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atleastpleasetelephone · 15 hours ago

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Kinktober Day 30 - Hair Pulling

Pairing: BDE x reader

Word count: 1.3K

TWs: Reader calls Elvis daddy, praise kink, pussy inspection, oral (f receiving), possessive kink, face fucking, hair pulling, begging.

Kinktober masterlist

You’re curled up in Elvis’ lap as he reads from one of his spiritual books, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. You feel the vibrations of his low, rumbling voice as your head rests on his chest. The powdery smell of his cologne surrounding you, warmth radiating off his body. You’re so content right now. There’s nothing you love more than being in his arms listening to him talk. Whether he’s reading out loud, joining in with one of his favourite movies, or even just talking to the guys late at night. You don’t care what he’s saying, you just like the sound and the feeling. One of his big, strong hands rubs your back gently whilst the other one grips the book. He looks down at you occasionally to make sure you haven’t fallen asleep, but you’re always looking back with rapt attention. He moves on to the next page.

“For I am your real teacher, the only real one you will ever know, and the only master,” he declares, maybe a little too melodramatically.

You can’t help giggling at the word ‘master’. You’re not trying to be childish, after all you are almost thirty. It’s just you’ve been sitting in his lap for a while and as much as you like hearing his voice you do put on that fascinated facial expression sometimes.

Elvis arches an eyebrow and looks at you over his glasses. “What’re you giggling at, little girl?” Pursing his lips a little.

The serious delivery of the question sets you off laughing properly, and then you’re shaking with mirth. “M-m-m-master,” you finally manage, before replacing your head on his chest and laughing so much that tears come to your eyes.

Elvis shakes his head like a long-suffering teacher and flips the book closed. He’s never sure how much you’re actually interested in the spiritual texts. You always look like you’re paying attention, but you avoid nearly every conversation he tries to have with you about them. He’s a little tired of reading tonight himself, though, and you look so pretty there in his arms, giggling away to yourself. He gets an idea.

“I am your real teacher though,” he says, raising one eyebrow again.

“Oh really?” You’re struggling to keep a straight face.

“Mmmm. Yes. And this teacher needs to inspect you. Make sure you’re paying attention to everything I’ve been telling you.”

You feel your stomach turn and twist and that familiar tingling starts between your legs.

“Yes…m-master…” you burst out laughing again. “I can’t call you that,” you tell him, holding on to one of his arms, when you finally manage to get your breath back.

He picks you up easily, putting you down next to him on the bed. “Sir will do fine.”

You’re laughing so much in response to that that you start kicking your feet. He lets out a low chuckle. “Okay, okay. Just call me Daddy. I know you like that.”

You stop giggling when he says that and fixes you with the most sensual look you’ve seen in a long time. Letting your feet slide back down to where they belong, you look back at him.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl.”

He slips your pyjama bottoms off and gently pushes your legs up and apart, so your feet are off the bed.

“Time for your pussy inspection,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry.

He looks up at you through the reading glasses and you nearly cum there and then.

Breathing hard, you watch as he looks between your legs with an almost forensic gaze. He’s staring so intently it’s making you blush. He very gently brushes a fingertip against you, noting that it comes back wet.

“Very good,” he mutters.

You gulp.

Running his finger around the edge of your pussy lips, he looks up at you again, licking his own lips deliberately. You let out an ill-disguised moan. He smirks.

“Such a pretty pussy, baby.”

Watching your chest heave and listening to your unsteady breathing he smirks a little more, then gently blows on your clit, making you squeak. Then he drags his finger over it, feeling as it hardens. You wiggle, unable to stop yourself. He shakes his head.

“Daddy’s not finished yet, baby. You need to stay nice and still for me. Then, if I think you’ve taken good enough care of my pussy, I might let you get what you want.”

You struggle not to groan when he calls it ‘my pussy’. You love it when he gets possessive.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He smiles. “Alright. Let’s carry on, shall we?”

You nod enthusiastically and he dips a finger into your pooling arousal again, swirling it around your clit until you cry out. Then he stops, abruptly.

“That all seems to be in good working order.”

You’d laugh at how ridiculous he sounds if you weren’t so turned on. He leans in closer and uses his thumbs to press your lips apart, looking into your pretty little hole. The anticipation is killing you. His nose is so close to your clit it takes everything in you not to buck your hips at that exact moment. You let out a shaky breath as he pulls back.

“Very good,” he mutters again. “One last thing.”

Without warning, he plunges one of his long, slender fingers right up inside you.

“Oh, God.”

His mouth curls into a lazy smile. “Mmmm. Excellent. This tight little pussy’s made just for me, isn’t it baby?”

You nod eagerly and he pushes a second finger inside, curling them both so they hit that place inside you. You squeak again.

He grins. “That was the last thing I needed to check, baby. You’ve been taking such good care of my pussy. You’re such a good girl.”

You moan softly, his fingers are still inside you and you desperately want them to move.

