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l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

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catb-fics · 4 years

Text

Love Bites (Part 3)

Warnings: yep, there’s smut / Word Count: 2.8k

Read from Part 1 Read Part 2

"Do you wanna know a secret Y/N?" Van says, his voice low.

The rational part of your brain is telling you that he's playing a silly prank on you, but a tiny part of your mind is actually considering the ridiculous notion that Van might actually be something otherworldly. But that's just absurd. This isn't 19th century Transylvania for gods sake.

You don't trust yourself to speak so just nod and whisper, "Uh-huh..."

"I'm not like other guys."

No shit.

"What... do you mean?" You're curious, but wondering whether you do really want to know. What if Van's some kind of crazed psychopath and you've willingly walked into his lair?

He looks torn between whether to tell you or not, his brow furrows slightly and he catches his bottom lip in his teeth. Fuck... those incisors really do look sharp. Is he showing them off for your benefit? Maybe he's trying to scare you? You're suddenly overcome with uneasiness. You stand up quickly, and your heavy wooden chair skitters backwards across the stone floor with a screeching noise. You're trying to remain calm but you're pretty sure you're radiating panic. You pretend to look at your watch, like you've just realised that you have somewhere else to be.

"I think it's about time I got going home, thanks ever so much for the dinner."

You're not quite sure how it happens as you don't actually see Van rise up out of his chair, he just sort of materialises in front of you in the blink of an eye, and as he does so he whirls you around so you're pressed into the table with him towering over you. It happens so quick your head spins with confusion and a sizeable portion of fear now. Something is definitely VERY different about Van. You can see a darkness swirling in his eyes as he gazes down on you but despite your discomfort you can't look away. It's like he's cast a spell on you and you're helpless, trapped there between his body and the hard, unrelenting surface of the table. His hands are resting on the edge of the table on either side of your hips, ensuring that you can't slip away. But in any case you're not sure if you'd be able to even if your escape route was wide open.

"What if I were to tell you that all those stories you heard growing up were true? All the monsters you heard about as a kid? The creatures that dwell in the night..."

Fear floods your whole body, sending uncontrollable shivers through you. You hear a strangled high-pitched sound and realise it's actually coming from you. Instantly Van's features soften, a glimmer of warmth returns to his eyes. He reaches a cool hand up to gently rest on the side of your face, his thumb softly stroking your cheek.

"You don't need to fear me," he says, but the tremors still wrack you despite his assurances. You're now sure that Van's invited you here under false pretences and he truly means to harm you.

"What... are you?" You stutter.

He pauses and you suck in a breath.

"I'm a vampire..."

You were wholly expecting this, but it doesn't make the confirmation any easier to digest. You feel like your blood has turned to ice in your veins. Images run through your head, all the gothic horror books you've read, all the blood-thirsty Dracula films you've watched.

"Do you... do you... kill people?" You utter, frightened to know the answer but compelled to ask.

Van sighs, and steps back slightly. He glances down, shaking his head slightly like he's about to impart some bad news. You know what he's going to say before the words have left his lips. Dread sinks heavily in your gut.

"Y/N I don't want to lie to you," he says, and his eyes scan your face as he speaks, gauging your reaction. "I've done... bad things, really bad things. I've had to survive. There aren't many of my kind left... but times have changed. Don't believe everything you see in the movies."

Despite your trepidation your inquisitivity gets the better of you. You've always been fascinated by vampire folklore. Van's stance is more relaxed now too and you feel a small amount of tension leave your body. You boost yourself up to perch on the table, your hands in your lap and your legs dangling below.

"Well... I can see you're curious. What do you want to know?" A small smile plays on his lips, his fangs concealed for now.

Numerous thoughts flit through your head, and you can't settle on one. There are so many things you want to know. As soon as you start speaking the words tumble out.

"Do you sleep in a coffin? And can you only go out at night? Oh... and do crucifixes and garlic hurt you? What about a stake through the heart?"

Amusement is clear on Van's face as his smile widens. "You have been watching too many movies!" He muses. "I sleep in a bed actually. Garlic and crosses have no effect. And although I don't like the sun it won't harm me. Although have you seen the colour of my skin? I burn like anybody else. And I don't sparkle in the sunlight. I'm not Edward Cullen."

He chuckles then, a low, soft sound.

"What about the stake?"

He raises his brows. "Why do you want to know? Did you bring one with you tonight?"

"Of course not!" You actually find yourself smiling.

That's until you see his fangs again protruding slightly as he laughs. The realisation then floods you about what vampires actually do and the icy tendrils of fear start to creep up your back again.

Van appears up have read your thoughts. "I don't mean you any harm Y/N."

He moves closer and you feel his hands on your knees. He eases your legs apart firmly, stepping into the space there until he's merely inches away, his hair falling forward on to his face, masking his eyes briefly before he sweeps it back. They're burning with fire and and ice again as he speaks.

"But I do mean to have you."

You're locked in his gaze again and he leans in closer and closer until he's so near you can feel his warm breath on your face. You dimly wonder whether he's hypnotising you somehow, but then maybe he doesn't need to. In spite of everything you want him so badly. Every fibre of your being seems attuned to him as his fingertips brush your thighs just below the hem of your skirt, lightly drawing patterns on your skin.

"You can have me..." The words just slip out and Van needs no further encouragement. Your mouths collide, the soft skin of his full lips urgently pressing into yours. Your tongues entwine and he tastes like the red wine you've both been drinking. The kiss is sensual and deep, and even though Van's pressed up right against you it's not close enough. You clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer.

Eventually you pull away, breathless, as you feel Van's cool fingers slide under the hem of your top. He begins to tug it up over your body and you let him, raising your arms so he can pull it over your head. He casts it down on the floor, letting his eyes roam across your half naked form. You feel self-conscious and start to raise your hands up to cover your breasts but Van stops you, taking your wrists firmly in his hands and pressing them to your sides.

"Don't cover yourself, you're beautiful," he tells you. "God I want you so bad..."

Even as the words escape him he's leaning in to you, his lips brushing your neck. He explores all over the skin there with kisses which start off feather-light but progressively get more passionate, his lips puckering against your skin, hard enough to leave bruises. It feels so good but you can't let yourself go, tensing every time his teeth graze your sensitive flesh.

"You need to relax Y/N, it'll be so much better for you if you relax," he breathes in your ear.

"You're telling me to relax when you want to drink my blood? I'm scared."

He pulls away on hearing your words and takes your hands, entwining his fingers through yours. "Don’t be scared.... Come on, I'm taking you up upstairs."

His movements are so fluid, so graceful, all of a sudden he's scooped you up off the table, holding you bridal style. You wrap your arms around the nape of his neck. "Keep your eyes on me," he says.

You're dimly aware you're moving as you see things flicking past your peripheral vision and the sensation is almost like floating. You do as instructed and keep your eyes on Van, marvelling as you come to a stop within moments and you take a look around to find you're in a large room somewhere else in the house. The room is empty apart from a grand four poster bed and Van carries you over, gently setting you down on the soft, white sheets.

You can't tear your eyes away from him as he stands over the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it slip to the floor. The only light in the room is the moonlight filtering through the window and Van's pale skin looks almost luminous. You push yourself up on your elbows as he begins to unbuckle his belt.

"I'm frightened. Will it hurt? And what happens if you can't stop yourself?"

He pushes his jeans down and then he's just in his underwear as he climbs on to the bed. His movements seem feline as he crawls over to you, and it makes you think of a predator stalking its prey.

Is it possible his fangs have gotten longer? His lips are slightly drawn back as he looks at you, eyes pooling again with that darkness, but his voice is soft when he speaks.

"Y/N you're going to have to trust me. I'll try my hardest not to hurt you. I want this to be pleasurable for you too."

He reaches for the waistband of your skirt, easily locating the zip and you lift your hips off the bed slightly to allow him to pull it down with your underwear in one swift movement.

He moves until he's hovering over you on the bed, gazing down on you, his eyes moving hungrily over every inch of you.

"Mmm... I don't even know where to start with you..."

But he doesn't wonder for long. His head dips down to the base of your neck, kissing and licking all over, his hair tickling your skin. Then he gradually trails down, your nipples instantly stiffening under his touch as he takes each one in turn into his mouth. The feel of his teeth grazing your skin is a constant reminder of his hunger for you as he lavishes all his attention on your breasts until you're starting to squirm on the bed from the sensation, your hands raking through his hair.

Finally he raises his head, his voice low and seductive as he speaks. "Y/N... I need to taste you... I can't hold off any longer."

You're so aroused that every nerve in your body is bristling. You reach down and slip your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and start to tug them down. Getting intimate with a guy you've only just met isn't your style at all, but all your usual reservations have gone out the window with Van. You're so desperate to feel him inside you that you find yourself reaching down for his erection and guiding him to you, the groans of pleasure that escape him fuelling your need for him all the more.

He starts off gently, taking his time with you, easing into you gradually to allow you time to adjust to the feeling before he starts to move his hips slowly and precisely against yours. But suddenly, after a few thrusts into you he pauses, looming over you, breathing deeply, gazing down on you with an animalistic look about him, eyes blazing, teeth bared.

"Van... please don’t!” You utter, fear instantly flooding you, but it's too late.

He closes in on you with lightening speed and there's a feeling of intense pressure on your neck for an instant before your delicate skin yields to his fangs and a sharp shock of pain shoots through you. You cry out, your whole body going into spasm. But the pain is short-lived. It's soon replaced with a strange kind of euphoria that heightens all of your senses. It's almost like you can hear your own heart thudding in your chest whilst the blood's being drawn from your body. Every nerve receptor in your body seems to go into overdrive and the sensations you're feeling are amplified, the depth of Van's thrusts, the delicious sensation of his body moving against yours, creating friction where you need it the most. You can feel the pressure starting to build deep down inside and you push your hips up further to meet his, your bodies colliding in sync.

You gasp his name, clinging on to him, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as you pull him to you as close as you can. All the time his lips are feverishly pressed against your neck whilst he drinks from you, his breath ragged and hot whilst he pounds into you.

You're ascending to heights you've never reached before, your orgasm not just simmering between your thighs but radiating throughout your whole body and then it hits you. A crescendo so intense that your whole body convulses. You let out a moan, wrapping your legs around Van's waist as he bucks into you with all he's got. Suddenly he withdraws his fangs from your neck as he throws his head back, letting out a groan of pure pleasure as he spills into you a moment later. Then his body goes slack as he buries his head in the crook of your neck.

You're temporarily stunned, your body still quivering from the aftershocks. You blink a few times, but your vision is blurred, and when you try to move your limbs feel heavy.

"Van?" You whisper, wondering what happens now.

He finally stirs, raising up and to the side and propping himself up on an elbow, leaning over you closely. His eyes fix on yours and they're mesmerising still but for once you're not looking at them. You're staring at his mouth, or more precisely what's around it. There's so much blood, it's coating his lips and smeared across his chin and you watch, unsettled, as he licks it from his lips like he's savouring the taste.

Now you've come back down to earth you start to feel panic bubbling up in your gut as the reality of what's just happened hits you. You can feel droplets of blood trickling down your neck still and you shoot out a hand to press against your wounds but Van catches your hand.

"Allow me," he says, leaning into your neck again, and you feel his tongue warm against your skin as he licks up every last drop. "You're fucking delicious you know..."

What if he wants more? You smile uneasily, trying to push yourself up on your elbows but your head spins and you collapse back on to the bed, wrung out. “I don't feel so good," you groan.

A thought occurs to you that in your weakened state it wouldn't take long for Van to finish you off. There's absolutely nothing you could do about it. You'll just have to lie there and let him take what he wants from you. You suddenly feel so exhausted that you're struggling to keep your eyes open.

"Y/N? Y/N?" You can hear Van's voice but it sounds far away, and then his face swims into view as he leans closer. "You're weak, you need to rest," he says softly.

"Am I dying?" You say, feeling strangely detached from all that's around you.

You hear Van laugh, a soft chuckle as he reaches over to brush a lock of hair back off your face and then his hand lingers there, stroking your cheek tenderly.

"No love, of course not. Now sleep. I'll be here for you when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere."

So you fall asleep, dimly aware of his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

THE END 🧛‍♂️ 💕

Sorry the ending's a bit shit! May come back to this story one day (when I've finished off my million other unfinished stories!!)

#vampire van #catfish and the bottlemen #catb #van mccann #fanfic #vanfic #smut

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years

Text

Children of The Gods

This is a gift for my amazing friend @lesbabe6, who is also the creator of this AU! Sorry it took so long to write, babes, but I hope you like it!!

Also, note: I know jackshit about Greek mythology and the personality of the gods/goddesses, so please don’t kill me if I got their characterizations wrong. I didn’t go through That Phase, so I’m going off of what I was told and the limited research I did.

That being said, enjoy the Six demigod AU!

[Tour!verse]

��——————

Pale slivers of sunlight bleed in through the high window at the center of the church hall, casting shadows that reach like long black needles across the floor. There, beneath the rays, Aragon kneels in front of the altar. In the light, she truly feels divine, clean, holy- the way God intended her to be. However, that feeling is snatched away the moment she steps out of the soothing, warm glow.

No matter how much she prayed, she would never be a child of God, as the Lord was not her creator. Nay, the blood that flowed through her veins was not like the people she was desperate to be kin with.

From behind, there is a loud beating of wings and the fluttering of feathers. Catherine of Aragon, daughter of Nemesis, goddess of revenge, squares her shoulders, but does not turn around.

“Still bowing in these musty buildings I see,” Says her mother, “My child, your wishes for complete mortality are foolish. When will you realize how blessed you are?”

“This is ANYTHING but a bless-” Aragon stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, “I did not call you to fight. I need your help.”

“Oh?” Nemesis quirks a brow. She folds her white wings neatly against her back, intrigued enough to stay. “And what might that be?”

“I want to get back at the whore who ruined my marriage.” Aragon states. Her tone is bitter and the anger flickering in her eyes amuses her mother. “I want that bastard to suffer the way she’s made me suffer. That is what I request, mother.”

Nemesis hums, thoroughly entertained by the offer. She taps her chin, gliding over to her demi-spawn, who she gazes down on with sharp eyes.

“An interesting proposition.” She says, “You are quite upset, yes?”

“Yes.” Aragon nods.

“Then I shall do it.” Nemesis says, noting how Aragon perks slightly at her agreement. “However,” She halts her daughter’s upcoming celebration, “You know my conditions.”

“An eye for an eye,” Aragon murmurs. Her body tenses. “You’re holding me to that? Even though I’m your daughter?”

“Of course,” Nemesis says, “They’re my rules.”

“I am NOT giving you one of my eyes!”

“I never said it had to be an eye,” Nemesis points out, “I just need something in return for helping you.” She opens her wings, “Or you could always do it yourself. You are a demigod. Use that clever brain of yours, child.”

“The extent of my powers is in no comparison to yours!” Aragon says, desperation oozing into her voice, “Please, mother, you-” She sets a hand on the small bump on her stomach. “You can take my child.”

For a moment, what looks like shock flits across Nemesis’ face before she calms her features. However, her feathers remain moderately ruffled.

“Your...baby?”

Aragon takes a deep breath.

“Yes.”

Nemesis is silent for a long moment.

“If that’s what you truly offer,” She says, “then you have a deal.”

With a wave of her mother’s hand, a sharp pain struck Aragon in the stomach, causing her to gasp and stagger. Nemesis leapt forward and steadies her daughter, who is clutching tightly at her midsection.

“Is it…”

“It has been done.”

——————

“Are you scared?’

Hermes has never been the most fearsome of gods, what with those strange little wings he wears and him being one of the youngest, so Anne wasn’t too worried about facing him in her prison cell in the tower.

“Not exactly.” Answers the daughter of the merchant and herald god.

“You brought it upon yourself,” Hermes chides, as if his child didn’t already know, “I mean- using your powers to run around and sleep with other men before you could get caught!”

“I really am your daughter.” Anne smirked.

Hermes’ crossed arms tense over his chest. Then, he clicks his tongue, shook his head, and laughed.

“That you are.” He says, “However, I am unable to do anything about your current predicament. Your fate is now set in the stone.”

“So this is really it?”

“I’m afraid so.” Hermes frowns, “For now, at least.”

Anne raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Soon, child. Soon.”

——————

Being the daughter of the god of healing, medicine, music, and poetry, Jane was always very confident in her healing powers. She remembers once how she fixed the broken leg of a small fawn when she was just a little girl, earning a pleased hum from not only her father, but also her father’s twin sister.

Since then, helping others has always been at the top of Jane Seymour’s mind. Discreetly, she would mend the scraped knees of fallen children, regenerate the worst of a wounded soldier’s injuries, soothe the burns on a servant’s hand after they accidentally touched the hot metal of a steaming kettle.

That being said, she wasn’t really that scared of her pregnancy. Yes, she heard about the mortality rates of child birth, but she had faith in her powers. She was constantly using the magic on her baby to keep them healthy inside of her womb, and she could always heal herself if something went wrong. The fear was quelled.

And yet...

The birth was painful. More painful than Joan had been expecting. She was so focused on pushing and breathing that she barely had any chances to use her magic to keep her health stable. And when an opportunity did come about, she either filtered the healing sensation into the baby she was worried for or used it to fix the hand of the poor, young lady in waiting she was grasping onto so tightly the bones may have broken.

Hours passed. Then days. Even after the baby is born- a beautiful, bouncing boy named Edward- Jane struggles between the lines of life and death. If she isn't unconscious, then she’s struggling to breathe over the pain or begging to see her son. Her pleading requests are always shut down.

Her magic is but a faint flicker within her. She has tried to mend any damaged flesh (the nurses were saying her vagina badly tore down to her rectum) but the power is either very weak or not working at all.

The latter seemed more likely.

“Am I dying?”

At first, it seemed like Jane is talking to no one, as the only person in the room with her is the young lady in waiting she had been clinging to while giving birth, who was asleep in a chair in the corner of the room.

But then a beam of sun cut through the thick grey storm clouds outside, bathing the bedroom in the glow. A man appears before her very eyes.

“I'm afraid so, my dear,” Apollo frowns, “You overused your magic on your son. Keeping him alive and safe.”

“Is be okay?” Jane asks, “Is he-”

“He's fine, sweeting,” Apollo soothes her. He crosses over to the bed and takes one of her frail hands, using the other to stroke back her sweaty bangs. “Perfectly healthy.”

Jane nodded weakly. A fresh wave of pain hits her and she screwed her eyes shut.

“Can I hold him?” She wheezes out, “My son... Please...please let me hold Edward once...”

Apollo frowned. He gently strokes his thumb over her knuckles.”

“I'm sorry, my sweet. I can't do that.” He says.

“But-”

“Rest... Rest...”

——————

“What you have done is quite foolish.”

Cleves laughed and splatters of blood come out of her mouth. She looks up at her father, Mars, and grinned, despite the gash in her stomach.

“You are my father.” She says.

“That I am,” Mars says, “But you have ruined your mortal vessel. You're going to die.”

Cleves grunted and tried to push herself up into a sitting position, but is halted by the pain. Mars presses her back down into the damp grass, his hands surprisingly gentle.

