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justatasteofyourpoison · 28 days

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The morning after the night before…

(A Hazbin Hotel/Alastor x Fem reader fanfiction)

Part 5

Pairing: Alastor x Fem Reader

Plot: A hungover you speaks to Angel and Husk to try to dig up more information about the Radio Demon’s past ruts…

Warnings: 18+, swearing, alcohol consumption, adult themes, fluff

Word count: 1.1k

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You awoke in a haze, ears ringing, head pounding, face down in the pillow. You turned over with a groan and looked at the time - 11am. “Oh God how much did I drink?” you questioned, trying to make you body sit itself up in bed. After a triumphant effort you sat up and looked around the room.

You noticed your clothes were carefully placed on the chair in the corner, a pint of water sat on your side table and you were wearing your pjamas, things usually impossible for drunken Y/N. Someone must have got you home safely. You took a large swig of water, it flooding your hungover body with life like the desert rain and you could finally start to think. “Only Angel Dust would go to these lengths for little ol drunk me” you thought feeling incredibly greatful to be blessed with such a good friend. “I should go and thank him.” You swung your legs round to meet the floor and paused for a moment “I feel like something happened last night. Maybe some food and a chat would set me straight” you mused groggily.

As you put your dressing gown on and headed to the door you noticed a bow tie that Alastor had accidentally left in your room after a late night rendevouz a few nights back. You smiled to yourself as you remembered the night’s antics. But then it finally dawned on you what last night entailed. Angel Dust was questioning you about your involvement with Alastor and how you were the first girl he’d seen with him. Your gut wrenched. You knew you wanted to speak to Alastor more than anything, but didn’t want him to see you so hungover and disheveled. You decided to freshen up and speak to Angel Dust before facing the Radio Demon…

The toaster popped with a clunky bang and you swiftly chucked the two slices on a plate, no butter today, dry toast and tea was your hangover cure. You exited the kitchen to the lobby and saw that Angel Dust was already sat at the bar. “She lives!” He exclaimed throwing his gangly arms in the air as he clocked sight of you. “She does, just” you said sleepily taking a seat next to him.

“You look like shit toots, glad we didn’t stay out any longer!” he laughed giving you a pat on the back. “Thanks for getting me back safe Angel” you said greatfully.

“Don’t sweat it hun. The amount of times I’ve ended up in the gutter I wouldn’t wish it on anyone” he shrugged taking a sip of his coffee.

“Angel…” you started sheepishly. “We talked last night didn’t we?” you said avoiding his gaze. “I knew this would come up” Angel said coolly “Look Y/N, I’m not gonna tell anyone about you and Mr Creepy Radio Pants” he said in a quieter tone.

“And I really appreciate that” you said genuinely “but, I feel like you let me into an insight about Alastor last night. You said how he never really dated anyone?” you questioned.

“Ah yeah no, he is an enigma when it comes to relationships and sex ‘n’ all that” Angel reflected “that’s why when he started sneaking around with you I was surprised. But you said how he’s in a rut, so I guess a man has needs right?”

“Definitely true” you responded. “But Alastor has been in hell a long time, so would have rutted every year. But you say you’ve never known him showing interest in relieving himself with anyone per say. So my question is - why me now? And what did he used to do while he was rutting?” You said gazing up at the skulls that loomed over the bar ominously. “Don’t get yourself worked up sugar. Maybe he has been off getting his dick wet in the past, who knows? As I said - he’s an enigma. You gotta talk to him sweety.” He said with a sympathetic smile.

“Afternoon folks” a raspy voice chimed. Husk appeared behind the bar and grabbed a green bottle off the shelf before pouring himself a small glass. The sight of alcohol being poured made you feel queasy. “Well ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he laughed taking a sip of his whisky. “Always love your honesty Husk!” you chuckled.

“You guys have a good night and stay out of trouble?” He said, darting his eyes towards Angel.

“Yeah good fun, some revelations too…” Angel chimed grinning at you. “Angel don’t, please” you whispered, your eyes pleading.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Husk said casually leaning on the bar in front of you and smiling wryly, “that she’s fuckin’ the Radio Demon?”

“DOES EVERYONE KNOW?” You exclaimed a little too loudly before slumping you head down on the bar. Husk placed his face by you head and whispered “Remember my room is next to Alastor’s. If you didn’t want anyone knowing maybe you shoudn’t have been so damn loud!” He stood up and roared with laughter. You felt your face burning scarlet against the bar. “I’m sorry little lady, me and Angel have had our suspicions for some time.” he said pouring himself a larger glass.

“She’s having a crisis cos I told her she’s the first one I’ve seen him sneaking around with. Got her questioning things…” Angel said trying to pull you back up from the bar. Reluctantly, you sat up and faced them. “Do you know anything Husk? Have you ever heard of Alastor rutting and going off with anyone?” you said quietly.

“Honestly, no” Husk contemplated. “The Radio Demon has always been obsessed with power and I should know.” He scowled at the thought of his deal with the Demon. “But no, I’ve never heard of him being interested in sex or relationships or anything. However…” he placed his head in his hand deep in thought. “At certain times of year Alastor had been more volatile, now that I think of it. He would bite at me over the smallest indiscretions and his broadcasts would be more frequent and more terrifying.” A shudder ran down your spine at his words.

“Maybe he was interested in other things. You know what a power crazed fuck he is!” He said with a warning tone.

You didn’t know how to feel after hearing Husk’s words. On one token you loved spending time with Alastor and the intimacy was out of this world. But what did you really know about him? Was your heart just blindsighted by lust and his charm? Did he have sinister ulterior motives? There was no doubt about it, you needed answers…

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All instalments:

#Hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #Hazbin hotel writing #alastor #alastor fanfiction #Alastor x fem reader #alastor x female reader #fanfic #Hazbin hotel Angel #Hazbin hotel Angel dust #Hazbin hotel husk #husker #vizziepop

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spacecowboyhotch · 1 year

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Sweet Nothing: Mohawk

summary: joel had a rough day at work and you know just how to soothe him.

pairing: gn!reader x pre!outbreak joel miller

contents: a few suggestive comments, nudity, bathing together, grief/death of a partner, kissing, fluff

word count: 1.1k

an: ahhhh, welcome back to the sweet nothing universe, just more sweetness in this part. angst is comin’ soon.

sweet nothing masterlist | misc. masterlist | requests are open

part 1: the morning

Moonlight is flooding through the window and onto the words you can hardly focus on. Its position in the sky, and the brightness of its light tells you one thing. You already know, no need to glance at the clock as you had earlier in the evening.

He’s late.

Later than he has been a while. So late that you’d taken Sarah to the slumber party she’s been raving about for weeks by yourself. It’s her first one and you know that she wanted her dad there, but she also didn’t want to be late, citing that it would be embarrassing. But you’d promised her that he’d be there to pick her up the following day, hoping that it would be true.

The garage door rumbles through the walls and you smile without looking up. Joel is home and now this place is a bit brighter.

When he walks through the door you can see how hard the day weighs on him. His shoulders are low, and there’s still sweat on his brow. His clothing, a worn black t-shirt and faded jeans are covered in a thin layer of sawdust and dirt. It’s a staple of sorts in this house— his telltale scent of wood and various chemicals blending with the smell of a freshly baked loaf of bread sat on the counter and the citrus candle you have burning. Things just don’t feel complete without him in the mix. And now that he’s home, some tension you hadn’t even realized was sitting in your shoulders melts away.

“Hi, baby. Rough one?” You ask, placing one of the funky rainbow bookmarks Sarah made for you into the pages of your book.

He gives you a nod as he kicks off his boots and trudges into the kitchen. “This for me?”

You sit up on your knees to look over the couch, watching intently, “Once it’s cooled. Shower or bath?”

He eyes the loaf of bread, wanting so badly to cut into it– but he knows how touchy you can get about your baking and decides to wait until after he’s comfy and clean— your words not his.

“Bath. Join me?” He holds out his hand to you.

“Is that even a question,” You hop off of the couch eagerly, excited to soak in water so hot that you know he will complain. But it’ll loosen his muscles, and untighten some of the knots that you’ll further break down with a massage once you both are buried in the blankets.

You begin to wash his hair as soon as you both sink into the tub. And after you get his locs all soapy and sudsy, you make praying hands and quaff his hair up into a tall, spiky mohawk.

You lean back, appraising your work before giving out a satisfactory hum, “There you go. Perfection.”

He snorts, shaking his head as the edges of his lips twitch, “I look fuckin’ silly, I can feel it.”

You grasp his chin, turning his head side to side as if to make sure every hair is in place. “That you do, but, you could actually be in that rock band you claim you were in in high school.”

Joel clutches you closer making the water ripple as he nips at your earlobe, “The one I was in, you mean.”

“You can’t convince me that you used to sing, not with the solos you give me now,” You tease.

He glares at you in the darkness, but you can feel his playfulness in the way his fingers dig into your hips, “Never said anything about singin’ honey.”

“Drums? May explain why you decided to go into banging things for a living,” You’re only able to hold in your laughter for a handful of seconds before your chest bursts with it.

Joel gives your ass a playful smack, causing you to yelp as he scolds, “Get your mind outta the gutter.”

You reach for some soap and a rag, getting the cloth soapy before you start to scrub at his chest, “Alright, alright, so what did you play in this so-called band?”

“Guitar. I got one in the basement y’know, in all those piles of mess,” He nods his head towards the door before leaning back against the wall, enjoying the soothing feeling of you.

You narrow your eyes at him, continuing to wash his body with a tenderness despite your accusatory tone, “We’ve been together for how long and you’ve never played guitar for me?”

There are many reasons he hasn’t touched a guitar since Sarah was born. Some are small enough to be excuses— not enough time, he’s out of practice, no one to play for. But the last of them is huge and daunting, casting a faint shadow upon all the corners of his mind. The last person he’d played for was Sarah’s mom, when she was alive and well, eyes bright and heart beating.

Could he play again for someone who holds as much of his heart as she did? Could he play for you? The idea doesn’t hurt, not the way it used to.

So he simply says, “You never asked, honey.”

“I never knew,” You insist.

He shrugs, “I told you I was in a band. Your decision not to believe me.”

You can feel the change in his demeanor and aren’t sure which way he wants to go. More often than not, getting Joel to talk about his past, about his hurts is harder than you’d like it to be. Being with him has made you much more patient than you used to be.

“You’re a shy man, I was supposed to believe you?”

“I am not shy,” He denies, and when his fingers dig into your hips again, you know whatever heaviness had joined you two has faded away.

“Right, you’re serious— whatever that means,” You murmur, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. After a few beats of silence, you speak again. “Would you ever play for me though? Is that something you’d be open to?”

There’s no hesitation in his response, “We might have to get the guitar restrung but I could give it a go for you.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Silence fills the space between you. It’s not quite comfortable though you certainly wouldn’t deem it uncomfortable. Nonetheless, Joel can almost hear the way your thoughts begin to race. You’re always worried about him, about asking the wrong question or saying the wrong thing. That you’ll send him spiraling into the past, something both of you know he’s not completely equipped to handle. This silence screams unspoken words.

“Hey, get out of that head of yours,” He says gently, pressing a series of kisses to your temple. “I love you.”

You sigh— of course, he can tell. He can always tell.

Leaning forward you rest your face in the crook of his neck, mouthing at the skin there, “I love you too.”

part 3: midnight

taglist: @honeybrowne, @hotchs-bitch, @jazzelsaur, @campingwiththecharmings

#joel miller x gn!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #sweet nothing universe #arson writes randos

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manonblaqkbeak · 3 years

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The Little Bookshop

here’s my contribution for day 28--bookshop au. just one more story to go and i’ll be officially done with rowaelin month!!

cw: very light mention of female infertility. and verrrrrrrry light smutty language. (if theres any i missed, pls dont hesitate to let me know!)

2.7k words

enjoy!! :)

Aelin woke up surrounding by the arms of a furnace. That furnace being her six foot four husband. Normally, she would love waking up like this, but with summer arriving early and the very fact that she could spend all day like this despite the heat and the million things they had to do today it was not something Aelin could love at this very moment.

Kicking off the cotton sheets, Aelin tried to leave the bed but to no avail. Rowan's grip tightened in his sleep and he mumbled something that might have been “five more minutes”.

Knowing very well that “five more minutes” could turn into another hour, Aelin told her husband that she had to pee, otherwise she was going to wet the bed.

That worked, and Rowan planted a kiss between her shoulder blades as he turned over, facing the curtains.

A small mischievous smile found its way to Aelin's mouth as she quietly walked over to the cream blackout curtains and yanked them back, flooding their bedroom with the bright morning sun.

Rowan groaned at the rude interruption, flopping over on his stomach to avoid the sun. But Aelin simply back over and took the sheets and his pillow away from him (and because she could, she admired his muscled back, but soon came back to reality when all the things they had to do came flooding back).

“It's too early to be tortured like this,” Rowan mumbled, his green eyes finding hers. “And I thought you were about to wet yourself.”

Aelin gave him her best simpering smile. “A little lie. Now, get up, because we need to get started on the day.”

Grumbling at the sun still blinding him and the fact that he wife was always far too energetic in the morning, Rowan put on his summer slippers and shuffled into the kitchen behind his wife, who turned into a pale pink blur as she whirled around the kitchen, taking out the slow cooker and the dry ingredients for their dinner, the pumpkins and sweet potato and the peelers, and the Brussels sprouts that had to be halved. She rattled on about the guest room and the living room, going on and on and on.

They had been married for five years, together for seven, and Rowan still had no idea where she got all this energy in the morning from—especially considering that she would often tell people that she was not a morning person. He couldn't even comprehend most of what she was saying until he had his water and coffee.

After downing his water and turning on the coffee pot, Rowan heard Aelin muttered something about the roof gutters needing cleaning as she peeled the sweet potatoes over the sink, Rowan gently placed his hands on her face and kissed her.

“Breathe,” was all he said.

“I don't have time to do something like that, there's just so much to do.”

Rowan kissed her again and again until Aelin relaxed to his touch slightly. “I know how important this day is to you,” he said to her gently, “for us and the store, but I promise that everything will be fine.”

Aelin dumped the sweet potato and peeler in the sink and wrapped her arms around his bare waist, hugging him tightly as she rested her head on his chest. Taking a deep breath, Aelin smelled the homely scent of Rowan. When she had first meet him, he had been a surly bastard, but she couldn't deny that he smelled good. It was the main thing that drew her to him, that he always smelled like home.

His personality, however, was abrupt as her own back then. But they had worked to better themselves, both individually and then as friends and then beyond, when that friendship turned into something more.

To this day, Aelin never thought that she would have married the scowling bookshop owner she met when she moved to Doranelle. That the man who she thought really shouldn't be in customer service would become the most important person to her. She often told people that Rowan was her soulmate, that there was no better word to describe what he was to her.

Rowan ran his hand up and down her cotton-clad back, the motion always making her melt. “It's just,” she found herself saying after long minutes, “this is such an important day not just for us, but for Elide. It's her first book tour and I want it to go well. I would hate it if something went wrong.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Rowan assured his wife.

“Unless you've developed psychic abilities overnight,” Aelin said, her voice taking on her snarky tone when she was getting stressed, “there is not possible way you could know that.”

“No, I have not developed clairvoyant skills, but I know that things will work out because you were there every step of the way planning this event with Elide and her team, it will work out spectacularly.” He had helped when he could, but Aelin was best at planning things in their relationship. She knew when things needed to be better or more organised, her passion for creating eventful nights making them unforgettable—like his thirty-fifth birthday; months later and he was still finding eco-friendly glitter in their apartment. It was her passion that made the shop better, that made it inviting and comforting. Her passion helped Rowan to fall in love with the store he inherited from his late parents again. He had been weeks away from deciding to sell when Aelin first arrived, her golden hair practically blinding him from how brightly it shined.

Rowan didn't really like her at first (he didn't really like anyone back then), because she was just so damned loud and kept buying books that he loathed to restock because that meant dealing with people and orders and delivery drivers when all he wanted to do was to be left alone and look for work that didn't have to deal with the general public.

But things slowly started to change during her visits, when he was actually looking forward to her coming over instead of dreading it. Their friendship had started in the most unexpected of ways—the day that Aelin had purchased a book about living with infertility, and Rowan had sensed that if he said the wrong thing, then she would lash out from her vulnerability; so Rowan confessed to her that he had his own cousin, Sellene, had issues with fertility, but lived a completely well-rounded life and was happy.

The smile that Aelin gave Rowan when he said that...he would never forget it in a million years. It was full of relief, that he wasn't going to go on a tangent about how she wasn't trying hard enough to fix her fertility—all the shitty things he had overheard his older relatives say to Sellene.

And instead of leaving after buying her book, Aelin stayed and they talked until he closed, and hours after that, Aelin ordering pizza in the middle of it and they both devoured the food, and he walked her home. Aelin came over twice a day after that, until Rowan finally gathered the courage to ask her out, and here he was seven years later.

Rowan kissed her once more. “And if things go terribly wrong, then I'll help you forget.”

Aelin raised a golden brow. “And how will you do that?”

Rowan smirked and nipped her jaw. “With my teeth and tongue, Fireheart.” He chuckled at the sudden intake of breath from his wife and planted kisses along the column of her throat. Aelin leaned into him, but he moved away, grabbing his coffee to get the newspaper out front.

With a wink, he left his flustered wife, laughing under his breath when she called him a buzzard.

It was going to be a good day.

X X X X X X

It was the busiest Friday they had in several weeks, and Aelin wondered if it was because they knew that Elide was having her author talk that very night, and maybe some were hoping to meet her for free—but Elide wasn't going to be in the shop for hours. The last time Elide had texted her, she and Lorcan were going to lunch.

Sometimes, she couldn't believe her friend was a fully-fledged author. It was both of their dreams, and Aelin was utterly ecstatic that Elide had the courage to send her books out into the world. It was still Aelin's dream, but she was constantly doubting herself, and would talk herself down from pursuing that path.

One day, hopefully, she would learn to tell herself to shut up and reach out to potential publishers.

Finishing up her gift-wrapping, Aelin handed over the bundle of books to her latest customer when she overheard giggling.

It didn't take her long to find the source of the sound. Two teenage girls were currently ogling Rowan as he reached up to a high shelf for a short customer, his shirt rising up to expose a good amount of tanned, muscled skin.

Honestly, Aelin couldn't blame the girls. It was often she noticed this when she was on the shop floor, as she was often in the back dealing with the financial aspect of the business when she wasn't at her actual job at Doranelle University Library, but she had taken the last two weeks off to ensure that everything went well for this event tonight.

As long as adults didn't do it, she couldn't care less, otherwise she often felt like some damned territorial beast on the verge of baring her teeth and snapping at people to not undress her husband with her eyes.

Rowan liked it when she got territorial, and wished she did it more often.

Oblivious to the girls giggling, her husband kept reaching for more and more books, his skin on continuous display.

Maybe she should take more time off at work, since the views here were much better than looking at the faces of exhausted students.

Smiling, Aelin helped the next customer.

X X X X X X

Aelin's leg was bouncing anxiously next to Rowan, his wife fidgeting with her hands, swirling her emerald and gold ring around and around her finger.

In turn, it was making him nervous because seeing Aelin nervous set his whole system on fire—it was a rare sight to see her like this, but no matter how many encouraging words he would say, she wouldn't be calm until everything was done and went off without a hitch.

They were sitting in the front row, all the seats around and behind them full of eagerly awaiting fans to hear Elide talk about her new book in her series, their excitement-filled chatter reaching his ears. Lorcan was in the back, because Aelin had told him that while she liked that he was going on the book tour with Elide, his considerable height would be blocking people's view of Elide. To which he responded that people came to see Elide to hear her talk, not to look at her.

The scathing look from Aelin had Lorcan rolling his eyes but he went to the back, his considerable height no longer an issue—although Rowan did feel bad for the girl that was sitting behind him, considering he was six-four and broad, but there was no doubt that Aelin would let him move, so he stayed and would do his best not to ruin the night for those that he was blocking.

When Rowan noticed that it was 6:55, he brushed a kiss on Aelin's cheek and wished her luck as she went up to the spot where Elide would be talking, with Aelin asking the questions.

“Breathe,” he mouthed to her, and Aelin did, and as soon as she opened her mouth, the words came out smoothly and without a hint of her nerves—just as he knew they would.

X X X X X X

The night was a success, just like Rowan said and would be, and Aelin was still giddy hours later. After the talk, she helped take photos of fans with Elide, got out all the sharpies that she had purchased recently from the grocery store to ensure that Elide didn't run out of ink—because people wanted her to sign all of the books they owned by here and Elide was more than happy to do so.

Afterwards, Elide and Lorcan followed Aelin and Rowan into their apartment upstairs for dinner and Aelin was feeling just a little bit wine drunk, but she was just happy that everything worked out well and that Elide got to live her dreams.

Aelin and Rowan were currently down stairs, tidying up as they usually did just before they went to bed, with Rowan taking mental notes of all the shelves that were practically empty—because while people were waiting in line to get Elide's signature, they browsed the store and filled their colourful tote bags with mountains of books.

He wasn't complaining, but he still didn't like having to deal with restocking, but he would live.

Aelin was gazing dreamily at the cutout of the main character of Elide's story when Rowan came up next to her. “You could do it, you know,” Rowan said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I know,” was all she said.

“Then why don't you?” He read her stuff all the time, and maybe he was biased because she was his wife and soulmate, but he fucking loved her work, loved the detailed writing and descriptions that made it feel as if he was in the world she made up. But she knew how much he loved her stories, so instead of repeating himself, he said, “Elide could help you. She's been in the industry for a while now. So I'm sure whatever question you have, she can answer.”

“I know,” she said again, still just staring at the cutout. She turned to him, a determined look on his face. “How about we make a deal.”

Rowan raised a brow. “Okay...?” it wasn't often that Aelin included him in her schemes, usually preferring to shock him into an early grave.

She gave him a smile that told him she had been thinking about her idea for a while now, and was just waiting for the perfect moment to reveal it. “You start selling your drawings and I'll talk to Elide.”

“What drawings?” he said instantly, the years of having to hide to drawings from his nosy cousins still annoyed him and any mention of them had him wanting to deny he ever knew how to hold a pencil—not that his drawings were ever crude but nothing was sacred in the Whitethorn house he lived in after the death of his parents.

Aelin scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I've been with you for seven years, I've seen you drawing—they even line our walls. You start selling them—we have plenty of empty frames hanging around—and I'll talk to Elide. Deal?”

It only took him a single heartbeat to realise why she was offering him this. Rowan's drawings were personal, as were her stories, so if Aelin had to open herself like that by giving the world her stories, then he could give away little pieces of himself, too.

“Deal,” he said because he would staple his drawings all over the city if it helped Aelin get her foot in the door, to help her with her dream that he knew she could achieve.

Her face deflated for just a second before she righted herself. Clearly, she wasn't expecting him to agree so quickly. But if she wanted to take her time, then he would give her all the time in the world.

“Deal,” Aelin said and even held her hand out. Rolling his eyes playfully, Rowan shook her hand.

When Aelin went to drop his hand, he lingered, and brought her closer to him. With a smirk, Rowan said, “I can think of a better way to close our agreement.”

