#also I painted both of the rooms in the last doodle with Sky and Four :')

[perryelornitorrinco]

Meme dump cause these are so much fun to make, my mind only works with memes and I have so many in my mind and so little time to draw :(

[infinite-hearts-333]

Masked Love Chapter 1

Sander sides, Rociet, Human/Magical AU

WARNING: mentions of past dehumanising, reference to PTSD flashback??, um bullying reference. 

Masterpost

~~18/5/2022 6:37am (Present time)~~

“Janus?” 

Janus grumbled, pulling the weighted blanket over his head more as what sounded like his mama's voice filled his too-tired, half asleep brain. “Noooooooooo….”

“Janus! JANUS! I know you're awake up there!!”  

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” Janus groaned back, pulling the blanket tighter over his head. 

“JANNIE IF YOU DON'T LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER I’LL COME UP THERE WITH THE COLD BORE WATER AGAIN~!” Came the singsong voice of his mom, and Janus full on scrambled out of bed, covers sent flying and he had to double check his claws to ensure they didn’t ensnare on anything through his half sleepy, half panicked daze. 

“COMING! COMING!! Yesh….” he called, before grumbling, yawning, completely use to the soft popping of his unhinged jaw, forked tongue tasting the air. Waffles…. Mmmmm…. 

He quickly got ready, body automatically from routine, getting changed into his clothes- a lime turtle neck, black jacket with pins and patches attached, sunflower yellow beanie, skinny black jeans and his boots. He hummed a loose tune as he moved, alike to clock work, moving to turn to his bed, tugging the poor flinged sheets back into the right position, snatching up his stuffed dragon that had fallen onto the floor and placing it on top of his pillow gently. 

Janus’s room was, in fact, the attic. His mum and mama weren't… expecting him when he showed up, but they took him in and loved him all the same. The rickety old house they had didn't have enough rooms for Janus to move into when he got older, so his parents spent ages rebuilding the attic for him. You could tell in some places- the seams where the wall met the roof weren't all the same size, the floorboards ran crookedly rather than straight, there were chips in both the walls and the floor where the wood wasn’t smooth.

But janus loved his room. It was cosy- there different metals and CD disks strung up which glinted like precious gems under the sky window, he had a large rainbow flag hanging over his bed in the corner, fairy lights stuck on the wall all around the room. Boxes upon boxes peeked out of his bed, filled to the brim with the most random things, leaves, feathers, stones, shells, bones, name it, Janus probably had it. 

Walking to where his room ended, a wall with a human sized hole in the floor, he paused by the mirror, only to wrinkle up his nose in disgust at what he saw staring back. Janus was actually pretty handsome, nice clear tanned skin, brilliant eyes that shined lime and forest green and firefly yellow all at the same time. Chestnut hazel hair that hung in ruffled curls framed his face. He was strong, a little buff and according to his mother and mamma, quite the personality. But there were two things.

Janus’s jaw. It faded into the most horrid shade of olive green, splotches of lime, deep forest green and the colour of dying cactuses for scales, littered across the bottom half of Janus’s face. Two gross dusty pink scars ran from the corners of his mouth, stretching out and curling, nearly to touch his ears, one on each side. Darting in and out of his abnormally large fanged mouth was a forked blue tongue, fading into pink at the back of his mouth, the slightest sign that janus was once human. 

He softly sighed, turning away to wander to the wall, and so the holes well, jumping through it to land on the couch flawlessly. “Morning.” He mumbled to the two females cooking and giggling at each other. “Morning' darling~!” called Mamma, smiling brightly. “Did you sleep well, little snek-a-doodle?” Teased his mum, smiling warmly as she parted from her partner to ruffle her adopted son's hair. 

Janus smiled back up at her, and couldn't ignore the pang of happiness when all he found in mum's eyes was love. “We made waffles for your big day!” Chimed Mamma, beaming as she worked at the stove. 

Ah. Right. High school. Janus groaned, leaning back to painfully donk his head against the wall. “Do I have to go?” He whined. “Yup!” his mum said, popping the ‘p’. Janus rolled his head off the wall, allowing his eyes to drop to problem number two in his life. His hands. Or well…. Talons.

Janus’s hands, a lot like his jaw dyed into that horrid olive colour, splattered with scales. He had four ‘fingers’ instead of five, each ending with a large sharp claw that was almost an ivory green if held in the right light. Scars lined his hand where the scales started, signs that janus wasn’t born with these abnormal features. 

His mum then slapped him over the head with a rolled up newspaper. “OW! Hey!!!!!” snapped Janus. His mum raised an eyebrow. “You were pulling the face you make when you're judging yourself. And I'm having none of that. You're beautiful, fullstop.” she narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to prove her wrong. Janus chuckled. “Guilty as charged.” he hummed, standing to walk over to their small island counter. 

His mom huffed, nodding, walking alongside her son, combat boots making a soft thumping noise on the tiles. Janus hid a wince as the sound of clicking heels entered his mind. 

Click, click, click. 

He swallowed, sitting.  “Here you go!!” chirped Mamma, smiling as she placed the plates down. “Thank you dear.” Mom said softly kissing Mamma’s cheek on her way past. “Thanks mamma.” Janus chipped in, trying not to show his teeth while he smiled. Mamma beamed, swirling around to plop down in her seat. 

Janus reached out to grab the berries, randomly dropping them over the waffles. He was cautious, ensuring he didn’t open his mouth too wide, taking in small little bites. Mum started talking about what she would be doing while Janus was at school, working on the new barley crops. “Those darn aphids! They've been going off everywhere!!!” Janus slowly chewed on a piece of blue berry. 

“I think you're gonna need to get some pest spray mum.” Janus pointed out. Mamma nodded. “Do you want me to pick some up honey? I’m going into town anyway for some more mango seeds.”

Janus smirked against his milk glass, washing down the waffles. “Again with the Mangos Mamma?” 

Mamma shrugged, smiling. “I want to make some jams! And maybe I might try making mango sorbet again.” Janus grinned. “Yes please!” His gaze flickered to the clock on the wall, and he sighed. “Well, as much as I hate it, I should go.” he said with a huff, shovelling the last of the waffles into his mouth and drowning the milk. 

“Okay darling, have a nice day!” Mamma said with a smile. “See you this afternoon ‘kay snek-a-doodle? You’ll help me with the cows again?” Janus smirked, collecting his plate and glass. “Absolutely.” he stated, placing his dishes in the sink. “See you this afternoon!” he called, snatching up his gloves and mask off their hanger and then scooping up his bag.

He swung his bag half on, fumbling to put on his yellow gloves. They were bulky and too big to allow room for his claws, a black band around the start of the four fingers and wrist to prevent slipping and looked ridiculous, but it was better than exposing his features to the world. He had to be careful, pausing to ensure none of his scales got caught on the fabric. He then put on his mask, a simple also yellow fabric that covered his mouth and nose. He then twisted to reach into his front pocket of his bag, pulling out his earphones and lime mp3 player, shoving the buds into his ears and turning it on, blasting the music at the highest volume. 

[ 🎶 Looking for an exit in this world of fear

I can see the path that leads away

Mama never left, and daddy needs me here

I wish the wind would carry a change

Looking through the window to a world of dreams

I can see my future slip away

Honey you won't get there if you don't believe

I wish the wind would carry a change 🎶 ]

He wandered through the fields of crops and fields of animals, waving a hello to the farmer next door. Michel, his name was, he grows the best peaches. He guessed that there was a satisfying crunch as Janus jumped from a small ledge down onto the orange autumn leaf-covered road. Wandering along the side of the road, Janus quietly hummed along to his music all the way to the bus stop. He quickly checked the suns position, having done it many many times, relieved to find he was on time and the bus should be here any minute. 

[ 🎶 I've had enough

I'm standing up

I need, I need a change

I've had enough

Of chasing luck

I need, I need a change 🎶 ]

Sure enough the death machine, painted yellow and screeching nearly as loud as its passengers came swerving around the corner, somehow audible through Janus’s music, metal rusted gears screaming as the beast came to a halt. That thing was definitely gonna kill people one day. Janus huffed, climbing the rickety steps and flashed his card at the bus driver, who looked like he had been going for six months without sleep and would snap someone's neck.

They traded nods, having known each other since Janus first ‘moved’ to the country. They never really spoke to each other, but traded nods, ‘hey’s’, and ‘mood’s’ so he was cool. Janus sat right behind the bus driver, dumping his bag next to him so no one would take the seat next to him. Not that it was necessary, everyone actively avoided him. He then maintained his death glare, slipping it on as easily as putting on his mask. 

Some kids, janus found, take enjoyment in throwing things at the bus driver, so janus took it upon himself to protect the bus driver from the nuisances, and in return, once the bus driver found out, he would keep the passengers from taking the spot so Janus wasn't forced to sit next to anyone. 

[ 🎶 I'm setting fire to the life that I know (I know)

Let's start a fire everywhere that we go (we go)

We starting fires,

We starting fires till our lives are burning gold 🎶 ]

Janus sat, guarding the busdriver and spacing out till he felt the bus sharply halt. Hip hip hooray for hell. He sighed, standing up and wandered off the bus, bidding farewell to the busdriver with a small nod of the head. He turned his attention to his new problem. 

The school's shadow engulfed him standing tall over him, and a part of janus feared it may crumble and crush him. People were chatting, boys flirting and betting, bullies shoving random people and dropping curses. Janus’s personal hell. Well, here goes nothing!

[ 🎶 I've had enough

Of chasing luck

I need, I need a change 🎶 ]

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 27 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene and Paul draw each other, and Gene makes his confession. The sky is falling and we’re getting pretty near the end.

It felt like a shorter lunch than it really was. Paul ate all of his soup, but only half his sandwich, while Gene dove into both with as much relish as usual. In fact, he ate two sandwiches and Paul’s leftovers.

“I hope you didn’t want to do it right after we ate,” Gene said awkwardly. Paul was looking at the plates and silverware, debating cleaning things up. In the end, he just wiped off the counter and stuck all the dishes in the sink.

