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deadqueernoldor · 1 year ago

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End of Year Fic Recs!

I got tagged by @camille-lachenille for this, and boy I havent had time to read fic in a hot minute but this was literally the perfect opportunity to go through my ao3 and tumblr bookmarks again! Also I feel really bad that I couldnt get 5 for the first 3 categories, so pls dont take it personal if I forgot. My tagging system is a mess and idk if it works but if you want more tumblr writing recs go into the "writing that has me foaming out the mouth like a rabid dog" tag I have at the top of my account.! There's so many good drabbles and ficlets i couldnt possibly name them all! Also i likely could have tagged other author's tumblr accs but i didn't feel like looking bc I'm exhausted. I love these all sm

Also I cheated with the self rec bc one is from 2022 but I didnt want to rec only my OC lol

Recommend up to 5 series or multi-chapter fics from 2023 that everyone should read (multi-year WIPs count, if the last update was in 2023).

Beneath a Boundless Sky by @runawaymun — ongoing — Rating (M)

Summary: Elrond’s two new wards both struggle to feel at home in Rivendell. The wounds from their slavery in King Frumgar’s court are still fresh, and the scars are deep -- and they’re not the only ones. Maglor is home at last, but each day he lives he is haunted by guilt and grief. Elrond is nothing if not patient, and he is certain that given enough time in Rivendell, all three will heal.

I am always frothing at the mouth at OCs and world building and this work *and the prev work/part 1 of the series* is SO good

dare you see a soul at the white heat? by millyfaraway — ongoing — Rating (M)

Summary: Lómion is reembodied, but struggles to cope. His uncles try to help.

BABY BOY GETS FAMILY THERAPY ABBY BOY SLOWLY GETS CONFIDENCE AND PUPPY LOVE SOBBIG ITS WHAT HE DESERVES anyway go read

The Last Heir of Fëanor - Part Two by Astrance — 87k — Rating (T)

Summary: This is the second part of the tale of the surviving child of Celebrimbor of Eregion and how she fared through the Ages of the world. From the Fall of Ost-in-Edhil to Imladris and the vastness of Second Age Eriador, the fight against Sauron seems never ending. Plans have been set in motion across the Misty Mountains, but, in Lindon, many tasks await.

Have I mentioned how much I love OCs? This is literally one of the best OCs I've read, flaws and all, and the way the whole thing is written is chefs kiss. Cant decide if I'm sweating from the amount of sobbing I've done with this work *and the previous/first part* or because of the delicious angst.

and rain will make the flowers grow by @swanmaids — 800 — Rating (G)

Summary: Glorfindel and Idril; on the Helcaraxë, in Nevrast, in Gondolin.

THEM. THEM. THEM. That's all I have to say. bUT THEM!

Recommend up to 5 single chapter fics/one-shots (long or short) from 2023 that everyone should read.

your veins are empty of dust by @echo-bleu — 1.7k — Rating (G)

Summary: Anairë finds her late one day in her workshop, surrounded by slabs of stone larger than her. Nerdanel is hammering forcefully at one of them, the barest hints of an elven shape already taking form in the marble. Bitter, stinging tears run down her cheeks and into her collar, and her arms ache with exhaustion.

The body is only barely sketched, but the face is already chiselled, smooth curves and angular cheekbones.

Fëanáro emerges out of the marble, looking like he’s about to take life.

(Across the sea, her sons lead a funeral.)

Frothing. Gnawing. I love the writing. The angst. Fucking mourning. Gimme all and then hurt me some more.

Babysitting #01 by @lordgrimwing — more chaps likely, atm oneshot

Excerpt: "She brought her children."

"Who did?”

"That Elwing woman, the pro bono case Celegorm talked me into."

Modern!scenario fix with Exhausted!lawyer!maedhros. He's tired and that's very sexy of him. Maglor is secy. They all are. Idiots. But very sexy. Elrond and Elros best boys. No argument.

Dreams of Doom by @camille-lachenille — 3.8k — Rating (M)

Summary: “She runs in the dark, alone. Where her feet carry her, she knows not, and her heart is heavy with dread. Someone - something - is watching her.”

Niënor from the moment she arrives in Brethil to her death.

THE ANGST THE LOVE THE TENDERNES THE FORESHADOWING I AM BITING THIS BC I CANT FIND GLASS TO CHEW.

Recommend up to 5 fics NOT from 2023 that everyone should read (oldies but goodies.)

Those Peaceful Hours by SpaceWall — 3.9k — Rating (T)

Summary: At the end of the Third Age, faced with her impending return to the home she left before the sun, Galadriel seeks out the one person who will understand her fears and grief.

It's so well written and the premise as a whole is so great!. Compelling and Galadriel characterisation is just so very sexy to me.

Their oath will drive them, and yet betray them by musing_and_writing — 2.2k — Rating (G)

Summary: Elrond had hours to spare, and if Maglor wished to spend the short time they had together reminiscing, he would not blame him for it. As Maglor began singing, Elrond settled himself across the clearing in his own bed of autumn flowers. Maglor’s voice resounded in the clearing, clear and powerful, just as it had upon his fortress’s ramparts as he pushed back Morgoth’s forces with a Song, just as Elrond assumed it must have echoed before the poisoning of the Trees in his family’s halls as Feanor crafted his cursed jewels.

Hehehehehe cryptid mf with a heart I love it the angst the tenderness it's just so *holds gently* while also *bodychecks maglor*

Double The Baggins, Twice The Took by fogisbeautiful — 138.5k — Rating (T)

Summary: The Baggins twins, Briallen and Bilbo, have spent their whole lives taking care of each other. So when the world outside makes an (uninvited) appearance, only one thing is certain. Not for wizard or king or mountain or dragon will the two of them part. Not if they have one word to say about it.

And besides, as Gandalf points out: It never hurts to have a spare burglar on hand.

I'm a sucker for Thorin x hobbit, and you give me a fic with bilbo's sister who's so lovely characterized? I'll kiss you sloppy style

The One With All The Birds by clothonono — 46.5k — Rating (G)

Summary: Would it never end? Would there always be one more mother standing on the shore, looking out to sea, full of a grief made more terrible by hope?

Elwing and Nerdanel in Valinor in the Fourth Age; a story about children coming home.

I think swanmaids recc'd this to me once upon the time when it hadn't been finished and I want to kiss their forehead for it. It's so good! Go read bc I lick my screen every time I re-read it.

Recommend up to 5 of your own fics (completed or WIP) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Bitter end — 6.4k — Rating (T)

Summary: Maglor has one brother left.

Both have one more fight in them.

The ghost you dress up as (knows how to haunt) — ongoing — Rating (M)

Summary: Maedhros was not the first Finwëan to be captured and taken to Angband, nor did he remain there the longest. Ranyatinwë, twin of Caranthir, was the first.

She escapes.

(Series) Old Maggie Took — 7 works — 402k — all Rating (G)

Summary: The headcanon about Maglor, second son of Fëanor, lives hidden in the Shire? Yes.

#tag game #here's the tag for even more tumblr fic recs #writing that has me foaming out the mouth like a rabid dog in a positive way #i hope it works somewhat bc its been a fucking pain to find it with how broke the system is #thank you for the tag besties!

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nopears-blog1 · 8 years ago

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Shiro, Keith and prompt #14

this is so many things it wasn’t meant to be: sheith, and domestic!space!canon!fic, and apparently i’m obsessed with the word ‘pretty’ who knew??? thank you for the prompts, dee! hopefully this isn’t beyond the bounds of things you like :)

w: body image issues (shiro), implied identity issues (keith), heavily implied (but not explicit) sex, a wild star trek reference

14.“You’resupposed to talk me out of this.”

