#Brain and the husband talk about poetry. I don’t know why I think this but it’s canon.
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Thinking about,,, the “Brain is Eraqus’ grandpa” theory,,,
#kingdom hearts#khux#kh eraqus#kh brain#khux brain#kh#some headcanons/explanations:#his kid’s hair is based on Master Ava’s mask and hood. I was considering him naming them after her#but I think I’m going with Ephie (after Ephemer)#brain and them are close! their his baby<3#I associate the song ‘Above The Clouds Of Pompeii’ by Bear’s Den with them.#like it’s their view on Brain’s grief over the other Dandelions#Brain also gets along real well with his ex and their husband! they hang out a lot and raise Ephie together#Brain and the husband talk about poetry. I don’t know why I think this but it’s canon.#wow Ephie how come you get three parents#Brain also loves his grandson a lot#but he dies when Eraqus is like four so Eraqus doesn’t remember him that well :(#he would 100% consider the wayfinder trio his great-grandchildren#(except maybe Ven because in his head Ventus is still only like three years younger then him still-)#he would like them more then Eraqus though lol#blue boi draws#digital art#fanart#Ephie (oc)
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weird questions for writers: 3, 10, 17?
Hi, tysm for asking!
3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?
The process might not be cursed, but the space is SO cursed. That quote about the two wolves? That’s my home office. One side is very work-oriented and reserved for my day job: clean desk, desktop computer with only a few tabs open, minimal additional adornment, a single precious potted plant. The other side? A horrible, uneven surface made of warped spare lumber and various boxes that act as table legs. Laptop from the dawn of time with 3500 tabs open. Cork board. Second Cork board. White board. Skeins of red yarn. Thumbtacks, sticky notes, it’s a real murder-she-wrote. Every day I perch my coffee mug precariously on a stack of books covered in those sticky tabs that mark out all the quotes I want to burden other people with, and get to work. I cross bits off my printed outline as I go, throwing everything into a single Google Doc where I use highlighted paragraphs to mark out the beginning and end of each chapter I’m currently working on. Yellow for the start of the chapter, green for the end. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how to create a linked index. (Experts, feel free to weigh in if you find this too disgusting to bear). The Cmnd+find function no longer works once I’ve reached a certain character limit, so I make sticky notes for myself (like a little Rennaisance-era scribe) of anything I want to call back to or bring up later in the story. Do I know that I can search straight in AO3 for terms/phrases/quotes? Yes. Do I do this? Of course not. I have one brain cell, and I use it to imagine gay things. This also means that I need absolute silence to write, not even a lo-fi study playlist in the background. I’m a cave-dwelling beasty and I require dim lighting, silence, and 3-5 cups of coffee to most deliciously enjoy my writing, which I spend around four hours a day doing, in hour-long chunks. I am a blight :)
10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?
Yes! I am constantly haunted by writing, and in particular the writing of Shirley Jackson, Denusha Laméris, and Mary Oliver, to name a few. It’s usually poetry that sticks in my brain and follows me around, rather than bits from novels (though this has exceptions). Philip’s Birthday by Mary Oliver is one that I’ve currently been microwaving in my brain, and a poem by Kait Rokowski, (which I’m not sure has a name, so I’ll type it out below, it's short)—
I do not keep meat in my home
Because cooking soft flesh feels like
I am betraying my girlhood
I do not want to watch something so pink
Become appetizing
-Kait Rokowski
I think of haunting like “being followed”, or reminded of something at inappropriate times (while in a meeting, during a conversation about literally anything else, etc.), so writing that haunts me is often stuff that ends up walking around with me for years and years, even after I think I’ve forgotten about it. My own writing though? Nah, not really. I don’t think about my writing usually, unless I’m actively doing it, or trying to solve a problem in a story.
(Also, I’ve gotten another request for this answer, so I’ll save a few haunts for that reply too).
17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.
Hi, I’m here with the spicy, spicy cuts of TBSCM :) I’ve already spilled so much tea in the comments of the fic re: the various lit inspirations, so instead I will leave you a chunk of writing that will never make it into the fic because it was cut for time. It was one of the little pseudo-dates that would have happened when Patty came to visit Allison in Gorham. To set the stage: Allison convinces Patty that it's a good idea to go fishing at dusk in Moose Brook Park (with some equipment she’s borrowed from Irene’s late husband’s collection)—
Flickering blips of yellow light glint off the calm surface of the water as fireflies wander lazily over the lake. Allison sits next to Patty on the bank, growing more and more dismayed as she flips through the pages of The Complete Book of Fishing Knots, Leaders, and Lines by Lindsey Philpott. She’s searching for something that will hold a worm in place without her having to press the hook through its soft, red flesh. She looks down at the unhelpful index and sighs.
“What’s wrong?” Patty asks, taking a sip of wine from the flask Allison had stuffed into her purse before they left the apartment on this ridiculous fool's errand.
“I don’t…” She doesn’t have to finish the sentence for Patty to know what the problem is.
Patty dead-eyes her, groaning. “Seriously?”
“What!”
“This is so stupid,” Patty says, snatching the worm from her and stabbing the sharp end of the hook into it. The outer layer of skin breaks the way a grapeskin might—popping, oozing with its guts, a red smear dripping down Patty’s thumb as she rolls the worm up the shank as easily as she might do with a lifeless macaroni noodle.
Allison grimaces… but she doesn’t look away. Something about watching Patty’s fingers deftly thread the worm’s body along the glinting metal transfixes her.
Patty catches her watching, and she isn’t sure why it makes her own face burn with embarrassment.
“Why do you know how to do that?” Allison asks, her eyes still glued to the wriggling worm, its blood oozing out onto Patty’s fingers.
Patty just shrugs, letting go of the hook abruptly so that it dangles there on the line between them, the worm wriggling helplessly, struggling. Patty wipes her fingers on the grass, then on her pants, gesturing for Allison to cast the line into the water.
Allison looks away, but does as she’s told.
“What are you gonna do when there’s a fish on there?” Patty asks her.
Allison swallows hard. “I’m…”
Patty isn’t sure if it happens on purpose, but she feels the gentle pressure of Allison’s shoulder leaning against hers as they listen to the distant croak of the summer frogs bellyaching for each other in the weeds. Without another word, Allison reels in the line. She pries the worm from the end of the hook and lets Patty toss it away into the grass. She doesn't know what she would do if she actually caught something... but she's afraid she might discover that some twisted, buried part of her likes it too much. Better not to know, Allison thinks to herself. Better not to find out.
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Cranky: Alright, if you'll step through here, please.
Yang-yang: Step through where- Wait, the fourth wall? You're having me break the fourth wall?
Cranky: Sure am!
PAGAN POETRY BONUS CONTENT! :D Today's questions are from my wonderful beta @neonbutchery, and Yang-yang is answering from the time of Act III, Chapter 10 (~April 2017).
Do you ever get a bad gut feeling about what you're doing? Ever wish you could run away, but can't, because you're on an island in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?
Yangzai: Not really? I was a bit miffed in the beginning, but honestly, it wasn't like my life back in Delhi was anything special. I would have liked to have been given the choice to move to Heathen Point in the first place, but I can't say I'm regretting how things turned out in the end. I get that Pagan is a walking disaster, but he's a hot walking disaster, who's letting me live on this paradise island. So far so good, y'know? Besides, an island in the middle of bumfuck nowhere is a great place to be in case there's, like, a global pandemic or something.
Cranky: ...
Yangzai: Yeah okay, that's a bit dumb. IT has been trying to get me into video games and introduced me to The Walking Dead and here we are... What? Why are you looking at me like that?
Cranky: ...moving on!
Do you think IT and Gary are being completely transparent and honest with you?
Yangzai: ... Do pigs fly?
Cranky: Yang-yang, please.
Yangzai: Ugh, fine. No, of course they aren't. Gary's going to tell me whatever he thinks will benefit Pagan or Bridgetown, and hide what he thinks needs to be hidden. I don't think he lies, as a general rule, but he's never transparent. And, like, that's part of his charm, in a way? Our chess matches aren't just about chess, it's this whole complicated dance of figuring out motives and predicting behaviour. It's fun! When it comes to IT, I think they genuinely respect Pagan's privacy so there's stuff they just won't talk about. Which is kinda funny when I think about it, considering their job and all.
What would your family think of your and Pagan's relationship?
Yangzai: *crosses arms* My parents were Golden Path. My auntie's husband was Golden Path. All dead. What the fuck do you think they'd say?
Cranky: ...yeah, fair enough.
Would you be up to Kasia visiting Heathen Point?
Yangzai: I... I don't know, honestly. I miss her a lot sometimes. But then a week will go by where I hardly think about her at all. It's good to have a friend you know you can really count on, and we had a lot of fun together. But she isn't part of this world, and I don't know if I would want her to be, even just for a brief visit.
What do you think the motive of Amita's capture by Pagan was? Is Pagan being completely honest with what went down on Kyrat before you met him?
Yangzai: Pagan has told me fuck-all about Kyrat. He sort of tried after my stint in solitary, and honestly that was mind-blowing all on its own. I guess Gary can really get through to him, huh? Anyway, he really doesn't like talking about it. And I'm not sure I want to hear about it from him, either? I don't know. It's complicated. Most of the time I don't think about Kyrat at all... Then sometimes I'll start thinking about everything I don't know about what really went down with my parents, with Pagan and Ishwari and all that, and it's like this itch on my brain that I can't seem to scratch. As for what Pagan wants with Amita, I have no clue. She was asking about his step-son or something? Maybe Pagan's looking for him too.
Do you think you're directly responsible for Esteban's death/torture/grim fate? How do you deal with that?
Yangzai: Nope, I'm not- What?
Cranky: ...
Yangzai: Not my fault if the interviewer gives me a clean out.
Cranky: Answer the question or I'll have Pagan give up sex for lent.
Yangzai: As if he would!!! Fine. No, I'm not directly responsible for Esteban's fate, just like I wouldn't have been directly responsible for Sandeep getting murdered if I hadn't stopped Pagan. Responsibility is way more complicated than that. But yeah, I got Esteban in trouble. I've no idea what happened to him, and honestly? *shrugs* I don't particularly care. I doubt it was all that grim of a fate though, considering Gary doesn't like waste.
And that about wraps it up for this time. If you have any questions for Yang-yang or any of the other characters of Pagan Poetry, feel free to drop me a DM or ask ;)
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Later Rather Than Sooner… Oops
Entry: October 23rd 2023
7:46pm
I know, I know. It’s been a long time.
Another year has passed and again, so much has changed. I just read through all my entries and that seems to be a recurring thing. Constant change.
Does it ever stop?
Doubtful.
I’m permanently living in Wauchula, at least for the next few years.
I’m shutting down my LLC.
Man, oh man. I tried to save her but at the end of the day, I just wasn’t happy doing that work anymore. It was time to say good bye and move on.
And move on, I did.
I’m currently working full time at L Cobb Construction/Cobb Site Development in their AP department.
Truthfully, I love it so much. I really appreciate my team and I look forward to my future here.
I lived with my brother for a year and ended up taking over his lease at the apartment he lived in. Not gunna lie, I adore our little apartment and the little life we live here. It’s beginning to feel so full.
My mom is thankfully still alive. She still lives at The Palms and things are much better there. Her current nurse is the best. Same with Vitas.
Who she currently has is a great fit and I hope they stick around for awhile.
My dad’s house caught on fire and almost burned down. Him and Catherine are safe and now in (beautiful) temporary housing.
The lost almost everything. Catherine was in NY and my dad was alone while all this happened. He shouldn’t have faced it alone… again. Why is he always alone?
Let’s move on.
I’m not Two Spirit and was way off base. I felt the need to have another stamp that marked me as native and I need to stop feeling like I have something to prove. I don’t.
I’m a woman who dressing more masculine, but still a woman nonetheless.
We kept Scarn and I’m so fucking thankful for that.
Magni & Dart died though… that was hard.
Me and my husband have worked on so many things and we’re doing really good. I love him so much and I’m so thankful that we’ve continued to chose each other.
Gabi is still one of the worst friends I’ve ever had.
She continues to find ways to make my life difficult.
I tried out poly again for a little bit.
Decided once again that it wasn’t for me.
I keep wanting to look elsewhere to fill faults in my marriage.. not cool. So I told him it’s wasn’t healthy or okay and I’d rather commit to us.
I was the one dating - so it wasn’t a problem stepping away from things.
I met a few women but it just wasn’t it. Not because of them, it really was a me thing.
I’ve officially been gluten free for a year and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. Veganism is popping back up on my brain but I don’t know.
I never wrote that book but I do want to publish. I’m thinking about novellas though - or maybe poetry.
Hmm, life is so strange man.
& I’m not talking about the game.
This has been such a wild time.
— EB
8:17pm
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Part 5 of Wonderful! Au. *boyband voice* banter’s back alright!
Also on AO3
~*~
Jon: Hello everyone, and welcome back to our regular format. If my husband being horribly soppy-
Martin:-hey!-
Jon: -turned you off the how, this should be a refreshing return to formula, though I can’t guarantee there won’t be further horrible soppiness-
Martin, performatively under his breath: -most people thought it was charming-
Jon: -as that tends to happen when one is recording with the love of their life. If last week’s episode is the only one that you like, too bad, I’m back in full form, and should be at least through the rest of the season.
Martin: This show doesn’t have seasons? Due to the whole lack of a narrative thing?
Jon: I was referring to spring.
Martin: Oh, right.
[A beat passes.]
Martin, flatly: Oh. Great goof hon.
Jon, smug: Thank you.
Jon, sincere: Also, before we get properly started, I did want to actually thank everyone who sent well wishes.
M artin: Yes! We got positively inundated with lovely messages, it definitely brightened both of our days. I would even say it was wonderful.
[Jon groans.]
Jon: I am..not proud of the energy we’ve created for this episode so far, and we haven’t even hit the small wonders. Speaking of, do you have a small wonder this week?
Martin: Mine’s bad action movies.
Jon: Really? I had no idea you even liked them, let alone consider them wonderful.
Martin: Okay, so, saying I like them is a bit of a misnomer? It’s more that I like what they can do more than the movies themselves?
Jon: Elaborate?
Martin: It probably comes as a surprise to no one that I’ve tried my hand at a fair amount of mindfulness and mediation techniques. I’ve found poetry and journaling have been helpful for actually processing life events and whatnot, but when it comes to giving your brain a hard wipe and reset, nothing is half as quick and effective as a shitty shoot-em-up. Somethings about 2 hours of cartoonish, pg-13 violence held together with the absolute loosest of plots brings me to a state of mental blankness that would make a monk jealous.
Jon: How have I never witnessed you doing this? When are you sneaking off to go see Micheal Tarantino or who ever films?
M artin: That’s definitely not the right name.
Jon: Martin, dear, I don’t care. And you’re dodging the question.
Martin, fond: I’m not dodging anything. Since apparently we’re getting into it, you haven’t caught me cavorting with a movie involving more explosions than character development lately because I haven’t been. Haven’t needed it, in recent years. Turns out when you’re not crushingly lonely and working a literal nightmare of job, there’s less of a drive to try and escape your own thoughts. Shocker, I know. Still, to anyone out there that feels like their brain is on fire, go try watching a fast and furious. Any of ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Or even better, Chronicles of Riddick. I can’t remember a single goddamn detail of that movie, which makes it perfect for what I’m talking about.
Jon: I have the strong feeling that th is is a “mileage may vary” scenario.
Martin: Well, yeah, that’s this whole podcast. Plus, I imagine that movies like this would cause more stress to someone who cares about, say, world-building or rules consistency.
Jon: I wonder who you could possibly be referring to.
Martin: It’s a purely hypothetical person, love, don’t worry about it. Any small wonders?
Jon: Yes! Particularly relevant to the last week, my small wonder is stripping the sheets from your bed when it’s been too long between washes.
Martin: How very specific. M ost people would just say ‘clean sheets’.
Jon: Well, for one, I’m fairly certain that we’ve already covered clean sheets-
Martin: Shit, have we? Thank god other people keep track of this, otherwise this show would be unbearably repetitive.
Jon: Christ, yes. I typically check the website a good three times while prepping, and every about one out of those three times I find I’m trying to do an topic we did 30 episodes again. Anyway, um, it’s just nice, I think. When you’ve been too busy or sick or away for awhile, tossing the sheets in the wash makes a room instantly seem nicer. Of all the chores out there, this one, at least for me, has the highest reward to effort ratio.
Martin: Hard agree. Especially when the y have that slight funk of having been around to long, getting rid of that is such a relief. Speaking of, we need to change our sheets soon.
Jon: We can do it after the episode. Who goes first this week?
Martin: Considering last week was only me talking, I’m gonna say it’s you.
Jon: Alright, then. My first thing this week is Martin K. Blackwood.
Martin: Absolutely not!
Jon: Oh, you can do a whole episode on me, but I can’t do one little segment on my husband, whom I love very dearly?
Martin: Not while I’m sat here, no!
Jon: So you’re saying you don’t want me to tell the internet that your resolve to be kind even in the face of indescribable cruelty is one of the mot breathtaking things I’ve ever witnessed, or how I find it incredibly endearing when you get so emotional that your voice comes out as a squeak, or even that, on a more base level, you’re very physically attractive, and I could lose entire days thinking about your arms alone?
Martin, audibly blushing, voice the aforementioned squeak: Oh my god, Jon!
Jon, laughing: Then it’s probably for the best that my actual first thing is best friends.
Martin, peaking the audio levels: Oh you absolute bastard! Do you enjoy this? Do you get some sort of perverse sense of entertainment from riling me up?
Jon: Oh, don’t you start. As if you’re not as bad as I am. Maybe even worse.
Martin: That’s not…
Jon: Yes?
Martin: Okay. Maybe it’s slightly true. Really, what is romance for if not flustering your partner with compliments?
Jon, teasing: I certainly can’t think of anything.
Martin: Hush, you.
Jon: No, I don’t think I will.
Martin: Fine. I suppose you can tell our delightful audience about the power of friendship or whatever.
Jon: I would’ve assumed more enthusiasm, considering this segment is still, indirectly, about you.
Martin: In what way?
Jon: In the way that, to the shock of all, you’re my best friend.
Martin, pleased: Oh, is that what I am?
Jon, exasperated: Yes, dearest husband, I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. Though, upon reflection, I knew you were my best friend before I knew I held romantic feelings for you.
Martin: When was that?
Jon, letting out a breath that vibrates his lips: God it was...2016? I think it might’ve literally been the day after you told me about your CV.
Martin: That early? Huh. I wonder if that’s what people were picking up when they said they we were close.
Jon: What people?
Martin: I don’t know specifically, that’s just what Daisy told me.
Jon: Daisy? When the hell-?
Martin: It...was when she was interrogating me? And, because sometimes I have to be a parody of myself, pretty much my only take away from that interrogation was “people think me and Jon are close”.
Jon: Well then. It’s not like they were wrong.
Martin, smug: No, no they weren’t.