“Nah. Give it awhile.” He shrugged. “The only trouble is, we’ve pretty much exhausted all our entertainment options at my place.”

Gene smiled.

 “Paul, are you really telling me all you have over here is a T.V., an album collection, and some self-help books?”

“I’ve also got sketchpads. And painting supplies.”

“You still paint?”

Paul shrugged again.

“It’s not great. I don’t have time to really…”

“Let me see.”

Gene was actually a pretty fair artist. He never drew cartoons of his bandmates like Paul was prone to, in a bad mood, but he liked to sketch out comic book characters. He’d never taken any classes that Paul knew of, but he was talented. Talented enough that Paul was a little wary of showing him any of his efforts.

It occurred to him how stupid that was. He was about to fuck this guy—had spent the last four nights in bed with him, even—but somehow showing him some acrylic paintings was making him nervous. Somehow what passed for his body of work was more vulnerable than his actual body.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Cool.”

“C’mon, they’re in the guest bedroom. I’m surprised you didn’t find them earlier.” He’d had aspirations of having his own studio, or at least using one of the rooms for that express purpose, before the reality of nine or ten months on the road at a time hit him. He didn’t even paint enough while he was at home to justify that kind of expense.

Gene followed him over to the guest bedroom. Paul leaned over, dress hiking up as he yanked some cardboard and canvases out from under the bed.

“Here we go.” Instead of holding the pieces up for Gene’s inspection, he just set them out on the bed. He hung back a bit, heart thumping, not quite daring to want to watch Gene look at his work. Actually showing it to Gene felt a little like hearing his own voice on the answering machine, or the echo from a microphone, all the flaws bouncing back at him, magnified a dozen times.

The pieces didn’t have too much meaning behind them, nothing really far out or deep he was trying to convey. Bright streaks of color, some of it in splatters, but most of it in strokes, with no consistent pattern. Purples and pinks tended to dominate. There were points where he’d tried to layer on the colors, fooled around with it, only he’d half-forgotten the proper technique to do it the way he wanted. Most of the art didn’t really have a focal point, except for an odd one-off where he’d tried to paint a sunset while it was still in the air. That one was on a piece of cardboard torn off a refrigerator box. It had maybe a found art, rustic quality to it or something. And the color scheme wasn’t too bad, either, the red sun spilling over a hasty backdrop of orange and pink clouds and trees instead of his neighbors’ houses.

“I like this one a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Superman couldn’t fly with that sun.” Gene picked up the piece of cardboard carefully—too carefully, a piece of paper that had been beneath it starting to flutter towards the floor. Paul snatched it before it got there.

“What’s that one?”

“Oh, it’s only a sketch,” Paul tried to dismiss, but Gene seemed curious enough for him to hold it up for Gene to see. Part of him wanted to hide it back under the bed like a child, for all that it wasn’t particularly incriminating. Just a sketch of his own face. The hair was probably the most accurate part, hopelessly unruly; he didn’t quite think he’d gotten his own nose right, or eyes, but…

“In the makeup.” Gene’s finger touched the edge of the star on his eye.

“Well, sure. It kept me from having to shade much.”

“You look depressed there.” Gene still running his finger down the sketched-out lines of his face made Paul feel stupidly warm, like he was touching him by proxy.

“I don’t look good?”

“I didn’t say that.” A pause. Paul could always recognize when Gene was about to start a critique with him. He’d hesitate, which was kind of funny, because he never did it with anyone else, just plowed through with whatever comment he had. Paul would usually get offended anyway, but he was trying not to, at least for today. “Hey, would you do me a favor?”

Not a critique at all. Paul was vaguely surprised.

“What’re you wanting?”

“Let me try my hand at it.”

“Gene, I’m not letting you go over my drawing—”

“No, no. Let me borrow one of your sketchpads.”

“You wanna draw me right now? What for?” Paul could feel himself tense up slightly as he reached over, gathering up the paintings and stuffing them back under the bed. Despite himself, he was yanking out another pad of drawing paper from there as well. “If you wanted your album photo, all you had to do was check the newspaper.”

“I don’t want your photo. Just you.”

Paul handed the sketchpad over. There was an odd sting somewhere in his heart.

“You can’t want what you’ve already got,” he said quietly. He didn’t wait for Gene to respond, clearing his throat hastily. “I make a terrible art model.”

Gene’s expression, a little unreadable earlier, quirked a little.

“I’ll let you draw me, too.”

“I feel like you’re hard to draw.” But he’d gotten another piece of cardboard to bear down on after tearing off a page of the drawing paper for himself. Then Paul was gathering the rest of the supplies—pencils and gummy erasers—from where they lay in a coffee mug on the nightstand. It wasn’t exactly the most put-together setup. He just wasn’t around enough for any extra effort to be worth it. The guest bedroom’s only real use was as another place to stash his tour and art stuff. He could count the number of times anyone had slept there on one hand. “You don’t… really have one feature that really stands out—”

Gene stuck out his tongue.

“Oh, God, I’m not drawing that. Just your face. C’mon, sit down.” Paul gestured towards the bed, scooting up on it himself, sitting cross-legged on the pillows, dress bunched up. The cardboard and piece of paper were resting on his thighs, one of the pencils in his hand. He gave Gene the mug and sketchpad, scrutinizing Gene’s face. “Let me try first, okay?”

“Go for it.”

He’d never really studied Gene’s face before. That sounded a little stupid, given everything. Gene still wasn’t exactly attractive, though he looked a lot better now than he had when they’d first met. That hadn’t been the draw. It still wasn’t the draw.

Paul didn’t ask Gene to try for any particular expression as he started in, drawing the circle, the center line, mapping out the sections of his face in the half-remembered way he’d learned back in school and trying to adjust from there, only to, as usual, abandon the mapping about two minutes in. Gene’s eyes weren’t quite as dark as his, and his nose was bigger—you can’t hide the hook, Totie had said, back on their stint on the Mike Douglas show, and Paul remembered snickering with everyone else about it backstage. She’d had his number. Gene had struck up a friendship with her after that, excited to get to know another Jewish entertainer. Paul privately hoped he hadn’t banged her in the process.

He was distracting himself. It was hard to do the expression lines around Gene’s mouth without making him look forty-eight instead of nearly twenty-eight, so Paul abandoned all but a light insinuation before skipping over to his hair. He thought he could get that right, at least. Gene’s hair was somewhat coarse, and tended to frizz even worse than Paul’s own did, and it wasn’t as thick. All of the teasing and backcombing and tight ponytails had done a number on it. Paul pursed his lips, trying to approximate the texture with his pencil, and the sheen with his eraser.

“How’s it coming?” Gene asked, after about fifteen minutes. He’d been pretty patient, not shifting around much, even stopping himself the few times he tried to scratch his face.

“I think I did a damn good job on your eyebrows.” Paul turned the sketch around with a slight groan. “Everything else is a little…”

“You made me look really sad.”

Gene wasn’t wrong. Paul hadn’t quite figured out what to do with Gene’s lips when he’d drawn them, so he’d had them sink down a bit. The eyebrows really were pretty good, to his own estimation, and the hair was okay, and he’d at least started with the proper face shape, but—he hadn’t really caught Gene properly. Whatever his essence was, it hadn’t transferred onto the page.

“Frowns are easier to draw. Smiles, you have to get just right, and get the light in the eyes…” Paul shook his head. “Not a lot of room for error, right? And if you mess up, your drawing ends up looking like Norman Bates.”

Gene laughed, shaking his head.

“But you’ve got me looking like myself. It isn’t just the eyebrows. The chin and the mouth are right--”

“But it’s not great, either. I’ll try again later on.” Paul set the drawing down. “You can do me if you want.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, shut up.” Paul shifted, suddenly antsy. He’d only ever seen Gene draw his own fanzines and doodle on napkins. He knew Gene wasn’t going to take this as a serious art study, but… but on the same token, letting Gene draw him felt--revealing. Almost too revealing. He wasn’t as bothered by the face Gene was going to draw as what it signified. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what Gene saw when he looked at him. What stood out to him.

If he drew a pair of tits, Paul grimly promised himself he’d keep denying Gene at least until tomorrow.

“Tilt your chin up a bit,” Gene said, and Paul did so. His fingers worried unconsciously at the straps of his dress. Paul waited for more instructions, but they didn’t come. Just the scritch of the pencil against the sketch paper, and the occasional fuzzy sound of the eraser rubbing back and forth on the page. Gene kept such direct eye contact on his face that Paul was getting a bit intimidated.

“You took art in school, right?”

“Only a couple of terms. I liked it, but I wanted to get in all the electives I could.”

“Even weight training?” Paul scooted to the side.

“Your art school had weight training?”

“God, yeah. We even had a football team.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never said we won anything.” Paul paused. “Do you want me to pose?”

“No. You’re fine like you are.”

“Should I smile?”

Gene looked like he was considering it for a second, and then he shook his head.

“Just relax.”

Paul tried to, but he kept fidgeting. Not getting any direction was making him nervous. He wasn’t gutsy enough to try to look alluring without the makeup as a shield. Gene had stopped talking as he’d gotten more into the drawing, only responding to Paul’s attempts at conversation with a few “yeahs��� and “uh-huh”s. He was taking longer than Paul had, too. But he seemed pleased with himself far before he signed the bottom and held it out for Paul to see.

“Here you go.”

Paul was a little stunned.

He was nearly right there on the page. Big dark eyes greeted him. Full lips, slightly parted, revealing a little of his front teeth. High cheekbones. Gene’s portrait of him was more thorough and detailed than Paul’s attempt, stopping at the shoulders, where the dress straps drooped. More attractive than Paul knew he actually was; Gene had, oddly, been kinder about Paul’s nose and jaw than was accurate, but all the same-- he’d captured something of Paul on the page. Some facet. Tenseness or intensity or both. The sketch was clearly of a chick, sure, but-- it was him.

