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beauregardlionett · 3 years

Text

i think i might understand the concept of home

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Yasha’s car had broken down on the side of the road in some tiny town she only meant to pass through. She hadn’t even read the welcome sign half-a-mile back, so gods knew where she was. Thankfully, there was a shoulder and a sidewalk, so she wasn’t stuck in the middle of traffic. She had the hood popped and stared helplessly down at the tangle of mechanics she did not understand.

Nothing was smoking, so she figured that must be a good thing.

“Need a hand?”

Yasha glanced up, catching sight of a woman standing just outside the coffee shop Yasha broke down in front of. She stood defined in the sunlight, composed of sharp lines and lean muscle, contained by planes of smooth, coffee-colored skin. She had on a simple grey sports bra under denim overalls littered with stains and distressed patches torn in random places on the legs. Her hair was in a low bun sat over what looked like an undercut all tucked messily beneath a backward cap.

Damn...she was hot.

The woman cocked an expectant eyebrow, reminding Yasha she had yet to answer.

“Oh, um...yes?”

Hot Lady smirked and stepped off the curb to stand at Yasha’s shoulder, leaning over the open hood and inspecting the mess. Yasha was busy inspecting the tanned slope of neck to bare shoulder, all of her quite a sight in the midday sunlight.

Gods, was that a tattoo on her back?

With abrupt yet easy precision, Hot Lady hauled herself up onto the lip of Yasha’s truck and shoved her hand between various pieces of metal. Startled, Yasha looked down at the engine, hoping she wouldn’t have to call emergency services for a hand lost in her car engine.

“The alternator might be shot,” Hot Lady said, squinting as she moved her hand around a little.

“What does that mean?” Yasha managed, only a little strangled.

“Means you need to get your car into a shop because you aren’t going to have much luck getting far without it.” Hot Lady removed her hand and gave a little hop back down to the pavement. She wiped her hand carelessly on her overalls and shrugged a little.

“It’s not a super challenging thing to fix, but it will take a minute. I can point you to a good garage if you need.”

“That would be very helpful. Thank you...um...”

“Beauregard,” the woman said, sticking out her hand with a grin. “Call me Beau.”

After hesitating a moment, Yasha grasped Beau’s hand and gave it a tentative shake, cheeks warm. Her face flushed even warmer when Beau raised her eyebrow again, clearly waiting for Yasha’s name.

“Yasha,” she blurted, horrid awkwardness muddying her chest. “I’m Yasha.”

“Nice to meet you, Yasha,” Beau said as she slowly took her hand back. Yasha already like the way her name sounded rolling off of Beau’s tongue - perhaps far too much for someone she just met.

“You might need to shack up somewhere for the night,” Beau said, pulling her phone from her pocket and texting someone. “Depending on how long the garage takes with your car. I haven’t seen you ‘round here before. You got a place to stay?”

“Oh...no,” Yasha managed. “I’m just passing through.”

“Well, I texted my buddy over at the garage to come get your car. He’ll be here soon. There’s only one hotel in this town, and to be honest, it sucks. My buddy Caleb moved most of his stuff out of his apartment, but he hasn’t turned the lease over yet. He got a big wig job two hours from here and they had him start early, despite the fact he still had a month on the lease. You can crash there if you want. I’m pretty sure he left his mattress.”

Yasha blinked, dazed and flabbergasted at the turn this conversation had taken.

“I...what?”

Beau looked up from her phone, fingers pausing in their rapid texting. She seemed to take in Yasha’s stunned expression and grimaced slightly.

“Sorry, that was a lot all at once.” Beau tucked her phone away and crossed her arms over her chest. Yasha recognized the defensive tactic attempting to look casual with ease. She performed that move often enough herself.

“This ‘helping’ thing isn’t my forte - more Jess’ thing. But uh...yeah. If you need a place to stay, you’ve got one. Promise there're no strings attached or anything like that.”

“But...you don’t know me.”

“True,” Beau shrugged. “But it’s not like there’s anything to steal from Caleb’s place. It’s basically an empty apartment he’s not getting anything out of. Might as well put the place to good use.”

“Okay,” Yasha said after a moment of strange quiet. What else was she supposed to say?

Beau blinked up at Yasha, then grinned, wide and delighted. “Cool.”

A few minutes later, a tow truck pulled up. Beau greeted the driver enthusiastically as Yasha watched on, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

“This is it,” Beau said, shoving open the door with her hip as she wrestled the key out of the lock.

Yasha followed Beau in, fingers curled tightly around the strap of her meager duffle bag. The apartment was near barren, as Beau had said. It had a small living area that faded seamlessly into a kitchenette. Down a short hallway appeared to be a bedroom and bathroom, both doors open. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The only sign someone had recently been occupying the space was the old mattress just visible through the bedroom door and the sagging sofa in the living room.

“Sorry there’s no food in the kitchen, but there’s a store about a block from here if you’re up for a walk. I’d hang around but I have to get to a class.”

Yasha twisted to look at Beau, something bubbling up in her chest that felt a lot like gratitude and a little like something indescribable. She watched as Beau fiddled with her key ring, only realizing what was happening when Beau pulled a key off and tossed it to Yasha. She just barely managed to catch it and not make a fool of herself.

“That’s the key to the door for ya. And,” Beau pulled a crumpled, folded piece of paper from her pocket, holding it out to Yasha. “My number, in case you have questions or you need anything. I’m a night owl and an early riser, so chances are I’ll answer whenever.”

“Thank you,” Yasha warbled after a long moment, clutching the key so hard the grooves of its identity imprinted into her palm. The notches stung like she would never forget their shape. “I mean it. This is...a lot.”

Beau rubbed the back of her neck, scuffing the toe of her sneaker against the worn floorboards. “It’s nothin’ really...”

“No,” Yasha insisted. “It’s a lot. Thank you.”

Beau’s gaze met Yasha’s intense stare, her bright blue eyes wide as they took in Yasha’s sincerity. A handful of seconds stretched into eternity before Beau ducked her head, rubbing at the back of her neck.

“Yeah...sure.”

Yasha was getting the impression she wasn’t the only one completely out of her depth in this situation.

“I’ll come around tomorrow with updates...bye.”

Yasha watched her duck out the door, disappearing down the hallway before she shut the door behind Beau and clicked the lock.

The garage had Yasha’s car fixed and ready to go after two days. Yasha was still in town three months later.

In all honesty, she’s not sure how it happened.

The night she planned to leave, Beau had swung by and insisted on seeing her off. They ended up at a diner, tucked into a booth, talking like they actually knew each other. Next thing Yasha realized, it was nearing midnight, and they were being asked to wrap up so the diner could close. The chef had called to them from the window, an older looking man with bright pink hair who gave Beau a knowing look and a wink.

Somehow, that unplanned extra night turned into months. Yasha had taken on the lease from the absent Caleb for his apartment. She found a job at the local florist, a job she quietly enjoyed. The gravity of her situation only set in after she bought sheets for the mattress.

She met Jess - real name Jester, or Genevieve, but Yasha couldn’t sure - a bubbly girl with deep blue hair and the sweetest attitude ever. Her fingertips were permanently paint stained, and she left hastily sketched dicks everywhere she went. Yasha also met the tow truck driver from the first day, a guy named Fjord. They were a weird mix of individuals, but somehow they got on just fine. They ate dinner together every Thursday night at the same bar owned by the guy who tended the bar - one of those small town things. His name was Mollymauk - Molly for short and sometimes they instead of he - with inordinately purple hair and makeup to match.

Yasha never really spent a lot of time in her apartment. She didn’t see the point, not when she had access to the florist shop, or the diner, or anywhere else with Jess, Fjord, Molly, or Beau. Especially not when Jess’ apartment she shared with Fjord was so much warmer, much more like a home.

It took three months before Beau stopped mid-sentence of a story and blinked at Yasha over their pancakes in the diner.

“This is probably a stupid question, but did you have somewhere to be?”

Yasha looked up, confused. “Right now? Uh...no? My shift at the shop doesn’t start for another three hours.”

“No, no, I meant like outside this town. You told me you were passing through, before.”

“Oh,” Yasha set down her fork and looked out the window. Her chest felt tight. That afternoon seemed like a lifetime ago - a whole other person ago. “Not really.”

“Do...uhm,” Yasha looked over at Beau to find her pushing her food around her plate awkwardly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

This was difficult for both of them. If Yasha had learned anything in her time here, it was that they both struggled to convey their emotions eloquently. But that Beau tried meant everything to Yasha. The least she could do was meet her halfway.

“I was running, and I didn’t know where or when I would stop. But I guess this place is where I’m meant to be.”

“Why were you running?” Beau stared at her, gaze intense in a way Yasha found endearing. She watched like nothing else in the world could distract her.

“I...I had a wife. And I lost her rather abruptly almost six months ago. I tried to stay for a while, to keep what we had built together, but I wasn’t strong enough. So I ran and hoped that I would find something worth staying for again before I fell off the world.”

Beau stared at Yasha openly over their half-eaten breakfast, eyes wide.

“You stayed here. Does that mean you found something here?”

Yasha looked at Beau, at her messy bun and her undercut that needed a fresh shave. She took in the puddle of syrup, slowly saturating Beau’s pancakes and the half gone pile of bacon. Beau’s cellphone sat face down on the table so her attention stayed on Yasha. She realized the baggy sweater Beau had on was one Yasha had misplaced almost a month ago. Yasha lost her breath at the butterflies that fluttered to life in her stomach.

“I think so,” Yasha breathed, tethered and unhinged all at once.

They didn’t talk about it, because of course they didn’t.

But two weeks after their pancake conversation, Beau invited Yasha out for a night on the town. There were only two bars with decent night life here, and Yasha had been to both of them exactly once during her time here. (The daytime trips to Molly’s bar didn’t count, of course. She had only been to their bar for the night life once.)

She met Beau in the middle, and they walked together the rest of the way.

Beau had gotten her undercut shaved tight again, but it was hidden with the way her hair spilled loose and long down her back. She had a cobalt lace crop top on - the one with the built-in bra. The way it showed off the definition of her muscles was doing things to Yasha. The black cigarette pants didn’t help either.

A few drinks and way too many EDM songs later - or maybe only a few? Yasha couldn’t tell them apart - Yasha remained upright from adrenaline alone. Somewhere between the drinks and the beat of the music, Beau pressed up against Yasha, wiry arms winding around Yasha’s neck as they danced. Yasha wasn’t much of a dancer in any regard, but she was just tipsy enough to not care.

Beau’s hips fit comfortably in the space between Yasha’s hands, and Yasha resolutely tried not to follow that train of thought. For no other reason than she didn’t want to ruin a good thing, and there was no way Beau felt the same.

Beau pushed onto her toes, shiny black boots creasing with the motion as her lace top rode up her enticing torso.

“I really want to kiss you,” Beau called over the heavy thrum of the base. Her voice nearly got lost in the din, but Yasha heard her. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t. The weight of her heart dropping into her stomach hit too heavy and real to ignore.

Fuck, she wanted to kiss Beau, too.

Yasha’s t-shirt stuck to random parts of her torso with sweat, a detail she was now hyper-aware of with how little space existed between her and Beau. The press of bodies around them was abruptly unnerving. So much so, Yasha wound an arm around Beau’s shoulders and steered them both free, ducking into the hallway that lead to the bathrooms as Yasha gasped for air.

Beau leaned her back against the wall for support, peering at Yasha with far too much clarity for someone who could barely stand upright.

“Are you okay, Yash?” Her voice was quieter now that they had moved out of the main bar, but the base still pounded like a heartbeat through the floorboards.

With more confidence than Yasha would ever possess in her life, she caged Beau in, a hand on either side of her head against the wall. As Beau stared up at her with unabashed awe, Yasha’s face warmed with flushed embarrassment.

“I want to kiss you so bad.”

“Then do it,” Beau said. It sounded like a dare, but she said it as if she were asking permission.

With a quick swoop into Beau’s space, Yasha pressed her lips to Beau’s with the barest amount of pressure. A feather-light, electric brush of a promise, a question, and an invitation. Yasha moved no closer.

Beau leaned in, and as far as kisses went, it was simple. Neither of them surged toward the other, or grappled for purchase to deepen the embrace. It was an easy press of lips, testing the waters despite the alluring tug of the tide.

Tipsy seconds later, Beau pulled back first with a soft gasp. Yasha’s eyes fluttered open, and she felt like a cheesy teenager when she realized they had closed without her knowledge.

“Do you want to do this?” Beau asked, voice soft and a little wrecked despite the chaste kiss.

Yasha, never one for many words, gave a quick nod and ducked back in. It wasn’t confidence, more like the beginning of a realization.

Beau held onto her, this time hands back around Yasha’s neck and fingers tangled deep in Yasha’s wild hair. Yasha took one hand from the wall to cup the back of Beau’s head, fingers sliding easily over the short hairs of Beau’s undercut.

It wasn’t a fireball kiss, but it tasted like the whiskey shots they had done half an hour ago. Beau’s lips were soft and a stark contrast to the way she kissed Yasha. It wasn’t falling stars and fire lit in her chest, nor was it a cosmic shift of puzzle pieces snapping into place. As before, it was a realization, a revelation of something that might have been there for a while.

Beau kissed Yasha back, and she thought about pancakes at the diner and memorizing the way Beau’s eyes scrunched when she laughed. Yasha rubbed her thumb over Beau’s jawline and Beau’s sharp grin burst to life behind her eyelids. A tug to Yasha’s hair reminded her of Beau offering to braid Yasha’s messy locks every time they all slept at Jess’ place. Beau licked into Yasha’s mouth and all at once, Yasha pictured her apartment. She saw the walls she had kept carefully bare, the sheets she had bought, but no other furniture. The echoing emptiness of a place abandoned for a better chance, and inhabited by the echo of who Yasha used to be.

And what did people say about echoes being louder in empty rooms?

Beau kissed Yasha, and Yasha realized she didn’t want to be an echo anymore.

Beau made her feel solid in a way that was undemanding. She merely held out her hand and asked for the pieces of Yasha that were real, the parts she was willing to share. She helped Yasha make them into a complete picture.

Yasha kissed Beau back with all the gentle strength she could muster through the weight of her epiphany and the whiskey.

This time, Yasha knew she found something worth staying for.

#cr #critical role #beauyasha #beauregard lionett #yasha #writing #my writing

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years

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Pins and Needles: Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

———- 🌷 🐺 🌷———-

The butter yellow of the awning of the new tattoo shop carried on inside. The color scheme was classy, though.

During Geralt’s mostly misspent youth, he’d been inside his fare share of tattoo and piercing parlors. He’d never gotten a tattoo, and his piercings had mostly been his own work, but still, the culture seeped in. He had learned to expect a lot of red and black and exposed brickwork. There was nothing wrong with that look, but he considered the interior of Pins and Needles to be much more friendly.

The walls were a deep blue, denim, if he had to name it, or perhaps Prussian Blue. It was on all the walls, and the ceiling, with the floor in a dark, smooth wood. He wasn’t sure if that was kept from the last shop or was newly installed. The counter was in the same polished, dark wood, so he supposed it was new. All the accents were dandelion yellow, or yellow brass if they were metal. His leg brushed up against a velveteen chair, something of a vintage style, and of course, in that same buttery yellow.

The waiting area had the chair, a matching loveseat, and a high-backed chaise lounge in a teal color. It had more green to it’s color than the walls, and was in a lighter shade, but it was adjacent to the color of the walls, and a pleasing focal point. Overall, Geralt was impressed. The blue and yellow color scheme could have easily been overdone, but it was masterful, and clearly completed by someone with an eye for color.

Ciri was delightedly pouring over a piercing display. Geralt was startled to realize he owned the exact display box. It was, in fact, a large glass terrarium, the metal that same shiny brass. The shelves of piercing were cleverly angled and set within the case so that they were all visible.

“Nice display case, isn’t it?”

Geralt turned, and there was Jaskier. He had a BB8 coffee mug in his hand, and a shimmery teal shirt unbuttoned low. It framed his sternum and the peaks of color visible through his chest hair and pointing down in a tempting arrow to--

“urk,” Geralt said, choking on his own tongue.

“Priscilla found it on the side of the road one day, the legs were scuffed to hell and one was missing, but the glass was intact, so she took it back to her house and fixed it up.”

“I have the same one,” Geralt managed, the tips of his ears reddening.

“Oh, as a display case?”

“Um, it’s a terrarium.”

“Is it really?” Jaskier beamed and Geralt felt like he was dying. “I always thought it was a funny shape. It makes such a lovely focal point along that wall though.”

Ciri was beaming as well. “Dad keeps succulents in his. Is Priscilla the lady that does piercings?”

“She is,” Jaskier said, tilting his head so that his hair flopped and Gerald got a better view of his undercut and dangling chain of a cuff piercing on his ear. “Are you in the market for a piercing, miss...”

“Ciri,” she said, sticking her hand out to shake. “And my dad might get a tattoo sometime, but he’s being a baby about it and doesn’t know what he wants.”

Jaskier shook her hand and levelled a devastating grin at Geralt. “Well, some things aren’t to be rushed, but if your dad ever want’s a tattoo, I’ll give him anything he wants.”

Geralt desperately tried to reel his thoughts in from the absolute trainwreck that that statement illicited. Obviously Jaskier was just trying to sell his craft not offer...anything else.

“Are you taking walk-ins for piercings?” Ciri asked.

“Absolutely,” Jaskier said, turning and shouting. “Priscilla?” Down the hall of the shop where, presumably, the actuall tattooing and piercing rooms were.

“YEah?” came the response.

“Got a consult for you!”

She poked her head out of a room, smiled quickly, popped back in for a second, then emerged. “Hiya, sorry, I was just doing a little sketching, how can I help?”

“I’d like an industrial piercing please,” Ciri said.

Priscilla tilted her head, eyes squinting slightly as she, apparently, assesed Ciri’s ears. “That’ll suit you well, left or right side?”

“Left.”

“Cool,” she looked to Geralt. “I’m assuming you’re the dad?”

“Uh, yes,” Geralt said, feeling wildly out of his depth.

“Great, and does she have your permission for the piercing?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, absolutely.”

“Cool,” Priscilla said, digging behind the counter. “I’ve got paper work for both of you, and then we can get this lovely lady poked full of holes.”

Geralt’s stomach flipped over. Despite how many times he had actually stuck a fucking sewing needle through his own ear as a teenager, he couldn’t stand the thought of normal piercing needles.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Ciri said as they were handed paperwork and pens. “You don’t have to hold my hand or anything, you can wait out here.”

“Great,” Geralt said, looking at the paperwork. Pretty standard stuff, parental release, aftercare papers, all that. He signed quickly and returned the relevant documents, keeping the aftercare instructions.

“Thanks very much,” Priscilla said, checking for signatures before smiling at Ciri again. “Got any jewelry picked out?” They walked over to the case as Ciri gestured to some.

Jaskier was looking at Geralt assessingly over the top of his coffee mug. “You know,” he said. “Most dads aren’t this cool about piercings.” He licked a bit of foam off of his lip and Geralt tried very hard to pretend that he hadn’t seen the flash of a tongue piercing.

“I, uh, I’ve got plenty of bad ones, I’d rather she got her’s done professionally.”

“Bad ones?” Priscilla’s head jerked up. “Can I see?”

Geralt nodded as she was already bustleing over. He brushed the strands of hair that escaped his ponytail back so she could see his ears.

“Amatur work for sure, although no lasting damage, where’d you get these done?”

Geralt flushed. “I did them, uhm, way back.”

“Oh god, you didn’t buy one of those cheep piercing guns, did you?” Priscilla asked, poking gently at Geralt’s ear so she could look at the back of the piercings. Jaskier smiled at Geralt’s probably confused expression.

“No, I used a needle.”

Priscilla pulled back, eyes wide. “A sewing needle?”

Geralt shrugged guiltily.

“Yeah, okay,” she said quickly, turning to Ciri. “Hold out your pinky, you have to make me a promise.”

Ciri’s brow furrowed, but she linked pinky fingers with the excitable piercer.

“I promise,” Priscilla said, gesturing with her other hand for Ciri to repeat after her.

“I promise,” Ciri said.

“Not to pierce myself.”

“Not to pierce myself,” Ciri said, smiling.

“No matter what my dad did.”

“No matter what my dad did,” Ciri finished. “I won’t, don’t worry.”

“Good,” Priscilla said, releasing Ciri’s pinky from it’s hold and sending a theatrical shiver of disgust toward Geralt. “A sewing needle, yikes. C’mon kiddo, we’re gonna stick a needle through your ear, and I’ll show you how a real piercer does it.”

She hurried Ciri into the back room, grabbing a couple sealed packages on the way, needle and jewelry, Geralt presumed.

“Don’t mind Prissy,” Jaskier said. “She’s just very big on piercing safety.”

“No, I agree,” Geralt said. “I was a really stupid kid back then.”

Jaskier smiled and came out from around the counter a bit, leaning against the side, hip jutting in those ungodly tight leather pants. “Ciri seems pretty smart though, does she get it from her mother?”

“Um,” Geralt said, the sight of those long, leather-wrapped legs making his mouth weirdly dry. “I suppose? Her dad was pretty smart, too.”

“Ah, so you’re not her biological dad?” Jaskier said, leaning forward. Geralt wondered for a second if he was fishing, but surely not, pretty tattoo artists didn’t flirt with frumpy guys like him.

“No, uh, but I’ve been her guardian since she was just a baby so...”Geralt trailed off, unsure how to finish.

“That’s very cute.” Jaskier’s eyes trailed down Geralt, then back up. To his shame, Geralt realized he hadn’t even removed his apron.

“You know,” Jaskier said, conversationally. “My dad would have never even thought about letting me get a piercing.”

Geralt looked over the form in front of him, piercings in each ear, more than one, even, a nose ring, and that ellusive tongue ring, as well as the colorful tattoos that swarmed over his skin. “That worked out well for him,” he said without thinking, then blushed.

Jaskier, though, laughed, head back, shoulders shaking. “Indeed,” he said at last. “I shrugged off my father’s wishes rather fully, I think.”

The bell rang as another person entered the shop and Geralt stepped aside as Jaskier went back behind the counter. He sat on the yellow chair and watched Jaskier’s lips--and that hint of silver on his tongue-- as he made the young woman a tattoo appointment.

Jaskier’s hands, full of rings and swirling ink, were so quick on the computer keys, and when he talked with them, they were so expressive.

Geralt wanted to hold one.

Unfortunately, by the time the young woman was gone and Geralt could have possibly had Jaskier’s full attention again, Ciri was all done. Geralt paid, thanked both Jaskier and Priscilla, and went over the care instructions, before he and Ciri crossed the road.

It felt very much like a retreat.

———- 🌷 🐺 🌷———-

Tag List!

@jaybeefoxy @sweetiepieplum @holymotherwolf

#geraskier #tattoo au #flower shop au #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geralt is a good dad #but a dating disaster #DO NOT do your own piercings kids

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lit-in-thy-heart · 3 years

Text

It was a sunny day and Lancelot was fighting the urge to hurl himself into the lake.

A walk to the nearby park, that was meant to have lasted no longer than twenty minutes, had quickly transformed into a completely unnecessary rescue mission and Lancelot was watching with growing despair as Gwaine waded into the water. Despite being told that the ducklings would be able to get up onto the grass by themselves, Gwaine had complained about the bad parenting from the two ducks serenely looking on as their offspring drifted aimlessly along an invisible path and had promptly decided to intervene himself. Merlin had gone to get coffee, so was no help whatsoever, and Gwaine was attracting stares that were not the usual stunned and admiring ones always shot his way.

Struggling in silence for several moments more, Lancelot took a breath and, casting a glance towards the coats they'd left strewn across the bench, advanced towards Gwaine. When Lancelot approached, Gwaine turned around, his hair obscuring one eye but not quite concealing his grin. In his palms was a duckling and Lancelot felt his internal tension melting away at the beauty of the image before him, fingers itching for something to sketch with. Instead, he fumbled with his phone and captured Gwaine with his camera just as a flower of blossom stumbled down from an overhead branch and dusted Gwaine's hair. It adorned his head like a statue of a deity from antiquity and Lancelot lowered his phone, soft smile flickering on the corners of his mouth.

The duckling had started to make noises and Gwaine tore his eyes away from Lancelot to address the small creature, bringing his hands closer to his face. 'What is it that you want, buddy? Because if it's love that you're after, I can give you endless supplies. I'm sure Lance and Merl won't mind me drawing some stores from theirs because you are absolutely adorable.'

'They probably want to be put down, Gwaine,' Merlin chipped in, picking his way through the grass with his eyes fixed on three levitating cups. 'Poor things haven't learnt how to fly yet; this is probably the most terrifying experience that they've had.'

Taking the closest coffee cup to him, Lancelot removed the lid, took a sniff, and hastily put it back on again. 'I believe that's yours, Merlin,' he said, holding it out to them.

Merlin, dropping the spell and catching the other two cups in their hands, delicately frowned as he snatched a sample of the scents issuing from the slots in the remaining cups. Then, deciphering the caffeinated code, they passed one drink to Lancelot and accepted the one that Lancelot had been so offended by. 'What is Gwaine doing?' asked Merlin lowly, taking a sip of his black coffee.

'Rescue mission. Ducklings couldn't get up onto the bank and Gwaine thought they were going to drown.' Lancelot ignored the burning sensation in his mouth -- it would be the perfect injury for Merlin and Gwaine to kiss better later -- and pulled an impressed face. 'This isn't half bad. Though what syrup did you get?'

'Take a guess.'

Wrinkling his nose, Lancelot took another sip. Then, for good measure, he pressed a kiss to Merlin’s skin with a frown, pulling away. 'Well, it's not cinnamon.' He took another sip. 'Vani--No, caramel?'

With a grin, Merlin nodded. 'Soft and sweet, like you.'

'And what did Gwaine get?'

'Gwaine got a mocha with two espresso shots.'

Thinking for a moment, Lancelot smiled. 'Richly warm and sweet with a bit of a kick? Perfect.' Then he glanced over at Gwaine, who now seemed to be berating the two ducks who were doing absolutely nothing. 'I mean, proof right there.'

Laughter sharply reverberating through the air, Merlin raised their own cup to his lips. 'So what does that make me, then?'

Gently, Lancelot wrapped an arm around Merlin to draw them close, kissing the nose that wrinkled at him. 'That makes you a shot of pure energy and undiluted strength. Now, are you going to help me entice Gwaine away from the ducks?'

'As long as I don't have to get in the water,' murmured Merlin. 'This skirt is vintage, I'll have you know.'

As Lancelot caught part of the material between his fingers, tracing the flowers printed across Merlin's legs, he smiled again. 'I won't make you get in the water, my light, don't worry. I might make you take my coffee again, though.'

'That raises no qualms with me,' Merlin said, eyes transforming into the familiar shade of gold Lancelot was accustomed to as he took the third cup and retreated to the bench that had been abandoned with a muttered: 'Good luck'.