“Ah, hold on.” He says, waving a finger from his other hand in the air. “One last thing.” His head ducks down and as he presses his tongue to your clit he says, “just need to check how you taste,” his words vibrating against you.

The noise you let out is somewhere between a moan and a squeal as his mouth latches on to your clit and his fingers start to move inside you. Your back arches and you buck your hips into his face. He lets you roll your hips once or twice and then moves his head back quickly.

Crying out, you thrash your legs about desperately.

“You taste real good, baby,” he declares, before diving back down into you again with renewed fervour.

“Fuck!”

You cry out, fingers knitting into his hair, holding his head where you want it as you start to grind against his face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Pulling his hair now, as your orgasm builds inside you. You’re getting so close but you’re not quite there. It’s like he knows how to keep you right on the edge, you’re tottering but you don’t fall, the pleasure feeling like it’s filling your body, making you crazy.

“Please… oh God.”

You’re begging now, begging to cum, your fingers tugging on his hair desperately. He grins against you, his tongue working overtime as he finger-fucks you, wanting to give you what you want. Loving you losing yourself like this. Bucking and writhing, you look down for a moment and the sight of him, buried in your pussy, still wearing his reading glasses, completely overwhelms you. It’s that image that pushes you over into oblivion, moaning and calling out his name over and over like a prayer.

You finally let go of his head and sprawl back on the bed, huffing and sighing as he delivers a few more kitten licks to your swollen clit and then slowly sits up. He waits until you properly come to, before looking down at you with that teacherish expression again.

“Baby, I think you’ve ruined my glasses.”

***

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@vintagepresley @arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @cattcb @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @ccab @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas

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frodopotter7 · 3 days ago

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The memories of Edwin Payne

(Or an interactive fanfiction)

Note: I had the headcanon that Edwin‘s notebook contains all his personal writing including the writings from his life as an Edwardian boy. So I wrote those entries in his notebook. Now this book is obviously all of Edwin‘s personal thoughts and I thought it would be fun to do a collaboration. So if you are a writer yourself or creative in any other way, feel free to use this entries as a starting point for another fanfiction. For example Charles finding the notebook and reading it or Crystal reading it or anything else. The only rule that I set is that you clearly mark my text and tag me, because first of all it was a lot of effort to write it and secondly I want to see what cool things you came up with. And if you don’t want to creatively interact with this fanfiction, then you can obviously just enjoy it by reading it.

Summary: Edwin Payne‘s most treasured item is his notebook, because it contains so much private information that no one else knows about him. Not even Charles. Including the struggles of a posh, gay, autistic Edwardian boy and his times before hell, in hell and shortly after hell.

Triggers: bullying, implied suicide, dolls

Shipping: Payneland, but you could also include other shipping in your part

The song that I thought of while writing:

One of Edwin’s most treasured objects was definitely his notebook. He had it all the time and he used it for every case they had. It meant a lot to him, since it was with him when he died. It was with him in hell and it was with him in his detective career. The reason why he never gave it to anyone, not even Charles, was that it had been with him even as a child. Well, back then he had several notebooks, but as he died every personal writing of his got transferred into it. The notebook always had enough pages and was still not getting thicker and his pen was always full of ink. And still even though it contained so many different notes, Edwin navigated through it without any problems. It was his own writing after all. His family sigil was carved into the black front cover and the word ‘Payne’ was written underneath it.

If anyone would open it and tried to start from the beginning, he would be greeted with Edwin’s signature under the printed words. ‘Family member:’ After that the handwriting would be harder to read. Scribbly, crossed out spelling mistakes and spilled ink from a little boy, who was writing for the first time. If you manage to identify the words it would read:

1905

Greetings,

my name is Edwin Payne. I am the only child of the family Payne. My father says, that mother wanted more children, but just failed every other time. You probably have heard about my family’s name. The family with the best lawyers of England. When I’m grown up, I will be a lawyer too. Lawyers are like detectives says my father. I like that. I like detectives.

My nanny told me to interact more with others. Why would I need to talk if there is no one to talk to anyways? My parents are often absent and my nanny is just not understanding me. My father says that I am too slow for my age. My motion skills too clumsy. My spoken words only contain information from detective books and I cannot properly respond to people yet. I know a lot of novels by heart though. Others just don’t seem to like talking about crimes as much as I do. Father sometimes lets me have a look in his older cases. They are interesting.

We visited a doctor again today, because of my slow development. We visit him quite often. Actually since I can remember. I don’t feel sick. He says there is nothing wrong with me. Still I know that something is wrong. I overreacted at loud noises. A lot of things stress me out.

1906

I haven’t writing about Cordelia Primrose Surname-von-Hovercraft. She is annoying, loud and a restless soul. She runs around the house and breaks rules just to get the attention. She is a bit younger than me, but that doesn’t justify her actions. I don’t like her. Although sometimes she be helpful. Like the time she stole the biscuit jar and gave me one of the special biscuits. They had to expel one of her nannies for this. But Cordelia had plenty nannies anyways. No one stays long with her. I had my nanny since I was born. I don’t like changes. Cordelia sometimes scares me with ghost stories. She says she would see them and that my fortune says that I will die a painful and early death. I don’t believe in this unscientific nonsense.

