#Anyways the fic will be called “sing songbird” or “please sing for me”

[mahiiimahiiii]

Haven't finished jaal fic... Trading it in for a conductor/musician astarion and his bard girlfriend.

[ceaseless-watchers-special-girl]

I HAVE HAD EEVEE BELL FOR *checks dates* oh shit six days now. damn i took my time with this commentary. BUT STILL IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO HER oh wait. something does happen to her. shit. *cries*

"Thank the Goddess" 👀👀 religion???? in my sci-fi universe??? sounds like something to obsess over for the next three to five business days

"Artificial intelligence that the Solar Planets spent a fortune to perfect. Of course just like with everything else though, Brahma gets left behind in the dust" ough, the solar planets having more resources than the outer rim. especially because of the war. blegh

"Goddess bless our savior New Kinshasa. (EEVEE LAUGHS A BIT HARSHER)" ooh, she's bitter (as is her right) i'm loving it

i'm having so much fun seeing the aftermath of nureyev's little stunt with the reactor core. it makes sense that both brahma and new kinshasa were sent into disarray, but with nureyev's panicking he probably didn't have time to stop and think about how everyone else was reacting to what he did.

soooo... at the time this recording was made, nureyev was still on brahma??? i wonder if any of these characters ever met him...

"And if we fall, New Kinshasa falls with us." AHOGSFLKNIGLWKDSH`OAFKN;

"He doesn’t believe the Revolutionary killed a Constable" that's mag isn't it. why are they calling him a constable??? to villainise nureyev??? because they don't understand what really happened, and they would rather admit to losing a constable than admit to being confused??

"Mark my word, I think my little comms will outlive both of us. If Baird’s lucky it will outlive them." dramatic irony my beloved

"I couldn’t kiss Baird’s head because Charlie had a death grip on his shoulders" OH BLESS THEIR LITTLE COTTON SOCKS (think i just used this exact phrase on zeph's fic but it applies here too)

"We are a proper family. Mom who works too hard, dad who left to get milk and never came back– see? Proper family." lmaooo he's funny

"A man who wasn’t the least bit popular in any particular revolutionary circle. Apparently, he wanted to drop New Kinshasa out of the sky and saw it perfectly fit to kill all of Brahma in the process" glad to know none of them approve of mag. if he was going to destroy brahma with his plan anyway, he might as well have just let the GAS do it's thing. what an absolute bastard.

"they kept pinching each other and trying to not shriek? I think that was the objective?" wtf lol

"BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Memma?" BABY BAIRD!!!! BABY BAIRD!!! AND HE'S A FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY!!! OH MY GOD AHORIEFLGDJ

baird learned to sing because eevee always sang to him... 🥺🥺🥺

"Mom, why are you showing me how to use your comms? Is something going to happen to us? Is something bad going to happen to you?" OH BLESS HIM GOD SOMEONE WRAP HIM UP IN A BLANKET AND PUT HIM SOMEWHERE SAFE

"there once was a boy born on Brahma with nothing. Not even a name" oh fuck yeah storytime.

"He looked down at Brahma from up high, and saw them: his people" i've got chills, jay. chills.

"stared back at the city as it trembled. The boy had the power at his fingertips to stop a tragedy." more chills

"hope bloomed on Brahma. The Boy, The Legend, The Angel of Brahma." i absolutely love this version. it's not how nureyev remembers it, but this is the story that the brahman people tell their children. it's so good. it's so fucking good.

"That’s not a story Memma, that’s history" smartass

"My angel, I must ask you keep singing for me.  How sweet your tune, like a songbird at noon." O' MY LOVER ONCE SANG TO MEEEEEEE, HOW SWEET, THE BITTER TUNE YOU MADE THEM PLEA. MY ANGEL, MY ANGEEEEEEL, PLEASE LET ME GO LET ME FREEEEEE

"Promise me you’ll never stop singing baby" MY ANGEL, MY ANGEL, PLEASE NEVER STOP SINGING FOR MEEEEEEE

"And nothing will" i was so angry at her for like 0.002 seconds and then. i was just sad. she probably didn't want it to be a lie.

"Which button was it to end the recording? Was it this o– SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS" lmaoooo yes it was that one

"must contact Frannie’s friend about both of those names" FUCK YEAH LET'S GET RITA IN THIS FIC I ALWAYS WANT MORE RITA

"Bairdy and Memma… right up there with Charls and Dearest" i'm sobbing why is everyone baird loves taken away from him. why, jay. why.

"Eve loved Baird so much. She reminds me of my mother a bit" oh, calypso.

"there are some things that will be lost to me forever" uhhhh does this mean i don't get to know either??? jay??? c'monnnnn, you'll tell me, right?? please?? 🥺🥺

this was like pulling teeth for you???? i honestly could not tell. i loved it, it provides so much good context and flows so nicely. i loved seeing eevee's perspective on things. rewrite later if you want but i think it's absolutely amazing either way!!!

onto the next part!!! in which i might end up screaming song lyrics at you again. apparently that's what i'm doing to you and zeph this fine sunday morning

Our Angel of Brahma, pt. ix

Travelers. Friends. Mutuals. @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @ananxiousgenz @the-private-eye @demonic-panini @gwenlena

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING BEGINS. MOTHERLY VOICE: I finally got a moment to myself thanks to Eber and Camilla… Thank the Goddess… I don’t know what I would be doing without them. (THE PERSON SIGHS) Where do I begin? I guess… my name would be a good start.  (CLEARING THEIR THROAT) My name is Eevee Bell, and I am one of three to four dozen Dome Wardens on Brahma. Our duty is to perform routine maintenance on the planet’s Dome, track incoming and outgoing shuttles and ships, and monitor Brahma’s severe weather outside the Dome. I love my job. I think I do my job very well. From what I’ve heard about other planets, they have robotics and computers to do this job now. Artificial intelligence that the Solar Planets spent a fortune to perfect. Of course just like with everything else though, Brahma gets left behind in the dust. (EEVEE CHUCKLES UNDER HER BREATH) EEVEE: Goddess bless our savior New Kinshasa. (EEVEE LAUGHS A BIT HARSHER) EEVEE: What happened to us though has been brewing under their noses for some time now. I guess it was only a matter of time before… something was done.  To be honest I’m still not entirely sure what did happen. I know that our alarms went off when the Reactor Core was removed, and I know they stopped going off when the Core was put back. I know that the Chief Constable called all of our stations, and ordered us to go home. I know that we have not gone back to our stations for nearly ten days. I know that if we don’t accept any imports within the next seven days Brahma will begin to suffer. And if we fall, New Kinshasa falls with us.  Cyrus called me while I was rushing to get home to Baird. He asked me how much I knew and after I told him, I asked how much he knew. He said it would be better if he came to speak to me in person. He lives across town with Iris. I told him it wouldn’t be wise to meet up so late, especially with a curfew in place. He disagreed, but I talked enough sense into him that he waited until morning to catch a tram over here to the apartments.  Baird was not enthused to see him. He was rather… indifferent, actually. I know it hurt Cyrus’ feelings, I do plan on talking about it with Baird when I can, but it’s so hard to talk about anything seriously right now. I’d rather keep things as light-hearted as possible.  I sent Baird over to Camilla and Eber’s apartment while I had tea with Cyrus. He looked so worried. He asked me if I saw the Chief Constable’s broadcast about the Revolutionary, Peter Nureyev. I have. I watched it with Baird the night before after I got home from my post. Cyrus said that he doesn’t know of any Peter Nureyevs in any of his revolution circles.  He surprised me by asking me for my thoughts about the Constable they allegedly found murdered by the Revolutionary. I didn’t at the time, and I still don’t now. Cyrus said that he has reason to believe that part was a lie. He doesn’t believe the Revolutionary killed a Constable. He thinks it might be an elaborate lie or cover-up for some more vain truth. (EEVEE INHALES SHARPLY) The revolutionaries are holding a meeting tonight. Cyrus invited me to come. He wants me there. I don’t want to get in trouble, but… I need to keep Cyrus and Baird safe. And by extension, it’s my job to keep Brahma safe.  SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS.

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN. NEW RECORDING BEGINS: EEVEE:  What the fuck! NEW VOICE:  What are you doing? EEVEE:  What am I doing I’m recording you idiot! Cyrus, don’t you see? If what was discussed tonight has any truth to it, New Kinshasa isn’t going to let any of this get out. More than– I bet you my next paycheck that Dark Matters is going to play a role in covering it all up! (CYRUS TRIES TO SHUSH EEVEE) CYRUS:  Alright, alright– you have a point. Keep your voice down alright the streets have ears… You really hope your little comms though is going to play a role in– This? EEVEE: Mark my word, I think my little comms will outlive both of us. If Baird’s lucky it will outlive them.  (CYRUS GROANS. EEVEE GIGGLES) Okay, okay… I attended the meeting– CYRUS: The book club. We went to a late-night book club meeting. What? Don’t give me that look. Plausible deniability, Eve. EEVEE:  Right. The Book Club. We attended Book Club and talked about the climax of a war story. In the story, the main character kills a man with radical ideas to overthrow their government. The man he killed was not popular amongst the rebels. In theory, they should have agreed with him. CYRUS: In practice, however, the rebels do not condone murdering hundreds of thousands of people. Thus the whole unpopular amongst the rebels.  EEVEE:  Of course, word got out about the man’s death, and to cover it up, the government claimed him as an Enforcer. And they were getting away with it because the last clothes the man was found in was a stolen Enforcer uniform.  I don’t know if I believe the rebel or the government’s of the story– CYRUS: Eve– EEVEE: But! But. But I do believe that it was the right call for the rebels to sit back and wait for information to trickle out to them slowly… I think I’ll need to attend the next meeting to really make sure I understand what I’m getting myself into. Oh– I’m so tired. Can we discuss all this in the morning? With hopefully less ears listening in? (CYRUS HUMS AFFIRMATIVELY) CYRUS: I’ll even let you sleep in if you let me crash on your couch.  EEVEE: Of course, I wouldn’t make you walk across town while already breaking our curfew.  CYRUS: Thanks, Eve.  (LONG PAUSE) Baird’s not going to be mad to see me, is he? EEVEE: This late at night? I doubt it. If anything he’s staying over at that Spade’s apartment probably fast asleep with Charlie. Oh, they’re so sweet together. I went to say good night to them one evening and I couldn’t kiss Baird’s head because Charlie had a death grip on his shoulders. He's always polite and entertains all of Baird’s whims… I wish you were around more to see it happen. CYRUS:  You and I both know why that can’t happen.  (BOTH OF THEM SIGH) EEVEE: You know he’s only so pouty around you because you and I split up, right? He just wants us all together again. Like a proper family. CYRUS: We are a proper family. Mom who works too hard, dad who left to get milk and never came back– see? Proper family. (EEVEE LAUGHS CAUSING CYRUS TO LAUGH) UNFAMILIAR VOICE: Hey, state your business and show your credentials. CYRUS: Shit, Constables. Run Eve! SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS. 

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN. RECORDING BEGINS.  (EEVEE WHISPERS) EEVEE: Cyrus and I got away from the Constables last week perfectly fine. This week on Brahma: we went to another revolution meeting. A few old timers took roll call and one of them said he had reason to believe that the person the Angel of Brahma killed was one of theirs. A man who wasn’t the least bit popular in any particular revolutionary circle. Apparently, he wanted to drop New Kinshasa out of the sky and saw it perfectly fit to kill all of Brahma in the process.  (EEVEE SCOFFS) The nerve of some people. No one at the meeting could remember his name though, and no one still knows who Peter Nureyev is outside of the photos projected on every billboard on the planet now. He looks so young. Those dark and haunting eyes and sharp teeth. I find it hard to believe that he’s just a teenager. But– he is.  I’m trying to keep my voice down right now because Baird is asleep. The meeting was held before curfew this time so Cyrus went home to Iris and I walked alone back to the apartment. Eber was waiting for me just outside and before I could say hello he was dragging me down the halls to Hank’s apartment. His dog Missy was sprawled out on the sofa but Hank, Camilla, and Josie were all gathered around the dinner table. Mrs. Darius was upstairs with Talia, Charlie, and Baird. I sat down and told them everything I could.  The revolutionaries wouldn’t let me record anything with my comms during the meeting, but there wasn’t much that I think needed to be recorded. Just talk about who was storing what, who was leaving their doors open to help others. There was a lot of talk about going on strike. Either food or labor. They want to send a message to New Kinshasa. I don’t think I can afford to do much of anything. Me and the other Dome Wardens just went back to work two days ago, we are working through a backlog of off-planet imports and exports still. If I strike alone I’ll just be fired. If all the Wardens strike, then the Constables will take over and that will lead to certain catastrophe. And if I stop eating then Baird will stop eating and he’s already so… short.  Oh– I wish I got a chance to talk to Cyrus before we went our separate ways. He’d help me think of some way I can help. Better yet, he’d probably be able to give the others here at the apartments the answers they wanted from me. Hank didn’t say anything other than telling us to get out. Eber, Camilla, Josie, and I were silent on the walk upstairs. The kids were delighted to see us. Eber walked Talia back down to Hank, Josie was trying to fill in Mrs. Darius, and Camilla and I watched the boys play some sort of game where they kept pinching each other and trying to not shriek? I think that was the objective? Children’s games used to be much less violent when I was that age. I remember when– BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Memma? EEVEE: Bairdy! What are you doing awake? BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): I couldn’t sleep. You were being too loud.  (EEVEE TSKS) EEVEE: Then let’s put you back to bed alright baby? C’mon. I’ll even sing for you if you’d like.  SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS.

