#it's how to cram a full course of information | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellishjoel · 1 year ago

Text

slow shift

7k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Next Chapter

series summary: Tommy’s Diner is where dreams go to die and burnouts clock-in for work. Waitressing would be boring without the flirtatious distractions of line cook Frankie Morales.

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), swearing, talking about w33d, alcohol consumption (not by reader or frankie, but discussions of alcohol), oral (f! receiving), discussions of periods and Plan B, frankie having a fat d!ick, slightly public sex, unprotected p in v (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), you know how I roll

A/N: welcome to the first part in my linecook!frankie series! It's all just going to be chaos!! enjoy dirty dishes, cussing, and decent food made by the hot linecooks. I’ll have a title as soon as I stop putting it off <3 enjoy! let me know what you think! also how LIT is the banner

here's my masterlist!

**follow hellishfics and turn on notifications get updates on my fic postings**

“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle. You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight.

Welcome to hell.

A makeshift building somehow still holding up four walls that housed a small restaurant inside.

This wasn’t some secret treasure that belonged on an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives or a hidden hole-in-the-wall five-star Michelin Restaurant. This was Tommy’s Diner.

The locals had different names for the run-down dump you called your place of employment: the Hometown Heartburn Hut (true), American Pie ( ha-ha funny), the Rusty Spoon (some guy OD’s behind the place one time, and no one ever forgets), or Tumbleweed, your pothead coworkers liked to call it. It was a tumbleweed because the restaurant was barren, emphasis on the weed to accommodate the faded line cooks that lurked in the back of the restaurant.

Don’t let today’s slow shift fool you; there were times when Tumbleweed was cram-packed. Friday night football games were busy with tailgaters, bustling with teens after a championship game. Other times, it was when a Greyhound bus or a similar cross-country vehicle drove through and took a stop for the passengers.

The most popular time of year was in the summer. Tommy’s Diner hosted Saturday night Cruise Nights. The town would flood with classic cars and hot rods, and the diner would transform into a drive-in. Their engines revved through different cities from far and wide to be at Tommy’s. That’s when the place felt the most alive, bustling with people and their laughter, little kids running with their milkshakes and flipping quarters into the rigged claw machine.

But it wasn’t a Saturday in August. It was a Monday. You were stuck with the misfit motley crew that did everything from dishwashing, cooking, bussing, running the register, being half-ass managers, and, of course, the token pretty waitress. You.

You will admit that each character working at Tumbleweed had a unique story etched into their grubby hands or baggy-eyed faces. They’ve weathered years of late-night shifts and condiment, grease-stained aprons.

Tonight there was Lou, the jaded by heartbreak teenage busboy. He walked with a shuffle, always sniffling about an ex-girlfriend. He worked slow and god damn, did that piss you off.

Then there was Tina, the aspiring singer stuck in a small-town type. She was newer, still learning how things worked since she had never waited tables a day in her life. She had that fresh twinkle of stardom in her eye despite being in her late 30’s. You were training her and trying not to let her drive you up the wall whenever she started singing different songs on the jukebox. Note to self: Put a sticky note saying it’s busted every time you work together.

Paul was the do-it-all guy. Toilet clogged? Get Paul. Dishes piling up? Ask Paul to do it. The cashier on a bathroom break? Paul can run the till. He was useful, just complained and grumbled a lot.

Tommy of Tommy’s Diner hasn’t worked a day in years. He’s older, so it’s understandable. Last thing you heard was he was down in Florida, living out retirement in a cheap home with a gambling addiction. Sounded like he was doing well for himself. But now his idiot son Rudy ran the place. Tommy’s picture was still on dusty display, toothy smile and all at the front door that people huddled in and out of—speaking of.

Your head lifted to attention as the bell above the door chimed, sighing in annoyance as you leaned back onto the counter. It was just Frankie.

“It’s fifteen after. You were supposed to be here on time today because we have to set up for Carla’s thing.”

Frankie breezed past you, aviators and stupid ballcap on, his smile lifted in a sneer. He was smacking on pink bubble gum as he neared your part of the counter and purposely shuffled past you with his hips against yours in an attempt to get into the kitchen. You couldn’t help but lean into him with a little smirk.

“Tommy said it was fine I was late.” He joked once he ducked into the back, your arms crossed as you followed him aimlessly.

You sigh and lean back against the locker next to his, watching him shuffle off his jacket.

“You disappoint me, Frankie.” Your face held a teasing pout.

“Never meet your heroes, baby.” That stupid fucking cocky smirk painted his face.

You opted to roll your eyes and look away as a defense tactic against Frankie’s flirty moves. Frankie calling you baby made your guts twist.

He was an ass ninety-nine percent of the time, but you two were hired the same summer a few years back and were the only ones who stayed once summer had run its course. You supposed it was bonded trauma after that.

New workers had come and gone, but you and Frankie were still at Tommy’s, still working crappy shifts on crappy hourly pay. Despite Frankie being a douchebag, he made the place bearable. He was comfortable. You knew each other.

“Can you just meet me on the floor like you were supposed to fifteen minutes ago and help with the banner? Carla’s going to be here at five, and you still have to make her special-”

“Jesus fuckin’- yes, I’ll be out in a few.” Frankie playfully groaned, shoving the brim of his hat into his mouth to hold it, his hands busy as he tied a tattered red bandana around his forehead before he replaced the cap back on. Okay… hot.

He took a deep breath once he finished, and leaned against the locker beside you, arms crossed, mimicking you as your shoulder brushed his bicep. You looked up at him, so many inches taller than you, as he looked down. Maybe too far down. He started at your eyes, but those eyes of his tended to wander right down to the cut of your shirt.

“Ugh- Frankie!” You rolled your eyes and pushed him away, readjusting your top as he playfully threw his hands up on the defense.

“You look fuckin’ gorgeous today, by the way!” He shouted as you exited the locker room, smiling and shaking your head with your back to him and throwing up your middle finger before the door swung closed with your exit.

---

You stood on the top of a dining table in your sneakers, attempting to hang a shitty banner you had painted for Carla’s birthday. You glanced down at the table and made a little face about the scuff you put in it. Oops. You can try and scrub it later.

There was no other person you or Frankie would do this stuff for. But it was Carla’s birthday and she was a diamond in the rough at this dump.

Carla's position at Tumbleweed is a mixture of human resources, accounting, decent management, and a mother figure to not just you but the entire staff. Besides Carla, we could all care less about everyone else's birthday. You were burning this ‘Happy Birthday!’ banner as soon as the clock struck midnight.

You let out an exhausted huff as you attempted to tack the final hanging string into the wall, but it was just out of reach. That’s when you heard the smacking of his stupid pink bubble gum. You didn’t even have to look.

“Are you gonna help me or not, Morales?” Your voice seethed in annoyance, not only to Frankie but also cursing your short legs and your just not long enough arms.

He didn’t say anything. Just crossed the differential space between you and took the tack and string into his meaty fingers.

You glanced down, watching his teeth capture his lower lip in concentration, checking to see if it was straight. Pushing the pin in, he backed up to where you stood on the dining table and crossed his arms in observance.

It was incredibly crooked. But it was the thought that counts, right?

“Good enough for me. You?” You glanced down at Frankie, and he was biting back a smile.

“What?” You pushed, narrowing your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good.” Distracted by something else. “D’you paint this?” The warmth of his hand slowly crept onto the back of your calf, your chest tightening as he slowly skated it higher with no interference from you.

You gently nod, avoiding his eye contact as you look at the sign. Now, his hand was on the back of your thigh, and you had to take a breath. A mhm was all you could muster up.

His fingers delicately skimmed the skirt of your uniform, knuckles brushing against your backside. You used to hate these 50’s style waitress uniforms, but now they didn’t seem so damn bad because Frankie’s movements were making you lightheaded. Snap out of it!

“Need help down?” Frankie asked, hand at the ready on your hip.

You shook your head despite using his assistance anyway. You squatted on the table, black lace panties peeking out as you used Frankie’s broad shoulders as leverage. You put one foot down onto the linoleum and then the other, wiping your hands cleanly down your uniform as you both returned to look at the lopsided sign.

You hoped it was enough. You hoped she appreciated it, especially all that she’s done for you over the years. Covering your shifts, leveling out the register when you accidentally gave someone the wrong change, tucking extra tips into your apron when she knew your rent was coming up. Everyone needed a Carla, not everyone was lucky to have one.

“She’s gonna love it,” Frankie seemed to sense your nerves as he lifted his cap to bring some air to his sweaty dark curls before putting it back into place. “I’ll start workin’ on her special. Mushroom Swiss patty melt?” He said before disappearing into the kitchen again, only leaving once you gave him your little nod of assurance. You liked that he remembered.

---

“Happy birthday, Carla!” Uncoordinated voices cheered as Carla entered Tumbleweed right on time for her shift.

Her face lit up, and she looked beautiful. She packed a little extra blush and eyeshadow to commemorate the special occasion.

“Oh, shit- oh my- You guys! Thank you!” Carla made special eye contact with you, knowing you were the only one caring enough to orchestrate this shindig.

Carla has this soulful charm about her. Raised in Louisiana, she loved to cook family recipes and bring the leftovers to work for you and Frankie to fight over. You remember she had three kids at home, so she had this curvy mom's body that put a proud sway in her walk. A playful and confident woman at heart, she was all the regular’s favorite to see. And she knew everyone. And she knew everything. She put Tommy’s back in business during the slower seasons. People would come to see her face on Sunday mornings over their coffee and runny eggs.

“Oh, baby, thank you.” She cooed as she cupped your cheek and squeezed, making your face tick. “This the red velvet?” Her voice hummed as she observed the cake in your hands, pushing her finger lightly into the frosting to taste it.

You had pulled one of the cakes from the display case and shitily piped it with chocolate sauce ‘HBD!’.

“Of course, your favorite... Right?” You pursed your lips and snuck a nervous glance at Frankie before you set the cake down on the countertop.

Carla looked beyond touched for something you’d consider a bit lackluster. “It’s my favorite ‘cause you made it. Thank you, baby.”

You glanced around for the cake cutter, watching as Tina pushed a quarter into the jukebox and got the party started. Everyone was doing shitty dance moves, even the one or two customers that had filtered in for a cheap dinner.

You sighed as you looked behind the counter for the cake cutter, grabbing the cake and its stand to haul it to the back.

You thrust your shoulder blades into the swinging door, setting the cake stand on the counter as you started sifting through the different drawers to find the serving knife.

Half a carton filled with cigarettes; Frankie’s. Matches from an old jazzy gentleman’s club; Rudy’s. Hair ties; yours. Where’s the fuckin’ cake cutter?!

The music from the jukebox was more faded in the kitchen. The serving window, professionally called the pass, was just big enough to see faces and hand plates through from the kitchen to the front.

You made a face when you found the cake server inside a large pot-- how, no, why? Jesus Christ. Fucking idiots.

The swinging door to the kitchen wooshed in before slowly creaking closed, seeing Frankie coming to stand beside you in your peripheral.

You carefully plunged the slicer into the soft sponge of the cake, carving a piece for Carla and setting it on a plate. You reached forward across the counter for another small plate, the short skirt of your uniform revealing the curve of your ass to an overly curious Frankie. You could feel his heat burning through his chest.

“Could you be less obvious?” Your voice held teasing notes, putting another piece of cake on a plate and pushing them away to make space for more.

He had tried this a handful of times with you, and he had yet to be successful besides that one time when you both drunkenly made out at the last December holiday party. You were pretty sure he had been hung up on you ever since. You enjoyed watching him try.

Your eyes flitted over to his, observing his body and facial features.

He looked gross, honestly. The two meals he cooked including Carla’s special before she came in for her shift made his face and neck sweaty and his hands greasy, his apron to match. It was white at one time, a long, long time ago. His stupid red bandana was still tied around his forehead, catching the spare sweat droplets, as the kitchen became unbearably hot in the middle of August.

You probably didn’t look much better. Hair all over the place with makeup you put on in the morning probably half smudged off by now. Your hands were checkered in pen ink, a spare papercut from snagging a receipt from the register. But still decent. He was still decent.

His hand was back in dangerous territory, lingering low on your waist. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. You could feel warmth flooding your body, heat from the heart of his hand burning into your hip. He was admiring your body, slow and appreciative as he cupped the curve of your ass. And then he squeezed.

Your shaky hands barely got the fourth slice you cut onto a small serving plate. The cake cutter clattered onto the metal counter as Frankie shifted his body behind yours, his watchful eyes on the pass. No one was watching, stupid and oblivious. You swallowed a lump down your throat, your small hands clenching the rim of the counter. His hips were flushed against yours. Worst of all was that you really fucking liked it.

“This okay?” You’re flattered he asked after the fact.

You leaned back into his touch, quietly humming on the brink of a little moan. You were a little desperate for touch, maybe you’d be on your period soon. “Mhmm..”.

Frankie was a douchebag, but you two have been flirting back and forth with one another for years like an ongoing tennis match. He was older, he had years on you. Not an obscenely amount, but enough to make people raise an eyebrow. You were surprised he had the balls to actually make a move on you like he was right now.

“Like you in black.” Frankie’s voice was cut down to a murmur, low and all-enveloping. You weren’t sure if he was referring to the black in your waitress uniform or your black panties. Probably the latter.

His fingers brushed past your goosebump-covered ass and slipped between your legs to your clothed pussy. You softly gasped, eyes shifting closed as your hips involuntarily leaned into Frankie’s touch. You didn’t look subtle at all. You looked like you wanted to be touched, manhandled, kissed, fucked…

“Open your eyes, baby girl.” He purred, your chest already heaving. “Act normal.” You forced your eyes open, looking back at him with wide, innocent eyes. Needy pupils connected with his blown-out ones. The back of your head brushed his shoulder, setting it there for just a moment before he looked straight ahead.

Frankie nodded back to the pass, your eyes following his eye line to everyone distractedly dancing and sipping coffee mixed with bourbon on the floor.

You bit down on your lower lip, knuckles cast over in a milky white with the iron grip you held on the metal rim of the counter. Frankie’s body heat had disappeared from your back, and now you felt it cast against the back of your legs. You glanced around, seeing him on his knees behind you with his mouth now latched to the back of your thighs. Oh, fuck. His kisses sponged up higher, towards your heat.

Your eyelashes fluttered, Frankie’s act normal echoing through your hollow head. With distracted hands, you resumed cutting the cake. You probably looked slow and stupid, but feeling his patchy beard hair nestle between the sweet skin of your inner thighs had you in a haze.

Frankie’s big hands reached under your skirt, lining the black panties that sat snugly on your hips with his forefingers. He slowly peeled them down, feeling the material roll as he stopped them to rest halfway down on your thighs.

Your shoulders shuddered as your warm pussy met the slight chill of the outside world, panties adorning a little soaked spot.

“Frankie,” Mm? “Someone’s gonna see.” But you weren’t stopping him. You weren’t telling him to fuck off. You weren’t kicking him right in the gut like you probably could. In fact, you were leaning into him.

“Such a pretty pussy... Can’t stop, baby.”

A helpless whimper left your lips, thighs shaking at his affectionate, warm kisses.

Frankie’s hand swatted at the inside of your right ankle and then the other, hinting for you to spread yourself for him. You pursed your lips and shakily sighed, parting your legs as your sneakers lightly squeaked on the checkered floor. Fuck me, Frankie.

You didn’t know how much longer you could be patient. The waiting was tantric, hypnotizing you into seduction.

Spread for him and dripping, Frankie’s mouth finally attached to your slit. Your knee lightly jerked up and smacked a bus tub filled with dirty dishes, a few eyes on you through the pass as you nervously laughed. “S-Sorry!”

Frankie couldn’t help but let out a warm puff of laughter against your cunt, and you swore your insides were twisting at the sensation.

“Easy pretty girl… Don’t need us gettin’ caught. You want me to stop?” Frankie’s voice was husky, warm palms spreading your thighs, your body lightly bending over to lean on the counter. You tried to look busy with something, stupidly polishing a random fork. With the extra exposure, he had full access to your sex.

“Does it look like I want you to stop?” You finally punched out through air-abducted lungs, anxiously chewing on the skin of your lip. “Frankie.” You said in a hushed warning tone, wanting more and not knowing how to ask nicely for it. But that’s what he liked about you. You weren’t nice.

His lips finally attached properly to your pussy, his devilish tongue lining the center of your cunt and flicking off your clit. Your head dropped, ears ringing at the sensation.

You wondered how good he would feel if he could take his time instead of giving you head quick while all your coworkers were distracted. Maybe he could run his thumb over the front of your panties, trace the seam of your pussy, and feel how soaked you were for him and his attentive fingers. You thought Frankie had always been so down bad for you. He probably dreamed about getting this opportunity. He finally got you when you were just as horny for someone with a pulse. But this wasn’t all the time in the world; this was a slow shift at Tommy’s.

You rut your hips back into Frankie’s face, hot pants fanning fog onto the cool metal of the counter.

Frankie put his mouth where you needed him most, his tongue dedicating a poem to you. He flattened his tongue and licked a wide, wet strip up through your core, taking in all your juices. His tongue lapped at your weeping hole, thighs shaking against his head as you stifled a moan into the counter.

He was good, manipulative, a fucking menace.

Frankie’s tongue made precision flicks against your bundle of nerves, a gasp a bit too loud leaving the kitchen as you whimpered broken fragments of his name.

You weakly looked up, seeing Tina pluck another quarter in the jukebox, cranking the volume to some seventies soul music. Fuck being quiet.

Concealed by the groove of Stevie Wonder singing We Can Work It Out, your moans were hidden by the shake of a tambourine and plucks to an electric guitar.

“Goddammit, Frankie, mmm, so fucking good,” a gasp and a moan followed suit, lazily smirking with your eyes closed. “So fucking… hot.” You murmured.

Frankie’s mouth was a welcome wonder, dedicated to making you cum. He was swirling his tongue around your clit, weakly flattening your front over the counter again and pressing your cheek against the cool metal. Don’t be a douche right now, Francisco Morales. Make me fuckin’ cum.

The kitchen door swiftly swung open, and your body flew up to stand straight as Carla waited in the doorway.

“What’s taking you so long to cut my cake, baby? I know that bitch is stale as hell, but that don’t mean I don’t want it.”

Your eyes were wide, lips parted in an attempt to speak, but Frankie’s movements didn’t cease despite Carla’s unexpected intrusion. You bit back a whimper as he lined his tongue just barely into the tight entrance of your walls, his greedy fingers piercing into the flesh of your thighs to keep you spread. Thank god the counter covered your waist down.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll be out in a sec.”

Carla looked you up and down, curious but ultimately not giving a damn. You could feel Frankie’s dirty smirk against your thighs.

“Alright... Hurry up. I’m tryna get my dessert.”

And with that, the door swished closed, and your back slumped at the relief.

Frankie’s unexpected voice made you jump lightly, his words echoing against you. “Gotta make ya finish fast, princess. Want my dessert, too.”

You whimpered but willed yourself to stand up straight and turn around to face him. He looked like a mess. Lust-filled black eyes and a cocky smirk to match. Your juices glistened on his lips and chin. Frankie would be incredibly hot if he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

“Taste as good as you look, princess.” Frankie stood up, tall and broad body making a white hot spot form in your stomach. Fuck, you couldn’t do this right now. Not right here.

He could tell. He took a few cautious steps away, you watched him carefully like a rattlesnake. He knew when not to push you and when to let you make the decisions. He also knew how to give you orders when you were too pussy fucked to think straight.

