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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 6: Something Borrowed, Something Blue]

I’d like to give a very special shout out to @killer-queen-xo and the insightful prediction she left on Chapter 5 about Y/N and the camera...you were close! 😉

Chapter summary: Y/N breaks a promise; John gives a gift; Freddie has a request; Roger makes a scene.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, creepy male behavior.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

“Welcome!” Mary chimes as she opens the door for you, then her eyes flick down to the gift bag decorated with Santa hats and sprigs of holly. “Oh, love, we said positively no presents!”

“It’s just something small, I promise. Very inexpensive.”

“She’s here!” Freddie announces with a flourish of his hands, leaping up from the couch. The apartment he shares with Mary is tiny and very cluttered, and absolutely none of the decorations match. The walls are a collage of Bohemian tapestries and family photos and prints of Rococo-style paintings and magazine cutouts of articles about Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, Aretha Franklin, Elvis Presley, Queen. Freddie pecks you on both cheeks; Blue Christmas is drifting from the record player. You’re suddenly aware that the apartment is brimming with the scent of baking cookies. In the living room, Roger, Brian, and John are hanging strings of popcorn and paper ornaments on a short, rather scruffy Christmas tree. There is a vast array of presents scattered around the tree stand; all are small, with the exception of one large square box swathed in silver and sapphire wrapping paper.

“I see no one else respected the no presents rule either.”

“You Bostonians and your insatiable need to rebel,” Freddie quips, shooing you towards the tree.

“Y/N, look at this,” Chrissie says from where she and Veronica are sitting on the couch threading popcorn. She’s frowning and holding up a piece of paper cut into the shape of a Pontiac Firebird. “Will you please inform Roger that this is not Christmas themed?”

“Awww!” You grin as she hands it to you. He’s even drawn on a windshield, headlights, and a smiley face floating behind the steering wheel. “Let him hang it, Chris. It’s the only car he’s going to be able to afford for a long time.”

Roger bounds over and embraces you, nearly knocking you over. “This is why you’re my favorite American in the entire world. Possibly my favorite person period. The love of my life.” He takes the paper Firebird and impales it on an ornament hook, then combs through the tree branches for an ideal location.

Brian points heatedly at Roger. “If he gets to hang the damned Firebird then I get to hang my Saturn!”

“Look what you’ve done,” Chrissie tells you, but she’s smiling. She’s wearing a gorgeous green velvet dress and pieces of mistletoe weaved into her long dark hair. Veronica is beside her in a chunky red sweater and denim skirt, not particularly flashy yet festive nonetheless; she waves to you as she pushes pieces of popcorn one by one down the string. She’s wearing makeup tonight, which is unusual. Her lace-white cheeks are tinged with rouge, her slate-blue eyes rimmed by lavender shadow. Freddie and Mary are removing a sheet of cookies from the oven and quibbling over whether they’ve browned enough.

Roger gestures to the gift bag as you place it under the tree. “You better not have spent your own money on that.”

“Oh, tons. It’s diamonds and gold and a dash of overpriced modern art, just to spice things up.”

Roger growls theatrically in his high, raspy voice. Brian stands back and admires the tree as John loops a strand of multicolored Christmas lights around it.

“It’s actually very modest,” you assure Roger. “Not impressive at all. Chris helped.”

“You enabled this behavior?!” Freddie scolds Chrissie as he traverses the room with an overflowing plate of chocolate chip cookies.

She sips cheap red wine impishly and shrugs. “I know a girl in fashion school, I can get their extra yarn if I buy her a cup of tea and pretend to care about her disastrous love life.”

You smirk. “Disastrous love life? I’ve got one of those.”

“You knitted something for us?!” Roger shouts, delighted.

You wiggle your fingers in the air. “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.”

Roger groans. “Don’t tease me.”

“You certainly are,” Brian tells you. “That roadie who busted his forehead open got fixed up straightaway.”

“That was literally two stitches. Head wounds just bleed a lot, it looked way worse than it was.”

“Well,” Brian insists. “I was impressed.”

Freddie claps his hands, slick obsidian nail polish gleaming. “Ahhhh, I’m so excited! What have you made for me, love? Oh, I hope it’s a nice thong.”

“It’s probably not,” Chrissie says.

Mary pours you a glass of wine and glances around the room. “Does everyone have enough cookies? Drinks? Veronica, dear?”

“I suppose I could use a refill.” She passes Mary her glass and smiles as John sits beside her on the couch. You’ve never quite been able to figure out Veronica; she’s cordial yet removed, kind yet wary, extremely dogmatic in her Catholicism and yet simultaneously socializing with rock stars who are unmistakably living in sin. Her most redeeming quality, as far as you’ve observed, is her steadfast devotion to John...or, perhaps, to the life she’s envisioned they could build together. She rests her hand on John’s thigh and glances coolly at you as you pretend not to notice.

Mary returns with a fresh glass of wine for Veronica. “Alright. Should we start with you, Y/N?”

“What, for the gift exchange we all promised wasn’t happening?” You grin. “Sure, I’ll start.”

You open your Christmasy bag and start doling out small boxes. It’s December 23rd, and Queen is enjoying three weeks off for the holidays before the Sheer Heart Attack Tour resumes. The next show is in Columbus, Ohio—not exactly a cultural mecca, it’s true—followed by a scattering of stops across the continental United States. Half of you is thrilled, especially for the night the band will spend in Boston; the other part of you is dreading it. You don’t talk to Roger about what he does with groupies on tour—or what Brian does, or what Freddie does—and Rog doesn’t mention it around you either. He asks you to join him after every show, for dinner or drinks or clubbing; and you tell him no (though it’s never easy to) and try not to think about the apparent eventualities of stardom. Then Roger goes one way, and you go another.

“Let’s see, what do we have here...” Brian begins prying open his box with long careful fingers.

“You can’t judge me,” you plead. “I’ve only had the tour break to work on them, and I’m really not an expert knitter or anything, and I—”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Freddie gushes, holding his black and white striped hat aloft for everyone to see. He pulls it on over his silky hair and turns to Mary. “What do you think? Am I dashing?”

She beams as she kisses him. “Overwhelmingly so.” And you think about how being on the road feels like one dimension, and being here in London another. Here, fidelity and domesticity; there, freedom from the familiar world and all its browbeating rules.

“Mittens!” Brian proclaims joyfully. They’re an olivey green, and just large enough for his hands. “They’re so comfy, feel these Chris...”

Roger whips his hat out of the box; it’s very fuzzy and a fiery red with flecks of burnt orange. “I’m obsessed! I adore it! I’ll never take it off!”

“I can’t believe you did all this,” John says. He’s sliding on his mittens, which are a soft greyish blue. “This must have taken you days.”

“It’s Christmas! You’re supposed to slave away for the people you love at Christmas. And you’ve all done so much for me, the scales will always be hopelessly lopsided, don’t you worry.”

“The color is beautiful,” Veronica observes as she touches John’s mittens, but perhaps guardedly.

“They match his eyes!” Freddie exclaims; and they do. “This is delightful, Nurse Nightingale. Truly. How can I ever repay you?”

A smile ripples across your face, full of serenity and relief. They really do like the presents. I didn’t stay up until 4 a.m. knitting for nothing. “The cookies and wine are more than sufficient. I’m so sorry I didn’t have time to make anything for the ladies, but hopefully your charming future husbands will share and there are chocolates in the bottom of the boxes for you—”

“Oh please,” Chrissie snaps. “You’ve already made the rest of us look thoughtless enough. Kindly shut up and drink your wine now. Thank you, obnoxious Bostonian.”

You laugh as Chrissie distributes her and Brian’s gifts for everyone. She decreed weeks ago that you’ll spend Christmas Eve and Day with her family in Dartford. You can help me keep Brian distracted and in good spirits, she’d told you. His father is livid about us living together without being married, and I’m petrified Bri will give himself another ulcer over it.

