#Of course I always just wish I was reading Six of Crows again

[theharddeck]

your love is the love I need || chapter 1/4

pairing: javy machado x femme reader (no y/n), callsign Cross

summary: Cross and Javy are very good friends. Javy might've let it slip to his mother that they're more. A little fake dating never hurt anyone, right?

warnings: 18+, minors please DNI – no smut in this chapter (there defs will be in later chapters, and I never want someone to be caught off guard) but there is an attempted roofie-ing in this chapter.

length: 6.2k

A/N: literally the biggest shoutout in the WORLD to @daggerspare-standingbystandingby for talking me off a ledge, and also line editing, and also depth. @bradshawsbitch and @laracrofted thank you for always brainstorming with me 💙

Saturday

“Cross, get in here; I need a stand-in.”

You’d been looking for a glass for your cherry coke in cabinets at the Miramar Family Center, but at Hangman’s call, you grabbed a straw and jogged back over to the pool table. Bob folded a napkin and slid it across the table as you got closer and you smiled at him gratefully before setting the sweating can down on it.

“Tapping out already, Hangman?” Phoenix asked from across the table, where she was wiping chalk over the end of her pool cue. 

“You and Avalone wish,” Jake drawled, smiling wanly at the group. “Nah, I’ve got to pick something up; I’ll be right back.”

He tossed his pool cue at you without looking and you considered letting it clatter to the ground, but you grabbed it out of the air, trying not to read into the gesture too much. 

You were a recent addition to the squad; when Fanboy had decided he wanted to try piloting again, they’d needed a WSO to fly with Payback. Having only been a teammate for a couple months, you were still finding your footing with the group. Everyone had been welcoming, of course, but there were times that you felt the little idioms and questions were a type of test. Tests that you were determined to pass, not just for the sake of assimilation, but because this was a team you were genuinely proud to be a part of, and you wanted them to know it. 

“Am I solid or stripes?” you asked, looking down at the table, confused by the seeming lack of structure on the felt.

“We’re playing cutthroat,” Payback said, looking after Hangman with a grimace, for not giving you any context.

“We’re 11-15,” Coyote said, because of course he and Jake had been a team. He swiped the chalk that Phoenix had been using, and as he dropped it into your palm, his fingertips brushed yours. You tried to ignore it, it was just an accidental brush, but your skin prickled anyway, and you looked away quickly.

“1-5,” Phoenix cut in, pointing between her and Fritz. 

“6-10,” Payback finished, lifting a fist in Bob’s direction, as the WSO held up a clenched hand obediently.

“Cool,” you said, deciding if you wanted to take on the pilot who held your life in his hands any time you got in the back of an F/A-18, or Phoenix. 

Which, honestly, wasn’t even a question.

You surveyed the felt once more, before seeing a clear shot for the 9 ball, walking around the table to take it, and shooting Bob an apologetic look as the ball clattered into the pocket.

“I knew I liked you,” Natasha cooed.

“Yeah, I don’t know why we bother,” Payback sighed to Bob, who shrugged, both of them good-naturedly.

“Atta girl,” Coyote crowed, and Phoenix nodded approvingly and you grinned at her, rather than risk looking at him. Not with the butterflies that erupted in your stomach at his completely platonic praise. You were on the same team, it was nothing more than that, and now was so not the time for your relentless crush to make an appearance.

Pool wasn’t really your game, and you weren’t at all surprised when you botched the next shot, flustered by the nearly six feet of Abercrombie model at your shoulder. You backed away from the table as Billy stepped up, apparently next in order. 

You swiped your soda from the table by Bob, crossing the room to perch on the side of a sofa and wait for your turn again, or Jake’s reappearance, whichever came first. 

Your eyes flitted over to Javy, as they always seemed to, when you weren’t actively trying not to. It wasn’t your fault he was magnetic. 

All easy smiles and broad shoulders, deep protectiveness and unabashed confidence, just as good as Hangman and Rooster and Phoenix, less likely to call attention to it. The way he’d look deep at whoever was talking to him, nodding along as he gave them his full attention. 

At present, that person was Phoenix, and Javy’s shoulders dipped as he hunched his back slightly, to get closer and hear her better. You played with the end of your pool stick, watching as their heads tilted together, quietly commenting on the table as Fritz lined up a shot.

“It’s a statistical impossibility, right?” Halo whispered, appearing next to you on the couch. “For them to be that pretty and that good of pilots?”

You followed her gaze to the trio around the table and shook your head, agreeing. 

“The worst part of it,” you mumbled back, “is that they have the audacity to be decent people, so we can’t even do the easy thing and dislike them for being perfect.”

Halo clicked her tongue against her teeth, fiddling with the plastic cap of a water bottle. 

“That’s why they need us,” she mused. “You, me, and Bob: subverting expectations as gorgeous backseaters.”

You snorted, before Callie’s words registered, and you looked over at her, your voice teasing when you asked, “Bob, huh?”

She shrugged lightly, even as a pretty flush bloomed on her cheeks.

“Completely impartially, of course,” she said, sheepishly. You smiled reassuringly, bumping her shoulder with yours, and she tilted her head as she looked back at the table. 

“How’s that view from your glass house?” she asked, sweetly, making you nearly choke on your soda when you saw she was looking pointedly at Coyote. 

“Is it that obvious?” you asked.

“I mean, it was a guess, but that just confirmed it,” Callie smiled broadly, before sighing again. “I think crushes on other pilots is the particular curse of Wizzos—we know better, but we think we’re smart enough to get around it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you muttered, bumping your soda can into her water bottle, memory taking you back a couple months to a night just like this one. 

It was your first day in San Diego; you’d caught an early flight and were able to move into your off-base apartment and walk around North Island for a bit, exploring before you’d meet your detachment the following morning. As the sun sank over the Pacific, you walked along the beach, enjoying the warm sand and cooling air. You could hear a piano in the distance, something you assumed was the effect of a bluetooth speaker until you realized it came from a bar a little farther down the beach, and you redirected your footsteps towards it. 

The Hard Deck smelled like sweat and good beer, and you clocked a couple different types of badges as you scanned the room. There was a good chance someone here would recognize you tomorrow, so you asked for a coke from the older man behind the bar, settling on a stool and looking around.

There was a man with a mustache and aviators (Indoors. At night.) at the piano, his head cocked back as he worked through the greatest hits of the 60s. Beside him, a stunning woman in a tight bun stood shoulder-to-shoulder with an impossibly tall man, also with a mustache, both of them singing along enthusiastically. A pool table was nearby, a couple more uniforms draped across it, and two men were playing darts against the wall closest to you.

Well, one of them was playing darts. 

The blond man was clearly in his element, sinking bullseye after bullseye, and the man beside him seemed content enough to let him play it out. It wasn’t so much a competition, as it was one man showboating, and his friend humoring him.

The louder of the two was making jokes about his odds, calling shots before he took them, and every now and then his partner would quietly say something that would make his shoulders laugh enough to miss his shot. Their conversation faded into the noise of the bar as you turned on your stool, looking around you. When you came back to the bartop, you noticed a man sidling up to a younger girl a couple stools down from you. 

She was rebuffing him as gently as she could, and he seemed to be taking it pretty well—until she turned to chat with someone over her shoulder, and he dropped something in her drink while she was preoccupied. 

Your jaw dropped; that’d been clear as day. But the bar was crowded, and she’d been distracted by her friends, and your heart lurched when she reached back for her drink without paying attention. 

“Hey, wait!” you called down the bar, and she turned to look at you. Along with the half of the bar, you assumed, but you slid off the seat rather than check and see how much of an audience you had. The girl frowned at you, an unfamiliar face yelling at her, but whatever she saw in your expression held her attention for the moment it took you to get down to her. 

“Sorry,” you said, quietly as you could, when you got closer to her. “I didn’t want to make a scene, but he definitely put something in your drink.”

“Oh my gosh,” the girl set the drink down on the bar, glaring at the man. “What the hell, you creep!!”

“I didn’t—,” the man’s face flushed, and he looked angrily at you before at the people around him, placatingly. “Hold on, you can’t just go around accusing—”

“It’s not an accusation if it’s true,” you said, turning to the bartender. “Are you the owner?”

He shook his head, looking over your shoulder at some of the other patrons, then set down the tap he was pouring. “I’ll get Penny.”

“Now, hang on Jimmy,” the creep sputtered. “I-I didn’t do anything, you can’t prove I—”

“Drink it, then.”

Everyone turned at the deep voice, as someone else stepped towards the bar. You recognized one of the men from the dartboard, the quiet one, and he crossed his arms as he came up behind you. 

The creep’s expression paled as he took in the tall frame of the pilot behind you. “I mean, it’s her drink, I’m not–”

The girl slid her drink down the bartop, in front of the man. “Go on.”

A door slammed in the back of the bar and a moment later, a slim brunette woman let herself behind the counter. She stalked behind the bar, looking sharply at you. 

“You saw it?” she asked.

You nodded, and her jaw ticked. She planted her hands on the bar, looking the creep clearly in the face, like she was memorizing it, before she covered the drink with saran wrap and handed it behind her to Jimmy. 

“You’re gonna wait in my office until the police get here,” she told the man, her voice level. “And when you leave with them, you will not set foot in this bar again. Understood?”

“Police?” the man echoed, his eyes going wide. “Hold on, this is all getting blown out of proportion, all I did was—”

Penny jerked her head to the side, and you felt a hand on your shoulder for a moment as the quiet pilot brushed by you to reach for the creep. The blond man was with him, suddenly, and they unceremoniously hauled the creep away from the bar.

Penny pursed her lips together, looking meaningfully over at the piano, and a moment later, some Elvis song was playing through the bar. Penny checked in with the girl, pulled some receipt paper out of the printer and had her write down her contact information, in case the police wanted to follow up with her. She waved you down as well, and you came over. 

“Don’t think we’ve met before,” she said brusquely, holding a hand across the bar. “I’m Penny.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, shaking her extended hand and giving her your name. “You handled that really well.”

Her jaw clenched again, as she shook her head. “Hate that I have to handle it at all. Thanks for saying something; what’re you drinking tonight? It’s on the house.”

“Oh, thanks,” you shook your head, pointing to your abandoned coke, “but I’m not drinking; I have an early day tomorrow.”

Penny hummed, looking you over. You had the uncanny feeling that, even without your uniform, she somehow knew you were Navy, which detachment you were in, and—given another minute or two—she could guess your callsign. 

“Better get your information too,” she said, sliding the receipt paper down the bar, “in case they want a statement from you. Include your CO; I can probably put a good word in edgewise.”

You scribbled your information down, wondering what ties she had to the Navy, but not doubting for a moment that they were strong. Her mouth twitched as she read over what you’d written, blooming into a full smile as she looked up at you.  

“Well, that’ll be easier than I thought,” she said, almost to herself, before walking over to the tap to pour you another coke. “So, what brings you to North Island?”

You chatted with her until the police came and she excused herself to go deal with them. You were finishing your coke when you realized the two pilots were back by the dartboard, the blond one having sunk three bullseyes and performing what appeared to be a victory shimmy.  

He looked like a Ken doll, like someone had manufactured him in a Mattel factory, then turned him to life and told him he could do anything a real boy could do. 

You laughed to yourself at his antics, and watched while the quiet one collected the darts and took his stance for his turn. His first dart landed on double 16—solid, except it couldn’t beat 3 bullseyes.

You’d wanted to thank him for helping out before Penny got there, and this was as good a chance as any, so you hopped off the barstool and crossed towards the darts wall.

“Hey,” you said, inelegant but effective, appearing behind the two of them, turning to look at you in surprise. “May I?”

The blond man made a sound in the back of his throat like he was both shocked and thrilled by your presence, and he nodded like of course you could butt in. You looked over at the quieter one, trying to pretend he wasn’t the most beautiful person you’d seen in your life. 

They’d both looked great from a distance, but up close, he was somehow even prettier, and as you looked at him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a hint of a smile. It was like he liked the weight of your eyes, which was terribly flattering, and you found yourself wanting to smile back. You looked away quickly, back to Ken Doll, thinking about the accent you’d heard in his bragging earlier. 

“Texas?” you asked, to distract yourself.

He raised an eyebrow. “Six generations back.”

You hummed, before holding out a hand to the quiet one. 

“The lady will shoot for her own hand,” Ken Doll said, like he was quoting something, a laugh in his voice as you felt two darts drop into your palm. 

“Pick that up from Medieval Times?” you asked.

“Brave, actually,” he muttered, before smiling sheepishly, “my sister’s kids love that movie.” 

“What do they call you?” you asked, turning the darts over in your hands. It was a guess, but the way his eyebrows raised slightly when he registered the cadence of your question confirmed you were right.

“Hangman,” he said, lifting his chin over your shoulder. “That’s Coyote.”

You looked over at him. “Hey.”

He smiled, slow and easy, and you looked away before you messed up your shot. You focused, let it go, and Coyote whistled. 

“Triple 20,” he said.

“Triple 20,” you agreed, looking back at Hangman. “Want to see it again?”

Hangman’s eyes narrowed as he did the quick mental math, and beside you, Coyote crossed his arms across his chest, laughing quietly. It was a warm sound, and tempted though you were to turn and see it, you let go of the last dart and watched as it landed next to your first. 

“Look at that; Coyote wins,” you wiped your hands on your jeans, smiling at a shocked Hangman.

“Damn,” he said quietly, then grinned. “I like you; you can stay.”

You snorted as he strolled lazily across to the board to pull out the darts, before you turned to look at Coyote, who was watching you already. He had deep brown eyes, eyes that looked kind, like they laughed easy, like they didn’t miss much. 

“Anyways,” you said, apropos of nothing, clearing your throat. “I came over here to say thanks for backing me up at the bar.”

Something like surprise flashed across his face before he could stop it. He shrugged like anyone would’ve done it, like it was nothing special to believe women, to support a stranger the same way he’d supported his friend all evening, and in that moment—before he knew who you were, before you knew his actual name, before you’d spoken more than a dozen words to the man—you fell hard for Javy Machado. 

“Bob, you’re killing me,” Payback groaned, and you jerked out of the memory. Apparently, Fritz’s turn was done, Bob biffed it, and Phoenix lifted her hand in an “after you” gesture as Coyote stepped up to the table. 

He walked slowly, and you tried to be impartial like Callie’d said, but it was damn hard when his shoulders filled out his khakis like that. He walked a slow circle, frowning at the spread and you shifted the pool cue in your own hands, telling yourself to stop staring and continuing to do just that.

“Duckie,” a soft voice called across the room, “if you don’t take the shot already, we’re going to be here all night.” 

Javy dropped the pool cue with a clatter, turning to find the voice. You spotted Jake the same time everybody else did, his chest puffed out proudly as he escorted an older woman on his arm. She wore warm gray senegalese twists, dangling turquoise earrings and a wide smile you’d recognize anywhere.

“Momma?” Javy asked softly, then a grin split his face as he sprinted across the room. His mother opened her arms as Javy rushed into them, carefully bending his tall frame to enfold her, before straightening and spinning her around. Their laughter echoed around the room and a couple claps of applause went up. 

Jake slapped a hand on Javy’s back as he stepped around them, walking over to the pool table to give them a minute together. Phoenix smiled lightly at him, a soft thing that you doubted any of you were meant to see, before she cleared her throat, looking back at you.

“See, this is why we put up with him being an asshole as much as he is,” she told you, shaking her head at Jake. “He’ll leave you out as bait if it gets him a shot at a bandit, but he’ll remember your mother’s birthday, burn his visitor passes, and fly her across the country to surprise you.”

“Take it easy, Nat,” Jake said lightly, resting his knuckles on the pool table and surveying the game’s progress since he’d stepped away. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Phoenix shook her head before lining up her next shot, and Jake pushed away from the table to come stand next to where you and Halo were seated on the couch.

You bumped his shoulder with yours as you both looked back across the center, where Javy and his mom were walking arm-and-arm towards your group.

“That was awful sweet of you,” you told him quietly, not wanting to “ruin his reputation” as he put it. 

“The fact that you don’t sound surprised means Phoenix’s lies are taking root,” Jake muttered, but you heard the pride in his voice; he was pleased with himself for pulling this off.

You looked away from the pair over to Jake, who held out a hand for you to hand him his pool cue. You passed it to him, tipping your head, holding onto the other end of it.

“So there was absolutely no altruism involved in reuniting your best friend with his mom?”

“You wound me, Cross,” Jake said drily, but he lifted his chin at Javy’s mother, who was smiling broadly up at her son, her eyes shining as she patted at his uniform proudly. “Give it a sec; let’s see if it pays off.”  

You weren’t sure what that meant, but you felt your expression turn soft at the clear fondness between Javy and his mother; somehow you always knew he’d be a momma’s boy. Her neck was craned at a sharp angle to look up at him, but both of their smiles were wide as they broke into the group. 

“Guys,” Javy said, his voice nearly giddy, “this is my mom. Momma, this is the group. We’ve got Payback, Bob, Phoenix, Fritz—I guess you already know Jake—Halo, and Cross.”

You all smiled and waved as Javy pointed you out to his mother, and her kind eyes followed Javy’s hand around the circle. You thought you might’ve imagined they lingered a little longer on you, but then her smile grew wider as she looked back at Javy. She elbowed him, then looked back at you.

“Now, Javy,” she chided gently, “I know that’s not how you introduce me to your girlfriend.”

The group stilled, and Jake pulled in a deep breath through his nose, his own smile turning decidedly smug as he pushed away from you, taking the cue with him. 

“And there’s your answer, Cross,” he said out of the side of his mouth, going over to the pool table and lining up a shot.

You wet your lips as your eyes darted from Mrs Machado up to Javy. 

His expression was a strange mix of shocked, mortified, and pleading, and you weren’t sure what Jake had done to land the both of you in this predicament, but you knew you weren’t about to spoil this reunion for Javy.

“Mrs. Machado,” you smiled, pushing away from the couch to come and hug her. “I’m so excited to get to meet you.”

Of course, she hugged like an angel. 

She was just a little shorter than you, and she held you like you were something precious she was excited to have in her arms. When you pulled back, her hands settled on your elbows and she beamed up at you. 

“Oh, aren’t you just the loveliest,” she smiled, and her voice sounded like the happiest thing. “You know, I told him, I did, when he started talking about the newest wiz—oh, what is that abbreviation?”

“WSO,” the group chorused.

“WSO,” Mrs. Machado nodded, grateful for the prompt. “Yes, well, when he started talking about you, I asked him if you were a nice young lady, and he insisted that you were just friends, but I just knew, you kept coming up in conversation and, well, I knew it was something more. And then sweet Jacob…”

She broke off to smile kindly at Hangman, and when you looked over your shoulder, Callie and Natasha had cornered him threateningly, but he looked too smug to be intimidated. Under Mrs. Machado’s eyes, they smiled charmingly, but their stance didn’t change. You appreciated them coming to your defense, but it did make you wonder how many people seemed to know about your crush.

“Yeah, sweet Jacob,” Payback deadpanned from the other side of the table, before assuming his role as Resident Adult of the squad. “Mrs. Machado, can we get you something to drink? I know lines at the base access point can be awful, maybe a glass of water?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Machado looked between Reuben and the kitchen, then at you. You smiled reassuringly, pulling your arms free from her. 

“I’ll be here,” you said, then reached over without looking, turning away. “Hey, Jay, can I have a word?”

“Yep, figured,” Javy muttered, as your hand closed on the lapel of his khakis, pulling him after you. 

“You both are doing my push ups after the next of Mav’s drills,” Payback hissed under his breath as your paths crossed.

“Done,” you said quickly.

“For sure,” Javy said, stumbling slightly as he tried to follow your shorter stride as you pulled him to a corner of the Family Center. You figured the group would be watching you so you turned your back to them, pulling Javy to stand in front of you.

“Wait, you’re his backseater,” Javy smoothed down his lapel, frowning over your shoulder in Reuben’s direction. “If he’s doing them, you are too, and 400 pushups isn’t—”

“You’ve got, like, 15 seconds to tell me why your mom thinks I’m your girlfriend.”

You probably could’ve handled it with more finesse, or at least not interrupted him. 

Javy’s hand came up to rub the back of his neck; if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was nervous, but there’s no way that was real, so you just waited on his explanation. 

“Okay, so she means well, my mom, but every time we talked, she’d be asking about if I’d met a nice girl, or telling me how one of her friends had a kid in town, that I should meet up with or—”

“15 seconds,” you reiterated, trusting in Reuben’s vamping ability, but the man was only mortal. 

“Right,” Javy swallowed. “Uh, so it’s just…one day she was just going on and on, and I said I’d asked someone out, and she wanted to know who and you were the first person I thought of.”

You blinked.

“Not like that, not like I’d planned on asking you out or something,” Javy rushed to say, which shouldn’t have stung as much as it did, but damn. He must’ve realized how that sounded, too, because he winced. “I mean, not like that, it was just the easiest lie that she’d believe and she was never supposed to be here and meet you and—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes narrowing as you looked up at him. “How do you think this is going?”

“Yeah, not great,” Javy mumbled, his hand falling to his side.

“Awesome,” you muttered. “So now that we’ve established how it’s just a matter of me being the easiest lie, you didn’t want her to meet me, and you wouldn’t actually ask me out—”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Javy said stubbornly, even though it was what he’d just said. He looked frustrated, and you couldn’t tell if it was towards your reaction or something else but when he opened his mouth, the words got stuck, because he just sighed.

Javy drew in a deep breath, looking over your shoulder. You knew when his eyes landed on his mom, because his whole face softened, and his shoulders drooped slightly. 

“Tell me this,” you said, weighing your words carefully, “is this for her or for you?”

“For her,” he said, with conviction, and when he looked back at you, your heart skipped a beat at the look in his eyes. It was honest and deep, something selfless and that scared him too, and you believed him. 

“She gets worried about me,” he explained. “What she and my dad have is special…when me or my siblings don’t have that, she gets worried. Like, it’s something she prays for. I know she’s proud of me and my career and all that, but I think a part of her will always think something’s missing, unless I’m with someone.”

You looked over your shoulder to find Mrs. Machado in the kitchen, smiling happily at Rueben as he made her some tea. She had this aura of comfort around her, that of being loved and known, and wanting it for everyone around her. It wasn’t an energy you were super familiar with, but you could understand that it would be heavy for someone like Javy to bear.

And this was a terrible idea—you were gonna embarrass yourself at the least, potentially break your own heart at the worst—but you couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” you sighed. “So, how do we do this?”

Javy’s eyes closed for a moment in relief, and for a second you thought he was going to reach for you, but then he held himself steady, his hands clenching at his sides.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

You nodded, already regretting this, knowing if you could do it again, you’d choose the same result, every time.

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing at your temples briefly before looking back up at him. “Um, I guess, how much do you want me around? I’m sure you guys want time for just the two of you.”

Javy seemed to think it over. “I’ll probably take her to dinner tonight—she’ll invite you, but I think we can get you out of it. If…do you want to do breakfast tomorrow?”

Somewhere a trickster god was chortling, thrilled by Javy asking a question you’d never expected to hear, and in an entirely different context.

“I can do breakfast,” you said. 

“Great,” Javy said, a full smile growing. “God, thank you. Great.” 

And somewhere that same trickster god rolled their eyes, because you were a simpleton who’d do any number of ridiculous things to see that smile again. 

Javy squeezed your shoulder lightly, moving to go around you before stopping himself and stepping back.  

“You’ve never called me ‘Jay’ before,” he said, his expression curious.

And you hadn’t, never aloud. But in your texts to your girlfriends back home, you referred to him by his initial, just in case someone ever stole your phone.

“Yeah, well," you deferred, "Duckie was taken, so…”

Javy’s nose wrinkled as he tried not to laugh, and there it was, that smile again.  

“I had a stuffed duck, when I was a kid,” he explained. “Took it everywhere with me, like some kids have their blankets…Momma always told me she loved me like I loved that duck, and it kind of stuck.”

“That’s adorable,” you said, honest. 

Javy waved a hand, like it wasn’t anything, and then he looked back at you.

“I like it,” he said, something different in his voice. “Jay.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you pressed your lips together and shrugged. Javy looked at you for a moment, then he tilted his head towards the group. You turned with him, following him back to the group, telling yourself it was going to be fine. 

Of course, that was until Mrs. Machado insisted that they drive you home. 

Thankfully, you were able to convince her to take the passenger seat, so as Mrs. Machado and Javy talked quietly, the soft music on the speakers kept their conversation from reaching you in the backseat. You leaned your head against the glass of the window, trying to recall the cross streets from memory, rather than think too hard about any part of tonight. The car was in park for a minute before you realized it was idling in front of your apartment. 

“Oh, sorry,” you said quickly, sliding off your seatbelt and leaning forward to brush Mrs. Machado’s shoulder lightly, “it was so great to meet you. Thanks for driving me home.”

“Of course,” she beamed over her shoulder at you, reaching back to catch your hand in hers, and squeezing. “I’m so glad we’ll get to visit more tomorrow.”

You smiled back, then let go of her, sliding down to the seat to the door. As you unfolded yourself out of the backseat, Javy’s hand appeared on the car door, holding it open for you as you climbed out. He shut it behind you, walking beside you towards the door of your apartment. 

You looked up at him out of the side of your eye. 

People shouldn’t be pretty from this angle but he was. The moonlight seemed to highlight his long lashes, and the soft shadow they cast over his face.  

“You don’t have to walk me,” you said under your breath, once you were out of hearing range of the car. 

“Nah,” Javy said, his voice lower rather than quieter. “Momma knows I’d walk my girl to the door.”

It wasn’t a long walk up the driveway, but you seemed aware of every step. Or maybe the world just froze when Javy said my girl. 

You glanced over at him again, admiring the way he looked perfectly at ease, his hands tucked into his pockets, steps slow to match your pace. You thought about how sweet his mother was, how excited she’d been at the prospect of spending time with you tomorrow. She was probably watching from the car now, and it did somewhat soothe the guilt in your chest, knowing that someone else had set a precedent for her, and she wouldn’t be too disappointed when her son calmly told her you had broken up.

“That’s good that she’s met others,” you said, climbing the first step to your porch, “it’s less intimidating to know I just have to be an average.”

Javy made a soft sound, something between a hum and an exhale, shoulders rising slightly in a shrug. “Actually, you’re the first since the Academy.”   

You stopped on the step, turning to find Javy watching you closely. With the added height, the two of you were almost eye level, and your stomach flipped. His brown eyes seemed to glitter, something soft like starlight in them.

“But you said…” you trailed off, realizing Javy had said it was how he would be, not how he’d been. “Literally how is that possible?” 

Javy smiled easily, looking back at the car, then back at you as he lifted his chin. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

You smiled back, you couldn’t not, even as you shook your head, despite the heat crawling up your neck because you didn’t realize you’d said that out loud. He was too bright to leave you unaffected, so you stood there on the step, smiling like a fool at a man who somehow had no idea how much of a marvel he was.

Which is when you realized you were staring again.

“Well,” you said, looking away, taking another step up the porch, “thanks again for the ride home. And walking me up here, and I guess…I’m gonna go inside.”

“Oh,” Javy said it quietly, like he hadn’t meant to, like you’d surprised him. He nodded, and you waited for him to say something else, as he looked over his shoulder at the car, but then his easy smile was back again. “Yeah, no worries. Actually, thank you, right?”

You were pretty sure the moonlight was playing tricks on you. 

Because there was something in Javy’s expression that you hadn’t seen before, something that looked like uncertainty, something almost like wondering. The extra step put you almost taller than him, your faces closer than you’d expected. Javy blinked slowly, his gaze darting down to your mouth before he stepped back a half pace, like he’d remembered something. 

It had to be the moonlight, or you were seeing things.

But you were the first person that’d come to mind when he’d needed a lie, and that had to count for something, right, and he’d looked for a moment like he was trying to think of a reason to keep you on the porch.

You reached for him, your fingers curling around the back of his neck and the slightest pull was enough for him to take back that half step, then more, closer, which was enough for you to know it wasn’t just the moon, and you kissed him.

Or you meant to.

The moment your lips brushed against his, Javy’s hands were on your waist, his long fingers spreading across your lower back, his body heat seemingly burning through the thin fabric of your shirt, like he needed to hold onto you. And then you weren’t kissing him, because he was kissing you, something that you couldn’t quite believe was happening. It was slow and soft and absolutely devastating, as unrealistically perfect as only Javy could be.

And then it was over, just as quickly as it had happened.

Javy’s lips lifted from yours, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulled back entirely. Still two steps down, you liked how he looked, looking up at you.

“I’ll wait till you get inside,” Javy asked softly, his voice like velvet, and you nodded, very uncertain if you could find words. You rested a hand on his shoulder to lean down to wave at the car, and Mrs. Machado, who was practically beaming back at you, before letting go and walking up to unlock the door. You let yourself in, turning just inside the frame to find Javy still watching you.

“Night, Jay,” you said. 

Javy’s lips parted at the nickname, then he smiled at you, bright as the noonday sun. 

“Night, Cross,” he said. His hands were in his pockets and he took a step back from you, waiting for you to shut the door. You did, leaning your back up against it, and waited for the sounds of the car starting and them driving away. 

Now, what the hell had that been about? And, more importantly, how were you supposed to survive tomorrow?

//

next chapter

taglist: @peakyrogers @mxgyver @princessphilly @hangmanbrainrot @wildbornsiren @roosterforme @blowmymbackout @datemephoenix @fuckyeahhangman @lt-bradshaw @double-j @callsignvalley @sebsxphia @javihoney @jadore-andor @rosiahills22 @andrewrussgarfield @teacupsandtopgun i don't have a coyote list yet bc this is my first writing for him, so if any of you folks would like to be not included, please do let me know!

#javy “coyote” machado #javy machado fic #javy coyote macado #javy machado #javy machado x reader #javy coyote machado x reader #javy machado x you #coyote x you #coyote x reader #misskielwrites #god why is hitting publish so nervewracking??? #i hope y'all like this chapter #i have a lot i want to do in ch 3 and ch 4 but this is necessary for now #a smidge of pining is good for the soul right #coyote x cross

[just-a-bookish-reader]

Anatomy: A Love Story Book Review

Spoilers below

Anatomy: A Love Story by Dana Schwartz My rating: 5 of 5 stars "You're going to become a brilliant physician. You're going to help so many people and change so many lives. You're going to light the world on fire, and you can't do that from the shadows. You can't create medicines and cures on the run. None of our greatest minds had to toil for their day's meals before their studying. No, Hazel. No. I can't do that to you."

This book was a complete and utter masterpiece of fiction. Before I picked this up during my 24 hour reading challenge, I'd had this sitting on my TBR cart basically since it came out. I had purchased it when I was out getting birthday gifts for my best friend, then never really thought about it again. I guess the one good thing to come out of that is that I don't have to wait "as long" for the sequel! Anyway, this was so spectacular! Set in Scotland, very gothic, very dark academia, discussing how wealth isn't always everything if you're a woman in the 1800s, sexism, the expectations of women, and evil, evil men. Of course it was clear from pretty much the beginning that Jack was the love interest in the story. And since I knew this, I didn't mind it at all, and in fact I loved their banter. What surprised me was how quickly I grew attached to Jack in particular, and how I was quite literally shouting during that scene. You know what scene I'm talking about. The atmosphere was amazing, and somehow I managed to have an appetite while reading, despite hating eye gore - I managed to eat through that particular scene as well, and the only other book I've been able to do that with that had eye gore was Six of Crows. This was so detailed and brilliantly paced and put together, and while I do wish there was more discussion about the dead brother and more drama with the mom - I understand that what Hazel was doing was a large part caused by the death of her brother, and if her mother hadn't left town then really, the book couldn't have continued. Also, may I just add how gorgeous this book is? Like come on ! Anyway, time to painfully wait for either the publisher to respond and tell me an ARC is on its way or to wait for it to come out to the public… I'm counting down the days.

View all my reviews

#anatomy a love story #dana schwartz #neil gaiman #reeses ya book club #reeses book club #reese witherspoon #book club #ya book club #hazel #tiktok #aesthetic #reviews #book review #review

[anthony-sharma]

Six of Crows Reread - Ch. 17

Chapter 17: Jesper

_

“Jesper prowled the deck, climbed the rigging, tried to get the crew to play cards with him, cleaned his guns. He missed land and good food and better lager. He missed the city. If he’d wanted wide open spaces and silence, he would have stayed on the frontier and become the farmer his father had hoped for. There was little to do on the ship but study the layout of the Ice Court, listen to Matthias grumbling, and annoy Wylan, who could always be found labouring over his attempts to reconstruct the possible mechanisms of the ringwall gates.

Kaz had been impressed with the sketches.

“You think like a lockpick,” he’d told Wylan.”

For Kaz to hand out compliments like that (even as strange as his compliments are) Wylan must really be remarkable. Of course, Wylan doesn’t take his compliment as a compliment (because it is no compliment to be considered to have a criminal mind, but...)

“And you don’t belong here, either.”

“I beg your pardon, merchling?”

“We don’t need a sharpshooter for Kaz’s plan, so what’s your job – other than stalking around making everyone antsy?”

He shrugged. “Kaz trusts me.”

Wylan snorted and picked up his pen. “Sure about that?”

I like it that even though Wylan is usually more quiet and peaceful than Jesper, especially when it comes to externalizing his thoughts, he’s also not over standing up for himself and putting people “in his place” so to speak. Jesper, up until this point, has being annoying Wylan so much, that it’s nice to see the roles reversed a little bit here. 

“Every crew member called greetings and well wishes, and Jesper could sense Inej perking up with every cheer of “The Wraith returns!” Even Matthias gave her an awkward bow and said, “I understand you’re the reason we made it out of the harbour alive.”

“I suspect there were a lot of reasons,” said Inej.

“I’m a reason,” Jesper offered helpfully.

Yeah, well, Jesper was also the reason they were ambushed in the first place, but anyway...That’ll come to light later on. 

“When they reached the foredeck, Inej leaned on the railing and looked out at the horizon. “Did he come to see me at all?”

Jesper knew she meant Kaz. “Every day.”

Inej turned her dark eyes on him, then shook her head. “You can’t read people, and you can’t bluff.”

Jesper sighed. He hated disappointing anyone. “No,” he admitted.”

This is so Anthony/Kate coded! Like she basically asks the same thing at the end of episode 2.08 of Bridgerton, when she asks if Anthony’s been there to see her and they answer no and she looks so dissapointed, but it ended up being that he didn’t see her because he couldn’t bear the thought of her not waking up and that was basically Kaz’s thought process in this same scene. If they end up including this part in the future SoC spinoff, I wonder if anyone will make a gifset paralleling these two scenes. 

“I don’t think he did. Van Eck writes to Wylan every week, and Wylan doesn’t even open the letters.”

“What do they say?”

Inej leaned back carefully on the railing. “You’re assuming I read them.”

“You didn’t?”

