#he literally looks like a black cat. the ones with green eyes and scruffy hair and yk immediately they’re going to rip up your furniture if

[angelcak-3]

if percy was an animal he’d be a cat. why are people calling him a golden retriever.

[asktheghosthost]

Homecoming

Jai belongs to @catinabag, and is used with their permission. This was a little drabble gift that kept growing until I finally decided to just finish and post it. It’s a little lengthy, hence the Read More. Enjoy!

Fog was rolling in thick that night, but it wasn't doing much to dissuade the man lumbering along the edge of the road. Occasionally, he'd glance up at a damp street sign, grunt in acknowledgement of it, and keep going. He really wasn't relying on them, anyway. It was an... instinct, a feeling that pulled him to where he needed to be. And the closer he was getting, the stronger the pull became.

"Come to the Square," a voice whispered, simultaneously at his ear and in his brain. "Come to the Square, and you'll be home..."

Home... He hadn't seen home-- hadn't had a home-- in... God, how many decades now? Time had lost all meaning to him.

He tugged his pinstripe jacket closer around him. Fuck it was cold. Wasn't Louisiana supposed to be all muggy and swampy and hot? How many more miles of this did he have to deal with? Was it even worth it? What the hell was he even doing, really--

The honk of a car horn made him turn away from his thoughts. He glared at the car, a dull yellow taxi, as it slowed to a crawl next him. The window rolled down, and a scruffy faced driver leaned over the passenger seat and called out, "Y'all need a ride?"

Standing there, arms stiffly around him, the man hesitated to say anything. "Uh..."

The driver grinned. "Tell you what, brah, if you goin' the same way I am, and it's under five miles, no charge. Lagniappe. Deal?"

The man nodded, and quickly got into the car. "Thanks," he grunted. "'Preciate it."

"No problem, no problem." Pulling away from the road's edge, the driver continued forward. "Y'all  ain't from around these parts, are you? What's your name, ami?"

"No," he said, gruffly, shaking his head. "It's Jai. Ghast." He hadn't said his real last name in years. It was almost like saying a foreign word, like his tongue didn't know how to curl around it properly.

The driver let out a short, relieved laugh. "For a moment there, I thought you was gonna say 'Gracey.' Ah, there's a family no one wants any part of. 'Cause of them, most drivers won't make rounds 'round here."

Jai furrowed his brow in confusion. "They a crime syndicate, or something?"

"Non, ami. They're all dead." His grin glinted in the rearview mirror. "Now where you heading to, Monsieur Ghast?"

Go to the Square...

"Um, the Square?" Jai cringed inwardly.

Now it was the driver's turn to look confused. "New Orleans Square?"

Jai pursed his lips and his gray eyes darted from side to side. He wagered, "Yes?"

The driver's grin widened. "You in luck, ami! That's where I be headed to." The cab took off with such force, Jai was pressed back into the seat. "Ol' Gabe, he get you there tout suite!"

Jai's knuckles faded to a pale beige as he gripped the door handle. The vehicle-- and his stomach-- lurched. And then there was a strange sensation under him, or rather, a lack of sensation. It was subtle at first, hard to pin point, and then he realized what it was: there wasn't any road under them. There should have been the familiar pings of grit and gravel under the tires. A steady whoosh from below his feet. There was an eerie whistling, however, and he forced his head to turn to look out the window.

They weren't connected to the road. They weren't connected to anything. Tiny points of lights--streetlights-- barely shown through the mist dozens of feet beneath them.

"The hell! What're you doing, you crazy Cajun?!"

"Why, I'm gettin' you to your destination, of course!" Gabe cackled. Moonlight flashed through him, betraying he was transparent.

Jai let out a heavy sigh and slumped back against the seat. How had he not figured it out? "This some kind of show you put on for tourists?"

"Gotta get my kicks somehow, ami." He gave a good-natured shrug. "Besides, one of us had to let on we was dead."

Jai was quiet for a few seconds. "Fair."

The next few minutes were thankfully uneventful, and the cab touched down on centuries old cobblestone.

Jai didn't open the door right away, instead rolling down the fogged window.

Up ahead loomed a massive, white house, a plantation-style mansion.  It shone like a bleached tooth, a beacon in the misty night.  The imposing black, wrought iron gate ahead of it was almost easy to miss in comparison.  Even easier to miss were the strange, misshapen large stones scattered across the front yard of the property.

"This is the Square?"

"New Orleans Square is the town, but this is the place you need to be. Gracey Manor." Gabe's grin shifted into a gentler smile.  "Safe travels, ami. And when you see old Beauregard, you tell him Gabe Guidry says hi."

"Beauregard?"

But Gabe was gone. The cab was gone.  Jai was suddenly standing outside that menacing gate. With a long, high creak, it slowly opened, gesturing he should enter.

Jai licked his lips and ran a hand back through his shaggy black hair. Graceys. The dead people.

He straightened his jacket and stepped forward, a dirt path becoming more and more visible under his black leather shoes.

Moving forward, he got a better look at the property. A cement bird bath was to his left. A small pool was in it, but was too dark to see through. Jai had a feeling he'd regret sticking his hand in.

Near the bird bath was a statue of a smug, fluffy Persian cat.  This in turn was flanked by multiple tiny bird statues. Nearby were other stone animals--a duck, a snake, a few different dogs, a monkey...

Wait...

The spacing between the animals led him to look at tiny placards under each, which all listed names and dates.  This was a pet cemetery!

Cute, he thought. But then it dawned on him what those larger stones were.  Who has a house flanked by a graveyard?

Beauregard…

With a new sense of urgency, he bounded up the front steps and barely stopped before gripping the enormous bronze door knocker and slamming it down three times. "Open up." His throat was suddenly tight. Angry tears welled in his eyes. "Open up, you creepy bastard!"

As if responding to his impatience, the door was pulled open with such force, Jai was flung inside. Skidding, he caught himself before he could fall.

A low voice greeted him in the darkness of the foyer. “Welcome, wayward soul.” An unseen hand helped him straighten up.

That voice… Jai knew it. It’d just been so long since he’d heard it. That tightness returned to his throat.

“Beauregard?”

A man appeared in front of him, one who was simultaneously familiar and a stranger. Thin, lanky, like him, with long, shaggy hair, only shock white instead of black. Taller than Jai by a few inches, but he always had been. They stared at one another, jaws agape, eyes wide.

Jai took a couple of unsure steps forward, but the other ran to him, and then flung his arms around him and hugged him so tightly Jai thought he’d never break free.

“My baby brother!” He pulled away, only to hold Jai’s shoulders and look him over. “It’s been so long.” His voice cracked. “You… You look… so grown up.” A tiny sob-chuckle escaped him, but he was grinning.

Jai took a moment to take in some of the new details of his sibling—the pale, blind right eye, and the scarring over it that ran from brow to cheek; the bruising left behind on his thin throat, and its answer, a thick noose that hung loosely under it like some kind of macabre tie. His green coat was threadbare at the shoulders and elbows, and his purple waistcoat was slightly too long. The pinstripe slacks were all right, but his spats were misaligned.

“You look like shit.”

Beauregard laughed and wiped his eyes. “That’s fair.”

“Sorry,” Jai said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess those last few years weren’t so kind to you, huh?”

Beauregard shrugged a shoulder, not denying it, but not providing details, either. “It’s been a long time since then.”

“And you’ve just been here, in this big ol’ house, for…?”

Another shrug. “I’m honestly not sure how long now. I don’t keep track of time anymore. I know I died January twenty-ninth of 1901, at exactly 10:35 p.m. Beyond that…” He pulled out a pocket watch and flashed the face of it at Jai. It had been stopped since his time of death. “Time has lost all meaning for me.”

“So, you’ve been here…”

“Yes.”

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“You died here?”

“Yes…” Beau was trying not to show the mild annoyance growing at the questions. “What are you getting at?”

Jai suddenly pointed at him accusingly. “You’ve been here, living here, for ages, and you ain’t never tried to contact me even once? Even once!”

Taken aback, Beau sputtered, “Well, you—Who do you think sent out the message for you, hmm? Who do you think led you here?”

