bellafarallones2

[bellafarallones2]

Merry Christmas, @thiswasinevitableid! I have had an amazing year hanging out on Discord with you and talking about TAZ and also The Terror! I hope you enjoy and have a very happy holiday!

[bellafarallones2]

FFRMC Day 23: Guilty Pleasure

No need to feel guilty about enjoying these treats! In @andrew-rannells-mustache's "Cantina Chicken Bowl," Cornelius Hickey's ghost watches the man who stole his job (and his identity) make out with Gibson in the walk-in freezer, and in @bellafarallones2's "cinnamon twist," poor, overworked, tired Edward Little is roped in to help a wedding proposal.

[bellafarallones2]

You Better Watch Out (Vincent/Apollo)

An early christmas gift for @bellafarallones, based on a discussion we had on discord. This fill is NSFW.

“I hate you.” 

“I hate you more.” Apollo rolls over in his bed to look at where Indrid is staring up at the ceiling from his own, “and I hope Santa burns all your gifts in the fireplace.”

At age eight, this is the most heart-rending threat he can think of, but Indrid turns his head to look at him, “You said he wasn’t real.”

“And he’s not. But father is.”

Indrid does not argue this point, so Apollo considers it won. They’ve been at each other's throats all week, for reasons they will not be able to articulate for several more years (eight for Indrid, twelve for Apollo). Tonight, Apollo kicked Indrid under the table at Christmas Eve dinner because he was talking too loud and father was starting to notice, and Indrid kicked back, so Apollo jabbed him in his ribs with his spoon and Indrid had startled and knocked his water all over the table.

His twin was sent to bed, and Apollo thought he had won, that his father could see how good he was, and then he had to go and try to investigate the few presents under the tree and, in the process, sent several glass ornaments to the floor to shatter. 

So here they lay, no dessert and only the gross, bland ham and potatoes to tide them over until morning. The party was over hours ago, and Apollo has more than once thought of sneaking down to the refrigerator. But father might catch him. Somehow. Maybe he can convince Indrid to do it. 

“Indrid-”

“No” his brother hurls a pillow at him, “no, whatever it is, I will not do it.”

“You are such a baby.”

“I’m one minute younger! And you, you are a, a jerk.” Indrid rolls onto his side, back to Apollo, “I hate you, I hate this whole holiday, I hate it, hate it, hate it.”

“I hate it more.”

The windows blow open and both boys startle upright. 

“There’s snow.” Apollo watches the flurry of white stick to his hand. 

“It doesn’t snow here.” Indrid is doing the same thing while peering nervously out the window, “we should turn on the light. And close the windows.”

Apollo hops up to find the light switch. It stays dark no matter how many times he flips it. 

“Stupid storm must have messed up the power.” He turns, “Bring me the flashlight from under my bed.”

“Get it your…your..” Indrid’s eyes go huge and he whispers, “Apollo, don’t move.”

Apollo turns to look in the doorway. There’s a massive, hooded shape, staring down at him with yellow eyes. 

“Indrid and Apollo Cold” the monster rasps. 

Apollo is not a baby, he should pick up the heaviest toy he can find and hit this thing with it. 

He bolts to Indrid’s bed, his twin throwing the covers over them both.

“What is that?” 

“I do not know, maybe it will go away if we stay quiet.” Indrid whispers. 

Slow, heavy hoof-falls cross the floor. A tiny bit of moonlight makes its way in the window, enough for them to see the outline of the monster standing by the bed.

“I…am…Krampus. I visit…the bad…children. You have been…cruel…to each other. Ungrateful. Selfish.”

They both wince, and Indrid puts his arms around him.

“I am sorry, I do not really hate you, and I hope father gives the good Legos to you this year instead of me.”

Apollo cannot speak, simply nods to show he agrees, clinging to Indrid’s pajamas.

“This…is…a warning.” The creature murmurs, so close it must be under the covers with them. 

Then they’re laying awake on Christmas Morning, the room exactly as it was. 

From then on, no matter how bad things get between them, come December they enter into an unspoken truce. No insults, no fighting. It’s like when they were little. 

After all, it’s better safe than sorry. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The year Apollo turned 33, he took the wheel of his life in hand for the first, real time, and promptly steered the whole thing into the nearest rock. 

He left his fathers company, cut contact as best he could, and found himself without a job, place to live, or purpose. 

He got a job at the mall, at Tiffanys. Found an apartment. Turned his simmering, patricidal instincts into more time at the gym and Sunday mornings in the woods looking for birds and the occasional engineering project (“you have to have a hobby” Indrid had said, “you will be amazed at how much energy you have when you are not dealing with him”).

Then, last year, a week before Thanksgiving, he met Vincent.

“Excuse me, I was hoping you could give me some advice on a gift.”

Apollo turns to find an unremarkable man in a grey suit, lavender tie adding a tasteful pop of color. He’s a few inches shorter than him, appears to make decent money, and is going grey in a way that looks dashing instead of depressing. 

He puts on his salesman smile, “I would be glad to. What are you looking for?”

“Earrings, ideally ones with some length. Elegant but understated.”

Apollo does not roll his eyes; has a man ever come in here wanting something subtle? Or flashy? No, they all want the same thing.

“Right this way. Are these for a wife, a daughter-”

“My sister” the man smiles, “she’s been promoted to C.O.O and I wanted to get her something to mark the occasion. Are there styles that are considered classic? She tends to favor ‘timeless pieces.’”

Apollo helps him choose a simple pair of simple drop earrings with pearls. The longer they talk, the more he swears he recognizes him, but he doesn’t know from where. Apollo hates not knowing things.

“This is an odd question, but do you work at the mall as well? I think we have met before.”

“My day job is in security. But on the weekends, you might have seen me there.” He tips his head toward where a poor facsimile of the North Pole is sitting at the center of the mall, “my father did it before me. I like keeping up the tradition.”

“I see.” Apollo cannot believe he spent the last twenty minutes helping a mall Santa. 

“But let's just keep that between you and me.” Vincent winks as he takes his gift bag, and Apollo is forced to confront the fact that a mall Santa has very nice eyes. 

Indeed, Vincent forced Apollo to confront a lot of things. Like his sexuality, which up until then he decided he could live with as long as he never acted on it (he took a match to that promise the first time Vincent kissed him and never looked back). 

It’s been an exercise in the mortifying ordeal of being known. Yet Apollo does not resent it, the way he has in the past. He wants to know Vincent, and be known in turn, and he’s fairly certain that means he’s in love. 

The December wind knocks the last leaves from the bushes as he hurries into Vincent’s apartment. Dulcinea, Vincent’s spaniel-adjacent dog, skitters down the hallway to greet him, and he picks her up.

“Hello, I know, it is only me. Vincent is working late. Yes, I hate whoever has caused that too, but we must persevere.”

He feeds her and takes her for a spin around the block, then considers the fridge and decides that once he has an E.T.A he will order something in for the both of them. 

Vincent’s place has in-unit laundry, so Apollo busies himself with emptying the dryer and putting things away. Technically, they still live apart, but a whole drawer of the dresser is his to use, as is half the closet. 

They really need to buy more hangers. He doesn’t have enough to get everything into place. 

He pushes Vincent’s clothing carefully to the side, moving close to the back edge of the closet. Here’s his favorite goldenrod shirt, here’s the suit he wore this July when Apollo got promoted to store manage, here’s a massive, leather coat-

Apollo pauses, pulls the coat out into the room with him. It’s far, far too big for Vincent, the leather weather-beaten and lined with sumptuous, silver fur. He peers back into the closet, spies matching bag hidden in a corner.

“What on earth is this for, Dulce?” 

The dog raises her head from the bed, tail wagging at her name.

“I am certain I can work it out. Maybe a costume? No, it is still too big for that. Did someone else leave it here? One of my predecessors?”

“Not quite, little bird.”

Apollo yelps, dropping the coat on the bed.

Vincent stands in the doorway, brows drawn in concern, “I’m a little glad you found it. There’s something I need to tell you. I’ve been waiting for the right time. Things are…serious enough between us that I hope you’ll stick around awhile. Which is why you need to know the truth.”

“Is something wrong?”

“You’ll have to tell me once you know. It may be a little startling so please try to stay calm. And, um” he blushes, “I’ll have to undress to show you so I don’t ruin my clothes.”

“Alright. Anything that starts with you undressing can't be all bad.” Apollo says with all the calm he can muster. 

Vincent moves out the doorway to stand by the other side of the bed. He’s giving Apollo an escape if he needs it. 

A wave of affection hits him, even as nerves well up intensely enough that he gathers Dulce in his arms for support. 

Vincent pauses unbuckling his belt, “You may want to put her down.”

Apollo kisses the top of her head and sets her down, “Is something going to happen to her, too?”

“Yes, but nothing dangerous.” Vincent steps out of his underwear and takes a deep breath. 

Then he’s gone, and in his place is a goatman, towering over Apollo. His fur is shaggy grey, his feet end in craggy hooves, curved horns sprout from its head, and he watches Apollo with glowing, yellow eyes. 

He’s seen this before. 

“You’re Krampus.” He’s eight again, hiding under the covers, he can feel himself shaking and has a horrible urge to hide his eyes. 

“Yes, Apollo, I am.” It’s still Vincent’s voice, just deeper and with more of a growl to it, “Well, I’m a Krampus.”

“But you are still you?” 

Vincent stays firmly on the other side of the bed and gives a slow nod, “Still me. My mind doesn’t really change. Not much, anyway. And no, I don’t actually kidnap children.”

A dozen thoughts flood his mind. The one that comes out is, “good, I don’t want kids.”

A soft laugh makes him relax; that’s Vincent's laugh, no question about it. Then he’s laughing too as a large, wet nose presses into his cheek. Dulce is huge and fluffy, with burning eyes and sharp teeth, and wagging her tail so hard it whams into the wall. 

