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cuttoothed · 3 years

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For the second day of @jonmartinweek, mostly for the prompt "injury", though also a little bit "love confession" (by omission).

Set directly after episode 92. Content warnings for mild descriptions of Jon’s canonical injuries (blood, burns).

Things are...tense, when they go back down to the Archives. Actually, “tense” is probably an understatement, after finding out that Elias murdered not only Gertrude Robinson, but also the unknown man in Document Storage—who as it turned out was none other than Juergen bloody Leitner.

A lot to take on board, all in all.

Basira seems to have accepted her new employment status with eerie calm, and starts setting up at Sasha’s old desk (oh god, Sasha’s dead, has been for months), fetching notebooks and folders from the stationery cupboard and arranging pens and highlighters in a desk tidy. Daisy is nowhere to be seen—thankfully, Martin thinks, because she was even scarier than usual in Elias’ office. Melanie storms off into the stacks and there are sounds of shouting and things hitting the floor, which Martin is in no hurry to investigate. Tim sits at his desk with his feet propped up for about five minutes, then stands up and says: “Fuck this, I’m off to the pub.” He doesn’t invite anyone else to go with him, and Martin thinks their presence probably wouldn’t be welcome.

Jon arrives in about half an hour later, smelling of fresh cigarette smoke. Normally Martin would disapprove, but the way things are right now he’s tempted to take up a few bad habits himself. Jon looks...exhausted, defeated, his shoulders slumped wearily. His clothes are smudged with dirt, and there’s drying blood crusted around the injury on his neck; the bandages on his hand are starting to slip, revealing the angry, raw burns beneath.

Martin’s not sure he’s ever been so happy to see someone in his life.

Jon gives him a small, tired smile as he passes, then heads into his office and shuts the door. Martin knows that no sane person would try to go straight back to work looking like they’d just been through a war zone and still with an open wound; he is also aware that Jonathan Sims is the sort of person to do precisely that. He hesitates for a few moments, then makes a decision.

He fetches the first aid kit from the break room, and goes and knocks on Jon’s door. It’s a firm knock, a knock that he hopes says “I’m coming in whether you like it or not”, because it’s not beyond Jon to try to avoid them all for an extended period.

“Come in,” Jon calls, and even his voice sounds exhausted. When he sees Martin enter the room, his expression softens in a way that’s difficult to parse. Is he just relieved that it isn’t one of the others? Or is he actually pleased that it’s Martin?

It’s been two months since Jon went into hiding while suspected of murder, and the last time Martin saw him he had been quite sure Jon was planning to—to hurt himself, somehow. Before that, though, there had been a time when they were...well, close, in a way. Jon had let his guard down around Martin, in the midst of being so suspicious and afraid. He had trusted Martin, when he didn’t trust anyone else, had eaten lunch with him and talked about boring, ordinary things, the tight set of his shoulders relaxing just a little. He had even laughed, sometimes. It had been, despite everything, one of the happier times in Martin’s life, and if that’s not pathetic he doesn’t know what is.

“Hi, Jon,” he says.

“Martin,” says Jon, his tone soft. “It’s so—ahh, how are you?”

“How am I? You’re the one with a bloody great gash in your neck and looking like you put your hand in a fire.” Martin brandishes the first aid kit. “You really should go to the hospital, but I know it would be a waste of my time suggesting it.”

“Thank you for bringing that,” Jon says. “I appreciate it. You can just leave it on the desk.”

“Nope,” Martin tells him cheerily, setting the kit down and opening it. “I know you, Jon. If I leave it with you it’ll still be sitting here untouched tomorrow. Plus, I got my first aid certification when I was working in the library. It’s probably expired now, but I think it still counts.”

Jon looks as if he’s about to protest, but then he huffs a breath that might be a laugh, and nods in concession.

“All right then,” he says.

Martin snaps on a pair of disposable gloves and directs Jon to sit on the desk and undo the top two buttons on his shirt, so Martin can examine the wound on his neck. It’s shallow, fortunately, and the bleeding seems to have already stopped. Martin cleans away the crusted blood as gently as he can, though Jon still winces a few times.

“What happened?” Martin asks, as he smears on antibiotic cream.

“Daisy. She, ah, she decided that I was dangerous. Needed to be dealt with. Fortunately Basira was able to convince her otherwise.”

“Bloody hell,” Martin mutters. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; he’s always felt afraid around Daisy, like a rabbit being in the same room with a fox. But he just sort of assumed it was typical Martin fear of, well, everything. He never thought Daisy would actually hurt any of them. He applies a bandage carefully over the wound, and then turns his attention to Jon’s hand. Unwrapping the bandages reveals the red, blistered mess beneath, and Martin hisses in sympathy.

“Please tell me you went to the hospital for this.”

“I went to a walk-in clinic,” Jon says. “They cleaned it up, gave me some antibiotics and painkillers. They, uh, they did recommend I see my GP for follow up monitoring, and that I should get a referral to a physiotherapist, but, well, it’s been a busy few days.”

“Jon,” Martin sighs, exasperated, and Jon smiles a bit shakily.

“I know,” he says. “I will go to a GP, I promise. It’s just a bit tricky when you’re wanted for murder. Anyway, it seems to be healing rather well, all things considered.”

Martin considers whether to apply antibiotic cream, but the skin doesn’t seem to be broken, and he knows it’s best not to touch the area more than needed. Instead, he rewraps it with clean, dry bandages, being sure to keep them loose.

“How did this happen?” he asks, to distract himself from the fact that he is, technically, holding Jon’s hand. Jon gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“I, uh, I was trying to get information from a devotee of the Lightless Flame. This was her price.”

“The Lightless Flame? That cult—from the statements?”

“The same. As it turns out, a—a lot of things from the statements are real. Unpleasantly so.”

“I—yeah, I sort of figured that out when Tim and I got trapped in these weird corridors for days by that Michael...thing.”

Jon’s face blanches, his brows furrowing.

“You—god, Martin, I didn’t know. Are you—I mean, you’re okay, obviously, but— Have you seen Michael since?”

“No, and I hope I don’t.” Martin feels faintly nauseous at the memory. He doesn’t realize his hands are trembling slightly until the fingers of Jon’s hand, the unburned one, touch his wrist.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he says. “When I realized a-about Sasha, about that thing, I hoped I could take care of it myself, spare you and Tim. I never wanted to drag you into all this.”

“I don’t think there’s much avoiding it,” Martin mutters miserably. “And you didn’t seem to mind dragging Melanie into it, while you were on the lam.”

“I shouldn’t have asked her for help either. It wasn’t fair to put any of you in the position of aiding a suspected murderer.”

“I never believed you did it,” Martin tells him fiercely. “It just would have been nice to know you were okay, you know?”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I—I wanted to contact you, but it seemed too risky. I knew the police would be watching you, since we’re friends. Or—or at least friendly.”

Everyone I’ve talked to says you and him were close. Martin had been ridiculously pleased by the accusation at the time, and he feels the same now, with Jon’s injured hand cradled in both of his. Jon trusts Martin with his wounds, his vulnerability. Jon wanted to contact him; Jon thinks they’re friends.

“I—” Martin starts to say, and he doesn’t know if his next words will be I missed you or I worry about you or some humiliating romantic confession blurted out and impossible to take back. He draws a deep breath, and instead says: “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re okay. I don’t have that many friends, I can’t afford to lose one.”

He says it like a joke, and mercifully, Jon takes it as one, and gives a relieved laugh. Martin realizes he’s long since finished bandaging the burn and is now just sort of...holding Jon’s hand; he releases it, reluctantly, and Jon smiles, lifting his other hand to touch the bandage on his throat.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, hopping down from the desk. “I appreciate it, really.”

“As a token of your appreciation, you can go ahead and make a doctor’s appointment for that hand,” says Martin firmly, closing up the first aid kit.

“I will,” Jon says solemnly, and Martin believes him, but he’s also going to check in and remind him at the end of the day because Jon has a tendency to forget about trivial things like his own wellbeing. It’s just who he is, and Martin’s made his peace with it, like he’s made his peace with being utterly, hopelessly gone for Jonathan Sims.

“I was going to make some tea, if you fancy,” he says as he opens the door. “You look like you could use a cup.”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Oh, and Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I’m back as well. I—” Jon hesitates a moment, then says: “I missed your tea.”

It’s not much of a declaration, but Martin understands what Jon means by it; for the two of them, it means a lot.

#the magnus archives #jonmartinweek2021 #tma #my fic #jonmartin #cw injury

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cotton-candy-in-a-thong · 3 years

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Noncon stories, Fantasy vs. Reality, and more. fucking. issues.

Recently, I’ve been hit with some drama as to why I’m a “bad person” by various, anonymous users in this fandom. I thought I’d try to address the claim, address my stance on fics that involve noncon, and what I think about the “Tumblr mentality” after everything I’ve seen of this place. I should also note that I’m going to use the specific words and phrases I’ve been forced to constantly repeat as explaining my stance has been very difficult for me, as I’m a person who’s apparently challenging to understand.

This is going to be a long post, with subjects that's obviously going to trigger people so here's a warning right now..

That being said, I’m going to dive into this with some shit I’ve definitely said before:

“Consensual Noncon” Kink

The Appeal of this Theme in Fanfiction:

I don't think calling fics that involve noncon "rape fics" and those who enjoy it "getting off to rape" is a very good way to put it. Many engaging and well done media pieces often involve some very dark themes. Again, Monster by Meg and Dia is a song that features the main character sexually abusing a girl he met. You COULD call this a "rape song", but acting as if the rape is the only thing that matters in this story would be pretty..naive. The story has to do with an emotionally, and physically neglected/abused boy, who grows up and becomes an attention/love starved monster who's SO starving for validation, that he believes forcing himself upon a girl he knew would "prove" to himself that he's capable of being touched and loved. Of course, the main character eventually realizes that rape is not love, that what he did was wrong, and later kills himself in his own bathtub with kerosene and a match.

However, the assault aspect of this song is still a meaningful and alluring part because it talks about how emotional and physical abuse can warp someone's perspective on reality, to the point where they think forcing someone to "stay" with them is how to create a healthy relationship. That's the same energy I have for noncon fics, especially in the slasher fandom. Many slasher fics that contain noncon often have to do with the slasher preying on the reader because of their own fucked up mind. It's intriguing because, let's be honest, pretty much none of the slashers are in a pretty good mental space lmao. Thus, noncon actually falls more in line with how slashers would go about what they believe is a "good relationship" more often than quite a bit of fans here seem to believe. Again, Michael got boners, Jason chained someone up, Fredddy smooches people against their will, Billy Lenz is a sex offender, Chromeskull makes snuff, yada yada yada, you know the drill. That being said, it's interesting to see noncon being expressed with these characters because it gives us a new perspective on how fucked up they'd likely be if the world of sex and relationships was introduced to these characters.

Now why would some people become sexually aroused by the events of the story? First of all, how does “Consensual Noncon” kink work?

u/Jumbledcode. (2015). ‘Can anyone comment on why people (someone like me) enjoy rape/non-con story lines?’. r/TwoXChromosomes.

“I'd suggest that there are several factors that make up the appeal of non-con fantasies.

Guilt/Self-image: For many people, their sexual/relationship desires don't necessarily match their image of themselves, or alternatively they feel guilt over others' perceptions of those desires. Rape fantasies allow them to mantain some illusion of denial over their desires while still indulging in the idea of them.

Responsibility/Laziness: The appeal of abdicating control isn't limited to avoiding guilt; it's very tempting to want a scenario where you have no responsibility for maintaining your lifestyle/happiness. Similarly to before, it's the appeal of being given what you secretly want without even having to choose it.

Transgressiveness: A rape scenario has overtones of danger and taboo-breaking. These can easily be exciting and can therefore be a turn-on.

Desire: Being wanted is often a huge turn-on, and the idea of someone desiring you enough to break laws and disregard everything to have you plays into this feeling.

To me, it seems that most people who fantasize about being the subject of rape do so due to some mix of these motivations I've mentioned. Of course, there are also those who have experiences which have taught them to associate non-consent with their sexuality, but that's a separate issue”.

What if the Fanfic Only Involves the Act though? Wouldn’t it Encourage Actual Rape?

Let’s differentiate fantasy and reality. Towards those with the noncon kink: it offers arousal because of the ideas listed above (the idea of the reader not having to make any moves and the character doing the “intimate work” FOR them, the excitement of such a taboo sexual encounter, and the feeling to be desired through an altered, brutish encounter). Rape is the use of sex to remove control over the victim’s mind and body. The readers DO have control over whether or not they get to “encounter” (the choice to even read) this fantasy, so right away consent is present in reality, and no actual rape is being done.

Now does this mean that the kinkers are getting off on the idea of rape? Not really.

The thing with self-inserts is that it allows you to be connected to the story. That way, even if the story has you bruised up and begging for mercy, a part of you-you (if you’re a kinker) wants to keep reading it as you find it exciting. That way, as you and story-you are connected, what you really want in such a fantasy is for it to keep going despite the brutish, possessive, however yet desired nature of the character you’re dreaming about dealing with. (repeat: the idea of the reader not having to make any moves and the character doing the “intimate work” FOR them, the excitement of such a taboo sexual encounter, and the feeling to be desired through an altered, brutish encounter). That being said, it’s still entirely possible for kinkers to have their personal space and wishes crossed, and ultimately assaulted. Us enjoying the fantasy of such a reverie sexual encounter does not spell out to real life because (in reality) we’re not horny all the time, we would still like our bodies to be respected when we find it necessary, and we still have feelings as we’re still human.

“Fantasy (including video games) leads to violence” fallacy.

It would be like assuming that shooters in games like GTA fantacise about murder, encourage it, and would do it in real life. Taking fabricated anger out on virtual bodies or NPCs is quite different from the weight of murder (the killing of another human being). One can play video games with lots of violence towards such fabricated characters, while discouraging violence towards human beings. The act of using a game controller to beat up Donkey Kong in Smash, to shoot Nazi zombies in a Black Ops game, or to kill a Geisha in Little Nightmares is incredibly, and immensely different from completely eradicating the life of a person on Earth, and to assume that everyone who plays violent video games would spill out to violence in reality would be to participate in a ridiculous fallacy. Yes, there are outliers who are feeble minded enough to let their fantasies influence their actions towards actual people, but I must repeat that there are also people who utilize these fantasies for their personal satisfaction, while understanding the weight of the real world around them (and choosing not to act so detrimentally). Therefore, it wouldn’t be fair as it would be unnecessary to blatantly say that all fantasies are horrible and should be entirely eradicated if there ARE many people who ARE aware enough to understand that some thoughts are better off staying in fiction.

Now is the time to address what’s been said:

...Firstly, I think it’s very disgusting that random users, on Tumblr of all places, are trying to manipuate random victims of sexual assault into hating something or someone just because these users FEEL like “it’s the right thing to do”.. People, victims of sexual assault aren’t your fucking dogs. They’re not carriage horses, they’re not your work mules, they’re not your guns and swords...they’re just people who normally wanna be left the fuck alone like everyone else. Plus, there ARE people who have experienced sexual assault who take joy in reading such dark storylines. What would these users have to say to them? That they’re not “real” victims? That what they’ve experienced “never happened”? That they’re “just like” their own perpetrators for using the consensual nonconsent to miraculously help them overcome their trauma? Should they really abandon their coping mechanism just because there are other victims who cope in different ways?

..If you seriously believe that all people who have gone through a traumatic event are gonna cope in the exact same fucking way, you literally don’t even know enough about PTSD to even be making a bold statement about cope.

This is the part where I finally realized that people, and especially those on Tumblr, don’t actually care about rape victims as much as they may claim. Many users on here, on this platform and in this fandom, don’t truly give a flying monkey shit about rape victims as people, nor what they have to say about the subject. Rape victims..on this place..seem to be used mainly as a means of figurative weaponry for a group’s subjective morality.

I find the similarity close to radical feminism. Radical feminists often believe that women, from near and far, have to do everything in their power to “destroy” the patriarchy. This would mean disobeying the societal expectation of women, even if there are some women who take joyment in engaging in some societal standards for their personal liking. An example would be sex work. Radical feminists acknowledge the flaws in performing sex work, but believe that NO woman should EVER partake even if the woman wants to do it out of her own free will. In demonizing and ostracizing any woman who doesn’t fall into the radical feminist agenda, radical feminists actually contradict their purpose to “let women be free”. At this point, you realize that radical feminists often don’t actually give a fuck about what any woman wants for herself. Instead, radical feminists want to utilize any woman they can find just to flip off men as a group.

In Tumblr users trying to “stand up” for rape victims for their personal “holier-than-thou” ego, they fail to care enough about the very people they defend to understand the dynamics of some of their coping mechanisms, thus begin to bully some members of the group they claim to protect because of the very narcissism, misunderstanding, and controlling nature going on behind their own “activism”. So now that some users have found something to hate, in this case being noncon stories, they attempt to manipulate victims of rape into ostraciszing and demonizing fantasies and other victims of rape just because the “activists” themsleves don’t like it. Even trying to argue that rape victims have a “duty” to agree with everything these “activists” try to do for them.

Sounds awfully familiar to the attitude democrats have towards any minority when it’s time to vote. “I care about you...but you have to agree with everything I say and believe because I want what I think is best for you. If you disagree with me, you’re ungrateful and a traitor”.

Now...a little about myself.

I’m not sure of everyone else who’s into the noncon type of story, but I use it to get away from my past. In noncon stories, I want to read what happens in the chapters. I want to imagine them for morbid curiosity and arousal I feel at the time being. In reality, my attackers didn’t care when I wasn’t in the mood, and never gave me a choice. In noncon stories, I get to choose the character I want to encounter in the fantasy and NOT have it picked FOR me. In real life, I didn’t get to choose who did some things to me. In noncon stories, I get to stop reading them and do something else whenever I’m not feeling it anymore. In reality? My attackers kept going because, in the situation, it was no longer up to me. After noncon stories, my body doesn’t walk away with bruises, bite marks, and physical reminders every time I take my clothes off or try to masturbate. In real life...that shit can mark you, disease you, and then traumatize you. With the stories, I get to delete my search history, join another fandom, and act like nothing ever happened. For reality? Your own body is a reminder of what happened because it was real. In reality, I’m NEVER gonna fucking forget what happened. I’ll be lucky if my own mind and body doesn’t haunt me for at least one day..

So seeing that someone, and probably multiple people not only tried to use victims of sexual assault for their own “go get em” dogs, but to try and phrase me as someone who loves and encourages such an assault on human beings? After the things I felt? After the things I tasted? After pathetically searching for the support of relatives, just to get shut down with “you’re lying”?..

...All the times I've been held down..threatened..clothes getting snagged off..parts being opened and touched after I've fought to just get the fuck away from certain people...

According to this anon..."she likes rape".

...I guess I just fucking LOVED EVERYTHING THEN.

You know...all my life I’ve been misunderstood by many people. It’s honestly really disappointing that even now when I’m better at explaining myself than ever, I’m STILL being phrased as a “psychopath” by random people who haven’t even taken the time to even know me. Not even from a minute-long conversation through a damn computer screen. And you wanna know the funny thing? I’m probably being laughed at as this is being read. Some of these users, these internet stalkers, are probably giggling, smiling, and saying “Haha YES we GOT the bitch!! Cry you piece of shit SLUT!!”. So maybe explaining my past experiences to help everyone understand why some people may use noncon stories to their fantasy advantage is gonna land me messages going: “You haven’t been raped you lying bitch”, “Maybe you should get raped again”, “You definitely enjoyed it”, and the overused, yet strong “Kill yourself”.

So how am I gonna end this message? With me saying that many of you, who THINK you’re doing the right thing by justifying harassment and trying to manipulate others into joining your little crusade to bully people away from the fandom (over extremely mundane fucking things)...aren’t really good people. At best, in this case...you’re fucking stupid. You will never truly speak for any of the marginalized groups you claim to know like the back of your hand. Simply, you will never. be. a hero.

If by chance, by an astrological chance..that any random user wants to come up and apologize out of the blue for talking such shit and for saying such things..I don't even wanna hear it...just get the fuck out of my face..

#slashers #slasher fandom #tw noncon #consensual noncon #fandom drama #long post #past experiences #anon ask

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nanasparadise · 3 years

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What if the villain's of jojo had a Christmas song karaoke battle to get attention from their darling? Thank you!

“Christmas Karaoke” JJBA villains x gender-neutral reader (fluff, headcannons)

Thank you so much for your suggestion, it’s such a fun idea!! I hope you like the result:3 Enjoy the upcoming Christmas days and stay safe! <3

Summary: It’s Christmas and darling decides to have a karaoke night with the JoJo villains (Part 1 to 5). Unbeknownst to you, they are desperately fighting for your attention through their performances.

TW: no real trigger warning, just some slight yandere behaviour.

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

Dio (Part 1)

Dio from Phantom Blood is annoyed by the idea of singing in front of other people.

He eyes the other competitors deprecatingly, scrunching his nose in disgust.

But then his gaze falls on your form, watching at everyone with big eyes.

Why are you looking at any other person than him?

He can’t stand the thought that anyone else than him has your precious attention.

So the Brit pulls himself together and walks confidently to the karaoke machine.

Dio chooses a classic such as Jingle Bell Rock or Rocking around the Christmas Tree

The blond hopes to attract your gaze, staring at him lovingly and gifting him one of your dazzling smiles.

After his performance (which was mediocre at best, but he tries to tell himself that it was spectacular), you do approach Dio with a grin on your face and offer him a high-five for having been outside his comfort zone.

Dio has wished for a much more intimate touch (such as a peck on the cheek or a hug), but for now, he is appreciating your sweet and supportive gesture.

“Pff, I’m only singing since none of you can do it properly, naturally.”

“Dio, that was awesome! I’m so proud of you!” “Thank you Y/N, I couldn’t let any of these morons hurt your ears with their yelling.”

Dio (Part 3)

Now, Dio from Stardust Crusaders on the other hand is the star of the night.

He craves and loves all of the attention, but especially yours.

The vampire has no qualms to show off and smash more than one song.

After all, he has to show everyone that he’s superior and that’s why you will choose him.

The blond bellows Last Christmas (c’mon, he already looks like George Michael, he was born for this!) with all his being while doing a whole choreography.

His eyes keep searching yours, wanting all of your attention.

Your adorable cheers and little dancing only reinforce Dio as he goes all out.

After performing, he confidently walks to you.

He easily swoops your smaller form up and gives you a passionate kiss.

Afterwards, he grins at your surprised and flushed expression.

“Move out of the way! Now comes the real star of the show.” “Dio, you can’t just kiss me out of the blue in front of everyone!” “And why not? Don’t you think I deserve a little reward after my performance?”

Kars

Kars doesn’t sing. Like, at all. And when the other competitors taunt him for that, he simply threatens them.

He refuses to lower himself to these inferior creatures and their pathetic habits.

Instead, he looks at you: your beaming face and innocent happiness move the pillarman

He had never thought that he would catch feelings for a human, but here he is, bathing in your expression and wanting to gain your attention.

To him, you are perfect: something he has been striving for years.

That’s why he is engaging in this whole scenario which just seems ridiculous to him.

Even though Kars doesn’t sing, he still finds a way to grab your attention: the pillarman decides to sit next to you and ask you all about the human traditions of Christmas.

Now he couldn’t care less about human holidays, but hearing your eager words (which are better than any music could ever be) makes Kars all warm inside.

Finally, his perfect darling gives him all the attention he wants and needs (after all, he is a god).

“I don’t sing. If you ask me again, I’ll eat you.” “So, you humans kiss each other when you are standing under a mistletoe? What a foolish tradition. If I want to kiss you, I don’t need a plant over me, you can be sure of that.”

Yoshikage Kira

Karaoke night is for Kira absolutely horrible.

The man hates to stand out, no matter if it’s in a positive or negative way.

How is he supposed to sing in front of everyone? All eyes would be on him, disturbing his peace…

Though he does want the attention of one particular person.

Of course, he’s attracted to your hands (it was the first he noticed when he saw you), but Kira isn’t only fascinated by them: he loves your warm charisma and the way you are always there for him and listening, no matter how boring his day was.

Reminding himself about your adorable behaviour, he decides to sing, just for you.

His performance is quite shy and restrained, not wanting to stand out too much, which is why he chooses a laid-back Christmas song such as Driving Home for Christmas or Wonderful Christmas time.

But you still cheer him on, a smile plastered on your face, which makes Kira blush a bit (which he would never admit).

After his performance, the man goes to you, his face remaining stoic.

You look at him with astonishment, not believing that the Kira just performed!

As a reward, you hug him and give him words of encouragement.

Kira enjoys your attention and slightly leans into your touch, but not enough so that his apathetic façade would crumble.

“Guess I really have to sing in front of these people…”

“Wow Kira, I’d never expected you to perform!” “Well, even I am spontaneous from time to time.”

Diavolo

Diavolo prefers to stay inside with no one around him (you being the only exception of course).

So being surrounded by all these people isn’t ideal to him, especially when he has to sing in front of them.

But luckily, the Italian exudes confidence out of every fibre of his body.

The man can’t stand that so many pair of eyes are competing for your attention. He should be the only one to lay his eyes on your form.

Which is why Diavolo takes a bold music choice such as Mistress Christmas: he wants to stand out, so that all of your attention and affection will be on him.

His performance is quite energetic and he has a pleasant voice, which you wouldn’t have guessed.

Your gaze is filled with admiration, making Diavolo smirking internally.

After the song you immediately go to him and compliment his talent.

Diavolo enjoys your reaction thoroughly, thinking he has finally showed everyone you like his company the most.

He gets a bit cocky as he claps your hands while talking to you.

“Diavolo, I never knew you were this talented! You should sing more often.” “I can always sing to you, just maybe in a more private setting…”

“Huh? Why are you grabbing my hands?” “Isn’t it obvious?”

Bonus: Doppio

This sweetheart is so incredibly nervous!

Not only is he scared to do karaoke, but he has to do it in front of you!

The freckled man constantly blushes and is overtaking by his nervousness.

You flash him a reassuring grin across the room, which gives Doppio enough strength to overcome his fear.

No one has treated him with such innocent kindness as you had.

Doppio picks a sweet song such as Let it snow or Holly Jolly Christmas, wanting to pay you back with your kind nature.

During the performance, he constantly stutters and mixes up the words.

Eventually, he leaves the stage with his face being as red as a tomato.

