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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Note

Could I request a Bucky Barnes x reader smut? Basically she and Bucky have been together for some time and maybe it’d be a little angst where the two are talking about the future and Bucky not thinking he can ever have a normal future? Which would result in soft smut and later reader being revealed as pregnant so Bucky finally gets his family

I’m Home

Pairing | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary | based on the request ^^

Warnings | angst, smut, oral sex (m receiving), fluff, pregnancy, mentions of death

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

The Wilson’s boat rocked sturdily upon the water, swaying as the boats worked aboard. Your hand held the weight of a silver spanner, twirling it in your fist as though it were a knife, thinking of the long road ahead of you. Sam had the shield now, that was a good start, but still, there was a ways to go until the world recognised him as the captain that he was meant to be.

There was so much destruction ongoing in the world, what with the flag smashers, and whomever the power broker was, and surely, you knew on the shallow surface, that there would be masses more problems to arise. It was exhausting, to know that there was no end to the war on earth, and that you were surely going to be fighting the threats until you could no more.

Bucky felt the same; he had just gone from one war to another, losing everyone that he cared about along the way. Steve had given everything up to finally find peace, and yet, the two did not share the same opportunity. An escape was never laid at your feet, instead, the pair of you were trapped in the cycle of cruelty, being blended around in a shredder by reality.

“Hey.” A voice confiscated you from the lonesome containment of your thoughts; it was Sam’s hosting sister, Sarah. I’m her own way, though you doubted that she would never admit such a thing, she was a hero. She had become a widow, and not to mention she remained a stable mother to keep her boys afloat, as well as nurturing half the kids that lived within close proximity.

“Hi Sarah.” You put the tool down, giving her your ample attention as you stood, tugging your fingers into the loops of your jeans as you stepped out of the boat, and onto the dock. “Anything I can help with?” It hadn’t passed your attention that Sam and Bucky had disappeared, but not into ash like last time. Instead, they had walked off in the direction of the house, most likely meddling about with a ball, in the back yard with Jim and Jody.

“I just came to let you know I’ve made the sofa up for you and Bucky. Are you sure you’ll be all good, I could always kick Sam outta his bed and make him sleep on the living room floor?” The two of you had nightmares, if you were to be separated from him for even a night, it was certain that the pair of you would greatly suffer. That was something you didn’t want to burden any of the Wilson’s with, screaming in the middle of the night because flashes from your past struck an unconscious nerve.

“All good, and thank you Sarah. You didn’t have to let us stay here, we both appreciate it, a hell of a lot.” One thing that you had learnt throughout your years was to show gratitude. The smallest amount shared had the ability to spring up moods, and had even set you on a much more heroic path than the one that you had been originally been placed upon.

“You’ve earned your stay.” Sam’s sister shrugged with modesty, acknowledging the help that you and Bucky had not only given to Sam, but to her family’s legacy. The two of you had aided with fixing the old wreckage that had now returned to the form of a boat, keeping it afloat rather than permitting it to sink from the quarrels that Sam had with himself regarding fixing the damned yet meaningful port of transport.

“This life you have, it’s great. I get it’s not easy, but it’s beautiful. You have two wonderful kids, that you’ve done such a great job raising, and not to mention, these community that you have is so loving and kind, even to us outsiders.” The pair of you had paused outside of her front door, speaking. “Sam is lucky to have you, he truly is.”

“Well, maybe one day this life could be something similar to what you’ll have.” The sister of your friend smiled, though your mirroring expression retracted. In a stumble of thought, you shook your head, not believing that possibility. This all was... perfect. That was something that you had never had, nor would you think that you’d ever be permitted such a peaceful lifestyle.

“I don’t think that would work out.” You sincerely mumbled, feeling the sad swelling in your chest at the prospect of all the luxuries that life had denied both you and Bucky of. It wasn’t fair all the same, but the two of you were used to being denied human rights, let alone the simplicity of nothing more than a life together. “As nice as it sounds, me and Buck aren’t really cut out for all this I suppose.”

“The world does not choose who can and cannot have a family, there’s always a way. Just because you haven’t had the most ideal line of story does not at all mean that you can’t make it work, from as much as i know, you two deserve a life together, that doesn’t include being shot at, or shooting at other people. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta go for it, and hope for the best.” She gave you a final nod, before heading inside, and you trailed after her into her her residency.

The two of you went your separate ways, and there, you saw Bucky, sat up on the sofa, his hands clasped together as his eyes stared towards the tan bag, that concealed not the shape, but the Stars and Stripes of the infamous shield. It was much a relief that it was no longer in Walker’s toxic clutch, however its presence, among other things, were taking a clear toll on your boyfriend.

“You ever feel like we’re stuck?” The air was tense around you both as he spoke solemnly, it diverting to match the mood of his question. “Like we’re us, and I love us, but it makes me think that it’s it. Just me and you, on this path for the rest of our lives, never getting a compensated break, nor an average person’s future. I want this, what these people here have, not the combat that is aided by this metal arm, or the associations that stick to us like life lines.”

“All the time, it’s on my mind James.” With a sigh, you came to sit beside him on the couch, resting your head against his bionic shoulder. “I ever wonder if there’s a timeline of you and me where there’s none of this ruckus, we just have a nice little house in a quiet and accepting place, and maybe a kid or two in the future.”

“I’d give anything up for that.” He looked at you, almost wide eyed, as his hand slithered down onto your knee cap, rubbing small circles as he wore a blunt and endearing smile upon his infatuating lips. “I mean that Buck, that sounds...”

“Perfect?” He asked, leaning closer as he grabs your chin with his wondrous fingers, his nose brushing alongside your own as his puckered lips fell upon yours, earning a small hun of content from within you. “Because you’re perfect to me, and no matter what life we are encased in, I want to share it with you. I want stare at the night sky and watch the moonlight illuminate the side of your face, and the stars reflect in your entrapping eyes, that I want to look into like a medium’s orbs forever, because that is how I will see the future that I ever so hope for.”

“How long have you been working on that one Barnes, because you are usually not that smooth?” A small laugh erupted from your mouth, but you were quickly silenced as you felt a cold metal hand slither up and beneath the back of your tank top, rubbing along the seam of your spine, as his lips ran down the column of your throat, evoking small and delicate whimpers out of you.

“Shut up doll, because I really want to fuck you now, and those words leaving your mouth are making it kinda hard to concentrate.” A furrow imbedded between his brows, as you tilted your head at him, a smirk proclaiming your expression as you pulled the material over your head, and reached behind yourself to unclip the back of your bra.

“Kinda hard to concentrate, hun?” You asked nonchalantly as his gaze zeroed in on your bare breasts, his hands smoothing along your ribcage as he adjusted his grip of you so that he was palming at your breasts, and squeezing the nipples. “I want you in me baby, I’ve practically gone days without you inside of me.” Licking your lips, you reached down to palm your beloved through his layers, earning a positive groan from the former assassin.

“Hours, you mean. I fingered you on the road trip here.” Yes, that was true, however, it was only his fingers, not even the metal ones, and whilst you loved what they alone could do, he had to be discreet as you were sat on the back of the truck, which had carried the primary parts for the Wilson’s family boat. If you were to scream out, they’d have surely thought that you’d fallen off the back of the truck and pull over, or if they had much sense, they’d have noticed that there was more going on than two passengers sat side by side on the journey to their small neighbourhood by the docks,

“You heard me Barnes, otherwise I’m sure Sam wouldn’t have any problem if I came to his room in this state of undress that I am currently portraying.” Growling was never Bucky’s fortes, however the sound aggressively ripped through the tunnel of his throat, as he threw off his grey top, quickly unfastening his belt, as he awaited for you to strip the rest of your clothing before him.

But rather than doing so, as he stood before you, your hand had trouble resisting the sight of his cock that had bobbed to attention, and thus, you wrapped it around his toned flesh, giving it a couple jerks that had his head reeling back, before you tongued his tip, moaning to yourself at the taste of him invading your sensitive taste buds. “Love your cock.”

As soon as you said that, Bucky gently gathered your head in a ponytail so that it was free from bombarding your face, and groaned as quiet as he could as you sucked him in your mouth, running your tongue up the side of his shaft. “Is that a part of your dream world baby doll, the sight of my cock throbbing to be inching down that perfect little throat of yours?”

To answer him, you pressed your head down deeper, humming around him as your eyes ogled up at the sight of your super soldier, who was trying his hardest to keep his eyes open, and attuned to the sight of you. He held his bottom lip between his teeth, as you lightly gagged around him, pulling off him, and squeezing his balls, before running your hungry tongue along the middle of his sack.

“Always. It would be a dream if you made love to me right here and now though, I’m not sure I can wait any longer James.” Bucky took a long inhale, before ravishingly pulling down your jeans and panties in one go, and tossing you so that he was below your form, and you hovered over him, toying with his erect cock. “I love you so much Bucky, and I’m scared of what’s to come. I have a feeling that there’s gonna be a fight.”

“There’s always a fight doll face.” He rubbed his thumb soothingly across your jaw, pulling your hips down closer so that you were rubbing your slick folds against his standing cock. “But this is what we’re fighting for, the rest of our lives together. I’d be damned, one day after this, and if I were to die, I’d be a happy man. There’d be the memory of you to keep me forever happy in the afterlife, and not to mention, there’d be no more wars for me to participate in.”

“I’m not going to let you die Buck, even hypothetically. We saw how your little hypothetical synopsis went last time.” Tapping his cock against your clit, a breathy sound evicted from your lips, as you stared down at the two of you intimately touching, the sight alone making you more turned on and impatient. “No one is allowed to kill you, otherwise I’ll unleash hell on all their flag smashing asses.”

Giving him one last stroke, you guided his tip towards your entrance, removing your hand once you had him situated, so that you could rest it upon his sturdy shoulder, and sink down on him, the feeling of him stretching you being the most euphoric sensation that you had ever endured. Hushed moans ceased from the both of you, as Bucky’s hands gripped your ass cheeks, only adding to all of the pleasure that was erupting within you.

“Think your pussy is gonna kill me before anyone else does; your so tight.” His pitch had rose, as your fingertips danced along the left side of his handsome face, invisibly connecting the dots of his beauty marks. You allowed the pair of you to adjust for a simple moment, before you began to raise your hips, sliding up his super soldier rod, only to slide down it again.

The actions were repeated, as your own hands trailed down his warm skin, to drag down the golden lines of his vibranium arm, only to bring the weapon to your mouth, and kiss every black finger up, as you tried your best to muffle the moans that were hoping to reap free. “So fucking big, I love you and your cock.” You muttered, your sight turning blurry as Bucky realised that it was his turn to do the work, and thus, he thrusted up into you, making echoing sounds of your skin slapping together reverberate around the room.

“Love you more.” He gritted his teeth, pulling his metallic hand away from your numb lips, so that he could swirl the elegant digits around your clit, the action provoking whimpers to rapidly surpass your exterior, as you bit harshly onto your own lip, and screwed your eyes shut. “Cum for me doll, want you to cover my hard cock in everything you have. Come on baby, you can do it.”

Without much thought, as your mind was too scrambled to do so, you reached for Bucky’s spare hand, pulling it to your mouth as you sucked on his fingers as though you were blowing him. A low moan that was dialled down from the presence of his flesh digits, ran from your mouth, as you began to bounce your hips, chasing and eventually reaching your high. You came around him, pushing him too over the edge, his seed filling your walls, as you collapsed atop of him, huffing from exhaustion as you removed his salivated hand from the realms of your mouth, resting your head against his panting chest.

Stringed sighs fell from Bucky’s breath as he tried to catch his own breath. His hands rubbed your back, not only to comfort you, but also to subconsciously pull you closer against him, and his softening cock that was still inside you, and was keeping his cum plugged within your tender and pulsating walls. If life was easier, there’d be more time for this, and that, but for now, it was just every now and then. Maybe you’d win this fight and survive until the next one, but maybe, you’d lose and never battle again.

Life was precious, that was something that you had not only learned as an avenger, but also something that had been told to you by Isiah. That man thought that you deserved a normal life, no fighting, no super soldiers. He himself was the biggest yet silent critic of those with additional strength, but his opinion was never going to sway you, not as you stared out into Sarah’s backyard, and watched the man that you loved play with the boys.

They had the shield, and were whisking it through the air like a frisbee; dangerous, yes, but again, life could only amount to so much without an ounce of pain. A content and satisfied smile absorbed any pain on your face, you were enraptured with the sight of Bucky like this, he was like an uncle to these two kids. He was no captain America, that was for sure, but you didn’t want a man in Stars and Stripes, all you wanted was him to be at peace, and it was a fact unbeknownst to him, that you had made such an alternative to that.

“Still want all this?” Sarah emerged, a cheap yet formidable bottle of wine pursed in her hand, as she held two clear and tall glasses in her hand. You hummed, watching as she poured the thin red consistency into one glass, but as she went to fill the other, you held out your hand, shaking your head. The woman was confused, last time you had visited, and were entangled on her sofa with the limbs of your boyfriend and a shaggy old blanket, you had kindly accepted her offer.

“Sure do.” You sighed, staring out into the green abyss where Jim was hanging from Bucky’s arm like it were a branch. “How do you do this, this whole mother thing? I’ve never been able to wrap my head around how you make it look so easy, it’s just, you do such a good job.” Your palms rested flat on your thighs as you laughed at Sam ordering Jody to jump on Bucky’s back, as he fell down in faux defeat.

“It never is easy y/n.” She placed the open bottle down, along with the mismatched glasses, that were asymmetrical considering one was half filled and the other wallowed in emptiness. “But every step of difficulty is worth it. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss their father, but they’re my priority. For Jim and Jody, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, and you’d understand that if you ever opened yourself up to giving your life of heroism up to have all this.”

“I might have to.” Twiddling with your fingers, glancing up at your boyfriend, realising that he was in fact not looking over, you clasped your intwined hands over your stomach, smiling softly to yourself. “And maybe not having another option is the best option for me and Buck, because we don’t have to fight with ourselves over being included in our duties, we have new ones.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Sarah asked, resting her nurturing hand upon the tile of your shoulder, prompting you to turn your face towards her. There was a conflict in your eyes, it was something that she recognised her younger self having once worn. It was the idea of putting everything aside, all for a child, everything that she had ever known, so that she could put her baby boy first. “Does Bucky know?”

“He will.” You shifted your head down, unsure of yourself. This had been what you had wanted, and whilst you still envied Sarah for the role she had, you were hurt. A part of you wanted to be an avenger until you were nothing but a soul drifting in the abyss of non existence, another didn’t want to let the knowledge of being a carrier for a new future crumble you. “I just need a moment to tell him.”

“I’ve got it.” She sent you a wink, picking up the items she had brought out, before she called on Sam and the kids to come inside. Sarah had gifted you the opportunity of revealing the truth to your partner with no one else around; you appreciated that. As he stalked closer, you met him halfway, sinking into his arms as he hugged you.

“Looked like you were having fun with the boys.” You verbally noted, loving the feeling of him running his fingers through your hair. “You’re amazing Bucky Barnes, to me and to everyone. I just, don’t want you to freak out on me, I have something big, really big, to tell you, and-“

“Baby, I know.” He smiled, pulling back so that he could look you in the face. “I have super human senses, I heard their little heart beat for the first time yesterday. We’re having a baby, and I couldn’t be happier about it. In fact, I want to ask you if you’ll accept my question of making Sam the godfather.” You nodded, tears standing in your eyes, as you brought the man down for a kiss.

“Yes. But I’m not sure that he’ll be praising us for making a baby when we technically created him or her on the couch inside.” Bucky shook his head at you, kissing your forehead before walking inside with you, preparing to tell the Wilson family, that had along the way became your own, the good news- well, not the sofa bit.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 18: Summers In Florence] [Series Finale]

A/N: If it doesn’t end with a wedding, is it even my fic??! 😂 For those who somehow haven’t yet read Baby You Were My Picket Fence (my most popular series), you might be a tiny bit confused during this chapter. Just roll with it. 😉 Also, COVID-19 doesn’t exist. What a wonderful world. Thank you so much for sticking with me and BYCNL. I love you all. 💜

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh @deakydeacy @bluutac @johndeaconshands @nyxaura

It’s May 25th, 1984, and Roger and John are in Perth, Australia to promote Queen’s eleventh album, The Works.

Interviewer, daytime television host Ronald Inglewood: “Good morning and welcome to our viewers across Australia! We’re sitting down this morning with Roger Taylor and John Deacon, respectively the drummer and bassist of Queen, who are here to talk about the band’s brand new album called—quite self-assuredly, if I may say so, gentlemen—The Works. Hello to you both.”

Roger: “Good morning, Ron!”

John: “Hello.”

Interviewer: “And this latest album has been rather well-received so far, is that right?”

Roger: “It has, yes, and we’re enormously proud of it.”

Interviewer: “Now, The Works is a very different album than Hot Space, Queen’s sort of notorious foray into disco...do you think the back-to-basics, classic rock and roll feel of The Works has been the driving force behind its success?”

Roger: “Well, you know...I think experimentation is very important. We’ve always been an experimental band. The single Bohemian Rhapsody was hugely experimental, and that’s why it was such a phenomenon. We were experimenting long before A Night At The Opera, and I suspect we’ll keep on trying new things until we run out of ideas, whenever that is! I didn’t love every song on Hot Space, I’ll be completely transparent about that, but I certainly don’t think the album was a failure or a waste of time. It was an experiment. And The Works is an experiment as well, just one that runs in a different vein, I suppose.”

John: “Some people did actually enjoy Hot Space.”

Roger: “I think I know one or two.”

Interviewer: “Of course, it did have its bright spots. Under Pressure remains one of Queen’s biggest hits, doesn’t it?”

Roger: “Yes, and John wrote the bassline for that one!”

Interviewer: “Really?!”

John: “And Roger has his own hit on The Works, at last. We’re all very happy for him.”

Roger: “Only took ten years.”

John: “Fourteen, actually.”

Roger: “I’m going to murder you as soon as we get backstage.”

John: “You’re welcome to try.”

Interviewer: “Now this hit of yours, Roger, is Radio Ga Ga. And I’m sure we’ve all seen the famous music video, the hovercraft, the futurism, the clapping...we’ve all seen it, right? Where on earth did you get the idea for that song?”

Roger: “It actually originated from something I heard my daughter Violet say.”

Interviewer: “Fascinating! And you’ve just welcomed another one recently, haven’t you?”

Roger: “Yes, last month, in fact. A little girl named Nora. “

Interviewer: “Congratulations!”

Roger: “Thanks so much, Ron. Our eldest, Violet, turned two in January, and the idea for Radio Ga Ga came about when she was first learning to talk. She would always stumble around—you know how babies do—clapping her hands and squealing the most nonsensical things, and one day she started trying out ‘radio’ and then adding random words to it, ‘radio goo goo,’ ‘radio mama,’ ‘radio dada,’ etcetera. Well ‘radio ga ga’ got stuck in my head and I started sort of lamenting how television had begun to eclipse the radio as a medium for music and entertainment. We were on vacation in California at the time, and I locked myself in a hotel room with a keyboard and a drum machine to get it written. I initially thought it might end up on one of my solo albums, but then John heard it and wrote a bassline, and Freddie really thought it could be a hit and pushed to have it on The Works...and here we are today!”

Interviewer: “That Freddie Mercury has awfully good instincts about these things, doesn’t he?”

John: “Oh, he’s a genius, no doubt about that.”

Interviewer: “And John, I understand you wrote the other single released from The Works, I Want To Break Free. Any deep philosophical messaging in that one?”

John: “Well I suppose we’ve all been in situations that feel...rather constraining or hopeless. And then things that bring us back to life again. So this song is about a character going through that process and coming out on the other side.”

Interviewer: “Indeed.”

John: “But we wanted to keep things amusing and lighthearted in the music video, hence the dressing in drag bit. And to our absolute horror, Roger was very alluring as a schoolgirl.”

Roger: “It’s true. I have irresistible legs. I was born to wear miniskirts.”

Interviewer: “Ah, this is the music video that is beloved in Europe and here in Australia but has stirred up so much controversy over in the States. Has the hullabaloo dampened your enthusiasm for the song, or even the entire album, somewhat?”

Roger: “We’re not bothered much at all, to be honest with you. It’s like I said, Queen is always going to have fun and experiment and take creative risks. And if people don’t like it, then they’re welcome to not listen.”

Interviewer: “Yes, yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Roger: “Americans, you know, they can just be so bloody puritanical. It absolutely takes all the enjoyment out of life. All the humor. Americans these days can be very difficult for us to connect with.”

John: “Well, not all of them.”

Roger: “No, of course, not all of them.”

John: “But we’ll start touring at the end of August, and we’ll be spending several months in the States, so they have time to come around to us. We’re all really looking forward to being on the road again.”

Interviewer: “It has certainly been and will continue to be a very eventful year for Queen. And for the four of you personally. A new baby for Roger, and you’ve just gotten married, haven’t you John?”

John: “I did, yes. And Roger was in attendance! No miniskirt that day, though. Sadly.”

Roger: “The whole band was there. And my girlfriend and children too. It was quite a party.”