“Be careful, she still thinks she’s a lapdog.” Vincent rubs her flank, “she’s trapped me more than once.”

“She does that when she is small, too, because you are a pushover.”

“Very true. Though I’m not the one who made her a bespoke squirrel toy wind-up toy to chase around.” Vincent pats her again, “go to your mat, girl.”

The dog trots off, barely fitting through the door, and Apollo smiles at the thought of her trying to nap on her normal mat by the heater. 

“You really aren’t scared?” Vincent cautiously steps forward. 

“I…I am. A little. When Indrid and I were younger, something like you came on Christmas Eve. It was not the scariest moment of my childhood, but it made an impression.”

Vincent offers a hand and Apollo takes it. It’s rougher than usual, nails more like claws.

“You were never in any danger then; the worst we do to children is scare them. They’re young, they’re still learning. Adults may earn actual punishment, though a good scare works on most of them as well. More importantly” he brings their joined hands to his chest, “you’ll never be in any danger from me, in this form or any other.”

“I know.” And he does. A lifetime of proof against it, yet Vincent makes him believe he deserves to be safe. He spreads his fingers across a furred chest, “you are very soft like this.”

“You can touch me all you like. I can also change back if that would be better.”

“You do not need to. I, ah, I would like to get to know you in this form. After all, you have seen me at my most formidable and not flinched away.”

“You do have a knack for chasing off rude customers.” Vincent ushers them down onto the bed, letting Apollo rest comfortably on his chest. He chuckles, “it feels so strange. I’m never taller than you.”

“You are perfect no matter your height. But I do enjoy having to look up at you for once.”

“You’re sweet, little bird” Vincent kisses the top of his head, “good thing too, if you were bad I’d have to punish you.”

He’s joking, and it’s the fact that Apollo can be certain of that which makes him press closer, “How would you punish me?"

“Well, since you’re my darling boy, it wouldn’t be anything too bad. Maybe taking you over my knee for a minute or two.”

“Mmm, that does not sound unbearable.” He runs his fingers more deeply through the fur and Vincent groans happily. 

“Have I doomed myself to spend every night like this so you can cuddle up and play with my fur?”

“Perhaps” Apollo grins and pets him more deliberately. Then he pauses, temporal math clicking into place in his head, “wait, if you are some kind of ancient winter spirit, does that mean your driver's license is fake?”

“I did take and pass my test. But if you mean the age on it, then yes. I’m considerably older than 45. Does that bother you?”

Apollo means to shake his head and simply say no. His accursed blood vessels give him away and  Vincent spots the blush. 

“Do you enjoy having a much older man wrapped around your finger?”

He nods, hiding his face in Vincent’s fur. Feels rough palms guide his right hand up so Vincent can kiss it. 

“Good, because I enjoy being there. My Apollo.”

They lay there for awhile, Apollo idly playing with his fur while Vincent strokes his back and tells him about his day, then about how when he’s in this form, he feels more of an instinct toward justice, more of an impulse to deal out consequences for the misdeeds he views when brushing against people.

Were it anyone else talking about punishment so close to him in the darkness, where it was just him and them, especially someone so much bigger, he’d panic, lash out. But this is Vincent. Who doesn’t mock him for putting up his birdfeeders, who didn’t sneer when Apollo wore nail polish for the first time, who does so many things just to make him happy.

“You know” a pointed nail curves teasingly up his back, “Krampus can do rewards, too. It’s the season for them.” His hand skates over Apollo’s ass, then between his thighs, “and you seem to have one in mind.”

“In my defense, you are very attractive regardless of your form. And I feel…I feel so young like this. It’s exhilarating. Is that bad?”

“I don’t think so. Though I think my motives might be a tad selfish.” He gives Apollo’s ass a fond squeeze, “what do you want, darling boy?”

“I want…I want you to rent us a cabin somewhere. And I am there all alone and it is–wait, does Krampus have a holiday all his own?”

“Krampusnacht.”

“It’s Krampusnacht, and I am lonely and young and naive. And handsome, obviously.”

Vincent laughs, “Perhaps you've been so good that I can't help but take pity on a poor young man in his cold home?”

“Yes, yesyes, especially an innocent young man who clearly needs a lesson in the pleasures of the flesh.”

His boyfriend tips his face up to kiss him, “I’ll book us a cabin first thing tomorrow.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Conveniently, being in charge of his Tiffanys’ branch means Apollo does not have to beg or plead for a weekend off. He can simply pack his nicest lounging around clothing and let Vincent whisk him away. 

The cabin is an elegant A-Frame, the interior catering to those on Valentine's Day getaways and second honeymoons. Apollo spent most of his day sprawled on the couch by the fireplace, reading, his head in Vincent’s lap. After a brisk walk around the nearby pond, they settled right back into the cozy bedroom to watch a movie. 

Now it’s dark, a storm is kicking up, and he hasn’t seen his boyfriend in over half an hour. That’s all according to plan. Now he just has to get as close to sleep as he can with this much excitement thudding in his chest.

Apollo curls up under the blankets, grateful that the sheets are a pleasant flannel instead of an awful one. He’s in his underwear, but the bedding is so nice he barely feels the chill. 

The warmth makes him doze. He’s nearly asleep when the lights all go out at once, leaving only the firelight to make sense of the shadows in the corners of the room. 

He has a moment of genuine alarm when the bedroom door creaks open and a shadow blocks any remaining light from the living room. The room grows colder, the fire dims, and Apollo hides further under the covers just on instinct.

Purposeful hoofsteps cross the wooden floor, and then the covers are drawn back from his head.

Vincent stares down at him. Only his eyes are visible beneath the hood, and filled with an animal gleam, “Mmm, I was so hoping this house would have a lovely surprise waiting for me.”

“Please don’t hurt me, I promise I have been good.” Apollo’s voice sounds pathetically childish, even as he leans toward Vincent instead of away.

“I'm not here to do you any harm. My colleagues are not the only ones who can give gifts to the deserving” he lifts his head enough that Apollo can see the predatory grin beneath the cloak, “ you seem like you could use someone to help you keep warm on this long, cold night.”

He bites his lip, aiming for an innocence he has never possessed, “I have been cold… are you going to give me a magical blanket, or a hot water bottle or something?”

“Or something, yes. It's a very long night for me. I deserve a reward as well.”

Apollo squeaks when Vincent pulls back the covers to get into bed with him, but his boyfriend pins him in place with a gaze.

“Oh yes, now there's a sight for sore eyes.”

“Really?” 

“Really.  I like pretty things.” Vincent shrugs out of his robe, “you are very pretty. Now, are you going to be a good boy for me?”

He nods.

“Take these off” Vincent draws a finger along the front of his boxer briefs, “let me see my gift.”

Apollo does his best to wiggle alluringly as he tugs the fabric free. Vincent is naked, must have worn nothing under the cloak, and all the clever roleplay lines Apollo rehearsed in his head about how virginal and inexperienced he is die on his tongue. There’s no denying the creature staring down at him is strange. But it is undeniably Vincent, and so he brings his hands up to pet soft-furred cheeks. 

“Something you want to say, little bird?”

“I have never done this before.” It’s not a lie; in all the times they’ve had sex, Vincent’s never been in this form. 

“Lucky me, then, to get to introduce you to it.” Vincent scoots back down the bed and dips his head, and Apollo flops gracelessly back as he takes his cock into his mouth. He’d been expecting to be pinned, for Vincent to take him right away, so all he can do is weakly buck his hips as Vincent swallows him to the root. 

“Ah! What, what a large mouth you have.” God he could slap himself for how he sounds sometimes. 

Vincent raises his head and smiles, “All the better to tease you with” before licking a stripe up the shaft, “tell me, sweet boy, do you ever touch yourself?”

“N-no. I am good, I would never do such a thing.”

A low, rich chuckle, “No? You never lay in bed and imagine someone kissing you here” he sucks the tip of Apollo’s cock, “or touching you here?” The pad of his thumb presses against Apollo’s ass. 

He whines, shaking his head.

“A pity. There’s no harm in it, and a pretty thing like you deserves to enjoy himself.” Vincent intersperses his words with more kisses to Apollo’s cock, “do you like your present?”

“Very much.” Giddiness bubbles up in his chest and he giggles, “you ought to have, have gift-wrapped yourself, or perhaps put bows on your horns.” He reaches down and takes a horn in either hand. They’re smoother than he expected, and he holds them tight as Vincent lovingly sucks his cock with a satisfied hum. 

“I suppose I could have.” Vincent sits back on his heels, “the next time I visit, I’ll come all wrapped in ribbon for my good boy. But now” he gently rolls Apollo onto his stomach, then guides him onto his knees, “I have a new toy I’d very much like to use.”

Apollo moans as the blunt head of Vincent’s cock pushes into him, digs his fingers into the sheet beneath him, “It’s so big.” 

A flattered laugh, “It’s just proportional, sweetheart.”

“Do not argue with me, old goat, I am trying to flatter youAH” he yelps into the pillows, “I am familiar with what your dick feels like and this is, is, ohgod.”

Vincent laughs as the game falls away a moment, “A lot? Yes, darling, I know. Imagine how it feels from my end. My perfect Apollo, tight and hot around my cock and so good he’ll let me do whatever I please.”

Then his voice is a growl in Apollo’s ear, “including carry him off in my sack and keep him with me forever. Would you like that, sweet boy?”

When he had been younger, it was all he wanted some days. To be taken away from everything, no matter where. “S-someone might notice.” 

“And if they did? No one would come to take you from me. They understand you’re mine, my beautiful new toy, my Apollo” his nails dig into Apollo’s hips, “I’ll keep you wrapped in furs, warm and well-fed, safe no matter how dark and cold it gets, and you’ll be so good for me in return, won’t you?”

