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[fabfabanni]

Dungeons & Daddies fic 3/∞ (season 1&2 spoilers)

Part three to my Grant & Marco origins fic. I almost don't hate this :D If you see typos or grammatical errors no you don't, English is my second language gimme a break <3

--

I lean right and ease off the throttle, guiding my motorcycle into Dad’s driveway. The engine hums under me for a moment longer as I come to a halt and I flick the switch to silence it. I find the kickstand with my foot and prop the bike up. The hum of the ride-on lawn mower greets me when I take off my helmet. Next comes Dad’s singing. This is his favourite thing to do on a Saturday morning, belt out Taylor Swift and make funny shapes in the grass with the lawnmower. 

I walk between the house and garage to get to the backyard. It’s small enough it shouldn’t warrant a ride-on mower, but that wasn’t up for discussion. The Craftsman T100 is his prized possession and there’s no way out of it. 

Cupping my mouth with my hands I try to shout and catch his attention. No luck. Soon enough he’ll turn around and see me. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who’s so unbothered by everything. Even when mom left, it just wasn’t a thing. Well, except for him buying the Craftsman. I guess that was his call for help.

Dad turns around and his eyes light up. “Hi there!” he yells through his music. I wave and wait for him to drive to me and take off his headphones. He has a knowing smile that immediately tells me what’s up. Henry has ratted me out.

 I hug him back, and for a moment there’s just silence in my head. But as I let go, the thoughts come flooding back in. Duty. Doom, but not the game, unfortunately.

“Out with it already,” I say. “We both know what you’re thinking so might as well say it.”

He pulls back and smiles. “Don’t know what you are talking about, son.” Dad takes my helmet and walks ahead to open the back door. “Come on in, I have hot coffee on the stove.” 

He makes the absolute worst coffee. It’s dark and bitter, but it’ll keep you up alright. Luckily his skills in front of the grill compensate for what he lacks in the beverage department. Last summer he bought the Ooni pizza oven, no one made a remark it was his and mom’s wedding anniversary, but it was. The pizzas were good, though.

I take my Fortnite mug and cover the coffee with a long slosh of milk. Visiting this house is a mixed bag. In part, I’m glad Dad hasn’t sold my childhood home. There are good memories too, most before Forgotten Realms. Sparse few after. Often I think it might do us some good to move on. But that’s not Dad’s M.O.

“Beef Jerky?” 

I turn to see Dad seated behind the kitchen island, he’s fiddling with a white plastic dome. I file through our texts in my memory, this must be the dehydrator he was talking about.

“I’m good,” I say, and take a seat opposite him.

“How’s work?” he asks.

“No deaths today as of yet.”

“That’s a grim way to look at it,” he says. 

“It’s a grim world you’ve left us,” I counter.

We sit in silence for a moment. It’s hard to remember what life was like when the sky wasn’t red,  and when my phone buzzing in my back pocket was a reminder of a new mod in the game, not coordinates of a new incursion point. 

“So, Henry-,” dad starts.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” I say on top of him. 

He takes a contemplative sip of his coffee. “Isn’t that why you’re here though? You never come in on Saturdays.”

He’s got me there. 

Before I’m forced to come up with a response, the doorbell rings, followed by a rhythmic knock. I’m saved by the bell. While Dad goes to open the door, I check my phone for any new alerts. None. But there are messages from Marco.

I had fun yesterday (Marco)

I’m at D.A.D.D.I.E.S today, promised to be on call for the weekend. (Marco)

Thinking of you (Marco)

I can feel a blush spreading across my face and neck at the last message. I look up from my phone, and all I see is Dad’s back. I think it might be Uncle Ron he’s talking to. I hear the word business mentioned multiple times. I stare at my phone and try to think of a reply. I didn’t altogether hate our time together. Okay, that’s a lie, I actually enjoyed myself a lot. That’s the scariest thing. 

Me too (Grant)

Which part? (Marco)

What? (Grant)

Which part of my messages are you agreeing with? Did you have fun time or are you thinking of me? (Marco)

Both (Grant)

Be still my beating heart (Marco)

I can’t think of an answer before Dad walks back into the kitchen, carrying a case of beer. The side of it reads “Beer on Tap, Pants on Point”. I shrug it off, I gave up following the details of their brewery probably three re-brandings ago. I lower my phone on the table and take a sip of cold coffee. 

“How’s Uncle Ron?” I ask.