Aelin raised an eyebrow. “And how would you do that?”

“With my teeth and tongue, Fireheart,” he said, repeating his words from earlier this morning.

Aelin crashed her mouth onto his, and Rowan closed their deal right in the middle of the shop floor, not at all caring that their friends were right above them.

Aelin thanked the gods that she had come into this shop over seven years ago to escape the boredom of her old apartment. Thank the rutting gods for bringing the ever-scowling man into her life.

#rowaelin #rowaelinmonth #my work

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monsterfloofs · 3 years

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Male Vampire (Greyson) x Female Reader (sfw)

You rest your cheek against your hand, listening to Greyson play the piano. He was a wonderful pianist, you could listen to him play for hours. However, the only thing about Greyson’s music was that he seemed to only come in one key, and that was the minor key.

Your mother fluttered a fan in front of her face with growing irritation. “Greyson dear. . . can’t you play something that isn’t dreary or proceeding a funeral?” Greyson fixes his moon shaped spectacles and gazes at her with a placid expression. “As you wish,” He responds politely before his hands change position upon the keys. Your mother slumps in her chair defeated, while the music he plays may be a more lively tempo. It’s sound was that you would expect to propel forth from a haunted piano. You smile into your hand to hide your wide grin. Tutting at your mother in your head. Greyson only has one key Mother dear, you really should know that by now. He will play ‘Jump at the Sun’ and ‘Dance Macabre’ to your hearts delight, but it’s almost as if he can’t fathom any other kinds of songs. You personally loved Greyson’s passion for haunted tunes, and you were surprised that your mother allowed him to play so frequently. Surely by now, you thought, she would have looked for another pianist to perform at the house?

Perhaps you wondered if it was because Greyson had been the Head Butler to your family for many, many years. Perhaps it was out of respect for the butler to not be usurped by another pianist. That made you smile more with impish delight, and your thoughts fade as the butlers fingers hammer passionately against the keys in a dramatic finale.

He fixes his glasses, before turning to face your Mother, “Was that more to your liking Ma’am?” You mother sighs, “Well. . . it was certainly liviler.” Greyson gives a little smile and raises to his feet. “Thank you Madame,” He put a hand in his breast pocket to steal a glance at his pocket watch, “It is time to start working on dinner, if I may excuse myself.” You watch him give a polite bow before he heads towards the kitchen and out of sight.

You liked Greyson, you liked him a lot. Despite his usual strict and stark manner, he was very kind to you. Over time you developed more than a hint of a fancy towards him. And while it was your duty to look at the potential suitors that were pushed towards you, you couldn’t help but keep your head turned towards the polite and charming butler.

That night you couldn’t sleep, your thoughts were restless, tossing and turning in bed. You decide to stop the uncomfortable sleepless dance and go downstairs to fetch yourself a glass of water. Perhaps you can sneak something to nibble on from the pantry too, and squirrel it away upstairs for when you settle in with a book to read. Your hands roam around in the dark looking for your matchbox. Swiping a match and watching it gutter to life. The fire floating eerily in midair as your hand moves to light a candle. You watch the ignited flame dance in your hand, cupping your fingers over the open flame to dim the light as you stealthily make your way down the hall. You knew you would get in trouble to be up and out of bed this late at night, so you had to move fast.

You are just about to turn the corner, when your eyes see something strange in the dark. You go slacked jawed, about to raise your candle higher, feeling your heart turn to ice. You quickly make the smarter decision to turn back around. Your back pressed against the wall and clutching the candle holder to your breast. You caught the silhouette of something big and hunched, slinking down the corridor. Perhaps it was just your imagination, the dark likes to play tricks on your eyes. But you could have sworn you glimpsed the back of a creature, but it was enormous. You tremble hesitating, wondering if you should gather your courage to take another peek.

A hand grabs your shoulder and you let out a sound. Backing up in fright and bumping into the small table in the hall. You wincing in pain, before your gaze travels up to the owner of the hand on your shoulder. You see the glint of a pair of glasses in the candlelight, and a familiar face. "Greyson!" You breathe, in relief. “Oh it’s only you, my goodness you gave me a fright. I thought I saw--” But your voice catches in your throat, you choke down your words feeling silly. Everyone in the household knew of your love of monsters, they would think you were making up stories. “Greyson. . . did you by chance see anyone else roaming the halls?” You ask instead.

"No. . ." Greyson replies slowly, giving you a stern look. "I did however hear someone roaming the halls.” He gives you a pointed look. “You should be ashamed of yourself, being out and about this late at night. What if there had been an intruder?" You opened your mouth to interject but his glasses flickered in the waving candle. His severe expression looking downright ominous. "To bed. Now. And lock the door behind you." You have never been spoken to that way before and you felt hurt. Giving him a searching look before, spinning on your heels and flouncing down the dark corridor to your bedroom.

Your nightly adventure was cut to an end. And so to pass the time until sleep graced you with its presence, you sat reading in bed. You paused from your book, hearing a noise outside and you tilted your head. You were sure what you were hearing, it sounded like muffled voices behind the door. You slip out of bed carefully, putting the book down at the bedside table and creeping towards the door, you pressed your ear to the doorframe listening in on the conversation.

“We need to make this quick,” You heard someone say, but the voice was unfamiliar.

“Think she’ll be asleep?” Someone else asks in a low husky voice,

“Well if she ain’t she soon will be. . .”

You blink your eyes going round, you hear something like metal, and jolt as your door knob gives a little rattle. You back away, watching the doorknob rattle and hearing the murmuring more conversation behind the door. Your eyes glance around, falling upon the large wardrobe at the other end of the room, you bite your lip, carefully tiptoeing across the carpet. You have just enough room to squeeze yourself inside, keeping the door ajar just a crack. From here you watch the door knob stop jingling and you can hear the faint ticking noise of metal upon metal as the lock is being jimmied open. You suck in a deep breath, feeling your heart pounding in your ears. The door swings open and you can see the vague outline of two men sauntering inside.

From your look out, you can see glimpses of them searching your room. You were stuck inside the wardrobe until they found you, or the butler found them. You flinched as you heard a stool be thrown across the room and you trembled. It sounded too close to where you were hiding. You clutch onto the doorknob trying to think of a way to escape. You hear the tromping of feet getting closer and closer. . . and then silence. You strain your ears, knuckles turning white as you were getting ready to spring forth. You were hoping to take them by surprise, possibly smash the door into one of their unsuspecting faces. Then you hear a noise that practically makes you jump out of your skin.

There was a thud, a strangled sound like a muffled scream, a brief scuffle, then a chilling silence. You are shaking all over, palms sweating, listening as hard as you can for any kind of sound to quell the stillness. You push your face further against the crevice of the door, from what you can see, the room appears empty. How could it be empty? You dare to push the door open wider, and as you peek your head around the corner, you are indeed met with an empty room. You slowly get down, and survey the scene. The tossed furniture and the floor littered with broken trinkets. It made your heart shiver. That was when your gaze fixated upon the large balcony window that has been thrown open wide. The curtain billowed lazily in the breeze. You tiptoe to the balcony, staring out into the starry night. Whoever had been in the house was gone, and what about the beast? That was the only logical explanation you could come up with. The beast you had seen in the hall had got them. You crane your neck to search the grounds below, but you can only see the familiar grassy field glazed in moonlight. Your mind crawls back to the beast in the hallway, hearing the faint sounds of it’s long tapping talons moving over the tile as it snuffled in the dark.

You hastily close the window, locking it for good measure. Though you have a sinking feeling that if a beast like that could come and go as it pleased so silently. . . it would be back. You never believed the gossip of the staff before. Though, it was something you always fancied hearing about. Laughing with them as they would spin fantastic tales of the horror and the macabre. You would sneak down to sit with them, stealing pastries to share as you camped around the hearth. You longed for the comfort of those friends, and that warm hearth.

You hear the door creak and you whirl, relief flooding you as you see Greyson in the doorway. His usual attire disheveled and his glasses barely hanging onto the tip of his nose. “Miss-- Are you alright?” Twice in one night you’ve never seen him this animated before, you nod feebly before you sit down. “I think so. . .” You feel yourself start to shake and you nod. “Just in shock, I thought I. . .” You hesitated once again to tell the truth. What could you say? That two men came into your room and escaped out the window? But then there was that scream and the thrashing you heard. “I don’t know it’s hard to explain.” You look up just in time to see a strange expression pass over Greyson’s face, “There were men who had broken into my room. . . but I don’t know what happened to them, I had hid in the wardrobe.”

You laid in bed all night thinking about the butler, and their strange reaction. He had stiffened up when you had mentioned you had gone into hiding. Greyson had been relieved that you were alright, and he praised your cleverness. But there was something else, an emotion that lay curled just below the surface. And that was curious. . . was he hiding something? As you turned over, tucking your arms beneath your pillow, your mind churned over the other curiosities of the night that left you with unanswered questions. You decided to investigate in the morning, and you hoped the suspicion you had was just a fanciful indulgence in your vivid imagination.

You had to wait until evening, until Greyson had left his private room. Another strange oddity, you never really thought of before. He wasn't around during the day. Your mind felt feverish whirling with strange thoughts and strange questions. Those thoughts were what spurred you on, what led you to stand outside his room. Making sure he was busy preparing dinner before you had crept down the corridor. Throwing guilty glances over your shoulder as you tried the door. To your surprise it opened easily, and you were met with a very dark room. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dark, you had to leave the door open to let enough light filter inside for you to see. His room had no windows? No. . . candles. . . You're hands searched for them in the dark, but came up empty handed.

You held your breath as your eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. Standing as still as a statue and listening hard for any sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor. You needed to work fast, if you were to investigate. You were not sure what you were searching for, not sure what you could find to prove your suspicions. You felt a knot in your throat as you carefully looked through drawers. His normal set of clothes, all kept pristinely folded and pressed. Letters that had been addressed to him, you had only peered over a few. A few addressed from friends or acquaintances, in which he was in a heated argument with. Though what the argument was about was hazy at best. You carefully refold the parchment, and tuck them back away as carefully as you could.

That was when your eyes crept to the steamer trunk at the bedside table. Large. Dark. Mahogany. It sat on squat lions feet, and it looked large enough to house a corpse. You take a slow shaky breath, your hands tremble as you snap open the lock. You tense, expecting the worst as you open the lid. You had closed your eyes, but as they slowly opened, you give sigh of relief. No. . . No bodies thank goodness. More old papers, clothes, a few books, and something wrapped carefully in a piece of velvet cloth. You carefully unwrap the bundle and hold up an intricate silver broach. It was like nothing you have ever seen before, you turn it over in your fingers, staring at it in wonder. It didn’t belong to your family, you wondered if Greyson had stolen it. Not that you had ever suspected him of the sort to steal. . . but this had to be the heirloom of nobility. You carefully rewrap the broach, and gently set it back inside the trunk. Slowly lowering the lid, and closing the heavy metal clasp. Taking pains to make sure everything was as you found it, you are beginning to feel very foolish. Wondering what madness had compelled you to encroach Greyson’s private room, looking for a monster.

You start retreating towards the door, when out of the corner of your eye, you spot something odd. A spot in the wall that was strangely indented. Your feet stall and stop short of their destination, staring at the strange crevice. You hold your breath, walking over to inspect it. Your fingers are able to wedge themselves between the crack in the wall. It took all your strength, but slowly, steadily, you were able to pull the patch of wall forward. You wipe your brows panting, catching your breath from the strain. You had made a big enough gap for you to realize that it was a passage, and as you peered inside, you were able to discern two dark silhouettes slumped on the floor.

You pulse quickens, staring down at them in horror. You hold onto the wall to steady yourself, were they dead? You had no way of knowing.

You heard footsteps.

Crisp

Precise

footsteps coming down the hall.

You panicked on the spot, you couldn’t risk leaving this open. Hoping and praying that they were still alive, you pushed and shoved as hard as you could. You struggled to close the gap, the wall refused to budge and he was coming. Oh he was coming, you had to hurry! You had to risk leaving this open, you couldn’t stay here any longer. You stumbled forwards, reaching the threshold just as Greyson’s shadow filled the doorway.

"What are you doing?" You freeze, looking at him with wide eyes. “I’m sorry. . .” You bluster, “I was-- Trying to find you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He frowns at you, “It’s quite alright, though you look rather upset is something wrong?”

“N-no! I. . .” You take a deep breath, “I had been worried about you,” You bluffed, “Last night, I didn’t even think that you could have gotten hurt, I had been selfish. I started to worry like I do. . .” You notice his gaze shift and was desperate to catch his attention again. “W-well I’m sorry I didn’t mean to barge into your personal space-- I had just been so worried--” You make an attempt to sidestep him, you feel his hand land on your shoulder and you flinch. Greyson’s expression is unreadable. The grips on your shoulder feels like iron as his eyes stare past you. “I think. . . You and I need to have a talk.” “N-no!” You squeak and attempt to pull away, his hand catching your elbow pulling you into the hall as if you were a mere disobedient child. No matter how fiercely you struggle, he is unshakable. “Now is this anyway to act?” He hisses at you, and you freeze, feeling your blood run cold as you stare at him. He escorts you into the kitchen, closing the door firmly and resting his hands behind his back. “Sit down,” He glances at your expression before repeating himself, his voice softening slightly. “Sit down.” You take a seat, your face riddled with uncertainty and distrust. He turns his back from you to start a fire, grimacing slightly at the heat. You watch him doggedly, eyes shifting between where he stood and the door. He sets a kettle on the stove and turns to you. Folding his arms as his piercing gaze stares back at you.

I would recommend you to drink some tea." He says calmly, "It will help soothe your nerves." You stare down at the table, your hands shaking. “A-are. . .” You stammer, “Are they dead?” The whisper of your voice hangs in the air, Greyson gives a snort of irritation. Taking the kettle off the stove and pouring two cups of tea. “They are most certainly not. No. No matter how angry I was, I am not the kind of man to foolishly slather blood upon my hands. They were put there, safely out of the way until I knew what to do with them. And give them a damn good scare so they shall never come back.”

He pulls out a chair, and settles onto it, sitting across from you at the kitchen table. He steepled his fingers together watching you intently. ". . .Have you lost faith in me? I who have served your family dutifully for years?" You don't respond and refuse to look up and meet his gaze, he gives a small sigh. "My dear. . . what if I were to tell you that most of the household knows about me? In fact, I was employed because of what I am. I was given a home in exchange to protect your family."

“Then I was right'' You say softly, “You were the beast I saw in the hallway.” Greyson peers at you over his glasses, “I can become many different things. . . But yes. That was me. I was patrolling the house, I thought I had heard the sound of the front door and I wanted to make sure you were safe.” He takes his glasses off, carefully cleaning them with a handkerchief. You sit quietly letting his words sink in.

“Me?” You respond at last, “What about my mother?” Greyson, blinks before laughing and he shakes his head in wonder, “You’ve never seen your mother fence I presume. She is a devil with a sword.” Your expression softens, being able to picture your mother with a sword drawn and her usual disapproving scowl upon her face tempered your nerves. “I didn’t know she fenced,” You say, “But if you say she is a devil when she does, I must admit she seems like she would be very intimidating.” Your hand gingerly lifts the tea cup to your lips. “All those stories the staff tell. . . are they real then?” Greyson gives a huff of sound, “They’re spreading rumors about me again are they? They really like to do that, I need to have a word with them.” “Oh!” You say quickly, “I’m sure they mean no harm!” Greyson gives you an amused smile, “Harm? No of course not. . . but I was hoping I would tell you myself in time instead of their incessant dropping of hints.” He clears his throat. "I think. . . That is enough questions for one day. Dinner is already at the table. If I prattle on much longer your food shall get cold."

"Please, don't shoo me away," You stumble over your words to apologize. "About before, calling you a-- I wasn't trying to be cruel," Greyson fixes you with a steady gaze before giving a bemused smirk. "Oh. . . ? And tell me, what would you have done. . . If I had ended up being the beast you had been doggedly chasing? If I had been biding my time for the right moment to pounce. For all you know I could be lying. . ." A corner of his lip twitches and your eyebrows knit, looking down and your tea cup. "I don't know. . . I don't know what I would have done, honestly I-- I let fear get the better of me. I-- I'm sorry--"

"No, no, don't apologize, I should be the one asking for your forgiveness," His voice softens, "I was. . . joking, not very well at that. I did feel bitter, but it is nothing against you. How could you have known? I certainly did not expect you to have the courage to search my room. But I knew you would have questions." He puts a gloved hand to his forehead, giving a weak chuckle. "A foresight I should have known better than to overlook. You are too clever for your own good. Clever and much too curious.” Your head bobs up and your mirror his smile with a tiny one of your own. “There will be time for questions later on,” Greyson murmurs softly, raising from his chair, “But it is about time, you get to dinner.” You open your mouth to interject but he ignores you, “And for me to decide what to do with our two house guests.” You close your mouth and nod. “Shall we. . . be able to talk more later tonight?” You carefully get up following him with tea cup and saucer in hand. Greyson peeks at you before giving a tiny smile. “If that is what you wish. . .”

#monster x human #monster x reader #exophilia #fluff #sfw #vampire x human #vampire x reader #male monster x female reader

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a-froger-epic · 3 years

Text

Interview with a Queen “groupie”

Cross-posted to AO3. I encourage you to leave any comments you have there.

---

I compiled this interview following a long email exchange with J, a very sweet lady who went to Ealing Art School between 1972 and 1974. She knew all four members of Queen personally and was part of their larger circle of friends.

First off, you may find this hard to believe. I don’t blame you. But I assure you I’m not pulling your leg. As well as the pictures I share in this post, I have seen current pictures of J (which I will not share to protect her privacy). There is no indication as far as I am aware that she isn’t who she says she is.

Nastally, hold up. How exactly did you find this lady?

She found me. It turns out that she has been following my story Dawn of Aquarius for quite some time. The story is set in 1969. A lot of research about the era went into it, because I wanted to portray that time period - and Freddie’s and Roger’s surroundings - as accurately and realistically as I possibly could. That was what drew J in. She tells me it brought back a lot of memories for her. One of the reasons I love DoA so much is the nostalgia, she says, which genuinely means the world to me. Eventually, she talked to me in the comment section. Of course, I freaked out!

And then, I asked her for an interview, to which she replied: I will give it a go, but you must remember that I am 65 and there were great drugs in the 70s, and at 16, away from home, I had a lot!

And so...

Here’s what is IMPORTANT TO KEEP IN MIND when you read this interview.

These are one woman’s 50-year-old memories and subjective impressions. J has been incredibly kind to let me pick her brain, trying to recall everything as best as she can. In her own words:

Just remember that when I answer the questions, it is from a 16-year-old who is 9 years younger than Freddie and a little girl with no family and friends in a strange country trying to fit in. The only reason I was there, was because some hippie thought I had a unique art style.

---

J as a teenager.

[I have edited the interview together from our long, and somewhat messy at times, email exchange. Typos have been fixed and some punctuation added for clarity, but I have not changed anything J has written to me. Again, bear in mind these are personal opinions and impressions.]

So, J, how did you end up at Ealing Art School in 1972 and what was it like?

This was the painting done for the Australian school-leaving certificate.

It placed first and gave me a scholarship. I could pick France, the USA or England. As a dual citizen of the UK, the choice was easy. The scholarship paid for board and fees, so had to be and sell whatever for spending money.

This picture is from the dorm. We all had a 10pm curfew and a very thick rule book that, I am proud to say, I broke every one of them, one by one. The rooms were on the 1st and 2nd floor. We were on the first floor, rooms one side and admin staff the other end. We had two bathrooms for 18 girls. One of them had two baths. The walls were your standard half wall, so it was a given that if you had a bath you run the risk of having a bucket of cold water dropped on you. Downstairs was the kitchen and lounge room.

I want to ask you a few things about life in London in the early 70s, to get a picture of what it was really like. For example, was there alcohol at the music gigs you went to?

If it was a school, church or community hall, no. If it was a pub, yes.

Did you and your friends drink as much then as young people tend to drink now when you all went out?

No, we didn't. I think it had a lot to do with money. We didn't have the disposable income, and it was unheard of to still be living at home with the parents after the age of 20.

Was weed and LSD as big and easily accessible as depictions of the 60s and 70s would have us believe?

The drugs! Got to have drugs. Pot (weed) was easy to grow, very cheap. Used to smoke it in bongs rather than joints, more bang for your buck. Trips [LSD] were cheap, I think. About 2 pounds and you were on the high for over 24 hours with no sleep. My drug of choice was hash. Either the oil or the block. It was a nice high, but you could not function well. But if you listen to the music of the time it really does reflect what it was like, to have a group of friends over for a session. Having said all that the most outlandish and shocking drug I ever saw anyone use was the birth control pill. Didn't you have to hide that stuff away?!

Can you tell us some 70s slang that isn’t really in use anymore? What in the world does “ultra-blagging” mean? (As written in a letter penned by Freddie to his friend Celine in 1969.)

Abso-bloody-lootely!

Man, I thought I was the bees knees to be on a scholarship in London. But that didn't stop me from jigging or having a skive day. They were the days that I blagged my way into a pub, had too many lagers and ended up chundering in the gutter. That was how you knew your night was ace. I would get a right bollocking if anyone found out. It would be a bugger when all that you could find at a car boot sale was chavtastic, but sometimes you could be Jammy Dodger and tickety-boo you find something brilliant. Bob's your uncle. Anyways, I need to see a man about a dog.

[It seems to me that J uses a bit of Australian slang here, like chundering, which makes sense because she is, after all, Australian. She also provided the translation:]

Cheers

It would be my honour.

I felt very privileged to be given a scholarship that let me study in England. But being so young and having no family to guide me, it was often tempting to not turn up or give a false excuse for being sick. (I had a lot of food poisoning). These would often happen if the night before I had been drinking beer and ended up vomiting outside the pub. But in my young mind that was a good night. If any of the teachers found me drinking I would be in a lot of trouble. Often I would have to say I was holding it for someone else. Not having much clothes with me, I would buy them second hand from church jumble sales or other students and, yes, Kensington market (the market). Some of the stuff would not be very tasteful or in good condition. But sometimes you would find something that was cheap and in good condition. I will stop this text now as I must go to the toilet.

PS: Ultrablagging sounds very Freddie. Blagging was used, but not ultra, meaning to persuade someone to do something or act better than you are. They were always rock stars.

Sincerely

[It was at this point that I realised I was talking to an absolute legend. She also told me then that the majority of her old photographs had sadly been lost when her house was flooded in 1988, including most of the photographs from her stay in London. Noooo! :(]

When you went out to dance, did you have only live music? Were there DJs yet?

You know, that is hard. We did not have a DJ. Sometimes there would be a band. Often we looked for places with a band or the jukebox. I think pubs closed at 10pm and some stayed open to 12 or 1, but public transport stopped at 9. So if you had not arranged a lift then you had to make the last bus. Most of the time we would be heading back to someone's place to get stoned and then crash there. In the morning you would have to work out where you were. When I got back to Australia, the discos were all the rage. They could have been in London too but it was not cool to like disco.

How many people would show up to Queen’s gigs when they played in pubs or at, for example, the Imperial College?

Depending on the location and the night: 10 to 1000!