“But that was just now! You’ve had literal decades! Decades! Decades that I’ve spent away from the very last little bit of family I had left!” There were tears in his eyes. “If Eulie were here…”

“Eulie is here. This was her house.” Beau looked over his shoulder at the grand staircase leading to the bedrooms above. “I’m surprised she hasn’t come down to investigate the ruckus yet. Her or Dorian…”

Jai took a tiny pause for confusion. “Is that her husband?”

“No, her son.”

“I have a nephew?” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “And you all were livin’ in a mansion! And not one of you saw fit to find me?!” Turning on his heel, he headed back to the door.

“Now stop!” Beau bellowed. A chair cut Jai off, knocking him down into it, and it scooted back to Beau. “You disappeared!” Pointing at Jai, Beau floated above the floor. “You were the one who forsake the family! You went off to who-knows-where, while Eulalie and I were dealing with our parents’ funeral expenses, and bank possessing the house, and—” He let out a frustrated groan. Slipping back down to the floor, he slowly exhaled, and started again, in a much calmer tone. “It was like you had fallen off the face of the planet. And… And I knew you were grieving in your own way. By the time we wound up here… H-How was I supposed to find you, Jai?” Beau put a hand on his shoulder, gazing into his eyes, imploring. “When you clearly didn’t want to be found?”

Turning his head aside, Jai looked away. It was true. He hadn’t wanted to be found, not at first. But when he’d found himself deep in trouble, that’s when he’d started thinking about his family and what he’d left behind. Then… Then it was too late. Far too late. You couldn’t scream for your big brother with a mouth full of dirty handkerchief, and lungs full of river water.

Jai blinked, sending tears cascading down his cheeks. “I—I missed you, Beau. I needed you. And—And I couldn’t find you. And I couldn’t face you. Not after what I’d done. I’ve… I’ve done horrible things, Beau. I…”

“Shh,” Beau shushed him. “Do you think I’m proud of this?” He gestured to the noose. “We’ve all done regrettable things, Jai.” Gripping the arms of the chair, he leaned down. “The important thing is we’re back together, eh?” He grinned his cock-eyed grin that always seemed just a little too wide. “The Ghast boys wreaking havoc from beyond the grave!”

Jai allowed himself a small smile. “You mean it? Back together like old times?”

Beau yanked him up, and put an arm around him as he led him further into the mansion. “Not exactly. Far fewer things to worry about now. I’ll give you the tour, and you can tell me everything you’ve been up to.”

“Eh…” Jai rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a tall order.”

“Hm, we have all eternity little brother.” Beau squeezed him to his side.

[klaussicarus]

Day Seventeen: Childhood

"God, cursed Matroshka dolls, never thought that'd be a thing." Maddy sighed as she looked at the Motroshka doll in her hand. It was well made, and even had reall hair on it, problem was that it was her hair, and it was a perfect replica of her. Jack and Vlad had replicas too. Vlad had thrown a fit when he had noticed the tiny acne on it, but they were generally wary of it. Vlad's weird maybe-uncle-mentor-evil-archnemisis Daniel had given it to them. Apparently Clockwork needed a messenger. And after the whole CAT's timeline, with seeing Vladimir wreck the human world, they could bet that it related to some sort of failed timeline.

"Well staring at it isn't going to do anything. We'll have to open them sooner or later, and who knows if it's a treat?" Jack sighs as Maddy shoots him a look. "I'm just saying, no use in waiting for something to happen."

Vlad sighs, "Yeah, yeah, I know. Well, Maddy, do you want to go first?" Maddy sighs and twists open the body. Inside there was a teal colored something, with little orange goggles. A painted on red smile glints up at her. "Well that's not very informativ-"

A crackling image projects from the center of the smaller doll. It's an older Maddy, dressed up in a teal hazmat suit and grinning, a gun set on her hip. "Oh ew, that's just bad fashion. Why would I wear that?"

Vlad nudges Jack. "I don't know, but maybe opening all three will let us know?" Jack gets the memo and pops his open. The doll looks larger than Maddy's, orange instead of teal though. The projection shows a wall of a man in an orange jumpsuit and graying temples, he was grinning, but his seemed less malicious than Maddy's. Both of them started flickering, closer to unlocking the scene. Vlad opens his. It's pale and has completely white hairs, frowning and suited. The first thing that pops out of Vlad's mouth is "Why am I white?" Jack chuckles. But his doll wasn't projecting.

Jack leans over his shoulder. "There's another little seam in your doll. Maybe for your ghost form V-man?" Vlad looks down. "Oh" Popping that open is a white clothed ghost with green skin and black hair spiked into horns. Almost immediately it pops up another image. This one of Vlad in ghost form, decidedly with more Daniel energy than they liked. But the scene still seemed glitchy. They were missing something.

"You are missing something" Giving the trio a collective heart attack, Daniel steps in front of them in Ghost form. His solid green eyes staring at them judgingly.

He opened his hands, there was two versions just like Vlad. But instead they seemed like younger versions of himself? The ghost one looked much more monochromatic and very little green. The young one had solid black hair instead of his normal salt and pepper gray hair and scruffy goatee. Immediately it linked, showing a Daniel around their age as a ghost. The scene starts up.

"Would you look at the state of the town! It's in ruins! And all because of pesky little Phantom." Not Vlad hisses at Not Daniel. He rakes his red eyes over the landscape. Not Maddy scowls at him, but nods, N.Jack doing the same thing. "I dont like you Plasmius, but, you've offered me and Mads the opportunity to finally catch this pest once and for all." N.Maddy jerkily agrees, "Yes, we've been meaning to finally strap the malfunctive ghost down and dissect his every cell for a while now, I guess teaming up with disgusting trash is necessary after all."

N.Daniel, or rather Phantom, takes a step back. "Hey, we're probably going to not do that. I prefer all my organs inside me, thank you very much." He trips and and there's a call off scene. Phantom's eyes widen. "Guys no! Stay back!"

Another trio makes it onscreen. Weirdly enough it looks like younger versions of the school counselor, Miss Jazz, and Vlad's parents, Mr. Tucker And Mrs. Sam. They run over to Phantom. N.Maddy looks surprised. Miss Jazz shouts at the adults. "Stop! Can't you see that Phantom has been trying to prevent the damages? You're only making it worse Mom!"

Real Maddy gasps, "I'm mom to our school counselor?" Everyone looks back at the scene.

"No! Can't you see? Can't you realize that you're too young to understand? I love you Jazz, I have to, you're my daughter after all. But you have forgotten that me and your mother know what's best!" N.Jack yells back

More looks are exchanged between the the real trio. Maddy and Jack were together and the school counselor was their kid? The situation onscreen was worsening.

Mr. Tucker and Ms. Sam seemed to be pulling Phantom away discreetly. Phantom was bleeding green ectoplasm too fast to be healthy. Dubbed Plasmius teleported to in front of them. Ms. Samantha screamed at him "Why are you doing this! He's a kid! You know what will happen if they get ahold of him as he is now! They can't know yet! They'll go after you next!"

Everyone gulped, it was terrifying to see the raw terror at the thought of Not Maddy and Jack getting Phantom, why were they so violent towards the ghosts? Why were they trying to murder and dissect Phantom? Why was Vlad evil?

Plasmius seems to barely pause, a glint of fear in his eyes too. "Well, I've seen the error of my ways Samantha. I can't be so close to a ghost hunter, even if I were to marry Maddy, she would find out sooner or later, and nothing would stop her from ripping me to shreds. You, Tucker, and Danny know how much his mother is passionate about this sort of thing. And every plot I've tried to kill Jack with for making me this way has failed spectacularly. After all he is just a bumbling fool of a moron, not worth my time."

Jack winces. He knows that it isn't his Vlad saying it, but it hurt all the same. He was always afraid of being the annoying third wheel, and it hurt to have anything come close to confirming that.

Plasmius continues. "And well, I'm dearly sorry for your budding romance, but what better way to tear the family that's been a thorn in my side for years apart than have those two rip apart their own son in front of an adoring public?"

Well that was another wrench. "Your weird uncle is our son!?" Maddy looked overwhelmed, and looking around so did everyone else. Daniel seemed strangely unsurprised but still shocked, like he had come to make connections beforehand but that were still not enough to cover close to even half of what they had seen on screen. Maybe he had. Maybe he hadn't.