“Yes”

“Good boy” his movements are wilder than Apollo’s ever felt, and he lets himself be carried away by the sensation of Vincent draped over him, dwarfing him as his cock hits his prostate over and over again. 

He cums with a whimper and Vincent kisses the shell of his ear, “That’s it, sweetheart, enjoy yourself, I’ll see to it that my gift to myself never wants for anything again” a bite instead of a kiss, “as long as he remembers who he belongs to.”

Apollo whines his name and arches into him as his boyfriend cums with a long, gratified groan. 

“Are you alright?” Vincent murmurs, gingerly pulling out and letting Apollo collapse into his arms. 

“Incredible.” He nestles closer, fumbles the blanket up to cover them. 

“I wasn’t too intimidating? You know I’d never keep you prisoner.”

“I do” Apollo shifts upward so they’re face to face, “I never...I never felt like I could experience wonder. Or fear. In a way that was safe. You let me do both, and so much more, and I could thank you everyday and it would still never be enough. I…I love you.”

“I love you too, little bird.” Vincent cards his fingers into Apollo’s hair, “knowing you feel the same is the best gift you could give me.”

[bellafarallones2]

Together (Sternclay)

Another whumpcember prompt winner was Panic Attack. This is a continuation of this 1950s fill, but can be read as a stand alone

Authors note: This fill was supposed to be NSFW but took a very different turn than planned and it didn't fit with the tone. So, if you'd like to see part three with some fluff and smut, let me know.

The morning after the best night of his life, Joseph wakes up on the floor. 

That hasn’t happened to him since he bought the new bed, big enough so that he has to thrash a lot before he hits the floor. Lord only knows what buried memory sent him tumbling this time. He always wakes in too much of a panic to remember his dreams. 

“Joseph?”

He closes his eyes, breathes in steadily and slowly. It’s Barclay. Just Barclay. He came home with him last night after a Christmas party, he’s the first man Joseph’s ever slept with, he’s handsome and gentle and he cannot see Joseph on the hardwood, the ghosts of a nightmare making him kick and shout like a kidnapped child. 

“I’m okay, big guy” he stands, reaching for his robe, “I just caught my foot in the sheet and lost my balance.”

Soft footfalls, then Barclay is in the doorway, mug of coffee in either hand, “Here I thought you remembered last night and got all jelly-kneed. Know I did when I woke up.”

Joseph takes the offered mug, “I don’t come out of my dreams that easily. But now that you mention it…” he leans in and kisses Barclay once, sweetly, on the lips. The taller man sighs happily, gaze languid as he watches Joseph sip his coffee. 

“Would this be why you asked me last night how I take my coffee?”

“You caught me.” Barclay loops an arm around his waist, and Joseph is suddenly glad the curtains to the front are closed, “usually use that line before getting someone into the sack. But I do always wanna know. I…it’s important to me. To make it good for the other person. Makes them less likely to toss me out.”

He doesn’t bother to hide his distaste, “Some people don’t have the manners god gave a rock.”

“I mean I get it. Lots of guys aren’t on the level and need me to go before their wife gets home, and a lot of the ones who are lose interest as soon as they find out I did time.”

Joseph wants to turn and cup his face, promise him that he won’t lose interest, that the fruit trees in the yard will up and walk to Fresno before he sends Barclay away. Wants to pretend that there’s a world where it won’t be his own fault that his beautiful, fiery feeling between them fizzles out.

“Well” he sets his mug on the dresser, “you know I’m not married. And you’re the most fascinating man I’ve met in a long time. So, Mr. Cobb, unless you have somewhere urgent to be, I think you should come back to bed.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joseph may want Barclay for a roommate, but Barclay is still in the “rehabilitation” program. That comes with a lot of rules and a tight leash. 

God, would he like Barclay on a leash? He thinks he would. 

Focus, Stern. There’s a job to do. 

He trusts his teaching assistant to guide the Intermediate Japanese class through their review session while he makes the drive from campus down into east Oakland. The administrative offices are next to the jail, and he’s mistaken twice for someone’s lawyer before Owens is able to see him. 

“Stern!” Owens shakes his hand, “Finally taking me up on the offer of joining the force?”

Not even if hell froze over.

“Not quite. I have a question about the Re-Entry Program; are members ever allowed to live outside of the halfway house?”

“In rare circumstances, like if they have family in the area who won’t lead them right back into crime. You asking because of Cobb? The missus said you two got on like a house on fire last weekend.”

“We did. Between you and me, I’ve been thinking about getting a housemate; the place is too big for me, and my job keeps me busy enough that meeting a nice girl to share it with won’t happen any time soon. The problem is, it’s in such a good location I don’t want to lose it by moving.” He lets his smile brighten, “Barclay and I get along, and it’s the same distance from the cafe you have him working at as the halfway house. You know I can handle myself, and I trust you to vet the program members to not be dangerous.”

Owens fiddles with his pencil, “How about this: I’m trying to convince the county to let us use a sponsor system for the program. You and Cobb could be a test case; he’s a nice guy, and between you and me I thought it was good he got a soft judge. All you’d have to do is give reports once and awhile, help become a productive part of society, all that.”

“I think we can manage.” He sits down so Owens can show him some paperwork, makes a note in his pocket calendar to swing by the cafe and talk to Barclay about it. Tries not to think about how Barclay has less to atone for than he does.

He gets to Bettys right before closing, nurses a paper cup of coffee outside while he waits for Barclay to finish up. 

As he goes to throw his cup away, he hears someone urgently call a name, and then something heavy hits him in the side. A narrow muzzle pushes into his face, covered in brown and  black fur. 

His limbs are going numb, he needs to run, he can’t, he’s not there, he’s in Oakland, he’s safe. 

“Joey! Joey get down!” A harried young woman hauls the German shepherd off him, “Sit. Oh thank goodness you remember that one. I am so, so sorry sir. She used to belong to my brother who she adored and when she saw you she just snapped the leash and ran.”

“It’s okay, just a scuff on my coat.” He looks down at the dog, fights a flinch as it barks once, happily, and wags its tail at his attention, “I’m sorry I’m not who you’re looking for.”

“If you ever figure out how to explain that to her, let me know.”

Joseph notices the ribbon pinned to her jacket. Someone she loved is M.I.A.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs. 

She gives him a sad smile, “I envy her optimism.” Another final apology, then she wishes him Merry Christmas and leaves with Joey in tow. 

Joseph brushes the dirt from his coat, so used to burying his fear he barely feels it. She’s heavier than the last one that hit him, his face slamming the mud, the shouts behind him, knowing that if they get their hands on him he’s done for, no one will come for him, and lord help him he knows what they do to spies, he’s seen it-

“Joseph?” Barclay is behind him, angelic under the street lights, “you okay?

“Just a little lost in thought.” He remembers why he’s here, pushes the past away, and steps as close to Barclay he can without drawing attention, “let me take you to dinner? I have some amazing news.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe it’s a good thing two men can’t tie the knot. Right now that’s the only reason Barclay hasn’t gotten down on one knee only  three weeks after meeting Joseph. 

It’s not the house, mercifully quiet and tidy due to their joint cleaning, or Joseph making sure they split dinner duty. It’s not the new room that’s technically his own even though he spends every night under soft sheets with Joseph.

It’s that when they talked about the “sponsorship,” Joseph offered a bulleted list of how they could phrase the agreement so that Barclay could leave if he needed to, could not be just tossed out on his ass if things went south between them. That the night before he moved in, Joseph sat down with him to make a grocery list to cover them both. That when Barclay holds him, he feels safer and more at home than he thought he ever could, and can feel Joseph’s shoulders shaking with some nightmare, and hopes with everything in him that this relationship simmering between them will soothe whatever part of his past keeps chasing him. 

Life isn’t a fairytale. God knows they both understand that. But doesn’t it deserve a chance to be? 

In place of a proposal, he’s keeping Joseph company on the drive down to Salinas to see his family. Christmas is a relatively new practice in the family; it overlaps with Hanukkah this year, but according to Joseph, there’s been pressure to make at least a passing effort at Christmas.

“A neighbor told my mother it seemed un-American to not observe such an important day.”

“What the fuck?”

Joseph jabs his baked potato, “It’s the same one who couldn’t understand why my family wasn’t carted off to internment because they don’t understand Korea isn’t Japan.”

Barclay suspects that if Mrs. Stern is anything like her son, the neighbor was instantly withered by disapproval. The last time he visited him on campus he saw him turn that stare on some older students harassing the janitor and felt vicarious shame the rest of the night. 

They turn from the highway, away from the coast and into the farmland. Fields whiz by, brown without the strawberries, spinach, and artichokes that will cover them in the spring and summer. The radio has been playing the same ten Christmas songs, and so Joseph lowers the volume and asks about the Christmas party that Barclay attended at the halfway house. 

He sighs, “It was okay. Hank liked the records I got him.”

(They’d gone to the store on Shattuck to find them, pressed up against each other in the small space as they looked through the shelves and crates, and Joseph had walked out with five for the house, half his picks and half Barclays, plus one they’d grabbed for at the same time).

Joseph casts a glance his way, “What happened?”

“A bunch of the guys got me a ‘special gift.’ Said it’d make me into a real housewife. Relatedly, if you know any women who need stockings, point them my way.”

Two fingers raise off the wheel, “First of all, the joke is on them for wasting money on something that isn’t funny. Second of all, if they think taking care of a home is embarrassing, I have three generations of women who will happily threaten them in no fewer than three languages for you.”

“Keep that in mind, babe.” He leans over, kissing Joseph on the cheek.

The conversation turns to the movies, and by the time they turn onto the main drag they’re deep in debate about what to see the next time they catch a matinee. 

