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dannymayevent · 4 years

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Oh, but I’m clearly destined to wander

Congratulations, @wholocksupersoupofpain, for completing all 31 days of Dannymay 2020!

Phic written by @bibliophilea for your Day 15 artwork - Favorite AU - because Space AU is such a phantastic AU, and what you did for it was inspiring.

Phic can also be found on ao3 and ffn.

Title from "Beautiful Times" by Owl City.

*~*~*

Dani dances.

She twirls and weaves, her long, braided hair following her every movement, her longer blue scarf flowing around her, floating gracefully in the vacuum of space.

There is a freedom in her dance that cannot be expressed with words. But there is also yearning - in the way she darts from one point in space to another, like a butterfly untethered by anything but its own whims - whims which pull her too and fro, restless in her longing for something new and exciting in the vast beyond.

Valerie watches from the airlock, helmet in hand, enchanted as she always is when she watches her lover dance. She notes the subtle desperation in the tension in Dani’s back - the longing in the way her legs smoothly launch her from nothing to nothing, in the way her arms point to stars and galaxies far, far away - and she smiles softly, sadly. She'll be leaving soon now.

Dani turns to the airlock, and waves excitedly at Valerie, waves at her to come join her in this dance. Valerie is quick to hide her sadness, and she puts on her helmet, locking it in place before venting the airlock.

She twists open the lock and pushes the door open, joining Dani in the great beyond, the vastness that is space.

*~*~*

Dani dances.

Her giggles echo in the small living space of the spacecraft, the only home she’s ever known. She spins and spins, bumping into the walls and the ceiling and the floor before she trips and flips into her father’s lap.

"Careful, my little comet," her father says, their secret language humming and clicking in her ears. He smiles fondly down at her, and she giggles, floating up to give him a kiss on his forehead.

"Yes, papa!" she dutifully answers, before darting away, her giggles and her long, blue scarf trailing in her wake as she spins and spins again, doing her best to emulate the graceful twirls of the woman in the flickering holovid.

The woman smiles at no one as she flickers, and she speaks in their secret language, voice soft and gentle, yet commanding attention.

"When we spin, we spin with our core, the same way our home spins - the core of our planet pulling the surface with it, pulling us all with it into a celestial dance which guides us in our journey through the universe."

Dani stops spinning to listen, attention rapt upon the woman, before smiling widely and spinning again. She doesn’t see the way her father’s smile cracks, the way his eyes shine with tears before he wipes them away.

She does notice when he floats to the center of the room and pauses the holovid, staring at the flickering image of the woman. Her smile is radiant, deep black hair floating mid-twirl, eyes shining with joy. Dani’s father stares into her eyes.

"It’s time to say goodnight to mama," he tells Dani. Dani looks between the holovid and her father’s eyes, wrinkled in sadness even as he smiles gently. She nods quietly, and floats up to the woman’s face, and kisses her on the forehead. The flickering image tingles her lips.

"Goodnight, mama," she says, before turning to her father and hugging him hard.

"I love you, papa," she says in their secret language.

Her father huffs in surprise, before wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.

"I love you, too, my little comet."

*~*~*

Dani dances.

She twirls and weaves through the club, almost floating effortlessly between people as she dances, flitting between dance partners like a bee collecting pollen from one set of flowers before flying to the next. The white highlights in her skin tight jumpsuit and her loosely braided hair shine in the ever changing lights of the dance hall - purple, then red, then blue, then green flashing and fading into each other in time with the music. The black in her hair reflects the lights above her, but not as brightly; the black in her suit is nearly invisible in the throng of bodies and low light, hiding the motions of her lower legs and lower arms as she dances through the crowd - hiding her hands as they filter through the pockets of dancers, picking out wallets and coins and credits before stashing them in one of the many hidden pockets in her suit.

She glances at the bar for the fifth time in as many minutes, and this time makes herself hold eye contact with the beautiful woman staring at her. The woman’s red jumpsuit seems to change color in the low, changing light, and the black, reflective highlights accentuate the curves of her muscles and body. Her dark, curly hair is cropped short, geometric designs buzzed along the sides of her head. But what captivates Dani the most are her eyes. They are bright green - almost as green as Dani’s own eyes - and though they’re hard now, they shine with a life Dani can’t help but drink in, can’t help but want to explore.

She dances over to the bar and props herself up against it, smiling a winning smile at the woman in red.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Dani asks sweetly.

"Only if you can tell me whose credits you’re using," the woman replies, raising an eyebrow.

Dani doesn’t miss a beat. "Phillip McCarthy. I’m sure he won’t miss it."

The woman’s other eyebrow raises to join the first. The McCarthy’s are notorious for their smuggling operations in this sector of the galaxy - anything from drugs to artifacts to people. If it sells, chances are the McCarthy’s have a say in where it goes. Phillip in particular is known for his ruthlessness. Heir to the smuggling kingdom and drunk on his mother’s wealth and power, he goes where he wants and brings the party with him. Few who cross him live to tell the tale; the rest speak only to the coroners, and only speak of terrible, painful death.

The woman glances to the dance floor, where McCarthy drunkenly grinds and bellows to the music in the spotlight, surrounded by his posse - pilot fish seeking out a taste of that spotlight, that wealth, that power. She seems to make a decision, and her eyes soften as she lets out a low whistle, cracking a smile. "Ballsy. I’ll drink to that."

Dani lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and can’t help but grin. She waves down a bartender. "Two fireflies. On me."

She scans the credits, then turns back to find the woman staring at her. She notes the blush in her cheeks, and her grin turns sly. "Like what you see?"

The woman sputters. "W-what? No, no way, um, not that you’re not gorgeous or anything, I just - I didn’t come here for - look, can I get a name from the beautiful woman who just bought me a drink?"

Dani laughs, and feels her own cheeks blush green. Who knew a woman with such a confident stare could be so cute?

"It’s Dani," she chuckles. "And what can I say, I see a beautiful woman staring at me, how can I not buy her a drink?"

The woman frowns. She opens her mouth to retort, but a purple arm comes between them, hand adorned with expensive rings pressed against the bar. Dani looks up and sees Phillip McCarthy doing his best to loom over them despite his swaying stature. More intimidating is his posse - all in varying stages of drunkenness, but none as drunk as McCarthy, and there are a lot of them.

McCarthy squints his eyes at Dani. "You stole from me." Then he smirks. "But you’re new around here, aren’t you? Tell you what - I’ll let it slide if you do a little dance with me." He leans in close, and Dani wrinkles her nose at the stink of liquor on his breath. "I’ll show you what a real McCarthy can do for you."

"No thanks." Dani puts a hand on his chest and pushes him away. He stumbles back, surprised by her strength. Then he growls, stepping back towards her.

"Hey bitch, do you know who I am? I could make your life a living hell - you stole from me." He forces his face into a smile. "But I’m a nice guy. I can be forgiving. I’ll give you one last chance to do the right thing."

McCarthy grabs Dani’s arm, and Dani glares. Who is he to touch her like that? Before she can act, the woman in red grabs the hand that grabbed her, just above the wrist.

"Let her be, McCarthy. She was just about to return those credits. Right?" the woman side-eyes Dani hard. Dani rolls her eyes and pulls the credits from a secret pocket with her free hand, flicking them at McCarthy.

McCarthy‘s face sours. The credits bounce off his chest, and one of his posse picks them up. "Stay out of this, Gray," he snarls. "This is about respect. And I’m gonna teach her a lesson."

His hand tightens painfully on Dani’s arm, and Dani hisses. She feels the woman - Gray - tense beside her. Gray peels the hand from Dani’s arm and twists, earning a squawk from McCarthy, before shoving him back into his posse.

"I said, let her be." Gray growls.

McCarthy’s face twists in drunken rage, and he rounds on Gray. "How dare you-"

Dani kicks him in the throat, and he chokes, eyes wide with surprise, crumpling backwards to the floor.

Shit. She didn’t mean to kick him that hard - just hard enough to get him to shut up and back off from Gray. She stares wide-eyed at his crumpled form, barely able to hear Gray’s voice over the pulsing of her core in tune with her heart. He’s gotta be alright - she doesn’t know what she’ll do if she did any permanent damage, or worse, killed him-

McCarthy coughs harshly and works himself to his elbows. He stares up at his posse. They stare back. Then he flushes bright pink and points, croaking, "Get them."

Gray springs into action, fighting down the part of the posse closest to the door. They’ll never make it that way - not with more of the posse gathering by the door, ready to catch them should they make it past the first wave. Four of them turn on Dani, and she leaps into action, sweeping her foot out and spinning, knocking them away from her and clearing a path to the dance floor. She grabs Gray’s wrist, startling the woman.

"This way!" Dani shouts, and pulls Gray into the crowd.

Gray pulls against Dani’s grip. "There’s no exit that way!"

Dani pauses for a second, locking eyes with Gray. She smiles confidently. "Trust me."

Gray holds her gaze, then grins and nods. She twists her wrist and suddenly they’re holding hands, Gray a half-step behind Dani as they navigate the crowd together - Dani twirling and dancing between dancers and posse alike, Valerie twirling with her and taking down McCarthy’s people as they flee. They operate in sync, as if they’ve known each other for longer than five minutes, and Dani revels in the feeling. This is better than dancing on her own, better than dancing with a throng of bodies in time to the music - this is the most alive she’s ever felt.

The crowd thins, and she guides Gray to the back of the warehouse, dodging security. The back wall is lined with small windows 20 feet above the floor. They should be closed, but Dani knows for sure that one of them is open to the night air. As they approach the wall, she grins at Gray and lets go of her hand, putting on a burst of speed to reach it first. She kneels below the open window, holding out her hands to give Gray a boost.

Gray smiles at the move, kicking off of one of McCarthy’s men and using the forward momentum to sprint to Dani. She leaps into Dani’s hands, and Dani throws her into the air, sending her soaring to the window. Gray grabs the window sill and pulls herself effortlessly through, out into the night.

Dani grins and stands, surveying the mix of McCarthy’s posse and club security running towards her. McCarthy himself has somehow made it to the front of the posse, and he stops and snarls upon seeing her. She grins cheekily and waves, making a show of jumping up to the window - not many people fly in this sector of the galaxy, she’s learned. She hears McCarthy screech some sort of profanity, and something about his mother, as she pulls herself through, dropping to the next roof and picking up her backpack in a single, graceful movement. She takes a moment to look upwards, at the night sky.

The sky is only partially covered by clouds, a dark expanse faintly speckled with unfamiliar constellations where the clouds don’t touch. The light pollution from the surrounding city drowns out most of the black and stars, but she can just see Wolf 359 peaking out from behind a cloud. She smiles. Maybe she’ll head there next.

"You gonna stand there all night?"

Dani starts and turns to see Gray, eyebrow raised, but hand held out towards her. She blushes and grins, stepping forward to take her hand. This time, Gray leads, guiding Dani off the roof and through the streets and alleyways, away from the club and into the darkness.

They only stop for breath when they’re sure they aren’t followed. It’s then that Gray lets go of Dani’s hand, walking along a street and staring at the ground. Dani’s about to ask what she’s looking for when she suddenly stands up straight, turning back to Dani, hand outstretched.

"Hand over the credits," Gray demands.

"What? No!" Dani scoffs. "That’s like, half my haul!"

Gray rolls her eyes. "You can keep the rest. I don’t know where you’re from, but around here, credits are traceable."

Dani sighs, but does as she’s told. Gray shoves the credits down the sewer grate next to her. So that’s what she was looking for.

"The sewer flows downriver," she says. "You should head in the opposite direction, towards the space port." She points a thumb behind her, down the alleyway. "That’s where you’re headed, right?"

Dani gapes at her. "How did you-"

Gray raises an eyebrow. "It’s like McCarthy said - you’re not from around here. And you’ll need to get off planet now that you’ve pissed off Mr. High and Mighty."

Dani winces. "Sorry about that, Gray. But what about you?"

Gray smirks. "I can handle him. I’ve been doing it for years. Oh, and the names Valerie. It’s what my friends call me."

"Valerie." Dani tests the name out on her tongue. It feels right. She beams up at Gray - no, Valerie - and then bounces up to her. She caresses Valerie’s cheek with one hand, and kisses her chastely on the corner of her lip.

"Thank you, Valerie," she whispers in her ear.

And then she bounds away, dancing through streets and alleyways, climbing to the rooftops, almost flying as she careens upriver, towards the space port.

*~*~*

Dani dances.

Valerie dances.

They meet again, multiple times in both of their travels. And they dance.

And they dance.

*~*~*

Valerie dances.

She pushes off from the airlock, gliding into her lover’s arms. Together they twirl in the vastness of space, the stars and ship revolving around them, but they only have eyes for each other. Then Dani smiles, and kisses the top of Valerie’s helmet, and spins away from Valerie.

Valerie’s suit stabilizes her spinning with a thought, and she spins more slowly now, tracking Dani as she twirls through space, with Valerie at the center - Valerie at her center. She doesn’t know how, or why, but she’s managed to capture the most beautiful comet in the world. She is somehow the force which pulls Dani from shooting aimlessly through space - the star about which Dani orbits. Valerie is Dani’s star, and Dani is Valerie’s comet. Wherever their paths may lead, whichever outer reaches of space Dani flings herself to, Valerie knows that she will always, always come back to her.

Dani comes in for a hug, and they spin together, staring into each other’s eyes, naught but plexiglass and atmosphere and the vacuum of space between them. No one but themselves for hundreds of miles.

"I love you, my comet," Valerie says in Dani’s secret language.

Dani’s smile widens, and her eyes shine with the light of a home she’s never known - a home she chooses to make herself, with Valerie at her center.

"I love you too, my star."

#danny phantom #dannymay2020 #fanfiction #prize

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theotherbloodfart · 5 years

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Pennywise x Reader

Yo got this on main and gonna post the one shot here. I decided to play with this idea a bit. Penny is a virgin for this 😂😂 the song I wrote this to was the chain by fleetwood mac. Enjoy yo thirsty ass one shot anon! It's my longest so far!

You feel the rancid heat in your blood. It boils like fever. Making beads of sweat form on your skin. The chill of the air in this giant dark place does nothing to cool it. Nothing to calm.

You know he is here. The cave air is damp with the smell of him. It swirls with the scents of spun sugar, the hot popping oil for frying funnel cakes, and an animal smell. It is predatory, territorial. And the powdery smell of old decay. Oh he is here alright. And you want him.

“Pennywise!” You call out. Your voice echoes in the vast space, cascading up the walls only to meander around and back down to you in the form of an echo. At the conclusion of the hundreds of clown names a discreet hiss bubbles around as well. At the sound of his confirmed presence you feel your heart begin to jackhammer inside your chest. You struggle to hear any other noise aside from your own heart. Your own breathing.

The feeble light from your flashlight doesn’t penetrate far. Maybe 20 feet or so. And what you can see is otherworldly, even if it is already familiar to you. You are in a very large cavern. The only sounds now are the echoes of water dripping into pools near the edges of this cavern.

You head for your favorite spot. The monolith of standing spikes right in the middle. They are sharp looking, splayed like splashing water, as if something had heated the very rock into liquid form before dropping a stone in, and covered with a viscous black fluid which you know not to touch. It makes your skin numb and tingly. In the middle of this formation is a smooth, round, flat surface which you stand in the middle of.

You enjoy being here. You have no idea why this creature allows you to come and go from this place as you please. But you do not question. And you come here daily, always staying until he chooses to leave. Or simply staying for hours if he isn’t here. Sitting in the dark on this smooth surface, simply thinking about him.

He never touches you. You rarely even actually SEE him. He usually stays in the darkness beyond your flashlight’s glow, asking what seems to be pointless questions. Answering pressing questions from you as if commenting on the weather. Or simply watching you while you talk about your day. No response other than riotous cackling laughter when you describe something that has irritated you…. Which of course will irritate you…… and in turn inspire more laughter from him. He is infuriating.

He is beautiful.

And you want him. Now.

“Pennywise?” You know he’s here so this call is quieter. Questioning.

“Yes (Y/N). I am here. Tell me sweet thing. Tell me why your scent is different. Your scent stinks of dogs writhing in heat. You smell like you want to fuck, (Y/N).” Haunting laughter follows this and you feel ire rising within you. The taunting in his words and laughter is obvious.

“So what?” you snarl feeling shameful, hot tears spring into your eyes. “So fucking what clown? I mean ….. What do you expect? You’re………” you hesitate.

The laughter is explosive now. “Little pet wants to play with the clown!”

“Yes! You’re fucking beautiful okay? I wanna fuck the shit out of you!” You felt a strange sharp feeling in your chest. This had been a mistake.

Only silence now. Marred only by the echoes of dripping water.

Suddenly you hear a piano. The music chimes away beautifully as it circles the cavern. A tiny but strong sound. Sad and yet hungry. And yet it does not echo. You know instinctively that you are hearing it in your mind. He's used illusions on you before. He’s made you hear all sorts of terrifying things. He rather enjoys scaring the daylights out of you. But he has never done anything like this. The song is nameless and familiar, soft and comforting. He is trying to comfort you. Another sharp pain in your heart.

“I like this song. And I swear I’ve heard it before. What song is it?” your voice sounds frail somehow.

“It has no name. It is simply what your mind sounds like when you are here.” The answer is said in the usual, flippant, uncaring tone he always uses. He continues, without pause. “I have no use for breeding. I do not need it. It is unnecessary.” You can practically see him wave off the subject inside your mind. You feel embarrassed and shameful for ever having thought of it.

Your shoulders slump and your chin drops to your chest. “Yeah. I guess it is Penny.” You suddenly, and for the first time, no longer wish to be here. You turn to leave.

And walk right into his chest. You jerk, startled, the flashlight clattering to the ground, spinning around and landing the beam on the 2 of you. Remarkably it still works as it casts it’s light up, giving Pennywise a low set eerie almost monstrous glow. The light refracts in his eyes, making them burn vermilion out into the dark. Into you.

You feel a little breathless as you finally are allowed to admire him, all shame momentarily forgotten. His mouth is slack, his nostrils flaring, as if he is tasting your scent, as a line of saliva trails to a drop from his lower lip. His buck teeth protrude, nestled between much sharper fangs. His normally perfectly coifed ginger hair appears mussed and disheveled as it falls to frame his face. The silver of his suit glows in the light. His brow is furrowed in a demonic crease.

“I said I have no use for breeding (Y/N). Not that I would not try it.” The line of saliva finally breaks from his lips as he speaks and flutters down into the darkness near his feet.

Suddenly all you can hear is your rabbit heart. It’s pounding so fast you can feel it throbbing behind your eyes. Your mouth dries. Your skin breaks in gooseflesh as heat burns to life deep inside your gut.

The clown stands motionless, a dry groan bubbling in his chest, as you reach forward to his chest with trembling hands. But you hesitate, suddenly feeling more nervous than you’ve ever felt about anything ever, your hands shaking so badly you can barely control them. You feel shame swooping in again as You realize that you have no idea how to proceed. And you waited for the taunting laughter.

But none came.

A sharp snarl bursts from his mouth as his arms snap forward to grasp your own arms, bruising and painful, forcing you to him. A large gloved hand snakes into your hair. You can feel his nails leaving indentations in your scalp, thru his gloves, as he wrenches your lips to his. Sweet pain couples with the taste of blood as some of his fangs press thru your flesh. He is stronger than you’d realized.

You’ve never been kissed like this. You feel his saliva mixed with your blood smearing on both of your chins. His kiss is not human at all. There is no finesse nor gentleness. There is only ardor. He is taking everything he wishes. Bloody wet growls from him make your cheeks vibrate. No. This kiss is inhuman. And it’s the best kiss you’ve ever tasted.

Any shame, any remnants of human shyness, are stripped away before him. You no longer care. You are shameless now as your hands run along him.

There is pain along your scalp as he pulls your head to the side by your hair. You feel his drool on your neck before his mouth reaches it. Then more sharpness as his fangs scratch your skin. He’s suckling your skin. Hard enough to make you jerk and gasp.

His other hand reaches down to twist itself in your shirt and yank violently. Your shirt isn’t giving at first. More pain along the seems as he tanks harder. You sigh as his tongue swipes your tender neck and your shirt seams finally give way. Your shirt is not torn completely away, but hangs loosely in a limp circle around your waist.

The clown brings his lips back to yours. Smacking sounds ring out as he tries to move his lips with yours. As he tries to be more gentle. And you realize that he understands and registers that he’s causing discomfort. That he’s not sure how to do this. This knowledge makes any doubts of what you want vanish. You boldly grasp into the material of his trousers, seeking his cock. Closing your fingers around it you slide your fist up and down slowly, stroking it thru the silk.

His large body stiffens as he freezes, his lips still on yours, his fiery eyes so close to yours that you cannot focus on both at the same time. You moan quietly and bring your other hand around him to massage his ass.

A hiss brushes your torn lips as he pulls away from you then drops down, ripping your pants and undergarments off as he goes. Your tattered shirt continues to hang at your waist, entirely forgotten.

His eyes bore into yours as he leans forward to nip one of your thighs sharply, then inhales deeply. Jesus! He’s sniffing you! Like an animal! You know you SHOULD feel shame…… but you only feel yourself become wet under his warm breath.

Pennywise stands and picks you up by the flesh of your bottom, not seeming to need anything to lean on or otherwise support himself. You cry out as you feel his cock penetrate you quickly, no preamble. He then turns himself to prop you onto one of the large rocks.

You wrap your arms around him, the fingers of one hand brushing along the sharp pleating along the spine of his costume, the other hand grasping with white knuckles into the ruff around his neck. You cling to him.

He freezes again, his wet lips tickling your ear as he croons to you.

“Hold still (Y/N). I do not wish to harm you.”

You try to hold still. You really do. But you cannot help the rocking of your hips as he uses his hands to bounce you along his pulsing cock. The cock itself is moving. Thrusting into you as his hands move.

You watch his face slacken and relax, as his eyes roll back exposing only his whites. He’s so fucking beautiful. You bury your face into his neck ruff as you feel yourself beginning to stiffen in orgasm. His chest rumbles on your ribs as he speaks again.

“Yes, my doll. Cum for Pennywise. Do it! Do it now!” his voice breaks into a guttural snarl and you feel heat inside you as his cock thrusts his orgasm into you.

As you calm down and your panting slows, you enjoy the feeling of the quivering muscle structures underneath his suit.

Behaving oddly, he nuzzles into your neck, gently licking the puncture wounds he’d inflicted earlier.

You found yourself giggling.

“Penny did I just pop your cherry?”

The licking stops and a low growl vibrates your body.

“Enjoy walking home with no clothes little doll.”

#pennywise fanfiction #pennywise #pennywise the dancing clown #pennywise one shot #pennywise smut #gender neutral #it 2017 #it 2019 #it movie #itchapter2 #it chapter two

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lusie-king · 4 years

Text

Atone

This

Is the story

A demon

With a halo

And an angel

Seeking sin

Those who believe hell to be a wicked place never grew up there. It’s hard to see your origins as evil when they’re all you’ve ever known. It’s difficult to be afraid of the night creatures and dark monsters when they’re howls lulled you to sleep every night. It’s impossible not to crave the warmth of hellfire and scent of souls burning when, to you, they’re reminders of your upbringing. Of the only things in existence that have ever cared for you.

I was different from the start. My brothers and sisters would sneer at me with their sharp teeth and dark eyes, sneer at the glowing wisp atop my head between little horns. They’d mock my lack of wings and a pointed tail, though I liked not having a tail once I realized how they yanked on each other’s as a means of torment. I never let it get to me, though. Not the beatings nor the laughing nor the torment. I was always content with how the world made me, and though they teased me, I was the one who felt pity for them, and so I knew my differences did not stop at the surface. They were rooted deep within me. And it made me feel special. It made me feel unique.

He couldn’t believe how different he was by the end. A creature most holy in the beginning, with white feathers running along his back and robes of pure light covering his innocent form. His sisters and brothers and even his own father frowned upon the lack of aureole sitting softly above tufts of mousy hair. His appearance reminded them too much of mortality, and with mortality came sin. They never ridiculed him out loud, not like my family did, and that was somehow worse. At least I knew exactly what my siblings thought. He spent everyday wondering if they’d ever love him. He cursed the way the world made him, vowing with each sunrise to find his purpose and be the epitome of righteousness he thought he was meant to be. He never felt special. But he was unique.

The day he fell I remember like my own name. Never had I seen something so beautiful, so sacred grace this planet where I bided my time like I had an eternity of it. He claimed he’d find meaning here but I knew, as soon as I saw his face, I knew he didn’t come here on his own. And he couldn’t go back. I knew for the way he immediately threw himself to his knees and folded his hands in prayer, though I was certain no one was listening. No one but me.