You didn’t mind his rather poor performance, as you keep telling him that he did a fantastic job.

Doppio is overwhelmed by your kind-hearted words and blushes even more.

You like his adorable expression and decide to give the man a peck on the cheek.

The Italian is over the moon by your touch, eyes beaming with glee (and not noticing the dark stares of the other competitors which are comparable to daggers).

“Calm down Doppio! You can do this, the boss gave you permission, you can impress Y/N!”

“Doppio, you are so cute!” “Y-You really think so?”

Now, after everyone has sung at least one song (except for Kars who still thinks karaoke is stupid), you are left with the decision to crown one winner. Nervously, you bite on your lip. How could you choose one? You genuinely enjoyed everyone’s performance. You don’t want to hurt the others feelings by saying one was better than the rest… You stand there thinking, all of the men staring at you expectantly. Some of them have already provoked tensions (notably Dio) by saying, they are obviously the best and therefore deserve your praise and attention alone. No matter how you decide, there will be a fight afterwards…

#jjba #yandere jjba #yandere jjba x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure #yandere #jojo #jojoxreader #jojo villains #christmas #karaoke #fluff #tw: yandere

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spoondrifts · 4 years

Text

long post ahead I'm sorry-

crack au where Jonah Magnus is a good guy but everything keeps going wrong and he spends all of his time running around trying to stop his employees from diving headfirst into their Fuck Up™ of the week

in this au Jonah is almost entirely incompetent but he's got the exasperated parent thing down enough to make up for his lack of braincells

he's also at least 7% dumber than he is in canon

s1 Jon: please call pest control there are so many worms

s1 Elias: I already did

Jon: and??

Elias: they ate them

Jon: the worms?

Elias: the pest control guys. the worms ate them

Elias spends the entirety of season 2 desperately trying to convince Jon that none of them killed Gertrude (in this au Gertrude just had a stroke or something in the tunnels). Elias stops Jon from destroying the table but a week later something heavy falls on it and the NotThem escapes anyway. Elias bashes in Leitner's head with a pipe after mistaking him for the monster and Jon gets framed.

now Elias has to convince this hunter that Jon is innocent while Jon runs around and harasses various fear avatars (who are all very amused with Elias' wayward Archivist). Jon assumes Elias knows nothing about all this bullshit because Elias is just his weird and uptight boss who accidentally killed someone, he can't possibly know that there are literally fear gods ruling over them

olive ⚰ has named the group 'Avatars ✨'

JMagnus 👀: Jude please don't hurt him. I'll explain everything when he gets back to the Institute.

🔥: too late

JMagnus 👀: What?

🔥: too late

🔥: burned him

[JMagnus 👀 is typing]

JMagnus 👀: Where is he now.

🔥: going to mike

JMagnus 👀: Mike Crew???

🔥: ya

Elias RACES to Mike's house but he. he fucking misses them. the Beholding helpfully tells him that they're all going back to the Institute so Basira and Daisy can interrogate him, which isn't ideal, he'd really like to not go to jail, so he drafts up an employment contract on the way back and barely manages to escape the whole thing with his life intact.

then he explains everything to Jon because if Jon is going to end up being the Archivist, being uninformed won't do. Jon becomes the Archivist completely on accident and Elias is desperately trying to make all of this work because, haha, the Unknowing is coming up, and Elias is not in the fucking mood to deal with clowns.

olive ⚰ has named the group 'all that is terror uwu'

spidey🕸: lmfaooo jonah how do you make an archivist on accident

JMagnus 👀: He stumbled into it. All I can do now is ensure he doesn't die.

JMagnus 👀: Or get further injured by the rest of you.

🔥: woops

🎭: hEy gUyS lOnG tiMe nO sEe

🎭: gEt iT eLiAs

🎭: sEe

JMagnus 👀: Beholding puns are not amusing from a manifestation of the Stranger.

🎭 has named the group 'eLiAs bE niCe tO niKoLa cHaLlEnGe'

🔥: haha

spidey🕸: I'm sure Nikola will be on her best behavior

🎭: yEaH i wOnT kiDnAp yOuR aRcHiViSt

[JMagnus 👀 is typing]

mike n ike: hey guys what'd I miss

🔥: arent you dead

mike n ike: yeh but I came back

JMagnus 👀: NIKOLA ORSINOV WHERE IS JONATHAN SIMS

🔥: can't you see haha

mike n ike: heh "see"

JMagnus 👀: NIKOLA

spidey🕸: wow he must be pissed

spidey🕸: he left out the punctuation

JMagnus 👀: I WILL BREAK ALL OF YOUR PLASTIC BONES WHERE'S MY ARCHIVIST

🎭 has left the chat.

JMagnus 👀: what the FUCK

since he's still a coward Elias sends Michael to go fetch Jon, only finding out after the fact that he very nearly almost signed Jon's death warrant. Elias is now speedrunning Jon's development because fuck the Unknowing is coming up really quickly and Tim is a self destructive mess and Melanie keeps trying to stab Elias and Martin is a pining idiot and goddammit he didn't sign up for this

Elias prepares Jon the best he can for the Unknowing, because even though he knows the ritual will fail, the Circus can still cause a considerable amount of damage and he needs them out of the way.

the Unknowing happens. Jon ends up in a wack ass coma, Tim is dead, Daisy's in the coffin, and Basira is starting to look like the better choice of Archivist because jesus christ Jon has no self preservation instinct. Elias doesn't get arrested this time around but his ex husband starts coming by the Institute and fucking with all his employees. and the Flesh is attacking. jesus. goddamn.

olive ⚰ has named the group 'bully elias'

JMagnus 👀: Why are you all so mean to me? I'm arguably the nicest one here.

🔥: ur joking right

Peter Lukas: you're not nice you didn't buy me an anniversary gift 😢😢😢

JMagnus 👀: I was busy.

Peter Lukas: doing what

JMagnus 👀: Stopping the Flesh from destroying my Institute. Besides, you didn't remember my birthday.

Peter Lukas: you're 200 years old how could I remember 😓

helen!!!!!: We All Know I'm The Nicest One Here!!

JMagnus 👀: How did you make your text that colorful?

helen!!!!!: IDK

JMagnus 👀: Liar.

helen!!!!!: That's Literally My Job

olive ⚰: hey eli your archivist just woke up I think

🔥: ew why

helen!!!!!: How Delightful!! Maybe I'll Throw Him A Glad You're Alive Party!!

olive ⚰: should we invite him to this chat since he's an avatar now

Peter Lukas: no 🙅 🚫❌

Peter Lukas: I hate archivists 😤😤

olive ⚰: still mad about gertrude huh

🔥: were all still mad about gertrude

🔥: but jons fine once you burn some manners into him

JMagnus 👀: Can you all please stop hurting Jon? Or talking about hurting him? I would like my Archivist to not acquire any more scars.

🔥: damn

Peter Lukas: damn 😔

Elias keeps trying to teach Jon how to pick certain victims to feed off of because personally he has no qualms about feeding from innocents but Jon!! actually trusts him!!! so Elias doesn't want to push Jon into making decisions that will offend his moral sensitivities.

things are actually going okay for a while. Elias starts going home at a reasonable time in the evenings and Jon is actually getting some sleep. and then-

Elias is having a nice dream about Peter trying to fish Simon Fairchild out of a sky filled with eyes when he abruptly sits up in bed, wide awake.

"Ah, fuck," he says to Peter, who is laying on the floor where it is Lonelier™. "Jon's doing something stupid. I Know it."

Peter's mumbled "isn't he always" goes unnoticed as Elias hurries to the Institute, where he finds a fucking rib on Jon's desk and the coffin in the middle of the room.

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'archivists ruin my sleep schedule and my sex life'

JMagnus 👀: What the fuck do I do?? I can't go into the Buried! Why is Jon so stupid? I didn't know he had zero braincells when I hired him!

🔥: ngl why havent you fired him yet

JMagnus 👀: Beholding won't let me. We're all bound to the Institute.

🔥: F

JMagnus 👀: Why are there no Buried avatars in here? Please someone help me.

mike n ike: lol the buried is gross why would anyone go down there

spidey🕸: does he have an anchor?

[JMagnus 👀 sent an image]

🔥: is that a fucking rib

spidey🕸: wow that's not a good anchor at all

spidey🕸: he needs someone he loves

JMagnus 👀: Thanks. Gtg.

spidey🕸: np

🔥: are we not going to talk about his rib

🔥: how the fuck did he get that out of his body

🔥: yall

🔥: YALL

it takes three days for Elias to find Martin.

"Please tell me why the fuck you're dabbling in the Lonely," Elias says as Martin steps sheepishly out of the fog.

"Ah. Well. Jon can't See into it very well and sometimes we like to spice up our se-"

"Stop before I have to gouge my eyes out again."

"A-Again-?"

Elias drags Martin back to the Institute. Martin starts setting tapes on the coffin because "Jon loves these" and Elias starts bashing his head into the wall.

Jon climbs out of the coffin with Daisy and Elias almost considers locking Jon in his office so the damn archivist can't do anything else ridiculous. instead, Elias very calmly takes Jon by the shoulders, and shakes him like a rag doll.

"Stop fucking with entities, you stupid, stupid man," Elias says, shaking Jon more viciously now.

after several hours of breathing exercises Elias returns to his house and doesn't take his Sight off of Jon for the rest of the night, which is a fun experience for Peter when he wakes up and finds Elias' bloodshot eyes staring directly at him in the morning.

JMagnus 👀 added Daisy to 'archivists ruin my sleep schedule and my sex life'

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'archivist hate club'

JMagnus 👀 has named the chat 'shut up peter'

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'you love jon more than me'

JMagnus 👀 has named the chat 'I don't love either of you I'm heartless'

Peter Lukas has named the chat 'I want a divorce'

spidey🕸: jeez take your marital dispute elsewhere

spidey🕸 has named the chat 'lonelyeyes dni'

Daisy: wtf is this

mike n ike: it's a chat for avatars

mike n ike: and ex avatars ig

Daisy: didn't I kill you

mike n ike: yea

JMagnus 👀: Hello, Daisy. Welcome to the group chat.

Daisy: why is Jon not in here

Peter Lukas: because I hate him 😁

spidey🕸: Elias talks mad shit in here and Jon would get offended

Daisy: if you talk bad about Jon I'll rip your throat out

Daisy: :)

JMagnus 👀: Noted.

mike n ike: he's kinda rude tho

Daisy: I've killed you once

Elias' only goal now is to keep Jon and his assistants from pulling any more wild stunts without his supervision. his renewed involvement with the archival staff results in a few things he'd hoped to avoid: drink invites, physical contact (Martin is surprisingly quick to start hugging Elias once he realizes Elias won't stop him), and- shudder -feelings. because Elias genuinely cares about his staff and doesn't want any harm to befall them. especially Jon. Jon is his Archivist, the only one to ever succeed like this, and Elias will be damned if he lets anything happen to him.

"Why do you care?" Jon asks, once, compulsion thrumming like static on his tongue. "About us, I mean. I would've assumed you'd want to perform the Beholding's ritual."

Jonah Magnus attempted the Watcher's Crown once, when he was young and new. he'd brought his patron close, but not all the way through, and the backlash of power killed all the inmates at Millbank and severely crippled Jonah's connection to the Eye for months afterward. he grew to assume that the Beholding simply preferred the world as it was--ripe with fear for watching. it didn't need a ritual.

he instead dedicated himself to growing stronger, cultivating his Institute of knowledge, his stronghold. if he tore out a few people's eyes when he got too old, then, well, collateral. but he doesn't want the world to end, and knows now that no ritual will ever succeed unless it brings in all the Powers at once. and he doesn't want that either.

it's concerning to him that Jon seems to be collecting marks regardless. the only ones he's missing are the Dark and the Lonely, and Elias is determined to keep it that way.

he explains all of this to Jon who, to his credit, takes it pretty well. Jon is fascinated with historic life and Elias spends some time simply recounting tales of his youth, when he still bore the name Magnus.

they bond. it's good.

and one day Basira does a little too much research and discovers the dark sun waiting in Ny Alesund. she insists they need to go and see what's left of the People's Church, they need to ensure everything is taken care of. Jon is rather insistent too. and Elias wouldn't have been inclined to let them go, except Peter was finally home after weeks at sea, and it wasn't like Jon was defenseless, he could call Elias if anything went wrong...

so, very reluctantly, Elias gives them the all clear. Basira, Jon, and Martin head north, and Elias almost forgets they've gone when he arrives home and Peter already has dinner prepared.

Jon comes back marked by the Dark.

Elias curses himself, over and over, for being foolish enough to let them go, for not keeping a closer eye on them. he knows the ritual won't work unless a certain incantation is spoken, so he'll just have to keep world-ending written chants away from Jon. easy. and it's not like Jon will even get marked by the Lonely. Peter wouldn't.

(but Martin doesn't have the same level of control, and sometimes...)

it's an accident. Martin and Jon are testing it, pushing the boundaries, when Martin pulls them both into the Lonely. Elias threatens divorce until Peter caves and fetches them, but it's too late. Jon has been marked by all fourteen Powers.

Elias tells him, and warns him to check everything he reads.

helen!!!!! has named the chat 'apocalypse babey'

JMagnus 👀: How are you doing that?

JMagnus 👀: And the apocalypse is not imminent. I have the situation under control.

olive ⚰: ha yeah

JMagnus 👀: What do you mean by that?

olive ⚰: nothing

JMagnus 👀: Well, now I certainly think it's something.

olive ⚰: it's just

olive ⚰: don't you think it's kinda weird that @spidey🕸 has been offline for so long

🔥: thats weird shes always online

JMagnus 👀: Oliver, what are you implying?

olive ⚰: idk

olive ⚰: just weird, that's all

🔥: never good when the spiders are quiet

olive ⚰: hear hear

Elias gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, and beside him, Peter looks alarmed. meanwhile, in his flat with Martin making tea in the other room, Jon has a statement clutched in his grasp.

Hello, Jon.

I would apologize for the deception, but I'm afraid that's quite what I'm good at. I'm not one to monologue, that's more Jonah's shtick, so shall we get on with things?

I admit I underestimated Jonah Magnus. He's still remarkably easy to manipulate, but when he abandoned the Watcher's Crown ritual I knew I would have to take a different approach. The Mother is not so satisfied with the world as she may have insinuated. It is our turn to rise, Jon.

At the age of eight, you were marked by us. We sent you to the Magnus Institute in the hopes that a new Archivist would rekindle Jonah's desire to end the world. Unfortunately, it seemed as though he grew fond of you, and so we brought in a new plan. We marked you. One fear at a time. Jonah gave an admirable attempt at protecting you, but ultimately, he is an incompetent old fool, and I am a Weaver. Even Jonah Magnus dances to invisible strings.

Everyone underestimates a spider until it bites. Poison is poison, Jon, regardless of the medium in which it is served.

You will be safe in this new world. Martin, too. Perhaps even Jonah and his Lukas, if the Mother deems them worthy.

Now, please repeat after me...

Jon reads the ink scratched words, eyes welling up with tears and hands trembling, as thunder crashes outside and a howling gale picks up beyond the windows. Martin is shouting something, there's the crawling press of Elias' gaze as it rests heavy behind Jon, a silent observer. He can feel Elias' soothing presence, cool and calm in the raging storm.

Elias is still watching out for him.

Strings are wrapped around his wrists, jerking his arms up in a poor mockery of religious regard, strange hysterical laughter clawing out from his throat.

Jon's tears run red. Somewhere, Elias is still watching.

The door opens.

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adenei · 3 years

Text

Fake It Til You Make It - Ch. 2

AO3 || FFN

(”I want to be a musician, okay?”)

“Hi Mum! Hi Aunt Muriel. If you’ll just excuse me, I’m quite knackered. I’m going to go—” Ginny tried to skirt by them and make her way up the stairs.

“Not so fast, Ginevra,” Aunt Muriel said with her nose up in the air. “We have matters to discuss.”

“Aunt Muriel, I know what you’re here for, and with all due respect, being a debutante is not who I am or who I want to be. I want to play football, not dress in layers of tulle and whatever that stuff under the skirt is called,” Ginny tried to explain for the hundredth time.

“Crinoline,” her mother corrected her. “Ginny, just sit down and hear your aunt out. Please?” Her mum was giving her a look that Ginny knew not to defy, no matter how rotten she was feeling.

“Ginevra, I’m well aware that the debutante lifestyle does not fit your...personality, but I am here to offer you a deal,” Aunt Muriel began.

Ginny raised her eyebrows, knowing her aunt always drove a hard bargain. She wondered what was in it for her since Muriel always had a trick up her sleeve to manipulate those to get her way. Unfortunately, being the only Weasley daughter meant there was no one else she could persuade to take her place.

“If you participate in the season, without complaint, I will pay the boarding fees for you to stay on campus at Beauxbatons this year.”

Ginny couldn’t keep her jaw from dropping. Her aunt never offered anything like this. Why was it so important to Muriel for Ginny to participate in the debutante season? Aside from the fact that she was the prime age to participate, it was often a way for the teens to find a partner, one of class, and better standing. Honestly, the whole thing was bloody archaic, and she had no idea why it still existed.

That’s when it hit her. She was a bargaining chip. Muriel would use her to ‘restore her family’s ‘place’ in society. You’ve got to be kidding me, Ginny thought. Sure, her parents didn’t make a ton of money, but they got by. Ron had just received a full scholarship to attend Hogwarts for their music program, and all of her older brothers were proving successful in their lines of work. They didn’t need Ginny to become a pawn in some ruddy game her aunt wanted to play.

“At the very least, please think about it, Ginevra. You are a natural beauty, and you could perform quite well if you allowed yourself to take a chance. As your family’s only daughter, you owe it to them to partake in at least one season. And, since that blasted football team has been disbanded, you’ve got nothing standing in your way this year.”

Anger flowed through her veins as Ginny felt as though she was going to explode. So her aunt had been behind eliminating the girl’s football team! All as a power play so that Muriel could live vicariously through Ginny. This was all so unfair! She needed the professional teams to start scouting her this year, and now all her chances were being thrown out the window at becoming a professional football player because her bloody aunt wanted her to become a debutante.

“No,” Ginny said fervently.

There was absolutely no way she was going to let Aunt Muriel manipulate her life. Not in a million years. Her mother put her head in her hands, and Ginny felt terrible for a moment. Mum would understand, though. Ginny had goals and plans for her future, none of which involved becoming a debutante or a trophy wife. That was not who she was, nor would she ever be.

Aunt Muriel let out a long sigh. “I had a feeling you’d say that. You’re lucky I won’t be deterred so easily. I will give you two days to think about this, Ginevra. Perhaps you’ll change your mind. What else are you going to do this school year without that useless sport?”

“It’s not a useless sport, Aunt Muriel!” Ginny argued.

“Be that as it may, I know how much you’d love to live on campus with your friends. I can give you that experience. You have my number if you change your mind.” There was an air of finality in Muriel’s voice that told Ginny the conversation was over.

“Does that mean I can be excused now?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Her mother nodded exasperatedly as Ginny stormed up the stairs. She tossed her things in her own room before heading up to the house’s top floor, where Ron’s attic room was. They both shared a mutual hatred for Aunt Muriel, and if anyone would understand her frustration, it was him.

Ginny walked into Ron’s room and immediately started venting. “Ugh! I can’t believe her nerve” Ron jumped.

“Whose nerve?”

“Aunt Muriel! Showing up here with those ridiculous dresses and trying to bribe me into joining the debutante season! I even think she had a hand in disbanding the girl’s football team at Beauxbatons. Can you believe it?”

“That’s ridiculous, Gin. There’s no way she has that much influence, even if she’s vindictive enough to do what it takes to get her way.”

“Why are you not more upset about this?”

“I am! I’m just, er, busy,” Ron said.

“Busy with what? Is that a bag you’re packing? I thought you weren’t leaving for Hogwarts until Monday.”

“I, er,” Ron stammered.

“Ron, what are you planning?” Ginny said as she closed his bedroom door.

Despite being polar opposites, they never kept anything from each other. She always knew when he was up to something, and he knew the same.

He rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine, but you can’t tell anyone!” he warned.

“When have I ever given away your secrets before? You know you can trust me.”

“I’m going to be a bit late for the start of term at Hogwarts.”

“Why?” Ginny asked skeptically.

“I’ve been invited to this music competition in Germany. It’s for two weeks, but I have to go, Gin.”

“But you just got a full ride to Hogwarts for your music! Won’t you be jeopardizing that if you take off for two weeks instead of starting on time?”

“Not if someone covers for me and says I’m sick or something. Maybe I’ve got mono or the flu, or...” he shrugged, not bothering to put more thought into a plan.

Not that she wanted to change the topic, but his mention of the ‘kissing’ disease reminded Ginny of her run-in with Lavender. “Speaking of, have you talked to your wretched girlfriend lately?”

Ron winced. “Er, no, I’ve been avoiding her.”

“You don’t say. Must be why I got ambushed on my way back from school. If you’re going to chuck her, then you might as well do it sooner rather than later.”

“Eh, I’ll take care of it when I get back.”

“I don’t understand you. If Mum and Dad find out, they’ll pull you out of Hogwarts before you even have a chance to start!”

“So don’t let them find out. Please, Gin! I need to do this! This could be my shot at getting my music out there. It’s not that I don’t want to explore the classical route, but I don’t know how much I’m going to be able to focus on my own music at school.” Ron was begging Ginny now.

“How? I don’t suppose I could just dress up and pose as you for two weeks,” Ginny said in a bewildered tone.

Despite how ridiculous the statement sounded, the idea hit her full force. But there was no way she’d be able to pull it off, was there? Probably not. Unless….

“I don’t care how you do it. You just need to make sure Mum and Dad don’t find out. I’m going to tell them the auditions are tomorrow, so I’m leaving today. My flight leaves in five hours, so I have to get going.”

“How are you even paying for all of this?”

“I’m staying at a hostel once I’m there, but Bill lent me money for the flight. I can pay him back if I place in the competition, and if not, then I’ll find a part-time job to pay him back.” Ron hoisted his bag on his back. “Listen, Ginny, I’ve got to go. The bus to London leaves in a half hour, so I really have to go.” He stuck one leg out his open window.

“Why are you going out the window,” she asked him slowly.

“Because Mum and Dad thought I left hours ago. I owe you one, alright?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Just let me know when you get there, okay? And don’t get into any more trouble.”

“Thanks, Gin, you’re the best!” Ron said as he disappeared down the makeshift fire escape.

As Ginny watched him go, the wheels were turning in her mind. Ron was leaving for two weeks. That was just enough time for her to pose as her brother and make the Hogwarts team. Then, she could play in the Beauxbatons game and stick it to Coach Snape and Michael when Hogwarts won.

She’d show everyone that she was just as good as the boys! Now, how could she just disappear from the house for two weeks? And that’s when it hit her: Aunt Muriel’s offer. She could totally juggle the boy’s training schedule and the debutante program. It’d be tricky, but doable. And she wouldn’t have to try that hard with Ron’s schedule. It’d only be a week of classes, and hopefully, she could fudge her way through the music courses.

I can totally do this, Ginny thought. She headed down the stairs to see if Aunt Muriel was still there to change her answer, and if all went well, she’d be on her way to visit Fred and George next.

#hp muggle au #she's the man inspired #hinny #ginny weasley

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notsowrites · 3 years

Text

believe in something again

a moment between maria, jenna, and greg that’s referenced in chapter three of anchored home in an interstellar sea

(AO3 Link)

----------

Maria stared at the soulmark on her wrist.

She knew what it meant, she'd seen Liz's enough growing up to recognize what it was. But there was something off about her own.

Liz's soulmark resembled a constellation, with points connecting them that acted as the stars in the sky. When they were younger, before she and Alex left Roswell and left her all alone, they'd sit on the roof of the Crashdown and talk for hours about the future and if all of them would end up with soulmarks one day.

Maria never let it show how much it had hurt that day when they'd been seventeen and Alex had revealed his own soulmark. There had been other things going on that she could focus her attention on, but in the back of her mind, hidden deep away, Maria felt a pang of jealousy that her two best friends had soulmarks, had soulmates, and she didn't.

There were always potentials, but none of them ever ended up the real thing. She'd felt stupid as a kid, believing that she and Alex would grow up and get married some day - even though no soulmark ever appeared. Because she did love him, more than anyone else, but apparently the universe had other plans.

Jenna had been a surprise and a revelation for her - because though she'd always thought of herself as straight, despite what she was beginning to understand had been a longtime crush on Rosa. And flirting with Jenna, talking with her, spending time with her - it was fun, and there had been something there that made Maria feel a pull towards her. She'd found herself wondering what it would be like to run her fingers across the skin of Jenna's arm, what it would feel like to kiss her lips and pull their bodies together.

She'd been a bundle of nerves the first time they'd spent time together, nervous about doing something wrong or acting the fool. And she hadn’t quite understood why, until after they’d spent the night at the drive-in, their knees bumping as they sat on the tailgate of Maria’s truck, when Maria had driven Jenna back to her house, and they’d awkwardly stood outside the door saying their goodnights. And there had been a rush of want that had flown through her, to lean forward and kiss Jenna Cameron, and so she’d given in, checking with her as she went, their eyes locked as Maria pressed their lips together.

She hadn’t noticed the appearance of the soulmark on her wrist until she’d gotten home and was getting ready for bed. But there it had been, dark lines standing out against the skin of her wrist, staring back at her, as if telling her that she’d been ridiculous all those years ago to think she’d never get a soulmate or a soulmark - she’d just been looking in the wrong place and at the wrong person.

But this soulmark of hers didn’t look complete. It was as if something was still missing, and Maria didn’t understand why. She’d found her soulmate, hadn’t she?

She sat at the table in Jenna’s kitchen, wrist held out in front of her, staring at it, fingertip tracing along the lines, wondering why it was so different from what she thought it should look like.

Greg was staying in Jenna’s spare bedroom, recovering from the gunshot wound to his abdomen, and yet his entire presence didn’t feel like an imposition. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt like he belonged here with them, and she didn’t know how to explain it. Maybe it was just that she knew him, that they’d grown up together. An existing familiarity.

“You feel it too,” Jenna said as she walked into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter.

Maria’s head shot up to look at her, dropping her hand and flipping her wrist around, like she needed to hide the mark, hide what she'd just been doing. She was still getting used to the changes the soulbond made, the openness at which you could have with your soulmate - the sharing of those thoughts of emotions, letting them flow openly between you, a secret language only soulmates shared.