Jack was out of his depth and looked ready to cry and scream at the same time, and Vlad watched with a look of hatred for the cowardly version of himself before confusedly remapping this reality to his in a dogged attempt to figure out why Clockwork was showing them this.

Oddly enough, yesterday had a similar but vastly different event that had happened too. But Vlad's parents had just wanted to kill his alter ego off, no research based off of it, and Daniel had tagged along to generally cause problems for both sides, tripping Ellie in the same breath as flicking one of Ms. Samantha's attacks off course in a weird balance of making sure Vlad didn't die but also wasn't getting along too 'easy'.

The scene projecting in front of them died out after Phantom escaped and Plasmius turns sides, damaging a lot of hunting equipment and smashing a soup thermos before turning invisible and flying off.

And they all look up as another scene replaces it. The same room they were in, the boiler under the school. With their role replacements in the same positions, looking at them in surprise and wariness. Phantom, now as a human, nudges younger Mr. Foley at the same time Vlad nudges Jack beside them. The projection was no longer a screen, but a direct mirror. Maddy gasps, and her and teenager Ms. Manson says at the same time. "It's literally them, there's a bridge, Clockwork just opened a bridge."

They split from the same actions when Plasmius, also in human form, steps forward and holds his hand out to Daniel, "Well, I suppose you're the closest to another adult here." Daniel shifts into his normal self, dusting off his travel worn clothes, and spits onto his palm, slapping his hand to his. "And you'd be the closest to a man your world has to offer huh?"

Young Danny snorts, and the other trio starts laughing, before Jack catches the giggles and suddenly all of the teenagers are on the floor, laughing at the absolute absurdity of it all.

The two men sneer at each other, Plasmius pulls his hand away in disgust,

"What're you? An uncivilized mutt?"

"Oh, don't worry I'm house trained. More than I can see from you Cuckoo."

"I see the 'crazy' nickname theme has stayed the same" Plasmius sighs.

"I was referring to you being a cuc-"

"I prefer being called a dog than a little badger if you want my honest opinion!" Young Danny pipes up, ready to stop his older self from finishing his sentence.

Daniel smirks at Plasmius. Already there was animosity breeding.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

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.”

[alitheamateur]

Lights, Camera, Action?

TOMMY CONLON ONE-SHOT

Characters: Tommy Conlon/Reader

Warnings: NSFW. Explicit Sexual Content. Language. Slightly dominating male. Public sex.

Summary: Tommy is coaxed into making a PR appearance for an upcoming tournament, and needs to let off some steam before smiling for the cameras. When you deny him, that need only grows for Tommy, leaving him no choice but to take matters into his own hands. 

Word Count: 2,395

You had been dabbling recently with an edgier sense of fashion, and after careful consideration (and several grueling hours of window shopping) decided on a timeless black strapless jumpsuit. The fit wasn’t tackily form fitting, but hugged your waist tastefully and ever-so-slightly complimented your modest chest. Thankful for Tommy’s sufficient height, you slid on the backstrap of a rather heighted stiletto while tucking a loose wave of hair behind your ear.

“Fuck me....” you heard his gravelly undertone huff from behind, sounding as if the sight he beheld literally exhausted him to look at.

“Tommy Conlon!” Standing straight, you turned to discover his sulky arms crossed in the entryway of the bathroom, shaking his head with a sinful upward turn of his mouth. 

He was a vision every day in faded sweats sitting on the v-cut of his hips, and a probably torn t-shirt. But the man was absolutely murderous in a suit on the rare occasion he was somehow coaxed into wearing one. No one forced Tommy to do a single thing that he didn’t want to, but occasionally you could pout your mouth just right, and maybe persuade him into a thing or two.

“That was a demand, not an observation, y’know…” he said, sauntering toward you with a lip pinched between his slightly uneven top row of teeth. He began to pull lightly at the top button of his crisp white shirt that contrasted his tanned skinned like sunshine and moonlight, readying himself for the very act he had suggested.

“Ah, ah, ah! Freeze,” you warned him with one ample finger to the exposed, hot flesh between his collarbones. “We’re already late, and I didn’t buy this outfit for nothing.”

The pair of you were to attend a PR event for a summer tournament Tommy was participating in, and his trainer threatened to pull him from the card if he couldn’t put on a professional face and make his requested appearance. So tonight, he’d resentfully wag you around on his arm, rolling his gray eyes every time the cameras flashed, and you would definitely take shameless advantage of the impressively stocked open bar.

He chivalrously escorted you down the brick stairs of your duplex and opened the passenger side of his newly purchased, classic model Mustang. It was a purchase he had made hastily with one of the first checks from an impressive victory, and spent overly excessive amounts of time rebuilding it to it’s full potential. The dark hues of the four-wheeled stallion suited Tommy faultlessly. Dark, potentially dangerous, and seeping with raw sexuality.

His thick fingers brushed away your long, chestnut waves to one side exposing a July sun-kissed shoulder where he placed a sticky, lingering kiss. You heard an airy chuckle in close proximity to your ear, no doubt knowing it was a reaction to the rash-like chills he instigated all over your body.

“How you gonna hold out on my lookin’ like this, Y/N? You know I ain’t gonna be able to behave…” the always animalistic aroused man filled his grasping paw with the swell of your taut backside.

Tommy was uncontrollably sexual from nearly sunrise, to sunset. Not that it was a complaint per say to have the likes of a statuesque man such as him fawning over you constantly. But you were all too familiar with the twisted, sensual games he liked to play when you attempted the valiant effort to muster up the courage and turn him down. The night was still very young, and already Tommy had on his best game face.

Upon starting the car to back carefully from your driveway, he leaned to place a hot hand just north of your knee. You assumed it was his request to hold your hand on the drive, but when the veined hand in question squeezed agonizingly tight, and deliberate you knew those suspicions were far from correct. Shifting in your seat, you mocked your movements to appear as if merely adjusting into a more comfortable position, careful to stifle the airy squeak of desire from your throat. But, resulting from the nervous squirms, your seatbelt strap had minimally exposed a teasing peak of your breast, pulling open the u-shaped sweetheart neck of your jumpsuit. As if smelling out the accidental uncovering of cleavage, Tommy lifted finger to trace teasingly upon the curve of your bosom leaving one hand safely on the wheel.

“You tryin’ to get me to pull this car over, are ya’?” Tommy wiggled awkwardly in his own seat, drawing attention to the very clear outline of the pulsing member thru the confines of his slacks. He licked his wanton mouth like a lapping kitten, and laid his head frustratingly upon the headrest.

Unconsciously, your mind began testing strategies on how he could take you in the car considering the inconvenience of your one-piece outfit, when you suddenly felt a whispering breeze of air on your chest. Taking advantage of your clearly distracted state, Tommy had finagled a way to pull down your top and was now rolling and tugging at your standing nipples.

“To… Tom. Tommy, are you crazy?! Someone could see,” you weakly scolded him behind closed eyes and a lulling tongue. Your body reacted by tensing like stone, but somehow your legs felt as tottering as Jello.

“Why d’ya think I got the darkest window tint on this car, baby? Ain’t nobody gonna get a sight of these creamy tits but me. I promise.” He continued the sinister rubs of his hands, and you felt the speed of the car slowly declining while the passing headlights seemed to speed furthermore.

When your mushed brain was able to relay the message to open your eyes, Tommy was easing the car into a corner parking space at a park in close proximity to the conference hall where the event was being held. Once placing the gear to the “P” on the dash, he searched the side of his seat for the lever to scoot himself further from the steering wheel of the car. Clearing making room for whatever tantric scenario he was rehearsing in his mind.

“You gonna crawl on outta that little outfit, or you plan on makin’ me tear it open to get what I been wantin’?”

You couldn’t look away from his delicious, hypnotizing stares and remained unmoved where you sat, breasts still catching the light of a full moon, and the green haze of the radio dials. Taking way more time than he saw fit, he opened his door exiting the car. Sitting awestruck and panting there alone in the still running vehicle, a sea of confusion drowned you. But suddenly, when a dark figure loomed on the outside of your murky, tinted window and nearly ripped the door from the hinges upon opening, it all made sense.