A plane buzzes overhead. Barclay wonders who the fuck is flying right now; maybe a celebrity zipping up for a Christmas on the coast, or an overworked mailcarrier. 

Joseph tenses in the driver's seat as he pulls toward the parking spaces in front of the darkened Parks Grocery. 

“Joseph? Baby, what’sAH!” He yelps as the bumper bangs into the sidewalk. 

“Shit.” Joseph hisses, then his voice flattens, “I’m sorry, it’s nothing, I just had trouble seeing the curb. Is the car alright?” 

Barclay pokes his head out, peering between the headlights, “Might be a little dent, but that’s it.”

When he looks back, Joseph's face is the same as it was a few minutes ago, friendly and collected, “That’s a relief. Okay, I can take the presents if you take the food; they’ll hold up better to the onslaught.”

Joseph’s right; the instant the door opens, he’s being hugged by a woman with brown hair piled on top of her head, an older man slapping him on the back, and a girl who looks like she could be his daughter clinging to his legs. He hears something ripping and hopes it’s wrapping paper and not Joseph’s shirt. 

The memory of coming back to the Lodge after being gone, of arms around him welcoming him home, sticks under his ribs like a knife. 

“Alright, alright, let the poor man in.” A figure that can only be Mr. Stern appears, looking up at his son before hugging him, “what, you thought I wasn’t going to get in on the action?” 

“Good to see you too, Dad.” He passes off the presents to a tall, blonde man, “Dad, everyone, this is my friend Barclay.”

He waves, pie tray in his free hand, “Thank you for letting me come on such short notice.”

The older man in the glasses waves his hand, “Eh, what’s one more, she’s cooking like the entire Giants are coming for dinner.”

“And who is that because, huh?” The woman who must be Mrs.Stern jabs a wooden spoon his way, “you ate half the table at the Seder last year.”

“Doctor says I gotta keep my strength up. That makes sense, right Joseph?”

“He’s a nice boy, he’s not gonna argue with his mother.” The grey haired woman says dryly from her spot beside him. 

“Bubbe is right on the money.” Joseph takes the pie and carries it to the counter.

“I can help out if you need.” Barclay offers, but Mrs. Stern waves for him to sit down. 

Joseph introduces him to everyone, and Barclay begins to understand why both floors above the grocery are occupied. Of the two sets of grandparents, his great aunt and uncle, parents, and older sister Lily, only Lily lives elsewhere. She and her husband, Craig, brought themselves and his niece Sophie down from San Francisco for the day. 

At one point he looks around, unable to find Joseph, and sees him speaking quietly to his parents in Korean. His stomach twists, wondering if it’s about him, if Joseph feels forced to justify while a man with a rap sheet is sitting in their living room. 

Then Sophie is nearly in his lap, demanding to know what kind of pie he made, and he lets himself be drawn back into the conversation. 

A tap on his shoulder, and he looks up to find Mrs. Stern.

“Barclay, can you help me bring some things up from the store? I forgot to cart them up earlier and a few of the boxes are a little heavy for me on those stairs.”

“Sure thing.” He follows her out the door and down the side stairwell, the grocers cool and dark when they get inside. She shifts boxes around in one of the storage closets while Barclay scans the newspapers on the wall. 

(Joseph’s whole family took her name, he realizes. “Park” belonged to his father, hence the name in friendly red letters out front). 

“Joseph said you two are moving in together?”

“Yeah. I’m really excited.”

“You mentioned you were up on the coast for a while. Is your family up there?”

He nods and she continues, “well, I’m flattered you chose our ‘christmas’ dinner to come to instead.”

“It’s, it’s not like that, my, I-” He looks over at her leaning on the counter and realizes he’s stepped right where she wanted him to. 

“I…I got into some trouble. And when I got out, they only let me up to see my family and friends once. They told me they were afraid that if I was paroled there, I’d just take up old habits.”

“And would you?”

He thinks about the names on immigration documents, the pleas for safety,  Indrid forging signatures perfectly while Barclay and Dani worked out which routes were the safest to send them.

“In a heartbeat.”

The steel in her posture softens, “You’re honest. That’s a good thing in a man.” She places a box onto the counter, “Joseph told Lawrence and I the truth. Don’t be angry with him for that, he comes by his inquisitive streak honestly from both of us and knew to head off our questions so we wouldn’t embarrass you by mistake asking them at the table.”

“I kinda had a hunch he had.”

She steps closer, “Can you promise me something? Keep an eye on him these next few weeks. This time of year is hard for him. He’s never said why, I assume it has to do with what happened over there. He hides it well, I’m not sure even Lawrence notices. But a mother always knows.”

Barclay feels strange relief, knowing someone else has spotted the brittle edge to Joseph's smile that's been worrying him the last few days,

“I’ll do my best.”

She reaches up and pats his cheek, “Thank you. Now, let's get these boxes upstairs. Careful not to drop that one, it’s mostly applesauce.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d been doing so well. He made it through the drive down when the plane buzzed overhead and he was back in Dresden. Through the moment at the table when Sophie had if Barclay had been in the war and his mother simply said, “he was a hero, like your uncle.” Joseph had wanted to shout that unlike him, Barclay really was one. 

Then someone had to go and set off a firework right after they got home. 

Now he’s standing in the bedroom, fighting himself with rapidly dwindling success. He held it together then, why can’t he hold it together now? What if these attacks never stop, what if they get worse. If they get worse, someone will notice, oh god help him what if they happen in class, he’ll be fired for sure, what good is a professor who can’t do anything but shake? And if Barclay finds out, he’ll be gone in an instant, because Joseph will confess on top of everything else and then Barclay will know him not only as a coward who can’t keep the past at bay but as a failure. The one person he wants more than anything in the world will leave him and there will be no one to find him when one of these episodes finally stops his heart-

Warm, large hands cup his face, “Joseph, hey, stay with me.”

“I’m here.”

Barclay shakes his head, brown eyes overflowing with tender concern, “No, you’re not. You’re somewhere else. Come back to me. Please?”

“I don’t know how, I’ve tried and tried and I can never make it stop, I just have to ride it out, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“What are you apologizing for?” Barclay, voice genuinely confused, is trying to guide him to sit on the bed, but his limbs are lead even as his heart tries to break his bones from the inside out, “you aren’t hurting me, things went well with your family, I thought everything was okay…”

Oh god that’s what the tone he couldn’t place at first is; Barclay is scared. He thinks he’s done something wrong. 

He’s already failing him. 

He has to push through, he can salvage this.

“Can you please close the curtain. And maybe roll up a towel at the bottom of the window? It’s those fucking fireworks, the noise and the light is getting to me.”

Barclay nods, squeezes his hand, and stands. Joseph inhales as deeply as he dares. 

It gets stuck, turning to a sob halfway through.

“Woah, woah baby hey” Barclay drops to his knees, “whatever you’re thinking of is in the past, it can’t get you here, you’re safe-”

He shakes his head without meaning to, “I don’t deserve to be. Someone else should have come back in my place.”

“Bullshit.” The murmur is surprisingly forceful. 

“No” he snaps, “it’s not. I was a spy, Barclay, and that means doing terrible things for the sake of keeping your cover. It means turning a blind eye to some of what you’re seeing because if you look too long you’ll decide to hell with the mission and try to stop it.”

Barclay stays quiet, keeps hold of his hands. There’s a burn scar on his wrist from an oven and Joseph raises it to his face, keeps it against his cheek. It’s easier to talk with it there, like whatever he says is a secret Barclay will hold in his palm for safekeeping. 

“I had a few near-misses but the worst one is the one I can’t shake. It was understood that if another agent was caught, unless we could be certain we could escape with them without blowing cover, we were not to intervene, even if it meant their death. I was in Dresden, technically as an axis member, but really on a mission where if I failed, there’d be more men dead than just me. It was already stressful because I knew there could be a bombing any moment.” 

He presses a kiss to Barclays skin to steady himself, “the other agent on the mission was found out. He ran, but where we were….there was no chance of escape, there were too many of them. I heard the shouts, knew what was happening, then he rounded the corner and I realized he was about to call out for me to help him. So I” he closes his eyes, lets him see it again as penance, “I shot him. Before he could reveal me, too.”

He’s still crying, but the sobs have stopped, and his heart is no longer ten seconds away from an attack. Now if only he could bring himself to look Barclay in the eye. 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“It’s okay. If, I understand if this changes things-”

“No! I mean yeah, it does, but not how you’re thinking.” Barclay takes Joseph’s chin and gently guides his head up, “I literally don’t know what to say. Because what I want more than anything in the fucking world is to know the magic words that would make it better. But I don’t, and I’m not sure there are any, but I’ll be absolutely fucking damned if I make you feel worse. Yeah, I could sit here and judge, but I wasn’t fucking there, and what matters to me, in this moment, is that you’re still stuck.” He rests their foreheads together, “I know you’re trying to reconcile every awful thing you went through with the story everyone wants to tell about you. But I’m not someone you have to impress, or someone you have to confess to. I’m just the nobody cook who lucked out enough for you to like him.”

Joseph doesn’t throw himself into Barclay’s arms; that implies an energy he does not have. Instead he sinks into them, only for the cook to maneuver them both onto the bed and cradle him close. 

“How many times do I have to tell you you’re not a nobody, big guy?” The teasing comes out in a shaky whisper. 

“Dunno, it might not ever stick and you’ll just have to remind me every day how great I am.” 

He snickers, “I already plan on that.” A yawn overtakes him, “christ, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just drop this into a nice evening. I’m so fucking tired.”

“Then we should get some shut eye.” Barclay carefully undoes the buttons of Joseph’s dress shirt.

“But-” 

Barclay looks at him, eyes hopeful and serious, “You want this thing between us to go on for a while, right?”

“More than anything.”