Inside the small boxes Chrissie passes out are fancy teabags that smell like pomegranate and peppermint. Freddie and Mary dispense pouches of little pink soaps shaped like dolphins and seashells. John and Veronica give everyone homemade candles, which are either ruby red or evergreen. Roger has picked out three novelty mugs: Led Zeppelin for Brian and Chrissie, cats for Freddie and Mary, and raining gold coins for John and Veronica.

“Well I hope that’s prophetic,” John jokes.

“I don’t get a mug?” You’re trying not to show it, but you are hurt that he forgot you.

“No, you don’t.” Roger rummages around under the tree and passes you the large square present wrapped in silver and blue paper. Chrissie and Mary whistle and clap.

“Oh, big spender!” Freddie chastises.

“Roger, no,” you breathe, horrified.

“Roger, yes!” He drums the coffee table eagerly. “Open it.”

“No real presents allowed! You don’t have the money—”

“Are we married?” Roger asks.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Are. We. Married?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then you don’t get to tell me what to do with my very tiny sliver of earnings that the record company doesn’t steal.” He grins. “Now open it.”

Slowly, cautiously, you tear through the wrapping paper as the others hover on the edges of their seats. John is squinting suspiciously. Roger balls up his fists and presses them to his smiling lips. You open the top flaps of the box.

“No.”

“What is it?!” Mary begs. “The anticipation is agony!”

“Yeah, love of my life,” Roger taunts, his blue eyes luminous. “What is it?”

Carefully, you lift it out of the box. It’s brand new and shiny and perfect.

“A camera!” Freddie cries.

“A Canon F-1, to be precise,” Roger says. “And a manual too. For our aspiring wildlife photographer. Us feral musicians being the wildlife, of course.”

“Roger...” You reach for him instinctively, and he rushes over to wrap you in a hug. “Thank you so much. I don’t know why you would do this for me.”

He laughs. “Because you’re the best gift I ever got, Boston babe!”

“Let’s give it a try!” Freddie plucks the camera from your hands and begins loading film. “Alright, click this...press that...oh fuck, how do I do this?! Deaky, come over here. You can fix anything.”

“Sure thing, Fred.” John readies the camera in just a minute or two, no longer than it takes Mary to refill glasses and send around another plate of cookies. He looks a little ashen to you, a little stunned; but when you ask him if he’s okay, John just smiles and nods.

Freddie snaps photos of Brian and Chrissie as they snuggle on the couch, of John posing sheepishly in front of the Christmas tree, of Veronica waving as she nibbles a chocolate chip cookie, of Roger in his flame-colored hat. Then Roger makes sure you get your camera back, and it’s your turn to take the pictures. You sit beside the tree, the kaleidoscopic glow of Christmas lights speckling the walls like stars, and collect still frames of memories like catching lightning bugs in jars, like it’s July instead of December, like it’s the heart of a year instead of the end. After a while Freddie comes over to sit next to you, to toast wine glasses with you, to make fun of your flushed cheeks. Then he watches as you gaze at Roger from across the room. Rog is trying on Brian’s mittens and clapping his hands like a seal, grinning hugely, flashing his pointy little canine teeth. And despite all those oh-so-rational promises you’ve made to yourself, you begin to wonder.

“Don’t do it,” Freddie says quietly.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you sling back, pleasantly tipsy. And then: “Why not?”

“Because I like having you around. And if you do this, eventually you won’t be around anymore.”

When you’re finally exhausted enough to drag yourself away from them and catch a taxi, John follows you out into the hallway of the apartment building.

“I have one more gift for you.”

“John, no, absolutely not, I am thoroughly unworthy—”

“Stop.” He pulls a thin, rectangular item from behind his back. It takes you a moment to recognize it.

“Your notebook...?”

“I know it’s not wrapped.” He’s anxious, you realize, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I kept trying to work up the nerve, and I still wasn’t sure about it when we came over here, and now, well...here I am.” He gives the notebook to you, and you open it, and you gasp in awe.

Inside are sketches from Rome: the concert, the temples, the museum, the beach on that cool breezy afternoon, and, best of all, the people you shared the city with. You and Roger laughing in front of a statue of Perseus. Brian and Chrissie contemplating ruins. Freddie hunched over a piano, his dexterous hands stretched across the keys. And you sitting in that sweltering, fire-lit corner of the Italian restaurant, smiling from behind a glass bottle of Coke. You trace your fingertips over your own face; it’s blissful and peaceful and beautiful in a way that you’ve never seen yourself. “John...”

“Because, you know, you said that you wanted to document the tour so you could remember it all, and I figured...since you didn’t have a camera...maybe this would be better than nothing.”

“It’s a lot better than nothing, John. It’s incredible.”

“They’ll do for now. You won’t need drawings anymore,” he notes, somewhat mournfully. “You can put them on your refrigerator until you have photos to replace them with.”

You shake your head, still staring. “The way you captured my face...”

He shrugs, smiling crookedly. “I just borrowed it.”

“Thank you.” You climb onto your tiptoes and wrap your arms around the back of his neck. He’s warm and gentle; his fluffy hair tickles the sensitive undersides of your wrists.

“Happy Christmas,” he whispers to you; happy, not merry, like a true Englishman. And he’s right. You can’t remember a time you’ve been happier.

~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rings like a scream, like shattering glass. It wrenches you out of that fogged, heavy precursor to sleep and your hand fumbles from beneath the covers to grab the receiver. The cord bounces clumsily against your nightstand and nudges the blush-colored conch shell that lives there.

“Hello...?”

“Darling, there’s an emergency.”

You bolt upright in bed. “What happened? Are you okay? Is the band—?”

“There’s going to be a party on New Year’s Eve and you have to come.”

You groan and fall back into the embankment of pillows. “Fred, that’s not an emergency. Jesus christ. I thought someone died.”

“Then you should be overwhelmed with gratitude for your friends’ continued existence and delighted to join us!”

You glance at the calendar tacked to your wall. “That’s tomorrow, right?”

Freddie scoffs. “Of course it’s tomorrow! Some bloke from the record company is hosting and I need a date. Makes me more marketable or something. Mary can’t come, she’s got the flu. So you’ll have to take one for the team and play the adoring paramour. Shouldn’t be too heavy a lift. I’ve been informed that I’m very adorable.”

“Make Roger do it.”

There’s an edge to Freddie’s voice when he speaks. “They aren’t quite that progressive, dear.”

“I’m really more of a museums and restaurants person than a getting coerced into socializing with strangers person, if I’m being completely honest with you.”

“You’ll survive,” he replies brusquely. “Chrissie and Brian will be there. You’ll have fellow boring people to hide in a corner and eat biscuits with and discuss planetary movements or whatever the fuck.”

“Great. Roger and John are coming too?”

“Not Deaky. He already has plans with Veronica’s family and can’t weasel out of them. It’s not like he would schmooze anyone anyway.”

“Oh.” That disappoints you, more than you thought it could. “Maybe I have plans I can’t weasel out of, ever think of that?”

Now Freddie sounds amused. “You don’t.”

“How do you know?”

He laughs. “Because there’s no one you love in London more than us.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The paramour ruse doesn’t go very well; within twelve minutes Freddie has abandoned you and is guzzling martinis with Elton John and some record company guys you don’t recognize, pointy party hats on their heads and silver balloons bobbing against the ceiling. It’s not 1975 yet, but it will be soon. The mansion is decked with suits and ballgowns and expensive-looking vases perched precariously on end tables. Elegant white columns rim the vast living room. You, Brian, Chrissie, and Roger are chatting nervously by a massive punch bowl carved in ice, swiping appetizers off the waiters’ trays and trying not to break anything.

“I feel completely useless,” you say, nodding to Freddie.

Chrissie chuckles. “I think he just wanted you to be here. He thinks you’re good luck, you know. All our fates turned around when you showed up.”

Roger points at you with his punch glass. “Your people specialize in witchcraft, don’t they?”

“Oh, so close. That’s Salem, about thirty minutes up the road. No witches in Boston.”

“Hmm. Sounds like something a secret witch would say.”

You brandish your hand through the air. “I summon more mini crab cakes.”