“Oh, he’s okay. On his way to open the TBBE for us.”

That’s Dad and Ron’s bar, The Businessman's Beverage Emporium. I’m not sure what’s up with dads and these abbreviations.

“He asked me to say hello, and remind you that riding a motorcycle is not a sound business decision,” Dad continues. We’ve had this discussion before with Dad, and Ron. If he is allowed to buy a horde of machines to cope with his divorce, surely it’s my prerogative to ride nearly 200 miles an hour on the highway with nothing around me to protect me if I crash. When I get pulled over, all I need to do is to show my D.A.D.D.I.E.S badge and I’ll be soon on my way again. 

My phone buzzes on the counter. I ignore it, thinking it’s Marco. When the alert sounds only seconds after I grab my phone. The message is splayed right on my home screen, accompanied by a loud alert that ignores any silent setting on your phone. Dad stands up and fetches my helmet. They’ve been retired from duty for a few years now. It’s all on us now. 

New incursion point located at the D.A.D.D.I.E.S HQ, all agents report to base.

[fabfabanni]

Dungeons & Daddies fic 2/∞ (season 1&2 spoilers)

I see there are a whopping 2 likes on my previous post, which is honestly 2 more than I thought I'd see. To celebrate that, here's part two of my silly Grant&Marco fic. Thanks for the brilliant people in DnDads discord who gave me the inspiration for this one! <3

---

I have a weird feeling about this. To start with, it’s ludicrous I agreed to go on a date. After pulling an all-nighter no less. I had to stop Lark from setting the shooting range on fire on two different occasions. One might think you wouldn’t need to babysit an adult man at his own company. One would be wrong. 

Marco smiles at me from the driver’s seat. I do feel a little bad about how I make him work for it. His words, repeated just a minute ago. He talks, I answer. I should be asking questions, and holding up my part of the conversation. It’s just, I’m fucking tired. Literally and figuratively. 

He drives well, the acceleration is smooth and I can feel him releasing his foot off the gas way before he needs to start braking. Dad would be impressed. Not that he’ll learn about this, date, thing. There’s no reason to get his hopes up over nothing, this thing will crash and burn before we finish the pancakes Marco keeps talking about.

“This is it,” Marco says, pointing a little ways ahead of us. I see the blue text on a white background and scoff loudly before I can reign my reaction in. 

“IHOP, really?” I seriously doubt we’ll even see the menu before this is over. I could be palming a handful of melatonin and crashing on my mattress to the sounds of my rainfall soundtrack right now. 

Marco’s hand settles behind the back of my chair as he parallel parks to a spot right in front of the diner. “It’s not IHOP, not as in International House of Pancakes. The letters stand for something else,” he says. “I forget what they stand for, but I’ve heard this place is all the rage. My friend has been raving about it for weeks.”

Somehow that rings a bell in my mind. I’m not sure why Marco’s explanation is familiar, I do not follow social media. I shrug off the thought and step out of Marco’s car. From the outside, it looks exactly like an IHOP. Maybe I’m being scammed? Now that I think of it, I can’t even recall what Marco’s position is at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. It has to be something important if he has clearance to my floor. Unless he stole a badge, twice since I saw him on Monday too. 

The inside of the restaurant is somehow the opposite of IHOP if that’s possible. Instead of faux leather seats and cheap laminate tables, nearly everything is made of warm, amber-colored wood. Marco greets the host behind a counter covered in moss and greenery. The space smells like fresh air and fruits, a vast difference to my memories of burner grease and lemon-scented cleaning spray. I swear I hear birds singing behind the greenery fixture that covers the whole back wall. 

“Li for two? Right this way,” the host says and takes two wooden menus from the counter. This place is ridiculous. Just the sort of place my uncle-.

“Grant? Is that you?”

I turn in slow motion towards the familiar voice. For a fraction of a second, I consider just leaving Marco here and bolting out of the door. Alas, however bad my reputation is, ditching a perfectly kind man without explanation is where I draw the line. 

“Uncle Henry,” I notice my pitch is higher than usual. Clearing my throat I continue, “What are you doing here?”

Henry wipes his hands on an apron and steps out of the open-concept kitchen. I see he hasn’t gotten rid of his Birkenstocks still. He looks good, not only because he is ridiculously healthy and doesn’t seem to age. He looks happy, too. Content. 