I kept my distance, tucked behind a tree, watching with flitting eyes, staying absolutely still until he had run out of tears and his feathers drooped. Then, I emerged. The moment he sensed me, I slammed into the tree, his hand around my throat, my pointed teeth baring in the most sadistic way. His hand burned when it touched my body.

“How dare you look upon something so holy.” He spoke with a hiss.

I gripped his wrist, enjoying how his face twitched in pain. My touch burned too. His wrathful eyes softened when he saw what hovered above my head. What didn’t hover above his.

“What the…what is that?” His dark eyes searched me, realizing there were certain things missing. “What are you?”

“Exactly what you suspect.”

“Why are you here? You don’t belong here.”

“Neither do you.” I wriggled out from under his grasp. “I guess we have that in common.”

“You and I are nothing alike.” He didn’t touch me again.

“True.” I tilted my head. “The difference being, I can go home whenever I want.”

The rage returned. But I wasn’t afraid. Even when he grabbed me by the horn and dragged me away.

“As a soldier of heaven, it is my sworn duty to protect this mortal world from the likes of you.”

“Oh?” I crossed my arms, smirking as he pulled. “Why?”

“Why?” He scoffed. “What do you mean why? You know why, soulless beast!”

“I do not. I come up here to read. Things below get noisy like you wouldn’t believe. Up here, all is quiet. All is peaceful.”

“Peaceful?” His tone became bitter. “This place is anything but peaceful.” He let me go so he could look into my eyes. “This place is bloodshed and brutality and sin.”

“Sounds like Hell.”

“That…that…” Oh, he was furious. “You know not of what you speak!”

I couldn’t keep the smug look from my face. “I do. And I know this place is also bright and calm and full of joy. Full of hope.”

“Sounds…” His voice softened. “Sounds like heaven.”

“Now that, I would not know.” I sat back down, a book materializing in my hands.

“You—you are not like the others I have encountered.”

“Nor are you.” I felt him staring at me.

He was quiet for a while, many racing thoughts brewing behind those dark eyes. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“You could make the best of it.”

He crouched beside me. “How?”

I thought for a moment. “Come with me.”

He hesitated, gazing down at me with wary eyes.

“Or remain alone in this field. Your choice.”

Reluctantly, he followed, suspicious glare never leaving the back of my head.

City lights were prettier than the stars, I thought. The way they twinkled so close, each a beacon to someone’s life. To a moment in time. We walked along the mortals, me a figment of their imagination melting in and out of the shadows, he a flash of light moving faster than their eyes could perceive.

“They’re disgusting, even you must agree!”

“I do not.” I shot him a sly look. “Nor do I think you truly believe that.”

The way he stared at them, taking every detail. Listening to their voices. To their pain.

“Nature is messy. But she doesn’t make mistakes.”

His fingers subconsciously ran through his hair, as if expecting something to dance over his head.

“Everything has balance,” I went on. “It’s magnificent.”

We watched a mother coo to her infant. We watched a boy push his sister into a puddle. We watched a scrawny dog graciously accept a handout. We watched a man steal from someone who had nothing.

“I don’t understand,” he growled.

“That’s the problem.” I shook my head. “You keep trying to understand but you can’t because no one can. This world is complicated, as it deserves to be. And those who try to fully comprehend it will drive themselves mad.”

“So what do I do?” He was begging. Desperate. Confused and hurt and my own heart, which I sometimes forgot I had, wrenched.

“Don’t try.” I looked into his innocent eyes. “Just do.”

I took his hand and pressed it to the cold building, letting him take in the marble. That was the beginning.

Gardenias. Purple clouds. Raspberries. Mortal laughter. Tights gowns and clacking heels. Pearls strung along exposed necks. Jewels dancing in chandelier light. Perfect sculptures, the ones where texture defies material.

Screams of pain. Damned souls. Old books. I bit my lip. A moonlit lake. Glittering fish. The smell of death. Flies around a carcass. Pomegranates and dirt blacker than charcoal. Mortal skulls. Hot tears. All this chaos, all this agony, and I still got to see his smile.

Coconut milk. The smell of oil paint. Green tea. Horseshoes on cobblestone sidewalks. Silver chains. He closed his eyes.

Neon lights. Throbbing music. Curling smoke and cigarette buds. Jean jackets. Bloodshot eyes and greasy hair. Doubts. Insomnia. Ecstasy, both kinds. Shaking restlessness. The sharpness of my horns. Scraped knees.

White shells. Footprints in wet sand. Boardwalks and docks. Ferris wheels. Worn down carousels. A swaying sailboat. White curtains fluttering around a windowsill. Shimmering ocean waves. Salt and seaweed sticky on the skin.

A sweet blonde mortal. Her soft lips against his skin. The way his breathing hitched. Glossy makeup. Streaks of shadow streaming down my face. Silk sheets. Whiskey and rum, hot in the throat. A tan-skinned boy. Rough hands running along immortal flesh, calling me a pretty thing, hating my pointed teeth.

Obsidian blades. Bruised knuckles. Split lips. Lost memories. Forgotten dreams. He said he’d never go back, given the chance. Sad smiles. The taste of blood. Clinking glasses. Sparkling champagne. I smiled and his eyes never left my face.

Wool shawls. Racing through the forest. I said they’d have to drag me back. Red and orange leaves fluttering around us. Hot apple cider. Cinnamon donuts. The ground crunched. Meaningless apologies. Bottled sunshine. He spread his wings, mismatched feathers fluttering in the breeze, towering over me. My heartbeat quickened.

He touched my hand and inhaled once when his skin burned. Then he touched me again, holy palms running down my face, down my neck, down my back, leaving ash in their wake. Panting. Dark eyes stared into mine, into the soul newly formed. He looked haunting, hair in his face. Red scratches stretched across his chiseled muscles. My claws skimmed his wings. They were softer than I imagined. My lips found his. He tasted of sin. Quiet moans. Squeezing flesh. Our fingers aligned. I no longer wondered what Heaven was like.

I laid in his arms, far from the first time. Shadow against light. I never felt so real.

“I was touch starved all my life.” His voice was low. His fingers absentmindedly ran through my hair. “Meanwhile others couldn’t keep their hands off you.”

I tilted my head up. “And look at us now.”

“And look at us now.” He paused, deep in thought. “Is this a happy ending? Do we deserve that?”

“Why not?” I hugged him closer. He was almost found. “If you decide everything always had meaning, you no longer have to search for it.”

His cheek pressed against my temple. “You are hellfire with a halo. Something sacred in the most unholy way. There's nothing soft about your stone-cold heart and yet you hold me with the gentlest hands. When your lips, damp with blood and eyes, dark with sin, set themselves upon me I feel saved. I don't care about the taste of iron or solid black of your irises. All I know is I'd take your bruised knuckles over smooth flesh any day.” His voice trembled as he spoke, laying down all his cards. “Your demons are vast, but they do not exceed my own.”

“Everyone is fucked up in their own way,” I murmured, head on his chest. “And I think that’s beautiful.”

Time went on. His feathers frayed. The light between my horns faded. Neither of us cared. We walked among the mortals until mortality took over. Until his pure light dimmed and disappeared. Until my horns withered away. Until my claws softened and his wings became scars. My heart beat vigorously, in sync with his own. Our touch no longer burned. We were different. We were unique. We were something magnificent and foul. We were mortal. And I wanted those dark eyes to be all I’d ever known.

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hejer-maomao · 5 years

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Your requests are open woohoo!!! There is a fluffy one from me... Could I please get HCs from how Ray, Zero (or Fenrir, I just love the two Aces) and Jonah would propose to MC? Thank you!💕

Hewo darling ｡◕‿‿◕｡I’m really happy to see you excited about my Ask Box’s re-opening!

Your request is something I’ve been dying to write about and you happen to choose all of my favorites suitors! And since tomorrow is my birthday (yes, your girl is growing old already (─‿‿─), I thought about rewarding myself through this ❤

I hope you enjoy (｡◕‿◕｡)

Ray, Zero and Jonah proposing to the MC:

Ray:

Ray’s proposal came on a mundane sunny day, out of the blue. Spontaneously, naturally, as if it were the only obvious thing to do at that exact moment.

It was a Sunday, and you both had a late start to the day, Ray’s morning meeting being postponed for a reason or another and you feeling too lazy to get up. You snuggled together on the bed, both of your bodies basking in the tender sun rays seeping through the curtains. Your head was resting on Ray’s bare chest, your hands drawing senseless patterns on his muscular abdomen. His head was leaning on yours, emerald eyes affectionately gazing at you as he lazily threaded his slender fingers through your hair, sending delicious shivers along your whole body.

You both cuddled closely for a while, when Ray started dropping soft kisses on your forehead, cheeks, lips and down your neck until he reached your bare chest. His kisses turned more teasing and open-mouthed as he licked and nipped at the sensitive skin there, his hands coming up to remove the sheets off your naked body and caressing your thighs, drawing closer and closer upwards. You softly loaned, relaxing your muscles and allowing your lover to shower you in kisses and touches, already anticipating more pleasure to come, when the soft noise of a familiar bell echoed in the room, and then Belle was jumping on top of Ray’s head, meowing in protest.

You both halted in your movements and stared at each other for a few seconds, before exploding in a heartfelt laughter. You extended your hands and gently picked up Belle to cradle her in your arms, lovingly cooing at her.

Ray slowly parted his body from yours, feeling slightly disappointed that he was stopped, but not really angry as he gently smiled at you both.

He gazed at you as you tenderly kissed Belle’s nose and giggled as she tried to stop you with her pink paw, and his breath suddenly hitched in his throat.

It was as if all of his feelings of love, respect and pure affection towards you all melted within his chest and they were ready to burst at any second, and it finally hit him.

He wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

He wants to wake up everyday with you by his side, hear your beautiful laughter echo in his ears and feel your warm skin under his fingertips. He wants to taste your awful cooking and argue you with over stupid things just so he can make up with you with a kiss and a piece of chocolate. He wants and he wants and he wants and the list just keeps on going endlessly.

Ray simply wants you to be in his life, forever.

“Would you marry me?”

The words were out of his lips before he could even register what he was saying, but Ray was sure that it was his heart speaking at that moment. The words simply felt right.

You stared at him, mouth agape in shock at the unexpected proposal, not even noticing when Belle slipped out of your hands and jumped soundlessly into the floor, momentarily forgotten.

Your face washed blank with confusion and every muscle of your body just froze. Ray laughed, his voice light and happy and so, so dear to you, and said: “You look so silly staring at me like that! Close your mouth or flies will go inside.”

Ah, your brain finally registered, this was the man you love asking you to spend eternity by his side. How could you ever refuse?

Shoving the blankets around you, you threw yourself at Ray who hastily caught you in his arms. Before he could utter a word, he felt hot tears falling on his shoulder, and your voice, firm and so full of affection resounding in his ears:

“Yes, yes, yes!!”

Ray closed his eyes and smiled.

Zero:

While Zero’s proposal was not exactly impulsive nor spontaneous -he did plan it out a few months beforehand- your lover still kept it affectionately natural, tenderly simple and special, a proposal of a lifetime, only fit for you.

It was on one of those spring days with a kiss of coldness that somehow heightened the warm rays of the sun that Zero requested a day-off and took you on a short trip to the outskirts of the Red Territory to a field of flowers.

The beautiful meadow stretchered as far as the eye can see, colorful flowers ornamented its surface, dancing lightly under the refreshing breeze.The air was deliciously flavored with the fragrance of each of these dazzling blossoms, your nose easily picking out your favorite scent of jasmine. The azure sky above-head was tranquilly empty but for a few fluffy clouds, drifting slowly here and there.

Zero gently smiled at you as you swept your eyes around the field in amazement, relief washing over his senses at the success of his first step. He tenderly took your hand, and intertwined your fingers together before leading you deeper into the field, until you reached the soft blankets and the covered basket prepared beforehand by Zero. Once you spot the picnic items, you turn your delighted face towards your lover, clearly pleased with the surprise.

Zero ushered you to sit down on the blanket before he pulled up a neat bouquet of vibrant sunflowers, gently offering it to you. He watched in fondness as you cradled the lovely flowers that you rival in beauty between your arms, gladly accepting the tender peck you later placed on his cheek as a thank you.

After came the food, the key element to please a gourmand such as you. Golden and crisp Cubano sandwiches accompanied a classical Stuffed Focaccia and a Spring Greens Caesar salad with pickled shallot. The desert was soft and gooey coffee and walnut cupcakes which never fail at making you sigh in satisfaction.

After lunch, you both lay down on your backs, hands never leaving each other, staring at the calming sky. The moment of truth was slowly approaching as you start to drift in a light sleep, lulled by the delicious food and the nice breeze playing with the flowers around you, a content smile on your lips. Zero checked for the million time the velvet box residing in his pocket, and opened his mouth to finally utter those four words he desperately rehearsed over and over again for the past few months, but nothing came out.

His heavy heartbeat echoed in his own ears and he felt cold sweat trailing on his back, crippling fear sneaking in and seizing his heart, squeezing it between its clutches. For a few seconds, Zero couldn’t breathe.

‘Are you even worthy of her?’ the ugly demons that the Ace of Hearts fought with every single day of his life viciously awakened and whispered to him. ‘Can you even make her happy? Someone like you, who is nothing but an empty shell will do nothing but make her cry and disappoint her.’

Zero shook his head in denial, but the heinous voices did not stop. ‘You do not deserve to bask in the sunlight, Zero. You will only taint her with your darkness if you remain by her side. Leave her if you truly wish her happiness.’

The light was slowly starting to fade away from Zero’s eyes when you unconsciously stirred by his side, tightening your hold on his hand and forcing him back into reality once again.

The scene which greeted him after he exited the horrible darkness residing in his heart was you, eyes still closed in the middle of the dazzling flowers, his hand still in yours, and the world around you gentle and warm. Zero, perhaps for the first time in his life, felt as if it was time to let go of the past. It was time to forgive himself.

“Would you marry me?”

The long-awaited words soon echoed in the empty field, the wind carrying the teary yet joyful “Yes!!” that followed right behind.

Jonah:

Jonah planned this marriage proposal for more than three months, earnestly going through each and every detail down to the second, checked and rechecked over and over again until there was nothing left to chance. He obsessively and personally chose every object and every person involved in the process.

From he location, a splendid manor owned by the Clemence family in the heart of the Red Territory, to the expensive and extremely famous orchestra which will be playing the music. The food was prepared by the most talented chef in all of Cradle, the menu tasted by Jonah himself and changed multiple times until the Queen of Hearts was fully satisfied with every item on it. The personnel, who will be serving you dinner, were handpicked by Jonah and approved by Edgar as both harmless and efficient. Your outfit, a gift also prepared by Jonah, was a customized, one-of-a-kind empire waist dress, sewn with the finest silk and ornamented with gorgeous sapphire and lavish topazes.

Everything was lush and grand. Jonah spared no expense in order to organize the most stunning, sublime and perfect marriage proposal, worthy of your approval. A proposal fit for the future Mrs. Clemence.

The fateful night soon arrived and Jonah manged to convince you that you were heading for a certain party that his family was hosting, claiming that the dress code was extremely strict. Although you were still suspicious of the extremely expensive dress you were offered, a dress fit for a queen, you joked to Jonah as you fixed your make-up in front of the mirror, you still accepted Jonah's made-up lie and went ahead with his plan, unaware of his true objective.

When the carriage stopped in front of the mansion chosen for the night, Jonah helped you descend and offered you his arm, which you gladly took. In order to reach the estate’s entrance from the main gate, you had to cross a vast garden, impeccably trimmed and taken care of, you noted as you both walked together on the marble pathway, lit by the faint moonlight.

Jonah’s heart was beating too fast, he felt it almost trying to escape from his rib-cage, his frazzled nerves jumping all together, and all in different directions. Jonah swallowed the lump formed in his throat and tried his best to reason with himself. A lavish dinner followed by a romantic dance before he finally utters the words he’s been desperately practicing. Easy enough, right?

I can do it, Jonah thought to himself with his fists clenched, and turned around to tell you that the entrance was near, only to find you few meters behind him, crouched on the ground, heedless of your expensive dress touching the floor.

“Darling?” Jonah curiously called out as he retraced his steps and made his way back to you, wondering what held you back.

Once he reached you, he extended a hand and helped you up, slightly bending down to see the object that caught your eye. Nestled in your palm was a tiny yellowish-orange rock which you were poking with one finger, gazing affectionately at it.

Jonah’s confusion did not dissipate, and he wondered why on earth would you get out of your way to purposely pick up a normal rock, with no unique features.

Noticing your lover’s puzzled gaze, you softly laughed and tilted your head to the side, bringing up the small rock closer to your chest.

“Don’t you think it looks just like your eyes?” You gently whispered, and Jonah’s breath hitched in his throat, his heart melting within his chest.

What only seemed to him a dull, mundane rock was in your eyes something that reminded you of him. That went to show just how much you thought of him to the point of seeing a part of your lover in everything around you.

Jonah dropped his gaze to the ground feeling hot tears gathering behind his eyelids and clutched at his chest, harshly biting his lower lip.

Oh God, I love her so much...

All of his plans fell into the water at that instant. Jonah carelessly discarded all the fancy food, elegant music and professional staff waiting for you only few meters away, and dropped to one knee, pulling out the ring box from his pocket.

Thar moment, where your gaze was full of love for Jonah and his chest full of love for you was the perfect moment to propose. No expensive dinner under the candlelight could ever compete.

Jonah looked up at you, one hand covering your mouth and the other still tightly holding the rock and saw his future in your eyes.

He saw the strong and capable woman he fell in love with, the woman who accepted him with all of his flaws and opened her heart to him, never attempting to change him to her own tastes. The woman who taught him that it’s okay not to be perfect at all times, that it’s okay to make mistakes, that it’s okay not to be okay, and still be loved despite all of his weaknesses.

He saw the love of his life who stood by his side in the bad moments just like in the good ones, the one who supported him and never left his side when the whole world was against him. The woman who believed in him when no one else did and when no one else would. The woman whom he will love, no matter what happens.

“Would you marry me?”

Nothing felt more right than those words.

The quiet night soon echoed your loud and elated “Yes!” as you jumped into Jonah’s arms.

This was such a pleasure to write! I was smiling the whole time I was typing these out, and I felt SOO happy while re-reading them! Thank you for the lovely request ❤

#ikemen revolution #ray blackwell #ikerev zero #Jonah Clemence #it's 1 am here #and I'm still smiling at these!!#I probably went a little overboard with the details though #(✿´‿`)#what can I do #also man #growing up is cool and not cool at the same time!#what I love about my birthday is the fact that I can act spoiled without anyone complaining #hehehehe (▰˘◡˘▰)#oh #the cake is also another cool factor!#I loveee chocolate!

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theveryworstthing · 5 years

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(pounding fists on table) fashion, fashion, fashion, faSHION FASHION...

it is time to release the fruits of my patreon sponsored Dwarf Week to gen pop. the theme was the long awaited history of dwarven punk (furthermore known as Lunk) and woo did it become A Lot. music genres and fashion movements don’t just come from nowhere and transplanting a human genre that started from specific human times and sensibilities onto another race without thinking about why a thing ain’t my style. so! i’m gonna give you a nice chunky lore post and follow it up with some posts about Notable Lunk Ladies. let’s begin.

A Long Short History of Lunk To really talk about Lunk we gotta talk about the rebellion. And to talk about the rebellion we gotta talk about the flood in the Mander Drop cave system.

Two Disasters. - The Mander Drop cave system was fairly small as dwarven cities go. It was also very remote, and as far as top-sider territories are concerned, outside of the Woods. So when a devastating flood/cave-in combo forced survivors up to the surface they found themselves in the human kingdom of Luxterra, and therefore on the land of the recently appointed King Regiis The 27th. For a while this seemed like good luck. The king welcomed the refugees in and happily provided them with housing and food. How could they be anything but helpful to the first dwarves seen in Luxterra for generations? Especially since, whether they knew it or not, the royal borders made it so that these were clearly their people? Their brethren? It was just too bad about all the blasphemy. The King and his religious advisers all agreed that they’d have to do something about that if their newly discovered people were to be Saved with the rest.

Now religion can be a force for love and safety and a link to important cultural heritage. But also. You know. Sometimes it sucks. Rolism, which is what Luxterra had recently adopted as their primary and only religion, sucked. The Incomparably Holy And Absolutely Complete Sapient Bestiaries was a collection of books written by a young failed anthropologist/failed fantasy writer/failed(eventually successful?) cult leader with an unchecked ego and a down right girthy god complex named Sir Adam Brightcrown (real name:Rod Flaff). They were said to contain the true and holy roles of every sapient being barring demons, who were not in the books outside of mentions of general badguy behavior and their penchant for the perversion of nature. The series was barely older than the current king himself and had flown completely under the radar until the former king Regiis The 26th, received the books as joke gifts and got way into them. Like, into them enough to abolish all mentions or practice of any other religions in Luxterra and turn the church over to the author of the Bestiaries/voice of god, Sir Adam.

The Mander Drop dwarves did not act the way dwarves were described in the Bestiaries (a common theme for any race described in the Bestiaries). They thought themselves all women, even as they wore long beards! There was no gleam of avarice in their eyes when they walked past the golden ornaments hanging throughout the royal gardens! They weren’t even violently rowdy alcoholics!

Scandal.

It couldn’t just be that they were survivors of a horrible disaster reeling from the loss of their homes and families as they tried to be polite to human hosts who knew next to nothing about their actual culture.

No, they had to have been Changed. Touched by demonic forces that all Good People knew lurked beyond their righteous borders.

But they would surely come around with a little instruction and the church got to it right away, sending their missionaries into the hospitals and dwarven camps to spread the word. But the word did not spread as easily as they would have liked. The word was kinda chunky. The dwarves were very set in their ways and the loss of their home had made them very touchy about altering their traditions too much. So after enough badgering, the remaining Elders decided that maybe it was best to leave Luxterra as soon as their wounded could be moved and take their chances in The Woods. They even went so far as to tell the royal council that they did not see themselves as true Luxterrans and so felt that they should not be beholden to certain church guidelines. The King took this pretty well and told them that he would respect their wishes and support any decision they made. So a few weeks later, when everyone who hadn’t passed was stable enough to ride with a caravan, they sent messengers out with pleas for help to other cave systems.

They never saw those messengers again.

A freak flash fire broke out in the dwarven camp that evening. All of the Elders and the adults most resistant to the church’s advances mysteriously did not make any moves to escape as they were burned to death in the meeting tent. Most of the possessions and goods salvaged from the Mander Drop caves were also reduced to ash . In the end, all that was left were a few resilient trinkets and a vast amount of mostly orphaned dwarven youth that had luckily been away at the time. The king’s detectives declared that it probably was and accident, but the remaining dwarves should move to the land behind the royal monastery for a while just to make sure it wasn’t something more…unsavory. And so the survivors were put under absolute royal protection. Which meant a settlement furnished with everything the holy books said that a dwarf could want, entry into St. Adam’s Rolism School for the young ones, round the clock guards to ensure safety standards were met, and many other…perks.

All the king asked for in return is that they work the mines to repay him for his generosity. Since they were not actually Luxterran citizens, they could only receive a certain amount of aide without incurring debt from their hosts, and that line had been crossed long ago. But no worries! Once their debt was repayed and they felt stable enough, they could leave with the kingdom’s support and blessings.

House Arrest- The dwarves had a bad feeling about this whole deal, but weren’t exactly in a position to refuse. The initial agreement to pay for the refugees room and board looked completely fair despite their awful feelings toward it but like everything else in their situation, it sucked. Hidden, vague stipulations in confusing foreign languages and weird time frames made them inescapable. The mining conditions were so hazardous that many didn’t live or stay healthy long enough to pay their due. Children inherited debt from their parents and were locked into the system as soon as they were old enough to enter the work force (an age that inched ever lower). As far as the king and the church were concerned, the dwarves had a sizable community debt not just from enjoying Luxterra’s gracious hospitality but for having their souls saved by being shown their proper Roles. And that debt was so great that it made sense that it was impossible to pay off. Also, trying to escape the contract was as much a death sentence for you and your family as ‘consorting with demons’. Leaving the kingdom or rebelling against Regiis’ rule was akin to stealing the prosperity they had surely enjoyed and no one stole from the king. It was rehabilitation from the church or death.

And let’s be real. It was usually death.

Besides, the Holy Bestiaries stated that dwarves lived for mining and their generations of work had made Luxterra prosperous beyond measure. Why would they want to leave?