Even if Shiro had stopped towonder if hair dye were a thing in space – which: it must be, right? They weredying hair back in the dark ages with berries and things, Shiro’s pretty sure,so surely in space they’ve figured out hair dye. Even if hehad, which he hadn’t, he wouldn’t normally have picked it up absentmindedly andstared down at the packaging he can’t read like it holds the secrets to takingdown the Empire in the alien’s coy smile as they show off their newly brightgreen hair. If hair is what it is – it’s sort of feathery. Close enough, Shirofigures.

It’s just it’s been a weirdday. Allura kicked them all out of the Castle first thing this morning with thewords, “get out now before I murder you all.” Which isn’t asharsh as it sounds. Pidge and Hunk nearly blew up the entire shuttle bayyesterday, trying to retrofit something into something – what with the avertedexplosion, Shiro hasn’t gotten around to prying an intelligible explanation outof them. Lance has been sulking around the Castle all week, sighing anddisappearing off on his own a lot regardless of what they’re trying to do, butstill always seems to be around to wind Keith up. And Keith’s been trying, hehas, but he’s been annoying everyone, too, pushing everyone to train pastexhaustion and giving even Shiro half a minute of a lecture on being preparedfor what’s coming before he remembered who he was talking to and flushed as redas his Lion.

Shiro had tried to stay inthe Castle with Allura, had said, “Princess, please, what if the Galra attack?”

She’d hooked a foot behindhis ankles and he was flat on his back looking at the ceiling before he knewwhat hit him.

“I will be just fine on myown, Shiro,” she’d told him. She offered him a hand up and shoved him into theshuttle with the others before charting them a course for the Space Mall.

So now here Shiro is, staringdown at something he’s pretty sure is hair dye from the context, the row ofsimilar bottles lined up on a shelf in what’s something like a pharmacy, allwith pictures of aliens with nearly-hair in different colours. He’s rememberingthe girl in his class in his first year at the Garrison with a bright purpleshock of hair. He remembers he’d thought it looked cool before Iverson made herdye it back to blonde; he’d thought so in a slightly envious way he sometimesgot when he looked at non-regulation things back then. In the way he gets nowsometimes when he looks at pretty things, like people used to tell him he wasbefore all the scars and the limb-loss and the trauma.

And before the white hair.That doesn’t help.

He hears someone coming justa tiny bit too late, shoving the dye back on the shelf and turning towards themwith affected nonchalance pasted on his face.

Keith meets his eyes withmuted curiosity, glancing at the hair dye for a moment and pausing, taking amoment to consider it. When he looks back at Shiro his eyes go first to hishair and Shiro feels his cheeks warm.

“What’s up?” he asks, takinga step closer to Keith and taking advantage of how that always distracts Keithjust a little. Keith’s lashes flutter minutely, he firms his shoulders, andShiro’s pretty sure he’s succeeded in distracting him. If part of him thinksback to Keith’s bitten off lecture – the one on taking advantage of any openingyou’re given and fuck morality – with amusement, he’s never claimed to be abovea little friendly vindictiveness.

“Nothing,” Keith says,because like Shiro his first thought is always that something’s gone wrong andhe knows to get reassurance that it hasn’t (yet) out of the way first. Shirohad known from the measure of Keith’s footsteps, but appreciates it anyway. “Hunkknows a guy and said he’ll get us free lunch. Want to join us?”

Shiro smiles easily, puts ahand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezes as he turns him back towards the door outof the pharmacy as he nods, saying, “sure, you won’t catch me turning down freefood.”

Keith grins at him, leaninginto him just a little, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Shiro feels hispulse jump a little, feels his own smile soften, and silently acknowledges thetwo-way street that is their weakness for each other.

Later, back on the Castle,Shiro gives Keith’s hip a parting kiss as he makes his way back up Keith’sheaving chest. He kisses Keith’s throat and the corner of his lips, lifting hisweight off him to where he can grin down at him, pushing Keith’s hair out ofhis eyes.

Keith’s lips are red andswollen as he smiles back, lazy, the way he only really gets in their quietestmoments alone or when he’s just had really good sex. He pulls Shiro down withhis fingers tangling in the white tuft of Shiro’s hair for a wet, open-mouthedkiss that Shiro laughs into, wrinkling his nose, saying, “you hate the taste-”and getting cut off by Keith’s insistent tongue.

Shiro lets him have his kissthrough several long, slow moments that are way too easy to sink into. Finally,though, he pushes himself up, lips still close enough to Keith’s to brushagainst each other as he says, “I’m going to go brush my teeth.

Keith mock-frowns indisapproval, watching Shiro get up, stretch, and walk into the bathroom. Hecalls, “brush mine for me too,” and laughs when Shiro reaches back through thedoor to flick him off.

Shiro notices the bottles ashe turns back to the sink. There are three of them, one each in purple, pinkand blue. He definitely didn’t buy them, and there was only one person who sawhim looking.

Keith loops an arm aroundShiro’s waist, holding onto his hip with one hand as he reaches past him fortheir working replacement for toothbrushes and toothpaste with the other. Shirolays a hand over Keith’s on his hip, tangling their fingers together, and asks,“why did you get them?”

Keith takes his time inanswering, waiting until they’re both done brushing to hug Shiro with both hisarms, chest pressed to Shiro’s back and presumably standing on his toes so hecan dig his chin into Shiro’s shoulder as he watches him in the mirror withserious eyes.

“I got them for you,” Keithsays. “For if you wanted to try them.”

It’s hard not to look awayfrom Keith, to not look at what Keith’s watching so intently, to try to figureout what Keith sees with his serious eyes when he does.

“Do you not like the white?”Shiro makes himself ask, and is grateful that Keith’s reaction is muted; hiseyes flash with confusion and concern for a split second and he digs his chinin a little harder.

“Don’t make it about me,”Keith tells him. Shiro ducks his head, half a nod and half ducking away fromKeith’s eyes.

“Sorry,” he says. Pauses,then admits: “it’s easier.”

The thumb on Shiro’s hip pressesin, starts stroking up and down in a tiny, comforting movement as Keith says,“I know,” and kindly leaves off the idiot implied by histone. He doesn’t say, I’m part-Galra and you don’t care, either, but that’s implied, too.

“You could have got black,”Shiro says, and continues watching Keith’s hands on his skin as Keith replies,“that’s not what you were looking at,” and as Keith’s fingers meet and tracedown one of Shiro’s biggest and ugliest scars like it’s the most precious partof him. Sometimes Keith gets like this: intense and gentle. It drives Shiro tothe brink every time.

Keith fills the silence withsimple reassurance: he’s had Coran look over the ingredients and he’s prettysure there’s nothing in them, and Lance had suggested doing a patch test justto be sure before using it if he decides to. Shiro spends half a second thinkingabout getting annoyed that Keith got the others involved before he remembersthey’re seven people on a single ship and no one has any secrets.

“I can’t have pink hair,”Shiro says, ignoring the budding twist of nervous excitement he feels at theidea even as it makes him smile. “This is dumb, Keith, I’m having amid-twenties crisis and you’re encouraging me.”

A kiss to the sensitive spotunder Shiro’s ear has him squirming, squeezing Keith’s hand in reprimand fortrying to distract him. Keith smiles against Shiro’s skin and says, “I thinkyou’d look pretty with pink hair.” He kisses him again in the same spot andit’s just a coincidence that Shiro forgets to breathe for a moment.

