#makes no sense to have an entire room in roses when you love poppies and absolutely nothing to prove you liked poppies
Note
Hiya!! I’m absolutely in love with this event you’re doing and wanted to put in an order with you if possible 🥲❤️
Can I please have a glazed donut with caramel and a touch of whipped cream, a Neapolitan rose cake with poppy seeds and whipped cream and a #1 (Kidd) from the secret menu?
For a f!reader (Gn reader is also perfect, whatever you’re comfortable with!)
Thank you so so much!!
hihi!! ty for being patient with my very slow writing 😭💓 anyway i love kidd he's so fun to write and he's just so silly being grumpy like that all the time. i wrote this like i was possessed so i hope you enjoy 😊also as u know enemies 2 lovers is my shit, i love it sfm.
3.3k words, fem reader, nsfw, 18+ mdni; smut, enemies 2 lovers, hurt/comfort, a splash of angst (nothing major it's so tame i promise maybe), and fluff if pretend real good (jk it's there somewhere); feat. oral (m receiving), oral (f receiving), fingering, kid being a bigass bully but reader dishes it back, kid is a mean bitch when he's jealous but what's new, reader likes it ok; is this toxic??? maybe a lil idk, i'm into it ok. both of them need to do better; killer makes a brief cameo!
(if u see grammar/spelling mistakes, no u didn't :))
“listen, memory’s got a hard heart and a soft head. / whatever light the eye sees, the heart says dark, dark, dark.” — charles wright
an empty beer bottle shatters on impact the moment eustass kid chucks it at the wall near your head; thankfully your keen senses allow you to miss the attack, just barely.
“care to explain,” you say as carefully and as cordially as you can, teeth grinding against each other every time you pause to calm yourself, “why the entire fuck did you throw that at me?” you keep your distance from your hot-tempered captain, staring fiercely at him, not at all fazed by his intimidating presence.
kid pours himself a glass of scotch and ignores you altogether, grunting noisily before downing the drink all at once.
“kid,” your tone is anything but amiable, he can taste your annoyance even from across the room; everyone had cleared the kitchen once you and kid started arguing — the crew has been privy to one too many explosive fights and they were tired of breaking them up. when it doesn’t look like he’s going to answer truthfully, you roll your eyes and toss your hair over your shoulders. “know what? i’m done, i’m leaving this stupid ship, because there’s no way i’m going to survive with a shitty captain like you.” the words leave your mouth much too fast, spurned by the two glasses of wine you had previously.
you weren’t even mad that he threw the bottle, you were used to the outbursts and you were equally as destructive as he was — much to the chagrin of your crew mates, who constantly reminded the two of you to figure something out quickly.
kid knows better than to encourage you to leave, even though the words touch the tip of his tongue, but he thinks better of it and says nothing. instead, he fills another glass and drinks again.
“do whatever you want,” he dismisses you with a wave of his hand, eyes closing as he lounges on a chair lazily. he doesn’t mean it, of course, but you decide to interpret that as him giving you permission. bile rises to the back of your throat, and you will yourself not to let a single tear fall. you sniff loudly and turn your face away before storming out of the kitchen.
you bump into killer on your way out, but before he can ask what’s wrong you run off. he doesn’t chase after you as he has a sinking feeling that you and kid had yet another fight that requires his mediation.
a thankless job if anyone were to ask him.
he finds kid with his eyes closed and a frown stitched onto his face. killer sits across from his captain and sighs loudly.
“start from the beginning,” he says smoothly, watching kid carefully to see if he’s actually going to give him the whole story this time.
kid doesn’t move for a long moment, but he knows he can’t avoid killer so he relents. he tries not to think about the shape of your mouth, or the curve of your hips; he tries and tries and tries, but he can’t get your face out of his head.
“it’s not a big deal,” kid says gruffly, voice low, irritation spiking all over again when he slams the glass on the wooden table — the force of it rattling the furniture nearby.
killer crosses his arms against his chest and fixes kid with a steely glare, one that penetrates through his mask. still, kid insists on pleading his case.
“you know she argues with me on purpose, why are you always on her side?” he will never understand; if anything, his crew should side with him always. loyalty above all else, after all. there’s no legitimate reason for why you and kid are always at each other’s throats — it’s probably because you’re more alike than you think and your stubbornness always clashes with his; he’s also controlling and bossy, pigheaded and a pain in your ass.
and yet, there you are, sighing in defeat as you press your face into your pillow and try not to scream.
the funny thing is, as much as you both like to deny it, everyone can see that this is pent up sexual frustration that will implode sooner rather than later. kid would rather gut himself than admit that he likes you, would rather swallow nails for ninety days before confessing to you first. similarly, you hate the idea of him having this sort of power over you — that’s what you tell yourself anyway; if he knew how much you liked him, then you’d never hear the end of it.
his ego knows no bounds and you don’t know if you’d be able to tolerate him being that smug around you.
still, you’re sorely tempted to just tell him and get it off your chest; maybe if he sees where you were coming from, then he’ll ease up. you doubt it, though. while you’re not oblivious to the heated looks that kid gives you, if you give into that desire, there’s no coming back from it unscathed.
your poor battered heart can only take so much, you need to protect it from men like him — men who come in like storms, wrecking your life without remorse.
killer’s lecture only pisses kid off even more, but his best friend has never steered him wrong, so he takes his advice seriously. his issue with you is so painfully simple that if you knew you’d make fun of him forever — at least, that’s what he thinks anyway.
his attraction to you has only grown stronger over the years and you have an iron grip on him without even realizing. he fucks other people to get you out of his head and it only gets worse. you tried your best to flirt around in the hopes of finding someone to take your mind off him, but everyone you meet pales in comparison.
there’s never anything wrong with them — they’re just, so nice, so… tame. and you hate that kid has gotten you accustomed to a certain kind of chaos that you crave without meaning to. you know that you’re much too intense for just anyone to handle, so you don’t try that hard anymore. for some reason, this pleases kid more than it should. he actively sabotages anyone’s interest in you for the sole purpose of keeping you to himself, all without telling you, of course.
killer wants to tell you to wise up about kid, but knows that it’s not worth it; you won’t listen to reason anyway, will you?
you like to lie to yourself and say that you hate him, but you know you don’t. and kid doesn’t want to admit that part of the reason why he likes you so much is because you’re dismissive around him and are one of the few people who dares to talk back to him. he likes that part of you so much that he’s sure it’s an unhealthy obsession at this point — hence why he’s always acting out whenever you’re nearby.
you know you should just let it go, try to find a middle ground with him — and he keeps telling himself that if he fucks you once, maybe you’ll calm down and stop nagging him so much.
one can only hope, right?
after docking the ship on a small island, you take to exploring around the closest town. the others follow kid to a pub and drink heavily. because it’s packed inside, kid opts to finish his drink outside, where the breeze caresses his skin gently; he finds solace in the cool evening temperature and almost heads back in when he hears laughter.
a few feet away, you’re standing with an unknown man — a civilian from town, most likely — smiling like a mischievous cat, batting your eyelashes and touching his arm every so often. kid narrows his eyes, jaw clenched as he finishes his drink, his anger steadily rising at the sight.
you’re in the middle of accepting a date, when kid calls your name out. loudly.
you try to ignore him, but you know that he’ll only be tempted to do something outrageous so you apologize to the stranger and stomp over to your nosy ass captain.
“what do you want now? can’t you see i’m busy.” your face is flushed from embarrassment — and the stranger leaves once he sees the fierce look kid gives him from over your head — and anger, a deadly combination that makes you look every bit as cute as you are alluring.
he wishes you’d stop being attractive so he can get over you quickly; but yet there you are, fussing at him without a care in the world. your lack of fear only makes him want you more. he licks his lips and motions for you to follow him back to the ship.
“i’m not going anywhere,” you say, holding your ground and not moving an inch.
kid swivels on his heels and his audacity reaches new bounds when he says, “either you walk on your own or i carry you. either way, you’re getting back on the fucking ship.”
something about that stirs something forbidden inside of you, a wicked heat that makes you squirm a bit under his gaze. if you don’t comply that’ll complicate things, but if you do that’ll only mean you’re giving in to his demands and you don’t want that.
right?
lips parted, an argument rolls onto your tongue, but he grabs your face roughly with his hand and stops you from saying another word. “i’m serious.” and you know he is. you swallow hard and nod, following after him quietly, heart beating much too fast. you tell yourself you’ll make it out of this in one piece, but you make the mistake of following kid back to his room, all of your self-preservation thrown out of the window when you close the door behind you and sigh.
kid’s anger nearly blinds him; he didn’t think he’d ever be that jealous, but he saw the way your soft features were illuminated in the moonlight, and it became painfully obvious that he wanted you to look at him like that too. but, again, stubbornness and cowardice work in tandem, making it easy for him to avoid that sort of vulnerability for the time being.
“you can’t keep bossing me around, you don’t get to tell me what to do,” your words come out sharp, but your voice lowers when he steps closer to you and backs you against the door. “you also can’t get jealous because you and i aren’t dating.” this is the first time you’ve actually said that out loud to him; he considers your words, but only chuckles darkly in response.
“and that’s where you’re wrong.”
you stare at him, wide-eyed; what an impossible man. whatever residual irritation you have steadily dissipates, as you try to tell yourself that fucking eustass kid will only bring you more headaches. but then he pushes his leg in between yours, and then you’re leaning into him, back arching, chest heaving the moment he kisses you.
there’s nothing delicate about the way kid handles you; with brutish strength, he rips through most of your clothes, laughing when you shriek and chastise him over it. he kisses you repeatedly, tongue swiping against yours playfully as he grabs your ass. heat courses through your body viciously, making you pull away so you can unbuckle and unzip his pants, stroking his stiff cock without prompting, admiring the length and thickness.
this man will be the death of you, that much is certain. but you’re going to enjoy the ride the entire time regardless.
you sink to your knees, the wooden floor cool against your skin. you run your tongue along the length of his cock, soft hands massaging his balls with skill and ease. kid fights to not moan your name, instead opting to tug on your hair roughly. “stop teasing me,” he says in a low, gravelly voice, lust fueling his thoughts and actions.
he’s trying to be considerate, but at the pace you’ve set, he has half a mind to just take over; but he lets you have the reigns briefly, watching you with half-lidded eyes, tongue gliding along his bottom lip as you suck on the thick head of his cock.
“fuck.”
you take that as confirmation to continue, looking up at him, desire burning through you as you open your mouth and slacken your jaw to take in more of him. whatever you can’t fit in your mouth, you compensate by using your hands. his hips jerk forward, and he braces his heavy, mechanical arm against the door, while his other hand grabs onto your hair and tugs you off him.
“make it sloppy,” he says roughly, and you squeeze your thighs together, plush lips parted as you exhale deeply. you know better than to disobey that command, so you give him what he wants, bobbing your head up and down his cock, hands twisting and pumping around the base. your saliva coats his length and he sucks in a harsh breath when you moan and suck on his tip, persistent and playful.
he ends up thrusting into your mouth, cock gliding further down your throat with his help. you let him fuck your face, his groans loud, vibrating along your skin, making your pussy slick with your arousal. his hips jerk forward, his breathing uneven as you hold onto his thighs for support. if he doesn’t fuck you soon, you might pass out honestly. he knows if he continues, he’ll only end up cumming in your mouth and he doesn’t want that just yet.
when he tosses you onto the bed, you get on all fours, tempting him with your ass — that he’s admired for far longer than necessary — you look over your shoulder at him, lips swollen from his kisses. he thinks you look pretty like that, a dazed look on your face, insatiable in your desire for him. he’s in the same exact boat as you, muscles tensing as he pulls the rest of his clothes off.
you shiver slightly, rub your lips together and let out a shrill whimper when he licks along your slit, your arousal dripping onto his tongue once it slides in between your folds. you don’t think you’ve ever had someone taste you like that — like you’re a coveted fruit, like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t devour you whole right now. kid eats your pussy with fervor, leaving open-mouthed kisses and slurping messily.
grabbing at the bed sheets, you make an attempt to shift away from him, but he holds you steady, tongue circling dangerously around your throbbing clit. you yelp, cry out loudly, and beg for more.
he hums absently, before he slides a thick finger inside of you, pumping it in and out, watching as you fuck yourself against his hand once he inserts another finger. he scissors them recklessly, and you shamelessly buck against him before he swaps his fingers for his tongue.
“yes, fuck, right there,” you chant, breathing erratic as you chase the high that kid is dangling right in front of you. he’s barely holding on himself, but he has a point to prove. he swipes at your clit again, flicking his tongue against it before sucking on it hard. a flash of white blinds you, and when you cum forcefully enough to make you slump over.
still, kid’s not done with you.
he admires all the marks he’s left along your thighs and ass, smiling to himself haughtily. you know he’s probably grinning like a fool right now and you don’t even care to argue with him about it. you rub your ass against his cock once before he thrusts his cock inside of you; he grants you a bit of mercy, pausing so you can adjust to his girth before snapping his hips forward and fucking you at a merciless pace.
with a hand on your back, kid bucks his hips roughly against yours; your thighs tremble and your voice grows hoarse from how loud you’re moaning for him. the walls in the rooms aren’t thick, so no doubt some of your crew mates have heard you already — not that you care about any of that right now anyway.
his balls slap against you with each stroke, his cock burrowing deeper inside your cunt without remorse. he grabs you by the back of your hair and pulls you flush against his chest, back arching as he powers into you with short, frenzied thrusts. your pussy is soft and warm around him, making him think irrational, impossible things — making him want to be different with you.
the pads of his fingers are rough when they rub against your clit, and he wraps an arm around you to keep you close as he fucks you faster. sweat pools at your temples, the room is hot but not uncomfortable. he pushes you down onto the bed, pulling out of you momentarily and panting lightly. when he enters you again this time, he plunges in deep enough to have you babbling incoherently as tears glide down your round cheeks.
he laughs at your whimpering. “big baby,” he says teasingly, the taunt dark with intent. “all that mouth but you can’t take my cock, what a damn shame.” you know he’s joking, but your face burns with shame anyway.
“shut up,” you manage to say with great difficulty, moaning shamelessly as he rolls his hips against yours. kid presses a kiss to the side of your neck, and you’re surprisingly okay with the intimacy — and he is too.
strange. very, very strange.
it’s when he angles his cock like that that you cum again, clenching around his girth, holding him hostage as his thrusts become sloppier and frenetic. there’s a feral possessiveness that he exudes when he rolls you onto your back and throws your legs over his shoulders. you barely have the strength, but you do your best to keep up, hips lifting to meet his menacing strokes, pussy squelching loudly.
his bed sheets are soaked, but he doesn’t care; all he cares about is this. you. he realizes that now — very belatedly, but still. he finds himself tipping over the edge when you lean up to kiss him sweetly, almost affectionately. he meant to pull out so he could cum on your stomach and thighs but doesn’t, he cums inside you instead.
it’s thick and hot, you whimper against his lips pathetically, nails clawing along his back, head spinning from the intense way he fucked you.
after a minute or so, he pulls out and clarity hits him. you look over at him as he stretches out on his large bed, lazy like a mountain lion, eyes closed briefly. you wonder if this is where you get kicked out and you dread the walk back to your room — especially since kid rudely ruined your clothes. he feels you shift on the bed, arms and legs shaky as you sit up. he frowns, not liking the idea of you leaving and grabs onto your arm, tugging you towards him gently.
although with a man as large as him, his idea of gentle is different than most. you find yourself laying on top of his chest, confused but also content, smiling secretly as you duck your head to avoid his gaze. he plays with your hair before yawning.
“i was going to—”
he pulls you closer and you clamp your lips together, afraid of saying anything else that might disrupt whatever peace has settled between you two.
kid hesitates only for a moment before saying, “stay.” it’s almost cute, the way he’s suddenly very demure, as if the idea of asking anyone to stay over has never occurred to him. but he knows that if he lets you leave, then things might go back to normal, and he doesn’t want that.
not that he knows what he wants exactly, but that’s beside the point. he’ll figure it out in due time, but for now, he’ll enjoy having your body next to his.
#finally finally done#fic request#milestone event#500+ followers event#🍭✨🍨sticky & sweet event🧁✨🍭#one piece smut#one piece x reader#one piece x y/n#eustass kid smut#eustass kid x reader#eustass kid x y/n#kidd x reader#kidd x y/n#one piece angst#one piece fluff#eustass kid angst#eustass kid fluff#eustass kidd smut
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The Way I Loved You (Poppy x MC) Part 2
I want to make this a slow burn type of fic so I’ll just be giving crumbs for now 😅 I swear tho there’ll be more plot and action in the later parts.
tag list: @whackawriting @samanthadalton @crazzyplays @uselesslesbianfr @baexpoppy @alexroyard @alexlabhont @veenast @cloakanddaggerthings (If you wanna be added or removed or just prefer a certain ship just let me know ❤️)
Read Part 1
Word Count: 1700
Warning: none
"I'm sorry, Ms. Min-Sinclair, we only have one more room available for tonight."
Bea watched as the expression on Poppy's face went from horrified to anger. "Check again, please."
"I'm really sorry, but unfortunately, all our other rooms are already booked since we had several guests come in because of the storm," the receptionist said apologetically.
The look Poppy gave the receptionist must have been pretty damn scary, given that his hand was now visibly shaking.
Poppy's voice was beginning to rise. "Listen to me you–"
Bea clasped her hand around Poppy's wrist and dragged her away from the poor guy before she could make a scene. Kind and sweet Poppy was gone entirely. Instead, standing before her was the self-absorbed, shrieking harpy Bea very much knew and hated.
"Calm down, Poppy. The receptionist was just doing his job."
"Calm down?! There's not a chance in hell that I–"
"You know what? If you want to sleep outside in the storm, go ahead because I certainly won't be stopping you," Bea snapped.
Poppy was seething but didn't say anything else.
"I'll be in our room. Feel free to join me once you actually figure out how to act like an adult."
Without waiting for Poppy's response, Bea made her way to the receptionist to finish the transaction, all the while apologizing for Poppy's behavior. Once she got the key, she went straight to the room.
Bea had hoped there were two beds at least, but the way their luck was going, it only made sense that a single queen-sized bed stood at the center of the room. The room itself was average with bland white walls and a window with a city view that was currently shrouded by heavy rain and mist. It certainly wasn't nearly like her room back in Belvoire, but it wasn't like she had any other choice.
After setting down what little things Bea had brought with her–obviously not expecting to spend the night there, and definitely not with Poppy–Bea collapsed on the bed, exhausted. A few minutes later, the door opened, and Poppy walked in, evidently calmer than before. She stood near the doorway, scanning the entire room with a frown. Bea fully expected her to complain about, well, everything, but she just trodded to the side of the bed and glared at her.
"Move."
Bea moved obediently to the other side of the bed, too exhausted to argue. Poppy gracefully slid into bed and took her phone out.
"Stay at your side of the bed, and don't talk to me."
Bea frowned. "I didn't even–"
Poppy scowled at Bea, and Bea made the gesture of zipping her lips. The only sound that followed was the heavy downpour of rain that reverberated across the room. After an hour, Bea got up from bed and started to walk towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Poppy called out, almost sounding... worried.
Bea raised her eyebrow. "I'll come back if that's what you're worried about."
Poppy rolled her eyes, but Bea could see a slight flush on her cheeks. "As if. Get lost in the storm for all I care."
Bea laughed. "I'm just gonna check out the boutique I saw near the lobby. Don't really wanna sleep in these clothes." Bea hesitated. "Do you... want to come with?"
Without answering, Poppy rose from the bed and strode out of the room. Bea followed soon after, and for someone so short, Poppy sure walked incredibly fast that Bea had a hard time keeping up with her.
"Do you even know where it is?" Bea asked.
Probably realizing she didn't, Poppy slowed down until they were walking alongside each other. When they reached the boutique, Poppy immediately frowned in disgust at the clothing selection.
"Ugh, what even is this?" Poppy remarked, looking at a shirt with an unflattering shade of pink.
"Are you saying you can't pull that off?" Bea challenged.
"No, I'm saying that I have standards. Obviously, something you know nothing about." Poppy made her way through the selection, sneering all the while. "I'm not wearing these."
Bea rolled her eyes. "Get off your high horse. If you want to sleep in your sweaty clothes, at least do me a favor and not, like, sleep next to me."
Poppy let out a scornful laugh. "Oh sweety, I'll still smell better than whatever pigsty your perfume came from. But maybe... I'll just wear nothing then."
Despite herself, an image of Poppy naked sprung to Bea's head, sending heat all over her body. She slightly faced away from Poppy.
Noticing Bea's sudden silence, Poppy curiously looked at her. "My, my, Farmsville, don't tell me you're already imagining me naked," Poppy said with a smirk.
Mustering her most dismissive tone, Bea said, "Please, you're not even that hot." A blatant lie, of course. Poppy is a lot of things, and 'hot' is definitely one of those. Thankfully, Poppy moved on after seeing a dress that, Bea agreed, 'should be burned.'
After a painstakingly long search, Poppy was finally able to find something 'tolerable.' They made their purchases and went back to their room. When they arrived, Poppy was the first to get in the shower, and when she came out, she was wearing a tight-fitting tank top and bike shorts that hugged and accentuated all her curves. The room suddenly got so much hotter as Bea tried her absolute best not to stare at her, and even so, she knew it was a losing battle which is why she jumped to the shower the first chance she got. After showering, Bea realized that in her hurry, she forgot to take her clothes with her. She wrapped a towel and walked out to the bedroom to get her clothes. When her back was turned to Poppy, Bea glanced at a mirror nearby and was surprised to see Poppy staring at her with her mouth parted slightly. But when she casually turned around, Poppy had already averted her gaze.
Later that night, the storm got worse as thunders started to rumble outside. At first, Bea thought it was just a trick of the light, but after a few more claps of thunder, she could see Poppy flinch at every roar with her eyes clenched shut.
Is Poppy... actually scared of thunderstorms?
As if to answer her question, Poppy started to heave heavily, with traces of sweat forming on her forehead. And as much as Bea despised Poppy–or at least that's what she kept telling herself–she actually felt sorry for her. And against her better judgment, Bea reluctantly placed her hand over Poppy's and gave it a soft squeeze. Poppy tensed for a moment at the gesture before she relaxed and gripped Bea's hand tighter. In response, Bea started tracing soothing circles on the back of her hand, and they fell asleep through the thunderstorm, hand-in-hand.
When Bea woke up, most of the storm had already passed, with light to moderate rain falling intermittently. She scanned the room and saw Poppy eating at the desk.
"Your food's getting cold," Poppy said without looking at her.
"You... got me food?"
"I figured since we didn't have dinner yesterday." Poppy turned to face Bea. "Why do you sound so surprised."
Bea furrowed her brows. "Because that's actually nice. And as far as I'm concerned, you're not."
"Well, I don't particularly care about you. And trust me, no one will be happier than me with you gone. But, unfortunately, I do have to keep you alive at least until after the party. Grades and all."
Bea got up and went to the desk to get her food. Poppy got her an English-style breakfast while she was eating... a teensy salad.
Poppy saw Bea looking at her food. "Did you also want a salad?"
"Uh, no. It just doesn't look... filling."
"It's not. But it's not like I have a choice. Their vegetarian selection is awful."
And just when Bea thought Poppy couldn't surprise her anymore.
"Wait, you're... vegetarian?" Bea asked in undisguised surprise.
"Yes." Poppy narrowed her eyes at Bea. "You know, you have to stop assuming you know everything about me. In fact, you know nothing about me."
"Yeah, I'm starting to get that."
Bea went back to bed and started to eat her food, her mind going back to the foster home, how Poppy's entire personality changed around the people there. Before, Bea was so convinced that she had Poppy pegged, just a basic bitch who thought too highly of herself with no regard for others at all. But Poppy was right; Bea barely knew her... and she wanted to know more.
"Why?" Bea turned to face Poppy. "Why are you a vegetarian, I mean. If you don't mind me asking."
Poppy made an annoyed expression. "I do mind, actually."
A grin spread on Bea's face. "Oh my god, you totally care about the animals."
When Poppy didn't respond, Bea continued. "First kids and now animals? My, my, Poppy, what will people say if they knew that their favorite she-devil is actually a big softie."
Poppy stopped eating and turned to give Bea a menacing glare. "If you tell anyone about this, you're dead."
After they finished eating, Bea and Poppy started planning for the party the next day. So naturally, more than a few shouts, insults, and curses were thrown around until they finally, finally, agreed on all the details. Since Poppy was the one with all the connections, she had to call for all the services needed. And when her trusty photographer told her he wasn't available, Poppy cursed in frustration.
"The party, it's not just about your GPA, is it. This is really important to you."
Poppy didn't answer and instead went back to make a few more phone calls.
When everything was settled, the storm had fully passed, and it was already safe to drive home. So imagine Bea's surprise when Poppy said that they were staying there for another night.
"I thought you hated this place."
"I do. But I'm not going to drive an hour home just to go back early tomorrow. Besides, we'll get things done much faster if we stay here."
Bea smiled. "Would you like some champagne?"
#poppy#poppy x mc#poppy min sinclair#queen b#choices#playchoices#play choices#my work#my fanfics#my writing
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200 Followers Appreciation Post
I'll be very honest, two months back when I joined Tumblr, I hadn't expected that my writings will be read by many, and the last thing I had expected was to be followed. Now look far we've come, from 0 followers to 200.
A personal thank you and a lot of love to each and every follower of mine.
I think this is the best part of our fandom. We love each other like family.
As a little token of my thank you, I decided to publish two of my requests combined as one today. Hope you like it. 💓
Tommy Shelby x Fem! Reader
Request 1- Prompt "We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies."
Request 2- Reader was always in love with Tommy, thinking he can't love her back she starts writing cheap novels as a way to deal with it. Her books become popular and everything is cool until Tommy finds out about her hobby and notices similarities between her writing and real life.
Warnings - Angst
GIF Credits - @thomasshelbyltd thank you. ❤️
A Maid's Diary
You slumped against your desk, letting your head rest against the old wooden table top, your elbows on either side of your face. Your desk was a cluttered mess, with sheets of paper flooded all over. In your hand, you held a pen, as you were just seconds back, scribbling vigorously on a parchment as an idea had just hit you, and just as swiftly, the idea had vanished from your mind.
You couldn't forget and you couldn't forgive your best friend, Linda, for having betrayed you by sharing your diary to a local printing press, who had, without your permission, published your countless feelings that you had penned down in your little diary, without even your consent, although they didn't take the credit for it. You were still the writer, even though the publishers never published your real name on it, just a pen name.