Basic Rolism Dwarf Rules- Dwaves are masculine. Dwarves are brutish. Dwarves smith and mine but they do not craft. Dwarves only love Gold and treasure. Dwarves only take joy in fight and drink. There’s more but you get the idea. There were other random rules around appropriate use of the dwarvish language (no use. No use is what they wanted) that included acceptable names (most families got to keep their last names because they were appropriately Aesthetic but first names were changed for most people). These rules weren’t in the books, the church just decided they were for the best.

Music - music was the biggest and most freeing coping mechanism the dwarves had during the three generations of life in Luxterra. This makes sense, as screaming rhythmic complaints is a known stress reliever for many sapient races. What culture could be recovered or remembered, which wasn’t much tbh, was used heavily in the Lunk (short for ‘spelunk’ which some dwarves did in secret to recover relics from the ruins of the Mander Drop caves) scene, and that included attempted replications of traditional instruments and songs. It was way different from classic dwarven music due to the new instruments, influence from human underground (not that kind of underground) musicians, and enhanced Angst, but like all of lunk culture it was good enough.

Dwarves were expected to sing per their entry in the Bestiary, and so were never bothered about practice during the work day unless snitch human coworkers or guards heard…less than tasteful lyrics. This meant anything treasonous or ‘contrary to their nature’. Fighting and drinking were okay subjects but critique of religion, the social order, or the king? Literal devil music that was cause for possible arrest and ‘rehabilitation’. To be fair, a lot of human miners weren’t too fond of the king either (Rolism didn’t just affect dwarves) so they let a lot slide unless a dwarf got uppity and they were a huge bastard. Also fighting and drinking persisted as song themes long after they were freed from their restrictions because those are almost universally fun topics to scream about in a cave, but still.

While plenty of singing went on in work areas, actual concerts and events were held in deeper decrepit mines than were usually condemned for one reason or another. It was…not safe. But that was kind of the point. If it wasn’t safe for dwarves then humans certainly wouldn’t want to venture down there, not that they didn’t. Human friends could come to shows if they were vetted by enough dwarves, kept their mouthes shut, and brought their own safety gear. Crouched figures with oxygen tanks, harnesses, and dusty mohawks weren’t as rare as you would think. Especially when the war started and the king really kicked his religious fervor into high gear.

Strangely enough, none of these venues ever killed or injured their occupants. Future dwarven musical scholars would say that the shows tied into ancient protective ballads that are sung in unnaturally excavated areas, a bit of accidental protection magic, but at the time they just considered themselves lucky.

Music Part 2: Themes In Screams - Classic lunk was angry rebellion music, but it was also very fantastical and tended to veer into a surreal dreamy territory that at times produced echos of ancestral dwarven music. This was purposeful, as the descendants of the Mander Drop dwarves had a lot of culture scrubbed out of them, but they fiercely guarded and celebrated what remained. Lunk also had a kind of fun hopeful romanticism to it once you got through all the verses about beheading the king and pissing down the stump. Besides regicide and bar fights, major classic lunk themes were a mix of gender, identity, and love. Lunk was a perfect medium to explore their heavily repressed femininity and sexuality because as far as the Church was concerned all dwarves were manly men who only touched through punches and dwarven babies came from special chunks of gold and rocky debris found in mines.

Music Part 3: Instrumentals - a lot of scavenging and creative instrument construction went on to make lunk possible. The dwarves were limited to crafting weapons, tools, and armor due to their Role in the Bestiaries, but used their time combing scrap yards and dumps for forge materials to smuggle out other interesting tidbits. Using knowledge gained from discarded manuals and spare parts hidden among mining equipment, a workshop (called the Ironing Board for its red walls and duel purpose as a place that outlaw seamstresses hung out while doing clothes alterations and fittings) was established in an empty side tunnel, and secretive tinkerers would spend their spare time churning out strange stringed things, portable piano adjacent items, and drums that were honestly, Too Much. Some of the better sounding instruments became staples of the genre and were mastered by most players but there were a lot of funky one-offs only used by specific dwarves.

As for singing, Lunk started as a mix of dwarven throat singing, very energetic yelling, seductive crooning, and rare operatic belting. Mostly it’s just Loud. Microphones weren’t a thing and being heard over the instruments meant positioning yourself in the cave for maximum acoustic effect while wearing your lungs out.

Some original music from the time in Luxterra still exist in dwarven museums and private collections. Recorders were retrieved with the rest of the spare parts they hid down in the tunnels, and the ones that weren’t taken apart for instruments were used to record shows. The quality of these recordings is middling to pretty bad, but considering how few of those bands survived the war with all their members, they’re treated like the exquisite treasures they are.

Aesthetic:

Hair- Mostly bald or buzzed short with bangs but short thin mohawks or rat tails were also acceptable. Usually bleached completely golden blond or streaked with blond chunks as a sarcastic nod towards The Bestiaries stance on the dwarven race’s supposed obsession with gold. Besides, bleach was cheap and easy to get. Hats were worn constantly above ground to prevent questions about the styles from nosy humans.

Beards- Styled to hell. Gelled monstrosities that were sometimes bleached and often dusted with mica powder until they resembled shimmery stalactites /stalagmites. Lunk beards are dyed a variety of colors these days, but in the past mica powder was easy to make/steal and a dusty beard was easier to explain away than a rainbow one. Beard style varied, some cut them short and shaved them into easily spikeable strips, some only shaved the chin and wore the rest in two braids laced with found bits of metal and ribbon, and some went with the dwarven classic: letting it grow to ridiculous lengths. It really depended on how closely they were monitored and what they felt they could get away with safely.

Clothes Makeup and Accessories- The goal was to be a visually blasphemous fuck you. Rolism gave dwarves very strict very masculine fashion guidelines that favored rugged disregard for appearance over careful grooming. Makeup and any accessory deemed too feminine was prohibited. Colors were restricted to shades of brown with an occasional splash of white or gold. All jewelry was bits of rough blocky metal with very little detailing. Free dwarves have an androgynous style that flips from feminine to masculine and everything in between depending on cave system and activity but the Lunk style aimed for less gender androgyny and more gender discord. In the beginning dwarves turned up to shows in a mix of their least ruined set of work clothes and whatever super ‘feminine’ items they could get their hands on. This made for some very patchwork looks like heirloom pearl necklaces and gaudy costume jewelry earrings were paired with grungy button ups and ripped jeans. As scavengers got bolder and seamstresses got better they started experimenting with castaway human sized dresses (and the rare ballgown) that were ‘harvested’ by being hacked apart and put back together to make two or three slightly scandalous smaller dresses and taking apart discarded heels to recreate them in dwarf sizes. Patches were made from leftover scraps and either sewn over holes on clothing or embroidered with slogans and symbols to decorate vests, jackets, and bags.

And oh man the underwear.

It’s seems weird to bring up underwear as a sign of rebellion but the church only provided the worst boxer shorts you can imagine and ill fitting ‘undershirts’ used for binding chests too big to be ignored. The first seamstress to reverse engineer a comfortable bra and make underwear that wasn’t constructed of congealed depression was regarded as a goddess. And the great thing about the underwear was that unlike their other clothing which had to be stored in the tunnels 2/7, they could wear them anywhere as long as they made sure everything was covered up and washed them out of sight. That little act of rebellion carried a lot of people through and though great creativity and care was put into all the clothing made underground, underwear were by and large the fanciest and best taken care of items.

Now back to accessories where everything was spikes. the style was meant to mimic the stalactites/stalagmites and jewelry was made with random polished rocks and fabric scraps when actual pieces couldn’t be found. Makeup was little more than getting creative with charcoal for eyeshadow and lipstick (it had to be something that didn’t stain easily and the dregs of old makeup they would find caused enough eye infections and cold sores to be undesirable at best unless you were really willing to risk it for that great pop of color) but eyelashes were more important. Dwarves naturally have long eyelashes but they were ordered to trim them to prevent gender ambiguity so of course this meant that super long false lashes became a big thing. What else were they gonna do with all that beard hair they were shaving off?

Art- Outright rebellion would have meant death for every Mander Drop dwarf, so all Lunk activity was on the down low to a degree that it might as well have not existed to humans not in the know. It was very easy to tell where humans weren’t hearty enough to work though because there was Lunk graffiti everywhere. Most graffiti was chiseled or scratched into available surfaces with re-purposed broken work tools or pocket knives. A lot of it was standard sentient species graffiti, tagging, poetry, declarations of love/hate, badly drawn pornography, puns, calls for regicide, memorials, cryptic messages, well drawn pornography, ect. But there were also a ton of illustrated instructions. Popular clothing patterns in different sizes were etched into the walls of the Ironing Board by seamstresses. Important instrument parts and building shortcuts were sketched out for crafters to reference. Tips for smuggling contraband, finding the best garbage, and lists of which humans were to be trusted (and who was to be ignored if they happened to fall down a mine shaft one day) were also present. A lot of this art was lost in the ensuing escape cave in, but now that dwarven archaeologists are allowed to venture into the mines again much is being found and displayed in Woodland museums.

Tattoos- Tattoos were very important before the flood drove them topside but the church declared the dwarves’ traditional designs blasphemous, going so far as to decree that those that couldn’t be hidden at all times be magically removed. If they really really wanted a tattoo in Luxterra it had to relate to Rolism in some way. This meant that most dwarves did not have tattoos unless coerced into doing so to prevent punishment. So while makeup and drawn designs like the Mander’s Drop (the raindrop and circle worn on the forehead) were frequently used, tattoos weren’t a thing in Lunk culture until after the war. After the war, when they didn’t have to worry about hiding identifying features and they had the freedom to choose what designs they wanted, a lot of dwarves got inked up. Tbh, the result was less desirable than the absolute high of real choice but being able to get their Drops properly tattooed instead of drawing them on in secret every day helped soothe the identity problems some dwarves came out of this mess with.

New Blood - While the Mander Drop dwarves took solace in their music, King Regiis The 28th and head priest Adam III were working on plans to take their forefathers’ conversion of the demonic touched races a step further. It obviously worked for the dwarves, why not send missionaries into the Woods and actively enlarge their congregation? Or failing that, why not kidnap dwarven travelers and stick them with the tamed-I mean pious dwarves until they shape up and join the church? That should work.

It didn’t work.

The new dwarves, upon waking from the heavily drugged sleep brought on by the free food from the previously mentioned missionaries and getting an inside look at this whole Situation give a healthy internal scream and started planning their escape. Their goal was to warn everyone in the Woods that those kind of annoying human missionaries were a vanguard for something much worse and nip this in the bud before it got (more) out of hand.

They kept their distance and didn’t really trust the Mander Drop descendants at first as they assumed that they were brain washed weirdos. They eventually came around after then elder, Thorgold Buckmarble (a common and ‘traditional’ dwarven name from the Bestiaries I swear) was instrumental in making sure the new blood didn’t get murdered by guards for demonic behavior within a week. With her help they were able to gain the other dwarves’ trust and realize that their pious behavior and shows of loyalty to the crown was all an act.

Thorgold was the one who introduced them to the lunk scene, and with her gentle guidance and constant threats to ‘come over there and chuck you idiots down a mine shaft if you don’t cut it out’, everyone was able to get along. Mostly. The newcomers’ insistence on escape and tales of dwarven culture outside of Luxterra intrigued the locals, and as they became more involved with each other lunk started to change from a simple music scene, to a movement.

Spread The word - The Mander Drop dwarves didn’t know any dwarven and the newcomer dwarves only barely spoke Luxterran but both sides were eager to learn. The misunderstanding were making things more difficult than they should be. The exchange had an unintended effect however. The few trusted human acquaintances ended up learning dwarven too. And dwarven turned out to be a pretty good language to be treasonous in. And treason was starting to sound pretty cool for the small population of people who weren’t keen on what was shaping up to be a bloody crusade over a religion that they didn’t really believe. Of course the dwarves and their sympathizers didn’t want all this treason traced back to them, so they created a code to talk trash in and tentatively labeled it Lunk-Speech. This new code language was used for more than light treason though. It was also used for elaborate escape plans and HEAVY treason. With the king growing more paranoid by the day and war becoming more likely, the dwarves used their human comrades to sneak Lunk S.O.S. messages into The Woods. Lunk code was also used to make literature criticizing the king and the church, which made the ranks of sympathizers swell dramatically.

The king did not like this.

He only heard the barest of doubtful whispers. Even with the secret growth of the lunk movement, most humans in Luxterra were sippin’ the same flavor kool aid that he was. He had no real reason to be concerned about a few weird notes but paranoia sure is a thing. The demonic forces had clearly crossed his borders. No more missionary trips. No more acclimation experiments. It’s holy war time.

The Second Jewel Towne Fire - Faking their deaths seemed as good a plan as any. There wasn’t gonna be a search for dead dwarves.

The messages did their job and rescuers in the Woods got to work. The least crushed bits of the abandoned Mander Drop cave system was rediscovered and tunnels were connected to one of the dwarven-only work areas of the smaller royal mine. As soon as the escape route was open the signal was sent to every dwarf. 3 days.

By the time the king got word of the flash fire at the dwarf village, now called Jewel Towne, the flames were a wall of rainbow fury from the metallic dust burning off of the clothes and buildings left behind and the thought that anyone could survive the inferno was laughable at best. Instead they focused their efforts on saving the monastery and other adjacent human buildings.

Meanwhile, the dwarves were making their way through their escape tunnels. Their last act was to detonate their exit.

It had taken three generations, but the Mander Drop dwarves were free again.

Free Agents - So the Mander drop dwarves faked their deaths. Now what? Freedom was amazing but it wasn’t smooth sailing. They never completely fit in with the Woodland dwarves after their ordeal, and while they appreciated the help from the outsiders who freed them, they felt iffy about moves to coerce them into the Woodland army. This led to them being a pretty solitary nomadic tribe. They did their part though. It’s not like they magically stopped hating the king, they just didn’t want to give anyone else a chance to use them. During the war they worked alongside woodland forces as spies, info dealers, assassins, and Luxterra experts. They were a boon for anyone looking to infiltrate enemy ranks, pose as slave traders to free captives, or safely escort refugees. They also served as an early warning system for different communities and provided hand transcribed copies of The Bestiary so that people could hide ‘demonic behavior’ from roving Luxterran forces looking for an excuse to go after them. These blasphemous reproductions included translations for common Luxterran phrases, inventive curses to yell at captors/raiders, beauty tips, song lyrics, and a variety of very raw comix. The info didn’t always work because if someone really wants you to be guilty you’ll always be guilty and many holy raids were just cover ups for land grabs and kidnapping, but they helped a lot and were pretty much how zines in the Woodlands were born.

You would think that trying to stay out of direct combat would mean they were relatively safe, but many Mander Drop dwarves fell during the war. They were most often the first to warn towns of approaching Luxterran forces and last to leave, which meant they got into a lot of skirmishes. They also had a habit of always trying to rescue P.O.W.’s , kicking in the teeth of slave traders, and generally freeing anyone they could from the Rolism colonies (it seems dwarves weren’t the only people that the church had captured and tried to convert). Very touchy on the subject of stealing people those Mander Drop dwarves. Very willing to risk their lives for any opportunity to stomp on a Rolism priest’s nuts.

And besides all that there was the fact that now that they were free, they were very loud and open about their seething hatred of Luxterra. They couldn’t let the enemy forces know that they were their former captives since they were still pretending to be dead (and in fact had stopped using the Mander Drop title in exchange for just calling themselves Lunk dwarves and adopting new names for themselves) , but they spread the tale like wildfire and turned a lot of would be allies against the Luxterra. Most of the groups that were the loudest, most widely spread, and biggest pains in the collective royal ass were led or assisted by Mander Drop dwarves. It was so much of a thing that in the Lunk scene people used bounties and wanted posters like stylish accessories. This of course meant that anyone with a heavily styled beard and a mohawk was enemy number one.

Some Woodland forces pegged this as reckless and suicidal behavior, but they won more than they lost and their work with the goblins who created the Guides saved a lot of people so no one really said nothing to them. Plus Lunk musicians were still making tons of morale boosting music in between missions and were regarded as some of the greatest war bards the Woodlands had ever known. You came to their shows talking smack and you had better have had a good reason or great brawling skills.

End Of The War- Stomping on slave trader necks was fine, but it was the spies that really helped bring an end to the war.

Intel from human allies still living in Luxterra revealed that the king was going to try revive his weird dwarf collection and use them as spies. This would be his downfall however, as it gave a few of the top Mander Drop spies a way to get in there and just mess things up real good.

The ladies who took on this mission were Basaltherick Boulderboar, Thorgold Buckmarble, and Brickarth Dirtraven. They posed as miners who had been trapped by a cave in right before the deadly fire, claiming they’d been wandering the underground for over a year, surviving only on water and mud (which The Bestiaries totally said they could do in hard times). It was almost suspicious how quickly they were believed and offered the job. If there was any Divine meddling going on, it definitely wasn’t for the king’s side.

It takes another year, a lot of sabotaging the hidden camps holding the heavily guarded healer P.O.W.’s that the Luxterran forces had been using the keep their army borderline unkillable, the accidental seduction of the king’s cousin, the death of a brave comrade, a few murders here and there, and getting a real tasty peasant uprising going, but eventually the crown was scooped up off the floor next to the guillotine, dusted off, and placed on the head of King Renn. His two dwarven advisers, Ladies Boulderboar and Dirtraven, stayed in Luxterra for the rest of their lives, and later became peaceful dignitaries. To this day they are still a constant presence in the Luxterran courts in what totally isn’t keeping an eye on on whoever they didn’t kill/get killed the first go round. They are also founders/joint leaders of the less peaceful secret society who totally are making sure that that bullshit never happens again.

Dwarves age amazingly but they both look very young for their respective ages. Just a fun fact.

Also they are still spiking their beards.

Post War - Everyone kind of expected the Lunk scene to die out once the war was over, but changing out a king doesn’t entirely change out the ideas implanted in his people so even today there are still pockets of Rolists causing trouble so in turn there are still Lunk girls carrying on the family tradition of stomping on their nuts. It was eventually revealed that the Mander Drop dwarves had faked their deaths, and negotiations started on declaring their ancestral cave system as dwarven land entirely separate from Luxterra. Today the system is mostly restored and serves as a dwarven historical landmark but few people took up residence there right after the war. They were happy to have access to their home again but the feeling of being in Luxterra borders was just…too much. The majority of the Mander Drop survivors decided to spread their wings a bit and explore the Woodland on quests for insight into free dwarven culture. The bands that were still whole and didn’t hate each other toured wherever folks would have them, picking up new musical skills and spreading the Lunk sound across the land. The fractured bands did similar, banding together or training up new members from other cave systems. Seamstresses used their skills to transform the post war fashion industry into something weird and wonderful (and one has a granddaughter who’s the current talk of the non-human fashion world with her Chainmail Bikini brand). Some of them went into crafting apprenticeships. Some helped rebuild Mander Drop.

Some, maybe more than people talk about when discussing the Woodland’s victory, never recovered from Everything and it’s a shame what happened to the ones who got smothered by all that ugliness. That’s what these things do to people though.

There are worse happy endings than this.

#fashion dwarves #dwarf #small guide #dwarves #lunk

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a-collection-of-villainous-aus · 5 years

Text

Coffee Au pt 2

PART 3 OF THREE

It was the end of the day, Acylius and Demencia wanted to do nothing more than just sink into one of the comfy seats and doze off but work still had to be done.

As Flug was cleaning away mugs and other items he could still taste Black Hat on his tongue, lingering in its flavor the apple of Eden, he wanted to bite again, savor him anew but the demon was not exactly famous for being sweet so no doubt the next would be bitter…right?

“Boy what a day, am I right or am I right tree man!”

Acylius was silent as he looked over at Black Hat’s empty seat, he’d seen him leave, some work emergency no doubt, money had been left on the table but he’d found himself disappointed that the demon wasn’t still there demanding to be served after hours, crazy as the day had been it had actually been surprisingly fun to have him around.

“It is strange... “

“What that he digs you and not me? “

Demencia teased gently nudging him.

“Please be serious for one moment, you will not believe this, but I do feel as if I know him from some other life...there were things today that felt... so familiar.”

Exasperation filling his voice as he walked off to pick up a latte glass that was half full, grumbling they should not order the large if they were not going to drink it all.

“Oh, like what?”

“Well, when we kissed after you suggested he could help...”

Touching his lips as he looked over at the kitchen, whispering

“It did not feel like the first time.”

“Pffft seems I was right he wanted to lip lock and suck your soul right out of your-”

“Demencia, that is enough!” Flug dropped the glass he was holding, it shattered across the floor spilling its cold contents, liquid started seeping through the floorboards, oh dear she realised perhaps she’d pushed a little too far as his eyes lit up and she was dragged forward Darth Vader style only without the throttling . His hand engulfed in cerulean flame, claws extended forward and with a flick she was off her feet hovering, snarling “I am trying to run a coffee shop, not a brothel while we are friends I do not need you interfering with my love life.”

In all her years she’d known Acylius, the lizard girl had never seen such a fire as this burning within him, damn Black Hat must have more of an effect than he was willing to admit, rolling her eyes she responded “You think you could put me down, also you old fart what love life, you’re like fifty and have boned like what …once and that was with someone who was for hire to play as Black Hat, I mean I’ve offered cause who doesn’t wanna climb that tree and sit on your branch, but you were as flustered as a sinner in church.”

(Remember demon so not like human 50 XD )

“Woman…argh!” Acylius tried to keep a straight face, but honestly he could never stay mad at her, a chuckle left him as the demon shook his head and set her down

“You are hopeless.” “Yeah, yeah I know I’m a lost cause, but why is it so hard for you to believe he likes you?” She returned while straightening out her uniform. “Please, I do not think he would find a suitable partner in a barista who tortures people for information on the black market… holy…” Acylius went quiet and blinked looking at Demencia “Is that why the Black market is called that! My alternative profile is in that world...I need a drink ...am I working for him and not…know what no this is too much too soon, I am going downstairs, I am going to drink and torture that man until he is a bloody pile.” Demencia gave him a deadpanned expression in response “One: it is not for you to decide who he wants to bone and two: you seriously only just figured that out, you’re smart but sometimes really dumb.”

Acylius sighed and just walked off hearing her call out after him saying “And what about this!” It was easy to imagine her gesturing towards the spilt coffee “You clean it up, ASSBUTT!” Demencia huffed; she should never have let him watch Supernatural, mocking his sentence in a whiny voice before getting to work and only smiling as she swore she could hear the muffled voice of him saying “I heard that!” Pffft of course he had, demon senses and all, it was no surprise and yes it probably wasn’t wise to try and interfere with her friends love life, especially when it left her to clean up duty instead of getting to play just how long can we make our victim scream.

Picking up the pieces of broken glass she paused looking out the window, wondering up on that high hill where Hat Manor sat, what the old demon was doing now, heh maybe he was even day dreaming of Acylius, that’d be pretty adorable.

Hat manor stood silhouetted, painted on a sea of blue and purple, diamonds scattered over its surface, there was no moon tonight, though this is not what we are here to do though, while the night sky held its beauty the home held its secrets deep under the foundations. Down winding stair cases of stone, walls lined with torches that came alight as Black Hat passed them with bright emerald flames leading to a room, large extravagant, doors locked with spells reacting to his presence, opening out to show the pristine display with a red carpet. Glass cases that remained in a constant polished state appeared liquid with candle light reflecting off their surfaces, to many people these items would be considered odd in the sense they to anyone else held absolutely no value…but to Black Hat they were treasures and when each one was touched he could remember a small moment attached to each and every one of these things… Recalling how his Acylius had taught him to use a barbers blade for shaving, he himself did not grow stubble or the such unless he wanted to and he had suspected the same of his Doctor, who liked to do human things as simple as that.

It was not that he’d allowed Black Hat to shave his face that had made the memory but that he’d trusted him so close to his throat with a blade, it may not have killed him even if he’d wanted it to slit it.

Though that was the thing with anyone else he would have hacked them to pieces and laughed, in that moment he’d slowly brushed the razors edge along his flesh, intently focused on the task at hand, leaving him mesmerized at just how intimate a simple act could be and how it felt to be trusted by him.

The demon had not been down here in some time, that did not mean what was here had lost any meaning, no on the contrary at times being here caused so much pain he could hardly bare it.

Walking slowly through this world of past wonders, there were mannequins in neat rows wearing suits, everyday clothing to swim wear and pyjamas, some clothing items pressed into picture frames, stopping in front of one case in particular a small quirked at the corner of his lips, on a cushion sat an old tattered Bear, blue after some chemical accident when Acylius had been a child or so the doctor had told him. This was kept for more than one reason, one Acylius had loved it dearly and two even as a grown demon he’d found him sometimes napping with the damn thing tucked under his arm, apparently you could never be too old to enjoy a favored gift from the past, claws making soft tapping sounds on the glass.