The impossibly broad man grasped you gently, but purposefully about the wrist and guided you to raise from your seat. You instinctively reached to shield your naked torso from the possible wondering eyes, but then noticed the vacant lot around you. Tommy was no fool, nor amateur to these racy situations, and he brought the two of you to this particular place knowing the solitary location. It was no accident you wound up here. He sluggishly discarded his suit jacket to your now empty seat, and unfastened his belt as he calmly relocated to the front end of the black sports car.

His lack of vocal explanations made you shutter with orgasmic exhilaration, knowing whatever Tommy planned would have you perspiring and writhing at some point in the exchange.

“C’mere, Y/N. I need some’n from ya’.” The headlights of the car had been shut off, but the dim orange of parking lights highlighted the calm demeanor across Tommy’s slightly scruffy face.

Wise, and aroused enough to not protest, your heels clacked boldly against the cracking chunks of blacktop below you as you followed the delectable mans’ orders. You should’ve been properly accustomed to your beau and his otherworldly visual aesthetics by now, but it seemed he had made a dirty deal with father time himself, and only got more handsome with age.

“And what makes you think I’m just going to hand over whatever it is than you need, Mr. Conlon?” You cooed, dragging lower the upper half of your clothing, now revealing the feminine skin just below your navel.

He lifted you then with little effort onto the hood heated by the smothering summer air, flat on your exposed back, stuffing his hands inside the rolled up mess of your jumpsuit to tug your legs from it. His eyes glazed with rigorous, carnal desire when he was met with only bare flesh underneath your clothing.

“Wha’ do we have here then, hm? Somebody was askin’ for a lil’ romp wi’ me by the looks of it.” He chuckled sultrily. His Pittsburgh lilt coming through more dominant as it usually did in when he was kidnapped by unmanageable lust.

“Don’t flatter yourself, mister. It was strictly for…… comfort purposes,” you attempted a logical excuse, but the tilting nod of his head gave way that he knew for certain the cheeky gesture was intended only to rile him.

Tommy lifted one of your petite legs to lay atop his shoulder and kissed the protruding ankle bone next to his mouth. Never missing a beat, he lazily slid his nose up the line of your calf, knee, mid-thigh, seemingly to inhale your aroma like a predatory jungle cat. His tongue almost unnoticeably stuck from between his lips, leaving a trail of saliva upon your skin to catch the effects of the breezy night wind. Your breathing pattern hitched when two coarse fingers sketched a tickling trail between your now parted southern lips, and Tommy exhaled a breathy laugh of giddy passion.

“By the feel of this slick spot between ya’ thighs, I think you’re gonna be just fine with givin’ me what it is I need from ya’, little girl.” One of the assaulting fingers curled inside your warm entrance, and the other unhurriedly followed suit. The bustle of passing freeway traffic only a short mile or two distance from us only augmented the allure of the already risky situation, and you knew Tommy’s adrenaline was indeed off the charts.

A heated moan of welcome danced from your lips as your back arched further into his slow-pounding hand, all the while the car beneath you rocked rhythmically with his motions. Licks like tepid bath water poured over the lobe of your ear and the pulse in your neck, and you felt slight twitches take over your legs.

“Tommy, I’m almost there. I wanna feel you, please…”

I knew I wouldn’t need to beg. Tommy didn’t care how you got your release as long as he was the cause, so he wouldn’t have any arguments in satisfying you with another member of his body.

He kept a thumb perfectly pressured on your begging clit while smoothly taking down his zipper.

“I guess I oughta get these outta the way, huh. Since I know you’ll go ‘n make a mess of ‘em,” he teased dropping the dark navy shade of his pants just above his knees.

He yanked you sternly and eagerly lower on the hood, evening himself up to the desired target before entering at a torturously slow pace. Thankful in that instant you had decided on loose, relaxed hair for the evening considering the rutting, flailing movements of your head. Tommy never closed his eyes when the two of you made love, afraid he may miss the bounce of your perfectly portioned breasts, or the needful way you gnawed on your lip almost drawing blood when he grazed your internal sweet spot.

“That’s what my girl likes, ain’t it? Tell me, baby. How’s that feelin’?” He antagonized with a furrowed, smiling brow. Tommy was a man of few words in the public eye, but an explicit poet in the bedroom, and he expected the same of his partner.

He knew your body as well as he knew the pages of an MMA rulebook, so he understood fully just how stupidly crazy those slow thrusts made you. He said you were the first woman he’d known to go ‘fuckin’ ape shit’ with hard, drawn-out movements rather than the sloppy, highspeed pumps. But he quickly grew to love himself those less exaggerated speeds, and found a happy medium to suit you both.

 The modest leg coverage of your clothing choice would be necessary when he was done with you, feeling the aches of fingerprint bruises already embedded into your thighs. The marks of crescent moons would still be lingering there tomorrow, a naughty reminder of how powerfully possessive Tommy was.

“Just like that, Tom. I’m getting so close. You’re so good, babe,” I showered his ego with unashamed compliments, feeling a tight knot tangling in my lower belly.

He pulled you up to rest on your elbows, desiring a plainer view of the contorted screams of orgasm that impended closely, then nearly knocked you unconscious with the strike of his kiss.

A shrieking cry pulsed from inside you, followed by the increased cadence of his in and out movements, announcing his own guttural explosion. Tommy’s head lilted backwards facing the open sky, and from my point of view, he resembled a feverish werewolf calling out to the fullness of the moon.

“Much betta. Now maybe I won’t lose my shit and break some reporters nose at this fuckin’ thing,” he stated while offering you a hand in aid as you scooted to drop onto the ground.

“Would you mind handing me some clothes, Conlon. I’d prefer not to get arrested tonight for public indecency.” You tiptoed for a kiss as the man offered an open leg of the jumpsuit for you to step into.

 The two of you giggled like law-breaking teenagers the entire night, feeling sly that no one in the room knew about the very public ravishing that had taken place just hours earlier. Tommy seemed annoyed, yet controlled amongst the vast media questioning and countless photo-ops, and you gave yourself the proverbial pat on the back for probably being the cause of such. All the while in your mind, you amped up for the next public event he’d drag you to, wondering whether these bathroom doors had locks on them.

[red-wardens]

Red-Warden’s OC Page

Because this is all on my OC Page (that I have a link to on my sidebar), but is therefore inaccessible to those who using tumblr app or tumblr from their non-computer devices, I am copy and pasting my OC Page onto a post for anyone interested :) My Warden Squad + Hawkes + Inquisitors 

Under the cut because pictures + descriptions = long post.

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Picture Credits: Isseya Mahariel (@Vasirah), Kieran Tabris (@noquiethere), Ronan Aeducan (@blue-spectre), Nora Brosca (@chillyrose), Cassian Cousland (@varrric)

Ages: Start of Origins (Dragon 9:30), Start of Inquisition (Dragon 9:41)

Blue Surana: the Leader (my “canon” Warden Commander) and Most Powerful Warden on Squad 

5'4, silence and duty and eccentricity; elf mage, Fire mage (Specialization: Arcane Warrior/Spirit Healer/Battle Mage), royal blue eyes, expressionless face, seldom talks but when she does her voice is very toneless; strong sensitivity to loud sounds/bright lights; generally has a physical touch aversion; True Neutral, Virgo

During Blight: age 18, bobbed white hair tied back and straight-across bangs; has difficulty processing emotions and understanding feelings/actions of others; generally keeps to herself, somewhat scary/spooky aura; 

During Inquisition: age 29, waist-length white hair and straight-across bangs; sclera of eyes is darker and some of her veins are black/blackening due to the taint (affects her more than most Wardens)

LI/sexuality: mutual pining for Sten; Asexual/Grey-romantic

Creator Notes: Though there’s no official word for it in Thedas, in Modern AU Blue is diagnosed as a child with high-functioning Autistic Spectrum Disorder. She is also half-Middle Eastern, half-Indian coded.

Hero of World State 1 (survives Archdemon)

Blue’s Aesthetic Tag

Isseya Mahariel: the Second in Command and the Arlessa of Amaranthine

*also Becomes Warden Commander when Surana steps down to look for Cure for The Calling

5'7, sternness and skill and pride; Dalish Archer, Rogue (Specialization: Ranger), dark green eyes, beautiful but often looks annoyed/disapproving, alcoholic tendencies; low key really likes halla; Lawful Neutral, Capricorn 

During Blight: age 19, thick black hair in long thin braids, impatient but not impulsive, prone to yelling, very prideful and sure of herself, generally unsentimental 

During Inquisition: age 30, the Grey Wardens are her life (married to job trope, but also married to Zev), scars from archdemon fight, firm but fair; wants kids but the Warden taint makes it hard; lost faith in Elven gods but still respects Dalish culture   

LI/sexuality: Zevran Arainai; Heterosexual 

Creator Notes: In Thedas her Mahariel parents are from Rivain; in Modern AU she is Kenyan-Japanese mix coded with predominantly Kenyan culture (understands Swahili). 

