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littledarlingone · 2 years

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A Happy Christmas (G. W.)

Synopsis: It’s Christmas at Hogwarts, and Sorah has no home to go to. Her plans to stay at Hogwarts spin out, though, when George Weasley makes it his mission to take her home for the holidays. (4.1k)

Warnings: mentions of no family/home, George being a smidge pushy, arguments, mentions of a fear of intimacy, fluff, afab OC, kissing, cuddling—let me know if I missed anything! <3

A/N: this is my first fic of hopefully many on here, so I appreciate any likes/reblogs/comments! Summary does this one NO justice it’s super fluffy and cozy :)

Christmas was always different for Sorah. School was predictable. Holidays were not. What was typically a season of tradition and celebration for most, was more like a scramble for shelter to her.

Since starting at Hogwarts, she’d found much more ease in the winter months. She would be welcome at Hogwarts, she had somewhere to stay. Still, she always experienced a spike in anxiety—a kind of phantom-pain—when Christmas rolled around. Which might explain her adversity to talking about it.

At the Gryffindor table, unfortunately, it was all anyone was talking about. It was like the whole house woke up and decided to do a round-robin game of where’s-everyone-going-for-the-holidays.

It made Sorah feel sick. In her house-mates' questions she heard Ministry officials’ voices— ‘where are you going to stay, now?’

Eventually the roundabout game from hell landed on her. Seamus, a few feet down the table hollered up at her, pulling her focus from the sweat on her palms.

“Oy, Brighton! What d’ya reckon you’re doing for the holidays?”

She knew he meant well. They all did—no one knew she had nowhere to go. It wasn’t something she’d shared with anyone at Hogwarts. Or really…anyone at all.

She’d had her answer brewing for 10 minutes, cultivating a nonchalant enough response between bites of scrambled eggs. ‘Sticking around, again. Maybe I'll floo home from Hogsmeade for Christmas morning, but I need to finish my arithmancy project.’

It was seamless. Sorah was almost proud of the addition about flooing home—it didn’t mention any parents but they’d all put them in the picture. It was a perfect white lie.

Before she could speak, though, a mischievous voice began instead.

“Sorah’s spending Christmas with us, isn’t that right Freddie?” Across from her, two identical faces grinned at Sorah. Her face—bathed in confusion—only made their smiles giddier.

“Right Georgie, we convinced her to finally stop studying and have some fun for once.” Little Ginny popped up from a ways down, apparently having overheard. Merlin, was everyone listening?

“Brighton’s coming? Really?” Her eyes were sparkling at Sorah with excitement, and the rest of the table (that wasn’t listening already) turned expectantly with her.

So, Sorah had to make a choice. Go to Christmas with the Weasleys, who she’d only recently acquainted—or tell everyone at the Gryffindor table that the twins were lying for some reason and risk exposing her secret. Not exactly a tough decision. The twins were chaotic, yes, but nothing would be worse than people treating her like a charity case.

Plus, if she refused the twin’s offer, she’d certainly have to explain herself to them. She was no stranger to how relentless they were.

Sorah suddenly felt very bare under their watchful gaze. Did they know already? Did Ginny?

What if they only like me because they feel bad for me, Sorah worried, but dispelled the idea from her mind in seconds. Logically, there was no way they knew. The only people who knew were Ministry officials, and she’d requested complete discretion.

The Weasley twins were just made of mischief, they were messing with her. That was all. Maybe they didn’t even want her to come. Still, she played along.

“Right, yeah, I’d almost forgotten.” She looked over at Seamus and lamely announced, “There’s your answer, Finnegan.”

Fred and George gave each other a victorious glance before answering Ginny’s—who’d moved down the table to sit by them—burning questions. Sorah stood, collecting her things and heading off to Herbology without a word.

A tension she didn’t realize she was carrying fell off the Gryffindor's shoulders in the entrance hall—away from prying eyes. She could finally walk with a slouch and stop worrying about what she looked like. That is, until a pair of footsteps snuck up behind her and her name was being called.

“Brighton.” It was a twin, that much she knew—though she wasn’t sure which one. That was the best part about them, in her opinion. They were always together. They were always Fred and George, no need to discern one from the other.

Except now only one stood before her. It was annoying, the way her day kept throwing curve balls at her.

“Look Weasley, if you tracked me down to tell me it was a joke, there’s no need. I’m not daft, I know one of your little pranks when I see it. You should tell Ginny, though.”

“What?” He startled, apparently not expecting her cold tone. “What makes you think it’s a prank?” His face was deceptively confused, though Sorah didn’t buy it for a second.

“I dunno, because it’s what you two do,” she snapped, stating it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. The twin—she still didn’t know which one—looked almost hurt that she’d think so lowly of them.

“Sure, but never with things like this,” he insisted quietly, almost secretly—and Sorah felt her stomach twisting with dread. He knows. Her skin burned at the thought, at the pity in his eyes.

“Things like what,” she challenged furiously. His eyes flicked to the floor and he rubbed his neck before he met her gaze again.

“Christmas,” he said in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone. “We don’t invite just anyone to Weasley Christmases, Brighton.”

“Really?” She asked, meanly—totally unconvinced.

“Refusing would be very unwise.” Sorah felt her icy front melt a bit at that, suddenly remembering how fun the twins could be.

“Merlin, you sounded like Malfoy, just then,” she teased lightly, trying to coax an impersonation out of him. If she did, she’d know it was Fred—he’d do impressions of anyone.

But this twin only laughed and shook his head, so she assumed she’d been talking to George. Sorah took the chance to note something about him that would help her discern one twin from the other later on. His smile was slanted—to the left, she noticed—and his laugh was smooth and low. Nothing like the hyena cackle she’d related the twins to. Huh.

In her studious task, she failed to notice herself staring even after George stopped laughing (and began staring, too). Sorah had no idea how long they’d been standing and staring at each other, only that the trickle of students coming from breakfast was quickly turning into a pour. George seemed to notice this, too, smiling again and starting to cut away.

“I’ll think on it, Weasley. Give me the day.”

George grinned, said “see you in a bit.” Before he turned away he gave her a signature Weasley twin wink.

Cheeky little bastard.

—

It took the whole day for it to sink in. The twins invited her to Christmas.

More than once she’d considered it was a prank and George only followed her out to make sure it’d work. But a piece of her wanted to believe it, too.

At lunch she sat with Ginny (or, Ginny sat with her, but Sorah didn’t mind), who gushed animatedly about her mums cooking, about family quidditch matches, and fireworks on New Years.

“We used to not be allowed, but last year the twins got Bill to convince mum and there was this big red lion head that roared and Fred made one of Percy’s sour face—“

“Can I ask you something,” Sorah blurted, drawn from her thoughts. Ginny—still fidgeting with excitement—nodded for her to continue. “Why’d the twins invite me to Christmas, do you think?”

Ginny thought for a moment before answering.

“It wasn’t exactly the twins, was it,” was all she decided to say.

“What do you mean by that?”

“They’re both good at playing along with the other’s plots,” Ginny explained evasively, “but personally? I don’t think it was Fred’s idea to invite you.”

“Okay, fine, say it was just George then. That still doesn’t explain why.”

Ginny shrugged her shoulders and hummed in uncertainty. “No idea. Maybe ‘cause you’re cool. All I know is that those two rarely make plans alone.”

Sorah sat with those words for the rest of lunch and classes after. Her final lesson of the day—Herbology in the Wild, a new elective—was spent by the Black Lake. The task was to locate five aquatic plant species (the focus of their curriculum at the moment) and document their observations, including a sketch.

She’d found a Sirenflower easily enough, and had now—undeterred by the frigid December temperature—ditched her shoes, socks, and robe to wade into the water.

In the midst of her search, a familiarly smooth voice interrupted her.

“Fancied a swim, Brighton?” The sun from behind Sorah shined just right, illuminating George casually leaning on a nearby tree. She ignored his jest and let her burning question loose, suddenly emboldened.

“You are George, aren’t you?” She watched one eyebrow quirk upwards, and quickly added, “And don’t lie, or I’ll know.”

He considered her for a few moments, and Sorah could see his eyes spark with something before he slowly shook his head.

“Try again, sweetheart,” he disagreed. His eyes had a smugness in them as he continued, and his smile pulled to the left. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, me and George are one and the same. It was a fifty-fifty cha—“

“No, you’re lying.” It wasn’t a question. George smiled that lopsided grin at her.

“You’re good,” was all he said.

She continued wading through the lake then, and he followed her on the shore—conveniently scooping her abandoned clothes up so they wouldn’t get buried in snow.

“Why’d you invite me to Christmas, George?” Sorah used her wand to illuminate what looked like a freshwater dragonsnare, but it was only a talking clam. “Or I guess I shouldn’t say invited—more like I was tricked.”

“Tricked?” He spluttered, feigning offense. At Sorah’s less-than-amused glance toward him his mischief softened into something akin to verity. “You don’t want to come?”

“I’d be perfectly fine staying here. I always do,” she insisted, albeit a bit quietly. In truth, she did want to go, she just wasn’t sure she trusted George’s intentions.

“Doesn’t mean you always have to.” His response was just as quiet, if not quieter. Panic was rising slowly in Sorah’s throat. He knows, he knows, he knows.

She wanted to grab him by the ear and pinch until he confessed—but there was a very real possibility that he knew nothing at all.

“You haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out.

“If you don’t feel welcome—“

“It’s not that, George, it’s—!”

“Look,” he began, “I’ve already told my mum. So either you come, or…”

Sorah gawked in disbelief. There it was, unraveled from any sweet-talking or niceties. An ultimatum.

“Tricked,” she scoffed.

“And if I was tricking you? Would that really be so bad, Sorah, to be tricked into spending Christmas with my family?”

Sorah took sudden interest in her assignment again, wading further into a shallow bank. George waited on dry land.

Upon finding a patch of melograss, she finally spoke again.

“Toss me my journal?” Her hands dipped into the freezing water to inspect the specimen. When she heard no response from George she stood with a huff, only to find him right beside her. He’d shed his robes and things as well, following her into the freezing lake—shivering the whole way. In his right hand was her journal.

“It’s bloody cold. You could freeze to death out here.” Sorah just sighed and cast a warming charm on him. His thanks were only met with her outstretched palm.

“My journal, please,” she demanded impatiently. To her dismay, he held it above his head instead.

“Say you’ll come.”

Sorah—ever so stubborn—did not. Her journal was whipping into her hand in seconds, courtesy of a wordless accio. Not a word was uttered after, either—Sorah merely crouched again to better see the plant. Defeated, George stood and observed her as she scribbled notes.

“What is it?” Sorah hummed half-heartedly in response, not quite wanting him to elaborate. She didn’t want to talk about Christmas anymore. George was far too good at dancing around what he really meant, and Sorah far too incapable of identifying what’s true. So she just hummed. “That plant, what’s it called?”

Sorah didn’t give him any more than the name—her tone clipped for additional emphasis. She hoped he would turn tail and wade back to shore, but knew better by then.

“Right…what’s it do?”

“Well,” Sorah let out a long exhale, “it’s not known for its usefulness—more for the legend surrounding it. It’s commonly said that if a mermaid consumed melograss, its song could be heard above water. Many herbologists and monster-experts believe that’s the origin of sirens in muggle mythology, and the false duplicity of mermaid species in early texts. There’s much more on mermaid tricks and why most have stopped using natural magics, but it’s—what?”

George cursed his stupid grin for stopping her ramblings, but he couldn’t seem to chase it from his lips. How she could go on so long about a patch of grass and make it interesting was beyond him.

“Go on.”

Sorah was apprehensive, staring up at George from her position hunched over—gauging the mirth in his eyes. She wouldn’t be made fun of for being educated. But there was none whatsoever.

“There’s much more, but it’s quite complex. It involves the mer-peoples’ political history as well as their religion—so its base threads are quite long.”

“Mermaid politics?” George asked, and when she looked up there was much humor in his eyes again. She stood to meet his gaze.

“They’re quite sophisticated, I’ll have you know. You’d be surprised. They’re intelligent—just the same as you and me, just…different.”

“Different how?”

“Well, the gills for one,” Sorah joked.

“Oh the gills, how’d I forget them,” George laughed, Sorah joining him.

They spent entirely too long inspecting the mundane patch of grass—Sorah guiding George’s hands to the small bumps on the underside of each blade.

When she finally moved on, George went with her. Two pairs of eyes raked through the shallows now, the sound of water parting around their ankles breaking the silence.

After finding her last specimen, they turned back to fetch their forgotten clothing.

“George?”

The redhead looked over at her, studying her face—cheeks and nose rosy from the cold air. He felt the tension rising between them again.

“Yes?” Sorah seemed to think for a while, her eyes cast up toward the trees. When she spoke, a forced smile on her face, George could feel the substance of her thoughts slip through his fingers.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I have a free period,” he said simply, taking her arm to pull her to a stop. “What’d you really want to ask?”

She sighed.

“Why didn’t you just ask me to come to Christmas?”

And the tension resumed, her wall rising slowly between them.

“Well…you’d have said no.”

“As is my right, Weasley,” Sorah said, beginning to bristle.

“Yeah, and you use it to push everyone around you away,” he mumbled.

“What? I don’t—I don’t push anyone away, that’s—“

George interrupted her angrily, not caring if she knew he’d been observing her anymore, now pointing out everything he’d noticed.

“Oh, really? Why aren’t you friends with your dorm mates then? How come you never come to parties, or Hogsmeade days? And you turned down every bloke in our year for the Yule Ball!”

Sorah reeled back, scoffing. “Is that what this is? You’re upset that I rejected you for some stupid school dance so you’re punishing me?”

“Punishing you? I just want to help you, Sorah. Merlin, I-I want to know you!” His hand was warm on her arm, solid and sure—unlike the fluttery heat of her magic. Cracks ran through his voice when he spoke once more. “I want to let you know me.”

Sorah wanted to believe in him so badly that her body felt the strain of it. It was a crushing weightless, a hesitant consumption. There was an angry frog in her throat that had been croaking for generations.

“No, you don’t.” Her protest came out in a pathetic whisper, her eyes tracing the reflections on the dark water’s surface.

George released her arm and stepped back, and she felt a choking relief. But he spoke again, quiet yet assertive.

“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a twin.” Sorah peeked up at him, confused at his shift of topic. He looked small, and his eyes were so open—so raw—Sorah couldn’t bear to look. “Not because I want to rid myself of Freddie, or anything. He’s my brother, I love him, I just…even if we just weren’t identical twins, at least then my face could be my own. But the way things are…I’ll always be the second half of a whole.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sorah’s voice only shrunk the more she spoke. Her eyes were drawn to his, even when his gaze was burning her with it’s intensity.

“Because I want you to know.”

“Why?”

He stepped back into her space, his fingers pushing some hair behind her ear.

“I care about you, that’s why. I care about what you think.”

“Right—“ But George wasn’t done.

“And I can tell you’re scared to let me—or bloody anyone else in, and that’s okay. Take your time, tell me nothing, I don’t care! Just let me…be around you. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I…,” Sorah’s mind was on override, working through every nuance to his words. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” George was smiling, a small thing unlike any Sorah had ever seen on him. It wasn’t teasing or mischievous, it was shy. Reserved. Her okay hadn’t meant yes, but she thought that maybe it should.

“Mhm,” Sorah hummed, smiling.

—

The Weasley home—the Burrow, George had called it—felt grander than Hogwarts. Sorah was like a first year before it, gaping and small, marveling at what magic could entail. George pulled her along by the hand.

Inside was even better—a record spun somewhere, playing a silky smooth tune that floated through the house. To the right, in a kitchen that seemingly ran itself, pots sizzled and steamed. Sorah could smell potatoes and chicken and a hint of something sweet.

She rubber-necked all the way down the hall until she couldn’t see wooden spoons or whisks anymore, and was forced to examine the living room instead (which wasn’t much of a let-down).

George left her spinning in circles as he leapt up the stairs, yelling for his mum. Sorah was too distracted to really notice, mesmerized by the knitting needles working over a ball of yarn all on their own.

Something chimed behind her, and Sorah whirled around to see an old clock with ten-too-many hands, each with a Weasley’s face on the end of it. She noted that the group of Weasley’s who she had just arrived with was now pointing to home.

“Bill and Charlie should be coming tomorrow,” Ginny said, now standing beside Sorah. “Ever met them?”

“Not really, no.” Sorah found their faces, both hovering over work. She smiled incredulously, because ‘work’ felt incredibly vague considering what those two did for a living. “I remember them from school, though.”

Ginny smiled beside her, looking at their clock-faces, too. “I think you’ll get along.”

“Hope so,” Sorah mumbled.

George came flying down the stairs then, hair askew and jacket gone, leaving him in a waffled flannel shirt that hugged his torso. Sorah felt a little warmer.

“Gin, Mum wants you.” With that, Ginny was hurtling past George and up the stairs, a backpack carelessly slung over one shoulder. George watched Sorah from the bottom step, only speaking once the stairs stopped squeaking.

He said, “C’mon Brighton, let’s get you settled in,” but it sounded like are you okay?

She said, “Okay,” but it felt like thank you.

—

Break seemed to fly by and yet lasted forever. It felt timeless and short-lived all at once. There wasn’t a moment to mull these things over, and still Sorah thought it the whole while. Her time felt borrowed, and she devoted every minute to the boy who loaned such irreplaceable memories to her.

Cooking with his mother, ice skating on the frozen pond over the hill, cleaning the attic, walking into town—and George giving Sorah his scarf. Dancing to Molly’s old records after dinner. She’d met Bill and Charlie, as promised, and they did get along. Marvelously.

Sorah got along with everyone, in fact, and come Christmas Eve she was telling stories at breakfast, helping with the dishes at lunch, and laughing with Ginny at dinner until they were both crying over each others’ snorts. George’s insides turned gooey at the sight, and he knew his teeth couldn’t hold back the honey his tongue was secreting much longer. Couldn’t ignore the sticky-sweet words that slipped through the gaps when he was lost in her.

George couldn’t find himself that night. Not when she had tucked her feet between her favorite blanket and her favorite chair—because she had a favorite of all the things in his house, now. Certainly not when she’d opened the sweater Molly made her—embellished with a big S—and pulled it on right away, swimming in everything Weasley.

After everyone had gone to bed, leaving the two of them (Fred not without a wink), Sorah abandoned her chair for the spot beside George. She extended her blanket out and he pulled her and it over himself all at once. Her legs sat bent over his, a knee pressing comfortingly into his chest. A moment later her head laid onto his shoulder as well, and he wrapped his arm around her to run his hand along the expanse of her back.