I take piano lessons now. It’s is fun. My mother seems to enjoy it. It is somehow the only way to get her attention for me.

Additionally to my regular private lessons I go to school now. Simon obviously needs to be in my class as well. I don’t like him. He bores me and he is too clingy. And sometimes he says mean things to me.

I had an outburst in class. Everything was just so loud and I was frustrated. The teacher hit my finger with the ruler and send me in the naughty corner. I don’t see why I get punished, when the other boys are clearly the distraction. Overall I am a good student. So it will probably not affect my grades.

My favorite subject is Latin and literature. I love books and translating old languages. It is like solving a code or a riddle. I don’t like maths, since it is all just numbers and no words.

1907

I had another outburst in class after Simon tried to touch me. He kept tapping my arm and I don’t like that. The teacher called a nurse, but I was too overwhelmed to respond to any of her questions to my health. I wanted to go home and I told her that again and again, but she didn’t understand. They called a priest. He said something in Latin. I think, it must have been biblical words. I tried to focus on translating them, but there was so much panic around me that I barely focused on anything. But I managed to calm myself after what felt like hours due to exhaustion.

My parents had a talk with the priest. He says that I am possessed by a demon. So now he straps me to a table and mumbled something in Latin again and again once a month or whatever I have an outburst. The robes around my wrist hurt. I am afraid. It is scary to know that there is something inside of me.

1908

I hate being possessed. Although I start to doubt that I have been in the first place. I did some research in the library and the real demonology books aren’t describing my symptoms. Even Cordelia, who usually always tells spooky stories, agrees with me. She said, if I was possessed she would have been the first one to know. She is a mystery to me.

1909

Today I saw a nice looking man across the street. I told my nanny that he looks like a basket full of oranges. My father uses that term a lot when he talks about young women, so I thought it is just a term to use if you think someone looks nice. She gasped and hit me lightly with the newspaper. It didn’t hurt but I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong. She told me that a man cannot say that to another man. I guess the saying is reserved for women then.

1910

I started to mask my uncomfortable feelings in public. It is difficult, but it helps. My parents and the priest both think that I am healed.

1911

I got called a Mary Ann for the first time. I asked my nanny and she started to mumble to herself how she must have failed. I told her that she did a really great job, since I would consider myself very well behaved and educated. She ignored me and told me to not tell my parents. How should I tell them if they are never there in the first place?

I did some research again, which mainly was asking Simon. I know, getting down on his level is a hard sacrifice. He told me that a Mary Ann is a boy who behaves like a girl and isn’t manly enough so they love other men. I thought about that for a long time. What is it about me that makes me a Mary Ann?

The writing in the book started to get better and appeared way more elegant. You could find little drawings here and there. Edwin was quite a good and realistic artist. Drawings of flowers, buildings, his nanny, his mother or Sherlock Holmes.

1912

Mother is constantly coughing loudly. It is irritating. Not even cocaine will help. They don’t let me in her room. They fear I would catch it too. Not that I was ever close to her before.

Mother is in a special hospital now. She took the train far away in a hospital in the mountains. No one ever returns from there. I know it. Everyone does. I will not see her again.

Mother died of tuberculosis. I miss her, I guess. I don’t know what I miss. It is a change. I hate changes.

1913

Father is sending me to a boarding school for boys. He says it’s for my education. I know, he just wants to get ride of me.

I hate the new school. Simon is here and people are still calling me a Mary Ann. Simon started to join them. I guess he sees it as a new opportunity to mock me.

I take fencing lessons now. It is nice, since it is not required any sort of touch with other boys. Nothing that I can be blamed for.

1914

I found a hideout in the school attic. It is a great place to read in peace.

The world has started a war. It worries me. They tell us that we are save in the school. But in the end all you can do is pray.

I came back home on Christmas. My nanny was gone. Father said they would be no need for her any longer, since I am in school now anyway. He looked like he knew something, but wasn’t going to tell me.

1915

The next page had some blood drops on its pages.

I want to go home. I want to be back in my room with my detective books. I want to be healed from this darkness inside of me. My nose is bleeding from another attack by the other boys. They started to get more violent now. Simon isn’t joining them, but he watches.