So how did you first meet the Queen boys?

I was at the pub talking about a band we saw last week when Brian stuck his head into our booth telling us he knew a better one. Thinking about seeing them at the stall... Roger not often, Freddie quite a lot. Often on different stalls, I think that is why I can't remember the name. [The name of the stall. Other sources confirm that Freddie also worked at Alan Muir’s stall, for example, selling shoes.]

How well did you know them?

Just looking at your tumblr account. [she has had a look at my blog, where somebody asked if ‘groupie’ meant she had slept with the band] No, I never slept with the boys. I would not say I was a close friend, but I started at Ealing Art College in ‘72 and moved in the same circles. I loved the music and could be called one of the first groupies. I had to sneak into the pubs because I was 16. Roger always teased me for being so young. They all did seem to be one very large family, not just the band. It was a group of about twenty regulars, both male and female. Everyone knew that Fred was too gay to function. We were all at the gay rights march in London in 1972, had to run after the march. Lots of sharpies [Australian slang: youth gang, thugs] wanting to bash us. Back then I was in every protest that was going, student union rights, even the secretary protest. Just part of the times, stick it to Man or Woman. I left London in ‘74 for Australia, been here ever since and lost track of the boys but have never stopped being a fan.

What do you remember about them? How would you describe their personalities?

Don’t let the trolls hate me, but I did not like Brian. I found him to be rather full of himself. Space was a subject you never brought up around Brian or you would die of old age before he stopped talking. He was always the first to speak and start a conversation and then quickly passed you off to John, who was always tired and shy. Roger was also quite shy at times. He was very self-conscious of his looks, as he felt being pretty, nobody would take him seriously. Fred, well, he was not yet the big star, so I think he was working on his stage persona. When talking to groups at parties, he had the best stories of things that had happened to him or close friends. They were very funny and very descriptive. He was the life of the party. When he had a few to drink or was the centre of attention, he would take a cigarette out of the closest person’s hand and start smoking. Now remember this is the point of view of a 16-year-old girl that was a fish out of water, trying to fit in and not having much worldly experience.

It is said that Freddie and Roger were very stylish. How did they dress in everyday life?

Fred would do his hair and makeup to check the mail. Yes, he was always turned out, but so were a lot of people. Freddie did go over the top with hats, scarfs and jewellery. With Roger, it is a surprise he was able to have kids his jeans were that tight. And his shirts were always open unless he was in a jumper. I think it could have been so that you knew he was male, as it was the start of the unisex clothing. When I travelled out of London I realised it was a London thing. When I got back to Australia everyone thought I was a show-off.

There are some disagreements about how tall especially Freddie was. I know this is a difficult thing to try and remember accurately. But do you remember?

Freddie was taller than me but everyone was. Roger was shorter than Fred, but I never saw Roger in platform shoes. I did meet up with the band by chance at Sydney airport in 1984, said ‘hello’ but they did not remember me, or if they did then they did not say anything and I did not want to be a dork. At that time Fred was the same height as me (5ft 8in/1.72m), Roger was taller than me. It made me think at the time that he had a growth spurt! John was shorter than me and Brian has always been tall. [I have a feeling the platform shoes - or lack thereof - played a vital role here! Although 172cm for Freddie seems likely.]

You said everyone knew Freddie was “too gay to function”. Attitudes towards homosexuality have changed so much that it can be hard for us, now, to fathom what exactly people must have thought of him. Was it more of a joke that he was so camp? Was it something he would have been teased for? Also, he had a girlfriend. Did you ever meet Mary or the other girlfriends?

In 1972 a whole group of us - and I am pretty sure that Fred, Roger, Brian and Tim were there - were in a gay pride march. [Since then, J has found and showed me a picture of a boy she thought was Tim Staffel, and it wasn't, so Tim was most definitely not there. Whether Freddie, Roger and Brian really were there or if J is misremembering, who knows?] Us youth believed you could not choose who you fell in love with and if it was same sex, so what? However, if it was two girls then it was every guy’s duty to change her!

It was also a time that the gayer the guy was, the more the girls were interested. Also, if a guy was gay then you did not have to worry about him and he was a good person to take with you if you were going out drinking. However, the police, parents, teachers and anyone of authority were horrified and treated them badly. I did meet Mary a couple of times at pubs and once after a gig. This is just my opinion, but I found her a bitch. It could be that I was so young. It could be that I was very Australian. It could be that she felt threatened as my accent was a magnet to people around. And the boys (Queen) were no exception. Brian had a cousin in OZ and was always asking questions. I remember that my close group of friends thought that Mary made the perfect girlfriend for Fred as they were as fake as each other. Having said that about them, I often wonder if I would think the same now and if my perceptions were just because she would not give me the time of Day. Chrissy and Jo were a lot of fun.

This was before your time, but I read that Freddie's nickname at Ealing Art School was ‘Freddie Baby’. Any ideas how this came about? His showmanship or maybe personality traits?

I don't think so. There were an older crowd that would talk like that. I think the slang ‘baby’ was a 60’s thing, like groovy baby.

How long, roughly, did Roger and Freddie have their stall? I can't find anywhere when it closed down. What did it actually look like? Was it a sort of wooden stall type of thing? Or an actual room? What were some of the other things people sold at Kensington Market? Mostly clothes or all sorts?

The markets were little divided shops. The back was brick and the walls wood. I have been trying all day to remember the name. [Of the stall.] I think it was something hard to say. More often than not it would be Freddie's dad in the store. It was still open when I left. Roger and Freddie were both in the store on Saturdays and some Sundays. There was a girl, I think Jill, who was in the store more. And during the week it could be anyone. You name it and you could get it at the markets. Second hand or designer clothes, shoes, jewellery, pot and assortments. Hair cuts, food, bric-a-brac.

Wait, wait. What? Freddie’s dad? Really now?

Yeah, it was an older Indian man. so we just assumed it was his father. It was my understanding that he started the stall then the boys would work it as the whole markets were set up for younger people, but if needed he would work there. I don't think the boys would be able to pay the rent on their own. [I have since found out that the stall closed in late 1971, and Freddie continued to work at the Market until '74, for Alan Mair and possibly others. So the stall J witnessed wasn't their original stall - explaining all the different people she saw there - but she had no way of knowing that it wasn't.] They always had incense burning that was very big in the 70s. I still occasionally bring out the sticks, but it does not last like the candles and diffusers of today. If you could get in touch with Robert Daniels, he ran ChaChaDumDum it was the stall across from Freddie. He would know the dates.

[J says it’s this look, in a picture she happened across while looking at my tumblr] Yep, that is the one. It usually means that he does not believe or agree with something that was said and is working out how to respond, or he has lost the plot.

You mentioned Roger seemed shy to you at times. Was he also quite charming? We read a lot about what a chick magnet he was. Was this the impression you had?

My favorite subject! I had a thing for Roger. Everyone has a type and mine is the blue-eyed blond. Now, before you ask, was he brunet? No, he was a mouse/dirty blond. If it was summer he would have blond streaks mostly at the ends. He knew he was pretty and was always dressed in the latest fashion and had the current hairstyle. So, being my type I was constantly watching him. Everyone slept around during that time. I did not notice Roger doing it more or less. 80% of the time he was with Jo. Yes, he was a chick magnet, but he did not do the chasing. He was always very polite to everyone. If it ever looked like there would be any conflict he would be the first to leave it. It was not that he was a coward, just not into conflict. If he saw anyone that needed help he was right there, and often had to have Freddie's back. I never saw him in a fight. He could always talk his way out of things. He was also very patient and would listen for hours to other people talk. However, he would get this vacant look in his eyes at times.

And Freddie would either click his fingers, change the subject or just give up. I don’t think that Brian noticed, and it would be fair game for John, he would see how far he could push it. Roger liked to drink a fair bit and when drunk he would be hanging all over Jo. If she was not there then he missed Jo. If, however, he thought that he or his friends were not being respected, then look out! It was a verbal volcano heading your way. That is what happened to me one time. I was trying to talk with my friends close to where a drunken Roger was and I yelled at him to shut the hell up, you wannabe blond. We/I coped a mouthful back, all in the same sentence, that finished with: Sorry, I didn't realise you were on your rags (period)! I have to have the last word, so I told him the truth: I don’t get them yet! (I was a late starter.) He went so red in the face and called me JB [jail bait] from then.

You also mentioned Roger’s cat Ziggy having kittens. I read about this but never when exactly it was. Do you remember?

I think it was winter ‘73. I remember being cold when he was asking around the pub. [To find homes for the kittens, I gather.]

Is it quite strange reading fictional interpretations of real people you knew? When did you first find out there was Queen fanfic?

No, we used to make up stories about people all the time, a verbal fanfic. Was looking up Adam Lambert and came across the fanfics. Some had me in stitches! Others, like DoA, had me hooked.

Please, allow me to be a little self-indulgent at the end. What's one thing I got totally RIGHT in DoA?

All the Ibex stuff.

What's one thing I got totally WRONG in DoA?

Roger did not have a temper, and I don’t know what the go with his father was, but he would talk about him quite a bit and was always visiting his mum. [Absolutely fair, not only did I change the timeline of Roger’s parents divorce in DoA - for lack of information at the time - but also created a completely fictional narrative around it for the sake of storytelling.]

J, thank you so much for all this, sincerely. Can you tell me a little more about yourself? Are you still an artist?

I don't paint or draw any more. At the age of a 50 the doctors operated on an aneurysm or three, and now my eyesight is very bad, I have no fine motor skills and a tremor. I was married in January 1984 and have just celebrated our 37 year anniversary. I have one daughter who is 30 and two great, although tiring grandkids. A girl, 11, and one boy, 5. I have lived my life as the average middle class Australian with great memories. Talking with you has helped me a lot to remember a time when the world was mine for the taking. When I returned to OZ I started nursing, met my best friend, and we planned that once we graduated we would go back to London to study midwifery. But I fell in love instead.

J's wedding in 1984. As you can see, she found her own blue-eyed blond.

---

Upon request, J has shared some of her past and present artwork with me.

These are from her time at Ealing Art School:

These were done later, back in Australia:

J: Did this just before Christmas as you had inspired me. It did not require fine motor skills!

So there you have it! I hope you found this little glimpse through a 16-year-old girl’s eyes as much of a fascinating read as I did. I urge everybody one more time to remember that J did not have to share any of this, and I think we all owe her a big thank you for delving into her memories. She is likely to see the responses on AO3, so I have comment moderation enabled there as I will not let anybody harass this lovely lady. The tumblr she created is @since72, but she isn’t really an active user and also very new to it all. Again, I can only urge everybody to be respectful.

If you have other burning question for J, feel free to leave them in the comments on AO3. I will either pass them on, or she may want to reply to them herself directly.

#Queen band #Freddie Mercury #Roger Taylor #John Deacon #Brian May #interview #i am so excited about this #so much into #information #JB

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bluegarners · 3 years

Note

“I have your loved one” with Dick and Jason?

heyyy, it's finally here haha! i'm slowly getting to each request lol

here it is on ao3

I Have Your Loved One

It’s Thursday.

Time: 23:47, or 11:47 p.m.

Bludhaven has hit a rough patch in its weather, a vicious storm battering against thin windows and overflowing gutters and drains. It’s one of those storms that brings in the water but no lightning, dark clouds blanketing the entire sky, remorseless and relentless in its pursuit of smothering any light from escaping. The clouds don’t muffle anything though, perhaps amplifying instead the downpour that floods through Bludhaven’s streets and alleyways. Its citizens like to think this is a New Jersey hurricane, freshly mutated and traveled from the east coast into their humble, mildew covered city.

Dick likes the rain. Likes the way it pounds against his apartment, screaming to be let in but just barely warded off by seven inches of concrete and steel. The blinds are closed against the windows, and he has towels pushed up against the sills just in case the sealing lets up. Even if they were open, Dick is sure all he would see is another wall of gray and black, dozens of delicate raindrops splattered against his windows.

Because of the storm currently wreaking havoc in his city, Dick has elected to stay indoors for the time being. Eventually, the rain will let up, its pattern being close to about 05:00, and then he’ll suit up and do a quick patrol before work. For now, he’s content with sitting on his couch and listening to the water smack against the old building and run rivers down the sides. He’d like to sleep through it, a free white noise service at the ready, but his mind simply refuses to allow him to rest just yet. In a few hours, he’s sure he’ll come to hate himself for not taking NyQuil or some other drug to help him fall asleep, but for now… Well, it’s nice. The rain is nice. It’s also very loud.

He misses the first call.

His phone is face down on the kitchen table, about eight feet away from where he lays on the couch, mindlessly staring up at the ceiling. It vibrates, buzzing for thirty seconds, before falling silent.

He misses the second call too.

Thunder rumbles through the black sky, its force shaking the windows and only encouraging the downpour. His phone buzzes again during it, quieting after another thirty seconds.

Dick hears the third call. Hears the tail-end of the buzzing, getting up from his position on the couch and padding over to pick up his phone only to miss the last few seconds. He unlocks his phone, checking the number, and feels something cold settle into his gut when he sees no caller ID. It’s the same person though, all three times, but no voicemail.

He’s about to call the number back, just in case it’s someone he knows and they’re ringing from a payphone or something else, when the no caller ID flashes across his screen for the fourth time.

Dick answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Is this Richard Grayson?”

“Yes, that’s me. Who is this?”

The voice is feminine, a slight, western accent, longer o’s and a faint drawl. Somewhere from Arizona most likely. Lower register too. Older woman, mid-to-late fifties. Smoker.

“That’s good. I was starting to think I had the wrong number, Richard.”

“Yeah, sorry, I just didn’t have my phone on me. You didn’t say earlier, but who is this?”

“That doesn’t matter too much right now. What does matter, though, is this.”

She pauses. There’s shuffling he can hear on the other side. A faint, second voice in the background. No, three voices. At least two others in the room with the woman. He can hear the sounds of an air condition unit rattling.

“I think you might’ve cut off there. What were—”

“I have your loved one, Richard.”

Lightning cracks through Bludhaven.

His stomach falls onto the floor, pooling around his ankles. The storm outside grinds to a halt, the quiet louder than any thunder it’s ever managed to produce, and there’s a high pitched ringing reverberating inside his skull. Dick thinks he might be sick.

“What?” he chokes, the air in the room suffocating and weighing down his lungs. “What did you say?”

“I have your loved one,” the woman repeats, calm and slow. “Your brother, actually. Then again, he tells me you aren’t related by name nor blood, so we’ll settle for a loved one.”

“What do you want?” Dick demands, already scrambling to get to his computer, find where they’ve taken Jason. Find his brother.

“He did say you weren’t one for small talk,” the woman carries on, unhurried and unconcerned. “Your brother isn’t either, hardly said a word all this time.”

“Can I speak to him?”

There’s a small huff on the other end of the call, exhalation and a sigh leaving the woman’s mouth. A cigarette. She’s smoking during this conversation, blowing the smoke into the receiver.

“I don’t know,” she finally answers. There. Dick has his general location. Still in Gotham. He needs the tracker to be more precise though. It’s taking time though. Too much. “Your brother here was pretty convinced you wouldn’t answer after his daddy didn’t pick up. Cried pretty hard about it too.”

“What are you talking about?” Dick grounds out, fearing his phone will crack with how tightly he’s gripping it.

“Well, you weren’t our first choice to call, Richard. I’m sure you understand.”

Dick says nothing, focused on the computer screen in front of him. He should contact Barbara. This would be faster with her. Faster to find Jason.

“We called about seven times,” the woman continues, blowing another puff of smoke out into the phone. “Isn’t that right, boy? We called and called and called. His daddy didn’t pick up once, went straight to voicemail each time. A shame, really.”

There’s a sniffle on the other side of the call and Dick’s heart seizes when he realizes it’s probably Jason.

Batman was currently off-world, all communication with him being strictly between Justice League lines. Bruce Wayne was somewhere in the Bahamas, partying with Italian models and Spanish actresses.

Of course he wouldn’t pick up.

“Can I please talk to him?” Dick asks for the second time, fisting a hand into the couch cushions. “Please, I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

More smoke. “I’ll ask him.”

There’s a muffled thud, the phone most likely having been put down, and quiet voices filter through the line. He can’t hear much of what they’re saying, short bursts of comprehensible syllables before fading back to unintelligible noises. His computer dings with a response from Barbara. She’s going to use one of the J.L satellites to better pin-point Jason’s location. She’s also in communication with the police, reporting a child-abduction.

Keep them talking, she writes. Everything is going to be okay, Dick.

It feels like his heart is beating in his throat and his tongue has swollen to the size of a bowling ball. The storm outside is unrelenting. Lightning hasn’t struck again.

There’s more movement on the other side, clattering and scattered noises. The phone’s been picked up.

“Alright,” the woman says, raspy and uncaring. “The boy says he wants to talk to you, Richard.”

Dick holds his breath, waiting. There’s more noises, a transfer he thinks, and another sniffle interrupts it.

“Hello?” a shaky voice asks into the receiver. Dick feels like crying.

“Jason,” he breathes. “We’re going to get you out of there, alright? You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” his brother rattles, a sob latching onto the end. “I’m so sorry, Dick. I-I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” Dick shushes, feeling himself get choked up at the fear in the younger boy’s voice. “I know you didn’t, bud. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“No, not really. I didn’t think you were gonna pick up,” he admits, voice cracking. “B-Bruce didn’t. He didn’t answer, Dick, and I-I thought you weren’t gonna either. I-I thought—”

“I’ll always answer, Jason, I promise. I’m coming for you, okay? I’m going to come get you and we’ll both go home together. Does that sound good, Jay? You’re going to be fine.”

“Okay,” the thirteen year old relents. “You promise though, right? You’re not gonna leave me here?”

“No, Jay, of course not. I’m not going to leave you there, I’m coming to get you. Right now. I promise, okay? Jason, I would never abandon you. You’re my kid-brother and I love you. I’m not going to-”

“As touching as this is,” the woman interrupts, “I think that’s enough.”

“Put Jason back on the phone,” Dick snarls. “I swear, if you lay a hand on him, if you even touch him, I will end you.”

“Sure, honey,” the woman drawls, puffing into the receiver. “Here’s what’s going to happen, so I want you to listen to me.”

His computer dings. It’s Barbara. She’s got the location. It’s close. Not even twenty minutes away. Border between Bludhaven and Gotham. Motel next to the gas station connecting the freeways. Room 13.

He’s out the door and revving up his motorcycle before the woman has even taken a second drag from her cigarette. The rain is beating against him, gloomy street lights flickering through the shrouded dark of the storm. Thank god for Bludhaven sewers, only slightly better than Gotham’s. The water level is only a few millimetres high.

“Now, I don’t want to keep this kid anymore than you want him to stay here with me,” the woman drones. The streets are empty. Dick blows through every red light he comes across. The tires are new, the grip is fine. “So, I think we can make this simple.”

“What do you want?” Dick growls, transferring the call into his helmet. He prays she can’t hear the rain battering against it. “Just tell me what you want already and I’ll give it to you.”

“Don’t rush me,” the woman snaps, and it is then that Dick realizes that this is all probably by chance. This isn’t some criminal mastermind who plotted to find and kidnap the son of a billionaire. This isn’t a case of a rogue villain piecing together vague details and figuring out Batman and company’s identities. It’s simply someone desperate. Someone who saw the opening and took it. The poor planning is evident, practically spelled out in bold print that these people have no real idea what they’re doing.

“Sorry,” Dick bites out, veering through a short-cut that says, in neon orange, Danger. Construction Zone. “Please continue.”

The woman on the line is vindictive though, choosing to remain quiet as the sound of a lighter clicking open tinnies through the call. She takes her time lighting a new cigarette, taking a long, slow drag and holding it in for a few seconds. Dick jerks his bike to the right, narrowly avoiding a large pothole. A passing car blares its horn at him. Finally, the woman exhales. He can hear Jason cough in the background.

“What I want,” she starts, a new color of intrigue hitting the back of her throat. He’s barely ten minutes away now. Could probably half it if he took more backstreets and increased his speed. “Is for my son to be released from prison.”

“Who is your son?” Dick asks, cursing silently as his back tire skids, hydro-planing for a moment. Thunder crashes above him and the rain continues to pelt at his body. It feels like getting hit with a paint-ball gun.

“Landon Jennings. I want you to get him released. I know you have the access to lawyers, probably have debts owed to you from people in high places. I want him released tonight.”

Time: 00:14.

01:14 a.m standard time.

“I can do that,” Dick says, heart beating faster as he sees the sign for the motel, dim in the gray, “but I’ll need a few hours. I need to contact my lawyers. Where is your son stationed?”

An icon appears in the front of his digitized visor. It’s Barbara. She sees him closing in. Police are on route. Seven minutes out. He has the option to wait on them and keep the kidnappers on the line.

“Same place they all go,” the woman barks. “Use that head of yours and figure it out. I want my son out by tonight, or you’re not going to see your brother again. And,” she rushes, “I don’t want the police involved. If you call them, I’ll know, you understand? I don’t want to hurt the kid, but I’m not scared to. My husband is here with me too, so if you try and—”

Okay, so waiting isn’t an option. He’s going in.

“No police,” Dick interrupts. “I understand. Please, don’t hurt him.”

“If you just do what you’re told, then I won’t have to.”

“Thank you,” Dick whispers, gently getting off of his bike and leaving it on the side of the road. He can’t chance them seeing him pulling into the motel lot. “You said your son’s name was Landon? If you don’t mind me asking, what is he charged with?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Dick jogs towards the motel, careful to stay out of direct light. The general office looks closed. Most of the windows facing the lot are shielded by salmon colored curtains. There’s only one floor, thankfully. Dick sees door 13. He’s shaking. His fingers are numb.

“My lawyers said they need to know in order to file for a judge to repeal his sentence.”

“Is that so?” the woman asks, suspicion tailing her voice. She takes a drag from her cigarette, contemplating. Dick’s clothes are soaking wet and he cringes every time his shoes squelch against the concrete. He decides crawling is best, ducking under windows and avoiding peepholes. “Fine then. Landon got falsely accused of statutory rape and breaking and entering. Is that what your damn lawyers are looking for?”

“Yes,” Dick breathes. He’s at door 10. He can see a faint glow coming from behind the curtains of room 13. He’s so close. “Thank you.”

He taps on the side of his helmet, sending a series of numbers that he’s sure Barbara will understand.

23-26-8-37

E-N-T-R

He can’t wait any longer.

While crawling, Dick made sure to get a good look at the motel’s doors and hinges. They’re standard, and though both Gotham and Bludhaven tend to have better locks than most other cities, Dick recognizes the model of the door and the wood it’s made out of. They’re thin enough for him to ram through. The hinges on the sides are rusted over as well, and Dick thinks they might just be weak enough to break. The windows however. The windows are his best bet. He doubts this kind of motel invests in bullet proof glass, and on some of the sills, he can see water damage. They leak. Poorly made. Meaning, if he ran at them, he could break through pretty easily.

But, if that doesn’t work. Or if he’s not fast enough to get on his feet once in. Or if the window is directly in front of Jason and the glass breaks all over him. Or if—

Stop. He can’t think about the what-ifs right now. Dick knows he can do this. Knows how to do this. There isn’t any more time to wait. He promised he would get Jason out of there, and goddamnit, he’s going to keep his promise.