“Of course I did.” Then she frowned, remembering. “They just said the same thing again and again: If you’re reading this, then you know how much I wish to have you home. Or I pray that you read these words and think of all you’ve left behind. ”

I remember reading this part for the first time and thinking how decent Van Eck seemed to be when it came to his son, given that he was writing him letters that Wylan simply refused to read. However, reading it again, knowing why Van Eck was doing it just seems like a slap in the face. “If you’re reading this, then you know how much I wish to have you home” But since he’s not reading it because he can’t read, he’s basically saying that he doesn’t wish to have him home and reinforces how much of a douchebag he is. 

“So what are we doing here?”

Jesper turned back to the sea, feeling his cheeks heat. “Hoping for honey, I guess. And praying not to get stung.”

Inej bumped her shoulder against his. “Then at least we’re both the same kind of stupid.”

I love these little moments when they both bond on how they wished Kaz could show a little bit more appreciation for them, but doesn’t. 

Next up, we see how Kaz was been faring with Inej being up and about and refusing to approach him (and vice versa).

#six of crows reread #six of crows

[queenofbaws]

Hi! 🌼 I know I'm a little late but I'm also so happy to see you again! How are you?! I really hope you're resting well! 💛 You must be looking forward to your recovery but it's really important to take your time, especially to recover from lyme disease. Anyway, know that it's always a pleasure to read your writings, I'm glad you're back!

And to tell you the truth... I don't have anything really incredible to propose. ^^" But how about writing again about our favorite duo Alan and Edgar and our dear four ghost hunters (with the number 26 in the list)? I think it must be one of my favorite aus!

Anyway, have a good weekend and a good end of day! Big virtual hugs and courage to recover completely! 💛

six(ish) sentence weekend ;P

There was just no getting around it - the house was exactly what she’d imagined in her head: It was all fresh siding and crisply painted shutters, a well kept willow tree brushing languidly against the bay window, an oddly antiquated weathervane marking a southerly wind on the roof. It was, to put it plainly, perfectly unassuming! Once you, uh...once you got past all the crows standing watch on the nearby telephone lines. And the tree. And the chimney. Yeah, once you got past all those beady little eyes, it was sort of the picture of suburban living.

Inside, though? Inside was another story entirely.

The Addams family wished they had the sort of setup Edgar and Alan were working with inside that house. There seemed to hardly be an inch of wall not taken up by something, be it painting or bookshelf or - God help them all - momento mori, everything horrid in its own way, everything tastefully gruesome. It was somehow, Sam thought, as though some divine hand had reached down and pressed Alan’s office into the library, squeezing them tight until the place where they meshed exploded out into a life of its own.

It also seemed to her, as she continued to think on it, that she was probably spending way, way, way too much time with Josh and Ashley, if that was the way her brain was processing all of this.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” It was hard to say with any certainty how long Josh had been standing in front of that painting (a monstrously large wooden frame housing an unspeakably awful scene of a ship mid-wreck done up in oils), but it was longer than she would’ve been able to look at it. “Really homey. Welcoming, y’know. It’s, uh...it’s cheerful, almost.” He turned then, catching Sam’s eye just long enough to wink.

She probably would’ve returned that wink, too, had the case of taxidermied bats not caught her attention first. “We really could’ve just...picked these books up from you later. At the library.” And then, proving she’d been spending too much time with Chris, too, “At, um. School.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. I’ve always been firmly of the belief that, in matters of the ephemeral, time is of the essence.” There was something just a little too content in Edgar’s voice; it was bordering on joyful, really. He had his back to her as he (and Ashley, of course) stood before a set of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves positively packed to the point of bursting, but even so, she knew beyond a doubt that he was smirking. “Particularly...” he continued in that enigmatic way of his, fingers skimming the faded spines of so many ancient books in his search, “...in those cases where the tenacity of death is rivaled only by the tenuousness of its grasp upon us.”

Up until that point, Chris had been beside her, just sort of awkwardly loitering in the doorway, but that seemed to jog him out of his socially anxious fugue juuuuust long enough to get a word in edgewise. “Oh. Yeah. For sure,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. When he saw none of the others were looking, he turned to Sam, wide-eyed, and mouthed, “The fuck does that mean?” to which she could only shrug.

“You do know how concerned I become when I hear you rambling on like that to yourself,” came a new voice, no less familiar (though considerably less unnerving) than Edgar’s. “All the world might be a stage, but for what it’s worth, the living room is just that - a living r...” Alan made it about halfway down the stairs before he seemed to take notice of them, the light from the bay window catching on his pinky ring as he rested his hand on the banister. If he was perplexed, or put-out, or...much of anything else, Sam couldn’t rightly say; the man had a pokerface the likes of which could’ve made him a millionaire in Vegas. Instead, he simply took in the sight of them for a beat, then continued his way down to the landing, his voice just as even as it’d been at the start. “Dare I ask why there are students in our home?” He paused, inclining his head just slightly as he passed, “Samantha.”

“Hi, Dr. Hill.”

“Chris, I’d assume?”

“Um, uh, that’d be me. How’s it going.”

He took a breath perhaps a bit longer than necessary before acknowledging Josh, greeting him not with his name but with a sagely nod towards the painting. “The sinking of the Essex. Why is it, do you think, that it always comes ‘round to cannibalism with you?”

Pleased as punch, Josh lifted his shoulders high as they could go. In combination with his grin, it was a perfect example of the ‘aren’t-I-a-little-stinker’ brand of mischief she’d grown so accustomed to. “I dunno, Alan, but I’m sure an inkblot or two would help puzzle that one out.”

“Yes, I’m sure it would too,” he said lightly. “And Ashley, of course.”

Distracted as she was by the books, her usual politeness only appeared as a blip. Barely glancing over her shoulder, Ashley flashed him an uncertain smile and a quiet “Hello” before crouching down once more, scanning through the titles on display.

“Far be it from me to point out things as banal as basic propriety and conflicts of interest within educational spheres, but again, why is it, precisely, that these four are milling about our private residence?” She wasn’t sure why she was surprised, but something about Alan’s continued use of his therapist voice knocked Sam for a loop. It sort of suggested that - mother of God - these weren’t just characters the two of them played while they were at work. It sort of suggested, uh...that they were just...like that.

A low sound of triumph, almost inaudible, accompanied Edgar pulling a book from the shelf, giving it a cursory flip-through before offering it to Ashley. “Why, ghosts, of course,” he said by way of answering Alan’s question. He was, as she’d suspected all along, smirking. “You know me - tender-hearted creature that I am, I couldn’t turn our ignoble paranormal investigators away without first offering them some assistance.”

“Ignoble?” Ashley asked in a small voice (taking immediate solace, Sam noticed, when Edgar met her eyes and shook his head, flippantly waving her off as if to say he hadn’t meant her, of course, just the rest of them).

“Tender-hearted,” was what bristled Alan, though, and almost to the point of laughter. “Tender-hearted creatures don’t lure children into their homes speaking in riddles and offering books on the occult. Storybook monsters do that. Witches hoping to make a stew out of orp - ” There he paused again, glancing Josh’s way with open curiosity. “It does always come ‘round to cannibalism with you. Perplexing.”

“A storybook monster I may be, my dear,” Edgar drawled, returning to the bookshelf, “But you forget yourself. People love a good monster. No one ever remembers the boring old men in sweatervests and pressed slacks.” He took another book from his collection, giving it a once-over, and as he handed it to Ashley, glanced Alan’s way with a quirked brow. Just to make sure the hit had landed, she was sure.

The pokerface did not so much as shiver. “Well, if the four of you did come here seeking some sort of help in the field of the supernatural, I suppose I can’t say you’ve made a mistake. I’ll leave you to it, then, under the watchful eye of this ghoul. A word to the wise, however - I’d be loath to accept offers of gingerbread or sweets from a creature like him.”

“How dare you.” There was nothing even approaching insult in Edgar’s voice - just that same low, slow amusement. “You know better than anyone else I haven’t the stomach for eating poor, lost children. Not anymore, anyway.” It was he who dropped Sam a wink that time, and strangely enough, it managed to almost land identically to Josh’s. “So hard on the digestion, you understand. Maybe in my younger days.”

Chris leaned in towards her, their shoulders not just touching but pressed flush together. “I think we should go home now,” he said with a nod. “I’m worried this might be their version of foreplay.”

#clarichoupie #six sentence weekend #queenie writes supermassive #ghost hunting au #hehehe aw man youre not late at all!!! here i am a full weekend late!!! ;P #and thank you so much!!! i'm hopin to start feeling better soon - we shall see! i hope youre having a lovely weekend so far :)

[thefanficmonster]

I blame Tumblr, I'm sorry. I SWEAR MY REPLY ISN'T AS SHORT AS THE ONE YOU RECEIVED. AS IF I WOULD PUT THAT LESS OF AN EFFORT FOR YOU <33

Hello my dearest Vy, treasure of my heart, have you missed me? I hope so cause I sure as hell missed you :D I am finally here. I went through hell and back but I am finally on prep leave. Bless the pandemic for extending my prep leave for up to 3 weeks! I'm going to get so much done as well as actually have time to take care of myself so if there's anything about this pandemic to be grateful for, it's this.

Anyway, I am so so so sorry for this extremely late reply. I don't think I need to repeat the reason as to why by now. But don't worry, all is well.

I hope you've been well these past week or so? I hope you've been well. I do hope your job is going well too :)

Thank you so much for taking your time to answer my questions, I enjoyed reading them so much! Now here are my answers to yours..

I'm a Taurus!!

My favourite month has to be January, I just love the cold weather and of course, the New Year's festivities.

Basically any fandom related to Leigh Bardugo's Grishaverse books. I just love everything about that fictional universe, makes me feel at home.

If my bestfriend counts, then surely her. She's an angel, I can't imagine how messed up I'd be if it wasn't for her.

Water, food and wifi. Kidding, aside from basic essentials to stay alive, I suppose my dog, bestfriends and this one energy drink I'm addicted to.

I have 3 dogs so…But but but, I adore cats as well. In fact, I've been told a lot that I seem much more like a cat person. So perhaps both for me too :')

I don't play much video games so I can't say I have a favourite. However, I loved Mario as a child!

This is a hard one, I'm a big shipper!! But maybe Kanej (Kaz x Inej) and Wesper (Wylan x Jesper), again from Six of Crows.. (Please don't blame me, I'm just obssessed with this series.)

Either my rings or my books, it's a tough decision. This is rather far off but I'd love to have my very own cozy little library-cafe someday..just a wish :')

Thank you so much for your questions, they did help a lot and took my mind off my schedule!

Now it's been a while so I can't remember much of the questions I made for you but here are a few that stuck around

If you could visit any place in the world, which 3 places would you go to first?

One musical piece you can never get tired of?

Do you play any instruments??

What's your favourite musical instrument?

If you have the time, describe what your life would look like in your dream universe :) (really get that creative mind of yours to stir up your deepest desires)

Out of everything that you have written for streamers, which 3 are your favourites?

Again, feel free to ignore any of the questions and I hope you enjoy answering them :)

Loads of love, ~🌹

Thank you so much for taking the time to answer my questions sweetie I'm so glad you had fun answering them! And thank you for the new batch of questions dear, here are my answers:

I'd definitely visit Barcelona, Spain; Brighton, England and Cancún, Mexico

Since the term 'musical piece' gives me a lot of freedom here's three things music related that I could never get bored of: 1. Any Lana Del Rey album/song; 2. Lo-fi; 3. The musical Heathers 🤭

Nope unfortunately I don't. I tried learning the piano but never got the hang of it

It's spot shared by acoustic guitar and piano

Oooh ok so buckle up! 😉 I'd love to live by the beach in a house I'd share with no one but my pets. Yes, plural. I'd like to live that lonely writer lifestyle. Now that I think about it, I'd love to live in a lighthouse honestly. Outlandish? Maybe. But man is it a dream of mine. I'd live like an old fisherman and have the time of my life 🤭 However I'd also not be opposed to a night out with friends in a town that'd be near the lighthouse. I'd still like to have some of that partying I've always dreamt of sprinkled into the quiet haven mentioned above. But all in all, I'm a rather simple person ay 😊

Ooooh ok so for Corpse I'd say it's the two parter fic consisting of 'Champagne Problems' and 'Exile'; for Dave (not a streamer but he is a content creator so he'll be my cheat code) it would be the fic 'Fated Miracles' and last but certainly not least: my fic 'Sweetheart' for Sykkuno

Here are a few more questions I've got for you since last time. Again, no need to answer any or all if you don't want to/feel uncomfortable about them 🤗

What's your favorite mythological creature?

If you're a horror fan, what's your favorite scary movie? If not what's your favorite movie in general?

Favorite music genre?

Favorite pieces of fanfiction?

~ XOXO, Vy 💌

[flamerain11]

Shadow and Bone is fun but I sorta just wish I was reading Six of Crows again ✌️

#Of course I always just wish I was reading Six of Crows again #It's my normal state of being #I guess I could be reading it #I just finished my last book and am only two chapters into my new one... #I could bookmark it and just pick up soc again... #No that's the devil talking #I've already done that to this poor book once and I can't do it again #Also reading soc now will just make me grumpier about the places shadow and bone changes it #I'm sure I'll be happy enough with the story if I can just love it as its own thing #But uuuughhhhh #I already have love in my heart for the original! There's no room for an au! #And apologies to Alina but I simply did not care for the original trilogy as much :/ #I wish they hadn't been combined #Bluh #Anyway sorry for making my first post in multiple years be a tag rant about a Netflix show #I just started watching it and my dad will only listen to me rant about a book series he doesn't care about #For about five minutes #Which is not long enough for me to express my big big opinions! #Akfndncjsjjfjcnenfjhshe!!!!

[plus-size-reader]

Curfew

Randy Meeks x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 3065 words

Warnings: none

Summary: The reader struggling when the curfew is put into place, but Randy has an idea that could make it a little better.

—————————————————————————————————

You were bored.

Woodsboro wasn’t a super happening place to begin with but now that the curfew was in place, it was even worse.

There was nothing to do, and with the additional stress that these recent murders had put on everyone, you were about to blow. The boys could see it, Tatum and Sidney could see it, and most important, Randy could see it.

It was only a matter of time before you absolutely lost it.

Your parents were taking this whole thing extra hard and basically had you on complete lockdown outside of attending school. They couldn’t imagine going through what Casey and Steve’s parents were going through right now, and they were scared.

Which was fair enough.

Everyone was scared right now, but you didn’t understand how putting you under house arrest was going to keep you any safer than you would be anywhere else. Casey was killed at home, after all?

If anything, you would be much safer in a group setting than you would be locked up in your house alone. Still, your parents had made themselves very clear where this topic was concerned. You were absolutely forbidden from attending Stu’s party, or any other party until the curfew was lifted.

It just made everything that much worse.

Parties, especially Stu’s parties, were one of the only things you were looking forward to as of late. Knowing that you couldn’t go to them was really starting to wear on you, and you were understandably let down by the whole thing.

...but it wasn’t just that.

Getting together with a big group of people, your age and ready to party, was an escape for you. With so much uncertainty going on and everything falling apart at the seams, you needed that normalcy to feel human again.

Not that you could really complain about that to anyone who could actually do something about it.

You knew that there was a very real danger out there and the only way to really be safe would be to stay inside your home where no one could get you but you just felt like your folks were taking it a little too seriously.

If everyone else was going to be out anyway, what different was it going to make, really? If anything, it made you a bigger target because you were one of the only people stuck in your house while everybody else was together.

To you, the logic was sound but to them, it was little more than a pathetic excuse to get out of the town’s mandated curfew.  

Which it kind of was, but you couldn’t help but feel like they were being unreasonable. You were a smart, responsible young woman and you weren’t going to take any stupid, unnecessary risks. You just wanted to maintain some level of normal life.

You were tired of being stuck at home like a rat in a cage, never allowed to go out and do anything. It was a stark contrast to how you normally were, with a thriving social life and active party presence.

It was almost as if you were dead too, not to be dramatic.

This was just hard on you, and they weren’t making it any easier. You had to rely on your friends, now more than ever, and they were basically cutting off any contact you had with them to lunch at school and quick phone conversations.

No one would have just taken that and been happy with it. Certainly not within your tight knit group of friends.

You sighed, fiddling with your pen as you tried to remember all the things you needed to get done when you got home. You knew well enough to know that if you didn’t write it down now, you would never remember it all.

With everything else on your mind, school seemed like the least of your worries.

You were so enthralled, in fact, tapping your pen away on the table that you didn’t even notice at first when Randy came up and sat down beside you, taking note of how unhappy you were about everything going on right now.

He couldn’t blame you.

The male at your side was perfectly aware of how excited you had been for the parties the recent nice weather was bound to bring, and equally as aware of how bummed you were that your parents had put a kibosh on the latest shindig before it even had a chance to begin.

“You okay?” he hummed, startling you just a bit when you looked up to see him already sitting at your side, but the racing in your chest calmed down just as quick. No one really knew who was responsible for all these terrible murders but you knew in your heart it wasn’t Randy.

You had known him all your life and even if he was a little strange, he was the sweetest guy in Woodsboro. He wasn’t some natural born killer or a sociopath on a killing spree.

“Honestly, if I have to think about this anymore, my brain might explode” you allowed, leaning slightly into his side to take some of the pressure off your aching, tight muscles as you kept focus on your schedule.

All this stress had to be bad for your body.

Tatum seemed to think so, at least, warning you that if you didn’t learn to decompress somehow you were going to go prematurely grey and get crows feet under your eyes. While you weren’t sure how much you trusted her endless cosmo knowledge, you certainly didn’t feel the greatest.

This was all just a lot for one person to juggle.

Randy could see that much.

He had been watching you all day, moping around that you wouldn’t be allowed to go to Stu’s party and worrying about a huge midterm you had to take for your english class that would physically make or break your grade.

You were spreading yourself way too thin. Luckily, he had an idea of just how he could help you feel a little bit better without breaking your parents' rules.

He just wasn’t so sure you’d go for it once you found out just what he had in mind.

“I was thinking, maybe you’d wanna come over to my place later? I have tonight off so we could watch a movie or something?” he offered, trying not to come across as painfully awkward as he felt. Randy was your friend, and usually could talk to you no problem but what he was proposing was different.

The two of you had never really hung out, just the two of you, before.

You nodded, not even looking up from your notebook as you scribbled something down in black ink, likely a reminder to do your calculus homework based on the way your brow knit together as you formed the letters.

You were preoccupied, too in your head to really consider what was going on but he certainly wasn’t.

Randy was aware of every little movement you made, from the way your nose scrunched up as you concentrated on making sure all the due dates and assignments were right on your calendar to the way your shoulder rested gently against his side.

“Who else did you invite? You know Tatum always complains about the movies you pick” you reminded, thinking over all the times the six of you had tried to watch movies together in the past. She got bored of psychological thrillers and grossed out at the gorey slashers.

She was much more of a Meg Ryan fan herself, constantly pulling for the cheesy romance flicks that made you want to ralph. You couldn’t put it past her to make Randy grab a couple of sappy videos too, just in case.

If she was going to be involved in movie night, you were sure you’d have to shoot down a few of those crappy comedies before you could watch anything worthwhile.

Randy sighed lightly, doing his best to keep you from noticing as he thought about what his next move was. Clearly, you’d missed the point of what he was asking entirely, not that he could blame you.

He had never really been good at asking out pretty girls, especially not ones he;d known since he was in elementary school, so this was new for him as well. He just sort of hoped that you would catch his drift early so he wouldn’t have to clarify out loud.

The last thing he wanted to do was put you on the spot and make you uncomfortable.

“Oh, I was actually hoping it could just be the two of us. I know it's no Stu Macher party but it could be fun” he shrugged, this time almost wishing a giant hole would open up from under him so that he didn’t have to have this conversation.

He wanted you to say yes, of course, more than anything but he just wasn’t sure if it was going to happen and if it wasn’t, he wanted to know early on.

At least then he could have some dignity in this whole thing.

You stopped writing for a second, letting the meaning of his words sink in as you sat there, your left leg bouncing up and down to try and keep up with the racing of your thoughts. It had been going nonstop since you sat down, but now, it was just resting against his.

Was Randy hitting on you?

Randy Meeks, your childhood best friend who had never once made a move on you aside from calling you pretty in your winter formal dress in middle school?

It didn't seem likely, but it was also hard to misinterpret his words. That was about as cut and dry as a date invite could be, and if it had been coming from anyone else, Tatum and Sid would have surely confirmed it for you if you asked.

Not that you could ask either of them right now.

“You wanna watch a movie tonight? Just you and me, at your house?” you clarified, setting your notebook down beside you without a second thought in favor of looking him in the eye.

He was uncertain for a second, trying to read any cues of how you were feeling about that from your own expression but found nothing there, so he nodded.

“Like a date?” you hummed, the words barely leaving your lips as you spoke them, feeling silly at having to clarify at all but you couldn’t help it. If he wasn’t meaning it in that way and you took it like that, you risked making an even bigger ass of yourself.

...but if he did, you needed to know that too.

There was a light blush on his freckled face as he considered his options before he nodded again, giving you all the information you needed. Randy was definitely hitting on you, now all you had to do was decide if you wanted to.

A movie could be fun.

You and Randy had watched a hundred movies together before, with you sometimes staying after hours at the video store while he closed to just see the ending of Frankenstein's bride that you loved so much.

Usually, there were more people there, Tatum and Stu at the very least, with Billy and Sid joining in when they saw fit, but it couldn’t be so different to just be the two of you.

You loved spending time with him, so doing so under the context of it being a date couldn’t possibly change that up so much. This was just Randy after all, it wasn’t like he was some guy you’d only just met or some creep Tatum thought it was okay to set you up with.

...and you were sure that your parents would agree to it.

Spending a few hours at Randy’s house was vastly different than going to some house party and out of all your friends, you knew that they trusted him the most. If he said you were there, they would believe him which would cut down on the third degree.

There really were no downsides.

Besides, if you were going to go out with any of your friends, it would be him, even if Billy or Stu did happen to be single. You and Randy just had a lot more in common and you knew that he would never put you in any danger.

You trusted him, and you liked him.

If he liked you too, it only made sense that you had a movie night together, just the two of you.

~

Getting your parents to agree to letting you spend a few hours at Randy’s house wasn’t as easy a sell as you thought it would be but by the time he came to pick you up, he managed to convince them that it would all be fine.

He wasn’t going to let anything happen to you, and in all honesty, they believed it.

Randy had never given them any reason not to trust him and at the end of the day, they came to the conclusion that you did have a little bit of a point. Knowing that you were somewhere with someone else made them feel a little bit better than if you were home alone.

It brought some amount of comfort to know that Randy would be there with you. Besides, your mother was just so thrilled that he’d finally asked you out on a date that you were sure she would have agreed to anything.

That was how you got here in the first place, walking down the familiar aisles of the video store with Randy as you searched for something to watch. Between the two of you, you had basically seen all the good horror films that they had available.

Not that knowing that was stopping either of you from picking up title after title, looking them over incredulously as you searched for the perfect thing.

Initially, Randy was just going to pick something up on the way to get you but decided that this would probably be more up your alley first. The video store was only open for a short time today due to the curfew but that was more than enough time for him to find exactly what he wanted.

After all, there wasn’t a title in the store that Randy didn’t know by heart. In fact, he had likely put them each right where they were, in each of their respective spots on the shelf. That was literally all he did all day when he did work.

“What about this one?” you suggested, holding up a pretty well loved copy of night of the living dead happily for his approval. It was a classic, one that you had each seen a dozen times, but because of that, it was quick to go into the basket.

Then, after scanning the few horror aisles one more time, Randy settled on what he always settled on and plucked a copy of Prom Night off the shelf.

At this point, you were sure he’d rented that specific video nineteen times by now but didn’t bother to point that out. You knew that it was one of his favorite movies of all time and if that was what he wanted to watch tonight, you weren’t going to argue.

All you really wanted to do was spend the night relaxing with your best friend, on what was technically also your first date. It was a little bit of pressure, more so than you were used to, but nothing that you couldn’t handle.

At the end of the day, you loved Randy and this was just something else you could do together.

“Alright, are you ready to go? I’ve got plenty of good snacks at the house for us to munch on too” he promised, fully aware of just how you liked your movie nights to go down. That was something else the two of you had in common.

You were very particular about your movies, especially horror movies.

It was something he could appreciate, along with your sense of humor and heart of gold. All in all, when Randy actually stopped to think about it, he wasn’t sure why he’d waited so long to ask you to do this in the first place.

This was going to be awesome.

~

Randy’s house was nice, of course, well put together every single time you had been there but you couldn't really focus too much on that.

Instead, you occupied yourself putting the tapes into the player while Randy made popcorn in the kitchen. It was kind of strange for a few moments, as you sat waiting for him to get back, looking around the living room under such new circumstances.

You have been here a hundred times before.

You had sat in this exact spot plenty of times but tonight, it was so different. You had only ever been here before as a friend, normally with all your other friends there to keep you company even when someone had to leave the room but not anymore.

Right now, you were waiting here as a girl on a date, a date with a guy you’d known your entire life.

It was just so strange how quickly everything had changed. Just this morning, you and Randy were little more than friends, and now, you couldn’t quite be sure what you were. Not that you had too much time to consider that before he was back.

“I bring gifts,” Randy grinned, plopping down beside you on the couch, swamping the coffee table with bags of chips and assorted boxes of candy before handing you the big bowl of popcorn. Clearly when he promised snacks, he wasn’t kidding.

You watched him do a onceover of the spread he’d provided before he ultimately decided that it was going to be fine.

“Perfect, just what we needed” you smiled, relaxing even further into the couch next to him, getting ready to start whatever it was that was going on between the two of you. It was new, uncharted territory for the both of you but it wasn’t looking too bad.

A copy of Prom Night and some popcorn with Randy was perhaps the only thing that could make this whole curfew thing worthwhile.

#randy meeks #scream #horror #scary movies #randy meeks x reader #randy meeks x ps reader #randy meeks x plus size reader #randy meeks imagine #scream x reader #scream x ps reader #scream x plus size reader #scream imagine #horror x reader #horror x ps reader #horror x plus size reader #horror imagine

[kythed]

an age of miracles

synopsis: why do the most beautiful people always seem to get the short end of the stick? 

tagged: atsumu miya x reader, mentions of illness, mentions of god.  

commitment level: 3,617 words.

hospitals are liminal spaces. transitional, gateways between birth and death and the whole mess in between. (life.) they’re sites of both tragedy and miraculous recovery, and you’re not yet too old to stop praying for the latter. 

+

his name is atsumu. you skim the documents pinned to his door — atsumu miya. age 21. cirrhosis. 

cirrhosis is late stage liver scarring. nasty stuff. evidently, atsumu miya is in his third stage — portal hypertension. abdominal swelling. jaundice. 

for a bedridden guy with a serious illness, he’s not as justifiably depressed as one might assume. 

“hey, doc,” he says when you come in. he’s facing the window, letting the sunlight cast a saintly halo across his cheeks. blonde hair, an angular sort of face that’s been hollowed by illness. in another life, he might’ve been handsome. 

you clear your throat, and he glances back, surprised. “ah. you’re not my doctor.” 

“nope. nursing student.” you sit at the foot of his bed. “i’ll be monitoring you the next month or so as part of my studies.”

“monitoring,” he repeats drily. “you make it sound like i’m a lab specimen in a test tube.”

“means you’re special.” 

“sure. ‘specially fucked up.” he’s younger than you are, but there’s an aged weariness in his gaze. 

“aren’t we all, mr. miya?” 

he cracks a grin. “touche. call me atsumu, though. mr. miya’s my dad.”

“as you wish, mr. miya,” you say, biting back a smile. (there are those who say sarcasm has no place in hospitals. you do not fall into this category.)

+

atsumu likes to play chess. the second day of your clinical, he’s got a travel sized chess board set up on his bedside table. “been dying from boredom the past few hours. think you could take a break from ‘monitoring’ me to play a game?”

you set your clipboard down. “i could. i’d advise against it, though. i’m a pretty good player.”

atsumu grins. “not better than me.” 

he’s right. he beats you three games in a row before you finally snag a checkmate. (and you suspect this is only due to pity.) 

“what’d i tell you, baby?” he crows, and you shake your head, raising your arms in surrender.

“it was an off day. if i’d been on my game i could’ve swept the floor with you.”

“prove it,” atsumu says, leaning forward. he’s pale from a lack of sunshine, but you notice a faint pink glow in his cheeks now. “come back tomorrow.”

tomorrow’s a saturday, and you don’t have clinical. “of course i will.” 

you’re not one to back down from a challenge, no matter how trivial. plus, atsumu is fun. (and kind of cute.) 

+

“hi. brought you something.” you set a tupperware of cubed fruit on atsumu’s lap before pulling up a chair next to the bed. 

“did you make this?” he says, eyes wide. 

“i just chopped up a few apples and stuff,” you say, plucking a blueberry from the container and popping it into your mouth. 

atsumu shakes his head before biting into a chunk of pineapple. “you’d think it’d be hard to mess up fruit salad, but somehow this damn hospital can make a strawberry taste like cough medicine. everything they serve here tastes like cough medicine, actually.” 

“delicious.” 

“disgusting.” atsumu sets up the chess board. “so, like, thanks. for the fruit. can i keep the tupperware?”

you laugh. “why do you wanna keep the tupperware?” 

“it’s a reminder of normality.” atsumu shrugs. “i only ever eat off chipped hospital dishes here.” 

your chest throbs. “oh, atsumu.” 

“don’t you ‘oh, atsumu’ me,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

“sorry. yeah, you can keep it.”

(he wins at chess again.)

+

you’re only required to come in to the hospital three times a week, but you get into the habit of visiting atsumu every day. the first time you visit after class, you’re wearing a sweater and jeans. atsumu wolf whistles.

“damn. you look good when you’re not in scrubs.” 

“are you saying i don’t rock scrubs?” you press a hand to your chest in mock offense. 

“nobody looks good in scrubs,” atsumu says. “except for me, probably. i look good in anything.” 

you laugh. “i believe it.” 

“you’d better.” atsumu has a nice smile, you notice, wide and shiny. 

you plop yourself down beside him on the bed. “hey, you wanna see a picture i took on the way here? i found a stray cat near the convenience store.” 

“i’m a dog person,” atsumu says, but he nonetheless leans forward to get a look at your phone. “oh, cute.” 

“isn’t he?” you say, zooming in on the little orange cat. “i think i’m gonna name him after you.” 

“what?” atsumu huffs. “why?”

“because he’s good at chess,” you say. 

atsumu furrows his brow. “you played chess with a cat?”

“no, i just have a feeling,” you hum, and atsumu rolls his eyes with a small smile. 

“you’re stupid.” 

you slip your phone back into your pocket. “in a cute way, though.” 

“if you say so,” atsumu says, and you flick his shoulder. “ouch. way to bully a sick man.” 

“you deserved it,” you laugh, and he joins in.

“yeah, i did.” 

+

the next time you visit, atsumu’s family is there. his parents have kind, tired faces. 

“nice to meet you,” his mom says, grasping your hand warmly. “i’m glad atsumu has a friend here.”

“mom,” complains atsumu. “i have friends.” 

“none as cool as me, though,” you tease, and he smiles.

“you’re right,” he says, and his dad rumples his hair before turning to shake your hand. 

“it’s great to meet you, mr. miya,” you say, returning the shake. 

“the pleasure’s mine,” he says. he looks nearly identical to atsumu, just a little grayer. right next to him, there’s a boy who really does look exactly identical to atsumu, though his hair’s dyed dark and he’s a little more filled out. he has an air of begrudging maturity about him, the telltale sign of a young man who’s been forced to carry burdens that aren’t his. 

“i’m osamu,” he says. he’s sitting on the chair near atsumu’s bed. “this little asshole’s brother.”

“i don’t know why you keep calling me little,” atsumu says, lightly punching osamu’s forearm. “i’m the older twin.” 

“yeah, but you act like a baby.” osamu grins and leans out of reach when atsumu tries to swat at him. you chuckle behind a hand, leaning back against the wall as mr. and mrs. miya question you about your studies and hobbies. 

on your way out of the hospital a half hour later, you run into osamu at the lobby coffee shop. 

“so,” he says, sipping from a steaming cup. “you’re a nursing student?”

“mm,” you say, handing a fiver to the cashier to pay for your sandwich. “i’m in my fourth year at hyogo university. are you in college, too?”

“nah,” says osamu. “i play volleyball. professionally, i mean.”

“oh!” you notice the lettering on his sports jacket for the first time. msby black jackals. “that’s really cool.”

osamu shrugs. “sometimes it is. tsumu’s wanted to be a pro player since we were kids — but he won’t ever be able to do that now, of course. so that’s why i play. better to have one miya in the pro circuit than none at all.” 

your heart sinks. “you’re a great brother, osamu.”

osamu shakes his head. “i’m really not. it should’ve been me in that hospital bed.”

“osamu…” you trail off as osamu just shakes his head, giving you a sad smile. 

“it was nice meeting you,” he says before tossing his cup and heading back towards the elevators. 

+

“no,” atsumu says staunchly, crossing his arms. “definitely not. i don’t read.” 

“come on,” you wheedle, dangling the book in front of his face. “it’s one of my favorites, and i thought it might stave off some of that stifling boredom you always complain about.”

“i’m bored, but not that bored,” atsumu says, squinting at the book. “what is that about, anyways? the little prince? sounds lame.”

“it’s not lame,” you promise, bouncing slightly on the bed. atsumu sniffs. “okay, what if i read it to you? you don’t have to do anything but listen.”

“i’m not a child.” 

“you’re acting like one.”

atsumu throws his hands up in defeat. “alright, fine. you win. we can read the little prince.”

“excellent.” you beam. “scoot over?”

“what?” atsumu says, but he scoots to the side of his bed as you kick your shoes off and curl up next to him. you feel his breath hitch as he lightly lets his arm curve around your waist. 

you sigh, content, and flip to read the first page. “once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book…”

+

it takes three visits to finish the entire story. atsumu sniffles when you read the last line, rubbing his eyes furiously.

“did he die?”

you trace a light circle on atsumu’s palm, smiling slightly. “i don’t know. i think it’s up to the reader to decide. he left his body, but is that really death? or is it just… moving on?” 

“i think he just moved on,” insists atsumu. “he moved on and returned to the stars. he was just a kid. he was too young to have died.” 

“look at you,” you tease, and atsumu flushes. “waxing on poetic.”

“it was good,” atsumu says gruffly. “thank you.” 

“you’re welcome,” you breathe, and when atsumu buries his face in your neck, you realize he’s crying. 

+

he kisses you for the first time a week later. it’s late in the afternoon, and both your faces are tinged with gold. he slips a hand beneath your jaw, and you let him slowly guide your lips to meet his. they’re soft, hesitant, and sweet, pressing against yours with an uncharacteristic shyness. 

you sigh happily when he pulls you forward to straddle his lap, slipping your hands into his thick blonde hair, letting him press light kisses down the length of your neck. 