I came home on Christmas, but it wasn’t my home anymore. Just a house. My father didn’t speak a word. I asked him, if it was about the war and he looked up towards me. I could feel his cold gaze from across the table. He took out a letter and slammed it on the table. It was from my headteacher. I was confused. I am class best and the best behaved student in class? The only reason why I get to stand in the naughty corner is if I got caught reading in my comics or books. In my defense I am usually already finished with the exercises if I read in class. What could possibly be a problem with me? The letter was about the other boys calling me Mary Ann. And that they didn’t wanted a boy like that in their school. That I should stop whatever was wrong with me. My father told me in his absent voice, that he was not having a son like that either. He had exchanged letters with the headmaster for quite some time now and I didn’t seem to get better. I asked him that I had no idea. He interrupted me as always. Told me that the only way to make me a man would be to send me to war. I started to cry and he continued holding a speech about heroism and that his generation had understood this so much better than mine. I am too young for war, he knows that too. He told me that the only thing rescuing my life is my good grades. He sees potential in me as a lawyer. He has talked to the Surnames-von-Hovercrafts they agreed that I should marry their daughter as soon as possible. I mean I knew that I would be married to Cordelia one day, but not already when I turn 16. That’s only some months away.

As the train brought me back to the boarding school and as I saw my father standing in the doorway of the house with his usual expressionless face, I knew that this was the last time I would see him and that he wished to rather have no son than me. I just knew it.

1916

Simon stole my hat. I wouldn’t mention this minor form of his bullying, if it hadn’t been a special hat. My mother and I bought it, when her disease hadn’t been noticeable. It was too large back then, but it suits me now. Or rather suited. I don’t think I will see it again as Simon comes up with the best ways to either destroy or hide it. I cried about it. Childhood is over, but honestly I don’t think it ever started in the first place at least not for me.

The numbness is spreading inside my body. I think about the military and the forced marriage daily. I am too young for this. I cannot even properly cope in a classroom. How am I supposed to cope in the war? My hands are to soft. My brain is too precious. Please, spear me. They won’t. It is just a question of time.

I went to the lake today. It is spring and still fairly cold, but I went inside non the less. It was cold. Ice cold. I went under water and yelled out some poetic nonsense. I thought about staying under water. Turning into Ophelia. But I reminded myself, that this is something a coward would do. A Mary Ann. I would proof everyone’s suspicions as correct. Scared to live. Scared to die. I got out of the water. My gaze landed on my clothes and the letter. My father had written me that the marriage would be held in some days, since I am 16 now. I ripped the paper in half and tossed it into the ocean. Letting the water destroy the writing on the paper. Of course this would make nothing undone. I would still need to marry. I would still need to go into the military. I would still need to die. I am frightened. The other boys seem unbothered. They laugh and play like the world isn’t ending around us. Well, their world is probably not ending anyways. They will live. Their parents are rich after all. They have the privilege. I would have had this privilege as well, but they took it from me by putting this name on me. I took it from myself with my impure thoughts.

Cordelia sent me a telegram that just read that I would need to be careful as death was approaching me in the worst way. I hate her for that. As if I wouldn’t know that. As if I wouldn’t know that I needed to go into the army soon. Not a single word about our forced wedding. I thought we had always agreed to both be against it. But then again she isn’t even trying to love me. Not that I would try. Not anymore. I tried when I was younger, because I was told to. But Cordelia has just no idea how to react appropriately to a gentleman. Her behavior makes it hard to believe that she is from such a high rank.

I saw Simon with a weird book today. He told me it is from his brother and that it is about demons. I told him that this was total nonsense and that he should get a grip on reality. He didn’t spoke to me again after that. Weird for someone who is as annoying as him. I am going to put my notebook in the pocket of my sleeping clothes tonight just to make sure Simon cannot steal it. I have a bad feeling in my stomach. My heart is aching for absolutely no reasons. I am afraid as I try to sleep tonight and the worst thing is that it is irrational. I am going to die alone, this is all my head produces right now.

Now every page was covered with blood at the side of the pages and sometimes even on the writing itself. There were no drawings to be found anymore. Just drawings for the escape plan and hierarchy of hell.

I don’t know if my dates are correct. I don’t know how time works in here. I don’t even know how long I am able to write without this thing waking up. This thing with the many doll heads. This spider like creature that kills me every time I move or make a sound. I sometimes wonder what happened to the other boys.

I try to change my perspective. It is hard when you are in so much pain. My brain learned to be sharper now. I can think and act quicker. I need to see this as one of my old detective games or as the times that I had to run away from my bullies. Everything is achievable with logic. Although I would say after being in hell for such a long time that might be a delusional optimism.

1988

I think I made it out fairly well. I am still uncontrollably shaky when I hear any noises. I fear that this demon might comeback to get me. I am back in the old school attic where they strapped me down on the table and sacrificed me. I learned a lot from hell and from the books in the attic. Like the basic ghost rules or that my death and the death of my bullies were labeled an act of god. I compared hell to the war a lot. After all I would say that hell was definitely the worse death. Much longer torture than war would have been. In the war you die just one death after all. But maybe a Mary Ann like me would have ended up there anyway.

I finally was brave enough to get out of the attic. I figured out that the year is 1988 from a newspaper that one of the teachers was reading. 72 years of torture. I wonder how often I was torn apart in this time. But I shouldn’t think about that. That reminds me of the pain and of the times when I tried to count my own corpses. The school hasn’t changed a lot. The teachers are less violent, but still rather strict. They have more lower class people here now. I can see it by the ways they behave and by the clothes they wear. That is especially confusing for me. So rude, so explicit, so freely. It is not a boarding school anymore. Luckily that gives me the freedom to have my peace after dark.