Hero of World State 2 (survives Archdemon)

Isseya’s Aesthetic Tag

Alyss Amell: the Healer/medic of Squad; generally non-combatant beyond setting glyphs and in-fight healing

5'2, sweetness and hope and tears; human mage, Creation Mage (Specialization: Spirit Healer/Blood Mage/Rift Mage [by Inquisition time]), pale blue eyes, half-Orlesian and fluent in the language, loves reading/studying, shy and gentle, blushes easily; Chaotic Good, Cancer

During Blight: age 21, light brown hair slightly past shoulders and tied back with a pink ribbon; kind but timid, no self-confidence and no “fight-or-flight” instinct only “freeze and cry"; huge affinity for sweets and breads

During Inquisition: age 32, still kind-hearted but braver and more sure of herself, still shy but can speak up in front of others now, hairstyle now the “bisexual bob”, new hair ribbon is a pale blue 

LI/sexuality: Leliana; Demisexual/Biromantic

Creator Notes: In Thedas her father is Orlesian so her mom Revka Amell decides to keep her maiden name to make it easier on her children; in Modern AU she is French-American coded and was diagnosed with Severe Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder at age 14. 

Hero of World State 3 (dies slaying Archdemon)

Alyss’ Aesthetic Tag

Kieran Tabris: the Vanguard, always first to charge into battle

5'9, candidness and loyalty and a fiery temper; City elf, Two-Handed Sword Warrior (Specialization: Templar/Reaver),  motivated by spite and aesthetic (also attention), talks about his mom a lot; Chaotic Neutral, Aries

During Blight: age 20, pretty but petty with a loud foul mouth, has never had a single chill in his life; raging hatred towards humans (except is neutral to human mages), idiotic tendencies, a pain in the ass to Mahariel 

During Inquisition: age 31, has obtained some chill but not much

LI/sexuality: has a son with Morrigan (one night stand, never sees her again, doesn’t want to), was in an on-and-off relationship for a couple years with Velanna but they eventually broke up for good; Bisexual/Grey-romantic (strong aversion to humans). 

Creator Notes: In Thedas he and his mom came to Ferelden from an island to the East of the Amaranthine Sea. His mom married Cyrion after Adaia and City Elf Warden (the real Tabris Warden) both died. Kyung-jae is his real name and “Kieran” was the name he adopted in Ferelden while learning Trade language. He is not blood related to Sorris or Shianni; in Modern AU he is Korean coded and diagnosed with ADHD and ODD when he was 9. In any AU he has poor eyesight. 

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Kieran’s Aesthetic Tag

Ronan Aeducan: the Battle Strategist of Squad; the Lazy Genius™ 

5'0, naps and brilliance and easy-going neutrality, dwarf noble, Two handed Battle Hammer Warrior (Specialization: Berserker/ Spirit Warrior),  great at sketching and painting; good at remaining impartial towards things; Neutral Good, Aquarius

During Blight: age 27, man-bun and many earrings, avoids responsibilities but is chill to talk to; huge guilt complex and overthinks things but keeps anxiety and intrusive thoughts to himself

During Inquisition: age 38, generally the same but slightly less lazy; has reconciled with his past and mostly found peace

LI/sexuality: n/a; Asexual/Aromantic

Creator Notes: In Thedas, while his brothers look like their father, Ronan looks like his mother. Modern AU he is Indian coded and can speak Hindi and English.

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Ronan’s Aesthetic Tag

Nora Brosca: the Wildcard of Squad; great in battle, not so great at taking orders

4'8, laughter and blades and boldness, dwarf commoner, Dual-Wielding Axe Rogue (Specialization: Assassin/Legionare Scout); Chaotic Neutral, Leo

During Blight: age 22, medium-length wild red hair and freckles, jokes and puns; solves problems with murder, kleptomaniac tendencies and habitual liar; brave but not loyal (self-preserving)

During Inquisition: age 33, shorter red hair and more freckles, even more jokes and puns; has had casteless tattoos removed; nugs are now friends not food; now deeply loyal to friends/wardens

LI/sexuality: Sigrun, Lesbian

Creator Notes: In Modern AU she is German coded born and raised in Brazil, speaks fluent Portuguese. 

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Nora’s Aesthetic Tag

Cassian Cousland: the Tank of Squad; the “Stay Behind Me” Hero

5'11 (slouching) 6'1 (prosper posture), kindness and justice and passion; human noble, Sword and Shield Warrior (Specialization: Champion/Guardian), moves his hands a lot while talking, laughs easily, passionate romantic, will always do The Right Thing™ but often struggles deciding what the “right thing” is; Lawful Good, Libra

During Blight: age 24, scruffy hair, adopts all the dogs, long scar from top to bottom left of face from Rendon Howe; likes to journal everything and write stories,

During Inquisition: age 35, slightly longer scruffy hair, adopts more dogs and orphans of Mage-Templar War, has published some of his books

LI/sexuality: Nathaniel Howe; Gay

Creator Notes: In Thedas his mother’s parents are from Antiva and he can speak Antivan, moderate PTSD from his experiences during the Blight; in Modern AU he is Mexican coded and speaks fluent Spanish and English. 

Not a ‘Hero of Ferelden’, exists only in Multi-Warden AU

Cassian’s Aesthetic Tag

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Aesthetic Boards: Click here to see their pretty aesthetics!

My OC’s Summarized in 5 GIFs: Click here!

What they each think of The Taint/The Calling: Click for Mild Angst

If they each had 1 Pokemon: Click to see their partner!

My OC’s Zodiac/Astrology Sign Explanations: Click if Curious

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Claira Hawke: the “Champion” of Kirkwall; the Hot/Cold Mess

5'5, conversation and anxiety and adaptability; Blue-Red Hawke, human, Dual Sword Rogue (Specialization: Shadow), Alyss Amell’s cousin; dynamic but fickle, brave but get panic attacks, literally runs away from problems, changes demeanor depending on who she is with; Neutral Good, Gemini

Fled to Kirkwall: age 25, good intentions but has no clue what she’s doing, fumbles around and gets by on more luck than skill (sometimes wit), weary around strangers but won’t shut up around friends, her mabari’s name is Bear.

During Inquisition: age 36, takes Anders (and their 3-year old son Silas) to the Wardens to hide them there with her cousin and her friends while she goes help the Inquisition 

LI/sexuality: Anders; disaster Bi

Creator Notes: In Modern AU she is English coded and has had Panic Disorder and several eating disorders since she was 13. Loves cats but is allergic to them (and to many other things).

Champion for World State World State 3 and the Multi-Warden AU

Important Headcanon: In the Multi-Warden AU, both twins live (Varric lies to Cassandra that Carver died to keep his whereabouts hidden) - Carver becomes a Warden and Bethany a Circle Mage; but in her canon World State 3, both of the twins die (Carver is killed by the ogre, Bethany dies during the Deep Roads Expedition)

Click for 5 Facts

Click for Faceclaim

Claira’s Aesthetic Tag

Henley Hawke, The Champion of Kirkwall; the Insomniac Goth 

5'10, tired eyes and sharp edges and blunt apathy; Red Hawke, human, Spirit/Primal focused Mage (Specialization: Blood Mage), tattoos to hide dark-eye bags, rude and anti-social attitude mostly because she’s so exhausted all the time from her insomnia; Neutral Evil, Taurus

Fled to Kirkwall: age 25, cool, capable yet completely uninterested in anything but making gold and keeping her rivaled brother Carver and her mabari “Better Carver” (“BC”) alive. Very “I’m not here to help anyone or make friends,” (Varric is literally her only friend)

LI/sexuality: Sebastian Vael (Rivalmanced); pan-romantic/asexual

Creator Notes: In Modern AU she is Irish coded and still has chronic mediation-treated insomnia. Also she’s very goth punk and dyes her hair often. In Thedas she uses magic to make it that color of burgandy. 