“hey, beautiful,” he breathes into your collarbone, and you laugh. 

“hey, pretty boy. nice to see you today.” 

+

atsumu’s discovered a newfound love for reading ever since you read the little prince outloud to him. you’ve been bringing him secondhand books from the thrift store near your house, and now there’s a sizeable stack of novels out on the table. 

“i think i’ve read more in the past couple months than i ever read in high school,” he admits, running a finger down the spine of treasure island. “you’ve turned me into a nerd.”

“you’re welcome,” you say, straightening his collar.

“it’s kind of nice, though,” he says thoughtfully, tossing the book back on the table. “to read about all these different people, all the things they do. all the stories i’m never gonna get to experience.”

“you’re getting to experience them through reading,” you correct. “that’s the beauty of fiction.”

atsumu laughs. “you’re such a sap.” 

“it’s true,” you insist. “god knows life is too short to live through everything we’d like to. that’s why he gave us imagination.”

“do you believe in god?” atsumu asks softly. his stare grows distant.

you think for a moment. “sometimes i do. do you?”

“same. sometimes.” he fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “sometimes i wonder, though… like, if there’s a god, why does he hate me?” 

you chew on your cheek. “why do you feel hated?” 

atsumu laughs a laugh tinged with slight bitterness. “sweetheart… i’m not going to live past twenty-five, if even that.” 

you swallow the knot in your throat, letting it sink deep into your stomach where it sits like a lump of copper. “well… the little prince is less than a hundred pages. sometimes the shortest books are the best reads.” 

atsumu nods silently. he’s not convinced. you’re not sure if you are, either. 

+

atsumu sleeps a lot these days. you spend as much time with him as you can, but more often than not, he’s in a half conscious daze, curled up beneath the white hospital comforter. during these times, you just set your backpack by the door the slip into bed next to him, wrapping yourself around his back and pressing your palms to his chest just to feel his heartbeat. it’s faint, but it’s steady and rhythmic. ba-dump. ba-dump. ba-dump. 

sometimes, atsumu’s his usual, lively self, cracking bad jokes and poking fun at you. his smiling face has come to be your favorite picture. on these days, you bring him a hot chocolate from the coffee shop and split it with him, kissing off the whipped cream that finds its way onto his lips. he still likes to play chess, and, though he won’t admit it, you’ve been getting better. one day, you beat him, two games to one. 

there are solemn, quiet times, and there are bright, cheerful times, but you savor all of them. every moment spent with atsumu is valuable in your book. occasionally, you’ll go with him out into the hospital garden, into the warmth of the sun. every so often he’ll stop, lean on you to catch his breath, but he never complains. 

“look,” he’ll say instead, pointing at a vine of jasmine, or a single daisy swaying in the breeze. “almost as pretty as you.” 

+

one day, as you’re leaving atsumu’s room, you run into his doctor in the hall. 

“keep your chin up,” she says, straightening her glasses. “it’s possible he could still recover. strong young men often do.” 

you nod slowly. “is he going to need a transplant?”

“well,” says the doctor, clicking on her pen absentmindedly. “if it gets any worse, yes. but i’m going to be honest with you — it’s unlikely we’ll find a donation with both a matching blood type and in good condition.”

“ah.”

“so just hope for the best.” she slips into his room before you can say another word, leaving you to lean heavily against the wall, staring at nothing in particular. miracles happen every day, you remind yourself. there’s no reason atsumu shouldn’t be the recipient of one. 

+

“hey,” atsumu says. he whispers your name with an unusual tenderness. “i have to talk to you.”

it’s been five months since you first met atsumu on a clinical, and it’s been three months since he began to call you his girlfriend. you lace your fingers between his, giving his hand a light squeeze. “yeah, ‘tsumu?”

he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “i don’t think i’m going to… be here much longer.” 

“no,” you say, chest tightening. “don’t say that. you’re gonna be fine.” 

“sweetheart,” he says, voice low. he takes your chin and firmly turns your head to look at him. “i’m sorry. you know i am. i just… i’m sick. it’s hard to think straight sometimes, so i just wanted to tell you before i can’t anymore.”

“tell me what?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“tell you that i love you.” 

“atsumu,” you breathe. a frustrated tear finds its way down your cheek. “i… i love you, too. but please… just hang on. they’ll find a donor. they have to.”

“they might not,” he says, and he smiles, pulling you close. you knot your hands in the front of his t-shirt, pressing your face to his chest. “don’t cry. i’m just going to go live in the stars, right? like the little prince.” 

there’s so many things you want to say, like, you nerd, can’t believe you’re making literary allusions or shut up, asshole, or i’ll miss you if you do, but you say nothing, because if you open your mouth you’re sure you’ll just sob. 

“don’t cry,” he says again, but he’s crying, and you lift your face to see the tears streaming. “i love you.” 

your throat is too thick to say it back, but he sees it in your eyes. i love you, too. 

+

you spend the rest of the night with him before leaving at a little past 2am, and the next morning, you get a text from osamu. 

he’s gone. 

you don’t cry at the funeral. it’s small, just his family, a group of close friends, and you. you don’t look in the casket, either, because you want to remember his smile, and empty bodies don’t. you sip on a paper cup of water and lean against a wall, where osamu finds you. 

“hey,” he says, and you nod in return. “he left this for you.” 

you take the letter from him, and after he gives your shoulder a squeeze and heads back to his parents, you tear it open. 

hey, you. i’m writing this two months after you first came into my room in that god-awful set of scrubs. right now, you’re napping in the chair near my bed. you look cute. we had our first kiss last week, and i’m still walking on air. fuck, that sounds dorky. oh, well. guess i’m a dork. only for you, though. 

anyways, if you’re reading this, it’s because i’ve died. whoop-dee-doo. i’ve moved on to the great beyond. i’ve fallen past the veil. whatever it is you nerds like to say. there are probably things i’m going to say to you in the next few months that are a little more… intimate, i guess? but i wanted to tell you this while it’s still fresh in my mind: you’ve honest-to-goodness saved my life. i mean, it might not go on for much longer, sure, but you really have, in a way. being sick is weird. it makes you a lot more sensitive to miracles. 

you start. you don’t remember ever talking to atsumu about miracles.

someone from the outside might look at me and call me unlucky, but i feel pretty damn lucky right now. meeting you was without a doubt a miracle, and if i never got sick, it never would’ve happened. take that as you will, i guess. all i know is i’m not angry at god, even though maybe i should be. i mean, i’m still not sure he’s even out there. but there’s gotta be something, or someone, because how the fuck else could i have possibly recieved something so… great? i sure as hell never did something to deserve it. (god, i sound stupid. but it’s just hard to chalk up to coincidence.) 

anyways, i love you. not sure i’ll ever get the guts to say that out loud, so i’m saying it here. i love you, and i hope you love me, too. 

- atsumu

“i do,” you whisper. “i do.” 

+

on your way home, you stop at the convenience store for a bottled water, and the little orange cat comes out and winds itself around your leg, purring. 

“hey, ‘tsumu,” you say, squatting down to scratch its head. “fancy a game of chess?”

it meows back. 

“yeah?” your eyes grow wet, and you wipe them on the sleeve of your sweater. “wanna come home with me?”

it meows again, and this time, you break out into full scale crying. you’re not sure if you’re imagining it, but you think you can see a tear in the cat’s eye, too. 

he follows you home, and the next day, you purchase a water dish, a big bag of cat food, and a blue collar. (blue was atsumu’s favorite color.)

+

three years later. 

“honey?” 

“yeah?”

your husband comes out from the hall, buttoning up his shirt. “you almost ready to go?” 

“almost, ‘samu,” you say, slipping on a bracelet. your hands are shaking, and he notices it, too. today’s the third anniversary of atsumu’s death, and it’s also the date of osamu’s first big press conference. “he’d be so proud of you, you know.” 

osamu smiles. “he would. he’d be proud of you, too.”

you laugh. “what for? for marrying his little brother?”

“no, he’d probably be kind of pissed at me,” osamu jokes, before coming to stand behind you. he wraps his hands around your waist. “he’d be proud of you for finding happiness, i think.” 

“i am happy,” you say, tilting your head as osamu presses a kiss to your temples. there’s a beat of silence. “but i miss him.”

“i do, too.” osamu rests his chin on your head. “he probably misses us.”

“mm,” you say. “i think he might be having too much fun for that, actually.” 

“maybe,” says osamu, and he leans forward to grab the keys from the counter. “i’m gonna go heat up the car, okay?” 

“sounds good,” you say, as the cat dashes into the room with a meow. a nameplate that reads ‘tsumu’ dangles from his collar. “oh, hey kitty. i forgot to feed you. i’ll be out in a minute!” 

after you fill the cat’s dish and pull on a cardigan over your dress, you slip outside, shivering in the night air. the sky is clear and full of stars, and as you walk to the car, you crane your neck up to see. 

“hope you’re doing well, ‘tsumu,” you whisper to the gleaming constellations. 

you still have things you want to say to him, even after all these years. you want to ask him how the weather in the cosmos is, and if the fruit salad is better up there. you want to ask if he’s read any good books lately, or if he’s seen how great osamu’s serve has gotten recently. you want to laugh with him. 

most of all, though, you want to let him know that he was your miracle, too.

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu fanfiction #atsumu #atsumu miya #miya atsumu #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader

[rogueyami]

Haikyuu!! Fic Recs

I love reading fanfics, and I have so many bookmarked that I want to share. Hope you all enjoy and give these writers all the love. All of these are completed works, and they are a mixture of one shots and multi chaps.

Kagehina

where the night goes by bigspoonnoya (M)

Summary:

When their bond loses the immediate context of volleyball, they're left to consider why it's still so vital and important.

Meeting again, by chance, six years later.

Somewhere to Belong by Esselle (E)

Summary:

Once a year, all the villages that follow the way of the sun offer up one of their own to be taken to the sun god's divine temple. Kageyama Tobio, an orphan and loner, never wanted to be chosen—and until the sun god appeared, no one ever wanted to choose him, either. All Tobio wants is to find a place he fits in. What he actually gets is another story entirely.

by this time next year by reeology (T)

Summary:

"I got offers from two universities," Kageyama announces, pointing at his chest with his thumb. "I'm going to play volleyball at Keio this spring."

"You still have to pass an exam, even if it's an easy one," Takeda-sensei hurries to add, although he is beaming and bursting with pride at his fluffy little crow chick taking off to play volleyball at a university level.

"I'll pass," Kageyama says with the same kind of confidence he uses when he tells Hinata he'll get the toss to him. He looks straight at Hinata, and Hinata jerks and turns red, wondering if maybe Kageyama knew he was daydreaming about something as stupid as the way Kageyama talks to him during a game. But then Kageyama just points at him and says, "You'd better get in, too."

Hinata, stupid, naive, idiot that he is, grins wide and nods and says, "Yeah!"

He doesn't know what he's in for.

Not Alone by seconddaysea (E)

Summary:

"I'll visit you," Hinata says. "So you're not allowed to get lonely, you got it?" He turns so they're facing each other, hands warm against Tobio's back. "I'm already lonely," he replies quietly, and he presses his face against Hinata's heart, squeezing his eyes shut, because if this is a dream he doesn't want to wake up.

maps, from me to you by tothemoon (T)

Summary:

This is a (non-chronological) account of the memories they make out of millimeters.

Iwaoi

we can do better than that by spaceburgers (M)

Summary:

Oikawa and Iwaizumi go on a road trip during the summer after their high school graduation. It doesn't go as expected, but maybe that's not such a bad thing after all. 

we shine like diamonds by whiitemists (T)

Summary:

Oikawa is nine when he first hears the word. The boys on the playground whisper it like it's dirty, like the way they daringly mutter the word fuck and then look over their shoulders to check their parents hadn't heard.

"You know Abe-kun from class?" they snicker, hands cupped around their mouths like they're passing along a filthy secret. "I hear his older brother is... gay."

here comes your man by newamsterdam (T)

Summary:

Iwaizumi’s left his cell phone on the bench, and while Suga keeps his gaze away from Iwaizumi the phone lights up with a new message.

Iwa-chan, it reads, Have a good day today! Good luck! <3 <3 <3

Suga chokes. It’s hard to imagine anyone calling the scowling and fierce Doctor Iwaizumi “Iwa-chan.” But marriage probably comes with all sorts of liberties.

Mrs. Iwaizumi must be quite the doting wife, Suga thinks. Delivering hand-made bentos and sending along loving messages.

No one really knows much about the new surgical resident, Doctor Iwaizumi, other than the fact that he's married. Suga's determined to find out more, and make a friend of him in the process.            

just hear me out by loveclouds (T)     

Summary:

To stimulate Japan's low birthrates and take most of the guesswork out of dating, a beeper system was biologically developed in people's wrists, an audible confirmation to show romantic compatibility.

Iwaizumi's beeper has been going off for Oikawa since they've been kids. Oikawa's has only ever been silent.

 Call Security! by DeathBelle  (T)    

Summary:

Oikawa Tooru is attractive, charming, and irresistible.

He thinks so, anyway, until he meets the mall's new security guard.

In which Oikawa has a crush, Iwaizumi has no interest, and a chain of shoplifting incidents brings them together.

Bokuaka

(Don't) Touch Me by DeathBelle (E)         

Summary:

Akaashi has always had an aversion to human contact, but earlier in his life it had been bearable. It isn't until his last year of high school that it becomes intolerable. By the time he enters college, any skin contact has the potential to send him spiraling into a breathtaking panic attack.

He reconnects with Bokuto in college, and he seems to be the only person with the ability to calm Akaashi down. He finds himself relying on his old captain more and more, especially when Bokuto deems himself Akaashi's own personal guardian. Despite their connection, he can't touch Bokuto, either; no matter how badly he'd like to.    

Upstairs by yoogiboobi (E)    

Summary:

Bokuto first sees his neighbour at the supermarket, three days after he's moved into his new place.

[...] 

For about a second, a heartbeat, he's met with a pair of dark, piercing eyes, with what is probably eyeliner, looking back at him. It really is just a split second before his hand knocks down three cereal boxes that hit him square in the head, effectively making him break eye contact and drop his groceries to the floor.

In which some of the first things Bokuto learns about his upstairs neighbour are the colour of his eyes and the sound of his moans.         

bang! now we're even by Authoress (E)

Summary:

Akaashi only has two rules when it comes to his profession. One, complete the job as swiftly and cleanly as possible. Two, never trust anyone who smells like blood.

Rule three is to shoot Owl Eyes in the face should he ever come across him, but Akaashi never tells anyone about that one.

Crisis Converted  by valiantarmor (E)    

Summary:

Akaashi Keiji is just a normal cop with a penchant for getting himself into trouble, when quite suddenly he finds himself with a big promotion and a brand new partner.

But his habit of finding trouble hasn't gone away -- if anything, it's only gotten worse. 

cracks in the pavement will lead you home by deusreks (M)    

Summary:

Bokuto often thinks about Akaashi, especially when he’s running. It’s like his legs know where they’re supposed to take him. He grows into a habit of running a lot, just to keep that feeling going. Cracks and holes in the pavement aren’t fun to jump over if the final reward isn’t seeing Akaashi’s face.

An alternate universe with a little bit of magic and a lot of growing up.         

Ushiten

died in my dreams by MTrash (Makaria) (T)

Summary:

If anyone asked Ushijima how it came to this, he wouldn’t be able to formulate a proper answer.

Ushijima likes his quiet, his order, and his solitude. That is, until a loud, talkative and a little chaotic cyber tech convinces him that that's just plain boring.

while i nodded, nearly napping (suddenly there came a tapping) by pseudoanalytics (T)     

Summary:

Of course if there was one thing that could be counted on, it was Ushijima’s blunt, total honesty. “Do you think Tendou is attracted to me?”

Reon froze. “T-Tendou?”

“Yes.”

Tendou was notoriously hard to read, but Reon kind of figured that he wasn’t the type to be anything less than painfully overt with romantic affections.

“I... I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I think if Tendou was attracted to you, he would let you know,” Reon said. “I'd guess he just considers you his best friend.” He hoped his answer would satisfy whatever frenzy the guy had worked himself into so Reon could finally take advantage of his last precious hours of sleep.

But instead, Ushijima visibly deflated in front of him. “Yes. That’s what I thought too,” he said miserably.

Oh, Reon realized. Oh no...

Executive Excursion by DeathBelle (E)    

Summary:

Tendou is fun, quirky, and interesting.

Ushijima is none of the above.

It's no surprise that Ushijima is drawn to Tendou's magnetic personality. What's surprising is that Tendou seems to like Ushijima, too.

With a little support from his coworkers, Ushijima decides to take a chance and ask Tendou on a date. The results are better than expected.

fascinating facts about geckos by miracleboysatori (T)        

Summary:     

Ushijima Wakatoshi.

That’s the coach’s name. And he’s the new biology teacher on campus, so not only is he incredibly beautiful, he's also smart as hell.

Tendou can tell he’s completely doomed.

Affection, and other Quantifiable Actions by badbavarois (T)   

Summary:

(He's a monster) Ushijima Wakatoshi isn't a monster.            

Misc/ Other ships

but not for spring to well up by tookumade (T)  OsaSuna 

Summary:

After ending a relationship with a fiancé, Suna returns home and tries to heal from heartbreak. Here, he finds friends in the form of the Miya brothers, and learns patience, forgiveness, and what happiness means to him.           

the more things change by deadseasalt (E)  OiKage   

Summary:

“So let me get this straight. You went to the Meiji-Chuo game and saw your old crush and after watching Meiji bring Chuo to a crushing defeat, you realized you were still crushing on him big time?”

Kageyama wishes he could spit in Tsukishima’s drink. “It’s not a crush.”

Tsukishima laughs. “You poor dumb fuck.”

Third Impression by DeathBelle (E) Kuroo x Semi

Summary:

If Semi has a type, Kuroo isn't it.

After their first meeting, Semi concludes that Kuroo is smug, presumptuous, and a little too flirtatious for his own good. Their second encounter doesn't change his mind, and Semi does his best to avoid a third.

Kuroo has other ideas, and Semi finds himself tricked into an impromptu tutoring session with Kuroo himself.

It doesn't go as badly as Semi expects.

Mannequin Men by surveycorpsjean  (E) BokuAkaKuroTsukki

Summary:

The modeling world is full of hungry wolves, constantly clambering over the other, snarling and desperate. They fight, and they kill, trampling over anything in their path.

In this case, Akaashi fell in love with the wolves.

Efflorescence by h_lovely (E) MatsuHana

Summary:

"Are we flirting?"   "Do you want to be?"

[Efflorescence (n.) a state of blooming, flowering, and development.]

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu fic recs #fic recs #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu #hq #kagehina #iwaoi #bokuaka #ushiten #matsuhana #oikage #sunaosa #osasuna #kurosemi #kuroo x semi #bokuakakurotsuki #bokuakakurotsukki #all of these are such great fanfics #i hope to make more of these #i still have more for each ship and for diff ships as well

[emma-nation]

The Devil In I - Bela x OC (Resident Evil Village AU)

“Step inside, see the Devil in I”

Summary: Aleena Novak is a 19 years old orphan who desired more than living in a village in the middle of nowhere. A talented artist with a big future ahead, she gets the scholarship of her dreams in United States. But everything changes when her twin brother, Auryk, steals an important artifact from Castle Dimitrescu.

In this adventure, Aleena will find way more than she expected.

“You’ll realize I’m not your Devil anymore”

Pairing: Bela Dimitrescu x OC

Genre: Between T and M (Trigger warning for violence, blood, abuse and eventual smut)

Tag List: @nydeiri

Notes: This is my first RES fic, so I'm sorry if I mess it up a bit. English is also not my main language, so a mistake or two may happen. I hope you enjoy it :)

Trigger Warning: Language, abuse, blood and violence.

Eastern Europe - July, 2009

"If he could learn to love another and earn her love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time. As the years passed he fell into despair and lost all hope. For who could ever learn to love a beast?"

Mother closed the book, placing it on the bedside table between Auryk's bed and mine. Then, she lowered herself and kissed my forehead like she did every night. Her long, blonde hair tickled my face and left a trace of her sweet lavender fragrance in the air. I giggled.

"Good night, sweetheart," she spoke.

"Good night, momma."

"Cherish your last night as a six years old. Tomorrow you will become a..."

"Princess?!"

"A seven years old girl. The prettiest girl in the village."

"Pffft," Auryk let out a displeased grunt from his bed, covering his head with the pillow to avoid listening another word from the conversation.

"And you too," mother sat by his side on the bed and repeated her nightly ritual of kissing his forehead to wish him a good night too. "You'll become the most handsome and brave warrior in this village. Do you understand?"

"I hope so. Good night, mom."

"Good night, buddy."

Mother left the room, leaving us both in the dark. However, we couldn't sleep. Not because we were thrilled about our incoming birthday party as any regular child, but because we knew our lives were about to change. Seven years old was the age every child from our village was introduced to the truth and started being trained to fight the evil that haunted our lands. Auryk and I spent minutes, or maybe hours, in silence, staring at the ceiling.

"Leena?" He was the first one to speak. "Do you believe a spell can broken? I mean, like a curse?"

"I don't know, Ryk," I answered, feeling my thoughts starting to drift away. "Maybe we're doomed after all. Or... we could learn how to love the beasts."

The birthday parties always happened during the daytime, rules of the village. We could no longer be outside after 6 PM. Mother got help from the other women to prepare the treats and organize the decorations. Auryk was disguised as a pirate and I... I was Belle, from the Beauty and the Beast.

"So, what do you think you will be getting this year?" My best friend Elena asked while we were playing with our dolls. She was about two years older than us.

"I don't know," I shrugged. Being a merchant, my father always returned home with the most unusual gifts: a magical music box, a voodoo doll that had a life on its own or a fragrance that chased away the monsters - and everybody else too. "A new book. I'm hoping for a new book."

It was only by the end of the party Adrian Novak made his entrance. That was the mystery about him. Nobody knew when he would show up, or if he would show up at all. He still had that same annoying smirk on his face. The corner of his mouth holding a cigarette. The months away made his beard grow longer, as well as his dark hair. In the sunlight, the scar above his eye was even more visible.

"Auryk," he shouted, "come here, son. I've got something for ya."

My twin brother, who had been climbing trees with his friends stop frozen in spot for a second. I couldn't tell if he hated or feared that man. Maybe both. He slowly followed father's command, approaching him cautiously.

"Hi, dad."

"Happy birthday, son," father ruffled his dark straight hair with his strong and calloused hand. "It's about time you grow up."

He handed my brother a large package. From our experience, we knew exactly what it was, a shotgun.

"T-Thank you, dad."

"I'll be spending some time at home. Tomorrow we'll start practicing."

Auryk consented. He shot me a quick glance. From our twin bond I could tell my brother was far from happy. When he blew his candles that afternoon, he didn't wish for a weapon. We wished to be a normal child.

"What did you get, Leena?" He asked once we were locked in the safety of our bedroom.

"Pencils and a drawing book. Dad thinks I'm talented."

Not really. Adrian Novak would never allow his daughter to hold a shotgun. That was, according to him, 'a man thing'.

"Good, at least one of us got what they wanted. Happy birthday, sister."

"Happy birthday, brother."

4 Years Later - October, 2013

It wasn't easy to be the weakest of the twins. Although he was born first, Auryk was the tinniest. The one who was always getting sick or getting injured. The one who couldn't hit a single fucking target when he had the alcoholic breath of his father on his neck.

He aimed for a crow, sitting still on a fence. How hard could it be? Even the eldest man from the village could do any better than that.

BANG! He shot again. And missed.

"Again?!" Adrian angered, shoving him hard on the shoulder. "What the hell is your problem, kid?"

"I don't know, okay? This gun... it's heavy!"

"Heavy? And why do you think we've been exercising for all these years, huh?! We do not live in Disneyland, Auryk. We need to fight monsters, abominations. Someday I won't be home and you need to be prepared to protect our people. Do you understand?"

Tears started forming in the corners of the boy's blue eyes. He couldn't cry. Not in front of him. Crying was a sign of weakness and he couldn't be weak. Not right now. Auryk started to think about all the things he could be doing. He thought about the ocean, as he had seen on TV and books. He could feel the warmness of the sun on his skin. The sand between his toes. His mom and sister were also there, of course - they'd carry them with him everywhere. And he would study Math and Physics. There would be no guns, no monsters, no blood, only numbers, only formulas, only theories. He smiled. He no longer felt like crying.

"I'm sorry, dad," kindness was always the answer, his mother said. "But this isn't for me, you know? I don't like it. I... Remember that boarding school my teacher mentioned? I thought maybe I..."

His words were interrupted by a hard slap on his face. Auryk could taste a small amount of blood coming out from his lower lip.

"So that's what you want? To become one of those little fancy fags? Maybe you're not my son after all."

Adrian started walking away, leaving his son alone, sitting on the floor.

"I AM!" Auryk yelled, enraged. "I am your son."

"Then prove it."

"You shouldn't take so hard on him," Savannah poured her husband a cup of tea. "He's just a boy."

"He's eleven years old, for god's sake," the husband punched the table strong enough to make it shake. "He needs to man up a bit. You should stop spoiling him."

As I left my bedroom I found my brother sitting on the stairs. He didn't have to be so close to listen to the conversation between our parents, father's voice was loud enough to echo through every wall of our small and cozy home.

I sat down by his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Maybe you should do it, Leena. You'd do it better, I know."

"I'm not so sure. Remember when I tried to shoot a scarecrow and almost shot that old witch?"

"Come on, you aimed on purpose! I know."

Auryk finally let out a small laugh at the memory.

"You're good at everything, Leena," he spoke fondly. "You're an extrovert, you're everybody's friend, you can cook, you can draw and paint... you're a true artist. I'm a mistake."

"You're not a mistake, Ryk," I pulled my brother closer, resting my cheek against the side of his face. "We're only at the wrong place and you know it."

Going back to our bedroom, we pulled from the drawers the postcards our grandma Louise sent us from San Diego. Mom had been born in California and lived there her entire life, until she met father during one of his trips. God knows what made her fall in love with that man. Adventure? Danger? I expected better from myself when I turned eighteen. Otherwise, I'd never want to fall in love. Love could be my ruin, just like my mom's.

"Leena..." Auryk held the postcard tightly, "do you think... if he died... do you think mom would take us to nana's home?"

"I don't know, Ryk," I didn't want to think of my father's possible death. But I also dreamed of a better life. "Maybe."

"What the hell?" Father's voice in the kitchen made me jump in fear. I knew that tone. I grew up used to that. Something was wrong in the village. We had to hide.

"To the basement, now!" He emerged at the bedroom, holding a rifle. "Lycans were seen surrounding the area."

We barely had any time to react, mom came and dragged us both to the basement. Father left, carrying his arsenal of weapons as usual. There were other hunters in the village but we always knew how badly it could end. Somebody could always get seriously hurt. Or worse.

The basement had been carefully prepared for that kind of situation years before. It had a big bed, two armchairs, a heating source, some stored food and a shelf. Mom sighed and forced a smile.

"So," she walked to the shelf, "what is it going to be today?"

"Frankenstein," Auryk suggested. My brother loved mystery and horror. As if his life hadn't enough of it.

"Romeo and Juliet," I spoke. There was something about forbidden romance that always caught my interest.

"Okay. I... I'm gonna say a prayer and you two can read the books you picked by yourselves. What do you think?"

"Great!"

Mom kneeled down by the bed's side, holding a crucifix. I could join her if I wanted to, but I'd rather watch in silence. I grabbed my book, sitting on one of the armchairs and pretending to pay attention, while I tried to distract myself from the fact my father could be the Lycans' next prey. Or all of us, if they managed to break into our house.

"Leena?" I woke up hours later with my mom shaking me. "Leena?! Where's Auryk? Where's your brother, Leena?"

I had no idea. I had fallen asleep and apparently, so did mom. She checked for the basement's door, it had been locked from outside.

"No..." she tried to force it open. "No! I can't be..."

All Auryk had to do was to successfully kill and take a Lycan's carcass as a trophy to his father, right? That was what that old douchebag wanted him to do, to prove his courage, his manhood. We had his shotgun, a binoculars and a knife, that should be enough, but first, he needed a good plan.

Looking down to his hands, he had the most perfect idea. Without thinking twice, he sliced a cut through his palm, letting some blood pour on the ground. Then, he found a tall tree. He climbed it and observed. The smell of blood his trail left behind should be enough to attract a creature.

"Come on... come on..."

From a distance, Auryk could hear the sound of destruction and death. There was a battle going on somewhere nearby. Once again Lycans should have found a family or a group of hunters.

And then, he could hear it. The heavy footsteps, the screeching sounds, the sniffing. The mutant creature was only a few meters away from the tree. He aimed, but it was still too distant. He needed to move to a closer branch.

It all happened in one second. He was almost there, reaching for the spot he had picked, but his weight was too much for the tree's branch. In a blink of an eye, he was lying on the ground. His vision was blurred. His head hurt intensely, as well as his arm. It was broken for sure. He possibly had a concussion too. He tried to stand up and run but his legs wouldn't follow his commands. The Lycan was coming straight at him.

"AURYK!" His mother screamed behind him. "NO!"

Time seemed to freeze in that fraction of second. How did she manage to escape the basement? How could she have found him?

But without hesitation, Savannah threw herself on top of her son, protecting him from the jaws and claws of the monster. Auryk couldn't see much, but he could smell it. He could feel it. Blood. There was blood everywhere. He couldn't tell who it belonged to, he or his mom's.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A fast sequence of shots suggested the hunters had found them. The creature stopped moving, stopped howling. It was finally dead.

"M-Mom... it's dead. We... We're safe."

She didn't answer. Instead, he heard another familiar voice.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!" It was from his father. "Savannah! Savannah!"

"D-Dad..." Auryk tried to speak, but the words got lost along the way. "I... I..."

Adrian lifted him by his jacket, holding him inches above the ground.

"YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED YOUR MOM, YOUR STUPID BASTARD!"

"I..." tears streamed down the boy's face, his injured brain trying to process what had just happened. "I'm sorry.'

After he was thrown back to the ground, he was hit with a hard kick on his stomach. He turned his head around to notice a small figure hiding behind a tree, watching the whole scene in pure horror.

"L-Leena..." he muttered.

"This is all your fault, Auryk. You're a disgrace to this family."

And then, he passed out. Rumors said he was unconscious for days or maybe weeks. When he woke up, he wished everything had been a nightmare.

Present Days - July, 2021

Nobody mourned Adrian Novak when he died. Not his children. Not his village mates. No human being would ever feel any sympathy for a man who abused and blamed his eleven years old son for his mother's death. It had been two years since Adrian left this world and I couldn't feel any more free.

"Hey," I left another message on my brother's voicemail, "in case you've forgotten it's our birthday today. I'd like to have my twin home, you know? Call me when you get this message."

It was useless, I knew. Auryk would only pick up his phone when he wanted to. Or when he was too drunk. God knew where that guy would be at that time, probably waking up at some girl's bed or getting some rest from... working.

After grabbing myself a cup of coffee, I checked the door's mat. Bills, bills, newspaper and... California Institute Of Arts? I remember having an argument with Auryk about this matter at some point. He wanted me to fill the application and send them my portfolio. I insisted we had no money, not even to pay for the tuition. I won - I always win every argument by the way.

"Your damn son of a..." I placed the envelope on the kitchen's table. I was a coward, I confess. However, I didn't know which pain was worse - to be sure I wasn't good enough or to be sure I was, indeed, but I'd never have money to leave that hellhole. Anyways, I decided to leave it alone. I had more important things to do.

My morning routine: to go to the middle of the woods and do some training. My father used to say fighting wasn't a girl thing, but I was no regular girl. And never in this life I'd allow someone to tell me what to do.

After running, climbing and doing a set of push-ups, it was time for combat training. Travelers from abroad taught me some different set of moves, I'd like to think I created my own fighting style. I was also very good with knifes, daggers or any kinds of short blades, they were useful during a close distance combat. My shooting was a work in progress, once or twice I'd miss the center of my handmade targets.

Then, like everyday, I'd go back home, shower and follow to my shift at the village's pub.

"Hiya, Leena," Gustav greeted me when I arrived. "I heard today is a special day... the day a little girl..."

"NO!" I stopped him. Gustav was my best friend. We had known each other since we were children and somehow, he liked to make my birthday a special - and embarrassing - event.

He placed a handmade fairytale-like book on the table. There were some edited pictures, mixed with some messed up drawings about my birth and childhood. He called it 'The Princess Who Carried The Light'.

"God, you're soooo stupid..." I rolled my eyes and moaned, before wrapping him into a very tight hug. "I love you, you know that?"

"I know. You'd probably marry me, if you weren't into girls."

We laughed together, as Olga, our boss emerged from the kitchen, bringing a cake with nineteen candles.

"Here's to another year," the older woman opened a wrinkled smile, "make a wish, my darling."

I fell pensive for a moment, besides having my twin brother back home, safe and sound, what else could I wish for? California, that scholarship, a new life... that's for sure.

"I wish for... a new life, a new adventure," I pronounced aloud while blowing the candles.

"Careful," a male voice spoke behind me, "words have power, little sister. You may get what you want."

"Ryk!"

I jumped straight to my brother's arms. I could swear that in only a few weeks he had gotten a little bit taller, and stronger too.

"I wouldn't miss my own birthday, right?" He smirked. "So, where's the cake? Please, chocolate... tell me it's chocolate."

"Your silly boy," Olga spread some icing on his nose. "Of course it's chocolate, as you love. And with cherries too."

Auryk responded with a satisfied smile. Olga and her husband, Kristoff, were those responsible for taking care of him after the Lycan attack, years ago. They sort of adopted him like one of their biological children.

"Oh!" The woman exclaimed taking a closer look at Ryk's forearm. He had gotten a tattoo. I hadn't been informed of those news either. Apparently, my brother had more secrets than I could even start to imagine. "This is... new. It seems like my kids are really growing up."

"And only now you noticed that, Olga?" Gustav joked.

Olga shook her head, grinning at herself and returned to the kitchen. The customers were starting to fill the pub. I stared at Ryk again, wondering what other secrets my brother could be keeping.

"So, what does that mean?" I pointed to his newly gotten tattoo, a strange and ancient symbol it seemed.

"Protection from the evil. This is what we need the most in our lives, especially in a place like this. What reminds me -" we turned around, taking a small box from the pocket of his jacket. "Your gift."

I took the black velvet box from his hands, it contained a golden necklace with a magenta gemstone as pendant. My blue eyes drowned themselves in the stone. It had a mysterious glow. Something hypnotizing. Something magical.

"Whoa..." was everything my mouth could pronounce. "And I bought you an Astronomy book."

Auryk stood up from his chair and went behind me, taking the necklace from my hands to wear it around my neck himself.

"This is supposed to protect you from any supernatural and inhumane beings. I won't lose you to them, Aleena. Not like I lost mom."

"Ryk, I... I can't even thank you enough."

"You don't have to. Just... stay alive."