“Serve that cake and meet me out back.” He was looking over you, enjoying the few times you looked totally fucked like you did right now. He stepped back into your space and pulled your panties back into place, a sobby whimper leaving your lips as he gently cupped your aching mound with a smirk. “So fuckin’ needy, huh?”

“Fuck off.” You mumbled, fixing the bottom half of your uniform.

You watch as Frankie grabs the beer bottle you all used as a makeshift door prop and his half-carton of cigarettes you had brought out of a drawer in an attempt to find the cake cutter. He disappears out back into the alley. Shit, the cake.

You hurriedly sliced the remainder of the cake, placing a few stray candles into the slices. You lit them once you greeted the group waiting on the floor, singing a shitty rendition of Happy Birthday. Paul lights his cigarette from one of the candles, puffing smoke across the frosting.

The crowd hastily grabbed one of the small plates and a fork. Most of you only tried a bite or two. The cake had been in the display case for far too long.

---

Anxious and impatient, you slip into the back with everyone’s dirty dishes and sneak back into the kitchen. You do nothing more with them than chuck them into the sink for Lou to wash up at some point or another. Your eyes stare at the beer bottle keeping the back kitchen door ajar. You take in a deep breath, leaving a shaky sigh before following Frankie out into the alley.

The air was warm, a welcome breeze passing over you. The alley was everyone’s hideaway, littered with crushed beer and soda cans, two large garbage dumpsters, and a large one for recycling. You could see the highway in the distance. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning purple and blue. You’d watch those cars drive right past your little town, paying no mind, probably off going to somewhere bigger and better. The only people from the highway who stopped to visit Tommy’s were people who didn’t know any better.

A flick of a lighter crackled, dividing your attention. Frankie was smoking his cigarette, his back leaning against the brick wall of the diner. He was trying not to smirk. Seeing you out here was way too much power for him. He took a drag, the end of his cigarette lighting up in a glowing orange haze before he pulled it from his mouth. The smoke he exhaled was taken by the breeze.

“Happy to see me?” His goading tone asked.

“No.” A challenge. A pause.

“So, you want me to go back inside?”

“No.” Another beat. A step closer to him, arms crossed. He’s smart enough to let his cigarette land on the ground.

“So, you want me to stay out here?”

Silence. Staring. Gauging each other’s reactions. Your tight jaw meets his cocky smirk. Too stubborn to ask meeting too stubborn to give without begging. Fuck.

Maybe it’s because you’re both desperate. Maybe because Frankie knows you. Knows you’re too stubborn to ask for him to fulfill your needs. Your inaction meets his unwillingness to waste another moment that he could be inside of you.

Stomping on his cigarette before closing the distance between you two, he envelopes you in a kiss that robs you of your breath. He tastes musky and bitter. The smoke that recently captured his lungs was hot on your lips.

Your heart was beating with excitement, happy to lose control for a moment as Frankie walked you blindly backward into the brick wall. Ouch.

Your tongues danced in a rhythmic motion, seducing you into letting him take the power as the kiss deepened. The flavor was subtle but distinct. The Marlboro’s held an acrid undertone, an unexpected layer of the kiss you sort of liked. If he tasted like spearmint gum, it might have turned you off.

It was like you were his cigarette now, breathing you in and clinging to you in addiction. It was his bad habit, but who were you to judge. You had a closet full of skeletons you weren’t open to anyone seeing. Maybe this was one of his.

His hands were a welcome guest, feeling his warm palms explore a body he had probably fantasized about.

“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle.

You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight.

Frankie guided you further from the backdoor, hearing voices enter the kitchen. Probably Paul and Lou to start working on closing chores. He took you behind the dumpsters and hiked up your dress. You decided to be useful and push your panties down. He rounded up the material that was tying you up at your ankles and shoved them into his pocket. You were not letting him keep those.

You pushed his apron aside, fingers fussing over his belt buckle. He watched, amused, unwilling to help. He liked seeing you so desperate for his cock. Unbuttoned. Unzippered. Black boxer trim peaking out now. You made slight eye contact with him before you shoved his pants and boxers down to his thighs. Your heart clenches at how girthy he was. Fuckkk, this was gonna feel good.

He didn’t take his apron off, merely shoved it to the side as it haphazardly swayed on his hip. He closed the distance between you again, a greedy kiss, a kiss to mark you with. You pulled away to spit into your hand, taking him by his base and squeezing.

Frankie’s eyes shuddered closed, his head dropping as you took his manhood in the small of your hand. He was.. more than a handful. He was so meaty, not even able to wrap your fist fully around him.

You purred out a little moan as you worked your hand over him, feeling him grow heavy in your hand as you lubed up his tip, slowly circling your thumb teasingly around the pulsing head.

“Enough.” He muttered. He didn’t like you toying with him.

Frankie hiked up your leg by the underside of your calf, hooking around his hip as you leaned your back against the cold brick wall. It wasn’t comfy, but when you fuck against a run-down diner, you don’t get many options.

Your chest shuddered as you felt his cock heavy against your folds, erect and brushing up against where you needed him most. He was running his hand up and down himself now. You watched as he put down another line of spit from his mouth to his cock before his knuckles shuffled up and down his shaft a few more times.

The sight made you reel your head back and stare up at the sky. As eager as you are, you’re worried about feeling how thick he is. He knows.

“M’gonna go real slow.” He punches out, setting his forehead down against yours, and you shakily nod. Please don’t fucking split me in two, Frankie Morales. You still have a shift to finish, after all. You’re thankful he at least acknowledges his girth. It’s sort of the elephant in the room.

You both look down at your centers, your dripping one and his angry, pink head meeting in unison. It’s sort of fucked up the way that you’re two horrible people. But you knew horrible people always seemed to find each other.

You wet your lips and bite down. Hard. You weren’t a fresh spring virgin, but this wasn’t any other half-decent dick.

You lay your head back against the wall as Frankie guides himself into your welcoming entrance. Your wetness lubes him up well, but he’s still large.

You clench your eyes close and smile. The pain is always pleasure. “Fuck,” you mutter, your head wanting to come back down and watch.

Frankie’s being gentle, an odd word you’d never describe him as. He’s grunting and impatient, but patient for you. He fills you up to the brim and your head is flooded with clouds. You’re in the sky, lightheaded, but so fucking horny.

His hips meeting yours are a gentle greeting, both of your lips brushing as you shared pants of desperation as well as relief. Your stomach was tight, recoiling with the pressure he was providing to the inside of your walls.

“God-

“Jesus-

“-fucking damn.”

“Christ.”

The two of you moaned in unison.

Your nails are piercing into his shirt, bunching around the tops of his shoulders. You move to grip his apron for some sort of control. There is none.

One of his hands is still supporting your leg wrapped around his hip, the other flattened against the brick wall beside your head. You took solace in his arm, resting your forehead against it weakly.

He was cocky for a reason. His length in inches was his amount of reasons.

“Fuck me.” You finally mustered up enough strength to demand. He shakes his head against yours.

“Give it a minute.” He mutters, barely coherent. You’re scrumptiously tight around him, and you know it. You both do.

“We don’t have a minute.” You feverishly bite back, attempting to shift your hips against his. He retaliates by planting his hips against you, fucking the final few inches of his dick into you as you both fell deeper into the wall.

A hot moan rolled off your tongue, hiding your face away in his forearm and shuddering your eyes closed. Frankie’s hand slipped from your leg, cupping the globe of your ass in his warm hand. He squeezed and it made you smile as he reeled his hips slowly back.

He grumbles something.

“What?” You asked with a dopey grin. He pushes back inside you and wipes the smirk clear off your face.

“I said… you’re so fuckin’ impatient.” His voice was tattered with grunts, your tight little pussy making it hard for him to breath.

Now he was creating a rhythm, fucking you into the wall in steady thrusts. You were already feeling your insides tug eagerly in excitement, the hot pool he had created in your guts simmering to a boil.

“Mhmm, mhm, mhm,” you moaned in silent begs, moans you had to read between the lines to understand. Fuck me, fuck me harder, fuck you feel good, I-I can’t think of anything other than fuck! Fuck me, Frankie!

He filled you up to a brim you had yet to discover you had. His tip tickled your cervix with each snap of his hips. He was getting greedy, a little sloppy. You’d judge him on this short-lived fuck later, for now, it was perfectly timed to get back into work without anyone noticing.

Your eyes widened and met his murky brown ones as he moved the hand he had against the wall nudged between your thighs, circling your clit. It was messy at first, but he found what made you tick and adjusted. Now he was running tight circles around you, and you were finding it hard to stay silent.

“Feel so fuckin’ perfect for me.” He murmured, his lips ghosting over yours in a teasing motion. You actually wanted to taste him again, so you leaned into it, your tongue lining his mouth and tasting his old cigarette with a moan.

Now he was filling you up, no hesitancy in his hips as he snapped the full extent of his length into your cunt. Your head flew back against the orange and red brick, a fucked moan leaving your mouth. Neither of you cared. Frankie’s face was nuzzled against your jawline and neck, sloppy kisses tasting old perfume as the circles on your clit intensified your impending orgasm.

“F-Fuck, Frankie, shit, I’m gonna-” You gasped and closed your eyes, clutching your arms weakly around his shoulders and holding him to you. His body enveloped you like a shield protecting you from anything in your surroundings.

Your orgasm crashed over you, coursing through your body like a million volts of electricity as you whimpered and moaned into his neck. Your eyes were clamped closed, your walls clenching and fluttering around his sensitive cock.

His moans were heavenly, guttural and deep, a little shaky even as he puffed them into your neck and shoulder. His hips twitched against the inside of your thighs as he came undone inside of you. It felt like he was cumming for days, filling you up with white rope after white rope of his semen and painting your insides with only remnants of him.

You couldn’t think. You just focused on the distant sound of the highway, creating a bustling amount of white noise for you. You gently held his head to keep him close, your shaky hand winding into his hair as the two of you reconciled over your orgasms.

He was the first one to move. He slipped himself from you and gave you a few lazy kisses. Your stomach fluttered before you shook your head.

Stop it, Frankie.

‘M not doin’ anything.

Teasing smiles. Hands softening their holds on each other’s bodies. Fixing hair. Fixing undergarments.

He would have held onto your panties. He probably hoped you forgot about them. You tugged them from his pocket and attempted to slip into them with ease, but you ended up having to use the brick wall as a support to lean into.

You steadied his apron straight, and he pulled the skirt of your uniform down. Teamwork.

You don’t really talk, just clean yourselves up, nod, and dart back inside before anyone can really notice or give a damn that you were missing in action. You kept having to excuse yourself to the bathroom, feeling Frankie still seeping from you. It made your chest hot, an embarrassed smile on your face.

Fuck it. That’s what Plan B is for. Or you can just wait to see if you get your period in a few days time.

---

You and Frankie danced around one another during the closing shift. Carla went home and took the cake in a to-go container to give to her kids. It was shitty that she had to work on her birthday, but she said that getting to see your gorgeous face was a present of its own.

You tiredly yawned, seeing it was a few minutes past ten. You helped Tina even out the cash register, putting today’s earnings in an envelope, then putting it in the safe for Rudy to take to the bank at the end of the week.

“You sure you don’t mind cleaning up on your own?” Tina asked, giving her a tired smile and a soft shrug.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you Wednesday.” Despite her annoying singing, Tina wasn’t that bad. She gave you a big grin before she hopped off the stool and left out the front door. Lou and Paul had already left at the start of closing. You didn’t know if Frankie snuck out the back early.

You did a double take to the jukebox, watching Frankie flip his baseball hat backward and push a quarter into the machine. Your face softened, seeing him flip between the different records before landing on one.

Something by Fleetwood Mac started playing. You watched him reach up and untack your banner from the wall easily. You nodded softly before grabbing the spray bottle filled with disinfectant and began wiping down the counters, seats, and tables.

He walked up to you once you finished cleaning, handing you your folded-up banner. You twisted your lips in thought, rolling the banner around in your hands.

“Wanna help me burn this in the burn barrel out back?”

Frankie sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Fuck it. Got nothin’ better to do.”

---

With Frankie’s lighter, both of you watched with glassy eyes as the Happy Birthday! banner burnt to ashes. His face was lit up in orange and yellow hues. He haphazardly tried to lean into the flames with a cigarette dangling between his lips, a stupid laugh leaving you. He shrugged and put the cigarette behind his ear.

“Fuck it.” He huffed, both of your eyes transfixed on the fading flames.

There was a beat of silence.

Frankie’s eyes met yours. “We should do that again sometime.”

Half of your mouth quirked up into a smirk. “Do what?”

He cocked his head to the side in annoyance. “You know what.”

You shrugged and shoved your hands into your jacket pockets. The hum of the highway in the distance made you flashback to just a few hours ago with Frankie railing you against Tumbleweed. A black and purple-streaked night sky submerged the two of you, making you feel tiny. You sigh and shift on your feet, keeping your eyes on the flames that licked up the ay! in Birthday!

“Maybe.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Maybe?”

“Mhm.”

Frankie teetered on your half-ass decision. Even the notion of having an open door left for him to sneak in was enough to make him happy. “Okay. I’ll take a maybe.”

God, you were bluffing so hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be sooo bad to throw him a bone every once in a while.

Your fantasizing was cut short as ashes of the banner spewed up from the depths of the barrel and fluttered up into the air between you and Frankie, both of you taking a preemptive step away.

His lighter clicked again; he had to do it a few times before the end of his cigarette caught a flame. “I’ll see you when I see you.” He murmured. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was trying to walk you to your car, wanting to leave, but not until you started heading home, too.

He swung his body into the driver seat of his beaten-up pickup truck. You decided to follow suit, sliding into your car. You saw Tommy’s fade away from the rearview mirror in the distance. But the thoughts of Frankie between your legs, fucking you into oblivion, and begging to serve your aching center would sit with you until your next shift at Tumbleweed. Sorry. Tommy’s Diner.

---

here's my masterlist!

wanna join my taglist? I don't have one! follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

#frankie morales #pedro pascal #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales smut #catfish morales #francisco morales #joel miller #joel miller smut

984 notes · View notes

mellifiedprincess · 2 years ago

Text

hey cutie patooties :) this is very much rushed and as usual i don’t even know if i like it, blah blah blah.

Jack Champion x Reader

Compliments and Confessions

Teen Vogue’s compliment battle. A fan favorite, when it comes to the promotional part of any new tv show or movie. And today, Teen Vougue has asked some of the cast from Scream VI to join them. You were beyond excited to compliment some of your closest friends, wanting to tell them just how great they are.

You, Jack, Mason, Devyn, and Jasmine all cram into the van taking you to the set of the video. Your nerves starting to get to you at the thought of Jacks big brown eyes staring at you, while words of affection spew from his lips.

Yeah, you had a thing for him. Who would have thought?

Jack also had feelings for you, and he wasn’t that great at hiding them either. Well that is to everyone but you. All of your friends knew about the crushes you both had on each other. Anyone could quite literally feel the chemistry the two of you shared. But neither of you would ever confess, too scared of rejection. That’s why your friends were going to help you both.

After a while, you arrive to set. As they’re finishing setting up, Jasmine walks up to you, a mischievous grin on her face, and you already know she’s up to something. “What are you scheming now, Jas?” Her lips purse, and she points to herself in question. “Me? Up to something? Never.” Your eyes squint in disbelief, she was totally lying.

You let it go though, as they call for you all to gather around the table, where there’s a glass bowl full of slips of paper.

You can feel Jack standing behind you, his hands resting on top of your head before placing his chin on top of them. “I’m totally gonna make you blush, hard.” He whispers to you. You turn your head slightly, looking up at him, and a small whine leaves your mouth. “But you know your eyes are like kryptonite. You have an unfair advantage against me!”

“Are you kidding? If anything is unfair, it’s your face! You’re way too gorgeous, and I demand someone put a bag over your head. A paper bag, of course, so you don’t suffocate.” You couldn’t help but laugh at Jacks kind words, already blushing.

“I didn’t know we already started the battle.” You hear Mason whisper to Devyn, but choose to ignore him, as the filming crew tell you to get started.

First up is Jasmine and Devyn.

Jasmine grins as she pulls a slip of paper from the bowl, looking Devyn straight in the eyes. “I am so proud of you, and should be proud of yourself too.” Devyn holds a straight face for a few seconds, but ends up failing at holding back her smile. “How are we supposed to not smile at these?” She groans and makes walks back to stand by you. “I think Y/N should go next.” Mason says, and your eyes meet his. He’s holding that same scheming look on his face that Jasmine held earlier.

“You two are up to something. And I don’t like it.” You stand in front of Jasmine anyway, preparing yourself for whatever they’re planning.

Before you can grab your slip of paper out of the bowl, Jasmine stops you. “I’m sorry, I really need to pee. Can we take a break?” You quirk an eyebrow at that, knowing good and well she went to the bathroom just before you guys started. “I’ll be super quick!”

You take this opportunity to get as much information out of Mason as possible. All you had to do was flash him those puppy dog eyes and he would crumble. “Mase, are you and Jas planning something? You two are making me very anxious.” He avoids eye contact.

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No, I’m not!” His tone raises an octave higher in defense. “Dude, you totally are!” Jack chimes in, coming to stand beside you with crossed arms. “I saw you two whispering to each other earlier. You both were looking at us too!”

“You conspiracists! What are you planning?” You poke his chest accusingly, too nervous to just let this go.

“I’m back, let’s get this started!”

“Perfect timing! I think Y/N and Jack were about to jump Mason.” Devyn laughs to Jasmine. What you and Jack didn’t know though was Devyn was in on the plan that was formed that morning.

They switched the jars. And all the compliments that were once from their fans, was replaced with sappy little lines that you and Jack have said about each other.

“Okay! I think it’s Jack and Y/N/N’s turn.” Mason basically shoved Jack to the table, and Devyn grabs your shoulders and gently guides you to the other side.

You felt like throwing up. The butterflies you felt earlier, were gone. Replaced with the nauseating anxiety that felt like a rock in your stomach.

You think Jack noticed, because he places a hand on top of yours and squeezes it gently. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s just you and me, okay?” His smile was reassuring enough, but his words made all the anxiety you felt melt away.

“I’ll go first! Prepare to fall in love with me, angel.” Jack teases you, grabbing the slip of paper out of the bowl. If only he knew how in love with him you already were.

He reads the words to himself first, and you watch as his eyes widen. What the hell did those idiots do?

“Every time I see you, I have to hold myself back from wrapping you in my arms and confessing my love for you.” You’re definitely blushing. You watch Jacks adams apple bob in his throat as he swallows thickly. He was clearly nervous now, but you had no idea why.

Those were words he once said about you to Devyn.

“My turn?” You ask sheepishly, you didn’t know how much longer you could stand here as his eyes bore deep into your soul. “Uh- Yeah, yeah.” Why was he acting so fucking nervous now?

“Jack? Are you okay?” You ask before slipping out a piece of paper. He smiles at you and nods his head, trying to convince you and succeeding.

As you read over your paper, Jacks smile grows bigger as you giggle to yourself. You finally understood what your friends had done, as you read over words you had spoken about Jack. “This one is really sweet!” You meet his eyes, and there’s nothing but adoration in your stare.

“If someone asked me to paint my dreams, your sweet face would adorn every canvas.” You glance over at your friends, all with goofy smiles on their faces. You turn back to Jack, “Have you figured out their plan yet?”