“You’re being really quiet,” the woman mutters. “What’s going—”

Dick takes a deep breath and tenses. The light behind the curtain flickers. He needs to move. Now. Now.

Lightning splits across the sky and Dick can’t tell if it’s the glass shattering or the thunder that makes the other-worldly crack but it doesn’t matter because Dick lands feet first and is tucking and rolling before the occupants have a chance to react.

“Oh my god!” someone screams, but Dick isn’t paying attention to them because his gaze zeroes in on his brother, tiny, thirteen year old Jason, who’s tied up on one of the beds and staring right at him.

He can’t linger long though because he hears the words, “Get the gun!”, and he’s up on his feet again, rushing the closest person. It turns out to be the husband, a balding man with a patchy neck-beard, and Dick bunches up his fist and swings, socking the man in the stomach. He doubles over, wheezing, and Dick can see the small pistol in the man’s right hand, and Dick strikes down on his shoulder, kneeing him simultaneously. The pistol drops and so does the man, groaning, and Dick turns to the woman, who is staring at him like an animal cornered.

“Don’t come any closer!” she yells, pocket knife trembling in her grip as she shoves it in Jason’s face. “I’ll stab him, I will!”

Dick holds up his hands, sidestepping the groaning man. “Put the knife down.”

“No!” the woman argues, a strand of black hair falling into her mouth. “Now I told you- stay there! Don’t fucking move or I’ll kill this kid, you hear! I’ll fucking slice his throat open!”

With how scared the woman is, and how precarious she holds the pocket knife, which Dick can see is dull even from where he’s standing, he knows it’s not an idle threat. Scared people will do anything to get out of the situation they’re in. Scared people are unpredictable and dangerous.

But so is Dick.

So is Jason.

“I’m not going to move,” Dick reassures, eyes flickering towards his brother, “so, please, drop the knife. We can talk this out.”

“Talk?” the woman shrills, jerking the knife closer to Jason’s jawline. “You just killed my husband!”

“I didn’t kill him,” Dick corrects. “He’s just unconscious. Come on now. It’s just you and me. Let’s talk this over. I can still get Landon out if you give me back my brother. It’s as easy as that, alright? Just put down the knife, and we’ll talk. Does that sound okay?”

The woman looks like she’s considering it, the hand holding the knife still trembling, when the first sirens enter the lot. Red and blue light flash through the broken window as rain seeps into the curtains.

“You rat!” she screams, furious and terrified and desperate all at once. “You fucking called the cops! You broke—”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish before Jason snaps his head back, headbutting the woman directly in the nose. He falls to the side, getting out of range of the knife, and Dick takes his cue, leaping forwards and gripping the woman’s wrist and squeezing, weapon falling from her grasp. There’s blood spurting from her nose and Dick throws her to the floor, getting her on her stomach and hands behind her back. He sits on top of her, his weight overpowering any strength she has left, and in the next few seconds, police are banging on the door.

“This is the GCPD! Open up and put your weapons down!”

“You can come in!” Dick shouts, holding the squirming woman in place. “We’re unarmed!”

Things happen quickly after the door bangs open, several officers pouring in like the Bludhaven storm. As soon as an officer handcuffs the woman he’s on top of, Dick is rushing to Jason’s side, another officer cutting away his bindings. His younger brother turns to him, about to say something, but Dick cuts him off with a crushing hug, cradling the back of Jason’s head to rest against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Dick whispers, gathering his brother more fully into his arms. “I should’ve been there sooner. God, Jason, I’m so sorry.”

“I-I thought you weren’t going to come for me,” Jason confesses, hiccuping. “When Bruce didn’t pick up, I thought it was because he didn’t want me anymore. I-I told her that, I told her Bruce wasn’t coming but she wouldn’t listen and-and I—”

Dick wraps his arms more securely around the sobbing preteen in response, gently rocking back and forth as the mattress springs squealed under the pressure.

“I know I haven’t always been around,” he says, uncaring about the snot dribbling into his shirt, “and I’m sorry you thought you couldn’t rely on me to come and get you. You’re my brother, though, and I will always come running when you call. No matter what. I promise, Jay. Anywhere, anytime, I promise I’ll be there. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jason wheezes, the adrenaline from before slowly releasing its hold. “I trust you.”

Dick presses his face into his brother’s hair, relief washing over him as his heart slows. He’s never had a sibling before. Things were still tense with Bruce, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a big brother. There isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for this kid in his arms right now.

“What’re brothers for, right?” he mumbles.

The rain doesn’t stop and pours and pours and pours. Dick just holds Jason tighter.

The real storm was over.

Five months later

It’s Thursday.

Time: 11:47 a.m.

The stone is nice. White marble. Shiny. Expensive.

There are fresh flowers. Roses and yellow daisies. The dirt is still new too. Evidence of freshly upturned earth. Dick reaches down and pulls out a weed that’s sprung up at the corner of the stone. Tosses it away.

He doesn’t have flowers. He has a newspaper in his left hand. Reads: Mourning billionaire sets off on trip to Europe.

Jason died a month before he got back from across the universe.

Anywhere, he had said. Anytime. I promise I’ll be there.

He crumples the newspaper into a tight ball and shoves it into his pocket. Stares at the stone. The sun is out. There are no clouds in the sky. It’s nice.

It’s a nice day.

“Fuck,” Dick mutters, a familiar burn in the back of his eyes. “Fuck.”

Anywhere, anytime.

Dick Grayson is an only child once again.

#bad things happen bingo #i have your loved one #dick grayson #dick grayson is nightwing #nightwing #jason todd #jason todd is robin #robin #hurt/comfort #angst #kidnapping #well the hurt/comfort didn't really work out in the end but eh #my fic

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wendimydarling · 4 years

Text

The Thirst is Real

Summary: Little Freya might not be who she says she is...

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Little Freya

Word Count: 1965

Warnings: uhhh.... slow burn; dirty thoughts; erotic thoughts; mentions of arousal, daddy kink, spanking, oral, masturbation, and thigh riding; size kink; slight manhandling; dom/sub kink if you squint.

A/N: So it’s been buzzing around The Cavillry that @littlefreya is either a mole in the community or Henry himself... @agniavateira (my beautiful goddess of a beta who also beta’d this fic for me) and I had a sensational conversation about what Freya and Henry’s weekly meet-ups would entail, and this beautiful birthday present was born! It’s also a little different that what I’ve done before, as I might have used some real life thirst examples in the fic.

Did I call you out? I guess you’ll just have to read. 😈

You’ll get another gift on your actual birthday my love, but for now, please enjoy!!

~~~~~

Freya adjusted her curls in the mirror, adding one last dash of eyeliner. She was preparing for her weekly meeting with Henry, but this time her stomach was twisting itself in a spiral like a shirt ready to be dyed.

When Henry first suggested the idea of her going on Tumblr to spy for him, she was hesitant at first. What if she couldn’t make friends? What if they didn’t trust her? But now, with a solid 6k followers under her belt, she knew she could say just about anything and people would flock to the thirst.

With a nervous look at her reflection, Freya gathered her things and headed out the door, sending a quick couple of texts to Henry.

I’m on my way. You should post on your IG stories… they’re wondering what you’re up to this morning.

Perfect, thanks. I’ll send you what I’m about to upload.

A couple of seconds later Freya received his text, quickly setting up a post and waiting for Henry to update his Instagram. She smiled to herself; Tumblr would be buzzing in a matter of seconds once she posted, and what better way to show Henry what went on in the torrential world of social media than to show him live? Freya’s phone chimed again, indicating Henry had done as she’d suggested.

She couldn’t help but grin like a demon as she hit the small blue button.

Pocketing her phone, Freya enjoyed the scenery on the short walk to Henry’s place. He was in London briefly as was she, so they were meeting at his home instead of Skyping like usual. Why she was so nervous, she didn’t know… Henry had been a friend for quite a few years now, even becoming one of her closest companions. He confided in her and she in him, and it was always a joy to see him. Every day she looked forward to their flirty banter. But that was easier when it was over the phone; doing so in person was an entirely different matter.

Freya reached Henry’s small home and knocked on the door. She’d only been there a couple of times, but the tiny house never ceased to give her a wonderful sense of charm and sensibility. A loud bark and clack of nails on the floor signaled that Kal was ready and waiting to greet her, which meant Henry wouldn’t be far behind. Freya fidgeted with her fingers and chewed on her lip in taut anticipation.

The door swung wide and there was Henry, sporting a puppy dog grin on his face and his large frame filling the entire entryway. His muscular chest was practically bursting from the snug grey shirt he wore, and his dark blue jeans couldn’t have looked more sinful. He had Kal by the collar as if the dog weighed nothing, and Freya couldn’t help but feel incredibly small. Henry reached out his hand, softly tugged her bottom lip from her teeth, then swooped her up for a one-armed squeeze.

“It’s so good to see you,” he murmured against her ear, sending chills down Freya’s spine. Her feet dangled helplessly as she wrapped her own arms around his neck, inhaling the sharp scent that had long since faded from the hoodie he’d let her “steal”. The fact that he was holding her petite stature in one arm and still controlling Kal with the other wasn’t lost to Freya, and the images it provoked in her mind of what exactly he could do to her with that kind of strength made her tingle.

Oh, the positions he could put her in...

All too soon Henry set Freya down, shaking her from her sudden daydream.

“Come on in,” he said, maneuvering Kal and ordering him to sit. Freya crossed the threshold, imagining what it would be like if she was in a long, white gown…

“I’m making a smoothie, would you like one?” Henry broke into her thoughts again and Freya flushed, hurriedly setting her bag on the table and pulling out her laptop.

“Just some water please,” she replied, swallowing thickly as she realized how dry her throat was. She logged into Tumblr as Henry bustled about in the kitchen and quickly reblogged a few thirsty comments, scrolling through to find some good ones while she waited for Henry.

“Go ahead and start, tell me what ‘The Cavillry’ has been up to this week,” he stated, not quite a command but it thrilled Freya nonetheless. Stupid filthy gutter brain. She pulled out her notes and dove straight in.

“Well, a few of them like Lisa and Berry have a theory that there’s a mole in the community,” she laughed. “Some of them even like to surmise that I’m you!”

“Do they really?” Henry’s deep chuckle resonated throughout the living space and Freya closed her eyes momentarily, picturing that chuckle after a rather exhilarating round of cardio between soft, silken sheets…

“What else are they saying?” Henry’s voice was in Freya’s ear and she jumped, startled yet again from her indecorous thoughts. Henry set her water down next to the laptop and placed his hands on the table, caging her in his warmth as he leaned over her shoulder to read. Freya felt the familiar flush of arousal start to creep its way up her thighs but she did her best to ignore it, continuing on with her notes.

“Marta made some really funny memes,” she stammered, “And Demi excels at clipping audios, where it sounds like…”

“How does it sound?” Henry’s hot breath ghosted over her ear, and his exhale came out nearly a growl. Freya felt lucky she was sitting down, positive her knees would have given out on her if she hadn’t been.

“Like you just had a--an orgasm,” she faltered, grabbing her glass of water for a big gulp. Henry hummed, and Freya nearly choked on the clear liquid.

“What else do they say? I want you to read it… out loud.”

Freya was shocked for a moment. What was he playing at? Wait a minute... this is a game; Henry is playing a game. Emboldened by her sudden epiphany, Freya switched personalities from timid bird to devilish vixen, determined to win whatever it was that Henry had set in motion. She arched her back and leaned her head against Henry’s shoulder, pointing at the screen.

“Well look, see what your post this morning has done? We descend into a thirsting frenzy every time.”

She scrolled through a couple of posts, landing upon one that would give her what she needed.

“For example, Miya writes:

‘I guess good to know he’s on a morning run instead of fapping off…

But good sir, you will have to shower after that no? And unless he’s a never nude, he’s going to be naked very very soon ladies. KEEP THAT IN MIND! IN A SHORT FEW MINUTES, HENRY WILL BE NAKED AND RUBBING HIMSELF IN THE SHOWER.’ ”

Freya emphasized the last sentence and was rewarded with a small hitching of Henry’s breath. He recovered quickly.

“However did they know,” he quipped in a low rumble, reaching over Freya’s hand to do some scrolling of his own. Her hand was trapped in his but her thoughts were elsewhere, immediately flooded with the image of Henry getting off in the shower, water cascading over his hairy torso down the line of his abs and through the rabbit trail on his groin to the surely insurmountable…

“This one next,” he stated, drawing her back to the present. His thumb brushed softly over her skin before landing just out of reach of her touch. Freya focused her attention on the screen and a small groan escaped her lips. He’d chosen one of Wendi’s Smutbombs.

“...My eyes were instantly drawn back to his fierce gaze.

“You wanted to use that mouth,” he snarled, staring at me with lewd concentration.

“So use it.”

Freya’s palms grew clammy at the thought of using her mouth around Henry, in exactly the way the raucous words depicted. The way he would stretch her tiny lips until they burned, the way he’d fuck her throat without a care, the way he’d…

Henry grabbed Freya’s hand and abruptly slapped his phone on her palm, severing the thought.

“Read this one,” Henry commanded her again, his voice now clear and authoritative. This time his tone left no room for argument; he was doing it on purpose. His arms still pinned her to the table with no way to escape, and she could feel the dominance that was dripping off of him tingling down her spine.

Freya looked at the small screen, recognition of the words dawning on her face. She faltered, and cleared her throat.

“Yes, my bottom is always bare, Sherlock. Bare and ready for you to spank me and take me any which way you want.”

“Who wrote that?” he questioned sternly. Freya took a deep breath.

“I did.”

“Read the next one.”

Freya whimpered, clenching her thighs together tightly.

“Fuck this shit I want to die on this man’s thighs.”

“Who wrote that?”

“I did.”

“Keep going.”

Freya’s chest was heaving. Her head was swimming with lust and need. Her arousal had long since wet her panties to the point of extreme discomfort. She was certain Henry could smell it too, as she certainly could and his head was still right next to hers. She watched his fists tighten on the table, the veins in his arms becoming more prominent with every passing second. Freya imagined what his hands would look like with one wrapped around her throat and the other buried knuckle deep inside her…

“I said keep going; you’ve got one more.”

It wasn’t just Henry’s voice this time that dragged Freya back to reality; he wrapped his hand firmly around her nape and pointed her toward his phone.

She blinked rapidly and scrolled to the last quote.

“...They share a mutual smile and she forces herself to look away.

They have always liked each other, he has always been kind to her.

Sometimes he would touch her as they sat with friends, a feverish stroke, innocent or by mistake, but that would be enough to make her heart flutter like a huge butterfly in the cage of her chest.

To see him physically hurts sometimes. Especially on a night like this when she is supposed to be happy, yet her heart feels sorrowful.”

The moment her lips finished moving Freya was pulled off the bench and thrust against the wall. Henry pressed his thigh between her legs, his own arousal evident as it strained against the ridged fabric of his jeans. His face was gentle and sincere but his eyes were as dark with lust as she was certain hers were, and the tremor of his voice left no room to imagine anything but desire.

“Who wrote that?” he whispered softly.

“I did,” Freya whispered back.

“Did you mean it?” Henry searched her face, looking for any scrap of evidence that would present him with permission. Freya brought a hand up to his curls, brushing the one out of his eyes that always seemed to disobey.

“Every word.”

Henry slammed his mouth against Freya’s, probing her deep and hard. She kissed him back with just as much fervor, tugging on his curls and wrapping her legs around his waist as he hoisted her in the air. Never in her life had she ever thought this moment would happen, that he would want her this way. But now, here in his arms with his lips on hers and on their way to his bedroom, she couldn’t picture anything else.

The man had ruined her for anyone else over a decade ago, and she’d been thirsty for far, far too long.

~~~~~

@wolvesandhoundshowltogether @killjoy-assbutt-1112 @achaoticaugust @demivampirew @raspberrydreamclouds I hope you don’t mind that I used your thirst! I though it might be fun, but if you don’t like it just let me know, I’ll remove it. 😊

#henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill fic #author story #birthday present #i love you boo

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janekfan · 4 years

Text

Ten Seconds

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814524

One can do anything for ten seconds. And then all you have to do is start with another ten seconds and well. You can do anything for ten seconds. Jon blinked back the encroaching, smothering black.

Ten seconds.

Martin deserved ten seconds. Ten thousand seconds. Ten billion seconds. But at the moment, Jon can only spare him ten. And then he would spare him ten more.

Ten seconds.

Martin’s hand was cold, pale, and Jon worried that without his ability to See, there would be no one beside him on the train. Awkwardly, he pressed trembling lips to the soft head of auburn hair settled against his chest. (Was there even a heartbeat under there?) He could do this now, he was allowed.

Ten seconds.

Jon stayed there for a full count, breathing in the comfort of Martin, there, with him, against him. Solid. Not quite warm yet. But there. His weight grounding Jon as his mind attempted to race and came up only with

Hungry. Hungry. Starving. Hollow. Empty. Empty. Empty. Painhurthungerempty there’s a statement in the second car and pleasejustletmeeatsomethingiamstarvingandsosoSOHUNGRY.

Ten seconds.

Swallowing down the intrusive thoughts past the clot of agony in his throat, Jon could feel every scar one hundred fold. Itching. Aching. Stretching like mouths in his ashen skin to reveal what monster lay underneath and he couldn’t let it because then everyone would Know like he Knew. He offered the elderly lady across from him a wavering smile and she returned it and it was so normal and nothing had been normal for so long. He buried his face in Martin’s hair, sweet, exhausted, Lonely, Martin who needed him to be strong for just once in his greedy life.

Ten seconds.

He cried, silently, hidden from sight, every nerve alight as he strained the limit of his unwanted powers to make sure nothing was following them.

Ten seconds.

That’s all he needed before the train pulled to a lurching stop at the small, but well kept station. Jon shouldered their backpacks, cupping Martin’s cheek and touching his forehead to his.

“Up you get, darling.” Martin’s eyes were hazy and grey, brightening to strawflower blue when he acknowledged Jon. “If we don’t disembark now, we’ll have left all the good cows behind us.” Despite his own slightness and Martin’s greater height, Jon guided them both to the platform, looking around to clear his head. “Come, love. I know the way.” Gentle. To make up for all the times he was not. That’s what Martin deserved. Kindness and gentleness and softness.

Jon was worried his sharp edges and temper and hunger would never be enough.

Ten seconds.

Huffing, wheezing, he hadn't been particularly fit before and wasn’t that a poor position to be in when most of your job relied on running from individual eldritch horrors, Jon struggled to hitch them both up the small slope to the tiny village. Though there were spare, flickering street lights, most of the windows were dark and if Jon hadn’t just compelled a being to death, he might have been frightened. As it was, the cottage came into view and Jon turned the key in the old lock and pushed in, going down under the heavy weakness in his legs.

“...Jon?”

“S’alright, Martin.” Just taking a short rest.

Ten seconds.

Before making it to the couch and taking Martin’s hands in his own. Gingerly, Jon rubbed his thumbs over the back of his hands, trying to impart some warmth, any warmth, into that frozen skin.

“I’ll make us some tea.” Get Martin warm. Warm and safe. Packs in a pile, Jon spread a knitted throw over him, tucking it around his shoulders and making quite sure he wouldn’t end up with a crick in his neck.

Ten seconds.

He locked the door.

Ten seconds.

Piled wood into the fireplace and checked the flue, no good would come of smoking them both like a fish.

Ten seconds.

And ten more again.

To work up the courage to strike a match and light the tinder and his hands shook so badly the first guttered out. The scar on his palm burned like the day he’d received it. Strike the match. Light the tinder. Stoke the fire and check the draft.

Ten seconds.

To cry and shake on the hearth. To rock back and forth, hands rough against his face, tears wet and uncomfortable and all his stifling made his head throb. When finally he could stand again, Jon checked on Martin, kissed his cheek because he was allowed to do that now, and stumbled into the kitchen to turn on the hob and heat some water.

“Oh.” He could see in the dark. When had that happened? He distracted himself with locating tea, so old, and Jon could pinpoint the exact date it had been manufactured, when it arrived on the shelf. When Daisy bought it and how long she took to put it away and when the last time a human, or somewhat human, hand had touched it and Martin would no doubt find it flavorless, but it was normalcy. A few dry goods in airtight containers, things that could be whipped up by adding water, stocked the pantry. They would need to go to the market but could survive for several days on what they had here. Or Marin could. Jon wanted only what he could not have. It would worry Martin. So he would try to eat. He could try anything for Martin. A sharp pang lanced through his middle and he curled up around it, gripping the counter for dear life and clapping a hand over his mouth to cut off the noise.

Ten seconds.

And the tea was done. And the lamp next to the couch worked to cast a cozy yellow glow over the room. Jon set his own chipped mug on the table before waking Martin to press another mug, warm from the tea, into his hands.

“Nothing could measure up to your tea, but it’s hot.” When Martin smiled, Jon’s whole body tingled; he wanted to make Martin smile always.

“Thank you, love.” The endearment made his head swim. This was his. To selfishly keep and to hold and to horde and because the Eye wanted to do that anyway, it was that much easier but no less unbelievable. More color flooded into Martin’s face at the first sip, and the expression he made, caught between polite and disgust, made Jon chuckle.

“We’ll have to stock up.” Martin continued to sip despite the taste, becoming more and more aware with each swallow, and Jon wanted to ask if he could. Maybe. “C’c’ould I. Perhaps.” Now that the idea was in his mind it was almost louder than the hunger and he couldn’t think of anything else. Martin raised an eyebrow because of course he did, because he wanted to hear Jon to say it. “I. I.” Breathe. “J’join you?” The only dignified way he could think of saying ‘if you don’t hold me now, I may fall completely apart, and you need me to not do that to you this time.’ Martin grinned widely, face soft and open and so, so beautiful, set his empty mug on the table and opened up the blanket. It was all Jon could do not to leap at him and cling like a limpet, and instead sideled into his embrace, melting against his side. Safe. Safe. He was safe. They were safe. He would always be safe here. Nuzzling his cheek into a broad chest and winding both hands into his jumper, Jon sighed, letting the steady heartbeat quiet the voices, the Knowing, listening to the quiet. Like Daisy said, just listen to the quiet. When he looked up, Martin met his gaze, and Jon charted the freckles like constellations dusted over his cheeks and knew he would never forget any of them even if someday he could.

“You look tired, Jon.” Martin frowned and no, no, no, Jon didn’t want him to do that, anything but that. Not because of him. So he chuffed, in that way that mimicked disbelief and ire. It was easy. Too easy. To build those walls back up again. But he’d hurt him so much already. He had to protect Martin from himself. From the monster that was hired right along with him.

“It’s been. Well, a bit of a day.” His legs were folded up on the couch and when had that happened? pressing his boney knees into Martin’s soft thigh. He’d been starving before he dove into the Lonely for Martin, to retrieve what was his, and he’d used up even more of himself destroying Peter Lukas, then most of the rest to leave with his precious, invaluable prize. “Bit of a decade, really.”