First, I was overflowing with happiness. It either had to do with the fact my brother was home, alcohol, or both. Also, Olga should thank me. Most of the costumers of the day only stopped by the bar because of me. They absolutely loved me and knowing it was my birthday, they had to come and see me. A few of them even gave me some extra tips or a small gift, which was even greater.

"Okay, party girl..." Auryk helped me to get inside of the house as I tripped over the door mat. "Time to go to bed now. Don't you think?"

"Come on, Ryk! Have some spirit! You're home, Olga gave me the day off tomorrow, I earned some money..."

"You told Mrs. Hansen you secretly had a crush on her daughter during Middle School, you danced on top of a table, you're gonna get a hangover..."

"Party pooper!"

I threw myself at the couch. Auryk stood in front of me with arms crossed, looking like a father about to give his child a lecture.

"What?!" I yelled. "It's not like you've never been drunk before. Remember when you stole Adrian's..." I started to laugh, remembering the episode.

"When you were going to tell me about this, Leena?" He showed me the envelope. The Art Institute envelope. The one I had been struggling to open.

"Oh! I forgot. My bad, I didn't open it myself yet. I probably didn't get in anyways."

"You did."

I did?

"It's not like we have money to pay for my tuition. Also, how are we supposed to move to California, Ryk? I work at a pub and you..."

"I've gotten more than enough for that. You know that getting out of this place has always been the plan, since we were children. Leena, I've done some big jobs those last few months. I have the money to grant us a comfortable life in California."

"Smuggling, Ryk!" I raised my voice, saying aloud the information that was supposed to be a secret or not. "You've been stealing to grant us this life."

My brother stared at me in silence. I couldn't tell if he felt offended or embarrassed about my words.

"I'm getting out of here, whatever it takes," he ran a hand through his dark hair. "And you are coming with me. In two weeks, we move to United States for your enrollment."

"But..."

What I was trying to protest against? Leaving the village and starting a new life with my brother was everything I always dreamed.

"Look, I promise you," Auryk placed both of his firm hands on my shoulders, "once we settle down, no more smuggling."

"Okay," I sighed. "We leave in two weeks then."

There was a loud knock on the door. Being drunk as I was, I figured out I should have forgotten my purse at the pub. Or it could be a neighbor with some very stupid emergency.

Auryk opened the door and there was a strange looking man standing there. We wore sunglasses and a hat, behind his back he was carrying a giant hammer. According to the rumors and stories I heard from my parents, that was one of the Lords of The Four Houses, Karl Heisenberg.

"Auryk Novak?" He asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Come with me, kid. You've gotten yourself in big trouble."

#resident evil village #resident evil 8 #bela dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #bela x oc #resident evil fanfiction #the devil in i

[firelxdykatara]

kitty i can't wait for your thoughts of Shadow and Bone asdfasfaw

Ok well I just finished and I have so many fucking thoughts. Most good! Some, less so. Part of it may just be my bias because I’ve only read the Six of Crows duology and have little interest in actually reading the original trilogy, because I know how it ends and Leigh clearly hates me personally and doesn’t want me to be happy (/j), so I was already predisposed to be far more invested in the Crows and Darkling/Darklina segments (genuinely, the Mal/Malina scenes/storyline bored me to tears, and while I appreciate that the show went out of its way to change Mal’s character to make him much less of a toxic douchebag [I’ve read enough excerpts and explanations of his actions in the books to really loathe book!Malina], it isn’t enough to make me ship them when Darklina is right there), but I also don’t think it’s a stretch to say that the Crows absolutely stole the show.

It’s actually kind of funny, because I’d assumed they were only being so heavily marketed to hype the show up even more, since while there’s a lot of TGT/SoC fandom overlap they are also two fundamentally different genres and I’d wager there are a lot of people who are massive fans of one but not so enthused with the other, while remaining fairly insignificant to the overall plot. Turns out, they make up fully half of the show’s runtime (much to my delight). Which is part of what I think will help this series stand on its own, both as a book adaptation and simply as a fantasy TV series.

I’ll put more of my story-specific thoughts under a cut, so there’s lots of show spoilers to follow!

I know that a lot of early reviewers were saying that Alina’s motivations and storyline revolved too much around Mal, and that really held true for me. It made sense in the beginning--he was the only constant in her life, she was thrust into something new, terrifying, and completely unfamiliar, and they’d developed an unhealthy codependence as a coping mechanism for their childhoods and the traumas they faced, the lives they lead growing up in a war-torn country. But she started coming into her power, falling for the General--not just his power and charisma, but what she felt when she was with him. The way he helped her summon the sun, the way she felt free in a way she never had before.

Until it all went to shit--but the Darklina make-out scene in episode 5? Fucking iconic. Poetic fucking cinema. The way they were quite literally about to have sex on that wartable (and someone better write fic of that moment, what if they hadn’t gotten interrupted), and the General left, but then he ran back just to kiss her one more time... this is what OTPs are made of ok.

I think what really bothers me overall is that Alina ultimately lacked agency in her one storyline, pretty much the entire way through. She did make a few choices, but they were mostly incidental, and a lot of it was Alina desperately trying to get back to Mal rather than seizing her own power and destiny and running with it. The most prominent example is the end of episode 5--Alina is having happy make-outs and almost bones the General in his own war room, and then he leaves, and Baghra comes in and infodumps to her about how evil he is and how he’s only using her and she needs to escape.

I recognize that a lot of this is probably because that’s essentially what happened in the book and Leigh is an executive producer for the show so she has a lot of shot-calling power. However, I really think that even in the book this plotline would’ve been better-served by having Alina make these discoveries on her own.

For example, imagine that the letters which were used as framing devices for episodes 2 and 3 were vitally important to the plot, rather than being one-offs that are mentioned a few times but not really affecting much of anything. Alina begins to get suspicious when she doesn’t receive word from Mal, and she starts wondering if her letters are even reaching him--so she starts snooping. She finds ashes in the war room hearth, late at night,, and recognizes a fragment of Mal’s signature and larger piece of her own. She now knows that someone--possibly the General, but maybe that creepy priest guy, or someone else in the palace--is keeping her and Mal from contacting one another. So she starts snooping around even more. She asks the General leading questions, trying to figure out what the truth is of his intentions. She still feels this pull--this connection to him, and she hopes she’s wrong, but she’s not willing to just sit around and wait for the other shoe to drop.

The Winter Fete still happens, she still gets the hot make-out session with the General, and then when he’s called away, she snoops through his papers, looking for anything that can tell her the truth. She finds a hidden compartment filled with journals.

She reads about Aleksander’s past (and, incidentally, wasn’t that supposed to be a huge moment in the books, him revealing his true name to her in private? kinda wish it had been kept that way in the show but who knows where they’ll go with it in the future)--that leads to the flashbacks in episode 6. She feels for him, but she also reads further--she gets a firsthand look at his desire for power, something that began as a noble desire to save his people, but was twisted by a lust for vengeance (for his lost love and all the Grisha who were killed) and shot through with greed, the realization that if he found the Sun Summoner he could control the Fold, rather than just destroy it. He could create a new world where Grisha could live without fear--where Grisha could rule.

Alina is terrified. Whoever the General used to be--whatever humanity she saw flickering in his eyes, the way his heart fluttered when they kissed--she can’t trust that it’ll be enough to save her from plans centuries in the making. So she goes to Baghra, the woman who helped her discover her power, learn to channel it--the woman who always seemed to know much more than she ever let on. Baghra gives her side of the story--Alina got it from the General’s perspective first, now Baghra is telling her something framed much differently. She isn’t sure what or who to trust, but she knows that Baghra seems willing to help her escape--but rather than trusting her ‘loyal Grisha’, she makes the choice she made in the show, to choose the other path, and winds up with the Crows.

Idk how Mal and the Stag thing would fit into this (if it isn’t obvious by now, Mal just... doesn’t interest me), but Alina’s story and her character arc would be so much stronger for it. And she’s supposed to be the central character, so her story being weak and her agency so frequently being compromised ultimately hurts the show as a whole.

I know I’ve gone on and on about Alina and the Darkling (look, I’m a slut for enemies-to-lovers, and also lovers-to-enemies-and-back, so Darklina and Helnik are where so much of my investment is rooted--plus Kanej, but that almost goes without saying), but the true standouts of the series were the Crows. Inej, Kaz, and Jesper, and Nina and Matthias in their episodes, stole the show (along with the Darkling, Ben is far and away the best actor in the cast and I love that for him, but Freddy, Amita, and Kit are also amazing, and Danielle&Calahan were fucking phenomenal as Nina and Matthias--I do have to say, though, that the whole cast is really solid and has amazing chemistry).

They worked together so perfectly--Freddy and Amita communicated so much with their eyes alone, especially together, and a whole lot of their relationship dynamic is rooted in how they exist together, which really came through. The show altered the Crows timeline considerably (I’m pretty sure Kaz would’ve been 14 during the original trilogy lol), so Inej is still at the Menagerie, but things like Kaz putting up the Crow Club for Inej’s freedom, the way Kaz needed her but could never bring himself to say it (until the end of the season dklhfgdkjfgh i SCREAMED)--the way Jesper played off the both of them, and it’s so obvious they all love each other even though they’re criminals and thieves and murderers, and Kaz would never admit it (out loud--which actually feeds into my theory that his love language is acts of service; Kaz does things for the people he cares about, he never announces it and he will almost always try to downplay it, but the way you know he cares is if, for example, he puts his entire life, everything he built, up as collateral for your freedom), but they’re a family.

One thing that I was kind of iffy about was Inej’s refusal to kill--but I thought it might be something they were planning to work into her overall character arc, and they did. It was the one line she hadn’t crossed--in the books, I’d imagine that it took a while for Inej to wind up at that point, being willing to kill on top of everything else. So I actually like that they worked that into the Crows plotline, and Inej killing for the first time was to save Kaz’s life.

Just like Kaz’s first selfless act was to save her.

(He’d deny it, of course. He protects his investments. He needed her for the job. But the truth is, he did it for her. And he’d do it again. Even if he’d never admit it.)

Meanwhile, Nina and Matthias’ storyline was pretty much note-for-note according to their backstory as it was revealed in Six of Crows, and I loved every second of it. Their chemistry was perfect, their journey from enemies to begrudging allies to friends to maybe something more (Matthias’ stomach cockblocking them when they were about to kiss had me fucking SCREAMING AT THE TV, and then of course the whole ‘betraying him to save him’ thing happened and I sobbed), and then suddenly right back to enemies.

Because from Matthias’ perspective, he trusted a witch--believed in her, liked her, wanted her--and she turned on him. He has no idea that she wasn’t the one who knocked him out in the first place, and no reason to believe her, because as far as he knows, she just confirmed everything he’d ever been told about Grisha. That they are deceitful and treacherous, would turn on you as soon as look at you, that they are dangerous and not to be trusted. It wasn’t revealed in-show but I imagine Matthias’ backstory is largely the same, which means that his entire family was slaughtered by Grisha when he was a young boy, and then he was turned into a brainwashed child soldier by the witch hunters and never knew anything else.

They are perfectly primed for their SoC arc next season and I, for one, am so stoked to see the rest of their journey. And if I slip Netflix a couple twenties, maybe they’ll let Helnik have a happy ending please please please.

Anyway, yeah! I have a lot of thoughts but things are still percolating in my head so I’ll probably float around the tags for a bit and let things settle. This is just a preliminary overview of my thoughts in the immediate aftermath of bingeing the entire show in one night kldfjghdkjfhgkjgf

EDIT TO ADD: I CAN’T BELIEVE I FORGOT ABOUT THE TRUE STAR OF THE SHOW, M I L O

MILO BEST BOY. MILO THE MVP. MILO DESERVES ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THE WORLD AND I HOPE HE LIVES A HAPPY AND HEALTHY AND FULL LITTLE GOAT LIFE.

#shadow and bone #kanej #helnik #darklina #sab spoilers #alina starkov #the darkling #inej ghafa #kaz brekker #jesper fahey #malina salt #asked #cobraonthecob

[justkeeptrekkin]

Prompt: Crowely tells Az he loves him by accident while going on a big long rant about (dealers choice) Az catches right away and just smiles and waits as Crowely comes to the realization of what he said

Anon. Anon. I love you for this. 

***

“See, thing is-”

Crowley’s words elude him- as they have a habit of doing, the sneaky buggers. He watches the white lines in the middle of the road streak by, feels the tarmac roaring beneath the car. It’s a rainy evening and they’re driving home from a restaurant north of Watford that Aziraphale has been banging on about for months. Since the world had ended- and then promptly not ended- the angel’s zest for food hasn’t lessened in the slightest. In fact, it’s only gotten bloody zestier, as if their near-apocalypse experience has made Aziraphale realise that life is too short. Even an immortal life such as his. 

Crowley loses his track of his thought entirely. “Thing is…”

“You were talking about-”

“KINDLES!” Crowley exclaims, taking his hands off the wheel to celebrate this eureka moment. Aziraphale straightens out beside him nervously and grabs a fistful of his corduroy trousers. Crowley slaps the leather of the steering wheel enthusiastically as he continues, “Kindles. Are not. Demonic! We didn’t come up with them- that was all you, I’m certain!”

“Why on earth would I invent the Kindle, dear boy? Do you even know me at all?”

“You-plural, not you-singular. Angels you, Heaven you.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t sanction it.”

“Alright but- listen- what’s the problem with kindles? Why’re- what’s the problem? I mean really, it’s a book, isn’t it. Just a book on a screen. What’s the problem?”

“The problem-” Aziraphale begins confidently, bordering aggressively. Then the wind appears to be knocked out of his sails. “Well,” he tries again, a little weakly. “The problem, the problem lies therein. In that. Well-”

“See! See, it’s clearly a good thing, I don’t understand what all the fuss is about- all these people going ‘oh, ho-ho, oh dear, books aren’t physical anymore, what a travesty! Let’s all- grab our pitchforks! And lament the loss of our children’s education’.” He adds a mocking, whinging voice to this last bit. 

Aziraphale tuts, stretches his legs out in front and crosses them. 

“No, you’re wildly misinterpreting the argument, Crowley.”

“You know it’s true, don’t deny it! People are only against them because humans don’t like change- they get all squirmy and anxious about it. As if, you know, as if the transition from a physical book to a little screen is the end of the world- and! Now that they’ve actually had a taste of the apocalypse, they really haven’t gained any more perspective, have they? I mean, you’d think they’d start worrying about global warming properly, but instead they’re just sad about kindles and- oh! That’s another thing, kindles aren’t paper! Less deforestation! Clearly- listen, come on, that’s got to be angelic work.”

Aziraphale pouts and averts his gaze, brows slightly raised in indignance. 

Crowley snorts. He notices the lines of the road streak by a little slower, presses down on the accelerator. 

“Aha!”

Crowley flicks his gaze over to Aziraphale, who’s turned his whole body towards him in his seat eagerly. A smug finger pointed in his face. 

“What? No,” Crowley shakes his head. “You- don’t try and argue with me on this, I’m absolutely certain-”

“Amazon! Kindles are owned by Amazon, notoriously corrupt!”

Crowley scowls, rolls his head wearily. “No, angel, they weren’t always bad, we only got to them a couple of years ago. You can’t argue that-”

“Amazon. Invented. Kindles! Thereby, kindles are evil. The end, full stop. Fin.”

“That’s just- you’ve been around long enough to know that’s not how it works.”

“And you can’t honestly argue that books are bad just because they’re made of paper. Books are knowledge! Books are the weapons against the armies of ignorance! Righteous tools-”

“Righteous tools,” Crowley snorts.

“Against the dark forces of evil!”

“Not this bollocks again. Look, books are fine, books are all well and good, but not everyone’s into them, are they? Times are changing, angel, you can watch things like Netflix or whatever it’s called and, listen to podcasts and- the way people share knowledge is different now. Listen, I love knowledge, love the stuff. You know I do, I was the one who got Eve to eat the apple after all, but even then, even then I’ve never really read books, unless I really have to, the only reason I read Pride and Prejudice is because I love you, and admittedly, yes, it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever put myself through- actually, I think trying to read A Tale of Two Cities was what really did it for me, Charles Dickens- Christ alive, did you ever run into Dickens, angel? Miserable sod.”

Crowley drums his fingers against the steering wheel expectantly. The road side lights cast an orange glow in the car- brightening and darkening, brightening and darkening as they drive past one after another. Aziraphale is silent. 

And it’s only then that Crowley realises his mistake. 

It dawns on him the way a glass fills up slowly with water in the washing up bowl and sinks to the bottom. Slowly, then a sinking feeling. And then hitting rock bottom. 

He keeps his eyes on the road. His fingers tight on the steering wheel. 

“You…”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t. Just don’t. Alright?”

“But Crowley-”

“I said don’t.”

Quiet fills the car. There isn’t even the sound of Freddie Mercury to assuage the nauseating pain in his stomach, the feeling of his throat closing like he’s having an allergic reaction. He wants to cry. He wants to cry for the first time in a very, very long time. He blinks away the feeling, and holds himself together with pure will power, just like he held together this car a few weeks back. 

Only, he’s been holding himself together for roughly six thousand years. It’s getting close to too much. His metaphorical knees are buckling. Atlas only wishes he were as resilient as Crowley. 

Aziraphale exhales- a long, shaky breath. Crowley doesn’t turn to look, can’t bear it. 

Besides, he’s known him- loved him long enough that he can see him in his mind’s eye easily. Eyes sometimes dreamy, brows sometimes pulled together in concern. Lips sometimes twisted in disapproval, sometimes beaming with so much unreserved joy that Crowley has to tease him. Just so he doesn’t end up gazing, bathing in the brightness of that smile. 

And then Aziraphale huffs to himself- a determined little noise that sets Crowley on edge. And he’s already too close to the edge to handle. He’s only just got a hold of himself as it is, hands shaking on the wheels and knee bouncing. The threat of tears still there, threatening to make him choke on his breath- it gets stuck in his throat. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. So gently. 

That’s almost what does it- it’s almost what makes Crowley lose control, teeth grinding painfully and eyes stinging. The motorway stretching out in front of them, empty. Time stretching out even further. 

Then the angel speaks again. “You can go faster, Crowley.”

The words trickle through his brain slowly, like drops of water building at the rim of a tap. Then- drip. Understanding. Crowley’s throat clicks as he swallows, painfully. 

“That is- of course, only if you want to,” Aziraphale rushes, waves his hands desperately, “You can- drive- go- uh, you can go as slowly as you like, only, don’t feel obliged to go slowly on my account. Anymore.”

The angel clears his throat. And Crowley turns to look. 

He’s smiling. He looks absolutely bloody terrified, eyes a little wide and watery just like that day-

You go too fast for me, Crowley. 

-except now he’s smiling. A quiet, wobbly smile to himself as he stares out of the rain streaked window. Crowley watches the way the orange street light passes through his silver hair, making it appear more like brass. He watches him bite his lip, then continue.

“We could. Oh, I don’t know. We could do that picnic we talked about. Or, perhaps a walk through Wimbledon Common. Together. Or.” He pauses. “Or, if you wanted to, you could drop me off and come in for a night cap. I have some rather nice port hiding somewhere in my office.”

Aziraphale turns to meet his eyes. A look filled with welcome and kindness and understanding. Light catching his face like a Vermeer painting. And Crowley lets himself stare. 

“Eyes on the road, my dear.”

He only realises that his mouth is hanging open when he tries to forumlate his next words. He shuts it, then says, “What?”

“Eyes on the road, Crowley. Before we both get discorporated.”

It takes another moment to register. But then his head snaps forwards and he looks ahead again, the road continuing into the dark towards London. He can feel all the air rush out of him like a balloon. And then something else replaces it- something lighter than air, something that makes his mind feel like it’s drifting to another plane. Something weightless. 

“Picnic,” Crowley eventually says, nodding to himself. He scratches his chin nervously. “Picnic then walk. Or, walk then picnic.”

Because- and Crowley can’t quite believe himself for this- he thinks a night cap might be a bit too fast for him. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says. The word comes out in a whisper. “You can pick me up at midday tomorrow. If that’s-”

“That’s.” Crowley stalls. Nods his head compulsively like a nodding car-toy. “That’s. Yeah. Midday’s good. Midday it is.”

“Crowley?”

“Angel,” he replies seriously, business-like.

There’s a moment of hesitation. Aziraphale breathes deeply beside him, like a man stepping off the train from London to Cornwall, taking in the countryside air for the first time in years. 

“I do love you. An awful lot.”

Crowley continues to nod. But he can feel the facade slip. He can sense his bottom lip wobble, so he clamps his jaw tight shut. To no avail. He continues to drive them down the M25, although at this point he could be in St James’ Park, or in the middle of a desert, or on another planet- his mind is entirely elsewhere. 

It’s not a conscious decision to stretch out his hand over the gear stick towards Aziraphale. It’s something desperate in him, something needy and disbelieving. He feels Aziraphale take it without pause, his clasp warm in his own.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #anon #my writing #prompts #fic prompt

[eryiss]

Summary: Freed and Gajeel were total opposites in every way, only connected by the guild. When they were forced to train together under Makarov's orders, they expected antagonism and mistrust. Instead, they were given a lesson in how quickly opposition can turn to attraction. The issue: let the budding relationship simmer away, or let it explode. [Freed x Gajeel Multi-chapter]

Notes: Hello everyone. I’ve been wanting to write something longer for this couple for a while, and this idea seemed quite fun. I hope you all enjoy it and maybe I can convert some of you to living Freed x Gajeel. Happy reading.

Links: FFN, Ao3, Chapter List

Chapter One - Makarov's Idea

As he walked towards the guildhall, Freed kept looking up at the moon.

The nights sky was cloudless and gave him an unhindered view of stars and the moon. It was a beautiful sight, but made him frown a little. The moon was large and nearly in its fullest state, a concern for the time of year. It had been some time since the full moon had coincided with the longest day of the year, and it seemed like it was going to happen again this year. The brimstone in his blood seemed to fizz at the idea, and he quickly looked away.

At his side, Laxus bumped his shoulder to get his attention. His frown told Freed that the dragon-Slayer had seen his concern, and he smiled to comfort the man.

"Nothing to concern yourself about," Freed assured him. "I've got it under control."

"Make sure you do," Laxus instructed. "No missions until it's over, right?"

"Of course," Freed nodded.

Laxus seemed to think the matter settled at that, but Freed wasn't so sure. The entirety of the guild - or at least those not already on missions - had been called to the guildhall that night. Makarov hadn't explained why he wanted everyone present, but it was entirely possible that they would all be dragged away on a mission and that Freed would be forced to act as if everything was normal. So promising that he wouldn't go on any missions was more wishful thinking than anything else.

Still, if he did have to go on a mission, he could handle it. Six years ago, it had taken him by surprise. Not this time.

"Let's take bets," Bickslow, unaware of the hushed conversation, stated mischievously. "Fifty-fifty odds of it being either a world ending disaster we have to deal with, or some weird competition so he can perv on the gals again."

Laxus winced at the second option, but didn't deny it.

"It better not be the second one," Evergreen huffed. "But knowing him, it probably will be. So I'll put five hundred jewels on that."

"Nah, it's been too long since we all nearly died," Bickslow shrugged. "Five hundred on the world ending. You two sticks in the mud gonna get involved?"

Freed had stopped listening to their conversation moments before, and found his worries back on the sky. The full moon had been scheduled in exactly one week, and it meant trouble for him. He should be making preparations in case he lost control of himself; this was all a distraction. He should leave town, just in case.

His team looked at him in concern, but remained quiet.

As they approached the doors, Freed's mind remained preoccupied. A hand clasped onto his shoulder and jerked him back, and he realised it was Laxus. He frowned, only then realising he had nearly walked into Gajeel Redfox. The dragon-slayer glared at him, arms crossed to highlight his biceps. He didn't have much else than his physical strength, Freed supposed, so he had to show it off.

"Idiot," Gajeel spat at Freed, and Freed nearly scoffed at the hypocrisy of the word. If either of them was an idiot, it was not Freed.

Gajeel was walking into the hall before Freed could retort.

"God, who put a stick up his ass?" Laxus muttered as he shook his head. He looked down to Freed again, looking worried. Perhaps he hadn't believed Freed's assurances as Freed had hoped. "You need to go back? He ain't taking over yet, right?"

"No, I was distracted, that's all," Freed assured him, but none of his team looked happy. "I'm in control of myself. But I've got plans on how to approach the demon should I need them."

"Can we help?" Evergreen asked.

"I'll ask if I need it, but I don't suspect it'll happen," Freed placated them. They were still unconvinced. "You needn't coddle me, I'm fine. Particularly when there's apparently a fifty-fifty chance that the word is ending. Though, I'm putting five hundred jewels on the competition."

Apparently, the mention of gambling, broke the ice.

When they got inside the guildhall, it was more crowded than normal. All the tables on the lower level had been taken, and as such they were forced to climb to the S-Class balcony and sit there. None of them particularly minded that, and they waited for a short while for the rest of their guild mates to file in and settle, drinking and talking as they did so.

Eventually, Makarov walked onto the stage and stood before the crowd of wizards. After a few shouts for them to be quiet, the room fell into silence.

"Thank you all for coming," He began after clearing his throat. "I'm sure you're all wondering why we're here."

"For you to creep on us," Ever mumbled, and Bickslow snickered.

"Fairy Tail is a guild with its bedrock founded on the principles of friendship. We work so well because we work together. Whereas other guilds maybe have one or two teams, we have many," Makarov explained, gesticulating as he spoke. "It makes me so proud that you've forged these relationships and implemented them into your working lives. Your friendship and love allows you to work together to fight harder and become stronger, side by side as friends. I'm immensely proud of you all, but as of late I've noticed a problem with your work."

He paused, and Freed rolled his eyes. Everything was so dramatic with him.

"While you're very good at working with your own teams, you sometimes struggle working with the guild members you're unfamiliar with," Makarov continued, as if this statement were a tragedy. "And sometimes your teams won't be available, and I don't want you not taking group jobs because your regular team isn't around."

"Starting to think I bet on the wrong side," Bickslow grumbled, taking a drink.

Freed found himself only half listening. Whenever Makarov made an announcement there would be a lot of preamble that Freed didn't particularly care to listen to; not when he had bigger problems to deal with.

Perhaps, if his demon did become more powerful under the moon, he could rune himself into a cage of sorts. That might work, though perhaps physical manacles and shackles might be more practice. His team would be able to help with that, most likely. They wouldn't be happy about it, but Laxus had seen first hand what could happen when the demon was allowed to take over without restraint. He would understand.

No. He was worrying for nothing. The demon was under control now. Besides, he should be listening to his guildmaster.

"So, to broaden your opportunities, I've come up with an idea," Makarov grinned. "For the next week, you'll be split into pairs that you don't normally work with, and you'll spend all of that time training together. These partnerships will be random, and by the end of the week you'll be fighting side by side in a tournament to prove how well you can work together."

Hm, maybe a distraction would work better than restraints. Makarov's idea was flawed to the point of pointlessness, but a week of training might wear his body out to the point his demon wouldn't have the energy to take over.

"And, I'm sure you're all thinking why you should care about this, so there's a prize set up for the team who wins," Makarov was grinning wider now. "Fifty thousand jewels!"

That sent a rush of excitement and talking through the guild. Freed found himself wondering where the money actually came from.

"That's not all. The fights will be ranked on teamwork, cohesion and communication, and at the end of each fight you'll get points based on how well you did," Makarov was running his hands together. "And the team with the least points will have to do a punishment, and the winners decide what it is!"

"Goddamnit," Bickslow mumbled, handing money to Evergreen. "Always about punishments with him."

"If you knew that, then you should have bet smarter," Evergreen laughed.

Freed ignored his friends, leaning back and watching as Mirajane brought out a large, ridiculous top-hat. It wasn't difficult to guess that this was how Makarov intended to randomly choose the teams; pick them out of a hat. Maybe Laxus was right and his grandfather was turning mad, but he seemed to be enjoying himself so Freed had no place to complain.

He would simply drink his beer, watch the chaos unfold, and use the oncoming disaster as a distraction.

——

Gajeel swallowed down his beer with a scowl on his face. When Makarov had called this meeting, he had known that whatever the old crow had to say, it would piss him off. When Makarov had made his announcement, Gajeel had been proven right.

A whole week with some random wizard seemed pointless. Gajeel worked alone, and only teamed up with people when needed. This wasn't going to work.

Fuck, it was such a waste of time! He could be doing jobs and earning his rent instead of fucking around with a stranger, trying to embrace Makarov's ridiculous mantra about the importance of friendship. Or if he wasn't making money, then he would have at least liked to relax and take some time to rest. He didn't want to make a new friend, he wanted to eat, sleep and maybe find a guy to take to bed. None of that would happen with some Fairy Tail mage hanging around his neck.

"Our first team is," Makarov began as he rummaged through the stupid hat he'd had made. "Juvia and Natsu!"

Dammit! Juvia was one of the few people he could have tolerated. The other was the bookworm, and Makarov would probably say them working together wasn't in the spirit of things.

Still. At least the salamander had to work with someone who extinguished his fire. That was funny.

"Kickass!" Natsu yelled into the crowd, standing up and pumping his fist in the air because he lacked self control. "We're gonna dominate!"

They wouldn't.

"If you'd like to meet up and discuss your plans then now's the time," Makarov stated, and Natsu was making his way to Juvia immediately. "And now it's time for the next team up," He reached into the hat again. "It's Evergreen and Lucy."

No loss there. Maybe he and blondie could have been okay, but Gajeel wasn't pissed the chance was gone.

Lucy looked up toward the balcony and waved at Evergreen a little intimidated. Evergreen looked resigned, but after some nudging from Bickslow, made her way down the stairs and started to talk to the woman. Gajeel absentmindedly wondered if the two had ever had a conversation, because they looked awkward around each other; painfully so.

Fuck, that was going to be him, wasnt it?

Maybe he could convince whoever he was paired up with to lie and say they trained when they just spend the week alone. But then there was the tournament, and the threat of some random punishment, and Gajeel had already been humiliated after losing the guild-wide race and having to dress like an idiot; it wasn't happening again if he could help it.

"Next up," Makarov reached into the hat again. "Bickslow and Gray."

"Fuck yeah, some eye candy at last!" Bickslow yelled, and people laughed. Gajeel rolled his eyes, watching as Bickslow leant over the banister and looked towards his teammate. "Wanna make a deal, every time you strip, I strip."

Gajeel could see Gray avert his gaze as if bored, but he was red in the cheeks. They were even redder when Bickslow tossed his shirt towards him, both men now partially stripped.

Well, at least he wasn't with that idiot. The two of them would be a mess.

Many other teams were announced, and Gajeel found himself more and more annoyed each time. The partnerships made no sense, most of the time their magics wouldn't compliment each other, and Gajeel knew that it would end in disaster. At best, half of the partnerships might end up having a fight with each other, and at worst people would get hurt because they just didn't work. How the hell did Makarov think this was going to work out?

Maybe Gajeel should have slunk out and not attended the meeting. He was running out of money for rent, and his landlord was a bastard just waiting to kick him out, so it made sense for him to get a job. Maybe if he left now he could avoid it altogether.

"And next we've got Gajeel," Makarov shouted, and Gajeel cursed. "And Freed."

Oh fuck no. Absolutely fucking not!

Gajeel was not working with that stuck up prick. A guy like that had clearly never worked a day in his life, probably grew up in a fancy ass house and only got into guild work because it was a trend to slum it with the other wizards. Everything about Freed - holier than thou - Justine screamed pampered brat. He would probably throw a fit if he got dirt under his fingernails. He was the damn opposite of a man like Gajeel, and he knew he'd struggle not to murder the spoiled shit before the week was over.

Could he even defend himself? He had magic, but as far as Gajeel knew, that only worked when he had time to prepare. Hardly practical in the heat of battle, and what would he do without it? He wouldn't have the balls to use his sword as a weapon, Gajeel was pretty sure of that, and he looked like a gust of wind could take him out.

Fucking dammit. The salamander was better than this!

He damn near walked out of the guildhall then and there, because he couldn't deal with an egomaniac freak for a week. But, as he went to move, he saw the egomaniac freak walking towards him, and he was not going to allow Freed to think he was running away. He turned in his chair to meet the man's gaze but didn't make a move towards him. Freed could come to him, not the other way around.

Soon, Freed was in his space, standing above him. His expression was as unimpressed with the situation as Gajeel felt. At least they could agree on one thing.

He looked up to meet the mans gaze. Freed was… taller than he thought.

"I think it's fair to assume neither of us want to do this," Freed said rather than greeting him. Gajeel was right, he was a dick. "And I expect that the way I train myself won't be the same way you do, so likely there's a chance we'll come to blows, so I have a proposition."

Huh, maybe Freed was gonna suggest they lie and only pretend to train together. Gajeel would agree, but make Freed squirm first. "Yeah?"

"If we went somewhere and tried to train how we both normally do, it would be an act of futility," Freed explained. "We have six days to work together. I propose that for the first three days we train however I wish, and you follow my instructions. For the latter three days, we train however you wish and I will follow your instructions. That way, we both get three days of training ourselves in a way we know works, and the week won't be a waste of time entirely."

Huh.

That wasn't what Gajeel had thought, but he could deal with it. He had to admit, trying to find a way that would work for them both would not work, so this meant he'd at least have three days to improve himself.

"Fine," He grunted. "But I wanna go first. You're gonna drag me to some library or something like that, and that's a waste of time. Might as well make it a rest day after some actual working out."

Freed sighed, as if dealing with a child, and Gajeel nearly kicked him in the balls. "If you insist,"

"I do."

"Well then, I'll see you on Monday."

"Guess ya will."

That was it, and Freed turned to go back to his table. Gajeel emptied his drink, then grinned. Three days where the asshole had to do as he said; that was interesting. Freed probably spent his life being pampered and spoiled, but not with Gajeel. Nah, he was gonna work. Gajeel was gonna put Freed through hell and love every damn second of it.

#Gajeed #Freedjeel #Freed x Gajeel #freed justine #gajeel redfox #fairy tail #fanfic #writing #Canon Divergent #Multi Chapter #Chapter One #Word Count: 2.75k

[atlascas]

DEANCAS FIC REC

(last updated 7/1)

FINALLY. this is like. just a place for me to rec and write excessively abt the fics i've been reading lately. it won't be organized but it WILL be very earnest and i'll keep it updated as i find/remember more. also i have obnoxiously high standards when it comes to fic so these ARE the cream of the crop, if u will. the god tier. the s tier. 

very loosely organized into "newer fic" and "classics." these are subjective categories. do what you will

✨ = new fic on the list

💖 = in my brain rent free!

CURRENTLY READING

these are the fics that i’m currently reading! may or may not get recced. usually i read the first couple paragraphs/lines and if i like the writing it gets bookmarked and put on this list.

lazarus needs a robe of scarlet thread by herrosesneverfall, 90k, canonverse au. dean starts getting stigmata. when i was getting back into spn there were a LOT of religious fics flying around bc that was the Hot Topic of Discussion. this was one of them

Three weeks ago, Dean woke up in a pine box. He thought dealing with the nightmares was going to be the most difficult part of his new life after Hell, but at least they were something he could understand. Something he could deal with. Something he deserved.