“Do you hate me, father?” Asked the dying woman.

Mars pursed his lips and brushed Cleves' blood-spattered cheek with a tender finger. For a moment, he almost doesn’t seem like the god of war.

“I could never hate such a great warrior,” He says, “You have made me very proud, Anna. And now, you die an honored death.”

Cleves smiled up at her father. She feels him ease the sword clenched tightly in her fingers out of her hand and she breathes a shuddering, but relieved breath.

“I'm glad.” She whispers. Her eyelids grow heavy.

“One day, you will raise your sword again.” She hears Mars say. His voice is fading out. “But now is not the time.”

——————

Katherine opens her hand and watches a small rainbow weave and flow around her fingers. Watching the colors sparkle and flit around in the air became one of the only things that bring her comfort ever since she was wed to the king.

Well, there was one other things...

“Is this what you wanted for me?”

Iris, goddess of rainbows, appears in a veil of colorful sparkles. Her beautiful features are creased with worry as she crosses over and kneels beside her young daughter.

“I’ve always imagined you being royalty,” She says, “But this treatment you get? Never.”

Katherine sniffles softly. “Wh-why is this happening to me? I-I...”

“I know not.” Iris replies sadly.

She went to stand up, but Katherine clings tightly to her hand and her heart melts for her child. She pulls the girl into her lap and placed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“When you grow up,” She began, knowing stories usually cheered Katherine up, “You will be a beautiful young woman. Powerful, too.”

“Will I still have my powers?” Katherine asks.

“Well, of course, silly girl,” Iris chuckles, cuddling the girl closer and pressing a loving kiss to her cheek, making her giggle. “You powers will be even more amazing than they are now. You will even be able to shoot beams of light!”

“Woah!” Katherine lit up, her eyes glowing with wonder, “Really?”

“Really.” Iris confirms with a nod, “You will be so strong, my darling. The most amazing demigod the world has ever seen.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

A year later, Katherine believes she was lied to when she is executed. But little did she know...

—————

“As much as I love your passion for my art, all this work you’re doing cannot be good for the baby.”

Cathy perked up at the sound of the voice and twists around to see her mother standing there. She can’t help but smile a little.

“I’m free from Henry,” She says, “I’m going to write.” Her small smile twists up into a smirk, “You worry over me?”

Athena, goddess of wisdom, seems a little ruffled. “Of course,” She says, “I worry over you and the child.”

Cathy set one hand on her six-month-pregnant bump, chuckling lightly. Her mother crosses over and gently touches her belly, feeling the life flutter within her womb.

“What an energetic little one,” She muses.

“They love to kick me in the ribs,” Cathy laughs lightly, “Tell me: Will they have god blood?”

“I am unsure,” Athena admits. She sets her palm flat against the top of Cathy’s stomach, feeling a kick against her hand. “They may. But not half like you are. Less.”

Cathy nodded and turned back to her writing, but Athena grabs her shoulders.

“Ah-ah.” Athena tuts, “To bed with you.”

“But- Mother!”

“Come on,” Athena hauls Cathy to her feet and began guiding her to her bed, “You need to rest. You may continue tomorrow.”

Cathy huffed, but a small smile tugs on her lips as she climbs into bed. She gazes up at her mother, who is watching over her closely.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I need to make sure you don’t get up and go work whenever I leave.” Athena says, thinking one step ahead. “Just rest, my dear.”

With another small huff, Cathy closes her eyes and began to drift off. She feels her mother gently touch her belly and mutter something, then disappeared.

Thomas lays down beside her.

——————

Hermes watches his youngest child pace about her rooms with a pitiful look settled on his features. His worry ran deep- the girl has barely been sleeping ever since her sister was put in jail and tears seemed to be constantly flowing from her eyes.

“Can't you do something?!” Maggie suddenly exploded, startling Hermes slightly. He calms himself quickly.

“I'm sorry, Margaret,” He says sadly, “There is nothing to be done.”

“But- but you're a god !” Maggie cries, “You should you- should be able to do something! You can save her!”

“I cannot,” Hermes says, “I cannot interfere. She brought this upon herself.”

“Don't say that.” Maggie snarls, stalking up to her father, “Henry wasn’t treating her right! She had every right to do what she did!”

Hermes held a hand up. “You must calm yourself, little one.”

Maggie took a step back and sniffled. Fresh tears filled her eyes, making Hermes’ heart clench for his young daughter.

“I don’t wanna lose her,” Maggie whimpered, pressing into her father’s arms and sobbing into his chest, “I-I need her!”

“I know, little one, I know.” Hermes murmurs, stroking his daughter's hair to try and comfort her, “I don't want to lose your sister, either.”

Maggie shoved Hermes away, her eyes alight with rage and anguish.

“You are a GOD! You- you could save her! You could get someone else to save her! What- what about Hades?!”

“Absolutely not.” Hermes says instantly. He sighed sadly and gave Maggie a sympathetic look. “My child, I'm sorry. I cannot do anything for her. Your sister's soul now lies in Hades’ hands.“

Maggie stares at him in shock before gritting her teeth.

“You're useless.” She seethed before running out.

——————

Joan’s legs burned as she ran through London, spurred forward by the shouting of guards behind her. Their weapons were out, primed for her blood. It was only fair, they thought, since she had killed their queen.

It was a horrifying revelation. Sure, she had a problem with properly regulating her body temperature and the chill she naturally gave off, but had she really been so cold she froze Lady Jane Seymour to freeze to death?

“Run, little snow fox!” Her father cries in her ears, “Don't let them get you!”

Joan ran faster, desperate to get away. Behind her, the clack of a metal contraption cracks loudly- agony explodes in Joan’s right arm.

She howls in pain. She stumbles, falling down to one knee, scraping it against the cold asphalt, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the crossbow bolt sticking out of her arm.

A hoard of guards round the corner. Their swords and spears are up. Joan could already imagine her hot blood dripping from the gleaming blade.

She doesn’t want to die.

Joan thrust her hand out and a freezing ray of frost shoots out from her palm. The ice spreads across the ground and large, sharp icicles rise up to impale several guards through the stomachs and suspend their bodies in the air. Those who didn’t die scream in shock, rage, fear.

One man passes through the frozen spikes and rushed Joan with his sword raised, but he’s too slow. A chunk of ice nails straight through his throat.

People- not just guards, now- screech in terror. They cry in horror about the beast before them, the monster that was slaughtering them all like pigs.

That makes Joan freeze. She looks around and was sick with the fact that the ice has spread and menacing icicles gut people who weren’t even going after her.

She was killing innocents.

The spikes continue to grow at her output of distressed emotions that filter into her magic. She tries to get them to stop, but the frost doesn't listen. One woman cries out for God to save them all.

Her body is ripped by two icicles.

“Snow fox!” Her father yells, but Joan can't move. Scalding tears drip down her cold cheeks and she doesn't even realize it.

A daring soldier rushes at her. She doesn’t move. She craves the end of his blade.

But before her throat could be cut, a man lands in front of her in a freezing whirlwind that startles the guard away. A blizzard rages with just a mere beat of the mysterious man's huge purple wings.

Boreas, god of the north wind, now stands before them all.

Joan stares up at her father with tears in her eyes. He looks back at her pitifully before calling off the ice growing through the streets. The bodies they were lanced in the air fall to the floor into pools of blood and guts.

Boreas speaks no words to the terrified mortals. All he does is save them from the frost, then grabbed his daughter and flew away.

——————

The smell of ash hung heavy in the air. A grey haze leaks out of the mouth of the cave, whorls of smoke wreathing around the trees and twisting into the sky. Amidst all the heat, Maria wipes her brow, but sweat continued to stream down her face regardless of the action.

“Very good,” Hephaestus, god of the forge, hums, watching his daughter create a great, gleaming broadsword in the smith he conjured up in the cave. “Give it a bit more heat.”

Maria nods. After grinding her teeth to make friction in her mouth, she breathes out a bright golden plume of fire onto the blade. She watches the metal glow orange, then brought her hammer onto it, shaping the weapon into perfection.

“Wonderful!” Hephaestus cries, his deep, loud voice booming through the cavern. He plucks up the sword, not affected by the heat of the hot steel, and holds it up to his eyes, admiring it. “This is perfect, my girl!”

“Thank you, father,” Maria says, puffing out her chest in pride. Thin lines of smoke wind out from her nostrils when she breathes out. She laughs when the god ruffles the top of her unruly, ashy hair with one of his large hands. “And thank you for this. For taking time out of your ‘godly duties’ to come do this.”

Hephaestus chuckled deeply. “Anything for my only daughter.”

Maria smiles and then turned back to the forge.

“So, what’s next?”

——————

The deal Hecate and Aphrodite made was surprising to many gods, as they were the last two they expected to get together. However, Aphrodite was not one to back down, so she obliged to Hecate’s proposition. A mere two months later, the goddess of love and the goddess of magic had their hard work paid off.

“It’s a girl.” Aphrodite whispers. In her arms she cradled the newborn goddess- an absolutely tiny little girl with tufts of white hair and dark, gleaming eyes whenever they opened. “She’s got my looks.” Aphrodite adds with a chuckle.

Hecate snorts. She carefully lifts the small bundle that was her new daughter and her twin snakes slither down her shoulders to observe the little thing.

“Great magic runs in her blood.” She says proudly, “What a magnificent goddess she will be.”

Aphrodite takes the baby back, rocking her gently.

“Don’t get too attached.” Hecate reminds.

Aphrodite sighs. “I know.” She pauses, “We’ll have to send her to the mortal world soon, won’t we?”

“That was the plan,” Hecate says. “Name her, at least.”

Aphrodite gazes down at her daughter, who opens her dark eyes with an adorable little yawn. One of her tiny hands grabs onto her mother’s and she giggles softly.

“Elizabeth.”

——————

It’s over five hundred years later when the earth of London shifts with supernatural power.

England’s demigods rise from the Underworld once again.

And, among them, a young goddess who has long forgotten her power awakens from her deep slumber.

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better-be-reddie · 5 years

Text

Absconding, Aberrations, & Alligators

'It starts with Richie standing on a small stage in front of a decent crowd. It's been a good four months since his giant fuck up in Chicago- four months since the great Sewer Tour sequel- working title. He's finally working to get his career back on its feet, before he no longer has an agent or manager or all the other people that make his career somewhat functional. They're starting him off small, a test run to see if he's over whatever mental breakdown that caused him to bomb his last show and cancel the tour he'd been in the middle of. Spoiler Alert: he was just getting started.'

Richie takes an impromptu trip to Florida, somehow it all works out.

Hey! So I posted this fic to ao3 awhile ago but now that I have a blog I’m porting it here too. Rated T for language I guess No warnings, just 11,000 words feat. Richie’s gay crisis.

It starts with Richie standing on a small stage in front of a decent crowd. It's been a good four months since his giant fuck up in Chicago- four months since the great Sewer Tour sequel- working title . He's finally working to get his career back on its feet, before he no longer has an agent or manager or all the other people that make his career somewhat functional. They're starting him off small, a test run to see if he's over whatever mental breakdown that caused him to bomb his last show and cancel the tour he'd been in the middle of.

Spoiler Alert: he was just getting started.

Apparently Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier was never really off his bullshit. It's just, the nearly nonexistent filter he did manage to keep was corroding faster than he could keep track. And if he's being honest, it didn't actually start on that meager lounge stage in LA.It didn't even start three months ago when answering a knock at his front door forced him face to face with one Edward Kaspbrak, fresh from serving his now ex wife-mother monstrosity divorce papers.

"Just looking for a place to lie low for a bit." Eddie had shrugged in front of his small mountain of suitcases.

"What and they ran out of fucking housing in New York?" Richie had come back with.

"Fuck you, man! You said if I ever needed-"

"Yeah yeah," Richie made sure to cut off the would-be rant, "Get in here then." He'd said, throwing the door open and stepping aside, letting Eddie into his sorry excuse of living quarters.

He quipped and sassed his best in order to keep the fact that he was internally screaming hidden. Especially when he noticed all of Eddie's little facial ticks giving away just how abysmal he found Richie's standard of living. The thing was, when they had parted ways in Derry, Richie had been ready to let go, to push down his feelings and the impossible level of affection he'd held for his friend. Afterall he had lived twenty-something odd years of his life without Eddie, so he reasoned that he could keep on living without him.

That's what he had told himself anyway, over, and over, and over in the month it took Eddie to just show up unannounced. Richie didn't want to admit just how awful his pining had gotten those four weeks alone, but it had been bad. Somehow being reacquainted with the man had set off his aching heart almost more than he could care to control. But no, this shitstorm he was about to set off didn't start that day three months ago, nor any of the subsequent days after wherein Eddie settled in and became an integral part of Richie's daily routine. It didn't even start those four months ago when Richie walked into that damn Chinese restaurant and saw Eddie for the first time in decades, which had him falling dick-first into one hell of a sexuality crisis. Again. It didn't start when they were awkward, gangly thirteen year olds and Richie was stabbing his hands full of splinters in order to carve an embarrassing hommage to his dear first love on the rails of the Kissing Bridge. If Richie was being honest with himself, which he rarely ever was, he would admit that it all started a good thirty-four years or so ago when Richie was fresh into the first grade. Sometime after he'd mastered his ABC's but before he got his glasses that would magnify his eyes and really solidify his place as a loser; early enough that Richie would brag about being a master of mud-pies but back before anyone knew he was certifiably blind, except for Stan and Bill who worked as mediocre guide-dogs while everyone else just labeled him as a clumsy kid.

It was a cool fall day when Stan and Bill hadn't been around which left Richie particularly vulnerable to his "clumsiness", this time to the result of him tripping and scraping his hands up. Richie had huffed and tried to wipe the mud off his palms and onto his pants when a pair of sneakers entered his bleary vision.

"You should really clean off that dirt." The newcomer spoke.

"What?" Richie had asked dumbly.

The smaller boy sighed and readjusted the fanny pack strapped to his waist before replying, "If you don't wash the dirt out and patch up your cuts they'll get infected and you'll die."

Richie had been startled but also bemused. He got cuts and scrapes all the time, and was almost always covered in dirt from playing.

"I won't die!"

The boy shook his head, "my mommy told me that if you keep dirt in a cut it'll go bad. You don't want to have to go to the doctor and sit in the awful rooms just to make sure they don't need to cut anything off."

Richie laughed, "That sounds fake, why would they cut anything off?"

"If the cut goes bad they might have to!" The boy spoke, growing irritable, "Know what? Forget it, I might have something in my pack." The boy dug around in his overly stuffed fanny pack making Richie smile."Got it, now hold still and let me fix your gross hands." The boy said, followed with, "I'm Eddie, by the way."

Richie's smile grew at how the boys- how Eddie's voice turned shy as he introduced himself.

"I'm Richie."

It was that moment, decades ago on a school playground, that had started the chain of events that would build, and build, and build until Richie was so unbelievably in love that he would never really be able to move past it. It was the first domino in a series of ridiculous and probably ill advised life decisions that would leave him standing on a small stage in LA about to segue into his next joke featuring the infamous "girlfriend" character his writers just loved him to bitch about. It was a bit that he had rehashed over and over in his different routines, this new variation he had mastered last week before ever setting foot in the small lounge.

That was probably why his mind was elsewhere as he began, he was debating in the back of his head what Eddie would like for dinner later, whether he should pick up take out on his way home or it took him a moment to realize that the next words out of his mouth were not exactly what he'd practiced from his script,

"So, my boyfriend Eddie and I decided to try and -" Richie stumbled on the sentence, his brain kicking in a moment too late as a couple surprised noises came from the audience, and a few claps and hollers rang out.

Thirty- something odd years of pining and daydreams of the day he'd finally get to call Eddie his had finally broken through his shitty barrier and merged his fantasies with reality. Boom. Domino effect.

Richie began to realize not only had he just come out, unscripted onstage, but also that this show was being streamed online...live.

He also knew that he couldn't afford to fuck this up, or make it look like he'd fucked up again so he stumbled his way through through rest of the sentence and ad-libbed the joke with alarming grace considering he felt like he was about to throw up.

His manager was going to kill him.

He knew taking it back would have only ruined the show made it even more impossibly awkward, so he pushed on until the act was complete, rushing off the stage a little more quickly than he normally would, if only so he could hide behind the scenes and panic good and proper.

If Richie's manager didn't take him out in the next five minutes, Eddie surely would.

---

Richie had less than five minutes alone to panic in the dingy back hallway that lead to the club's emergency exit before his manager was marching up to him.

"You had one job!"

"I-I know!" Richie said, voice possibly a tad strained.

"Rich, what the hell."

"I know !"

"You're single handedly making me go grey! Okay calm down- we can- we can roll with this- see online opinion polls and then come up with a strategy. God we might have to renegotiate-"

But Richie wasn't listening to him anymore, he didn't have the brain capacity to listen or be grateful to the man who had, once again, watched as Richie doused himself in gasoline and lit a match. He should have felt bad for the guy, and maybe when his own panic died down he would, his manager was only trying to offer an extinguisher. He definitely felt like he was on fire- and not in the good way of speaking. Sweat dripped off his brow and his skin prickled as his stomach churned, twisting and writhing itself into knots. All he seemed to be aware of was the near constant vibration against his thigh that his phone was giving off, as it blew up with notifications.

Richie's hands shook as he reached for his device, the finger scanner refusing to work due to the alarming dampness of his hands. He unlocked the phone using his code instead and balked at the notifications. He could see Bev’s name pop up next a bold 10 to indicate how many messages she alone had sent so far, and the little numbers over his text app were steadily going up as the rest of the losers blasted him.

Great.

Good to know he had an audience.

His heart seized as the screen changed suddenly and Eddie's picture took over, blocking his home screen. It was a great picture, a wonderful candid Richie had taken of Eddie in one of his full blown road rage meltdowns. Richie had laughed heartily when he'd seen how the picture turned out; Eddie, on the other hand, had been less pleased and demanded he delete it. Naturally Richie made it the man's profile picture instead. The photo always managed to get a giggle or smile out of him as if he were some schoolgirl with a crush. He wasn't laughing now. His eyes darted between Eddie's comically angry face and the green answer call button. Richie felt frozen unable to respond as the tightness in his chest grew, he felt dizzy as the walls closed in around him. The vibration of the phone stopped and the screen flipped back to his home page. A new notification for another missed call appeared, followed seconds later by a notification for a new voicemail.

Richie gasped and began to move quickly towards the exit door shouting an excuse to his manager who called out in alarm behind him. He all but fell against the metal door and staggered out into the hot LA sun, the thick air and humidity nowhere near the relief he wanted against his already flushed skin.

His phone jumped to life once more, vibrating in his hands as Eddie's familiar picture flashed onto the screen once more. Richie gulped and swiped over the green answer button and brought the device up to his ear with shaking hands.

"Richie? Fucking finally- what the hell?"

Richie's eyes widened and he quickly hung up, nearly dropping the phone in order to do so. He didn't know whether to laugh or scream, an uncanny hysteria bubbled in his chest and everything just felt like too much. Eddie must hate him. There was no way he couldn't. His phone alerted him to text another text.