“Shall we, then?” Jon felt himself flush red and buried his nose into Martin’s chest. Because yes. yes. He wanted to lay beside Martin at night. Watch him wake up next to him. Last action of the day to kiss him good night, first of the morning to kiss him awake. “Oh, darling.” The amusement in his quiet voice made him flash hotter and Martin’s arms wrapped him up so completely he felt cocooned within the sanctuary of his hold. Cherished. Something that still had value despite being so, so ugly.

Ten seconds.

He couldn’t let himself cry. Not where Martin could see. Not when it would only make him worry.

“Y’yes, please.” This time Martin grabbed their packs, held Jon by the waist when the change in position made his head swim. “Heh. T’t’tired.” It wasn’t a lie, not completely, but it left a sour taste on his tongue either way. They were changing for bed when Jon realized Martin had turned self conscious, and he pressed himself into his surprised arms, skin singing like he’d been struck by lighting the moment they touched, tugging him down to meet him for a sweet kiss. “I love you.” Now it was Martin’s turn to blush and it only made Jon kiss him that much more. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The bed was just big enough for the pair of them to be comfortable and though Martin dropped off quickly, he was now warm to the touch, their faces scant centimeters apart. It was dark but Jon could make out every precious feature made prettier by the soft moonlight, lashes darker and swept over cheeks Jon wanted to kiss over and over and over again. Like this, in this tentative peace, Jon felt he finally had space to take a full breath. They were safe here. It was called a safe house. It was in the name.

But just in case he would stay awake to keep watch. To protect that which was his should something decide now was a good time to get cheeky.

Ten seconds.

He kept himself still so as not to disturb him. Watching. He needed to rest and recover and he wouldn’t be able to do so if Jon was rolling about the sheets. When the hunger threatened to crescendo, to beg him to extract any and all statements from Martin and he had so many, he distracted himself by memorizing all that he could.

Ten seconds.

The way his freckles were splashed more heavily on the left side of his face.

Ten seconds.

There were exactly seventeen dusted over his nose, with one close to the corner of his right eye.

Ten seconds.

Depending on what size and how pigmented, Jon could map Ursa Minor using the one nearest his lashes as Polaris. Ursa Major was too far away in terms of accuracy--

A wave of ache crested in his mind. The Eye no doubt tired of his little games.

Ten seconds.

In terms of accuracy, but was there, tucked closely to his ear, hidden partially from sight by a stray curl. Jon giggled, slightly hysterical, clamping both hands over his face. But there was a veritable zoo with Draco and Pegasus and Cignus.

Ten seconds.

Waiting for Martin to stir, his nose to scrunch up as he came awake on his own before pouncing and kissing him the rest of the way to consciousness.

“Good morning to you as well, Jon!” Martin was laughing. Hugging him close and kissing him back. He was allowed to have this.

Ten seconds.

“You need feeding up, darling.” Martin ran his fingers over Jon’s shivery ribs, playing them as though they were piano keys, pausing at the space left behind by the Boneturner. “You’re practically hollow.”

Ten seconds.

If he only knew. Instead.

“There are instant porridge oats in the pantry.” The thought of food made his stomach turn.

“As good as we’ll get, I suspect. At least until we head into the village.” They got ready squashed together at the small bathroom sink. It was nice. Domestic.

Jon watched Martin read the box, selecting two packets and pouring them into two bowls, He tipped a careful measure of hot water from the kettle over the gravel dust lining each before turning to pass two mugs of tea to him.

“Even my tea making abilities didn’t stand a chance.” He set a bowl before Jon, sliding a spoon across the table. Something must have shown in his face because Martin covered his hand with his own. “I know it’s. It’s not what you want. But.” Jon startled, knowing his eyes were wide in surprise as he looked up at Martin. “I’ll contact Basira. We’ll get you what you need.”

“Martin. N’n’no, it’s alright.”

Ten seconds.

“It really isn’t.” And he kissed his forehead.

Ten seconds.

“I’m not. Sure. If I, I can go to the village.” Jon tugged his mug closer to him, fingers leeching the warmth from the porcelain. “I’m. I’m not safe.” Barely above a whisper, he didn’t want to admit to this weakness in him. But he needed to be honest or he’d just put them in more danger.

He couldn’t protect Martin if he was chasing meals and out of his mind.

“No worries, love. I can go for the both of us.” Martin stirred his breakfast before taking a bite and not wanting to disappoint him, Jon forced a mouthful himself and the regret was instantaneous. “Oh, Jon.” He leaned into his palm as it cupped his ear.

Ten seconds.

Jon was dizzy, freezing. Like he’d taken the Lonely inside himself and housed it right next to where the worst of his hunger resided. He was so relieved Basira was shipping statements because if Jon were being honest with himself for once, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could resist just taking the statements from the one he loved most.

Ten seconds.

How many more until he could have any small respite?

Ten seconds.

At least it was quiet here. With Martin. They saw plenty of truly lovely cows on the walks they took hand in hand and side by side and Jon got to spend all the time he wanted curled against him, letting the rhythm of his pulse quiet the ravenous need.

Tonight though, he couldn’t seem to get warm, caught between chills and hunger pangs he kept to himself even though Martin could see right into his soul it seemed. He often wondered if Martin hated what he saw.

“Soon, love.” Oh, and the pain in Martin’s voice. This isn’t what Jon wanted at all.

Ten seconds.

When he was sure Martin was asleep, Jon crept out of bed to retrieve the jumper he’d discarded and pull it over his head, sighing with relief not because he was any warmer, but because now Martin was all around him. Even as he tried not to, tried to keep watch, Jon succumbed to sleep tucked tightly against Martin, drowning gently in him.

When Martin woke, he allowed himself a few moments to appreciate the small body snuggled up close because there was a time where he wasn’t sure he’d ever have a moment like this again. He brushed his fingers through prematurely greying hair and tucked it behind Jon’s ear so he could press his lips against his forehead, both eyelids, his cheek, his nose, to the corner of his slack mouth, smiling against the stubble there. Jon didn’t stir and Martin decided to let him sleep as long as possible. He wasn’t well. Pale and gaunt, haunted by the things he’d seen and been forced to do. Jon destroyed Peter Lukas, dragged him from the Lonely, got them all the way to Scotland.

Jon wouldn’t hear of him giving a statement, maybe he could give him this.

He was doing the washing up in the kitchen when he heard unsteady shuffling behind him followed by a hoarse, bleary voice.

“Martin. Y’were gone.”

“Jon?” Martin had just seconds to appreciate how small, how adorable Jon was swallowed up in his cable knit, swaying there like a bit of weed caught up in the tide. It hung off one narrow brown shoulder to fall mid thigh revealing bare, scarred legs and mismatched socked feet. His thin hands were fisted in the ends of the sleeves, one of them sleepily rubbing at an eye limned with shadows so dark Martin would have thought they’d been blacked had he not known better.

Just seconds before he crumpled like wet paper or a house of cards, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, his temple striking the wooden floor far too hard for Martin’s liking.

“Jon!” Fluttering, his hands lingered over Jon’s limp body like butterflies, lighting only briefly before resuming their frantic flight. He wasn’t sure he could move him. Touch him. What if he made it worse? Would he heal from this? When he was starved as he was?

“Mmh…” A bare sliver of unfocused dull brown appeared between lashes parted a hairsbreadth.

“Jon?” Delicately, Martin brushed aside his hair to get a better look at where he struck his head and violently, Jon flinched away from the light touch, breath picking up, trembling beginning in earnest now. At least there was no blood, only a nasty contusion that already seemed to be healing, albeit slowly, and he attempted to shift. “Hush, hush, don’t move. I’ve got you, darling. It’s Martin and I’ve got you.”

“Mmmartin.”

“Yes, I’m going to lift you.” Frighteningly limp, Jon weighed almost nothing in his arms and Martin tucked him closer, into his neck, protectively. “You’re so cold, love.”

“Martin.” The small whimper was little more than an exhale against his jaw. “Martin.”

“I’m here.” He settled him on the bed, still turned down from where Jon untangled himself to go looking for him just moments ago. “I’ve got you.” And to his utter dismay a painful sob wrenched itself free from Jon’s throat. “Oh, darling, shh, it’s alright.” Martin pulled the blankets up around them both and Jon turned into his chest, clutching him as tightly as he could, tears coming silently in a torrent, slipping over the bridge of his nose and soaking the sheets. “Alright, alright.” Gradually the shaking died down, and the hitching in his breath evened out into panting, and further into something approaching sleep. Saltwater damp lashes brushed against Martin’s skin and he stroked his palm up and down Jon’s back, pressing his lips wherever they could reach until his body relaxed completely, the hand once gripping him for dear life now loosely curled on the pillow where his head rested. Martin was sick with worry. He’d never seen Jon lose control like this; not even at his most paranoid.

Retrieving a damp flannel, Martin swept it delicately over Jon’s face, concerned when he didn’t so much as twitch, before setting it aside and settling in to wait. This time he would be here when Jon woke.

To give in to the Eye and watch (take) is to be rid of the pain of resisting.

It is equal parts loss and failure.

Monstrous. Untouchable, but afraid, so afraid.

Watching himself being watched by himself, being watched by himself, being watched by himself, being watched, infinitely, forever, because what watches the Ceaseless Watcher but itself? Through the hole torn in the very fabric of the sky, gloating, glutted, on truths and falsehoods it wasn’t supposed to have, to know, to keep like it had right.

Eyes forced to see, too many eyes, eyes that didn’t belong to him (all eyes belonged to him), feeding, gorging on information and Knowing, Knowing, Knowing, unable to shut the doors, unable to keep them out, out, out because now they were open and staring and wide and he didn’t have the strength to shut them again. Nothing but a conduit. A seemingly unlimited vessel somehow filled to the brim and bursting, seeping through the cracks of himself, rivulets of Knowing like acid, like hot, burning, blazing blood that he tried to keep inside through force of habit because no matter how much he lost, there was always more. More. More.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

But he needed it to breathe. To be. To suffocate him. Pain. But beautiful. The euphoria of holding one’s breath beneath the sea, silent, soft, soundless but for the muffled cadence of your heart in your ears.

Ten seconds.

To fill his lungs with water.

Ten seconds.

To decipher the reverberation beating against every sense.

Ten seconds.

“Martin.”

Ten seconds.

His throat ached.

Ten seconds.

To open his eyes, his two eyes. To see Martin’s frantic face above him. To feel wetness splash his face.

Ten seconds.

“Martin.” Shaky, he pressed a palm to his cheek, thumbed away a stray tear. “What’s wrong, darling?” Martin huffed, lips pulled into a trembling smile, and covered the back of Jon’s hand with his own.

“You’ve gone absolutely daft.” Martin scrubbed his face furiously, but it didn’t stop those blue eyes from welling up. “You, Jon.”

“M’alright.”

“Nope. Try again.”

“Martin--”

“You were screaming, Jon. I’ve. I’ve never. I didn’t know a person could sound like that.”

“I’m not quite a person though, am I?”

“Do not start with me, Jonathan Sims.”

“Oh, full name.” It hurt to speak, but felt so good to tease, to put a degree of separation between whatever this was and the nightmare he’d just been pulled from. “Am I in trouble, Mr. Blackwood?”

“You’ve not escaped this conversation.” Martin flopped to the pillows beside him, tugging Jon to his chest and he went willingly, melting under the kisses dotted amongst his hairline. Letting go of the residual tension. Losing himself in the quiet.

Ten seconds.

“S’sorry.” He felt Martin chin move against the top of his head.

“Whatever for, love?” Jon gestured weakly at the whole of himself, hand falling to the quilt at the end of its path, letting himself be squeezed tightly. “It’s not ideal, no.”

Ten seconds.

“But it doesn’t change how I feel.” Jon didn’t know he’d been holding his breath until it rushed out of him all at once, dizzied with relief. “You’re insufferable, but that’s just part of your charm.” A sweet kiss cut off his sputtering.

The gnawing, empty, ache was still there, buried deeply below the distraction Martin provided, buried beneath the love there and Jon could have wept at how lucky he was.

“Up you come, Jon.” He was still in the jumper, shy under Martin’s affectionate adoration as their fingers threaded together; the spaces between made for each other. “I’ll make us some tea.”

#jonmartim #jon sims #martin blackwood #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #starving #Hurt/comfort #fainting #domestic #scottish safe house

266 notes · View notes

futurewriter2000 · 4 years

Text

Minor Complications

A/N: This idea has been stuck in my head for so long as I was studying german and I couldn’t hold it inside anymore. I hope it’s close as you imagined it @slytherinlovesgryffindor and I’m sorry for making you wait for so long. Man, I love Fred imagines.

REQUESTED BY @slytherinlovesgryffindor : Heyyy i see you are taking Fred weasley requests. So do you mind doing a post war , Fred lives , angsty , bff imagine with some bit of george too . thanks:)

It was just another day at the Diagonalley. You just left Flourish and Blotts, buying a children book for your nephew, who is celebrating his 4th birthday.

You know he doesn’t read much but your sister always, and always was a big bookworm and she will make sure he will love any book she reads to him. She had always had an amazing story-telling talent and you are forever grateful for her forcing you to read until you started loving books as well.

You put the book, wrapped in harsh, brown paper into your bag. You smiled as you looked forward, seeing the lights of your favorite shop turned off.

It was late and you had always been the kind to do everything last minutes. You smiled as you passed Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, nuzzling your nose into the warm, red scarf one of the boys bought you for your birthday.

It still had his scent. Mostly because you had barely worn this scarf but when you did, you always made sure it was this exact, red scarf.

“AAAARRRRHRHHHHRHR!!!!” you heard a shout behind you, making you scream in fear as two long arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground and twirling you.

Flashes of death, pain and pale, stoic figures played in front of you in that moment, causing the most horrendous feeling to burn your bones into numbness. Petrified, you started kicking with your legs, trying anything to get out of it until you heard two familliar, distinct laughs echoing in sync.

“YOU BLOODY INCONCEIVABLE UNREPENTANT LITTLE PIECES OF SHAT!!” you fumed, finally stepping on your feet as a pair of identical red-heads cackled in front of you. You started shoving and pucnhing them both as your heart continued to race faster. “WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL IS WRONG WITH THE TWO OF YOU!?!?!?!?”

“Now, that is not nice, (y/n).” one of the cooed but you were extremely upset by their little “prank” that at this time, you just couldn’t.

You couldn’t deal with this.

Tears flooded your eyes as you pushed them both out of your way, disapparating into the unknown as the other two stayed behind, looking after you.

Both of them exchanged a guilty-full look, one scratching the back of his head as the other drowned his heart in sorrow.

“Reckon we went too far, too soon?” said George, leaning in.

“Yup.” said the other, leaning back to his brother. “Roses?”

“Yup.”

---

You were furious at the two boys but you managed to calm yourself down. It was just the disbelief that they don’t have any trauma from what happened, especially Fred since he was the one-

“Knock knock!” you heard his voice after the doorbell cut your train of thoughts.

You kept looking at the door for some reason, deciding whether you should open the door with a smile that was painted on your lips by his voice or the glare that was the result of the past events.

“You know I could just apparate in there and forget all these Muggle gestures of ringing the doorbell.” he kept talking, ringing the doorbell one more time and with a long pause continued. “Knock knock.”

You laughed to yourself and shook your head, walking to the door and opening them with a forceful glare. You leaned your whole weight on your back and crossed your arms, trying to make him as intimidated as you could.

However, with Fred Weasley that was difficult.

You couldn’t even see his face due to the bush of red roses he held in front of him. He slowly, carefully, nonchalantly lowered the boquet of roses and showed his cheeky smile.

You tried to hold your ground intently as he continued to watch you with his doe-eyed, beady eyes, quirking his lips in a grin.

You pursed your lips together, losing all the toughness you tried to manage and painting a smile on your face. “Give me the roses you big oaf.” you laughed and his whole face lit up.

You moved to the side, clearing his path into your apartment and watching his big steps enter proudly, stopping when he was next to you and leaning forward.

The two of you were an inch, less than that, apart and he kept looking at you, firstly observing the eyes, then the forehead to your nose and lips until he met your eyes once again and smirked. “Can’t be mad at us forever, can you darling?” he raised an eyebrow before taking off his shoes and taking the roses into the kitchen.

You felt a bit flushed from the proximity he had caused between the two of you. The tension you could still feel lingering was so intense, you could cut through it with a knife.

‘Why? From all the people... it’s your best friend...’ - you thought to yourself, holding onto your chest and checking if your lungs were functioning normally- which in your case, didn’t.

You cleared your throat, looked at the hallways mirror and tried to fix your hair before you entered the living room. You flipped it to the side and was about to go into the kitchen until you stopped, stepped back and looked into the mirror.

‘I could have at least brushed my hair-’

“Are you trying to look good for me?” you heard him tease, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed and his usual smirk plastered on.

You stared for a while, feeling your whole body heat up from the embarrasment before shaking it off and scoffing. “Get your head out of the gutter, Weasley.” you walked past him, knocking his arm lightly until you entered the living room with a beautiful tuft of red roses on your table.

You stopped at the sight and smiled.

It caused a warm, cosy feeling immerge inside of you. Something that wasn’t close to butterflies nor any kind of nervousness. You felt safety, family... you felt loved.

He could see you drift away into your own small world, noticing how you took a hold of the necklace both he and George bought you for your birthday. You brought the silver chain up to your plush lips, pressing on them lightly as your eyes glimmered with glee.

He stepped behind you, his chest close to your back as he wrapped his hands around you gently, feeling you drift away your day dreaming. His long, slim arms wrapped around you as vines hug a tree, spreading warm, fuzzy feeling through your body. Snugly, you let your head fall back on his chest, holding onto the arms he embraced you with. He kissed the side of your head delicatly and whispered. “I’m sorry.” he then buried his head into your neck, breathing in your scent as his red hair started tickling your cheeks and causing you to smile.

Your arm pulled itself up to his head, your hand digging into his dense hair and triggering some variety of euphoria through both of you.

He could feel himself breathe heavier, feeling you so close but too timid to do anything about it.

The doorbell stirred the both of you. You turned around, facing Fred as his hands placed themselves on your hips, his eyes longinlgy gazing into yours. Despite the doorbell, he could still feel the intimate moment between the two of you. As his middle and ring finger on his left hand touched your exposed skin and feel the goosebumps underneath them, he knew you could feel it just as well.

“Knock knock!” a similar voice echoed from the other side and it eased all of the tension that built up. “Should I apparate? Fred did you apparate inside?”

“No. I waited like a true gentleman!” shouted Fred with a wink, running to get the door for his brother.

“Well, you surely didn’t wait for me.” George narrowed his eyes at his brother. “I thought we would do this together. Double the power.” he kept joking, walking into the living room to find you flush red. He stopped to think, looking around suspiciously. “Did the two of you start wine without me?”

“Not until I forgive the two of you for acting like two arseholes.” you joked, walking into the wine cabinet and pulling out one of the bottles.

“I thought Freddie took care of that already.” George walked after you, grabbing the glasses and as you stood up, he slung his arm around you. “I am terribly sorry for pulling such a cruel prank on my dear best friend, (y/n)(y/l/n). I will not let it happen again.” he kissed your cheek and jumped over to the couch.

But there was something... something in his words that sounded defient, light and not atoning at the slightest that made your veins boil fury.

When Fred said those simple three words, you could feel the heaviness he carried in them but with George, it felt like another forgive-forget apology.

You stood in front of him, tense and furious as both of them joked around. You held the bottle of wine in your hands and it just popped in your hand, splashing the wine all around.

Both of them looked at you with wide, worried eyes as you glared.

“No! It won’t happen again, George! It won’t!” you started to shout at him. “Because as funny as it was to you, running up to me and thinking it would be fun grabbing me from behind and scaring me half to death, I was thinking of the last time someone did that to me- Mulciber if you both remember it clearly- Mulciber, who grabbed my body- that could not even in the slightest compare to his gorrilic one- and shoved a stupid shard of glass into my ribs because I disarmed him!”

“I’m sorry, jeez, (y/n).” George tried to speak, knowing exactly what would follow his insensitive words. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I know how that sounded and I didn’t mean for it to come out like this, darling.” he tried to take a step forward but you wouldn’t let him.

“You don’t sound like your sorry.” the anger started to cloud your judgment and all you couls see was red and blue.

“Well, as I reckon- you didn’t lose anybody at the stupid battle!” his words just kept coming out and Fred could only stare, not knowing himself how to stop this argument. “I almost lost a brother! I did! So why don’t you stop the self-pity act and just deal with it as the rest of us!”

You felt dumbfounded from his reaction. “I did lost-”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did!” you continued to argue.

"NO! YOU DIDN'T LOST ANYBODY! I ALMOST LOST MY BROTHER! MY BEST FRIEND! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT FELT!"

"I ALMOST LOST FRED TOO!!" you shouted so loud, your vocal cords numbed away, quivering the next few words in quiet, raspy voice. "I almost lost him too." you looked directly into Fred's eyes, tearing your own as you did, then focusing back on George. "I was there, holding him, pale and half-dead in my arms. And instead of fighting what came next, I couldn't do anything. I couldn't move a muscle or mumble a word. I cried- I cried just as much as you did George because even if I don't understand the strong connection the two of you have, I still love him. And when he was in my arms, lifeless, so was I- I was dead with him. So don't you tell me that I haven't suffered a loss. We all had lost somebody that day. We both almost lost Fred that day. " tears fell down your eyes and George finally realized what he had said and done.

He stormed into your arms and sobbed into your neck. You sobbed into his as well, gripping his shirt as he did yours. “I’m sorry.” he appologised sincerely, pulling away and looking at you with glistened eyes. He let out a laugh, taking a hold of your cheeks with his palms and squishing it playfully. “Look at us pathethic fools, crying like two whimps.”

You slapped his hands away amusingly, wiping away the tears with your sleeves and straightning your face expression. “I don’t know what you’re blabbering about. I had pollen in my eyes.” you sassed as the other two laughed.

“Look at the two of you bonding over me.” Fred awed, swinging his body like a child and sitting down.

Both you and George exchanged looks, before looking at Fred all too seriously. “You think this is funny?” asked George, crossing his arms as you followed his lead.

“I think I can make fun of my death more or so as you can make fun of your missing ear.”

George bit his cheek, narrowing his eyes at his brother. “Touche.”

“And me?” you asked, demanding an explenation.

“Well for you, my dear.” he put his right foot on his left knee and wiggled his eyebrows. “I think I can mention me winning a fight with death itself as much as you think you can deny that what happened before doesn’t change things.”

You felt your heartbeat jump to your throat and your body twist into chumps of nervers. You felt your cheeks heat up the moment his eyes locked with yours, his colour showing the change in their danger.

Forcing a laugh, you rolled your eyes and sat on the armchair opposite of him.

“What happened before?” George perplexed, glancing between the two of you.

“Your going to deny it now?” asked Fred, ignoring his brother as he leaned forward and continued to hunt for your eyes.

“Hello?” George waved his hand but you ignored him as well, turning your head from the side, so your eyes could meet his.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“What am I here?” George continued. “A wall?”

“Maybe what happened before did change things.” you smirked and you could almost see the triumph on his face as his lips reached his cheeks.

“I think it did.” Fred continued, leaning back on his seat as you mirrored.

“Good to know we established that.”

“I think we could establish that further into tomorrow night, seven perhaps?”

