full-circle... yeah, good. Actually, no, this one might be my favourite. It’s a tie.

Breaking all the Rules by Thedupshadove

Elias proposes a somewhat...unusual wager.

Soft lonelyeyes? In my recs? It’s more likely than you think. Short, sweet, and... sweet.

Threefold by Sprinkledeath

Peter Lukas breaks three rules.

I’m just a slut for mythology allusions I guess.

Luck Be A Lady Tonight by prodigy

In 2014, Elias Bouchard takes a rare trip outside of his comfort zone. Peter Lukas wastes a bunch of money. You'd be surprised how many things can go wrong for two beings of cosmic power.

I love the sense of the history of them you get while reading this.

love is just a word (the idea seems absurd) by kaneklutz

"Something's wrong. It's stopped hurting" An avatar of the Lonely and an avatar of the Beholding walk into a bar relationship. It was bound to blow up in their faces.

Short, sweet, painful. Excellent exploration of their priorities.

Victor by penguistifical

elias tries something with his powers that he hasn't attempted before

The one where Elias tries to raise the dead. Not incredibly LonelyEyes centric but that’s still the pairing.

Simon Says by penguistifical

“Peter asked me to drop by and have a word with you, and, so, here I am.” Simon chuckles at Elias’s disbelieving stare. “Well, he asked in his own way. He’s not a complicated man, you know. He either comes from your arms looking like a stroked cat that’s been given a dish of cream or looking like he’s been in that toy boat of his out in an unexpected storm. He was far angrier than normal, so I daresay you weren’t cream today.”

I mean personally I’d just go ahead and rec all of penguistifical’s LonelyEyes fics but this is a standout for me.

AROMANTIC AND ASPEC MOODS

for when you want to feel Seen

The Aro Archives series by WhyNotFly

These are all just really really good. From Aro!Peter to two different aro-spec versions of the Scottish Safehouse to a long and beautiful aro hanahaki fic, this series is uniformly wonderful. The two Scottish Safehouse ones (Torn Edges and Murky Water) are my comfort fics.

and now all fear gives way by j_quadrifons

Before he can think it through, he murmurs, "Is that what it feels like? Being in love?" Martin's hand stills in his hair and Jon's stomach drops.

This one just. Wow yeah this is how it be. Another absolute comfort fic of mine.

Sweet As Roses by Prim_the_Amazing

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

I’m going to be honest—I didn’t know where to put this one. But it ended up here because the real standout of this fic for me is the portrayal of Sasha, and especially her portrayal as an aro character. So I’m putting it here. Mind the content warnings with this one!

HUMOUR

for when you want to feel delight

The Torment of Sebastian Skinner by Urbenmyth

After the Eye's victory, the statement givers are trapped in their horror stories, living them over and over again. Naturally, this works out better for some then for others.

Premise? Delightful. Execution? Fantastic. I read this one to cheer myself up when I’m sad.

Unlucky by VolxdoSioda

Jon’s dice betray him

Short, sweet DnD au, and the reason I cannot get DM!Elias out of my head now.

Voracious by beetl

A bird hits the window. Jon experiences The Flesh's thrall.

“Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” but make it literal.

The Stupid Endings by Urbenmyth

There are a lot of very deeply thought out and creative AUs on this site. These aren't among them. These ones are how the story could have ended, if Jonny Sims was a dumbass.

These are just uniformly hilarious, I cannot recommend them highly enough.

PODCAST CROSSOVERS

for when you want to make one of those “if I had a nickel for every time...” posts

The Sabbatical by morelikeassassin

Nicholas Waters is in need of an all-knowing eldritch entity beyond the confines of human imagining to help with his latest ritual. He'll have to settle for Jonathan Sims, who happens to have nothing better to do.

Crossover with Archive 81 (s3, specifically). Both fun and bittersweet.

The City And Its Sorrows by cuttooth

“What makes you think your friend is in Eskew?” David asks. He feels he can risk the scrutiny of the city that far. “I read that this is a place people end up when they get lost,” says the man. “This is a place people end up,” David agrees./The Archivist comes to Eskew.

Contemplative piece, and I love the way it presents David’s relationship with Eskew, the way he finds it horrible and hates it and yet belongs to it, is almost proud in the way he shows to to Jon. Great little vignette of two people oppressed by eldritch powers, intersecting.

Hiatus by bibliocratic

My name is Jonathan Sims, and I am in Eskew. (Jon gets lost in a Spiral city. It is not as easy as escaping.)

This one is far more focused on Jon than David, and is honestly more Eskew-weird than Spiral-weird. In the best way. Told in Eskew episode style, and is very good.

Sweet Music by Shella688

Eskew has a music to it, if you know how to listen. The percussion beat of thousands of footsteps, the melody in the squealing of the trains overhead. Today, the music of Eskew comes in the form of nine musicians, playing outside my office. My name is David Ward, and I am in Eskew.

Not TMA, but since a lot of Mechs fans go here—this one’s a Mechs/Eskew crossover. Short and simple, mostly David Ward centric, just a little well-written one shot I had to mention because I enjoyed it but it doesn’t have much traffic. Nice portrayal of the Mechs from an outsider’s perspective, and how genuinely strange and frightening they’d come across (especially if you’re already being haunted by and eldritch city). If you like Eskew-style storytelling, check it out!

NOT TMA

...but good enough that I physically cannot make a recs list without including them. Here!

[obsessedbutonline]

obsessedbutonline Masterlist

Started: 24/12/2020

Last updated: 24/12/2020

Total works: 9

Teen Wolf

Title: Amateurs

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/?

Word count: 4369

Tags: Spark Stiles Stilinski, Magic, Stiles Stilinski Returns, Emissary Stiles Stilinski,Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Bromance, Alpha Derek Hale, Good Derek Hale, Good Peter Hale,Good Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Teacher Stiles Stilinski, Roadtrip, Training

Summary:  When Stiles is offered a position at a far-away pack to train a young spark, he didn't expect to bring along a certain Peter Hale. Becoming a powerful, nation-wide known emissary comes with certain perks, and also responsibilities- how does Stiles cope?- Written for the Steter Secret Santa

Other comments: This one is a favourite of mine and one I’m super inspired for! It was for the steter secret santa 2020, and I was late for that sadly, but my giftee, archercrow, was AMAZING about it and I got it to them on the 29th (: 

~

Title: Temporary Love

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 3/?

Word count: 3087

Tags: College Student Stiles Stilinski, College, Human, Alternate Universe - Human, Family, Family Fluff, Derek Hale is a Softie, Deputy Derek Hale, Misunderstandings, Stiles Stilinski's Jeep's Name is Roscoe, Stiles Stilinski Returns

Summary:  From the prompt: Stiles’ Babcia (grandmother) is fiercely independent and lives in an apartment in Beacon Hills and Stiles used to go over on the weekends and run errands for her. But then Stiles goes to college and can’t make it home as much as he likes, and when he does go home he goes straight to Babcia’s apartment ready to do her bidding and she’s like, “Oh, no, Słoneczko, that nice boy Derek down the hall already got my groceries and fixed my sink…” And Stiles gets really jealous of this Derek guy, but Derek works weekends (Deputy!Derek FTW) so they never actually meet. Stiles nurses this simmering rage that some interloper is bogarting his grandmother. In the meantime Derek is just soaking up the family feels and becoming more and more enamoured of the elusive Mieczysław that babcia keeps showing him pictures of and telling him stories about, “the most handsome, brilliant, caring young boy you could ever meet…” -dr.girlfriend on tumblr

Other comments: Named after the amazing song of the same name by Ben Platt, this fic is inspired by a prompt! It has yet to be finished, but I’m working on it, promise! It’s just slow going.

