#or whatever Charles Rowland got going on?

[mof-rot]

Maybe Charles keeps being shoved in the closet for private conversations to foreshadow the fact that he’s A HOMOSEXUALLLLLL

[edwinisms]

it’s actually so wild to me that this fairly quirky YA type show gave both of its main characters deaths that can, in one way or another, solidly be considered hate crimes. they were both flat out murdered as a result of being A) gay and effeminate or B) brown (south asian, specifically) and you could argue whether or not those kids thought of it that way in the moment or whatever but the bottom line is that they would not have been in the situations that killed them if they weren’t of their respective minorities. like legitimately that is a ballsy choice for this kind of netflix show, let alone for the two Main Characters, and i respect it big time

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

Maybe it’s because I’m a touch feverish today but I’m getting emotional again—

You’re Edwin Payne. You’re in an attic with a boy who just caught his death protecting another boy that he barely even knew. You know this, because the fact that he can see you means it is too late.

You wonder, if you’d had a friend like him in life, someone who had just simply stood between you and the other boys from the summoning if the whole incident wouldn’t have happened at all, if you wouldn’t have had to run through hell for almost seventy fucking years—

You can’t help but fall in love with him a little.

So you try and make him comfortable. You find out his name is Charles, and oh god hypothermia is a brutal way to die because it isn’t as quick as you expected, but it gives you time to talk. Charles is charming and witty and everything you weren’t in life.

You fall in love with him a little more. You’ll miss him, but you’re glad he was the first thing you saw when you got out.

He laughs at your attempts at humor. No one else ever did that. You feel special, and you aren’t sure why. You wish you could keep him forever, but that would be cruel. He is good, and surely he will move on some place better than this.

He dies while you are reading to him, and it’s the gentlest thing you can think to do while he’s curled up losing consciousness like that. He seems to appreciate it.

He seems shocked that it didn’t hurt, dying. Death is not supposed to, for someone as wonderful as him, for someone who sacrifices their life for boys they barely know and boys who died at this wretched place.

You’re Edwin Payne. You tell Charles to go with Death (and there’s a part of you that will miss him, terribly, but you know that you’ve never been good with other people) but he… refuses.

He wants to stay with you and he’s not accepting any other answers, no matter how you try and dissuade him. He spends the next thirty plus years protecting you from whatever the afterlife or other dimensions can throw at you.

You’re Edwin Payne. How could you not fall in love with Charles Rowland?

[pretty-lovely-mar]

"Charles, please. Stop running away from me. You know that you can always tell me anything," Edwin says, getting up from his place at his desk.

Charles, who had already started to grab his overcoat and walk out the door, paused for a moment. He whirred around, "No, Edwin. You don't get it, do you? I yelled at you! Just now, after this case because I was annoyed and I got all caught up in it. I yelled at you... I don't do that, 'Win"

He seemed to sag under the weight of his words, momentarily losing his resolve to leave.

"It's okay." Edwin walked over to take his coat and hang it back up. He then walked back and put his hand in Charles' "I don't mind. I know you, Charles, and I know that you didn't mean it." He paused for a moment. He seemed to mull over what he was going to say next. Since his confession on the staircase in Hell, Edwin had begun to choose to be honest more and more often.

"In the spirit of honesty, I must say that I'd let you yell at me or more if it meant we were still together here in our afterlives."

Immediately, Edwin could see it was the wrong thing to have said. He still had some trouble reading Charles, especially when he was in a state of being greatly affected by his own trauma from his life. Crystal had always been better at comforting him and being there for him in that regard, but she wasn't here right now. There was no one for Charles to go to when Edwin inevitable seemed to mess it up.

Charles let go of Edwin's hand and clenched his fists at his sides. "Edwin, no. You can't... If I do something to you..." He trailed off, seemingly unable to finish his thought. Thoughts of his father ran through his head, and his mother's face featured right after.

His mother had stayed with his father for so many years, he had endured his father's actions until he died. He wouldn't wish that upon anyone, especially not Edwin. Never Edwin. And as much as he wished he were sure about the opposite, or that he was certain they weren't qualities that he could inherit, Charles always had that itching thought in the back of his head that he'd turn out just like father, even in his death.

Even though he had seemed like he couldn't quite get the words out, Edwin waited patiently for him to flesh out his thoughts. He took a step closer, to remind Charles that he was there for him.

Finally, he said, "If I ever hurt you, even once, never speak to me again. Tell the Night Nurse to let Death take me, start your own agency, do whatever it takes to get away from me. No matter how sorry I say I am, no matter how many promises I make." Then, quietly, almost like he didn't want him to hear, he added, "I never want you to suffer from me like my mum suffered from my dad."

Silence made the air around them feel heavy and still. Charles took an unnecessary shaky breath and looked away from Edwin. In times where he was vulnerable, Charles hated to look Edwin in the eyes.

"Charles. You will never hurt me. You can't! You don't have a single violent bone in your body. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. You are the best person I know, Charles Rowland, and nothing will ever change that." Edwin enveloped Charles into a hug, slowly so that Charles could move away if he wanted.

Instead, he burrowed into Edwin's neck, lips against a non-existent pulse. He stood there, being held in the agency's doorway for what seemed like forever, and he could've stayed there for another eternity.

Eventually, Edwin released him and held him by the shoulders, as Charles often did for him when he felt overwhelmed. "You're too good to be like your dad, Charles, and I will remind you every day if I have to."

And still, Charles seemed to be too overwhelmed to form words, but he nodded his, closing his eyes, and just allowed himself to lean against Edwin for a while.

Because even though Charles may never fully recover, and he'll never forget that fear, Edwin is there to remind him to not be afraid. After all, he's the best person Edwin knows, so he must be pretty great.

@aspiring-wildfire i saw your post abt edwin and charles' worst fears and something abt it just clicked so thanks for the inspiration :)

[coloursflyaway]

I love your stories about Edwin and Charles, how you make Charles smile, and how Edwin always looks up to him. I wanted to try to leave a little hurt/comfort prompt where Edwin gets hit by some kind of curse, and Charles has to take care of him and find a cure. Or maybe it's a curse that will only last for a couple of days, but Charles is sick with worries (and then feelings realization, pf course)

Of course, it's totally fine if you can't, but I had to try. Thank you so much for your writing ❤️❤️❤️

Hi ♥ Sorry that it took so long, but this kind of, sort of got out of hand. Hope you like it!

Breathing Space

Pairing: Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

Rating: T

Word Count: 6.300

Read on AO3

It happens in the blink of an eye. A flash of light, violet and yellow and blue, sparkling in a way that would be beautiful if Charles couldn’t taste the curse in it, like rust and blood and soil, and then Edwin is crumbling beneath his own non-existent weight, and Charles knows he is screaming only when he hears his own voice ringing in his ears.

During a case, Edwin gets hit by a curse and won't wake up.

It happens in the blink of an eye.

A flash of light, violet and yellow and blue, sparkling in a way that would be beautiful if Charles couldn’t taste the curse in it, like rust and blood and soil, and then Edwin is crumbling beneath his own non-existent weight, and Charles knows he is screaming only when he hears his own voice ringing in his ears.

The wizard, who they have been following for days now, is forgotten instantly, suddenly the least important being in this room, this world, because Edwin is on his knees, shoulders trembling, head pitched forward and his arms hanging limply at his sides. It takes Charles three steps to get to him, which feel like the longest distance he has ever had to cross, before he is falling down in front of Edwin, shielding him from whatever else the wizard might come up with.

His trembling hands come up to hold Edwin by the shoulders as Charles frantically searches his face for any marks – the cracks that indicate petrification, a sickly glow that comes from a binding hex, the translucence that means disintegration – but for a moment, there is nothing, just Edwin’s lips parted, his eyes wide and shocked. And Charles is about to breathe a sigh of relief, because while the spell clearly hit Edwin, it must be ineffective against ghosts, or supernatural beings in general, or maybe just Edwin; it doesn’t matter.

So, Charles starts to pull back, ready to shoot Edwin a smile and get up to go after the wizard once more, but it’s a moment too early, because with his hands still on Edwin’s shoulders, Charles watches as his eyes go dim, then black, and then close.

His body goes slack, still in Charles’ arms, head rolling forward against his shoulder, and Charles has felt fear before and yet learns it anew right there, kneeling on the floor, clinging to Edwin’s lifeless body.

The wizard uses the chaos that ensues to flee; Charles doesn’t even see him leave, just hears the electric charge of magic, the woosh of air filling the space his body had occupied just moments ago. But it doesn’t matter, how could it, not when Edwin’s lifeless body is in his arms, solid and yet without weight, without the spark that usually makes him feel real.

Charles forces himself to take a deep breath, then another one, just like he taught Edwin to do mere weeks after they had met, anything to force down the panic that threatens to overtake his body. He can’t let it, not when they are still here, exposed in an old hotel’s hallway, when the man who has done this to Edwin could be coming back any second.

Another breath, one that Charles forces down deeper than it wants to go, filling up lungs he does not have any longer; another one, just so Charles can get up, taking Edwin with him.

He’s light, which is nothing new, but there is something distinctly missing, something Charles usually can feel whenever they touch: Edwin’s energy, whatever it is that makes him him, is cut off, subdued, impossible for Charles to reach out to and touch.

It’s terrifying in a way that is so visceral that Charles’ next breath doesn’t make it down to his lungs, stuck somewhere in the back of his throat; he can’t feel Edwin, something he has gotten so used to doing with every touch that it turns his fingertips to ice where they are holding onto Edwin’s back, the length of his arms brittle and breaking and all but useless.

If it wasn’t Edwin he was holding, and if keeping Edwin safe wasn’t an instinct woven so deeply into the fabric of his soul it made up half its threads, he’d drop him from the shock of it. But it is Edwin, and so the breath just chokes him, as Charles cradles Edwin to his chest as tightly as he can without splintering his arms, and sets off to bring him home.

He lays Edwin down on their sofa, and for the first time since Charles met him, he looks dead.

The thought rips through Charles like a bullet would, and he banishes it immediately, wouldn’t know what else to do. Because Edwin is still in there, he knows it, has to know it so he won’t fall apart.

And ghosts, after all, disintegrate, don’t die like humans would, and Edwin is still there, solid and real on their sofa, even if his eyes are closed and his skin pale, and Charles will make him wake up again, even if it’s the last thing he ever does.

They have a library that contains all of the knowledge Charles could ever dream of and then some, so he goes and picks out as many book as he can carry and brings them over to where Edwin is laying.

There’s no space next to him, not the way he is spread out, and for a second, Charles considers… but he won’t. He wouldn’t.

So, instead, he sinks down to the floor next to the sofa and starts reading, and only stops when the first book proves utterly, utterly useless.

The second one does, too.

The third book mentions parsley as being connected to the underworld, talks about its vapours calling out to their goddess, so Charles finds some in Edwin’s unending jars and boxes, and burns it in a shallow dish he balances on Edwin’s chest.

Smoke wafts up and obscures his face; there must be something to it, because Charles can smell it bittersweet when he forces down another breath, and for a moment, he can feel hope flutter in his chest, a terrified sparrow caught between his ribs, ready to sing if Edwin opens his eyes. Only that when the mist clears, Edwin is laying there like he had been before.

Eyes closed, unmoving, and Charles has to shut his as well for a moment, just to make sure he doesn’t scream. The sight stays with him anyway, burnt into his retinas, and Charles counts to ten, then forces himself to take a breath, just to keep the panic from smothering him.

Another, and another, until he can open his eyes once more; another, and he picks up the next book. There is still a sliver of space next to Edwin’s feet, calling out to him, and Charles think and thinks and doesn’t do it this time, either.

The books tell him about myrtle and mistletoe and feverwort, so Charles tries all of them and watches them fail to change a thing, no matter if Charles burns them or puts their ground up leaves on Edwin’s silent tongue, or dabs their juices onto Edwin’s eyelids.

Fifteen books in, it becomes difficult to see the letters clearly, not because the sun had gone down and risen three times by now, but because Charles cannot swallow the panic down any longer. It’s clogging up his throat, as sharp and corrosive as bile, ripping at his chest with claws that slice right through Charles’ soul.