“What an odd name for a child’s toy…Five o Five…then again there is that silly old bear named Winnie the Pooh…”

He said to himself in passing thought.

Just being here already felt as if a hand had reached in around the void that passed for his heart and was slowly crushing it, glancing over at the beautiful cello he and Flug had played together, the intimacy of creating music on the same instrument so passionately had near rivaled their passion within the sheets…before you wonder yes Black Hat even had their four poster royal Georgian bed perfectly made as the doctor would have wanted it.

Lab equipment that museums would beg to have, first edition books that could very well be the only remaining copies of the texts within some of them…yes he’d saved practically everything, did it perhaps make him obsessed…incapable of letting go, you might think so and yes it probably was the case.

He himself could not forget the way the barista had kissed him, it was a perfect match to the way his Acylius performed such affectionate acts, the same passion a memory so real and tactile rising to the surface and layering perfectly to match the movements of want. Thinking back on this afternoon as he’d sat there sipping his hot chocolate, listening at times to the inane conversation of others and hearing the name of the Café he’d failed to read the name of upon entry in favor of warmth than the cold weather. He stared at one dark oak closet a mannequin stood in there locked away, blood stained clothes, the salt of tears within the collar, even a beast could weep when its heart was broken, shoulders tensing just at the minor scent of iron and acid he adverted his gaze. Could that Barista really be Acylius Flug reborn, the man who’d lay dying in his arms , promising him he’d find him amongst the stars…rambling about artists who place their soul upon the canvas, full of hope and pain, madness full of splendid wonder and final words being of love until there were none. Kisses upon lips that no longer held their warmth as a mournful cry left him whimpering like a child lost in the wilderness of the vast world.

Acylius’s body no more than a limp doll that had lost its light and as with all demonic forms he turned to smoke and ash washed away with a tender breeze littered with embers while all he could do was watch.

Even though he had barely understood what his lovers last message had been, for years he’d sought out painters who favoured the night skies, though none matched the pure emotion of which Flug had spoken until one Starry Night in France just outside the Ravoux Inn he came across such an artist. A rough looking creature really with a missing ear, in fact he’d nearly passed him until this man had grabbed his arm and Black Hat had at first thought him mad until he spoke of a spirit tall and pale, scars and ears not human and eyes so blue no matter the blend of colours he’d tried to use the ever changing hue had been impossible to match.

Up the stairs of that humble place the artist called home he entered, moonlight pouring through an open window, curtains swaying ever so delicately behind the easel sat a canvas not long since painted on, just as promised in thick oil paints of swirling night time wonders, blacks, blues bright shining yellows in a myriad of hues there stood Acylius eyes closed within the heavens.

“I have dreamt about this man yet I do not know what sins I have committed to bring devils and spirits at my door!” Black Hat given him a look before replying “Even Angels it would seem have mercy on a fallen devil.” He’d without second thought left a fortune upon the old bed in the artists room and taken what was rightfully his, news of his death had been reported not but a few days afterwards which even in the demons opinion was a great tragedy.

Now on the wall here it hung still years later, framed in gold with a bench for him to rest upon, other pieces at either side by Flugs hand were portraits and sketches of Black Hat…but this one in the center had been a gift from the beyond , a promise that he was coming back.

That barista had to be him, had to be his Flug; the café was named after a painting no one but he and the painter knew about. Could it be, he’d finally truly found him amongst the stars.

(this is a poor version of the Artists work I was inspired by, especially if you figure out who I was talking about...but as my own work I like it XD)

#coffee au #paperhat #villainous au #villainous #acylius flug #Black hat

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ursoself-satisfying · 5 years

Text

Friends Will Be Friends

they’re so cute ::””))) it's hard to find good gifs that fit this mood in particular lol rip

Roger centric (unrequited), officially John x Reader, sfw

A/N: based on a request!!! first angst piece yikes,,, this was supposed to be fluffy but appearently I cant do fluffy n now its angsty so thats fun,,, kind of a sequel to Thank God It’s Christmas, except now its new years yeet but u rly dont need to read anything beforehand this is an be a stand alone like all my fics theyre inherently connected in the universe in my head but not meant to be read in any order

Warnings: none rly, language ofc, some emotional Rog,,,,, Brian n Fred r like mom n dad for a sec,, unrequited love n angst ;;((((

linking my playlist for my last fic cus it works here too!!! listen here ;;;)))

“Well, I don’t know, really, when we got here I was dragged off by some girls congratulating me,” you took a long sip of the pink champagne, bubbles rising as you threw your head back to finish it before continuing, “I didn’t even know them, actually.” After the drink, this being your- Well, you couldn’t remember but you’d had quite a few and you were starting to feel it. You inhibitions began to escape you, slowly buzzing out your ears like flies. Your senses were still decently sharp but everything was emitting a soft haze. You shook your head and looked at the man beside you with a snort. Roger laughed a bit as you said this, looking down at his bunching pants and smoothing them out then taking a drink of his own still full glass of the same drink. The party behind you was muted through the glass you sat beyond. When you turned to your friend, you could see his reflection in the window, over the bare backs of various guests pressed against the surface. Blinding lights of every color were magnified and you turned away from them after a moment, keeping Roger in your peripheral vision. It was odd but nice that he would sit with you like this. He was a party man yet here he was overlooking the streets and the sky from the chilly balcony with you after rescuing you from a rather unseemly conversation with some giddy female attendants in matching schoolgirl uniforms that barely covered their asses. It occurred to you Roger approached the group with ulterior motivates but in the end he left with you and that warmed you in the bite of the winter outside.

His eyes were caught on you for a moment like knit on velcro and he had to pull himself away as you held out your hand and admired the heavy stone shining on your left ring finger. Anyone could tell it was new to you with the way you fidgeted, spinning around your digits and sliding it up and down whenever you spoke. “It’s kind of funny, in a way,” you started, turning your hand so the metal band would reflect the bright lights from the party behind you, “that so many people found out so quickly and are having such- they’re all being so-” lips flattened into a thin line, you searched for a proper word to describe the situation you were in.

When you couldn’t seem to find an adequate adjective, your friend offered his help. “Jealous? Neurotic? Insufferable?” Roger leaned towards you, scooting closer on the wrought iron bench, one eyebrow raised and a goofy grin. You leaned towards him as well and with a roll of your eyes, hit his arm playfully and shook your head.

Was he wrong though? You blinked and laughed at him, “Be nice!” you scolded, to which the drummer responded with an innocent raise of his open palm and an exaggerated frown. “They’re all excited for me and, don’t get me wrong, I’m excited, too- I’m beyond!” You shrugged your shoulders a bit unsurely, “but- Oh, I don’t know.”

Your gaze was cast down and you sat in silence for a moment, your environment sinking into you. The sights and smells became clear in your pause, filling your nostrils with the traveling scents of burnt sugar and wet soil. Licking your lips before beginning again, you kept up an act, refusing to show any doubts that had seeded themselves in the pit of your stomach. It was easy for you to talk about your love for John, as you truly did love him with all your heart, mind, and soul. Even though you were scared of the change and uncertainty of what this future might bring, you were sure he would comfort you. So you spoke of him to fill in the empty air where you thought your enthusiasm should be, truth in every word but the conversation lacked substance. “He’s wonderful. He’s everything and I couldn’t live without him.” Roger didn’t look at you, or at least you thought he didn’t. It was like he was looking past you like you were there but he could see something more as you continued.

Roger watched you intently when you went silent. He didn’t speak. It looked as though you needed some quiet, or as much quiet as one could get at a trademark Freddie Mercury party. You seemed deep in thought and you looked beautiful in it. Slightly slouching and shivering now and again, you stared aimlessly ahead of you. Fireworks boomed overhead but they didn’t seem to shake you. The only stillness in a mile radius existed around in you right then.

Looking out over the moonlit garden of the mansion, glowing blue and green in the cold night, layers of snow draping the bushes like thick wool blankets and sparkling like the stars that shone brightly above, Roger sighed. It was a gorgeous view, the fireworks over the scene reflecting off all the fresh white flakes gathering in the yard, creating an effect akin to what he imagined people leaving on the Titanic saw. The woman beside him kept up her chatter, going on so sweetly about how in love with her future husband she was and he could practically feel the admiration on his cold exposed skin like lashes batting against him. The hairs on his arm rose when he thought about it, her lashes on his skin, long and soft and accompanied by something else entirely. His unhelpful imagination warped her loving words into whimpers and moans he wished he could hear every night, but every thought was partnered with weighted guilt and he shook them from his mind.

Her words still found their way to his ears like bluebirds in the spring settling on a freshly painted windowsill. “It’s a lot of attention, and I don’t mind the attention, you know that, but he does and I worry about him.” Though she makes jokes, her tone is laced with concern that sends a pang to Roger’s heart.

“You really love him?” He started but interrupted himself, catching himself before he got into a conversation he wasn’t sure he could handle hearing in his over-emotional, half drunken state. “That’s a stupid question, isn’t it?” He looked to you with a smile, though the difficulty of the action was seeping through his teeth like a syrup. With his elbows supporting him as he leaned on his knees, he finished his sparkling drink and chuckled softly. He had inched closer still and now the two of you were touching at the hip. Closeness wasn’t uncommon or uncomfortable given the proximity the band often existed in. You were included in that as often as you’d been with the band in these places, the backstage dressing rooms or clubs and trailers.

The man’s breath hitched when he felt a soft feathery object fall upon his shoulder. It was your head leaning on him, hair nuzzling into the crook of his neck. God, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He held still, still as the marble images around the edge of their view, not wanting you to move, so desperately not wanting to disturb you. He wished- He wished so many things were acceptable to do right then, to do to you, to tell you- “So, uh, where do you think your boyfriend’s gone off to now?”

The words fell out like a cough, rough and unwanted in his throat. He could never grow to hate the man you were to marry. In fact, he probably loved him nearly as much as you did, though in a different way, of course, but it hurt him to see you with someone else, anyone else. It hurt more knowing this feeling had only grown the more you were together and that the only reason you two were ever together was that you were with John. Without John, he never would have met you, but because of John, he would never get to experience you in any way he fantasized. Of course, you didn’t have a monopoly on his mind, it would be unfair of him to claim that as he had other women, other lovers, and girlfriends for long periods of time. You, though, you were always there, both physically and just as a thought in the back of his head.

You interrupted his spacing out when you moved your head off him. He suddenly ached for the contact, both for the warmth and the connection it brought to him. The worst part was the departure of your scents, the soft exotic fruits of your shampoo washed off the pads of his jacket when you sat up to speak. You turned to look up at the pink and orange sparkling fireworks erupting overhead, echoing through the empty vastness of the spacious snow covered green. The snow absorbed the reverb, though, making the ordeal slightly less startling. Roger’s round, sunken eyes were on you as your own eyes traced the path of the falling ashes, still glowing as they rained from above. The sparks landed softly on the ground at your feet and in the light hair of your current companion. He watched as bits put out in your own tousled waves, crowning you with a dirty halo like an angel bringing forth the chaos of a clean slate.

Your growing smile sent another jolt to through the musician’s vessels to his heart. “I imagine he’s probably been given a few too many drinks at this point and has danced himself to the point of passing out and is asleep on a futon somewhere.” The laugh that followed was like music to his ears, like a symphony of love and a bittersweet taste of an unattainable treasure. “It’s exactly what I expected him to do- It’s what we planned actually,” you laughed again, “but I’m just not there with him while he’s doing it.”

Your breathy chuckle died out and you wrapped your arms around yourself with a shiver, the winter around you finally finding it’s way beneath your festive but not protective clothing choices. To be fair, you hadn’t known nor expected to be spending the whole of the New Year’s party outside and open to the forces of nature. Roger nodded as you spoke, still not looking at you. The weight of entering the new year with the unending potential, i.e. expectation, of marriage made you anxiously already and your friend acting so strangely right beside you only made you feel worse. It was a happy holiday, though, for clean starts and letting go and you weren’t about to burden him with these thoughts of yours. He sat back and turned to you slowly, placing a delicate hand on your knee. His soft lips opened to speak when a familiar voice bled through the glass, loud enough to reach over the resounding music still playing, which meant it could only be the host himself.

“Alright, you wonderful people! Midnight is almost upon us so grab yourself a partner! We don’t want to be entering the new year alone, do we?” A crowd roared and booed in response and they all clamored to find someone to hold as they made the journey into January 1st. The two of you looked back at the commotion, then at each other. The space between you was pregnant with things unspoken and uncivil, the child of want and need and lack of better options. Lust and longing brewed on Roger’s end and confusion on yours. Whatever he had wanted to say seemed to slip his mind as your eyes met and for a moment he just looked at you in awe.

There went his heart again, fiddling with his emotions in ways it shouldn’t, hurting as he turned away from you. He checked the time on his watch and it was only minutes until the strike of midnight. He had two choices here and neither was going to absolve him of all his unhappiness, but one had more appeal than the other. Fuck, he thought, was he really this awful of a person? Removing his lingering hand from the woman’s leg, which he was so thankful you so kindly didn’t mention, he stood and looked back at you. Your attention turned to him in his movement and you looked up at him, eyes glimmering in the light of the flashing night sky. He’d imagined looking down at you like this many times, perhaps in a bit of a different situation, but often when he was alone, on tour, in the shower. Here you were, though, tipsy and clearly preoccupied, plagued by second thoughts on your commitment, he assumed, alone with him and you were beautiful. Glowing like the garden you gazed out at, brighter than the moon over the snow and the sprinkling sparkles of celebratory fireworks above your heads. Time was not his friend or it would have allowed him to meet you before his bandmate did. He supposed, though, with great melancholy disdain, that one couldn't change fate and he had determined it must have been fate between you and John. The two of you were perfect. His options at that moment were to give into himself or to not fight fate and he chose-

“C’mon, then, love, you heard the man. It’s almost midnight and you should be spending these first and last minutes with the love of your life. Well,” he winked, “the other love of your life.” His hand was extended to you and you took it graciously, standing up with hurried blinks, the booze you drank earlier rushing to your head. You caught yourself on him as your feet failed to hold you up straight. His arms wrapped around you as you collided with his chest. He swore under his breath, knowing this was God’s punishment for all the tantrums he’d had. His body was warm on your and you hummed at the exchange of heat, killing him a bit more. Roger could barely move, desperately not wanting to let you go but knowing he had to. He pushed you back up and held you so you stood before him. Your deep breath woke you up, the sharp night air fressing in your hot, alcohol coated lungs. You could barely hold your head up to look him in the eye.

The percussionist could see the sudden wave of extremely inconvenient tiredness roll over you and he prepared himself for the contact he craved, knowing it was temporary and for the good of his friends. “Let’s find your hubby-to-be, huh? Get that New Year’s kiss.” He said, scooped you under one arm to guide you into the maze of people that was the party. Upon entering, the man holding you did his best to keep you close, for your safety partially for his own satisfaction. To you, everything began blending together. You simply felt exhausted and you suspected it to be some physical manifestation of emotional fatigue after all the circles you ran around yourself pondering the unnecessary worries of marriage. Fingers that weren’t your dug into your side and you had to catch your breath everytime you felt palms press against your form and embrace you in order to guide you through the mass of excitable horny couples preparing for the bell to toll.

“Roger, what’re you doing, darling?” Fred’s voice came from behind and Roger jumped.

“Fuck, Fred!”

“Roger,” the host said again, unfazed by his reaction and moving to face the pair, ��what are you doing?” His tone was more pointed this time and he crossed his arms, brows furrowed at the sight of his arms around the engaged woman. His fingers tapped against his arm and he blocked you from going any further. Your eyes were half open and vision growing blurry but you could make out Fred’s voice anywhere. You were still awake but you were, in the nicest terms, out of it.

Roger scoffed and rolled his eyes, attempting to push past the singer, lowering his voice to speak into his ear as he passed, “It’s not like that, Fred, I’m finding her John.” Fred lowered his brow still and watch the couple shove through, passing him and heading to the cushioned seats in the center of the room. Fred shook his head, a cocktail of emotions raining over his features. Sympathy, pity, and disapproval all showed through his knowing glance back as he walked away.

The man holding you shook off the accusatory interaction with his bandmate and, reaching the cluster of chairs, spotted the poor bassist slumped against a wall. His fluffy hair was flat against the plaster wall behind him, leaning his head back and looking absolutely unfazed by anything happening around him. Frankly, Roger wasn’t even sure he was awake, eyes barely slits open. Then all the shit hit all the fans all at once, relative to Roger’s priorities.

“One more minute!” Someone yelled, and the bodies around him suddenly starting reacting, moving and jumping as excitement filled the air along with the odors of spilled beer and bodily sweat. Cursing, her gripped your slightly more awake form and shuffled towards where your lover was.

Now more awake than even before your drinks, jostled by the sound immersing you, you pulled back from the blonde holding you. Roger, losing your heat against him, turned back and spoke to you in the form a confused expression, arms raised as a question of why you disconnected. “Be my kiss,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear. You hadn't seen your other half, half awake at the end of the room. The time was ticking down and you were ready to give into booze filled bad ideas instead of overthinking this just as you had everything else tonight. “I don’t even know where John is,” you threw your hands up as you took a step towards Roger, who couldn’t take his eyes off you, “and it’s just you, Rog, he wouldn’t mind.” A smile graced your face with a small laugh, aiming to wash away the awkwardness of the suggestion, though it was meant to be innocent.

Or was it? Roger shuddered as another crack spread through his heart. Truly, this must have been a cruel joke. Kiss you? No, you only suggested it because you saw him as someone non-threatening and there would be no consequences. You saw him as someone you weren’t attracted to, he thought. True or not, that interpretation of your words hurt him, he hurt himself in thinking it. He wanted this so badly, but you and John were not even 20 ft from one another and neither of you saw each other. Maybe fate- No, he thought again, this wasn’t his place and it pained him to turn you down.

Without a word to you, the drummer turned and waved his hand in the air, calling your lover’s name. “John! JOHN!” Your hand was slipped into his in the process and together you made it to wherever it was Roger had seen the quiet man. Your face had lit up upon hearing John’s name and you eagerly followed your guide.

John was pulled from the deep recess of his mind as he stood entranced by the ceiling tiles, assuming you had found friends to party with and he hadn't wanted to intrude. His name was being called by an unmistakenly high pitched voice and he knit his brows, bouncing off the surface behind him to search the bobbing heads of the crowd counting down. A sweatband clad wrist waved excitedly at him and, what do you know, attached to that hand was a certain short-tempered drummer leading behind him-

“[Y/N]!” John called after you. The second he caught you in his sights, it was tunnel vision and he ran in your direction. Roger led you out of the densest mass and gave you a swift friendly swat on the backside as encourage you to meet your fiance. You squeaked, both at the swat and the sight of your lover. When he reached you, he completely engulfed you and you were left with nothing to know besides him. He was everything to do and every anxiety you had was gone at that moment, disappeared in a poof of smoke. Your arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, your face in his hair, smelling the drinks on him and loving every second of it. His large hands spread to shield the small of your back and hold you as close to him as possible.

The countdown began and the hundred of voices throughout the house chanted in unison, “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

John pulled away enough to look at your face and his own was distressed, “I’m sorry I didn’t find you earlier, I assumed you were having a good time elsewhere-”

“I’m always having a better time when I’m with you and it’s fine!” You laughed sympathetically, yelling over the loud countdown, “I got lost in the evening- In everything that was going on, and I-”

“I’m sorry!” He said, smiling weakly. He was so sweet and soft in the colorful lights melting over him.

“Four! Three! Two!”

“Shut up and kiss me-” And your lips collided with his. The clock struck midnight and it was a new year. The cheers around you, throughout the house, were earsplitting and no doubt the neighbors would have complaints, but no one cared. At that moment, everything was wiped clean. There was nothing but new opportunities and potential ahead of them and you finally came to terms with that. It helped to have your future husband caressing you and kissing you with such a passion you thought your lips would go numb. Nothing could have been better than being there in his embrace, you thought, and you mentally thanked Roger for dealing with you, distracting you, and helping you get to this point.

From behind you, Roger looked on with a smile, but as you two remained connected well past 12:01 AM January 1st, he left the scene. He tried to remember he had a woman, albeit one in a difficult relationship with him, and that he shouldn’t be having those thoughts about you at all. There were so many reasons why you were such a contradiction, so right yet so wrong, and it all made him crazier for you. He stepped back out onto the quieter space of the balcony where he’d been with you before. The cold felt like something he deserved. Not being able to stand to watch you exchange hot, open-mouthed kisses with someone else, though he’d never had one from you, was a ridiculous reason to leave his dear friend’s party, he thought. It didn’t stop him from stepping out, though.

The party inside died down as people passed out or left and the sun rose early that morning. Roger watched it, dark bags beneath his eyes a sign of his state. He remained outside, at some point having been given a blanket by a drunken guest immediately before they puked and passed out in said puke. The blanket was clean, thank God, and it was the only thing allowing him to stay where he was so long. The sunrise made him think of you, how bright you were. The birds that rose with the daylight reminded him of the harmony of your voice and the warmth he felt made him think of your body against his in any way possible What it year it was already, he thought, losing himself in inappropriate images of you. It was January 1st and Roger Meddows Taylor had started the year without a kiss and with an aching pain in his chest instead.

BONUS:

Upon finding himself the only one awake so early in the morning and having nothing to do, the lead guitarist instinctively began picking up. Streamers and bodies littered the floor among the confetti, sparkles, the leftover stick of shattered and spilled sugary drinks surrounded by a dangerous array of broken glass that shone with a misleading glimmer of beauty in the midmorning light. The trails of colorful debris had led him to the sliding glass doors of the balcony that open and closed with a low muffled click. Outside, though, was a sight the tall man hadn’t expected to see. His drummer, small and angry, was sound asleep on the bench coddled in a well-loved blanket. Head thrown back and mouth open, drool sliding down his cheek, he looked like a child and somewhere the standing man’s paternal instincts kicked in. Brian sat down beside the snoring blonde and put his arm around him. He was cold to the touch, the thin cover clearly not being enough to trap the heat to keep him comfortable.

His long languid fingers played upon his bandmate’s shoulder until it stirred him from his slumber. He jolted awake with a fearful, high pitched string of swears, frantically looking around until he saw the person beside him then proceeded to swat away any contact that had been made between the two of them. Brian laughed heartily and jumped a bit at the tired man’s reaction. “Fuck are you doing, mate?” Roger said, adjusting his posture and attempting to compose himself. He gingerly pulled the blanket tighter around him and shivered, now realizing how cold he was, as the new sun did very little to warm his aching body.

Looking on with worry in his eyes, though amusement ran through his face, Brian sucked on his teeth as he contemplated what would be the best curse of action in this delicate situation. “Fred told me he saw you with-”

“Oh, don’t start.” A disgusted Roger scoffed and turned towards his friend. Though he would never admit to the emotion behind his voice, the rings of hurt around his eyes made it clear something painful came from his heart.

Brian sat back a little, the cold of the metal bench sneaking through his coat and stinging his back. He understood the space Roger occupied, having once been there himself and it all seemed to work out wonderfully, but this, he admitted, was a bit more complicated. He wasn’t sure if he should say anything, as his friend sniffled and wiped at his nose discreetly. He couldn’t hide his quivering lip, though.

Though he’d pushed him away before. Brian went again to wrap his arm around the drummer, tightly this time so he couldn't be removed, squeezing and rocking him back and forth as a method of comfort. Roger choked back a sob and his eyes wet against his will. He kept face, though, and remained still, staring out upon the bright melting snow of the growing green garden that reminded of so much of her. A rattled inhale preceded a raspy confession, “I love h-”

“You love John,” Brian interrupted, pretending not to hear what the shorted man was about to say, knowing if he let it out he would regret it and he wouldn’t let his friend make that mistake. “He’s one of your best friends and you love him, hm?” Sitting beside him, the curly mop of long dark hairs towered over his companion’s messy blonde wisps. He looked down at him with a stretched smile, but the other avoided making eye contact. “You love,” Brian sighed, “that he has found someone who makes him so happy. Sometimes they mess up, but don’t we all?” Knowing to raise his brows as he spoke, the guitar player gave his childish friend one last squeeze on the arm then rose and looked out over the greenery below with him. “Don’t h-” He trailed off for a moment, then pushed his eyeline down, turning halfway to the still sitting musician. His hand held his chin in thought before he continued, “Don’t make any mistakes you’ll regret.” The response was thought out and he sends the percussionist a message of sympathy and understanding in his lopsided grin and squinted eyes. With a nod, he exited the balcony, leaving one last pat on Roger’s shoulder.