~

Title: A Change Of Pace

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1070

Tags: Empath Stiles Stilinski, stetersecretsanta2019, Fluff

Summary: Stiles has always struggled to contain the effects of being an empath- Peter, like he always seems to do, worms his way through the cracks. My entry for the Steter Secret Santa 2k19, enjoy!

Other comments: Once again, another secret santa entry! For this one, I dabbled into making Stiles an empath, I’m pretty sure that was one of the requests of my secret santa-ee, so that’s what I did! If inspiration strikes, I feel like I could definitely expand on this story, but it works as a short story just as well.

~

Title: On Christmas Eve

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 5285

Tags: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Sad Stiles Stilinski, Pain, Dreams and Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Depression, Isolation, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles, Stilinski Christmas, Christmas Eve, Illnesses, Mental Health Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, Possession, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Bromance, Emotionally Constipated Derek Hale, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Pack Feels

Summary:  Looking up at the ceiling in exasperation, Stiles shook his head in disbelief. "Great, so now we're taking in strays. Awesome, just how I wanted to spend my Christmas Eve." ... "Yeah," Stiles agreed, breathlessly, "-friends." ... How Stiles' copes with the possession of the Nogitsune over the next five Christmas Eve's. This is my entry for the 2019 Sterek Secret Santa (:

Other comments: This is one of my absolute FAVOURITE fics I’ve written, and it kind of follows the 5+1 trope, but I don’t think there are six different parts. Anyway, this was obviously written for the 2k19 Sterek Secret Santa, and I just want to once again mention how worth it is to join a writing secret santa!! The Sterek one in particular is VERY well set up, so it’s an amazing one to start with!

~

Title: Missing Parts (In My Brain)

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1410

Tags: Fluff, Pining, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, 12 Days of Sterek, Christmas, Christmas Party, Christmas Fluff

Summary:  Pining has always been something Stiles has been spectacularly good at. But really? This is going too far. Christmas parties aren't Christmas parties unless at least one couple lays the PDA on heavy, and it all gets Stiles thinking. Written for 12 Days Of Sterek 2019 (:

Other comments: As I wrote in the summary, this was written for the 12 days of Sterek! I don’t think there was a prompt or anything, but this fic has a heavy theme of asexuality, which I wrote for the purpose of putting more diversity into my fics.

~

Title: The Peculiarities of Demetrius Blotting and Papers

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1414

Tags: Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magic, Faery Court, Fae & Fairies, Nymphs & Dryads, Mythology - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Library, Library, Witches, Nature, Magic, Bookshop

Summary: Working in the most magically profound bookshop is a walk in the park. Until it isn't. When a stranger comes looking for a registry of one of the most well-known wolf packs in America, Stiles finds himself intrigued. And unfairly invested in making the guy smile. And if it takes a bit of sneaking to do that, then that's nobodies business but his own, right?

Other comments: I actually do not remember where this fic was going! But it never got further than the first chapter unfortunately (I hope I can update this, someday). It’s about the fae!

~

Title: Visiting the Hales

Rating: General audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 1513

Tags: Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Death, Grief/Mourning, Stiles Stilinski Helps Derek Hale, Love, Birthday, The Hale Family, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, One Shot

Summary: It's taken years for them to reach this stage.Stiles hurts when Derek hurts, but he will gladly shoulder the pain if it lessens Derek's even in the slightest.It's time to visit the Hales.

Other comments: This is literally just a super short angst-fest, I think I was listening to a sad song when I got struck with inspiration, and this is the result! Enjoy if you want some sad! Sterek.

~

Title: Us Struggling Youth

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Chapters: 23/?

Word count: 27555

Tags: Mental Health Issues, Fluff, Angst, Fluff and Angst, sterek, Self-Harm, Depression, OCD, Anxiety, Therapy, Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Human, Slow Burn, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Build, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Sad, Light Angst, Triggers, Emotional, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Emotional, teenwolf, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Hurt Stiles, Bromance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Kissing, LGBTQ Themes, Mental Breakdown, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Teen Derek Hale, Teen Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Teenage Rebellion, Camping, Nostalgia, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Bipolar Disorder, Worry, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings

Summary: Stiles never wanted to go to a school for crazy people, but with his history with self-harm and worsening anxiety, his dad thought it was the place he needed to be. But when the management is at threat, the pupils decide that they deserve some time away, and the camp of the ages was born. What happens when a group of not so well teens decide they want to rebel for one final hurrah?Because when sparks fly in a pit of flames, it can be hard to see past the manic of The Rosedale Academy For Struggling Youth.

Other comments: This is my second longest fic after Only He Saw, and is currently unfinished. Will I finish it? Unknown, but likely not. I got really into the AU Boarding School trope, and this was the result, but then I ran out of inspiration, which is sad because I had a whole storyline planned out. If it ever comes back, I’ll be sure to continue writing it!

~

Title: The Cookie Incident

Rating: General Audiences

Chapters: 1/1

Word count: 2225

Tags: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Children, Alternate Universe, Steter Secret Santa

Summary:  Stiles goes on a baking spree, with the help of a certain six-year-old, much to the dismay of Peter.

Other comments: This was written for the 2018 Steter Secret Santa, and was written based on the likes of my secret santa-ee. I’d 10000% recommend doing a writing Secret Santa if you want to get into writing fics! You’re surrounded by other people doing the same thing as you, you have a deadline, and you get a present in return! I love doing them, and I’ve been doing both the Sterek and Steter secret santas for three years now. It’s a fluff-fest, that’s all!

~

Title: Only He Saw

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Chapters: 31/31

Word count: 45,781

Tags: Angst, Eventual fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Heartbreak, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self Harm, Razor - Freeform, Razors, Anxiety, Darkness, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Panic Attacks, Erica, Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski Has Scars, Scars, Sad, Crying, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Hurt Stiles, Cars, Rich Peter, Caring Peter, Peter hale - Freeform, Feels, mansion, Rebuilt Hale House, mean derek hale, steter feels, elastic band technique, self harm alternatives, Self Confidence Issues, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Peter, Blood, trigger warning, Heavy Angst, Neglected Stiles Stilinski, Busy Sherriff, Nurturing Peter Hale, Good Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski is a Bad Parent, Torture, Tortured Stiles Stilinski, Peter forgives Stiles, Depressed Stiles, Angst with a Happy Ending, Small pack, Car rides, Revenge, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Non-Evil Peter Hale, halepackareevil, evilhalepack, badderek, goodpeter, Emotions, POV Stiles, Asexual Character, Asexual Stiles Stilinski, Werau.