Edwin is still in there, he knows it, because if he wasn’t, Charles wouldn’t be here anymore, either.

He is in there, dormant or waiting or suppressed, and Charles will get him back, no matter if it takes herbs or spells or magic trinkets or just time. So, Charles puts a hand on his chest, right above where his heart would be, just like his mother taught him decades ago, and makes himself breathe, one, two, three.

It doesn’t change anything, and yet it helps; Charles looks down at Edwin, who looks frozen in time, pale skin and pink lips and lashes fanned out over high cheekbones, and he takes another breath.

And another one.

Crystal finds him on the morning of the fourth day, storming into the agency in a flurry of auburn hair and her purple coat; Charles hasn’t forgotten she exists – how could he ? – and yet, she has been as far from his mind as if he had.

“Now, I know you guys don’t drink coffee”, she starts, as loud and bright as the beginning of summer, as welcome as a gust of warm wind, “But you have to be aware that it is still pretty fucking rude to stand up your almost-best friend at – oh fuck, what happened?”

By the time Crystal has reached the sofa her eyes are wide and worried, and they remind Charles of Edwin’s the last time he saw them, and the thought hurts and throbs and makes him feel faint; he swallows it down with another mouthful of air, because there is no time for panic, no time for anything but figuring this out.

“Spell. I’m trying to figure out what to do about it”, Charles explains as succinctly as he can, because if he starts to go into all the forty-two hours and twenty-three minutes he has been sitting here, reading, he’ll break down before he reaches the second day. “Sorry for standing you up though. I didn’t mean to, I just-”

“It’s fine”, Crystal interrupts him before he can finish speaking; Charles doesn’t even have to look at her to know she means it, but does so anyway. “Any way I can help?”

And Charles loves her, he really, truly does.

Crystal makes it through a book and a half before she has to leave, and Charles gets up for a moment to hug her goodbye. He doesn’t really feel it and yet it helps, even if just a little. Then, after she has walked through the door, he looks back down at Edwin and considers sitting down, right there, where…

But he doesn’t.

When the botany books run out, Charles moves on to healing gems, and adorns Edwin’s still body with haematite and smokey quartz and amethyst, but there is no twitch, no flutter of an eyelid, no sign of life, of afterlife, at all.

So, Charles breathes away the panic, even if it feels like swallowing splinters and shards of rock, and leaves the smokey quartz on Edwin’s chest nonetheless. Even if it doesn’t call Edwin back to him, the book spoke of protection, and if there is something both of them need, it is that.

On the morning of the fifth day, Crystal returns, Niko right behind her.

She’s carrying the largest cup of coffee Charles has ever seen, her laptop under her arm, and there is determination radiating from her that Charles would be reassured by, if the panic hadn’t made its permanent home just below his collarbones by now, too knotted and tangled and vast to swallow any longer.

He still breathes it into submission, but every time a page turns, and an herb or an incantation or a gem fails to make a difference, it takes more effort, more breaths than before, until it feels like forcing himself to breathe is all Charles is still doing. Breathing and reading and watching Edwin like he is frozen in time and space, trapped in the spell’s amber like the rarest of butterflies.

“I’ve looked up some things”, Crystal tells him, and Niko nods, while she puts down her bag. “Niko brought a ghost box, in case we can communicate with him like that. And a Ouija board.”

That, at least startles a laugh out of Charles; it’s such a strange idea to try and reach Edwin like this, and yet, he realises, he is not above trying. Not if there is the smallest, the most miniscule possibility that it might work.

“Anything else I should know about?”, he asks, and it’s like he had forgotten that he has friends through the grief, the panic he is trying his best to quell, like it had slipped his mind how much he loved them.

Neither of them could replace Edwin, of course not, but not only because Edwin is irreplaceable. Also, because they are too important to be someone’s replacement: Niko and her brightly coloured cheerfulness and surprising insights, Crystal and her brilliant brashness and unbreakable will.

For a moment, Charles loves them enough for it to be overwhelming.

“Not really”, Crystal answers, as she sits down at the desk. “Couldn’t think of anything else. It’s really unfortunate that the one who got sleeping beauty-d was the walking encyclopedia. I’m sure Edwin would come up with two dozen ways of waking you up without breaking a sweat.”

Charles nods; it’s not the first time he has wished for their roles to be reversed, and it won’t be the last time. Both because of the reason Crystal states – Edwin would know what to do instantly, would have gotten Charles back by now – and because, well. Because if the choice is between Edwin and he, then Charles will always choose Edwin, as long as he exists.

“I know”, he states simply, and Crystal’s eyes soften; Charles’ own burn with tears he refuses to shed.

He’ll have time to cry later, once Edwin is back where he belongs.

The spirit box does nothing but spit out garbled nonsense, the planchette doesn’t move a centimetre on their Ouija board, and Charles breathes and breathes and breathes and still feels like he is suffocating.

“Maybe he really is like Sleeping Beauty”, Niko mumbles, half asleep from where she is curled on their single arm chair. It is so late that it is early again, and Charles has almost forgotten that the girls need to sleep, too wrapped up in reading and hoping and trying out things that fail anyway. “Maybe we could kiss him awake. I wouldn’t mind kissing him. If it helps.”

“That’s just a fairytale”, Crystal tells her, half gentle, half exasperated, but Charles almost doesn’t hear her over the rushing of blood he doesn’t have in his ears. “If not, then Charles would have kissed him awake days ago. Right?”

He never thought about it, even if he has been going through books upon books of old mythology – Greek and Roman and Indian and Japanese – and yet he has never considered that fairytales might hold answers, too. And yet, it isn’t that what shocks Charles into almost silence for a second, it’s that Niko says, I wouldn’t mind kissing him, and Charles first thought is, but you can’t.

“Yeah”, he replies, just to have said something, “Sure. I would’ve.”

The girls leave again the next day, citing their need for a shower, a hot meal and an actual bed, and Charles lets them go with a heavy heart and a forced smile on his lips.

He is nearing the end of his wits, all books he can think of having been read and all spells tried, all herbs mashed and burnt and distilled, all healing crystals placed on Edwin, then removed.

Before she closes the door behind her, though, Niko rushes back in and places a bright red band-aid on Edwin’s left hand, right across the back of it.

“I know it’s not a wound that makes him like this”, she explains before either Crystal or Charles can ask, sounding like she has been thinking about this for a long, long time. “But my dad always said that a band-aid would make anything heal better. Maybe not faster. But better. And I want him to heal the best.”

And Charles, even if there might be tears blurring his eyes, couldn’t agree more.

The sun sets on the sixth day and Edwin is still unmoving, lifeless, and Charles pulls out the last book he can find that seems to make any sense, a tome that seems as ancient as the opinions Edwin had on the Sex Pistols when he was still able to voice them, and sinks down onto the floor next to him.

By now, the panic is so familiar that he doesn’t think about it anymore as he turns to look at Edwin, the band-aid on his hand and the stillness of his body, just feels it rush through him with an intensity that never seems to waver, even as he breathes and breathes and breathes.

It’s been almost a week since he last heard Edwin’s voice, last saw his eyes crinkle up when he tries not to smile at one of Charles’ jokes, last felt anything when he looked at Edwin that wasn’t doused and drenched and drowned in fear. And it hurts to think it, terrifies Charles more than he could say, and for a moment, he wants nothing more than to break down and curl up and hold Edwin and just beg him to return, tears and sobs and promises to any god that might listen, which he might or might not keep.

But it wouldn’t help anything, wouldn’t bring Edwin back, so instead, Charles closes his eyes and feels the panic trying to strangle him so tightly it’s like a cord across the windpipe he doesn’t use any longer.

And he sucks in a breath, desperate and shaky, and before he starts to choke, he takes another.

And another.

And another.

And starts to read.

The sun of the seventh day rises and Charles finishes the book and there is nothing in it, nothing at all. Nothing to try, nothing to help, nothing to even give Charles a hint, a sliver, a thread of hope.

He takes a breath and it tastes like ash, feels like barbed wire, and for the first time, the panic stays right where it is, worming its way from his throat up to drown him.

What if he never wakes up?, it whispers, deep and threatening and somehow compelling Charles to almost believe it true. What if that spell snuffed out his soul and this is all you’ll have left of him?

Without thinking, Charles shakes his head, as if he could fling the thoughts from his mind, but the damage is done; he takes another deep breath and the fear clings to the back of his throat, coats his tongue, fills the space between his teeth, and hisses, What if you will never hear him speak another word?

The tears come and this time, Charles cannot stop them; they burn in his eyes, blur his vision, scald his cheeks as they finally fall. It’s like a dam has burst; it’s one tear, then a thousand, then he’s drowning in them like he is drowning in the panic that is clogging up his throat, swelling in his mouth until he cannot even try to take another breath.

What, it taunts, What if you’ll never be able to tell him what he deserved to hear?

He cries for what feels like hours, sunken into a heap at Edwin���s feet and yet, once his tears have dried, it doesn’t feel like their ocean inside his chest has diminished in the slightest. Nor has the panic, even if it is back clawing at his neck, not filling his mouth any longer, but it is there, lurking, waiting for a moment when Charles’ control slips to overtake him once again.

So, he takes in a deep, deep breath, that feels like it is designed to make him burst, and gets up once more.

There are no books left to read, at least none that Charles puts any hopes in, so he just walks over to their library to put back the last one – Edwin would be so mad at him if he found out he had left his priceless tomes on the agency’s floor – but before he turns away, unmoored, untethered, unneeded, something catches his eye.

It’s silly, but maybe silly is the last thing he still has left; he picks up the book of Grimm’s Fairytales and returns to the sofa where Edwin lays.

Ever since Charles had put Edwin down, arms longing to keep his form close for just a little longer, Charles has not been able to touch him. He had been tempted, because ever since they met, Charles had wanted to touch Edwin, but it had felt wrong, because Edwin wasn’t there to feel him, and it had felt wrong because Charles was certain he would be able to tell the difference. And would he be able to take it, wrapping a hand around Edwin’s wrist and not feeling the thrum of his energy, the almost-sensation that touching another ghost could bring?

Charles still isn’t sure, still thinks that it might shatter him beyond recognition.

And yet, he stands above Edwin now, looking down at his familiar features, the sharpness of his jaw and the crisp collar framing it, the emptiness of his expression. It might shatter him, but maybe it would be better than wasting away like this, panic clawing at him with every needless breath he doesn’t take, longing for any kind of contact he could have with Edwin.

He stands there for several endless seconds, before his body starts to move on its own; it feels natural and yet like the biggest possible transgression as Charles lifts Edwin’s legs from the cushions and sits down next to him, before depositing Edwin’s feet safely back in lap.

A second, and the grief, the pain, threatens to overwhelm him, because this is a mirror of how they used to sit on quiet nights; Edwin reading and Charles listening, his feet in Edwin’s lap. It had felt safe back then, like home, and yet it seems to tear him into pieces now.

Charles wants to jump up and run, wants to bury himself in the cushions, under the weightless pressure of Edwin’s feet, and never get up again.

He takes a breath, even if feels like smoke and ash and stale air, and opens the book.

“In times past there lived a king and queen...“

The stories are short, so Charles reads Edwin’s lifeless form Sleeping Beauty and Little Red Riding Hood and Mother Holle, takes a little break and then continues with Rapunzel. There is something soothing about the act, less the sound of his own voice or the content of the stories, but the reading itself. Reading to someone, reading to Edwin.

It makes Charles think of dying and feeling warm although his body was wracked with shivers, makes him think of doing research and having Edwin read out passages of books to him from across the desk, of sitting right here, on this sofa, with their roles reversed and wishing he could fall asleep to Edwin’s voice washing over him.

Edwin can’t hear him, of course, and Charles is aware of it with every word he speaks, and it matters, just not enough. Because Charles can still sit here and read to him, even if his voice doesn’t reach him, and he can wrap his fingers around Edwin’s ankle and hold onto it like it’s the only thing still grounding him, and maybe, for a moment, he can keep the fear at bay.

By the time he has finished the book, all twenty-three stories in it, the sun has set.