Eddie.

'You better have been disconnected.'

Richie's phone rang again. Richie swiped to ignore.

'Pick up. We need to talk.'

Panic seized him. There was literally no good reasoning behind the phrase ' We need to talk.' God, he even added a period at the end. His phone rang. The panic boiled, crested in a mind blanking peak.

Richie blinked owlishly at the broken remains of his phone. Shattered against the dirty pavement of the alley. Great.

"Hey...Rich?"

Richie definitely did not jump. He turned to see his manager behind him, peeking out from the door.

"You good bud?"

He was definitely not good.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry."

"Okay, okay, you sure? Cause you sort of seem not good?"

Richie had a strong sense of deja vu all of the sudden. He shook his head. His mind was coming back online and he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He couldn't just stroll into his house like nothing was wrong, Eddie was waiting for him at home and Richie liked his dick attached to him thanks. He looked back to the shattered phone.

"Hey can I borrow your phone?" His manager side-eyed him dubiously, cautiously and then the broken phone on the ground.

"I guess- as long as it isn't going to end up like that."

Richie's first instinct had been to call Bill, he was closest afterall, and he was the man with a plan; but that would have been his most obvious move. Eddie would no doubt storm the place in the midst of a rage so deep Richie didn't even want to picture it. So Bill had been mentally crossed off his list. Stan, Richie loved , as much as he could platonically love someone, but that would be obvious too. Plus he and Patty had been on somewhat of a retreat. Something about doing something relaxing and therapeutic after nearly dying and Richie really didn't feel like intruding on that. Beverly would have his back. She would laugh in his fucking face, but she would also give him one of her hugs after and let him mope. The problem with Bev though, is that she came with Ben. Now Richie adored Ben, it was literally impossible not to, however all it would take was one angry look from Eddie and the man would crumble faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. He couldn't lie for shit, especially when emotions were high. And that really left Richie with one last alternative. Which is how he found himself stepping off a plane, with no more than his wallet and the clothes on his back, half way across the god damn country, in fucking Florida. Richie looked around the airport as if it had personally offended him, and honestly it sort of did simply for being located in such a subpar fucking state. He really didn't see what the hell Mike saw in the place. He really didn't get it. Speaking of Mike.

"Richie!"

Richie looked up and saw the man of the hour waving him over. Mike beamed at him and greeted him with arms wide open.

"It's good to see you man!" Mike said,

"Yeah, yeah you too." Richie agreed.

It was good to see Mike again, they'd stayed in contact the same way they all had; through group chats and Skype calls mostly but this was the first time since they all separated in Derry that Richie had seen Mike in person. He really wished it was for better reasons. And not in Florida.

"Alright, let's get your bags and then we can head out. There's a good diner not far from my place, I think you'll enjoy it."

Richie shuffled awkwardly, "I'm all here man!"

Mike looked confused for a moment then somewhat incredulous."You- you're all-? Did you not bring anything with you?"

"I said it was an impromptu trip didn't I?" Richie said.

The look Mike shot him appeared as if he were waiting for Richie to crack a joke, when none were forthcoming his brows raised.

"Alright man. I guess we can stop and pick you up some stuff you'll need. I have an extra toothbrush at home you can-"

"You were always the most prepared outta us!" Richie cheered possibly putting too much energy into a...toothbrush.

Richie knew it was weird, the whole situation was weird. He knew it was weird, and he knew Mike now knew it was weird. He could only hope that his fake enthusiasm could be obnoxiously distracting enough that Mike would let it slide unquestioned.

"Uh-huh." Mike said still eyeing him up, "Well, follow me I guess."

Richie breathed out a sigh that at least they weren't going to have this conversation in the middle of the Arrivals gate.

Mike's home was small but cozy, it had the foundations of something older with character that had maybe been remodeled sometime in its recent history. The living areas were clean but cluttered; books, and notebooks, and loose leaf were strewn around in somewhat organized heaps that probably made sense to Mike and Mike alone. The home was nestled amongst a forest of tall trees and brush that gave a sense of privacy, and to the side was a barely visible trail which Mike had pointed to when they pulled up and told him went straight to a little beach. Richie had eyed it dubiously, on one hand, beach day but on the other hand, he didn't feel like running into any gators, or snakes, or whatever the fuck else lived in this hellscape of a state. If he wanted to die that badly he would've stayed in LA thank you.

The first night the two of them had enjoyed boxes of take out which were supplemented by maybe a bit too much alcohol. They talked into the night, catching up in a roundabout way that dodged the elephant in the room. Of course that was mostly in part to the way Richie would circle the conversation back around to another of Mike's many research projects whenever the man looked like he was readying himself to broach the subject on what the real reason for Richie's visit was. Apparently Mike had been in an out of service area at the time of Richie's show and either hadn't yet heard about the disaster that it was or was too polite to corner him about it. Still, it sort of left Richie feeling like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then again, that could have also been caused by the fact that he was still without a phone and thus had no clue how extensive the damage he caused actually was. Well, he had a tiny idea. He'd already ruined the best damn thing in his pathetic life, what did the rest of it matter? Richie ended up taking the bottle of vodka to bed with him that night.

The next day Mike took them both into town to pick up some more things for Richie under the disguise of grocery shopping. During which, Mike casually asked if Richie was thinking of replacing his phone.

"You said it broke right?"

"Yeah," he sighed, " Yeah, okay I guess I should get on that."

Before his manager had a full on aneurysm. He was sure his publicists were already dead from shock or stress.

After spending way too long in a small outlet shop in a nearby strip mall Richie finally had a new phone set up. Richie played with the device as Mike drove them back towards his house. He hadn't turned it on yet, he simply passed the phone from hand to hand, it gave him something to do. He got the same model as the one he'd broken so that he could keep using his old SIM card. He told himself that he would turn it on once he got inside, face the music. Of course once the two made it back Richie went about the rest of his day doing anything but set up his phone. Richie even let Mike lead him down the death trail to the small beach, which would have been really nice had it not been in Florida.

"And not a gator in sight!" Richie said enthusiastically as he sat on the sandy shore.

"You joke, but that pic I sent you guys last week was only a twenty minute walk from here, in a river that a-ways." Mike gestured behind and to the left of where they sat and Richie shot him a dirty look.

"I came here to try and relax."

Mike only laughed.

That night, after the sun had set in a myriad of colors much less impressive than the ones which shone in good ol' Cali. Richie found himself curled on a deck chair Mike had on his front stoop, watching the moths and other bugs circle the porch lights with an intense fixation, the darker it got the more of them had appeared. His phone was once again in his hands. It had been charging all afternoon, face down on the coffee table. He sighed and finally stopped his fidgeting to turn his attention to the device. He waited for it to load up after he turned it on. Before long he was staring at the familiar screen, there was only about a second of silence before the phone jumped to life and loaded the-

Jesus Christ -over a hundred notifications. He felt a little bad as he skimmed over the list of people vying for his attention, mostly he had messages from the Losers. Maybe it had been a kind of dick move to drop off the face of the earth for two days. He quickly turned to his email. He winced at the couple he had from sponsors. Well, former sponsors he assumed without having to open them.

He instead concentrated on the email from his manager.

'Alright Rich, I'm assuming you still have access to email, despite your sudden vacation but please make sure you tell me when you have a reliable phone, I'd like to discuss some things further. Good news: Your live-stream is trending, and there's been a lot of supportive interest within a whole new demographic. With a little work-shopping we can pull this all back together and make something out of it. Bad news: we lost a few sponsors, some of the higher ups weren't happy with your unpredictability. Also there's been some negative press from some previous demographics, as well as some confusion on whether you were serious in your bit. After hashing things out with the team we think you should start forming more of an online presence, we are working on getting your Twitter verified. Make a statement, control the flow of rumors, if you would like I can talk to the writers about coming up with a statement for you. We need to encourage support from this new demographic by reassuring people your coming out bit wasn't just a bad joke. Call me once you've read this, and get your ass back to LA.'

Richie let out a shuddering breath. A bit of the hysteria he had felt back in LA had begun to crawl up his spine. He could feel his pulse quicken at the mere thought of taking to social media, especially to what? Tell everyone he's gay? Again? Hadn't the first time been horrific and awkward enough?

His teeth clenched together as he worked his jaw until it ached, his breath seemed to burn his nostrils and tightly wound throat with every motion. Emotion thick and cloying wrapped around him until he felt as if he were drowning. He felt the sudden urge to jump up and run. As if he had anywhere to go in fucking Florida that wouldn't end with him in the jaws of some ugly reptile.

He placed his phone to the side and rubbed his hands together, feeling inexplicably dirty suddenly. He had run half way across the country and he still felt just as bad as he had in LA. All the gross intrusive thoughts were still there, the voices telling him how disgusting he was, how he'd disappointed his friends, driven them off. That he'd wind up sad and alone again. Behind that overwhelming fear was shame, shame that he had been lying for so fucking long, and yet behind that was the fear of anyone finding out, which circled back to more shame over his feelings to begin with. He shot his phone a scathing look. His manager wanted a statement? What the fuck was he supposed to say? What the actual hell was he supposed to Tweet out? ' Hi guys, it's true, I love cock but don't worry I hate myself more than any of you ever could!' ? Yeah, like that would go over well. Richie tried to amuse himself by picturing the look on his publicists face. God, it was suddenly even more tempting. Though he really couldn't afford to lose another one, especially while dealing with this latest fuck up. He wondered if he should finally face the music, open up all of the Losers unread messages. He opened his messenger app and immediately felt even more overwhelmed. His thumb hovering over the list of names. His eyes fixated on 'Eds '. Still, he hesitated. Terrified by what he'd see.

A small part of him tried to hold onto the sliver of optimistic news his manager had relayed, however it seemed slippery and hard to keep hold of it lieu of all the other shit. He pressed down over Eddie's contact name and held until it highlighted and with shaking hands he quickly deleted the message thread, erasing all of their previous conversations as well as the slew of unread messages. Almost immediately he felt as if his stomach had fallen into his gut. Regret and fear churned in him and he felt more strongly than ever as if he'd lost something. Richie startled as his phone buzzed obnoxiously; he looked down, heart in his throat, expecting to see Eddie's picture and was surprised to instead see Stan's.

He swallowed thickly before accepting the call.

"Hello?" Richie winced at how tepid his voice sounded.

"So, he is alive." Said Stan, dryly.

Richie groaned and slumped even lower in his chair, covering his face with one hand as if blocking his vision could also block out his embarrassment. There was a beat of silence before Stan asked,"So, what's going on Rich?"

And Richie couldn't help it, all the stress and emotional upheaval- that fact he was in Florida of all places - hit him all at once and bubbled up. First as a near silent giggle, then falling apart into gasping, full bodied laughs. Tears tracked down from his cheeks and Richie honestly couldn't tell what sort of emotion was behind them. Stan, bless his heart, waited patiently for him to gather his wits and calm himself down before prompting him again with a: "Yeah?"

Richie nodded despite knowing no one could see him, "Yeah." He agreed.

"The groups been pretty worried." Stan pushed gently.

"I- I don't know what to say." Richie admitted, feeling his guts churn with unease.

"Well, that really is something isn't it?" Stan said, "not everyday we find something that shuts you up."

And Richie can't help the startled laugh that escapes his throat. Despite his unease, his fear, the smile doesn't leave right away."It's been an eventful few days." He finally agrees.

"And how do you feel?"

Richie pulled a face, "Who are you? My therapist?"

"Pretty much except the pay is shit. Now answer the question."

Richie sighed, "I feel-" he cut himself off trying to discern a word he could use, "bad."

Surprisingly Stan didn't mock him for his eloquence, or lack thereof.

Richie tried again. "I'm…"

His guts continued to knot and squirm until he had to physically draw up his long legs to his chest, hoping for a respite, "I feel kinda sick."

"You always did get queasy when your nerves were high. You threw up on the first day of school."

"How the fuck do you remember that?"

"Like I'd ever let you forget. You threw up all over Greta Keene's light up shoes."

Richie groaned, "I mean, she kinda ended up deserving it?"

"True." There was another beat of silence, but this one was much less awkward.

Richie looked out into the dark foliage, lost in thoughts. "I can feel you thinking." Stan said softly.

"I fucked up."

"A bit, but probably not as much as you fear."

"I-I doubt that. Did you- Did you see it? The show?" Richie asked tentatively.

"Yes," Stan said after a moment's pause, "not while it was live...but afterwards."

"Then you know I fucked up."

"Yes, but as I said-"

"I don't know what to do." Richie interrupted Richie could hear Stan sigh through the phone.

It didn't sound like a noise made out of frustration but Richie's own self doubt was making him question everything.

"It's okay to be scared."

Richie felt his throat constrict at the words and he had to close his eyes against their sudden burning. He suddenly really wished Stan was here with him.

"I- I am. Scared." He said, haltingly.

"That's okay. You're not alone though, you know that right? You don't need to be alone."

"What if- what if they hate me?” ‘What if he hates me?’

“They could never. There's no way you're getting rid of any of us that easy."

Richie let out a humorless chuckle.

"Why do you think they would hate you?" Stan asked softly, though the question felt more like a prompt than asked out of genuine curiosity.

Stan always had a way of sounding older than he was, like he already knew the answers he was trying to make you understand as well. Richie felt suddenly off kilter as he wondered if Stan had somehow already known.

"Because-- Because I'm- Gay." He swallowed down the bile that suddenly threatened to rise up. He had never said it before. Not out loud and never to anyone else.

There was a pause as Stan waited to make sure Richie had said all he was going to before answering.

"Richie." He said, "None of us think any differently about you. You need to know that."

"How- how do you know- I mean what if-"

"None of us think any less of you. I'm not going to say this isn't a big deal, because to you it is. This is, well, it's obviously been something eating away at you. And sure, maybe you decided to come out in somewhat of a dramatic fashion and freaked yourself out, but you don't have to face all of this alone. We are going to be here to support you one hundred percent."

Richie sniffed back a few wayward tears that threatened to escape.

"Are you...are you sure?"

"Have you read any of the messages they've sent you?"

"No- I- no."

"You should. I think it will help. Also everyone was super worried when you went AWOL. You are...safe aren't you?"

Richie felt a pang of guilt at the hint of unease that marred Stan's voice.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm safe." He eyed the bushes warily, "as safe as I can be."

"Good. But...I could be in LA in just over a day you know."

Richie felt his heart swell and he wiped away a stubborn tear that refused to be pushed down. "Thanks, but I'm okay...plus I'm...not exactly in LA right now."

"You're not?" Stan said sounding a bit alarmed.

"Nah, taking a small vacation."

"Have you told Eddie? He's been-"

"We haven't spoken."

"Richie." Stan sounded tired now.

"I - I can't, okay? You saw the fucking show. What the fuck am I supposed to say to him now? 'Hey! So I told the whole world about my big gay crush on you! Oh, by the way, I have a big-'"

"Richard!"

"What!"

"Promise me you'll talk to him. Whatever happens, it won't be as bad as you're making it out to be in your head."

"Fine." Richie said begrudgingly followed closely by a put upon huff.

"Thank you. Now, will you be okay?"

"Yeah," he said, and though it was with little confidence, a little was still more than he'd felt previously.

"Good. Call me anytime if you need to talk. But you should try messaging the others, I know they'd like to hear from you and...they'll understand Richie. Losers gotta stick together."

Richie smiled despite himself. "Losers gotta stick together."

He parroted back.

"And call Eddie."

"Okay mom."

"I'm being serious Richie."

"Goodnight Stanley!"

Stan sighed but gave in, "Goodnight."

Richie took the phone away from his ear and ended the call. He sat staring at the screen until it flipped automatically back to his homepage. He hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath and opening his messaging app. He clicked on the first name on his timeline list and began to scroll, eyes darting over the string of texts, a small smile making its way into his face as he took in the words of, yes shock but also support. Once caught up, he moved on to the next Loser until he had read through them all. And no he definitely didn't cry.

Well, maybe only a little. He felt another pang of loss when he remembered just why Eddie's name wasn't on his messaging list. He quickly opened up a new message draft and selected Eddie's name off his favourites list and then froze.

Stan's words played over in his head, encouraging him. All Of his friends show of support warmed him to his core, he could do this- A loud rustle from the underbrush sent Richie's heart jack-hammering in his chest. He froze, wide-eyed as he stared into the dark. A loud snap of a twig sent Richie vaulting over the side of the deck chair and nearly ripping the screen door off its hinges in his haste to get inside. 'Not today Satan', he thought as he slammed the front door closed behind him and slid the deadbolt into place. Richie huffed and wandered over to the pullout bed that had become his new home and collapsed onto it. He looked at his phone once more, and the opened draft before he deleted it and turned the device off. He'd message Eddie tomorrow.

Richie did not message Eddie the next day, nor the day after that.However, in his defense, he had been busy. Richie helped Mike with odd jobs around his property and was becoming more and more convinced that there was a large reptilian monster of some sort living on the grounds. Mike could roll his eyes all he wanted but the truth of the matter was that one day Richie swore he saw scales moving slowly through the brush.

Richie had also taken up his managers challenge and started trying to revamp his online presence. Now that he was officially verified he began, as the young ones would say, shitposting. His first order of conduct being a small tweet which read:

Richie Tozier @OfficialTrashmouth 'Turns out my biggest joke was pretending I was straight.' It had taken him a good three hours of nervous sweating before he had finally been able to post the tweet but he had also felt an immense sense of relief after receiving a screenshot of his own tweet from Bev minutes later followed by some words of love and way too many emojis. The rest of the losers had also sent their love and support through the group chat and private messages. He mostly ignored his twitter feed though, he had made the mistake of checking up on the tweet and its relevance earlier and had immediately felt overwhelmed. Not to say that most of the feedback was bad or anything, however as someone who had spent such a long time clinging to a carefully constructed persona, suddenly being unmasked and thrust into the spotlight was...scary. it was hard not to feel the shame and frustration he had been fighting off all his life.

Later, Mike had proven that he wasn't as much of an internet phobic recluse as Richie had begun to believe him to be, when over dinner that night he had clapped Richie on the back and told him only a little awkwardly that he was happy for him and that he hoped he could live the rest of his life with more confidence in who he was. Which? Okay, damn.

Richie had simply nodded, taken aback from how touched he'd been, luckily Mike had not seemed to be expecting anything back from him and the rest of the night flowed into something more familiar. Before they split for the night to retreat to their own sleeping arrangements, Mike asked if he had spoken to Eddie yet.

"Bill said Eddie was sounding pretty worried about you."

Richie had felt the swirl of something related to guilt settle over him, leaving him feeling restless with a negative energy he couldn't quite shake off.

"Eddie's a big boy, he'll be fine." Richie said, mind already wandering and worrying.

Mike sighed but let it drop before wishing Richie a good night. Another day another battle.

Richie lay awake well into the night, going over all the little dominoes that had fallen over and lead him to where he now was. Which of course meant that, mostly, he thought of Eddie. He reminisced about hot summer days spent by the quarry, of nights spent tempting Eddie out of his bedroom window to go look at the stars, he remembered the nights when they would talk about all the things they wanted to do with their lives, about how much they wanted to leave Derry behind but never each other. Their pinky fingers interlocking in quiet promises that extended far beyond the reaches of Derry.

