#line i want to use in a fic someday is him telling whoever he got his ass hurt for that he would do it again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flowerflamestars · 3 years

Note

Are we ever gonna talk about how Rhysand can intervene when it comes to female Illyrians training but not when it comes to their literal systemic mutilation? Cuz it really just sounds like he wants an army, not the people

‘Like he wants an army, not the people’ is the ABSOLUTE heart of the Illyrian presence in the Night Court.

I’ve implied it in fic and talked about it in asks, but I think that Rhys’ whole inexplicable disdain of a people he belongs to, goes back to his childhood.

Let’s go back to baby Rhys for a bit: precious son of a distant father, beloved son of a mother he cannot allow himself to understand even as he becomes an adult. He’s the heir. He’s (presumably) utterly spoilt, ensconced in care, if not loved in a way he always intuits.

And then his mom takes him away from all that splendor, and throws him into the freezing mud with Illyrian children his age.

Rhys tells Feyre about being appalled, that his mother did it as some sort horrific failsafe, to give him the skills to survive no matter what.

And while I’m sure Rhysand’s unnamed mother wanted her child to survive (of course she did!!), I think that’s just....a wildly misunderstood take? Rhys, in contrast with his father, gentles his mother in memory.

And they were true mates. Equals. This gentle lady steeling herself at the ‘savagery’ bears no relation to the actions we know she took: a woman who valued above all else her own freedom, the sky. Who never stopped flying, who fought those who’d take it from her.

Who loved a powerful, dangerous High Fae Lord and was loved in return so much he built her a palace that could only be flown to. That not even he himself could winnow into, presumably. The kind of hardass who would walk down ten thousand steps into his city.

Who gave her wedding ring to one of Prythians worst and oldest monsters as a test to see if her future daughter-in-law was strong enough, or alternatively, to force her son to prove himself for love.

She made all those dresses, and it’s lovely- but you know what else it is? the actions of a woman who has no reason to doubt her child’s future. She’s incredible and loving, but it seems very unlikely she was soft and powerless as Rhys remembers her.

Because why would she doubt? Rhysand is the only son of a High Lord. His oldest child. His mate’s child. He’s safe.

Which brings us to Illyria.

Rhys could have learned to fight in complete safety. At home, from any sort of teacher. No one, Illyrian or otherwise, was going to say no to that High Lord.

This is my theory: Rhys got old enough that it started to become clear (as we’re told it does, in High Fae bloodlines) that irrefutably, he would grow to be the next High Lord. He’d rule their whole land, like his High Fae father from the sea to the mountains.

And his mother looked at this safe, protected world, and made a choice.

The point was absolutely yes, for him to learn the traditions of her people. But the real lesson was: look. Look, Rhysand, at who you will command. Look at how they live, feel how they suffer. You can be different. It’s all yours, but this is a part of you too. To make better, someday.

And instead, Rhys never gets past the pain of it all. Of thinking they’re barbarians. He learns too well Illyrian strength as a value of violence, but not with empathy.

It gets further tangled up in his mother and sister’s brutal deaths, the rampage his father goes on afterward.

So we get an adult Rhys who flies, who uses Illyrian methods not with pride, but because he’d learned that strength is the only thing that matters. It’s how he would have kept his mother safe, if he’d been there. It’s how he keeps Feyre safe.

It’s how his father saved his mother, from her own people.

He learns the wrong lessons. WHICH BRINGS ME BACK TO THE ACTUAL TOPIC-

I think it’s really clear, from Cassian’s abject, utter frustration and Rhysand’s flippancy, that even the girls they are training are not receiving what the Illyrians would consider real training.

Let’s remember Rhysand’s explanation of wing clipping. It was common practice- but it’s outlawed. But it happened under Amarantha again. But maybe it never stopped happening at all, in the deep mountains.

We never meet or see a single Illyrian woman- child, warrior, teen in training- not a single one who has the ability to fly.

Rhysand’s mother and sister could, but that’s it. No one alive.

That’s not a maybe- that’s, it seems like there aren’t any women left flying. Not a single woman in all the legions is pointed out like hey, look, a lady with the tattoos. A lady with a sword!

Because there aren’t any.

And the girls Cassian is literally fighting to get time in the ring? They have to spend half their time cleaning, do all the chores, and then they can do a little hand to hand, while Cassian is physically there to force it to happen.

Cassian, who like the other bastards of his generation, has been fighting since he could walk. Who didn’t have the benefit of whatever undoubtedly just as early, if not with more safeguards, training higher born boys receive.

The fight isn’t for female warriors. For their birthright. It’s for some basic self defense.

And why the hell is that?

Because it doesn’t too terribly adjust the status quo. There’s not going to be lady warriors at the end of those girls training, if they ever get it. The army isn’t going to change- and so Rhysand’s relationship to the Illyrian military elite isn’t in danger. It destroys Cassian’s authority, but as a bastard already, what’s more on the pile?

Everything, it seems, from acofas, when Cassian can’t do his own job without Rhys there to back him.

And why’s that yall? BECAUSE RHYS WANTS AN ARMY

I’ve implied in Daylight that the Illyrian Legions serve as a sort of inter-court counterbalance to the Darkbringers. And I think it’s possibly true in canon: the army Rhys controls is bigger and more dangerous than the one Keir (and thus the rival bloodline) has under command. It’s a permanent shore-up against rebellion.

One Rhys won’t have if the Illyrians rebel.

If those conservative, vile, Camp Lords stop listening to him, as they seem to be on the road to not listening to Cassian.

He’s not going to risk his entire kingdom for those Illyrian women. Because what did he learn from his childhood? From his parents?

That the North is savage. That it’s his job to be strong- and in that strength and only that strength, can he protect whoever he loves, like his harsh father rescuing his gentle, loving mother.

Years and trauma have taken all the nuance from Rhysand’s decision making, in particular, I think, where canon stands now: he’ll do anything to remain as powerful as possible, cross all sorts of lines that he knows are wrong, because in his mind his power and his families safety are on in the same.

158 notes · View notes

hoe-doroki · 3 years

Text

first snow

pairing: Shouto x reader

genre: fluff

wc: 2.2k

summary: sequel to “Siberia” (can be read alone). Just fluff, a year after the events in the previous story. You and Shouto are happily together, and it’s the first snow of the year.

a/n: This is my gift to the lovely @unlasting for the @bnhabookclub secret santa gift exchange!!! I was so happy I got you, darling, because I already love you so much! I do hope that you like this fic. You said you wanted fluff, so it is fluffy. For you and anyone else who just wants some simple, wintery fluff, but maybe don’t want to read the 13.8k prequel to this fic (or can’t, because it’s 18+), I took the liberty of making a “Cheat Sheet” post summarizing the events of “Siberia” so that this one is easier to enjoy. And thank you to @some-kindofgnome for reading this and hyping me up! <3

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

“First snow, first snow, first snow!”

You’d just glanced out the window, as you had been compulsively doing ever since you’d seen the weather report sporting the first good chance at snow for the season. Only a couple of flakes danced past the sill, but your quirk was tingling too, telling you that they were there and more were coming, just outside the apartment walls. In an instant, you were sprinting for the door, tugging boots on over your too-thin leggings, scrabbling for your keys, and running out the door without another word.

There was no time for the elevator. You were on the seventh floor, but you were a pro hero; you could run up that many flights of stairs at a moment’s notice, so running down would be no problem.

Each half flight you took the first three or four steps and then jumped the rest, landing with an echoing thud in the artificial light of the cold, brick stairwell. It was as though you were trying to make it to the ground floor before those first two flakes you’d seen, nebulous and carefree in their descent, hit the ground themselves. You wanted to see them, to catch them on your tongue and eyelashes before they met the pavement and turned to liquid.

You burst through the lobby, not sparing a glance for the concierge. You’d have to give him a smile and apologize when you came back in—you always made sure to greet whoever was staffing the desk when you were coming and going, especially during the holiday season.

Then you were outside, skin instantly pricking at the freezing air, but your quirk spread out and felt lush as you sensed all the tiny flakes floating down from above as though they were waiting for you. You grasped them, each snowflake in your quirk’s reach, and sent them funneling down toward you. It was still barely a flurry, as the snow was only just beginning to fall, but you reveled in it as you spun around. You were transported back, feeling like a little kid again.

It couldn’t last, though. You’d left your hero license upstairs and could get in trouble for using your quirk like this—even if you were a recognizable enough hero that no one would question your status upon seeing you. So before you got dizzy from twirling, you slowed down and released your hold on the little particles of ice, letting them fall as nature called them to.

The sky looked like a snow bank itself, gray like the ones you’d hopefully get to see around here in the city. The clouds hung low to the sky, heavy enough that you wondered if you’d gone for the roof instead of the front stoop you could have pulled at some of the water droplets, creating the snow yourself before the freezing air sent them tumbling with the wind. Your quirk was still getting stronger, so maybe you’d have the reach someday.

You heard footsteps behind you but paid no mind until you felt two hands putting a puffer coat on your shoulders. You reflexively put your arms through the sleeves before turning around, an unshakeable smile on your face.

“First snow,” you said again, calmer than before as you grinned at the man in front of you.

Shouto had a small smile on his face, but it was enough to crinkle his eyes, all of the fondness he held for you shining out of them. “I heard,” he said, his voice dry enough in tone that he could have been making fun of you. More realistically, he was just telling a simple truth.

He was bundled in his own puffer coat as well as gloves, a hat, and a scarf. In his hands, he held the same for you, but with earmuffs rather than the hat.

You smiled sheepishly as you took the soft knits one by one, putting on the scarf, then the earmuffs, and finishing with the gloves. A shiver rumbled out of you as your body tried to forget the cold and create enough warmth to insulate you in the new layers.

Wordlessly, Shouto took you in his left side and you felt the whispers of warmth wrapping around you, heating you up until even your toes had a little bit of hot blood back in them. You nuzzled into him, enjoying the contact even more then the warmth, and then shifted your gaze back up.

“So pretty,” you said, watching the little specks of pure white fall from the dove gray comforter above.

“Why are you so awestruck?” Shouto asked. “You can make it with your quirk. Snow is literally your hero name.”

“I don’t know,” you said, putting your left hand out and catching little snowflakes in your hand, bouncing them like circus fleas. Your favorite party trick. “It’s different when the Earth does it for me. Instead of work, it’s a gift. Just like when I manipulate your ice instead of making it.”

Shouto didn’t say anything, just let out a soft hum as he slid his arm from where it was slung around your shoulder down to your waist and pulled you in even more. The both of you watched the cars passing by on the street just in front of you, barely obscured by the air’s thin lace of snow. Their drivers were probably hoping for quick commutes, getting them home before the snow really started coming down, if it ever did.

It probably wouldn’t. Snow wasn’t that common in December in this prefecture, much less snow that would stick. You probably just had a few more minutes of this—hours if you were lucky. And then tomorrow it would be nothing more than a memory. By all odds, you’d have to make do with creating it yourself until January.

Shouto nudged you forward, moving to sit on the single step that separated the first landing of your building’s lobby from the sidewalk. He guided you to sit between his legs and you rested your arms on them. Those gangly legs reached most of the way up your ribs at the knee, but you slid back so that your back was flush to Shouto’s front. Then both of his arms were wrapped around your middle, cheek pressed against cheek.

“Things feel so quiet in the snow,” you whispered, watching the flakes falling from hundreds of feet up only to land silently, melting humbly against the sidewalk.

“Mm, peaceful,” Shouto agreed.

The two of you lived in the middle of the city, so the peace only carried so far. There were occasional passersby on the sidewalk, some with bags, some walking dogs. Drivers and cyclists continued rolling up and down the street either hurried by the snow or delayed. But the storm also kept people in, rendering the streets just a bit less bustling than usual. The world spun a bit slower, enjoying a bit of repose as the easy storm blurred the harsh lines and angles of the city block.

Your breath came to match Shouto’s, the only movement between the two of you being that of your ribs and your diaphragm. It created a push and pull into each other where you couldn’t tell if you were following Shouto or if he was following you. Your nose began to burn from the cold despite Shouto’s heat, but you didn’t mind. It was a rare day off from yours and Shouto’s work as a hero duo; you would stay out here until the snow stopped or night fell—whichever came first.

You tracked the snowflakes as they descended, watching the heavier ones sink as if tied with stones while others fluttered like aimless butterflies. Most of the flakes were small, portending a quick, transient storm. Or maybe the flakes really were like butterflies, migrating west until they came to rest out in the Pacific. You wanted to catch them while you could, so you stuck your gloved hand out and watched them collect, turning to droplets slower and slower the more you collected.

Eventually, you shook them off and let off a contented sigh, snuggling back against Shouto and turning your face up to the sky with a smile. The building’s overhang just missed where you were sitting, so the snow fell freely onto your skin, chilling you gently. It was a caring touch. It was the sugar dusted over the darkness and drudgery of winter.

“Marry me.”

The words were carried to your ear with such serenity that they must have been a trick of the snow. You’d misheard—if you’d heard anything at all. Wasn’t that question supposed to be preceded by a moment of anxiety, a moment of fear? But Shouto’s breath still had the even time of a slow drum being hit by the softest mallet.

“What did you say?” you whispered, gripping your gloved hands tighter around the slick material of one of his sleeves.

“I said, marry me,” Shouto said, his breath warm in your ear, unmistakable.

You looked down and saw a small box in one of his hands and the shock only buried itself deeper into the veins of your heart. This wasn’t spontaneous?

“You’re serious,” you whispered, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes, one of your hands leaving his arm to come up to your mouth, your humid breath moistening the wool of your glove.

“I was going to wait until our anniversary,” he said into your cheek, “but I think this is a little more exciting to you that that will be.”

Your anniversary was days away, and your mind turned back to the similar hushed snowstorm from the night you’d gotten together. Maybe it had been the first snow of the season, maybe not. You’d been out of the country until that afternoon, and come home to find Shouto waiting for you.

“But it’s only been a year,” you said, not so much arguing as in disbelief.

“And we’ve only been living together a little over a month,” Shouto said into your neck. You turned around, leaning into his leg instead of his back, dying to see his eyes. To read the one part of his face you could always trust to give you his full expression, his every feeling. “But we’ve been partners for four years. That’s more than enough for me to know. What about you?”

You gave a nod, your joints slow either from the cold or the shock. “It’s enough for me too.”

“Is that a yes?”

Your hand came back to your mouth as your nodding became more vigorous. “Yes.”

Shouto reached around you with his second hand to open the box, revealing a dazzling ring.

“It’s six-sided,” you breathed, looking at the perfect hexagonal cut.

You felt Shouto’s nod against you. “Like a snowflake.”

“I thought you didn’t understand why I like snow so much?”

“I don’t,” Shouto said simply, his voice blunt in its honesty, but never reckless. It held you carefully. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care that you love it. I love that you do.” He then nodded to the ring. “Do you want to put it on?”

You hummed in affirmation, pulling off your left glove and allowing for Shouto to help you slide the ring over your finger. The ring wouldn’t sparkle, the quickly setting December sun keeping the world dim for the time being. Instead, the sheer crystal of the diamond reflected back the light gray saturation of the clouds.

“I love you,” you said, jerking your eyes back to Shouto’s urgently. He already knew, of course—both of you had been impatiently quick in your relationship to say it—but you were desperate that he know in this moment. That there be no doubt. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Shouto said, and he bent in to catch your lips. Despite the awkward angle, your neck torqued nearly behind you in order to catch Shouto’s lower lip between yours, it was the sweetest kiss you could remember in ages. You leaned back even further, the curve of your spine leaning safely against Shouto’s thigh as you put your gloved hand to his cheek.

When your eyes opened again, the world had fallen into soft focus, the streetlights having flicked on. Their light was refracted by the snow that had quickly doubled in volume, frosting the sidewalk’s skeletal trees and just starting to fill the cracks on the sidewalks with piles of white.

“Now I’m always going to love the first snow too,” Shouto said, looking down at your bare hand and taking it in his warm one. His glove dispersed the heat he produced so that it felt inviting, comforting. Loving.

“I didn’t think I could love it more,” you mused as the snow continued to pick up, dusting the fronts of your boots and the shoulders of your coat.

Shouto pulled you back against his chest again, and you felt a big sigh ripple through his chest. He pulled you in close and whether you were against his right side or left, you felt nothing but warmth.

“I know the feeling.”

#todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki #shoto todoroki #todoroki fluff #bnha fluff #mha x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #shouto fluff #shoto fluff #todoroki imagine #todoroki imagines #bnha imagine #bnha imagines #mha imagine #mha imagines

171 notes · View notes

beetles-and-rock · 3 years

Text

Mixology Gone Wrong

An X reader about pre-musical Dewey Finn.

As an aspiring Mixologist, you work in a run down dive bar where local bands come to play their music in attempts to get their names out there. You're pretty used to getting hit on by the many self proclaimed "musicians" that play there. You don't expect any different when Dewey Finn comes to flirt with you, but things start to go very differently indeed.

18+ ONLY, DON'T INTERACT IF YOUNGER

TW: Heavy Intoxication, Blood, Vomit, Attempted Sexual Assault (Not from Dewey though. He too believes consent is sexy), Mild Language, Suggestive Comments

As you can tell this is a very different fic for me. There is a lot of Angst to it.

Mixing drinks was still something you were new too, but you knew enough to work at a local bar. Evening shifts were long, and the music was always blaring super loud. You hadn't been working there long, but was pretty sure you'd gone a bit deaf already. The bands that came to play were mediocre. A lot of them were hopeless dreamers, waiting for their ship to come in. Many of them would drink themselves halfway to liver failure after their set, which made you super busy.

It was pretty sad really, to see so many of the ones who actually had decent voices order so many drinks you knew were going to ruin their vocal chords. Still they didn't care. They performed and now they were going to drink like the apocalypse was coming. As was a typical Friday or Saturday night.

It was also not unusual for the drunks to flirt with you or the other bar tenders, so when the lead guitarist for some local band called "No Vacancy" stepped up to the counter with that look in his eye after their set, his forwardness didn't phase you in the least. He had quite some character, that was for sure. Anyone could easily tell that from the way he performed, energetic, ecstatic, and all around sticking out like a sore thumb among the rest of the band. He was a little on the chubby side, wavy untamable hair ridden with grease. He smelled of sweat and beer, along with Axe body spray which he probably considered to be close enough to a shower, and a hint of BO. He may not have looked like a rockstar, but he certainly smelled like one.

"Hey there." He said with a cocky smirk as he reached the bar. It was and old approach, but at least it wasn't some dumb pickup line. he didn't cock an eyebrow or even try to smolder. Every expression that came upon his face was, in a word, lazy.

"Could I get a beer?" He asked. You held back a sigh knowing once again you weren't going to use the skills you'd learned as a mixologist, but by the looks of this guy you knew there was no way he was going to be able to afford a cocktail. You were pretty sure his band played for free here tonight, so that pretty much confirmed how broke he was. You poured the beer and handed him the mug.

It was both disgusting and impressive watching him guzzle the beer. He simultaneously patted the counter of the bar to the beat of the music as he drank.

"So did ya like the set?" He asked you after a long swig. Oh great, here came the flirting...

"It was. . . pretty interesting. You guys have a good sound." You searched for kind things to say about the performance, but in all honesty it really didn't particularly stick out to you among all the other groups of wannabe rock stars they played in this run down shack of a dive. Well that wasn't entirely true. He certainly stuck out. You did your best not to use the word obnoxious when describing his part of the set.

"Your harmonies were pretty good, and your ad libbing was. . . creative. You've got a lot of energy."

"Yeah!" He replied after taking another long swig. "You gotta have the energy when it comes to rock and roll. I've been trying to tell the other guys that for years now. They just kind of stand there."

"Uh-huh. . ."

"I mean I brought the band together. The least they could do is listen to me."

In that moment, it dawned on you how clueless he was. Anyone else could see that the other band members were not very big fans of his antics onstage. The audible sigh from the lead singer into his microphone was very

clear as the man who now sat in front of you had started jumping around and ad libbing perhaps a little too much. He was now polishing off his mug and set down the money for another one. You poured more beer into the mug, almost feeling sorry for him.

"Been thinking about changing my name. . . I don't know though. It's not really a rock-star name, but the thought of a crowd screaming the name Dewey Finn inspires me. Kinda like an underdog story." He said.

"Dewey Finn?“

"Yep! That's my name, and you'll want to remember it cause one day it'll be famous." He set down the mug pointing to it "More please."

You were unable to hide a slight look of disgust at his rudeness, but poured another glass anyway. Dewey took another long drink and belched.

"Y-yep! someday people are gonna be screaming that name, Dewey -hic- Finn." He held his belly momentarily after the hiccup looking like he may be sick for a minute. Unfortunately, he continued. "You ever thought about being a groupie? Maybe I could make you scream it too."

You raised an eyebrow. It wasn't an old crappy pick up line, but he was still one more stupid sentence from getting slapped. You had to admit you did think this guy was kind of cute, and some parts of him were even adorable, but not so cute or adorable that you wouldn't remind him he was talking to a human being.

You shook your head watching him become more and more drunk, and knew he was likely to keep making conversation. Since it was clear to you he was not going to stop speaking, you decided to change the subject instead of letting him dig his own grave.

"So who was your inspiration?" You asked thinking it would be an appropriate question. Little did you know you'd soon be enjoying yourself talking with him. His eyes lit up and he listed a number of musicians and bands that he had been inspired by. How he'd listened to all eras rock music from a young age, and had gotten his first guitar for his tenth birthday. That sparked his dreams to become a rockstar. He talked about how he would spend every moment of free time learning to play. How he played with a band called Maggot Death in Highschool and has been living with one of the members ever since his father kicked him out.

You found yourself laughing, smiling and even coming close to tears at some points as you watched him do so himself. Perhaps the most surprising thing though was that familiar warm tickle slowly spreading on your cheeks. He was certainly no gentleman, but at this point you knew there was some tenderness underneath all the cockiness. Still even in his near-stupor, you could tell he was definitely still keeping most of his walls up. Not that it was your duty to take them down. It was about that time one of his band members came over, and reminded you that you were just a bartender this wannabe rock star had been talking to for the first time.

"Excuse me, Is this guy bothering you?" The man asked. He was thinner, and had longer, straighter hair than Dewey. He wore a leather jacket that left his torso bare showing off a set of abs that clearly he was proud of.

The man's tone surprised you. He spoke as if Dewey had been trying to fondle you over the counter or had been relentlessly trying to pick you up.

"Uh-um. . ." Was all you could manage. Not only had you snapped out of the happy daze of the conversation, but you realized you hadn't been keeping track of just how much beer you'd been giving him. Now the poor guy was drunk out of his mind, you had no idea how much money he owed the bar, and you were pretty sure this could get you fired. The troubled look on your face must have given the guy the wrong idea, cause he smacked the back of Dewey's head.

"Heeeeeeeeeey!" Dewey uttered as he slowly rubbed the back of his head.

"They're not interested, Dewey. Leave them alone." Said the band member.

"I wassssssn -hic- bothering nobody."

The other man looked at you, and sighed. "How much does he owe?"

You just stared at him a full minute before gathering your thoughts.