Summary:  When the pack stopped telling him about meetings, Stiles laughed. It wasn't surprising that they forgot to update his number when their phones kept getting destroyed by the monster of the week...right? They just forgot. That happened. All the time! Too often. When the pack stopped giving excuses for forgetting, a deserving prickle of fear and trepidation etched its way into his heart, making his usually cocky and brave smile falter and leave. Only when they weren't watching. When they went out of their way to stop him going to meetings, he stopped smiling altogether. Only where they couldn't see. But it's fine, right? He was part of a family that loved him and just wanted to keep him safe...right? But when Derek used the door instead of the window to get into Stile's house, as small and insignificant a fact that may be, he accepted that something was wrong.

Other comments: This was the first fic I ever wrote, and you can tell! I wrote this story over a long time, but for the majority of it, I’d upload 1000 word chapters every day, which really helped my writing develop. I was in a super dark place when I wrote this, and I think you can tell, but I keep it up because it shows how far my writing’s come. I’m proud of how far I’ve come since OHS!

~

Title: ____

Rating: ___

Chapters: ___

Word count: ____

Tags: ____

Summary:  ____

Other comments: ___

~

[grapefruitsketches]

Chapter 8, Memory

Final part of my Songxiao post-canon fix-it fic series, started under the Untamed Spring Fest 2020 event:

Please see the reblogged version of this under the my-writing and songxiao-fix-it-series tags on my blog - will be a pinned post for the next little while - for links to previous chapters/the Ao3 version!

4,134 Words

“Remember your assignment, Xiao-daozhang!” Wen Qionglin said good-naturedly, although Song Lan knew that undertone well, the one that softly implied an or else if the kindly reminder wasn’t heeded.

And with a soft nod from Xingchen, and the requisite farewell bows, Wen Qionglin had gone.

The farm was quiet.

For the first time since Xingchen had awoken in Cloud Recesses, the two were truly alone.

--

It had been Wei Wuxian’s idea.

“You know,” he had said, chewing thoughtfully on a particularly tough piece of pork, “Lan Zhan tells me that your guqin playing has gotten pretty good, Song-daozhang. Right, Lan Zhan?”

Hanguang-Jun, apparently long resigned to his husband’s insistence on starting conversations not only during meal times, but mid-bite, nodded.

“I wonder if… now that you don’t usually even need an interpreter… if you two might want some… alone time?”

To Song Lan’s relief, Xingchen (having completely missed the combination of Wei Wuxian’s suggestive eyebrow raise and Hanguang-Jun’s silent mouthing of Wei Ying!, and the sudden flush Song Lan could feel rushing to his face) was able to, quite innocently, consider the idea, “Hmm… I mean, if you two don’t mind us being here alone, then it might be nice… I mean… it might be good to test how well this works, just the two of us… if we are to… to travel alone again.” Xingchen’s voice faded out, and Song Lan felt his heart quicken. They had not yet discussed what might follow their time at the farm. For months, it had seemed enough to imagine that where they were might as well have been where they always were, where they would forever be, even though both knew there had been a beginning and so there would be an end.

But now… Xingchen’s mental state had seemed to be improving steadily as of late. There were still nightmares, still outbursts. But they were more controlled. Xingchen seemed to be getting more comfortable with the idea that these emotions would rise from time to time, and, at least out loud, did not chastise himself so much for them.

“What do you think, Zichen?” and with this offer of a future, of a something that came next, of a return to something that looked like the normal of his life twenty years ago, of course, Song Lan caught the other’s hand and squeezed a quick, enthusiastic, Yes.  

And so, after seeking Wen Qionglin’s approval of the suggestion, the date was set for the cessation of Wen Qionglin, Wei Wuxian, and Hanguang-Jun’s rotating visits. Letters were sent to the Juniors, who were liable to pop by at a moment’s notice, that the farm would be off limits until and unless Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen decided otherwise.

It would be just the peace and quiet that the two had wanted, had deserved, for so long. Just the right way to ease back into the peace and quiet on the road that so clearly characterized Song Lan’s favourite memories - the two of them alone, side by side.

--

Or so Song Lan had thought.

Barely five weeks in, he began to feel restless. He and Xingchen went about the daily chores, took boat rides, had picnics, cooked, cleaned, took walks, explored. But the farm was starting to feel exceptionally small without the ever-rotating collection of friends (did Song Lan dare acknowledge them as family?) to distract from the sameness of the scenery, the sameness of the limited range of activities. Fuxue seemed to whine at his back, Shuanghua humming comfortingly, but Song Lan felt that it too wondered, why, now that they were not held here by obligations to friends and family, they were not pursuing far more important matters.

But it was also Shuanghua that brought echoing words of Wen Qionglin back to Song Lan, words that reminded him that there was still work to be done. Here. Now. Work that needed this quiet alone time to work itself out.

Why does Song-daozhang still carry Shuanghua for you?

Remember your assignment!

Song Lan wondered what that assignment might be, but never dared intervene or ask about Xingchen’s solo sessions with Wen Qionglin. It had hurt at first, to be suddenly excluded from the meetings, but he had soon recalled what his early sessions had been like, and flinched at the thought of Xingchen being there. He had been grateful even then that he had been using sign language at the time. He didn’t even have to worry about Xingchen overhearing anything in a moment of lucidity from the spirit pouch that had never left his side.

If Wen Qionglin had taken the time to remind Xingchen of the assignment as he left, it must have been important. He was sure Xingchen had not forgotten, but knowing Wen Qionglin, it wouldn’t be anything easy.

It was clear Xingchen was working hard on his recovery. Song Lan did not think Xingchen realized how light a sleeper he was now, but every morning Song Lan watched, as Xingchen reached for the blade. He saw that, every morning, he flinched away. A full arm’s length still between his fingers and Shuanghua. He watched how Xingchen steadied himself before standing back up, seeming to conclude that today, again, was not the day. Xingchen would sigh, unconsciously letting his fingers brush the raised scar, the only spot on Xingchen that Song Lan tried to avoid looking at, before lying back in bed.

Xingchen would then let a hand drift over to Song Lan - maybe to his hair, his waist, his arm - before apparently falling asleep so the two of them would seem to wake up together just a little later (Song Lan always making a show of stretching not long after this morning ritual, Xingchen mirroring with a sleepy yawn, both doing their best so that the other didn’t realize they had been awake for quite some time by then).

But Shuanghua was not the assignment. At least, Song Lan didn’t think so. Instead, the hints came at the quietest of moments. While the soup bubbled. While they dozed in the sun on a nearby hill. When Song Lan stopped rowing for a while and let the stream carry them lazily downriver. Xingchen would sit up, maybe open his mouth, maybe raise an arm to meet Song Lan’s. Sometimes, he would even seem to start to say the words, “Zichen, I…” or “I need to…” before pivoting suddenly to something wildly different than his tone had originally implied, “…am hungry. Let’s go make dinner” or “…tell you this terrible joke Wei-gongzi told me.”