Interviewer: “That’s wonderful to hear, considering the...the...well, not to bring up tabloid gossip, but the complexity of the situation. It was a destination wedding, wasn’t it?”

John: “Yes, we were married in the Basilica di Santa Croce in Florence, Italy. It’s breathtaking, the largest Franciscan church in the world, built in the 1300s. And we filled it with friends and family and live music and flowers and food...all the trappings. Took about a million photos. Celebrated until dawn.”

Roger: “It was a very sentimental occasion. Everyone really enjoyed it. John cried.”

John: “I did, it’s true.”

Roger: “He promised he wouldn’t and then he did.”

John: “Well, you don’t have to bring it up all the time!”

Roger: “It was touching, really.”

Interviewer: “It must have been a magical time. You’re positively radiant, John! Marvelous. And some much-needed good news, I imagine. I understand you’ve recently gone through an exceptionally antagonistic and protracted divorce.”

John: “Well...uh...I suppose that’s...uh...”

Roger: “How about we ask you the same thing? How was your divorce, Ron?”

Interviewer: “What?”

Roger: “You’re on your third marriage, is that right? And I think I heard that the latest Mrs. Inglewood is very young indeed, almost thirty years your junior. How did your former wife take that news? How did your adult children? How was your goddamn divorce?”

Interviewer: “That’s a rude question.”

Roger: “Yes, you’re right, it’s an extremely rude question. So you shouldn’t fucking ask it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 25th, 1986, and the children are tearing open presents under a fifteen-foot-tall Christmas tree in the living room of Garden Lodge.

Freddie and Jim Hutton are serving cookies and milk and clapping their hands as they tower over tiny shoulders, cheering the kids on as they litter the floor with wrapping paper and bows and scatter their new toys everywhere: Care Bears, Magic 8 Balls, My Little Ponies, Mr. Potato Heads, Barbies, Etch-A-Sketches, Transformers, miniature Lukes and Leias and Chewbaccas, View-Masters with scenes of oceans and deserts and forests and stars. With so many fragmented families, there was only one logical approach to handling major holidays: convincing everyone to celebrate together on neutral ground.

Mary and Veronica are chatting by the roaring fireplace. Phoebe, Joe Fanelli, John, and Roger are embroiled in a brutally competitive Scrabble game; Dominique, smirking stealthily, leans over Roger to read his tiles and periodically whispers ideas to him. Brian and Anita are circling the flock of giggling children—Laszlo, Anna, Teddy, Evelyn, Lena, Antoni, Violet, and Nora—and snapping photos with your Canon between long, yearning gazes at one another, wearing matching Christmas sweaters that are a deep, passionate crimson. Chrissie’s husband Denny is admiring Freddie’s extensive vinyl record collection as he sips a hot chocolate and compulsively strokes his green-and-red striped tie. Tiffany the cat rolls around between his feet and occasionally hisses or gnaws on an ankle, which Denny takes in stride, as he does most things.

Meanwhile, you and Chrissie are camped out by the wet bar, drinking mulled wine and nibbling on cookies shaped like snowmen and reindeer. You give Veronica a wide berth with the children anytime you’re in the same space; she hates you, and she’ll probably always hate you, but she loves her children too much to poison them with that reality. Their happiness is her whole life, her purpose. And that’s the only thing that finally convinced her to come to the bargaining table.

“She seems...nice,” you tell Chrissie, gesturing to where Anita is crouching to wrestle a Yoda piggy bank away from Antoni before he can lob Teddy on the head with it. To John’s children, Veronica is “mum” and you’re the distinctly more American “mama”; and no one ever really taught them that, they just started doing it somewhere along the way.

Chrissie rolls her eyes and shifts Stevie to her other hip. For two and a half years after leaving Brian, Chrissie made it her mission to date at least one man from every country in Europe. She managed to cross off Ireland, France, Germany, Austria, Italy, Sweden, Switzerland, Portugal, Poland, and Greece before meeting professional archer Dennis Clarke at the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. They got engaged at Christmas, eloped on New Year’s Day, and had a daughter that Chrissie named after Stevie Nicks nine months later. Stevie Clarke has adorably chubby baby legs, wide blue eyes, and blonde hair without a single spiraled ringlet.

“My therapist said I needed to cultivate a rapport with Brian for the good of the kids,” Chrissie says. “You know. Be the bigger person. Get amnesia and forget about how he made my life a living hell. Act like I don’t want to freaking decapitate him. So I, trying to be nice, trying to rise above and make polite small talk with my nauseating ex-husband, made a comment about how much I liked EastEnders. So he starts watching EastEnders. Then he begins to fancy one of the actresses. Then he meets her at a movie premier in Beverly Hills and invites her to the concert at Wembley. Then he ends up in love with the woman. What the fuck. You couldn’t write this shit.”

“Love is a roulette wheel,” you agree.

Chrissie scoffs sardonically. “Yeah. Russian roulette, maybe.”

After his marriage fell apart, Brian bounced between New Orleans and London, liberated bliss and aimless, disgraced, black depression. Whoever Peaches is as a person, she couldn’t tame Brian’s demons. You worried about him almost constantly until he started seeing Anita. She’s cheerful and magnetic and persistently hopeful in a way that reminds you of Roger. She’s good for Brian. She’s good for all of you. Well...Chrissie is still coming around to the idea.

“I do like that she wasn’t fucking my husband behind my back,” Chrissie muses. “So that’s something.”

“And she’s good with the kids.”

“True...”

“And her hair matches Brian’s.”

Chrissie laughs. Her sparkling ornament earrings jangle, and Stevie paws for them with minuscule, uncoordinated, wrinkly hands. “Okay. You win. I don’t despise her.”

“That’s the Christmas spirit.” You knock back the rest of your mulled wine. “I’m gonna go search the refrigerator for cheese cubes, you want anything?”

“Yeah, a Valium.”

“Slavic Jesus would be horrified. And on his birthday!”

Chrissie grins. “Surely drugs would be the least of our sins.”

Freddie’s sunshine-yellow refrigerator is enormous and a labyrinth of shelves and crevices without a single tray of cheese cubes in sight. You sift through jars of olives, bottles of champagne, a glazed ham waiting to be put in the oven, a sack of yams, eggnog, rising bread dough, and numerous pies—apple and cherry and lemon chiffon, naturally—swathed in aluminum foil.

“Damn,” you mutter, and then you try a mysterious drawer beneath the double doors of the refrigerator. Lo and behold, it contains a sprawling tray of cheeses. “Yaaaaassssss.” You lift the tray out, set it on the kitchen counter, and peel back the clear, clinging saran wrap. As you spear cheese cubes with a decorative toothpick—the handle is a little plastic Christmas tree—and plop them onto an appetizer plate, you hear the click of heels on the hardwood floor behind you.

You glance back. “Hi, Dom. Can I offer you any of Fred’s extremely expensive and exotic cheeses?”

“Sure,” she replies in that effortlessly elegant French accent; but that’s not why she’s here. She’s wringing her delicate hands, which are bronzed from her last holiday to Ibiza and ringless. Dom divorced the husband she had back in France—or maybe he divorced her, who knows, that’s not your business, although Roger would tell you if you ever asked—and she and Roger signed papers for the good of their daughters. But being Roger Taylor’s wife is not always such an easy thing.

“He’s getting bad again, isn’t he?” you ask softly.

Dominique nods; but you already knew.

Roger was perfect for years after they had Violet: attentive, content, startlingly domestic. He rarely popped pills. He went to physical therapy. He quit smoking six months ago at Dominique’s insistence, around the same time John quit for you. But since the Magic Tour ended in August—and with no new tour in sight, considering Freddie’s seeming reticence about scheduling another—he’s started to drink more, stay home less, disappear at night citing dinners or parties or recording sessions that Dom isn’t invited to. He’s edgy and irritable. He’s rarely home when John calls. And you can see all those immortal shadows of imperfection creeping back into him like storm clouds, like smoke.

“I’m going to tell you something,” you say. “It’s very similar to what somebody else once told me. I wasn’t ready to understand it yet, to really let myself feel it, to believe it, but you might be able to.”

She watches you with those vast oil-well eyes, biting her lower lip, waiting.

“Roger is wildfire. He’s bright, yes, he’s warm, but he’s reckless and insatiable too. He always has been. He always will be. And that has nothing at all to do with you. It’s not your fault. He’s wonderful, of course, and you already know that; he dazzles people, he makes life so exhilaratingly beautiful that you forget what it felt like without him. But he’ll always disappoint you. He’ll relapse, he’ll cheat, he’ll come home late, he won’t come home at all. And he’ll hurt you. He’ll do it as many times as you’ll let him. But here’s the thing other people won’t tell you.” You smile at her, with empathy, with sorrow, with hope. “It might still be worth it.”

Dominique blinks, not understanding.

“It might be enough for you to only ever have part of him, because that part is so incredibly brilliant. It was almost enough for me. And I would never blame you for leaving Roger. But I wouldn’t blame you for staying either.”

And then you embrace her, and she latches onto you, her long manicured nails nipping through your sweater, her Coco Chanel perfume a plume that fills the kitchen. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. You hold her until she pulls away, swiping at her tearing eyes with slim fragile fingers, sniffling, looking away to hide her heartbreak behind her shock of glossy bangs.

“Here.” You pile an appetizer plate high with cheese cubes and shove it into her hands.

Stunned, she giggles. “All my woes have vanished.”

“That’s exactly how stolen cheese works,” And then, seriously: “Don’t be sad on Christmas, Dom. There’s plenty of time for that later. And I’ll do everything I can to help him.”

“That’s why you’ll never leave the band, isn’t it? You can’t leave Roger alone. You can’t let him destroy himself.”

“I owe him,” you say simply. “Without him I never would have followed Queen to London. I never would have found this family. I never would have married John. Roger took things from me, yes, of course he did. He took until I felt empty. But he also gave me the world.”

She nods slowly, thoughtfully.

“Please, Dom. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Alright. Joyeux Noël.” She gives you a parting wave and slips back out into the living room, where Freddie is now playing the grand piano and signing Thank God It’s Christmas. Roger is assisting in an increasingly hoarse falsetto.

A moment after Dominique leaves, John strolls into the kitchen, humming merrily. He stops dead when he sees your somber face, your shining eyes. “Who do I have to fuck up?”

You chuckle and shake your head. “No one. I just heard something sad.”

“Not about you, I hope.”

“No, I don’t have many sad stories anymore.”

“Yeah, me either.”

He reaches out to take your hand. A sapphire glints on your left ring finger, and it means everything.

“You sure you don’t need me to torment anyone for you? I could get drunk and plow my Benz into their house. Or write a scathing diss track about them. Was it Brian? Please tell me it was Brian.”

You laugh and twirl a lock of his fluffy hair. “That won’t be necessary.”

“In that case, you’re needed in the living room immediately,” John says, smiling. “Antoni climbed halfway up the Christmas tree and says he won’t come down for anyone except his mama.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s November 3rd, 1999, and Roger, John, and Brian are promoting Queen’s upcoming compilation album, Greatest Hits III.

Interviewer, daytime television host Brad Chenoweth: “Today we have a very special treat for our viewers. Here with us in our London studio are the men of Queen: guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor, and bassist John Deacon. Good morning, and thank you all so much for being here.”

Brian: “It’s our pleasure.”

Roger: “I do screams as well as drums, Brad.”

Interviewer: “Hahaha, yes, of course. Now Queen has had an extremely busy year, and this Greatest Hits album has a few new selections on it, right? Take us through that process.”

Brian: “It does have a few new tracks, that’s correct. You know, ever since Freddie...ever since we lost Freddie Mercury, I mean, you know, it’s impossible to fill a space like the one that he left in the world.”

Roger: “Yes, yes.”

Brian: “But as difficult as it was, after finally finishing Made In Heaven in 1995 and getting it just right, feeling as if we had really done Freddie justice...we were left with this distressing feeling of ‘what’s next?’ What are the three of us supposed to do with ourselves? Split up and never work together again? Retire to the seashore? Open up some corner store to putter around in until we die?”

Roger: “A clog shop, perhaps.”

Interviewer: “You were thinking, ‘well hell, we’ve got plenty of talent ourselves!’”

Roger: “Well, talent, yes, but also energy. Drive. We’ve been working at being one of the best bands in the world for almost thirty years now, Brad. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to stop.”

Brian: “None of us wanted to stop, we came to that realization. And so we’ve done a tremendous amount of benefit concerts and recording sessions with some of the best artists of our time, and I think people who listen to this album are really going to appreciate that. We’ve got a live version of Somebody to Love with George Michael, and The Show Must Go On with Elton John, he’s just lovely to work with...oh and a rap version of Another One Bites The Dust with Wyclef Jean, which John was not exactly a fan of. But we all have to learn to give and take, don’t we?”

Interviewer: “Absolutely, and I’m really looking forward to getting my hands on a copy of this record. Is there any chance Queen might settle on a permanent new front man one day?”

Roger: “If we can ever find somebody John likes enough!”

Interviewer: “But, truthfully...none of you wanted to quit after Freddie passed away? It was a unanimous decision to keep with it?”

Roger: “Essentially, yes. I mean I think it was an all or nothing deal, wasn’t it? If one of us left then that would throw the whole thing off. I was always adamant from very early on in the band’s lifetime that I wouldn’t be interested in continuing without John. And I couldn’t imagine him and Brian being left alone together, my god, there’d be literal bloodshed, someone’s throat would be cut within the hour, believe me.”

John: “We might have lasted a day or two. But yes, it was more or less unanimous.”

Interviewer: “Now you’ve always been known as the quiet, domestic one, John. You weren’t tempted by the thought of retirement? Not even for a moment?”

John: “Well...I think it depends on the circumstances, really. I like working, and I like touring and traveling a good part of the year. But I imagine I’d get very homesick if I was alone on the road. Fortunately, that’s not the case. So the thought of retirement didn’t appeal to me nearly as much as it might have otherwise.”

Interviewer: “That’s right, I understand that your wife has been Queen’s touring nurse for...how long now? Twenty years?”

John: “Since 1974, so that’s twenty-five years.”

Roger: “Wow. It’s been that long?!”

Brian: “Feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?”

Interviewer: “How lucky for you, John. And look, you’re beaming!”

Roger: “Get it together, Deaks.”

John: “I’m an astronomically lucky man. It’s like having home with you anywhere in the world.”

Roger: “She’s good for curing hangovers as well, so that’s useful. And she knits everyone hats.”

Interviewer: “And you’ve got children, haven’t you John?’

John: “Four from my first marriage, yes. They’re all adults now so they come to visit us quite often, especially when we’re travelling. It worked out beautifully really, because they’re very close to their mother, of course, but my wife and I got together when they were all still fairly young, and so she’s always been there for them as they’ve grown up. My youngest especially was a rather...how would you say it diplomatically? A spirited child. But he warmed to her right away.”

Brian: “All the children are still friendly with each other as well, mine and Roger’s and John’s.”

Interviewer: “One big happy family, huh?”

Roger: “There are still a good amount of screaming matches between us dads, to be completely forthcoming.”

John: “You have to keep things interesting.”

Roger: “Exactly!”

Interviewer: “Yes, one can sense that there are still plenty of egos in this room, even after all these years! Tell me, Queen is nearly three decades old now, a worldwide phenomenon, the second-bestselling artist in the UK of all time behind the Beatles...how have you stayed together for so long when most bands last only a fraction of Queen’s lifespan?”

John: “Well I think we’ve all, you know, for the good of the band we’ve all had to grow towards each other to bridge the disagreements and keep peace. For example, I’ve had to learn to be more communicative, more open to collaboration and change. I can be someone who’s very comfortable being in the background. But then I’m resentful if people don’t see my point of view, even if I haven’t properly expressed it. So I have certainly had to work on that quite a lot.”

Brian: “Yes, John, I think that’s very true. Personally, I’ve had to learn to not get lost in the details so much. I have a bad habit of getting so fixated on something that I cause a massive row over a vanishingly small aspect of a song that no one else will ever notice. It’s just not worth the strife. So I’ve really tried to avoid that. Although, I’ll admit it, I still occasionally cause my share of drama.”

John: “Oh, sure.”

Roger: “And I’ve had to work on being less...”

John: “Annoying?”

Brian: “Combative?”

Roger: “Fiery.”

John: “That’s one word for it.”

Interviewer: “Was there ever a time when Queen’s existence was in serious jeopardy? And if so, how did you pull through?”

Brian: “Well, to be perfectly honest, as a band we went through quite a difficult time in the early 80s. And then we did again in the early 90s. And on both occasions there was a real worry that Queen might be over and we would all go our separate ways. But what kept us together through that...and feel free to disagree, Rog, John, if you have a different perspective...but what I feel kept us together was this profound sense of family. Queen predates all of our marriages, our children, our successes in the music industry or otherwise. It has become a constant place of belonging in the midst of professional and personal turmoil. And now our partners and children have been integrated into that network as well, so even if an individual relationship is strained or falls apart, the gravity of the band keeps us all in a perpetual symbiotic orbit. And I don’t see that ever ending.”

John: “Yes, well, I suppose that about sums it up, doesn’t it?”

Roger: “Bleeding christ, Brian. ‘Perpetual symbiotic orbit.’ Just say we’re friends, you pretentious twit.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s August 19th, 2020, and John’s 69th birthday party is winding down as the sun dips lazily into the rust-colored western horizon.

You’re standing on the cobblestones in the garden behind the Surrey house. You had always thought it was too extravagant, too massive; it wasn’t until Roger sold it to you and John in the spring of 1982 that you realized it was the perfect size after all. Six bedrooms meant one for each of the children, one for you and John—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper and nautical decorations, to be exact—and the last for when Chrissie and Denny or Roger and Dom stay the night, which is fairly frequently. Your vacation home, where you and John spend most of the summer when Queen isn’t on tour, is a little country cottage in the sunlit Alpine hills of Florence, Italy. John designed it himself, every last detail; right down to the white picket fence grown over with ivy.

“Look what we got in the mail.” You hold up the invitation to show your husband, grinning, raising your eyebrows. “Guess we have to buy him another toaster.”

He reads the names on the shimmering cardstock patterned with jungle ferns and dinosaur footprints. Interesting choices. “Is Ben actually going through with it this time?”

“John!”

“Wasn’t he supposed to marry some Italian heiress or something?”

“Love can be complicated, Mr. Deacon,” you remind him.

When he smiles, crinkles spring up around his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it can be.”

“Ben Hardy’s having another wedding?” Chrissie calls over from where she’s shooting arrows at the archery targets set up in the backyard. Denny periodically steps in to correct the angle of her wrist or elbow. “And Queen’s invited this time?”

“Apparently,” you reply. “You could go too if you were still married to Brian.”

“Ha!” Chrissie cackles and looses an arrow. It hits damn near the bullseye. “Not worth it.”

“I’ll bring back all the scandalous gossip I can scrounge for you.”

“You better. What do the kids call it now? Spilling the tea? Spill all the tea, bitch.”

“Oh, kettles and kettles’ worth.”

“So a teapot,” John says. “Not another toaster. Maybe decorated with...” He squints at the invitation again. “What’s the theme? What do they like? Fossils? Brontosauruses?”

“Bizarre people,” Chrissie mutters.

“I’ll figure something out,” you say. “Something special. Something old.”

“John?” Brian shouts from the doorway that leads into the kitchen. Inside the refrigerator is covered with sketches and birthday cards and photographs curling and fading around the edges. “Anita and I are heading out now, can we get a hug goodbye?”

“Ugh,” John jokes. “Well, alright.” He gives you a wink as he trots off.

The Surrey house isn’t exactly roaring—John has never been one for crowds, and incidentally neither have you—but it is alive with his children and grandchildren and life-long friends. Not just his, you correct yourself. Ours.

Veronica—once Tetzlaff, then Deacon, then Tetzlaff again, and finally Kowalski—is not in attendance. You see her only at holidays and birthday celebrations for the kids and grandchildren, and even then only in passing. She is still cold towards you, resentful, extremely Catholic...although somewhat less dogmatic since her second husband Ivan, a former priest, left the Church to marry her. When the last of her children were grown, Veronica got certified to be a doula and now primarily serves unwed mothers seeking assistance from Catholic charities in London. She mentioned to Chrissie, who later told you, that something you had once done for her had inspired her to pursue it. That’s the only nice thing you’ve heard her say about you in almost forty years.

Roger wanders over to meet you, nursing a Heineken, stroking his white beard with his free hand. He and Dominique have always been off and on—including a few years in the late 80s when he moved out of their three-story Kensington townhouse and had a daughter called Adeline with some leggy, platinum blonde supermodel—but these days they’re mostly on. He and Dom had two children after their reconciliation: a son, Blaise, and a daughter named by Freddie after the Japanese word for tiger, Tora.

You gaze out into the sunset. Half of the garden is flooded with white calla lilies, a new bouquet for every February 15th since 1978.

“You’ll be sending back an RSVP in the affirmative?” Roger asks.

“Of course! Any excuse to visit the States. And I like Ben. Although he doesn’t look anything like you.”