The others glance around. “It didn’t work,” Chrissie observes sadly.

Brian sips his punch, which is bubbling and a vivid red. “Maybe you have to invoke Satan first. I saw a toy poodle on the couch you could sacrifice.”

“Yes, yes,” Roger agrees. “Just toss it in the oven and see if anyone notices.”

You throw your head back and laugh. “Now that would make a fantastic impression.”

Roger grabs your empty glass, plops it on a passing waiter’s tray, and takes your hands in his. They’re rough and strong, and they feel a little too good. “Alright, are you going to dance with me now?”

“Roger...”

“Don’t harass her,” Chrissie warns. “She’s here, she’s working on conjuring more snacks, she’s under no obligation to dance with you on top of all that.”

He frowns at you, those intense blue eyes bright beneath shagging bangs. “Really?”

You smile, reaching up to straighten the collar of his sparking rainbow jacket. “If you’re still interested in 1975, you can ask me then.”

“Yes ma’am.” He grins triumphantly at Chrissie, and she smirks back. “Can someone kindly tell me what that clock over on the mantle says? Obviously I can’t see that far.”

“11:19,” Brian says.

“Fantastic. I’ll be back.” He winks at you, then looks to Brian. “Stay with her, will you?”

“Sure.”

Roger lights a cigarette and saunters away, smoke drifting around him. Several young women—escorts or daughters of producers or soon-to-be-ex-girlfriends of musicians—descend upon him and start asking about Killer Queen. Roger is radiant when he replies, enchanting, wearing charisma like a snake’s skin, climbing ever onwards up the rungs of the social ladder; and you think about how there’s Home Roger and Tour Roger—though he felt like home in Boston, and though he feels so distant now—and how any woman who chooses him will have to spend her life watching him devour other people’s love from across the room, from across the world.

“Be careful,” Chrissie tells you softly.

“He won’t be back at midnight.” You pour yourself a fresh glass of punch, avoiding her eyes, hiding your disappointment...or, embarrassingly and infinitely worse, perhaps your hope. “They’ve been staring at him all night. And he’s noticed.”

“Oh, honey...” Chrissie rubs your bare shoulder, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s fine,” you tell her. And you plan to drink until it feels like it is.

Some guitarist from Genesis appears to introduce himself to Brian, and Bri leaps into a fevered discussion of how much he admires the band’s work and how he built his Red Special and the merits of guitar techniques that sound like Russian or Japanese to you. Before you know it, the mysterious Genesis man is hauling Brian off to present him to someone equally important. Chrissie shoots a worried glimpse at you as she follows Bri away.

“Go!” you insist, forcing a smile. Just abandon me in this super intimidating mansion full of rich important strangers and breakable museum artifacts, that’s totally cool.

“We’ll be back in five minutes, I swear.”

You wave cheerfully. “Take your time!” You peer at the clock. Thirty minutes until midnight.

As you’re dishing yourself yet another glass of punch, a man in a posh white suit approaches from the other side of the table. “Are you hiding from people as well?”

“Not too successfully, apparently.”

He recoils and raises his eyebrows. “My apologies. Want me to disappear?”

You almost say yes—it wobbles on your lips like an unsteady toddler—then you reconsider. He’s tall and blond and polished; he looks a bit like Roger from an alternate universe where Rog went to boarding school and plays polo. More significantly, he could be someone important, someone the band needs, someone you don’t want to offend. “No, I’m sorry, that was so impolite. Please forgive me. My judgment is quite impaired, that’s my excuse, I blame the punch. Also I’m a New Englander and thus inclined to be uncooperative towards Brits.”

He laughs, a full genuine laugh; and it feels like a victory. See? I’m clever, I’m charming. Anyone would be lucky to have me. “I’m Eric.”

“Y/N.”

“It’s a resounding pleasure to meet you, Y/N.” He gestures towards the open area on the floor where buzzed men and giggling women are tripping over each other. “There’s no way I could interest you in that, is there?”

You ponder it, nursing your fourth punch. You aren’t much of a dancer, that’s true; and this handsome stranger of a man isn’t Roger. But he might be able to get your mind off him.

You sling back the rest of your punch and slam the glass down onto the table. “Okay. But only because there’s an Eagles record on.”

“Deal.”

He follows you to the dance floor, weaves his fingers through yours, sways easily with the music. Eric tells you that he’s from up north, in the Lake District; his family owns an estate that used to be the seat of an earldom or something. He describes endless emerald hills and castles and horse farms until your mind starts to swim, until the effects of the punch and scant appetizers roll over you like a wave.

“Okay,” you announce dreamily. “Thank you so much, Eric. This has been lovely. But I have to go sit down now.”

“Oh come on, one more song!”

“I’m flattered, but I have to pass. Maybe after midnight...” You move to pull your hands away, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers are locked with yours. You try again. Eric’s still smiling, but his eyes have gone flinty. Oh no. You look around for Freddie or Brian, both of whom have vanished.

“One more, come on,” he presses. “I insist.”

“Eric, I’m really dizzy—”

“Don’t be rude. We’re having such a nice time, aren’t we?”

“Please let go of me.” You try to keep your voice level, try not to offend him. Everyone around you on the dance floor is laughing and drinking and smoking, not paying any attention at all.

“Look, you said you’d dance, so that’s what we’re doing. Am I suddenly not good enough for you?”

“Seriously, you need to let go.” You try to tug your hands away. Your heart is racing, blood rushing in your ears. The room is listing to the right, now the left. You realize that Eric is gradually leading you away from the center of the room and towards a quiet hallway. I can’t let this guy get me alone. I’m weak and I’m drunk, and I don’t know what he’ll do to me. You struggle harder, more visibly. His grip on your hands tightens. “Let go, Eric, let go of me!”

“Calm down, bloody hell lady, I’m just trying to—”

And then Eric is ripped away from you and his face smashed with vicious force into the nearest column. You scream, your hands covering your gaping mouth; the room goes silent. Eric crumples to the floor, unconscious. Blood pours from his broken nose and litters his white suit with crimson blotches and smears. Droplets drip crawlingly down the column. Roger stands over Eric, shirt completely unbuttoned, jacket rumpled, shadows of lipstick peppering his neck and chest. He wipes his own palms on his rainbow jacket, scowling, disgusted. Then he turns to you.

“Ready to go?”

“Roger, I...” You gaze in shock down at Eric. I hope he’s not dead. That might make things awkward with the record company. “I-I-I’m so sorry,” you manage finally. “I’m sorry, Roger, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything—”

“No, I’m ready to go.” He lays his hand on the small of your back and guides you towards the front door, grabbing both of your coats off the rack. “Let’s go.”

“Okay.” And relief floods through you. Okay.

Brian pushes his way out of the stunned crowd as Roger swings the door open. Frigid air skates over your cheeks. “Rog, what happened?!”

Roger glares savagely. “When I tell you to stay with someone, you fucking stay with them.” And then he steps with you out into the bitterly cold, nearly-January night.

“It’s not his fault,” you explain as you and Roger hurry down the sidewalk, your words spinning mist into the air. “Some guy from Genesis showed up and you know how Bri is about them, and I told him and Chris to go, please don’t be mad—”

“Are you alright?” He’s scrutinizing you closely; you can still see the rosy lipstick stains on his skin as you pass beneath each streetlight.

“I’m fine, I’m completely fine. Please don’t be mad.”

He narrows his eyes. “Well obviously I’m not mad at you, babe.”

“Oh god, I hope this doesn’t hurt the band. I don’t know who that guy was with. You broke his nose, you know.”

“Good.”

You shake your head, trying to chase away those ghosts of lipstick and the girls who left them there. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. “I know you were busy, I know the party was important, I know I ruined midnight for you—”

“You didn’t ruin it. We still have a few more minutes. We’ll duck into a pub somewhere and have a pint to welcome in the new year, it’ll be grand. Maybe get you some food. You look like you could use it.”

“I just...” You bury your numb, shaking hands in your coat pockets and brace yourself against the cold. “You left the girls. Left the party. I just don’t understand why you would do that.”