Song Lan’s heart ached for him. He was clearly trying, so hard. Xingchen was tired. His face drawn, strength returning but fortitude slipping. And there was nothing Song Lan could do except to play, over and over again, the chords, I’m listening.

--

It had been three months that they had spent alone at the farm. Xingchen knew he was running out of excuses. And while the excuses ran out, and his ability to resist weakened, the pressure within him mounted. There were nights where he couldn’t sleep, torn between his desire to just let go, and his fear of turning out to be too much for Zichen after all. He knew Zichen wouldn’t leave, but in a way, that made it worse.

But the peaceful days went on. And Zichen seemed only to get sadder. The notes of the guqin not intrusive, but still imploring.

I need to tell him. But I can’t. He had said.

You want to tell him. And you can. Wen Qionglin had corrected.

But what if he does not want to know? Xingchen had asked.

What would you want him to hide from you?

And even though it had taken months, and the pressure building to near unbearable levels, for Xingchen to realize, he finally understood that Wen Qionglin was, as always, right.

“Zichen… I need to… no, I want to… talk to you about, about Yi City.”

The words had come out of him in a rush. Xingchen honestly couldn’t believe he had finally said it. But there the words hung, heavy. Finally escaped from his lungs, his heart, unretractable.

A long, unbearable silence followed, and Xingchen heard the sound of urgent shuffling, the guqin being dragged closer to Zichen. The instrument had apparently been left with wheelbarrow as they dug up fresh potatoes. Xingchen heard a faint clapping sound, Zichen ever unwilling to let a speck of dirt touch the smooth surface of the instrument.

And the chords which finally came, ones so familiar, so commonplace, brought tears to Xingchen’s eyes when he heard them answer. I’m listening. But this time, they were followed by something more. No matter what.

And so Xingchen began.

--

Song Lan had known, or at least suspected, most of this.

He remembered vividly the way Xingchen had laughed when Xue Yang had teased him, had seen the quiet little home those three had shared. He also had heard directly from the now, thankfully, dead man what brutal manipulations had been imposed on Xingchen. And Song Lan knew only too well, though most of his other memories as Xue Yang’s puppet were dull and distant, what revelation had been Xingchen’s breaking point, remembered this moment clearly. Song Lan had internally screamed out, realizing only then that there would never be a way for him to break out of the control the needles in his neck imposed. Because if Xingchen’s grief torn face, his gut-wrenching scream wouldn’t let him do anything more than turn his head just ever so slightly towards his beloved, nothing would.

But he listened. Of course he listened. And Xingchen clearly needed to speak. He tensed, but was not surprised at the guilt Xingchen carried, at the I should’ve knowns, all the I’m sorrys, every if only I hads. Each one a punch to Song Lan’s gut, hearing the weight Xingchen had been carrying, but bearable in that Xingchen was clearly letting off some of the pressure that Song Lan had watched Xingchen undeservingly endure since he had awoken. Had felt this man turn on himself even as far back as when he first felt the squirms of a reassembling soul in the pouch he had carried.

A hand on his thigh, “Zichen.”

Song Lan looked up, startled out of the trance Xingchen’s words had put him under. He realized Xingchen had been silent for a few moments, waiting anxiously for Song Lan’s response.

Song Lan reached for the hand, carefully slotting his fingers between Xingchen’s and holding tight. Xingchen smiled, a smile which finally seemed to light up his face the way it should. And something, a pressure Song Lan hadn’t noticed until now, burst inside him as well. Tears flowed freely from his - from Xingchen’s - eyes.

Song Lan thought of the young girl Xingchen had described, that he himself had met so briefly. He thought of Xingchen’s soft smiles at the younger visiting cultivators, and Song Lan wondered, as Xingchen must have, how A-Qing would have gotten along with them if she had truly had the chance.

He thought of loneliness and grief, how they could each inspire such compassion, such horror, or both. He thought of life, death, renewal. Baoshan Sanren, Yi City, Baixue Temple.

He thought of all the ridiculous thoughts that had crossed his mind over the long twenty years they had spent apart. That Xingchen must hate him. That Xingchen must blame him. That what had happened to Xingchen was his fault. He had fought these thoughts for years. Wen Qionglin supporting him, then Hanguang-Jun, now Xingchen. But until now, until hearing the same thoughts mirrored in Xingchen’s voice: that Xingchen, Xingchen thought he could ever be hated? That Song Lan could ever truly think any of this was Xingchen’s fault? Only now did Song Lan truly understand how ridiculous he must have sounded, similarly taking on all the blame.

Wen Qionglin had had regrets. Hanguang-Jun had had regrets. Each of them had demonstrated to Song Lan that your darkest moments, your biggest mistakes, your worst actions, did not have to define you. They had shown him that forgiving yourself could sometimes be a selfless act. If absolving himself for actions he’d taken under another’s control, if acknowledging his own growth past lashing out at Baixue Temple, could present the possibility to Xingchen that he could forgive himself? If Song Lan telling himself that no matter what he had done - willingly at Baixue Temple, unwillingly as a puppet - he was still worthy of living a life with the ones he cared for and who cared for him, if that made it any more likely that Xingchen understood that he deserved at least the same? Then suddenly any further moral quandry dissipated.

But he had to say something. He reached for his guqin, wondering just how to explain this to his partner. Instead, what came out was a question that had haunted him since the moment Shuanghua had pierced his chest.

I have sometimes thought… what if I hadn’t found you? Would you be happier? If you had never known… who he was?

He braced himself for these notes to fall heavily on their mood, for Xingchen to freeze, withdraw, think that Song Lan wasn’t as easy a confidante as he’d thought.

“No.” That was all Xingchen said. A simple word, and a gentle laugh.

So Song Lan was instead the one who froze, surprised. After a few moments, Xingchen heard the volumes Song Lan’s stillness spoke.

Xingchen sighed, “The truth is important. I still missed you all those years apart, even if there were others, trustworthy or no, with whom I could temporarily relieve that feeling once in a while.” Xingchen leaned a cheek on his hand, tapping it thoughtfully, “I don’t even know for sure if I didn’t suspect even then that something was wrong with the man who turned out to be… to be Xue Yang…” Xingchen raced through the end of the sentence, the name hard to say even now, “I just didn’t realize… no, never mind.”

Please. Simple, not forceful. Enough.

Xingchen smiled weakly, “I know now this wouldn’t excuse anything, and it’s still a pretty silly conclusion to come to but… I suppose I just didn’t realize, didn’t even consider, that if this person wasn’t to be trusted, that if he was by my side, that he could still  hurt people that weren’t ah… you know.”

That he could hurt people who weren’t you. Song Lan understood, and didn’t need to hear Xingchen say so, or guess the end of the sentence through the guqin to confirm. An easy temptation, to think that saving others could be as simple as sacrificing oneself. It was one they had each fallen into at some point, but one that, hopefully, they were finally learning to leave behind.

Xingchen rested a hand on Song Lan’s shoulder, inviting, warm. And Song Lan responded in kind, pulling Xingchen close. There would be no more gardening today.