The fire cracked in the silence, and Molly’s knitting needles clicked in a steady rhythm. Neither knew how much time passed before Sorah uttered George’s name, but his warm hand had crept under her layers to press into her side.

George hummed drowsily in response, too focused on the sensation of her fingers tracing shapes into his free palm to form words.

“Thank you. For letting me stay here,” Sorah whispered, and only their close proximity saved her words from drifting into nothing. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

And to Sorah it felt like jumping over the Burrow to say, but George simply said, “I know,” when she was sure that he did not. She wanted to curse him for making her spell it out, but she also wanted him so badly to know.

“No, George, I…“ Her stomach was in knots, and she felt the frustration heat her face. It was like speaking a foreign language, Sorah had no clue how to translate her feelings into something George could understand. “I d-don’t—“

“Sorah,” George stopped her, his hand coming up to her face, lifting it from the crook of his neck so their eyes met. So she could see the implication of his words. “I know.”

And though she was confused, Sorah felt herself deflate with relief. She had no idea how he could know, but he did, and she was just grateful to not have to say it. Even more so that he wasn’t surprised, and that he didn’t seem to pity her the way she feared he would. His eyes just looked warm, and his fingers still moved steadily against her ribs, grounding her.

“How?” George winced a little at the question, like he didn’t think she’d like the answer, but she knew when he answered that he was telling the truth.

“My dad…he works for the ministry, yknow?” He fiddles with a strand of her hair, smooths his thumb over her temple. “I saw some paperwork I shouldn’t have. M’sorry, love.”

And she wants to curse him again, for using a nickname like love when she’s supposed to be upset with him. But she knows she only has herself to blame—because he could call her anything, and she’d be too focused on the way his lips moved to think about what he was actually saying.

Without thinking, she’s sliding one of her legs under herself, pressing her shin into his thigh so she can turn into him. So she can press a tender kiss into the corner of his mouth.

Sorah keeps her eyes closed when she pulls away, too scared to see his reaction. She feels George bring his hand to the back of her neck, feels his breath on her lips. And when her eyes flick open she glimpses his head tilting before he slots his nose next to hers to kiss her properly.

They both taste like the hot cocoa Molly made, lips soft and sweet like the marshmallows in it. Their hands roam innocently, the feeling of each other’s sweaters much softer than their own.

Something light swallows Sorah from the inside out—George’s safety is so consuming that it almost scares her. It does scare her. But she finally understands why the closeness is worth the fear.

They pull away, but neither wanders far. Sorah marvels at what his face looks like so close up, grinning and soft. She mindlessly brings a finger up to trace his lopsided smile, his crooked nose. Kisses him again. Says, “Happy Christmas, George.”

And it is.

#fred and george #weasley twins #hogwarts #george weasley #george weasley x fem #george weasley imagine #ginny weasley #fred weasley #harry potter universe #george weasley fic #hp fanfic #the burrow #weasley family #hp angst #hp fluff #george weasley fluff #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfiction

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earnestly-endlessly · 3 years

Note

*flies in like magneto* can i get some exes to lovers™?

Do I have some exes to lovers fics for you? Yes I certainly do. It seems that the cherik fandom loves some exes to lovers cherik and I don't blame anyone because this ship really calls for all the angst. I hope you enjoy this list.

Exes to Lovers AU

Bound – FuryRed

Summary: Is there anything worse than someone else’s wedding? Well, perhaps your sister’s wedding- where the groom just has to invite his boss and that man just happens to be your ex-boyfriend; a person you had an extremely passionate and tumultuous relationship with that ended badly.

Charles hadn’t seen Erik for a year by the time Raven had told him about the wedding. He wasn’t looking forward to the occasion, particularly when Raven explained that they would be celebrating the event with a two-week extravaganza at a luxury hotel, meaning that Charles would be forced to spend a whole fortnight with the man who he’d given everything to; the man who had ultimately broken his heart…

Preheat to 350 (just for you remix) – ikeracity

Summary: Charles realizes he's in love with Erik. But there's one tiny little problem: he just broke up with Erik.

Thread Through a Needle – Black_Betty

Summary: Erik and Charles are broken up. Neither of them want to be.

Carry Me Anew (Frost & Darkholme Remix) – kianspo

Summary: While working as a model for Raven and Emma's clothing line, Erik experiences a strong attraction to his shoot partner. These things happen, except Erik has a boyfriend, who does not take this at all well.

Linger like a tattoo kiss – ikeracity

Summary: Six months apart gives Erik a lot of time to think about what he really wants.

(Erik's POV from Carry Me Anew (Frost & Darkholme Remix) by kianspo)

Symphysis – ikeracity

Summary: After Charles and Erik broke up four months ago, Charles convinced himself he'd never see Erik again. But life has a funny way of bringing people back together.

Call/Response – phalangine

Summary: Charles and Erik have a real conversation for the first time since breaking up. Charles is looking to avoid confrontation. Erik is not.

Regression Therapy – Fantine_Black

Summary: O, God, he’d made a terrible mistake. Whatever he’d expected to find here, Erik was still Erik, a man he’d moved continents to avoid. In retrospect, that felt like a rather good idea…

Four years after Charles walked away from Professor Lehnsherr, the two meet again for a drink.

Because things are better the second time round, aren't they?

Forever is Only a Drunk Dial Away – bettysofia

Summary: Charles is sad and drunk and stalking Erik's Instagram.

Shop Space – Caradee

Summary: Charles and Erik break up but still meet at their favorite coffee shop and manage a completely friendly relationship. The kids who work the coffee shop don't understand it, Charles' overprotective twin brother doesn't understand it, and even Charles doesn't understand it. Then, Erik shows up with a new date, someone who seems to be everything that Charles is not.

How will the Professor handle the surprising heartbreak that comes seeing Erik with someone else?

Mutant House at Dead Kings College – mabyn

Summary: When it comes to romance, Charles has terrible timing.

Can You Feel My Heart – FuryRed

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr hates Charles Xavier.

It’s as true as the words written on the wall in the bathroom at the university that Erik attends. Erik sees them one day- accompanied by a crude drawing of Erik and Charles glaring at each other- and recognises the truth of the sentence, and smiles.

He hates Charles.

Probably…

Believe (One More Time) – luninosity

Summary: For the prompt, Charles and Erik dated during college and had a bitter break-up right before graduation. It's five years later and they both meet again at their class's reunion for a weekend. Someone was even stupid enough to have them room with each other for the weekend...

Old Flame Burning – TurtleTotem

Summary: It's ridiculous for Charles to dread meeting the best man at his sister's wedding, just because he shares a name with Charles's ex. It's not as though it could possibly be the same Erik.

Don’t speak to the bartender – Wild_Imagination

Summary: Logan is a bartender, it's a gloomy evening, and in his bar there's someone with a broken heart. But this is not a movie.

Right?

Somewhere I’m Going & Have Never Been Before – Yahtzee

Summary: In late December 1984, Charles falls victim to the terrible pandemic sweeping across the globe. He's sick, probably dying, and utterly alone in an isolated cabin...until he's not.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland – TurtleTotem

Summary: Charles hasn't seen Erik since their devastating breakup ten years ago. He's certainly the last person he expects to run into at a Christmas lights display.

Lean On Me – SpiritsFlame

Summary: Ten years ago, Charles and Erik split up, dividing their six kids between them. None of them expect them to meet at summer camp. And no one could have predicted the results.

It was a yellow umbrella spring – ikeracity

Summary: Three years after Charles left for Oxford, Erik discovers that Charles is coming back to New York.

Second chances are wonderful things.

My heart above my head – annejumps

Summary: Emma thinks her coworker Erik and her friend and fellow telepath Charles should get together. No one expects things to get so intense so quickly.

The Edge of What Doesn’t End – populuxe

Summary: When a mysterious object appears on the moon, Moira MacTaggert calls in two experts with very specific mutations to investigate.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, after years of breaking up and getting back together again, those two experts have finally broken up for good—and they’re the last people in the world who should be stuck together on a spaceship.

Exit Wounds – LemonadeGarden

Summary: It's been eight months since Charles and Erik had a fight that broke apart their marriage. When a mutant rights protest goes awry and Charles begins to get sick, past memories and present obstacles begin to blur the lines of their ideological differences.

Alternatively: Charles and Erik learn how to fall in love again in troubled times.

Note: Unfinished

11 Days, 8 Hours and 12 Minutes (or Bruises, Stupidity and Anger Management) – ximeria

Summary: For six months, Erik and Charles have been the disgustingly happy couple of the school. Considering their pigheadedness and general communication skills (or lack thereof), things are bound to go boom at some point.

Moon Song – ikeracity

Summary: Werewolf AU. When Charles is captured by hunters, Erik and his pack go after him. It turns out there might be some room for redemption left for both of them after all.

I will Never Stop Loving You – swoopswoop

Summary: Erik and Charles split up three years ago but Erik never really got over it and then one day when the man who walked out of his life three years ago is walking down the street towards him, Erik sees an opportunity to mend fences.

Please leave your message after the tone – ikeracity

Summary: Spending his evening getting shitfaced and pining over Erik seems like a totally productive use of Charles's time. Luckily, it turns out to be a better idea than it sounds.

When the Spell Breaks – kianspo

Summary: Erik, a high-profile lawyer with a successful career, meets a 21-year-old grad student in a bar, and within a few short months marries him. He and Charles are blissfully happy, until Erik's boss runs a background check on Charles and discovers he's been cheating on Erik. Charles denies everything, as there was no affair, but Erik doesn't believe him and throws him out. As Charles tries to figure out how to survive and stay at school that he can no longer afford and makes a lot of bad if not plain dangerous choices, Erik has to fight his own battle of discovering the truth and winning Charles back.

We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven (the things you love don’t last remix) – hllfire

Summary: Charles hands Erik the signed divorce papers, but Erik has changed his mind. Too late, it seems. All he can do is go forward with the divorce.

A year later, Charles comes back, and Erik can't help but wanting to see him. The only problem is things don't go like Erik had planned.

Suddenly There’ll Be a Blizzard (Let it Snow Remix) – kianspo

Summary: Charles was never at his best while jetlagged, but locking himself out in a snowstorm while barely dressed might be a new low. The last thing he expected was to be rescued by his high school nemesis, the man he hadn't seen in over ten years, who might have broken his heart for good once upon a time.

Write this number down (you can call it anytime) – pocky_slash

Summary: When Erik upsets his children, they have a habit of running away from home--and straight to Charles' school for cookies and consolation. Charles doesn't mind the visitors, but as they appear more and more frequently, he realizes that sooner or later, he and Erik are going to have to talk about what happened on the beach and what it means for their future and the future of Erik's children.

All we do is break up (and make up) – Stuckyl0v3r

Summary: "So instead of making the most out of this next months, because you don't know where either of you is going to end up, you decided to stay away from each other to get used to the feeling?" Hank summed up, stopping in front of the class. Charles nodded his head confidently and beamed at him, but somehow his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Yes, something like that."

Well, that was the most idiotic plan Hank's ever heard.

Three wheels of cheese and a Great White – ximeria

Summary: Charles and Erik were friends with benefits in college.

They went their separate ways and 18 years later, they run into each other in New York.

The sex was never a problem back in college - and sex was all it had been. But now Erik is a divorced father and Charles has admitted to himself he needs more than just sex in a relationship. So in their usual round-about way they try to navigate becoming friends after so many years. The whole quest is aided by Raven, Edie, Wanda and Pietro (and a large number of shark jokes).

#cherik #cherik fic recs #fic recs #asks #earnestly answers #exes to lovers #ex boyfriends

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choices-binglebonkus · 3 years

Text

Even More Choices Predictions

I haven’t done one of these in a while. Felt bored. Fandom is dead. Oh well. So let’s get into it, shall we?

-First and foremost…Laws of Attraction. Sadie’s going to be the Big Bad as a twist villain (a very good twist villain, might I add). I can’t make any predictions about whether or not it’ll get a sequel, so I’ll be kinda vague here. If it does get a sequel, the series will be the next Open Heart. Book one for both OPH and LOA was amazing, fantastic, all around mind-blowing. That said, it’ll also be complete shit like Open Heart books 2-3.

-The Royal Finale is definitely the end of the Royal series. Pixelberry knows that they’ve milked it to death. Spin-offs, extra series, hell, even a holiday book, this series has reached its end.

-Shipwrecked is going to either be the next Endless Summer or the next Witness. There is NO in between here. Right now, I’m thinking it’ll be more like Witness. Barf.

-TNA’s going to have a book three so Sam can marry MC. Hoo-ray.

-Queen B book two will definitely feature us teaming with Poppy Min-Sinclair to rebuild our rep (booooooo!) and we’ll have to “prove” Kingsley’s “innocence” (BOOOOOOOO!!!) but I have a feeling Zoey will get more screen time (yaaaaaaaaay!), and Carter and Veronica will become love interests (YAAAAAY!). No clue on who the Big Bad is. Maybe Benji, but nothing is concrete.

-Surrender is going to wildly misrepresent the BDSM community and be totally disgraceful. I’m still not done nursing my wounds from the god awful Ethan BDSM scene in OPH. God, I hope they do this right.

-So idk if many of you are aware, but PB has mentioned an untitled Black-led cast book in a couple blogposts. Mentioned on June 15, 2020 for the first time, and mentioned again June 15, 2021. It releases in 2022. This is all we know about it so far, with literally no other information even though it’s been a year since they announced it. Given PB’s completely pitiful track record with racial representation…well, I’m sorry guys. They’re going to do a piss poor job and then pat themselves on the back thinking they did great work while knowingly drowning out the protests of players of color.

-Crimes of Passion, from the info I’ve read, sounds considerably similar to Most Wanted. If that’s the case, what the hell gives? Why make Crimes of Passion when you could just give Most Wanted a book 2, hello??? Anyway, yeah. That’s basically my prediction here. It’ll just be a rehash of Most Wanted.

-Blades of Light and Shadow 2 will definitely be released. I know one of the junior writers left, and yes, that sucks, but PB knows damn well what a moneymaker Blades is. They would not leave us in the lurch, especially after YEARS of preparation and so much original art for book one.

-Wake the Dead is *probably* going to be similar to the Walking Dead. Which, of course, I don’t mind. I love Romero and Kirkman zombies in zombie lore. It’s also probably going to take place at the start of the ZA when society is first crumbling. I mean, it would be a HUGE mistake for PB to not do this, as it provides so much potential for visible character growth and progression. Not to get ahead of myself here, but I’m going to get ahead of myself with these predictions because YOLO. The main character is going to die at the end, either in a very heroic or very selfish way depending on what kind of survivor they became.

-…now that I think about it, I feel like Shipwrecked is going to be the last VIP book for a while. VIP does not seem to be doing well right now.

-Bonus Prediction: TNA is going to get a holiday special. Either a sexy spooky Halloween where Sam and MC fuck in giant banana costumes while Carter once again resumes childcare, or a Christmas special where Sam gives MC a special present, blah blah blah sit on Sam-ta Claus’s lap, blah blah stocking stuffer jokes, blah blah blah it’s gonna be a white Christmas jokes.

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sitp-recs · 4 years

Note

Hi, I saw you mention found family on your post about Our Ordinary Days by Lomonaaeren and I was curious if you know of any other fics that you would consider found family? Thank you so much for all your recs because I've found so many great fics from you!

Hi anon, of course! These are some of my favorites, hope you enjoy them 💜

Blue Sky Is Living Here Today by ignatiustrout (2018, G, 5k)

Draco's a father, Harry's in love with him, and it's really hard to take things slow.

Life goes not backward by @shealwaysreads (2020, T, 9k)

Harry still isn’t used to gifts, but this one is different. A story of coming home, finding safe ground, and the wild courage of putting down roots. Leaving one life behind isn’t always a sacrifice, and sometimes the greatest good comes from embracing the people you love.

Solve Us Like a Mystery by tryslora (2013, T, 12k)

When Harry stops in at the bookstore where Draco works, they find a surprising shared interest in mysteries. Draco doesn't expect to see Harry again, and he definitely doesn't expect to become the subject of unexpected investigation that may endanger the life of his unborn child, and at the same time, may bring him the kind of happiness he never thought he'd have after the war.

All Roads Lead Home by @dracogotgame (2015, G, 15k)

Draco is strong-armed into spending the first Christmas after the War with the Weasleys. And Harry Potter.

Harry Potter and the Werewolf Consultant by 0idontknow0 (2014, E, 15k)

After Teddy transforms into a werewolf for the first time Harry and Andromeda don’t know what to do. They consult an adult werewolf to help Teddy adjust and that werewolf turns out to be one Draco Malfoy.

The Stars Above Us by 606, create_serenity (2015, M, 19k)

It started as an innocent day out taking Teddy to visit the local observatory. Somehow it became so much more.

Snakes and Ladders by scoradh (2014, M, 20k)

Sixteen years after he last clapped eyes on the Boy Who Lived To Be A Thorn In Draco Malfoy's Side, Draco is filling Snape's old shoes with aplomb. History, though, has a nasty habit of repeating itself. Draco has his comfortable existance turned topsy-turvy with the appearance at Hogwarts of Harry's son, who turns out to be able disrupt Draco's life with as much competency as his father.

We Might Be Too Old for a Bildungsroman by @wellhalesbells (2015, T, 21k)

Harry finds something he’s been looking for since the war’s end. Admittedly, the packaging’s a bit odder than he expected.

Ink (My Skin With Your Name) by Kandakicksass (2019, M, 21k)

Several years after the war, an ostracized Draco Malfoy covers himself in tattoos, becomes best friends with a muggle, and debates abandoning magical society entirely to work in a tattoo shop. All in all, he's having a hell of a time trying to figure out who he is and what he wants to do with his life. The last thing he needs is to run into Harry Potter, who seems intent on becoming his friend, even if he has to get a lot of ink to do it.

When You Kiss Me (What A Lovely Way To Burn) by @femmequixotic (2018, E, 22k)

A drag fairytale of New York in which Draco wears red lipstick and Potter can’t get enough.

Stain of Silence by brummell (2013, E, 28k)

After the war, Draco serves out his sentence in Harry Potter's house.

Us, in Lieu by @tepre (2019, E, 29k)

Teddy needs help and Harry needs funding. Draco sits in the other room and plays the piano.

Pathless Woods by @shealwaysreads (2019, E, 30k)

Harry finds himself unexpectedly reacquainted with Draco Malfoy when his work as an apprentice wandmaker takes him to Wiltshire. Amongst the trees Harry finds magic, growth, and a man who might finally be proving he’s worthy of the wand that chose him.

A story of found family, trees with feelings, belief in the power of growth, wandlore, and gratuitous description of Handsome Estate Owner™ Draco Malfoy swanning around in white shirts and leather boots.