Sometime between The Three Spinners and Godfather Death, Charles has turned on the lights, so when he looks over at Edwin once more, he is bathed in golden light, the glow warming up his pale skin, casting shadows across his eyelids, underneath his cheekbones. He looks ethereal, like he was made from porcelain and silk, and Charles aches with the picture, because he looks just as still, just as lifeless. Dead, for the first time since Charles has known him.

The thought wraps around his heart and squeezes until he feels like giving in, forcing tears into Charles’ eyes and the breath he has been drawing so diligently from his imagined lungs once more.

He can’t be dead, not in a real sense, because Charles would not be able to take it.

Edwin’s eyes are closed, like they have been for a week, and Charles misses their colour, misses their light, misses how Edwin rolls them when Charles says something he deems ridiculous; his lips are parted the slightest hint, and Charles misses their smiles, their frowns, the way Edwin’s tongue sometimes flicks out between them, as if he still had to moisten them.

Without meaning to, Charles’ gaze gets stuck on them, on their colour and their plushness, and Niko’s voice echoes in his mind unbidden.

Maybe we could kiss him awake.

They can’t, surely they can’t.

And yet, Charles has tried every spell, every herbal remedy, has read more this past week than within the last three years, and Edwin is still lifeless beside him, untouched by all of it.

It would be a last resort, just a touch of lips against lips, even if Charles feels his heart speed up at the thought, fingers trembling as he puts down the book he is still holding onto. Nothing more than making sure that it’s not such an obvious solution that they missed.

Getting up and losing their connection for just as second feels unbearable, even if he’ll get to touch Edwin again a moment later, so Charles takes a deep breath for a new feeling this time, close to panic and yet softer, sweeter, and leans over Edwin’s body. It’s an awkward position, Edwin’s knees pressed against his chest and one of Charles’ hands clinging onto the backrest of the sofa to keep him upright, the other in the space between Edwin’s neck and shoulder; they’ve been close before, but never like this.

Suddenly, a thought: Edwin loves him.

Somewhere, wherever he is, Edwin loves him, and Charles is going to kiss him and Edwin won’t even know it.

“I’m so sorry, mate”, Charles whispers, even if it is only for his own ears, and feels his heart break. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

And he leans down, no breaths, no thoughts, and kisses Edwin.

It’s just like he planned, lips against lips, even if Charles’ eyes slip shut, even if his metaphorical heart is exploding in his chest, a supernova, an atom bomb.

He kisses Edwin, and a silly, hopeful, doomed part of his mind expects Edwin’s hand to shoot up and grab his cheek to pull him in closer, expects Edwin’s lips to part wider in an invitation for Charles to lick into his clever mouth, expects Edwin to feel that he is being kissed and come back to life just to kiss Charles back.

A moment, Charles stays like this, hoping; another, he stays, despairing; at the third, he pulls back, eyes brimming with tears and lips tingling with Edwin’s echo on them.

It’s no fairytale they are in, and Charles had known it from the start, yet as he sits back and touches his fingers to his just-kissed lips, he remembers that most of those end badly anyway.

The girls will find him sooner of later, Charles thinks as he sits and stares at the wall, unable to move, unable to look at Edwin and find him lifeless still. They'll ask him what has happened, because there is no way they will not notice, and Charles doesn’t know which thought hurts him more: telling them and having to see the pity on their faces, or making up an excuse and having to suffer through this by himself.

Again, he touches his fingers to his lips – the twelfth time, he has been keeping count – and feels them tingle. Charles knows why, has known why since his lips touched Edwin’s, has known it before then, even, and yet he doesn’t want to finish the thought, doesn’t want to acknowledge the feeling spreading in his chest, making his dead heart beat once more.

Maybe it had been nothing but folly, but arrogance, but when he had promised Edwin that they would have forever to figure things out, he had believed it.

Even back then, Charles had sensed what his answer would be – because it was Edwin, it was a whole new way to be close to the person he cared about most already, an invitation to explore a side of his best friend Charles never would have considered seeing - but Edwin deserved more than a probably in the future, if you give me time. He deserved a yes, a please, a I love you the most.

And so Charles had put it off, even if he had started watching more closely, tracking Edwin’s motions, tracing the tendons of his hands and the lines of his face, listening to his explanations like one would do to music.

It had worked, too, because now, as he brushes his knuckles across his lips, he can feel Edwin’s on them instead, and his heart swells in his chest with an emotion he refuses to name, and his eyes burn with tears once more.

He breathes in, deep and desperate, even if he knows that the panic will suffocate him anyway.

At some point, Charles spaces out; the moments blur together, it starts to rain and stops again, birds singing in the newly discovered sun, and Charles hears it and yet doesn’t register it in the slightest. It doesn’t matter, after all. How could it?

“Charles?”

For a moment, Charles thinks it’s a dream, or a figment of his imagination, or his mind finally breaking after being focussed on nothing but Edwin for a week, his heart singing with a litany of pleasepleaseplease, but when his head snaps around to look at Edwin, there are eyes meeting his.

Confused, but awake, moss green; Charles’ favourite colour.

“Charles, what happened? Why are you- why are you crying?”

And he is, Charles notices with some detachment, because that, too, doesn’t matter; there are tears on his cheeks and dripping down his chin and making it hard to see, but he doesn’t have to see to find Edwin, falling across the sofa to hug him close to his chest.

Edwin is solid, but most importantly, the hum beneath his astral skin is back, the one that Charles wants to drink in and never be without again, like he has been starved for months and only now been given sustenance.

“You’re back”, he sobs into Edwin’s chest, ignoring how there are knees digging into his side, that Edwin is making a confused little sound at the back of his throat; Edwin is awake, he’s here, and that is all that matters, all that will ever matter from now on. “You’re back, God, I missed you so much-”

A beat passes, then an arm sneaks around his waist, Edwin’s hand settling between Charles’ shoulder blades, and he could stop existing happily right here, wrapped up in Edwin’s presence, the last thing he almost-feels his touch.

“I gather I have been out for quite some time?”, Edwin asks gently, fingers pressing along the ridges of Charles’ spine, who can’t do anything but nod, words drowned out by yet another sob. “I’m so sorry, I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through. But I’m alright now, I promise. It was just a temporary banishing spell, nothing at all to be worried about.”

His voice is a balm to all of Charles’ wounds, soothing them even if it is yet to early for them to heal. The words don’t make sense right now, even if they might do so later, but Charles cannot bring himself to care; Edwin is the one speaking them, and he could ask for nothing more. There will be time for everything else later, for now, he just clings to Edwin and for the first time in days, takes a breath and feels the panic dissolve.

“You read all of them?”, Edwin asks what feels like hours later, eyes still moss green and wide again, like he cannot believe what Charles is saying. It makes sense; Charles can hardly believe it either.

“Didn’t have a choice, did I?”, he asks, pushing a hand through his hair almost self-consciously. “I didn’t know what else to do, and I couldn’t just do nothing.”

“I suppose. But still.” Edwin smiles at him, like he is surprised that Charles would go do this for him; he shouldn’t be. “I know you don’t particularly enjoy the older encyclopedias we have, so thank you for reading them anyway. Even if that means I might have to surrender my title as the brains of our operation. Seems like you’re the full package now, Charles.”

The words are soft, teasing, and Charles knows he would be blushing at them if he still had blood to make that happen; suddenly, he remembers the feeling of Edwin’s unmoving lips against his, soul-crushing and yet almost perfect.

“I will have to thank Crystal and Niko for their efforts as well”, Edwin muses, unaware of Charles’ brain short-circuiting. They have time now, once again, could have forever, but…. “Is there anything else I should be aware of that happened while I was unconscious?”

For a split-second Charles wants to say no – and in some way, it is true, nothing had happened, nothing could have happened, because the only thing that had mattered had been getting Edwin back – but he remembers leaning down to Edwin so clearly, whispering I’ll make it up to you a second before stealing his second kiss.

“Well”, he starts and Edwin looks at him expectantly; he’s beautiful in a way that Charles only knows from paintings, statues, the poems Edwin sometimes reads him at night. How has he ever been able to miss this? “Sort of. When we were. You know. Through with the books and the spells and all the herbs, Niko had this idea. Half asleep, but still. I didn’t consider it, not at first, but when nothing else had worked, well, I didn’t know what else to do, and I remembered her saying… she compared you to Sleeping Beauty.”

He cannot say it, can’t make his lips form the words, so he says this instead, hopes that Edwin will know just what he means. It takes a moment, then two, and Charles is about to force another breath down his unusable lungs, when Edwin’s eyes go wide with surprise.

“Y-You mean…?”, he asks, and Charles has never heard him stutter before, the sound so sweet he casts it in amber within his heart.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Charles, you didn’t have to – I mean, I hope it wasn’t too big an imposition, I never would have expected anything like this from you, it’s-”, Edwin continues like he’s stumbling after the right words, unable to catch up to them, and it is both endearing and heartbreaking, because even if Charles could never return his feelings, kissing Edwin, especially like this, for this, would never be an imposition.

“Nah, don’t worry”, he interrupts, before Edwin can say anything else. A breath, a decision, before he continues, “It’s not like I minded it. Just wish you could have been awake for it.”

He grins to calm his nerves; this isn’t panic, this is tension, this is sweet and yet terrifying, life-changing and yet worth everything.

Edwin stares at him for a second, his feet still in Charles’ lap, and Charles wants to kiss him again, wants to finally have a reason to put a name to the feeling that is lapping at his every thought now, threatening to spill past his eyes, his lips.

“You would rather have kissed me if I was awake?”, Edwin asks, his voice faint, like he cannot believe what he is asking, and Charles nods, not allowing a second in which Edwin could doubt it.

“Of course”, he answers and suddenly, it is so easy, because it’s the truth and because Charles wants Edwin to know it, know he is loved and he is wanted and that he is safe with him. “I know I said we had forever to figure things out, but you know me. I’ve always been inpatient, right?”

And it’s like watching the sun rise, Edwin’s wide eyes slowly lighting up like morning breaking, and Charles is warmed by it like by nothing be before in his existence; this, a voice whispers, must be what being in love feels like.

“You’re right”, Edwin finally replies, slower than usual, almost dreamlike, “Patience had never been a particular virtue of yours.”

He could drag this out, Charles knows it, and part of him wants to, because this is the kind of tension he thrives on, the sweetness before a kiss, before everything has been acknowledged, and because he has missed just looking at Edwin almost as much as he now misses the feeling of Edwin’s lips against his. But he’ll have time to look at Edwin later, too, they will have time to talk, because forever is back on the table and Charles will use up every second of it to spend it with Edwin.

“Still isn’t”, he therefore tells Edwin, leaning in just a little closer. The position is almost as awkward as it had been the first time, but Charles still cannot bring himself to care. “But maybe-”

Only that he doesn’t get further than that, because Edwin launches himself forward, arms wrapping around Charles’ neck t o pull him down and then Edwin is kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. It’s inelegant, inexperienced, too hard and yet not hard enough, and Charles feels his heart break, feels it mend again, because this is what kissing Edwin should always have been; too much and yet not close to enough.

He kisses back, just a little gentler, one hand coming from resting around Edwin’s ankle to cup his cheek, and for a second, Edwin pulls back to look at him, moss green eyes shining.

Charles takes a breath, just like his mother taught him, deep and steady, just to keep himself from spilling every loving thought he’s ever had into the inch of space between them.

And instead kisses Edwin again.

[padfoot-lupin77]

This might have been discussed before but I haven’t seen it anywhere so: the comedy potential of the Night Nurse staying at the dead boy detective agency is absolutely insane. She knows little about the human world. And she doesn’t like any of the people she now has to work with. Absolute Chaos dialogues under the cut cause this post would be too long otherwise

Night Nurse: *knocks on Crystal’s door*

Night Nurse: Who the fuck is Charlie?

Crystal: you mean Charles?

Night Nurse: No- I know who Charles is, little girl.

Crystal: don’t call me th-

Night Nurse: it was Charles, in fact, who asked if I know about that Charlie and some angels of his. I know all about angels, was this ghost boy mocking me?

Crystal:

Crystal: Charles fucking Rowland didn’t Edwin tell you that the ‘Charlie’s Angels’ thing was a bad idea?