“I don’t know what I feel,” she replied, because it was the truth. “He’s Alex’s brother, we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

Jenna smiled, sliding into the seat next to her at the table, and taking her hand, the physical touch calming something inside her instantly. She watched as Jenna twisted their hands to expose the soulmarks on the inside of their wrists, a finger tracing along the incomplete lines on Maria's skin, the touch lingering, a single focal point for her to concentrate on.

"That's not an answer."

Maria ducked her head, because she didn't understand it, how Jenna was able to read her so easily. Did it come with being soulmates, the more innate ability to understand the other person? She thought about Michael and Alex, the revelation that Alex had spent the past decade with a tight hold over the bond, believing it was the right thing to do. Maria had found she couldn't even be angry at him, that he'd made that decision. Even now that she knew and understood what having that bond felt like, she'd listened to him talk about his fears and insecurities, his reasons for making the decision he did.

"If you're worried about me-"

Maria shakes her head, pushing up slightly from her chair to lean over and press their lips together. "No, it's not - it's something else. It's like he belongs here. With us."

As the words left her mouth, the floor creaked from off to the right, and both her and Jenna glanced over to see Greg standing in the hallway watching. Jenna jumped up, immediately going to help him, but he shrugged her off.

Maria realized he'd been staring at her and hadn't looked away yet.

"Remember when you and Alex made that pact that one day the two of you would get married?" Greg leaned against the counter, hands braced onto the edges of the marble to hold himself up. "The two of you were so inseparable, I think I was always a little jealous."

Maria smiled, thinking of those days as kids. Back before Alex came out, when the idea of them getting married one day still seemed possible. Marrying Alex one day seemed a foregone conclusion in her mind as a child, inevitable that one day she would become a member of the Manes family. Greg had never been involved in their group, he had his own friends, his own activities - what had there been to be jealous of?

"You were always so sure of yourself, even when we were kids," Greg continued, and Maria realized there was a slight blush to his cheeks. "But you only ever had eyes for Alex. And I've always been a little bit in love with you."

She feels like a fool suddenly - she had been so in love with Alex, had she overlooked Greg completely?

It's then that Maria realizes it's just the two of them, Jenna having disappeared somewhere else in the house.

In the weeks since the soulmark showed up, she's always been aware of Jenna's presence around her or near her - something she attributed to the soulbond. A kind of soulmate intuition, she assumed. So losing focus on Jenna now, when it was just her and Greg in the room, Maria immediately wondered if that was what she'd been referring to earlier, that feeling Jenna had asked her about.

There's something she needs an answer to now however.

Maria stands up and makes her way toward Greg, standing in front of him as he stares back, having kept his focus on her since appearing in the kitchen. They haven't touched, she realizes - perhaps somehow they never have, but there is something inside her begging for it now. A need pulsing through her, pressing up against the bond that she has with Jenna already.

You feel it too .

She surges forward, capturing Greg's lips with her own, remembering what it's like to kiss someone with stubble, feeling the barest of whiskers above his lips. Maria is careful to place a hand on his waist, but nowhere near where he’d been shot, not wanting to cause him pain of any sort. She feels a hand slide into her hair, fingertips pressing gently against her scalp, and she melts into the contact.

Pulling away, she feels Greg wrap a hand around her wrist, turning it so they can both look at it, watching as the lines fill in across her skin. It doesn't feel like anything, she doesn't feel the movement of her soulmark as it becomes whole, as the same constellation works its way across the skin of his wrist as well.

She watches as he leans over, gently pressing a kiss to the mark, her body suddenly a live wire of want and need and understanding. But there's apprehension, the need to stop every feeling surging through the bond, to discuss this, discuss them .

"You?" Maria asks, finding her voice finally.

Gently, she pushes against him, hands drifting up to hold his face, staring at him and needing him to listen. Maybe she'd just picked the wrong Manes when she was younger, mistaken her pull towards Alex - it didn't diminish anything about their friendship, every bit of love and trust between them. But maybe it'd been Greg she'd been pulled toward this entire time.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Years of bad dates and even worse relationships, never feeling like she's been able to truly connect with anyone. Even with Michael, no matter how much she'd enjoyed herself during the time they'd dated, it had always felt like deep down something had been missing. And now, seeing Michael and Alex together, seeing Liz and Max together, she had started to realize how much she'd been searching for something like that of her own.

Until Jenna. Until now.

"I thought you'd say no."

Maria smiles, unable to hold back, pushing forward again and kissing Greg, pulling their bodies closer together as she goes. She feels his hands dip down, circling her waist to pull her against him, and Maria adjusts her stance, moving one leg between Greg's, wondering if he's feeling the same as she is.

Greg answers by switching their positions, and Maria pushes herself up onto the counter, pushing her legs apart and pulling Greg between them, arms wrapped around his neck, their bodies flush together as their lips collide again.

With Jenna, they'd been slow and quiet, something tentative and new. They'd spent the night exploring each other's bodies, hands clasped and fingers dancing as their limbs tangled together. They'd learned how to bring each other to the brink, to reach that highest high, and fallen asleep wrapped up in each other afterwards.

Now, she watches as Greg slides her panties down her legs, and quickly leans forward, pushing his sweatpants and boxers down, releasing him from his confines and taking him in hand, shifting to try and line him up. His hand brushes against hers, and she lets him take over as he gently pushes forward, and she tightens her grip around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder as he pushes into her. The feeling of being filled excites her, and Maria reaches down between them, fingers rubbing gently against herself.

For a moment they stay still, adjusting and just feeling each other, and Maria presses a quick kiss to Greg's lips, before urging him forward with her legs, her ankles hooked together around his back.

"Impatient," he laughs, pulling out slightly before thrusting forward. "Did Jenna have to deal with this?"

Maria laughs into the skin of his shoulder, shaking her head as Greg finds a pace, the feeling of him moving inside her, rubbing up against that spot that will send over the edge. The bond is aflame with emotions and desire, overwhelming her as she tries to hold on, her orgasm building and inching closer.

It's subtle as she feels Jenna enter into the mix, as if feeling out the emotions, before Maria feels a hand running up the length of her leg. Their mouths meet in a kiss as Greg continues his thrusts, and Maria is barely able to concentrate as Jenna climbs up on the counter, straddling her from behind, a hand reaching around, fingers sliding between her legs, taking over where Maria is touching herself.

Overwhelmed by the sensations, she rides out her climax clutching to Greg, Jenna pressed up tightly against her back, feeling as Greg finishes a moment later. None of them move for a moment, as Maria feels Greg slip out of her, stepping back and Jenna keeps them close - the physical contact exactly what she needs. She lets Jenna pull her hand back, fingers gently wrapped around the wrist with her soulmark, not seeing but feeling as Jenna presses her lips to it, sending a thrill down her spine and through the bond.

"And Greg, to answer your question, she was just as impatient our first time as well."

#roswell new mexico #roswell nm fic #maria x greg x jenna #notso writes fanfic #notso writes a soulmate au

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ineverlookavvay · 4 years

Text

wedding bell blues

Set during the lost decade. Isobel's getting married and Michael is trying his best to be happy for her.

Fic prompt: The Lost Decade/ “We are a family.” - Day 4 of Michael Guerin Week 2020

Read it on Ao3

Michael was wearing a tie. And yes, contrary to Isobel’s prediction, he both hated it and felt stupid. He wasn’t even sure why he’d been forced into this ridiculous suit, since he wasn’t part of the wedding party, and it’s not like a tie would convince anyone that he was someone else for this one Saturday.

Not only was he wearing a tie, but he wasn’t even late, he was actually early. Not that it mattered, since everyone who might have cared about whether and when Michael got there was off in some dressing room. Michael wasn’t upset that he wasn’t part of the wedding; he barely knew Noah and spending a lot of time with Max wouldn’t have been good for either of them, and besides, he wasn’t really cut out for responsibilities like that. He was fine just being there as a normal guest, supporting Isobel and hopefully drinking his weight in free alcohol.

He slid into an empty pew on the bride’s side of the chapel, placing his hat on the pew next to him, and taking a surreptitious drink from the flask of mixed whiskey and acetone. He tugged ineffectively at his collar held too tightly by his tie, looking over the program he’d been handed at the door. It was white, with a tasteful border of flowers and gold foil print. The pews had been decorated with white ribbons and flowers, and there was a string quartet getting set up near the dais. Michael hated everything about it.

Well, he liked the part where Isobel got to be happy. He pretty much had to, considering he’d sacrificed any possibility of his own happiness to ensure Isobel’s. Being here at her wedding was just like collecting on a promise, seeing it through.

Michael watched people filter into the chapel, shifting restlessly when his ass started to protest the hard wooden seat and absently folding his program into complicated shapes. At least he had his flask—the ceremony would have been impossible without it. He watched Mrs. Evans and some older people who had to be her parents come in, heads held high, followed by what Michael assumed were Noah’s family, people he’d never met before. They all sat in the front two rows, peeling back ribbons reserving those seats. Michael’s seat hadn’t been saved—he was in the back pews with the other plebs.

He’d stayed close to the aisle, both in case he needed a quick getaway and because he wanted to make sure Isobel knew he was there, that he would never have skipped this. Michael hadn’t been to a wedding before, but it was a lot like sitting through Sunday church services, a memory he had to consciously push aside, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth.

Isobel was the only thing that made it all okay. She looked gorgeous, little pearls in her hair and a form-fitting dress with a long train, made of chiffon or silk or one of those other fabrics that fancy dresses were made out of. And she was glowing, walking with Mr. Evans down the aisle looking like the very picture of a blushing bride, the version that lived in bridal magazines and Better Homes and Gardens. She grinned through the lace of her veil when she passed Michael, and he grinned back, giving her a subtle thumbs up.

Michael thought that if he ever got married, he wouldn’t want a fuss like this. He wouldn’t want the falseness of religion, or the uncomfortable clothing, or the hard pews. He would want to just be wearing his normal clothes, maybe a nicer shirt than usual; and he’d want it to be quiet—a quiet exchange of vows; and he’d want it to be outside, at night, so they could see the stars. He could almost picture it…except there was no fucking point, was there? Michael wasn’t “marriage material,” everyone said that, thinking he couldn’t hear, and the only person he’d ever thought about promising his time and love to was long gone.

The rest of the chapel sat down as Isobel reached the altar, taking Noah’s hand, and Michael threw himself back to the mercy of the pew, hoping the ceremony would be short, at least.

It was short enough, although in Michael’s opinion, it could have been shorter. He didn’t pay that much attention, either, especially not to the droning clergyman. He did watch when Isobel said her vows, when she held out her finger for a ring, when they kissed. She looked happy, and that was important, and Michael was happy for her. He didn’t openly weep, like the woman sitting in the pew next to him, but he felt his heart swell for her.

He was more than ready for it when the ceremony ended, and he could stand up from the terrible pew and put his hat back on and get out of the stuffy chapel air into the heat of the day. Isobel’s reception was at a place just a short drive away—an old barn building transformed into a brick and treated-wood hipster-paradise, adorned with white ribbon and twinkling fairy lights and more flowers than had any right to be in the middle of the desert. There was a patio area set up outside, too, with benches that looked off into the west, primed for photos of the sunset. It was a little too well-manicured for Michael’s taste, not real enough to hold onto, even the beams across the ceiling were intentionally chipped, and not structural.

Michael looked over the table seating cards quickly—he knew he wasn’t sitting with Max and the rest of the party, and Isobel and Noah had their own table, which put him at the odd man out table—the one that was all singles, people who were friends but not enough to land anywhere else. It was fine, it was the right place for him to be seated, but Michael wished it had been different—wished he’d been able to be part of the family, to sit with them, to be part of Isobel’s joy, instead of watching it from across a huge room.

The saving grace of it all was the free bar. Michael waited until Isobel and Noah had come in, until he’d clapped and raised a glass to her where she could see him; and then he settled himself near the bar, sipping bourbon from a fancy glass and leaning against the wall, watching people filter in, watching hors d’oeuvres circle the room, and trying not to show how out of place he felt.

“You look like you’re having fun,” the bartender said, after Michael came back for his fourth straight bourbon. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes, a shirt that was at least one button too low, and a confident air that Michael liked, plus he poured Michael a little more every time. “Date drag you here?”

Michael smiled, looking the bartender up and down—if he could manage to get laid, that would counteract some of the pain points of the day. He scanned for a name tag. “Nope…Nick. I’m a good friend of the bride.”

Nick nodded, distractedly moving onto his next drink order, without taking his eyes off Michael. “Why aren’t you up there with the rest of them?” Michael followed the bartender’s nod towards the front of the room, where Isobel and Noah were standing in a circle of well-meaning wish-givers and family members.

“View’s better from back here,” he said, smirking and taking another sip of his drink.

“Oh yeah?” Nick asked, smoldering back at Michael as he ran his fingers none too discreetly around the neck of a bottle. Yeah, this was a good plan.

“Absolutely.” Michael noticed people sitting down at their tables, and as content as he was picturing Nick the bartender with his pants around his ankles, he figured he shouldn’t disappear while everyone else was sitting for dinner. “Working all night?” Nick nodded and Michael raised his glass in salute. “I’ll be back.”

Michael made his way obediently to the single people’s table, sitting in the only open seat, next to a girl he surprisingly didn’t recognize as one of Isobel’s high school friends, who smiled at him pleasantly when he sat down. It turned out he’d been a little premature in leaving the bar, since they weren’t officially getting food until they’d sat captivity listening to terrible speeches. Michael was just glad they hadn’t let Max give one, since he’d probably spend the whole thing lecturing them about safe sex and responsible drinking and how best to file their taxes as a married couple.

“Don’t you just love weddings?” the girl next to him stage-whispered, and it took Michael a moment to realize she was talking to him.

She looked weepy, and although at second glance she was a very attractive girl—long, black hair and an appealingly low-cut dress—he had no desire to get into an argument about how wonderful weddings were. “Yeah, weddings are…great.” Michael complimented himself on his restraint and took a big drink from his glass of bourbon.

“Just like, you never know, right? The next person you meet could be the one.”

Michael had an acidic response on his tongue before he glanced back at her and noted the appraisingly way she was looking at him. He smiled instead—maybe he didn’t hate everything about weddings.

It went downhill from there, though.

Michael kept trying to catch a moment when Isobel was alone, to give her his congratulations, but she was always surrounded by her parents, or her bridesmaids, and he couldn’t throw himself to the wolves like that. Plus, once dinner finished and everyone suddenly seemed to loosen up, Nick the bartender was too busy to sneak away, and the girl at Michael’s table was too busy dancing with some of the other single table girls to give him the time of day, although she did keep sneaking him glances. Michael, meanwhile, had lost count of how many drinks he’d had, and was starting to wonder if he really needed to stay the entire time in order for Isobel to recognize how much of an effort he’d put in.

After an especially annoying song choice by the mediocre band she’d hired, during which Michael was practically pushed out of Isobel’s path by an especially frantic aunt or something, Michael sighed and decided he needed some air.

There was almost no one out on the little patio, the sun having long set, and the air grown colder. Michael sat on one of the benches—only minimally better than a pew—and tilted his head back, staring up at the stars while his glass sweat onto his fingers. This was better—quieter—and his mind started straying back to his own fantasy wedding, which meant he was thinking about things he really, really shouldn’t be, those specific eyes and lips and rings on fingers and—

“There you are.”

Michael spun around to see Isobel coming out through the door, on her own, holding up her skirt and smiling at him like she’d actually been looking.

“Thought you might’ve left,” she said, sitting on the bench beside him.

Michael shook his head, smiling because she was smiling. “And miss the bouquet throw? Never.”

“It’s a toss, not a throw,” she said, wincing a little, “and you did miss it.”

“Damn, and I was prepared to cheat and everything.”

Isobel laughed, knocking their shoulders together. “I’m glad you came.”

“Of course I came, I wouldn’t miss your wedding, Iz.”

She beamed at him, then took his glass and took a drink from it. “So why are you sitting outside all by yourself?”

Michael took his glass back. He wasn’t sure how to tell Isobel that as much as he wanted to be here to support her, sitting in that room watching her with other people, her family, her friends, people who could be happy for her in the right way, with the right amount of real joy—something about that just made Michael feel wrong, and lonely, and the rawness of it all made him feel like he couldn’t quite breathe. He didn’t know how to tell her that he would have wanted a seat saved in the chapel, that he wouldn’t ever have skipped out on this, and that he knew she hadn’t saved him a seat because she thought he might not show, and he hated that. He didn’t know how to say that he was still on the outside, and sometimes it was just…a lot.

He was saved the difficulty by the door swinging open loudly, letting some of the conversation and the music filter out into the night. And, of course, it was Max holding open the door, peering out at them uncertainly.

“Hey, Iz, mom’s looking for you, something about a family photo?”

Michael nodded bitterly, turning away from them. Of course she was. More family photos, and Michael could just continue to stand on the sidelines and watch them all be a happy family without him.

“Seriously? Come sit down before she sees me,” Isobel said, and Michael looked back at her sharply. “Come on, you have to listen to me, I am the bride.” She raised her eyebrows in challenge and Max gave in immediately, closing the door quietly behind him. Isobel rolled her eyes and pushed Michael sideways on the bench, making room for Max on the other side of her.

“Family photos are important,” Max said, ever the good son, “you’re going to want them someday.”

Isobel snorted. “Oh, come off it. We have like a thousand photos with mom and dad from today and I’m talking to Michael.” Max shrugged, looking uncomfortable, but sat down dutifully on the bench next to her when she patted it. “Besides,” she said, wrapping one arm around Max’s shoulders and putting the other on Michael’s arm, “we are a family, and I don’t have any pictures of the three of us from today yet.”

Michael swallowed, turning back towards his glass in order to avoid looking at all affected by the sentiment. Most of the time, he thought he was annoyed by being tied down to them, but after spending the entire day watching from outside of the inner circle, and after more than a few drinks, he could admit that he wanted that—he wanted to be part of their little family, he wanted to belong somewhere. He wanted a photo with Isobel beaming in her white dress and Max looking less like James Bond in his tux than he thought and himself, wearing a tie and feeling happier for Isobel than he would ever let her know. Tomorrow he’d be annoyed, and worried, and want to be alone, but for now, he wanted to sit facing the desert, just the three of them.

Max nodded, although he looked very skeptical. “Want me to go get the photographer?”

“Nah, mom is attached to him like a magnet. You have your phone?”

Max nodded again, looking no less skeptical even as he dutifully took out his phone. “You really just want a selfie of the three of us?”

“Yes.” Isobel said it like it was a given. “Because you’re right, I will want to look back on this, on account of I look fucking great, and—”

“And I’m wearing a tie,” Michael cut in.

Isobel spread her hands demonstrably as she echoed him, “and Michael is wearing a tie.”

Max smiled, although he was clearly trying not to, and held up his phone. “Okay, fine, everyone smile.”

The flash was blinding, but Michael was smiling.

#mgweek20 #guerinweek20 #roswell new mexico #pod squad #michael guerin #isobel evans #max evans #my writing #rnm fic

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villainousshakespeare · 4 years

Note

Just one bed fluff with a character of your choosing, if it isn't taken yet?! I'm partial to Loki and Tom, but whoever floats your boat in the moment! Congratulations on 200 followers! You deserve them and more, sweetheart!

Sorry this took so long my dear! Hope it was worth the wait. I decided to do Tom for this. :-)

Kicked Out

Rated T - alcohol use, kissing, implied smut

Lots of fluff!

Tom Hiddleston/Reader

The music pulsed around you too loud for the small space. Mechanically you sipped your watered down margarita, trying to push down the depression that threatened to overcome you. If your friends back home could see you now they would be laughing at how excited you had been. Here you were, sitting alone at a hotel bar. This was not how you had envisioned things at all.

It had not all been bad of course. You loved the play you were acting in. Well, of course you did! It was Shakespeare! Even though you had only a bit role you were understudying Desdemona. And the cast was all first rate. You had already learned so much in just a few weeks! The upgrade in quality from your scrappy theater company where it was a struggle to get male performers who came anywhere near the talent level of the women such as yourself to an internationally renowned ensemble boasting genuine stars more than made up for going from playing the lead to a glorified extra.

If only you didn't find yourself feeling so cursedly shy. You had always had a bit of social anxiety, but until this tour it had never been an issue with castmates before. The theater was the one place you had always felt in your element, confident in yourself and able to mingle with everyone. You wished that were the case now.

Being assigned to room with Tisha had seemed like a wonderful stroke of luck at first. Like you she was on her first international tour, and was therefore playing several smaller parts in the ensemble. She was bubbly, outgoing, and talented, immediately drawing the attention of everyone around her. Unfortunately for you, that everyone included Michael, the actor playing Othello. He had become visibly smitten with her during the first read through, ignoring everyone else to shamelessly flirt with her whenever the opportunity presented itself. You would have been happy for her if he wasn't married with a child. The situation didn't seem to bother Tisha, who carelessly told you that she saw the whole thing more as a career move than a real relationship. What happened on the road, she breezily said, didn't effect real life, except for possibly leading to bigger roles down the line when he recommended her for future shows.

It was none of your concern, you had told yourself. They were grown adults and for all you knew he had an understanding with his wife. The problem had begun tonight, when they decided to take their relationship to the next, inevitable level. You had assumed that when this occurred, as you had guessed from the start it would, they would avail themselves of his room. After all, as one of the stars of the production he had a large room all to himself. Unfortunately for you, this did not turn out to be the case. As a married celebrity, Tisha had explained to you in hushed tones, Michael's meant had to be careful in situations such as this. He could never be seen having a woman enter his room, much less stay over night! Of course you wouldn't mind vacating your room for a while, would you? She had pleaded with big puppy eyes in a tone that clearly said she did not expect you to say no, and had somehow ushered you out the door, blithely commenting that you should be able to come back in a few hours, just knock before entering to be sure. The door shutting in your face had been cruel and final.

So here you were, sitting by yourself at the hotel bar with a bartender who looked like he would dearly love to cash you out and head home. You could have found one of the other actors to let you crash wish them, but you didn't really know anyone that well yet. The insecurity that flooded you when you thought of knocking on a virtual stranger's door and asking to sleep on their floor was too overwhelming.

"Trouble sleeping?" a voice like melted caramel asked from just over your shoulder.

You choked on your drink, splashing a bit of it onto your lap and the bar in front of you. You would have recognized that voice anywhere. You heard it often enough in your fantasies. But though it had been three weeks since you had begun working with him you still could not believe that you were now hearing it in person as well. Never in your wildest dreams had you believed that you would actually book a show with Tom Hiddleston.

Turning on your stool you saw the man himself standing behind you. He was so attractive it made you want to cry sometimes. You had come into contact with other celebrities over the years, and in almost every case seeing them up close and personal had somehow ruined the fantasy of them. In real life they had each just seemed... ordinary. With Tom, it was the exact opposite. He was handsome on screen or in pictures, in real life he was literally breathtaking. From the top of his burnished gold curls to the soles of his well worn grey boots and everywhere in between he was perfect.

"You could say that," you laughed uneasily, face turning crimson. You had never spoken to him alone before, and never anything other than vague platitudes at the end of rehearsals or addressed to a group at large.

"Me too," he said, giving you a half grin. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

What could you do but shake your head and gesture to the seat next to you. Pulling out the bar stool he folded his long, lean frame onto it, stretching his legs out. Your feet dangled like a child's from the stool, but his reached the floor with ease you noticed. Damn, but his legs were long!

"I'm always nervous before opening in a new city," he admitted, signaling for the bartender to come over. He ordered a single malt scotch and another daiquiri for you, requesting that the waiter make it with top shelf tequila.

"Still?" you asked, surprised that he would get nervous given his lengthy resume.

"Of course," he shrugged. "Never trust an actor that tells you he's not nervous. He's either lying or not pushing himself hard enough. The day my nerves go is the day I pack it in. The challenge is everything."

"Well, it's good to know it's not just me," you said quietly with a soft smile. You were nervous of course, even if that wasn't why you were there now.

"This is your first professional show, isn't it?" he asked.

You nodded, surprised that he knew. Was your acting that clunky that your lack of experience showed in just your few scenes?

"I watched your audition tape," he told you, grabbing a handful of bar nuts and arranging them on a napkin. "I wanted to come to the auditions, but Ken thought it might make people nervous. I made sure to watch all the tapes though. You were very good. The passion you put into Lady Anne was remarkable."

You blinked at him, all words deserting you. He had seen that? You were quite proud of your Lady Anne, but he was right. It was hard enough to have Kenneth Branagh watching you audition. If Tom had been in the room, you doubt you would have been able to do it.

"Thank you," you said at last after a long pause while he snacked on peanuts. "I had no idea."

"I like having a say in things like that," he shrugged. "When you're doing a show that's this intense, who you're on stage with is a big deal. Also, both Ken and I are firm believers in giving new talent an oppertunity. After all, him taking a chance on me is how I ended up with my career. What kind of person would I be if I didn't pass on the favor. I was the one who pushed for you to be Desdemona's understudy, by the way."

"Really?" you wished the word didn't come out like a squeak.

"Mhm. In fact, I thought you could have played the part. Producers wanted a name though, and I guess you can't blame them. Have to make their money back. Still, you were quite impressive."

You were saved the trouble of responding by the arrival of your drinks. Tom thanked the bartender and asked to have the drinks, including the one you had had before, charged to his room before leaving a large tip on the bar.

"Thank you again," you said, sipping on your new and much stronger drink.

"No need," he waved it off. "Othello was my big break, you know. I played Cassio in a production with Chewitel Eijifor and Ewan McGregor. It was fantastic, but I always wanted to do Iago. I try not to make dream part lists, I'm a bit superstitious that way, but now that I'm actually doing it I can admit it."

"I would think it would be on any actor's list!" you said, trying to hide the fact that of course you knew about his previous Othello, along with every other part on his lengthy cv. "I would like to tackle it myself some day."

"I would love to see that," he smiled, looking sincere. "You have a great facility with the language. And there is no reason why Iago should have to be male. I must say that I greatly appreciate that we live in a time where the gender barriers for such superb parts are beginning to break down. What other roles do you dream of tackling? I promise I won't tell a soul!"