“Gene, this… shit, this is really good.” Part of what impressed him was the self-assured pressure and definition of most of the lines. Paul’s own tended to fade out, like he was mentally erasing them after committing them to the page, but Gene went into it with a much heavier hand overall. The contrast was interesting. “And I thought all you could draw was Batman. You’ve been holding out on me for years.”

Gene shrugged.

“I had someone cute in front of me. That makes all the difference.” He paused, moving to sit beside him, pointing at the sketch. “You’ve got pretty eyes.”

“Since just lately?”

“No. Since always.” Gene seemed to hesitate. “Paul, in a way, you don’t really look all that dif--”

“Peter told me they made me look like a beagle,” Paul stumbled out before Gene could finish. He wasn’t sure why he interrupted that way. Gene snorted, reaching over and draping an arm behind Paul’s shoulders. Paul let him.

“Maybe more like a moppet. You remember those posters.”

“Yeah. Julia had them in her room when we were kids.” But he wasn’t displeased at the comparison, somehow, reaching to put the sketches and supplies on the crowded nightstand, before leaning back against Gene’s arm and shoulder. He could feel Gene start to tense, so Paul turned his head, impulsively, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “One of them was a harlequin or something, I don’t remember.”

“Paul.”

“What?”

“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t look all that different.”

“Come off it.” Paul could feel something cold and odd trickle up his spine, something he was almost afraid of. “I’ve had tits for a week and a half, don’t try to kid me.”

“I’ve been kidding myself.”

“Gene, what’re you talking about--”

“You’re the same as you always were. You’re beautiful.”

Paul sat there stunned. The icy feeling up his spine seemed to melt and dissolve in an instant. He didn’t want it to. He wanted to hold onto it. Use it as something to protect him, something to chase away any hurt, any vulnerability. His face was going florid, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t look directly at Gene, staring instead at the hem of his dress.

“I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. But I think… I think there might still be something there after we break the curse.” Gene’s hand found one of the shoulder straps on his dress, fixing it back up, though his gaze was still firm on Paul’s face. Completely unwavering. Paul’s heartbeat felt like it could smash straight through diamonds. “I know that’s not enough for--”

“It’s enough.”

“Paul, look--”

“It’s enough.” Paul was surprised at the slow strength starting to rise from his voice with every word, like a newborn foal wobbling to its feet. “Even before all this happened. Any time I’ve ever gotten to have with you is enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He was able to look at Gene now, right in the face. The warmth he’d tried to avoid was blazing inside him. It felt funny, somehow, to feel so sure, so certain, in the face of a maybe, that things would still be all right, one way or another. It felt like the bulk of the burden, the fear, was really, truly beginning to dissolve. “Gene, I…”

He couldn’t say it. Gene was waiting on it, face so near his own he could feel his breath. He kissed him instead, reaching his arms around him half-blindly, clenching tight. Paul was panting as soon as Gene broke the kiss, pressing another and another against his cheek and chin and throat, climbing into his lap as though he belonged there, and maybe, for just a little while, he did.

Gene was so warm, so unbelievably warm. Paul could swear he could feel Gene’s own pounding heartbeat against his. His breaths were coming only a little bit better than Paul’s were, his dark eyes dilated. Gene’s mouth was back on his before Paul could think clearly, needy and wanting, and it was all Paul could do to pull back and manage one last request.

“Hey. Before we-- do you think you could take me back to o-- my bedroom?”

Gene had him gathered up in his arms in seconds. Paul held tight, pressing his face against Gene’s shirt for all of the minute it took to cross from one room to the next, taking in his scent as he finally dared to hope.

[by-nina]

Years and Years

A Royai fanfic Rating: M (sexual content) Genre: Romance Word Count: 2,048

A/N: Hello everyone I miss writing and I miss Royai! And I was feeling both soft and very spicy so this is what came out of it. Y’all know how much I love taking them back to the Hawkeye manor.

“For starters, the last time I saw you here, I had you burn my back. And before that, I was both an orphan and my father’s successor to you. I don’t know how I should see you, Roy Mustang; you’re a different person every time you’re here, even now.”

There is a four-hour drive from Central to the Hawkeye manor at the outskirts of East City. What was once a dirt road that barely saw visitors to the old house welcomes Riza one morning, and it is only then that the finality of her visit sinks in for the first time. A young family had bought the house three months ago, with the promise that they would manage and spend for the renovations themselves. Her only purpose is to collect some old things of hers and her father’s, and maybe get a bit of cleaning done as courtesy to the family.

           Roy had decided to come along without question, or even any kind of discussion. She had simply mentioned the purchase in passing one day, and then her planned visit, and under a still-dark sky that morning, he showed up outside her apartment with his car. It made perfect sense, Riza reasoned. He might have left some of his own things during his time as her father’s student, and he would have more use than she would for whatever research materials her father had left behind. Above all, it’s a huge house—she needs the company and help.

          “We’re here, sir.”

          He is already awake, but he has difficulty opening his eyes. Riza decides not to wait for him, and she steps out just to look at the old house. She breathes as slowly as she takes it all in. There is a heaviness about it, like a weary weight on tired shoulders. Since her departure for the military, her presence has been replaced by that of overgrown vines and weeds. Despite all this, it hasn’t changed much; the structure still seems solid and functional. Nothing that a fresh coat of paint, new wood trimmings, and landscaping couldn’t fix.

          Roy joins her in gazing up at the house. “So this is it, then. Shall we get to work?”

          “A ten-minute break won’t hurt.”

          “No, no, I’m in perfect shape.” Roy swings and stretches his arms. “That nap for half of the trip helped a lot.”

          “I couldn’t let you drive all the way, though, could I? You’ve already done me a huge favor by coming along.”

          Riza finally takes her eyes off the house, and as she turns, she’s greeted by a smile that she wallows in greedily, and then guiltily. The warmth that rises in her cheeks is damning in the cool early morning breeze. Thankfully, Roy grants her another favor by not remarking on it. “Come on.”

          Every part of the house seems to creak as they enter—the fence, the door, the floorboards. The interiors aren’t as bad as Riza expected. Other than a few mold spots on the upholstery and a layer of dust on the remaining furniture, everything seems to be intact and functional. Of course, it isn’t as if she had left the house entirely untouched once she entered the military. She has dropped by now and again just to make sure it hadn’t fallen to ruin, and the young family has seen it for themselves—there are spots where the dust has been disturbed on the hardwood floors.

          “So, where should we start?”

          “Hmm.” Riza pauses for a moment. “There’s not a lot down here. I’ll go through the living room and the kitchen—you can start with my father’s study.”

          Roy clicks his tongue. “All right.”

          Clearing the ground floor is an easy half-hour task, as there are very few things on display that could be considered sentimental. Riza takes the only three pictures in the living room—the last Hawkeye family photo, a solo portrait of her mother, and herself as a baby with her mother—then she proceeds to the kitchen, which is far more promising. She recovers some brass pots and pans, an heirloom dining set with matching silverware, and wooden cooking utensils. Riza gathers these into a box and places them in the trunk of Roy’s car, and then she heads upstairs to check on his progress in the study.

          She pokes her head through the door. “How are you doing, Colonel?”

          He is crouching by the bottom of a crowded bookshelf at the back of the room, carefully absorbing each title. This is the first thing that takes Riza back to a vivid memory of her childhood, when a much younger Roy first became acquainted with Berthold Hawkeye. Shirt half-tucked, hair standing at the back—she can see the boy there almost as clearly as the man.

          “Well, the libraries in Central would cough up a fortune for a collection like this, and this shelf is all just general alchemy titles,” says Roy as he straightens up. He has a tattered book in hand that Riza didn’t notice right away. “You have stuff on philosophy over there, and biology in two full shelves there—that’s not yet getting into physics and chemistry, which is of course a lot more extensive since your father studied flame alchemy, and…”

          He trails off at the sight of Riza, who has become a picture of amusement—leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and a smirk lifting one corner of her lips. Roy clears his throat. “Anyway, I’ll try to finish this quickly.”

          “Take your time, we have a long day ahead of us.”

          Riza’s gaze is then drawn to a door at the end of the hallway. The sight of it alone is enough to fill her with nostalgia, enough to know that she needs to take precisely twelve steps to reach it. She opens the door, and she is all that has changed about the room.

          There are a few old books on her dresser and on a shelf that also holds a few memories of schoolgirl days—certificates from school and notebooks filled with both learnings and idle doodles, a few photos here and there, but nothing too personal—they come from official portraits like those from her graduation days, and class photos at assemblies. There’s an old porcelain lamp and her mother’s hairbrush on her nightstand. In her bedframe is a mattress long stripped bare, spotted with mold.

          She enters the room as if it were a sleeping beast she doesn’t want to wake. Only her reflection in a tall mirror startles her, but it might have something to do with the unfamiliarity of her freshly cut hair, which is once again as short as it was in her younger years. In contrast, the way she sinks as she sits at the end of her mattress is still a very familiar feeling. Riza is content to stare at the dusty curtains ahead of her for a while, until she is interrupted by the approach of Roy’s heavy footsteps.

          “So,” he says, slowly entering and examining the room, “this is the bedroom of young Miss Hawkeye.”

          She simpers as she turns to watch him. “You know, it’s not appropriate for strange adult men to enter young girls’ bedrooms like that.”

          “No!” Roy clutches his chest in mock pain. “I can’t believe you still consider me a stranger after all these years.”

          “Well, I’m open to suggestions. What should I consider you?”

          “It’s simple, really.” He takes a few careful steps to the side of Riza’s bed, then hesitates for only a few seconds before sitting in a spot perpendicular to hers. The mattress groans as it accommodates his weight. “When you’ve known someone for nearly all your life, you’ll eventually realize how you truly see them. It could go one way or the other.” A pause. “I realized that about you long ago, Riza.”

          Riza ignores the swooping in her chest. She laughs wistfully, her eyes cast downwards.

          “Oh, I don’t know. For starters, the last time I saw you here, I had you burn my back. And before that, I was both an orphan and my father’s successor to you. I don’t know how I should see you, Roy Mustang; you’re a different person every time you’re here, even now.”

          “Am I really just one of those things to you?”