As much as you hated to admit it, the little push made by your friend had worked tremendously and your popularity had grown amongst the lower middle class especially; as that is where you hailed from. They loved your modesty, they loved how humble and down to earth you were, although you were extremely talented.
Little did they know, that the book that had been published, as an act of mistake, was actually based on your life.
"What is it that you are reading?" Tommy pushed his round glasses over his eyes, as he looked through them and fixed his broody stare on his wife.
Grace was sprawled on the couch in his study, shimmering in a beautiful pearl white satin nightgown hanging loosely over her slender frame, her natural blonde hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She seamlessly brought up her ring studded hand to her hair, running her fingers through the locks as her eyes came to rest on her husband.
"Would you look at this Tommy?" She raised a red little book in her hand, showing it to him briefly, before she sat back more comfortably. Their son, Charlie, crawled about on the carpeted floor, playing with a toy train. "I don't know who this woman is, but if you read this book, you would feel like you are a bloody part of it."
"Is it one of those fucking love stories again, Grace?"
"It's much more than that, love. It's complex. It's like reading a person's life, living her memories."
"Right, well, I'm out, I've got a bloody meeting with Arthur at the pub." He stood up, sliding his hand into his waistcoat and pulling out the pocket watch, taking a quick glance at it. He then kissed his wife a goodbye, lifting Charlie up in his arms, "Be good, you cheeky little oaf."
Little did he know, how that would be the last week, that he was spending home with his wife. The next week, Grace Shelby was shot, and she couldn't make it.
As days inched by, Tommy started growing more and more morose. Although he didn't show it, those around him felt it everyday. The snapping and the yelling increased, and Tommy found himself sleeping less and less, and chugging down more and more of that alcohol to keep his mind at rest. There were weeks when Tommy didn't see his son. Although he felt guilty, for neglecting him, as the poor child had lost his mother, just like he had lost his wife, he couldn't bring himself to face him, as he reminded him so much of her.
Soon, weeks turned into months and finally, Tommy's agony subsided to a bit. It wasn't as if it was an overnight process, but somehow, over the course of time, Tommy didn't feel the hurt anymore, as he initially did— or maybe, he learnt to live with it.
One night, when the nightmares crippled him to such an extent that he found himself unable to sleep, he decided to go through Grace's belongings, something he had kept locked up in the attic, afraid to touch them. Holding a lantern in his hand, he walked up the flight of stairs, the old floorboards creaking underneath the weight of his foot as he stepped into the dinghy little room. In a corner, a brown crate was hoarded up, keeping all of Grace's belongings.
Pulling off the the wooden board that was nailed shut, he pried it off and ran his hand through the dust coated silk dresses, his fingers gently brushing against the fabric. He let out a weak, pained exhale, slowly sliding down against the floor, pulling his hand out as he started fumbling around his pockets for a cigarette.
With a lit cigarette in his left hand, he slid his right hand back in, feeling around the box until his palm hit something hard. Pulling it out, he saw a little red book that was now turning a shade of purple at the edges. The book was coated in a sheet of dust, causing Tommy to squint his eyes slightly and scrunch up his nose as he brushed the dust off its cover.
A faint smile, a fond remembrance of Grace reading this book with such enthusiasm brought a weak smile to his lips. He took a drag of his cigarette, pulling himself off the floor and pocketed the book, walking out of the attic.
It was his eyes, eyes that could hold an entire ocean in them, that captivated me. I often found myself looking at him, stealing glances, when no one was looking. A part of me begged for his attention, hoping, yearning that he would atleast give me a glance but he never did.
The more he read through the passages, the more he realized what Grace had meant. This was not just a book, it was someone's life, it was someone's feelings. The words were simple and not at all fancy, the backdrop set was not that of a fine mansion, it was a tiny little house, in a clamoured street, a family of five siblings, four boys and one girl, and the writer, who was just a servant. The writer knew the love she felt for one of the sons of the house was wrong, improper and it was forbidden because she was a servant and they were her employers but she couldn't help how she felt, no matter how hard she tried to forget. Tommy couldn't help but feel drawn— drawn to the writer's pain, her anguish and the feeling of being stuck at the end of a self destructive, one sided love. He knew what it meant to not get to be with the person you loved. He had experienced the pain, although in a different sense but somehow, he could relate. Although Thomas Shelby didn't show any feelings, he had eventually fallen head over heels in love with Grace Burgess and life with her had been a life of roses and poppies, while he was a crown of thorns; that Grace bravely adorned on her head.
It was a cold night, and I was freezing. I could feel my cheeks turning to stone and my hands fervously rubbing against my arms to keep myself warm. I could see them right in front of my eyes; the whole family. They looked happy. They brothers were teasing their sister, who had a look of dismay plastered over her face, and the youngest brother, who was just a toddler, ran about the parlour, sucking on his thumb. I wondered if it was selfishly wrong of me to think of him in this way, to imagine how our little household would have been, had I been bound to him by marriage. I wondered if it was a sin, wondering what I would have named our children if we had a handful of them.
Thomas found himself leaning back comfortably in bed, straining into his glasses, wanting to read more, although his body and his eyes were beyond tired. It was as though he could see a glimpse of his life before the war had been, right through someone else's eyes. He could see little Finn, perched on the carpeted floor, running his toy train all over it, making a weird engine sound with his mouth while John and Arthur teased Ada for something she had probably said. He could picture himself by the window, staring at the dimly lit sky, the illuminating stars, thinking of the moment Greta took her last breath, her frail hand falling limp in his warm one.
How unlucky had he been with women, he had watched the women he loved die, in in his arms.
As I scrubbed the dishes in the kitchen, I could hear the curses in the parlor. He was screaming at himself, bringing the dishes down, breaking them one by one. No one dared stop him, because no one wanted to be slammed against the wall or have to be the one taking a porcelain hit on his face. I wondered if I should step in, maybe give him some tea but I didn't. Maybe, he didn't need it. It was only later that I found out he had lost the love of his life.
He shoved the book aside and sat up straighter, running his palm through his face, his breathing shaky and rushed. He grabbed his cigarette box off the bedside table and lit himself a cigarette. Maybe reading this book had been a mistake, it was opening up all his raw wounds that he had buried away.
He was leaving. I wanted to ask him when he would be back but of course, that would have been such a silly question. And besides, he had a lot more on his plate, why would he want to speak to a servant? I stood behind the kitchen wall, listening to the solemn parting, the shuffling of feet, listening to them leave until finally I could hear them no more— I could hear him no more.
Years after years, I went on with life, with a smile on my face. I did what I always did in the mornings; scrubbing the floors clean, washing the dishes, preparing supper and doing the laundry. At night, though, I thought of him and his blue eyes. I wondered if there was any news, for I hadn't heard anything about him in ages. Maybe my prayers were finally answered, the war ended and they all were back home. Only they weren't themselves. The war had killed a part of them. They were the ghosts of war, left to meander the Earth until they finally died.
"Mr. Shelby?" Tommy sharply looked up, his eyebrows straightened into a visible frown.
"Yes, Mary?"
"Charlie's asleep, the supper's ready. I was wondering if I could get a night off—"
"Mary, you may. You have bloody worked hard enough to earn a night off. Go on then, hurry up, it's pretty dark outside."
He watched her leave, staring at the door before bringing his gaze back to the book, wondering if the writer was out there somewhere. And he wondered, and hoped, that she had finally gotten to be with the man she loved. She deserved it. She deserved all the happiness in the world.
I finally mustered the courage, after what seemed like eternity, to speak my heart out. I was afraid of rejection, but he deserved to know. I deserved to be free of this heavy secret in my heart. I didn't care if he would ask me to leave, stop coming to work from tomorrow but he needed to know I loved him. So, I stepped out into the chilly night, wrapping myself with whatever warm I could find. I walked and walked, until I was at his pub. Of course, he wasn't there. With a heavy heart then, I thought of going back home, through an alley, that was a shorter route. Little did I know, I was never going to get the man I loved for he already had the woman he loved, the woman from the pub; that barmaid. I saw the man I was in love with, from a window, the way I always imagined him to be with me, kissing her and stroking her cheeks. It was as though I heard a devastating sound somewhere close by, but it was nothing but my heart—shattered into two.
Thomas Shelby was many things, but he was not ignorant, or dumb. He slammed the book shut, shoving it on the bedside table. His heart was racing rapidly and he could feel blood rush through his veins. Arching his body forward, placing his elbows on his thighs, he buried his face into his palms. Every single detail in the book, every single piece of writing was something he had experienced before. It couldn't be a mere coincidence, could it? He slid out of bed, stomping through the hallway into his study until he was perched on a stool by the telephone his fingers frivolously moving against it. He knew what he had to do now.
"Pol?" He mumbled into the phone the instant he heard her on the other side.
"Tommy? It's fucking midnight, what's the bloody matter?" Tommy didn't mind he had woken her up. He needed answers.
"Do you remember a maid that worked for us?" He sighed into the receiver.
"Tommy, we have hired a dozen fucking maids, which one are you talking about?"
"She was with us when Greta died, when we went to war—"
On the other side of the telephone, Polly's demeanour softened. She remembered you, she even knew how you loved Thomas, but she could never bring it up to her lips, because she knew that you and Thomas had no future.
"Yes."
"Do you know where she is? And for fucks sake, don't lie."
Your coffee mug lay on the table untouched, smoke bellowing out of it in waves. Outside your window, snow drizzled from the sky, like tiny droplets of fur falling to the ground, your garden sheeted in pristine virgin white.
"Love, you have to bloody see this," your friend Linda's voice echoed through the closed door, loud enough to alert you.
"What is it?" You threw open your window, watching your bestfriend stand at the gate, her eyes fixed to your window, "Just get your bloody arse down here (Y/N), I have to show you something. Come on out, now."
Annoyance.
You practically ran down the flight of stairs, not even stopped to calm your breaths.
"Jesus, Linda, it's fucking snowing, I'm going to freeze to—"
"Sorry love." Linda gave you an apologetic smile, her index finger pointing towards the silhouette of a man leaning by your front gate, slowly sliding out of the periphery of gaze. Neither were you watching her. You were watching a ghost of your past, that stood leaning by the metal gate on your front door, a cap on his head, a long overcoat drawn over his scrawny body. He had gotten weaker than you had last seen him.
"Miss (Y/N)." His voice was curt, yet warm, without a trace of malice in it. After all these years, he was right here, on your doorstep.
"Mr. Shelby? Would you like to come in?"
He shook his head, rather, his eyes and you knew that he didn't want to talk in the confines of your home, under prying eyes. He slowly pulled out a book from his pocket and your eyes widened. Your fingers flew to your lips and you felt a rush of blood in your body, an instant feeling of being in the warmth of a fireplace. You wanted to reply, but you couldn't find the words.
"You read my book, you found me out."
"It wasn't that fucking difficult to figure it out, love."
"Jesus, would you please come in? It's freezing out here, you're going to bloody catch a cold—"
He cut you off as you turned to walk in, grabbing you by your arm, not hard, but firm enough to stop you from walking. He then pulled you towards him, your front hitting his hard chest, to look into his face.
"It was you all along?"
You didn't know what to say anymore. He had found you out. After all these years.
"I don't understand—" You whispered, shaking your head. You couldn't lie, his eyes were making you nervous and all the feelings that had simmered over the course of time were finally lighting up again. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it will get published."
"Do you believe in destiny?" He cut you off.
You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to mentally think where he was going with this, "Perhaps, Mr. Shelby, but you need to be clearer than that."
"I didn't believe in fucking destiny, until this minute. I can't believe I'm fucking saying this—" You could see reluctance in his eyes, an inward fighting. You could see that he was thinking hard, probably having a hard time figuring out what he should say to you. "You remember Greta?"
You were hundred percent sure you weren't smiling, but had you been smiling, it would have withered.
"Yes, Mr. Shelby, the girl that died holding your hand, the girl you loved."
"Good, and what about Grace? The woman you saw at the fucking window."
Your cheeks reddened at the remark with embarassment, making you regret how he had read that part. That was a private thing between Thomas and Grace.
"I didn't mean to pry, I was just passing through the alley and I looked up and I —" You voluntarily bit on your tongue in an attempt to silence yourself because you knew you were babbling and your words were not making much sense. You needed to compose yourself, compose your thoughts.
"I married her, yeah? And do you know what happened then?"
You closed your eyes briefly, hoping he wouldn't see the pain in your eyes. When you blinked your eyes open again, you straightened slightly, almost taking a step away from him. He caught your arm, pulling you back to him.
"We have a lovely boy together, Charlie, he's three almost."
You wondered if Tommy was here to chastise you, to make you apologize, or maybe, your book had caused a rift in their marriage.
"She was shot. Fucking took a bullet that was meant for me. I fucking watched her die. Twice, (Y/N). I think it was my destiny. Will you ask me why?"
"Mr. Shelby—" You hopelessly began, trying to tell him how sorry you were about what had happened. But what could you do? It wasn't as if you had shot Grace.
"Just bloody ask me why."
You stiffened at the harshness of his voice.
"I- Why?"
"Because this fucking destiny had something else in mind for me. Perhaps it was you all along, the one I was maybe meant to be with."
Your eyes widened in surprise at his words, a sudden palpitating feeling in your heart, a sudden throbbing in the back of your mind. You pulled your arm away, wincing slightly at his sudden outburst, instantly moving away.
"Your words make no sense. Will you please stop?"
He parted his lips in an attempt to reply, but all that shot out of his plump lips was foggy winter air and he shut it. His hand flew to the side of your face, but he didn't touch you. He merely took a loose strand of your hair, curling it over his index finger. You could feel the sudden tension, his lips so close to you, you knew if you didn't stop him, he would kiss you. And later regret it.
"Mr. Shelby, this is a mistake. If I was your destiny, I would be the one buried in a grave and not the women you loved. I did love you," you spoke, hopelessly pulling yourself one step away but this time he didn't make an attempt to pull you close, perhaps having sensed your reluctance.
He raised his eyebrow, "Did?"
"I still do, but I don't think we were meant to be."
"I see," he almost stepped closer, reluctantly, fighting for control at the back of his mind. This was a new feeling. He knew he didn't love you yet, but at the same time, he knew he was in love with the woman from the book. The woman who had always loved him.
"Why?"
A single word can hold a vast meaning. A single word can have an answer that you could probably write a book on.
"Because Thomas .. We can’t win. Either I have you and my soul sings but your cries, or we’re apart and your soul rejoices but mine dies," you whispered in a low voice, tears shrouding into your eyes.
"Yet there's a bloody thing that binds us to each other. Something neither you nor I can see," he mumbled under his breath, sliding his hand into his pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes.
You didn't know what to say to him. Your mind was fervently throbbing through your skull. Your heart leapt with joy but your mind didn't let you be at ease. He waited a few seconds but when he realized you had made up your mind, he decided he will not push you. You had given him the answer. You didn't want him. He nodded softly, letting his eyes wander down to your feet for a bit before giving you a last look as he turned his tail and started walking off, his boots crushing the snow as he started walking away.
And just like that, you realized that history was repeating itself. But this time, it was all your fault. You were letting him walk away when you could finally be happy.
"Thomas stop.." His name flew out of your mouth even before you could clamp your mouth shut. You saw him freeze, but this time, he didn't turn your way, but with his back turned towards you, you missed the hint of a smile that crossed his lips; the way you had stopped him meant that he still had hope.
"I would like to work for you again, does Charlie need a nanny?" You bit your lip.
It was nothing, but yet, it was a start. If destiny really wanted the two of you together then you wanted to try it out from the beginning, maybe make the man fall in love with you and not the woman who wrote the book. You wanted him to love you and not pity you.
"Twenty shillings, you stay at the Arrowe House, no further will be discussed on that, yeah?"
You gave him a weak smile, although you could not see his face.
"I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Shelby, first thing in the morning at 9."
He nodded and then, sliding his hands into his pockets, he walked away, his heavy boots crushing the snow underneath, generating a squishing, crunching sound until you could hear him no more. You couldn't wipe that smug smile from your face as you looked up at the sky, scrunching up your nose when you felt something cold; perhaps a snowflake had landed on the tip of your nose. It was a start, a start of a new day and who knew, perhaps a new life for you. Needless to say, you were excited.
#thomas shelby x reader#tommy shelby x reader#peaky blinders#tommy shelby#peaky fucking blinders#peaky blinders x reader#200 followers appreciation#thank you for liking my work
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The Revived - Chapter 10: Far Away Memories
This is chapter 10 of the Dream SMP multichapter fic @dramaticsnakes and I wrote together! I hope you’ll enjoy! Discord link here.
AO3
Read in order (on Tumblr)
Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Ghostbur, Tommy, Friend
Word count: 2,847
Content Warnings: mentions of food, yelling, begging, inflicting pain, not being able to breathe, guilt, violence, uhh manipulation in general
Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.
And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.
Wilbur and Niki had eggs and pancakes the next morning. Niki’s baking skills clearly connected to cooking as well. Although at times the tension between them rose, it stayed low through their small talk about the weather and cooking tips. Wilbur knew that Niki would have let him stay a few more hours, but he already felt that he was intruding. The quiet peace of what Niki built made Wilbur want to whisper through the halls instead of his voice filling the room.
So he made his farewells with Niki through a warm hug. Wilbur pulled away before he was ready, but the warm lingering still stayed for a few more moments before it quickly vanished. Part of him wanted to go back into Niki’s arms and part of him knew he couldn’t stay at these moments. Life was moving and so was he.
He could tell Ghostbur wanted to be around Niki more, and in return, he promised he’d go back. Ghostbur said he trusted him, but there was something off in his voice. Something that was reserved. So Wilbur simply did what he did best, describing things.
“We’re still in the oak forest right now. It’s a pretty nice day out. Oh- I don’t think I told you, Niki gave me my armor back.”
Wilbur imagined Ghostbur nodding, “Mhm, I can feel it.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot you do that.” Although Ghostbur probably didn’t mind the silence between them to be filled by the chirps of birds and the light crunch of leaves under his boots, he still felt obligated to tell him something.
“It’s pretty hot out, I’m not sure if you feel it much though. I’m trying to stay under the leaves a little bit.” Wilbur sighed, the scenery was quite beautiful. “There’s some flowers every now and then, just red poppies and those yellow flowers I can never remember the name of. There’s some patches of grass around, but most of the area looks well-maintained.”
Wilbur could’ve talked about the clouds in the sky or the rabbit he saw from not too far away, but part of him feared that Ghostbur didn’t care. What was he thinking? Ghostbur had to care. He was forced to care if anything. His personality made him not hate Wilbur, and limbo made him stuck in his mind.
Wilbur spoke hesitantly, “Is there anything you want to do in L’Manberg? Or other places as well, I just don’t know what you like to do.” Wilbur found an odd sense of discomfort when he talked to Ghostbur. Discomfort that wasn’t present before yet felt present in every step he took.
It seemed the feeling wasn’t mutual. “Hmm, I usually talk to my friends, but you’ve been doing that already.”
“It’s alright, Ghostbur. We can do that again. You uh- you wanna visit Tubbo and Ranboo?”
“Yeah! That sounds fun. I always loved seeing little Michael, he’s quite adorable.” Ghostbur’s voice turned dull quickly, “He never got to meet Friend.”
“Who’s… Friend, again?” Ranboo joined after Wilbur died. Perhaps ‘Friend’ did as well.
Ghostbur gasped, “You’ve never met Friend?”
Wilbur shrugged, “I don’t think so.” He came up to the edge of a worn-in path that faded into the grass and walked along with it. He didn’t exactly remember his way back, but he hoped muscle memory would guide him.
“I really want to see him again.” Ghostbur said, melancholically, “I miss him so much.”
“Maybe you will,” Wilbur said, a little softer than he usually did, as he watched the scenery carefully. As it changed, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief watching over him. “We’re near L’Manberg. Or well, the crater,” he said. He almost laughed near the end, but he didn’t want to upset the ghost.
They were indeed right by the crater of L’Manberg, a huge portion of it covered in glass. Buildings were half-broken, though some appeared to have been rebuilt, even if it wasn’t enough to create an entire community. It was funny really, how no one had attempted to rebuild it after it was gone. It left Wilbur’s legacy intact though, even if it probably wasn’t a particularly good look for him.
It was time to look for clues to Wilbur’s revival. That had been their plan coming here, after all. Though Wilbur did take some time, admiring the sight of the blown-up nation. “We’re really here,” he said. He didn’t realize he would’ve missed it, after being gone for just a couple of days. Though being there filled his mind with recognition. A certain level of pride mixed with something that stung, but the pride made it sting in a way that made him want to smile.
As he wandered through, taking in the smells, sights, and sounds, he suddenly heard Ghostbur gasp. “I can hear his footsteps!” he said excitedly.
A grip of panic went through Wilbur. “Who’s footsteps?” He asked sharply.
“Friend’s! He is around here, I just know it!”
Frantically, Wilbur looked around to see if he could see anyone, but all he caught sight of was a lonely blue sheep tied to a fence with a lead, near the border to L’Manberg. He thought he’d seen the sheep before, but it was among the blurry thoughts in his mind. The memories of his revival, and of a life that wasn’t his. “I can’t see anyone,” Wilbur whispered. The sheep leaned down to eat a bit of grass.
Wilbur heard Ghostbur excitedly clap. “He did the thing!” he said, in awe. “He’s so adorable.”
Wilbur looked around, dumbfounded. “Wait, can you physically describe Friend?”
“Cute, adorable, and very blue.”
The blue sheep continued chewing before looking up at Wilbur. It looked like a normal sheep. He stepped around it, looking for a nametag. The only one he could see seemed hazy, transparent almost. He tried to hold it and get a better look, but his fingers passed through. A shiver ran through him.
“Is he… a sheep?”
Ghostbur gasped, “How did you know? Wait- was he your sheep too?”
“No no, I guess it just makes sense now.” Of course, the ghost was friends with a sheep. Ghostbur probably viewed everyone as his friend. Wilbur slowly reached his hand out to Friend and gently ran his hand over Friend’s head.
The sheep bleated quietly and rubbed his head into Wilbur’s hand. Wilbur found a small smile coming across his face.
“What are you doing? It feels nice.” Ghostbur’s soft voice seemed complimentary to the scene.
“I’m petting Friend,” Wilbur answered automatically. An unfortunate realization came to Wilbur, “Oh, you’ve never felt his wool before.” Wilbur shouldn’t have cared about Ghostbur’s ability to feel things or what he’d done in the past. The ghost was his own person- well, in theory, he was at least.
“Aww,” Ghostbur’s voice melted into a fondness that was distinct from his typical friendliness. “Is he happy?”
Friend let out a cheerful baa. Wilbur didn’t know how Friend correctly responded to the question, but he scratched behind the sheep’s ear- the only way Wilbur could really give praise to him. Ghostbur let out a breath which Wilbur took as the ghost relaxing. He could have spent seconds or minutes there and it all would have felt the same. He was abruptly brought out of it when footsteps came from not far behind him. He froze as he turned around. He visibly relaxed when he saw it was just Tommy, but the tension in his eyes stayed. The boy wasn’t quite fond of him. Wilbur could accept that. The slight distaste couldn’t be permanent either way, because that didn’t make sense. Tommy was still Tommy after all, and even with the glare Wilbur received, it was quite clear that there was something hesitant there as well. And certain questions lingered in his mind that Tommy could answer.
“Big man!” Wilbur pulled a fake grin, looking between Friend and Tommy. “This little guy is cute isn’t he?” His eyes stayed on Tommy as he waited for a response.
Tommy’s posture went rigid as he slightly shifted where he was. “I guess so.” Although Tommy met Wilbur’s eyes a few times, his gaze settled on Friend. A gaze of concern that Tommy didn’t wear often.
Wilbur knew the conversation wasn’t going to last long, so he figured he’d get it out of the way. “Tommy, how did I get revived?”
Tommy winced at the question. The grimace that came from the child didn’t surprise Wilbur in the slightest. “Fuck I…” Tommy’s voice trailed off.
“It doesn’t sound like Tommy wants to talk about it right now. Maybe you should change the topic?” Ghostbur said, sounding a little frightened.
Wilbur rolled his eyes at the words and noticed that Tommy was looking at him strangely. “I’m just curious!” he said, “I only saw Dream coming for me, but I don’t know about the details. I was hoping you could fill me in.”
Tommy looked at Wilbur, as if it was an attempt to make Wilbur feel stupid. Wilbur didn’t like that look at all. There was something else hidden underneath though. Perhaps it was fear, though it probably wasn’t that bad. “Listen, Wilbur I… I don’t wanna talk about this shit right now, okay?”
“See, it’s like I said! We should change the topic. How about we talk about Friend! Tommy seemed to like Friend!”
“Why does this sheep like me so much?” Wilbur asked.
Tommy hesitated. “He… He was Ghostbur’s.”
Wilbur nodded thoughtfully. “Hm. And could you tell me why he’s gone?”
“That’s not how you change topics!” Ghostbur said, sounding panicked, “Do you… Do you not know how to-? See, first of all you have to leave the original topic behind and-”
Tommy took a shaky breath before he spoke, “I don’t have time for this.” Tommy’s gaze was foggy and fixed onto nothing in particular. He walked over to Friend and began undoing the lead around the fence pole.
Wilbur took his hand off of Friend and gently held the lead. “I’m sure it’s not too long of a conversation.” A familiar smile came across Wilbur’s face, and there was a grim recognition in Tommy’s face too, that Wilbur didn’t want to consider for too long.
“I really can’t, Wilbur.” The name was sharp on his lips as he quickly undid the lead on the pole.
Wilbur’s gaze fixed onto only Tommy as he slightly frowned. “Just for a moment or two really.” His hold on the lead tightened slightly. Not to hurt Friend’s throat, but out of worry that Tommy would actually leave before Wilbur got what he wanted.
Tommy narrowed his eyes at Wilbur. While Wilbur knew the action was supposed to intimidate him, he could feel how scared Tommy was. The boy’s hands weren’t exactly noticeably shaking, but as the lead moved left and right, he knew he was much calmer than Tommy. “I don’t have a moment or two for you.”
“Tommy sounds uncomfortable, maybe you should just let him leave.” Wilbur could’ve sworn he heard Ghostbur’s voice hitch.