Champion for World State 2 

Described in 5 Gifs

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[peakyblinders-au]

Ekaterina Lvovna Smirnova

Tumblr Url & Your Real Name: @peakytoms // Kat

Character Full Name: Ekaterina Lvovna Smirnova

Nicknames/Alias: Kitty (only by Tommy), Katherine for all the other english people, some (Arthur, Alfie) call her Kit

Face Claim:

Backstory for nicknames/alias/names: Tommy is the only one who can call her Kitty because he’s the only one that has made her purr

Gender: Female

Gender Role: if you want a backstory for this add anymore necessary info here as well for the gender prompt

Sexual Orientation: She’s whatever she has to be but mostly hetero

Age: 19

Birthday: August 21 1900

Deathday: I mean I don’t want her to die, but honestly you guys are the writers and do what you do

Birthplace: Anapa, Russia

Ethnicity: Russian

Family Members: Orphan-  mother (Nadezhda) died on the way to England from russia,  father (Lev) was killed in a bar-fight when she was 16, she has a brother (Pyotr/Peter) who moved to Scotland for work but they are not close

Children: none

Face shape: Heart Shape

Eye colour: Green

Hair colour: Black

Hairstyle: long curly hair that is normally down but pinned up when needed (especially when I was on the street)

Skin tone:  she was born close to the sea so she tan easily, but because it’s England she is now quite pale

Complexion: a light olive (like mila kunis/penelope cruz) but shes hella pale rn

Body type/Build: slim (but she’s got some hips)

Height: 5’4

Weight: 90-100 lbs

Breast size: 34B (they seem bigger on her since she’s so tiny but its a good handful)

Facial Hair: none (well-eyebrows and like baby hairs)

Scars/Birthmarks/Prominent Features:

Scars

She has a scar about 5 cm on her chest from when she was once attacked with a bottle while on the streets (but really it happened when she killed her dad…oooh plot twist), and a few cigarette burns on her arms from her dad as well

Birthmarks

She has a tiny one in the shape of a heart on her cheekbone- like scarlett Johansson

A birthmark the size of Tommy’s palm on her right buttcheek—its light brown (Tommy says it was a sign that he was meant for me because it’s the perfect size of his hand)

Preferred hand: Righty,

Health: she was malnourished as a child and teen so she’s slim and has a problem with eating food- like she likes to store food cuz she’s always worried she will one day have none

Phobias: she is kinda afraid of the dark, but the fear dwindles the longer she lives with tommy

Addictions: she eventually becomes addicted to cigarettes after living with Tommy

Mental Disorders: slight anxiety but nothing too maladaptive

Attitude: she seems pretty meek and quiet when you first meet her so many underestimate her (also because of how small she is). but in reality she has a non-nonsense attitude and is not at all afraid to speak her mind. she’s kinda like a less exuberant Tatiana

Expressions: when she’s nervous she scratches at the scar on her chest and nibbles on her lips

Residence: she used to live on the street and would get a room when she could afford one, now she lives with Tommy and his wife (Erika)

Political Affiliation: she doesn’t know enough about politics since she’s not educated and hasn’t worked in any organization or legitimate place. plus she’s an immigrant (came to England as a child)— but probably more communist since she hates Imperialism and the imbalances of capitalism

Friends: Erikas character is one of her friends (she found her on the street and took her in since she was so young (but really, she was 19 just looked so young since she was so malnourished), she’s also pretty close to Finn, and Isiah because they are close in age (eventually Michael but she doesn’t really get good vibes from him and so avoids him) but she doesn’t spend much time with them since she’s so busy

Enemies: she HATES the Russians because they’re the bourgeoisie and ran the Jews out of Russia

Boss: Erika is kinda her boss (She help look after the kid and work around the house to earn her keep) but Tommy also sometimes uses her to help in business (he once tried to set her on Kimber and Erika bitched him out for it, but she’s still willing to help because she’s cunning and has a good eye for who tommy should/should not trust)

Pets: She has one dog (Nochka) who was a stray that she found and bonded with, Nochka is like her little guardian (She is a mutt and kinda like a scruffy collie; see picture)

Finances: PISS POOR, she’s living on the streets, stealing when she can (which she doesn’t like but a girls gotta eat), she wants to work but finds it hard since all the men came back, so sometimes she has to work the streets out of sheer desperation)

Marital Status: not married

Sex Life: HECK YES. I want her to smash Alfie cuz she’s a Jewess and Tommy sets them up (he figured since Alfie is such a loud mouth and she was Jewish, he would tell her all his secrets- which he did since its Alfie)

Lovers: so eventually she is going to become Tommy’s mistress (but not at the beginning since she’s young and he doesn’t trust her), though eventually as they spend more time together (because she starts to work for him) he starts to trust herm talk to her about business, and develop feelings (he’s an older man though and feels weird about it at first and doesn’t want to take advantage, but she makes it clear that the feelings are reciprocated)

Turn-ons: she’s kinda a masochist (her abuse from when she was young left her kinda damaged so she likes pain, but she also likes giving it since she sometimes also has a power kink

Turn-offs: she hates men with dirty hands since they remind her of her father (she makes sure Alfie washes his hands thoroughly before the bang bang)

Dom or Sub: she’s a switch– usually she’s more sub cuz of her masochism, but she knows when Tommy is being to hard on himself and needs to take the reigns herself)

Fantasies: if you want this written or at least known go ahead but i can’t promise it will be apart of the story, there is only so much time and so many episodes y’know!

Occupation: she’s worked as a seamstress and a prostitute, but now she’s whatever she needs to be for Tommy and his wife (babysitter, maid, trojan horse— meaning that Tommy sometimes uses her to get info from his enemies, kinda like lizzie in season 2)

Income: she doesn’t have one for the beginning since she’s getting to live with Tommy for free, but eventually he starts paying her because he knows how much she needs to have money saved to feel safe

Work Experience: seamstress, factory worker, child-care worker, prostitute

Religion: she grew up in Judaism but she doesn’t identify with it (If a god put her through what she went through then it’s not a god she wants to worship)

Criminal Record: she’s been arrested for theft and solicitation but because everyone thinks she’s so young she’s never been to jail for long

Morals: she tries her best to be a good person, she doesn’t like picking on the little guys, but doesn’t mind knocking the big ones down a few pegs. She also knows that morals sometimes get in the way when you need stuff (she would steal and sell herself when she needed to) so she’s not fused to her morals

Main Goal: she just wants to get out of her destitution and feel safe somewhere. Once she feels safe in Tommy’s home and begins to trust him, she becomes loyal as a dog (Russians are fiercely loyal). She just wants to be happy and healthy and safe

Ambitions: her only ambition is to better her life and protect the ones she loves, she is willing to kill if she has to

Regrets: she doesn’t really regret anything, she believes that things happen as they will happen and it’s pointless to regret and worry about things (she’s a total Russian)

Secrets: her dad died “in a bar fight” but in reality she killed him. After the mum died, her dad would get drunk and mistake her for her mum and assault her, her brother used to help but when he went off to war it was just the two of them, and she killed him and that’s how she became homeless. No one except Tommy knows what her dad did to her, and what she did to him.

Best memories: anything to do with her mum, her and her mum used to garden and go to the beach, so when she moves in with Tommy, she asks very kindly for a small garden in memory of her mama.