He wondered a little bitterly how he could have kept his feelings contained even as long as he had, when there had been so many moments, so many times when he felt ready to explode with them. All the times he felt the need to pull Eddie’s metaphorical pigtails because he just couldn’t stand not being the center of his attention any longer. God, had he gotten good at it though. He couldn’t help but smile as memories washed over him, so precious for how long he’d gone without them. A chasm opened up in his gut though as his thoughts drifted back to his future, and its shaky foundations- hell, it didn’t even have foundations to be built upon. All Richie had was an email from his manager and the knowledge that Eddie must hate him. The thought of moving on with his life without Eddie by his side somehow seemed so improbable, so completely terrifying that Richie’s chest seized considering it. He wondered angrily where his conviction he’d had just over a month ago had gone. When he’d been so ready to keep lumbering onward. Maybe he had succeeded simply through lack of foresight. By waking up each new morning with a heavy despair in his chest and starting his day by pushing it down, down, down, before he could find the curiosity to examine it. By busying himself with distraction after distraction.

He wondered why his patented technique wasn’t working now.

Eddie had stepped into Richie’s apartment and scrubbed it until it sparkled and he must have done something to Richie himself as well. It was like the moment Eddie had stepped back into his life he’d swept away all of his previous coping mechanisms. Richie felt a wave of irrational anger suddenly. Anger at Eddie for throwing his life off its axis by his mere presence, at himself for growing comfortable with it so damn quick that he’d tricked himself into believing it was permanent.

Richie stewed in his tumultuous emotions in the darkened living room of Mike’s Florida home with nothing to distract him from his circling thoughts and growing loneliness except the obnoxious singing of the swamp insects that inhabited the area.

“It’s not a swamp.” Mike said, shaking his head and fixing Richie with a tired look.

“Listen, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a-”

“It’s a floodplain.”

“It smells like shit and is full of fucking snakes and gators Mikey.” Richie argued sometime during the next afternoon.

He’d gotten a somewhat fuzzy photo of a snake curled up next to a tree by the water and had uploaded it to his Twitter account with a “ Get out of my swamp!” caption and had been arguing with Mike on and off ever since. Honestly Richie had been on a roll with creating a new Twitter, uploading mostly photos and quips but he wasn't really in the mind to be too serious while on the platform. His manager was still thrilled.

“What is with you and the alligators?” Mike questioned with a shake of his head, “You haven’t seen one since you got here and you’re still somehow obsessed.”

“Do you know how old those things are Mike? They are nature's perfect killing machine. Evolution fucking stopped cause it got it right on like the first go, it just just paused long enough to make them a little smaller. They were here before us and will probably outlive us.”

“Eddie tell ya all that?”

Richie scoffed and made a bit of looking awfully offended. Mike laughed so he counted it as a win. Sort of.

“...speaking of-” Mike began.

Richie’s gazer darted to Mike, eyes narrowed.“He called this morning.” Mike continued.

Richie felt his heart rocket into his throat and his stomach drop into his gut so quickly he had to swallow down the urge to dry heave onto the sand.

“What?”

“He’s looking for you. Did you honestly not tell him where you were going?”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Richie gasped.

“Hey now- calm down Richie. He just sounded really worried.”

“Did you tell him?” Richie demanded. Mike sighed then replied, “I told him I’d get you to call if you popped up.”

Richie’s eyes narrowed but he wasn’t such a dick that he would call Mike out for lying without proof. “I can’t face him right now.”

“Why not? I mean, it sounds like you have a lot to talk about.”

“Nope.”

“I saw the video.”

“Oh for fucks sake!” Richie threw his arms up, “Isn’t privacy a thing anymore?”

“You live streamed the show Rich, I don’t think privacy was a concern at the time.”

Richie folded his arms and scowled.

“Listen, just, call Eddie. Before he drives Stan and Bill crazy.”

That made Richie pause, “Stan and Bill?”

“If you would go into the group chat instead of hiding you’d know what I mean.”

“The moment I go on everyone will be able to see, including Eddie, so.” Richie shrugged, “No group chat.”

“Full offense, bud, but you’re treating this whole thing like a child would.You won’t be able to avoid Eddie forever.”

“Watch me.” Richie muttered, knowing full well that he was only reaffirming Mike’s accusations. Mike rolled his eyes but seemed to give up the argument and left the porch to retreat back inside to let Richie mope in peace. Not long later Richie heard the shrill ring of Mike's home phone. Why the man bothered to have a home phone instead of working off a cellphone like a normal person Richie would never know, regardless, he couldn't pick up what was said from where he sat. A few minutes later Mike was back out on the porch.

"I'm going into town for a bit. Got some errands to run. Why don't you relax and think about what I said? Maybe call Stan." Mike suggested, shuffling his feet a little awkwardly.

Richie took in the man's tense posture and shifting eyes. Mike was usually the type to stand strong, make eye contact as he spoke. Richie started to feel a little bad, thinking perhaps he'd been a bit too much of an ass today.

"Sure, okay." He said agreeably in an effort to make up for his earlier prickliness.

"Need me to pick you up anything?" Mike asked as he circled around his truck.

"No," Richie said, already feeling like he'd put Mike out enough for crashing at his abode for so long.

Mike shrugged and tossed his keys with almost a nervous energy before nodding and saying "Alright, well, I'll just, uh, be going then."

Richie nodded and waved him away, "if I'm not here by the time you get back, assume the gators got me."

Mike huffed but there was a smile on his face as he hopped into the cab of the truck and started it up. He waved to Richie again as he circled around and started down the long drive to the main road. Richie was bored by then end of the hour. There was very little to do while in the boonies that didn't run the risk of being eaten by the local wildlife, especially without Mike there to help spot potential risks and watch his back.

Richie wandered about Mike's home, exploring and generally being a nosy little shit. He was able to amuse himself for a good thirty minutes after he found an honest to God banjo tucked away in the attic. He brought it down to the porch ready to strum like mad and make a damn good nuisance of himself when Mike got back. However, as the minutes ticked by Richie's attention wandered and he poked around some more, flipping through Mike's extremely niche and weird collection of books, his notes, examining his bits and bobs. He took pictures of things he found particularly weird and bizarre, he was busy going through his photos and trying to think up anything that might have been considered funny to Tweet about, because that was really a concern now apparently, when Richie finally heard the telltale roar of Mike’s truck engine coming up the drive. He sort of hated the flash of excitement he got from the sound, he was a grown adult who should be in enough control over his life that he didn't rely on others to bring him amusement; of course that being said, if Richie had any semblance of control he wouldn't have even been in Florida, would he?

Richie stood up from the deck chair and raised a hand in greeting when the truck came into view, the banjo resting behind him ready to go. However, as the truck moved closer and the sun reflecting on the glass of the windshield shifted Richie began to become aware that Mike wasn't alone in the cab of the truck. Richie walked off the porch and into the front yard to try and get a better look but it wasn't until Mike was all but pulling onto the property that Richie's eyes locked onto none other than Eddie fucking Kaspbrak glaring daggers at him through the glass.

Now, Richie had experience many terrifying things in his life, the variety of traumas he had locked up would be enough to personally fund some lucky psychologist for years if he felt so inclined to go. So it's with great authority and experience that Richie swears that seeing Eddie fuming in the passenger seat of Mike's god damn car, in fucking Florida, was the second scariest occurrence he had ever witnessed. Only being trumped by the horrifying reality he'd been forced to watch in the deadlights. He knew he must have made one hell of a picture, still slightly hungover, hair unbrushed, jaw dropped and eyes wide. Richie felt frozen in shock at the sight, Eddie, his Eddie in fucking Florida. The truck had barely finished rolling to a stop before the passenger door was being thrown open and Eddie was bursting out of it like a mini tornado of rage.

Richie couldn’t help but note the state Eddie seemed to be in, hair usually perfectly groomed looked knotted and windswept, his skin pale despite having tanned in the LA sun and his eyes looked haggard, dark bruises from sleepless nights weighing heavily, even his usually ironed shirts and slacks looked wrinkled; his rough appearance did little to take away from the bright angry sheen in his eyes as he fixed Richie with a sharp look and began to march over. Richie had known for a long time that there was something seriously wrong with him, what, with his seemingly perfect ability to self destruct at every possible turn, however the point was really hammered into his head when the only thought that seemed to penetrate his shocked and empty brain was ‘My God he’s fucking gorgeous.’

That was until of course Eddie’s sneer picked up a notch and he opened his mouth to let out a scathing,

“You fucker!”

Richie took a giant step back shaking his head eyes fixed so solely on the short angry demon marching up to him that he didn’t even see Mike get out of the truck afterwards.

“I can’t believe you! ” Eddie continued, “Don’t you dare take another step Richard, I swear to God!”

And all at once, all of Richie’s survival instincts were kickstarted back online.

“Nope!” Richie said, voice a little higher pitch in his fear, and he turned and ran.

“RICHIE!”

Richie didn’t turn to look back, he just went for it, dodging past Mike’s small home and straight into the Floridian woods. There wasn’t any logic to his actions, he didn’t even bother to stick to the trail, Richie simply pushed his way through the trees and grasses. He had no destination in mind, just the strong urge to run, much like the one he felt during all of his life's most uncomfortable moments. He ran, and ran, and ran, until he could no longer hear the sounds of Eddie and Mike calling after him. It was only when he felt like his chest was about to explode that he stopped to wheeze against a tree, he clutched at his side as he sputtered pathetically at the ground and silently cursed the decades he’d spent mostly ignoring his physical health.

“Jesus fuck” He grumbled once he’d finally remembered how to properly pull air into his lungs and breathe.

He took a moment to look around only to realize that he had absolutely no idea where he was. Mike had to have, like, neighbors somewhere, right? Richie groaned he knew this was stupid, he had nowhere to go except further into the Florida wilderness and that was one stupid way to die. Sighing, and mentally preparing himself, Richie turned to go back the way he thought he had come from.

He snarled as he pushed his way through the thick bushes and trees grumbling at the sticks that caught the fabric of his clothes and scratched at his skin, he was going to look like he’d come out of a fight with a pissed off alley cat after this shit. God Eddie was going to be so incomprehensibly furious at him. He cried out in victory as he pushed through some particularly thick bushes, only for his cries to turn almost immediately alarmed when the ground under his feet seemed to disappear and sent him careening down a muddy, slick embankment and face first into green tinged waters.

Richie resurfaced with a loud gasp as he flailed and coughed out a mouthful of disgusting water, swearing profusely. He splashed until he was able to finally get his feet somewhat stable on the thick muddy bottom of the riverway he seemed to have fallen into. The water luckily seemed to be slow moving without too much of a current. It was however, quite deep, reaching up to his chest. He glanced around and cursed his luck, the river was narrow but he definitely didn’t recognize it. Which meant he had most definitely been moving in the wrong direction. He cursed again, this stupid shit wouldn’t have happened to him back in LA.

All at once Richie felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as his whole body erupted into a strong shudder that had more to do with instinct than the cool waters. He turned, eyes darting back and forth along the murky water when movement locked his attention to the opposite embankment. Richie felt ice cold terror grip him as he watched a huge alligator pull itself down the muddy shore and slip gracefully into the slow moving water. Panic seized him and he spun around to begin clawing at the shoreline desperately, uselessly, his hands coming away with chunks of mud and grass, doing nothing to pull him out of the water. A noise he wasn’t proud of escaped from his throat as his mind whirled. This was not how he wanted to die, not in some fucking swamp water, not to a fucking alligator and certainly not in fucking Florida.

He pulled himself along the shore trying to get to a narrower portion he could climb up when he heard a splash behind him. Richie didn’t turn to look though everything in him wanted to, but right in front of him was a tree, and Richie wasted no goddamn time pulling himself up. Thinking back, he had no idea how he found the strength to climb all the way into a tree when he could barely make it up two flights of stairs without needing to pause for air, but one moment he was in the water with certain death and the next, he was curled up in the branches looking down. Richie looked over the water and shouted out a relieved cry at the pair of reptilian eyes he could swear were staring at him, no more than ten feet away,

“Yeah, fuck you! Not getting any of this today pal!” Richie laughed and felt himself sag against the scratchy bark, “Now just, go fuck off so I can leave.”

He finished with a grumble. And then waited.

And waited

And-

Richie was going insane, every time he would begin to think that stupid animal had finally buggered off, there would be a ripple in the water or he’d catch sight of a pair of eyes bobbing above the waters surface. He had no way to call for help, his phone abandoned somewhere back on Mike’s porch, and even if he had had it with him Richie wasn't sure the device would have survived his impromptu bath. He had tried calling out for help a few times but had gone completely unanswered. He was totally alone.

Besides from stressful, being stuck in a tree because of a potentially murderous gator was beyond boring and extremely uncomfortable. There was nothing to keep his mind occupied and distracted enough from re-analyzing the series of events that had him stuck here in the first place, and the hot humidity in the air made it so he never really dried off from the water and instead just became more and more itchy and cranky.

As the minutes dragged on into hours, he had taken to singing, badly, to himself when another sound caught his attention. Richie paused his singing to listen, ears perked for anything out of the ordinary. For a moment there was nothing, and then all at once he heard it again. His name, distant but there.

“HEY!” Richie shouted as loud as he could, “OVER HERE!”

Richie felt an intense burst of relief as his cries were immediately answered by another shout of his voice and a barely heard: “ Where?”

“HERE!” He shouted again,

“Richie?!” Mike’s voice.

“BY THE RIVER!” He called out hoping Mike was familiar enough with the land that he knew what that meant.

“ARE YOU HURT?” Eddie’s voice rang out, so much closer.

Eddie.

Richie’s chest tightened but he would willing sit through whatever lecture Eddie had as long as he got away from this stupid- oh god.

“WAIT!” He shouted, “BE CAREFUL! GATOR!”

“WHERE?” Mike again

“RIGHT FUCKING UNDER ME!” Richie yelled glaring spitefully at the large reptile that had decided to make camp on the sand, less than a body's length away from his tree. There was rustling in the undergrowth, and Richie knew they were close,

“You’re close, I can hear you, be careful!”

Moment’s later Mike and Eddie burst through the thick bushes with a swing of a long machete Mike was wielding.

“Jesus, Rich-” Mike cursed when he got a good look at the precarious situation Richie had gotten himself into.

Next to him Eddie wasn't doing much better.

“What the fuck? What the actual fuck Richie! Are you kidding me, are you fucking kidding me? Can you go literally nowhere without pissing shit off? That's a fucking alligator!” Eddie began screeching and pointing.

“I fell into the water!” Richie tried to defend,

“Oh my GOD!”

“Hang tight Richie, I’ll call the animal control or something I guess,” Mike said, taking out his phone.

Even as he did though, Eddie was bending down to pick up a large rock from the ground, eyes wild and half-mad looking. The smaller man grunted as he winded up and threw the huge stone, hitting the alligator right in the side with a thunk.

“FUCK OFF!”

“Eddie! Shit , Stop!” Mike cursed, phone half way to his ear.

Eddie wasn’t listening as he picked up a large branch and threw that next, the gator made a loud hissing noise and thrashed it’s tail to the side, spraying sand into the air. Richie’s jaw dropped at the sight of Eddie attacking a fucking alligator, it honestly would have been the hottest thing he’d ever seen if he wasn’t so instantly terrified that it would end with Eddie dead.

“Eddie, Eddie fucking stop it, I swear to god!” Richie said, even as he began calculating how he could throw himself onto the damn thing if it decided to charge his friends.

Eddie picked up another large stone and threw it, cursing the gator out as it sailed through the air and hit the large beast right in the eye. The animal recoiled and Richie felt his stomach drop thinking that it was going to retaliate for sure and that he was going to have to die to try and stop it, but for once in his miserable life luck seemed to be on his side. The alligator pushed itself quickly away, sliding into the water and making a B-line for the other side of the river.

Eddie barely took the time to breathe before he was yelling at Richie further,“Get down! Get down right now, or I swear to god Richie, I’ll use Mike’s fucking machete to cut the tree down with you in it and leave you to the swamp!”

Richie was only scrambling to obey, and after nearly falling twice, his feet finally touched the ground.

“Phew,” Richie said and whistled, “That was sure an adventure, huh guys? And you said this place wasn’t a swamp, I swear it almost smells as bad as-”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Mike said, looking too exhausted.

Richie’s mouth snapped shut and he felt a little guilty for causing the man so much stress. He sighed as he walked over to the other two,

“Look, I’m-”

“Don’t.” Eddie said, cutting him off.

Richie looked at him and frowned, Eddie appeared more stony faced than he had been since he’d shown up hours before.

“Mike, lead us back.” Eddie demanded.

Mike took a moment to look between the two before he nodded, “Sure, follow close and watch your step.”

The walk back to Mike’s house was spent in mostly weighted silence that had Richie growing increasingly uncomfortable with each step he took. It was of immediate relief when they made it back to the small abode, Richie’s eyes were trained on the door as he made a B-line for it, he couldn’t be out of the open air fast enough, he needed a shower and maybe to sleep for like a week. He carefully wasn’t looking at either Mike or Eddie when he was stopped in his tracks by a hand gripping his sleeve.

“Go on ahead Mike, we’ll be in in a minute.”

Richie gulped nervously as he sent a silent plea for Mike to save him. Mike, though, barely took the time to glance at them before he was nodding and heading into the safety of the house.

Richie took a deep breath and knowing that he couldn’t possibly run anymore turned to face Eddie. Eddie for his part seemed to be working himself up again, there was a deep furrow between his brows and his lips were pressed into a thin line. Richie waited a moment to see if Eddie would speak first, before he decided to just get it over with himself, he had barely parted his lips to speak when the silence of the early evening air was broken.

“Florida Richie? Fucking really?”

Richie’s snapped his mouth shut.

“I can’t believe you just took off like that! You didn’t even text me! Do you have any idea what that was like? You just disappeared! Once I realized you weren’t camping out at Bill’s or Stan’s or-or the others, I freaked! I thought you were fucking dead, man! What the fuck!”

“Wow, breathe Eds.” tried to deflect, noticing just how red Eddie’s face was getting.

“FUCK YOU!” Richie winced and looked to the ground.

There was a beat of silence.

“I looked everywhere for you, I was so worried,” Eddie continued, softer this time, “I even went through your phone numbers and called your manager, but he told me he couldn’t divulge any information about clients and-” Eddie sighed, shaking his head and said, “You can’t ever do this again.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie’s heart was thumping in his chest.

Eddie’s face twisted, “Why the hell did you take off like that?”

“I-”

Richie didn’t even know where to begin, all of the past weeks emotions were battling it out in his chest and abdomen, made somehow even more striking with Eddie standing right in front of him, his fist still clenched around Richie’s sleeve as if he were afraid that Richie would bolt again if he let him go. Eddie was looking up at him, eyes cleared of the anger that had been burning so bright since he’d shown up, he looked confused, worried, and maybe something else that Richie couldn’t quite name. But he was looking at Richie with all of his attention, and god, Richie almost wished he’d never stop, never stop looking at him, holding him, it terrified him how much he wanted Eddie.