Watching them pick a path through the dying daffodils, Lancelot turned around to observe his second significant other. 'Gwaine. Gwaine.'

Gwaine, who had moved onto lecturing about the importance of families staying together and had seemingly forgotten the alleged fact he'd recited earlier about ducks only being able to count to four, spun around at the call of his name. 'Yeah?'

'Merlin has coffee.'

Gwaine's eyes momentarily lit up. 'Are they going to bring it here then?'

'Not when you're stood in the middle of a lake--'

'I'm not in the middle, I'm right by the bank--'

'Gwaine, the fate of your coffee is in my hands. You do not want to argue with me,' threatened Lancelot. 'Now put the duckling down and carefully get out.'

Holding Lancelot’s gaze for several moments, Gwaine blew the hair out of his face and twisted back towards the ducks. Gently setting the duckling down on the bank, he made an aggressive motion towards the parents that made it clear he would be watching them and began to wade across to meet Lancelot. As he approached the bank, he stretched out a hand and Lancelot took it to help haul him up.

Gwaine, however, was not hauled up. Lancelot was dragged down.

The world blurred as he plunged into the water, Merlin's laughter becoming muffled as Lancelot struggled to find his feet. Spluttering, he emerged from the depths and stumbled slightly before standing upright, completely drenched. Heart in his mouth, his hand jumped to his back pocket. 'My phone. I had my phone in my pocket--'

As Lancelot ducked beneath the water's surface, Gwaine glanced over at Merlin, who had started to stand in concern, having realised that Lancelot was panicked. Gwaine’s hand fumbled for Lancelot’s arm and he pulled him up, pushing the hair from his face with one hand as the other displayed the artist's phone.

'You absolute bastard, Gwaine.'

'Hey, now, would you prefer that I did actually put it in the water?' asked Gwaine, adjusting his grip so the device dangled precariously from his fingers.

Lancelot moved closer. 'If you fucking dare--'

'And I think I'd better take that,' Merlin interrupted, the phone bobbing from Gwaine's grip to his own. 'I was going to ask how on earth you managed to get it so smoothly from Lance's back pocket, Gwaine, but then I remembered that you know Lancelot’s buttocks like the back of your hand and that you are very good at being subtle with your hands when it comes to that region.'

Gwaine threw the warlock a wink. 'I know your buttocks like the back of my hand as well.'

'Oh, yes, I am very much aware,' smirked Merlin. 'Are you actually going to get out this time, or am I going to have to drink three coffees and bounce off the walls for the rest of the day?'

Sparing Gwaine a glare, Lancelot extracted himself from the lake and gave Merlin a gentle smile as they threw a spell in his direction and began to tease the water from his clothing. With a leap, Gwaine followed, taking his drink and scuffing the ground with his feet. 'I'm sorry if I upset you, Lance,' he mumbled. 'It was just too much of a good opportunity to miss.'

Jaw setting, Lancelot faced Gwaine, saying nothing for several seconds, and swept his legs out from underneath him, one hand expertly catching the liberated coffee as Gwaine collapsed to the ground. 'Now we're even,' he announced, taking a sip of his latte, as Gwaine groaned.

'I'll say.' Struggling to sit up, Gwaine groped the air with his hands. 'Pass me my coffee, would you?'

Not wanting to take any chances, Lancelot carefully sat down beside him and passed over the cup, sparing a second to kiss the corner of Gwaine’s mouth. 'It might have been a nasty shock for me, but it made Merlin laugh, so I'm not that mad.'

Grinning, Gwaine returned to Lancelot’s mouth with his lips. 'You taste of lake.'

'And whose fault is that?' remarked Lancelot as Merlin settled between their outstretched legs.

Summoning the coats, Merlin set his coffee down amidst the grass and draped all three of the garments over Lancelot’s shoulders. 'Honestly, I don't understand why either of you are complaining. You spent 1500 years in a lake, you'd think it would be your natural habitat by now.'

'No,' Lancelot said, glancing towards Gwaine, who completed the sentiment.

'Our natural habitat is with you.'

Beaming, Merlin knocked their ankles against the knights' thighs and the rest of the day melted into skittish touches and tentative sunshine.

#so i had the urge to write fluff #so have modern merwaincelot (gwaincelot have been resurrected) causing chaos in a local park #aka gwaine gives ducks some parenting tips #lancelot gets exasperated #and merlin just drinks coffee and watches the carnage #merlin #gwaine #lancelot #merwaincelot #merwainecelot #bbc merlin #merlin modern au

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preciouspeterbparker · 3 years

Text

the warmest bed i’ve ever known

finally got this bitch finished!

based on “tis the damn season” by taylor swift. i was also listening to the phoebe bridgers cover of “christmas song”, “last christmas” cover by pale waves (recorded @ spotify), and “home alone, too” by the staves

also this is only my 2nd time writing starker so lmk what you think plz?

happy holidays! - bloo

word count: 6.07k. this was intended to basically be a porny blurb...instead there’s so much fucking plot it’s probably overwhelming and minimal porn. i’m sorry

warnings: angst, depression & anxiety, drug use (that good kush ft some hotboxing & shotgunning), smut, character death (not tony or peter), tony’s kind of country lmao. despite all the aforementioned things, there is in fact a happy ending!

summary: peter makes the trip back home for christmas and once again finds himself caught up in deep brown eyes and a charming smile. tis the damn season.

Peter had forgotten how cold New York winters were. He’d grown used to the year-long warmth of Los Angeles. He supposed the cold was appropriate- it was as if the weather was in cahoots with the solid, frigid thing that was sitting in the pit of his stomach. The last time he’d spent Christmas in Aurora, the last time he’d seen him… Tony.

Just thinking the other man’s name made Peter flex his hands anxiously as he slid out of the driver’s seat of his black Mercedes AMG GT into the amber glow of the streetlight, gently shutting the door closed behind him, still in the overly cautious period of owning the new car. He wondered what Tony would think of it. Last time Peter had come home, he was still driving May’s old Subaru. It’d been almost 2 years to the day, now, which felt like both a century and no time at all. He wished it wasn’t so hard. He wished they hadn’t been caught in this song & dance for so long. It seemed like no matter how good Peter’s intentions, it always came down to one thing: he was so damn scared. He always ran away, no matter how badly he wanted to stay.

Scuffing a boot through the slush in the street, the brunette straightened his shoulders and made his way toward the brick building, a quick smile quirking half his mouth up as he read the neon red sign above the closed garage door. Stark’s. Memories came flooding back, the countless nights he spent cooped up in the little shop during high school, sketching elaborate ensembles and daydreaming about having his very first collection while surrounded by the smell of motor oil and the sounds of tinkering. The bell above the door jingled merrily as Peter stepped through and wiped his feet on the mat. The pleasant sound of Frank Sinatra crooning the words of “The Christmas Waltz” met his ears. Another small smile flitted over Peter’s face. That was something that tended to happen when he was around Tony.

“Just a second,” came the slightly muffled voice, a little strained. The man in question was bent over, headfirst in the engine of his old 1979 Chevy C10, the one he’d gotten senior year of highschool. The collar of a heather grey henley peeked out from under a deep red and green plaid flannel stretched over his shoulders as he leaned a little further under the hood, using a wrench to tighten what looked to be a lugnut to Peter from his spot by the door, too nervous to go further inside.

“I can wait,” Peter replied softly, trying not to stare at Tony’s jean-clad ass and anxious of the older boy man’s reaction. (It looked like Tony had done a lot of growing up over the past two years, no longer the boy he remembered. Peter supposed the same could be said about himself in a way, though he wasn’t sure if it was for better or worse.)

And apparently he was right to be cautious.

Tony promptly smacked his head on the underside of the hood as he jerked upright at the sound of Peter’s voice. “Fuck.” Moving more carefully, Tony stood upright and turned around, his dark eyes wide. “Peter,” he said, visibly and audibly surprised. To be honest, it hurt Peter a little bit, how surprised he sounded. Maybe coming here was a mistake. Did they not do this nearly every year over the past seven? Had- Oh god, had something changed? Fuck, did Tony finally get tired of- Had he found-

Peter resolutely cut that train of thought off before he could panic. “Hi, Tony.” He swallowed drily, making eye contact for a moment, before casting his eyes away only for them to make their way back to the open face in front of him. “Think you have time for a quick bite to eat?” He slipped his left hand into the pocket of the new, warm wool coat he bought expressly for this trip. “It’s almost dinner time. And I have a treat,” he intoned, tapping his right pointer and middle fingers against his lips.

Tony beamed and immediately reached for a shop rag to wipe his hands, the black grease and oil smearing on the probably-used-to-be-white-at-some-point fabric. One of those hands came up to scratch at his facial hair, a new addition that made something simmer deep in Peter’s gut. The older man's brown eyes twinkled as he paused to glance at Peter. “You had me at ‘hi, Tony.’” He then proceeded to move about the shop, swiping his phone from atop a chest of metal drawers, Sinatra’s voice coming to an abrupt stop. He pulled on his old lined jean jacket (the one Peter was constantly mending in high school; now it just had small tears in some places, and what appeared to be Tony’s d-i-y patchwork in others). The sign on the front door was flipped to ‘closed’ and Tony pulled a keyring from his belt loop, locking it and flicking off the lights. The streetlights outside the building and the colorful holiday lights strung along the edge of the roof provided just enough light for them to be able to clearly see each other, the sun having set early, around four o’clock. Peter had forgotten about that as well.

He moved to grab his car keys from a pocket but Tony spoke up, patting the dark green paint of his truck’s hood and walking over to the garage door. His hand hovered over the button that would open it. “Actually, I just finished giving Delilah a tuneup, mind if we take ‘er for a spin?”

“Sure,” Peter agreed without hesitation, still feeling relieved (and grateful) that his invitation was accepted.

Tony pushed his palm against the button and paused to do a double-take after the metal door lifted completely. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Peter’s car parked in the small lot beside the shop. “Damn, L.A.. Not worried about your fancy new car?” His tone was slightly teasing, but there was a bit of shock mixed with something else as well, and it caused Peter to go hot, feeling insecure. (What if Tony didn’t like who Peter was, now? Peter didn’t exactly like who he was now.) Tony must’ve noticed his discomfort, because he cracked a grin and bumped his shoulder against Peter’s as he made his way to the driver’s side, yanking the door open. “C’mon, Parker, ‘m just fuckin’ with you. Hop in - how’da some burgers from Delmar’s an’ a trip out to the field sound?”

***

They grabbed food from the hole-in-the-wall diner down the road (the one where sixteen year-old Peter burned the shit out of his hand on his first day and promptly quit) and once they were bundled back in the truck with their burgers, fries and one banana milkshake (“yeah, but these are your favorite,” Tony had said in response to Peter’s exclamation that it was too cold out), Tony drove them out to the field behind the old high school. He parked the car under the lamppost, leaving it running in order to keep the heat on. His thick mechanic’s fingers began to fiddle with the temperature controls. Nat King Cole was playing quietly on the radio.

Peter shifted the paper bag of food in his lap, searching for words but not knowing what to say, and plucked the joint and lighter from his coat. The paper-covered filter found its way between his lips and he inhaled softly as he lit the tip. Satisfied with the light, he french inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment. The first hit was always the best. Peter loved the way he could feel it all the way in his bones. He didn’t know how to describe it other than deep. When he opened them, he made eye contact with Tony in the dim light, and immediately cut his gaze away as he felt the heat rush to his face. He could feel when Tony looked away a moment later.

The lull continued and Peter gingerly held the joint between his fingertips as he exhaled, hand outstretched.

Worn fingers plucked it away, and Peter’s eyes were immediately drawn to the slightly chapped lips that wrapped themselves around the filter. “You stayin’ at um, at May's...old place?” Tony faltered as he inhaled, as if he wasn't sure what the most sensitive way to talk about it was.

“Yeah," Peter said softly as he looked down at his lap. Spending his first night in the house alone last night had made him feel the loneliest he'd ever been in his life, and that was saying something because he’d been feeling pretty miserable lately. Peter saw May everywhere he looked, waiting to hear her call for him to come taste some new-fangled recipe from the kitchen, or to please, for the hundredth time, rinse the dishes before he put them in the sink. He missed her more than he thought possible, her death earth-shattering after having already lost Ben when he was 17, back when this mess all started. When he left for the first time. When he started running away. “It’s- It’s weird but I’m...adjusting. It’s honestly not that different to when she was alive, though. Y’know- recently.” He cut himself off, not sure if he wanted Tony to know the full reality of his existence, now.

Because it was true. It killed Peter to admit it, but his relationship with Aunt May started going downhill around the time of Ben’s death, too. By the time she had her heart attack a little more than two years ago, he hadn’t seen her in over a year, or talked to her in nearly as long. It was the biggest regret of his life, pushing May away; the second was the way he essentially did the same thing to Tony, however drawn-out it had been.

Peter reached out for the joint and his fingers brushed against Tony’s, sending a jolt up his spine. “How,” Peter started, swallowing as he twiddled the lighter between his fingers not holding the joint. “How’ve you been, Tony?” He was scared to ask what he really wanted to know. Have you finally had enough? Did you stop waiting on me? Am I too late? To distract himself a bit, he cracked the window so he could ash the joint before taking another drag.

"Same ol’, same ol’,” came Tony’s reply, his voice weary. “I mean, you already know this, but nothin’ really changes here." The quiet way he said it was slightly self-deprecating and the younger man hated it, hated that he had something to do with it. (Peter remembered the way he spat the words at Tony in the wee hours of the morning oh so long ago. "I've gotta get out of this fucking town- I can’t stay here, Tony! You might be okay dying here, a nobody with nothing, but I'm not!")

That’s why I had to leave, he thought, chest tightening. I was trapped in this town. It was never you, Tony. You were perfect. You’re perfect.

"..Yeah," is what came out instead. Peter took another hit before he handed the joint back to Tony and began rifling through the grease-splotched bag, passing the older man his burger before unwrapping his own. He took the top bun off in order to lay down a handful of fries from the bag, smooshing the top back on afterwards. A moan left Peter’s mouth at the first bite, and he heard a chuckle bubble up from Tony’s chest. (He would never admit it, especially not to anyone back in L.A., anyone who didn’t know him before, but this was his favorite meal in the world.)

“Funny that you still do that. So, um,” Tony began again, stuffing a few fries in his mouth and chewing as he spoke out the side of his mouth. “I saw your new collection. It looked nice.” He licked a bit of salt off his thumb.

Peter’s ears burned as he swallowed his bite and raised an eyebrow at the man across from him. “You pay attention to fashion, now?” He fought off a smile at the thought of Tony delicately flipping through the pages of a high-fashion magazine.

“Not like- I’ve tried to keep up with your work,” Tony mumbled, swallowing, his own face taking on a bit of a rosy-hue. “Like to know what you're up to all the way out there.” The joint touched his lips for a few seconds before it made its way back to Peter’s fingers. “I do know how Google works.”

Peter shivered as he felt something flutter in the pit of his stomach at the salt grains that touched his tongue when he took his next pull. “Tastes like salt,” he breathed on the exhale, locking eyes with Tony through the smoke that had accumulated in the car.

Something flashed in the older man’s eyes as he stole the weed back and took a large hit, crooking his salt-sprinkled fingers to beckon Peter closer.

Peter’s own reddened eyes widened when he caught on to what Tony wanted, his heart picking up speed. They hadn’t done that in years. Still clutching his burger in his left hand, he used the right to support himself as he leaned over the console to press his mouth against Tony’s. He closed his eyes as he inhaled, fighting the urge to slip his tongue somewhere it didn’t belong. One of Tony’s hands came up to pull his head closer for a moment, his tongue having the same idea as Peter’s, causing him to whine into Tony’s mouth. His pants were getting tight as he licked right back in response, feeling a slight burn from exhaling through his nose. He missed this. Nobody kissed him like Tony did-

“Shit!” Tony pulled away sharply, and Peter’s heart stopped for a second. But when he realized what was happening, he couldn’t contain the surprised cackle that erupted as he saw the joint land in the other man’s lap. “Quit it,” was Tony’s reply, though he was grinning as he said it. He grabbed what was left of the joint off his jeans and stubbed it out the rest of the way on the dashboard. “It burned my fuckin’ finger.”

“Oh poor baby,” Peter shot back, shifting in his seat and taking another bite of his burger. He willed the slight chub to go away, but knew it was a lost cause. He pretty much signed up for it; he was always turned on when he was high around Tony (and most of the time when he was sober, too). Some kind of conditioning or something, he thought deliriously.

“Ya better hush up, Parker,” Tony snarked and dipped some fries into Peter’s banana shake. He rolled his neck a bit, reaching for his burger. “So, kid. Tell me ‘bout L.A..”

***

Peter was basking peacefully in his high, humming along to whatever was playing through the speakers. He and Tony had both finished their food, chatting about this and that, but nothing of real substance, their earlier stilted conversation far from their minds. Shooting the shit, as Tony called it, over some weed and a meal was their normal routine when they were younger, and it came as naturally as breathing. Peter had never met anyone else he could simply coexist with on this level, simply enjoying the other’s presence for what it was. I love you, he thought as he looked at Tony, who was leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed and nodding his head along with the beat. I’m so in love with you and it scares the shit out of me.

The younger man’s eyes roved over Tony’s face as his mind raced. What was he doing? Would something be different this time? He wasn’t that angry seventeen year old anymore- now he was twenty-four, clinically depressed, and living someone else’s life. Would it be so bad to finally leave that all behind, to finally let himself have what he’s denied himself for so long? Didn’t he deserve to be happy, after all this pain? And even if it wasn’t in the cards for them, if Peter was destined to be alone, wouldn’t even the most miniscule amount of time with Tony be worth it?

Tony’s gravelly voice startled him back to the present. “I should probably be gettin’ you home, huh, Peter?” The bearded man opened his eyes and began sitting up, turning to look at him. The expression on his face was unreadable, and Peter didn’t know if he should agree or protest, so he merely lifted a shoulder in faux indifference, shooting Tony a half-smile.

Please, call me Pete… Just Pete, Peter begged in his head. Tony calling him by his full name made the ugly thing in his chest wriggle uncomfortably. Last time he was home, before he said those awful things, Tony hadn’t called him Peter in years. Yet another beautiful thing that he’d taken for granted and ruined for himself.

“Could also drive around for a bit if you wanted, see some lights.” Damn Tony and his ability to read Peter so well. The suggestion was soft, and he looked down as he said it, almost as if he was feeling shy.

Peter shook his head minutely and shifted a little in his seat, gently biting his lip. “I’m getting a little tired, haven’t smoked in a while,” he lied through his teeth, but the smile on his face was real this time.

Tony grinned right back at him.

(“What would we even do on a date? There’s nothing to do here, Tony,” Peter said with a laugh. “I dunno,” Tony replied, snuggling the lighter-haired teenager closer into his chest as they snuggled on the couch. “We could go look at the Christmas lights, get some hot chocolate… I could tie some mistletoe to the mirror in the truck. There’d be sum kissin’ involved….” He trailed off as Peter’s lips found his own. “Or we could do the kissin’ right here,” he murmured, sinking into the kiss.)

***

The drive back to May’s house was spent with Tony catching Peter up on everyone in town as they passed various houses. (“Remember Happy Hogan, the butcher?? Him an’ that pretty florist, Ms. Potts, got married last year. Think they’re havin’ a baby,last I heard.” “Rhodey’s mama died this spring, she got cancer, but he an’ Mr. Rhodes still live out here now that Rhodey’s moved home. Honorable discharge last fall. Done got himself a new girlfriend now too, Carol; he met ‘er in the Air Force. She’s a sweet one, I think you’d like ‘er.”)

When they pulled into the driveway, Tony cut the engine and hopped out. Peter did the same, grabbing the bag with their trash and patting his pocket, double-checking for his keys and lighter. He stepped around Tony, who had stopped at the bottom of the front steps, and walked up to the door, fumbling for a minute with his keys under the porch light to find the right one (it had robin’s egg blue polka-dots of May’s favorite nail polish). Tony’s footsteps followed him up the stairs.

Peter stuck the key in the lock and opened the door a crack before turning to face the taller man. “So.”

Tony’s eyes searched his own as they gazed at one another. “So,” he parroted back. His index finger went up to rub at his nose as he took a hard sniff in. There was a beat of silence. “Thanks for the joint, and uh, the company. It was good seein’ you,” he said at last, a hint of his signature lopsided grin curving his lips.

Peter felt the goodbye that was coming before it even left Tony’s mouth, and something in him broke. “Don’t leave me here alone.” The words came out of Peter’s mouth in a mumble, and suddenly he couldn’t make eye contact with Tony, losing focus and staring at his own feet instead. He felt the harsh burning of tears as it hit him again just how alone he was about to be when he walked inside, how alone he already was. He was always so fucking alone.

Even in L.A., so much bigger than fucking Aurora, New York, surrounded by thousands of people, Peter still felt invisible, insignificant. He had no friends. Sure, he had a publicist, and connections, and celebrity acquaintances & clientele. But without his money and his clothes, what would he have? What did he have when he was just Peter Parker, rather than Peter Benjamin, semi-famous designer? Nothing. (When he got the call about May, and he’d broken down in the bathroom during a business meeting with representatives for Tom Ford, he realized he had no one to call. No one to comfort him or tell him it would be okay. He’d sobbed into his pillow that night, screaming his throat raw with Tony’s number punched into his phone, ready to be dialed. He never called.) He had nothing and no one, and it was all his fault because he was so stupid, and maybe this is just what he deserved. If he hadn’t pushed everyone-

“Hey- Hey, Peter, no. Never,” Tony was saying gently, cautiously pulling Peter into his strong arms and out of his anxiety attack. “‘m not goin’ anywhere if y’don’t want me to, baby.” He tucked Peter’s head under his chin, a chill running down his spine due to the chilly evening air. “S’okay, everythin’s okay.”

Peter sucked in a deep breath through his mouth, trying to calm himself. His forehead dug into Tony’s shoulder painfully but it helped to ground him. The soothing sensation of Tony’s fingers tracing circles on his back helped, too. Peter’s breath was still hitching every so often, so he shut his eyes and tried to synch his breathing with Tony’s. It felt so nice to just be this close to someone- Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held. Tony had probably been the last one to do it, though. (He’d had sex in L.A. of course, but it was all superficial. Nothing real. Nothing like what he had with Tony- not even close.) Shifting slightly, he buried his nose in the crook of Tony’s neck, searching unconsciously for the smell he loved so much; a mix of gasoline, teakwood, and something smoky. The scent sent a shiver down Peter’s spine, and that hot feeling simmered in his stomach again. He’d always joked that he would bottle Tony’s smell if he could. Tony would just laugh and jokingly tease Peter for always having his nose in his neck or armpit.

Now Tony just hummed lightly in response, tightening his hold for a moment before relaxing. “‘Yer’okay,” he whispered, once he could feel that Peter’s breathing had evened out for the most part.

Peter pulled back a bit and stared at a spot in the middle of Tony’s chest, thinking. He decided to go for it. Worst that could happen was Tony saying no, and leaving Peter here alone, but he knew he’d end up alone eventually. But he’d delay the inevitable as long as he could. “Kiss me, T,” he said quietly, leaning in before he could change his mind. His lips brushed Tony’s and he pulled back, trying not to go cross eyed looking into the other’s eyes. “I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

Tony stared at him for a moment before their mouths met again, and Peter nipped gently at his lip before clumsily walking backwards through the cracked front door, pulling Tony with him with their mouths still connected. Tony’s foot kicked it closed behind them, bathing them in darkness, and he tripped a bit when Peter clutched at the lapels of his jacket a little too hard. Cursing under his breath, he leaned back against the door and tugged Peter along, using the support behind him to balance as he toed his boots off. They disconnected momentarily as the shorter man did the same, hands still gripping the denim.

Peter licked his lip as they stood in the dark entryway. Looking up at Tony, he shrugged his coat off, letting it fall to the hardwood floor beneath them. He reached out and gently pushed the denim jacket off the taller man’s shoulders too before leaning in, stopping just before their lips made contact. “Come upstairs with me,” he whispered.

Tony’s mocha eyes flitted around for a minute, searching his face for something. Peter couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw, but Tony kissed him again before taking his hand. “Your room,” he questioned, taking hold of the banister and leading Peter up the stairs.

***

“Fuck, Tony. Right there, right there, ohhhhh.” Peter was on his back with one leg thrown over Tony’s shoulder and the other bent off to the side, the ball of his foot pushing into the mattress. The mechanic’s uncut cock was stretching his lubed hole. Tony was leaning over him and one of his hands was clutching at Peter’s hip, the other at the leg up by his face. His facial hair scratched deliciously against the pale skin on the inside of Peter’s knee as he pressed a kiss there.

(Tony had kissed and licked and sucked praises into the skin of his neck, chest, stomach and thighs as he’d fingered him open at a torturously slow pace. “So good fer me, Pete. Look at you. You’re so goddamn beautiful.” Peter had whimpered and whined the whole time as he tried to fuck himself on the thick digits whose pads were caressing his prostate.)

A moan left the older man’s lips as he looked into Peter’s eyes. “You feel so good, baby. Always feel so- fuckin’- good,” he grunted, thrusting further in the tight, wet heat. “Love fuckin’ your ass.” He dug his fingers tighter into Peter’s skin, sure to leave bruises.

Gasping, Peter arched his hips up, toes curling, cock bobbing against his stomach with every thrust. He could feel Tony deep inside him, in that place that only he had ever been able to reach. Fuck, why had he ever let this go? Never letting you go again, Tony. You can’t leave me alone. I need you. I love you. He whined, baring his neck in a silent plea and bringing his leg down so that both were wrapped around the man’s thick waist. Tony reacted accordingly; his hands moved up to clutch at Peter’s near the headboard and his mouth latched onto the column of Peter’s neck, sucking. A wounded noise escaped Peter, his hole clenching, and Tony bit down harshly at the sensation. Peter keened again, going limp on the mattress as his legs fell open to the side. “Shit, Tony, god!”

Hot, wet breath tickled Peter’s neck with every ragged exhale that left Tony’s mouth, causing the smaller to whine lewdly, squirming. “Yeah? Are you- mine? Y’gon be mine- huh, Pete?” Peter heard the unspoken question, the twinge of desperation in Tony’s voice. Will you finally be mine? He sounded tired, that deep-in-your-bones type weariness, Peter noticed as he felt his own chest start to get tight. He’d really done a number on the person who deserved it the least. And for what? To come crawling back years later, expecting to be forgiven?

Yes, he thought in response to Tony’s question, hating himself for it. One of his hands tangled itself in the crown of Tony’s head, fingers pulling the strands at the root possessively as teeth sunk into his neck again. Yours. Always yours. He let out another moan, rolling his hips in an attempt to get some friction on his neglected cock that was weeping precum as Tony continued to thrust in and out of him. “Please, please- Tony, please.” If Peter had any shame left, he’d probably be blushing at how needy and wrecked he sounded. Instead it just turned him on, knowing just how gone he was for the other man.