He groans. “Those wigs, bloody hell.”

“It’s like they produced a whole movie just to have an excuse to make fun of your atrociously crunchy bleached hair.”

“And I bet you enjoyed that.”

“You deserved it.” When Freddie’s health began to fail and Queen stopped touring, you went back to school to get a degree in physical therapy. You and Roger have sessions three times a week, provided he’s on the wagon; and he usually is, nowadays. When he’s not, John’s the one to get the call from Dominique, and he hunts Roger down, convinces him to come home, works whatever quiet, soothing magic he carries around in his deep pacific blood. But right this moment, Roger is awfully quiet himself. His large, pale eyes—like clear water, like unraveling delphiniums, like the harmony that only comes when age burns away all those last entrenched talons of bitterness, of fear—skate over the calla lilies.

“Do you think things would have been different for us?” Roger asks softly. “If she had lived.”

It took you a long time to understand why Roger was in no hurry to get a divorce, to move you out of the Surrey house. They were the only ties he thought he had to anchor you to the band, to him. They were the only cards he thought he had to play to keep you in his life in any capacity. But John fixed that dilemma. He can fix just about anything, you’ve learned.

“No,” you tell Roger. “You would have worn me down eventually. You and your drinking and drugs and late nights and interminable recklessness. It might have taken longer, but we always would have ended. And John always would have been my home. She wouldn’t have kept us together. She just would have lived. And I wouldn’t have loved her for being a part of you. I would have loved her for whoever she was, whoever she grew up to be. But now I’ll never know who that would have been. I love the children I have, Roger, I do. But I still miss her, miss the person she would have been. It’s like chasing a shadow. It’s like a page of a book written in a language I can’t read. And it’s a feeling that never quite goes away.”

He smiles at you wearily, immensely sad, full of perfect understanding. “I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s October 10th, 2020, and the reception is held under shedding autumn leaves the color of rubies and imperial topaz and amber and yellow jade. The exuberant bride and groom weave through the crowds milling about the quaint farm, which is nestled in the hills of a small town in Northern California called Zenia. It belongs to Gwilym, apparently, and he and his flame-haired girlfriend Shiloh are shuttling tirelessly this way and that making sure everything goes according to plan. They don’t speak much to Ben or his new wife directly—there’s a stiltedness there, an uncomfortable period of readjustment that reminds you of how John and Roger were for a while after all the secrets came out—but there is undeniable kinship as well. Love can be complicated, you find yourself thinking, for the innumerable time. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Making the rounds with the bride and groom is a strikingly beautiful, dark-haired boy who wears a miniature suit and a perpetual, mischievous grin. The new Mrs. Hardy almost always has her hand on his shoulder, his back, wiping cake frosting from his cheeks, ruffling his hair.

“Eli is kind of a demon kid,” Joe Mazzello warns you. “But in the best possible way.”

“Hm. I have somewhat of an affinity for demons myself.”

“Clearly,” Roger quips, sipping pink champagne. The snack table is Halloween-themed and extremely casual: Cheetos and pumpkin pie and caramel apples and dinosaur-shaped brownies. Per usual, you’re grazing through an orange paper plate stacked high with enough nibbling material to keep any undesirable small talk at bay. But strangely, in all of the times you’ve crossed his path since Bohemian Rhapsody’s filming began, you’ve never minded chatting with Joe.

“Yeah, you two were married at some point, right?” Joe asks. Then he immediately blanches. “Oh my god. That was so rude. I did not just say that. I’m so sorry. I saw it on Wikipedia. I’m gonna go drown myself in the stream now.”

“No, you’re right!” you admit in a peal of laughter. “Briefly and disastrously.”

“It wasn’t that disastrous,” Roger protests, thieving a Cheeto off your plate. He misplaced his prescription sunglasses on the flight over and is thus relatively helpless.

“Rude. Get your own. They’re over on the other end of the table.”

“I can’t see that far—!”

“Dom?” you call as she sashays over in a flowing white dress and licking a stick of orange rock candy. “Please control your husband.”

She smiles. “If I haven’t managed it yet, I don’t think there’s much hope.” She nods to Joe. “It’s so nice to see you again. Meeting you people was the only bright spot of that whole movie ordeal.”

“What, you didn’t fancy it?” Roger jests.

“At least they included you,” you tell Dom, smirking. “They ignored my existence entirely. They threw in some random woman with zero lines and called her Veronica in the credits. Whatever.”

Dom rolls her expressive umber eyes. “Yes, how flattering, I was in two scenes and one of them involved a joke about Roger cheating on me.”

“You’re a star, baby,” you say. “Deal with it.”

Dom smacks your arm playfully. She may be annoyed, but it doesn’t pain her the way it used to. She’s had decades of practice.

“The script could have been better,” Joe concedes. Then he spies John as he approaches, almost drops his caramel apple, waves frenetically. “Hi, Mr. Deacon! Hi!!”

“Wonderful job with all of this, Joe.” John shakes his hand as Joe gapes at him, starstruck. He’s always like that around John, appreciative, in awe, acutely aware of John’s legendary place in rock and roll history; and you love that someone besides you and Roger look at him that way.

“Thanks, I did it myself. Just kidding. It was 99% Gwil.”

“Well, I’ll still get you front row seats at the next Queen + Adam Lambert show.” It had taken a long time for John to find a front man he liked...a long time. He drove Roger and Brian insane. He kept saying he wanted someone who was like Freddie and yet simultaneously not trying to be Freddie, someone genuinely kind and charismatic and empathetic, an otherworldly talent, a natural performer. And then, on an unassuming spring night in 2009, they found him.

Joe claps a palm on John’s shoulder and grins, his eyes glistening. “I’m obsessed with this little old guy! Obsessed, I tell you!”

“You want to see how old he is?” Roger teases. “Lift up that hand-knit hat and see what’s underneath. I’ll give you a hint. Not much.”

“At least I made it through the 90s without requiring hair plugs,” John counters.

“It was from all the bleaching!!”

“Hi, Rog!” Ben shouts as he rushes to embrace Roger, nearly knocking him off his feet. Mrs. Hardy is still across the field, talking to Brian, Anita, Rami, and Lucy, and trying to convince Eli not to crawl into a chocolate fountain.

Ben Hardy has always been somewhat of an enigma to you, mostly because he’s nothing at all like Roger. He’s subterranean-voiced and emerald-eyed and brooding and guarded and seems so much older than his twenty-nine years, and then every once in a while someone will come along and light him up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Unlike Roger, Ben doesn’t light up for many people. He does for his son Eli, of course, and for Joe Mazzello...and for his new wife. He lights up for her like fucking wildfire.

“Ben,” you say, holding out a bag speckled with black cats. “I have our gift for you.”

“You shouldn’t have! Thank you so much.”

“You can’t thank us until you open it,” John chastises.

So Ben does. Inside is an album of hundreds of photos you’ve taken of Queen since Roger bought you your first Canon for Christmas in 1974: pictures that have never been released publicly of the boys at the Rainbow, at the Budokan, in Rome, in Boston, in Japan, in New Orleans, at Montreal, at Madison Square Garden, at Live Aid, at the Surrey house, at Montreux. Interspersed are some of John’s sketches, the only ones you can bring yourself to part with: close-ups of a long-haired Freddie drawing on messy eyeliner, Roger adjusting his sunglasses with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, Brian tuning his Red Special.

“Oh my god,” Ben whispers.

“Most of those are very old,” you explain. “And I heard you both like old things.”

“We definitely do.” He hugs you, suddenly and fiercely and warmly; and you catch a glimpse of what it must be like to be one of the few people that he allows to truly know him, those shadowed depths to balance Joe’s uncomplicated light.

Maybe that’s it, you realize. Maybe Joe is more like Roger and Ben like John.

The wedding playlist is exclusively classic rock songs: the Doors and Aerosmith and Fleetwood Mac and Led Zeppelin and Queen. As A Kind Of Magic ends, the eerie opening notes of Hotel California ripple out over the breezy autumn fields.

“Not this fucking song!” Roger cries.

Joe turns to you, confused.

“LSD,” you inform him. “1977. I would not recommend it.”

“Noted.”

Roger continues, rubbing his forehead: “It makes me think of...freaking...weird, creepy shit...like swimming at night through cold water. But I just keep swimming and can’t get anywhere.”

“It makes me think of sharks,” you say. “Maybe they’re related.”

“Freddie always said it made him think of birds,” John sighs. “And the color blue.”

The three of you pause, nodding, remembering.

Joe frowns solemnly, peering down at his shoes. “I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”

“He would have adored you,” you say.

“Really?”

“Are you kidding?! You would have been best friends. Always looking out for people. Always plotting the next escapade. That charming chaotic energy. The utter inability to bake anything.”

“Awwww.” Joe beams, delighted. “I fucking love you guys.”

“That’s the thing,” Roger says. “People don’t realize it. We’re more of a family than a band. We find people we take a shine to like ancient treasure, snatch them up, sand away all their rough edges, show them everything the world has to offer. And if they can survive the casualties of stardom, that trial by fire, they become permanent. They grow like roots into our blood, our bones...and perhaps we claim a part of theirs as well. They become things we can’t live without.”

“And once you’re in the family,” John tells Joe with a fond, crafty smile. “You can never leave.”

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janeyseymour · 3 years

Text

Secret Santa

My wonderful friend Ay had an idea to do a white elephant with this bunch? I don’t really understand white elephant, so I changed it a bit, and uh... this was born. I hope you enjoy!

Every year since being reincarnated, the queens did a secret santa gift exchange. This year, they added the entire diner crew. Fluff ensues.

Christmas was coming, and as usual, Jane was in the Christmas spirit as much as anybody else.

“Every year, we do a secret santa exchange between the queens and I know for a fact the others wouldn’t mind if you and your family joined in on the fun!” the queen explained to her waitress friend.

“It honestly might be better that way,” Aragon let out a laugh. “We all end up finding out who our secret santa is before we exchange gifts anyway.”

“We’d love to do that!”

“Sounds great! So, we normally draw names, well... tonight. And then, on Christmas Eve we usually exchange gifts. Although, I’m sure we could do another night if you would rather celebrate Christmas Eve with just Lulu and Jim. You’re more than welcome to hang out with us that day too though! And oh, Becky, Dawn and Ogie will surely be around too right? Maybe even Cal? We’d be more than happy to have you all. Although, again, it really wouldn’t be offensive to us if-”

“Jane, you’re rambling.”

“Oh, dammit. Sorry,” the silver queen apologized.

“There’s really nothing to apologize for. We’d love to celebrate Christmas Eve with you, and I’m sure everyone would love to participate in the secret santa exchange!”

The group of thirteen gathered at the diner one night, ready to pick names out of a hat.

“Okay, the rule is, if you pick yourself, you have to redraw. We don’t need another situation like last year,” Jane laughed, giving a pointed look at the fourth queen. The previous year, Anna had picked herself and bought herself a new car- one she crashed and totalled approximately a week later.

“Oh god, don’t remind me Seymour,” the red queen groaned in embarrassment.

“Who’s first?” When no one made a move, the blonde looked towards the youngest one there. “Well Lu?”

The girl in pigtails stuck her hand in the bowl with all of the names and picked. Thankfully, she was excelling in her reading and knew how to read each and every person’s name there. She opened it up, not letting anybody see who she had, and grinned.

“You didn’t get yourself, right love?”

“Nope! I got the perfect person!” Jane. She had gotten her Aunt Janey.

The group continued to pick until everyone had someone. Nobody had gotten themselves, and everybody had kept it a secret.

“So the other rule is it has to fit in a plastic bag from the diner. That way, when everyone brings their presents over, it isn’t given away who had who based on the bag everyone carries in. “And yes, we learned this from previous years.”

Cathy laughed, fondly remembering the time she had figured out who had who based on the bags they all carried in and who ended up with the gift bags before they had even started opening presents.

“And one final thing, keep the name of the person you have in your hand. That’s the tag we use so we can’t identify others by their writing.” Kat let out a laugh, remembering she knew in previous years who her secret santa was based on handwriting alone.

And so, there they were on Christmas Eve, having eaten more than they had on Thanksgiving and laughing more than they ever had.

“Lu, are you excited for Santa to come?” Anne bounced the little one in her lap.

“I am! I hope Santa brings you guys everything you want too!” The girl beamed, always thinking of others. “Can we start our secret santa present thingy so I can go to bed so Santa can come?”

“I think that’s a great idea miss Lu!” Jenna beamed at her daughter. It was becoming a hassle to get her daughter to go to bed these days, so her wanting to go to bed was a welcomed change.

“So, how do you guys run this thing?” Becky looked towards Jane for guidance.

“Well, we usually all sit on the floor in a circle,” Jane began and gestured for everyone to move before continuing. “And since we all put our bags under the tree, why don’t we just all pass the bags out? Lulu can start since she’s the youngest, and then whoever her secret santa is can go next and so on. Who wants to play Santa this year?”

“Me!” Lulu’s hand shot up, and she was out of the second queen’s lap in an instant.

The little one had passed out everyone’s presents, and

“Go ahead little Lu,” Anne beamed, hoping that her younger friend would like her gift.

The girl opened her present with no hesitation, her mouth agape once she saw what was in the bag: a new apron with all of the queens’ assigned colors in stripes with the addition of a purple stripe. “Woah! This is amazing! Thank you secret santa! I love it!”

“Who do you think gave you the gift?” Jim questioned.

“I don’t know, but whoever did, thank you!” Lulu exclaimed, already having put the apron on proudly.

“Hun, the point of the game is to guess who gave you the gift,” Becky told her gently.

“Oh!” the girl laughed, a bit confused but happy to go along with the game. “I think... Lina!”

“Wasn’t me mija,” the first queen shrugged. “Guess again?”

“Aunt Janey?”

“Good guess love, but it wasn’t me either. One more guess,” the silver queen laughed.

“Annie?”

“Bingo!” The green queen exclaimed. Lulu immediately launched herself at the woman with space buns.

“Oh my gosh Annie, thank you so much! I love it!”

“I’m glad you like it! I worked pretty hard on it!” Nobody but Jane knew the truth in that statement. The second queen had caved and asked- no. begged- Jane to teach her how to sew in order to make this present.

“I love it! It has all of your colors from the show! But, what’s this purple here for?”

“Well, I figured, you might like to have your own color!”

(Lulu would claim her favorite color was purple for the rest of her life.)

“Okay Annie, it's your turn to open your present!”

“Wheels for my heelies? Bro! This could be anyone!”

“Look a little closer,” Becky stifled a laugh.

“What? Wait, turtles? This could only be from Dawn!”

“You caught me,” the waitress with glasses blushed.

(The silly queen would always make sure to put these wheels in when Dawn was around.)

“A new turtle pin!” Dawn grinned and happily attached it to her shirt. “Thank you to uh,” the waitress glanced at it and remembered all of the queens’ respected colors. “Catherine!”

“I think it’s safe to say everyone here has earned the right to call me Catalina, or even Lina,” the first wife said genuinely.

“Thank you Lina.” Dawn smiled at the nickname.

(That pin became her second favorite- right under the turtle pin that Ogie gave her as a wedding present.)

“These are beautiful.” The golden queen admired the beautiful earrings that she had received.

“Any guesses?”

“Jane?”

“It wasn’t me, and I really don’t know who it’s from,” the blonde said earnestly.

“Cathy?”

“Not from me.”

“Jenna?” The head waitress shook her head no.

“What the-”

“It’s from me,” the usually gruff cook said shyly as he raised his hand quietly.

“Thank you Cal.” Catherine went about taking her Christmas earrings out and putting her new ones in. “They’re beautiful.”

“I hope you like them.”

(Catherine wore them to a press junket. Cal noticed and smiled to himself. He was glad she liked them enough to wear on a red carpet. When the gold queen was asked about the beautiful earrings, she was happy to tell the world a close friend named Cal gave them to her.)

“A new apron? And a new spatula?” Cal looked confused. In reality, this could be from anyone. “Jenna?” the brunette made a ‘no’ gesture. “Jim?”

“Nope.”

“Look a little closer at the spatula,” Cathy spoke up. “ Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers” was engraved into it.

“Shakespeare?” Cal looked a bit bewildered.

“It means that if a cook can’t bear to eat his own food, he isn’t a very good cook, and we all know you’re one of the best around,” Cathy explained, a tint of red shading her face. “And I’ve noticed that your apron is stapled to keep it together. Figured you might like a new one.”

“I- Thanks Cath.” The man smiled one of the most genuine smiles any of his coworkers had ever seen. Jenna would be sure to tell Cathy how much that present had meant to him, because the lord knew that Cal wasn’t very good at expressing his feelings.

(It didn’t go unnoticed that the spatula was used exactly once before it hung in a shadowbox that the cook would touch for good luck every time he walked into the diner for the rest of his time working.)

“Bookmarks? This could quite literally be from anyone,” the writer laughed. “Who do I have left to choose from?” She surveyed the room before noticing that a certain mother wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Jenna?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you know I needed new bookmarks?” She truly thought that only her fellow queens would pick up on the fact that she was using strange objects as bookmarks.

“I’ve seen the way you’ll use anything as a bookmark, but I’ve never seen you use a proper bookmark,” Jenna explained. “For crying out loud, I saw you use a soda can tab the other day.”

“I-” the sixth queen was truly stunned. And then, she got a closer look at the bookmarks. They were beautiful- all different shades of blue, but each had delicate details and accents with her fellow queens colors. “These are beautiful. Thank you.”

(She would go on to use these bookmarks for the rest of her days, alternating between the different bookmarks.)

“A new pie dish!” the baker exclaimed with glee. “Oh how wonderful! Thank you!”

“Who’s it from?” Jim questioned.

“It’s from-,” Jenna eyed up the pie dish for a long while before catching that on the side in small and crisp writing it read, “ all i wanna do is bake... all i do is sing... all i do is bake and sing” “-Thank you Kat.”

“You’re welcome,” the pink haired queen tried to say it casually. “Hope you like it.”

“I love it. And I love the reference to the musical.”

(Whenever she brought over pie to the queens from that day forward, she made sure to bake it in the pie dish that the fifth queen had gifted her.)

“A book on American history...?” Katherine grinned, knowing exactly who gave it to her. “Thank you Ogie.”

“I thought since you liked British history so much, you might like to read up on American history now that you live in the states,” Ogie offered. “If you don’t like it though, I can surely think of something else to get you.”

“That won’t be necessary. I love it. Thank you.”

(Kat would stay up late into the night reading about the fascinating history of the country she now resided in. Cathy would find her asleep the next morning with the book in her lap before leaving the room. She returned with the bookmark matched with her friend’s color and bookmark the page for her, but not before attaching a sticky note that read, “ I expect this to be returned to me when you wake up.” When Ogie was playing Paul Revere the next time, the fifth queen was in the front row watching her friend reenact her new favorite part of history.)

“Wow! This is beautiful! Almost an exact replica of the one the Paul Revere wears in my reenactments! Thank you!”

“Well, who do you think got it for you hun?” Dawn also admired the new coat her husband had just been given.

“I- I- I, Cleves?” he guessed. Surely, this was a rather expensive gift, and everyone knew that the red queen had money to spare.

“Nope, wasn’t me.”

“Becky?”

“You wish. I’m not going to encourage your-”

“That’s enough Becky. My daughter is in the room,” Jenna scolded her boisterous friend.

“She won’t encourage his what, Mama?” the little girl in the room stared up at her mother with wide eyes.

“Nothing to worry about hun. Just some adult stuff.” The baker hoped that would be enough. It seemed to work- the girl was back to asking Ogie who he thought gave him the coat.

“Jim?”

“I thought you might like to have it the next time you go on for Revere. That other guy’s coat is huge on you.”

“Thank you Jim!” The elf-man lunged to hug his friend.

“This tie is stunning Jane,” the lanky doctor said confidently.

“How’d you know it was me?” The silver queen was shocked. She didn’t think it was that obvious who she had. She certainly didn’t slip up and tell Jenna either.

“It’s silver.”

“Oh.” In all honesty, the blonde didn’t even realize she had bought a tie in the color that she had been assigned all those years ago. She was just drawn to it.

“Thank you.”

(Jim wore the tie to the second opening night for SiX on broadway many years later. Jane cried when she recognized the tie.)

“Aren’t you going to open your gift?” Cleves asked the third queen expectantly.

“Oh, I guess I just got so... wrapped up in watching everyone else open their gifts!” The punniest queen grinned.

“Just for that, you lose your turn. You go last,” Cleves retorted as she went to open her present.

“Well, I only know one woman who would buy me a designer athletic bag. Thank you Becky!” the red queen acknowledged the rowdy waitress.

“Yeah, yeah. Not a problem. I figured you might like to carry your things in it instead of that small little bag you have.”

“Thank you.”

(Anna of Cleves would use that bag until it ripped, and then she retired it so that she could keep it forever. Becky would be happy to buy her another bag when she needed it.)

“Cleves!” Becky gasped.

“What?”

“These shoes!”

“I’ve seen the shoes you guys wear while you’re waitressing. I read up on these shoes a lot. They’re supposedly really comfortable and they’re stunning. All leather.”