“Then we don’t have to talk through every tough thing in one night. We’ve got time. We can make a life that’s worth all the pain it took to get here. Together.”

Joseph nods, presses a kiss to those full lips as a thumb brushes the last of the tears from his cheek, “together.”

[bellafarallones2]

FFRMC 2024 Day 9!!

Prompt: Dreamed about it

vanilla creme limonada freeze by @bellafarallones

Francis Crozier burst into Taco Bell at 2am, face flushed and sweating, his fine hair stringy, and so obviously drunk that it was astonishing he was even upright. “I haven’t been here in months,” he slurred. “How can I help you, sir?” said Jopson. Tommy Armitage, the other cashier on duty, was radiating dread, but Jopson’s body glowed like a neon sign. 

I just couldn't get through a rec list without reccing at least one bang mas fic!! This fic, to me, is jopzier at its most iconic. Its got everything: crozier at his worst, jopson extremely and incomprehensibly into it, and unwilling and disturbed bystanders. I've reread this one a bunch of times, and I love how well it balances humor with the romantic (?) dynamic!

[bellafarallones2]

FFRMC day 8 (late)- Funny As Hell:

Befitting of the Christmasey mood. This one's short but sweet (and silly.)

[bellafarallones2]

The Terror Bingo is back! The Terror Bingo Round 6 will run December 1, 2024 through March 31, 2025.

We're starting a little later than previous years due to some events (including a surprise move!) happening in the mods' lives, so we weren't able to do all our pre-sailing checks in time. But we're setting sail!

Here's how the Terror Bingo works:

1. Sign up for your bingo card! Each card is personal and randomized. You’ll have the option to choose your card size (3x3, 4x4, or 5x5), prompts, and do not wants. Sign up form: https://forms.gle/4xQdXeJZybJ6yAxm6

2. On December 1 (or anytime after that date), we’ll send you your bingo card.

3. Get creating! Art, fic, crafts - As long as it's related to The Terror, we accept all content, characters, pairings, and creation mediums, and have no minimum requirements.

4. Post your creations and tag them with #theterrorbingo (or ping our social media accounts). Unlike in previous years, you can start posting as soon as you get your card.

5. You have until March 31, 2025, to get that bingo! When you get a bingo, you get a (digital) sticker and bragging rights. Request your sticker here: https://forms.gle/tUSjESn31rAps5tm6

Read the full rules and FAQ: https://theterrorbingo.tumblr.com/about

Join our Discord: https://discord.com/invite/gJuaA97

Happy creating!

[bellafarallones2]

Fic Rec Carnivale: Day 2

AU of my Heart

The Librarians by @bellafarallones2

This is both delightfully done fitzier but also the painfully accurate portrait of working in a library.

[bellafarallones2]

Duck was paired up with Dani for the dessert party and they're making some kind of chewy granola bar thing but Duck bought extra chocolate chips anyway because he figured either someone would forget or Indrid would just like to eat them straight? So the crisis is averted after all!

Also, if they're already dating, Barclay definitely tried to seduce Stern to get him to share his secret stash of supplies, but he did it in the least subtle way possible and Stern's FBI training holds up 😂

if you have ideas I'd like to tag @scarlet-the-girl

Plot Game - Everybody play!

It's TAZ November Celebration and a lot of us are having a time of it. Instead of working on a big thing, I want you to play plot with me.

1) look at the existing plot

2) reblog with more plot points

3) tag someone else to add a detail

4) make your own if you want to!

Plot: Ensemble fic - annual 'dessert-off'. Everyone gets assigned a partner randomly and they have to work together to present something for the pot luck.

I'm tagging you, yes you! Whoever is looking at this and thinking "I want to play plot!" Do it!

Reblog with an idea and let's see where every version of this ends up going. There should be a few different strands and I'm excited to see. Feel free to take part multiple times, just let someone else go between.

I wanted to keep this one general so you can pick any season! Not balance specific.

[bellafarallones2]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Terror (TV 2018) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ann Coulman Ross/James Clark Ross, Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Francis Crozier & James Clark Ross Characters: James Clark Ross, Ann Coulman Ross, Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848) Additional Tags: the m rating is for ross's thoughts about his wife, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Happy Ending, Near Death Experiences, Visions, this is yet another ross ex machina fic featuring wife guy and fitzier wingman ross, mostly james clark ross POV Summary:

Now that it seemed Francis wasn’t coming back, however, there was no question in James Ross’s mind of whether to go after him. How dare the Arctic think it could claim him! Francis was his friend, and James could hardly allow him to succumb to danger someplace far away.

[bellafarallones2]

Small Prince (Vincent/Apollo)

A belated birthday gift to @bellafarallones2 based on something we discussed on discord!

Apollo is not cut out to be an uncle. But at least he did not have to become a father. 

It happened like this: when he and his brother, Indrid, were twenty-two, they were summoned to the throne room by their father. They were not alone, which was lucky as the look in the king's eyes was the kind that seldom bode well for their wellbeing. 

“Would either of you care to explain this?” His father pointed to one of the four other people in the room, a young noblewoman holding a bundle in her arms. 

“Oh dear.” Indrid murmured as she turned the bundle to reveal the face peering out of it. 

“She claims the father was a Cold.”

“The features are unmistakably that of this house. As were those of the gentleman I met at the midsummer ball nine months ago.” The woman’s voice is not afraid, just tired. Apollo supposes she is beautiful.

Not as much as he supposes his brother holds no interest in women. And he certainly would not take someone he barely knew to bed. For starters, they could easily murder him while there, not to mention the fact that most people become attached after such things and the last thing he needs is dead weight following him about. 

He glances at his twin, meeting his eyes behind those garish red glasses he wears. They are seldom of one mind about things. Maybe if Indrid was actually sensible, they’d have agreed on something since the age of twelve. 

They agree on what must be done. 

“He is mine.” Indrid steps forward, bowing to the woman, “I apologize, both for any distress this has caused you and for the fact that I was so outside my senses I cannot recall your name.”

“Clara.” She curtsies. 

“I suppose this calls for a wed-”

“No.” Their father cuts Indrid off, “I have made plain I will not have some common noblewoman on the throne beside you when my time comes.”

Apollo smirks at the anger on Clara, her father, and her guards' faces. 

“But her father wishes to marry her off without offspring in tow. So the boy will stay here and be raised as an heir. He is, after all, of our bloodline. No one will question it if they know what is good for them.”

“Understood.” Indrid offers his arms, “I can take him.”

Clara looks down at the silk-enrobed bundle, pathetic tears in her eyes, “Goodbye, Orion. Be food for your father.”

Just over three years have passed. For the first of them Apollo never saw the brat at all; he was in the care of a nursemaid, with Indrid spending a truly confusing amount of time with him. Gradually, he’d appear in the gardens, first in Indrid’s arms or, later, toddling between him and his bulldogish brick of a knight. 

Apollo takes it as proof father likes him best that he assigned Sir Capra as his personal knight instead. Vincent is the only person who does not bore Apollo to tears or fill him with a desire to gouge their eyes out, is going grey at thirty-three in a way that he wears strikingly well. He is also, much to Apollo’s annoyance, nowhere to be found. 

Indeed, the castle seems rather empty; ah yes, there’s some silly solar eclipse. Vincent asked if he wanted the knight to accompany him to a viewing. Apollo had snorted and said he had better things to do. 

The trouble is, he has now done them. His father is not as omnipotent as he once was, but Apollo still fears being caught idle. 

Something warm closes around his legs and his hand goes for his dagger. 

“Dada!” Orion looks up from where he’s hugging Apollo’s knees.

“I am not my brother. I look nothing like him! I am far more attractive!”

“Uncle!” The word is a bit mushy in that little mouth. More worryingly, it does not cause the little leech to release him. 

“What do you want?” 

It sounded more demanding and less panicked in his head. 

“Play blocks!” 

“Then go play with the wretched things and leave me in peace!”

The boy frowns, then begins tugging on Apollo’s robe, stubby little nails tearing at the golden embroidery on the hem, “Blocks.”

“As soon as we get to them I am locking you in.” He mutters, following the urchin down the hall. He could just pull away and leave him to cry on the floor, but the noise is so horrible and he is not in the mood for a headache. 

They reach the playroom, and Apollo calls out for Vincent once, in case the knight returned early. The Capras are a large family, and the older man thinks nothing of bouncing Orion on his knee or crouching to speak with him if they cross paths in the garden. 

“Make a tower.” Orion says, more to himself than Apollo. He’s seated on the floor, surrounded by beautifully smooth, birch blocks. Apollo sits picking up a triangular one to study it; this is the same set he and Indrid played with as boys. He remembers the feel of them, the smell of opening the toy chest, wood warmed by the sun.

The playroom has changed since then. No longer drab, no longer stuffed with portraits of kings long dead. Instead, each of the four walls is painted to match a time of day; dawn, afternoon, dusk, and night. Orion’s back is to the night wall, making him look as if friendly hedgehogs are convening on him from the painted grass. 

Apollo’s heart twinges and he wills his ribs to close around it, crush it. The boy is an impediment on the way to the throne. He must not become attached to him, see him as anything more than a potential tool or bargaining chip. 

Orion is stacking rectangles haphazardly. They keep falling down after six or so block, and he’s huffing and pouting at them more each time. 

“If you want it to be taller, you must widen the base. Honestly, did my brother teach you nothing?”

Orion cocks his head,confused. 

Apollo sighs, removing his outer robe and rolling up his sleeves, “Watch closely.”

He starts with two rows of ten, then of nine, then eight, the boy gradually disappearing behind them the taller they get. When he’s hit the top rows, Orion stands and wanders around to join him, eyes wide and smile bright. 

“There. See how much more stable this is? I could make it as tall as I please using the same principle.” He glances at the boy, “why do you want it to be tall in the first place? A small stack of blocks is no impressive feat of engineering.”