(Un)wanted by @aibidil (2020, E, 36k)

Ginny's pregnant, then she's not and Harry's single. Harry, again with no family, doesn't know what to do with this turn of events, or how to find a new life—post-war, post-Ginny, post-abortion—in which he belongs. He doesn't expect that life to include dancing to the Backstreet Boys with Hermione and Draco Malfoy. A story of finding belonging in the unexpected.

Follow the Water by @xanthippe74 (2020, T, 38k)

Harry Potter’s life is fine. Maybe a little dull and predictable, but he shouldn’t complain about that, right? When he unexpectedly finds himself at Luna’s house one afternoon, Harry gets invited to join the secret wonderland that she’s creating with a surprising group of friends. Maybe a summer outdoors is just what a former hero needs to bring some zest back into his life.

Here's The Pencil, Make It Work by ignatiustrout (2013, M, 49k)

Harry thinks "Why is Malfoy working in a coffee shop in muggle London?" is a much simpler question than, "Are you going to accept that auror offer and, if you don't, what will you do?"

Modern Love by @tackytigerfic (2020, E, 61k)

Harry Potter, of all people, knows that life isn’t always fair. And no one gets to be happy all of the time. But surely there’s something more—something better—than a rubbish Ministry job, and a lonely old house, and that feeling that everyone out there is doing a better job of living than Harry is.

And it really doesn’t seem fair that Draco Malfoy is back in Harry’s life, all of a sudden, and even though he’s wandless, and living with Muggles, and making his mother cry with his lifestyle choices, he’s happy. So what's he doing right, that Harry isn’t? Because things don’t really change, do they? And if Harry can’t be happy, he’ll settle for a good night’s sleep, some posh antiques, and the opportunity to find out what Malfoy has been up to for all these years. And that’s what starts it all.

Reparations by Saras_Girl (2013, E, 87k)

Harry is about to discover that the steepest learning curve comes after Healer training, and that second chances can be found in unexpected places.

Wild by orphan_account (2016, E, 92k)

“No,” Harry said, by way of greeting. Malfoy’s blonde head rose slowly, carelessly. “Get out.”

“I feel as though we’ve already established this, Potter,” Malfoy responded. “And I feel that what we established was that you telling me to get out of places really doesn’t make me more likely to vacate them.”

Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run by waspabi (2016, T, 93k)

‘You're a wizard, Harry' is easier to hear from a half-giant when you're eleven, rather than from some kids on a tube platform when you're seventeen and late for work.

#anon #asks #drarry reclist #found family

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novelconcepts · 4 years

Note

You saying more childhood AU is possible with the right prompt is just...

More Tess. All of the Tess. Tess the morning after the party, lives in my brain rent free. The teasing. The knowing looks. The Jamie and Dani being so in love and unashamed and also oops we forgot the roommate. And Tess being the wonderful person she is and not letting them get away with anything.

It’s the fact that they think they’re subtle, that really gets her.

Not that Tess is upset to find Jamie crashing with them the week following graduation. Of course Jamie is crashing with them. Where else would she go, now that Dani “it’s important to grow up and change and learn who you really are, or some such bull” Clayton has finally snapped up the hot gardener of her dreams? Honestly, if Dani let her walk out that door--especially after that first night, which, hello, gardener; these walls aren’t half as thick as they apparently think--she’d have forfeited all rights to sanity, and Tess would have no choice but to make her move instead.

No, she isn’t upset to find Jamie still here the following morning. Or at all. She loves Jamie. What’s not to love?

Honestly, so much to love. If she didn’t love Dani even more, she might have to really test the bounds of this friendship. Particularly when she opens her bedroom door to find Jamie--hair rumpled, dressed in a half-unbuttoned flannel and a pair of boxer shorts--at the kitchen counter. Like, warn a woman.

“Warn you about what?” Jamie looks blank, her hands prying open each cupboard with evidently-mounting disappointment. “You really don’t have any tea?”

“Warn a woman,” Tess repeats, hip-checking her gently out of the way and scrounging the supply of English Breakfast out from behind the stoner snacks. “Before you turn up in her kitchen looking all sex-rumpled. I haven’t even had coffee, Taylor, Jesus.”

Jamie blinks, taking the box from her hands. “O...kay. How was the rest of the party?”

“Not nearly as engaging as your night,” Tess informs her pleasantly, delighted when Jamie’s sleep-muddled expression lights up with embarrassment. “But an extravaganza in its own right all the same. Where’s my girl? I know you railed her into next week, but it seems bad manners to leave you to breakfast alone.”

“I didn’t--we--”

“Thin walls,” Tess sing-songs. “Like paper. Or, what, you’re English--parchment?”

“We have paper,” Jamie deadpans. Tess pats her shoulder, working around her to fill the kettle.

“Good fortune really does smile upon you. Ah! Sleeping Beauty arises!”

Dani, looking only slightly more functional than Jamie, is emerging from the bathroom with an expression that suggests she, at least, is very aware of the acoustics of their apartment. It’s so tempting to tease her about it--Dani has this truly adorable habit of looking like she might combust if pushed too far, the red of her face complimented nicely by the gold of her hair--but Tess figures some things can wait. Lord knows they’re going to walk right into it soon enough.

But like--so soon. Like, she goes off to take a shower, and comes back to find they still haven’t left the kitchen soon.

“Seriously?” She laughs, watching them leap apart. It’s too clear Dani has forgone the idea of coffee and bacon for the much-more-invigorating art of pushing Jamie against the refrigerator. Not that Tess can blame her.

“We--were just--”

“Right in front of my cereal,” Tess says gravely, shaking her head in faux-disappointment as she stretches over Jamie--whose hands are still rooted to Dani’s hips, the hem of Dani’s shirt dropping hastily back over her stomach--to retrieve a box of off-brand Lucky Charms. “No shame.”

They’re both making noises of disagreement, as though Tess hasn’t had her share of groping in the kitchen experiences to call on. She snorts.

“Look, far be it from me to stop your, ah, young love in its tracks. Just. Keep it out of my bedroom, is all I ask. Unless...” She wiggles her eyebrows. Jamie clears her throat so violently, it sounds as though she might fracture something.

“Shower. Should. I.”

“That sentence normally goes in the other direction,” says Tess helpfully. Dani swats her back, grinning.

“Got that out of your system yet?”

“Oh, not nearly.” Tess beams. “By all means, Clayton, show her where the shower lives.”

“I know where the,” Jamie begins to protest, but Dani is slipping both arms around her middle, pressing against her back to urge her toward the bathroom.

“That’s her polite way of saying if I don’t go with you now, she’s going to spend the next half hour fishing for details.”

“You still owe me those,” Tess calls after them. “Every last filthy one.”

***

They think the shower is noise-cancelling, too, Tess realizes about four minutes later. Jesus, these beautiful useless idiots.

***

It’s the lack of subtlety masquerading as Chill, really. The fact that every single time Tess leaves a room, she can count slowly to ten, poke her head back out, and find they’ve picked right back up where last she interrupted.

Step into the bedroom to change her clothes? Come back out to find Dani straddling Jamie on the couch.

Take a quick smoke break on the stairs out front? Glance through the window to find Jamie shirtless, the unmistakable tread of scratches running down her back beneath her bra.

Offer to run out for lunch? Spend an extra five minutes idly counting clouds, because fuck only knows the sounds Dani is making isn’t karaoke.

“You two,” she announces, tossing the pizza box onto the counter with a flourish, “are going to break something if you keep this up. I mean, you’re at least taking hydration breaks, I hope? Do I need to bring you a power bar?”

Jamie has the decency to look slightly ashamed of herself, though there’s a definite grin beneath the hunched shoulders. Dani, selecting a slice of pepperoni-and-banana-peppers, shrugs.

“Consider it payback?”

“For who?” Tess demands, delighted. Dani raises her free hand, ticking her fingers down toward her palm.

“Tyler, whose butt I saw like ten minutes before you introduced us. May, who you used to desecrate the kitchen floor. Carlos and Beth--”

“Liz,” Tess interrupts, “she goes by Liz these days.”

“--Liz, with whom you conveniently forgot I needed to shower before my presentation and took up the bathroom for three hours--”

“Okay, okay,” Tess snorts, groping for a dishtowel in some shade of off-white to wave. “Truce.”

“And that’s just this apartment,” Dani says cheerfully. She tilts her head to look at Jamie, whose face can best be described as aghast. “Back in the dorm, she used to sneak girls in after I was asleep.”

“You were a sound sleeper!”

“No one is sound enough to ignore a bed frame breaking, Tess.”

“I...avoiding college was the right choice,” Jamie says weakly. Tess bats her eyes.

“You’re saying you’ve never dreamed of breaking a bed frame with me, Taylor?”

Jamie darts a look around at Dani, her eyes just shy of screaming. Tess is having the best time of her life.

***

“Tell me honestly, though,” she says. Jamie gives her a sharp look, uncertainty obvious even as she reaches to accept the joint Tess is passing her way.

“Really don’t think Dani wants me giving you a play by play.”

“Dani, beloved of my soul, was fool enough to schedule a doctor’s appointment while you were still in town. She knows what I’m about.”

To Jamie’s credit, she doesn’t choke this time. She puffs once, twice, holding the smoke in her lungs an impressively long time before craning her head back and exhaling. "What am I telling you honestly?”

“You’re going to keep an eye on her, right?”

Jamie looks surprised. “Yeah. Not that she needs it, mind. Just. Yeah. Always.”

Tess sighs. “She doesn’t need it, but you know as well as I what that woman is like. Too good. Too fucking good for her own good, you know? Forgets, sometimes, that she can come first, too.”

Jamie offers a smile nearly wicked in its amusement. “Oh, I take care of that.”

“Yes,” Tess drawls, “darling, I can tell. You know, really relieved she never brought anyone home before now. I’m not sure my beauty sleep could have taken the abuse.”

Jamie laughs, leaning back and pulling a throw pillow into a loose embrace. “She doesn’t need anyone taking care of her. But...”

“But you can’t help wanting to, anyway,” Tess guesses. When Jamie nods, she takes another hit, lets the smoke burn in her chest. “She has that effect on people. Our girl would take a bullet for anyone, and it’s...impossible not to love her for it.”

“She’s the reason,” Jamie says softly, “I didn’t run. Reason I did a lot of things, some of ‘em really, really stupid. Sometimes I think everything I’ve ever done can be traced back home to her, one way or another.”

“That, my dear,” Tess says, “is what fools and songstresses alike call love, I think. Just...do me a favor, keep her from killing herself for those kids.”

Jamie nods. “I will. Promise.”

“Good,” Tess says lightly. “I like you, Jamie. You’ve got the hands of a sinner and the smile of a saint. I’d really hate to have to track you down and kill you for doing her wrong.”

***

For all the sex, and all the blushing that follows, it’s late nights like this one that really say it all. Nights where cards fade into lazy conversation fade into this: Jamie, asleep on the couch, her head resting in Dani’s lap. Dani, looking down at her like she’s never felt so at home in her own skin.

And Tess, watching them both, astonished by the lack of fear in the room. The lack of distance. The lack of uncertainty.

Dani, who has always been a nervous sort, whose panic attacks are so predictable on bad weeks, Tess came back from that first Christmas break with a laundry list of coping methods to offer--looks perfectly at peace. Her fingers stroke back Jamie’s hair, tracing her forehead, her nose, every brush of contact only seeming to sink Jamie deeper into dream. Dani has never looked like this before.

“You’re happy,” Tess says quietly. Not a question. Not a challenge. Dani smiles.

“Part of me thought she’d get sick of it, you know. Waiting for me.”

“Who could get sick of you?” Tess asks, and means it. No one in the world stacks up to Dani, on a list of favorite people. No one in the world ever could. If Jamie really did fall ass over teakettle for this woman when they were barely old enough to know what love was, she couldn’t be blamed for it. Not for a second.

“You’ll invite me to the wedding, of course,” Tess says, when Dani--eyes closed, fingers still tracing aimlessly--says nothing for a while. One blue eye emerges, her nose scrunching up.

“Jumping ahead, aren’t you?”

“She’d do it here and now, if you asked. Shit, I could get ordained, do it for you. Always thought I’d look nice in a little suit.”

“You’d be gorgeous,” Dani says, without a hint of deprecation. Tess blows her a kiss. “And...yes. If and when, I can’t imagine doing it without you.”

“As officiant?”

“I was thinking maid of honor,” Dani laughs. Tess leans back, smiling.

“That’ll do.”

The silence creeps in again, the sleepy indulgence of post-midnight living that feels so perfectly suited to the college experience. Nothing else, Tess suspects, will ever be quite this again--the quiet feeling like peace, the weariness feeling earned, not crushing. Jamie breathes out in her sleep, one hand drifting to gently grasp the hem of Dani’s shirt.

“Gonna miss you,” Tess says softly. “And this one, too.”

Dani smiles, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “It won’t be the same again, will it?”

“Nope.” And maybe that’s a good thing, she thinks. Maybe that’s exactly how it should be. Growing up. Changing. Learning who they ought to be. “But you’ll call.”

“And write,” Dani agrees.

“And send me pictures of your hot gardener,” Tess adds. “Lord knows, it’d be a crying shame to forget that.”

Dani laughs. “Never.”

“You did good, Clayton. Took you a minute, but--you did good.”

She lets the silence settle for real, lets Jamie sleep and Dani doze, lets herself sink into the armchair. They aren’t subtle, it’s true--she’ll probably wake tomorrow to find they’ve opted for a quiet round of the most wall-shaking sex she’s ever heard in Dani’s room--but that feels right, somehow. Good, to see Dani refusing to make herself small. Great, to see Dani refusing to temper an emotion this grand.

“I love you idiots,” she says softly. “You’re going to be just fuckin’ fine.”

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #dani x jamie #damie #AU one-shot #welcome back Tess I've missed you #love an OC I enjoy almost as much as the canon kids

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magicman111 · 3 years

Text

A Moth to a Flame - Chapter One

Marcy watched the sun slowly set on Newtopia as she’d done many an evening before. The sharp squawks of the gulls rang through the orange sky. She looked quite the forlorn figure standing by the hotel entrance, the gentle evening breeze that ruffled her cloak underscoring her solitude.

Her eyes remained fixated in the same direction her friend had taken off, maybe in some fleeting fool’s hope she’d change her mind and come sprinting back right into her arms.

Not a chance, Marbles.

Anne was long gone by now. Hopefully, she’d caught up with the Plantars’ fwagon before they reached the city gate. Judging by how quickly she booked it, the odds were in her favor. That girl didn’t make varsity back home for nothing.

Marcy only hoped those sweet, simple frogs knew just how lucky they were to have someone like Anne in their lives.

Sighing, her head lowered, she licked her wounds slowly.

Really? That easy, huh?

Could Anne have made it any more obvious that she wanted to get out of there faster than she did? After they’d been apart for so long, and for a family of farmer frogs whom she’d known for what? Months?

No, don’t do that, she pulled herself up. It wasn’t right for her to be mad at the Plantars. This wasn’t their fault. Sprig and Polly were a barrel of fun at the slumber party, providing you disregarded their life-threatening encounter with the jelly-fish ghosts. Hop Pop, meanwhile, reminded her so much of her own grandpa it was uncanny. They were sweet, decent folk who’d taken Anne in and kept her safe all this time. It was just...

Her lips twisted into a bitter frown. How else was she supposed to feel but a little rejected?

However, was she really allowed to complain when holding her tongue was so normalised for her by this point? Marcy was a people pleaser, she understood that much about herself. Anytime Anne and Sasha got into an argument, she was there to keep the peace and everyone happy. So if Anna-Banana wanted to spend more time with her bumpkin frog family than her literal best friend since preschool, who was she to say no?

The story with her folks wasn’t all that different either. When they pressured her to keep up her studies, up to and including PSAT prep despite it being years away, she did as she was told like a good girl to make them proud, and they were. She hoped they were.

Goodness knows what they must be thinking right now—

Nope nope nope! Don’t go there, don’t go there.

She’d already lost too much sleep at night ruminating over the unspeakable pain she’d most surely put them through, it was the last thing she needed right now. She tried to do the logical thing and focus on the positives instead. That usually worked.

Anne wouldn’t be away for too long. They’d be together again as soon as Hop Pop’s contacts returned the Box to Wartwood and then it was off to the first of the three temples to get those gems recharged. Once that side quest was done and dusted, it was a simple matter of finding Sasha and making their way home.

Looking down, she caught herself wringing her hands.

Home.

That sure was the plan.

I mean... what else are we supposed to do?

“Always sad to see someone go, isn’t it?”

Marcy quickly wiped her eyes and glanced over her shoulder to greet the towering form of King Andrias.

Almost instantly, her mood perked up a notch. He was the one person whom she trusted, more than anyone else in all of Amphibia. Ever since she first landed outside the city walls, he took her under his wings and ensured her smooth transition into this brave new world.

Andrias was without doubt one of the kindest and wisest people Marcy could have ever hoped to meet. He was a true listener, and there were very few you could say that about, her parents included. How often had he been there to lend both an understanding ear and sage advice over games of flipwart?

Games she won more often than not, she wasn’t humble enough not to brag.

It was also he who sent Marcy on the daring missions that would eventually make her the hero of Newtopian society she was today. All because he recognised the value of her talents beyond passing an exam or helping her friends with their homework. No other 13-year-old had their own solid gold statue adorning a city bridge.

She owed this king a debt she couldn’t possibly repay, but one he was far too altruistic in nature to demand.

Then, why did he look so... solemn?

“Come along, Marcy. We need to talk.”

Maybe it was his serious tone of voice or those specific choice of words, but they made the hair on the back of Marcy’s neck stand on end. In an almost pavlovian manner, she corrected her posture and she held her chin erect.

Shoving whatever remaining conflicted thoughts aside, she silently followed Andrias back to the castle like a pilot fish tailing its great white. She was so puny next to this tremendous salamander, he could crush her with a single blow of his fist if he so chose. Not that a gentle, goofy giant like Andrias would even dream of doing such a thing.

So when he was dead serious, Marcy knew better to zip it, listen, and do as instructed.

Their quiet journey took them all the way back to the castle and into the royal throne room, a place she was all too familiar with by now. To enter this hallowed hall was a privilege bestowed only to a select few. For Marcy, it was where she had her morning debriefs over bugachinos.

Instead of going straight up to the throne for their pow wow as she anticipated, Andrias guided her down a small passageway to their left.

When they made their way up to the statue of what Marcy recognised as one of his ancestors, one of the great rulers of Amphibia, they came to a stop. Andrias then gazed down at her with the most serious look she’d seen him give anyone.