"Oh. . . um, I think he drank the equivalent of a pitcher." You knew it was more likely two or more, but you didn't want to cause any more trouble. The man slapped several dollar bills down on the counter, before turning to Dewey.

"You owe me."

"Th-thanks -hic- buddy." Dewey said with a goofy smile.

"Come on. We're over here." The guy said, turning to lead him to the rest of the band. Dewey went to follow him stumbling as he got out of the chair. He fell clumsily to the ground. The band member turned and laughed at him, soon joined by the others as well as many people in the bar. Dewey looked up very dazed, but smiled seeing that everyone else was.

"Whoops!" He giggled.

You might have been the only one not laughing though. You felt sorry for him.

"I've changed my mind Dewey. You better call Ned." His bandmate told him.

"Wait!“ Dewey scrambled on the floor trying to stand or at least sit. It was obvious from the way he teetered on the support of his arms his judgement was way off. He managed to sit on his knees. "Wait! I-I -hic- can't! Patti will lose -hic- lose her crap if shhhheee finds out I. . . ca-called Ned to come -hic- come get me. . .

Another band member cut in.

"It's nothing personal, Dewey. There's just no telling what your fat ass is gonna vomit in his car."

Even though the remark wasn't even all that funny in your opinion, the band members laughed. Dewey laughed too, but it was an uncomfortable laugh. The laugh that comes from the person being joked about trying to seem unoffended. Still watching this all play out, you could tell Dewey was hurt and scared of whoever Patti was. Regardless of your sympathy toward him, you had a job to do.

You continued to pour people's drinks, almost too busy to watch as Dewey's band left him. You didn't see where Dewey himself went until after the evening rush had gone. It was about fifteen minutes to closing. He was sitting in a booth with his head down. There were a few tipsy stragglers at the bar, which was nothing the other bartenders couldn't handle. You decided to go over and check on him. You walked over and sat across from him.

"Hey, you okay?" You asked.

He lifted his head. His eyes were red, and his face puffy and tear streaked. He looked sick and exhausted. He made a sad attempt at a smile.

"Jussss fine." He slurred before another hiccup escaped him. An all too familiar panic flashed through his eyes and he clutched his stomach. He covered his mouth and sat back for a moment until a nasty sounding burp escaped him. He moaned and stared miserably at the wall above your head.

"Are you sure? Do you need a bucket?“

His eyes lowered back down to you. "Jusss go away. . ."

You wanted to do what he asked, but with it being so close to closing, you needed to make sure he had a way to get home.

"H-have you texted your friend to ask for a ride home yet?"

“No. . ."

"Why not?"

"My nightssss -hic- been b-bad enough without my roommate's -hic- girrrlfriend yelling at me. . . and threatening to kick me out."

You couldn't disagree. That would be a worse ending to an already ruined night. Still you had to close up soon. You had to get him out of here, and hopefully home somehow.

"W-What about earlier on stage? You were really good."

He looked up at you, a slight smirk had returned to his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, you looked like you were enjoying yourself up there."

"I alwaaaays enjoy my-myself -hic- onstage. Rock. . . isss what I wass meant fffor. The mussssic sp-speaks to me.

You smiled, seeing that little smirk gave you hope. Clearly he was very passionate about Rock. You decided to try to keep him on the subject.

"When did you first get into rock?" You asked.

"I've pretty much -hic- been Inta rock my whhhhhole life."

"Oh?"

"Y-yeah. I'vvve been singing -hic- since I can. . . m-member. . . It's great for expression. . . a-and sex appeal. . . You think so too, don't you." He was looking you in the eyes now. His expression made your heart skip a beat. You were having second thoughts about this now. Maybe you should have had one of the other bartenders come with you. You nervously backed up in your seat.

"W-what?" You stammered.

"Well yyyyou do keep talking about -hic- the way I looked on stage."

You blushed. It was a big misunderstanding. You just noticed how he stood out from the others.

"O-oh, no I wasn't meaning-"

Dewey chuckled. "Ssssure, you didn't. You even r-risked your job to -hic- over serve me.

You raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"Speaking of -hic- whaddaya say . . . to another r-round?“

Your voice came a little more stern. "No I think you've had enough.'

"Come. . . Come on, baby. Jusss -hic- a few more?"

Baby!? Who the hell did he think he was? “No!“

"Wwwwann me to take my sh-shhhirt off?"

"No thanks!"

“Kiss you?" He grinned.

"Absolutely not!" You stood to get up from the table. He stood too, leaning forward. He absolutely reeked of alcohol. You could tell from the look on his face he wasn't done, but if he wasn't careful he was about to be.

"What if I sign a tit?" It was then that you noticed he was gawking at your breasts. That was it. You reared back your hand and sent it flying into the side of his face. He yelped, sitting back down in the booth. His eyes were wide with shock. He touched the red mark that was now forming on his cheek. His bottom lip quivered. For a moment, you thought he might burst into tears. Unfortunately, what came next was worse.

Once the look came over his face, you knew what was coming, and there was no stopping it this time. Dewey held his gut as vomit poured from his mouth all over the table, and even down your skirt. You were really pissed now.

"GET OUT!" You screamed at him. He sat there wide eyed, embarrassed, scared, and still pretty sickly.

"I-I'm so sorry-"

"OUT!" You pointed to the door.

He scrambled to get up from the booth, and stumbled across the floor. He stopped suddenly leaning over a booth retching again. He wasn't going to make it very far if he left now. You sighed handing him a bucket.

"Just sit down, and text your friend to come get you."

Dewey hugged the bucket and nodded. You watched making sure he texted his friend Ned, while thinking about quitting your job here. It wasn't bad money, but you certainly didn't sign up for babysitting sick, horny, drunks. Dewey retched into the bucket causing you to look away. It was then that you noticed another man walking towards you.

"You okay?" He asked.

You brushed your hair back out of your face looking up at him. You could tell your expression was still harsh, but had no interest in changing it. After all this, you figured you were justified in a little rudeness despite the bar's policy.

"I'm fine.“ You snapped.

The man chuckled and grinned. "Easy sweetheart, I'm just trying to help."

You rolled your eyes.

"Just leave me alone."

The man stepped closer. "That skirt is looking a little messy. Let me help with that."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't have time to react before the man attacked you yanking at your skirt. You screamed. You could barely register the next movements in your shocked state.

A fist flew into the man's face. He staggered backwards letting out a muffled scream from behind hands covering a bleeding nose. Dewey was now standing next to you staring at his blood soaked fist. You wanted to say something like "thank you" or "sorry for screaming at you earlier" but the man who tried to assault you had regained his composure, and grabbed Dewey.

The angry drunk slammed Dewey into the side of the booth, which backfired because instead of a scream of pain, Dewey regurgitated all over his attacker. The disgusted stranger screamed obscenities at him before throwing him to the ground and pinning him there. His messy knuckles slamming into Dewey's head again and again. You screamed for the man to stop it, almost certain from the blood he'd killed Dewey. Your assumption was confirmed false when a fist with a mug in it shot upward and was slammed against the attackers head. The mug shattered and the man fell to the ground unconscious.

"Oh my god!" You knelt next to Dewey, who now had bruises forming on his face and blood dripping from his nose.

"Are you okay?" You asked, looking him over for anything else. "Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

He just moaned in response, his eyes unfocused.

"Can you sit up? I can help you." With your help he was able to sit up. He leaned back against your arm limp and dazed. A tall thin man in glasses came running into the bar.

"Dewey!? Oh God! What did you do!?" He panicked rushing over to him.

"N-Nehhd. . ." Dewey managed.

"Are you alright?" Ned asked him. He looked at you. "What happened?

"It's a long story." You answered. "But, he helped me." You looked between the two of them. “I'll call an ambulance. He needs to get checked out."

"Wahnna. . . go home." Dewey whined.

"Not yet, Dewey. They're right, we gotta get you checked out first."

You pulled out your phone and dialed nine-one-one, and though Dewey really didn't feel like getting looked over, and was less than cooperative, he ended up being pretty lucky. His back was bruised the worst, and he had a minor concussion, but other than that he was mostly okay. The medic really seemed to prefer he get checked at a hospital, but since Dewey was likely to be less cooperative there he let Ned take home. He was given instruction to stay with Dewey to make sure nothing got worse, and to make sure he stayed in bed if he felt dizzy.

Before taking Dewey home Ned thanked you for taking care of him. You shook your head.

"Taking care of him was an occupational thing. I should be thanking him for taking care of me."

#dewey finn #school of rock broadway #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice

8 notes · View notes

patroclusonly · 4 years

Text

You need to be safe

Do I always use lines from the fic for the titles? Yes, cause I don’t know how to think of one to fit the story

This is based on this post, kinda didn’t like how it turned out but i wanted to write it anyway so here it is.

(@multi-fandom-writing you asked to be tagged, i’m sure this isnt exactly what you had in mind but it’s my take on it, hope you don’t hate it!)

Buck and Eddie have been together for five years, and married for two. Not much has changed in their relationship after they got together since they used to spend most of their time in each other places.

They’ve been living together since pretty much the beginning and they rarely got into fights, but that night they did. It was 10 pm., they were driving home back from work and they were arguing.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Eddie, it’s my job!” Buck says, waving his hands in exasperation.

“Your job is to save people not to get yourself killed before being able to do it!” Eddie snaps at him, trying hard to keep his focus on the road.

“Well, it’s not like I knew the man had a gun!” He scoffs, throwing his hands in the air.

“But when you did, you still had to run up to him didn’t you?” He snarled, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white.

“At least he was pointing the gun at me and not at the woman!” He shrugs and Eddie lets out a growl and rubs his forehead.

“Are you really that stupid?!” Eddie fumes, turning his head to look at Buck but being blinded by two lights instead. “Buck!” He screams but it’s too late.

Eddie groans as his consciousness comes back and opens his eyes slowly. His head is pounding and he grabs at it to try and make it stop, but once he sees Buck, he doesn’t care anymore.

The other man is passed out beside him, pale and with blood dripping down his forehead.

“Buck?” He calls him and when the other man doesn’t respond, he starts to panic. “Buck?!” He moves to his side and tries to remain calm, checking his pulse. It’s weak but it’s there.

He hears someone tell him that they already called 911 and he breaths for a second.

“Come on, baby. Wake up.” He says to Buck, looking over his injuries. He was much more injured than him, the hit to the head alone was bad enough, he didn’t want to think about the other injuries he would have after taking most of the impact.

Minutes later, that felt like hours to Eddie, he heard the sirens coming closer.

“Helps is coming.” He whispers and kisses his forehead before he hears his name being called. He gets out of the crushed car, takes a few steps and falls on his knees, tears falling down his face. He feels hands on him and then Bobby and Chimney come into vision, keeling beside him. He shakes his head.

“Help him, I’m fine. Please, help him.” He says, voice breaking. Chimney looks at Bobby and when he nods he goes with Hen to check on Buck. Eddie keeps crying, uncontrollable sobs breaking through him.

“He’s going to be fine, Eddie.” Bobby reassures him but he can’t stop. He sees Hen and Chimney moving Buck in the spinal board to the stretcher and then get him into the ambulance.

Chimney then comes to where he and Bobby where, they help him stand and get him into the ambulance too. Once in, they take off to the hospital but he still can’t snap out of it. He sees Buck, lying there and he’s so scared that he won’t wake up. He takes his hand.

“How…” He tries to speak but the lump of his throat stops him. Hen puts a grounding hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll be fine.” She answers him fast and Chimney nods.

“Come on, Eddie. This kids has survived much worse that a little car crash.” He says smiling, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Eddie tries to focus on the raising and falling of Buck’s chest, the weak but steady pulse beneath his fingers.

Once they get to the hospital they take Buck into surgery. Eddie sits on the waiting room, elbows on his knees and hands covering his face. He’s stopped crying now but the dreadful feeling was still there.

The team had left except for Bobby and Eddie appreciate that because he didn’t trust himself to be alone.

“He’s a strong kid, Eddie. He’ll be okay.” Bobby pats his shoulder lightly.

“The last thing I told him was that he was stupid.” He mumbles, pressing his hands into his neck. “I called him stupid for risking his life to save someone and now…” His breath catches in his throat.

“Hey, Hey.” Bobby squeezes the hand on his shoulder and he looks up at him. “Those won’t be your last words to him. He’ll be okay.” He nods, trying to calm down. A few minutes later a doctor approaches them and they jump to their feet.

“Are you here for Evan Diaz-Buckley?” She asks.

“Yes, I’m his husband.” Eddie says quickly and the doctor smiles at him.

“He’s awake now. We had to perform surgery to put back in place the pieces of broken bone from his clavicle, he has a concussion and some broken ribs, but with a month or so of rest he’ll be good as new in no time.” She tells him with a calm expression and Eddie lets out a long breath.

“Can we go see him, now?” Bobby asks for him.

“Yes, but just for a few minutes. He needs the rest.” She explains. “I’m assuming you’re staying with him?” She asks Eddie and he nods quickly. “Good. He’ll be discharged tomorrow afternoon.” She announces and leaves.

Eddie stands there and looks up at Bobby who gives him a small smile.

“Go. Me and the rest of the team will come by tomorrow before our shift.” He tells him and he sprints to the room.

When he enters it, Buck looks up at him and a big smile appears on his face. Eddie’s eyes fill with tears again.

“Hey, no. Don’t cry, I’m okay.” Buck tells him and holds out his hand. Eddie takes it and lets himself be pulled in by him.

“I’m so sorry.” Eddie cries out and Buck shakes his head.

“No, baby. It wasn’t your fault.” He makes Eddie lean back. “And look, I’m okay, just a little banged up.” He cups Eddie’s face and looks up at him with the sweetest smile. He has a cuts in his face, a bandage in his forehead, a sling in his right arm and yet he’s looking so bright and beautiful.

“I was so scared, i thought… the last thing I said to you was that you were stupid. You’re not stupid, you’re amazing and so caring you’d put your life in the line for whoever needs it. But I’m so afraid I’m going to lose you someday.” He whispers, looking straight into clear blue eyes.

“I was a little reckless, I’ll admit that.” Eddie lets out a breathy laugh. “And I’ll try to be more careful, but you know I can’t not help someone who needs it.” He says and Eddie shakes his head.

“I know and I don’t want to stop you from helping people. I just want you to be more careful with how you do it. You need to be safe so you can come back home to us.” He leans in again, pressing a kiss to Buck’s head and holding him close.

“I’ll do my best.” He mumbles into Eddie’s chest and looks up, bringing him in for a kiss.

“Are you going to stay with me?” He asks once they break apart.

“Always.” Eddie answers and gives him a soft kiss on his temple.

“Chris is with Carla?” He asks when Eddie settles beside him on the small hospital bed.

“Yeah, she said they’ll facetime with us before school. You’re getting discharged at noon anyway.” He whispers, and kisses the side of Buck’s head and he hums, closing his eyes.

“Great. I miss the little guy already.” Buck whispers, burying his face in Eddie’s neck and sighing in content.

#buddie #buddie fic #idk anymore #i just want to write #trying the write

57 notes · View notes

some-mad-lunge · 5 years

Text

Answers - Michael Guerin Week AU

Okay this is WAY off the fic prompt which is Drunk and Disorderly. I started imagining Michael being the exact opposite of that. Which made this AU come out in a weird jumble. So yeah...sorry! (Also it’s stupid long. Again. Sorry)

👽 👽👽👽👽👽👽👽👽👽

To say Friday nights at The Bunker were rowdy would be an understatement but Saturday nights were like a second coming of hell. Michael did not have two masters, one in engineering and the other in biodynamics, to deal with this shit. But needs must, and plying officers with alcohol while they held up the bar was a gateway to information. He took in every tidbit, worked out shift schedules and even swiped one security pass from a dubious looking corporal. After two months he was so close to getting inside that he was antsy, that much closer to some answers about who he was and where the hell he was from. He tried to remind himself he’d waited 28 or so odd years, that he could wait just a little bit longer.

***********

He’d done a decade in the foster care system, he knew a thing or two about biding your time and protecting yourself. You move when the moment is right and you keep your fucking head down.

It was easy to go unnoticed in most regards. Everyone in this town either worked for the military or made their living off of it. No one questioned what was going on behind the chain link fences or deep in the desert too barren to visit. No one bothered to look to closely at the man sliding them drinks. Especially when it was really easy to slip into their mind and erase yourself completely.

Michael would have made an excellent spy, probably would have given James Bond a run for his money. Fact was he’d much rather be the Q in the situation, but once again, needs must. So he watched and he clocked and he made himself as unassuming as possible.

So as Saturday nights went it was loud and obnoxious. Clearly there was a new brood of recruits, some battle scarred, some probably with their virginity still intact, but all happy to have been selected to work at one of the most prestigious and secretive bases in the US. Michael scanned them all, none of them would be any more than grunts. None of them had a fucking clue what was really going on and therefore weren’t worth his time.

But he’d pour their beer and serve them army themed burgers and wait for his opportunity.

What he didn’t expect was the package said opportunity would turn up in. Or how it would unravel every plan and belief Michael held dear.

What was it they said about mice and men? They should have included aliens in the mix.

*********

It was second nature, every time a new body came through the door his mind scanned them. He didn’t even have to look up, he didn’t have to stop what he was doing. He’d know in a few seconds what he was dealing with. It got to the point that he probably let his guard down too much, that’s why this one had affected him so much. Or so he told himself.

It was the end of the night, most had cleared out except for a few men leaning on each other nursing the dredges of their beer. Michael had done his share of the clean up and was going to kick them out on their asses in a few short moments. He’d heard the door open, his mind doing what it did until he was hit with a wave of something he’d never experienced before. It was desire mixed with pain, dark and light. Secrets in shadow mixed with laughter and contentment.

He could admit to being shocked, instinct telling him in some way whoever had just walked in held the key to something vital. Something tangible. Until he turned and met brown eyes.

Then Michael learned the true meaning of being knocked on your ass.

*******

The thing was he’d never bothered to look for the other two kids he was found with over 20 years ago. He wondered vaguely if they all had the same made up birthdays on their drivers licenses. He’d occasionally get a memory of giggles and mischief, but then pain and fear. He didn’t know if they were alive but somewhere inside he knew that was a lie. He’d know in his bones if they weren’t.

They’d be together again someday, of that he was certain. But Michael felt like he needed to have the answers before he met them again. He didn’t know why, but the why had been what he’d spent most of his life searching for.

********

He didn’t have to wait long before he saw those eyes again. He’d been too stunned to do anything but nod as the man mumbled apologies for his intoxicated soldiers and then shuffled them out the door. He noted the name Manes as one drunkard shouted it with delight. He’d seen that name before but he couldn’t quite put his finger on where. He went straight home and used every contact and dark web access he had to find out more.

Staff Sergeant Alexander Manes, from a family of military servicemen. More importantly his father was Jesse Manes and the rumours that swirled around that name had Michael buzzing with excitement. This was a window of opportunity he could not pass up, he just had to figure out how to get an in with the Staff Sergeant.

He didn’t expect Alex to make it so easy, and so fucking complicated.

********

The first time Alexander Manes talked to Michael he felt it in his dick. He politely asked for a beer on a rather dull Wednesday night and the sound made Michael’s knees weak and his pants tight.

Thoughts of seduction hadn’t entered his mind as a viable option until he smiled, got a lick of pink lips and heated eyes in reply. Michael had done that before, used his charm and body get him the answers he needed. It had never been a hardship, he never jumped into bed with anyone he didn’t want to. If it turned out to be more than beneficial for him in the long run so be it.

The fact was with Alex it hadn’t been anything but a need from the start. He told himself it was answers he was after, but he wouldn’t let himself admit it was all the wrong questions.

**********

He made sure to run into him at the gas station, at the grocery store. Casual head nodes, one blinding smile and a wink for good measure.

It was the wink that must have sealed it, gave Alex the green light. You always let them come to you.

That night when Manes had walked in Michael got the same jolt, only this time it was more than heat. It was like shooting stars and swirling cosmos.

When he handed Alex his beer he casually mentioned he was off at 11:00. He held the bottle a little longer than necessary, felt the soft rub of skin as their hands met. It was warm and soothing in a way he didn’t expect.

They ignored each other for the rest of the night. At least Michael attempted to, but his mind kept going back to him. Searched him out. Wanted to settle in and stay a while.

*********

He broke all his rules that first night. Never take them home, never let them in. Guard up Guerin, at all times, at all costs.

Rules are easily forgotten when your shirt is scraping against plaster and your mind is deliciously blank of anything else but how good Alex feels in his arms. He’d never been one for making out, not since he was a teen. With Alex he’d have happily stayed pressed in the shadows, night sky lit by the moon as they teased with lips and tongue.

If this was the preview then the main act would probably end him and he kind of liked the idea.

So he pulled and he shoved as they danced to his Airstream parked in the far back of the parking lot. He needed walls and a flat surface with Alex’s skin on display.

He wouldn’t realize until later how dangerous that had been. He forgot himself, forgot everything. Because they moved and they moaned, they laughed and they smiled into each other’s mouths.

When it was over they curled around each other, limbs and sheets tangled. He whispered stay and got a contented sigh in return.

The one thing he should have realized was that they’d never shared their names and yet still they’d been whispered and gasped into the night.

That should have been his first clue.

**********

When he woke up Alex was still there, dark hair messy and the only word that came to mind was adorable. He’d never felt fond of anything in his life. He’d never felt this way before.

So instead of using his advantage, the openness of a sleeping mind and the time to explore it, he pressed closer and breathed.

********

They were dating, which was sort of the most bizarre experience of Michael’s life. Not so much the making each other dinner or texts asking how is your day? No it was the openness of affection, so easily given, so easily received. It was missing Alex the moment he was out of sight, the flood of relief when he was near.

They spent most of their time at Alex’s apartment, after a few weeks Michael felt like a different person. Was this what it was like to be normal? To be human?

He let himself forget why he’d started this. He let himself sink into the warmth of Alex and belonging.

********

They were both secretive in their own way. They didn’t talk about their pasts or their families. Which was a godsend. Michael should have seen it for what it was, both holding each other just far enough away.

Just in case.

**********

It wasn’t until he’d gotten a message from a deep web contact that Michael remembered why he’d come here to begin with. There was info on Jesse Manes and two suspected aliens living in Roswell. When he opened the attachments and saw their photos he knew.

His family.

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

Michael started to work more then, tried to make up excuses as to why he couldn’t see Alex. He was walking a dangerous line.

He didn’t want to use Alex, not anymore, but he also needed this all to be over. He didn’t want to pretend to be nothing but a bartender for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to pretend anything.

Michael had never wanted anyone to know him before, all of him. Alex hadn’t been part of the plan, and now he was the only plan Michael had left.

*********

It felt weird to show up at Alex’s door with a bottle of wine and an apology on his lips. He knew why he was here, he had to take what he needed and then say goodbye. He couldn’t let himself think about it, couldn’t let himself fall back into the comfort and warmth and this.

Alex didn’t even make him pay for the distance, just wrapped him in a hug and whispered I’ve missed you. Fed him dinner and kept looking at at Michael like he was all he’d ever need in the world. He kept telling himself it was okay to accept it just one last time.