“Tommy, we’ve been through so much. I’ll be honest with you, you’re all I have left.” Wilbur took the hand that wasn’t holding the lead and gently placed it on Tommy’s arm. He barely realized he’d done so. Because Wilbur needed answers. Desperately. They were something he could cling onto, and of course, Tommy would give them to him eventually. His fingers wrapped around the boy’s arm. “I’m sure you can answer a few questions.”
“No.” Tommy’s voice wavered, but still stood strongly.
Wilbur’s voice was much stronger though. He used to be a commander after all. And Tommy wouldn't mind, because he was Tommy, and Tommy was reckless and resourceful. Perhaps a part of Wilbur felt as if this was a test. As if they were back in the war, and Tommy was being his usual defiant self. “Really?” Wilbur faked genuine confusion. “Because I feel like I have the right to know about my revival.” Wilbur sighed, “Tommy, don’t you know not to be selfish with knowledge? Honest communication is always a good thing.” Wilbur’s grip on Tommy’s arm tightened. It wasn’t enough to injure Tommy in any way. It was just a light pressure that made him remember his place. A simple soldier in war who needed to listen a little better.
And how wonderfully it worked.
Tommy opened his mouth to speak but fell silent. He stared at the ground.
Wilbur smiled once again, “Good.” So much curiosity was jumbled inside his head, he barely even knew what to ask. “Why did Dream revive me?” A simple starting point. A good transition for the next questions.
Tommy’s gaze went to Wilbur’s eyes before it went to the bruises and burns on Wilbur’s face. “I- I don’t know.” Tommy tried to subtly pull away from Wilbur and as soon as he noticed, he tightened his grip, his fingers lightly digging into Tommy’s arm.
“I’ve fought too many wars with you to believe that bullshit.” He chuckled a little, in an attempt to lighten the strange tension that shouldn’t be there. He was so close. So close. “I’m asking you again, why did Dream revive me?” His face turned blank near the end. Tommy just needed to tell him one thing. Just one.
“Wilbur, let go of me.” Tommy's voice was shaky as he tried to pull his arm away- harder this time. Yet, Wilbur’s grip was stronger this time, causing the younger to wince.
“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.” Wilbur didn’t dare to lessen his grip on the boy’s arm. Instead, he grabbed it tighter, his knuckles turning white as his hand slightly shook. A part of him felt, as if letting go now, would make Tommy disappear before his eyes, and for an absurd second, he felt as if he understood the way Niki had held onto himself. A strange level of comfort at the control filled Wilbur’s heart, because he hadn’t had control for so long, and this was good! This was good! Wilbur was learning, and Tommy was standing there as if nothing had changed at all. Wilbur could barely feel himself gripping it tighter. All he could notice was his injuries throbbing in pain again. He focused on that instead of the words spilling out of his mouth, “You know what I want. And you also have what I want. Tell me what happened.”
Tommy shoved Wilbur, but instead of letting go, they both fell down. Tommy tried to pull away, thinking Wilbur’s grip was lessened, but he groaned in pain when he felt his arm get pulled back.
“F-Fucking let go.”
“Tell me.”
Despite all the plans he’d made for today, he couldn’t plan Tommy punching him in the throat. All of a sudden he couldn’t breathe as he wrapped one of his hands around his throat, letting go of Tommy as well. He only caught glimpses of the boy as he ran away, the most noticeable thing being the dark red crescents in Tommy’s arm. And perhaps he noticed again, like when he first came back, that everything had changed. It might have been slow at first, but Tommy was now out of his sight with Ghostbur’s panicked murmurs in his mind.
After Wilbur managed to breathe again, he felt regret come out of his lungs. Regret that stung his mind more than the regret of asking his father to kill him. He closed his eyes tight, wishing it to go away. The feeling lingered in his chest as he let himself fall onto the glass behind him. Not hard enough that it would crack the glass in any way, but enough for him to exhale from the impact.
“Oh no no no no no, this isn’t good, this isn’t good. You weren’t supposed to do that.”
I know, He responded in his head. Ghostbur couldn’t hear it and he didn’t need him to. What happened to the phrase ‘me, myself, and I’? It seemed to work just fine before.
“Wilbur- you’ve got to go and apologize and tell him you won’t do it again. Just make things happy again,” Ghostbur pleaded.
Desperation wasn’t a good sound for Ghostbur’s voice. It was almost like a door that creaked on its hinges. “I can’t make things happy again,” Wilbur whispered. The words were quiet even to himself. “Life doesn’t work like that, Ghostie.” Wilbur almost chuckled at the nickname, but the guilt that sat in his chest stopped him.
“You could- you should try. He might stop being upset if you just tell him you’re sorry,” Ghostbur’s worry made Wilbur frown slightly. He didn’t need to make another person upset again.
Ghostbur deserved a response yet when opened his mouth to give it, he closed it soon after. Maybe Tommy managed to punch out all of his witty responses stuck in his throat. Even then, it hurt to speak as his voice cracked every now and then. “I’m sorry.” The words didn’t help him feel better, but perhaps they would help Ghostbur.
Wilbur heard Ghostbur’s sniffles. Had Ghostbur started crying? “N-Now to him please.”
Wilbur sighed and sat up. Luckily, Tommy was nowhere in sight. “Can’t see him.”
“Is he coming back?”
Wilbur’s chest tightened at that. Ghostbur didn’t need to know the truth. Ghostbur enjoyed being locked up in his ignorance. So he’d let him live in his own prison.
“Yeah. He’ll come back real soon.”
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Blossom
pairings: logan/patton (logicality) (because im trash)
words: 2776
warnings: swearing, panic attack, implied toxic parental relationship, mention of an implied suicide attempt, fighting
summary:
blos·som
/ˈbläsəm/
verb
- to produce flowers or masses of flowers.
- to develop in a promising way
Or: the five times Logan couldn’t see the flowers, and the one time he did.
a/n- hello! i hope you are all doing well during this strange quaran-time! i present to you, my first non-golden slumbers flower-related fic (still logicality tho,,, y'all can rip that pairing out of my dead, cold hands :pp). i had a really strange dream last night that had something to do with this concept and hey, you know what i do with dreams :p
i hope you enjoy it ^v^
read on ao3~
---------
dedicated to the one bit of starlight
that always remembers to water my garden
~*~
1.
Logan was halfway up the porch stairs when Patton mentioned the flowers for the first time.
“I’m telling you, Lo!” Patton followed Logan into their new house, carrying boxes behind him. “They were little yellow daffodils, just sprouting behind you as you walked! It was so pretty!”
“Patton, it takes twelve to fifteen weeks for daffodils to bloom after chilling,” Logan said pointedly, setting his own boxes down by an old, tattered couch in the living room. “Besides, even if there were some growing, I would be more concerned that there is something prompting growth underneath our house.”
Patton giggled, putting his boxes down beside Logan’s. He wrapped his arms around Logan’s waist from the back, going on the tips of his toes to kiss the back of his neck.
“Our home,” he murmured in Logan’s skin. Logan smiled.
“Yes,” he said, looking around at their surroundings. “It is...a start.”
“It’ll be more than that soon enough!” Patton chirped, taking Logan’s hand and spinning himself underneath it with a squeal. Logan couldn’t help smile, moving his arm more purposefully to properly spin Patton around until he was standing right in front of him.
“I’m so happy,” Patton said with a sigh and that lopsided smile;
the smile that proved to Logan that he could at least feel love.
“I am happy that you are happy, dear.” He pressed his forehead against Patton’s and kissed his nose lightly. “Now, we must continue on, or we will be late to the neighbourhood barbeque Janene invited us to.”
“Janene?”
“Our neighbour, remember?”
Patton made a small ‘ah’ noise and nodded enthusiastically, already skipping past Logan to grab some more boxes outside.
As he watched him go, Logan sighed; he could definitely love. He could love with all of the love the world had to offer him, for as long as they were offering. He could love the softest, most gentle creature he knew; one who moved with such grace and one whose mind and heart and soul was overwhelmingly admirable.
Yes, he could love him.
And he loved him.
-
“Logan! There’s pink roses on our roof!”
---------
2.
According to Janene, the whole neighbourhood could see the flowers.
It was a special kind of phenomenon that no one outside the small town of Khloris ever noticed. But if you had a house on its terrain, you apparently had flowers growing underneath your feet. Upon mentioning Patton’s observations at the neighbourhood barbeque, Janene had explained the rumours that it was the land’s way of “observing” or “understanding” its habitants. Whatever that meant.
Logan found it borderline infuriating that no one had pursued further research on the matter; that people just walked around their neighbourhoods, complimenting each others’ seemingly magical gardens.
What was even more infuriating was that everyone just...accepted it. Embraced it, even. As if it was normal to hallucinate flowers growing on vines across your windows.
He was still unable to see these flowers, if they even existed. And while he wasn’t keen on keeping a sense of distrust between himself and his partner (he would have stopped playing along if Patton shared his same view) he couldn’t help but remain skeptical.
(He would never admit it to Patton, but the reason he had purchased that rather expensive machine off of Amazon was so he could test the contents of the air in certain areas of the town. It didn’t prove anything abnormal, but it was an interesting experiment.
He read his findings out loud to Patton one night,
and Patton listened to every word.
And when Logan left for work the next morning,
Patton complimented the chrysanthemums trailing behind him.)
Still, he didn’t have much choice other than to embrace the absurdity floating in their town. Besides, it was mostly harmless. And, more often than not, it served as the backdrop to some of the most joyful moments they had.
-
“Why, yellow!” Patton exclaimed as he greeted Logan on the steps to their house. “Someone has an extra poppy in their step today, huh?”
“First of all, I believe you mean ‘hello’; the standard greeting which is first exchanged between individuals seeing each other,” Logan hummed. Then, he leaned over to kiss Patton’s cheek. “Second of all...hello, dearest.”
“Hiya!” Patton giggled. Logan watched as the spot he kissed flushed a soft shade of pink. “How was work?”
Logan couldn’t help but smile. “It was...very satisfactory.”
“Very satisfactory?” Patton rocked back and forth on the heels of his feet, immediately ecstatic. “Not just satisfactory?”
“Mhm.”
“Ooh that and the yellow poppies behind you! You must have good news!” Patton beamed. “Come, come sit with me! Tell me all about your very satisfactory day!”
Usually, Logan would politely decline, telling him that he had to first shower and prepare dinner as he always did after work. And it was almost second-nature to ignore the ever-growing amount of flower observations from Patton.
But he couldn’t help but oblige upon seeing Patton rush over to their small, wooden porch swing, nearly knocking into his ball of yarn and newest knitting project. That and he did have good news. Very good news, in fact.
“Tell me about your day first,” Logan insisted as he sat down beside him, setting his briefcase at his feet. “I would rather celebrate a mutual achievement than selfishly intrude with my singular one.”
“Intrude?” Patton nudged him lightly. “Well, you’re not being int-rude if you do! So don’t worry about that kind of intrusion-confusion you’re on about, mister!”
“...did you eat the cookies Janene sent us?”
“Several.”
Logan shook his head. “She puts too much chocolate in those, you know. And those pastries surpass the recommended amount of sugar one should digest in a day.”
“I know! ”
Logan couldn’t help but laugh at how starry-eyed his Patton looked. Patton gently rocked the swing back and forth, then lifted his legs to sit cross-legged on the cushions once it gained enough momentum.
“Anyway, my day was alright!” Patton chirped. “Had a breakthrough with a client today! It’s been a slow couple of weeks, but I think things are looking up!”
“That is fantastic news, Patton.” Logan leaned his head against Patton’s shoulder, placing a hand on his thigh and smiling. “You’re doing an exceptional job.”
“Aw, Lo!” Patton giggled again. “You’re gonna make me grow peonies everywhere.”
Second-nature. Logan just chuckled.
“Now! We must celebrate you!” Patton lifted Logan’s head off his shoulder and held his hands into his own. “Tell me everything!”
A pause. Logan felt as if he too was holding his breath.
“Well, do you recall that promotion I recently inquired about at my work?”
Patton’s eyes widened.
“Shut up.”
Logan broke into a wide grin, finally exhaling as he nodded. Patton squealed, practically lunging at Logan to give him a tight hug.
“Shut up shut up shut uppp!!!”
“Do you...actually want me to–”
“No!” Patton gasped, pulling back to hold Logan in front of him by his shoulders. His grin almost hurt to look at. “Never ever ever shut up!”
“Then why did you–”
“I’m excited, you goofball!” Patton brushed the hair out of Logan’s eyes with a small giggle. “Besides, if I’m shushing anything, it’s the guilty feeling in your head that I can hear from a mile away.
(Fuck. He could love him forever.)
“Be proud of yourself, silly.” Patton wrapped Logan into another hug. Despite being shaken around so much, Logan couldn’t help but laugh. “Gosh, you deserve this so so much– I’m so proud of you.”
Logan’s breath hitched.
“You…”
Patton drew himself back ever-so-slightly, leaving a mere inch between him and Logan. He smiled.
“I’m always proud of you, Logan.” He kissed Logan’s nose, sending a rush of warmth throughout his entire being.
He then looked down at the spaces between each wooden plank of the porch and smiled.
“Peonies,” he whispered, resting his forehead against Logan’s. “I’m happy too, Lo. So so so happy.”
---------
3.
“Patton, take a deep breath.”
“He–” Patton gasped, wrapping his arms around himself– “how– I can’t–”
“Patton.” Logan took the phone out of Patton’s hand and held them, squeezing gently. “Patton, let’s sit down, please–”
“Don’t touch me!“ Patton sobbed, pulling his hands back and covering his mouth. Tears rolled down his cheeks and over his hands. He began backing away from Logan. “It’s– I’m a– I’m–”
“Patton–”
“Fuck,” Patton choked out, stumbling past Logan and heading in the direction of their backyard. “I can’t– I need–”
Logan just nodded, carefully catching up to him and clearing out as much clutter as he could so Patton wouldn’t get hurt. He slid open their backyard door for Patton to rush through.
The cool, evening air hit Logan almost sharply, and he hoped that Patton could feel the same thing. He watched from a hesitant distance as Patton fell to his knees on their grass, folding into himself like a ball and clutching at each strand.
(He doesn’t need you to make this worse.
"You don’t know how to feel, after all.”)
“Hey,” Logan finally said. He walked over to the grass and sat a comfortable distance away from Patton. “Is this enough space?”
Patton didn’t lift his head, but he nodded. Logan sighed.
“...What happens outside your workplace is not your responsibility.”
Patton let out a huge sob; one that felt like it echoed through the whole neighbourhood.
Fuck. Logan cleared his throat.
“Tell me about the flowers,” he blurted out. Patton lifted his head slightly.
“The–”
“The flowers,” Logan said again, even less sure of himself. “Tell me what they...what they look like to you right now.”
Patton let out a scratchy laugh. “You don’t believe in the stupid flowers.”
Logan’s heart broke.
(He didn’t, but he believed in him.)
“Tell me about them anyway,” he said insistently. “I assume they are in our presence, no?”
Patton sighed and, after seemingly deliberating his offer, sat up; his hands firmly gripping the grass they were sitting on. He looked around him, all spacey in that way that used to scare Logan. (It still does, but he at least knows enough about it that it’s not as worrisome.)
Finally, he spoke up.
“I– I see marigolds,” he whispered. “And– and yellow carnations.”
Logan closed his eyes in thought for a second and then opened them with a sigh.
“My dear,” he whispered, scooting a bit closer to him. “It is normal to feel grief and disappointment. Those are common reactions to a tragic occurrence such as this. I am so deeply sorry that you have to experience this because you do not deserve this, my starlight.”
Patton curled even more into himself.
“But what is important is that he is still here,” Logan continued. “And I am going to be here to assist you with whatever you need in order for you to cope during this difficult time.”
He watched as Patton took a deep breath; the first one in hours. When he exhaled, he felt as if the air around him grew still and less frigid.
“I already know with absolute certainty that I will witness you lift yourself up when we make it through this; stronger than you were ever before.” He moved closer to him again. “You did not fail, no – we are simply just trying again.”
A beat of silence. Patton sniffled. “T-There’s purple hyacinths now.”
Logan sadly smiled. A common one with Patton.
“You do not have to apologize.” He patted the space next to him. “I’m here. And so are you.”
Patton sobbed a bit more, but eventually smiled through his tears and curled up in Logan’s lap. Logan held Patton and leaned over to press a kiss in his hair.
“I got you,” he murmured in his curls. He felt Patton settle into his lap, the tenseness in his shoulders loosening. He ran his hands through his hair, kissing it again and again every few seconds.
“Forever?” He heard Patton mumble. He smiled.
“And a little bit after that,” he whispered back.
And they sat there for a while, underneath the starry skies above them, in what Logan assumed was a sea of yellow and purple flowers. Though, he was never really sure.
-
Later on, Patton asked him how he knew what each flower meant. And Logan, who would never admit to researching floriography (or to any accomplishment at all), just said it was a coincidence.
---------
4.
Patton rarely got mad; but when he did,
Logan could only assume there were petunias everywhere.
“You–”
“Patton, please, not today–”
“NO!” His voice bounced off the walls and hit Logan in the chest. He shut up immediately. “Just...please– please tell me you’re joking.”
Logan averted his glance. “...I had to speak with them.”
“With your parents?! “ Patton screamed. “Who– who haven’t even bothered to call you in the last, what, five years?! “
“Patton, I–”
“You promised you’d never talk to them again,” Patton hissed. “I thought we agreed that– that it’d be wrong to. Because they were miserable people– people who– who made you miserable.”
He stung more than any thorn ever could. Logan tried to imagine some growing through the floors, as if trying to sympathize with what he could be experiencing. Of course he was angry. What Logan did was stupid. And he didn’t even mention the outcome…
“They’re my parents, Patton,” he said instead. He tried to plant his feet to the floor firmly, but Patton’s pacing made him shrivel up where he stood.
“They are not your parents,” Patton snapped. His breathing was sharp and quick. “Parents– parents don’t just tell their kid that they don’t have the capacity to feel– parents don’t kick their kid out of their fucking house and– and abandon them and leave them to be fixed by someone else.”
Logan’s breath hitched.
“I…” He tried not to let it hurt him, but seeing Patton also wince at his own words made him feel somewhat validated in his pain. Still, he stood his ground.
“I did not ask you to fix me,” Logan whispered, just as sharply; as if to get him back.
Stupid.
“Logan.” Patton’s voice was even more troubling when it was quiet. “How could you...”
“It’s true.” (Why was he still talking?!) “I didn’t need you to–”
But he never finished.
Because that’s all it took
for Patton to leave.
-
5.
Patton found Logan outside in their backyard,
surrounded by roses.
Roses of every colour; yellow, pink, blue, black, and white. The grass underneath his feet was bright green– in fact, everything around him was bright.
“L-Logan, what–”
And that was when he saw the ring.
“Patton.” It came out as a loud, choked sob.
Patton took a shaky step towards Logan, who shakily got on one knee.
“What are you…”
To his surprise, Logan laughed.
“We– we were never really good at appropriate timing, were we?”
Patton covered his mouth with wide eyes.
“I called my parents,” Logan began shakily, “because I wanted to tell them that I was going to marry you.”
Patton’s breath hitched.
“You were right,” he continued, wiping his eyes. “Parents don’t do any of the things you had mentioned a-and I know I broke that promise we made out of good intent but…” He sighed. “But they are my parents. And I wanted them to be part of this moment.”
He closed his eyes, almost shamefully.
“Ultimately, it was out of spite, wasn’t it?” He laughed quietly. “In the end, I just wanted to prove to them that I could.”
“C-Could what?”
Logan stood up from his place and smiled. “That I could feel.”
A wide grin spread across Patton’s face.
“Oh, Logan…” He sobbed, rushing over to hold Logan’s hands. He giggled as Logan’s glasses fogged up from him crying, and he reached over to take them off, opting to rest them lopsided on his head. Logan laughed again through his tears.
“Patton,” he whispered, looking up in his eyes. “I feel everything with you. I– I feel perfect, unadulterated happiness and love when I am with you. I feel joy, I feel peace, I feel...I feel things that I didn’t even know exist– ”
He held Patton’s hands and took a deep breath.
“I feel everything for– for you.” Logan rested his forehead against Patton’s and broke into laughter as their tears fell to the ground. “I want to feel everything with you– the ups, the downs, everything– for the rest of my life.”
---------
1.
And as Patton kissed him, Logan watched
as a rainbow of colours blossomed around their home.
#sanders sides#sanders sides fic#sanders sides fanfic#logan sanders#patton sanders#logan/patton#logicality#logic/morality#flower...AU?#idk what this is#but its sure as hell cute :p#gabbie writes things
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Author interview tag
I was tagged by @therealsaintscully! Thanks, you! :)
Name: SilentAuror
Fandoms: Just Sherlock, though I also follow some Old Guard blogs. :)
Where you post: AO3. Though I was almost knocked over the other day when I got a comment on an old HP fic over on skyehawke.com! It’s been literal YEARS since I got a review on anything over there! :P
Most popular multi-chapter fic: Against the Rest of the World for sure. :)
Favourite story you’ve written so far: With 87 posted fics and 2 more currently on the go, I can’t possibly answer that. That’s cruel. Lol.
Fic you were nervous to post: This, on the other hand, is easy, haha! Three stories, all for very different reasons:
1. The A.G.R.A Complex. This was my first Freebatch fic and I thought I might well be burnt at the stake for even writing any RPF. The notion for this story caught my muses’ attention, though, and they eventually forced me to write it against my will. I can’t be held responsible. Lol. It still amazes me that people continue to read it to this day. The notion: Martin and Benedict are friends. There’s a car accident and Martin suffers a fairly mild brain injury. While in his coma, dreams the entire first three seasons of Sherlock, which in this universe, haven’t happened. The nature of the brain injury is such that he keeps shifting mentally between the reality of who he and Benedict (and Amanda) are, and seeing himself and everyone else as their characters in the Sherlock universe. When I posted it, I intended it to be left up to the reader whether to see it as kind of an AU to actual reality, or else a prequel to the filming of Sherlock. When I finally decided to write a sequel, it meant that I had to be the one to make that clear, which made it a prequel. It became a three-part series, with the second part set during and just after the filming of series 3 (the dodgiest in the moral sense, since it dances around and into real life events), and then the third story takes place ten years later.
2. The Final Proof. Why? Easy. Major character death, and it’s Sherlock. That’s clear from about the first sentence, I think. I had written At the Heart of it All, which features Sherlock running an experiment using the hearts of people who lived lives where they had loved and been loved, and people who hadn’t in an effort to prove his own ability to love to John. He says something at the end of that story about wishing he could see his own heart at the end of their life to see which of the hearts his own resembled by then. And then my muses, my terrible, terrible muses said, “hey... you could write that: you know: Sherlock at the very end of his life, making John promise to look at his heart after he’s died, and complete his experiment.” I, like, teared up just at the thought, and honestly, I cried for most of the writing of that story. I’m assured that about 99% of the people who have read it have also cried throughout, so... sorry. Yeah.
3. Scars. Why? Easy, again: the entire story is riddled with gaslighting and other types of emotional abuse and mind-fuckery, and an actual rape scene. It was painful to the point of being interally corrosive to write, but I still felt it was a story I needed to tell. I did my homework on this one, consulted multiple therapists who work specifically in the field of men who have been absued (emotionally, physically, sexually) by female partners. I thought no one would read it. I thought I might lose half my followers on tumblr. But I still wrote it. It still amazes me that people read it, even more when they actually like it, and still like me after. Lol.
How you choose your titles: Hmm... each title genesis is different, I would say! Sometimes it’s a general theme of the story, sometimes it’s a specific concept or single word, occasionally (but not often) it’s a song title. Sometimes it’s another language, particularly Latin. In The A.G.R.A Complex, the title of the story is also the name that the neurologists given to the brain injury Martin experiences. Vena Cava is titled for the name of the vein that Mary’s bullet punctured in Sherlock’s heart, based on a medical analysis I had read. Scars takes its theme from both Sherlock’s external scars from what he went through during his time away, and John’s internal scars from Mary’s emotional abuse. I also have a whole series of (unrelated) flower-themed stories: The Green Carnations comes from ACD era coding for homosexuality. The Yellow Poppies is the story I wrote after the deleted scene about Magnussen’s hospital visit came out, which features both he and Mary as dual villains, and yellow poppies placed in Sherlock’s room as a threat from one or the other of them. The White Lotuses has a leitmotif of Hinduism and slow-blooming self-awareness and romance. The Red Roses is a Molly POV where she helps Sherlock and John get together in spite of her own feelings, and The Wisteria Tree is an amnesia story that has Sherlock forget the past six years of his life, including the five years that he’s been married to John, and how they find their way back together in spite of that. Rosa Felicia - bonus, both a flower name AND Latin, lol! - is a coming-of-age story about Rosie at the age of 19. Where My Demons Hide is a mid-series 4 story that I wrote after The Lying Detective aired, but before The Final Problem did, and is the title of an Imagine Dragons song. Pater Noster is Latin for the title of the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, but also quite literally just means “our father”, and is a story that centres around the events surrounding the death (murder) of John and Harry’s father. You get the gist.
Do you outline: I always say that one should know how a story begins, how it ends, and at least a few of the major points between those two events. So yes, but loosely. I think that over-plotting kills creativity. It’s not an essay. But even essays need space to grow.
Complete: 105 stories back in my skyehawke days, the vast majority of which are HP, totalling in about 1.5 million words. 87 stories in the Sherlock fandom (though those include my 4 Freebatch fics), totalling in over 2.3 million words now.
In progress: I have two stories currently pending: a Christmas story called The Secret of Hazel Grange, and a trauma-based, co-sleeping fic called Nocturne.
Coming soon/not yet started: I never comment about fics I haven’t yet started. Might curse the entire process, lol.
Do you accept prompts: No, alas. Neither prompts nor commissions. While I’m constantly desperately poor, it takes something out of the writing process for me once it becomes a job. I just feel like that’s not what fanfic is about for me. No judgement to anyone else who does write for commissions, whatsoever - we all have our own process! For me, I’m happy (make that incredibly grateful!) to have donations or supporters through my Patreon (eep: x), but writing to order just doesn’t quite jive for me. I also don’t take prompts, not because I don’t want them, but because I have such a huge backlog of my own ideas that I’ll never get to as it is. There will never be enough time to write all the fics I want to write! That said, don’t think that you can’t still suggest your ideas. My “official policy” (lol) is that I don’t take prompts (for the aforementioned backlog reason), but that doesn’t mean that if you do send me one, my muses won’t seize upon it and force me to write it. You never know. I certainly don’t, at least. :P
Upcoming story you are most excited to write: I’m super excited by the notion of actually getting my Christmas fic finished by Christmas. Lol. Here’s hoping!!