“Marcy, before we go any further,” he spoke sternly, “I need to be absolutely crystal clear about something. Okay?”

“Y-Yes, Andrias?” Marcy asked, shivering a little. She did not like being pulled out of her comfort zone, not like this.

“You’re about to enter the most secret place in all of Newtopia,” he continued, now down on one knee and his hand hovering over her shoulder, as close as they could be to eye level. “What I’m going to show you... I need you to swear you won’t share with another living soul. Not to Anne, not to Lady Olivia, no one. Do you understand? I can’t emphasise this enough, Marcy.”

“Of course,” she answered earnestly, trying to sound more confident. “You know you can always trust me, Andrias.”

A ghost of that warm, fatherly smile returned to his big blue countenance.

“Trust is a hard thing to come by, kid, and you’ve gone above and beyond to earn mine. It’s just that I’m not exaggerating here when I say this is a big one.”

Marcy simply placed one hand over his huge index, the other over her heart.

She smiled back at him sweetly, genuinely, “I promise.”

“Very well.”

Nodding in approval, Adrias rose. He reached out, pushing a luminous coral torch upwards.

It didn’t take an encyclopedic knowledge of ‘Creatures & Caverns’ for Marcy to predict that the statue was going to shift to the left next, revealing the spiralling staircase leading to Frog knows where. She probably should’ve been more surprised, but come on, it wasn’t exactly the first secret passage she’d come across in this castle lately.

“Follow me,” was all Andrias said, before he pulled off the same coral torch, then proceeded down the stairs without another word. Marcy followed obediently, unable to ignore the unnerving chill that was now travelling up her spine.

Was it... always this cold around here?

Something about all this just felt so unsettling compared to last time. She couldn’t really explain why; she knew she was safe with Andrias and that he wouldn’t do anything to intentionally put her in harm’s way. It was a gut feeling and that sort of thing bugged a rational person like her to no end.

She tried to take her mind off it by hazarding her best guess as to precisely what he was going to show her. Either she did that or started getting all worked up dwelling on Anne again, which she’d rather not at the moment.

Another secret library, perhaps? Probably not, though she wouldn’t be at all disappointed if it was. Maybe there were forbidden texts about the dark arts hidden away down there. Magic users were incredibly rare in Amphibia these days—Marcy had already searched far and wide—so might this be her chance?

Oh, how the very idea of being able to cast actual magic excited her. Being Chief Ranger of the Knight Guard was a great honor and nothing to sneeze at, but to be a powerful sorceress, one who could communicate with spirits, raise the dead, shuffle the orifices on her enemy’s faces—

Okay, rein those snails in, Mar-Mar.

Her musings were interrupted by a strange noise emanating from below. At first she figured it was just her imagination, but the further they continued their descent, the clearer it became.

It sounded an awful lot like beeping. Yes, that was it. A progressively growing cacophony of bleeps, bloops and chirps, the kind she’d expect to hear from a high-tech supercomputer. Something absolutely alien in a world like Amphibia, she and her friends excluded.

Before Marcy could ask Andrias if he heard it too, she was distracted by the emergence of an orange glow chasing away the darkness below. It was a warm, almost heavenly light that conjured the mental image of a crackling fireplace on Christmas morning, protecting you from the snowstorm outside.

The chill in her spine had by now spread to the crown of her head and the tips of her toes. Her throat tightened up. Beads of cold sweat dripped down her forehead.

What the... Marcy could not say a word, only think.

There was something down there. Something greater than any library, however inconceivable that sounded. Whether it was good or bad was irrelevant to her at that moment.

It called her.

The duo finally reached the foot of the staircase and entered the sacred sanctum.

Marcy’s jaw dropped.

“Woah.”

There were no shelves of books. No ancient Amphibian artifacts. There weren’t even any walls that she could make out from where she stood. Just an apparently endless sea of darkness encompassing a large round platform from which both the enticing glow and the lowkey din of beeps originated.

Marcy resumed taking Andrias’ lead as they stepped out onto the platform, the clink-clank of their boots confirming her assumption it was made of metal. The whole thing appeared more at home on an alien spaceship than in the dungeons of a castle.

Upon arriving at its centre, Andrias knelt down on both knees and, much to Marcy’s curiosity, removed his crown and set it down on the floor. She took the hint by following suit.

Any lingering fears melted away the more she basked herself in the radiance. It was as if the beams were steadily pouring into her body, clearing up her headspace, reducing any tension in her body. She recalled a favored memory from when she was five-years-old, when she and Anne spent a whole summer afternoon by the beach. How the tides would come in and out without fail, washing away the ruins of their sandcastles, the seaweed, one of Anne’s sandles and the teeny tiny baby seahorse they rescued.

Like a nice blank canvas.

Was this a private place of worship? Not according to her expansive studies of Amphibian anthropology. Or maybe it was a place for Andrias to meditate away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the castle. Seemed a skosh excessive if that was the case.

“Truly captivating, I know.”

Andrais’ baritone brought Marcy back down to earth. She straightened up and tried to refocus herself. They were down here for an important reason, at least she believed they were.

“One can spend hours down here,” Andrias boomed ominously. “Adrift in their own thoughts and... dreams.” The light cast his face in a rather unnerving shadow as he stared ahead into the void. “But I’m sure you know I haven’t brought you here to show off my retreat from the world.” He took a long, deep breath, like he was mentally steeling himself for what he said next, “As much as it pains me to say it, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely truthful with you, Marcy.”

He produced from his sleeve what appeared at first glance to be two giant pieces of parchment and unfolded them neatly on the metal surface. A closer inspection told Marcy they were in fact pages torn from an exceptionally large book. Judging not only by the size, but the font and format as well, she easily pieced together its origin.

“Are these...?”

“From the book we “found” in the wing?” Andrias chuckled mirthlessly. “Yes. Still kinda surprised you didn’t pick up there were pages missing, but that's not important right now. Please, read.”

The platform provided ideal reading light. Marcy’s ability to read at a 12th Grade level meant she cruised through the text and finished within minutes.

She read it once, then twice. A third and fourth time just to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

Her bottom began to tremble.

No... Nononono, this... this can’t be right. I-It’s impossible! How in the world can it...?!

No amount of curative rays could unfreeze the blood in her veins. The metaphorical pistons in her brain were firing on full cylinders in a vain attempt to digest this earth-shattering information. For a split second, she thought she was going to pass out.

Desperate, she turned to the stone-faced Andrias to plead for some kind of answer, but she found no words with which to speak. All the personal growth and development that made her Newtopia’s champion had been stripped of her and she was reduced to nothing more than a helpless lost toddler.

A comforting set of giant digits placed themselves under her chin, the same way a father would do for his daughter.

“All this time, I’ve been testing you,” Andrias told her, his voice full of pride. “The games of flipwart, the missions, the “secret library”, even the barbari-ant colony I had lured to the city. I was watching you, studying your every action. With each challenge I issued, you excelled my expectations. You’re an exceptionally talented human being, Marcy, truly worthy of the name ‘Wu’.”

Even if these words were meant to serve as comfort or encouragement, they had only the opposite effect for Marcy. Tears were leaking out the corners of her eyes.

She mustered only a pitiful whimper, “I-I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he promised, “you will soon enough. He’s so excited to meet you.”

“... He?”

Lifting his mighty hand in the air, he thrusted it into the nothingness facing them. Marcy instinctively followed its direction.

“Marcy Wu,” Andrias’ thundering voice resonated throughout the sanctuary, “allow me to introduce you... to my master.”

No sooner had he finished, the whole world started to tremble at Marcy’s knees, throwing her off her balance. A rumbling, mechanical ROAR struck her ears so loud she had to cover them to protect the drums from rupture. Yet despite this sensory assault, she somehow forced her eyes to stay wide open. She needed to face whatever was coming.

Marcy gazed into the abyss.

And the abyss gazed back with all thirteen of its eyes.

Terror. Pure mounting terror overwhelmed every cell of her being. Her pupils shrunk to the size of pinpricks. If her mouth stretched any wider, her jaw risked snapping clean off its hinges.

Everything around her faded into black. Andrias, the platform and its glow, the beeping, all vanished into the ether. All now that existed were herself and those colossal demonic eyes plucked from the deepest recesses of her nightmares, their leer burrowing into her very soul.

Marcy wanted to scream until she coughed up her lungs. Moreso, she just wanted to wake up. This was all a dream, it had to be. A lucid dream that had gone on for far too long. She and her friends weren’t in another dimension inhabited by talking frogs, such a notion was a scientific absurdity. She sure as heck wasn’t a ranger in some anthropomorphic newt army.

Any moment now, her wizard kitty alarm would ring and she’d wake up in her soft, cozy bed. Dad would have left for work by now, planting a goodbye kiss on her sleeping forehead as he did every morning since she was little. Mom would be already making her her favorite congee rice and youtiao for breakfast. Then she would begin the process of packing up her room for the big move to Oregon like a good girl.

Yes, she would even happily do that. Anything to bring an end to this ordeal!

Shhhh

Her train of thought screeched to a sudden halt.

Marcy

It’s gonna be okay

And just like that, as if those were the five magic words required, everything was fine again. No more panic, no more existential terror. Her heart rate lowered to a steady, non-life threatening level.

The tide had risen up and washed Marcy’s mind clean.

Like a nice blank canvas.

What quickly followed was an epiphany of sorts.

There was nothing for her to fear. Once she accepted that fact, the warm sensation from before returned greater than ever, engulfing her in what could only be described as a spiritual hug. She could feel the pair of hands, tender as her own mother’s, caressing her face and flicking away her tears. They even ruffled her raven hair in the same playful manner.

Come to me, daughter of Wu

Let me get a good look at you

Marcy obeyed. Getting down on all fours, she crawled across the nonexistent ground—the laws of physics evidently had no place here—until her face and the eyes’ chief pupil were within inches of each other.

Fresh tears, now ones of ecstasy, trickled down her cheeks and evaporated in the pulsating heat.

“You’re beautiful.”

I know

We’ve gotta lot to talk about, Marcy

And I have a feeling...

You and I are gonna become the best of friends

51 notes · View notes

comic-book-jawns · 4 years

Text

Valentine’s Day 1988

“Flowers seemed... obvious, so - ”

Dani’s eyebrows had risen instinctively. She’d just assumed and regretted it immediately when she saw the panicked look on Jamie’s face.

Remembering how stressed out Jamie had gotten on their one-month anniversary, Dani had purposefully asked that they keep their first Valentine’s Day low-key. She figured Jamie was liable to be stressed as it was with it presumably being their busiest day since opening The Leafling at the beginning of the month.

It had, in fact, been even busier than they’d predicted, which had helped boost Jamie’s confidence but taxed her all the same considering the bulk of the work had fallen to her — though Jamie had insisted Dani had the far more difficult task having to interact with customers so often between taking calls and working the register.

In any case, Dani had insisted Jamie take a nap in the back room after they’d finally closed up for the day. Jamie had pushed back, of course, but passed out on her shoulder before she’d even finished a glass of wine.

Now, about an hour later, Jamie was standing before her, arms behind her back, wide-eyed and pale — Dani having undone all of her efforts to relax Jamie with a single muscle movement.

“I can do an arrangement.”

“No, no, Jamie - ”

Dani got off the couch, holding her hand out as she stepped toward her.

“I’ll do it right now!”

Dani gently gripped her upper arms just as Jamie turned toward the main room.

“Jamie, it’s okay!”

Jamie was still panicking but turned back to look at her. Dani slowly rubbed her arms.

“Whatever your present is, I’ll love it.” Dani smiled softly. “Because it’s from you.”

Jamie started to calm down after a few moments, her lips turning up slightly, then looked down and cleared her throat.

“I just figured ya must’a gotten flowers... uh, before.”

Dani’s eyebrows rose once more. Jamie was right. It had been Eddie’s go-to since they were teenagers, and it had been sweet at first. And then it had started to feel like he was checking off a box — a well-intentioned gesture but without much thought put into it.

And here was Jamie, who put significant thought into all of her floral arrangements, including the one she’d given to Dani two weeks ago in honor of The Leafling’s grand opening.

And yet, Jamie had chosen to do something different for today so that it would feel more special to Dani. She could feel tears already springing to her eyes as Jamie cleared her throat.

“Anyway, I, uh - ”

She was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Jamie had left the door to the back room open when she’d come in with the gift, so they could see a delivery man outside with their Chinese takeout.

“I’ll get it.” Jamie turned to her and brought her arms out from behind her back, revealing small, rectangular gift about the size of a book. “Didn’t want it to get damaged, so I just kept it in here. Second page.”

Still not meeting her eyes, Jamie handed it to her, then walked out of the room. Dani watched her for a moment, then turned back to the present. She gently unfolded the wrapping paper, revealing a sketch pad. Dani flipped it over to the front cover, carefully opened it, turned to the second page and gasped.

She was looking at herself. A sketch of her tending to an orchid. An incredibly life-like, beautifully shaded, simple yet intricate portrait, practically a snapshot...

Last month, before they’d officially opened, Jamie had been giving her a lesson. She’d been so focused that she hadn’t immediately noticed Jamie step away. Just before she’d looked up, she’d heard a camera shutter. Jamie had said she was just taking photos for posterity and proceeded to take some of the shop itself.

She’d even let Dani take a few of her — granted, Dani had not exactly been asking — but Jamie hadn’t let Dani see the photos when she’d had them developed. She’d explained that she wanted them to be a surprise, but Dani had never imagined this.

She held the book farther out as she felt tears start to trickle down her face and looked up as she heard Jamie’s footsteps returning. Jamie finally met her gaze, but she was blushing furiously and rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand.

“Haven’t drawn in awhile, so it’s not ma - ”

“Jamie... ”

Dani could barely say it, but Jamie seemed to understand. Through blurry eyes, Dani saw her lower her hand and step into the room, closing the door behind her, then put the takeout bag down on the couch and step toward Dani. She still looked a bit nervous, a bit uncertain, but not embarrassed.

Dani carefully closed the book, closed the distance between them and raised her left hand, lightly brushing Jamie’s cheek as she cupped it. She heard Jamie’s breath catch, then leaned in. Several moments later, she gently pulled back, resting her forehead against Jamie’s as they caught their breath.

“So ya liked it, then?”

Jamie’s voice was even lower than usual. Dani giggled and heard Jamie, whose hands were wrapped around her back, chuckle a moment later. Dani pulled back slightly, still cupping Jamie’s face, and smiled widely.

“Thank you.”

Jamie was blushing again, but it was now accompanied by her lopsided grin.

“Thank you, Dani, for, uh... ” She cleared her throat. “For today.”

She didn’t elaborate, but she didn’t have to. Smiling even wider, Dani leaned in again for a quick kiss.

“I have something for you, too.”

Jamie smirked.

“Well, I should hope so.”

Laughing, Dani pulled back, wiping her face, then kissed the cover of Jamie’s sketch book as she leaned down to put it on the couch. She heard Jamie stifle a whimper, so she ruffled her hair when she leaned back up and heard Jamie giggle as she walked past.

She hadn’t gotten Jamie anything too big, not wanting to overwhelm her or make her feel insecure. And given the turn the night had almost taken a few minutes ago, Dani knew she’d made the right choice.

Above all, she’d wanted it to be personal. But she had to admit that she was feeling a bit nervous now.

She was not in an enviable position following the person she loved more than she’d ever loved anyone, who’d given her the most thoughtful gift she’d ever received. So, it was with a quickening pulse that she retrieved her gift from her purse and walked back to Jamie.

“I - I know it’s really lame.” She laughed nervously. “I just - I thought you might like it. But I’m not the best with, umm, technology or - ”

“Poppins.” She felt Jamie put her hands around her own, which Dani hadn’t realized were trembling slightly. Jamie was smiling warmly. “You... are brilliant at givin’ me gifts.”

And Jamie meant it. There was the chest Dani had given her for her birthday that meant more to Jamie than she would ever be able to say.

There was the light blue Adidas jumper with white racing stripes, which Jamie was wearing right now, that Dani had given her for Christmas — “I thought since you do have to wash your crewneck... on occasion.” Jamie had narrowed her eyes, and Dani had giggled. “And my hoodie’s a bit small for your shoulders.”

There were the suspenders Dani had just given her for The Leafling’s grand opening. And then there was everything else: the futile but earnest attempts at tea; the laughing at her jokes, even when they were at Dani’s own expense; the easing her through nightmares and panic attacks without complaint, ever; the holding her whenever, without her ever having to ask — Dani just knew.

And above all, there was Dani herself. Jamie had felt lucky to be in her presence from the moment she’d met her but had never imagined it would go beyond that. And it never would have if not for Dani. Before they’d even left Bly, Dani had already given her more than she’d ever wanted.

Jamie’s smile widened now as Dani laughed shyly.

“Can I - ”

Dani nodded and relinquished her hold on the small gift-wrapped box. Jamie brought it closer, smiling up at Dani as she untied the ribbon around it, then looked back down as she gently unwrapped it, opened the lid and squealed.

“Is this a mix tape?!”

Dani smiled rather proudly now.

“I know you like music for your runs.” She couldn’t help laughing the last word as she realized Jamie, who’d let the box drop to the floor in her rush to examine the cassette, was so giddy she was bouncing slightly. “I, umm, tried to pick songs I thought you’d like, but - ”

She was cut off by a bruising kiss, then almost knocked over as Jamie ran past her.

“Oh, sorry!” Jamie had frozen and turned back just inside the main room. “Are ya - ”

But Dani was laughing and waved her on. Beaming, Jamie turned back and continued on to the boombox on the back counter. More than a few moments later — with shaking hands, Jamie had had difficulty putting the cassette in place — “Heart of Glass” by Blondie was blaring through the speakers, and Jamie almost screamed.

Dani almost fell over again when Jamie ran back, throwing her arms around her.

“Thanks, Dani!”

Dani quelled her laughter but was still smiling impossibly wide as she wrapped her arms around Jamie’s waist.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Jay... I love you.”

Dani didn’t want to kill Jamie’s vibe. She’d only said it twice before — first on Christmas Eve and then a couple weeks later after their first major fight, and both times Jamie had cried profusely.

But she couldn’t let today pass by without saying it. Fortunately, when Jamie pulled back a moment later, she was still smiling, though definitely teary-eyed.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Poppins.” She bounced up onto her tiptoes and kissed Dani’s forehead. A few moments later, she pulled back, wiping her face, coughed out a laugh and took Dani’s hand. “C’mon!”

She then pulled an equally eager Dani out onto the “dance floor.”