Maybe it was that knowledge, knowing he’d never have this again. Alex above him, Alex below him, Alex buried so deep inside in every way possible. Maybe that’s why.

The plan crumbled fast when he was so close to the edge he wanted to cry, Alex’s fingers digging into his ass and his eyes unwavering. Maybe it was the words I love you kissed into his mouth that had him losing control, falling apart, finally letting go.

Michael had never let go before, didn’t know what it could do. Didn’t know what it would mean.

*********

Alex was still wrapped around him, eyes laser focused and wary. The bed had thumped hard to the ground shortly after the pictures had flown off the walls. If he wasn’t mistaken the lamp beside the bed hadn’t been shattered into a hundred pieces just a few moments ago.

Michael?

Alex wasn’t scared, just questioning. That look in his eyes was still there, those whispered words still meant something. Somehow that was more terrifying to Michael than the truth.

So he ran.

**********

Less than an hour after leaving Alex and his destroyed bedroom behind he was driving his truck and Airstream down the darkened highway. He’d wasted months of this life and never got any closer to the answers he’d been searching for.

He thought of Alex’s hair damp from the shower, of lazy Sunday afternoons draped over each other on the sofa and teeth biting into Michael’s shoulder.

The answer he never got to give.

I love you too.

*********

He ended up in Roswell. He didn’t have anywhere else to go and it felt like the only way to close the chasm in his chest. Part of him was missing now, he needed to fill it with something.

He’d barely crossed the city sign when he heard her in his mind. She was sassy, a little bit beautiful and she told him it’s about damn time. It was the first he’d smiled in weeks.

Maybe it should have been awkward, they didn’t really know each other. But it wasn’t. They understood him, they welcomed him in and he thinks they might have even love him a little.

He was more powerful, Max and Isobel only started really investigating their abilities a few years prior. Neither of them had telekinesis, but his sister (as she called herself) had weaker telepathy skills. Their first order of business was to make those stronger. But his brother (as Michael liked to tease him) had a healing ability that Michael had never felt an inkling of.

Both of them were in committed relationships with scientists who accept them, knew the truth. At times he felt like he had more in common with Liz, Max’s wife and Kyle, Isobel’s husband. They spoke his language, sometimes they’d get in friendly arguments over theories and Michael felt understood for the first time in his life. He had a family, he had friends, people who knew what and who he was and didn’t run scared.

It wasn’t until he was alone under the stars at night that he could feel the hollow space where Alex was supposed to be.

*********

It had been a month of feeling each other out, sharing their pasts and their experiences. Until they all sat Michael down and decided to share what they were working on.

The danger they were all in.

Thankfully they had a lifelong friend on the inside, someone who was close to getting pieces to their puzzle. A man who Michael already knew was the exact opposite of the father that hunted them.

Liz insisted he was the kindest soul she’d ever met. Max called him a good guy. Kyle called him family. Isobel called him her best friend.

You can trust him.

If only they knew.

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

It was fireworks and a gasping ache when Michael felt Alex walk into the Prancing Pony. His skin itched in an instant, he wanted to rub up against Alex like a cat, curl in his lap. He wanted to push him down on a table and remind himself he was alive. He wanted to hold that face in his hands and rub their noses together.

Instead, he gripped his beer tight and expected a punch to the chin that never came.

Alex’s eyes were blank, like he didn’t know Michael at all. Like weeks ago he hadn’t kissed salsa from his lips or slept with their feet intertwined. He shook Michael’s hand, polite and indifferent.

Isobel has told me a lot about you.

Then he turned away and acted like Michael wasn’t even there. He would have appreciated the punch more.

**********

So he cornered him in the bathroom because Alex Manes breaks his brain. He doesn’t think or function properly, he just needs to be alone with him.

Alex sighs, leans against the sink.

I get it.

But he doesn’t, not at all. He tells Michael he understands, that had Alex been in the same situation he would have made the same play. He would have used Michael, pretended to care. He would have done anything for the answers.

Just forget it okay. I don’t blame you. I’ll be gone in a few weeks. They don’t need to know. Please.

Michael realized then that Alex is ashamed. Ashamed that he fell for it. Ashamed of how he felt for Michael. So ashamed he doesn’t want his friends to find out.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, like every breath is tearing him up.

***********

The next day he has lunch with Isobel but she’s looking at him funny. She even tries to sneak into his mind but he snaps the walls up quick. It actually makes her laugh.

She asks him if he’s nervous about his interview the next day with a research lab at the hospital. He’s not, they’d be fucking lucky to have him. He tells her so.

So...Alex…

The name makes his head pop up, and she gives him a sly smile.

Yeah I thought so.

Turns out Michael was far from subtle when it came to watching Alex’s every move the night before. He’s not embarrassed, weirdly he’s proud of what he feels for him, even if he’s not allowed to be.

It’s not a good idea, not right now.

And then Isobel tells him about how Alex was seeing someone, was head over heels in love. She’d never heard him so happy, so content in his own skin. She’d been so hopeful for her friend, until one day he said it was over and refused to speak about it again.

Who would ever be stupid enough to let Alex Manes go? I mean…

Michael doesn’t really hear the rest of it. He throws money on the table and rushes out of the restaurant. He’s in his truck about to turn the key when he realizes he has no idea where he’s going.

Well his sister turned out smarter than he ever gave her credit for. He sees directions in his mind, the front of a cabin in the woods, a red door. He offers her his thanks and steps on the gas.

**********

Maybe banging on Alex’s door like a maniac wasn’t his most charismatic move. At least he hadn’t blown it off it’s hinges. He waited impatiently for the door to open, and then he just let go. Let it all tumble out.

I love you. I didn’t fake that. I didn’t even know something like us could exist until I met you.

Alex just searched his face, warm brown eyes and something akin to joy lighting up his face. He pulled Michael into the house, into his body and into his mind. Into his heart.

So that’s when he learns what home feels like.

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

Michael never does learn all the answers but he learns the most important one. Not bad for best laid plans and all that.

#mgweek19 #guerinweek19 #roswell new mexico #fan fiction #malex #AU #micheal guerin #alex manes #long ass fic #sorry about that

134 notes · View notes

logical--dreamer · 4 years

Text

The Dark Kingdom Communications

So i don't normally do this type of thing, but i came up with a Modern Cassarian AU idea and decided to make a fic out of it. I'm not the best writer, but i hope you enjoy it!

The Dark Kingdom Communications: Chapter one

‘No, no, no.’ Cassandra cursed as she frantically clicked her mouse on the Wifi icon, praying that it would finally come up.This was not good, she had to submit the application in by five o’clock or she couldn’t for another few months.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “It will be okay, everything will be okay.” She whispered as she let the breath out. She still had time before the deadline, hours in fact, she didn’t have to feel so anxious.The Wi-fi could come back on at any minute, so she didn’t have to worry. She had the day off so all she had to do was wait.

Wait.

She wasn’t a big fan of that word

Normally, she was a really patient person. She was willing to wait in the wings while others took center stage, but the longer she stood in the shadows the more it was expected of her. It felt like her time in the sun had come and passed and she missed it. It felt like someone stole her destiny, but no more. She was done waiting.

She had to wait to apply to the Police Academy until she had a full college education, but now her father dIdn’t have any excuse for her not to join. Honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised that this is what she wanted to do. He was the Captain of the Corona Police Department and from a young age he taught her self-defence, and when she was legal, how to handle firearms. She was confident in her abilities, so why wasn’t he?

She took another deep breath and got out of her swivel chair. This was just her anxiety acting up. “Everything will be fine.” she repeated to herself as she went to her kitchen counter for some coffee. This was going to be a long day.

She grabbed her favorite mug and filled it with the hot beverage before leaning on the counter just staring at the computer. She needed a distraction, something to take her mind off of the internet. She tapped her finger against the mug in her hands and smiled softly.

It was a blue ceramic mug from one of those “Paint your own” places. When it first opened, Raps was quite insistent that they go in and make something for each other. Honestly, she felt bad for what she gave her best friend. Unlike Rapunzel, painting wasn’t her strong suit. She traced the detailed owl her friend had painted with a small smile. It’s a wonder why Raps went for a law degree and didn’t pursue art, she was very talented.

Rapunzel! Maybe the ball of sunshine could distract her? She grabbed her phone and went to her contacts to call her. She licked her lips and shifted her feet as she listened to the ringing only to hear the dreaded voicemail. She hung up and sighed. She forgot, Raps was shadowing her father at his law firm today and wouldn’t be available until later that night.

Cass let out a groan and scrolled through her contacts. She felt a pang of loneliness when she realized how small the list was. She stopped at Fitzherbert’s name before letting out a laugh. She wasn’t that desperate.

She lifted her coffee to her lips and took a small sip as she gazed at the computer again. Maybe it was working again? She walked over, sat her mug and phone next to the laptop, and tried the Wifi button one more time.

Please, please, please...

Nothing.

Fine. If she was going to waste her day anyways might as well get this thing working. She grabbed her phone and dialed the Dark Kingdom Communications helpline.

-----

"Ahuh...ahuh...yeah...okay." Varian nodded as he listened to another "Karen" on the other end of the phone complaining about her computer not turning on. This was the fifth time she called that day and it seemed like every solution he suggested didn't work and she was growing aggravated.

He wasn't the biggest fan of working in customer service. True, he was good at his job and knew what he was talking about, but some of these customers… He worked better in solitude when it was just him, Ruddiger, and his science equipment.

He genuinely wanted to help people, but he had hoped with one of his inventions, not tech support.

He took a big sip from his cheap black coffee and rubbed his tired eyes as he listened to the woman on the other side insult him and the company he worked for.

"Ma'am...ma'am…" he tried but she kept on complaining, "MA'AM!" He called over the phone and that seemed to finally silence her. "Have you checked the plug?" That seemed to offend her as she started in on him again, only to go dead silent. He heard a quiet "oh" on the other side and then a "click" to let him know she hung up. He leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.

Finally

He closed his eyes, exhausted. It was his own fault for staying up so late, but he had a breakthrough in his invention and he had to test it out! ...which resulted in a total power surge in his building. Thankfully, everyone was asleep and didn't notice him sneak down to the basement of the building to fix the fuse box.

He sat forward and rolled his chair closer to his computer. Fortunately, it was a Friday, and every Friday night he liked to take the night off to order a pizza and watch a movie. It was a way to rest before going to his projects again. He would always invite his neighbor to join him, but she was usually too busy to come.

Oh, Cassandra. She was a beautiful, smart, independent woman who's grayish green gaze made him melt into the floor like a melted ice cream cone. He’s tried to impress her and make her notice him, but he doubted she even knew his name.

He stretched his head around his cubicle to glance at Eugene who was chatting with Lance near the coffee maker. Eugene was the son of the owner of the Dark Kingdom Communications and was the head of marketing. He was the smoothest and most charming man he's ever met and he really admired him. Sometimes he wanted to ask for his help with speaking to Cassandra, but he would always chicken out. Maybe someday he would grow out of being such a coward.

He let out a small groan when he heard a new ringing in his head piece telling him he had another customer waiting for his assistance. He sat back in his chair and pressed the answer button. "Hello…"

"...Dark Kingdom Communications, this is V speaking, how can I help you?" Cass heard over the phone and sighed in relief to finally get rid of that obnoxious hold music.

“Hello, I can’t find the internet” Cass lifted her head from where she set it as she waited for someone to answer.

“Sorry?” V questioned, confusion laced in his voice, causing her to be more irritated than before.

“The Wi-Fi is down and I can’t for the life of me get it back up.” Cass continued, moving her mouse to keep the screen up.

“Oh!” the man on the other line exclaimed in understanding, “Sorry, that was just an odd greeting.” he chuckled, trying to keep a friendly atmosphere on the phone.

“Well, one tends to be a bit frazzled when they had to sit through hold music for twenty minutes when they are on a deadline.” she snapped at the man.

V was quiet for a moment, probably trying to find a way to get things back on topic of her call. She was surprised when she heard a soft chuckle on the other end and him voicing his agreement. “It is pretty bad isn’t it?”

She raised her eyebrow in confusion and nodded slowly even though he couldn’t see her, “Um, yeah….anyways, my internet isn’t working.”

“Right, of course!” V cleared his throat and she heard typing on the other side of the line, “I just need a little information before we begin.”

Cass shifted in her seat, frowning, she didn’t like giving people she didn’t know personal information “What kind of information?” she asked, almost defensively, ready to call whoever was his supervisor for his unprofessionalism.

“Well….I need your name in order to pull up your file and to access your computer to work on fixing the problem.” V said slowly, almost reassuring. She slowly relaxed at his words. She had nothing to be tense about, it was just the tech guy. Why was she feeling so anxious?

“Right.” she licked her lips as she played with the glove on her left hand, “My name is Cassandra, Cassandra Moon.”

Varian froze in his chair at the name. Cassandra, his neighbor, was on the other line. Beautiful, smart and independent Cassie…

“Hello?” Cassandra questioned him on the other line and that seemed to snap him out of his trance and had him get right to work.

“Yes, hi, sorry. I found your file right here.” This was his fault, her internet was down because of his machine. Now she is going to hate him and she will never come over for pizza and movie night...not that she has before, but he kept hoping that she would someday. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice going up an octave without his consent. He cleared his throat again, pushing the reading glasses, that he always kept on top of his head, down to the tip of his nose.

“Well, like I said before, the WI-FI won't connect to my computer.” Cassandra repeated, the irritation back in her voice. He felt his heart pick up with nerves, he didn’t mean to make her annoyed with him.

“How do you connect to the internet? Do you use a Modem, or your smartphone, or a broadband?” He questioned as he started the program to grant him access to her computer to look for any viruses or malware that might be causing problems for her.

“I use a modem.” She mumbled on the other line.

“Okay, and is the light for the internet doing anything? Is it on? Off? Flickering?” Varian asked, finally getting into the swing of his job. He could freak out about his crush calling later, right now he had a job to do. No matter what, he was going to fix her wifi.

After about an hour of going back and forth of them trying multiple tricks and resetting different things, they finally got her internet connected and running,

Cass looked at the clock and let out a sigh, she was going to make it. “Thank you so much.” she told V, her heart swelled with gratitude. “You have no idea how thankful I am that you were able to fix this.”

V’s breath seemed to hitch at her words before they tumbled out quickly, “n-no problem at all! It’s just part of the job!” his voice seemed to raise again and he cleared his throat. “If you enjoyed the experience, please make sure to take the survey to let us know what you thought.” he suggested for maybe the hundredth time that day.

She smiled as she pulled up her web browser and went to the bookmarked application. “I will….hey, I’m sorry about the way I acted before.”

“It...it’s alright, Cassandra.” He said softly, but she could tell he was smiling. She was happy she was able to make him happy after she was sure he had a rough day full of unreasonable customers. She felt her heart sink, she knew what that was like and she knew she didn’t help with the way she acted earlier.

She was about to say goodbye, when she heard him ask, “What would you rather have?”

“Sorry?” she paused in filling out her application, knitting her eyebrows together.

“For the hold music? What would you rather have?” V asked quickly, taking them back to the beginning of the call once more.

She tapped her finger on her chin as she thought about it. “Something upbeat, but not that annoying techno whatyoucallit that seems to be popular nowadays.” Cass hummed as she considered the question.

“Oh, yeah, I agree. Honestly, in school I was a bit of a theater kid, I feel like something like that would be good hold music.” he said, surprising her with her exact same thought process.

“Yes!” Cass agreed, surprising herself with how enthusiastic her response was. That was a bit uncharacteristic for her especially with someone she just met. Rapunzel was really rubbing off on her. She rubbed her eyes and looked back to her screen. She let her eyes wander over the page to make sure all the information was correct. She smiled in satisfaction, it was ready.

V was silent on his line for a long moment and she thought he hung up before he spoke again, “What about “Oh, What a beautiful Mornin’” from Oklahoma?” He suggested, she once again could hear typing on the other end.

Cass raised an eyebrow, “It’s good...but a bit older. Those who are waiting might not like it.” she grabbed her mug again and took a sip.

She heard V scoff in defense, “It’s a classic! I’ll have you know that I blew the audience away with my version.”

“I’m sure mommy and daddy were so proud.” she mocked in a playful tone, suppressing a smile in her mug.

“Uh...well, my dad was.” V mumbled, the vibe suddenly felt very heavy, “or I hope he was...” he added under his breath.

“Sorry.” Cassandra frowned, things were starting to get too personal for a customer and a tech support guy. She better end it soon.

“It’s alright.” he said, his tone light and happy, surprising her, “What do you think it should be then, since you seem to know so much about music?”

She glanced at her application one more time before hitting the submit and letting out a breath. The weight lifted from her shoulders as she slowly relaxed.

“The Greatest Showman.” she said simply, “The movie was a hit and I doubt anyone would find it irritating to listen to.”

“Yes, but it would also cause a problem.” V said seriously.

“And what problem is that?” She asked with a raised eyebrow

“I'll be forced to sing along each time it comes on.” He said, causing her to let out a laugh.

#rapunzels tangled adventure #tangled #tangled the series #i don't own tangled #cassarian #cassandra #varian #fanfics #rapunzel #The Dark Kingdom Communications #chapter one #eugene fitzherbert #lance strongbow

23 notes · View notes

keelywolfe · 5 years

Text

FIC: The Elephant in the Room ch.3 (baon)

Summary: Jeff has started working at the Embassy. He’s got a new job, a new car, and a new place to live. Now if only the rest of his life could fall into order, that’d be great. Any time now…any time at all…

Tags: Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationships, Prejudice Against Monsters, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Past Suicidal Thoughts, Mental Health Issues, Friendship

Notes: Red, you little cryptid, why can’t you ever let anything be easy? Then again, if Jeff was hoping for things to be straightforward, he picked the wrong brother.

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was worth the long sit-down in the kid’s office, twiddling his thumbs in the dark as Red waited for the door to open. Worth it for that one moment to see Andy have to bite back a scream when he saw Red at his desk. Give the kid credit though, he didn’t piss himself, which had been known to happen. That was always funny as shit, but kinda annoying, because then Red had to wait around for whoever to change their pants. He was busy, for fuck’s sake, and there were plenty of other places he needed to lurk. Tell the truth, he’d been a little surprised to hear the kid was looking for him. Surprised and frankly intrigued. Andy’d only been working at the Embassy for a week, how much trouble could he have stumbled across already? And it was definitely trouble, no two shakes about it. No one came looking for Red because they wanted to share a kit kat, such a fucking pity. Jeff was still standing in the doorway, doorknob in hand, staring at Red like maybe he was expecting a pit to hell to open up beneath him and swallow him back down. Could happen someday, Red supposed, but today was not that day and he was gettin’ bored of waiting. “you can come in,” Red said magnanimously, gesturing him inside. “whatever diseases i got don’t transfer.” His grin widened as Jeff sat in the visitor’s chair rather than drop-kicking him out of the desk like his bro would’ve. Nervously little twerp, wasn’t he. But Red wasn’t much fooled by that; he’d seen Andy boy step up for the people he cared about, more than once. Kid had a soft soul, for sure, but a good one. Like Papyrus. Like Blue. This world could use a coupla those and it was up to souls like Red’s to keep the world from fucking them over. One more dinky scar on his was nothin’, but if Red had his way, Jeff’s was never gonna need so much as a band-aid.

Fucking liabilities. “Hi, um, it’s just,” Jeff stammered a bit and Red only looked at him, let him wriggle a little longer on the hook. He kept his approval under wraps when Jeff took a few breaths, calming himself, and said, “Earlier today, Stretch and I were downtown.” “uh huh,” Red slouched back in the chair, let his eye lights roll back. Looked like he was reading a teleprompter off the ceiling, but the truth was, Red kept all his info in the safest place Above or Below ground, all filed away neat and tidy in his own skull. “classic books, owned by thomas meyer, immigrated in 1965 with his folks. his pop owned the bookstore and thomas took it over a while back. does okay, the rare book gig helps keep him afloat. did even better when monsters popped up, they love books and ain’t so tied to amazon.” “What?” Jeff blinked at him in a mixture of surprise and awe, “I didn’t know any of that.” He looked a little too damn impressed by a little googling and a lot of patience, and fuck if this kid didn’t pick some bad role models. Shit on a shingle, if Red had a windowless van, Jeff would probably be climbing on in it hoping for some free damn ice cream, no self-preservation at all. His bro sure knew how to pick a liability, this kid was something else. “i know plenty,” Red tapped his gold tooth with one sharp-tipped finger. “so what about it? gimmie some news i can’t get from the paper.” “Well, it’s just that Thomas hired someone to replace me and he’s very…uncomfortable around Monsters.” Jeff was leaning forward, bracing his hands on the desk and probably didn’t even realize it. He looked like the lead detective in an eighties movie as he asked, “Why would someone who doesn’t like Monsters want to work somewhere that is friendly to them? Thomas even has one of those ‘Monsters Welcome’ stickers on his front door.” Wellie well well, now this was interesting. Course, Red already knew what the kid was talking about. Steven Baker, recent graduate of Ebott University. Garden-variety xenophobe, didn’t have any special plans scuttled away on his laptop or some raggedy notebook plastered with MAG stickers. He just needed a job and chose poorly, was all. Some people didn't adjust to Monsters too well and that was fine; Red pretty much didn't want those fuckers around anyway and so long as they stuck to the other side of town, wasn’t much his concern. But the ‘book haus’ reject, eh, that was all dull shit; Red had a lockdown on that info three days ago before that little fucker ever stepped behind the register. What was interestin’ him now was Andy. Here the kid was, bubbling with suspicions like a junior detective, and who did he Scooby Doo to? Not Edge, not Stretch, not even his boytoy. No, he brought that info right to Red, didn’t he, like a cat with a dead bird, eager to show off his prize. Yeah, Red was liking this. Aloud, Red said, “i know all about steve, did a background check when tommy boy hired him. we monitor all the businesses that have the official stickers.” “Oh,” Jeff slumped back into his chair and Red couldn’t help but be amused. Kid looked like he’d unmasked the bad guy and found that it was Old Man Jenkins again. He didn’t stay down though, sat up straight again and asked, “You monitor all the businesses? Why?” Curiosity, good, and even if Andy ain’t exactly ready to share friendship bracelets with Red, he wasn’t letting his nervousness keep him from asking. Red grudgingly pulled his estimation of the kid up another notch. “two reasons.” Red held up two bony fingers then folded one down. “one, to make sure they aren’t getting harassed and feel they need to take it down. monster-friendly business won’t stay that way if they’re afraid to go to their cars at night.” He folded down the second finger. “and two, to make sure they mean it. ‘bout the last thing i ever want to happen is some monster and their kiddies heading into a place expecting a warm welcome and instead leaving in a paper bag.” Jeff nodded slowly, cringing a little at the Red’s description. “Makes sense. I should’ve known you were already on it, guess I was being paranoid.” “no such thing,” Red countered. And wasn’t that a swig of sugar-syrup, the kid had faith in him. "you were right, it is off. that’s good instincts, kid. we’ll be keeping tabs on stevie, don’t you worry, make sure he stays on the right side of the line. you, now, you come tell me anytime you see something or someone who seems off, yeah? anytime. thinking you’re overreacting is how people get hurt, and some people in our company can’t take much of a hit, you get me?” “Yeah, I do,” Jeff said determinedly. Andy had some spine to him in there beneath all the meat. That was the fella who’d decked a stranger on the bus for harassing a Monster, yep. The door opening made him tense, but it was only Antwan, peering in through the crack. He pushed the door open further and stepped inside, “Hey, security said you were here.” Watching the kid light up when he caught sight of Antwan was gag-worthy, but Red managed to choke it down. Being around his bro, the honey bun, and their fucking PDA had helped him build up a tolerance. “Hi, yeah,” Jeff said, “Red and I were talking.” “yep," Red agreed. He wagged his foot lazily where it was propped on the desk. "we’re about done now. thanks for stopping by, sweetheart. see you around.” “Okay,” Jeff said easily, like this wasn’t his office, heh. Kid was a little too easy-going, but that could be fixed with a judicious amount of assholery. Or maybe he was still too distracted by his boytoy, to care because he was all hopeful eyes and sweet-talk when he asked Antwan, “See you tonight?” “Yeah, I’ll meet you at Blue’s,” Antwan said, distractedly. He was pretty busy trying to glare a hole into Red, not an uncommon reaction but not one he was used to from Antwan. His drinking buddy about had steam coming out of his ears and didn’t notice that Jeff’s smile faltered, fading out as he mumbled an agreement and left. Curiouser and curiouser, as some brat once said. “What the fuck are you up to?” Antwan asked bluntly, the second the door swung shut. “dunno what you mean,” Red went through his mental list of annoying vocal tones and went with breezy on this one, but truth was, he really didn’t. And he didn’t like that, not one fucking bit, he liked a clear idear of what was going on around him at all times, and if Antwan had a bug up his ass, Red wanted to know why it crawled up there and what kinda nest it was making. From Antwan’s glare, that bug was pretty far up there. “I mean, why are you calling my boyfriend pet names?” To have that piece of puzzle snap in so easily, Red almost busted out laughing. That was what had Antwan’s panties in a wad? “eh, i do that with everyone,” Red said lazily. He licked his teeth deliberately, running his tongue over each and every point as he enjoyed the rising fury in Antwan’s eyes. “aww, honey, what makes you think i’m interested in your personal meat bag?” “The knowledge that you fucked your way through Europe the last time you went traveling with the diplomats?” Antwan snapped. “I heard plenty about that!" “maybe i had some fun,” Red allowed, and gave him a wolfish grin. Unless Antwan was chatting it up with Sans, he hadn’t even heard the half of it. “dunno, i don’t see your name on andy boy. not a ring or maybe a pretty little collar. gotta say, that might be a good look for him—“ “Stop,” Antwan said, through gritted teeth. Pretty impressive the way wrenched himself back, all that hot anger dropping down the thermometer to icy calm. “Your brother is my best friend, he wouldn’t like it if we killed each other.” Red snorted. This was fun and all, but a slap upside the head with a little realism was probably due. “cute that you think there is any ‘other’ about it. dunno, doesn’t sound like you trust your boy.” “What?” Antwan looked pretty taken aback by that, which was a fine, fine thing. Cause if there was a chance this entertaining lil’ tantrum was about Antwan thinking Jeff was trying to get a late afternoon bone-on, he and Antwan were about to talk real close up, make no mistake about that. Jeff wasn't a cheat, Red had a little file tucked away in the back of his head with plenty of data proving that.