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN. NEW RECORDING BEGINS. EEVEE: I have either made the best decision of the revolution that will turn the tides in favor of Brahma, or the worst mistake of my life.  I told the old-timers at this past meeting that I work as a Dome Warden, and that a few of my colleagues seemed interested in joining the rebellion but were uncertain on how to go about it. The old-timers were delighted for a number of reasons and had drawn the same conclusion that I had a few weeks ago when a labor strike was first brought up. They think it would be very good if I was able to get some of the other Wardens on board with the revolution.  Cyrus was very quiet during the meeting. I asked him before we left if he had any opinions he was holding back, and all he said was to trust my gut. So… I trusted my gut. I told the other Wardens at my post about the meetings. I told them about going on strike. A few seemed skeptical. Others wanted to know when the next meeting was. I’m going to contact Cyrus and get him to help me get the others to the next meeting.  I hope… this wasn’t a mistake. I guess time will only tell. SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS.

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS AGAIN. NEW RECORDING BEGINS. EEVEE: –you turned it on. Good job, baby. BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Mom, why are you showing me how to use your comms? Is something going to happen to us? Is something bad going to happen to you?  EEVEE: What? Oh no, baby. Nothing is going to happen to me. I just think you would find more use out of my comms than I would. Look, since you got it to record you can start recording all those little songs you like to sing. Or maybe you can get Charlie to record a story for you.  BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): But Mom, I like your singing and your stories more. Will you sing for me? And tell me a story tonight? EEVEE: Absolutely not. You get one or the other. Take your pick. And whatever you don’t choose, you have to give to me.  (BAIRD POUTS) BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Fine… I want a story from you, and then I’ll give you a song. EEVEE:  Good choice, Bairdy. What kind of story would you like? (BAIRD HUMS) BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): I want a story about Brahma.  EEVEE: A story about Brahma? Well… there once was a boy born on Brahma with nothing. Not even a name. He grew up just like everyone else, hungry for more. More food, more freedom, more time. The boy followed a man who dreamed of dropping the New Kinshasa on top of the planet.  The boy was very tired. Tired of being poor, tired of being hungry, tired of being alone. But he knew, that if he let that man drop New Kinshasa out of the sky, he would never be able to forgive himself. Brahma is his home. He looked down at Brahma from up high, and saw them: his people.  Starving young faces just like his looked up to the sky and stared back at the city as it trembled. The boy had the power at his fingertips to stop a tragedy.  This is it. The people thought. This is how we go out. Not with the big bang, but crushed under the heel of our jailor.  The boy heard their thoughts. He felt a rush of adrenaline and stopped the man from getting away. The city of New Kinshasa never fell out of the sky that day. The people were ordered to retreat to their homes. But that evening, everyone heard about the great threat against the Guardian Angel System. And everyone learned the name Peter Nureyev. And for the first time in the last half-century, hope bloomed on Brahma. The Boy, The Legend, The Angel of Brahma.  BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): That’s not a story Memma, that’s history.  EEVEE: And what is history but a story we have to learn from? Now, I believe you owe me a song. (BAIRD GROANS AND HUFFS) BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Fine… (BAIRD TAKES A DEEP BREATH AND HUMS. THE SOUND GETS CLEARER LIKE HE’S BROUGHT THE COMMS CLOSER) My angel, I must ask you keep singing for me.  How sweet your tune, like a songbird at noon.  What a lovely trill, it makes me feel ill. O’ My heart overflows, I could never let go.  Like chimes in the wind, it must be destined.  I’ll find my way home, with your voice I’ll never be alone. Happy? (EEVEE SNIFFLES) EEVEE: Very. Thank you, Baird. That was beautiful.  (FABRIC RUSTLES, BOTH BAIRD AND EEVEE HUM) Promise me you’ll never stop singing baby. BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Of course, Memma. I don’t think I could even if I tried.  EEVEE: Good. Now– (EEVEE PRESSES A KISS TO BAIRD’S HEAD) Get some sleep. Okay? We have a long day tomorrow. And Bairdy? BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Yes, Mom? EEVEE: You know that I love you, right? BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): To the moons and back, yeah… Mom you promised nothing bad was going to happen to you.  EEVEE:  And nothing will. Good night, Baird.  BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Night Mom.  SOUND: DOOR CLOSING. BAIRD (FUTURE REVOLUTIONARY): Which button was it to end the recording? Was it this o– SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS. 

- EEVEE BELL. BAIRD BELL. must contact Frannie’s friend about both of those names. - Dome Wardens are indeed an old, out of date job. Eve is right, they’ve been replaced with robots. It’s actually kinda scary how right she was about things. About that, about Dark Matters probably covering everything up with New Kinshasa. - Cyrus and Eve sound so fun together. I can see why they got married and had a kid together. - Bairdy and Memma… right up there with Charls and Dearest. - Oh Baird, he was 12 when these recordings were made. 12. Just almost a teenager, not quite. Almost too old to be called a baby. - Eve loved Baird so much. She reminds me of my mother a bit. And she knew exactly what she was doing tucking Baird into bed that final time. There’s no doubt in my mind this is the last recording with her in it. She was taken away after this and never came back. The Dome Wardens did go on strike at some point according to Baird in other recordings, so did someone snitch to a Constable? Did she the Constable that almost caught her and Cyrus track her down? - I think that’s the most frustrating part of my job. No matter how much I dig and research, there are some things that will be lost to me forever.

[dapandapod]

Sing with me

This one is for @jaskierswolf, my last entry for mermay! 

Please enjoy some Jaskier x Mer!Valdo with some fairytale feels to it. Thank you a billion to @kuripon for being my beta! (go give her fics a read too, they are amazing)

Here on Ao3.  Please enjoy.

Lettenhove is beautiful in spring. Buds breaking into leaves, flowers forcing their way out of the frozen ground, the sky clear and blue. Jaskier loves it, and he wishes he could be out and enjoy it. But here he sits, listening to his tutor going on about the great wars of the continent. He used to be interested, but his new tutor is a right bore. He is never allowed to ask questions, or move about. And Jaskier is nine, he wants to move a lot.

What makes it better though, is the view. The room the tutor claimed for their studies has a view of the bay below. It lies undisturbed, the harbor being built in safer water with far less protruding rocks. If Jaskier focuses really hard, he can hear singing from down there.

 He shuts his eyes real hard, ignoring the howling wind, ignoring his whining tutor, and focuses on the splash of waves and rich voices harmonizing along the cliffs, bouncing off the stone. It earns him a slap on the wrists most times he is caught, but it is worth it. Sometimes he sneaks into the classroom after bedtime. He sits down in the alcove in front of the window and opens it. Propped up on his elbows, he looks down below, the height making the underside of his feet tickle, and the wind is blowing gently in his bangs. More than once he falls asleep there, lulled by the singing below and the splashing of waves.

 One day he will go down there and meet them. The sirens.

~

 Jaskier gets a new tutor. She is younger, brighter than the last one, and she smells like the sea. Her eyes are the deep grey of angry skies and her smile as soft as seaweed. He likes her a lot. She teaches him to sing, and the lilt of her voice reminds him of those below, those hiding in the crashing waves. She teaches him the ways with a lyre, and she lets him ask every question that pops into his mind.

 But something goes wrong. He isn’t sure what happens, but one day after their studies, she kisses his forehead and bids him goodbye. “It was nice knowing you, little Julian,” she whispers, like it is a secret. “Come visit us some time.”

 The day after, a stern, thick man takes her place. The man frowns when he sees the lyre, decorated with seashells, but lets him keep it and doesn’t tell his father.

 And when night falls, Jaskier creeps back into the classroom. Elbows propped against the window, he sings. He knows their songs now, their words, and he knows she is down there.

  ~

  Jaskier is thirteen when he braves it for the first time. The climb down there is steep, loose rocks and wet grass under his feet keeping his heart in his throat.

But he wants to meet them before he leaves. He has been accepted to Oxenfurt for his studies, and he is leaving before his fourteenth birthday. He stumbles and falls on his butt, sliding down a few paces before he finds his feet again, scraping his knee. It stings, and the leg of his trousers is ripped, but he keeps going.

 It's not until he stands, watching the water churn among the rocks, that Jaskier allows himself to breathe. Small droplets of salt water hit his cheek, his nose, and he blinks. They watch him, as he watches them. Jaskier can see them in the middle of the bay, settled on the rocks sticking out of the water. None look like the other. One's skin is rich gold, another a deep brown. Another is pale white, shimmering like a pearl. Their hair is sticking to their bodies, long and dark. Only two of them seem to favour a shorter hairstyle. Not all of them even have fish tails.

 Jaskier takes a tentative step closer to the water, knowing full well he will die if he falls in. Maybe he will die anyway. All of the stories he has been told about sirens end with humans dying.

But they came to him. She kissed his forehead and sang him good night.

He won’t believe it.

  One siren dives beneath the surface, her tail green and red. He waits for her to approach, and when she is close enough, he recognizes her. Her eyes are still the color of angry skies and her smile is still as soft as seaweed. She greets him with warmth, and bids him sit.

 They sing together, and it takes all of his concentration to remember the words. It’s been years, after all, but he falls back into it easily enough. The others join them after a while, their curiosity peaked by a boy by the sea, learning their language. Those with legs come sit with him, and he blushes at their nakedness when their bodies are revealed.

 That summer, for every night he is able, he sneaks down to the bay. He learns their names and their singsong way of talking. When he tells her about the lyre, how he has it hidden from his father, she is delighted. She teaches him more about music than any tutor he has ever had ever, and her way of telling stories is like poetry.

 When fall comes and Jaskier is put in a carriage to Oxenfurt, he doesn’t cry. He has needled from his mother and older sister that they have the song there too. It may be in a different form, but he has sworn to her to bring it home to them.

  ~

  Jaskier is seventeen when he meets Valdo Marx.

 That boy is like no other in Oxenfurt. He is wild, rude, funny and absolutely beautiful. He sprays himself with thick and expensive perfume, but Jaskier smells it on him anyway.

The sea.

Valdo's hair is thick and dark, just like theirs. Jaskier watches him in the lazy hours in the morning when they sit in the library. If a ray of sun hits him just right, there is a vague shimmer to his skin.

 Jaskier knows.

And he is besotted.

 But approaching Valdo Marx is harder than anything he has ever done. Their ways of singing are much alike, and Valdo takes great offence at that. Where Jaskier tries a tentative smile, Valdo sneers. Scoffs, mocks and pushes him away.

Jaskier doesn’t understand it, but he accepts it. If their rivalry is all he can get, he will take it. So it's song duels, poetry battles, drinking games, anything to get his attention. Valdo keeps the act up, but sometimes when they part, Jaskier thinks he can see the hint of a smile.

  The water near Oxenfurt is so very unlike the water at home. It is calmer, for one, and the water is so very clear.. Jaskier likes to go down there in the early mornings. He avoids the harbor as it is a busy and dangerous place at times, and these nights he wants peace.

 He longs for them. His friends. People call him songbird, but no, that’s not it. Jaskier follows the beach and when the weather allows he takes his shoes off. At home it was dangerous to step into the water, but here the waves lap at his feet, hiding them under a thin layer of sand. It is harder to find a good place to sit, so he is far from town when he reaches his chosen spot. He leans back against a tree, watching the sun slowly rise above the water. Gulls cry over him and dive into the water for breakfast.

 Jaskier likes to sing here.

Not as he does in school, nowhere near that. Here he sings in their language, far from prying ears. No one sings with him, but that is alright. It’s been years since he went back there. He probably won’t ever go back there again.

His father is not a kind man.

Jaskier sings his sorrows away. It feels like he is calling to them, a lonely cry over the waves, asking for someone, anyone to join him. It would be nice if Valdo sang with him. Maybe, if he is patient, he will win him over.

  Things change when Jaskier gets in a fight. He didn’t mean to, he is shit at fighting and the sight of blood makes his head spin, but here they are. And he is losing too.

 A fist slams into his ribs, making him bend awkwardly around the pain. Jaskier grunts, but straightens up, or at least he tries to. His feet are kicked from under him, and next thing he knows, feet are raining down on him.