He still looks confused, the boy is adorable but can be a bit dense sometimes. “Okay, so I’m gonna take this opportunity to confess something to you. I’m hoping that you feel the same way I do, or this is gonna be really awkward…and it’ll be recorded.”

There’s concern in his eyes, and his hand reaches back up to hold yours. “It’s just you and me, right?” Jack whispers the same words from earlier, so only you can hear him, giving a nod of encouragement.

“So.” You grab his other hand in yours, a small smile graces your lips, and he’s looking at you with so much love in his eyes you know now he feels the same way you do.

“I’m in love with you. And I’ve been in love with you since that night you walked me back to my hotel room, after dinner with everyone.” You were trying not to tear up, but you were finally confessing how you felt to the bit of your dreams.

“You knew I was upset about something, but didn’t pry. You just took my hand in yours, and told me that you would always be there for me for anything I ever needed. Even if it was for mundane things like folding my laundry!” You get a laugh from everyone, and Jacks finger wipes a fallen tear from your eye.

“How can someone not fall in love with you?” You tilt your head, still looking up at him, and before you know it, he’s kissing you. He was so gentle too. His hands placed on your cheeks, his thumbs rubbing beneath your eyes. You felt so light, his lips dizzying you a little.

“I love you too. And you know I’m not good with words so I’m not even going to attempt to give you a cheesy speech. Just know that my heart belongs to you, and I think it always will.”

“Okay! Will one of you make it official, now?!” Jasmine all but yells at the two of you, and you couldn’t help but giggle. You were the happiest you had ever been.

“Jack, will you be my boyfriend?” His smile is so big, he almost looks silly, if he weren’t so goddamn pretty.

“Of course I will, angel!” And you both just stand there, staring at each other, looking so in love, it was sick.

“This is really great everyone, but can we get back to the original video?” One of the producers ask.

“Oh shit, yeah!”

“Totally man, sorry.”

“This is way better, but okay.”

——

a/n: here’s a little glimpse at what happened the night you fell in love with Jack.

Jack watches your face fall as you read a text from your phone. He didn’t know what it said, but he knew moments ago you had that beautiful smile of yours plastered on your face, and now you just looked so dejected.

He was just itching to wrap you up in his arms and kiss all of your sadness away. Instead, he grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze. “You okay, angel?” You didn’t realize anyone was watching you, so you hurriedly turned your phone off and put it away. Trying, but failing, to give Jack an convincing smile, you nod your head ‘yes.’

“I think I’m gonna head back to the hotel actually, just not feeling well.” You stand and announce to your friends, all giving you concerned looks.

“You want me to walk back with you?” Jenna offers, she knew how bad you were with directions. She didn’t want you getting lost. “It’s okay, I’ll walk her back Jen.” Jack says and he grabs your coat and bag from your chair.

“Really, it’s okay! I can walk back alone. I don’t want to make anyone end their night early because of me.” Jack smiles down at you at your words. “Sweetheart, if you think I’m gonna let you walk alone at night, in the middle of New York, you’re crazy. Come on, I’m getting bored with these losers anyway!” He jokes and earns threatening remarks from Jas and Jenna.

You give in as Jack holds your coat up for you to slip your arms through, and you bid everyone a good night, placing a kiss to Jenna’s cheek for offering to walk you back.

The cold air of the night was a soothing to the heat you felt on your cheeks. You had moments ago received a text from your parents, letting you know they wouldn’t be coming to the premiere of Scream VI.

You weren’t all that surprised, you’ve never had a good relationship with them after all. But this was your big break. You were an only child, with no other living relatives besides your parents. So, while everyone else would have someone there to show their support, to show how proud they are of them, you would have nobody.

“Hey.” Jacks hand finds yours again, and you feel your skin prickle up at his touch. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m not gonna make you talk about it, but I do want you to know that if you do want to talk about it, I’m here to listen. I’ll always be here to listen.” You hide the smile on your face by looking down at your shoes as you both continue to walk. “Thank you, Jack. You’re very sweet.”

“Don’t thank me, I mean it. I’m here for whatever you need, angel. I’ll even do your laundry for you, even though I’m terrible at it.” You both laugh at that, and you move your body a little closer to his. “You being here is enough.” You tell him.

The rest of the walk is silent, but in a comfortable way. And when you get to your door, you found yourself wanting to invite him in. You weren’t ready for him to go yet. “Thank you for walking me back.” “Yeah, of course.”

And with that, you stand on the tips of your toes and place a sweet kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Jack.” There’s a furious blush on his face now.

“Goodnight.” He watches you smile back at him, before retreating into your room and closing the door.

You both knew after that night, you were goners.

#jack champion #jack champion x reader #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry #scream vi

625 notes · View notes

neonovember · 2 years ago

Text

Golden Boy

part two to this request

warnings: suggestive content, miscommunication, angst if you are a tortured poet, highschool love, protective!carmen, touch depirved!carmen, mention of death

w/c: 2.8k

a/n: okay, okay, yes i know i said this would be a two part series, but god i have too much to say and it didn’t feel right to cram it into two parts. Also i wanted to add a little smut snippet and of course that required its own chapter??

The ring of the Beef doors resound through the murmur of the kitchen, the lunch time rush had dissolved to a quiet pull, regulars coming in for their pick up orders and the occasional customer seated in one of the back booths.

The soothing quiet the crew had been relishing just moments ago is interrupted by the familiar boom of Richie’s voice and the loud bang of the cartons of produce he’d left on the counter.

“Guess who the fuck I ran into down at the Market” Richie yells, beaming with the kind of smile you’d only have with the worlds biggest secret on your tongue.

The crew gathers at the kitchen station, hands rubbing tired eyes as the work day slugged on.

“What, Richie?” Sydney humours him, throwing the last of the chopped vegetables into a pot to slow cook, wiping her hand on her shoulder towel as she looks up at Richie.

“Our very own Bug” Richie replies, eyes glinting as they watch the white linen shirt of Carmen’s back stop suddenly.

Carmen pauses, the sound of his knife falling with a clank. It takes a moment for him to turn around and face Richie, partly because he doesn’t want to meet the goofy pull of his features that told him he was playing around and partly because he doesn't want to face that what Richie said might be true.

But he faces him anyway, because he always will for you.

“What? You saw a bug? Really Richie, you had to come all this way--” Sydney groans out, pressing a finger between her eyebrows, smoothing out the skin that has begun to wrinkle there.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot you guys don’t know her”

“Her? You got a little lady you've been keeping from us Richie?” Tina replies playfully, swatting a towel towards Richie who barely dodges it.

Carmen coughs abruptly at Tina’s comment, in which Richie bites back a grin, before raising an arm up in surrender.

“She’s an old friend of the family, Carmen and her used to be real close in High school. Come to think of it, she was your only friend actually, and was way out of your league” Richie says with a condescending tone, there is a look of thoughtfulness on Richie's face like he's actually thinking about Carmen’s high school experiencing and remembering the clear lack of friends he's had beside you.

The sound of cat calls and oooh’s resounds throughout the kitchen, the crew coddling this small but rare piece of information about Carmen’s past. Carmen wasn’t exactly conversational, whilst he regarded the crew as his flesh and blood that didn’t stop him from keeping a lot of himself and his past hidden. There was always the air of mystery that followed Carmen Berzatto, and it seemed the persona was about to deteriorate as a look of anger flashes across Carmen's face.

“Oh fuck you Cousin, She never even liked you” Carmen replies defensively, before the realisation that you were in town hits him full force.

“How did we not know this, I mean no offence Carm, but you didn’t seem like the type to be..open to friends” Sydney voices, the look of shock not hidden from her voice

“It was different with her, right? I didn't have to- she was- it was just different” Carmen mumbles, the visions of you seem to take over Carmen's mind, like visors, all he can see now is you. The curve of your neck, the smell of Lavender and shea butter from your mothers garden and your lotion. Carmen can almost taste it again, and its reminder has him craving you in a way that was all too dangerous for a man like him.

Especially since you were back in town, maybe not even a block away from him, holy fuck, you were back in town.

“Wait, uh, she’s in town?” Carmen replies, sheepishly, scratching his neck in nervousness that didn't go unnoticed by the crew.

Carmen? Nervous? About a girl? Oh this was good.

“She came down for work, designing a whole piece of Madison Avenue. Think she’s staying for a little while” Richie replies “You should ask her when she comes tomorrow, you guys still talk..right?’

“Yeah uh, ‘course” Carmen mumbles, a feeling of grief washes over him like a wave, and without blinking, without a shudder of a breath you consume him again.

The New York winter was brutal, nothing like the December’s in Chicago, and the thought causes a grumble of cold air to leave Carmen’s mouth. Carmen couldn't help comparing everything in New York to the city he ran from, it was a habit akin to a shadow he couldn’t shake off.

Swarms of yellow cabbed taxis and car’s move through the city streets painfully slow, splashing waves of dirty street snow onto the frosted sidewalk. The rush of strangers wrapped in a decade of layers, the protective wool and fleece wrapping their hands and necks, make their way back to their apartment and homes, eager to feel the warmth of fireplaces and heaters and escape the ice cold snap of the unforgiving winds and falling snow.

Carmen should be making his way home, in fact if he hadn’t stopped abruptly at the scene in front of the open pane window of a shop, he'd had felt the warmth of his century old apartment heater by now. Walking back would be the right thing to do, it would be the sensible thing, but Carmen wasn’t known for his sensibility and recklessness was all he knew. Especially when it comes to you, always when it comes to you.

So Carmen has found himself, stood stationary, looking rather strange in the middle of the street as city goers grumble and step around him, looking into the dimly lit art studio cramped between a Chinese takeout shop and a fabric store.

There you were, crouched in a chair, scribbling on a canvas across a wide workbench, papers and pens scattered messily in front of you. You haven't changed one bit, and maybe it had felt like centuries ago for Carmen when in fact it had only been a couple years but it was as if someone had taken a picture of his memories of you and placed it in front of him.

You were so beautiful, it stole Carmen's breath away, it skipped the rhythmic beat of his heart and caused it to hammer against his chest in that nervous way you’ve always made him feel. Even surrounded by papers and stained coffee mugs and the drag of stress and sleep deprivation weighing on your sunken shoulders you are the most beautiful thing Carmen has ever, and will ever see.

Were you real? Carmen’s feet are stone, like if he steps through the doors, if he moves even an inch you'll slip between his fingers and disappear from his vision again. He has to see you, he has to apologise and tell you everything that has happened, he has to feel your head resting against his shoulder, he needs to fall back into the gentle rhythm you both shared before it was lost to time again.

But before Carmen can move from his spot on the sidewalk, before he can even catch your gaze, he watches, in horror, as a tall haired man walks over, dressed in a brown knitted sweater and slacks that looked simple in the expensive way, and wraps his arms around you before behind.

His heart shatters completely, and he can't stop himself from watching on, you throw your head back with a laugh, hugging him back with a grin as he whispers into the nook of your neck and it's the twist of the knife in his stomach, tearing the entirety of its contents onto the sidewalk, staining the frosted pavement crimson with his innards.

And it was like Carmen was 15 again. Seeing one of his classmates ask you to prom before he could even utter those words, watching the way you danced effortlessly in his hands beneath the gleam of the disco ball above. Your date had two left feet, and Carmen wanted to rip him off of you and replace his skittish dance moves. Carmen wanted to give you what you deserved instead of a football jock who couldn’t make you laugh.

That same childlike feeling of anger and jealousy spreads through him, that was sood replaced with anguish. He had lost you, he had waited too goddamn long and had lost you. What the fuck was he doing? How did he think he could just walk through those doors and stumble into your life again, and somehow fall back into the same familiarity of your friendship like nothing had changed?

Carmen had done stupid things before, but Carmen had felt utterly foolish then. You were mystifying, of course you would be in a relationship, there were probably hundreds of men that threw themselves at you, and it wasn't like you were waiting for him.

The memory of saying goodbye to you was still fresh, he could remember the time when you turned your back to him, and the same way the sun shone through the hallways windows when you turned your neck to meet his gaze for the final time.

He could remember what he had for breakfast, cereal with not enough milk and an apple, he could remember how he had two different pairs of socks on, one itching him throughout the day, he could remember the feeling of the ingrained drawings of your Geography teacher’s sketchbook, he could remember the way you looked at him when he told you to promise him not to say goodbye.

He remembered it all like it was the day he died.

That day had been marked into his body and mind, into his subconscious until it was all that consumed him. Wherever he was, he looked for you, he searched and yearned for you in crowds and lines for coffee, in the driver's seat of cars next to him stood stationary at the traffic lights.

Everytime he closed his eyes all he could see was the way you looked at him like you didn't believe him and it broke something, because it had been true. Carmen had promised to see you again, and he lied, and that late New York evening, it was like Carmen had died a second time.

And just like at 17, Carmen makes peace with watching you on the sidelines, bottling up any feelings he had for you in fear it would ruin everything you both shared. You were his greatest friend, and he couldn't allow himself to be selfish, not when you were you, and he was him. He didn't deserve you, and it didn't matter how hard he yearned for you because you were too good for him.

And it’s that thought that causes him to step away from his spot on the sidewalk, the imprint of his boots marking a spot on the concrete where the fallen snow hadn't touched yet, before it’s soon covered in the white flesh of frost, hiding that he was ever there.

From that moment on, Carmen watches you from afar, the unyielding desire to ensure you were safe at all times consuming him until his protective gaze fell over you like a blanket. He had kept up with your moves, silently cheering you on with each award and recognition you received throughout the years, whilst he himself began to climb the culinary ladder, or knife. He had never let his eyes waver, and then Mickey died and he came running back to Chicago with his things and a broken heart.

“Yeah, you all will meet her tomorrow at the dinner” Richies words cause Carmen to shake himself from his vision, what did he just say?

“You, You did what?” Carmen questions, unable to keep the shrill from his voice as the crew look towards him in confusion.

“Yeah I invited her, it’ll be like a catch up for the fam, she could see all the work I’ve done and see how you haven't changed-”

“Fuck Cousin, you- you should’ve told me before, now i got to make sure everyone has something to eat, and- and i got to add a a second chair” Carmen begins to mumble out, running a hand through his curls stressfully as he began to pace around the kitchen.

“Hey, Carmen relax, we've got room for one more person” Richie chuckles

“Wow, Jeff, just the sound of this girl’s name has got you shitting bricks. I think someones in loveeee” Tina singsongs with a grin, but there was something soft behind her eyes, in fact everyone in the kitchen smiled with a hint of happiness at Carmen's behaviour.

They had thought their Chef was closed off to love, and having felt its strength, each of them in their own ways tried to get Carmen out there, whether it be blind dates or meet cute’s, but it never worked out, and Carmen had always kept that part of life secret from even Richie and Sugar.

It seemed now, that you had been the mysterious woman that had stolen Carmen's heart, and they were giddy with excitement to finally meet the person who had gotten Carmen Berzatto scared shit less.

“Hey Cousin, why don’t you help me unload the rest of the cartons from the truck?” Richie replies, a subtle way of getting Carmen out of the kitchen and into a space that had fewer faces watching his every move.

“Yeah, uh okay” Carmen replies, following Richie to the back of the Bear, resting his back against the brick wall of the alleyway.

There is a silence that stretches between Richie and Carmen at that moment that Richie would usually fill with slanted jokes or rambles. But even Richie knew you were a sensitive topic for Carmen, and he waited patiently for him to approach the topic on both of your minds.

“So, we haven’t spoken in nearly 8 years and she's coming tomorrow to my restaurant” Carmen replies, and Richie nods along.

Carmen shakes his head scoffing, looking up at Richie with a look of fear and embarrassment and elated happiness all in one.

“I don’t know what i’m gonna do Cousin, I- I don’t know what to do with myself with her, fuck what if ruin everything?”

“Hey, hey easy, I was poking fun at you before but you and her, that was something else entirely that the rest of the Family would never come close to understanding. When you were together, it was like, it was like I could see the anxiety and stress physically leave you, you fucking laughed with her Carm, when you weren’t in the mood to even smile, even after everything you’d see her and it was like nothing else mattered, like no one else mattered.

I mean, the whole family was betting on you both running off and getting eloped, you were both in your own bubble, and did not give a shit about anybody else.” Richie chuckles, resting a hand on Carm’s shoulder to stop him from pacing.

Carmen looks up at him with furrowed eyebrows, pressing his canines into his lips

“What if she doesn't want to speak to me?, Ya know, what if she came for- for you and Sugar and-and she doesn't even want to see me” Carmen rambles, fear taking over any sense

“Are you kidding Carmen? You both hadn’t spoken in nearly a decade and she still said yes to coming to the fucking Beef of all places on a Friday. She wants to see you, Carm, you've just been too stupid to see it, you've always been.” Richie replies, shaking Carmen like he was trying to shake the sense into him.

“You know what you have to do now, right?” Richie says, when you've both rested on one of the stools, lighting a cigarette for warmth against the bite of the cold.

“I’ve got to make tomorrow fucking perfect, thats what I’ve got to do. Which is almost impossible for this goddamn place” Carmen groans out, taking a drag from the wrapped tobacco stick.

Richie lets out a laugh, rubbing his stomach as he leans against the brick layered wall.

“Don’t know about that, they just might for her” Richie replies, before getting off of the stool, dusting his jeans and walking towards the pick up truck.

“Where are you going?” Carmen calls out

“You thought I was kidding about these boxes? Chop chop cousin, we gotta get them in before it fucking rains” Richie yells back, letting out a laugh at Carmens loud groan.

682 notes · View notes

johaerys-writes · 5 months ago

Note

I gotta ask about 4. Victorian Patrochilles

Basically this one is a reincarnation AU I started AGES ago... it is set in Victorian London, Achilles is the prince and in line for the throne, and Patroclus is a minor noble, and the meet at a ball and instantly feel this ConnectionTM... like it's one of the first patrochilles things I ever wrote lol, and the first chapter is actually up on AO3 in this collection over here. At first it was only going to be a oneshot but then I started thinking about it more, and I sort of came up with an outline for a full story and started writing it (I opened the file again recently and was surprised at how much I'd actually written) but I abandoned it after a while because I wasn't happy with some plot points and tbh I still haven't figure them out. But there's a lot of it that I still like, here is a small snippet:

I met him later that week. We walked the busy streets of London side by side, and the Prince didn’t seem to mind the mud that clung to his boots or the drizzle that darkened his golden hair to copper. He talked to me cheerfully- he seemed quite fond of talking, but not in the way one blabbers incessantly for the pleasure of hearing one’s own voice. He had much to share with me, and he spoke fast and with confidence, as if he could cram the information of a lifetime in just a few short hours.

He was different when he was with me. Less aloof, less regal. He had a casual air about it him which he seemed to drop when no one was around; it made him look young, almost boyish—behind his princely facade he hid a cheerful disposition and a razor sharp intellect, as well as a knack for clever puns.

It wasn’t long before our conversation drifted back to ancient myths and legends, as it normally did when it was just the two of us.

“The Ancient Greeks were masters when it came to tragic stories,” he said, pushing the glass door of a tea shop open, a small and dainty one hidden in one of the side streets off Baker Street. “The most tragic of all, of course,” he sat by one of the tables, gesturing for me to sit near him, “is none other than that of Achilles and Patroclus. I recall you were quite fond of their love story.”

I self-consciously glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one near us had overheard, even though the Prince didn’t seem to have noticed anything odd about his speech.

“We have settled, then, that they were lovers?” I asked him with a smile.