Antwan didn't seem to notice, he only snapped out, "This isn’t about him, it’s about you. I know you too damn well. Leave him alone.” Well, this a slice of something different. He’d never much had anyone worried he was gonna seduce their honey away. Refreshing change, that. Sans was gonna laugh his ass off. “not much of a threat there.” Antwan’s smile was coldly humorless, whew, bet that went over real well in court, probably had a more’n few defendants pissing themselves. “No threats. I know better than to give you advance warning.” “better," Red let his grin widen, licked his teeth again deliberately, "could always make it a threesome.” Now that was a hell of a look. That was fifty shades of no, such a shame. Antwan only sputtered out, “I…what? No!” "pity," Red sighed. He kicked off of the desk and stood, groaning as he stretched with bone-popping force. "cool your jets, i ain’t trying anything with your boy, he had a security issue was all. ask him, he’ll tell ya. now that we've established that i’m not trying to poach, hit bricks.” Antwan only stared at him, visibly fuming, oh, yeah, he was plenty pissed, looked like he was trying to chew off his damn tongue. But Red was done playing nicey-nice for the day and it looked like Antwan was keeping cosplay as the fool aside for Andy. He turned on his heel, ready to storm back out the way he came and it was probably gonna lose him his drinking buddy, at least for a while, but Red couldn't help adding, sing-song sweet, "not trying yet, anyway." The door slamming told Red everything he needed to know about that. Red shook his head, started to pull out a cigar. He'd wait to light it when he got outside, no reason to stink up the kid's office, especially without his bro here to bitch and moan about it. Oh yeah, those two were meant to be. Just like the boss and Stretch, it was almost like a fucking aura around 'em, and Red didn't do Judgements anymore, but he'd never given up Seeing. He was never one to let a gift go to waste and he'd known fucking ages before his bro that he was meant to be with the honey bun. And just like those idiots, these two might need a little nudge in the right direction. That was fine. Red was pretty good when push came to shove.

~~*~~

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

31 notes · View notes

metatiki · 5 years

Text

Favorite Passage Written 2018

Tagged by the magnificent @opal-bee! Thank you so much! <3

I don’t know how many words I wrote last year, honestly, but for me it was a low output year. Most of the writing I did was for my Inquisitor Dorian fic, and most of it isn’t published yet and will be later, so I couldn’t use it here.

This scene, however, ended up not fitting the overall pacing and tone of the next Act, so it got cut. But I still really like it, so I thought I’d share it here. I might put it up on AO3 as part of a ‘Deleted scenes’ archive someday (I am keeping quite a few deleted scenes) but for now, it’s a Tumblr-only thang.

This was originally written for Act III of Don’t Worry, I’ll Protect You, my Cullrian fic where Dorian becomes Inquisitor after a terrible accident befalls his dear friend Inquisitor Lavellan (see my AO3 profile under tklivory for more). This scene occurs while everyone is travelling back to Skyhold after Adamant and the confrontation with Nightmare in the Fade. Cullen is recovering from injuries received there. NOTE: I’m presenting it with minimal editing.

I’m tagging whoever else wishes to do this! Enjoy!

Fic: Don’t Worry, I’ll Protect You Pairing: Cullen/Dorian Game: Dragon Age: Inquisition (AU) Rating: T (This scene, anyway)

The next day proved to be no less tortuous than the first in terms of boredom, but at least Cullen had a bit more physical freedom now that the healers had worked their herbal and magical magic. The bandages were gone, and the heavy casts on his knee and wrist were reduced to far thinner versions supplemented by a spell. He no longer felt as if he were dragging large stones around whenever he moved. A horse still wasn’t possible, but at least he was able to get some real work done on the post-battle summary and recommendations for bonuses for the soldiers in the battle.

Of course, to decide on those awards, he had to speak extensively to the other leaders on the field. Blackwall was straightforward and brusque in his recommendations, and had high praise for several members of the Inquisition Forces. After a similar conversation with Ser Barris, he settled in for a good long session of list making and recommendations. He found himself frequently glancing at the door even as he worked, however, or pausing every time the carriage changed speed, hoping the door would pop open to reveal a familiar smile.

When the carriage did finally slow to a halt, he quickly tucked his lap desk to the side, not wishing to seem distracted from his visitor, especially if it was who he’d been expecting all day.

Dorian’s head pushed into the cabinet. “You’ll need to move your-- Oh, you already have. Capital. One moment.” And then he disappeared again.

As Cullen blinked in confusion, something was pushed into the carriage, floating without a hand touching it: a round, flat piece of decorated wood. As Dorian poked his head in again, Cullen asked, “Ah… What is it?”

“Sit back just a little further,” Dorian said in answer, waiting until Cullen had done so before making a little gesture. “There should be enough room, if my measurements are correct.”

Despite the questions hovering on his lips, Cullen managed to restrain himself until the piece of wood lay flat, allowing him to see the other side. His eyes widened. “A chess board?”

“Indeed!” Dorian exclaimed as he climbed into the carriage with Cullen’s chess set in hand. Settling into the seat across from Cullen, he said, “I had to scour the entire encampment to find one. Apparently, one of the Templars serving under Ser Barris is a fiend for chess. I had to promise some excellent wine from the Skyhold cellars to acquire this.” He rapped the board with his knuckles. “Still, well worth it, don’t you think?” Setting the box on the board, he pushed it across to Cullen. “I’ll let you do the honors, since they are your pieces.”

Cullen smiled. “You stole them from me last night, didn’t you?”

“Well, I couldn’t let them get packed away again, could I?” Dorian replied. “It’s much better this way.”

“It’s fine. It’s been a long time since I last played chess, actually,” he said, reaching for the box at last and working at the clasp. “Not since I played with-- Oh.” He frowned as the box opened, revealing something he’d forgotten until now.

“Commander?” Dorian asked, an expression of concern on his face.

Mutely, Cullen turned the box around so that Dorian could see its contents, knowing he would understand immediately.

“Oh.” Dorian reached out and lightly touched one of the dried flowers of the wreath which lay within. “She always did love embriums.”

“It was our stake,” Cullen explained softly as he turned the box sideways so he could retrieve the wreath. “Whoever won got to wear the wreath in the next game, and she would just make a new one when the old one withered.”

“So you won your last game with her,” Dorian guessed in a quiet voice.

“Mhmm.” Cullen’s fingers moved over the flowers gently, not wishing to disturb the desiccated petals. “She was improving, but I still tended to beat her most of the time. She was a sharp learner, but sometimes she would get overeager, and I could-- I would figure out what her game was. She insisted I not let her win, but--”

“But sometimes you did,” Dorian guessed. “And she figured it out.”

“Apparently I have tells,” Cullen said with a soft chuckle. “She’d reprimand me, of course.”

Dorian smiled. “She could have a sharp tongue when necessary.”

“Yes.” Cullen took a deep breath, letting a smile come to his lips. “I’ll have to figure out how to preserve that. It’s a special memory.” And, he realized, it truly was just that: a memory. Not a pain. Not a loss. Simply a poignant reminder of a happy time in his life.

Leaning forward, Dorian lightly placed his hand on one of Cullen’s. “If you wish to keep these memories of her to yourself,” he said quietly, “then I will find some other pursuit to bring here.”

“No.” Cullen sniffed, then straightened and focused on Dorian, tearing his eyes from the wreath. “No. She’d prefer us to play together, I think. To remember the good times with her, and not… not those last moments.”

Dorian smiled. “I do believe you are correct.” Squeezing Cullen’s hand, he sat back in his seat and began to pull the pieces from the box. “Though I’m not very good at weaving flowers together, I’ll warn you. They’d probably fall off if you so much as sneezed at them.”

Cullen chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Looking down at the wreath one more time, he brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss, then set it onto the table where both men could see it. “There. Now, which side do you want to play?”

“Does it matter?” the mage asked airily. “I’ll defeat you either way.”

As he started to place the pieces on the table, Cullen gave him a look. “We’ll see what tune you sing after the game is over, Inquisitor,” he said with a grin. “I daresay it will be different.”

“You’re on, Commander,” Dorian said, then sat back to contemplate the board, fingers steepled. This game was long overdue, after all.

After that, the chess game became a daily occurrence for as long as he was confined to the carriage. Given that he was the Commander, however, his healing sessions continued morning and night to great effect. The first time he was able to walk - albeit stiffly, and with the aid of a crutch - he had to be forced back into the carriage so that he didn’t overexert the healing knee. And, a couple of days after that, when he was finally allowed onto a horse, he spent the next few hours riding to inspect every last inch of the Inquisition forces.

The cheers that greeted him raised not only his spirits but, he hoped, those of the soldiers as well. He spent as much time leaning over his saddle to shake and touch the hands of his troops as he did actually riding along their lines, but everywhere he went, the men and women of the Inquisition rushed to meet him, to make sure he was all right.

It wasn’t until the evening after an extensive healing session and a light dinner - eaten one handed, since his wrist was still wrapped securely in a thin cast - that he realized there was one particular face amongst his troops that he hadn’t seen. As a frown came to his face, the tent flap opened to allow Dorian entrance, chess board and pieces in hand. He paused there, regarding Cullen with a raised eyebrow. “Is something amiss, Commander? Is this a bad time?”

“What? No, no,” Cullen said, gesturing to the table. “I’m glad you came. I did miss our game earlier, but…”

Dorian chuckled as he tugged the table closer to Cullen and proceeded to set the board. “You were enjoying your mobility. I quite understand, Commander. But why the frown, hmm?”

“Oh.” Cullen blinked. “I didn’t see Jim while I was inspecting the troops, that’s all. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t see him when there was work to be done. Once he started pulling his weight, anyway.”

“Ah, Jim,” Dorian said with a nod. “Yes. He’s been sent ahead to Skyhold on special assignment.”

Cullen’s eyebrows rose. “Special assignment? What’s this? I hadn’t heard about any special assignment.”

Dorian grinned at him. “That’s because I didn’t want you to.”

“Oh, now that doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” Cullen drawled as his eyes narrowed.

“You’re right. It’s not suspicious at all. Wine?” Dorian moved to Cullen’s storage chest and pulled out the goblets. “I’ve been assured this one is a bit better than the last, so we can hope it doesn’t taste like vinegar.”

“Inquisitor,” Cullen groaned. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Dorian gave him a wink as he poured the wine into the goblets. “And quite on purpose, I assure you.” As he handed the goblet to Cullen, his face softened. “Don’t worry, Commander. I care about them, too. It is a special assignment, and no, I’m not going to tell you about it, and yes, the men are perfectly safe while they perform it. I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

Cullen’s gaze traveled over Dorian’s face, a habit that was becoming routine, until he finally sighed and reached for his drink. “If you insist.” A faint chuckle rose to his lips as he settled back into his chair and lifted his leg to rest on a stool as the healers had insisted. “I suppose if I trust you to take me out of the Fade, I’ll have to trust you when you say my soldiers aren’t in danger this time. Of course, now I’m just bloody curious.”

“As you should be,” Dorian teased him as he sat down opposite Cullen. “Now. I do believe I won yesterday, did I not?”

“I was distracted, you remember.” Cullen reached down absently and rubbed his knee gently. “All that infernal itching before they removed the cast.” And definitely not because he’d found himself staring at Dorian, no. Definitely not.

Dorian laughed as he quickly set up the chess pieces so that he got the first move. “You keep telling yourself that, Commander. I think I’ll go with my superior skill, hmm?”

With a grin, Cullen leaned forward in anticipation. “All I can say is you’d better think of something to blame your distraction on tonight. I know your play style now, so I know how to plan my assault.”

“Oh, do you?” Dorian asked. When Cullen glanced up from the board, he caught the amused expression on Dorian’s face when one curl of the mustache rose ever so slightly.

For a bare moment, Cullen stared at it, then quickly dragged his gaze back to the board. “Your move, Inquisitor,” he said in an oddly strained voice.

“Perhaps we should dispense with the formalities in private,” Dorian mused as he drew his finger along the board in front of his neatly arranged pieces. “We do have names, after all, and it seems a trifle odd to keep using our titles when we’re alone. Do you call Cassandra Lady Seeker?”

Cullen thought about it for a moment, then chuckled. “Only when I’m irritated with her,” he admitted.

That made Dorian laugh softly. “Maker forfend you are ever irritated with me! Besides, we already know how you deal with that, hmm? Especially if there’s a wall handy.”

WIth a wince, Cullen reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Inquisitor…” When he heard a little clunk, he looked at the board and saw that Dorian had made his move. “Oh, is that your strategy this time? Provoke me into distraction and then move when I least expect it?”

“Would I do that?” Dorian asked with a flutter of his eyelashes.

“Definitely,” Cullen groused as he considered the board for a moment. Granted, Dorian’s first move was fairly standard, but he could at least eliminate some of the possibilities of where the game could go from the outset. As he moved his piece, he said, “Were you serious about the name thing?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Dorian asked, surprised. His hand tapped one piece, then moved to another, then another as he hummed thoughtfully. He glanced up, waiting until Cullen brought his drink to his lips before adding, “Although when you are irritated with me, I give you full permission to press me against the nearest wall as a consequence. That should get my attention quickly enough.”

The spray of wine from Cullen’s mouth was followed by a coughing fit and a long breath for much-needed air. “Dorian!” Cullen gasped finally.

“Was it something I said, Cullen?” Dorian asked, lips twitching. He had, Cullen noticed with a flick of his eyes, made his move on the board while Cullen was coughing, in keeping with his new strategy.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that,” he muttered as he finished wiping the wine from himself and mopped up as best as he could.

“I would never assume your keen eyes miss anything,” Dorian told him. He remained silent while Cullen’s fingers drummed on the board, speaking only when he reached for another piece. “They are such a lovely shade of brown that I would not mind looking into for a while, either.”

Cullen blinked, then looked up at Dorian. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the completely innocent look the man affected. “You’re up to something.”

“Winning, I hope,” Dorian said as he lifted his cup to drink.

Trying to turn the trick back on Dorian, Cullen said, “I wasn’t referring to anything above your waist, Dorian.” Though Dorian didn’t quite do a spit-take, he did suffer from enough of a coughing fit that Cullen was able to move his piece without being noticed. It wasn’t a brilliant or unexpected move, but it was made using the tactics Dorian had established. When Dorian recovered enough to glare at Cullen, it was his turn to affect innocence. “What?”

“You know exactly what you did,” Dorian grumped as he set his goblet down and looked at the board.

“Truce, then?” Cullen offered.

Dorian sighed. “Oh, very well. Truce. I’m running out of wine, anyway.” With a sigh, he moved his next piece without drama, then set about refilling their cups in silent apology.

After that, they fell into a companionable silence as the game progressed, with only an occasional comment or murmur to break it. Eventually they found themselves down to the last few moves of the game, with both men’s brows furrowed in concentration. Familiarity with the other’s tactics and strategies had settled in, and now they were at the stage of trying to outwit each other in unexpected moves. As Cullen reached out and moved a piece at a diagonal, Dorian’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Are you sure about that?” he asked. “That sets you up for defeat in five moves.”

“Does it?” Cullen asked, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.

Dorian glanced up at Cullen’s face, then back at the board, and his eyes narrowed further. “I must be missing something,” he muttered. He shifted in this chair, moving so that he could view the board from one angle, then another, and sipped thoughtfully at his wine in between, all in an effort to understand what, precisely, Cullen was trying to do. “You’re being sneaky,” he accused the other man.

“It’s called strategy, Dorian,” Cullen said. “You should try it sometime.”

‘Oh, ho ho!” Dorian said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Are you mocking me?”

“No. I’m twitting your vanity,” Cullen said with a grin. “Go on, make your move.”

“And how can I play when you make such a bold strike with that rapier wit of your tongue against something so very personal?” Dorian protested.

Cullen sat back in his chair and sipped from his drink. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. From what I’ve seen, you usually do.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Dorian demanded, even as he reached forward and flicked a piece forward.

The motion brought a frown to Cullen’s face. “Wait. Why did you do that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dorian said airily. A lazy grin came to his face as he held his goblet by the rim, letting it swing gently back and forth as he moved his hand. “And here I thought you had me all figured out.”

With a snort, Cullen glanced at him for a moment, then focused on the table again. “I daresay that is beyond my poor capabilities.”

“You say that now, Cullen, but then… No. No, you’re right.” Dorian gave him a smirk. “You’ll say that after you go down in ignominious defeat as well.”

“I’m the Commander of your Forces, I might remind you,” Cullen said. “You’re not supposed to enjoy trouncing me quite so much.”

“Ah, but it will be such a sweet, sweet victory,” Dorian mused, watching avidly as Cullen moved yet another piece. “Wait. That’s not--”

“That’s not what, hmm?” Cullen said, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair. “Not what you expected?”

“Oh, hush,” Dorian commanded, hunkering over the table once more.

With a soft chuckle, Cullen raised his glass to his lips and drank from it slowly, watching Dorian try to puzzle through the game as it had been set up for him. His gaze moved slowly over the man, noting that the normally impeccable hair was just a bit out of place. Those few hairs made his fingers itch, and before he knew it, he reached forward to smooth them out.

Dorian looked at Cullen in surprise. “What was that for?”

“Ah…” Cullen coughed and leaned back quickly. “Your hair was mussed.”

Looking amused, Dorian said, “You could have told me about it. Or ignored it.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve gotten so used to you looking perfect that it was a bit disconcerting.”

“Perfect, am I?” Dorian asked with a grin. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to vouchsafe that to other parties? It seems that my perfection seems to elude some.”

Cullen laughed, and tried to ignore the fact that his fingertips tingled slightly. “At any rate, you’re sorted out.”

“My vanity thanks you,” Dorian said, flashing him a brilliant smile before returning to his scrutiny of the game board.

Which brought Cullen right back to his own contemplation of the man across from him. With Dorian’s hair restored to its rightful place, Cullen admitted that he did have a preference for the man’s appearance, which was a startling thing to realize. In fact, he had more than grown accustomed to the man’s presence, he had come to look forward to it in a way that he did with very few others.

And only now, in the depths of his own mind as he sat and studied Dorian, could he acknowledge that it went a fair bit further than that. As Dorian raised his cup for a sip, Cullen found his gaze lingering on that perfect mouth for a bit longer than the motion warranted, and when Dorian’s tongue emerged to lick a bit of wine from his lips, Cullen bit the inside of his own. Surely I can’t… No, he isn’t… Shaking his head, he cleared his throat and quickly gulped his wine.

“Trouble, Cullen?” Dorian asked, looking up at him with a grin as he finally made his move. “Back to being scared of losing again? I think I see what your gambit is, you know.”

“Oh?” For a moment, Cullen could only stare at him. Finally he cleared his throat and asked, “And what might that be?” Maker knows, I’ve forgotten.

“You’re trying to be clever and use the Tevinter Reverse, aren’t you?” Dorian asked. Tapping his temple, Dorian then waggled his finger at Cullen before settling back in his chair. “But I’m on to you, now. I can reverse it.”

“Reverse a Reverse? Are you sure?” Cullen asked, forcing his eyes to drop to the table.

“Well, it is a Tevinter Reverse. I’d besmirch the honor of my forefathers if I couldn’t counter it,” Dorian said airily.

Now Cullen frowned. He didn’t think such a move was possible, but if Dorian said it was… “You’re bluffing,” he said finally, after staring at the board for a few moments. “There’s no way out of this.”

“Care to make a wager on that?”

Cullen looked up at Dorian, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he saw the sly expression on the man’s face. “I left my purse back at Skyhold.”

Dorian’s eyes twinkled. “Well, thankfully, we’ll arrive there tomorrow so that you can pay me. But, if you don’t want to bet money, there are other options.”

Now that was a bit too intriguing. “Like what?”