You weren't sure whether it was the alcohol warming you or the way he smiled and listened to you like you were the only person in the world, but you soon found yourself engaged in a long discussion of Shakespeare that ranged from contentious - you would never agree on who the ultimate Richard III was, with you preferring Ian McKellan and Tom being loyal to his good friend Benedict - to the ridiculous. He had you in stitches when he recounted the story of an actor (he refused to name them) who had so completely missed an entrance on press night for Much Ado that Tom and his scene partner had to improve in verse for three minutes. When the poor man had made it onto stage, he had not had time to put his shoes back on. The review in Time Out the next day had gone on for two paragraphs about the social commentary of having a barefooted Don Pedro. By that point you were on your third drink and laughing like old friends, hunched over and shaking with mirth.

"Oh! Yes!" Tom said suddenly, pulling himself up to standing and holding out his hand to you. "Come on!"

"What?" you asked, totally confused.

"This song!" he replied, enthusiasm shining from his face.

"It's a good song," you agreed, listening to Michael Jackson's Beat It blaring out from the speakers.

"Well then?"

"What?"

"Dance with me!"

"Tom..."

"I refuse to take no for an answer," he insisted, dragging you to your feet and onto the dance floor.

Tom's energy was infectious, there was no avoiding it. Abandoning the last shreds of your dignity you surrendered to the music and the exuberance of the man spinning you around the floor. He was good of course, you had seen it on videos often enough, but he made you actually feel like you could dance as well. Michael Jackson turned into Prince and then Tina Turner as the two of you made idiots of yourselves in the empty bar.

"Last call," the beleaguered bar tender called, ruining the vibe.

Looking around you realized that he had put up all of the chairs and wiped down the bar. As tempting as it was to order another drink and prolong the fun, you knew that it was not fair to the poor server. Still, you didn't know what to do with yourself now. Would Tisha and Michael be finished with whatever they were doing? Had it been long enough to go up?

As Tom helped put up the remaining bar stools and finished off his scotch you collected your purse. You stared at your phone, trying to decide whether or not to text Trisha.

"Okay, out with it," Tom said, looking at you with an unwavering stare.

"With what?" you evaded.

"The truth. Why were you down in the bar by yourself? And don't say nerves. I've talked to you enough now to know that you are not the sort to drown your anxiety in alcohol."

"You did," you said, not believing your audacity.

"I came down for tea," he said.

"Tea?" you parroted.

"There was no earl grey in my room. I like to have a cup in the morning while I get ready."

"But you had a scotch! Two of them!"

"Well, I would hardly be a gentleman if I let a lovely lady drink alone," he shrugged. "So. Spill it. What brought you down here all by yourself?"

"Um... it was just... a little crowded in my room," you tried to sound as noncommittal as possible.

"Ah, I see," his quick brain filled in the pieces. "You're rooming with Tisha, aren't you?"

"Yes," you answered slowly.

"So Michael has made his move has he?"

"You know?" you asked, somewhere between mortified and relieved.

"Well, they haven't exactly been subtle," he said with a wry laugh. "Also, he has a bit of a reputation. I had hoped it was just rumor, God knows there are enough of those about me, but it appears in this case there was some truth behind it. Don't tell me they kicked you out?"

"They told me I could come back later," you said quickly, trying for some reason to make them look not quite as selfish and failing miserably.

"Why couldn't they just have gone to his room? No, never mind. Foolish question. You poor thing. I am so sorry you have to deal with this. Would you like me to check with the front desk and get you another room?"

"Oh, no, that's really not necessary!" you said. You could only imagine the talk if that were to happen, trying to explain to the tour manager why there was an additional expense on the invoice. True, it was Tisha and Michael who should be made uncomfortable by it, but you just knew you would be the one to squirm from the scrutiny.

"Well, there is only one thing for it," he said, placing his large hand on the small of your back and ushering you out of the bar. "You shall stay with me."

"What?" for the second time your voice, pride of your acting arsenal, was rendered little more than a dog whistle.

"It's no problem," he shrugged, walking towards the elevator and taking you with him. "I have a large single room all to myself. I'm sure it will be much more comfortable than breaking up whatever your roommate and Michael have going on."

You looked away and bit your lip, trying to decide what to do. It was such a tempting offer. Not that you would ever get any sleep in the same room with this man, but at least you wouldn't have to face the love birds.

"Darling," Tom said, gently turning your face to look you in the eye, "you have no reason to worry. I am not Michael. I would never take advantage of a costar. I just want you to have a comfortable place to get a good night's rest before your performance."

"I never thought... Of course you wouldn't take advantage!" you said with a laugh. As if someone like Tom would try to take advantage of you, you thought. It would be hilarious if he wasn't standing there looking like an overly attentive angel.

"Good, then it's settled," Tom's smile beamed at you. "Come on."

And just like that you found yourself in the unbelievable position of movie star Tom Hiddleston showing you into a large corner hotel room on the top floor. The comparison to your small shared double was insane. You were fairly sure your whole room would fit into his en suite.

"Oh," you gasped, not intending it to be audible.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turning to you all solicitous.

"Nothing," you said miserably, trying not to stare at the giant king size bed. You didn't know why you had expected there to be two beds. He had told you it was a single room. As it was there was not even a couch for you to sleep on. Two large over stuffed chairs took up space on the other side of the room, and hard backed ones surrounded the table near floor to ceiling the windows.

"Ah," he said, perceptively following your thoughts. "Yes. One bed. If you like I can sleep in the chair."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" you blurted out.

"I assure you, I have suffered much worse," he smiled. "If you feel uncomfortable sharing, I will gladly curl up in the armchair."

"No, that's just silly," you said, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "After all, the bed is so big you could fit five people in it. As long as you don't mind, that is."

"Not a bit," he said rubbing the back of his neck. "Now, let me find you something to sleep in."

To no surprise you soon found yourself in a pair of long running shorts and a Legend t-shirt. You surreptitiously pinched yourself to make sure this was real. To be dressed in one of the patented Hiddleston outfits was surreal to say the least.

You walked out of the bathroom to find Tom sitting on the edge of the bed in his own pair of jogging shorts, glorious broad chest bare. Trying desperately not to stare, you shyly walked around to the other side of the bed.

"Left side alright for you?" he asked, always the gentleman.

You nodded and quickly got yourself under the covers, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Tom turned off the light and got himself situated, leaving the bedding down at his waist. In the dim light you could just make out the whirl of hair on his chest as he curled onto his side facing you. Your fingers itched to reach out and feel it, but you managed to keep them to yourself. You could feel the heat radiating from him, like a live fire warming your body. He reached out gently and touched your face with the backs of his fingers, still staying to his side of the wide mattress.

"It was lovely getting to know you, darling," he said quietly. "Rest well."

You smothered the whimper threatening to erupt and rolled onto your side, facing the window as far away from him as you could get without hanging off the edge. Attempting to ignore the pooling desire in your center you settled in for what was sure to be a long, sleepless night.

When the alarm went off you almost jumped out of your skin. Blearily you tried to sit up, but a strong arm around you kept you anchored to the bed. A murmured curse sounded behind you and the beeping stopped. A face buried itself in your hair as you were pulled closer to the wall of chest at your back.

Oh sweet lord! you thought, as awareness of your location flooded into your brain. Gingerly you opened one eye just enough to confirm that you were half way across the bed in the center of the mattress. You must have rolled over in your sleep, you realized. Which of course meant that Tom had also drifted to the middle of the bed to meet you in what could only be described as he the most comfortable and simultaneously uncomfortable embrace of your life.

He felt divine. He body was all pliant skin over hard muscle, Warm and soft and deliciously scented. His obscenely large hand splayed across your waist, just below your breasts, to rest against the stripe of bare flesh where your borrowed t-shirt had ridden up in your sleep. His legs, those impossibly long limbs you had admired in the bar last night, were pressed against you, one rising up to hook over your own. It was heaven. If only it was intentional. Silently as you lay in his embrace your mind cringed awaiting the moment he woke the rest of the way and realized that the woman in his arms was only you, a pathetic cast mate he had taken pity on when she was cast out of her own room.

When you could bear it no longer, you tried to gently pull away from him. Once again his arm tightened around you, holding you close to him. You closed your eyes and tried to think of a way to delicately extricate yourself. That was when you heard your name, mumbled in his honey warm voice made rough by sleep into your hair.

"Stay," he said, snuggling further into you. "Please."

Well, when he asked so nicely! Really, you decided, when would you ever have such a chance again. Surrendering to the bliss, you allowed yourself to sink back against him. You would soak up these moments, you decided. Save them for when you were feeling lonely, or needed a happy memory to see you through a hard time. After all, what could be better than being held in Tom Hiddleston's strong arms?

It was too short a time before the alarm went off again. Tom swore, lifting his arm from around your body to turn it off. You felt him, more fully awake this time, realize the situation you found yourselves in. His body stiffened and his leg quickly slid off of yours.

"I am so sorry," he said, pulling his head from where it had lain in the top of your hair. "Please, darling, forgive me. I didn't mean to take advantage."

"No need to apologize," you assured him, trying to sound as though this sort of thing happened to you every day. "After all, we were both asleep."

"It's just been so long since I've had a beautiful woman in my bed," he sighed, arm rising to cover his eyes. "My body just reacted instinctually."

"Beautiful?" you heard yourself say, a note of disbelief in your voice.

"Can you doubt it?" he asked, sounding surprised himself.

"Generally speaking," you laughed, thinking that this man calling anyone beautiful was like the sun calling a lightning bug bright.

"My darling, you are stunning," he said, rising up on his elbow to look at you. "You are also intelligent, funny, and delightful. I thought I had a crush on you before I got to know you last night, but now..."

"You have - a crush?"

"Damn," he said quietly. "Forgive me. I should not have said that."

Slowly, not daring to believe what you had just heard, you rolled over so that you were facing him. Hair mussed and eyes slightly unfocused Tom looked even more devastating than usual. A light growth of stubble shadowed his jaw, and in the dawn light his freckles stood out against his pale skin.

"Did you mean it?" you asked, stunned.

"There are few things as attractive... as sexy as talent," he said quietly, not meeting your eye. "When I saw you act, well, I could scarce keep my eyes off of you."

"You do realize that you are the most talented person I have ever seen," you told him, shock bringing out your candid side.

"You are very kind," he blushed.

"I am very honest," you answered. "You really think of me like that?"

"I think of you all the time," he replied, looking at you at last. "Often like that. I have spent the last three weeks trying to work up the courage to speak with you. When I saw you sitting alone in the bar last night, I thought someone must have heard my prayers."

"I am in a dream," you said. "I am in a dream and any moment now I will wake up and be back in the small black box theater performing for ten people."

"If you are in a dream than I am too," he smiled. "Darling, I understand if you want to leave. Things with me are never simple. It is an unfortunate side effect of the career I have chosen. But if you are willing to try, I would love to court you."

"Court me?" you grinned at his archaic turn of phrase. "Like with flowers and poems and such?"

"If you would like," he said, surprising you once more. "I have written a poem or two in my day, though I am more adept at songs. They are more forgiving. For now, we could perhaps start with breakfast?"

"Breakfast sound wonderful," you said, realizing suddenly that you were in fact hungry.

"I will order room service then," he nodded. "But first, sweetheart, would it be too forward of me... may I kiss you?"

Unable to speak you nodded your head once. Tom smiled, and reached down to grasp your chin gently between his thumb and finger. With an aching tenderness he brought his lips to yours. The kiss was soft and sweet and full of promise. You felt it all the way down to your toes in ways that far more invasive kisses had never moved you. Your back arched and you molded yourself to him, his free arm encircling you to hold you close. Emboldened by the embrace, you let your own hands find their way around him and to his back where they slid down the naked skin in a caress. With a quiet moan he pulled away, and you briefly felt his arousal brush against your let as he let you go.

"The things you do to me," he sighed, fingers lightly tracing your face.

"I know what you mean," you breathed, feeling light headed from the kiss.

"I started this leg of the tour irritated at Michael," he confided. "Now I am tempted to send him a thank you gift. What do you thing? Champagne? Chocolates?"

"If we give them all that, won't it just encourage them the next night?" you giggled.

"Ah, now you see my clever plan," he teased. "How else can I hope to get you back in my bed?"

"Tom," you spoke seriously, "clever plans are not needed. All you need do is ask."

"Hmm," he grinned, pulling you close once again. "I am suddenly more happy than I can say that they forgot my tea."

"So am I," you smiled, nestling in against him. "You have no idea."

"Well then," he said. "You will just have to show me. Fortunately, we have months to go, and I for one have never been so happy to start a tour."

As you burrowed back together under the covers you could not help but agree.

@yespolkadotkitty @hopelessromanticspoonie @nonsensicalobsessions @hiddlesholic

#fic #fanfic #milestone challenge #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader

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jowritesthingss · 4 years

Text

Excuse Me Sir This Is My Emotional Support Eldritch Being

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing(s): n/a

Rating: Teen (for swearing)

Content Warning(s): rabbits, food/drink, mild(ish) swearing, not!Sasha, eldritch beings, spoilers through early s3-ish

Length: 2,190 words

Brief Summary: The archival team adopts a rabbit. (Part one of the Emotional Support Eldritch AU!)

AO3 link in reblogs bc Tumblr is a biatch!

“What is it?”

Jon levels a suspicious glare down at the fluffy blob comfortably stretched out in the middle of the overstuffed break room couch.

Tim blinks owlishly at him from behind his mug of tea. “A...rabbit?”

“Yes, but are you sure it’s a rabbit?” Jon asks insistently. “Not a—a spirit, or...an animated doll, or a clown in disguise or something?”

Sighing, Tim sets his tea down on the counter. “Look, I get the whole ‘suspicious of us being murderers’ thing—no I don’t, actually, but that’s beside the point—it. is. a rabbit.” For a good measure, he walks over to sit on one side of the rabbit, reaching a hand out to the little guy’s fluffy head. If a rabbit could smile, he suspects this one would be doing so as it leans up into his hand.

“No fleas or ticks...or worms, so it’s not some Jane Prentiss Pet Sematary crossover, I promise—” Tim rolls his eyes, “—the veterinarian confirmed as much when I brought the poor thing in. Out of the mud and the rain of the gutter,” he adds, not even attempting to hide the guilt-trip. He wishes Martin were here, with his ridiculously effective puppy-dog eyes.

Tim knows this is Jon he’s talking to, but surely even he can’t be that cold-hearted. He rather thinks that Jon will enjoy not being alone anymore down here during all his late nights. If he’d let himself, surely Jon would enjoy having company in the form of a teeny tiny creature that can’t and won’t harm him—which, uh, certainly is not why he’s lying about his current flat not permitting pets, no siree.

“...Fine. Whatever.” Jon points an accusing finger at him. “But we’re not keeping it,” he stresses. “The moment you find it a different home, it goes. The moment.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Tim chirps, although as he begins a staring contest with the rabbit’s curious red eyes, he has no intention of actually doing as Jon says.

Martin chooses this moment to walk through the door. His eyes light up. “Aw, is that a rabbit?”

“No, this does not mean you’re allowed to bring in more strays,” Jon snaps.

The light in Martin’s eyes fades. “Okay,” he says mournfully as he crouches to pet the rabbit, sulking.

“So what should we name him?” Tim asks Jon when the Head Archivist comes into the break room the next morning.

“Oh—my—” Jon startles where he stands by the counter, attempting to make himself some toast with the Archive’s horrible fifteen-year-old toaster—toast that now splatters across the floor. Somehow in his sleep-deprived stupor he must’ve missed Tim sitting on the couch with a white rabbit on his head. He never seems to really notice Tim, but at this point it’s fine enough; Tim has accepted that the guy has impossibly poor taste.

The rabbit clambers down from Tim’s shoulders, jumping off of the couch and padding over to investigate the new human(?) and the mess he made.

“How about Thumper?” Tim puzzles aloud, stretching leisurely and acting as if he doesn’t notice Jon frantically scrubbing up raspberry jam and trying to avoid the rabbit’s investigative snuffles all in one. “No, no...that’s too cliché.”

“I really don’t see the point in naming it when it shouldn’t be here more than a few weeks,” Jon comments, shooing the animal in question away before it can try to lick up any jam.

“Maybe Joe?” Tim continues loudly, as if he hadn’t heard the other. When the rabbit ambles back over to him, he scoops them up, pressing their noses together. “Ligma?” He shakes his head at the rabbit. “No, no. We need to have more sophistication as we go about this.”

“You could do with applying that sophistication to your work,” comes the grumbled retort.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jon abruptly turns to burn another piece of bread in the toaster.

“How about Marshmallow?”

“What on Earth—” Jon shrieks, jumping in his desk chair, and a sheaf of papers is sent flying around the office.

“The rabbit. Should we call him ‘Marshmallow’?” Tim smiles as innocently as he can manage, standing out in the hall with his head peeping into his boss’ office. “Marshie for short?”

“I am in the middle of a statement!” Jon sputters. “Get out!”

“Okay, okay....” Tim fluidly shrugs his shoulders. “What about ‘Bob’?”

“Out!”

But Tim continues to pop into Jon’s office unannounced throughout the day, tossing out name suggestions. He even manages to rope Martin into doing it too, and notes with savage delight that between the two of them and his work, Jon doesn’t get much more than a moment to wallow rest for the remainder of the day.

Between the two of them Tim and Martin manage to compile a surprisingly long list of names:

Snowball,

Posy (Martin is partial to this one because he thinks it’s cute),

Bungen Leitner,

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt (“is that too American of a reference for a fanfic taking place in the UK?” “what?” “what?”),

the Bunholding,

Michael (Jon is especially averse to that one for some reason),

Cottonball,

Fluffy Bastard (Tim’s own favorite),

Bugs Bunny,

Eldritch Horror (Tim tosses that one in as a joke; no way the rabbit that eats his own shit is some kind of otherworldly being),

Big Bungus (“it’s a play off Big Chungus!” “d’you seriously think anyone else here even knows what memes are”), and

the Vampiric Count Sir Maximillianus-Who-Is-Also-A-Werebun

(Despite badgering Sasha multiple times in an attempt to get her thoughts on the matter, the only name she offers up is “Dinner”, which makes Martin cry, so that one is out.)

None of the names quite seem to fit the little white puffball that has now taken over the realm of their break room, however—so Tim and Martin find themselves going back to the drawing board. They reluctantly leave the Institute at the end of the day, still without having decided upon a name.

“JON JUNIOR!” Martin screeches excitedly the next morning as they’re congregating once more in the break room, zombie-like before their tea and mid-morning snack time (primary schools don’t get all the fun, okay).

Jon and Sasha startle, and for once even Tim himself jumps. The rabbit doesn’t seem to care much where he is, nibbling at some hay in his corner litter box.

“I—what?” Jon asks, flabbergasted, although he manages to not drop his toast this time. Character development.

“We should name him Jon Jr! After you!” Martin explains eagerly.

“Absolutely not,” Jon tries to say, but before he can finish, Tim is jumping in.

“I think that is an excellent idea,” he says, grinning broadly. “Thoughts, Sasha?”

“I’m not emotionally invested in this.” Sasha shrugs, uncaring. “I’m going back to my desk.” She takes her drink and walks out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her.

“All right, since Sasha doesn’t care, I’ll decide her vote for her,” Tim says, carefully containing his glee. “So that’s three votes for and one against, then. Majority rules.”

“What? No!” John protests, but Tim is too busy looking at the rabbit for confirmation.

“What do you think, little guy?” He walks over, bends down, and lightly boops the rabbit’s nose. “Are you a Jon Jr?”

The rabbit twitches his nose in agreement and poops.

“Well then!” Tim stands, clapping his hands together. “That’s been decided upon.”

No, it hasn’t,” Jon insists, but Tim cares little for his boss’ objections. He’ll accept his fate as Jon Senior eventually.

To Tim’s utter surprise and fascination, it happens sooner than later.

Jon, Tim quickly realizes, is a lot like the one dad who says “no dog” and then ends up loving the dog more than he loves his own children.

Despite his initial objections, the daft fool ends up getting caught up in Jon Jr’s big, innocent, rabbit-y gaze (worse than even Martin’s puppy-dog eyes, they conclude gravely), and by the end of the day Friday Jon has announced that he supposes the rabbit can stay with him over weekends and holidays.

“We’re still not keeping him,” Jon reminds them all, even as the rabbit gathered in his arms, giving his nose kisses and knocking his glasses askew, says otherwise.

He gets caught trying to sneak the rabbit into his office on more than one occasion, but Martin raises a fuss about it.

(“He’s all of ours! Jon Jr is our department’s mascot now,” Martin protests defiantly. “You can’t take him away from the rest of us.”

“Yeah,” Tim adds, mostly just to stir up drama—he doesn’t particularly care one way or another. “You can’t just swoop him up and file him away like one of your statements.”

“Just don’t let it get out and chew at my electronics,” Sasha says, distractedly typing something on her phone, probably to that weird new boyfriend.)

To stave off the imminent coup, Jon Jr becomes an officially-declared resident of the break room. He slowly amasses chub around his middle and a cardboard kingdom of bunny toys, houses, blankets, and treats. A rabbit could want for nothing more.

And perhaps—perhaps a human could want for nothing more, too, Tim thinks as he looks down at the figure curled up on the sofa, rabbit nestled against his chest.

He doesn’t love the man, not by a long, long shot—doesn’t even particularly like him half the time—but Tim can’t deny that the scene is adorable. And, regardless of his very vocal protests, Jon Jr may very well be what Jon Sr needs to finally process things and move the hell on with life.

Tim smiles grimly. It’s about damn time.

He quietly closes the door to the room and heads back towards the Archives. He’ll leave Jon to wake himself up.

(And to discover for himself that Jon Jr has peed on his pants leg.)

Of course, this is the Archive we’re talking about, so naturally the peace is abruptly shattered, and everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.

Tim isn’t entirely certain what happens or why, but all of a sudden Sasha isn’t really Sasha, and he and Jon have gotten backed up and cornered in the tunnels as this not-really-Sasha stalks towards them, predictably with the intent to kill, just like the rest of the spooks they are so lucky to deal with.

Tim and Jon Sr slowly back away until they hit a dead end. Meanwhile, Jon Jr licks at Tim’s arm—he’d been scooped up as they ran into the tunnels, Tim doesn’t entirely know why—and despite the fact that they are most probably about to, y’know, die, the little kisses almost feel strangely reassuring.

The thing-that-is-not-Sasha cackles, her—their?—its?—voice distorted and echoing throughout the tunnels. It stalks towards them.

All of a sudden, Jon Jr wriggles loose and leaps smoothly down onto the ground. He scampers in front of Tim and Jon, heading towards bitch-give-me-my-Sasha-back.

“No! Get back here!” Tim hisses at the rabbit, even though he knows it’s pointless. He hates to admit it, but he’s becoming rather fond of Jon Jr, even if Tim mostly brought him in to piss off and totally not help Jon. Jon—who, speaking of, seems to be equally fond now, judging by the deflating tire of a terrified squeak he makes, and the adorable immature grabby arms he makes at the little bugger.

“Junior,” Jon calls out, sounding like a toddler who’d just been told Santa wasn’t real (he is, they have the statements to prove it, he is). And Tim wants to laugh, albeit hysterically. The first time he sees his brick wall of a superior cry and it’s over a rabbit, and he’s not even going to have time to gloat over it because they’re about to die. “No! You’re going to—”

Jon Jr stops and sits in front of wholly-absolutely-totally-not-Sasha-what-the-fuck, who looks down at him, bemused through its murderous bloodlust.

The rabbit lifts a dainty paw up to his mouth, and suddenly—suddenly it’s twisting and huge, towering up to the ceiling of the tunnel, its skin hairless and tinted a sickly, glowing gray, with five, six, seven...a whole lot more limbs than a rabbit is supposed to have.

The not-rabbit unhinges its now meters-long jaw and snaps up the creature.

Tim and Jon stare at each other, wide-eyed.

There is a loud gulping sound, then a deafening crack, and suddenly there is a very normal white rabbit sitting in front of them again, carefully cleaning one paw with a very normal pink tongue.

“Wh—” Tim chokes on his own words.

The holy-shit-it-really-is-an-eldritch-horror-after-all stretches, yawns, and flops over in a dead sleep.

“...We’re keeping the rabbit,” Jon says faintly.

“I—yeah.” Tim nods, light-headed. “We’re keeping the rabbit.”

Jon Jr the rabbit-slash-eldritch-abomination gets a very hearty dinner of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumber peels that night.

(Tune in next time* for the terrible, terrible realization—“Jon Jr is a girl?!” (Also why is there another dead body again, dammit, can’t we go one week))

Fin

First || Next

(There may or may not actually be a next time. It depends. )

Behold. What very well may be the stupidest thing I have ever written. Ahem. Did I say stupidest? I meant most brilliant. Clearly I meant it’s the most brilliant thing I have ever written. Obviously.

Let me know if you enjoyed this! I have a bunch of ideas to continue this ridiculously silly AU of sorts, but idk if I’m going to quite yet and am not certain that I’ll be continuing to write for TMA. atm I’m focused on a different fandom, and I’m only on s3, so the really big idea I had has to wait, anyway.

Want to chat or be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

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streetsavoir-faire · 3 years

Photo

Born Name: Damien Quincy Rodriguez

Age: 22

Birthday: May 26th 1998

Overview:

Mother: Catalina Rodriguez (39 February 19th, 1981)

Father(s): Michael Rodriguez (41 April 24th, 1979) Richard “Einstein” Jones (50), Fagin Jones (47)

Mother’s Occupation: Unemployed, Student

Father’s Occupation: Fast Food worker, mechanic, Odd-jobs in a diverse field. Warehouse work, delivery, MLM’s, production, etc.

Family Finances: Lower Class, Skirting Poverty

Other Close Family: Francis “Frankie” Corbyn (41) - ‘Uncle’, Ignacio Alonso Julio Federico De Tito (24) - Big Brother, Oliver Saluki-Sykes (20) - Little Brother, Rita Saluki-Sykes (29) - Sister,

Pets: Dorothy - Redish/pink betta Fish, Tiny - Tito’s Rottweiler/Pitbull Mix

Home Life During Childhood: Before he was found and taken in by Fagin? Horrible. Dodger suffered abuse from parents who were far too young and immature to have children. They didn’t want a kid, and they made that very clear to Dodger from the very moment they brought him home. He was never shown love or compassion from his mother or father. He was barely taken care of and owned one toy in his five or so years of living with them. He suffered emotional and physical abuse and spent many nights on the streets, unsupervised. Often, he was locked out of his house for ‘misbehavior’. Eventually Dodger just decided to stay out there and spent his nights under a bridge before eventually Fagin took notice of him and eventually gained his trust and brought him home.