“Of course,” he said, without a hint of hesitation. “There can be no question about it. The truth is there, plain for everyone to see, regardless of what historians and scholars say. Left to their own devices, they would argue for centuries whether a tea kettle is black or simply very dark grey.”

That was another thing about him that I’d noticed; he often spoke blunt truths without any intention to tease or gauge for a reaction. He spoke them because, frankly, that was what they were: the truth, and he had little patience for anything but. It was something I admired about him.

Well, one of the many things I admired about him, in any case.

“Indulge me, Your Grace,” I said, lifting the steaming cup to my lips after he had poured the tea. “What is it that you and I know, and all the scholars of the world do not?”

#patrochilles #victorian au #reincarnation au

27 notes · View notes

candied-peach · 1 year ago

Text

ao3: "i'm afraid we won't be leaving" rating: T warnings: prinxiety, remus shenanigans mentioned genre: fluff description: Roman's not been sleeping. Virgil has a fix for that. (for anonymous: "tss fluff prompts.... prinxiety and a nap?")

Roman's jaw cracks in a yawn as he covers his mouth with one ink-spattered hand. He's been struck with a burst of creativity the past few days, so he's been working extra hard for Thomas. A bundle of scripts lay untidily stacked on a corner of his desk, and he's steadily plowing through another. This is good. This is great! Sure, he hasn't really slept in three days, but he doesn't need it! Not when energy thrums through his veins, exhaustion be damned. He's been drinking and eating for the most part (Virgil keeps dragging him off to meals and replenishing his water bottle). All in all, he is doing fantastically and he's so proud of himself. What would Logan say if he could see Roman now? Buckling down and getting the work done?

"Ro," Virgil's voice intrudes. Roman's mouth turns down into a pout before he can stop himself. He loves his boyfriend. He really does. Virgil is incredible and Roman doesn't know how he managed to get so lucky as to have Virgil say yes.

But Virgil doesn't understand how important it is for him to keep going when he's in the groove like this! He needs to finish it! Anxiety plucks at his heart strings, sending little shocks of worry throughout his nervous system.

"Ro, you need to sleep," Virgil says, resting his chin on Roman's shoulder.

"I'm nearly done," Roman argues absently. Virgil eyes him, and Roman finds his face reddening.

"No, you aren't," Virgil says. "I can tell you're lying from a mile away, Princey. Are you trying to get Janus's attention?"

"No!" Roman sputters, still red-faced. "I'm just- I'm not at a good stopping point, Dark and Stormy, just let me-" He wheedles. Virgil raises a dubious eyebrow.

"I don't think so," Virgil says, tugging Roman's chair out from his desk and spinning him around. Roman squeaks, nearly dropping his pen.

"Virgil!" Roman exclaims.

"Roman!" Virgil echoes his intonation. "You need a nap, darling. Come on. Up you get." He tugs at Roman's wrists. "I promise, I will let you get back to it once you've had a nap."

"But what if I forget my thought process?" Roman asks, his eyebrows scrunching together in worry. "I need to get this done, I told Thomas and Logan I'd have this done by the end of the week-"

"Darling, it's Wednesday," Virgil calmly points out. "You still have a few days to get it done. You won't finish it if you collapse instead."

"You're supposed to be on my side," Roman playfully accuses. "What happened to Anxiety prodding Thomas to get his shit done?"

"I realized self care is also important, and you'll get nothing done if you don't sleep," Virgil retorts, deadpan. "I will give you one minute to write down some notes for what you want to do, and that's it."

Seizing his opportunity, Roman whirls his chair back around, grabbing a spare sheet of notebook paper and scribbling down as many thoughts as his crammed-full brain could spit at him. All too soon, the minute is up, and Virgil is plucking the pen out of his hands.

"Nap time," Virgil insists. Roman throws him a pleading look.

"Now darling-" Roman starts, but Virgil just leans forward and kisses his nose, cutting him off mid-sentence.

"You look exhausted," Virgil informs him. "Your bags have bags and are moving cross-country. You look like you're wearing my eyeshadow, babe. Come on."

"Fine," Roman grumpily acquiesces. Virgil helps him stand and fatigue weighs every limb down as he is suddenly accosted with exhaustion. He wobbles and Virgil steadies him with a sympathetic smile. His opulent red and gold-draped bed looks more welcoming by the second.

"Just a few more feet," Virgil encourages him softly.

"You'll nap with me, won't you?" Roman asks. Virgil nods immediately.

"Of course, Princey," Virgil says. A soft, sappy look spreads across Roman's face as he sits down on the edge of the bed and snaps himself and Virgil into their pajamas. He yawns again and Virgil pushes him back onto the bed, crawling in after him.

"Go to sleep, love," Virgil says. The soft sound of rushing water fills the room, as Roman nonverbally turns on his noise machine. He can't handle the quiet otherwise, and Virgil's soft breaths aren't enough white noise to help.

"Love you, stormcloud," Roman murmurs. His eyelids feel like they have five pound weights attached to them. Virgil kisses him, then peppers more kisses across his cheeks.

"Love you, too, Princey," Virgil says, his voice so thick with fondness, it makes Roman's heart swell. "Your work will still be there when you wake up. Promise."

Hearing that, Roman immediately snaps his fingers to turn on the Anti-Remus Wards, just in case, and Virgil laughs.

"Point taken," Virgil says. "Now it will still be there."

"I know my brother," Roman mumbles, already halfway to dream land. Virgil curls up tight against him, one arm draped over his middle, and Roman's breathing slows, evening out.

He sleeps for hours and when he wakes up, his door is streaked with green slime that seems to be smoking.

But his work is untouched.

#🍬.txt #sanders sides #prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #roman #virgil #sanders sides fic #ok to rb #peach writes #📚

86 notes · View notes

querade · 1 year ago

Text

Doctor who's season 13?? ESPECIALLY the Yaz Hug moment

So with the new specials coming out I thought I'd post my thoughts on the season 13 finale

The doctor breaks herself into three different versions ,three different pieces overwhelmed by solving three equally pressing problems. I hear everyone’s issues with the 13th doctor etc etc but this was the PERFECT finale to her character--the entire arc is so chock-full of different problems EVERYWHERE that the doctor is squashing out.

I didn't realize it until then but the entire point of the Flux and the doctor closing herself off and not telling yaz and dan anything--AHH such a good idea!! It's the perfect way to represent everything as her arc comes to its climax.

Also just. The 13th doctor doesn't want to worry people so she doesn't tell her companions squat and just constantly deflects. you know how Clara uses the TARDIS and pseudoscience as a coping mechanism to get away from the Bad Things she has to eventually deal with?? YEA. NOW THE DOCTOR IS DOING IT.

in a way you see she's kind of grateful that she's in the middle of all this, because then she doesn't have to face anything :3—which is terrible and awful, but easy to rationalize because 'people's lives are on the line and she has to save them'!!

Naturally the doctor has always had a problem with being far too selfless. and while this arc doesn't state it directly, the acting and the camera work and the situation all state it indirectly enough. And Yaz is kind of the only one who notices cause she's the only one who's been there long enough?? anyways ahhhh when the companions finally reunite after like two episodes of being apart, its just. the doctor forces herself to stop the 'how do we fix this' brain and she makes herself pause and just goes "wait" and she stops and HUGS YAZ for like three seconds. It's the first break, the first silent, not-really-tense moment you get in an EXTREMELY long time. And even then it doesn't feel like long enough.

THE YAZ HUG MOMENT IS SO GOOD: I guess I noticed it was weird that it lasted so long but I couldn't exactly figure out why it was such a good choice. And then. In that whole meet-up scene, the cuts are SO very well done. You have the camera circling her, spinning, and the Doctor sees someone, says their name—

"Yaz! Dan! Kate Stewart, Kate Sewart! Jericho! Victorian-looking bloke!"

With every new bit of information, in a row, it jumps to a new cut, a new angle, with no continuity of the Doctor's previous pose—and i mean no continuity, from one cut to the next she is 180 degrees with completely different hands and head positions— but with possibly MORE stuff that she has to cram into this situation and spread herself even thinner--and it feels kind of like she's losing her mind.

(She kind of was.)

But she doesn't realize it yet or want to face it or can't face it or whatever, just keeps going, and then forces herself to pause. and to stop.

After all the losses, loss after loss after loss after loss in this arc, after making an extremely difficult, selfless decision, after all it cost her, she takes just a little selfish moment for herself to say, "Wait." and she chooses to not do anything. she chooses to take three long seconds to turn and hug yaz. not anyone else.

Of course, once she does, the camera stops spinning and idk i was just like 'WOW we really have been going nonstop for just a ridiculous amount of time haven't we.' and that was kinda when i realized that yea, I am gonna miss season 13's version of jodie whittaker.

#gay #doctor who #jodie whittaker #13th doctor #yasmin khan #thirteenth doctor #thirteen x yaz #they're gay your honor #TOO MUCH ANALYSIS FOR ONE MOMENT #can you tell my adhd meds kicked in as i started writing this #thasmin #THASMIN WINS

90 notes · View notes

chameleonspell · 1 month ago

Text

HTDC commentary - 24: lies

[Looking back at HTDC after nearly ten years: comments on lore, character notes, influences, art, whatever. May contain spoilers for later chapters.]

chapter text: 24: lies

TV Guide-style episode summary: After a spat with Tsiya, Iriel seeks out Sottilde for advice, but her drug dealer recommendation might be more than he seems.

I kind of love writing TV-guide-style chapter summaries. The format is such fun: one sentence long (maybe two if there's a B-character plotline), no spoilers, and as many cliches as you can cram in. If at all possible, end it with: "Hilarity ensues."

“Fool!” Tsiya hissed. “Vorar Helas was Tsiya’s connection! With that one dead, there will be even less sugar coming into Balmora! What was Iriel thinking?”

I hadn't thought of this direct consequence until I got to writing this scene, but it made immediate sense. And we need to inject some real conflict to get Ire out of this stagnant living arrangement.

Tsiya cannot care for all the thousands of slaves in Vvardenfell! Slaves die every day! Tsiya has enough to do caring for Tsiya, and making sure SHE doesn’t die, because nobody else will!” “You’re horrible,” said Iriel. “You’re a horrible person.

Iriel is perfectly familiar with Tsiya's viewpoint, having held variations on it himself. He understands survival. He has no interest in extending sympathy to Tsiya on this point, just as he has no interest in extending sympathy to himself on it. His words may be cruel, but they're technically not hypocritical.

But Iriel is so sure he’s superior to Tsiya, even though he’s the one leeching off her hospitality, wasting her sugar, using up her skooma, telling lies about her to Habasi.”

It comes off as hypocrisy, of course, complete with a sneering veneer of Altmer superiority. Is it Ire's fault, that his culture's reputation precedes him? No, but he's also leaning into it, as a defensive reaction. He's heard that tone, seen that expression. He can imitate it well enough, when he wants to. And it's not entirely a pose - he does think he's superior to Tsiya, or at least... that he ought to be. So it's worse, if he isn't. But we'll pick up on this mental thread, later.

“Lies? I told her the truth!

Given the chapter title is "lies", and accusations are flying, I should mention that nobody has told any actual lies, yet. It might be better if they had, since the truth is so much harsher.

He was too angry to tell how much of his own self-hatred was bleeding into his hatred of Tsiya. His inability to tell the difference only drove him deeper into fury.

Spelling it right out, here. Ire's habit of taking his self-hatred out on other people, looking for valid targets. Notice that he also, even in the heat of the moment, knows he's doing this, thus ensuring an ongoing supply of fuel for the self-hatred engine.

“GET OUT.” Tsiya’s claws twitched convulsively, and there were tears in her eyes. “GET OUT OF TSIYA’S HOUSE. NOW.”

I'm reminded of a passage from much later on:

Iriel sometimes felt the great turning points of his life were less about big decisions, and more about fuck-it moments. Times when his frustration would build to such excruciating levels, that it could only be relieved by acts that forced a change in his situation, even a negative, self-destructive one. Throwing himself off a cliff, because the bottom of the cliff promised to be a different place from the top.

Anyway, this moment comes under this heading: deliberately provoking Tsiya into kicking him out, because anything's better than continuing their rancid little cohabitation.

“There is no more skooma! Irrriel should give Tsiya the skooma he found in Hla Oad!” “What skooma? I didn’t find anything! Your information was as full of shit as you are.” He didn’t turn to meet her eye.

Ah, here are the lies. Iriel certainly did pick up some stray skooma bags during his Bitter Coast meanderings. And as for Tsiya...

Sure enough, three bottles of skooma were hidden inside one of the storage jars at the back, and he hesitated for less than a millisecond before putting all of them into his bag.

...of course she has a back-up stash. As Iriel knows, since it's what he would do. And he knows that, if the situation were reversed, she would steal all HIS skooma, so why (he thinks) shouldn't he take hers? They're exactly as bad as each other, so he can't feel guilty about hurting her - at least, not just yet.

Holding it high out of her reach, he forced his way through the door

Altmeri height privilege at work! Not only are Altmer the tallest race in Morrowind, (as you can see from the ingame character model height multipliers) Khajiiti women are the shortest in pure elevation reached - technically Bosmer men are shorter, and Breton women equally short, but in practice, Khajiit digitigrade leg angles knock a fair bit off the real-money height of female Khajiit. Even with her knife-hands, Tsiya doesn't have a hope.

[Sottilde] looked him up and down. "Shor’s balls! Your shirt looks like something with a whole lotta teeth ate it, an’ threw it back up.”

Tsiya definitely gave it her best shot, though.

I think I stole "Shor's balls" from @sunderlorn, but he thinks he stole it from someone else, too. Whoever created it, thank you. It is the perfect Nordic curse. Tilde didn't say it in my first version of this scene, though, because I hadn't yet realised she ought to talk like my friend [redacted]. Once I fixed that, everything fell into place.

“Ah… yes. That would be Tsiya’s claws, and then before that there was the boat, the silt strider, the blood, the swamp… Mara’s arse, when did I last change clothes?

I think "Mara's arse" is one of mine, though? Anyway, this line is me the author speaking through Iriel, as I realised how many consecutive scenes I had dragged him through with no chance to clean up or get changed.

Sottilde watched, grinning, as he pulled his shirt off and started rummaging through his bag for another. “That’s just rude an’ uncalled for,” she said, “taunting me with that view when you’re off-limits to the ladies.”

She's not fully formed as a character yet, but Sottilde's already making blatantly horny remarks, and generally being adorably dreadful. Which is why Iriel immediately fell in love with her, because what's a best friend, if not someone who cheerfully offers themselves up as a target for all your bitchiest jabs? As we know, Iriel likes having a target, and because Tilde's making herself one on purpose, he doesn't even have to feel guilty about it. Even better, he doesn't have to self-filter, with Tilde (evidenced by the fact he's already out to her), since she's always being filthier and more inappropriate then him.

Sottilde's just so laid back and non-threatening, she can get away with anything. She's so frank and open with her lascivious comments that it converts into a weird sort of innocence - there's no shame to her at all. I assume she opened their acquaintance proper by hitting on Iriel on general principle, but upon realising that was a non-starter, she swiftly and enthusiastically shifted gears into friendship, with zero awkwardness or damage to her ego. Iriel likes that she still makes a point of telling him he's hot, now and again - not because she's creeping on him, but because she thinks her friends ought to know that they're hot. He appreciates the effort, even if her specific tastes mean he's not sure it's a compliment.

“Oh, I like skinny, me. This one time, I saw a picture of a really hot guy on the town news-board, but when I got closer to see if I could get his name, it was a can-you-identify-this-corpse drawing of some poor sap they’d found dead of starvation in a cave-in.”

This is a true story, that I stole from a different friend, and slightly adapted for Tamriel. The original was something like: "I knew I had a thing for skinny men when I saw a photo of a hot guy in the paper, and he turned out to be a prisoner on hunger strike, taken three days before he died." Which is way funnier, but Tamriel doesn't have photos, and also I didn't want to steal the anecdote too precisely.

Ire almost choked on his wine. “You’re terrible! What kind of Nord are you? Is that why you’re not in Skyrim any more, they threw you out for disrespecting brawn?”

See, he gets to feel all prim and pearl-clutching when he's with Tilde, which is great fun, since other people usually make him feel like the weird, perverted one.

“Yeah, that, and the whole stealing military secrets, traitor to my homeland thing.”

Everyone who meets Tilde gets to listen to this whole silly, self-deprecating bit, where she pretends to claim she's a superspy revolutionary and political dissident, then admits that what actually happened was that she worked as a clerk in an outpost near the Skyrim/Morrowind border, had military secrets flirted out of her by a cute Dunmer agent who got her drunk, and then had to flee the country in a panic when her boss found out.

She smirked. “Who says I wanna sleep? Why’d you think I came here?” She leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Seen any… elves?”

Because sometimes people tell me they read the fic without ever playing Morrowind, I feel I have to explain things like this: Nord NPCs in Morrowind often greet you with: "Seen any elves?" Then they laugh, because it's a Nord dad joke. Because Nords and elves are ancient enemies, and used to hunt and kill each other a lot.

Sottilde, in defiance of her country's usual "sporadically shaved bear" beauty standard, hunts elves for more salacious reasons. Iriel considers this a creepy racial fetish, and he's honestly not wrong. He likes her all the more for it, though, because it gives him free target practice on her.

She paused, tapping her fingernails on the bar. “You really oughtta quit, you know.” A sigh. “I know.” “I don’t wanna lecture you. I know it’s not an easy thing, and it’s gotta be your choice, but…” “I know. Thanks.”

You can immediately see how much better Iriel is, now, at navigating a friendship, and handling the gentle suggestion that he needs to quit drugs. Compare his panicked, defensive reaction, back in Vivec, when Dro'Zaymar tried something similar. Back then, he couldn't comprehend what his life might look like, without his addiction holding it up. He's much closer to being able to do that now, and he can see Tilde's non-judgemental concern for what it is.

But he's still not quite ready to make the break.

She rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t enable you.” “Would it help if I took my shirt off again?” “Whore.” “Please don’t insult whores by comparing them to me. It’s a skilled profession, and I’m merely an enthusiastic amateur.”

I really don't know how Ire and Tilde became so close so quickly, it just happened. Right from the start, they glommed onto each other, and before I could blink, they were best friends ten bizarrre in-jokes deep, and I couldn't stop writing her into scenes. Obviously, this only continued to escalate. I am not kidding at all when I say that this is the most important and significant relationship, not just of the fic, but perhaps of Ire's entire life. The growth of their love is less messy and dramatic than Ire's romantic entanglements, and it takes up less of the word count as a result, but it's no less deep. That's part of why the ending is the way it is. Blame Tilde, basically.

There’s a friend of Bacola’s who comes in sometimes. I dunno much about him, but he’s a sugartooth. No clue where he gets his supply from, but he never seems to run out. In return for his name and address, though, you gotta tell me more about this Kaye guy.

Much later, Iriel says of Sottilde:

Do you know, she… she was the first person I ever met in my life who thought my gayness was a positive thing about me. Aside from Reu, perhaps, but everything he said had an ulterior motive. Tilde had no reason to pretend, she was open as a summer sky, and she thought it was wonderful. Encouraged me! She could be nosy and overly, um… imaginative, but… she’ll never know what her unconditional acceptance meant to me, at the time.

Iriel views Tilde's borderline-fujoshi streak with bemused toleration, because in his world, it's such a novelty. He tells her off when she goes too far, but on the whole, Iriel likes Sottilde for her faults, not despite them. She makes him feel normal.