Then he began having agonizing visions of crucifixion. Wounds appeared on his body out of nowhere. Wounds that refused to heal and coated his skin with the sickly sweet smell of roses.

Stigmata are said to be the marks of saints, but Dean is not a saint and the wounds are only the beginning.

kingdom come by ahurston, 8.7k, coda to 15x18. cas gets to go home. im gathering all the s15 fix-its to my heart and holding them close

Cas wakes up on the coast of Maine. He makes his way home.

hunger by ellispark, 10.8k, s13 au. dean grieves cas, post s12 finale. perfect writing perfect awful heartwrenching characterization so far on dean’s end especially towards jack. nuanced emotional writing

Dean takes his meal and throws it away, plate and all. He's not hungry. How can he even begin to eat, knowing what he kept from Cas — what he kept from both of them?

They could have had something, and now all Dean has is this gaping, empty hole in his stomach, in his chest, and he has to learn to breathe and eat and move around it.

the law of equivalent exchange by awed_frog, 60.8k, canonverse. cas loving dean in all permutations of humanity, throughout time.

“And what’s the point of it?”

“Of love? There isn’t one. Loving is its own purpose.”

NEWER FIC

“newer” just means “i discovered it in 2020/2021 after coming back to spn fandom” so it very well could have been published before 2015 but really who’s checking. not me that’s for sure.

💖 so says the sword by komodobits, 85k, s4 au. cas guards the michael sword in the beautiful room. this is easily the MOST obvious rec on this entire list but it was the first fic i read when i got back into spn this year and jesus christ it set the bar sky fucking high. the way they create a coherent mythology out of the mess that is spn canon is incredible.

The briefing was simple: ‘Stand guard over the Michael Sword until the battle is ready to commence. Await further instructions.’

Castiel doesn’t mind working security duty; he was briefed shortly after the initial salvation of the Sword from the pit, and again before taking up his position. He knows what to do. However, it’s easy to forget that the green room isn’t real. Time moves differently there, the space ever-changing to make a prison of mountains, cathedrals, salt flats, orchards, and whatever Castiel was led to believe about Heaven’s greatest weapon—Dean Winchester is something entirely unexpected.

assimilation by komodobits, 5.6k, coda to 12x01. mary meets dean and cas and they go to find sam. such good character studies of all three of them. the best mary pov fic i’ve read

Mary always thought you were supposed to be able to tell. That you could just look at someone and know they were – you know. One of that sort. It’s not supposed to happen to her son.

cuckoo and nest by komodobits, 10k, ambiguously canonverse. dean and cas navigate relationship anxiety. cute, in character, and their relationship is realistic and the conflict well-written and emotionally nuanced and really really really good. 

For a long time, Castiel thought that every earthly possession other than the immediately necessary was excess to requirement. But Dean – Dean who named his car, who keeps a photograph of his mother in his wallet, some thirty-plus years after her death, who still has the crumpled ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with a sleeping pelican emblazoned on it from the Microtel outside of Roanoke where he first kissed Castiel, clumsy and unsure, under the unsteady fluorescence of an exhausted bathroom bulb – is sentimental.

It puzzles Castiel, where Dean draws the line between what is meaningful and what it is worthless.

💖 one white lie by komodobits, 11k, au. cas panics when trying to ask dean out and has to fake being a jehovah’s witness. it’s adorable and hilarious and it’s been ages since i actually got butterflies at a kiss in a fic but this did it. it did it. it felt like someone swaddled my soul in a cashmere blanket and kissed me on the forehead

Castiel takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. He doesn’t need to run through what he’s going to say – he’s already planned and edited and rehearsed it a thousand times. He is going to ask Dean Winchester out to dinner. If it’s not too forward, he’ll say, perfectly charming. You see, I’ve seen you around the neighbourhood and you always seem so earnest and I’d really like to get to know you bette— The door swings open, and Castiel panics.

He intends to excuse himself. He means to apologise and come back some other time. However, in a moment of blind fear, what comes out of his mouth instead are the words, “Could you spare a moment for Jesus Christ?”

a crash course in someone else’s history by annie d (scaramouche), 11.5k, set during s6. cas comes to as his s4 self without any memories of the past two years and has to figure out what the fuck is going on. it’s kind of like so says the sword. you’ll know it when you get to it.

Castiel is captured inside a trapping circle of holy oil set by Dean and Sam Winchester. The brothers call him "Cas", claiming that he has amnesia and that he is obligated to help them take down Crowley to atone for his betrayal of them. It's the strangest story Castiel's ever heard, and one he doesn't have time for because he's only just raised Dean from Hell and has work to get back to.

💖 cas and dean’s adventures in gardening by ahurston, 19k, post-canon au. a series featuring dean and cas living in the bunker, human. cas is very into plants. i read this yesterday actually and it made me smile SO much it’s just so lovely and sweet. i’m also a sucker for any fic where cas has a garden. he deserves a fucking garden okay

In this post-God world, everything is different. A little quieter, a little softer. Cas grows a garden, Dean cooks, and they take care of each other.

tall grass by aeli_kindara, 57k, post-s12. dean and cas live in the bunker on their own, and cas grows a garden. i did say i love fics where cas has a garden. plus domesticity, plus some good case fic, PLUS dean and cas’ relationship is so gentle and good

“I think we should have a garden,” Cas says.

Dean looks up from his beer. He hasn’t had that much to drink, but Cas still has a vague look of unreality about him, a splash of living color that doesn’t fit in the bunker’s echoing stillness. Dean didn’t hear him coming. A lot of the time, Cas is so unobtrusive it feels like Dean has the bunker to himself, with Sam away.

Dean shakes his head to clear it. “A — garden?” he repeats.

in a week by renrub, 2.3k, post 15x18. cas is in the empty. dean saves him. this is genuinely the best “dean pulls cas out of the empty” fic i’ve read so far like conceptually this entire thing just fucks. when cas is cycling through the barn scene. god. SO well written

Castiel is outside a barn covered in sigils. He frowns. This isn’t right. This has never been something he repented for.

i won’t even wish for snow by annie d (scaramouche), 5.6k, college au. cas goes to the winchesters’ for christmas. honestly scaramouche fics belong in the classics section bc she’s like an og deancas writer but whatever. mistletoe! banter! good in-character au! this fic’s got it all

It’s the third year that Castiel’s spending Christmas with his best friend’s family, and he expects it to be much like the previous two. Then mistletoe happens.

convenient husbands by annie d (scaramouche), 39k, canonverse au. cas is a phoenix, dean is a hunter. they get married and have a sick psychic bond. unexpectedly fluffy considering how the fic starts and i love the banter so much and dean/cas’ relationship gets fleshed out and organically developed it’s very cute

"It's only temporary, right?" Dean says. "Just until you're healed up, and then we'll never have to see each other again. So what do you say, Castiel, do you want to marry me or not?"

cinderwings by bendingsignpost, 181k, cinderella au. cas goes to a masquerade ball to save his people from an eternity trapped in a void. he meets prince dean. i can’t tell u how much this fic drew me in - thru good worldbuilding, but mostly thru cas’ social awkwardness. like it works PERFECTLY to his advantage in this fic and reading how expertly he manipulates social situations w/o any fucking idea what he’s doing is both hilarious and inspiring

Under the cover of a masquerade ball, Castiel has five nights to recover the key to his people's freedom. The world has changed greatly in the six centuries since their banishment into the void, but the task isn't impossible. Unfortunately for Castiel, this is going to involve talking to people - especially the Knight Prince who has taken an interest in Castiel and his "costume" wings.

as the crow flies by bendingsignpost, 3.4k, au. dean and cas go on a roadtrip. cas has wings! it’s so dreamlike and meandering and the slowburn is so good. honestly it reminds me of stevebucky/stevesam post tws era roadtrip fics if ur hip LMAO

Cross country road trips with Cas are the best.

long-term relationship by bendingsignpost, 2.7k, au. dean and cas have a Serious Conversation about their relationship.

Castiel says, budging over to make room for Dean on the couch, “I thought we should have a serious talk about our relationship.”

Reflexively, Dean laughs.

Castiel does not.

“Uh, Cas... you know we’re not dating, right?”

all this and heaven too by ftmsteverogers, 7k, ambiguously canonverse. dean is trans. dean and cas are fucking and lowkey hiding it from sam. perfect character study PERFECT trans dean fic it’s so fucking well-written 

“Hey,” Dean said. “I’m not ashamed of you, okay?”

Cas raised skeptical eyes to meet his.

“I mean it,” Dean insisted.

“I understand you mean it,” Cas said. “But I don’t think it’s any better if you’re only ashamed of yourself.”

💖 the love story of the runner up by margo_kim, 4.7k, ambiguously canonverse. cas tries dating other men. bear with me here. this is an outside pov fic from an oc named miguel who is WONDERFULLY characterized and very endearing like i find outsider/oc pov to be on Thin Fucking Ice bc it always ends up as fandom/author self-insert but miguel is his OWN MAN. he gets his own lil arc and everything. dean and cas are concentrated perfectly crystallized versions of themselves and the little glimpses we get of them are amazing. ALSO i wrote like 9k of an spn vent fic (basically the same premise but w an oc named marcus) back in like. freshman yr of hs. so when i first opened this fic i was like what the fuck someone’s been in my google docs. very weird experience 10/10 regardless

“So you saw a white man in a trench coat pop out in an alley,” Paul says, “and you thought, what, ‘I want to see where this is going’?”

“If you get hung up on details like that,” Miguel says, “it will take a very long time to get through this story.”

For a very weird era in his life, Miguel dates an angel who is in love with another man.

sunshine by northernsparrow, 8k, set during s13. dean and cas have a long conversation about their Profound Bond. the description left me off-balance (it really. really truly says “dean is straight in this fic” like okay bro WEIRD hill to die on) but it pulled through w the relationship study and reassurance and snuggles. a sweet fic

One-shot with a single conversation between Dean and Castiel, set in a late-S13-ish world. Gabriel, Cas, Sam & Dean are all living in the bunker together, Gabe's been cracking certain jokes, Sam's found a certain book, Cas is injured and isn’t healing... and it's all making Dean wonder if his angel friend might have some sort of a "bond" with... somebody? Whatever that means.

Maybe it's time for a talk.

💖 still life by catchclaw, 16.5k, post-s8. cas, newly human, goes to live on his own for a while. he and dean maintain a relationship thru the phone. this is LITERALLY the only first person fic i fucking respect okay like i was skeptical! i really was! but the pov is PERFECT and also my man kevin tran is in this fic and i love him and miss him very much. oh and cas going off to explore humanity on his own..............perfect arc. very much in character we love that for him

Dean'd always thought that falling in love was a capital letter kind of thing, an Important Event you carved into the calendar of your life and never, ever forgot. But with he and Cas, it wasn't that simple.

it’s mostly cowardice, and bad timing by ferritin4, 1.6k, pre-canon. actually this one is just a dean study it’s not deancas but i spent an entire night looking for it and i need someone else to read it too. dean is smart!!! SAY THAT

Dean gets his GED.

a list of reasons the bunker shouldn’t get a sofa by lizbobjones, 5.6k, set during s12. sam and dean and mary and cas haul a sofa back to the bunker. cute domesticity and fluff

Let me count the ways that this is a terrible idea.

no kingdom to come by domesticadventures, 16.8k, canonverse. dean and cas deal with being stuck in quarantine in different ways. this is the one and only quarantine fic i’ve read and it’s really good lmao. dean and cas’ relationship is so organic and tentative in this one

“We should fuck,” Dean says.

Cas looks up from where he sits on his bed, hair still damp from the shower, frowning as he places a finger on the page of his book to mark where he left off.

There are a million things Cas could say here; Dean has rehearsed them. After lunch, his restlessness had given way to a vague panic, a dread that matched his every step and crept along with him from room to room. Eventually, he had returned to his bedroom and spent the rest of the afternoon pacing back and forth, playing out all the possible scenarios. When Cas asks him Why? or Are you being serious? or when he sighs and says, in that way he has, Dean, he knows exactly what he’s going to do. He’s going to shrug casually, like he isn’t invested in the answer, like he isn’t desperate for an outlet, and say, Why not? He’s going to raise an eyebrow and say, What, are you not interested? He’s going to crowd into Cas’ personal space, he’s going to shove himself right up in there and whisper Cas against his ear.

Instead, Cas says, carefully, “Okay.”

till the juice runs by deathbanjo, 8.4k, canonverse. it’s like dean’s being cursed to have bad hookups with men. SUCH a funny fic and the deancas tension is so simple and sweet and GOOD. plus cas is so enjoyably characterized here he’s so human and worn in and experienced in his own unique way. perfect use of rowena too

Apparently whoever drew up the venn diagram of Dean’s sex life decided the circle labelled ‘good sex’ and the one labelled ‘sex with men’ should be kept far apart.

turn of the year by kototyph, 3.9k, canonverse au. sam and dean get stuck out in the middle of nowhere on the winter solstice. what i wouldn’t give for a full 80k of this verse actually. also i went on a kototyph binge after reading shut up put your money where your mouth is and they have a SOLID spn repertoire

Fifteen minutes later, Dean gets back in the car with empty hands and ice in his fucking eyebrows. “Get the map out,” he says through chattering teeth, sticking numb fingers under his arms.

Sam holds up the battered 1995 Rand MacNally they keep in the side pocket, turned to a page of uninterrupted green. “We’re going to die,” he announces.

💖 bullets in the gun by kototyph, 4.9k, canonverse au. cas is a cop (i know. still) who gets kidnapped by dean in an unfortunate turn of events. GOD this fic is SO FUNNY. cas’ canny and strategic escape attempts render him a very active VERY funny pov character plus the hate attraction to dean is PERFECTLY WRITTEN VERY BELIEVABLE. dean’s kindness also shines thru even as he literally holds cas hostage like!!!! PERFECT characterization. both of them are so LIKABLE here. if you read anything on this list read this

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m going to need to borrow your car.”

as you will by kototyph, 1.8k, victorian au. cas endures a proposal mishap. it’s cute it’s funny it’s sweet!

"No?" Castiel echoes, dumbly.

and if i was looking too? by kototyph, 2.6k, au. cas is undercover where dean works. this fic is just so cute like. bird angels.................

There are some things Castiel hasn't told Dean, and there are some things he doesn't need to.

the most important thing by northernsparrow, 94.5k, s10 au. amnesiac cas raising claire until he comes across someone familiar. claire is so well characterized here i really loved her arc thruout this fic. she just wants her dad back and u can’t even blame her the author rlly does an amazing job creating realistic and heartbreaking motivations for her. oh and dean and cas (esp cas characterization!) are sweet in this but honestly the highlight IS claire for me

Jimmy Novak remembers nothing of the last six years. Reunited with his troubled daughter Claire, he's struggling to raise her on his own. The most important thing is to make Claire happy. But why does he keep having these dreams of wings, and of two men in a black car? (Canon-divergent from S10E11, when we first met Claire again and Dean was still struggling with the Mark of Cain. Takes places several months later).

there’s only one sure thing that i know by blinkiesays, 20.3k, post-s5. dean goes to help cas out in ohio and they end up building a home together. i love the writing it’s rlly funny and sweet.

Dean doesn't even get halfway through explaining before Bobby starts laughing. When he lets himself think about it for more than five seconds, Dean can almost see Bobby's point: he's faced down demons, witches, vampires, werewolves, ghosts, angels, and Satan himself and now he's been defeated by the God damn Midwest.

💖 to an angel, love and worship are the same thing by geminisage, 10.3k, post s15 fix it. dean grieves cas - and then cas gets brought back back from the empty. i didn’t have this in my bookmarks so i MISSED it the first time around on this list but this was another one of the fics i came back to spn fandom to. it’s so fucking unique?? it actually reads like spn like i think fic tends to soften dean/cas up and makes them more emotional + emotionally intelligent than is ever shown in the show. here the dialogue/characterization adheres RIGOROUSLY to their communication in canon in that dean’s not overtly emotional, and cas is very reserved. they have to negotiate their relationship exactly like they would in the show. it’s all clipped conversation and anger and hurt and (warning btw) LOTS of internalized homophobia on dean’s end but it’s SO worth it. dean navigating his [GESTURES VAGUELY] everything is compellingly written, emotionally true, and PERFECTLY characterized. cas characterization also amazing like u rlly feel the quiet devoted bittersweet love. ok this was long clearly it’s a good fic go read it now

Just as Dean knew they would, the weeks do stretch into months, and then into a year. Grief never gets easier, Dean knows from experience, but you do get better at it. After all, you can get used to anything.

the violin house by teh_helenables, 8.5k, post-s5. dean and cas build a home after stull. so slow and lovely and sweet and gentle. i need to put this here so that i don’t forget it tbh. it’s very much dean as a war wife cas as the husband away on the front

The Apple Pie Life is a slow process, but Dean and Cas are getting there—until Cas is called for battle and Dean is forced to wait.

💖 muscle memory by komodobits, 18.9k, au. amnesiac cas wakes up three years in the future with dean in his kitchen. komodobits DOES NOT FUCKING MISS!!! i CRIED at the end of this i had NO INTENTION OF CRYING the rest of the fic isn’t even SAD i just had to sit there at the end of it w tears dribbling down my face. INSANE work of art

Dear Castiel,

Hello – it’s Castiel. This must all seem very confusing, and I’m sorry for that. Dean says to tell you that this isn’t some kind of ‘time-travel stunt’, although I’m sure that won’t be your first thought. I know it wasn’t mine. I’ve told Dean to leave now, as this is my notebook and I want everything in it to come from me – or rather, from you. I know you think it's the fifteenth of January, 2010, but it isn't. At the time of my writing this, the date is the fourth of October, 2013. Dean Winchester is your boyfriend of a year and a half, and you no longer work at the library, and in early 2010 you were hit by a car and hospitalised. I’m sorry.

a.k.a the 50 First Dates Dean/Cas AU where Castiel wakes up on a day just like any other, except that three years have passed without his knowing, and Dean Winchester is in the kitchen wanting to marry him.

don’t forget the experience points by annie d (scaramouche), 10.8k, au. cas is sam’s work friend, and he and dean get to know each other. genuinely an adorable fic. i adore cas’ characterization in this it’s snarky AND awkward AND confident in a way that i absolutely believe he would be if he had 30 yrs of human life under his belt

It's because Dean was an awesome brother than he took such an interest in Sam's new friend. No, really. What happened afterwards was mostly an accident.

actus fidei by manic_intent, 5.6k, canonverse au. dean’s a priest, cas is still his angel. i was HOOKED from the description alone like That’s Everything I Love in One Sentence. Cool!!!!!!!!!!!!

On the very first time that Castiel manifests in front of Father Dean Winchester, he gets as far as "Rejoice, for you are blessed-" before Dean shoots him with a salt-loaded shotgun.

not with a bang but a yelp by strange_estrangement, 1.4k, canonverse. team free will leave yelp reviews. this isn’t d/c actually it’s just a crack-ish fic but the formatting is cool and the references are SO funny and so well done

What happens when you visit dozens and dozens of motels every year? You leave Yelp reviews.

the courtship of combat by bendingsignpost, 18.2k, medieval a/b/o au. cas is politically coerced into fighting in a courtship melee for prince dean's hand, and he teams up with two unexpected allies to do it. I KNOW HOW THE ABO THING SOUNDS but i swear it's done well - it's by bendingsignpost so ofc he puts his own spin on the premise. im absurdly into it. PLUS jack is in it!!!!!!! it's technically an unfinished series but the first part is so good just on its own

When pressed upon to mate for a political alliance, Commander Castiel dares to refuse his king. As “I do not wish to mate at all” is clearly the wrong thing to say, Castiel takes the other path and lies. “You must know my affections lie elsewhere, my king.”

King Michael studies Castiel’s face long and hard. Then, with a nod, he snaps his fingers, pointing to Castiel. “The Winchester omega.”

“Yes,” Castiel says with no real recollection of who that is.

The ruse of an unavailable omega works well enough, right up until that omega is no longer unavailable. Then, with what seems to be his entire nation cheering him on toward victory, Castiel must enter the melee to win his mate. Backed by allies, training, and his own natural talents, the only question is how well he can contrive to fail.

four letter word for intercourse by bendingsignpost, 194.7k, au. dean calls a sex hotline. OH BOY solid characterization excellent plot/premise like bendingsignpost is so good at turning absurd premises into realistic, believable fiction. also sex hotline fic is usually a BIG turn-off bc of the power dynamics/one-sidedness of a relationship based on sex work but. BUT. bendingsignpost does it well! it’s not weird at ALL i started reading and was immediately reassured abt its intentions and its plot direction

As a grease monkey turned college freshman, Dean's constantly three seconds away from being stressed out of his mind. It hardly helps that he's finally figuring out his sexuality in his thirties.

What might help with that stress is a little phone number (and a big credit card bill). If he can't figure out how to be bisexual in person, he can at least give it a go over the phone, right?

(It's probably a bad idea, but he really can't help himself.)

the tunnel of love by xylodemon, 21.4k, post-canon. case fic! dean and cas have to kiss on a loveboat to solve a case >:)

"We might," Cas starts slowly, pausing like he's choosing his words. "We might have to kiss."

Dean just stares at him.

when you have a future. by firebog, 17.6k, post-s8. dean and sam and cas learning to be human post-apocalypse. reminds me of robotmango’s writing! it’s kind of eccentric and very very sweet and funny.

Sam closes Hell. Castiel closes Heaven. The heroes save the day. There's no Heaven or Hell waiting to cause the next big disaster. There's no more end of the world. There's only a squirmy feeling in his chest that feels a lot like freedom. So, now what?

(Things I promise you in this fic: dog poetry, rabbits, and fluff)

six inch heels by alitneroon, 2.3k, canonverse. dean does drag! excellent fucking character study. prose is fantastic

Dean does drag on a whim, and ends up in way over his head.

sharing is caring by gateskeeper, 2.5k, canonverse. five times dean and cas shared something and one time they didn’t. look. sometimes u just need some saccharine tropey fluff. it’s VERY well written

Sam knows that Dean and Cas have shared a lot together, but ever since Cas became human permanently, it seems like they've been sharing a lot more. 

Or: five times Dean and Cas shared something special and one time Dean refused to.

💖 empty spaces by schmerzerling, 60k, au. dean has to take care of his dying father, and takes up running to cope. that’s just the beginning. HEAVY trigger warnings for ED (specifically anorexia) and suicidal thoughts. there is a happy ending, but dean has to fight to make it there. god. okay. this is a dark fic. it’s also one of the most well-characterized fics i’ve ever read. dean’s spiral is excruciatingly accurate and written with the kind of wry compassion that comes from either extensive research or extensive experience. it’s also completely immersed in dean’s perspective - dean’s relationship w his dad, dean’s relationship w food scarcity, etc. it’s incredible. it’s kinda scary. it’s deeply sad. cas is explicitly autistic and it’s ALSO incredibly accurate and loving, and makes cas so true to his canon self. ugh. and i burst into TEARS at some of the accompanying art, which is so sparse and lonely and beautiful. 100/10 experience one of the best fics i’ve read this year

Dean is fine. The way he sees it, things are simple. He had a house and a family and food in his stomach, and now he doesn't. And yeah, that's a downer, but he's not going to let that stop him from being fine, because he's in control of the situation. He definitely doesn't need anyone to save him. And it's not like the weird guy with the nice butt from down the road is the knight-in-shining-armor type, anyway.

broken road by thegeminisage, 109.6k, 14x13 au. dean makes a wish and gets more than he bargained for. a lot of “john comes back” fics are kinda short on nuance, which this author has talked about a lot - and oh MAN does this fic deliver on nuance. john’s abuse is absolutely present, but his pov makes him a complex character instead of a flat caricature for dean to reject. and the way this fic resolves really makes it clear that the priority is dean’s emotional well-being over all else!!! this isn’t about dean taking the path fandom thinks he should take w his abuser (killing john, punching john in the face, etc), this is abt dean coming to terms w his abuse and finding his own emotionally satisfying way of resolving it. also dean and cas are in an established relationship and it’s very slow and sweet.

A 14.13 Lebanon rewrite. When Dean uses a wish-granting pearl to try and kill the archangel Michael before he can escape the cage in Dean's head, they instead wind up with a newly-resurrected John Winchester.

It's been more than a decade since John died, and a lot has changed: Mary is alive, Sam and Dean have what passes for a proper home in the Men of Letters Bunker, and they're living with angels. John doesn't know angels are real, he doesn't know about the fragile new relationship between Dean and Castiel, and most of all, he doesn't know that Dean said yes to Michael, or that Dean's plan to defeat Michael would send him to a fate worse than death.

Now Dean must contend with both his father asking questions he can't answer, and his loved ones learning about the darker truths of his childhood, all while constantly battling the archangel trapped inside him. But Dean coming to terms with his history may be the difference between this being the beginning of a journey—or the end. 

home is not a place by imogenbynight, 6.8k, post-s11. human cas struggles with belonging, and dean struggles with their relationship. this reads a lot like komodobits’ cuckoo and nest, but it’s its own sweet little thing. they watch movies!!! very cute 

In which Dean is the oblivious one for a change.

love: a retrospective by xylodemon, 40.7k, post-s12. dean tries to deal w cas’ absence after s12 and reflects on their relationship thru the years. this was written before s13 aired, so - no spoilers - but jack plays a different role than he ends up playing in canon. it’s kinda fun seeing ppl’s theories pre-s13 tbh. makes me VERY glad that they took jack in the direction they did in show. anyway this is THEE definitive “they’ve been fucking all along” fic

Pretending Cas is just his friend has been the only thing keeping Dean's head on straight for years. He never realized how much doing that depended on him making himself scarce in the morning ─ not until Cas came back and moved into the bunker.

✨💖 if it all fell to pieces tomorrow by spocklee, 37k, post-s15 fix-it. cas gets broken out of the empty - and he immediately makes a break for it. new fave fix-it!!!! the writing is so understated and so straightforward - SO in character for cas tbh - that every single emotional beat feels like a PUNCH. and there are so many amazing character moments it made my chest seize the fuck up!!!!! perfect characterization perfect relationship moments perfect cas/jack parenting moments. the yearning over the phone is OFF THE CHARTS and spocklee makes the most of that tension!!!! PLUS old canon characters get to make fun appearances!!!!! i cannot recommend this shit enough

After the Empty, Cas has to spend some time alone. Orpheus tries to convince Eurydice over the phone that it’s okay to turn around now.

✨ before and after breakfast by spocklee, 10.5k, post-canon. dean and sam and cas tackle a monster of the week case with unexpected consequences. perfect pov perfect relationship moments SUCH GOOD TENSION. again this writing style just lets the tension dial up to 1000% every word is meaningful and it makes my chest hurt!!! spocklee SHOULD have blown up during the spn renaissance and i STAND by that

The monster of the week is a ghost who hates meat, alcohol, and feeling yourself. Guess who it is during the commercials.

CLASSICS

isn't it cool how every person has diff fics they consider "classics?" anyway these are required fucking reading. if u've been around these will prob be old news.

💖 asunder by rageprufrock, 23k, au. dean and cas go to sam's wedding. i reread this once a year like a religious ritual.

Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. (Matthew 19:6)

💖 the girlfriend experience by rageprufrock, 15k, set during s5. dean teaches cas how to be human. mostly the sex part. literally the gold fucking standard of s4-5 era deancas fic and for deancas fic in general, personally

While it's not like Dean hasn't had a couple of truly regrettable hit-and-runs in his sexual history, this is probably the saddest fucking thing that has ever happened to him.

okay, cupid. by orange_crushed, 4.5k, au. dean tries to sign up for an ok cupid profile and has a revelation. as soon as i put this entry down i realized this entire fic rec was an exercise in futility, because if i could i'd literally just rec everything orange_crushed/robotmango has ever written. still one of THEE best authors in this fandom. go read all her fics. i’ll put the highlights here

"The dating thing?" Dean frowns. "Online dating is for weirdos. Robots. Dudes hanging out in their basements."

"You hang out in your basement."

"I have an air hockey table down there,” Dean says, icily.

💖 pwp: pie without plot by orange_crushed and majorenglishesquire, 82k, post-s8. sam and dean and cas quit hunting for a little bit to open a bakery. this is my comfort fic. i love it so so much.

he is in the kitchen with flour on his hands and an apron and there is flour on his forehead and cas leans across the counter and wipes it off with his thumb and dean says "thank you" and cas says "you’re welcome" very seriously and later dean makes apple turnovers and he only ruins them a little and sam realizes it’s not a real hunt like four days into it and he lets dean stay undercover for like a week and a half or longer maybe way longer because he is such a good everything

💖 la cucina by orange_crushed, 4k, post-s8. dean gets into cooking for a newly human cas. it's so gentle and loving and kind and makes me tear up every time. YES food is a comfort item and expression of love for dean. no i don't want to talk about it

Dean turns around and Castiel is picking through the jars, turning them over carefully to read the labels, totally engrossed. Dean watches him.

"Is there," Dean says, "uh, anything in there you like?" Castiel looks up at him and then back at the apples, sitting in a basket on the counter in their golden skins, ripe and pretty. Castiel smiles up at Dean.

"I don’t know yet," he says.

today, your barista verse by orange_crushed, 13.6k, coffeeshop au. a series of short sweet lovely fics where cas is a barista and dean is a smitten customer. literally the only coffeeshop au i respect

"Is that-"

"My number," says Dean, because he's a fucking champion, he's cool, he's collected, he's Captain Smooth of the USS Smoothtania, that's right. He is definitely not leaning against the counter for moral support. Cas doesn't looked seduced or impressed, though. He does not look like a dude who just met Captain Smooth and wants to ride the loveboat. He looks puzzled.

fata morgana. by orange_crushed, 6.6k, post-s9. dean is the king of hell. bela and cas team up to find him. bela pov. yeah you fucking heard that right BELA POV. BELA AND CAS!!!!!!!!!! makes me lose my mind i love everyone in this stupid desolate fucking hell wasteland.

The endless asphalt and broken road, the empty land and piles of human garbage, the unwanted ends of life, the cracked toys and broken screens and burning cars and gravel. Dean Winchester is the king of hell.

"Oh," says Bela.

That changes certain things.

💖 gran fury. by orange_crushed, 5k, pacific rim au. sam and cas pair up in a last ditch mission to save the world. permanently damaged me at age 15 and i've never recovered. major fucking angst warning.

They sit in silence and Castiel passes him the bottle. There’s not much left to say. Sam takes a gulp and it burns going down, like the cheap shit it is. He holds the bottle up against the light. He can see the Fury through it, distorted like a funhouse mirror. She’s a tomb but Sam loves her. Loves everything that’s left.

"To the end of the world," he says.

"To the end of the world," says Castiel.

💖 shut up (put your money where your mouth is) by kototyph, 24k, au. dean and cas get drunk married in vegas. dean renovates cas' house. this fic is SO MUCH BETTER than i remembered/expected and the entire series is fucking adorable go read it RIGHT now

Dean's done some pretty stupid things, but getting drunk-hitched in Vegas to a colleague he barely knows might just take the cake. His surprise husband, Castiel, is a little weird but likable despite that, and Dean figures they’ll go back to Boston, get a quiet annulment, and go their separate ways. Six weeks later, he’s still married to one of the strangest, most genuine and definitely most dangerously lov-- likable guys he's ever known. Dean doesn't know why or really even how it’s happening, but it’s getting harder and harder to remember that he has divorce papers to file.

not part of the plan by annie d (scaramouche), 338k, arranged marriage au. cas is slated to marry a noble from the winchester house. things spiral out of control. if you’re looking for an extensive well-developed political au, this is fucking it. i love reading about political machinations so this was FASCINATING to me. 

Castiel's spent most of his adult life keeping his head down and staying out of trouble. This is a deliberate choice on his part, because as a cousin of the King, he'd rather stay unimportant and forgotten. This changes abruptly when King Michael decides that he has a better use for Castiel: he is to be wed to a noble member of the neighboring Republic, as part of an agreement between their two nations.

Castiel knows he has to obey, but that doesn't mean he won't rebel in what small ways he can. Unexpectedly, his actions end up having far-reaching consequences.

💖 all things shining by askance and standbyme, 142k, au. sam and dean and cas go on a hunt that's not really a hunt, and against all odds good things happen. it's beautifully written and has scenes that literally make my heart leap out of my chest with joy and awe it's just WONDERFUL it's a wonderful fic. incredible mythology too omg i found that the authors actually created the myth the entire story is based on - like they don’t pull a random one from history, they made one up THEMSELVES. they even self-published it on amazon if ur curious

Something in the world is waking up.

It isn’t long before it’s brought to the attention of the Winchesters and Castiel: miracles are spreading across the country, the paranormal seems to be shrinking back on itself—and it all has something to do with the missing prayer book of a traveling preacher who died over a century ago.

Dean is convinced it’s all the lead-up to another Apocalypse; Sam and Castiel aren’t so sure. Regardless, it sends them out on a less-than-typical road-trip, following the Mississippi and remnants of a very old story that seems increasingly to call to them. And along the way the trio learn much more about themselves—and the consequences and origins of love—than they’d ever have anticipated.

💖 broadway musical by griftings, 12.4k, crack. romcom where cas is supposed to play matchmaker to dean and jo and well. you know. it actually made me cackle out loud when i read it again so you know it's still good. absolutely one of the funniest fics i’ve read

This is the day that marked the Holy and Blessed Union of Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle.

The merging of prominent bloodlines is always a grand occurrence, but breeding pedigree hunter families like Winchester and Harvelle is something to be rejoiced. It is also something to be meticulously planned, which thankfully the Host is very good at.

Or, the romantic comedy where Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle are destined to get married, Castiel is given the task of playing matchmaker and fails terribly, the entire Heavenly Host becomes a sitcom audience, God warns against male pregnancy, and Jimmy Novak is incredibly unimpressed with angels in general.

the five people you meet in heaven by chevrolangels, 22k, ambiguously canonverse. dean dies and goes to heaven and meets five people from his life. NOT a post-finale fic but still horrifically sad. i remember sobbing hysterically when i first read this so

Heaven is white.

Well. Isn’t that fucking stereotypical.

Dean isn’t really sure how he got here. Or even why he’s here. And hell, for all the times the Winchesters have died, he thinks he ought to know the drill by now. But what he doesn’t know is when most folks go, they find something different.

There’s a system God put in place. That when you’re gone (for good), there are a couple things you gotta do first. There are five people waiting for you.