“Eight.”

“Always the princess.” he teased and you laughed.

“Well, what’s a princess without her frog.” you winked and it was his turn to laugh.

He turned to his brother, who sat there sulking and smiled. “Guess, you’ll close the shop tomorrow?”

“GuESs yOU’ll cLoSE the ShOp tomOrrW...” Geroge mocked Fred as the two of you laughed. “Yes, I’ll close the shop tomorrow.” he stood up and walked to the wine cabinet. “Took you both long enough.”

#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #george weasley #george weasley imagine #weasley twins #weasley twins imagine

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balkanmermaid · 2 years

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thoughts in heaven // hella.

Summary: more Celestial stuff. Avery - or rather Hella - has her doubts.

You know this isn’t going to work out. You saw how he looked at you and yet you keep leading him on. You even gave him a false name when you guys first met. The name you thought you’d never have to use again - you gave it to him. Without even thinking. What’s going on, Hella?

She leans over the sink, palms pressing into the coolness of the porcelain, but it does nothing to take her back to reality. Her thoughts are like autumn leaves blown haphazardly every which way, going this direction and that, until catching them and trying to put them together into the shape of something recognizable is impossible. Stab, stab, stab. Anxiety is sinking in, then fear, then worry, and then, like a cherry on top of the cake, anger. A choking, hot anger.

She coughs and leans forward, head brushing against the bottom of the toiletries cupboard. She can’t figure out what she’s feeling. What I’m feeling is overwhelming me. I’m feeling absolutely nothing. I didn’t drink too much, did I? I don’t remember doing that. Unless someone has pushed me a Sigtuna Ace of Spades Imperial Stout, which I only ever have on New Years’. No, I saw everything right. I was awake. Everything bled right into my heart.

The guy from the karate lessons is part of Celestial. Celestial, whom she was sent by to fetch them data on people they could snatch from the streets, turn into their next angels and demons and throw at each other. Fight, fight, fight! Bile rises up her throat, and though she hasn’t either drank or eaten too much, the urge to throw up grabs her by the neck, dragging her head lower towards the sink.

With the luck she has, it’s all too likely they’ve given her a shot of one of their hellish concoctions as well, something to make her immune to angel or demon attacks. She won’t be surprised if they have. But it’s too late to regret this, or be grateful for it. Get your head out the gutter.

Just when she thinks she has corked all her feelings, put them away, they flood her chest all over again, so powerful that she feels tears rush to her eyes, the tickling, tingling sensation burning through her face and chest like a summer fire. I’m not supposed to hate him. I’m not supposed to pity him. In fact, him and I are nothing but strangers brought together by chance, she thinks. And all I’ll end up doing is hurting him, at the very least. You’re absolutely not supposed to fall in love with your targets. But what the hell, Hella.

The name Kamael knows her by for now is Avery. Avery Bastien, a quiet girl from Canada who has relatives on German land and has come back to live with them. Not Hella Jaakt, the woman from Sweden whose parents moved from the Netherlands so they could ski to their hearts’ desire and fell in love with the forests and mountains. Which proves to her her thoughts are correct. Kamael doesn’t know her at all. Because he knows whatever she has allowed him to know. He has no idea just who she is. Not yet. But soon he will learn.

Ah, how little he knows about her. Compared to what she knows about him, it’s like a tiny droplet of water against the surface of the sea. All because, had he found out, he would have likely wanted her dead. Or as far away from him as possible. The very opposite of what she truly wants. He’d hate her. Oh, how the tables have turned. A monster hunter has fallen for a monster, and she’s afraid the monster will reject her. Not the other way around.

She sits down slowly, sighing, body leaning against the cold tiles. What a strange person, a thought crosses her mind. One moment he performs all the karate moves like Bruce Lee, and the other he sprouts wings outta nowhere... And he works where I do, too, at that restaurant.

He is a chef. And now that she knows this, she wishes she could try and sneak something he has prepared out of the kitchen just to try what it tastes like. So his power is taste manipulation...

His wings are real. He can make them become visible just like that.

And he exposed himself so easily during karate...

Hella gets on the U-Bahn from a station near Chimosa. In a while she reaches Gasteinerstraße. Keys jingle, then click, then make a soft sound as they hit the cupboard, her shoes make a thud against the floor. Poof.

That has been her body, landing in her armchair. Home, sweet home, I am finally back. She wiggles a bit until she reaches the maximum level of comfort, stretching in the armchair, and closes her eyes. Aaahhhh. It feels so good. Almost like meditating. A lazy meditation.

The TV stares at Hella from across the room, as do her bookshelves with novels and merchandise, but her eyes close. I need to just be a little lazy first. A few pouf chairs are scattered all over the room. Huge fluffy cushions in all kinds of colors lay all over the armchair. A mocha carpet is caressing her feet from underneath. To her left is a kitchenette, fully equipped to make up for how small it is

Hella closes her eyes, and thoughts start floating inside her mind. This morning was a usual morning, muesli with juice and toast and an apple, then the U-Bahn to work, and then karate and yoga all day long, just a little yoga and loads of karate.

And Kamael.

That guy was so nice to me. And he treated me to sushi after work. Why, though? It hits me like a brick from a clear sky. He must like me.

Hella’s mind tries to instantly dismiss that option, however. Right now, the thought of someone liking her as something more than a friend is just out of the game. She cannot imagine it. For heaven's sake, I'm supposed to be trying to kill that guy. And if not that, to hurt him. I was hired by the people who turned him into an angel, and they can turn against me in a heartbeat if I make even a small mistake. I know how they work.

And while she doesn't care about them, she cares about staying alive. And, as much as that is possible, about protecting Kamael. She has no idea what she feels for him. But if she knows one thing, it is that she wants him to finally be safe from these people.

Such bloody horrible people.

#‘celestial’#write #writing #writer #drabble #fantasy #fantasy story #fantasy novel #novel excerpt #part of a novel #story excerpt

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theycallmebecca · 4 years

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Drabble: The Bet 2020

I never post stories this late... but here we are. The Patriots and Seahawks game ended about 20 minutes ago now... in a shocking fashion. I sat on my couch just staring in disbelief for like two minutes straight.

Anyway... here is the Chris and Ellie drabble I hinted that I was writing earlier tonight. It ended up being centered on Scott more than Chris and Ellie, but I’m not mad about that.

But here we go, here’s the drabble.

Title: The Bet 2020

Pairing: Chris Evans x OFC Ellie Spencer-Evans

Rating: PG-13

Warning: Language

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is not to be reposted, used or translated without my permission.

September 20, 2020

Scott watched Chris and Ellie as they worked side by side in the kitchen while he supplied Tommy with cheerios.

As usual on a Sunday morning, Chris was rocking a Patriots shirt and Ellie was wearing a Seahawks shirt. However, neither of them had mentioned the fact that the two teams were playing each other.

If it had been any other couple with a newborn at home, Scott would believe that they didn't know that their teams were playing each other. But it was Chris and Ellie. He knew they knew and he knew they had a bet.

"Should be an interesting game tonight," he said, conversationally.

"Should be," Chris agreed.

"Especially now that the Patriots have a quarterback that can actually run," Ellie muttered under her breath.

With the kitchen island between them, Scott could only imagine what his brother did that made his wife jump and squeal before she whipped around to glare at him.

"Moe! Moe!" Tommy said from beside him, pounding his little fists on the highchair tray.

Turning towards his nephew, Scott saw that the tray was empty. He poured some more cereal out for his nephew and smiled.

"Tankoo," Tommy said before grabbing a fist full of cheerios.

Turning back to Chris and Ellie, he rolled his eyes when they saw them being flirty. Clearly, Ellie had forgiven him for whatever he had done.

"Innocent eyes in the room," he called out.

"Not the worst he's been in the room for," Chris replied with an unapologetic shrug. "Or were you talking about yourself."

Reaching over, Scott put a hand in front of Tommy's face while he used his other hand to flip his brother off.

"Behave," Ellie said, grabbing Chris's hand to keep him from returning the gesture. Then she leveled a look at Scott. "You, too."

Scott smiled innocently in response, making her roll her eyes.

"I'm on to you," she told him. "Both of you."

"That's what you think," Chris said as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. "But we're really good actors."

Ellie scoffed but didn't try to free herself. Instead, she leaned back against him and rolled her eyes for only Scott to see.

Deciding to not beat around the bush anymore, Scott asked, "So what's the bet this time?"

"Bet?" Ellie asked in an almost believable surprised tone. "What bet?"

"Ullbay itshay," Scott responded, saying 'bull shit' in pig latin to get around the no cursing around the babies rule.

Chris snorted and gave him a small thumbs up at his creativity.

Ellie, on the other hand, put a hand to her chest in mock offense. "Are you suggesting that we, two adults, can not see our two teams play without betting on the outcome?" she asked.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Scott replied. "Because they've played each other twice since we've known you and you betted on both of those games. Not to mention that the two of you betted on which team was going to go farther the first year we knew you."

"And it's 2 to 1, baby," Ellie said, giving a little dance that had Chris grabbing her waist to hold her still to keep things rated PG. "On the way to 3 to 1."

"Uh, no, it's going to be 2 and 2 after today," Chris argued.

"So what is the bet?" Scott asked again.

"Oh, it's nothing big," Ellie replied with a shrug. "Kind of boring, actually."

"I don't know if I would go that far," Chris said with raised eyebrows. "Sometimes, it is. Big, that is."

"If you're talking about what I think you're talking about, I don't want to know anymore," Scott replied.

"Diapers, we're talking about dirty diapers," Ellie told him. "Specifically, poopy diapers. Get your mind out of the gutter, Scott."

Scott glared at Chris for setting him up.

Chris just grinned and gave a small shrug.

"The loser has to change all the poopy diapers for a week," Ellie explained. "I'm looking forward to handing the boys over and not having to deal with any surprise blow outs."

"Imagine all you want, cause it's not happening," Chris stated. "The Patriots are going to whoop the Seahawks."

"Speaking of poopy diapers," Scott said as a smell reached his nose. "I think we have one."

"I'll take care of it," Chris said with a sigh. Walking around the island, he came over to the table. "Let's go change your butt, little guy." He freed Tommy from the highchair and then carried him out of the room.

"So is the bet really just about changing dirty diapers?" Scott asked Ellie as he carried the highchair tray over to dump the leftover cheerios.

"We're keeping it simple this time around," Ellie replied with a shrug. "Your brother is just afraid he'll lose again."

"No I'm not," Chris called from the next room over.

Scott met Ellie's eyes and she mouthed, "yes he is."

"I heard that," Chris called again.

Ellie rolled her eyes and then groaned as Marcus's cries came through the baby monitor.

"My turn," she said.

-----

Hours later, they were all in the family room watching the end of the Los Angeles Chargers vs Kansas City Chiefs game. Ellie had been thrilled when she saw that Justin Herbert, a rookie quarterback from Oregon, started the game for the Chargers. The Chargers had lost in overtime, but it had been an exciting game.

Ellie and Marcus were cuddled in the corner of the sectional couch, Dodger curled up next to them. While Chris and Tommy were on the floor playing with wood puzzles.

"Unca Soot pay," Tommy said, looking up at Scott with a face that Scott couldn't say no to.

Putting his beer on the coffee table, Scott sank down on the floor with him and helped him with a puzzle.

When the game started, Scott moved back up onto the couch with Ellie while Chris stayed on the floor with Tommy. After an exciting pick six by the Patriots to start the game, the Seahawks were able to score their own touchdown. By half time, it was all tied up at 14, with both teams scoring again.

With Chris and Ellie putting the boys to bed during half time, Scott put together the finishing touches on the crockpot dinner he and Ellie had put together earlier in the day.

By the time they came back downstairs, dinner was ready and they carried their food into the family room just in time for the second half of the game to start.

The third quarter saw the Seahawks pull ahead, but the Patriots didn't give up. As the final minutes of the game ticked down, Chris, Ellie and Scott were on the edge of their seats waiting to see how it would all play out.

The Patriots marched down the field and with two second left tried to score the winning touchdown from three yards out.

And failed.

Scott groaned and Chris collapsed back against the couch cushions in complete agony.

Ellie said nothing as she ran her fingers over Chris's short hair. Even she was shocked by the outcome of the game, especially the way it had ended.

"It was a good and exciting game," she finally said after a few minutes. "Right until the last second." Chris and Scott groaned. "Too soon?"

Chris tilted his head and shot her a look that told her he wasn't amused.

"Aw, it's ok, babe," Ellie said, the joy of winning flooding her veins. "I still love you, even if you cheer for shitty teams."

A squeal was the next thing that escaped her lips when Chris lunged for her.

Shaking his head, Scott grabbed the dishes and carried them into the kitchen. At the end of the day, he knew that regardless of whose team had one, they both would have changed poopy diapers. They'd been a team when it had just been them and Tommy and they seemed to have it all together with the addition of Marcus, too.

As he started to clean up the dinner dishes, Chris and Ellie came into the room carrying the rest. He rinsed and loaded the dishes while Chris put away the leftovers and Ellie wiped down the table.

"Do you want me to start the dishwasher?" Scott asked them.

"Sure, that would be great," Ellie replied with a smile.

Opening the doors to the cabinet below the sink, Scott missed the mischievous look that passed between the couple. But he did see the neon yellow sticky note taped to the bottle of the dishwashing detergent that said "use this one in the dishwasher".

"Fuck you both," he said as they both started cracking up. He'd known they'd bring up his dish soap in the dishwasher situation eventually. "Seriously, fuck you."

"We love you," Ellie said with a giggle. "And go Seahawks!" She blew him a kiss and then ran for the stairs.

Chris rolled his eyes, but smiled at Scott. "Happy early birthday, see you in the morning," he said before following his wife upstairs.

Scott shook his head as he put the soap in the dishwasher and then started it. Grabbing the key for his cabin, he turned off the kitchen lights and then made his way out to the one bedroom cabin he was staying in. With his mom back home, he could have moved into the house with them, but he liked having his own space and the small cabin afforded him that. He had a bathroom and a kitchenette and it was all he needed.

#theycallmebecca #theycallmebeccawrites #chris evans #becca writes drabbles #chris evans x ofc #cande drabbles #chris evans x original female character #chris evans as a dad #chris and ellie #chris and ellie series #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fan fiction

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5lazarus · 3 years

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Anders in Autumn, Ch. 14

the last of @cozy-autumn-prompts. :) Ch. 14, “you take my breath away”: Anders and Fenris come home. Read on AO3 here. The song I had running through my head for this chapter is Sam Cooke’s A Change is Gonna Come, and George Winston’s piano cover. Give it a listen, if you feel like it. :)

Leaves litter the streets of Kirkwall when they return. Fenris takes the horses to Hightown with him. They dawdle at first, at the gate down to Lowtown. Anders is afraid for him to leave. Over nearly a decade their relationship has shifted from mutual antipathy to grudging respect and now comradeship and this tender thing, and it is all so fragile he fears a chill wind will ruin it.

He asks, anxious, “When will I see you next?” Anything could happen while he is gone. The guards could come from him. The templars might invade the clinic. The Carta could firebomb it. Merrill could sacrifice him to Xebenkeck. She had wanted to talk to it, when Hawke accidentally summoned it.

Fenris says, “Tomorrow?” Anders’ face falls. He wanted him to say “tonight.” He nods and begins to descend the stairs, but Fenris stops him. They kiss quickly, conscious that they are a sight: a Ferelden human and a Tevene elf, with two very fine horses. They break apart before someone can try to pick their pockets. Fenris says, firmly this time, “Tomorrow.”

Anders trudges down to Lowtown, winding his way through the Foundry District and down into Darktown. The city goes from gold, trees resplendent in the crown of autumn, to dying and dirty too quickly. The old quarry walls block too much of the sun. He keeps his head down and eyes quick. No one seems to be watching him. The new clothes help.

Messere-Pounce-the-Second runs out to greet him, meowing excitedly. He’s visibly thinner--Merrill has actually kept him to his diet. Anders scoops him up and the cat rubs against his face. He’s purring.

“I should leave more often,” Anders tells him, hugging him close as Messere Pounce tucks his head under his chin and presses his cold nose to his neck. Cat in his arms, he walks into the clinic and is shocked. Merrill has whitewashed the place. She has little pots of elfroot and embrium arranged artistically through the front room. He hears a crash and a scream from the back room and sighs. He puts down Messere Pounce and goes to investigate.

Merrill is holding aloft a bottle of something green, lying prone on a heap of sacks. Anders sniffs the air: elfroot, and a lot of it. Truly a ridiculous amount, really. Even Merrill couldn’t smoke all that. He heaves his bag down. Merrill opens her eyes and grins sheepishly.

“Absinthe?” she inquires.

“Now?”

“Later!” she clarifies. “I made it myself. Isabela showed me how. I took a sack of sugar from one of Varric’s friends,” doubtless without permission, “and, well, in Rivain they drink it with rain water, but I didn’t think the water in Kirkwall would be ah, non-toxic enough. So I drew a bottle of water from the Viscount’s well.” Anders looks at her in disbelief. He resents how Hightown has the cleanest water while polluting the rest of the city. He resents that, because of the way the city itself is built, Hightown’s rainwater pours through the dirty gutters of Lowtown and floods Darktown. Every time it rains, he has to prepare for a cholera outbreak from the overflowing sewers. Every summer he prepares for malaria. Even he would not dare steal from the Viscount’s well, at least not just to make a drink. He would rather occupy it. He shakes his head and offers her a hand. She takes it, and he heaves her up.

“Thanks for whitewashing the place,” he says. “What did I miss?”

Athenril brought the elfroot for saving Mahanon’s life, apparently Imladris was a cousin, Hawke had left a bag of flaming dogshit on Varric’s doorstep, Isabela had received a very flirtatious letter from Fenris’ estranged sister, and Meredith had made three mages with connections to the underground Tranquil. Orsino had sent a letter to the Seekers. The spirits were getting restless--the very oldest ones, the ones who remembered the fall of Arlathan. The Veil was fraying. Six children in the alienage were showing signs of mana sensitivity, but Clan Sabrae was refusing to take anyone in until they had a new Keeper, First, and Second.

“But,” Merrill says, “the halla came back. As soon as they buried Marethari. So I’ve heard. So Athenril told Hawke.”

Anders pauses. Merrill fucked up, and he has no sympathy for what she did to her clan. She should have known better to make a deal with a spirit named Audacity, and one that was so obviously a Pride demon. He does pity her, perhaps, watching the convoluted ways her clan goes about ostracizing her but still makes sure she knows that they are thriving as much as they can without her. He decides not to touch it.

“Makes sense,” he says. “They have no one to train them.” Merrill flinches, and he feels a twinge of guilt. It’s like kicking a puppy, but how else will she learn?

“I suppose another clan will take them,” Merrill says, blinking rapidly. “Oh dear. I was never much of a teacher anyway. I should have asked Imladris Ashallin--but she can get so nasty.”

“She was nice enough to me,” Anders shrugs. “Mostly ignored me, to be honest. Spent a lot of time in the woods. Her husband was a lot of fun, though.”

“Ah, Mahanon, he’s the heart and soul,” Merrill smiles. “Good singer, too. Both of them are so intense though, no wonder you all got along. How was it with Fenris? When Hawke found out you were both gone, they were furious. They wanted to go with you. Varric had to talk them down out of tracking you down. Said they’d do more good telling Bran to leave the investigation off than going on the run.”

He smiles. Messere-Pounce-the-Second bats at his face with a paw and purrs insistently. He wants to be fed. Anders thinks about Fenris, the hungry kiss in the kitchen, the cool night in the orchard, and waking up to him throwing the covers off the bed--their bed, for two nights. “It was fine,” he says to the floor, putting the cat down. “Where did you put the food? What have you been feeding him?” He would sing his love to the Golden City and back, but he has to find the words and the rhythm first.

Merrill looks at him oddly. “You’re happy.”

Kirkwall in autumn is a riot of color and gloom, sea salt and rot coming off the docks, and its people taste of the tomb. Still the sun burns them clean. Anders considers the street scene outside the window before answering. There is still daylight, that perfect gold that illuminates even Darktown for an hour before twilight.

“Yes,” he says. His heart feels full, he can’t even snap at her to leave him alone. Merrill leaves anyway, eying him as she goes, and Anders stands in the middle of the bustle of the clinic and enjoys being home. Lirene is ladling out the evening meal. There are less people gathered than last month, since the dockworkers had gotten a raise. Their faces look less pinched. Perhaps it is the sun pooling in the pit of his stomach, keeping him buoyant, but Anders sees hope there too. He gets to work, chatting with his neighbors, hearing about the little ailments, the fears about the leftover Qunari (who still needed a meal, he’d have to ask Fenris to come with him and invite them over), someone was setting up a school in the alienage but the Ferelden children were invited too.

Night falls and most people clear out, and Anders checks on his chronic patients. Samson always has a bed with him, after everything he has done for Kirkwall’s Circle and the Tranquil in particular, and he is struggling with withdrawal. Anders suspects he steals his lyrium, but he would rather him dose safely than risk an impure strain in the sewers. Reduce harm, he thinks: you can’t take it away entirely, but you can wear away at it. He keeps an eye on him while he makes his rounds.

He is taking inventory of what Athenril left--there is a story in this gift, he suspects, that he’ll never know--when Lirene comes in.

“That elf’s at the door again,” she says. “The grumpy one. You want me to turn him away? I’m going to head out for the night.”

His heart stops, and he can’t help a broad grin from spreading across his face. He wasn’t expecting him to come by, Fenris had told him tomorrow, has he missed him that much? Lirene smiles at the sight of him. She’s glad he’s glad, and Anders is elated. “Fenris?” he says. “Oh no, he’s alright. I’ll get him, you have a great night.”

“More than alright, I’d say,” Lirene murmurs, and she grabs her cloak and dagger and leaves quickly. Anders heads back out to the main room. Samson has fallen asleep in the chair in front of the fire, Maddox standing next to him patiently like Andraste’s mabari himself. Oh, Maker: fuck Meredith for ripping him away from himself, his friend, his lover.

“Maddox, you can sit if you want,” Anders says. Tranquil don’t have wants. It is worth a try anyway. Karl managed to break free briefly, that one time. Maybe this would help.

“I am fine,” Maddox says tonelessly. “The fire is acceptable and I do not tire.” He deserves more than that, more than dry bread and a warm fire. He deserves a bed of roses and his lover back, he deserves Samson whole and they both should have gotten a full life, a reliable home, not just a dry spot by the fire in a renegade mage’s clinic where at any moment this could all be shut down. They deserve more. They deserve the world.

He hears a cough, and looks to the door. Fenris is standing awkwardly at the threshold. He has changed back to his usual light armor. He’s cut his hair, too, shaved at the sides and short on top. He looks sharper and older and clearer. Anders loves it. He wants to run his fingers through it.

Fenris says, “I had some unexpected free time and thought you may want some company.” He looks bashful. Anders draws closer, caresses the edge of his jaw. Fenris closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“I like the hair,” Anders murmurs. He thinks wildly, suddenly: but I haven’t shaved since we left Kirkwall. Before he has time to fret Fenris kisses him, and he sighs as Fenris rakes his nails up his back. Maddox and Samson are behind him, he does not want to think about them. Would Fenris take care of him like Samson takes care of Maddox, or would he leave him like a dog in the streets, like so many have left their broken mage partners? The abandoned mabari take care of them, though, and Samson and some of the others do too. He wouldn’t be left entirely bereft.