Tagging: Anyone who reads this and is a writer, or thinking about becoming one. You’ve been tagged!
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My first Julian x Apprentice smut and fluff!
Or any smut and fluff for that matter! Please be gentle with me I'm really a wee little babe in arms when it comes to fanfic.
(it's a oneshot)
(which is how i imagine julian to be like)
(like you know he does a one shot and boom you're pregnant)
(ok I'll just shut up and write)
(just wanna thank @4biddenleeches for the inspiration! and @arcana-choices for sharing the scenes!)
(how do I do those after the cut things!)
(please give me feedback, bad or good - it's the only way i can improve!)
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Setting: at Mazelinka's home
Kind of in line with what happened but deviates a bit?
Sorry I'm a total noob
Is it right to say lemon?
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I can't believe I kissed him when all I was supposed to do was to feed him soup.
But his lips were glowing rose red against his pale creamy skin... and oh how the colour leapt to his cheeks when our lips met.. oh, if only Mazelinka hadn't come in...
When she asked me if I wanted to sleep with him or in the cubby hole, what was I supposed to say?
And so I meekly settled for the cubby hole.
Ilya. Even the Cyrillic syllables taste like honey on my lips. But it feels like I've known him forever. Two things in life don’t lie - love and magic. I guess this is what love at first sight feels like - the invisible thread tying us together. I can see it, but can he? I can see ourselves together, warming our toes by the hearth while tangled up in sheets, kissing each other by the lamplight, but does he?
I can't breathe, with the thought of him mere inches away from me. We're separated by that moth-eaten curtain that shows more than it’s supposed to hide. Like my face, I think wryly.
I can still hear him moving around the room, flitting like a bird in a cage. A clink, and his boot drops on the floor. And then the other boot. A rustle of his overcoat, a stretch of leather - it's almost too much to bear. I close my eyes, listening, imagining my hands on his hips, his thighs, my lips on his mouth, moving downwards -
Just peep. He won't know anyway. Go on, you may never get this chance again. It's just a look. Nothing's going to happen, right?
I silently draw back the folds of the curtain, my flushed face peeping. In the dim light, I catch a glimpse of his auburn hair and his eyepatch strapped across his tousled head. He lifts the eyepatch off and lets it fall to the floor. I've seen his red sclera while his eyepatch shifted we were running from the guards. The magic within me senses some wound buried deep in his memory. I want to reach out, comfort him, hold him...
My rumination is broken when I see him reach over his shoulders and toss his chemise on the bed. He's in his breeches now, barefoot. He shifts, bending slightly. Despite myself, I lean forward, eager for more when I -
"Enjoying the view, my dear?"
I startle, crashing through the curtain, thrown off by the timbre of his voice.
I land at his feet, just as he turns. My gaze slowly travels upwards. His feet, large and solidly planted against the floor. His calves, sinewy. His thighs, slender yet revealing just a hint of the strength that lies underneath. I force my gaze away. Up and up towards his ivory abs and chest, broad, speckled with ginger. His neck - sinuous, long, with the mark I've seen glow before. My gaze finally stops at his face, framed by his chiselled jaw, and his high cheekbones. Cheekbones I wished just minutes ago I could plant kisses along. His lips, sensuous against his pale face. I gaze into his eyes, one reddened like a poppy, the other calm, with glass grey eyes like a sheet of rain. His auburn hair, ablaze by the flickering candlelight.
Please don't smirk please don't smirk please don't -
He smirked. The damned plague doctor smirked.
How did he know I was peeping? As if he read my mind, he peered at me and grinned.
"There's a mirror. I could see your feet."
Damn. Asra always said I was clever, but I forgot real world physics.
Oh, he thinks he's so smart? I’m emboldened. I stand up, dust my clothes off and stride towards him. His eyes widen.
“I’m sorry, it was a joke, please don’t hur-”
Ears burning, blood rushing to my face. I won’t be so foolish when I’ve been given a second chance by the gods. The thread that I can see tying my heart to him glows. I stop, inches before his face. He swallows, his Adam apple visibly vibrating, intrigue written all over his face.
And then I reach up and kiss him. I close my eyes, and kiss him again, and again, and again. Biting his lips, tasting his essence, his very being, nuzzling my face in his chest, the scent of my desire intertwining with his musky sweat. He stands still. Is he going to push me away? Does he like this? Was I too presumptuous?
There's only one way to find out.
I touch him. He shudders, like a spring rattling with energy, waiting to be uncoiled. I touch his face, his cheek, his shoulders, his chest. I touch him like I’ve been starved of the sense of touch for my entire life and am just learning how it feels like to touch someone. I brush my hands down his back, down his chest, curling my fingers and threading it through the silky ginger hairs on his chest. I caress his nipples - Ilya sighs and closes his eyes, and moves his arms to encircle me.
“Drop them.”
Ilya starts, his eyes flying open. He can hear the raspiness in my voice, but he’s confused.
“I- I thought that...”
All my life, I’ve always been meek. Subservient. Even Asra made decisions for me - unconfident of myself and my abilities. But in Ilya, I somehow find the strength to dominate him, to take the lead. I grin at him.
“I didn’t say you could move. You only move when I tell you to, do what I tell you to.”
Ilya blushes. Somehow I think he’s enjoying this. Who would have thought that this suave, polished doctor would go to pieces being led?
“Oh, you can hold me any way you want. Just hold me, make use of me, I don’t mind. Just tell me what to do, say the word and I’ll do it.”
Ilya smiles, a slow, lazy smile of contentment creeping up his face. I move my hands to his breeches and thumb the waist line. He makes a strangled sound.
“I didn’t tell you to move, did I? Looks like you’ll have to be punished.”
He closes his eyes and stays still. I can see it’s taking every bit of his self-control not to hold me, to keep his hands clenched by his side, willing it to stay down. This should be fun.
I brush my fingertips over the bulge between his loins. He involuntarily starts but remembers my command and stays still with great effort. I rub my palm over his thighs, skip my hand lightly over his inner thighs and then move my focus back to his loins.
With a swift motion, I push him back to the bed. His legs stick out, his bottom on the bed, looking at me with hooded eyes and a blush staining his cheeks. I drop to my knees, face to his loins. I reach down his pants and free his sex. It’s certainly happy to see me - stiff, red and long, glistening in the candlelight. He groans.
I’ve never done this before, but I instinctively move my hands around his sex and kiss the tip. He throws his head back, and recalls himself.
“I promise I won’t make a sound - hng - just - hahh - kiss me and touch me any way you like. I promise, I’ll be good.”
My hands move faster and faster, fingers forming a ring around his sex and stroking it, varying my speed. It’s taking all he’s got not to thrash around. His auburn curls peeping out from his breeches wink at me in the pale moonlight.
“Hngg- ah- I- ung”
He’s choking his sounds down, so I move towards his sex and nestle my face in those auburn curls. He immediately groans, unable to take it. I up the ante by sticking my tongue out, tasting the sweet liquid oozing out of his sex. He looks so tortured, poor boy. His face flushes red, and he grips the sheets of the bed in agony.
His sex is erect, fine, long. I have never been with a man before, but I know that tonight, come what may, I want to be Ilya's.
All of a sudden, I know what to do. I stand up and whip off my clothes. Divested of my outer layers, standing in my undergarments, my chest rubbing into his face, he leans forward, taking in my scent of arousal. At this point, I groan and ask him to touch my nipples. He pushes my chemise to the side and takes my breasts reverently, squeezing them, testing their firmness, cupping them. I throw my head back in delight and pleasure. He's placing his hands on my chest, twiddling the nubs of joy. I close my eyes. He stops. He’s unsure of himself, so I tell him to continue. He nods his head eagerly and rubs his face against my chest, bounces my chest from side to side, and takes one bud into his mouth, tongue darting around it, licking it, savouring it.
"Take off your breeches.”
“Gladly, my dear. You only have to say the word.”
He removes his mouth from my breast, giving it a kiss. His sex springs forth fully as he stands up and bends down to remove his ankles from the last vestiges of his pants. He takes off my undergarments. We embrace and tumble back onto the bed together, giggling softly.
“Ilya. Il-ly-ah. Stay still my sweet.” He immediately stays still, stiff as a board, moaning, his sex rubbing against my stomach, a clarion reminder of his desire, his arousal. For me, I think wonderingly. Amazed at how much he desires me, how much he wants me.
I pin him down on his chest with my palm and hitch myself over him. I lift myself off again and feel his sex at my entrance. I'm unsure. How is his large size going to fit?
On cue, Ilya takes his sex and rubs it slowly at my entrance, moistening it. Liquid pools and I feel his sex, insistent against my entrance, sliding in slowly.
"It's going to hurt for a short time but I promise you it'll get better. If it's too much, you can tell me. I'll be gentle."
Damned plague doctor. How did he know he's the first? The thought is pushed out of my mind by a sharp pain which winds me over. He reaches up his hands to my shoulders, stilling me, as if by holding me he can remove the pain. Looking into my eyes, he mutters an apology and continues his progress. It hurts, and suddenly, it doesn't. I can feel him moving in me, his girth, me tight and snug against him.
He bucks his hips upward, holding my hips. I've never felt like this before, such pleasure, such wild abandon. Sweat drips down my front and rolls into his bellybutton. He reaches a finger down and tastes it. My mind floats amongst the realms, I can feel the magic in me growing stronger. He grows, possesses me, I sheathe him with every thrust and buck of his hips. He reaches up to the very core of me, and he strokes me, my breasts, my hips, to make sure I'm alright.
"Ung, ah, my dear I'm going to hold back till you're alright. Don't mind me - uh, ah, mff", he groans, pulling me to rest against his chest. The bed creaks with every dip. He reaches his hand into the narrow crevice between our bodies and strokes my clit. I cry out in shock and awe.
"Do you like it? I hope it's okay for you, I - uh, oh, ohhhh, uhh - just hang on", he whispers.
With his thrusting, stroking and gently murmured words of encouragement against my ear, I'm flying, lost amongst the universe, until suddenly I feel myself melting amongst an explosion of stars. I scream out his name. Over and over again. Ilya, oh Ilya, Ilya, my Ilya.
I'm slick, I'm wet, panting and unravelling. I collapse against him. He lifts my chin up and smiles, and flips me over just like that.
"May I, my darling, my sunshine, my love?"
A well of tenderness rushes up in my chest. He called me my love. Will he know that I've made up my mind to always be in his corner, cheer him on, fight for him, uplift him? Will he know that I'm here for him, with all his flaws and complexities and insecurities?
As if in answer, he stops, gives a sigh and a grunt and releases, spent. My well, already wet, is soaked. He reaches over, patting my still quivering, trembling nub below till it quiets down. I close my eyes, blind to the world except to his face.
He lets out a sob. Startled, I look into his face, tears freely dripping down his nose.
"That was beautiful... I never knew it could be like that...I've wanted you since the day I saw you in your shop...but I didn't dare, look at me, a monster, a fugitive, how could I even dare to look at you, hold you, I-"
I still his words with a kiss and intertwine my limbs with his long ones, holding him close, stroking his hair till he falls asleep. Once I hear his rhythmic somnambulance, I gently disentangle myself and stand at the window. I blow a prayer of gratitude upwards, for giving me this one night.
Then I shut the window again, draw the curtains and join Ilya back in bed, watching the candle burn out, holding him till the dawn comes.
#julian devorak smut#julian devorak#the arcana#the arcana julian#julian x apprentice#doctor ilya#ilya devorak#ilyushka devorak#fluff#julians route#the arcana lemon
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The Slippery Slope: An Izzy Stradlin Fanfiction
Chapter 4: My Little Penguin
Story Summary: After leaving Guns N’ Roses, Izzy find himself in a rut, and decideds to visit the local zoo. While visiting the penguin exhibit, he meets a red head named Poppy. Will they manage to keep standing while on their slippery slope?
Chapter Summary: Fluff
Masterlist
Taglist: @slashscowboyboots @smokeandmirrorz
Poppy had woken with the sunrise like she does every single morning. For her, it was both a gift and a curse. She had the gift of getting up early for school which eventually turned into work; however, the cure was that her body never allowed her to sleep in. For her body, it seemed like she never could take a day off.
Part of her wanted nothing more than to grab her purse, write a short note to Izzy, and leave. Why? Because she felt humiliated.
The events of yesterday played in her head over and over again. He was lying on top of her on the couch. There was never a hesitation when it came to anything he did. He just went for it. He knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted. Poppy, Poppy was a different story. She remained motionless while second guessing every thought that went through her head.
“Hey, you okay?” His voice was soft as he noticed the lack of movement underneath him.
“Yeah,” she flashed him a quick smile that was filled with nerves.
Before he could press further, barking erupted from another room and a four legged beast emerged into the living room. Like a linebacker, Izzy’s dog tackled him with kisses.
“Does he have a name?” Poppy asked, watching the dog snuggle his face into Izzy’s. Poppy thought it was cute how the dog acted as if they were lovers separated because of the war.
“Ridley,” As if the dog had just noticed that Poppy was in the room, he then began to tackle her instead, her laughter erupting and filling the room.
“Ridley off, bad boy,” Izzy yelled as the dog hopped off Poppy, and he brought him into another room so he could calm down.
“Sorry about that, are you okay?” Izzy asked, joining Poppy once again on the couch.
“Yeah I’m fine, I work with polar bears, so your dog is nothing. Plus it was cute that he acted that way. He missed his daddy,” Poppy teased back earning a smile from him.
A loud squeak pulled Poppy out of her throught about the night prior.
“Shhhh you’re going to wake him,” Poppy said to Ridley as he squeaked the toy he had brought her.
“Fine, but if Izzy wakes up it's all YOUR fault,” Poppy was a pushover and every animal that she ever met had quickly discovered it.
The seals and polar bears would bring her balls for her to throw across their enclosure.
The dolphins would follow her around the pool until she jumped back into the water to play with them.
The penguins, the penguins had to know they were her favorite and could get away with anything.
Poppy quickly went back to cooking some eggs, but was once again interrupted. This interruption she didn’t mind as much. A smile grew on her lips as Izzy wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Good morning,” Izzy’s voice alone made Polly melt.
“Good morning,” Poppy replied, trying to focus on making breakfast instead of the nerves that were spreading faster than a wildfire.
“What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” Poppy replied before escaping his grip and throwing Ridley’s toy across the room.
Unknown to Poppy, Izzy watched as she threw the toy across the room and raced Ridley towards it. They were like children. Part of him was trying to figure out why he was worried that Poppy wouldn’t like Ridley. She worked with animals for Christ sake. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was jealous of the attention Ridley was getting,
“Does every animal love you? Or is that something they teach you in school?” Izzy’s voice pulled Poppy’s attention from playing with the dog,
“They teach us in school how to read animal body language. You know the old saying how the eyes are the window to the soul? The same can be said for animals. For example, if Ridley here had really large pupils or a cowering tail I would know to stay away. Of course large pupils could mean play, but based off of other body language you can get the entire picture. Also snakes hate me! I think that they can sense my fear,” Poppy smiled back as Izzy handed her a plate of eggs and bacon.
“So...why biology? No offense, but most girls I’ve met don’t have a doctorate,” Izzy asked Poppy at the dining table he rarely used. Usually his meals were eaten on the couch and often shared with Ridley.
“When I was a little I loved going to the zoo with my dad. I especially loved seeing the penguins. Fast forward a couple of years and I was in high school absolutely terrified for what the future brought. In New York there are a lot of secretary schools that can teach you how to be the ideal secretary and help you get a job upon graduation, but I didn’t want that. After high school graduation I applied for a job at the zoo. It wasn’t anything glamorous...I mainly cleaned the cages, but it was fun being in the with the animals. There was the one moment though that really made me want to become a zoo veterinarian. One day a polar bear that some hikers had found in Northern Alaska came to our facility. She was all alone and couldn’t walk on her back paw. Eventually she made it to our zoo and over the course of two years the zoo vet nursed the polar bear back to life. I will never forget the day the polar bear ran again for the first time, but seeing the animal run wasn’t the reason I became a vet. Once the bear ran around a couple of times, he walked over towards our vet and hugged him,” Poppy quickly stopped talking, worried that she was rambling too much.
The pair spent the next hour talking about their travels each of them had done. Granted what they did while in each country was vastly different because Poppy was traveling for research purposes and Izzy was traveling with Guns N’ Roses.
“Do you want to take a shower before you go?” Izzy asked as Poppy collected their plates.
Poppy, completely missing the point on why Izzy wanted to take a shower, simply shook her head no. She didn’t want to be a burden on Izzy.
“Don’t worry about being a burden. If you want you can shower by yourself. Plus afterwards we could take Ridley for a walk. There is a park not too far from here where we can throw the ball even farther for him so he can really get a good run in,” Izzy offered, being careful not to pressure the girl.
“You sure I won’t be a burden?” Poppy asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No, not a burden at all,” Izzy held her hand and gave her a small reassuring squeeze.
“Okay then, I’ll stay,” Poppy smiled, sending a smile onto Izzy’s face as well.
“Would you like to shower first or..” Poppy quickly interrupted Izzy, “actually could we...uhh..shower together?”
Without a word, Izzy guided Poppy towards the bathroom making sure to close the door. As much as he loved Ridley, now wasn’t when he wanted his dog to intervene.
Izzy went to turn on the shower as Poppy undressed in the corner. Panic was going through the girl’s mind as she removed her shirt.
What is she messed up?
What if she misread his intentions?
What if she made a fool of herself?
She froze, as she turned to see Izzy completely naked checking the shower water temperature. He was hot, there was no doubt about it.
Her brain stopped thinking as nerves traveled through her head. Then, like a bomb exploding, every doubt raced through her head.
“You can wait out there if you want, but I plan on using ALL of the hot water. I hope you enjoy cold showers,” Poppy giggled at Izzy’s stupid comment and found the few ounces of courage she had to join him in the shower.
“If you want, my little penguin, I can make the water colder for you,” Izzy said as he wrapped his arms around Poppy pulling her close. Poppy simply shook her head no as she smiled at her new nickname.
#izzy stradlin fanfic#izzy stadlin fanfiction#izzy stradlin imagine#gnr fanfiction#gnr fanfic#gnr imagine#fanfic#fanfiction#imagine#guns n’ roses fanfic#guns n’ roses imagine#guns n’ roses fanfiction#guns n roses imagine#guns n roses fanfic#guns n roses fanfiction#guns and roses imagine#guns and roses fanfic#guns and roses fanfiction
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Books read in September
I had a moment of intense self-centredness and, internally, wailed: Why isn’t the world filled with more books that appeal exactly to me???
I’ve concluded that it’s like I have an inner story-troll sitting inside me shouting: Tell me a story! I try to appease it by presenting it with books, one at a time, and seeing how it reacts.
Favourite cover: Flyaway.
Reread: The Shadowy Horses by Susanna Kearsley. (I also reread From All False Doctrine at least twice.)
Also read: The Disastrous Début of Agatha Tremain by Stephanie Burgis and Snow Day by Andrea K Höst.
Still reading: The Time-Traveling Popcorn Ball by Aster Glenn Gray and The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett,
Next up: I have borrowed The Other Side of the Sky by Amie Kaufman and Meagan Spooner, Taking Down Evelyn Tait by Poppy Nwosu, and Between Silk and Cyanide: A Code Maker’s War, 1941-45 by Leo Marks. And maybe I’ll finally get around to The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams?
*
The City of Brass by S.A. Chakroborty (narrated by Soneela Nankani): I think this Middle East-inspired fantasy was just not the story I was in the headspace for -- it was longer, with more complicated worldbuilding and fewer answers. Possibly I’d have followed the political intrigue of Daevabad better had I read this in one gulp (I got halfway through the 20-hour-long audiobook before it was due back and I read other books before picking up the ebook). I liked the two protagonists, enough that I’m curious about what happens to them next, but the second book is 23 hours long and undoubtedly won’t resolve everything either. Maybe another day.
Tuyo by Rachel Neumeier: Ryo is left as a “tuyo” -- a sacrifice to be killed by an enemy -- as a sign that his tribe will withdraw from the Ugaro’s war with the Lau. But his captor doesn’t want to kill him, he wants Ryo to help him stop the war. Neumeier effectively creates tension between people who are polite, honest and honourable, and shows an intriguing relationship, defined by mutual respect, fealty and something more familial. There’s also some unusual magically-defying-physics-as-we-know-it worldbuilding but apparently I was far more interested in the character dynamics. I enjoyed this. Sequel, please?
From All False Doctrine by Alice Degan: My favourite book this year! Toronto, August 1925. Elsa Nordqvist, who hopes to write her MA thesis on a recently-discovered Greek manuscript, is at the beach with a friend when they meet two foster-brothers. This meeting deftly sets up everything which follows. The cover says “A Love Story” but this is also like a cross between a Golden-Age mystery novel and a fairytale retelling, with bonus academia and Anglicanism. I really like how much these characters value their friendships, their lively, intelligent and often honest conversations, and the way the romance unfolds. It also feels like a story written just for me and a hard one to review because my reaction has been very personal.
The Haunting of Tram Car 015 by P. Djèlí Clark (narrated by Julian Thomas): Set in the same city as A Dead Djinn in Cairo, this novella follows two agents from the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments and Supernatural Entities as they investigate a possessed tram car. The world-building is vivid and cleverly, thoughtfully, imaginative. But, perhaps because of the mood I’m in and because this story isn’t interested in exploring the personal lives of its detectives, I have no feelings about this.
The Angel of Crows by Katherine Addison: Sherlock Holmes wingfic involving Jack the Ripper murders. Not what I’m looking for in a Holmes retelling. But I was sufficiently intrigued by something the author wrote. I really like Crow and Dr Doyle (arguably more than their original counterparts). My interest wavered a bit during the second half. It closely mimics the style and structure of the original mysteries in many ways and that’s not my favourite style. I wanted fewer cases to solve, and more of Crow and Doyle interactions. I liked the ending, enough to be glad that I hadn’t given up halfway through.
Making Friends with Alice Dyson by Poppy Nsowu: Australian YA. Alice plans to spend her final year of high school staying invisible and studying hard, but is thrown into the spotlight after someone posts a video of her dancing with Teddy Taualai. I loved how intensely this captures Alice’s emotions and perspective, and how the story explores that people have different emotions, perspectives and needs. Alice seems to me like someone who might be on the autism spectrum -- and whether or not that’s what the author intended, it’s great to see characters like her represented. I wish it had unpacked her relationship with her parents more, but that didn’t negate how much I enjoyed this.
Always and Forever, Lara Jean by Jenny Han (narrated by Laura Knight Keating): I can’t remember why, after I read To all the boys I’ve loved before and P.S. I still love you in 2017, I decided against reading the third book. It turned out to be my favourite. I loved it! I had a different experience of finishing high school and applying for university, but I find Lara Jean’s perspective intensely relatable: she has strong opinions about aesthetics; she’s nostalgic, introspective, stressed by uncertainty; she enjoys spending time at home with her family. I liked how this book captures her wonder at the intimacy of knowing another person well, and how, although she sometimes worries about their future, she has very few doubts about Peter himself. I haven’t come across very many YA novels in which a teenage girl is so secure being in a relationship.
The Rose Garden by Susanna Kearsley: After her sister dies, Eva stays with family friends in Cornwall, where she and Katrina spent summers years ago. I wasn’t expecting time-travel. I like time-travel stories, and I like how Kearsley handles it here. Eva’s choices make sense, given her situation, and the story emphasises that, even though she cannot control when she travels in time, there are still many choices she can actively make. So Eva becomes fascinated with 1715, because of the people she meets there and the relationships they develop... but I wanted to spend more time in the present-day Trelowarth, with its rose gardens and new tea room.
Flyaway by Kathleen Jennings: After she receives a mysterious note, nineteen year old Bettina flouts her mother’s rules for ladylike behaviour and embarks on a roadtrip with a couple of forgotten friends in search of her brothers, who disappeared three years ago. I loved some of the descriptions, especially seeing a rural Australian setting for this sort of fantasy. Jennings creates a wonderfully eerie atmosphere and the mystery kept me reading. However, the folktale parts of the story are dark, uncomfortably so. Very successfully Gothic, just ultimately not really my brand of Gothic.
The Duke Who Didn’t by Courtney Milan: There’s something so incredibly soft about this romance -- yet at the same time, it’s about two people who work fiercely towards their goals, worry about things, and are acutely aware of the discrimination they and other they love face as Chinese people in late 19th century England. Chloe and Jeremy’s relationship is characterised by banter and gentle teasing that reveals just well they know and accept and care about each other. Moreover, they have friends and relatives -- and a community -- who are supportive. I really enjoyed reading this and appreciated how low-angst it is.
The Threefold Tie by Aster Glenn Gray: Very tender. The characters convinced me that they were capable of communicating honesty with each other and making an unconventional relationship work. I liked the prose, which is no great surprise.
Hamster Princess: Whiskerella by Ursula Vernon (aka T. Kingfisher): This time, adventure finds Harriet at home: her parents are throwing a masked ball so she can “meet some nice young princes without terrifying them”. But the princes are all preoccupied with a beautiful stranger, and Harriet is distracted by the mystery: who is this hamster, how did she get in without an invitation and what sort of magic is behind her glass slippers? I think this is my favourite of Harriet’s adventures (so far). I loved the humour in this one.
Echo North by Joanna Ruth Meyer: When Echo finds her missing father unconscious and half-frozen in the woods, she is given a choice by the white wolf. A retelling of “East of the Sun, West of the Moon” with elements from “Beauty and the Beast” and “Tam Lin” thrown in, this has so many things which appeal to me, including an unexpected and wonderful library. Yet I found it frustrating and slow; the prose and the characters are rather straightforward, and I predicted nearly all the twists (bar the finale). But I believe that this tale could delight a younger, or a less critical reader.
The Disastrous Début of Agatha Tremain by Stephanie Burgis: In the two years since she turned sixteen and dismissed her governess, Agatha has been free to disregard ladylike behaviour, studying the books in her father’s library and teach herself magic. But then her aunt arrives and insists upon Agatha making a social début. This novelette is another story that I suspect I’d like more if it had been longer, if some of its ideas had been expanded upon and some of the relationships been given more space to develop. Agatha’s aunt and her motivations were unexpected, and I wasn’t entirely comfortable or satisfied with how that was resolved.