“You’re my second-in-command,Keith; you’re my Spock. You’re meant to be the voice of reason.” Shiro findshimself tilting his head to the side so Keith can get at the skin he’s sointent on kissing. It’s easier than normal to look at himself in the mirror, tosee the white shock of hair he doesn’t remember happening and the scars hedoesn’t remember getting alongside the ones he does and the arm. It’s easier tobear with Keith’s arms wrapped around him and his distracting mouth holding himtogether and here.

“Allura is your Spock,” Keithtells him. Shiro waves him off; they’ve had this argument before.“I’m your Bones.”

“You’re supposed to talk meout of this,” Shiro says, meeting Keith’s eyes in the mirror as presses hislast open-mouthed kiss to Shiro’s neck before turning Shiro around with thehands on his hips.

“You hate this,” Keith tellshim, running his fingers through Shiro’s white tuft. He presses a firm, chastekiss to Shiro’s lips, then says against them, “don’t ask me to argue againstthings that might make you happy.”

Shiro shakes his head, halfautomatically just at Keith’s tone. He kisses Keith, says, “okay,” kisses himagain, and adds, “sorry,” and “I won’t,” and “let’s stop talking about my miledeep issues and go back to bed now,” between kisses.

Keith lets himself be pulledthat way, lets himself be bundled into bed where their limbs fall tangled andShiro gentles his touch against Keith’s skin as he nuzzles and nips at thesensitive hollow of Keith’s throat; quid pro quo, after all.

Their last serious moment ofthe night comes when Keith takes Shiro’s hand, pressing the metal palm to hislips, and says, “I like you so much, you know, and that includes all yourissues.”

“That’s so not fair,” Shirotells him after taking several moments to recover from how that’d made hiswhole body tingle. “You’re my favourite person in the universe and I stillcan’t think of anything I can say that’d beat that.”

Keith rolls his eyes, says,“we are not competing,” which is a lie, and, as if to prove it, “every time yousay something that dumb I’m going to tell you how pretty you are until youbelieve it,” and grins at Shiro’s furious blush.

“You’re evil,” Shiro tellshim. “I’ll find your weakness one day, too.”

Keith laughs. Says, “sure,babe, and on that day I’ll regret this.”

“No you won’t,” Shiro says.

“No, I won’t.”

Some days later, when Shiroleaves his room he passes Lance in the hall and asks if he’s okay because he’sflushed and dropped his towel, then sees Hunk and is concerned when he has torepeat what he said three times before Hunk answers. Coran acts normally andPidge is too busy with some tech thing to do more than grunt when he says goodmorning. Allura stares at him, though, until Shiro’s left trying not to squirmin his seat and asking, “are you okay, Princess?” She startles, eyes widening,and hurries to say, “yes, of course. Good morning, Shiro,” in her most regalvoice.

Keith, when he arrives, sitsnext to Shiro close enough that their thighs are pressed together. He takes alook around the table, turns to Shiro, threads his hands through Shiro’s newlycoloured hair and pulls him in for a heated, proprietary kiss.

“Pretty,” he breathes againstShiro’s lips when they part. “Told you.”

His smile against Shiro’slips, as Shiro, predictably, flushes and as Keith goes back in for a morebreakfast-appropriate peck, is smugly happy.

#voltron #my fic #deecherrywolf #sheith #keith #shiro #idk man i just wanted shiro dying his white patch shut up okay #this is the dumbest #and also shiro having body issues gives me life #i'm an idiot and forgot i was writing for tumblr not ao3 #fixed my italics!

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emachinescat · 4 years ago

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The Day that Camelot Forgot

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 24 - memory loss

Summary: A vengeful Morgana casts a powerful curse on Camelot on the day Merlin is named Court Sorcerer, making everyone in the citadel forget that Merlin – and his impact on their lives – exists. She can only maintain the spell for one day, but twenty-four hours is more than enough time for the warlock to get himself into some serious trouble.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, the knights, Gaius, Morgana is mentioned

Words: 6,444

TW: anxiety attacks, burning at the stake, main character near-death

Note: This story is a bit late, as it was meant to be published on day 24 of Febuwhump, but I got sick, and missed a few days. I did post the first half of it on Tumblr on the 24th, but this is the finished product. I am seriously considering writing a sequel, because there are definitely a lot of ramifications that I gloss over here, a lot of angsty, whumpy stuff that I could (and most likely will) expand upon in another story. But I'll let you read the story for yourself, and see if you're interested in a sequel!

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, and re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

Merlin woke up to a broom head hitting him in the face, which was not how he expected his first day as Court Sorcerer to start.

An indignant squawk escaped him as he rolled off of his bed in an effort to escape the assault. He already had an insult for Arthur on his lips when his bleary eyes cleared and he realized that it had not been the king at all who had woken him in such a manner. It was Gaius, and he was poised to strike again.

"Gaius!" Merlin stammered, scrambling to his feet and dodging another blow from the broom. "What the hell are you doing that for?"

Gaius didn't answer. Instead, looking as mean and ornery as Merlin had ever seen him, the old physician demanded, "How did you get in here?"

Merlin cocked his head to one side, completely nonplussed. "I… live here? I remember turning Arthur's offer for new chambers down so I could stay and care for you – OW!"

Gaius had hit him again. "Who are you?" he all but growled.

Merlin blinked. "Gaius, you know me," he insisted, his heart hammering out his uncertainty at the pulse point in his neck. Something was wrong; Gaius might be cantankerous for his old age, and he might have enjoyed the odd joke at Merlin's expense, but never something like this.

Merlin tried again. "Gaius, it's me… Merlin." When Gaius only glared at him distrustfully from beneath two gnarled eyebrows, he added hopefully, "You know… Hunith's son?"

To his relief, recognition lit in his mentor's eyes at the mention of Merlin's mother, but distrust immediately replaced it. "I have known Hunith all of her life," Gaius said, voice low and measured, broom still held at the ready. "But she has no son."

Real fear exploded in Merlin's chest – fear for Gaius, not for himself. There was only so much Gaius could do with a broom, but if he was forgetting Merlin so suddenly and so completely…

"Ah, I'm sorry," Merlin said as calmly as possible, raising his hands in front of him to show he meant no harm. "My mistake. I'll … get out of your hair."

He darted out of his room, across the physician's main chamber, and out the door, leaving a confused and agitated Gaius in his wake. Merlin prayed that the old physician wouldn't get himself into too much trouble while he was gone, and then darted for Arthur's chambers.

***

He ran into Gwaine on the way – literally, he ran headfirst into the knight, so distracted by Gaius's sudden and dramatic loss of memory. At first he wasn't sure whose ridiculously muscular torso he'd bumped into, and despite his worry, he couldn't help but grin when he saw the bearded face glaring down at him in surprise.

Wait…

Glaring?

Merlin stumbled back.

"Watch where you're going, friend," Gwaine said in response. The way he spoke sent a wave of wrongness down Merlin's spine. He had called Merlin��friend, but it was a vague, generalized term. When Gwaine normally called Merlin his friend, the word was saturated with warmth and shone with the light of a dozen charming grins. Now, it meant nothing. And when Merlin looked up into his friend's dark eyes, there was no recognition there. No smile that Merlin had come to understand as reserved especially for the knight's closest friends. Gwaine's eyes landed on him, flashed in brief annoyance, and then skirted off of him almost nearly as quickly.

"Gwaine?" Merlin asked, irritated at the uncertainty in his own voice.