“Are you serious? Obviously I’m going to drop everything if you need me. I’m always going to do that.” He pulls his fiery red, hand-knit hat out of his coat pocket and slips it over your wild, windswept hair. “You’re still on my list, you know.”

You sigh. “You’re a smart man, Roger Taylor, but that’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“What,” he says, a tad bitingly. “Because I can’t promise you a picket fence and precisely two well-mannered, unremarkable children and a golden retriever? You’re right, I’m not going to promise you that. Because that’s not who I am. That’s not who you are either, by the way. But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?”

And that stops you, here in the cold dark heart of London, here beneath a cascading streetlight on the opening page of 1975. Because Roger’s right.

He takes your left hand and lifts it to his lips, and you know exactly what he’s going to do even before he oh-so-feather-lightly bites your goosebumped knuckles. “Look, forget about it. Don’t worry. Don’t freak yourself out. We’ll get a drink, we’ll watch the fireworks, and then I’ll walk you home. No questions, no answers. You just let me know if you ever change your mind, okay?”

You watch Roger, his cheeks ruddy from the wind, halos of streetlights reflected in his eyes. And you echo: “Okay.”

#queen fanfic #queen fic #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #but you can never leave #queen #fanfic

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delightfully-difficult-pirate · 5 years

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CS JJ Day 27: My True Love Gave to Me (1/1)

A/N: This began life as a Secret Santa gift, but I had to abandon it halfway through when my first giftee went AWOL and it didn’t fit the desires of my new giftee. However, I really enjoyed this story and decided to finish it as my entry for this year’s @csjanuaryjoy! Thank you so much, mods, for organizing this event and facilitating all the joy! This a small, Christmas-time, neighbors AU and I hope you enjoy!

AO3

~*~

Emma Swan knew that she tended to be a bit of a Grinch during the holiday season. She’d spent too many Christmases watching happy families celebrating while whatever foster family she was with barely acknowledged her existence with gifts of second-hand clothes to develop the warm, fuzzy feelings people associated with the season. Not all of the families were like that, of course, but few had bothered to put real effort into presents. Only Ingrid, the woman who had tried desperately to adopt Emma but was denied by the state, had ever given her gifts that really meant anything when she was young.

She spent Christmas with her chosen family of friends now and had received a plethora of thoughtful gifts, but she still hadn’t been able to bring herself to really care about the holiday.

Given her general disregard for winter festivities, it was quite a shock to come home one day and find that her apartment, in which she lived alone, looked like the Christmas aisle of a department store had exploded inside of it.

Soft blue lights twinkled in her windows and garland hung from almost every available shelf or ledge. The side table by her front door now sported a festive red and green quilted runner and a reindeer shaped dish held the miscellaneous change and spare key that usually were strewn haphazardly on the table’s surface. With a sigh, she dropped her keyring with the others.

Taking a deep breath to prepare herself, Emma proceeded into her home. A tree, an honest to god real tree, now dominated one corner of her living room. Gold tinsel and bright, colorful lights wrapped around it and simple round ornaments of red and silver hung from the branches. Her heart dropped, just a little, when she saw that there were no gifts piled underneath.

There was, however, a nutcracker sitting on her coffee table, and a small cat asleep on the back of her couch.

“Killian, you asshole,” Emma growled. The cat’s presence revealed the identity of the orchestrator behind the home makeover.

Now awake, the cat, a lovely calico named Tinkerbelle, stood, stretched, and jumped off the couch to rub herself against Emma’s ankles.

“Tink, did you help your owner with this… this… travesty?”

The cat just stretched and rubbed herself against Emma’s pant legs. With a chuckle, Emma lifted the interloper and settled her against her chest. That elicited a loud purr and a head-butt against her chin.

Tinkerbelle belonged to Emma’s upstairs neighbor and friend, Killian Jones. The day he’d moved into the third floor, Tink had shown her displeasure at the move and escaped. Emma, just home from grocery shopping, heard a very irate “Bloody hell!” echo down the stairwell before a small ball of fur ran right into the bags she had set down on the landing in order to unlock her apartment door. After a quick scramble and a few scratches, Emma had extracted Tinkerbelle from the bags just as a sweaty man came bounding down the stairs after her.

Emma held out the hissing cat as she asked, “does this belong to you?”

“Aye, that she does.” With a sigh, he had taken the pissed off cat and held her firmly against himself with one arm. The other he held out as he introduced himself as Killian Jones, her new neighbor.

“Emma Swan.” She shook his offered hand.

She’d stared in shock as he lifted her hand and placed a quick kiss on the knuckles.

“You have my thanks, Emma, for your assistance. May I offer you an IOU for a drink, for some time in the future after I have unpacked?”

Emma blinked before finally replying, “That isn’t necessary.”

“Maybe not, but the offer is open. I will let you know when my apartment is fit for company.” With that, Killian had made his way back up the stairs and Emma had to scold herself for admiring the way his jeans hugged his backside. The man had just moved in; she shouldn’t be ogling him like a teenager. Even if his accent sent shivers down her back.

Eventually she’d taken Killian up on his offer of a drink. That had led to more drinks, casual dinners, and nearly three years later, Emma considered him one of her closest friends. He was the one that had her spare key and watched over her apartment when her work as a bail bondsman took her out of town. A trust she was now rethinking since he’d apparently used the privilege to infest her apartment with holiday cheer.

Emma cuddled Tink as she wandered her apartment. The kitchen wasn’t too bad; a few towels decorated with snowflakes and a snowman shaped cookie jar were the only new additions she could see. The guest bathroom, however, nearly burnt her eyes with how much red and green was packed into the small space. There was a new Santa toilet cover with a matching bathmat. The hand towels looked like the bottom halves of elves and her simple soap dispenser had been replaced with a Christmas tree one.

Blessedly, her bedroom and attached bathroom had been spared the Christmas invasion. Killian obviously knew better than to mess with her private space.

Tinkerbelle jumping from her arms and Emma heard the squeak of her front door’s hinges. The culprit returning to the scene of the crime, she thought, as she heard Killian chuckle when Tink greeted him with a meow that seem far too loud to have come from the cat.

“I know, it’s time for dinner,” she heard Killian matter-of-factly tell Tink. “I just need to add the finishing touch to the tree.”

Realizing Killian didn’t know she was home, Emma toed off her shoes and softly walked to spy out the bedroom door. Wanting to remain hidden, she used the reflection in her TV to watch Killian. He had a simple box, which he laid on her coffee table. Whatever item he pulled out was too blurry to make out clearly, but she surmised it was some time of tree topper as he stretched to reach the top of the tree. She risked a real look as he fiddled around behind the tree a bit and saw that it was a gold star. She swiftly ducked back into her room when it illuminated, Killian having finished plugging it in.

“There,” she listened to him say. Tink meowed in reply.

“Alright, fine. Let’s get you some food.” With that, Killian collected the empty box, scooped up his cat, and left her apartment, locking the door behind him.

Once he was gone, Emma stood in her living room and gazed at the tree. It was, she realized, the first Christmas tree she’d ever had. That thought immediately brought tears to Emma’s eyes, which she roughly wiped away. She didn’t need a tree; especially not one that was going to shed pine needles all over her floor for the next few weeks.

Later that night, when Emma went to turn off the lights before heading to bed, she couldn’t help but admire how lovely it looked in the dark room. As she lay in bed, she sent a text to Killian.

Thank you.

~*~

Three days later, Emma noticed that the Christmas tree in her living room had gained some ornaments. Where before there had only been classic glass bulbs, there were now wooden figures nestled amongst the branches. All of them were birds of some type, which Emma found odd.

Three looked like chickens. Four were small, dark birds. Two were obviously doves and the last was an odd looking bird with stripes on its wings that had a pear dangling by the stem from its mouth.

Emma held the pear-holding bird that she had found near the top of the tree in her hand. Something about the bird felt familiar but she couldn’t put her finger on it. It wasn’t until she was placing it back in the tree that the answer hit her like a ton of bricks.