Snow Day by Andrea K. Höst: This novelette takes place after the Touchstone trilogy, more specifically after In Arcadia. Two outsiders get to see Cass and her family on Snow Day, and reveal a bit about their upbringing on Kolar. This feels very much like fanfiction which just happens to be written by the author. It is fun to see familiar characters through others’ eyes and the expanded worldbuilding is interesting, but as a narrative, it seemed somewhat incomplete. (Maybe she’s planning something more with these characters?)
#Herenya reviews books#Rachel Neumeier#Alice Degan#Katherine Addison#Poppy Nwosu#Susanna Kearsley#Ursula Vernon#Joanna Ruth Meyer#Jenny Han#Katheen Jennings#Courtney Milan#P. Djèlí Clark#Stephanie Burgis#Andrea K Höst#S. A. Chakraborty#Aster Glenn Gray
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Past Times
A period drama featuring an ancestor of Bastien Lykel
The Captain attends a gathering at Elizabeth’s house, and they get to know each other better.
Word Count 3984
A/N Apologies for the delay in posting - you may imagine that there are other things going on that mean I have more pressing things to consider. I hope to get back to writing the next chapter very soon.
No warnings, just slight angst and fluff. Chapter is written from the Captain’s POV
4 Decisions and Directions
The Captain sat with the other guests as Elizabeth began playing at the family piano. It was a fine instrument as far as he could tell, the notes pure and true. The house servants circulated with cups of tea and small cakes, and there was a soft murmur of conversation. This was not like the gathering at the assembly rooms, when all were quiet to hear the famous singer. This was much more to his taste, intimate and informal save for the usual limits that polite society imposed. It came somewhat between the genteel assembly recital and the noise and coarse behaviour of a sea port inn, where inhibitions were altogether discarded by ordinary folk and sailors.
Even more to his liking was the young lady playing the piano. He wondered that she did not sing as others do, but then he remembered her mother’s assertion that her sister’s voice was sweeter. She reminded him a little of his lost wife, and he remembered the day he returned to Lieth docks to be greeted by his father’s manservant. He had given him the devastating news that she had died giving birth to their son, who had lived only hours. She had been dead some weeks, and all there was to do was to visit their grave and go through her few possessions. He still had a handkerchief of hers under his pillow with a very faint trace of her scent on it. The domestic matter that had delayed his arrival had been the loss of that handkerchief, thankfully found in the linens about to be sent to the washerwoman and rescued just in time.
He knew he should let go of that last memento, but it was so hard. Perhaps when he had full permission for Elizabeth to be seen in public with him, he could lay it to rest – put it away in a box with her letters and replace it with another token from his new love.
He had not expected to be courting anyone after his loss, but she had caught his attention in the library that fateful night. It showed some spirit that she would engineer to be alone with her fiancée that was lacking in many young well bred women. The last time he had seen such spirit was in the eyes of his dear Georgiana – or Georgie as she preferred him to call her. He recalled a carefree day beside the sea when she tucked her skirts up and went paddling barefoot in the sea, a look of glee on her face as she challenged him to follow her.
That picture faded as he watched Elizabeth play a soft lilting tune. She was rapt in concentration, her elegant fingers flying over the keys. Her soft chestnut brown hair escaped her swept up style and fell in tendrils around her face. Her eyes were downcast as she played from memory, only watching her fingers as the notes filled the air.
‘Lizzy plays very well, does she not?’ an unfamiliar voice brought him back to his senses and he turned to the young lady who had just taken the seat next to him. She was red haired and blue eyed, fair skinned with freckles.
‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure’ he smiled cautiously
‘I’m so sorry’ she said coolly ‘My name is Rosanna McDougal. Lizzy is a particular friend of mine – we share many confidences.’ He inclined his head
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance’ he replied ‘I know of your father – when I was at sea we sometimes accompanied various trading ships to protect them from privateers. I came across his vessels many times’
‘I am sure he was grateful for it’ she replied, then turned her head toward her friend, who had finished her piece, and her sister joined her, to set a sheet of music before her. He presumed she was about to sing. ‘As I said, Lizzy plays very well. She has a lovely voice, but Amelia sings more sweetly – and she must have some talent to attract the attention of a suitable match.’
‘Indeed’ he said, inwardly feeling angry that young women were treated as property. But they were well protected by their families, if confined and restricted. There were reasons for making sure the property and wealth of their parents was safeguarded as well as their persons. He shuddered to think of the seamier side of life as lived by ordinary folk at the docks of Lieth or in the darker poorer districts of the city. Elizabeth and her friend likely knew nothing of the dangers posed to and by those less fortunate. His companion cleared her throat and spoke again, and he realised he had been silent for longer than might be polite.
‘I have not long returned from London’ she said ‘When I left Edinburgh, Lizzy was engaged to Duncan Foster. Imagine my surprise to find so much had changed while I was away’
‘Yes, I am told young Foster has been confined at home to prevent him from gambling away his father’s money’ he replied. ‘I am sure Sir James would not have wished his daughter betrothed to such a person’
‘I have not had the chance to talk to her for very long’ she replied, then fell silent as the two sisters began to follow the sheet music. The combination of the piano and the robust but sweet tones of the singer filled the air, and all conversation halted for a few moments at the sublime assault on the audience’s senses. The Captain felt a small shiver go down his spine to see his sweetheart so consumed by the music, her face serene. She swayed in harmony with the music, and her eyes shone. Her sister’s cheeks were slightly flushed, and he saw her glance go to the young man who sat with Sir Dougal – his son, presumably, who seemed a similar age to Amelia. She looked back and swiftly turned the page of the sheet music so there was no pause in the sisters’ performance.
How far he was from the noisy taverns of the sea ports he frequented but a few months ago. How blessed was he to have his father’s fortune at his disposal and a young woman willing to be his wife – or so he hoped. Of course that meant that he must be careful with what he had – manage his estate well and keep his mother and his prospective wife in comfort and health. It was so different from his time in the navy, when all he had to do was follow the directions of his Captain and look after the welfare of his crew – and do all in his power to keep them all afloat and alive. That was more immediate, but his life now needed to be planned and regulated. He was not sure if he could rise to the challenge – but he could take advice from those wiser than he and hope that he made the right decisions.
The afternoon progressed and he counted the minutes to when his sweetheart was released from her position at the piano. Rosanna went to take her place, and the two young women shared a quiet word that he couldn’t hear – but they looked his way and she blushed prettily. He rose and approached her as her friend sat and leafed through the sheet music.
‘That was sublime, Miss Elizabeth.’ he told her. ‘I would rather listen to five minutes of your playing than sit an entire evening with Madame Burlét.’ He put his hand to her elbow to lead her to the table, feeling a little shock wave run through her slight frame. ‘Won’t you take some refreshment – you must be fatigued.’ She gave him a smile, her gaze flicking to her mother to make sure she didn’t disapprove of the liberty the Captain took. Thankfully Lady Charlotte seemed to be content with the situation.
‘Thankyou’ she replied ‘It is more tiring than one might expect to sit and play for so long, but I fear Amelia fares less well – as she sings, her throat becomes dry far sooner than my fingers tire’ They walked across to where the cakes and pastries were displayed and he saw her regard them longingly. He took a plate and loaded it up with one of each delicacy, leaning a little closer to her as he did so.
‘I know you must not be seen to eat too much – but if you select something from my plate it may not be easily observed how many you take.’ She laughed, a musical sound that spoke of her free spirit that he longed to release. She took a plate of her own and placed a single small savoury pastry on it. Rosanna launched into a merry tune as they lingered by the food, the music masking their voices so they were not overheard.
‘You are very clever, Captain Lykel’ she observed ‘Only you and my dressmaker will know if I need to have my clothes altered to accommodate my growing waistline’
‘I’m sure you may allow yourself but one more than socially acceptable without damage’ he smiled warmly ‘Perhaps two at a stretch.’
‘One more in the parlour is one less in the kitchen’ she said quietly.
‘You cannot be so mischievous as to take food from under the nose of your cook’ he laughed, but she nodded shamefaced.
‘Only if I am hungry – or if she makes my favourites. I cannot resist her poppy seed cakes.’ Her face dropped for a moment ‘I am fortunate to have enough to eat. There are many in this city who do not have the luxury of afternoon tea or sweet cakes’ He looked at her approvingly. Some of the genteel families of Edinburgh were generous in giving charity to those who still lived in crowded noisy tenements in the old part of town. The wide well designed streets of the new town, away from the Royal Mile and the Castle were pleasant places to live, and only those who had the money lived there.
‘It is well to think of those less fortunate than ourselves’ he said gently ‘But for the grace of God and the efforts of our families and good fortune, we might ourselves be poor’
‘On our estate in the country I used to visit the poorer villagers and farm workers with food and medicines’ she said ‘That has not been the case here – I fear it is dangerous to visit certain places in town’
‘Indeed, there are those who would think naught of taking what is not theirs, not in need but with evil intent’ he replied. He paused, not wanting to take the conversation any further. Instead he bit into a savoury – a delightful combination of light flaky pastry, sausage meat and spiced apple. He rolled his eyes in appreciation.
‘Miss Elizabeth, the life of a bachelor and widower in town is a lonely one, and if I had a cook who provided me with provisions like this I would be a very happy man. You must try it’ he entreated her, extending the tidbit to her and giving her a piercing look. He watched entranced as her lips parted to take a tiny bite of his offering. Pastry flakes lingered as she smiled in delight, and her fingers went to her mouth to check for morsels of the delicate pastry, the tip of her tongue darting out to capture them. She looked down at her dress as she did so.
‘That is one of my favourites’ she declared when she had swallowed her mouthful ‘I hope I have not dropped any crumbs’ Her hand delicately swiped at her clothes at an imagined scrap of food. His gaze was drawn to her cleavage, but with a heroic effort he tore his eyes away before it became unseemly.
‘No, you are quite tidy’ he assured her.
‘You are artful, Sir’ she replied ‘How many bites make a single cake or pastry? If you continue to bid me taste everything on your plate I will soon not fit my gowns.’ It was his turn to blush as the thought of her undressed floated into his fevered imagination. She was either growing bold or was too innocent to realise what effect she was having on him. One look into her clear blue eyes assured him that the latter was true, and she was just a naïve young woman – and he was a cad for thinking she was otherwise.
‘Of course you have the right to refuse’ he said, clearing his throat. In his imagination he heard her reply that she could refuse him nothing - and realised he should stop that vein of thought instantly, so he took his attention to her friend’s piano playing and his surroundings. The room was not set for dancing, as the dining table dominated the centre, but it was usual for young ladies to walk around the perimeter of the room for exercise, either from being confined for propriety’s sake, or if the weather was inclement.
He busied himself with attacking more of the food on his plate, regretting that he had taken quite so much. He was thankful that for now the two of them were alone. The other guests were either listening to her friend play, or having their own conversations. However, Lady Charlotte was in plain view and very obviously watching them. Elizabeth ate her own pastry slowly, then regarded his plate.
‘I fear you may need some help’ she said ‘Or I may show you a place where you might leave your plate unnoticed’ He made a little bow.
‘You may of course select something if you like’ he replied ‘after that I may need to find somewhere discreet for the remainder. These items look small and innocent, but they leave one feeling well satisfied’ He felt himself grow hot under the collar – everything he said seemed to him to have a double meaning.
‘It would not be charitable to leave you to your dilemma’ she said ‘Hand me one of the apricot pastries – the one with the leaf decoration, if you please’ He did so, and she made a little curtsy for show. ‘There, you have offered and it would be rude of me to refuse – and I have my favourite’ she smiled, taking a delicate bite. ‘Here, in turn you must taste it so you may know how delightful it is now I have deprived you of it’ She held it out for him to try, and he wondered how he must look to her, and if her eyes lingered on his lips, wondering…
Again he drew his thoughts to a higher level. He was besotted with the young woman, and ached to be allowed to claim her in public. He resolved to speak with her father – it would be agony waiting for their next meeting otherwise. Food lay heavy on his stomach, and he waited politely for his companion to finish hers.
‘Miss Elizabeth, might you take a turn around the room with me?’ he asked ‘I must let some of this food settle, and short of leaving to walk home, I fear that is the best solution for me’ Thankfully his leg was not bothering him that day, as it was fine and dry outside, and the parlour was warm.
‘It would be my pleasure’ she said, and as she took his arm spoke quietly into his ear, sending a delicious shiver down his spine. ‘When we pass the window seat, hold your plate close to the curtain. Amelia has been giving me pleading looks for some time now and will dispose of your leftovers for you’ He raised his eyebrows
‘That is ingenious, Miss Elizabeth’ he said quietly. As she had predicted, as soon as he passed the window seat, discretely holding his plate close to the curtain, it was snatched away in an instant, and a small cry of victory and thanks came from the recess. He was free to place his hand on Elizabeth’s as she rested it on his forearm. After feeling a small quiver, it felt natural and their gait matched as they slowly traversed the perimeter of the room. They were silent for a while, but it was a comfortable silence and it wasn’t long before they conversed naturally about their fathers’ estates and what it had been like growing up in the countryside.
All too soon, the gathering was drawing to a close and the guests started to depart. He lingered for a while and was rewarded by being beckoned into the library by Sir James while Elizabeth bade goodbye to the guests.
‘Good evening Sir’ he bowed ‘Thank you for allowing me to visit you this afternoon.’
‘You are most welcome, Captain. Let me get straight to the point.’ he cleared his throat ‘It appears my daughter is much taken with you. Do you still wish to court her? If not, I fear she may be sorely disappointed.’
‘I do not wish to disappoint Miss Elizabeth, Sir James.’ He said, trying not to sound hasty. ‘I can find no flaw in her, and I would be honoured if you were to allow me to take her out in public, to show my intention’
‘I am pleased to hear of your satisfaction’ he replied ‘If you are serious there are certain things we must settle in due time – you already know that I shall leave a generous annual allowance to my dear girl, and property to boot. We may negotiate which that might be, so that I can determine what to leave for her sister when she finds a match’
‘That is most generous of you, Sir James, and I will visit you in good time with a trusted advisor to work out such matters.’ the Captain said levelly. The older man smiled.
‘Be that as it may, I believe the most pressing matter is that Lizzy should know. You may have ten minutes alone with her’ He opened the door to the parlour. ‘Lizzy, a moment of your time’ he called. The Captain watched as she came, pale faced and hopeful, to the door. He couldn’t help but smile, and saw her expression lighten as she approached. ‘Now Lizzy, you may be alone with Captain Lykel’ her father said ‘I will send Walker in with his coat in ten minutes.’ Pure joy transformed her face as she stepped in to the room, and her father turned to regard him gravely before closing the door on the two young people.
‘Does father agree to our seeing each other in public?’ she asked breathlessly, then dropped her head at the boldness of her question. He took her hand and drew it to his chest. His heart was beating fast and strong as he answered her, his voice hoarse.
‘He does, my dear Miss Elizabeth’ She gave a little cry of joy and stepped close to him so he could put his arms around her soft body, feeling her yield into him. He wondered if she had done so with her former fiancée, then dismissed the thought as unworthy. Here and now it was just the two of them and he had to make the most of their few minutes. He inhaled, and the fresh scent of lily of the valley rose up to him. He knew they still had to work out details of their betrothal, but he would not mention that now. After a while he let her go and drew back. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with happiness. She interlaced her fingers with his and he drew her hand close for a gentle kiss. She shuddered slightly before speaking softly.
‘You may call me Lizzy’ she said
‘My friends call me Johnny’ he replied ‘I will accept any variation on John you desire’
‘Johnny’ she said, looking thoughtful ‘or John – my John’ she smiled happily.
‘I hope I shall be able to visit more often’ he said softly ‘If I am permitted, I shall take you out to walk the next time I come. Others may see us together and know of our betrothal’
‘I will be so happy to be seen with you’ she sighed. When I was engaged before, my fiancé was allowed to visit daily. I hope you will be permitted the same freedom, for I confess it has been hard waiting to see you again’
‘Lizzy’ he said quietly ‘We may not be entirely alone again for some time. Your father is sure to insist on a chaperone’ he drew a deep breath ‘Would you allow me to kiss you?’ She drew a shuddering breath and her eyes darkened.
‘Yes John, I would like that very much’ she breathed, and he smiled as he drew closer. She closed her eyes in bliss before his lips softly touched hers, warm and soft. He caressed her cheek and she placed her palm on his chest to steady herself. She opened her lips a little, and he traced them tentatively with his tongue, then gently sucked at her lower lip. He stopped and drew back, and her eyes flew open. He hoped he had not overstepped, but it was she who was uncertain.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asked ‘was that – was it not right?’
‘Lizzy, it was perfect’ he said gently ‘Remember, I have been married before and I do not want to lead you too far astray. What matters is that you enjoyed it – did you?’
‘Very much’ she said ‘I – I have never been kissed before and – I am just unsure as to what is proper’ He smiled and held her hand to his lips, wondering how Duncan had not engineered to kiss her during their engagement.
‘You must do as you will, and I will guide you’ he replied. ‘You must let me know if you dislike it, and I will stop instantly. I will not take anything you do not offer willingly. Just push me away if I do wrong’ She nodded and smiled dreamily
‘Do we have time to do it again?’ she asked.
‘Just once more’ he said ‘Walker will not enter unannounced – he will knock’ He bent to her again, and their lips met once more. He felt her cling to him, and in turn he fought against the hardening in his britches, bringing the kiss to a close before it became troublesome.
‘My sweet Lizzy’ he said ‘We must part soon’ He rummaged in his waistcoat pocket and produced a small box ‘I brought this in anticipation of our arrangement being made public’ She opened it, and gasped to see a perfect miniature portrait of him set into a silver pendant.
‘Oh John, now I can remember you when we are apart’ she said in delight. He laughed softly
‘Hopefully it will only be a matter of hours. I will send the artist around to paint one of you, unless you have one to spare’
‘That would be delightful’ she said ‘I paint, but not well, and I find faces very difficult.’ She frowned slightly. ‘But I have no token to give you’ she said sadly. He shook his head.
‘There will be an opportunity for you to find something apt in time, I am sure’ he said reassuringly. He heard Walker clear his throat outside the door before he knocked firmly.
‘Come in’ she called, and he entered with the Captain’s hat and coat. John took her hand and kissed it.
‘I hope to be allowed to visit tomorrow’
‘I have a dancing lesson in the morning’ she said ‘I will send word of when you may come’ Walker helped him on with his coat, and he made a bow before putting on his hat.
‘Until next time, my dear Lizzy’ he murmured, and left.
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tagged by the lovely @kiarasflowr thank you so much lili
what’s your favorite kind of weather? what do you like to do during that weather?
rainy summer days. the ones where the clouds are dark and the rain is heavy, but it’s still quite warm and the air smells like wet asphalt. there’s something exceptionally calming about it.
i love this kind of weather at home, because it’s hot enough for me to be able to have an open window and hear the rain and feel the smell from the comfort on my room. there’s a vanilla-scented candle on my desk in my room and there’s fairy lights my dad put into a frame of a big picture of the brooklyn bridge. it’s the perfect writing conditions, especially when i get myself into a cozy blanket, and it’s the only time when i’d write without music, because the rain is enough.
what’s your favorite scent of candle? perfume?
gingerbread and vanilla for the candles. gingerbread reminds me of christmas, of happiness (christmas is the only time i’m home for a big family celebration, and my entire massive family dines together). vanilla is super soft and i’ve been associating it with writing and productivity for years now.
my favourite perfume is the only one i have (i’m extremely picky about perfumes) and it’s from a knockoff victoria’s secret store. it’s very sweet and girly, and i mostly wear it because i don’t feel very girly most of the time.
do you have a favorite flower? what is it? do you know the meaning and it is important to you?
poppy. i have this really vague memory of when i was a kid and we’d play with poppy seeds, wear the flowers in our hair and pretend we’re witches. there was also a time when i had just received bad news and was cycling home from school through a field, and there was a bunch of poppies right where i stopped, and it made me feel like it’s not the end.
if you could get any tattoo you wanted what would it be? why? where would you get it?
“excelsior” on my left wrist, or across my forearm. it’s from the raven cycle, my absolute favourite book series, and the reason why i’m studying creative writing in the first place. reading this book made me fall in love with writing as a craft, with exploring worlds in a really unique way, and writing things that feel like magic. without it, i would’ve been somewhere entirely else.
also, it’s one of the main characters’ catchphrase and means “onwards/upwards”, so it also serves as a motivation for myself to keep pushing even when it gets hard. but also, the character who said it is very much like the person i aspire to be in life.
(the only way i’d get a tattoo is if i can attach 548992 meanings to it lol)
do you have a favorite poem? why is it your favorite?
this is kind of up my own ass, but it’s a poem i wrote during summer. i wrote it when i realised that loving too hard made me lose the person who meant the world to me, and i wrote it as a reminder for myself to be mindful of how much love i give to someone, and not let myself give it all away without getting any in return.
you can read the full thing here, but this is a short version of it (different poem, same meaning)
give your love to someone who deserves it.
make it a bouquet of the prettiest flowers for the right person.
do not pluck the most dashing rose for someone who only gives you the thorns.
what’s your favorite color and what things or feelings does it remind you of or make you feel?
it’s blue. i don’t know why. it just feels right, you know?
what vibes do you get from me? what song or color do i remind you of?
dude, lili, my darling, you’re like every harry styles song in existence. you are absolutely one of the sweetest, kindest, most caring people i’ve ever had the chance to meet. you have this almost ethereal vibe, just pure goodness, and it’s something that the world needs right now so desperately.
i don’t have a colour for you, but you make me feel like sitting in a field of flowers on a warm sunny day, at the end of spring, when all the flowers are in full bloom and my friends and i are just messing about.
what’s on your bucket list? if you could only choose one thing to do before you die what would it be?
this one’s weird, but to go middle of nowhere in virginia, us. i don’t know why but i’ve always felt this really odd need to go there, as if i’ll get there and suddenly my life will make sense.
if you could have only one wish what would it be?
for the world to be a little kinder place. i know it’s a cliche, but it’s true.
do you believe in the paranormal? ever had an experience?
i don’t believe but i’ve had experiences (lol)
there was a time when a gypsy woman “lifted” a curse off my little sister. my sister was six months old and wouldn’t stop crying, but after that moment, she never cried half as much ever again.
when i was younger, i’d hear voices calling my name and footsteps when everyone was asleep, and i was the only one hearing any of that. i had a doll that would randomly talk (it was battery-powered). the extractor fan in my kitchen turned on to power 3 in the middle of the night (it’s old and you really have to push to even get it to 1).
i’ve also been oddly good at knowing what people would say/do before they did. like deja vu, except before it happens. also with predictions - usually things happen in my dreams and then happen in real life. (best example - i dreamt i was on a night out with the girls from my volleyball club and ended up talking and spending the night with a hot guy from the gym whom i’ve never spoken to. that was tuesday night. flash forward to thursday, the exact thing happened - we made out in a club. i’ve never seen him outside the gym before.)
do you or have you ever gotten high? what was it like for you?
oh dude!! one time. it was some weird shit and i had too much and i just ended up throwing up without feeling the high. haven’t been able to stand the smell of weed since lol
tagging @kiarasflowr (i want to see your answers, too!!) and i thought i’d tag some more people i’d like to get to know: @heywards @spilledtee @drewstarkey @outerbxrafe @snkkat @softstarkey @popesscholarship & anyone else! there’s definitely people i’m forgetting but i cannot remember your urls for the life of me.
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Akatsuki Fanfic: Campfires
FF Ao3 Tumblr
1. Dawn
2. Cannibals
3. The Lineage of Izanami
4. Slaughter’s Court
Chapter four is done just a week after three! Woo, let me know your thoughts.
Chapter 4: Slaughter’s Court, see 1. Dawn
-Uchiha Itachi-
Ironic, that he had been interested by an actress. It was an art he sympathized with; his whole life was an act. As he lay in her bed that morning, his fingers in her black hair, a peculiar thought struck him.
What if he just stayed.
Hato was exciting and kind, the sex was good, and maybe someday he would love her, or someone like her. He wasn't undeserving of love. He killed his clan, at least sixty individuals himself, but not because he wanted to. Itachi thought he deserved love.
Kisame would understand if he at one point explained wanting to stay. He would keep quiet in front of Pain and Madara. Or not, and Itachi could fake his death. Or not, and he could kill Kisame.
He dispelled the fantasy. He couldn't actually flee the Akatsuki. Madara would kill him, and if Itachi died prematurely, Sasuke could not redeem the clan's sins and abolish the cycle of hatred. It was Itachi's duty to be raise himself like a sow for slaughter, and he had accepted his fate the moment he raised a sword to his family.
Hato slept on and he did not wish to disturb her. Itachi rose, quietly put on his pants, and stole through the living room and into their courtyard. He didn't want to run into any family members while looking for a bathroom, he didn't think they even had bathrooms here, so once outside, he watchfully pissed on a tree. He remembered passing a water pump the night before which had showed signs of regular use. Finding it, he pumped the handle to coax a silvery vein of chilled water, which pooled between his spaded fingers, and trickled cold as a winter stone down his throat. With his wet hands he rinsed his sweat-salted face and hair, and the water on his lips tasted like birch smoke, horse grease, and Hato.
When he stepped to open the sliding door, he sensed another human presence had moved inside. He supposed he had been lucky to not confront a family member for this long. But Itachi feared no strict parents, and decided to go in anyway. A man painted a landscape with a slender brush at the table. Fair chance he was her father.
The older man lifted his eyes from the paper in a motion intended to induce intimidation. "Did you have fun with Hato last night?"
Itachi said nothing. The man's tone, well rehearsed, changed then.
"I know you," he said.
Yes, Itachi thought. I know you too.
"Uchiha Itachi."
"Taika Hiroki."
"I spent six years dismantling the trade of poppy milk in this village. I suppose you're here to kill me."
"Yes."
"Well," the old man smiled and rose from the chair. "I guess we better get started."
He pulled a ceremonial katana from the wall and in a fluid motion swung it to cleave between Itachi's neck and shoulder. His wise eyes stared only at the Uchiha's feet.
Itachi was half dressed, wore no shoes, carried no gear or weapons. He would not beat this man to death with his bare hands while half naked in his own home. Sliding on the wood, he came back in the bedroom and saw Hato had dressed and was tying her hair. She smiled when she saw him.
Itachi seized his belongings and slung on his clouded robe without a word. A katana in the doorframe announced the elder Taika's arrival.
Hato stood. "Papa, stop!"
"He's Rika's assassin, Hato!"