Roger took a moment to consider the ominous advice of his friend. He thought of all people to tell him something nice, it would have been Brian, for whom a situation much like his own actually ended well. He was disappointed in what he’d said. He did love John, like a little brother. Aren’t brothers just awful, though? The chilly air dried out his tongue as he breathed open-mouthed, nose blocked with clear snot that he would deny was ever there. The tears he couldn’t stop though. One by one, silent streaks cleared their way down the sides of his face from his soft blue eyes. “Quite the predicament,” he said softly to himself, biting back any unattractive noises that dared to climb up his throat. He let out a final conclusion in a pained smile and quiet voice, “Fuck.”

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hollandtomholland · 6 years

Text

About Last Night - T.H.

A/N: It’s been a while! This is my offering to @madmadmilk‘s 5K celebration (you can find the masterlist here, there are so many good fics here by some great writers and you should definitely check it out!), based on the prompt “would it kill you to put a shirt on”.

Warnings: Language, drinking

Words: 7K (I’m so sorry if the read more doesn’t work)

Summary: When your ex-roommate Tom suggested a party for old time’s sake you had your hesitations, and now you’re left with a trashed house and no memory of what went on last night. Tom’s strange behavior suggests that you’ve forgotten something big, but he’s not telling; what exactly did you do?

This isn’t your bed.

This isn’t a bed at all.

Your eyes snap open as the realisation hits you, hands gripping the sides of the sun lounger that you appear to have spent the night on. Not only are you not in a bed, you’re not even in a bedroom; you’re outside.

Disorientated, you raise your pounding head to get a better look. Your first thought is a reassuring one – at least you know where you are. The garden you’ve awoken in belongs to your godmother, a wealthy woman who you’ve been housesitting for this past week. This is the first time she’s decided to trust you with the responsibility, and looking around, you realise that it might well be the last.

The lawn is littered with plastic cups, interspersed with the occasional beer bottle glinting in the sunlight. Someone’s t-shirt is strewn across a rose bush, and a lone flip flop floats idly across the vast swimming pool. You’re in a similarly unkempt state yourself, still in last night’s clothes with the taste of stale alcohol on your breath. There’s a fuzzy blackspot where your memories should be, but the evidence speaks for itself. There was a party here last night, and you know exactly who’s idea it was.

Thomas fucking Holland.

You muster up all the strength you have in your hangover-weakened body and stumble to your feet, flinging off the jacket that you don’t remember covering yourself with. It’s one of Tom’s, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air as you scowl at the offending article. “Ohh, I’m gonna kill him” you whisper to yourself, before turning on your heel and marching into the open French doors.

If it were at all possible, the house is in an even worse state than the garden. Empty cans and glasses litter every surface, the bins overflowing onto the floor. You step over a crushed pizza box as you venture through the living room, grateful at least for the lack of partygoers overstaying their welcome. The only person you want to see should be around here somewhere, and you feel a rush of vindictive adrenalin as you finally spot his familiar form sprawled out on the sofa.

He’s fast asleep, one arm tucked behind his head as the other clutches a cushion to his bare chest. His hair is tousled with sleep, the curls artfully messy as a serene smile lights up his face.

Oh, that face.

Even amidst your anger you have to admit that Tom is incredibly lovely to look at, though you’d never admit that to him. He was confident, charismatic, smart, and of course, cheeky, a potent combination that charmed everyone he met – especially the girls. It had worked on you at first, when you’d met him five years ago. You’d answered an ad looking for a roommate, and ended up sharing an apartment with the man himself a week later. Though he seemed too good to be true at first, spending more time with him than anyone else was a good antidote to his charms; people come off their pedestal pretty quickly when you’re intimately familiar with their questionable habits.

What you ended up with, though, was a best friend who was always there for you when you needed him. Feeling under the weather? Tom knew exactly which brand of ice cream could make it all better. Tough day at work? He had your favourite movie queued up before you even stepped through the door. It worked both ways too, with you supporting him through the ups and downs of his career. Living together had come very naturally, and you aren’t afraid to admit that it had been rough when he’d moved out of town three months ago. Even now, you really miss that cheeky smile every time you come home.

What you don’t miss, however, is his infuriating habit of turning your old apartment into a raging party at a moment’s notice. Tom is a deeply sociable guy, which you appreciate, but you never appreciated the industrial cleaning operation the next day. This had been one of your objections when, on being told about your housesitting job, Tom had insisted on throwing a party for old time’s sake. In your hungover haze you’re not sure exactly what compelled you to agree, but then again, Tom always knew how to get you onside.

“Come on, sweetheart, look at this place. It was built for parties, and not throwing one would be a tragic waste of its potential”

Tom glanced at you with a raised eyebrow, undeterred by your disdainful stare. You should’ve known better than to invite him here, of course he’d take one look at the place and have one thing only on his mind. It had been weeks since you’d seen him, though, and all you wanted was a good night in with your best friend. “I’ve already said no, Tom, please stop asking. I was thinking more along the lines of takeout and a movie, but if you have better things to do I won’t force you”

“Oh, darling,” he began, making his way over to you, “I can think of no better way to spend my time than with you. I’ve missed you, you know that, and I can’t help it if I get a little over excited at the prospect of a whole twenty four hours with my best girl!”

Ah, that classic Holland charm. You were used to it, but not fully immune to it even after all this time. He settled on the sofa next to you, fixing you with intense eye contact and an earnest smile. “I just want to make this the best twenty four hours I possibly can. It’ll be just like old times. A few friends, a few drinks, and a lot of good music – trust me, Y/N, it’ll be worth it”

No matter how good the party was – and you really don’t remember – it can’t have been worth the stress this morning was now bringing you.

Tom sighs in his sleep, hugging the cushion tighter to his chest. He looks so serene, so innocent, and you’d almost find it adorable were you not so furious with him. You stride over to him, shaking his shoulder vigorously. “Tom, wake up!”

A sleepy groan escapes from his lips, and he snuggles deeper into the sofa. “No, s’too early” he mumbles, brow furrowing as he turns his head away from you.

“I’m serious, don’t you dare go back to sleep” you hiss, fighting your nausea as you lean over him. His nose wrinkles in annoyance, but he slowly turns to face you with a deep sigh. His eyes blink open to look at you, and the scowl softens into a smile.

“Mornin’, sunshine” he murmurs, gazing sleepily at you. “Sleep well?”

“Don’t you ‘sunshine’ me,” you object, “and I most certainly fucking didn’t. Not having such a great morning either”

His smile drops instantly, a brief flash of surprise crossing his face. “What’s up, darling?”

You narrow your eyes at him, spreading your arms to gesture around the room. “Have you seen the state of this house? This is why I didn’t want your dumb party in the first place”

Tom flinches slightly at your remark, a frown creasing his brow. He props himself up on his elbows to get a better look, but after a quick glance around the room he simply shrugs. “It’s not that bad. Trust me, I’ve seen worse” he says wryly, kicking at a stray can by his feet.

His nonchalance at the situation infuriates you. If this was his house, or even your own, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But your godmother’s house? It’s a different story entirely. She keeps the place immaculate at all times, taking great care in the upkeep of her expensive furniture and manicured gardens. You’ve rarely seen even the tiniest speck of dust anywhere, and so the chaos that confronts you now is more than a little bit distressing. It’s hard to suppress the panic that threatens to bubble up in your chest.

“Not that bad? Tom, this is a nightmare” you fret, glancing up at the clock above the mantelpiece – ten AM. “Jesus fuck, I only have three hours before she gets back!”

In a burst of frantic energy, you begin collecting as much trash as you can possibly carry. “She trusted me and I’ve fucked up, I’ve majorly fucked up”

Trash spills out of your arms as you lean down to pick up a bottle, which only exacerbates your agitation. You’re screwed, you’re so so screwed. “I’m never gonna get it clean in time, she’s gonna kill me!” you exclaim, before a firm hand on your arm stops you in your tracks.

“Alright, Y/N, just hang on a for a moment”

Tom spins you round to face him, placing his hands on your shoulders in a gesture that’s oddly reassuring. His eyes scan your face, a tinge of concern reflected in them. “Look, I get why you’re stressed, and I’m sorry I tried to brush it off, but it’s honestly not that big of a deal. Three hours is plenty of time if we work together, we’ve done it before. It’ll be just like old times”

You roll your eyes, but relax a little under his touch. “Just like old times is what got us into this mess, Tom, so it had better be able to get us out”

“You remember the drill. Two cups of tea, radio on, no panicking. I’ll take the kitchen, you take the living room, and then we’ll tackle the garden together” he says confidently, unintimidated by the sea of trash that surrounds you.

“Okay, I guess that’s doable. I’ll get the kettle on then”

Twenty minutes later you’re getting stuck into the task, armed with a roll of black sacks and cleaning spray. The house may be ten times as big as your old apartment, but your well-honed routine is just as effective as it’s always been. You can’t help but smile as the sound of Tom’s singing floats in from the other room, his voice still slightly raspy from sleep. No matter how big a party is, Tom is always cheery and animated the morning after. His constant positivity is one of the things you like the most about him, and it’s comforting to have it with you right now.

“I meant to ask,” you call, “how come nobody stayed over?”

It had been strange, waking up to find the place near deserted. Usually you get at least a handful of hangers on the morning after, but this time it seems that everyone has cleared out. Tom pokes his head out of the kitchen, cup of tea in hand. “I sent them all home last night, after you fell asleep”

“How late was that?”

“Around one am, maybe?” he says, taking a sip from his mug.

One am? That’s pretty early by Tom’s standards. His parties were known to go on until sunrise, though you rarely made it to that point. It seems strange that he’d called it a night so prematurely, especially since he’d been so keen for the party in the first place. “Really? You didn’t want to keep things going?” you ask, and he shrugs nonchalantly.

“Not really. Didn’t really feel like it once you were out for the count”

He ducks back into the kitchen after that comment, putting an end to your line of questioning. You’re left staring at the doorway for a moment, thinking it over. No way would the Tom you’d lived with end a party just because you’d called it a night, so what’s different now? Is there something he’s not telling you? Still, it doesn’t seem like he’s willing to elaborate any further, so you return to your cleaning duties in silence.

A full half hour later, Tom emerges from the kitchen. He steps into the living room with a wide grin on his face, surveying the now immaculate space. “See, I told you we could do it. Looks like you’re feeling better too” he remarks, straightening the coffee table with a nudge of his foot before flopping down onto the sofa.

“Much better. Not looking forward to tackling the garden though. Any idea how to clean a pool?”

He laughs, glancing out of the French doors and then back at you. “Not at all, but we’ll improvise”

There’s a pause as he holds eye contact for a moment, his expression unreadable. You barely have time to work it out before he glances downwards, turning his face away from you. “Must admit, I was a little worried about you earlier” he says, fiddling with the tasselled edge of a cushion. “I hate seeing you like that”

The confident, cheeky Tom you know so well is suddenly replaced by a quieter, more sensitive version that you haven’t seen in a long time. It’s the same Tom that used to come out when you were ill or having a rough day, but never stuck around for very long. He rarely opens up or gets emotional unless he’s really pushed, and you can’t remember a time when he’s been upfront about his feelings. He’s the type to brush things off with casual humour, never getting down to the heart of a matter. You’ve learned not to press him any further than he’s willing to go himself, and so his sudden change of tone is an unexpected opportunity to dig deeper.

“Seeing me like what?”

“Stressed. Angry at yourself. Blaming yourself” he says, running a hand through his hair. He’s still facing away from you, and you’re certain it’s deliberate – it’s almost as if looking at you would be too much for him. You decide to act casual and busy yourself by dusting the mantelpiece, hoping to stretch this moment out for as long as possible.

“Looking after this place is a big deal, I think it was a pretty normal reaction to waking up and finding it trashed” you reply, your back turned to him. You’re testing him, seeing how far he’s willing to take this sudden vulnerability. Out of the corner of your eye you see him snap round to face you, one hand gripping the armrest.

“But it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?” he insists, a pleading edge creeping into his voice. This is truly bothering him, you realise, though you’re not quite sure why.

“I mean, it was my fault for agreeing to the party when I knew this would happen” you tell him, risking a glance over your shoulder. His gaze is fixed onto you, his eyes dark and intense. Genuine concern is written all over his face, but it’s gone the second your eyes meet his.

“Psshh, no way am I letting you take the credit for this!” he smirks, and suddenly confident Tom is back in control. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, reclining with his hands behind his head. “That party was my success, full credit is mine”

“Well take some responsibility for the aftermath of your ‘success’ and help me clear the garden” you shoot back, gesturing for him to follow you outside.

He offers you a sarcastic salute and a mumbled “Yes sir”, before getting to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. He’s standing directly in a sunbeam, and the muscles on his chest and arms are neatly defined in the soft light.

Ohh, that’s a weird thing for you to notice.

But clearly he’s been working out a lot lately, and you have to admit that he’s looking incredibly good standing there, all tanned and muscular and…

Yep, very weird.

Come on, Y/N. Who cares if he’s working out or not, you’re not supposed to notice things like that about your best friend. Still, it’s more of a distraction than you’d like it to be. You push the unwelcome thoughts deep down and glance at him over your shoulder, trying to fix your gaze on his face rather than the region below it. “And would it kill you to put a shirt on?” you sigh, tucking a roll of black sacks under your arm before stepping outside. “No one needs to see… all of that”.

The eyeroll you follow it with is probably overkill, but if it is Tom doesn’t catch on. “Please, you love it really” he smirks, following close behind. “Besides, my shirt is currently awol”

“Why did you take it off?” you ask, handing him a black sack and getting straight to work.

“I didn’t, darling” he says casually, with a sideways glance. “You did”

You freeze. Is Tom really suggesting that you… no, he’s definitely messing with you, that would never happen. Still, last night is little more than a few hazy images in your mind, and the hangover suggests that you had a few too many so… Oh god, what exactly have you forgotten?

He’s watching you patiently, one eyebrow raised as he studies your reaction. His calmness hopefully means that whatever you did wasn’t too bad, so you flash him a smile and get stuck in to cleaning up. “Good one, Tom” you scoff, “But I highly doubt that.”

“Do you not… hang on, do you actually remember last night?” he asks.

“Not really. I remember agreeing to the party, and there’s a few flashes of something here and there, but it’s pretty much a blackspot”

Tom stares at you for a moment, the same unreadable expression from earlier on his face. “That explains a lot” he mumbles, before returning to throwing trash in his sack.

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d just forgotten you were so much of a lightweight” he teases.

“Yeah, very funny. So where is your shirt, exactly?”

“Like I told you, darling, I wasn’t the one who took it off.”

This is a blackspot you really need to remember. “You’re gonna need to remind me what happened, Tom, cause I’m super confused right now. You’re telling me I took your shirt off? Why would I do that?”

“You were begging me to come swimming with you, and I guess you were trying to get me ready. It was kinda funny, watching you trying to undo all those buttons whilst barely managing to stay upright” he laughs, pitching an empty can at your head. You catch it skilfully, tossing it into your sack and eyeing him warily.

“Jesus, how much did I have to drink last night?”

“More than you usually do. You were all like ‘ohh, Tom, pleeeease,” he mimics, swaying comically. “Come swiiiim with me!”

“Come on, Tom! I wanna go swimming!” you coo, gripping the sides of his open shirt with both hands. The ground is spinning beneath your feet, and you stumble a little as you struggle to remain standing. Tom catches you, though. Of course he does. He’s so reliable, isn’t he? And so sturdy. Yes, you think, patting his bare chest, sturdy is the right word. His body is firm under your touch, and you smile to yourself as you lean into him.

“I really don’t think swimming is a good idea, sweetheart. Not in your state, anyway” he says, walking you backwards and away from the pool’s edge.

“But it’ll be so much fun! Let’s get this off you, can’t go swimming in your clothes Tommy boy!” you exclaim, before pushing the garment over his shoulders and flinging it away from you. There’s a rustle as it lands in a hedge a few metres away, but you’re not interested in that. “See? Now we can go!”

“No, you’re not going swimming” he says firmly, still moving you backwards. “You’re gonna sit down over here, okay”

The backs of your calves hit the edge of a sun lounger, and he gently manoeuvres you into a sitting position. His hands rest on your shoulders, warmth seeping through your clothes to your skin. You blink up at him, his face blurring at the edges. If you really focus, you can see the gentle smile on his lips as he gazes down at you, those deep brown eyes like pools of molten chocolate. He looks so good in moonlight, doesn’t he? He looks good all the time.

One hand comes up to brush some hair out of your face, tucking it neatly behind your ear. It feels good to have him so close, so reassuring. His hand lingers on your cheek, his touch both unfamiliar and yet incredibly natural…

The sound of glass hitting concrete snaps you back into the present, and you struggle to repress the heat currently rushing to your cheeks. Tom nods towards the empty glass by your feet, which you must’ve kicked over. “I went to get you some water but in the two minutes I was gone, you’d managed to fall asleep”

So that explains your unconventional sleeping arrangements. Still, the fact that Tom seems to be avoiding your eyes tells you that there’s definitely something more to the story. “Why didn’t you make me go to bed? I’m damn lucky it didn’t rain last night”

“You looked so peaceful, it seemed a shame to wake you. And I made sure I was nearby anyway, in case you needed anything” he explains, pushing himself to feet.

You’d just assumed that he’d passed out on the sofa by accident; it hadn’t occurred to you that it was a calculated choice. Tom had chosen to forgo the lavish guest room in order to keep an eye on you, sacrificing his comfort for your benefit. “Oh. Thanks” you mumble, as he wanders away from you to continue clearing up. Again, it seems that he’s done talking.

The two of you resume your routine in silence, filling up sack after sack with party debris. You’re examining the pool situation when a shout from the side of the garden gets your attention, and you look up to see Tom waving his shirt above his head. “Found it!” he calls, jogging over to meet you. “Still want me to cover up… all this?”

“Do what you want” you reply, ignoring him as runs his hands over his bare chest with a suggestive grin.

“As you wish” he beams. With a flick of his wrist he drapes his shirt over a lawn chair, before beginning to unbutton his jeans.

“Whoa whoa whoa, what do you think you’re doing?” you gasp.

Tom doesn’t bat an eyelid, pushing his jeans over his hips and down to the ground. “In the absence of a pool skimmer, darling, the only way to get the trash out of the pool is to get in it myself” he says, kicking his clothing to one side. You can’t argue with his logic, but still – the sight of him standing before you, hands on his hips, in only his underwear is a little alarming. He’d walked around the flat like this many times when you’d lived together, and you’d forgotten how brazen he could be. He had nothing to be ashamed about, certainly.

“Okay, I guess that’s a good idea” you affirm, trying to look anywhere else but at him.

“You stand here and grab the things I throw out, we’ll be done in no time” he says, before diving headlong into the pool. He emerges from the water seconds later, posing like a model in a men’s cologne ad. His hair is dripping wet, and he pushes it back from his forehead with one hand. “Let’s get to work!” he chuckles, before tossing a crumpled plastic cup in your direction.

The chore quickly becomes a game, with you forming a moving target for Tom to hit as you dash around the poolside. When you’re having this much fun, it’s easy to forget just how stressed you were earlier. Tom’s always been good at getting you out of your own head, and by this point you’re more curious than mad about last night.

“What did you mean earlier,” you begin, as Tom climbs out of the pool, “When you said you didn’t really feel like continuing the party after I feel asleep?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was our party, and you needed some rest, and… I don’t know” he says noncommittally, shaking the water out of his hair.

“But you’ve never cared about that stuff before. Why let me ruin your fun this time?”

“You didn’t ruin my fun” he grimaces, glancing sideways at you. His tone has an edge to it, and you’re surprised at how quickly his defences have gone up. “Maybe I was tired too”

“Were you?”

“It doesn’t…”

He stops himself, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. “Do you really not remember anything from last night” he asks, which only confirms the fact that you’ve definitely forgotten something big.

“Is there something I should remember?” you shoot back.

He stares at you in silence, his brow creased in a frown. There’s an intensity to his gaze that speaks of hope, searching your face for something he’s clearly not finding. He glances down at the floor, breaking the tension you hadn’t realised had built up between you. “No. I’m gonna go upstairs and get changed, okay” he says, his voice measured but tinged with despondency. “I’ll check the bedrooms while I’m up there, but I think we’re done”

He walks away with his shirt slung over his shoulder, and you watch as he steps inside the house and out of view.

God, you wish you could remember last night.

Maybe then you’d know why Tom was behaving so strangely. Come on, think. Could you have said or done something to piss him off? You wander over to the sun loungers, hoping that a specific location will help rejog your memory like it did earlier. It’s hard seeing Tom so bothered about something. He’s always so blasé about his feelings, the only time you ever see him like this is when he’s wallowing over a girl.

She has her hand on his arm, leg pressed against his as she laughs at something he’s said. He’s not that funny, you think bitterly, watching as she throws her head back in hysterics. You’ve seen girls draping themselves over him in this fashion many a time, but for some reason this particular one is making you very uncomfortable.

It’s probably just because you’re not used to it happening here, you tell yourself. You’re not used to random girls invading a place you used to play in as a child and throwing themselves at your best friend. What’s her name, anyway? You don’t remember.

Around you, the party is in full swing. Friends and strangers alike fill the house and spill out onto the patio, clearly enjoying themselves a lot more than you are. It’s hard to have fun when all you can think about is how difficult it is to get red wine stains out of a cream carpet.

Maybe you’d loosen up a little bit if you upped your alcohol intake, you think, regarding the empty wine glass in your hand. Right on cue, a guy you vaguely know passes by, wielding a bottle of prosecco above his head. You’re certain it’s one from your godmother’s secret stash, but at this point you’d rather not think about it. “Top up?” he asks, and you nod as as he fills your glass with the sparkling liquid.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the girl running a hand through Tom’s curls. You look back at prosecco guy with a grim smile. “Keep it coming”.

Girl problems – of course.

Clearly you’d done something embarrassing to scare her off, and that’s why he’s mad at you. She’d probably seen you taking his shirt off and left in disgust, and he ended the party because he didn’t see the point without her.

Still, that memory has left you with a sense of something very uncomfortable that you can’t shake. The image of her draped over his lap doesn’t sit well with you, just like it didn’t last night. What’s with you today? If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that little pang of discomfort in your chest is the product of jealousy.

Which of course is a ridiculous idea.

Why would you be jealous of a random girl? Tom doesn’t belong to you. He’s just your ex-roommate, and your best friend, a guy who you know better than anyone and who you’ve really, really missed lately…

Ohh, fuck.

Jealousy it is then.

It’s certainly not a good feeling, and it’s not one you’re prepared to experience. You wrap your arms around yourself as you consider the situation, suddenly rather cold despite the midday sun.

Then again, you think, it’s not like the signs weren’t there. You’ve been thinking about him a lot lately, but you’d just thought it was because after five years of living with him, it’s hard not seeing him all the time. It seemed natural to miss him, and you know what they say about absence and the heart… but maybe you’ve grown a little fonder than you’ve let yourself realise.

When Tom had suggested a house party instead of a quiet evening in, you’d thought your main objection was the inevitable mess you’d be left with. You know now that you were wrong. The idea of the house being filled with other people wasn’t one you liked, because all you’d wanted was to be alone with Tom. And when that girl had cosied up to him, it hurt. You’d turned to prosecco rather than face up to the emotional turmoil you’d rather not experience.

Well, you were certainly experiencing it now.

But that doesn’t matter. Whatever you’re feeling – and you’re certainly not giving it a name – it’s overshadowed by the fact that you messed up an opportunity for Tom last night. As his best friend first and foremost, it’s your duty to put his feelings above yours and make the situation right. After all, you’ve managed to get over him before. Like every other girl you’d fallen head over heels for him the first time you met, but you’d been able to move past that and settle for ‘just friends’; why fuck things up now by going backwards?

Composing yourself, you step inside the house and sit on the sofa to await Tom’s return. A few minutes later you hear his footsteps on the stairs, and look over to see him enter the room. He’s finally wearing a shirt, albeit unbuttoned, and he smiles when he notices you.

That wonderful, heart stopping smile.

No, none of that. Play it cool.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says with a grin, “But I used your hairdryer to blow dry my boxers”. He wiggles his hips in a little dance, winking at you over his shoulder. “Nice and warm”.

“Oh, lovely” you nod, reassured to see that his usual cheekiness has returned.

He dances his way into the kitchen, calling out “Cup of tea?” as he disappears from view.

“I’d love one, thanks”.

You let a few seconds pass as you think about your next move. The last thing you want is to leave things on a weird note, regardless of your feelings, so you’d best make things right before he goes home.

“I can call her for you, if you’d like” you begin, although the very idea isn’t one you enjoy.

“Call who?” he replies, leaning out of the kitchen to frown at you. “What are you on about?”

“The girl from last night. The one you were getting all cosy with”

You expect more of a reaction from him than the eyebrow raise you get.

“Why would I want you to do that?”