They are the five people you meet in heaven.

any port in a storm by microcomets, 53k, post-s8. dean and cas go on a haunted cruise for a case. you know what happens next. also the art is by anobviousaside and it's gorgeous

The angels have fallen, leaving Castiel graceless and Dean with, well, more of other people’s problems. When a string of couples goes missing on the east coast, Dean and Cas decide to investigate—and find themselves trapped and hunted on a couples’ counseling cruise. Although battling monsters at sea is dangerous enough, sorting through emotional baggage proves to be far more deadly. (And, in which Cas embarks to find his missing grace and Dean is put out. Not necessarily in that order.)

a turn of the earth by microcomets, 95k, pre-canon au. cas is on the run from the empty and crash lands in dean's life. at one point he punches john in the face. a fucking beautifully written character study of pre-canon dean, honestly.

Dean’s your typical half-orphaned, monster-killing 22-year-old until a trenchcoated stranger crashes into his back windshield one September night, claiming he’s an angel that knows him from the future and that he’s on the run.

Frigging fantastic.

(Or, in which Castiel gets stuck in Dean’s timeline preseries and Dean kind of hates it—until he doesn’t.)

unfinished duet by microcomets, 5.8k, canonverse. sam observes dean and cas throughout the years. i remember this breaking my heart back in 2013!

Sam watches Dean and Cas over the years and notices a few things. (Or, Dean and Cas unscripted.)

💖 ergative/absolutive by glassedplanets, 8k, college au. dean and cas are best friends who meet in an astronomy class. i'm never not thinking about this fic it's so sweet and the friends to lovers is so soft and believable

He really shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like this about his best friend who literally just broke up with his girlfriend, but he knows he’ll blame it on sleepiness in the morning. He always does.

a certain light by flightagain, 24k, au. cas works at the gas n sip. dean is a customer. this author’s writing style is so lonely and heavy but it’s very lovely

Castiel works at the Gas-n-Sip. There are half-price nachos and flickering lights, there are office-workers and werewolves stopping by for snacks. Dean is a frequent customer, and his office might be haunted.

the one thing you can’t lose by majorenglishesquire, 5k, ambiguously canonverse. dean can pull cas around and it’s adorable. character study-ish. very sweet.

You know what I like a lot? The thought that Dean can just tug Cas anywhere at any time and Cas, who can lift tons without effort, who can demolish things with the light of his grace, who has battled and gone to war, has defended and broken, will just let Dean do it.

brother lover by twentysomething, 4k, set during s4/s5. dean’s jealous of sam and cas’ budding relationship. this fic is so tropey but it does it well and it’s funny as fuck

However- and it doesn't happen a lot- they have to invoke 'I saw her first.’

his fucking kids by 8sword, 3k, canonverse au. dean and cas raise claire and emma together. yes, claire novak. yes, emma of 7x13 spice girls fame. this was the first kidfic i read for spn i think. obvs written before jack or claire actually came back into the picture but it was the TEMPLATE of kidfic for me for ages

Jesus, the school should just have a parking spot labeled, “Reserved for the Novak-Winchesters,” because Dean’s getting sick of having to cruise around the parking lot looking for a spot every time he gets a call from the principal about Emma.

💖 what has eight tentacles and isn’t allowed to eat pie? by annie d (scaramouche), 16k, post s8. dean gets turned into an octopus. another fic that was SO MUCH BETTER than i remembered i fucking love when that happens. it isn’t even about dean being an OCTOPUS like NO. NOT EVEN. it’s ACTUALLY about the bunker and building a home and a community and a family and about PHYSICAL COMFORT and you can actually feel the world expanding at the end of this fic like a gusty sigh of relief it’s SO WONDERFUL. kevin is in this fic. ellie is too and i had to look her up but THIS is her!!!! danay garcia u were too hot to stay on this show but i love you and miss u

Dean watched an anime porn about this once, but real life turns out to be way less interesting.

Or, the one where Dean gets turned into an octopus.

💖 a beginner’s guide to communing with the dead by suspiciousflashlight, 77k, canonverse au. dean is a cop who summons a powerful entity to help him solve a cold case. oh my god i can’t believe i didn’t put this on here i love this one so much. the writing bowls me over it’s so confident in its worldbuilding like you’re IMMEDIATELY plunged into dean’s pov (FLAWLESSLY executed throughout the fic btw) and you just learn about the world as you go!! and it’s such a fascinating world!!! i love the magic i love the typical bureaucratic red tape procedures i love normalizing the supernatural. i ESPECIALLY love monsters as normal people in a society. at one point there’s this exchange

“Monsters,” says Cas finally. “Beyond the Wall there are monsters.” “You mean, like, vampires and djinn and stuff?” Cas shakes his head. “Those aren’t monsters, those are just people.”

those lines have stayed with me for years. i think about them every time i rewatch an episode of spn.

Maybe it's the little girl whose disappearance turned into a murder, and whose murder turned into a cold case, and who has now apparently decided to move in with him. Maybe it's the unacceptable hole left in his life when his dumb best friend and partner in (the prevention of) crime decided to go and get himself killed. Maybe it's his brother, whose high-profile career and fantastic girlfriend and first-child-on-the-way are steadily leaving Dean in the dust. Pick one. Pick all of them. The why doesn't matter so much as the what, and the what is this: Dean is pretty sure he's going completely, certifiably insane. Sure, he hasn't started wearing all his clothes inside out, and he still showers on a regular basis (anyways, that's not crazy, just a little eccentric); but there's no getting around the fact that he just threw away his life, his career, and his reputation by dragging out his mom's old necromancy book and summoning a Class A Forbidden Entity to his attic. A cranky one, too. With horrendous bed-head.

dean’s list by almaasi, 3k, canonverse. dean makes a list. short and sweet. i read this so much in 2015 that it literally got engraved into my brain line by line and rereading it caused synapses to fire that havent felt anything in years

Dean writes out a list of men he would go gay for. Sam has a suggestion to make.

💖 the path of fireflies by museaway, 63.7k, post-s8. dean and cas open a charming bed and breakfast in vermont. no, literally. another CLASSIC. i think about the food in this fic all the time...........maple bacon baked french toast......the cinnamon rolls.....it literally sounds so good

After his humanity is restored, Dean wakes up in bed with Castiel, a wedding ring, and no memory of the past twelve years.

long nights in cold months by pyrebi, 2.3k, au. dean’s an insomniac and cas works at walmart. i forgot i had this fic ALSO basically memorized. holy shit. pineapple in the fruit aisle.....................anyway it’s short and sweet and the “plot” resolves in such a satisfying way

When you're an insomniac, you get used to the "what the hell are you doing up, man?" look. Dean just hopes the guy who's stocking the shelves will stop giving it to him long enough to help him find some damn pineapple.

incredibly single & ready to mingle by imogenbynight, 3.6k, au. dean and cas meet on facebook. short cute au!!!!!!

Sam uses Facebook like the social media junkie he is. He's befriended literally every person he's ever had a conversation with since he got an account, which means that approximately—Dean checks—eight hours ago, he shared this horrible photo with something in the vicinity of nine hundred people. The caption below the picture reads “incredibly single & ready to mingle ;)” and roughly half of them have liked it.

Dean has never been so embarrassed in his life.

💖 unknown quantities by xylodemon, 8.5k, post-s8. after a post-case tryst, dean has to figure out his and cas’ relationship. human cas fics hold a special place in my heart. funny AND good dean pov AND a misunderstanding that i actually think works!!!!!

No one ever tells Dean anything.

(or: Dean Winchester and the not-relationship crisis of 2014)

#spn fic #spn #dean x cas #this is horrifically long actually.

[whentommymetalfie]

Breathe Again -Chapter twenty-one 

-Track of time- 

prologue//one//two//three//four//five//six//seven//eight//nine//ten//eleven/twelve/thirteen/fourteen/fifteen//sixteen//seventeen//eighteen//nineteen//twenty

Chapter Summary: Tommy continues to struggle with the news from Birmingham. And finally admits something to Alfie 

Wordcount: 3,9 K 

Warnings: suicidal ideation, disordered eating, discussions of mental illness, suicide and self harm, 

”Go on, the weather’s lovely. No snow yet, but it could happen any day now,” Esther says cheerily as she helps Tommy sit up on the bed. It’s one of those days when he needs it. Alfie has left the room, and he can hear him pacing in the hallway. Heavy, impatient steps.

“Come on, get your scrawny arse out of bed, Tommy, or I’m coming in there to fucking drag you out by the hair. Don’t think I won’t.”

Esther huffs and rolls her eyes, but chooses not to comment. He sits there on the bed with her arm still around his shoulders, held by the secure weight. She’s not very tall, Esther, but she’s strong and sturdy. Perhaps it’s out of pity, this embrace, but he can’t reject the touch. Starved, craves it.

Tommy rubs a hand over his stomach. He tried to eat breakfast but the mud was in the way-

Esther squeezes his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s too difficult answering questions like that, Esther knows and rephrases it. “Are you feeling sick?”

“He was sick, for a long time,” Michael Gray tells us when we meet him at his new office, “We’ve of course decided to keep it private, for the sake of the family. I took over more of the day to day work-“

Michael’s voice has become clear in his mind, an as real and solid presence as any of the others these past few days. It’s his own fault for reading the article so many times. Compulsively scratching a wound and refusing to let it scab over.

Esther asked a question.

He swallows thickly and manages, “No.”

Esther keeps rubbing his arm but he barely feels it.

Rumours have spread of Shelby’s deteriorating mental health, something Michael Gray only briefly touches upon-

“Are you sure? You’re looking quite pale.” She touches his forehead gently. The lines on her furrowed brow are blurred, everything around him seems to be enveloped in fog.

Michael’s voice continues to recite the article without missing a beat, “Unfortunately, the war left him with damages not even time could repair. And it began catching up with him. Which is how one can explain some of his less… rational decisions as of late.” One of these less than rational decision might be the choice to ally himself with Oswald Mosely, which-

He shakes his head, trying to erase the words, wishes they’d blur and fade like so many of the memories. They’re lodged like sharp pieces in his head. The worst parts he’s managed to wrap in enough fog to soften the edges. But bits and pieces still slip through.

“One has to remember they started with nothing, from an unfortunate background, so it’s no small feat, what Thomas has managed to do. Even if it’s been through questionable methods. Which of course is not something I can stand behind nor endorse, but it was before my time. Things are changing, now.”

Esther gently moves his hand away from his scar and places it in his lap instead.

“Are you sure you’re not feeling unwell?”  

He shakes his head. Tries to say something reassuring, something that will make her happy, but the dirt is in the way and all he manages is a croaked ‘tired’.  

Esther holds him closer. “I know, love. But it’ll do you good, getting some air.”

“We’ll go look at that tree you like so much, if you can manage it that far,” Alfie calls from the hallway. Heavy footsteps approach and soon he pops his head in through the doorway. Raises both eyebrows expectantly. His gaze softens when it takes in the sight.  

“Just a short walk, to get some air. You’ll feel better,” he says and comes to stand before the bed, towering above him in his large black coat. “One step at a time, eh?”

Why is it so fucking hard? it’s never going to be better, it’s too hard, all of it-

“Alright, up you go then. And let’s see if we can put some more clothing on you because pyjamas are entirely inappropriate attire in this weather.”  

When he’s pulled upright, he stumbles on unsteady feet. But Alfie doesn’t let him fall.

It does help, going outside. There’s no snow yet but the air is crisp and a layer of frost has encased the branches and the grass, making the world glimmer in the sunlight. It feels strange and nice, noticing it. And after smoking two cigarettes in quick succession, he can finally breathe. The mud has almost cleared away from his chest, his stomach, and instead there’s just frosty air with a smattering of salt. As usual, Alfie talks enough to drown out the sound of Michael reciting the article over and over again.

The sun is shining. And it’s daylight, many, many hours until nightfall when he has to lie there in the darkness and the voices become so much louder.

Alfie has a pleased smile on his face, as if this whole thing is a personal victory. Tommy likes it when he smiles. The realisation puzzles him. He glances at Alfie again, to make sure he isn’t mistaken. Watches as he scratches his beard absentmindedly, the rings glinting in the sunlight. His one good eye glints in the light too. Like this, he radiates peace and safety and Tommy wishes he could huddle into his coat, wants to be so close that his body melts together with Alfie’s.

When they get as far as the chestnut tree he’s so exhausted he has to rest. The past days inability to stomach anything at all hasn’t made him any stronger.

He promises himself to try harder with dinner.

“There you go, nice and easy, did so well, didn’t ya´? Didn’t faint or even swoon the tiniest bit,” Alfie mutters as he leans against the trunk of the tree.  

He steps back to give him a onceover and Tommy’s hand instinctively shoots out grasp his coat sleeve. The moment his fingers close around the fabric he’s flooded with regret, but Alfie doesn’t seem to mind. That pleased smile is back on his face.

“Look at that, quite nice innit?” he says and nods upwards, where the sun is shining down between the branches. he closes his eyes and focuses on the rays warming his face.

When he opens them again, Alfie is watching him.

Alfie has a way of looking at him that makes something flutter in his chest. The scrutiny can become uncomfortably intense sometimes. Especially on those days when he’s all too aware of what he’s been reduced to, when he looks down at his awful hands and the ugliness seems to cling to his skin- But not when Alfie’s eyes are soft, like this. When he looks at him as if he’s-  

“The same way you’d look at an abandoned fawn you found in the woods, with a broken leg,” Grace muses. “And you’re considering whether to shoot it or not, to end its suffering-“

Alfie’s hand comes up to cup his face. His rings feel cool against his cheek, but his skin is warm.

“You alright? Seems like something crossed your mind just then.”

“I’m fine.”  

He wishes he could be more for Alfie. That he could do something to earn the affection he desperately craves. He’s not enough.

“You’ve never been enough for anyone. Never been able to offer anything-“

He closes his eyes, like a child trying to hide. As if he could disappear.  

“Why do you think they never came to see you?”

“Tommy, hey,” Alfie holds his head a little firmer. “Eyes on me. Go on.”

He obeys, clings harder to his coat and tries to focus on the warmth of his hands.

“Whatever they’re saying, I suggest you try and listen to me instead. Yeah?”

Alfie accepts the tiny nod he manages as the only answer. Rubs his thumb up and down his jaw. Frowns. Tommy tries to count the creases on his forehead in search of distractions. They smooth out a little when Alfie makes up his mind and says, “Think that’ll have to be enough for today. Let’s get you home.”

He wraps an arm around his waist (“Just to keep you steady, eh, Tommy?”) and sets off down the path towards the house.  

The sun still shines. Alfie lights another cigarette for him and then he tells him the intricate details of how swallows build their nests. Tommy leans in, ducks his head until it’s almost resting against Alfie’s shoulder. His coat smells like pipe tobacco and salty air. Alfie squeezes his waist.

Right then he wishes he could freeze the moment and stay in it forever.

…

He still takes refuge in the living room at night, when the nightmares wake him up. The past few days it’s happened too often.

Alfie tells him to wake him up instead, but he can’t. Reaching across the mattress and shaking him feels impossible, asking, demanding too much. He’s promised he won’t get angry but people lie, don’t they? We’re only trying to help, Tommy, we won’t hurt you, we’ll take care of you, you just need to rest, Tommy, rest, sleep, and it’ll get better, there’s no bullet there, all healed, see, look for yourself, nothing there, you just need to rest-

“This is why you need to listen to me.” Grace’s soft voice is clear among all the others. “You can trust me.”

It’s childish and naïve, thinking he’d be able to hide from her, from any of them, simply by leaving the bedroom. They follow, always know where he is. Grace is stood in the corner, by the bookshelves. The crow is behind her, on its perch on the shelf, still now, staring at him with glassy eyes,

still and dead.

“It’s not real,” Alfie reminds him. “Or well, it’s real, innit, but it’s not alive. Alright?”

And Grace is not real, he knows, he knows and still it doesn’t help because in the dark it’s hard to know for sure- and does it matter, when he knows she’s telling the truth? Real or not.

The darkness makes everything worse.

The darkness, knowing everyone else in the world is asleep, the sheer loneliness of it all. Even if Alfie is only seconds away. Esther too. He could be the only one left in the entire world and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Please come wake me up if you need to, Tommy,” Esther keeps saying. A bit like Alfie, but gentler in her insistences. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep better knowing you feel safe.”

He usually nods, yes, he’ll come wake her up, even if he has no intention to. He wishes he could.

“I’m trying to care for him, but nothing seems to help,” Lizzie’s voice comes from the corridor, through a tiny gap between the door and the frame that casts a thin strip of light onto the dark bedroom floor. “I only seem to make things worse.”

“Not to worry, mrs Shelby, this is why I’m here. To help. Your husband is very sick, and it’s difficult, caring for someone in that position.”

“I can’t get him to eat. At all. Barely get him to drink either.”

“That is concerning, of course, but there are measures we could take-“

“And it seems like he never sleeps. He just lies there, staring at nothing and-”

He can’t wake Esther up either.

He’s already a burden, doesn’t want to make it worse. Knows because of their tired eyes, each time they have to lead him back to bed, the same tired eyes Lizzie had, they

“-don’t understand, don’t know how to help you, Tommy-“

That’s why they were sending him away, to that place the voices spoke about behind the door, where they don’t have to see, don’t have to be bothered, they can safely forget and move on. Build their lives back up, bricks upon bricks, it’ll be easy to fill the hole until it’s as if he were never there they’ll be happy to be rid of it

The pain is fresh and raw, torn up again by the words in the paper, the glimpse into a life he doesn’t have anymore, perhaps never had, just clung to with a white knuckled grip

“For how long can you keep doing this?”

How long? Imagining the rest of his life stretched out in an endless string of days has installed nothing but terror in him for so long.

The pain makes his body seize up and his fingers close around something smooth. He looks down to find the chestnut there in his palm.

And he thinks of Alfie. Of falling asleep curled up in his arms as he reads, walking in the snow, sitting outside when spring comes, the way Alfie talked about. That would be nice.

Maybe he still wants things that feel nice.

The thought sparks a tiny, flickering light that warms the empty cavity in his chest.

“What do you think he gets out of this? Having to care for someone like you, without getting anything in return. You don’t deserve any of this.”

The answer comes instinctively, “I know-“

But he wants it-

“Haven’t you gotten enough of the things you’ve wanted?”

“But-“

“Stop questioning me.” A twinge of cold steel creeps into Grace’s voice.

When the urge to dig his nails into his skin comes over him he squeezes the chestnut harder. Tries to focus on the smooth surface.

“I want to stay.”

Wants to stay, wants to be here with Alfie. It feels so strange to want anything at all, he’s not allowed to. For so long there’s just been this void inside of him. How could he want anything, then?

But he wants to be here with Alfie.

Grace’s eyes glint with ice in the dark.

“He’s going to hurt you. How can you not see that? When he finally realises how much it’s cost him, all of this”

He nods, hopes to appease her, can’t stand that voice. Even if the tiniest part of him wants to protest. Alfie wouldn’t hurt him.

“You know you deserve to be hurt.”

The chestnut lands on the floor with a soft thump. Instead, his hand grips a green vase that glimmers on the mantlepiece. The glass is cool underneath his fingers and it rests heavily in his hand. Shimmers blue in the faint moonlight from the window.

“It’s so easy, Tommy,” Grace’s voice is soft again. “So easy. With me you’ll get to rest.”  

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, fingers convulsively tight around the vase. Tries to will himself to put it back on the mantle.

“You can’t stay here.”

“I want to.” His voice cracks pitifully and the hand holding the vase is shaking, shaking wonders if his bones will crack before the glass does

“Evening Thomas. Thought we’d gotten an unannounced visit, but it’s just one of your ghosts again. Suppose they might classify as one, still.”  

Alfie is standing in the doorway, seems to fill it entirely with his broad frame and Tommy wants to fling himself into his arms and cling to him but he’s lost control of his own body, gaze flickering back to Grace who is still watching him with cold eyes. Alfie walks up to him without another word, takes the vase away from him and puts it out of reach on the mantle.

He was so angry, that time when he broke the vase, even if it was an accident. Yelled and looked at him with hard eyes full of accusation. Now, Alfie just strokes his cheek. His fingers are rough and warm against his skin and he leans into the touch.

“ ‘s alright, hm? Yeah, you’re alright,” he says. “Look, I brought your blanket. There we go- c’mere” He wraps the blanket tightly around his shoulders, pulls Tommy into his arms, into folds of sleep-warm fabric, solid muscle anf softness that he can bury his face in. He’s been holding his breath for so long it starts coming out in harsh hiccups against Alfie’s chest as he rocks him back and forth. Slowly slowly, until he eventually says, “A’ight, let’s get you back to bed and away from the ghosts, eh?”

When Alfie tries to move him, Tommy finds himself frozen on the spot.

“No? Not ready to go back to the bedroom? Do you want to stay here for a bit?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t know- what does he want? Wants to be close to Alfie. But in the dark bedroom, there’s the expectation of sleep. Sleeping feels impossible, his heart is still thrumming so hard in his chest. Hammers against his ribcage, sending vibrations through his whole body. He looks at the floor, searches for the chestnut he dropped. Alfie’s gaze follows his and he soon finds it, picks it up and presses it into Tommy’s hand

“There you go. Now, you just sit right here-“ He leads him over to the sofa and plops him down onto the soft cushions. “And hold onto that, while I light a fire. Think you can do that?”

The surface is smooth and familiar under his fingers. He nods and pulls his feet off the cold floor.

Alfie lights a fire that chases the shadows into the corners of the room, bathes the room and his face in warm light that breathes life into everything. Then he seats himself next to Tommy on the sofa and pulls him into his arms again. Tucks his head under his chin.    

“There we go. Suppose we’ll just sit here for a while, then. Can’t read anything I’m afraid, seeing as I left my glasses in the bedroom, but we can, yeah, we can just sit here and relax.”

He never realizes just how cold he is until he’s close to Alfie. Alfie is so warm. Warm and strong. Safe. Like this, he doesn’t have to believe the voices. Not any of them. Like this, he feels safe. The fire crackles softly and melts together with Alfie’s breaths into a soothing hum.

“Who is it that you see, hm, Tommy?” Alfie asks once he’s stopped shaking.  

It’s not the first time he asks. They all ask. The answer is always lodged in his chest and too hard to get out. But now it floats dangerously close to the surface. His breaths tremble as he pulls them into his lungs. He worries the fabric of the blanket under his fingers, rubs the pad of his other thumb over the chestnut. It’s warm now from resting in his palm. He buries his face deep in the fabric of Alfie’s nightshirt. Until he can pretend he won’t hear him.

“Grace.” It’s surreal, saying it out loud. Even if he whispers it so quietly it might as well have been the wind. As if it’s not his voice, as if the reply is separate from himself.

“And she speaks to you? When you see her.”

A hum is all he can manage.  

“And what does she say?”

He shakes his head. No no he can’t, he’s not allowed-

“Go on, you’re doing so well.” Alfie mutters into his hair. “Yeah? What does she say?”

“Bad things.”

“Like suggesting you put a gun to your head, or break my glassware to potentially do harm to yourself? Or walk into the bloody ocean.”

Perhaps Alfie can sense that he’s sinking with every word because he holds him tighter.

“See that’s important, innit? Granted I don’t fucking know your wife, but it seems highly unlikely she’d be so fucking adamant that you hurt yourself. So I think we can safely say whoever keeps pestering you isn’t really her. Does that seem like a reasonable theory?”  

He doesn’t have an answer. Grace, the real Grace, has gotten oddly blurred, the warm, rosy memories faded at the edges. It seems so long ago. And he was different then. Maybe a bit more deserving of her love. No, he never deserved it but at least he wasn’t… this.

The good memories hurt too much. He locked them away, tried to forget. And now it seems like he has.

“It’s my fault. My fault that- that she’s dead“

Alfie’s fingers wind into his hair and tugs it backward until he’s forced to meet his gaze.

“Did you hold the fuckin’ gun, eh? Logic like that is useless once you get into a business like ours. How many times do I have to fuckin tell you?”

“I might as well-“

“Don’t argue with me. See I’m a wise, wise old man, not to mention, a quite recently instated God. I’d be deeply hurt and offended if you decided to not treat my advice and wisdom with the utmost respect.”

“There are others,” Tommy says, still having to tear the words from throat to get them out. Alfie hums. Allows him to hide in his shirt again.  

“Suppose it’s hard, having so many people in your head all the time But, I’d say that all things considered, you probably shouldn’t pay too much attention to what they are saying either.”

“Why?”

“Well, to put it simply, if they tell you to hurt yourself, you shouldn’t fucking listen. Or if they tell you- fucking hell, whatever it is that make you wander off in the middle of the night, or stare into the distance with that horrified look on your face.” Alfie pauses his increasingly agitated monologue and huffs out a harsh breath through his nose. He combs his fingers rhythmically through his hair in the way that always makes Tommy feel as if he could melt. Now, it at least soothes his wracked nerves. Alfie sighs. “Whatever they’re saying it’s not worth listening to.”

“They’re right.”

Grace might’ve loved him, even if he didn’t deserve it. Maybe Lizzie did too. For short while, at least. Before he destroyed that too. There’s something wrong with him, something ugly and black and broken that makes it impossible to love him. Even Ada said so, everything he touches-

Alfie’s eyes glint in the light of the fire as he grasps his chin and nudges his head up. He focuses on the clear one, the one that isn’t a reminder of-

“They don’t fucking matter,” he says, voice sharp. “Fuckin’ ghosts and spectres. They’re not real and they don’t matter, you hear me?”

“It’s hard. Knowing what’s real.”

Alfie nods and guides his head back against his chest, his touch gentle again. His head is cradled in his palm, warm breaths in his hair as he whispers, “This, this is real.”

And with the sound of Alfie’s heartbeat and the crackling fire in his ears, Tommy closes his eyes.

…

The next thing he becomes aware of is that he’s floating. At least it feels like that at first. But he’s anchored in a set of two strong arms, head still propped against a familiar chest. Floorboards creak underneath heavy steps. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re too heavy. Shifts the tiniest bit to bury his face in soft fabric.

“Shh, shh, settle down. Settle down, I’ve got you.”

Alfie hushes him and rocks him ever so slightly, pulling him slowly back into sleep as he’s carried through the house.

The voices and the mud can’t reach him here, in Alfie’s arms.

#Tommy/Alfie #Tommy Shelby #Alfie Solomons #peaky blinder fanfic #breathe again #suicide tw #self harm tw #disordered eating tw

[ineloqueent]

Possessed By Love (Event)

Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader | 1974

a little note: hello @demo-wise​ !! i’m your partner for the possessed by love event. i’ve written this as a reader-insert, because i seem to do all right with those, haha. i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it 🥰  

a massive thank you to @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​​ for hosting such a lovely event!!

synopsis: Roger Taylor had always been your neighbour. And your best friend. Until in 1968 he moved away to London, and the two of you fell out of touch. But 1974 will change it all.

warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking, mentions of smoking

word count: 17k

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

1957-1968

As far as childhoods went, you’d had a pretty normal one.

You remembered summer afternoons going down to the river to swim in whatever clothes you’d muddied when running through the woods earlier, buying ice cream from the corner shop with the loose change your mum had given you for doing the grocery shopping, making up increasingly inventive games to play on boring Sunday afternoons.

You remembered winters walking home from school in the blistering cold; shivering in the threadbare second-hand coat your dad had got you from a garage sale; sitting on Truro’s large, grassy hill to watch the cold light of the stars wheel by above you.

School wasn’t an aptitude of yours, but you made it through, mostly by drinking too much coffee and studying late into the night, alongside your best friend, who did absolutely no studying at all because fortunately for him, he was just one of those people.

A best friend— you’d had one of those too.

It was as good as life got, the times you’d spent with your best friend. If ever there was a soulmate to be had, he would have been yours.

You’d lived in Truro, Cornwall for the whole of your life, but Roger and his family had first moved in when the kindly old lady next door to you had passed away, in 1957.

Like Roger, you were seven years old, so it was really only a matter of time before the two of you struck up a friendship.

When Roger had come across you that first day, you’d been shy, wide-eyed and nervous. He’d been the opposite, bold, energetic, and cheeky in his manners, though his mum was quick to reprimand him if she was anywhere nearby.

And from a young age, he’d been reckless. Hell, from the moment you’d met, he’d been reckless, because he’d spoken to you at all; your classmates had dubbed you a loner.

You’d been playing marbles at the kerbside out the front of your house when he’d first seen you, because it was one of the few games you enjoyed that could be played alone. You liked the precision the game required, to spur the little glass ball across the pavement and have it not roll too far on either side of the larger ball. You also liked the aspect of marbles that involved collecting, because the glass artefacts were pretty, and pretty things to you were what shiny things were to a crow. You supposed this came with growing up poor, though, because when money was tight, pretty things were hard to come by, and for many years of your childhood, you looked forward to the inevitable, but nonetheless exciting, gift of a marble or two on your birthday.

“Can I play?”

You’d looked up and seen a soft-shouldered, blonde-haired boy with sleepy blue eyes, peering at you by the garden gate.

You narrowed your eyes. You were protective of those marbles; they were all you had.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he said, rather politely. As if that would convince you.

But maybe it was actually quite convincing, because you’d never before met a boy your age with manners. All the ones at school simply pulled your hair and called you names.

“Alright,” you said slowly, watching him hawkishly as he opened the gate and crouched down beside you on the path. He reached out for a marble, but you smacked his hand away. “Do you promise?”

“Yeah, I said I promise, didn’t I?” he responded impatiently, and went to pick up the marble.

“Really, really promise?” you stopped him again.

He nodded earnestly. “Really.”

You considered a moment, then sighed and placed a marble in his palm.

He had been careful, as he’d promised.

And you’d been friends from that day on.

As you and Roger grew up, the two of you were practically attached at the hip.

Together, you mastered blowing bubblegum and building bonfires, leaping across the river using the thick rope that hung down from a tree on one side of the bank, making faces at your maths teacher without the old sod noticing, riding bicycles without holding onto the handlebars, racing down the street as your parents in vain called for you to come to tea. And one midwinter evening, your dad and Roger’s had finally given in to your mum’s pleadings to put a gate between your front garden and theirs, because you and Roger were so inseparable that you deigned to jump the fence at least twice a day anyway.

Roger taught you how to pack a punch, and you taught him how to lie with just enough truth mixed into the story to make it sound legitimate. At the age of twelve, you put Roger’s teachings to good use when you broke a boy’s nose for teasing Roger about his “girly voice.” At the age of thirteen, Roger put your teachings to good use when he lied about participating in after school events— to be fair, he did stay after school, but using the music room as a practice space for a band he’d started with a few other boys was probably not what Winifred Taylor had envisioned when her son had said “after school studying.”

Roger was there for everything in your life, both the good and the bad, as well as the utterly embarrassing. He was there the time you won fifty pounds in a writing competition run by the local newspaper, he was there for the passing of your beloved grandmother, he was there for the incident of you wearing white trousers at a time of month when you bloody well shouldn’t have worn white trousers. He snuck you champagne when you happily pocketed your fifty pounds prize money. He held you and let your tears soak his flower-patterned shirt when you cried for your grandmother. He gave you his jeans to change into and spent the rest of the day with his jacket tied around his waist in the semblance of trousers, an action for which he faced multiple detentions from multiple teachers.

To the other boys he was arrogant, to his parents he was lazy, and to the teachers he was “destructively rebellious.” To you, he was the one person who made everything seem like it would be okay, no matter how bleak the circumstance.

The summer you turned eighteen was a pivotal one. Not only was it flooring to realise that you were now a legal adult and could do exactly as you wished, but it was also terrifying to begin to understand the sheer magnitude of things that independence entailed.

You were finishing your last year of school and your final final exams, looking into what to study and where to study it, and it was all very intimidating and rather time consuming.

Roger kept telling you not to worry about it and to just enjoy the summer.

“You’ll work it out,” he’d say. “You always do.”

“Easy for you to say,” you scoffed. “You’ve already got yours worked out.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Roger said as you walked along one stuffy summer evening, scuffing his shoes on the path.

His tone was demure, and you frowned at him, shielding your eyes from the sun with one hand.

“Rog? You said you knew what you were doing, where you were going?”

He flashed you a sad little smile, not like his usual cheeky smirks, and your frown deepened. But then Roger laughed. “‘Course I’ve got it sorted, love. You know me.”

“Wanker,” you shoved him. “Making me worry.”

He only winked. Then he stopped walking. “Hungry?”

You considered a moment. “I’m starved,” you decided.

“Come on, then. Fish and chips by the river?”

You nodded, and you and he meandered down the hill in the sunshine, recalling stories of your  last days as school-children.

Many days were spent like this, walking around Truro, often aimlessly, until something interesting crossed your paths or your parents called your lazy selves back home to help with the washing or the grocery shopping. The washing you would hang whilst having a conversation, because the washing lines of your houses were at about the same spot in your back gardens, so you and Roger could yell over the fence to one another.

Of course, you were seldom trusted with the washing any longer, because the last time you had been given that responsibility, Roger had tired of hanging washing and had instead attempted to sabotage your attempts to do so. The affair had ended with a scolding from your mothers, as though you were both still children, and the two of you scrubbing mud stains out of the same washing that had moments before been clean. As for the grocery shopping, it took forever because you and Roger ambled down the road to the shops, spent forever trying to find the specified items on your mothers’ shopping lists, and took a detour down to the river on the way home.

Really, you and Roger were mostly left to your own devices nowadays.

That summer, and every summer since you had been seven years old, you and Roger passed every waking hour together, even occasionally falling asleep beneath the bowing trees atop the Truro hill.

You spent a lot of time with Roger at his bandmate’s family’s holiday cottage where the band, known as The Reaction, would rehearse. In the three-piece band, which had previously been a five-piece, and even earlier on a six-piece, Roger played the drums and occasionally sang. He claimed he was no good at singing, but that, you knew, was an utter lie. Already at seventeen, he sounded professional, like he’d been taught to sing. But he hadn’t, been taught, that was. His talent was completely natural, and equally as abundant. Without even trying, his voice had that rough-edged rock ’n’ roll quality, and he had a lazy prettiness about him that completed the whole image—  half-lidded eyes, languid smile, golden hair.

He was talented and beautiful.

He was meant to be seen. And you knew that, all too well. He wouldn’t hang about little Truro forever. But you preferred to push such thoughts to the back of your mind.

When you weren’t tapping your foot against the crate you were sitting on at The Reaction’s practice sessions, you were at their gigs, cheering the loudest at the end of their songs and passing your sweaty best-friend a towel or a bottle of water. If you weren’t tagging along with The Reaction, you and Roger were down by the river, or lying in the grass atop the hill.

And marbles. After all these years, the two of you still played marbles. Roger still had yet to beat you at the game.

On one particularly sweltering Sunday afternoon that broke all sorts of records in England’s weather history, you and Roger were sprawled beneath the trees of the hilltop.

You’d been groaning and complaining about the heat for the better part of an hour, and had anyone else been around, they’d have told you to just shut up, but Roger had elected to try and out-complain you.

“It’s never been this hot before,” you said.

Roger grumbled from beside you, an arm slung over his eyes. “It must be the hottest day on Earth. Hotter than the hottest day on Mercury.”