 They kick his hip, his already aching ribs, his shoulder, his fingers.

 Jaskier doesn’t see Valdo in the tavern. Doesn’t notice those ocean eyes on him, his silence and his observance.

 Only when the blows stop, and Valdo is taking a swing at the offender does he notice. Turns out Valdo is bad at fighting too, and they run from the pub together, bruised and swearing. They stop in an alley, hidden far enough away from the street, catching their breath. Only when they are sure they are not being pursued does the laughing start. More like giggling, actually. Neither is completely sober, adrenaline rushing through their veins, and the sheer absurdity of it all has them hiccuping and wheezing, leaning against the wall for support.

 “Why the fuck would you pick a fight with that guy?!” Valdo wheezes, wiping tears from his cheeks. “He was huge!”

 "He was being an asshole!” Jaskier defends himself, but he agrees. Maybe not his brightest idea. They sink down against the wall, catching their breath. The ground is a little muddy, but his trousers are already dirty, so it doesn’t matter.

When they sit side by side, Jaskier watches Valdo’s profile in the semi-darkness. He doesn’t usually get to see him up close, and with the light spilling from a window somewhere above them. Valdo is beautiful. And in this low light, Jaskier can see the hint of scales again. He knows Valdo is probably wearing a glamour, so he isn’t supposed to be able to see it. Valdo looks back at him, eyes still glittering with humour.

“What?” He asks.

“Thank you. For helping me.”

Valdo looks at him searchingly for a long moment. Then he nods, as if he has made up his mind.

“You are welcome.”

  They sit in silence for another few moments, letting the buzz of Oxenfurt nightlife surround them. Jaskier is looking up over the rooftops, trying to see the stars, when Valdo speaks again.

“You know what I am, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“You sing like we do.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Now it is Jaskier who turns his head and finds Valdo watching him. He blinks fast a few times, trying to chase away the flutters that rise in him.

“One of my tutors came from the sea. My father didn’t like her, so she didn't stay, but we found each other again. She taught me songs and words and stories.”

 Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away, watching Valdo watching him.

It is a strange sensation, having Valdo’s attention like this.

 “Is this why you keep going to the water to sing?” Valdo asks, surprising him. It must show on his face, because he smiles gently at him, and Jaskier feels like he could melt.

“I hear you sometimes. When I’m out swimming.”

 Jaskier has to swallow hard before he can reply. He would love to see Valdo in the water. He remembers how graceful they are back home, how they moved in the water, strong muscles playing under the skin.

 “It is,” Jaskier confirms when he has himself under control. “I miss them.”

“I don’t know where my family is,” Valdo says after a while. “I left to come here. But I will find them again. Some day.”

 Jaskier stares at his boots for a moment. He wants to ask, he wants to ask so badly. He is a little afraid to do it, seeing that they just got on speaking terms.

 “Would you uh…”

Valdo is still watching him as if he is trying to figure him out.

“Would you sing with me some time?”

 There. He said it.

Valdo opens his mouth. Closes it. Tilts his head.

 “Do you know what it means to sing together?”

Jaskier shakes his head. He doesn’t. But it always meant a lot to him, and Valdo holds a special place in his heart. He wonders how their voices would sound together.

“It means belonging. Is this what you are asking of me? To belong?”

Oh.

Oh, that puts warmth in Jaskiers heart. To have found belonging with his people in the waves, to be accepted, chosen and loved.

And it flusters him greatly that he is now asking the same of Valdo.

Because he is, he realizes. He would like that very much.

 “If you’d like. Some day. I’m not asking for it now. I just… I would love to see you in the water sometime.”

Valdo doesn’t reply. He stands up, dusts off his trousers.

“We’ll see. Maybe.”

Then he stretches out a hand to help Jaskier up.

Valdo's hand in his is soft, warm, firm. When they are both on their feet, Valdo doesn’t let go of his hand immediately.

 “I think I can see what they saw in you,” Valdo says slowly. Jaskier doesn’t really understand what he means, but he loves it all the same. They make their way slowly across town, following the ebb and flow of its inhabitants. Valdo is still holding his hand.

    It takes months, years for Jaskier to see Valdo swim. His tail shares the color of seaweed, scales sparkling in the evening sun when he breaches the surface. Jaskier watches from the bay, far away from prying eyes. Valdo is every bit as magnificent as he thought he would be. Their journey here was long. A tentative friendship growing and growing. They still have their rivalry, are still at each other's throats most of the time.

But tonight, when Valdo offers to bring him to the sea, Jaskier know that too is about to change. Jaskier is wading out into the water, and Valdo swims to meet him. When the water comes to his chest, Valdo wraps his arms around him. It is cold, but Valdo pulls him in close and pushes their foreheads together.

“Will you sing with me?” Valdo asks, stealing Jaskier's breath away.

“Yes.”

[vampiresuns]

A Songbird Sings, The World Could End | Part 2

✴︎ A SONGBIRD SINGS, THE WORLD COULD END: PART 2 ✴︎

2.3k words. Now in the Magical Realms, Leon and Anatole decide to work together trying to keep the Hierophant’s realm standing for as long as possible. Leon is upset at their own feelings, and the Hierophant reads him for filth.

Leon (He/They) is @apprenticealec​‘s. This fic is best paired with Honest, by Joseph.

You can read Part 1 here.

Leon had air magic.

Leon could cross distances quicker than the average person, if they so desired. It happened to be that he desired such a thing now — in a game of miscalculations, neither Anatole nor him aligned their timing, emotionally overwhelmed and with their own priorities in mind. 

When Anatole spoke to him, something old and angry had snapped in Leon, there to tell him Anatole was just like everybody else, sitting on his high horse with his duty, eventually leaving him alone for reasons which just didn’t make sense. Rage in Leon was vast, more accessible than grief, and for a moment it terrified him. It terrified him to see himself give Anatole, his Anatole, the cold shoulder, even if another part of him thought he deserved it. 

Yet there was another part of him, a part tender and open, starved for Anatole’s presence, following him like religious people in Vesuvia followed the various chimes of the City’s many temples. It was the part of him that had made him go after him that night Camia had gone to the market, travelling all day to drop himself at his door. It was the part of him that had cried and crumbled in front of him, because he knew he would listen. Anatole never said a word he didn’t mean, Anatole never did anything half-way. 

It was the part of him who touched him under the starry nights in Camia’s hut, trying to commend the shape of his face to memory — the softness of his lips, the slope of his nose, the light change of texture in his scars. The way his cheeks filled when he smiled, or the way his throat vibrated when he laughed. That part of him, against all odds, rose against the other and said: “You’re wrong. He loves me, and if the world ends, there will be no world for him to love me in.”

It was just as paralysing, albeit in a completely different way. He was still angry at Anatole. He was still upset he didn’t tell him any of this before, or that he assumed so many things about Leon’s own feelings — granted, Leon hadn’t said anything too, but that didn’t mean Anatole could just assume when Leon had done all those things, when he had given himself so willingly. This specific source of terror came from losing him, and the horror that followed as they stood in an empty hallway, thinking they might have lost him anyway. It propelled Leon forward like he was fighting for his life. He couldn’t let Anatole think he didn’t care. Leon knew they would not be able to live with themselves if that happened.

Leon did not know what the hell Anatole saw in Vesuvia, or in any City, ever. They were all people just trying to survive, with their momentary distractions, and Leon doubted they stopped a second of their days to actually consider Anatole at all. He couldn’t even say Anatole did it in some sort of saviour-complex stunt, because it would be both wrong and offensive to Anatole as a person.

He didn’t understand; right then he was feeling too much to keep track of his thoughts, but even in this overwhelming fog he found himself in, he realised that even if he was right, and Anatole was insignificant (even if thinking it felt wrong), he would not forgive himself for becoming a reason why he felt that way. He would hate Anatole thinking he didn’t deserve all the love in the world, thinking that it is wrong of him to care. Even if Leon sometimes thought he cared too much about things Leon did not comprehend.

The realisation that he loved him too much to not do this, all of it, with him, that pulled Leon forward. It was Anatole’s voice in his ears saying that the point of having a future was to live it with Leon. It was that Leon not understanding why he hoped and dreamt what he did, deep down those hopes and dreams weren’t stupid to Leon, because they were Anatole’s. Leon could forgive the world, maybe, because Anatole existed in it.

That’s how he ended sitting on Anatole’s stomach after throwing the two of them into his gate, the gush of wind from his own magic shutting the door behind them, making the gate inaccessible without Anatole to open it from outside.

Anatole thrashed underneath him, and Leon moved as soon as he realised that he couldn’t breathe. 

Not far away from them, Fishraya gently flew closer to the ground so she could let Antu down safely. It was the first time he did not puff and hissed at her. It wasn’t nothing Fishraya had done to make Antu on edge near her, he had always been scared of Fish’s size. He tended to be scared of things which were bigger than him and could grab him from above without giving him a chance to fight back. 

“Why did you do that?” 

“You gave me no choice!”

“What the hell are you talking about, Leon?”

“Well, arguing you isn’t getting me anywhere — don’t groan at me that way, I’m still upset at you —”

The sound of disbelief and indignation that escaped Antole’s mouth would’ve made Leon laugh in any other circumstance. “Upset?!”

“Please just let me say this, Nana,” the plea in Leon’s voice was so tangible, Anatole couldn’t do anything but to let him speak.

“I don’t understand you. Sometimes I think I do, but then I realise that I don’t. I don’t understand what it is about your job, your place in society or whatever else you call it that makes you do these things. I don’t because I never had anything like that, and sometimes I think we are so different we’re not going to work out…” Leon paused, a knot in his throat as he came closer to Anatole, his hands resting on his face. He tensed, but he didn’t push Leon away.

“Please tell me there’s a but there. I can’t handle collapsing realms and emotional overcharge.”

“If you have to do this, then take me with you. I don’t understand why you’re doing this, but I know it’s important to you.”

“You can’t just say those things and—”

“Yes, yes I can.”

“You’re terrible. You’re being terrible right now.”

“Why, thank you.”

Anatole shook his head. “I think I hated arguing with you, even if the conversation will have to wait.”

There was a rumble from the forest behind them that pried Anatole away from Leon’s touch. 

“I don’t think we have time to go retrieve my family.”

“I wouldn’t risk it either.”

“It’s just you and me, then?

Leon paused, turning to Anatole’s direction, and smirking.

“Just us, we’ll make it work. What direction is the Hierophant’s realm?”

“East.”

Fishraya was already onto Leon’s train of thought, carrying Antu into that direction, as her magician took Anatole’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Have you ever felt what it’s like to run with the help of air magic?”

“No?”

“Well, you’re about to find out.”

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

Anatole had never seen The Hierophant’s temple so desolated. The old Ram was waiting for them, surprise overtaking his features as he saw Anatole arrive alone with Leon.

“I was expecting a bigger entourange.”

“A mishap,” Anatole said.

The Hierophant simply took a drink from his glass of wine, smiling. “Lovers' quarrels are easily resolved with a common cause. Welcome to my realm, Leon, or whatever is left of it.”

The Hierophant excused himself — he suspected he couldn’t help them much to slow the process of decay, as he needed to concentrate the remains of his power in aiding Alec and Lucio, but if he was not needed, he would turn to aid them. It would be only Leon and Anatole, they’d have to be enough, the weight of it making both of them feel like their skin was being pricked by something invisible. Anatole hated the sensation, but powered through it: in the face of incommensurable tasks he did what he always did, steel his heels, divide them into chunks, building up strategy until he had a fully formed picture.

He would do the impossible twice, or at least, he would try.

After some awkward lingering he turned to Leon. There was work to be done. The plan was simple: they would use wards. It would at least buy them time to protect the realm from falling. The longer it stood, the longer others would take to be taken, the more time Alec would have.

“Let’s just hope Valdemar themselves doesn’t make an appereance,” Anatole grimanced.

Their wards were different in structure but they’ll have to do. They fractioned the territory, so they would go at it quicker, sometimes the Hierophant coming to them to chat. Breaking Valerius’ chains and his willingness to set things on track gave the Hierophant some of his strength back; a “Not so bad place to start” as the Ram himself said. 

“The intention was in the right place. Sometimes you need a little push to turn a situation… upright.” 

Anatole ignored the pun with the exasperated fondness only someone who had a close relationship to someone else could have.

However, the Hierophant’s main focus this was on Leon. Except for a couple remarks to Anatole here and there, he followed Leon with his eyes, and struck him in conversation when it did not seem to interfere with his work. For example, when he paused his own tasks to feel Anatole’s magic around them.

“His magic is stronger here. Not the strongest but stronger,” the Hierophant said, sneaking up on Leon. “I assume so it would be in the realm of your patron. May I guess?” 

“Sure,” said Leon. 

“A knighthood, swords.” 

“You already knew.” 

“Yet, you entertained me.” 

“Why?” 

“Why what, child?” 

Leon’s brow quirked in amusement. “I am not a kid, am I?” 