          She looks up to find a knowing and hopeful expression on his face. He doesn’t need to ask; Riza knows exactly what he means by asking the question that he did. But surely he knows that she needs him to take the lead—that she has kept far too many hard truths to herself for honesty to be easy?

          Roy reaches for her hair without warning, raising goosebumps as his hand brushes against her nape. She is made aware again of how short her hair is now, cursing how exposed it leaves her feeling. Riza swallows hard, visibly. Somehow, it’s just the push that her nerves needed.

          “You’re not,” she whispers. “You haven’t been for a long time.”

          Suddenly, they’re face to face within an inch of each other. Riza leans in to close the gap, with their foreheads touching first, and then their noses. And then, only hesitation hangs between their lips. The moment stretches out with Roy taking a last lingering look at her features up close. Still, it’s he who kisses first, soft and cautious.

          There are a million lines that they have crossed to find themselves here, and the kiss does not answer when or how those lines were crossed. Ishval, the move to Central, the Promised Day—there's no point in figuring it out now. It's only one of many things that they have never needed to discuss, but somehow already knew. Still, even as Riza kisses him back, Roy pulls away with a deep breath. “Is this okay?”

          She responds by kissing him again and nodding eagerly—then her hands reach for him, one tugging at his button-down and the other taking his hand up the split in her skirt. Roy takes his cue; he guides her back down to the bed and her legs along the length of it. He is careful with his weight as he settles on top of her. All the while, their kisses become more fervent, greedier, until every little movement they make is lost in a flurry of reflex actions that are unrehearsed, but familiar from years of being side by side.

          When he finally enters her, Riza freezes for a brief moment as she is seized by the most tantalizing waves. She helps him find his pace by moving against him as well. Slow, then a little faster, then slow again—there is a different kind of pleasure at each pace, as well as some pain to work around. They find more places to kiss each other and place their hands, and at the sound of each other's moans and shuddering breaths, she becomes wetter and he throbs in anticipation.

          They settle on a certain tempo as they begin their final climax. Riza can no longer tell where it aches or stings, but the impending pleasure takes her mind off it.

          “Please, Roy—please—ahh—”

          Roy is moaning her name as she comes, and then again, until the waves stop and leave her spent. He thrusts a final time and then finally pulls out, deflating on top of Riza. For a minute, they are nothing but sweaty bodies, panting, and a plesant residual buzz. The wetness spreads onto the mattress. She holds him close, fingers in his hair.

          He settles into the spot next to her once he recovers. Roy kisses her forehead, and then her shoulder, and then her hand—and then he doesn't let it go. She inches into him until she cannot get any closer, and they are face to face again. Riza is the first to smile. He laughs, and it's the first new thing she has seen about him in a while. The second is his voice as he asks, “For how long?”

          She touches his face with her free hand. “Years.”

          Roy closes his eyes solemnly and nods once against the mattress.

          “Years.”

          He lets go of her hand then, pulling her close instead. There will be more questions about where this leaves them, Riza is sure—many of them to be dealt with once they return to their daily working lives at Central. But while they are there, she decides that this is all that matters: she is falling asleep in her old house for the last time, and in Roy’s arms for the first.

[bri-rog-deak-fred]

The Night Comes Down

@mirkwoodshewolf said to bri-rog-deak-fred:

Hi-hi! So I've been binging your series love it btw. And I can't wait for more. So I noticed you have requests open so I thought I might give you a prompt. How about reader is the 5th member of Queen, it's during their first tour and while she does like seeing new places, she can't help but feel homesick while on the road. She tries to put on a brave face but our guitarist sees right through her (she could've been with Smile b4 Fred joined) and he goes to talk to her. And since he's been in(love with her from the beginning, he tries to help her out as best as he can with comforting her. Even tells her that there is one thing from home that she'll always have which ends up being his way of confessing his love (cheesy and kinda stupid I know but call me cliche) and reader (who has loved Bri as well but never though he'd go for her) admits her feelings for him. Hope you can do this my darling, if not it's fine. Keep up the good work and can't wait for the next update of good company

 Note: I loved this!! Thank you for the brilliant request! I hope I did it justice! I just love love confessions so badly ugh. Anyways, enjoy! There’s some smoking mentioned and swearing but eh, it was the 70’s! 

The tour was fantastic. New cities and faces every night, loads of fans and crazy after parties. Wild wasn’t even close to explaining it for you. It was a dream, touring with your band, Queen. Even before Freddie had joined and taken over, it was just you, your friend Brian and his close friend Roger.

You had met Brian through auditioning for his band, Smile. One night while you were trudging back to your dorm room after studying all day, you noticed a paper stapled to the wall outside the dormitory door. It was a band audition slip, saying they had a good sound and wanted like-minded people to play some rock and roll for fun. You stopped and bit your lip, thinking about your guitar back in your dorm. You quickly yanked the paper off the wall and shoved it into your bag. Though Smile had a guitarist already it said, you thought maybe you had a chance. Music came easily to you, so maybe you could easily transfer to another instrument if need be.

The day came, and you were quite nervous, not knowing a thing about who would be there or about the band. You gathered your guitar case and your song book and made your way across campus to a building you hadn’t been to before, and found the room that auditions were being held in. A boy with shaggy blond hair stood outside the door of the empty conference room, holding a pair of drumsticks. You swallow hard, suddenly more nervous than before. You crack your knuckles, hearing a quiet laugh and a “Tsk” You look up and see the boy looking at you and your guitar case. “Nervous?” He asked, voice a little gruff but higher than you expected. His baby blue eyes were entrancing and you had to literally shake yourself out of staring.

“Oh… uh, a little.” You say sheepishly, readjusting your guitar case, clearing your throat.

“I heard he already has someone playing guitar.” He said, eyes looking to your case.

You shrug, feeling more anxious by the moment. “I sing too.”

The boy seemed satisfied with your answer before sticking out his hand, free of drum sticks. “I’m Roger. Roger Taylor.” He introduced himself with a wink and a devilish smile.

You couldn’t help but feel your heart lurch a little. “Y/N L/N.” you took his hand and shook it, before the door to the auditioning space opened. A kid with a wearable piano left with a rather upset face. A very tall boy with dark curly hair that you could tell was partially straightened, followed after him with a little clipboard. You watched as the piano boy left, huffing as he scuffled passed. You felt your mouth open a little, forgetting why you were there or who the beautiful boy with the wave brown hair was. He looked up and his hazel eyes found yours, before he looked to the boy known as Roger with the drum sticks.

“Roger… Meddows Taylor? You’re next.” He gave him a kind smile, before he looked to you. “You’re up after Roger.” He said politely, before both of them had gone into the room, closing the door. You let out a slow sigh and felt yourself sit against the wall, practicing some vocal warm ups, heart panging wildly in your chest.

 -

 You nailed the audition, of course. When you met Brian May, you felt nervous at first, unable to get over his charming crooked smile and how kind his voice was. After you introduced yourself and joked with him for a moment, you relaxed completely. He was a little worried, since you also played guitar and he was the original guitarist, but once you sang for him and told him you could also play some piano, he didn’t seem all too worried. He even had you harmonize with him, and found that your voices sounded great, almost ethereal together.

 From then on, you, Brian, Tim, and Roger were the faces of the band Smile. After sometime, Tim left, leaving you all bass less and without a lead singer, which is when your friend Freddie had come along and upturned everything. You had also found John Deacon, a shy boy who was at least a year or two younger than you, playing a very funky bass, leading to the birth of Queen.

 Now here you all were, a major success and touring across the country, heading to reaches of the world you never thought you’d be able to see. Thrilling, to say the least. But it was a long journey and you had longed for your quiet room and your own blankets and some alone time. You missed being able to take a break and sit back and breathe, but the tour was so fast pace, your feet could barely touch the ground.

 -

 It was late, the road seemed never ending. You couldn’t seem to sleep, feelings of home lingered in your mind and wouldn’t let you rest. You got up from the side couch you were trying to sleep on and began to pace quietly, mind over thinking. You rub your eyes and decide to grab your journal to write and doodle, hopefully getting your mind off of it all.

 You sat and began to write your feelings out on the page, feeling your demeanor slip. Tears filled your eyes as you wrote “I just want to go home” on the page. You bury your head in your arms, being as quiet as you could so you didn’t wake the four sleeping boys who were mere feet away from you. You fell asleep at the table, tears drying to your cheeks.

You suddenly felt a hand touch your shoulder and you jumped, quickly slamming your notebook closed. You looked around, seeing that it was dawn and the sky outside the window was a light purple, graduating down to a warm tangerine orange as the sun began to make its presence known. You felt your back ache and you yawn, looking up to see who had woken you. You look up and see a very sleepy Brian, eyes droopy and hair a wild mess. The longer you all were on tour, the longer his hair got and the more curly it seemed to get as well. You thought that maybe it was where he hid all of his creativity.

“Y/n, what are you doing over here?” He asked, yawning. You look up to him and wipe your swollen eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, thought maybe I would try to work on a few songs but I guess I fell asleep.” You let out a soft giggle. Brian smiled to you, noting your red rimmed eyes. Even now, half asleep and startled did he think you were beautiful as ever. “Why are you up so early?” You ask. “Road got bumpy and Roger was snoring too loud.” He shrugged and yawned himself. He sat down across from you at the table. “Excited for tonight?” He asked. You had forgotten that you were all still touring and playing your music for a moment. Your heart jolted at the idea of playing on stage, reminding you why you had begun all of this in the first place.

“Yeah, as always.” You answer honestly, but your voice sounded not so enthusiastic.

Brian bit his lip, hoping you were just tired. “You okay, love?” He asked. He could sense your uneasiness and hoped to pry an answer from you. He hated seeing you so melancholy. Lately, it seemed that’s all you ever were when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You meet his eyes and then you look back out of the window. “I’m fine, Bri. Sleeping on this bloody bus is going to be the death of me though.” You say, rolling your eyes. You didn’t want Brian to get worried about you for anything. Brian quirked an eyebrow and played with his white painted nails, seeing right through your lie. He didn’t want to pick an argument though. Not this early. “I know what you mean.” He let out a hollow sigh. “It’ll be over soon. I hope you’re having fun with us though. I know I’m really happy to have you along. We couldn’t have done this without you.” Brian admitted. “Sorry we haven’t been able to talk, just us.”