Martin, sincere: And you’re my best friend, too.
Jon: I was certainly hoping that you’re in this relationship for more than my good looks and incredible fortune, both in the monetary and luck sense.
Martin: You say that as if you aren’t good looking, which we all know is patently untrue.
Jon: You’re biased. You’d say I was good looking if I were nothing more than some primordial ooze with thoughts about its station.
Martin: I’m being completely objective. If you were primordial ooze with thoughts above its station, you’d be the cutest ooze of them all. That’s just scientific fact.
Jon: I’m starting to think we might be insufferable.
Martin: Starting to? Might be?
Jon:…
[Jon clears his throat]
Jon: What I find wonderful about the concept of best friends is, to me, they’re the closest thing real life has to soulmates. I don’t personally believe that there’s some..grand mystic force that drives people to be tied together in the manner that narrative typical soulmates are, and if there was I don’t think it would necessarily be the kind of emotional, heartfelt bond one would hope for, but I do believe that there’s individuals that get to know one another, and because of that knowledge, they chose to stick with one another. It doesn’t have to be a romantic, which is why I say best friend rather than specifically ‘spouse’, but I would argue that the basis of a strong romance like you and I have, is very much rooted in that connection. A true best friendship is an equal partnership, and there’s a sense of..matched sensibilities and understanding that can be utterly incandescent when it happens.
I also think that having one or more best friends makes living life on a day to day basis both better and just flat easier. The dark times aren’t as dark, and the bright times shine even more. I know from my own personal experience there are events that I..that I don’t know how I would’ve made it through without you. Hell, last week my..recovery period would’ve taken much longer if you hadn’t been there.
It’s an amazing thing to have someone to share things with, both triumphs and burdens. Um, also, according to Dictionary.com, the term best friends in English has been around since the 1200s. Something about that delights me, like, yes, we’ve had this casual way of referring to a Favorite Person for roughly 800 years. That makes it a hold-out from early Middle English. I dunno, it’s one of those things that make me feel overall very charmed by humanity.
Martin, audibly smiling: No, yeah, hard agree.
Jon: What’s that look for?
Martin: Nothing. Just. I love you a whole lot, you know that?
Jon, voice soft: I may have heard you say that once or twice. Per hour.
Martin: Only that often? I really need to be more diligent about that.
[There’s a bet of silence, presumably where they’re making doe eyes at each other.]
Jon: What’s your first thing?
Martin: Oh, um, right. Rats!
Jon: The expression or the animal?
Martin: Jon, have you ever once heard me say “rats” as an expression? Obviously I’m referring to the animal.
Jon: Ah. Should’ve known, considering that what, a third?, of all your segments have been on animals.
Martin: Yeah? And? You got a problem with critters? With creatures? With lil guys?
Jon, laughing: No, no, it’s very sweet. I’m just surprised you never became a vet.
Martin: Oh believe me, I wanted to. But then I learned that it was not, in fact, a job composed entirely of getting paid to play with other people’s pets.
Jon: You had that job, though, didn’t you? I thought I remembered you mentioning a month long stint at a doggie day care.
Martin, sighing dreamily: Best job I ever had. Too bad that place was shut down after it was revealed to be a money laundering front.
Jon: Good lord.
Jon: Martin did you...did you know it was a money laundering front at the time?
Martin:
Martin: Would it make you feel better if I said no?
Jon: Martin!
Martin: I figured it out like a week in, but, like, who cares? The pay was decent and the floor was super easy to clean, which is very much a plus for even a front of a doggie day care.
Jon: That’s...rather a lot. How about instead of getting into that any further, you tell me about rodents.
Martin: I would love to. But first, we have a shoutout!
Jon: Ooo, a shoutout. Does it specify who should read?
Martin: Let me check. It...does...not…..
...
Jon: Martin?
[A beat.]
Martin: Right! Sorry, um. This week’s shoutout is from Tim, to Danny. It says, “Danny! My favorite person who shares genetic material with me! I wanted to say thank you for your podcast obsession from 4 months ago, and specifically for telling me about these marrieds. They’ve gotten me through many a dull hour at the publishing house. Also, with this shoutout, I’ve officially gotten ahead on the Superior [Last Name Redacted] Brother scoreboard, so suck it. Love you lots, and looking forward to your visit next month, Tim.”
Jon: Oh.
Jon: Um. That’s very..sweet? I think? Mostly?
Martin: Yeah, I’d say so. Uh. We have to take a quick break because, uh, someone is..at our front door! Be back with you all in, from your side of things, just a moment.
#wonderful! au#jonmartin#jon sims#martin blackwood#>:3#shoutouts are their versions of jumbotrons btw
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Delightful, chapter six (the final one)
Warnings : NSFW so +18
Author’s note : So, this is the end. Thank you all so much for reading and for the feedback. I had no idea where I was going with this but I have to say this : you and your reactions - on this fic and others -made me realize what it was that I wanted to talk about and it's helped me with projects of my own. That doesn't mean that I'm leaving, though. I'm a sucker for pining and yearning. I'll keep giving that to you. But, once again, thank you : I think fan fictions are very important, and they shaped me as a writer, so to whomever read this : if you're just a reader, thanks for reading, thanks for taking your time to connect with me, and thank you for your passion. If you're also a writer : thank you all the same, and good luck with your writing. You are legit. Your writings matter. You matter. All of you matter. Thank you.
------
Javier stilled for a second to look at you. You whined :
‘I swear, if you stop…’
He chuckled, and put his mouth to work again. You were on your couch, his head between your thighs. You’d wanted to go to the bedroom but apparently Javier found it poetic to eat you out on the couch he’d spent so many nights on. You didn’t care about poetry much, not at the moment, but you indulged him. So here you were, still dressed except for your panties, sitting on your couch, Javier Peña kneeling on the floor, doing the Lord’s work because there was no way something that felt so good wasn’t holy. Except he was taking his sweet time, and you needed more. You bucked your hips to meet his face but he held you down, whispering against your cunt :
‘I got you, just enjoy.’
You were enjoying the moment, but Javier kept driving you to the edge and then he would just stop, kiss you, work you up again and then repeat the whole thing. You were going crazy with the need to come.
‘I swear, babe’ He mumbled as his nose teased your clit, one of his fingers pulling at the hair there, ‘it’s gonna be worth it in the end.’
You were about to quip back it didn’t seem worth it right now, but his mouth went back to work you found it was worth it. Not that you’d say it out loud. The way you grabbed tough, was enough for him to understand, your fingers clutching at his shoulders so much it hurt. He worked you through it, his moustache mingled with the hair between your legs.
When his face found yours again, you tasted yourself on his tongue, and licked his moustache for good measure, up until he proposed :
‘Drink ?’
You were dumfounded for a second, and admitted :
‘Well, I was thinking bed.’
He shook his head.
‘We have time, right ?’
He got you some wine, a bottle of whisky for him - you didn’t even feel ashamed when he found his bottle waiting for him, because you never threw it away. He laid down on the couch and motioned you to come closer. You obliged. You could feel his chest rising with every breath, and how hard he was against you. Before you could do anything, though, his fingers sneaked in between your legs again and you found yourself rocking against him, helpless as he drove you to your third orgasm tonight.
You hadn’t even come down completely when you turned around, fumbled with his belt, set him free and impaled yourself on him. You wanted to see him come, but he had the same idea about you, and made you come for the fourth time that night before he finally got his release. By the time you were done, you felt like you could never get up again.
Javier brought you close to him, and held you.
‘I knew you had it in you, babe.’
You punched his shoulder playfully.
———
Javier never laughed.
He chuckled, yes, but you’d never seen him goof around, or have a full-belly laughter, something ripped out of him and wild. So when he did, for the first time, you couldn’t do anything but stare at him. Hard.
He was beautiful, you thought, the joke you’d just said completely forgotten. It was so easy to lose yourself in him that it scared you, sometimes. He leaned in and pressed a sloppy kiss on your cheek, still chuckling against your skin and it hit you like a train, at that moment, how much you loved him and longed for him every second of your existence.
You were scared. Scared of everything. Of getting a call telling you he was dead. Scared you were still one of many women he was seeing - yeah, you hadn’t had that conversation yet, even though it’d been a few weeks since that night at the bar. You were scared of how much that man meant to you.
You were trying very hard not to let it show, but, as if he could read your mind, his mouth traveled down your neck as he whispered, his words unexpected but not unwelcome :
‘Do you know how much I dreamt of that ? You and me just hanging out, just like that, and me kissing you whenever the fuck I wanted ?’
You squeezed his thigh and he sighed in your neck, his breath so warm on your sensitive skin. There was a beat of silence, then, until :
‘I flirted with a woman, for work.’
The admission was whispered, barely there, but you fet his body go tense. Despite all of your fears, you couldn’t help to go back to the old you, the one who thought she didn’t give a damn about all that and you teased :
‘And how did that work out for you ?’
‘Bad.’ He mouthed on your neck. ‘She thinks I’m an asshole.’
‘Is she pretty ?’ You asked, something teasing in your voice, even though your mind was wondering how long this woman would resist him.
‘Very. Very in love with her husband, too.’
‘You hit on a married woman ?’ You answered, your hand slapping his arm in a playful manner.
‘Yeah, the job. You know …’
Your heart did something weird, at that, because, yes, you knew. But you didn’t want to know. As clueless as you were to the inner workings of the DEA, you were pretty sure the flirting and the fucking were not mandatory.
‘Don’t hide behind the job, Peña, we both know you hit on every woman you meet.’ You corrected him.
He chuckled and quipped back :
‘Didn’t hit on you when I met you.’
The truth of his statement gave you pause.
‘Why not ?’
The ache in your chest grew at his silence. He detached his mouth from your neck and his eyes found yours.
‘I wanted you to like me.’
One of his hands found the inside of your thighs and squeezed. Whatever answer you’d had on the tip of your tongue vanished. You wanted him. You wanted that man so much. So much, so much that you’d wait.
And wait you did, waiting like a puppet left unused, worthless - the rational part of your brain kept reminding you you couldn’t do anything because this wasn’t your world, this wasn’t your life, and this wasn’t your fight.
Up until it was all over and Javier Peña was free, the burden not lifted from his shoulders but removed by himself. He was tired, and ready to go home. You didn’t know where that was, up until one evening, he laid down on your thighs as one of his hands lifted your shirt and he pressed a kiss on your belly, at random, the gesture not even remotely sexual but very intimate.
‘What about we visit my dad, and then your parents ? And then maybe they could all meet. That’s gonna be awkward. And then, we see.’
He was mumbling against the skin of your belly, his eyes avoiding yours. You sunk your fingers into his hair and whispered back :
‘That would be delightful.’
------
Taglist
@pedritobalmando @amidjarin @ajeff855 @justpedropascal @sara-alonso @sarahjkl82-blog @amidjarin @sara-alonso @justpedropasc @mrsbentallmadge @farfromjustordinary
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The photo set you reblogged of Yusuf and Niccolo helping throughout time just filled me with so many happy feels and it made me realize that it seems so common in media with immortal couples that they take breaks from each other and reconnect after a few decades. Which is a great trope but seeing these two that seems to have been attached at the hip since the day they met just fills me with all the heart eyes.
(I haven't read your fanfics for them yet. I know I'm a bad fan but if it helps I havent been able to read anything since all this started but while writing this ask I got the feeling that all this rambling I spewed out is a big theme)
Hush. Bad fan nothing. We all are coping with this stupid, awful year in different ways, some of us by escaping into fandom and some of us being unable to engage with it and some of us doing both or anything else. You certainly don’t owe me or anyone any obligation to interact with our content, fic or otherwise. So just to have that there on the top. You’re good, hun. :)
ANYWAY, thank you for giving me a chance to meta a bit on the boys and their relationship and to have a window into what my brain looks like pretty much 24/7 these days. (I blame them.) I keep thinking about all the ways this couple is depicted in the TOG film and how lovely it was and how unusual it is for me to have an OTP where I actually love them in canon and don’t need to violently disavow it in order to create AU fan content with just the characters. (See: Timeless, Game of Thrones, pretty much any show I’ve hyperfixated on at some point.) I love AUs anyway, because that’s the way my brain works, but the fact that I can also enjoy canon just as much is rare for me and for a lot of us. I saw a post somewhere remarking on how the fanfic for Joe/Nicky isn’t fixing anything, which is usually the point of transformative fanworks: we take something that canon atrociously fucked up and fix it. But in this case, all our interpretations are based on actually appreciating the way they’re presented in canon and wanting to enjoy that and uphold it, and that -- especially with a couple like this one -- is shocking??
Like. Despite my historian gripes about the occasionally incongruous details for their graphic-novel backstories (which are the only things I HAVE fixed in my fics), I’m just... deeply appreciative of the care which everyone, writers and actors and all else, put into depicting Joe and Nicky and their relationship. And god YES, one of the things I love the absolute MOST is that they’re a loving, faithful, committed, happy married queer couple over centuries, and that seems to be the case for as long as they’ve known each other/ever since they got together. (See Booker’s “you and Nicky always had each other.”) These fools can’t sleep apart from each other even when they’re stuck on a freight train in the middle of nowhere, they flirt like teenagers at dinnertime and even when they’re strapped to gurneys in a mad-scientist laboratory, they make out to enrage bad guys and also because they’re just still that goddamn into each other after all this time.
I think it was Marwan Kenzari who pointed out that there’s simply no way to truly state the depth of their knowledge and devotion and commitment to each other. They’re 950 years old. They have known each other since they were in their thirties; they’ve been husbands for literal centuries. There is no way anyone else in the world could possibly come close to replicating the kind of bond they have with each other, and neither of them have ever had any inclination to look, because why would they? Especially with the fact that queer couples in media, even otherwise sympathetically portrayed ones, often have Drama and Third Parties and Promiscuity and whatever else (because of the tiresome old canard that Gays Equal Hypersexualized!), and Joe and Nicky don’t need or want ANY of that. There’s no urge to make their relationship a cheap source of soap-opera conflict. It’s the rock and the center and the core of both of their lives, and everything they do stems from that.
There have been some great metas/comments on how neither Joe and Nicky are sexualized, they dress like stay-at-home dads during quarantine (Marwan Kenzari and Luca Marinelli are both objectively gorgeous men, and they’re out there looking like that, god bless), and the viewer is never invited to goggle at or fetishize their relationship. There are no leering or exploitative camera angles on anyone, and their expressions of love aren’t posed or intended to titillate the audience, they’re just solidly embodied and natural and lived in. It’s never bothered to be stated clunkily in dialogue that they’re a couple; we just see them exchanging looks and smiles in the early part of the film, and then we see them spooning on the train after the mission in Sudan, which confirms it.
At every turn, the narrative celebrates the kindness and love shared by the Immortal Family, the individual characters, and Joe and Nicky, especially and explicitly in queer form. The villains of the film are also defined by how they react negatively to that love. @viridianpanther had a great meta on how Keane as a villain is especially set up to menace Joe and Nicky as the narrative representation of toxic masculinity, aggressive heterosexuality, and the usual “Kill Your Gays” trope that we’ve all come to wearily expect. But instead, after that scene where Joe and Nicky fight Keane, Nicky is shot and comes back to life in Joe’s arms rather than dying permanently like we probably all momentarily expected, and then Joe gets to FUCKIN’ BREAK THE NECK of the guy who enacted that violence.... good GOD. The first time I watched it, I almost couldn’t believe it was happening. (This goes for the whole film, but especially that scene.) Like... when do we get that?? When do we EVER get that???
Obviously, there are so many stereotypes, whether visually or in behavior or character traits, that could have been assigned to a gay Italian character (excessively dramatic, effeminate, fashionable, etc) or a gay Arabic/Muslim character (explicitly announcing He’s Not Like Those Muslims, having to actively reject his heritage to make him more palatable to westerners, being tormented over being gay, etc) and Joe and Nicky subscribe to none of those. I get very emotional about Joe referring to Nicky as the moon when he is lost during the truck scene partly because it’s SUCH a common motif in Arabic love poetry. To call someone your “moon” is a beautiful way to say they’re the light of your life, and since the Islamic calendar is obviously lunar and the holidays, months, and observances, are set by the phases of the moon, this also has a deeper religious significance.
I don’t know for sure if they did that on purpose, but it it’s a lovely and subtle way of showing us how Joe clearly doesn’t have an issue with being both queer AND Muslim, and is able to draw on both facets of that identity in a way that a lesser narrative would have denied him. And that is just really wonderful. Yes, we’re seeing these characters when they’ve had centuries to settle into themselves, but there are plenty of writers who would have forced those conflicts artificially to the surface, rather than letting them be long in the past. It’s the same way when you watch a film set in the medieval era, it wants you to know that it Is Set In The Medieval Era. Cue the filth, misogyny, racism, violence, etc! Rather than it being a lived-in reality, it has to be jarringly drawn attention to, and I’m just so glad they didn’t do that with Joe and Nicky. And for them to have met in the crusades and fallen in love??! Come on. That’s just rude. Rude to me, personally.
Anyway, this was a rather long-winded and feelsy way of saying that these characters are constructed, acted, and written organically in such a way that you hate to even THINK of them being separated, and it’s not because they can’t function without each other, but because they are two halves of a whole. We also see that the characters themselves can’t stand being forced apart: Joe’s freakout in the truck scene when Nicky briefly won’t wake up, Nicky making sure to tell Joe that he’s glad he’s awake in the lab, the whole post-Keane fight scene that I talked about above, the way Nicky fights ferociously to get to Joe when Merrick’s stabbing him, etc. For that to be given to the queer couple, where the strength of their love and devotion is reinforced as one of the emotional goals of the story, and for that queer couple to be written in the way that Joe and Nicky are, both individually and as a unit, is just so very rare.
Because yes, there’s plenty of drama and angst and pain in their lives, but there’s none at all in their relationship, and that’s what fans keep telling TV writers the whole time: they WANT to see the couple confront things as a unit, rather than being kept on tenterhooks the whole time and forced to go through manufactured or artificial drama. It would feel especially wrong for Joe and Nicky, who have known and loved each other for 900 years. The fact that their respective actors also put so much care and love into them is very obvious, and makes me feel even luckier that they’re played by people who clearly get them and honor them and know what they’re doing.
Basically: of course Joe and Nicky have been with each other the whole time, and of course we’re all drowning in feelings over it, and I feel very blessed that this ship exists, and I very much need the sequel ASAP. Thanks.
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The Neighbour [2.1]
Masterlist
A/N: OH MY GOD I LIVE!!!! Also, spoiler ahead for The Bastards graphic novel; not so much plot-wise but there are a few lines from the book. Indented paragraph is credited to Emerson Barrett and XoBillie.
“I have loved you from the moment you first smiled at me,
Giddy, mischievous, not ever looking for trouble yet somehow
Trouble has a way of always finding you.”
Remington stared wistfully at the view from Eva’s balcony, knowing how self-conscious she was when he watched her as she read a piece. In his lap sat Pluto, satisfied to have his ears stroked while he took his afternoon nap.