--

The sun went down over fields that had only recently seemed so confining. The fields now seemed almost endless, comforting in their depth. The two cultivators lay side by side, enjoying the shade as they leaned against the trunk of an ancient tree. The warm pinks and oranges painted across the sky reminded Song Lan of the campfires the two of them had fallen asleep next to on so many nights, back when they were still dancing around the now obvious fact that they wanted to remain at each other’s sides for as long as they were able.

Song Lan absent-mindedly strummed the guqin, describing for Xingchen the swirls of fading light, the way the last bursts of sunbeams painted the leaves of the peach grove below them. He had been thinking of new ways to adapt some of his poetry into this auditory language, and realized with a smile he might just be getting it. He looked down at Xingchen, who was resting his head on Song Lan’s shoulder, breathing slowly, evenly. Xingchen shifted, the delicate features settling into a faint smile. Song Lan’s smile reflected Xingchen’s without a thought. There was no contest between the sunset and Xingchen’s peaceful expression. Song Lan knew from experience that not even thousands of sunsets could match the latter.

“Song Zichen,” Xingchen said, the use of his full name taking Song Lan aback for a moment, but his tone was still drowsy, if sombre, “I need you to know that I will never put you through anything like that ever again. I cannot change the past but I cannot, will not cause any more suffering. Not on anyone, but not on you especially.”

Song Lan’s answer came through powerfully, louder chords than those he had been playing until now coming through naturally, an effortless translation of his own feelings on the matter, And I need you to know that if you do, I will be there to help you fix it. Because I cannot allow suffering for you any more than you can for me.

“Zichen, Zichen. Always one upping me with your words,” Xingchen laughed, losing the serious tone he had held moments before, “Just you wait until I can spar again. Then we will truly have some justice.” Xingchen yawned and snuggled closer into Zichen’s side. Song Lan returned to his softer, melodic descriptions of the landscape. Xingchen fell quickly into a gentle sleep, one that Song Lan hoped to be a well-deserved deep and peaceful one.  

--

Song Lan blinked his eyes open, the pale light confusing until he realized - it was the sunrise. Xingchen’s arms were wrapped around him, the other man sleeping later than Song Lan for the first time in a long while. Song Lan had no intention of moving, of risking rousing him, and in the moment, failed to see the problem with staying here forever.

Something tugged at his mind, though, a feeling that he was missing something important, something obvious. Not quite as urgent as the feelings he often had on the battlefield, those ones which had saved his, and sometimes Xingchen’s, life on more than one occasion, but something important nonetheless.

He blinked lazily, doing a quick sweep of the surroundings.

The garden tools still rested in the wheelbarrow, the remains of their late lunch turned dinner packed neatly in the basket nearby. The fields were empty. Fuxue rested on his back.

That was it. Fuxue.

Or rather, Fuxue’s near constant companion.

Having sat by the tree with the initial intention that it would only be a quick break, Song Lan had not bothered to remove the swords from his back. And now Song Lan realized that at some point in the night, as Xingchen’s arms had snaked around Song Lan’s waist, as Xingchen had pulled him closer, a hand must have landed inadvertently on a certain blade.

And though the sword was still sheathed, though the hand was nowhere near the handle on which it belonged, Song Lan thought he heard, clear as the early morning birds taking stock of their nesting grounds, Shuanghua sing.

--

And so the days passed, boredom slipped away as they found each other again, easily, even if slowly, now that the final walls had fallen between them. The nightmares became rarer, and the past more historical fact than vengeful ghost.

They were sitting on the edge of the bed, side by side, contemplating the same spot near the corner of the room.

“I think I will this time,” Xingchen said, smiling, sure, not needing Song Lan’s answer, just stating this as the truth.

And in that moment, Song Lan believed him, of course he did. Before Xingchen even stood up, Song Lan had seen him cross the room, grab Shuanghua by the hilt, wield it, stand ready to protect as many as he could, to vanquish evil where he must. Song Lan knew he would be there by his side. He knew that at the end of a journey, they would come back, to a place like this, but a place far less quiet, one full of people who needed and loved them and who one day the world would need and love.

The nightmares of the past may be rarer, but the dreams for the future were becoming far more haunting.

The Xingchen of the present finally did lift Shuanghua from the stand, and, even if somewhat more hesitantly than Song Lan’s mind had presented it, Xingchen once again stood, truly united with his sword. Watching Xingchen, but mind still racing weeks, years, decades ahead, Song Lan knew the first chords he played should have been congratulatory, celebratory, awestruck. But instead, the chords his fingers danced over without a thought were instead, We should start talking about our sect again.

And if the mere thought of Xingchen reconnecting with Shuanghua, had been dazzling, then the sight of Xingchen turning, laughing, sword in hand and exuberant agreement lighting up his whole face? The sight almost made Song Lan need to shield his eyes from the brightness. Almost. But then, how could he forgive himself if he missed even a moment?

--

There were more talks, more walks, more cooking, boat rides, gardening. A tension had been relieved, worries still lurking but temporarily eased, more nuisance than threat. And soon, the farm came to feel too small again, like a cozy sickroom occupied just a bit too long after the fever had passed.

They spoke of the sect they would build.

“Zichen, I was thinking… if you think it would be right, we could set our sect up where…”

At Baixue Temple, came the quick set of chords. And Xingchen had grinned, nodding. They could not bring back or replace what was lost, but they could certainly keep their memories close by as they rebuilt their lives and reclaimed the dreams they had long believed forever out of reach.

--

When Wen Ning appeared, months after he’d left, arms laden with carefully chosen gifts and treats from the various villages where his patients lived, he came upon a sight that brought an immediate smile to his face, a glow of pride to his chest.

The clashing of swords, sweeping robes, elegant but powerful leaps through the air. The Distant Moon and Gentle Breeze. The Distant Snow and Cold Frost. Swirling, dancing together in playful combat, like snow flurries on a winter’s day. Shuanghua in one’s hand, Fuxue in the other. And if there was still a hesitation in one’s step, unwilling to take an opening he had clearly noticed, or if the other sometimes struck a bit more gently than the teasing, taunting voice challenged him to, to Wen Ning, this was still success.

And weeks later, after the proper festivities were had, after Xiao Xingchen asked to see Jin Ling’s dog and Wei Wuxian accused him of high treason, after Ouyang Zizhen spent half a day in silence, before breaking and realizing if he was going to be remembered in stories or song, it would not be as a Song Lan or Hanguang-Jun silent type. After Sizhui taught Song Lan the word for “adorable” and Xiao Xingchen’s cheeks remained flushed the rest of the evening once Hanguang-Jun translated the chord for him, if after all that Song Lan held Xingchen’s hand, and Xingchen understood that that meant it was time. If Xingchen asked if Song Lan was sure, and if Song Lan made out the chords for Yes. If Xingchen said, “To Baixue Temple?” and Song Lan replied, “They would want us to rebuild.”