“We’re talking now, Bri. Besides, I’d much rather talk to you alone at my flat or at that book shop you like. Some place other than here. Right now, we’re ‘Working’. It’s hard to get a minute to yourself even.” You look to your note book, secretly wishing you were alone with Brian back at home, and not on a crowded, semi-over heated tour bus full of stinky boys and the occasional groupie or two.

You shake your head. “You’d all be fine without me here.” You chuckle and roll your eyes,

“Not true.” Brian shot you a glare and you stick your tongue out at him, before laughing quietly.

“SHUT UP YOU WANKS!” You hear Roger shout from under the blankets he was currently pulling over his head. 

You snort a little, looking over your shoulder, watching John stir a little, his face contorted from Roger’s yelling. Freddie was still dead asleep, leg sticking out in the middle of the aisle. You watch as Brian gets up and stretches his arms above his head. “Since we have down time, I’m going to read that book you gave me. You know, you can always talk to me…about anything. Right?” Brian’s face was solemn but his eyes were kind and inviting. You almost wanted to break down and cry right then and there, but you smiled greatly instead. “I know, you dork.” Your cheeks find the peachy color of a blush and you look away, butterflies churning in your stomach from Brian’s friendly kindness.  He ruffled your already messy hair as he stiffly walked back to where he had been sleeping. You look to your journal and feel the longing feeling pull at your chest.

For a moment, you look to where Brian was laying, watching him as he lazily turned the pages of a book you gave him right before you had left on tour. A warm sense of home came over you as you watched Brian and yet again, you felt sad. You wished it could be just you and Brian in that bed, talking nonsense for hours like you had at home.

 Domestic, you thought and scoffed. Besides, you knew Brian only liked you as a friend and band mate. And he had a girlfriend, you only had to assume. How could he not? You shuffled back to your little bed area and laid down, pulling the blanket up to your nose and you watched the sunrise as the dull movements of the bus rocked you back to sleep.

 -

 The show that night was fantastic. Everyone was dazzling as always. You had even found a few peanuts in your hair from Deaky throwing them at you and Brian from across the stage. While the boys hung around back stage, talking to groupies and fans, you sighed and quickly got your own things packed up, feeling rather drained and exhausted.

 You were in the middle of brushing out your hair inside your shared dressing room, when a knock came from the door. You turn and saw Roger with a girl in short blue jeans and a bikini top hanging around him. “Y/N, love. We’re heading out. Get your jacket on, let’s go.” He said, closing the door before you could even tell him no. You wished you could rub your eyes, but now that you were all covered in stage makeup, you couldn’t. You tossed your hair back, plastering a fake smile on your face and decided to go with them. 

In the smoke filled room of some club Freddie had gathered everyone at, you sat, jacket still wrapped around your frame. God, how you wanted to be at home sleeping. You sat in a booth with all of your bandmates, watching as they all had their drinks and slowly got more and more drunk, laughing and smiling with each other. You sat quietly, nursing a beer.

 You played with the rim of the bottle, resting your head back and closing your eyes, feeling your lip quiver.

“Fuck this.” You whisper and suddenly get up, feeling a tug to your hand. You shot a nasty look to whomever was touching you, before your gaze softened. Brian looked to you, confused and worried.

“Sorry, I thought you were some random person… I’m getting something stronger. Want anything?” You lie, wishing to shake him off so he would have fun.

“What? No, I’m good. Are you alright? Is something wrong?” He asked, getting ready to stand.

“Yeah, I’m great Bri!” You smile a little too hard. He noticed and began standing even more. You pushed his shoulder down, causing his tipsy self to sit back down. He furrowed his brow at you, but you ignored the look. “I’ll be right back! Promise!” You smiled to him, squeezing his hand before you let it go and walked towards the bar.

 After you knew he wasn’t watching you, you made a b-line for the back door. You walked out into the alley way behind the bar, smelling foul garbage and vomit and maybe a splash of gasoline. You pull your jacket tight around you, thankful no one else was out there. Once the door fully closed, all you heard was the pulsing beat of whatever music was playing inside mixed with the sweet atmospheric silence of a chilly night.

Your hand shook as you dug around in your pocket, finding a box of cigarettes and your lighter, pulling the white fiend from the box and holding it with your teeth as you flicked the flame and inhaled until it was lit. You took a few puffs before you lost your composure, feeling your walls crumble to the ground as tears and absolute dread came from within. 

You try to stay as quiet as possible, leaning back against the wall, hand covering your eyes as you cry and hit your cigarette. Suddenly the door you were standing next to opened and you jumped, almost dropping your cigarette. Brian had followed you to the back-alley and now here he was, watching you sob.

“Y/n?” He asked, rushing to your side. You knew you couldn’t lie now. “Oh, love. What happened? Did someone hurt you? Are you okay?” He asked, checking you over for any injuries or cuts before pulling you into his chest, hugging you tightly. You cried for what seemed like ages, unable to find the words in your throat.

“I’m just a little tired.” You say softly, voice breaking a little. You take a long drawn of your cigarette and extinguished it on the side of the building, before you out int back in your pocket.

“Y/N, I know you better than that.” Brian said, furrowing his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” He asked again, voice gentle. The silence of the world around you was enough to suffocate you.

“I’m just… I-I wanna go home. I want to go back home.” You began, feeling your breathing grow heavy as more tears flowed from your eyes. “I’m done with the tour… I can’t do this anymore, Brian I have to go home.” You say against the fabric of his shirt, face pressed to his chest. You felt bad for getting it wet with your tears.

“The tour will be over before you know it, and then we’ll be at home. I know how you’re feeling.” Brian tried to comfort you, his skilled fingers rubbing your back gently as you slowed your breathing.

“I sound so selfish.” You laugh a little. “This is our dream. My dream. Why do I hate it so much?” You hiss.

Brian let out a sigh, feeling sorry for you, wishing he could take away all that was troubling you.  Minutes passed before you settled to a point where you couldn’t cry anymore but you still felt so lonesome and homesick.

“Think of it like this.” He began, standing you straight in front of him. His thumbs gently rubbed the tears and makeup running down your cheeks. “You are home. With me and Fred and Rog… Deaky. We’re doing what we normally do, right? Play music, goof around, talk nonsense. Just all in new places.” Brian smiled a little, causing you to do the same.

“I do like the change of scenery, sure. I just… I don’t know why I feel so anxious.” You shake your head.

Brian’s eyes look over your face again and again trying to take away all the hurt. “As long as you’re with me, you’re home, alright? You’ll always have one thing from home, no matter where you go and that’s me. I’ll always be here for you, sweetheart.”

You felt a rush of relief, not noticing how much Brian had actually cared for you. I could be anywhere in the world, millions of miles away from my flat, but as long as I’m with you, I feel at home, Y/N. You’re a great comfort to me and your company is truly the best I’ve had.” Brian began to blush and your hands shook. Maybe you were dreaming.

“Truth is… I fancy you, quite a lot actually. But you’re also my best friend. I wouldn’t want to be so forward as to say I love you, but Y/N, I love you. When I’m with you, I’m home.” Brian says, gaining all the courage of a lion, perhaps.

You felt your cheeks burn and your eyes tear up again. “Oh… I’m sorry! I didn’t mean… I’m sorry Y/N. I didn’t mean to upset you even more. A complete idiot I am.” Brian began to panic, seeing your tears again.

You chuckle, wiping the underneath of your eyes. “No Bri, shush.” You pull him into a hug again. You could feel his hesitation, so you grabbed his arms and wrapped them around your waist for him. You held him so tightly, closing your eyes. “I love you too, Brian May. So so much.” You say, fingers gripping his shirt. You sniffle and smile up to him.

“Oh god… You don’t have to say it because you feel bad or-“ He began before you tugged on his shirt collar, pulling him down until his lips crashed into yours. For years you had wondered what it would be like to kiss him, but never had you thought it would be as amazing as it was.

 Even the Big Bang was small compared to the feeling of kissing Brian. You pull away after a few moments, cheeks burning bright. Your hand found Brian’s cheek, holding his face for a moment. “Thank you.” You whispered and hugged him greatly again. You felt him laugh under your head as he rested his face on the top of your hair.

“I’m always here for you, my love.” He said sweetly and held you tightly as the night fell down around you, feeling more at home than you had all tour long.

[marveliter]

Game Night

Summary: Bruce Banner and his four children spend some quality time together playing board games, but things escalate very quickly.

Warnings: Cussing, sibling fights, UNO

Characters: Bruce Banner + OC Marvel Children

A/N: I got this idea from one of my prompts on my last post and I thought It’d be so fun to write one out :)) *also, I use one of my marvel OC’s who’s Bruce’s daughter in another AU story I’m writing which you can find on this link ;)

Bruce Banner heard the sound of thunder and looked out the windows of the lab. The rain had been pouring all day long, creating floods in the streets of New York City, backing up sewage and keeping everyone inside. It was nearing five o’clock, but the sky was so dark it could’ve been eight. He decided to call it quits when he heard one of his four children groan all the way down the hall. Jarvis was shocked to see Bruce leaving at such an early time, because usually he left before eight and crept back in after midnight after his children were asleep. Bruce loved spending time with his children, but there were days when they all needed a break from each other. Today was exhausting from being locked up inside Uncle Tony’s tower, with the power knocked out and no cellular service no matter how high the children raised their phones.