“Next to me, you are. I am older than you will ever be, even if right now, I could die. You asked why. I asked what reason you seek.” 

“Why would it be stronger here or there? I don’t really believe in all of this to begin with.” 

The Hierophant laughed. “It’s less about belief, and more about fact. Humanity is cyclic, and as complex as simple as the answer you seek: those of us who come in contact with someone who is loved by our beneficiaries, become partial to them.” 

The Hierophant paused, taking some drinks from his glass. Leon stood there in silence, not daring to ask if his love was that obvious. The Hierophant cleared his throat. “That, and he is actually incredibly adept at the magic he himself has chosen, but,” a smile, “pride and true humbleness coexist in him. He’d make a great beneficiary of my own, alas. If you excuse me.” 

Leon got back to work, layer after layer of magic, he felt his and Anatole’s merge in a single thing, seamless, welcoming each other home. Leon’s head was swimming with thoughts, but at least their hands were busy.

Home, they thought: was Anatole home? How many homes had they lost? Themselves and him, both. Leon was abandoned, found, abandoned and found, he himself living in a constant wheel of being lost and returning someplace for the sake of some faces.

When words failed him, Leon acted. He didn’t know what Alec was doing with Lucio, he didn’t know what Alec was doing, period, but if he could give her even five more minutes, he would. He didn’t know what Anatole saw in the world to make him so in love with it, but if this would give him a chance to live in it, then he would. He didn’t know how Camia woke up every morning and decided to live on, to carry forward a destiny she had had to fight for, so the people who were called to protect her didn’t take it from her. If he could give Camia one more morning, he would. 

He even thought of Jamil, and as much as he still hated how he didn’t say goodbye that one time, for once he thought that maybe goodbye wasn’t needed — it was a see you soon. Alec needed him, as Alec needed Leon now, even if she didn’t know nor remembered. If Leon could give Jamil one more catch up, one more smile upon seeing Camia’s hut in the horizon, he would. 

The feeling was disgusting, it disgusted him, and yet he didn’t want anyone to pry it away from his hands ever; if someone tried, he’d bite them. 

Maybe this was how Anatole felt, all the time. Maybe it was the reason why he tattooed Love Conquers All on his chest. He groaned; if Anatole made him love the world, he was going to spend the rest of his life making his impossible for it. No, he would not think of the implications of that, of spending the rest of his life besides him.

Damn him for throwing him into things he didn’t understand. Damn him for making him like it. 

When he was finally done, he found Anatole already waiting for him, sitting on some steps. Leon sat with him, neither of them saying anything for a moment. 

Leon broke the silence first. “What are you thinking about?”

“My family has a vineyard not unlike this one back in Balkovia.” 

Leon hummed. Their next words came out of his mouth before he could stop them, let alone make sense of them. “I was born in the Fennekh desert, I think. I don’t know. I used to speak Zadithi. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Silence fell between them again. This time, Anatole broke it, his voice watery as he spoke. “I’m sorry about the way I acted earlier. I shouldn’t have exploded like that on you.” 

“You didn’t explode, you just talked,” Leon laced their fingers together, bringing the back of Anatole’s hand to his lips. “That’s what you do when you’re overwhelmed. Or nervous. You talk.” 

“Still. Are you still upset with me?” 

“Are you?” 

He sighed. “I am upset that it all had to be this way. I keep feeling like I could’ve done better, but I didn’t, and now we’re here, and perhaps we would be here anyway. Now answer the question, Leon.” 

“I am, but not at what you think.” Leon exhaled, finding that tendril of courage now in his heart, a tendril warm like the rays of the sun on his skin. “It upsets me more that you would assume I don’t love you back, or that you don’t matter to me.”

Leon sighed. “It’s all very mushy and disgusting, but I suppose it’s—“ 

Anatole’s lips had found his own, and they were kissing him like he was his anchor to this world, with an intensity and a passion so unyielding it made Leon want to melt at the realisation he was its sole depositary. Leon couldn’t finish his sentence, nor he remembered how he wanted to finish it. 

Anatole, like him, had a hunger more ravenous than most, a hunger for something undetermined and overwhelming that Leon knew too well. 

When Anatole kissed him like this, Leon felt like that hunger might finally satiate. When Anatole kissed him like this, Leon felt like it would all turn out alright, even if somewhere around the edge of the realms, one of their wards had begun to break.

[skinks]

Please Please talk to me about Maggie Tozier and what she’s like and looks like and what Dilfworth Tozier loves about her and made him put a ring on it and in general how much her two boys love her and how she loves them.

[cracks knuckles] here we go

I was looking through my copy of the book yesterday to answer this ask but then I figured, y’know what? Canon can suck it. I tend to beat myself up over accurate characterisation for Richie and Eddie, but they’re main characters, Maggie and Went are not, so the details are inconsequential. Their ages in the Dilfworth fic mean that they’d have a pretty different life experience from their book versions, what with growing up in the 60s/70s, but imo all that matters is that they love Richie and are good parents. Canon is ours now!!!

- my no.1 headcanon rn is that Maggie sings like an angel, and sings all the time. In the car, in the shower, gardening, housework, cooking. She and Went have a pretty good record collection, but if Went is listening to something and hears Maggie singing to herself in another room of the house he shuts that shit off quick so he can hear her.

- I wrote in ithots that Richie busts out into song at the drop of a hat, right? well, where Richie gets encouragement with his Voices through Went participating, Richie gets his incessant singing from Maggie, because he grew up in a household where that was welcomed.

- Maggie doesn’t even notice she’s doing it until Richie joins in, or she turns around and sees Went gazing at her all dopey, and she gets self-conscious

- until Went is like “I don’t know why. You know I think you’re a songbird” and then grins and calls her Magpie. She says stop. He says, Maggie-pie? She throws a dishcloth at him but secretly loves it because she fell in love with how frank and practical he is most of the time, but also how silly he is only when it comes to her and Richie.

- he only calls her that when they’ve had one too many anyway, otherwise it’s all sweetheart, honey, darling, Mags. Marguerite, in Richie’s stupid French Waiter Voice. “Yes ma’am” for when he’s rearranging her guts. Maggie’s the one to call him “my love” the first time, but she said it kinda exaggerated and jokey, and Maggie just doesn’t joke the way Went and Richie do so Richie noticed the way his dad just cracked tf up and was like wow, Mom must be really, really funny

- so y’know how Richie calls Eddie “my love” in the book, and is generally quite physically affectionate? He picks all that up from his parents, watching their example. Wants to make Eddie laugh like that

- for some reason I always imagine she speaks like, French or Italian fluently. I’m stealing @honeyreynolds hc that her maiden name is Avery for Tex Avery, but maybe her own mother was European. She tries to speak French with Richie as a baby/toddler so that he’ll be bilingual, and she’s so proud/frustrated because he’s clearly smart and has a knack for linguistic imitation, but his attention span is just. Non existent

- still makes lil kid Richie giggle by doing exaggerated Italian and making him guess what she’s saying

- I think she’s pretty elegant and reserved and almost shy on the surface with a rly wry sense of humour, so people tend to think she’s snooty, but she’s just... so concerned with keeping the peace and not saying anything bad about someone. Tries to see the best in people. This can lead to a lot of embarrassment when Went is so upfront and medical-frank about stuff or if Richie’s being a dumbass in public, but really she just envies their typically masculine lack of inhibition

- this is because she’s got this killer wicked streak. Maggie’s got a hidden well of scathing diatribes and Went knows it because

- they met on a plane in 1971 when Maggie was flying back to college for her final semester of senior year, and the man in the seat next to her started having an attack of some kind. The stewardesses appeal desperately for any doctors on board, nobody answers. Anyone at all? We’ll have to land the plane! Maggie’s trying to slowly shift away from this man and his spasms without seeming rude when she hears a deep sigh in the seat behind her and someone saying “I’m ethically bound to admit I have a licence in dentistry,” in a voice like he’s in on some joke nobody else knows.

- this guy unfolds the longest legs she’s ever seen and comes to squat right next to her and her apparently dying seat partner, she notices he’s nice looking and keeps glancing at her, there’s banter. Eventually he shrugs and is like “imo this man has a bad case of wind.” And Maggie just TEARS Went a new one like oh nice diagnosis DOCTOR DENTIST where’s your seatside manner?!?! what kind of name is WENTWORTH anyway! and Went’s like 👀😳😍 and then the dying man lets out a giant fart and Maggie recoils, all her pretty poise and indignation turning to base disgust and Went bursts out laughing and offers her the seat next to him

- turns out his first residency is in the next town from Maggie’s college. She’s only dated preppy meatheads before who only ever tried to flatter her and stopped listening when she talked about her music theory degree or the books she likes. But Went always grins and side-eyes her and cranks the volume whenever Maggie May comes on the hits station, because then she’ll whack him with a book. She’s so SWEET he loves goading her into releasing some more of that plane rage, like one day she’s prowling on the edge of a rant about her TA and trying to be reasonable. Went’s like, do it. You’ll feel better. So she fuckin rants her head off for ten minutes until her hair’s all dark and wild like an Arthurian queen and she looks over at Went reclining all impressed on her dorm bed and he’s like. I have never been more in love in my life. Can you sit on my face and make fun of my name again

- so yeah they’re both like, quietly distinguished and outwardly calm model citizens of Derry but in private Went is the fuckin roastmaster and is Maggie’s outlet for frustration whenever housewife suburbia gets too much

- I always picture her as having dark and quite curled hair, sort of Lauren Bacall eyes, and she’s probably tall too. Like 5’8 to Went’s 6’0 or 6’1 which is why Richie turns out to be 6’2 lmao. A family of giants. Honestly the whole time I was writing the Dilfworth fic I was imagining Mary Elizabeth Winstead, that’s my early-30s Maggie that Went is so excited to come home he’s stocking up on condoms. God I bet she’s got some of those single dark beauty mark freckles on her stomach 🥵 Wears hats with big brims. Sundresses. Secretly likes to pretend she’s on a mysterious trip to Rome as she sits in the park watching Richie catch dragonflies. Maybe when she’s older and Richie’s a teenager she looks kinda like Olivia Williams, bc I’ve had a big milfy thing for her ever since she was the mother in the 2003 Peter Pan.

- most kids in Derry have a crush on either Richie’s mom or dad or both and this is unfortunately quite damaging to his self esteem, even though Maggie INSISTS he’s just so handsome. She hates seeing him so insecure

- she tried pot once in college and hated it. The only times she comes close to getting hammered is on book club wine because it’s the only way she can get through them asserting the female orgasm doesn’t exist, then she comes home mildly tipsy and joins in on Went and Richie’s raucous game of cards

- felt a bit left out when Richie was small, with how well Went was able to go along with the silliness. Went sees this and gets Richie to make up a game where she’s Queen Margaret of the Tozier Court and made Richie a knight. They all spoke in bad Medieval Voices all afternoon, and it becomes one of those super long-running family jokes, and Maggie still feels all happy inside whenever Queen Margaret comes up

- ruthless decision maker!!! She had to be, because Went’s so laidback he’s horizontal and is always like “idc what we do as long as you guys are chill” and Richie can’t concentrate long enough to pick what colour gumball he wants, so she has to be staff sargeant. They go to Disneyland and she’s like C’MON BOYS HUP HUP HUP and Went’s like “oh cripes son we’re being hustled!!” but they love it as much as she loves them doing what she says

- great cook because of her indeterminidely Mediterranean mother.

- she genuinely wants to understand Richie’s strangeness but is also stumped as to what to do to bond with him, since she can only think of things she’d do with a daughter. She WANTS to brush Richie’s curls and bake with him but she thinks he wouldn’t like it, so they stick with singing. Is delighted when Eddie very politely and very intensely asks for her help making Richie a birthday cake. She sees how different they are together, and remembers Richie coming home at 5 years old declaring he was gonna marry Eddie Kaspbrak when he grows up, and she thinks... well, if I must have a son-in-law, I would love this one as much as I love my son.

[kettle-on]

This George Harrison x gardener!reader fic is turning out to be a hell of an undertaking.

Here’s some more to be going on with, including Olivia being the loveliest queen!

I’m not sure if this is just the rest of Chapter 1, or if it should be a whole new chapter in itself.

Anyway, leaving where we left off…

We’ll be joining a team of eight other gardeners, mostly from our company. They’ve been at this estate for several years already, and my mind is soon busy pondering what the place could possibly be like. But whatever I pictured could not compare with what was appearing in front of me.

Trees. As far as the eye can see. For all I know, we’re driving into a forest and this was all a big joke and Pete’s just gonna dump me here and that’s the end for me.

He’s mumbling to himself and there seems to be something wrong.

“Now, who’zat, I wonder,” he thinks aloud, glaring at something further down the road from us, and soon he’s on his radio. After all these years he still insists on using the radio instead of a mobile phone while he’s working.