If after all that, as Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji watched the two cultivators set off, they felt a little stirring of nostalgia for the moment they had first detected whispers that they might have what they had now? If those two cultivators left side by side, one in white, one in black, a sword draped over each one’s back, and felt a feeling of rightness descend over them in a way it hadn’t for decades? Well, that wouldn’t mean that everything was back to how it was, or even that the world was as those two deserved it to be. But perhaps it meant it didn’t matter. That for them, it was enough to have each other, their dream, and an open road ahead of them. That the road behind, arduous as it had been, could be left as something only ever behind them. Always there, maybe having left a stain of dirt on robes or shoes so that it could not be readily forgotten, but not nearly as present as the road under their feet now.

And certainly never more important than the one they each had forever by their side.

[END]

Thank you so much if you've kept up with/read this whole thing! This is the longest fic I've ever posted, and just thinking of anyone having read so many words I wrote is both terrifying but so nice <3

Thank you again so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this journey!!

[derieri]

Spookytime

Ahaha, so our writing group challenged us to write a Halloween short based on a random prompt. Mine was “serial killer”... so I wrote about a corn maze. I promise that Plan A for this fic involved meeting the prompt.. Anyway, I hoped to feature both Monderi and Melizabeth, but most of what I wrote was just the melizabeth bits.

I will probably finish this another time because writing horror is hard and challenges are good for growing as a writer. For now, I hope Halloween was exactly as spooky as all my American friends hoped it would be.

Derieri took a breath and slid out from behind Monspeet’s heavy cloak. Several acres of crops stretched out in front of them. The apricot moon hung heavy in the sky like a fruit ready to be plucked. Its yellow cast made the stalks of corn look sick and wilted. She pushed the scraggly bits of her bangs away from her face to glare into the darkness. Somewhere out there, crouched between the rows, squatted a man accused of many demon murders. At least, that’s what the sign at the entrance to the haunted maze said.

Her best friend—boyfriend? come back later—leaned over her. A warm breath brushed over her ear.

“Ready?” he said in a growl, probably the scariest voice he could muster. She snickered.

“Nice try.” She slid out from underneath him with a swat for good measure. “Let’s go before the line gets long.”

Several places in front of them in the queue stood another couple, a tall, silver-haired young woman beside her short blond boyfriend. They waited in amicable silence until the attendant, who was dressed as a horrifying fusion between a scarecrow and a red demon, waved them through the entrance.

The screen of cornstalks swallowed the sound of Samhain Feste behind them. Elizabeth faltered at the abrupt quiet, then took a bracing breath and strode ahead into the dark.

They walked without speaking, accompanied only by the crunch of dry stalks trampled underneath their shoe. The corn reached taller and taller as they descended into the maze, tall enough to block the waxy glow of the moon and bathe the passageway in darkness. It crept close around them, so much so that her fingers could have brushed the stalks on either side.

A breeze began to shake the field. Moonlight flashed between the swaying leaves, illuminating one strip of ground and then another in erratic flickers so that the ground itself seemed to be rocking back and forth in time with the gusts. And in the shadows between the knives of dappled light appeared a silhouette—a stranger.

She stopped dead. Meliodas pulled up short behind her.

They looked harmless, albeit strange with their narrow, lanky frame and the ashen pallor peeking through their cloak. She took one step toward them. They matched it.

She glanced over her shoulder, reassuring herself that Meliodas still flanked her. He was right behind her; his pale shirt collar stuck up through the neck of his jacket like a beacon. As if he heard her thoughts, he nudged her and pointed at the stranger out in front of them who was suddenly close, very close, within arm’s reach and looming over them, silent.

She shied backward into Meliodas. And she kept shying, kept curling in, curling back, without meeting the warmth of his chest. Her heartbeat guttered in her chest. He was gone!

She spun, eyes wide, ready to search the dark. But then, there. There was the little white collar flag and a short silhouette that she figured must be the rest of him. She reached out, touched his shoulder, and sagged into his embrace. Familiar warmth enveloped her like a shield. Nonetheless, she trembled. She could feel the stranger’s eyes latched to her back. She ignored the searing gaze as best she could, focusing instead on the smell of Meliodas’ shirt, the feeling of his armored hug, the sensation of their feet shuffling in tandem to carry them away from the specter.

Once they moved around the next corner, the pressure lifted.

They kept walking, this time hand in hand. Their shoulders brushed as the corn encroached ever more upon the walkway in between the rows. Everything around them was still, even the wind. So very, very still.

Something that she couldn’t quite make out caught the corner of Elizabeth’s eye. She squinted at the dim corner, and her heart jumped into her throat at what she thought she might be seeing: a lump of shadow on the ground, twitching, convulsing—

“Oh my God, there’s something there!” She skittered backward with a squeal, nearly plowing Meliodas flat into the dirt. His hands gripped her shoulders, firm and even. Their warmth and his familiar touch grounded her; within a moment, her breath began to steady.

“Sorry,” she breathed.

“I don’t mind. You good to go?”

She took just the tiniest peek over his shoulder. A pair of curved horns arched up from the figure she could just make out, waiting for them to come near enough for its attack. Panic jumped up her throat again. She shook her head.

“That thing is still there…”

“We’ll just run right past it together, ‘kay? One, two, three, c’mon!” He pulled her forward with him as he hopped into its range, but her body dug its heels into the ground and held her there despite how Meliodas tried to tug her in. His hands came free of hers as the creature snatched at his feet, forcing him to dance away from its grabs with hurried, hopping steps. Elizabeth released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when he stepped out of its reach unaccosted. 

[shut-up-math]

The Rowdy 3 Holiday Special

{Here is Chapter in a new fic I’m starting. Amanda gets a cold during the Holiday season and the Rowdy 3 decide to help by having their first Christmas together in hopes to help her feel better while she rests }

Chapter 1:

“Is it just me or is the snow extra…snowy this year?” Vogel asked as he formed another snow ball to add to his pile that had now grown in a reletivly decent size. Gripps knelt beside him packing the same snow ball over and over until it crushed only to start again. “Too soft.” Gripps shook his head finally giving up and letting it drop to the ground. “stone is much better, breaks stuff instead of breaking.” Taking his glove between his teeth, Gripps pulled it off to wipe his palms on his pants. “Why do we we have to wear these hand socks again? Drummer said something about frost bite?” “Is that like, when the snow bites you back?” Vogel turned around when he sensed Amanda walking up behind them. “They’re called ‘Gloves’, Gripps.” Amanda explained while walking with her hands behind her back. “And you probably shouldn’t bite snow Vogel, it’s like hella dirty.” There was a michevious grin on her lips and both Rowdies could sense a strange delight coming from her. At almost the same moment it hit them. 