Gwaine, who had already started sauntering away, turned back with a puzzled expression. For just a moment, Merlin was sure that kind, mischievous face was going to open up in an eyes-to-mouth smile like it always did upon seeing him, but then the brow furrowed, and Gwaine asked, "Do I know you?"

Merlin opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He stood there, gaping like a fool, his whole body coiled as if ready to spring into action, limbs numb, fingers trembling, fear wrapping its constricting tendrils around his chest.

Gwaine gave Merlin an odd look, then shrugged. "Maybe we drank together once."

Merlin nodded weakly, remembering not just once, but many times he and the man before him had gone to the tavern together, often with the rest of the knights, sometimes even the king, in tow. He thought of laughter, and promises of friendship and loyalty, and tavern songs and Gwaine standing on top of a table doing a clumsy jig. He thought of the first time they'd gone to the tavern after learning of Merlin's magic, how Gwaine had asked him a million questions that had gotten more idiotic with every drink. ("No, Gwaine, I have never tried to transplant my nose into the center of a rose to see if flowers can smell themselves.")

By the time he had resurfaced from the barrage of memories that Gwaine had forgotten and that Merlin now clung to with a new ferocity, the knight had gone.

Feeling distinctly sick, Merlin resumed his trek to Arthur's chambers, noticing with fresh terror that every person he passed either didn't acknowledge him at all, or gave him a second, bewildered glance like they'd never seen him before, like he had no right being where he was – being in his home.

***

Arthur didn't remember him, either.

Merlin was so near panic when he got to the king and queen's chambers that he almost forgot to knock. Knocking was never something Merlin had been particularly adept at remembering to do, especially when it came to his duties to Arthur, but since the king had married Gwen, Merlin had made sure to amend his habits. There were some things that Merlin absolutely did not want to walk in on, and besides, he respected Gwen too much to risk barging in on her unannounced.

It was Arthur who answered the door, and Merlin was so flustered that he didn't wait for an invitation to enter (when did he ever, though?), and he squeezed his way into the room past the king. Gwen was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank the gods you're here, Arthur," Merlin huffed as he bustled in. "Something very weird is going on. Gaius and Gwaine are acting like they don't know me, like they've never seen me in their lives!"

He turned around to face his friend. To his surprise, Arthur's hand was on the hilt of his sword at his hip, and suspicion rolled off of him in waves. "Who the hell are you?" he asked flatly, blue eyes flashing with an intensity reserved for those who wished to do him, his kingdom, or his loved ones harm.

Merlin had been expecting a joke like this. Arthur was never one to pass up an opportunity to tease his former servant, soon-to-be Court Sorcerer. The dry retort, "Very funny, Sire," died before it could escape his mouth, though, because when he looked at his king, his best friend, he saw no glimmer of recognition. No familiarity. No kindness or warmth or irritated indulgence. Arthur's face was that of a man who had just had a complete stranger barge into his room and started talking to him like they were old acquaintances – which, Merlin was beginning to realize, was exactly what had happened from the king's point of view.

Merlin swallowed heavily and entreated, "Arthur … King Arthur. Please tell me that you know me." Desperation clawed at his throat and infected his next plea. "Please."

Arthur didn't speak, didn't relax his grip on his sword hilt, but he didn't draw the weapon either, which Merlin thought had to be a good sign. Finally, after several long, tense moments, Arthur responded in a slow, cautious tone, "I'm sorry. I have never seen you before in my life. What business do you have with me?"

Merlin's world, everything he knew and understood and loved, crumbled around him in that moment. He staggered back, managed to stay upright by pure strength of will alone. What the hell was going on? The familiar sting of tears pressed against the back of his eyes, and he only managed to keep himself from crying by sheer stubbornness. He took a deep, steadying breath, made a conscious effort to look as non-threatening as possible, and tried very hard not to panic.

"Okay," he said, and his voice shook, so he tried again. "Okay." This time, his voice was steadier. Arthur's glare pounded into him from across the room, and knew that the king's already thin patience was running out. "Something very wrong is happening in Camelot," the sorcerer began.

Arthur interrupted him. "I agree," he said pedantically. "There's a strange man in my chambers."

"I'm not – I am, or I was, your servant."

"My servant's name is George."

Merlin couldn't help it. He groaned. "George? The one who makes jokes about brass? He's your servant in this hellish version of Camelot?"

Arthur sent Merlin a look that was almost pitying. "You are obviously very confused," he said in a surprisingly gentle tone. "But I am king of Camelot, and you have no right to be in my personal chambers. Go now, and I will think nothing more of this intrusion. If you do not, then I will have to treat you as a threat, and call the guards."

Merlin shook his head, unwilling to let this go. In the span of a single morning, his entire reality, the world he and Arthur had worked so hard to build and the future that they were about to step into, his new position as Court Sorcerer, his friendship with Arthur, everything, had been ripped away from him. He had to figure out what could have caused this to happen. He didn't have to think long – who was out there with enough power to make what seemed like the entire citadel forget he existed? Who was angry and envious and vindictive enough to take away everyone he loved on the very day that the culmination of his and Arthur's dreams were finally taking shape?

Even as Arthur stepped forward, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it, Merlin blurted, "It has to be Morgana!"

All the color drained out of Arthur's face in an instant. He stood there, frozen, a horrible expression of pain manifesting in his eyes. "How dare you speak of my sister," the king growled, and Merlin actually backed up a few steps, bumping into the end table that he'd polished more times than he could count.

"I know she's a difficult subject to talk about," Merlin managed, striving to keep his voice steady as the grief in Arthur's eyes turned to fury. "But it's the only explanation. Morgana must have cast a curse on the citadel – you have to let me go find her, please, and I can stop this, and the world can go back to normal."

Arthur drew his sword now, and Merlin had no more room to retreat. He stood before his king, his closest friend, his muscles aching from the tension gripping his body, his heart pumping so fast and hard he could feel the flutter in his chest. "Arthur, please–"

"I am your king!" the man who had Arthur's face but spoke like his father spat. "You will address me as such! And how dare you insinuate that the Lady Morgana was a sorceress! What vile game are you playing?"

Merlin's head spun; he had no idea what was going on, how Arthur was currently seeing the world, but he did know for certain now that Morgana was behind it. The reverence and love with which the king said his half-sister's name could only come from a delusion the sorceress in question had placed there. Then something Arthur had said hit home. "What do you mean 'was'?"

The expression on the king's face was faintly nauseated, as if he were being forced to remember something that he had hidden away deep inside, or as if he were actively fighting the urge to cut Merlin down on the spot. Either scenario felt entirely wrong and filled Merlin with a sense of dread. "My sister is dead," Arthur said flatly. "She who would have been queen – should have been queen." Oh, yes, Morgana was definitely behind this, Merlin thought wryly. It was bad enough she had these sick delusions in the first place, but to force everyone in Camelot to play a part in them was equally terrifying and sad. "Struck down by a sorcerer in cold blood."

Merlin flinched at the way Arthur spat the word sorcerer. It had been years since he had heard the title said with such hatred and derision, and never had he heard this level of malevolence for magic-users come from Arthur's mouth. After everything they had been through together, after the joy of watching their prophesied destiny unfold before his very eyes, after hearing Arthur accept his magic and plan to officially declare him Court Sorcerer, hearing the title that Arthur had so often spoken of with pride slide out of that same mouth slicked with hatred hurt. But Merlin reminded himself of the truth – this wasn't Arthur, not really; somehow he was being fed false memories – and he squared his shoulders and looked his king right in the eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said solemnly. Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Merlin hoped it was a good sign. "But Arthur – your highness – I need you to listen to me, please. I can explain everything. I can try, at least. But your memories aren't what you think they are. Morgana is alive and… very well, considering the power of this enchantment."