Also the first time that Tommy smiled at her (she was admiring his horse one day when she thought he wasn’t around, and she fed the horse an apple, and she heard Tommy chuckle because of how amazed she was with the horse eating it, and it was the first time she saw him smile at her– this was back when she first moved in and Tommy didn’t trust her)

Worst memories: literally all of her life from when her mum died to when Tommy’s wife took her in

Hobbies: she’s started smoking since she’s moved into Tommy’s (it’s silly but she started smoking so they would have something in common, she was always smitten by him)

Skills: she’s really good with knives (duh she’s Russian), she’s also really good at languages and picking them up, accents etc. (but this isn’t like essential i guess), she’s also very stealthy and sneaky

Likes: LOVES READING and gardening so much, and just hanging out by water and laying down on the grass and just relaxing and feeling safe, she loves the sun (which sucks cuz lel it’s Birmingham and England), LOVES baths (and loves having them with Tommyboy)

Dislikes: she hates when people are rude to those who have less than them,

Superstitions: SO SUPERSTITIOUS SHE’S RUSSIAN (but not superstitious about anything to do with cats, she loves all animals)

Quirks: she talks to herself a lot

Guilty Pleasures: she LOVES sweets. Like if there is a sweet in the house for Tommy’s kids, she’s eating them. She saves up what she can just to buy sweets and when Tommy is feeling kind, he brings her back some and just acts all chill and non-chalant about it, but loves how excited and happy she reacts every time)

Strengths: she’s strong and capable, she’s smart and knows how to read people really well

Weaknesses: she doesn’t trust anyone really

Languages: Russian, English, Yiddish/Hebrew, she’s picked up French from Erikas character and thus find its easy to pick up other romance and Slavic languages- at least she has a rudimentary knowledge of understanding (she cant speak most but she can listen)

Accent: English, Brummie

Speech Impediments: none

Voice:

Reputation: she has a pretty poor reputation, since she was a nuisance to most of society while on the streets, now she has a reputation for being Tommy mistress, which means people fear and ‘respect’ her (at least to her face, but to her back, they think she’s just a gold digging whore)

Backstory: KAY SO, what I was thinking was, Ekaterina and her fam, emigrated from Russia (though really they were like forced because they were Jewish) when she was like 10, and her mum died when she was 11 before they got to the UK. Since her mum died, her dad has been abusing her when he gets drunk (which was very frequent) because she looked like her mama. Her brother used to try to protect her but papa was big and when he was drunk it would be one helluva mess to fight with him. When brother went to war, and it was just her and her dad, it was awful and one day she snapped and she killed him (and everyone just assumed it was some barfight). She stayed in the house for a bit but eventually was thrown onto the streets when the men came back from war and she lost her job. Now homeless, she had to steal, and sell her body to live. She befriended a stray who would stay with her and cuddle her for warmth on nights that she spent on the streets, and the dog became her guardian and security. One day Tommy’s wife saw her and the dog curled up in some corner on the street and legit thought it was a dead child (because she was so tiny), so she took her in to her home (and the dog to since it refused to leave Kit (it was barking like mad until it was let in). Tommy’s wife was nice and at first Kit lied about her age figuring it would be easier to get pity if she were younger and not an adult). Tommy was mad as hell that she let some stranger into the house, but he couldn’t force her to throw Kit out, so she stayed and started helping out around the house (baby-sitting, housework, etc). Tommy, who was suspicious of Kit, ignored her at first, but then started ‘asking’ (read: manipulating, psychological coercing) her to help with the business (used her to sweeten the deal with Alfie and get some deets, wanted her to seduce some potential enemies etc.).

Eventually, as she spend more time with Tommy, they get used to one another, and he begins to trust her and see her worth as a business advisor kinda. He knows that she’s good at reading people and he trusts her to help him out so they become close. Tommy has known that she has been lying about her age for a while and as they get closer, he becomes more and more attracted to her, but feels awks about it since she’s like the young hot nanny, and he’s older (so modest and insecure for someone so beautiful sigh). She obviously feels the same (since Hello it’s Tommy Shelby and god those eyes????), so eventually she just flat out asks him if he’s attracted to her “because I am attracted to you”. And badda boom badda bing, they get it on. She at first feels kinda bad about it because she genuinely loves his wife and owes her her life for taking her in, but she’s still Russian and so thinks that things happen for a reason (so the universe wanted them to all be together because it brought them together). Kitty is definitely the one that gets Tommy the most, and helps him out with the business. She understand him and why he does what he does, but she isn’t afraid to give him shit when he’s being unnecessarily awful.

Her and Tommy’s relationship is very unique– like they are friends and confidantes first and they share everything with one another and trust each other completely. But they also get down and dirty and that’s where Tommy lets out all his kinks (she’s Russian so she judged nothing in the bedroom…nothing).

[howardlinkedin]

Debriefing (And Other Bad Jokes) Part 3

Part 2 here: X Summary: Things get serious except not since Tyki Mikk is now involved and Kanda breaks a chair. Meanwhile, Link struggles coming to terms that everyone he works with is attractive. 

The basement of the Black Order Police Department houses a gym, for the long nights of work, giving reprieve for the mind from homicide cases and missing persons reports.

Often, Lenalee could be found tearing up the treadmill or destroying yet another punching bag. Link had been given a perfect view of a hundred pound leather bag of cushion be ripped off its chain from the ceiling and burst at the seams the instance it hit the padded floor one evening, and it part frightened him and part aroused him.

The second half of that particular section in his lizard brain was vehemently beat down and shoved into a dark void Link managed to conjure up in his mind.

He was excellent at compartmentalizing.

“Oh, hello detective!” Miss Lee greeted, not at all out of breath as she lifted a new bag to replace the one she just decimated. “Do you need a sparring partner?”

---

Lenalee Lee, for all her loveliness and grace, was a real powerhouse compacted in a five-foot-eight, 140 pound body.

After Link became fast friends with the gym floor for the sixth time, countering the two he managed to deal her, the detective decided it was time to cede.

From the sidelines, Miranda applauded them both.

Laughing, the female officer handed the blonde a water. “Thanks Link! Who knew a stuffy guy like you had it in him?”

Link couldn’t tell if he was being insulted or complimented, but took the water anyway with gratitude.

On the opposite end of the gym, Walker was doing handstand pushups with just one arm, like the show off he was. Kanda thought it was a good opportunity to kick the arm out from under his partner.

The sparring match that ensued was really just a flurry of white and black, and Lenalee snorted while ushering out the medic and detective. “Let’s go before they start making out.”

“That is unprofessional.” Link looked cross, and was about to make himself stay and monitor the two.

“Listen.” The female officer looked the blonde detective in the eyes. “Either you ignore them or Allen will try and convince you to join them, OR Kanda will break both of your legs.”

---

Link wisely left, if only because he was conflicted and didn’t know which option sounded most appealing to him.

Once again, into the naughty thought box these feelings went.

---

Exactly one day after the bloodied wall and discovering that Walker had a stalker (and that he and Officer Kanda have more meaning behind the wrestling they do on the floor), Allen says:

“Arrest me officer.”

On reflex, Kanda snaps handcuffs on the other man and starts to drag him to the cells.

“No, no, you have to take me to the actual prison Bakanda.” Allen had the audacity to sound vexed that his partner didn’t follow his train of thought.

Lenalee was the one to often remind him that no one understands his thoughts, regardless of years acquainted, because his brain was a barrage of cats chasing after the same laser light.

Except, sometimes Kanda could comprehend Allen’s thought processes, when given the right cues.

Which leads the officer to turn into rage personified and snap a very pointed “NO.” in his partner’s face.  

Allen sighs and shrugs. “Well alright.”

Two seconds of silence.

“If you won’t come with me I’ll just take Link.”

With a click, the handcuffs fell to the ground, and Allen is out of the door with a very startled detective dragged behind him.

Kanda is left seething, glaring at the door.

---

This is how Howard Link found himself in the center of the Maximum Security Penitentiary’s recreation room, surrounded by people who have earned their occupancy, shadowing Officer Allen Walker.   

“Where’s your usual guard dog at Walker?” The one Link began to call Fellon 1 in his mind, asked.

“Yeah! Ain’t you always followed by that angry lookin’ guy?” Fellon 2 quips, looking Link up from head to toe. “This one’s just as nice to look at though.”

The blonde’s eyebrow twitched.

With a snap of his fingers, Allen redirects the group’s attention, expression serious. “Alright eyes over here.”

He slaps a hand of cards on the table.

“Full House!”

Everyone in the room groans, couple kick chairs over.

“Damnit Walker!”

Of course, Allen Walker is playing poker with criminals. Of course he is.

How the officer even gained easy access to the prison was beyond Link, seeing as it took months of paperwork to gain clearance. But nope. Not Allen Walker, manipulative, sunshine boy of the Black Order.

All the security had done was take one look at the white haired officer’s smiling face, and all entrances were open.

“Walker.” The detective hissed, side eyeing everyone else in the room. “This is not necessary! You’re overstepping your bounds enough as it is, if you don’t leave this instance, I’ll have to personally report you to the board!”