With a grunt, Tony redistributed his weight and brought two fingers to Peter’s lips. “Open up fer a minute, baby,” he requested softly, slipping the digits inside. Peter laved them with his tongue, coating them with thick saliva and Tony groaned at the feeling, dick twitching in Peter’s ass. Once they were sufficiently wet, he pulled his fingers away, a thin string of drool stretching to connect them to Peter’s slick lips. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, Pete, Christ.” His calloused hand wrapped loosely around the hot, rosy cock between them. “Fuck my hand, baby.”

Peter complied without hesitation, rocking his hips and pressing his shaft in and out of the slick tunnel that was Tony’s hand. He cried out when Tony’s thumb caressed the underside of the head as the cock inside of him nailed directly into his prostate. The pressure had already been a lot, but the pleasure was suddenly overwhelming in a new way. He was so close and Tony hadn’t even been touching him for thirty seconds. “F-fuck, Tony, I’m gonna- Ahhhhh-”

“Yeah, cum for me, Pete,” Tony’s warm breath heaved into his ear, tongue sneaking out to lick the outer shell and dip inside briefly at the same time he tightened his grip on Peter’s sensitive member. “Fuck, cum for me, baby, cum on my- Cum on my cock- God-.”

And with a cry, Peter did just that, biting into Tony’s shoulder as the tension in his gut snapped, hole twitch relentlessly around the hard cock inside him as his own shot spurt after spurt of hot cum on his chest; some reached the hollow of his throat and his chin. “God, Tony, shit, shit, shit.”

“Yesssss, Pete, holy fuck.” Tony buried himself inside one last time, his mouth latching onto the column of Peter’s neck as he reached his orgasm, shoving himself inside as deep as possible. His dick twitched, painting Peter’s insides with his spend and making him groan.

They stayed that way for a moment before Tony pulled back to look into Peter’s eyes. “Lemme clean’ya up,” he offered gently as he carefully pulled his softening cock out of the heat of the younger man’s ass. There was a slight burbling sound, and he brushed his lips against Peter’s when he saw the embarrassment flash across his face. “Hol’ on.” Climbing out of the bed, he made his way to the bathroom that was adjoined to Peter’s room.

Peter’s heart was beating uncomfortably in his chest as he lay among the sheets, bringing his hands up to his chest to fiddle with each other anxiously. It couldn’t be over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to be alone again.

When Tony walked back in, he got back on the bed, gently wiping the cum off Peter’s chest with a warm rag, smirking at the full-body shivers that ran through the young man in response to the cloth being swiped lightly over his nipples. Once his chest was clean, Tony moved down to run the fabric between Peter’s ass cheeks, collecting the milky-white substance that was leaking out of the hole.

“Stay,” Peter whispered, once Tony had thrown the washcloth in the hamper and climbed back into bed at Peter’s invitation of patting the spot beside himself in bed. He wiggled so that his back was pressed up against Tony’s front. His fingers tangled themselves with those on a slightly larger hand and as he let his eyes slip shut, he felt Tony’s lips press a kiss into the sweaty curls at the back of his head.

***

When Peter woke up, it was well past noon. The bed was so warm that the heat from his and Tony’s bodies trapped up under the fluffy comforter would be sweltering if he didn’t crave it so much.

Peter swallowed drily as he looked at Tony’s face in the afternoon light, peaceful in sleep. At some point during their sleep, they had shifted to where they were facing each other. He wanted to trace his fingers along the strong facial features in front of him, but he refrained, not wanting to wake the older man. He knew he needed to talk to Tony. He knew that Tony deserved better. But maybe Peter could be selfish just this once... It was Christmas after all. Tis the damn season and all that.

Leaning forward, with a hand pressed gently against Tony’s chest, Peter pecked his lips against the sleeping man’s in a kiss. He got no response, so he did it again, adding a little more pressure. Tony began to stir; his arm wrapped lazily around Peter’s naked waist, pulling their bottom halves together.

“G’mornin’,” Tony mumbled sleepily as he blinked a few times before his gaze focused on Peter. His voice was scratchy and rough, and Peter’s hips jerked slightly in response as he whispered back his own greeting, partially because Tony had begun to get hard. The mechanic brought up a hand and took hold of Peter’s chin, pulling their mouths together as he ground their burgeoning erections together.

Peter wrapped a leg around Tony’s waist as they lay there on their sides and began to gently rock his hips. “Tony,” he mewled, eyes screwed shut. The words were bubbling up inside him, just like the arousal was blooming in his gut. One of his arms wrapped around Tony’s neck, pulling their bodies together as close as they could get.

“Yeah,” came Tony’s breathy reply. His eyes were roving over Peter’s flushed face as he undulated his own hips, thumb coming up to press against the younger’s spit-slick bottom lip. “Whadisit?”

Peter took the digit into his mouth for a moment and they made eye contact as he swirled his tongue around the tip, fellating it. He released it from his mouth with a pop, biting his own lip. “Am I too late,” he asked quietly, burying his face in the muscled chest before him, pecking tender kisses on the heated flesh. “Do you still love me?” His voice shook as he continued, breath faltering as well as the sensations built up. He squeezed his eyes shut even though Tony couldn’t see the tears building in his eyes as he chased his pleasure, preparing for the inevitable pain that was sure to follow.

“Pete.” The way Tony said his name was reverent, like he didn’t see Peter for the walking mistake that he was. He was breathing heavier now, too, with the exertion of frotting their hard cocks together. “How could I ever stop, baby?” He craned his neck in order to meet Peter’s eyes. “Was just waitin’ on ya t’come home.” He pressed their lips together as Peter’s leg tightened around his waist. “Was always just waitin’ on ya t’come home,” he repeated. A particularly hard thrust had them both groaning, clutching desperately at each other as they chased that euphoric feeling. “’Course I love you, Peter. Now cum for me.”

Peter couldn’t help but obey as a sob burst from his lips, Tony following him over the edge. “I love you,” he cried, as their bodies shook together. “I’m s-sorry Tony, I love you- Don’t go, don’t ever leave me. I won’t- I promise I won’t go again. I can’t go again, I can’t leave you again. I won’t.” Tony’s thumbs came up to wipe the tears from under his eyes, and a kiss was pressed to his temple as he felt himself be pulled into those strong arms.

“I’d never leave you, Pete.”

***

The bed was cold when Peter woke again. He lay there, watching the sunset through his bedroom window. Gentle creaks could be heard as the house groaned under pressure from the falling snow. He rolled over, grimacing at the pain in his lower half and pulling a pillow to his chest. It still smelled of teakwood, smoke, and gasoline. He smiled, burying his face further into the intoxicating scent. “I love you,” he whispered to the empty house, feeling lighter than he had in years.

(Yes, the bed was cold, now. But Tony would be back to warm it up. And he’d have burgers, fries, and a banana milkshake when he returned. Maybe even a joint. Peter was glad he didn’t have to wait long. They’d had just about enough of that over the past seven years.)

#starker #hey it might be a week later than i intended to finish but at least it's out by christmas #bloo writes bad things (tm)#enjoy!

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hecallsmehischild · 2 years

Text

TITLE: HIT AND RUN

FANDOM: MYSTERY SKULLS ANIMATED

RATING: T

SYNOPSIS: Mystery Skulls Animated secret santa oneshot. It was supposed to be a calm, relaxing, fun game night. No ghosts, no cryptids, no hot leads. Just friendly competition and fresh pizza. But the pizza delivery person claims to have hit something weird on the way over, and it's impossible to say no to Vivi once she gets going.

Note: @msaholidayspirits 2021 Secret Santa gift for @titenoute! Featuring Titenoute's MSA OC Fiona! A fic of firsts: First time I've written an MSA fic with someone else's OC, first 3rd person non-specific POV I've tried in ages, and first time I've written solely pre-cave material. I had a couple mini-comics, sketches, and a profile to go off of for the OC Fiona. Fingers crossed that I landed somewhere close to an accurate portrayal and also that the literary police don't ram down my door. Pre-Cave gang gains a new friend, Merry Christmas! Cover photo by 5demayo at morguefile.

.......................................................................................................

"Artie, standing by the door and staring at it isn't going to make the food arrive faster."

"Prove it."

"And saying 'prove it' about every statement you don't like won't make it untrue."

"Prove it."

Lewis sighed, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back on Vivi's worn, puffy sofa. "Somebody's been in a real mood since he lost his queen."

"Prove it."

A wooden pawn bounced off the back of Arthur's head. He finally turned away from the door and locked glares with Vivi. She occupied the other end of the sofa and was bent over a well-polished wooden chess board. She pointed a captured bishop at him. "Hey, we all know you're hungry. We're hungry too. Food is on. The. Way. So get your butt back over here, it's your turn."

Arthur bent down and grabbed the pawn off the floor. He tossed it back at her and swivelled back around to face the door. Under the coffee table, Mystery snorted, then stretched out his forepaws and yawned.

Vivi's scowl deepened. "In about thirty seconds, I'll switch from Chess to Munchkin. Make game night last ALL night long."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "Give it a rest, Vee. He'll come around when he's not so hangry."

"Prove—"

"Arthur, swear to gods, I will cram a load of ever-loving proof up your—"

DING DONG

Arthur seized the doorknob, a gleeful grin on his face. He flung the door open. "About time! Can't wait for…" he trailed off. Behind him, Vivi and Lewis rose to their feet.

At their door stood a young woman in a Topolini's Pizza uniform, holding the expected pizza-warmer. Except it only held one box, not three. There were tooth marks on the edge of the battered box, and the delivery person was pretty tattered too. Her right cheek looked like it had been dragged along gravel, and the clothing tears all along her right side bore that out. Even the lime green helmet she wore was scuffed on the right side.

A stiff breeze passed her, entering the house. Mystery lifted his head, scenting the air. He crept out from under the coffee table, tail slung low and a growl in his throat.

The delivery person tried to smile, but the smile twisted as Mystery bared his teeth. She stumbled back a couple steps, then glanced over her shoulder. She shivered. Lifting her chin, she stepped forward–grimacing as she came down on her right foot–and faced Arthur squarely.

"T-Topolini's delivery. Did I make it in thirty?"

............................................................................................

Nobody mourned the jumbled remains of what had once been a beautiful oyster and anchovy pizza pie more than Arthur. Truthfully, nobody else mourned that one at all. Still, he had the grace to set the issue aside nearly as quick as his teammates. Vivi and Lewis had convinced the young woman—Fiona, or so her nameplate read—to come in and lie down on the couch. Mystery paced nearby, muzzled by Vivi's stern warnings to behave himself.

Vivi squatted next to the couch, carefully tweezing pieces of gravel out of Fiona's cheek. She brushed Fiona's bangs out of the way. "That's some nasty spill you took. Bike?"

"Vespa."

Lewis frowned. "High speed tumble down the road? Is anything broken? Should we call someone for you? What hurts?"

Fiona winced. "Face… right now. Ankle when I walk. Hard to tell. Can't really feel much."

"Shock, probably. What happened?"

"I hit something," she mumbled. "Something big. I flew off. When I sat up, it was going after the deliveries."

Vivi's eyes sparkled. "A 'something big,' eh? What kind of something do you think it was?"

"Not sure. It's dark out there. Nasty looking teeth. Like… small moose size? Or a big horse? I got in a right hook at its head and ran off with a box." She indicated the abandoned pizza box on the ground with the shredded corner. "Thought I could at least get one back. So much for that."

Lewis used his foot to nudge the box under the coffee table, out of sight. "Then what happened?"

Fiona winced as Vivi swabbed her face with rubbing alcohol. "Ow. Ow. Running. Getting away. Knocking on your door."

Arthur's head jerked up. "You went on foot? Your Vespa's wrecked?"

Her eyes widened. "Is… it? I don't know… I punched the thing and ran. Didn't check the Vespa. It was laughing… not like an animal. Like a person. Really freaked me out. Wasn't thinking."

Arthur stared at her. "Why would you punch something like that?!"

Vivi's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Probably gave it a nasty shock. Good for you. Don't you carry mace, though?"

Fiona's head wobbled back and forth, and she fumbled for her pocket. "I keep forgetting. Always swing first. Then run. Then remember there's mace." She pulled it out with a grimace.

Arthur shook his head. "Yeah, well, probably best to wait 'til morning to get your Vespa picked up and taken to a shop. If you wait that long then whatever you hit will have left the area."

"Which is exactly why we have to get back there right now!" Vivi grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and splashed it onto a washcloth. She pressed it into Fiona's hand and stood. "Something's off about this. Big as a moose? We don't have any wild animals like that in our area."

"Small moose," Fiona corrected.

"Still. And it laughed? Last I checked, all our hyenas are in the zoo. And Mystery's been on edge ever since she came in." She glanced at Fiona. "Sorry about that, by the way. He's very friendly. I bet it's the smell of whatever you hit that's got him all riled up. He's good about sensing weird stuff."

Fiona eyed Mystery, who sat back on his hindquarters. He stared back.

"Your dog has little spectacles. Why?"

His fur bristled from neck to tail and his lip kept lifting up over his teeth.

Vivi shrugged. "That's a mystery unto itself. He's been with my family forever and he's always worn them. Nobody knows why."

Fiona shook her head, refocusing. "You said weird stuff, what do you mean by 'weird stuff'?"

"Cryptids! Ghosts! Small-scale possession cases. Unexplained phenomena to be banished or witnessed. We look into all that. Speaking of, Lewis? Would you get our gear together? Night kit, too. Point is, Fiona, this is a hot trail and it's worth checking out. Plus we could retrieve your Vespa. There's room in the van if we all squeeze a bit."

"Absolutely not!" Arthur threw up his hands. "Vee, you promised! No ghosts on game night!"

Vivi's eyes twinkled. "This doesn't sound like a ghost, Artie. Sounds more like a cryptid. Maybe an undead, if we're lucky. Not a ghost."

"You know what I mean!"

"And when's the last time we had a lead this hot? Arthur, it's been weeks since anyone contacted us for a case. We aren't making enough money to upgrade gear. How are we going to get in the big leagues if we stick to shooing out local poltergeists?"

"If this is about money, who's paying us to take this case?" Arthur challenged.

Lewis cleared his throat, "It probably left some physical evidence on the Vespa. Hair, blood, claw chips. There's always reward money for that kind of evidence."

"So we should wait until it's gone for sure!" Arthur insisted. "We'll still get paid."

"And let the elements spoil all the good samples?" Vivi shot back. "Stop being such a soggy leaf."

"Hey! I am a crunchy leaf, thankyouverymuch, I just want to stay in my tree tonight!"

Lewis coughed. "Crunchy leaves are usually found on the ground, Artie."

"Prove—"

"Hey, who says you all get the money?" Fiona objected, struggling to sit up. "If it's on my Vespa after I hit the thing, then I should get the reward. I'll need plenty of money for repairs."

Lewis and Vivi turned to Arthur at the same time. Arthur folded his arms. "Don't even. She's right. Do you have any idea what a good quality regulator costs on a Vespa? Or a wheel rim replacement? Really, no telling what could be broken until I get a look at it. Don't give me that look! You want to trade my labor for access to the case? Well I'm not paying out of pocket for parts, that's for sure. Plus she's not even part of the team! I do that for OUR van."

"Artie…" Vivi bit her lip, staring mournfully at him.

Arthur groaned. "Don't do the thing, Vee."

"Please?" She clasped her hands together. "Pretty please? Pretty please with syrup on top?"

Arthur turned to Lewis for help, but Lewis just grinned at him.

"Pretty please with syrup and oysters on top?" Vivi pressed.

Clearly this wasn't about money for the team.

"Pretty please with syrup and oysters and scallops on top?"

Arthur ran a hand through his hair a couple of times, then pointed at Fiona. "We'll go out and get your Vespa and collect any samples. The reward money goes to you, the credit goes to us. BUT. Your Vespa goes to Kingsmen Mechanics, and I'll fix it right for a fair price. Deal?"

Fiona's eyebrows shot up. "Sure. Deal."

Vivi whooped. "Hot chili churros!" She seized a leash and clipped it on Mystery's collar. She headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, "Artie, can you give her a hand up? Lewis and I will get our stuff out to the van and we'll be off before you can say–Mystery!"

The door had barely cracked open before Mystery bolted, his leash slipping through Vivi's fingers. "Mystery! Where the flying fir cones are you going?! Mystery!" she hollered, running after him.

"Vee!" Lewis scooped up the gear and followed her out. "Wait! You'll never catch him on foot! At least take the van!"

Arthur gripped his hair with one hand. "'Just another game night,' she says. 'No weird happenings, I swear it, Artie,' she says. Gah. Listen–Fiona, right?–this is already falling apart, how about you wait here while we deal with the… with the…" He gestured at the door. "Whatever it is."

Fiona stared at the door, now hanging wide open. It was a new moon night and the house lights stopped abruptly at the end of the street. Beyond that was a pitch black eternity that she could just see Vivi vanishing into. The sound of an engine spluttering to life snapped her to attention. Arthur already had a foot out the door.

"Hold up, hold up. I need a hand." She grunted, easing herself upright.

Arthur paused at the threshold. "You sure? Are you good with weird stuff?"

"No. I hate ghosts. Cried when my friend tried to summon Bloody Mary in the bathroom mirror." She held a hand out. "Also, I punched that mirror when it shifted by itself. Safety in numbers, yeah?"

Arthur hesitated, then hurried over and pulled her arm across his shoulders, hauling her up. "Alright, but hurry. No telling what kind of weird we're dealing with tonight, and we're already separated."

.........................................................................................

By the time Arthur and Fiona made it to the van, Lewis was frantic. He barely waited for them to load into the backseat, and he didn't wait for them to buckle up before gunning the engine and tearing down the road. "How far away was the crash?" he asked as they hurtled into the darkness.

"Don't know!" Fiona snapped, struggling with the seatbelt. "I wasn't really paying attention when I was running for my life. It couldn't have been too far, though, I was getting close to your place before I hit the thing."

"Headlights!" Arthur yelled, grabbing the driver's seat-rest.

Lewis fumbled with the headlights, flipping them on. They flash-lit Vivi in the middle of the road, wrestling with Mystery on the far end of his leash. Lewis jerked the wheel and braked hard, screeching past them as the back end of the van slid around. Arthur and Fiona shrieked in unison as the left side of the van rose up a little bit, then settled back to the ground with a thump.

The van had barely re-grounded itself before Lewis vaulted out of the driver's seat. "You okay? Why didn't you wait? Are you hurt?"

"Fine!" Vivi gasped. "Just… can't…" she nearly came off her feet as Mystery lunged forward. He strained at the end of his tether, snapping his teeth at the road ahead. He wasn't barking.

Fiona rubbed her eyes, staring at the dog. The headlights were at a weird angle to the dog, that was why his eyes looked red. Right?

Lewis seized the leash and hauled back, bringing Mystery up on his hind legs. "What were you thinking, Vee? You can't just run off like that! And you, Mystery! Knock it off! Bad dog!"

Mystery snarled once, a quiet sound, and kept pulling as hard as he could. Fiona tilted her head, brushing hair away from her ears. "Um. Hey, guys?"

Vivi wheezed at Lewis. "I had… had to catch…"

"Don't go running after a dog on your own two feet! This was luck, but you could have run into something nasty. Or gotten hit," Lewis scolded.

Fiona poked her head out the window. "Guys."

"Come on, let's load into the van." Lewis grunted, pulling Mystery back a step at a time. "I've got your bat and most of the gear. We should stay in the van until we know what's got him… acting like this. Whoah!" He stumbled forward a step. "How–?"

"Guys!" Fiona yelled. "Shut up! Listen!"

Silence. For a moment, there was only the sound of Mystery's nails scrabbling on the road.

Then a quavery voice called, "A… Aaaartieeee? Thur?"

Arthur went very still. All eyes locked on Vivi, who stared off into the darkness. It was her voice everyone heard, drifting up the road, but her lips weren't moving.

"Ar…thurrrrr. Heeellllp. It huuuuurts."

Vivi exhaled slowly, then straightened. "That's no animal." She turned and strode over to the van. Arthur grabbed a large, metal baseball bat and poked it out the open driver's door. She grabbed it and cocked it back on her shoulder as Arthur slid up into the driver's seat and buckled himself in.

"Whoah!" Fiona protested, "What happened to 'everyone get in the van and see what we're up against'?"

"It's already here," Vivi answered, grimly. "And it's using a classic psychic lure."

"Psychic lure?" Fiona echoed. "The hell is that?"

The not-Vivi voice whimpered a little, throwing in a choked sob. "Lew…isss…? Helllllp…"

"Surface level scrape of the brain for information," Arthur answered, checking the mirrors. "Got it from one of us. Pulled Vivi's voice, her name, and the fact that any of us would go in guns blazing for each other. It's a trick generally used by malevolent or predator types to lure victims. Can't let it run around town doing that to people who don't know about this stuff. That, or it might try to track us down later. Gotta deal with it now."

Lewis sighed. "Artie's got the van, Vivi's got the bat. So…?"

Vivi clapped him on the shoulder. "Yep. You've got the short straw this time. But you've got Mystery, too."

"Great. Alright, then. Fiona, you'd be doing us a favor if you'd grab a camera or something–anything from the bag that you recognize, really–and start recording."

Wide-eyed, Fiona pulled her phone from her pocket and clicked on the camera. "What are you going to do?"

Lewis grimaced, struggling with the leash. "Bait it. That's the short straw job. Just have to–!"

In between Lewis taking a step, Mystery lunged again, his eyes blazing bright. Lewis toppled to the ground and the leash ripped out of his hand. Mystery tore off down the road, howling.

"Mys…tree?" The imposter wobbled. "Goo-boy. Good… aaaeeeeEEYEYEYEEEEE!"

Vivi took off after him. "Go, go, go!" she yelled. "Light it up!"

"Brace yourself," Arthur muttered, shifting into drive. A blood-curdling screech filled the air. Fiona slipped into the front passenger seat and buckled in. Arthur turned on the high-beams and pulled forward, keeping pace with Vivi and Lewis as they ran.

It wasn't too far before the beams caught a flash of fur. It vanished for a second, then reappeared as the van pulled closer. Arthur stopped the car a good ways off. "Get me a clear shot!" he shouted as Lewis and Vivi ran past.

Whatever the thing was, it was twisting and turning so fast that it was difficult to make out head or limb type. Sometimes it was up on two legs, sometimes down on four. It kept turning in a circle, screeching and shaking its head. A whip-like tail lashed every time it turned and its screech never stopped. Fiona caught sight of long, curved tusks and a gaping maw. Mystery hung just below the jaw, his teeth fastened on the thing's neck. The creature shook its head and Mystery's body snapped back and forth, but he refused to let go.

Vivi rushed in and brought her bat down on the thing's forehead with a crack. The screech wobbled as the creature stumbled back. Arthur pulled the van forward just enough to keep it lit up. Lewis dodged flailing limbs and seized Mystery, yanking him off. There was another terrible shriek from the monster as Mystery came free with a bloody chunk in his mouth. The creature lurched toward Lewis, but Vivi smashed it across the snout with her bat. A tusk went flying and it crumpled to the ground, wailing in Arthur's voice. Vivi faltered.

"No you don't," Arthur growled. He leaned back and shouted, "Get clear!"

As Vivi and Lewis pulled back, Arthur slammed the gas pedal. The van squealed as the wheels spun madly for a moment, then hurled the van forward. It was a short distance at that speed, and the van struck just as the creature found its feet.

Fiona lurched into the airbag. It slammed her back into her seat. Glass shattered, metal twisted, and something heavy tumbled over the top of the van.

....................................................................................

"Hey! Fiona? Fiona. Fiona! C'mon."

Fiona's eyelids slid open, her eyes unfocused and wandering. Vivi snapped her fingers in front of Fiona's face. "Hey! You woke up, great. Next step is saying something. Preferably, 'I'm okay, Vivi, no need to panic.' That would be fantastic."

Fiona blinked. "Woke. Up?"

"Ah, well. Can't be choosy with a blackout. Yeah, you were unconscious when we pulled you out of the van."

"Van." Fiona struggled to sit up.

Vivi held her down by her shoulders. "Whoah, whoah. Take it slow. You've been in two wrecks tonight. We found your Vespa. Frankly, I'm… a little scared to show it to Artie."

Fiona groaned. "I saved up over a year for that. What did I…" She bolted up, shoving Vivi's hands off. "What did I hit? What did we… where is it?"

"Hey, it's okay. We got it. It's pretty injured, so we hog-tied it. Lewis made a few phone calls, so we should be getting help soon. Probably some media attention, too, if he played it right."

Fiona stared at her. "You. Hog-tied. A monster."

"A crocotta." Vivi straightened her sweater, a crooked smile on her face. "A live one at that. Biggest team haul yet."

"How d'you know ropes will hold it?"

"Ropes, duct-tape, and Mystery standing guard." Lewis walked over and squatted by them. "It is really weird to see that huge thing cringe every time Mystery growls. Guess he established who's alpha. Do you want to see it?"

Fiona shook her head hard, then groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her eye.

"Easy." Arthur muttered from off to her right. "You might be concussed. Slow movements. Don't sleep."

Fiona turned her head. Arthur was stretched out on the ground. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, but he grinned over at her.

"Don't blame you. I don't want to see it again either. Nightmare fuel, that thing." Arthur shivered. "I hate knowing what's out there."

Vivi frowned. "Aww, Artie, but knowing exactly what it is makes it less scary!"

"No, Vee, knowing that my nightmares have real fur and claws and teeth to walk this world with makes life more scary."

"C'mon, Artie. It's not even that smart. The brain scrape is weird, but it's just an extra evolutionary edge on what's basically animal-level intelligence."

"Fantastic. A large, hungry animal that steals personal info to lure people into the dark for a dinner date. And since it got this extra edge for better survival and reproduction, it's probably not the only one out there. Yeah, I feel way better, Vee."

"Either way," Lewis cut in, "We took this one out of the game. And we might be putting ourselves on the map with this find. That being said, we wanted to re-negotiate with you, Fiona."

She squinted up at him. "Ehhh?"

"Well, you did hit the crocotta first, but we took it down. We also messed up the van pretty bad doing it. It isn't the first time somebody's pulled the hit-and-run move to help the team, but this time the damage is worse than usual."

"My baby," Arthur moaned. "How bad is she?"

"Just lie back and think of the new wax job you'll give her when she's all straightened out," Vivi soothed.

Fiona glanced back at Lewis. "So…?"

"So, capturing a living specimen is probably going to rake in enough money to fix your Vespa and the van. The fixed Vespa is all you're after, right? Unless you want to get into the ghost-busting, cryptid-hunting business with us."