49 notes · View notes

thirstyforbishiesimagines · 4 years

Text

Hehehe I had way too much fun trolling this ‘cold’ grumpy boii! Poor Eugene can’t catch a break!

Also... Zion’s such a mood in this fic ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Enjoy xx

Dangerous Fellows Christmas Event

Eugene x Reader

Fluff

🎅 🎄 I Post-Apocalypse

“EUGENE! STOP… RUNNING!” Legs slowing down from fatigue, totally out of breath, you continue to chase after him.

“NO!” He calls back, zooming in and out of each room as you tail his every move.

“It’ll be cute! I swear!” You plead helplessly, holding out a fuzzy snowman costume toward him.

“HELL. NO.”

“Eugeneee! Pleaseee! We’re gonna be late!”

“GOOD! WE’LL JUST STAY HOME THEN!” He rushes past you, sprinting into the bedroom before locking the door behind him.

“Come on, Eugene!” You catch your breath before slumping against the door for support. “Stop being childish! Everyone will be dressed up!”

“I DON’T CARE!” He yells from behind the door. “AND WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE A SNOWMAN?!”

You chuckle lightly, not needing to see his face, you could already picture the cute pout upon his features as he retaliates.

“We all selected from a list! You refused to take part in choosing, so you were left with the snowman nobody wanted!”

You waited patiently for his reply. But as time passed, you were met with nothing but silence. Bringing your ear to the door, you could hear the quiet mumbles of a grumpy Eugene.

Realising you had no other choice, you decide to go with plan B to combat his stubborn resolve.

Pretending to sigh heavily, you slowly begin to walk away while putting on your best discouraged voice.

“Fine! You win! Let me go get changed and then we can go…”

A sinister smile wide upon your lips, you sneakily slip out a newly bought costume from your bag.

A couple minutes go by as Eugene continues to hide himself away.

Exhaling deep, you mask your mischievous grin and casually call out, “OK, EUGENE! I’M DONE! LET’S GO NOW!”

Eyes glued toward the bedroom, you watch as the golden-haired male exits the doorway, a bright triumphant smile upon his lips.

“We’re late now…” You sigh as you pick up your plate of freshly baked cookies, nonchalantly stepping out from behind the counters — now in clear view.

As Eugene’s eyes land on your figure, his winning smile gets utterly washed out by the overwhelming colour of crimson painted over his face.

“ARGH! W-WHAT ARE YOU W-WEARING?!” He stutters, completely paralysed as he shamelessly gawks at your outfit.

Cleavage pushed up to the nines and booty cheeks threatening a full display from the smallest of movements, you simply answer, “My costume?”

You head towards the front door; clad in nothing but lacy red lingerie, a red mini skirt with fluffy white trimming and a simple Santa hat.

As you turn the doorknob, Eugene beelines toward you and slams the door shut. Arms out wide, he shields you from the outside world.

“YOU CALL THAT A COSTUME?!” He questions, totally exasperated as his eyes scan over you in every direction.

“Eugene… we don’t have time for this…” Moving him out of the way, you reach out for the doorknob again before he quickly grabs hold of your arms.

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! YOU ARE DEFINITELY NOT LEAVING THE HOUSE LIKE THIS! GO GET CHANGED!”

“But… this role is important... Who else will be Santa then?” You ask innocently, tilting your head in fake concern.

“I DON’T KNOW! BUT IT SURE AS HELL WON’T BE YOU!”

“Eugene…”

He then grabs your hands tight, crouching down before looking up to meet your gaze with pleading amber eyes. “Please, (Y/N)! I’ll do anything, I’ll even wear that dumb snowman costume. Just please don’t wear this out.”

“…Really?”

“I’ll put it on right now if you want!” Eugene replies with desperation.

Got him.

Knowing you had him completely wrapped around your finger, you ultimately decide to ease him of his torturous distress. “Well… I guess I might have another outfit somewhere…”

Practically on his knees by now, he pleads once more. “Yes, please… just… anything but that.”

“Okay… I’ll go get changed…”

“Oh, thank god.” Eugene exclaims before slumping down onto the couch.

Taking a small peek at his defeated form as you leave, you witness Eugene laid back — hands covering his red-hot face as his voice is muffled within his palms. “Dammit… she’ll be the death of me.”

At last, you were dressed in the original outfit you had planned to wear all along. Unbeknownst to Eugene, of course. Stepping out into the lounge, you sport a pure white, long feathery dress with a floating halo attached above your head — an entirely opposite theme to the scantily clad fabric you had on just moments before.

Surely, he wouldn’t oppose to leaving with an ‘angel’.

Standing before your spiritually depleted boyfriend, you twirl around merrily before flashing him a glowing grin.

He stares for a moment before shaking his head. “No good… You’re still too cute.”

Astonished over his constant denial, you groan, “Eugene!”

“Fine… at least it won’t skyrocket my blood pressure this time.”

You stare at him as he avoids your eyes. “Your turn.”

Eugene hesitates slightly before sighing, finally grabbing the once abandoned costume. “Why do I feel played…?”

“I look stupid…” Eugene complains, his feet heavy with every step.

“No… you’re adorable!” You giggle as you excitedly skip up to Harry’s doorstep, hearing Eugene sigh for the thousandth time behind you.

Before you could even knock, Harry swings the door open. “Welcome!”

Eugene’s eyes go wide for a moment as he realises what Harry was wearing. You look back and poke your tongue out at him as he groans in defeat. Covered in red and white with a sack of presents to match, Harry gleams happily within his Santa costume. “Merry Christmas, guys!”

“Merry Christmas, Harry!” You beam back wholeheartedly.

“Yeah, yeah…” Eugene sighs once more, dreading the chaos within.

Harry gestures inside, “Come in! Everyone’s already here.”

Stepping into the warmly lit home, you’re both welcomed with an onslaught of greetings and well wishes from all around the room. Your eyes light up with joy as you reunite with the friends you now call ‘family’. Seeing everyone’s festive spirit made you feel right at home.

“HEYYY!!” Zion greets loudly from the kitchen. Stepping out into the lounge, you’re met with the brazenly exposed, half-naked redhead with a gold ribbon tied neatly around his neck. “Aww, well aren’t you guys the cutest?” Zion calls out as you break into hysterical laughter.

“…Aren’t you cold?” Eugene asks, wholly unimpressed, eyes creasing as thin as slits.

“You’re right… it DID get cold all of a sudden…” Zion wraps his arms around his bare form before looking in your direction. “(Y/N), did you HAVE to bring the snow in with you?”

“And… it starts.” Eugene mutters under his breath. Wiping the tears in the corners of your eyes, you try to question his clothing options—or lack thereof—but Eugene beats you to it. “So, what are you meant to be anyway?”

Zion’s eyes go wide with shock, dumbfounded by his simple question. “You can’t tell? Am I not a gift to your eyes?”

The room falls silent. So quiet, you could even hear the soft crackles of the flames within the fireplace.

Zion looks around the room, flabbergasted at everyone’s absent response. “I’m everyone’s Christmas present!”

“Bet you’re full of coal.” Eugene snickers.

“Only if you’ve been bad~” Zion fires back with a wink as he backs away toward the kitchen again, finger gunning the entire way back until he was out of view.

Eugene groans before sighing once more. “Today’s gonna be a long day... Can I take this off now?”

“Nooo! We need to take a family photo with everyone first!” Stopping him from unzipping himself and trying to lighten his sour mood, you nudge Eugene’s side playfully. “Come on! Everyone’s in the Christmas spirit and having fun!”

“Urgh… This is why I hate Christmas…”

You giggle at his predictable response before cheerfully waving back to Ethan and Lawrence sitting by the fire. “Ok, Scrooge. How about we say hello to everyone first and then go grab some food, sound good?”

He’ll be in a better mood after he eats.

“Fine… You know I’m only putting up with this ‘cause I love you, right?”

“I know.” Leaning up on your toes, you give Eugene a quick peck on his cheek. “Thank you, Eugene.”

“Yeah…” He murmurs, scratching the back of his golden tresses awkwardly.

Standing by the dining table filled with traditionally festive dishes, you lovingly feed spoonful’s of pudding to your now content boyfriend. For once, he wasn’t complaining about being here or feeling defensive over his attire. He began to actually enjoy himself as he caught up with everyone.

Well… That was until Zion came back to set down some eggnog on the table.

Coming up beside you, Zion looks toward Eugene before letting out a giant sneeze… a fake one of course. But it was enough to bring Eugene’s mood back to square one.

“WHY DON’T YOU JUST PUT A SHIRT ON, YOU FUCKING NARCISSIST?!”

“Man… the winter breeze sure is howling loud today!” Zion effortlessly ignores him as he snakes an arm around your shoulders. “You know, (Y/N)… since it’s so cold here, I heard that an easy way to warm ourselves is to cuddle each other while being stark nake-”

Before he could finish his sentence, with lightning fast reflexes, Eugene swipes a plastic butter knife from the table and places it by Zion’s cheek. His eyes now dark with murderous intent, voice seething in malice. “Hands.Off.My.Girlfriend.”

Zion immediately takes his hands off of you and raises them up as a sign of mercy. “Whoa… Chill, bro.”

“Ayeee~” Judy chimes in as she reaches out her hand for a synchronised fist bump with the proud redhead.

“Pfft-” Failing to stifle your chuckle, you go into an uncontrollable fit of laughter again, having way too much fun from everyone’s shenanigans.

Eugene snaps his head toward you, a look of utter betrayal in his expression. “Really, (Y/N)? That joke got you too?”

“I’m s-sorry… The timing… was perfect!” You manage to say as you clutch your stomach, giving in to the giggles.

About ready to burn his costume at this point, Eugene barks out, “CAN WE TAKE THIS DAMN PICTURE ALREADY?!”

Now cozy in their everyday clothes—after the chaotic madness of capturing the perfect group photo—the mood was tranquil as everyone chatted amongst themselves.

A moment of calm washed over the both of you as you sat comfortably within Eugene’s embrace by the roaring fire. A glass of warm eggnog within your palms, Eugene rested his chin within the curve of your neck — drained from the constant torment.

“Finally… Zion can leave me alone with his lame ass dad jokes now.”

Feeling somewhat responsible and guilty for putting your boyfriend through such turmoil, you decide to sneakily lead him away to a place that Harry secretly set up for you.

“What are you planning now?” Eugene’s eyebrow raises, underlying skepticism within his voice as you slip away from the party.

Spotting the hanging mistletoe in the hallway ahead, you eagerly drag Eugene over and situate him right underneath.

“OK! Now, look up!”

Eyes raising toward the ceiling before settling back on your expectant gaze, he smirks roguishly, “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just asked.”

Is it too cliché?

Suddenly feeling horrified by how enthusiastic you were, you cover your rosy cheeks with your palms and attempt to run off. “You’re right! This is dumb!”

“Hey!” Eugene protests as he hastily grabs you by the hand and gently pulls you into his arms, chuckling as he witnesses your bashful demeanour. “It’s only fair if I get to tease you a little too…”

His hand reaches up to caress your cheek, thumb gliding over your mouth as it lingers upon your soft lips. Leaning in close, his hot breath inches from your skin, he whispers, “How are you so adorable?”

Without a moment of hesitation, your eyelids flutter to a close — anticipating the warmth of his lips pressed upon yours.

Just as you were about to close the gap however, a wolf whistle echoes from the end of the hall.

Both taken aback by surprise, you turn your heads to witness a sneering Zion leaning against the wall… watching in amusement. “Oh, ho ho~ Be careful, (Y/N). If this gets any steamier, Olaf over here will melt away!”

Your face burns with embarrassment having been caught in the act of such a lovey-dovey scene. Infuriated by his interruption, Eugene blows up in rage for the... how many times today? You seem to have lost count at this point.

“SERIOUSLY, ZION! DO YOU EVER SHUT UP?! I’M NOT EVEN WEARING THAT STUPID COSTUME ANYMORE!”

Waving his hand indifferently in dismissal, Zion wanders off, dusting his hands like he had just completed a job well done.

“God, he’s so irritating! How is he everywhere?!” Eugene grumbles as he massages his temples with his fingers.

“Even I’m starting to get annoyed now.” You admit, your eyes falling into aggravated slits at Zion’s retreating form.

“We should have never come…” Eugene pouts, his expression reminding you of a provoked cat.

Cute...

You wrap your arms around him, hoping to calm him again. You hear him sigh in frustration as he returns your embrace before nuzzling his face into your (h/c) locks. “You know he only teases out of love, right?”

He scoffs at the thought.

Taking his hand in yours, you smile knowingly. “Plus, you don’t need to hide it, I know you enjoyed seeing everyone again.”

His attention shifts to the side, avoiding your gaze as his cheeks grow a subtle blush. “Whatever.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his innocent response.

“Anyways…” He trails off as his fingers delicately lift your chin upwards. “The only love I need is yours.”

Leaning down a second time, Eugene’s gentle lips press together with yours. Fitting together as perfect as a puzzle, you gasp lightly as he hugs you tighter.

His scent was... reminiscent of faint firewood.

His lips... tasting of subtle hints of cinnamon.

Every part of him consumed your senses.

As he grips your chin eagerly, your mouth parts immediately as if by instinct — welcoming his intoxicating tongue.

Contrary to what Zion believed, Eugene’s kiss left your body melting under his every touch.

As your lips part ways with his, Eugene’s eyes were met with your fervent gaze — his eyebrows furrowing in response. “Can we go home now?”

Misunderstanding his intentions, you fail to hide your sadness. “You hated the party that much?”

“It’s not that… It was good to see everyone. But, I just… wanna spend some time with you now, (Y/N)…”

“O-Oh…Okay.” You stutter. He wasn’t usually this forward or honest, and it left you feeling a little shy. The prior hours, as you dragged on your stay, made you somewhat apologetic toward him. “I’m sorry for making you wear that costume.”

His eyes go wide before smiling warmly. “It’s fine… as long as you had fun.”

A bubbly grin on your face, you beam, “I did! Thank you, Eugene!”

Eugene chuckles quietly in response as he ruffles your hair. “Anyways, I guess it was worth it.” He then clears his throat uncomfortably. “…You looked beautiful today.”

“Only today?” You question; your tone, playful.

Eyes closing from exhaustion due to everyone’s constant lively energy, he sighs deeply as he rests his forehead against yours. “Give me a break already… You know what I mean.”

Tittering softly, you slowly nod against him.

“Don’t even start me on that lacy shit you had on this morning…” Eugene then looks up abruptly, confusion clear on his handsome features. “Wait… You tricked me! What was that outfit for anyway? Harry was Santa…”

Giggling radiantly at the memory of your prank, you reply, “It’s a gift!”

Eugene’s eyebrows raise in curiosity before you leaned closer to clarify, “But only for your eyes…”

“Ah…” Eugene places a hand on his mouth, turning his face toward the wall and averting his gaze — hiding the faint blush upon his skin.

He then clears his throat again before looking at you in a suspicious stare. “You’re not gonna chase me around again and say you bought it for me to wear, are you?”

Although you found the idea quite tempting, you smile sincerely. “I think I’ve teased you enough for one day.”

“Good.”

Taking your hand in his, he leads you away from the mistletoe and out of the halls. Pink hues decorate your cheeks as you anticipate a festive night, spent only in the arms of one another.

x luna

#dangerous fellows #dangerous fellows christmas event #fluff #dfel #dangerous fellows fanfic #dfel fanfic #dangerous fellows eugene #dfel eugene #eugene x reader #character x reader #reader fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic blog #dangerous fellows fanfiction #dfel fanfiction

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thewatsonbeekeepers · 4 years

Text

Chapter 6 – So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish [TST 1/2]

The chapter title comes from the wonderful Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy book series – drop this meta and read them immediately.

No, no he [Moriarty] would never be that disappointing. He’s planned something, something long-term. Something that would take effect if he never made it off that rooftop alive. Posthumous revenge – no, better than that. Posthumous game.

This is what Sherlock says about Moriarty in the very first scene of TST, and on rewatch the application to Mofftiss is startling. Trust the writers – a short-term disappointment for a long-term excitement, if you will. The reference to the rooftop is a way of pointing out just how far back this has been planned – in other words, the seeming randomness of the series is not in fact random. But let’s see how that plays out in TST.

This episode opens, as so many have pointed out, with doctored footage, as though deliberately showing us how stories can be rewritten. However, we only get glimpses of the footage at the start of the episode – the extensive old footage is not security camera footage, but recap footage from s3, and specifically the end of HLV. The idea that there is something classified, hidden, that we don’t have the full story, is meant to be associated with the actual show Sherlock, not just the camera footage – it would have been very easy to give us most of the same footage in security camera style, but they deliberately reused shots from the show to make us doubt their own authenticity. So far, so good.

The first thing that I (and most of my friends) noticed about this scene, however, is that it’s not good. The writing is questionable, to say the least. The serious resolution to the problem of Magnussen’s murder is interrupted by Sherlock tweeting, brotherly bickering, hyperactive and possibly high Sherlock being played for comedy (complete with mock opera). And then, perhaps the worst lines of the show so far:

SHERLOCK: I always know when the game is on. Do you know why?

SMALLWOOD: Why?

SHERLOCK: Because I love it.

Like a lot of this show, think about those lines for more than a nanosecond and they really don’t make sense. You’ve got to think about them for a lot longer before they start to again. This, I think, is where BBC Sherlock’s self-parody really starts. TAB focuses on parodying, critiquing and rewriting historical adaptations, but it’s easy to see the merging of all of the undeniably Sherlock elements into one parodically awful scene. The quick quips that are supposed to be clever and that are so common in Moffat’s dialogue are seen in that moment of dialogue – but the quip isn’t clever anymore, it’s empty. The same catchphrase of ‘the game is on’ comes back, and the quintessential use of technology is referenced in Sherlock’s Twitter account, where again his #OhWhatABeautifulMorning is unfathomably glib. Our Sherlock is also better known than previous adaptations for his drug abuse, and this also gets referenced, but here it gets played for comedy, which is incongruous with the rest of the show – in fact, THoB, HLV and TAB all take it pretty seriously, so to see it played off as a joke is tonally questionable. In other words, here we have Sherlock caricatured as a programme, in one scene – and it’s horrible.

(We should also notice that the use of Twitter is important – it underlies a lot of the glib comedy in this episode, with Sherlock later Tweeting #221BringIt (which is so unbelievably queer?). In Sherlock, Moffat use Twitter rather than Tumblr to comment on fan reaction to Sherlock, probably because their older audience will have no idea what Tumblr is, but also because Twitter is much more mainstream in its appreciation. Twitter takes centre stage in TEH, with #SherlockLives and the scene with the support group. The joke there is about the sheer level of how-did-he-do-it mania that gripped the public – so when we see Twitter again, we should be thinking about an extratextual as well as a textual response to Sherlock, and how Sherlock’s behaviour on Twitter in this episode might caricature the way that he is seen from the outside.)