The voice on the other end of the radio belongs to Lynda, one of our seasoned teammates. She explains that there’s an oversized lorry occupying the service drive – the entrance we’d typically take – and so we’ll have to go around again and use the main entrance. The long way.

Pete’s eyebrows start dancing.

“That’s a bit o’ luck there, ent it? We don’t norm’ly go in the front way, so don’t get used to this, mate,” he squeaks, clearly aware of something still kept secret from me. We pull back out onto the main road and continue driving past more and more trees that tower over a tall fence.

I think he’s missed it. There’s no way there’s a house here.

We reach an intersection at the top of a sunny hill when Pete quietly points a finger to our left… and suddenly it all makes sense.

We’re greeted by a big iron gate flanked by white stone pillars with stripes of red brick. Behind it, a long red road seems to wind off into the trees and disappear. To the left, tucked behind some huge topiaries, there’s a bizarre Gothic-looking building with the same red and white stripes as the gate. I have no idea what it’s for, but it alone is twice the size of the house I grew up in.

Before I can fully catch my breath, there’s another exchange of words over the radio – this one built into a pillar – and the gate doors part for our trusty old van to rumble through. Was there a name on the gate? Damn, girl, pay attention!

The road takes us past more trees, and I wish Pete would slow down. I’m trying not to show how eager I am, but it’s hard to contain my excitement when, out of the driver’s side window, glimmers and twinkles of morning sunshine reflect off the surface of what appears to be a small lake. Where the hell are we??

I squint hard through the windscreen, spotting a number of spires. As we round the corner, we can see more of building itself and I face the truth: I was not ready.

With more turrets than I can count - all of them different to one another – and probably a few thousand windows, it’s a red and white castle. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think a magic goblin wizard lived here. It’s both bonkers and majestic at once.

I finally find the breath to speak:

“This is Friar Park.”

“Ah, y’know the place, do ye?” Pete’s casual tone brings me back to earth as we pull up and park across from an enormous stone doorway. “Well I ‘spect you’ll be familiar with its master, then.”

Before I can exhale another word, two female figures emerge from the shadow of the doorway. One I recognize as Lynda who’d been on the radio earlier, sporting a bucket hat with our company logo on the front. The other woman is wrapped in a housecoat, and her glossy black hair is held back in a clip. They’ve been chatting about something amusing, and soon wave us out of the van.

“So you’ve made it at last! Didn’t fall in the pond after all.” Lynda calls to us as we scramble from the van. Pete matches her wit - his accent now somehow heavier than usual – but their voices fade in favour of songbirds that flit among the treetops above us.

I hang back a few steps, and can’t choose where to look first. It’s as if a spell had been cast over me when we drove through the gate, and I’ve lost all ability to collect myself. I have to tear my upward gaze away from the surroundings in order to take in the countenance of the woman whose face I instantly recognize.

“Hello, I’m Olivia,” she almost sings from her dressing gown and slippers, extending a graceful hand toward me.

I take her hand and introduce myself in the steadiest voice I can muster.

“I’m so glad you’re here to join us,” she says warmly. “And somebody told me it’s your first big house? Is that right?”

“Sure, that. She’s fresh and limber,” laughs Pete. “Unlike some of us old bones, eh?”

He and Lynda share a hearty cackle, clearly one built on years of teamwork, camaraderie, and friendly bickering.

Olivia gently hands me a small brown paper gift bag, and meets my eyes.

“I know how nerve-wracking a first day can be,” she says sincerely, “And this old house can be pretty intimidating, but I want you to know that you’re very welcome here. And we hope you come to love it as much as we do.”

“I really don’t know what to say, I… I’m lost for words,” is about all I can get out, trying to focus on the charming woman in front of me. Her eyes lower to the bag I’m holding, and with a soft smile and nod she directs me to look inside.

I peek in and pull out a sturdy mug patterned with peonies and a filigree print.

Clasping her hands together at her chin, Olivia is the loveliest kind of adorable and sends me the brightest smile I’ve seen yet.

“We were going to put your initials on it but thought maybe that was a bit corny.”

Words have left me again, and all I can manage is an open-mouthed smile.

“It was my husband’s idea,” she continues. “He says no matter where he goes he always feels at home once he’s got a cup of tea.”

“He’s a wise man,” I concur, trying to settle my nerves but knowing very well who we’re referring to.

“Please thank him for me.”

Pete joins our exchange with a confident familiarity,

“Y’ought te thank ‘im yerself.”

What. What??

“Where is the ol’ devil this mornin’? Up in that there tower I ‘spect, hummin away.”

“George is having a lie-in this morning,” Olivia explains. “Early starts don’t come quite so easily to him these days, but he’ll be so glad to know you’re here.”

Me. That I’m here. I can’t imagine he’d spare even half a thought about me, but if what his wife is saying is true…

“Well, let’s crack on, then. That’s enough hangin’ ‘round.” barks Pete, eager to get started with the day’s work.

He and Lynda discuss where best to put me. They can see I’m a bit overwhelmed, especially when she mentions “aquatic features.” I inconspicuously mutter a “dear god, no!” at the thought of venturing so far beyond my capabilities.

I can just about feel my head settling back on my shoulders as reality sets in, and the weight of responsibility lands on top of me.

Olivia saves me with a laugh,

“Maybe something small to start? We won’t throw you in at the deep end! I can show you some spots that need a bit of care, and you tell me what you think. How’s that?”

Her confidence in me is startling as she skates back into the building, and it’s not long before we meet again, she in more sensible outdoor shoes, and me having rearranged my kit in the van. Lynda kindly offers to bring my mug to the gardener’s lodge back at the other entrance, anticipating an imminent First Day tea break.

[niall-is-my-dream]

Songbird - Prologue

"When Erin decides to perform one of her favourite songs at a bar, she didn’t expect one of the singers, Niall Horan, to be in the audience. What started as an appreciation for her cover quickly turns into more than either bargained for."

(Previously known as Fools Gold, this fic has been edited, reworked and finally finished!)

Thanks to @angryniall for being an amazing beta!

As always let me know what you think.

Em x

1660 words

The lights above the stage that were directed onto you meant that you could only see the first row of tables in front of you. The rest of the venue could have been completely empty for all you knew. But you knew there were people out there, you'd seen them all as you arrived.

The Courtyard was a small venue. A gig venue where people who enjoyed playing and singing music could go. People maybe trying to get a foot in the industry, music industry executives had been known to visit the venue. Or just people like yourself who enjoyed singing, and with a stressful job as a midwife you enjoyed the way it relaxed you.

It was sectioned off into a bar area at the front with a stage area at the back, a large courtyard dominated the length of the old building, only accessible from inside the venue. The long courtyard was always packed with people, even in the cold nights of December like tonight. The large all year green plants, along with the large covered gazebos and patio heaters meant every space of this old building could used all year. The rustic walls of this old building were crawling with ivy, the warmth and welcoming nature of the place meant it was a popular venue for people on a Friday/Saturday night. You came here most Friday's you were not working. Sometimes to sing, sometimes just to have a few drinks, sometimes to do both.

Andy, the Manager of the place introduced you, and you stepped out onto the stage to an applause. Mainly your group of rowdy friends at the back, but you appreciated it anyway. That was a good start, you hadn't been boo'd.

You'd sang and played here before, so although you were nervous you knew the score with the type of people who came here. They wanted to listen to music, and have a few drinks and relax after a long week.

You started off with something lively, belting out the Lissie classic "When I'm alone". You had a band with you for this, some lads who played the set before you stayed on and supported you through it.

Then you were alone and you sat at the piano singing Emeli Sande "Read all about it".

Your last song was "Fools Gold" by One Direction. You sat in front of the lights with just your guitar in your hands.

Every song you had sung had got a round of applause and you felt good as you left the stage. You tucked your trusty guitar back in its case and made your way across the bar, stopping to talk to some people you knew.

John, a regular at the bar and Andy the Managers Uncle told you that you were wasted in your day job. You laughed at his joke, patting him on the shoulder before calling out "I like my job thanks!" as you made your way through the crowds.

You saw your friend Rob at the far end of the bar ordering some drinks, waving you over he asked, "What are you drinking Erin?"

"Pint of Guinness please lovely."

"Brilliant set as usual mate." He said.

"Thanks mate, I appreciate it."

"Don't know how you do it after a 12 hour shift at work! I've done an 8 hour day in an office and I'm fucking shattered." He laughed, as you helped carry over the drinks to your other friends.

You sat down and started chatting to Andrew and Michelle, who were talking about a new girl who had started in Andrew's department. He had launched into a story about the new girl, who he thought was hot and wanted your advice about. He had tried to talk to her while they were at the photocopier yesterday but he had frozen. He hadn't been been able to return her hello greeting, instead he'd mumbled something about recycling. Poor sod, you thought as you listened to him.

After giving him some advice, you excused yourself to go to the bar again, the Guinness going down far too easily. Michelle followed behind you, which surprised you considering how much she fancied Andrew. You had thought she would have favoured the alone time.

"Do you think he has any clue you fancy him?" You asked, as you reached the bar and were well out of earshot of your friends.

"Nope! And I don't plan on telling him."

"What, like ever?"

Andrew did however know, and wasn't going to engage in anything with Michelle. She had a bit of a reputation with men, new one every weekend. Although Andrew was happy to be her mate, he wasn't going to take it any further. Everyone knew Michelle fancied Andrew, she however didn't realise we all knew. Michelle wasn't exactly as subtle as she thought she was.

She stood looking at you then over your shoulder, you turned around trying to work out what she was looking at.

"What you staring at?" You asked her, as you faced her again.

"You know that last song you sung, Fools Gold?"

"Yeah"

"Who originally sings it?" She asked.

You leaned over the bar and gave your drinks order.

"One Direction. Why, are they here?!" You replied laughing.

"Well, Niall Horan is over there and he's looking right at us!"

"Fuck off!" You said not even bothering to turn around. "Seriously Michelle if you didn't want to talk about Andrew you could've just said!"

"Fuck, he's coming over."

"Who? Andrew?" You asked.

Michelle just stared at you.

"Michelle...what the fuck is wrong with you?"

You turned to the barman and handed him the cash for the drinks, and as you turned around he appeared.

"Hi." He said.

You stared at him.

Yes, just stood staring.

Like a fucking idiot.

Michelle brought you back to reality by speaking "I'll take these over Erin."

"Um....... yes.........thanks Michelle." You mumbled, tucking your long wavy red hair behind your ears.

"I'm Niall." He said, looking at you like you were crazy.

"Erin................. Shit......I'm sorry I sung one of your songs......fuck I'm so embarrassed." You blurted out, your hands coming up to cover your face to hide your blush.

"Don't be! You sang it beautifully. I filmed it on my phone and I wanted to send it to the lads, but wanted your permission first."

"You want to send it to the lads?" You replied, removing your hands from your cheeks, knowing that they were still flushed red from embarrassment.

"Yeah, they will love this. Would that be ok?"

"Um, yeah sure, I guess." You replied laughing, suddenly feeling at ease.

"Also wanted to buy you a drink, but I see I'm a bit late." He said, as he pointed towards your Guinness.

You laughed again. "Yep, sorry again!"

"So, do you sing here often?"

Ok, so you hadn't scared him away with your rambling and beetroot red face. Taking a deep breath you answered him.

"Maybe every 6 weeks, but I come in most Friday night's I'm not working."

"What do you do job wise?"

"Midwife."

"Wow, demanding job."

"It can be, but I'm sure yours is to. I was at your London gig in September. You have been touring the world right?"

"You were there?" He asked surprised.

"Yeah, really love the style of music you're doing, so was interested to get a sneak at the album before it was released. I loved your version of Fools Gold, so I downloaded it and learnt it." You smiled.

"Did you enjoy the show?" He asked.

"Um, it was ok!" You replied smiling.

He was being all cute and nervous.

"Ha! I'll take an ok!" He said staring at his feet, laughing.

You laughed with him.

"Niall, it was a really great gig. Your album is great, you must have worked really hard on it."

It surprised you how easy he was to talk to, his nervousness was endearing.

You'd completely forgotten your friends were nearby, probably silently watching your interaction with Niall. You'd not had a boyfriend for like two years. You'd dated and occasionally got laid but this was the most conversation you'd had with an attractive guy in like 6 months. You were dreading going back over to them.

He looked over towards his friends, you followed his gaze and you noticed they were getting their jackets on. Your time with him was over.

"Hey, do you think I could get your number? Maybe drop you a text to let you know what the lads say?" He asked nervously.

Act cool.

Don't freak out.

"Yeah sure, but if they hate it just lie to me." You said laughing.

He took his phone out of his pocket and typed in your number before calling it. You saved the number and turned to him.

"So....." You said looking around. Over at the table where Niall's friends were, one of them was nodding his head towards the door.

"Looks like I'm off." He said looking over at them before reluctantly turning to you and saying. "It was great to meet you Erin."