      Tony wasn’t home at the moment as he was at a conference in Miami, and Bruce didn’t feel like taking the elevator all the way down to the basement. So, he decided to follow the complaints of his children until he entered the common room where they all sat lazily on the couches and chairs.       Bruce’s twins, Roberta and Will sat at opposite ends of the couch, hands over their eyes as they groaned in agony from the broken WiFi. Amara, the youngest, was doodling in her sketchbook on the floor next to the coffee table, but it was evident that she had been following a Bob Ross tutorial before the video started freezing on her laptop. Her paint palette was still open and her dirty brushes scattered around the garbage bag her painting was atop of.       “I guess the rain does do good,” Bruce chuckled, looking between his twins. “Remember me?”       Roberta groaned, “Not now Bruce, I was watching Criminal Minds and the killer was just about to be found, and now I’m sad,”       Bruce chuckles, approaching his son, Will, the older twin. “And what were you doing?”       “I was playing Cup Pong on Game Pigeon with Savannah,” he muttered under his breath.       Roberta cackled, “Imagine him asking her out and then sending Anagrams!” This made Amara giggle as she started to collect her paint materials to clean up. Will rolled his eyes as Roberta kept making jokes.       “At least I don’t send out of context memes to my crush,” Will retorts.       “What?” Bruce asked, oblivious to his children’s world.       “Ollie and I are best friends—” she quickly turned to Bruce and scowled. “We will never date!”       “Never say never,” Amara quietly giggled.       “You’re a sixth grader, you don’t know anything about love,” Roberta snaps. “Sixth grade relationships are dumb. One day you have a boyfriend, the next you think you’re already in love with them,”       “Sounds a lot like you and Tyler Kipplin,” Albert, the eldest of the Banner children retorted upon entering the room. “Whole city’s out of power, just after the WiFi stopped working I couldn’t write my paper, and now I don’t want to strain my eyes trying to do other homework in the dark,”       “Weird Al came out of his cage,” Will said, standing up from the couch.       “Boo hoo,” Roberta frowned mockingly. “Bert’s never going to become a doctor, just a bigger disappointment to Dad,”       "At least I’ll have a job that’s doesn’t involve cleaning the streets of New York!” Albert snapped. Roberta slammed her feet on the carpet and stood up with her fists curled. Her brown eyes began to turn a bright green.       “STOP SAYING I’M GOING TO BECOME A GARBAGE MAN!”       “Garbagewoman,” Amara corrected.       Bruce waved his hands and shook his head. “Hey! Hey! Let’s not attack each other, calm down! Let’s find something fun we can all do,”       “I want to paint,” Amara sighs.       “When the power comes back on we can sweetie, but let’s all do something fun!” Bruce looked around the room, and sure enough the dresser underneath the TV stand was filled to the brim with board games.       “Hell no,” Roberta snapped.       “What?” Bruce asked, holding out Candy Land. “Let’s find a game we can all play!”       “I hate board games Dad,”       “I hate that you’re constantly nagging and whining,” Bruce snaps.       Roberta scoffed as her brothers chuckle and Amara scoots closer to the couch, still sitting on the floor. Bruce pulled out a small deck of red cards in a red box. “Let’s play UNO,”       “No,” Will retorted.       “Why?”       “Robbie always looks at my cards,”       “That’s because you always hold them out in front of you so everyone can see!” Roberta shouts.       “I’m going to my room,” Albert waves off.       “No,” Bruce irritatingly chuckles. “We are having fun family game night whether you all want it or not,”       The Banners all sat in a circle with seven cards in their hands and a big deck in the middle, with candles lit all around them for a source of light.       “Youngest to oldest,” Bruce said as he turned to Amara on his right.       “Good,” Roberta scoffed. “Dinosaurs last,”       “Or we could do brattiest to kindest,” Bruce jokingly glared at Roberta, who rolled her eyes with a small smile.       Amara pulled a blue card from the deck, and the game started. There were a few practice rounds for the kids who couldn’t remember how to play, and suddenly when everyone knew what to do the game got interesting. The kids started to bet on who did their chores and who would be their servant for a day.       “No! No, no, no, no, no!” Will shouted as Amara placed down the ‘add four’ card. “That’s not allowed! Albert gets the four!”       “If a player has the same card, they can add it on their turn and the cards go to someone else!” Albert yells, laughing. Bruce chuckled, but he tried to hide it as he saw his son’s skin look pale green.       “You’ll get them next time Will,” Bruce laughed as Will drew sixteen cards.       “Bullshit,” Will muttered.       Soon, it was Amara getting mad. “You can’t take away the card you placed down!”       Roberta flashed the yellow ‘skip a turn’ at her younger sister. “I can and I will because it’s my turn!”       “You just want an UNO because I have an UNO,”       “Why do you care about the card? You’re not even getting skipped!”       “By the chances of Dad I could lose and I haven’t won a single game!”       Amara was protective of her cards, and no one had seen what they were and she never hinted. No one could tell what her play pattern was, and by the look of her heterochria brown and green eyes, Bruce played a normal number card that was green. Amara looked down at her card, her face blank until she slammed the card down onto the pile.       “SUCK IT!” She screamed.       Bruce laughed seeing all his children scream and fall on their backs in agony. Albert had his hands at his blonde hair, Roberta was laying face down on the carpet cussing, and Will slammed his hands against the ground.       "Another game?" Bruce asked.       "Bullshit," Will mumbled, standing up. "I'm going to pop a Lays chip bag before I pop a whole in the wall,"       "Do that second one you're grounded--clean up the mess from the first!" Bruce called to his son.       "Bring some popcorn!" Roberta yells, lifting her head up from the carpet.       "Let's play a game that won't set Junior Hulk off," Bruce chuckles, his head nudging in the direction Will walked.       "Allie gave me something for my birthday last year and I haven't played it since," Albert said, standing up.       "What is it?" Bruce asked.

***

"Yes," Tony said into the phone as he stepped out of his car. "I'd like to have those reports by Thursday. . .thanks doll," He entered the tower with Happy at his side in the elevator, explaining how well the conference went.       "There was something about physics in there, and I wish I had Bruce with me, but he really needed to get his work done. Hopefully his ankle biters didn't bother him," Tony joked. He loved the kids, and as their godfather he swore to make fun of them for as long as he lived.       "Actually," Happy chuckled. "The power went out, and I wasn't here when it happened. No sure what he or the kids did. I didn't see the tower regenerate power from home either,"       Tony chuckled, "Bruce doesn't like going all the way down to the basement. He's so kind and willing to do anything, but also just so lazy at times. Can't blame him though, four rascals is a lot,"       The elevator doors parted, and the moment Tony looked into the room he froze. His couches and chairs were half torn and tossed around, his bar table was crushed, and his piano was stuck sticking out in the wall. As he and Happy walked out in the room, looking around in awe and confusion, Roberta and Amara ran out from the hall in their battle suits, and upon seeing Tony gave fake smiles and cheeky laughter.       "Hey T-Bone!" Roberta nervously chuckled. "What are you doing home so early?"       "Is that a new suit?" Amara asked. "Glasses? Go-tee? Did you shave?" Tony looed around in shock, and before he could say anything, Roberta laughed.       "Oh! You're probably wondering about the room!" she nervously played with her hands. "We had family game night,"       "And you wrecked my home?"       "No," Amara said. "Dad and Will wrecked you're home. . .well, Hulk and Hulk Jr."       "They battled it out more once we got them in the Hulk tank," Roberta explained.       "You couldn't get them in there sooner?" Tony asked, raising his voice.       "We didn't know they were changing! It was funny how it all happened, we didn't know they were actually fighting!"       "Where's Albert?"       "Keeping an eye on both of them from the watch room," Amara answered.       Tony sighed and walked off down the hall in the direction of the Hulk Tank, also known as the cool down room, muttering incoherently in anger.       "What game were you guys playing?" Happy asked, approaching the girls.       "Tenzi," Amara answered.       "What's that?"       "Apparently a very infuriating game in the Banner family," Amara replied, looking around at the mess.  

[pendragonfics]

Moments

Paring: Griff/Reader

Tags: female reader, meet cute, canon compliant, artists, dating, developing relationship, domestic fluff.

Summary: Little snatches of Reader and Griff's developing relationship over time.

Word Count: 1,899

Current Date: 2017-10-20

Some days were slow. Other days, they were painfully slow. Like whichever God in the sky watched you lazily, and swirled a finger through your day to make it drag a little bit longer. Your boss had little to no time on site, and you were practically the most well-trained out of all the other people. Thus, you were left to man the register, and take care of the little shop front.

Your boss was a cult-favoured artist, but that was years ago, and even now he still pumped out painting after painting, and had you (on a very low commission) to sell them.

Another reason days were slow was nobody wanted to just come into a gallery where there was mediocre art and no stupid doodads or weird postcards for sale. Like today. It was warm out, for a change, and dressed in your very best overalls, floral neck scarf and orange dr. martens, you greeted every possible patron who entered the store with compassionate vigour, and yet, none stayed more than five minutes around the terrible motel art.

Except –

Around eleven o’clock, you noticed a man outside the window, lingering across the street. To other people, you were sure that they’d be intimidated, or perhaps, induced into turning the opposite direction he was going. He looked like the kind of hardcore who’d be into dad music and dumb dancing, but also, fast bikes and drinking piss ‘til dawn. You looked away from the window, and went back to cataloguing the sales of the last month (not enough for the studio to make rent) and alternatively, writing the essay that was due soon (for your grad school degree that you loved more than life).

But when you looked back out the window not an hour later, he was seated on a park bench six metres away from where you first saw him, using a newspaper to shelter from the oncoming shower as it spat upon the earth with distain.

In minutes of idle people-watching, you saw the droplets turned into downpour, and yet, while everyone else on the street fled to the dry interiors of their umbrellas, Ubers, the 7-Eleven corner store, the man sat there, like his two feet were fused to the concrete path.

From the side of the cash register, you grabbed the spare umbrella, and flipping the sign to sorry, closed! temporarily, you darted across the street, avoiding the stray puddle and awry taxi, to where he sat. The newspaper he used at first to shield himself from the rain has turned into a floppy rectangle of blurred text and dripping ink, and looking at him, you wonder if the pictures from the newspaper had transferred to his skin like a kid’s transferrable tattoo.

He looked at you strangely, no words shared for a moment, and then, gracelessly, you thrust the umbrella out, and hold it over him.

“Take it,” you tell him.