After Fagin, his childhood was still a little troubled. Their family was poor, and often struggled to find money for food, luxuries or heat. Even struggling, Dodger much preferred his found family as he got to learn what it was like to have people that loved him. Even with debt collectors, facing abuse from the Sykes’ and occasionally needing to eat small inconsistent meals, or cuddle up together instead of having heat in the house. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

What Did His or Her Bedroom Look Like: When Dodger moved in with Fagin he quickly took over the apartment’s storage loft and claimed it as his own. While it was dangerous (there was no barrier to stop anyone from falling back into the living room below) and a little drafty (there was also a nifty hole that gave him access to the roof) - it was home for Dodger. With a mattress tucked up into the corner and the rickety ladder to get up and down (that he himself rarely used), it was perfect for Dodger. Sure - it wasn’t all the spacious or child-friendly but... it was his favorite.

Any Sports or Clubs: Dodger didn’t go to school - and therefore he didn’t participate in any clubs or organized sports. Instead he went with Frankie to his theater group, spent time reading with Einstein & Fagin or scaled buildings and played made up sports with Tito.

Favorite Toy or Game: Dodger’s favorite toy (and something he still cherishes to this day) was a small teddy bear that Fagin got him the first night he came home. It’s over a decade (closer to two) old and is worn beyond relief, but Dodger still keeps it in his bedroom. As a child he carried it everywhere and was incredibly protective of it. It has plenty of tears and stitches that Fagin fixed himself - but Dodger loves it all the same.

Schooling: Again, Dodger didn’t go to school. He left his home before he would have been enrolled and while Fagin and Einstein tried to get him into school, Dodger simply couldn’t handle the hours away from his new family, nor could he deal with how overwhelming the whole concept was. So instead, they all did their part homeschooling himself and Tito over the years. He’s got plenty of street smarts and owes everything else he knows to Fagin, Einstein and Frankie.

Favorite Subject: Reading with Fagin & Einstein. (And reading plays with Frankie since he was so dramatic)

Popular or Loner: Popular (not in school obvs)

Nationality: American

Religion and beliefs: None

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: Tyler Posey

Movie/Era Representation: Alone

Complexion: Smooth, olive skinned, freckled

Hair Colour: Naturally Black / Currently Dyed Blue

Eye Colour: Brown

Height: 5′10

Weight: 153.4lbs.

Build: Athletic/Slim

Tattoos: A very large and ever growing collection --> See here

Piercings: 14mm Gauges in ears, nose piercing, snake-bites (re-pierced), eyebrow piercing (re-pierced)

Common Hairstyle: Typically sweptback, sometimes a mess when he wears a hat or beanie, usually tries to keep it semi-long, swept to the side (x is a common look)

Clothing Style: Casual street wear. Ratty jeans, ripped jeans, dirty jeans. T-shirts, muscle tanks, sweatshirts. Backwards hats or beanies. Worn black and white converse. Nothing fancy. You’ll tend to see a red bandana somewhere on his person. Sometimes he wears it around his head, sometimes around his neck, occasionally tucked into a pocket or around his wrist. But it’s always somewhere.

Mannerisms: Likes to drum his fingers or drum on things in general, also a knuckle cracker. Tends to move a lot because he’s high energy.

Usual Expression: Smiley babe

Health

Overall (do they get sick easily)?: Yes. A combination of terrible care to himself and drugs makes Dodger extremely susceptible to getting sick. He’s a perfect picture of what not to do health-wise and it shows.

Physical Ailments: Mildly Anemic,

Disorders: None

Neurological Conditions: None.

Allergies: Latex, mangos, cats,

Grooming Habits: He showers, unlike most #men he is not a 3-in-1 kind of guy, so he knows how to use separate body wash, shampoo and conditioner. He’ll wash his face every morning & every night and brush his hair and shit but he’s not over the top. Shaves if his facial hair gets longer than a mild scruff. Keeps the boys tame.

Sleeping Habits: Inconsistent. Dodger has no real sleep schedule, but he tends to sleep just about anywhere when he needs to. He’s the least picky about how he sleeps and falls asleep easy.

Eating Habits: Uh, he eats. Sometimes. Some days it’s eating for a village, some he skips for a day and is like ‘oh yeah oops.’ It depends. So I’d call this inconsistent as well.

Exercise Habits: He’s always exercising just by association. He walks/runs everywhere and climbs shit and is doing his free running/parkour all over Swynlake.

Emotional Stability: Fair. He tends to stay cool and tries to be the mediator when it comes to trouble. Dodger tends to be the one who keeps it together and stays calm when they’re in a situation. The relief, really. However when he does slip, he can get emotional quickly. Fun-fact: Dodger never yells. He may say things firmly, angrily, etc but he won’t yell.

Body Temperature: Runs warm.

Sociability: A social butterfly.

Addictions: Drugs (weed, alcohol, pills, etc).

Drug Use: Daily, addicted. The hard stuff isn’t daily (weed is... multiple times a day), but more every few days, once a week.

Alcohol Use: Often.

Your Character’s Character:

Bad Habits: Drugs. Drumming on objects or idly, cracking his knuckles, zoning out mid-conversation, scratching the back of his neck, smoking, manipulating people.

Good Habits: Loyalty, offering his help, extending manners, being kind.

Best Characteristic: Openness.

Worst Characteristic: Pride

Worst Memory: Being beaten within an inch of his life & having to leave his family and home behind and flee the country.

Best Memory: Being officially adopted as Fagin & Einstein’s son.

Proud of: Holding his job at the garage. Getting his gig at Pixie’s. Still being in a relationship (new record).

Embarrassed by: His inability to get his music off the ground, how he’s still in the same place in life when everyone else seems to be getting somewhere or doing things.

Driving Style: Does not drive.

Strong Points: His passion and drive. His ability to bring things and people together.

Temperament: Carefree and easy going.

Attitude: Optimistic & outgoing.

Weakness: Coming off as too confident, cocky.

Fears: Being abandoned/being alone again, his family getting hurt or dying.

Phobias: Being abandoned.

Secrets: An open book. Perhaps the one secret he has is knowing that Roscoe abused Oliver.

Regrets: Going to William Sykes and trying to buy them time to pay back their loan.

Feels Vulnerable When: He’s with his parents.

Pet Peeves: People who brag about their money. Charities, but not charity.

Conflicts: Having money in the family. Having Roscoe married to Rita when he fucking hates him but wants Rita to be happy.

Motivation: Support for Fagin & Einstein/to make them proud.

Short Term Goals and Hopes: To start picking up more gigs and getting music off the ground.

Long Term Goals and Hopes: To be able to fully financially support himself and the fam through his music and that he can quit his real job and do what he loves.

Sexuality: Pansexual

Exercise Routine: Running all around Swynlake like a crazy man.

Day or Night Person: Night - that’s when the action is.

Introvert or Extrovert: Extrovert

Optimist or Pessimist: Optimist

Likes and Styles:

Music: Punk Rock, Rock, Alternative,

Books: Any book that Fagin & Einstein used to read him

Magazines: Playboy (lol)

Foods: Quesadillas

Drinks: Coke, whiskey, vodka, rum, Gatorade,

Animals: Any are cool

Sports: The made up ones he’d play with Tito, Free running,

Social Issues: Domestic Abuse, Child Abuse, Women’s Rights, Magick Rights,

Favorite Saying: Absotively Posilutely

Color: Red

Clothing: Jeans, T-shirts.

Jewelry: Gauges, lip rings, nose ring, eyebrow stud.

Games: Poker, Rummy, Uno,

Websites: Not a huge internet person (because he didn’t grow up into it like most kids his age). He uses Twitter a lot though. Youtube just to watch things. Used to use the ‘Hub’ quite a bit ;)

TV Shows: Doesn’t really watch TV, but when they could pay for cable, anything ridiculous. He was a fan of the Crocodile Hunter if only because Tito and himself would mimic that show and get into so much trouble.

Movies: Again, he’s not really well versed in movies but.. I’m sure he was into shit he wasn’t supposed to watch when he could get ahold of them. Fight Club, Lethal Weapon, Die Hard, etc.

Greatest Want: To be happy & with his family.

Greatest Need: Affection.

Where and How Does Your Character Live Now:

Home: Dodger now lives in Benbow (2D) and honestly his biggest complaint is simply being on the second floor. He would much prefer an apartment he has to climb higher to break into (since who uses the door?). However, he doesn’t like the apartment nearly as much as he loved the old rickety apartment they lived in back home. He misses his loft and all the weird things that made it perfect. This apartment isn’t terrible - sure, the door sticks something fierce and it’s a little cramped for five people but... it’s fine. And the neighbors aren’t the worst, it’s just... never felt right. It’s still home, if only because home is determined by the people living there more than the place itself.

Household furnishings: A mish-mash of things. Nothing in the Jones household is a set. It’s all second-hand or used items that they got when they could and when they could afford to. That means everything from the tables and chairs don’t really.. match like they might in a normal household, but none of them really mind. They’re just grateful to have them in the first place.

Favorite Possession: The bear Fagin got him when he first came home.

Most Cherished Possessions: The bear Fagin got him when he first came home (shocker) - though a worn red bandana that he took from Fagin also comes in close second. He’s almost always wearing it somewhere. Also the stuffed Reindeer from his first Christmas. The beat up guitar that the whole gang pulled together to get him.

Neighborhood: Benbow

Town or City Name: Swynlake

Relationship with Family: Great! Dodger is incredibly close with his found family. He would lay his life on the line or do anything for all of them. He’s closest to Fagin, but only because that man gave him everything in life he’s ever needed when no one else would. He loves his family so much though. Even if he annoys the absolute piss out of Frankie & Rita, he couldn’t be happier.

Car: Doesn’t have one

Career: Part-Time Mechanic, Part-Time Musician, Part-Time Con-artist/thief

Dream Career: Musician

Dream Life: Happy & can provide and take care of his family so they don’t have to work so hard anymore.

Love Life: Peri

Talents or Skills: Singing, Guitar, Percussion, Piano - musical talent in mostly all forms, athletic ability/balance, can juggle, sleight of hand, pitch perfect.

Intelligence Level: Street smart, book....slightly smart.

Finances: Poor as fuck

Past Careers: Full time thief, part time street performer, odd jobs,

Past Lovers: ‘Lovers’, none really. The closest he had was a toxic first ‘boyfriend’, Corey but it didn’t last long.

#about #inspo #muse #x; Dodger #tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw drug mention

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pengychan · 4 years

Text

[Good Omens] Winging It - 1 Corinthians 13:13

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Gabriel keeps missing the point by a mile but what else did you expect.

***

The funeral of Daniel Brown was a simple, dignified matter.

Still, Gabriel found he was not overly fond of the Anglican rites; they just lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. But then again, he’d never quite understood why the humans in that island had bothered with the Schism: as far as he was concerned it had simply caused a lot of paperwork Heaven could have done without, and anyone involved on either side he might have questioned about motivations - if he’d cared - was in Hell. Their descendants seemed to have a thing for schisms, too, though this one seemed somehow even more senseless than the last to him.

But considering that he’d fought in what could be considered the first Schism, maybe he wasn’t in a position to talk. Holding back a sigh, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the church. He knew a good chunk of people attending, most of them co-workers he’d managed to free up that day by working a miracle on their schedules - or rather asking someone else to work a miracle on their schedules. Gabriel stood among them, in the third row, wearing his best suit.

On his left, Fabrizio was wearing a much cheaper one he still somehow managed to look elegant in; somewhere on their right Łukasz still looked like he’d just come out of a pub, but with a jacket and tie on he had borrowed from Rajiv - a noticeable effort, as he absolutely loathed wearing ties. Daniel would have appreciated that.

On the other row, there were a few people Gabriel had never seen but who clearly must have known Daniel long before he did, in another life. Daniel did tend to say he’d had a life before losing his wife and home, and a life after that.

“What they don’t tell you about becoming a widower is that half the people you knew fall off the radar,” he’d told Gabriel in a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject. “A lot were couples and you know, it’s awkward to invite the guy who just lost his wife. I’m sure they had good intentions and to be honest, the few times they did invite me I made up an excuse. But then we just drifted and by the time I lost the house as well we hadn’t spoken in months.”

Gabriel didn’t know how many of those people were among those who had drifted away, nor he had any idea how Lawrence had found out about them and gotten in touch, but he had and there they were, and he supposed that had to count for something. He glanced ahead, towards the front row where Lawrence and Berenice stood. Lawrence’s head was bowed, and something ached in Gabriel’s chest.

The unfairness of it all was staggering. The two brothers should have been reunited, shared what was left of their mortal existence; and instead Daniel had only returned in Lawrence’s life as a corpse to be buried. All that Gabriel had been able to give him of his brother were tales, some of them second hand. It was all he could give but ah, it couldn’t possibly be enough.

If only he’d asked for help earlier, maybe they might have. But he hadn’t and there stood Lawrence, for the last goodbye. It was difficult not to think that none of those present, him aside, had the certainty of a life after their mortal one. That all they had, as they said their goodbyes to an empty vessel in a wooden casket, was the hope Daniel was not entirely gone. Faith that he was not entirely gone, amidst the grief.

And if he were in their place… Gabriel didn’t think hope alone would be enough for him. He didn’t think he could have that blind faith at all. He tried, but now he only felt more lost than ever.

You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer. God asks of you what they ask of every mortal. Faith.

When Gabriel bowed his head and his shoulders trembled, no one questioned it.

You’re expected to weep at funerals, after all.

***

“More weeping.”

“Lord Beelzebub?”

“I said, this place needs more weeping. Weeping and gnashing of teeth, what happened to that? I don’t hear any teeth gnashing and barely any weeping! And why is the soul over there looking like it’s enjoying this?” Beelzebub demanded to know.

The damned soul chained to the ceiling lifted its head and grinned. “Because I am,” it said.

The Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies sighed, lifted a hand to smite the insolent soul. The grin widened expectantly. They rolled their eyes and let the hand drop, much to the damned’s chagrin. Masochists were the absolute worst. “Remove that one from my presence and put it on paint watching duty for the next century.”

Their words were met by a horrified scream as demons moved in to unchain the soul and drag it away. “No! NO! ANYTHING BUT THAT!”

Ah, yes, that was more like it. Beelzebub nodded, and turned to the demons around them. “See, this is how it’s done. To each their most dreaded punishment, that’s what Circles are for, for Satan’s sake. The guidelines are there for a reason. You don’t just group them all in a few rooms and whip them. Since when has the lot of you grown so lazy and uninspired?”

A demon of slothfulness opened his mouth, only to snap it shut when Beelzebub dismissively waved a hand. “Except those whose job description requires it,” they clarified. The demon gave a very obvious sigh of relief as Beelzebub turned their attention on the others. “The rest of you have no excuses. Or do I have to further motivate you?”

Most demons on Eternal Torment duty were not precisely a shining example of intellectual prowess - it was the main reason why they were on Eternal Torment duty in the first place, not much else they could be used for - but even they were able to guess those words were meant to be a threat and reacted accordingly, shaking their head and bowing and mumbling excuses.

Except, of course, That One Demon that simply didn’t get it. “That would help, really.”

Several heads turned towards the demon who had just spoken, in a sudden silence. Even the cries of the tortured stopped, as did the buzzing of flies around Beelzebub’s head. That would have made even someone dumb as the dumbest rock realize they had fucked up, but this one was clearly dumber than the dumbest rock and spoke again rather than groveling for mercy.

“I mean, we’d been preparing for war since… always, and then suddenly no war. Doesn’t help motivate us a whole lot.”

Not since always. There was a time we didn’t even have a word to describe war. We created it when we rebelled and then forgot we did.

Now that was exactly the kind of thought Beelzebub had come there to ignore, and to have it back at the forefront of their mind made their already foul mood… fouler. Considering that they were always in a foul mood, and that those days it was twice as foul, right in that moment said mood was about four times fouler than normal. “I’ll give you motivation,” Beezelbub buzzed.

They snapped their fingers and a swarm of horse flies materialized out of nowhere, surrounding the demon as he screamed and uselessly shielded his head. Everyone took a step or two or twenty away from him and the swarm of biting, bloodthirsty flies. Now that made the Lord of the Flies feel better again. Which was to say, in a mood that was only about twice as foul as usual.

“Once the flies are done, move that one to janitorial duty,” they ordered, and left without a word, leaving those lowly demons properly cowed. It was a good distraction, at least.

For now.

***

“Gabriel.”

Lawrence’s voice reached him as he took a few steps away, after watching the casket being taken to the hearse. He’d meant to leave quietly, but it seemed that Lawrence wouldn’t let him go without a word. Gabriel swallowed, tried to fight back the guilt - if only you’d swallowed your fear and asked for help finding him sooner - and turned.

Lawrence was walking up to him, eyes still damp, leaning on the cane more heavily than he had last time they had met, as the reality of seeing off his brother’s casket had been a physical blow. He held out a hand. “Again, thank you. For bringing him back to me.”

Gabriel swallowed again, his mouth dry, and took that hand. “I wish I’d been able to find you sooner.”

“You did more than you had to do,” was the reply. “And I will be forever grateful. If you ever wish to spend some time on the seaside, our home is open to you. We’d love you to visit sometime.”

This time, Gabriel managed a smile. “I wouldn’t want to impose--”

“We insist,” Berenice cut him off, seemingly materializing by her husband’s side, and held out her own hand. When Gabriel took it, he found himself pulled suddenly into a tight hug. Gabriel had read up the definition of a motherly hug somewhere, and couldn’t quite guess what that was supposed to mean - he’d never had a mother in the sense mortals meant it, although his current form did have a belly button for accuracy’s sake - but he suddenly thought that maybe, for a moment, he could understand.

Ridiculous, that: he’d been created out of God’s will and was unfathomably older than the woman holding him. And yet.

“Do keep in touch,” Berenice said, pulling back, and Gabriel could only nod, through tight.

“... Of course.”

A smile, a pat on his cheek, and they were off in a car following the hearse; it occurred to him only later that he had no idea where they were taking Daniel, where his grave would be. But then again, it hardly mattered. He could ask later, he supposed; not that Daniel would be there.

“Oi, Gabriel. You coming with us?” Łukasz called out, snapping him from his thoughts.

“We’re going to have a drink at the usual place.”

“For Daniel.”

“Make it two.”

“Both for Daniel.”

“Of course.” Gabriel managed a weak smile. “You go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

“If you don’t make us wait too long, we'll even pay your first round.”

A chuckle. “Sounds like a deal,” Gabriel said, and watched them go with a faint smile that died down a few moments later. He glanced back, at the small crowd before the church, already beginning to disperse, and sighed.

So, it was done. Lawrence had been found, and he’d been able to say goodbye the only way he could. The mission he’d taken upon himself had been accomplished.

What now? What do I do now?

He bit his lower lip and dared glance up at the gathering rain clouds, hoping for a sign, instructions, anything. Of fucking course, none came. Humans don’t get instructions.

Gabriel lowered his gaze with a scoff and began walking, not even trying to shield himself as the first raindrops fell. He would join the others for a drink, he decided, and then… then…

“Sorry, mate - have you got any change?” The voice rang out suddenly, causing Gabriel to recoil. He glanced up to see a man sitting on the pavement, back against the wall, an upturned hat in front of him and a dog curled up by his side - a small scruffy thing that looked nowhere as elegant as Doyle, but the man was in the process of taking off his coat to lay it down on it.

He looked barely in his twenties, of slim built, hair reddish-blond and overall looked nothing like Daniel had when they first had met - but there was a peculiar weariness to his voice that was the same. Gabriel watched for a moment as he shielded the dog from the rain, which was beginning to pick up. It didn’t look like he had another coat.

The tent, Gabriel remembered, he let me sleep in his tent and didn’t even know me.

“Of course,” he found himself saying, and reached for his wallet. At least, this time he knew what the value of the bills and coins in his wallet was. The young man gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank you,” he muttered. “I hate to ask like that, I usually sit quietly, honest. But if I can pay for something in a cafe we get to stay out of the rain for a while.”

Gabriel glanced up at the sky, only to get a drop of water right in the eye. He rubbed it, frowning. “Have you got someplace to stay the night?” he asked. He knew heavy rain was expected through the next couple of days.

A shrug. “Not really. I used to sleep in a shelter from time to time, but then I found Chip.” He patted the dog’s muzzle, causing it to open its eyes and lick his hand. “And there isn’t a single bloody shelter that will let her in. I can sneak her into a motel if I get enough money during the day to pay for the night, but it doesn’t happen often. Most people go cashless these days. But it’s not too bad, until winter comes.”

“Unless it rains.”

“Unless it rains. But I’m saving up for a tent.”

“I see.” Gabriel opened his wallet. He was no expert on motel rates, but he estimated the cash he had on him would be enough to pay for a couple of nights. “Here,” he said, handing over the bills. “Hope it helps. For a motel, or for the tent.”

The young man’s thin face opened up in a startled smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking it.

“Gabriel. Name’s Gabriel.”

“Thanks, Gabriel. I’m Noah.”

Gabriel hadn’t meant to laugh, but it still escaped him, causing Noah to blink and Chip to lift her head, tilting it on one side. “Heh! Sorry, sorry - I shouldn’t have laughed. I just… remembered a guy I met once.” Gabriel gestured up to the sky, to the rain that was falling and beginning to soak their hair. “It’s looking like you should get to work to build that Ark, no?”

The puzzled expression on Noah’s face turned into a chuckle. “Ah, yes. Heard that a few times,” he said, and stood. “I’ll be getting us out of the rain, then. Thank you, mate.”

“You’re welcome.” Gabriel turned to walk away, hesitated, and turned back. Noah was tying the sleeves of the coat beneath Chip, so that she’d be dry as they walked. He cleared his throat, telling himself that the pub he was heading into was only a short walk away and some rain wouldn’t kill him. “I think you could use this,” he said, taking off his coat. “I have another home.”

He didn’t, but he could buy one. After some insistence, Noah accepted the gift and Gabriel walked off to the pub, letting the rain fall on him, once again wondering what he ought to do to please God.

Gabriel never was the brightest bulb in the box.

***

“So, have you given up on getting to the fallen Archangel?”

I’d very much rather forget about that idiot, but here you are making yourself an absolute pain in the ass and reminding me.

“I have not,” Beelzebub said, sprawled on their throne and making a point not to bother looking anywhere in Asmodeus’ general direction. One of the most annoying parts of having a fellow Prince of Hell show up before them was that they couldn’t tell them to shut the Heaven up without things getting quite ugly. Not that they generally minded things getting ugly - they were in Hell, all things were ugly all the time - but it would likely turn into a full-blown feud.

Which, with the demons still rather put off by the lack of Apocalypse and subsequent war, things could get out of hand rather quickly. “You have not? I’m told you have not left Hell in weeks.”

“And…?”

“Have you assigned someone else to winning him over? I thought it was meant to be a personal project,” Asmodeus said with a shrug, his mismatched, sunken-in eyes glinting in malevolent glee. “One would think you’d have won him over by now. Out of practice, are you?”

Beelzebub scoffed, finally turning to look at him. “What do I owe the displeasure of your visit?” they asked, cutting the chase.

A shrug. “I want us to get the archangel for ourselves, is all. With no war happening in the foreseeable future, a small victory is better than none to keep the spirits up. Or down, depending how you look at it. It would be quite a feather in your hat, taking his soul. Is that not what you wanted?”

“He is an idiot,” Beelzebub scoffed. “And an archangel no longer. His soul is worth no more and no less than any other human’s.”

“But he was God’s messenger.”

“Who he was doesn’t matter for him as it doesn’t matter for us. We are who we are now.”

Asmodeus shrugged. “Points of view. Well then, if you’re dropping the project, I’ll be picking it--”

“I didn’t say I’m dropping it,” was the sharp reply. Truth be told they did have every intention to do just that - best not to see him, best not to remember, best not to think - but something about the idea Asmodeus or anyone else could claim his soul for Hell rubbed them all the wrong ways. The former Archangel Gabriel in Hell, with Asmodeus as his liege lord. That wouldn’t do at all.

As for the reason why it wouldn’t do, Beelzebub would rather not speculate. They settled on the thought it would amount to leaving that particular feather in someone else’s hat, and of course they couldn’t do that. They were the Lord of the Flies, the one Prince of Hell Satan had tasked with preparing for the War, and therefore they had a certain standing.

The fact they couldn’t get that war started, while not blamed on them for obvious reasons, had been a loss of prestige. They were not looking to hand someone else an easy victory over them.

“Oh?” Asmodeus tilted his head. “You’re not?”

Beelzebub waved a hand. “I’m waiting for him to lower his guard. Think he’s safe. His soul is worth little, but Hell shall have it,” they added. Then they’d assign him to some task well away from them, so they wouldn’t have to see his stupid face all the time and remember what was best forgotten. But, of course, they didn’t say that part aloud: they couldn’t bring up knowledge they were not meant to have. It would be… unwise.

Although, come to think of it, what had been brought up may very well give them just the leverage they needed to sway that fool on the road to Hell.

***

“We are… not certain we are meant to consume any of this.”

“Well, it’s going to look rather odd if I’m the only one eating out of all four of us, wouldn’t it?” Gabriel put down his menu, which he had picked up despite knowing full well what he was going to order. “The trick is going through the menu once, pick a dish, and if you like it you keep ordering it whenever you come to the establishment again.”

Sandalphon looked confused. “Then why did you read all the dishes again just now?”

“Ah, that’s just something you do. Etiquette, I suppose. I usually have a double bacon cheeseburger and chips,” he added.

Approximately eight miles away Aziraphale made a face, causing Crowley to pause on his piece about the absolute necessity of a proper wine cellar in the cottage. “What is it, Angel?” “Oh… nothing at all, dear,” he said, waving a hand. “Just a moment, already passed. Concerning the wine selection, I think we absolutely ought to have…”

“... Chips?”

“That would be potatoes. They’re also served with fish.”

“What fish?” Uriel asked, eyeing the photo on the menu. “There are approximately thirty-four thousand species of fish on Earth, and this looks like none of them.”

“I’m not sure. I guess we could ask,” he said, knowing full well that was likely going to end in a chorus of ‘we’re having what he’s having’ right after he uttered his order, which was… exactly what happened.