It was a partridge. Holding a pear…

A partridge in a pear tree… well, a pine tree, but the connection was there.

Two turtle doves. Three French hens.

And a quick google told her that the fourth gift in the 12 Days of Christmas song was either “calling” or “colly” birds, deepening on the version, and that colly was believed to refer to blackbirds, which were dark like “col”, the Old English word for coal.

Leave it to Killian, an English Literature professor, to give her a gift that involved Old English.

Pulling her phone out, Emma autodialed Killian’s number.

“Evening, love,” he answered.

“If you keep breaking into my apartment, I’m going to make sure that Santa leaves only col in your stocking.” She put extra emphasis on the word col.

She could hear him laughing in the apartment above her.

~*~

As expected, Killian did not stop adding more decorations to the Christmas tree. The next day brought five gold painted rings, followed by six geese with eggs.

On the seventh day, Emma found more than just seven wooden swans a-swimming on her tree after returning home. A new picture frame adorned her wall, containing a collage of pictures of Emma herself swimming. Or at least interacting with water. She didn’t think that sitting on the side of the pool with only her feet in the water really counted as swimming. Most were from that summer, when Killian had been her plus-one at a friend’s wedding in Cape Cod.

In one, which she couldn’t remember seeing before, she was “manning the helm” of a sail boat with Killian standing behind her, his hands on hers. Killian had insisted on renting a small sailboat while they were out of the city so that he could show her the joy of sailing. Emma smiled as she remembered how he’d gently guided her movements and ensured she didn’t kill everyone on board.

Well, he was supposed to be keeping an eye out for any possible dangers, but in this specific photo, Killian wasn’t looking at the waters around them. Instead, his attention seemed to be solely on herself. He was smiling, but it was… different. It seemed softer, somehow. In fact, his entire expression reminded her of the ones she usually saw on the face of her best friend’s husband, David, when he was in awe by how much he loved the woman before him.

Emma stepped away from the picture, her heart pounding. She had to be reading too much into a simple facial expression. There was no way Killian was in love with her. He would have told her if he was. Probably with a poem.

Or by breaking into her apartment and recreating an old Christmas carol.

“On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me…” Emma sang softly to herself.

Before she could stop herself, Emma ran upstairs to Killian’s apartment. It was only when Killian open the door in response to her insistent knock that she realized she had no idea what she was going to do. So she did the first thing that came to mind, which was to grab fistfuls of his shirt, drag him toward her, and hope the kiss she gave him conveyed what she couldn’t put into words.

He responded instantly. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush against him. She followed when he began to slowly step back into his apartment, only to find herself pressed against the door moments after it was closed. Emma couldn’t help running her hands through Killian’s impossibly soft hair as the kiss deepened.

It was Killian who managed to regain control of himself first, pulling away from the kiss and resting his head against hers.

“Emma… I…” he began.

Emma smiled. “I know.”

#Captain Swan #captain swan january joy #OUaT #CS Fan fic #CS Fic #Lee writes

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saxxxology · 5 years

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What Goes Bump in the Night - 2

PAIRING: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics, Victorian social dynamics, allusions to non-consent and dubious consent, dominance/submission, slow burn with eventual smut, suspense/horror/gore themes.

THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

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The bang of Crowley’s gavel makes you jump, and you’re quickly guided off the stage and through a separate door, which is quickly closed and locked behind you. You wait in silence, cowering in the corner, arms crossed over your chest as your eyes sting with tears. After a few minutes, the side door bursts open, and two men enter the room, led by Crowley.

One is tall, well over six feet. Brown hair curls around the nape of his neck, and his eyes sparkle with an untamed fire. He smells like warm honey and coffee, something that automatically relaxes you. He’s young, in his mid-twenties, you guess, and judging by the nice suit and shiny shoes, well-off. He’s looking at you like you’re not what he expected, and you lower your head in shame, aware of the tear tracks that stain your cheeks. The older man has to be his father, black hair with dashes of silver, and a graying beard to match.

Before you can move or say a word, Crowley grabs you by the arm and hauls you up so that you’re standing straight. “You have a brand, yes?”

The older man holds up a long metal rod with a flat end. You can barely make out the engraving, but you know exactly what’s coming. They’re going to brand you; it’s an Alpha’s way of making sure that if an Omega runs from them, they’re easily identifiable.

“Come here,” the younger man commands. You obediently shuffle forward, trying to appear brave as he takes you by the hand. His palm is smooth and warm on your skin. “What’s your name?”

You stutter through your name, barely able to make eye contact. He smiles with approval. “I’m Sam,” he replies. “This is my father, John. You’re coming home with me, do you understand that?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good girl.” He grips your hand a little harder as Crowley opens the door that leads to the outside and pulls you along behind him. It’s chilly out, and you shiver as the cold air blows over your almost bare skin. There’s a fire burning in an empty metal bin, and you shudder as John shoves the end of their branding stick into the embers.

“Sign here,” Crowley holds up a sheet of paper and a feather quill. “While we wait, might as well dispense with all the formalities.”

Sam scrawls a sloppy signature on one line and holds the quill out to you. You know what this is; it’s a contract signing yourself, body, mind, and soul, to your Alpha. If you don’t sign, you’ll be made to, and probably suffer more than just a forced signature. Accepting the quill with shaking fingers, you sign your name as best you can, keeping your jaw clenched so as to hold back more tears. Crowley slides the completed contract into the leather folder under his arm and watches as the older man pulls the now glowing brand from the flames.

Sam takes it, gripping your upper arm with one hand. “Hold still,” he says flatly.

Instinct takes over, and you wiggle free, letting out a loud cry as he reaches for you again. Your minimal efforts are not naught; John grabs you by the scruff of the neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. “We don’t have time for this,” he snarls, “do it now, Sam.”

Sam looks taken aback by your fear, as if he’s just now registering how scared you are. He reaches for your arm, and you let out another cry, jerking away from him. “Omega, hold still,” he mutters to no avail.

“For God’s sake.” John shoves you forward, pulling the brand from Sam’s grip. “Hold her, I’ll do it myself.”

Sam wraps his powerful arms around you from behind, one hand muffling your sobs and whimpers. John yanks on your upper arm and presses the brand to your skin, just below your shoulder. The pain is almost blinding, and you taste bile in your throat as you scream. It’s over in a matter of seconds, but the burning throb remains. Sam’s holding you upright—your legs have given out—and when he removes his hand from over your mouth, he trails the same fingers through your hair, as if he’s trying to comfort you.

“There,” John spits almost angrily, “let’s go.”

After waiting for an attendant to bring your things down from your private room, you’re escorted into a horse-drawn carriage, where Sam instructs you to sit next to him, opposite his father. The ride passes in a blur, and by the time you reach your destination, the moon is high in the sky.

The Winchester house is a Victorian monstrosity, two stories high, with steep, gabled roofs, windows glowing eerily with a golden light. You don’t get long to ogle before Sam’s dragging your small suitcase from the floor of the carriage and ushering you up the front stairs. It’s warm inside, and you shudder gratefully.

“Get her upstairs,” John instructs, “we don’t need your brother sniffin’ around when there’s an unclaimed Omega, he can barely keep his goddamn knot in his pants.”

“I’m very aware of that.” Sam puts his arm around you and makes to leave.

“I mean it.” John’s tone is harsh. “She belongs to you now, boy, better to make her yours before anyone else can.”

Sam lets out a low growl and ushers you through an ornately decorated living room and up two flights of stairs. Your heart accelerates when he pushes you in front of him down a short hallway until he reaches a heavy wooden door. Opening it, he shoves you inside and closes it, locking it behind him.

Sam’s bedroom is large and sparsely furnished. A large bed sits against one wall, covered in a dark red comforter embroidered with gold. Several matching pillows sit up against the tall wooden headboard. The only other furniture pieces are a wardrobe, chest of drawers, and a round table perched next to a long row of windows. A large fireplace sits opposite the bed, empty of charcoal or ashes.

“I’m sorry about that.”