(Becky was more than happy to throw away the ratty pair of shoes she had been wearing since Jenna started working at Joe’s Diner all those years ago and replace them with the shoes Cleves had bought her. And when a new pair showed up at her house a few years later with a note that read: bitchin’ kicks! , well, Becky let out a full-on belly laugh.)

And that left Jane to open her present.

“Well, go on, open it hun,” Jenna encouraged her friend.

Jane was expecting some sort of artwork from the little girl who was no doubt her secret santa. What she wasn’t expecting was a handmade mug with the little girl’s thumbprints in the shape of a heart- under it reading “ Best Aunt”. At the sight of it, the blonde’s eyes welled with tears.

“Thank you Lulu,” she choked out.

“What is it?” Anne asked, curious as to what could elicit such a reaction from her costar.

“It’s a best aunt mug,” Jane whispered.

“Hey, I thought that was me! You little rascal!” both Anna and Becky exclaimed at the same time.

“D-do you like it Aunt Janey?” Lulu stood from her spot in her mother’s lap and resituated herself in the third queen’s, hugging her.

“I absolutely love it, and I love you. It’s perfect. Thank you so much honey.”

(Jane would never use another mug again, nor did she let anyone else in the house use it. It was her mug, and no one dared to touch it.)

After the gift exchange was over, the group settled in to watch a movie, more than happy to spend all of the time in the world together. The youngest member of the group hadn’t strayed from her surrogate aunt’s side, more than happy to snuggle into the warmth that the older woman radiated. It wasn’t long before she was snoring quietly in the arms of her favorite queen.

“You’re all more than welcome to stay the night if you want,” Catherine offered knowing how tired the bunch had become.

“As much as we’d love to,” Jim began before Jenna interrupted.

“It might be easier to have her just sleep here instead of trying to get her into the car and then into bed without her waking up.”

“That’s a fair point. But, all of the gifts are at our house babe.”

“Hey, it’s not a big deal if you guys stay, and it’s not a big deal if you don’t stay. We all know you’re all gonna end up here again in the morning anyway, so it’s totally up to you.” Anne waved a dismissive hand.

“We wouldn't want to impose,” Dawn muffled a yawn.

“We’ve got more than enough room between the living room and the basement, but it’s up to you,” Cathy mumbled, half asleep against Catherine.

“If you guys don’t mind,” Jenna smiled. The six queens all quickly reminded her that it was their idea. “Okay, so Santa’s presents are still at my house, so we’re gonna have to-”

“I’ll go with Jim and get it all together for you, don’t worry Jenna,” Ogie offered.

“I’ll go with them. They need a man to get this job done.” Cal stood and grabbed his coat, the other two men following suit.

“Alright girls, head to bed, Jenna and I can stay up for the boys.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Becky grumbled, picking herself up and heading towards the basement, pulling a half-asleep Dawn with her.

“Goodnight Janey,” the queens all stood and kissed the mother figure of the house on the cheek before retreating to their rooms.

“I better take Lu down-”

“You guys can stay in my room. I’m sure Annie won’t mind a bedmate for the night.”

“I can’t take your room from you.”

“You can. I insist. Lu isn’t going to sleep on one of the couches!”

“But it’s your room.”

“Okay, I do have that pullout in my room. I can sleep on there, and the three of you can have my bed.”

“I’m not taking your bed from you!”

“Well Lu surely isn’t sleeping on that pullout! Not the night before Santa’s coming!”

“Lu can stay with you then. Jim and I will take the couch.”

“But, you’re going to wake up sore.”

“So would you if you slept on it.”

“But you’re my guests.”

“We’re hardly guests at this point.”

“You don’t live here.”

“We might as well.”

“Just take my offer.”

“You’re sleeping in your own bed Seymour. Lu can stay with you, and Jim and I can take the pullout. That’s final,” the brunette turned on her mom voice.

“Damn Hunterson. No need to pull out the mom voice on me!”

“There is a need!”

“Okay, okay!” Jane laughed putting her hands up in mock surrender. “I suppose you win this round. Let’s get her to bed before the Santas arrive.”

The men arrived a while later, promising the two women who had stayed up that they could take care of setting out all the presents.

“Dawn and Becky are downstairs. There’s more than enough room for all of you to stay down there comfortably,” Jane informed them.

“Jane’s been kind enough to share her room with us for the night,” Jenna told her husband. “Lu’s gonna stay with her and we’re gonna stay on the pull-out. Hope that’s alright.”

Jim nodded before instructing the other men on where to put Lulu’s presents.

Although the two women had been told they were more than welcome to go to bed once Jim, Ogie, and Cal arrived back, they stayed and watched them diligently. Satisfied with the display that had the queens’ presents to each other (because of course they all got each other presents on top of their secret santa exchange) as well as the additional presents from the diner gang, everyone set out to bed.

Christmas Day had arrived, and at exactly 5:03 am, Jane Seymour was woken by a small child poking her cheek incessantly.

“Aunt Janey!” she whispered. “It’s Christmas. Do you think Santa came? Do you think Santa knowed I stayed here instead of at my own house?”

“Lu, it’s 5 in the morning. I don’t know if Santa came yet. Why don’t we give him a couple more hours to make sure he knows you’re here and not home?”

“This is like my home!” the little one whisper-shouted, melting the blonde’s heart.

“That’s so sweet of you to say hun. Why don’t we go back to sleep for a little bit though? It’s very early, and you know how your girls like their sleep.”

“Hmm,” Lulu thought this over for a second. “I guess you’re right. Good night Aunt Janey. Merry Christmas, and love you.”

“I love you too little Lu,” the blonde sighed as her surrogate niece snuggled into her side for a few more hours.

Opening presents was about as chaotic as anyone could guess in the house with thirteen people in it. After presents were done, Cal set out to make breakfast for everyone, muttering that if he couldn’t do that, what kind of cook would he be? It didn’t go unnoticed by the writer that he used his new spatula and apron as opposed to one of the spatulas in the queens’ house, the first and only time he ever used the kitchen tool.

“Hey Jenna?” Jane called from her place on the couch. The baker looked over at her friend inquisitively. “I have one more present for you.”

“What? You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Well, maybe it’s not for you, per se. It’s for the little one inside of you.” The third queen stood and walked towards the Christmas tree before almost magically producing one last present from under it.

Jenna opened the present with care and glanced at it before bursting into tears.

A simple onesie that said “ Heart of Gold, Green, Silver, Red, Pink, and Blue” .

“We thought it might be nice to give you for the new baby. We already love him or her so much.”

(When Olivia Pomatter arrived in the world, it was the first onesie the Hunterson-Pomatter duo put their new daughter in. Jane cried.)

#six the musical #six musical #waitress the musical #waitress musical #jane seymour #jenna hunterson #six fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfic #waitress the musical fanfiction #waitress the musical fanfic

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langdxn · 4 years

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Hello darling! I was wanting to request a Jim smut where the reader worships his body, kisses him all over, and just gives him all the love and attention he deserves. Like really soft smut! 😩♥️

Nawww soft!Jim needs some love! Thank you for this, anon, I’ve missed writing for Jim so badly ♥️♥️♥️

Rehab changed Jim.

The ocean hadn’t changed. The waves hadn’t changed. The rocks hadn’t changed. But the boy — the man — perched on them watching the ocean and the waves had developed.

Somehow he accepted the transformation of his personality as an unavoidable part of the process, an altered direction he needed to endure in order to survive.

You were there to show him some normality, show him that not everybody was mad at him for going on the self-destructive path he found himself spiralling down.

You hadn’t volunteered to drive him home from the rehab centre, Jim insisted. His first night away from the clinical insanity, he needed his long term girlfriend by his side. Sleeping in a bed that wasn’t his own, not full of bad memories and temptations, anything that could set him back.

Jim dragged himself weakly through the front door behind you, bracing himself against the walls should the earth crumble beneath him. The beachy blonde slumped his way to your bedroom, bypassing the food and drink you’d laid out for him, his favourite snacks and a collection of surfing magazines if he needed relief. You weren’t to know that said surfing magazines had kept him alive in the clinic, reading them cover to cover, inspecting every pixel of every photo.

His limp body tumbled onto your sheets like a sack of potatoes, limbs sprawled out in the same place they landed. Wandering to the other side of the bed, you perched on the edge to gaze down at him. A few moments of stony silence fell until Jim curled into a foetal position, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, desperately praising their presence.

“Do�� do you still love me?” Jim stuttered, pain lacing every syllable that rolled off his tongue. “I’ve been away a long time, you might’ve moved on.”

“Jim, you don’t leave behind the people you love just because they’re going through a tough time.” You reached down to brush an errant curl from his face. “I’ll always love you, surfer boy.”

Straightening his legs and shuffling his hips to make room for you beside him, you led down and mirrored his position, gazing into his oceanic blue eyes just like the first time you saw them.

“I’ll always love you too,” he sighed, raising a trembling arm to ghost a fingertip over your bare arm, tracing the curve of your skin, the outline of your figure highlighted by the sun beaming through your window. Your existence was all he needed when he was in rehab, knowing you were still there and still cared about him kept him going through every monotonous day, every infuriating counselling session, every heartbreaking night sleeping alone.

Jim leaned over to kiss you, tenderly at first, letting out a yearning whimper against your mouth as you melted into him.

“Are you sure, Jim?” You questioned with a palm to his chest. “Isn’t it too soon?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He cupped your cheek and pulled you in to kiss you again, nudging his nose against yours as he closed the gap between you and pressed his chest flush against yours.

“You’re everything to me,” Jim moaned into your mouth, falling into your touch as you hooked a thigh over his and pulled yourself up to straddle his waist without breaking your kiss. Hands passionately weaving through his hair, you lowered your hips onto his, noticing the growing bulge beneath his jeans causing him to whine as you moved.

“Shh, Jim,” you whispered softly. “Let me show you how much you mean to me. Please?”

He nodded weakly, a resigned smile curling his mouth as you traced your lips over his cheek towards his neck, fluttering butterfly kisses wherever you touched. Nibbling his earlobe and painting gentle breaths over his skin, your touch earned a soft hiss from Jim, his hips bucking up against you desperate for friction.

“I need you,” he pleaded in a whisper, both of his hands wandering to pull your shirt over your head and then his own. “I need you so fucking badly.”

“I’m right here, baby boy,” you hummed, lightly raking your nails down his sides as you trailed your lips to his collarbone, pecking into the valley of his sternum while his back arched into you.

“I can’t believe I nearly threw all this away,” Jim shook his head in disbelief, rinsing his face with his hands before entwining his fingers with your hair as you neared his abdomen. “I was such a fucking idiot.”

“Baby,” you halted your light kisses to look up at him, his baby blues blown with lust. “You’re my idiot.”

Jim chuckled and threw his head back into the pillow as your lips dipped into his pelvis, leaving you unsupervised long enough to start sucking at his skin, marking him ever so slightly with the gentlest of blooming red marks.

Reaching the waistband of his jeans, you planted a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on the denim above his straining erection before sweeping down his zipper, parting the fabric and setting his flushed cock free to flick against his abdomen. Both moaning softly in unison, you quickly licked a flat stripe from his base to his tip, eliciting heavy breaths from the boy beneath you.

“Oh Jesus fuck, baby girl,” he husked between gasps. “That feels… that feels…”

He barely had chance to finish his sentence before you wrapped your lips around his length and licked featherlight circles around his tip. Moaning greedily, he pressed his hand down on your head as you dipped down to take his cock down the back of your throat in one smooth motion, letting Jim’s hips buck wildly beneath you as you nuzzled into his pelvis.

“How the hell did I last two months without this?” Jim grunted, keening frantically as you flattened your tongue to take his twitching cock even deeper. “I’ve dreamt about you going down on me every goddamn night.”

“That’s a lot of dreams to live up to, Mason,” you hummed as you left his tip to draw breath before bobbing back down so hard, Jim cried out with all the breath left in his lungs.

“Fuck me,” he shouted, his hand idly caressing your hair. “It’s been so long, I won’t be able to last much longer, baby.”

With that, you drew back from his length with a pop and shuffled up to straddle his waist, sliding aside your panties and lining his spit-slicked head with your dampened folds.

“Then I better show you what else you’ve been missing, hadn’t I?”

Sinking down onto his cock with a steady rock of your hips, you pressed both flat palms onto his chest and revelled in his eyes squeezing firmly shut with every twitch of your walls around him.

“You’re so tight for me,” Jim muttered under his breath, curling his hips up into you to crash his tip against your sweet spot. “I’ve missed stretching you out like this.”

“Stay off the drugs and you can have this every damn day, baby.”

Blissed-out with his head plunged into the pillow, Jim couldn’t reply until you tested him with a sharp plummet down onto his length, burying every inch of him between your folds.

“You got me there, doll, no drug could beat being this deep inside you.”

Jim’s hands gripped your hips intently, digging crescents into your pubic curves to punctuate every time you grind down onto him, setting an agonisingly slow pace to slide his length into you. The pressure building within your walls only helped you slow your rocking motion, drawing out every thrust as Jim’s breaths sharpened beneath you.

“I—I can’t—I need… I need to,” he stuttered, hips keening manically to chase the fast friction he so desperately needed from you.

“What was that, baby?”

You weren’t trying to tease him, you were just determined to let him enjoy the moment, but Jim had other ideas. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he lunged forwards until you fell back on the bed beneath him.

“I’m so sorry,” Jim leaned down to whisper into the shell of your ear, peppering kisses in the exact same pattern you traced earlier as his hips snapped into you. “I wanted to let you carry on but after all that teasing, I really, really need to pound you into the mattress right now.”

#jim mason x reader #jim mason smut #jim mason fanfiction #jim mason imagines #the tribes of palos verdes

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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 4 years

Text

1 Night (Sriracha, Part 7.)

Description: A problematic college student gets the worst summer job of the ‘83 - Jim Hopper, the Chief of police in your hometown will have you as his secretary since his old lady Flo has two months lasting holiday. It was agreed so Hopper could let you far away from all the trouble.

Part Summary: Waking up next to Hopper means one only thing in your mind - a night you didn't remember and a lot of cringe coming your way.

A/N: No fluff or smut so far, sksksks. Also, inspired by 1 Night by Charli XCX and Mura Masa, because that song is just everything.

Word count: 2.7 K

Tagging: @nemodoren @missdictatorme @creedslove

Master list: H E R E

You had woken up at the sound of snoring directly in your ears. Your eyes flew open at that moment, you almost threw up. You smelled like... Oh shit, you puked again, didn't you? Well, great.

You were tucked in a blanket from your shoulders to your toes, your hip was hurting since you surely didn't turn on your other side the whole night, again. Well, your memories from yesterday were pretty blurry, but you remembered that you were eating Sriracha quesadillas with Hopper, yeah, and then... A blackout.

Your eyes shut again as you mumbled a cuss word. That meant that the man laying next to you was... And in that second Hopper snorted again. Oh Lord, did you know that sound from the many times he fell asleep in his office? You sat up and looked at the bucket - clearly, one of you was puking yesterday and you were sure that it was you. It was cleaned off from the worst, but there were still small remnants of the last night’s food. And then you tried to stand up and...

You cried out with pain and immediately fell back onto the bed. Jesus, your foot hurt like a living fuck. You cried and looked at Hopper, who just mumbled something out and turned to lay his belly.

Oh, holy shit, he was only in his briefs and a t-shirt, that's what you noticed when he showed you his ass and shoved a leg from under his blanket. He had pretty nice legs, that needed to be said. You huffed out one more cuss word and leaned forward to massage your temples. Jesus, your head was hurting.

You needed some painkillers, a glass of water and something to eat since you felt like someone gave you a punch directly to the stomach. Slowly, you got up, looking at yourself in the mirror of the wardrobe.

You looked terrible - black circles under your eyes making you look like a raccoon, your hair making a mess on your head, your skin definitely looked unhealthy. You needed a shower, as soon as possible. Well, since Hopper was out of order, so you could technically have a shower at his place. What eyes don't see that doesn't hurt the heart, right? Another thing you needed was at least a fresh t-shirt and a pair of socks. And you didn't plan to wake him up, so you opened up the first cabinet, looking at his mess for a t-shirt. Were you blind or did Hopper indeed had t-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, and briefs thrown in one drawer? It sure looked like that.

But at least, the clothes weren't worn. They weren't smelly or dirty, but they sure as well wasn't fresh either. You searched through three drawers before you found at least one representable pair of socks and a grey t-shirt with orange stripes which was almost three times bigger than you were. You could also almost drag the sock all over your face, covering yourself with it.

Yet, these were desperate times and these were the only clothes you needed and could find. Then, you dragged yourself to the other side of Hopper's trail, almost letting two of the cabinets fall down while you support yourself with it. When you saw the living room, your eyes simply widened.

There were cans and bottles of beer everywhere, the ashtray was full off cigarette butts. The place was wrecked and you just hoped that you weren't to one who caused all of that chaos. You tried to imagine what you were doing last night - maybe you tried to have sex? Well, that was indeed a wild guess. But no, you weren't obviously naked since you got your jeans on - you wouldn't be able to take them off and then put them back on and Hopper wouldn't surely care enough to get you dressed. Did you at least kiss him? Did he kiss you? If you did kiss him, did Hopper kissed you back? It was particularly strange to imagine having... Anything with your boss.

You now knew how to survive all day in his presence, you learned it day by day, but it was a quite bizarre imagining having any romantic interaction with Jim. And the worst part was that you weren't disgusted when you imagined something happening in that very living room.

If anything, you were just disappointed that you couldn't recall anything. Which you would never expect to feel when someone would tell you that you slept with your boss. Really, did you kiss? Did he like it? Did your hand disappeared under his uniform? Did he took off your shoes and shirt and you just... Fell asleep?

There were too many scenarios of how could the whole thing went, so you tried to shake it off and hopped to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You let the pants fall down along with panties, hanging your bra on the towel hanger, taking a fresh towel out of the drawer. There was a mess everywhere in his house as you could see while exploring the cabinet - there were soaps taken out of the packaging, many tissues which you were afraid to touch, too many used razor blades everywhere.

Without further ado, you let the hot water roam your body - you skillfully cleaned yourself, not leaving out a single spot, only the foot out of the shower. You almost fainted when the bathroom door opened up - you screamed and Hopper, as quickly he opened up the door, as quickly he closed it, letting himself three inches of space to talk to you.

Oh, he did look at you? He indeed did - but he only saw your butt and the small of your back with your messy, damp hair. He tried his best to turn away from you.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Y/N!" - Jim called at you and you coughed, turning off the water with a swift motion, covering yourself in a tower.

"I... I suppose that you saw me naked anyway, am I right? Yesterday?" - You guessed and started to dry yourself with the towel before covering your hair in it. You abruptly tried to put your clothes on along with dressing up in the t-shirt and socks - bit there were really huge on your body. You looked cute, though.

"You mean..." - "If we fucked. Yeah. That's what I'm asking about." - You answered and tugged your shirt behind the belt, making the shirt somehow fashionable. No matter what you did, the sleeves reached your elbows and his socks simply reached up to knees. In other to be hygienic, you pushed the panties into your back pocket, finally leaving the bathroom.

Hopper was standing in front of the door and obviously thought hard about the answer. In the end, he just scratched his beard and with a growl, he walked back to take another beer from the fridge and some pills from the counter. You watched him with a clear disagreeing in your face.

"No." - Was the only answer he gave you before taking a swing from that bottle. - "You fell asleep in my car. You were dead by the time I dropped you here."

"Have I done something... Bad?" - You asked with a bad feeling in your stomach and you watched as Hopper cleaned up the table in front of you, putting the dirty dishes to the sink, smoking a Camel.

"No. Just threw up a lot, but that was kind of expected in your state." - Hopper mumbled back again, throwing a pack of Eggos on the table for you before giving you one small plate.

"Hopper, I'm sorry... Wait. Since when do I call you Hopper?" - You asked nervously when you caught yourself calling Chief by his name. You usually thought about him as about Hopper, yeah, but you never called him differently. And it came out of your mouth very fluently.

"You just decided that you want to call me Hopper, I let you. Let me check on your foot, come on, raise it up for me." - Hopper got on his knees and slowly put your ankle on his knee, smoking while he took the bandage of your foot. You tried to keep the foot dry, which was only a thing that he had to admire. You weren't dumb.

As his thumbs traveled around the healing cut, you hissed and caught his shoulder again - and this time, he felt your nails way more intensively than the night before. That was right, you were sober at that moment. And his body somehow leaned into that touch, without any of you realize.

"If you simply asked me, I could borrow you some better clothes because these definitely aren't yours." - Hopper mumbled taking another puff from the cigarette, waving with his sock in the air, giving you a furrowed look as he took care of the foot once again. You reddened a bit at that remark he made.

"Didn't want to wake you up and make things more awkward since I didn't remember anything that happened yesterday." - You mumbled back, still holding his shoulder tightly. Yesterday, you didn't have the time to even notice, but his shoulders were road and ripped. He wasn't exactly thin, no, but he had some nice shoulders.