“To make things right with her. Isn’t that why you’re mad at me? Cause I fucked things up between the two of you?” you continue, which only seems to confuse him further.

“You didn’t… look, there’s nothing going on between me and her, she’s just a friend of a friend who gets a little too touchy-feely sometimes. And I’m not… I’m not mad at you, okay”

He ducks back into the kitchen, but seconds later he’s back again. There’s a curious smile on his face, his head cocked to one side. “Out of everything that happened last night the only thing you can remember is the two minutes I spent being touched up by a random girl. It really bothered you, didn’t it?”

“Not really. I just happened to be passing through, that’s all. Didn’t pay it too much attention” you shrug, picking at a bit of fluff on your jeans.

“No no no, don’t give me that”.

He takes a few steps into the living room, watching you with a strange fascination. “Everything else is gone but that still stuck in your mind. It mattered to you”.

“Why should I care who you get ‘touched up’ by?” you grimace, hoping he’ll give up this line of questioning before you give yourself away. “How’s that tea coming along”.

“Kettle’s not boiled yet” he says, without looking. “Come on, Y/N, think. If you can remember that much, you can remember everything else”.

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, before glancing back into the kitchen. “Just think, okay” he says softly, before heading back into the kitchen.

So you were wrong. It’s not the girl, and he’s not mad at you… which makes sense, come to think of it. When you woke him up, he seemed so happy to see you until he realised you were mad at him. With that in mind, it can’t have been something you did that’s troubling him – it’s the fact that you’ve forgotten what you did.

You get up and wander over to the French doors, trying to piece together everything you remember from last night. You agreed to the party, a whole bunch of people arrived, a girl got cosy with Tom, you got jealous, you drank a lot. Everything seems to be in place so far. It’s a little hazy after that, but then you grabbed Tom by the pool, tried to take him swimming, he sat you down on a sun lounger and brushed your hair behind your ear and…

His hand lingers on your cheek, his touch both unfamiliar and yet incredibly natural. God, you’ve missed him. You’ve missed the way he smiles at you in the morning, and the way he says goodnight. You’ve missed the sound of his voice as he sings in the shower, and the way he wrinkles up his nose when you mention you’ve heard him. You’ve missed borrowing his hoodies for warmth when the boiler’s on the fritz, and the scent of his cologne surrounding you like a blanket. You’ve missed how he crawls into your bed on a Sunday morning to watch TV, all warm and sleepy and husky voiced…

You’ve missed him so, so much.

And now here he is. You can barely focus on anything else, but right now you see him so clearly. He’s gazing down at you with a look in his eye that speaks of affection and wistfulness, his fingertips gently brushing against your skin.

You wonder if he looked at that girl this way.

“She’s probably waiting for you inside” you mumble, moving your head down to shake off his hand.

“Who’s waiting for me?” he asks, moving to sit beside you on the sun lounger.

“That girl. The one with the pretty smile and the perfect hair”

He seems to find this funny somehow, chuckling gently to himself. “The only girl here who fits that description is you, darling” he says softly, nudging his shoulder against yours.

You shake your head insistently, gesturing vaguely towards the house. “Not me, her. You’re just saying that”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean”.

You scuff your shoe along the ground, feeling his gaze even when you’re not looking at him. Are his eyes always this intense? They’re beautiful, you think. Everything about him is beautiful.

“Wouldn’t you be happier inside with her, than looking after me?” you suggest, tilting your chin to look at him. You can feel his warmth next to you, his bare skin brushing against your arm.

“Not at all. Like I said earlier, I can think of no better way to spend my time than with you”

You feel yourself swaying a little and lean into Tom for support. “Then why did you invite all these people?” you groan, resting your head against his shoulder. He’s so close to you, so close you can hear his heartbeat if you focus hard enough.

His arm slips around your back and pulls you into his side, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. “I kinda wish I hadn’t now, sweetheart”.

Me too, Tom, you think. But what comes out is a slurred, “I’ve really fucking missed you”.

“I’ve missed you too” he says, before adding “More than you know”

More than you know?

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” you mumble against his skin. It might just be the prosecco fog in your brain, but something here feels different. Tom feels different. He feels good, certainly, but different. Good different. Tell-me-more-different. I could sit here all night, different.

“I don’t know whether I should say. And if I do, I’m not certain you’ll remember in in the morning” He says, his lips brushing against your hair as he speaks. The sensation sends a pleasant shiver up your spine.

“I definitely will. You can tell me anything, we’re friends”

You feel his chest rise and fall as he sighs again, one hand absent-mindedly rubbing circles on your waist. “That’s just the problem, love. I don’t think I can be friends with you anymore”

You push against his chest, sitting up to get a better look at him. “That’s mean!” you scowl, sliding yourself further down the sun lounger and crossing your arms over your chest. Tom doesn’t want to be your friend? Maybe you don’t want to be his either. Well no. You do.

No you don’t. Not friends, anyway.

Fuck, you feel weird.

Does the earth always spin this fast?

“Oh Y/N, come here” he chuckles, gently pulling you back towards him and taking your hands in his. “Look at me, darling. I didn’t mean it like that”.

He’s looking at you with that searching gaze again, those beautiful eyes fixed onto yours.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you to have a party, but the thought of being alone with you all evening, snuggled up on the sofa just like old times… it was too much”

“Too much?”

“Actually, no” he sighs, softly stroking the backs of your hands with his thumbs. “It’s not enough”.

Not enough.

The world around you is blurry, the noise from the party nothing more than a faint hum in the back of your mind. All you can hear is Tom’s voice, all you can see is his face as he gazes down at you with such… such… what is it?

You remember that look so well, suddenly. It’s ingrained on your mind, so vivid it’s almost as if he’s in front of you now. You can hear him humming to himself as he makes the tea, and you realise how patient he’s been considering the enormity of what you’ve forgotten. The happiness when he woke up to you, the confusion when you were mad at him, the moments of tentative emotion… it all makes sense.

You know exactly what happened last night.

“That’s what I meant when I said I can’t be your friend. Friends isn’t enough anymore. I realised it the first morning in my new place, when I woke up wishing you were there” he continues, his voice gentle and earnest.

There’s a pause as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s building up to something, you realise, but he doesn’t seem nervous. He seems hopeful. His gaze drops for a moment, before returning to meet yours again with a renewed intensity.

How could you have forgotten this?

“Tom?” you call, trying to keep your voice measured. “I remember”.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, before he slowly emerges from the kitchen. He’s watching you warily, his eyes scanning your face as he tries to glean how you’re feeling. He wasn’t nervous last night, but he certainly is now. “How much?”

“All of it”

“I love you, Y/N” he breathes, his eyes bright and sparkling in the moonlight. “You don’t have to say anything, and it doesn’t matter if you don’t feel the same way, but there it is. I love you”.

He’s so pleased he’s finally said it.

And so are you.

Of course, you’d rather you could see straight, and it would probably sound better if your words weren’t slurred, but:

“I love you too”

His lips curve into a relieved smile, cheeks flushed red. “You know, if you weren’t so drunk right now this would be the perfect time to kiss you”

He takes a few steps towards you, swallowing hard. “And?”

“And I’m not drunk anymore”

His face lights up with his trademark smile as he gets your meaning. He closes the gap between the two of you, pulling you into him with a hand on your lower back. The other hand comes up to gently cup your face, fingertips brushing across your cheek as he looks at you the same way he did last night – with love.

And love is exactly what you feel as his lips meet yours, gentle at first as the pair of you savour the moment. The passion soon increases as his kisses become more insistent, your hands tangled in his hair and his chest flush against yours. He’s kissing you with all the pent up emotion from the past three months, the I love you’s and I miss you’s that he’s been dying to say conveyed in the movement of his lips.

Just friends could never be enough, but this?

This is perfect.

#madmadsummer #Tom Holland #tom holland oneshot #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic #file under my stuff #long post

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els-writes · 5 years

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Out of the Crevice - Godless Snippet

My first proper Godless snippet! This is a new story in the Lesser Verse (set after Shoreless, though I shan’t say how long...). I feel weird tagging people from the Shoreless tag list since it’s not the same work, so, um, if you want to be tagged for this anyway or want to be added to the tag list, please let me know! ^^

The light was blinding, streaming down between the rooftops and catching sharply on every surface that dared to give the slightest reflection. Tears stung at Cal’s eyes, and he had to shift to the side of the bustling street the path brought him out on. Rubbing at his eyes, he tried to let them adjust to the lit world. The buildings were built from stone, like the ones underground, but they were far larger, taller, grander. After the greyness of the crevice, the bright white, red, pink stones that made up walls was dizzying. With windows of glass that caught the sun’s rays and brilliant, luscious plants climbing up the tall surfaces. The streets were made of cobbled stone, flatter portions giving way to carriages and carts, whilst raised paths along the sides were kept for pedestrians. Between the paths and the carriageways, narrows channels of water ran along.

Once his eyes grew accustomed to the blinding light, Cal allowed himself to start wandering. He was grateful for the first sign he came across – tall and wooden, with words carved into the arrowed heads. It pointed the way to the central hall, to the market, and to the seafront. It was the latter that Cal let his feet lead him too. The ocean. Water. Rivers and oceans didn’t exist in the Crevice, but up here there were entire oceans waiting.

The streets of Vercord twisted and curved in illogical patterns, forcing Cal to pass strange flamboyant statues and huge outdoor restaurants. It was miles away from the straight, simple paths of the Crevice that took someone from A to B. If Cal had been the type to get straight to the point, traversing Vercord would have sent him crazy with frustration. As it was, the detours were welcome. He paused by a wide-open square, watching a group of travellers performing a beautiful dance, accompanied by music that Cal actually had to strain to hear as it was lost in the open sky and the cheering crowds. He was stopped in his tracks by leaves fluttering down from the sky, scooped from the climbing plants by teasing gusts of wind. An ice seller convinced him to linger and taste the crushed ice – straight from the Bloody Mountains, he claimed – and it was cool and wonderful on Cal’s tongue, the sweetener lingering behind even once it had melted.

He had to curb future distractions after that, however, noting the time as he stood in the shadow of a stretching clock tower, and he hurried along on his way – still following signs to the seafront. He wanted to see it before he looked for the meeting point.

The beach his mother had spoken about was nowhere to be seen however, and the length of the seafront was made up of a maze of docks. The boats and ships that bobbed in the water made it practically impossible to see anything more of the sea than the few waves that lapped against the sides of boats. It was crowded too, filled with sailors moving about, goods being loaded or unloaded from ships, tourists moving through asking captains for trips back and forth. Cal dodged between bodies, wandering further down the docks, his eyes set on the horizon he so desperately needed to see. It was right there, beyond one more ship’s mast, when he heard them.

“Sinking next trip, right? Sorry, buddy. Wasting your time polishing the bow. Go find yourself a girl for your last night instead.”

The sailor beamed as he polished the blinding white wood of his prow. Hemmingfish it was called, the name of the vessel. He was young. Barely older than Cal. Cal felt the rising bile in his throat. Another death. Another person to feel sorry for…

And he stepped off the dock.

His foot failed to land, his body starting to tilt, and Cal couldn’t even gasp before he was falling towards the vast ocean he’d desperately wanted to see.

“Bastard!”

A metal grip clamped around his arm, hauling him backwards the second his shoe touched the water’s surface. The docks returning to him, Cal finally gasped as he stumbled, feet on something solid once again.

“Watch where you’re going, idiot!” the man who’d caught him spat.

The hand around Cal’s bicep was still tight, lined with thick badly-healed scars that criss-crossed across his knuckles and fingers.

Catching Cal’s gaze, the man snatched his hand back. “Get off the damned docks.” With that, he turned and jumped down into a small sailboat tethered nearby. The name on its side was a badly painted word: Leaving.

Casting one last look at the horizon, the sight of the shimmering ocean felt soured now. Cal’s foot was wet and cold, and there was a sailor behind him who was polishing away the last day of his life. Cal shivered against the wind and moved back into the city.

#godless #wip #fantasy #writeblr #writing #ellenwrites #cal is the best okay #hes a puppy #also this is a shorter snippet than i expceted #godless lets me describe a lot more vividly than shoreless ever did #but thats mostly because of the person and its cal's nature

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13tth · 6 years

Text

on the gold wall

Pairing: Reddie

Summary: Eddie realizes too late that teen rebellion in Derry isn’t climbing to the roof of a record shop stacked with empty apartments. It’s falling in love with boys and holding them in the dark.

idk why i wrote this or why i stayed up until 3am because i couldn’t sleep without finishing it. it’s bad, whatever, enjoy.

Read on AO3

“it’s kinda nice up here isn’t it?”

Eddie’s stomach contracts for the hundredth time that night, hands clutching desperately at the concrete ledge of the building. His lips press into a thin line before he’s blinking fast, gaze shifting to the vacant street below.

They seem higher up now that Eddie can see the asphalt. He can trace the faint glow of the neon sign displayed in the window on the first floor and notices that the rest of the three floors on top of that have no sign of lights at all. The heels of his sneakers scrape rough against the brick of the building’s surface, and the act brings his stuttering lungs to life again. He reminds himself idiotically that this is what teen rebellion looks like. “If by ‘nice’ you mean gross, seriously. For somewhere without a lot of human interference there sure is a lot of chewed gum stuck to, like, everything.”

Richie’s once startlingly serene expression turns joyful as he stifles a scoff, squeezing his eyes shut in what seems like faux frustration. “Somewhere without a lot of Human interference? Who says I don’t bring all my stunning romantic conquests up here, huh?”

Eddie’s cheeks flush at the mention of Richie’s probably made-up love life for— whatever reason. He plays along though, shifting his body to cross his legs up on the ledge. He faces Richie then, leaning back on incredulous hands. “What girl would make out with you on the roof of a million-year-old building?”

“I don’t know, what’s Sonia Kaspbrak up to these days? I’ve heard she’s searching for a shockingly handsome bad boy, young, but legal. With a heee-yuge—”

Eddie lands a solid punch on Richie’s right bicep, digging irritated knuckles into the fabric of his shirtsleeve, just to drive in the point. Eddie’s voice wavers with a smile that betrays him. “Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

“Ouch c’mon, Eds!” Richie pretends to be wounded, wailing and flailing like a fallen video game character. He calms and says: “You know I think her son is cuter. Always have. It’s the fresher genes, you know.”

Eddie rolls his eyes on the outside and prays that the hitch in his inhale wasn’t as noticeable to Richie as it was to him. His thoughts sometimes wander in moments like this, until he gets lost in this view of Richie, almost swallowed up by the pride in his dark eyes after he’s told a joke or said something he thought was particularly funny. Eddie kind of wants to see what would happen if he brushed the hair out from under the lenses of Richie’s glasses. Eddie kind of wants to see if Richie’s jaw feels as rough and jagged as it looks.

But he won’t. He settles for,

“Don’t call me that, dipshit,” Eddie’s voice is warm regardless, like that of a too-familiar friend. His voice, to Richie, portrays unwavering trust. His voice, to Richie, portrays: ‘You’re a shithead. But you’re mine. And I trust you.’ “Why’d you bring me up here, Rich?”

“The stars,” Richie says as if he’d just remembered the sky existed. He points beyond the buildings across the street to the mass of black above. “I’ve figured out that this is the second clearest stargazing spot in Derry.”

Eddie shifts back into a normal sitting position, swinging his legs back over the ledge. He scoots closer to Richie until their thighs are touching from hip to knee. Eddie’s voice drops to almost a whisper with the proximity. “Where’s the first?”

Richie drinks in the closeness, almost having to restrain his own hand from resting inappropriately against the dip of Eddie’s waist, or the sharp jut of his knee. He stares down at Eddie instead, watching his wide eyes follow the length of Richie’s own finger to try to piece together shapes and tell their fables. “Mike’s,” Richie admits, and it’s enough because they’ve seen it. They’ve laid on the lush green fields of Mike’s land— all of them— in a pile, making new constellations and giggling over the vastness of imagination. And of course, the vastness of space. Be it personal or outer.

Eddie had no idea what he was getting himself into when he’d shown up to the record shop early that evening. All he knew is that he had to be there at 6 sharp, and if he wasn’t, there would be zero repercussions. Except that Richie would be hurt.

What Eddie didn’t know was the feeling of a shot in the heart and the dripping of blood.

It was so unusual to see Richie so entirely in his element, talking the ears off of customers who’d been dumb enough to ask for music recommendations, strutting around to the beat of a song Eddie is one hundred percent sure he’s heard on every tape Richie’s ever given him. It was the most disgustingly beautiful thing Eddie’s ever seen.

What Eddie did know is that Richie was made and meant for this stuff. What Eddie suddenly knew is that whatever feelings he’d recently started to feel for Richie, had finally— then and there— begun to rip him open from the inside out.

“I’m trying to stop smoking,” Richie admits, and his voice is the softest Eddie has ever heard it. So soft it rips him from his reverie, chews him up, and spits him out into the reality of a messy boy with broken glasses and warm skin. “That’s what all the gum’s from.”

“Why?” Eddie’s head snaps upward almost too quickly, his confused expression catching them both a little off guard. Their legs still lay plastered together though, the overwhelming closeness becoming familiar. They find that if the other moved, the moment would be ruined, or worse, reprimanded. “I mean that’s good. I’m glad.”

“I want this to be our place,” Richie says, clear as day. His eyes fix directly on Eddie’s, seemingly searching for judgment. His eyes, to Eddie, shine with defense. Like this statement alone fueled the baring of Richie’s soul.

“Richie–”

“Just for us. Eds,” Richie insists, nodding solemnly and sharply. He nods like it’s for himself first, and whoever happened to be watching, second. His body twists to face Eddie this time, making sure to catch his widening eyes. “We have places with the others, you know, where we can all exist together. But I want this to be our place, and I want you to, like, feel comfortable.”

Eddie soon realizes that this is not a change of subject, this is an explanation. This is the answer to the ‘why’s and the ‘what’s. Richie doesn’t want him to be bothered by the smoke. Eddie very immediately wants to reach forward and hold as much of Richie as he can. He wants to rub the fatigue from his eyes with the tips of his index fingers and graze his lips with the pads of his thumbs. He wants to thank the stars for Richie’s freckles that Eddie thinks came from the press of gaseous fingertips against the bridge of his nose, their flares reaching out to thank Richie for paying attention. Eddie wants to fall and fall and fall into this boy and suffocate in him. “Okay.”

“Okay?” They’re closer than ever now and Richie feels the tiny puffs of air coming out of Eddie’s mouth. His lips are parted only slightly, but his eyes are open fully. He lets himself touch Eddie’s hip, the tension doubling in agonizing pressure with the added point of contact.

“Richie…” Eddie’s eyes flutter shut, his voice amplifying to the degree of warning. His hands clamp together too, and using the most strength Eddie can muster he keeps them on his own lap for a few more seconds. His voice drops back to normal, then even gentler when Richie places a scorching hand, too big and too hot against Eddie’s cheek. “Richie.”

Eddie realizes too late that teen rebellion in Derry isn’t climbing to the roof of a record shop stacked with empty apartments. It’s falling in love with boys and holding them in the dark.

“Kiss me, Eddie.”

The words hit Eddie like the broken surface of a frozen pond. He’s so shocked, so absolutely gobsmacked at the mention of his name– his actual name– that he leans forward and he does what he’s told.

Their mouths fit together messily at first, like the first kiss between two lovers kept apart for too long. It lasts two seconds, then melts to five, as they fall into their own rhythm. Eddie feels the crash of ocean waves and the sting of fire when Richie kisses him back, his lips tasting like watermelon gum and some hint of Richie that Eddie could drown in.

The kiss lasts a couple more seconds before they’re pulling apart breathless and almost dizzyingly drunk on the feeling that had been missing for so long.

“Looks like you’re the girl I made out with on the roof of a million-year-old building,” The real Richie returns as rapidly as he’d left, locks of hair still tangled with his eyelashes, heart beating a little harder.

This time Eddie does reach up, brushing the few strands of hair back from under Richie’s glasses, being careful to set them back down in the same position on the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, go gush to your diary about it.”

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it stephen king #my stuff #writing #gas me up tbh

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tinylilemrys · 7 years

Text

The Gift of Choice (2/4)

Read it on AO3

Rating: T || Pairing: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

Summary: Neither Alec nor Magnus is particularly thrilled at the discovery of their soul marks. Alec because he knows that the design of it means that his soulmate is a Downworlder, something practically unheard of in Shadowhunter society. For Magnus, the idea of being permanently attached to a joyless demon-killer is hardly a thrill. Given that they can choose if they accept their soulmate or not, the decision seems like a no-brainer.

But when Alec finally meets the beautiful, other-worldly Magnus and Magnus meets the gorgeous, self-sacrificing Alec, it becomes clear that the decision might not be as easy as they thought it would be.

CHAPTERS: ONE || THREE

CHAPTER TWO

Alec doesn’t want to get out of bed.

It’s not that he’s particularly tired or comfortable or any combination of the two. It’s dread. His mother sent him a fire message last night telling him that she would be returning from Idris and Alec could practically feel the anger and disappointment bleeding through the neatly written words on the charred parchment. All of their stupid, careless adventures are about to catch up with them and Alec doesn’t know if he has the energy or the strength to face it.

Not after the summoning ritual. Not after the horror of revealing to Jace that he’s the person Alec loves most in this world. Not with Magnus Bane’s wicked flirting and shy smile playing over and over in his mind on repeat, interspersed here and there with his gentle reassurance.

‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Alec.’

His mark has been glowing gold since that night and as much as Alec tries to tell himself that it doesn’t mean anything, the memory of the light pouring from the tear on Magnus’ knee, the way it danced across his face, catching stray flecks of glitter and sparkling off of his jewellery, the way the warm light made the Warlock’s dark eyes blaze with barely contained fire… he knows that there’s more to it than just coincidence. If Alec and Magnus faced each other, his mark would mirror the Warlock’s exactly, he’s certain of it.

The thought is both elating and terrifying.

He’s spared gathering the motivation to get up by voices further down the corridor.

Clary and Jace.

Nothing good ever comes of conversations between Clary and Jace.

He readjusts the bandage around his right knee, making sure that every spec of light is dampened before swinging his legs off of the bed. The bandages are a lot more restrictive than his knee support, but with his support in the laundry, this will have to do. It’s far better than anyone catching a glimpse of his mark anyway.

As he nears Clary’s room and their words become clearer, Alec’s bad feeling about their conversation worsens. He catches the words ‘Mortal Cup’ and ‘my mother’ and that’s enough to tell him that this is going to be another conversation that leads Jace to stupid decisions. And that’s something that, with his parents on their way, he simply couldn’t afford.

He sometimes hates how good he is at predicting outcomes.

Clary is worked up because she caught a glimpse of Valentine and her unconscious mother through the portal shard she’s been wearing since she arrived. And it only gets worse the more Alec hears. The fact that Valentine can speak to her through it and that he knows Clary’s name sends a sharp chill up his spine, like the unexpected touch of cold metal.

He doesn’t think he’s being unreasonable when, a few moments later, he asks Clary if she can remember anything useful, or that there’s anything wrong with the serious and no-nonsense tone he uses as he does, but Jace tells him to lighten up all the same. Of course he does – Alec forgets that he’s not allowed to speak Clary in anything but gentle soothing tones because she’s a delicate flower that might break if confronted the least bit with what a liability she is.

“I’m trying to get something useful we can use out of this,” he tells Jace. It’s still difficult to look him in the eye. “Clary, what did you see exactly?”

“Valentine has my mother,” she practically snarls. “That’s what I saw.”

By the angel! This girl.

“Emotions are nothing but a distraction. You’re ruled by them. We’re taught to control them.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Her words hit him like a slap. He knows that he hasn’t been able to separate his emotions from his judgement. That’s how he messed up the summoning ritual. That’s how he had nearly killed Jace.

“It is my job to protect the institute. If Valentine can see in, that’s a door I have to shut.” Alec hears the anger seeping into his words and fights to keep it under control. He reaches out a hand and in a more even tone says, “Now, let me take a look at that thing.”

He’s riled himself up enough to actually look at Jace now and as their eyes lock, Alec dares him not to give him the necklace. To Alec’s surprise, after a hesitant glance at Clary, Jace drops the weighty pendant into Alec’s outstretched palm.

“Now it’s in the proper hands,” he says, striding out of the room as he ignores their protests.

Alec is sick of taking stupid risks. He’s sick of screwing around with things that shouldn’t be screwed around with. He’s sick of defying Clave orders. He’s sick of everything revolving around Clary Fray-Fairchild-Morgenstern whatever.