Night Nurse: *deep breath* aright if we have to work together I suppose it would be good to get to know each other

Night Nurse: so, how long have you two been together?

Charles: uh-

Edwin: we’ve been best mates ever since I… escaped hell the first time, around the time Charles died.

Night Nurse: *nods skeptically*

*later that day*

Night Nurse: so your name is Jenny?

Jenny: yes. If I understand correctly you’re an immortal being from the afterlife… or something?

Night Nurse: an eternal transdimensional being but I wouldn’t expect anyone to know the difference

Jenny: great, more supernatural stuff. Just what we needed.

Night Nurse: so, Jenny, you seem to me like the most normal around here.

Jenny: a sentence I never expected to hear, but go on.

Night Nurse: can you inform me what the phrase “best mates” means?

Jenny: seriously? Okay, from what I get it’s the British way to say best friends

Night Nurse: like, a couple?

Jenny: no, like best friends. Two very good friends.

Night Nurse: I’m sorry, I must have got this wrong somehow?

Jenny: clearly. What’s confusing?

Night Nurse: the Edwin boy said he and Charles are best mates but they seem too close with each other?

Jenny: *laughs* yeah, I thought so too. But sometimes friends are very close too. Not that I would know.

Night Nurse: and what makes a close friendship different from a… relationship?

Jenny: honestly, I think you’ve got the wrong person for these questions, I have no idea

Night Nurse: humans don’t make any sense

Night Nurse: I don’t think this will work, I’m going to get my own apartment.

Crystal: and how are you going to do this, exactly?

Night Nurse: I will go whichever local office is responsible for this type of transfers and get whatever papers necessary. I’ve spent all my time doing paperwork, how different can human paperwork be?

Edwin, under his breath: you have no idea

Night Nurse: In fact I will go right now.

Crystal: should we tell her?

Charles: Nah, let her find out the hell that is human-world paperwork

Charles: but this Night Nurse sabotaged our case!

Edwin: I know, just hold on a minute because I just had a most brilliant idea.

*whispers at Charles the plan*

Charles: you’re a genius, mate.

Edwin: I know, now let’s tell Crystal.

*the next day*

*knocks on the Night Nurse’s door*

Charles: hello miss Night Nurse

Crystal: we have brought you a present

Edwin: yes, we- ahem, we realized you were right…

Charles: *trying not to laugh* and we have brought this present to apologize

Night Nurse: that’s… nice of you kids… let me see

Night Nurse: *opens the box*

Night Nurse: *sees a fish tank with an angler fish identical to the one that swallowed her in ep 4*

Night Nurse: you. You evil, demon children how dare you

Edwin, Charles and Crystal all burst out laughing

[yinora-evergreen]

It’s sort of a comedy ship idea. Dead Boy Detectives Cat King x reader, Edwin’s alive relative who is a warlock. In the UK they were nicknamed curse breaker and helped the boys on their cases. Unfortunately no matter how hard they try they can’t get the bracelet off Edwin. The Cat King finds their attempts hilarious……the warlock confronts him and tells him to knock off the mockery!

Warlock: “If you don’t release Edwin I swear I will-!”

Cat King: “Sorry little magician but I’m not a common being, spells don’t work on me. Nice try though and you look so adorable when you’re angry.”😼

pairing: the Cat King x Payne! alive! warlock! gn! reader, Edwin Payne x alive! relative! gn! reader, Charles Rowland x platonic! reader

a/n: i wasn't sure how to add romantic attraction to this so i tried to keep it so it's implied, i hope it's as you hoped!

ps: i tried to write warlock! reader as accurate as possible, but it's probably not perfect, so excuse any inacuracies and feel free to point them out!

Edwin's first though when he got back to Crystak's 'apartment' with that damned bracelet was that you could get it off, right?

so, Charles mirror-travelled to where you said you'd be if you were available, a specific backroom in an abandoned warehouse that you called home.

you kept a mirror there just for them, as it happened more often than they'd like to admit that they needed you to break a curse or needed your magic expertise.

so when Charles practically barged in to drag you to Port Townsend, you weren't exactly surprised.

untill you saw why they needed you.

you happened to already be familiar with the Cat King, as you had a time or two when you had to visit the town for a client needing a spell done, or removed.

you walked into the room with Charles, seeing Crystal practically covering her ears as Edwin banged the bracelet against the different furniture and pipes in the room.

"hey Edwin, what's the problem?" you inquired and he seemed to be relieved.

"take this off, as quick as you can." you raised an eyebrow at him, one he knew all too well.

"...please..." "ofcourse, i can try, do you mind giving me some info on how you even got it in the first place?" you say as you take his wrist and look at the golden bracelet, a vague sense of recognition washing over you and you touch it.

"well, i used a simple, utterly harmless binding spell on a cat, and-"

"you used a spell on a CAT?!" you practically yell, already feeling the vague headache you'd get from the Cat King.

"well, yes, and i do realize it wasn't the best idea, now that i have this inconvenient bracelet" he says in an annoyed tone.

"and let me guess, you got to meet the nuisance that is the Cat King?"

"you know of him?" Edwin asks in a slightly surprised tone.

"ofcourse i know him, he's a pain in my ass" you mutter.

you turn to Crystal, a forced smile on your face which seems more like you're on your last strand of sanity.

"it would be best if you'd take a step back, if this spell backfires it might disintegrate your skin" you say it so casually you can see her confusion with a hint of fear on her face.

"and yours won't? you seem pretty alive to me" she comments, though she does take a step or two back.

"i'm a warlock, i have the influence of a demon in my magic and that very same demon allows me to be able to suffer through higher temperatures without being in any physical pain, so don't you worry about me" you say as you wrap your hand around the bracelet, murmering some words in latin as your hand starts to glow a red-ish orange, though even after over 30 seconds it does absolutely nothing to the bracelet, much to your annoyance.

"well, that seems to have worked splendidly" Edwin comments, instantly receiving a glare from you.

"just, do whatever he told you to do to get it off, i'll go pay mr whiskers a visit" you grumble.

you walk out, speed-walking to the place where you've found the cat king before, much to your luck you actually find him too.

before he can say anything, you start talking.

"if you don't release Edwin i swear i will-"

"sorry, little magician, but i'm not a common being, spells don't work on me. Nice try though, you look so adorable when you're angry"

the tone that he uses makes you want to punch that little smug grin right off his stupid face.

"you're such a nuisance, i hope you lose another one of your nine lives like last time" you grit out through clenched teeth.

"you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid~" the Cat King nearly purrs, which only irks you even more.

"fuck you, and your cats, and those stupid eyes of you and your stupid hair" you practically yell, which makes him put on a fake, pained expression.

"oh no! not my cats, dearest warlock" he laughs, his mocking tone making your blood boil and your cheeks turn red, though as much as you deny it he does have his appeal.

"just, don't inconvenience me even more, asshole" you mumble as you turn to leave, and as you walk away you hear him yell after you.

"come see me whenever you like, i promise i'll make it worth it!"

[read-write-thrive]