“You’re a creative man, Cullen. Surely you can come up with something,” Dorian sallied back.

And, try as he might, Cullen simply could not dredge up a single idea that didn’t go straight to a place which seemed, to put it mildly, inappropriate between the Inquisitor and his Commander. At which point, his mind happily supplied just what had gone on between the last Inquisitor and her Commander.

“My dear Cullen,” Dorian said, eyebrows rising. “Are you blushing?”

“What? No. I’m, ah…” Cullen reached for his wine and gulped it down. “Perhaps we could wager for an undeclared favor? That way if you need me to pay your gambling debt to Varric, I can.”

“Clever,” Dorian mused. “You don’t have to come up with something on the spot, and I can decide at any time what to ask of you.”

“Or the reverse,” Cullen reminded him.

Dorian scoffed. “If you win. And that yet remains to be seen. Very well, I accept the wager.” He held out his hand. “A favor owed by the defeated to the victor.”

“A favor,” Cullen agreed, reaching out to shake on it.

The next few minutes were tense now that something rode on the outcome, nebulous as that stake was. With so few pieces left, and each man trying to outwit the other within the narrow path for victory or defeat for each of them, each move took longer than the last. The wine bottle ran dry and the goblets set aside before Cullen finally smiled and looked up at Dorian after the mage lifted his hand from his piece. “Got you.”

Dorian’s eyebrows lowered as he frantically looked over the board. “What do you-- Oh, veshante kaffas, how did I miss that?”

Cullen simply smirked as he moved his piece into position. It wasn’t that it would take Dorian’s linchpin piece, of course, but that the maneuver prevented Dorian from moving his own pieces to defend that piece. The ending was a forgone conclusion in three moves. “Do you concede, Dorian?”

“I see no other option,” Dorian said with a sigh as he leaned back in the chair. “You have your victory.”

“And your favor,” Cullen reminded him.

Dorian tilted his head and smiled. “Oh, you already have that.” After a moment, Dorian blinked and then looked away. “Ah. Pardon. The wine, you understand.”

“Of course. The wine.” Cullen cleared his throat and reached up to awkwardly rub his neck. “It must be quite late by now. I should to bed.”

“As should I,” Dorian said, rising to his feet. He did sway ever so slightly, but the bow he gave to Cullen was impeccable. “I shall leave you to your slumber, Commander.”

“I thought we were using names,” Cullen said mildly.

Dorian chuckled softly. “Do forgive my lapse. Cullen, then.”

And somehow, just hearing it spoken in Dorian’s hushed, deep voice made Cullen’s mouth go dry. To distract himself from that, he lifted his foot from the stool and forced himself to his feet.

Unfortunately, his body wasn’t quite ready for the change in position. Hours of sitting had stiffened his knee enough so that when he did put weight on it, a surge of pain shot through him and it buckled. With a yelp, he fell forward, avoiding an embarrassing fall flat on his face only due to Dorian’s quick reaction.

It took a moment for Dorian to do more than simply support Cullen, during which their faces were mere inches from each other. “Close call,” Dorian said with a bit of strain in his voice. “Don’t put any weight on that knee, all right? I’ll get you to bed.”

Cullen nodded, not quite ready to trust himself with speech given the way that his heart was racing in a way that he couldn’t entirely blame on his near-miss with a face full of dirt. As it was, he kept his eyes on Dorian as the man shifted his grip and slowly lifted them up. He found himself fascinated not only by the intensity of the man’s expression, but also by the play of muscles on his bare arm and the feel of his strength. When Dorian tugged Cullen’s hand over his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist to help him to bed, Cullen found that hand splayed on warm, firm skin and swallowed harshly.

“Painful, is it?” Dorian asked solicitously. “Don’t worry, it’s only a few steps. Come on, now.” With gentle coaxing and more than a bit of sheer strength, Dorian managed to get Cullen to the bed and swing him around so that his head was mostly on the pillow. “Hold on, I’ll check your knee.”

Cullen nodded, staring up at the ceiling of the tent as Dorian’s hands ran over his leg. A gentle warmth much like that of the mage healer stole over his leg, but the greater cause of warmth was, he realized, his reaction to Dorian’s touch. Closing his eyes, he wasn’t aware that he’d tensed his face until Dorian asked, “Does that hurt? I’m sorry, I’m not a healer. Perhaps I should fetch them.”

As the man moved to rise, Cullen’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “No! Ah, no. The pain is fading, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Dorian asked as he sat on the side of the bed and searched Cullen’s face, then pressed his hand on Cullen’s forehead. “You’re flushed. Are you sure you’re not coming down with some sort of fever?”

“Quite sure,” Cullen said, then cleared his throat. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“You don’t have a history of being the most forthright of patients, but… very well.” Dorian withdrew a kerchief from one of his many pouches and used it to remove the sweat from Cullen’s brow. “There we are. Perhaps it is the wine. Some people do tend to get overheated when they are inebriated, after all.”

“That must be it,” Cullen agreed, relieved to have an excuse.

Dorian smiled as he put the kerchief away. “Then sleep is the best course for you, my friend. Here, let me adjust you a bit.” Leaning over, Dorian worked to get Cullen’s pillow in a more comfortable position.

Cullen’s eyes closed again as that subtle musk in Dorian’s hair flooded his senses once more. Maker, what was it about this man? Their relationship had shifted so gradually that he couldn’t pinpoint when acquaintance had become friend, and then most trusted confidant, yet that is what they had arrived at by the time the Inquisition had marched on Adamant. But now, with the scent of the man hovering around him again, he couldn’t help but wonder if the possibility of more had slowly crept from faint embarrassment to alluring ideal.

When Dorian suddenly froze, his eyes snapped open to find the grey eyes staring at him. Mouth dry and heart racing, he licked his lips and croaked, “What is it?”

“Your hand, Cullen,” Dorian said oh-so-softly, and Cullen could tell the moment that Dorian’s eyes dropped to his lips before rising to lock with his gaze again. “It is…. not what I was expecting.”

My hand. Cullen swallowed and concentrated, and finally glanced down to where his hand had come to rest on Dorian’s hip. Well… mostly Dorian’s hip. Actually, in all honesty, it wasn’t even mostly there. Slowly he looked up at Dorian again, his breath catching in his throat as a muscle very deliberately twitched under his grasp. “Do you wish it gone?”

“Oh, I am quite content,” Dorian murmured. An odd play of emotions shifted his features, too swiftly for Cullen to even begin to understand. Ultimately, though, his face settled into a small smile as he asked, “Do you wish it gone, never to have ventured there?”

Maker. Cullen felt the blood pounding in his ears as he licked his lips again, staring into Dorian’s eyes for so long he almost forgot to breathe. Could he admit the truth? “No,” he whispered at last in confession. “I don’t.”

For a long moment, Dorian simply searched his face, brows drawn together ever so slightly. Then he raised his hand to cup Cullen’s cheek as his thumb lightly stroked Cullen’s lower lip. “I’m glad,” he murmured, then leaned down.

Cullen’s eyes fluttered shut as he felt the caress of Dorian’s lips on his, the tension so great in him that even that barest of touches elicited a moan. When the man didn’t press further, though, Cullen’s hand rose from where it rested to sink into Cullen’s hair, drawing him into a more fervent embrace. In answer, Dorian seemed to melt into him, his response to Cullen’s insistence every bit as eager as Cullen could have hoped for.

The need for air finally pulled them apart, and Dorian hovered above Cullen as he panted to regain his breath. “I see you enjoy playing with fire, Commander,” he murmured in a husky tone.

“You could say that,” Cullen replied, his hand still caught in Dorian’s hair. He felt his injuries even more keenly now, or rather the immobility they imposed on him, but that didn’t matter nearly as much as the sight of Dorian’s flushed cheeks and darkened lips.

Dorian smiled, his thumb again stroking Cullen’s lip. “I have to ask… if the wine is a factor.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed, confused by the half-question more than anything. “No,” he said. “No, I am certain. It just… took me a while to admit it.”

A subtle tension left Dorian’s face, and he relaxed with a smile. His second hand rose to lightly trace the line of Cullen’s jaw and stroke through his hair. “Good. I have a… bad history of wine making decisions for myself and those around me.”

After a moment, Cullen ventured, “Hawke?”

Dorian nodded. “Among others, but he was the most foolish one, yes.”

Shifting his hand to cup Dorian’s face, Cullen finally let himself tease the curl of Dorian’s mustache as he had wanted to for so long. “That is not what is happening here, I promise you,” he said, trying to convince Dorian with every fiber of his being. “And we don’t break our promises to each other, remember?”

“No,” Dorian said, his lips curving into an almost tremulous smile.

And that smile then was so tender, so… beautiful, that Cullen couldn’t resist the man any longer. He pulled him into another kiss, ignoring the protest of his knee as he twisted his body to lean into Dorian more strongly. In answer, Dorian’s hand ran down his side and cupped an entirely different sort of cheek, pulling them as close as they could manage despite the awkwardness of the cot and Cullen’s injuries. Since he only had one working hand, Cullen kept moving it between Dorian’s hair and either of the man’s cheeks, or at least the ones he could reach. Finally they parted once more, gasping for breath, and Cullen finally had to admit that he was going to pay for their passion as he hissed in pain.

Dorian immediately grew contrite. “I pushed you too far, Cullen.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I definitely helped,” Cullen told him with a throaty chuckle. “And I don’t regret a single instant of it.” He rubbed his knee. “Well, except the whole being injured part.”

“This cot really isn’t big enough for the two of us, anyway,” Dorian replied. “Perhaps we should discuss a more primal version of this activity later, hmm?”

Cullen nodded, though when Dorian moved to pull back, he wrapped his arm around the man’s waist. “Where are you going?”

Dorian’s eyebrow raised. “I thought we were--”

“Done?”

“Or at least for the night,” Dorian admitted.

“Not yet,” Cullen said, trailing his fingers up Dorian’s bare arm to come to a rest on the man’s chest. “Not as long as we can still caress the other’s lips with our own.”

Dorian’s expression softened. “Is that what you wish?”

“Yes.” For a moment, Cullen let his frustration show as he said, “At least until we’re near a desk that can hold you weight, and I have a knee that can hold mine. But I don’t want to end this conversation quite yet. Our lips still have far more to say to each other, I think.”

Dorian smiled as he took Cullen’s hand and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Perhaps they do at that,” he murmured. Twining their fingers together, Dorian leaned in, passionately claiming Cullen’s lips with his own once more.

Time melted away around them as Cullen lost himself in the taste and feel of Dorian’s lips. Nothing else really mattered right now. Nothing but Dorian mattered.

And that was the way it should be.

#Cullrian #Cullen Rutherford #Dorian Pavus #dragon age inquisition #dai #dragon age #deleted fic scene #my writing #Inquisitor Dorian

28 notes · View notes

sleepyreddie · 6 years

Text

That’s Cute (r.t.)

💗 Pairing: Richie Tozier x fem!Reader (slight Stan Uris x Reader)

Requested: (YES) (NO)

hello! i would like to request a richie tozier x reader, it could go along the lines of them being super close and the losers want them together, but they are both oblivious. something could happen that would make richie really jealous of reader x someone else, and that’s when they both realize their feelings? this doesn’t really make sense im sorry ah

a/n: this was so fun to write i love this! This is actually my first real fic that i'm posting! I hope you guys enjoy! (Also, to whoever requested this, I hope you like it!)

🔥 Warnings:

(AGED UP, like 16-17)

cheesy as fuck

a couple of swear words

Mentions of:

Underage drinking

Billverly (?, not that it needs a warning lmao)

Also, Any segments split by: ~~~ are flashbacks

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: It's no secret that Richie Tozier and Y/N Y/L/N have been chasing after each other for years, yet, somehow, neither one of them knows. What will it take for one of them to confess?

“Beverly, no. It's not happening.”

You scolded your red headed friend, who sat cross legged on the ground of the Denbrough’s living room, making up the semi circle that was Bill Denbrough, Stan Uris and Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Come on, Y/N.” Beverly said, grinning at you. “It's just truth or dare. What do you wanna do? Just sit around for another hour?”

You shrugged, adjusting your position on the couch, which made up the other “half” of the circle, so your legs were more comfortably strewn over Richie Tozier’s lap. “Sounds good to me.”

“That’s only cause you’re loving your situation right now.” Stan said teasingly. You rolled your eyes after sending a pointed glance at the boy. You thanked god that Richie hadn’t heard or had chosen to ignore what Stan had said.

You could say that you had liked Richie for a while. You could also say that you didn't want to tell him, because you worried if he didn't feel the same way, that your friendship would end. So, happily, but painfully, you kept your feelings to yourself, praying that maybe someday, in some alternative dream universe, that he would confess his feelings for you, so you wouldn't have to.

“It’s harmless fun.” Beverly said, her tone mildly convincing. “Come on! Everyone's into it. We’ve already played ‘Would You Rather’ and ‘Kiss, Marry, Kill”. This is the last thing any of us can think of.”

You sighed, looking around at your friends, who all nodded eagerly. You turned to Richie, who was already watching you.

“Harmless fun, right?” He said, giving you a signature, lopsided grin.

God, you really did love him.

You sighed, rolling your eyes again before throwing your hands up in defeat. “Alright. I'm in.”

Beverly cheered, motioning for you to come off the couch. You did, pulling your legs off of Richie’s, sliding down to lean your back on the couch as you stretched your legs out.

“Okay,” Beverly said, eyeing the group of you mischievously. “Who wants to go first?”

---

Twenty minutes later, and Stan had recited his Bar Mitzvah speech backwards, Bill shared his most embarrassing childhood story, Eddie drunk the most disgusting drink Richie could make him out of Bill’s fridge supplies, and Beverly had to stay in the locked closet for ten minutes.

The oven timer dinged, and Stan stood up, stepping towards the closet and unlocking the door. A mess of red hair fell over the threshold, causing you to let out a laugh as Beverly stumbled to her seat.

“Have f-f-fun in there?” Bill asked, nudging her shoulder as she sat down. She rolled her eyes, brushing some dust off her shoulder and settling down on the carpet beside him.

“Alright,” the girl said, breaking the low chatter her entrance had caused. “Y/N.” a grin grew on her face. “Truth or dare?”

You leaned your head back, scrunching up your face in thought. “Dare.”

“Okay.” Beverly said, wiggling her eyebrows. She didn't speak for a moment, caught in her thoughts, before she leaned over, pulling Bill’s empty glass pop bottle off the table and holding it in one hand. “I dare you, to spin this bottle, and whoever it lands on, goes in there.” she motioned to the cupboard she had just been in. “With you. For seven minutes.”

You scoffed, “If this was your plan, why didn't we just play ‘Spin the Bottle?”

Beverly raised her eyebrows and tilted her head at you, egging you on. You reached forward to take the bottle from her hands. You were amused, and not bothered. So what? You stand in a cupboard with one of your friends for a few minutes and talk. No big deal.

Richie however, upon hearing Beverly’s dare, immediately felt angry. He also felt stupid.

The boy had liked you for as long as he could remember, but it was obvious to him that you didn't feel anything except the platonic love that best friends had.

He felt a strange jealousy flow through him, merely at the thought of you being alone in such a small space with another boy.

On the other hand, if it landed on him.

You placed the bottle on the ground, the glass making a ‘ping’ sound as it made contact with the hardwood floor. You glanced up at Beverly briefly, and she met your eyes, winking at you quickly before turning back to Bill.

You knew from the wink that this was her plan. Ever since you had told her that you had feelings for your best friend, it had become her goal to set the two of you up.

‘How cliche’, you thought.

You flicked your wrist slowly, the glass tip of the bottle leaving your fingers as the object began to spin along the ground. You placed your elbow on your knee, and your chin in your hand as you watched the glass spin around the circle.

As you watched the bottle come to a slower spin, you prayed that it would land on Richie. You prayed that maybe something would happen between you and him in that closet if the opportunity arose.

Little did you know, he was thinking and hoping for the exact same thing.

Your hopes melted away as the glass opening of the bottle slowed to a stop in front of Stan, who sat opposite to you. Everyone sat in silence for a beat too long, before you shrugged, pushing yourself off the ground.

“Alright, Uris. Let's get this over with.” You took the few steps towards the cupboard and opened it, Stan standing up off the ground and wiping the dust off of his pants before heading towards towards you. ‘If you spend the entire seven minutes talking about birds, I will have to strangle you.”

He nodded. “Noted.”

You opened the cupboard door wider so he could step past you and into the dark opening. You turned back to your friends, who continued to watch you. Everyone’s eyes were on you, except Richie’s. His eyes stayed on the ground, his fingers weaving absentmindedly together. Beverly shot you a sympathetic and somewhat sorry glance.

‘Thank you, so much, Beverly.” You said, your tone full of sarcasm. Then without another word, you closed the closet door behind you.

It wasn't until the door clicked shut that Richie looked up, groaning almost inaudibly. He ran his hand through his hair, deep in thought, catching his friend’s attention.

“N-no c-c-comment, Richie?”

“What?” The boy snapped out of his daze, looking up at Bill.

“Normally whenever one of us gets into any situation with another person, you make some sexual reference.” Beverly stated matter of factly. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. What's up with you?”

Richie scowled. He knew Beverly knew exactly what was up with him. She had known about his crush on you longer than he had known.

“Do I always have to make jokes?” He asked bitterly, to which Beverly shrugged.

“It’s kinda your thing, Richie.” Eddie said, not looking up from the comic book that lay in his lap.

~~~

Stan handed Beverly the large container of popcorn. You stepped towards him, shoving your ticket into your pocket and taking your share of food as the other Loser’s came from where they had been at the ticket booth.

“Alright,” Eddie said as he reached the three of you, Richie, Bill, and Ben coming to stand beside him. “Movie starts in -” he paused to check his watch. “5 minutes. We’ve got snacks. Seats?”

“I call aisle.” Beverly blurted out suddenly, causing Richie to groan in defeat.

It seemed, however, that Richie wasn't the only one to lose at a speed competition, as Bill, through his stutter,managed to push out an ‘I’ll sit b-b-beside you, B-B-Bev’, before Ben could open his mouth. You gave a saddened Ben a sympathetic glance before turning back to the rest of the kids.

Richie butted shoulders with Bill forcefully, knocking the boy back a step or two. “That's right, Big Bill, get some while you’re still young.” Richie cleared his throat, and when he opened his mouth again, his words came out in the form of a terrible british accent. “Come one, come all, to the greatest show of the century! Young Bill Denbrough making his move, ladies and gentlemen!”

“B-b-b-beep beep, Richie.” Bill said, his cheeks and ears tinted a deep shade of pink.

Stan began to speak, turning the attention away from a grinning Richie and the victim of his latest attack. “I say Eddie stays as close to the aisle as possible, just in case he throws up again.”

Eddie groaned, and tried to muster up some words in a comeback, but gave up after he only came off a stuttering mess, sounding like Bill.

“Okay.” you said, nodding. “Bev takes the aisle on the left, Bill sits next to her, Eddie sits next to Bill so he has an exit path in case, ‘that’ happens again, and then Richie can have the aisle seat on the right.”

The rest of the kids pondered your words briefly, before nodding along, and Ben agreed to sit next to Eddie after you and Stan wouldn't stop arguing over who had to deal with his constant gagging and facts on health and medicine.

“Okay, I'll sit next to you, Y/N” Stan said as the seven of you began to head towards the entrance of the theatre.

“Yeah, Stan, sit next to the other girl so you can do some things in the dark. If you know what I mean.” Richie snorted, pushing Eddie over to the side so he came into earshot.

You rolled your eyes. “We ALWAYS know what you mean, Richie.”

That earned a laugh from the other kids, and you fell back into conversation with Stan, Richie falling back into pace with Eddie, watching as you laughed at Stan’s joke more than you had laughed at his.

He had never felt the need to make you laugh more than anyone else before.

He felt stupid, so he shook the strange thought and weird feeling away as the darkness of the movie theatre entrance fell over him.

~~~

“Fuck you.”

This made Eddie look up, wide eyed, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Something’s up.”

Richie didn't answer, but Bill did. “Oh. I k-k-know.” Eddie and Beverly turned to Bill, Richie looking at him through squinted eyes. “Y-Y-You're - you're j-j-jealous.”

Richie coughed, a look of disgust on his face. “What the fuck? No? Jealous of what?”

The three of them looked between the closet and the boy in an obvious manner. He wanted to protest, but in this moment, he thought if he kept the secret any longer he would explode. So, he leaned back on the couch and sighed. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Because y-you like Y-Y-Y/N.” Bill stated simply.

“What?” Richie asked, his voice too forced to sound normal. Beverly raised her eyebrows, and Eddie shook his head.

“R-Really?”

~~~

“Hey, Y/N/N!”

You turned your head over your shoulder to see Richie, struggling to get through the crowds of dancing and drunk teenagers. You smirked as he almost tripped, coming to fall into place beside where you stood with Eddie.

“Hey Richie.” You said, taking a sip of your drink. The boy, a red solo cup hanging from his fingers, swiftly slung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest.

“How are - my favourite, people.” He spoke slowly and separately, the words coming out more as a statement, not a question. You laughed.

“Flattered.” Eddie said sarcastically.

“It's true.” Richie said, speaking even slower than before. “I love you guys.” He looked down at you. “Especially you, Y/N. You’re my favourite.”

You let out another laugh. “You’re my favourite too, Richie.” The boy smiled down at you before turning to Eddie, beginning a conversation that you couldn't hear due to the noise the party had created. You could tell he was buzzed, everyone at the party was, and being affectionate was kind of Richie’s thing when he got drunk. Nevertheless, you enjoyed it.

You absentmindedly listened to your two friends talk about nothing for a couple of minutes, before the sound of someone calling your name pulled you from your thoughts.

“Hey, Y/N?”

You looked up and blinked, taking in a somewhat familiar figure. You studied him briefly, before realizing he was a boy from your math class. A boy whose name you couldn’t remember, but a boy you could remember.

“Hey.” You said, taking another sip from you almost empty cup. As much as you didn't want to, you pulled yourself out from under Richie’s arm to step towards the boy, who was standing in front of you obviously wishing to start conversation.

What you didn't see, however, was Richie stop his conversation with Eddie mid sentence as you pulled yourself away from him. Eddie, unbeknownst to his friends sudden absence, tried to get his attention, until he noticed that Richie’s eyes were fixed on your figure, now talking to a strange boy by the kitchen counter.

Deciding not to pry further into the strange behaviour, Eddie waited until Richie began talking again.

~~~

Richie now knew it was too late to try and hide. “Why are you always right? It’s not fair.” He murmured under his breath, which caused the other three to laugh.

“Richie.” Eddie said, straightening up. “It’s Y/N. Do you really think she would go after Stan?”

Richie shrugged, and Eddie scoffed. “It’s Stan. Bird brained bird boy who does nothing but annoy her. Y’know, in a platonic, best friend way. Not in a ‘I’m flirting with you’ way.”

“Still -”

“Richie she digs you. She really likes you.” Eddie blurted out suddenly. “And it’s obvious you like her too.”

“What?”

Beverly placed her head in her hands, while Bill rolled his eyes. Eddie stood up, stepping towards the couch to sit down beside the confused boy. “I thought you knew. Everyone already knew. It’s kind of obvious.”