She shuddered. "No. No thank you. I just want my wheels back."

"Happy to help," Arthur croaked. "But we'll need the funds, too, if the van is as bad as they're refusing to describe to me. Revised offer: Let us take the money and the credit, and I'll fix your ride. Parts, labor, and paint job. All of it. I'll even throw in a few upgrades."

That did sound like a good deal. Still…

"Throw in a one-year warranty on your work and we'll call it a deal."

Arthur sighed. "This is the problem with trading labor. Fine. One-year warranty, but you cover pizza for two months of game nights."

Fiona thought about it for a minute. With her employee discount, she could swing three pizzas a few times a month for a bit. "Deal."

Vivi cleared her throat. "You sure you don't want to join the best up-and-coming paranormal investigation team? We're still trying to grow and we could use an extra set of fists, or a hand to hold the camera."

"No," Fiona said, flatly. She paused, then shrugged a shoulder, wincing. "I'm not into that stuff. I am into games, though."

The grin on Vivi's face would have put the Grinch to shame. "And just what kind of games do you play?"

#msaholidayspirits2021 #mystery skulls animated #msa #mystery skulls #msa fanfiction #mystery skulls fanfiction #mystery skulls oc #titenoute

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mageicalwishes · 3 years

Text

Read on AO3: Here

Rating: Teen & Up

Chapter: 1/? (More chapters to come a little later in Dec + Early Jan!)

Summary: A loose crossover between Carry On and parts of I'll Give You The Sun. "He’s haloed under the streetlights, and I’m trying not to stare. But, it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features. I want to say more, just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there but, I feel so ... multicoloured."

Carry On Countdown, Day 10 - Crossover @carryon-countdown��

Tags: Fluff, Getting Together, Meet-Cute, Social Anxiety, Crossover, Pining Baz, Artist Baz, Space Enthusiast Simon, Star Gazing, Anxious Thoughts, Carry On Countdown 2020 Day 10

Words: 2,145

Baz

I need to stop thinking about grey, slippery roads and black shrouds. About the purple under my Father’s dull eyes, and the red of my Aunt’s anger. I need to stop thinking about me - About my life. My head is too loud. Too noxious. I need someone else to take my mind for a while. I need to see. To paint. And so, I search for a subject.

Dragging my binoculars across the bleak, colourless houses, I search, desperately, for even a glimpse of a hue. But the colours are slipping from the world again. They always do when I’m trapped in my head.

And then I see them - The movers - so far from colourless that I’m dizzied. They’re great work horses, both of them - One chestnut, and one palomino - Hulking a grandfather clock up the house-next-door’s stairs. I’m zooming in, before I have time to reconsider - Into the stretch of navy against the flex of their arms, the rose flush of their foreheads, the tan swath of smooth stomach revealed each time they lift their arms. And then ... Shit.

I drop the binoculars onto the floor, my body following swiftly behind them. Because, on the roof of the house, there’s a boy pointing a telescope directly at me. Fucking Hell. How long has he even been there?

I risk a glance over the top of my windowsill. He’s wearing a tatty purple jumper, and there’s a mess of bronze curls tangled atop his head. Even without the binoculars, I can see that he’s grinning at me. Is he laughing at me, already? Does he know what I was doing? That I was watching the movers? Does he think that I’m ...? He must. Why else would I be ogling them. God. I feel the dread pinching at my throat, and try to tether my mind, so that it doesn’t get away from me again. Maybe he’s just a smiley person. Maybe he thinks I was looking at his clock. That’s equally as plausible, surely? And, I mean, he has a telescope. Dickheads don’t tend to have telescopes, do they?

Tugging at the ends of my hair, I stand. When he sees me he waves, but before I have a chance to reciprocate, he’s reaching into his pocket, drawing his arms backwards, and lobbing something straight at me. (Maybe he is a dickhead, after all).

On reflex, I stick out my hand. The unknown object slapping hard against my skin, as I close my fingers around it.

“Nice catch!” He yells. His voice deep and bright, with a definite Northern tinge. I decide that I like it. It suits him.

But, I don’t know what to say back. So, I don’t. Instead, I examine his potentially dangerous ‘gift’ - Spinning the rock around in the palm of my hand. It’s small (About the size of a pound coin) and covered in irregular lightening-like cracks. What am I supposed to do with it? Do I throw it back? Why did he even throw it at me, in the first place? I don’t know, but I slip it into my back pocket for safe-keeping, anyway.

When I look back at him, hoping for some kind of explanation, he’s turned himself back towards the sky. Too focused on looking through his telescope to notice me. Which, to be honest, is odd. I mean, it’s daytime. What could he possibly be looking at?

Even though I’m curious, I don’t stick around to find out. I’m worryingly off-kilter, and I need to rebalance. I hadn’t prepared myself for meeting a new person. I wasn’t ready. And so, I run to the place that I know best, to recuperate - The Art Institute. Where I can carry out further recon on the studio.

-------------------

It was a good, productive sketch session. Nobody caught me peeping through the window, and I was able to get a few decent body references down. But … I don’t feel my usual post-art calm. My mind is still racing (Although, with a different genre of thought than earlier).

Every over time I have visited, the models have been women. Posing demurely, with a bowl of fruit or silks. Arms placed, to partially protect their modesty. I’m used to that. I’m prepared for that. But today … it was a bloke.

I don’t have a problem with that (Not really). There’s nothing wrong with blokes. And there’s nothing wrong with naked blokes, either. I’m mature enough to handle that. A body is a body. A sketch is a sketch. And I’m an artist first, queer person second. I just … hadn’t expected it. And I don’t like to be caught off guard. So, I’m feeling slightly rattled. I just need to get home, and get back to normality. To safe things - Like a beach scene, or a self-portrait. Familiar things. No more surprises.

And yet, a few steps into my walk back home, I see the guy from the roof leaning against a nearby tree, the same lopsided-grin aimed over at me. I blink, confirming his existence, and then he’s talking. Stood, barely 3 metres in front of me, in the dirt.

“How was class?”

He says it like it isn’t the strangest thing in the world that he’s here, with me, where he really has no reason to be. Like it isn’t only just slightly beaten in its absurdity by me, sketching propped-up on a wall outside, rather than inside, the studio. Like we aren’t complete strangers (Because, no matter how much he may be smiling at me, we don’t even know each other's names yet).

‘Yeah, sorry, I kinda’ followed you. I wanted to check out the woods, but I wasn’t sure of the way. So … I just tagged along. Figured you wouldn’t mind. Don’t worry though, I wasn’t watching you the whole time. I was busy with my own stuff.”

He points to an open suitcase filled to the brim with ... rocks? As if that’s normal.

“My meteorite bag’s all packed.”

I nod like that explains something, but it really doesn’t. Meteorites? I thought those were in the sky, not on the ground. And what does that even mean? He just carries around pieces of infinity. For what?

I look at him more closely, studying his face for any sign of disingenuity. For any sign that he’s just having me on. But I find nothing. Nothing … bad, anyway. Just a deep dimple accompanying his crooked smile, and miles of tawny skin, speckled with moles. He exists in shades of orange and gold. He’s the sun. And I can’t look away.

“Stare much?”

I drop my gaze, embarrassed - Staring down at his scuffed Nikes, as my neck prickles with heat. I don’t talk. What am I even supposed to say to that? Yes?

“Well ... you’re probably just used to it from staring at that bloke for so long. You know … for your drawing.” I look up - Grey meeting blue. He’s eyeing my pad curiously. “He was naked?” He breathes in as he says it, like the words stole his oxygen. It makes my stomach plummet, but I try to keep my face calm. I think about him watching me, watching the movers. How he watched me, watching the model. He must know. And ... I don’t know how I feel about that, just yet.

He looks down at my pad again. I don’t understand why. Does he want me to show him the drawings of the model bloke? It seems like he does. And some disturbed part of me wants to. But I doubt it. ‘Hey stranger, wanna’ see how I draw dicks?’ said no sane person ever. My stomach twists tight, and I’m out of control - My brain hazy amongst the moment’s tension.

“Look, man,” he sighs, half-smiling as he scrubs at the back of his neck. “I legit’ have no idea how to get home. I tried, but I just ended up back here. I’ve been waiting for you to lead the way. You don’t mind do you?”

I don’t think I mind. Do I? I don’t know. I shake my head, anyway, and point him in the right direction.

-------------------

It’s a long way home, and we walk the majority of it in silence (Well, near-silence. The bumping of his suitcase creating a constant accompaniment to our steps). I try and resist the urge to look back at him. The urge to ask him all of my ‘Why?’s - Why did you follow me? Why are you still following me? Why are you collecting meteorites? Why were you looking at the stars in daylight? Why were you looking at me in the daylight? It would only make me more muddled. So, rather than relent, I take out my invisible brushes and start to paint behind my eyes.

And, after a while, I feel myself settling back into my skin. The dancing trees and setting sun relaxing me, in spite of the moment’s unsteadiness. Or ... maybe it was him. He’s an alarmingly relaxed person (I mean, I don’t know anybody else who would just follow a stranger around, with zero self-consciousness), so it wouldn’t surprise me if he had some sort of ‘Realm of Calm’ thing going on around him.

When we emerge from the woods, returning to our familiar concrete-laden pavements, he spins around and jumps in front of me. Ecstatic.

“Holy shit! That is like ... the longest I’ve ever gone without talking in my life! I was holding my breath just trying to keep the words in. How do you even do that? Are you always like this?”

He’s a mile a minute, and I’m lagging behind.

“Like what?”

And then he’s laughing at me. I can tell that he’s a person who laughs a lot, from the way he lets it take him over so easily - His whole being lightening up, as the sides of his eyes crinkle, joyfully. But it’s alright, I don’t mind. It’s not a mean laugh. It just makes me feel a little bit fizzy inside (In a good way. I think).

“Dude! Are you kidding? You do know those are the first words you’ve said all day, right?”

I didn’t, actually. But I don’t tell him that. He’d probably just think that I’m more strange than he, no doubt, already does.

He’s properly cracking up now (Although, I don’t know what, exactly, I did that was quite so funny). “And then you’re all just like ‘What?’”. </p>

He makes an absolutely atrocious attempt at imitating my accent (Which leaves him sounding like some kind of drunken Prince Charles impersonator), and before I can stop it, I’m laughing outright, alongside him. Both of us hunched-over cackling, wholeheartedly, probably looking more than a little mad.

Once we’ve calmed down, he starts staring at my pad again. Jesus Christ. I really wish he wouldn’t. I’m not going to show him my sketches. Not even if he begs. I’d never survive the embarrassment.

“So ... lemme’ guess. You do most of your talking in there?” He points down at my pad, and I feel the tips of my ears flood scarlet.

“Yeah. Something like that.” My voice comes out mumbled and gruff. I didn’t mean for it to. He probably thinks I did it on purpose, though.

He’s haloed under the streetlights, and I’m trying not to stare. But, it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features. I want to say more, just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there but, I feel so ... multicoloured.

“I paint in my head sometimes,” I blurt. Dumb. So unbelievably dumb. “That’s why I was so quiet, I was painting.”

“Oh that’s cool. Saves paper, I suppose. Better for the trees, and that.” Stalling. He’s stalling. I’ve made it weird. I always make it weird. “So ... were you painting anything specific?”

“You.” Oh, fucking hell! I’ve ruined it - I’ve smeared on that last glob of un-erasable acrylic and ruined the painting. I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t even mean to say it, it just ... popped out. And now he’s stood, gawping, eyes wide and face flushed. I’ve embarrassed him. I’ve gone and dumped all my greedy keenness on him, completely uninvited, and now he’s drowning in it.

Everything feels tight. The air, suddenly too humid to swallow. I’m gasping - Waves of breath crashing, loudly, in my ears. Panic. I’m panicking. I need to - I have to go.

So, for the second time today, I run. Spinning on my heels and darting back towards my house, without as much as a ‘Goodbye”. Away from him. Away from humiliation. Back to my room, where I pull the blinds shut and open up my pad - Briskly skipping over today’s work. A blank page. A fresh start. I really am no good at talking the normal way.

#carry on #carry on countdown #coc 2020 #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #my fic #my writing

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blahblahwritings · 4 years

Text

Contracts and Captains. - IV

A/N: Remember how I posted something before one of my other fics saying that I had been consistently updating for weeks? Neither do I lmao who was she? Don’t know her anyway heres the fourth chapter of this black sails fic.

Words: 1823. Honestly I’ve been writing this since about 12pm I don’t know how its so short and its probably shit bc I haven’t written anything in months.

Warnings: Mentions of vomit as per the last chapter. Think thats it lmao. See you in three months.

As your eyes opened, there were a blissful couple of seconds where the previous night’s encounter didn’t exist in your memory. But, just like the sun flooding the room, unwanted flashes of vomit and slurred words rose like a tidal wave in your minds eye. You rolled over, burying your face and groaning into the pillow out of sheer embarrassment as a dull throbbing started in the depths of your skull.

Why did you keep drinking? You could’ve simply had one or two before retiring for the night and you wouldn’t have met that boatswain or thrown up on your own boots. What was his name again? Ben? Boyd? No, they weren’t quite right. Either way you made a mental note to apologise again whenever you next saw him.

Slowly, you tugged your still clothed limbs from the thin sheets, trying not to jostle your stomach too much for fear of whatever was left in there making an unwelcome appearance. Your pants were scuffed from where you took a tumble outside the tavern, your shirt was half undone, probably from a failed attempt to undress before not-so-gracefully falling into bed. A single boot was thrown on the floor alongside your coat, the other still stuck on your foot. What a mess.

A hot bath, that's what you needed, and a hearty breakfast if your insides don’t bring it back up. Pulling on the other boot, you made your way to one of the girls working downstairs, trading her coin to fill the tub in your room. You must’ve looked rough as you passed her to get to the man at the bar because when he turned to look at you, his brows shot up, disappearing behind his hair.

“You look like you could use a little hair of the dog, love.” He chuckled, eyes scanning your disheveled form. A grimace was your immediate response. “Some food then.” He offered, filling a bowl with something that you didn’t stop to look at as you practically inhaled it. The man watched you with a knowing smirk and had you not felt so terrible you’d have spat out a snarky comment. You chose to gulp down your water instead.

“Thank you.” You huffed with a small nod, tossing some money on the counter before you headed back upstairs. The state you were in just added to this morning's growing list of regrets but you weren’t quite sure if you cared how you looked to anyone else right now. All that was on your mind was a piercing headache and a good soak.

Stripping off, you stepped into the water, sinking down slowly as your body got used to the heat. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you rested your head on the back of the tub, your aching muscles beginning to relax. Scented oils and soaps were left on a stand by the bath. Working a generous amount between your palms, you massaged your limbs and torso getting rid of any tension and purging the memories of last night’s… festivities. In the quiet of your room, you took a moment to trace the small scars that littered your form, fingers landing at last on the freshly healed knife wound from only a few weeks ago. The soft pink flesh was still tender, and if you moved the wrong way it would ache. It was dangerous to be alone on this island, in this line of work. You needed friends, not just contacts. A crew, perhaps.

Letting your mind wander, you thought about your new found place among Flint’s men. You had to keep bringing in leads to be of any value to him, lest you risk being tossed aside and left in the dirt. He and his crew were among the most revered on the island, therefore cementing your part in that would bring security. It would ensure that other crews would leave you alone, as you were important to someone they feared and the consequences of harming you could be severe.

Then again, there was a little more than security on your list of perks as you thought more about the taller man from last night. He was kind to you, not that the others weren’t having bought your drinks and all, but, he made sure you were safe and fed. Billy Bones. You recalled. Replaying the meeting in your head, you winced at the slurred introduction and the puking soon after. Why did you care about how he saw you? Was it because he was the crew’s boatswain or because he was handsome and softer than most pirates you’d met.

Catching that last thought, you shook it from your head, refusing to let it take root in your brain. Attachments like that are a weakness here and you cannot afford to have those. You’d only met the guy once and he probably didn’t want anything to do with you anyway, especially after that drunken show you gave him. Cupping a handful of water, you splashed your face, scrubbing any further thoughts of the man from your head, instead, choosing to focus on finding a new lead for Flint.

They would be leaving to chase down the details you gave him yesterday in a couple of days, if not sooner, which meant you probably had around two weeks to find something of substance upon their return. You’d struggled last time but after sending out letters to old friends in neighbouring ports, you were hopeful something would turn up.

Padding your way to the dresser, you pulled out some fresh clothes and got ready, feeling much better than you did even an hour before. The food had settled your stomach and the water you guzzled seemed to bring some life back into your face as when you left to go hunt down some work, the barman from earlier spouted something along the lines of ‘A whole other woman’ when you walked by.

---

An uneventful morning led to an uneventful afternoon. There were no new letters or leads and the streets were pleasantly calm compared to usual. You certainly weren’t complaining, you had been feeling better since this morning but your body was still recovering. The easy day was probably just what you needed. You were sat on the beach, sipping some water and watching passersby as you sketched in the journal you kept.

It was something you’d taken to keeping since arriving in Nassau just over two years ago. A small leather book to help keep track of potential jobs and record anything interesting that happened. Really, though, you just loved to draw. You’d already filled a couple just like it with sketches of people, ships and landscapes that caught your eye, often accompanied by your messy scrawl. You were just about satisfied with your latest addition when Mr Gates clapped you on the shoulder making you jump and slam the journal closed. You’d never shown anyone the contents before.

“Sorry, Miss Devereux, didn’t mean to startle you.” He began, chuckling lightly at your reaction. “I heard you and the lads had quite the night..” He moved to stand by you as you got to your feet, dusting the sand from your pants. Tucking away the book, an amused smirk finds its way to your face as you look at him.

“Depends on who you ask.” You replied. “How were they this morning? Feeling sorry for themselves?” Your brows raised in question as you both started aimlessly wandering along the shore. A snort met your ears as his head fell forwards, looking at the ground then back at you. “I didn’t see the majority of them until at least noon and they were still in a sorry state, although I wonder how you must’ve been. I heard that you hurled your guts up right after meeting our boatswain.” Gates mused, eyes crinkling as he watched your entire face turn a lovely shade of red. You tried to keep your cool but your expression faltered into one of sheer embarrassment. Apparently, this was hilarious as Mr Gates exploded into a fit of hearty laughter, and as much as you told him to stop you couldn’t help but have a good chuckle yourself as you covered your face with a half-sandy palm at the thought.

When you both regain your composure, he gives you a reassuring pat on the back.

“Don’t worry, the only people who know are Billy and myself, the men still think you can hold your drink.” He winked. You made a move to argue that you could in fact hold your drink but he began talking about the plan to set sail the day after tomorrow. You listened intently and explained that you were awaiting correspondence from friends in other ports to supply more promising leads upon their return.

---

It had been four days since the crew left in search of another haul using your most recent information. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you’d made some money here and there through smaller jobs and pickpocketing but overall, there was nothing of real interest. You spent the days reading anything you could get your hands on or drawing and you’d even had your eye on some paints in one of the markets, but all you could do was wait. Checking for mail at the front desk of the inn you were staying at every morning had become a routine, desperate for any work or ships that you could relay to Flint. It was on the fifth day that you had gotten a response from someone in Port Royal.

As you read over the letter for the third time, you could feel your eyes widen in disbelief, your heart hammered in your chest and you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding. This was far too good to be true. Surely this was a myth. A prize of this magnitude was simply unheard of. Your eyes scanned over the paper again, barely able to focus on the words because your hands were trembling so violently. Calm down. You told yourself. It can’t be the truth. You thought as you stared at the other envelope that had arrived alongside it. At the bottom of the letter it read:

“P.S

Should you doubt my information, I sent you the correspondence shared between the dead man and the merchant with evidence pertaining to this gold. Best not ask how it came into my possession.

Your dear friend,

Josiah.”

You ran to shut the windows to your room and close the drapes. If anyone found out you had this information and the evidence to go with it, you would surely be killed for it. Tearing open the paper, you unfolded its contents. It was all here. The initials of the merchant, R.P., details alluding to the existence of this gold and the name of the dead man involved in plotting the course it would be on.

Vasquez.

#Black Sails #black sails imagine #Billy Bones #billy bones x reader #multi chapter #Captain Flint #mr gates

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boreothegoldfinch · 3 years

Text

chapter 10 paragraph xvi

Gyuri left us out in the Sixties, not far at all from the Barbours’. “This is the place?” I said, shaking the rain off Hobie’s umbrella. We were out in front of one of the big limestone townhouses off Fifth—black iron doors, massive lion’s-head knockers. “Yes—it’s his father’s place—his other family are trying to get him out legally but good luck with that, hah.” We were buzzed in, took a cage elevator up to the second floor. I could smell incense, weed, spaghetti sauce cooking. A lanky blonde woman—shortcropped hair and a serene small-eyed face like a camel’s—opened the door. She was dressed like a sort of old-fashioned street urchin or newsboy: houndstooth trousers, ankle boots, dirty thermal shirt, suspenders. Perched on the tip of her nose were a pair of wire-rimmed Ben Franklin glasses. Without saying a word she opened the door to us and walked off, leaving us alone in a dim, grimy, ballroom-sized salon which was like a derelict version of some high-society set from a Fred Astaire movie: high ceilings; crumbling plaster; grand piano; darkened chandelier with half the crystals broken or gone; sweeping Hollywood staircase littered with cigarette butts. Sufi chants droned low in the background: Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Someone had drawn on the wall, in charcoal, a series of life-sized nudes ascending the stairs like frames in a film; and there was very little furniture apart from a ratty futon and some chairs and tables that looked scavenged from the street. Empty picture frames on the wall, a ram’s skull. On the television, an animated film flickered and sputtered with epileptic vim, windmilling geometrics intercut with letters and live-action racecar images. Apart from that, and the door where the blonde had disappeared, the only light came from a lamp which threw a sharp white circle on melted candles, computer cables, empty beer bottles and butane cans, oil pastels boxed and loose, many catalogues raisonnés, books in German and English including Nabokov’s Despair and Heidegger’s Being and Time with the cover torn off, sketch books, art books, ashtrays and burnt tinfoil, and a grubby-looking pillow where drowsed a gray tabby cat. Over the door, like a trophy from some Schwarzwald hunting lodge, a rack of antlers cast distorted shadows that spread and branched across the ceiling with a Nordic, wicked, fairy-tale feel. Conversation in the next room. The windows were shrouded with tacked-up bedsheets just thin enough to let in a diffuse violet glow from the street. As I looked around, forms emerged from the dark and transformed with a dream strangeness: for one thing, the makeshift room divider—consisting of a carpet sagging tenement-style from the ceiling on fishing line—was on closer look a tapestry and a good one too, eighteenth century or older, the near twin of an Amiens I’d seen at auction with an estimate of forty thousand pounds. And not all the frames on the wall were empty. Some had paintings in them, and one of them—even in the poor light—looked like a Corot.

I was just about to step over for a look when a man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty appeared in the door: worn-looking, rangy, with straight sandy hair combed back from his face, in black punk jeans out at the knee and a grungy British commando sweater with an ill-fitting suit jacket over it. “Hello,” he said to me, quiet British voice with a faint German bite, “you must be Potter,” and then, to Boris: “Glad you turned up. You two should stay and hang out. Candy and Niall are making dinner with Ulrika.” Movement behind the tapestry, at my feet, that made me step back quickly: swaddled shapes on the floor, sleeping bags, a homeless smell. “Thanks, we can’t stay,” said Boris, who had picked up the cat and was scratching it behind the ears. “Have some of that wine though, thanks.” Without a word Horst passed his own glass over to Boris and then called into the next room in German. To me, he said: “You’re a dealer, right?” In the glow of the television his pale pinned gull’s eye shone hard and unblinking. “Right,” I said uneasily; and then: “Uh, thanks.” Another woman—bobhaired and brunette, high black boots, skirt just short enough to show the black cat tattooed on one milky thigh—had appeared with a bottle and two glasses: one for Horst, one for me. “Danke darling,” said Horst. To Boris he said: “You gentlemen want to do up?” “Not right now,” said Boris, who had leaned forward to steal a kiss from the dark-haired woman as she was leaving. “Was wondering though. What do you hear from Sascha?” “Sascha—” Horst sank down on the futon and lit a cigarette. With his ripped jeans and combat boots he was like a scuffed-up version of some below-the-title Hollywood character actor from the 1940s, some minor mitteleuropäischer known for playing tragic violinists and weary, cultivated refugees. “Ireland is where it seems to lead. Good news if you ask me.” “That doesn’t sound right.” “Nor to me, but I’ve talked to people and so far it checks out.” He spoke with all a junkie’s arrhythmic quiet, off-beat, but without the slur. “So—soon we should know more, I hope.” “Friends of Niall’s?” “No. Niall says he never heard of them. But it’s a start.”

The wine was bad: supermarket Syrah. Because I did not want to be anywhere near the bodies on the floor I drifted over to inspect a group of artists’ casts on a beat-up table: a male torso; a draped Venus leaning against a rock; a sandaled foot. In the poor light they looked like the ordinary plaster casts for sale at Pearl Paint—studio pieces for students to sketch from—but when I drew my finger across the top of the foot I felt the suppleness of marble, silky and grainless. “Why would they go to Ireland with it?” Boris was saying restlessly. “What kind of collectors’ market? I thought everyone tries to get pieces out of there, not in.” “Yes, but Sascha thinks he used the picture to clear a debt.” “So the guy has ties there?” “Evidently.” “I find this difficult to believe.” “What, about the ties?” “No, about the debt. This guy—he looks like he was stealing hubcaps off the street six months ago. “ Horst shrugged, faintly: sleepy eyes, seamed forehead. “Who knows. Not sure that’s correct but certainly I’m not willing to trust to luck. Would I let my hand be cut off for it?” he said, lazily tapping an ash on the floor. “No.” Boris frowned into his wine glass. “He was amateur. Believe me. If you saw him yourself you would know.” “Yes but he likes to gamble, Sascha says.” “You don’t think Sascha maybe knows more?” “I think not.” There was a remoteness in his manner, as if he was talking half to himself. “ ‘Wait and see.’ This is what I hear. An unsatisfactory answer. Stinking from the top if you ask me. But as I say, we are not to the bottom of this yet.” “And when does Sascha get back to the city?” The half-light in the room sent me straight back to childhood, Vegas, like the obscure mood of a dream lingering after sleep: haze of cigarette smoke, dirty clothes on the floor, Boris’s face white then blue in the flicker of the screen. “Next week. I’ll give you a ring. You can talk to him yourself then.” “Yes. But I think we should talk to him together.” “Yes. I think so too. We’ll both be smarter, in future… this need not have happened… but in any case,” said Horst, who was scratching his neck slowly, absent-mindedly, “you understand I’m wary of pushing him too hard.” “That is very convenient for Sascha.” “You have suspicions. Tell me.” “I think—” Boris cut his eyes at the doorway. “Yes?” “I think—” Boris lowered his voice—“you are being too easy on him. Yes yes—” putting up his hands—“I know. But—all very convenient for his guy to vanish, not a clue, he knows nothing!” “Well, maybe,” Horst said. He seemed disconnected and partly elsewhere, like an adult in the room with small children. “This is pressing on me—on all of us. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you. Though for all we know his guy was a cop.” “No,” said Boris resolutely. “He was not. He was not. I know it.” “Well—to be quite frank with you, I do not think so either, there is more to this than we yet know. Still, I’m hopeful.” He’d taken a wooden box from the drafting table and was poking around in it. “Sure you gentlemen wouldn’t like to get into a little something?” I looked away. I would have liked nothing better. I would also have liked to see the Corot except I didn’t want to walk around the bodies on the floor to do it. Across the room, I’d noticed several other paintings propped on the wainscoting: a still life, a couple of small landscapes. “Go look, if you want.” It was Horst. “The Lépine is fake. But the Claesz and the Berchem are for sale if you’re interested.” Boris laughed and reached for one of Horst’s cigarettes. “He’s not in the market.” “No?” said Horst genially. “I can give him a good price on the pair. The seller needs to get rid of them.”