Itachi did not want to watch her face. He ran back into the house, out into the courtyard, where Taika followed him. The patriarch slashed his blade, Itachi blocked it with a kunai, and a clear sparking ching! awoke the household.
Itachi threw a kunai behind him, and for an instinctive second Taika reacted to this strangeness by looking at Itachi's eyes. The fight ended then. His genjutsu could drop an untrained civilian unconscious with eye-contact. It was as simple as altering the chakra flow to the hypothalamus. As the father's knees buckled, Itachi caught a thought directed at him.
Put the wounds in the front, may She not think, I died running.
Taika Hiroki slumped to the grass of their garden. Itachi had struck him unconscious with a gaze, but the rest would have to be done physically. He picked up the old man and drew a fatal slash through his jugular.
He heard a creak. He swung his head towards the noise, and Hato flinched. She stared with wide eyes from a doorway, and she gingerly held the discarded kunai. He wished that she would just run away.
He stood over the corpse. "My name is Uchiha Itachi, Scourge of the Leaf, and I was contracted to kill your father."
"Did you plan to use me the whole time?"
"No. You were the kindest anyone has been to me in years, Hato."
Her gaze was not sorrowful. It was not hate. It was an ice-cold shocked fear of the betrayed that knew it stared a devil in the face, and that no measure of piety could save it.
Itachi knew he was beyond forgiveness, apology, and redemption. But he faced Hato, looked her in the eyes, and for three vulnerable seconds, he bowed low.
When she stabbed the kunai towards his head, he flickered away to the roof that ringed the courtyard. From the vantage he observed the priestess drop the clattering knife in the blood, fall to her knees, and weep at her father's corpse.
He heard the ceramic roof tiles clatter next to him. The four fire-breathing chunin from the play had arrived. Standing in a square around him, they parsed clumsy signs and raised trembling fingers to their lips. Itachi clutched his kunai. In that moment, the entire military might of Honomura was extinguished. From the corner of his eye, in the viscous creek of red which tumbled down the curved tiles, the final synapses of a dying white hand twitched their last.
From his position on the house's eaves, Itachi felt eyes on him from the street, and he knew who it was. Itachi alighted beside his partner, who grinned his monstrous teeth at a job completed. They turned their backs, their red clouded robes rippled, and they left the village quicker than most people could see. The wind snapped cold on Itachi's arms: they were cloaked to the elbow in blood.
He contemplated his actions as he plunged through the trees. Not once had Itachi questioned the order once the attack began. He had decided it necessary and functioned on the assumption that Taika must be killed. A holdover from his Anbu days, he thought.
He followed orders in the Anbu to serve his village. He killed the Uchiha to save the world. But this, why did he kill this man? Why kill his harmless guards? Itachi thought his grasp on the concept of morality was cracking, and soon enough, he would kill anyone with ease. He realized he was underway to becoming like the true killers of the Akatsuki. Not zealous and purposed like Hidan, but something worse: cold, bored, and unflinching, like Kakuzu, Sasori, and Kisame.
Itachi had slept with this girl, and not ten hours later he had unflinchingly destroyed her life. The Scourge of the Leaf was no longer convinced of the pure selflessness of his martyrdom.
He considered the mathematics. Employed like this, over five years he may kill two hundred innocents so he could stay alive long enough for Sasuke to kill him. But the Uchiha's honor was a poisonous, racial, militant, radicalism which he hated. His family's hubris was the only worthwhile thing about them he had killed. The world was not better off if Sasuke rekindled the cursed Uchiha honor. And if that rekindling was not necessary, Itachi did not need to raise himself as a black sow for Sasuke to slaughter. He, Kisame, the Akatsuki, would make the world worse, and perhaps the noblest course of action was to remove these evils from the equation directly.
He thought about Shisui. He would be approaching his late friend's age soon. Shisui had failed to think of a way outside the ethical predicament of his being alive, and solved it in the most desperate way he knew.
The wind shrieked cold on his bloody arms. The dead Taika smiled from his memory. 'Well, let's get started then.'
- Hoshigaki Kisame-
They had lit no fire. Itachi said it was not safe. It was notable to Kisame, that the only ninja in the Akatsuki who could drop an enemy by looking at them, was insistent about remaining unseen.
Kisame had stolen supplies from the festival on their flight from the village. Some food and drink, but most importantly cloth and paper, which were highly life-improving materials for camping. Deep in the mountain crests some twenty kilometers from the village, Itachi had professed he must wash himself, and had stopped the pair for the night at a creek.
They settled down to rest around their nonexistent fire and organized their new and old belongings. Kisame cut the stolen white cloth into a long strip for Samehada, and with the scraps Itachi made bandage sized strips. The young man looked deep in melancholy thought as he worked, and at a particular moment, sighed frustrated.
"Aw," Kisame teased. "Itachi is having girl problems."
"Kisame, I ruined her life."
"Sorry," Kisame retracted. "Do you want more food, sake, or what?"
"None of these things would make me feel better."
Kisame poured a small serving of sake into the abstemious Itachi's bamboo. "Then let's talk."
"Do you ever contemplate the point of people like us existing, if we only make the world worse?"
Kisame knew many killers. He knew enthusiastic killers, indifferent killers, and regretful killers. Itachi may have had the highest body count of any man his age. But Kisame was sure of this: one did not kill as prolifically as Itachi and have the regretful personality. When killing became his profession, a man calloused his heart, or cracked like an egg.
"You killed your mom, your dad, your brothers, and this assassination mission bothers you?"
A sudden determination seized Itachi. "I didn't kill my brother. No, I killed everyone but him."
Itachi had a living brother? Interest caught his tone. "Why did you spare him?"
"Why raise a sow." Venom dripped the parricide's voice.
Kisame hesitated. He thought about when Deidara named them all cannibals the other night, and what those ancient clans did with eyeballs. Would he harvest the eyes from the child he let live? Kisame received convoluted signals from Itachi. Uchiha Itachi was either the most evil man he'd ever met, or he had no place in the Akatsuki at all.
Kisame's instincts were fine, and he trusted his suspicion. "What if I told you, I don't believe you killed your clan."
"You'd be wrong. I killed eighty people that night."
"I'm not sure you're evil," Kisame ventured, calm but solid. "I'm not sure you're one of us."
Their eyes met and Itachi sighed like a teacher.
Kisame heard a rustling then, of someone running exhausted and clumsily through the leaves, and he rose to fight. Itachi's worthy paranoia had not concealed them. A slender blue hand braced itself against a tree, and the arrived woman clutched at a bundle at her breast. Her familiar black eyes flashed to meet Kisame from the shadows, and her panting lips smiled weakly.
"Kisame… I hoped to the gods it was you."
He looked to Itachi, to make sure what he saw was real. The fire ninja stood tense and confused, ready to reach for a knife or a bandage, but he waited for Kisame to show him which. Akaei was always a fine sensor, she could sense chakra in the air as good sharks blood in the water, and she had tracked him to these borderlands.
He strode to embrace his exhausted niece, to hug her, gods, she had gotten so tall, she was taller than Itachi. Akaei was warm in his arms; she escaped whatever of Mei's prison camps they had her in, and found one of the only surviving members of their family. She looked up at him urgently, someone else's blood had dried on her lilac cheeks. Then she looked down, and like a tender secret, bared to him the bundle she shielded at her breast.
"Kisa, they're after me. I… he's..."
He looked down. He did not know how she had come by the baby, but Akaei chose to protect it, and that was all the license he needed. It had its mother's cheek markings, Hoshigaki markings, and pride for his withered clan bloomed in his chest. Akaei found the right uncle: he'd kill her pursuers. He'd shred them to greasy ribbons and if there was anything left he would toss the bleeding fatty hunks to his sharks. Finally someone he could relish killing. He swung Samehada off his back and stared daggers into the dark.
Tsseer!
Akaei yelped then, and staggered forward, blood spraying from her lips. A windmill shuriken quivered between her shoulder blades as she landed on the ground with splayed limbs. The baby screamed as it fell from her arms. Kisame looked at Itachi.
And Kisame realized that Akaei had never existed in this forest at all. Akaei had worms in her eyes and roaches in her heart, with bloodmist for a funeral shroud. His niece had been dead ten years. And he wondered how Itachi could know what she looked like.
"Not so evil, am I?"
Kisame's mind reeled. He wasn't sure what he felt; if a killer like him deserved to feel betrayed.
Itachi smiled like a knife. His teeth shone sharp and white like a small predator, a weasel, who killed hares three times his weight. His incarnadine eyes glowed bright as blood. He must be drunk, or drugged, or crazed from the stress.
A trickle of something rare and unwelcome entered Kisame's heart. His hand grazed Samehada's hilt in warning. "Watch yourself."
Itachi laughed. "Bring out Samehada! We'll make the world a better place and kill each other!"
"Itachi."
Two kunai pierced the nearest tree trunk at the level of Kisame's thyroid. He must have remained disoriented from the genjutsu, because the noise cleared his head like a bell. Itachi's voice was cold enough to crack stone:
"Fight. Or I'll kill you with a thought."
Kisame swung Samehada to smash it across Itachi's midsection, and the blue scales shredded lichen from the tree, and bark and fungus flew off in a cloud of spores. Itachi had dodged the showful strike lithely, easily, but it wasn't enough. Just being in the air near Samehada had the desired effect. And if Kisame would not swallow Itachi whole, he would carve him slice by slice. He did not know what Itachi wanted, but Kisame was determined not to fall prey to it.
Approaching glints. Kisame retracted his blade mid strike to block Itachi's steel. It was necessity: Itachi did not miss with a knife unless he wanted to, and he no longer knew what Itachi wanted.
Kisame struck at him, and Itachi dodged each swipe, but never by far enough. He would notice the chakra drain soon. The younger ninja would try to jump in with a kunai, but his reach with a knife was one tenth of Samehada's, and Itachi's strikes tested he was unable to draw a hit and escape the broadsword unscathed. His knives streaked by, but Kisame knew he only carried about twelve. Itachi could only get close enough to strike Kisame from one predictable angle.
Kisame felt Itachi phase behind him, and he jabbed the sword under his arm to land a strike on something solid but yielding. He spun to look at what he hit. Itachi clutched at his stomach— the scales had shredded his shirt and bled his skin underneath. His other hand grasped for support at the tree like Akaei's had, and his sharp shadow-hooded eyes evoked a bloodthirsty hawk. Then he fell to his knees.
Masterful though he used it, Itachi's small body held an unimpressive amount of chakra. His already low stamina was expended and eaten. Kisame stood above Itachi like an executioner with Samehada raised. The fire ninja braced himself on hands and knees, looking a lot like the coughing boy on the sand. But his hawk eyes threatened murder.
"Do it," Itachi said.
"No."
"Can't kill a partner?" Itachi dared.
"I can. I have."
"Plunge it!" Itachi demanded.
Fine, boy. Kisame stamped down his spine with the full weight of the erect sword's tip. The Fire ninja's limbs buckled, his chest plunged on to the earth, the breath crushed from his body, and his legs shook against the ground on impact.
"And this time, I won't kill my partner." Kisame finished his previous sentence. He lifted the sword from Itachi's back.
Itachi turned himself over and coughed blood. His black eyes looked wrathfully at Kisame. And Kisame thought, even now, Itachi could maim him with those eyes. But easy as it would have been, Kisame noticed the whole fight, the most effective weapon in his arsenal went unused.
"Why not," Itachi demanded.
"Because, you might be the only friend I've ever had."
Itachi's arms splayed out to his side in defeat. "Damn me."
Itachi lay wounded. But he made no motion to move or bandage himself. Kisame did not intend to help him unless he asked. He waited for Itachi to explain, to apologize. Not for fighting him. But for genjutsuing him and stabbing his long-dead niece through the heart. For using him like a tool. For trying to commit suicide. But half an hour passed in silence, Itachi stared and bled, and nothing was said.
"I'll get you into the tree."
"I don't want to sleep in the tree."
"Too bad."
Kisame leant Itachi against a sturdy fork some seven meters up. He slumped. He would fall when his eyes closed, if not before. Taking the cloth intended for Samehada, he tied a white belt around Itachi's waist and the tree limb. He stared down at the fire ninja.
Itachi's silence continued and he did not meet Kisame's eyes. Be it defiant, depressed, or ashamed, Kisame considered it incredibly rude. The silence awarded Kisame the last word like he was beneath arguing with or explaining to. And right now, if not an explanation, Kisame required acknowledgement. He leaned in close enough for his huge serrated teeth to flash inches from Itachi's soft face. Even Itachi was not unaffected, and at last his black eyes lifted to meet his.
"You've got problems, Itachi. With the world, with yourself. But killing yourself, killing me, isn't gonna fix them."
Author's Note,
Again, this is a pretty M story in terms of violence and themes, and the strongest of it is yet to come.
Wooo thanks for reading. This story will be ambitious in length and we're still only in the exhibition. Let me know your thoughts.
Kelto
#campfires#chapter 4#kisaita#itachi#kisame#fanfiction#celticfeather#keltodier#thanks for reading!!!#akatsuki#akatsuki fic
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20 for 2020
Thanks to @notasapleasure for tagging me. :D
Tagging anyone who feels like it.
1. Do you make your bed? Most of the time, yes, except when I’m running late or there’s a cat in the middle of it.
2. What’s your favorite number? 7.
3. What’s your job? Oh, this is a bit complicated. Job #1 is reading academic articles about the Middle Ages, writing synopses of them and cataloguing them in a database that allows researchers, students etc to find articles relevant to their interests. Unfortunately, they don’t have enough money to employ me full-time, so I also have job #2: working for the civil service administering payments to farmers and landholders for doing environmentally useful stuff. Most of the money comes from the EU, so who knows what will happen after Brexit?
4. If you could, would you go back to school? Oh yes, especially with the same caveats @notasapleasure gave (full time, for the pleasure of learning, no financial worries). Think of all the dead languages out there! But, to be honest, I’m reaching the point where I’d even be glad to do a professional qualification because I need to learn something new.
5. Can you parallel park? Nope.
6. A job you had which would surprise people? McDonald’s? it was my first job and I smelt of burgers continually for an entire summer. It’s not really that surprising, though. The next summer, I worked a bunch of temp jobs including packing medical supplies, which was actually really fun.
7. Do you think aliens are real? Yes, in the sense that I think it’s highly likely that there’s other life (intelligent or otherwise) out there in the universe. I don’t, however, think that they’re wandering round cornfields in the middle of the night with a lawnmower making crop circles or interfering in the government. Humans are quite strange enough all by themselves.
8. Can you drive a manual car? No. I can’t drive any kind of car. I really need to learn, but other things keep getting in the way.
9. What’s your guilty pleasure? I’m trying to feel less guilty about stuff and I’m not going to apologise for reading romance novels or singing along to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack or any of my somewhat cheesy tastes in entertainment. I guess if I had to choose something... so-bad-it’s-good takeaway pizza. I like the fancy, authentically Italian kind with sophisticated toppings where you can taste the freshness of the tomatoes and the charring on the crust, but honestly on a Friday night, often what I most want is cheesy takeaway pizza with toppings that would send an Italian into a screaming rage (not pineapple though because that’s terrible).
10. Tattoos? 12, I think. On my legs, a jar of pansies, a mouse with some oak leaves and acorns, some fox-and-cubs (Pilosella aurantiaca) flowers and a sparrowhawk with lily of the valley (which is a symbol of hope renewed but also very poisonous, a combination that I find very satisfying, symbolically speaking). On my left arm, a star of David (something of a personal fuck-you to the far right after the Charlottesville shit storm), a strawberry and leaves, wildflowers (blackberries, foxgloves, poppies) and forget-me-nots. On my right arm, a traditional swallow, a bee, a wild strawberry plant and a bigger overgrown-garden-themed piece with a weasel, dog roses, hawthorn and a great tit. Basically, I’m turning myself into a wildwood, but I really want my next tattoo to be Lymond-themed.
11. Favorite color? Purple. I also really like colours like burgundy and dark petrol blue. I’m surprised to find that I like the ochre yellow that’s everywhere at the moment a lot because I usually hate yellow.
12. Things people do that drive you crazy? Listen to music out loud on public transport. It’s so rude and it makes me feel like someone’s peeled my head and is just poking my brain incessantly. Also, and I know this is weird and specific, people who feel the need to tell you continuously how much they hate cats when they know you’re a cat person. There was one woman in work who literally told me that she’d rather have a taxidermied cat than a living one. Great? Thanks? Because I don’t live in dread of coming home to find that one of my cats is ill or dead or anything. Thanks.
13. Any Phobias? Spiders. Why do they need so many legs and eyes? Why? I hate absolutely everything about them. Possibly a fear of heights, but that may just be vertigo and really poor sense of balance. I also have a phobia about death that has literally left me sitting up in bed screaming in terror in the middle of the night - and, because I tend to overthink things anyway, this extends not just to a fear of my own death and the death of my family/friends but literally to utter despair at the thought of the end of the universe in however many billion or trillion years. I read an article that said that most people have a sort of filter in their mind that stops them associating images of death with themselves and I guess my brain just doesn’t have that filter. So that’s always fun. On a lighter note, as a small kid I was terrified of chimneys.
14. Favorite childhood sport? Does swimming count? Because I loved swimming and still do, even though I don’t get the chance to go very often. If you mean team sports, I guess hockey. I have very poor spatial awareness (premature baby with a slightly miswired brain) and I’m not a natural team player, so most sports at school were an utter nightmare.
15. Do you talk to yourself? Pretty much continually, unless I’m talking to the cats.
16. What movie do you adore? The Lord of the Rings trilogy, obviously. Death of Stalin, although it’s much, much darker than my usual tastes. Pride (2014).
17. Do you like doing puzzles? I mainly like doing map puzzles, so I guess I just like fiddling round with maps. Otherwise, I’d rather sit in the same room as people doing the puzzle and read a book and occasionally move a piece around.
18. Favorite kind of music? All sorts, really (folk, classical, metal, cheesy pop especially). I’m enjoying @notasapleasure’s folk recs, particularly Offa Rex.
19. Tea or coffee? Mainly tea (English breakfast with milk) but I usually have a latte in the morning when I’m at work.
20. The first thing you remember you wanted to be when you grew up? An astronaut, I think.
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Bed of Roses (Last Chapter - 21)
Roger Taylor x Reader
BoRhap!Roger Taylor x Reader
Fic Summary: It's 1971. You just moved to London to study, and you find a band on a local pub after a bad date. The encounter doesn’t go the way you expect it, and neither does what follows this evening as you try to deal with loving Roger Taylor.
Fic Note: So I’ve had this story in my head for the last three weeks and finally decided to write it down. It’s completely planned. It will have 21 chapters and it’s divided in three acts: Dusk, Night and Dawn. It’s will be a bit angsty in the future, and it will most likely have some smut as well. I hope you guys enjoy it! Tell me what you think about it in the asks/comments/messages. If this is your first time stumbling upon Bed of Roses, thank you for stopping by! The rest of the story is in my masterlist, the link is in my bio - can't put the link here or else the post will disappear from the tags.
Chapter's notes: THE LAST CHAPTER. I CANT FUCKING BELIEVE. i feel like before i start my thank yous i could give you some weird trivia on the story. i wrote the entire outline for the fic at a weekend shift at work, where i always have free time. i had some smaller ideas - them meeting at a bar and not seeing again, the whole kensingon-taxi-class thing from the beginning - but there was a sudden burst of inspiration and in like twenty minutes the outline was done, and very little has changed, i mostly just added some more details. also, i imagine the reader as alicia silverstone in the 90s?? idk. i just do. also, the reader thing with new york comes from the fact that i lived there for a while and i miss it so much, so thats why theres so much detail about places and stuff - its my form of revisiting my favourite spots there. also, will (REMEMBER WHEN) was written with sebastian stan in mind, and liv tyler (in her lord of the rings days) was poppy. i did too much research for this fic on queen history, and everytime i had to change something (especially in the first act) so the dates made more sense, it KILLED ME.
anyway, now the thank yous: SHIT THIS FIC IS SUCH AN IMPORTANT CHAPTER ON MY LIFE. its my first time writing such a long story without abandoning it, and my first time writing fiction in english, so i learned so much!! i was doing some research the other day, and the great gatsby is like 47k words long, and the first harry potter is around 70k words long - bed of roses is around 60k words long. this is crazy.
it's also my first story to get this many readers interacting with me, and i'm so grateful for you all!! i thought about thanking you all by name, but i dont want anyone to feel left out so i just want every and each one of you reading these words to know: if you read my story, thank you. thank you for giving me your time of the day, thank you for connecting with what i wrote, thank you for telling me in any way possible that you've enjoyed it. thank you. a writer must write, but theres not a lot of joy in talking to an empty room. you filled my small room with warmth and love and there's not enough words to express my gratitude for you all. thank you.
about my writing: i plan on FINALLY DOING THE MANY REQUESTS I HAVE IGNORED OVER THIS FINAL ACT OF BED OF ROSES - requests are still open, too! i'm also outlining a smaller roger x reader fic where she's one of the videographers on the news of the world documentary, so keep an eye out for that! i'm gonna open a permanent taglist for the requests (and eventual new fic), so if you want to be added, hit me up in the ask box/comments/inbox!
anyway i'll finally wrap up this chapter's note cause you have the final chapter to read. enjoy my loves
Words: nearly 4k
Warnings: none??? part of their dialogue is inspired by some of my favourite movies and books like her and the wife and almost famous and before sunrise and the fault in our stars and eternal sunshine of the spotless mind and maybe more I DONT KNOW ITS BEEN AN EMOTIONAL RIDE OK I CANT EVEN REMEMBER WHERE DID I PULL THIS FROM EXACTLY. some errors too cause i didnt revise it completely my bad im crying ok
ACT 3 - DAWN
"It's the moment night time seems weaker and everything seems easier to figure out"
Chapter 21
Roger lit a cigarette in the train cabin, and tried to open the top window, the one you can usually pull open.
"Rog, it's not gonna open, you know", you told him as you watched him fiddling with the glass.
"I guess you're right. Hope you won't be bothered by the smoke", he said, taking a puff.
"I won't if you share it with me", you answered, and with a half smile on his lips, Roger lifted the cigarette to your lips, and you breathed in the smoke while looking at him through your lashes.
"Don't look at me like that. Especially if the cigarette smoke is going to leave the cabin sultry and hot", he told you, and you laughed.
"Yeah, and we won't do anything about it", you said, trying to make yourself more comfortable in your seat.
"And why is that?", he asked, batting his lashes innocently at you, you you lightly elbowed his ribs.
"We need to do something else, something we've been ignoring the whole trip", you said, and he raised his brow. "We need to talk about us", you told him, and he breathed out, smoke coming out of his nose.
"I guess you're right again", he said, then slid a bit down on his seat.
You didn't think much about talking about your future with Roger while in Paris, so now has to be the time, on a train that will take you to London and to a whole month of Roger being away, promoting News Of The World.
While in Paris, you never talked to Roger about the future, and talks of the past where subtle - you talked about how you felt with the development Doctor Who took over the years, but didn't think much about the fact that you were separate during years of the show.
You enjoyed the city, but most of all, you enjoyed each other's presence, not only going to museums, churches and castles around you, following them up with fancy dinners and walks along the Seine, but you also spent time inside the room, in your pajamas, ordering take out from restaurants you found on the phone book, having a hard time trying to speak french as Roger tickled the sole of your feet and kept trying to distract you.
You would always remember the peace you felt as you ate cheap chinese food on Roger's shirt on the balcony at night, the Eiffel Tower shining over your meal and Roger's electric blue eyes as he hummed early David Bowie's songs under his breath, or how at home you felt sitting on the couch, Roger on the floor with his head on your lap, his soft strands on your fingers as you tried to braid them while watching re-runs of I Dream of Jenie, Roger focused, trying to understand the french dubbing until he noticed what you were doing.
"Babe, are you trying to braid my hair? Think I'd look better if I'd look more girly?", he said, moving his head back so he can look at you.
"Yeah. Always thought so, but I'll have to keep imagining, since your hair is too short to braid", you pouted, and he laughed.
"Don't you like my new hair, then?", he asked, pouting back, and you moved your head to his level so you could press a quick kiss to his lips.
"I love it, Rog. Especially cause since it's shorter, it looks even messier after I pull it", you said, and he smirked. "My favourite look of yours is when you're all dishevelled after sex", you winked, teasing him.
"That's my favourite, too", he said, turning completely around and pulling you in for a kiss, his hand on the back of your neck.
But now, while in the smoke filled train cabin, you needed to make a few things clear.
"I've been avoiding this for a reason", he said, looking out the window, and you raised your brow, waiting for him to explain. "I have this weird, innate fear of you telling me it's all good but you don't want to see me again, or something", he said, and you gave him a half smile.
"I don't want to do this, Rog. And I won't do it", you told him, and he sighed in relief.
"Even though loving you is a bit complicated, I'll admit. Especially if you're me", you shrugged, and he turned to you, confused.
"Let me explain. I loved your idea for a bed of roses, a few days ago, cause it can exemplify our relationship so well. The roses feel so good against the skin, the smell is so intoxicating, it looks so beautiful - maybe too beautiful, ethereal, even. But then there's always a few thorns here and there, and they hurt so much when they lodge themselves on my skin, but I'm so intoxicated by the whole experience that I don't mind - I convince myself that it's nothing, and even that it's already part of me already, cause the thorns fit so perfectly on me, on my little stabs made by myself, by my own insecurities", you say, and he stares at you.
"What I'm trying to say is that every minute that I'm with you always distract me from the issues that come with being with you - the fact that there's a few expectations that come with being your serious girlfriend, be them always travelling with you while we're young, or eventually staying home once we have kids, knowing that you'll eventually cheat on me with a younger version of myself, while I'm too tired of taking care of the babies to even think about my sexual needs", you said, and you watched him frown.
"I'm not sure where you're going with this-", he started saying, but you cut him off.
"Let me finish, I promise it will get better", you said, fixing your posture as you start again. "But the thing is, I love you. I always have, ever since I started talking to you, you always trying to outflirt me, always seeing me as your equal. You desire me, but you also listen and see me as another human being, you never back down or ignore me if I challenge one of your beliefs, and you never treat me as a trophy-wife-to-be", you say, and you can feel your eyes fill with tears, but you're smiling. That's what you always loved about Roger. He smiled back at you.
"And because I love you, I don't want to deny myself the pleasure of being with you. I'd rather be in a bed of roses than in an empty bed - or worse, a blank bed, someone being there just so it's less cold at night. I want to be with you, Rog", you say, and he pulls you in for a hug, and you hold him back for a few moments before pulling away and looking at him in the eye.