Also, when he kneeled before you and you weren't afraid that he'll see you naked, you noticed how bad did he look - his hair and mustache were a mess, he clearly couldn't sleep well, his skin was a bit too transparent. He... He wasn't completely ugly. There was a spark about him that you didn't know about the whole time. He could be the rumored panties destroyer, indeed. But you didn't know why did you notice that. Your eyes just watched his face, beard, mustache, skin deepened from the times he was smiling.

You saw him smile how many times? Once or twice? You could count these moments on the fingers of your left hand easily.

"It's way too awkward already. The leg's all good, but you shouldn't ride your bike for some time. You should ask your mom or brother to drive you to the station in the morning, alright?" - Hopper stood back on his feet and let you roll on the sock.

"I'll drive you home, or at least close to it and you'll need to walk there on your feet." - Hopper told you and lighted up another cigarette.

"By any chance, do you have whipped cream and Hershey's kisses?" - You asked when you looked at the frozen treat he had thrown you on the table. Hopper furrowed for a while before he opened up the fridge, giving you both sweets you've asked for.

But he didn't tell you anything, he just furrowed more and lighted up another cigarette, leaving the room you were currently occupying. You were touching the worst spots without even knowing.

You've already told him what was on your mind last night and to be fair, you were right. And he was accepting that. But to blaming you for bringing up Sara on his mind, that just wasn't fair to you. You were a good girl, you tried your best while you worked at the PD, you found the perfect balance between being a great addition to the team, but you still stayed true yourself.

And that was maybe the problem. You knew him like your dealt hand of cards and you were simply a great woman and a good person. That was a murderous combination in his opinion.

He didn't exactly like you, he didn't want to date you or whatever, but a few things on you were attracting him, if he needed to address his behavior that right away.

He was standing on the terrace long enough to not lose his cool once he walks back into the room, and when he was ready, he walked back to put some clothes on.

The rest of your stay in Hopper's household was awkwardly quiet for both of you. When he drove the roads, you were just looking out of the window, listening to Jim Croce. You were into the pop and disco that was modern, but you could enjoy Time in a Bottle or I’ve Got a Name since your grandpa was listening to a lot to this man back in his day. Hopper was actually impressed that you knew bits of Jim Croce’s music, he needed to say.

He dropped you off two streets away from your home just as he told you. Walking on your right foot was definitely hurting you, but you walked the way home proudly. The limping couldn't be unseen though.

Jim knew that he desperately needs to focus on something - whether he’ll go to the bar to watch baseball of football or concentrates on a case, he needed to do something. He knew that if he wouldn't, this Sriracha night would occupy his mind. When you closed the door behind you, he finally turned his car to drive back into the wilderness and loneliness he was living him.

The thing you told him were burned into his brain - that you find older men mysterious. Did that translate to hot? Also, did you find him hot too in that case? But not just these animalistic things, no, there was also the bit about him acting tough because he was trying to hide a trauma. He was trying to find something that would help find a way back from the darkness of grief and depression

Oh, how could you be so right? Everything was just on point. You messed him up properly and you didn't remember any of it. Life wasn’t always fair and Jim had to finally acknowledge that. Also, a thought crossed his mind - you were in his office for a goddamn month already, and there was only a month remaining. It was a long time to sort everything out, maybe even to have a proper talk with you. Maybe he wished only someone who would listen to the thoughts going on a constant loop in his head.

Maybe he needed someone to talk to. In fact, you were about to be a diploma psychologist, so he could technically say that he's going on a therapy, right? But what if you weren't interested? What if he figured it all wrong?

When he parked his car in front of the trail, he could still exactly feel where your hand touched him and it was an unpleasant feeling. So unpleasant, that he needed to take a shower to get it off. There were small bruises at the places where you dug your fingers, but there was anything Hopper could do about that.

When he walked through the kitchen, he noticed a weird, lacy black thing laying on his chair - so he naturally bent to pick it up. When he realized that he's holding your panties right in front of his face, he just huffed out before taking a sip from the opened glass of beer, lighting up another cigarette.

He should throw the lacy thing into the lake behind his trail. Or into the trash bin. Or just straightaway burn it. Instead, he clenched it in his palm while puffing in and out. By the looks of it, you surely didn't leave the piece of clothing there on purpose since you were afraid to even wake him up.

But it was something to take a hold on for Hopper - it symbolized a flag of something new incoming. Whether he wished to change things around or not, he needed to something with himself. Anything. If he wished to take a step further or not, that was a thing he didn't have a clue about. If you're going to be a part of the change, that was also unclear. But there was something about that damned piece of clothing.

He saw it as a signal that there were maybe a few that cared about him and wished him to find his way out of the cave he was in. And that he needed to find something to talk to finally.

#jim hopper x reader #jim hopper #jim hopper imagine #chief jim hopper #hawkins police chief #it was only night #do you wanna go back to where were #?#james jim hopper #netflix #stranger things Netflix #Stranger Things

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black-cherrie · 3 years

Text

Friends and More ------------------------

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Plot: Things change at Y/N”s birthday party

Warnings: kissing, friends to lovers, fingering, oral (female receiving)

Word count: 1,781

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Jim Mason. That’s the name of the boy you’ve inevitably fallen for. If someone were to ask you to name your favorite thing about him you’d have nothing to say, as there are so many things about the blue eyed boy that you love. He was undeniably your favorite person, from the tips of his unruly hair down to his toes. Now, if someone were to ask if he felt the same way, well you wouldn’t be able to give an answer.

You loved Him. You loved him like no one else. The only problem was that Jim himself had no clue you were head over heels for him. You were too afraid to mention anything, scared it would ruin the amazing relationship between you. You loved your friendship touch to jeopardize it. So you remained quiet about your love, happy to just be friends.

That doesn't mean that all his flirting doesn't get to you. You're constantly trying to hide your flushed face or having to squeeze your thighs together to get some friction. And tonight was no different.

"Heeeeey, there's the birthday babe." Jim's sweet voice filled your ears as you stepped into your living room. Dropping your purse on a side table, you kicked off your heels, sighing at the relief.

"Jimmy, what's all this? I thought I told you I didn't want a party this year." You can't help the smile that makes its way across your face, flushing a little. You walked up to Jim and hugged him, taking in the familiar, soothing scent of him that you loved so much.

"Come on Y/N you only turn 21 once. What's the harm in having a few drinks with the sexiest man here?" You both giggle as he gestures towards himself, clearly enjoying the slight blush on your face. He pulled you close and bent slightly to whisper in your ear. "Besides, everyone here is boring the life out of me. Maybe you can revive me."

You felt his breath on your skin, causing shiver to run down your spine, liquid fire already pooling in your stomach.

You pull back to look up at him, his eyes glazed over in what you felt was lust. 'He couldn't be serious could he?' You silently questioned, hoping that maybe...just maybe he wasn't kidding.

"Whatever beach boy, let's just get some drinks and get away from the gossipers."

"What, scared people will talk about you? They talk about everyone princess so you'll be fine."

On the inside you were beaming with happiness at the nickname. Of course you'd never let him or anyone else know that.

You rolled your eyes, pretending not to care about the name as you pulled him towards the drinks. "Well you wouldn't believe the stuff I overhear about you. I mean I'm sure non of it's true." You smirk and pour your drink before turning your back to him.

"Hey! Watch the goods!" You jump in surprise as you feel Jim's hand smack your ass briefly.

"Yeah they're some goods alright." He smirks and smacks your ass again, this time his touch lingering a bit longer.

You feel your face heat up as you flush hard. Your heart racing at his touch. 'Please oh please keep touching me.' You quietly beg in your head.

"You're such a pig Jimmy. Don't you have another girl to grab onto?"

"Nah, all the other girls here are either slutting it up with their professors or are saving themselves for 'mister right'." He makes air quotes around the last words, making you laugh.

"Yeah yeah. Here, hold my drink I need to take a pee break." You hurry to hand him your drink as you rush to the bathroom. Immediately moaning as you trace your fingers over your throbbing clit. The feeling of Jim's touch still fresh in your mind, the feeling of his hot breath against your skin. The glazed over look in his eyes. It was all too much. You couldn't stand it anymore, you just had to get off.

You gripped the edge of the sink as you sped your hand up, imagining how his hand would feel instead of yours. How his strong, callused hand would feel as he gently rubbed your poor clit.

"You like that princess? You like the way I touch this little pussy?" You did your best to moan quietly as you imagined his voice. You knew from a few of the girls at college that he was quite the talker and you just needed to see for yourself.

You dipped your fingers down into your dripping core, collecting your wetness and dragging it up to your clit. "Jimmy, please."

"Please what Y/N?"

You nearly screamed as you heard his voice. Pulling your hand from your skirt as the other covers your heart. "Jesus you scared the crap out of me you ass."

"Hey, you were taking too long so I came to see of you were ok. I didn't expect to see you fucking your fingers and moaning my name."

Your face heats up in embarrassment. You automatically start to deny it.

"I wasn't doing that, I just had a um....and itch on my inner thigh that's all."

"Yeah? Then why were you moaning my name like a little slut? Are you a slut?" He steps closer to you, locking the door as he pushes you against the wall. Dipping his head to the crook of your neck. Running his nose lightly up to your ear. "Why don't you show me what you were doing, this time without the skirt in the way."

You can only nod as you feel his fingers slip into the waistband of your skirt, pulling them down quickly. You gasped lightly as his hand brushed against the wet spot of your panties, making him chuckle.

"So wet. Do you always get this wet when you think of me princess? Do you imagine me touching you like this? Imagine me kissing up and down this pretty little neck?"

A moan slips out of you before you realize it, making you bring a hand to cover your mouth. Almost immediately Jim moves it back down. "Don't quiet yourself, I want to hear how good I make my girl feel."

You whine at his words, spreading your legs wider to give him better access to your center.

Jim kneels down so he's level with your cunt, breathing on the scent of you deeply as he rubs a small circle against your panties. "You're soaking for me baby girl. Would like to have my fingers inside you? I bet it would feel better than just rubbing you through your panties." He smirks, running his fingertips along your thighs as he inches them closer to the hem of your panties.

"Please Jimmy, don't tease me. I need you."

You practically beg, heart racing at the thought of his long skillful fingers inside you, reaching spots you couldn't reach on your own.

Jim leans forward, pressing a light kiss to your thigh. "Ok sweetheart, because you said please." He grabs the hem of your panties slips them down slowly, savoring the sight of each inch that appears.

He traces his lips lightly up your thigh right up to your core. Placing a soft kiss above your clit. "You have no idea how long I've thought about this. How long I've wanted to make you mine, show you off."

You blush hard at his words, feeling your heart soar with happiness. "I've wanted you for so long Jim. Longer than I want to admit."

He chuckles lightly, his breath ghosting over your core, causing a shiver to run through your. "Well i guess both of our wishes are coming true." He uses his fingers to spread your petal soft cunt lips open, moaning at the sight of you dripping for him.

Without warning he licks a wide stripe from your opening up to your clit, dragging your wetness with the tip of his tongue. You jump at the feeling, automatically tangling your fingers in his hair.

"Fuck Jim, please don't stop." He smiles into your pussy, pleased to know he's already making you feel good.

"Don't worry baby, I won't stop until i have you dripping down my throat." With that he wraps his plump pink lips around your glistening clit. Suckling gently, almost too gently as he flicks his tongue against it in different patterns. Wanting you on your toes, to feel you tremble as he changes speed.

"Oh god, D-daddy." Your eyes widen as the word slips from your mouth, body going rigid with embarrassment.

Jim looks up at you, a mischievous glint in his gorgeous blue eyes. He smirks around your cunt as he brings two fingers to your opening. Sliding them inside as he sucks harder on your clit.

"You taste so good for Daddy little one. The sweetest little pussy I've ever tasted." His words make you blush more, although you didn't think it was possible since you hadn't stopped blushing from the moment he put his mouth on you.

You could only moan as his mouth and fingers worked their magic on you. Your toes curling as he crooks his fingers in a 'come hither' motion, touching that magical spot deep inside you that you could never reach.

"Fuck, please. I'm so close." You breathe out, legs trembling as he doubles his efforts. Fucking his fingers into you faster, sucking herder on your clit.

"You gonna cum for me already princess? Is Daddy making you feel good baby?"

"Y-yes Daddy. It feels so good. Please please don't stop."

With just a few more thrusts against you sweet spot and even more sucks to your clit you explode. You vision turning white as you grip his hair tightly, pulling a bit too hard.

Jim's doing his best drink up everything you have to give him. Licking you like a madman that's addicted to you taste.

You have to push at his head after you become too sensitive, whining slightly

As Jim stands he grabs your jaw, kissing you passionately as he lets you taste yourself on his tongue.

As you pull apart for air you glance down, noticing a rather large bulge in his pants. You bring you hand down to rub him through his clothes, biting your lip slightly.

"I can take care of this for you." You smile seductively, already imagining how he tastes.

He chuckles and moves your hand to interlock your fingers.

"Another time princess. This was just for you. Happy birthday baby." He kisses you again, gentler this time, making your heart flutter.

'Damn.' You thought. 'I really love this boy.'

TBC...

#codyfern #codyfernfic #jimmason #jimamasonxreader #friendsandmore #thetribesofpalosverdes

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get-your-fics · 5 years

Text

Violent Ends - Chapter Sixteen

Liar, Liar

Summary: Bruce Wayne is addicted to a lot of things to distract from his dark urges, but his addiction to you might only increase them.

Pairing: dark!Bruce Wayne x reader

Series warnings: Violence, language, smut, rape/non-con, stalking, kidnapping, underage drinking, drug use, torture, abuse

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Tell me more about your parents.” I sat on my bed and ran a brush through your hair. I enjoyed listening to the stories you had to tell about your family. It felt like the only time you ever really opened up to me, and when you recounted the memories, it was like I could envision myself there, picture myself with you.

You sat criss-crossed in front of me and fidgeted with your fingers. “There’s not much more to tell that I already haven’t told you.” You stared straight ahead at the mirror above the dresser, watching as my reflection’s hand moved the brush through your hair. “My mom died when I was around eight years old. I don’t have many memories of her.” You took your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’s like I’m starting to forget her.”

I stilled the brush in your hair. I set it down and looped my arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against my chest. I rested my chin on your shoulder and met your eyes in the mirror. “You’re not forgetting her, gorgeous. You can never forget her. She’s your mom. She’ll always be with you, whether you realize it or not, right here.”

I raised my hand, and you flinched before I pointed to the left side of your chest over your heart. You tensed against me, your shoulders square and your back rigid. Your eyes bore holes into mine. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

I furrowed my thick brows, slightly taken aback by the question. “Because I love you and I don’t like seeing you sad, so I want to make you feel better,” I answered honestly.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “I thought seeing me sad turned you on.”

The corners of my lips curled into a smirk. “Only when I’m the cause.”

I pressed a kiss to your shoulder just below the strap of your dress. I worked my way up your shoulder to your neck, avoiding the thick, leather collar encircling your throat. I placed featherlight kisses over your skin and appreciated the neat, red scar of one of the many lacerations I had made there. I kissed your cheek and looked in the mirror to see you frowning.

“I’m teasing you, gorgeous.” I chuckled and went back to untangling the knots in your hair with the brush. “Why don’t you tell me a story about your dad?”

You pursed your lips. “Well, there was this one time he took me bowling, and—”

The ring of the doorbell resonated throughout the house as it went off. I froze, the brush halfway through tugging on the strands of your hair. I could see your eyes widen in the mirror. I yanked the brush out of your hair and tossed it onto the mattress beside me. It bounced before coming to a rest. I clamped a hand over your mouth and pulled you roughly against me. You let out a squeak that was muffled by my palm.

“Scream, and I will give you something to be sad about,” I leaned down and hissed in your ear.

You nodded fervently, your chest heaving. I slowly peeled my fingers away from your mouth until I completely let go. You sucked in a breath and exhaled a sigh of relief. “I won’t scream,” you confirmed.

“Good,” I hopped off of the bed and reached for the side table, “but just to make sure...” I pulled open the drawer and took out a ball gag.

You clenched your jaw. “That’s really not necessary.”

“I’m just taking precaution, gorgeous.” I took a tentative step towards you. “You haven’t exactly given me a lot of reason to trust you.”

You looked at me before moving for the door, but I got to you before your feet even touched the floor. I snaked an arm around your middle and shoved the ball gag into your mouth. I shoved you face first into the mattress and pinned you down with a knee on your back. You shouted in protest, but the ball gag plus the covers muted your noises. I clicked the ball gag into place around your head and stroked your hair lovingly.

I stretched an arm behind me for the drawer. I took a pair of handcuffs out and wrenched your arms behind your back. They snapped into place with a metallic clack, and I wrapped my fingers around your arm. I jerked you back and dragged you over to the closet, not giving you time to find your footing. I kicked open the door and threw you inside. You landed on your side on the hardwood harshly, concealed by the racks of clothing.

I squatted down so I was at your level. “Stay here, and don’t make a sound. If you’re a good girl for me, I’ll reward you.” I stood up and held the door halfway open. “Bye bye, gorgeous. I’ll be back soon.”

I shut the door on you, shrouding you in darkness. I retreated out of the room as the doorbell rang a second time. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” I yelled, rolling my eyes. I walked down the hall and reached for the doorknob. I twisted it and pulled it open, the rays of the bright afternoon sun shining directly in my face and blinding me.

I held up my hand to shield me from the sun and looked down to see Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock standing on my doorstep. Jim was wearing a navy blue suit with a periwinkle undershirt and maroon tie. His light brown hair was parted to the right of his head and slicked back. Dark violet circles lined the skin underneath his sky blue eyes. Harvey had a brown leather jacket pulled on over his suit. His striped tie was slightly askew, and his shirt wasn’t buttoned up all the way, allowing a peek of his undershirt to be seen. He had a fedora on over his snarled, shoulder length hair, and the white whiskers that made up his beard were unruly and in need of a shave. They both wore grim, serious expressions, and I could tell they were here for business and not pleasure.

“Detectives Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock,” I grinned like a cheshire cat and leaned in the doorway, one hand holding the door open, “what a pleasant surprise!”

“Bruce.” Jim gave me a stern nod of acknowledgement.

“Uh-oh. Something tells me you’re not here just to say hello.” I looked back and forth between them. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Do you know a woman by the name of (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?” Harvey asked.

My body went stiff. Shit. Unsure of how much they knew about my relationship with you, I tried to keep my answers as vague and as open-ended as possible. “Yes, I do know her.”

“Then you’ll know that she went missing about a month ago.”

“Yes, I did hear about that. Her family thought she went to Paris, didn’t they?” I clarified, “It’s been all over the news, hasn’t it? Practically every hour. So, the GCPD’s got you looking into runaway girls now?”

“They don’t think she ran away. They suspect foul play,” Jim explained, “and this is a high profile case. She worked as the fundraising chairman of the (Y/L/N) Corporation. Her family wants the best people looking into it.”

“So of course they sent you.” I tilted my head to the side. “Though, I don’t really see what all this has to do with me.”

“A lot of people sighted you with her leading up to her disappearance, and Wayne Manor was the last location we were able to track her phone to.”

My smile faltered for just one second before I managed to maintain it, and I hoped they weren’t able to notice. Fuck. I knew that damn phone would get me into trouble sooner or later. “Well, if you came here to ask me if I know where she is, I don’t know what to tell you.” I shrugged nonchalantly.

Harvey took a step forward. “Mind if we come in, take a quick look around?” He pointed to the hall behind me.

I met his gaze. The question was innocent enough, but the sharp, hawklike look in his eyes told me they weren’t quite sure if I was innocent enough. Part of me wanted to ask if they had a warrant, but I knew better than to do that. It would only make me look like I had something to hide. I rolled back my shoulders. What could the harm be? You were locked away, safe in my closet. I would just show them around a little bit, enough to ease their suspicion so they’d get off my back and move on. Plus, I might be able to gage what they knew so far about the situation and get a step ahead.

I smiled at them and stepped aside. “Of course,” I held the door wide open for them and gestured inside, “come on in.”

They stepped past the threshold and into the foyer. I closed the door behind them, and they walked past me. Their heads swiveled from side to side constantly, like they were scanning every single thing they could for evidence to condemn me with. I caught up to them and clapped a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Let’s go to the living room first.” I led them further into the manor and to the living room. I took my hands off of them and walked over to the mini bar. “Can I offer you guys a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Jim denied. “We're on the job, and it’s only two in the afternoon.”

“Well, you know what they say: it’s five o’clock somewhere.” I winked and grabbed a glass bottle of honey brown liquid. I screwed off the top and poured the whiskey into a crystal glass.

Harvey narrowed his eyes at me. “Aren’t you a little too young to be drinking?”

I shrugged. “Are you going to tell on me, detective?” I smirked before raising the whiskey to my lips and sipped. Neither Harvey nor I took our eyes off of each other.

Jim cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension in the room. “Do you have any idea as to why (Y/N)’s phone would be tracked here?”

I broke eye contact with Harvey first and switched my gaze to Jim. I gulped down the drink of whiskey in my mouth, the alcohol tingling my throat as it slid down. “She came over a few times and was always in a hurry in the mornings, you know, ‘cause of her job and all. It’s possible she forgot it here when she was in a rush.”