Charles Rowland Week Day Four - Alive/headcanon

I ended up having to skip Day 3 bc my health is shit rn but I’m back for day four of @charles-rowland-week !!!! (definitely on the later side but shhhh let me have this) With everything going on I don’t have much time for fic writing and it felt like a cop out to just list my Charles headcanons (not to mention I have zero capacity for creativity rn so it would just be regurgitating from elsewhere on my blog). Ultimately I was inspired by the WIP games going around and decided to give y’all a sneak peak into my “Best Friend’s Brother” fic!!! I’ve also talked about this fic here if it sounds familiar lol. The whole fic is one big exploration of a headcanon I have for when Charles was alive so it felt fitting. It’s short but hope y’all enjoy ❤️

~~~

Charles didn’t have a lot of fond memories from when he was alive. I mean, feels a bit dark and depressing to put it like that, but it was true. His life hadn’t been a walk in the park. His dad was shit, his mom looked the other way, and pretty much anything potentially good was tainted by that. Friends in primary school? Not allowed to come over to his house, which meant he stopped getting invited to others’, which meant said friendships didn’t last. Cricket games? Even when they won it was bittersweet to see that neither of his parents had bothered to show up. Dating as he got a bit older? Couldn’t exactly bring a girl home, now could he? So he made sure it never got that far. It wasn’t hard, in the end. Relationships prior to age seventeen rarely last long enough to go home and meet the parents anyway. He assumed that sort of thing came as you got older, but he wouldn’t ever find out in the end.

Anyway, all that to say he didn’t have a lot of happy memories. But there were a few, and he’d come to cherish them more and more over the years. Meeting Edwin was always top of the list (yeah, he’d died, whatever) but there were a few outside of that too. The only time he got to meet his maternal grandmother, for example. She’d flown into London for Charles’s sixth birthday (which coincided with the wedding preparations for one of his mom’s cousins, if he remembered rightly, which made it a more worthwhile trip) and stayed for a whole week. The entire time she was around, Charles latched onto her side and refused to leave, as she gave him sweets and prevented his father from hitting him. Those punishments came back around once she left, of course, but it was still one of his favourite memories. He always reminisces about it around his birthday, or when around sweets, or when he runs into people speaking Hindi or Punjabi. All of which happened somewhat frequently in London—for better or worse for Charles’s mental health.

[terresdebrume]

Managed to give myself a headache working on that down on my knees update this morning (I think it only worked bc letters are easy and the first draft had come out pretty satisfying already) but fortunately the phone has better eye protection tools so we're doing this

Also if you want to read the rest of these they're under Messrs Payne and Rowland's Adventuring Agency on my blog

They take Crystal along to what they call preliminary interviews. The Agency is apparently a bit of a pain to maintain if no one is inside, and neither Charles nor Mr. Payne want to leave her alone in there, the first because he's afraid she'll get bored, and the second because he doesn't trust her with his things. Crystal, who doesn't have anything particular to do anyway, follows them with minimal resistance.

"Keep in mind," Mr. Payne tells her over his shoulder as they make their way to the crowded streets, "that we will be dealing with fairly desperate people. There is a balance we must keep between allowing them to have hope and acknowledging that the world is sometimes very unfair."

"That's bleak," Crystal says. "You think the girl could be dead?"

"I think children under the age of twelve are rarely prepared to survive on their own for a few days. She may be safe and sound, but every hour that passes makes that hope flimsier."

"Most of this type of cases involve some kind of accident," Charles says, smiling at a baker who offers to seel him pastries for cheap. "Kid goes somewhere they're used to go, only that time the faulty floorboard breaks, or they slide on the wobbly stone, that sort of things. When I was a kid, my mates and I used to play around an abandoned temple. Did that for years without any issue, 'til one day little Daniel got stuck in his favorite hide and seek spot and it took a whole afternoon to dig him out."

Crystal nods. It doesn't resonate, this image of kids roaming around unsupervised, doing whatever they want the whole day and only calling adults if something serious happened. Then again, if Charles and Mr. Payne are correct and she's from a rich family, she imagines there would have been people whose entire job revolved around watching her. She would have had a different childhood.

"The point being that it is too soon to make conjectures as to Rebecca Aspen's location or status, and we cannot allow hypotheses based on empty air to influence a first interview. For this reason, you must absolutely remain silent while we discuss the situation with the parents, is that clear?"

Crystal frowns and turns to Charles, but finds no help there.

"If you notice something odd or you have a question you can ask me, yeah? But we do have a solid process here and until you know more about the job it's probably best if you observe."

"Okay," Crystal says after a long hesitation.

She doesn't like the idea of sitting on her hands, but Charles' argument makes sense, and she's a teenager anyway. The potential clients will probably listen to the adults more than her.

She is, by and large, right about this assessment... But only until she has the vision.

[iremiari]

Daydreams || A Dead Boy Detectives Ficlet

A journalist interviews Charles and Edwin, asking how they would feel if Season 2 got cancelled. aka: the time i got too carried away making incorrect quotes (hence this fic being mostly dialogue), so have this really short ficlet of them!! Also yes, they technically broke the 4th wall during this entire thing.

Edwin and Charles are sitting on chairs, sitting in front of a white backdrop - much like those you see in interviews. Because they were in an interview, and by the looks of it, it was almost about to end.

One of the news reporters have given Charles and Edwin a question: How would they feel if they didn't get renewed for Season 2?

"Nonsense." Edwin reacts almost immediately. "It is imperative that we get renewed for Season 2. I must," he composes himself, "I must hear Charles tell me he loves me."

Charles, next to him, raises an eyebrow, and looks at Edwin with a smile, "Oh, and you're certain about that, yeah?"

"Well, no. But one could infer that-"

A little peck had landed on Edwin's lips.

Charles has just kissed Edwin, and the two boys look at each other. Charles is the first to speak.

"'Cause you're right. I do. I am in love with you."

Edwin just looks at him, stunned. Charles, charming as he is, gives him a topic to go off of.

"But keep going. I love hearing you talk about whatever's on your mind."

Edwin tries to speak, but he cannot seem to focus with what just happened and how casual Charles is treating this situation. All that comes out of his mouth is a series of mumbles and stutters, "I- there is-- I am… speechless."

"Aw," Charles smiles, "luckily, that isn't a problem."

He kisses him again, way more intense than the small peck he gave him earlier. They wrap their hands around each other's head, and continue. For Charles, it felt like a dream come true. He had been waiting to say that for a long time and--

"Right, Charles?" a voice says, interrupting whatever Charles was imagining.

"Huh, yeah, what?"

Turned out it was a dream. A daydream, anyway.

"Clearly, you got distracted again." Edwin gave a sigh - not one of disappointment, though. Maybe Charles was just imagining it, but it sounded like... a sigh of adoration.

"Anyway, I was telling these journalists just now that if our show does not get renewed for another season, then it would be highly devastating - for both us, the agency and the viewers at home."

"Oh," Charles collects himself, "Oh yeah, now you got me. I totally agree."

He looks at the camera. "I think a lot of people are... excited to see where our story leads, especially like- especially considering all the different narratives in store for us."

He ends with a chuckle, and turns to Edwin, smiling. "Also, sorry for zoning out there, mate. Won't happen again. Promise."

"We shall see about that." Edwin said to him with a coy smile, hiding his delight, before turning his attention to the journalists in front of them.

"Would that be all for you lovely people today? Charles and I do still have a lot of work to get done."

"Certainly, Mr. Payne and Mr. Rowland. Thank you for your time."

The news reporter looks through their notes as Charles and Edwin walk out of the set, looking very satisfied with the outcome of the interview.

[llflorence]

It's rude to keep friends waiting - RatedE, Didn't know they were dating, Dream of the Endless x Hob Gadling, Charles Rowland x Edwin Payne

The book she’s chosen is an obscure, narrow-minded piece. Stories of world domination, of blood and lust and murder. One hand holds the book open, the other trailing down the page as she reads. She’s been doing it now for an excruciating amount of time.

Dream tries to be patient and fails. He’s followed her into the eclectic and strange shop with focused purpose. He meant to approach her right away and gain answers to his questions, but the gentle smile on her face as she scanned the bookshelves stopped him.

He’s seen a smile such as that before.

Now, though, he feels as if she’s toying with him.

“What do you want?” she asks just as he’s about to begin to speak. “I assume it’s something important or you wouldn’t be stalking me like a creepy weirdo.”

Dream bristles; Johanna always has that effect on him. “I am not stalking you. I am seeking you out for advice.”

She laughs at that, cold and heartless and sardonic. “Advice from me? That’s hilarious.”

She does put down the book, however, tucking it under her arm and cocking her head to face him. The pain and sadness that comes with a life such as hers stares out at him. They are similar in that way.

“Well? Spit it out. Haven’t got all day to chat.”

There’s something about the antagonistic way she addresses him that sets a fire within, and he very nearly turns and walks away. But there’s a tugging inside his chest that’s become more and more urgent. He sets his chin high and proceeds.

“I need your help with something rather delicate.”

Her thick eyebrows raise and a dimple forms in her cheek. He’s caught her interest. “Go on.”

Dream does not feel fear nor shame nor uncertainty. He does, however, feel regret. “I have not been the most successful –” He pauses to find the right word. “Intimate partner.”

Instead of the scoff he’d expected, Johanna’s face remains the same. “And you think I have been?”

Dream nods his head once. “You are at least one step better than I. Your Rachel is with you still.”

Johanna, the clever girl, immediately understands. “Yeah, but we’ve been through the ringer, she and I. She’s patient and forgiving and absolutely lovely. I fucking don’t deserve her.”

Dream thinks Johanna deserves exactly her, but he knows she is not to be convinced. He moves the story along, laying out more of his reason for finding her.

“My past experiences have all ended in disaster. I do not know how to approach intimacy with another without failing before I even begin.”

Johanna considers him for a long moment, lips pursed. It appears she is taking him seriously. He’s prepared to be a good listener.

She draws in a quick breath. “Is it old Hobsie that interests you? Is that who you want to bang?”

Her tone is crude and Dream wishes to scold her, but he restrains himself. “He deserves better.”

Her mouth forms a smirk and her eyes fill with mischief. “My advice to you then is to go for it. He’s a big boy. He can handle whatever it is you can dish out.”

Dream agrees with her. There is something about the impossible man that intrigues him. A scoundrel with misaligned morals, he has adapted and changed and become a much kinder individual. Hob ebbs and flows with Dream’s stormy moods. Dream is drawn to him with the force of the Earth’s gravity.

“Look,” Johanna continues, taking a step closer. There are dark shadows under her eyes and tired lines around her mouth. “I don’t know that I’m the right person  –”

Dream has seen her dreams, the horrors that haunt her when she drifts off. There are things he can do to – “I can take away your nightmares. Bring the sleep you so desperately need. If only you’ll help me?”

Johanna recognizes a good bargain when she is presented with one. She takes it and warps it into something confusing. 

“Not for me,” she says, her tone dark and serious. “For Rachel. She wakes up screaming, thinking I’m never coming back. That I’ll be trapped in hell or I’ll die. Part of the reason I end up sabotaging us over and over is because I can’t stand watching her suffer like that.”

Dream wonders what it’s like to sacrifice such a gift for another. But he nods and agrees to it. “Rachel will worry no more.”

Johanna fixes him with a glare that says he’d better not back out on his word. Dream offers his hand. She takes it in her own.

“OK.” Her smile returns. “You know him well enough. What does he need?”

Confused, Dream blinks. The man needs for nothing.

“All right. What makes him happy? You must have an idea about that.”

Dream thinks of how Hob laughs at his favorite television programs. How he tears up when he speaks of homeless children being fed and clothed. The way he smiles when they talk about philosophy, about history, about complete nonsense. He supposes he does know what the man enjoys.

“I do. But how do I move past the awkwardness toward intimacy?”

Johanna laughs again. “The God of Dreams is ready to skip right to the sex, you absolute wanker, you.”

It’s vile, and it’s uncouth, but it’s regrettably the truth.

“Just be with him, Dream. He’s already into you. Communicate. Talk. And maybe butter him up with flowers and champagne, or some such nonsense. Works for Rachel every time I cock things up.”

Dream does not think Hob likes flowers. He’s bound to complain that they would only die. And he’s more of a scotch or whiskey drinker, although he might be convinced. Still, it seems strange to bribe him with such trivial gifts.

“I feel as if our relationship requires more than the traditional courtship. Robert is very different from any other partner –”

“Whoa. Hold on. Are we talking sex here? Or something more long-term? Like, a forever kind of thing?”

Dream sometimes thinks he must speak his own language. “Are they not the same?”

How Johanna finds that funny is beyond understanding. She slaps a hand on his upper arm and shakes him most violently. “What are you doing here, wasting precious time talking to me? Get in there and take him! You’re perfect for each other!”

—

Hob Gadling’s brow is lined as he bows over his work. There’s a focused seriousness about him tonight that Dream finds disconcerting. His new endeavor of teaching others about his passions has recently taken more of his time than ever. It’s drawn a line between them. One that must be crossed carefully.