He feels Clary’s furious eyes burn into the back of his neck as he places the portal shard in the safe, but Alec doesn’t care. He knows that he’s doing the right thing and if Jace and Clary don’t agree, it’s their problem, not his. He’s supposed to be the responsible one and he’s the one who will have to take the flack if anything goes wrong. Their idealistic plan to use the shard to rescue Clary’s mom is naïve and dangerous and there’s no way he’s going to let it happen.

With this latest crisis averted, Alec heads for the library. He needs to speak to Hodge. He needs to prepare for his parents’ arrival.

And, more than anything, he needs to stop thinking about Magnus Bane.

***

Magnus thought that having his space to himself again would take the edge off of the chaos of the past few days, but the sudden quiet of his apartment only gives him more time to think. And thinking, at least when it’s about Alec, is dangerous, because thinking about Alec leads Magnus to think about his phone where Alec’s sister, Isabelle, had typed in Alec’s number with a wicked wink.

He’s decided that he and Isabelle are going to become very good friends.

Still, calling Alec would likely lead to… more (if his imagination got its way in any case) and Magnus isn’t sure he’s ready for that.

He should be making preparations – after all, Valentine is rallying an army to hunt down his kind at this very moment – but as those thoughts fill him with an icy terror, it becomes far easier to sit on his balcony with a drink in his hand, allowing his mind to wander to thoughts of Alec.

His new view is breathtaking. The crafted structure and impressive scale of the Brooklyn Bridge and the vast skyline behind it fill Magnus with an overwhelming sense of being part of something far bigger than he’ll ever understand, and there’s a softness to the hazy blue sky and white sunlight skittering across the surface of the river that cuts through the harshness of the imposing infrastructure. Even this reminds him of Alec: tall (god, so tall), beautiful, poised, structured, reliable and unbending. And beneath it all, buried so deeply within him that Magnus is sure Alec doesn’t want anyone to know about it, is the blazing light that Magnus finds so impossible resist.

He knows that he’s playing with fire and, though he doesn’t relish the idea, he fully understands that he might burn.

With the appearance of the soul mark, part of the lure of getting back Camille’s necklace from the Shadowhunters was the idea that it might remind him of how stupid relationships are. How they’re dangerous. How they change you too much in too short a span of time. Magnus promised himself he would never let that happen again and for almost a hundred years he’s kept his word. Faced with this new choice, he thought that holding onto Camille’s necklace again might remind him of the pain that, destiny or not, he was sure he wasn’t strong enough to go through again.

But he gave it away mere hours after having it back in his grasp, and though he had given it as payment for the Shadowhunters’ help in saving the lives of his Warlock kin, he has to admit that the idea that Isabelle Lightwood now wears a necklace that detects demon activity is a comforting one because it might help keep Alec safe.

So much for that reminder, then.

Magnus’ eyes dart to his phone for what must be the hundredth time that morning and he finds that he’s no longer able to resist the temptation. At least calling Alec will stop him daydreaming about Alec for a while. At the very least it will give him new things to think about him later.

He’s about to press the call button when he realises how quiet his apartment is. The last thing he wants is for Alec to think that he’s been sitting around all day doing nothing except debating whether or not to call (as true as that might be). He needs music, and he spends a good few minutes trying to find something that will help show Alec his impeccable taste, but that doesn’t make it look like he’s trying too hard. It’s a very fine line. Finally settling on something by Bach, he presses the call button as the sounds of a harpsichord and soaring violin fill his living room, his wildly beating heart adding an impromptu percussion line while he waits anxiously for Alec to answer.

He’s just told himself off for smoothing back his hair (he can’t see you, Magnus, get a grip) when the dialling tone disappears and is replaced with an almost exasperated, “Hello. Who is this?”

“Alexander, hi. It’s Magnus. We met the other day, you know, with the demon?”

In a sudden panic, Magnus realises that he hasn’t thought as far as what he’s actually calling Alec about.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, hey, what’s up?”

In the end, it’s the sound of Alec’s voice – gravelly, serious, but with a faint friendliness to it that makes Magnus think that he might be pleased to hear from him after all – that helps him make up his mind.

“I was just thinking it was really nice getting to know you. You seem…”

Like you might be my soulmate, his mind unhelpfully supplies.

“…sympathetic,” he finishes, though he’s not entirely sure this is better. He realises suddenly that he’s holding a book that he doesn’t even remember picking up. God, how nervous was he? Making his way over to his bookcase, he decides that while he has adrenaline on his side, he might as well throw all caution to the wind and asks, “Would you like to out for a drink sometime?”

Alec hesitates for a moment and for two agonising, heart-stopping seconds Magnus wonders why he’s like this. Why he keeps following his impulses instead of playing the long game.

“That sounds fun,” Alec replies after an eternity and Magnus’ heart kicks back to life at twice the speed. “Um, when?”

“How about right now?”

The thought of seeing Alec again, of being alone with him long enough to have a proper conversation, fills Magnus with such an impossible excitement that it’s difficult to imagine that just days ago, he was dead set against the idea of dating a Shadowhunter.

“Um,” he begins and something in his tone tells Magnus that the drinks won’t be happening. “You know now’s not really a good time for me. Another time. Gotta go.”

After which Alec promptly hangs up.

Magnus looks at his phone in momentary confusion. While the abruptness of end of the call is throwing him slightly, his hope is stirred by the fact that Alec didn’t say ‘no’, just ‘not now’.

“Playing hard to get?” he mutters to himself, deciding not to give into the petty fear clawing at the edges of his mind. “I love a challenge.”

And now that it’s a challenge, Magnus knows there’s no turning back. He’s invested.

For the first time in almost a century, Magnus is breaking his rules.

***

If he hadn’t sworn to Jace that he would protect her, Alec would have let Clary go. She’s a grown woman, clearly capable of, and indeed insistent on, making her own decisions, even if they are awful. She shouldn’t need a babysitter watching her like a hawk every minute of every day. But because he has sworn to Jace that he would protect her, Alec is following her down the streets of New York, desperate for a glimpse of her ridiculous ginger head, wondering bitterly how this ever became his life.

His heart is racing and he doesn’t know if it’s the running after Clary, the fact that she managed to escape in the first place, or just leftover panic and surprise from the call from Magnus he hasn’t had time to process yet. Though it had all happened so fast and was cut short by the sudden disappearance of Clary, the facts were that Magnus had definitely called him, said it was ‘nice getting to know him’ and had invited him out for a drink. Alec has never been asked out before and the fact that it was by the gorgeous High Warlock of Brooklyn (even though Alec has no idea why because he’s sure he sounded like a complete idiot over the phone) fills him with a giddy pride he didn’t think that he was capable of feeling.

He had ended the call on autopilot, more worried about the sudden lack of a certain annoying redhead than choosing his words carefully, and he cringes at how surly and annoyed he must have sounded. Alec knows that guys like Magnus don’t wait around for long and so is pretty certain that he’s fucked up the possibility of being asked out a second time, soul marks or not.

Does he even want to be asked out again? Isn’t the thought of his family discovering this connection to the Downworld his worst fear?

A phone rings, tearing him from his thoughts and he catches a glimpse of a glamoured Clary desperately fumbling in her bag while Mundanes around her check their pockets in confusion.

He decides to pre-absolve himself of her inevitable death. If she gets herself killed, it’s her own damn fault, and in all honesty, it would be doing him a favour. He really doesn’t have the energy to deal with her bullshit today.

“Why’d you run out?” he asks as he nears her, enjoying her start of surprise. “And what’s the point of an Invisibility Rune if you don’t silence your phone? It was childish, sneaking out like that.”

Predictably, she ignores him in favour of answering her phone.

“Simon, hey,” she says, stepping away from Alec, and Alec rolls his eyes. While Simon doesn’t annoy him as much as Clary does, it’s a very close thing.

Alec makes a point to stand right next to her as she talks, hoping that the knowledge that he’s eavesdropping on their conversation will make her cut the call short. Clary, of course, doesn’t subscribe to this way of thinking and the longer her conversation with the Mundane continues, the more he hates where it’s going. All he wants is to get back to the Institute where he knows that for the most part, he can keep Clary from causing any more trouble.

He doesn’t appreciate her throwing a hand up to tell him to wait when he tries to hurry their conversation along, and when he hears Simon’s voice on the other line excitedly announce that he’ll be joining them he really doesn’t appreciate the idea of having to make sure that he keeps not only Clary but also the Mundy alive.

She’s far more stubborn than he is, though, and he supposes that’s half the problem. It’s certainly the reason he’s been going along with Jace’s stupid ideas for years. And while Alec knows he folds too easily, he reasons that if they don’t go past Clary’s old apartment, he’ll never hear the end of it and she’ll just find another way to escape him.

“Why do you always look so miserable?” she asks completely out of the blue in that biting tone that makes Alec’s blood boil.

“I don’t,” he says. The scowl on his face is probably not helping his argument.

“You do,” Clary retorts. “I mean, it must be hard being in love with Jace when he’s straight and everything.”

Alec feels his blood freeze in his veins. Was it that obvious? Did it show on his face that easily?

“Excuse me? What?” He’s trying for indignation, but from the look on Clary’s face, she’s not convinced.

“What’s the big deal?” she asks as if she’s surprised that Alec is offended by her asking. “I was there when that memory came out. Busted, no?”

Even though he’s been threatening to since she slipped away from him at the Institute, promise to Jace or not, Alec decides he’s going to leave her right here. He’s going to just walk away, with no explanation and let whatever happens happen.

“We’re Parabatai.”

“Come on, Alec, just say it. You’ll feel better. You’re in love with Jace.”

There’s something in the earnest way she’s looking up at him now that makes Alec think that maybe she’s not trying to be smug. Maybe in her own careless way she thinks that she’s actually helping. That she’s being kind. It both disarms him and annoys him twice as much.

“Forget it,” he snipes back, wanting nothing more than for this conversation to be over. “You’re in love with Jace.”

“Oh okay, the middle school comeback? Nice,” she says sarcastically and he rolls his eyes for what must be the millionth time that day. “Alec we have a real problem to solve, okay? Come with me.”

Jesus fuck – as if she wasn’t the one bringing up all the Jace shit in the first place.

He’s proved right (as always) when the ‘Real Problem’ and Clary’s ‘Solution’ to the ‘Real Problem’ end with her and her Mundane friend being kidnapped and he’s too worried out of his mind to even enjoy it.

After what felt like a lifetime of being subjected to their nauseating friendship up close (including one truly revolting story about their childhood engagement), putting up with them living out their teenage mystery novel fantasies, leaving them in Clary’s old room to go off and investigate a suspicious sound and telling the two of them in no uncertain terms to stay put, Alec watches as a several men shove her and the mundane, handcuffed, into the back of a car leaving Alec behind, furious and terrified.

What the hell is he supposed to tell Jace?

He pulls out his phone and briefly considers calling him, but the thought of the furious words that Jace might throw at him because of his carelessness stops him. It’s not the fact that they’ll be said in a biting tone, or even that Jace will be the one saying them. It’s the fact that they’d be right; Alec had let him down.

And he would have to sit with those words ringing in his ears until Jace arrived.

Knowing how much Jace hates typing on his phone, Alec decides to text him, figuring that at least this way there was a chance that he would choose not to respond. He agonises over the wording, not wanting to sound too apologetic (this was all Clary’s fault after all), but wanting Jace to see that he is at least in part contrite.

J – Emergency. Clary snuck out of institute. Pls get here soon. At her old apartment now. Sorry. – A

He leaves the part about her being kidnapped out of it. The words ‘emergency’ and ‘Clary’ right next to each other will get Jace’s attention enough – there’s no need to have him arrive all guns blazing. Satisfied with his message, he hits send and waits.

After several unsuccessful attempts at tracking Clary using a scarf he finds in her messenger bag, Alec paces up and down Clary’s hollowed-out apartment, heart hammering. He wonders how he’s going to survive this. If Isabelle arrives with Jace it might not be so bad, she might soften the blows of Jace’s words, but he knows that she’s not going to be impressed with him either.

And for what? It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying to protect them. If it was up to him they wouldn’t have been there in the first place. If she hadn’t snuck out while he was distracted by his call with Magnus…

Magnus.

He’s dialling before he even realises what he’s doing.

“Alexander.” Magnus’ elegant voice purrs through the tinny speaker of his phone and Alec wonders for a second how he does it. How he makes even talking on the phone sound beautiful. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your conversation? Are you perchance calling to rescheduling our date?”

God, so he didn’t fuck it all up and Magnus even used the word ‘date’. Struggling to focus, Alec takes a deep breath.

“Hey, Magnus. Um, I’m not sure why I called you or if you’re even… I mean I know that you do, just you normally need payment and I don’t know what you charge and I really need –“

Words are falling out of his mouth quicker than he can process them, tripping him up and rendering him an inarticulate mess.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright, lovely, just calm down,” says Magnus soothingly. “Now, I’m struggling to understand what you’re saying. Are you asking for my help with something?”

“Yeah,” says Alec, slightly disarmed by Magnus’ use of ‘lovely’. “Uh, I um… well earlier when we, you know, when you called me…”

Why is it always so difficult to talk to him?

“Alexander, I might be going out on a limb here, but this doesn’t perhaps have anything to do with a confusing mark you’ve got above your knee, is it?”

Alec’s heart stops.

There’s no way he’d seen it that night, right?

“How do you know about my mark?”

“Just an educated guess based on the evidence I have,” Magnus replies and he can almost hear the shrug in his voice. “That is what you’re calling about, right?”

“Um, no, actually. Clary’s missing. She snuck out of the institute to find something in her old apartment and she’s been taken by… I don’t know, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Do you have any idea who might have taken her? Any Downworlder groups that might specifically be out to get her? They pushed her into the back of a black sedan.”

“Almost half the Downworlders want her as bargaining power in case the Clave is unsuccessful in stopping Valentine. Barring Vampires as they wouldn’t be out in the daylight, I honestly have no idea,” says Magnus, his tone suddenly deathly serious. “Have you tried tracking her with your rune? Do you have something of hers nearby?”

“I’ve got a scarf of hers from her bag that I’m trying to use, but it’s not working. I don’t think… Jace is the better tracker. I mostly just help. Parabatais.”

“I see,” says Magnus. “Alexander, do you trust me enough to try something new?”

“Yes,” Alec replies with a swiftness and certainty that takes even him by surprise. “What did you have in mind?”

“Alright, firstly, I need you to make sure you’re sitting down.”

Alec obediently makes his way over to the fire-damaged bed and sits tentatively on the least charred patch he can find, confirming with Magnus once he’s done so.

“Wonderful. Now, I need you to use your Stele to trace the tracking rune again. Once you’ve done that, hold the scarf against your chest while you place your other hand over your mark.”

Soul Magic. That’s what Magnus is planning on doing. Suddenly his mother’s voice is ringing in his ears. ‘Yes, mixing angelic power with magic would be unpredictable and dangerous, but there’s nothing to fear, Alec. It’s just a story after all. None of it’s real.’

It feels pretty real now.

“Magnus, I don’t know if I can do this,” he says.

“You’re in complete control here, Alexander,” says Magnus. “I know that this kind of magic can be intimidating if you’ve never encountered it. Hell, even I’m terrified right now, so if you’re unsure, we can stop.”

Alec takes a moment to breathe, and thinks about Jace, thinks about how relieved he’ll be if Alec can tell him where Clary is before he gets here.

“Will it help us find her?” he asks.

“This is the most powerful tracking ritual I know of.”

“And is it safe?” He feels like a child for even asking.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Magnus replies gently.

Alec distrusts everyone he first meets, as a rule, so he has no idea why Magnus is the exception. He supposes, cynically, that sharing a soul bond might take care of more than a few of the initial misgivings.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Alec makes his decision.

“The tracking rune, you say?” he says, switching his phone to speaker and removing his Stele from his belt. The ritual is the strangest that Alec has ever carried out and though he knows that no one is watching him, he feels self-conscious as he sits with the scarf pressed to his chest and a palm firmly pressed over his soul mark.

“Ready?” asks Magnus.

“As I’ll ever be,” Alec replies.

“I’ll be right beside you all the way, Alexander,” says Magnus.

“What does that even mean?”

“You’ll see.”

It’s incredibly disorientating. One minute he’s sitting on the burned bed in Clary’s room, and the next he’s standing in a swirling mass of colour, almost as if he were portalling in slow motion, and just as he becomes convinced that it can’t get any weirder, he realises that Magnus is beside him. When Alec reaches out to feel if he’s really there, his fingers are met with solid matter. With Magnus less than a foot away, Alec suddenly feels like he can take on anything. As if as long as Magnus is here, he’s invincible.

At the look of pleasant surprise on Alec’s face, Magnus smiles and reaches out a hand for Alec to take and as Alec grasps it, he becomes fascinated and slightly disturbed at how, despite there being a definite pressure as if someone is holding his hand. It isn’t warm to the touch. In fact, all the detailed sensations that Alec would assume came with the act of hand-holding are missing, as if Magnus is somehow with him and not with him at the same time. Like a shadow somehow come to life.

What there is, however, is a faint hum of electricity – the same electricity he felt when he first walked by Magnus. It’s less like the sharp, jarring jolts he feels when he and Jace accidentally touch, and more like a constant current flowing through both of them, drawing them irresistibly closer together. It’s magic, he’s sure of it, and though he knows that thought should terrify him more, Alec can’t remember feeling anything more lovely.

“Alexander, listen to me. You need to keep hold of my hand and think about Clary,” says Magnus. “Whatever you do, don’t let go until we’re certain we’ve found her.”

Alec looks down to see his ringed thumb tracing circles just below his knuckles and marvels how, though he can see the slight indentation of his skin where Magnus’ thumb is trailing over it, he can only feel the ghost of a sensation there. The whole situation is far more terrifying and unfamiliar than any other Alec has ever faced and almost as if Magnus senses this, his next words are a gentle encouragement.

“You have no need to worry. I’ll be with you the whole time, and even if I wasn’t, you’re far braver than you give yourself credit for, Alexander Lightwood. Now, are you ready?”

With one last deep intake of breath, Alec nods and at his cue, Magnus begins swirling magic in his free hand.

It suddenly feels as if the two of them are being thrown headfirst into a whirlpool. Visions of the city race before their eyes as if they were running through it at unimaginable speeds, speeds surely not physically possible by humans. The colours are wrong too. Purple buildings, red cabs and blue people rush past them allowing Alec and Magnus only the most fleeting of impressions. Above them, the sky is vivid green. It’s different and beautiful and thrilling and Alec can’t get enough of it.

Best of all, Alec is sharing it with Magnus, whose normally expertly styled hair is being pushed back by the powerful slipstream and who is beaming at him despite the onslaught of the wind.

And then, just as it feels like they’re about to find what they’re looking for, just as they’re so close that they can almost see the flaming red of Clary’s hair, they run headlong into something invisible, something solid and impenetrable. Without warning, they’re thrown violently back and Alec grasps at the air, desperate for an anchor of some kind, but his efforts are rewarded with nothing but fistfuls of wind. Alec knows he’s about to hit the ground when the swirls of colour begin to vanish, taking with them the unfamiliar, yet comforting pressure of Magnus’ hand in his.

A moment later, with a jolt, Alec is back in Clary’s old apartment, clutching her scarf in a white fist, sweat pouring down his face and drenching his shirt.

“What just happened?” asks Alec, panting with the exertion of the ritual. “I thought you said we could find her.”

“She must be over water,” says Magnus, his voice sounding just as weak over the phone. “It’s the only explanation. This ritual is powerful, Alexander, but even so there are certain laws of the universe that can’t be overcome.”

“So what, it would never have worked?” Alec can feel the panic rising like bile in his throat. He had broken one of the most sacred unwritten laws of the Clave, that of never mixing angelic power with Downworlder magic, and it hadn’t even worked. He had nothing to show for his complete disregard for everything his family believed in, everything his mother and father had taught him. “That’s… that’s just perfect, Magnus, really just fucking amazing. Thanks so much for mentioning that.”

He can’t bite back on the sarcasm that pours into every syllable and knows he must sound like a petulant child, but he can’t help it. He’s furious, but not with Clary or Simon or Jace or even Magnus.

He’s mostly furious with himself.

“You know just as well as I do that it’s impossible to track over water,” says Magnus, his tone suddenly icy and dangerous. “And I would also remind you, Shadowhunter, that it was you who called me for help.”

“Yeah?” says Alec, venom climbing into his throat and poisoning his words. In savage frustration, he picks up his phone from the bed next to him. “My mistake.”

He hangs up before Magnus can say anything, angrily throwing his phone onto the ruined bed and scrubs a hand down his face. That’s it. There’s nothing he can do now to fix this except wait for Jace to show up.

To add insult to the injury, when Alec looks down at his legs, he notices that pinpricks of white light (witchlight) from his mark are shining through the fabric of his bandages and clothes.

He instantly realises what it means.

Alec and Magnus are fated to each other, and now they both know for sure.

***

The worst of it is that not wanting to impair his sight as he desperately searches for Clary, Magnus has purposefully not fixed himself a drink in the hours since the disastrous ritual and phone call.

He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so fiercely protective over the Shadowhunter girl, though he reasons that watching her grow up and playing a large role in how confusing her transition into the Shadoworld has been, likely makes up part of it. Whatever the reasons, the idea of her scared and in over her head with something that she wasn’t emotionally, physically or even spiritually prepared for filled him with a dread and horror that pushed him to try tracking spell after tracking spell, determined to ensure her safety.

When he finally does manage to catch sight of her, it’s to see that she is with Alec and the other Shadowhunters. Lucian Graymark is there too.

Good, she’ll be safe now, Magnus reasons with himself. Lucian loves her like a daughter; he won’t let anything happen to her.

Tired and satisfied that Clary is in good hands, he throws himself into a shower, throws on the most comfortable clothes he owns, ensures that his hair and makeup are flawless (he was so used to visitors at all hours of the night, it was rare that he didn’t wear makeup around his apartment) and finally makes his way over to his mini-bar to fix himself the drink he’s been craving since the awful phone call.

He was thrilled when he saw Alec’s name flash up on his phone, thrilled when he had accidentally confirmed his soul mark, thrilled when Alec allowed him to try the tracking ritual he had seen so many soul pairs do over the years. He should be elated. The dazzling white of his mark means that now that they both know everything, they can make their decision.

But he’s worried. He’s worried that Alec’s current frustration and confusion might lead to him make a hasty decision to rid himself of the bond. Even though Magnus is still furious with Alec, the idea of losing his connection with him, of never again sharing what they had shared earlier, filled Magnus with a fear he didn’t even know it was possible to feel.

The thought that he might never be able to give up Alexander Lightwood both excites and terrifies him.

He’s so lost in thoughts of Alec that he doesn’t realise how long he’s been sitting in the same position in his armchair until he hears the frantic knocking on his front door. His barely-touched scotch hangs loosely in his hand, threatening to spill onto his expensive rug. Jolting back to reality, he sets the glass down and strides towards the door and is horrified to discover Lucian, torn and bloodied, held up by Clary and another boy who Magnus assumes is the Mundane friend he’s heard nearly all of the other Shadowhunters complain about, the one Camille kidnapped.

“What happened?” he yells, snapping his fingers and opening his front doors wide enough to let them all in before immediately throwing open the doors that separate his living room from the entry hall.

“He was attacked,” explains the Mundane boy.

“He needs a Warlock,” says Clary, frantically. “He needs you.”

Magnus grabs the sheet he’s been staring at for days, too lazy to pack it away, and drapes it over his couch.

“Put him here.”

The two immediately obey, laying Lucian gingerly down onto the sheet. Clary is deathly pale while the Mundane boy looks as though he’s been to hell and back and Magnus finds that his heart pangs pityingly for them. As short a time as a few weeks ago, their lives had probably been so blissfully simple. No demons. No mortal cup. Just their ordinary mundane lives. Their faces are confused and terrified and so young that Magnus finds himself wishing that neither of them had ended up tangled up in all of this. This shouldn’t have to be their world.

He feels another pang as his eyes fall on the injured Lycanthrope on his couch. Lucian is desperately week and shouting incoherently in a way that tells Magnus immediately that this is more than a few simple battle wounds, and grimaces as Clary confirms his worst fears.

Alpha bites are a bitch to heal.

As if emphasising the point, Lucian’s body suddenly lurches evilly. It quickly becomes apparent that if he’s to have any hopes of healing Lucian with magic, he first needs to calm him down. Seelie dogwood would be perfect and after rushing to his store cupboard and instructing the others to hold him down in his brief absence, Magnus returns with the small container of bark, placing a small piece of it between the werewolf’s teeth.

“It’ll take a few moments to take effect,” he explains to the two worried teenagers.

“What’s happening to him?” Clary asks.

“Random werewolf transformation,” explains Magnus. “It’s a side-effect of the poison in the Alpha bite.”