“What’s the matter?” Fenris says sharply. “You’re not--you’re thinking about something else.”

Anders holds him closer. “Tranquility,” he says. “Common punishment for mages who have lovers outside the Circle. Inside the Circle they just transfer you, if you’re lucky. I’m just…” He exhales, then burrows his nose in Fenris’ hair. “Brooding. Angry. Afraid. Like I always am. Just--let’s stay like this a moment.” A moment may be all he has. Eventually he can make himself let go. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight.” He tries to remember what he had been doing--taking stock, planning out poultices for the next week, he needs to draw up a kitchen rotation and see what cash Lirene has left, if he has enough to go to the market or if he’ll need to take Hawke with him.

“Are you busy?”

There is always work that needs doing, because if he does not do it, no one will. That is one thing Justice has taught him. If you see something that needs doing, do it, there’s no excuses. Feeling tired already, Anders smiles and says, “I can make time for you.”

They go for a walk, hand in hand, out to the wharves. The lanterns are lit and swinging in the careless breeze. Anders drinks it in. The trees are losing their leaves, but still they shine in the fairy-light. It is cool but not yet cold. Kirkwall is more temperate than Ferelden, and so much less harsh than the Anderfels. Half the city is out and about, everyone has their doors thrown open and there is a card game, a party, a fight at every corner. He waves at his neighbors--Lirene has Thrask of all people on her arm, as they sit outside her house with a few tankards. She toasts them as they walk by. Sketch, an apostate friend from the Mages’ Collective, rushes into them, slipping a piece of paper into his pocket as he goes. No one is chasing him. Sketch is always like that. Fenris looks at him curiously, but Anders shakes his head. He is not sure how much he wants him to know.

They make it to the wharves and it is a shock how clean it all is. He remembers the blood staining the cobbles, Kirkwall’s eternal rain. Fenris’ fingers tighten their grasp. Anders looks down and notices the grotting between the stones is clean. Someone spent time scrubbing the battle away. Two people dead, a few maimed, most recovering from their injuries, to fight another day, because there would be another battle, another day. But they won this one, and they will win the next. Kirkwall had wrested itself from its chains. One day the mages will do the same, and he will live to do it.

Justice walks the streets of Kirkwall, hand-in-hand. Fenris stops at the edge of the docks and they sit down, staring out at the bay. Behind them are those awful Tevinter statues, howling in despair. Before them the usual moon glimmers on the water, the second Satinalia moon starting to glimmer. Anders can feel the Veil trembling on his skin. He leans against Fenris. Fenris puts his arm around his waist.

“I am thinking,” Fenris murmurs, “of all my ancestors who must have died here.” Cheery: but Anders is just as morbid. “How many of them looked on this, and prayed to gods who would not answer to save them. To let them leave. And now I am here. And I am choosing to stay.”

The wind ruffles the feathers sewn into Ander’s shawl. He shivers, and Fenris draws him closer. Justice presses behind his eyes, drawn to the surface as they see the procession of those that made them. A ship creaks, moored for the winter, and they know it groans with the memory of so many families, lost. Anders thinks of the mages locked in the Gallows, restless as the Satinalia moon stirs the spirits up, and sighs.

“You take my breath away,” Fenris says suddenly. “I am not good with my words. This is new to me. This is all so new to me. But--you are breath-taking. Your commitment. How much you care. How much it hurts you, and how you persevere. And I like the beard.”

Anders wonders if it would be too much to just push him onto his back and take him there, or let him take him, whatever Fenris preferred, but Fenris made it clear he needed to pace himself, and besides, knowing his luck, Isabela would amble by, or fucking Cullen, one of those blond templar oafs. He kisses him instead, fiercely, intent on making him breathless. He gets a bit carried away, dragging him on top of him, worn planks digging into his back, but Fenris is laughing, and he draws back, sheepish, saying, “Too much?”

But Fenris says, “Just enough, mage. You’re enough.”

#fenders #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #fenris/anders #anders/fenris #anders #fenris #merrill #maddox #samson #kirkwall #anders in autumn #fanfic #5lazarus #hes5thlazarus #co-zautumn

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sketchy-saram · 5 years

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Just a little tidbit I wrote to start getting into the writing habit again, especially since I want to write some more stuff about these guys in the future. (Maybe after Inktober?) I’ve read this like 100 times over, so forgive me if it has any mistakes--I’m incapable of seeing them anymore. xD Enjoy!

Comfort

Something was wrong.

Advieh knew it as soon as Felix walked in the room. And that made them uneasy, since nothing was EVER wrong with Felix. In the entire time they’d known him, they couldn’t think of a single thing he couldn’t laugh off; no situation he couldn’t spin to his weird brand of optimism. It was bizarre. Sometimes it was exasperating. But in the end, it was part of what made Felix, well...Felix.

But today something was off.

He walked into their office, where they were doing some ledger work, and solemnly sat on a cushion at the windows. He didn’t do any of the normal things to announce his presence; didn’t ruffle Advieh’s hair, or kiss the top of their head, or tell a joke, or try to feed them some weird (and potentially location-changing) dessert. He didn’t say anything at all. He simply sat, staring blankly out into the fog-covered courtyard.

And they were already losing a lot of work time trying to figure this out, they thought with a sigh, so they might as well do it properly. They closed the book on their numbers and leaned back, brushing their long red hair out of the way.

“And to what do I owe this particular visit?” they asked. There was no answer. In fact, Felix didn’t look as if he had heard it at all. Advieh’s brow furrowed, and they cleared their throat, feeling almost awkward. “Ah, Felix. Are you… are you all right?”

Nothing. Unnerving silence. He might as well have been on another planet for how present he seemed at that moment--the thousand-yard stare into space accompanied only by his persistent gnawing on his thumbnail.

The pit in Advieh’s stomach was dropping lower and lower. They stood up, trying not to allow the alarm show on their face.

“Felix.

Hey, Felix.

Felix!”

He started. Being pulled out of his own head felt like being yanked out of a tar pit, so deeply had he been embedded in his own thoughts. There was a tangy, bitter taste in his mouth, and as he blinked, he could see Advieh knelt in front of him. Their face was concerned, bordering on panicked; their hands holding his too tightly.

And they were bloody.

“Ad! What happened? Are you okay? Why are you bleeding--”

Advieh’s eyes, brown like his but with that alluring amber sheen, softened just a bit before narrowing again.

“That isn’t my blood, it’s yours. You were biting your nails down to nothing.”

It was true; Felix could see now, the ragged remains on his right hand where blood sluggishly oozed out. In his mouth, the coppery flavor suddenly made sense. The pain accompanied this realization in quick succession.

“Ouch,” he managed, smiling weakly. Well, that was all right then, as long as Ad was fine. They were already bandaging his finger with magic, which he could have done himself, but there was a hollow satisfaction in being tended to right now.

And then, just like that, he was remembering everything again, and his face fell. He shouldn’t even be there right now. Why was he here? He didn’t remember walking to Ad’s office; couldn’t recall anything after leaving the kitchens earlier, lost in thought. Felix felt his hands shaking.. No, he couldn’t bother Advieh with this. He wasn’t even thinking straight. This was too much...he needed to process it; needed to be alone.

“Where are you going now?” they asked, one brow lifting elegantly.

“Away. I’m sorry I interrupted your work. You should, ah… you should get back to it.” He paused for a second, looking at the clock. “But not too long. Don’t forget to have lunch.” his smile was weak. It felt heavy on his face.

Felix turned again to go.

Advieh stood by the table only a moment before they reached out to grab his arm. They didn’t even have to think about it; they knew they couldn’t let him go like this. Who else would think to tell them to take a break for lunch? Who else would sneak them into the seedy bars near the docks, or slip them enchanted muffins that made your eyes change color for 24 hours?

Like it or not, they were invested in this man.

“Ah ah. You already forced my hand and took my attention, so you might as well make the most of it. My time is precious, after all. Use it wisely.”

His arm, warm tanned skin under a rainbow of colorful cloth, trembled in Advieh’s grasp. His eyes were distant and desperate at the same time. He bit his lip, teeth tugging at the old scar across his mouth.

How could they be so familiar with Felix, and yet so unfamiliar with the version of him in front of them now?

“Talk to me,” they added, lower this time, more gently.

And they could see his walls shudder and crumble.

“I...my dad was here,” he began softly.

“Julian?” The slippery knot of anxiety tightened. They really liked Felix’s family; his ex-pirate, questionably medically-trained father was charmingly rakish, and always full of the most exciting stories. “Is something wrong with him? I can--”

But Felix shook his head and sighed, hands mussing his already-messy mohawk. Instead of its normal rooster-like proudness, it looked as sad as he did.

Words didn’t seem to come. Instead he paced, grappled with the air, and finally relented, going to sit again in a chair by the windows. He beckoned them over reluctantly.

“No, not… not that dad. My, ah…”

Advieh wasn’t stupid. They blew out a long breath, the pieces falling into place.

“You mean your birth father? He was here? At the palace?”

They had never seen Felix look more miserable, even as his face scrunched up in disgust and anger.

“Yeah, that one. Not my dad. Just the man that abandoned us.” His fists tensed again; Advieh placed their hands over them in consolation, waiting patiently for him to continue. “I didn’t change my name from the one he gave me, so I guess when he started to ask around, it wasn’t so hard to find me...The magical baker who works at the palace? Yeah, not hard to find at all, if you’re looking for me.”

A hard, tight laugh escaped his lips. “Which he didn’t for, oh, how long? Twenty-five years? I guess one day he just woke up and thought, ‘I wonder what happened to my kids?’. Expected us to be dead in a gutter somewhere years ago. Ha. Imagine his surprise when we weren’t dead at all? It’s almost funny, when you think about it.”

But it wasn’t funny. No one was laughing.

Advieh sat somberly, their legs neatly tucked beneath them. Their thumb was rubbing soothing circles on his white-knuckled grip. He took comfort in their presence. He always had. Maybe that was why he had walked here, even when he didn’t realize it himself. Now that he had started, the words came easier, fueled by all the emotions he’d been battling as they flooded through him freely.

“Anyway, so someone showed him to the kitchens when he came around asking for me. He wanted...he wanted to see Wren, and I told him there was no way in hell. She was a baby when he left--she doesn’t even remember him. Not like me. She doesn’t even have the ghost of a memory with him in it. He called her ‘Renard’ for Gods’ sake--he doesn’t know anything about her, Ad! And he doesn’t deserve to. Bastard. I told him she was fine, and that was all he needed to know.”

Felix could keenly, so keenly that it hurt, bring to mind that sense of loss. He could still feel the dawning horror that he had felt all those years ago when he woke up to realize his father was gone. The increasing panic of understanding he wasn’t going to come back. Three days he waited patiently, like an abandoned dog for its master; until all the food in the house was also gone, and Wren had nothing left to eat. And then he left that house, a five-year-old with a baby, off to find some way to keep them both from starving to death. Finding so much fear and pain before Asra intervened.

“What would have happened to us if Asra hadn’t found me in that alleyway? If he hadn’t taken us to my parents? Wren would have died. I wouldn’t have been able to keep her alive by myself, and could have gotten killed trying. I almost did anyway, and I… I would have done anything for her, you know. She was all I had--all I had left, and I...I would have…”

His sentence ended when he couldn’t speak anymore, choking over the sobs that threatened to consume him. He felt cool fingers gingerly cup his cheek; a thumb brushing away bitter, angry tears.

To Advieh they felt unbearably hot, and the uncomfortable feeling they had harbored since earlier thundered in their chest once more. They weren’t sure what it was, but it was so hard to contain.

After a minute, Felix regained his composure and sighed.

“It’s stupid to still feel this way after so long. He wasn’t...he wasn’t a monster, Ad. He was just a broken man who failed. He failed as a father, and he failed as a human being. I get it, but…” He held up the bandaged hand in front of him, flexing it slowly, staring at it transfixed. “But why is it, if I can understand all that with my head and my heart… why even now, after all this time, can’t I shake this horrible feeling that it will happen all over again? That every person I know will disappear and abandon me too, just like those people did? How can it still hurt this badly, Ad? I don’t--”

They couldn’t take it anymore. With swift and decisive movement, Advieh wrapped their arms firmly around Felix’s shaking shoulders, pulling him close. His face burrowed into the crook of their neck; his hands wrapped desperately around their back. They couldn’t deny this defensive, fierce need to protect him any more. Even if what they felt for him was too much, too raw, too early to name, they could not resist this urge to give him what he sought. Advieh would have given anything to ease away the naked fear in his eyes.

“I won’t abandon you,” they whispered in his ear. He smelled like sugar, and cinnamon, and the same kind of patchouli-based herbal mixture as Asra and their father. Their voice was hoarse, but clear and determined. “I won’t abandon you, Felix.”

Advieh stared down at the numbers on their ledgers again, but their train of thought was constantly being derailed, and it might as well have been Julian’s handwriting they were trying to read. Felix was sleeping--calmly now, but fitfully at first--in their room next door. Part of their attention was devoted to keenly sensing him and his current state; the other half was spent telling themself that they shouldn’t hunt down his father and sentence him to death. It was not the most clear-minded impulse, and Advieh was usually nothing if not level-headed, so they were able to recognize that this thought was neither helpful nor wise. It didn’t stop their blood from boiling, or their baser, uglier side from wanting to do it anyway.

What was the point in being part of the ruling family if you couldn’t feed your enemies to a pit of hungry lions?

They rubbed their temples, letting out a half-chuckle, half-sigh. Of course that was extreme, and they didn’t have a pit of hungry lions besides. It should have alarmed them how violently they felt towards a person they had never even met before, on behalf of another person they had been desperate to avoid not that long ago. When had everything changed? They couldn’t begin to say. But the change was insistent, and demanding, and quite frankly a little scary. Where would this path lead? They didn’t know; couldn’t begin to fathom a guess. This hadn’t been their plan at all. And yet...why was it so tempting, nonetheless?

“I made a promise,” they mused, thinking earlier of their madly murmured words of reassurance. Maybe they hadn’t been a real promise, but Advieh intended to keep to the spirit of it regardless.

Their magically-enhanced senses heard Felix shift in bed; heard the sheets crumple around him. Heard his breath catch, then continue regularly. A bad dream? They should go check, they thought as they stood up, ledgers and numbers forgotten.

Yes, they intended to keep their word on this one. For whatever time they had, as long as it was in their power. He was their person, after all.

And they would never abandon him.

#Felix #Advieh #Advieh and Felix #my oc #other people's ocs #writing #fanfiction #the arcana next generation #fluffy angst #felix backstory #the arcana #the arcana game #otp #just kinda channeled Advieh for most of this #hope you don't mind Lazy ahahaha #comfort #sorry for the very messy doodle #just limbs and hair EVERYWHERE

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aterriblethought · 5 years

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Acid Town fanfiction is up!

Alrighty, I finally managed to get all of the fanfiction up! You can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20868263 ⬅️⬅️

As a preview, here is the first chapter... sorry if the read more link doesn’t work and you have to scroll past the whole thing, orz. In my defense this is the shortest chapter.

Fire - 火災

The moment stretched out between them, punctuated by the steady beeps of machinery, the echo of footsteps out in the hallway, and the distant murmur of voices. A suffocating cloud of lily pollen from a vase under the window masked the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass and gleamed off the polished tile floor and the crisp white linens of the bed. The boy’s tiny, frail hands clenched the folds of the sheets, trembling slightly. Yuki reached out to brush the top of the boy’s brown hair, ruffling the soft locks which reflected the sunlight.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, as the boy jumped in surprise. “We’ve already been through the worst, and we both survived, didn’t we?”

Yuki pulled his hand away from the sleeping toddler, tugging a tattered and dirty blanket up to the boy’s chin. He pushed himself up, his thin arms straining to carry him. The dark air sat warm and heavy on him. Outside the thin curtains of the window he could see a haze of red and white lights in the darkness. Even late at night, he could hear the distant rumble of cars, the thrumming bass of music, the whispers of muffled voices and moans and laughter somewhere in the building. A fan droned in the corner. Occasionally there was a heavy, grunting snore. Yuki flinched and glanced sideways over at the lump of a man, Ashiei, curled on a futon on the other side of the room. Empty bottles and convenience store wrappers littered the floor around the man’s head, and the mixed stench of sweat and alcohol and semen drifted off of him and stung Yuki’s nose. Shuddering, he slipped carefully out of the blanket away from his brother and rose to his feet. He padded across the room, his bare footsteps muffled against the frayed tatami matting, until he reached the cooler air of the doorway. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed, and Yuki stumbled backwards.

The front door burst open; the thin chain that held it closed scattered its links across the floor. His mother, Tsubaki, turned to get away and stumbled into a table, scattering papers and knocking over a tea cup. Tea splashed onto the table and soaked into the papers as the cup rolled off the edge and shattered on the floor. Yuki’s grandmother shrieked and pulled him out of sight behind her, so he had to lean around her leg to see. Three men pushed their way through the door, and the room burst into chaos. Tsubaki yelled and his grandmother screamed, throwing whatever was within arm’s reach at the intruders as they struggled to subdue the two women. A man with wild black hair and a smirking grin swept the room with a piercing gaze and Yuki felt an extra burst of fear rip up his spine. He wanted to help his mother and grandmother, but his mind was screaming at him to run, run away, his mother was shouting, his grandmother was shrieking obscenities in Chinese, and without thinking he turned and ran into the other room, stubbing his toe on a futon and stumbling into a wall.

His back hit the door, and the small rapping sound it made against the wall sounded like a gunshot in the dark room, making Yuki wince. He froze, waiting, but Ashiei kept sleeping. Yuki crept out of the room into a small living space, crowded with bags of garbage and stacks of old magazines. Half-eaten takeout boxes sat atop a small, boxy TV quietly hissing static. Yuki wrinkled his nose, stepping towards the kitchen, glancing over the stained countertop piled with dishes, looking for a glass that wasn’t too dirty. He pushed a few dishes aside and grabbed a cup, peering into the cloudy liquid at the bottom in the dim red light of a fire alarm on the ceiling above his head. His reflection swam in the glass.

His reflection flashed in a mirror as he ran past the futons to the double closet, trying to ignore the shouting and screaming in the other room. With the futons still out on the floor, the right one was mostly empty; he pulled at the heavy wooden doors and made a crack just big enough to slip his small body through. Once he was inside, he slid the door closed with his bare feet, and the roar of the noise in the other room grew muffled. His head rapped against a shelf above him as he struggled to fit in the space. He rubbed the top of his head and muffled a whimper, his heart beating so loud in his chest he was sure the men in the other room had to hear it. The noise outside was growing softer; Yuki could hear a low crying he thought might be his grandmother, and the occasional slam of a cupboard being thrown open or the crash of something hitting the floor. A tense argument was going on between what sounded like his mother and one of the men. Heavy footsteps started towards him, and Yuki shrank against a pile of boxes as best he could, his heart hammering in his chest. He slapped his hands over his mouth as the footsteps stopped in front of the door. The door of the other closet was thrown open, and he winced as boxes were yanked out, books and knickknacks colliding against the floor with a thunderous roar. His heart leapt into his throat as the door to his left was kicked open, illuminating the boxes there, and he pulled his legs to his chest and willed himself to withdraw deeper into the shadows. After a moment the door slammed closed. The door in front of him was ripped open, and a flood of light stung his eyes.

Yuki closed the refrigerator door with a snap, and the kitchen was plunged back into darkness. Clutching a glass of tepid water and a half-eaten onigiri rice ball in a plastic wrapper, he tiptoed over to the couch and cleared off a pile of used tissues to make himself a space. He climbed onto the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest, and took a bite of the rice ball. The cold, sticky rice stuck to his teeth like gum. The soft glow of the television sparkled in the water of the glass in his hand. The continuous drone of static was hissing in his ears. His vision swam out of focus; he rubbed tears out of his eyes and sniffed. When the room came back into focus, he was no longer alone.

In front of him, a boy was sitting on his haunches, his head in his hands, looking up at Yuki with a bored expression. Yuki felt a momentary panic that he’d woken up his brother Jun, but after a moment he realized the boy was older than Jun, and his eyes were different. With a sinking horror, he realized the eyes he was staring back into were his own.

“Is this it?” the boy said.

Yuki turned his head down to focus on the remnants of his onigiri. Ignoring the boy worked in the past. Sometimes.

“Hey.”

Yuki continued to chew slowly, the glass trembling in his hand.

“I said, hey.”

He could see the reflection of the boy stand up in the water of the glass, and Yuki looked up to see they were now eye to eye.

“W… what do you want?” Yuki whispered.

The boy tilted his head. “What do you want? Do you want to keep living like this forever?”

Yuki tossed the empty wrapper aside and set the water glass down on the floor. “Do I have a choice?” he muttered. “I have to protect Jun.”

“Why? He isn’t even your real brother,” the boy said, and Yuki’s head snapped up to glare at him. “He’s the reason Mom’s dead.”

Yuki leaned back against the couch, folding his arms over his legs. “That’s not true.”

“Sure it is,” the boy said, and threw himself down on the couch beside Yuki, kicking his legs. “If she never had him, she’d still be alive, wouldn’t she?”

Yuki said nothing, just stared and worked his jaw. The boy sighed, and leaned forward into Yuki’s face. “We’re going to die, you know. We’re going to die just like she did.”

Yuki buried his nose in his arms. “No, we aren’t. Boys can’t have babies,” he grumbled.

The boy giggled. “If they could you would have definitely had one by now. How many men have been inside you?”

Yuki felt a wave of nausea crest over him. He rubbed his forehead in his arms and groaned. No matter how much he bathed he always felt like he could still smell them on him. His whole backside always ached.

The boy sat back, still chuckling. “We’re going to die, and they’re going to do all that to Jun, and then he’s going to die, too.”

“No…” Yuki whimpered into his knees.

The boy leapt to his feet. “Well, maybe we could still save Jun. If…” Yuki looked up. The boy’s eyes gleamed with the reflection of the TV, and a smile stretched across his face. Yuki blinked, and he was staring into the static of the TV, and the boy was gone.

He rose trembling to his feet. As he started to walk back towards the bedroom, his toes caught something metal, and it spiraled across the floor. Wincing from the pain in his toes, Yuki leaned down to pick it up. The glow of the TV screen flashed across the surface of the lighter as Yuki turned it in his hand. He stared at the blurred smear of his own reflection in the burnished metal. His thumb popped open the top of the lighter and fumbled for the flint wheel. It took a few tries turning the wheel with his shaky thumb until a spark caught the gas inside the lighter and a flame leapt from the top. Yuki watched, mesmerized, as the little flame flickered in the wake of his breath.

In the static, he could hear his screams and cries blending with those of his brother. He could hear the cackling of the men who abused them. In the swimming reflections on the lighter he could see a wash of blood, of sweat, of semen. It all blazed in the flames that would lick at their corpses after he and his brother had been squeezed of all usefulness and tossed aside in the gutter. The static intensified to a roar; the flames consumed them.