"But also because I love you and I want to be with you, Rog, I don't want us to try to fit into this type of relationship I just mentioned. I don't want you to make me the other woman, either, when you eventually find someone so you can settle down, if it's not me" you said, rubbing your nose. "I guess I want to settle down with you, eventually, as we planned before, but this whole thing - living together and cheating if we're away for too long - it kills me, and I think it kills you, too. I respect you too much to want to cheat on you again, cause if I ever do and you never find out, I'll lose respect for you, and the same thing will happen if you cheat on me and I don't find out. And these are ugly truths, but this isn't our first time together; we know each other, we need to think about this", you told him, and he nodded.
"And I need to make it clear that I'll never be a simple rockstar housewife - I'll never be able to quit my job and look out for the kids while you travel the world and I make them lunch. I'll never be able to sit down on a dinner table on some award show with you and when someone asks me what I'll do, I'll smile as I say I'm a king-maker. I'm not", you said, firmly.
"And I'll never be satisfied with dumb spa and shopping trips as you do the actual work when we travel. If I have to live this life, I'll resent you, and I don't want that. I like being domestic with you, but this type of forced domesticity will poison us again - we're both too wild, too career-focused, for this. We've always been similar", you said, and he gave you a smile as you sighed. "I guess that's all I have to say", you shrugged, and he laughed. "Not much, right?", he said, running his fingers on his hair, pulling the strands back.
"Guess it's my turn now", he said, and you nodded, encouraging him. "When I saw you again, at the pub, there was so much that I wanted to say. I mostly wanted to apologize - it got lost as I got infatuated with you again, and tried to get you in bed - you know, usual stuff", he winked, and you laughed.
"But yeah, I kept looking at you while you updated me on your life, your skin glooming under the stars and the moonlight, and I couldn't stop thinking about all the things I wanted to apologize to you for. All the pain we caused each other. Everything I put on you. Everything I needed you to be or needed you to say. Cause no matter what - even if you had decided on never seeing me again after all this - I'll always love you, because we grew up together. And you helped make me who I am", he said, moving strands of your hair behind your ear.
"I just want you to know that there will always be a piece of you in me, always. Whatever someone you become, wherever you are in the world, however this" he said, pointing his finger to the two of us "works out, in whatever form it might take", he said, sighing "I'll always send you love. Before being anything else to me - and I hope to God you're always something more - you'll always be my friend, to the end", he told you, and the tears were already streaming down your cheeks. His cheeks soon mirrored yours.
"And now, after you so eloquently told me all your fears about our future, I need you to know something else, too", he said, as you wiped the tears under your eyes. "I always loved you for being the way you are. You always challenge me, you always make me work harder, try harder, to be better. And it's not even something you force me to do; I just follow your lead. The way you look was what first got into me, I won't lie, but the way you are is what made me stay. It's what will always make me stay", he said, a genuine smile on his lips. He made you feel warm, like the sun.
"You're the smartest person I know, you're funny, you enjoy sex, you're unapologetic, you're proud of who you are, even proud of your insecurities. And you have such a huge importance in my life: you made me who I am. Whatever way you want to make us work, I trust you. I just want to be with you, in whatever form it takes", he said, smiling, and then getting up and opening his bag.
"I forgot to give you something", he said, pulling a string out of the front pocket. You recognized the red glimmer. It was the heart necklace. "It's still yours to keep. Even though it's not in its original glory, it will always be yours. The necklace and my heart", he said, and you couldn't help but smile at him.
"Always so cheesy, Taylor", you said, joking as you moved your hair to the side so he could put the necklace on.
"You always loved it", he winked, and you laughed. "I do", you said, smiling.
"So, what does it all mean? Where are we?", you asked, and he shrugged. "Wherever you want us to be. I just hope that you keep me around", he told you sincerely.
"I will. So, we're not going back to our old ways, right? We're not back at sharing a flat and stuff", you said, and he nodded. "Sure".
"And you're going to spend a month away, all around the world. I don't want you to feel pressured not to cheat", you said, and he nodded again.
"Yeah, and you're back in London, starting a new job. I don't want you to be worried, too", he said.
"So, maybe no exclusivity, this time? At least not now. This is still debatable, in the future", you said, and he agreed.
"Makes sense. But I'll have a hard time desiring anyone but you", Roger said in a low voice, and you laughed to break any mood that might have settled. You needed to get things clear before making out in the train cabin.
"Me too, Rog. But I don't want to create any expectations of loyalty because we know each other too well, and I don't want a stupid fight to break this thing we're building together", you said.
"It's a good idea. So, no titles, too? I can't call you my girlfriend?", he said, and you laughed.
"You can, if you want to", you told him, and he pulled you closer to him.
"Good, cause I want to call you that on the News of the World launch party, that I'm hoping you'll go as my date", he said, pressing a kiss on top of your head, breathing in your fruity smell.
"Of course I'll go. I need to see the boys again", you told him, and he laughed.
"So you're not going for me, then?", he pouted, and you laughed again.
"No, I'm just going so I can meet Deacy's kid", you told him, and it was his turn to laugh.
-
Once you got to London, Roger offered to go to the airport alone - he had to get on his flight, and he was late. He knew you had to go home and get ready for work tomorrow, but you wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.
He looked relieved when you got on a cab with him to Heathrow.
"Big day tomorrow, huh", he said, rubbing your arm.
"Yeah, I still can't believe I'm finally going to work at the British Museum. It's so surreal, it feels like a dream. Like I'm living someone else's life", you said, looking out at the window, the early sunday morning reminding you of fresh starts - you were in the middle of one.
"Well, it's your life, and it's your job, cause you deserve it, babe. I never met someone who worked so hard to get where they want", Roger said, smiling, proud.
"I did. You and the boys", you said, and he huffed. "Guess you're right. Me and that pack of idiots, we turned out okay", he joked.
Once you got to the airport, you followed him to his gate.
You were feeling nervous - you had him for a week, and now it's time to say goodbye again.
You're both aware that the rest of the band is already waiting impatiently in the jet, but you can't help it - you hug him, dropping your luggage on the floor, and he does the same, the hug soon turning into a kiss as you rub your hands on each other's body, as if you're trying to remember how every inch of the other feels like, as if you're both about to disappear.
But the airport worker clears her throat, and you break the kiss, looking at each other longingly.
"Don't say goodbye", you beg Roger, putting your hand on his lips as he opens his mouth.
"See you soon", he says between your fingers. You smile at him, grateful he found a way with words so you're not repeating the same old goodbyes.
"See you soon, Roger", you say, hugging him again for a few seconds, just trying to capture every detail - his smell, the feeling of his arms around you, his body against yours.
And once he has to go into the jet, you go to the glass wall, and you can swear you see some familiar faces from the windows of the jet.
But before you can focus, soon Roger's well known face takes over the window you're watching, and he puts a hand on the glass.
You can't help but think about the last time you did that with him, him being on your place as you were inside the plane, moving to another country, your heart weighing down on you, filled with doubts.
But now your heart warmed you up, filled with joy and love, and you could feel Roger's crystal heart on top of your chest. He was right. There would be always a piece of him on you, too.
-
Epilogue: News of the World Launch Party
"Y/N! You're back!" Brian's voice welcomed you to the ballroom.
You squeezed Roger's hand - it was the first time you saw the band in years, and you couldn't help but feel a bit nervous about it.
"Darling, you're really back! We thought Roger was getting high too often and hallucinated a week in Paris with you. But I guess you did come back to him", Freddie said, hugging you by the side as he held a glass of champagne on his other hand.
"I'm back with him only so I can see you all again, of course", you said, winking at Roger as he pretended to be offended.
But then you heard Deacy and Veronica scream your name in unison, and you turned to see them.
"So you're really back!!" Deacy said, but your eyes were on the baby boy on his lap.
"This is the cutest thing I've ever seen in my life.", you said, trying to get his attention. Roger looked at you, adoringly, as you moved your eyes to Veronica.
"Ronnie!! You're so big!" you said, trying to hug her through her belly. "It's coming out in a few months! It's a boy, Michael. Someone our young Rob can play with", she said, and Roger frowned.
"I could swear it was a girl", he said, and John smiled. "Maybe next time", he said.
"Hey, Bob. Do you want to play with me? C'mon", you said, and he motioned to go to your arms. You picked him up as he started playing with your hair.
"You'd be a good mom, Y/N", Veronica said, and you got tense. "God, Ronnie, don't even joke about this", you said, and Roger chuckled. "It's a sensitive topic at the moment", he explained.
"The moment will take quite some time, you know", you told him, the youngest Deacon pulling your earring before playing with the crystal heart on your neck.
You talked to the boys and Veronica for a while, updating each other, but no one brought up how you and Roger got back together. It just felt natural - no need to question.
You stayed with Roger for the whole night - behind the cameras as he did press, by his side during dinner - where he was back at his old ways, teasing you lightly with his hand under the table. You felt good in his arms, getting back into his life.
He was interested in getting back into your life, too. He came back to London last night, and went straight to dinner with you. You were trying different food, and now was time to try Indian food.
As he ate his Chicken Tikka Masala, dipping the naan in the sauce, you invited him for a party your bosses would be throwing next month to celebrate a new exhibit.
He gave you a bright smile. "I'd love to be your date, my love", he said.
And after the Deacons went home - Robert was asleep on his father's lap - the party got louder, the dance floor more full. You could swear you saw an angular face that could only belong to Bowie pick someone to dance - was this Princess Leia? - but before you could process the whole situation, Roger pulled you to dance.
"Thought you didn't dance, Mr Taylor", you told him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you tried to slow dance to All The Young Dudes, by Mott The Hoople.
"I don't dance very well, indeed. But it's just an excuse to be so close to you in public, and God, I'm dying to call you Ms Taylor", he said, and you chuckled.
"Take it slower, Rog", you told him, and he leaned in to rest his head on the curve of your neck. "And why do you want to be close to me in public? Is it still one of your weird fetishes?", you joked, and you felt him laugh against your skin.
"No, it's just that you've been killing me with this dress of yours, and you've been killing a lot of the guys here, too. Could swear I saw Bowie checking you out", he told you, and you gasped.
"Taylor, don't even joke about this. I'd have a heart attack", you said, and he laughed. "You'd leave me here for Bowie, is that it?", he asked, and you laughed.
"Of course not. I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that he might acknowledge my existence", you said, and it was his turn to laugh. "The only eyes I really like to feel on me when I look away are yours, Rog", you said, and he gave you a quick kiss.
"Okay, had enough of trying to dance. Let's get some fresh air", he told you, and you followed him to the balcony.
As the cold, fresh air brushed against your exposed skin, you heard the first notes to Tiny Dancer, by Elton John. You walked to the balcony, leaning in and taking in the view of London at night.
Roger soon took you into his arms, hugging you from behind, and you felt safe, his body heart making you warm in the cold evening as he jokingly whispered "Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you'll marry a music man" into your ear, and you scoffed. "Slower, Taylor", you told him, and he laughed.
"However you want it, babe", he said, now paying attention to the view, focusing on the feeling on you in his arms again. Finally.
But oh how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you and you can hear me
When I say softly, slowly
"I could die right now, Y/N. I'm just... happy. I've never felt this type of happiness before. I'm just exactly where I want to be", Roger said in his husky voice, and you nodded lightly in agreement.
Because in Roger's arms, you feel home. You feel what you hoped to feel for years - what got you to move to London in the first place. You feel like you belong.
---
1988 Special
Taglist:
@taylorroger-s @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @its-nessi @anamcg317 @frenchieswiftie @queen-danielle-dani-dan @minihemo @shutup-sorry @theyrealllegends @killerqueenisthebest @ashagracelove @hardy-s @fuckinghurricanesoul @secretsweetscollectionblog @mrswinterhater @11mb0 @tamtam-go92 @derptatosaur @brianandthemays @phantom-fangirl-stuff @the-hysterical-queen @rogerofmylife @notevenlxvely @discodeakyy @x1975sos @16wiishes @jennycidesstuff @partydulce @melros-e @onevisionliz
#roger taylor x reader#roger taylor#ben hardy x reader#ben hardy#roger taylor smut#roger taylor x you#roger taylor fanfic#roger taylor fluff#ben hardy x you#ben hardy smut#ben hardy fluff#ben hardy fanfic#queen fanfic#bohemian rhapsody fanfic#borhap fanfic#bedofroses#roger taylor imagine#ben hardy imagine#queen imagines#bohemian rhapsody imagine
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Sunday's
Request: no
Summary: the farmer!ashton Au that nobody asked for
Tags: @cal-pal-cuddles
Sunday's were spent at Ashton's after the various services let out. His friends and brothers with their kids would roll up the drive, stirring up dust from the dirt road. The dogs would yip with excitement alerting him of his visitors. He'd turn off the stove top and step outside with a dish rag in his hands.
The kids would happily shout at him, crawling and climbing all around him. They'd tell him about Sunday school and regular school, Luna Hemmings would proudly show off her latest lost tooth while Charlie Clifford acted too cool for the whole ordeal. Eventually, everyone made their way inside and settled in for an early dinner.
Ashton loved Sunday's. On Sunday's he had company more than just his animals and the nosy old bat of a neighbor. He wasn't alone on Sunday's.
"I'm thinking of renting the apartment over the garage." He didn't really know why he said that. He figured it was the only interesting thing he could respond with to the "what's been up with you this week?"
"Yeah?" Calum leaned the chair back, rubbing his stomach through his shirt. "What if I move back in?"
"Cal, I love you, but I ain't cleaning your shit up again."
So, he left that alone and published his want ad in the newspaper. He didn't anticipate getting a response so soon, especially not from a teacher. Ashton arranged to meet with the applicant on Saturday after the farmer's market for coffee at the only coffee shop in town.
Ashton settled into a booth by the window, removed his cap, and unzipped his jacket. He ordered a cup of tea and waited. Teachers, by nature, were punctual and Y/N was no different. She arrived promptly dressed like a Pinterest board with a folder in hand and bag on her shoulder. Ashton threw up a hand.
"Mr. Irwin?" Polite, perhaps southern. Ashton smiled and nodded.
"Miss Y/L/N?" He teased showing his teeth. "Came prepared I see."
"There's a reference from my last land lord, my resume and schedule, and two bank statements." Y/N settled into the booth, ordered a chai, and folded her hands on the table.
Ashton glanced over the papers with pseudo intelligence. He didn't know shit about what all that stuff meant; his roommate interest was entirely about someone to use the apartment on the farm and maybe offer human interaction on day's other than Sunday's.
"Why are you leaving your old lease? Those are swanky apartments downtown." Ashton took a sip of his tea, deciding being nosy was his best bet.
There was a blush of embarrassment to her cheeks. "You can look at my bank statements teachers we don't get paid shi-nothing, we don't get paid anything."
He remembers Liz mentioning stuff before about teachers having to protest for pay and pensions. At the time, he didn't care. Today, sitting before this gentle creature soft with curves and gentle eyes, he decided he did care...a lot.
The two got on nicely so he agreed for her to come visit the following Monday evening and move in the next weekend. Monday evening arrived quickly which left Ashton little time to fix any repairs in the apartment while tending to the farm.
Calum left a lot of his shit there that Ashton placed in a box to give him later. He moved the bed frame toward the window and added some plants,interior designers be damned. Y/N arrived in a hatchback, hair falling from a ponytail. She held a coffee mug in her hand.
"Rough day?" Ashton led her up the stairs to the apartment, his hand hovering over her back close enough for protection without being invasive.
Y/N laughed a joyful sound. "Shakespeare for Seniors was today." Sometimes she was so in the education bubble that she forgot there were people who didn't live and breathe school. Ashton's confusion was apparent as he opened the door. "The language arts and social studies departments team up to study Shakespeare and perform for residents of local nursing homes."
"Woah that's so" good, adorable, amazing, "awesome." Ashton entered the apartment. "It's got a living room, bedroom, full bath, basically an open floor plan." He settled onto the bench by the front door, letting her look around. "I'll do maintenance. Heating and air is pretty stable. However, if we get a winter like last years, you'll have to come in the farmhouse it'll be too cold."
"Can I repaint? And can my car go in the garage below?"
She signed papers right away, paying him first months rent with the promise of last months soon. Ashton waved a hand dismissively and assured her he'd help move her in. Slowly throughout the week he would move her belongings over in his old pickup and trailer.
Y/N was all settled by Saturday night, just in time to snuggle up in bed and watch SNL. She was exhausted from her work week and all the stress of moving. Perhaps she should have considered farm life a bit more, but the idea of not sleeping in on Sunday's hadn't crossed her mind.
A rooster crowed at sunrise, perched on top of the fence just outside her window. Dogs barked consistently. Ashton whistled quite loudly as he went about his daily chores. Y/N managed to lay in until 8. Dressing, she headed out to the barn barn where Ashton was happily feeding his pigs.
"Morning sunshine, I didn't wake you did I?" The worry in his eyes was so sincere she couldn't say yes.
"No, I'm used to getting up early." She peeked behind Ashton to the pig pen. "Not to judge or be ungrateful, but you don't, you know" she slid her thumb across her throat.
"I sell them. I eat bacon. I don't eat my own pigs though, wouldn't feel right."
"They're awfully cute."
Without hesitation, Ashton scooped up a squealing piglet and passed it to her. "You get attached then I can't sell her. Do with that what you will."
Poppy got a little red ribbon tied around her neck by that afternoon. Ashton was quite pleased that the little piglet was staying because it meant Y/N was staying. He waved her in from the barn to his back porch. "My family is stopping by for dinner, you're welcome to join us unless you're busy."
Y/N was not, in fact busy. She had finished posting grades, she was caught up on laundry, and she was painfully single. "Are you sure?"
The sunlight hit his smile in the way only movies could, in the way that made him look like James Dean or maybe even Harry Styles. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it, honey." A certain smugness tightened in his chest at the way her eyes widened at his quip. "They'll be over soon."
It had been several years-10 maybe- since she'd been to Sunday dinner but she reasoned her teacher wardrobe would suffice. She searched what food she had brought to move in with, grabbed a bottle of wine, and headed to the farm house. Better to show up with a cheap bottle of wine from CVS than empty handed.
Ashton had changed into sinfully tight black jeans with a crisp white shirt that made him glow. "You wash up nice." Y/N teased handing him the wine. "Not exactly Sunday dinner material but it's something."
Without paused, Ashton took her under his arm and into his chest. A musky yet clean scent filled her senses as he gave her a quick squeeze. "You're the one who needs the housewarming gift, my dear."
Calum arrived before Y/N could worry about making a fool of herself. Ashton kept his arm secured around her while ushering her to the kitchen with Calum. The rest trickled in until they were settled around a table that didn't set level with floor and chairs that creaked.
"Mrs. Y/L/N, why are you living with Uncle Ash?" Charlie Clifford asked, fondly setting next to his favorite teacher. "I mean, I'm not complaining if it gets me an A , but I have a responsibility to report the facts."
"Charlie, you were the school news reported one day and almost got suspended, leave your teacher alone." Y/N quite liked Michael and Crystal. She liked his entire family for that matter. It had been a long time since she sat at a table and felt she belonged there.
"It's okay, Charlie. I'm not living with your Uncle. I'm renting the apartment over the garage."
"And domesticating my pigs." Ashton teased before taking her hand and Cal's to bless dinner and wow she was fond.
During the week, they adopted a routine that switched dinner from each of their places. Wednesdays were interesting, as Y/N watched from her bedroom window while Ashton did yoga with his goats ("I'm telling you they make it better"). Friday's were a little odd, watching Y/N assault his blender making cocktails while watching cable news ("I've had a long week and our country's going to hell in a hand basket I deserve this").
Somewhere between Sunday dinners and Charlie's play or maybe it was after Luna's dance recital, Ashton wasn't sure. Regardless, at some point he forgot what life was like without her. That was scary in the beautiful way. He wanted more than what they had. So, he changed into his best flannel shirt and slicked his hair back. He cut flowers from his rose garden and put a little glitter on.
Marching right up the stairs to her apartment, he knocked upon entering. Poppy squealed from her pet bed zooming right for his legs. Y/N had taken off her heels by the door and was in the process of starting dinner when he touched her shoulder.
"I'd sure like to take you out tonight" Ashton paused, hazel eyes filled with affection, "and maybe kiss you. I'll walk you home after." He winked with a sparkly smile.
True to his word, Ashton took her out, asked and then kissed her, and walked her home the morning after. Things changed for the best. It wouldn't be long before Ashton would move her stuff in into the house with the intention of forever.
#Ashton Irwin imagines#aahton Irwin imagine#ashton Irwin blurb#ashton Irwin blurbs#5sos blurbs#5sos blurb#5sos imagines#5sos imagine#5 seconds of summer imagine#5 seconds of summer imagines#farmer!5sos#farmer!ashton#ashton Irwin au
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{Collection} A Haunted Haus : Day Two & Three
That is a mask...right?
Day Three, Start.
The past 48 hours haven’t exactly been “business as usual” for the Stone Spider Family.
Atamu hadn’t figured life would be all sunshine and roses every day since the Merger almost three years ago, but the Patriarch hadn’t ever anticipated anything quite like this. His displeasure in the recent, strange goings-on under his roof was clear on his dark, weathered face as he sat with his massive arms folded across his broad barrel of a chest. His long dreads were secured back in a thick braid that reached his waist, an impressive feat for a man over eight feet tall--it was a task he’d asked His little to perform, something Monica was quite skilled at by this point and had done so without hesitation. Atamu wanted his hair out of his face so he wouldn’t have to think about it or push at the long, thick twists of soft hair as the day’s events continued on around him. And while he normally reveled in the time Monica spent playing in his dreads, enjoying the way her small fingers felt beneath the lovingly secured strands, today it had been more for business than pleasure. There were events going on at the Haus that required the old Chieftain’s full attention and he didn’t want to miss a single detail.
Helen’s office was currently holding several select, key members of the immediate Family--the Reaver herself was behind her desk, with Thomas standing in front of it. Atamu was seated in a high-backed chair facing the desk, with Monica safely in his lap--she wasn’t allowed down, much less out of the Patriarch’s sight.
Not after what had happened yesterday.
And while normally Monica might chafe under strict restraints on being told what to do...after what happened she wasn’t too keen on being out of Atamu’s embrace at all, much less where he couldn’t see her.
Luvon Dreadful was the newest addition to the room, the Alpha standing beside his Father and lifemate. The werewolf had his arms folded much like his Father, his large, heavily muscled body blocking Monica from the door and providing a second wall of protection for the young vampire. If Atamu hadn’t been overprotective enough to keep Monica at his side, Luvon would have done it. The overprotective Alpha did not play around when it came to Monica’s safety and well-being and anyone who looked at him now would only notice his tightly locked square jaw and the way his orange eyes glowed almost ferally. There was a dormant volcano of rage smoldering dangerously close to Luvon’s surface. All he needed was a target to unleash it on--but that was part of the problem. No one was quite sure what happened yesterday, and that was the cause of the current meeting.
“Would you like some tea, sweetheart?” Thomas straightened up from leaning against Helen’s desk, his gentlemanly smile aimed at Monica. “I would be happy to make you some, or perhaps a snack?”
“You need to be here for the recording, Thomas, you cannot be off making her tea. That’s why we have staff,” Helen’s sharp tone was back in full force, sounding like a whip of censure, though Thomas was used to her by now and didn’t react as if scolded. His smile didn’t even falter.
“I’d happily do it if she’d like me to.”
Helen didn’t doubt that for a split second.
“That’s okay, Thom.” Monica offered the Detective a small but genuine smile, showing she meant the gratitude.
“How about a blanket?”
Monica shook her head, leaning a little closer to Atamu, who reacted immediately by tightening his arm around her. “Poppy’s really warm!”
“Oh, of course he is,” Thomas’s smile deepened, before he tried again. “Perhaps a stuffed animal?”
“Thomas for god’s sake would you stop fussing over her? She’s fine.” Helen gave the man a look of heavy disapproval, and this time he had to sense to clear his throat and fold his hands against his trim middle, his earth-toned vest-coat a perfect compliment to the paleness of his skin and hair.
“Right, of course, so sorry.” His apology sounded even more sincere in his British accent. “I’m afraid I’m a little...out of sorts.”
“Why?” Luvon bit out gruffly. “Nothing happened to you.”
Monica looked up at Luvon in surprise at the line that might have been misinterpreted as hostility, but Thomas either was so used to Helen’s way of speaking he didn’t rise to the challenge...or he was simply too non-confrontational and understood Luvon was reacting as a lifemate should. Thomas simply answered honestly, as he was one of the more emotional members of the Family and was unafraid to show it.. His chin lifted, with the truth lightening his blue eyes and his accented tenor.
“Something could have happened to Monica. I’m as upset as you are about that.”
Luvon didn’t speak, unsurprisingly, but his defensive posture relaxed. It was an acceptable answer by the Alpha’s standards.
Monica reached up for Luvon’s hand and he met her halfway, lacing his fingers through hers with a grip like iron. In a movement that brought both of her men together, she turned her smile back to Thomas, one that he readily returned, pleased that she seemed to understand how deeply he cared for her. Feeling emboldened by her smile, Thomas moved to press a kiss to her forehead, and a little of the tension seeped out of the office.
“Are we all ready to review the recording?” Helen glanced first at Monica, then Atamu, then lastly at Luvon as Thomas returned to leaning against her desk.
It wasn’t an easy question to answer; Monica didn’t necessarily want to relive yesterday’s experience, Atamu didn’t want to put her through it again, and Luvon was still grappling with a lifemate’s raging need to protect his mate and being unable to do so. But all three knew there would be no moving forward without reviewing what happened, and when Luvon squeezed her hand reassuringly and Atamu’s lips found her temple, Monica felt strong enough to nod from her safe place between them.
“Yes! Let’s do it,” Monica nodded, and was rewarded by one of Helen’s rare, proud smiles. Monica seemed to be the only one to ever receive them, though that wouldn’t surprise a single member of the Haus to learn.
“Rollback the recording, JARVIS.”
Day Two, Recording Start
It was a fair assumption on Wade Wilson’s part (for once in his insane life) that Usopp had never been to a Halloween store, before. And that was why it was his duty, as Usopp’s newest bestest friend in the whole wide world, to take the sniper captain shopping for more costumes than there are days in a calendar year!
It was also a fair assumption that Wade Wilson often lost the rights to his Family credit card for doing things like buying 500+ Halloween costumes.