“What am I doing here, you ask?” His voice is bright and a little too loud, like always. “This is my restaurant, I Heart Our Planet. IHOP".” Uncle Henry sounds so proud as he gestures around him. There’s a diminishing, hidden part of me, that feels some kind of way seeing that. 

“That’s what it was!” Marco says behind me. 

Henry’s eyes fixate over my shoulder. I try to think of ways to lie myself out of this. Henry is not known to be subtle, and asking him to keep this a secret feels shitty. 

“Now now, who’s this gentleman?” he asks, with a smirk so wide it should be illegal. 

“Marco Li, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he answers and offers his hand to my uncle. “I’ve heard amazing things about this place, it seems you have something great going on here,” he continues. 

“I like this one,” Henry stage-whispers to me and I want to sink underground. He wraps an arm around both of our shoulders and ushers us towards a booth set up against the greenery wall. The table is unadorned, set with cloth napkins, sturdy-looking silverware and glasses that look like they’ve been made out of the bases of glass bottles. 

“I’ll leave you to peruse the menu,” Henry says as the host hands them over to us. “My favourite is the sunrise,” he points to the top of the menu, “but you boys order whatever you like. It’s on the house! And all plant-based, and very healthy for you of course.” 

Uncle Henry likes to ramble on, I let him. When he finally takes his leave, Marco turns to me and says, “What a funny coincidence this is your uncle’s place.”

“Yeah, funny,” I say.

Marco orders oat-banana pancakes with banana-peanut butter nice-cream and rooibos tea. I might get full on the hyphenations on that order alone. Instead of figuring out something to order for myself, I ask for the same.

“How was the night shift?” Marco asks when the waiter pours us both a glass of water and takes away our menus. 

“It was fine.”

“Don’t want to hear how my night was?” he asks.

“I assume you were sleeping.”

Marco rolls his eyes at me and for some god-forbidden reason, I find that attractive. This must be sleep deprivation. He takes off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt and I see a peek of his stomach over the low table. Now, that is a whole other thing. 

Settling the glasses back on, Marco continues. “Is there something you’d like to talk about? I was never very good at racket sports and this solo tabletop tennis I’m playing is getting a little tiring.”

I huff out an uncomfortable laugh and scratch my neck. The image he is painting of me is not very pretty. “Why did you ask me out then if I’m that insufferable?” I ask. There is no heat to my words, even though the sentiment is there. 

Marco tilts his head and there’s a soft smile forming on his lips. I kind of want to get lost in it. I shouldn’t, but I want to. Everything about this man feels different. He seems sincere, but I can’t quite put a finger on why that is.

“The things I’ve heard about you are not flattering,” he starts. I think my original guess that this date thing will be done before we even get to the pancakes is not that far off. 

He continues, “Still, I can’t help but think there must be more to you than that. I want to get to know the man behind the rough reputation and short surly sentences.” Marco takes a sip of his water and smiles mischievously. “Also, I think you are really fucking cute.”

“Here are your pancakes,” Henry singsongs right next to us, handing over the plates. His voice is even louder than usual if that’s possible. My uncle’s smile is so big it’s a surprise there are no tears at the corners of his lips. As I lift the cloth napkin off the table to make space for the plate, I can’t help but think he must have heard what Marco just said.

[fabfabanni]

Dungeons & Daddies fic 1/∞ (season 1&2 spoilers)

While I'm thinking if I'd like to keep posting fanfic and where I'd like to post it I might as well share it here. The idea is to write a story about how Grant and Marco met between seasons 1 and 2 of the podcast Dungeons & Daddies. This is Grant's POV. Here goes nothing!

--- It feels like I’m waiting for something. As to what that something is, I have no clue. There’s not much to get excited about nowadays. The red glare of the day is turning into a darker burgundy hue, and all around me, people are getting ready to go home. To families, hobbies, to all kinds of happy sappy mundane things. In theory, that sounds nice, something to go home to. Then again that’s another thing that I would turn to ash just by touching it. 

I pay no mind to the scuffling feet of the other Daddians walking past my office. Not until one pair stops at my door. Tips of sturdy-looking leather boots protrude over the threshold. I bet those are good for running-.

“Hi,” the intruder says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I drag my eyes from the boots to look at the man speaking. He’s wearing dark grey cargo trousers and a black henley shirt. Practical. His hair is wild and all over the place like mine, but it’s black as opposed to my reddish brown. 