"My sister was murdered by magic, and yet you still insist that she is the evil enchantress!" Arthur fumed, and Merlin felt like he was talking to a stone wall, or even more deaf and unyielding, Uther Pendragon. He very seriously considered knocking Arthur out with magic and tucking him away safely in a wardrobe somewhere while he himself went to deal with the sorceress who had caused all this trouble. But Merlin could sense Arthur, the real Arthur, somewhere beneath the surface of those familiar-but-foreign eyes, and he was sure he could break the spell without having to go to the source. Merlin was Arthur's dearest friend, the king had said this himself (and yes, it still counted even if Arthur had been incredibly drunk after a night in the tavern with Gwaine when he said it). And Merlin knew Arthur better than anyone else, save the queen.

I can reach him, he reassured himself. Arthur is still in there, somewhere. I just have to find him. And once he's back to himself, I can deal with Morgana.

"Please, sire," Merlin said, putting every bit of sincerity he could muster into his words. "Just… let me tell you my side of the story. Let me remind you of who I am, and who you truly are. I am your friend, Arthur, and you have said yourself that I am the most stupidly loyal man you have ever had the displeasure to meet." A desperate chuckle lilted his last few words.

"You have two minutes."

"Um, there's a lot to cover, actually," Merlin responded. "Can I have a bit longer, because I don't think–"

"One and half minutes."

"Okay, okay, I'll stick to the basics!" And so Merlin gave Arthur the quickest and most condensed version of their friendship and history he could cobble together in less time than it usually took to exchange greetings with his king in the morning.

He ended with, "And so you see, it makes sense that Morgana would want to sabotage this occasion, because it marks the beginning of a new era that she desperately wants to be a part of but is too bitter and proud to humble herself and change for. She wants to tear us apart, wants you to do something that you'll later regret. But I know you're stronger than this, Arthur. I know that you remember me, deep down. The life you're living isn't yours. Your memories aren't yours. They belong to Morgana, but your mind does not." A strange, almost trance-like mask had descended over Arthur's face while Merlin spoke, and hope started budding in the warlock's chest – he was so close to breaking through, he could feel it.

"So," Merlin prompted, when Arthur did not immediately respond. "Do you remember? Have you realized the truth, sire?"

Slowly, Arthur nodded, and the dazed quality to his eyes cleared up in an instant. "Yes," he murmured. Merlin allowed his eyes to close momentarily in relief; his body sagged against the table at his back. Thank the gods, the nightmare was over. Now all that was left was to find Morgana and make sure nothing like this ever happened again.

But Arthur wasn't finished speaking, and the hardness had steeled his gaze once more, his lips set in a straight line and his jaw clenched and held high. "I have realized that I was a fool to think that you were a harmless vagrant with delusions of grandeur who wandered into the wrong part of the castle. I should never have opened the door for you."

"Arthur–"

"I am your KING!" Merlin snapped his mouth shut, tears once again prickling at the corner of his eyes. The injustice of the situation weighed as heavily on him as his destiny once had. "You are a sorcerer, an enemy of Camelot, here in an attempt to take down Camelot from the inside. But your spells and tricks and poisoned words will not work on me."

"But–"

"Guards!"

"You don't understand, I–"

"Guards!"

***

Elyan and Percival were the knights who dragged Merlin to the dungeons and threw him roughly into a cell. Then Percival clasped his wrists in shackles, which were chained to the floor. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang.

"Percival – Elyan!" Merlin called out as the knights that had only a week ago pledged their acceptance and loyalty to him as the soon-to-be Court Sorcerer and chief advisor to the king. "Please, you know me!"

"You'll die for your treachery, sorcerer," Elyan spat.

The left, and Merlin sank to the cold, damp stone floor, chains clinking. He drew his knees up to his chest, rested his aching head on them, and did his best to remember how to breathe.

***

Merlin wasn't sure how long he had been in the dungeon, but it had to have been a couple of hours at least. He hadn't eaten breakfast because the old man who usually prepared it for him had instead attacked him with a broom. Now, he was certain he had missed lunch too. His stomach growled at him in protest, but the hunger pangs meant nothing to Merlin. Even if the guards dropped off a meal fit for a king, he wouldn't be able to eat a bite. Everything had gone so wrong.

And now Merlin was at a loss of what to do. He could escape the dungeons easily, he knew, and go searching for Morgana. But there were so many uncertainties, a litany of what ifs that railed against him whenever he thought about breaking out of his chains and sending the cell door crashing into the guards holding a silent but hostile vigil on the other side. If indeed he could find Morgana and discover a way to reverse the curse, then it would, of course, be an easy fix. Merlin's failure to connect with Arthur and break the spell himself had planted a seed of self-doubt deeply within the soil of his mind, however, and now what he had been so sure of before he'd tried to fix things himself – that he would be able to hunt down Morgana and stop this madness with magic – seemed like a distant, unrealistic goal.

And if he did fail? If he could not find Morgana, or if she had managed to employ a magic far more powerful or strange than he currently knew how to counter? If he was unable to break the curse? Then Arthur would go on believing Merlin was the enemy, and Merlin would have forfeited any chance of reaching his friend by flouting the king's edict, attacking the guards, and breaking out of the castle.

Merlin had only been able to get through to Arthur in his other life, his real life, by showing the king over a period of years that magic was not something to be inherently feared, not something evil in and of itself. He had had to show the king through his own life and actions the truth about magic, so that when Arthur had at last learned of his secret, it was from Merlin's own lips and with nearly a decade of loyalty and friendship to back up Merlin's assurances that he had only ever used his gifts to protect Arthur and Camelot. Sure, Arthur had been angry at first, and hurt that Merlin hadn't trusted him, but he had come to an acceptance of Merlin's magic much more quickly than the warlock had imagined. King and servant had grown even closer in the wake of the truth, and soon after, Arthur had started drafting plans for making magic legal and had proposed the idea of Melin's being officially named Court Sorcerer.

But if Merlin was forced to start from scratch, to rebuild his relationship with the king – a possibility that pained him deeply but that he was more than willing to do, if it was the only way to get Arthur back and get their destiny on track – then it would not be wise to start that relationship off with a jailbreak. Then again, he argued against himself, neither was blurting out his secret to an Arthur who had already shown great disdain for magic and who held no memory of or loyalty toward Merlin at all. At this rate, maybe it was better to just take the risk and escape, because how in the name of the Triple Goddess was he supposed to convince Arthur of his loyalty if the king most likely planned to execute him for treason?

He almost made his escape then, but something stopped him. At first, he couldn't identity exactly what it was, just a feeling, an uncomfortable squirming in his gut that could have been the voice of destiny, or instinct, or, quite possibly, hunger. But either way, it bothered him enough that he held off on his plans to break out and examined the feeling more closely. Eventually, he realized – if he left Arthur now, especially in the state he was in, alone and unprotected and with Morgana out there somewhere with her eyes feasting hungrily on the citadel she so earnestly believed should be hers, he could be putting the king in more danger. If Merlin wasn't able to find Morgana in time, and she used his absence to ease her way into the citadel and onto the throne, which Arthur would readily give up to her in his current state.. With him under her influence, she could do whatever she wanted to him – kill him, imprison him, break his mind forever… and Merlin wouldn't be there to stop her.