“Is this...how we’re supposed to celebrate?” Usopp asked, watching Staff member after Staff member bring in armfuls of shopping bags. The Staff had tried to arrange the bags in some semblance of order but Wade had quickly upended the entire system, because as soon as a servant set a bag down he was rifling through it like a kid on his birthday, flinging costumes over his shoulder with wild abandon. “All these costumes?”
“One for every day of the year!” Wade cheered incorrectly, arms lifted over his head.
Usopp was left staring and wondering how Wade had managed to pull a long blond wig on over his masked face in the split second it took him to straighten up.
The recreation room of the Haus (one of many, actually) was quickly covered in fabrics and masks, novelty weapons and other assortment of accessories for the many, many costumes that lay strewn about. It was no coincidence that the majority of the costumes were couples’ costumes, or “Bestie Suits” as Wade kept referring to them to Usopp in the store. There was no denying the Merc with the ever-running Mouth was thrilled to have a friendship with Usopp and true to his clingy nature, wanted to do everything with his new friend. In his twisted, often incorrect mind, somehow he was going to figure out a way to do a couple’s costume with Monica, Usopp, Peter Parker, Dick Grayson, Nathan Summers, Logan Howlett, Bruce Wayne, Bruce Banner (just to piss Hulk off) and Oliver Queen (to piss off Clint Barton because the hawk-eyed assassin ate his leftovers). He didn’t know how he was going to do this, just that he was, and like everything in Wade’s life, somehow this would work out.
Or it wouldn’t.
He didn’t know.
“Soooo...” Usopp watched with his hands on his waist as Wade upended another bag onto the floor. “How do we decide what to dress up as?”
“Well~” Wade’s strangely pitched voice was all aflutter with excitement. “Tomorrow is one of the costume parties being held this month and I’m pretty sure there’s no contest because we’re all supposed to love one another and just have fun, but if I insult enough people’s costumes by saying ours is better then we can get one started and win!”
Usopp didn’t think that sounded right but was quickly learning arguing with Wade was a dangerous game--because you either got sucked into an argument that lasted six hours because Wade liked to talk, or he’d kiss you to shut you up. Usopp was still deciding which of those was the lesser of two evils.
“So we just need to dress up as something really fuckin’ kick-ass so we can win!”
Usopp’s brow pulled together in the center. “...Win the contest that isn’t happening?”
“Oh it’s happening, good buddy.” Wade straightened up, holding up an incredibly stereotypical pirate captain costume, complete with a hat emblazened with a cheap skull and bones across the front. “Would Luffy be mad at me if you were captain for a day?”
“At you?” Usopp asked, confusion clear on his tanned face. He was still learning everything circled back to Wade eventually...even if it shouldn’t.
“Yeah! I mean, he can be mad at you but I’m a sensitive boy. I have all these emotions. Feelings. Mostly in my junk but that’s where they come from.”
Usopp’s face was blank and Wade didn’t even miss a beat.
“See because my thought is, if you’re the pirate captain, then I can be the parrot...sitting on your shoulder for the whole night. And I can just say really raunchy things and no one can be mad at us because I’m just a bird, the fuck do I know?”
That cracked Usopp’s resolve, imagining Wade in a giant bird suit. He was tempted to say yes just for that.
“Oooo!” Wade’s squeal indicated his wandering eye had caught something else and he tossed the first costume to the side, picking up two costumes to hold up side by side, peering around them to grin at Usopp. “How about Peanut Butter and Jelly!”
Given the years he’s now lived at the Haus, Usopp recognized the food items and the oversized jar costumes Wade was holding up were definitely...something. The hands were connected, sewn together actually, so whoever was wearing the costume would have to hold hands the entire night.
“That’s...uh, if you want!” Usopp was too kind to shoot Wade down, which was partially why they’d been gone the entire afternoon and also why they’d run up a bill with more zeros than Usopp wanted to remember. It more resembled a bounty than a price to be paid.
Wade dropped the costumes before making a heart with his hands and sending it in Usopp’s direction. “This is why you’re one of my besties. You just get it, Usopp.”
“Get what?”
“Everything.” Wade stated, dramatic and somewhat breathlessly. “You get everything.”
If Usopp thought shopping with Wade was an ordeal, that turned out to be only half-truth--now that they were home, they had the monumental task of sorting through the haul to find what they wanted to wear.
“Gorilla and his really big banana?”
A pause before Usopp ventured, “that sounds kinda...lewd.”
“Oh! So Franky would do it.”
Usopp didn’t know if Wade wanted Franky to be the gorilla or the banana and he wasn’t going to ask.
“Okay so we’re not getting anywhere and since you won’t let me take your pants off--”
“You never told me why you needed to take my pants off?!”
“I need a reason to take your pants off?” Wade asked, blinking beneath his lifted mask. Usopp could easily read the confusion in the scarred half of Wade’s face he could clearly see.
“I’m starting to see why Nami hits Brook so much.”
“I thought Nami was going to hit me once but it turned out Sanji kicked me in my face before she could, which was just as good.” Wade quipped, but his attention was on one of his many pouches on his belt that he was rifling through.
“Why did Sanji kick you?”
“I think it’s because I was saying something about Monica sitting on my face--”
“HAHA WOW, YES, MHM, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR IN YOUR SUIT?!”
Wade paused in his search, slowly looking up at Usopp’s panicked expression. His visible grin was nothing short of wicked.
“Does Monica sit on your face, Usopp? I bet that nose is her favorite part--”
Shutting Wade Wilson up was a monumentally difficult feat to accomplish, something Usopp had learned recently, but had been told that food helps. Wade’ll still talk with his mouth full, but it might help distract him from his train of though--so Usopp started carrying around an extra stash of candy in his own pouches and pockets, aside from the stash Monica kept on him. Acting quickly, face red with the ideas Wade was putting in his head, Usopp plucked up a piece of candy and expertly tossed it into the Merc’s running mouth.
“S-So what are y-you looking for?” Usopp took control of the conversation in the split second Wade closed his mouth around the candy, nearly exhaling with relief when Wade’s multi-tracked mind switched lanes.
“My phone, I wanna text Monica.”
Trying to ignore the way his heart skipped at the mention of her name, especially so soon after the recent topic of conversation, Usopp cleared his throat.
“Why?”
“Oh, well she’s the smartest person I know--I mean Tony Stark likes to say he is, and he’s not the only one who says it either, but even he doesn’t argue when I say it’s Monica, so I think that’s the consensus.” Wade switched pouches for the fourth time. “Fucking thing’s gotta be here somewhere...anyway I wanna text Monica and have her come help us pick a costume!”
Usopp couldn’t argue with that, Monica was the smartest person he knew, too--well, she was a lot of things. Smartest, funniest, prettiest...even now, he was smiling wide enough to show teeth at the thought of Monica coming by, even if there wasn’t a reason for it. For as long as he’s known her (and he was very proud of the years!) he’s been head over heels in love with her and to feel it only grow as time passed wasn’t something he’d been prepared for. So much of his young life had been about action and adventure, a lot of the emotional journeys he’d taken had somewhat been overshadowed--but Monica brought them to the surface. He’s loved and lost--not always necessarily people, either--and that taught him that holding onto love so you don’t lose it is very, very important. Usopp was considered a lot of things by a lot of people, but the only opinion that really mattered to him was Monica’s. Yes, his captain and crew, but it was different when Monica talked to him, about him, told him things that no one else ever had before. Love becomes as necessary to one as air when they’ve had it for a while and now Usopp couldn’t imagine loving anyone more. It was a sentiment echoed by his entire crew and she became the central, uniting force behind the Straw Hats. Nothing and no one else would ever be more beloved or important to them.
Wade could definitely relate to his new bestie’s feelings; Monica was the love of his life and had been since the first moment he saw her. He’d fallen and fallen hard, not even bothering to get back up. He didn’t want to. She was smart, beautiful, funny as hell, sexy enough to make his suit uncomfortable 24-fucking-7, witty enough to put anyone to shame--she was a knock-out in every sense of the word. The Merc knew he wasn’t anything to look at and he knew Monica liked pretty things, pretty people; he didn’t know how he’d managed to slip under her radar but now that he was here, he wasn’t going to leave. Much like the fact that he couldn’t die, Wade couldn’t live with Monica. Plain and simple, end of story. That fierce love and his tendency to hyper-fixate made for one needy combination that Monica had to deal with--the fact that he was in near constant contact with her was one result but she was always so sweet to respond to his many, many text messages, to send him pictures when he asks for them, and to even pick up when he calls needing to hear her voice. Wade wasn’t dumb or oblivious enough to think he deserved her, he knew he didn’t but had decided, fuck the universe. He’d been dealt a real shit sandwich for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for years and years, so now that he had something good, someone who loved him and took care of him, why shouldn’t he get to have her?
Monica was never really ready for the love every member of the Haus had for her, but that didn’t stop her from being bombarded with it at any given hour of the day. The matching, exuberant expressions on Wade and Usopp’s faces should have scared her--just how much time had they been spending together?--but she could hardly find one single thing to focus on amidst the insanity she’d walked into. From what she could tell, Wade and Usopp had bought an entire costume outlet and then thrown every single costume onto the floor and were now standing in the aftermath, waiting for her.
“Monica~ Sweet angel girl. You came for us!”
Monica laughed at Wade’s loving coo, missing the way Usopp’s smile widened at the sound. “You make it sound like you got kidnapped. What is all this?”
“Costumes! Usopp and I went shopping.”
“Yeah you definitely went shopping,” Monica’s eyes lingered on a giant grape costume whose grapes were at least the size of human heads. “Are these for the whole Haus?”
“Noooo, the whole Haus can suck it.” Wade slung one heavily muscled arm around Usopp’s shoulders. “These are just for Usopp and me. But don’t worry!” Wade held out his other arm, giving his eyebrows an enticing wiggle in the hopes Monica would move beneath the hollow of his shoulder. “I bought you and me a whole room to go through later~”
“...A whole...room?” Monica couldn’t resist the offer for affection, slowly side-stepping costumes as best she could to move into Wade’s embrace.
“Yep! They’re mostly lingerie, mostly for you but I did buy myself a few things I thought you might like to see me in. My juicily scarred ass looks pretty good in lace, I’ve been told...by myself.”
Monica immediately turned to Usopp, avoiding that topic of conversation. “S-So, you and Wade are going to dress-up together?”
Usopp’s smile was boyish and loving as he nodded down at her. “We need your help, though! We don’t know which ones to wear for the party tomorrow.”
Wade was nuzzling into Monica’s hair, sniffing with keening little noises. “And since you’re so smart...and pretty...and smell like fucking heaven...”
Usopp gave Wade a look when Wade didn’t even bother finishing his sentence, far too wrapped up in being affectionate with Monica, who was grateful for her inability to blush at this particular moment.
“...We thought you’d be perfect to help.” Usopp finished for Wade, his smile returning full-force when Monica met his gaze.
“I’d love to help!” Monica nodded, smiling just because Usopp was. He looked so happy!
And so, the hunt for the perfect bestie costume began, re-energized by Monica’s presence. The trio sifted through the insane costume pile side by side by side; neither man moved too far away from her, wanting to be near and enjoy her presence. Wade’s openly affectionate ways were rubbing off on Usopp, who, on more than one occasion, was brave enough to give Monica’s hand a squeeze or even lean down to kiss her cheek or forehead, when he was so overcome with happiness at her participating that he couldn’t help himself! It felt good, doing this with her; it was good for both of them, Wade now so relaxed his mask was entirely off his face and Usopp feeling confident enough to express himself to the woman he loved.
The banter between the three was natural and flowed as if they’d always been, just like this.
“AAAA?!” Usopp reeled back with a surprised peal of laughter. “Wade! Take off that mask! ...That is a mask, right?”
Monica was nearly doubled over at the giant baby mask Wade had on, because it looked so ridiculous on his normal, man-sized body.
Wade did not help matters by beginning to talk and gesture with the mask still over his head, so his scratchy voice was coming from the baby’s pudgy face and gap-toothed cartoon smile. “I know it’s hard to tell when I have a mask on, okay, because my face looks like a melted candle in the shape of what I think Freddy Kruger’s balls probably look like--”
Usopp’s laughter was so loud it cut off Wade’s sentence and Monica all but threw herself on the Merc, because she couldn’t take his words coming out of that stupid looking mask!
Wade caught Monica effortlessly, strong arms like steel bands around her back as he took full advantage of the hug, and as soon as she pushed the mask off his face he was nuzzling against her soft skin, cooing and murmuring like one might imagine a baby would actually do.
“Mommy’s skin is so soft~”
“W-Wade you’re being silly,” Monica’s giggling turned shy, but she held onto him all the same. His words had come out like a self-deprecating joke but she knew the Merc and she knew his self-esteem was likely the worst in the Haus. So when Usopp laughed, and Monica took the mask off, it helped Wade feel a little better--because Usopp was paying him attention, and Monica wanted to see his face.
Time flies when you’re with the ones you love. Monica could hardly believe that an hour and a half had gone by and they hadn’t even made a dent in the pile of costumes the two had brought home. It left her a little concerned about how much time it would take to go through the room Wade had set up for the two of them...not to mention the tummy flip at the thought of what all would likely take place in said room supposedly filled with costumed lingerie for two. Smiling to herself, Monica picked up and then immediately tossed aside a naval sailor suit that Wade probably wanted to try and stuff Cora into. It was safer not to ask what his plans were for half of these things--
A prickle of unease had Monica’s attention snapping up, and her green eyes fell on...well she didn’t know if it was Wade or Usopp since the mask on the face made it impossible to tell. Her face broke into a smile, the unease chalked up to that feeling one gets when they’re being watched and it dissipated as quickly as it came. She hadn’t heard them approach, so it made sense she’d be a little startled. The mask itself didn’t exactly help; it was modeled after an old timey ventriloquist dummy, with the finely painted wooden features, including the slits down the side of the mouth where the dummy would “talk”. It’s eyes were brilliantly blue and inhumanly realistic looking, like doll’s eyes, and apparently came with a costume to match because the wearer was decked out in a full suit and tie. She must have been really involved in her searching to not notice Wade or Usopp pulling on a suit, but she had to commend the boys. A dummy and a ventriloquist was a pretty damn creepy costume combination--especially with the way this one looked. As she continued to stare at the mask, the mouth slowly opened but given it was a mask, couldn’t smile. They were just standing there with the mask mouth unsettlingly wide, as if frozen in a silent scream.
The prickle of unease returned.
Monica knew Wade and Usopp would never scare her on purpose, but she couldn’t make sense of what was happening, why they were just standing there. Were they expecting a different reaction? Maybe just wanting something more than her smile? ...It still wouldn’t make sense, Wade was never this quiet and to be honest now that she thought about it a bit more, Usopp would probably have to be coaxed into something this creepy, and she definitely would have heard Wade trying.
It was then that she saw Usopp pass by her peripheral, his spine bent as he traced a lengthy costume to it’s source.
That only left Wade--
“If I get my head stuck in a bag again I’m gonna be really pissed off.”
Wade was directly behind her, apparently head first in a bag.
So who...was in front of her...?
The mask’s eyes continued to bore into hers, it’s mouth open as if silently challenging her to scream, to say something, do something, but every instinct Monica had was fighting against that urge. She felt fear wrap around her silent heart like ice, and fight or flight was kicking in and fast--
And that was when it moved.
Slowly, the head inclined to one side, the arms of the suit coming up, up, then twisting, as if the elbow joints were being wrenched to the side. There were no hands coming out of the sleeves but there was definite sound like bone breaking as the arms twisted--which caught Usopp’s attention first, and he let out a bellow of surprise, all but leaping the distance between himself and Monica to push her behind him.
Some might consider Usopp a coward, but he never, ever hesitated when it came to Monica.
“What, is my ass hanging out agai--WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!” Wade’s surprised bellow was accusatory, angry that someone was scaring his babygirl and bestie. His bulky body came into Monica’s line of sight but she caught the back of his suit, keeping him from fully approaching the mask--it had fallen still again, it’s face still staring straight at the group but it’s arms were still horribly twisted.
“W-Wade, don’t,” Monica managed, her instincts screaming at her not to let him get any closer. She didn’t know why, she didn’t know what they were looking at, dealing with, but she wasn’t going to let Wade get hurt--whether he would come back from it or not.
“Look, Dummy McDumbass, you better hope like hell you’re not anyone I know because you’re going to get spanked with the sharp end of my katana for scaring my wife and bestie like this,” Wade shot out, only held in place by Monica’s hand clutching the back of his suit. He was standing directly in front of her and she was grateful for that, but she couldn’t resist leaning around him just to keep an eye on their silent “companion”.
It just stared back at her with that same screaming expression.
Usopp kept Monica in his hold, just a little bit behind him, but when the mask didn’t speak, when one of their Family members didn’t yank the mask off with a laugh, he felt the first shivers of true fear race down his spine.
This wasn’t someone they knew and loved. This was something else.
Wade just got angrier, slipping his gun from his thigh holster. He didn’t like the way he could feel Monica’s fingers trembling. He didn’t like that at all.
“All right, even better. You’re a literal dumbass who broke into this Haus to die. Congrats.” Wade cocked his gun, sights perfectly positioned right at the forehead of the silent, staring mask. “Gonna say, I don’t know, fucking anything before I shut you up forever?”
The mask still didn’t speak, but it did move.
Slowly, just like with it’s arms...the head began to spin around. The trio watched as the doll’s head slowly, creaking as if made of wooden bone, turned toward the right and then kept turning. As the neck started to break, the eyes remained locked to the trio, and it wasn’t until it snapped that the mask and suit fell to the floor in an empty, crumpled heap.
There was no one there.
Monica turned away from the reality of what they’d just seen, burying her face against Usopp’s chest and was relieved when his arms closed around her, his own face buried in her hair.
“I-It’s okay, it’s okay,” Usopp comforted, his voice quiet but trying to be strong for Monica. “I’m here, W-Wade’s here, we’re okay.”
Angry and with nothing to do about it, Wade unloaded an entire clip down into the mask that had somehow fallen face up, those blue eyes staring at the trio until Wade shot them out.
But a full clip shot into the floor couldn’t erase the truth--there had never been anyone there, at all.
Day Two, Recording End.
The silence of the office was deafening.
Monica was resting her head against Atamu’s chest, absolutely dwarfed by the Patriarch and grateful for it; he was surrounding her, physically and emotionally, his strongly beating heart an anchor for her relieving the fear she’d felt in that room. A full day had passed since the incident but she still didn’t know how to feel about it except scared, but Atamu was doing his best to keep her from feeling that way. His large hand was rubbing her back, his other arm draped across her body and his bicep alone was wider than her middle; she felt safe here, knew that he wouldn’t ever let anything happen to her and she basked in that feeling, letting it wash over her to drown out the prickling uneasiness and fear. Luvon was still standing guard over her, his orange eyes hard enough to break glass, but that oppressive anger was a comfort to Monica, too. She knew her Big Brother would never let anything happen to her, either, and she knew that was why he was in here. As an Alpha and a Soldier, Luvon took a heavy hand in the security of the Haus. He trained the wolves that stalked and protected the grounds and he was one of the direct reports that any of the Staff came to with any security issues. He actively reviewed security footage from the Haus and all it’s properties, especially any that concerned Monica, and that was why he was front and center, now. He wanted to know what was being done to ensure this never happened to Monica again.
“You were so very brave, sweetheart,” Thomas finally broke the silence, his tone reflective of the sunshine title he’d carried for a long time--warm. He was offering Monica a soft, proud smile. “It wanted your fear, your screams, and you didn’t give in to it.”
Helen didn’t say anything, that wasn’t her way, but the gaze she affixed to Monica let the younger woman know she felt exactly the same way.
“Thank you,” Monica offered quietly, before laughing a little. “I-I was scared, though.”
“Anyone would be,” Atamu met her attempt to deflect the praise in stride. “But you were very brave, little one.”
As Monica turned to nuzzle closer to Atamu, Helen looked up at Luvon. “Have any of your security teams found anything? How about the wolves?”
Luvon slowly shook his head. “So far, nothing.”
It was not the answer anyone wanted to hear.
“And it isn’t a poltergeist or demonic entity?” Thomas had already asked this and truthfully, he’d know if it was. But he was nothing if not the ever hopeful optimist.
“No. I’ve been reading the Haus for the past three days and have not detected anything demonic or spiritual at all. It isn’t a ghost and it isn’t a demon.” Helen’s sharply accented voice was matter-of-fact. “What Monica and the others encountered was a smokescreen. Something else projected that at them, for the purpose of inciting terror, but that wasn’t truly it.”
There was quite a gaping hole left on the table of options when one removes a ghost or demonic entity and it was felt by all in the room.
Thomas’s blond brows knotted in thought. “What else could possibly be doing this?”
“I’m afraid it might be too early to tell.” Helen’s long fingers folded in her lap. “Some hauntings, possessions, disturbances, can take days, weeks, or even months before the source is identified. Vigilance is still our strongest defense.”
“And in the meantime?” Atamu asked, fingers massaging lightly against the roots of Monica’s hair.
“In the meantime I will continue to consult with the others knowledgeable in such matters here in the Haus, monitor incidents as they happen--we had other minor disturbances yesterday but Monica’s far out-weighed any others--and Luvon will keep me informed on anything the security teams find.”
Luvon nodded, once.
“And what about the Halloween celebrations?” Thomas turned to face Helen more fully from his perch at the edge of her desk. “The costume party tonight, should we cancel it?”
That was a fair question. Helen glanced at Monica, wondering if she even felt like celebrating--not to mention, an entire Haus with people in costume was like a breeding ground for whatever this thing was, to pull another stunt like it had with the dummy mask. But...wasn’t that letting it win? It may not be a demon, but it clearly enjoyed fear and manipulation through terror.
If the Family bows out, gives in to fear, whatever this thing is could win.
Before Helen could voice any of this, the office door swung wide open and something far more disturbing than any dummy mask came sauntering in.
“Look, Pops, I dressed up as you for the party tonight!”
It was Cavon Dreadful, dressed head to toe like his Patriarchal Father. He had on a dreaded wig full of ringing dread charms, one of Atamu’s outfits, but the true genius of Cavon’s costume? The tribal patterned apron that Atamu was known to wear; it was quite obviously too big even for the Alpha, the bottom of the apron nearly touching Cavon’s boots, but the Wolf looked absurdly pleased with himself, a wide grin on his face as he spun around in the doorway. The apron had it’s pockets full of spatulas and tongs, even one of Atamu’s cleavers and the utensils all clanked together noisily as the Alpha spun around.
Everyone was left staring, but Monica was the first to truly react, erupting in a fit of adorable little giggles that widened Cavon’s grin. Atamu was next to crack, his thunderous laughter something of a notorious sound throughout the Haus, now.
Luvon shook his head but couldn’t help his grin--but if anyone asked, it was solely because Monica found it so funny. “You look fucking ridiculous.”
“Fuck you, Fam, I make this look good,” Cavon leaned back, doing a shoulder shimmy.
Thomas had his hands over his face, shoulders shaking in silent laughter, and Helen had her eyes closed, just shaking her head.
“Unbelievable. To answer your question, Thomas, yes I believe we should cancel tonight’s event but solely because Cavon’s costume is so terrible.”
“Y’all a bunch’a haters. Gramps loved my costume.”
Luvon snorted. “Well of course he did.”
Cavon gestured. “And babygirl obviously loves it!”
“Of course she does, too, idiot. Gramps and babygirl both love Dad.” Luvon shot back.
“HATERS.” Cavon pointed at everyone except Monica before looking smug. “I’mma win the contest tonight.”
“Contest?” Helen arched a brow. “I was unaware there was a costume contest.”
“Yeah, Wilson sent out a mass text ‘bout there bein’ some sorta contest.”
Helen took a sip from her wine glass in lieu of replying, but Cavon picked up what she didn’t say.
“You still got his number blocked?”
“There’s a chain of communication that can reach me if Mr. Wilson truly needs my assistance for something.”
Monica found herself laughing. “Does he really text you?”
“Sweet girl, that man will talk to an empty room. He was sending me so many text messages, that i was not responding to by the way, that it was either block him or send him to a different dimension where he cannot harass anyone anymore.”
“I once got stuck listening to him for three hours uninterrupted because I was too polite to tell him I had work to do.” Thomas chimed in, staring far-off into the distance as if reliving the nightmare.
Cavon threw his head back, laughing. “Yeah, that fuckin’ sounds right comin’ from you.”
“Yeah, they’re in here, c’mon!”
Heads turned toward the voice from the hallway, and Helen was beginning to think she might need to move her office to another dimension to get any real work accomplished.
“Y’all, guess who dressed up as the Von Triplets for the costume party tonight!”
It was Jax and Lucca, side by side, both clearly dressed in Cavon and Luvon’s clothes. Jax was decked out in Cavon’s biker gear and Lucca was wearing Luvon’s camo, with Jax having shaved his blond hair into Cavon’s trademarked mowhawked ponytail and Lucca wearing bright orange contacts. The younger pups were surprisingly spitting images of their Alpha Big Brothers...but hilariously different at the same time; Jax had Cavon’s grin and Lucca had Luvon’s deadpanned, almost bored expression.
And it definitely incited a fresh round of laughter, leaving Cavon staring slack-jawed and Luvon actually looking impressed.
“Wait, wait,” Atamu managed, holding up one large hand. “Who one of you is Savon, then?”
Jax turned as if just noticing their third was missing, and he was scowling out of the room.
“C’mon man, you gotta come in too or it don’t work an’ we won’t win the costume contest tonight!”
Three seconds later and in came Tod, dressed up just like Savon--right down to the fake horns and tail and the long, styled black wig. The Omega looked a little more sheepish than his younger brothers and it became very obvious, very fast, that he’d been roped into this idea.
Fresh rounds of laughter shake the very room, and it was as if yesterday’s events hadn’t even happened. The fear and unease were gone, replaced by Family love and laughter, as the Haus was known to be bursting with.
Atamu turned his head down, catching Monica’s attention with a proud smile. “What do you think, little one, do you think Wade and Usopp will be making use of the Peanut Butter and Jelly costumes? Because if not, Poppy wants to wear it with you.”
Monica didn’t even care if they didn’t win the costume contest; all that mattered to her was that she was going to spend the whole night dressed up with her Daddy!
Day Three, End.
#{collection} : spooktober 2019#{theme} : for monica#{ i went with a james wan approach }#{ SCARY VERY BAD THINGS and then yay happy things ♥ }
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