The detectives exchanged a clearly uncomfortable glance. The implication behind my words was not lost on them. The lie rolled so easily off of my tongue, and as much as I hated acting like you were some meaningless one night stand to me, I had to if I wanted to survive this interrogation. From the looks on their faces, they were buying every word that came out of my mouth.

“Why don’t we move into the kitchen next?” I suggested. They followed me into the kitchen and the dining room attached to it. “It’s so crazy. I can’t believe something like this would happen, especially after her brother died not too long ago.” I leaned back against the island. “Do they still think it was a mugging?”

Jim ran his tongue over his front teeth. “That was the verdict the detectives on the case had come to at the time, but the investigation has been reopened since due to her disappearance, and we’re taking the lead on it now. I can’t say much else because it’s all still pretty confidential.”

I folded my arms over my chest and crossed my ankles. “So you think the same person who killed Brant Jones did something with (Y/N)?”

He gritted his teeth, obviously annoyed by my persistence. “We’re saying it’s a possibility.”

I nodded. “You know, loved ones always like to assume the worst. I talked to (Y/N) a bit after her brother’s death, and she seemed really distraught, like she just wanted to get away from it all.” I gestured with the glass in my hand as I spoke, the liquid swirling and sloshing against the sides. “I wouldn’t put it past her to run off to Paris and disappear off the grid.”

“Might I ask what your relation to Miss (Y/L/N) was?” Harvey ran his finger over one of the cabinets, inspecting the dust that gathered on the pad of his finger.

“We knew each other at Anders Prep and ran into each other at the Towers a couple of months ago,” I described in as little detail as possible. “We went out a couple times, but it was nothing serious.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, (Y/N) doesn’t seem like the kind of girl you would normally go out with,” Jim remarked.

I grinned. “I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, Jim.” I pushed off of the island and headed towards the dining room. “And you’re right, (Y/N) was not my usual conquest, but what can I say? The ladies like what I have to offer.”

“Had any company lately?” I traced Harvey’s gaze back to the two white ceramic plates on the oak wood table with mugs of half-drunken coffee next to them. They were still there from when I had dined with you earlier that morning.

“I brought a girl home last night and made her breakfast this morning.” I set my glass down and stacked the dishes in my arms. “Guess I forgot to clear the table after she left.” I piled them into the sink to wash later.

“It must be hard not having Alfred around to clean up after you anymore.” Jim stopped behind me. “I heard you fired him.”

“Yes, well, you can imagine he didn’t exactly approve of my new lifestyle. It was a natural parting of ways; things had just come to an end between us.” I met his eye. “And I can clean up just fine myself, thank you.”

He was inches from me now, both of our chests puffed out like we were claiming our territory. I looked down my nose at him, and his face hardened. I let him boil under my gaze for a second longer before my lips tugged upwards into a smile. I clapped my hands together, the sound bouncing off of the walls.

“Anything else I can show you, detectives?” I looked between them, my tone chipper.

“Yeah, how about you show us your bedroom before we leave?” Harvey shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

My complexion paled, and my hands started to clam up. I wiped my sweaty palms on my slacks as discreetly as possible and laughed slightly. “An odd request, but sure. Right this way.”

I snatched my whiskey off of the table and downed the rest before putting the glass in the sink along with the rest of the dirty dishes. Then, I guided them down the hall to my bedroom. The door was wide open, and all three of us entered the room. I eyed the closet door nervously and stood in front of it, hoping to block it from their field of vision.

I kept my voice down, hoping you wouldn’t realize we were in here. “I’m sorry about the mess,” I apologized, although there was nothing really out of place. The bed was unmade, and the drawer on the side table was still pulled out, but all that was inside was a small, silver key that was imperceptible unless you looked real close.

Jim opened one of the drawers on the dresser and peered inside. When all he saw was neatly folded sweaters and button downs, he pushed it back in. Harvey noticed the brush I had used on your hair earlier lying haphazardly among the covers and picked it up. He held it up to the light and examined it closely.

“Oh, she must have left that here,” I fibbed. “I’ll have to return it to her, if I can remember her name,” I joked.

The detectives didn’t laugh. Harvey plucked a strand of your hair off of the brush and squinted his eyes at it. For a second, I thought he was going to take it with him to run some DNA tests or something, but then he flicked it off of his finger. He watched it float through the air before it drifted to the ground, and he replaced the brush on the bed.

They continued combing through my belongings until their ears pricked up at the sound of something coming from within the closet. All three of us froze, and I felt a singular drop of sweat roll down my forehead. I focused on the noise until I could place it: the sound of clothes rustling and hangers jostling together on the rack. Their heads snapped to look behind me at the closet.

“What was that?” Harvey’s eyes narrowed until they were slits.

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish out of water, struggling to come up with an excuse. “Wayne Manor isn’t what it used to be. We do get the occasional mouse scurrying about, and I haven’t figured out how to set the mouse traps yet.” I forced a breathy laugh, but it came out as a strangled wheeze like I was choking on air.

Both of their eyes turned to rock hard stone, like they could see straight through the door to you inside. They took a threatening step in my direction when the radio hanging from Jim’s belt started to crackle. They stopped in their tracks, and Jim took the radio from off of his belt. He pressed a button on the side and huddled in the corner to talk to whoever was trying to communicate with him. Harvey stood down and walked over to Jim, listening in on the conversation he was having.

When they were done, Jim replaced the radio on his belt. They both turned around to face me, seemingly distracted from what had just happened moments ago. “Well, I think we’ve seen all that we’ve had to. There’s somewhere else we have to be.”

I smiled weakly at them. “Of course. Let me walk you to the door.”

I took them back down the hall and into the foyer. “Sorry for taking up your time.” Jim put his hands on his hips, moving his suit jacket out of his way and flashing me the gun in a holster hanging his belt. “We know you’re a good man, Bruce, but we have to follow standard protocol when it comes to these sort of things.”

“That’s all right. I know how it is.” I dismissed his comment with a wave of my hand. “I always find myself at the center of whatever is happening in Gotham anyway. You and I have that in common, don’t we, Jim?”

He nodded. “It was good to see you again. I wish it had been under better circumstances.”

“Well, feel free to come by anytime.” I grinned from ear to ear as I held the door open for them. “My door is always open.”

I watched them stomp down the cobblestone steps to their black, classic car parked in the circular driveway. Jim got in the driver’s side, and Harvey got into the seat beside him. Their doors slammed shut with a resounding click, and Jim revved the engine. I watched the car tear out of the driveway and down the long stretch of gravel leading to the wrought iron gate. They had eaten up every twisted truth and imaginary tale and made up lie that I had fed them, just as I hoped they would. Hopefully, it would be enough to put away any doubts they had and ease their speculation.

I waited until they were past the gate to close the door. My feet padded against the hardwood as I ran down the hall and into the bedroom. I plucked the key out of the drawer in the side table and pulled open the door to the closet. You were on your back with your restrained arms crushed underneath you. Tears streamed down your blotchy cheeks, and saliva dribbled out of the corners of your mouth and down your chin. You made a gurgled sound around the ball gag shoved in your mouth.

I stooped down next to you and wrapped my fingers around your bicep. I lifted you up to stick the key into the cuffs, freeing your hands. I tossed the key and the handcuffs aside, and you rubbed at your sore wrists. I reached behind you and undid the clasp on the ball gag. I took it out of your mouth, and you wet your dry, chapped lips with your tongue.

I put the ball gag down and let my gaze rake over you for a moment. Then, I reared my hand back before bringing it down on your face. Your head fell to the side due to the impact, and you clutched your offended cheek. A strangled sob escaped your lips.

“I told you to be quiet.” I grabbed your chin and forced you to look at me, squishing your cheeks. “Why don’t you listen to me? Shouldn’t you know what’s best for you by now?”

“I’m sorry!” you yelled, but the words were nearly unintelligible by the way I was holding your jaw.

I leaned down so my face was centimeters from yours. “Do you not want me to treat you well? Do you want me to hurt you?” I growled, drops of spit flying and landing on your face. “Do you not want to get your reward?”

Your large, doe eyes went round. “What is it?”

My hand clenching your chin shook before I dropped it to my side. You fell backwards and caught yourself on your hands. I drew in a breath and let out a sigh, looking over you again. “Come with me.”

I stood up and scooped you up in my arms, carrying you bridal style. You reluctantly let me and didn’t put up a fight, opting to loop your arms around my neck for balance instead. I took you into the living room and set you down at the chair at my desk. I leaned down and pulled open the bottom drawer. Your eyes were glued to me as I pulled out the false bottom and took out the iPad I used to keep surveillance on your penthouse.

“Here.” I kneeled in front of you and held up the iPad so you could see. “This is what I hooked up all the cameras in your penthouse to.”

I switched it on and replayed some footage the camera in your bedroom had captured a couple of days ago. Your mom was lying on your bed, clutching one of your old, designer dresses to her chest. Several more were scattered across the floor leading to your closet. She had obviously ransacked and pillaged through your stash of clothes. She looked the complete opposite of the well-dressed, put together, sophisticated woman she usually played the part of. Her bleached blonde hair was streaked with white and hung in loose strands around her face. Her legs were hugged to her chest, and purple tears tainted with mascara ran down her face, cutting through her caked on foundation and staining your dress. Her whole body was racked with sobs and shook as she wailed.

“They’re all still there. All your things are still there. She continues to pay your rent every month.” I looked at you. “She’s still holding out hope for you, that you’ll come back to her.” I reached out and cupped your cheek, my hold on you just tight enough to serve as a warning. “Do you want to give me a reason to crush her hope?”

Your eyes were glued to the screen, and I could see the reflection of your mom crying on your bed in your eyes. You slowly shook your head. “No.” Your chin wobbled as a single tear ran down your cheek.

“Good.” I put the iPad down on the desk and pulled you into my chest. “Listen to me from now on.” I petted your hair and cradled you in my arms. “Do exactly as I say, and everything will be all right.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #Gotham #gotham fanfic #gotham imagine #gotham fanfiction #dark!fic #dark!bruce wayne #playboy!bruce wayne

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blackbeltkitten2ficsnships-blog · 6 years

Text

Bad, bad Alphonse Capone (Chapter 3)

Scarface Versus Snorky.

Fandom/Movie/Series/Ect: Night At The Museum

Setting: Larry is still the night guard, several exhibits from the Smithsonian are at the Museum of Natural History

Pairing(s): Eventual Capoleon, Jedtavius, Teddy/Sacagawea

Characters: Al Capone, Napoleon Bonaparte, Ivan the Terrible (Awesome), Larry Daley, Teddy Roosevelt, Sacagawea, Jedediah Smith, Octavius, Ahkmenrah, Shaka Zulu, several Zulu tribe members, Dr. Richard McPhee, several Mobsters, Antonio Villalobos, Mariana Villalobos, Ramón Espina, Doctor Jess McClain, Docteur Alain Chaput

Genre/Warnings: Some slightly graphic violence, Foul language, Fic inspired by a song, I’ll come up with more tags later, Chapter names may change later

Notes: I listened to the song “Bad Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce about a thousand times and decided I just HAD to make a fic. The reason Al and the boys get made into color (as a plot point) is so everyone can see what happens to Al.

If anyone is OOC or this reads like a Dick & Jane, this is my second posted fic and I haven’t done much writing in the NATM field. (Disclaimer: I don’t own the song, nor the characters.) (If anything suddenly changes, I had to fix a mistake I missed.)

(I am starting to see why they say “The beginning and end are easy, the middle is hard.” this chapter is either going to be good, or real fucking boring, you decide.)

Word count: 1,300

Summary: Al and the boys practically beg (Though they won’t stoop so far as to say they were actually begging.) for him and his gang to be colored up like everyone else. Finally one day they get a paint-job, despite McPhee’s ever-present paranoia; Capone and the gang being popular in grey-scale. Several weeks after they finally get what they want, Al gets in a fight, and doesn’t come out of it well. Luckily for him Napoleon is compassionate enough to put up with Al’s grating personality to help him.

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Last Chapter

Thank God Larry got a bottle of fleshtone latex for Halloween.

Disguising Al’s stitching for every morning was far easier than he’d thought it would be.

Al was ready for this nightmare to be over. ‘Change his bandages once a day.’

Napoleon is nothing if not dutiful. He’s done just as prescribed, every day, the past couple days. Al is getting sick of it.

Al sits on the desk, slapping Napoleon’s hand away for the second time.

“Quit tryna mollycoddle me, I can do it myself!”

“I plan to do as Docteur Chaput told, you cannot stop me.”

Al slaps his hand away again.

Everyone hears an angry screech from the office.

“They were doing so well...” Teddy sighs, unwrapping himself from Sacagawea.

“I thought it was amusing, their little vendetta. Now it’s annoying.” She chuckles.

“I laughed the first time as well, but since they’ve been consistently interrupting our evenings...” Teddy rubs his temples.

“We really should go see what they’re doing. If Al breaks his stitching it could make things worse.” Sacagawea stands and pulls Teddy off of the bench and through the doorway.

“Come on! Really guys?” Larry stares at the two.

“He keeps changin’ my bandages, and I already told him, I can do it myself!”

Napoleon puts all of his weight on Al’s stomach and tightens his grip on Al’s chin, dangerously close to the wounds on his cheek, making Al squint.

“I told the docteur I would change them, I refuse to go back on my word!”

Larry sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Get up, guys. Al, let Napoleon dress your wounds.”

“Aw, come on!”

Napoleon grins triumphantly once they’re both righted.

“Sit.” Napoleon points at the desk.

Larry gives them both a pointed look and leaves, meeting Teddy and Sac in the hallway and closing the door.

“I have a question.”

“Shoot, Nippy.”

“When I described your injuries, you looked and sounded... Distraught. Why?”

Al’s eyes search the wall over Napoleon’s shoulder. “It’s nothing, Shortstack...”

Napoleon knits his eyebrows together but doesn’t press on. He’s seen trauma, mild to severe, physical and emotional, and thinks he should give Al some time before asking again.

That doesn’t mean he won’t look into Al’s history to see if that gives him any information, though.

Napoleon walks towards Al’s room. He spots a group of Al’s gangsters near by. He catches a fleeting bit of their whispered conversation, where they lean on the wall opposite the Al Capone exhibit.

“Damn, Big Boy looks rough. I ain’t never seen him this bad.”

“Yeah, even when they first started callin’ him Scarface he didn’t look so... Depressed?”

“Least we can do is start callin’ him Snorky again, what do ya say, Ralph?”

“Best idea you’ve had in a while, Tony.”

Napoleon looks into the room from the doorway.

Al is looking at a hand mirror dejectedly, lifting the latex carefully and examining the stitches.

Napoleon gets a few steps into the room before Al’s men grab him by the arms.

“Ehi! Miullu, i idioti!“

Al almost drops the mirror. He spins around and holds up a hand to keep the gangsters from dragging Napoleon to the door.

“French Toast, what the Hell are ya doin’ here?”

“I wanted to remind you to meet me in the office, evidently your men dislike my commitment.”

“Nippy, don’t be dramatic, I told em to keep everyone out. Thanks for remindin’ me though...”

“Monsieur Daley, can you teach me how to use that, uh, laptop?”

“Yeah sure, what do you want to look up?”

Napoleon fumbles for a moment.

“No that’s alright, you don’t have to tell me. Here, sit... Now see the keys? Press them gently to make words...”

Napoleon accidentally runs twelve W’s into the search bar, causing Larry to snicker.

“Now you know that can happen, use the backspace to erase all but one.”

Napoleon is a little less heavy-handed this time.

There, now if you can manage to spell everything well enough- Don’t give me that look, I know how spelling worked back in your days. Anyway you should get the results you want. Press the enter key when you wanna make it search.”

Larry holds the mouse and slides it around.

“Use this to click on things-” He deliberately clicks it a few times. “-And that little X in the corner will close everything.”

“Grazie, Monsieur Daley.”

“No problemo. I’m gonna go do a round, catch you later.”

Larry pats him on the back and walks off

Napoleon, backspacing the remaining W and, carefully selecting keys, types out ‘Al Capone injuries’.

The little circle spins, then ‘The infectious disease that sprung Al Capone from Alcatraz.’

“I hope the tablet got rid of that...”

Napoleon moves the little hand down and clicks on one link simply titled ‘Al Capone’, and hopes for the best.

Luck is on his side. To the right side of the screen is what is presumably a photo of Al when he was older, in black and white. He’s wearing a nice dark grey three piece suit, a shiny, striped tie, white shirt and pocket square, and a shiny watch chain. He’s also gained weight and lost hair. The banner under the photo reads ‘Al Capone in 1930.’

“Yet he pokes at me because of the paintings I commissioned when I was in my forties. It must run in Italian blood... Or it’s all the bread and cheese.”

Al was born in the Brooklyn borough of New York City.

“That’s not very far from the museum, is it? I wonder if I could convince Larry to take Al and myself there..”

His parents, Teresa and Gabriele, immigrated from Angri, Italy.

He had eight siblings, six brothers and two sisters.

He did well in school but had difficulty following the rules at his parochial Catholic school. He was expelled permanently at fourteen for hitting a female teacher.

“At least I didn’t hit my teachers, u mo Diu.“

He worked at a bowling alley and a candy store, and was influenced Johnny Torrio, whom he later regarded as a mentor.

First he got involved with the Junior Forty Thieves, then the Bowery Boys. Then he joined the Brooklyn Rippers, and after that the powerful Five Points Gang.

He was employed by mentor and racketeer Frankie Yale, who tended bar at a dance hall and saloon called the Harvard Inn.

“Saloon? I thought that was only in the West in the eighteen seventies?”

Al inadvertently insulted a woman while working at the door of a nightclub in Brooklyn and was slashed by her brother Frank Gallucio.

“Oh...”

Napoleon opens a new tab, searches ‘Al Capone scars’ and pulls up a photo that marks each slash with a number.

They match scarily close to the fresh ones on the side of Al’s face now.

Napoleon’s mouth falls open slightly and his eyebrows pull together. He switches back to the other tab.

The wounds caused people to give him the nickname ’Scarface’ which Al loathed. His close friends called him 'Snorky', a word for sharp dresser.

“Ay Nippy, watcha doin’?”

Napoleon quickly closes out the browser and shuts the laptop, none-too-gracefully. Al smirks at him.

“Thought we were gonna meet in the office, what have ya been doin’?”

“Nothing, I was looking something up. None of your concern.”

“Mhm, ‘lookin’ something up.’ Be sure clear the history when you’re done.”

Al spins around and saunters off towards the office.

“So, Short Stuff, did you enjoy ‘lookin’ something up.’? Was it... Sexy?”

Napoleon pulls the latex off roughly.

“It was informative. The two photographs I looked at were... A bit attractive. No contest with the real thing, though.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Al pulls a knowing smirk. He doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does though.

Docteur = Doctor

Ehi! Miullu, i idioti! = Hey! Let me go, you idiots!

Monsieur = Mister

Grazie = Thank you

U mo Diu = My God

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Last Chapter

#NATM #night at the museum #al capone #napoleon bonaparte #jedediah #octavius #larry daley #teddy roosevelt #ahkmenrah #dr mcphee #jedtavius #capoleon #eventual capoleon #ivan the terrible #ivan the awesome #fanfic #Bad bad Alphonse Capone

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mistawolfie · 6 years

Text

Marcus

( As promised, here’s part 1 of Jim and Marcus’ backstory. Enjoy ^^ )

Three gentle knocks, and he knew it was here. His chair groaned loudly in relief as he stood up, his knees slightly giving in to his weight. He shuffled to the curtained door to be greeted by a silhouette of a small womanly figure; upright, confident, relaxed. The figure behind the wood-framed and curtained glass door patiently swayed, her short demeanor fit perfectly with the width of the narrow window. He expected a sort of cold chill, a tinge of malice in the air, but this all seemed so routine, serine. He rested his hand on the cool brass doorknob and pulled the white wooden door open.

“Hello.”

Lime green eyes lit as their gazes met. Her long, wavy black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, the ends curving sharply at the ends, thick and barbed like soft needles. She wore a casual black suit with her white button up opened right above her small breasts, just enough for a brief thought of temptation. Her lips were curved into an all-knowing smile, the gloss of her blushing lips parting slightly as she continued.

“You called, I believe.”

He backed his hooded body inside and let her in. Her low heels clicked like light hooves as it hit the dusty floor. He pulled his hood over his eyes as if to cover his face deeper as he hastily closed the door.

“I was expecting something...flashier,” he audibly mumbled.

“Elaborate entrances aren’t really a thing anymore,” she sighed disappointingly. “We have to abide by the ‘preferable’ style of the ages. An unsaid rule to be honest, but I guess you wouldn’t believe me being so.” She twirled and tugged at her bouncing hair with her thin, delicately sharp fingers. “But you don’t have to.”

Her eyes followed a fly making small circles near the entrance and buzzing into the room next door. It rested on a paper plate of dried brown liquid and a stale slice of partially eaten pizza. The medium-sized pizza box sitting in the middle of a cheap plastic table was partially open, showing that only one slice was missing, and the rest were in a similar state.