The lighter snapped shut. His trembling stopped. The sound dropped out. His head seemed to turn on his own, his body took one step, and then two, his hands pushed through the debris and garbage to find a small canister of lighter fluid. He rolled the canister in his hand and pocketed the lighter. One step, two steps, ten back to the bedroom door where Ashiei lay sleeping in a pile of empty liquor bottles and wrappers and used condoms.

Ashiei’s face appeared in the light, squinting into the darkness of the closet. He caught sight of Yuki and grinned.

The lighter fluid poured out of the bottle onto Ashiei’s blankets. As they soaked into his clothes, Ashiei grunted and turned his head into his pillow, but didn’t wake up.

Ashiei leered at him as his thumb brushed Yuki’s lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the good old times?” he sneered, and the bag of books Yuki was carrying dropped to the ground.

The empty bottle of lighter fluid bounced off the tatami mat. Yuki fumbled for the lighter in his pocket.

“Yukio! Don’t you forget!” Even as he ran, Tetsu leading him by the arm, he could still hear Ashiei screaming behind him. “You are hopelessly filthy! Don’t bother trying to live a clean life like a normal person!”

One click, two, and a flame burst from the lighter. He dropped the lighter, watching it spin from his hands.

A large hand reached for him and he tried to kick it away. Ashiei cursed and grabbed him by the leg, dragging him out of the closet, as his mother screamed somewhere in the other room. He yelled and hit at whatever he could reach, but Ashiei was much bigger than him. The light from the doorway danced in front of his eyes as he struggled.

The flame caught the lighter-fluid-soaked blankets and burst into vivid life. Yuki backed into the wall, as Ashiei roared awake, his confusion giving way to screams of pain. He struggled to put out the fire but it was crawling up his arm, fanning out across the bed onto the old tatami mat. The noise and the smell of smoke and burning flesh woke up Jun and he began to cry. Fear burst back into Yuki’s awareness and he rushed to Jun’s side, and his arms closed over Jun just as a hand grabbed the back of his shirt.

Ashiei dragged Yuki by the back of his shirt kicking and screaming into the living room. Yuki could see his grandmother kneeling with her head in her hands, and a man pinning Tsubaki’s arms behind her back, who was struggling to reach Yuki. With a heave, Ashiei tossed Yuki into a table; the explosion of pain silenced Yuki and he crumpled to the ground.

Yuki rolled to get away from Ashiei, trying not to crush Jun in the process. The fire that engulfed Ashiei’s hand had skipped to Yuki’s shirt, and distantly Yuki was aware of a searing pain spreading across his back. The whole room was bursting into flames now; Ashiei turned and ran for the bathroom. It was difficult to see anything other than brilliant flames and the black smoke stinging Yuki’s eyes. He hefted a sobbing Jun, slapping a hand to the toddler’s mouth to block out the smoke, and ran blindly for the front door. The fire alarm in the kitchen was flashing as the flames licked at the garbage bags and consumed the television. As Yuki ripped open the front door and skidded into the hall, a chirping, wailing siren filled the air. There was a rush of half-dressed people trying to escape the building, crushing in on him from every side.

His grandmother wailed as Tsubaki and Yuki were pulled from the room and out into the hall by the three men. It was a blur of heads peeking out of doors that snapped closed as they passed.

The crowd poured out onto the street. Yuki held Jun close as he ran past gawking onlookers, past convenience stores and massage parlors and nightclubs and soaplands, the crowds a sea of faces fixed on a distant plume of smoke and whirling flame. His legs ached, smoke burned in his lungs, and the pain in his back was so overwhelming that he made a sharp turn into a dark alleyway and collapsed to his knees, coughing, Jun tumbling from his grip. He stared down at his hands shaking in the dirt, but he could only see

Ashiei’s hands, the skin curling away from the rush of fire, the fingertips turning black

Ashiei’s hands stretched along the ground, scars peeking out behind dark gloves, a pool of blood seeping beneath his fingers from a hole in the back of his head, bits of hair and skull and brain matter floating in the blood like the blood smeared across

Yuki’s hands trembling in the dirt in front of him as Jun cried, and a fire engine siren wailed, and people shouted, and he sank down into the dirt in a haze of pain, and he didn’t see or hear or feel anything for a while.

#acid town #fanfiction

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1-1snailxd-art · 5 years

Text

Libraries are for Meetings

Master List ----- Chapter 5

Chapter 6 - The art of living in a library

Warnings: there is some threats/blackmail made towards Virgil

Summary: Despite the unusual evening, Virgil's morning is very routine as he continues his life as normal. Logan and Patton, on the other hand, are finding out what it is like to be separated from your closest friend when you need them the most. (Lots of Royality and platonic Logicality energy)

Note: reading on mobile can remove the paragraphing. Use desktop site or visit my Ao3 page if it bothers you as much as it bothers me.

EDIT: Art by @the-pastel-peach has been added to this chapter. Pass your appreciation to them. Please don’t repost the art anywhere (with or without credit). If you want to share the art, reblog this post.

______________________________

Virgil’s alarm sounded at 4am, the screen barely lighting the reading area as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

“Do correct me if I am wrong, but I think you are in a dark place too, Virgil.”

Sitting up, he ran his fingers through his oily hair as Logan’s voice replayed in his mind.

“Should you need a guide to find your path again, I would be happy to provide the service.”

Groaning, Virgil finally silenced his alarm and set about his morning routine. Boil water. Pack up makeshift bed into duffel. Make coffee and instant noodles (beggars can’t be choosers). Use kitchen sink to wash hair and face, before moving on to the small bathroom for a half-arsed attempt at bathing (a washcloth and baby wipes proved effective between Virgil’s stints at a motel).

He had just finished tidying the kitchen when his next alarm sounded for 5am. Grabbing his duffel and backpack, Virgil disarmed the alarm before setting it to rearm as he left. His duffel was heavier today as he walked in the morning breeze to the laundromat. Routines like these helped Virgil immensely; they made him feel normal, despite his circumstances. Not to mention, the laundromat was a warm sheltered place he could work in until the hour became more reasonable.

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

The apartment was too quiet when Logan’s alarm went off. To say he woke up would be an insult, as he barely managed to get a wink of sleep all night. The apartment felt cold and empty as he shuffled out to the kitchen in his dressing gown and placed a cup under the coffee maker. Normally, at this time, music would be flooding the apartment and Patton would be heard singing from the bathroom while Logan prepared breakfast prior to going out jogging. Without Patton, Logan couldn’t bring himself to turn on the stereo, cook his usual breakfast or even jog. Had he not been so sleep deprived, Logan might have realised how mentally unhealthy his choices were; but sitting at the table with a cup of black coffee and buttered toast, he was just a shell of his normal self.

Despite the change in routine, Logan still managed to get himself ready for the day and was about to leave for work when his phone chimed in his pocket. Seeing Patton’s name and face on the lit screen left Logan feeling confused overall. Yes, he missed having his friend around, but seeing his face reignited his frustration. It was the perfect form of emotional torture, and Logan took his time walking to his car as he considered how to respond to Patton’s message.

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

On the other side of town, Patton was waking up in Roman’s arms. It was different. His last boyfriend had been too rigid for Patton’s liking, and waking up with Roman was different to the more platonic bed sharing he had had with Logan and Jason.

In that moment, Roman had one arm carefully laid across Patton’s middle and the other was tucked neatly under his pillow. Patton could feel his breath against the back of his head, soft and rhythmic. Though he was comfortable and happy, Patton could still feel the ache in his heart for Logan and he questioned how his friend was doing.

Carefully reaching out to the side table, Patton slid his phone and glasses down next to him and adjusted the phones brightness settings before angling it toward his face.

No new messages

Nibbling at his bottom lip, Patton looked at the time and considered whether to message Logan or leave him alone. As time ticked on, he finally built up the courage to send a message.

Pats: morning Logan.

Pats: im sorry again for yesterday.

Pats: I hope you slept ok.

LogieBear: *seen*

Patton held his breath as he watched the ellipsis appear and disappear with no new messages coming through. Roman stirred behind him, yawning and releasing his partner as he combed his fingers through his hair.

“Morning P.B.”

Propping himself up, Roman could see the screen that held Patton’s attention. Anger started to bubble in his gut as the seconds dragged on. He was just about to grab the phone when messages finally started coming through, and Patton’s body relaxed against him again.

LogieBear: morning Patton. Thank you for your message and apology. As I said yesterday, I forgive you.

LogieBear: but I would still like some space today if possible.

Roman lent forward, pulling Patton closer towards his chest; fearing he was about to see Patton break again.

LogieBear: Do not forget to eat today. Take care of yourself. I love you.

To Roman’s relief, Patton giggled and quickly typed a response.

Pats: I 💜 you too

LogieBear: Have a good day Patton (and Roman)

“Oh, pass me the phone.”

Roman reached around to take the phone from Patton’s hands, using the other hand to pull the hood of the onesie over Patton’s head.

“Ha-ha-Hey,” Patton giggled, “what are you do-oo-ing?”

“Just letting Logan know what he is missing out on.”

Roman quickly snapped a picture of the pair; Patton peeking out from his hood and Roman pulling his usual selfie face with his tussled hair. Yanking the hood down over Patton’s eyes again, Roman sent the photo and a message for Logan.

Pats: *image sent*

(art by @the-pastel-peach - Please don’t repost)

Pats: luv ya specs

As Patton finally escaped Roman’s arms and hood, he grabbed at his phone and groaned.

“You are such a tease, Roman.”

The phone chimed as Logan’s reply came through and Patton hid his phone.

“What did he say? Come on P.B, share with the class.” Roman rolled onto his back, pulling Patton down so his head was laying on his chest.

LogieBear: I will be sure to provide you with this when I see you next, Roman. Clearly you require it.

LogieBear: *image sent*

Patton held his phone with his finger on the lock button as Roman took in the image of Logan with the book ‘Talking for Dummies’ in front of half of his face.

“Oh no-“ Patton quickly locked his phone as Roman reached out for it; now laughing hysterically. “Why does he even have that in his car?”

“We-we fff-ff-found it,” Patton was struggling to speak through his laughter. “For y-oooo.”

“Oh, is that how it is, is it?”

Roman grabbed Patton, tickling his sides and causing his laughter to increase in volume.

Katie started bashing on the door as the two continued their childish game.

“Would you two keep it down or cut it out! The third party is uncomfortable.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s PG in here!” Roman called back.

“Oh, well if that is the case,” The door swung open and Katie threw two white paper bags at the pair. “Breakfast is served.”

“Thank you, Katie!” Patton beamed as he sat up and peered at the pastry inside the bag.

“Gotta make sure my boys eat.” The smile dropped from Katie’s face suddenly, as she fixed Roman with a stern look and pointed finger. “You need to get your butt into gear today. You have class in an hour and work at 12. Don’t. Be. Late. I’m not covering for you again, got it?”

Roman nodded, pastry already in his mouth, “-ot it.”

“And you are cooking dinner tonight, Roman; no takeout.”

“I’ll make sure he gets everything done. You can count on me, Kaaaatieeee.”

Katie smiled at Patton’s attempt to rhyme. “Thanks, Patty Bear. Hopefully your influence will rub off on Roman eventually.”

“Not if my influence rubs off on him first,” Roman joked, rubbing his shoulder against Patton.

“Ew. Mind. Gutter. I’m out.” Katie turned to leave, “catch you later, boys.”

“Bye Katie!”

“Later bitch- I mean witch.” Patton gave Roman a disapproving look and elbowed his side. “I mean I love yooou…happy?”

“Very,” He kissed Roman’s cheek before climbing out of the bed and heading for the bathroom.

Roman lent over to his other side table and grabbed his phone to find a new message from Logan.

Specs: thank you for helping Patton through this. I know the timing isn’t great.

Princey: don’t stress over it, Logan. Take all the time you need. We’re ok.

Specs: thank you Roman. I will see you soon enough.

Princey: C ya

Specs: 🤦

Roman shook his head; regretting the day he showed Logan the face palm emoji. To that day, it was the only emoji they could get the man to use on a regular basis. He knew how much the other hated text speech and took great joy in ensuring their messaged conversations had some form of grammar or spelling error. He didn’t have a chance to continue to mock the other, as Patton came back in and held his arms out.

“Time to get up, my prince. I promised the queen you wouldn’t be late today.”

“Ah, yes,” Roman accepted Patton’s hands and climbed out of bed, “and we wouldn’t want to upset the queen of hearts or it would be off with our heads.”

Patton giggled and graced Roman with a gentle kiss on his lips; pulling away when Roman started to embrace him. “Get ready for class now, Roman.”

“Awwwww,” He whined, pouting and dropping his arms dramatically.

“If you are going to get greedy, I might have to sleep in the spare bed next time.” Roman crossed his arms and continued to pout. “Off you go, kiddo.”

Roman played up his childish behaviour as he grabbed his clothes and headed into the bathroom to shower. Patton glanced around the room, still in the onesie. Once he heard the shower turn on, he set to work tidying the room and found some of Roman’s clothes that he could borrow for the morning.

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

The sun was warm against Virgil’s freshly washed hoodie, as he laid on the grass in the park; duffel acting as a perfect pillow for him to lay on. It wasn’t often that the weather was right for moments of bliss like this, and Virgil wasn’t one to miss an opportunity to get reacquainted with vitamin D. Unfortunately, his moment of reprieve was short lived as his phone chimed with alerts.

Email - funds successfully transferred from acc629 to …

Email - Account Alert: available balance below $50…

New message - Ben: Hey Asshole, your 20 short o…

‘There goes my day.’ Virgil thought, sitting up and pulling his notebook out of his backpack.

Logging in to the banking app on his phone, Virgil started assessing his limited money flow. His pay from the library was the only constant influx of funds he had, and he had it carefully split to save towards paying his phone bill and paying Ben and his aunt. Any money he made from repairs, was also split between those three goals and he got whatever was left.

Carefully analysing his notes, he knew money was tighter that fortnight, but he was certain that the correct amount had been sent to Ben.

Ben: Hey Asshole, your 20 short on your payment. Pay up

Virgil: I just checked my accounts and everything looks fine on my end.

Ben: you forgot about interest bitch

Virgil: that wasn’t part of our original agreement

Ben: I changed my mind

Virgil: you can’t do that. That’s not fair.

Ben: I don’t give a shit about fair. You should have thought about that before you punched me.

Virgil: I can’t afford an extra $20. I’m barely surviving as it is.

Ben: not my problem, unless you need me to come and have a chat at that little library of yours.

Virgil’s blood chilled at the thought. He wasn’t sure of Ben’s full intentions. Was he implying that he would tell Katie who he was? Would he come and damage the library? Would he hurt Katie?

It wasn’t worth the risk and he watched his tiny $30 drop to $15 as he transferred some money to Ben.

Virgil: that’s all I can do right now. Give me a day or so and I’ll send you the other 5.

Ben: you better.

$15 wasn’t an ideal, amount at all. The $30 was going to be hard enough, but he could have at least had one day in the comfort and safety of a $10 motel without worry. $15 would barely get him extra food, or even extra supplies to fix anything. Not to mention none of his former ‘friends’ had responded to his requests to stay over for at least a night. That left his options for the weekend as either, use the library or spend it on the streets.

With those thoughts in his mind, Virgil packed up and left the park. He had a new daily plan in mind; drop duffel off at library, revisit local businesses to check on work availability, return to the library to test his gaming system rebuild. While he walked, Virgil searched all the University social pages to see if anyone was seeking computer support. All social anxieties had to be pushed aside; he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on things like that now.

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

Logan sat at the pet store counter, scribbling notes as he completed his reading assignment for the day. He had finished restocking the shelves 15 minutes prior and wasn’t in the mood for organising anymore of the store. The sound of the doors sliding open had him quickly shutting his books and putting on his best customer service face. He didn’t need it though as Roman appeared at the counter.

“Looking good, Roman ,” he grinned as the other approached in a stained subway uniform.

“Hilarious,” he held out a bag, “want a sandwich? Or 3?”

“What’s wrong with them,” his question was all in jest; Logan knew Roman wasn’t the sort to pull harmful pranks. He gladly pulled out a sandwich though, as Roman hoisted himself up to sit on the counter.

“So, get this, I added the wrong slices of tomato to one, the other had too much lettuce, and - and- the final one,” Roman was holding his arms out like it was the most dramatic thing that had ever happened to him. “She asked for olives, then suddenly remembered she didn’t like our olives, and I couldn’t just pick them off because they had already ‘tainted’ her sandwich.”

Logan smirked as Roman sighed and started to eat. “Sounds like it was a busy day for a poor, misunderstood, sandwich artist.”

“Take pity on me, Logan. The world is unforgiving and will never understand me.”

Logan rolled his eyes as Roman bent over backwards and draped his arm across his forehead.

“I don’t even understand you.”

“My point exactly,” sitting up, Roman readjusted himself on the counter so he could eat more easily. “So, what is happening?”

“I’m eating a sandwich with a drama queen, while I wait for my shift to end.”

“Wow, I couldn’t see that with my own eyes. Seriously, spill.”

Logan sighed and put his sandwich down, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“Virgil is working on saving more of my files, I’m looking at getting a second-hand laptop, and Julie is making a cake for the anniversary.”

“Nice dark ending there,” Roman softened as he looked at Logan, “I was ignoring that invitation, too.”

“I understand why she wants to do it, but I…” Logan screwed up his face as he tried to find the right words, “I’m not sure I’m ready to turn the anniversary into some weird … party of sorts.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s going to be all cake and karaoke. I’m pretty sure Julie just wants everyone to come together again.”

“I guess…I can see your reasoning. You are much smarter than you look, Roman.”

“I’m not sure if that was meant to be an insult, but I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

The store doors slid open and Roman quickly jumped off the counter as customers entered. Logan wrapped up his sandwich, and Roman quickly did the same.

“I should get this one to Patton, he’s been avoiding food again.”

Logan paused and looked sadly at the ground as he stepped around the counter, “I hadn’t noticed. I guess I’m probably not helping either.”

“Don’t worry about it, Logan.” Roman roughly pulled Logan into a hug; Logan keeping his hands down by his sides. “Just, don’t forget to take care of yourself. All jokes aside, I care about you too.”

Squeezing his eyes shut to suppress tears, Logan returned the hug. “Same to you, Roman. Same to you.”

Separating, Roman headed out the door with his bag of sandwiches while Logan headed over to check on the customers in the store. The pair were only just beginning to explore the boundaries of their friendship; especially since he and Patton had started officially dating. Not that Logan cared to admit it, but Roman was maturing from the brat of a boy he had first met six years ago.

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

Katie strode over to Virgil's self-proclaimed office, using the master keycard to gain entry, and found Virgil groaning with his forehead on the desk.

"Tough day," Katie enquired, causing Virgil to jolt upright in his chair.

"Jeez, Reels, way to scare a guy out of his skin."

"Well 'a guy' deserves it for ghosting my messages all day," Katie perched herself on the edge of the desk and looked down at Virgil with her arms folded across her chest. "Where's my recap on the evenings events?"

"Why don't you ask, Logan." Virgil grumbled, tapping a few keys on his keyboard to activate a new program, "he's your friend."

"Ouch. I thought we were friends too." Virgil shrugged and Katie shoved his shoulder, "don't be like that, Sparks. Come on. Talk to me. What's going on? What did that nerdy idiot do?"

Sighing, Virgil lent back and ran his fingers thoughtfully through his hair.

"The, as you put it, 'nerdy idiot' did nothing wrong."

"So, what's with the sour puss look today then?"

Shaking his head, it took all of Virgil's self-control to not start crying on the spot. "I may have overreacted to something Logan said aaaand I'm kind of regretting it now. There. Happy?"

"Hardly."

"Gah!” Virgil threw his hands in the air, causing Katie to roll her eyes at the overly dramatic expression. “What else do you want? If you want a play by play, you're not getting it from me. Go talk to Logan."

"Why don't you?"

"Wha - I - you-" Katie smirked, raising a knowing brow as Virgil stumbled over his words. Virgil frowned as he took in Katie’s expression. "I hate you right now."

"Oh, I know." She mused, sliding off the desk. "Don't hide from everything, Virgil. You're right, I'm not going to get a play by play of last night, and nor do I want it."

"So, what is it that you want then?" Virgil was genuinely interested in Katie's response and couldn't hide the intrigue from his voice.

"Honestly, I want to see both of you stepping outside of your work zones. You spend so much time locked in here Virgil, and you wouldn't believe how hard it is to get Logan out of his study hole. It was nice to see my two workaholics’ go out into the wild."

"I can't see that becoming a regular thing, Reels." Lowering his head, Virgil tried to forget how nice it was to be out with Logan: despite his anxieties throughout the evening.

"Says who?" Virgil looked up to respond, but Katie cut him off. "It was your first time meeting each other, and honestly, it wasn't under the best circumstances. Don't let those first impressions be your only impressions. Take a chance, Virgil." Katie walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, causing him to look up through his lengthy bangs. "I took a chance on you and I am yet to regret that decision."

"Fine."

A small smile pulled at Virgil’s cheeks as he realised just how highly Katie thought of him. The moment was short lived though, as he remembered he was abusing her trust.

"That's a good lad. So, what are you gonna do?" Suddenly sitting back on the desk, Katie propped her chin up by resting her elbow on her knee.

"Well...um..." Virgil glanced around as he thought, eyes landing on a USB that ignited his memory. "I still haven’t returned the files I managed to salvage."

"Perfect," Katie exclaimed so loudly that Virgil jumped at the sound. "Now, you have some options for Thursday's. Logan doesn't have class on Thursday, so he works at the pet store from 8 until 1, then he would go to the labs and study, and then he usually heads to the university track field around 4."

"Jeez, stalker much." Virgil was slightly concerned with the fact that Katie had Logan's whole routine memorised.

Katie simply shrugged, "I keep tabs on where my boys are. When I don't..." Katie's expression saddened so fast, Virgil's heart skipped a beat. "...bad things happen."

_______________________________

End Note

Soooo, I have to go back to work next week 😭 I got so much story planning done over the past 3 weeks. I'm going to miss having so much creative freedom. If things get slow, it's because work started badly (sorry in advance). If anything does happen, I'll be sure to put it on Tumblr.

Next time: Logan's nightmares. Does Virgil make a friend? More platonic logicality. Nice feelings, but dark thoughts.

EDIT: I do hope you enjoyed the art. It was a lot of fun to work with the-pastel-peach to bring that scene to life.

UPDATE: again, please don’t repost the art by Peach. Reblog this post. Respect the artist and give her some love 💜🐌

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Chapter 7 — Master List

What else have I done:

The Perfect Ring (oneshot - analogical proposal)

You Promised (oneshot - prinxiety angst/injury/near death)

Sides of a Hero (Completed Fic - sides are fusions of impulses and aspects of Thomas. Virgil has a depressing past that he is forced to face thanks to Deceit and Rage. Was canon compliant at the time of completion)

The Shield to your Sword (WIP - A fantasy/magic au - Prinxiety (Royal Roman and orphan Virgil - they’ll admit to their love eventually), Virgil angst, non binary, healer Logan, *spoiler* Patton)

Check out my other blog for random fandom reblogs and stuff @snail-giggles

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