I started to watch a specific boy. I am not a stalker. At least I wouldn’t use this therm for a ghost. He is just interesting for my scientific research about this time. The boy has a darker skin. Some children in this school have this skin and get picked on, but somehow he isn’t the one who gets pick on. He wears very interesting clothes. Especially the golden earring. Something I would just see a woman wear, but it fits him so much better than it could ever fit a woman. His clothing is mostly black, though I would say that the red shirt he once worn fits him best. His lips have always a smile on them and he cracks loud jokes. But I see the sadness in his eyes. I recognize my own sadness in his eyes. His name is Charles Rowland. I heard the teacher yell it at him. A little trouble maker in class. He seems to never be able to focus. Maybe he is also possessed like I was when I was a young boy. But after experiencing hell, I doubt that the priest back then had any idea what a demon was really like.

The following page is filled with a very realistic drawing of Charles, who is smiling so iconically and his eyes seem to be filled with emptiness and some smaller doodles of Charles playing Cricket or talking to others.

Charles Rowland. His name repeats itself in my brain. I am not obsessive. He is just the best way of distraction I can find in this school. Distraction from the fear of hell. The fear of death coming back for me. Analysis and observation keep me away from those horrible thoughts. I have less panicle outbursts since I started my observation of this boy. Although when I am alone at night in the school attic I often start to cry in silence and my breathing races again.

Charlie. That is what his friends call him. It doesn’t suit him. Charles is his name. Not Charlie. I don’t like his friends. They are rude. They remind me of the boys in my old life. I wonder why I like Charles then. Maybe because he points out obvious misbehavior of the group even if they mock him.

The most interesting time is when Charles thinks that he is alone. That is mostly in the dressing room, when he gets ready for Cricket. As a short notion he is a fabulous cricket player, but he always waits till the other boys have changed and are out of the room. He pretends to struggle with his shoes or shorts. Even if that sometimes means that it is getting really dark outside. His smiles fades completely then. I saw the scars on his body. I feel bad for even looking at him in that state. Seeing a boy my age without a shirt is clearly inappropriate and it triggers the Mary Ann inside of me, but sometimes my detective senses is taking over too much. Especially after I saw all the scars and bruises. You don’t need to be that clever to understand that his family probably his father beats him. Although beating may be a too mild verb for those scars. I appreciate the absence of my father when I see him. My father and teachers used to beat me as well. With a ruler or the flat hand though not as much as my classmates. And after being through hell, that all seems like nothing in comparison. But even in my time no father would have mistreated their sons like that. I speak from a higher class, maybe it had been different in the lower class, but they were happy if their sons made it through childhood without a disease or scars so they could work properly. Although maybe they did this with the child workers. Is Charles secretly a child worker? Is there still child labour? Why would someone bruise their son like that if their son could provide a great income for the family? Or how many things was Charles doing something seriously wrong?

1989

His friends talked about me last night. They had cricket practice until the sun had settled and on the way back home I heard them talking about a school ghost. The janitor must have heard my weeping last night. My hysteria yesterday was indeed a lot. Too much to handle for myself. I think I was shaking till dawn. This vivid fear must have crossed over into the living world. They told Charles, that this had scared the janitor and he quitted. Then they told him of Mary Ann who was sacrificed 1916 and killed all the boys that night. Charles questioned this logically, since it was an all boys school, so there probably was never a girl. I certainly appreciate his thinking, but this just triggered a lot in me. Being called a Mary Ann even after all this years. Being remembered only as a Mary Ann. Being blamed as the murderer. Those boys clearly had no idea of what the term Mary Ann actually meant, but it just triggered me so badly that I started to panic again. My panic must have bursted through the worlds again, because the boys suddenly turned white and ran home. Charles stayed a little longer. Looking in my direction. I know he couldn’t see me, but maybe he could sense my panic more than the other boys could. Again we are much a like if you observe closely. After this strange second of him just starting into nothing and me starting back, he ran away as well.

I need to leave this place. But I am too scared. Too scared of the outside world. Too scared of the changes.

I wanted to leave today, be brave enough. But I heard Charles ‘friends’ talking bad about him behind his back. How weird he behaved. They had no idea about his scars. Then again if I would be his friend, which is rather unlikely, I wouldn’t confront him. I know how horrible I panic if someone says the word Mary Ann, I imagine that it is a similar situation for him with his scars. I stayed. I don’t know why. Again irrational fears.