“NO! Drummer! You said the Epic Snow War-Battle Extraviganza-palooza-fest wasn’t for a nother fifteen minutes!!” Vogel covered his face, peeking through his elbow at her. “C'mon Boss! Those were the rules.” With a heavy sigh Gripps stood up shaking his head. “There are no rules in Epic Snow War-Battle Extraviganza-palooza-fest …RUN!!” He no sooner got the words out and Amanda had nailed him in the shoulder with a snow ball. Vogel had already began whailing snow at both of them with a wild cackle before darting behind a tree. The others retreated as well, quickly loading up on more snow balls. It wasn’t long before a sea of snow balls and the thwap sound they made as they struck their targets, filled the air. This went on for quite a while before the rumbling of the Rowdy 3 Van bellowed in the parking lot behind the woods where they were battling. The three haulted their war for a moment to gather and watch as it did doughnuts in the snow, slowly drifting closer and closer until it slammed on the breaks, covering them in a blanket of snow. “WE HAVE FORMED AN ALLIANCE!!” Cross shouted as he ripped the van door open and emerging with his arms in the air victoriously. Martin simply smirked from behind the steering wheel while he rolled down the window at the snow covered Rowdies. He peered down over his glasses with a raise of his eyebrows when he saw the glares. “Only way to ever win a war is to make a few friends along the way. I ain’t exactly a 'every man for himself’ kinda guy.” He said with a shrug before getting out  of the vehical and offering Amanda a hand out of the snow. He couldn’t help but notice the purple shade on her shivering lips. It was easy to forget that unlike the rest of the Rowdy 3 Amanda had more human vulnerabilities. “Alright, war’s over. I’m callin’ victory. Now c'mon, get in the van before you freeze t’ death, Drummer Girl.” His arm linked around her shoulders, ushering her into the van, his hand lingering an exta moment on the nape of her neck. “No fair! You cheated!” Vogel pointed a finger at him with a glare. “I call rematch.” “Or at least write up a peace treaty.” Gripps added while he nudged  Vogel into the van as well. Despite the jokes and teasing, they didn’t need more than a few glances among one another to understand play time was over. It wasn’t worth the risk of getting Amanda sick, though judging by the pink nose and watery eyes, it may have been a little late for that. Martin revved up the van, putting the heat on full blast in hopes to warm her up a bit quicker. He looked into the rearview mirror as he drove to see her with her arms wrapped around herself trying to concerve heat. Without saying a word Gripps placed his coat over her shoulders and Amanda would have been lying if she’d said the warmth didn’t feel nice. “You guys don’t have to be so fragile.” She sniffled with a half hearted chuckle. “It’s just a little cold. I get them every year around Christmas. My grammy used to make hot coco for me and Todd when we were kids.” She leaned back pulling the coat tighter around her. “What’s a Grammy?” “What’s hot coco?” “What’s Christmas?” Vogel, Cross and Gripps all asked at the same time, Vogel speaking last. The questions struck her for a moment realizing that thanks to Black Wing the boys had a lot of social gaps in their knowledge. “Wait a second?” She sat up straight and tilted her head. “Y-you guy’s have never had a Christmas?” Eyes fell to each Rowdy boy, falling to Martin last who simply shrugged. “Can’t really celebrate somethin’ you don’t know anything about.” He spoke over his shoulder while he drove. “Black Wing didn’t exactly invite us to the anual Christmas party.” There came a long moment of silence while Amanda tried to imagine what that must have been like, only to realize it was more terrifying just imagining. Living it must have been hell. Cross felt a shift in the mood and decided it was time for a change of topic. “Tell us about it, Drummer!” He nudged her knee with his crowbar. “What’s it like? This Christmas stuff? I heard it’s to celebrate some guy in a big red coat’s birthday!” Amanda couldn’t help but laugh softly at his rendition of christmas. “No, it’s the day Santa Clause comes down from the heavens and gives eggs to good boys and girls.” Vogel chimed in which only made her laugh more and shake her head. “No, no nothing like that?” She stopped them before things got even sillier. “Christmas can mean a lot of things to a lot of people but to my family, it was just a Holiday where you got together with loved ones, you gather around a pine tree…for some…dumb reason I’m sure exists. Okay so there’s like stupid traditions people do for Holidays.” Amanda rambled a little realizing she would have to actually break things down for them to understand. “Everyone has different tradtitions, like some people celebrate Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, which is like Christmas in the sense that they happen around the same time of year. With Christmas you get a tree and decorate it with like blinky lights, and glass decorations, and a big star at the top. Then you put gifts under the tree.” She rambled off quickly. “Are the gifts for the tree?” Martin asked a little quieter than expected, like he was afraid to ask. Which again caushed Amanda to let out a soft laugh. “No, you typically make or buy a person something you think they would like or appriciate. Then you wrap it up so it’s a surprise and you put them under the tree until Christmas and then you open it–hm. ” She started clearing her throat a little which turned into a deeper sounding cough. “And then after you sit with your family and drink warm milk with chocolate and marshmallows  in it.” Her cough started again and without warning the van jolted to a stop. They all looked at Martin in concern. “That cough’s been rattlin’ round for a day and a half now. Now I’m not one for doctors or science men of any kind but I am also not fool 'nough to let a 'silly cold’ as you put it turn into full blown bronchitis or pneumonia. New plan, boys!” He turned in his seat to look into the back of the van. “We take Drummer somewhere warm, indoors and then I say we throw her one Hell of a Holiday party while she rests up?!” Amanda tried to protest but the Rowdy 3 were already revved up, hooting and shaking the van with excitement. Her eyes moved to Martin’s behind his glasses and she gave him a glare with a hint of a smirk in the corner of her lips. “Fine, just don’t go overboard, guys. Seriously.” Again she pulled the coat around her tighter, feeling sweat drop down her neck despite shivering. Amanda knew better than to try to tell the Rowdy 3 to take anything easy. This was going to be interesting.

[fanfoolishness]

Some Kind of Courtship (Cassandra x f!Adaar)

For the Dragon Age Remix Fest, for @sqbr‘s fic A New Ideal, a truly adorable Cass x f!Adaar fic.  The idea of the Inquisitor bonding with Cassandra through fandom and squeeing over Varric’s writing was just too perfect to pass up.  This is intended to be a sequel to that fic, so I highly recommend checking out that first!

Remix title: Some Kind of Courtship

Remixer name: @fanfoolishness

Pairing(s): Herah Adaar x Cassandra Pentaghast (OC used with permission)

Rating and warnings: PG-13

Summary:  Cassandra takes a nasty knock on the head and is forced to take some time to recover.  Luckily, Herah Adaar proves lovely company throughout the healing process.

Original inspiration fic:  A New Ideal

Original author name: @sqbr

Cassandra was… displeased.

She felt as if it was a reasonable emotion to entertain, given that she was laid up in Herah’s spacious quarters with a nasty hit to the head.  Herah had insisted she take the room for her recovery.  Cassandra had been helpless to resist the look on Herah’s face and the way she laid her lips gently against the back of Cassandra’s hand; she had acquiesced with only a few minor grumbles.  Herah’s large, soft palms around Cassandra’s hand were too great a comfort to deny.  

Part of that lack of resistance was the injury.  She had taken the occasional hit before, of course, but never one quite this ringing.  She did not remember it well, but from Vivienne’s abstractly concerned expression she had gathered it was a bad one.

So bad, in fact, that Vivienne’s healing – normally sterling – had not been enough to remove all aftereffects.  “Bed rest, dear,” she’d said in clipped tones.  “And I do mean rest, not simply destroying a single practice dummy a day instead of three of them.  You’re to rest and relax in all ways, including mentally.”  She raised a stern eyebrow.  “Our dear Inquisitor has told me of your love of literature, and I’m afraid the close concentration required for reading is absolutely out of the question while you heal.  There’ll be no reading until the symptoms pass.  I suspect it may take a full week, even after my ministrations.”