Anyway. Ire's off to find the Spymaster.

It's nice when you can set up these little plot dominoes. To push a character towards something that most readers will know is inevitable, but you don't it want to feel inevitable, in a brutal, author-forced way. No weird coincidences, or out-of-character decisions. You want it to seem natural that this would lead to that happening. Iriel needs skooma, and Caius Cosades is well-known as a skooma addict, at the South Wall. Ire would never voluntarily attract Cosades' attention, if he realised who he was, but how likely is it that he recalls a name he was told once, back in Seyda Neen, when he was deep in a dissociative haze?

Let's see how fast he remembers.

Art pick: Iriel by @bigger-rat. Beautiful lighting. Immaculate resting-bitch-face. Absolutely perfect nose, in particular - the slight upturn and irregularity in the bridge that, if you're Altmer, marks him on sight as insufficiently highblood. That, and the moles, of course. Imperfection literally on display.

next: 25: expecting previous: 23: fix

#htdc-comment

8 notes · View notes

side-shuffling-hyperfixations · 1 month ago

Text

TMNT - The Pits

Summary: Don is rather reluctant to leave his work for a lunch break. Turns out the lunch doesn't find him very agreeable either.

“C’mon, Don. If this is a good stopping point, mark your spot,” Leo advised, rapping his knuckles lightly against the desk. The sound made Don’s stiff neck prickle, especially when it rattled all of the empty coffee cups nearby, although that wasn’t nearly as aggravating as the shadow Leo cast over the notes on his desk. “April just got back with lunch for everybody; she’ll want to say hi.”

When it came to long, spiraling equations like this, there was never really a good place to “mark one’s spot”, but it wasn’t like he had gotten much done with Leo intermittently hovering for the last ten minutes and now that at least one of the wheels on his train of thought had slipped, Don was more aware of the yawning pit in his stomach. Even so, his grip tightened reluctantly on his pencil.

“We see April practically every day…” he pointed out—a little guiltily, of course, but only a little. She was one of his best friends, he thoroughly enjoyed her company, and he was too busy to enjoy it properly right now. “Can’t I just eat in here? I’m right in the middle of something.”

“Donatello.” It was a notably soft touch by Leo’s typical full-naming standards—not nearly as stern as he’d sound with Raph, not as deeply resigned as he would with Mikey—but it did its job, informing Don in a small, swift stroke that this was a fight he wouldn’t win. “You were holed up in here all day yesterday, half the day before, we haven’t seen you today since morning training and I could hear your stomach growling from a couple yards away. Pretty sure you’re overdue for a break. Not to mention April’s treating all of us; it’s only polite to thank her in person.”

“Okay, okay, points made and taken. I’m coming,” Don sighed, although he was unable to resist flinging his pencil at his brother in some exasperation. It wasn’t as satisfying when Leo easily swiped it out of the air and flicked it back into the one clean coffee mug amidst the cluster designated as pen and pencil holder. “…Showoff.”

A mischievous grin from the eldest was a rare and usually welcome sight but since when was he the one to have fun at the expense of important work? Every ounce of Don, mind and body, protested the disruption as he creaked upright and out of his chair for the first time in…what was it, only six or seven hours?

Okay, sure, I see how it is. Leo was free to spend similar sums of time in meditation, sharpening his mind, rising above these basic life things like food and socializing but Don’s lab work had to be shuffled aside?

And that right there was the crankiness of sleep deprivation talking. As Leo had so kindly reminded him, he’d been engrossed in this process for nearly a day and a half and last night his brain had refused to turn off for more than a couple hours at…some point past three AM.

Deep inhale, slow exhale. A quick lunch wasn’t that complicated. Stretch—he did so gingerly, the snap-crackle-pop of achy joints reminding him of cereal to lure another growl from his stomach—sit with the family, let Mikey dominate most of the chitchat as he was wont to do, cram the food, thank April and then get back after it.

It would be a half hour tops, a detour rather than a derailing, he reassured himself, rubbing a graphite-stained hand down his face before resting it briefly on Leo’s shell as they walked. He was just looking out for him.

As if reading his mind, sensing that little bit of give, Leo returned the pat on the back in kind. Then he actually had the cheek to add, with all the casually feigned innocence of a Mikey-style ploy, “And, you know, maybe after lunch you ought to lie down for a little while, just as a reset so you can come back to it with a clear head…”

And end up kicking himself later when a quick, harmless catnap turned into a twelve-hour setback snooze? Coming to all groggy and out of it, forgetting the thread of what he was working on? He shook his head with a small, knowing chuckle. “Don’t push it, Mom.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.”

Despite his reluctance it was nice to see a friendly face in April as she glanced up from the combo meals being dispersed across the table and smiled at him.

“Hey, Don!”

“Hi, April.”

“Would ya look at that? The prodigal prodigy emerges,” Raph grunted around a mouthful of fries. It figured that he wouldn’t wait for them to arrive before digging in, although he was just as quick to swat Mikey’s hand as it crept to snatch a fry or two from his plate. “Lay off, Mikey! You better get it while the gettin’s good, Don, before the vulture here starts pickin’ at ya.”

Undeterred even after he had to shake the sting out of his dorsum, Mikey perked up and wiggled the fingers of his opposite hand hopefully. “Can I have your fries if you don’t finish ’em, Donnie?”

“I haven’t even started yet! But the answer is no in advance.” The more thoroughly he cleaned his plate now, the more time he might buy before a concerned family member came circling around the lab to insist he was malnourished again and extract him for dinner.

By the time Leo got to his seat, Don was already swallowing his second bite with only slight difficulty. April hadn’t brought them food from this burger joint before; the inner texture of the bun was oddly mushy in comparison to the well toasted top. Don brushed off the thought as soon as it occurred. It might have just soaked up some fatty grease from the meat on the way over. Food was food. After all their childhood years of survival on Splinter’s dumpster diving and how long it had taken Mikey to hone his cooking craft, a squishy mouthfeel was not uncommon—certainly not enough to distract him from kicking Mikey under the table after he none-too-subtly tried his hand at Leo’s fries too.

For the first fifteen minutes or so, the small talk was exactly what he’d anticipated—laughing and jeering at word of Casey’s latest shenanigans, casual appraisal of April’s latest antiques, describing a few of the moves Master Splinter had introduced to them during morning training. He did his best to nod along here and there, although the unexpected kick of heat in his meal held his tongue from actually contributing much. It wasn’t until April faltered, performing a double take over her plate, that he fully tuned in to what was happening.

“Hey, wait a second; I just remembered mine was supposed to be an avocado burger! Did one of you guys get it?” The turtles froze at that, allowing her to turn a stern eye on the pre-established food vulture. “Mikey, you better not have swapped them! I paid three more bucks for that one.”

If he and his brothers weren’t already green, their faces would have turned as much as they balked, dropping the remnants of their food as if it had burned them—not that Don even had much left, merely an edge of crust. April reeled back slightly, startled by this reaction.

“What’s the matter?”

“Ah, shell,” Raph spat, hastily hawking a half-chewed mass into his crumpled napkin as Leo leapt upright and started picking over all the plates.

“You didn’t, Mikey, right?” he demanded. “You didn’t shuffle them around to be funny or get the extra toppings or—?”

“No, I-I just took whichever one got passed down here!” Mikey was belatedly scrubbing his hands over his mouth, snatching up the nearest soda to swish and then spit back into the cup.

“Guys, what is it? What’s wrong?” April asked again, more frantic as she detected the air of urgency.

“…The texture seemed off to me,” Don piped up faintly, drawing all wide eyes. Now as he swallowed hard against the oily residue, he was acutely aware of how tingly his tongue was, how tight his throat felt with his heart lodged in it and racing. “I didn’t even take a second to check it, I just thought…”

He didn’t think; he hadn’t thought twice about it. He was tired, he was distracted, he was in such a begrudging hurry to get this lunch over and done with—Apparently Turtle Luck had decided the delay of his work would be a lot more than thirty minutes.

Raph’s next curses were a lot more colorful as he upended his chair and sprinted for the trash can, sweeping what was left of their meal off the table and into the bag before thrusting it under Don’s chin. “Chuck it!” he commanded. “However you gotta do it, stick a finger in your throat, a punch in the gut or—”

“Can I help?! I can help, I got it!” Mikey scrambled over, hauling Don up onto weak, trembling legs to envelop him in a bear hug from behind. “What’s it called, the, uh, the—the Heimlich maneuver, right?”

“He’s not chokin’, Mike, it already went down!”

It may not have been the right scenario but the tension of Mikey’s arms around his ribs combined with the stench of the nearly overflowing garbage can right in his face, the nausea already roiling and a surprise attack from Leo to a pressure point in his wrist were quick to build into a disgusting mouthful of off-green sludge. Bile came hot on its heels, embittered by his last cup of coffee yet to be fully absorbed, and turned a gasp into another gag. Between spitting and sputtering, he couldn’t catch a full breath.

“Donnie’s allergic to avocado?!”

“We all are, sort of?!” Mikey stammered, which obviously did very little to explain, much less quell April’s alarm, but he was a little busy adjusting his hold to thump Donnie hard on the shell. “C’mon, bro, keep it coming, get all the oopsies out!”

The force it required for a lunch just settling to stir again and slug all the way back to the surface had Don’s stomach twisting viciously and his vision blurring with reflexive tears. “Not exactly an—allergen,” he choked out, voice shaking through a chain of wet coughs. “T-Toxin.”

What little color was left in April’s face blanched away. “Wha—I poisoned you?!”

“S’ a chemical c-called persin. Birds and reptiles are, uh—” Mikey’s next thump knocked him off balance, forcing Raph to grab his shoulder with one hand and awkwardly wedge the trash can against his plastron with the other. It honestly did feel like an effective punch to the gut, his wheeze hitching into a gurgle. “—Nnh—not big f-fans.”

“So what, do you guys have something like an EpiPen or Benadryl for poison? What do we do?!”

“Couldn’t tell ya! We ain’t ever had this happen before!” Raph snapped, made harsh with stress and the pressure of April flitting helplessly around them.

“We stay calm,” Leo urged, the panicky flutter of his hands betraying his terse, level tone as he grabbed a napkin and mopped up the sour spittle dripping down Don’s chin, the other hand pressing at his clammy, swollen neck for his pulse. “Donnie, focus, talk to us.” While you still can, he didn’t say. “What do you need?”

Somehow Leo trusted him to just know, to have done his research on the subject at some point and use it to guide them through. No pressure, except that of his throat wanting to close.

“IV,” he rasped, listing into Leo’s touch in the hopes he could help support his suddenly heavy head. “Saline s-should dilute it.”

“Raph—”

“I’m on it!” The trash can hit the ground and tipped over with a thud and a spatter as Raph bolted with reckless abandon toward the lab to gather the makings of an infusion. For all his heavy-handed methods in other areas of life, he had the delicate work of threading a needle down pat; he could find a vein for fluids just as deftly as Don.

“Mikey, t-two things: syrup, a small brown bottle, and ch—hhgh—charcoal powder.” As Mikey jerked an anxious nod and sprinted after Raph, Don blinked blearily at his hands for a few moments before fumbling them over Leo’s arms. “M’too s-shaky to measure out the doses. You’ll have to…”

“Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Syrup first, fifteen milliliters. Then eight ounces of water. Anything I haven’t t-thrown up already, that ought to do it. Twenty or thirty minutes. Then charcoal. Multi-dose activated charcoal is—” Unseen fingers around his lungs squeezed to punish him for so much conversation, cutting him off with a series of hiccupping coughs that had his head spinning in a haze. He thought he was tired before all of this? For all that his system had refused to shut down last night, it sure felt like it was heading for a blue screen of death now.

“Okay, okay, you’re really pale. Let’s sit you back down fast before your legs give out, here we go—you’re doing great, Don, you just need to stick it out a little longer. Stay with me. Come on, tell me about the charcoal. You said multiple doses? How do I start?”

“Ten to one ratio…to the toxin…” Of which they had no idea how much he had actually ingested. The restaurant wouldn’t have precisely measured out the portion; they would have just slapped it on. “…or one gram per kilogram of b-bodyweight. Then repeat doses…ten to twenty-five grams every…two or four hours.”

The world had tipped sideways as Leo steered him back to his chair; it was still bobbing strangely with Leo’s head as he nodded rapidly along.

“Fifteen for syrup, eight ounces of water, twenty or thirty minutes, ten to one—” An incredulous noise that couldn’t quite call itself a laugh escaped him as he rechecked Don’s pulse with one hand, cupped his face with the other. “And here I was trying to get you to take a break from equations.”

“Mmm. With the benefit of—hhh—h-hindsight, a nap probably would’ve been nice right about now.” Instead he had Raph skidding in with one of their salvaged IV stands and a needle sliding into his forearm with no further ado or warning, Mikey bounding over on his other side to slosh the syrup bottle at him with dizzying speed.

“I got it, I got it! How much of this stuff do you—?”

“A tablespoon! I got all the steps for medicine written down!” April announced, waving the back of the fast food bag upon which she had been madly scribbling along to Donnie’s voice. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Pick up the t-trash can, maybe?” Excess saliva pooled again under his tongue, preemptive to the bitter medicines in his future. “I’m gonna need it f-for a while.”

The beats that followed this implication were uneasy: Mikey clattering loudly through the utensils; Raph’s foot tapping restlessly as he watched the fluids increase from an agonizingly slow drip to a proper flow, his tight-knuckled grip on the IV stand making the rickety old metal creak; Leo overfilling the eight-ounce glass of water in his haste, April fidgeting with the paper bag…and the sheer amount of guilt furrowing her brows and thinning her lips was enough to twist another knot into Don’s cramping stomach.

He hadn’t even wanted to participate in the first place but really, was a calm, uneventful family meal so much to ask?

“Hey, April…?” he called hesitantly, though it was more of a croak. “One more thing?”

“Of course, anything!”

“Maybe you could duck out and grab a…a nice, safe conciliatory pizza? After this mess all comes back out, I’ll…technically be able to say I haven’t had lunch.”

#i neglected to post this here weeks ago whoops #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2003 #fanfiction #tmnt donatello #tmnt leonardo #tmnt raphael #tmnt michelangelo #april o'neil #sickfic #whump #overworking #poison #emeto #vomiting #sorry if it's clunky. i was sleep deprived #it could have gone a lot further but i uncharacteristically held back lol

9 notes · View notes

comfort-questing · 4 months ago

Text

19. blood trail

they couldn't be too far away, now; the red splashes were more frequent on the narrow path now, and brighter crimson instead of drying brown. small mercy to at least be able to track them this way, instead of losing them to the woods altogether.

she kept a hand on her knife, just in case. she didn't think they would be desperate enough to fight back, even if they were in a state to do so. with this much blood on the ground perhaps they'd even tried to pull out the arrow, which was a horrible idea all around.

when she found them they were huddled up between the roots of an old oak tree, hunched over the arrow still in their side, rumpled uniform now all but blackened with blood and mud. they looked very small and alone, somehow, huddled there, and she had to take a moment to remind herself how hard it had been to capture them in the first place, according to reports.

she tried to move quietly, but they saw her anyway, and peered up with narrowed eyes full of misery.

"should have known you'd find me," they said.

"look, better me than the captain and his crew," she said. she crouched down cautiously, ready to dodge, ready to move forward if she saw an opening or a reason. "I'm going to try to be nice about it, anyway. just - come on back with me."

"you've been so nice already," they said, sourly, then, and pressed a hand above the arrow, to steady the shaft as they took another deep breath in, "unless that wasn't your arrow, I mean."

"I don't know. I don't think so. Ellis and I were both shooting, and he's better at it than I am. he's somewhere out here too, looking for you. we can't have a prisoner escape..."

she didn't know how she was expecting to convince them; the look of desolation in their face seemed ready to turn to any kind of desperate action. but the color had gone out of their skin behind the bruises and there was, of course, the blood on the ground to consider as well.

"please, I don't want to hurt you," she breathed, and got up to step forward. "you can't run any further, you can't get to anywhere in this condition. come back to camp.

"and get locked up till your snake of an officer and his friends stay up half the night to beat information out of me again." they spoke through gritted teeth. "well, thanks, but no thanks."

she'd tried not to listen that night, but blankets crammed into her ears only did so much. she didn't know which was worse in her memories, the cruel laughter of the others or the proud, stifled gasps of their prisoner between the landing blows.

"look, I can't let you go. someone else would track you down, or - or you'll just bleed to death." she was standing over them now, just outside their arms' reach, though one arm was busy holding their wound and the other trailed limp among the tree roots.

"bet?" they said, hoarsely. "give me an hour, tell them the wrong direction. something like that. you look like a smart kid, you can fool them."

funny to be called a kid by someone who probably wasn't much her elder, but she didn't have the heart to complain. she sighed, a long unexpectedly shuddery feeling in her chest, and licked at her dry lips.

"all right," she said. "but - you'd better hurry, I know there's others out looking."

they smiled, thinly.

"do my best," they said. and then, "thank you."

they flinched as she reached out, but then froze, grimacing a little at the pain of it. blinking, they looked down at the jacket she'd dropped in their lap.

"it's my spare," she said. "you'll need bandages, or they'll definitely find you." and then, "do you ... want some help with it?"

they sighed.

"...might as well, if you're willing."

#whump #hurt comfort #whumptober day 19 #whumptober 2024

9 notes · View notes

the-dye-stained-socialite · 9 months ago

Text

A gift fic for @thedeafprophet !!! congrats on finishing college!!! Rating: Mature Word count: 6,462 Ship: The Manager of the Royal Beth/Jamie Awnings Summary: The Manager of the Royal Beth has been feeling rather poorly lately. Jamie Awnings intends to help by forcing him to take a break from his work. Tonight’s meeting had been planned four months in advance. He was a busy man. It had been canceled thrice. He was a busy, and nervous man. As Jamie walked through the sequence of rooms leading to the Manager’s private suite, they found themself debating the likelihood of him canceling again. They would understand, of course, as they by no means wanted to pressure him into doing anything he was uncomfortable with, but they were still hopeful he’d keep their appointment. They both knew how desperately he needed relief from his work, and how Jamie would gladly provide when given the chance.

Most of the rooms were full of filing, presumably information he kept on every person who had ever reserved a room. Some were bursting, some dusty, some barely used. They wondered if all these of these rooms had always been here, or if he simply conjured another when the previous ones overflowed. The near final, and second furthest room, however, differed from the rest. It was akin to a linen closet, but instead of towels, it held a great quantity of quilts. Every color, size, and possible pattern seemed crammed onto a shelf here or there. This visit, they noticed a good quantity missing, and a single new one since their last visit. He could pretend he didn’t care, but this room would suggest otherwise. Still, quilts were not what they were here for.

The question took a moment to process in his mind, as though he was listening to a foreign language. It struck them that he was. They began to repeat themself, hoping to go slower for him, when he said “Oh! Yes, you may.” He didn’t seem to notice their joke, but stepped aside so his visitor could enter.

His personal rooms were sparse, to say the least. Bed, bookshelf, dresser. The only personal touch he apparently allowed himself was a desk and chair, and that was likely permitted for only practical reasons. No wall decorations except a single clock. That same, awful wallpaper, that Jamie’s fingers itched to tear. The Manager chuckled, just briefly, at that. Well, they were glad to know he wasn’t entirely out of it.