He couldn’t explain it, but somehow Remington found he was always transported to a new dimension when he heard Eva’s poetry. It was so soft and delicate, he could appreciate it the same way one does the petals of the first flowers of spring. Everything about her writing was so soothing, now a familiar notion that he never wanted to let go of.
“You’ve ignited a fire in my belly with embers sparking and popping
Under the intense pressure of your dark eyes
And the bubbling pearls of your laugh.
I loved you when I first ran into your open arms and marvelled
“My God, you feel just like home”
And with a few simple touches the open sores on my skin
Recede and heal, and their pain is a faint memory in comparison
To the electricity your fingertips carry.
I loved you when we were flying over the streets,
Vibrant yellow, orange and purple coating my eyes and
Painting you into Monet’s Twilight, Venice.
You’re a renaissance masterpiece that has been imprinted
Into the soft folds of my brain...”
Eva set her book down having finished the incomplete piece, watching her boyfriend with a dazed smile on his face as the echo of her prose sunk in. She simpered to herself with giddy.
“You know, I always have mixed feelings about reading you my poetry,” she said.
“Why’s that?” Remington asked, “It’s very good,”
“I know that. And you know that,” she smirked, “And I know that you know that I’m low-key inflating your ego with this shit,”
Remington chuckled, reaching out across the small table to take her smaller hand in his, “Would it put you at ease if I told you my ego is too far gone?”
Eva rolled her eyes and snapped her notebook shut, “Maybe I should start writing poems about the things you do I find annoying?”
“You say that like it’s bad,” Remington shrugged, giddy when she shook her head in dismay at his teasing.
Pluto continued to lie motionless in Remington’s lap, assuming the sphinx position as he had his ears rubbed. However, the tabby’s eyes sprung open when a guttural vibration shook through the small wooden table, disturbing the peaceful afternoon.
Eva glanced at the familiar glare of ‘Blocked Caller ID’ appearing, refraining from showing little disdain as she declined the call. Remington however was curious; for the past few months he’d seen Eva decline calls like that over and over again. The first few times he figured it was telemarketers, or scam calls. However, he noticed how they came frequently in the weeks; more prominent on Wednesdays and Thursdays.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Eva shrugged, “It’s blocked for a reason,”
“But if you blocked the caller... then you have to know who it is so you could block them,” he reasoned, “Right?”
Eva responded in silence, taking her phone and quickly tucking it beneath her thigh. Remington stared at her pointedly.
“Eva, you get these calls nearly every day,” he said, “If it’s something bad... you know you can trust me with anything,”
“I know...” Eva nodded slowly, exhaling, “It’s my mom,”
Eva had been exceptionally non-forth coming when it came to her life back in Seattle, only remembering hearing about her friends and family once or twice. He respected her privacy, though he couldn’t help but be a tad curious. She fit the overall profile as someone who was running away from her problems.
“You blocked your mom?” he asked, somewhat in disbelief though from what he understood of their relationship he shouldn’t have been surprised.
Eva nodded, “Yep. Either she can’t take a hint or she’s way more stubborn than I am,”
Remington looked across the street to his own house, the gentle breeze billowing through the sheer curtain in the living room he remembered his mom helping him and Emerson pick out.
“Why don’t you speak to her?”
“Why don’t you speak to your dad?”
“I told you already,”
Pluto then leapt off of Remington’s lap and landed on the table, crossing over to his owner and staring at her with his big, soulful eyes. Eva smiled and gently scratched his ears.
“She showed up to my graduation, which would have been fine... but she showed up with her new husband and a kid,” she admitted.
Remington raised his eyebrows, “Her own kid?”
“Yeah. She got married to her co-pilot and they have a ten-year-old son together. She abandoned our family and started a new one,” Eva shook her head, “I guess being married to a chem teacher wasn’t as exciting for her,”
“What did your dad do?” he asked.
“That’s the best part. He knew about it and chose not to tell me. I just couldn’t believe it,” she replied, “But the fact that she just... she disappeared for years and then showed up again with a new family -- at my college graduation! How could I possibly celebrate after seeing that?”
“And you haven’t spoken to her since?” he asked tentatively.
“No. The way I saw it, she walked out of my life with no qualms. So... I walked out of hers. And it doesn’t matter how much she phones me; I don’t have time for disingenuine people,”
Remington reached over to take her hand that was resting on the table, stroking gently over the bumps of her knuckles, “Did you... did you meet her son?”
It was then Eva looked truly bummed out, “I think that’s the part I regret most. I mean -- he’s a kid. It’s not his fault his mom is a flake,”
Remington nodded, “Do you still love your mom?”
“I don’t know,” Eva shrugged, “Call me a coward, but avoidance is just easier to deal with,”
“You’re not a coward,” Remington assured, “I get it. But... speaking from experience, you can only avoid your issues for so long. As hard as it may be, you might want to address these problems sooner rather than later. I promise you won’t regret it,”
“Rem --”
“She’s your mom. And obviously the fact that she’s still blowing up your phone should tell you something,”
Eva sat quietly, letting his words sink in. She knew Remington was right; knowing what she knew about him she also knew that he wasn’t just talking out of his ass. She appreciated that he understood where she was coming from, she just wished that his solution could be as easy as it sounded.
“I will call her back... eventually. My dad wants me to come home for Christmas, I guess I have to,” she chuckled sheepishly, warranting a sympathetic smile on his part, “Just... not today,”
“That’s okay,” Remington said, gently squeezing her hand, “It’s all gonna’ work out, Eva,”
“You can’t promise that,” she pointed out.
He shrugged, “Let’s not call it a promise, then. Let’s call is a whim,”
July had faded into August, as did pandemic fatigue. The streets were becoming busier, the business’ were seeing more intake in revenue, and people were slowly coming back out to try and enjoy was little of a summer was left.
And while most people were doing their best to social distance and keep safe, the cases continued to grow. Safe in the confines of the house, Eva sat at the table and read over the final print draft of the band’s graphic novel. Eva was blown away, completely immersed from the plot line to the artwork. She was supposed to be working with Emerson on his latest project, yet afforded herself a small break.
Across from her, Emerson was reading through Eva’s Tumblr blog, blown away at the amount of work she had posted since mid-June. Every prose and line was so vivid, painting a clear picture of her emotions. On the one hand, he couldn't help but be a little uncomfortable, knowing the sensual poems he was reading was about his older brother. On the other hand, everything was so poised and punctual -- he figured he may borrow some stuff to try on Shy some time.
Eva turned to a new page littered with more text than it was visuals, but on the edge of the left page was a stunning, very accurate sketch of Remington. His hair looked so different in the form of a basic sketch, yet those eyes, that face still captured all the majesty and curiosity within. She was unable to help that her fingers glossed over the lines that made up his torso with all his tattoos visible, tracing down the length of his arm to the vanity beside him and back up again. The cold paper singed her fingertips as she read the prose beside the sketch, a small smile creeping onto her lips with every word that echoed in her brain.
“...Emerson thought that if hell and heaven had a bastard son, that it would be Remington. His brother had an angelic-looking face with big almond-shaped eyes. His eyes were brown but could shift into black, and melt into the iris. It was a look that Emerson though the angel of hell would be proud of. But then, in the right light, those dark eyes changed and came to glimmer like the purest of gold - a look angels would swarm for. Apart from the eyes, his face was the feature of him that seemed to never change no matter how brutal this world was to him...”
Eva had to give credit to Emerson for his writing, capturing his brother in such a way that she herself would have. And like the flip of a switch, the memory of Remington’s eyes flashed through her mind, shining of gold and beauty the way the words had echoed to her.
In another blink his eyes turned into the eerie shadow of black, flashing a look he’d throw her way when his lust for her consumed him. In one paragraph, Remington had been portrayed as a killer from hell, offering flowers to his peers instead of knives.
Though, all romanticism was put aside as Eva read the paragraph again, noting the last line she had skimmed over quickly:
“...his face was the feature of him that seemed to never change no matter how brutal this world was to him. The rest of him was not...”
There as no denying how cruel the world had been to Remington and his brothers, though the more she pondered the more she realized she had never seen the type of dejection in his face the way Emerson had described. He always appeared -- not happy, per say -- but content with his life.
Emerson looked up from his tablet, noticing the way Eva’s eyes were glued to her own reading, her hand placed protectively over the sketch of Remington.
“You okay, Eva?” he asked.
She glanced at the youngest brother, shaken by the break in silence. But she smiled reassuringly and flipped the page, despite not having finished reading the last.
“Oh, yeah,” she nodded, “It’s absolutely beautiful. I did make note of a couple grammatical errors... I hope you don’t mind,”
“It’s fine,” he grinned, “Deadline for rewrites is on Friday,”
“If you'd like, I could go through the rest for you. I’m in between articles right now,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Promise I won’t post spoilers for fans,”
“Might have to get you an NDA,” he giggled merrily, “I’ll send the file over. You ever work with InDesign?”
“A few times, yeah...” she trailed off, a new train of thought lingering in the back of her mind, “Emerson... can I ask you something sorta’ personal?”
Emerson raised an eyebrow, “How personal?” he asked.
She breathed out carefully, “Remington had told me about your dad --”
“What did he say?” Emerson asked quickly, his cheerful demeanour quickly souring.
“Just that he hadn’t been in the picture for a while,” she said assuringly, “Nothing else,”
Emerson began to relax a little, “Okay. What’s your question, Eva?”
“Say he out of the blue started making an effort to get back in touch with you... would you take that offer?” she asked.
“Nope,” he replied shortly, “Because if he wanted back in our lives, it would be for his own gain,”
Eva stayed silent, his quick answer all she needed to know that she shouldn’t push the envelope. Emerson saw the fall in her face, feeling a tad bad for being so short with Eva.
“Sorry...” he grimaced, “I just... I don’t like to talk about my dad,”
“I understand,” Eva nodded, “I’m sorry I brought it up,”
“... Why did you?” Emerson asked curiously.
Eva exhaled, her fingers picking at the edge of the glossy page, “Just getting room different perspectives. My mom and I don’t exactly have a Gilmore Girls kind of relationship. I’ve just been thinking ‘cause she’s been trying to get a hold of me for so long,”
“Was she nice to you? When you were younger?” he asked.
“I don’t really remember,” Eva replied truthfully, “She was -- superficial. There but not really there,”
He cocked his head, his wispy black hair falling over his eyes, “So... you’re trying to figure out if you want a relationship with your mom?”
Before she could reply, they both turned when they heard footsteps echoing in the hall towards them. Michael had appeared, panning his camera around for new footage for the band’s Youtube channel. Eva was unsure whether she pay attention or turn back to the book and pretend not to see.
“What’re you two working on?” he asked, focusing the lens on Emerson so Eva was just out of the shot. Michael respected that Eva was a touch camera shy.
“Top secret,” Emerson replied promptly, “And if we told you, we’d have to kill you,”
“I won’t unleash that wrath,” Michael chuckled, “Don’t have too much fun!”
“We’ll try,” Emerson muttered as he sauntered into the next room.
Eva closed the book and pushed it aside, sighing to herself as she pulled back her laptop and opened Emerson’s project. The youngest brother watched her unabashedly, picking off the air of uncertainty swirling around her.
“Does Remington know your mom keeps calling you?” he asked.
“He was kind of curious as to why I kept getting all these blocked calls,” she replied.
“What did he say?”
“That everything was going to be okay,” she nodded slowly, “You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that in my life and... it’s not. So, I’m super inclined to believe him,”
Emerson swallowed, “My brother has a tendency to want to take care of everybody. And it’s not a bad quality. But he also doesn’t know how he can make it better,” he said.
“It’s not up to him to make it better,” Eva declared.
“But he loves you,” Emerson stated, “And just because of that, he’ll want to help you find your way out of this. When Remington commits to someone, he tends to go one-hundred-percent all in,”
Eva simpered to herself, “I appreciate him. He’s -- definitely been a plot twist,”
“Good or bad plot twist?”
“Very good,”
Emerson smiled as she started to type on her keyboard, some of Eva’s vexations visibly released when the topic had changed to Remington. As she appreciated Remington, Emerson appreciated Eva for all that she’d done for him. He had this gut intuition, a simmering notion that Eva was going to be sticking around for a long time. And he had absolutely no problem with that.
“Can I ask you a serious question, though?” he asked.
“Of course,” Eva nodded.
“Do you like his blue hair...?” he asked with a drawling disdain.
The young brunette turned her head in the direction of the distant chatter of the boys.
“I take it by your tone you’re not a fan,” she said.
Emerson scoffed, “He’s taking me back to the Kool-Aid dye trend,”
“Oh, Emerson,”
#palaye royale#palaye royale imagine#palaye fanart#palaye positivity#Palaye Royale fic#remington leith#Remington Leith imagine#Remington Leith fic#emerson barrett#sebastian danzig#band blog#band imagines#band imagine blog#poetry#domesticity#original series#original story#original female character
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Misconceptions: A Show
Pairing: Intrulogical
Characters: Remus Sanders, Logan Sanders, Roman Sanders, Patton Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Deceit Sanders.
Words: 3.941
Warnings: sympathetic Deceit & Remus, swearing, some graphic talk bc it’s Remus, screaming in caps
Notes: Finally, I can post this monster of a fic -hey there, @princeyssash, guess who was your secret santa? This fic was honestly so much fun to write, I swear -I loved all of the prompts I had, but this one just called to me,,, I had to,,
Big thanks to @purp-man for betaing this fic for me and listening to my 3am rambles, and shoutout to @afulldeckofaces for helping me flesh out some plot points, like Virgil memeing his way through Roman’s plans. You’re the absolute best <33
Commission me!! Buy me a coffee!! My Discord server!! AO3!!
It was a normal day in the mindscape.
Patton was humming happily in the kitchen, shuffling around with a pep in his step as he mixed the batter for some cookies. In the living room, Logan and Virgil were enjoying each other’s company while doing their own thing, may it be reading or half-slouching on the couch while scrolling aimlessly through Tumblr.
Everything was peaceful.
Until it wasn’t.
“YOU DIRTY LITTLE SEWER RAT GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!!”
Everyone jumped at the sudden shout, Virgil going as far as tumbling off the couch with a startled yelp. From upstairs, Remus’ unmistakable laughter bounced on the walls, followed shortly after by the twin himself bolting down the stairs with a maniacal grin on his face.
“Oh god,” Virgil groaned from the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose, “what the fuck did he do now?”
“Language, kiddo,” Patton called, emerging from the kitchen with a confused frown on his face.
Turns out, they didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
“REMUS!!” Roman screeched, running down the stairs. He looked thoroughly pissed, eyes flashing dangerously as he glared daggers at his brother.
Virgil took one look at him, blinked, and then promptly broke down cackling.
“Stop laughing, Hot Topic!” Roman exclaimed, cheeks flushing red. Not that his blush was very noticeable, due to the various scribbles and crude drawings covering his face. “Look at what he did to my beautiful face!”
“You just don’t understand real art, brother dearest,” Remus snickered, waving the marker in his hand around.
“Oh, I’ll show you real art,” Roman muttered darkly, unsheathing his sword as he stalked down the last steps of the stairs.
At the sight of the unsheathed sword, Virgil’s eyes widened in alarm, his body tensing slightly as it became clear the situation was starting to escalate. Beside him, Logan looked at the two brothers, sighed in resignation and snapped the book in his hands shut.
“That’s quite enough, you two,” he said, staring the two brothers down with a raised eyebrow.
“Specs, he drew penises on my face! Multiple times!!”
“Which you can easily snap off with a wave of your hand,” Logan pointed out, “I do not believe there is any need for all this screaming, or for weapons to be brought into the picture.”
“Logan, you don’t understand, I gotta fight him now! For my honor!!” Roman exclaimed, waving his arms around -and therefore further proving Logan’s point by almost cutting Deceit’s head off as the side rose up to check what the commotion was about.
“Oi, watch it!” Deceit called out, ducking to avoid another accidental swipe of Roman’s sword, “who are you, Zuko?”
“If Roman’s Zuko then Logan is totally Uncle Iroh,” Virgil added, still lying on the floor.
Logan shrugged. “If we are referring to the first season of Avatar: The Last Airbender then yes, I can see the similarities.”
Roman squinted at them, finally lowering his sword. “There is an insult somewhere in that phrase. I don’t know where, but I know there is.”
“It’s because you’re a dumb-head, bro!” Remus cackled, once again calling the attention to himself.
Roman growled, looking more than ready to stalk through the room and tackle his twin to the ground, but Logan anticipated him before the situation could escalate once again.
“Remus, I believe this is quite enough,” he said, turning towards the aforementioned twin.
“Aw, but Logan, I’m just having some fun!”
Logan simply raised an eyebrow, staring him down.
“Ugh, fiiiine!” Remus finally groaned, throwing the marker somewhere behind himself, “that does not mean I’m happy about it though!”
Then, he sank out.
Peace once again established, Logan hummed and leaned back on the couch, going back to reading his book.
Or at least that was the plan.
“What the fuck just happened?” Virgil asked, staring at him in disbelief.
“Virgil, language!!”
“Sorry Padre, but I gotta agree with Cout Woelaf here,” Roman said, sword laying limp in his grip, “that was nothing less but weird.”
“I honestly do not understand where all of this apparent confusion is coming from,” Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You told Remus to stop!” Roman exclaimed, throwing his arms up, “and he listened to you!!”
“Roman, your sword!” Deceit hissed in frustration, having had to duck for the third time to avoid being cut in tiny scaley pieces. “If you don’t put it down this instant I might just try and stab you with it, do not try me.”
Roman grumbled but complied, making the sword disappear with a wave of his hand. Then, he crossed his arms, looking once again towards the logical side. “My point still stands though. Remus never listens to anyone, like, ever.”
“Yeah, I think I have to agree with them here Lo,” Patton said, still standing under the kitchen’s doorway, “that was a little weird.”
“Well, I do not know what to tell you,” Logan countered, “I asked him to stop, he complied and then sank out -it’s as simple as that.”
“If you say so,” Roman said, squinting at him in suspicion.
From the other side of the room, Deceit gave him A Look, appearing to be torn between amusement and concern. Logan subtly raised an eyebrow in response, making sure the others would not notice their silent exchange.
After all, it wasn’t like he could just tell them the truth, could he?
+++
When Logan finally sank up in his room, sometime later, he was not surprised to see a very familiar side sprawled on his bed, head hanging from the side of the mattress as he threw a tiny dagger up and down in the air.
“Lolo!!” Remus grinned, spotting him, “took you a while, I was starting to get bored!”
“I wanted to finish this novel first,” Logan said, putting the book in question back to its place in his large library, “it was rather interesting.”
“You know what would be interesting?” Remus asked, not looking away from the other as he kept playing with his dagger, “to find out what would happen if this dagger hit me in the eye!! Do you think it would reach all the way to my brain?”
“I suppose it would,” Logan hummed, sitting beside the creative side and quickly catching the dagger out of the air when Remus threw it again, “but between proving that hypothesis and spending the rest of the day with my not-injured husband, I think I prefer the second option more.”