I don’t truly buy that (in this scene, at least) Mofftiss are critiquing their own show in a straightforward sense, because they have dealt with technology better than this (words on screen, technology as useful within mysteries), drugs better than this (John’s, Mycroft’s and Molly’s reactions to Sherlock’s behaviour as well as Sherlock’s own difficulties) and clever quips far better (pick any episode). But in deconstructing this show to its instantly recognisable elements, and making them worse to hyperbolise the point, that scene strips the show of its heart. Interestingly, it’s also stripped of John, who will be the metaphorical heart of Sherlock through the EMP, but is also the part of the show that is missing when it is caricatured as the Benedict-Cumberbatch-being-clever show. This is also a critique of most people’s perception of Sherlock Holmes as a character through history in the sense of the reductive cleverness – Mofftiss are showing us that this is completely empty.

What does this mean for Sherlock himself, bearing in mind that this is taking place in his Mind Palace? The answer is pretty grim – remember that Sherlock is metatextually grappling with his own identity at this point; he needs to discover the man he is, rather than is portrayed as, in order to get out of this alive. In a psychological sense, then, the opening of TST sees Sherlock deconstruct himself as seen from the outside, and as his psyche has traditionally perceived himself, and realise that that version of himself is hollow. This scene, then, is a rejection of the Sherlock of the public eye, as well as Sherlock’s own eyes.

There is a non-explanation for how the Secret Service doctored the footage of Sherlock shooting Magnussen, the response simply being that they have the tech. If the answer is going to be that vague, there is little reason to bring up the question – except to raise it in the viewers’ minds. Making the audience question their belief in the s4 universe is something that happens very frequently, and this is the start of it. A later chapter goes into the parallels that Sherlock and Doctor Who have, but there’s an important bit from Last Christmas (DW Christmas Special 2014) that is relevant here – the main characters, all dreaming, whenever they are asked any questions that can’t be explained in the dream universe, simply reply ‘it’s a long story’. This is a ‘long story’ moment – where no explanation is given, so questions about reality are raised and unanswered.

Another similar moment comes when Sherlock says he knows exactly what Moriarty is going to do next – how? And, more to the point, it becomes hugely obvious that he doesn’t. Yet, for the first time in history, he feels happy to sit back and wait on Moriarty, because he knows that what will come will come. This insistence that the future will take its course as it needs to might draw our minds ahead to the frankly ridiculous reliance on predictions that we see in TLD – however, it should also draw our minds across to Doctor Who, and to Amy’s Choice, a series five episode I’m going to delve deeper into later, but where because it’s a dream, the Doctor is able to predict every word the monsters say.

Notice that ‘glad to be alive’ is followed by Vivian saying her name – we’ll come back to this later.

Cue opening credits!

Before going anywhere else with TST, required reading is this meta by LSiT (X). I can’t make these points better than she has, nor can I take credit for them. I’m particularly invested in her description of the aquarium and the Samarra story, as well as the client cases that appear and aren’t updated on John’s blog. Our reading will diverge later on – I think this series is a lot more metaphorical than it is hypothesis-testing, although the latter is a notable feature of ACD canon (see the original THotB) that definitely does happen here as well. I’m going to leave the Samarra story, the aquarium and the cases for LSiT to explain, however, and move on.

When we move into 221B, the fuckiness is instantly apparent from the mirror. You can go here (X) to navigate the whole inside of 221B, and I suggest you do; it’s a fantastic resource. The mirror showing the green wall is simply wrong – the angle that this is shot from suggests that we should see the black and white wallpaper, complete with skull etc. Instead, we see the green wall – and the door. We can tell this is wrong because in the ‘wrong thumb’ case about thirty seconds later, the right wallpaper is reflected in the mirror. Another note of fuckiness that we should spot is that Sherlock seems to be taking his cases from letters, in the mail he has knifed into the mantelpiece – this show has been really keen on emphasising that he uses email for the last three series, so the implication that people are sending him letters is even odder than it would be in a modern show anyway.

(Everybody in the world has commented on the ‘it’s never twins’ line – but to reiterate its importance. Firstly, it’s almost identical to the line in TAB, just with ‘it’s’ instead of ‘it is’. TAB repeats lots of things though, because it’s a dream – well yes, but dreams can’t tell the future. So material from TAB being recycled doesn’t point to TAB being a dream, it points to TST being a continuation of the dream in TAB. The fact that they saw fit to reiterate this line in a series about secret siblings also puts paid to the theory that s4 was plotted in a rush and not in line with previous series – there is a theme here, and they’re pushing it.)

And so we move to Sherlock relentlessly texting through the birth, through the christening – horrible, ooc behaviour for him if we think back to how emotional he was at the wedding. Importantly, this behaviour is all tied up with his obsessive Tweeting, which in turn links in to how the outside world (i.e. us) perceive Sherlock – is this the Sherlock that people want to see on screen? Doesn’t he feel wrong? Sure, there’s an element of self-critique in there from Mofftiss, but the incorporation of the phone obsession leaves the blame squarely with the audience. In case we couldn’t already feel that Sherlock’s character is way off, we have his Siri loudly say that she can’t understand him.

We remember from TAB that Sherlock sees himself as cleverer through John’s eyes, and the reasonably sympathetic portrayal we get in TAB we can probably put down to this attempt at understanding himself from the outside. The water in TST is showing us that we’re going in, and the sad thing is that this is almost definitely how Sherlock has come to perceive himself, but just like Siri he doesn’t truly recognise it. It’s also worth noting here the emphasis placed on God in godfather and later the deliberate mentions of Christianity at the Christening – there is also a tuning out of a culture he can’t really align himself with here, which is more important when we think about the fact that this character has been around since the 19th century.

Water tells us we’re sinking deep into Sherlock’s mind, as discussed in a previous chapter. Water imagery is going to be hugely prevalent in TST, but I want to talk quickly about the subtle hints at water even when we’re not in a giant fuck-off aquarium. Take a look at the rattle scene (which always sparks joy). When we get a side angle that shows both Sherlock and Rosie, there’s a black chest of some description behind Rosie – the top is glowing slightly blue, for reasons I can’t fathom. Then we’re going to cut to a shot of Rosie – despite seeing only a second before that there is nothing on her head, there is a glow of blue on it that looks almost like a skullcap. Cut back to Sherlock getting a rattle in the face, and the mirror is glowing the same blue colour behind him. This is all fucky, and it’s a fuckiness which is aesthetically tied to the waters of Sherlock’s mind perfectly. It suggests that Rosie isn’t real, but more important is the mirror. Earlier on I pointed out how the mirror was showing the wrong reflection; here, the mirror is glowing blue, linking it thematically to Sherlock’s subconsciousness. Visually, we’re being hinted at the process of self-reflection that’s going on in Sherlock’s brain – and the opening of TST is showing him getting it terribly wrong. Note that when the mirror jolted right earlier, Sherlock was proclaiming that it had been the wrong thumb – god knows what thumbs have to do with this, but there’s a question of shifting perception on his person, like he’s trying to locate himself.

The glowing blue light sticks around, and seems particularly associated with Rosie, like she’s the focus of much of Sherlock’s thought at the moment. LSiT’s meta linked above has already picked up on the many dangers in Rosie’s cradle decoration, from the Moriarty linked images to the killer whale mobile. Due purely to a lucky pause, I caught the killer whale’s eyes glowing blue, just like the blue from the rattle scene. He’s thinking about her in terms of the key villains of the show as well as the villains in his mind.

I’m not going to comment on the bus scene because I have a chapter dedicated to Eurus moments before TFP – jumping straight ahead.

We then find our first Thatcher case – others have been pretty quick to point out the significance of the blue power ranger in gay tv history (X), and infer that Charlie is queer coded – much like David Yost, who played the blue power ranger, he is not able to come out without being treated badly. This is undoubtedly important, as is the fact that this is the second time in 12 minutes of this show that they’ve shown us how easily film footage can be faked, and someone can be lied to – you don’t need to have Mycroft Holmes levels of clearance, just a Zoom background. This is important too. But the other thing I want to focus on is that he says he’s in Tibet.

Sherlock comes pretty high on my list of top TV shows, but currently Twin Peaks holds the top spot – it’s an unashamedly cryptic show all about solving mysteries through dreams, so no wonder I like it. It’s made by David Lynch, and in the TAB chapter I talk about how TAB takes a lot of structural inspiration from his most famous film, Mulholland Drive, which has similar themes. I don’t think this is anything particularly interesting beyond an attempt to reference the defining work in the field of it-was-all-a-dream film and tv – David Lynch and Mofftiss and Victor Fleming are the only people I can think of who can actually make that plot look good. But this Tibet moment, particularly as we’re going to be hit by another reference to Tibet later, underlining its importance, I think is a reference to this scene (X) where the protagonist, Cooper, outlines a dream in which the Dalai Lama spoke to him and gave him the power to use magic to solve mysteries. Fans of Twin Peaks will know that the magic doesn’t last long – it’s pretty much an introductory way in, and most of the rest of his important deductions will all be made in dreams. This is one of the most famous scenes in the whole programme, because it introduced the world to the weirdness of what had been set up as a straightforward cop show, and despite Cooper rarely (possibly never?) mentioning Tibet again, it’s still highly quoted and recognisable. As a watershed moment in bringing dream worlds into normal detective dramas (something highly frowned upon according to any theory of storytelling!) this is a gamechanging moment, and I don’t think it’s a stretch to point to Sherlock’s several references to Tibet as a link back to this moment.

We then cut back to Sherlock thinking whilst Lestrade tells him more about the case – what is bizarre here, is that John and Lestrade are clearly visible through what can only be described as a rearview mirror attached to the side of Sherlock’s head. If anyone can tell me what that is, I would love to know. I’m going to assume it’s a fucky mirror, because it’s in keeping with the other fucky mirrors so far. The visibility of John and Lestrade in the mirror is even more odd because it doesn’t match the colour palette of 221B at all. Sherlock is lit largely in warm, brown colours, as is Charlie’s father in the previous scene we’re transitioning from – Lestrade and John are lit in dark blue, to the point where they’re barely visible. This looks like a rearview mirror, but not like the one on the power ranger car – it’s a much older car, out of a different time, like so much in this dream world. The only colour palette they seem to match is the one from the s4 promotion photos – you know, when Baker Street is completely underwater.

Drowning in the Mind Palace. Here we are, back where we started. Sherlock might be thinking about the case of Charlie, but he’s actually reflecting on that world we saw in the promo photos, where he’s struggling to stay alive in his brain. Notice that this isn’t just a split shot, it’s specifically a mirror, so we’re meant to focus on this episode as an act of reflection. There are great parallels between Sherlock and the Charlie case which you can find here (X) – essentially, Charlie and Carl Powers from TGG are mirrors for one another both in their names and in the manner they die (a fit in a tight place, basically). Carl Powers is already a mirror for Sherlock – obsessively targeted by Jim for being the best at what he does. Charlie mirrors Sherlock through their shared trip to Tibet (dreamscape alert) and, we think, through the metatextual link of the blue power ranger. In case you hadn’t spotted it, Powers links back to that too – probably coincidence, but a nice one nevertheless. Carl Powers’s death is by drowning, which we shouldn’t ignore in an episode as loaded with ideas about drowning in the mind palace. The fact that the mirror reflects drowning Baker Street aesthetics should make us think that Charlie is asking us to reflect on Carl Powers’s death, but also on Sherlock’s own – already fatally injured (by a fit or by Mary), he is going to die smothered, unable to cry for help (in a swimming pool/carseat costume (?!)/mind palace). The idea that none of these people could cry for help is particularly poignant because so much of series 4 is about Sherlock being unable to voice his own identity, and as we’ll see once he’s able to do that, that may give him the impetus to escape his death. Think of ‘John Watson is definitely in danger’ back in HLV.

Now. Why is Sherlock so keen for Lestrade to take the credit? It’s another reason to bring up the fact that John’s blog is constantly updating – it’s dropped in a lot in this series as opposed to others – and to make us think about why nothing is happening in real life. But, given that this episode is about Sherlock trying to find who he is, is it a rejection of the persona that goes along with being Sherlock Holmes? Possibly, but he’s going to have to go to a lot more effort than that. John’s blog is the real problem here, making not just Sherlock but Lestrade out to be like they’re not. John’s blog is a stand in for the original stories, which were supposed to be written by John Watson, but TAB has already (drawing on TPLoSH) laid the groundwork for the idea that John’s blog/those stories really do not tell the whole story. So this is coming back with a vengeance here, even though for the first time Sherlock is properly moving against the persona in there, not just bitching about John’s writing style, which is a theme more common to Sherlock Holmes across the ages. John then says that it’s obvious, and when pressed just laughs and says that it’s normally what Sherlock says at this point – so again, when Sherlock stops filling the intense caricature of arrogance and bravado, John the storyteller steps in to put him back in line, even though that means pulling him back to being a much more unpleasant character.

A note here: most of the time in EMP theory, I think John represents Sherlock’s heart, and I try to refer to John as heart!John as much as possible when that’s the case. There are a few cases which are different, but most notable are when the blog comes up – then John becomes John the blogger, and our symbolism shifts over to the repressive features of the original stories and how that’s playing out in the modern world. Although a pain to analyse sometimes, I find it incredibly neat that the two of them are bound up in John as source of both love and pain, which fits our story beautifully.

John as blogger continues in the baby joke that he and Lestrade have going down the stairs – they continue with their caricature of Sherlock, but he doesn’t recognise himself in it. Or rather, there’s a moment when he seems to, but he can’t quite grasp onto it. This is typical of the way he recognises himself in the programme. It’s also worth noting that the image of John as a father is particularly tied into ACD, as the creator of Sherlock Holmes, so tying together blogger and father in this scene cements our theme.

Going into the Welsborough house, we get a slip of the tongue from Sherlock which is fantastic. He tells them that he is really sorry about their daughter, which at an earlier point in the show might just be a classic Sherlock slip-up. But mixing up genders is actually something which happens quite a lot in this show, and it’s something drawn attention to as significant in TAB.

Sherlock asks John “How did he survive?” of Emelia Ricoletti, when of course he’s thinking about Moriarty, and John corrects him quickly, much like here. A coincidental callback? Maybe not. What’s the first mistake that Sherlock ever makes? Thinking that Harry Watson is a man. What’s the big trick they pull at the end of S4? Sherlock has a secret sister – and Eurus points out that her gender is the surprise at the end of TLD. Eurus is also an opposite-sex mirror for John and for Sherlock at various points and this allows Sherlock to approach their relations from a heterosexual standpoint and thus interrogate them – more on that later. So gender-swapping is a theme that runs through the show a lot. But the similarity to TAB in particular is important here, because in TAB that was our first obvious declaration that this wasn’t just a mirror to be analysed by the tumblr crowd, this was a mirror on the superficial level that had to be broken through. This callback to TAB is a callback to the mirrored dreamscape. Don’t believe me? Look at what happens next. The second Sherlock sees Thatcher the whole room not only goes underwater, but actually starts to shake – another throwback to recognising that Emelia was Moriarty, when the whole room shakes and the elephant in the room smashes. So, again, we’re being told that this isn’t about this case – it’s about something else, and that something is the elephant in the room. Just like the shaking smashes the elephant in the room, the shaking is what tells us about the smashed bust of Margaret Thatcher. Margaret Thatcher, whose laws on “promoting homosexuality” were infamous. Smashing the elephant in the room and Thatcher simultaneously between 2015, the 1980s and 1895 is hitting the history of British homophobia for the last hundred years summed up as quickly as possible, and tearing it down through Sherlock’s self-exploration. This is a good fucking show.

You’ll also notice that Sherlock is alone in the room, just for a second, when he has his Thatcher revelation – everybody else vanishes. Again, we’re seeing that the rest of the case is an illusion, providing just enough storytime to keep the audience believing in the dream, and possibly Sherlock too.

[There’s a fantastic framing of Sherlock here between two portraits, a man and a woman, seemingly ancestral – I would love to know more about these, because if I know Arwel they’re significant, and the way they hang over Sherlock is really metaphorically suggestive. If anyone has any info on that, it looks like a really good avenue to explore.]

Blue. Blue is the colour of Sherlock’s mind palace, but this scene ties it firmly to the Conservative party. The dark blue of Sherlock’s scarf nearly matches Welsborough’s jumper, which is in fact a better match for the mind palace aesthetic generally. Thatcher unsurprisingly wears blue as well. If blue is the water that Sherlock is drowning in, how interesting that it’s being tied to the most homophobic prime minister of the last 50 years. There was absolutely no need to make this guy a cabinet minister, dress him in blue, even make Thatcher replace Napoleon – I would actually argue that Churchill is a figure who matches Napoleon’s distance and stature much better for our time. Thatcher is an odd choice, and therefore significant. To tie this to the mind palace further, we then get a shot of Sherlock reflected in the picture of Thatcher as he analyses it – a reflection of him reflecting. In case we forgot what this was actually about.

Sherlock not knowing who Thatcher is – perfectly feasible and actually quite important, although something that I’m not going to resolve until my meta on TFP, because that’s where it comes together for me. But Sherlock playing for time with his further jokes about being oblivious (‘female?’) – that, again, is Sherlock actively playing a caricature of himself. He’s not doing it for fun – he’s doing it to cover up his concern about the smashed elephant in the room Thatcher bust.

The weird thing about the reveal of how Charlie died is that we see what should have happened, if everything had gone right, before we see how he died. I can’t recall this happening in another episode of Sherlock, although I could be wrong. It’s marked by the really noticeable scene transition of crackling television static, as though the signal is cutting out. This is possibly a bit of a reach, but there’s one obvious place where we’ve seen a lot of static before.

Moriarty coming back isn’t what’s supposed to happen. It doesn’t happen in the books. We’re telling the wrong story here. (Bear in mind, from previous chapters, that Jim represents Sherlock’s fear that John’s life is in danger.) Just like Jim returning isn’t the right story, but it’s the one that happened, Charlie’s story isn’t the right story but it’s the one that happened – and indeed, Sherlock needing to save John from a dangerous marriage + suicide is not what is supposed to happen – John and Mary are supposed to be married for good (until she dies) in canon. A whole load of false endings – new stories superseding old ones. Mofftiss has an idea that there’s a new story that’s going to be told, and our strongest canon divergence is the end of s3, when we get into the EMP – and from thereon in to TAB it’s off the deep end, and the same is seen here. That TV static is talking about a new medium for a new age and their refusal to deal with established canon norms. Just in case we didn’t remember, outside in the porch we even get a visual reminder of the TV static with a second’s flashback to ‘Miss Me?’ Bad news is, that means Sherlock Holmes rejecting the norms he’s been given (feasibly represented by the hyperbolic nuclear family here) and instead… dying in his mind palace. Less fun. Carl Powers died too. Sherlock still hasn’t got there quite yet – let’s hope he doesn’t.