I stepped in to look: still life, candle and half-empty wineglass. “Claesz-Heda?” “No—Pieter. Although—” Horst put the box aside, then stood beside me and lifted the desk lamp on the cord, washing both paintings in a harsh, formal glare—“this bit—” traced mid-air with the curve of a finger—“the reflection of the flame here? and the edge of the table, the drapery? Could almost be Heda on a bad day.” “Beautiful piece.” “Yes. Beautiful of its type.” Up close he smelled unwashed and raunchy, with a strong, dusty import-shop odor like the inside of a Chinese box. “A bit prosaic to the modern taste. The classicizing manner. Much too staged. Still, the Berchem is very good.” “Lot of fake Berchems out there,” I said neutrally. “Yes—” the light from the upheld lamp on the landscape painting was bluish, eerie—“but this is lovely… Italy, 1655‥… the ochres beautiful, no? The Claesz not so good I think, very early, though the provenance is impeccable on both. Would be nice to keep them together… they have never been apart, these two. Father and son. Came down together in an old Dutch family, ended up in Austria after the war. Pieter Claesz…” Horst held the light higher. “Claesz was so uneven, honestly. Wonderful technique, wonderful surface, but something a bit off with this one, don’t you agree? The composition doesn’t hold together. Incoherent somehow. Also—” indicating with the flat of his thumb the too-bright shine coming off the canvas: overly varnished. “I agree. And here—” tracing midair the ugly arc where an over-eager cleaning had scrubbed the paint down to the scumbling. “Yes.” His answering look was amiable and drowsy. “Quite correct. Acetone. Whoever did that should be shot. And yet a mid-level painting like this, in poor condition—even an anonymous work—is worth more than a masterpiece, that’s the irony of it, worth more to me, anyway. Landscapes particularly. Very very easy to sell. Not too much attention from the authorities… difficult to recognize from a description… and still worth maybe a couple hundred thousand. Now, the Fabritius—” long, relaxed pause—“a different calibre altogether. The most remarkable work that’s ever passed through my hands, and I can say that without question.” “Yes, and that is why we would like so much to get it back,” grumbled Boris from the shadows. “Completely extraordinary,” continued Horst serenely. “A still life like this one—” he indicated the Claesz, with a slow wave (black-rimmed fingernails, scarred venous network on the back of his hand)—“well, so insistently a trompe l’oeil. Great technical skill, but overly refined. Obsessive exactitude. There’s a deathlike quality. A very good reason they are called natures mortes, yes? But the Fabritius…”—loose-kneed back-step—“I know the theory of The Goldfinch, I’m well familiar with it, people call it trompe l’oeil and indeed it can strike the eye that way from afar. But I don’t care what the art historians say. True: there are passages worked like a trompe l’oeil… the wall and the perch, gleam of light on brass, and then… the feathered breast, most creaturely. Fluff and down. Soft, soft. Claesz would carry that finish and exactitude down to the death—a painter like van Hoogstraten would carry it even farther, to the last nail of the coffin. But Fabritius… he’s making a pun on the genre… a masterly riposte to the whole idea of trompe l’oeil… because in other passages of the work—the head? the wing?—not creaturely or literal in the slightest, he takes the image apart very deliberately to show us how he painted it. Daubs and patches, very shaped and hand-worked, the neckline especially, a solid piece of paint, very abstract. Which is what makes him a genius less of his time than our own. There’s a doubleness. You see the mark, you see the paint for the paint, and also the living bird.”

“Yes, well,” growled Boris, in the dark beyond the spotlight, snapping his cigarette lighter shut, “if no paint, would be nothing to see.” “Precisely.” Horst turned, his face cut by shadow. “It’s a joke, the Fabritius. It has a joke at its heart. And that’s what all the very greatest masters do. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Late Titian. They make jokes. They amuse themselves. They build up the illusion, the trick—but, step closer? it falls apart into brushstrokes. Abstract, unearthly. A different and much deeper sort of beauty altogether. The thing and yet not the thing. I should say that that one tiny painting puts Fabritius in the rank of the greatest painters who ever lived. And with The Goldfinch? He performs his miracle in such a bijou space. Although I admit, I was surprised—” turning to look at me—“when I held it in my hands the first time? The weight of it?” “Yes—” I couldn’t help feeling gratified, obscurely, that he’d noted this detail, oddly important to me, with its own network of childhood dreams and associations, an emotional chord—“the board is thicker than you’d think. There’s a heft to it.” “Heft. Quite. The very word. And the background—much less yellow than when I saw it as a boy. The painting underwent a cleaning—early nineties I believe. Post-conservation, there’s more light.” “Hard to say. I’ve got nothing to compare it to.” “Well,” said Horst. The smoke from Boris’s cigarette, threading in from the dark where he sat, gave the floodlit circle where we stood the midnight feel of a cabaret stage. “I may be wrong. I was a boy of twelve or so when I saw it for the first time.” “Yes, I was about that age when I first saw it too.” “Well,” said Horst, with resignation, scratching an eyebrow—dime-sized bruises on the backs of his hands—“that was the only time my father ever took me with him on a business trip, that time at The Hague. Ice cold boardrooms. Not a leaf stirring. On our afternoon I wanted to go to Drievliet, the fun park, but he took me to the Mauritshuis instead. And—great museum, many great paintings, but the only painting I remember seeing is your finch. A painting that appeals to a child, yes? Der Distelfink. That is how I knew it first, by its German name.”

“Yah, yah, yah,” said Boris from the darkness, in a bored voice. “This is like the education channel on the television.” “Do you deal any modern art at all?” I said, in the silence that followed. “Well—” Horst fixed me with his drained, wintry eye; deal wasn’t quite the correct verb, he seemed amused at my choice of words—“sometimes. Had a Kurt Schwitters not long ago—Stanton Macdonald-Wright—do you know him? Lovely painter. It depends a lot what comes my way. Quite honestly— do you ever deal in paintings at all?” “Very seldom. The art dealers get there before I do.” “That is unfortunate. Portable is what matters in my business. There are a lot of mid-level pieces I could sell on the clean if I had paper that looked good.” Spit of garlic; pans clashing in the kitchen; faint Moroccan-souk drift of urine and incense. On and on flatlining, the Sufi drone, wafting and spiraling around us in the dark, ceaseless chants to the Divine. “Or this Lépine. Quite a good forgery. There’s this fellow—Canadian, quite amusing, you’d like him—does them to order. Pollocks, Modiglianis— happy to introduce you, if you’d like. Not much money in them for me, although there’s a fortune to be made if one of them turned up in just the right estate.” Then, smoothly, in the silence that followed: “Of older works I see a lot of Italian, but my preferences—they incline to the North as you can see. Now—this Berchem is a very fine example for what it is but of course these Italianate landscapes with the broken columns and the simple milkmaids don’t so much suit the modern taste, do they? I much prefer the van Goyen there. Sadly not for sale.” “Van Goyen? I would have sworn that was a Corot.” “From here, yes, you might.” He was pleased at the comparison. “Very similar painters—Vincent himself remarked it—you know that letter? ‘The Corot of the Dutch’? Same tenderness of mist, that openness in fog, do you know what I mean?” “Where—” I’d been about to ask the typical dealer’s question, where did you get it, before catching myself. “Marvelous painter. Very prolific. And this is a particularly beautiful example,” he said, with all a collector’s pride. “Many amusing details up close—tiny hunter, barking dog. Also—quite typical—signed on the stern of the boat. Quite charming. If you don’t mind—” indicating, with a nod, the bodies behind the tapestry. “Go over. You won’t disturb them.” “No, but—” “No—” holding up a hand—“I understand perfectly. Shall I bring it to you?” “Yes, I’d love to see it.”

“I must say, I’ve grown so fond of it, I’ll hate to see it go. He dealt paintings himself, van Goyen. A lot of the Dutch masters did. Jan Steen. Vermeer. Rembrandt. But Jan van Goyen—” he smiled—“was like our friend Boris here. A hand in everything. Paintings, real estate, tulip futures.” Boris, in the dark, made a disgruntled noise at this and seemed about to say something when all of a sudden a scrawny wild-haired boy of maybe twenty-two, with an old fashioned mercury thermometer sticking out of his mouth, came lurching out of the kitchen, shielding his eyes with his hand against the upheld lamp. He was wearing a weird, womanish, chunky knit cardigan that came almost to his knees like a bathrobe; he looked ill and disoriented, his sleeve was up, he was rubbing the inside of his forearm with two fingers and then the next thing I knew his knees went sideways and he’d hit the floor, the thermometer skittering out with a glassy noise on the parquet, unbroken. “What…?” said Boris, stabbing out his cigarette, standing up, the cat darting from his lap into the shadows. Horst—frowning—set the lamp on the floor, light swinging crazily on walls and ceiling. “Ach,” he said fretfully, brushing the hair from his eyes, dropping to his knees to look the young man over. “Get back,” he said in an annoyed voice to the women who had appeared in the door, along with a cold, dark-haired, attentive-looking bruiser and a couple of glassy prep-school boys, no more than sixteen—and then, when they all still stood staring—flicked out a hand. “In the kitchen with you! Ulrika,” he said to the blonde, “halt sie zurück.” The tapestry was stirring; behind it, blanket-wrapped huddles, sleepy voices: eh? was ist los? “Ruhe, schlaft weiter,” called the blonde, before turning to Horst and beginning to speak urgently in rapid-fire German. Yawns; groans; farther back, a bundle sitting up, groggy American whine: “Huh? Klaus? What’d she say?” “Shut up baby and go back schlafen.” Boris had picked up his coat and was shouldering it on. “Potter,” he said and then again, when I did not answer, staring horrified at the floor, where the boy was breathing in gurgles: “Potter.” Catching my arm. “Come on, let’s go.” “Yes, sorry. We’ll have to talk later. Schiesse,” said Horst regretfully, shaking the boy’s limp shoulder, with the tone of a parent making a not-particularly-convincing show of scolding a child. “Dummer Wichser! Dummkopf! How much did he take, Niall?” he said to the bruiser who had reappeared in the door and was looking on with a critical eye. “Fuck if I know,” said the Irishman, with an ominous sideways pop of his head. “Come on, Potter,” said Boris, catching my arm. Horst had his ear to the boy’s chest and the blonde, who had returned, had dropped to her knees beside him and was checking his airway.

As they consulted urgently in German, more noise and movement behind the Amiens, which billowed out suddenly: faded blossoms, a fête champêtre, prodigal nymphs disporting themselves amidst fountain and vine. I was staring at a satyr peeping at them slyly from behind a tree when, unexpectedly —something against my leg—I started back violently as a hand swiped from underneath and clutched my trouser cuff. From the floor, one of the dirty bundles—swollen red face just visible from under the tapestry—inquired of me in a sleepy gallant voice: “He’s a margrave, my dear, did you know that?” I pulled my trouser leg free and stepped back. The boy on the floor was rolling his head a bit and making sounds like he was drowning. “Potter.” Boris had gathered up my coat and was practically stuffing it in my face. “Come on! Let’s go! Ciao,” he called into the kitchen with a lift of his chin (pretty dark head appearing in the doorway, a fluttering hand: bye, Boris! Bye!) as he pushed me ahead of him and ducked behind me out the door. “Ciao, Horst!” he said, making a call me later gesture, hand to ear. “Tschau Boris! Sorry about this! We’ll talk soon! Up,” said Horst, as the Irishman came up and grabbed the boy’s other arm from underneath; together they hoisted him up, feet limp and toes dragging and—amidst hurried activity in the doorway, the two young teenagers scrambling back in alarm—hauled him into the lighted doorway of the next room, where Boris’s brunette was drawing up a syringe of something from a tiny glass bottle.

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missnmikaelson-main · 4 years

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Addicted - Chapter 19

Down she went, following the narrowing beam of light.

Pressure crushed her arms and legs, but she kept on swimming. She swam past the sound of her mom’s scream and her dad’s assurance that everything would be alright. She kicked her legs as her own panicked voice circled around.

She could see the shining exterior of the car, dull behind the light and empty of inhabitants; she used it to pull herself around and grasp the handle.

Her lungs burned, but nothing could hurt her in a dream, right?

She pulled.

“You were helping this guy?” Rebekah tightened the chains around Alistair’s wrists, hoisting him higher. Her eyes lit on the inflamed mark on his lower arm.

“It wasn’t like I knew any better.” Marcel narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the bite. He didn’t have to ask if Klaus had finally broken his curse, the infection answered that question. He was surprised however by his sire’s restraint. There had been a time when the Original would have ripped out Alistair’s heart, or divested him of his head, but Klaus had administered a relatively shallow bite far from major arteries and veins; the toxin would take hours to reach his heart.

“You could have asked,” she dug her nails into Alistair’s chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. She wasn’t entirely sure that she liked Elena Gilbert, or her ‘relationship’ with her brother, but that child was family and they hadn’t had a new member of the family in so long. Her pupils dilated slightly. “You tried to steal something very special from us. Children are a precious gift, wouldn’t you agree?”

He nodded a jerking movement that only dug her nails in farther.

“My brother’s bite is toxic,” she leaned back on her heels, inspecting the damage. “It will be slow, and it will be agonizing. And long before it’s done the fever will bring hallucinations; I thought I’d help it along and give you a little head start.”

Marcel resisted the urge to shudder when he caught a glimpse of her face. The angelic smile was maniacal and sickeningly sweet, painting her as a greater threat in that instance than Kol. And after Kol had put on his little Shakespeare show it took a lot for him to rank someone as worse than the psychotic maniac who had planned to kill him.

“You’re going to dream Alistair,” she hummed. “From now until the moment your heart stops, you will dream of your wife and your child.” She reached into his mind, finding the memories he sought to hide of a young woman before a bassinet. “Nothing happy I’m afraid,” she sighed, as if in apology. “Because whatever you see – however peaceful the vision appears – you will always slaughter them both, and you will re-live the pain each and every time.” She walked backwards, eyes sparkling as she retreated. “Frightful dreams, darling.”

Her eyes cut to Marcel, watching as he opened the door that would lead back to the main part of the basement.

“You could have asked more questions,” she repeated, crossing her arms.

“He said he had to get the doppelganger before the Originals could,” he snapped, shutting the cell door. “That was more than enough for me.”

“You would have hidden a human doppelganger from your own family,” she shoved his chest, pushing him up against rough stone. “You know how important her kind is. You know that Nik spent centuries looking for one.”

“And just like that I should have handed her over?” His eyes hardened.

“She’s not in danger from us!” Rebekah threw up her hands. “But even if she was you should have. I remember a time when you would have done anything to help your family – no matter who got hurt in the process.”

“And I remember my family abandoning me to the flames,” he grabbed her wrists, spinning around and pinning her in his place.

The light dimmed in her eyes, shadowed by a century of sorrow.

“We thought you were dead,” she breathed out, slowly. “I thought you were dead.”

“You never looked back long enough to find out,” he tightened his hold on her wrists, eyes flickering over her face.

“We were running for our lives,” she shook her head, “and you were dead on the stage.”

“Only I wasn’t.” His jaw clenched before he shook his head, laughing softly. “You know, a part of me always thought you’d come back one day, but now it’s abundantly clear that you’ve made a life somewhere else.”

“We haven’t…”

“You have,” he let go of her arms and stepped back, looking away. “I’ll help you find the girl. I’ve got people everywhere, so someone’s bound to have seen her, but answer me this, Rebekah.”

Her arms slid down to her hips, delicate skin scratching over stone.

“How long until you abandon her?”

++++

Her fingers slipped on the handle. She grabbed it again and pulled, planting her feet on the side of the car.

From inside she heard the barest whisper.

“What do I want, stranger who has all the answers?”

The door gave way; the water pushed her forward into darkness.

++++

“Caroline,” Marcel shut the door to the cellar, “that was your name right?”

“Yeah,” she straightened up; lowering the map she was reviewing with Kol.

He paused on the way towards the blonde, glancing around the deserted corridor; only Kol remained with Caroline and the witch.

“Where’d they go?”

“Elijah and Nik split up to look,” Kol folded the map. “We were just about to set out as well.”

“Did you need something?” She shoved her hand into her pocket to retrieve her ringing cell phone. “Just hang on a sec. Jeremy?” She answered the phone, pausing to listen. “No, we haven’t found her yet… yes; I realize that Jenna is freaking out.”

Kol lifted the phone from her hand.

“Don’t bring her down her, mate. The last thing we need is a newly turned vampire in a city this big.”

“We’ll call when we find her,” Caroline promised. She took back her phone and hung up. “Now,” her eyes flickered to Marcel, sparing a quick glance for Rebekah. “What do you need?”

“A picture of Elena.” He pulled out his phone, rattling off the number as Caroline typed. When the image arrived he sent out a group text.

“What are you doing?” Rebekah leaned over his arm to watch.

“Filing the missing person’s report,” he tucked his phone back in his pocket. “While we wait I thought your other friend here might try another locator spell.”

“I tried four,” Bonnie scoffed. She dragged her toes over the cobblestones, scuffing her shoes beyond repair. “I can’t find her.”

“Maybe you can with a power boost.”

“I’m already channeling a hundred dead witches.” She flexed her fingers, feeling the energy jump beneath her skin.

“So let’s add something new,” the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Something new,” Kol cocked an eyebrow.

“A supernatural force – the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

++++

Klaus flipped his phone around from the compelled local and did a poor job tempering his growl; it was almost amusing how fast the kid ran off… almost.

He regretted immediately sending his hybrids out now, and not taking the time to call them all back in – they would have been useful and cut down on search time – but he had rushed headlong towards New Orleans when she spoke, certain that finding her would be much easier.

The best thing she could have done was stepped into a human home, but without knowing anyone in the city that was unlikely, so his best hope at the moment was public places; surely she would have stuck to one of them, making locating her all the simpler.

So far the cauldron and the quarter had come up empty.

“Where are you, love?” He stared down at the phone and the only photograph he had. Countless sketches and paintings littered his art studio, for every landscape or abstract there were two of her, but only one picture. It was one she had taken herself when she discovered his phone was empty.

“What kind of person doesn’t have any pictures?” She frowned down at the blank screen, but the corner of her mouth quirked up – how could it not when his fingers teased her inner thigh?

“The kind that prefers to paint,” he murmured, lips against her breast. “If I want an image I’ll make it myself.”

“I’ve seen those ‘images’,” her fingers threaded through his hair.

“You’ve posed for those ‘images’,” he urged her legs apart, capturing a hard nipple with his teeth.

“They’re too perfect,” she protested. Her hips rolled towards his fingers. “People aren’t that perfect.”

“You are.”

She had dropped the subject and his phone after that, but when he woke up the next morning to an empty bed he had found the pillow occupied with his cell phone and a single picture in the gallery.

His eyes traced the image, taking in her slight mussed hair and the shadows under her lively eyes. The text he had sent – ‘still perfect’ – had gained him an early morning phone call and the sound of her exhausted laugh: the by-product of their late night activities.

His phone rang, disturbing the image with the caller ID.

“Kol,” his greeting was clipped.

“Marcel got word back from some of his ‘guys’,” derision laced his tone, “and three of them ran into Elena shortly after she was talking to you.”

“Are they sure it was her?” He reached out, bracing one hand on a pillar.

“Apparently it’s hard to forget the face of a woman yelling at you in the middle of the street,” Kol drawled.

“Your girl’s got some anger issues,” a second voice grumbled in the background. It was swiftly followed by Marcel assuring ‘Diego’ that said girl had a right to be angry at the moment.

“Where is she?” Klaus growled cutting off the rambling. He didn’t recognize the man Kol handed his phone off to.

“She was outside the Jardin Gris. That little witch tossed three vampires.”

“Elena’s not a witch,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Maybe not, Nik,” Rebekah joined in the conversation, taking the phone from Diego, “but the Petrova family are travellers. Didn’t some of Katerina’s siblings fight back when you were slaughtering them?”

He straightened his spine, remembering the slip of a girl who had pushed him away. Her power had been new and untampered, but there had been power there.

“Katerina is her ancestor, so technically the power would have been passed on. Plus she’s carrying a little witch or warlock so she could have been channeling the baby.”

“It’s not unheard of for human mothers to access their witch child’s power while the baby is in the womb,” Kol spoke up. “It’s rare, but it happens.”

“The more likely scenario is traveller.”

Klaus cut in before his siblings could get into a row and cost precious time. “Where is she now?” He heard Rebekah take a deep breath, and what sounded like a body hitting a wall.

“They don’t know, by the time the vampires got back up Elena and the wolf she was with were gone. Apparently a couple of locals said a warlock got involved too at that point, but nobody has a name.”

“May I,” Marcel’s voice floated through the receiver; it came out clearer after a second. “Listen, my guys said the wolf was all protective of her, so there’s a good chance he’s hiding her, but since your witch…”

“BONNIE!”

“Bonnie,” he amended, “couldn’t locate her it’s safe to say that whatever warlock got involved is cloaking her.”

“I thought no magic happened that you weren’t aware of,” he clenched his fingers.

“It doesn’t… not in the city anyway. Out in the bayou though…”

“The bayou would take days to scour – even with all of us looking. Don’t suppose I could trouble you for some of your ‘guys’?” He bit down on his tongue.

“Nah-uh, that’s where my help ends. The bayou’s crawling with werewolves that are cursed to be wolves on all but the full moon, and I’m not gonna subject my people to the same toxin you hit Alistair with.”

“My blood can heal that bite.”

“You’d have to scatter out there, and what are the odds you’d find anyone bitten before the poison kills ‘em? I’m not risking that. You can head out there and start searching, and with any luck Bonnie can narrow down the location for you.”

++++

He hung up the phone before Klaus could respond and took the steps behind the reliquary two at a time, leading the way up to the attic. The door swung inwards, revealing a cluttered bedroom.

A silent girl sat cross legged in the middle of her bed. A white canopy fanned out around her.

“That’s the witch that’s gonna help?” Kol ran his eyes over the girl’s features. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

“Yup.”

Rebekah attempted to take a step into the room only to find a barrier holding her out.

“You gotta ask the lady of the house for an invitation,” Marcel inclined his head towards the girl.

“I don’t,” Bonnie approached the bed. “Doesn’t look like she’s going to be issuing invitations anytime soon.”

“In that case,” Rebekah spun on her heel, “I’m gonna go help Nik. Kol?”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“I’ll go too,” Caroline backed up.

The sound of Kol clearing his throat made Rebekah pause at the top of the stairs and glance back, watching his back as he tensed.

“Maybe you should stay with Bonnie?”

“Bonnie just whooped Klaus and Alistair,” she narrowed her eyes, “she can handle herself.”

“I really can,” Bonnie called, bending slightly to inspect the edge of a bobby pin in the girl’s hand.

Caroline moved to follow after Rebekah; Kol stopped her with both hands on her shoulders.

“My concern was not for Bonnie, darling,” he met her glare with one of his own. “Marcel’s right about the risk. If you get bitten there’s a chance we wouldn’t get you to Nik in time, so you should stay here until we have a more solid lead.”

Her eyes flashed, churning like the sea during a storm.

“Unless of course, you want to die an unpleasant death,” he tilted his head to the side.

She gritted her teeth. “Fine, but the second there’s an actual location I’m going out there.”

“Figured you would,” he chuckled.

++++

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in the shaft of sunlight; it filtered through the curtains, and she held up a hand to protect her sensitive vision. It took a moment before she could think to sit up.

Her breath caught as she took in her bedroom. Her fingers curled into a soft blanket covered in roses, for a brief moment an image flashed in her mind; she saw her parents larger than life and heard a baby gurgle.

She dropped the blanket and got to her feet, moving towards the shelf. Toys she vaguely recalled lined the wood along with pictures and drawings. She left them all untouched as some moments were meant to be.

++++

Davina snapped back into her body and jolted, sucking in a lungful of air. Her eyes darted around the room from Marcel to the vampire outside her door and back before settling on the witch at her bedside.

“You were using magic earlier.”

“She was looking for Elena,” Marcel nodded.

“How do you know her name?” Davina’s eyes narrowed.

“Because she’s our best friend,” the witch waved one hand towards the door. “I’m Bonnie.”

“Davina,” she regarded the witch carefully.

“I was hoping you’d help me find her, Davina.”

“She’s cloaked,” she shook her head.

“I know,” Bonnie reached into her bag for the map. “I thought you and I could break through it together. I’m channeling a hundred witches and you’re…” her eyes flickered to Marcel. “I don’t really know what you are, but Marcel says you’re powerful.”

++++

Her bureau held an assortment of jewelry. A sparkling pair of ruby earrings gave her a vision of her grandmother on a Christmas morning far gone. She recognized her only from the photographs that had decorated their mantle since Gran had passed when she was four years old, but the memory played out in her mind as if it had happened yesterday.

She backed away from the baubles; they weren’t the reason she was there.

She made a slow circle of the room, and found one thing to be missing, at least from her plain view.

She moved to the window, lifting the portrait of a horse away from the wall and reaching behind. Her fingers closed on cool leather.

++++

She texted Elijah as Kol drove, speeding through winding roads.

“You like her,” she glanced up.

“What?” He scanned the side of the road, selecting a spot to begin their search.

“Caroline,” Rebekah clarified, pointing to a small clearing for him to park, “you like her.”

“Did my blatant flirting give it away?” He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. Her arms crossed over her chest. “You flirt with everyone.”

“You’re not still sore about poor Georgie, are you?” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk and he cast a sidelong look in her direction.

“I had my eye on him for weeks, and then found him in your bed,” she gritted her teeth, but her voice still resembled a whine. She hated the way it made her sound like an insolent child.

“He still would have had you,” mirth laced his tone. “Probably would have tried for Nik too.”

“We’re getting off topic,” she punched his arm, “the important thing here is that you like her, and you’re not just flirting.”