“Oh really?” Remus grinned, sitting up -a slim silver chain fell out of his shirt with the movement, the golden ring hanging from it twinkling in the light of the room. “And tell me, how would you like to spend that time, my dear?”
Logan hummed, the light pressure of his own ring hiding under his shirt bringing a smile to his face. “Oh, I’m sure my dear husband will have some ideas of his own to share.”
“Oh, you are wicked,” Remus said, before leaning in to capture Logan’s lips in a kiss.
+++
For a while, it seemed like whatever had happened in the living room had been forgotten -the others were still confused by how easy it was for Logan to make Remus listen to him, but most of them waved it off as Logic easily overpowering Intrusive Thoughts with rationality and all that shit.
(Deceit knew better than that, but that was mostly because lying to him was next to impossible and Logan had been smart enough to let him in on their secret as soon as it had started to become a serious thing, both to help the couple lie to the other sides and to avoid him finding out on his own and potentially jeopardizing their cover.)
Point is, no one had yet discovered the real reason between the apparent chemistry between the two sides. But that didn’t mean they weren’t starting to notice things.
The first one to start suspecting something was, surprisingly enough, Virgil.
He had been sneaking to the kitchen around 3am, planning to grab a quick snack from the pantry and then tip-toe back to his own room, all the while hoping not to alert anyone of his nighttime escapade -he had already been at the receiving end of several stern talks about his fucked-up sleeping schedule and did not want to have to sit through another one, thank you very much.
What he had not been expecting, was to find himself staring at Logan’s back, the logical side looking busy filling two mugs with steaming water.
Virgil froze on his tracks, eyes wide in alarm as he tried to figure out how to sneak back out of the kitchen and up the stairs without being noticed. Unfortunately, Logan seemed to have other ideas and turned around before the anxious side could make up his mind about the next course of action.
“Uh,” Logan said, blinking in surprise, “hello, Virgil. I have to be honest, I was not expecting to meet anyone at this hour of the night.”
“Likewise, I guess,” Virgil shrugged, giving the other a tiny smile, “why are you up at this hour anyway? Weren’t you the one waxing poetry about the importance of a regular sleep schedule?”
“I got sidetracked, I guess. One late night won’t harm me in any way or form, I assure you.”
Virgil snickered. “I’m telling Patton you said that.”
“I don’t think you will,” Logan countered, calm as ever as he put down the kettle and moved to grab the two cups, “because if you do I will tell Patton about you sneaking into the kitchen at 3am with, as it appears, not a single ounce of sleep in your body.”
“... harsh, L. Real harsh.”
“Just stating facts,” Logan said, before walking out of the kitchen.
Virgil stared after him, watching the logical side leisurely cross the living room and walk up the stairs until he could not see him anymore. Then, he shrugged, quickly walking to the pantry and grabbing the snack he had come for.
He straightened up, holding triumphantly a bag of chips, only to freeze up again when a tiny detail finally struck him.
“Wait, why the fuck did he have two mugs?”, he wondered, turning back to glance at the stairs. Then, he turned towards the kitchen counter, noticing a little bag sitting just to the side of where Logan had been standing just a few seconds before.
“Kuding Tea” read the caption on the front of the bag, the inside filled with slim, dark tea nails.
Virgil frowned, rolling the name around in his head. He was sure he had heard it before, but where?
+++
The second one was Roman.
He had been strolling idly around the Imagination, humming a song under his breath as he walked along a path in the woods. Of course, his guard wasn’t completely down, not now that he was so near Remus’ side of the Imagination -while his relationship with his brother had greatly improved in the last year or so, he was still very much aware of the dangerous creatures lurking in his brother’s domain, and Roman had no desire to be caught by surprise by one of them.
Could you imagine the teasing, if Remus ever were to find out?
So yeah, he was still being very attentive to his surroundings -that’s probably half of the reason why he found himself hesitating when what sounded like distant laughter reached his ears.
Roman stilled, focusing on his surroundings. But all he could hear was silence, and after a few more seconds he was about ready to shrug it off to his imagination.
Then, the same, faint sound echoed from somewhere in the forest.
Curious, Roman started following the sound, watching his steps as his hand moved to hover over the handle of his sword -better be safe than sorry, he figured.
It didn’t take long for him to reach his destination, the forest receding just a few feet in front of him to make room for a vast, lush clearing. What he found, however, was something he could have never fathomed.
In the middle of the clearing, sitting on the grass in front of each other, were Remus and Logan, looking way too engrossed in their own conversation to notice the stunned prince staring at them from just behind a tree.
Remus seemed to be showing Logan something, looking completely enraptured by whatever Logan was saying.
The logical side was talking animatedly, waving his hands around with a grin as he occasionally gestured to something sitting between them. And Remus, well, he was staring at Logan with an expression Roman was pretty sure he’d never seen on his twin’s face.
He was looking at Logan like he was the sole holder of every secret of the universe, like he was everything he could see and hear.
He looked absolutely, utterly smitten, and Roman did not know what to do with that information.
+++
For Patton, well, it was more of a gradual realization.
He may not be the smartest in the group, but he was not by any means an idiot. He had noticed right away the potential chemistry between the two sides, the way Logan never seemed to be fazed by Remus’ shenanigans or the way Remus seemed to enjoy poking fun at the logical side.
Initially, he had not been very thrilled about it. But as time went on and they started to get closer to the dark sides, he could see how those two being friends could be highly beneficial for everyone, Remus and Logan included.
And he thought that was all it was -a blossoming friendship!
But the more time passed, the more Patton started to realize how that wasn’t exactly the case.
He didn’t know what initially tipped him off, really. Maybe it was the shared glances when one of them thought the other wasn’t looking, or the smile both of the sides seemed to fight down when in the presence of the other.
Maybe it was the subtle change in Logan’s demeanor, the way he’d grown calmer, happier, metaphorically softer around the edges ever since he and Remus had started growing closer.
Something was starting to bloom between the two sides, and Patton was not so sure it was a simple, innocent friendship anymore.
+++
Things came to a head one fateful Saturday afternoon, with Logan stuck revising schedules with Thomas and Remus doing who-knows-what in the Imagination.
The other sides were all lounging in the living room, all doing their own thing.
Then, Roman spoke up.
“Do you guys think something’s going on between Remus and Logan?”
Virgil, who was very much not expecting to hear something like that in the foreseeable future, jumped up from where he had been sprawled on the couch, headphones hanging limp from his neck as he stared wide-eyed at the creative side.
“Please tell me you’re not implying what I think you are implying.”
Roman shrugged, looking away as he scratched the base of his neck. “I don’t know what to tell you, Panic! At The Everywhere -I’m just asking.”
“If I have to be completely honest, actually,” piped up Patton from his place on the floor, stopping the episode of Parks & Rec they had been using as a background, “I have noticed some strange things too.”
“Right??” Roman exclaimed, “I saw them in the Imagination, last week, and I swear to god at one point Remus’ expression almost rivaled the way Logan usually looks at a jar of Crofters.”
“Whoa there Princey,” Virgil said, “don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little?”
“I know what I saw, J.D-lightful.”
“And I think Logan could be developing some feelings for Remus, even if he probably hasn’t quite realized it yet,” Patton added.
Virgil went to argue, but suddenly a realization struck him.
“Oh fuck,” he whispered in shock, suddenly looking like he was reevaluating everything he’d ever known.
“What?” Roman asked, confused.
“I caught Logan down in the kitchen, the other day,” Virgil explained, “he was brewing two cups of tea -which I found rather strange, really, but it was something like 3am so I didn’t question it too much. But I saw the name of the tea he brewed, and it felt familiar but I didn’t connect the dots until now.”
“Well?” Roman prompted, “We’re on the edge of our seats here, Marilyn Morose.”
“It was Kuding Tea, aka Remus’ favorite,” Virgil revealed. “He made us brew it all the time, and he was the only one able to drink that stuff because it’s one of the most bitter things you could ever try to swallow.”
Patton hummed, looking deep in thought. “Looks like those two might be closer than we thought.”
Roman grinned, something akin to mischief glinting in his eyes. “How about we help them grow just a little bit closer, uh?”
“We can discuss all of that later, Ro, but first there’s another thing we need to talk about,” Patton said, before turning to look at Virgil with a stern look on his face. “Virgil Sanders, what’s this I hear about you being up at 3am again?”
(Engrossed as they were in the new revelations, none of the sides noticed the tiny smirk stretching on Deceit’s face as he watched the scene unfold. He could have tried to stop them from trying to meddle, sure.
But where would be the fun in that?)
+++
As it turned out, not a single one of the sides’ plans came even close to its goal.
First came Patton’s idea, which was arguably the most subtle. They set up a family dinner, pestering the two sides until they confirmed their presence at the table. Then, very last minute, everyone gave random excuses as to why they couldn’t come. Everyone was sure it would work, even if they didn’t stick around to find out -knowing Remus’s tendency to make things rather… spicy, they didn’t want to find out what would happen after the two finally confessed their feelings.
However, when, the day after, they asked Logan how the dinner had gone, the logical side simply leveled them with a confused stare.
“Since you all weren’t there we just agreed to bring the food back to our rooms and keep doing our work -I still had some possible scripts to read through so it worked just fine for me.”
So, it looked like plan A had been a failure.
Roman, in all of his finesse and “romantic prowess” (his exact words), decided to put his own plan in action -which consisted of not-so-subtly shoving the two sides in the same room and “accidentally” break the doorknob, effectively trapping them inside.
(“Wow, a true Cupido alright.”
“Oh, shut up, you Emo Nightmare.”)
However, Roman’s incredible, astonishing, foolproof plan (again, his exact words) did not account for one specific aspect, aka Remus’ tendency of not letting puny, material things like doors keep him trapped.
In less than five minutes, the two sides were free once again, easily sidestepping what little remained of the door with Remus still holding his morning star in his hands.
And just like that, plan B joined its predecessor down the metaphorical toilet.
Last came Virgil’s plan, which was quite different from the other two’s -it was succinct, concise, and the farthest thing from subtle you could ever think of.
“Hey L,” he called one day, not even looking up from his phone, “what if you went and kissed Remus?”
Logan slowly looked up from his book. “... I apologize, what?”
Virgil shrugged, smirking. “Don’t worry, I’m just kidding. Unless…?”
Logan blinked at him, looking thoroughly confused. “Virgil, are you unwell? How many hours of rest did you get last night?”
And that’s how plan C joined its sibling down in the metaphorical sewer.
(“Your plan was a meme??”
“At least I didn’t try to cliché them into a relationship, Princey.”)
Point is, by the end of the week the three sides had still to come up with a tactic that could actually work. So, they planned another brainstorm question in the living room.
Only, they appeared to have greatly miscalculated Remus and Logan’s whereabouts.
“Alright, you guys want to share with the class what the fuck is going on already?”
The three sides jumped in unison, whipping their heads around to stare at the two sides standing at the bottom of the stairs. Remus was leaning on the railing, looking at them expectantly, while Logan was standing just beside him with his arms crossed in front of his chest, one single eyebrow raised in a silent question.
“Uuuuuh…” Patton spoke up, looking at the other two in search of help, “language?”
“Pat, I think my language is the least of our problems now,” Remus retorted, refusing to drop the subject, “so, who wants to start talking first?”
The three sides, who looked like three deers caught in the headlights, seemed to grow more panicked by the second, searching for a possible explanation and coming up empty-handed.
“We found out you guys have a crush on each other and wanted to help you two get together!” Roman finally blurted.
“Roman!” Virgil growled, turning to glare at the creative side.
“I’m sorry!” Roman squeaked, throwing his arms up in frustration.
“You could have been a little more… tactful about it, kiddo,” Patton said, smiling nervously as they all waited with bated breath what the two’s reactions would be.
Logan and Remus blinked, dumbfounded. Then, they turned to look at each other, before Remus decided that the best course of action was, of course, to break down into hysterical giggles, compete with wheezing and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
As for Logan, well, he limited himself to chuckling, looking downright amused by the whole situation.
So yeah, not exactly the reactions the others were expecting.
“... what?” Virgil asked, “please tell me I’m not the only confused one right now.”
“Apologies, Virgil,” Logan said, as Remus kept merrily cackling his lungs out on the floor, “we just thought something serious was going on, since you have all been acting strangely during the last week or so. Discovering that the reason behind your strange behavior was that, well, is rather amusing.”
“Wait, is that your way of telling us you actually don’t like Remus?” Roman said.
“Actually, I do like him, in a romantic sense,” Logan chuckled, throwing a fond look at the side wheezing on the ground. “We have been engaged in a romantic relationship for a while now.”
“... I know I probably sound like a broken record but what?”
“He wants to tap this booty, Vee!” Remus cackled, “and I’m 100% down for that!”
“ By the horn of a unicorn, please spare us the details,” Roman muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“So that means you guys are already in a relationship?!” Patton exclaimed, a wide grin on his face as he clapped his hands in obvious delight, “oh my gosh, that’s so cute! I’m so happy for you guys!!”
“I don’t know if I want to be angry because you guys didn’t tell us or because my brother somehow managed to score a boyfriend before me,” Roman grumbled.
Logan and Remus shared a glance at that, mischief twinkling in both of their eyes. Then, once it appeared they were both on the same page, Remus spoke, barely stopping himself from giggling in anticipation.
“Actually we’re married, but go off I guess.”
Silence fell, seconds ticking by as the news started to sink in.
“Now hold on a second you guys aRE WHAT-”
And then, chaos.
#sanders sides#intrulogical#lomus#remus sanders#logan sanders#roman sanders#patton sanders#virgil sanders#deceit sanders#sympathetic deceit#sympathetic remus#swearing#caps#intrulogical fluff#lomus fluff#ts fanfiction#sanders sides fanfiction#maxiswriting
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I’m back on my bullshit with more TOG fluff, have fun :)
Read on AO3
Joe stumbled into the kitchen, soaking wet and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He looked around frantically before making a beeline toward the countertop. He lunged for the notebook lying there.
Behind him, Nicky yelped. “Yusuf!”
Joe turned around to find his husband carrying a package of flour in his arms, which he’d apparently been retrieving from the pantry while Joe barged into his workspace.
“Hmm?” Joe said distractedly, already starting to feel the lines slipping. Damnit, why did the perfect words for his poems always only occur to him in the shower? Meter, alliteration, emotion… he’d had it all at the tip of his tongue moments ago. He just needed to write it down before he-
“Hayati, you better have a good reason for standing dripping wet and half-naked in my kitchen. There’s soapy water everywhere! You’ve made such a mess, Joe, and I just mopped…”
Nicky’s lamentations continued, and Joe tried desperately to listen while mentally reciting what was left of the lines he’d composed in the shower.
“Joe?” Nicky’s fingers snapped impatiently in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me?”
The last vestiges of his beautifully crafted words evaporated from his brain, and Joe sighed, shoulders slumping forward. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I’ll clean it up.”
He turned to grab a spare dish towel from the cabinet, shivering slightly as a wayward breeze hit his damp skin. Before he could take two steps, Joe felt a gentle hand around his wrist.
Nicky maneuvered the flour package onto the table and leveled him with a mortifyingly discerning look. “What happened, love?”
Joe remained silent, unsure of how to go about explaining the absurdity of his current presence in the kitchen. The whole endeavor seemed rather stupid in retrospect. And it wasn’t like he had a line or two of breathtaking poetry to show for it, either.
Nicky’s eyes widened a little at his hesitation. “Are you alright, Joe? Are you hurt?” He ran his hands fretfully up and down Joe’s arms and chest, feeling for traces of an injury. Joe’s eyes snapped up guiltily, and he took hold of Nicky’s wrists and brought them to his lips.
“I am alright, amore. I mean it. Not at all hurt. Please do not worry.”
“You’re trembling. Go dry off and wear something warm, I’ll take care of the floor. Then you can tell me what’s going on.”
Minutes later, Joe emerged from their room in one of Nicky’s large, fleece-lined hoodies. He found Nicky in the kitchen, wringing out a towel into the sink. As soon as he saw Joe, Nicky walked over and pressed a warm mug of hot cocoa into his hands.
“Let’s sit on the couch?”
Joe nodded, following his husband to the living room and curling up next to him on the cushions. A small blaze was starting to catch in the fireplace. Outside, rain poured with a vengeance. Nicky had closed the window but left the curtains open. Joe smiled to himself. He had never met anyone who loved the rain as much as his Nicoló.
“Drink, hayati. We can’t have you catching a cold. See, I even added those tiny marshmallows you like.”
Joe took a large sip from the cup, sighing softly as the chocolate-covered notes of nutmeg and cinnamon floated over his tongue. He nuzzled closer to Nicky, feeling a little overcome with warmth and love.
Nicky wrapped his arms around Joe and pulled him closer. “So, are you going to tell me what prompted you to run out here mid-shower in the cold of winter?”
“I thought of the right words,” Joe mumbled into Nicky’s holiday-green jumper.
“Hmm?”
“For a poem I was writing. I’ve been struggling for days with a particular section and it suddenly came to me while showering. I wanted to write it down before I forgot.”
A comfortable silence blanketed them for several minutes. Joe took another sip of his drink, savoring it gratefully.
“You didn’t, though.”
“What?” Joe asked.
“You didn’t write anything down. You came into the kitchen, but you never even opened your notebook.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot the words. They never stay for long.”
“Was it because I yelled at you?”
“No! No, amore, that was well-deserved. And you didn’t yell at me, you just…emphatically expressed your displeasure at having to mop again. Which is fair, honestly.”
Nicky chuckled, and Joe felt his heart fill with warmth all over again. He set the empty cocoa mug aside and tenderly pressed his lips to Nicky’s.
The next morning, Joe found a whole set of brand-new children’s bath crayons in the shower, stacked neatly next to their soaps and shampoos.
___
The crayons turned out to be a life-changing convenience. This became clear just three weeks after they arrived, when Joe found himself in a position to send a completed manuscript of his current poetry book to his publisher ahead of the deadline.
“This has literally never happened before,” he told Nicky in awe. “I’m always late, if anything. You are a genius, my love, thank you so much for the pre-Christmas present.”
Nicky all but preened. “Had you told me earlier, I would have gotten the crayons for you ages ago.”
“Ah,” Joe replied a little bashfully, “I didn’t actually know such a thing existed until you got them.”
It was when Joe returned from a brief meeting with his publisher the following day that he and Nicky had their first actual fight in several months. It started, like most of their fights, with empty stomachs and a grocery trip oversight.
“Joe, there’s no fresh garlic in this bag!”
“There was none at the store. Use the minced garlic in the fridge.”
“What?!”
Joe rolled his eyes. “It’s the same thing, Nicky. Better, in fact, since it’s saving you the trouble of having to chop it yourself.”
“Have you ever heard of making roasted garlic cloves using minced garlic?”
“I have not,” Joe conceded. “We should make something else.”