With this thought, he decided to wait it out, and to see how events would unfold. He would not use his magic to defy Arthur or make his escape unless absolutely necessary. After all, he tried to assure himself, there was the very real possibility that Morgana would not be able to hold this powerful of a spell for long. She might be a priestess of the Old Religion, but even she had her limits. Perhaps her plan was to lure Merlin out to find her and then to use his absence to take Camelot for herself, but it was entirely possible that she only had a limited window of time to achieve her goal and that she was counting on Merlin to act on his emotions and search her out immediately.

Or maybe her plan was just to simply wreak havoc in Merlin's life for as long as she could. Either way, Merlin reasoned, her hold over the entirety of Camelot could not last forever. Sooner or later, her grip would weaken and Arthur and the rest of the citadel would wrest their way out of her control.

Merlin just had to survive until then.

***

He was unsure of how much time had passed when they came for him again. No one had brought him food, or water, and no one had come to visit him during his imprisonment, either. Merlin thought it was highly likely that Arthur had ordered any curious parties to stay away; the king had made it abundantly clear that he considered Merlin a dangerous threat. The fact that he had not been given even a hunk of stale bread or a flagon of water sent warning bells off in Merlin's mind – if this strange Arthur was anything like Uther had been, then he knew that he would be executed swiftly and without trial, and there was no need to feed a dead man.

Gwaine and Leon came to collect him. Leon unlocked the shackles and shoved him at Gwaine, who spat at his feet. "And to think I was kind to you this morning," he growled, and Merlin fought the urge to remind him that he hadn't exactly been kind, more indifferent. Gwaine roughly spun Merlin around, wrenched his hands behind his back so hard that pain sliced through his shoulder blades. Merlin felt his hands being bound tightly, expertly behind his back with course, thick rope. He reached into himself and felt his magic, alive, pulsing, ready to rise to his defense, and he took solace in it, but kept it at bay.

Not yet, he told himself.

But he was getting scared, and he was running out of options.

***

They shoved him to his knees before Arthur, who sat unyielding and terrible on his throne, a mirror image of his father. Merlin realized with a start that there was only one throne.

"Where's Gwen?" he asked. Now that he thought about it, the servant-turned-queen hadn't come up when Merlin had told his story to Arthur earlier, and the king had made no mention of his wife. In fact, he recalled with a start, none of Gwen's more domestic touches had been in Arthur's chamber.

Arthur stood, striding forward and looming over his prisoner. "You should have gagged him," he groused. "He doesn't know how to shut up." For a split second, Merlin thought that maybe the real Arthur was beginning to resurface – that was exactly something that he would say! Then he crossed his arms over his chest and asked irritably, "Who is Gwen? Your accomplice?"

"No, no," Merlin quickly assured him, not wanting to cause any trouble for Gwen, wherever she was. It was odd, he thought: Most elements of Camelot had stayed the same in Morgana's living nightmare, like the knights – even the non-noble ones, even Elyan, Gwen's brother, had remained as they were. But Arthur, in this version of reality, had never married Gwen. It made sense if he thought about it, though. Gwen had occupied the role that Morgana had believed was hers, had, in the witch's eyes, betrayed her trust and left her for the man that represented everything Morgana hated. Of course, Gwen wouldn't have her happy ending, her marriage to Arthur, with Morgana in charge. She was being punished as well. Merlin wondered if Gwen had been left with her memories of the real world like he had been, or if she was somewhere in Camelot, living and thinking as a maid when she really was a queen.

To Merlin's relief, Arthur didn't pursue the line of questioning any further. "I have talked this matter over with my council and advisors," he said in a measured voice. A burst of bitterness howled inside of Merlin – he had been named Arthur's chief advisor! He had been a part of the original council, the Knights of the Round Table, when Arthur had first brought them together! And now this illusion of Morgana's had stolen that away from him, too.

Not yet, he reminded his magic, as it raged and boiled and frothed inside of him. Be patient.

He might have been able to control his magic, but he could not keep his sarcasm completely in check: "And I am sure that in your discussion with the council, you all came to a completely fair and totally unbiased decision based on facts and not the unfounded prejudices of your father's rule."

He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it certainly was not Arthur's face flushing an angry red, nor the back of his hand smashing full-force into Merlin's cheek, snapping his head to the side violently. He felt one of the king's rings split the skin on his cheekbone, and thought for a breathless moment that the entire left side of his face had caved in.

He couldn't keep back the lone tear that crawled from the corner of his eye. It didn't come from pain or even shock – but a sense of gut-wrenching betrayal that he could not reason his way out of, even knowing that Arthur was not himself. Even in the state that Arthur was in, even knowing that the king would make plans to execute him, Merlin never anticipated Arthur himself becoming physically violent with him. Somehow, Arthur's hitting him was so much more of a betrayal than a death sentence.

Just. Wait. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep his magic from rising to his defense.

"You will learn your place, sorcerer," Arthur hissed. "When you burn. Take him; we light the pyre at first dawn."

***

Fear screamed through Merlin's body like a whirlwind, and coherent thought fled in the wake of his worst nightmares manifesting before him. He had been sure that Arthur would have chosen hanging or even the chopping block, but a pyre –

Merlin had grown up terrified of fires, horrified at the possibility of dying a brutal, torturous death, swallowed and ravaged by flames, all because he was born with magic. Because of who he was.

No one had been burnt at the stake in years in Camelot. Certainly not after Arthur became king. It was a barbaric practice, and even the worst war criminals and traitors were given a swift, merciful death. He had assumed that Arthur would continue that tradition.

But no, when he was dragged out into the courtyard – the sky was dark, but the air chilly and damp, heralding the approaching dawn – a great pyre had been constructed, and the rest of the knights – his friends – had gathered around, their faces lit eerily by the flickering flames of the torches they held at the ready. At least Gaius wasn't there.

You're not actually going to die, Merlin tried to remind himself, dragging desperately for air through his nose, his mouth blocked by his neckerchief that they'd dragged over his mouth in a bid to keep him from talking, or screaming, or just out of pure spite, Merlin didn't know. You can escape. You will escape, and find Morgana, and stop this. You can't delay any longer.

He drew himself up as tall as he could between Leon and Gwaine, calling his magic to his aid and –

He wasn't sure what happened, or how his friends-turned-enemies had guessed that he was about to try something – maybe he had given himself away somehow, maybe they had noticed the change in his stance or a shift in his energy, or maybe Morgana was interfering even now, ensuring that he would not escape his fate so easily. Whatever the reason, just as Merlin drew upon his magic, something blunt – a sword hilt? – crashed into the back of his skull, and everything was pain.

Agony ripped through his head, his neck, and crackled down his spine. Any grip Merlin had on his magic slipped through his fingers, and he fell forward, held semi-upright only by the knights escorting him to his death. He didn't lose consciousness, but he did lose all sense of control over his body and his magic, and the only thing that existed was pain. His stomach churned in time with the throbbing of his head, and his eyes were driven shut instinctively by the light of the torches before him.

The next few minutes passed in a state of distanced terror and pain. Merlin was acutely aware of the heaviness and agony of his head and the nausea in his gut. He also felt every spike of fear, every bit of helplessness, every scream that wanted to rise up from the most primal part of his being. And yet, at the same time, it was as if it was happening to someone else, and he could do nothing about it. Everything hurt and he was going to die and Arthur was going to burn him alive, his friends were going to light the pyre, and he would die in agony, and not even his magic could stop it, because he couldn't feel it, couldn't find it – he was magic itself, and yet it eluded his grasp, all that existed was pain and confusion and his head swam –

He felt, as if from a great distance, himself be hoisted onto the pyre. He felt the rough wood of the stake rub blisters into his tied hands as he was shoved against it, head lolling uselessly as if it belonged to someone else. He felt rope wrap around his torso, his legs, securing him to the pyre, and he tried to lift his head, which rested on his chest, tried to find his magic, but all he uncovered was fear and despair and pain.