“Hotter than the hottest day on the Sun,” you countered ruefully, a whine in your tone.

Lifting his arm, Roger glanced over at you. “At least,” he said, “it’s not hotter than me.”

“Ha!” you barked. “You wish.”

“D’you wanna bet? My skin is on fucking fire.”

You blinked drowsily. “You look fine to me.”

The corner of Roger’s mouth turned up. “Thanks, darling.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to complaining.

“Is it just me or is the sun closer than normal?”

“It has to be,” Roger mumbled. “It has to be.”

“Do you want to go down to the river? We could go swimming.”

Roger scrunched up his freckled nose. “We’d have to walk there, first. And it’s way too bloody hot to move.”

You gave another sigh of anguish, shifting your legs to prevent them from sticking to the grass. “I think I’ve at this point drained all the water in my body.”

“Me too.” Roger had sat up and was fanning his face with a hand.

“Could probably die of dehydration if I don’t cool down soon.”

“Me too.” He swept the hair back from his forehead, his skin glistening with sweat.

“It’s so hot,” you whined.

“That’s it. I’m finished.”

“What—”

“Nope,” Roger shook his head, cutting you off. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Why would I laugh at you—”

“You literally always laugh at me.”

“Yeah, okay,” you conceded. “But why now, exactly?”

Roger tutted, then raised a finger warningly. “Just this once. Don’t.”

You furrowed your brow in confusion, but then Roger crossed his arms over his torso and pulled his shirt up over his head, tossing it to the side.

You didn’t laugh, because why would you? How could you? You were a little busy trying not to stare at him completely open-mouthed.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him shirtless before— the two of you went swimming all the time and had done since you were children— but somehow this moment flustered you, turned your cheeks even redder with heat than even the sun had been capable of, because he was so undeniably pretty, and now you could not be distracted from that by a splash of river water to the face. Windswept blonde hair with half of it matted against his forehead and cheeks, sleepy blue eyes, lightly-sunkissed skin, shoulders softened but lean from drumming, and a cute little tummy characterised by a spattering of freckles.

Gorgeous.

“You can stop staring at me now.”

You sputtered, “What? I wasn’t—”

A lazy smile curved on his lips as his eyes flicked over you. You felt suddenly short of breath, fighting the urge to shiver at his appraising— was it appraising?— glance.

“No, darling, not at all,” Roger said, lying back on the grass again. “Not at all.”

The rush of blood to your face was almost instantaneous. You considered reprimanding him, but you found that you had nothing to say. Instead, you crossed your arms and turned on your side, away from Roger. You felt suddenly as though you did not want to talk to him at all.

You heard him chuckle, and his fingers brushed your shoulder. The warmth of his touch almost tickled. What was the matter with you?

“Y/N,” he said, his fingertips grazing your shoulder again. You turned over to stop him from touching you a third time. For some reason, it was starting to turn you silly.

“What?” you snapped, willing yourself to maintain eye-contact.

Roger smiled bemusedly, now facing you, lying on his stomach and leaning his chin on his hands. “I was only joking, you know.”

You said nothing.

“About the staring,” he went on with a nod, big blue eyes fixed on your eyes.

Still, you said nothing, as though the air were not thick and his gaze did not move you. But it was and it did. Strangely.

Roger pouted childishly, tilting his head to one side. “Y/N?”

You rolled your eyes. “I know, you idiot.”

He smiled. “There’s my girl,” he said, reaching out to ruffle your hair.

You didn’t manage to lean away in time, and your hair was now sticking to every part of your face.

“Rog-er!”

His smile only broadened.

Until he caught sight of your watch. A pretty thing, it was, brown leather rim, a little round watch face encased in golden metal. But Roger looked at your watch as though it personally were responsible for world hunger.

“Alright?” you said.

Roger hissed through his teeth. “Please tell me it’s not five-fucking-thirty already.”

Puzzled, you glanced at your watch. “Well, you’re out of luck, because it is indeed five-fucking-thirty…”

Roger swore violently and leapt up.

“We were supposed to be down at the hall half an hour ago,” he agonised, throwing his shirt back on, despite the fact that the material clung like plastic to a wet floor.

The Reaction were playing at the City Hall that evening, and soundcheck had started thirty minutes ago.

“Oh shit,” you remembered, sliding your sunglasses back on your head and running after Roger, who was already halfway down the hill.

“God, Roger, slow down!” you yelled as he barely looked both ways before darting across the road. “We’re not going to be any less late if you get yourself killed!”

A woman passing on the street shot you a scandalised glare, as though shouting was now a crime as well. You just stuck your tongue out at her and sprinted after Roger.

“But we might make it before the actual concert starts!” Roger yelled back.

Quite frankly out of breath, you slowed your pace, until you were walking and Roger was disappearing around the street corner.

You huffed. “Well, you won’t have a concert if your manager gets killed, will you?”

You were The Reaction’s manager.

Roger’s blonde head poked back around the corner. “Sorry, you’re right. Always right.” He sighed. “But come on.” He slipped his hand into yours and pulled you with him, still running but now keeping pace with you. He sort of had to keep pace with you, given that he was holding your hand. But that had been his choice.

Finally, the two of you were rushing up the steps to the Hall, and then you were inside.

“‘Bout bloody time!” cried Mike from the stage, throwing up his hands. “Where the hell’ve you been? We can’t play without a drummer and you know it.”

The both of you were breathless at this point, because you’d really sprinted the last stretch to the Hall, but Roger managed, “Hill. Lost track of time.”

Jim laughed, holding onto his bass guitar as though the whole thing were just too funny for him to handle. “Bet you did,” he said, with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. “Pretty girl like Y/N.”

You sneered at Jim.  

Roger told him, “You wouldn’t know a pretty girl if she bit you on the nose.”

“But I’ll bet that one bit you elsewhere than on the nose,” Jim chortled, nudging Mike.

“Shut up, Jim,” said Roger, seething with a rare hostility toward his bandmates.

“What’re you even on about?” you shook your head at Jim’s immaturity.

Mike smiled in amusement. “Look, we all know Jim’s an arse, but really, holding hands? This isn’t primary school. People are bound to jump to conclusions.”

You opened your mouth to repeat your previous question, until Roger dropped your hand, and you realised what Mike had been talking about.

You’d all but entirely forgotten that you were holding Roger’s hand.

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look at you.

He walked over to the stage, and Mike gave him a hand up. Roger picked up his drumsticks from where they lay atop his kit, and sat down.

“Alright?” he called to you, because you were standing motionless at the centre of the empty hall floor.

You flashed him a reassuring smile and he nodded back, but beneath your skin, you felt an unfamiliar flutter.

It’s just Roger, you reminded yourself.

But you didn’t believe you.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

You were at the front of the crowd, though the hall was filled to the brim with guests. There were mostly young people, many of whom you recognised from school, but there were also people your parents’ age, and the even elder generation too.

The buzz before the show was incredible, the anticipation almost cloying in its headiness; you felt drunk on excitement, though you’d drunk nothing at all.

Then the lights were shut off, and Quiet swept her elegant hand over the audience. All eyes were trained upon the single spotlight that flooded the darkness of the stage.

You wrung your hands. You held your breath. It was almost too much.

Then Roger’s airy voice rang out through the silence. “One, two, three, four!”

You smiled.

With a flick of his wrist, Roger began the drum fill that opened the first song, and you could see him nodding his head and mouthing the count under his breath.

The spotlight lit up Mike at the front and Jim off to one side, and The Reaction began.

They were well-liked, and tonight’s audience was energetic and appreciative, clapping and cheering and dancing about. It was a good turnout.

Roger caught your eye and winked. Somehow, at every gig, he always managed to spot you, no matter where you were standing. His attention sent a shiver through you.

The concert flew by, and before you knew it, Mike was announcing, “One for the road?”

The crowd responded with a hearty cheer.

Mike laughed. “Really for the road. This’ll be our last show as The Reaction,” he said.

Your mouth fell open. What?

The crowd responded with an equally hearty boo.

Mike clucked his tongue. “It’s been a pleasure, Truro. Thanks for being home.”

Last show? you thought. Have they had a falling out? What the fuck did I miss?

You couldn’t concentrate for the last song. You couldn’t take it all in. You felt weak-kneed, the ground beneath you prepared to open up and swallow you whole at any given moment.

You didn’t take your eyes off of Roger for the remainder of the show, wondering if it was sadness or guilt that twisted in his face. You decided it was a combination of both, because hell, he should feel guilty for having left you out of this.

You headed for the wings of the stage, and you watched the end of the concert from there, arms folded over your chest.

All the energy seemed to have gone out from you, and if you weren’t mistaken, looking at Roger, it had left him too.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

“Roger, what the hell?” you grabbed his arm as soon as he came offstage.

His expression was one of shock and— yes— guilt.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, twirling a drumstick with an absent hand.

You shook your head. “When were you going to tell me that the band was breaking up? Or were you just not going to tell me until it happened?”

Roger pressed his lips together, glancing down at his shoes. “I was going to tell you, really.”

“When?” you demanded. You could feel the heat rising in your face; you were furious.

Roger sighed, setting his drumsticks down on a crate.  “Come outside.”

You obliged to follow him out the back, but you wouldn’t let him hold the door for you.

Outside, you realised that you shouldn’t have obliged, because this was where everyone was taking their smoke break. You had asthma. The promise of a coughing fit rattled your chest almost instantly.

Roger winced and pulled you away from the smokers, toward the trees around the back of the building. If you hadn’t been so angry, you would’ve appreciated his considerateness, especially because the only reason Roger had yet to take up smoking was because he knew that you, his best friend, wouldn’t have been able to be around him if he did.

Away from the haze by the back door, you squared your shoulders anew and prepared again to scold Roger for having not told you about the breaking up of The Reaction. But he spoke before you could.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

Of all the shocks you’d received thus far that day, this one threw you the most.

“Leaving?” you said. “What do you mean, leaving? After the gig, now, as in we should go home?”

Roger closed his eyes. “No, darling,” he murmured. “I’m leaving Truro. I’m moving away. For school.”

“What?” The word rang in your ears as a dizziness clouded your mind, rattling your thoughts with tremors like earthquakes.

He met your eyes softly. “I’m going to London. I’m going to study to become a dentist.”

“A dentist?” you stammered. Rock-star Roger, off to be a dentist. It just didn’t fit. He was meant for more than that, you knew he was.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

A sinking feeling took up residence in your stomach, and you were acutely aware of a numbness beginning to crawl up your sides and your neck, the wool-thickness of your throat as you tried to swallow.

As easily as pulling teeth, you forced yourself to become coherent. “When are you leaving?”

“After the summer,” Roger said quietly. “The band’s small enough as a three-piece. They can’t play as a two-piece.”

The thought of the band breaking up had barely occurred to you. Sure, The Reaction were good, but they were just... good. What worried you was losing Roger. But you didn’t dare to think about what you would do when your oldest and greatest friend was gone. You couldn’t bear to. It would take too much out of you.

“They wouldn’t last without you, no matter how many people they had,” you said, because the words felt more true to you than anything else in the world. Roger may have been only the drummer— his words— but he was the spark for The Reaction. Without him, playing a gig would be like trying to burn a fire without oxygen. He had an irreplaceable energy, an easy charm, the rock ‘n’ roll voice, and you would have replaced Ringo Starr with Roger any day. Not that you didn’t like the Beatles as they were, but you really couldn’t imagine anyone playing the drums with as much tact, as much rhythm, as much vivacity, as Roger Meddows Taylor.

“Thanks, love,” Roger breathed, sounding as tired as you suddenly felt.

You nodded distractedly. He took your hands in his.

“So what now?” you said, unwilling to articulate the uneasiness that swamped you, but nonetheless trying to convey the feeling to Roger.

Roger smiled another one of those small smiles that were uncommon to his character, and you knew that he saw right through you. He always did.

“We make the most of this summer.”

Tears pooled in your eyes without warning, and you bit your lip to stop them from falling. You stared at Roger unblinkingly, and the sappiness in your heart washed through the entirety of your being.

“I’m going to miss you,” you said, and your voice wavered.

Roger closed his eyes again, almost as though in pain, before he reached out his arms and folded you against his chest.

He whispered into your hair and his words hummed along your warmed skin.

“My darling, I will miss you infinitely more.”

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

You and Roger made a list. A list of all the things you wanted to do before the summer was over. Before Roger left.

It was extensive.

You were going to get up early and go to the hill to see the sun rise, because you hadn’t done that since you were ten.

You were going to go swimming at the river by moonlight, which was a compromise to Roger’s idea of skinny dipping— you’d shut that down immediately.

Roger was going to teach you how to drum, and you were going to teach him how to draw, and he insisted on taking you to some obscure record shop just outside of town, and you insisted that he learn to cook.

You were going to build a house of cards, if Roger didn’t knock it down with his sighs of boredom.

Roger said that the two of you should try to stay awake for twenty-four hours straight, and that you should help him improve his French by learning the language too.

You planned a picnic at the top of the big tree on the Truro hill, where someone had, years ago, nailed planks of wood between the upper tree boughs.

You were going to have breakfast or lunch or dinner in every single fucking place in the centre of Truro.

You were going to develop all the film you had lying around from various years.

You were going to visit your school one last time.

You were going to eat ice cream for breakfast.

And you were going to go swimming for hours every day until Roger’s hair turned white-blonde from the sun.

Most ambitious of all the things on the list, however, was Roger’s intention to beat you at marbles. You knew he never would.

With every summer day that passed, you and Roger scrawled new items on the list, and so, even though you crossed a couple of things off the list each day, a blind man could’ve seen that you would never get to do everything. Not before Roger left.

You realised this on the day you tried to stay awake for twenty-four hours.

You’d ended up in your usual spot on Truro hill, and were both rather giggly from having got no sleep, and from Roger’s suggestion to get drunk to pass the time. Altogether a terrible idea.

“Roger,” you said, laughing for no reason as the long blades of seaglass-coloured grass tickled your skin.

Roger laughed too, tossing his blonde head to catch a brief glimpse of the swarm of fireflies that had been hovering nearby for the past few hours.

“Roger,” you said again. You didn’t laugh, because he finally looked at you, and your heart fluttered at the liquid blue of his eyes. “We’ll never do it all.”

The smile disappeared from his face, and you hated that you were the one to take it away.

“I won’t be gone forever,” he said. “And you can come visit me in London, and I’ll… I’ll come visit you wherever you are!”

“But it won’t be the same,” you murmured sadly.

Roger intertwined his fingers with yours, and he sounded suddenly sober when he spoke. “I know.”

Then, as his thumb ran softly over the back of your hand, you asked what you’d been afraid to ask for weeks. “When are you leaving, exactly?”

He stopped moving his fingers. “The first. Of September.”

You inhaled sharply. “But that’s—”

“The day after tomorrow,” he whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Roger sighed. “For the same reason I didn’t tell you I was leaving in the first place.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t want to leave you.”

As it happened, Roger didn’t learn how to cook, though he did ruin your house of cards. You never made it to every restaurant, cafe, and bar in central Truro. Roger didn’t beat you at marbles.

But you did all the other things. Every single little thing. And Roger’s hair turned white-blonde, so he resembled an angel even more than he had previously, though he was anything but.

And then came September.

It was raining, the first day of the month, as though the rain had sensed your mood and had arrived in a show of solidarity.

He’d said goodbye to his sister, to his parents and yours, to every girl on the street that had ever had a crush on him. Which was all of them, really.

You went with him all the way to the train platform, because he had yet to say goodbye to you. And to let go of your hand.

You’d walked the whole way, taking the scenic route about the landmarks of the memories of where you’d grown up together.

To Roger, you pointed out all the places you’d waited for him when he’d been running late to some rendezvous or another, and to you Roger pointed out all the places he and his various bands had over the years tried (and usually failed) to book gigs.

You talked. You laughed. You tried not to think. If you let yourself think, you would only think about where the end of this walk would take you. And you knew that the end would take you much farther than memory lane, beyond it and into a bleak future. A future without your best friend.

The light was fading from the sky when the train and its cars rattled into the station, and Roger set down his suitcase. He had gone quiet over the last few minutes.

It baffled you how easily he could pack up and just leave, but nonetheless, there he stood on the platform, with his favourite velvety jacket and one tanned-leather suitcase.

He pulled you into a hug.

You buried your nose in his shoulder.

“You’ll write, won’t you?” you said.

“Every week,” he promised.

“And you won’t forget about me?”

Roger laughed softly. “How could I forget you, the girl I couldn’t beat at fucking marbles.”

You barked a laugh, but it came out as more of a sob.

“Hey, hey sweetheart,” Roger murmured, pulling you off of his shoulder to brush the hair from your eyes. “Don’t cry, love.”

“How d’you expect me not to do that?” you said, your voice sounding small and pathetic.

Roger had no smart remark, no cheeky innuendo or quick response. “I’m going to go before I start too.”

You scoffed. “The only time I’ve ever seen you cry was when you were eight and scraped your skin raw on that rock by the river.”

The rock had been slippery, and Roger had slipped. There’d been blood for days, hips and elbows and knees scraped clean, bones broken and skin badly bruised. Luckily, the water where Roger had fallen in had not been deep, and you’d managed to get him out of the river, and home as well, where you’d lied to your parents, saying that he’d fallen off his bike. They never would have let you go back to the river on your own if you’d told them the truth. But that river was your favourite place in the world, and Roger’s too. He’d always said so.

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about that,” he said with a grimace. “I’ll miss that stupid bloody river, even for all the trouble it’s got me into.”

You laughed again.

You’d miss Roger making you laugh, even when it was through tears. All the better when it was through tears; that he could do that was just one of the many reasons why you loved him.

You loved him and his smile, and his stupidly pretty hair and wide eyes, and his insolence and his childishness, and how he knew what you were thinking at any given moment. You loved how he made you feel, like you didn’t need to be anyone in particular, but just that you, and you alone, were enough.

“I love you.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, you really hadn’t. You didn’t want to be that person, giving the other something to hold onto, to hold them back. You didn’t want to be another girl in love with Roger, just one in a hundred. But you weren’t in love. You just loved him.

Or that was what you told yourself anyway.

You changed your mind when Roger’s hand came to rest on your cheek. The world around you spun slowly; it felt suspended in time.

You were in love with him.

Roger leaned forward and his lovely eyelashes fluttered closed.

Your breath hitched and you fell utterly motionless.

Then, ever so gently, he pressed a kiss to your lips. Closed-mouthed and soft, it was still enough to turn your strength watery and your skin alight as his fingertips pressed along your jaw.

And that it was Roger kissing you— it thrilled you, terrified you in equal amounts.

Still, as he pulled back, you gravitated toward him. You wanted to keep his mouth on yours, make your breath his, make him melt as he had made you melt.

But when he dropped his hand, he made no acknowledgement of what he had just done.

Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave don’t—

“I have to go,” he said, tenderness forgotten by all but the quietness of his tone.

You nodded mutely, squeezed his hand one last time.

Then you were wiping your tears away, alone on the platform, and hours had passed since Roger had left you standing there. But you couldn’t remember a single one of them.

All you remembered was him.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

1968-1974

It saddened you deeply, but the fact was, it hadn’t taken long to fall out of contact.

Roger had called every now and then, and had written every week, precisely as he had promised.

And you’d written back.

But it was difficult, when he was off in London, such a lively and interesting place, and you were back in ol’ Cornwall. Everything you had to say paled in comparison with what he wrote. You shouldn’t have wondered if he groaned tiredly each time he received a letter from you.

Yet he wrote back every time, about dentistry and biology and about how it all alternatingly bored or taxed him. But mostly he wrote about music, about his experimenting with guitar and drums, though he had more of an aptitude for the latter than the former.

Then one day, the tone of his letters changed. He’d met some bloke named Brian May, and it sounded like they’d struck up a friendship, and a band. They called themselves ‘Smile’.

You were there to read Roger’s letters when Smile became Queen and Farrokh Bulsara became Freddie Mercury, and when nineteen year-old John Deacon replaced Mike Grose on bass guitar.

But you’d stopped responding to the letters. And so Roger stopped calling.

He kept writing, though. For years.

In 1971, you moved out of Truro, farther south to Falmouth to study at the university there, and your family followed.

You had hoped that the move to Falmouth— to a new city, to begin anew your education, to make new friends— would replenish you. But the truth was, you’d never really been good at new. Everything in your life had always been there— Truro, a school established in 1880, old friends. Well, old friend. You’d never really got around to making more than one. Roger had been all you’d needed. Roger had felt like home.

Truro had stopped feeling like home the day he’d left.

Falmouth had never even had a chance.

By the time you’d mustered the will to respond to Roger’s letters again, the one you sent came right back to you, stamped with Return to Sender.

You’d cried that day.

You’d cried for love lost, for everything you hadn’t had the time to do, for everything you were missing that was happening in your former best friend’s life.

Even three years later, in 1971, one year since the letters had stopped, you weren’t used to living without Roger by your side. You thought of him every day.

At first he had been a voice in your head, remarking on everything you said and did. A snide remark, a tooth-achingly sweet compliment that came from out of nowhere.

It was as though you were possessed.

By 1972, everywhere you went, you thought you saw him, though of course it was never him.

By 1973, though you now thought of Roger only sometimes, little things led back to him. Bubblegum. Bicycles. Poached eggs for breakfast. Train stations, suitcases, ticket stubs and playing cards.

Or perhaps you were haunted.

It was in 1974 that everything changed again.

You saw the advertisement in the paper, and you made your decision.

It was as simple as that.

Queen were to play in Penzance, which, by way of train, was only an hour away from where you lived. So, without hope or agenda, you were going to Penzance, to see Queen play, to see Roger, and his new best friends whom you’d never met.

The allure of seeing him again was simply too great, because fuck it all, six years had gone by and you still could not shake his lopsided smile from your memory.

Having had tea at a local cafe, you arrived alone at Winter Gardens in Penzance at seven o’clock, thirty minutes before the start of the concert.

The venue was small, and yet it was already filling up. Sure, you’d heard of Queen through the occasional newspaper or magazine, and through Roger’s letters, but you weren’t aware that they had such a large following.

The support act was all right, you thought, but to be entirely honest, you had a hard time paying attention. You were distracted, wondering what the headliner would be like.

Six years would have changed the face of your friend, but you hoped you’d still recognise the boy you’d played marbles with. You wondered if he would recognise you, in the crowd, like he used to.

The opener finished their act, and they bowed and departed the scene.

Then Queen took to the stage.

The guitarist, whom you remembered to be named Brian, opened the set with a series of notes harmonised with delay, and the rest of the band entered.

The lead singer Freddie, bassist John, and guitarist Brian were all dressed in flamboyant garb, all loose sleeves and sparkly thread, with dark makeup to highlight their eyes.

But Roger.

No kohl embellished his features. They stood out as it was.

His hair had grown long in the time he’d been away, and the planes of his face had leveled out, cheekbones and jawline sharpened by the evanescence of childhood. Still, the big blue eyes and the slight pout to his mouth remained, and his beauty was staggering.

The music they played was electrifying, and Freddie certainly knew how to manage a crowd. He became the crowd, and he was a magician, the ringleader of a circus, the friend who nudged you at a concert when the band played your favourite song. He played off of the others, and they played off of him. Roger in particular seemed energised by the effervescence of Freddie Mercury, smiling and laughing between singing and playing the drums.

Roger was even better at the drums than you remembered, and you found yourself enraptured by the rhythm he kept, your pulse thrumming in time with the beat.

You were swept away. Your eyes hardly left him.

“Alright, alright, alright!” Freddie cried, and the audience responded in kind. He surveyed the people before him in a flirtatious manner. “You’re all beautiful,” he said. “Thank you for having us here tonight, we’re very pleased about this whole thing. You’ve been lovely, so how about one more?”

A cheer rose from the crowd and you joined in.

“Alright, my lovelies. I’ll let my blondie pal, who I’m sure you’re all very familiar with, probably because he’s flirted with all of you at least once—” here there came another cheer from the audience— “introduce the number. Rogerrrr!”

Roger laughed, shaking the hair out of his eyes. You smiled, remembering when you’d been the one to make him laugh like that, all glowy and soft.

“Ha ha, thanks a lot, Freddie. Anyway, this one’s called ‘Modern Times…”

Roger was looking right at you.

His lips were parted in surprise, his brow furrowed in something that looked to you like anguish.

Hello, he mouthed to you.

Hi, Rog, you mouthed back.

His face broke into a smile.

“This one’s… this one’s called ‘Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll’.” He raised a drumstick and pointed it in your direction. “For you.”

Fondly, you shook your head at him. He really never did stop flirting.

You saw Freddie glance back at Roger with an expression of amusement.

Then Roger hit the drums, and the guitar and bass followed, and Freddie gave a shout to start off the song.

After the final encore had been played, Freddie thanked the crowd once more, Roger waved his drumsticks, Brian raised his guitar, and John took a bow.

If it had been anyone other than those four, you would’ve said that they were being pretentious. But this wasn’t pretentious. This was Queen.

The venue slowly emptied out, but you remained where you were. When the front was clear and there was nothing between you and the low-raised stage, you went to lean against it. You needed a moment to think.

Did you go after Roger now? Or did you just go?

He’d seen you. He’d acknowledged you. But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk to you, catch up, no matter how much you wanted that.

You headed for the door.

“Y/N!”

You turned around, and before you could react, Roger was running forward, and he barrelled straight into you.

He threw his arms around you and held to you tightly, stepping from foot to foot and rocking you gently in his hold. You felt him bury his face in your hair, and a tingly feeling skittered down your spine as his sigh tickled your skin.

You wrapped your arms around him and breathed in his familiar smell— lemon chamomile shampoo to keep his hair bright blonde, coffee with his ridiculous one and three-sevenths sugar, soap and a prickle of sweat.

And something else.

Was it… no, it couldn’t be. Cigarettes.

“Roger, have you started smoking?”

He laughed in an endearingly bright manner, pulling back from the embrace to look at you. “I haven’t seen you for six years and that’s the first thing you say?” He shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a lovely smile.

“I’m sorry,” you laughed with him, and he hugged you again.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Roger said, squeezing you tightly. “How’ve you been?”

“I—”

“Who’s your friend, Rog?”

Freddie Mercury appeared by the door to the backstage, a sly smile on his lips. He’d taken off his makeup and looked quite young in the now brightly-lit room.

Roger let go of you gently as Brian and John arrived on the scene as well.

“It wouldn’t be the legendary Y/N, would it?” asked Brian.

“Legendary?” you snorted.

“Mmh,” John said, “I think it might very well be. We aren’t far from Cornwall, you know.”

Roger rolled his eyes. He gestured to you, his other arm still around your waist and his palm bleeding delightful warmth into your skin.  “Yes, this is Y/N,” he said.

“Nah, I’m just another groupie,” you joked.

Freddie strode forward, extending his hand to you.

“No, you’re not, darling,” he said, shaking your hand with a regal air. “Rog doesn’t look at anyone the way he looks at you.” Freddie winked and you found yourself blushing at his remark.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” you said lamely. You elbowed Roger to ease the tension, hoping you could rely on your old best friend for a reaction. “How many have you had?”

“Hey!” Roger pouted and rubbed his side. “Six years, and you just elbow me right in the ribs.”

He really wouldn’t let go of those six years.

“Like old times,” you said.

Roger practically beamed at that, and you wondered if really he had missed you as much as you had missed him. “Oh, we’ve got so much to catch up on,” he said animatedly. “But first, meet the other two sods I work with.”

Brian and John exchanged a glance.

“Rude,” Brian sniffed. He came over to shake your hand as well. “I’m Brian.”

“I actually knew that,” you smiled, “Rog sent me letters for a while.”

“Ah, so you were the one he was writing to,” Brian quirked an eyebrow.

“You’re a bit slow on the uptake, dear,” Freddie said.

Brian sighed. “Thanks, Fred.”

“Then I suppose you know I’m John,” said he, greeting you with a friendly smile to accompany his handshake.

“Yes,” you nodded, returning the smile.

“We call him Deacy, though,” Roger, who still had his arm around you, added.

You turned your head to look at him. “I know, Rog.”

Roger smiled at you again and your skin warmed. “Yeah, I suppose I wrote that to you.” Then he said softly, “Why’d we ever stop writing?”

You’d told yourself it was the mix up of addresses, but really, it was a bit more than that, wasn’t it? After all, you might have tried getting a hold of Roger’s parents and getting his new address from them.

Freddie interrupted by clearing his throat, and you were honestly quite grateful for it, because with the way Roger had been gazing at you just then, all soft-eyed and sweet, you might have been tempted to kiss him.

“That’s a conversation for another time, darlings,” Freddie said. “We’re going to the pub for a drink. Would you like to come, Y/N?”

You tore your eyes away from Roger, only to glance at him again to see if he was okay with you tagging along. You took his smile as a yes.

“Oh, uh... Yes, I’ll come,” you said.

“Excellent!” Freddie exclaimed, and Brian and Deacy followed him out the door.

You started after them, but Roger pulled you back. “I really have missed you,” he said earnestly.

You couldn’t keep the smile from your face.

“I’ve missed you too, Rog.”

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Roger, of course, remembered your drink order and brought it to you from the bar. He also wouldn’t let you pay for it, because he insisted his income was far more than yours, which was probably an understatement.

“So,” Brian said, “Y/N, what’re you studying at uni?”

A collective groan came from the others.

“What?” Brian asked.

“Darling, the poor girl does not want to talk about uni,” Freddie put an arm around Brian’s shoulders. “Do you really think she’s hanging out with us for boring adult-talk?”

Brian frowned.

You laughed. Brian seemed to you the kind of person who actually thoroughly enjoyed a life of research and studying; it probably hadn’t occurred to him that discussing one’s major was a staple boring-topic, one that was only brought up when there was absolutely nothing else to talk about.

“It’s fine,” you waved Freddie off. “I’m a history major. Specialising in World War Two.”

Brian tipped his glass toward you. “See, now that’s impressive. I could never remember all those people and all those dates.”

“He was a science major,” said Roger in an aside to you, leaning his shoulder against yours. You leaned into his touch.

“Astrophysics, actually,” Brian corrected him, and you saw John— Deacy— roll his eyes.

“What about you two, Freddie, Deacy?” you inquired.

“You don’t want to ask about mine?” Roger smirked.

You shrugged. “Dentistry. Switched to biology.”

He smiled slowly. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” you said, and if it was even possible, Roger’s eyes softened. He was still the boy you’d loved six years ago, and it was as though no time had passed at all. Your dynamic with him was exactly the same as it had been for the whole of your life. Your heart still lost its pattern when he touched your hand.

“I studied electrical engineering,” Deacy said, as Freddie gave a little ahem, and you realised that you’d just spent a good many seconds gazing at Roger.

“Oh,” you said, feeling your skin pinken slightly. “How, um, interesting.”

Deacy chuckled. “The usual response.”

“Oh no, you must get that all the time, I’m sorry,” you stammered, “I’m not entirely sure about the specifics of electrical engineering—”

“And they would bore you to death, darling,” Freddie interjected. “It’s all far too technical. But for some perspective, Deacy here built his own amp from something he found in a tip.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Did you really?”

John nodded humbly, but you could see that he was really rather pleased. Fair enough, too. His sound at the concert had been excellent.

“Freddie did art,” Roger continued. “He designed our logo, for Queen.”

“Wow,” you said.

Freddie pulled a black sketchbook from out of nowhere. He flipped it open to a specific page, which had been opened to rather often, going by the creases down the spine of the sketchbook, and pointed a carefully manicured fingernail to the paper.

“There. It’s made up of our star signs.”

Freddie proceeded to explain in detail how he’d gotten the idea for and designed the logo.

“We’re all impressive, really,” said Roger, voicing your exact thoughts.

You laughed, “Not to mention you’re rockstars.”

“We’ve definitely got something to fall back on if it all goes wrong,” Brian said, to which Freddie made a face.

“It won’t go wrong, though,” you said. “Look at how far you’ve already made it. It’s brilliant! Queen’s brilliant!”

Freddie laughed delightedly. “Oh, I like you,” he said.

“Could it be that Rog has finally improved his taste in women?” wondered Brian with a grin.

John was smiling too. “Yes, I think you should hang around us more often, Y/N. Bit of an ego boost, you know.”

“Like we need an ego boost,” Roger scoffed. “We bloody well named ourselves Queen. And besides,” he went on, hugging you to his side, “Y/N’s been around me forever. You just had the misfortune of waiting so long to meet her.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What is it you want, Roger? You’re never this nice unless you want something.”

Freddie let out a cackle, and Brian choked on his beer as Deacy laughed.

On the other side of the table, moments later, Brian was still having trouble breathing, so John ran to get a glass of water while Freddie thumped him on the back.

But Roger turned to you.

“I want you in my life again,” he said quietly.

Your heart stuttered.

You wanted that too, desperately.

But how could you be in his life again when you had your education to think of, and he had Queen? Hell, you wouldn’t even have time to properly catch up before he and the others moved onto the next concert location.

“At least for the next few days.” His voice was so wistful. “Please?”

You’d only brought with you the clothes you were wearing, the crossbody bag that hung against your hip. You’d booked a return ticket on the nighttrain. You would miss that train, waste that money. You would miss classes at uni.

But the please had done it. For all his cheek and flirtations, Roger was still the first boy who’d even been properly polite to you, without wanting anything in return.

You nodded slowly. “I can take off a few days. But you’ll have to lend me some clothes or something, because I didn’t—”

“Oh, not to worry,” he said, waving a hand. “You always wore that flower print shirt of mine far better than I did, anyway.” He had the gall to wink at you, and your stomach dropped to your toes.

Before you could pretend not to be flustered, Deacy returned with Brian’s glass of water, and Freddie gave a sigh of relief.

“Well thank goodness for you, darling,” he said to John. “I think he’s hacked his throat raw.”

Brian did look rather pink in the face, but at least he’d stopped coughing.

He sipped his water gingerly, then muttered, “I think I’d like to go home, now.”

“Can’t go home, dearie,” said Freddie. “We’re on tour!”

Roger glanced at his watch. “One o’clock. I think it’s past your bedtime, Brian,” he chuckled.

Deacy laughed. Brian looked miserable.

Freddie shook his head. “Hotel, anyone?”

Roger nodded. “Early start and all that.”

As the five of you filed out the door, you bit your lip. You had no idea as to what hotel they were staying at, and you hoped you could afford a room there.

“Where is it you’re staying?” you asked casually.

“Oh, just down the road,” said Roger.

“Only place for miles, so not much choice, y’know,” Deacy smiled.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Freddie patted Deacy’s shoulder. “He’s too used to the glamorous life. Likes making choices. No fun when he’s got none to make.”

Freddie led the way down the boulevard.

The hotel didn’t look too fancy, so you felt a little better as the four of them picked up keys to their rooms, having provided some ridiculous fake names. They then waited for you patiently at the side of the lobby, conversing with some of the roadies who had also returned back from the pub.

“Hi,” you said, approaching the front desk, “a single room for one night, please.”