The next scene is, I think, very important. We come across Mycroft in a dark room with a tiny bit of light – this is really odd, as the obvious place to put Mycroft would be the Diogenes Club. Yet, although clearly more modern, this reminds me most of all of the room we meet Mycroft in in TAB.

The colour palette is the same as the top photo, and the similar chunks of light falling through suggest that we’re in the same place. I’ve brought in a photo from the aeroplane in TAB to show how the light is designed to mirror that of the Diogenes Club in TAB as well – there is a unity in all these Mycroft’s that we shouldn’t miss. Here I can’t imagine I’m the first one to notice that the light in Mycroft’s office is designed to look like a chessboard, which was an important motif in the promotional pictures for s4. Chess is associated with Sherlock’s brain through Mycroft, most notably in THE where it is contrasted with Operation which represents their emotional (in)capacities. So here we are – Mycroft is the brain, if we didn’t already know, and Sherlock has gone to speak to his brain alone much like he did in TAB. Mycroft has already been associated with the queen a lot; they meet in Buckingham Palace in ASiB, where there is a jibe about Mycroft being the queen of England – we can see here in Sherlock’s head that the brain’s power is vastly reduced by comparing these two episodes. The first time we see Mycroft in connection to the Queen we go to the most famous building in the UK. The second time, Sherlock says he’s going to the Mall, which is the street that Buckingham Palace is on, so we are led to expect a reprisal – and instead come here. There is still a picture of the queen on the wall, but apart from that we are in the darkest room of the show so far, whose grating makes it look under siege. Mycroft’s power in Sherlock’s head is vastly reduced, and indeed the brain’s influence (represented by the queen) over Sherlock’s character is waning as Sherlock struggles to come to terms with his emotional identity.

[Crack/tenuous theory: when Sherlock asks John if he is the king of England in s3, in the drunk knee grope scene, this shows that his brain’s control over his emotions have slipped; references to the queen in relation to Mycroft before have shown that Sherlock does know about the royal family, so this has to metaphorically refer to his own psyche and letting go of his brain’s anti-emotion side. Like I say, crack. But I believe it.]

Again, if we weren’t sure about Mycroft representing the brain without the heart, his rejection of the baby photos is sending out a clear message of juxtaposition with John, who represents the heart. We also shouldn’t fail to notice the water coming over Sherlock’s face again as he struggles to recognise what is important about this. This comes as he is trying to recognise what is important about the Thatchers case. I’m going to try to lay it out as best I can here.

We’ve been through what Thatcher represents to queer people of Sherlock’s age, so there’s already a strong metaphor for homophobia being smashed there. However, let’s look at the AGRA memory stick being uncovered. We know (X) that Sherlock deduced his feelings for John as he was marrying Mary, and so having the smashing of the Thatcher bust at the AGRA memory stick reveal is pretty devastating metaphorically. Why does Sherlock constantly think Moriarty is involved? Well, HLV tells us that the Jim in Sherlock’s mind is his darkest fear – and he’s originally tied up in Sherlock’s mind when he’s first shot, but he pretty quickly gets loose. That darkest fear is exactly what Jim says in that episode: ‘John Watson is definitely in danger’. The reason we bring Jim in to represent this is part of deconstructing the myth of Sherlock Holmes. The whole concept of an arch enemy is made fun of in the show, and rightly so; Moriarty himself tells the Sir Boastalot story which lines Sherlock up with that ridiculous heroic tradition that he’s set himself into, which isn’t what Sherlock Holmes is really about at all. Holmes has never really been particularly invested in individual criminals (although there are exceptions – Irene Adler, for example) – the time he gets most het up is The Three Garridebs, as we all know, when he thinks Watson is dying. It’s his greatest fear, and it’s also what Jim threatens, so Jim has become a proxy for that – and to understand that Sherlock Holmes is not the great Sherlock Holmes of the last hundred years, we have to get under and beyond Jim. Hence what we’re about to see. It’s not Jim, it’s Mary – and this is in very real terms, because Mary’s assassination attempt on Sherlock has left John in danger – but Sherlock won’t put the pieces together until the end of this episode, as we will see.

We should also pause over Mycroft asking Sherlock whether he’s having a premonition – Mycroft is laughing at the concept of Sherlock being able to envisage the future here, which we should remember when it comes to the frankly ludicrous plot of the next episode. Much like the much commented upon “it’s not like it is in the movies” which is there to undermine TST, this line is here to undermine TLD and point out the fact that it can’t possibly be real.

Sherlock describes predestination as like a spider’s web and like mathematics – both of these are to do with Moriarty. In the original stories, Moriarty is a mathematician, and one of the most famous lines from both the stories and the show describes Moriarty as a spider. This predestined future is one that Sherlock doesn’t like – Mycroft points out that predestination ends in death, which is what Sherlock is trying to avoid in this episode, and although Moriarty is never mentioned explicitly, his inflection here suggests that Sherlock is thinking about John subconsciously, without even understanding it. The Samarra discussion brings us back to the question of Sherlock’s death, and links it in with the deep waters of the mind he’s currently drowning in – the pirate imagery becomes really important here, because a pirate is someone who stays alive on the high seas and fights against them. The merchant of Samarra becoming a pirate is not merely a joke about a little boy, it’s a point about fighting for survival – and how will Sherlock later fight for survival? We’ll see him battle Eurus (his trauma, more on that later) head on, literally describing himself as a pirate. Fantastic stuff.

The scene transition where all of the glass breaks and then we cut to a background of what looks like blue water is a motif that runs through this entire episode – we’re smashing down walls in Sherlock’s mind, most particularly the Thatcher wall of 1980s homophobia, and indeed the first picture we see is that of the smashed bust.

Moving on – before we go back to Baker Street, there’s a shot of the outside – that features a mirror, reflecting back on 221B in a distorted, twisted way. Another mirror that is wrong – we’re reflecting in an alternate reality. These images keep popping up. It’s echoed in Sherlock’s deduction a few seconds later – by the side of his chair is what looks like either a car mirror or a magnifying glass, possibly the one from the Charlie scene, distorting his arm. It’s placed to look like a magnifying glass, whether it is or not, which ties in with the classic image of Holmes – but that image is distorted, remember.

Others have pointed out that when Sherlock falsely deduces that the client’s wife is a spy working for Moriarty, he should really be talking to John – and, in fact, this is another proof that this isn’t really, because otherwise this is pretty touchy stuff to be making light of in front of John. Instead, let’s remember this is Sherlock’s Mind Palace – John isn’t John here. What Sherlock does a lot in s4 – and nowhere more than the finale of TST – is displace a lot of his real world problems onto other people because he cannot handle the emotional impact of them, and that’s what he’s doing here. He’s trying to come to terms with the danger that Mary poses, but he can’t do it with John – hence why this scene has a John substitute, because that’s what the client is.

Note that the red balloon is over the Union Jack cushion, reminding us that this scene is about John in danger (see this post X). However, what’s important here is that Sherlock has got it wrong. He’s currently trying to work out why what has just happened with Mary poses so much danger, and he’s imagining Mary as the worst threat he possibly could – in a word, this Mary is a supervillain. But Mary is not a supervillain; he’s got this all wrong, and even as he says it, it’s completely ridiculous. This is not the danger Mary poses – and so out the door the client goes, and we’re back to square one, trying to work out exactly why John is in so much danger.

I’m not going to pause over the next moment of importance for too long because many have covered it – let’s just notice that Sherlock’s face is overlaid with a smashed Thatcher bust, and remind ourselves that these are the walls of homophobia in Sherlock’s brain. Also note that this matches the half-face overlay of the water in the previous scene, linking the two (although the scene with Ajay later will cement that anyway).

Next up: Craig and his dog. Nothing can be said about dogs that hasn’t be said in these wonderful metas by @sagestreet (X). Nevertheless, let’s note that this dog is coloured the same as Redbeard, and Mary (a Sherlock mirror in this episode, and in this scene – their clothing matches, and their joining of skillsets to exclude John is the link that has always united them as mirrors) compares John to the dog. We know from the metas linked above that dogs are linked to queerness in the show, but let’s remember that John here is not John – John represents Sherlock’s own heart. It’s going to take longer than this for Sherlock to acknowledge John’s queerness. I don’t think Toby the dog is that important – instead, this is foreshadowing for the more significant dog to come in TFP. The dog also allows for another bit of self-parody in the show – the close-up on the dog running through chemical symbols and the map link directly back to the chase scene in ASiP, but this time everything is different. We have no clue really what Toby is chasing or what the crime that has been committed is – they’re not even running, they’re walking! All we have are cool, if ridiculous, graphics – and, brought down to style without substance, it’s nothing but comic parody. This is important because the opening of TST is so parodic – we’re back to questioning whether the things that people associate with Sherlock and think they like about Sherlock are the right things. The fact that Toby reaches a dead end here is important – he’s a weird loose end to have hanging through the episode. When things in Sherlock normally tie together so nicely, this is a section which has absolutely no bearing on the rest of the plot other than to look a bit silly. But fundamentally, we’re talking about the superfluity of style and image here; we’ve been talking about it for a long time in relation to previous adaptations, but TST brings it in in relation to Sherlock itself.

Skipping past more bust breakages, the next scene is John and Mary in bed together – and the first thing we see is them, once again, in a mirror. There’s nothing wrong with this mirror (as far as I can tell) – everything seems to be in order! But it doesn’t break the theme of mirrors misreflecting, because this is the scene that introduces unreliable narration on a big level – this is the scene which deliberately excludes John’s texts to E. John and Eurus are gone into in another chapter so we’ll move on again.

Craig’s quote about people being weird for missing the olden days is, of course, crucial to this reading of Sherlock. It’s pretty on the nose for a show whose protagonist is idealised in the Victorian age – and sums up Mofftiss’s feelings towards the Vincent Starrett 221B poem that I elaborated on in the TAB chapter of this meta: essentially, that it always being 1895 is a very bad thing! Craig’s mockery of this nostalgia puts it into more comprehensible modern terms for us, but it also links Thatcher and 1895 again as pasts to be broken with. It’s also important that Craig says that Thatcher is like Napoleon now – although the titles of most episodes are taken from ACD stories, it’s rare that an explicit reference is made to the link between the titles (nobody mentions scarlet vs. pink in ASiP, for example). This is the first time that I can find that Sherlock shows self-awareness from within the narrative that there are extranarrative stories being played out. I’ve said before that I don’t think Thatcher and Napoleon are a good comparison; whether it is or not, Craig’s reference is actively pulling a metatextual part of Sherlock’s history into his story and forcing him to reckon with it. This is important, because he develops expectations of how this story is going to play out (black pearl of the Borgias) which are wrong – because they’re based on what he has learned to expect of himself as fictional character. We could only have such a reference within the Mind Palace.

For the sake of splitting this meta up to make it readable, I’m going to call time on this half of TST, and we’ll pick it up tomorrow at Jack Sandiford’s house. (Also I don’t know how much text tumblr allows and this is a long document.) Until then!

#emp #tst #tjlc #meta #bbc sherlock #my meta #mine #thewatsonbeekeepers #chapter six: so long and thanks for all the fish #tjlc is real #emp theory #the six thatchers #johnlock

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qveensbury · 4 years

Text

square cut or pear shaped

A/N: i listened to Marilyn Monroe’s “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” and had to write an engagement fic. Happy birthday, @dasfreefree // @freefree-likes-haikyuu!!!!!

(ao3 & ko-fi links will be in the reblog)

When Kaede took you to get your nails done before your anniversary dinner with Keishin, you got suspicious. Nails are attached to fingers which are used to wear engagement rings.

And Kaede cared enough about aesthetics to make sure your social media engagement announcement photo would be flawless.

If she did know anything, she wasn’t saying.

Noa might have let something slip. But Kaede had an airtight seal.

“It’s been a while since we’ve gotten manicures together, Kaede,” you glanced at her from the corner of her eye.

“I know. All of these work trips have been wiping me out.”

“Maybe I should get flame designs on my nails.”

“...Flames?”

“Yea, like the details they put on cars.”

Kaede smiled. “You’re so adventurous with your nails, ____. But you do have that important meeting with that publishing house next Wednesday. They already mistake you for an intern. I don’t think that design would help. It would be cute for our next girls’ trip though.”

And she was right.

So much for getting her to slip up that way.

There was too much evidence that something was going on. Your best friend took you to get your nails done. Your boyfriend was taking you out to a secret location. And it was to celebrate your two-year anniversary.

It could also be a coincidence. A rational side of you chimed in.

You and Keishin had only been dating for two years. There wasn’t a rush to get married.

Which almost convinced you until Keishin pulled up in front of your favorite restaurant.

Wondering if it’d offer you another clue, you examined what he was wearing— a button down and slacks. He winked at you when he caught you staring.

“Take a photo. It’ll last longer. Let’s go!”

You followed him to the restaurant, holding his hand. Your eyes slightly narrowed as he greeted the hostess.

If there’s a secret signal, I’m going to catch it.

The two of you were seated near a window with a great view of the nearby gardens.

Your favorite restaurant, on your two-year anniversary, with a great view? Keishin was definitely going to propose.

“Are you okay over there? You look like you just laid an egg.”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Just that you planned everything so well. Thank you.”

Keishin smirked at you. “Why do you make it sound like I don’t plan?”

“No no. That’s not what I mean.”

“So what do you mean?”

“That everything is so nice. Thank you!”

“Anything for you, my love.”

Dinner was...okay. You loved spending time with Keishin but waiting for the ring was exhausting.

“Is everything okay?”

“You don’t have to keep asking me that, Keishin.” You smiled, “I’m having a lovely time. Truthfully.”

“Ok."

You were about to go back to playing with your leftovers on your plate when your couple song came on.

Beaming, you looked at Keishin who smiled back. Your hand reached across the table for his.

“Oh, Keishin,” you pulled back to go into your purse, “I almost forgot my gift for you.” Handing him a long rectangular box, you waited for his reaction.

“Babe.” He grinned, opening the box.

You watched his eyebrows rise.

“____, I love it.” He took the watch out and put it on his wrist. The gold band reflected the light beautifully. The white face was classic and understated, much more his style.

“Oh,” you cooed. “It matches your outfit!”

“It does. I didn’t get you an anniversary gift.”

“You’re paying for dinner.” You wrinkled your nose. “I’d say we’re even.

Keishin lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles. “There is another surprise.”

Sitting up straight, your eyes grew. “There is?”

“Yea.” he smiled.

The waiter came to clear your plates.

“What is it?”

Keishin squeezed your hand and you felt your heart race.

“Per Ukai-san’s request,” the waiter set a plate in front of you, “the lady’s favorite dessert.”

“Surprise!”

With your focus on the dessert in front of you, you struggled to hold back your disappointment. “Keishin...I-This is such a nice surprise.” You smiled at him, squeezing his hand.

“You don’t like it.”

“What do you mean? It’s my favorite.”

“They have a new dessert menu if you want to choose something else.” He raised his hand to signal the waiter.

“No, Keishin. This is good.” You chuckled, “I was just expecting something else when you said surprise.” You picked your fork to dig in. “Thank you.”

The patter of Kaede’s feet preceded her appearance at your apartment’s well.

“Hello! Let me see it.”

“There’s nothing to show.” You bent down to take your shoes off.

“____, don’t be dramatic. I want to see the ring.”

“He didn’t propose, Kaede.”

After you finished taking your shoes off, you looked up at her, surprised she didn’t react.

Her nostrils kept flaring. You knew she was fuming. “I oughta clobber him,” she said.

“Oh, feel free to get in line.” You stomped past her. “I totally thought he was going to propose, too.” While you stormed around the house, you recounted everything that happened.

“He has to propose to you soon.”

You shrugged. “Waiting like any moment might be the moment isn’t really fun.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I waited to pop open a bottle of champagne, huh?”

A snort turned into a groan. “My wonderful boyfriend took me on an amazing date to celebrate our two-year anniversary. What a lousy thing to complain about.”

“You’re not complaining about the date though. And you love your boyfriend. A good night’s rest will do you good.”

“Ok, mom.”

“Off to bed, wise guy.”

You did feel refreshed the next day. And looking back objectively, last tonight was a great date.

When Keishin asked if you wanted to go on a walk, you agreed.

It was great walking weather, sunny with a light breeze. Keishin stood up when you got closer to the rendezvous spot.

“Hey, babe.”

“Hey to you, too.” He kissed your forehead and you leaned into him for a hug.

“Anniversary Celebration part 2, electric boogaloo.” You grabbed his hand. The two of you walked towards the cherry blossoms. “The blossoms seem to bloom earlier and earlier each year.”

“They’re probably confused. Winter this year was so warm.”

“I know. Kaede says the only good thing about all of this is that the predictions about the peak are starting to be off. So, she can go enjoy them before we’re swamped by tourists.”

“Yea, she doesn't like tourists.”

“Not at all,” you laughed. “How are Hinata-kun and Kageyama-kun doing? I’m sure they were happy to be back at the school’s court?”

After a moment, you turned to Keishin.

“Babe?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yea, sorry. Got lost in thought.”

“You wanna talk about it?” You searched his face.

“It’s fine.” He shoved his hand in his jacket pocket.

“Ok.” You squeezed the other hand.

“You asked about the freak duo? Yea, they’re happy to be back. I think Hinata’s excited to be vice-captain. He’ll be a great help for the late bloomers.”

“He makes friends so easily. In my humble opinion, it was a great choice.”

Keishin smiled at you.

After your second lap around the park, you tugged Keishin to stop.

“Okay, mister. What’s up? You’ve been so fidgety. Are you sure everything’s okay?” You pulled your hand from his.

“E-everything’s fine.”

“Are you seriously not gonna tell me?”

Keishin looked away from you, muttering under his breath. Then, he grew deathly still. “Look, ____,” he let go of your hand and dug into his pants pocket. “I’ve been carrying this around for month,” he pulled his hand out, “waiting for the right moment. And I’ll tell you: there is no right moment...So, right here,” he motioned around, “under the cherry blossoms, I’m just,” he pushed his hair back, “I’m just going to ask you right now.” He revealed a small jewelry box.

Your eyes grew as Keishin took your hand and got down on one knee. “No way.”

“____,” he cursed, mumbling under his breath. “My hands are shaking. Hold on, I’m really nervous.”