"Great to meet you to Niall, thanks for coming over and talking to me."

"You're welcome. Thanks for not butchering our song!" He smirked, still loitering around like he didn't want to leave with his friends.

You laughed as he finally walked off towards his friends, giving you a small wave as he went. You shook your head at the bizarre situation you had just found yourself in.

Sneaking one more glance at him as he walked away, he turned back to look over at you to. You smiled at each other, and then he was gone.

"Oh...... my....... fucking....... God!" You said as you sat back down with your friends.

Niall Horan had heard you sing and he liked it. The smile never left your face that night and was still on there the next morning as you got ready for work.

As always let me know what you think!

Em x

(Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.)

[sofreakinmanyfandoms]

November 14 - We’re Gonna Go Flirt with Superheroes

Some important notes:

1. Thank you to my amazing friend Dean for letting me use their delightful self as a character in this fic. You may all be jealous that I actually know this person.

2. Because Dean does not have the cleanest of language, this fic has significantly more swearing than anything else I've posted here. I still only put half as much language as normally spews from their mouth. Love you, babe.

3. I've never actually been to a hipster bar and it's been years since I've been to Portland. Please forgive me for any obvious errors.

4. I normally shy away from describing the reader too much, but honestly? I needed this. I needed to explore a bit what it's like being straight but looking gay, because while it's nothing compared to what the LGBT+ community goes through, it's something I get a lot of grief for from my conservative Christian extended family. I needed a fic where the main girl has short hair, okay? Okay.

Thanks for letting me vent myself in this fic.

Word count: 2416

Warnings: Language, mentions of cheating, if you’re homophobic you’ll hate this one so go suck an egg

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X short haired!hipster!Reader

“Ah, Portland,” Sam said with a sigh, looking around at the bar that was definitely owned by someone very hipster. “Remind me again why we’re here?”

“It was the closest city with the material Stark needs to fix the jet,” Steve reminded him. “He’ll have it ready by morning and we’ll be on our way back to the compound.”

“Friends,” Thor declared cheerily, throwing his arms around their shoulders, “despite our transport’s destruction, we have won a great victory this day! Let us celebrate, even if your Midgardian drinks are weaker than mother’s milk.”

Bucky followed behind them, feeling out of place as he took in the décor. The floor and ceiling were concrete, but the walls had been coated in what looked like disassembled pallets with wooden booths build out of the walls. The free-standing tables were giant spools and he was pretty sure no two chairs in the whole building matched. Whoever had been in charge of decorating had even taken the chalkboard menu trope to the extreme, making the whole wall behind the bar a blackboard instead of just hanging one up. Everything was decked out in old – sorry, “recycled” – netting and buoys, presumably ones that had seen actual use based on their condition. Also, Bucky had never seen so much flannel in his life.

He settled into a booth with Sam as Steve and Thor went to get their drinks. The other man was looking around, a determined expression on his face.

“Here’s where we get to the hard part,” Sam whispered to him. “Now we’ve gotta figure out which women are gay and which are just fashionable.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows at his friend. “I don’t understand.”

Sam leaned back and nodded to the bar. “Well, normally you see a woman in skinny jeans, a plaid flannel, and a beanie? She’s a lesbian. But we’re in Portland, where that’s everyone’s style, so it gets harder. Like the chick on the end of the bar? Pixie cut, slouchy beanie, band tee that’s probably for some local group her friend is in under her open flannel, black jeans that look painted on, and totally ignoring the prime male specimens currently ordering our drinks in favor of her cell phone? Definitely gay. But that chick over there,” he subtly pointed to a nearly identically-dressed girl, shorter and with longer hair, who had definitely noticed Steve and Thor’s presence, “is either straight or bi. I can work with either of those.”

Snorting at his friend’s explanation, Bucky flashed a quick look back at the woman at the end of the bar. Sam was probably right. Too bad; she was beautiful, and he wouldn’t have minded getting to know her better.

----------

You sighed at your phone and shifted on your seat at the end of the bar. Your friend was late again; they were always late. According to the text chain you were receiving nearly non-stop, they were also probably already drunk, not that that was surprising anymore.

“Come on, Dean,” you muttered under your breath. “I need you here before he shows up.”

Five minutes later, your friend stumbled through the door, giggling madly at, well, you didn’t want to know what. They stumbled their way over to you and collapsed onto a stool.

“Why are we here?” Dean immediately began complaining. “I stick out like a sore thumb. I’m more goth than hipster, you know that.”

“We’re here because I nanny for the owner part-time so the drinks are free,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes. “You know fully well that any place becomes your scene when you don’t have to pay for alcohol.”

“True,” Dean replied with another giggle. “I didn’t have to pay at the last place either, because I’m fucking hot. Three guys and two girls bought me drinks.”

“Aaand, that’s it, you’re cut off for the night,” you sighed, asking the bartender for a coffee for your definitely drunk friend. “You did kill your makeup tonight, though. It looks great.”

“Damn right it does,” they slurred. “Hey, how come you didn’t tell me? I’d have gotten here a hell of a lot sooner if you’d told me there were Avengers in the building.”

You followed your friend’s line of sight to where there were in fact four members of the Avengers seated in a booth.

“Oh… I didn’t notice them.”

Dean scoffed and gave you that knowing look that you really hated. “You got lost in your phone again, didn’t you? Just in case he showed up.” The blush on your face was enough of an answer. “Damn it, woman, he’s a fucking asshole who never deserved you and I’d have killed him already if you weren’t so fucking concerned with whether or not things are legal.” They downed the rest of their coffee with a grimace and pushed themselves off the bar, grabbing for your hand. “Come on. We’re gonna go flirt with superheroes.”

Your eyes widened in horror. “Oh no. I am not going to talk to the Avengers with you while you’re drunk.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as they looked at you. “Then you have to promise me you’ll sing karaoke tonight. You haven’t done it since that bastard criticized your voice, and I miss hearing it. You’re fucking good, and you let that fucking moron rob us all of your beautiful songbird-ness.”

“I hope you realize how drunk you sound.”

“Do we have a deal or not? Because if I’m going to give up a shot at fucking Thor, it had better be for a good reason.”

You sighed. Your friend was always stubborn like this. “Fine, we have a deal.”

“Awesome! I get to pick your song.”

“Aw, hell, no…”

----------

Your ex showed up right before karaoke started as he always did.

“Look at the smug asshole,” Dean muttered into the drink they’d somehow managed to get despite your best efforts. They put on a comically feminine voice and mimicked, “I must sing every chance I get, for my voice is God’s gift to mankind and to deprive people of the joy of listening to it would be blasphemy of the highest fucking order!”

“Dean,” you sighed, “please behave. You’ve already gotten me to agree to singing again. You don’t need to start a scene with him, too.”

“I should cut off his fucking dick for cheating on you.”

Because you knew Dean, you were concerned they meant it. “Don’t. He did me a favor, helping me realize he wasn’t worth it. Now, did you sign me up for karaoke already, or do I need to do it?”

The grin they flashed you was even more concerning when paired with how much they’d had to drink. “I signed us both up. After you sing your mystery song – yes, you’ll have enough of an intro to figure out what it is and come in on time, they put the lyrics up anyway, you’ll be fine – I’ll blow your performance out of the water with a spectacular rendition of ‘Bang, Bang.’ Your ex won’t know what hit him.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” you said dryly, only to be horrified when your name was called first as karaoke started.

Dean laughed at the glare you threw them. “Go blow them all away with your magical voice, darling!”

“Y/N,” the bar’s owner said into his mic when you stepped up on stage. “It’s been far too long, m’lady! Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in a few months, it’s the lovely Y/N singing ‘Shake It Off’!”

“Really, Dean?” you asked, picking up your mic. “All the songs in the world to choose from and that’s the one you picked for me?” The regulars laughed at your teasing as Dean raised their beer in salute. Almost before you had a moment to collect yourself, the music was off and you could feel your ex studying you from his seat near the back with his new woman draped across him. You shut him out of your mind and focus and launched yourself into the song, determined to have fun even if you weren’t really drunk enough to do a Taylor Swift song for karaoke.

----------

Bucky hadn’t been paying attention to much other than his beer until the karaoke started. Their booth was set up at the perfect spot for watching the stage, and he chided himself for the way his heart jumped when you stepped on stage.

“Really, Dean?” you joked, shooting a look at your friend who did not look like – he? She? Bucky couldn’t tell which – would be interested in hanging out in a bar like this. Then you took a deep breath and wow, your whole demeanor changed as you started singing. It was like the song took over you and you had an entirely different energy about you.

“I go on too many dates, but I can’t make ‘em stay,” you sang, and Bucky watched you work the stage, using the mic stand to your theatrical advantage even as you held the mic in your hand. He’d say you were hamming it up for the crowd, but there was something about your performance that said maybe some of the words were hitting a little too close to home for you to be too flippant with them.

“My ex man brought his new girlfriend,” and he didn’t miss the way your eyes flickered to a couple in the back. “And to the fella over there with the hella good hair, why don’t you come on over baby? We can shake, shake, shake.”

He almost choked on his beer, because he could swear that during that last line you had looked over and winked at him in a very “I’m not a lesbian and I want to climb you like a tree” type way. Bucky’s eyes quickly flickered to Sam to see if the other man caught it, but if he had, he wasn’t giving any indication of it.

It had to have been the performance, right? You were just working the audience. When the song ended, he made sure to applaud, and soon your friend (Dean, the announcer called them) was on stage singing like they were, well, as hammered as they looked.

----------

“Come ooooonnnn,” Dean whined, tugging on your sleeve. “Y/N, they’re in town and they’re in this bar and Thor’s so hot I’m surprised I don’t have a sunburn yet. I can’t talk to them alone. Come flirt with me.”

Your friend wasn’t going to give up anytime soon, so you slammed back the rest of your drink and stood.

“Fine,” you said, “but if you look like you’re going to puke on an Avenger at any point I’m dragging you home.”

“Yay!” they cheered, immediately pulling you over to their table and sliding into the booth next to Thor. “Hello, gentlemen of the Avengers. My name is Dean, I’m genderfluid and pansexual and would gladly climb any of you. This is Y/N and she’s a straight prude but if you give her enough alcohol you might be able to get a nice make-out session with her.”

You groaned and rubbed your face with your hand. “Sorry for my friend here. They passed merely being drunk an hour before karaoke started.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Captain America (YOU WERE TALKING TO CAPTAIN AMERICA?!?) said. “I’m Steve, and this is Bucky, Sam, and Thor.”

“Hi, Thor.” Dean batted their eyelashes and you choked back a snerk.

Bucky pushed at Sam and the two slid a little further back in the booth, making space for you to sit next to the soldier. He motioned to the seat and you slid next to him hesitantly.

“Sorry for interrupting your evening,” you apologized quietly, although Dean had long since tuned you out in favor of attempting to seduce the god of thunder. “Dean gets an idea their head and I’m basically stuck along for the ride.”

“It’s no problem,” Sam said smoothly. “I do have one question, though. Are you really straight?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, and Bucky thought that might be the nicest sound he’d ever heard. “Yes, I’m really straight. Most people are surprised, but my sense of style wasn’t enough to keep jerks from hitting on me so I got a haircut and fell in love with the style. It’s let me fly under the radar a lot more frequently, which is nice.”

“I can’t imagine how,” Bucky said, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “You’re beautiful.”

Before you could thank him, a voice to your left made you freeze.

“Y/N.”

Dean’s attention was snapped away from Thor and they stared down your ex. “Listen, asshole –”

“Dean.” You held up a finger to stop your friend before they made too much of a scene before entirely turning to your ex. “What do you want, Daniel?”

“It’s free karaoke time,” he crooned, ignoring how unwanted he obviously was. “I thought maybe we could do a duet together, for old time’s sake?”

You affixed him with a glare that would whither a plant. “Why on earth would I want to be reminded of our time together?”

That seemed to shake his confidence a bit. “I’m just being friendly,” he snapped.

“You don’t know how to just be friendly. We’re over, Daniel, so get over it already. If you really wanted me, you wouldn’t have cheated.”

“I believe you heard the lady,” Thor cut in before Daniel could reply. “She wishes for you to leave her alone, and I suggest you abide by her wishes.

For the first time he seemed to notice who you were sitting with, and he sulked off back to his date.

“Well,” Sam broke the silence that had fallen over the table, “I’m guessing that relationship being over is a good thing?”

You nodded. “Thank you,” you told Thor. “I appreciate the support.”

“Anytime, m’lady.”

----------

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asked you softly a few minutes later when you had yet to join the table’s renewed conversation.

You shook your head. “He was a jerk who cheated on me so I got out. It was a long time ago.”

“How could anyone throw away someone like you?”

The earnest way he said it made you blush.

“His loss,” you whispered shyly.

Bucky only paused a moment before asking, “Could I make his loss my gain?”