Still, Jamie was an actor, and could tell when someone was performing. They would let him continue his act for now, but they intended to help if he would allow. He could put on a façade that he was okay, and Jamie would help it be real. That was their goal tonight. The Manager had helped many, them especially, and they longed to return the favor. Of course, it was more than a simple favor, it was an act of trust and intimacy. Weakness bared openly, to not be rejected, but instead seen, accepted, and tended to. Cared for. Jamie stopped themself before that train of thought derailed into territory neither of them wanted to address.

He relocked his door behind them. Tonight, in this space alone, Jamie would be the one in charge. Their demeanor certainly showed it, confidence evident in everything they did. He was still by the door when they strode over to him with an intensity in their eyes. It took him off guard, and he even took a half-step back. The difference in their height seemed inconsequential as they pinned him with their gaze.

“Are you willing to perform your role tonight?” they asked. Jamie was very close.

He gestured around the room with his free hand. “I had thought it rather obvious?”

Jamie crossed their arms with a huff. “Not all of us are mind-readers.” When they said this, his presence in their mind began to thumb through their thoughts, choosing and plucking images and words to bring to the forefront. Their smile turned to a pout. “We’re not playing by those rules tonight, Mister. If I’m going to direct this scene tonight, I expect you to communicate with your own words and thoughts, not mine . I don’t intend to overstep any boundaries, or push you too far, and I want a clear idea of what I’m doing. Understood?” They leaned back as they spoke, making a point that this show would not go on if he decided to muddle the script.

The Manager considered their words, and they felt his presence recede to nothing more than a faint wisp in their mind. They did not look fully satisfied, and he realized he had, once again, not said anything out loud. “Yes, I believe I understand.”

Their expression brightened once more, and they were leaning back into him. “Now, are you willing to submit to your role tonight? ” they repeated.

There was something about needing to say it out loud that made him hesitate. It was not the act of saying no that brought him doubt, but the act of saying yes. He knew if he said no, Jamie would be understanding, and would not press matters. There was no fear held there. But to admit out loud, that he wanted attention? He wished to be vulnerable? That he thought he was deserving of the privilege of submitting for Jamie, and receiving… receiving what he desired? It was that, which gave him pause. Perhaps this once though, he might be able to indulge himself. The hotel was all taken care of, it was solidly in an off season, everything had been carefully planned and arranged. Just for tonight, it could only cause the most minimal of harm. “Yes, I would like to.” The admission sounded almost strained. “But, ah, nothing sexual tonight. And, I would prefer to keep my drawers on.”

“Thank you for telling me.” His face warmed as they continued. ”In that case, no ‘Jamie’, until this scene is over. Director, Sir, or Mst. Awnings for tonight, yes?”

“Yes, Director. Though, I’m getting on in my years, so you’ll have to forgive me if I forget,” he joked to hide his anxiety. Was this a bout of hedonophobia?

Mst. Awnings hummed. Could they feel his apprehension? They touched a hand to his coat, between the double rows of his brass buttons. “Yes, about that forgetfulness. How will you let your Director know if the show is to end early tonight, before the play is finished? How will you ask for a premature curtain call?”

The Manager was not the most well-versed in theatre terminology, but he understood what they were saying. If things crossed a boundary, if this ‘scene’ needed to come to a sudden end, how would he tell them his want was genuine, and not just protest for the sake of protest? They had discussed this many times before. “Mercy. I will beg for your mercy.”

“Good.” Mst. Awnings turned from him to study the nearby desk. Providing him space for the next question. It did not come right away, however, for they spent a moment studying what lay on the desk.

Charcoal sticks littered the surface. A single stick of red, Surface clay as well. Amongst the mess were multiple sketches. Most were landscapes, except for one so thoroughly smudged it no longer had any distinct features. The drawings they could decipher looked like a place far different from London. Were they of the First City? Was that what was affecting him tonight? Or was it only a symptom? There was only so much they could do, but it was worth it to do even just that.

“Are you begging right now?” came the question at last.

“No,” he said, with confidence.

Mst. Awnings turned back towards him, and nodded, assured that the show could now progress. It made them less tense themself. There was a monumental amount of trust that was being placed in them, and they did not want to squander or break it.To take anyone down into a vulnerable mind-state and hold them there was a privilege. The Manager’s submission was a beautiful thing, and an honor to be entrusted with. He was handing over his power to them, to wield as they chose, and putting enough faith in them that they would not harm him in any way he did not agree to. It was a rare performance, and they intended to take very good care of him tonight.

Jamie moved across the room, and sat on the edge of his bed with an expectant look, setting aside the small bundle. Their supporting actor made no move to follow, only watching with his still-stiff posture. They took a moment to assess his costume. He was fully clothed from toe to tip, as though expecting to be pulled away for work at any moment. Hopefully, that would not happen. The duo had done far too much planning for any unplanned intermissions.

“Come here,” they requested. The scene called for removal of power, and what better way to show than stripping him of his uniform?

He was obedient, but only just. His stage fright was getting to him as he walked over. Everything about him was tense, no fluid and relaxed movements. “Yes, Mst.?”

They were the leading actor of tonight, and it was their job to soothe his nerves. They placed one hand on his hip, and rubbed a small circle into his coat. “You’re doing well. There’s no audience here. A performance for just the two of us. Call it a character-driven scene.”

He breathed, slow and steady. Their voice was soft and calming. Yes, no other witnesses. A matinee for them alone. “Please, remind me what I’m to do next, Director. I seem to have forgotten.”

“You’re to sit down, and change into your proper costume. Which is to say, I want you to remove your shoes.”

Instead of sitting beside them on the bed as intended, the Manager made the painful decision to sit on the floor, and the contact was broken.

“Why are you down there?’

“You asked me to sit,” he said, puzzled. “Have I done something wrong?’

Oh, they hadn’t specified where they had wanted him to sit. Clearly, he was trying to follow their words as best as he could, and only do as explicitly instructed. Jamie filled that knowledge into their mental stage directions. “No, nothing wrong, merely unexpected. Once you’ve taken your boots off, I want you to join me up here on the bed.”

Once again, he did not move. “I might be needed in the rest of the hotel, Mst. Awnings. Perhaps I should keep them on in case I’m called elsewhere?”

They considered his argument, then decided against it. “If your duties are pressing enough that you must be on constant call, perhaps a performance tonight is not a good idea? I should think, however, that whatever emergency would be had can wait a minute or so for you to redress.” His Lead leaned forward, and extended a hand. When he did not flinch or retract, they pressed their ungloved palm to the side of his face. Jamie brushed their fingertips over his beard, delighting in the texture. He seemed unwilling to relax, as if his tension was the only thing holding him together after all this time. He seemed tired. Creases near the corners of his eyes marked his age. Did he choose to look so old? they wondered. They rubbed a thumb near his eyes, and watched those eyes flick over to their hand. The color reminded them of honey, or the Parabolan sun. Had they been this warm amber on the Surface? Were they deeper, darker, back then? A cool, dark brown, instead of his current, warm hazel? Did they still remember the sun? He closed him, and they hoped it wasn’t from embarrassment. Then, little by little, they watched him relax. It was almost imperceptible with how slight and slow it was, but it was there all the same, and Jamie cherished it. They lingered in that moment for the space of a few breaths, and then he moved to remove his shoes.They wished to help, but they knew they had to let him choose to do this one on his own. When Jamie went to take their hand away, his own hand twitched, as though there was something he wanted to do. He said nothing, and the urge had passed. Jamie was not the mind-reader.

As they watched him remove his boots, something caught their eye. The remaining bedchamber wall, which could not be seen until one was inside of his room, was different from the rest. Bare patches, devoid of wallpaper, littered its surface like calico spots. There was evidence suggesting he had tried to put the wallpaper back up, but it hadn’t seemed to stick.

Soon, his boots were off and set neatly aside. With both his cane and a helping hand, the Manager made it back up and onto the bed. The two shuffled and got comfortable, resulting in May half reclining against the headboard and wall, and Jamie, straddling his lap for better vantage. He found himself needing to look away from their intensity.

“You’re doing well,’’ they reassured.

“I have not done much,” he countered. It was not intended to undermine them, just a statement of fact.

“True, but even small actions can speak a lot about a character.” They reached a hand up to his hat. His own hand followed them, placed atop theirs. “Will you allow me?”

He said nothing, but managed a nod. They removed his hat, and set it aside, before returning their hand to his curls. His own hand dropped to their thigh uselessly. Their other hand snuck around his waist, and rested on his lower back, through layers of fabric. Jamie combed through his hair, seeming to delight in the streaks of grey that feathered through his hair. As their hand explored the nape of his neck, they leaned forward against him. Two hands, wrapping around him, their chest pressing against his own, a stage-parody of a hug, but without malice or mockery. How long had it been since someone touched him with such kindness? Taken time out of their day to do nothing but touch and comfort him? Was it because he was as truly unloveable as he thought himself? Or was it his own doing, simply never allowing it?

He decided not to focus on that, instead forcing his mind back to the present. Breathing in, breathing out, grounding himself with the scent of their perfume. They had leaned quite close, so it was easy to redirect on the floral scent surrounding him. Breathing in the smell of almost-roses, and making effort to concentrate on their hands. The hand buried in the mass of curls at his nape twirled and twisted his curls, not painfully. Just gently. He was still refusing to make eye-contact, so he startled slightly when a soft face pressed against the side of his. He imagined his beard was scratchy, but they seemed not to mind. In fact, they began to hum, softly against his ear. Or perhaps they had been humming for a while, and he was only close enough now to notice. They continued like that for some time, petting his hair and occasionally nuzzling him. It was strange, receiving this… attention, but he found himself melting like ice into water within their palms.

That was likely what they were waiting on, for him to become a puddle in their hands. But, he couldn’t complain, it was very nice. When Jamie leaned back and their hands moved to his hands, he was a bit disappointed, but not disinterested. They took one gloved hand first, his non-favoured, and turned it over. They bent over, and placed a kiss on his palm through the leather. Only a single kiss, though. The Gentleman’s gloves fastened at the wrist with a button, which they undid easily, taking their time in pulling them off slowly. When it was removed however, they didn’t let go of his hand immediately. Instead, they worked their thumbs into the muscles of his palm, massaging out aches and pains. It was remarkably effective.

“This is what I do when I’ve been writing for too long. It helps with muscle cramps.”

“It certainly makes a difference.”

Jamie laughed, and moved to his other hand. “I’m not kissing this one, it’s still covered in charcoal isn’t it?”

“I think so, yes…” He seemed almost embarrassed.

They touched this glove as little as possible, undoing the button and pulling it off in a fraction of the time. Once that was off though, Jamie still took time to massage it. As if sensing each minutiae of his aches, they paid extra attention to where there was anything tense or swollen, without him needing to say or request anything. It was nice, feeling his hands loosening back into usability, having their hands bare against his own. He sighed with pleasure.

Jamie found themself distracted by how worn the skin of his hands was, and by how much a simple hand massage was doing to calm him down. It reminded them of when a book was well-loved, how the pages would go from bright and crisp, to soft and velvety on the edge. Perhaps he had been once well-read into softness, but left on a shelf to gather dust, and was unused to attempts to turn his pages, and love him into softness again. They worked a hand up each finger, one at a time, pushing blood back into his fingertips. His nails were trimmed short, but well taken care of. They worked their fingers back down to his wrist, undoing his coat cuffs. Once his hands were satisfactorily taken care of, Jamie began to work on undoing his coat. To keep him calm, they reassured him frequently, and praised him each time they popped open a button.

To keep him calm, they reassured him frequently, and praised him each time they popped open a button.

To keep- how many rows had they undone? How many rows did he have? Jamie, only one row from the end, took a brief break. They rolled the aching their wrists, and the number of rows on his coat snapped back to an apologetic two, with only one, gleaming, teasing button left done. They undid one last button, and it was just that. One last button. He was allowing himself to be vulnerable for them. Jamie opened the flaps of his coat, and helped to remove it altogether.

It was immediately noticeable how much smaller he was without his coat. No hat either, and he was borderline unrecognizable. Every actor looked different with their mask off. And yet, he still had those golden eyes, and the same wrinkles, so how could he be anyone else? Perhaps he wasn’t so unrecognizable after all. Here and there, the way he sighed the same, his hands still making the same nervous motions. No, not that different at all.

Underneath he wore a button up, tie, and a vest. When he shifted though, Jamie thought they saw something else as well. They set his coat, folded carefully, off one side, then turned their attention back towards him. Curious hands ran down the black front of his vest, feeling for.. Ah! He was wearing a corset, though evidently a different style from Jamie’s own. They could feel the line where it started, and the rigid lines where the boning lay. Well, every costume needs a supporting structure, and it certainly explained his perfect posture after a long day of work. They wanted to see it, to investigate his lacing, and remove that which held him together, but Jamie’s hands stalled on his vest buttons. Perhaps they’d been getting too excited. It was good to take their time, savor the scene, and take things slow for the older companion’s stage fright. If they rushed things, they worry he’d be less inclined to take this roll again in the future.

The Director redirected their attentions. They saw him without his coat so rarely. His presence seemed almost diminished without it on, without the bright red and brass signalling the loss of one’s own mind. The Neath was full of fresh and unique horrors, and it was easy to bear witness to too many at one time, and then there he would be. A figure of imposing crimson that would whisk one away to his hotel, where he’d keep you until he was quite certain that all the nightmares were cleared. Of course, Jamie knew that he also took a little extra on top of that. “Running a hotel is expensive,” he had once told them. That was a long time ago now, when their acquaintance had only just begun. That had been a very red night indeed.

Without his coat though, he was no longer the crimson herald of nightmares. In fact, he looked as though he might have been suffering from nightmares himself. His clothing projected such a larger portion of his facade that it almost didn’t exist without them, and Jamie could see straight through it. It was evident in much of him. The slump of his shoulders, a shirt that had been hastily ironed and left creases in, the downward turn at the corners of his eyes. They could not write a more obvious depiction of a poorly rested mind if they had tried. Their companion wrung his hands below them, and avoided their gaze.

Mind reader.

Jamie tilted their head and gave a crooked smile, trying to reassure him. “Well, maybe it’s only obvious to me. I d id study your tells for a long time for a certain game, you know. You’re still not as easy to read as a book, mind you, but I’ve got a leg up I think.” He huffed the ghost of a laugh, and returned his eyes to their direction, so they continued. “Besides, it’s not as if you haven’t seen me at my worst. You’ve probably seen half of this city at its worst. I can’t really judge you, and I don’t intend to. You of everyone should know how common nightmares are down here, Mr. Manager.” The emphasis of his title was intentional, reminding him of exactly the place he ran. The place they were in at this very moment, in fact.

He sighed. “It’s rather my job to take care of nightmares though and-”

“-And you’re not working right now. If running a nightmare hotel could guarantee we’d never experience our own nightmares, then I think you’d have gone out of business a long time ago. Since your services are still needed though, it stands to reason that even people who use nightmares to pay taxes on their dream hotels still deal with nightmares themselves.” Jamie had moved their hands to his shoulders, massaging him in time to the lilt of their voice. “Therefore, there’s no shame in it, or in needing to relax.”

His argument sputtered out before the Director’s logic. Their smile grew just a bit wider. Not entirely convinced, but placated, their supporting role leaned his head against one of their hands, which had slipped under his vest straps to get to his sore spots better. They remained in such a manner for several minutes, him leaning against them and fidgeting with their pant legs, and Jamie massaging him and humming a gentle tune. It was only after multiple repetitions of the chorus that he recognized it as a song from Mahogany Hall’s newest show. An actor had checked in last week singing many of the show’s songs. Had Jamie composed it themself? He found himself wishing he had paid more attention. Perhaps going out to see a play would do him good? He certainly didn’t get away from work often, whether here or with the Council.

And, just maybe, he wanted to see Jamie perform on stage.

Enough time eventually passed that their hands had migrated once more to his vest buttons. They were undone without fuss, repetition, or duplicity. As with his coat, they helped take off, folding it carefully before putting it aside. They removed his tie quickly as well, taking extra care around his neck. There seemed to be no reason for that at first, until he realized it was an extension of Jamie’s hesitancy around their own neck being touched. He appreciated the kindness, and caught their hand when it came back to him. They quirked an eyebrow at his actions. They blushed slightly when he kissed their hand, before returning it. He felt a wave of emotion bubbling up that was tamped down just as quickly. They turned their focus to his corset instead.

It was, as expected for his color scheme, red, with gold stitching. Everything appeared to be hand sewn, and Jamie suspected they knew by whom. It was shorter than their own corset as well, coming up only to his underbust, but more heavily boned than one would expect. They ran their hands over his corset, marvelling at the fine embroidery. From the upper edge of their vision, they watched his face darken with blush. Yes, he had most certainly made this himself. “Your maker did a wonderful job, they must have incredible attention to detail.” His blush grew, and he opened his mouth, but Jamie continued without break. “Such fine stitching as well, even and measured, clearly someone who knows what they’re doing. The construction looks very sturdy as well, and it must have been quite the task to stitch all those channels for the boning. Yet it’s incredibly precise.”

He finally interrupted “I made this myself, it’s not the most-”

“Ah, well, that doesn’t really change my opinion, now does it?”

The Gentleman had no reply.

“Should it change my opinion, dear?”

He paused, but finally spoke once more. “No, Director.”

“Good,” they purred. They were proud of him for not arguing, it was a good sign that he was allowing himself to listen to them. Frequently that was not the case, but he was doing well tonight. For his reward, they needed to rearrange. Jamie moved from his lap to instead sit behind him.

As they moved to lean into him, they were distracted by another detail of his corset. Instead of the metal grommets that were common nowadays, his corset instead had golden, hand-sewn eyelets. Jamie was an author, not tailor, but they were certain those must have taken him forever. Every knot was carefully made, and held up well to the pulling of the laces. It was charming the amount of time and care he would put into things. They pondered on that for a moment, before moving on to their real goal back here.

Their companion’s breath hitched as he felt soft lips press to his shoulders, kissing overtop his shirt fabric. He was, without fail, surprised by their kind touch and affection. They moved closer, and then their body was against his, chest pressing against back. Hands smaller than his own wrapped around from his sides to hold him close. The gas lamps of the Beth flared brighter, and, rooms away, the lobby fountain began to overflow. Jamie continued to kiss along his back, moving slowly up his spine. When they went above his shirt collar to kiss bare skin, the entire hotel heaved and seemed to breathe, as if taking in a stuttering gasp. They still held him in embrace as they peppered his neck with dozens of kisses. The fountain was weeping so much water that several of the staff now had wet uniform hems. They could not do anything to stop the flow of water, and none of them wished to ask the Manager to fix it.

Jamie eventually came to rest their face against the side of his neck. With deft hands, they untied and loosened his corset laces, then began to work on his busk. It was difficult to do by sight alone, but Jamie had plenty of practice. When they removed his corset, the difference in posture was immediate and noticeable. Clearly he relied on it. Perhaps it would be best to allow him to lay back?

With a final kiss to the nape of his neck, the scene’s director moved back around to center stage. What they saw shocked them.

The usually Merry Gentleman sat before them, with wet streaks of tears clinging to his cheeks. Jamie had barely processed this information before they had him pulled into another hug, somehow tighter than the last. Had they caused it? Had they done something wrong? Had he asked for mercy and they hadn’t heard? Had they, once again, ruined things? A hand came up to reassure them.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. These tears are… wanted.”

Jamie’s inner monologue calmed, but there was still hesitancy. They met his eyes, and brought their own hand up to wipe away his tears. “Will you be okay to continue?” There was a seriousness to their voice.