He almost cracked a joke, because of course he would, but he held back, swallowing it down at the last moment. The thought of lying to Eddie, was causing him even worse discomfort than he was already in. So, for the first time in a long time Richie decided to be brave.

“I was scared.”

Eddie’s brow creased again.

Richie took a shaking breath, “I was scared and I didn’t- I didn’t know what to do-”

“So you ran to fucking Florida?”

Richie sighed and shot Eddie an annoyed look.

Eddie snapped his mouth closed and motioned for him to continue, “I panicked, and yeah, I ran to fucking Florida because-because even this god damn swamp was less terrifying than going home and having to- having to lose you and-”

“Lose me?” Eddie interrupted again looking impossibly more bewildered.

“You-You saw the show. I fucked up- I know I did but-”

“Did you mean it?” Eddie said, cutting him off again.

“What?”

“In the show, was that- was that some sort of joke to you? Were you jerking me around or did you fucking mean it?”

Richie was sweating, he was sure of it, his wide eyes burned from how much he wanted to just blink, but he was frozen, everything around him seemed to have stopped, his field of vision narrowed down to Eddie. The rest of the world could have evaporated and Richie wouldn’t have known the difference. In the stillness, he knew that the next words out of his mouth were important, more important than anything else he has ever said. He could feel another one of his life’s dominoes tipping.

“Every word.” He whispered, “It wasn’t a joke, I hadn’t even meant to say it, but I did mean it, every damn word. I- I like you Eds, I have for years. Almost as long as I can remember, even when I couldn’t remember- it was always you.”

The silence was deafening. All at once Eddie’s hand which had been holding his sleeve was gone and Richie felt as if his heart was going to shatter. He tried to prepare himself, for the rejection or disgust, but even so he wasn’t sure how he could possibly survive it. Suddenly, he felt hands clench at the collar of his shirt and yanked him off his center of balance, he barely had the mind to stop himself from falling before everything went blank and he died.

Or at least, Richie was assuming that’s what happened because there was no way that Eddie would be kissing him otherwise, he had to have died. It took his brain a second more to realize that no, this was happening, Eddie was kissing him, and that he needed to fucking respond before he ruined it.

Richie brought his hands up, one to grip Eddie’s hip and pull him closer, and the other to gently cup his cheek as he finally began to kiss him back. All at once Richie felt himself settle, all of the turbulence and anxieties that had plagued him for as far back as he could remember finally dissipated, his head felt light as the elation hit him even as the heat coiled in his belly, grounding him. Richie could scarcely believe this was happening, he sighed into the kiss as he felt one of Eddie’s hands trail up to tangle in his curls.

Eddie was the first to pull away, only when the need for oxygen grew too strong. Richie couldn’t keep the smile off his face as Eddie kept his hands on him, leaning up to rest their foreheads together, breathing the same air. Richie opened his eyes, unsure of when they’d even closed, and took in everything he could. The slight flush to Eddie’s cheeks, the small upturn of his lips that hinted at a smile, Richie wanted to kiss him all over again- and then keep kissing him. But before he could, Eddie was backing away.

“God I can’t believe I did that.”

Richie had a brief flash of anxiety as he suddenly worried he was about to lose it all.

“You were practically swimming in that swamp , god you’re filthy! Uhg, no, no more, go inside and shower right now! I’m not kissing you again until you do.”

Richie’s face broke out into a huge grin, he didn’t know it was possible to feel this happy, the suddenness of it felt like getting whiplash.

“But Eds-”

“No, absolutely not! And that’s not my name!”

Richie’s grin grew impossibly large as he opened up his arms and went in for a hug, delighting when Eddie screeched and tried to dodge him. The two of them chased each other up the porch and into the house, Richie giving up the game and instead taking Eddie’s hand in his, his stomach swooping pleasantly when Eddie not only allowed it but gave him a reaffirming squeeze.

Yeah, they still had a lot to talk about but Richie had never felt more excited to do so.

It ends with Richie walking out onto a large stage in LA, his palms sweaty as he smiles and waves at the cheering crowd. There was a nervousness clawing at his chest as he made it to center-stage, but with it also a giddy sort of anticipation. He picked up the microphone and stared out over the audience, not seeing much due to the bright lights shining over him, but still the silhouettes carried a touch of intimidation. He breathes, smile growing as he greets his audience, his voice steady and loud, cheers rise up in accordance and he plants his feet, grounding himself, readying. Yet despite that, the usual pres-show dread that Richie is used to feeling crawl in his stomach is absent, in its stead is a right sort of deliberateness that he’s never felt while walking out in front of a sold out crowd- or any crowd for that matter, not since being picked up decades ago in LA. There’s something peaceful about the steadfastness of his conviction, about knowing however the audience takes this new show will be a drop in the bucket compared to the opinions of the people he’s already shared the script with. Eddie’s approval meant more to him than any of these fuckers combined. So it was easier for him now, more than any other time in his life to recite the words from his script- words he himself had written.

Yes, he was nervous. But he was also resolute as he turned to look into the camera and the audience and say:

“So, my boyfriend moved in recently, like officially and-”

The smile that broadens Richie’s face is more genuine than any one he’d given on stage before as his audience hoots and cheers. Maybe he’d really send that fruit basket he’d been considering over to his publicist, or his manager for convincing him to take to Twitter to improve his fan-base. Fuck it, he’d send his whole team fruit baskets. A thank you to everyone who had been supportive of him, who continued to back him while he figured his shit out. People who gave him the opportunity to stand on stage and feel the pride that ballooned in his chest at each laugh and holler each of his jokes got. Pride was a feeling he’d had very little of in his life, it was hard to grasp when you’d spent most of your life in hiding. There were moments even now, despite everything, that had him instinctively wanting to curl up and slink away, because having pride in oneself is a learned behavior and one Richie was working on still. It got easier though, with every smile from his friends, any and every little touch Eddie blessed him with, and every morning he got to wake up and have Eddie right there next to him- everyday was full of little moments, little opportunities for him to feel so fucking lucky. So, yeah, walking out on that stage was an ending. A metaphorical book closing on a life lived in hiding and in shame- and he wasn’t going to miss a second of it.

Richie was starting a whole new novel, one composed of all those little and big moments worth holding onto, even if they were scary, maybe especially so; because for the first time in as far back as he could remember Richie wasn’t running away. He was pushing forward with the strength of more than just himself, and he was making a conscious decision to finally make his leap of faith, because even if he fell, he had six great people waiting to catch him. Richie pushed onward, because even though this was an ending, it was also the start of something so much greater. -

#IT #reddie #fanfic #mike hanlon #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #stan uris #fanfiction #fandom

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thesinglesjukebox · 4 years

Video

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LADY GAGA WITH ARIANA GRANDE - RAIN ON ME

[7.21]

A collaboration of two raining pop stars...

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: When was the last time you felt queer joy? a friend recently messaged me. It's not the only message that I've gotten like it, coming from someone reflecting on how hard it is to find love in our queer identities when the spaces and support networks we've spent our adult lives creating are no longer easily accessible. Lockdown is hard for everyone, but queer people have it especially rough. I have friends who chose to stay alone rather than return to uncomfortable family situations; friends who chose to find shelter in other countries rather than go home; friends in nominally progressive, loving environments who still feel constantly micro-aggressed against. Due to COVID, I've been forced to live with my parents for four months now, during which time we've managed to avoid a huge confrontation about my sexuality--but I still feel so lonely and unseen. "Rain on Me," however, sees me. This song is big and dumb and flawed, and probably designed as fan-service, but it is so, so gay. The more-is-more sound, the delightful camp aesthetic of the promos, the millions of memes, the outrageous Chromatica merchandise are all as extra as I wish I could be. For God's sake, at one point, Ariana literally sings the words, "Gotta live my truth, not keep it bottled in." Two of the biggest gay icons in the world coming together to sing about their traumas in the pouring rain would have been cathartic pop under any circumstances, but under these, it feels like nothing short of triumphant, torrential queer joy. [9]

Tobi Tella: For the Gay Event of 2020, that beat drop is cribbed right from 2013. The two work well together, and the result is hard not to like, but I'm also finding it hard to love. [6]

Will Adams: "Stupid Love" worked as a return to form for the maximalist Gaga of yester-decade. "Rain On Me" works even better for the sweet surprise at how much energy she injects into filter house, a genre whose recent re-emergence has often felt lifeless. The growl she adds to the "RAIN on me" that punctuates the instrumental break does plenty on its own. The presence of Grande and the alternate chorus at the very end implies that there could have been more but what was left on the cutting room floor doesn't really matter when the final 3-minute product is this electrifying. [8]

Joshua Lu: At times "Rain on Me" feels like two separate dance tracks spliced together: one with Lady Gaga's hefty vocals serving as the backbone for a groovy instrumental, and another with Ariana Grande's lithe voice adroitly dancing on the pounding synths. Either can succeed on its own, but when they mix, they hamper one another. It's most evident on the bridge, where Ariana's breathy delivery clashes with Gaga's campy deep voice, which shouldn't be used there regardless -- hearing it for an entire section makes it less powerful when it pops up as the pre-chorus. [5]

Edward Okulicz: This Lady Gaga single is okay to pretty good, but the chorus is basically just "Rain Over Me" by Pitbull. [6]

Scott Mildenhall: Not everything has to be "Telephone," but Gaga's statements about "Rain on Me"'s personal significance hit home how run-of-the-mill the song feels compared with something so conceptually walloping. The deep personal connection Gaga felt with Grande is sadly inaudible, and the boldest it all gets is with her spoken delivery of the title, an appreciably camp touch in a song that is content and perhaps correct to colour within the lines, however brightly. [7]

Katherine St Asaph: Did not expect my first thought upon hearing a Gaga song to be Shut Up Stella. This shrinks a bit after hearing Chromatica, which has more massive tracks. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Gaga and Ari are pop music's two greatest theater kids. Every note, every line on "Rain on Me" is perfectly calibrated to demonstrate this, to make clear their skill at acting out the role of the pop star. The musical frame of the song is sturdy enough (it's not "Fade" or "Electricity" in terms of '90s house pastiche, but it grooves deeply enough to not seem lightweight), but "Rain on Me" is driven by their performances. It's most obvious on the song's bridge, where the combo of Gaga's imperial declarations and Ari's upper register meld together in kitschy glory. "Rain On Me" isn't a perfect song-- it's a bit underwritten, and the water metaphors don't fully come together-- but it's a near-perfect performance. [8]

Ryo Miyauchi: "I'd rather be dry, but at least I'm alive." It's a hook that's surely, and most likely unintentionally, informed by post-COVID life, but it also reminds me of the apocalyptic pop that flourished about a decade ago when dubstep was in full swing. That subgenre's structure still lives on at a elemental level, with the chorus devoid of lyrics, just now swapped for a chic, Justice-style electro-house. While any hint of doom might be more the beckoning of the current time, Lady Gaga and Ariana Grande's eager sense of abandon taps into now as much as it does to a recent past, and I hope it will speak to us in a similar way in the future when our world seems to be collapsing again in whatever context. [7]

Jessica Doyle: The more I listen to this the less it hangs together. Is the rain heartbreak or guilt? Is Lady Gaga the victim of it or using it for her own destructive ends? (Rain can be healing; tsunamis never are.) Why does she throw that cold, commanding "Rain. On. Me." refrain into a song that's supposed to be about vulnerable acceptance? And why isn't it "I'd rather be drunk, but at least I'm alive"? (Darn it.) I'll cede some power to the image of Gaga and Ariana Grande, both wounded and relatably self-aggrandizing, stomp-dancing around together in the rain, but stripped of pop-gossip context the song won't stick around. [5]

Leah Isobel: Lady Gaga is pop Jenny Holzer. She doesn't write lyrics, she writes slogans. I'D RATHER BE DRY, BUT AT LEAST I'M ALIVE isn't quite on the level of I WANT YOUR WHISKEY MOUTH ALL OVER MY BLONDE SOUTH, but the contrast between her severe consonants and Ariana's airy open vowels provides enough scaffolding that it works anyway -- and it doesn't hurt that the bass hurtles around that line like a Ferrari. If Gaga's oeuvre is a monument to the power of sheer determination, "Rain on Me" is what happens when she wills her sadness into release, her trauma into mere prelude; it's American pop myth-making at its purest. In that sense, it's an old-fashioned kind of triumph. [8]

Oliver Maier: Lady Gaga is too much of an auteur to really relinquish control. This is why her me/us-against-the-world cowboy songs suck, because she is at her best when she rules the reality that the music inhabits. On the strongest of her imperial-era singles, desperation and desire are either crystallised into museum exhibits or performed with such dark melodrama that they feel more like elaborate theatre for which she plays both director and lead role. "Rain On Me" is about giving in and letting herself cry, but the drop hinges critically on the spoken command that opens the floodgates; it's catharsis issued with total precision. Ariana, the reigning pop queen of emotional honesty, is at home on her confessional verse and then, having run out of stuff to do, sticks to ornamentation (it's funny that she gets a "with" credit for what is very much a "feat."). There are smart decisions -- the compact runtime, the way that the aqueous filtering drives the imagery home -- and then there's the simple, house-beats-go-brrrrr monkey brain joy of dance music that sounds this sure of itself; what it's doing, where it's going, how hard it slaps. [8]

Alex Clifton: Was this designed to get me through my next run? Through the next time Louisville is pelted by rain for days at a time? Through the pandemic? I'm not sure, but I've sold my soul to Gaga and Ariana for the above reasons and am more than happy with the results. [8]

Jackie Powell: I didn't really understand how this collaboration was going to work until I remembered the similarities that Grande and Gaga share. Besides the obvious that both are Italian, both have witnessed trauma in real-time and in front of the world. "Rain On Me" is a conversation that manifests in the music itself but also in all of its accompanying media, such as promotion its Robert Rodriguez-directed video. The moment when Lady Gaga pulls the knife out of her leg is purposeful Right as Gaga forcefully hauls the knife out of her thigh, Grande begins her verse. We can't move through pain and trauma alone; that invitation into conversation and togetherness is part of the healing. The melody of "Rain on Me," which I'm assuming was written mostly by Grammy-winning Nija, was orchestrated as an internal battle-cry that is designed to be spouted out. Gaga begins singing as we expect her to, with a deep darker belt in her sweet spot. But once we hit the pre-chorus goin into the chorus, she switches into bright head voice, which is where we expect Grande to be. Ari then sings deep in her chest, around the pre-chorus and into the chorus. There's a pattern. During the bridge, they switch again, and then again in the outro. As to what's going on with Gaga and her vocal fry in that bridge and the last phrase of the chorus, some say it's just classic Gaga, The Fame Monster Gaga. While that's correct, she uses it as a tool with multiple functions. It serves as a "c'mon let's go to #Chromatica" statement, but it's also a transition that facilitates the journey. It sets up the glorious bassline that not only explodes into the ears, but was directly interpolated from Gwen McCrae's "All This Love That I'm Giving." But back to the pre-choruses: They give the listener the track's thesis and its heart. In the first pre-chorus when Gaga belts that she's ready for the rain, she's not fighting it anymore. All of that emotion is happening. The second pre-chorus is the reformation of the feeling. It's not comfortable, but we need to just let it out, let it fall, and let it be felt. "I'm ready. Rain on me." [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Lady Gaga #Ariana Grande #pop #music #music review

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the-quiet-winds · 5 years

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You Clicked Your Heels and Wished for Me (part three)

@ichlugebulletsandcornnuts i broke some hearts on the last one, huh? good. here’s the third and final part for all of you.

[part one] - [part two]

trigger warning for blood, accidental harm

[Part 3: Back to the Street, Down to Our Feet]

Jane books tickets for the next night’s show, doesn’t post about anything on social media, and lets her brain do a tiny fantasy about surprising katherine at the stage door.

her seats are at the back of the stalls, just far away enough that katherine wouldn’t be able to see her, and jane can’t help but feel a little bit excited to watch the show; it’s not often she gets an opportunity to see it from the other side of the curtain. as the show starts she claps along with the audience, taking a moment to appreciate how talented her fellow queens were, and how amazing a job grace was doing covering for her.

jane knows katherine so well, however, that even from a distance she can tell katherine isn’t completely at 100%, but she assumes it’s from missing jane. she smiles at the thought of surprising her later, of seeing the joy on Katherine’s face when she realises her mum was home. it’s not until katherine’s song starts that jane starts to think something more was going on.

katherine tries to call her nerves before the show with the knowledge that jane will be home tomorrow and all will be right.

but she’s not here now.

katherine hates how absolutely weak and worthless she feels without jane, but there’s nothing she can do to make herself feel better.

when her song comes, she starts off alright, but the arrival of the penultimate verses and final chorus sends her sense running away. as it had the previous nights, her free hand reaches up and scratches away at her neck, tearing apart the carefully set make up over healing lines and sending blood trickling away again as she cries out the final words, images of her previous life flashing in front of her eyes.

jane gasps as katherine claws at her neck, revealing healing scratches and fresh new wounds. she can’t take her eyes off the dripping blood and it suddenly hits her; this is what had been happening. it was so much more than katherine missing her, she was actively falling into some kind of unhealthy mindset. had this been happening every day, she wonders. jane suddenly jumps to her feet, eyes fixed on katherine, and a woman behind her hisses to her to sit down.

she’s does as she’s told, much as she hates to admit it. she can’t cause a scene, can’t embarrass katherine in the middle of her number, especially not when she’s acting like this.

jane can’t take her eyes off of the dark crimson blood, the lights seeming to accentuate it.

katherine falls to her knees upon finishing the song, chest heaving as she’s hunched like an animal on the stage. she staggers back to her feet as the other queens filter back on the stage.

the rest of the show passes slowly for jane, who can’t get her brain off of what will conspire at the stage door.

as soon as the show is over, she books it out, trying to beat katherine, and waits in the cold to see her girl.

it doesn’t take long for the door to open and for katherine to step out. she’s looking down at her phone without really looking up, and it takes her a few seconds to realise there’s someone there. when she does, however, she freezes.

“hello, kat,” jane says softly. katherine drops her phone and her bag onto the pavement with a clatter, not even caring that she probably shattered her phone screen. “mum,” she whispers, and then in the next moment she’s in jane’s arms, clinging to her like a little kid.

jane holds katherine tightly. she had missed her as much as she had been missed. she’s so happy to have her girl back in her arms that she almost forgets about what she had seen.

almost.

jane pulls back quickly, hands immediately holding katherine’s cheeks to push her chin up, fighting a quiet gasp at the drying blood marks on her neck.

katherine flushes slightly. “it’s nothing,” she mumbles awkwardly, but jane frowns.

“this isn’t nothing, love. it looks really sore. does it hurt?”

“only a little bit,” katherine shrugs. jane gently runs her thumb over one of the raised red lines and katherine hisses in pain. jane sighs.

“lets head back home, love, and i’ll clean this all up for you.”