I wish I would have left. I saw Charles defending a boy who got bullied by his so called friends. I felt tears in my eyes, because this was the kind of protection I had wished for when I was alive. I definitely feel too many emotions at the moment or maybe it just feels like more emotions because I was mostly numb in hell. The younger boy could escape with only a few bruises, but his friends still were in this blood lust. In this moment of still wanting the fun even though there was nothing funny about the action in the first place. I have seen those faces before. The faces of murders who only realize their actions when it is too late. They stoned him in the cold water. The water of the lake in which I once thought about killing myself a long time ago. I wanted to help. I wanted to stop them, but I had no idea what I could do. I am too new in this ghostly body. I tried desperately, but I ended up only pausing them by holding them back for a short time. It gave Charles time to ran away to the school building. He hid in the attic. I wanted to help him. The least I could do was by giving him a light. He was in a state where a floating light probably was his least problem. It turned out that he could see me and that was the moment I knew it was too late for him anyway. It was a strange sensation to properly speak again. I had never spoken in hell and in my ghost form I had only weeped. Hearing my own voice was odd. I was shortly surprised that I still knew how to use my voice. Reading to him from one of my old comics in the attic calmed him and gave me the opportunity to adapt a bit to talking for a longer period of time. He stayed with me, which honestly stresses me out a lot. I am not made to be a friend. I have been isolated for too long to be a good friend. I have been in hell for so long that I am probably a horrible person myself. I haven’t talked in so long. I am just adapting to just have conversations, how should I teach him to be a ghost, if I haven’t figured it out myself? Even if that all would not be the case and even if we would not be from different times, still I never have been good with other people. I never had friends. The only person a bit close to me was Cordelia and she was always more a sister for me. And still he chooses a stranger his own afterlife. From my observations I would blame his intentional behavior. He sees something and does something without thinking long. Although this decision might be too big for only this explanation.

I really can’t understand why Charles is choosing me over his afterlife. I just read to him once and gave him a lantern. He barely knows me and now he follows me everywhere. I showed him some ghost tricks and somehow I can really impress him by everything I say or do. But he made me smile for the first time in my life. So I am impressed by him as well. Whenever I read in this book, I just tell him that I like to keep record of things. That I would plan were we can go next as we no longer can stay in the school and waking around without plan is never good for too long. It is partly a lie I really am making a plan. But I do this in my head rather than writing it down, but it is an excuse for not letting him see my private writing. I tell him that it is rather boring planning and he believes me. I feel bad for lying to him, but if he would know about my past he surely would leave me and I would be all alone again.

We mirror traveled together to London. Charles felt a bit sick after it. He seems to still need to adapt to his ghost body. I was a bit overwhelmed with his sudden mood shift. I have been too selfish all my life and in my death so much that I don’t know how to help. He didn’t notice or he just didn’t say anything. But we had to mirror travel, it was too dangerous in the school after Charles died. Besides Charles is a talented and athletic boy, he will get the grip of it. In addition death could have caught me in the attic. I didn’t tell him why I am on the run. Not yet. I fear that once I tell him that I was in hell, he will think I am evil. Maybe that is true. Maybe I am just doomed. I feel like it was my fault that he died. I watched him so long with this incorrect feelings of mine. Maybe this cursed him like in a Greek tragedy. For now I just want to make sure that Charles is not alone. I had been alone for too long to know how dreadful it can get and he is much more social than I am.

We visited his family in London. A real rural area. His mother was crying over the loss of her son. His father just seemed to see it as a natural thing to happen to those who aren’t careful enough. I made a mental note to haunt this man every year to Charles’ death day without telling Charles. The school, once again, swept the problem under the carpet and made it appear like an accident. How can someone possibly stone himself while being in the water and then run in an attic? No clever detective would see that as the solution. I said that out loud and it turned out that Charles and I both share a passion for detective stories. That was something to make him smile. But he started to cry again as he saw how desperate his mother and sister were. He hugged me, which was a lot. I never have been hugged before and at first it felt like this demon from hell was gripping around me again. I froze in place and pushed him away in a reflex. Charles stopped. I didn’t tell him about the hell part, but I told him that I am not used to hugs and touches in general. He took it in surprisingly well, but for his own sake I added that I might could get used to it. I hope that I am able to get used to it. Charles sees it as something that he can teach me.

It was just a matter of time till my hell trauma wouldn’t be able to keep hidden anymore. We were in an abandoned apartment, since we both are not staying out the whole night. We don’t have to sleep but it is just too awkward. He usually talks through the whole night and I like his voice even with his weird way of talking. He likes me reading to him. He even carries all my books for me. But as we explored the abandoned house, I discovered an old doll. I overreacted I know. But there was just so much panic inside of me all of the sudden. My fight or flight mood was activated again. I don’t know what Charles did. I don’t know how he managed to stop me from repeating the word ‘Please spare me. I don’t belong in hell.’ I vaguely remember his hands securely holding my head and his shining dark eyes and his calm voice, but I don’t remember his words. He was confused by my sudden changed behavior, but he tried to not show that whole calming me. Once he had calmed me, I obviously had to tell him the truth. I gave him the opportunity to leave me again, but he stayed and he understood, said that this is probably the worst thing someone could have been through. We didn’t speak the rest of the night, but we continued the next day as if nothing had happened.