“So, how long will it take?” He tried to suppress his voice to sound calm, but it was obvious, even to him, that he sounded impatient.

“As long as you have the equivalent item of exchange, I can do it right here, right now.”

His heart leaped. No, you knew this, you know this, he told himself. He felt his throat dry and sour, the stickiness in his mouth making it hard for him to form words. He tried to fill his lungs as much as possible, but only felt he barely inhaled a quarter of its capacity. You’re going to say it, you know what it is. Now, with authority!

“I...think I do.” Dammit!

“Wonderful,” she grinned, her orange-tinted teeth gleefully gleamed. With a playful pirouette, her low ponytail undid themselves and were now freely flowing waves of thick, shadowy water. They bounced up and down as she skipped effortlessly up the stairs with the rhythmical clip-clop-clip-clop of her heels. He was about to tell her that he didn’t say her where Jim’s room was, but he figured that that would be redundant. She probably knows. He slowly heaved heavy knees up the stairs. He watched each of the scraped paint on the steps form from a typical shoe print into large hoof marks.

“Oh, where are my manners!” She dramatically cried from the top of the stairs. She tossed her head from the end of the staircase, her head tilted to face his with a hand over her forehead. “Pray tell, where art thou friend?”

“On my right, the last door down the hall,” he mumbled. The little devil flipped her hand into a thankful salute and disappeared behind the wall. “And don’t run,” he muttered under his breath.

The hall was empty and quiet as he left it. Floating dust glimmering in the sunbeams reminded him of the time he watched the livestream of the ocean depths. Marine snow, he remembered Jim saying. Even dead fish have beautiful names after they decay. The two sat in front of Marcus’ oversized laptop screen and watched the video streams from the Rover while the marine biologists gleefully tossed around trivia about frilled sharks and dumbo octopus. The tiny smile on Jim’s face was probably the happiest he had ever seen his friend be.

“Marcus, my boy,” her voice rang, “reminiscing sweet memories takes far too much time. Your friend awaits.” She hummed a throaty giggle. “Or should I say, you are?”

Marcus’ eyes glared at the open door at the end of the hall from behind his hood, saying nothing. He picked up his pace and entered the gaping void of Jim’s bedroom. He felt for the switch, but thought against it and strode towards the animated shape of the small, now slightly horned, woman. She stood over Jim’s body lying on his dark blue and white striped bed, stroking his black, matted hair lovingly. The line of light leaking from between the closed curtains traced her cheeks and curved, rosy lips.

“Such a pitiful, loved boy,” her lips purred. He said nothing and thinned his eyes at Jim. Her lime green iris pierced into his forest ones, her knowing smile unmoving. “All of this for your own sake.”

Her legs were now shaped into a goat’s leg, coarse hair long and frizzed with large hooves glistening in the limited light. Each step she took were like heavy hammers on the carpeted floor. She walked to the middle of the room and traced her thin fingers on the bottom lip of the noose. Marcus watched as the rope gently swayed back and forth, the stain on the floor probably still damp and Jim’s pants still crumpled on top of it. He told himself that he left it because the knots were too tight, the ceiling was too high, but it was just a reminder to himself. He peeled off the green hood from his head and shook his dirty blonde bangs out of his face. They felt oily and heavy, and he remembered that he hasn’t bathed in days. He took a deep breath and stepped towards her.

“I’m ready.”

---

“H-hey Jim, aren’t you always hot wearing th-that t-turtleneck all the t-time?”

The beating summer sun was quickly melting their Extreme-Orange-Pulp-and-Creme-Swirl-of-the-Century-Hyperboost-Juicicle. Jim slurped loudly as he tried to catch all the escaping liquids from making a mess on his hands while Emile was dripping a small orange puddle of Extreme-Orange-Pulp-and-Creme-Swirl-of-the-Century-Hyperboost-Juicicle on the ground between his legs while timidly licking the tip of the icicle.

“Mm, never really thought about it,” he thoughtfully slurped. “I guess I’m kinda cold all the time...because I’m such a chill dude.” He winked and finger-gunned the skinny priest. Emile replied with an awkward chuckle and sadly looked at his half-melted icicle.

“I-I don’t think I can finish th-this,” Emile sighed.

“I’ll take it if you want,” Jim offered while sliding the remaining bits into his mouth.

“Y-you sure? I-it’s mostly melted because I eat s-so s-slow.”

“Bah, it’s fine! Fork over your Orange-Swirl-Centurion-Jucicle!”

“I-It’s e-Extreme-Orange-Pulp-and...”

“Oh hey Emile.”

The priest lifted his head to be greeted by a lean, built man with a crooked grin. Besides him was a woman with a shoulder-length bob and a beaming smile.

“Long time no see little man,” she said while rolling her sleeves. “Whatcha doin?”

“W-we just saw each other in class yesterday Lulu...a-and hi Mitch,” he nervously grinned. “I-I’m just hanging out with Jim here.” Mitch looked at his girlfriend’s lanky classmate with one raised confused brow.

“Jim…?”

“Y-yeah, I don’t th-think you guys met on campus because we’re in different buildings.” Emile scooted his body toward Jim and guided his palm toward the black-haired man. “Th-this is Jim. J-Jim, th-these are my classmates from anth-anthropology.”

“Howdy my dudes,” he grinned. Lulu looked in his direction and tilted her head in a greeting manner. Mitch glanced his way and looked back at Emile with a concerned expression. He opened his mouth to say something when Lulu tugged at his sleeves.

“We actually have to go now,” she said in an apologetic tone. “I want us to get some good seats for the movie.”

“O-oh, yeah, right. I-I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

“Right, later.” Mitch scratched the back of his neck and hastily waved good-bye to the pair while Lulu pulled his other hand.

“Have fun!” Jim shouted at their backs as they disappeared into the crowds of moviegoers and outlet shoppers. “Cute pair,” he commented as Emile shyly passed the nearly gone icicle.

“S-Sorry.”

“No worries, it’s still delicious. Go wash your hands in the bathroom or something, I’ll watch your stuff.”

The skinny priest hastily jogged towards the men’s room between boutiques behind their bench. Jim leaned back onto the steel bench and absently sucked on the stick which still somewhat tasted like Extreme-Orange-Pulp-and-Creme-Swirl-of-the-Century-Hyperboost-Juicicle. He gently touched his neck and felt a wave of nausea layer his mind and body in a thin, familiar veil. He flinched his hand away and took a deep breath to rid the sensation. The stick dropped from his mouth, bounced off the seat of the bench between his thighs and settled onto the ground in front of him. Sweat beaded from his face and saliva dripped from the corners of his lip. What the hell…?

The nausea slowly subsided as he tried to adjust his eyesight. His eyes followed the stick to find a pair of dirty sneakers standing in front of him. Faded jeans fell to the heels and were frilled at the end. He followed up the green torso of the hoodie to find a familiar dirty blond-headed face with the usual bored frown looking down at him.

---

“So, you know that I know what you want, but I need to hear it from your lips to make it official.” Baphomet dragged her French nails across the rim of Jim’s bed as she paced across his body, as if making an invisible line between him and Marcus. “So I simply ask you, my dear boy Marcus; what do you wish for, and what is your offer in exchange?” Her heavy hooves thumped rhythmically while she locked her eyes on Marcus, her pupils now unsettling, goat-like horizontal slits.

“I…,” Marcus swallowed and wet his mouth once more, “I want him...Jim, to have a long, happy and life filled with love.”

“Vague. Boring.”

“I offer you, or him, my emotions of love and care...if, you can call that an offering.” Her curved lips split into a toothy grin as she stopped pacing and stepped towards Marcus.

“That’s such a dangerous offer you make, my boy,” her voice was velvet and thick with a delighted undertone, her suited torso leaning forwards and looking up at the taller human as her chin barely touched his chest. “You know we like to take as much advantages as we can.”

“So it counts?”

“But of course. I’m also obligated to tell you that your other emotions will be enhanced due to the absence of the ones you’ve offered, in this case greed and lust. You will never be able to love, and you can only pretend to care and never feel true joy.”

“If Jim can have what I can give, then so be it.”

“Gallant boy.” Baphomet flicked the tip of his nose and twirled around to face the body. “You are one lucky dead man, aren’t you?” She giggled with her shoulders and hopped onto the foot of the bed. Her large hooves barely made the sheets rustle. She closed her eyes and made simple gestures with her fingers while whispering incantations under her breath. Marcus stood over Jim’s body, staring into his closed eyes. He knelt and reached for his hand, cold and rigid, and held it in his as if to warm it.

“Marine snow,” he whispered, gently squeezing his stiff fingers. “You compared yourself to fucking dead fish flakes.” That’s not what he meant to say. The days passed like a blur, he wasn’t sure if it flew or crawled. Maybe the world was moving faster than him, or maybe he has slowed. He didn’t remember if he ate or shit. All he knew was that Jim has stopped, and so has he.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have anything to say, but nothing sounded right. Marcus pressed his lips on Jim’s forehead, the cool flesh on his skin imprinting a cold spot like a bruise. The color was gone from Jim’s cheeks, and heavy bags under his eyes sunk his thin eyes deep into the hollows of his sockets. The blond stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers, and he slowly leaned in.

---

Marcus first noticed Jim always sitting in the back corner of the classroom. He never realized that they had quite a few classes together because he was so quiet. Not like a fearful mouse holding its breath as to not attract any attention from predators, but more like a ghost apologizing for his existence. It was as if being invisible was the closest he could do to compensate, and he was very good at it.

He wasn’t sure why he was so concerned for this lonely classmate, but he decided to sit next to him one day and tried to start a conversation. The green hooded freshman was startled and could only mumble out broken sentences that even he could barely hear. Marcus only caught the constant “sorry” between shallow breaths.

“Hey man, it’s cool. We got a whole semester ahead of us to talk more.”

Jim hardly nodded and continued to sit like a statue. His breathing was so quiet that Marcus was worried that he was going to fade away without him noticing at all. After class, Jim would quietly and swiftly float away before Marcus could catch him. This continued for weeks: Marcus tries to make small talk, Jim evades him like a mist. Other students didn’t seem to acknowledge his existence either. Marcus even considered that maybe Jim was a citizen of the paranormal realm, and somehow he has gained the ability to see ghosts (although that was quickly debunked during the occasional roll call).

The day they finally interacted was when they happened to enter the same apartment complex at the same time.

“I...didn’t know that we lived in the same building,” Marcus awkwardly chuckled. He saw Jim’s body squeeze inward, trying to get smaller.

“……...yeah…..”

“What floor?” Jim dug his chin into his chest, obviously hesitant to answer. Marcus scratched his head and searched for a different topic to talk about. Maybe all of this chasing is like...stalking? He’s clearly avoiding me for whatever reason, I should probably sto-

“...3rd…..room 305...” Marcus’ forest eyes widened.

“Uh, coincidence, I’m 405.”

“………..yeah….”

“You...wanna do homework together?”

“…...ok.”

Although he was shocked that Jim would comply so easily since he had taken every opportunity to avoid interaction, Marcus happily led his hooded classmate to his room. The two stood silently in the brightly lit elevator, listening to the buzzing hum of the old motors and the loud DING of floor numbers lighting up. The door clumsily slid open as they reached the 4th floor, and Marcus was quietly relieved that Jim followed him out. His hooded head was still looking down at the dirty blue carpet when he shuffled out, his long black bangs hiding his expression. Marcus dug into his pant pockets for his keys while leading Jim down the dimly lit dorm halls. The lingering smell of old weed and unshowered bodies made the air so thick and musky one could even taste the sour odor. Marcus unlocked the old, shriveled door and pushed it open with his weight.

“Welcome to my…,” he paused as he looked at the piles of unwashed clothes, plastic bags filled with garbage, unopened school supplies and partially-eaten food, “...dwelling.” But even seeing this, Jim’s brown eyes barely faltered as he let himself inside with a very small “excuse me.”

Marcus dug open a place for them to sit on the old sofa facing his 24” screen laptop resting on a small plastic table. He still debated whether this was a good idea or not, but his guest didn’t seem to show any signs of protest so far. In fact, Jim just sat quietly and shallow-breathed as usual with his backpack on his lap. Marcus invited him to sit around the table and they worked on their assignments in silence while a video with a comedian angrily commenting on the absurdities of the current state of their government played in the background. Marcus snickered every now and then at the jokes, but Jim was unfazed and never looked up from his notes. His letters were small and scrawled, barely legible to the untrained eye. Marcus wondered if he was really reading or if he was just staring at the scribbles to pass the time.

Jim’s phone vibrated. He flinched and quickly dug around the side pockets of his huge backpack. He wasn’t exactly a small man, but Marcus thought that if Jim kept up his curled stature, he could potentially contort himself inside. Jim pulled out an old flip phone, opened the screen and sighed in relief. He turned it off with a soft beep, eyed Marcus warily and looked back down at his notebook.

“….sorry...my…...alarm went off….,” he mumbled as he apologetically stuffed the phone in his front hoodie pocket. Marcus looked at the clock and cocked his head questioningly.

“At 7:30 in the evening?” Jim timidly nodded. “For what?”

“….um….a...a livestream….I….watch…..” His voice trailed off as he noticed that he was shamefully exposing himself. “………..i….it’s a weird….hobby…...” Marcus reached for his laptop and moved the pointer to the web bar.

“Give me the name of the site.” Jim raised his head, his brown eyes wide with surprise. Marcus’ heart leaped.

“you...you don’t have to...do that…” Jim’s head lowered.

“I wanna watch too.”

“….no you don’t….” His head lowered with his voice.

“Yes I do.” The dirty blond eyed Jim’s paper. “I’ll help you with problem 5-a if you tell me.” Jim looked confused at the remark, but then looked at his paper and stifled a snort at this. Marcus didn’t miss seeing the corner of his thin lips curl a touch. Jim gently moved Marcus’ hand aside and typed. A deep ocean blue screen appeared with a large black rectangular box in the middle. White bubbles floated and popped in the middle of the black screen with the words ‘Diving to the Depths...’ fading in and out of the screen.

“It….it might take a while…,” Jim mumbled.

“Well, I’ll help you with 5-a while we’re waiting.”

It didn’t take long for the two to get immersed to the underwater world and forgetting to finish the rest of their assignment, but Marcus thought it was worth it as he saw Jim’s dry, dark brown eyes glint as he listened to Dr. Valor and Dr. Simone having a heated debate about which is cuter, the flapjack octopus or the bobtail squid.

“I vote octopus,” Marcus chuckled. Jim slightly opened his mouth, paused, and looked down at the lighted keyboards.

“….I do too,” he mumbled.

---

Jim’s sunken eyes shot open. His chest heaved as he choked in air into his collapsed lungs, his dry mouth flapping open and shut like a fish out of water, his nails digging into Marcus’ hands trying to lift himself from an unseen cliff. The body twitched and shook, the rigor mortis making him awkwardly flap and bounce on his bed. He looked up at Marcus with panicked fear and rage.

“What’s happening?!” Marcus shouted at Baphomet who was still reciting incantations under her breath.

“Finalizing our contract,” she simply answered. “You should tell him what you can now, he’s gonna come out a clean slate once I’m done.”

“What?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, confessions, deeply held secrets, you know, whatever. It’s not like it’s going to matter on the long run, but maybe one less regret might make this easier for you. Just a suggestion.”

Marcus winced as Jim’s nails dug deeper into his hand and broke his skin. Blood pooled and seeped into his nails as he continued to twitch and flap painfully, his mouth now letting out whistles of dry windpipes wanting to scream.

“This really doesn’t look or feel like the right moment to confess anything!”

“It’s your only chance, now chop-chop.”

“Fine! I…,” Marcus winced and gritted his teeth as Jim’s nails dug for his bones. His brown eyes never left his forest ones, now watery with tears. “I think I loved, love...I love you. I never thought I would ever tell you this, but-”

“FUCK YOU.”

A hoarse, enraged whisper screamed into Marcus.

“HOW DARE YOU.” Jim’s body shook the bed like an earthquake. Baphomet was floating now, eyes closed and continuously chanting. Marcus shook his head in confusion.

“J-Jim, wait, I, I just-” He cried as he felt a bone in his hand crack.

“FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU.” Baphomet clapped her hands gleefully with an orange-tinted smile splitting her face.

“Confessional is closed boys, say good-bye now!”

“Wait-” Jim pulled Marcus toward his face and glared into his tearful panicked forest eyes with blazing rage.

“I HOPE I WATCH YOU BURN.”

Marcus felt Jim’s nails leave his broken hand. His body crumbled into the bed and lay like a marionette snipped of its strings. Dust floated and surrounded the three bodies as Baphomet squeaked a sneeze, her hooves landing on the floor like low, distant thunder.

“Oof, better open the window or something honey, these are some potent bunnies.”

#MDP #Marcus #Jim #Baphomet #Monster Date Problems #backstory

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melindacoulson4 · 6 years

Text

The Bracelet

Stranger Things//Hopper & El// Eleven prepares for her first dance. Hopper helps even though he isn’t sure how, but he’s trying his best. DadHopper feels.//

He can’t stare at the damn knit blanket draped over the back of the couch any longer. The zigzag pattern of the yarn seems like it’ll be permanently engrained in the back of his mind. He’s counted the number of stripes- there’s 10 black, 7 yellow, and 16 orange- at least thirty times in a row. But he had to distract himself with something and that was the most menial thing he could do. Or he could go back to staring at the wooden door that’s been closed for the better part of an hour now.

The ball of nerves in the pit of his stomach keeps gnawing at him. He’s excited and afraid all at once. Tonight, El finally gets to go out in public. He and Dr. Owens had come to an agreement. El could go out for one night, three hours maximum, to the Hawkins Middle School Snowball dance.

She’s been in her room getting ready: putting on the dress and applying makeup. She refused his offer to help, although he didn’t really know how he could’ve helped if she accepted anyway. He knew nothing about fashion or makeup. He barely had a wardrobe himself, preferring to wear his uniform while working and flannels with jeans during down times.

When the decision was made, after he had thoroughly covered all of the rules for the night with El, he had turned to Joyce for help. She had told him where he could find a dress at some corner store in town that he’s already forgotten the name of.

Of course everyone in town would get word that Jim Hopper was buying a dress for a little girl and that would create all kinds of attention that he didn’t need, so he explained to the clerk how he owed a birthday present to some distant niece in California. To which the clerk nodded, rang up the dress, took the money, and barely gave him a second glance as he walked out of the store.

His eyes widen in surprise as the bedroom door slowly swings open, creaking from age along the way.

El peaks her head out from behind the cherry oak. The wavy curls on the left side of her head fall across her face. He can spot the stark difference that the newly applied makeup has on her cheeks. They’re much rosier than usual, almost as if she has a constant blush of embarrassment. It’s nothing compared to the dark circles that she had caked around her eyes when she showed up at Joyce’s house the night she closed the portal to the upsidedown. This time around, her face is free from any dark makeup, only lighter pale colors creating a softer look.

“Can you….help?” She asks hesitantly, her eyes casted towards the floorboards.

“Uh….yea….yes,” he fumbles. He rises from his chair and walks over to the door that she’s hiding behind.

She disappears back into the room before he reaches the door. He pulls it open so that he can follow her, but stops in his tracks at the sight before him.

“Wow you look…..” He quickly blinks away tears, pride swelling inside of him. The denim blue dress fits her perfectly. The bottom of the dress hits her knee line and flutters around her gracefully with movement. Somehow it makes her appear even taller than she already is. She’s gotten so mature in the months that they’ve spent together here, basically growing like a weed. “You look so beautiful,” he compliments.

Joyce had lent him an armful of magazines earlier in the week. He didn’t even ask for them. She just showed up at the station and dumped them on his desk, telling him that El had to have a baseline for the type of “look” that she wanted to have. El was a young girl who needed inspiration, classy inspiration Joyce had told him seriously.

A list with more than twenty beauty products had also been provided by Joyce. Things like mascara, blush, and eyeliner were on it, not that he even knew what those were at the time. Each item had a specific brand that he was to buy and a description of what it was used for scribbled in the margins, which was definitely helpful. He had tossed all of the makeup into a basket after carefully choosing the right ones at the store. Then, he paid for three bags full of products and yes, he had received all sorts of raised eyebrows and barely concealed snickers from people in the store. None of that mattered anyway. He stopped caring what other people thought a long time ago. It was all worth it, to see the small grin plastered on El’s face. If something made her happy, then he would do whatever it took to get it for her. She surely deserved it after all the hell that she’s lived through. He watches as El picks up something from her dresser and holds it out for him to take. He opens his hand, palm up, and she places a small piece of bright blue plastic in his hand.

Upon closer inspection, he realizes that it’s a barrette shaped like a bow for her hair.

“Like this.” She points to a page in one of the many half opened magazines cluttering her bed. It’s a picture of a blonde-haired model with a clip holding a clump of hair against the side of her head.

“Okay….let’s see,” he says as he gently combs back the hair at the front of El’s face with his fingers, so that it trails towards the back of her head. The barrette easily slides against her scalp and holds the hair between the two pieces. After some slight tweaking of the placement, he snaps the barrette in place.