“okay,” katherine agrees in a small voice. there was an unspoken promise in jane’s tone that they were going to talk about what happened onstage when they got home, and katherine wasn’t exactly looking forward to that. still, being with jane took priority over everything right now.

jane leads her to their car and helps her in. the entire drive is silent, because katherine can’t bring herself to say anything at all.

when they get home, jane has katherine take her shoes off before leading her upstairs and laying her down on her bed. she leaves for just a moment and returns with cotton pads and antiseptic.

“this might sting a bit, love,” she warns.

katherine gives a tiny nod and jane gets to work cleaning up the scratches. katherine winces and lets out tiny hissing sounds when the antiseptic stings but she doesn’t say anything. finally jane sets the cotton pads down and takes a minute to inspect the scratches.

“that should do for now, kat,” she says. she stands to put away the antiseptic and katherine sits up, hugging her knees to her chest. the feeling of dread in her stomach grows as jane returns; she knows jane is going to want to talk about it. sure enough, jane gives her a gentle look as she perches on the end of the bed.

“now, love, what happened?”

katherine closes her eyes and gives a shrug. “i had this dream the night you left,” she says faintly, as if she herself isn’t even aware she’s speaking. “i was back in the palace but it was different. henry...he decided he was going to-to kill me himself.” her hand creeps up to her neck, not scratching but simply resting. “he grabbed my neck and just held on.” she swallows. “after that...i could just feel it every time i performed.” her voice lowers further and she drops her head. “and i didn’t have you to tell me it wasn’t real.”

“oh, kat,” jane sighs. “love, i’m sorry. you should have told me, i’d have been on the next flight home.”

“no,” katherine shakes her head defiantly. “no, i didn’t want that. i didn’t want to ruin your trip.”

“kat, your safety and happiness matters more to me than some trip,” jane says softly, reaching out and moving katherine’s hand away from her neck.

“but it’s pathetic,” katherine half-laughs, drawing in on herself even more. “i need to be able to do things by myself. i can’t rely on you for everything, or you’ll never be able to do stuff by yourself.” katherine looks up at jane, sniffling slightly. “don’t you think it’s pathetic?”

jane closes her eyes for just a moment, trying to figure out how to word her response. “kat,” she begins quietly, “there is absolutely nothing pathetic about you, believe me.” she reaches out and takes both of katherine’s hands in hers, finding her momentum. “you are one of the strongest people i’ve ever met, love, but even the strongest people break down sometimes.” she dips her head to catch katherine’s eyes. “but i promise you, my little seymour, that you are the farthest thing from pathetic.”

katherine glances down. “it doesn’t feel like it, sometimes.”

“kat-” jane starts but katherine cuts her off.

“don’t. please, don’t pity me. i... i just want to be normal.”

“i don’t pity you, love,” jane says softly. “i love you, and i want you to be happy. that’s all. and i want to help you be happy, so if you feel like this again, please, don’t hide it from me.”

katherine can’t meet jane’s eyes. “i just...” she sighs, running a hand over her face, then her hair. “i don’t want to be a burden on you.”

jane gasps and opens her mouth to speak when katherine cuts in with that same somber tone.

“i know you say i’m not. but it just feels like that. with always having to be near you and always coming to you with my problems...” she trails off, eyes fixed on the duvet, “you have problems too. and you should get to enjoy things, like talking about edward with a historian and touring istanbul.”

“kat, love, i do enjoy things,” jane says, gently but firmly. “every second I get to spend with you is a joy, especially when you’re feeling safe and secure too. making you happy is what makes me happy, love, and i’d much rather spend time with you and make sure you’re okay than travel to anywhere in the world. and that is a promise.”

“but, how do you know you won’t come to resent me for it?” katherine asks, still not looking at her. jane cups her face gently and turns her to look at her.

“because you’re my daughter, kat, and i love you. i could never resent you, not when you make me so happy.”

katherine still doesn’t believe her, not entirely, not when her entire past has taught her that anyone who loved her would leave, but she allows herself to pretend. jane’s words sound so honest, so caring, that katherine can’t help the tears that start to well behind her eyes. none of them ever break the surface, but it’s enough for a lump to close her throat and prohibit her from responding.

jane sees the tears, and the red lines on her neck and it’s all too familiar. she starts to tear up herself - how could she have let this happen to her daughter?!

“i’m sorry, love,” she whispers, pressing a soft kiss to katherine’s forehead

katherine shifts to sit next to jane and rests her head on her shoulder. “it’s okay,” she half-shrugs. “wasn’t your fault.”

“i knew something was wrong,” jane sighs.

“i mean, i did try to hide it,” katherine mumbles, looking slightly embarrassed. “you couldn’t have known, really.”

jane rests her cheek against katherine’s head. she silently contemplates for several moments before finding the nerve to speak again. “i should have done something more. not just let you wallow. that’s not something a mum should do.”

katherine doesn’t reply, instead quietly shifting closer. jane wraps an arm around her as katherine curls up against her.

“i love you, sweetheart,” she murmurs, kissing the top of katherine’s head gently. “and i’m here for you, i promise. you can always talk to me about anything that’s worrying you and i’ll always do my best to help. that’s a promise, kat,” she repeats.

the room sinks into silence after that, the only movements being soft breathing and the reconciliation of two souls.

#six the musical #six musical #jane seymour #katherine howard #julie and jess write #you clicked your heels and wished for me

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qqueenofhades · 5 years

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the shadows among the stars: chapter twenty

Summary: Sequel to the alchemical wedding. Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston have timewalked to 1590 London, in search of answers about the mysterious manuscript Ashmole 782. But as they tangle with alchemists, assassins, witches, vampires, daemons, queens, and emperors – and the de Clermont family themselves – they quickly realize that their quest will be far more difficult than they ever imagined, and their relationship will be challenged as never before. In the present, their formidable enemy Michael Temple is more powerful than ever, the rival creature factions on the Congregation scheme and intrigue against each other, and in both centuries, the danger and the shadows are only deepening. Rating: M Status: WIP Previous: Wedding Song

Chapter 20: Memento Mori

Until this particular moment of her life, this very instant upon which the entire world exists or does not upon a single toss of a celestial coin, Lucy always thought that everything turning into dreamy slow motion, watching calamity unfold in excruciating detail but being unable to do a thing to stop it, only happened in movies or nightmares. It, however, is indisputably the case right now, as if the entire concept of linear time has veered off the rails and is devouring itself like an ouroboros – and indeed, with Past Flynn here, that is exactly what is happening. Her attention is fixed on a few diamond-sharp points, as if her brain has gone into survival mode and is filtering out all the extraneous nonsense, focusing only on the details that will save her life, or lose it. Past Flynn’s grip is bruisingly hard, holding her in front of him as a human shield, so that neither he nor Kelley can risk a point-blank shot without hitting the other’s hostage. Presumably he wants her alive, to do something in the library, but it is less clear if any concern extends after that. Lucy wants to scream, but her voice has shut down. Where is her Garcia? Where is Asher, or Christian? Anyone?

“No sudden moves, vampire.” Kelley’s voice is harsh, and he jerks the gun out from under Jack’s chin to train it dead between Past Flynn’s eyes instead. “Thou knowest what this is? It has silver bullets. If I shoot thee with it, I have it on good authority that it can kill thee properly dead. Or a hardwood stake aimed well through the heart? I have that too. Tell me what thou didst with my manuscript, and such unpleasantness can be averted. Otherwise – ”

“I don’t have your bloody manuscript.” Past Flynn is clearly furious at this inopportune disruption to his plans, as well as not having a clue who Kelley is or why he thinks he filched it. “The witch took it, her and the other one. Though if you think you shall turn up at our own home and demand its return, you have no idea what you’re – ”

Kelley’s attention swivels to Lucy, and his mouth twists into an unpleasant grin. “Ah, Lady Clairmont. We meet again. Did I not warn you back in Prague that thy further interference in my plans would be cause for considerable grief? If I had thrown thee out the window properly, it would not have come to this. As it is – ”

“Shut up.” Lucy’s voice is high, half-hysterical, and no matter if it might be a bad idea to bait the crazy alchemist while he is holding a gun that can kill everyone in this house, she can’t help it. This situation was bad enough without him. “We’re not giving it back to you. Now get out of here, or all of them are going to tear you apart.”

“I think not.” Kelley takes a step, cocking the heavy pistol with a thunk and a spark from the flintlock. “Lord Clairmont, tell me where, or I blow your wife’s brains out.”

Past Flynn looks slightly stunned, even as the word percolates to both men in different ways. Kelley seems to note for the first time that Flynn is making no attempt to protect his “wife” – is indeed actively endangering her, though he can’t discount the possibility that it’s a nerves-of-steel, cold-blooded bluff. For his part, Flynn belatedly remembers that his future self is in a relationship with this witch, and if he had two percent critical thinking skills in entering the bedroom like a normal person and pretending there was something he needed to talk to her about in the library, this entire mess could have been avoided. Lucy very much doubts that she would have been able to tell the difference, at least until it was too late. It is perhaps, perversely, a good thing that Past Flynn is an idiot, but since that means a murderous Edward Kelley is on their doorstep –

“Now, vampire.” Kelley himself is in no mood for palaver. “Or I – ”

[read the rest on AO3]

#timeless #timeless ff #garcy #garcy ff #lucy x flynn #the shadows among the stars #all souls au

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unpack-my-heart · 5 years

Text

Unpack My Heart With Words - Updated

New chapter of my Hamlet/Theatre Reddie AU.

It’s on AO3 HERE or I’ve posted it under the cut.

preview:

‘Are you kidding me – YOU’RE my Hamlet? She’s sent me YOU? I swear to God – Right. Well. Get inside – no, not THAT door, the door where – just follow me’.

Richie waits for a beat, watching Eddie march away with his scarf trailing behind him, gauzy fabric reaching out to Richie with invisible arms. Eventually, Richie’s feet co-operate with the signals screaming in his brain to go! go! go!, and he follows Eddie, who had disappeared through a small side-door marked ‘private’. Richie takes a deep breath, before he pushes the door open and steps inside, breaching the dark underbelly of the RSC.

@violetreddie @constantreaderfool @xandertheundead

‘Are you kidding me – YOU’RE my Hamlet? She’s sent me YOU? I swear to God – Right. Well. Get inside – no, not THAT door, the door where – just follow me’.

Richie follows Eddie through a series of corridors, winding this way and that, past small dressing rooms, large open spaces with chairs strewn haphazardly around. People pass them, nodding at Eddie and staring at Richie with blank, expressionless looks. Richie keeps his gaze trained to the shocking white of Eddie’s sneakers, a stark contrast against the deep, velvety black of the rest of his outfit. Eddie is talking on the phone, the tinny voice of the other person filtering out into the air, but not loud enough that Richie can hear what they’re saying. He tries not to listen to what Eddie is saying, feeling invasive, but he can’t persuade his ears to disengage.

“No, I had no idea you’d cast him … I suppose he was always very good when we were at RADA together … I told you that! You knew I went to RADA with him … Well you know now … Yes, he’s that Richie … I have no idea … I have to go, thank you again for this simply marvellous surprise”

Eddie eventually pushes his way through a set of large double doors, and Richie follows him through into a large classroom. One of the walls is mirrored, and there are nine other people staring over at him. He instantly recognises one of them.

Watching Eddie march over to the desk, and start typing furiously, Richie makes a beeline for where Stan is standing.

“Stanley the Manley!”

“Oh Jesus Christ, it’s you”

Richie smacks Stan’s arm lightly.

“That’s hardly an appropriate greeting for your best friend now, is it”

“Richie, I haven’t seen you since we graduated”

“Semantics, semantics” Richie dismisses, with a wave of his hand.

It was true. He hasn’t seen Stan since he graduated fourteen years ago. Even then, Richie had grown more and more distant from everyone after Eddie had left. He put his head down, poured his heart and soul into everything he did, graduated, and never looked back. His RADA years were simultaneously the best and worst years of his life thus far, and it exhausted Richie to think about them. It had, however, meant that he’d lost touch with Stan. Stan had tried, send him texts and emails and even rang him once a month for two years, but that, like all things, eventually stopped. Seeing Stan now, stood in front of him, with fine lines around his eyes and flecks of grey mottling his ashy blonde hair, tugged painfully at Richie’s heart.

“I’m sorry, you know”

“I know you are, Rich. I get it, I was just collateral damage” Stan dead-panned, the monotone voice contrasted happily with the smile in his eyes.

Before Richie could reply, he was interrupted by the clapping of hands.

“So now that the lead has so kindly deigned us all with his presence, we can begin. You should have got the email with the cast list, so perhaps some of you are familiar with each other. My name is Edward Kaspbrak and I’m directing this production, as you all well know. You can call me Eddie, though. We’ll start by reading through act one scenes four and five, the first interaction between Hamlet and the ghost of Old King Hamlet, so those of you who aren’t needed can excuse yourselves to one of the other rehearsal rooms to read through act one scene one to three together. Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus, over here” Eddie instructed, pointing to a door which presumably lead to another rehearsal space, before beckoning to Richie, Stan and an attractive, blonde-haired man steps forward, presumably this production’s Marcellus.

Everyone else filters out of the room in near total silence, leaving Richie, Stan and the man playing Marcellus staring dumbly at each other, unsure of what to do.

“Hang on, who’s playing the ghost?” Richie called out, causing Eddie’s head to snap up from where it was buried in an old beaten up copy of Hamlet, his hands leafing impatiently through the yellowing pages.

“Pardon?”

“The Ghost, who is playing him?”

Eddie blinks.

“It hasn’t been cast yet”

“How the hell are we supposed to block this, then? Am I supposed to talk to the air? Act as if the air is talking to me? C’mon, Eddie, that’s a bit ridiculous” Richie asks, gesticulating wildly.

“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of practice talking to yourself”

As soon as he says it, Eddie’s face shifts, the perfectly schooled apathy replaced by something that looks almost pained, something that almost resembles regret, before its chased away, and the apathy returns.

“Can we at least call one of the others in and have them read it for now?” Richie tries, trying to ensure that his voice doesn’t betray his frustration and start to waver.

“I’ll read it, I suppose, if you’re going to make such a fuss about it”

With that, Eddie throws the book onto a nearby chair, where it lands closed with a slapping sound. Richie sends a sideways glance at Stan, who is staring at both of them with wide, amused eyes.

Marcellus is standing on the other side of the room, looking equal parts confused and terrified.

Watching Eddie unwind his scarf and set it neatly on the nearest table, Richie is thrown backwards in time, as the Eddie standing before him, dressed in black dress pants and a black shirt, morphs into the Eddie he had seen for the first time in rehearsal room 3. His Lear.

They start reading through Act I Scene IV, which goes fairly well. Eddie only shouts at Richie once, when he gets a line wrong.

“Ministers of grace and Angels –“

“Wrong!”

“Pardon?”

“It’s ‘Angels and Ministers of Grace –“

“Oh for fucks sake” Richie mutters under his breath.

Surprisingly, he’s not frustrated at Eddie. In all fairness, he did get the line wrong. What surprises him is the embarrassment that claws at his stomach. He’s embarrassed. He’s standing in front of the love of his life – the boy that twisted him up and turned his whole life upside down nearly fifteen years ago – and he’s getting lines wrong, and he’s embarrassed.

“Try it again” comes Eddie’s reply, and Richie looks up at him tentatively, expecting to be met with glares and scorn, but Eddie’s face is blank. He’s just looking at Richie, prompting him, willing him to continue. No malice, but no soothing smile, either. Richie tries to remember what Eddie looked like when he smiled, when he was tucked under Richie’s armpit when they were watching movies in Richie’s shitty old flat.

Richie tried again, and got it right.

They finish act one scene four, and move straight onto act one scene five. The ghost speaks to Hamlet in this scene, which means Eddie will be speaking to Richie, pleading with him to ‘remember me!’.

Richie never forgot him.

“Where wilt thou lead me? Speak; I’ll go no further” Richie starts.

“Mark me”

“I will”

“My hour is almost come, when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames, must render up myself”

As they progress through the scene, Richie is stunned to realise that Eddie is awful. His delivery is wooden, his voice is monotone, emotionless, as if he doesn’t care, as if he’d rather be anywhere else, totally apathetic to Richie’s need for a good performance to respond to, to bounce off of.

“Adieu, Adieu Hamlet, Remember – –“

“Have you forgotten how to do it, Eds?” Richie interrupts, and it spills out of his mouth with more venom than he’d intended.

“We didn’t all have the luxury of finishing our acting degrees, Richard” Eddie snaps, the apathy on his face gone entirely.

He looks hurt, the same expression he’d been wearing when he’d told Richie he loved him for the very last time at the dining table, before he’d walked out of the door, and out of Richie’s life, nearly fifteen years ago.

Richie doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. They finish reading through the scene. Eddie’s performance doesn’t improve, if anything, it gets worse. Every ‘Swear it!’ delivered with indifference. Tiny verbal bullets that sting every time they hit Richie’s ears. Richie can’t help but recall Eddie’s Lear, powerful and commanding, a harsh juxtaposition to this damp squib of an old King Hamlet.

Almost immediately after Richie had uttered the last line of the scene, Eddie marches over to the door that the other cast members had left through, and disappears. He returns seconds later, accompanied by the rest of the cast.

“We’ll start looking over act one scene two, now. We’ll go back to act one when the whole cast is here, which will be sometime next week. I want to think about staging for scene two, and how we’ll have Claudius and Gertrude situated in relation to Hamlet, I think I’d like you, Ben, over here, and Bill if you can – –“

“Don’t you think we should all introduce ourselves?” Richie interrupts, for a second time.

Eddie just stares at him, eyebrow raised. A challenge. Continue, if you dare.

“I just think we should get to know each other, you know, so we all know where we’ve come from, who we are, what our backgrounds are. I’ll start, so, uh, sup, my dudes, the name’s Richie, and I’ve just come off tour with – –“

“I hardly think that’s relevant” Eddie scoffs, “If you want to spend the precious time we have together making friends, by all means, be my guest, but you’ll be doing it outside of my rehearsal space”

“I just thought it might help improve the chemistry between our characters”

“Do you really think a friendly atmosphere is appropriate for the play in question, Richard?”

“… I mean, I just –“

Richie meets Eddie’s eyes.

“I guess not”

The rest of the rehearsal goes okay. Richie tries not to let it sting too much when Eddie places his hands on Ben’s stomach, above his diaphragm, to help him project his voice, and when he laughs at Mike twirling around the stage In the first mock-up of his Ophelia costume. Richie tries his best to draw Eddie out of his shell, to draw Eddie back to him, repeating jokes that he knows Eddie would have laughed at – did laugh at in the past– but he doesn’t. Their interactions remain cold, clinical and professional.

At the end of the day, the main cast are knackered, but they decide to go to the pub to decompress and get to know each other a bit better. The only members of the cast that make their excuses are the actors playing Polonius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Shrugging on his coat, Ben shouts out an invitation to Eddie to join them.

“Hey, Eddie! We’re all going to the pub. D’ya fancy it?”

“Uh…”, Eddie replies, eyes flicking over each of the people stood in front of him, before his gaze lands on Richie. Their eyes meet, and do not waver.