“Of course I am,” he stepped out of the car. “Like you said, I flirt with everyone.”

“Yeah,” her shoes sank into the bog, “and then you sleep with them or feed on them. You only go out of your way to protect the ones you care about.”

++++

She cradled the green journal to her chest, lowering herself into the window seat.

She had watched the Harry Potter films with Bonnie and Caroline years ago, and as she held her journal she was struck with the image of a young Harry sneaking through the restricted section while books whispered to him from the shelves.

The journal was whispering words so quiet she couldn’t hear make them out; they were little more than a breath of wind rising up to ruffle her hair.

With shaking fingers she pulled the flap loose and flipped open the first page before thinking better of it and turning to the back. She ignored the looping letters as she worked backwards through entries until she found the day after the sacrifice.

Drawing in a deep breath she began to read.

@klaroline-4ever @cry-btch @xanderling @kol-and-elena-fanfiction @elejahforever @elejah-wonderland @morsmornte @geekofmanyfandoms @eternityunicorn

#addicted fic #klena #klaus x elena

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guhzoontight · 4 years

Photo

For a while, I’ve wanted to draw some angst in regards to the Apprentice’s headaches. Thus this sketch was born. Then I took it ONE more step. It lead me to thinking about the first instance of the headaches. Thus, this was born. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The warmth of the afternoon sun kisses my bare skin as I finish getting dressed. Twisting parts of my hair into braids that come together in the back, just below a fluff of bundled hair. Leaving the rest to fall below. Fastening the last button on my waist cincher, I find myself patting down the flows of my dress. I was getting better at dressing myself and looked forward to my master’s proud smile of my growth. For today was the day that he had promised to take me outside of the shop and into the city. If ever we were to leave in the past, it was normally under the moonlight. Avoiding anyone that may cross our paths, his hand tightly encasing mine as we went. Covering my face with my own hood, I never made direct eye contact with anyone else besides my master. I spent the past few days looking out the window of our living corridors. Carefully watching the people that passed by, making sure they could not see me. Then, whenever one would venture into my master’s shop, I would quietly listen and watch from the stairs. People were different from my master and I, and I tried to learn as much as I could from each one. I was so curious about everyone. The scent they would bring when they entered the shop, the sound of their voices as they carried conversations on with my master. So, as I walked down the stairs, ready to take on the city while the sun still gazed down on it, my master’s smile brought a flush of red to my face. “Caragh, you look incredible.” He makes his way over to me, satchel and coat already adorn his person. “And the style of your hair, how did you learn to do this?” His hand touches along the braids, my heart beats faster. I feel a strange almost knot in my stomach and I don’t know why. “I saw a customer with it, so I have been trying to do it too.” My voice is still very soft, as speaking is still a struggle for me. Many of the hands-on tasks have been easy to pick up on, but when I hear the words in my head, I feel them get twisted and pieced together wrong on the way out of my mouth. My master offers me a smile and his hand, leading us out of the shop and into a whole new world.

At first, I leave my hood up as we walk, casting my eyes down on the ground. My nerves hit me like a flood as new sounds ring in my ears. People calling out news of the city, merchants yelling prices and sales of their goods. The sound of carriages and the horses on the main roads lead me to peek my head up to the sight. The sun is bright, catching me off guard, and I have to squint my eyes for a few moments as I get adjusted. My breath taken away for an instant as the life of the city surrounds me. A crowd of people stand in front of a stage with one man before them all. Holding up a number of items as the crowd shouts off different prices. Others are just walking along the roads carrying on with their daily lives. Children weaving through adults in a playful manner. One of them darts between my master and I in a fit of laughter. Others following after them in the same state smiles stretched further than I’ve ever seen. I feel the pull of my master, drawing me closer to him. “Are you alright?” I nod with a smile, the sight of the children playing makes me feel...happy. A sweet smell catches my nose, only taking me a second before I realize the scent. The pumpkin bread that my master would bring home from time to time. I tighten my grip on his hand and start running towards the scent. Looking back to the startled face of my master, my smile grows bigger as I laugh. “It’s pumpkin bread!” A laugh emerges as he catches up to my pace. “Alright, I’ll take you. You always did enjoy going to the marketplace.” His statement confuses me, causing a tinge of pain in my head. I brush it off and follow my master’s lead through the crowd of people. The sun shining down through wooden floorboards that lay above us, scattering the heat of the sun. Giving out breaks of shade as we make our way through the marketplace. Below us, the sound of the canals lapse against the stone that leads them through the city. Our noses lead us straight to the shop where the precious pumpkin bread is just being taken out of the oven. The man doing so, laying the loaves out of a tanned cloth. I instinctively stand behind my master as we approached. “Ah Asra, good to see you this afternoon! And who did you bring with you today? Is this who the second loaf is for?” My master steps slowly to the side, and I meet eyes with the baker. “I would like you to meet Caragh, she’s my apprentice.” My mouth hangs open for a moment as I try to formulate my words. This is the first person I’ve spoken to that wasn’t my master. At first, only whispers of sounds come from my mouth. I feel the nerves kick it, fidgeting with my dress before my body calms with a gentle touch of my master. His eyes bring ease to the nerves, as he encourages me to speak. Taking my hood down, I swallow the knot in my throat and extend my hand to the baker. “It- it’s ni-nice to meet you.” His large rough hand slaps against mine in a sturdy handshake. “It’s a pleasure Caragh, now, here.” He takes two of the loaves, wrapping them in cloths before handing them to my master and I. “A gift for our first meeting. Just make sure you stop by again in the near future!” His jolly demeanor warms me before I have even taken a bite of the warm bread in my hands. “Of course! Thank you!” Waving goodbye as my master leads us back on the trail of the marketplace. Taking small bites as we walk, my eyes can’t help but look at everything as we pass. Soon taking notice that there are quite a few people staring at the two of us, some turning their heads to whisper. I don’t know much about the way of people, but something strikes me as odd with the stares and whispers only increasing. “Master, is it common for people to stare so much at others and whisper things?” My master starts to take notice, his head turning a few directions. We stop our straight path, as he leads us over towards a set of stairs, away from the main path of the marketplace. “Caragh, first, please don’t call me master. It’s beneath you. You can just call me Asra.” He takes both of my hands, a tint of red spreading across his face as he does so. I can’t help but smile, the sun highlighting his pearlescent hair. A moment flashes in my mind, similar to this with that same smile and shines in his hair. But he looks...younger. My head tingles a bit before coming back. “Alright... Asra.” His name comes off my tongue as if I’d said a million times before. It’s then I notice a shine in his eyes, tears building behind them. He takes me in an embrace, surprising me for a moment before he lets go. “Caragh, there are things I need to tell you about…” His eyes trail off, and I try to follow them. “There is a reason they are staring at us. You see, you’ve...you’ve been here before.” Taking my hand once more, we walk back down the stairs to the marketplace. “Asra, what do you mean? I have never been here, at least not during the day when the people have been out.” Our pace slows as I feel a deep pounding in my head. Grasping onto Asra’s hand tighter, breathing becoming harder with each step. “A year ago...something happened Caragh.” He squeezes my hand. “Let’s go…” His words fall off as the world around me becomes silent. Only the sound of my increasing heartbeat echoes in my mind. Asra is still looking off, away from me, but his lips are still moving. My legs start to shake with each step, pulling on Asra in a moment of panic. Asra...Asra I can’t hear you. My head pulses in pain, a feeling of pressure crushing inside my head. A few people at the nearby shops look my way, confusion and slight concern on their faces. Some covering their mouths, as to whisper while keeping their eyes on me. Something happened...A year ago something...happened. Flames flicker in my mind as a river breaks through of red beetles that swallow the space. Blinking back to the marketplace, Asra finally turns his head to me. My knees give out, bending down towards the ground Asra catches my arms before I land face-first on the wooden boards below. My knees scuffed, I reach for my head with one of my hands. The pain in my head is unbearable, causing me to lose focus in my sight. Tears flowing down, everything flashes before me in a fiery blur. My world is almost burning around me. It feels as if my head is being crushed between two boulders. I try to reach out to Asra with my other hand. “Hel...he.” I can barely form words as black darkness starts to swallow the world around me. “Caragh…?” I can’t respond, my lips quiver as I feel my other arm give out. Slipping a little more before Asra grabs hold of me completely. Asra, please make it stop. It hurts, it hurts so much. Help me, please. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop! Asra must be holding me as I watch the marketplace pass him by. I can barely make out his face, but feel his tears dripping down on my face. The darkness swallows my vision whole, as all I can feel or think about is the pain. Make it stop. The warmth of the afternoon sun kisses my bare skin as I sit against the bed. My master sits on the edge as he finishes doing my hair. The gentleness in his movements, as he moves my locks of hair, sets me into a meditative state. I feel a slight tug before he places a small hand mirror in front of me. “So, how do you like it?” Running my hands along with the braids as they come together in the back, just below a fluff of bundled hair. Leaving the rest to fall below. I’ve seen a customer come in with braids like these and always wanted to see what it would look like on me. My smile grows into a toothy grin. Utter joy taking over my heart. “Thank you, master, I love it!” Turning to him, his smile met my expectations, but his eyes caught me off guard. They looked...sad.

#the arcana #The Arcana Game #thearcanagame #mc the arcana #the arcana fan art #the arcana fanfic #the arcana fan fiction #the arcana fan mc #arcana fanart #the arcana fan apprentice #fan fiction #asra x apprentice #asra alnazar #caragh #the arcana caragh

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themockingcrows · 4 years

Text

Whisper Just For Me: Ch. 16: Beyond

All good things must come to an end. Sometimes, though, the end is just the beginning. CW: Major character death This chapter is available on AO3!

((The end of the fic! Thank you so much for reading, it’s really meant a lot to me. And I’m so sorry the ending took so long to get out! Between the surgeries, recovery time, mental health and school, things have been hectic to say the least. If you stuck around, you’ve got my love forever. <3 Ryn, over and out.))

By the time the cast came off and you’d started doing physical therapy at home, you felt it was time to try explaining to Dave all the things you had found. Life had returned to normal more or less, with Jade and her research keeping Dave’s returning strength and habits dialed in to where they could be tracked again. Everything was looking positive, and you couldn’t be happier. Your family was whole again, and life was good.

Now to rip the bandaid off, you supposed. Now when it was private and quiet, when Jade wasn’t around and it would just be the two of you.

With Dave zipping around the room rustling papers one day, you decided it was time. If he passed on… well. You had confidence you’d see him again somehow. Your beliefs had expanded over time to well beyond what they were before, and with it came a sense of serenity in things. If you could find Dave again after all that had happened, if fate itself seemed intent on making sure that you could be reunited somehow, then surely it made sense that it would keep going even longer afterwards into the unknown.

You knelt down carefully, still babying your formerly broken leg as it got stronger, and rummaged under your bed for the things you’d brought back from Dave’s Bro. The raglan shirt, the different drawings, the picture of the smuppet, the photograph of Dave on the sofa. With a deep sense of inner peace, you set them all out on the floor and sat back on your ass to look them over when you felt the warmth near your shoulder.

“Do you see all these clearly?” you asked, wanting to be sure.

… Yes …

“...Do you want to touch them?” you asked, offering control of your arms again. “I don’t mind. They’re… they’re yours, after all.”

Did Dave recognize them, or not? He seemed intrigued, if nothing else. He didn’t take control of your arms, but remained near your head and shoulders, hovering and staring intently at the different things as if he were a mongoose staring down a snake. You reached for the picture of him on the couch and smiled.

“You still look this good, I hope you know. Just more red.”

Dave was silent, but he smiled. Okay. He could recognize himself at least. Or he couldn’t and he could take a compliment when he heard one. Sometimes it was a little hard to tell how Dave’s brain worked, but it was generally positive so whatever.

Setting the picture down, you pulled up the image of the smuppet and ran a thumb over the surface of the polaroid as if imagining the texture of the fabric, trying to pretend you could feel it, could smell it. Trying to practically will it into existing in the same room.

“Your uh. ...Your brother said this was one of your favorite toys growing up,” you explained, smile faltering a bit. The warmth went chilly for the briefest of seconds, wavering, before it warmed again. Dave was reaching for the picture with his transparent fingers, imitating the stroking motion you’d done right beforehand.

...I remember…

Okay. That was a start. He remembered and was still there. Good.

You felt a chill in your stomach that made you want to put everything away, suddenly. A deep instinctive urge to hide, to keep things safe, to buckle down and ignore everything around you for a while. To keep Dave safe.

Safe from what? If he moved on… then it was what he was meant to do. He’d be at peace. You’d meet again. And that was all theoretical anyway, stop panicking! Ease up, Egbert, it’s a picture of a smuppet.

You reach for the shirt next and hold it after displaying the pattern on the front, grinning at Dave again despite the growing panic in the back of your chest.

“Your shirt’s kinda dorky, but apparently you liked it a lot? You liked videogames too, and music… I think Jade has some of the songs you used to like to listen to, we’ll have to ask her to play them later.” You’d been avoiding them for some reason since getting Dave back, just letting things go back to how they’d once been instead of adding even more new things into the mix. Too much too fast was bad, you assumed. ...Yet here you were, discussing an entire short life in one go.

...Better than yours…

“Hey, my clothes are great thank you.”

As if to make a point, Dave darted away to the drawers and opened them, tossing out socks and shorts left and right while you protested, before rattling things in the closet and darting back in a red haze like a flash.

“Okay, okay, geeze. Either way, we’ve got this now. Do you want me to set it out somewhere for you? Or.. like. I don’t know, should I wear it when you’re in charge sometime?”

Would it be weird to wear your dead boyfriend’s shirt that he used to wear when he was alive if you never knew him when he was alive to begin with? Something in your head said that was probably kind of weird, but then again you’ve been wrong before so… who knew anymore. Things were complicated when you were dating a ghost.

A lot of societal rules and standards either didn’t apply or needed to be invented on the spot.

Dave did a lazy turn in the air like an otter before rustling the other items like a breeze to catch your attention once more, apparently enthralled by his own work. You picked up the cartoony image with a smirk, having to hold it sideways at an angle to read it properly as if it were some secret code and not the oldest shitpost you’d ever seen in your fucking life.

“You made this, huh? What’s it of? Like, who are these guys?”

...Sweet Bro… Hella Jeff… Geromy…

Instinctively, you’re aware of who each of them probably are, and you’re pleased when a quick verification with Dave proved you were correct on the first shot. It was brilliant really. Strange, surreal, silly, and nonsensical in just the right way to make you wish there was an entire book of these drawings. If Dave had lived, maybe there would have been and that’s the only way you’d have known him: as an adoring fan among many to an older man with a talent for drawing funny cartoons. ...If you could even classify these guys as cartoons.

They kind of defied description in the way a jpeg artifact tended to bounce around on shitty video clips that dropped pixels faster than you could drop yourself down the stairs on roller skates with a running start.

The more realistic art, the sketches, you hesitated on most. Finally, you picked one up and cleared your throat uncomfortably.

“This uh. ...You know who this is, yeah?”

Dave was quiet again, and you had to look over your shoulder to try judging if this was a bad idea or not. He was still, quiet, staring. His face was hard to decipher, mostly because it seemed to be fading in and out from the red mass to the wispy figure you knew and loved.

...Bro…

“Right,” you said, clearing your throat again. It felt like you had heartburn, a cold sweat on your brow and acid roiling in your stomach. “We uhm. Jade and I met him. We talked a lot about things. About you. He’s the one who gave us most of these things. We heard about when you were a baby, and when you were a teen.”

There came the unsteady lump of panic again. Where had the serenity gone? The sense of peace and calm that said this was a good idea earlier? Long gone.

“We also uhm. ...We learned how you died, Dave. Do.. do you remember?”

Stupid question. Dave looked tense, uncertain, and even more wavery than before. Of course he didn’t remember, that was one of the main reasons he was still around, wasn’t it?

“It…”

Were you ready for this? You could feel tears in your eyes. It was now or never.

“It was your heart, Dave. You had a heart problem, and passed away really fast outside. Nobody knew it was coming or that anything was wrong. Your… Your Bro’s sorry. He’s eaten alive about it, wishes he’d never pushed you as hard as he did in the heat. He misses you. He-”

The red light was brilliant to your eyes, bright enough that you needed to shield your vision for a moment with a hand, peeking between your fingers to try finding the source. Dave. It had to be Dave. Where was he? Where was he in this sea of red? The warmth that had been radiating off of him dissipated till it was cool and comforting instead. Soothing as a balm to fevered flesh, soft and gentle as touch.

When the light faded, Dave was standing to your side. Physically standing, not floating, looking solid as anything. His face was pale with a splash of freckles, hair ruffled as if wind had been playing through it, red eyes bright as rubies. He was wearing the same shirt you’d brought out from under the bed, making you double take back to it to make sure it wasn’t in fact the same shirt. Black jeans smoothed down skinny legs with the baggy ends threadbare in the back where his tennis shoes had been scuffing them to Hell and back. His chest wasn’t rising or falling, but he had color to his cheeks, and a smile on his lips.

You scrambled to your feet once you registered what the fuck had happened, or… at least were trying to understand what the fuck was happening.

“Dave? Dave what’s going on. I don’t like this,” you say, before even registering what came out of your mouth. Your skin felt soothed, your body felt light, even the residual ache in your leg was gone. Peace was in the air, but you felt like you were having trouble breathing, leading to the conclusion that you were, in fact, panicking.

This was a panic attack.

“Dave? Say something, Dave, what’s happening.”

You knew what was happening. You reminded him how he died. He knew now. He remembered. He remembered everything, remembered his former life, remembered himself and his world and time. Remembered his Bro.

“...John,” Dave said, his voice just as solid as it felt when he talked inside your head, but the rush of blood in your ears was making it harder to hear over the whooshing. You needed air. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, you didn’t want this.

Except you did. You didn’t want to be selfish and keep Dave in limbo forever. You didn’t want to keep him hidden in your pocket till your own death, leaving him potentially trapped. This was the right thing to do. In your heart of hearts you knew this was the right thing to do.

“John,” he said again. “Thank you. For everything. For every single second,” Dave said to you. He reached out with his too solid hands and clasped yours with both of his, giving them a squeeze. He was cool to the touch, like weather worn fleshy marble. When you didn’t squeeze back, he released your hands in favor of hugging you tight around the middle, nuzzling his face against the side of your neck like a cat seeking somewhere warm to perch and snuggle.

“Why are you thanking me for that?” you asked. Fuck, you were crying. You could feel the snot running down your throat already, the tears stinging your eyes. “I love you, Dave. I only did what I’ve done because I love you.”

“...I love you too, John Egbert” he said, and you knew in your heart of hearts that he meant it.

Finally remembering that you could lift your arms, you clung tight to him, digging your fingers into the fabric of his shirt as if it would anchor him in place and keep him from going anywhere. You hiccuped for breath, head spinning. Too much was happening at once.

“Am I going to see you again?” you asked. “You’d know better than me, right? I will, won’t I?”

“John..” Dave said softly, not answering the question. It wasn’t helping the panic or the sadness ripping your heart in half.

“Tell me!” you demanded. “This isn’t the end, is it? This isn’t happily ever after, I don’t accept it. We’ll be together again, right?”

“Wait for me, John,” he said softly against your ear. The panic died as if it had never been there, so suddenly that your knees tried to give way. Dave held you tight and kept you upright, kept you from falling to the ground. In that brief moment, Dave was the rock and tether that you’d been for so long.

“How long do I have to wait?” you asked, clenching your eyes shut to focus on everything you could while you could. His smell, the way his skin felt under his shirt, the way his hair felt against your neck. Things you had gotten hints of all this time, whispers of, but never anything this solid.

It wasn’t fair.

Why were you able to get everything you wanted right as it was leaving?

“How long,” you croaked again, but Dave either didn’t have an answer or couldn’t answer. Instead, he looked towards the door of your room, watching it open on its own to display the hall to the living room. You could hear music playing distantly, and warmth of a summer that wasn’t there was coming in with the soft afternoon light. “Please. Please tell me. Dave, please, how long…”

“You’ll know,” Dave finally said, giving another hard squeeze around your middle, hesitating leaving. Did he want to stay? Or was it just a residual tug of want? Who would give up their ever after just to stick around in someone’s necklace in an incorporeal state forever?

Nobody. Not even you, not even for Dave, and you knew it even if you hated it.

“When I come for you, I’ll have to whisper so you know it’s me,” he said quietly by your ear again. Only loud enough for you to hear, trying to burn the words into your memory. You’d know his voice when it was softer than when it was louder, it was true. He’d been a ghost so long, that whispery, barely there tone was what you expected every time you woke up or went to sleep.

How were you could to live without that.

“Yeah. I’ll listen for you. I’ll listen for you every day,” you said. You didn’t need to promise. It’d be instinct by now, holding out hope that he’d come back.

When Dave released your middle, he reached his hands up to clasp either side of your face so he could kiss you properly. Your teeth got in the way briefly, clicking together with his smaller straighter ones, but it didn’t deter him in the slightest from deepening the kiss almost immediately. You held your breath to make it last, taking a deep breath when he finally pulled back and took a step away.

“I love you, John.” He said it again as if willing you to remember it. “I always will. Listen for me.”

He turned and walked to the hall, towards the living room. The door suddenly slammed behind him, prompting you to unfreeze from position and rush forwards, yanking it open to the proper season and lighting that was meant to be there again.

No Dave.

Dave was gone.

Your pendant was cool on your neck, the air of peace and nearly Heavenly compassion was in the room. Your house was cleansed and clear of all spirits, and rested empty and lifeless for the first time in decades. Everything was peaceful, except for the storm in your chest. You made your way to bed with the raglan shirt pressed to your chest and cried harder than you thought you ever had in your life. It was the same place Jade found you later. It was the same place you stayed for the better part of a week, grieving what you had.

Love hurt, and life wasn’t fair, but you knew one thing at least: you loved Dave Strider, and you were waiting to hear his voice again. ...You also knew this wasn’t what he would have wanted.

Life would have to go on, even if it felt like it shouldn’t.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Your name was John Egbert.

You had been a leader in the field of parapsychology and the paranormal in general. Along with Jade Harley, you had made many advancements in the field of science along with your own research into spirits and their habits. You had worked together to make devices to track spirits voices, making the inaudible audible to the naked ear, you’d helped come up with ideas to further make the invisible visible.

You lived a good life. The classes at colleges you taught lectures at were always full to the brim with curious people, and the true believers were always excited to shake your hand. It was charming, really. An honor.

Every day your routine had been the same, for decades now. Wake up, hold your pendant, and check for a voice. Always before bed, hold your pendant, check for a voice. There had been no voice, and so many times you’d wanted to give up listening, but you couldn’t help yourself.

New loves had come and gone, nothing staying for very long. You were happy with your life, though. It was a fulfilling life full of good times and smiles and laughter. You hoped Dave could see some of what was happening to you, even if the machinery never picked anything up around you that had the same signature Dave used to have. No red mists, no impish blondes darting around rustling your papers. Just normal poltergeists and spirits stuck in their routines, the rare intelligent haunting that you could help find the light the same way you’d found Dave’s for him.

You didn’t regret freeing him.

...But fuck did you miss him.

Your name was John Egbert not long ago.

You’d gone to bed with an upset stomach and some tingling in your arms, deciding it was a leftover of the flu you’d had recently instead of anything to worry about. Early to bed, early to rise. Jade had a meeting planned in the morning, some new developments were underway to fine tune the audio scanner with some new technology that had recently been invented, something that would halve the size of the current devices and amplify their power by at least twofold. Couldn’t miss that.

You lay down, clasped your pendant, and said Dave’s name like a prayer to ward away the boogeyman.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray my ghost my soul to keep.

Your chest felt kind of funny when you lay down and it felt harder to breathe, but nothing too dramatic. More flu shenanigans. Something felt.. ...Something felt... strange though.

Your name was John Egbert.

And then it wasn’t.

You were laying still and watching the ceiling before sitting up, feeling ten times better than how you’d lain down earlier.

“...John...”

You froze and looked around.

“Dave?” It had to be, that voice was familiar to you even after all this time.

“...John…”

You got out of bed at a jump and paused, frowning. When had you last been able to do that? It’d been ages. Slowly, you looked back towards the bed where John Egbert lay still as if sleeping.

Your name used to be John Egbert, but you suppose it still is. You’re kind of new to this being dead thing. Were there two John Egbert’s now? The dead one and the more lively dead one? Was the soul still considered the same entity right now? So many questions from your research clouded your mind that your first instinct was to call Jade to discuss it with her, before you felt the touch to your shoulder. Spinning around, startled, you nearly slapped Dave in the face with a flailing arm.

He smirked a bit.

“John.”

“Dave? ...Dave. Dave,” you said, voice breaking briefly before it came out as a croak. Ghosts could cry apparently. You didn’t feel the unpleasant sensation of breathlessness, but you could feel tears on your cheeks before laughing. “You asshole, you made me wait so fucking long.”

“You were busy, thought I’d come back later when you could use a break,” Dave said, reaching up to grasp either side of your face, kissing you before you could think too hard on it.

“Dave I’m. I mean I. But I. ….Oh God, Jade’s going to- Oh. ...Dave, oh my God I’m dead. Dave I died,” you said, staggering through the sudden wash of sorrow as it hit you. There was still so much to do, one life wasn’t enough for everything you had planned. “I never finished writing that piano piece, and Jade’s.. Fuck…”

He held you as you processed things, letting your mind catch up. Letting you calm down. There was nothing but time now, wasn’t there? Or.. wait.

“Am I… am I going to stay here as a ghost?” you asked, worrying. Were you going to be separated again? Was it your turn to exist in flux?

“No. You get to come to the chill place, if you want. It’s pretty sweet. Bro was pretty shocked when he turned up too, but he wasn’t as up on shit as you are.”

“If I want? I get to choose?”

“For a bit. If you’ve got business left, I mean,” Dave said. “Like with Jade. ...Your Dad’s excited to see you again, too.”

“Dad,” you said quietly. You’d been so focused on listening for Dave that you hadn’t even considered how big of a family reunion you were in for when you finally met your maker. Your Nana, your Dad, your aunt and uncle, your grandfather you’d never met. Hell, even Sassacre probably.

“How long do I have?” you ask, giving another look to the John on the bed. He seemed peaceful, relaxed. It’d been quick and painless.

“Long as you need to finish up business,” Dave said. “...Should I amscray while you take care of shit o-”

“Dave, if you disappear now of all times I’m going to figure out how to haunt people and haunt you till you die again.”

“Okay, okay, shit, chill. I was just offerin’.” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets with a smile. “Want some company while you do errands?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Your name is Jade Harley, and man do your joints hurt, but the flowers aren’t going to tend themselves are they.