Nicky knew he was being impractical. Obviously, there was nothing Joe could have done if they were out of stock at the store. But Nicky had been planning this dish for days, and had already promised Nile he would send her some as part of his ongoing campaign to refute her claim that “any form of garlic except garlic bread is gross.”
There was no way Joe could have known about that, either, but Nicky was in no mood to admit any such thing.
“Joe, you had one job! I gave you a grocery list!”
Joe turned from where he was stocking the refrigerator, brow furrowed. “I don’t know what exactly you expect me to do about the store being out of garlic.”
“I don’t know, maybe check another store? Was that the only grocery store in this city?”
“Nicky, I think you should go to your room.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just…you’re hungry. And you’re clearly not prepared to cook without fresh garlic. So let me do the cooking, and you, uh, do something else. Outside of the kitchen.”
“Are you kicking me out of my kitchen?”
“Our kitchen, madre de dio, Nicky! I’m trying to help you!”
“Maybe you could help me by actually getting the stuff I asked you to get from the store!”
“You know what, if you need whole garlic so urgently, get it yourself. It’s dark and below freezing outside. There is no way I’m wandering from store to store at this hour to fulfill this baseless whim of yours.”
That, Nicky knew, was a completely justified response to his unreasonable anger. But it hurt nevertheless.
“Fine,” he whispered, grabbing his coat and storming out the front door before Joe could see the tears prickling in his eyes.
Joe stared at the door, astonished. Part of him wanted desperately to follow Nicky outside. Of course he could check a couple more stores. If Nicky genuinely wished for something, Joe would go to the ends of the Earth, scour Heaven and Hell, to get it for him. No amount of ego was worth knowing his beloved was out there, hungry and alone, in the frigid wind.
But Joe was also well aware that he wasn’t at fault here. And Nicky, his Nicky, rarely reacted like this to their disagreements; perhaps he just needed some time for himself. It wouldn’t be right for Joe to impose his company when his husband clearly didn’t want it.
Joe sighed in frustration. A hot shower would clear his head, he hoped, heading for their bedroom.
Twenty minutes after he had stormed out, Nicky was coming around to the realization that this had been a profoundly stupid idea. Moments after leaving the house, he had realized that he’d left the car keys behind. Foolishly, he’d boarded a bus for downtown, too irked to return home. Now, with the bus routes closed for the night and taxis staying off the road as snow clouds threatened the city, Nicky quietly admitted to himself that he was stranded.
The first weak snowflakes began to fall. Then the wind picked up, blowing several icy droplets into his face. Nicky shivered. Fuck this, he thought, pulling out his phone. His pride wasn’t worth causing Joe to worry, and it definitely wasn’t worth getting sick from the cold and creating loads of extra work for his husband. He was going to call Joe, apologize profusely, and beg him to come pick him up.
At their home, Joe let the steaming water soak through to his tired bones as he scrawled passionately on the shower walls. He was a little hurt and, if he was being honest, more than a little worried. But for once Nicky wasn’t here for him to talk to, so he threw his words at the wall in brightly colored crayon instead.
He almost didn’t hear his cell phone ring. Contorting his upper body out of the shower, he wiped his hands on his towel and reached around for the phone in his pants’ pocket. The called ID flashed his husband’s name. Joe picked up without hesitation.
“Hello?”
“Joe, I fucked up. I’m s- so sorry. I should never- never have spoken to you like that, h- hayati. Please- please forgive me.”
Over the line, Joe could hear Nicky’s teeth chattering as he struggled to get the words out. Joe shut the water off and clambered out of the shower.
“Nicky, what happened? Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m f- fine. It’s just cold.”
“Come home. Please.”
“Yeah, that’s- that’s the problem. I took the bus here. The c- car keys…”
Joe had put the phone on speaker and was already getting dressed. He shouldered into a coat and seized a large throw from their bed, striding into the living room.
“I’m coming. Where are you?”
“Uh, Mira Mesa Transit Station. S- sorry, kind of far.”
“Nowhere in the universe is too far.”
“Joe-”
“Just sit tight, I’m on my way.”
Joe drove like a madman. Luckily, no one else was insane enough to be out in this imminent blizzard, so at least the roads were clear. In just under ten minutes, he reached the station.
A figure sat huddled under the overhang. Joe barely managed to stop the car before jumping out.
“Nicoló!”
Nicky struggled to his feet. “Joe, grazie a dio-”
“Shhh, amore mio, I’ve got you,” Joe soothed, pulling a shivering Nicky towards the car and bundling him into the passenger’s seat. Once he'd climbed in himself, Joe turned up the heater and divested Nicky of his too-thin, snow-soaked windbreaker. “Wear this,” he coaxed, whipping his own dry jacket off and wrapping it around Nicky’s shoulders.
“No, hayati-”
“Shh, love, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
Joe wrapped the throw over the jacket, dusting the snow from Nicky's collar and tucking the blanket in. The whole way back, he drove with one hand on the wheel, intertwining the other with Nicky’s and rubbing his knuckles to warm him up.
“Shower,” Joe decided as soon as they stepped into their home. “You’re so cold, my heart. Go stand under warm water until you can feel your toes and fingers again. I’m going to make us some hot soup, okay?” Joe leaned forward and kissed Nicky’s nose gently.
Nicky nodded, too cold and tired to insist on helping. He had an inkling sense that Joe might still be irritated with him, after all. It would not be undeserved.
He made his way to their bedroom, draping Joe’s jacket over a bedpost and discarding his own clothes as he stepped into shower. Exhaling deeply, he turned his back to the stream of hot water- and froze.
A red bath crayon lay fallen on the floor, clearly left behind in haste. Joe must have been showering when I called, Nicky thought with a pang of guilt. But what had caught his attention was the shower wall in front of him. There, written in his beloved husband’s flowy cursive, was a poem.
If I could only read your heart
When your lips cannot translate
I wouldn’t let it break, my love
Yet if it does
Take mine
An eternity alone I’ll wait.
The warm water poured down Nicky’s back, relaxing his aching muscles even as tears sprung into his eyes at Joe’s tender, longing words. Nicky stared and stared until the steam blurred the writing beyond perception.
A knock at the bathroom door snapped him out of his reverie.
“Nicky? Are you alright? Almost done?”
Nicky cleared his throat. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
He shut off the water and dried off. He found the bedroom empty, and slipped into the pajamas and fluffy sweatshirt that Joe must have laid out for him earlier. Dry and warm and very cozy, Nicky felt his eyes well up again at the care Joe put into something as minor as picking out some clothes.
Even during their worst fights, Nicky never doubted their love for each other; their hearts had been one far too long for any such lingering uncertainties. But it never ceased to amaze him how quickly Joe forgave. How despite taking Nicky’s hurtful words to heart, Joe went above and beyond to make sure he didn’t suffer.
He took a deep breath to regain his composure, and walked out. But the moment he entered the kitchen, the fragrance of creamy red pepper tomato bisque reached his nose, and he very nearly broke down in tears again. His favorite soup. It was a recipe he and Joe had perfected together through the years. Watching Joe quietly ladle it into two bowls, Nicky felt something clench in his chest.
“Hayati.”
Joe spun around. “Nicky! Are you feeling better, my heart?”
“I am.”
“Oh, good. Are you, uh…” Joe’s eyes flickered to the floor. “Are you still angry with me about the garlic thing?”
Nicky crossed the distance between them in two strides and threw himself into his husband’s arms. Joe stumbled back, a little startled, but quickly pulled Nicky close and buried his face in Nicky’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Nicky.”
“No. No, Yusuf, please. You did nothing wrong. It is I who should beg your forgiveness, having treated you as I did. You've shown me nothing but kindness, and I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
Joe shook his head in protest, nuzzling his nose into Nicky’s neck.
“I saw what you wrote in the shower,” he continued. Joe stilled in his arms. “I- I don’t know if you meant for me to see, but…”
“I forgot to erase it. But everything I write is for you, Nicolò. It’s yours.”
“It was beautiful. Beautiful, and heartbreaking. Forgive me, my all. Forgive me for raising my voice at you, for making you feel alone. Forgive me for walking away insteading of talking to you. And forgive me for dragging you out into that storm at this hour to come searching for me, it was beyond cruel to make you drive so far-”
Joe pulled back, eyes round with tears, and gently pressed his palm to Nicky’s lips.
“Stop it. Please. Don’t apologize for calling me when you needed me. Where would I rather be than at your side? I meant it, earlier. Nowhere in the universe is too far.”
Nicky held Joe’s hand to his lips and kissed his palm. A tear slipped down Joe’s cheek as he swallowed a sob. Nicky wrapped a hand behind his neck and rubbed soothing circles into the tense muscles there. After a few minutes, Joe's breathing evened out, and he lifted his eyes to gaze at Nicky with unguarded adoration. It would be so easy to just let this go, Nicky thought. But the knowledge that he had hurt Joe stood like a wall of glass between them, and Nicky felt it would drive him mad.
“Joe, I- I need to hear you say it. If you forgive me, that is. I don’t know, tonight has just been a lot. Please, hayati, I-”
“You are forgiven. You are always forgiven.”
Nicky exhaled, feeling the glass wall shatter. He kissed Joe’s temple softly. “Thank you, my love.”
Joe tilted his head slowly, dragging his lips up Nicky’s jaw until he could capture his mouth in a melting kiss. Nicky responded with ardent devotion, backing Joe up against the refrigerator and holding him there as they kissed again and again. It was only when he grew light-headed from lack of oxygen that Nicky pulled back. Still, Joe whimpered at the loss of warmth, reaching out for his husband.
“Nicky…”
“Joe, you have no idea how much I want to stand here kissing you all night. But you’ve prepared this wonderful dinner. I’d hate for it to get cold.”
Joe laughed, a joyous thing that swept Nicky off his feet just like it had the very first time he'd heard it.
“Alright, let’s eat. But after dinner we’ll cuddle on the couch under the heated blanket and I’ll hold you to your promise.”
Nicky smiled fondly, unable to help leaning in and placing one more kiss at the corner of his beloved’s lips. “Please do.”
#the old guard#joe x nicky#kaysanova#fluff#fanfiction#tog fanfic#kavi writes#I love feedback feel free to drop a note!#hurt/comfort without the hurt#so yeah just comfort mostly#hot chocolate#comfort food#blankets#yes this is how I'm handling the sudden transition to cold weather#author: is a grown ass adult#also author: makes *heart eyes* at bath crayons#all my ideas happen in the shower what can I do
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(no POV. TW for homophobia. Super long, so TL;DR Pastor Bunch convinces Zinnia that Women Learning Bad.)
“...now, one of those secular, self-serving toilet paper salesmen out there may argue that, without official input from God, it would be improper to assume He doesn’t want men to wipe afterwards, but I believe my argument is stronger. Men, ask yourselves: why would you clean a part of you that doesn’t need to be clean if not so the Devil can use it as a gateway to sinful anal simulation like fingering and homosexual sex?! I rest my case. Before we go, I would like to announce the birth of my 37th grandchild, Sunday Bunch, who is the logical and physically adept 10th child of my son Joshua Bunch and his wife Mrs. Joshua Bunch. Haha, just kidding! Sunday is a girl, so as is God’s natural way she lacks an innate ability to think critically and is inherently weaker to the men around her! Praise the Lord for giving Joshua a gentle, submissive little blessing, and pray that she won’t be the last! Have a wonderful week, everybody. Ladies, you may now speak again!”
Women aren’t allowed to speak during active church sessions at Light of God church, so Zinnia is only too eager for Pastor Bunch to finally shut up. As soon as she can, she stands up and approaches him.
“Pastor Bunch!”
“Hello, Miss Talbert!” Like most people at church, Pastor Bunch had no fucking idea which of Jeb’s daughters he was talking to.
“Pastor Bunch, may I speak with you personally? I need guidance.”
“That’s some bold phrasing coming from a woman! When addressing your superiors, you should be gentler and less aggressive with your speech, so that His natural roles for you and the men around you are honored. You don’t ‘need’ guidance, you ‘would like‘ guidance, or ‘may I have some’ guidance, so that the men you speak to understand that you’re a Godly and submissive woman, making men more inclined to want to help you.”
“You’re right, Pastor. I apologize. I would like to humbly ask for your guidance.”
“See how much nicer speaking femininely is? When you’re soft and subdued, you make yourself like a lamb, and will bring out men’s natural desire to be leaders and, like a shepherd with his flock, men will guide and lead you to where you need to be. Follow me, Miss Talbert, because right now you need to be in my office. We’ll speak and pray more there.”
The office is much more lavish than Zinnia would have thought. She and Pastor Bunch sit on a comfortable couch and, as taught, Zinnia waits for Pastor Bunch to speak first.
“Did you know the Devil was the first to desire for so-called ‘equal rights’ when he tried to become equal with the Almighty himself? It’s a heinous idea that upsets the natural order of His universe, and that wasn’t enough for the Devil, no, he went on to say that mankind should be equal to the Lord! God is mightier than we will ever be, which is His perfect design - you wouldn’t want any of us on Earth to have the power of God, especially in these sinful times! Today, Satan is embraced and nurtured by the feminists demanding women be equal to men, usurping His natural order in a perverse and diabolical manner. Woman was created for man, and any attempts to change this will fail, as you cannot change nature. It would be like purple apples: an abomination unto God, because He designed it a certain way and man meddling with it is raw blasphemy! First we have purple apples, then blue, and then a rainbow of apples to hide homosexual chemicals in! The gay agenda is to infect as many children as possible, and rainbow apples are the perfect ammo, as an apple a day keeps the doctor away, and with no doctors there can be no cure for gayness! It’s the perfect crime, and that’s why we must never eat apples, for they’re genetically modified by the gays to give you perverted desires! Apples were chosen by the gays as their sin fruit because it was the original forbidden fruit, the original sin, and gays love poetry. What’s more poetic than taking the original sin fruit and using it to create sinful fruits?”
Zinnia nodded. “You’re so wise, Pastor Bunch. My question isn’t quite one of equality or homosexuality, it’s one of learning. The Bible says women are to learn quietly and with submission. Does this mean women can learn? Can she seek education as long as she remains silent and obedient?”
Pastor Bunch laughs so hard Zinnia worries he’ll die of hysteria. “My child, don’t be so ridiculous! 2 Timothy 3:6-7 says that lovers of pleasure and self, who are not lovers of God or righteousness, have among them 'those who creep into households and capture weak women, burdened with sins and led astray by various passions, always learning and never able to arrive at a knowledge of the truth.’ That is not a good thing. Sin and passion often go together, so anything that you feel passionate about is likely sinful in nature, as God put us here on Earth to suffer, and as emotions are the Devil’s silly putty. God wants us to be as logical as we can be, which is best achieved by an objective analysis. Do you know what that means? Of course you don’t. We’ll look at facts without feeling, which the over-emotional atheists on the left will tell you is abhorrent, but only because it proves that their so-called ‘feelings’ are actually lies from Satan! Modern scientists are lying pawns of the devil, but back when this was God’s country you could trust them, as they believed in and followed the Lord. Back then, it was proven that women have smaller brains than men. Why? It’s a reflection of her having a smaller mind. Women have these small minds - both physically and spiritually - because they only need to know Godly truth and feminine duty, and the Lord doesn’t want us to have space we won’t use! The Lord hates excess, of money and of food and of space, so He wouldn’t have given women larger minds when they won’t be using it. Titus 2:4-5 says that younger women should be taught to be sober, to love and be obedient to their husbands, to love their children, be discreet, chaste, work at home, and that the word of God be not blasphemed. There is nothing about learning maths or science, and that was deliberate, for it is not His will for Godly women to learn. If you want wisdom, marry a wise man and bear him wise sons that can learn where you cannot. I must be going now, Miss Talbert, as I am a busy man with much to do. God be with you.”
“Thank you, Pastor.” It wasn’t what Zinnia wanted to hear, but it completely convinced her to stay at home and be a Godly baby factory. Of course, at 14 it isn’t hard to change her mind.
“Of course. Goodbye, Miss Talbert.”
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Blessing or a Curse?
Request: I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll do a Mummy movie Imhotep dub con where when you accidentally raise him and he makes you his thinking of it as a gift type shenanigan.
Response: I would love to.
Pairing: Imhotep x reader
Warnings: Dub-con, smut, Monster banging (He’s the Mummy, but he’s not A Mummy), alcohol
Fandom: The cinematic masterpiece The Mummy (1999)
Words: 4K
Most family’s heirlooms were jewelry, old photographs, vases, or even ornaments. Sure, yours had all of those too, but none as valued as the key. You picked up the strange object in your hand and opened it, loving how quick the spiked points set out.
“What does it open?” You’d been obsessed with the question since you first found out it was a key.
“Nobody knows.” Your aunt’s voice broke your concentration. “Like a lot of the family secrets it was lost with time.”
“Along with most of the family.” You sat down on your aunt’s couch. “Do you really think we’re cursed?”
The family tree and fortune traced back to 1926, a couple named Rick and Evelyn O’Connell. They were your great aunt and uncle. You’d seen some dusty photographs, but saw no familial resemblance. Your great grandfather was Evelyn’s brother, but you looked even less like him. Maybe that’s why you felt you never belonged.
“I’m not sure bringing up curses when you’re here for a funeral is fair.” Your aunt sat next to you.
“I’m so sorry. That was rude of me.” Your Uncle was only buried yesterday.
“It’s okay.” Your aunt reached out and squeezed your hand. “I know you’ve had your share of loss too. If the family is cursed, may as well be cursed together. I need a drink. Would you like one?”
“Please.” You needed something to break the tension. “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying? Would you rather be alone?”
“Don’t be silly.” She walked over to the bar. “I live alone in a mansion in England. You live alone in a shoebox in whatever country you’re staying in now. Take off your boots and stay awhile.”
“I never put down roots.” You held your hand out for the drink. “Maybe then the curse won’t catch up to me.”
“Smart girl.” Your Aunt cheersed you. “Now distract me from my husband’s death. Tell me some of your world travels.”
~~
Two weeks at your Aunt’s and you were getting stir crazy. Ready to move on and resume trying to search for whatever it was you were searching for. She wasn’t ready for you to leave yet. So if you couldn’t explore the world you would explore the mansion.
You could tell it was built for another time. Updates over the years had ruined some of the 1920s charm. You barely got cell reception and the only time the internet worked was if you were close to the router. These walls were thick, not designed for WiFi.
The attic was your favorite space. Antiques no longer desired and an occasional random old thing someone didn’t want to throw away but didn’t want around either. You were looking at a box of dresses, holding them up to your frame and wondering if any would fit you.
You twirled in front of an antique mirror, laughing at the style. BOOM! The thunder was followed by lightning. It took you off guard and you tripped. You tried to steady yourself, but your feet were off balance. You crashed into the mirror, knocking the thing to the ground underneath you.
It happened so fast you didn’t know how to respond. Shards of glass were all around you. From what you could tell you weren’t cut, but you had to push yourself up with skill to avoid the pieces.
“Shit.” That mirror was probably worth more than your car.