Sam’s words cause you to turn, arms crossed over your chest. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” He approaches you gingerly, as if afraid of scaring you further. “My father, he’s… well, he’s got his own way of doing things, and—”

“Are you going to hurt me?” Tears sting your eyes, and you back up against the bed as Sam advances. “Don’t… please, don’t, I’ll do anything, I swear.”

Sam’s eyes soften, and he holds up both hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let me see your arm.” His fingertips graze your shoulder, and you tremble under his touch. He examines the burn on your skin, his brow furrowed. “Wait here,” he instructs calmly, “I’m going to make you a bath, you should clean up.”

You shiver as he leaves through a door on the opposite wall. It’s a washroom, and you hear the sound of water running. The Winchesters must be loaded to have a house like this with running water; you’ve never had a bath outside of a metal washtub before.

After several minutes, he steps out, beckoning to you. You step into the small room, eyeing the ceramic basin nervously. If you’re to bathe, you’ll need to take your dress off, and you’ve never been naked in front of an Alpha before. Sam’s easily twice your size with over a hundred pounds on you. If he wants to mate and claim you, there’s nothing you can do to fight him off.

“Dress,” Sam says, pulling at the bow at the back of your gown. “Lift your arms.”

Trembling, you raise your arms over your head, wincing as the reddened skin of your burn pulls. Sam drops the fabric to the floor and inhales deeply at the sight of your naked body. You’re not like the other Omegas, no full hips and thighs, no round breasts, nothing that an Alpha might take pleasure in. You’re small and stick-thin from living on the streets for so long and not being properly fed at Crowley’s.

“Look at me.” Sam waits for you to turn to face him, and you raise your forearms to cover your pitifully small breasts. “Don’t hide,” he says, offering a kind smile. “I said I won’t hurt you, and I’m a man of my word.”

“I—” you swallow thickly, trying to stop more tears from flooding your eyes, “I’ve never been… l-like this in front of an Alpha…”

“I can tell.” Sam’s jaw tenses as his eyes flicker over your body. You get the feeling that he can see right into your soul. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You step into the tub, fully aware of the fact that Sam’s eyes are fixed on the space between your thighs before you sink into the warm water. He strips his jacket off and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, kneeling behind you and reaching for a metal cup. He scoops up cupfuls of water and pours it through your hair. When you feel his hand on your forehead, you obediently tip your head back and let him wet the rest. There’s a white bar of soap on the edge of the tub and he swirls it in his hands, working the lavender-scented suds into the ends of your hair.

“Is this okay?” He asks.

You take a deep, slightly shaky breath. “Yes.”

Sam doesn’t reply, only reaches for the cup again and begins rinsing your hair. When he’s finished, he stands up, drying his hands on a small towel. “I’m going to get you something to sleep in,” he says, “come into the bedroom when you’re done.”

You finish washing quickly. The lavender scented soap soothes your skin, and when you finally stand up and pull one of the towels from the brass rack, you feel cleaner than ever. Your arm, however, hasn’t stopped burning, and the new tears that fill your eyes aren’t from fear or exhaustion.

Sam’s sitting on the bed, a small basket of bandages and an amber glass bottle of salve by his side. Your suitcase is open on the floor; he’s gone through what little garments you have to see if you have a nightdress to no avail. He’s holding a white nightshirt that looks like it might be his, and when he hands it to you, the size confirms your suspicions.

“I’ll buy you something that fits tomorrow,” he clarifies, “and you’ll need better clothing than this.” He casts a disdainful eye at the open suitcase. “I brought you some food as well. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

You shrug the nightshirt over your head before dropping the towel. It falls almost to just above your knees, and you hand to pull one shoulder up to stop it from falling down. When you attempt to head towards the tray of food, Sam snaps his fingers, and you flinch. “Come here,” he says, patting the bed beside him. “Let me take a look at your arm before you eat.”

Eager to get this part over with, you allow Sam to push the sleeve of your nightshirt up. His hand’s large enough to wrap easily around your upper arm. You wince and squirm when he presses a fingerful of salve to the wound, but he holds you firmly. “Stop moving,” he commands, evidently irritated at your lack of obedience. You fight to remain still as he covers the skin around the brand mark with the sweet-smelling mixture.

“It’ll stop infection,” he explains, finally letting you go to unwrap a length of bandage. He wraps it several times around your arm, checking to make sure it doesn’t cut off your circulation before tying it. With a nod of his head, he gives you permission to finally eat.

The smell of soup fills your nostrils as you sit down, and you spoon a mouthful of broth, meat, and vegetables into your mouth. It’s delicious, and you eagerly down most of the bowl in less than five minutes, finishing it off with the chunk of bread lying beside it. The cup of tea is the last thing you touch, and you breathe in the sweet fragrance before taking a long sip.

Sam’s been watching you eat with an amused, if slightly pitiful, expression. “Are you still hungry?”

You shake your head. Truthfully, you feel almost too full. It’s been quite a while since you’ve had this much to eat in one sitting. “No,” you answer, still sipping at your tea. “Just tired.”

Sam checks the small clock on the nightstand. “It is late,” he says, as if agreeing with you. “We should sleep.”

You watch, slightly caught off guard, as he pulls his white button-up off and tosses it to the floor. His pants go next, and you stiffen in surprise when he straightens up, fully naked. He’s glorious, every inch of his body suntanned and lean. There’s a sigil inked into his skin, just below his left collarbone, a type of star enclosed in a circle. He smirks at your expression when you tear your eyes from traveling lower than his waist and turns, striding confidently towards the chest of drawers.

“Scared?” he asks, his tone ever so slightly mocking. “It’s just a body, Omega, I’ve just seen yours.”

“I’ve n-never seen a… a man… naked.” you choke on your words as he pulls a nightshirt out of the top drawer.

He chuckles, sliding the loose fabric over his head and letting it fall to cover his thighs. “You’ll get used to it. I normally don’t wear anything to bed, but since you’re here…”

You bow your head in shame. “I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I… I know you don’t want me. Your father made you—”

“My father didn’t make me do anything,” Sam replies, his tone a little colder. “Like I said, he has his own way of running things, and last month…” he takes a deep breath before continuing. “I went through a rut and nearly killed someone. I was angry, got in a fight, and my father drew the line. I had a choice to make, and I made the easy one.”

You give a short nod and stand up. Your eyes burn, and you know that the longer you cry, the worse you’re going to feel the next morning. “I think I’d like to sleep,” you say quietly.

Wordlessly, he pulls back the heavy coverlet, allowing you to climb underneath before pacing around to get in on the other side, turning out the oil lamp and shrouding you both in darkness. He’s silent for several long seconds before you hear him speak.

“Good night, Omega,” he whispers.

You turn onto your back, staring up at the dark ceiling. “Good night… Alpha.”

#what goes bump in the night #alpha!sam winchester #alpha!sam x omega!reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction

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davidmann95 · 5 years

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Finally, Crisis on Infinite Earths?

Let’s dispense with any pretense right up front: CW’s Crisis on Infinite Earths is thoroughly dopey, punishingly cheap, and unselfconciously corny in the most heavy-handed ways. It is also, similarly in the spirit of wanting to be direct, probably my favorite live-action DC thing other than The Dark Knight. It’s pure, uncut, unapologetic dork superhero joy injected right into the jugular, every single ambition that a primetime network television soap/procedural/mini-MCU homunculus adaptation of the biggest comic book event of all time could have ever conceivably achieved and far beyond. Not in question that I substantially prefer it to the source material, and it’s if nothing else worth regarding as the singular achievement that it is and will remain: when the movies get around to a Crisis someday, the shared ongoing TV/cinematic universe paradigm means there aren’t going to be fistfuls of actors from past interpretations to draw from the way this could for much longer. This was in all likelihood the one shot to do this in the way everyone wanted it to be done, and it held together.

Not that much in the way of deep analysis to offer, and I already discussed the first three episodes, so let’s just get into it:

* Malthus! Low on the totem pole of shock DCU minutia, but I was mighty pleased.

* Not nor have I ever been much of a shipper, but “Do you trust me?” “With every cell in my body.” is the gayest thing I have ever seen, my lord.