The gaslamps flared once more, mirroring the warmth of his eyes. Their Gentleman hesitated once more. He could back out, end the scene here and now, and they would not judge. Disappointed, likely, but he could trust them to cope with that. However, he wasn’t certain if he could. He was crying yes, but as he said, the tears were not a sign they needed to stop. There was catharsis in it. “Yes, I would like to continue, Mst. Awnings.” The ‘please’ went unstated.

With a kiss to his cheeks, Jamie wiped away the last of their companion’s tears before they were satisfied they could continue. They hugged him a little while longer, and then busied themself in removing his shirt. His brass cufflinks were carefully removed, and the final row of buttons were undone.

The only layer remaining on his upper body was a sleeveless undershirt. This granted Jamie access to rather a lot of bare skin. The lights flickered as they placed their ungloved hands to his skin. They gave him a gentle smile, and the flickering stopped. It was just the two of them, and he knew Jamie would not hurt him. Not tonight, not here, not in this manner. He focused on slowing his pulse, deciding to lean back against the pillows and head board, allowing Jamie to do what they did best in a play; take the lead. There was a warmth to their hands. His nerves reacted to their touch, and sent gooseflesh down his arms. Jamie giggled seeing it. They ran their hands slowly over him, delighted in the texture. This, in turn, made him shiver, and the gooseflesh returned stronger, now making his dense armhair stand on end.

“You look like a bushy cat that someone just startled,” they teased

He huffed in return. “I am far more dignified than a cat, thank you.”

“Hm. Not right now, I think.”

He gasped in mock offense, which sent Jamie into a fit of laughter. They were close enough that he could hold them, and feel as they laughed. For the first time in some weeks, the smile on his face was genuine. When they recovered, Jamie moved on from his arms to his shoulders. His hair there was softer and lighter, and brown liver spots dappled his skin. Naturally, they had to bend over and kiss each and every one of them, until May in turn could not hold his own laughter back. They pinned him against the headboard with their body when he tried to push them away, and scolded him gently when he protested. He laughed and laughed as they made ever sillier noises with each kiss. Jamie’s heart swelled hearing his joy. Eventually, kissing his shoulders was not enough. He wore an undershirt, yes, but it left quite a bit of his chest exposed. His cheery demeanor had no change as they placed a hand just below his collarbone, where his chest hair was visible. They took it as a good sign to continue. A finger hooked under the waistband of his trousers, and teased it. “I want these removed.” Once again, Jamie could have easily stripped it off themself, as they had his previous layers, but this was his near final protection. He needed to choose.

He chose to cooperate, and pulled his trousers off near-immediately, though there was still a shyness to his movement. Jamie was not the only eager one now, despite his apprehension. The tears from earlier had been all but forgotten. They had a front row seat to admire his form. His stomach was soft and well padded, and when he leaned back, rolls and bumps formed at his side. His drawers kept him modest, though Jamie was able to see the shaping of his thighs underneath. His only other layer was his socks, and the garters that kept them pulled up. He was a handsome man, with a body well-worn, though perhaps not always well cared for. Hair peeked out from the tops of his socks and undershirt, and bottoms of his drawers, and thoroughly covered his arms. A very handsome man indeed.

After multiple minutes taken to appreciate the Gentleman’s body when no longer hidden by a ridiculous coat, it was time for the night’s Finale. The Director reached into the small bundle they had brought with them, and pulled out crimson, cotton rope. His eyebrows raised at the sight of it. Jamie brought the bundle close to his skin. “Yes, I think this color suits you well. First, however,” they set the rope aside, and untied their bowtie as they continued to speak, “I want to see you in this.”

"I have my own bowtie Mst,” he argued.

“Ah, but that’s not the point.” Jamie moved forward, and began to tie their bowtie around his neck. “The point is not that it’s a bowtie. The point is that it’s my bowtie, and that this demonstrates the surrendering of your role’s control to me. When one role’s costume incorporates an article of clothing from a different role’s costume to show their influence and the imposing of a different will, or some other symbolic exchange. That is the point.” They finished the bow, and then reached for the rope once more. “And this is the ultimate show of surrender for your role. You will have to do as I say, and follow the script I write for you. No improv here, darling.” They finished their statement off with a kiss to his forehead. After so many encounters with the Princess, and events at various dens and parlors, Jamie had managed to pick up the basics of rope binding. They took their companion’s hands gently, and held them for just a moment before they began. Rope looking over on itself, a knot here and a knot there. Crimson encircled his wrists and bound them together. It caused no pain, and had the gentle pressure of a friendly squeeze. When he attempted to remove himself from the bindings, he found he was unable to slip out. Of course, he could slip out if he really desired but, once again, he found himself wanting to obey, and was satisfied with what they gave. Besides, they were clearly pleased that they had successfully bound him, so he allowed it. A similar tie was done on his ankles, and just like that he was incapacitated, and trussed up.

Reaching within the bundle once more, Jamie pulled out a book. It was one of their more recent favorites. They moved to sit next to the bound Gentleman, and settled him so he was leaning on them. Jamie grabbed a blanket, and settled it over top the both of them. The two would stay like this for hours, with the poet reading aloud to him, petting and stroking him, as May had no choice but to relax and accept the attention. They would do all the voices for each character, and gesture emphatically, and he would laugh again. The lobby’s fountain would return to normal, and the flooding would recede. Eventually the lights would dim, and the curtains of the hotel would draw themselves, and they would know he had fallen asleep. When this happened, the poet would stop, set aside their book, and carefully undo his bindings, rearranging him as comfortably as they could. They would curl up next to him under the blankets, and tell themself that the cuddles and snuggles were for his benefit only. Just before closing their own eyes for the night, they would see that much of the wall had repaired itself. They would fall asleep at last, and the two would dream together under a Cosmogone sun, with little worry for nightmares or interrupted sleep.

They would awake in the morning and redress themselves, and continue about their lives, each eased by the events of the night prior. As Jamie left, the room number would have settled on a ‘5’.

#fallen london #others ocs #jamie awnings #the manager of the royal beth #may of the calendar council #dye stained fics #oc x canon #jamie #may #maymie

20 notes · View notes

sailtomarina · 2 years ago

Text

Hello, neighbor

Hermione adored the flat, small and “historical” as it was in one of the oldest buildings of Diagon Alley, because it not only looked out onto her beloved Flourish and Blotts, but also because it afforded her close access to both sides of her muggle and magical worlds. The building’s magic revealed its age in occasional fits of energy where the showers gushed soap bubbles instead of water and the shared hallways sported wallpaper from bygone eras. Regardless of the unpredictability, she wouldn’t give up her place for anything in the world.

Until someone moved in next door.

Courtesy notices informed surrounding flats of the new lease and move-in dates. This in itself wouldn’t have been a problem since magic ensured ironclad noise cancellation. What was an issue was the owner’s obvious lack of awareness for available square footage.

Anyone normal would have magicked furniture straight into the flat, preferably exactly into their predetermined spots. There wouldn’t be any need for moving vans, blanketed lifts, and workers hauling in box after box. But this occupant obviously didn’t reconcile the available space with their belongings. The hallway outside of Hermione’s door was crammed full of crates, oak side tables, and authentic Tiffany lampshades. Items flowed out her neighbor’s open door all the way down the hall to the lift, and more continued to appear with little ‘pops’ wherever they could fit.

Today happened to coincide with the release date of Walter Hammervite’s third novel in his ThestralRising series, and Hermione had plans to pick up her reserved copy and spend the entire day reading. Unfortunately, the hall was crammed so full, she could barely squeeze out her door much less make her way to the lift. The only available path was one that required sliding over tables and under what looked to be brand new quidditch brooms towards her neighbor’s door.

This isn’t actually how she planned to introduce herself, but they left her very little choice, didn’t they?

Rifling around her pantry and extracting a dusty bottle of red wine from Godric knows how long ago, she decided to present her gift and kindly ask they clear the shared space as was only appropriate. Wielding the bottle like a wand, she ventured forth through the obstacle course until she arrived sore and slightly out of breath at the doorway.

“Excuse me? In anybody home?” With a bookshelf blocking most of the entrance, she resorted to knocking lightly on the door frame.

“I’ll be there in a moment!”

Was that…but no, it couldn’t be, could it? There’s no way he would live here of all places.

Hermione could hear scuffling and light thumps underneath the music that blared out into the hall just as rudely as the furniture.

“Merlin’s left bollock! This piece of shite shelf…just, can you squeeze through and give a hand?”

The familiar voice encouraged Hermione forward despite her misgivings, and she placed the bottle inside the shelf before pushing through the cramped space into the flat. As she popped into the small opening, she finally came face to face with the voice on the opposite side of the bookcase.

“Malfoy?”

With a complete lack of surprise at her identity, he nodded acknowledgement and waved a hand helplessly at his situation. “As much as I’d love to say ‘Hello, neighbor,’ I think we can both agree there’s a bigger issue on hand.”

“Yes, that being your complete arseheaded miscalculation of how much shit you have—”

“I’ll have you know these are priceless heirlooms, Granger—”

“—and this shit is blocking me from a book whose release I’ve been waiting months for!”

“Well, what would you have me do? I haven’t lived on my own since Hogwarts.”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about using magic like the wizard that you are, and handling this mess?”

He gaped at her momentarily before shaking his head in frustration. “I’m still on probation, Granger. I have another six months before they return my wand.”

Oh, bollocks.

They stood awkwardly in silence for a minute before she reached back into the case and surrendered her wine. “I meant to give this to you as a housewarming gift to welcome you to the building, but now I have a better idea.” Closing her eyes, she brought to memory the spells she needed before waved her wand in a tight pattern, shrinking everything in the hallway down to fist-sized versions of themselves. She continued rotating her wrist, sending it all into neat piles.

“That’s a neat trick, Granger, but how does that help me?” Malfoy raised an impressed eyebrow at her spellwork while simultaneously crossing his nicely muscled arms across his chest. Not that she noticed.

“Now, you give me a tour of your flat and we determine what you actually want to keep and what needs to be returned.”

“I thought you had a book to retrieve?”

“I do, but I also refuse to live a single minute more with an impassable hallway and you obviously require assistance.”

He scoffed at her statement. “You’re not the only witch I know. I could always ask Pansy or Blaise.”

Tilting her head at him, she waited a moment before calling his bluff.

“Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it. There better not be any more heirlooms blocking my doorway when I get back.” She turned to leave and was halfway to the lift before she heard her name.

“Granger!” He leaned out the door, nervously chewing on his lip and blonde hair mussed.

“What?” She didn’t fully turn around to face him, keeping the pressure on.

“How about you come over after you get your book?”

“…”

“I mean, I would like it if you came over and helped…I’m asking you to help me.”

“Why me?”

He stepped out fully into the hallway and faced her, hands now tucked into the back pockets of his slacks. “I’m trying to start over,” he admitted, “and I’ve wanted to apologize to you for a while now.”

Hermione likewise faced him and really, thoroughly looked him over. She should have noticed earlier, but he was wearing completely muggle clothing—worn white sneakers, trousers and a button-up shirt not completely wrinkle-free. Most notable was his expression. She couldn’t recall seeing him so open before, not since early Hogwarts days when she’d see him laughing with his friends at the quidditch pitch before…well, before everything. Before Voldemort. Before “mudblood”. Before all the events that had robbed them of their childhood. He looked tired, but nearly free of all the weight of his upbringing. She might even dare say hopeful.

“Do you like to read?”

“Excuse me?”

“The book I’m getting is the third in the series. If you’re into fantasy, I can lend you the first book and we can talk about it later.”

His grey eyes widened slightly at her offer and he stood a little taller. “I do like reading, if you remember that bookshelf from earlier.”

She smirked at the reference. “I’ll be back in a bit, Malfoy. When I return you better have a detailed list of your belongings ordered by priority.”

“How am I supposed to remember everything I have when you shrank half of it?” He beckoned at the pile in the corner.

”If you can’t remember it, then it obviously isn’t important enough to keep, is it?” She spun back around without waiting for a reply and disappeared into the lift.

He laughed in agreement and looked back at his mess of an apartment. “Well, I guess that’s taken care of.” Waving his hand wandlessly, he summoned parchment and quill and at further gesturing an itemized list started writing itself. He turned to the bottle on the counter and corked it to let it breathe. “Next step, neighbors to friends.”

#dramione prompt #dramione #draco malfoy x hermione granger #harry potter fanfiction #flash fiction

78 notes · View notes

sanguineslytherin · 22 days ago

Text

Where You Left Me || Ch. 3 - Progress

Summary: Sebastian Sallow was a determined and talented wizard, a statement those closest to him knew as fact. After O.W.L.s and a tumultuous fifth year, he now has to navigate his last years at Hogwarts and his fast approaching future- a future he now has a second chance at thanks to his very best friends- Ominis Gaunt and Eléonore Calthorpe. Although when he thinks he’s achieved everything that he’s ever hoped for, will those he left behind to chase his dreams still be there for him right where he left them?

Word Count: ~2.5k

Ch. Rating: G

CW: Grief, loss, death.

AOC Link

October, 1891

Days dragged on into weeks, and in the blink of an eye the air had a crisp bite and the leaves began to change colour. Autumn was in full swing on campus, and with it class workloads felt heavy.

At least twice a week, more when timing allowed, Sebastian attended his tutoring sessions with Professor Sharp. Over the last several weeks they had crammed lessons full of different spells, techniques, and various information that would be relevant to the auror entrance exam. Sharp was an excellent tutor for the young man, whom only several weeks earlier had given up any and all hope and dream of ever obtaining admission into the auror training program.

Sebastian sat in Professor Sharp’s classroom, tapping his feather quill lightly as he thought through the questions he had been given on the study guide before him. He had known that these mentorship sessions wouldn't be easy, but there were many times he couldn’t help but feel as though he had twice the workload as other student’s in his year. That being said, he was forever grateful to Professor Sharp for graciously offering to help him. It was still too early to tell, but Sebastian felt as though these sessions were helping him immensely- not just in his coursework but in his general understanding of wizardry.

Pinching his brow as he worked through the final problem on the parchment, he scribbled quickly as he discerned the answer. Gripping the paper in his hands, he stretched as he walked over to Sharp’s desk as the man peered at him over the rims of his round glasses. Holding his breath, he watched as Sharp carefully analyzed the sheet of paper. A small smile cracked on the older man’s lips as he redirected his gaze back to Sebastian.

“Excellent work, my boy. You are improving greatly with each lesson.” The messy haired boy hadn’t even realized he had been holding in a breath as he let out a gasp for air. It was reassuring to him to have someone lifting him up in this way, with Solomon being gone and Anne having not said a word to him since the incident (despite his many, many attempts at sending letters).

“Thank you, sir. I hope you know how much that means to hear,” Sebastian tried his best to contain his smile. Professor Sharp glanced at the clock in the back of the room, eyes widening when he realized just how late it was.

“Oh goodness me, look at the time. I should be seeing you off, before the prefects catch you and write you up.” The two tall men made their way over to the door as they prepared to lock up the classroom for the evening, discussing upcoming sessions and what Sebastian’s homework load for the week was as they eased their way out the door.

They stood out in the hallway as Professor Sharp juggled with the keys in the lock, though before he could the two of them were startled by the tumble of a pile of books a mere few feet away from them. And was that an ‘ow’ that Sebastian had heard? Inhaling a deep sigh, Sharp opened his mouth to speak.

“Mr. Weasley, I would best advise you to return to your respective common room at this hour. Lest you want to risk losing more house points this semester?” He turned on his heel to face the direction in which the clatter came from.

Sebastian followed suit, and sure enough- within seconds stood the tall ginger lad. Apologetically, Garreth Weasley rubbed the back of his head. ‘Of course, the disillusionment charm’ Sebastian thought to himself- a charm he and Elle had used the whole of last year to aid in their schemes, for better or for worse.

“I suppose I should see to this,” Sharp said sternly. Sebastian couldn’t help but notice the slight tug of a smirk that etched on his face as he turned to chaperone the red haired young man back to Gryffindor tower. Nodding, Sebastian bid his goodbye and turned to make his way to the Slytherin common room within the cold, damp, dungeon.

Met with the warm reception of the fire as he entered the common room, it dawned on him just how late it actually was. Silence permeated the common room, the only companionship was the stray crackle from the fireplace. Surely everyone had gone to bed by now. That also meant that he had missed dinner, unfortunately. He sighed as he took a seat upon the couch, letting his body warm up to the crackling fireplace as he relaxed for what felt like possibly the first time that day.

His eyes scanned the dimly lit table in front of him, spotting a piece of parchment with his name on it. Beside it? What looked like a neatly packed leftover plate of whatever this evening’s meal was. Wasting no time, he opened the note addressed to him as he dug hungrily into the leftovers that were so graciously left for him.

‘Sebastian-

Noticed that you were not in attendance at dinner this evening. I am sure that you are very busy, but I could not go to bed without ensuring that you had something to eat too. Hope you don’t stay awake too late. Enjoy!

Bises,

Elle

(P.S. - This came for you at dinner)’

The young man smiled as he studied her handwriting- her elegant curves and loops that were inscribed on the page. That was Elle, always looking out for him despite the fact that he never deserved it. Curiously, he grabbed the letter that laid beside the plate as he continued eating.

When he realized from whom it had been addressed, he nearly choked. It was none other than a letter from Anne, his twin sister. He scarfed down the rest of his meal before ripping open the envelope. His eyes scoured its contents, holding back his tears as his eyes tore through each line. A weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying released from his shoulders as he reached the final words of the letter.

This was the first letter he had received from Anne in months. He had sent her letters all summer long, hoping and praying that she would write him back. She was all that he had left.

In her letter she had detailed that she needed time. Time to process, to grieve- to bury Solomon. Sebastian felt the sharpest pangs of guilt every time he thought of the incident. Of Solomon and his lifeless body. Of the wails of anguish that escaped Anne’s lips as she held the dying man on that day in that cold dark catacomb. How it was all his own fault that any of this ever happened. How could he have been so blind to let his own hubris get in the way? He thought for sure Anne would never speak to him ever again. It was a mystery to him that she never turned him in to the authorities, ultimately prescribing him to a fate of life in Azkaban. A fate that he felt he rightfully deserved for the many, many mistakes that he had made the year prior.

Anne had made clear in her letter that she wasn’t ready to entirely forgive him yet, but she was willing to reconnect with him and “extend the olive branch” so to speak. She had heard from Ominis that he was doing very well, and was happy that he had seemed to learn from his very grave mistakes.

Holding the letter close to his heart, he raised himself from the couch. Fully satiated, and feeling exhausted from the weight of the day he would respond to her letter in the morning. He was still in disbelief that she was even writing to him at all, let alone even willing to meet.

A noise yanked him from his thoughts as he froze at the base of the stairs to the boy’s dormitories. Startled, he hid himself. For once, he didn’t want to risk getting into trouble- as this was likely the time of night the prefects began their nightly rounds and bed checks.

Footsteps echoed as someone came down the steps from the girl’s dormitories. He peeked his head through some railing to get a better glimpse, and also to gauge how easy it would be for him to sneak away undetected.

The petite figure stood in front of the fireplace, hugging themselves in their dressing gown. It was very dim, making it near impossible to determine their identity as Sebastian peered through the darkness as he crept silently up the stairs. Whomever it was, they definitely didn’t know that he was here. The fireplace flickered just enough light to decipher who was in the room with him. Much to his own surprise, it was……. Elle?!