He vaguely heard Arthur speaking from somewhere close by – or maybe it was from miles away. He did not understand the words but knew them to be a list of the supposed crimes Merlin had committed – being born with magic the chief of those. And then, far too soon, Arthur stopped talking, and Merlin sensed through his partially closed eyes the knights approaching with their torches, and he felt the warmth of the fire as those torches were lowered to the wood.

Merlin forced his eyes open, thrust his head up and looked at his friends, then beyond them, at Arthur. He maintained eye contact with his king, his brother, his best friend, even as the knights lit the pyre and he felt the heat begin to spread. Merlin didn't know if Arthur could hear him from this distance, if his words would be loud enough, strong enough, or if they would be caught up and consumed in the rising flames. It took every ounce of strength and concentration to push past the pain and call out, as loudly as he could, "I forgive you, Arthur."

And then, as the flames began licking at his feet, his boots, his clothes, something popped. I was as if the world itself had been out of joint, like a dislocated shoulder, and in that moment, the painful but satisfying second of release, it had snapped back into place. The air shifted, the world stopped spinning for the briefest of moments, and then, it clicked back into its rightful place.

The spell had been broken; Merlin could feel it in every fiber of his being – his magic cried out in relief, and it was only then that he realized that it hadn't been his head injury that had prevented him from fighting back, from escaping – it had been a last, desperate attempt by Morgana to get her revenge, to hide his magic away from him just long enough for him to die.

But she had failed. Her power, her hold and control, had finally given out on her, and Merlin felt his magic bubble back to the surface, and despite the pain and the fear, he summoned rain from a cloudless sky as the sun continued its golden ascent and put out the flames.

Around him, he heard yells, and cries, and his name was shouted from all directions, from the mouths of those he loved and trusted and who had very nearly killed him. But his head pounded, and he was so weak, and the fire was out. He slumped in his bonds, eyes fluttering shut, head dropping to his chest.

He didn't even feel the hands untie him. He didn't feel the knights gently lift his too-warm body from the pyre, didn't feel himself being carried into the castle and placed on a bed, didn't feel Arthur's tears of mingled guilt and relief splash onto his face.

He did, however, somehow, amidst the quiet and dark of unconsciousness, hear Arthur's voice cut through the silence, strong and familiar and real. "Gods, I – I'm so sorry, Merlin. My dearest friend, I–"

When he woke, Merlin would embrace his king, reassure him that no lasting harm had been done. He would smile at his friends, clasp hands with the knights and hug Gaius, find Gwen and make sure she hadn't suffered the same disorienting day that he had. He would answer all questions asked of him, and he would assure Arthur and the knights as many times as it took that he did not blame them, would explain Morgana's dark role in everything. He would find Morgana, and make sure that nothing like this would happen again.

When he woke, the world would be right. It wouldn't be normal – after everything that had been done to him, after all the betrayals, even though he didn't blame his friends, it would take a while for normal to come back around. But Merlin would persist, and he would have his friends – his real friends, with their real memories – to help him through it. As he would help them through the ramifications of their own pain, guilt, and regret.

And when he woke, he would be named the official Court Sorcerer of Camelot. He would be given a robe fine enough for a king, but he wouldn't care about that. All that would matter would be him, at Arthur's side, protecting him and fulfilling their destiny. That was how it had always been, and Merlin, when he woke, would look forward to a bright future of peace and hope.

But for now, he gratefully, peacefully slept, knowing that when he next opened his eyes, Camelot would remember.

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theladylovingcrow · 5 years ago

Text

New Places, Friendly Faces (Sanny) Pt 1

Author (As known on Various sites): Lady Lover- Rockfic, Luluthechoosingcrow - AO3, theladylovingcrow - Deviantart and Wattpad, @sammy_bluebells - Instagram, @imacrowcawcaw - main Tumblr, @theladylovingcrow - writing/art Tumblr, @insannywestan - Sanny shipping Tumblr

Fandom: Greta Van Fleet

Pairing: Sam Kiszka/Danny Wagner (Sanny), lil bit of Danny/Ronnie but he's quickly swept away with Sam

Length: about 2k

Warnings/Tags: Alternate Universe, Diner AU, No band AU, fluff, some angst, awkwardness, first dates, you know the ones where person A's date is failing and person B comes and sits with them, sorry i forgot what its called but that, hand holding, flirting, Sanny

Summary: Danny was nervous; he had been building up the courage for *weeks* to arrange a date, and now.... He wasn't quite sure what to think of the situation he found himself in. The night certainly wasn't going as he had expected it to - and his emotions had never ridden a roller coaster this fast. Hell, the beautiful angel holding his hand wasn't even the one he had arranged to meet 2 hours ago.

Author's Notes: I don't know what inspired me to do this but I'm very very happy with how it's turning out (and I've never written a longer-ish multi chapter story before, so this is interesting!) I would hate for Danny to not know the Kiszkas growing up, but hey I think I made their first meeting pretty damn cute!

Also, just FYI this is set roughly in late January of whatever year, so the twins are supposed to be 20, Ronnie is 18 I think, Danny just turned 18, and Sam is 17 (I think I did all the math right but idk) HOWEVER it wasn't until I finished that I realized I absolutely did not make their appearances congruent with what they would have looked like then.... Sam and Danny look like 2018 ish but the twins also look like their high school selves :( Idk sorry

Also, because Sam is 17, this will not be posted on Rockfic and will be marked as underage, though I'm not planning for it to get dirty

---------------

Danny had been taping his foot for the past fifteen minutes.

He usually didn't do that, it wasn't his nervous tick of non-choice, but Michelle hadn't showed up yet, and it was nearing eight.

Checking his watch, Danny watched the hand tick to 7:58 and then looked up, peering around the restaurant he was in.

Diner, he corrected himself. It was a homey, 1960's American diner, a little more exposed timbers and bear carvings than checkered tiles and jukeboxes, but that's what you got in Michigan. The building was low and sturdy, a log structure with a river rock chimney over the grills in back. Every single wall was decorated with various signed pictures of celebrities that had passed through, local newspaper articles about Gerald and Fern's Homestyle Grill, old handsaws, vintage pop signs, and a million other trinkets and posters chosen by the owners (Gerald and Fern, he assumed, though they'd probably passed on considering how old the place looked to be).

It was a nice restaurant, Danny thought; the atmosphere was welcoming and calm despite the occasional clamor from the kitchen, and the decor was very interesting to look at. Plus, the waitress that had directed him to a window booth and brought him some water was just gorgeous.

'Don't think that! You're on a date, idiot' Danny scolded himself, shaking his head. Well, he was technically waiting for the date to start, seeing as she hadn't showed up yet. But, he still shouldn't be admiring another girl like that when his wasn't there - that would just make him an asshole.

But maybe Michelle was a little bit of an asshole because she said she'd meet him at 7 o'clock and it was now 8:06- 'Stop. It.' Danny scolded himself again, mentally smacking himself upside the head.

'Didn't your mother ever tell you to assume the best of people?' One voice asked.

'Of course!' Another Danny answered.

'Well, then, she probably got stuck in traffic, or her dog threw up in her car, or she hit a bad pothole, or her mom made her go to the store, or-'

'Okay, I get it! She probably doesn't mean to be so late,' Danny conceded, concluding the conversation he was having with himself. Maybe the waitress was right and he had been sitting there by himself for a little too long.