You hoped your aunt wouldn’t be too mad. You readied to push yourself up, going slow to not cut yourself, once you made it to your feet you looked at the destroyed antique. All over some thunder.
You were about to leave to get a broom when something caught your eye. The base of the mirror. With the glass cracked you realized it wasn’t a base at all. It was a book. The spine gold and the black pages hidden behind the glass.
“Hidden?” Why would anyone hide a book? And in a mirror? You reached down and grabbed it. It was heavier than expected. Like the pages were pure metal. Ancient symbols were on the cover, but that wasn’t what excited you. It was the shape. The strange sun.
Your eyes flared with excitement. You no longer cared about the dress or the glass as you ran toward the stairs. This was it. The most important heirloom. The key.
You were almost shaking with excitement by the time you made it to the sitting room, grabbing the relic you dropped to your knees. The sound of the rain hitting the windows background static to your own thoughts.
In seconds you had the key opened and put it on the page. It fit so perfect you almost fainted from excitement. Then you turned and the edging of the book popped open with such satisfaction. You flipped it open.
Egyptian. Ancient. Like your entire family tree, you’d spent some time studying the culture. You grabbed your phone. No service. That meant you had to wing it with your little knowledge. Your fingers scanned the page.
Each symbol you recognized you spoke the words out loud. Unsure what they meant. When you finished the page, BOOM! Another crack of lightning.
You snapped your head to the door as it felt like all the air was sucked from the room and the power went out. Your head cleared and it sounded like the wind was screaming.
What frightened you more, was what they were screaming: no. A chill went down your spine. You shut the book and locked it again.
“What a storm.” Your aunt walked in. “What’s that?”
“I found it in the attic.” You rose from the floor. “I’m so sorry, but the lightning scared me and I broke a mirror.”
“More bad luck for this family.” Your aunt rolled her eyes. “You want a drink? Power is out, not much else to do around here.”
“Sure.” While your aunt was turned around you took the key out and flipped the book over.
Something felt off. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but didn’t think you should tell your aunt about the book. It was just the storm, and the fall on to all that glass. A drink would calm your nerves.
~~
The dreams started that night. You tossed and turned, fisting the sheets, sweat dripping down your brow.
He was handsome, strong, powerful. His voice was deep and commanding. You didn’t know what he was saying. His language was dead, but he loomed over you, his hand stroking your cheek.
Even though you didn’t understand his words you understood his touch. He was evil. Damned. But he was gentle to you, almost grateful. Like he wanted to thank you. But as his lips moved closer to yours your blood turned to ice.
The same scream of the wind left your lips as you woke up in bed, your chest heaving. You glanced around the room. Alone.
It took a moment to collect yourself, your chest heaving from the nightmare. Who was the mystery man? What was he saying? Why did it feel so real?
“Get your shit together.” You put your head in your hands. “It was a stupid dream.”
Something in your core told you it was something different, but you shook away the thought as you laid back down.
~~
“You look like you could use some coffee.” Your aunt didn’t take her eyes from the television, you wondered how she saw you.
“I didn’t sleep well.” You turned to see what had her attention.
The headline on the news said: Raining blood in Egypt. The talking head was rambling about some soil getting in the atmosphere and it not really being blood.
“That is insanity.” You cocked your head to the side.
“It’s on every station. Some people are saying it’s the sign of the end of days.” Your Aunt sipped her coffee. “But the more logical minds are talking about red soil dying the rain and global warming.”
“What side are you on?” You sat next to her.
“Oh honey.” She turned toward you. “The apocalypse has been happening for years. The world isn’t going to end with a bang, it will end with a whimper.”
“T. S. Eliot?” You didn’t take your Aunt for a poetry fan.
“Stephen King’s opening to The Stand.” She went back to the television. “Want to go shopping today? Get out of the house?”
“Sure. I want to be fashionable while I whimper to death.” You laughed as you went to the kitchen.
~~
You felt his presence and shot up in your bed. He was sitting next to you and reached for your shoulder, being gentle as he pushed you back down.
“No, no, no, no.” You repeated the word, but he spoke over you. This time in another language, but still not one you understood.
He was trying to calm you, the tone of his voice almost had a coo, but his hand on your skin, the way he touched you. It was as if pure evil was in his veins.
“Please. What do you want from me?” You crawled back on the mattress until you hit the headboard and reached behind you for something to grab as he moved with you. Repeating words you did not understand.
His other hand came to your cheek too and he held your head in place, a warm smile on his handsome face.
“Imhotep. Imhotep. Imhotep.” He was saying the word on repeat.
“I don’t know what that means.” You were caged by him. “Imhotep?”
A devilish grin spread across his face as he leaned closer to you, your foreheads almost touching.
“Imhotep.” He lowered his lips.
You didn’t want the kiss, but at the same time you were desperate for it. When his mouth crashed into yours you shut your eyes, your heart and brain wanting different things, but it was obvious this man was only after one: your soul.
The thought made you open your eyes and when you did the kiss turned into a bone-chilling shriek. The handsome man was gone. You were kissing a mummy.
The dream ended like the last, with you popping up in bed, your chest heavy and head spinning.
“What the fuck?” You reached out for the glass of water on your nightstand. “Imhotep?”
It was gibberish meant nothing. But tomorrow you were going to do some research. Just to clear your head. You nodded as you laid back down.
“Only a dream.” You pressed your thighs together and noticed you were soaked. “Great, now you’re getting turned on from dead people.”
You rolled your eyes before shutting them. You needed sleep.
~~
When you came down in the morning your Aunt was glued to the television again. This time the headline read: Egypt declares state of emergency.
“Did the red rain get worse?” You took a seat.
“No. It stopped.” She was glued to the television.
“The after effects that bad?” You imagined the cleanup would be gross.
“Nobody knows.” She looked hypnotized. “Here it comes again. Watch!”
The news switched to a reporter, walking the streets of Cairo showing the red grounds.
“As you can see the red rain has stopped coming down. Scientists have samples and are testing the liquid, but there are already rumors of sores appearing on…” The news reporter dropped his microphone.
Then the camera fell to the ground. Both people started walking, the only thing visible their feet. It almost looked like a parade was forming as a swarm of other feet entered the frame.
Even without the microphone, you could hear the one word they were chanting clear as day: Imhotep.
The news switched back to the talking head right as you gasped.
“The strange word they were chanting, Imhotep, scholars and researchers all over the world have been consulted. Nobody knows what it means. The origin is believed to be ancient Egyptian, but there is no known translation.” The Anchor shifted his notes.
“It’s a name.” You didn’t look away from the screen. “It’s his name.”
“They argued that earlier. No known records of any person in Egyptian history with that name. At least none of importance.” Your Aunt took another sip from her coffee mug.
“Because he was evil. They wanted history to forget about him.” Your stomach hurt as you sat on the couch. “Put down your wine and listen to me, please. This is important.”
“Wine?” Your Aunt looked away from the TV. “It’s 10 am. This is coffee!”
“Your husband just died. Nobody is judging you. But please, I need you to listen.” You pointed to the TV. “This. It’s all my fault.”
“You’re started a cult in Egypt?” Your Aunt rolled her eyes. “Made blood rain from the sky?”
“No. Imhotep did.” You swallowed. “But I summoned him.”
You blurted out the rest of the story in a frenzy. Dreams, book, the key. All of it. By the time you were finished, you were struggling for breath.
A concerned look crossed your Aunt’s face and she set her mug down. She reached out and put the back of her hand to your forehead.
“Are you feeling alright?” She pulled out her cell phone with her other hand. “I’m going to call the Doctor.”
“Listen to me.” You grabbed her shoulders. “It’s true. I can go grab the book and show you.”
“I believe you about the book.” Your Aunt sighed. “It was probably a stolen artifact. The house is filled with them. Seems the O’Connells weren’t too keen on leaving valuable things in their country of origin. But that’s all they are. Things. You can’t use them to summon Mummies.”
“But the timing, and the dreams! The book was in Ancient Egyptian!” You didn’t understand why your Aunt wasn’t putting it all together.
“Coincidence.” Your Aunt handed you her coffee mug. “Here. I think you need this more than I do. Listen to yourself Dear, you sound like one of the nutjobs that call into the shows. So you’re having a dream man? So you read a book. Reading a book never hurt anyone. You are thousands of miles away from Egypt. Use logic. Those people were probably polluted from whatever was in the rain. It’s much more likely government testing than a plague. All that Imhotep stuff is just an infection.”
You winced and glanced at the mug. Your anxiety ran out. She was right. Those poor people had been exposed to something and here you were thinking about Mummies. You took a gulp of the wine.
“I’m feeling a bit stupid at the moment.” You glanced down. “Thinking a country that’s in a crisis was caused by a mythical being. When I say that out loud…yeah.”
“Once this is settled down I will give the book and the key back to the Egyptian government.” Your Aunt took the mug back and took a swig. “Maybe then the curse on our family will be lifted.”
That brought a smile to your face. It was the right thing.
“And for heaven’s sake, if a hot man comes and visits you in a dream and you don’t want him, send him down to my bedroom.” She laughed. “After all, I’m on the market again.”
You rolled your eyes. She was right though. Why not turn the semi-nightmares into fun times? A dream was harmless.
~~
When bedtime rolled around you were a little nervous, of course now that you decided you wanted to play along with your mind’s fantasy there was a good chance he wouldn’t show up. The thought kept circling your brain, making it seem like sleep would never come.
You’d been tossing and turning for hours. Never once getting close to riding off with the sandman. At three am you were about to give up and head downstairs to watch a movie or read a book.
As you sat up a hand reached out and touched your cheek. In the moonlight, you saw his features. Imhotep. He was here. You must have slipped into sleep and not realized.
“You’re here.” This time you put your hand on his, turning into his touch.
“Yes.” His English surprised you. “Because of you. For you.”
“And you speak my tongue now?” Your brain finally got it together in this manifestation of him.
“It took a few days to learn.” He pressed his forehead to yours.
Evil. He was cold and evil. You felt it in the contact and shuddered.
“You have nothing to fear.” He pulled away and tucked a hair behind your ear. “I will never hurt you. No harm will ever come to you.”
“I believe you.” You draped your arms around his shoulders. “I shouldn’t, but I do.”
A candle next to your bed came to life, you glanced toward it, unsure how it lit on its own.
“A dream.” You reminded yourself. “None of this is real.”
“I am not real?” His finger hooked under your chin and turned your head to face him.
In the candlelight you got a better view of his face. It was beautiful and smooth. You ran your hand down his cheek. He felt real.
“Is this not real?” He ran his thumb over your lip before dipping his mouth again.
The power and coldness of his kiss were strange. Your brain screamed to run and shove him off, but it was like his ice spread to you with a burn as your tongue echoed his movements. Your head started to go fuzzy as his hands were on your nightgown. He pushed down one strap and then the other, pushing the garment down to your waist.
The kiss continued as you lifted your hips and he pulled down your panties with the garment, tossing them to the floor. His hand cupped your mound. You gasped into his mouth as his finger ran up your slit and palm pressed hard into your clit. One of his fingers teased your entrance and you grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself, moving to your knees.
“How about this?” He pulled away and watched you with a flash of lust as he slid a finger inside of you with ease. “Is this real?”
You moaned and squeezed his shoulders as he pushed his hand up. His palm rubbing into your most sensitive spot while a finger worked inside you.
“It feels real.” You moved your head forward, wanting the kiss to resume. He smiled as his hand went to the back of your head.
“Thank you.” His lips crashed on to yours as his hand went faster.
Your hips started bucking on their own, the friction of his icy palm sending your body into a whirlwind. The dizzy head came back and you couldn’t continue the sloppy kiss. Your head fell forward on his chest as your lower body took priority.
“I am here for you.” He kissed your neck. “You will come with me.”
“I am going to cum now.” You were panting as your body began to bubble over.
“Not yet.” He laughed.
What the fuck? Since when did your dream turn into an orgasm denial? Even though he said no, his hand did not slow down and you were about to burst.
“First, I will thank you.” He scraped his teeth on your neck. “Then we will leave.”
The word “leave” cleared things up and your body exploded around his hand. Waves of heat and relief made you tingle as your throbbing slowed. Apparently, dream man who learned English in a day’s lessons didn’t include slang.
His hand went to your shoulder as his finger left your body making you whimper.
“Where will we go?” You kept your eyes on him as he guided you to your back.
“Home.” He stood up and pulled at his robe.
Your jaw hit the ground when you saw what your imagination had dreamed up for his cock. It was the largest you’d seen in your entire life. The sight sent more juices to your core.
“Home?” You shook your head. “I don’t have one.”
“You do with me.” He leaned over you, making you feel smaller than you were. “Forever.”
He ran the head of his cock down your pussy and stopped. You tried to relax as you bent your knees. He pushed inside, burning and stretching in all the right ways. Your eyes rolled back into your head as you fell into the mattress.
“Who are you?” You barely got the question out before you whined.
“Imhotep.” He bottomed out and rocked his hips into you, his head poking at your cervix.
It hurt in such a delicious way you lifted yourself to meet him, your nails digging into his biceps as he leaned down to kiss your collar bone.
“What does that even mean?” You didn’t know how you were asking questions when he felt this good.
“It means I am here for you, because of you, and I will be taking you home.” He pulled out, making you shake, but then pushed back in right away giving your toes a curl. “You will come with me.”
“Yes.” You let out a moan, the answer in the dream being the same regardless of the form of come he was referring too.
“Good.” He started thrusting faster, your bodies rolling into each other. “Enjoy.”
You nodded. His eyes flashed and then he started going even faster. Fucking and filling you in ways you didn’t know you could dream of, his cock slamming into you with such speed your entire body felt alive.
It didn’t take long until you were a mewling in chaos. Thrashing to meet him, but hovering in ecstasy. A layer of sweat formed over your entire body. All the rocking and pumping made you needier than you’d ever been in your entire life.
“Please.” It came out as a whisper.
“Of course.” He placed a kiss on your forehead. “Take what you need.”
Your eyes popped open at his words. Take it. This was your dream and you were ready to cum. You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, flexing your body up as he railed you. Holding his cock inside your body at the angle you needed.
The release started to form again. A coil in your stomach tightening like a spring. You bucked and dug your nails into his arms.
“That’s it.” He cooed into your ear. “You will come with me.”
The candle blew out, sending the room into darkness right when your orgasm hit. Maybe it was that or maybe it was so intense your vision blew. In the darkness you only saw an outline of him, but you couldn’t focus on anything anyway. Your head swam with pleasure and your body felt like it was on fire with euphoria.
He let out a grunt and bottomed out, he was filling you, claiming you, owning you. Your head fell back into the pillow.
“What a dream.” You regretted not taking the enjoyment the first night.
“Sleep.” He whispered as he softened inside of you.
It was an order more than an idea. Your dream vanished and you fell into unconsciousness.
#the mummy#the mummy 1999#fanfic#fanfiction#mummy fanfic#horror fanfic#imhotep#imhotep x reader#reader insert
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CS ff: “Walking the Tightrope” (Epilogue) (au)
Summary: Killian’s daily routines are a matter of habit. When he wakes up late one morning, his routines all change for the better. Emma doesn’t care about routines, but she does care about Killian, no matter how reluctant she is to admit it to herself.
Rating: E (the content warnings matter this time!)
Content Warnings: There’s uhhh... poetry smut.
A Special Thank You: My continued gratitude to my lovely friends, @captainstudmuffin and @phiralovesloki. And a heap of love to @captainswanbigbang for putting this together and helping me accomplish this.
A/N: Holy crap! Here we are! It’s the end of the story!! Now, for those of you who read the original story, there’s not a whole lot that’s changed. I edited everything to fit the rest of the story and writing style, since the original version was a little rough, but other than little bits, it’s what you remember. If you didn’t read this, then welcome to the end!
My eternal gratitude to those who helped me finish this, those who helped find my errors (my two lovely ladies are listed above), to those who read this! Who reblogged it! Who left comments and sweet tags and sent messages and made this all worth it. I constantly say that I cannot express how thankful I am and it’s true. With only words, I can only say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. <3<3
This epilogue is meant to tie bows around a couple major things and send these off the best way I know how. I still have a stack of headcanons and info that wouldn’t fit in here. I would love to share these things if anyone is curious. If you are, or have questions, or want to talk about specific parts, please send me messages. I would love to chat about this world that has lived in my brain and morphed over the last FIVE YEARS.
(Poetry included is not mine: All rights reserved to Pablo Neruda "My love, understand me" and "Night on the Island" and to Leonard Cohen "The Mists of Pornography")
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 |
Find it on Ao3 & FFN!
-x-
Epilogue: The Art of Poetry
-x- April
The day that Killian forgets the coffee mugs on his counter is the day he locks himself out of his apartment for the first time. He and Emma huddle on the front stoop together in the early morning chill waiting for his landlord to come unlock the door. He opens his jacket and pulls her closer, jumping when her cold nose touches his collarbone and she chuckles as she repeats the action until her nose is warm and he’s even warmer. They thank Marco profusely when he arrives with the spare set of keys.
They’re also both late for work that day.
The next day, when Emma comes back from getting coffee, there’s an envelope propped in front of her computer at work. When she opens it, a weight settles in the envelope and she pulls out the folded note. Killian’s neat handwriting stretches across the paper.
“My love,
understand me,
I love all of you,
from eyes to feet, to toenails,
inside
all the brightness, which you kept.
It is I, my love,
who knocks at your door.”
So next time I lock myself out, you can unlock it for me.
She peers into the envelope to see the key resting in the bottom and thinks he may be onto something with poetry if it always sounds like that.
Emma makes sure to beat Killian to the door when they walk back to his place after work so she can try out her new key, and she only smiles wider when the lock slides open. She makes a big show of swinging open the door, gesturing him inside with a sweep of her arm.
When she gets home that night, Snow and David have once again broken into her loft, but she doesn’t much care for two reasons. Firstly, she knew they were going to do this after they texted her twenty minutes ago and asked whether or not she was spending the night at Killian’s. Secondly, it takes her five whole seconds to read the message on Snow’s shirt that proudly states that she’s “Pregnant AF” (the shirt’s words, not hers) and there’s a whole bunch of happy crying and flailing that follows.
-x- Late August
Emma arrives home a little late one night to Killian already making dinner. The routines they do still live with all include household chores and the way they divvy them up, and she’s perfectly fine with the structure he’s brought to her previously chaotic lifestyle. He glances over his shoulder when she walks in and smiles.
“Get stuck late again?”
“Not quite,” she says as she comes to stand behind him. “That smells amazing, by the way.”
“It’ll be done in just a bit.”
“Want me to set the table?”
“I’d like to know why you’re avoiding a simple inquiry into why you were so late in such an obvious manner.”
Emma sighs heavily. “I kind of walked all the way back to the loft before I realized I didn’t live there anymore.”
“Kind of? I don’t think that’s something you can kind of do, love,” he says, still managing to stir whatever it is he’s making even when she goes to swat his arm.