All parties in the recc room gave Link a blank (and somewhat crazed) stare.

White brows raised, Allen huffs. “Link it’s fine, these are my friends.”

“What?!”

All felons present erupted with laughter, because apparently Link was in an alternate universe, and he was actually the one not making sense.

The door slides open, and clad in awful prison orange, ankle chains and handcuffs, a scruffy man with a nest of hair and cracked glasses was escorted in.

Silence.

Allen twiddled his fingers at the newcomer. “Tyki, I love the,” He motioned with his entire hand. “Whole hobo rat aesthetic you’ve got going on.”

Turning on his heel, the man exits the room, only to return minutes later looking like a completely different person.

His hair was slicked back, revealing a crown of thorny symbols tattooed across his brow, glasses gone. He even popped his collar on his ugly orange jumpsuit, which Link thought was pointless.

The ink across his forehead labeled him unmistakingly Noah.

“Boy! Long time no see! Where’s your handsome hellhound at?”

Tyki Mikk managed to make walking in chains look languid as he shooed Fellon 1 from his seat and took the spot for himself.

The detective was really getting tired of being compared to Yuu Kanda, who apparently rarely left his partner’s side if even criminals took notice.

Allen began to collect and reshuffle his cards. “It’s hardly been a month Tyki.”

“Yes, but a lonely month without you here to brighten my dim days.” The literal murderer purred, accepting his cards. 

“No.”

Both men blinked and turned to look questioningly at the detective. He looked down right aghast.

“YOU.” Link points directly at Allen nose.

It scrunched.

“Are NOT going to play POKER with a Noah, and FLIRT with him!”

Allen sets down a three of spades in response. “Yes I am.”

Tyki began to howl with laughter.

---

For all their bickering, both Kanda and Walker made an excellent team.

And this was not just because they sometimes make out heavily on desks or hold hands at dinner.

Well, Allen holds Kanda’s hand while Kanda frowns A Lot at his fork like the awkward duck he was.

But as the smaller officer would say, details.

This exceptional teamwork allowed them to work in tandem through various plans, without needing to breathe an actual word to the other about said plan.

Which was why, even though Officer Yuu Kanda would rather be holding his sword to a certain Noah’s throat,  he also needed the detective out and his busybody ass away.

And Allen knew this. Thus, the grand display to drag Howard Link with him to crusade the Maximum Security Prison, and allow his partner to do what he felt needed to be done.

Which right now was lock himself and Lavi in the Profiler’s office like a creepy creeper.

“Now Yuu,” Lavi admonished, “I respect Allen too much to have an affair.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Kanda decided slicing Lavi’s chair in half would be a good stress relief.

The redhead looks balefully at the slaughtered seat. “Feel better?” “No.”

Bookman hummed and opted to sit on his desk. “Is this about our new detective?”

“I hate him, and I know you can give me actual reasons why.” Kanda rarely ever needed an excuse to hate someone. It’s usually his default reaction to new people, until they move mountains to prove to his judgmental and distrustful ego that they are not, in fact, agents of Satan. 

Which makes many wonder how exactly Allen Walker managed to worm his way into the angry man’s prickly heart.

But Howard Link? He arrived too soon to replace an incompetent detective, directly after too suspicious and fresh circumstances.

---

Lavi Bookman, mischievous, freckled man known by most for his constant jokes and upbeat persona.

Red hair in a constant state of windswept, with one eye hidden behind a patch after an unfortunate encounter, and the other a happy green.

Though, if one really took their chance to know him, they would soon find out that Lavi was also a satellite of surveillance. Every inch moved, every breath taken, Bookman could categorize someone’s every nuance and motivation with just a glance.

He wasn’t a Profiler for nothing.

It was thanks to him, that the PD was able to compile Tyki Mikk’s exact mental profile, right down for his need to become emotionally attached to his victims into order to kill them. Lavi never even saw the man, until the night of his arrest. 

  The moment Howard Link entered his line of vision, Bookman saw everything.

Which served frustrating, given the fact that Lavi was also a secretive bastard, and hardly ever shared his knowledge unless when on a case.

Kanda was frustrated he even had to ask.

---

A solid hour escaped them as Tyki and Allen tossed words and cards like ping pong across the table.

At one point, the Noah had tried to glide his foot up Allen’s leg, only for the officer to stomp it into submission.

Quite brutally.

For all of Allen’s honeyed words and inviting eyes, he had a very strict No Touching Allowed policy with condemned criminals. At this, Link’s mind rested just a millisecond.

Allen set down his cards. “Four of a kind!”

The Noah gaped and slammed his hands on the table. “STOP BEING A CHEAT!” he accused.

The officer took on an innocent expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, everything I do is fair and square.”

Letting out a frustrated, gravelly sound in the back of his throat, Mikk slouched elegantly in his chair.

On this day in history, Howard Link witnessed a decorated officer of the Order make nice with hardened criminals, play a card game with a Noah and watch said Noah pout like a child.

What was Link’s life, honestly?

“So,” After getting over his small fit at losing, Tyki stared intently at the officer. “What can I do you for? I doubt you came all this way to just humiliate me at cards.”

Wordlessly, Allen tossed a manilla file on the table, along with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Link glared at the white haired man, because where and when did he even get that information?

“Walker.” his voice warned.

At the sight of nicotine and fire, the Noah’s copper eyes light up. “Always so thoughtful, this is why I love you.”

At the admission, the detective felt his jaw crack, due to how hard he had just snapped his teeth.

Allen merely sighed out his nose and rolled his eyes.

Wasting no time opening the packet and lighting a stick, the Noah flipped open the obvious very classified file, filled with very sensitive information. “What bedtime story do you have for me here-oh GROSS!”

Tyki took on a very offended expression, sticking his tongue out in disgust. “Who the hell IS COPYING me? What the FUCK? THIS IS HORRIBLE.”

Stealing hearts, literally, was HIS modus operandi!

Before the Noah could get further outraged, and beyond reasonable, Allen reached over and

Poked his nuckle.

Tyki Mikk stared at the lone finger for a good three seconds before attempting to grab at the whole hand entirely. Allen moved it away out of his reach, looking as unimpressed as can be.

It should also be known that listed in Mikk’s file, the man was known to be obnoxiously tactile, needy, and prone to fixate on things he felt he couldn’t have.

As Tyki made grabby hands, Allen asked. “Do you know of anyone willing to go this far in copying you?”

“No.” The Noah had resorted to laying half of his body on the table in a sulk when he realized that he would not be getting to hold hands with the pretty police man.

Tyki’s life was frustrating like that.

“Sheryl might know though. The bastard knows everything that goes on when it involves death and destruction.”

Allen groaned, “I can’t stand Sheryl.”

“Join the club, Boy.” Mikk, still sulking, resumed flipping through the file. “OH DAMN.” He bolted up, eyes filled with glee.

“Whoever this jackass is, they sure take good photos.” The Noah, much to Link’s horror, spread all of Allen images on the table and began to pet them. “Damn, you look fine in these.”

“I know.” The officer was smug.

“I’m keeping these.”

“No.”

---

After Allen most likely fractured the Noah’s hands with a deck of cards for the file (and photos), the very frustrated detective and overly calm officer made their leave.

“Just be careful Boy.” Tyki warned. “Whoever did this, took a lot of effort to make this message for you. Someone wants your attention.”

An ominous promise, if Link have ever heard one.

---

Back at the Department, Kanda all but dragged his partner away where no one saw hide or hair of either officer for the rest of the evening.

At his desk, Link felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.

Someone had been through his things.

It was minute, subtle. But Link was a detective, and the little misalignment of his pens and computer items sent warnings behind his eyes.

After thoroughly combing over all of the drawers, it seemed as though no one has taken anything. In fact, despite the slight misplacement of everything, none of Link’s belongings were missing.

There was a clap on his back, causing him to jump.

“HA! How was your first ride with Allen?” It was the Bookman, eye twinkling. “You look a little frazzled, my guy.”

“It was...interesting.” The blonde cleared his throat. “I am in decent order mentally and physically, there is no need to comment.”  

Lavi blew a rather loud, and unneeded,  raspberry in Link’s face. “Yeah, whatever Mister Short Stack McTough Guy.”

“What?”

---

That night, Link also discovered that someone had ransacked his home.

Walker’s file was missing.