Dream taps his fingers on the armrest of Hob’s sofa, absolutely not paying any attention to the movie currently playing. Instead, he’s focused on the intent set of his friend’s shoulders.

Dinner was delicious. The conversation flowed with ease. Hob reached for his hand no less than seven times, laughing, slightly drunk, beautiful. They sat side by side on the subway, knees touching, shoulders pressed together. Openly friendly and satisfyingly uninhibited, Dream had felt as if he actually had a soul.

Back in Hob’s apartment, though, things had shifted back to their usual. Hob took to his work, Dream to the couch.

His opportunity is slipping away quite decidedly. Dream must do something.

He pushes off the couch and approaches Hob at the table, looking down at the red-marked papers in a haphazard stack next to his laptop. Always the thorough one, Hob attaches little yellow sticky notes to each and every paper he scores. Words of encouragement grace every single one. He really is remarkable.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Dream tries, already knowing the answer. Robert is highly protective of his students’ privacy.

Hob doesn’t look up. “Load the dishwasher? Throw the dirty clothes in the washer? Fix me a cup of tea and get rid of this kink in the back of my neck?”

He’s joking, of course. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Almost as if it’s a coverup for what he really wants to say.

Dream turns and walks down the hall. He’s quite capable of doing the dishes and the laundry. He knows Hob doesn’t really mean for him to do it, but his friend is currently lost in his work. So he hauls the basket to the bottom floor and slots the coins into place before riding the elevator back to the flat.

While he waits, he fills the dishwasher, adds soap, and activates the machine. Then he sets the pot on the stove to boil and readies Hob’s favorite tea.

Dream’s hands begin to tremble as he stirs in the milk. He scolds himself for being so weak and delivers the beverage without a word.

Hob’s eyes slide to the right at the cup sitting on the coaster. His pen stills on the yellow note, and his shoulders tense the moment Dream touches him.

“W-what are you doing?” he asks, sounding hesitant and unnerved. Dream presses his thumbs into the space where Hob’s shoulder blades meet.

“Touching you,” he says, although it seems blatantly obvious to him. “Your tendons are quite stiff.”

A shudder makes its way through Hob’s body, most likely triggered by the too-light stroking of thumbs on the back of his neck. Dream corrects and presses harder, kneading the loose skin with care.

Hob drops his head forward and makes the most alarming of sounds, and Dream pulls back.

“Have I hurt you?”

Dream' worst fear, that his strength might cause harm to a most important person.

But Hob spins suddenly in the chair, his papers flying in all directions. Dream leans down and only just stops the tea from spilling and ruining them.

Hob is gasping for breath. His eyes wide, looking confused. “No. Please. Don’t stop. It – it doesn’t hurt.”

Dream acknowledges and continues massaging the man’s shoulders. Hob turns away and begins to tidy his papers.

“Did you take me seriously just now? Did I hear you actually doing dishes?”

Dream catches the disbelief in his voice; it’s extremely entertaining. “Of course. And the clothes are washing downstairs. I told you I wished to help. You gave me a task, I saw to it.”

Hob is leaning back against Dream’s hands now, his torso beginning to go limp, his neck malleable. “Thanks for that. But. You don’t have to. You’re not a servant, after all.”

Dream remembers quite clearly their discussion about the slave trade. The about-face the man took after his suggestion is another reason Dream adores Hob so.

Because it is most definitely adoration. An unfathomable devotion. Dream thinks there is nothing he wouldn’t do for Hob, if he so asked.

“Slavery of this sort is very different, my Dearest Hob. It’s not against anyone’s will. I enjoy serving you, if only to see the smile on your face.”

This has the same effect as Dream’s first touch on Hob’s tense neck. He whirls around again, this time mindful of the items on the table.

His deep brown eyes, so big and round and soft, search Dream for some falsehood. He’s in utter disbelief. “You can’t mean that.”

He moves his fingers into the base of Hob’s hair. He massages the man’s scalp and watches those eyes as they roll back.

“I do not say things I do not mean.” Robert should know that about him by now.

But Hob is looking shaken, visibly spooked by something Dream has done or said. His jaw is tight and his mouth a thin line. He’s direct when he speaks next, seeking answers just as Dream has done. “What is it you want? From me? Dream?”

It’s a challenge that begs to be met. Dream does just that.

“I wish to touch you. I think of nothing else.”

There is a horrible moment where it appears he’s ruined everything. The mutual respect. The friendship. The future. And then Hob stands so quickly Dream must take a step back. The man snatches at his shirt. Shakes him. Angry.

“I’ve been wanting you to do just that since our last reunion at the Inn. A hundred years spent thinking you hated me made me see how much you mean to m–.”

Hob’s voice trembles, stops and starts and stalls completely at the end. His fingers are stretched taut as they clutch at Dream’s clothing. Dream finds that he, too, is vibrating slightly. It’s like no sensation he’s ever felt before.

“I promise you, Robert Gadling, that I will fail at loving you. But if you give me a chance to try —“

Hob throws his head back and laughs. He readjusts one fist into the bulging loose front of Dream’s shirt and fixes an alarmingly hungry look upon Dream’s mouth.

They’re close now. Close enough to smell the afterburn of an evening cocktail, to feel the heat of rapidly increased breathing. Hob continues to stare at Dream’s mouth.

“I swear to god. If you don’t kiss me this very second, I’m going to p—“

Dream kisses him. The word he meant to say punctured into a gasp, mouth partially open as Dream slips inside. Momentarily stunned, Hob goes limp enough to require catching. But even as Dream wraps protective arms about him, Hob kisses back.

Dream has experienced immortal desire before, but nothing like this. The longing and determination and basic wanting that powers Hob’s mouth and tongue. Dream finds the amount of pressure the man gives with both lips is directly connected to the tug of something inside his chest. It’s incredibly erotic; it makes him dizzy.

Not only dizzy, but confused. Hob seems to simultaneously want to be touched and do the touching. He rips his own shirt off, exposing that fantastic hairy chest, but moves Dream’s hand over the fastens for his trousers. He pulls Dream to his mouth to bruise their lips together, then pushes him away and looks down to watch his hands. Licks his lips. Emits a soft moan. Then lifts his eyes again to Dream’s face.

“Jeezus,” Hob breathes as Dream frees him from the constraints of the remainder of his clothing. The man’s fully flushed cock nestles into the thick patch of fur across his tanned, toned lower abdomen. Both hands lift to Dream’s face, tugging hard to pull him in for another kiss.

It is something he cannot allow.

“Hob,” he says, voice dropped to decibels that seem to make the very air tremble. “Allow me?” And then, for good measure, and because he knows Johanna would be proud of him, “Please?”

“Oh god.” It’s something Hob says quite frequently. He’s always going on about some invisible deity, as if he needs saving.

Dream pulls Hob along to the bedroom, not wanting to share with anyone else. He wants no distractions; no calls, no texts, no annoying advertisements on the television. There was a time when he wished for the entire Waking World to know the pleasure his partner was feeling. His gut clenches at the thought of letting anyone infringe on Hob’s ecstasy.

His partner attempts again to kiss him, to distract him from the task at hand. He lifts Dream’s shirt, and although the brush of warm fingers on his skin is delectable, that’s neither here nor there.

Dream doesn’t need to speak. All it takes is a firm jaw and a look, and Hob is calling out his pathetic god’s name again, closing his eyes as if to pray.

It stops him from pawing at Dream’s clothing, though. He sits obediently on the end of the bed and looks up. The dimple in his handsome chin cries out for attention. Dream touches it with one fingertip.

Hob’s pretty mouth falls open and he sounds completely wrecked. He clutches the bedclothes as if preparing himself. “I dunno if I’m going to survive your hands, Dream.”

Amused, he asks. “My what?”

Brown eyes pierce his own. “Your hands! I’ve a thing for them; it’s pretty serious. Once you start touching me I’m never going to want it to stop.”

Dream leans one knee against the bed and allows Hob to collect both hands to his mouth. Then he permits the man to kiss his fingers because it appears to please him.

“Why would you ever want it to stop, Dearest Hob? If you’ve truly been thinking about it for as long as you claim –”

With a mighty yank, Hob manages to pull Dream down on top of him. Their bodies collide and meld in the kind of way that thrills; a most delightful crush. That wide jaw finds his, a long, crooked nose pushes Dream’s aside. Lips tease the edges of his own. “Will you just shut up?”

Dream smirks; it’s a powerful feeling knowing what he can do to Robert Gadling. 

He keeps his comments to himself as he proceeds to learn every possible fold and flaw in Hob’s skin.

He’s remarkably soft, where Dream had thought him to be rough, coarse. His chest hair and thigh hair and underarm are wonderful under his fingers. Nipples perk and draw forth more gasps, sensitive abdominal muscles jerk away at the slightest touch. And it’s fortunate the windows are closed when Dream wraps his whole hand around the man’s rigid cock.

“Fuck!” Hob shouts, startling Dream and causing him to squeeze a bit harder. This, in turn, elicits a sharp inhale and an entirely molten stare.

Quite suddenly, Robert’s eyes widen, and he pushes up on both palms. “Shit! You didn’t read my stories when we were in the Dreaming, did you?”

The laugh that builds and builds before escaping Dream’s lips feels warm and oddly welcome. He’s not used to the lightness in his chest, but he’s glad to share it with Hob.

“I would never do such a thing. Lucienne would have my head.”

Hob’s expression turns relieved and he lies back against the pillows. It’s a sight Dream knows he will never, ever tire of.

His lover is frightfully expressive as Dream strokes him to the peak. He almost appears in pain, especially when his testicles are caught tightly in one hand. Hob assures Dream he’s fine, then proceeds to writhe and arch and moan.

When he reaches for Dream’s fingers to move them more quickly over the flesh of his cock’s exquisite head, it’s Dream who makes a sound. The gorgeous stoppered grunt and then warm gush of fluid has been encouraged by Dream’s hand.

Hob’s body heaves as his cock jerks and twitches. He whimpers. He laughs. He squints up at Dream and then hides his face in both hands. Dream sits on his haunches over his lover’s thick thighs, watching with awe as Hob regains control of his breathing.

It’s a surprise when Robert grabs his face and pulls him down for a messy, uncoordinated kiss. He’s drunk on his orgasm and sharing, quite enthusiastically, how Dream’s made him feel.

There is an urge that begins in Dream’s loins, one that pushes him to swipe his hand through the ejaculate that spreads into Hob’s belly hair. He resists because he isn’t certain if that is acceptable behavior. Hadn't he once lectured this man about the evils of ownership?

Hob attempts to reciprocate, and Dream collects both wrists into one hand. The man could fight him, could wrench himself free if he wanted. But he ceases struggling and goes limp once again. His eyes roll shut. His mouth falls open. He turns his head from side to side.

Finally, he looks up under long, wet eyelashes and attempts to make a joke.

“God. If I’d have known you were a power junkie, I’d have played harder to get.”

He’s rather handsome when he tries to deflect like this. It matches well with his usual flirty tone. But Dream has merely scratched the surface of all this man can do. Oh, how he can’t wait to do it again.

AO3

[bludpudding]

get to know your moots bludpudding edition

tagged by @devilrebirth my beloved

what's the origin of your blog name?

umbrella academy season 1. I’m klaus in an alternate timeline where he enjoys the sight of blood.

otp(s) + shipname

➢ jayce talis + viktor tendercrisp / jayvik (arcane. of course. as we all know)

➢ vash the stampede + nicholas d. wolfwood / vashwood (trigun)

➢ edwin payne/paine + charles rowland / payneland (sandman/dead boy detectives)

➢ jackson healy + holland march / marchly (the nice guys PLEASE TALK TO ME ABOUT THE NICE GUYS)

➢ clancy + torchbearer / clancybearer (twenty one pilots)

➢ and of course my lovies the corinthian + dr. stephen bennett (as of now their spinoff is called genesis)

favourite colour

red but i'm obsessed with primary colors. my favorite color pallete to work with.

favourite game

i have upwards of 2k hours in the sims 4 but tbh i use it as more of a creative tool rather than a game. final fantasy xiv has been my SHIT lately i love open world games they're adhd enrichment

song stuck in your head songs to get to know me

my essence:

➢ REAL SUPER DARK - waterparks

➢ vampire money - my chemical romance

➢ next semester - twenty one pilots

weirdest habit/trait?

i have a sensory aversion to pants and since i spend most of my time at home that means i also spend most of my time half naked. hell im not wearing any pants right now and it is delightful

hobbies

➢ i fuchkign love drawing !1!!!!

➢ specifically the design aspect of art is what I'm passionate about. fashion, character, environment. I love taking the time to create things from scratch and all the research that goes along with it.

➢ learning about things that work better as interesting conversations rather than actual useful information. most berries aren't even botanically berries they're aggregate fruits.

➢ whatever my current special interest or hyperfix is. the corinthian is a hobby.

➢ I'm trying to get better at writing so that's been going on on the dl

if you work, what's your profession?

i've worked as an animal socializer, graphic designer, and print shop technician + operator. I'm currently studying to get my degree in comics + narrative.

if you could have any job you wish, what would it be?

would love to go make dc comics gayer

something you're good at

I can find joy in any situation and have an unkillable spirit

something you're bad at

i can't drive

something you love

these things I keep in my house

something you could talk about for hours off the cuff

something you hate

I get protective over my interests and I really dislike that aspect of myself so much. trying to figure out how to Not do that

something you collect

➢ the teeth of my loved ones. it's a spiritual thing and all very extensively consensual (for my dog I have the teeth she had to get removed and for my mom I have a 3D printed model). trusting me with a piece of your body that represents your uniqueness as a living being is one of the deepest possible displays of affection. we're in it together for the long haul if I've got your chompers.

➢ old keys

➢ funko pops

➢ round cat plushies

➢ physicals of my favorite comics