“I’d like that,” you said with a smile. “I’d like that very much.”

[lukeskywalkerschanelboots]

Gemsonaweek Day 5: Community Day

sooooo there was a writing prompt for today, but i was already working on this fic with my tanzan & @mr-ore​‘s amazonite, and like...what represents “community” better than including someone else’s character in a fic LMAO

(others include @sarunono‘s angelite & @rebeccasugar‘s blue diamond!)

“My Amazonite.”

Her voice echoes across the room, cobalt rays of starlight shining through the navy curtains. It is dark, compared to how it used to be. Or so Amazonite is told - he was not there, when She was joyful, when Her beloved was whole. He has no idea what she was once like at full strength. He is not sure he wants to know. Even now, heartbroken and drowning in tears, Her voice fills planets with its feathery words, and the barest movement of Her eyes could command a thousand assassins to rain justice upon him. No, Amazonite does not want to know what She is like when She is angered. It is his job to never know.

“Yes, my Diamond?”

She does not meet his eyes, instead choosing to look out Her window at the brilliant star Her palace orbits. She gestures in that vague way that She does, unable to articulate with elegance and eloquence, and Amazonite climbs atop the small pedestal that is his stage. He is unable to meet Her eyes for longer than a moment. Staring between Her eyebrows is easier than gazing right into the cerulean irises, the uncanny pupils, the ends that are tugged down as if upon strings - no, it is easier to sing for Her.

She does not need to command Her singer any more than a bird must be commanded to fly. It is what She made him for.

Sing for me. Make me feel better.

And he does.

The ballroom of the palace is well-lit and filled wall-to-wall with Gems of Her court. Every shade of blue and green and purple that Amazonite could imagine is packed in, decadently covered in lace and glitter and expensive fabrics. Not a single shifted one in sight, of course, aside from the Quartz guards that line the balcony at even intervals. To use one’s own Light to dress oneself at such a party would be au gauche to the highest degree.

The aristocracy laugh and titter away in the way that they do, now that the Rebellion’s pain is barely an afterthought. To Amazonite’s left, three Sapphires are teasing a Lace Amethyst (a personal guard! How elegant!) as she blushes, confounded by speak of future vision. He makes his way down velvet-carpeted stairs. Gems stop and stare as he goes by; of course they do. He is Her songbird and Her source of happiness and stars only know how many courts he’s performed for to make Her happy.

He smiles. He waves. He tells them thank you and I adore it so and grits his teeth every time and thinks I hate every single one of you fake glass-gemmed Beta Kindergartener social-climbing little -

A whistle stops his thought process. It is loud, and obnoxious, in the way that whistles tend to be. A Quartz or a Ruby would hear it and immediately snap to attention, but the up-and-down wee-woo melody marks it as something other than an Agate about to snap at a guard. Amazonite, however, is not a fighter, as much as he dreams. So his first reaction is to put a hand to his ear and say: “Pardon me? Do you know who I - ”

“Sorry, darling!” The voice is from behind him, because of course nothing in this Her-forsaken life can be easy for me, can it, I have to turn around to talk to this clod who whistled at me! And he turns, still rubbing his ear.

And she is beautiful.

Of course she is. All Gems are beautiful, compared to organics. They lack the flaws of calcium-based bone structures and carbon-woven skin. But she has skin that is dark and glitters like the night sky; hair that is violet and shining and falls down one shoulder in curls that are not quite curls; doll-like wrists and shining dark eyes and long, elegant legs, balancing on heels that seem liable to snap an ankle. She smiles, and he can see the brilliant white of teeth that are, upon a second look, a lot sharper than he was really comfortable with.

Amazonite is not phased. He has seen beautiful before. He is Her songbird, and She is the most beautiful being in the universe. It is a fact as reliable as gravity. Yes, the Gem in front of him is stunning, but she whistled at him. And - “You interrupted me.” An eyebrow is raised. He crosses his arms and flips his hair away from his eye.

“Whoopsies.” An apologetic shrug; is that a wink or a blink? She sure doesn’t look sorry. She extends one hand. “Tanzan Aura Quartz A1. You can just call me Tanzzy - everyone does. Never thought I’d meet the Amazonite,” she chirps.

Amazonite is a gentleman, even when startled by whistling young socialites. So he kisses the back of her hand. She giggles. “That’s a fascinating facet...Tanzzy.”

“First of my crop.” Her eyes glaze over. “The Tanzan Aura Quartz rehabilitation program employs the remnants of defective Quartzes as well as excess magic and chemicals to create a new and useful Gem subspecies for Her Radi - oh, quit pulling a face!”

He can’t. He just kissed the hand of a bunch of glorified shards stitched back together. She’s probably heard the argument before, given the eye-roll she now gives him. Tanzzy’s blushing, now; the foot-in-mouth diatribe she just gave was obviously poorly received. It’s periwinkle. “It doesn’t matter now, anyways.” She grins again. “I’m one of Her most graceful and elegant ladies.”

“Well, your grace,” and Amazonite has gone from angry to outraged to laying on the charm so thick it hurts. “Do you know how to waltz?”

“Of course I know how to waltz! It was practically programmed into me.” The urge to cheekily ask if she’s really just a Pearl sits heavily in Amazonite’s mouth. The fear that she has an Amethyst-strength slap is the only thing holding it back.

They take hands and spin to the center of the dancefloor. It is only now that Amazonite notices how well he and Tanzzy (stars above that’s a childish nickname) compliment each other. Her skirt billows around her like purplish smoke, his, sparkling in turquoise elegance. They swirl at an even tempo, colors blending on a marble palette. The band plays on.

People have started to stare, and it’s not out of fear of a fusion. There’s some odd magical barrier around the ballroom, a technology nobody but the Peridots truly understand, that makes it safe to dance in peace. No, it’s because Amazonite and Tanzzy are lovely together. It is their respective purposes. But both are beginning to get the sense that the other’s smile is starting to hurt their face, and both are correct.

“So, have you danced with anyone else? You’re quite skilled” Tanzzy’s left eye closes in a lazy wink, and now it’s Amazonite’s turn to flush. The innuendo is obvious. She’s asking about fusion! She seems to take pleasure in the momentary upset, face turning into a catlike smile. Amazonite cannot be startled so easily. He recomposes himself in record time.

“No, but not for a dearth of diligence.” It’s chess, this game they’re playing; back and forth to knock the other off balance. Tanzzy can’t make eye contact out of embarrassment for the question she just asked. Amazonite continues on, bold as ever: “I’ve been trying to court this stunning Angelite guard for cycles now, and he just blows me off every time! Can you believe his nerve?”

“An Angelite? Guard?” The curiosity is enough to snap her out of shame. Tanzzy tilts her head to one side and purses her lips. “That’s interesting. I would’ve thought you’d shoot for another aristocrat.”

“Ha!” Amazonite flips his hair again in a laugh. “Please. Everyone above a 6.5 bores me to tears nowadays.” And it’s true; even She gets tiring after a while. The constant stream of ballads in Her beloved’s shattered name rings in his ears even when he’s alone. His shapeshifted throat aches regardless of what honey he drinks and how much he rests between his little performances. And don’t get him started on Her Aquamarines and Sapphires and that one Kyanite - stars, he can’t stand them.

“Excuse me?” Tanzzy’s eyebrow shoots up just as her lips purse into...no, it’s not a snarl, she’s too cute to even approximate it. Though the fangs do help with intimidation. As does the sudden and extreme pressure on Amazonite’s shoulder. He winces, and remembers his partner’s high ranking of 7, not even counting her socialite training.

Please, as if you’re anything special from Her court, he bites back. “I believe you misunderstood me, Tanzzy,” he says calmly, still hating how the name sounds on his silver tongue. “I said almost everyone. You, however - ”

“Oh. Really.” Her eyes are lidded, now. The pressure slips off his shoulder, and then away entirely. Now the only thing holding them together is his smooth hand on her supple waist. But, really, it’s the social graces of the Blue Court keeping that hand there in the first place. “Well, don’t let me keep you waiting,” Tanzzy replies with the slightest of eyerolls. She walks away.

Good.

“My Amazonite.”

She faces towards him, this time, curled on the pile of pillows and blankets and other soft things so large they could easily crush Amazonite if She were to do so. Her hair spills loose around her, pale and delicate as starlight without Her dark cloak getting in the way. She plays with her hair, twirling it between two of Her massive fingers. She watches how the light of Her star shines through it. It glistens as the way the tears on Her face do, as well. They spill off Her face and onto Her cloak and Her bed, and they do not fade the way that most Gems’ do.

Many times has this conversation played out, for She grieves a grief so deep and dark that it seems to pain everyone around Her as well. But Amazonite feels as if something has changed, this time.

“Yes, My Diamond?”

She moves upward into a sitting position. It takes a long moment, and it shakes the whole room. But eventually Her mighty form is sitting up, legs curled to one side, arms lost beneath billowing fabric, sniffling back tears that threaten to ruin her commands.

“I am upset, again.” She looks out Her window and blinks idly at Her star. Amazonite knows better than to ask. He thinks he knows what it is for.

She squeezes Her eyes shut, and Her next words shake. “I have lost my Tanzan Aura Quartz.”

“Oh.” There is a faint memory of a Tanzan Aura Quartz in Amazonite’s mind. It is one of a vain, silly thing, who asked too many questions and seemed to have no purpose outside of her beauty. He knows better than to ask Her for clarification, though. It is best to let Her explain on Her own time.

She sniffs again, and wipes away tears. She looked to Her ceiling as more tears fall down Her face. “I feel so...defenseless, without her.” Again, she looks to Her star for answers. “She was the first of her crop, and the best of them.”

Amazonite’s nails dig into his palms. Get to the point, he wants to scream. Tell me to sing for you, because some bratty little princess died and now you want me to fix it.

“She was my bravest guard.”

And he is knocked over again.

She looks back to Amazonite, pushing aside Her long hair to gaze at him better. Her words fill planets with their weight, and yet, she speaks so softly that it is as if she is sharing a secret with her closest friend. “I asked for a Gem that was strong, and bold, but beautiful, and charming. So they could hide in parties and look as harmless as members of my Court. And if another rebel came close to me, they would never predict who would stop them.” She sniffs, again. “My Rubies and Quartzes failed me. They were too obvious...I had to ask for something better.” A bittersweet smile creeps across Her face. “And they are…”

He can’t hear Her words over the blood rushing in his ears. Amazonite stands, locked on his pedestal, as She callously tells him that, yes, there are Gems that are beautiful soldiers and elegant guards, that can defend Her and fight and go back to being beautiful, safe in their purpose as Her last stand. But you will never be one, Her quiet voice seems to mock. You are my songbird, not my warrior.

“She was the first of her crop. I did not know how well she would fare, so new as she was.” Her hands wipe at Her eyes, a messy way to be rid of a few scant tears. “But she seemed to live for my safety. Every time she saw a threat, she would jump at the chance to pursue. Were I to see a Gem that worried me, she would beg me to be rid of them. It was as if it sustained her.” She pushes hair out of Her face. It looks as if She is truly standing in another time and place, with only Her light-form remaining in Her castle. “I do not know why, but I was not grateful enough for her service.”

Amazonite takes a deep breath. He must listen. He must know which song will ease Her pain. He wants this to be over wish as fast as he can, the way Angelite describes regeneration in combat. He wishes he knew what regeneration was like, but he has never felt the need; he has never felt pain.

“Even with her sisters watching me, I feel open without her at their helm.” He knows, soon, that She will forget this, and go back to mourning what she has always mourned. “I pray only that the rebels will not find her sweet gemstone, and use her for some vile purposes.” Her eyes twitch, and for a moment, Amazonite is terrified. She cannot be allowed to feel anger. It is his purpose, to never let Her know rage.

But She exhales, and Amazonite releases his breath in tandem. And - finally - She waves Her hand. 

And he has already started to sing.

The reports of rebels have been flashing all over Homeworld, now. Their posters are meant to inspire fear, to call to arms. But they just make Amazonite feel pity. Look at them; defenseless, disorderly, on the sad little planet they call home. Quartzes working as medics. Pearls taking up weapons. How could anyone be afraid of such an army? He hates it, but it is true: Gems have a purpose and they must serve it.

So why is he stopped in the middle of a hallway, standing slack-jawed at the announcement projected ahead of him?

Angelite mumbles something about a schedule and a Hauyne, but it is lost on Amazonite’s ear. Even tugging at his arm makes no difference. Angelite could not understand, he thinks, why he stares at the purple-haired Gem ahead of him, the flowing gray jacket, the macabre strings of gemstones.

No, he stares, for printed beneath it is TANZAN AURA QUARTZ A1: WANTED FOR REBELLIOUS ACTIONS, DISOBEYING DIAMOND ORDERS, TREASON OF THE HIGHEST DEGREE.