You heft some of the potting soil into the pot and gently stroke it over the previously exposed roots of the flowering plant as if you were tucking in a baby. Next came the water, a steady shower from above till the soil was damp, and then came the time to heft everything to the other table.

John’s funeral had been a month ago, and while you were still sad… you also knew better than to fret. For one, your research had calmed your thoughts to the beyond years ago already. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed. For another, getting to know more about Dave had been an adventure in your youth that shaped the entire world from scratch.

For yet another, you got a personal goodbye from the John you used to know in your younger years, hand in hand with a pretty young blonde man you knew from a photograph and images on screens from early developed machines of your own creation.

Sometimes, you could swear you still were being watched by the pair of them, but you were too lazy to go find your equipment to double check. What would you even be double checking? If he was having ghost makeouts or something?

You wipe your brow and look over your work with a smile. The funeral home had given some depressing little potted plant, and a sickly looking tree sapling as a memorial. This was better by miles.

“You see, John?” you said aloud to your guardian angel. “Perfect.”

If you were John Egbert, you’d have to agree. It was a handsome plant in a handsome pot, and it would blossom like crazy because Jade was the one who’d tended it.

But you’re not John Egbert.

You are Jade Harley, and John Egbert’s story has ended, arm in arm with the spirit he’d been chasing for so long and finally caught.

#homestuck #johndave #john egbert #dave strider #my fic

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pipesflowforeverandever · 5 years

Text

The Ink Demonth, Day 15: Time Travel

I borrowed @aceofintuition‘s Joey Drew, “Snowy”, again for this alongside my own, “Gingie”. This drabble is based on an RP we did together some months ago. You can tell by the length how much I enjoyed writing it.

Summary: An old man with blue eyes steps into the page of someone much younger with dreams ahead he still can’t see.

Word Count: 2942

The aging man heard the ring of the café door as he stepped in, the gentle sting of coffee immediate underneath his nose and its faint taste on the edge of his lips. His eyes glanced around at a world seemingly tinged brown like a yellowing photo, the soft, warm hues evident everywhere on this sunny autumn evening. There was a record playing somewhere as the sweeping of a broom scuffed next to the counter that caught the silver fox’s attention, but his light wrinkles crinkled a bit more as interest in the cleaning was brief; he was here for something else.

Someone else, he found as a shade of reddish-orange caught his gaze, and he felt lured closer just like a curious fish in the sea.

The young man had his back to him, a briefcase shadowed by his side as it leaned against the leg of a chair. He was the brightest thing in the room, like he lit it up the same way a candle does the spare, dusty bedroom; everything around him just seemed to follow suit to his cream sleeves and tan-brown pants. His cup of gold-tinted tea rippled as he bumped the table, reaching down for a hardcover book with pages sticking out in much the same way the case did.

The newcomer, still standing, allowed his ice blue stare to cling as he walked past the busy, seemingly ditzy boy. Or…well, “boy” as an accurate term is determinate on how old one is when perceiving it. The redhead certainly wouldn’t consider himself a boy at the ripe old age of 22, but someone without a line of color left in their grey hair would, and the mysterious person letting his black cloak rub past the seats as he made his way to the window was such a someone. It wasn’t until he sat down that the distracted kid had finished lugging up his notebook and felt his expression still at the appearance of someone he didn’t expect to see again.

After all, Joey had lived here for years, and most unusual folks he spied on in the park didn’t show up again somewhere else. Not in the same day.

The stranger was beautiful, with hair styled almost impossibly in a large swoop from the left to the right side of his head; the end of it had a distinct wave, and it all looked dyed as if steeped in moonlight for nights on end. His brown skin shone with the glow from the window, leaves falling from the tree just outside it past a pair of irises that would put the finest crystal glass to shame.

The aspiring artist with already pinkish skin felt it become pinker, heat nibbling at the top of his cheeks and the tips of his fingers and knuckles. The pages laid across his desk were undoubtfully familiar; what were the chances that he had seen them as he strolled past to the booth? In his panic, he calculated it to be high; even if the old man refused to look back at him, he must have known.

He’d find out many, many years later he didn’t, but the wrong assumption made the right thing to do. It was inevitable anyway, in a certain sense, as sketching strangers in the park without them noticing was a practice that can’t eventually go undefeated.

And Joey, even when he was young, was a man proactive in his introductions. Perhaps a bit more on the shy side than he would be running a studio, but still someone that would rather talk than let silence rule the day.

And so he did.

“G-good ev- afternoon! Sir!”

The silver-haired man lazily blinked and glanced to the side at the youngster who was hardly taller than him even when the former was sitting and the latter bouncing to the tips of his scuffed shoes. A grown man, perhaps, but Joey would always be teased for never growing an inch more. The blue-eyed man evaluated him, another set of honey eyes flickering slightly but constantly with nerves that had a shaky smile to match at the corners of his mouth. He noted there was no mustache above his lips, but still sideburns and glasses to accessorize his head.

He played dumb. “Hey.” The newcomer’s voice was deep with two accents coming together, one a southern drawl and the other the unmistakable hint of someone accustomed to speaking Spanish. “…What can I do for ya?”

Yes, of course, he had noticed the ginger staring at him from afar some hours ago. Yes, of course, he was going to enjoy seeing him squirm for a reason to cover it anyway. Truth be told, he was surprised that the kid came up to him in the first place; he figured it would be up to him to initiate a conversation, if one was going to happen.

But that had always just been Gin, it turned out. The old man tried not to smile at the idea of it, so there was just a twitch on the left side of his mouth.

“I- I was just!” Joey held his hands in front of his chest, chin turned down to restless, fiddling fingers. What could he even say?! ‘Oh, I’m so sorry for sketching you without even talking to you first’? No! He wasn’t even sorry! …Just sorry he got caught.

It was only then he supposed maybe he hadn’t been caught, as he assumed. The realization it was far too late to back out felt like a push on his back to keep spitting out words and hope they make sense.

“I…I hope this doesn’t come off in the wrong way, my good man!”

Said good man raised a brow as the other squeaked his way around the situation.

“But- but you made for a lovely inspiration!” Joey kept grinning until it hurt his face, as he looked at the stranger for any sort of reaction.

“…Beg your pardon?”

Oh.

“I! I simply!” Come on now, confidence! Only thing left to save him now! “I’m an artist! And I do life studies! And you simply are just FAR too interesting to ignore!”

And in both excitement and fear, the old man felt himself involuntarily tilting his head back as a book was shoved into his personal space, pages flicking until it fell to the last ones before the rest of the book seemed orderly. And there, indeed, was his own face.

In awkward silence, his wide eyes flicked back to look at the others’, just to see the ginger in the same sort of anxiety inducing panic that he was before- perhaps amplified. He blinked again. Somehow, he still wasn’t used to this kind of attention, even if he knew he should have known better.

Gin was a weird kid.

With the young man waiting, seemingly, for him to react first, the stranger gently gripped the book and pulled it away so it was at a better angle for his eyes.

And although he knew he was avoiding the growing need for a pair of glasses, the old man also understood at a glance this was something special.

“How about…” the older man drawled with as much patience he could muster, trying to begin a proper conversation, “…’Y pull your stuff over here? ‘Magine your back hurts from standing up so straight.”

With that, he had to try not to chuckle as he saw the kid realize his stance and overcorrect, abruptly adjusting where his limbs were in relation to his body before scrambling to bring his things spread across the table in an armful. They were spread once more before the other next to the window, and it didn’t take long for him to try to forget at least a bit of the horrible introduction that just happened.

It almost felt like he was evaluating his portfolio, with a bright-eyed new artist waiting with a bounce in his seat for commentary on the accumulation of his work and skills.

So he was the kind of guy to pour himself out without even knowing if the other person was an artist or not- just someone he…wanted to approval of. The old man supposed there was something there he was supposed to think about in relation to his friend, but didn’t have the attention to word exactly what as he plucked up a random sketch- a seemingly candid one of a rabbit tucked behind a thin bundle of flowers.

“These are nice,” the old man commented with a sharp but approving glance over. “Y’ got a real eye for detail, here, kiddo.”

It still didn’t cross the youngster’s mind that the whole ‘I’ve been drawing you’ thing was pushed aside so easily for a reason. He had been watching him back for even longer; no explanation was needed, and he couldn’t improvise a realistic response anyway as if he was surprised.

“I’m…an artist, sir,” Joey repeated again, somehow steadier this time but calmer. “I just draw what I see. And I quite enjoy it! I just-“

Joey interrupted himself with a hum that trailed off, in some way not wanting to finish that thought. The other man pursed his lips.

“Just what, kid?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“…Can’t really drop all these drawings on my lap and call whatever you want to say about them nothing, you know.” His tone was dry but the meaning was sincere, a tinge of softness in his voice, a kind of understanding a bit too familiar to put aside.

As such, after a few more seconds of fumbling, the shy young man simply nodded in agreement.

“Now…” the older continued, setting the held page down to pick up another, “…What do y’ wanna do?” The question was taken with a bit of shock, but he continued as easygoing as before. “What do you…wanna make with all this? What’s the dream, kid?”

It did feel like a dream, Joey inwardly agreed. He plopped himself onto a total stranger and found himself without hesitation being probed about what it meant to him. And usually Joey had answers! He could go on and on and on without taking a single breath about what it meant to him to create things, about wanting to do things for others to see. But he always said so unprompted; now that it was actually asked of him aloud, he found himself floundering on what to say.

“I…”

The old man tried to pretend he wasn’t staring at him, wasn’t so invested in the answer that he couldn’t hear anything else.

Joey exhaled and folded his hands on the table, thumb smoothing over his own skin in restless ponderance- a good emotion for a matching time in his life.

“I would…love if I could, somehow, use my art to…make people happy.”

Now that was something he had never considered, but there it was- spoken by none other than himself. He briefly bit his lower lip and looked out the window, perhaps avoiding making himself look at his art and the man that was now- unbeknownst to him- clearly staring with intent.

“I…want to do what my mother always believed I could do. You see- see, she told me I had a special kind of magic that matters to other people. That I’m so bright that…I can make others bright too, just by making them smile.”

It was so, so hard for the stranger to withhold his smile for just a second longer.

“But I…don’t quite know how that can be done!”

Joey’s eyes flickered back, and the nervous smile had returned; in spite of his optimism, it was like putting a blanket over the unsure, tumultuous waves of the sea.

“Then you try something out.”

The response, as quiet as it was spoken, was still strong and unexpected, and so Joey felt himself gasp. His honey eyes widened, and his whole head turned to attention.

And now- now he was letting himself smile. The man opposite of Joey knew that he was looking this time, and that it was when it mattered.

“You keep tryin’, no matter what. And piece by piece, something will come together. Just like when you figured out how to draw, right? Assumin’ you were normal and learned things as you went instead of being perfect on the first go.”

With his lips lightly parted, the young man in awe of someone who could- for all he knew- been spouting motivational nonsense without knowing a lick about art…was entirely believable.

It was the right thing at the right time, regardless.

Those brown irises had eyelids fall over one second more, returning to his own creations with a new perspective. The lines seemed more purposeful, the shapes more unique. It was something flawed and yet flawless, just as he had always seen anyone else’s art.

The old man was quickly becoming satisfied with the rare feat of making Gin stunned enough to shut up. He thought about leaving right then and there, as if this was all he had come to see and do, but he was once again the person between them surprised when the redhead stood up first, scooping up the papers in his arms. The young man forced his eyes away but towards the end of the collecting finally met his again, a twinkle there that made the silver haired wanderer feel more at home than he had been this whole time.

“Thank you,” he muttered, words slick and airy with what could only be relief. “Thank you.”

He stood up straight, adjusting his hold on his things until they were more orderly and less likely to fall away. “I…do hope to see you in town again.” His grin was fading in and out with each phrase, but the feeling was so pure, so freed, that an excuse wasn’t needed. “Apologies for…not…asking first!” he chuckled, buckling at the knees briefly.

The other man chuckled back, the sun setting behind the glass. “No problem.”

A wonderful, awkward pause filled the space between them, the conversation ending as it started with one sitting down and the other standing up. Joey didn’t know that the other person would have as much a reason to try to treasure this moment as he did. Eventually, he took a step backward and slowly turned around through the now near empty café, towards the front door and the streetlights beginning to be lit.

“Oh!”

And he spun right back around, much to someone else’s bemusement.

“What…-” the redheaded scamp asked with hesitation, “-Is your name?”

Looking him up and down, having forgotten to introduce himself too, the fellow with moonlit hair and a black coat leaned his arm around the edge of the booth and took a moment till he smirked.

“Mr. Flores.”

The man with sideburns and glasses nodded, mouthing a ‘right’ before abruptly turning back and leaving the room. Mr. Flores watched the brightest splash of color in this world stained like aged paper walk out his life, looking forward when he would walk back in. With he himself looking like he was out of place and dyed with blues- with an indigo tint in his clothes and the cyan like glittering water under his eyelids- decided it was his time to leave, too.

The suitcase Gingie had forgotten was reverently taken by the handle before disappearing in a portal, the rim of which shimmered blue, too.

The old man ducked out and into the room of another person, someone who he had grown old with. Nighttime had fallen and the shadows of unlit halls looks like ink thin and seeping into the wallpaper. What he surely knew was yellow now seemed a bit on the cooler side, and someone he had just seen looking like the fire of the sun in daytime now seemed like wax of a candle extinguished, in his cream shirt in the dark and top hat hung up on the coat rack. Gingie, his red hair looking paler as strands of it turned white, glanced up from a paper held between his fingers. His gaze was soft, mischievous, and made Snowy feel at home.

“Mr. Flores,” the other Joey smirked.

A hand came to hold his back, the two old men together with more winkles and greyer hair than when they first met- for either the first time or the second time. Snowy scoffed, grinning wide.

“You weren’t supposed to remember till I brought it up to ya!” he lamented humorously. “Wasn’t supposed to be that I just…show up after accidentally running into you in the past, then you suddenly know too. More dramatic than that!”

Gingie scoffed right back. “It seems like you and I have exchanged some…traits over the years. And here you were always teasing me for being the one to portal into your life first.”

Snowy sighed through his nose as a rosy hand cupped the side of his face, tilting into it with hooded eyes.

“…Nah.” Then the toothy grin came back, devilish. “You were as much of a chicken with its head cut off as ever.”

And to that, the other pursed his lips, still holding his cheek. “And you were as subtle as ever.”

Basking in the moonlight of the time Snowy was really from, Gingie pulled him closer, their silhouettes seen through the window if one was looking- their faces becoming one shape and the outline of their bodies shining like the glass under the stars, frost around them like a picture frame as snow began to fall. The lost suitcase was set down and very likely forgotten for yet another several decades.

#the ink demonth #bendy and the ink machine #batim au #gingie #snowy #tak writes #batim fanfiction #fluff #time travel

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sml8180 · 5 years

Text

Shot at Redemption - 04

Just a Chat

Rose was sitting across from John Seed himself, her warm brown eyes meeting his clear blue ones. The man was staring back at her, his arm still propped up on the table. A silence lingered between them as one waited for the other to say something, anything, to kick off their conversation. Finally, after several long moments of nothing but silence, Rose spoke up, unable to take the silence of the room any longer.

“So, what do you want?” She was up-front with her approach. After he threatened to turn her in, Rose didn’t want to waste time or leave any possible opening for John to twist things around.

“I want to make a deal with you,” John’s words almost sounded practiced. It shouldn’t be a surprise to Rose, considering she knew John had been a lawyer.

“What kind of deal? I know you were a lawyer, Blue. And once a lawyer, always a lawyer.” The woman crossed her forearms on the table, resting against them as she leaned forward in her chair.

“You could join us.”

“Excuse me?” Had Rose really just heard what she thought she did? Did John Seed really just propose that she join whatever he and his brothers were up to?

“You could join Joseph, Jacob, and I. Or, I could radio in right now to the Sheriff and turn you in. It’s your choice,” John’s lips curled into a smirk. She had heard correctly.

“You don’t have the guts, Blue,” she stared John down intensely, her gaze never wavering. The man across from her just smirked more and pulled a handheld radio, much like her own, from his belt, holding it up so she could see, but far enough away that she’d have no chance of reaching it. “Don’t you fucking dare, bitch.”

“If you don’t want me to call in, just say you’ll join us. Just say yes.” John’s voice was level as he spoke. He knew Rose wouldn’t have a choice, and that was crystal clear.

Rose bit her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth as she considered her nearly nonexistent options. For all she knew, if he did call in, Whitehorse wouldn’t mess around. He’d bring more than enough people to get her in custody if he knew there was a dangerous criminal in the cabin. But, on the other hand, she had no idea what John and his brothers had going on. All she’d seen was back on the day she got into Hope County. She had no idea what it actually was she’d seen, but it would still probably be better than being turned in. With a sigh, she reluctantly nodded, “Fine.”

“Then say it.”

“It.”

John stared at Rose as she smirked, “No, that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I said it, didn’t I?” Rose was trying not to laugh, at this point. If she was going to join up with these guys, she might as well have a bit of fun doing it.

“You didn’t say yes!” John held his radio tighter, taking a breath to compose himself. “We’ll work on it later.”

“Sure we will,” Rose had to admit to herself, annoying John was pretty amusing. Her prods got far more of a reaction from him than they did from Joseph.

“And don’t think I don’t know about your little pinecone bit. Joseph told me all about it,” John was clearly not amused by her prior joking with his brother. Given, she hadn’t been completely joking at that time.

Rose simply shrugged, pushing her chair back so that she could kick her feet up onto the corner of the table. “Anything else you wanna talk about, lawyer boy?”

“Considering you will be a member of the Project, you’ll need to learn about what we believe. And, you’ll have to learn a bit of respect, because what Joseph and I have seen won’t exactly cut it for someone we are personally bringing in.”

Rose rolled her eyes at this, it sounded just like something her parents would say. “What are you, now, my parent? What you see is what you get with me, take it or leave it.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take it, for now. Jacob should be able to handle your behavior. For now, though, I need to get going. You’ll find something on your bed that might help you learn a thing or two.” With these final words, John got up from his seat and made his way towards the door of the cabin. “I expect you to have read at least a few pages by the next time we meet,” he added over his shoulder, before he left the cabin completely, heading down the porch steps and down the path.

Once the Baptist was out of sight, Rose got up from her seat, closing the cabin door properly and grabbing the backpack she had set down, putting away the things she had gotten while in town. Thankfully, she hadn’t gotten anything that really needed to go into the fridge right away. After everything was in its place, she went to her bed, letting herself fall back onto the soft surface, though she fell onto something hard that she hadn’t expected to be there. Rolling over, she reached under her back and pulled out the offending object; a white leather bound book. Sitting up, Rose took a better look at the cover of the book. The cover was slightly embossed, the pattern on it stood out in black against the scuffed white of the leather; she recognized the pattern from the buildings at the compound and from the clothing she had seen the followers at the compound and by the river wearing. Despite the handful of scuffs on the front and back covers and spine of the book, the binding was seemingly fairly new, indicating the copy hadn’t been handled much. Had this been a copy that the brothers had kept separate for those they looked to bring in personally?

Without much of a thought, Rose set the book aside; she’d look into it later. For now, she got up and decided to get a few smaller things done. She got the soap she’d gotten from town and gathered up her clothes, going about washing them and hanging them up to dry. Afterwords, she went about making herself something for dinner, settling with a simple sandwich made from a few things she’d gotten in town. With dinner finished, Rose pulled a journal out from her bag and went to sit on the porch as the sun let off its last vibrant colors for the day, painting the sky pinks and oranges. Despite her less than favorable reputation back in Maine, Rose had actually always been a bit of an artist. She sketched the landscape in the sunset, and wrote about things that had been going on recently, being sure to date the page. When it got too dark for her to continue her journaling, the woman went back inside, putting the journal back into her backpack. After undressing and pulling on a T-shirt that was several sizes too big as a sort of nightgown, Rose settled in bed, but found herself unable to get to sleep. Following several long, restless moments, she sighed, deciding now was as good a time as any to actually start checking out the book John had left behind, so, she sat up, propped up on her pillow, and pulled the book over to her.

Opening up the front cover was as good a place as any to start. Inside the very front cover of the book were three short messages, each handwritten, each with different handwriting. The first was written in simple print, in an average size and spaced out a bit.

What is once lost can always be found again. Those who are blind can be made to see. Any and all can find salvation in the Lord, so long as they seek him out. -Joseph Seed; The Father

The second was written in a much tighter and smoother sort of handwriting. It was clear that whoever’s writing it was, they had a steady hand.

You must atone for your sins, though God knows them, already. Confessing your sins and asking the Lord for forgiveness are the first steps towards redemption. Your sins must be known to all, and washed away before the gates of Eden will open to you. -John Seed; The Baptist

The final message was in a larger size than the other two, and was a bit messier, as well. Almost as if it were written quickly, and without too much consideration for the overall appearance of the finished product.

This world is made up of wolves and rabbits; the strong and the weak. Even one wolf alone cannot stand. But, as a pack, they are feared, and they survive. If you want to survive in this world, you need to be strong; physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. There’s no other way to survive. -Jacob Seed; The Soldier

Rose shook her head a bit after reading the three short messages written into the book. She really didn’t think she’d get much out of it, after all. But, she had no intentions of being arrested by Whitehorse, so, she turned to the first page of the book’s first chapter, and started to read. After a few pages, Rose stopped to think about what she’d read, and found her eyelids heavy and slowly starting to droop. Using an order insert from one of the magazines by her bed as a bookmark, Rose marked her place and closed the leather bound book, running her fingers over the pattern on the front cover for a short moment before setting it aside and laying down, allowing sleep to finally take her.

Her sleep wasn’t as restful as she’d hoped for, and Rose found herself still feeling extremely tired when she woke up. She stretched and yawned, sitting up in bed. The woman got up and went to get cleaned up, before going about her usual routine. It had been cloudy when she’d gotten up, and started to rain as she was making her coffee; so much for going fishing, then, there was no way she was going to go out to the river in rain like this. As she sipped her coffee, Rose simply watched out the window, watching as the rain slowly picked up. There wasn’t much she really wanted to do out in the rain, and it didn’t seem that this would be letting up anytime soon. As such, she started to think of what she could do indoors, and her thoughts turned to the book that John had left her. She’d read a few pages the night before, but didn’t really remember much of it, considering she had been so tired. Considering she wasn’t going anywhere, she might as well try to actually take in what she was reading.

Finishing her coffee, Rose put the mug in the sink, and got the white leather book from the makeshift table beside her bed, settling down in the soft armchair she’d found among the pile of furniture while she was clearing it out the other day. It was a large chair, and with her small frame, it was easy for her to just curl up in it. With her radio by her on a second table she’d put together from the spare broken pieces, she opened the book, moving on from the messages on the inside cover when something caught her eye. On one of the pages before the text of the book actually started, there was another bit of handwriting. It matched up with John’s penmanship, and simply read “Frequency twenty-eight; in case you want to listen. Frequency thirty; in case you want to talk”. Rose usually kept her radio set to frequency eighteen, which was the station she’d found that played some decent music. It filled the silence, at the very least. But, as she started to turn to the station John had indicated, just to see what it was.

Joseph’s voice came through the speaker of the radio, slightly distorted by the static from a weak signal, but it was his voice without a doubt. She kept the radio on to fill the silence as the rain continued to come down, and turned to the first pages of the book in her hands, starting to read it again. Rose didn’t know how much time went by before she finished the book’s first chapter and marked her page, feeling that it was enough for the day. Joseph’s voice no longer came through the static, but instead, there was music, the sound of a choir singing filled the quiet space. Rose decided to keep the frequency running as she went about a few things, checking on her drying clothes in the bathroom, before going about making dinner. The rain picked up further, coming down in sheets that pounded against the windows and roof, as thunder started to sound and wind howled outside. Luckily, the cabin seemed fairly secure, and the storm didn’t shake her.

As the hour grew late, Rose got changed into her large T-shirt, bringing the radio and book to her bedside and setting them down. For the hell of it, she turned the radio to frequency thirty, but heard nothing but quiet static. After listening for a bit, she simply turned off the device, setting it down, and settled in for the night as the storm went on outside.

Taglist: @deputyoneill @johnseedthot @deputyshitlordsantana @jacobsmusicbox @farcrying5 @johnseedsplane @rookieseed

#fc5 fanfic #far cry 5 #john seed #oc: rose carter #shot at redemption #SaR

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shenala · 5 years

Text

102 Keeps Me By Your Side

AO3 link

A few Bucky birthdays on his 102nd.

10th March 1917 - It was a cool, crisp and clear night when the first cry broke through the darkness. From his seat at the kitchen table, George Barnes whipped his head up with a crack at the sound, a smile instantly replacing the strain that had called his face home for the previous hours as he'd been left with nothing to do other than listen as his wife struggled through the birth of their first child above him.

Finally allowed to see Winifred and their newborn, George barely spared the woman who'd been assisting a glance as he stepped forward to take his son into his arms for the first time. Cradling the precious bundle in his arms, he stroked a gentle finger over his son's impossibly soft forehead and greeted him with his new name, "Nice to meet you, James Buchanan Barnes, you're going to be a hero."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March 1924; Aged 7 - "Happy Birthday, Buck!" was the first sign of his best friend's approach. Spinning with a bright grin, Bucky slipped his arm into its near permanent position around Steve's shoulders.

The pair had only become friends a few weeks earlier after Bucky had intervened when Steve had been taking on bullies twice his size... again, but after introducing himself as "James Buchanan Barnes" the blonde had declared that he would call him "Bucky" instead. Naturally, the only response to that was for Bucky, in turn, to declare "that's ok, we're best friends now", and so they were.

"I got you a present Buck, I mean it's not much but.." Steve began hesitantly, a shy smile crooking his lips.

"You didn't have to get me anything, Stevie."

With a shrug, Steve pulled a small, thin package wrapped in newspaper from his pocket and handed it over.

Bucky made sure to open it carefully, taking his time to unfold the paper and show the gift the respect anything given by Steve Rogers deserved, until he was able to see, nestled in the newspaper, a single red pencil.

"Thanks, Steve! It's my favourite colour!"

The blush that Bucky was already indescribably fond of crept up the smaller boy's cheeks as he kept his gaze on his scuffed shoes and nodded, "yeah Bucky, that's why I got that one."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March 1933; Aged 16 - Because of the cold weather (it was March after all) the pair were holed up in Bucky's bedroom; one of them fiddling with some scraps of metal and the other sketching their companion's studious expression.

Carefully tearing the finished drawing out of his sketchbook, Steve handed it over with an exaggerated flourish, "Sorry I haven't gotten you anythin' else Buck, I'll make it up to you next year?"

Bucky chewed on his lip silently for a few moments, oblivious to the worry he was stirring in his best friend as he did so, before turning to the blonde and clearing his throat as he fought to maintain eye contact. "Well, you could make it up to me now Stevie... I mean, if ya wanted.. or if not.." He stumbled over his words as Steve merely held his gaze without reaction.