* Literally everything with Lex in here is solid shining gold.

* For all the elements I had assumed were givens that didn’t happen - not that I was bothered by much of it other than I really do wish Danny Trejo had been here - Ezra Miller putting his money where his mouth is was in my dang joke category of stuff that was obviously never going to happen. What an absolute delight, and moreover I had thought in the first place “This scene really feels deliberately structured such that it would fit as a scene in the Flash movie, especially given this is where this version has the idea for the name? But that seems so unlikely!” and then Guggenheim confirmed that the CEO of WB specifically asked for that scene to be included, so I guess the Flash movie is going to be a covert sequel/companion piece to the friggin’ CW Crisis! Even if Gustin’s possibly only in the one bit though, I do hope this means Tom Cavanaghhas at least a cameo.

* The killer dumb as hell line aside, Oliver vs. the Anti-Monitor was conspicuously the best special effect in the whole thing, they clearly blew a lot of the budget on that.

* Wolfman got to be the one to tell them the Earths had been merged! And kudos to him co-writing the Arrow episode, which was probably the best of the lot from a pure storytelling/dramatic standpoint; when I say this was leaps and bounds better than the original Crisis, that’s not a knock on him.

* BEEBO. And Sargon the Sorcerer! But BEEBO. Hopefully him appearing at the height of all this and being a thing the non-Legends have to deal with is a sign of the weirdness continuing to be upped across the board.

* The final plan to defeat the Anti-Monitor is the most beautiful Silver Age nonsense, to the point that I’m fine with the last battle basically being in a Vancouver back alley the way I’d said they’d written themselves out of being able to do a year ago. And while there’s an argument to be made that from an in-universe perspective it should have been Flash to deal the final blow given this has been built up on his show since day one, it feels right that Supergirl as his biggest classic casualty scored the win. Either way, the idea of a teeny-tiny Anti-Monitor bein’ all grumpy in the Microverse for all eternity is a delight. Apparently some complained that he was a boring stock villain in this, but folks, I got some bad news about what they’re drawing from.

* Heat Wave is living his best life and we should all be so blessed.

* Given his backseat role as essentially the most important of the non-central characters, all I was truly rooting for with Hoechlin’s Superman in terms of strutting his super-stuff was getting one good hit in against the Anti-Monitor, and then it turned out he was one of the only three (or four if you count Oliver) who did out of the 50+ or so superheroes in total here, so I was a happy camper. And itty-bitty Superman was funny right away, but even funnier when I realized that was basically making Hoechlin an Atom to go with Routh’s Superman. Can’t wait for the show.

* I assume that as I’ve seen others suggest Earth-12 is meant to be the HBO Green Lantern series and they simply used the related footage they had available, but that movie of all movies therefore getting a shout-out in here is both hysterical and somehow perfect: everything has its place.

* Routh lives, in what might be a brighter rewritten timeline! This could easily be his sendoff and it’d be a perfect one, but I’d of course be more than pleased for him to fill a Kal-L role in Superman & Lois.

* “The first of our heroes”? Did Green Arrow precede Superman, which would be a change in at least one of their timelines? Wasn’t Black Lightning a hero awhile back? Or is this just in the sense of him being the first public human hero? The real answer is that it’s an acknowledgment of his real-world role as the guy who kicked all this off and the logistics don’t matter.

* Justice League! Justice League! Justice League!

youtube

* Wonder what the next crossover’s going to be? Easy answers would be something with Superman in the lead now that he’ll be fully in the fold (I understand the 90s crossover Panic in the Sky! was meant for much the same purpose of positioning him as a leader in-universe), or a Dark Nights: Metal adaptation with Batwoman center stage, but the producers have been adamant that the next entry will be something smaller. Maybe a set of mini-crossovers of two or three shows in blocks, or a subplot building across multiple shows that culminates in one or two big episodes with the League banding together. I’d love for their first adventure as a formal team to be fighting Starro (he could emerge as a Lovecraftian threat ala how Morrison treated him in JLA, only for J’onn to link them up to his mind and he turns out to be the hilarious doofus bully from Metal, but the first big crossover was already an alien invasion that involved a bunch of superheroes being mind-controlled, so there is the concern that it could come off as redundant. I’m still in favor of it though, as it could get us a live-action Jarro.

So there we go, there was a live-action Crisis on Infinite Earths. Whereas its source was dopey junk food in service of tearing down a lot of cool stuff, this was dopey junk food in service of delivering and setting up more cool stuff to come, so I’ll stand by this being the better of the two. What a start to the decade; I grew up with 2020 as The Year Of The Future in the same way I know many did with 2000, and nothing could be more of a signifier that we live in a changed world as far as superheroes’ place in mass-media from when I was a kid than this.

#Crisis on Infinite Earths #DCTV #Flash #DCEU #Worlds of DC #Opinion

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casually-inlove · 5 years

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Right, so I had an extra half an hour of free time and decided to pick up on that prompt for the newest TianShan illustration. I usually don’t do it like this, but I decided to make a lil exception. Something like an AU where He Tian is a diplomat and Mo is his (unlucky) bodyguard. A quick drabble, have fun.

The door closed with a barely audible creak, his nose catching a whiff of scented soap and a rich freshener before his eyes did.

Inside the room was dimmer than he expected — light falling through the ceiling felt unnecessarily washed, diffused almost. Intimate. The soft gleam bounced off the walls and the sugar white of the sinks, casting tiny halos over muted surfaces of stalls. It was extravagant — all marble tiles, riddled with thick veins like dark twigs growing; art-deco brass adorning the mirrors the way a frame might catch at the edges of an old masterpiece. Reed diffusers cut from fine glass and propped proudly on top of the wooden shelves, oozing warm notes of fleur d’oranger — and who the heck puts reed diffusers into a fucking privy, anyway?

Guan Shan’s eyes traversed the vast space with a hint of resentment — it didn’t feel right to be made feel insignificant by the sheer luxury of something as utilitarian as a toilet, for fuck’s sake. A gold-tinted sheen in the corner of the nearest sink caught his eye. Above the whiteness of it, there rose a sleek curve of a faucet, craning its neck like a swan might. Only it wasn’t chromed. It was gilded, a shiny trinket placed among the bare necessities as if it belonged.

He felt his jaw get slack before the brief awe dissipated into the tight tangle in his throat. It was nauseating in a sense that Guan Shan had never known before: affluence brandished as something dispensable. It was bad enough coursing through a crowded hall, blending in with other bodyguards and waiters, all while seeing those rich and mighty splashing out, indulging in the idle gossip about things that held no importance to those struggling to keep their heads above water. Diplomatic receptions, he concluded, were not unlike those glitterati parties, the only difference being that tonight nobody was taking a dip in a champagne-filled pool. But here, in an empty toilet? He felt like a fucking prop placed against the backdrop, a mere décor, no more distinguishable than a wall clock or a pretty flask. Disgust churned in his stomach, his train of thought utterly derailed when something snaked around his ribs and a hot breath washed over his nape.

‘Fuck!’, he reeled, pushing hard at the arms that reached out to him. ‘What are you doing?’

It bordered on embarrassing — here he was, caught off guard while staring at the shiny faucet like a damn magpie. There was an amused smile tugging at the corners of He Tian’s mouth that sent a shudder creeping down his spine. Grey eyes were overcast with something dark, a sinful promise whispering from every feature. With his hair sleeked back — finely undercut and extra glossy — he could be easily mistaken for a gangster from the vintage movies, sporting a bow-tie and pulling the trigger with not an ounce of remorse. The fancy tuxedo did little to hide his formidable frame, broad shoulders followed by the sharp V of his hips, causing a slight pang of jealousy prickle at Guan Shan’s nape. The fucker made him feel inferior without even trying. Up close an inch or two of height difference appeared to become feet — so smothering was the other man’s aura. And that waist, that obscenely narrow waist —

He could imagine it vividly. A girl — her dress hiked up, sequins spilling all over bare thighs, lacy panties askew — wrapping her legs around that waist inside a closet or one of the stalls. An envoy, who had been chatting He Tian just a few moments ago, soul already sold for his coy smile and a silver tongue — or maybe a waiter. He could imagine him indulging in an easy fuck like that, treating everything as nothing but a game, all people toys at his disposal. The thought made him cringe.