“Fuck you.” Richie said, once again. “No it’s not.”

“T-t-trust me, Richie.” Bill said. “She’s into you. She’s always around you. M-more than she's a-a-a-around us, and she admires y-y-you.”

Eddie groaned. “She also, like, never stops talking about you.”

“And, you’re into her.” Beverly stated blatantly. “Now. Do something about it.”

Richie shifted in the spot, turning his head around to glance at the closet door. From the crack between the door and floor, he could see movement. He turned back to his friends, shaking his head. “Trust me, its not worth it. Her and Stan are probably making out in there or something. Just - forget it. Nothings gonna happen.”

Beverly groaned, slumping over. “Why not?”

“Cause she’s too good for me.” Richie said suddenly, surprising his friends. “It was different for you two.” He said, motioning towards Bill and Beverly. “You guys kissed and then suddenly everything was perfect. It’s not the same for us. She’s perfect! And I’ve thought that since she fucking punched Henry Bowers in the jaw after he was being an asshole!”

The boy was frantic, and his friends were so focused on him that they didn't see the cupboard door open. They also didn't see you or Stan slip out quietly to watch the scene that was unfolding after hearing the outburst from inside the closet.

“She’s pretty, and she’s smart, and she laughs at all my jokes, which I don't understand.” Richie continued, running a hand through his hair. “And I love her. And seeing her with Stan, or anyone, makes me feel all - all - jealous, which is so fucking stupid, cause I’m not even dating her. But I’m too problematic, and she’s so - so - perfect, and she doesn't deserve to have to deal with me.”

The room went quiet. Richie’s chest heaved a couple of times before his breathing slowed. It was Beverly who noticed you standing outside of the cupboard door first, but she didn't say anything. The others only realized once Stan cleared his throat. They looked up towards the source of the sound, their eyes getting even wider as they landed on you.

“It’s, uh - it’s been seven minutes.” The boy said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

Everyone's eyes went to Richie,but he ignored them, opting to instead spring up from the couch and check his watch dramatically. “Seven minutes past my curfew too, Stanley! Good fellow, thank you for reminding me.” He headed for the threshold where the hallway met the living room.

“Richie -”

“Thank you, fine people, for creating such joyus times. Now, I ought to be on my way.” He grabbed his jacket off of Bill’s hallway coat rack. You glanced down at Beverly and the other kids who sat on the carpet, the indication that the boy had left being the sound of the door slamming behind him.

You didn't know what to say, but the look on Beverly’s face said it all. It was a look of ‘ go after him’, and on any other day you would have told her she was crazy, and that it wouldn't be worth it, but before you could say anything, your feet began to move underneath you, and your coat was in your hand, and the crisp autumn wind greeted you as the Denbrough front door closed behind you.

Richie’s tall figure was still visible halfway down the street as you stepped down the concrete path that lead from the front door of the house. You called his names a couple of times, to no avail, so instead, you broke into a jog. It didn't take long for you to catch up with the boy, and even though all he wanted to do was turn around and see you when he heard your voice and footsteps, he continued walking, hands deep in his pockets.

“Richie!” You said firmly as you reached him, grabbing ahold of his upper arm so he would stop walking. Suprignling, it took less force than you thought, as your touch made him stop immediately. The two of you were standing almost a block away from Bill’s house, the autumn wind still whistling.

“What?” He responded simply. One thing you hated about him. He had so many feelings and emotions, but sometimes it felt like you were talking to a brick wall.

“What the hell was that?” you asked pointedly, motioning back towards the Denbrough household.

“Nothing to worry about.” He said, beginning to take a few steps backwards. “Just, past my curfew. Lost track of time.”

And with that, he turned back around, continuing down the street.

You sighed. There were so many things you could say. You could tell him you liked him too, or ask him if he meant all those things. Or, you could chicken out, like you had done so many times in the past.

You squinted at his figure disappearing down the street again, pushing a wind blown piece of hair back behind your ear. “Why are you always sending me mixed signals?”

Nice. Good job, Y/N. Nice choice of words.

You saw him stop, his shoulders falling and his head tilting before he turned around. “What?” He said again, this time, his brows furrowing beneath his glasses.

You sighed, shaking your head. “So–uh, I’m not really good at this, but … I like you, alot. And I mean, a lot, and I always kinda thought you liked me too. But, no offense, it's kinda fucking hard to have a crush on you.”

“None taken.” He said simply, taking a few steps back towards you. You gave him a brief glance full of annoyance before you continued.

“One minute you’re being the biggest flirt, and the next I don't even know who you are”. You continued, the boy still watching you intently as you spoke, months and months of feelings pouring out in your words. “I mean, some days I would be like, ‘hey, maybe I can tell him,’ you know? And then all of a sudden I -”

You paused, letting out another deep sigh to help you collect your thoughts. “And then, I overhear things like that, and it feels like I'm falling in love with you all over again. And you know, maybe that was just a bunch of shit to get the others off your back, or some, bizarre, thoroughly thought out prank, or something, and maybe I'm standing in the freezing cold confessing my crush on you when you don't actually like me that way.”

“No -”

“Let me finish.” You said firmly. “But if you did mean them, all those things you said, and you do feel the same, then…”

Your words died off, and you let out a shaky breath, blinking deeply for a few seconds. You didn't know how to finish. The two of you held strong eye contact, standing a few concrete blocks apart on the empty street. It felt like time had slowed down. Like the two of you were the only two people in the universe.

It was clear, in the silence, what the outcome would be. You suddenly felt tears pricking at your eyes, and you wiped them away quickly, scoffing at your previous actions.

“That was, so stupid.” You muttered. “I’m so stupid to make the mistake of falling in love with my best fri -”

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” You asked, bewildered.

He didn't wait for an answer, quickly closing the distance between your bodies and your mouths. You were taken aback, literally, stumbling a few steps backwards as the two of you connected. He caught you, hands resting on your waist as he deepened the kiss. It was everything you thought it would be, almost better.

After a few seconds, your eyes fluttered open. The realization that you were making out in the middle of a street, in front of peoples lit houses, struck you, and you pulled away.

Richie watched as the wind blew through your hair, the cold no longer bugging him. The two of you stood in the same spot, searching eachothers face for the signal that what you had just done was okay.

You tilted your head. “This is the part where you ask me out and I say yes.”

The two of you shared a quick laugh, and he bent down, resting his forehead on yours. “Y/N Y/L/N, would you do me the honors of going on a date with me?”

Letting out an amused scoff, you nodded, before reconnecting your lips. This kiss was sweeter, and it almost felt surreal to think that there would be more in the future.

It was Richie who pulled away this time. “Richie Tozier: one, Stan Uris: zero.”

“Are you jealous?” You asked, staring at the boy in admiration. “That’s cute.”

---

A/N: Holy hell i have not posted anything in a hot minute. Dear god. Anyways like i said, this is my first actual fic that i've posted, idk i guess i've always been worried about posting real stuff that requires punctuation and stuff lmao, also i think i'm just self conscious about the effort i put into things in case people don't like them, but anyways, hope you enjoy! feedback would be greatly appreciated! (ALSO, REQUESTS ARE OPEN!)

#richie tozier #beep beep richie #richie tozier headcannons #richie tozier x reader #richie #tozier #it #writing #fic #it 2017 #it 2017 headcanons #it 2017 x reader #the losers club #beverly marsh #stan uris #bill denbrough #eddie kaspbrak #ben hanscom #mike hanlon

266 notes · View notes

fangroyal · 6 years

Text

WIP Meme

Okay, so hear me out, but I’m gonna start by giving a big thank you to @doubleappled for this one. You said you were tagging anyone who hadn’t gotten around to doing this yet, and I happen to be one of those, so I took that message to heart. Haha! I’d secretly been wanting someone to tag me in this for awhile, but it hadn’t happened yet, and I finally decided fuck it, I’m just gonna do it myself. I’ve not written in months because of this weird illness I’ve been dealing with, and I’ve been wanting to go through my WIP to kind of...try to get myself back into it? So here goes.

The Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous.

Now here’s another thing. I don’t have a single WIP folder. I have MANY, all split up into different categories. So I’m gonna list them as such.

Harry Potter

(Untitled Broship 01) and (02) - some dumb Draco & Pansy ideas I had like three years ago

(Untitled Krumwood) - What it says on the tin. I think I was gonna do this for some comment kink type fest awhile ago and just....never....did???

Pride - back when I used to be obsessed with Oliver/Draco. x’D I was planning on incorporating some Ginsy as well. Basically, I’d gotten super inspired by a picture similar to this one (can’t find the original now), and fell in love with idea of them hooking up at a wizarding pride parade, covered in rainbow paint/chalk/whatever.

Harry Potter > Requests

Jersey - So you all know, I name any request type WIP docs after the requester. Just a way to help me remember. Anyway, this is for my Draise fake dating fic The Wedding Date, which I’d originally started writing..........a year and a half ago..........for the amazing Jersey’s (aka @kevinsnowday) bday in 2017. I managed to post chapter one on her bday just fine, and then......never.....got around.....to the rest........Sorry, boo. ^^’ I really, really want to get back to this one eventually.

Harry Potter > Requests > Gay!Draco Challenge > Round 2

kreeblimsabs - Another really old one I want to get back to, my god.....I got this request a fucking year ago this very week, I think........This was from, as the folder names say, round two of my Gay!Draco Challenge. kreeblimsabs (who I’m not sure if they’re still on Tumblr, it won’t let me tag them for some reason) requested I write them a Dron drabble inspired by my favorite Disney song. Well, I’m gonna tell you all now...my favorite Disney song happens to be Hellfire from Hunchback of Notre Dame. So yeah. Haha! The ONLY reason I haven’t written this yet is because that’s such a dark and iconic song, that I wanted to do it when the mood really struck me, which unfortunately hasn’t happened yet. Hopefully someday!

Harry Potter > A Weasel and His Ferret (my Dron exclusive folder ‘cause I’m obsessed, get it? Haha! x’DDD)

(Unnamed Dron 01), (02), (03), and (04) - some random little snippets I always keep around, either to throw into another fic at some point, or to build up into their own

An Unconventional Marriage - GUYS, listen! LISTEN. I have been wanting to write this idea for YEEEAAARRRSSSS. YEARS I TELL YOU!! I think I was still in fucking college when I came up with this, and I’ve never been able to work it out. This is my idea for a Drastoria fake marriage type deal, where they’re the bestest of best friends who decide they’re gonna play the game both their families want by marrying each other, but they’re gonna stay just friends...while fucking whoever they hell they want on the down low. Obviously culminating in Dron on the Draco side of it. I want it. I need it. I CRAVE IT. I hope I actually do it someday.

Because Blaise Zabini Is An Asshole - inspired by this Tumblr post

Chocolate and Sass - A quick little oneshot idea of them meeting as little little kids, no prejudice between them, sharing a chocolate frog. Cut to them fucking, drunk on chocolate liquor as adults. Yeah. I know. But I thought it’d be fun.

I Want To Warm Her Heart - Inspired by one of my favorite White Stripes songs, I Want to be the Boy to Warm your Mother’s Heart, which has always made me think of Dron. Ron’s experiences with a very...icy (*cough*homophobic*cough*) Narcissa over the course of his relationship with Draco.

Like Fathers, Like Sons - A mid hook up Ron and Draco (post divorce, no infidelity here) walking in on a mid hook up Scorpius and Hugo.

Support - Oh my god, you guys, this one is annnnnciiiieeennnttt. I’m pretty sure I started writing it directly after my very first fic posted to AO3, like holy shit. The title is a redemption for me on a fic I wrote at 15 (which still exists on FFN, and also just so happened to be a Dron as well, but please don’t bother looking it up, haha). Lucius was assassinated in Azkaban post-war, and there’s a death threat out on Draco. Auror!Ron is assigned as his body guard during the weeks surrounding the investigation and his father’s funeral.

The Measure Of It All - a crack fic about Ron’s huge cock

TLC - Equally as ancient. Draco’s a masseuse. Ron goes to get a massage, surprised to discover who it’s with. Smut ensues. Enough said.

What Happens In Muggle London - sequel to my fic What Happens In The Forbidden Forest, in which eighth year sneaking out to go clubbing in - you guessed it - Muggle London fuckery ensues

A Match Made In Hogwarts - a multi chapter post-war matchmaker will-they-won’t-they

A Very Fine Line - the second thing I ever posted to AO3, and will probably never finish

Keeping The Faith - That time I really wanted to do a wizarding version of Jones Town.......Don’t look at me........

One Week - I remember nothing of this other than that they were going to be Auror partners, and it was going to be a challenge to myself to see how many cliches I could fit into one fic. Haha.

Switching Sides - What if Draco ended up defecting and becoming a part of the Camping Extravaganza of Deathly Hallows.........Yuuuuup.

Wishful Thinking - Can you believe I’d at one time planned on adding three more chapters to this fic? Yeah, me neither...

19 Days

(Untitled ChengYi) - Yeah, I don’t know either.

It’s Exactly What You Think - sequel to my fic It’s Not What You Think, in which I’d intended for some actual Tianshan to happen

Who I’ve Been Waiting For - I’m so out of the loop with writing for this fandom these days, I don’t fucking know...All I remember is this is supposed to be when they’re adults and Jian Yi returns. Zhengxi’s been hooking up with He Tian in the meantime. They were gonna turn into a poly thing at some point. I don’t fucking know, you guys.

Batman

(Untitled Jaydick) - What it says on the tin. Post Arkham Knight angst, reuniting, and smut.

JTHM (Johnny the Homicidal Maniac)

You Make Me Sick - Yooouuuuu guuuuyyyyysssssss!! You have no idea how badly I want to write thiiiiiisssssssss!!!! WHERE MY DISCIPLINE AT, LIKE GODDAMN. The title is a play on the Devi spin off comic, I Feel Sick. (I hope you JTHM fans out there got that, ‘cause I’m super proud of it, haha.) IF I EVER FUCKING WRITE IT, this is gonna be a Nny/Squee, but....not really. ;) Basically, the idea is that Squee kind of....discovered his sexuality? Because of Nny??? And grew into a very gay, very pain centric, confused young adult with a major crush on his old next door neighbor. Has had numerous torrid love affairs because of this that never ever ended well. It’ll start with him seeing Nny for the first time again in, like, twenty years and going into a spiral over it.

South Park

The Walking Conformists - GUUUYYYYSSSSS. Sorry to keep “guys”ing you, haha, but this. THIIIIISSSSSSSSSS. If i ever buckle down and WRITE THIS BITCH, I swear it’ll be my holy fucking grail. At least to me. CuRed. Goth kids. Road trips. Zombies. What more could you want?! I’m happy to discuss privately with any one of you who’s interested, because it’s way too much to put here, and this post is long enough as it is.

What We’ve Got - sequel to my fic What We Can’t Have

(Rockstar!Michael) - What it says on the tin. CuRed, obviously.

(Untitled Religious Boys) - Bradley/Gary Harrison. Sexual discovery. Yaaassss.

Everybody Knows - CuRed where everybody thinks they’re already dating, and of course I mean everybody knows they’re meant for each other but Michael and Pete ;)

Nobody Needs To Know - Another old as fuck WIP inspired by the SADDEST SONG IN THE WORLD from the musical The Last Five Years. If you know anything about that musical and this song, you can guess what this fic would be about. Michael cheating on Pete with Firkle. Adults all! No chan here, bitches, you know me, c’mon.

The First Step - CuRed. Holding hands on the school bus. Will be the purest thing I’ve ever written if I ever finish it. It’s a drabble, and I swear to you it’s, like, two paragraphs from being done, and I’ve just never gotten down to it.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, I have a lot of WIP...Don’t have anything in my Fests/Challenges folders at the moment, because it’s, uh, been awhile, heh heh.

I’m gonna tag my love, @violetbehaviour, because I think we’re the only two left who haven’t been tagged for this. xD But if any of you reading this are like me, and haven’t been tagged yet but really really want to be, please consider this me tagging you!

#wip meme #fangqueen speaks #fangqueen writes fanfiction

8 notes · View notes

bts-love-sweat-tears · 6 years

Text

The Boy at the End of the World 1

Title: The Boy at the End of the World, part 1

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Type:apocalypse!au; dystopian!au

Rating: PG

Word Count: 1,955

Listening to: “Diamonds” by Jauz ft. Kiiara (I feel like Jungkook would actually be into this song? Kinda matches his GCF sound; maybe a little too bass-heavy?), “Bad Liar” by Krewella

A/N: Wasn’t planning on releasing this yet, but here’s something for everyone who is going through intense Bangtan withdrawal with me. Seriously, when was the last time they went 5 days without tweeting? Ever? Ofc they don’t owe us anything but I MISS THEM.

I’ve been feeling like it’s the end of the world recently, with various heat waves and political news coming out of my country, which you can definitely see in this fic. On a lighter note, Kook has been making me swerve madly lately, and I’m usually immune to his charms (*lies*) anyway, Mercury is definitely in retrograde or something.

Again I’m playing around with first person-the reader is the narrator <3 For once, I’ve planned out in advance, so there will be more parts to this. But the One Ring Series is a priority for now…

In some ways, the end of the world was a blessing. Of course, that was only once you got past the rather large inconveniences of having no functioning public services, grocery stores, air conditioning, and law enforcement-in no particular order.

But if you could get past the complete and utter lack of structure, it was actually kind of…freeing. When people would run into others they had known before, they were mostly impressed to find each other alive, yardsticks of career, marriage, and educational institutions long since cast aside. As long as your basic needs had been met for the day (not as easy as it might have once seemed), you were free to do whatever you wanted. Which for me meant roaming to what had once been one of the largest riverfront parks in the city and sketching the remains of once shiny skyscrapers, which now resembled crumbling teeth.

Before the fall,I had wanted to be an artist. I’d like to think that I had the talent, but I wasn’t willing to suffer for it-not when I saw the trepidation on my parent’s faces. So I chose the “safe” route, going to school for chemistry and later getting a job testing and refining polymers for various industrial uses. It was vastly more boring-and comfortable- than the starving artist gig, but I liked the precision and attention to detail required. It kept me focused and helped the days go by quickly.

At night, I was still an “artist” in whatever small ways I could be, going to community classes, visiting galleries, and spending more than was strictly necessary at the supply store. In the end though, my responsible choices were all for naught. The unstable lifestyle I had worked so hard to avoid had found me anyway, through circumstances outside of my control.

The art supply store: probably the creature comfort I missed the most from before-the building remained, but the stash and the staff long gone. Walking past it hurt me physically, like running into an ex, so I tried not to. I rationed the pastels and watercolors I had, knowing that after they ran out, I would have to created my own. I knew I could do it, what with my background but it would take a lot of trial and error. Before, I could have just looked it up in the internet, but even that was long gone. Plus, making my own seemed to be a concession, a surrender, an acceptance.

Anyway, I digress. What it meant though, was that due to my seemingly endless supply of hotel and promo pens from years ago, I mostly did ink drawings, in a small leather-bound notebook, in my spot at the riverfront park, always during daylight hours. Night was too dark now that the electric grid was off more reliably than it was on. Even if you had a generator or had jerry-rigged some kind of electrical access, it was better to not draw attention to yourself, unless you had some way to protect what was yours. The country I was from had been relatively safe before the fall, but it was good practice not to risk it. I’d heard rumors of vigilante groups out at night, though so far I’d been lucky not to have any run-ins. Though the line between luck and preparedness was a fine one. Anytime I’d see something that didn’t quite sit right, I’d slip away, drawing as little attention to myself as I could manage. Over the years, I’d become quite good at evasive maneuvers-surviving solo in this new world was no easy feat. I wish I could say I was braver than that, but it had kept me alive for this long in a city decaying from the inside out.

That’s another thing I should make clear- that although those of us who are lucky enough to still be around call it “The Fall” like something sudden, the end of the world was actually a gradual process. Maybe someday, historians (if there are such people still) will assign a set date, Even if they do, it will be for the Jenga block that toppled the tower, the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sure, there were events large and small than led to this, but there were larger trends long before: unjust laws, political despots, environmental degradation, job loss, internal and external terrorism. It was like we tripped and were falling in slow motion, but we couldn’t see our fate until we hit the ground, already bleeding. These were useless thoughts to have, far too late to do anything about it, but they kept me up at night, wondering if I were complicit in myriad small ways for not doing more when I could have, the selfish desire for a quiet life overpowering all else.

The only time I was untroubled by these thoughts or the minutiae of my daily survival was when I was sketching. My mind didn’t wander and despite the limitations of my pen and paper, I was there fully, thinking only of the sunlight on the water, the shade of the clouds overhead, untroubled by the collapse of society below, how to best capture the breeze visibly. People would sometimes come up and watch me. I was always polite, but never took the conversation further than was strictly necessary. Normally they would drift off to seek a more willing conversation partner.

The last few times I’d gone to the park, however, I’d been haunted by a silent boy. Or man-I’d found it impossible to discern his age. He had traces of lingering baby fat, giving him a look of youthful innocence. But I could tell even through his oversized t-shirt that he was built. Not many people had the protein to spare anymore, so this told me that he was either very adept at surviving in this new world, or had people taking care of him. I didn’t ask questions. I couldn’t decide if he was the deer in the metaphorical headlights, or if I should be wary of him, the bunny pursued by the wolf. Everything was survival of the fittest in this world, and at first blush, he was definitely more fit than me. He had never done anything other than watch me sketch, but sometimes when others would approach, I could see a fierce, guarded look in his eye. But the siren song of my partially inked pages called me back, and I soon grew so accustomed to him that I could forget his presence at my back.

We likely could have continued forever in this way, me sketching and him silently at my back had it not been for my encounter with one of the vigilante groups I so feared. I was just arriving back from foraging in one of the now-overgrown parks, when I noticed a shadow slip stealthily past the window of my second-floor apartment-from the inside. With the subsequent adrenaline rush, I was able to hear snippets of a too-casual conversation. The voices were far too relaxed to be inexperienced-whoever was ransacking my apartment had done it many times before, and little fear of retribution. The lack of a visible lookout should have been a clue as well. Without a moment’s hesitation, I slipped back into the lengthening shadows of the early evening, knowing that I was outnumbered and not violent enough to confront them.

I had no plan but I knew better than to roam the remnants of the city looking lost. My purposeful, confident (though false) strides led me back to the riverfront park where I often sketched. Somehow, a solitary bench had been spared from the societal fallout, not yet stripped for kindling or god knows what else. I plopped down, allowing myself to take the first full breath since encountering the renegades at my house.

I was regretting my decision to remain in the city. Before the Fall, I had been a competent young professional, with my own place and all the independence that entailed. My parents had long since retired to their remote lake house, more of a glorified cabin than anything else. I had held on until the final moment, never fully believing that things would fall apart, even as gas was rationed, phones and internet went down, the lights flickered out. I thought my job would keep me safe. By the time I was ready to go, I would have had to walk or bike. Even though I knew the way, I could not be sure what I would encounter in the wilderness past the city limits- at least here I knew what to expect. The devil you know,and all that.