Dropping his chin, Bucky shook his head and mumbled a quick "nevermind". Before he could fall too deep into despair however, he was startled back to the present as a chilled hand, always chilled, pressed to the back of his neck. Jerking his head up in surprise he barely had time to notice how close Steve had moved when a pair of warm, slightly chapped lips were pressed to his own for just a second before moving away.

They didn't move far though as Bucky chased them desperately, his hand grasping the nape of Steve's neck as it mirrored the long, nimble fingers tangling in the short hairs at the base of his own skull.

"Best birthday ever" he would later whisper against golden hair, arms wrapped tightly the slim, and in his eyes perfect, figure of his oldest friend.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March 1937; Aged 20 - It was dark by the time Bucky stumbled back into the apartment he shared with Steve. He'd left before the other man was awake that morning and after working a double shift down at the docks, he was more than ready to just collapse into their threadbare couch. Maybe he could convince Steve to give him a foot rub, he wondered to himself as he toed off his boots at the door.

It took only a few steps further for him to realize that Steve had other plans.

Dressed in a shirt, tie and slacks, there wasn't a single fleck of paint on Steve, for once, as he stood next to their rickety kitchen table.

"What's all this Stevie?"

The table, usually covered in scraps of paper from Steve's work, was instead draped in a simple, but pretty, floral tablecloth. On top of which sat two place settings made up of their least chipped crockery and the two wine glasses that they kept for special occasions. And in the centre, there was a single red rose set in a jam jar. The scene was completed by a couple of candles, also in jars, littering the kitchen worktop.

Stepping forward to wrap the taller man into his arms, Steve pressed kisses to the base of Bucky's throat where his shirt was open. "Wanted to do somethin' special for my best guy's birthday. Ya like it?"

"Like it? I love it, Stevie. It's perfect, thanks, sweetheart."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 10th March 1944; Aged 27 - Bucky wasn't entirely sure where they were exactly, but knew that they were somewhere west of Czechoslovakia after their last mission had been storming a Hydra factory there.

He wasn't sure he particularly cared where they were either, to be honest. All he knew was that they'd found an abandoned farmhouse with no enemy nearby; it was dry, there was a river to wash in, and most importantly, there were actual beds.

After a simple meal with the rest of the Howlies, Steve pulled Bucky up from his chair and nudged him towards the stairs as he bid the men goodnight.

"Night Cap, Sarge", "Don't let the bedbugs bite", "It's not the bedbugs that'll be biting!" and "Happy Birthday Sarge" echoed behind them as they climbed up towards the bedroom they'd claimed earlier that day.

Now Bucky wouldn't say that he'd been expecting anything from Steve that night, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been hoping, so when his Captain instructed him to remove his clothes and lie face down on the bed he was more than happy to comply.

His excitement only grew as he felt the solid weight straddling his legs and warm hands, always warm, grasping his waist.

But then there was a hot breath on his neck and words being muttered into his ear, "Relax Buck, that's not what this is. Not tonight."

He started to protest but was quickly silenced.

"Hush Buck, I know things are different now, and I don't just mean me. There's something in your eyes since Azzano, not surprising after what they put you through yeah, but you're always so tense, you never just rest."

Steve's final words were punctuated by his strong yet still nimble fingers pressing into the tight muscles of his lower back, pulling a groan from Bucky's lips.

"If you don't want me to, I won't Bucky. You know that. But I want to take care of you for a change. Please?"

Bucky knew that had he been looking at Steve then he would be on the receiving end of a pair of pleading blue eyes but just the simple fact that Steve had said "please" made his request one that Bucky was unable, and unwilling, to deny. Settling for a simple nod in place of words he settled himself more comfortably onto the sheets and waited for Steve to begin.

Those heavenly hands returned to his skin moments later, this time their journey smoothed by what he determined was oil, this confirmed by Steve's quiet aside, "it's lavender, I diluted it so it's not too strong, I was hoping it might help you sleep." A quiet grunt of assent was the only response.

Muscles were then kneaded, knots were worked out and skin was kissed as Steve pressed reverence through his fingers and into the body below him. When he finally sat back on his heels, satisfied, he could only smile in silent gratitude as Bucky softly snored into the pillow. Moving from the bed with a tender kiss to brunette hair, he covered the sleeping man and whispered, "Happy birthday Bucky."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March 1945 - 5 days had passed since Steve's disappearance had made it into the newspapers. In reality, it had been 1 month since the Valkyrie crashed, and only 4 days before that when Bucky had fallen from the train.

In the Barnes' household, the mood was sombre as they kept not one, but two sons, at the forefront of their mind on the birthday of their eldest.

Winifred and Becca took flowers to Sarah & Joseph Rogers' graves after breakfast while George sat at the table carving into a wood offcut; "JBB 03-10-1917, SGR 07-04-1918, Brooklyn, NY" was the imprint left behind and it was later displayed on the mantlepiece next to a rare photo of the troublesome pair.

Meanwhile, in an SSR building Peggy Carter and Howard Stark raised a glass with a murmur "to Sergeant Barnes", and somewhere near Austria, the remaining Commandos were led by Dum Dum Dugan into three solemn salutes to their fallen Sergeant and the Captain that had followed him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March [Year Unknown] - The mission had been going without a hitch. The target was eliminated with usual ease and the Asset was simply waiting for extraction.

The television had been on when he'd entered the target's home and continued to play as he waited. As he stood there the picture changed, it was now showing two men; one tall, well-built and blonde, the other slightly smaller and brunette, leaning over a map spread onto the hood of a truck. There was no sound accompanying the images but the words scrolling underneath read "Captain America's best friend, Bucky Barnes' birthday..."

Neither name meant anything to him. The Asset did not have a name and had no need for one.

But something about the blonde's face, crisp and clear even on the aged black and white footage, prevented him from looking away.

So he stood there as it continued to play, unnerved by the attention it demanded of him, sweat prickling the back of his neck as his left fist clenched repeatedly.

And that's how they found him when the time for retrieval came; still staring at a screen that now showed something entirely unrelated.

He was swiftly returned to the chair when they returned to base, the mystery of the blonde man he couldn't help but stare at burnt from his brain before ice froze away his consciousness.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March 2009; Aged 92 - Mission: Eliminate the target. This time the target was an Iranian scientist, not that the Asset knew that. He only had a face, a location and an order.

When it came time to implement that command a red-headed woman was standing in his way. The Asset didn't hesitate and pulled the trigger; the woman falling to the floor as his bullet travelled through her abdomen and into the target who'd attempted to shield himself behind her.

Mission: Completed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March 2012 - When Steve Rogers woke up that morning it was to the initial confusion that heralded the start of all his days since he'd been brought into the 21st century. Where was he? Where was Bucky?

As his understanding returned, so too did the pain of being alone in this new world.

With a cursory glance towards the calendar, he felt the breath be punched out of him as he saw the date "March 10th", Bucky's birthday.

Now sitting on the edge of his bed, Steve collapsed forward to press his face into his hands as he broke down into shuddering sobs.

Had anyone else been in the sparsely furnished, SHIELD supplied, apartment to hear him they'd have been barely able to distinguish the words from the cries, but Steve was alone as he begged with anguish, "Bucky. Why Bucky why? Why aren't you here? Why couldn't I be with you? Bucky, god I miss you. I love you so much and it hurts, Buck, it hurts."

Steve would later drag himself down to the basement of his building and skin his knuckles down to the bone as he endlessly beat his way through the "heavy-duty" punch bags hung there. ------------------------------------------------------

10th March 2014; Aged 97 - He knew today was his birthday. Not because he had any actual memories of it being so, but because the exhibition at the museum had said March 10th was Bucky Barnes' birthday, and if he was Bucky Barnes then that meant that March 10th was his birthday too.

It had been less than two months since the Helicarriers fell from the skies and he'd dragged an unconscious Steve Rogers from the river.

In that time he'd visited the Smithsonian more than once, trying to garner all the knowledge he could about the man he used to be, before heading south. He was currently somewhere south of Texas in a Hydra safehouse, judging from what he'd been able to find on the internet it seemed unlikely that anyone else would be joining him at the hideout any time soon.

He was also fairly certain that Steve Rogers hadn't tracked him down yet, although some unplaceable knowledge at the back of his mind told him that the other man would be looking for him, somehow he knew that for certain, even when he wasn't certain of his own identity.

He had no memories of celebrating birthdays, and the Soldier had no information of use either, so he wasn't entirely sure if there was something he was meant to be doing. But as he snapped open a chocolate bar he'd found hidden behind some canned food, he thought that maybe, just maybe, that might be something he'd like to figure out.

Meanwhile, somewhere north of Bucky's "somewhere south of Texas" Steve Rogers stood overlooking an empty field under starlit skies. With a sigh that rattled his weary bones, he pushed his gaze towards the heavens and vowed, "I'm here Buck, I'll find you, I'm not losing you again."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10th March 2016; Aged 99 - Two years had passed since he'd been sat in that safehouse. Two years when he'd fought his body and his mind every single day: battling his memory as he grappled with flashes of who he was before; boy, man, lover, soldier, asset, lost... Fighting his body as every inch of him ached; nowhere more so than the area around his shoulder where metal met flesh. He was grateful that the drugs withdrawal had passed long ago, those few weeks had been enough to almost have him wishing for the emptiness of cryo on more than one occasion, but now he relished the feeling of a clear and fresh mind, battered and bruised though it was.

Today he knew it was his birthday because he was able to keep track of the days, and the newspaper he purchased every morning as he headed to the market confirmed it. It was March 10th, and that meant that he, James Buchanan Barnes, was 99 years old. He actually only let that particular thought cross his mind once as the idea of being 99 years old proved to be more than slightly baffling.

Unlike two years ago, Bucky had a plan for how he was going to celebrate his birthday. He was going to make a pie. He'd bought plums that morning and had already started baking the crust. It wasn't much, he was aware enough now to know that, but as he looked around his single room living space with a timid smile he thought it was quite enough for him at the moment.

Unlike two years ago, Steve Rogers was not standing in an empty field. He was still no closer to finding Bucky and was fairly sure that if one more person said "you won't find him unless he wants to be found" that he'd go insane, but stepping off the QuinJet behind Sam and Natasha as they headed to the latest Hydra base they intended to raze to the ground, he tapped a quick hand to his heart and muttered a brief "happy birthday jerk" before reaching up to his ear to switch on his comms.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------- March 10th 2017; Aged 100 - "Happy birthday Buck. It's a bit warmer here than it used to be for your birthdays back in Brooklyn. Wait, no, pretend I didn't just say that when you're in cryo. God, I don't know if I want you to be able to hear me or not. If you can, do me a favour and pretend you didn't when you get out? Don't need you to have any more things to use against me, ya jerk."

With a heavy sigh, the forced cheeriness slipped off his face and vanished from his voice as Steve sat forward in the chair. He'd placed it directly in front of Bucky's cryo tank shortly after he'd gone in and it hadn't moved from that position in the months since, even though he was often somewhere else in the world.

Now though, he scooted it closer, just enough so that he could reach out his hand and press it to the cool metal as he gazed up at the peaceful face of his best friend.

"100 years old, huh Buck? Gotta be honest I didn't expect either of us would make it to be old men. Maybe you before the war, but we both knew it was never gonna be realistic for me before the serum. Nat gave me a cupcake earlier, said it was for you but that I could eat it on your behalf. It was good, I guess I'll have to owe you one when you're awake."

Leaning back to raise his eyes to the ceiling, he had one final comment before slipping into the usual silence that always resulted from his visits, "ya reckon you'll be back for my birthday Bucky? Not sure I want to turn 99 without you, nevermind 100. Might have to skip the fireworks these days though..."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

March 10th 2018; Aged 101 - Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table in his and Steve's Brooklyn home, a cup of coffee cradled between his hands and a plate of toast to the side, when an envelope slapped down onto the table in front of him.

"Whassat?" he mumbled through a mouth full of bread and jam.

Amusement filling his voice, Steve crossed around the table to sit opposite him before grinning, "guess you'll have to open it and find out."

Swallowing, he pointed an accusing finger the blonde's way, "you already gave me a present punk, and a card, and a very pleasant wake-up" he finished with a wink.

Despite his words, Bucky was quick to snatch up the envelope before prying it open with his left pinky.

Steve was content to watch in silence as steel blue eyes grew wider and plush lips formed a gasp of surprise as words and meaning were processed before he was gifted a lap full of super-soldier and a face full of sweet-smelling brunette hair as kisses were pressed to his own golden crown.

"Is it real, Stevie?"

Wrapping his arms tightly around Bucky and sneaking a kiss to the underside of his chin, Steve grinned up at him, "Yep. You're fully pardoned and recognized as a POW, the medals are on their way, your back pay should already be in the bank, and you have a passport and driving license in your own name, with your face and your date of birth. And no-one can ever take them away from you."

With eyes full of tears and a smile brighter than the sun, Bucky buried his face into the neck of this precious man as Steve finished, "Happy birthday Bucky."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------- 10th March 2019; Aged 102 - Flicking his suspicious gaze from the leather box on his knees to the smiling man leaning in front of them, Bucky cautiously lifted the lid just enough to peek inside.

"C'mon Buck, open it properly!"

"Quiet Stevie, it's my present."

"Not if I take it back it's not!"

Reflexively pulling it closer he narrowed his eyes in a glare at the blonde, "you wouldn't, now shush."

Now opening the box fully, Bucky found himself unable to form words or even noises as he took in the contents before him.

Luckily, Steve hadn't lost the ability of speech, "so I had no way of getting yours, obviously, so these are mine but I want you to have them Bucky, no don't argue, just listen. We always wore each other's tags in the war, and I've worn mine since I came out of the ice. But these are for you, for the moments when maybe you need a reminder of who you are and where you belong; with me."

Tears trailing down his cheeks Bucky raised his eyes to Steve's, "thank you, Stevie, I don't know what to say, just thank you.." his voice trailed off as he looked back down to the dog tags and noticed something amiss.

This time when he looked back to Steve, the other man had moved from kneeling on two knees to one as he reached out to lift the tags from the box, before holding out the ring that now joined them on the chain for Bucky's inspection.

"I thought this might be a good way to wear it, I mean if you say yes, which you don't have to of course. But uh, I was wondering, to be honest, I've wanted to ask you since the 30s, and I love you, James Buchanan Barnes, so would you.. god, I'm messing this up, but would you do me the honour of marrying me and being my husband?"

Shock swiftly morphed to sheer delight and Bucky flung himself forward onto Steve, arms wrapped tightly around the blonde's neck as he yelled "Yes!"

Pulling him down into a kiss, Steve clarified, "Yes?"

"Yes, Steve. A thousand times yes."

"Thank god for that. Happy birthday Buck"

"I love you, Steve Rogers"

"I love you too, James Rogers"

"No, Steve."

"Why not?"

"That sounds awful. We'll hyphenate. Barnes-Rogers."

"What about Rogers-Barnes?"

"No."

"Why? What's wrong with Rogers-Barnes?"

"I'm older, my name goes first."

"Says who!??"

"Me."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

title taken from the song “one hundred and two” by The Judds

#bucky barnes #steve rogers #steve rogers/bucky barnes #happy birthday bucky

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jinkisbelly · 6 years

Text

Oblivious - 1/2

Hello~ Pairing: Friends -----> lovers! onkey Rating: pg w/c: 2.2k Summary: Kibum is a high-end Jewelry designer that lives in the city, who’s best friend is Jinki, who owns his own veterinarian clinic and owns a small farm about an hour from Kibum’s place. Saturday’s are their weekly dinner ‘dates’.

The pencil made a soft, soothing sound as it shaded the sketch lightly. Kibum hummed quietly, right foot tapping slightly as he fidgeted, and a gentle sway of the classical music coming from the portable speaker sitting on the desk to his right. He’d clean up the sketches and scan them into the computer later, for he had once tried the tablet and despised the feeling of it in his hand. He enjoyed the texture of the paper as he moved across the parchment, the way a finely sharpened pencil felt as it’s line was pulled, and the way the eraser squished just a little when he used it to make a mistake disappear. He stopped moving the pencil, tip still against the sketch pad when the door to his office opened. Not that he needed it to in order to know who it was, all glass of the inner wall took away the necessity. He smiled easily though, “Hey, Minho.”

“There were donuts in the breakroom. I saved you a jelly-filled.” Minho slipped in, the glass door closing soundlessly behind him, and slid the donut onto the desk on it’s napkin. “That weird girl in accounting was eyeing it.”

Kibum softly snorted. “Well thank you for saving it from the world of numbers.”

“You’re very welcome.” Minho scowled for a minute at the sprinkle that fell on his white button up. “What are you up to this weekend?”

“Mm, the usual.” Kibum pushed his sketch pad forward with the tips of his fingers and placed the pencil along the binding. After wiping his hands on the damp cloth to his right he lifted the donut closer. “Tomorrow I’m going over Jinki’s for our weekly dinner. Gonna take Garcons over there for the first time, see how he fares against the chickens that guard the back porch.”

“You sound like you’re dating him.” Minho paused to lick his fingers of chocolate icing before asking, “Are you?”

Kibum’s boisterous laughter probably could be heard across the building. “Me? Dating Jinki? Hilarious.”

“Well, either way, I hope you have a good time.” Minho grinned as he stood, dropping his napkin in Kibum’s wastebasket. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

As the door closed behind the man Kibum scooped some of the jelly from his donut with his finger and as he ate it slowly he laughed quietly to himself. “Yeah.. dating Jinki.. Hilarious.”

-----

Saturday Night

The sun was setting on the horizon. The few cows were grazing up on the hill, causing a beautiful silhouette. Kibum stepped out of his car, small poodles following after him and causing a billow of dirt to flow into the air around their feet. He glanced around as he closed the door, the food he brought to make in the bag in the back seat. He spotted Jinki through the open barn door, rubber boots on his feet and his big silver bucket Kibum knew to be the feed for the horses. He looked away from the horse trying to get to the bucket when he heard the yaps of the dogs. The smile on his face spread easily, even with the dirt splattered on his face. “Hey! Is it dinner time already?”

“Yeah,” Kibum snorted when the horse, the nameplate telling him their name was Chu, knocked against the gate again out of impatience. “It seems you’re being too slow.”

“Just because you’re pregnant Chu Baby doesn’t mean you get special treatment. HEY!” Jinki stepped far enough away so his shirt wasn’t in reach of her teeth. He pouted, “You’re being an asshole because we have company, aren’t you?”

She whinnied in response. Jinki grumbled as he opened the gate and poured the oats into her pale. He was running his hand over her coat when Kibum quietly said, “But you love her.”

“She’s my favorite, but don’t tell the others.” Jinki grinned before stepping out and locking the gate behind him. “Let’s get inside. Garcons is picking a fight with the wrong hen.”

Kibum whipped around just in time to see the bird peck rapidly at the tiny puppy and rushed to scoop him up. “Oh baby no, no, not Mrs. Pots. She’s mean.”

As they headed out Jinki gestured toward Commedes, walking as far away as he could from the chicken. “They learn though.”

Jinki slipped his boots off on the back porch, tossing them onto the grass along the steps. Kibum had already dropped the slippers Jinki placed on the table down beside him. Jinki took the leashes from him so he could run down and get the food from his car. He returned just as Jinki was pushing open the door. “Yes, yes guys air conditioning.”

Commedes ran straight for the first cat bed in sight as soon as the leash was off his collar as usual. Garcons was a little more hesitant. He was just a tiny dog in a big new world. Jinki was leaning against the archway leading into the kitchen watching him slowly make his way into the big living room as Kibum carefully unloaded his bag. “I thought we could have garlic pasta.”

“Sounds great Kibum.”

“Oh and you already have the wine chilling, wow I love you.”

“It’s white of course it’s chilled.” Jinki hummed. “I think Garcons has found his spot.”

“Let me guess,” Kibum quietly spoke as he straightened with the pots and skillet he needed. “On your recliner?”

“Exactly. How the fuck did you know that?”

“He sleeps in mine all the time.” Kibum untwisted the bag of garlic. “Are you going to help me or lay with my dog like the last hundred times?”

“I help!” Jinki exclaimed as he turned away from checking on the pups and walked to the edge of the counter to lean against it on his elbows. He smiled cutely. “I eat everything you make for me. I make dishes easier.”

“Uh huh.” Kibum scuffed, tossing a napkin at him. “Wipe off the counter and go shower. You smell like a farm.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m going I’m going.”

-----

The timer on the oven was beeping when Jinki’s soft footsteps could be heard coming down the hall. His hair was still a little damp. He was wearing blue plaid pajama pants and a long sleeve t-shirt that Kibum was sure he had in college. The man perked up when he saw the garlic bread being placed on top of the stove. “Is that cheese?”

“No that’s bread.” Jinki glared at him, which was menacing at all as per usual, before grabbing a slice. He yelped softly at the temperature, breathing quickly on it to try and cool it down, before taking a bite anyway. Kibum crossed his arms as he leaned back against the kitchen island. “I’m surprised you even have any taste buds left with how often you burn them with your impatience.”

“Don’t make such delicious food and I wouldn’t have to.” Crumbs were falling out onto his lip and on his shirt as he spoke, words a little muffled from the mouth full of bread.

“You’re a mess.”

“Mm, no argument there.” Jinki put the rest of the bread on the plate on the right, knowing it was his by the extra cheese present on top. He grabbed both plates once Kibum placed his bread alongside his pasta. “You get the bottle Bum.”

He hooked his fingers around the two wine glasses carefully before curling his hand around the neck of the wine bottle, following Jinki out to his small dining room. The table only had places for up to four people, five if the squeezed, but Jinki wasn’t much for extensive visitors or guests… so it worked. Kibum popped the cork and poured them each a glass before taking his seat to the left of Jinki, back up against the white lace of his curtains that when open gave a beautiful view of the magnolia trees he had planted along his driveway. “Anything exciting happen at work?”

Jinki laughed a little as he twirled his fork in his pasta, “I own a vet clinic. It’s not a day until some type of pet does some type of bodily relief on me.”

“That’s not exciting if it happens all the time,” Kibum scrunched his nose, a little grossed out. Then he remembered the story Jinki was telling him on Wednesday and his eyes widened, “Whatever happened to that kitten?”

“Mm,” Jinki hummed as he finished his bite, “The underweight one that I should’ve put down?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh well, he’s in cat room.”

“Jinki~”

“What?” Jinki dipped his head, shy and embarrassed. “I had two cats, what’s another one?”

Kibum’s gaze softened, knowing deep down that the kitten was going to go home with Jinki no matter what. “Well after dinner you’ll have to show me them.”

“I have to feed him anyway!”

“Him, hmm? Have you named him?”

“Chip.” Jinki happily answered. “His front tooth was chipped when they brought him in so.. Chip.”

“You knew you were going to take him even before you weighed him, didn’t you?”

Jinki played with his food, swirling the noodles with his fork, cheeks a little pink as he mumbled. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Mhmm.”

“Shut up.”

----

The second movie’s credits were rolling as Kibum drank the last sip of wine from the bottle. Jinki’s eyes were beginning to close, for he had always been a sleepy type of drinker. The tipsier he felt the warmer he was, and the drowsier he became. He tugged his blanket tighter around his shoulder as he shifted his head against the couch cushion to look at him. “Are you ready for bed?”

“Should’ve been like 2 glasses ago but yeah.” Kibum’s gaze fell to his lap, where Jinki’s eldest cat Moe was stretched out like he owned the spot. “Don’t think he’s gonna like it though.”

Jinki unswaddled himself to scoop the fat cat up off Kibum. “Come on sweetie. It’s time for bed.”

Moe protested, as expected, but soon he slowly made his way down the hall to the right, toward the room where his big meant-for-a-dog bed was waiting for him. Commedes and Garcons were sleeping in the cat bed under the table. Kibum knew that Commedes would be okay, but Jinki still put out a pee pad he still had from puppy fostering just in case Garcons needed to go. “I hope he doesn’t go on your floors.”

“With what’s happened in this house, it wouldn’t be the first,” Jinki paused for a minute gathering his blanket. “Or last for that matter.”

Their glasses and the empty bottle was dropped off in the kitchen on their way down the left hallway, where the master bedroom was. Jinki tossed a pair of pajama pants on the bed for Kibum as he went to brush his teeth and wash his face before bed. One thing that had come out of being friends with Kibum for so long was his skincare routine. He was coming out finished when Kibum was walking in, picking up the toothbrush that was left in the cup for him.

Jinki was comfortable in bed, hugging his pillow tight. His glasses were folded and placed on his table. He squinted to see him coming in. “I think tomorrow I’m going to make waffles.”

“Waffles?” Kibum echoed as he lifted the blankets on the other side of the bed. It had been a few years since Jinki had bought this house and made it his home, and about that long since they had made Saturday nights their dinner night. He could remember Jinki’s ludicrous tone when he offered to sleep on the couch when it was far too late and he was far too tipsy to drive home. ‘I’ve put aloe on your ass when you fell asleep at the beach with a thong on. I think we can sleep in the same bed.’. Even now when Jinki had a guest bedroom, it was the routine. He was fussing with his pillow as he asked, “Why waffles?”

“I haven’t used the waffle maker you got me in a while.” Jinki softly explained, turning onto his back to be able to look over at him. “Unless you want something else.”

“No, no, waffles are good.” Kibum shifted onto his left side, hands under his cheek, smiling as he gazed over at Jinki. “Goodnight.”

“Mm, goodnight Bum.”

------

While Kibum showered and got dressed in the extra clothes he packed, Jinki went to work on the waffles. After breakfast, he would go out and take care of his animals. He was plating the first waffle when he heard Kibum coming from his bedroom. He had a toothbrush in his hand, toothpaste foam on his lip as he removed it to speak. “I keep telling you that shampoo is bad for your hair.”

“Does my hair look bad?” Kibum pauses, mid brush and looks at him fully. Jinki’s hair is everywhere from sleep, a little frizzy even, and he just bursts out laughing when the man smiles from ear to ear at him. Jinki almost drops the batter in his hand when the toothpaste foam starts coming out of Kibum’s mouth, threatening to drip onto his clean shirt. “Please go fix yourself before my tummy hurts too much from laughing to eat my waffle.”

-----

#onkey #jinkibum #onew #key #shinee #oblivious au #Jinki got Kibum Garcons for his birthday a few weeks before #anyway the second part should be up tomorrow? but by the weekend for sure #I hope you like them being completely and utterly oblivious to each other #Like Jinki as a hard time connecting with people to a deep enough level to want to date them #kibum keeps finding things that are added to his deal breaker list. He has high standards #Jinki's last relationship lasted about two years about 4 years ago but hes happy in his life and isnt really looking for someone... or wanti #ng someone #Kibum is tired of going on so many bad first dates so he goes on what he likes to call his 'no dick year'#jinki questions him if that included trans men #Kibum corrects himself 'no man year."

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