something you forget

how am i supposed to know

what's your love language?

words of affirmation + acts of service

favourite movie/show

➢ I have yet to find a movie that encapsulates everything I love. been really into the shrek franchise lately though

➢ sandman. of course

favourite food

gonna cry thinking about baked mac n cheese with breadcrumbs

favourite animal

fruit bats. hell yeah

what were you like as a child?

I've always been who I am I've just gotten louder about it

favourite subject at school?

art history or philosophy

least favourite subject

anything that makes me write essays. I'd rather do math and that's saying a lot

what's your best character trait?

I strive to be as emotionally intelligent as possible. the dsm-5 HATES to see me coming

what's your worst character trait?

I'm extremely stubborn. if I'm set on something it's gonna happen

if you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be?

big bowl of gourmet pasta for dinner

if you could travel in time, who would you like to meet?

I don't fuck with time travel humans are not supposed to be doing all that

recommend one of your favourite fanfics (spread the love!):

Ocean Boulevard - platinumangst

i think about merman shark healy a LOT save me animalistic wet fat man. animalistic wet fat man save me

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

hi!

f, i, s for ask game

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

(A bit long, sorry):

“‘Win, love, no no no no no, I am not going away, you’re still stuck with me. You’re my forever. I meant it, I thought about it and I have always loved you. I mean… this will sound fucking stupid. I’m afraid of myself, sometimes. I’m afraid I’m like my dad. And he was angry, and violent, and jealous. And I just, I don’t think it’s fair, that you don’t know what you’re getting into here. Because like, if I’m in love with you, I don’t know what that love means for us—.” “You do not scare me, Charles Rowland. I know you. I have known you for over thirty years,” Edwin rolled his eyes, and then leaned in to peck Charles on the cheek “and if you’re trying to scare me off, this is an absolutely pitiful attempt. You’d have to try way harder than that for someone who has been through seventy years of Hell. You can either tell me you don’t want to be with me, or be candid about whatever it is you’re trying to say.” Charles wrapped his arms around Edwin’s waist, tightly, and pressed his mouth to Edwin’s ear.“What if I  hurt you?” he mumbled, barely audible, and Edwin kissed his hair in response. “I have been hurt in ways you cannot even imagine, Charles. I can assure you I will love you more than anything you think you can do wrong.”

I’m proud of it because I genuinely think it captures what Charles is worried about: I don’t think he’s worried about “liking a boy” so much as he’s worried about irreparably hurting the most important person in the world to him. Edwin, on the other hand, has already been through horrors that are incomprehensible to most people, and any small hurt is worth working through to be with Charles. Anyway I think this back and forth captured that. (Also, I think everyone deserves to be told they are loved despite their mistakes, but maybe that’s because of my own hang ups)

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

Not really guilty, but I send love to all of my fellow payneland smut writers/artists. You are all inspired 💖 (I do think fandom as of late has gotten so weird and uppity about so many things and I could go on and on about this, but I won’t, because you did not ask to hear that).

S: Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

LET THEM BE A LITTLE CODEPENDENT AS A TREAT! Uh… I skimmed through some bookmarked tags and I got love confession, hurt/comfort, praise kink, dacryphilia, and touch starved as some that came up a couple times.

[wordingg]

I gave a shot at filling the "ball that's stuck in a loop" prompt. Sorry it's a bit short. I'm going to add on to it, so long as I have time. I've been on a big regency romance kick lately, so your first fic prompt felt like a perfect fit.

"What's that?" Charles asked as he watched Edwin's eyes scan over the card he had just opened for the third time.

Edwin looked up, a furrow between his thick brows that usually meant he was sincerely baffled.

"An invitation," he answered, "to a ball," he added with skepticism.

Charles popped up from his seat on the couch to take the card, which Edwin held out to him. The card was made of some kind of fancy heavy paper with a sort of textured surface. He scanned the short message.

Missus Agatha Green humbly requests the presence of Mister Edwin Payne and Mister Charles Rowland at his annual Yule Ball on December 25th, 8 o'clock Netherfield Park

Charles eyebrows were nearly at his hairline by the time he finished reading.

"Well," he said after a moment. "That something, isn't it?" he said as he handed the note back to Edwin. "Do we know a mister Henry Green?"

"Not to my knowledge," Edwin said slowly, still frowning down at the card.

"Should we go?" Charles asked.

Edwin's eyes shot to him in surprise. Charles grinned back at him.

"We got an invitation, didn't we? Why shouldn't we go?" he asked.

"For myriad reasons," Edwin said with a raised eyebrow. The furrow between his brows was gone, though, which Charles counted as a success. "For one, it may be an elaborate trap. For two, it may be an incredible bore," Edwin said with an acerbic look at the invitation itself, like he hoped whoever had sent it might have heard him.

"Come on! A ball sounds loads of fun. Never been to a ball before. Might be nice," Charles said with a wistful expression that he hoped Edwin didn't see through. Judging by the slightly flustered expression that fluttered across Edwin's features, he didn't. Charles suppressed a grin as Edwin sighed and rose from his chair behind the desk, tapping the edge of the card against the palm of his hand.

"I suppose it would be rude to decline. Seeing as we have no other plans for the date in question," Edwin said dismissively. Charles grinned at him until his mouth quirked up in the corner. They were going to a ball!

---

The evening of December 25th found Charles and Edwin both standing on the steps of Netherfield Hall in Hertfordshire at 8 pm sharp.

The building itself was a huge red brick construction. It was likely a country house of some well off lord in the century before Edwin was born. The building and grounds were well tended, the garden quaint and pretty even at night in the dead of winter. It had two rows of windows indicating at least two floors, plus windows in the roof, which likely meant the attic was furnished for servant housing, as was common in Edwin's time. Each window was glowing with a flickering candle flame even though the white lace curtains were pulled closed, an incredible fire hazard. Edwin assumed magic was at play to stop the entire place from going up in flames.

"Did we get the date wrong?" Charles asked hesitantly, pulling the invitation from his bag to double-check.

Edwin didn't bother to glance at the card, as he knew that the date and time were perfectly correct. Though he couldn't fault Charles for doubting himself. The garden and house seemed completely serene and motionless, after all. Not quite the sight one would expect at a ball just getting under way.

"Perhaps we should just head inside," Edwin sighed, already dreading whatever awaited them within. A trick or a trap seeming more likely all the time.

Whatever Edwin was expecting, it wasn't what they found.

The second that Edwin phased through the large front door, Charles right on his heel, he found himself in the midst of a festive event already underway.

The foyer of Netherfield Park was aglow with candlelight, tall delicate candles fitted into every wall sconce, chandelier and atop pine bough and holly centerpieces on the tables. Speaking of pine, boughs of pine and holly festooned the tops of all the windows, doors, and wound its way around the banister edging the staircase leading to the second floor, the holly berries glittering red in the warm glow of the candles. Then there were the people. There were tens of people in the foyer alone, all in period dress, all ignoring Edwin and Charles as they stood frozen in the doorway.

"Whoah, Edwin!" Charles exclaimed from behind Edwin's left shoulder, where he usually stationed himself. "Looking posh there, mate," Charles added, Edwin able to hear the grin in his voice.

Confused, Edwin looked down at himself. He expected to his everyday outfit of wool suit jacket with waistcoat over shirtsleeves with breeches and stockings and his great coat over all. What he saw instead was something that would have looked more common in his grandfather's closet than on his own person.

"What," Edwin spat, then ran out of words, something that didn't happen to him often.

Charles was snickering, so Edwin spared him a venomous look. But, then he was too busy staring to put much venom into it.

Charles was dressed much the same as Edwin, though he managed to make Edwin's grandfather's clothes look much nicer than he did himself.

Dressed in a glossy maroon tailcoat, with matching brocade waistcoat and shining brass buttons, Charles was looking very handsome indeed. He had a bright crimson cravat tied at his neck that surely Edwin's grandfather could have expounded on whatever complicated knot made it curl so appealingly against Charles' sharp chin. This was matched to a pair of tightly fit slate gray pantaloons tucked into shining black knee-high boots.

Edwin swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth. Certainly, men of George IV's time wouldn't have worn such sinfully tight pants. Certainly.

There was one thing that was wrong, though. Frowning, Edwin tapped his own ear for Charles. Eyes going big and round, Charles slapped his hand over his own corresponding ear and briefly looked shocked and upset.

"Oi!" he said loud enough to attract the attention of the various lords and ladies in the foyer. "Where's my earring!?"

"Whatever magic was used to change our appearance must have affected it, as well," Edwin said with a thoughtful frown. "Though, what sort of magic can force a ghost to appear in a way other than they intend, I do not know."

"Well, they can sod off. The earring is non-negotiable," Charles snapped, an unusual occurrence, but as it was not meant for him, Edwin took no offense.

Taking a deep breath, Charles closed his eyes. Edwin had seen him do so many times in the past to adjust his own appearance. Charles had a set of clothing and accessories he preferred, but those had shifted and changed subtly over the years. Edwin, being much more a creature of habit than Charles, had been fascinated by his constant shifts in their early years working together. By this time, he was quite used to Charles' expression when he was changing his appearance.

Edwin waited patiently and warily as Charles' expression steadily shifted from calm to frustrated. Still, his ear remained empty of his usual earring. Edwin's frown became more pronounced.

After almost a full minute of trying to no effect, Charles' hands had curled into fists and his brows had knotted in the center. Cautiously eying the other people in the room, Edwin pressed his hand over Charles'. It had the desired effect of pulling Charles out of his apparently fruitless attempt to summon his earring back. Unfortunately, it had the very much not desirable effect of drawing whispers and widened eyes from the various people still standing in the foyer.

Drat.

Charles, bless him, was oblivious to the little stir their brief but affectionate touch had elicited. "Still not there, eh?" he asked with a lop sided smile.

"I'm afraid not," Edwin answered with a sympathetic frown and a wary glance at their riveted audience. "Perhaps we ought to search out the host of this ball. She might have some answers."

Charles brightened at that suggestion. "Great idea! Lead on, then," he said with a rakish grin and a fanciful bow that would have been more at home in a French court than an English country ball.

The titters recommenced, but Charles took no notice, even as they rose the hairs on the back of Edwin's neck. This was all rather too familiar for him, and he wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor. Unfortunately, client or not, it seemed they had a case to solve.

So, Edwin spun on his heel, using sheer willpower and spite to make his spine straight as a ruler and his chin as and proud as he could manage, and strode through the doors to his left and on to the ballroom.

Here's my DBDA Gift Exchange Wishlist! ❄️

I did one for fics and one for fanart! If you want to pick up any of these concepts and gift me a little treat, I would be so thankful to you! 🥹💜

I put the blank template under the cut if you want to participate and make your own! Find out information and rules for the community gift exchange HERE at @dbdaghostmas or over HERE @dbdayuletide!

Make sure to put "dbdawishlist2024" in the tags so people can find your wishlist!

[coloursflyaway]

Won’t Fear Love (3/6)

Pairing: Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.500

Read on AO3

„We should go a date“, Charles says on a perfectly bland Tuesday, looking up at Edwin from whatever he is doing at the moment.

If Edwin wasn’t dead already, he would suspect that Charles is trying to kill him.

or:

Five times Charles takes Edwin on a date to figure out if he could fall in love with him, and one time when he has an answer.

tagging all the lovely people who wanted to give this fic a read: @itsablueberrycow @piristephes @assignedpeanutallergyatbirth @mylu @oneweirdbean @lifeinvirtualreality

“Is there anything you want to do?”, Charles asks one day, apropos of absolutely nothing. “You know, date-wise.” It’s still mind-boggling to Edwin how Charles can talk about it this nonchalantly, when Edwin still has to remind himself twice a week that this is real, that they are doing this. That Charles wants to do it, most of all. “… no?”

Most likely it isn’t the answer Charles is looking for, but the thought of having a preference, of requesting something for them to do on their… their dates, is so alien to Edwin that he is just now realising that it is a possibility. For him, this is enough: sitting in the same space, Charles’ feet on his lap as they both read their respective books, Edwin’s hand lightly resting on his ankle. In fact, it’s more than he ever dared to hope for just weeks ago.

“That’s alright”, Charles reassures him, putting down his novel to look at Edwin properly. His hair is a little mussed from where he has been running his hands through it, and Edwin wants nothing more than to reach out and fix it. “I’ve got ideas. Just thought that I’d check, because in the end, it’s not just my little wish fulfilment exercise, is it?”

He smiles, and it’s gentle somehow, tender. Wish fulfilment, he calls it. Edwin just hopes that Charles knows it’s much more than that to him.

From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. However, Charles seems to be excited when they stop in front of the grey, nondescript building, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he turns to Edwin, so obviously proud of himself. “I asked Crystal for a rec for this”, he explains, “And she said it was brills, so I thought we could give it a try? Because I know that you like these things, and I wanna like what you like, so...yeah?”