“Okay, so I did. You said it yourself, though. Old habits, right?” She hops up on the counter to watch him cook.
“Indeed, love. So, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you feel our adventures have measured up to the expectations?”
“Well, you didn’t turn into a frog.”
“Aye, I’m sure there’s still time for that. We’re only in the middle of this tale. We’ll just have to see where the pages take us from here.”
“You are such a fucking romance novelist,” she says, laughing brightly when Killian removes his sauce from the stove and turns it off before he moves in to attack. And even though she’s squirming to get away from his nimble fingers as they target her ticklish spots, she sends up a quick thank you to Killian’s faulty alarm clock and his old habit of routines.
-x- September
“You could just leave those until later,” Killian says, coming up behind Emma as she washes their dishes from dinner. He has his hand and hook on her hips and his lips on her hair, his voice full of implication.
He’s learned not to try to talk her out of cleaning up, and instead he just enjoys distracting her in the best ways possible.
She’s wearing a skirt - something she only does when she’s out of leggings - and the soft gray jersey fabric clings to her hips before flaring and draping down. It hides much of her legs, but her backside looks fantastic in it. On top, she has a light yellow shirt that’s tickling at his memories, the lines of a poem he once memorized during his university years making their way back to mind.
Steady movements continue as she washes and rinses each dish, stacking them in the drying rack before starting to scrub out the sink. He’s struggling to remember the lines, yellow sweater, and with a smirk he glides his hand down to palm the back of her thigh.
“These are anything but boyish haunches,” he says out loud. Emma gasps as the shift from peaceful innocence to dirty.
“What?”
He hums, nosing some of her hair aside so he can find her neck with his lips. “From a poem. Your shirt brought it back to me. ‘The Mists of Pornography’ was the title,” he responds, moving his hand to the front of her thigh and sliding it up to rest on a spot right below her hipbones.
“Why am I not surprised that you know something with ‘pornography’ in the title?”
“Ah, but Swan, it’s about much more than that. Close your eyes. Listen,” he says, and uses his hook to brush the hair off her neck and lean closer to her ear. He sways just a little bit closer as he starts to speak.
When you rose out of the mist / of pornography - He runs a single finger along her spine until it rests between her shoulders - with your talk of marriage / and orgies / I was a mere boy / of fifty-seven / trying to make a fast buck / in the slow lane / It was ten years too late / but I finally got / the most beautiful girl / on the religious left / to go with her lips / to the sunless place - and here he makes sure to push his hips against her to emphasize as she snorts. He continues reciting, crowding her against the counter, making sure the edge is pressing right where he wants it to.
This was my life / in Los Angeles / when you slowly / removed your yellow sweater - As he speaks, he slowly draws her shirt over her head and she lifts her arms - and I slobbered over / your boyish haunches - He runs his hand over the path that started this all and pushes the skirt off her hips to rub over the back of a now-bare thigh - and I tried to be / a husband / to your dark and motherly / intentions.
I thank you / for the ponderous songs / I brought to completion / instead of fucking you / more often - He punctuates by rolling his hips against her and she gasps as she clutches the sink for stability, and he keeps going.
Your panic cannot hurry me here / and my panic and falling / shoulders / our shameless lives / are the grains / scattered for an offering / before the staggering heights / of our love - His hand glides over her stomach and up to cup a breast through her bra. He’s sure she can feel where his cock is pressing against her ass, hard and wanting. Her hips are pinned against the sink and with each line, he thrusts against her, slowly lighting the fuse of what promises to be a spectacular orgasm if he doesn’t stop.
And the other side of your anxiety / is a hammock of sweat / and moaning - It’s getting harder to pay attention to the poem, especially when he pulls down the straps and cups of her bra, palm meeting her already hardened nipples as he alternates between them. Her body shudders with pleasure and he struggles to continue - and time comes down / like the smallest pet of God / to lick our fingers - he licks her shoulder instead - as we sleep / in the tangle / of straps and bracelets.
With a great deal of effort, he keeps going, trying to make the lines appear in his head so he can read them off with ease and still give her the attention she deserves - and Oh the sweetness of first nights / and twenty-third nights / and nights / after death and bitterness - She reaches one arm back to wrap around his neck and firmly grasps his hair - and the impeccable order / of the objects on the table - He’s rocking her into the counter at just the right speed and he can tell how close she is with each new word - the weightless irrelevance / of all our old intentions / as we undo / as we undo / every difference.
With the last word of the poem out of his mouth, she tugs hard at his hair and she climaxes, coming undone and leaning back against his chest and tries to catch her breath.
“Oh god, Killian,” she moans. He’s still rocking them against the counter as she rides out her orgasm. “By far, this is the most interesting way you’ve ever made me orgasm.
“Have I made you a fan of poetry yet, Swan?” He moves his hand back down to her hips, his fingers sliding just under the waist of her panties. She feels loose and light as she turns in his arms and pulls him against her.
“A couple more poems like that and I can definitely be convinced,” she says. “But for now I think I’m more interested in spending time with this one. What was that about lips and sunless places?”
His mind reels because she drops to her knees between him and the cabinets. He grips the counter for stability when she drags her teeth over the zipper of his slacks.
“Think you can recite another one?” She unfastens his trousers, sliding the material down and taking his boxer briefs with it. She wraps one hand around the base of his cock, lightly gripping his hip with the other.
“Hmm?” He’s concentrating really hard on not rocking his hips forward into her skilled hands, incredibly aware of the counter just behind her head. The absolute last thing he wants to do is accidentally give his girlfriend a concussion.
“Another poem, Killian. You have another one up in that head of yours?” She leans in and licks the tip of his erection, grinning up at him.
His mind scrambles for any other poems he memorized.
“You’re making it incredibly difficult to concentrate, love, but I did always love a challenge” he admits, another moan pulling from him as she wraps her lips around the head and sucks lightly. She pulls back again and looks up at him, her smile shining in her eyes.
“You once promised to read me dirty poetry. You’ve given me one. Surely you have another up there,” she says before leaning forward to kiss a spot below his hip bone.
“There once was a man from Nantucket,” he starts, but she cuts him off with her laughter.
“No, no. Make it a good one.”
The poem that finally makes its way to his mind is not dirty, but he knows she’ll appreciate it. He clears his throat, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on the words in his head instead of the love at his feet.
All night I have slept with you / next to the sea, on the island. He begins, and she runs her hands along his thighs. Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep, / between fire and water. She grips his cock again and begins stroking it gently, placing kisses along his hip again as he continues.
Perhaps very late / our dreams joined / at the top or at the bottom, / up above like—
“Fuck, Emma,” he moans, her mouth going from the innocence of kisses to wrapping her lips around him once more and swirling her tongue around the tip.
“Keep going,” she pants out when she breaks away, dipping her head right back in when he starts reciting once more.
Perhaps your dream / drifted from mine / and through the dark sea / was seeking me / as before, / when you did not yet exist, / when without sighting you / I sailed by your side, / and your eyes sought / what now—/ bread, wine, love, and anger—/ I heap upon you / because you are the cup / that was waiting for the gifts of my life.
The hand that isn’t gripping the base of his cock trails up his thigh once more, pausing on his hip for a moment before brushing under the shirt that he’s still wearing and she runs her nails down his chest.
I have slept with you / all night long while / the dark earth spins / with the living and the dead, / and on waking suddenly / in the midst of the shadow / my arm encircled your waist. / Neither night nor sleep / could separate us.
She begins bobbing her head while her hand strokes the rest of his length, and it’s a struggle to remember the last stanza for a moment. He drops his head, opens his eyes again to watch her move and it’s too much. His movements against her during the first poem had already aroused him, and her attentions on him now are pushing him closer to the edge.
Emma moans around his length and his knuckles go white where he’s still gripping the counter. He can feel his release coming and she feels it too, speeds up and doesn’t prolong the torture. When it hits him, he has to brace his feet a little more so he doesn’t collapse. He’s breathing hard when she gracefully stands back up into the cage of his arms. She’s grinning, the cat that got the cream, as she winds her arms around his neck.
“Is that the end?” she asks, fingers threading through his hair. He shakes his head and swallows, wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.
I have slept with you / and on waking, your mouth, / come from your dream, / gave me the taste of earth, / of sea water, of seaweed, / of the depths of your life, / and I received your kiss / moistened by dawn / as if it came to me / from the sea that surrounds us.
He kisses her after saying the last verse, tasting his release still lingering on her tongue, and she hums into the kiss.
“Not bad,” she says when she breaks the kiss. “You may have just swayed my opinion. I’m now pro-poetry.” She’s smiling when she meets his eyes, and he chuckles. He places one more kiss on her forehead before bending to hastily pull his underwear back up, stepping out of his discarded trousers and leaving them on the floor.
“I’ll try a lofty and pretentious one next time,” he promises, remembering their previous discussions about poetry now that she’s brought them up.
“Only if you’re fucking me into the mattress when you do it,” she says off-handedly. He huffs out a laugh and rests his forehead against hers.
“You’ll be the death of me, love.” He hugs her tight to him as he says it and he can feel the laugh vibrate through her.
“But you love me anyways,” she responds, dancing her fingers across his shoulders.
“Aye, until the end of time.” He kisses her again, and she whispers her love for him across his lips.
And when they wind up in bed a short time later, he recites whatever he can think of—limericks, haiku, even a poem by Shel Silverstein—as he fulfills her request.
When the Save-the-Dates go out a few months later, there is, indeed, an asterisk at the bottom that says “David was right.”
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shaadi mubarak 27 - 31.08.20
tried to make this short and sweet like i said i would, but my damn brain just won't fucking shut up while watching tellywood. toh yeh lo. almost poora lbs.
27.08.20
life mein kya chahiye, bas itna support aur laad jitna KT's whole family is barsaofying on this 40+ year old man.
oh and garmaaaaagarammmm moong dal kachoris.
oh ho his shaadi is seveeeeeeerely sore topic.
KT gaining lotsa SM clout with shayari he picked off the floor at some random shaadi he made a PR appearance at.
this man's whole life is a rampwalk, huh.
preeti talking about her DIY'd dresser is the most animated i've ever seen her.
lol preeti running to hide when she sees someone she knows will talk to her #relatable
awwww man preeti getting validationnnnnn about her poetry.
OMG I HATE THIS DUMBASS MUSKURANE KE LIYE ROKDA NAHI THOPDA LAGTA HAIIIIII LINE
"meriiiiiiiii sharmeeeli fannnn" haaaaye, cuteeee.
tarun and rati have made an appearance and thus is it time to fwd liberallllllly.
YESSSSSSSSSSSS IM HEREEEEE FOR PREETI TELLING TURN TO FUCKKKKKK RIGHT OFFFFFFFFF AND STAY IN HIS LIMITS
i hate rati too, but i hate her a little less than tarun.
YESSSSSSSSSSS KUSUMMMMMMMMMM IS HEREEEEEE.
lol her fangirling over KT's dimples is such a mood.
"nihaar hi toh rahi hoon, kaunsa ghar chod ke bhaag rahi hoon inke saath?" snort i honestly love her the mosttttttttt.
sumedhhhhhh is also cutest. good son, good husband.
"beendini, thari maa itni nazdeek reh-re, ki cheenkte wahaan hai, cheetein yahaan padti hain" HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA
kusummmmm is a hardassss but totallllly adorable mom. i'm so glad juhi and her get along.
ouff mother india and her tarun ki khushi. so wasted.
lol KT's khaaai ka depth is getting deeper with each retelling.
preeeeti, why so adorable.
"signal toh humara hamesha green hi rehta hai!" THIS INCORRIGIBLE MANNNNNNNNNNNN
oh man, every time iktara plays, my heart gets the feelz.
28.08.20
lmaooooooo kusum is coming at the same time as KT.
WHY DOES THIS MAN TALK LIKE A WHATSAPP FORWARD FROM THE GERIATRICS IN THE FAMILY
lmaoooooooooo pooooor preeeti and the desperation on her face trying to get rid of himmmmm.
OMG THE STATUE MOMENTTTTTTT. MY HEART!!!!!!!
good lord he's literally such a maan na maan, main tera mehmaan.
hahahahaha the kali mirch on his photo.
I AM LITERALLY PREEETI, HE TALKS TOOO FUCKING MUCH. BAS BHI KARO BHAISAAB. NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR FITNESS REGIMEN HERE.
OHNOE KUSUM IS HEREEEEEEEEEE
fwding all this rati tarun chanda crap.
KT and his ainvayiiiiiiii ke assumptions.
gosh such bad green screening of kusum and the neighbourhood.
OH GOD THIS ROKDA THOPDA LINEEEEEEE
WILLLLLLLLL KUSUM AND KT MEEEEET?!?!?!!?
phew.
ugh why does preeti have to touch her feeeeeeet every timeee?!?!?! it sucksssssss.
I LOVE KUSUM. SHE'S SO NO NONSENSE!!!!!!!! SHE KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT THOSE FUCKHEADS HAVE PREETI HERE FOR.
die in a fire, tarun.
blah blah fwding all the chori waala drama.
29.08.20
i think i should just skip this whole ep.
ok just skimming.
juhi Knows. juhi is best beti.
ugh tarun i hate you so much.
this doesn't look like a luxury car to me? and it's def not an SUV.
ok blah blah fwding.
fully relate to KT's current breakdown. THE BIGGEST LIE IN THE WORLD IS THAT YOU STOP GETTING ACNE AFTER PUBERTY. FUCK ADULT ACNE, WHICH HAS BEEN CREATED BY THE DEVIL HIMSELF.
coffee aur honey nahi, tea tree ya neem lagao.
i hope this mom of KT's is gonna be nice to preeti.
blah blah blah fwding these assholes' drama.
skimming, and honestly, the fact that rati looks more contrite than tarun!?!?!? i want to murder him so fucking bad, it's not even funny.
MAN WHERE CAN I GET A FAMILY THAT HYPES ME UP THE WAY KT'S DOES HIM?????? NO WONDER HIS CONFIDENCE IS AT 300% ALL THE TIME.
KT is so pure. sniff. please god star plus, you've ruined every single male lead over the last few years for me, please can i just have him?!?!?! PLEASE I'M FUCKING BEGGING OVER HERE.
oh no naach gaana, fwding.
what's the fucking deal with his marriage anyway?!?!?! biwi bhaag gayi ya.... MARR GAYI??!! like.... WHAT'S THE WHOLE MYSTERY?! I DON'T HAVE THE ENERGY FOR A WHOLE OTHER RAIMA KINDA THING NOW. NOT IN THIS FUCKING YEAR OF 2020, WHERE EVERYTHING IS ALREADY TOO MUCH.
back to fucking tarun and his garbage. fwding.
thank goddddddd, juhi's here. she's a personification of "kaleje ki thandak".
btw, what's juhi's profession?
juhi is purestttttttttt. human sunshine! (quite literally, in this outfittttt.)
oh ho, ainvayi ka dupatta misunderstanding.
LMAOOOOOOOO THIS FUCKING OVERDRAMATIC FUCKER.
yeh lo ji, pehlaaaaa lift bhi ho gaya show ka.
31.08.20
the subtitle people need to decide the spelling of preeti's name once and for all. all of last ep it was "priti".
ugh tarun and rati are back.
lol kusum grumbling about juhi being a working woman.
what's up with priyanka? why's she forever grumpy?
lmao kusum is literally every desi mom - LAD MARO SAAARE!!!!! (helpfully providing the weapons also.)
thankfully sumedh is here to save the day.
arre waaaaah. gold frameeeee mein chadhwa diya bete ne photu ko.
wasn't KT in the center in the pic? why's kusum in the middle now?
sumedh foreshadowing the preeti/kusum brotp!
hahahahahahahaha kusum coveringgggg preeti up with the wall hanging.
ugh don't wanna watch this KT scene if it's with tarun/rati.
oh ho KT. such ainvayi ke assumptions.
oh boy, juhi has walked in hearing the suicide allegation.
god KT just leaveeeeee instead of stirring the pottttttt.
yessss, juhi is taking tarun's class.
YES ALL OF IT IS COMING OUT. TARUN KI KHAIR NAHI. JUHI GONNA STRAIGHT UP SHANK HIM IN THE FACE.
ok if juhi doesn't do it, i swear to god, imma ghusofy into the screen and do it. i don't think i've hated a character as much as i hate tarun.
beta ho toh sumedh jaisa ho, warna na ho.
TARUN FUCKING DESERVES TO BE THROWN INTO AN ACTIVE VOLCANO. MY GOD WHAT A PIECE OF SHIT.
god preeti, drop this fucking flop. he's a sunken cost.
YES PLEASE PREETI, FUCKING LEAVE.
sumedh has finally had enough. good. wish he'd headbutted tarun on the way out tho.
oh dang, juhi might still do it. she's the real warrior in that couple.
RATI KO AYAAH KI PADI HAI. SERIOUSLY.
kusum + sumedh had a wholeasssss conversation aankhon aankhon mein.
LMAO WHAT A WEIRD MOMENT TO FOCUS ON THAT PIC WITH KT IN THE BG.
ok aaj aur kal ka lb kal post karoongi (coz i don't want a whole new month's lb mixed up in the previous one's.) chalo byeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
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I Didn’t Mean to Fall // Ineffable Husbands
Gabriel and Beelzebub try to pit Aziraphale and Crowley against each other by revealing some old information.
Genre: fluff, a little angst, f2l,
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley (Ineffable Husbands)
Warnings: none
Word Count: 2.2k
Author’s Note: This has been sitting in my docs since a few months after the show came out. I think I was going to try to write it all out in a formal style, but I like this better, honestly. There are most certainly many fics with some of these same tropes, but I just really like them. I have not read the book (yet!!), so if something is wrong in regards to the written canon, I’m very sorry.
-Basically Gabriel has seen what’s going on and he’s here to sow discord for C/A
-Aziraphale is in his bookshop organizing his shelf of first edition poetry books
-In comes gabriel, smug little grin on his face
-Obviously he startles Zira because baby boy is no longer under Heaven’s thumb and doesn’t expect a visit from the archangel
-“Aziraphale! So good to see you.”
-Zira just frowns at him because he knows the opposite to be true
-Gabriel just goes on
-He’s here to stir up trouble
-“Listen, why don’t we talk in the back, we have some private things to discuss”
-He grips Zira’s shoulder a little to hard in order to tell him it’s non-negotiable
-They get to the back and the smirk becomes a hard grin
-“I hear you and the demon Crowley have been getting pretty cozy”
-Zira, stunned, can only think ‘We successfully hid our friendship for 6000 years and they only find out once we no longer work for them?’
-But he says
-“Crowley is a friend, yes”
-There’s no point in hiding it, after all, both Gabe and Beezlebub saw them at that air base
-Gabriel’s smile falters for a split second
-He wasn’t expecting that
-But he can work with it
-“A friend, really?”