His fingers unlatch from the sodden newspaper, and curl over the handle, his smallest finger touching yours ever so briefly. As soon as he had it in his hands, you smiled, and as fast as you could, returned to the storefront you were supposed to be in, and out of the rain. As you flipped the closed sign back to yes, we’re open! you wondered if you’d ever see him, or the umbrella again.

---

It was a Saturday, and just like the rest of the days worked on the weekend, it was dry. Not a single soul came through the door in all the four hours you’d been open already, and fed up with standing around like a terrible marionette waiting for the strings to be pulled the right ways, you sat behind the cash register, and pulled out your sketchbook. You were doodling a design.

But then, the bell rang. Just your luck.

You were about to force on your best most patient smile, when you noticed it wasn’t just a run of the mill average busybody trying to haggle down the art to something less. It was the guy, with the tattoos, and in his hand, he gripped the umbrella.

“Come to return it.” He nodded toward the umbrella, holding it toward you.

Sliding from the stool, you approach him. Inside the art studio, he was taller (or maybe it was because he was standing this time), and he had a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses tucked into the lip of his stonewashed tee, and all you could think about was how real and alive he looked in comparison to all the dull tourists you greeted and your terrible boss and the greyscale people who littered the town like paper-cut outs of real people, and you stood there, silent, sort of dumbfounded for a second.

“Nobody has – thank you,” you remember what words are like to come out in the right order from your lips, taking the returned umbrella from his hand. “If I had a dollar for every time I leant out the store umbrella…”

“I bet you could afford a lot of umbrellas, ma’am,” he interjected, voice gravelly, but sweetened by his manners like honey. “I also came to say thank you.”

You raise a brow, protesting, “Sir, it was nothing, really –,”

He clears his throat, placing a fist against has lips. In this moment, you read that his fingers read sand on that hand, and your eyes graze over his edge of his facial hair, where a nick from a razor has given him a little cut. “Please,” he pleads, “at least let me take you out for coffee.” He says it with that Atlantan accent that just makes your ears and heart sigh.

“You can take me out, sure,” you tell him, crossing your arms with the umbrella tucked beneath your armpit, “but I know a fantastic little place downtown, Penny Lane. Their cappuccinos are to die for.” You beam.

He sticks a hand out to you. “Deal.” He grins. “The name’s Griff.”

You place your palm against his, and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Griffin. I’m ________.”

---

It’s a wonderful little afternoon that you’ve managed not to be at the store, or at university, and you find yourself in your newly polished shoes, your Sunday best, and a little coat for the weather this time of year. You agreed to meet outside Penny Lane, but it was almost ten minutes after you had promised to be there, and Griff still wasn’t around.

“What did I expect…” you sigh to yourself, turning to go.

But it’s then you hear a roar of a motorcycle, and looking over your shoulder, you see him. He’s on a cruiser, the colour of blood when it’s dried, or brown paint that’s slowly hardening upon canvas. It approaches quickly, and pulls into a spare parking spot, and tossing his helmet aside, Griff’s eyes meet yours.

“Sorry I’m late,” he apologises. “Work can be unpredictable.”

You look at the bike, glimmering in the sunshine like a jungle animal resting after a successful hunt. “Must be good work to afford a bike like that,” you motion toward it, impressed. As a dirt-poor student artist who dreamed of owning a car and not taking the bus in every day, it was like finding out that someone was practically an A-Lister with all they had. “Still want coffee?”

Griff grinned. “Hell yeah.”

---

Six months later, you wake at two in the morning to an empty bed and an intense argument in the next room. At first, you think nothing of it – you came from a blended family, and divorce only naturally included a little fighting. At first you think it’s just Griff on the phone to his family. But then you hear a second pair of footsteps, a second voice; one you’ve never heard in your life.

“Of course, I haven’t told her,” you hear Griff’s voice say. “I ain’t a saint, but I’m no idiot.”

“Good,” another man intones, the clink of glass on the bench. “Let’s keep it that way.”

You hear the front door to Griff’s flat click closed, the snap of the kitchen light switches off, footsteps retreat through the other room toward where you lay. You close your eyes, keeping your breathing shallow, soft. The footsteps approaching are muted, and slowly, the bed dips with his weight, the covers shift over his form. His hand finds yours beneath the sheets, and cold, his fingers graze over yours, stroking gently.

“I’m so stupid…” he murmurs, voice low, breath warm on your cheek as you feign sleep. “He promised me money, and I wanted to make something for us, a future…I’m not a bad guy, ________.”

Your hand moves on its own, fingers twitching. Griff recoils. You shift in the bed, turning to face him. His face is lit dimly in what moonlight and streetlight that filter through the curtains, his ink dark against his skin, eyes move to meet yours.

“Griff?” you whisper. “What time is it?”

His hand loosens over yours, “It’s too early for us to be up.” He turns in the sheets, facing away from you. “Go back to sleep.”

You consider confronting what looks like something that most certainly is in over your head, or just following the lead of your partner, and turn over yourself. It’s not hard. You pursued the man who had been sitting in the rain, you had pursued something beyond your little life. And you pursued this.

“I…heard you.” You whisper. “In the kitchen.” You hear his breathing hitch. The mattress squeaks as he turns over, and once again, you’re face to face with the dark eyes you can’t shake out of your heart. “Griff, it’s…I’m with you, to the end of the line. If you stay doing whatever you’re doing, I’m with you, if you want to leave…I’ll come,” you breathe, your hands cradling where his neck meets his jaw, where his facial hair is growing longer. “I love you.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then, “You’re too good for me,” he murmurs.

---

A week later he returns from a job, throws his leather jacket onto the couch, along with the keys to his bike. In a shopping bag he holds is a bottle of hair dye, an electric razor, and a burner phone. They’re for the both of you – in the bathroom, you take turns lathering dye into your hair, you chip away at Griff’s beard until there’s nothing but empty skin.

“You look different,” you stroke a hand over his face, in awe. In the mirror above the sink, you see the dye is taking to your hair.

“A good different, or…?”

You smile, and go to kiss his bare cheek. “Definitely.” You motion to the shower, and add, “I’ll go wash this out. Promise you won’t leave me if I look like a train wreck.”

Griff laughs. “We’ll be matching, then.”

Not four hours after that, you’re both on the road, ties cut, life free and world at your fingertips. Grad school can wait. That horrible job selling terrible art can burn in a trash can. You’ll find work somewhere, perhaps as a housepainter, or maybe a tattoo apprentice. Griff could be a security guard. These thoughts pass as you’re clutching his back, flying down the highway away from all you’ve ever known, toward something you’re never going to regret.

[leora-strauss]

Tales of a Wanderer (1)

I think I’m going to start writing a bit about Leora’s backstory on here! It’s kind of (very, very) long, but it was fun to doodle around for a few hours and do some proper writing for the first time in forever!

Word Count:  3000

    Leora tapped her nail against the side of her porcelain cup as she waited. She wasn’t sure which was going to chip first, her nail or the thin layer of pastel paint along the side of the cup. She hoped it’d be neither- picking paint off coffee cups or chipping your nail didn’t exactly look professional. She put the empty cup down on the oak table in front of her, to keep it out of hand’s reach.

Her parents sat across from her on a small velvet couch. Leora had never liked this room of the manor much. She found it overly posh, decorated with its thick pastel wallpapers and overly ornate furniture. It felt too much to her like the room was trying too hard to show how classical and noble it was. But it’d been quiet, and that was the most important. They’d chosen a small sitting room in the west wing of the manor, something intimate and private- less likely to be eavesdropped or walked in on. Something she’d insisted on.

Leora’s eyes darted toward the open window as she continued to wait. The thick drapes had been pulled back and the afternoon sun lit up the pale little sitting room. Every few moments she’d hear her father shift his weight or her mother rustle and her eyes would quickly snap back to them. Both of them still sat in silence, contemplating what she’d asked moments before. Her father’s nose had scrunched up and was flaring like a rabbit -like it usually did when he was thinking hard- and her mother continued to fiddle with the fat silver ring on her slender finger. Both of their coffee cups sat on the table in front of them, stone cold.

The silence was too much to bear, she decided to push a bit further. “I know it seems like a long way away,” Leora began as she watched her parents, “But The Eastern Kingdoms really isn’t more than a month and a half away by caravel--maybe two by a frigate. I’d write regularly as well. It wouldn’t be any different than me living in Boralus.”

Her father’s nose scrunched up even harder, but her mother’s hand stopped to rest on the ring. “Aren’t you worried?” Her mother’s tone was quiet, which only made Leora’s stomach flop. She was a woman who didn’t like to yell -she’d said it was something people did when they couldn’t charm or persuade someone in a discussion. It also made it incredibly hard to read what the woman was actually thinking, which drove Leora up the wall. “If you didn’t know, the mainland isn’t the safest place right now.”

“I know, I’ve done all my reading and I’ve done as much research as I can,” Leora responded. Her back began to ache but she resisted the urge to slouch backward. “But that’s not going to change anytime soon. The world’s been consistently on fire for longer than I’ve been alive. I can’t just wait it out forever. I want to venture out and now’s better than any time. The Alliance and Horde are in a truce against the Legion and they’ve stopped most of the demonic invasions on the mainland.”

“What about the seas?” Her mother shot back, “You can see them on the horizon sometimes -those massive black ships of the Legion that hang in the sky. You don’t think a boat could out-sail that, do you?”

“I trust the captains,” Leora said simply. That was enough for her father to finally break his silence.

   “And when you get to the mainland, what do you even hope to do?” Her father asked. The man hunched forward and reached for the small bottle of rum that sat beside his cold coffee. He winced, a pain shooting up his old back, as he returned to leaning against the couch. “What could the mainland provide that you couldn’t do here?”

Leora had been ready for this question, she’d rehearsed how to dodge it too. “I think it’ll be a good way for me to broaden my horizons,” she said agreeably, “Make something of myself through my own sweat and hard work,” she said with an affirmative nod. The answer had been completely devoid of any proper answer, very wordy and flowery without much content to it. Like a souffle that somehow was even more filled with hot air.  It wasn’t a lie -she didn’t think she could bring herself to lie to her parents who’d always been nothing but honest with her- but it wasn’t exactly answering the question. And, from the way his nose scrunched back up, Leora’s father knew it as well.