“Well,” Gabriel said as soon as the waiter was gone with their rather monotonous orders. “How are things going in--” a pause, a glance towards the next table over, which was entirely too close and well within earshot. “... At work?”

As expected, everything in Heaven was pretty much business as usual, aside from the fact they no longer had to prepare for an all-out war for victory or destruction. The war to end all wars, to be fought with more than just swords or spears - holy water and hellfire were to play a part, too. At the very least, they had prepared to use holy water, and had expected hellfire. Complete and utter destruction. They had never thought they might lose, and hardly ever paid any mind to the idea some of them may be destroyed, victorious or not.

Nor had they spared a thought for the demons they would extinguish, of course; they were meant to be destroyed, having sealed their fate the day they chose to rebel... only that now he found he was relieved it had not come to that. He'd known them, once, though the memory of the angels they had been was still beyond his grasp, as he hadn't tried to bring up more. The agony caused by bringing back up everything Ba'al had been to him was painful enough.

He'd done his best not to think about Beelzebub at all over the past few weeks, and it had… sort of worked. If he ignored it hard enough the sting was muted, duller, lost in the background. He was almost good enough at lying to himself to believe that nothing at all had happened, no memory that mattered had been brought up, and surely it would get easier as more time passed and Beelzebub no longer showed their face.

He could tell himself it was a relief, that he did not miss their presence, as Ba'al or as the Lord of the Flies. Maybe in time he would come to truly believe it, but somehow he doubted it. Once the veil has been ripped in two, it is hard to mend. It would have been easier if it was never ripped, if everything went according to the Great Plan; nothing to question, nothing to fear.

And even so, God, he was glad the war had not come. He was glad that Beelzebub had not been destroyed, that humanity was still there, that no angel had perished. And all thanks to a rebellious child turning against his Father.

Ironic, that

"... And that's about it," Sandalphon finished over a mouthful of double bacon cheeseburger, which he seemed to appreciate after all. Uriel had eaten the chips, at least; Michael still seemed rather unconvinced and had simply moved food around to make it look like she had eaten something. "What about--" Sandalphon trailed off, and went very still, eyeing around. "Something smells evil," he muttered, his voice low, causing Gabriel’s hair to stand on end.

He turned - they all did - to glance around, as discreetly as they could, but none of them noticed anything. Gabriel did a fly buzzing close by, but they were sitting outside to eat and… well, maybe it was just a fly. He hoped it was just a fly.

Do I really?

“Ah, it’s gone,” Sandalphon was muttering. “It was a whiff, but I can’t smell it anymore.”

“... Probably a passing human with evil intent,” Gabriel said, keeping his voice.

“Probably,” Michael conceded, and looked back at him. “We can take you home and take turns to watch, just to be on the safe side.”

That would probably be excessive, Gabriel mused, because the fly was probably just a fly. But what concerned him was something else - how part of him hoped otherwise, that it wasn’t just a fly, against all logic and common sense.

“I am sure it won’t be needed,” he finally said, and took the last bite of his meal, faintly wondering if somewhere on another plane of existence there was now a file about him to record deeds good and evil, and if the lie he’d just uttered was already being written on it, placing him just a tiny step closer to Hell.

***

Beelzebub did not like dilemmas.

That discovery was unpleasant as it was recent; as prior to that mess - at least in their recent memories - they had never truly found themselves faced with one; in doubt, which was not often as evil accepts little doubt, they simply went for the bigger evil and that was it. But now the decision was whether or not they should use the knowledge they had gained of themselves and Gabriel to sway the former archangel and it was, indeed, a dilemma of the worst sort.

It would be best to never bring the past up again and try with all their might to forget again, they knew that. However, that would be as good as admitting themselves that the discovery did bother them, for all their claims that it changed nothing… and they didn’t want to do that either.

They thought back of that night, how Gabriel’s eyes leaked and theirs didn’t; focused on that only, ignoring the overwhelming sense of love cloying their throat, the ache somewhere at their very core that they could not and wished not name. None of it mattered.

Gabriel had wept. They did not.

It changes nothing for me, Beelzebub mused, but it might change everything for this fool. Hell shall have him and it shall be my doing, Asmodeus be blessed. I only need to change strategy.

And with that thought, their mind was made up. The Lord of the Flies took wing, and followed Gabriel home. They had to talk.

Alone.

***

“So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13

***

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Sanctuary - Chapter 31

Warnings: none

Tagging: @thorsbathroomchicken, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @valkyrie-of-the-light

“You know...” Esme says, a glass of white wine pressed against her lips. “...under different circumstances, this would have made a pretty good honeymoon.”

They'd made a forty-five minute drive to a small town that sits on River Lagan. Far enough away from Belfast that Tyler is able to let his guard down. He's much more relaxed; nerves not as raw, anxiety no longer running on all cylinders. The worry is still there; he still observes the crowd, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone that seems even remotely suspicious. Guys like McMann have connections; their circles are enormous and their resources seemingly endless. He'd crossed a line earlier; gone way beyond just scaring the other man into giving him information. The rage had been intense. Uncontrollable. Five and a half years of holding back all the emotions that he'd been carrying with him since Dhaka had finally come to a head. And he was certain that if Mark hadn’t have been there, Michael McMann would have met his fate.

Now thoughts turn to possible revenge. McMann could have it if he wanted. Tyler knows that. He wouldn’t do the dirty work himself; he’d recruit a gang full of buddies to catch him when he was alone and vulnerable. Or he’d skip going after him and resort to escalating things further; going after Esme and using her as a pawn to get to him. She’s his weakness; it’s no secret. Quite possibly the one person alive that is capable of truly destroying him.

Intentional or not.

He’s kept a close eye on her. Either tightly holding her hand while strolling the small downtown area or keeping an arm around her shoulders and her pulled tight into his side. Trying to tone down the over protectiveness that she often complains about it. She feels he’s ‘over the top’. That his need to keep her safe and sound borders on an unhealthy obsession. Viewing it as controlling. Suffocating. A sign that he sees her as an object that he needs to keep tucked away from the rest of the world to avoid having her cracked or broken. Tyler doesn’t consider it a bad thing; she’s the love of his life, his wife, the mother of his kids, what was so wrong with wanting to make sure that she was safe?

It is a bone of contention between them,and has been for the past five and a half years. The cause of over ninety percent of the fights they get into. One of the main reasons behind their trial separation. She’d been sick of being treated like a possession and even more fed up with always being put second to the job. It had felt as if she were the only one putting in the effort when it came to keeping their marriage from falling apart; his long, frequent absences creating a wedge between them, turning her bitter and angry, tired of living a single parent life when there was no reason for it.

The environment had been extremely toxic. He’d come home after two weeks away and they couldn’t hold even the simplest conversations without it turning into an argument. And then the mud slinging would begin. Trying to out do one another with the stinging, hurtful comments. The kids began to feel the tension; sleep issues, tantrums, regression in milestones. And that’s when she’d had enough. Kicking his ass out and issuing an ultimatum: their family or the job.

In the end they’d ended up coming to a compromise. When she’d called him in the middle night after months of being apart and told him that she missed him and wanted him to come home, Tyler had been determined to make things right between them. He agreed to go to counselling. Swore off the heavy drinking that he’d began to use as a crutch. Would only take a certain number of jobs a month. Two weeks on, two weeks off. It had been a hard sell to Nik; she wanted him available at a moments notice. If the phone rang in the middle of the night, he was expected to not only pick up, but pack his shit and get to wherever she needed him to be. It had been a long fought battle against her but he’d finally won. Reminding her that his family was his priority and always would be, and that he wouldn’t think twice about walking away entirely and leaving her high and dry without enough team members. He could find other work. There were other people looking for guys with his particular skill sets. Ones that offered a higher cut when it came to payouts. After all, he was well known. A legend of sorts. And there wasn’t a boss out there that would turn him away.

“I thought we were going to Niagara Falls,” he chides.

They’ve talked about it a handful of times; he always opted for a tropical destination while she insisted on Canada. Not that he has anything against the country or the people itself, but the idea of the perfect honeymoon did not include tacky museums and a huge waterfall. He wanted the beach. The ocean. One of those cozy cabana style suits built right on the water. Five years ago they’d never gotten the chance to have a honeymoon; he’d been recovering, she’d been pregnant with Millie. And once they moved to Colorado they’d been too caught up in being married and raising a family.

“We could always do a week there and a week where you want to go too,” she suggests.

“Yeah? And who watches the minions?”

“Grandma is stepping up lately. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Don’t you think it would nice to get away? Just the two of us? We’ve never been able to do it before. I think we deserve it. Especially after all this is over.”

He doesn’t disagree. The Belfast job has already been a major shit show and they aren’t even close to the finish line. But even this is nice; this small break from the job. Just the two of them hanging out on a restaurant’s outdoor patio; fresh air, a view of the river. Doing normal couple things like engaging in flirtatious chit chat, sharing little looks and smiles across the table, holding hands on top of it while browsing through their menus.

“We have to work on us too,” she reasons. “We exist outside of being parents.”

“I thought that was what all the sex was for,” he teases, and she rolls her eyes. “We’ll talk about it when we get home,” he promises, and squeezes her hand. “Let’s just get this over and done with, yeah?”

“The sooner the better,” she sighs, and he nods in agreement.

They settle into a comfortable silence; eyes on their menus, fingers still intwined, his thumb continuously rubbing across the top of her hand and the side of her wrist. He’s missed this. The little moments. When they’re just Tyler and Esme and nothing else seems to matter. It’s been a long time since they’ve been in that place. Somewhere along the line they’d manage to lose that connection; the one that exists outside of sex. Where they exist solely for each other and their identities going further than just being parents.

“So what was that text messages about?” he asks. “’We found something’. What is something and who is we?”

“Before I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t freak out.”

Tyler’s eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

“Do you really have that little faith in me? I haven’t done anything. Well, nothing too bad, anyway.”

He’s starting to wish he hadn’t sworn off booze for the evening.

“Yaz and I went to McMann’s house. He jammed the security system so it wouldn’t go off once we got inside.”

“How did you even get in there in the first place?”

She swallows a mouthful of wine. “Yaz picked the lock.”

Tyler sighs. “So you committed B and E, basically.”

“Technically, yes. But it was for a good reason! Nik’s been dragging her heels when it comes to getting in there and we’re running out of time so I just figured if he was able to both guarantee we wouldn’t get caught and could successfully pick a lock…”

“How’d you know McMann didn’t have guys watching the place?”

“Well…we didn’t…”

Another sigh.

“But we were really careful,” she assures him. “We kept an eye out. We didn’t see anyone hanging around and we were definitely not followed, so…”

“So you broke into his house and…”

“Stole his mail.”

“Excuse me…what?”

“I went through his mail,” she confesses. “I admit, not one of my finer moments.”

He smirks. “You think?”

“But I did come across something. All of the something’s. Including a notice of assessment in regards to his last income tax return and a couple of utility bills. But…”

“Esme…please…I love you, but let’s not turn this into a ridiculously long story that you could have told me in two sentences. What did you find? While you were snooping.”

“I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for clues.”

Tyler stares at her pointedly.

“Okay, so I was snooping. But it paid off. I came across a letter. Handwritten. Snail mail. I think it’s from Heather McMann’s grandmother in New Zealand. Something about selling the business and how it’s sad things have come down to this.”

“So?”

“So it shows that there’s still ties to the family in New Zealand.”

“Which we already knew because McMann told us,” he reminds her. “But go on.”

“Maybe there’s some kind of connection. Between the business and whatever is going on here.”

“You’re reaching.”

“Anything is possible,” she argues. “You should know that. Is it really that far fetched considering how crazy and twisted this all all been since the very beginning?”

She has a point.

“It wouldn’t hurt. To check out the grandmother. To see if she knows anything.”

“Get Yaz on it. You’ve got enough going on. And the last thing I need is you running off to New Zealand and something happening while I’m thousands of miles away. So that’s it? You found a letter that may or may not mean something?”

“Oh there’s more,” the excitement is evident in her voice; sparkles in her eyes. “While I was investigating…”

Tyler clears his throat.

“Snooping,” she corrects herself. “I found this.”

She grabs her phone off the bag of her chair and pulls out her SAT, thumbing through the pictures until she finds the one she’s looking for, then holds the phone out to him.

He removes his sunglasses, hooking them onto the neck of his grey button down shirt, then takes the phone from her. Hair tumbling across his forehead and into his right eye as he studies the image on the screen. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s a chair.”

“I see that. Why am I looking at it?

“It matches the one that is in the photos that you got delivered to your old hotel room. The ones that Erin…or whoever the hell she is….brought. In the pictures, the McMann kids are restrained in those foldable metal chairs. But Heather is in a wooden chair. That looks antique and is in impeccable condition. Weird, right? Why are the kids suffering while she gets the comforts of home? Normally the adults get treated worse because they can take more punishment. See the cushion…” she stands up and leans over the table, using her thumb and forefinger to zoom in on the photo. “…I am fairly certain it matches the one in the pictures you go.”

His eyebrow arches. “Fairly certain? We need more than fairly.”

“Well there’s no way of telling for sure until I compare it to the photos. But I’m at least ninety percent sure.”

“Ninety?”

“Okay, so maybe seventy five, eighty. But I did my research on this chair. It belongs to one of only twenty five dining room sets made in New Zealand in the early nineteen twenties. It’s a mixture of cherry wood and gum wood. Extremely rare. The set comes with six chairs but there’s only five at the McMann house.”

His eyebrow arches once more, nodding slowly as he listens to her.

“Now I don’t know how he wouldn’t notice that one of the chairs are missing. I haven’t even stopped to consider that. But doesn’t it seem a little too coincidental, Tyler? That one of the chairs is missing. Heather McMann was restrained to an exact match…or at least close to it…and she’s from New Zealand where the chair originated from and where her grandmother owns a store?”

“What kind of store? Do we know?”

“Second hand stuff. Mostly clothes and small household wares. But there is a section at the back that has rare pieces. Antiques. Come on. I know you’re Mister Pessimistic, but even you have to admit this all tied together in some way. “

“I’m not pessimistic. I’m realistic. What’s the chances that any of this is connected? We’re going to put all of our hopes into a chair? One that you just admitted you aren’t one hundred percent sure even matches the one in the photos I have. And even if it is the same chair, what does it prove? How does it help us find those kids?”

“It will prove that Heather McMann is running the show. That she’s in on it and not the helpless victim that she is pretending to be. Which means we can focus solely on her and digging up her skeletons. If we can one hundred percent pin this on her, we can track down her whereabouts through colleagues. Her grandmother. There’s no way someone doesn’t know where she is. And Yaz said there’s no women’s clothes in the master bedroom and no woman’s things in any of the bathrooms.”

“So she wasn’t living there.” Tyler concludes. “Which means she didn’t go missing at the same times as the kids.”

“Probably because she’s the one that came into the house and took them. There were no signs of any struggle. Those kids weren’t taken out by force. They went willingly. And who would they trust enough to just wander out of the house with them?”

“A parent.”

“Exactly. If you were to wake Millie up at two in the morning, telling her that there was somewhere important you needed to take her, she wouldn’t argue with you. She trusts you. She has faith in you. She knows that you wouldn’t hurt or take her into a situation that could hurt her. She’d just go. And I think that’s what happened here. She wasn’t living at the house, came back in and convinced the kids to leave with her.”

“But who was staying with them? If she wasn’t living there and McMann wasn’t home at the time, who was with the kids? Were they alone?”

“Maybe things didn’t happen the way he’s telling you. Maybe he gave a fake timeline. I mean, he has been lying to you from the very beginning. What if she came in in the middle of the night? She’d have a key. She knows the code for the security system. If McMann was sleeping, she could have easily snuck in, went upstairs, woke the kids up and took them out of the house. It had to be her. If it was a stranger, the kids would have kicked up a fuss and he would have heard it and put a stop to it. Our kids don’t even like when strangers talk to them in the grocery store. They would not go quietly if someone woke them up and tried to convince them to leave. Mille would be liable to punch them in the throat and then scream for help. I mean, she kicked the shit out of Tyler and you know how he’s a little hard ass. If there was ever a kid to be named after his father, it’s that one. You have to admit; this is all starting to make a lot more sense than it did yesterday.”

“It still doesn’t explain why she would do it,” he holds the phone out to her. “We still haven’t come across a motive.”

“Money. Revenge. Maybe there’s a custody thing going on? Maybe she stands to lose custody of the kids so she concocted this elaborate ruse to make her husband look like he’s unfit?”

“That’s pretty goddamn sick don’t you think? To go to that extent? You saw the pictures. What those kids are going through is real. It’s very real. What kind of mother would do something like that? What kind of parent would even think of a plan like that? Never mind actually following through with it. Letting people do shit like that to their kids.”

‘Well she’s obviously fucked in the head. And he’s no prize either.”

Tyler gives a derisive snort. “In the pictures I have, you can see brick walls. Pipes. No windows.”

She nods, sips her wine. “Like an industrial building. Or a basement.”

“Did you guys check the basement? At McMann’s place?”

Esme nods. “It’s fully finished. No exposed brick, no wires, no pipes. Nothing.”

“But did you check the whole thing? Every inch of it?”

She frowns. “What are you thinking?”

“When I was growing up, my grandparents lived in an old farmhouse. It had a storm cellar. That you could only access from outside. Inside, there was no sign of it even existing. Did you or Yaz go into the backyard? Is there anything like that there? Any stairs leading underground? Any door that doesn’t lead directly into the house?”

“We never thought of doing that,” she admits. “We were so focused on looking around inside.”

“We need to go back. To McMann’s place. First thing tomorrow. We need to search it again.”

“What about McMann? He’ll be home. How do we get him out of there so he doesn’t know we’re going on?”

“I’ll put Yaz on that. He’ll figure something out.”

“You think that’s where the kids are? In their own basement?”

“Maybe not the kids. But maybe that’s where Heather McMann has been all this time. This is all just a big fucking game to her. One big sick and twisted fucking game.”

“But where are the kids? We’re not closer to figuring out where they are. And that’s all that really matters right? Those kids and getting them the hell out of there.”

“We find her, we find the kids.”

“What makes you think she’s going to tell us where they are? If she’s this hell bent on destroying her husband…”

“There’s ways of making people talk. You of all people know that. You spent years getting people to talk.”

“I didn’t have to resort to torturing them or beating the hell out of them, though. That’s what you’re suggesting right? Force it out of her? By all means necessary?”

He nods. “If that’s what it takes.”

*****

After dinner they take a walk along the river, in hand, enjoying the sunset and the cooler temperatures, immersed in conversation that for once didn’t involve the job or the worries and questions surrounding it. A normal couple out for date night; light hearted teasing, flirtatious comments, sweet stolen kisses. As if five and a half years hadn’t gone by and they were still immersed in that ‘getting to know you stage’. Where everything your partner said or did was the most incredible thing you could ever imagine. They’d never had that. Not really. They’d been robbed of that stage. The second Fahrad had put the bullet in Tyler’s neck, it had altered every single aspect of their lives.

The small talk that couples indulge in while learning everything there is to know about one another had taken place in a hospital room or during the walks they’d take around the hospital grounds once he’d been strong enough to do so. Or on the drives to various therapy appointments or consults with surgeons. And then she’d found out about the baby and they’d decided to speed things up; finding an apartment to call home, having a quick and private wedding with only six people in attendance. After that everything seemed to fall into place and break neck speed; the second trip to Dhaka and their eventual guardianship of Ovi, having to move into her parents, the twins arriving a month before their sister turned one. There’d never been really alone time. Quality wise. Those quiet moments where you discover things about one another that you’d either never noticed before, had previously overlooked, or had taken for granted. Their lives had revolved around being parents. Nothing more. Nothing less.

So this is nice. A chance to for them to reconnect. Outside of sex. Even if…in reality…their relationship has always revolved around it. Right from the very beginning, when they’d been unable to keep their hands off of each other in that dirty hotel room in Dhaka. Sex was their ‘thing’; something they were both great at. An escape. A way to make one another feel good. Many a fight has ended because of it. Problems solved because with the sex came those quiet, relaxed moments afterwards when they actually took the time to talk to one another. But intimacy involves more than sex, and both of them had been craving it.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Esme says, as they slowly walk back towards where they’d left the SUV parked by the restaurant. His jacket draped over her shoulders to ward off the chill in the air, his arm loosely draped along her shoulders, hand on her upper arm.

He sees the way people look at them; easily amused by the thirteen inch height difference. They’re an odd couple; she’s short and petite and fragile looking, while he’s tall and broad shouldered and heavily muscled. Powerful. Intimidating, even.

He frowns. “I can tell by that tone in your voice it’s something I’m not going to like.”

“You have to promise me that you won’t lose your shit. That you’ll hear me out. No matter how crazy it sounds to you. Can you do that? Keep your shit together long enough to hear everything? Because I know what you’re like, Tyler. You react first, think later. And I need you to do the opposite this time.”

“Well considering you told me an hour ago that you broke into someone’s house and stole their mail, I don’t know how worse things could possibly get.”

“You might regret saying that. Because this is just a tad worse.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“Okay, so maybe it’s a lot worse. But it’s for the job. Strictly for the job. So I can get information and we can start piecing everything together and find those kids. So keep that in mind. That what I’m about to tell you is strictly business and it is solely a means to an end.”

“Should I be sitting down for this or….?”

“Maybe? Yes?” she chews nervously on her bottom lip. “Yes. Definitely yes. You might be a calmer if you’re sitting down.”

“Esme…I swear to Christ if you did something stupid…”

She grabs a hold of his hand, tugging him towards the nearest empty park bench. “You should really sit,” she encourages. ��You’re more relaxed and less likely to tear someone a new asshole when you’re sitting.”

Sighing heavily, he reluctantly takes seat.

“Okay…first thing is first…” she begins, as she sits beside him, turning to face him, legs folded underneath her. “…I love you. More than I ever thought I could love another human being. So much that is physically painful sometimes. You’re my husband and my best friend and my lover and my most steadfast supporter and the father of my kids and…”

“This is going way worse than I thought it would.”

“…and I need you to know all of that. It’s important to me that you know all that, okay?”

“Okay. And I love you too. But you’re honestly starting to freak me out a bit here.”

“Second, this is solely for the job. Just like all the other times in my past where I had to do some questionable things to get what I wanted. I’m only doing this because there’s information involved. And people that possibly have even more information. Time is running out and we really need to find those kids before it’s too late. You trust me, right?”

His eyes are narrow, brow furrowed. “To be honest, I’m not one hundred percent sure right now.”

“You remember that bartender? From the pub the other night? The one I convinced that I’m a reporter? Well he called this morning and wants to get together. He has info for me. And names. People that are higher up the food chain than he is. People that can give us a lot more than he can.”

“That sounds like a good thing. Not a bad thing. So what’s the big deal? You go back there and talk to him. Simple, yeah?”

“No. It’s not simple. It’s crazy and it’s messed up and you’re going to flip your shit for sure. He thinks I’m single. I told him that I wasn’t married anymore and that I was separated and not getting back together with my husband. My pretend husband. Not you obviously. My fake one. So now he thinks this is a date. Me going to see him. He thinks it’s an actual date.”

He laughs at the sure ridiculousness of it. “A date? Like for real?”

“It was the only way I could get information out of him. I had to make him think that I was available. And interested. To get him to let his guard down. So he called and asked me over there…to the bar…for dinner and drinks. And I know I probably should have ran this by you first, but you’d already left and I didn’t want to call you and bother you with it, so I said okay.”

His eyes narrow as he regards her. “You said okay to going on a date with another guy?”

“It’s only a date in his mind. Not mine. So technically…”

“So he thinks he’s going to be on a date with you.”

“Pretty much. You’re too calm. You’re not freaking out. This worries me. Why are you so calm?”

“Trust me, internally? I’m not calm. Not the least bit calm. Not in the slightest. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I had to get him to trust me. To get him to let his guard down,” she attempts to reason. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to do something like this.”

“All those other times you weren’t married. You were single. Do you not see why this is a problem? Why you agreeing to this is probably the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard? You want me to be okay with you going on a date with another man.”

“Why are you so caught up on the word ‘date’. It’s not a date. At least not in my mind. I’m just using him. To get what we need.”

“There’s other ways. To get what we need. This? This is fucked up. Beyond fucked up. How do you not see a problem with this? How do you not see how messed up this entire idea is?”

“Okay, your face and your voice are relaxed but your words are saying an entirely different thing and it is really freaking me out. Can you maybe not internalize so much? I think I like the Tyler better that just flips his shit and that’s that.”

“You intentionally told me this, in public, so I wouldn’t freak out. Now you want me to freak out?”

“I’m just used to you being...I don’t know…you.”

“Jesus Christ…” he mutters, and running and rakes both hands through his hair, then runs the palms over his face. “Of all the stupid shit you’ve said and done in the past five and a half years, this is the winner right here.”

“We’re running out of time, Tyler. The clock is ticking. If we don’t find those kids soon…”

“You don’t need to be going on a date to find the kids. Like what the fuck, Esme?”

“It isn’t a date,” she insists. “Maybe in his eyes and mind it is, but to me it’s just a job. It has no bearing on us. On our marriage. It’s not like I’m going out there to intentional cheat on you. I’m doing this as a means to an end. That’s it.”

“There’s other ways. To get information. Without having to whore out yourself to some fucking loser.”

She frowns. “That was super harsh, Tyler. You’re blowing this way out of proportion now. This guy has information that we need. He has names of very important people with even more information. People with connections. This is the one chance to get what we need. It’s business. That’s it.”

“And when he expects more than dinner?” he challenges. :What then?”

“I tell him to fuck off and I leave. You honestly don’t think I’d go that far do you? Give me some credit.”

“Would you want me doing this? Going out with some other woman?”

“If it’s for the job…”

“Fuck the job. There’s lines that you don’t cross. And you’re crossing it. Big time.”

“And you didn’t cross it when you called me asking for help?” she retorts. “And you didn’t cross it again by putting me in charge of watching your ass? I’m not G. I’m far from being G.”

“Well he’s not exactly here, is he.”

“You crossed the line first. When you brought me into this bullshit, Tyler. I was perfectly happy staying at home and taking care of kids. Our kids. You’re the one that called. Not the other way around.”

“I needed your help.”

“And this is me giving you my help. This is what I used to do. I spent years lying to people. Getting them to open up to me and trust me.”

“Was I one of those people? In Dhaka? Did that all start out as bullshit?”