The extra light had also revealed that she was attempting to cover her sobs, hand to her mouth as each cry raked through her body. Sebastian's cheeks felt hot from his growing embarrassment, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable for intruding on what was such a private moment. He wanted nothing more than to be up the stairs and dashing into bed right now- not unintentionally spying on his best friend in what was likely something she wanted nobody to know.

He was saddened as he watched the girl before him bawling silently. Between her choked sobs, she was mumbling something. Listening closely, his heart shattered as he registered what it was she was saying.

“Fig…. I-I’m so-sorry….” She whispered. Frozen in place, he realized that she likely had just awoke from a nightmare. He knew all too well, because he got them too. There were many nights in the last few months that he couldn’t shake the images of Solomon’s face as life drained from it. Anne’s angry scream on repeat as she knocked him back into the wall. The many nights that he would wake up in a fit of fear, tears drenching his face.

It had completely slipped his mind that she, too, had experienced and encountered death and trauma far more than he could ever comprehend. How she had lost the man who had become like a father to her, and how she had been there for his final words? He felt like an awful friend for not acknowledging how heavy of a burden she carried as the “hero of Hogwarts”, as everyone had so admiringly dubbed her. She carried herself in a way that one would never guess just how much grief she had been suffering or what she had seen those few short months ago. How often had she found herself curled in front of the fireplace like this, desperately attempting to muffle her sobs in an effort to not awaken fellow classmates?

Sebastian stood there a moment, longing to scoop her into his arms and comfort her in her moment of pain. Though he knew that he could not. It was far too late to come out of hiding right now. This was something that he couldn’t even hint to her that he knew, not yet at least.

Silently, he crept all the way up the stairs- though not before stealing one last look at Elle as she stayed kneeled in front of the fireplace. Her sobs had mostly subsided now, but that didn’t mean that it hurt him any less seeing her like this.

He crept into his dormitory, inching the door shut quietly behind him. Quickly, he got himself changed and nestled into his bed. Glaring up at the canopy, he had a difficult time settling in to sleep that night.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Not sleeping much, if at all that night, Sebastian was the first one awake that morning. When he finally accepted that sleep would not be coming to him, he thought it best to get himself dressed and get started with his day.

He slithered through the completely empty common room, likely the only student awake this early in the morning. Exhaustion plagued him as snippets of the evening prior replayed in his mind. Racking his brain, he wanted to try to do something special for Elle to let her know that he was there for her if she needed it. He felt guilty he didn’t have much time if any to spend with her, or Ominis for that matter. He would have to think of a solution.

Suddenly, he remembered that he still had Anne’s letter awaiting a response. He dashed off to the great hall, in search of parchment and ink to get his response sent out as quickly as possible.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Dipping the quill into the ink as he finished scribbling the last line, his attention was drawn to Elle and Ominis approaching the table. Students had been filtering in for the last half hour or so, so he knew it was only a matter of time before his two companions would appear.

“Well aren’t you quite the early bird,” Elle teased as she approached the table. Sebastian noticed her tired eyes as they appeared slightly sunken in. Though he figured he looked far worse than she did. Elle and Ominis took a seat at the opposite bench as he stuffed the parchment into an envelope in preparation to send it off.

“Goooood morning,” he enthused as he finished sealing his letter, a coy smile accompanying his greeting as his eyes scanned Elle’s face. He knew he couldn’t let on what he had seen, so he was doing his best to act normal.

Eleanore cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head in question as she noticed the letter clasped between his fingers. “And just what are you up to so early in the morning?”

Stuffing the letter in his pocket, Sebastian cleared his throat to respond. “Yesterday, which I’m sure that you are aware of, I received a letter from Anne.” He glanced pointedly at Elle, noticing her eyes sparkle in delight. “She’s written back saying that she wants to meet. I’m planning to take a day trip to London to see her in a couple of weeks for tea.”

“Oh I’m so glad!” She squeaked, gripping his hand with her own in excitement. He inhaled a sharp breath as he tried his best to refrain from blushing at the sudden contact. Elle was hopeful for him, knowing that Anne was one of the closest people in the world to him. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind Ominis and I tagging along?” She schemed, giving his hand an endearing squeeze.

Ominis had opened his mouth to interject, but he was quickly cut off by Sebastian. “You know, that might actually be a great idea…. I could use both of your support,” he looked between his two confidants nervously.

“Oh, well I suppose….. I would love to see Anne, I do hope that she’s well,” Ominis replied.

“It's settled then, the three of us shall go together,” Elle smiled, giving both of their hands a friendly squeeze.

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #sebastian sallow x reader #ominis gaunt x reader #hl fanfic #hogwarts legacy angst fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hlcreators #hogwarts legacy sebastian

5 notes · View notes

burnwater13 · 10 months ago

Text

Grogu looking out of the frosted over canopy of the Razor Crest just before Din Djarin (out of frame) leaves the icy planet Maldo Kreis. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 2, The Passenger. Calendar from DataWorks.

Grogu was watching his dad repair the ship. Well, not really repair the ship. It was too damaged for full repairs or even good repairs. Apparently the best he could do was seal them into the bridge and cross their fingers and hope they would reach Trask. Eventually. They hoped.

He felt kind of bad about what happened. He didn’t mean for the giant spiders to attack the Razor Crest. He was just bored and hungry and little bit annoyed with his dad. That sort of thing was bound to happen under those circumstances. At least that had been his experience.

You do something innocuous, get caught, explain why you did it and how it was no big deal, and then, oops, something dramatic happens and there is nothing you can do but hang on tight and ask the Force to save your butt just one more time. At least that’s how Ian used to describe it when they compared notes after each unplanned adventure they went on.

Like that time they went on the field trip to the Galactic Senate building. Nothing special was happening that day according to the protocol droid who escorted them through the building. According to their schedule the only thing the Senators would be debating and voting on was the renaming of several Republic buildings and docking facilities.

Grogu had no idea why buildings needed names. Ian had been quick to respond that not everyone knew their unique ident codes. Grogu hadn’t even known that they had unique ident codes or why that would be useful.

“Of course they need an ident code! How could the database of information on them be properly maintained if they didn’t have a unique identifier? It would be a mess!”

Grogu had been surprised that Ian was so knowledgeable and so passionate something as dull as ident codes for buildings and docking facilities.

“Listen, kid, if they didn’t have unique ident codes, you’d never know what sort of stuff they had crammed in them. When you have access to the Republic ‘database of resources and locations of operations’ you’re able to determine the most appropriate site to visit to fulfill whatever needs you have at the time. It’s all about logistics, kid. And, as you know, logistics are the key to every successful heist… uh… project.”

What the heck? When did Ian become a fan of logistics? He was talking like a cross between a pirate and a smuggler. That just struck Grogu as odd, much like Ian calling him ‘kid’. As far as he could tell, they were pretty close to being the same age.

“Listen, I know you know all about being a Jedi, Kid… uh, Grogu. But I know other things because it’s been important for me to know other things. Things like logistics and warehouse management. Okay?”

Grogu had simply nodded. He thought they should just drop the subject and focus on the tour. Ian seemed to agree and they went with the other younglings and their protocol droid guide and entered the Senate chamber to listen to the debate and votes. Master Yoda had thought it was important for the younglings to witness and understand how the galactic government worked for some reason.

The room was amazing and the strangest space that Grogu had ever been in, which he hadn’t thought was possible given how unique the Jedi Temple was. Ian, of course, zipped right over to the command console and studied it in silence while the protocol droid was advising them that the debates about naming facilities was simple in essence but could be complicated by various political factions within the Senate. The droid advised them all to be quiet and just listen to the debate.

That was a fine thing for the droid to say, but Grogu couldn’t see or hear anything. First he didn’t even understand why the seating disk had a central console. All it did was block his view and make it hard for him to understand what the heck was going on. He made his way over to Ian and asked him to help.

“Sure, buddy. Just be a minute. I have to wait for the opportune moment.”

Ian went back to studying the console, while Grogu hopped up on it and sat on the leading edge. From there he could at least hear what was going on, even if he still couldn’t really see the people because the distances were so great.

“The chancellor will recognize the Senator from Dathomir.”

“Thank you, your Eminence. It is with deep reverence and sincere appreciation of the importance of recognizing important people from Dathomirian history, that I propose that Revan the Defender be honored by renaming the Republic Space Station in orbit around Dathomir as the Revan the Dark Lord of the Sith Space Station and Immigrant Processing Center.”

Who? What? Why? Huh? The people assembled seemed just as stunned as he was. Since when did anything get named after an ancient Sith Lord?

Grogu would have asked those questions but suddenly their seating disk was flying forward and, before Ian could get it under control, slow it down, veer off, or do anything that would have helped prevent a crash with the Dathomiran seating disk, it crashed into the Dathomiran seating disk.

Grogu went flying and landed on the control console of that Dathomiran seating disk, much to everyone’s surprise. He certainly hadn’t done that on purpose, but as long as he was there he thought he could ask those questions. Who better than the Dathomirans to answer him? But he over estimated how willing the Senator would be to respond to questions when he was covered with someone’s blood. But persistence was an important Jedi trait and Grogu tried to ask his question. The Dathomiran Senator was able to ignore him for two reasons. First, he was bellowing to the Chancellor that there would be hell to pay before the Dathomirans ever came back to the galactic Senate, due to this outrage. And second, one of attendants was trying to wipe the blood up, but just managed to smear it around.

It occurred to Grogu that given his location he could probably fly the seating disk over to the first aid station at the base of the room in order to help the obviously upset and injured Senator. Unfortunately, he knew just as much as Ian had about flying the disks and before he knew it the disk leapt forward and struck another disk and then shot backward, hitting the Jedi younglings’ disk again, and then finally, it plummeted to the floor of the Senate chamber.

Grogu arrested the fall just in the nick of time, because after all using the Force to save your butt and the butts of the people with you was a typical Jedi behavior. The Dathomirans were not impressed and before he knew it they actually answered all his questions about why they would want to honor Darth Revan.

He was glad about that at least. The trip wasn’t a total waste of time. Although he knew he’d never hear the end of it from Ian. Or Master Yoda. The protocol droid had nothing to say to him because it had been the source of the ‘blood’ on the Senator from Dathomir and was no longer functional. A lot like the Razor Crest, strangely enough. Life was strange and then it just got stranger.

#calendar prompt a day #the mandalorian #grogu #din djarin

7 notes · View notes

kwlsn · 10 months ago

Text

After spending some time at your place, Hina finally went back to her place before her curfew while Emma sat down on your bed with your plushies, watching you working on your last task from cram school.

There was a pile of work on your left that Hina brought after she informed the teacher about your condition, stating that the teacher shouldn't be allowed to be this strict towards a barely recovered patient as she gave them to you.

"The winter wasn't as hard as before, I think it'll be okay for us if we go to the beach this week."

Emma hummed, kicking her legs in the air while looking at you for some approval — knowing Toman would only listen to Mikey, who only listened to you like a siscon maniac.

Though, she believed that you never realised it since three of them were infatuated on taking care of you — a pure girl, oblivious to every kind of harm in this world thanks to both of your elder brothers.

Whenever Emma felt jealous when Mikey or Shin paid more attention to you, she would always remember how hard it would be for you to be in this situation — remembering how disheveled you were when they brought you to the hospital, no sign of life in your eyes.

"I love you, y'know that?"

"I love you, too, Emma."

You looked at her with a small smile, knowing how hard it was for her to speak her feelings out and appreciate this chance she took to tell you about her real feeling.

Sitting on your bed, you took Emma's hand in yours and gave it a light squeeze of reassurance, feeling that this whole situation was probably due to what happened during the festival.

You knew she had a soft heart — which was both her weakness and strength. She was the only one you could rely on whenever you needed a bit of moral support or shoulder to cry on, a sister who would never leave you alone during your darkest hour.

Slacking off in the lounge with ¾ of your lower body underneath warm kotatsu was for sure a privilege you would never be able to let go — especially during winter.

Grampa was making a grilled mochi and put two tangerines beside it on top of his small hibachi, enjoying a comedy sitcom with you that had been gaining some popularity lately.

"Brat."

"Yes, Gramps?"

Instead of his usual strict tone, Grampa called you in a tone that reminded you of a mother trying to soothe her crying baby — as if, there was something he hid away from you.

He took one of the tangerine and peeled it carefully with his calloused fingers, putting the peel inside his favourite tea as you ate the sweet orange in delight, carefully reading the fine lines between his brows and dark spots on his hands.

Instead of continuing his sentence, Grampa was silent for the next thirty minutes and opened his mouth after the show ended, turning off the TV then scooted closer to you.

"I'm sorry,"

"I failed to be a grandpa, I failed to protect you from all those bad people..."

He wrapped his arms around your shoulder tightly and even if he didn't show it, you knew he was worried this whole time and had a lot of things to take care of at the same time (especially after what happened to you) took a toll on his slowly fragile body.

Grampa kept getting old and staying in Shibuya was nothing but facing a life full of danger — it wasn't worth it, you know it yourself.

After a small talk and a bit of reassurance, Grampa thought it would be the best if you live away from here — of course, they would come once in a while to visit (which would happen a lot, he reckoned).

He had asked Shin beforehand to find you an apartment nearby your school, hoping these would be a perfect place for a new start for you once you entered the school year again.

After checking out a couple of promising candidates, you landed your choice on a newly built apartment complex that required you to walk only for twenty minutes to school.

"Apparently there's a market, too, nearby this complex and the station didn't take more than thirty minutes by walk."

You hummed in thought, looking at him after stating the reasons for why you chose this place and hoping he wouldn't be angry at it as a smile crept up to his lips.

He called for Shin right away, asking for him to help you pack up your belongings as your winter break would end soon in a few weeks, giving your shoulder a light squeeze.

"Brat, make sure to tell me if you don't feel uncomfortable there or wanna go back here, okay?"

You answered him with a small grin as Shin showed up at the front door — left hand holding a couple of empty boxes for you and right hand holding on a sellotape.

Even though Shin could get pretty annoying for you once in a while, you started to think about things you wouldn't be able to do with him anymore.

There'd be no more Shin taking you watching him working at S.S Motors or buying fresh peaches in the summertime — asking for an apology with a box of your favourite meal for breaking your favourite eyeshadow or sneaking out from house when it was 2 AM with Manjiro.

It would be a core memory that you would never forget — the big brother who was both caring and annoying, ready to burn the world for you.

"Shin..."

"Yes, kid?"

"How's life with the Black Dragon — are you still with them?"

Shin raised his head to see your eyes, there was a hint of both curiosity and doubt — he didn't know what made him unsure about you but he almost knew right away that it was a test ; to see if he was lying or not to you.

He couldn't tell you that he was still in the gang — actually, scratch that, he couldn't tell you he was still the head of Black Dragon. He already made a promise to you and started a better life, one with less fight and contributed a lot to the society.

"Heh, y'know, Waka and Benkei would drop by once in a while at the shop — telling me about how kids around wanna actually learn about one thing or two from them, making sure they'd make no mistakes or things that don't align with what we believe. Well, 'used to' for me."

He let out a small chuckle, making a smooth exit and succeeding in getting you off his back as he helped you fold your clothes carefully, fearing that he'd ruin the white lace on your favourite shirt or cute DIY chain you made with Emma as an accessory for your skirt or short.

The sky started to turn into a warm shade of blood orange while the last box was finally done before he moved it away, stacking it on top of another box and writing 'misc' on it.

"Kid, we're done here now. I'll have the truck take em over tomorrow."

He took out his phone, sending a quick message to Waka as you lay down on your bed, feeling exhausted with the excessive amount of your belongings.

Shin, who didn't like it whenever the table was incomplete, encouraged you to stay away while the dinner would be done in fifteen — though, he was pretty unsure, too, since Emma would be home late today.

"I'll cook tonight, how about that?"

"Uh, no, I still wanna be alive..."

"This brat!"

The dinner was finally cooked by Shin — much to your dismay.

He cooked around five packages of noodles, a bunch of chopped veggies and tomato before he added a mixture of egg a few minutes before he turned off the stove.

"Shin, is this edible?"

"Kid, do you not trust me?"

You looked at him with a pair of puppy eyes, trying to beg for him not to give you that and instead make a quick run to the store to buy your favourite lunchbox — alas, your look got mistranslated by the older guy as he gave you extra veggies and topping your bowl up with two onsen eggs and tempura.

"I thought you loved me, Shin."

"I gave you two onsen eggs."

"Meat?"

"Those are beef tempura."

You poked it with your chopsticks a few times before taking a bite, hoping the taste wouldn't ruin your taste buds as Shin looked like someone who could actually do that as a form of his favourite torture method.

After a while, you started to taste a savoury grease taste coating inside your mouth when the crunch melted on your tongue — a combination you never expected before that could be achieved by Sano Shinichiro.

At the other end of the table, Shinichiro watched you eat his cooking with a faint smile; feeling his efforts on joining cooking class for housewives these past few weeks were finally paid off the time your doubt turned into a smile.

Thanking Shin for his cooking, you began to collect the dirty dishes and told him and Grampa to go sleep as you would wait for Emma and Mikey until they returned from who knows.

After drying out your hands, you walked to the lounge and slid the door open partially; letting the cold crisp air enter as it hit your face, enough to keep you up before a slow, heavy step caught you off guard.

"Shin!"

You looked up as he offered you a small smile before draping a thick blanket over your shoulders and sitting inside the kotatsu with you; a box of his favourite cigarette and lighter from Waka were splattered over the table.

As if it had been expected to be like this, he took a puff before holding it over your face when he caught you staring at him smoking; looking like a deer caught in headlights as he placed your hand on your tight.

"Wanna try?"

"But, I don't, y'know."

You stuttered, earning a chuckle from him before he took the blanket off you and rested his cigs away, placing you on his lap before wrapping the two of you with the blanket back.

"It'll be easier like this."

He hooked his left arm around your waist to keep you close as he took his cigs back for you, not wasting any second before he told you how you were supposed to inhale it and then exhale it slowly while making sure the smoke wouldn't linger inside you too long or you'd cough.

Unfortunately, you weren't gifted in understanding him so the time he put it between your lips; you ended up coughing.

"As I thought, a baby isn't supposed to smoke."

He gave you a cheeky grin when you hit his chest for making fun of you as he looked at you with a half-lidded gaze; finding your lips started to look a bit too enticing for him.

The way you sat on his lap, getting all cosy and snuggly when the winter wind started to get too much for you; cheeks and nose getting red and cold as your hands covered them, hoping it would actually do something to them.

As the door was within his reach, Shin closed it almost right away and brushed your hair away, making sure you felt warmer now when he raised the temperature inside the kotatsu.

"I love you so much, Shin. Thank you for keeping me company here."

You looked at him with a small giggle, hiding it away as you knew Shin would follow you and exaggerate the laugh; only for him to actually return the smile, one that rarely he wore.

The room kept getting warmer despite the cold winter air and dark lounge, solely depending on the heater for some light as Shin cupped your cheek; drawing random shapes on it with his thumb as he got closer.

"I love you, too, kid."

As a rush of adrenaline began to pump up in your system, you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer; deepening the kiss as both of you had taken the forbidden route, one both of you couldn't turn back from anymore.

The start of this misery was finally started when a certain faux blond saw his beloved siblings were kissing each other; a pair of star-crossed lovers who had broken the shackles and now cursed by the star to live in nothing but ill-fated throughout the time and space.

#series : the lost treasure #tw.incest #tw.age gap

17 notes · View notes