Even if you wanted to tease him or laugh, you were frozen with shock.

“____.”

“Yes.” You tried to memorize everything about this moment: the blond ends of his hair, the way his eyes looked steady, his earrings, the nicer jacket you got him last Christmas, the warmth of hand, the pink of the cherry blossom petals.

“You are the love of my life,” Keishin said.

“Keishin.” A weight pressed against your chest and your eyes started to burn. You reached up to wipe your eyes.

“I can’t begin to describe how important you are to me. We’re just made for each other, you know? And I don’t ever want to know a day apart from you. ____, will you marry me?”

“Of course, Keishin!”

The triumphant grin on his face thrilled you. Keishin sprung up to hug you.

It felt so right.

Being in his arms.

Knowing he loved you as much as you did.

Starting a brand new chapter of your lives together.

#ukai keishin #ukai x reader #HQ!!

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wafflesrock16 · 4 years

Text

Ink and Blooms

So, the amazingly talented @autodiscothings updated her fantastic fic Acts Of Repetition recently, and the latest chapter featured an incredibly lovely turian tattoo artist. Smitten, I asked Auto if I could write a lil thing with her boy and she agreed.

So! Here’s my ode to @autodiscothings sweet turian bae, Nous. Naturally I have a human lady falling for him because I am predictable trash.

Zenellia D’kafi, the asari matriarch who ran Thessian Impressions floral boutique was a force of nature when it came to cultivating new clients.

“Everyone is a potential client,” she informed Faustine from behind a large mug of tea. “A random hanar apostle might wish to leave flowers as an offering to the Enkindlers. The elcor business man, away from home too frequently, would like a bouquet to send to his wife as a reminder he’s thinking of her.”

Faustine glanced up from where she was meticulously measuring out gold silk ribbon. “And Adamius Studios?” She glanced out the shop window to the studio across the street. It used to be a mattress store, though little of the building’s past life remained on the exterior.

Zenellia smiled, the light sparkling in her cornflower eyes. “Nous Adamius,” she said, drawing out the surname. “Now there’s an artist who’s in demand. The tattooist of the elite.” She followed Fautine’s gaze. “Hmm. In his case, he’s hosting an art exhibition for select clientele next week. The who’s-who of wealth and influence will be there--they always show up for art exhibits.”

“And our supplying the floral arrangements might garner other high-end customers in addition to Nous,” Faustine surmised.

“Smart girl,” Zenellia said, taking a prim sip of tea. “You know, I have a mind to let you finalize the arrangements with Mr. Adamius.”

“Really?” Faustine clasped her hands to her mouth with excitement. “A solo consult?”

Zenellia chuckled, leaning against the glass counter. “I’ve already discussed the arrangements with him, so this will just be hemming in the finer details. Where he wants the vases placed and so on. You’ve been with me on enough consultations and set-ups, you can do this on your own.”

“Thank you Miss Zenellia!” Faustine reigned herself in. “I can handle this,” she said, straightening her posture. “When do I meet with him?”

“Tomorrow morning, before his studio opens.”

**********

Faustine enjoyed fashion. And art and flowers and color. Her wardrobe was a blend of bright color and textures. Her grandmother used to say that she would have loved Earth back in the 1980’s and based on pictures she’d seen, Faustine was inclined to agree.

But today was professional. Her mentor was trusting her to make a good impression and Faustine needed to represent Thessian Impressions while also simultaneously reassuring Nous--Mr. Adamius--that he’d made a wise choice in ordering floral arrangements for his event and should consider doing so again.

Faustine chose a slate pant-suit with a violet camisole from the back of her closet. It was from an elite fashion line, but had been on clearance since it was from the year before. Still, as she slipped on black high heels, Faustine felt a sense of empowerment.

She hesitated over her hair. Did turians even notice human hair? Should she take the extra effort to curl it? Deciding it couldn’t hurt, Faustine brushed, curled, and styled her auburn locks until they gleamed under the artificial bathroom lights. Some mascara and bright red lipstick completed the look and before she could second guess herself, she was hailing a skycar and then stepping out in front of Adamius Studios.

She normally walked to work, but doing so in heels was out of the question. These were shoes for show, not practicality. Pulling up her omni-tool, she contacted Mr. Adamius to let him know she was from Thessian Impressions and here to speak to him.

The windows to the studio were opaque, but in a slow parade of light starting from the back of the building, the room lit up. The door opened as Faustine leaned closer to peer inside.

“Hello.”

“Hi! Mr. Adamius?”

He nodded, opening the door wider for her to enter. She’d seen him before, of course--he worked across the street. She’d never seen him up close, though. He was a good deal taller than her but held himself tightly like a curled fern frond. The effect gave him a shorter, hunched appearance.

He had pale plates, not quite white, but a light tan. His hide was a deep molten red with eyes that reminded her of orange, autumn leaves.

His most notable feature wasn't his eyes or plates or posture. He had bold, purple colony markings which ran in thick lines toward his eye sockets like a roadmap.The plating on his arms bore similar lines of the same color. Faustine wondered if colony markings extended all over the body. She’d never considered it before, but as she admired the bold, black, geometric patterns that spiraled away from his neck plating in a decorative collar, she decided that this was art, unrelated to the colony markings turians were so famous for.

Mr. Adamius cleared his throat loudly and Faustine realized with racing horror that she’d been staring at him with wide eyes and an open mouth like he were an exhibit on show.

“Oh!” It was her turn to clear her throat. “Your tattoos are beautiful,” she murmured, looking at the floor.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft. Not at all loud and bold like his art. “You work for Matriarch Zenellia?”

Faustine released a small sigh that they were moving on. “Yes, I’m her protege, as it were. She wanted me to finalize the details with you for next week.”

She smiled, tilting her head in a friendly manner. Mr. Adamius flicked out a mandible in what she associated as a turian smile, though he avoided looking her in the eyes. She wondered if that was a personality thing or something… maybe he doesn’t like me?

“I was thinking of an arrangement on the reception desk and a few smaller vases along the wall,” Mr. Adamius said, pointing to where several bed posts were mounted and functioning as coat racks. A large, framed canvas sat beneath the racks. On it was what looked like an abstract shoal of fish with luminous, foreign script weaving through it. Faustine didn’t recognize the writing but felt it safe to assume it was turian.“I discussed using a mix of thessian, earth, and palaveni flowers,” Mr. Admius continued. “I want the color scheme to stay cobalt, gold, and white, but I’m open to flower types. Nothing too lavish, the art is the focal point.”

“Zenellia mentioned that,” Faustine said, wiping away any concerns about her likability for the moment. Pulling up her omni-tool, she moved closer to Mr. Adamius to show him the samples of different arrangements in the colors he’d requested. This close, she could smell a slightly acrid scent of what she assumed was ink. But overpowering that was a woody smell that reminded her of pine trees. Mr. Adamius smells like Christmas, she thought.

She glanced up at him from where he was admiring a proposed arrangement. He was wearing loose fitted clothes that placed his heavily inked hide on full display. Zenella had mentioned he was younger, but the asari considered everyone younger since she herself was 876 years old.

Nous seems like he’s my age. Maybe a little older. Early to mid thirties?

“I like this one best,” he said, oblivious to her internal musings. Faustine looked at the arrangement he’d chosen. It was the one she’d put together. Not the four Zenella had proposed, but the one she had done.

“I did that one,” she told him proudly.

“It’s beautiful,” he said in a softer voice, looking not at her eyes, but seemingly her hair. “It’ll work perfectly for what I have planned.”

Instead of replying Faustine responded by grinning at him like an idiot. She was high on accomplishment, she’d convince herself later. But it was thanks to this that Mr. Adamius nervously glanced away, toward a small, unassuming painting partially concealed by the reception desk.

“Is that an anchor?” She pointed at the familiar shape which was the main subject of the painting.

“Yes. I’m fond of the nautical themes found in all cultures. The convergence of design between them, be they human, asari, or turian. We’re all interconnected by the oceans of our worlds.” He let out a quiet hum, unfurling from his tightly held hunch. “It reminds me of my childhood, too, I suppose.”

“You grew up near the ocean?” Faustine asked curiously. “I thought turians weren’t the biggest fans of deep, open water. No offense!” she added, horrified she’d possibly insulted him.

His easy chuckle immediately set her at ease. “Overall, you’re right. Most turians avoid the open ocean. But my homeworld is different.” His mandibles flicked outward as he looked down at his hands. The three fingers of his left hand each bore a small fish tattoo on the knuckle. “Rocam has a huge fishing industry. I grew up around the sea and fishing boats. My childhood involved lots of fishing and playing in the surf. Eating charred salmo around a beach fire with my grandparents. Listening to fisherman swap stories on the wharf.”

Faustine watched the fish tattoos flex with his fingers. Remembering the other canvas leaning against the wall, she looked closer at the framed picture. The fish looked like they were formed from ink splats, honed with a pen to give them more definition and shape.

“You did that?” she asked pointing.

Turning, Mr. Adamius nodded. “I did all the nautical themed paintings in here,” he said. Faustine felt like the quiet, rolling subvocals under the spoken words were proud.

“You’re so talented,” she sighed, feeling mildly envious. “Do you have other paintings like that one?”

“Yes, but they’re in the back. I’ll put them out next week for the exhibit.”

“Oh.”

“I…” a soft whine escaped through his tightly clamped mandibles. “Would you, um. Like to come to the exhibit?”

“Your art exhibit next week? Of course I’d love to go!” Faustine forced herself to school her features into a more poised look. “I mean, if you’re inviting me, I’d absolutely love to see the rest of your work.”

Nous let out a huff of air. “It’s not just my work, all the artists in the studio are going to display something. But if you’d like to come, I’d love to see you. At the event.” He cleared his throat, stepping away from her personal space which at some point he’d entered.

“Thank you,” Faustine whispered, feeling a blush creep over her cheeks. “Um, I’ll let Zenella know which arrangement you selected and where and how many you wanted.” She made to head for the door, but forgetting her high heels, tripped and nearly collapsed face first into the deep blue and white rug.

A strong arm seized her around the waist and held her until she was steady on her feet again. “Damn shoes,” she muttered, more embarrassed then she’d been in years. “Nous, I--”

“Not a problem. Are you all right?”

“Fine, I’m fine. Only thing injured is my pride.” She gave him a sheepish smile, sure her face was beet red.

For the first time since she’d entered his studio, Nous looked her in the eye. “Wounded pride isn’t the worst injury,” he said in that soft, smokey voice.

She stared into the swirling amber of his irises. Turians had smaller eyes than humans, but their gaze was intense. She wondered what he thought about her own hazel eyes.

He bowed his head after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, I’ll see you at the exhibit?”

“Before that, actually,” she replied, blinking away whatever trance she’d fallen under. “I’ll bring the flowers by an hour before your exhibit starts.”

“I look forward to seeing you then.”

So do I, Faustine thought, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she headed out the door. So do I.

#mass effect #turians #turian #human/turian flirting #fan fic of a fan fic #Nous belongs to autodiscothings #he is a sweet and precious boi #Faustine would smooch #read acts of repitition #waffles writes #thank you auto!

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tisfan · 4 years

Text

The Right Girl

Word count 1492

01 - Handjob Tags: Handjob, shower sex, mental health, unhealthy coping mechanisms, Steve punches things a lot, anti-Ellen DeGeneres Couple: Steve Rogers/Jessica Jones (Man with an Alias)

Takes place in the Communal Kitchen AU

Steve was exactly where she’d expected him to be. Jessica Jones could say one thing about her boyfriend, Steve Rogers, and that was that he was fairly predictable.

She leaned against one of the concrete pillars that held the roof of the gym up and watched Steve whale the hell out of a super-soldier punching bag. His hips moved in perfect time with his jabs, and his ass did the most adorable little bounce every time he hit. Jessica knew that everyone thought Tony Stark had the best ass in the Avengers -- it came up from time to time in those ridiculous listicles -- but Jessica was going to have to respectfully disagree.

That was America’s ass, right there, that was.

She held her hands up with double Ls to frame it.

“Take a picture,” Steve suggested, not speaking up to be heard. He knew she was there, had known it the whole time, probably. “It’ll last longer.”

“Rather just get my hands on it,” Jessica said, coming up behind him.

He punched the bag one more time and then held out his hand flat to make it stop swinging. “Did you need something?”

Jessica didn’t wince, or pause. She already knew this was going to be bad. “Want to talk about it?”

Steve gestured at the punching bag. Does this look like my talking face?

Jessica barreled on ahead, because she never knew how to shut up, really. She was broken in all the right places to lean against Steve’s broken bits. “So, what happened?”

It was supposed to be a fluff piece; not quite talk show, live in front of a studio audience, because after the debacle with Steve saying Ellen was friends with a war criminal and therefore just as bad, their PR team never let Steve do anything aside from ribbon cutting ceremonies that couldn’t be edited later.

Steve wasn’t even allowed to do commencement speeches, which always seemed to shock people and Jessica never understood why. Did they not realize who Steve was?

Well, no, they didn’t. They had some ultra-white conservative Captain America on their boner and never realized that wasn’t the same person at all. It had taken Jessica about three hours to realize Steve wasn’t Captain America. And she didn’t consider herself to be the brightest bulb on the Christmas Tree, so what the fuck was up with other people?

“They had an interview with Peggy,” Steve said. “She was having a good day, I guess. Talked a little about us… and that stupid thing with Howard and my jealousy. And then the reporter turned the video on me and asked me what I thought Peggy would say about my being--”

“With me?”

“Yeah.”

“So, are we going to have to pay damages?” Jessica moved a bit closer and rested her head against his sweaty back, listening to him breathe. She was as strong as he was, and it always astonished her that he was so much bigger than she was. Show off.

“I didn’t break anything,” Steve admitted, sounding cranky about it.

“Is that why you’re down here?”

“Yes-- no. I-- I’m with you,” Steve said. “Peggy and I… I mean, we never knew if anything was gonna happen, you know? There was a war, and we were busy. It might not ever have come to anything, if we’d both lived to come home.”

Privately, Jessica doubted that. Peggy Carter had been the love of Steve’s fucking life. She was always going to be second to that, and she told herself she didn’t mind, that it was okay, she had him now anyway--

“Peggy moved on with her life,” Steve said, “which is what’s supposed to fucking happen, and I’m not jealous of her husband or her kids, or her grandkids or her fucking horse farm in England.”

After more than a year together, Jessica would have supposed she’d have gotten used to Steve cursing, but she wasn’t. There was always a little elicit thrill to listening to Captain America with a fucking potty mouth.

“But you’re still mad?”

“It’s disrespectful,” Steve said, “to you. You’re not second choice, or someone I’m settling for. I love you. And I don’t see why that’s anyone else’s business but ours.”

Jessica pressed her face against his damp tee-shirt. Steve loved her. She knew he did, but that didn’t keep it from being amazing, every single time. “I swear to God,” she muttered into his skin, “that I could jerk you off on national television, and they’ll still put you and Peggy’s pictures together. It doesn’t matter, cowboy. We’re together.”

Steve turned around and tipped her chin to make her look up at him. He was slightly flushed, a little sweaty, and stupidly gorgeous as always. “You could do it now,” he suggested, and that flush got darker.

“Do-- ohhh,” she said. “Well, I suppose it is another way to destress.”

“Not-- not because of them, you know. I--”

“You love me, and Peggy is old news and you need to prove it to your dumb brain before you can move on with your life, no, I get it completely.”

Steve slumped just a little, as if in relief that he didn’t have to use his words like an adult, and if Jessica hadn’t been so cross with the magazine fuck-nuggets who thought this sort of thing was okay, she might have teased Steve a little about being too immature to ask for a handie when he wanted one.

“Come on, cowboy, let’s hit the showers,” Jessica suggested, because Natasha’s wrath was mighty when she walked in on people having sex in public areas.

Jessica stopped by her locker to pick up some of the soft joggers and tees that the cleaning ‘bots left for people to change into after workouts. Everyone in the tower had several sets, they were all color coordinated for their armor colors. Tony was ridiculously silly about that, and everyone wore them, so it made Tony happy.

Jessica grabbed the pale grey tee and purple pants. “One of these days, I feel like telling Tony Stark that my favorite color is, in fact, pink.”

Steve blinked. “It is?”

“No, but he’d make an even more ridiculous face than you are right now, so I might do it anyway,” Jessica admitted.

Steve shucked out of his sweaty, filthy workout clothes, and Jessica was only a little behind him, because she tended to wear skinny jeans, and she did not tend to appreciate Steve ripping them off her, unless it was a very special occassion.

Steve had the spray going full blast, boil-a-lobster, she slid in behind him, hand reaching around his hip.

“Seems like I should be doing you,” Steve said, almost apologized, and she gave him a little squeeze to stop that line of thinking.

“I’ve seen your refractory period, cowboy,” Jessica said. “You can do me a few times later. Let’s just rub one out and get you feeling a little less murdery.”

“So romantic,” Steve grumbled, laughing a little.

“You want romance, you got the wrong girl,” Jessica said. She got her hand around Steve’s girth -- he was so fucking thick, and even though she had long fingers for a woman, she really could not wrap her entire hand around it. But it was close enough, and she had a pretty good angle behind him. She stroked, up and down, twisting her palm to put pressure in just the right places.

“I think I got exactly the right girl,” Steve protested, and if he ever did replace Peggy in his heart with her, it was when their relationship was just like this, earthy and filthy and hot and sweaty and sexy. All the times he’d taken her to bed and all the times she’d cooped a feel under the dinner table with the entire family of Avengers. All the times he’d saved her, and all the times she’s saved him.

And if she couldn’t replace Peggy in his heart, well, it really didn’t matter, did it? Peggy was ninety some years old and on a good day, sometimes she’d recognize Steve. And sometimes she didn’t. Closure was overrated, and it wasn’t like Peggy Carter wasn’t a legend in her own right.

“You’re thinking too loud, sugar,” Steve said.

She twisted her hand again and Steve groaned, pushing into it, fucking up into her fist, his hips snapping powerfully.

She nipped at his back, licking along his spine and then nuzzling right between his shoulder blades, and then Steve was coming against her hand, dick pulsing against her palm.

“Sometimes I think you’re going to be like Superman and come bullets right through the wall or something.”

Steve cracked an eyelid open reluctantly and looked at the tiles. “Nope, still no speed of light orgasms,” he reported.

“Well, that’s good,” Jessica said. “Feel better?”

“A little more relaxed,” Steve said. “Give me a second, I’ll--”

“Give me my turn?”

“Yeah, that.”

#jbbKinktober2020 #communal kitchen au #Steve Rogers/Jessica Jones #lemons

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