It’s adorable, the expression on Charles’ face so open and hopeful, and Edwin wants to say yes, but… “You still haven’t told me where we are”, he tells Charles gently, who starts laughing almost immediately.

“Oh, you’re right”, he concedes and takes Edwin’s hand to pull him to the door, his grip firm and warm and something that Edwin is slowly, ever so slowly getting used to. Because this is something they do now, apparently, on cases and at home and in between moments. Charles will take his hand and not let go of it, and Edwin will die a hundred beautiful, magnificent deaths while hoping it will never end. “It’s an art gallery”, Charles explains and drags him along, phasing through the walls, “and it’s closed on Wednesday nights, so we have it all to ourselves. Good for a third date, yeah?”

It is.

The gallery is small, but cosy somehow, the paintings held in dark wooden frames and interspersed by small descriptions of the artist, their process, any explanation they’d like to offer for their work.

“I don’t know much about art, so if you wanna enlighten me about anything, go ahead”, Charles tells him the moment they stand in the room, their fingers still intertwined. He looks earnest and happy and Edwin loves him so much it threatens to split him apart by the seams, seeps into his very being. “While I am far from an expert, I will do my best”, he promises, grips Charles’ hand tighter, and never wants to let go again.

They stroll through the exhibition, and while there isn’t much Edwin can say, Charles listens to every word of his like he truly wants to hear it. Asks questions, even, if Edwin makes too many references that he doesn’t understand, offers little quips about the paintings if he thinks they’re funny, or just lets Edwin know his opinion. Through all of it, though, there is something vaguely anxious about him still, spelt out clearly in the way his fingers twitch against Edwin’s knuckles, how his gaze refuses to stay fixed on any one thing, in the tension of his muscles when he drags Edwin to the next painting.

It makes little sense, because he isn’t uncomfortable, he isn’t disinterested; Edwin would be able to tell those things with a single look. Instead, it’s almost like he is impatient, only that Edwin has no idea why.

Until they have finished their round, looked at every painting and read every word of explanation, and Charles pulls Edwin over to a corner of the room, pulling back the thick, red curtain there. Edwin had thought it to be for decorative purposes, but it turns out to be a doorway instead, leading to another, smaller room.

Here, there are no paintings on the walls, nothing but a single statue in the middle of the floor, illuminated by warm, golden light. It depicts two people, a man and a woman, embracing tenderly. The man is holding the woman’s face with one hand, the other settled on the curve of her hip, while she has her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and while it is carved from marble, the figures look alive almost, their faces forever etched into smiles that make Edwin’s heart ache in sympathy, in jealousy.

“I wasn’t completely honest before”, Charles says softly at his side, his thumb brushing across Edwin’s knuckles. “It wasn’t just Crystal’s recommendation, I came here to check it out last week. And as glad as I am that you enjoyed everything out there, this is what I actually wanted to show you.”

For a moment, Edwin isn’t sure he understands, but then his eyes drift down to the wall behind the statue and if he was still breathing, it would be impossible all of a sudden.

Orpheus and Eurydice, reunited, it says in bold, red letters.

For a moment, or two, or ten, Edwin doesn’t know what to say, but then he doesn’t have to, because Charles starts speaking instead.

“I read up on it, after we got back from Hell”, he says, and his voice is so soft, so tender, that Edwin feels tears prickling in his eyes. He still hasn’t looked away from the statue, isn’t sure if he could if he tried. “And I know what you meant about hoping we wouldn’t be like them, but I still think it kind of fits, you know? Because I will always come back for you. And I will always turn around to make sure you’re still there. The only difference is that I won’t let anyone take you ever again.”

“Charles, that’s the whole point of the story, though”, Edwin answers shakily, faintly aware that the tears are spilling down his cheeks, that Charles can most definitely see them, hear them.

“I don’t care”, comes the answer, no hesitation, just a hint of a smile in Charles’ voice. “We’ll make a new point then. Because we’re them. We’re Orpheus and Eurydice, reunited.”

And he lets Edwin pull him into a hug, desperate and fierce and tender, and lets him weep against his shoulder until there’s nothing of the sadness left, only love, only hope, only devotion.

They walk back to the agency afterwards, Edwin’s eyes still red-rimmed, and Charles takes them the long way, through the little park close-by that Edwin has never given a second thought until now. There isn’t much conversation, but like always, the silence between them is warm and comfortable, their fingers still intertwined between their bodies. It’s not making his metaphorical heart beat faster any longer, at least not at the moment, instead the touch is grounding Edwin. A reminder that Charles is there, that he will always be there, that he meant it.

“There is another thing I wanted to say”, Charles eventually tells him, and for the first time that evening he isn’t looking back when Edwin glances at him. “I know it was a lot, back there in Hell, and I know we never talked about it, and that is fine. Understandable, really. But I just wanted to thank you for telling me about your feelings. It must have taken so much courage to do it, and I am so grateful that you would trust me like that.”

Charles says it like he is truly thankful, and Edwin’s heart is so full of love for him that it might burst.

“You’re wrong about that”, Edwin replies and stops walking, using their clasped hands to bring Charles to a stop in front of him. It’s not only his eyes that are still red with unshed tears, he realises, and it’s almost too much to consider, too much to bear. Suddenly, it’s the easiest thing in the world to reach out and capture Charles’ other hand in his as well, squeezing it and hoping that his touch can anchor Charles in the way he does to Edwin.

“It didn’t take any courage at all”, he continues, and finally Charles is looking at him again, wide eyes and plush lips parted. “Because I knew that you would never love me any less for it. You’re the one constant I have, the one thing I’ve never doubted in my whole existence. And keeping something like that from you, I couldn’t fathom it. It never even crossed my mind.”

He tries for a smile, but only for a moment, before Charles flings himself into his arms, wrapping Edwin in a hug that is so tight it would be painful if they were still alive. “Thank you”, Charles whispers into the side of his neck, lips brushing against the skin there, and maybe it isn’t literal heaven, but it’s damned close to it.

[vierschanzentournee]

Tumblr’s Favourite F2 Drivers!

Votes have been cast, counted and recounted (and recounted again because arithmetic is really hard and I’m sick), and the results are in! I’d just like to say a massive thanks to all 31 respondents (wait, 30, why am I thanking myself?), to everyone who reblogged the link, and to Jenny (@danytorpedokvyat) for the inspiration! I’m going to tag everyone who left a URL, just in case anyone’s been sitting up at night waiting for the results lmao, so brace yourselves:

@charlesleclerc @lucasdigrassis @curbstones-and-cowboyboots @rararaenbow @redbullricciardo @aroncant @harlot-of-babylon (it won’t let me tag you properly?) @racingamy @ladyrindt @emilia-jade @kingbottas @danytorpedokvyat @pushandrush (sorry, I don’t think yours will work either! I’m awful at tumblr) @tyretracks-andbrokenhearts @livinglegendsimplythebest @aaronoxladewilshere @onlyailisha @bozplz (what am i missing how does tumblr work) @destroyingdestroyers @danyandcarlos @f1-stereo

(whew!)

Now, onto what we all want: the results, which will be under the cut!

Tumblr’s Favourite F2 Drivers

Watching the votes come in was pretty wild - there were moments where certain drivers looked set to beat others, and then the tides would turn and someone who was wildly popular a day or two ago was suddenly completely absent from votes, or even receiving votes for least favourite! The points system worked like so: a vote for ‘favourite driver’ was worth 5 points, ‘2nd favourite’ 4 points, ‘3rd favourite’ was worth 3, ‘4th favourite’ 2 points, and ‘5th favourite’ paying just 1 point. An ‘honourable mention’ wasn’t worth anything (other than pride), and a vote for ‘least favourite’ didn’t subtract any points either. So, how did Tumblr vote for their favourite F2 drivers?

In 3rd place... Nyck de Vries (42 points)

I’ll admit, this one was a bit of a surprise to me! With 3 votes for favourite, the Dutch driver was the 3rd most popular choice for favourite (are you sure that’s enough threes, Nyck?) and his points haul gave a significant boost to his new team, Racing Engineering in the team rankings.

In 2nd place… Artem Markelov (78 points)

Everyone’s favourite soft Russian (or, at least, my favourite soft Russian) takes a strong second place, with a 36 point margin over de Vries. He was the second most popular choice for favourite, with 19.4% of votes for favourite!

And our winner is… Charles Leclerc (119 points)

I mean, we all knew this was coming. The golden boy of Tumblr, the hot property in motorsport, it seems that Leclerc just doesn’t know how to lose. But he didn’t just not lose - he absolutely destroyed his opponents, winning by a margin of 41 points over second-placed Markelov. He took 18 votes for favourite (58.1%!)

Let’s spare a moment to think about those poor souls who received zero points-scoring votes: Sergio Canamasas, Nabil Jeffri, and Stefano Coletti. The full standings are as follows: Charles Leclerc (119), Artem Markelov (78), Nyck de Vries (42), Oliver Rowland (32), Antonio Fuoco (25), Sean Gelael (23), Luca Ghiotto (17), Nicholas Latifi (14), Sérgio Sette Câmara, Roberto Merhi, Callum Ilott (13), Norman Nato, Alexander Albon (9), Ralph Boschung (8), Jordan King, Gustav Malja, Louis Delétraz (6), Raffaele Marciello, Sergey Sirotkin, Santino Ferrucci (5), Johnny Cecotto Jr (4), Nobuharu Matsushita (2), Robert Vișoiu (1), Sergio Canamasas, Nabil Jeffri, and Stefano Coletti (0).

Tumblr’s Least Favourite F2 Drivers

There were some surprises in here, but some results were pretty inevitable! We only had 25 responses here, as it was an optional question.

In 3rd place… a tie between: Johnny Cecotto Jr, Nobuharu Matsushita, and Raffaele Marciello (2 votes each)

I can understand Cecotto’s place here, with his reputation for fast but erratic driving, but Matsushita and Marciello are beyond me!

In 2nd place… Oliver Rowland (4 votes)

Oh, Ollie, the marmite of the F2 world. (Apparently) far less popular this year than last, it might have something to do with his threat to Charles Leclerc (who we’ve established is the favourite by a mile) and his championship?

And our winner (loser?) is… Sergio Canamasas (6 votes)

Could we really expect any different? The impulsive, aggressive Spanish driver has spent the past 6 years forcing everyone’s favourites off the track through his ‘robust’ defence, and although he could be said to have been improving recently, it seems to be too little, too late for Canamasas!

There were several other choices for least favourite, each with 1 vote: Markelov, de Vries, Nato, King, Sette Câmara, Boschung, Sirotkin, Vișoiu, and Delétraz

Almost, but not quite

Some drivers did better in the honourable mentions than in the points:

In 3rd place… an eight way tie! Ghiotto, Latifi, de Vries, Malja, Sirotkin, Gelael, Delétraz, and Marciello (two votes each)

I’m not even going to try and go into detail about what’s going on here

In 2nd place… Nobuharu Matsushita (3 votes)

He certainly got more honourable mentions than points-paying votes, poor guy!

And our winner is… Sérgio Sette Câmara (5 votes)

Surprisingly popular in the honourable mentions category is one of our latest race winners, and youngest driver on the grid, 19-year-old Brazilian (@lucasdigrassis) Sérgio Sette Câmara.

The Team’s Championship

I added up the totals of each team’s drivers (each driver was counted for the team they drove for last, as of Monza - so de Vries counts for Racing Engineering, Merhi for Rapax, and Sirotkin for ART, for example)

Prema Racing - 144 points

Russian Time  - 95 points

DAMS - 49 points

Racing Engineering - 48 points

Pertamina Arden - 32 points

Rapax - 23 points

Trident - 23 points

MP Motorsport - 19 points

ART Grand Prix - 11 points

Campos Racing - 9 points

There’s some pretty large gaps at the top of the standings - no one could stand up to the might of Charles Leclerc’s points haul, and Russian Time can only manage to get within 49 points of Prema. It’s another leap from Russian Time to DAMS, home to Ollie Rowland, one of both the most and least popular drivers on the grid, and Nicholas Latifi, no one’s least favourite, but no one’s favourite either. Then, things get incredibly close. Nyck de Vries’ move to Racing Engineering hauls them up into fourth, just a point down on DAMS, and the popularity of Sean Gelael is a great help to Pertamina Arden. Rapax and Trident find themselves with the same number of points - possibly something to do with the sheer number of drivers Trident has had this season. MP Motorsport, ART Grand Prix and Campos Racing round out the standings, and I know they’re dead last but I love my Campos boys anyway.

Demographics

I’m well aware that Tumblr doesn’t represent the majority of F2 fans, nor does this survey even represent the majority of F2 fans on Tumblr - the demographics here were entirely optional, and mostly just for fun (because I’m horrendously nosey).

So, I noticed like a week after I published the survey that I messed up the age options, so I’ve taken 25-34 and 25-49 and combined them into 25+, and I’m very sorry for any confusion my tragic arithmetic skills have caused!

30 respondents of 31 left their age - of these, 15 (50%) were aged between 18 and 24, 11 (36.7%) were between 13 and 17, and 4 (13.3%) were 25 or older. No one was aged over 50 - we’re a pretty youthful fanbase!

The same 30 respondents also left their gender - and hey, who said racing was a man’s world! 29 (96.7%) of those who specified identified as female; the remaining 1 (3.3%) said ‘other’. Now, if we could just have a few non-male drivers…

Finally, nationality. I only got 25 responses here, and one of them was Bacon, so let’s say 24. Of these, 7 self-identified as British - 11 said they were British, or else said they were English or Northern Irish (I don’t want to just lump you in, because I know how annoying that can be!). 4 said they were Dutch, 2 said Hungarian, and there was 1 each for Argentine, Australian & German, Belgian, Finnish, Moldovan, American and Irish.

To sum up; F2 has a rather young, predominantly female, but very international fanbase!

Honestly, if you’ve made it to here through all my rubbishy, tired ramblings, well done, and thank you! If I’ve made any errors, if you’d like to see all the data or want me to analyse something else, or if you just wanna shout about F2 or whatever, just shoot me a message (I don’t bite, I’m way too desperate for friends!)