It is harder to continue my writing as Charles could find out and I don’t want him to know about this. He is so lively. He is jumping and sprinting around, while telling me things and just appears from behind. I cannot risk that. We have a detective agency now. We don’t want that others have their deaths so badly twisted as ours. Another reason was that he had introduced me to a game called Clue, which is basically a detective game, and then we both came up with the idea of starting our own detective agency. He is the brawn and I am the brain. It fits perfectly. We even managed to get a abandoned flat in London. I probably have no time to continue this memoirs, but I will make sure to use my notebook as a case lock book from now own.

I will never tell him about the real meaning of the word Mary Ann. I will never tell him that I had been in the school for a whole year and not just shortly before his death. I will never tell him that I have watched and observed him. I appreciate him now too much. I don’t ever want to lose him.

After that only a whole lot of cases and notes and questions on them followed.

#dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #dbd #dbd fanfic #dead boy detective agency #dead boy detectives fanfic #payneland #crystal palace #niko sasaki #Spotify #payneland fanfic #fanfic collab

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messrmoony71 · 3 days ago

Text

Romantic Moonlily - as requested by @sorcave - 1615 words

Sorry, I got a bit carried away and we ended up with wolfstar as well bc I am a weak person. enjoy <3 (or don't, I can't tell you what to do :)

“Hey, lilyflower,” Remus grinned, dropping onto the window seat beside Lily. She immediately leaned towards him, her head resting on his shoulder, her weight against his side. “Tough Monday?”

“I hate Slughorn,” she muttered, legs kicking in the air outside the open window. “He’s creepy and annoying! He constantly checks on my potion and acts surprised when I’m better than most of the class.”

“All,” Remus corrects, taking her hands in his. “Slughorn’s an incapable professor anyway, he doesn’t give us any instructions besides: ‘Lupin stop stirring before your potion explodes!’.”

Lily snorted at his shoddy impersonation of Slughorn’s booming voice and squeezed Remus’ hands. Her eyes drifted to the Quidditch pitch where two figures were weaving through the stands. “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?” She asked quietly.

“James?” Remus frowned. He knew James had a crush on Lily, but he hadn’t been anything but supportive since they got together.

“No, Sirius.”

“Why do you need to be forgiven by Sirius?” His stomach swirled with unease. Lily and Sirius were his two most favourite people and he’d hate to be caught in the middle of a row, he wouldn’t be able to choose a side.

Lily shrugged, pulling her knees up to her chest and leaning slightly away from Remus. He let him arm drop from where it had come up around her waist and waited for her to speak. “He’s just mad at me. Ever since we started dating. I don’t know why, it’s not like I’ve done anything against him and you spend the same amount of time with each other as you did before.” She let out a long breath. “I don’t know, it just bugs me.”

“I can talk to him if you want.”

“I don’t want to get in more trouble with him.”

Remus frowned and brought his arm up around her shoulders and she fell into his side once more. “Lily, you’re my girlfriend, he’s my best friend. You’re both important to me and I want you to get along. I’ll sort this out, promise.”

Remus did not, in fact, sort it out.

On Tuesday, Lily and Remus were studying together in the Library, silently pouring over History of Magic notes and textbooks, when James and Sirius had come clattering into the Library and thrown themselves in the bench beside Lily and Remus. James leant into Remus side, reading unnecessarily over his shoulder.

“Ooh, Vampish Rebellions through history, how intriguing.”

“It’s not,” remus sighed. “What do you two want?”

“We need a prank,” Sirius announced, throwing his arms up, knocking an ink pot over that spilt onto Lily’s carefully laid out notes. Sirius didn’t seem to notice, instead launching into an animated rant about Filch and pink dye.

“Sirius, apologise to Lily,” Remus cut in, watching as Lily carefully salvaged as many of her notes as she could. Unfortunately the ink had gotten anywhere. Sirius didn’t seen to hear him and kept planning the prank, now involving Mrs Norris as well. “Sirius,” Remus snapped, and Sirius stopped talking immediately. He glanced down at Lily’s notes.

“Spill you ink, flower? Gonna have to be more careful than that,” Sirius smirked, turning to James to continue his prank planning, since Remus clearly wasn’t interested.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Remus snapped when Lily abruptly stood up and left the library, her ruined notes still scattered across the table.

Sirius frowned. “What?”

“I cannot believe you!” Remus snarled, gathering his and Lily’s things and hurrying after her.

By Wednesday, Sirius had managed to avoid all mention of Lily, even when she was standing next to Remus. It was like she didn’t exist to him and it was really starting to get on Remus' nerves. It clearly got to Lily more than she let on, he’d noticed her nails had been bitten and dried blood often lined the edges.

He decided he needed to properly try.

So by Thursday night, when Sirius still had ignored Lily during a group hangout in the common room, he’d followed the other boy to their dorm. Remus waited by the door, blocking Sirius’ only exit and when Sirius emerged from the bathroom, he jumped, startled that Remus had followed him up.

“Merlin, Moony, you scared me.”