“No thanks” Eddie delivers straight to Richie, words that bore straight into the pit of Richie’s stomach. Eddie looks away from Richie, and his tone shifts to something light hearted, the voice Richie had grown to love all those years ago. “I’ve got a lot of preparation to do for tomorrow, we’ve still got a lot to do before we can move onto scene three. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

With that, Eddie leaves the door with a small wave.

“Ah, yes, now we can get to know each other ‘outside of the rehearsal space’. I mean, what the hell was that all about?” Mike asks, holding onto Stan’s shoulder as he tries to escape the folds of fabric keeping him hostage.

“I know” Stan replies, simply, a wicked glint in his eye.

“Don’t!” Richie shouts before he can stop himself.

Everyone looks at him expectantly.

“Uh… I just need to get my coat” Richie mumbles, before slinking into the back cupboard. He smacks his forehead against the wall with a thump, closes his eyes, and breathes.

They decide to go to the pub with the garden with the outdoor heaters, at Richie’s insistence, so that he might indulge his nicotine habit. He’s been gasping for a cigarette all day, but he hadn’t dared ask Eddie if he could slip out for a few minutes.

They squish onto a small picnic table together, and Bill ends up sat comfortably on Ben’s lap, an attempt at navigating the lack of space. Ben’s hands loop comfortably around Bill’s waist, and Richie sends a quirked eyebrow his way, receiving a confused but genuine smile in response.

Richie offers to buy the first round, ‘lead buys first’, and pulls Bill off of Ben’s lap to help him carry the drinks back to the table.

“Is something going on there, Billiam?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Rich” Bill replies, leaning on the bar and tapping his fingers rhythmically on the polished wood.

“Between you and our dear King. Bit of method acting, if you will?” Richie replies, waggling his eyebrows.

“I’m still lost”

“Oh my sweet summer child. Are you, our beloved Queen Gertrude, boning the usurper in chief, King Claudius?”

“You mean – am I fucking Ben?” Bill laughs.

“Yes!”

“I’m pretty sure Beverly would stab me with her knitting needles if I even tried it, mate”

“Ah, you got a lady friend then?”

“Nope. Ben does. Bev is the costume designer for this production. She’s been with Ben for years and this is the first production they’ve worked on together since they got together years ago. It’s super sweet and also super gross because I’ve walked in one them … doing things … what feels like so times and we’ve only been rehearsing for a day!”

Richie threw his head back and laughed, a proper belly laugh that shook his entire body and soul. Bill laughed too, a high-pitched croaky laugh that just made Richie laugh even more. Wiping some stray tears from his eyes, Richie was sure he saw a familiar figure disappear into the toilet, a figure wearing all black and a gauzy scarf.

“I thought Eddie wasn’t coming with us?”

“Huh? He’s not?” Bill replied, confused.

“I swear I just saw him disappear into the toilet” Richie said, still staring at the toilet door, lest he miss the person he was sure was Eddie reappear in the main bar area.

“I need a piss anyway so I’ll go check!”

Bill disappeared into the bathroom, and by the time he’d returned Richie was in the middle of ordering.

“Hey mate, can I get four pints of Somersby and two Punk IPA’s please? – – oh, any luck?”

“Nah, It wasn’t Eddie”

Richie hummed, not entirely convinced.

As they waited for their drinks, Bill started pressuring Richie about the weirdness he’d witnessed between him and Eddie.

“I’ve gotta ask, dude, what was all that about with Eddie? I saw that weird look you shared”

Richie tried to remain as flippant, and disaffected as it was possible to be, given the circumstances.

“Ah, I dunno, man. You know how he is”

“I’ve known him a day, Rich, and judging by the tension between you two that you could cut with a knife, I’m guessing you can’t say the same”

They arrived back at the table, much to Richie’s delight, and he passed out the drinks, hoping that the conversation between him and Bill would get buried by whatever everyone else was talking about.

He was not so lucky.

“Hey Stan, what did you mean when you said that you know why Eddie was being all weird about us getting to know each other?”

“I meant what I said, I know the reason. But I can’t tell you if Richie doesn’t want me to. It’s not my story to tell, I just wanted you all to know that I know”

Bill, who was sitting back on Ben’s lap, just rolled his eyes.

“Come on, Rich, I command thee to tell your mother why the air is most foul between you and master Kaspbrak”

“Do you want the long story or the short story?”

Bill rubbed his chin in faux thought.

“Short, then long if it’s juicy enough”

“We met at school, we fell in love, he broke my heart”

Richie was met with a round of sympathetic hisses and whistles, and a comforting hand on his thigh from Mike.

“Sorry, Kid. We all thought it was something to do with you being late, or something.”

“I mean, that probably didn’t help” Richie tried to laugh, but the words came out strangled.

“What was Eddie like at school?” Ben asked, swatting at Bill who kept trying to put leaves in his beer.

“Um. I dunno – he was, uh, he was brilliant, I guess”

“Wait, hang on” Adrian, who was playing Laertes, interrupted. “Didn’t Eddie go to school in Scotland? And you met Stan at RADA? How… I’m lost. How does that work?”

“Eddie went to RADA for a year before he transferred” Stan supplied, after Richie sent him a panicked look. “Eddie left in the Spring term of first year. He met Richie and I there, and then he left for Edinburgh”

“Why’d he transfer?”

“Ask him yourself, because I still don’t have a fucking clue” Richie replied, bitterly, before draining his pint in one go.

#unpack my heart with words #richie tozier x eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #thefutureisbright #ao3

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hypmicwritingbutbad · 6 years

Note

hewwo may i request a friends to lovers hcs (but more short term) for samatoki and ichiro? (separate) thanks!!

Here you go anon!! I might have misunderstood what you meant by ‘short-term’– I interpreted it like the s/o has only known gotten to know them recently rather than being classmates or childhood friends. If my dumb brain got it wrong or you’re unsatisfied, drop me a message and I’ll make the changes! Other than that, please enjoy (･ω

Samatoki

It’d always been lonely in your old little apartment complex

While things were often nice and quiet, you’d often wished for a friendly neighbour you’d be able to chat to and get to know for the longest time

One day you received word from the senile old landlord that new tenants were going to move into the apartment next to yours: a young man and his younger sister

On the day itself you’d given yourself a pep talk so you could muster enough courage to drop in for a quick introduction and pass them a little welcome present

Your first meeting was a little hectic: when Samatoki opened the door, the sight of this scowling, intimidating thug nearly made you drop your welcome loaf of bread out of fear

You’d honestly felt out-of-place sitting in their cramped little living room in awkward silence, but you got along well with his sister who took an immediate liking to you

She saw you as an older sister to go to for girl talk– and so that resulted in you dropping over frequently to watch over her while brother was out

Soon enough, your visits became an everyday routine; you’d come with snacks and a home-cooked dinner, and in return the Aohitsugi siblings became adjusted to your constant presence in their little flat

Over time, you’d discovered that Samatoki wasn’t really as unpleasant as he made himself appear

Sure, he had a hot temper, no filter between his brain and mouth, and the two of you often bickered for the stupidest of reasons–

(“Oi, you left your frickin’ makeup bag in the bathroom yesterday night for the fifth time this month already.” “Well that’s cause I know you ain’t gonna steal it, unless… Sama-chan, you wanna use it??” “Shut up, you damn woman!!”)

–But he was a surprisingly good listener and would often lend a patient ear to any worries you often needed to get off your chest during private 11PM conversations after his sister went to bed

Plus he was a sucker for your homemade omurice (often demanding seconds with a bashful scowl on his face), and you’d always wanted someone to cook for

One day, the three of you’d been sitting in the kitchen, eating a dinner that you’d prepared in their kitchen as usual

You’d just finished telling Samatoki about what some idiot coworker of yours did when imoutoki’s voice breaks the silence

“When will you and niisan get married already?”

And Samatoki immediately chokes on his rice, so you spend the next five minutes hitting his back as he splutters away

You’d initially take it as a joke and laugh it off, but the serious earnestness in imoutoki’s eyes—

“Niisan always talks about how nice you are… Oh, and he did once say that it’d be nice if he could eat your food for the rest of his life…”

—and Samatoki’s beet red complexion would take you by surprise

“What even are you saying?” You hear him hiss at imoutoki under his breath, flustered, “I thought I told you I don’t—“

But with your heart beating loudly and your head giddy with adrenaline, you’d reach out to latch onto his arm and pull yourself closer to him

Smiling at imoutoki with a wink in your eye

And saying “Oh, very soon.” as Samatoki’s face only gets redder and his words more garbled

Ichiro

The two of you first met at one of Japan’s biggest cosplay cons, with you in a cosplay of Fullmetal Alchemist’s Winry that took you ages to put together

You’d been walking about - albeit a little shyly - and taking pictures with anyone who asked nicely when you bumped into him:

A young man, looking distraught and frantically searching about

Concerned, you’d stopped him and asked him what was wrong

It turned out that he’d lost sight of his younger brothers, so you spent the rest of the day helping him search for them

When you finally located them crying at the Lost and Found, he’d apologised sincerely for wasting your entire day– though he did stop to compliment your cosplay with genuine awe dusting over flushed cheeks

“I know it’s been a rough start, but my name’s Ichiro! If you don’t mind, maybe we could go grab a bite to eat together– my treat, of course, to make up for today!”

Things just hit off from there: you’d often chat with Ichiro on SNS (esp after the latest episode of the intense anime you both like and get embarrassingly emotional over), and occasionally meet up with him

As you grew closer, he even took an interest in your cosplay projects; he’d come over just to see your latest exploits with Asuka’s complex bodysuit, or perhaps Saber’s iconic blue armour

While he enjoyed helping you sew, he’d never really showed interest in cosplaying one himself

(But it was still fun as you both often played a game to see who could suggest the most obscure thing for him to cosplay– like bald Orochimaru or Sakata Gintoki in a clown costume)

One day as the two of you’d sit together in his apartment, sewing and putting together props in your usual fashion, he’d stop his work in the loudest of fashions:

Dropping his sewing scissors, slamming his hands onto the table and psyching himself up with a few intense exhales

He’d look you in the eye and yell:

“Will you be the Winry to my Edward!?”

And honestly it’d take you by complete surprise— you’d blink at him, unable to process anything from the pure shock of it all

And even he’d grow bashful, sinking back down into his seat and mumbling “….cosplay! I-I mean, it’d be nice— I want— agh— let’scosplaytogethersoonalright!!”

Before you’d cut him off with an embarrassingly loud gasp

“Winry and Edward end up together, right? They’re the OG couple…?” “Y-yeah, they are!”

And you’d simply grin up at him, grabbing his hands. “Ichiro you big nerd…! I’ll be the Riza to your Roy, the Kagome to your Inuyasha, the… Oh my gosh!! I-in the first place, what kind of confession is that?? You big nerd!!”

And his confession would honestly be the best thing to ever happen to you— after all, if he’s to be your boyfriend, there’d be no more escaping the inevitable couple cosplays…

#hypmic #hypnosis mic #hypnosis mic division rap battle #hypmic headcanons #hypmic imagines #hypmic writing #aohitsugi samatoki #yamada ichiro #s/o #friends to lovers #au #hypmic au #fluff

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katecarteir · 6 years

Photo

In Just Four Minutes | Chapter Three

“Nooo.” Richie pushed at Stan’s guiding hands. His glasses were off, stuck into the front pocket of Stanley’s shirt, and pants were already half off. The similar discomfort from the diner settled in Eddie’s chest again. “I wanna get in with Eds. I wan’ my Eddie.”

Stan raised his eyebrows, glancing over at where Eddie was sitting still in his bed. He tried to give Stan a smile, but Stan seemed to be against Eddie in this moment. Richie hadn’t slept in Eddie’s bed often, maybe only a few times after getting high, and he was always weird about it later. Eddie supposed he was a little weird about it later, too, because he knew it was wrong to like it as much as he did.

[or: Eddie Kaspbrak hadn’t planned on being an absolute cliche the fell in love with his college dorm mate, but ain’t that just the way. To add insult to injury, said room mate has a girlfriend … doesn’t he?]

“Can I sit here?” The voice startled Eddie out of the daze he usually spent his business class in. Taking the business class had been a compromise with Eddie’s mother for letting him go away to school in the first place. She’d wanted to live, die and rot in Maine as she was going to do, but Eddie had wanted nothing more than to run far, far away from the state. (And her.) Agreeing to major in Business was the only way Eddie could get her to let him leave. He was planning on switching majors during the last call before Christmas break, but Sonia didn’t need to know that.

There was a tall boy with muscled arms and chubby cheeks standing in front of him, looking nervous and almost ready to run away. “I… A place in this class just opened up and it’s my first day, and everybody else looks…” The boy looked around the room, frowning and biting into his bottom lip. “Mean.”

Eddie nodded slightly. The other people in the business class where white men who looked like their daddies pay their whole ass tuition without blinking an eye, and white blonde girls who daddies paid the tuition and for their cars. Kids who’d have bullied him in high school. Eddie hadn’t bothered to get to know any of them, sitting in the back corner and tuning out the class everyday.

But this kid seemed genuine and Eddie cleared off his stuff from the seat beside him. “Yeah, business majors are the biggest problem with society these days,” Eddie said with a fake laugh. “I’m Eddie.”

“Ben.” Ben said, beaming at him. “I like your sweater.”

Eddie tugged at the sleeve of his sweater, which was in truth, Richie’s. He’d finally convinced his room mate after nearly two months to go through the insane amount of clothes in their room, and throw out all the things he wasn’t going to wear again. When Richie had gone to toss out the simple pastel blue sweater that had looked like it cost somebody a good chunk of cash, Eddie had stopped him. Richie had merely rolled his eyes when Eddie asked why he was throwing it out, claiming the sweater was “too fucking girly.” Eddie hadn’t seen anything girly about it, and had taken it before Richie could send it off to its death.

“Thanks,” Eddie said bashfully as his phone began to buzz in the pocket of his jeans. He gave his new friend an apologetic smile as he reached for it.

New Text Message from Weird Room Mate: edsssssssss the gang is meeting up for lunch at The Café. u in?

Eddie smiled, and glanced at Ben from the corner his eye.

To Weird Room Mate: May I bring a friend?

From Weird Room Mate: all friends welcome!!

Eddie turned to Ben and cleared his throat. “There’s a nice little café around here, I don’t know if you’ve ever been but… my room mate and our friends are all going for lunch. Do you want to come?”

Ben looked surprised for a moment, before covering it up with a huge smile. “That sounds amazing!”

Eddie beamed back.

xxx

Eddie slid into the empty seat beside Richie, leaving Ben to push in beside Stan and Mike. For a moment, Eddie realised that bringing Ben to lunch with two couples was sort of like bringing a date, but Eddie shook his head to clear that thought.

Richie, it seemed, didn’t seemed deterred from thinking about it, if the way he was elbowing Eddie and waggling his eyebrows. Shut the fuck up, Eddie told him with his eyes. Richie grinned toothily at him before sliding a plate over.

“I ordered for you,” Richie said, and Eddie smiled at the turkey sandwich and home fries on the plate now in front of him. It even had ketchup in a small circle to the side the way Eddie liked it. “So you wouldn’t have to deal with the judgemental eyes of Mike and the fake vegan when you ordered meat.”

“Would you stop!” Stan cried, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t know it was made with a cheese sauce, okay? Trust me, my stomach has already punished me enough!”

Mike chuckled, and wrapped an arm around Stanley. Eddie had learned pretty quickly over the last few months that Richie had absolutely no level of filter. He’d known pretty early on that that was the case, but he’d really had to face with Stan and Richie’s friendship. It wasn’t like any friendship Eddie had ever seen before, based almost entirely on pissing each other off and giving one another shit. It seemed to work for them, though, so Eddie never meddled.

“Thank you,” Eddie chose to say instead of making any sort of comment towards Richie’s picking at Stan. Richie reached out as though he were about to pinch Eddie’s cheeks, but thought better of it at the last second, and merely tapped his open palm on Eddie’s cheek twice.

Stan cleared his throat. “Edward. Are you going to introduce us to your friend or?”

“Oh!” Eddie cried, cheeks flushing. “This is Ben. He just switched into my business class. He also thinks everybody in there look like assholes. We bonded over that.”

“Anybody with half a brain would think those dicks in your business class look like assholes,” Beverly spoke up, putting an inhuman amount of wild berry jam on her rye toast. Ben looked over at him, and Eddie watched him realize that Beverly was beautiful. Saw the entire thing cross his face, Ben might as well have said wow out loud when he looked at her.

Eddie glanced at Richie, but Richie was entirely too concerned with seeing how much maple syrup he could dump onto Beverly’s eggs before she noticed what he was doing. Eddie let his gaze lead up to Beverly, who seemed to be looking… back… at Ben. Eddie frowned and shook his head. He was nearly three months into knowing Richie and Beverly, and not any closer to understanding them than he was the day he met them.

“There’s a party!” Richie suddenly slammed his hands on the table, seemingly bored with coating Beverly’s eggs while she didn’t pay him any attention. The eyes at the table all turned to him. “Can we go? We have not been to a single party, and that’s a crime! A CRIME! I deserve to party! Bev!! Tell them I deserve to party!”

Beverly laughed, and it was moments when her eyes danced like that, Eddie knew she loved Richie. There was a lot of things Eddie didn’t understand, that she assumed that she never would, but the love that ran between Richie Tozier and Beverly Marsh was undeniable.

“Nobody is stopping you from going to parties, Richie.” Beverly said, patting him on the shoulder and grinning. “Just because you’re afraid to go to parties alone. That’s your own problem.”

Richie whined and turned to Eddie, grabbing Eddie’s hands and pulling them towards his own chest. “Eds! Eddie Spaghetti, my one and the only, my light in the darkness!” Eddie rolled his eyes and a small smile rested on Richie’s lips as he continued. “Will you please, pretty please, come with to a party tonight? Please, please, for the love of all-“

Eddie pressed a hand over Richie’s mouth and gave him a withering look. “Richie you talk too much sober. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with you drunk.” Richie took on a wicked pout and Eddie sighed. “Partying isn’t really my scene, you know, Rich. And don’t turn this into some big lesson, I also have an assignment due in the morning. Which I haven’t started, thanks to you.”

Richie openly whined down, bouncing in his seat and pouting wickedly. Eddie almost felt bad, if he hadn’t been trained to see the laughter in Richie’s eyes.

“I’ll take you, Rich,” Mike said suddenly, grinning wickedly. “Haven’t seen you shit faced in a good while.”

“Well, shit,” Stan said with an eye roll. “Guess that means I’m going too, then.”

Mike kissed Stan on the cheek and then quickly directed the conversation back to Ben before Richie could drag them into anymore ridiculousness. Ben seemed more shy around Eddie’s friends than he’d been in the business class, but Eddie watched him warm up.