“Dragon.”

“Excuse me?”

Orion picks up a stuffed dragon from the floor and lets out a piercing yell as he rams it into the tower. The bricks fall in a clatter, the boy laughing uproariously the whole time.

Apollo wants to be furious. As it is he is confused, first by the action and then by the emotion it stirs in him. 

He remembers taking turns with Indrid to knock the blocks down, the two of them seeing if a troll at the bottom or dragon at the top made the bigger disaster. 

“Again!” Orion claps his hands together. 

“You really are a little monster, aren’t you.” Apollo mutters, but does not feel the venom he meant to put into the words. 

Orion drums his hands on his knees and then crawls over to watch the construction. Apollo widens the base more, making the structure more a true pyramid. 

“There, it would take you a siege engine to destroy that.” 

His nephew accepts the challenge, ramming the dragon into it and sending the blocks cascading once more. 

“Again!”

“Very well. But this time, you must assist me.”

The eclipse comes and goes and neither of them notice it, moving from destroying the towers many times over to seeing if they can build a fortress for the conquering dragon out of the wreckage. 

Apollo figures that is teaching the boy the realities of war, in case any asks him why he was wasting his time in such pursuit.s 

Footfalls hurry down the tiled hallway and the door flies open. Indrid stands in it, his knight behind him. 

“Oh thank goodness.”

“Dada!” Orion runs as fast as little legs allow and hugs first Indrid, then Duck. 

“I am so sorry my treasured one, there was a mix up and no one came to watch you.”

“Yes” Apollo stands, draping his robe over his arm, “the foolish child though I was you and waylaid me when I was looking for Vincent.”

“If you laid so much as a finger on him-” Indrid bites. 

“Dragon attacked the castle!” Orion yells gleefully, then turns to Apollo, making grabbing hands in the hair, “up? I dragon now?”

“It…seems you got along.” His brother still looks ready to break his fingers, which would be admirable were it not unnecessary. 

“Indeed. I taught him the finer points of defense construction. Now that you have returned, I can turn my attention to more important things.” 

Indrid scoops the boy into his arms, “Thank you. For watching him.”

Apollo turns, pulling on his robe, “Just do not expect me too again.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s not sulking. Sulking is what one does when one is upset, and Apollo is not upset. Vincent being out on a date with someone from the city does not upset him in the slightest. 

A stuffed dragon lands on his face and he growls, whipping his head to the side.

Orion, on tip toe, is peering at him over the edge of the bed. 

“Play dragons?” The boy seems to sense his mood and is already looking like he regrets throwing the toy onto him. 

He picks it up. It would be pleasant to rip the head off. 

Then again, perhaps his nephew will let him take a turn as the beast, and he can knock some blocks over himself. That would be supremely satisfying. 

“Yes, let us shore up our defenses once more.”

—--------------------------------------------------------

After that, the boy seeks him out nearly daily, slipping from under the watchful eye of knights and nannies to demand Apollo enable his dragon-based havoc. 

He learns that “Be dragon” means Orion wants him to lay on his back and balance him on his feet, holding his hands as needed so he can pretend he is flying. He decides to use the moments to discuss the finer points of offensive attacks, as well as taking an enemy by surprise. He doubts the boy takes much in, too busy giggling and roaring, but surely no one will think twice about once prince preparing another to lead armies. 

One day, he finds his nephew has been given a small, felt sword. This results in Apollo being given the dragon toy, then chased about the room by the small knight. When he is caught, he takes to falling about dramatically, bemoaning his fate, cursing his luck. Orion thinks it is hilarious. 

“Now” he says after a particularly drawn-out death scene, his eyes still closed, “you must remember, little drake, to check that your enemies are thoroughly vanquished. Indeed, your great great great great grandfather was brought low when his enemy faked his death andAH” 

Orion’s means of checking whether he’s dead turns out to be hurling his whole body onto Apollo’s torso and hugging him. He’s laughing as he does. Apollo puts his arms around him, laughing as well. 

The truth is not often an easy thing to handle. His father insists it is often the harshest things that are true. 

Apollo knows two of them at once.

One: Orion is now the second person other than himself he would truly die for. 

Two: he will never harm this boy. Even if Apollo tries for the throne, he will find some other way. 

The door creaks open and he sits up, Orion still in his arms. 

“Hello your highness” Vincent smiles at Orion, “and your other highness.”

“You saw nothing.” He cannot bear the thought of someone like Vincent thinking him soft, thinking him weak.

“If you insist. But I must say, that is a pity. If I saw what I thought I did, it made me happy to see.”

“Ah.” Apollo looks at his nephew as the boy waves at Vincent. 

“Indeed, since his father and knight are at a function, and his night attendant is delayed, I was coming to offer to read him a story until bed.”

Orion shrieks in excitement and hurries toward the bedroom. It takes some coaxing and bargaining to get him to change into his pajamas, but the two of them–if he’s honest, mostly Vincent–get him settled into bed. 

He should leave, but when Vincent pats the space on the other side of him, he sits down on the soft, butterfly-patterned comforter, shoulder to shoulder with his knight. 

Apollo is not cut out to be an uncle. But he’s certainly starting to enjoy it.

[bellafarallones2]

47 Sternclay. Hope this cures your block!

Sickfic/caretaking

When Stern is sick:

Stern is not someone who gets sick easily, and he often works while sick, well past the point where it's a good idea because what is medicine made for if not dosing yourself so you can do work while feverish.

At one point, Barclay literally pins him to bed, just laying on him, to keep him from getting up and trying to go to work while feverish.

Which means the day Stern wanders in and says, "I can't work, I need to go back to bed", Barclay has a slight moment of panic because how bad must he feel to admit to being sick?

Stern really wants spicy food and slurpees when sick, if he has an appetite, so Barclay makes lots of posole or hot pot or literally anything with heat while his boyfriend is wrapped up in a blanket drinking the largest "orange cream" slurpee the gas station had.

Stern either sleeps or wants to watch bad monster hunting shows from the early 2000s, and Barclay will bundle him up and rub his shoulders and run his baths until he feels better.

When Barclay is sick:

As soon as Stern knows, he goes and gets gatorade, ice cream, and soup. Also ginger ale if there's a stomach-ache. Because those are always what Barclay asks for when sick.

He makes sure Barclay has a heating pad for any aches, and pain killers or cold medicine in reach, and turns on something soothing on T.V

Barclay gets really, really anxious if left alone while sick. So anything Stern has to do gets done from the same room, including from bed. Barclay gets lots of fur petting to soothe him, along with Stern promising him he never sees taking care of him as a problem.

[bellafarallones2]

Greener Pastures (Vincent/Apollo)

Second place of the "First Rodeo" prompt poll was "Greener Pastures. For those who don't know, Apollo was introduced in this Amnesty Superhero AU. Thank you to @bellafarallones2 for playing in this space on Discord!

He was star of the rodeos but now they rob him blind

It took 18 years of Brahma Bulls and life on the line

To get this spread and decent herd but now he spends his time

Pulling night guard. 

-Stan Rogers, Night Guard

“How many does that make?” Duck stands from where he’s examining the tire tracks at the southern end of the pasture. 

“Seven.” Vincent removes his hat, fanning himself with it, “If they get anymore I’m in serious trouble. The car’s paid off but the house isn’t; I’ve already been to the bank once to explain the situation and they’re not happy.”

His neighbor stands, knees cracking worryingly for a man who’s only 32, “Cops got anythin’?”

“Nothing. I’m small potatoes, Duck, they don’t care about one old rancher losing his herd.” He sighs, “I’ve been on watch every night this week, but there’s too much distance to cover, and they know it. They got the last one out from under me.”

“You want me to help? Might go better with more eye’s on ‘em.”

Vincent considers it. He’s known Duck since he was 16, knows the offer of help isn’t given if it’s not meant. 

But if this goes wrong, his friend doesn’t deserve to be hauled into jail with him. 

“I’ll think about it. I have a plan tonight; if that doesn’t work, I might just take you up that offer.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent leaves a pile of windfalls from Duck’s orchard in the southwest corner of his property, and the cows can’t resist, munching happily as Vincent uses the scant oak trees for cover. 

The black R.E.O pulls in silently, lights off. Dulce stomps her feet when the tires stop, but Vincent shushes her softly, petting a flank to keep her calm. 

Two figures, the same size and height, leave the cab, ushering one of his heifers into the back of the truck. He can’t move just yet. He needs the proof. 

As the truck begins pulling away, he pulls his Winchester from the scabbard on the saddle, takes aim, and fires four shots. 

The cattle scatter, panicked, and Dulce nickers, alarmed. There’s two, responding bangs as two tires blow, sending the truck careening side to side before the driver loses control and plows headfirst into an empty drainage ditch. The passenger door  flies open and one figure takes off across the road and into the neighboring field. 

As Dulce trots over to the wreck, he hears another truck coming. The lights from Duck’s pick-up render the whole sight like a scene from a picture show, and the vehicle is barely stopped before the younger man is hopping out. 

“Jesus fuckin christ, Vince, you scared the hell outta me. Thought you’d gone and got shot.”

“I’m alright. I worried the driver might not be. I didn’t aim anywhere near him, but I only got two tires with four shots.”

Duck hops down into the ditch as Vincent shines his flashlight on the door. When it opens, a figure is slumped over the wheel, and his heart climbs up his throat. Then the rustler stirs, groaning, and looks at Duck. His angular face is partially hidden by red glasses, and his pale hair is almost white. 

“Hello.” The thief’s gaze moves from Duck to Vincent, then to the rifle, “Ah. I see. I understand my position is not an ideal one, and my bargaining power low, but I would appreciate it if you did not shoot me.”

Blood is running down his chin; he must have hit his nose in the crash. He looks more like a dazed deer than a threat. 