Of course, being the nice girl she was, the waitress - Ronnie her name was Ronnie - had stopped by periodically whenever she had a minute to chat with him or finally bring him some coffee after he had given in to the craving.

Danny looked down at the small bouquet wilting on the table and sighed. Looked like this date was a bust, just like the few others he'd attempted, and he'd actually been very excited to see her. In fact, it was Michelle who had suggested this Gerald's Grill when he had shyly asked her out in Biology.

He had finally made up his mind to just stop wasting Ronnie's time and go home when a group of boys came trouping in, wet from the snow but in exuberant spirits and, apparently, "In great need of some refreshment, Ronnie dear!"

That made him want to pack up and get out even faster because, honestly, he didn't need any more knowing looks or judgement right now, but the last boy to walk in made him freeze with his coat halfway on.

The kid looked about Danny's age, roughly the same height but a whole lot skinnier. He had on skin tight jeans, scuffed hiking boots, and a red woolen coat. When he turned to talk to Ronnie, Danny could see the Tom Petty hoodie beneath the jacket and some silver necklaces.

'Nice,' he thought, 'seems like a cool guy: good taste in music and fashion.'

Also, 'Fucking gorgeous'.

What made him pause his leaving, though, wasnt the guy's body but his face - his sculpted brows, insanely high cheekbones, pink lips, and long lashes; all framed by the healthiest looking head of hair Danny had ever seen, second only to his own, or possibly one of the guy's he had come in with (the one who yelled for Ronnie) that had rather impressive, long curls styled to look like 70's mutton chops. There was something naggingly familiar about his features, but Danny couldn't place it.

Ronnie rolled her eyes and pointed the group of boys to a large table in the Eastern corner of the diner.

She snagged some menus and followed behind them, though another guy, this one also with long hair (he was having some competition here) grown out Justin Beiber style (okay, maybe not) said; "We don't need those, Ronnie, I'm pretty sure Sammy here has the whole menu memorized by now. Right, Sam-a-lam-a?"

The intruiging boy nodded, starting to recite off what sounded like a very accurate, detailed account of the diner's menu, prices and everything. Danny was surprised at the slight raspy, smokers quality of his voice, but it was pleasant, in a way.

After the fourth item or so, Ronnie stopped "Sammy" with a swat to the shoulder, shaking her heading and muttering "stupid genius" under her breath. He grinned up at her, wiggling his eyebrows and asking for a round of Vernors, pretty please, Ronnie-kins.

Holy shit, they were siblings! That's what had been buzzing at the back of his head for the past couple minutes; those mouths and cheekbones, seductive eyes, that lovely hair. The guy was Ronnie's brother (and no wonder he was so beautiful then).

Squinting, Danny watched the party in the corner. Two of the other guys, 70's hair and Justin Beiber (though he felt bad calling him that since he seemed cool and, hey, he'd had the same 'do when trying to grow his out) were laughing at something Ronnie said, leaning on each other and behaving the exact same way, down to their blinks.

Twins! Danny could tell because he had two cousins, also twins, that acted exactly like that. Wait, though.... they looked awfully similar to-

More siblings?! Jesus, how many kids did this family have? He hoped the four were all, for the sake of their parents.

He guessed that the twins were a little older, so either "Sammy" or Ronnie had to be the youngest, though they all looked awfully similar in age.

'Seriously, how do their parents handle that?' Especially with the attractive, flirty twins, beautiful daughter, and the super smart supermodel - it had to be several handfuls raising a house like that. Danny suddenly felt a bit more sympathy for his parents, even with just having to deal with him and his little sister.

Ronnie sashayed away, calling over her shoulder for the boys to keep it down. They all hooted and hollered in response, seeing as Danny was the only other patron to bother at the moment.

Danny slowly sat back down, curious as to what interesting conversations he would hear from the group. The twin with curly hair was currently talking to a larger guy on the other side of the table about the "carefully curated sensuality" of Led Zeppelin's Prescence, which alone made him want to stay.

Not to mention, he could continue to observe the hot guy that was immediately fascinating him like few people did. Danny wasn't deluded enough to think it was love at first sight - though it was definitely a fair amount of lust - but there was something about the other boy that made him want to track his every move down to the blinking of his eyes.

"Woah there, creepy much? Chill out, he probably doesn't even like guys anyways," Danny muttered to himself, hoping that his staring wasn't obvious enough to make "Sammy" aware of it. He loved to people watch - and admire, but hated the uncomfortable confrontation of acknowledging that he had been doing so.

Supermodel boy twisted in his chair, looking at one of the many things on the wall - though it made Danny's breath catch because, could he tell? - when he caught Danny's eye. He smiled at Danny, making him smile a little tightly and nod in return.

At that moment, Ronnie came out of the back with a platter of glass pop bottles and a notebook tucked into her apron pocket, using her hip to close the swinging half-door to the area behind the counter. She smiled at Danny as he passed, murmuring a soft "I'll be right back with you," before continuing on to her brothers' table.

Gorgeous boy laughed - a surprisingly obnoxious, though maybe endearing, braying one - and reached out a fine boned hand, plucking a bottle from the tray before she could set it down. He took a long swallow, throat visibly working and eyes half closed, head tipped back. Danny quickly averted his own eyes unless he started drooling onto the tabletop.

Ronnie came over to him after a minute, refilling his coffee and insisting that she get him a piece of pie, on the house. He didn't have the heart to tell her no, not after more than an hour of sitting there pitifully, and especially not now that he knew her gorgeous brothers (or at least one of them, the prettiest, too) knew he was there. It would be incredibly embarrassing for them to know that he was stood up and alone; Danny wanted to give off a good impression, for some reason.

Ronnie walked away again, hips swaying, and disappeared into the back. "Sammy" laughed at the table in the corner and Danny's eyes shot to him, watching how he played with his straw between those two pillowy lips.

He started sweating a little bit, considering who he thought was more attractive (not like either of them would be interested in him, but). Ronnie was curvy and kind and beautiful, but Sam was lean and charismatic and had the most lovely facial structure Danny had ever seen.

'Ugh, bisexual problems', Danny thought. No one else would have know what he was talking about if they were there, though, since he had never mentioned it to his parents nor his few friends.

He wondered, idly - because he really was out of their league and it would never, ever happen - what his family would think if he brought either of them home. Ronnie would be sure to elicit absolute delight from his mother after her admonishment for getting a girlfriend in the first place (despite the fact that he was allowed to do what he wanted now that he was 18, Danny's mom still saw him as her little boy). Ronnie's brother, he wasn't sure; it's not like they were homophobic, but Danny was certain that him bringing home a guy out of nowhere would be quite the shock.

They'd warm up to Sam (he didn't want to call him "Sammy"; it felt too familiar to he polite, though he did like that), he was sure. His parents would be impressed by his intelligence and be charmed by his jokes, and tell Danny that they were glad he had found such a nice boyfriend.

Danny drifted off into a daydream of what it would be like to date Sam, to take him to family holiday meals and go out hiking with him and cuddle up on a late winter afternoon like this one. He rested his head on his hand, letting his eyes go unfocused as he envisioned the imaginary world in which he had an 11/10 boyfriend.

"Hey, I've got your pie. Mind if I sit and eat mine with you?"

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@satans-helper @okietrish @lazingonsunday @bigthighsandstupidguys @karrotkate @oblvions @lantern-inthenight @mountainofthefleet seriously PLEASE tell me if anyone else wants to be tagged in Sanny and I'll add it to my list because I guessed these peeps last time and got it right but I can't remember if there's anyone else

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