“You know,” Beverly said suddenly, leaning forward on the table and smiling towards him. There was something in the smile, that brought Eddie to pause. He looked at Richie once again, but Richie had been distracted by some sort of game of his phone. “I have to do a photoshoot for my photography class. You’d be just perfect, would you be interested in modelling for me?”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open, glancing around the table at the absolute lack of reaction from every other person sitting around him. Ben’s face burned bright red as he stumbled through an acceptance. Eddie picked at the turkey flakes on his plate, trying to ignore the growing discomfort in his stomach.

xxx

Eddie had finished his assignment at quarter after one in the morning, and chosen to simply stay awake. Mike and Stan would be bringing Richie back to the dorm soon enough, and it was easier to stay awake and wait for that, then be pissy when Richie wakes him up with his drunken behaviour. It was about two when Mike unlocked the dorm door and nodded at Eddie as Stan lead the stumbling Richie towards his bed.

But Richie was kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and falling onto Eddie’s bed, forcing Eddie closer to the wall and dragging himself under the blanket. “Okay.” Stan sighed, placing Richie’s glasses on the table beside Eddie’s bed. “Eddie…”

Stan pointed at Eddie with a serious look, and that was threat enough. Although Eddie wasn’t exactly sure what he was being threatened for. Then Stan and Mike were ducked out of the room and Richie was curling up beside Eddie. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was too erratic for him to be asleep.

“Rich…” Eddie said softly, waiting for Richie to hum in response. “Did it bother you when Bev and Ben were flirting today, or… whatever that was? Because you didn’t seem upset but you’re pretty good at keep secrets.”

Richie chuckled, letting his hand flop onto Eddie’s shoulder. “It didn’t bother me none, Edsy. Beverly is very hiccup very beautifully, yeah? Your friend has good tastes. I wish them the best!”

Eddie made a confused noise, but Richie was shoving his cold feet under his legs and it turned into a loud yelp. “RICHIE!”

“Richie, Richie, Richie,” Richie mumbled. “You know, Eds… I’m so glad you’re embracing the name Edward. It’s stupid that we gotta… that we gotta keep the names our parents gave us. You know? They don��t… they don’t know us. They don’t know us well enough to pick our names.”

Eddie frowned, shifting to look at Richie as best he could. Richie’s eyes were still closed, his face half-pressed into Eddie’s collar bone. “My parents picked a really dumb name for me.” Richie said, but the rest of his sentence was completely muffled into Eddie’s skin.

“What, Richie?” He asked, but Richie was already asleep.

#reddie #reddie fic #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #my writing #ijfm

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benji-deeds · 6 years

Text

Foggy Nelson Headcanons and Details

-Foggy has a dumb tattoo on his upper left arm of barbed wire....I hate that that's canon.

- He can play piano.

- He paints his nails on occasion.

- He has short hair now, but when he had long hair, he often wore it in messy buns and occasionally braided it just because he could.

- His family consists of his father Edward, his bio mother Rosalind, his step-mother Anna, his half-sister Candace, and his brother Theo. *whispers* They're Jewish.

- He was a theatre kid in high school and still loves plays and musicals.

- The nickname Foggy was actually given to him by Matt in the comics. Matt just hated him because of the way he snored at night and how messy he always kept his side of the dorm, so Matt started calling him Foggy, which was short for foghorn, because of how loud he snored. But Foggy liked the nickname so much that it just stuck with him. They eventually became friends shortly after that.

- When he's feeling down, he remembers those certain memories in college of him and Matt. The nickname especially makes him smile.

- He likes to keep pens on him because he fiddles with them often.

- He's the biggest Hufflepuff around.

- He probably took some psych class down the road.

- !!! It's canon that he helps Matt with his tie.

- He loves wearing bowties and has way too many of them.

- He's really good at cooking and baking. Both of his parents taught him how.

- He's sort of awkward, especially around new people, so he tries to be really self aware about what he does.

- That being said, he has practically no brain to mouth filter. ~~Handsome wounded duck.~~

- He's so short, especially in my favorite comic series of them. He comes to about Matt's shoulder in that one.

- Foggy at one point had been diagnosed with Ewing's sarcoma, which is a type of cancer that formed in the connective tissue of his hip. He survived. During his time in the hospital, though, he gave the other patients inspiring speeches and often spent time with the kids in the hospital. So we can see that he's a really kind, patient person. He still volunteers at the hospital to help with the kids.

- He loves impressions and tries to make people laugh with him by doing them.

- He has synthesia and often mumbles what colors and noises people remind him of under his breath. He can talk for days on this.

- Because of his synthesia, he can sort of understand some of Matt's sensory issues to an extent. He tries to talk to and understand Matt's issues with certain things, such as cotton and loud noises to the best of his ability.

- Foggy is a very sweet, understanding person. He accommodates Matt's sensory disorder as much as he can and buys him soft things for the holidays and his birthday.

- Foggy knows Matt doesn't celebrate his birthday all that much and respects that, but always does what he can to make the day special regardless.

- He's a very kind, gentle person. But he can get angry about certain things, such as when Matt lies to him or gets himself hurt when it could've been avoided. Those are the times to not mess with Foggy. At all.

-He's very open about his emotions. When he's sad, he cries. A lot. When he's angry, he shows it. When he needs comforting, he asks. And when he's happy, he has the biggest smile on his face.

- Foggy hugs = best hugs!!! He's very soft and warm all the time.

Those are all for now, but I know I have more circling around in my mind!

#foggy nelson #marvel #daredevil #headcanon #my stuff #matt murdock #mattfoggy

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marrascomics · 3 years

Text

Establishing my art skills

2021-12-19

The Betty Edwards “Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain” drawing course starts with three pre-instruction assignments to establish what your skills were before the actual art assignments.

Here’s the first one: A drawing of a person I know, purely from memory, no references. Pencil, paper, eraser, 1h hour, my memory and technical skill.

It's clumsy, but it shows that I've truly looked at and perceived and committed to memory some aspects of my partner’s features from both real life and photos. I have also drawn a cartoon version of him at least twice, and that requires a keen eye for key features.

Some notes on assignment #1:

I had a good idea of head shape, face shape, some distinct sense of the gestalt of the nose, lips, eyes and eyebrows, but poor memory of eyelids, mouth placement and distance from eye to ear.

Frustrating influence of manga & cartoon illustration on the key features, felt myself just go for stronger and more generic outlines when confused

Neck tapers the wrong way

Beard volume too small, outlines are wrong

Curly hair baffles my visual receptors, drawing it felt procedual and logical rather than drawing something I've seen and understood.

Shading is fully based on memory and has a 2.5D relief-like quality to it

Body is fully 2D, I had very little visual memory for rendering it

First 10 minutes of drawing were daunting, but I just decided on a person (the person I've been looking at the most lately) and what size image to draw (not too close up to reveal blanks in my memory of his face; not too far to reveal blanks on his body) and got rolling. Once more in the zone than not I really enjoyed the physical act of drawing and feeling the pencil on paper, and visual recalling, problem solving and rendering procedually. Logic and art education also helped patch over the gaps in memory and skill.

While drawing I could tell I was craving having a physical model in front of me to actually LOOK AT, which is a good drive. I also noticed being annoyed with the limitations of physical media: Erasers not erasing 100% of the pencil, accidental smudges, no Photoshop tools. In Photoshop you can just do a sloppy sketch and cut and paste and stretch and rotate and darked and lighten parts of it to refine it. You can even trace or filter photos and avoid actually looking at things.

Not having these tool-assisted shortcuts was very annoying for my efficiency-obsessed parts of brain.Sorry brain, we're doing the hardcore pure technical skill route now. No clever tricks and lifehacks and industry secrets. Just drawing what we see until we actually see it well and draw it well.

#betty edwards #Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain #art #learning how to draw

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erlenmeyertrash · 7 years

Text

Doorways, Part 2

hope you guys like it!

(words: 2252 | pairings: none | cw: self-loathing, negative talk, slight food mention)

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR

Virgil stared.

And stared.

Narrowed his eyes. Stared some more.

The door- well. It didn’t do anything. Because.

Y’know.

It’s a door.

Virgil sighed, throwing himself dramatically back into his desk chair and landing his boots on the desk with a thud. He glanced at the door again.

He had a problem with his door.

It was positioned in his room in the exact spot of Roman’s “doorway to a distant land-” but instead of some majestic, towering thing, his was just… a closet door. Stark white, plain white trim, brass knob. Honestly? It was the kind of entryway you’d pull right out of a horror movie- the unassuming door that held the monster hiding in the closet, waiting until the witching hour to sneak out and terrorize the innocent, sleeping child. (Or so a young Virgil had told himself long ago, late at night, clinging to the sheets of his bed in terror.)

When they had all entered Patton’s room together for the Moving On videos, he had gotten a sneak peek at Patton’s door in the corner. It was a light golden, wooden door, with a pretty stained glass piece in the center and an ornate handle; on either side were two large, frosted-glass windows, and in front of it lay a welcome mat. Oh, Virgil had realized after staring at it momentarily. It was the epitome of a suburban home’s front door- it probably led to an adorable little house with a back porch and a white picket fence and a little garden and two young kids and a well-trained golden retriever. Patton’s door definitely held a house where he could cook heart-shaped pancakes every morning and decorate the halls with family photos to his heart’s content. The kids were probably Thomas’ ideal imaginary children, too- well-mannered and sweet but also energetic and happy and everything a parent could want.

Although Virgil hadn’t yet entered Logan’s room, the logical side often left his door ajar- he was too preoccupied with scheduling and studying and other adventures of intellect to bother closing it most of the time. Through it, Virgil had seen Logan’s own door- or rather, seen the enormous NASA insignia across the Star Trek-esque sliding metal contraption. It probably led to a high-tech chemistry lab or enormous university lecture hall, but Virgil wouldn’t put it past him if it led to an actual spaceship.

All of the extravagance and, well, personality ingrained into their own doors made Virgil… not embarrassed by his own lackluster otherworldly portal- just slightly disappointed. It was totally unassuming and hinted nothing at what possibly lay behind it.

...which was another thing.

Virgil had never actually opened his other door.

Since Patton’s led to an adorable little home where he could play Dad, and Logan’s led to a conjuring of the epitome of educational excellence, and Roman’s led to any world his creative mind could possibly dream up… well, Virgil’s probably just led to a pitch-black, never-ending cavern with Thomas’ worst and wildest fears lived out at every corner. Opening Virgil’s door would be like opening Pandora’s Box and letting out everything Thomas had wanted boarded up in his mind, never to be seen again. Virgil figured too much was at risk to even bother peeking inside- so his door was permanently left untouched and unopened. It was better that way.

Sighing, Virgil untied his shoes and crawled onto his bed, giving his door one last glare- Why can’t you hold something good and non-terrifying?!- before opening his laptop and logging into his Netflix account. Surprisingly (it was only 1 in the morning, after all), it didn’t take him long to nod off, the sounds of the B-horror movie quietly filtering through the speakers until it ended.

Virgil woke up the next morning and just… knew.

Being Thomas’ anxiety- and usually getting tossed the rest of his negative emotions- he was often subject to the whims of complex biochemistry. Thomas’ moods, like anyone’s, could ebb and flow dramatically for deeply subconscious reasons; sometimes Virgil was exactly aware of the cause, and sometimes he wasn’t. This was an example of the latter. He could tell Thomas was at risk of not feeling great today- and that meant he needed to lay low and let Patton and Roman do the fixing. He’d stop by for breakfast to appease the fatherly side, then hole up in his room until the mood passed. Hopefully Thomas randomly seeing a dog or something could wipe up the mess quickly.

Virgil reached for his laptop, which thankfully hadn’t been thrown off the bed after he had fallen asleep, and plugged it into the charger before heading to the bathroom to throw some water and eyeshadow on his face. He pulled at the strings of his jacket slightly to even them out before sluggishly heading down the hall.

Please, please, please don’t let Roman be too ridiculous today, he pleaded silently. He just needed a quiet morning of coffee. No wild adventures, no crazy pancake batter spills, no overdramatic yelling, no standing on the breakfast table… just a peaceful, quiet breakfast. ...Please.

“Hey Virgil!” Patton beamed brightly at him as he walked in. Patton was easy to forgive for his slightly-overbearing nature; Virgil knew it was always well-intended. “How ya doin’, kiddo?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Not too great this morning, Patton,” he mumbled. Patton frowned.

“Aw, that’s no good! How ‘bout some pancakes to cheer you up?”

“I’m just gonna have a cup of coffee this morning. Not too hungry. But thanks, Patton,” he added, offering a brief smile to the other side. Patton accepted his smile, seeing Virgil was being genuine and offering real effort where he could, and turned back to the pan. Virgil reached for the pot of coffee, blinking when he saw it was already half-full. He turned to see he had missed Logan, already quietly sipping at a coffee at the table, eyes devouring a book.

No Roman in sight. Virgil sighed, content, turning back to grab a mug from the cupboard.

“Goooood MORNING, my lovely companions!” a voice boomed. Virgil flinched, nearly dropping the cup he had grabbed off the shelf. Even Patton jumped slightly next to him, whirling around as Roman waltzed into the room, eyes alight.

“Good morning, Roman! Pancakes?”

“Why, that sounds lovely, Chef Patton! I’ll have three of your finest- extra chocolate chips, if I may request so. I went on quite the adventure this past evening, and I’ve got the appetite to show for it!”

Virgil groaned inwardly, pouring the coffee into his cup and taking a long sip. This was about to be an insufferable breakfast.

Maybe Patton and Roman starting off in such good moods will help Thomas feel better, his brain suggested. Virgil snorted into his cup before quietly agreeing. Lay low, lay low, lay low. Just sit and listen until it’s acceptable to leave.

He slumped into his chair as Roman pretended to dust the table in front of him clean. He leaned over, invading Logan’s space, and peered at his book with a dramatically perplexed expression.

“What have we here, Megamind? Revising a chemistry textbook again?”

“Actually, it’s a new book Thomas picked up the other day when he was out with his friends. I’m re-reading the last bits to help him better understand the foreshadowing that occurs later-”

“Sounds utterly droll.” Roman leaned back in his chair, kicking his boots up on the table. “Why not make up your own story?”

“Well, we can’t all be amazing storytellers like you!” Patton piped up, bringing two steaming plates of pancakes over. Roman swiped his feet off the table, chair clattering forward as he grinned at his breakfast.

“Oh! Speaking of! I have the best story from last night!” He shoved a piece of pancake in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Now, where to start…”

“May I suggest the beginning?” Logan interjected, raising an eyebrow without raising his head from the book. Virgil grinned into his coffee cup as Patton laughed. Roman gave the logical side a look but ignored his comment. Patton sat down across from Logan, taking his own bite of pancake.

“It was a dark, stormy night-”

“Wow, purple prose before the story’s even started. Creds, Princey.” Virgil smirked. “I appreciate the shoutout.”

Roman frowned. “What are you talking about, Stranger Thing?”

“Purple prose,” Logan piped up, glancing over and adjusting his glasses, “is the term for extravagant, highly melodramatic writing that serves to distract readers from the fact that the plot has barely progressed in a story. Your ‘dark and stormy night’ introduction is an oft-quoted and highly popular piece of purple prose, first used by English novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his novel Paul Clifford, written in 1830. I also believe Virgil’s last comment was a double reference to a “dark and stormy night” reflecting not only a cliche story introduction, but also his lightning bolt logo and generally ‘dark’ persona- if you will- and the use of the word “purple” to describe your phrase as well as the main color of his aesthetic.” He stopped, looking over at Virgil. “Did I get that right?”

“..in about five times as many words. Yes.” Virgil rolled his eyes.

Roman just stared at the both of them before beaming at Patton. “Can you believe we’re related to these two?”

“Technically, we’re not related, we are simply-”

“ANYWAYS! It was nighttime and rain was pouring from the night sky, covered with ominous clouds, making it too dark to see a thing; I had my trusty, magic dagger to light the way-”

“-he means a glowstick-”

“Silence!” Roman cried, pointing his fork at Virgil, who curled his lip. “This story has one narrator, thank you very much. As I was saying-” he turned to Patton, who was still staring excitedly. “Trusty dagger in hand, I was headed down a never-before-explored path, deep into the forest.”

“At night? In the rain? How illogical.” Logan snorted, and Virgil beamed at Roman’s enraged face. It looked like Logan was on his team this round, which helped lift his sour mood ever so slightly.

As Roman ignored him and pressed on, Virgil let the storyteller’s voice fade to the back of his mind. He stared blankly into his slowly-draining coffee cup and occasionally glanced at Logan and Patton’s reactions to the prince’s latest wild adventure. The swirling feeling around him wouldn’t relent; it was a fog that easily dodged his internal poking and prodding. He was trying to figure out if there was a reason for it he couldn’t yet see. Through his connection to Thomas, he could tell the mood seemed to be clearing in reality. That helped calm Virgil slightly- at least Thomas would be okay- but his own independent stormcloud made no move to recede.

Virgil took another sip and looked back up at the other three. His eyes were slightly unfocused, Roman’s voice landing in his ears but the words not quite connecting. The theatrical side was waving one hand wildly around the room before he lowered it dramatically and glanced around, signifying a dramatic twist in the story. Logan had dog-eared his book and was staring at Roman, eyes narrowed as if trying to deduce what would happen next before Roman could even say it. Patton was leaning over his plate, pancakes forgotten, totally enthralled. The sleeves of his cardigan hung dangerously close to his syrup-covered plate, and his eyes sparkled with excitement and apprehension.

Suddenly, it hurt. So bad Virgil could barely stand it. They all got to be here each day, advocating the parts of Thomas they represented- the good ones. Patton could be cheery and caring and make pancakes and gush over stories. Logan could interject with his bits of brilliance, entertaining everybody with his vast knowledge. Roman, ever the centerpiece, ever the main attraction, could hold the others’ rapt attention as he wove worlds with his words over syrupy pancakes like it was commonplace. And Virgil-

What could he do?

If he showed his strengths, he would strike fear into their hearts. He would bring darkness to their days- make them question every decision they had planned, doubt every path they headed down. They were all sunshine- even Logan. Virgil was the dark cloud looming on the horizon, the bite of cold in the air. There was nothing he could do about it. This was his one and only purpose, and he hated it. He didn’t ask for this.

He abruptly stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Roman stumbled over his words and looked up in shock; Patton jumped at the sudden noise, and Logan glanced over in surprise. Virgil wordlessly grabbed his empty coffee cup and headed over to the sink.

“Wh- Virgil! What’s wrong?” Patton asked, turning in his chair, worry showing in the lines on his forehead and his scrunched-up nose.

“Don’t you want to hear the rest of my story?!” Roman cried, leaning over. Virgil hunched his shoulders.

“Don’t feel like hearing about the death of yet another villain today, Princey. My sincerest apologies, but- you know how it is. Fallen brethren and all that. Hard to stomach. Come get me when you can think of a better plot twist than pulling out a dagger instead of a sword.” His voice was more choked-up than he’d care to admit. Virgil hunched his shoulders and stalked out of the room, not bothering to listen for them to try and call him back.

A/N: yeah... i’m sorry. virgil’s gonna be sad here :( BUT. it will get better. so much better. you have no idea i’m so excited

comments, critiques, or even those long trains of ‘wHaT tHe hEcK’ tags (so characteristic of myself tbh) are always appreciated!!

#sanders sides #mine #doorways #virgil #patton #logan #roman #lil bit of angst but that's alright

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