“You’re making me work for it, huh?” There’s a smile tugging at his lips. I’m surprised when I don’t find it annoying. 

“What?” I ask, clearing my throat when my voice comes out a little hoarse.

“I said hi. Aren’t you going to greet me back?” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, seemingly settling in. 

“Who are you?” I continue my questioning and marvel at the juxtaposition between his calm features and the way he talks. 

His brow raises just a hint before he says, “Oof. Grant that’s cold.” He knows my name. Well of course he knows my name, it’s plastered all around the HQ along with the others. Still, him saying it sounds different.

He pushes off the doorframe. I lean back in my chair and watch his approach.

“My name is Marco. We sat together at lunch on Monday. You had meatballs with a salad which I thought was mighty weird.”

That does ring a bell. I look him over once more, trying to make the connection. Marco stands all calm in front of my desk and lets me do just that. Picking up a pen from my desk, he begins to fiddle with it. 

I talk over the clicks of the pen. “Yeah, now I remember.”

Marco stills. His eyes harden for a fraction of a second before he speaks. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking at him so intently.

“Can I take you out? I’d like to get to know you better,” Marco asks.

Based on his reaction it’s safe to assume I’m gawking at him. 

“I have the night shift,” I say. It’s easier to hide behind duty than to face reality. Not to say that running D.A.D.D.I.E.S is not a huge responsibility. Because it is. But even I have enough self-awareness in this moment to realize what I’m saying is bullshit. 

“Breakfast then? I know a place.” His hands land softly on the desk as he speaks. The pen he’s been clicking rolls over the papers and stills next to my phone. I fix my eyes on it and think what I should do. The issue isn’t that I wouldn’t want to go. The point is I shouldn’t. Too much is happening with the projected incursion points and I can’t be distracted.

“It would be my treat,” Marco continues. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say honestly. 

“Why is that?” 

That catches me off guard. I thought he would take the rejection and back off. That’s how it often goes, this dance. They come and say I have pretty eyes or they ask about my beard. Betting me they can make me smile is a classic too. It’s usually my cue to finish my drink and get out of the bar my dad runs as a hobby with Uncle Ron. 

“I’m not very good company.” There, that should scare him off.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Marco circles the desk and wipes away the reports I was planning to file next. He sits on the desk, bumping his ankles against the wooden side.

“What are you doing?” I ask. With him this close I can see his cargo trousers are well worn, and something is peeking out of the thigh pocket. A book, possibly. He smells comforting somehow, and I hate how much I like that. 

“Are you saying no because you’re not interested?” He makes a show looking me up and down like I did to him. My clothes are the same day in and day out, one decision I’m glad I don’t have to make. At my condo, I have a pile of blue jeans, next to a heap of black t-shirts. I’m like Donald Duck in that sense, but at least I wear pants. My uncle is rich though and he has a weird history with trousers, so I guess the connections don’t end with the lack of variety in my outfits.

“No,” I find myself admitting. “I am. Interested.”

“Good,” Marco muses. “Then it’s settled. I’ll come pick you up in the morning and we’ll go get pancakes.”

He stands up but doesn’t make a move to leave. He’s waiting for me to respond. There’s no urgency in his posture, and I wonder what that must feel like. To be that chill. I am so tightly wound that most of the time it feels like I could burst. I want to study this man and see what he’s made of. See if he really is like the true sunshine we’ve not seen for years, or if all of this is a clever front.

“Fine. But I have a feeling you’ll regret it,” I finally get out.

Marco chuckles, then walks backwards to the door. 

“Good night, Grant,” he murmurs before he disappears to the flow of people going home. It takes me a while to remember what I was doing before he came in. The reports are a mess across my desk, confidential documents I shouldn’t have let him see. 

The thing I find most confusing is why Marco came to me. I’m not going to humour myself and think I have a good reputation at the company. Everyone knows I’ll bite if they get too close. My temper is like a badly trained chihuahua crammed into the body of a tibetan mastiff. Way too much firepower wrapped into something that can do a lot of damage. And damage I have done, enough to know there’s no going back. 

I take my gun and holster from the drawer and fasten it to my hip. Next comes the bulletproof vest. It’s hung under my desk like this is an aeroplane, and putting it on will save my life if we crash. It will not. I pile the handwritten papers messily on top of each other and cram them into the safe. Analog is the only safe way to go about this mission. 

I close the door behind me and go see the whale.