“I can’t believe you would even say that. Everything that happened there was real. I never once lied to you and you know it. So that’s pretty low, Tyler. Even for you.”

Sighing heavily, he places his elbows and stares at his hands. All the callouses and scars, the misshapen and swollen knuckles from years of breaks and sprains. And he fidgets with his wedding ring; using his thumb to twirl it around his finger. A nervous habit. Or an angry one. His shoulders are tight; tension spreading through his entire body. Eyes dark and stormy. That vein in the side of his neck throbbing; the thick yet short scar clearly visible. A long lasting memento of the one bullet that had nearly ended his life.

“You’re taking this way too personally,” she says.

“And you’re not taking it personally enough.”

“You’re not looking at this objectively. This is all about the job. That’s it. I’m going in there to get the information and then I’m getting out. I’m walking out of there and I’m coming back to you. To my husband. That’s it.”

“And I’m just supposed to be okay with it? You and another guy?”

“There’s no other guy. There will never be another guy. There’s only you. I’m not going in there with feelings for him. I’m going in there because we need to find those kids and he may be the only one that can help us. Aren’t you sick of this? Playing these games? Constantly hitting brick walls? I want to go home, Tyler. I just want to go home and see our kids. And right now it seems like we’re just getting further and further away from getting there.”

“This isn’t the way,” he argues. “Sending you in there. With a guy that thinks he’s on a date with you. What if he expects more? What if…?”

“I know how to say ‘no’. I would never…ever….do something like that. And the fact that you even think I would…”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t force you to do something. You go in there alone, with no backup, and he has you right where he wants you.”

“I’m capable of dropping a guy that needs to be dropped. I know how to kick someone in the nuts. You need to trust me. I know what I’m doing. I go in there, have dinner, a drink, get what I want and get the hell out. That’s it.”

“Things are never that easy and you know it.”

“Tyler…” she lays a hand on his back; between his shoulders, moving in slow, comforting circles. “You need to trust me. You trust me enough to watch your back. You should trust me enough to do this.”

He sighs. “I don’t like this. I don’t like the idea of you going in there. Alone.”

“Yaz says there’s ways to keep an eye on things. Or an ear on things, I should say. I can wear a wire. You guys would be able to hear everything that gets said. You could wait outside somewhere and listen in. That way you’d know if I was in trouble or not. You want me to have your back? Well now I need you to have mine. No matter how uncomfortable the situation makes you.”

He inhales sharply, exhaling as he shakes his head. “This is messed up. It is so beyond messed up. How did this happen? How did things get this fucked?”

“How did things get fucked in Dhaka? They just did. At least this time we have a chance to prepare for the shit show. We’re not just getting tossed into it. Maybe that’s the only good thing about how slow things have been moving. We actually have time to breathe and think things through.”

“I feel like I’m going nuts. I feel like I’m losing my mind. It’s just so twisted and crazy and I’m starting to think my brain is just making half this shit up to fuck with me.”

“Unfortunately, it’s very real. And I hate every damn second of it. But we need to stick together. We need to trust each other. We’re stronger together than we are apart. We always have been.”

He nods in agreement.

“I love you, Tyler. Deciding this? To go about things this way? I didn’t do it to hurt you. I would never hurt you, you know that. And I love you and I just want to go home.”

“So do I,” he says, and wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulls her tightly into him and presses a kiss to her forehead. “So do I.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #extraction #chris hemsworth character #sanctuary

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krolock-in-the-snowlock · 4 years

Text

Part 2 - Broadway’s Dance of the Vampires Commentary

Act 2

• And here we are again, after taking a week or two to recover from act 1

• I have no idea what’s going to happen but I’m gonna finish what I started, no matter what it takes

• Ok the video is ready, I don’t think I am but here we go

• Ok well the opening music was more like titanic than tanz

• Ooh ok we have lots of vague figures on stairs, probably vampires but it’s hard to tell with the 480p video quality

• Hmmm are we having a reprise of totale finsternis?

• That staircase is looking

• Glad to see the audience is cracking up again at the use of total eclipse of the heart

• Those couple guys are having a great time

• They’re like

• haHAAA

• Good for them

• Glad someone’s enjoying this

• I would be annoyed that this whole thing is seen as funny when the original scene is really cool but hey this whole thing is just one big old parody so what could I expect

• Distancing myself from it by calling it a parody is the only thing getting me through thiis

• I don’t think they’re using all the same lyrics as total eclipse so at least there’s that

• But the lyrics are too romancey and soppy ugh

• Michael your singing is actually quite nice aside from the hint of giovannui at the edges of your words

• ARE THEY NOT DOING THE HARMONIES

• NO

• The harmonies are the best part of the song noooo

• And I think his voice would probably harmonise quite well

• And he ISN’T SINGING TURN AROUND WITH THE BACKING SINGERS

• wHY

• there was no dramatic krolock walking down the staircase slowly

• but then again I don’t think giovanni could do that

• he’d probably trip on the second step, crash down the stairs and be like I’m a-fine! Hee hee!

• Oh

• Oh no

• I think they are doing harmonies but they’re just

• Wrong

• So wrong

• Or maybe good ol’ giovanni has just forgotten the key he’s supposed to be singing in

• Entirely possible

• I don’t think giovanni would particularly care about the rules of music

• Oh giovanni is literally just like come to the gates of hell with me and sarah seems chill with iy

• She’s singing along

• She’a having a good time

• NOOO they harmonised poorly during the verse where there should be no harmonies but they sTILL WON’T HARMONISE IN THE CHORUS

• I HATE IT

• -22/10 would not listen again

• But then that sums up the whole musical tbh

• The phrase ‘hold me tight’ should not be in this song

• Wrong vibes my friends

• This fails the vibe check

• Oh no they’re attempting a couple of the original harmonies

• 2 lines in and it’s not going well

• ???????

• Wait

• They’re both singing harmonies for sarah’s line but NOBODY IS SINGING SARAH’S LINE

• Sarah sing your own part

• What r u doing

• Sarah

• This is horrible pls stop

• Once again the staging is mostly just the two pigeons again

• Except the squawking is more evenly split between the two

• Back and forth

• Wait

• Hmm

• There appears to be either a cult or aa group of monks (is there a name for that? A flock of pigeons, a murder of crows, a prayer of monks?) gathering in the backgroubd

• Did nobody tell them yhis room was taken

• Or maybe sarah and giovanni didn’t book the room

• Maybe it’s just turned midnight and their hour is up

• Someone check the dramatic staircase room booking sheet pls

• Ok ok but there’s nothing you can do, a total eclipse of the heart??

• The whole point is that sarah is trying to choose to be free and make her own choices

• If there’s nothing she can do then that sort of defeats the purpose

• Oh wait yeah this sarah wasn’t locked up

• Never mind

• None of this makes sense anyway

• Really missing krolock’s cape rn

• Nothing looks as good without it

• If giovanni had a cape he might even make it from a -13/10 to nearly a 1/10

• Oh the cult is following giovanni

• Maybe he invited them..?

• Having that many candles on the stairs cab’t be practical

• And tbh is frankly quite dangerous if u ask me

• …and once again we end with some undeservinf applause

Round 4: the boys are back in town

• Ah here comes alfred with his self-narration

• Did he just lightly crack the fourth wall..?

• Oh god and the vampire hunting squad is joined by giovanni ‘buonasera’ von krolock

• Ew did he just say scrumptious? That word should be spoken by grannies and posh mothers alone

• I love how he’s just sat in a throne in the middle of nowhere

• Is this outside his castle? Inside? Somewhere else entirely? We may never know

• Oh sorry I stand corrected it appears I have been incorrectly naming giovanni this whole time

• His full name appears to be count giovanni coppolini travancoli von krolock (or something along those lines) of the sicilian side of the family

• Albus percival wulfric brian dumbledore anyone?

• I just.

• Why is he italian

• Krolock does not sound remotely italian

• Do vampires have a connection to italy?

• If so I am not aware

• Once again, I must ask: why is 75% of the staging of this musical just people stood at opposite ends of the stage facing each other

• Those bats look like family? I guess they would

• Oh my god why is alfred threatening giovanni

• I guess nobody’s gonna be pretending not to know what the others are

• Which gets straight to the point I suppose

• While not necessarily good at self-preservation, alfred sure is efficient

• But maybe too efficient because we still have an hour left to go

• This version of alfred is like a chihuahua with small dog sydrome yapping at a bigger dog, excpet giovanni is only slightly bigger than him and is probably a flea-infested chinese crested dog dressed in a halloween costume from wish.com

• …piccolo alfredo.

• This scene is really bringing out the offensively fake italian in giovanni

• WHY. IS. HE. OFFERING. ALFRED. A. SPONGE. SHAPED. LIKE. A. PENIS

• WHY IS HE MAKING IT GO FLACCID EWWWW NOOO

• I NEED EYE AND BRAIN BLEACH

• Are they saying… erbert..?

• Oh yay he’s french

• Quick tip, directors: the french would not pronounce the t either unless you added an e at the end (I think)

• Also e is more like air rather than er from what I remember

• So really it would be airbair??

• Which is stupid

• Tl;dr: do not make him french and still call him herbert

• Oh and herbert wearing bright blue? No thx I prefer his purple sparkles and black

• His hair and wig aren’t even done well *sigh* herbert would hate this

• See giovanni made a joke and the audience clearly liked it but I could not catch a word of what he said

• Oh god this herbert is wrong

• Herbert never actually speaks to krolock in tanz

• Which tbh is a shame but i prefer it over… whatever this is…

• Huh so it is set in transylvania, giovanni and airbear are just italian and french bc y not

• Neat

• Cool cool cool

• Wait so they were in the library the whole time???????

• I’m so confused rn

• Why does his library have a coffee bar..? you know what, never mind

• Ah ambronsius is clearly about to sing his book song

• …or maybe not? Giovanni is apparently trying to seduce him too..?

• The staging is a bit like vor dem schloss

• It’s the right time for it but who knows

• And one of the first decent harmonies of the musical is a line between giovanni and ambronsius singing about books bc apparently this is a book club now

• Oh no is koukol called boris

• If it isn’t boris johnson I’m gonna be disappointed (or relieved)

• Apparently the throne just glides backwards

• Like a magic carpet exceot it doesn’t leave the ground so i suppose actually more like a chair with wheels, which is much less exciting

• That didn’t deserve a clap

• I can’t figure out if they’re being open about their intentions or not because they seem to change their minds every 10 seconds

• There’s suddenly a bed?

• Oh god ok let’s see if they mess up carpe noctem

• Well the music is for an entirely different song so this will be interesting

• Hmm ok it is that completly different song

• Is that airbear..?

• Or alfred #2?

• Bc it should be krolock singing that song but idek

• At least we get a cape and mostly good singing

• Ah here we go

• Carpe noctem looking its usual weird self

• oH GOD NOT ITS USUAL SELF

• I do not remember winged demons dancing on the bed in the original

• But hey there’s more capes

• Something to be grateful for

• I’m really not sure what’s going on here

• Oh ok I can finally see the dream krolock

• He’s doing all those jumps in a suit rather than shirtless with leggings so he looks a little less cool sorry to him

• But yh i still have no idea who is singing the main vocals

• And it’s over

• Ha alfred lowkey looks like brian david gilbert in that one bit

• Sorry alfred your i’m scared but i’m gonna do this for sarah song isn’t quite as sweet when you’re super confident

• One thing i never understood was how ambronsius slept through alfred’s singing

• Ah it appears he did not

• He’s hugging ambronsius..?

• Does he do that in the original?

• Ha ha very funny professor sibilance and homovampiricus

• Oh and alfred happily just whacks chagal on the head nice nice totally in character

• The coffins are empty???

• Why is chagal in a nice coffin

• Where does giovanni sleep

• I guess in his floating mansion of a coffin

• If anything herbert would have that

• WHY IS MRS CHAGAL HERE

• WHY IS ALFRED EAGER TO KILL CHAGAL

• Oh he’s finally turning magda

• ..and his wife?

• Apparently

• Are they in a polyamorous relationship now

• They will not all fit in that one coffin I’m sorry

• And here’s herbert

• Ew herbert is so cheap

• Like he was flirty in the original but this is ridiculous

• Ugh too many cheap gay jokes

• airbear is sO much worse than I could have imagined

• Huh maybe alfred is confirmed a little bi here

• Ok yeah alfred is definitely having his bi awakening here

• And at least the whole thing is a little more consensual here

• Oh yeah alfred’s bi as hell, he’s singing harmonies with airbear

• But he’s still trying to escape?

• I guess he is a bit confused

• Wait so airbear ended that thinking alfred wanted him? Different but more accurate to the events

• 40 minutes to go

• Mrs krolock is apparently a disguise he uses around sarah too? Ok

• Well the vampires are about to wake so this is where things really should start getting good but I’m sure they won’t

• I don’t like that one of them laughed

• I don’t think they’re even harmonising

• Lazy

• Ah ok here we go harmonies

• These are nice actually

• The lower part is louder than usual, which actually works quite nicely

• The vampires aren’t as jolty and creepy though

• Ew the guitar is bad

• What was that horrible whining between notes

• Oooh this should be sie irren professor

• Oh no, I guess giovanni has decided to bypass the threatening and has gone straight to physical assault

• There’s a prophecy? Alright then. Bit abrupt

• Dammit so they’re going straight into die unstillbare gier without sie irren professor

• Maybe it’s for the best… giovanni was never going to sound that threatening anyway

• Half an hour to go

• I can do this

• Let’s see how he massacres one of the best songs in the musical

• Also he’s starting the song at the front of the stage not the top, and it’s just weird

• When giovanni has been so comedic and dumb the whole time this song just won’t work

• …and the firsg two lines don’t rhyme… great start

• He has a cape though

• Pls I just want 1 cape swish

• Oh but the cape is pathetic

• Oh

• This song could have been good

• But the lyrics aren’t as good in places and he’s still got hints of giovanni’s stupid accent

• What a tragedy

• Well they’re giving a little more detail about his previous victims which is interesting at the very least

• The lyrics don’t have enough syllables

• And ugh they’re not very good either

• There are a few nice ones but most of them…

• I use my body just like a bandage, I use my body just like a wound

• And the prize for worst lyric yet goes to…

• And what makes it worse is that those replaced ich will frei und freier werden und werde meine ketten nicht los

• One of my favourite parts of the song

• And I just want to add that he’s barely moving too

• He doesn’t climb to the top and run down to collapse on the floor

• He just. Stands there.

• Like a badly dressed rock.

• Oh but the stage tilts now to form a straight wall

• So it’s not even like they couldn’t have the stage rise as he runs down

• They just left it raised for him to do nothing on and then got rid of it completely

• They replaced doch die with buuuuuut which does NOT work at all

• You need two syllables to separate the two notes

• This is awful

• They changed the tune a tiny bit which is fine I guess, not as satisfying though

• I just

• *sigh*

• His voice is good. With good lyrics and the original character, he could have done it really well

• I hate that potential was wasted

• Which, again, goes for the whole trainwreck of a musical

• I can’t make out all of the lyrics and I’m not sure if that’s a mild annoyance or a blessing

• Like, i have no idea what he said in the last little bit

• But hey that’s that

Part 3 - The Ball and Beyond

#tanz der vampire #dance of the vampires #ready for the final part?

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mygalfriday · 4 years

Text

like fresh plates and clean slates, our future is white

Third in the blind date au series.

{ao3}

Crowley has never seen the point of Christmas. Growing up in a children’s home, he had never had much reason to give any thought to the holiday. It was a day mostly like any other, lonely and unremarkable. Maybe the caretaker might don a Santa suit and hand out cheap little trinkets from the pound shop that broke by the end of the day. He’d go to bed empty-handed, the hole in his chest just a little wider with every passing year.

As an adult, not much had changed. He tolerated most every holiday season by drinking too much and looking for someone to warm his bed until the snow melted. The crowded stores made him irritable and there always came a point in the middle of December where he knew with visceral certainty that if he heard “All I Want For Christmas Is You” one more time he’d lose his goddamn mind. He spent most of the month just waiting for it to be over.

Ezra Fell, on the other hand, was made for Christmas. The cold air makes his cheeks rosy and turns the tip of his prim nose pink. Snowflakes catch in his white-blond hair and his eyelashes. The brightness of his smile against a backdrop of twinkle lights and snow-blanketed streets is so dazzling Crowley usually has to look away for fear of going blind. Ezra hums along to Christmas songs in the stores so sweetly that Crowley doesn’t actually mind hearing the same ones over and over again. He’s like an angel amidst the madness — a light in the heavy darkness and a kind smile among a sea of frowning, impatient faces jostling for the best gifts.

For the first time in his life, Crowley is starting to understand the point of all this Christmas nonsense. With a warm hand in his and a pale head on his shoulder it’s never been easier to see the truth of it. Ezra is the point of everything for him now. Always will be.

“What do you think of this? Be honest.”

Crowley blinks, pulled from his embarrassingly sappy thoughts to find Ezra holding up a scarf with a rather unfortunate pattern and smiling hopefully at him. “Umm…”

He grimaces when Ezra’s smile drops. “You hate it.”

“I don’t hate it…” He wavers, squinting. “I just think we can find something better, is all.”

Ezra stares at him, waiting patiently.

Crowley groans. “All right, it’s bloody hideous.”

“Was that so hard?” Ezra places the scarf back on the shelf with a little pout Crowley does his absolute best not to find charming. Brow furrowed, Ezra wrings his hands together and asks, “What am I going to do? The party is next week and I haven’t found a single thing for this blasted Secret Santa nonsense.”

With a sigh, Crowley follows Ezra past a rack of discount jumpers. “What’s the big deal? This girl isn’t your boss, angel.”

“No, but Uriel can be quite intimidating when she wants to be.” Ezra pokes at a hideous jumper with a tartan pattern until Crowley makes a noise conveying ugh, not that either. He huffs, moving to the next rack. “I just want to get her something she’ll like.”

Crowley frowns, shoving his hands into his pockets and wondering not for the first time why Ezra cares so much about what his coworkers think. Crowley himself has never felt the need to be liked by anyone — coworkers or otherwise. Ezra’s deep-seated desire to be liked by absolutely everybody is bewildering to him and none of Crowley’s assurances that he hasn’t encountered a single person who knows Ezra and doesn’t adore him have had any effect. So instead of going through the whole tired argument again, he shrugs and says, “So we’ll get her something good.”

Ezra pauses, casting Crowley one of those shy, sideways glances that never fails to make Crowley’s heart skip a beat. “We? Really?”

“Course.” He shifts uncomfortably, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “S’important to you so… it’s important to me too. Or whatever.”

Ezra beams at him, bright enough to make Crowley feel a little less ridiculous. “You know,” he begins, abandoning another eyesore jumper to step closer to Crowley with twinkling eyes. Crowley catches the scent of his cologne and feels his mouth go dry. “Since we’re on the subject, I’ve wanted to ask you for several weeks now but — well, it never seemed like the right time and I know your feelings about this particular holiday are less than benevolent-”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “Out with it, angel.”

“Would you come with me?” Ezra bites his lip, briefly distracting Crowley from the matter at hand. “To the party, I mean.”

Normally, the thought of enduring an office Christmas party — especially someone else’s — would make Crowley balk, scrambling for an excuse to get out of it. But this is Ezra and for the entire six months they’ve been together, there hasn’t been a single thing Crowley has been capable of denying him. He isn’t about to start now.

Besides, he’d never say no to spending more time with Ezra. If it were up to Crowley, they’d spend every waking moment together. He’d drag Ezra into work with him and sit him in the corner of his office with a book so he could look up throughout the day and see him there. He wants to wake up in the same flat together. He wants his black jeans in a drawer alongside Ezra’s pressed trousers; his leather jacket hanging in the closet beside Ezra’s old-fashioned waistcoats. Books on his nightstand and too many sweets in his kitchen. It sounds like everything he could ever want but Crowley, still sure on some level this much happiness can’t possibly last, is still working up the courage to ask for it.

For now, he slips his fingers into Ezra’s coat pockets, tugging him close enough to kiss. He pauses briefly to enjoy the sudden flush of Ezra’s cheeks and his surprised, shy smile before their lips meet in a warm, tender kiss right there in the middle of Harrods. When they part, Crowley noses gently at Ezra’s pink cheek and murmurs, “Love to, angel.”

Ducking his head to the crook of Crowley’s neck with a delighted grin, wide enough that Crowley can feel it even though he can’t see it, Ezra sounds adorably relieved as he breathes out, “Oh. Lovely.”

Yes, Crowley thinks, glaring briefly over Ezra’s shoulder at the old biddy gawking at them. He waits until she turns away with a startled flinch before he bends his head for another kiss. Lovely.

It takes Crowley all of thirty seconds after meeting Gabriel the museum director — Ezra’s boss, for all intents and purposes — to decide the man is an arrogant prick who probably bullied his peers throughout his entire childhood and just never bothered to grow up and stop. He greets Ezra with a wide, fake grin that doesn’t come even close to reaching his eyes and doesn’t bother shaking Crowley’s hand when they’re introduced. He only stares, like he can’t quite believe sweet, soft Ezra Fell is hanging off the arm of some lanky, tattooed man swaggering about in leather trousers.

It wouldn’t have bothered Crowley normally. He’s used to the curious glances he and Ezra tend to garner when they’re out together, but there’s something about Gabriel’s Armani suit and cashmere scarf that sets his teeth on edge. The feeling only grows as he lets Ezra tug him further into the room and he sees the place is full of Gabriel lookalikes — beautiful, stuffily dressed people cradling flutes of champagne and eyeing him like gum sticking to the bottom of their Gucci loafers.

Ezra doesn’t seem to notice the stares or the whispers, smiling brightly at everyone and waving occasionally as they make their way to the drinks table. He keeps his hand tucked snugly into Crowley’s and the warmth of him against Crowley’s side is comforting enough to help him unclench just a little. Ezra passes him a drink and as their fingers brush, Crowley winks at him.

“Flirt,” Ezra mutters fondly, sipping his champagne.

Crowley scoffs. “Says the man who can’t go five minutes without batting his eyes at me.” He arches a brow and assures under his breath, “Not that I’m complaining. Just keep those eyes on me, angel.”

Six months in, Ezra still blushes so beautifully. He sways into Crowley like he can’t help himself and their fingers brush again as he promises, “Only for you.” He lowers his voice, blue eyes twinkling with mischief when he adds, “My eyes and everything else.”

Crowley swallows, wondering how soon is too soon to drag Ezra out of the party and find a broom cupboard to ravish him in. “Ngk. I-”

“Ezra?”

Ezra startles, the warmth of him so near Crowley disappearing as he takes a step back and pastes on a polite smile for the tall, slender brunette approaching them. “Michael,” Ezra greets, and mutters curator under his breath for Crowley’s benefit. “Don’t you look lovely, my dear. Happy Christmas.”

Michael leans in to kiss his cheek and while she seems a bit stiff, Crowley can tell she’s making an effort so he doesn’t hold it against her. “Happy Christmas, Ezra.” She glances questioningly at Crowley and asks, “Is this him then?”

“Oh, yes. Do forgive me.” Ezra beams, threading his arm through Crowley’s. “This is my Anthony.”

Everything goes a bit fuzzy around the edges the moment Crowley hears Ezra refer to him as my Anthony and he doesn’t hear a single thing Michael says in reply. He can barely make his tongue work long enough to utter a simple greeting and decides to go with a reliably basic, “Hey.”

Michael arches an eyebrow, lips quirked in amusement as she confides, “I’ve heard a lot about you these past few months. I dare say our Ezra smitten with you.”

Ezra chokes on a sip of champagne, darting a weak glare at Michael.

Crowley grins, intrigued at once. “Oh?”

With a hum of assent, Michael eyes him over the rim of her glass and admits, “You’re not quite what I pictured.”

“Too tall?”

“Too… worldly, I suppose.” Michael leans in conspiratorially and confides, “Ezra’s usual type is the professorial sort. Tweed coats and elbow patches. Greying around the temples. Boring tales of guided African safaris.”

Crowley grimaces. “Mm. Disappointed?”

“Not at all.” She smirks. “This is more fun.”

“Oh honestly.” Ezra huffs, staring into his champagne like if he just concentrates hard enough, the floor will open up and swallow him. “Aren’t there more interesting things to discuss than this sort of salacious-”

“Salacious?” Crowley leers, thoroughly enjoying himself. “My, my, angel. What have you been telling people about me?”

Michael sighs, apparently pleased, and declares, “Yes. Much more fun.”

Just about to pry a little more into the details of Ezra’s “usual type”, Crowley scowls when Gabriel appears out of nowhere and hovers at Michael’s elbow. Dropping a firm hand to her shoulder, he says with another of those eerily vacant smiles, “How’re we doing? Having fun yet?”

Michael’s easy smile falters and Ezra goes stiff beside Crowley, leaving him with no choice but to vow hatred of Gabriel the museum director forever. Before either of them can recover from the sudden appearance of their boss, Crowley eyes him with barely concealed disdain and says dryly, “Oh, just tickety-boo.”

Gabriel points a finger at him and Crowley twitches, suddenly itching for a fag. “Ha. Someone’s been spending a little too much time with their new beau.” With a nudge to Michael’s ribs, he asks, “What do you think? Is he good enough for our Ezra?”

Still looking like she’d enjoy nothing more than shoving Gabriel out of her personal space, Michael sips at her champagne and pastes on a polite smile. Her eyes meet Crowley’s as she says, “He’ll do, I think.”

Gabriel’s smile remains frozen on his face and Crowley wonders if he might be some sort of automaton. There is absolutely no feeling in those eyes whatsoever and it’s starting to give him the creeps. “Good, good.” He steps back from Michael with one final tap to her shoulder. “I hate to break up the fun but I need you for a sec.”

Michael nods, setting aside her drink and smiling faintly at Ezra’s commiserating glance. “It was lovely to meet you, Anthony. Perhaps we’ll talk later.”

At Crowley’s nod, Gabriel grasps Ezra by the elbow and suggests, “You two should visit the dessert table over there. But don’t go too crazy.” He lands a light, playful punch to Ezra’s stomach and laughs. “You’re starting to go a little soft around the middle there.”

Ezra somehow manages to smile and grimace at once.