“Get him into the house and get my cow back to the herd.” Vincent jerks his light in the direction the other man ran, “I’ll deal with that one.”

Duck nods and Vincent turns Dulce into the starlit night. 

The second thief has made it a decent distance, but he’s only heading in the direction of more flat grass and so Vincent does him the courtesy of calling, “You may as well stop now. You won’t outrun me.”

He doesn’t stop, seems to try to sprint, only to fall a moment later. Vincent can hear him cursing the entire time he rides up. 

When he dismounts, the man looks up, unafraid and sneering. 

Vincent puts the barrel against his throat. 

“The safety is on.” 

“I know.” He sighs, “I’m not actually going to shoot you. But I need you to understand the gravity of the situation.”

The grin widens, “Coward.”

“Get up.” Vincent stands back so the man can climb to his feet. He seems unsteady on them, though it’s not until his hands are tied and Dulce is kneeling for him to get on that Vincent understands why; his ankle is sprained, though he’s been walking around on it without wincing this whole time. 

The short walk back to the house is a litany of insults to his weight, age, intelligence, cleanliness, and parentage. Were it any other day, he’d be able to let it roll off him, remind himself that he’s not interested in the opinions of cruel people. 

Were it any other day, he wouldn’t have spent the morning in the bank, staring down the loss of everything he nearly broke his back for. 

The rustler thrashes and twists as Vincent helps him down, clearly trying to make a break for the ditch, or possibly for Vincent’s own truck. By the time they burst through the front door, he’s holding the boy by the scruff. 

Duck is just hanging up the phone, and both he and the other thief jump at the bang of the windowpane on the door. The thief is holding a frozen bag of peas to his forehead, and in the light of the kitchen Vincent can now see he and the man trying to kick his legs out from under him must be twins. 

“Apollo, for heaven’s sake, stop that. Hurting them is not going to do anything but make this hole deeper.”

“I will not be cowed by some fat, old man!” 

“Be quiet.” Vincent turns to Duck, “was that the sheriff?”

“Yep.” Duck leans against the wall, frowning, “but he says he won’t send anyone out to pick ‘em up. When Indrid here gave me their names, that made a little more sense. These are Cold’s boys.” He glares at Apollo, “why they’re stealin from decent folk when their pa owns half the fuckin county is fuckin beyond me.”

“It is a long story. But I did tell you they would not send anyone; you needn’t have troubled with the call.”

“You ain’t exactly proved yourself the honest type.”

Indrid bites his lip, “If our actions have caused a financial burden, perhaps we could work it off?”

“At least one of you has sense, and some manners.” Vincent releases Apollo, but keeps a hand on his shoulder. 

Apollo flicks his blonde hair from his face, then sinks his teeth into the side of Vincent’s hand. 

“God fucking–” he catches himself, doesn’t swing out with his other hand to slap him. Instead he shoves at his shoulder and tries to pull away, tries to pull Apollos hair, but all the man does is bite down harder. 

“Fuck, is he part Gila Monster?” Duck tries to pry Apollo off with limited success

“That is certainly one theory.” Indrid pinches his brothers nose, and after ten seconds of spluttering the other twin finally releases Vincent’s now-bleeding hand. 

“Traitor! We could have run just then if you’d hit this brick with something.” He kicks Duck in the ankle. 

“I am not going back to him.” Indrid says to him with what Vincent is coming to understand as very reasonable fear.

“Coward. Traitorous, useless coward!” Apollo lunges at his brother, but this time Duck is ready with the dog leash from the front door, wrapping it around his wrists and trapping them behind his back.

 Vincent hauls the still-thrashing brat into the spare room, muttering, “I ought to put you over my knee” under his breath as he slams the door and slumps against it in the kitchen. Duck is watching him with concern. 

“I…I’m sorry you had to see that. I don’t like to lose my temper.”

“Apollo has that effect on people.” Indrid sits back down as Vincent washes his hand and fetches a bandage from the bathroom. 

“You don’t think he might have rabies, do you?” He’s only half-joking. 

Indrid shakes his head, “It would be nice if it could be explained so simply.” He fiddles with the corner of the now-thawed peas, “I truly am sorry. And I wish I could say that we–or, I suppose, he–will not do it again. But that would be a lie. Father has his reasons for demanding we do such things. Apollo might steer clear of Capra Farms, but he will find someone else’s livelihood to undermine.”

“So, what, we’re just supposed to keep him here like a fuckin lion in a zoo?”

“That may be our best choice. At least for now.”  Vincent looks at Indrid, “Can you bale hay and pick fruit?”

Indrid nods, almost eager. 

“Duck, I suggest you take this Mr. Cold up on his offer. You need more hands than I do. I’ll keep Apollo here with me for now; maybe once he’s calmed down he’ll see reason.”

And if not Vincent thinks I always was good at breaking in horses. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Knowing when to ignore things is a skill. If Apollo can apply it now, he can get himself out of this. He will ignore the pain in the ankle that fat old goat made him bandage himself. He will ignore Indrid’s betrayal. He will ignore the inexplicable surge of heat that came with his captor threatening to put him over his knee. 

He will ignore it. He will bide his time. And then he will take back his car, steal anything and everything of value Vincent Capra owns, and go home. 

Apollo supposes he could use the phone in the kitchen to call the cops to fetch him. But Capra has earned vengeance, and that will take time. 

When the door to his little room, with its small but comfortable bed and shelf of old books, is finally unlocked, he does his best to walk un-hobbled into the kitchen. 

“Good morning.” Vincent does not turn from the stove, where he’s scrambling eggs in the early morning light. 

Apollo says nothing, simply sitting down and pouring himself coffee. 

Vincent turns, setting a plate of toast next to jam and butter, and the bowl of eggs next to a little vase of wildflowers. Apollo realizes he did not, in fact, take the old man's place at the table; there are two settings laid out. 

“I want to apologize for my behavior.” Apollo says with as much sincerity as he can conjure, “my brother had the right idea. I will help around your…farm. To pay back what I owe.”

“Thank you for your apology.” Vincent replies mildly. Then he pauses in buttering his toast, “I’m sorry for how I acted. I doubt you can understand what losing livestock means, but all the same I shouldn’t have threatened you.”

He sets the toast down and Apollo realizes; the old goat is embarrassed.

Pathetic. 

“I hope we might be able to start fresh this morning. I have a few jobs you should be table to do without aggravating your ankle.” He holds out a hand, “do we have a deal?”

Apollo shakes it with his best smile, “We do.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vincent doesn’t trust Apollo any further than he can throw him–which, after that bull bucked him in 73 and hurt his back, isn’t far–but at least the younger man can follow directions. 

He fed the chickens and collected eggs, cleaned dishes and milked the cow Vincent keeps just for that. He also got himself barked at by Quixote before Vincent whistled at the dog to follow him out to the pasture. 

When Vincent sets dinner on the table, the younger man actually thanks him before helping himself to the meatloaf and green beans. 

There’s a clink as Apollo sets the fork down, staring at his plate. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Why are you doing this? How are you doing this?”

“This being…?” He fills his water glass. 

“The food, old man.”

“I’m not about to let you starve, or make a separate, sad meal just to punish you. So, you eat what I eat.”

“But why does it taste so, so good?”

Apollo seems so perplexed Vincent stifles a laugh. 

“Because that’s how food is supposed to taste. I may not be a rich man, but butter and salt and nice spices are some of life's little joys,”

“Ah.” Apollo says, understanding without grasping his reasoning. 

Vincent assumed Apollo’s life was a luxurious one up until now. Now he wonders if the twins had been like prized stallions, kept too close and penned in for fear of losing their value, greener grass only seen when they were let loose to do their fathers bidding. 

“If you want a real treat, I still have cherry preserves from Duck’s last harvest. Can you check the freezer? There may be some ice cream in there that it would top beautifully.”

Apollo balks at the order a moment, but still stands up and opens the door. When he turns and nods, it’s with a far more genuine smile than the one he gave this morning. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

It takes five days for Apollo’s ankle to take his weight, and once it does Vincent puts him to work more concertedly. He spends all of Saturday fixing a stretch of barbed wire, comes in sore and sunburnt but flops into bed after dinner feeling…oddly pleased with himself. 

Sunday morning finds biscuits and gravy in the kitchen, with Vincent telling him he needs to run into town for some supplies for dinner. Apparently, the older man observes the silly tradition of not working more than needed on Sundays.

When the truck pulls out, Apollo takes a test jog around the house, and looks over his damaged car. Unless he can lure a mechanic out here, he’ll have to take Vincent’s truck when he finally makes his run for it. 

Climbing up the porch steps, he finds Indrid waiting for him with a suitcase. 

“Duck drove me back to the house when I knew father would be gone. I got my things, and a few of yours.” 

“Good. I’m sick of wearing these hideous hand me downs. The pants are all too short and the shirts all too wide.” 

“I was also sent with this” Indrid lifts a basket of cherries, “it turns out Duck’s orchard is prize winning. He also sells hay to half the ranches in the county.”

“I do not care.”

Indrid sighs, “I know.”

“Is he mistreating you?”

“No” His brother looks horrified, “Duck has been wonderful to me. Especially given the circumstances under which we met.”

“Oh. good.” 

“Try not to sound so disappointed.” Indrid steps down, past him.

“I am not. Now go away. Vincent will be back soon and I want to sweep the house before he is.” He ignores how that sounds and wills Indrid to do the same. His brother cocks his head slightly, but says nothing else as he starts back up the road. 

Vincent returns just as Apollo is tossing out the last of the dust and throwing a stick for Quixote to fetch. Dinner is pork chops, apple sauce, and onions cooked brown and sweet. Vincent sips his beer while Apollo sticks to an orange soda. 

After their meal, Apollo is looking for something to read in the main bedroom when he notices the photo on the wall. 