-He levels a gaze at the other angel
-Zira’s not about to admit it right then and there,
-So he looks at Gabe likes he’s lost it and says yes
-“There have been whispers, Aziraphale, that there is much more between you and the Fallen… that, perhaps, you’re even in love with Crowley”
-Aziraphale’s heart drops into his stomach
-‘How could he know? He hadn’t told anyone, had never written it down, had never even expressed anything to Crowley?’
-“I am not in love with Crowley.”
-Gabe raises an eyebrow
-“If you say so.”
-He shrugs and starts for the door.
-But then turns around to look at the barely-concealing-his-shock angel
-“You know, She always intended for you two to be together.”
-Aziraphale became confused. Very few angels had intended mates, it was one of the few things She allowed them to choose for themselves.
-She usually only had intended mates for...archangels
-Gabriel took advantage of the moment of confusion
-“Oh? He hasn’t told you who he was before the fall?”
-Aziraphale’s mind flashed through all of the times he had brought the subject of the Fall up, and Crowley had gotten a distant look and changed the subject, or said “I didn’t mean to fall” or brushed it off
-Then he thought of the few clues that Crowley had given him over the years. One in particular stook out. Alpha Centauri.
-He hadn’t made the connection when Crowley was screaming it at him (to be fair, they were in quite the stressful situation, and were both focussing on the Antichrist)
-She wouldn’t have entrusted the creation of an entire system to just any angel
-Only an archangel would hold that power
-There were only two archangels who fell
-Lucifer, obviously, and…
-Raphael
-Raphael, who was never mentioned again after the fall
-Raphael, who’s loss hurt almost as much as Lucifer’s
-Raphael, who had never spoken out against Her
-‘I didn’t mean to fall’...
-Aziraphale’s face lights up with recognition
-Gabriel sees this
-“I could never figure out why he Fell. Perhaps it was all apart of your beloved ineffable plan”
-Shoots a final grin
-And leaves Zira to his thoughts
-Meanwhile
-Unbeknownst to Crowley or Zira, Gabriel had gone to Beezlebub, who was also salty about being shown up by Crowley, and colluded together to throw them off and pit them against each other
-Crowley has a recording of Much Ado about Nothing playing as he reads along
-(He’s trying to surprise Zira with some knowledge and quotes and the last time he’d seen/heard anything pertaining to it was when the bard himself was alive)
-The recording scratches to a stop
-“Crowley…”
-Crowley froze, he hadn’t heard that voice since the Apocalypse that wasn’t
-Feigns nonchalance
-“Beelzebub! To what do I owe the displeasure?”
-He doesn’t work for Hell anymore-- he doesn’t have to refer to anyone as Lord -unless he wants to
-“I have heard rumors of you… consorting… with the Angel”
-Crowley knows exactly what angel they’re talking about
-(obviously, it’s his angel)
-“Which angel would that be exactly? I’m told Heaven has a whole host of them.”
-“The angel Aziraphale, of course.”
-“Oh that angel! No, I’m afraid we see each other as little as possible. Really only meet to discuss our mutual operative”
-“Are you denying that you see each other every day?”
-Crowley didn’t know how or why they kept an eye on them. He thought that they would keep even less surveillance on them as they were no longer agents of Heaven or Hell. Apparently he was wrong
-“Our mutual operative has been having issues lately. We’ve been discussing, at length, whether or not the operative is worth keeping on either side. The goody-two shoes, of course, thinks we should, since the guy is such an imbecile that he maintains a perfect level of good and evil. I, obviously, no longer see the point in it, as we no longer work for either side. The sooner we dismiss him, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”
-It hurts to refer to his angel as anything other than absolutely wonderful or to even pretend that every moment he spends with Zira wasn’t the most fulfilling thing in his life since… well, since he became a demon.
-Beelzebub, knowing the truth, doesn’t buy it.
-“Drop the act, traitor. Both sides know of your little friendship. I just thought you should know that the angel is being informed of your… former self as we speak.”
-Crowley’s brain, and therefore, his mouth, stopped working
-He had spent so long attempting to keep his former identity concealed for so long.
-He had never met his intended mate, and even though he knew he loved Aziraphale, he didn’t know whether or not his meeting Zira was apart of the Ineffable Plan, or just superb luck
-Then, he realized something Beelzebub said
-“Have you been in contact with the other side?”
-Beelzebub goes silent. Crowley is afraid he had disconnected the conversation
-He forged on anyway
-“You have, haven’t you? I’d wager you’ve been in contact with the head halo himself. Tell me, have you told Gabriel of your former identity? I’m sure he’d love to hear that his intended is not only fallen, but, in fact, the prince of hell, themself.”
-When there was no response, instead the voices from the play filtering through his speakers, he knew the other demon had heard him. And he was definitely scared.
-Nonetheless, Crowley was also terrified. If Aziraphale knew, it could change how the angel thinks of him. An archangel? Fallen? It was practically unheard of. Sure, Lucifer himself had fallen, but no other Archangel had uttered any kind of alliance to their brother.
-His own falling had been a separate, private affair. He had approached God Herself (back when God still held audiences with her children instead of sending them straight to the Metatron), and innocently brought his questions before her. When he could bring himself to think about the occasion, he thought he recalled an air of regret and sadness in Her throne room. Almost as if She didn’t want to make him fall. Though, he supposed She’d be loathe to see any of her creations become her enemies.
-Truth be told, he’d never understood why he fell. His questions had never been drastic, and not nearly to the extent She allowed Lucifer’s to get to. But perhaps any questions were grounds to fall after Lucifer’s rebellion
-At any rate, he had to get to the bookshop to explain everything to Aziraphale. His musings on Her decisions could wait until his next drunken pity party
-He grabbed his jacket and miracles himself into the Bentley
-He speeds his way through London to the Soho-based bookshop. The lights on the first floor were dark, and for a second, he thought that Zira was out and about.
-He parks around the corner anyway and got out to walk to the front door. He had no idea if Gabriel was still there
-He got his answer when he spotted the front door open. He went back around the corner and peeked to see a smug looking Gabriel step out of the shop
-Figuring both sides already knew, and they therefore had nothing to lose, he approached his former brother
-“Gabe! What a coincidence to run into you! I assume you’ve just come from telling Aziraphale my former identity. I’m sure you can imagine how grateful I am for sharing an incredibly personal piece of information with someone else without my permission. But how could I return the favor? Hmm… Did you ever meet your intended?”
-Gabriel froze
-Crowley continues
-“No, I suppose you didn’t. After all, your ceremony came after the Fall. Suppose they had to cancel it, then. Must have sucked, knowing your mate fell, but not knowing who they were. Almost as much as never knowing who your mate was in the first place. I, of course, knew, because I told them. But you already know this, y’know, since you were supposed to tell mine. Now that you’ve revealed information that was truly none of your business, I shall return the favor. I assume neither Michael, nor Uriel, have been ballsy enough to tell you who your mate is.”
-He didn’t receive an answer, but continued anyway.
-“You are familiar, of course, with our mutual companion, Beelzebub.”
-Silence
-“I’m sure you’ll be pleased to finally know who your mate is. Now if you would please fuck off and stay out of our lives, we won’t meddle in the matters of heaven and hell- especially your love lives.”
-He pushes past his former brother into the shop.
-“Angel?”
-No response
-He heads into the back
-“Angel?”
-He finds Aziraphale sitting, pensively staring at the wall
-“...Angel…?”
-“Is it true?”
-Crowley knew what he was talking about, there was no use beating around the bush
-“Yes”
-“Why wouldn’t you tell me? Things could have been so much different. Were you ever going to tell me?”
-Aziraphale looks up with a pained look
-Crowley takes a deep breath
-“Eventually… when I accepted what happened.”
-“It’s been 6000 years! Didn’t you think I deserved to know I was your intended?!”
-That stopped Crowley in his tracks.
-“You- you’re my intended?”
-His eyes are blown wide with shock
-Now Zira is confused
-“Yes… I thought that’s what we were talking about. You didn’t know either?”
-“Angel… I thought we were talking about me. I never found out who my intended was. I mean, I had hoped it was you, but I was never sure.”
-“How did Gabriel know?”
-“He was assigned to tell you.”
-Zira’s face scrunched up.
-“I can’t imagine Gabriel being the deliverer of such happy news.”
-“He wasn’t always such an emotionless prick. I’m afraid losing one’s intended in the Fall is rather jarring to an angel. And a demon, to be honest. Beelzebub hasn’t been the same since they fell.”
-“Were they someone’s intended?”
-“Believe it or not, they were Gabriel’s. Obviously, their name wasn’t Beelzebub, but Anabiel and Gabriel were supposed to be very happy together, in fact every archangel was very happy with their intended until they fell. Only Lucifer, Gabriel and myself were left to have our intended ceremonies.”
-Aziraphale got a thoughtful look
-“Don’t you think it’s odd that half of every intended couple fell?”
-Crowley shrugged
-“I’ve been thinking about it for years, and I can’t come up with anything concrete.”
-Zira muses for a second.
-“It’s not worth thinking about, Angel. It all depends on several hypotheticals of what was happening in Her brain this whole time. Something neither of us are privy to.”
-“No, I suppose you’re right, my dear. Besides, I think other matters are slightly more pressing.”
-Crowley raised an eyebrow at his angel
-Who rose
-“What matters, Angel?”
-“The matter of our relationship, my dear, and how it progresses from here.”
-“...Oh”
-Soft BoiTM becomes super anxious
-“Of course, if you would like to remain friends, that is okay. I do vaguely remember some archangels who kept their relationships platonic, and if that is what you wish, I will gladly-”
-Crowley stands up quite quickly and hugs his angel
-“Aziraphale, I would like nothing more than to create a life with you, together as mates. Romantic mates.”
-When Aziraphale’s smile lit up the entire room (literally, he was allowing some of his ethereal form to slip through the veil), Crowley had to shield his eyes
-But when the light dimmed (with a sheepish look from the still very excited Aziraphale), Crowley allowed a genuine smile to alight onto his face
-Now, here’s the thing about Crowley and smiling
-Aziraphale can count on two hands the amount of times he has seen a genuine smile when Crowley was sober
-He smirked, or scowled, sometimes he would let a grin pass
-But rarely would he truly, genuinely, smile
-But this was the best one Zira had ever seen in all of his 6000+ years
#good omens#g.o.#good omens fic#ineffable husbands#ineffable husbands fic#ineffable husbands fanfic#good omens fanfic#dumb demon and dumb angel in love#i love them so much#do i headcanon crowley as having played benedict in the original production? yes#is it because of david tennant's portrayal? yes#i'll write something in full form later#but this has been in my drafts for so long#i'm tired of staring at it#so i'm giving it to the world#do with it what you will#crowley as raphael#crowley and aziraphale#crowley and zira#crowley and zira are mates#She really said they're soulmates#heavenly soulmates#idk#it's 3 am#talltree-writes#i didn't mean to fall
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Middle of Summer - Gerard Way x Reader
Request: Hi :) could you please do a Gerard x reader based on “when the day met the night” by P!ATD? Hope you’re having a nice day
Word count: 1 737
A/N: if you think it’s so unlikely that people sit down in a park with you to talk about weird stuff in their life, please know I once sat in a park, reading, and this elderly lady sat down on the bench next to mine, so we talked a little about books, and all of a sudden she told me her husband had died, and that he had just dropped dead in their living room. So I obviously offered my condolences and asked if it had happened recently. She said it had been over ten years, stood up and left.
Gerard ran his hand over his face. This was it, he thought, the end of the band. Mikey had left halfway through recording the new album, and without him, there was no My Chemical Romance.
Of course Gerard understood why Mikey had left, hell, with everything that was going on with the poor guy it would have been foolish not to do it, but that did not mean Gerard did not worry about the future of the band. He turned off his mobile and slid it back into his pocket.
After Mikey had left, he had heard no news for a couple of days, and since there was no signal in the Mansion, he had actually taken the car and driven out a bit, until he finally found a signal. Now, after the call to Mikey, and knowing that he was at least safe for now, he felt exhausted. Whatever was going on with this Paramore Mansion really fucked with his mind, and not having his brother around anymore made it worse.
Tiredly he looked around, finding he had wandered down the street from where he had parked the car, and now was standing in front of a sweet little park. Deciding a park would be the right place to take a relaxing walk he crossed the street and entered.
Between the trees the noise of the city got drowned out quickly. It was a hot summer, but the shadow and the pond helped to cool down the air. Soft, green grass and thousands of beautiful flowers grew next to the small path he was walking along.
Spotting a small pavilion that seemed to be used as a café, he suddenly realised how long it had been since he had last eaten anything. Checking if he had some cash, he walked over. The small building had an open front with small, filigree tables and chairs in front of it. Pots with flowers and small palm trees surrounded the sitting area that was covered in the shadow of the large trees next to it.
He had almost entered the pavilion already, when suddenly he spotted a movement from the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he found the most beautiful person quietly sitting at one of the tables. Had they not moved, he would not have noticed them, even though their silvery white shirt was basically shining in the shadow. Something about that person drew him in, and he found himself unable to take one step further away from them again, so he slowly walked towards them.
On the small table in front of them stood a small tea pot, made from porcelain that was painted in tiny, pink and red flowers. The cup and the milk pot matched the design, and the small spoon that was resting on the saucer, was engraved with small stars.
Carefully Gerard approached the person, who tore their glance away from the pond they had been watching. A smile spread over their angelic face, not the smile of recognition, like Gerard had seen thousands of times on the faces of fans, just a smile as if they were happy to see him.
“Hi,” the person greeted friendly, apparently not even surprised that in an otherwise empty café the stranger had walked up to them.
“Hey,” Gerard greeted back, feeling awkward as he lifted his hand as a greeting.
For a while the person just looked at him curiously, as if they expected him to talk, but when he did not find any words that made sense to string together, they reached over the table, and pushed the other chair back a bit.
“Wanna sit?”
“Oh thanks,” Gerard blushed, and quickly sat down.
“I’m (y/n),” you introduced with a smile, encouraging the stranger to do the same.
“Gerard, I hope I’m not bothering you,” he continued.
You liked his voice.
“Not at all! In fact I was starting to feel a bit lonely,” you admitted, “So what brought you here?”
Gerard blinked a little, his gaze wandering through the park and back to you.
“I- I was a bit upset earlier, and thought this would be the right place to calm down a little, and then I saw you and-“ yeah, and then what?
“Wanna talk about it? About what upset you,” you offered, your eyes holding nothing but concern and sympathy for the stranger.
Gerard hesitated a bit.
“Not really,” he confessed, “I just… is it okay if I just sit here a little and we talk about completely unimportant stuff?”
You laughed quietly.
“Of course it is,” you replied, “but only if you order something too, I feel bad having my tea without you having anything to eat or drink.”
Your request made Gerard remember how hungry he was so he ordered some coffee and both of you decided on some strawberry cake. For a long while you just sat and talked, ate cake, and watched the ducks on the pond. The park was peaceful, like something out of a fairy tale.
Gerard caught himself staring at you time and time again. He was not sure if it was your otherworldly beauty, or the kindness you treated him with. You had been so excited when he had told you about the comic he was currently working on, and he marvelled at the aquarelle painting you had only painted earlier today, obviously from this spot at the café, looking out over the grass to the pond. Eventually, although he had tried not to mention it, he even ended up telling you about why he had been upset earlier. He told you about the band and about the Mansion. And about Mikey.
“It just… seems to fell apart,” he confessed, and bit his lip.
The warm touch of your hand on his made him look up to you.
“It’s gonna be alright,” you assured him, “you just… need to go with the flow, and do what feels right. If fighting against where fate carries you feels wrong, then maybe it is. But if fighting this feels right… don’t be afraid to walk this world alone. If that path feels right, it is.”
Gerard looked at where your fingers were gently brushing over his skin, soft and warm, and somehow feeling so familiar, while your words echoed in his mind.
“That line… about walking the world alone… can I use that for a song,” he asked, still stuck on the strange poetry.
“Sure, if you like,” you laughed light heartedly, but did not pull away.
For a while you sat like this, your fingers seeking contact with his, until he eventually turned his hand to take hold of yours, gently wrapping his fingers around yours.
You did not know what pulled you to him, it felt like vulnerability, a pain that had settled in Gerard’s heart, which he was fighting to get rid of. You wanted to help him, wanted to make sure he would be happy again. You knew what it felt like, that black grip around someone’s soul. Gerard had not been the only one to have talked about their problems, so maybe you two could help each other out a little.
Just when you wanted to ask if maybe you wanted to meet up some other time, Gerard spoke.
“This is probably really weird, because we don’t really know each other, but… I would love to see you again some time, preferably soon,” he nervously looked at you, “so… if you’d be interested, I could give you my number?”
You smiled softly.
“I would love that.”
For the first time in hours his hand lost contact with yours, as he pulled out his phone to search for his own number, so you quickly did the same, and quickly opened a new contact, into which you typed the numbers Gerard told you. Saving the contact, you pressed the call button to make sure he had your number too, before packing away the phone again.
It had gotten late by now, as the waitress reminded you when she started packing up the tables around you.
You had paid a long time ago, but you made sure to leave an extra tip, then Gerard and you both got up.
The sun had started setting, and in the dimming light your silvery shirt shone like the moon itself.
Golden light fell through the leaves, and tiny insects chased each other in the last beams of the sun. Side by side Gerard and you stepped out of the park. For a second he got scared that you would suddenly be gone, that everything had just been a perfect hallucination, but when he turned his head, you still stood by his side, a soft smile on your face.
“I need to go that way,” you explained, pointing over your shoulder.
“Me that way,” Gerard pointed in the other direction, where he had left the car.
“So, talk to you soon?”
“Yes, please,” he answered with a small grin on his face.
“Call me when you’re back at the mansion safely, it’s going to get dark quickly now,” vaguely you gestured to the golden sky.
“We don’t have a signal up there,” Gerard reminded you, “But you can send a text when you get home, (y/n), maybe I’ll get it while I still have a signal.” Damn, your name tasted so sweet on his tongue.
“I will.”
Quickly you leant forward, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, before you turned around, and started walking down the street.
Gerard just stood there, and watched you walk away, before you turned one last time, and waved at him, a beautiful smile on your face. Your silver shirt reflected the warm light of the setting sun, almost blinding Gerard a little, but he still saw how you blew him a kiss before you turned the next corner, and disappeared.
The whole way back to the mansion he kept wondering if you had been real or just a complex reaction of his brain to calm him down from the stress. Back at the mansion, he immediately went to his room and pulled out his phone. Sure enough there was a new text message.
“I’m home now, and I hope so are you. See you soon, good night.”
Gerard smiled. So he had not imagined you. He really had met the most amazing person, here in the middle of summer.
Taglist (if you want to be added or taken off, please let me know):
General: @robinruns @justawriterinprogress @jayloverthe3rd @lookalivefrosty @butterfly-writes @angelevansfalls @rene-royale @500240
#gerard way x reader#gerard way x reader fluff#gerard way fluff#gerard way imagine#the black parade#when the day met the night#fanfiction#fanfic#my chemical romance#my chemical romance imagines#my chemical romance imagine#my chemical romance fanfiction
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