Too busy gaping at the exchange in shock, Crowley doesn’t gather a resounding fuck you on his tongue until Gabriel has disappeared through the crowd with Michael. “Did he just-” He turns to look at Ezra, too stunned to trust his ears. Avoiding his gaze, Ezra wring his hands in embarrassment and Crowley realizes that yeah, he’d definitely heard correctly. “Ezra, what the fuck-”

“Shh.” Ezra swats at him gently, with a warning glance to lower his voice. Crowley scowls. “It’s nothing, darling. He’s always like that. Nothing to fuss about.”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue that yes it very much is something to fuss about but Ezra sways into him again and his smile is soft and hopeful. He struggles to cling to his indignation on Ezra’s behalf. “Angel, he can’t just-”

“Let’s not let him ruin the evening.” Ezra’s fingers brush his and he inclines his head in the direction of the dance floor. “Shall we?”

There’s an underlying request for Crowley to please drop the matter and though he definitely plans on bringing it up again, he allows himself to be distracted long enough to escort Ezra onto the dance floor. He draws Ezra into his arms and they sway together, Crowley occasionally offering guidance murmured low in his ear. Ezra has come a long way since that first dance at the Serpent but he still forgets himself every now and then, trying to lead instead of follow or looking down at his shoes instead of into Crowley’s eyes.

He doesn’t mind playing teacher — any reason to stay pressed close enough to whisper instruction and watch Ezra lick his lips. He does so like to be told what to do. And Crowley has always been rather bossy. They fit beautifully.

Despite their closeness and the soft music playing, anger still simmers under his skin, ready to boil over. How dare he. How dare anyone talk to Ezra like that. Perfect, kind, lovely Ezra. He knew that Gabriel was a wanker right from the start. He fucking knew it. No one who smiles like that while wearing Armani can possibly be trusted.

Silently fuming, he spends half of their first dance conjuring fantasies of cornering Gabriel in a dark alley and making him regret ever opening his stupid smug mouth. And then Ezra rests his head on Crowley’s bony shoulder and all other thoughts but him go spinning away, scattering like snowflakes.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Crowley thought intimacy like this was far beyond him. He refuses to waste a single moment of it thinking about that utter twat. With Ezra in his arms and the smell of his cologne tickling Crowley’s nose, there are far more important things to dwell on.

“So,” he drawls, forcing himself into the present. A smirk curls his mouth. “Been discussing me at work, have you?”

Even without looking, he can sense Ezra’s pink cheeks. “Oh, do shut up,” he says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “You’re hardly innocent of that yourself. Don’t think I don’t remember all those pointed comments about the man who tamed Anthony Crowley.”

Crowley makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat. “Well, yeah. Not sure if you’ve noticed but I am a bit of a hopeless sap about you, angel.” He shrugs and glances down, silently enjoying Ezra’s ruffled expression. “I’m pathetic, really. Hardly counts. You, on the other hand-”

A soft hand cups his cheek, stalling the rest of Crowley’s words on his tongue. Difficult to concentrate anyway with all that warmth and softness directed at him. Ezra sighs quietly and says with a smile, “Just as hopeless and pathetic, I’m afraid.”

“Right.”

Crowley clears his throat, cursing inwardly when he feels his own cheeks grow warm. Ezra has never been shy about voicing his adoration but Crowley has gotten no better at receiving it, always stuttering through some garbled response and trying not to let Ezra see him blush. He takes a moment to process the twinkle lights and Ezra’s soft smile and Judy Garland singing her heart out over the speakers. It’s all too much and he still doesn’t quite feel that he deserves any of it but he’ll be damned if that stops him from grasping it with both hands anyway.

“Well,” he finally manages to croak out. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Things are better after that.

They dance a bit more and Crowley actually manages to coax Ezra underneath the mistletoe long enough to steal a kiss right in front of everyone. Someone whistles and Crowley laughs, relishing Ezra’s embarrassed smile as he hides his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck.

Eventually they do investigate the dessert table, with Crowley making certain Ezra has a generous helping of cake because seriously, fuck Gabriel. They linger over new glasses of champagne and Ezra leans into Crowley’s side, whispering office gossip and pointing out some of his other coworkers.

“That’s Sandalphon.” Ezra surreptitiously points out a portly, balding fellow trailing after Gabriel like a puppy. “He’s a docent but Gabriel favors him so I dare say he’ll outrank me in another year or so.”

Watching Ezra wrinkle his nose and furrow his brow as he observes Sandalphon pant after Gabriel, Crowley grins. “You hate him, don’t you?”

Ezra blinks, lips parting in shock as he turns to stare at Crowley. “I do not.” He straightens his bowtie and sniffs. “I don’t hate anybody, thank you very much.”

“Mm.” Crowley nods, keeping his mouth shut, and arches an eyebrow. “Right. Course.”

“Although…” Ezra hesitates, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He purses his lips, prim as anything, and Christ does Crowley love him — the prissy little hypocrite. “I do have trouble understanding exactly the sort of underlying genius Gabriel seems to see in him.”

Still grinning, Crowley curls a hand around the back of Ezra’s neck and leans in to press a lingering, adoring kiss to his temple. Nosing at his blond curls, he murmurs giddily, “You hate him.”

Ezra sighs. And to Crowley’s delight, doesn’t bother denying it again.

Near the end of the night, Gabriel announces the start of the Secret Santa gift exchange and everyone gathers around the Christmas tree in the corner of the room to watch one another open presents. Crowley hovers just behind Ezra, watching the proceedings with increasing boredom. He glances at his watch, beginning to count down the seconds until he can drag Ezra back to his flat and into bed.

Uriel, Ezra’s Secret Santa recipient, loves the expensive leather gloves Crowley had talked Ezra into buying. Ezra tosses a grateful glance over his shoulder at Crowley when she thanks him, stroking the supple leather with her fingertips, and Crowley winks at him.

And then it’s Ezra’s turn to open his gift — an envelope from Gabriel.

The moment Gabriel hands it over with that same caricature of a smile, Crowley tightens his grip around his champagne flute and takes a step toward Ezra. Something primal and protective unfurls in his gut as Ezra slips his thumb beneath the flap and gently pries open the envelope to slide out the card inside. Crowley holds his breath, peering over Ezra’s shoulder.

The card seems harmless enough, displaying a glitter-covered snowman on the front. The inside is blank save for Gabriel’s signature. A gift card slips out into Ezra’s palm and before Crowley can even make out what it’s for, he hears the soft hitch in Ezra’s breathing and goes still.

“A gym membership,” Gabriel announces to everyone with a triumphant laugh. He glances around at his employees, clearly looking for some fellow co-conspirators, but the only one to laugh is that worm Sandalphon. “Got to stay in shape for that new man of yours, right Ezra?”

Ezra laughs weakly and mutters, “Yes, I suppose I do.” Ezra who had tried so hard to find the right gift for Uriel only to be handed this abomination in return. Ezra, who is the kindest, sweetest human being Crowley has ever known and who doesn’t deserve a single mean-spirited word spoken to him, let alone this thoughtless excuse for a gift.

No one else says a word, all of them staring at the floor or into their drinks or even at each other in clear discomfort. But no one says a word. And Crowley has a feeling it’s always like this — Gabriel being a shit to Ezra and absolutely no one speaking up for the sweet-natured man too polite to say anything on his own behalf.

Well, fuck them.

Crowley is here now, with no intention of going anywhere. And it just so happens, he’s been itching to tell this prick off all night. Fuming, he plucks the membership card from Ezra’s numb grasp before stepping in front of him like a shield. With a snap of his fingers, he flicks the card violently right into Gabriel’s face. He recoils as it flutters to the floor at his feet, blinking at Crowley like a startled bird.

And Crowley smiles, sharp enough to cut. “You know what I think, Gabe?” His expression flickers and oh, he doesn’t like that nickname. Good to know. “I think you look at Ezra and see someone infinitely more likable than you. Someone kind and intelligent and with better hair. Someone who could easily take your place if he wasn’t content exactly where he is. And that just scares the shit out of you, doesn’t it?”

Gabriel stiffens, his eyes narrowing as Crowley saunters forward and crowds right into his space. Crowley curls his hands into fists, telling himself no matter how many scuffles in pubs and nightclubs he has emerged from bloody but victorious, his wiry limbs and sheer determination are no match for Gabriel’s solidity. He still really wants to punch him anyway.

“And then on top of being threatened by him professionally,” Crowley goes on, fighting to keep his voice just this side of nonchalant rather than hissing through his teeth like he wants to. “Ezra starts talking about someone new in his life. Someone who thinks he’s perfect just as he is. And since there isn’t a gym where you can go and work on your shitty personality, you’re probably stuck being an unloveable fuckwit forever.” Crowley tilts his head and sticks out his lower lip, affecting a little pout. “Course that’s probably why you felt like lashing out, yeah?”

Considerably paler and no longer smiling that stupid smug grin, Gabriel avoids the fascinated gazes of his employees and glares at Crowley. “Listen” he begins, clearing his throat. “It was just a joke-”

“Well it wasn’t funny, Gabe.” Crowley sniffs, watching in satisfaction as Gabriel deflates like a balloon. “And just a piece of advice. The next time you think about taking out your own deficiencies on Ezra or sharing your shitty sense of humor at his expense?” He leans in, finally allowing his words to hiss through his teeth. “Fucking don’t.”

Gabriel breathes in sharply, nostrils flaring.

Under Crowley’s narrow gaze, he nods stiffly. Crowley flashes him a grin, clapping him on the shoulder and relishing Gabriel’s flinch. “Brilliant. Thanks.”

Gabriel shuffles away with his tail between his legs and the crowd around them begins to disperse, murmuring excitedly to one another about the whole spectacle. Crowley, realizing Ezra has been rather quiet, turns to check on him. Maybe he’d like to ditch the rest of this disaster of a party and hit that pub over on Oxford Street before they head back to Crowley’s flat. Except the space where he’d been is empty now and one quick glance around reveals Ezra isn’t actually in the room anymore. And Crowley has no idea when he’d managed to slip out.

“Shit,” he mutters, and stalks off after him.

At this time in the late evening, the museum has been shut down to the public for hours and consequently, Crowley wanders aimlessly through darkened corridors calling for Ezra and hearing only his footsteps echo around him. He passes through a room of old Greek vases, another of Egyptian sculptures, and what seems to be an entire area dedicated to Alexander the Great before he finally stumbles across the only room Ezra could possibly be in — the Enlightenment Gallery.

The long, vast space doesn’t even look like it belongs in the museum. City lights slant in from the windows of the balcony overhead and the whole room looks like it must have been lifted from some posh git’s 18th century mansion, filled as it is with bookshelves stuffed with aging manuscripts and brittle tomes. Statues dot the space, along with marble busts on pedestals and glass cases filled with curiosities. When Crowley finally spots Ezra sitting at a gleaming mahogany bench in the middle of it all, dressed in his usual old-fashioned clothes, he can’t help but think he looks perfectly at home here.

The ancient wooden floor creaks beneath Crowley’s boots as he moves closer but Ezra doesn’t glance up from his careful study of a massive stone monstrosity just ahead of him. The plaque beside it reads Piranesi Vase. Crowley sniffs at it and drops down beside Ezra, legs stretched out in front of him and hands curled over the edges of the bench to brace himself. What he wants more than anything is to sit close enough to drape an arm around Ezra’s shoulders and tug him close, to bury his nose in pale hair and whisper just how perfect he is. In the time Crowley has been with Ezra, he’s gotten a bit better about saying how he feels but he can’t be sure such affection would be welcome just now so he keeps to himself and glances cautiously at him.

“All right?”

Ezra hums, glancing away from the vase to meet Crowley’s uncertain gaze. “Oh yes, just dandy.” He lifts one shoulder in an elegant but uncharacteristic shrug. “Gabriel has always been…”

“A complete tosser?”

A weak, grateful smile curls his mouth. “Yes. That.”

And the words won’t be contained another second, spilling past Crowley’s lips in a breathless rush. “You’re perfect, you know.”

“You’re sweet, Anthony.” Ezra reaches across the space between them to pat his knee fondly when Crowley grimaces. “You are, hush. But we both know I’m hardly your type.”

Crowley bristles. “Well according to Michael I’m not yours either. But I don’t think either of us were particularly happy with our type, were we?”

“Well…no.” Ezra concedes, folding his hands in his lap. “No, I suppose not.”

Having been fairly confident but still relieved to have it confirmed, Crowley leans in close enough to bump his shoulder gently against Ezra’s and is further delighted when Ezra leans in too — just enough to make sure they keep touching. He ducks his head to hide a grin, studying his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the bench.

“You’re clever though. And kind — kinder than you should be, really. And you make me laugh.” He blows out a soft breath, lifting his head again to stare fixedly at the stupid bloody vase as he pours his heart out and hears it echo in this great empty room. “I hate tartan but on you it looks downright sodding edible. You’re a snob about so many things — music and wine and books, for a start — and I don’t know why but I find that really hot.”

Ezra makes a faint noise, half amusement and half protest.

Crowley ignores him, determined to finish now that he’s gotten started. “You actually look like an angel, I swear you do. Your hair and those cheeks and your eyes. You smile and it’s like a new sun.” He swallows, licking his lips. “I like how soft you are when we curl up in bed together. I like how broad your shoulders are and I like draping my arms them when we dance. I like how deceptively strong you are.” He smirks suddenly. “And I really like it when you use that against me in bed.”

Ezra makes another strangled noise. “Anthony-”

“I mean it, Ezra.” Crowley finally forces his gaze away from the towering vase to look at him and finds Ezra staring at him with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. “I wouldn’t change one single thing about you and anyone who would can fuck right off.”

Wordlessly, Ezra reaches out and gently pries Crowley’s hand away from the bench. He twines their fingers together and squeezes, his lashes fluttering as he blinks back the tears in his eyes. His mouth opens and closes more than once before he finally settles on a quiet, overwhelmed, “Thank you, darling.”

Crowley lifts their joined hands to his lips, mouth brushing his knuckles. “My pleasure.”

“Not only for all those lovely things you just said.” Ezra inclines his head behind him, silently indicating the scene Crowley had made right in the middle of the party. Crowley might have been embarrassed if Ezra wasn’t looking at him with clear admiration in his gaze. As it is, he’s starting to feel a bit hot under the collar. “You were rather magnificent back there. No one has ever stood up to Gabriel like that before. Least of all for me.” Ezra smiles, looking at once scandalized and adorably giddy. “My knight in shining armor.”

It takes a considerable amount of Crowley’s willpower to ignore what the thought of being Ezra’s knight does to him. Plenty of time to revisit that later. “So you’re not…embarrassed by me?”

Ezra stares at him. “Why on earth would I be — Anthony, what are you talking of?”

He sighs. “Surely you’ve noticed I don’t exactly fit in here. I’ve been ignoring stares all night. Feels like I’m at a zoo, not a museum.”

With a hum of understanding, Ezra squeezes his hand again. His thumb caresses Crowley’s knuckles soothingly. “That’s rather how I felt when you took me to your club,” he confesses with a wry smile. “We don’t look much like a couple, do we, my dear?”

“Maybe not.” Crowley shrugs, clenching his jaw. “But I don’t care what anyone else thinks. So long as you don’t either, I mean.”

Ezra scoffs. “Of course not.”

“You sure?” Crowley hates himself for pressing the issue, for not grabbing the reassurance with both hands and clinging to it. But he needs Ezra to be certain. Because if he falls any further into this and Ezra changes his mind… Crowley isn’t sure he could ever recover. “Because I’m not… I’ll never be-”

Ezra turns to face him, sacrificing his perfect posture to look at Crowley properly. He does not release Crowley’s hand. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you either. You are —“ He purses his lips, glancing away briefly to gather himself before he risks meeting Crowley’s open, hungry gaze again. “Crowley, you’ve become…essential to me. You’re my best friend. My lover. My…family.” He smiles when Crowley falters, fingers going lax in Ezra’s grip from the shock. “Mine, in every way that matters. I feel as though I belong with you. I have since the day we met.”

“You do, angel,” Crowley says hoarsely, and slips his hand from Ezra’s to press his palm to a soft cheek. “You do belong with me. Always.”

Ezra leans into his palm and then into Crowley’s eager kiss. His arms wind around Crowley’s neck and his lush mouth is open and hot, lips parted readily for Crowley’s impatient tongue. They trade heated, greedy kisses right there in the middle of all of history — dusty books and centuries old statues bearing witness to the greatest love Crowley has ever known. And it just tumbles out, between one trembling kiss and the next.

“Move in with me.”

Ezra freezes, pulling back just enough to stare at him with wide blue eyes. “What?”

Crowley swallows, darting a glance away and licking his lips. “I want you to live with me.” He huffs out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. I want to drag myself home from the Serpent at two am and find you asleep in our bed. I want you to kiss me on your way out the door in the morning. I want your stupid chipped tea mugs next to my crystal wine glasses in the kitchen cabinet. I want your books all over my living room and your stuffy old Oxfords lined up beside my boots in the closet.” He takes a deep breath, turning pleading eyes to Ezra’s stunned face. “You said yourself you belong with me, angel. So just…stay with me.”

For a moment, Ezra simply stares at him blankly and Crowley steels himself to be summarily rejected. He’s already planning to spend his evening drunk and alone in his flat when Ezra throws his arms around his neck and nearly sends Crowley tumbling arse over head off the bench. Warm lips press against his and Ezra beams into an exuberant kiss as he breathes, “Yes, darling. To all that and more.”

And Crowley laughs.

“What, really?”

Ezra nods, still grinning widely. And for no good reason Crowley can think of, considering they were about to have another extraordinarily thorough snog right there on the bench, Ezra climbs to his feet and holds out a hand to him. Crowley shrugs and takes it. Ezra leans into his side and his smile is bright enough to light their way as they stroll toward the exit pressed snugly together.

Feeling light-headed and more than half sure he’s dreaming, Crowley asks dazedly, “Back to the party then?”

“Oh no.” Ezra shakes his head, his warm hand finding the small of Crowley’s back. “I want to go home and pack.”

Unable to bite back the grin taking over his whole face despite how ridiculous it feels, Crowley throws back his head and laughs. It rings out, echoing in the empty corridor as he drags Ezra in and kisses him again. Exhilarated and bruising and with a little too much teeth. “Christ,” he breathes, scattering kisses over rosy cheeks and down a posh nose just to hear Ezra giggle like a schoolboy. “I love you.”

For a moment, Crowley almost panics. He’d never intended to say it like that — he’d wanted it to be a moment. He’d wanted to say it over flowers and champagne and those hopelessly fancy little strawberry tarts Ezra likes. He looks up, eyes wide, and finds Ezra gazing tenderly up at him like he’d already known. “I love you too,” he whispers, and it soothes some empty place inside Crowley he hadn’t even realized was there. It heals over like it never existed at all. Crowley has never felt so full. “Happy Christmas, Anthony.”

With a blinding smile, Crowley slings an arm around Ezra’s shoulders and steers him toward the door — toward a cab, his flat, their future. “Happy Christmas, angel.”

#ineffable husbands #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #my fic

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piccolina-mina · 5 years

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I cannot speak for anyone else, and I'm not trying to. I can only speak for myself as an observer and a friend. And sometimes I feel really bad for bisexual fans, especially the bisexual men who are out, open, or quietly observing, and still active in the RNM fandom.

There used to be many bisexual men who shared their thoughts, but a few I remember left fandom. There are many women, but it still comes with a pressure and expectation to only appreciate specific parts of the series or face erasure if they don't comply.

It must be gratifying to have a strong bisexual character let alone a male character like Michael. You don't see it often at all. Bi characters are rare and bi men are like unicorns on TV, and how they are represented can vary. But one thing that has been consistent and obvious is that Michael is a character Carina has invested in a lot.

A lot of effort and care goes into how he's portrayed as a bisexual man. She seems very in tune and careful with how she wants to depict that, for better and worse, and sometimes at the expense of other aspects of the show that require sensitivity, awareness, and care too.

And I have seen how important that is to many bisexual fans but particularly bi men. But I can only imagine how difficult it has to be when you're seeing your representation onscreen -- you're seeing yourself reflected -- and you constantly see it regarded as "bad bi rep" usually over trivial things.

Michael is confident, out, unapologetic. He has an interesting story of presumably when he realized he was bisexual. He has those moments of insecurity, but he's consistent. And he's never treated as less than or not "manly" or anything like that by the majority of the characters -- the important characters.

His Bisexuality is never treated like a character flaw by the others.

His friends, acquaintances, siblings, and love interests don't look down on him for being bisexual. It's not the sole thing that drives his arc, or the only reason he's "relevant." He's a multi-dimensional character who happens to be bisexual instead of "the token bisexual character."

It seems pretty damn awesome.

But sometimes I imagine it has to be hard to see all of these factors and then see the frequent takes that he's "poor bi rep."

And it has to be invalidating that only one of his relationships matters and the other one is constantly torn apart.

Isn't that part of the "pick a side" frustration bisexuals face way too often? Why unwittingly perpetuate it so much?

Isn't the whole idea supposed to be that both of these relationships are valid and meaningful in different ways, and that's OK?

On the show you have Alex and Maria, and neither of them make Michael feel like crap because he's bisexual. Alex doesn't treat him like he's less queer for dating and sleeping with women. He doesn't shame him (something that has been known to happen with some popular queer ships like Calzona on Grey's Anatomy, for example) for being bi.

Any of the issues they have, have absolutely nothing to do with Michael's sexuality. That has to be refreshing.

And Maria doesn't judge Michael for being bisexual either. All fandoms as a whole, in general, tend to fetishize and/or love mlm ships, but as we know, irl wlw are fetishized and revered more, usually by straight men who think a woman's bisexuality is for their sexual pleasure, gratification or chance to have a threesome.

In real life, it's obviously difficult for bi men dating etc. For every Maria, there's a woman who only thinks she's a "beard" or pitstop until her bi lover is gay, or feels insecure that she can't give him something someone else can, or a plethora of other misconceptions and ignorance.

But Maria isn't like that. None of the drama surrounding her relationship with Michael had anything to do with him being bisexual. It was never about the parts of who he slept with, but her relationship with who he slept with.

And to hit home that Michael being bisexual didn't make him less desirable or attractive to her, they kissed after the truth came out. And they both enjoyed it.

People hate that and tear it apart, but I imagine that was also something important to show.

And then, fandom, fandom from all walks of life and different genders and sexualities find this bisexual character attractive and desirable.

It has to be messed up as a bi male fan to see part of the fandom, a great deal of them straight women be shamed or ridiculed or referred to as homophobic for liking Michael and Maria.

It has to be messed up for bi female fans to have their sexuality completely invalidated because they like miluca. To be called homophobic or biphobia despite being bi themselves for liking Miluca.

Or to have their love of this ship and this representation that is important to them reduced to them just wanting to self-insert with Michael (I mean, hey, what if it's about self-inserting with Maria? Because that's what a hell of a lot of queer miluca fans are thinking about).

Or to have them criticized for it if that's the case, but it's widely accepted that bisexual and straight fans can thirst over the two men just fine.

What is wrong about thirsting after one or both parties of miluca in equal measure as one would Malex? And doing it with them as a couple rather than individually? Why is that only an option with them separate but not with them together as it is with Malex?

Like, a (so far) straight female character is criticized for having feelings for this bisexual man and straight female fans are criticized for liking miluca, or hell, self-inserting with miluca, and finding this male character, who happens to be bisexual, attractive and sexy.

Bi female fans are criticized for liking miluca or self-inserting either way with Maria and Michael. Their sexuality is always questioned for enjoying this ship as if they're somehow less queer for enjoying it.

No one ever considers that they're enjoying the hell out of thirsting over Maria via this relationship. It IS Maria after all.

Michael is hot. Maria is stunning. Only one of these relationships is giving queer miluca fans Maria, right? Why is enjoying that via their relationship not an acceptable option? For bi fans of any gender? For straight fans?

To Maria, to the fans of the miluca ship, Michael's bisexuality doesn't matter or make him less than, or less attractive. He's accepted and cared about and desired.

And some people read that as latching on to a straight presenting ship and thus being inherently homophobic and biphobic, instead of seeing, and appreciating, and enjoying that there are no qualms, no judgment, no prejudice, no second guessing about shipping a presumably straight woman with a bisexual man.

His sexuality never hinders him from being shipped with anyone. It never stops him from being desired. It doesn't stop fans from enjoying and self-inserting either. He didn't stop being viable when it was revealed that he was bisexual.

And if people can see that and respond that way to a character they love, then maybe it breaks the stigma about dating, falling in love with or sleeping with bisexual men. Maybe people can apply that to real life too.

And that's the power of representation in media, and how influential it can be. That's something special and important too.

It's not something that happens easily, and like with any disenfranchised group, experiences are always different. It's not always the same for bi men versus bi women. Intersectionality comes into play. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that just a basic understand of people and their experiences.

Ironically, both experiences by both male and female bi fans are being invalidated and/or erased here often when it comes to this, which is very unfortunate and sad to see.

I mean, I can't shake the concept of someone's experience battling being rejected or invalidated, and then watching something where someone like you isn't being rejected or invalidated for their sexuality, and many of the viewers and fans aren't rejecting or invalidating this character's sexuality ... but then seeing some of those fans are rejected and invalidated for enjoying one or both of this characters' relationships. 🤔

Their acceptance, not tolerance, their acceptance of bisexuality is rejected and criticized. It doesn't make sense.

And yeah, it's a love triangle. But it's a love triangle between a bi man, a gay man, and a woman. Something you do not see often at all. And sexuality isn't the root of the tension or conflict. Nowhere. Not once.

It's played out like any other love triangle. It's normalized because the whole point is that bisexual people being attracted to more then one gender is normal.

They're subjected to the same things as everyone else, including love to hate love triangles.

I don't know. This isn't even in response to anything specific, it's just, sometimes, I really sympathize for the bisexual fans and friends, and I really feel bad for the bi men in the RNM fandom who thoroughly enjoy having this representation and enjoy both relationships and the depiction of what it's like having feelings for two different people for different reasons who then see parts of that which they appreciate and make them feel seen always ripped apart so often.

Man, it must feel like A LOT sometimes.

But again, I'm not presuming to know how anyone feels, and I certainly can't speak for them, but I would be lying if I said it didn't cross my mind on occasion.

#it's a lot to see and a lot to hear so i know it's a lot to experience #like damn ... sometimes different perspectives on this are not considered at all #roswell new mexico #anyway ... carry on i guess #don't forget to spell my name right when you bash me *finger guns*#rnm discourse #rnm notoriety #rnm fandom fkery

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