“Ouch,” she gasps and slightly flinches away from the hand he has in her hair.

“Sorry…sorry.” He forgot how painful barrettes, hair ties, braids, and knots seemed to be in girls’ hair. Sometimes he would help Sara or watch as his wife fixed her hair into ponytails or pigtails. There were always slight cries of pain when her hair was tugged the wrong way or if something got stuck in her hair.

El smiles at her reflection in the mirror. “Pretty,” she murmurs as she admires the newly placed barrette in her hair.

He can’t contain the happiness bursting in his chest. “Bitchin too,” he adds.

It’s like a little inside joke between them now. Whenever something was exceptionally awesome it would automatically be labeled as bitchin by one of them.

She nods, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Yes….bitchin.” Her confidence almost bubbles over after she says it, agreeing with him.

He latches onto anything that reinforces her sense of self-esteem. If she wanted to consider herself as bitchin then so be it.

Something else that he’s been debating pops into his mind. “I have something that would make this perfect,” he tells her.

He leaves her room and goes straight to the bedside table in his room. He pulls open the top drawer and grabs the pink heart-shaped box, no larger than the span of his hand. The pink color has since dulled and become a more faded shade compared to it’s former florescence. It’s a little beat up around the edges with peeling and scuff marks littering the top of it from the years of use. But the box itself has survived an innumerable amount of spills and drops. Sara used to keep her hair clips and hair ties in it, sometimes even a couple of crackers or grapes too. He’s done his best to preserve it by keeping it hidden in the back of the top drawer of the table. In that spot, at least it’s free from dust.

It still has all of the things that she had last left in it. It’s the one thing of hers that he had allowed himself to keep close. There were many long nights where he would look through the contents over and over again searching for some semblance of comfort.

He opens the box, trying his best not to let his emotions get the better of him. A picture of he and Sara rests on top of all of the other keepsakes. One cool spring day at the zoo, he had lifted Sara onto his shoulders so that she could be closer to the giraffes and his wife had snapped a picture. He quickly tilts the picture to the side before getting lost in the memory and grabs the familiar blue hair tie. It was the match to the hair tie that he wore around his own wrist. Sara had worn pigtails all of the time and the blue hair ties were always her first choice, since blue was her favorite color.

He shut the lid, placed the box gently back into the drawer, and made his way back to El’s room where he found her still seated in front of the dresser mirror. He’s been thinking about taking this step for a while now and had just realized that it was the perfect moment. When he was faced with the very real threat of losing her he finally accepted how much he needed her and loved her. The same way he felt about Sara, just like a daughter. El wasn’t a replacement, but something new. There was room for the both of them in his heart.

“Here,” he says, holding out the hair tie for her to take.

“What is it?”

His mouth falls open, yet he can’t seem to find the right words to describe what it is. A hair tie that I’ve kept for years that was my daughter’s. Something that I’ve kept locked away and no one knows about it. Finally, he settles on, “It’s a special band that will keep you safe.”

She raises an eyebrow at him after studying the item, seemingly unimpressed by the stretchy band.

He pulls his shirt sleeve up and taps the matching hair tie that he hasn’t taken off of his wrist for years. “I wear the other one. There are two. It’s a set. They belong together…..so I thought you should have the other one. And you know…I’ve been wearing it for the past 5 years and I’m still alive after all of this craziness so……it’s gotta be the power of the band.”

“Power of the band,” she echos, staring at the hair tie resting in her palm.

“Yes,” he confirms.

She slips it on her left wrist without hesitation. “Okay. We….belong together.”

“Yes we do,” he agrees, smiling. However, the smile slowly slips off of his face when he spots something else around her wrist. A bracelet; it’s silver with a sea green gem in the middle of it. Where could she have gotten a bracelet from?

“Where did you get that?” He asks, gesturing to the bracelet.

Her eyes flicker away from his. “Momma,” she whispers. “I wanted….”

He realizes that maybe she’s ashamed or embarrassed. Maybe she thinks he’s disappointed. He watches as she wraps her opposite hand around the silver band and slides it down, almost off of her fingers.

“To have a piece of her with you,” he finishes her earlier statement. He knows better than anyone how it feels to desperately want someone with you even though it’s impossible. So if she wants to wear her mother’s bracelet, that’s fine by him.

Her head snaps up, surprise clouding her features at his insight.

“I understand that…..keep it on.” He gently wraps his hand around her wrist. Holding both the hair tie and bracelet together, both now a part of her. “That….” He touches the hair tie, the words come easily now, “used to belong to Sara….my daughter. Just like the one I wear did.”

“Oh.”

“I want you to keep it. It’s yours now,” he pauses, unsure if he should say what he’s thinking. “You’re my daughter too….in every sense of the word…..if you want to be,” he quickly adds.

“Yes,” she says, barely above a whisper while nodding vigorously. Then, unexpectedly throws her arms around his neck.

His hands automatically wrap around her back, cradling her in his grasp. All he wants is to shield her from the world forever, to never give anyone the chance to ever hurt her again. But, he knows that it’s unrealistic.

“7…3..2….late!” She gasps, pulling away from his embrace quickly.

He can’t help but laugh, remembering his own preteen excitement whenever he had the opportunity to be with his friends.

Tonight is all about letting her be free to be a kid and it’s only for a couple of hours. He could stand to give her some freedom with her friends. Of course, he’ll be waiting in the parking lot the whole time.

At some point he’ll have to learn to let go and give her space, thankfully he won’t have to learn just yet.

//End//

#stranger things #jim hopper #eleven #jim hopper & eleven #hopper & el #chief jim hopper #joyce byers #dad hopper #stranger things ff #stranger things fanfiction #sara hopper

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omginstantpaperbouquetblr · 7 years

Link

By Andrew Levine

The last time Confederate symbols were Topic A was two summers ago, when a deeply troubled twenty-one year old named Dylann Roof murdered nine members of a Bible study group at the Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina. A photograph of Roof alongside a Confederate battle flag became a fixture on cable news.

My view, then and now, is that the focus on symbols – mainly flags in 2015, now also statues — is misguided, but that, in matters such as these, since African Americans have the most at stake, they should call the shots.

If they want those symbols out of public spaces, then out they should go.

Making a fetish of the Stars and Stripes has long been an American pastime, especially in benighted circles, so it is not surprising that exceptionally benighted people with nefarious values and aims would regard Confederate flags the same way. In the end, though, like all flags, they are just pieces of cloth. And inasmuch as few, if any, of the offending monuments are of significant historical or aesthetic interest, there is no compelling reason to retain them.

Therefore, even if I am right in thinking that all the fuss is diversionary, going along with it is basically harmless, except perhaps to the people who fetishize those symbols. It is hard not to feel that they deserve it.

It should be noted too that some good has come out of this latest eruption of sound and fury. For example, more notice is taken and there is more discussion of white supremacy generally than there was two years ago – not just within communities that have always born the brunt of racial injustice, but also among people who would otherwise be oblivious. Ironically, Donald Trump and the miscreants who crawled out from under the rock he turned over have helped increase awareness too.

Also, the Black Lives Matter movement, having assumed something like a vanguard role within the African American activist community, broadened its purview, partly in consequence of the heightened level of consciousness brought on by struggles over Confederate symbols. While retaining its focus on police violence, it took on matters of general concern to African Americans and other persons of color. With so many older civil rights militants coopted into a Democratic Party reeking of Clintonite (neoliberal, liberal imperialist) politics, the need for a new leadership, with uncompromised moral authority, was and remains obvious.

But there are no unmixed blessings; and when unexamined emotions become politically consequential, it is easy to get off track.

I think something like that happened two years ago, the last time Confederate symbols were much in the news; specifically, that a political initiative that might have kept both Trump and Clinton at bay was quashed. Hardly anyone agreed with me then, and I daresay that even fewer would agree with me now, but it is worth recalling nevertheless — because, insofar as my idea was not wildly implausible, it does illustrate how according uncritical support to efforts to villainize Confederate symbols can have a downside.

It was already clear, back then, that all the GOP contenders, not just Trump, were incompetent buffoons. Believing naively that the vast majority of voters would realize this and draw the obvious conclusion, I was sure that any minimally competent Democrat would prevail in November.

I was probably right. Where I went wrong was in not realizing how incompetent a candidate Hillary Clinton would be. My problems with her then had mainly to do with the politics associated with her and her husband’s name. Obama was bad enough; she was on track for making him look good.

Of course, I also knew that competence was not her forte; that as a First Lady, a Senator and a Secretary of State, she had messed up a lot, doing little good and much harm. But I never thought that losing to Trump was more than just a theoretical possibility, even for her.

I also thought that of all the actual and potential challengers to the Clinton juggernaut, a group that included Elizabeth Warren and Bernie Sanders, Jim Webb, the former Virginia Senator, just might be just the one to pull it off, edging the country towards a slightly more salutary political dispensation in the process.

Anyone who is curious about why I held this admittedly idiosyncratic view can look here. There is no point in going back over the arguments because what was probably a non-starter all along became moot in light of the reaction to the Charlestown murders. Unfair as it might be, the symbolism was wrong.

Suffice it to say that I knew, and still know, little about Webb’s politics, though I suspected that it was no worse than the average Democrat’s. I was mainly impressed by the evident depth of his understanding of the moral complexities of soldiering and war, and by the fact that he is an author of considerable merit, unlike any other American politician at the national level in modern times.

Webb was also a man of the Appalachian south with ties to his own people, and apparently also to their black neighbors. Clinton had no time for the former. For the latter, she had kind words and trickle down beneficence derived from her and her husband’s decades long courtship of amenable African American notables, and from their ties to the region’s, and the country’s, black political machines.

Black-white alliances, based on solidarities arising out of the struggles of “the wretched of the earth,” had been part of the region’s political landscape in the past, despite the efforts of the white power structure to encourage a kind of white identity politics grounded in racist attitudes. Webb was giving voice to a progressive “populist” sensibility at odds with the “populism” they espoused.

He was also speaking as a creature of a post-World War II military culture that, though hardly “post-racial,” has done more to cut across racial lines than most other societal institutions. In recent decades, one of the very few good things to come out of the American military, the Marines especially, has been an expectation of trans-racial comradeship. As a Marine with a record of service more unambiguously “heroic” than, say, John McCain’s, Webb was very much a part of that world.

The kind of militant, class-conscious racial politics that brought the white (mainly Appalachian) Young Patriots together with the (mainly Puerto Rican) Young Lords and the Black Panthers half a century ago has long been out of reach; and, in any case, such alliances can never be forged from the top down in the course of electoral campaigns.

But it was not out of the question, I thought, that someone at the top of the Democratic ticket, who holds generally progressive views, and who is of, by, and for the people, as distinct from corporate and Wall Street elites, could do wonders to encourage the requisite bottom-up organizing efforts that need to take place for the goals of Black Lives Matter and other anti-racist organizations to advance.

Not implausibly, though on the basis of only scant evidence, I suggested that Webb might be just what the doctor ordered.

More likely than not, this was a pipe dream. But, then, in the very earliest days of the campaign for the Democratic nomination, so was the idea that, for example, Bernie Sanders’ campaign would take off to the point where, had the fix not been in, he might actually have won.

We will never know, thanks in part to the reaction against Confederate symbols that erupted in the aftermath of Roof’s murderous rampage.

***

Donald Trump is incapable of reasoned argument, but he does sometimes have a point. Whatever the reasons behind it, his interest in good relations with Russia is an example. Another is his claim that if Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee should not be memorialized because they owned slaves, then neither should Thomas Jefferson or George Washington.

Trump’s idea was to rile up his base by playing the “political correctness” card; with that audience, the PC ploy never fails. However, his position is not without merit. It has been painful to observe liberal commentators arguing otherwise.

They could argue, as I just did, that removing Confederate symbols and getting Confederate monuments out of public spaces is no big deal. But pragmatic considerations like that are not for them; they would prefer to moralize.

The problem, though, is that they have no defensible way to do that because they cannot justify the distinction they want to draw – between, say, Washington and Lee — and that, because they cannot, those symbols and monuments really are just the top of a slippery slope. This puts them in a dilemma: they can either argue for their position on pragmatic grounds or acquiesce in its arbitrariness.

I would venture that the pragmatic argument is the best they can do: too much is named for Jefferson and Washington. And why stop with them? What about the other great Virginia planters and their slave-owning co-thinkers throughout the South who contributed to the republic’s founding and growth?

Many of the other founders, the Northern merchants and traders, benefited from the slave trade and the South’s slave economy too. Why should they be cut slack? And then, of course, there is Christopher Columbus.

In a country whose capital city is called Washington, DC, purging symbols of the Confederacy and of the extermination of indigenous peoples would be no mean feat. There are so many reasons not to go down that path. Unless we were prepared to deny almost the entirety of our history, there is no way to wipe the slate clean.

The line among liberal pundits is that the difference between good slave-owners like Washington and Jefferson and bad ones like Davis and Lee is that the former helped found the United States, while the latter fought against it. This they call “treason,” the implication being that this puts them in an altogether different, and far more reprehensible, moral plane.

Really? For self-righteous talking heads, the consensus seems to be that the difference is too obvious to require justification. But they are plainly mistaken.

Davis and Lee were no less conscious of the morally problematic nature of slavery than Jefferson, much less the other Southern planters there at the creation. Indeed, having come of age at a time when New World slavery was everywhere disputed, and already abolished throughout much of the Caribbean and Central and South America, they were, if anything, even more aware.

Moreover, many of the Confederacy’s leaders, including Davis and Lee, had done yeoman service for the United States, its army especially, before the Civil War. They were no more eager to betray the nation they served than they were ardent and unconflicted proponents of slavery. Their first loyalty, however, was to their respective states.

At a time when the United States, like most other nation states around the world, was still in formation, this was hardly exceptional. The United States was different from the others mainly in supporting two different models of capital accumulation: one based on agricultural exports and chattel slavery the other on commerce and wage labor.

This caused it to be, as Lincoln said, “a house divided.” It did not, however, make it a house divided by “deplorable” people in the thrall of white supremacist ideology, and righteous folk devoted to the idea that, in Jefferson’s words, “all men (sic) are created equal.”

Economic exigencies, not white supremacist attitudes, account for the South’s accumulation model. Racist attitudes came to the fore there, as in the North, mainly for psychological reasons; because the minds of oppressors, and of beneficiaries of oppression, need to justify their oppression of others to themselves.

Insofar as those attitudes were more evident in the South than in the North, demography was largely to blame. In slave-owning regions, racial politics was woven into the fabric of daily life; in the North, it was, for the most part, something that happened somewhere else.

Indeed, the original laborers in the plantations established in North America and the Caribbean were indentured servants from the British Isles; local indigenous peoples were another labor source. Had those arrangements worked out satisfactorily, there would never have been a reason to import slaves from Africa.

But they didn’t work out. Too many longstanding common law protections stood in the way of a developed labor regime based on indentured servitude; and local Indian populations proved too difficult for planters to bring to heel. To fulfill the labor requirements of the emerging plantation system, the indigenous peoples of the Americas were, in any case, too decimated by the diseases that European settlers brought with them to be of much use.

And so, the Atlantic slave trade began.

The dynamic in territories conquered by the Spanish and Portuguese was different, but in regions suitable for plantation agriculture under their control, they relied on African slaves too. Slavery, in fact, started earlier and lasted longer in parts of the Spanish and Portuguese empires than in the United States –nearly three decades longer in some cases. Brazil and Cuba were among the very last to abolish it. Race relations in those countries have generally been better than in the United States, especially in Cuba, since even before the Revolution.

It can never be clear exactly how to apportion blame, but it would be fair to say that the dreadful state of race relations in the United States after Reconstruction is not so much the fault of the fact of secession as of the divide and conquer strategy perpetrated by the propertied classes, even before the Reconstruction era ended. The connection between the emerging Jim Crow system and the Confederacy was not as organic as some black activists and the well-meaning liberals who support them uncritically assume.

It is even clearer that when those liberals struggle to distinguish, say, Washington from Lee, that charges of treason and violent insurrection ring hollow. What, after all, was the Revolutionary War about?

***

In deepest Virginia, there is a perfectly honorable university, comprised of a well-regarded liberal arts college, a Law School and a Business School; its name is “Washington and Lee.” Its record on race, and its acceptance rate for students of color are no worse, or maybe slightly better, than at comparable institutions.

Of course, when Southern schools were segregated from kindergarten up, it was too. But as far as I know, nobody, black or white, thought of it as more racist than normal for its time and place; nobody nowadays does either. Washington and Lee is not, and never was, a bastion of white supremacism – except in the ways that institutions of higher learning generally have been.

I wonder how that university is dealing with its name, now that white supremacists, like Dylann Ruff, are effectively empowered to determine the meanings of all things Confederate. It is, to say the least, unseemly to accord such power to the most “deplorable” among us, but such is life in Trumpland.

However, that may be, clear-headed people should remember that what symbols mean is essentially arbitrary and utterly dependent on the understandings of the people who find them meaningful.

Confederate symbols have been used to intimidate African Americans before – not quite to the same extent as nooses and cross burnings, but very nearly so. Nevertheless, those who maintain that those symbols are being castigated unfairly have a point. Confederate flags are inexorably intertwined with the history of slavery and its aftermath, but then so too is the American flag – arguably to an even greater extent.

Those who would consign Confederate flags to oblivion, but who shudder at the thought of dishonoring the Stars and Stripes are therefore, to say the least, inconsistent – insofar as their objections to the one, but not the other, arise out of their historical ties to the slave economies of the American South.

“The republic for which it (the American flag) stands” enshrined slavery in its Constitution, just as the Confederacy did. The connection was implicitly upheld by the Supreme Court in the infamous Dred Scott case just two years before the Civil War began.

The U.S. Constitution even enshrined the so-called three-fifths compromise, according to which, for census purposes, a slave counted for three-fifths of a person. And during the Civil War itself, even after Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, slavery was legal in the five states that that never seceded. In two of them, it was legal until the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment.

It is relevant too that there was another crime of comparable of even greater historical magnitude conducted, in its later stages, under the banner of Old Glory: the physical and cultural genocide of the peoples living in the lands European settlers stole.

That crime actually intensified after the Civil War. To purge public spaces of the symbols, monuments and names of its perpetrators would require the erasure of nearly the entirety of American history.

Among the grievances Jefferson listed in The Declaration of Independence to justify secession and armed rebellion was this: that he “endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.”

This was not just a gratuitous ethnic slur, ostensibly out of place in an otherwise high-minded document. It was an acknowledgment of the fact that Britain’s relations with the indigenous peoples of North America were, on the whole, more amicable than the colonists’.

The British — and the French as well – generally had less than honorable reasons for allying, from time to time, with Indian tribes. Indeed, their relations with indigenous peoples typically had as much to do with European wars as with the exigencies of colonial settlements. Nevertheless, affected indigenous peoples generally did better under the secessionists’ colonial masters than under the secessionists themselves.

The Confederacy too did less harm to indigenous peoples than their rivals to the North, though, in fairness, it must be said that it was too short-lived to make meaningful comparisons. On the other hand, before, during, and for many decades after the Civil War, the Union waged wars of extermination against American Indians — with great brutality and to great effect.

These are among the many reasons why it is hard to justify vilifying Confederate symbols while giving their Yankee counterparts a pass. For native peoples especially, it is, or ought to be, especially hard.

But exceptional circumstances aside, vilifying symbols is pointless. If ever there was a time for what Gore Vidal called “the United States of Amnesia” to live up to its name, this is it.

Learning about the past is crucial if we are not to repeat it; and perhaps, as William Faulkner put it, in this case, “the past is not dead; it’s not even past.” But fighting over its symbols is pointless, except insofar as those symbols have become vested with new meanings that pertain to struggles raging in the here and now.

A half century ago, as the Civil Rights movement gave way to a struggle for black liberation, and the class-consciousness of the American contingent of “the wretched of the earth” was more acute than at any time in living memory, the Black Panthers and Young Lords were able to make common cause with the Young Patriots, and no one would have thought to mistake, for example, the Band’s song, “The Night They Burned Old Dixie Down” for a racist anthem. Monuments to Confederate leaders and prominent slaveholders were seldom, if ever, contested either; they were left to age in place.

It is not that people knew less then than they know now; quite to the contrary, they were wiser and understood more – and did politics in a better space. Had Webb flourished and Trump floundered, we might currently be in a latter-day version of that space again.

For now, though, all we can do is let the current flare up of anti-Confederate animus run its course, supporting it as necessary, criticizing it whenever that would be helpful, and, the sooner the better, getting past it and onto more constructive ground.

ANDREW LEVINE is the author most recently of THE AMERICAN IDEOLOGY (Routledge) and POLITICAL KEY WORDS (Blackwell) as well as of many other books and articles in political philosophy. His most recent book is In Bad Faith: What’s Wrong With the Opium of the People. He was a Professor (philosophy) at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and a Research Professor (philosophy) at the University of Maryland-College Park. He is a contributor to Hopeless: Barack Obama and the Politics of Illusion (AK Press).

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