I sat there, lost in my thoughts and cursing my previous naivety. As I pondered my next move, a towering figure lowered down next to me. I jumped, adrenaline from before still coursing through my veins, and berated myself further for letting my guard down yet again so soon. But my heartbeat settled somewhat when I noticed that it was only my sketching companion. We sat silently, together but apart, and I was surprised to find that I found his presence comforting. When he spoke, his voice was smoother than I would have expected, a youthful edge still hanging on. It occurred to me that he might actually be younger than me, though I had no way of knowing.

“What are you doing out here so late?” He asked, a crease of concern marring the space between his brows. In my previous life, I would have dismissed such a question as patronizing, but now it only seemed curious that he had observed my coming and going so closely.

I paused, biting my lip. On the one hand, it would be a relief to share something of myself with someone. My mysterious friend had never given any indication that he meant me harm. But hadn’t my current predicament arisen because I had become too comfortable, too complacent? I knew literally nothing about him. He must have sensed my wavering, but he didn’t push it and I was grateful. You might think it awkward, but I found his silence a gentle acceptance that my frayed nerves needed in that moment.

The light faded further and the sky became that velvety indigo that can only be seen on those rare perfect summer nights that I used to take for granted but hadn’t seen in so long. If I hadn’t been so anxious, I would have appreciated it more, and would have wanted to linger longer. Though I no longer enjoyed the night, I felt inexplicably safe with him by my side. As the stars began to come out, he stood up to go, moving almost imperceptibly in the darkness.

“I should get going, or my hyungs will worry,” he said, hesitating. “My name’s Jungkook, by the way.” Though I couldn’t see his face well, the slight tremor in his voice made me thing that he must have been nervous. Did I make himnervous? But before I could continue down that particular train of thought, he continued.

“I know it’s not much, but you’re welcome to come with me. Normally you would have left by now….my hyungs are kind of crazy and loud, but mostly harmless. Only if you want to, though,” he trailed, running his hand through his overgrown hair.

Though I’d been wavering about admitting to needing help since we had sat down, the fondness in his voice when he talked about his brothers had convinced me. With only a little trepidation, I stood up and followed him into the night.

#jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #bts fanfics #dystopian!au #bts fluff #can you call this fluff tbh?#i like happy endings too much for it to be angst but i must be the darkest fluff writer out there

8 notes · View notes

venusparker · 6 years

Text

billet-doux↬ p.p

prompt: peter was never quite good at saying words, so he doubts he’s any better at writing them.

warnings: prepare for the fluff and cuteness overload. i’m in that kind of mood. also super long btw. (and i did not reread this that well so if there’s typos i’m sorry)

notes: hope you all like this because i’ve been thinking of writing a more peter centric, less reader type of fic. also i’ve been wanting to write a lovey dovey one. i’m thinking of writing some more ned leeds stuff as well so if you guys have any ideas, just send them in!

Billet-doux.

The words repeated in Peter Parker’s head like an echo, his focus varying between the miscellaneous thoughts in his head and the piece of crumpled notebook paper on his desk. The paper was free of lettering, but covered with ink stains and crinkles from the sweat he has mustered up the minute he got the idiotic idea in the first place. A billet-doux—what was he thinking writing you a love letter? Really, he wasn’t sure. The particles of dust in the sun floated down as he stared hopelessly and aimlessly in front of him, eyes almost pitiful. Peter had never been a good writer, nor did he think he could sum up how much he cared about you on only a single mere sheet of paper, a paper whose college-ruled lines were incapable of capturing all the love a boy his age could feel about someone as breathtaking and as quiescent as you. A fool he was, frankly, thinking that just because he had heard the words in class, or that because the one time he would decide to do something even slightly out of spontaneity, it would work out seemingly.

Then again, this is the constant cycle, the same speech he tells himself everyday–or at least nearly, practically, overwhelmingly everyday–before he once again strings together the words and expressions and phrases that could even come close to describing the levels of anxiety and longing you filled him with. In his head, it was romantic and everything you ever wanted, with no awkward pauses in between paragraphs with commas in places where commas didn't belong and crossed out adjectives that sounded more as though they were written by someone who was five, not fifteen. In reality, when he'd reread everything, he was a sappy writer. Sappier than he wanted to be; but he couldn't help it. He really wasn't all that good with saying the words he wanted, so he doubted he was any better at writing them. Eventually, the paper––another one of many––would become a filled up, scribbled upon letter, with his messy, scrawled handwriting curving his y's and making it possible to see a slur within his s's. And, just as eventually, he'd stash the letter away in the same place he stashed all the other ones, and it wasn't that shocking to know that they were in an old folder that he once used for AP US History when he had been more focused on school and less on superhero-ing.

It wouldn't be surprising to know that he doesn't keep the letter that far from his suit.

Today, the letter had been longer than the others. Most of them had started out the same way, reminiscing how adorable you looked, or how hilarious he finds your quick wit and clever comebacks towards Michelle whenever you two went at it in class. He would know, considering he was sitting next to you for all of it, everyday, ever since he started high school. But today, he truly went all out. One of his tawny eyes closed in concentration, mouth pursed, head tilting slightly while reading it all over, and wondering, wondering, wondering: why couldn't he just say this all to you out loud?

He thinks it's just because it's easier for him to script all these emotions down and never show them, or at least have the guarantee of his voice not being shaky or breaking, than to have the rejection from you. Aunt May had found them once, much to the red-faced and flustered Peter's dismay, when she was cleaning his room after the umpteenth he said he'd clean it but didn't. She had reached under his bed to grab old and dirty laundry, when instead her hand had found the letters, and after that Peter had moved them and made a reminder to lock his door. That still didn’t stop May from bringing up every chance she got.

“You should show them to [Y/N]!” She had advised once before, preparing some cauliflower in a stove pot. He only responded with a curt sigh and a shrug.

He didn’t think he’d ever show them to you. Especially not this one, the one that truthfully portrayed what he thought about you and how much he liked you, how much he wanted to spend most of his time with you.

––It’s day three hundred and seventy-eight since I’ve been best friends with you. Is it weird that I counted? It probably is, but you know me and I know you. So, I know that you know how weird I already tend to be. Besides the point—what I wanted to say was that, today had to be the most mesmerized I have ever been with you. Is that cliché? I know it is. But even though you always say you hate cliches, deep down you love them, because who doesn’t love clichés?

He wants to cringe at his own words, but instead he finds his lips curling into a grin, a grin holding back the burst of happiness that exploads within him at the mere mention of you.

[Y/N]...you’re, well, awesome everything to me such a great person, honestly. This is the sixth love letter I’ve written which is so dorky. I’m supposed to be a badass, remember? I’m Spider-Man! And incredibly cute. Why am I writing a love letter? Why have I written six of them? Because to be fair, I’m scared of you. You’re scary and intimidating, even though you don’t think you are. But what I want to say is, I’ve loved you every minute of every day or every month I’ve known you. It’s like no matter how hard I try to get you out of my head It’s no good.

Do you have any idea how much I wanna grab your face and kiss you on the goddamned mouth? With consent, of course. I’d always ask first. But you know that. I know I do. I do, I do, I do. I want to do everything with you. I want to visit bookshops with you—

He stops reading the letter and closes his eyes for a moment, only to open them a moment later when he receives a call from you. The ringtone is different because you asked him to change it, considerably because yodeling was never a good choice for a ringtone anyway, and you never understood why he was the way he was. His eyes flicker to the last line of the letter before answering your call.

I want to wish I could tell you this in person.

Peter enjoys writing about you, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s easier than drawing, which is the route most people takes, including Michelle. Sometimes, if Michelle is feeling less cynical than usual, she’ll give him a peak of a sketch of whichever boy or girl or whoever she liked that present week. The detail encapsulated with each line of lead interested Peter, but he wasn’t good at drawing pictures. He was good at taking them. But he already has quite a few of you, and they’re all hung up around his desk or strewn somewhere around his room where it seems messy but it’s just the way Peter likes things to be. He always somehow finds where everything is, including that one picture of the two of you at Coney Island that is currently shelf hopping around his room (and by currently, he means continuously).

He also likes writing about you because it makes it easier to pretend and make you the main character of the cheesy John Hughes movie he’s piecing together in his head whenever he sees you. He doesn’t expect anything from you. He just likes thinking about you. In his sentences and paragraphs, you were never a doubtless fantasy object—Peter had more respect for women and men and people than that—but it allowed him to imagine that somewhere there was a universe in which he had even a sliver of confidence buried deep within his gut that could someday push him into confessing all that he felt for you.

“And what are you thinking about, Mr. Parker,” you teased, interrupting him as he glanced up and grinned as you came into his field of view. His mouth also let out a sigh that was breathey and he licked his lips that were being nipped at by the cold New York air.

“You know...stuff.”

He said it in a way that sounded like him, which never really made sense to anyone but you two. Peter always sounded excited or nervous or innocent without intending to and he often hated it. The response only resulted in you lifting a brow as you sat next to him on the roof of his apartment building.

“Stuff...right. Is Tony Stark working you too hard? I’m sure there’s only so much web you can create on the daily,” You mutter, partly to yourself, but Peter still shoots you a look and nudges you gently with his elbow. “What? Am I wrong?”

”No, you’re ridiculous is what you are,” He retorts, rolling his eyes. His lips still threaten to split into a smile. ”I’m not thinking about that stuff.”

“Peter, would it kill you to be less vague? You’re really killing it with this superhero thing, aren’t you? You could use more descriptive nouns, you know.”

“Trust me, I have,” He starts, but he catches himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask him, but he doesn’t reply, he just stares intently at his backpack (his new and last one, according to Aunt May who was at her wits end with Peter’s ongoing backpack crisis). He had brought it up here to do some of his homework and focus, mainly because May was doing yoga and watching a workout DVD and he couldn’t handle all the noise. But he also brought along his second secret (six second secrets to be precise), in case inspiration struck, only to have you arrive unannounced ten minutes later. Big mistake.

He grabs his backpack, which was still severely unzipped and open, and tries to hoist it up on his shoulders, but you grab it.

“Pete, what’s up?” Peter doesn’t like when you worry about him, because it only reminds him of how much he really likes you. And how much he probably shouldn’t. Ned told him that the lines between your friendship were already blurred, but that just made Peter want to repaint it.

He’s awkward and he’s a gigantic dork, but around you he doesn’t find it a problem. When his feelings surface, that all changes.

“I gotta take care of––“

“Let me guess: stuff,” you finish for him, grabbing his backpack suddenly, spinning around to investigate it’s contents. “Whatever you’re worried about is in here!”

“Ever heard of privacy, [Y/N]? Come on, giveee,” he panics and whines, immediately grabbing for his bag. He’s careful and it’s only causing him to fail at taking it back. But he knows it better than disregarding his super strength and potetionally needing to ask May for another backpack. Or hurting you.

Almost certain you’ll find nothing, you start huff, until your eyes land on a stray piece of paper. It has Peter’s handwriting on it, his unmistakable and familiar handwriting, and you pull it out and hold it up triumphantly after skimming through the first lines.

“That’s what’s bothering you! You like someone!” You’re dodging his hands, and for a superhero, Peter’s never felt so slow. “Who is it? Can I read it?”

Deep down, it hurts to know that Peter likes someone. Your best friend. But you knew that the person must’ve been special for him to write about them. You knew Peter, and he never wrote unless it was occasionally for the school newspaper.

“No!” Peter snatches it from your hands, but you tumble forward, latching onto his arm as the both of you fell on your backs.

“Give it to me! Peter!”

Thus began the wrestling match. Peter had always, always known how competive you were, and determined, and he fondly remembered how you almost cried when he threw you the blue shell in Mario Cart. (You didn’t talk to him for three days.) He thought of taunting you lightly, with scattered of words of what, you want this letter? or sorry, i don’t know what you’re talking about, but figured they would only fuel your eagerness even more and he also knew how stubborn you were. And so, he resorted in hiding the letter behind his back as you leaped onto him, again and again, the both of you grabbing onto each other’s limbs and the thin piece of paper.

“Ha,” you yelled, finally sitting on his chest, holding the paper up high as you scanned a few sentences.

A few sentences was enough to see your name. Your name, written around like ink blots after words like beautiful and amazing, and around the crossed out errors and the small doodles he had taken the liberty of adding. Peter had only shouted, “[Y/N] don’t forget that we are on the roof and I will not hesitate to push you off!” as a joke, but gone increasingly quiet at the sight of the letter finally being in your hands.

“It’s...me.”

That was all you had to say, mainly because you hadn’t thought of anything else clever enough. Peter chewed his lip nervously underneath you and ran a hand through his hair, mumbling an apology.

"I know, it’s dumb. But could you give it back? I’d rather not face rejection with you also reading it. That’s too embarrassing.”

“Peter, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe you should try writing a letter.”

You smacked him lightly on the chest and got off him, helping him up. He may have tried to be sarcastic with you, but he was an open book. The nervousness and anxiousness was plastered all over his face like freckles, and his lips parted as he tried to steady his breathing. He fiddled with the hem of his dark blue physics-pun t-shirt and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“So...so do you like it?” He has said it so softly, you could have mistaken it for a gust of wind. Peter had thought about every scenario, every worst case scenario in his head and it was as if a nightmare was currently happening. Well, minus the gigantic spider (he knows, ironic isn’t it?).

“Yea,” you croaked, voice and throat suddenly dry. You cleared it and continued. “Yes. I mean, Peter, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to. I like you, a lot. But I can’t just go up to you and spill it all out of mouth like slobber. That’s why I wrote some of those.”

“Woah, woah, some? There’s more?”

Peter groaned and wished that he had the superpower of teleporting to anywhere but here. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“Pete, you do realize I need to read them all right? Now that I know they exist,” you told him, following him as he tried to turn away from you to hide how ashamed he was.

“Stop,” he whined, visibly pouting. “Just forget it, okay? This was so stupid.”

You stopped him from walking off, pressing your hand to his chest. Giving him a small smile, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, and you swore you felt him melt into your hand as it stayed there, caressing his face. It felt strange to some extent, holding your best friend the way you were, but nothing felt different. Well, not too different, not really. Sure, there was a little awkward tension now that the proclamations of love this boy had for you in paper had been read by your own eyes, now raveling around the nerves in your head—but this was the kid you knew inside and out.

If anything had changed in your friendship, relationship, whatever you and Peter had—it felt good, right.

“You don’t have to show me them if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and if I did, I’m sorry. But if it makes you feel better, I like you too. You big nerd. And that love letter? Really sweet.”

“You really liked it?” He mutters, eyes finally meeting yours, the glint in them almost sheepish. “You’re not just saying that?”

Eyes locked, you had no hesitation in your answer as you stare in wonder at the boy in front of you, hopeful, passionate—your idiot.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m not just saying that.”

209 notes · View notes

flannelplanet · 7 years

Text

Stranger Than Fiction

Chapter 5

Read on ao3

Summary:

The air outside was stale, just like she remembered and the sick, familiar feeling sitting deep within her gut reminded her of just how little she wanted to be back in Riverdale. As Jellybean’s sleek, black car pulled up just outside the only hotel within miles, Jughead’s hand tightened around hers, as if to say

you’ll be okay, I’m here.

Thanks to @jandjsalmon as always for being the most amazing beta to ever beta and for making my words beautiful ♥♥♥

Also thanks to @youbuildmeupbeliever, @tory-b, @paperlesscrown, @aunt-imogene, and @a92vm for reading over it for me before it went to Jandy and making sure I didn’t use the word “thrust” a bajillion times (LOL y’all think I’m joking). You’re all amazing and I love each and every one of you.

Notes:

*warning* This chapter is super spicy if you catch my Riverdale drift. Read with caution.

It is important to note that I completely made up the judicial element of this fic. The appeal scene in this chapter is absolutely not how it would work in real life at all.

Happy reading everyone! Since it took so long to update, I gave you a 6k+ word chapter to make up for it ;)

A preview of chapter 5 is under the cut!

The tinkling of the bells above the door at Pop’s Chock'lit Shoppe alerted the nearly-empty diner, along with Pop Tate, of their arrival. Though there were hardly any patrons inside, Betty still moved with caution through the tables and chairs with Jughead following closely behind. When they approached a somewhat private booth in the back they took their seats on opposite sides of the table and removed their jackets as a large man in a chef’s uniform approached them.

“Betty Cooper! Is that really you?” Pop didn’t care to hide his excitement at seeing one of his favorite customers return to him, “I’ve missed you, girl!”

Betty moved herself closer to the man so she could hug him, pleased and warmed by the enthusiasm and the fact that apparently she still had at least one ally in Riverdale. “Hey, Pop! It’s so good to see you!”

Once Betty scooted back to her original spot on the booth bench, the older man shook his head. “It ain’t right, what happened to you. This town ain’t treated you right, not for a second. I’m sorry ‘bout all that. But now you’re back!” Jughead smiled to himself at the jovial old man. “What can I get you and your-” he paused, acknowledging Jughead for the first time, smiling brightly, “boyfriend? You want your usual?”

“You remember my usual after all this time?” She asked, a little taken back by the fact, but feeling tender emotions in her heart just the same.

“Of course, Betty! I remember all my favorite customers’ orders! Now, what can I get you?”

“The usual would be great, Pop.” Betty motioned towards Jughead before introducing the two of them. They shook hands and Jughead placed his order.

“I’ll take the biggest cheeseburger you’ve got and a coffee, please.” Jughead was starving and though he tried staying in shape, he loved a greasy burger.

“Sure thing, Mr. Jones. Anything for a friend of my girl’s here. I'll have this up in a jiffy. Until then you two let me know if you need anything.”

As Pop walked away from their table, Jughead turned toward Betty. She looked beautiful in the soft, dim diner light despite the sun shining brightly outside. “Betty,” he said, smiling at the way her eyes snapped to his face so quickly. “Are you doing alright?”

“I’m doing as well as can be expected, I guess. Being in Riverdale makes my skin crawl.”

“I know, baby girl. We don’t have to stay here for very long. Just tomorrow and then we’re gone and I promise I’ll take your mind off things once we get back to the hotel... but first I need you to do something for me.” Betty agreed immediately, as she always did, eager to hear what was being requested of her. “I need you to call your parents’ house and let them know you’re in town,” he said solemnly, taking her hand in his across the table.

“What?” she practically screeched and pulled her hand from his. “I can’t do that, Jughead. I can’t.” Betty could feel the tightening in her chest. She was getting herself worked up and finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

“Betty, baby. Calm down. It’s okay. I’ll be with you the entire time and all I want you to do is tell them that you’re in town. I’m certain they know about tomorrow. You don’t have to schedule a meeting with them or go see them, just tell them you’re here. They’re your parents and there is a real reason I’m asking you to do this, one that I’ll tell you someday, but for now I need you to trust me.” He again covered her shaking hand with his own warmer, steadier one.

The weight of his hand on hers grounded her slightly, as did his calming words. She managed to slow her breathing to a normal rate after a few moments and as her thoughts came back to her, she took a deep breath and let her eyes roam over her dinner date. She knew exactly what he was doing getting her to take the steps to mend fences in the future. She appreciated it, but was equally terrified. Could she do it? Call her parents after ten long years of pretending they didn’t exist?

“Betts, you need to do this. I promise it will be as painless as possible but it’s important. A quick phone call and we can get on with… other things. If you’re good for me, I’ll make it extra good for you,” he added, hoping the light bit of humor would help calm her.

The fingers of the hand already holding his own tightened as she reached for her phone with her other hand. “Alright, Jug. I trust you. I’ll call them. I’m not promising I won’t hang up on whoever answers after I’ve told them I’m here, but I’m calling.” Her eyes narrowed on him as she picked up her phone. “You owe me so many orgasms, Mr. Jones.”

Her words startled a laugh out of him. He decided to get up from his own side of their booth and slide in next to her. His arm snaked around her and he held her tightly as she dialed the number she had known by heart since she was a small girl.

The phone rang until the answering machine picked up. Betty looked at Jughead whose expression urged her to continue.

“Mom and Dad? This is Betty. I just wanted to let you know I’m in town for the appeal hearing. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I’m staying at the hotel just past the town line. You can call there if you want to talk to me. Bye.”

Betty hung up the phone and allowed herself to fall back into Jughead’s arms as she sighed the biggest sigh of relief. “Such a good girl for me, Betty. Such a good girl,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head and rubbing his hand gently against her shoulder.

Once the two of them ate what amounted to one of the best cheeseburgers Jughead had ever eaten, they left Pop’s and walked back toward the Riverdale Inn hand in hand.

“Go, get cleaned up and ready for me, baby girl” Jughead told her as they approached their door. “I’m just going to let Jellybean know we’re back.”

Betty kissed his cheek and quickly entered their room, her excitement almost palpable as Jughead walked the few steps to his sister’s room and knocked. The door opened with a flourish to reveal Jellybean in her finest holey pajama bottoms and a Pixies shirt. “What do you want, Fucker?” she asked, raising her perfect eyebrow.

“Just to tell you that we’re back… and that you might want some earplugs,” he replied with a smirk.

“Ew, gross. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” Jughead chuckled at his own joke as she continued. “How is she, Jug?”

“She’s okay. I had her call her parents before we came back just to let them know we’re here.”

“And how did she take that?” Jellybean stepped aside to let Jughead into her room.

“I really can’t stay long,” he said as he stepped inside from the hallway. “She panicked at first, but she did call them. It’s good for her, and for them, to at least know she’s okay. I know you would’ve wanted the opportunity to speak with our parents after what happened too, if you had the chance.”

Jellybean nodded. “You’re right, Juggie. Maybe before this trip is over I should sit her down and tell her my story?”

Jughead nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think that might be a great idea, but you don’t have to go telling her tomorrow. Let the moment come. Now, I’m going over there and I’m going to take her mind off of all of this.” He grabbed a small plastic package from his pocket and threw it at his sister. “Here, I was serious about these.”

“Earplugs? You’re ridiculous.” She shook her head fondly at her brother. “Go do what you need to do, bro. I’ll be here doing my own thing. I have noise cancelling earphones and very loud music.”

A devastatingly handsome smirk crossed his features and he practically ran to the room next door.

#bughead #bughead fanfic #stranger than fiction #stf #stranger than fiction p5 #mine*fic

90 notes · View notes

legault · 6 years

Text

Finding Home in the Strangest Places (Legault/Heath)

Ok, so I finally finished my @nagamas gift, for the prompt “ "heath/legault domestic au where they buy their first house." My giftee is anonymous, but whoever you are, I hope that you like this, and I apologize for the wait!

I have more thoughts about this AU, but in the interest of not wasting space, they’re in the end notes on AO3.

Ok, I think that’s all, so here’s the actual fic (which you can also read on AO3 if that makes your life easier!)

“If I could go back in time and tell the past me that someday I’d be house-hunting in the frozen wasteland of North Dakota,” Legault remarks as they drive into Minot. “I would have laughed in my own face.”

“Well, if I had told my past self that I’d be buying a house with a wanted criminal, I’d have laughed in my own face.” Heath shoots back, eyes not leaving the road. “Actually,” He adds, “I probably wouldn’t have even laughed. I would have just gotten very confused, and a little concerned.”