She’d dreamed of going to the mainland for years now. Stormsong Valley was nice, and so was Boralus, and a lot of the world saw Kul Tiras as idyllic. There weren’t many places these days where the biggest and most important question was “How to save for a vacation?” or “How much should I put into my bank account”. It was idyllic and stable, and most people could earn some good money. But -after nineteen years- idyllic turns to boring and stable quickly turns to the ossified. When nothing changes, things start to get lazy and decadent. Leora could see the writing on the wall; when people were going on monster hunts for glory and fun, rather than to protect their families, something was missing on a spiritual level. Something the mainland had. Probably. More than likely.

   “But there are so many dangers on the mainland,” Her mother had cut back in. She’d began to fiddle with her ring again, the elderly woman’s manicured nail tried to dig into the silver of the band anxiously. “You could be kidnapped, or swindled, and there’s a lot of people who don’t speak common on the mainland,” she said, her voice a nervous twitter now. “What if you end up lost and you can’t get back to us?”

   Leora’s stomach flopped again, this time with guilt. She didn’t want to see her mother like this, she had better things to do than to be worried about her daughter. “I’ve saved money, Mama,” she said soothingly, “I’ll put it into a bank on the mainland and I won’t touch it unless it’s an emergency. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

   “Except for why you’re going, of course,” Her father said, a sobering hardness in his voice. The room went quiet, a few gulls squawked as the waves crashed beneath the window as the three of them stewed in their own awkward muteness. Her father leaned back and crossed his leg, his nose unscrunched. He had an aged, aristocratic look when he wasn’t hunched over. Leora had found it scary when she’d been younger, now she kind of respected it. It made people listen to what he had to say. “I’d rather you be honest with me. You’re not leaving because you don’t think we care, do you?” he asked, no expression apart from a placid calmness as his daughter winced from his question.

   “Papa, I’d never do that!” Leora exclaimed as nearly shot to her feet. She reigned herself back in at the last moment and remained sitting.

   “Then why? Why leave everything you know on a gamble for something you might find something on the mainland. We can help you find it here,” Her father said. His calm, sagely expression broke, “I do care about you, even when you’re away in Boralus. I want what’s best for all of you,” he said, his voice a soft coo.

   Leora licked her lips as she picked up the empty cup and brought it back into her lap. Her nail went back to picking at the paint, “Can you find different inheritance rights?” she asked. Her mother’s brow creased.

   “We’re not talking about money, Leora,” the aged woman said adamantly, “We’ve always said that inheritance doesn’t matter- we take care of each other. There’s no point in running off for-”

   “Eliza, she has a right to be worried,” Her father said soothingly. He slipped his fingers between his wife’s and squeezed it lovingly, coaxing her to sit down. “Yes, you’re not getting anything from the inheritance as one of the youngest.” There was a twinge of guilt in his voice, but he had little control over it.

Inheritance was an odd, ugly matter for the rich in Kul Tiras. A fortune was sliced up unevenly to keep children from fighting; the eldest having the lion’s share to keep order and each younger sibling gets a consistently smaller amount. Leora had done the math, with twenty-four other siblings the Strauss fortune would be cut up incredibly unevenly. Her eldest sister, Hannah, would get nearly thirty-four million gold. Leora would get about three gold pieces. But the family was supportive of each other, and Hannah had already offered to give out loans -at a lower than market value interest, of course. It still sat ill with Leora, all the same, and her father knew it.

“You have an education -in the law of all things- that’d have you set for life.”

   “Which I need to be in the aristocracy to use to any effect,” Leora responded, “You know better than anyone that the gentry has a monopoly on the law- lawyers can get arrested for prosecuting noble cases.”

   “Cedric is aristocracy. You just need to..tie yourself to him.” The conversation had a quiet death and the room went into an ugly quiet again. They both knew what that meant. Cedric was a good man, and Leora and he were technically married. But certain things had to be done first before it was legally considered a full marriage. Certain things that take about nine months to do. The thought alone made Leora queasy, nearly as queasy as it made Cedric to think.

   “We have a child,” Leora deflected, “Howard’s nearly a year old and he’s a son Cedric had when we were married so-”

   “The bastard of your husband’s mistress doesn’t count as your son,” Her father interrupted coldly, accompanied by a quiet hum of animosity that he kept hidden behind a quiet demure. “People snicker about that, you know? They make fun of you.”

Cedric Beaumont was the heir to a small, impoverished barony near Boralus, middle-aged but still in his prime. More importantly, and more horrendously, he was also thirty years Leora’s senior. The match had been agreeable economically to the families; a gargantuan plebeian fortune paired with an impoverished patrician family. But -as Cedric was fond of saying- “it was as sick and wrong a pairing that one could ever make”. “I’m a nobleman, not a monster,” Cedric always said firmly to those who would listen. It was the reason why Leora liked the man; he was the only person more horrified with their arrangement than she was.

It was odd to bond with someone like that; over how wrong it felt that you’d been forced together. But it had made life tolerable, and it suited their agreement. They’d live in the same home in Boralus, for reputation’s sake -their families still were eager to see them together- but they’d live separate lives. With separate beds in separate rooms. Hell, Leora sometimes forgot they were married- they acted more like hunting buddies and roommates.

Together with them lived a woman named Clarrisa, an elven woman, and Cedric’s true love. Leora liked Clarissa; they liked to read together and she’d even taught her how to shoot a rifle along with Cedric. She was the one who’d given birth to Howard, who Leora and Cedric planned on legitimizing. It was the right thing to do, and it made all three of them content- Cedric and Clarissa would have a family and Leora would be off the hook in that regard. But...people do talk, and none of it was pleasant- about the twenty-something who let her husband sleep with women behind her back. In her own house. They wouldn’t make fun of her to her face, but she always heard the snickers. The cruel little jokes.

Leora dropped the matter quickly, she rested the coffee cup in her lap. “Papa,” she began, “I know it sounds crazy and dangerous, but I can’t stay here forever. We both know I’m nearly last in inheritance- I won’t get anything.” She gripped the cup tightly, “I don’t want to live my life tied to somebody else’s success. I don’t want to have to ask for an allowance from those who get the inheritance or live as the wife of a baron in poverty. I’ve grown up with so many privileges, so many things that other people don’t have, that I don’t want my life to go to waste. I want to do something worthwhile and good with it” The flood-gates were open now, and the truth seemed to tumble from her lips before she could control it. “Even if I fail, I want to at least know I tried to do something glorious with my life. Something that I can be proud of and that I know did some good for the world around me.”

“And what happens if you die?”

She thought for a moment before she simply shrugged, “It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” she said. Her mother’s eyes were wide, her lips pulled tightly together to try and keep herself from crying.”It means I put my life on the line for something bigger than myself.” Leora’s stomach flopped again. Her father had no taste for dramatic martyrs or the sacrificially noble. He found them obnoxious and less than endearing But, she couldn’t let this die. Not now. She got to her feet and put down the cup, “This isn’t a matter of me asking for your permission, this is me telling you I’m leaving for the mainland,” she said firmly. Silence descended back to the room and her parents stood wide-eyed up at her. For a tremor of a moment, she wanted to take back her words. Maybe there was still time; she could say she was joking, or that she wasn’t thinking straight, or she’d-

“Then I suppose I can’t stop you, Lulu,” her father said as he rose to his feet. His aged face pulled back into a small, smile. It’d been years since he’d used her pet name, and Leora was caught off guard by the sudden affection “ You’ve always had a spine, more than a lot of people here. And I don’t think I could stop you, even if I wanted to,” her father laughed. “If you really believe it’s for the best, and this is what you want, then I wouldn’t want to stop you.”

Leora looked dumbstruck for a moment before she reached across the table and gave her father a warm hug. “I promise I’ll make you proud! I’ve already booked the passage to the mainland on a ship, it’ll give me four months at sea to get used to a harder life. I’ll send letters and mementos and everything once I get there!”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything, papa!”

“If it doesn’t work out, you’ll come home and settle down,” he said with a nod. “You have youth right now and chase what you like, but it doesn’t last forever. You only have so much time, and when you run out, swear to me you’ll return to life here.”

Leora’s stomach lurched, but her heart fluttered with excitement. “If I can’t make it work-out, then I will,” she said. It felt insincere to tell him she would, but it was better than starting an argument! She turned toward the door and marched out, a triumphant skip in her step, “I’m going to start packing immediately. My passage is in two days and I want to be ready!” she exclaimed as she slipped onto into the gilded hallways of the manor.

Her mother looked absolutely aghast, “Phillip,” she began breathlessly, “Do you have any idea what sort of ideas you’ve put into her head?!” she asked with a look of pure bewilderment. “You don’t actually believe she’ll go and do the things she’s talking about, do you? Running off, doing something “good”- whatever artsy nonsense that means to her! She has a lovely heart, but she’s going to get herself killed!”

Her father shook his head, “No. I use to be the same way when I was her age; young, brash, ready to drop everything to go out and do something that would get me famous,” he chuckled. “She won’t make it a half year on the mainland. She’ll pack up and return home and she’ll finally grow up, probably a bit for the wiser.”

The older woman frowned, “Well, that doesn’t exactly pleasant when you say it like that. But...you have a point,” she nodded, “The mainland isn’t some land of heroes and grandeur like she believes, at least I don’t think it is. She’s smart, and she’ll know when to quit.”

Her father nodded, watching the doorway where his second-youngest had marched out in a flurry of her own perceived triumph. “You’ll see. I know her type like the back of my hand,” he said soothingly. “She’ll go out, she’ll fail or end up destitute and unable to fail anymore, and she’ll return home and realize it’s time to put away childish fantasies like goodness and heroes away,” he nodded. “When Leora fails, we’ll be waiting here. It’ll all work out fine. I’m sure of it.”