The lady at the front desk winced, but in a rather apathetic manner. “Ah, sorry,” she said, not sounding in the least bit apologetic. She wrinkled her long nose as she peered at you. “No vacancies for tonight.”

Your skin felt suddenly clammy.

This was the only hotel for miles. John had said so.

You swallowed, your throat constricting. “Okay, well, thanks anyway.”

You turned away before desk-lady could pick up on your terror and revel in it. She seemed the kind of person who would enjoy turning someone away just for the feeling of authority that came with it. Or maybe that was just your spite talking.

What were you going to do? There was nowhere to go for the night. And you’d have missed that train by now, so there wasn’t even the chance of going home tonight and simply meeting up with Queen at their next rendezvous.

You felt like again like the nervous child you’d once been as you made your way over to the group.

“Hey,” you said quietly, your fingers curling around Roger’s sleeve.

“Hi gorgeous,” he smiled. “Desk lady wasn’t too mean to you, was she? She can be a bit uptight sometimes. Think all she needs a really good shag—”

“Um, Rog,” you cut him off, “there were no vacancies.”

“Oh,” Roger frowned. “Well, not to worry. You can stay with me.”

Relief rushed out of you in a breath.

“Thank you,” you murmured, feeling silly for having even worried.

Roger shrugged. “How shit of a friend would I have to be to just tell you to get lost?”

A smile found its way to your lips. You were back to being friends.

“Everything alright?” Freddie joined you and Roger.

“Perfectly. Well, more or less, anyway,” he amended. “They had no vacancies, but Y/N will just stay with me instead.”

Mischief glittered in Freddie’s eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Have fun, dears.”

He was up the stairs to the next floor before you could correct him.

Brian looked over. “Did Freddie just say ‘have fun’?”

You blushed, “Yeah, well, he didn’t, um…” You gestured between you and Roger. “I mean, we’re not—”

You looked to Roger to see if he would help you out, but he just stood there, his arms crossed and a little smile playing on his lips.

“Of course not,” said Brian, but he was grinning.

“Roger!” Deacy called.

Roger turned.

“Use protection,” John said pointedly.

Roger rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, all of you. Come on, Y/N, let’s get away from these idiots.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply followed Roger.

You let him guide you up the stairs and toward his room, his hand pressing softly against the small of your back.

You normally hated anyone touching your back— it felt too intimate, a violation of personal space— but growing up with Roger, the two of you had pushed and shoved each other at any given moment, into the river, off of the fence you were sitting on, down a hallway, and so Roger’s fingers on your back were familiar. Though of course his touch was now gentle in place of forceful.

Gentle.

You stiffened thinking about the weight of his palm on your skin, quite forgetting to breathe, then attempted to right your inhale-exhale without him noticing that anything was off.

But he noticed, as his hand dropped from your back so that he could unlock the hotel room door.

“Alright, love?” he said.

“Yeah, fine,” you loosed a breath carefully.

Roger smiled bemusedly, then held the door open for you. “Welcome to my humble, one-night abode,” he said.

“Thank you,” you responded courteously, and went inside.

You surveyed the room.

A shiny, new-looking television, an ample wooden wardrobe, a door that presumably led to a connecting bathroom, an armchair with bright orange upholstery, a few plastic plants, Roger’s open luggage tossed to the floor on one side of the room, the wallpaper and floor unstained, and a double bed. Not too shabby for a gig-night stop off.

A bed. As in a singular noun. One.

Roger shut the door behind you.

He caught sight of your face, the barely-concealed nervousness that skittered behind your eyes.

“Ah. Yes,” he said slowly. “One bed. Sorry about that. I’ll just take some cushions and the floor—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” you told him. “You’ve been out all day, and what with the concert and all, you must be exhausted. You always were, back home.”

Your rambling gave way to quiet as the both of you slipped into silent reminiscence about earlier days. “Besides,” you went on, with what you hoped was an easy smile, “we used to share sleeping spaces all the time, when we were younger.”

It was true. Sleeping under the stars atop Truro hill, sleeping in hammocks by the river, sleeping with your head on Roger’s shoulder on the bus back from a school excursion.

“Oh, all the places I fell asleep,” Roger laughed, no doubt talking about his ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time at all. “Right. Do you want to take a shower?”

“Do I smell that awful?”

Roger scoffed. “‘Course not,” he said. “You always smell lovely. Like flowers.”

Once more, you didn’t know what to say to that, so you continued the other half of the conversation. You normally showered in the mornings, but the concert hall had been hot, and you were pretty sure someone had spilled beer on you at one point. You set down your bag and your jumper. “If there’s enough towels, I’ll take a shower.”

Roger nodded. “There’s more in the cupboard under the sink. You go on. I’ll go after.”

You took your shower quickly because the time was already nearing two o’clock in the morning, and Roger still had to take his. You were towel-drying your hair as you walked out of the bathroom, redressed in your day clothes, not wanting to hog the space.

Roger was rifling through his luggage, and upon hearing you re-enter the room, he straightened up and tossed you a washed-out cotton blend t-shirt.

You caught it. “Thanks.”

Roger gave a friendly smile and ruffed your hair as he passed you on his way to the bathroom.

You swapped your shirt quickly, feeling rather uncomfortable about changing in a hotel room that wasn’t your own. You walked over to the bed and pulled the covers out from where they’d been tucked in tightly. Hotels always folded the covers in so bloody tightly. You nearly fell over trying to tug them free.

You settled beneath the duvet, hesitating briefly before slipping off your denim jeans. It was ridiculous, of course— the thought of sleeping in those stiff trousers!— but your stomach roiled with nerves all the same. You’d slept beside Roger before, yes, but at least then you’d been fully dressed, or had been wearing your own pyjamas. This was something else. You could smell the faint aroma of lemon and chamomile which saturated his t-shirt.

Since you could only find one pillow on the bed, you’d taken the cushion from the orange armchair to use for the night, and as you lay your head down, you could hear the muffled sound of Roger singing in the shower.

You smiled to yourself. It was unlikely he realised how much his singing carried through the wall.

You loved his voice. You relished the times he sang in front of you unabashedly, which was rare, because he normally only felt comfortable singing when he was already onstage, drinking in the confidence of a fully fledged performance. But it was different when he sang alone, and sang without accompaniment. It was rawer, a little softer.

The water shut off, and after a few minutes, Roger returned. You felt him sink down beside you.

“Y/N?” he asked quietly, probably wondering if you were already asleep. You were facing away from him, so he couldn’t tell.

You turned your head to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Oh,” he said, and your eyes caught on the little blonde wisps that curled about his face. He looked very young in that moment, and your heart twisted at the rush of old memories. “I was just seeing if you were already asleep.”

“Not anymore,” you joked. “You sing in the shower.”

Roger actually blushed. He never blushed.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You know you’ve got a beautiful voice, idiot.”

He smiled. “Not beautiful, but fairly alright.”

“Beautiful,” you insisted.

Roger smiled with downcast eyes, his hair falling about his face, and the warm light of the room rendering him more boyishly pretty than ever.

God, you wanted to hold him. Wrap him in your arms and hold him close and kiss the top of his head until you both drifted off to sleep.

“Right,” he said, “we’d better get some sleep. Off again tomorrow, early.”

You nodded silently.

Roger got beneath the covers and switched off the lamp.

You heard him sigh as he settled down, his muscles likely aching from the show. You’d often massaged his shoulders after The Reaction’s gigs.

The bed was quite small, and Roger practically radiated heat. It was nice, really, because it was late March and the weather was still on the cold side of things. The only problem was that you wanted to shift closer to him.

You startled as Roger’s knee bumped your thigh.

“Oops, sorry sweetheart,” he said, and you tried not to disintegrate as his breath tickled your ear.

“It’s fine,” you responded quietly.

There was silence, and then Roger murmured, “You okay? I’m not hogging the covers, am I?”

If you turned around now, you’d be nose to nose with him.

You released a shuddering breath. “No, no, it’s fine,” you repeated, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and subdue the tingling sensation that hummed along your skin.

“Cold?” Roger spoke again.

You wished he’d shut up and go to sleep so that you could stop thinking about how close he lay to you.

You gave a frustrated huff. “No, I’m fine,” you bit out.

“You’re shivering.”

You were.

“What are you going to do about it,” you said, more in exasperation than as an actual question.

“Well, feel free to kick me off the bed now, but…”

He trailed off, and you were about to ask what he was on about when, tentatively, he wrapped an arm around your waist.

You inhaled sharply.

The material of the t-shirt you wore had ridden up; there was nothing between your skin and his.

“Is that okay?” he asked softly.

You forced yourself to exhale normally, though your heart stuttered in your chest and demanded you breathe at the pace of a sprinter. “Yeah.”

He pulled you closer until your back was flush against his chest and you were close enough to hear his heartbeat.

Slowly, he nestled his nose into your hair, his face resting at the crook of your neck.

You could hardly breathe.

Forget kissing; lying this close to someone, the warmth of their skin flooding yours, the rise and fall of their chest matching your own as they breathed gently, was so intimate.

It was underrated how utterly lovely it was to just lie with someone, all close, with gentle movements and whispered words.

And here you lay with Roger.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The morning came swiftly, because in Roger’s arms, you’d fallen asleep quickly.

The sun crept into the morning sky, seeming almost timid in how its light seeped back into England’s little corner of the world, slowly, as though afraid to wake you.

You turned over carefully, but there were no arms to shift from around you.

As your eyes adjusted to the light, you realised that the curtains were open. Roger was nowhere to be seen, but his suitcase now stood by the door, packed but not closed, and folded clothes lay on the armchair across from the bed.

You sat up slowly, wondering how he could have got up, packed his suitcase, and left the room without you noticing. You must have been very deeply asleep.

You slipped out of bed, touching your toes to the floor with a hiss at the cold of the wood. Crossing the room, you found that a note bearing your name rested atop the clothes on the armchair. Moving the note, you picked up the shirt that lay atop the folded stack. It was orange. Printed with flowers. Roger’s hippie shirt.

You pulled off the shirt you’d slept in and picked up the other.

Just as the door to the room swung open.

You were standing in only your bra and knickers. You gave a cry of alarm.

“Ah,” Roger said, “sorry, sweetheart.”

“Fuck’s sake, Roger!’

“Oh, ‘s alright,” Roger shut the door behind him, “we’ve known each other forever, hey? Not like I haven’t seen you in your bathers before.”

You threw on Roger’s orange shirt hurriedly, fingers fumbling to button the thing up. “I’m not in my bathers, Rog.”

Your back was to him, but you saw him shrug in your peripheral vision, folding his arms as he leaned back against the door. “Same cut, really. No less skin. Besides, it’s not like you’ve got anything to be embarrassed about.”

You’d finally finished with the bloody buttons and were now pulling your jeans back on. “Excuse me?” you said.

“Well, you’re beautiful.”

He said it so simply, like it was a fact, common knowledge, indisputable.

“Beautiful?” you murmured, creases settling between your eyes.

“I guess beautiful is a relative term,” he elaborated, “what with all that ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ stuff, but to me, I mean. To me, you’re beautiful.”

You gaped at him.

You couldn’t believe that you were having this conversation. At the break of dawn on a Sunday morning. And with Roger no less.

“Roger,” you said, because he wasn’t looking at you. He glanced up, eyes wide and questioning, as though it were not out of place to say such things as those which he had said, as though he were not being bold, reckless.

“Why?” you asked, because you couldn’t voice the full thought. Why say this now? Why say it at all?

Roger only pressed his lips together. “You can put your jumper in my suitcase. Take one of my jackets instead. It’s supposed to be colder in Taunton.”

You frowned.

“Just close it when you’re finished. It’s on the heavy side, so I’ll take it down.”

He was gone from the room before you could say another word.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The road to Taunton was three hours long, but Freddie insisted it would pass in a flash.

“We’ve got Scrabble,” he’d said smilingly.

“Scrabble?” you’d asked. “How much time can we really pass with Scrabble?”

Brian had shaken his head at you as he’d got on the bus. “You underestimate the power of wooden lettered tiles in times of need.”

“And you underestimate Freddie’s ability to make up words,” Deacy had added, taking a bite out of what appeared to be a cheese toastie— weird breakfast choice, but okay. You had other things to worry about. Like the fact that Roger couldn’t seem to decide whether the two of you were best friends or arch-nemeses.

You’d begun playing Scrabble with the boys before the bus had even started moving, but unfortunately, Scrabble was a four-person game, so this had required two of you to become a partnership. Roger had volunteered for you and him to be partners, and you’d mutely agreed.

Freddie sat by the window on one side of the bus’ little dining booth, flanked by Deacy. Brian sat across from John and next to Roger, whose side was flush against yours where you inhabited the other window seat.

When he leaned forward to reach for tiles or lay down a word, you felt the shift of his muscles, and before your turns, he’d lean toward you and talk softly in conspiratorial tones. It was difficult to concentrate when he did this, because his breath feathered across your face and his eyes were intent on yours, and the way he murmured his words made your insides flutter.

Really, Freddie was right; the bus rolled into Taunton before hardly any time had passed.

The afternoon was taken up by soundcheck, and when evening came and Queen stood in the wings, ready to go onstage to the already raging cheers, you stood with them.

It was surreal, not only the thought of the size of the crowd that awaited your friend’s band, but how similar it all was to the days when you’d waited in the wings with The Reaction.

The final preparations for showtime were the same. The combination of nerves and excitement that rushed through you was the same. The electricity that seemed to hum beneath each word, every movement, was the same. It was all the same.

An aching sort of nostalgia clawed at your chest, and you turned to your right to see Roger tapping his drumsticks absently against his leg.

He caught your eye and smiled. “Just like old times,” he said.

With his bright blonde hair and wide eyes framed by long lashes, you were again shocked by how young he still looked.

It was all the same.

At least on the surface.

You and Roger were not the people you had once been. The days of hands sticky with melted ice cream, of running about town pretending to be Clint Eastwood in some forgotten Western movie, were long past. No matter how much the thought may have saddened you.

This was real life.

The cheering out beyond the wings reached a crescendo, and Freddie’s face broke into a smile. He winked at you and disappeared into the darkness of the unlit stage.

With a deep breath and a smile exchanged with Brian, Deacy followed Freddie, and Brian followed Deacy.

Roger remained.

“Go,” you told him. “Your subjects await.”

He laughed. “Alright then. Give us a good luck kiss.”

He angled his cheek toward you, and you considered taking his face in your hands and turning his lips toward you, to kiss him properly, at first out of spite, and then find out how many of your sentiments he really shared.

But you didn’t. You had that much self-control, at least.

You pecked his skin gently, and perhaps it was your imagination, but you thought he leaned into your touch.

“See you after the show,” he said, and he was so close to you that you could see freckles beneath his eyes, across the bridge of his nose.

He followed his bandmates into the dark.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Roger

She’d always been with me.

It’d always been the two of us against the rest of the world, and I hoped it would always be.

Still, six years had taken their toll; her eyes were older than when I had last seen her, and by many years more than the time I’d spent apart from her.

Everything had changed.

And yet nothing had at all.

She’d always come to the gigs, no matter what band I happened to be playing in. And I’d always felt about her how I felt about her now.

She was like a ghost, standing in the wings every night, and I was possessed by her. By my love for her.

But who wouldn’t be?

I was as much a fool as anybody else.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The after-show buzz was as strong as the pre-show buzz, and in watching Queen play again, you’d almost forgotten the world around you. You’d been enraptured by the way Freddie’s fingers danced across the piano keys, and how the voices of him, Brian, John, and Roger had melded together, as though they couldn’t have sung off-key had they tried.

Drunk on the lateness of the night, you’d swayed to the music in the wings, and wondered how life might have been different if you had been just another groupie, or if you and Roger had met later in life, under other circumstances.

It was extravagant and strange to be back in his company after so long, so much so that you almost questioned whether you were really there at all, or if you were simply lost in the throes some feverish dream. You wondered what it would be like in a few days, when you returned to the world of going to university and paying rent and cooking your own dinner, draped in the consequences of sleep-deprivation and stripped of the glory you felt in this moment, watching Roger’s hair catch the light like spun gold as he sang with half-lidded eyes. You wondered what you would tell him when he inevitably asked what you’d thought of the performance tonight, because you wouldn’t remember anything but him; you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

They came off of the stage, all glistening with sweat and brilliant smiles. The rush of performing was something felt even by those who simply watched, and so you could only imagine the adrenaline felt by those who actually performed.

“That was a great one!” Brian was saying animatedly.

Deacy grinned, handing off his bass to a roadie. “You didn’t hear me mess up then?”

Brian blinked at him. “You messed up?”

“Fantastic, darlings!” Freddie cried, hugging Roger to his side, to which Roger laughed. “Would anyone have a glass of water for me?”

“Right here,” you passed Freddie a glass, because it’d been filled and was waiting for him.

“Ah, thank you, dear.” He let go of Roger, took the glass from you, and swallowed the water in a single gulp.

“Hi Roger,” said a sultry voice from your right, and you turned to find a long-legged brunette winking at him.

“Hello Janey,” Roger responded, his tone velvety. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You’d think I came to these shows for you,” said Janey, toying with the hem of her skirt.

You could have gagged.

What kind of name was Janey, anyway? What was wrong with good old Jane?

Why was Roger even interested in her? Anyone with two eyes could see that she’d turn out to be a double-crossing, press-whispering, inarticulate, brainless little—

“Y/N?” Brian was at your shoulder. “Alright?”

You shook your head. “It’s fine. Nothing.”

“If you say so,” said Deacy. He glanced between you and Roger, then turned away and walked toward the back door where a roadie was ushering both band and crew out.

You followed the others, trying not to think about Roger still talking with Janey behind you.

But then he called, “Y/N, wait up, will you?” and you heard him jog to catch you.

“Thought you were busy talking to Janey,” you drawled the name in the same tone he’d spoken it.

“Time to go, though, isn’t it?” he asked. He slung an arm around your shoulders as you walked, and leaned his head against yours. You didn’t object. “So... how were we?” he asked.

You hadn’t expected the question so soon, but here it was, and you hadn’t anything to say.

You tipped your head against his and told him the truth. “I’d say you were wonderful, but I’m honestly not quite sure. It felt like a dream.”

Roger laughed. “Hear that, Fred? She says it felt like a dream.”

Freddie smiled at you over his shoulder. “You’ve yet to wake up, it seems.”

“Losing sleep, are we?” Roger ruffled your hair with gentle fingers. “That’d have to be my fault, then.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you sleep on the floor,” you said, and he scoffed.

“Maybe I should, tonight.”

“Don’t,” you murmured.

He stopped walking. A frown creased his pretty mouth as he took your hands in his.

“Sweetheart? What’s the matter?”

His gaze was almost mournful.

You had to tell him how you felt sometime. Why not now? What had you left to lose?

You swallowed, glanced down at your feet.

“Roger, I’m—”

“ROGER!”

You both turned toward the sound, and before you could register what was happening, you were swarmed by a pack of teenage girls.

You swore under your breath, but Roger slipped into an easy smile, squeezed your hand before dropping it.

There were about fifteen girls, and they were all baying for his attention, for an autograph, for a single glance at him, and each was more aggressive than the next. You were elbowed in the ribs more than once.

“Hello, girls,” Roger purred. “Has anyone got a pen? Otherwise signing things might be hard.” He gave a chuckle and practically every one of them swooned.

You didn’t blame them.

As they each fumbled to be the first to hand him a pen, Roger’s fingers encircled your wrist.

His lips brushed your ear as he murmured, “Go back to the hotel with the others before the press get here too. I’ll see you later.”

Your skin prickled at his touch, but you managed to nod. You slipped away from the crowd before it could swallow you anymore wholly than it already had.

Back at the hotel, you sat around in Freddie’s hotel suite as he, Brian, John, and a handful of roadies drank and played the day’s final game of Death Scrabble to unwind from the show.

You kept glancing at the clock, but eventually, at a quarter to one, when Roger still had not made a reappearance, you said goodnight to Freddie, Deacy, and Brian, and headed to your— Roger’s— hotel room.

It hadn’t even occurred to you to book a second room, and now the lobby was closed for the night, so you opened Roger’s suitcase, pulled on the t-shirt he had lent you the previous night, and crawled under the covers to the sound of rain lashing against the window.

Despite the late hour, you couldn’t sleep.

Where was Roger? What was taking him so long?

Probably off with some groupie, your mind offered unhelpfully.

But then you heard the door unlock, and light spilled briefly into the room before the door was shut once more.

You must have been closer to unconsciousness than you’d thought, because your eyes felt heavy with sleep when you opened them to find Roger silhouetted in the darkness.

Now that he was actually here, you didn’t feel up to talking to him. You opted to pretend that you were already asleep.

Still, you didn’t push him away as you felt his arms settle around you, his lips ghost the skin of your neck. You shifted closer, because this was Roger. He was the closest you’d ever get to feeling you were home again, back in the sun-saturated summers of your childhood where the sky was wide and forever, and the future was unwritten.

And where you didn’t have to miss him when he was gone.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Again, you awoke to an empty bed.

But this time, his suitcase wasn’t even there. Just a folded set of clothes remained, your name written on a note in Roger’s elegant scroll.

You crumpled up the note and dressed in a huff.

Downstairs, you found Freddie and Roger having coffee in the hotel dining room.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Freddie said pleasantly.

“Morning, Freddie.”

Roger smiled and got up from his chair, walking toward you as though to embrace you. As though he had any right. “Good morning, sweetheart—”

“Don’t call me that when you don’t mean it,” you ducked out of his grasp, made for the coffee pot on the table on the opposite side of the room.

Roger’s brow furrowed as he followed you. “What makes you think I don’t mean it?”

The coffee pot was empty. Just what you needed right now.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’d call any random girl who asked for your autograph the same thing without a second thought.”

You saw Freddie’s eyes widen— you’d spoken loud enough for the whole world to hear— and he sipped his coffee, trying to give the impression of being oblivious to your conversation with Roger. He wasn’t at all convincing.

“I’ve never called any one of them sweetheart,” Roger said, his voice surprisingly level in response to your anger. In your peripheral vision, Freddie glanced up from his coffee as though to gauge your reaction.

You reached for the teapot, and found that that was empty as well. Your frustration brimmed and flooded into your words.

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “Love, darling, dear, babe, sweetheart—”

“No,” said Roger firmly. He touched your hand, his fingers skimming your pulse. “Never sweetheart. That’s yours.”

Your anger was momentarily stilled by the look in his eyes, the earnesty he exuded.

Just yesterday, on the bus, between rounds of Scrabble, you and Roger had talked and laughed about the old days, as Roger called it, recalling afternoons by the river, nights on the hill, mornings traipsing home through empty streets before the rest of the world had awoken.

They felt like another life, those memories, sometimes so much that you wondered whether you’d lived them at all.

You needed Roger to ground you.

But you couldn’t figure him out.

Spending the nights with his arms wrapped around you, leaving wordlessly in the morning. Kissing your cheek before shows, flirting with groupies afterward. None of it made any sense.

“Let go of me,” you said quietly, because Brian and John had entered the room and were openly staring at your exchange with Roger. You saw Freddie trying to make them pretend like nothing was happening, but he only ended up confusing them more, to the point where Brian asked what in the world was going on, and Freddie fell back in his chair exasperatedly.

Roger let go of you.

You brushed yourself off as though you’d taken a fall.

You had, in a way. But that hadn’t been now. You’d fallen ages ago. For someone you couldn’t have.

And yet, everything about him possessed you.

You felt dizzy. You needed to get out of this room.

“I’ll be on the bus.”

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

“Home,” Deacy had said happily as the bus entered the outskirts of London. The others had nodded in agreement.

Even Roger.

No, you fought the urge to shout, Cornwall is your home. Don’t you remember?

Home had never felt so far away.

Freddie was overly nice to you, as though he sensed you wilting beneath the weight of your inner turmoil. He even went as far as to offer to take you shopping, right before soundcheck.

But Queen were performing at the Rainbow tonight, and as much as you would’ve liked to go shopping with someone as glamorous as Freddie, it would’ve been selfish to say yes and risk him running late to— or god forbid, missing— soundcheck.

You paced around and about the stage as lighting and sound gear were strung up for the show, while Freddie and John bickered with Brian about some song or another. Roger paid them no attention, having dropped out of the conversation at least ten minutes ago, and was instead tapping and twirling his drumsticks idly, across the toms, the cymbals, through the air.

You stopped pacing to watch him, because there was something otherworldly in the way he moved, fluidly but with tact, becoming a part of the rhythm he played.

His eyes were closed, as they often were when he sang, and you could vaguely hear him humming to himself as he tested out a beat.

You folded your arms where you stood, felt a soft smile touch your lips.

Then Roger caught you looking at him.

He winked.

You glanced down, but the smile didn’t fade from your face.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

By that evening, you weren’t sure that you could stand to be in Roger’s company for very much longer.

John and Brian were tuning their guitars while Roger sat around, flicking through Polaroids and trying to decide what to wear. You sat beside him, taking the Polaroids he tossed aside, making him laugh by poking fun at the various facial expressions he wore in each of the pictures, and occasionally handing him back a Polaroid in which you liked the outfit and thought he should reconsider wearing it.

His hair fell over his shoulders in messy waves, and he was biting his lower lip as he went through the pictures. He sat so close that you could see every detail of his face, every freckle and each of the tiny little creases at the corners of his eyes. In reaching for a dropped Polaroid, his fingertips trailed your hip, and he murmured an apology that you barely heard because you were too focused on remembering to breathe.

And presently, dressing room air seemed thicker than the layer of eyeliner presently being applied to Freddie’s eyelids.

“Darling,” Freddie said to Roger as the makeup artist finished her work, “you’re being positively irresponsible. There’s barely ten minutes until showtime. Have you decided what to wear?”

Roger squinted down at two Polaroids he’d narrowed his outfit selection down to. He chose a chocolate from the box that Freddie was passing around, handing the assortment to you without a second thought.

“I mean,” Freddie continued, taking the box from you once you’d finished, sticking two chocolates in his mouth at once, “we’ve all coordinated our outfits, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find something to match.”

Roger held one Polaroid up to the light. But you shook your head.

“No,” you said, curling your fingers lightly around his wrist. “That one.”

“This one?” he asked.

“Mm-hm. Very pretty on you.”

It was. The top was black velvet, but in no world was it plain, because it sparkled with an outrageous dash of gold, and it was paired with similar velvet trousers dotted with little gemstones, like stars.

Roger turned his gaze to you. “You think I’m pretty?” he said softly.

Shivers glanced off of your sides as you met his eyes. “Roger, I’d have to be blind not to.”

And even then, you’d have to lose your hearing as well, because his voice lilted beautifully, like the quiet rush of the ocean in the nighttime.

His lips parted as though he intended to say something, but then he said nothing, only turned his hand, so that his palm settled against yours, and your fingers intertwined with his.

“Roger!” Brian cried. “For god’s sake, get dressed. We’ve got five fucking minutes!”

Roger glared at Brian, but Deacy proceeded to haul him to his feet.

“For once,” said John with a laboured sigh, “I agree. Get dressed.”

“Alright alright, I’ll get dressed,” Roger said, but there was no bite to the supposedly irritated remark. He got up from the sofa the two of you were sharing, letting his fingertips trail along the underside of your wrist before he left you where you were sitting.

Your eyes followed him as he disappeared through the door to the next room.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Queen performed spectacularly, as usual, the fullness of the sound reverberating through the massive speakers positioned on the stage. Out of the three nights you’d seen Queen so far, this was by far their best performance.

And if you hadn’t known Roger so well, you might not have known that anything was wrong.

Queen were as elegant and dramatic as ever, but the camera crew was invasive, the type to sacrifice anything for a perfectly-angled shot, even if they risked disturbing the performers as they did.

But saying they were disruptive was probably an understatement.

They were at Freddie’s side constantly, leaning over Roger’s drums and getting in Brian’s face, blocking Deacy from the audience.

Freddie was talkative this night, trying to keep in touch with the audience by calling out to them and having a mostly one-way conversation, punctuated by cheers and shouts. John hovered close by Freddie, because it appeared that the camera crew were less inclined to obstruct two people at once.

But the interaction was forced. Heat rose to your face in angry waves as you watched the spectacle go on.

Roger’s jaw tightened each time the camera crew took a step closer than the last, and he was hitting his drums more forcefully as the show went on.

And then, Brian snapped a string.

There was a general mass of swearing and exclamations from the crew as Brian ran for the wings, and a second guitar exchanged several hands before reaching him.

Brian hurried back onstage, just as Roger shot a particularly intense glare at a cameraman.

“What’s the matter now?” a roadie was saying to your left.

“Drums are out of tune,” a second roadie winced.

Toward the end of the concert, it was absolute havoc.

Roger was furious. That much was obvious.

You saw him swear violently in the direction away from the microphone. He’d just missed a cue, a cameraman getting between him and Freddie when Freddie had glanced back at him in signal.

“This is a shitshow,” Brian’s guitar tech muttered, pressing a hand over his mouth as though he felt physically ill. He looked a bit pale, to be quite truthful.

“They still sound great,” you assured him, because they did. Even slightly out of tune, Queen were still miles better than any band you’d ever heard before.

But your voice was tight, words spoken through gritted teeth. How was this allowed to happen? The camera crew were completely out of line.

The tech laughed, running his fingers through his hair. “Please tell them that, when they come off stage and start shouting their heads off.”

“You think they will?”

“Judging by the look on Roger’s face, maybe.”

He really did look rather angry, but then you would’ve been too. Presently, just watching the camera crew, you were infuriated. Really, they had a nerve, the way they were carrying on.

A cacophonous crash echoed through the concert hall, and you blinked against the intensity of the stage lights to find Roger throwing a cymbal off the drum risers, kicking in another drum, Brian dashing out of the way and Freddie throwing a protective arm over Deacy when part of the kit sailed toward him.

“What the hell’s got into him?!” someone cried as the lot of you looked on in horror.

“Pullin’ a Keith Moon, ‘e is.”

“What?”

“Drummer for The Who. Don’t you listen to anything other than Led Zeppelin, James?”

The lights were dimmed and Freddie came storming off.

“I want that bloody camera crew out of here, now!” he cried, his voice strained.

“Oye, careful Fred, don’t lose your voice. You’ve still got an encore to go.”

“Damn the encore,” said Brian. “I can’t hear myself play with those tossers going about, and I can usually hear myself play even when Freddie’s shouting in my ear.”

Deacy appeared next. “Roger!” he exclaimed, rather viciously. “You’ll kill me one of these days, and by god, no one’ll thank you for that.” He turned to his tech, “Christ but I nearly lost the lead there. One of those ruddy cameramen tripped over it!”

Roger arrived last, gripping his drumsticks tightly, breathing hard, wisps of his light hair curling over his bright eyes and his flushed cheeks.

He scanned the wings as though looking for something, stopping when he saw you.

“Roger,” you said, “what the hell was that?”

His drumsticks clattered to the ground as he let go of them.

You frowned, but then Roger strode toward you.

“I didn’t mean you,” you backtracked, “I mean the camera crew. Completely unprofessional and just so disruptive and—”

Suddenly, he had his arms around you, and he was kissing you like you were air and he couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t care if you breathed.

You parted your lips against his, and your fingers tangled in his hair the way you’d always done when you were younger, when he was weary or feeling down, only this time you were pulling him closer, closer, breathlessly drinking in the years you’d missed him for, as though you could make up for time by memorising the way he touched you now, fingertips ghosting your sides and trailing shivers down your sides though his hands were warm.

He pulled away but lingered with his forehead against yours, heat prickling from his skin and seeping into your own.

“What—” you stammered, hardly daring to think of how the others around you might have been staring, “what was that for?”

Roger’s breathing was still laboured and rough, but he held you gently, his grip as soft as his mouth had been.

He brushed his nose against yours, his eyelashes fluttering, and you might have sunken to the floor had his arms not been around you; he’d kissed you quite senseless.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Everything. Just needed you.”

“Me?” you whispered, unable to say anything more.

“You, sweetheart.”

Warmth spread through your chest, butterflies beating restless wings in your stomach.

You thought to say something, but you couldn’t think of any words at all, and a smile had broken across your face.

Roger’s eyes flicked to yours, and your smile broadened.

He laughed softly, his hand coming up to caress your cheek affectionately.

“Roger,” Freddie interjected mildly, “we’ve still got a bit of show to do.”

Roger glanced over at Freddie, who, to his credit, looked apologetic.

“Right,” said Roger, and you found Brian and Deacy grinning at you. “Encore, then. Lead the way, Fred.”

Freddie sidled past you with a wink, and John and Brian followed after.

Roger was once again the last to leave, but you thought he had a pretty reasonable excuse, just this once.

Tenderly, he kissed the corner of your mouth, cupping your face in his hands as your eyes slid shut and you pressed closer to him.

“Ah,” he hummed against your lips, “afterwards. You’ll get me all flustered, like this.”

You laughed. “Me, make you flustered? My, I feel powerful.”

“You are,” he said.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The night was old, but the morning was young, for the previous day had just slipped into the next while the team packed up around you and you sat on the rim of the stage, your legs over the edge as Roger lay with his head in your lap.

He had a hand over his eyes, and his countenance was exhausted, but still you combed the hair from his face, trying to ease the tiredness from his being with the delicateness of your touch.

He’d been quiet for a while, but now he wound his fingers around yours, bringing your hand to his mouth to press a kiss to your knuckles.

He’d kissed you many times in the past hour— on your lips, below your eyes, along your jaw, on your nose, on your forehead, across your fingers— but still, something like sparks rushed through you each time.

He reached up to touch your cheek, and you leaned into his palm as he ran his thumb across your skin. His gaze was sleepy-eyed but irrevocably pure, such that you might have described it as adoration, and you gazed back at him with equal temperament, enamoured by the feeling of his eyes on yours.

“I never want to go six years without seeing you again,” he said.

A sadness pierced your heart from the inside, a betrayal of logical thought from within your own mind.

“How can we be sure that doesn’t happen?” you asked quietly, knowing full well how his path diverged from yours.

Roger sat up slowly, taking your face in his hands.

You stared into those big blue eyes, and hoped he had the answers that you did not. Six years was too long, and nor were you willing to risk such a separation again.

“I don’t know, my love,” he whispered. “But we’ll figure it out together. We’ve always done, haven’t we?”

It was true. You’d always been together, and you’d made do with less hope on your side than this, when money was tight or when school was rough or when thoughts about it all kept you sleepless on endless-seeming summer nights.

So you believed him, and you believed yourself when you told him,

“We always will.”

He held you tightly and you lay your head on his shoulder with a placid sigh.

Somewhere, Freddie was laughing at a joke made by John, and the quiet strums of Brian’s acoustic guitar reached your ears.

There was a ceiling and a roof above you, but here, in this moment, in Roger’s arms, the sky was wide and forever. The future was unwritten.

And you were home.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

#tina's writing #possessed by love event #ylmp event #ple #queen #event #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor #fic