She - he, for the Tanzzy he knew was unsmiling and the one on the board grins like a maniac with his flattened chest and widened shoulders - is laughing, necklaces and bracelets swinging as he spins in midair, a knife in each hand. His dark skin glitters like the midnight sky as it once did, and his hair is curlier and closer to his head, and now, it is clear why She favored this guard so. He looks as if war is what makes the blood pump through his veins. He looks the way Amazonite thinks he would, if he could leap into battle with blades in each hand, laughing as he cut through enemies like paper.

“Oh,” says the singer, the most eloquent of Gems, Her comforter and Her court’s beloved. Amazonite sounds as if he is speaking underwater. He feels underwater - disconnected from the world, barely even registering Angelite’s pleas for him to move.

The stars plastered on Tanzzy’s knees and jacket confuse him. Why was he not happy on Homeworld? What did he have to gain by rebelling, by joining the sworn enemies of Her, who he once protected with his life? All Amazonite can possibly think of is just: “Oh.”

Well. At least their next meeting will be a more interesting story than that party.

[peeppeephellofatface]

I was way too excited and impatient to post this to spellcheck and it’s too late to do any editing right now.  Here you go, six little unedited pieces ranging from short scenes to mini-fics   ID

As mentioned before, several ideas were from friends’s fics and one from a confession that was submitted a few weeks ago.

1.Gordon tries peanut butter.

2. Three words.  World is Mine.

3. Gordon got too competitive.

4. Flying Scotsman joins in the fun of getting covered in chocolate

5. Henry pets Gordon in strange places

6. Mal cries and eats some bread.  This one is pretty sad and dark, similar in tone and story to the first fic I ever did here.

"Here, try some"

Without any other warning, he poked the spoon into Gordon's mouth.  It was an unfamiliar nutty taste and even odder texture, the consistancy of sticky frosting.  He wasn't entirely sure how to react to it.  But after initial hesitation he eagerly sucked it off the spoon, leaving it virtually spotless when Henry tugged it out of his mouth. He was not expecting the stickiness to be as much as it was and found himself mouthing awkwardly at him as he tried to figure out how to swallow it.  

"Would you like some more?"

He looked down at the spoon, skin crawling at the idea of sticking it back in.

"I'd really hate to contaminate the whole jar by doing this.  Wait, no- this is better."

He dipped three fingers into the peanut butter jar and brought them up to Gordon's mouth, letting him lick it off them.  He found it a little odd, but understood his reasoning well enough and playfully tickled his fingers with the tip of his hot tongue and sucking on them a little as he lapped off the peanut butter, making Henry very flustered.  He tried to hide the awkward smile stretching across his face with a yawn, but his heavy breathing from excitement made his hand waver a little, something that was very obvious to Gordon.

"Like that, don't you?" ---------

Mallard couldn't get into the backroom.  Someone must have locked it- but who?  Was it some visitor?  He knew Hammy and the others were in their usual spots, still in their engines.  

He pressed his ear against the door and heard something.  SInging.  Terribly, shrill singing.  Perhaps even worse than his own.  It was a sound that could only be compared to a songbird impersonating a four-year-old while being strangled in an earthquake.  He wasn't sure who even had a voice that could go that high.  Perhaps it was one of the smaller engines clowning around.  They could be childish like that at times.  

Still, he was getting hungry and wanted to get a snack from there.  He rummaged through his pockets again before finally finding his key, crumpled up in a chocolate bar wrapper. While it did seem rude to interrupt this singer (if they could even be called that), he was getting cranky fro hunger and opened the door anyways.

What he saw was both completely unexpected, but also hardly surprising.

"SEKAI DE ICHIBAN OHIME-SAMA~"

Admittedly he couldn't tell who it was for a few lines due to cringing so hard from the horrible noise. And he did at the worst possible time.  The song paused for a short instrumental break after the last "Hey baby" and Flying Scotsman inhaled sharply before letting out an eardrum-shredding squeal of a scream.  

"Thank you, thank you very much!"

He turned around, to realize that he had a very real audience, of one very unamused Mallard, currently glaring at him in a mix of irritation and pain.  

"I have two questions. ... WHERE IS YOUR DIGNITY, COUSIN? And.... HOW DID YOU EVEN FIND A COSTUME LIKE THAT IN YOUR SIZE?"

"Let an engine have a little fun, Mal.  Nobody can see me in here anyways."

"They sure will know something's up when you shatter all the windows in this museum."

"Anyways, it's not really in my size anyways.  It's just the largest one I could find online."

Mallard gave him a harder disapproving look.  It definitely was too small for him.  A few inches of grey skin poked out from under his very tight top.  His long boots dug into his pudgy thighs and if the sleeves hadn't been detached from the main portion of the top, he would never have been able to get it over his shoulders.  

"You look ridiculous."

He poked at his exposed muffin top.

"But it is rather fun to do this "cosplay" thing-in private of course.  It's a little snug, sure, but it does emphasize my curves, if I may say so."

He flipped a teal pigtail over his shoulder.

Mallard sighed and shook his head.

"Well, have fun, I suppose.  Do not let word of this leak out under any circumstances, you udnerstand?  You'll embarass the whole museum with your antics."

"Perhaps if you tried it, you'd understand."

------------------------------------ "Why must you be like this Gordon?"

He remained silent out of spite and pain.  

"James couldn't get through half the carton.  Why didn't you quit when it was obvious you'd won?"

He curled up a bit more, rubbing his aching stomach.  Perhaps he should have let up on James once he'd given up.

"You didn't need to clean out the whole thing AND dig into a whole new one to make your point and now you're stuck like this until your stomach settles down!"

He groaned.

"You know I get rather competive when challenged liek that.  There's no way I'd let that small fry show me up.  I... probably did go a bit far, though.  In hindsight, that did seem a bit cruel and unneccessary.   And having to be rubbed and comforted by you.... like some kind of injured animal.  It's embarassing...  Oh Gresley, why did I do that?"

"Oh, please, don't get emotional on me.  I'm a real embarassment too with my past and all.  We can both be embarassments together.  I'm really sorry I came off as so callous."

He tugged his soft, limp body closer into his chest and wrapped his arms around his belly, stroking it gentle to comfort him.  As much as he hated to admit it, he secretly liked seeing him so vulnerable like this.  He liked having this power over him.  He also relished in the opportunity to rub his fat middle, something he;d fantasized about for ages.  He hugged him even closer and pulled his head back onto his shoulder, feeling his full, powerful, thighs compress against his own.  He gently kneaded his soft flesh as he started to relax in his arms and his breathing became less pained and heavy.  

---------------------------------- "Where on earth did you get this idea from, Scotty?"

"Mm, a certain someone else in the museum."

SHe had just finished feeding him, but he'd had even more plans.  She was squatted over him as he was lying down, shirtless, letting her dribble chocolate sauce on his bare belly and chest, teeth gritted in excitement and anticipation.  The chilled liquid made him flinch was surprise as the first drops landed on him, but then he relaxed.

"Well, time to clean up our mess, isn't it?"

She knelt down over him and brought her head up to his chubby stomach, glutted from the feeding, then pressed her face against it as she slowly began to lick the chocolate off. Just as the cold had startled him, the heat of her tongue did as well, but he sighed in satisfaction as felt her soft lips lapping at his grey skin, creeping up to his chest from the upper portion of his belly.  As she worked her way back down, she lightly stroked his swollen, tender, middle.  He squirmed in pleasure under her as she worked her way down, squeaking a little when she hit a particularly sensitive spot.  She paused a bit before sucking the last bit of chocolate off the flesh right his navel, before kissing him all over his tummy a few more times, snuggling against its warm, gurgling form.  

--------------------- His legs were going numb from Gordon sitting on his lap.  But it was worth it to feel his heavenly thighs press against his own.  

Henry reached for another brownie to feed him, but accidently elbowed him in the small of the back in the process.  He expected him to jolt and complain about being bumped but instead, he shivered in delight, then awkwardly looked around.  

"Could you perhaps.... do that again?"

Henry gave him another firm bump in the back, and he gasped in delight.  

"You like that, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, I do."

"DO you like this as well?"

His free hand reached up and stroked him under the chin, trailing up the soft edges of his cheeks.  He sighed.  It creeped up one side, squeezing it gently every inch or so, and he subconsciously leaned his head against the hand, rubbing against it a little.  Then he felt an aggravating tingling sensation at his forehead.  Henry had put down the brownie and held a finger right between his eyes, a hair away from the spot directly between his eyes.  All he could do was remain very still, unsure what exactly he was attempting to do.  His fingers lightly made contact, then slowly slid down the slight curve of his nose.  He shuddered and squirmed, but Henry lightly increased the pressure of his touch to keep his face still.  He could feelhis breathing getting quicker and heavier and the tension in his jaw with the hand pressed against his cheek.  As suddenly as he had begun, his finger slithered off the end of the bridge of his nose.  He stared in disbelief for a few seconds.

"....Coul you do that again as well?"

"Of course."

-------------------------------- He couldn't sleep.  He couldn't keep his mind of it.  Something was eating at him, and the only thing he could think of to rip his mind from it was eating itself.  

Mallard formed in front of his metal body and hobbled over to one of the backrooms.  The one with the freezer.  He desperately clung to anything he could feel in the darkness of the NRM, praying that he wouldn't fall on his way and get stuck out of his body until someone found him in the morning.  Fortunately, he knew the way well, from many a midnight trip to it.  

A blinding light met him when he swung the door open, overwhelming his vision with purple spots.  He slammed it shut.

"Dammit, forgot the freezer was on top."

Chilled air blew out.  The right door.  He wove between half-eaten contianers of assorted flavors of ice cream.  Scotsman's, of course.  Finally, he felt a more familiar shape in the back and pulled the frozen loaf of bread out.  Good thing too, as his hands were going numb from the cold and his poor circulation.  

He fumbled with the twist-tie and placed the loaf on a plate, then stuck it in the microwave after being blinded with another burst of light.  He just kept running on autopilot. He'd thought that freezing his bread would make it last longer and keep him from getting into it like times like this.  But obviously, a force inside him was determined to jump all the fences if it meant getting getting some irresistable wheaty goodness.  

BEEP BEEP BEEP

He whipped the door open to silence the noise.  He didn't want anyone hearing him.  He had to sit and suffer in silence.  Now defrosted, he mindlessly clutched the bread for warmth an felt himself folding down into a heap on the floor.  Just as mindlessly, he sank his teeth into the crust of its heel, savoring the taste for too short a time before swallowing it to give him the satisfaction that force really wanted.  He found himself tearing away chunk after chunk of it, getting crumbs all over himself and the floor around him.  He didn't care.  He just wanted to consume.  Soon half of it was gone.  He craved more and wasn't going to stopa fter one, so he clumsily grabbed and heated up another loaf from the freezer and crawled back to the floor with both of them in his hands.  

He shoveled in the last of the half-eaten one, mind numb.  As his other hand came up with the remaining one, it brushed against his stomach and it hit him.  He realized what he was doing.  He could feel how it was bulging more than usual from all the bread and started to cry, realizing what he was doing to himself.  But he continued to take bites of bread between tears of fear and increasingly, pain.  The taste anf feeling of gulping it down was irresistable to him.  He couldn't stop, though he hated himself for what he was doing.  

"Oh Gresley, I'm only going to get worse the more I keep doing this.  Ooough, it hurts."

Both the physical pain and knowledge of what he was doing to his body wracked him.  He soon wouldn't be able to just blame being stuck on display for getting fat like this, but his own loss of control of himself.  It was humiliating and terrifying, feeling like he was losing his old self and increasingly becoming like that gluttonous Scotsman.  There were only crumbs left now and he craved more, but his belly hurt too much to want to get up and retrieve more bread from the freezer.  All he could do was tend to his bloated stomach and hope he would be able to recover by morning and slink out of here without anyone noticing.

But someone had noticed.

"Mal, are you in here?"

He shuddered.  It was Duchess of Hamilton.  He curled up tighter, wanting to disappear completely.  He couldn't let her see him like this.

"Oh dear, you look like a wreck, Mal."

She squatted down beside him and stroked the side of his face, notcing the trail of crumbs and his the bulge of his torso.  

"I never knew you did this too...  Let me help you out a bit."

She loosened his pants for him to give his belly a little more room, and rolled up his shirt a little so she could rub his glutted, gurgling, tummy.  He covered his face with his hands in embarassment at the realization of how soft and stuffed he really was down there and the feeling her of her touching him in such a tender place.  

"It's okay, Mal.  You should get over the discomfort in a few hours and there's no lasting effects of it.  At least that's how it's been with Scotty."

"Ugh, don't compare me to that pig at a time like this..."

"Shh, it's okay, Mal.  Please don't keep secrets like this away from me, okay?  Whatever prompted you to do this probably shouldn't be kept bottled up this way.  Would you be willing to talk about it with me?  I'll keep it a secret if you'd like, of course."

"I guess."

He sighed.  Her touch was gentle and soothing.