“A week!” Cassandra had exploded, or at least, attempted to.  But then there’d been a pounding in her head and a faint swimmy feeling, and she had settled back down amongst the blankets reluctantly.

She did not remember the first few days well.  There was a great deal of sleeping; an unpleasant amount of it, given how restless Cassandra usually found herself when not engrossed in a book.  And there was boredom, oh yes, interminable boredom after Vivienne’s twice daily checks.  She gazed out the window, hoping to hear snatches of conversation from the War Room below or catch sight of Inquisition soldiers training, but from the grand bed in the center of the room she could learn nothing useful.  Then the effort would tire her again, and back she would go into another hated nap.  

In between naps she remembered Herah’s eyes, or a soft smile, or her hand on Cassandra’s; the only good in an otherwise wretched recovery.  Sweet Herah.  Cassandra was unsure what to call this new and fragile thing between them, these fluttery feelings of delight shivering their way into the open gaps in their friendship.  Courtship, she supposed, was as good a name as any, and the thought brightened her despite the fuzziness in her head.

***

Cassandra yawned, stretching luxuriantly and kicking the covers off with her feet.  She sat up in bed, and for the first day in several there wasn’t a pounding when she did so.  She did not feel completely herself – there was an annoying fogginess to her thinking �� but it was no longer accompanied by nausea or a dizzy sensation.  She blinked owlishly in the harsh light of the morning.

A sound caught her attention.  Footsteps, heavy yet careful on the staircase.  Cassandra allowed herself a moment of excited anticipation, and was pleased to see her instincts were correct when the bronzed tips of Herah’s horns crested the edge of the staircase before the rest of her followed.  

“Cassandra!  You’re looking much better today,” said Herah brightly, setting down a large serving tray on the bedside table.  She sat beside Cassandra and then fidgeted suddenly, her hands twisting in her lap.

“Is something the matter?” asked Cassandra.  “My, but it is good to see you.”

Herah laughed.  “I want to hug you, or kiss you, or both, but I don’t want to bother your head, that’s all.”

“I am feeling more myself,” Cassandra admitted.  She leaned forward and kissed Herah’s cheek, a clumsy thing that nevertheless felt wonderful.  When she pulled back, Herah blushed violet.  “Believe me, Herah, there is a great deal more I wish to do than this… but I will follow Vivienne’s advice until she releases me to my duties.”  She could not help a scowl.  

“Which will hopefully be soon,” Herah said, recovering.  “It has been five days now since you were wounded, and this is the first day you have been awake enough to truly converse.”

“What?” said Cassandra indignantly.  “That cannot be.  I would have remembered –”

“Part of that is the concussion,” said Herah.  “The rest is probably the sleeping magic Vivienne has been utilizing on you.  She kept telling me how important it was to rest your brain to give it a chance to repair.”

“I hate being unable to perform my duties,” said Cassandra.  She rubbed at her face with her hands.  “You know it is not in my nature to lay idly.”

“I know,” said Herah, and the grin on her face was rich and warm.  “Why do you think Vivienne had to use sleeping magic on you?”  She chuckled.  “You kept trying to pour the elfroot and embrium infusions out into the chamberpot.”

Cassandra groaned.  “I concede your point.”  She sighed, then lay back against the pillows, closing her eyes.  “As much as it pains me to say it, I must admit I am still not fully recovered.”

“That’s completely all right.  No one is expecting you to headbutt a darkspawn today, Cassandra.”  Herah tucked the covers back over her.

“But I wish there was something to do other than to lay here and sleep.  As much as I am grateful to you for letting me rest here, it has been horribly boring in many ways.”

Cassandra felt the bed shake slightly as Herah got to her feet, then sat back down.  “I was hoping you might be well enough for this today,” she said shyly.

Cassandra opened her eyes.  Herah was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, a book held carefully in her hands.  “Vivienne said you couldn’t read.  But I asked her, and she said that if you felt up to it… I could read to you.  And if you drift off during, no harm done.  I picked one of our favorites, so you already know the story.”  A mischievous glint came into her eye.

“Swords and Shields?” Cassandra breathed.  She gripped the covers, her knuckles whitening.  Finally!  Something to break the monotony!

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Herah gleefully.  “But I have to tell you, I have certain… voices for some of the characters.  They’re terribly silly.”

“I am certain they will be charming, if they come from you,” said Cassandra.  “You realize you are… endearing.”  She stumbled over the word a little, startled by a warm, light feeling welling up within her.  She felt nervous, but in such a lovely way.

“That’s very nice of you to say,” said Herah, her cheeks flaming violet again.  “You’re charming too, you know.”

“So.  These voices,” said Cassandra.  “I am eager to hear them.”  She settled against her pillows, happily anticipating Herah’s rendition.

Herah cleared her throat.  “Here we are, then.”  

“Knight-Captain Evaline stood majestically on the moors of Amaranthine, one hand shading her eyes just as majestically.  Her lissome lover Liesbeth caressed her hand with soft, yielding fingertips as the wind caused their hair to ripple, dark strands and red mingling in the harsh breeze.”

Herah’s voice shifted from a neutral, pleasant Marches accent to something quite different.  “‘Dearest Liesbeth,’” she intoned in a strangely mellifluous, formal Orlesian voice.  “‘I cannot believe our good fortune to find some time alone.  I have greatly missed your company.  And your beautiful bosom, I must admit.’”

Cassandra’s eyes widened.  “How are you doing this?  It is exactly as I had always thought - she must be commanding but also soft.  A chevalier’s accent is perfect for Evaline, and the name is so Orlesian.”

Herah’s mouth quirked into a small, secret smile.  “I may have practiced my accent.  But Cassandra, you’re supposed to be resting, you know.”

“Oh, very well.  Continue.”

“‘Oh, Evaline.  You don’t know how badly I’ve desired you these long weeks away.  My booty has been delivered and I am yours once again, here on this deserted moor away from pirate’s galleons and Knight-Captain’s watches,’” said Herah in a throaty Rivaini accent.  “‘Now, let me give you something to watch.  You mentioned my bosom?’”  The low tones created a faint buzz that Cassandra could just barely feel, one that reverberated in her chest like a lute’s lowest note.  She shivered with delight at the sensation, the sound.  

“Herah, you are magnificent.  I beg you, continue,” said Cassandra, reaching out one hand so that it rested against Herah’s leg.  

“Well, if you’d really like me to,” said Herah, giggling.  “I’m glad you like it.  I was scared you would think it was too silly.”

“Not silly,” insisted Cassandra, a little drowsily.  “Charming.”

“Perhaps a little silly.”

“Perhaps… a little silly.”  But silly was not such a bad thing, and this was not such a bad way to recover, with a beautiful woman with a beautiful voice reading aloud a tale of womanly love.  Cassandra drifted in and out of sleep, Herah’s voice weaving a rich web around her, her hand curled gently against Herah’s warm leg.  

This was no part of courtship she had heard of before, but, she thought, it ought to be.