“Touche.” Legault says, peering out the window at the lines of fast food restaurants and outlet stores.

“This isn’t the nice part of town, by the way.” Heath says.

“I wasn’t saying anything.” Legault says defensively. “But since you mentioned it, thank God for that. North Dakota is a big enough change from city life without moving into outlet mall hell.”

The line of shops begins to thin and give way to the edges of neighborhoods as they pass by a sign saying “Why not Minot?”

“That’s always a good sign.” Legault says, pointing out the sign. “When the town can’t come up with any reason to go to Minot, so they just ask ‘Why not?’ and hope that nobody thinks too hard about it.”

“I think it’s more because it rhymes.” Heath replies. “Most people who don’t know better try to pronounce it the French way, like it rhymes with pinot. But North Dakotans love taking words from other languages and butchering the pronunciation, so Minot actually rhymes with ‘why not.’ To be fair, I don’t think that Minot has a flourishing tourism industry though.”

"I can imagine.” Legault says, looking out the window as they pass the university, which appears to be the centerpiece of the town.

“Legault.” Heath says after a few moments. “Are you sure you want to do this? Move here, I mean?”

“Yes.” Legault answers immediately, voice sure. “I mean, yes, I’m absolutely terrified that I’m going to freeze when winter comes and it’s -10 for weeks. And I’ll find it a little strange that there are no tall buildings, and I do find it disorienting to see so much sky and land with no people between towns.”

“You’re not really proving your point that you’re excited to be doing this.”

“I’m not. I’m terrified, to be honest.” Legault sounds flippant, but by now Heath can pick out what flavor of flippant means that Legault is nervous and trying to hide that it is, in fact, a big deal. “I’m already freaking out and we’re not even moving here yet, just house-hunting. But I’ve done a lot of things that terrify me, and at the very least I’m excited to be doing terrifying things with you.”

“Ok.” Heath says, satisfied. “I just wanted to make sure. Nothing’s done yet, we could still go back to New York. Or try somewhere else, like Colorado.”

“Nino would be thrilled. Ever since she’s started college in Boulder, she’s been lobbying for us to move there.” Legault’s voice fills with fondness at the thought of his...adoptive niece. “I told her that Colorado is much too hip for old men like us.”

Heath laughs at that, and it’s a sound that Legault never gets tired of. Heath laughs more and more now, but when they first met he was very serious, and so guarded that it took months before he’d do more than just crack a smile, no matter how Legault flirted and joked.

“Right, 27 and 29. We’re ancient.” Heath deadpans.

“At this point I’m practically 30, and everyone knows that’s the beginning of the end. I found two gray hairs last week.”

“Colorado is nice, I’ll admit.” Legault continues. “That was one of my favorite places from our road trip way back when. But I think it’s good for Nino to have her own space.”

“She can always come visit.” Heath adds. “Flights from North Dakota are usually painfully expensive, but there are decent flights between Denver and Bismarck.”

“She can come in the dead of winter so she can suffer alongside her beloved uncles.”

“You mean one beloved uncle and one melodramatic uncle.” Heath says.

“Semantics.” Legault replies, waving his hand dismissively.

They stop for lunch at a diner on Main Street, which is charming in a quaint sort of way. Heath orders some sort of overcomplicated sandwich and Legault orders coffee and eggs, enjoying the way that Heath’s face lights up when he sees that they serve kuchen.

“What even is kuchen?” Legault asks, most likely butchering the pronunciation terribly.

“It’s kind of like a pie filled with custard? I’m not sure exactly how to describe it.” Heath says. “I do know that it’s German and delicious, which is what’s really important anyway. My grandmother used to make it whenever we went to visit her.”

“I didn’t think you liked sweets all that much.”

“I don’t.” Heath admits. “But kuchen brings back good memories.”

“Do you know how to cook it?” Legault asks.

“You know, I have a family recipe.” Heath says. “But it makes about 40 kuchens, and I don’t know what we’d do with 40 kuchens, so I’ve never tried it.”

When the waitress comes back, Legault asks her all about kuchen, listening raptly as she gushes about how kuchen is something he has to try since he’s not from around here. Legault asks about her favorite flavors of kuchen and then ignores her answer, ordering a piece of all four different flavors. Heath rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide his excitement when they all come out to the table.

Legault takes a bite of the strawberry-rhubarb slice, not sure what to expect.

“It’s good.” He declares. “I’m not a big dessert person, but I like it.”

“Here,” Heath says, pushing another plate towards him. “Try this one. It’s peach and cheese.”

The kuchen is good, even if it’s not something Legault would seek out to eat. He’s not a huge fan of sweets either, but he and Heath taste all four flavors, and ultimately declare strawberry-rhubarb to be the best.

“You know.” Legault says, wiping crumbs off his mouth. “I think a little bit of your accent is coming out since we’ve left New York.”

“Really? People here don’t think I have that much of an accent of any kind.”

“Well, maybe not a strong one. But I can hear it when you say words with Os, like Dakota.” Legault explains. “It’s cute. I like seeing you here, on your home turf.”

“Technically I’m from Bismarck, which we passed about two hours ago.” Heath corrects him. “Minot and Bismarck have a similar feeling, but I wouldn’t want to live in Bismarck again. It would feel too much like going back in time, but it’d be strange without my parents. Plus, I’m sure I would run into people from my high school, and that’s awkward enough without tacking on the fact that I’m a deserter moving back to a place where people revere the military.”

“Then we’ll just have to stay away from introducing ourselves as a deserter and a criminal when we’re trying to make new friends.” Legault says, glancing around to make sure the waitress isn’t in earshot.

Heath smiles. “You make it sound so simple.”

“I like to pretend things are simple.” Legault says. “Then when they are, I can pat myself on the back for my life philosophy. And when they’re not, I don’t waste energy worrying about them beforehand.”

“I’m not sure if that’s incredibly wise or incredibly stupid.”

“Probably both.” Legault admits. “But it got me here, so I must have done something right.”

They finally go to see the house, which is in a neighborhood a few blocks across the street from the university. None of the houses look particularly posh; in fact, a lot of them look a little bit run down. But they have kids toys in the yards, and twee decorations on the windows, and to a born-and-bred city slicker like Legault, seeing so many houses in one place is always a bit of a treat.

Heath has made a list of about five houses having showings on the weekend that they’re in the area, but they only made a specific appointment to see one of the houses. It’s nothing special, but it’s in their price range and has all of the things they wanted, and besides, Heath had taken an instant and irrational fondness to it. Considering Legault was the one in their relationship that tends towards irrational fondness towards random things, be it houses, shiny things, or people, the fact that the house “spoke to” Heath was not something they planned to ignore.

The real estate agent is a middle aged white lady named Deborah, who looks like a very typical North Dakotan. She has a slight accent and ends all of their phone calls with “Mmm, bye,” something that Heath hadn’t even noticed but Legault found charming. She isn’t rude about it, but obviously is a bit confused about the fact that the prospective buyers are two adult men.

“How did you two meet?” She asks them as they walk into the house. It’s a question that straight people love to ask, because it’s a fantastic way to pry without being too direct.

They’ve had many conversations about how to answer questions like this. Besides the fact that they’re a queer couple about to move to a fairly conservative area, neither of their pasts is something that it would be a good idea to share with strangers.

Heath, born and raised in this community, is much warier than Legault about these things. Legault is happy to lie about almost anything, but has never particularly felt the need to hide himself and his partners, regardless of their gender. It had taken several serious conversations before he was able to begin to empathize with the fact that some people did not have the luxury of a more blase attitude, and Heath’s reticence to be open did not stem from shame, but fear and caution. Even in this day and age, living as a couple would draw scrutiny and microaggressions, at the very least.

So they compromised. When talking to strangers, they agreed to be vague about their relationship, saying only that they had met as college roommates (a lie that Legault enjoyed, since neither had ever gone to college) and lived together ever since. And if they began to make friends, they would feel out the situation, with the intention of eventually letting down their guard about the nature of their relationship around a group of trusted friends.

It wasn’t a perfect situation, but knowing how to handle it made things a lot easier. And this way, they would never have a repeat of the situation where a friend of Nino’s asked who Heath was to Legault and Heath responded, “cousin” just as Legault said “lover.”

“We met in college.” Legault tells Deborah. “At NYU.”

“You’re from New York City?” She exclaims. “Well, what brings you all the way out here?”

“I grew up in Bismarck.” Heath says, accent thickening slightly. “I wanted to move back to be near my family.”

“Oh, my sister lives in Bismarck! I was there just last week for my niece’s third birthday party.” She continues to chat about her family, distracted enough that blessedly, she forgets to ask why Legault, who is obviously not from around here, came along.

“Anyway, I’ll let you two have a look around.” She says, finally realizing she’s strayed off topic. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

They walk around the house, somewhat unsure of just what they should be looking for. In New York, apartment hunting was never a problem. Legault lived in a comfortable but discreet apartment, and Heath had lived in a tiny but cheap apartment in Jersey city with two roommates and a dog. Eventually, Heath moved in with Legault and that was that.

The house is not huge, but it’s a decent size, with a nice kitchen and a connected living room. There’s no formal dining room, but there’s room for a dining table in the kitchen. Down the hallway, there are two bedrooms and one bathroom. Downstairs is a basement that consists of a single room with a door that opens out onto the small backyard. The front door opens onto a small porch with a rocking chair that the previous owner presumably left behind. Next to the house is a small garage that would fit only a smaller car, but that’s fine Hyperion’s not that large anyway.

They do one full walkthrough of the house without saying anything, until Heath asks, “Well, what do you think?”

“Honestly,” Legault replies. “I have no idea.”

“We’re not very good at this, are we?” Heath says, with a wry smile.

“Maybe we should try the whole ‘walking through the house’ thing again.” Legault says.

They start in the kitchen this time, and try to actually think about what it would be like to live there. Neither are all that into cooking, but they look at the oven and, more importantly, the microwave, and declare it to be more than adequate.

As for the living room, it’s fine. Or at least Legault thinks it’s fine. He has a hard time picturing his furniture in this house because his furniture has always been apartment furniture. Finally, he stops trying to mentally force his couch into the empty space below the largest window and his mind jumps instead to an image of Heath lying on the couch, reading a book. Suddenly, the entire image, couch and Heath and all, seems to appear inside the house, and it works.

If he makes sure to include Heath in all his mental pictures of how this house might look with their stuff in it, he can start to see how this house could really become theirs.

“What do you think?” Legault asks Heath.

“Let’s go look at the bedroom.” Heath says, face hard to read.

They look at the largest bedroom first, because it’s the only one that would fit their almost unreasonably large bed. Back when Legault’s life of crime was at its peak, he had impulse bought a ridiculously expensive bed, and even though his situation, financial and otherwise, had radically shifted since then, the bed remained one of the best purchases he’d ever made.

“We could put the bed here.” Heath says, gesturing to the wall furthest from the door. “And then we’d still have room for a dresser, which we’ll need because of all your clothes.”

“What about your clothes?”

“My clothes would all fit in this very reasonably sized closet.” Heath says. “Yours would not.”

“Fair point.” Legault concedes. Another holdover from the days when he was much wealthier due to his illegal activities with the Black Fang is the rather large wardrobe he’s amassed.

“And then this bedroom can be your office.” Heath says, already moving into the smaller bedroom next door. “We could put a daybed in here too.”

When they’d first started talking about potentially buying a house together, they’d each made a list of things that they wanted in a house. One of the things that Legault had realized that he wanted was an office, partially because he mostly worked online from home, and partially because the idea of having an office felt very official and fun.

Heath had no problem with the idea of Legault having an office space, but suggested that if they had an extra room anyway, that they put a daybed in it. They slept together most night, but every so often Heath (and on the rare occasion, Legault) just wanted to sleep alone, entirely in his own space. Eventually, Legault had stopped viewing it as a sign that Heath was upset with him, and they’d agreed that it was fine for either one to want to sleep alone, but the person who wanted to sleep alone had to take the couch rather than kick the other person out of the bed. Having a daybed had been Heath’s idea, probably because he slept on the couch more often, and the couch, while comfortable for sitting, was just too short for him to fit on completely comfortably.

“I like it.” Legault agrees. “I see a desk here.” He gestures to the area with the most light from the window. “A daybed here.” Another gesture. “And maybe a lifesize bison statue here.”

Heath looks at him, torn between bemused and concerned. Ever since their original road trip around America, which was also when they began their relationship in earnest, Legault had become fascinated with the bison they’d seen while driving through Wyoming and North and South Dakota.

Legault gives Heath a look that usually means he’s about to poke at Heath until he gets a reaction. “You’re not laughing at that.”

“That’s because I know you’re not joking.”

“Of course I’m not. We’re moving to North Dakota, I fully intend to decorate this house using bison as the unifying theme.”

“Legault,” Heath starts, then pauses, giving up on whatever it was he was planing to say. “You know how big bison are, right? Maybe we can at least go for a scale model.”

“Hmmm, that’s a fair point. Do you even think that they make life-size bison statues?” Legault muses.

“Probably.” Heath says. “But I don’t think any of them are for normal homes. Besides, I think we would confuse the neighbors.”

“Right, and we agreed that we would try to avoid scandalizing the neighbors if possible, at least for a little while.” Legault sighs in mock defeat. “Fine. I guess I’ll think about alternatives. Like a bison mural. Or a large decorative tapestry.”

Heath’s face looks caught between a laugh and a grimace. “We’ll see.”

After that, everything in the house seems to fall into place. There’s room in the living room for Legault’s favorite chair, and the basement is the perfect space for Heath to set up his woodworking materials. The garage seems practically made for Hyperion, Heath’s beloved vintage car, with enough room left over to store the various gadgets he uses to work on her. The visions of their furniture in the house, their life in the house, grow clearer and clearer in Legault’s mind.

“How do you feel about it?” Legault asks again, after they’ve done their second walk-through.

“It feels...” Heath pauses, searching for words. “It’s not all that pretty, or particularly special. But it feels right.”

Legault looks at him, surprised at such a strong endorsement, especially one based entirely on vibes.

“What I mean is,” Heath continues, confusing Legault’s look for confusion. “Some things seems like they might not be a great idea on paper, but when you do them, you feel like you’re in the right place in the universe. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Sometimes.” Legault says, memories of watching a meteor shower with Heath in the absolute middle of nowhere, Idaho, popping into his head.

“Well, I feel that way when I’m out on Hyperion. Or when I was up in the air, even though everything else about the air force felt wrong.” Heath says, caught up in memories too. “Or when I’m with you.”

Heath is rarely forthright about his feelings, at least vocally, but when he is, he says it in such a matter of fact way, like it’s just a simple fact of the universe. It’s happened several times, but each time Legault feels like he’s been sucker punched in the heart. But in a good way.

Deborah, or Real Estate Lady, as Legault has been calling her in his head, is probably hovering somewhere, maybe in her car outside, so Legault keeps his emotions in check, but he can’t help moving over to stand behind Heath, take his hand, lace their fingers together, and squeeze.

“It feels right to me to.” Legault says. “To be here in this house. And to be here in this house with you.”

“Even if this is a frozen wasteland for half of the year.” Legault adds, unable to help himself.

Heath squeezes his hand back. “Nothing a few bison tapestries can’t fix.”

They tell Real Estate Lady that they want the house. She’s absolutely thrilled, and says that she’ll bring the paperwork over the next day.

Even though they haven’t really done all that much, they’re both quite tired, so they grab takeout Thai food and head to a hotel. At the hotel, they immediately go to bed, Heath turning on some home improvement show or another, his version of mindless tv.

As soon as he’s laying down beside Heath, Legault realizes that he’s finally releasing a breath that he’s been holding all day. He knows that he’s spoiled in this aspect, but back in New York he’s not used to having to watch himself, to hold himself back from touching Heath for fear of attracting attention. Minot though, is not his home turf, and all day he’s been watching himself, to make sure he doesn’t do anything that would bring back Heath’s anxieties that stemmed from growing up bisexual in North Dakota. But it’s worn him down. Legault and Heath aren’t even all that physically affectionate in public in general, but the fact that it’s forbidden now makes Legault’s fingers itch.

But here, in the hotel, there are no such rules, and once they have a house here, there will be no such rules either, and thank God. Legault’s younger self might have thought him boring, but Legault cannot think of feeling more content than at this moment, pressed up against Heath’s side, fingers lazily running up and down Heath’s arms, playing with his fingers to make up for the fact that they’ve been neglected all day, occasionally pressing a lazy kiss to Heath’s palm or shoulder or cheek.

“Legault,” Heath says, sounding significantly more worried and less blissful than Legault feels.

“Mmm.”

“What are we doing?” Legault can feel Heath’s worry by the tension in the arm that’s around his shoulder. “I mean, are we crazy to move out here? Buy a house?”

“Probably,” Legault says. “But not in a bad way, necessarily. It’s an adventure.”

“Not most people’s idea of adventure.” Heath says. “What if North Dakota really is as bad as people say it is, worse than I remember as a kid? What are we going to do with our free time? You’ve had such an eventful life, how are you going to be happy here?”

Legault waits as Heath trails off before turning and kissing him deeply. It’s not that he’s trying to prevent having a conversation, but he learned early on in their relationship that Heath likes kissing. A lot. And more than that, the combination of endorphins and the intense physical proof that someone is there and cares about him relaxes him, helps him acknowledge his worries without letting them control him.

Back when they had just gotten together, they could spend hours just kissing, without it having to lead anywhere, because it made Heath happy and soothed his unspoken anxieties that he was just a fling. And Legault certainly wasn’t complaining, especially given that Heath kissed with his whole being and tended to hold on tightly to Legault’s hands, or neck, or hips, or anywhere else within reach, grasping on like he was afraid to let him go even an inch away. Legault always has had a bit of a thing for Heath’s hands anyway, so feeling all the emotion expressed through those hands on his skin...it’s not something he’s going to get tired of anytime soon.

So sometimes when Heath is worried or stressed, or they’re talking about serious things, they kiss. For most couples, it would be a diversion tactic, a way to avoid the issue at hand, but for them it’s a way to have better conversations afterwards. It brings Heath back to earth, grounds him in his own body so he can face whatever challenges or feelings there are to be faced.

So Legault kisses him until he feels the tension start to seep out of Heath’s body, and Heath’s grasp on his shoulders begins to feel firm rather than desperate.

Legault pulls back, looking Heath in the eye. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” And then kisses him once more, for good measure, before continuing.

“You’re going to find a job here, probably as a mechanic because according to you, people here love their cars but forget how to drive in the snow every winter. I’ll keep working online, and if I get bored, I’ll volunteer at the library or drive an Uber.” Heath laughs at that, and Legault can feel the laugh in his body. “When it’s not too cold, you’ll ride your motorcycle on the open roads outside of town, where there’s nothing between you and the sky, and maybe if the weather’s nice I’ll join you on mine. And in the winter when we have to hole up inside, you can set up a wood shop in the basement and I’ll paint and learn how to bake kuchen. If I get really bored, I’ll take up knitting and make you and Nino scarves in the ugliest colors I can find.”

“I’ll become a North Dakota State University fan because their mascot is the bison, and on the weekends we can watch the hockey games. I saw on a sign that Minot’s hockey team’s mascot is the Minotauros, which is either the greatest or stupidest mascot name I’ve ever heard of. I mean, it’s clever that it has Minot in the name, but they could be called the Minotaurs and it would still work.”

“Somehow we’ll find the five other queer people in this part of North Dakota and maybe we’ll actually make some friends, albeit friends who we don’t tell about our pasts. In the spring we can take road trips around the state, because the first time we came here I was so freaked out by so much sky that I think I missed all the sights. Maybe we can go down to Bismarck and visit the relatives that you don’t hate. And we’ll take some space to breathe, because I love New York, but it’s hard to breathe there, and we can spend some time working on our hobbies and dreams. Maybe we can get you a pilot’s license so you can fly again, and I...well, maybe I’ll figure out what my dreams actually are.”

“The point is we’ll just live, the way we’ve been living in New York. It won’t be perfect, but we’ll work it out, and if we don’t like it, we can always move to Colorado to scare anybody Nino dates in college. Or if you really are having second thoughts, we can tell the realtor that we need more time and go back to New York and regroup. I’ll admit, as much as I complain about North Dakota being a wintry wasteland, I’m actually kind of excited about coming here. But what’s more important than being here is being with you, so if you want to go back to New York, that’s ok too.”

Legault runs out of steam here, feeling suddenly winded at the realization that he actually is excited to come here, to buy a house and build a life with Heath, in a place with less noise to hide behind.

“Heh,” Heath smiles at him, looking a little hesitant, but much more relaxed than before. “Life sure has a way of turning out in the way you least expected, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Heath says, taking Legault’s hand and squeezing it. “I’m still nervous, but I’m even more excited to close on this house and start living that life you just described, even though it’s not a life I ever imagined having.”

They go to sign the papers tomorrow, and Deborah is incredibly helpful at guiding them through the mounds of forms that never seem to end.

“I could be signing away my soul and I’d never know it.” Legault jokes.

“Don’t worry,” Deborah tells him, winking. “I only give those forms to buyers I don’t like.”

Finally, they’re done, and even though they still have the challenge of moving all their stuff halfway across the country, having the forms signed and the keys in their hand makes it all feel much more real.

“Congratulations, you just bought a home!” Deborah tells them. “I’ll stay in touch, so if you have any problems or questions, or if you just need a friend in town, give me a call.”

“Thank you, we will.” Heath tells her, already thinking about how he’s going to set up the garage.

Deborah looks like she’s about to leave, but before she turns away, she adds, “And if you ever make it down to Bismarck, let me know. I’ll make sure my sister and her girlfriend give you a warm welcome.”

“Thank you, we-” Heath starts, words sputtering off as he processes what she just said.

Legault takes his hand and Deborah doesn’t bat an eye. “Thank you Deborah, we certainly will.” He says, and she smiles and waves.

“Look at that.” Heath says. “Maybe there are more than five queer people in the state of North Dakota after all.”

“I should hope so.” Legault says. “But more importantly, we just bought a house.”

“So we did.”

“And in case you ever doubted that I love you, I want you to know that I am moving to North Dakota for you.” Legault tells him. “And that’s something that I bet a lot of people wouldn’t do.”

“I don’t doubt that you love me,” Heath says. “You tell me that all the time.”

“Hey,” Legault pouts. “You’re not reading the script here. Now you’re supposed to thank me for being such a wonderful partner and tell me what you’d do for me to prove your love.”

“I didn’t think we were still in the ‘prove your love’ state of our relationship.” Heath says, smiling. “But if it makes you happy, I love you enough that I’m going to let you decorate our lovely new house with as many tacky bison decoration as you want.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” Legault tells Heath as they walk through the doorway of their house.couch

#fire emblem #fe7 #Rekka no Ken #nagamas #Fire emblem blazing sword #legault/heath #heath #legault #my fic #good lord this is longer than i meant i'm sorry #if anyone is wondering why the hell they're going to North Dakota it's bc that's where i live now #i don't live in minot but i went there with my best friend a few weeks ago #and after a rough time going home for the holidays i was feeling pretty damn fond of north dakota #frozen wasteland though it might be

21 notes · View notes