‘We don’t have much time’, He Tian murmured, taking a stride towards him, eyes darkening with something hungry and dangerous, and Guan Shan’s mouth went abruptly dry, a wicked slur fizzling out on the tip of his tongue. The memory of their awkward kiss came unbeckoned.

Was this the reason? Was this why He Tian had quit exchanging civil pleasantries in the hall? So that he could press his body against him in a toilet stall?

‘I need to take a piss, my ass!’, he snarled, growing angry at the mere implication. He felt his neck grow hot as realization struck him. Suddenly the uniform felt stifling, the bulletproof vest too tight around his chest, his heart hammering against the plate of it.

‘Maybe not’, a curl of the lip, mischievous. ‘But isn’t your duty to cover my back? I needed you to save me, and so you did. Otherwise, I would be still discussing the Bangkok merger with Ms Zhao, pure torture’, He Tian scoffed, clicking his tongue as if contemplating the horrors that the extra small talk with the consul held in stock.

‘Suits you just fine’, Guan Shan gritted his teeth. ‘That’s what you and the likes of you do at the parties like this. Deciding the fate of the fucking world with your idle chatter.’

He Tian took a step closer, his fingertips brushing against Guan Shan’s wrist briefly, and the latter barely suppressed the urge to bat the hand away. Too fucking close. Too fucking familiar.

The glint in the grey eyes became something else, something sharper and unyielding forming around the corners of his eyes as if he felt no joy over being here today.

‘Diplomacy’, He Tian said, taking another step closer, his voice chillingly even, ‘is not unlike a lover’s game. A promise here, a mouthful of compliments there. A dance of learning what makes the other weak in the knees, all steps deliberate to a tee. It’s nothing personal either.’

Was it? All Guan Shan saw today was money changing hands, favours being brokered, fake smiles and wicked eyes scrutinizing, angling for a personal gain. Flattery that served as coin, gossip traded as easily as chips at the stock market. His throat tightened, lifelong bitterness dripping on his tongue.

‘Yeah right. That’s why you entitled pricks hold discussions about Thai royal weddings, Hang Seng indices and other bullshit while somewhere those who weren’t born into your wealth get fucked over your shameless politicking and scramble just to get by, because somebody here decided it was a diplomatically ingenious move to pour money into a separatist cell or two’, he spat, casting the other man a vexed look.

He Tian was now standing way too close, towering above him like an ancient idol. The smell of him — the smell of champagne and a ghost of sweet fragrance — flooded Guan Shan’s nostrils, making his stomach jolt. Not a minute ago he could feel the anger prickling at his skin, but now it dissipated like smoke, giving way to an unintelligible mix of reactions. The look He Tian was giving him send a surge of electricity running up his spine.

Suddenly there was a hand hovering next to his face, thumb outstretched to glide over his chin and Guan Shan was lost for words, profanities stuck in his throat as if he had no strength to push them out, the collar of his dark shirt damp with sweat.

‘You have a cruel mouth, Little Mo’, He Tian murmured softly, eyes caressing his face from under the half-dropped eyelids, travelling down his neck, to where the tightly buttoned shirt met the dip of the black kevlar vest, and back to his mouth; the sound of his voice low and malleable. It made Guan Shan want to shut him up, to wipe that undecipherable expression off the normally arrogant face.

A touch that came seconds later was nothing but a soft brush of the thumb over his lips, right where a pale scar sliced through Guan Shan’s skin.

It was a thin line, barely a groove, marking his lips like a bracket. A souvenir left by a piece of shrapnel from a hotel bombing, all that reminded him about his past days in the anti-terrorist squad. All that’s left of it too. He had long since noticed that He Tian, for some unimaginable reason, was compelled to look at it whenever Guan Shan was next to him. Each time his gaze darkened, becoming unreadable and almost flash-frozen as if seeing an old wound made his mind go blank.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t understand why his feet wouldn’t budge an inch. Couldn’t understand why the heck he was staring back. Taking in the way He Tian’s face shut down, brows slightly furrowed as if it was his own lip that got shredded to bloody bits. He read my file prior to hiring me, Guan Shan realized. There was no fucking way he didn’t know where he had gotten that scar.

A shaky sigh escaped him, and before he knew it, his lips slightly parted, cool thumb barely touching his gums. What was it in He Tian that made Guan Shan’s head spin? Whenever he was this close, he felt as if his brain short-circuited, spewing random emotions like arbitrary bits of code. There was fear, irritation, confusion…something base too. Something deep-seated and vulnerable, that was absolutely defenceless against the arch of other man’s brow and the curl of his lip.

Fuck, he thought.

Fuck.

His mind protested, rushing off the beaten track like a train derailed, thoughts colliding with the force of shrapnel bursting, bits of code inside his head producing unstable combinations.

And then his mouth crashed against He Tian’s, fingers grabbing a handful of jet-black tresses and pulling hard. A breathy moan filled the space, leaking into grooves and crevices between their bodies and there was a tremor running up his legs as if floor tiles went collapsing right underneath him.

He felt himself get pushed towards the sinks, He Tian’s palms wandering his back. His own hands tugged at the tuxedo lapel. Next thing he knew, his spine collided with the cool white of the sink, the kiss broken. He swallowed, breathless. His eyelids felt leaden and it took some effort just to open his eyes.

The look on the other man’s face made his stomach spin a somersault. The cool and collected façade was smashed to pieces, He Tian’s brows drawn into a broken line, lips swollen and glistening, the hungering kiss still haunting the red marks where Guan Shan had bit him. There was nothing light left in his eyes, coal-grey completely devoured by the blown pupils. He was breathing hard — Guan Shan could see his chest heaving as if instead of taking a few steps he had been running for miles. The urgency with which he fumbled to undo his own jacket was almost unbecoming, and Guan Shan could no longer bear watching it, reaching out and helping him get the damn tuxedo off. The other man’s face was close — so close he could feel moist breath on his mouth. The feathery-light touch that came next nearly startled him. There was a flick of a tongue — careful and calculated — that glided over his lips, right where the pale scar was etched into his flesh. His head went vacant, pulse beating somewhere in his throat, completely incapable of thinking or acting. He couldn’t recall getting rid of the gloves, nor could he recall sliding his palms over He Tian’s chest. All he would remember was an erratic pulsation beneath his skin and the syrupy-thick heat pooling in his groin.

The room around them felt blurred like a watercolour doused with dirty water: layers of colours mixing, halos of light catching at the ends of jet-black strands, all sounds outside muted as if coming through a wall of thick ice. Something jabbed at the small of Guan Shan’s back, obtuse pain barely a distraction. That fucking faucet, he thought absently, breath hitching in his throat as He Tian sucked kisses into his collarbone.

His vest landed on the floor tiles with a loud thud, right next to where a tuxedo lay forlorn on the floor. Hot fingers hooked themselves around the underside of his knee and he could almost feel them searing his skin off as they pulled his leg up and to the side. And there was nothing Guan Shan could do but comply, clutching at the broad shoulders beneath the starched white of a shirt, wrapping legs around that obscenely narrow waist and gasping as the heavy body pressed into him. There was too much touching: fingers at his nape, fingers squeezing his thigh, a thumb brushing his shaved temple and learning the curve of his jaw. It made him dizzy, blood ebbing away from his head and rushing down.

His insides felt on fire, the tips of his ears undoubtedly taking on a shade of pink, and he couldn’t even tell what distressed him more — that he just willingly let his employer fondle his ass or the fact that they were about to fuck in a public restroom and anyone could walk in at any given moment?

The fabric of his pants bit tightly into the bulge between his legs, making him hiss and draw He Tian closer. A diplomatic scandal was the least of his worries now.

#19 days #19days #tianshan #ficlet #fanfic #writing

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