Lucian continues to struggle for a while, but eventually, his breathing evens out and Magnus has enough time to roughly patch up most of his wounds. Once this is done, he sprints to the kitchen to gather the ingredients he needs for the antidote. While the dogwood will slow the spread of the poison for a while, it won’t stop it. Lucian needs far more magic than one a tiny bit of tree. Magnus explains this to the teenagers as he sets down his cauldron and potion ingredients and isn’t surprised when Clary immediately volunteers to collect the ingredients that Magnus mentioned he still requires.

“No, you stay here,” he says, rushing to his balcony to collect herbs from his hanging garden. “Luke will need you if he wakes up.”

“When he wakes up,” Clary bites back and Magnus can’t help but smile. Headstrong and recklessly optimistic. She really is Jocelyn’s daughter.

“I’ll go,” says the Mundane boy (Simon, as Magnus has since learned), and his words are echoed a second later by a different voice. Confused, Magnus peeks around his door and sees another Shadowhunter (the wrong Shadowhunter) striding uninvited into his apartment.

As if this day hasn’t been enough of a train wreck without being forced to confront face-to-face the bewildering mixture of cocky asshole and humourless Shadowhunter that was Alec’s crush. On the bright side, if the gashes across his face are anything to go by, at least something has taken him down a few pegs this time.

“Jace,” says Magnus in a mock-delighted tone, roughly prodding the Shadowhunter’s bloodied face to get a better look at his injuries. “What happened to you?”

“Luke’s car may have found its way into a pole when I was stashing it,” he replies, sounding annoyed at having to explain himself. “I don’t do mundane driving.”

Magnus fights to hold back his amusement at this, but it’s a near-impossible thing.

And then an argument (that essentially boils down to ‘I’m bigger and tougher so I should get the ingredients’) breaks out between Simon and Jace and to save himself the migraine he can already feel forming, Magnus loudly cuts across them with the list of what he needs. He’s had more than enough Shadowhunter snark for one day. Though ultimately the posturing continues, as they’ve now both decided to go get the ingredients, it will at least be happening away from his apartment.

Magnus feels exhausted just thinking about the amount of magic healing Lucian is going to take and knows that he will need Shadowhunter energy to have any hope of succeeding. And while he’s sure that either Clary’s or Jace’s would do just fine, he knows that their energy won’t be half as powerful as the energy he wants most.

“One more thing,” he adds before they make their way to his front door.

Even if they haven’t yet dealt with what happened earlier, there’s no one that Magnus wants with him more right now than Alexander Lightwood.

***

Alec almost can’t control his rage when Isabelle tells him that his parents are arranging marriages for both of them.

It’s true that he’s never been romantic, but then, maybe that’s because he knows that he can never really be romantic. At least not the way he wants to be – in love out in the open with someone he actually finds attractive. Even if he is forced to push down who he really is to build a life with a respectable Shadowhunter girl, he still thinks that it should be his choice. That, at the very least, he should have a say in who he spends the rest of his life with.

What finally sends him over the edge though is that his parents want Isabelle, and not him, to be the diplomat to the Seelies.

This is what stings more than anything. He can get his head around the fact that he’s going to have to marry a woman, even if he was hoping for it only to happen in his late twenties. What he can’t handle is having his responsibilities taken away from him.

He’s long since made peace with the fact that he’s not as strong a fighter as Jace and that he doesn’t have Isabelle’s quick strategic mind. In fact, unless he has his bow and quiver (and it’s not always viable as they’re sometimes too cumbersome to take along on missions) Alec doesn’t feel he’s much use at all.

The one thing he knows he can do is diplomacy. He knows that he can talk a fight down when necessary, can phrase things in such a way as to foster constructive conversation between the Clave and the Downworld. He has dedicated years of his life to learning the customs of every Downworlder pack, clan and coven. He knows and understands their cultures, their challenges, their attitudes towards the Clave.

Alec has been working his whole life to do this job and the only reason it’s being taken away from him is that his parents don’t think that he’s strong enough to take it on.

So fuck it. Fuck all of it. He’s not going to carry on pouring his heart and soul into being the perfect Shadowhunter, the perfect leader, the perfect son. Not if it means having his work treated as a nice gesture rather than years and years of his time and effort. Not if it means being constantly overlooked and forgotten.

As he storms angrily out of the Institute, only just resisting the urge to turn around and flip it the bird, he finds himself thinking about his soul mark and about how Magnus is the one person in the world who upon first meeting him, treated him as if he was the most important person in the room. He’s done nothing to make Magnus look at him and yet, Magnus looks. Almost from the first moment they met before there was any way he could have been sure that they shared soul marks, Magnus seems to have singled him out. That first night, he could practically feel Magnus’ eyes on him whenever the Warlock thought that he wasn’t looking, and though at the time it had been strange and slightly intimidating, he realises now how much he craves that.

It makes him regret the phone call so much more. He can’t believe how immature he was and cringes at the memory of his childish words. It wasn’t even worth it.

In the end, Jace was angry, but it wasn’t any angrier than he usually got, and once Simon could give them an idea of where they were, they found Clary pretty quickly. There was no need for Alec to be as awful as he was to Magnus and he wouldn’t have been surprised if Magnus decided there and then to never speak to him again. He would have completely understood if Magnus decided that the whole soulmate thing wasn’t worth having to deal with Alec’s bullshit.

But Jace said that Magnus specifically asked for him, and whether or not that’s to yell at him and tell him that he’s an asshat, at least he doesn’t hate Alec enough to never want to see him again.

Alec climbs the narrow flight of stairs towards Magnus’ apartment, heart hammering wildly as he hears Magnus’ frantic voice shouting instructions. The ground beneath him is shaking violently and he can hear the sound of surging magic coming from beyond the door. As he bursts into the living room, he sees Magnus throwing the last of his energy into healing the injured man on his couch and Alec is filled with a powerful rush of concern that catches him off guard, soul marks or not. He strides across the room to kneel beside Magnus, catching him just as it looks like he’s about to collapse.

“Help me,” he says, weakly. “I need your strength.”

Magnus slowly raises a hand for Alec to take as if even this small gesture costs him a world of effort. His exhausted eyes are fixed on Alec’s, but there’s no offence or enmity there, just faith in him and a relief that he’s no longer alone.

“Take what you need,” Alec replies. He slips his hand into Magnus’ and the gratefulness and warmth in his smile seem to radiate throughout Alec’s body. If it came to it, Alec knows he would give it all to Magnus, and he wonders if this is because of the soul magic or if it’s more than that. There’s no time to ponder on that thought now. Gently guiding Magnus back up so that he’s crouching over Luke, he places his free hand on the small of Magnus’ back to keep him upright and waits for it to begin.

It’s impossible to miss the moment Magnus starts using his energy. The magic he felt brushing past Magnus that first night and the magic he felt during their tracking ritual is there, but it’s a thousand times more intense. It pours through them, rooting them to the spot and though he knows that physically neither of them are moving, it feels like Magnus is being pulled towards him, as if the more Alec is emptied of himself, the more room Magnus has to fill inside him. He’s only vaguely aware that there are people somewhere in the room trying to do something. All that’s real is him and Magnus – the feeling of their hands gripping tightly, the smoothness of Magnus’ silk shirt underneath his fingertips, the energy flowing between them and, in his mind, and a constant, indefinable stream of encouragement that he knows is from Magnus to him, keeping him going.

Losing his energy is beginning to take its toll on Alec, and though his natural instinct is to pull away, he uses every fibre of his being to force more to Magnus. It’s like trying to push every last bit of air from his lungs, and though his body shakes with the effort of it, he forces himself to push through. He can’t let Magnus down. He won’t let Magnus down.

And then it’s over. As the magic leaves, his whole body feels feather-light his nerves are tingling with the sudden release of muscles he didn’t even realise he was tensing. He falls backwards slightly and allows Magnus to collapse onto him, completely spent. He doesn’t know much about feelings, having tried to suppress them most of his life, but he knows now that what he feels towards Magnus, this Warlock who is so quick to give his everything to those who need it, is not strictly platonic.

For years he’s been convinced that what he feels for Jace is what it’s like to be in love: all hero-worship and being close enough to reach out but never feel. And while he’s sure that he is in love with Jace, he realises as he holds the exhausted Warlock, filled with a quiet pride and admiration at what he’s just done and what they’ve just shared, that maybe it’s not the only way to be in love with someone.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

Magnus uses the very last of his energy to nod up at him with a thankful smile. “Yeah.”

And then he’s asleep, unable to hold onto consciousness any longer.

Noticing that Alec is about to pick up Magnus up to place him in his bed, and perhaps also noticing his slight reluctance to do so, Clary speaks.

“Maybe…” she says, catching Jace’s eye for a moment as she does, “maybe it’s best that you keep hold of him for a little while, Alec. You know, to help him rebuild his energy.”

“Yeah,” Jace agrees with an inscrutable expression. “He needed your energy to use his magic, but he’ll need some more to replenish it too.”

“So, what, I just stay here in the middle of his living room?” asks Alec. It’s far from comfortable and he doesn’t know if his back will take the awkward angle for long.

“Here, shuffle over to this support,” Clary says, grabbing a few scatter cushions from Magnus’ armchairs and arranging them against an exposed brick column not too far from where he’s sitting with Magnus. Alec gets up enough to shuffle to the column, pulling Magnus’ limp form with him and after positioning Magnus as comfortably as he can Alec wraps his arms around him for support. Exhausted though he is, his heart rate seems to find the energy to triple in speed and he’s certain the sound must be projecting loud enough for the people in the room to hear it. He’s sure that at least the Werewolf can pick up on it, though presently he admittedly has bigger things to worry about. Alec watches as Jace and the Mundane hoist him up from the couch to move him to Magnus’ spare bedroom while Clary perches on the armrest of the chair she had pilfered the cushions from.

“Alec, if you hadn’t gotten here on time, I…” She seems to be measuring each word, as if afraid by misspeaking she’ll set him off and he supposes given the track record of their interactions thus far, it’s fair enough for her to think that way. “I’m just glad that you and Jace are okay now.”

“I didn’t do this for Jace,” he says, and it’s true. He didn’t even do it for Magnus, initially (though this had changed throughout the course of the exchange). Alec’s real reasons for coming were completely selfish. His parents don’t approve of all his and Izzy’s interaction with the Downworld so he defied them by helping a Downworlder save another Downworlder’s life. His parents are determined to strategically marry him off to a Shadowhunter girl to restore the family honour, so he defied them by letting his fated, who was not only a man but also a Downworlder, use his energy. His parents didn’t want him to be a Downworlder diplomat so he helped save the life of a new pack leader.

And while something in him tells him that he should probably feel guilty for thinking about himself so much, all he feels is a deep sense of satisfaction.

“Then I’m glad you did it for you,” she smiles, and for the first time since meeting her, Alec catches the smallest glimpse of what Jace is so obsessed with. She’s still careless and reckless and naïve, but he sees now that it’s all coming from a good heart that is still learning to balance impulse with wisdom. She seems taken aback when Alec actually returns her smile and hastily stands up as if startled. “I, uh, I’d better go see to Luke.”

Jace comes back from moving Luke a few moments later and stares hesitantly at Alec for a moment, as if afraid to approach him. Alec disentangles his arm from around Magnus, offering it to Jace in a gesture of peace and Jace’s face splits into that grin that makes the hair on Alec’s arms tingle as he makes his way over to Alec to grasp it.

“Thank you,” he says. “Look, Alec, I just came to say that I’m –”

“You really don’t have to,” Alec interrupts. “All’s well that ends well and all that.”

“God, I hated that play,” laughs Jace, and after clapping Alec on the shoulder, he excuses himself to help Clary again.

Apart from a brief interruption in the form of Simon crossing through the living room and throwing Alec a tentative wave on his way out, Alec is alone with Magnus for the first time since they killed the Circle Member. It’s strange that though that was only days ago, so much has happened since then that he feels like a completely different person. And even though he’s the one who’s been doing all the changing, he knows he owes it all to the Warlock asleep in his arms.

It’s strange how right it feels, how they seem to fit together like the string of a bow fits into the notch of an arrow. It’s never felt like that with Jace. They’re similar enough, but not like this. Jace is a blade, close enough to the arrow basic principle and function, but not compatible with the bow. It’s not the epiphany that he expected to receive on the living room floor of the High Warlock of Brooklyn, but it’s the one that helps him finally accept that, as much as he’s wished for it for years, he and Jace would never work.

He doesn’t know how he and Magnus would work either though. They’re from completely different worlds – Alec from the world of Shadowhunters, of pushing away emotions to effectively carry out the task of protecting the world from demonic activity; Magnus from pretty much every other world, worlds where emotions are worn as a badge of honour and where following the path they choose to carve out for themselves doesn’t set them at odds with society.

This is the kind of situation where Alec craves wise counsel and sound advice, but who would he get it from? From Jace, who impulsively fell in love with the first Shadowhunter girl he met that wasn’t Isabelle? From Isabelle who is so sold on the idea of her own Downworlder soulmate that she doesn’t seem to care that there are carefully maintained traditions and family honour that have to be considered? From Clary or Simon who, though they claim to be experts on love, know nothing of what it means to be a Shadowhunter? He certainly can’t ask his parents or Hodge or anyone from the Clave. His only other option is Magnus himself, but that’s unlikely to result in a completely objective opinion.

No, Alec has to puzzle this out on his own, and it both excites and terrifies him to have such weighty matters to consider.

The soul marks on their legs mean that the Angel ordained this. It’s Raziel’s will that he and Magnus be together. Surely that can’t be against the law of the Clave? If Alec were to pursue this path, would anyone from his world be able to tell him it was wrong if the proof that this wasn’t just his desire was literally branded on his skin?

Alec starts as Magnus stirs in his sleep and curls deeper into his chest, causing a surge of unfamiliar affection to rise up in Alec. He finds it nearly impossible to reconcile the improbably soft and impossibly gentle man in his arms with the centuries-old all-powerful Warlock whom, in just the last few days, Alec had seen kill people, move whole buildings, summon demons, create portals and cure incurable wounds. Could a man that powerful really just be held like this? If he were awake, would he object to being caged in Alec’s arms like this?

The light from the hallway catches traces of glitter on Magnus’ face and Alec is reminded again of that first night. Magnus looked so different then, with tight dark clothes embellished with details designed to draw the eye, every bit of his appearance designed to awe and intrigue. Tonight, his outfit is loose and comfortable and the honey-coloured tips of his hair coupled with the delicate gold lining around his eyes, remind Alec of the warmth and safety of completing his winter reading lists by the light of the fireplace in the library when every other room in the Institute is too cold to bear.

“Beautiful,” Alec breathes out quietly.

He’s suddenly struck by how easy it would be to just kiss Magnus on the forehead and to his horror, now that the temptation is there, he can’t seem to ignore it. Though he sits on the idea for a few moments, it soon grows too insistent to ignore so, gathering all his courage while at the same time screaming to himself that this can only end badly, his lips gently brush the soft sparkling skin just above Magnus’ left eyebrow.

He retracts at lightning speed when he hears footsteps coming down the hallway. It’s Jace.

“I’m heading back to the institute to fill Hodge in,” he says, taking in the sight of Magnus settled comfortably against Alec’s rapidly rising and falling chest. He hopes that Jace is still under the impression that Alec is just trying to help Magnus regain his energy. “You guys going to be okay?”

“Think so,” Alec replies as short as possible, not wanting to disturb Magnus and also not trusting the current steadiness of his voice.

“Alright, I guess I’ll see you around then.”

Alec nods by way of farewell, and as he hears the front door click closed, he can’t believe the narrow call he’s just escaped.

To his dismay, the click of the front door also wakes Magnus.

***

When Magnus begins to come to, it’s to a curious sensation just above his left eyebrow, the sound of approaching footsteps, a furiously hammering rhythm against his cheek, a hushed voice a few feet away and then a deep rumbling bass that buzzes through every nerve in contact with it. He can’t quite fit the pieces together until he remembers that just before he passed out, he had collapsed, absolutely finished, onto Alec and it would appear he hasn’t moved.

He’s grateful for few seconds he has to plan his (kind of) entrance and as he hears the front door shut, he allows his eyes to flutter open.

“Alexander,” he says, smiling blearily up at the Shadowhunter he’s – not unhappily – draped across. “Good morning.”

He’s even more handsome than Magnus remembers him. Though labouring through nervousness, his smile is warm and Magnus realises that he’s close enough to see the faint dusting of freckles across his nose and the way his enormous green eyes also contain specs of brown and blue.

“Hey,” Alec replies, his smile fading. He’s looking at Magnus as if expecting to be turned into a toad at any second. “Are you, um, did you… how did you sleep?”

“Oh, I could have done with a few more hours,” says Magnus, sitting up to stretch, “but I can’t complain about the quality of my mattress.”

Even in the dim light, it’s possible for Magnus to see that a deep blush has crept into Alec’s cheeks, and the sight of it amuses and delights him. So Alexander isn’t as impervious to his flirting as he was a few days ago. Good to know.

“I, uh… Jace and Clary said that it might be a good idea to stay with you for a bit longer, you know, just in case you needed more of my energy to restore your magic.”

Magnus has to bite back a laugh at this. Alec is always such a serious soldier that it’s nice to see that he has the ability to be gullible too.

“By the Angel, it was bullshit wasn’t it?” asks Alec, clearly spotting the mirth Magnus is trying so hard to conceal.

“I mean, it’s a lovely sentiment, and I’m sure every little bit helps,” says Magnus, unable to stop the amused grin that takes over his features, “but yes, for the most part.”

It looks for a moment as if Alec might be angry, but then his face breaks into an embarrassed grin.

“God, you must think I’m such an idiot,” he says, moving to bury his face in his hands.

“Not at all,” says Magnus, catching them before they hide him. “If you must know, I think it shows that you’re incredibly kind.”

Their eyes lock and, for a moment, all that exists in the world is Alec’s angelic perplexed face, the feeling of Alec’s calloused palms beneath Magnus’ fingertips and the sudden urge to close the small distance between them and kiss him. And what’s more, he’s pretty certain that the Shadowhunter would let him.

A loud cough from the guest bedroom leaves that line of thought dead in its tracks.

“Well, I’d best go see to Lucian,” says Magnus reluctantly, climbing gingerly to his feet. He’s still weak and will definitely need a good night’s rest to restore him, but he doesn’t feel as if his every cell is holding up a white flag anymore. “I’ll be right back.”

“Actually I… I think I’ll head home,” says Alec, also climbing to his feet. “Half the Institute is probably wondering where I am by now.”

“Please not yet,” says Magnus, placing a gentle hand on Alec’s upper arm. He really doesn’t have a good reason for wanting Alec to stay; just that he doesn’t want him to go yet. “At least give me the chance to thank you for your help tonight. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Alec looks as if he’s working through a million different pros and cons in that moment, but eventually something in him relaxes and he no longer looks as if he’s about to take off into the night. Noticing this shift, Magnus beams.

“I’ll just see if Lucian is comfortable and if he needs anything,” says Magnus over his shoulder as he strides to his guest room, where the Lycanthrope is still fast asleep. Clary is watching him vigilantly, and after assuring Magnus that she’ll call him if Luke needs him, Magnus makes his way back to the living room. It’s about halfway down the hallway that Magnus realises that Alec is talking to someone and suddenly on high alert, he creeps down the rest of the hallway, not wanting to alert anyone or anything new to his presence.

His sudden trepidation turns to relief and amusement when he sees that what he thought was Alec talking to an unknown being, turns out to be Alec with Chairman Meow cuddled against his chest, telling him off for trying to lick blood off of the couch.

“Now, I don’t know if you’re some kind of magical Warlock cat,” Magnus hears him say, gently scratching behind the cat’s ears, “but it’s probably best not to screw around with werewolf blood, alright? Who knows how terrifying New York would become if on top of all the demons we have to deal with, we suddenly had to take care of an infestation of werecats too.”

And it’s at that moment, with a grinning Alec clutching his cat against his chest, warning him about the dangers of ingesting werewolf blood, that Magnus realises that there’s a very good chance that he might fall in love with this man.

He clears his throat, and Alec whips around, the cat still in his hands, though now dangling as if Magnus had caught him red-handed with an armful of contraband.

“I was just… I um, I mean, I…” Alec puts down the cat. “I’m cleaning.”

“Oh really don’t bother, Alexander,” says Magnus. “I have magic for that.”

Alec smiles at that and the teasing nature of it surprises Magnus.

“I think you’ve exerted yourself enough for one day.”

He’s rendered temporarily speechless, and it’s only Alec turning back to mop at the couch with a sodden rag that pulls him back to. Aiming a small pulse of magic at the couch, Magnus removes any and all traces of dirt and Alec looks back at him, seemingly impressed.

“I’m serious, Magnus,” says Alec, striding towards him. “You need to replenish your strength. Your magic took a serious blow today.”

“I’ll be fine.” Magnus waves a dismissive hand and makes his way over to his mini bar, jabbing his hand at his record player which begins filling the living room with the soft crooning tones of Sinatra. “Now. Repayment. I’m thinking that even though we keep putting those drinks on hold, there’s no reason for me not to know your favourite cocktail. What’s your poison?”

“Um, I don’t know. Surprise me,” says Alec. Magnus returns a few moments later with just the thing. After handing Alec the martini glass, he snaps his fingers and bright blue flames burn above his drink before vanishing. The look on Alec’s face tells Magnus that he achieved the surprised.

“You’re no good at doing what you’re told, are you?” Alec asks.

Magnus responds with a wicked grin.

“To us,” he says, and after clinking their glasses together, they both take a swig.

Alec’s brave, but pained grimace tells Magnus that he’s definitely not a martini guy. And after wrestling through what looks like the five stages of grief, Alec’s brow furrows.

“Uh oh, that frown can’t be good,” says Magnus. “Something on your mind, Alexander?”

“Why did you ask for me?” he asks. “Even though Jace and Clary were both here.”

“I thought you would have worked out the answer to that one already,” says Magnus, tapping where his mark is and winking.

“I guess it just helps to hear you say it.”

Magnus walks towards the window, swirling his drink around in his glass as he considers his next words carefully.

“It’s not just the mark we share, Alexander,” says Magnus. “I mean, that’s part of it, but the truth is that I just… wanted to see you again.”

“Why?” Magnus turns to face him. He’s wearing a perplexed expression as if the idea of someone wanting to see him is a completely foreign concept. Magnus’ heart twinges sadly.

“For almost a century I’ve closed myself off to feeling anything for anyone, man or woman,” he says, looking up into Alec’s searching eyes. “Even with the appearance of my soul mark, I was determined not to choose this. Then I met you. You’ve… unlocked something in me.”

Alec looks as if he’s about to say something; Magnus can see that the words are on the tip of his tongue, but then they seem to stick somewhere along the roof of his mouth. Feeling the need to spare Alec the need to reply, he reaches out and gently traces the shape of the mark that runs from just below Alec’s jaw to just above his collarbone, searching the Shadowhunters face for any sign to stop. There is none. Alec’s pulse beats wildly against his fingertips, and there’s a gentle intake of breath as he reaches the bottom stroke.

“A Deflect Rune,” Magnus remarks in barely more than a whisper, as he allows his hand to settle over it. “Maybe I’m not the only one who's been closing himself off.”

“It doesn’t really work like that.” Alec lets out a shaky breath. Magnus doesn’t know how it happened, but they’re standing so close now, it would be absolutely no effort to lean forward and just…

“Alexander,” Magnus asks amusedly, unable to tear his eyes away from Alec’s lips, “did you kiss my forehead earlier?”

“Oh god, you felt that?” He’s almost physically cringing in embarrassment.

“Well, yes,” says Magnus, bringing up the hand that isn’t resting on Alec’s neck to cup his cheek and the thumb he brushes across Alec’s lower lip collects flecks of glitter as it goes, “but you’ve also just got so much evidence here.”

He can feel Alec’s shallow breath on his cheek now and knows that Alec must be able to feel his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. There’s almost no space between them now and though Magnus knows that this is what he wants more than anything he can ever remember wanting, he waits for Alec to decide. A few seconds pass that might as well be an eternity, but then Alec is leaning in the rest of the way, Magnus’ eyes fluttering closed in anticipation.

Their lips have barely brushed when Alec’s phone rings loudly, disintegrating the tension between them like a Seraph blade. Though he hopes that there’s a chance of salvaging the moment after the call, the crease in Alec’s brow and the sudden rigidity of his posture tells him that he needn’t bother. Alec was once again a stoic Shadowhunter warrior.

“And it was all going so well,” he sighs to Chairman Meow, who, as if sensing Magnus’ disappointment, at least has the decency to try to look sympathetic.

#malec #malec fic #malec fanfiction #malec fanfic #Magnus x Alec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #long post

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