“We need to talk,” Remus said, crossing his arms in a way that he hoped looked serious.

Sirius tried to act calm, but Remus noticed his face pale slightly. “We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

“Why do you keep ignoring Lily?” Remus asked before Sirius could steer the conversation away. “Frankly, it’s quite rude and it’s getting on everyone’s nerves.”

“I’m not ignoring her,” Sirius huffed, collapsing onto his bed. Remus stalked over so he was standing over Sirius. He was getting mad now. Sirius was acting like a child.

“Are you determined to make her upset? Angry? Do you want her to break up with me because my best friend can’t keep his shit together?”

“No-“

“Then what is your problem?” Remus shouted, fed up. He hated yelling at Sirius, it caused the other boy to jump every time, but he couldn’t not. Sirius was being a right prick and Remus needed answers.

Sirius didn’t answer right away, only turned his head away from Remus, sitting up with a slight groan. “My problem is you, Remus,” Sirius said, quiet enough that Remus almost missed it.

“Me? Why me?”

Sirius turned to look at Remus again, only this time his eyes were clouded and distant. Remus didn’t like it. He wished the shine in Sirius’ eyes would come back, he hated seeing him sad.

“You always do that,” Sirius muttered. “Act surprised when people notice you.”

“You’re not noticing me, you’re blaming me for something I haven’t done!” Sirius didn’t look at him when he stood up and crossed to the window, his arms folded over his chest, hugging his middle. “Sirius…” Remus sighed and followed his friend, leaning against the wall and studying his profile. “What’s going on?” He asked, gently. He realised now he probably shouldn’t have shouted. It was wrong, but he was desperately trying to fix something before it broke.

Sirius exhaled a long breath, eyes fixed firmly on the mountains past the Quidditch pitch. “You. You’re happening.”

Even more confusing, come on Pads. “Care to elaborate?”

“You.” Sirius turned to him and gestured to Remus’ whole body. “You and your sweaters and cardigans and books and chocolate and honey coloured eyes-“ Sirius cut himself off by pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. When he blinked them open again, Remus guessed he was seeing stars. “You and your kindness,” Sirius continued quietly, staring hard at his feet.

“Sirius…do you…” Remus bit his lip, slowly understanding.

Sirius hadn’t been mad at Lily, he was jealous of her. Sure, ignoring her wasn’t the kindest thing to do, but it was so undoubtably Sirius of him. Sirius Black had a crush on Remus Lupin. Him. Swotty, uncoordinated Remus who he’d know for almost five years. Remus felt a pang of guilt for not noticing sooner. He could’ve been more sensitive. Since James was obviously smitten with Lily, he felt bad telling him about all the kind things she did, so he’d gone to Sirius instead. He should have kept it to himself. Or gone to Pete. Peter was so in love with his Hufflepuff girlfriend, Eleanor, there was no chance of him being jealous of either of them.

“I like you, Remus,” Sirius said quietly, a tear catching in his lashes. “And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I’m sorry for telling you all about Lily, I should have been more considerate.”

“S’not your fault,” Sirius mumbled, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, trying not to let any more tears escape. “Should’ve gotten over it.”

“We can keep doing this, blaming ourselves, or, we can talk about what it means,” Remus said gently when he guessed the conversation was about to run in circles.

“What’s there to talk about? You’re dating Lily, you’re going to fall in love-“

“Sirius, stop being destructive. I like Lily, yes, maybe I love her, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be any less of a friend to me. You’re still my best friend and I’m still going to do all the things I did before. I don’t care how smitten you are, I’m still crawling into your bed after a nightmare.”

Sirius’ cheeks bloomed red slightly, but he nodded, letting his eyes fall from the ceiling and settle on Remus’. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I think I might just stay up here for a bit.”

Remus nodded. “Alright. Just holler if you need anything, alright?”

Remus quietly closed the door and tried not to fall down their dizzyingly tight spiral stairs to the common room. Lily looked up when he walked back in, her eyes wide in question. Remus shook his head, talk later, he mouthed, crossing the room to her side. James and Peter had passed out on each other, both snoring softly. Marlene and Dorcas-who had yet to return to her common room-were curled together on the couch, having a whispered conversation involving lots of giggling. Remus resumed the game of chess with Lily, but eventually felt himself slipping into a sleepy daze. Lily notice and pulled him into her lap, her soft hands brushing through his hair. Remus let out a deep exhale and shuffled until he was comfortable on the fluffy rug.

Love you, Lilyflower, his sleepy brain mumbled, unknowing he’d said the words aloud.

Lily’s hand paused in his hair for the briefest second before she bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “Love you too, Moons.”

#moonlily #marauders #dead gay wizards from the 70s #remus lupin #sirius black #lily evans #wolfstar #marauders era #james potter #marauders fandom #peter pettigrew #jily #dorlene #writeblr #short fanfic #let me know if there's any mistakes I should fix #or if you have any other fic requests #I'm more than happy not to study for exams in two days

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