“That’s you.”

“After my first big win on the circuit. Two days later I put most of the prize money into the account that turned into this farm.”

“Ah.” Apollo feels something dangerously close to guilt.

“I do think I cut quite a figure back then.”

“Yes. Though you have only gotten better with age.”

It’s the kind of compliment that soothes the egos of little men who nonetheless have something the Colds need. Only when it’s out does he understand he means it. The Vincent in the picture, dark haired and beaming, dust on his cheeks, is handsome. The man beside him, grey haired, with more weight to him and more lines on his face, is stunning.

Vincent chuckles, accepting the compliment but not believing it.

“I…I was going to sit. On the porch. To watch the fireflies and…and maybe see if I could spot the owl who has been calling. Would you like to join me?” 

Why is it so hard to ask? Why does it seem to take a thousand years for Vincent to answer?

A gentle smile, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Apollo is kneeling by the fireplace. It’s snowing outside, and Vincent sits in the chair before him, fully clothed, firelight making him look like a painting, like the statues of great men in the museums Apollo went to as a child. 

The rifle is on his lap and he shifts the barrel out over his knees. Apollo leans forward, taking it into his mouth and sucking. Vincent murmurs that he’s doing well, that he’s so very pretty like this. The gun is not loaded, this he is certain of. Even if it was, he is certain he would not be afraid. It is safe like this, comforting, and as it always does the dream melts into the two of them in the fields, grass green as Vincent takes him into his arms. 

He wakes up to the smell of coffee and toast, the way he has every morning for the last three weeks. Apollo is no fool; he knows what his dream means. Knows that every insistence to himself that he did not like men has been a lie, perhaps even the longest lie of his life. He also knows that his brother was kissing that silly cherry grower by the western fence last night. 

If Indrid, odd and unappealing as he is, can make someone kiss him, surely Apollo can do the same. 

They’re fixing the barn door today; it was knocked off its hinges by a bad summer storm. The chore passes uneventfully, the two of them discussing whether to go into town for a movie on Sunday, when Vincent’s jeans catch on a nail, ripping a hole in the thigh. 

“That was close.” The older man checks to be certain there’s no injury, “thank goodness I wore the thickest pair.”

Apollo nods, eyes on the patch of now-exposed skin. There is a tattoo there. An arm and something green, he thinks. 

Vincent has a tattoo. And if Apollo does not get a full look at it soon, he is certain he will lose his mind.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been hot enough that, were it anyone else but Apollo, Vincent would assume the suggestion of a swim was solely due to the weather. 

But he knows his Apollo. There is always an ulterior motive. 

He scolds himself as they arrive at the swimming hole; Apollo isn’t his. He’s working off a debt, and one day he’ll fly off somewhere new, either by mutual agreement or by stealing everything Vincent owns. 

That option should worry him more, but it’s hard to view Apollo as a threat when the hardened cattle rustler is animatedly talking about the heron they saw on their walk here while trying to get out of his clothes. 

He strips down and climbs into the water as Apollo is distracted by a hawk overhead. When the younger man sees he’s already in, he looks almost annoyed. Vincent does avert his eyes as Apollo tosses his underwear away; he’s swam naked with plenty of friends, but he’s certain Apollo has not done the same. He doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable. 

That worry evaporates when the blonde stands directly next to him, looking down with an intensity Vincent is trying not to read too much into. 

Then Apollo huffs, grabs his leg, and sends him backwards into the water. 

He twists away and comes up spluttering.

“Hold still!”

“Apollo, what on earth-”

“What part of hold still was unclear, old man?” Apollo grabs for his leg again.

“What are you trying to do?”

“See your tattoo. I need to know what it is of!”

“Asking is preferable to drowning me.” His exasperation is fond as he sets his leg on a rock so Apollo can see the blonde merman inked into his skin. 

“It’s…it’s a man.” Apollo blinks, tilting his head. 

“Yes. He wasn’t cheap, so please don’t insult him.”

“Do you like blondes?” Apollo’s eyes flick to his face, then back to the tattoo.

“It’s been known to happen.” Vincent lowers his leg back down so he’s standing comfortably. 

“Blonde…men?”

“Yes, Apollo.” He says patiently, amused that his clever ranch hand seems so stymied. 

“As in you like men to have sex with? While also being a man?”

“That's generally how it works.” He takes a step forward as Apollo goes stiff and faces him like he’s expecting execution. 

“I think I would like to have sex. With you. Because I have been having dreams that are about your gun. And sucking on it. When it’s not loaded.”

“Oh, my gun is always loaded.” He teases. 

Apollo looks alarmed. 

“That was a sex joke.” He says reassuringly, and hazards putting his arms around Apollo’s waist. 

“Oh. Ha. Ha?”

Were he being charming, being bold, Vincent would fear this was all an act. But the awkward shyness of it all leaves no doubt in his mind as to what the man in his arms is after. 

“You’re an odd little bird, Apollo Cold.” He strokes an angular cheek. 

“And that is a good thing?” Apollo sets his hands on Vincent’s shoulders.

“I certainly like it.” He tilts his chin up,meaning only to offer the invitation, but Apollo is instantly kissing him. It’s painfully, endearingly inexperienced, and the younger man seems to know it. 

“I, I have not done this before. I am sorry if I am bad at it.” He takes Vincent's hand and kisses over the skin still a little pink from the healed bite.

“You’ve picked up plenty of skills on my farm. I think you’ll manage this one.”

Apollo grins, bright and breathtaking as a sunrise, “I may need a bit more practice. Though I would prefer somewhere less damp.”

Vincent climbs from the water and helps Apollo up after him, enjoying the way his cheeks redden when he’s eye level with his cock. Then he fetches the blanket they brought, lays it out in the shade of a tree, and lays down with his lover in the soft, green grass

[bellafarallones2]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson Characters: Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), Thomas Jopson, John Franklin (1786-1847), Harry D. S. Goodsir, Thomas Blanky, James Clark Ross, Lady Silence | Silna (The Terror), Jane Franklin (1791-1875) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Library, canon-typical suicidal ideation and violent imagery, Psychic Abilities, Past Sophia Cracroft/Francis Crozier, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alcohol Withdrawal, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs Summary:

John Franklin (Library Director) assigns Francis Crozier (Director of User Services, troubleshooter of circulation software, locator of misshelved books, answerer of reference questions, and mainstay of the evening and weekend circulation desk) and James Fitzjames (Director of Technical Services, filler-out of purchase orders, negotiator of software- and ebook-licensing contracts, validator of bibliographic records, and all-around public library budget-stretcher) to work together to plan a volunteer appreciation banquet.

[bellafarallones2]

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Francis Crozier & Thomas Jopson Characters: Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), Thomas Jopson, John Franklin (1786-1847), Harry D. S. Goodsir, Thomas Blanky Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Library, canon-typical suicidal ideation and violent imagery, Psychic Abilities, Past Sophia Cracroft/Francis Crozier, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alcohol Withdrawal Summary:

John Franklin (Library Director) assigns Francis Crozier (Director of User Services, troubleshooter of circulation software, locator of misshelved books, answerer of reference questions, and mainstay of the evening and weekend circulation desk) and James Fitzjames (Director of Technical Services, filler-out of purchase orders, negotiator of software- and ebook-licensing contracts, validator of bibliographic records, and all-around public library budget-stretcher) to work together to plan a volunteer appreciation banquet.

[bellafarallones2]

Wow!! The image of them sharing a cigarette is so good and hot to me… and “hawkish” is such a good word for Alistair omg! and him switching to menthols because Charles likes them adds an interesting dimension to his character. Like. That man hates everyone but the way he hates Charles looks a lot like love 👀

okay all of those WIPS sound excellent but you know I wanna hear about the Alistair and Charles scene!! what are they up to??

Thank you for asking! For context to everyone else, Alistar and Charles are the OCs of @thiswasinevitableid and @bellafarallones respectively. I planned on featuring them a lot in the BttF fic in the works, but I wanted to play around with their characterization This is a snippet I liked in particular, though I think I'll need to really workshop it when the time comes.

“Can I bum one of those?” Charles asked, but he really didn’t need to. Alistar always kept enough on hand for the both of them. He’d even switched to menthols when he learned that they were Charles’ favorite.

Alistar wordlessly held out the cigarettes to Charles, who took one swiftly. Alistar took a few short puffs of his cigarette as he put the box away. He then took the cigarette out of his mouth as he lit the lighter close to Charles.

Charles leaned down towards the flame with the cigarette between his lips to light it, and Alistar quietly observed him. These small moments were his favorites. The small fire illuminating his friend’s face to enhance his hawkish features, the way his thin lips wrapped around the cigarette, the top of his head that Alistar rarely saw, the concentration Charles held in his eyes as he inhaled to make the cigarette catch, how close his face was to Alistar’s own.

[bellafarallones2]

I’m such a sucker for library AUs, tell me more 👀

(responding to the WIP game)

oh man!! yes. i work in a library right now so i am absolutely going to bring some niche career knowledge to this one. the only thing about a terror library au that's going to require suspension of disbelief is the idea of a library with a 100% male staff. and also why these people from the british isles are working at an american public library (i have no idea how british libraries work).

franklin is the library director, fitzjames is director of technical services, and crozier is director of user services and shockingly good at working with the public considering how disagreeable he is in staff meetings. blanky is the building manager. silna is a prominent local author who does events at the library sometimes and goodsir, who does interlibrary loan and is also Keeper of the First Aid Kit, is kind of in love with her. i also love thinking about crozier and jopson hanging out while they're staffing the circulation desk. and the plot idea i have is that fitzjames and crozier don't get along but then franklin assigns them to work on a special project together and they get to know each other a little better 👀

i already have over 5k words of this written lol so. possibly coming soon to an ao3 tag near you!