#Factory of brick on wheel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fall0utmind · 5 months ago

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Epilogue

Hi guys - it's here

we are done - thank you so much for all the support you have given me - it's invaluable

ao3 here!!

Feedback would be much appreciated - alt ending coming soon

Love you all - Aoif

*6 months later*

It’s cold in Italy; it's unseasonably frosty but dry, at least. Marc steadies himself on the driveway, taking some deep breaths from behind the wheel. He refused a lift from the airport, choosing instead a hire car to ensure a quick escape if it’s needed. Now he’s sitting in the car, trying not to have a panic attack.

He stares up at the imposing building in front of him. The ranch house sits proudly at the edge of the property– all brick and wood with big windows which probably spill the light in during summer. It has changed, from ten years ago. Marc doesn’t know why that shocks him. His hands are shaking.

He cannot fathom what he’s doing here, in Tavullia on a random Monday in January. In a few weeks, he’ll be at the Ducati factory, filming and testing as their newest rider. He thinks he might be insane.

Valentino must have heard him pulling in, the loose scattering of gravel crunching under the wheels. Marc can see movement inside; his heart is beating out of his chest.

Things between him and Vale have been better, since Aragon. It has taken a lot of awkward conversation and a couple of fuck ups to even get to this stage. Marc’s slowly been getting used to the boys, whilst keeping Vale far away from his family (who still haven’t come around). They have been tentatively dating, trying to figure out how to fit into each other’s lives without implosion.

Marc has refused anything more than a couple of low-key dates on race weekends and spending time in Vale’s hotel room. Meeting on non-neutral ground feels like a big step, and now Marc is here, back where it all went so wrong the first time, potentially feeding himself to the lions.

He screws his eyes shut and breathes deeply. Alex will be here at the weekend. They will get through it. He steels himself to unflex his fingers from where they grip the steering wheel. His knuckles are white.

The front door to the house creeps open, Valentino emerging from behind. After all of these years, he still makes Marc slightly breathless. It has been a long time since he’s seen Valentino like this, dressed in a loose hoodie and sweatpants, his socked feet without shoes. Marc climbs out of the car, heading around the back to grab his bag before locking the doors and shuffling forward.

Vale stands on the threshold, looking as unsure as Marc feels - his hands reach forward before pulling back. Marc decides for him, wrapping his arms around Valentino and allowing the older man to pull him in and press his lips to the crown of Marc’s head. Marc smiles into his chest. It is good to know that he is not the only one who is nervous.

When they pull apart, Marc tilts his head towards Valentino and finds soft eyes already watching him, startlingly blue in the morning light. Valentino’s lips twitch upwards as he tilts his head down to brush a kiss against Marc’s mouth.

Valentino takes Marc’s bag before he can protest, lugging it down the hall and setting it down in what Marc assumes is Valentino’s room. There is a bike sitting by the footboard, one of Vale’s. Marc’s breath hitches, the rumours were true then. The sheets look fresh, untouched. The sun filters through the large windows located adjacent to the bed. Valentino shows no signs of hesitance in welcoming Marc into his home. It makes Marc’s heart contract, beating double time at the show of familiarity and trust.

The unease slowly slips off Marc’s shoulders like satin as he relaxes into the space. It’s just the two of them for now. It’s nice, there is a settled kind of peace in the air – a contentedness rolling off both of them. Valentino tugs him around the house, giving him a tour. He never got to this point last time, only saw brief flashes of parts of the house back in 2014. He pushes the memory away and smiles as one of Valentino’s dogs trails curiously behind them, occasionally nudging a wet nose into the back of Marc’s knees.

He could settle here, Marc thinks. The thought catches him off guard and makes him do a double-take. He stares at the gentle slope of Valentino’s shoulders underneath his too-large t-shirt. The way he looks so soft and gentle here. Marc doesn’t realise that he’s stopped, even when he feels the soft brush of fur against his calves as the dog pushes past him. Valentino pauses, looking back over his shoulder. His face is relaxed, his eyes adoring, tinged with concern as he notices Marc has paused.

“Marc, Angelo, what’s wrong?” He says, striding back, cupping his face gently. His gaze tracks over Marc's frame, assessing for hurt or pain, his hand grazing over Marc’s arm.

Over the past 3 months, Valentino has relearned Marc’s body. It was difficult, to come to terms with the chronic pain Marc faces daily. Sometimes, Marc would shuffle into his hotel room, late after a race, his arm stiff by his side, looking dazed and in pain. Every time, Valentino would run a bath and painstakingly massage his arm and shoulder until the pain lessened, kissing away the tears which gathered in Marc’s lash line.

It has been difficult for Marc to allow himself to be looked after; he is learning though. Now, he just smiles, small and closed-lip. He kisses Vale, once, twice.

“Nothing, mi amour. I love you.” He whispers.

Valentino answers with a grin and a soft “I love you too”.

It is worth everything to Marc.

Cohabiting with someone you used to hate is odd.

They spend two days in a strange kind of domestic bliss. Their nights are spent wrapped around each other in Vale’s bed, satiated and sleepy. Valentino wakes up every morning to prepare Marc a coffee, just how he likes it, and delivers it with a sweet kiss. In the intervals between cooking or meetings, Valentino wraps his arms around Marc from behind and kisses his forehead softly.

Marc thinks he could get used to domestic bliss.

Valentino whines and complains when Marc asks to use the gym.

(“You’re supposed to be on a break”)

But he sits and watches Marc work out each time without fail, revelling in the way Marc flushes prettily when he catches Vale staring.

(Cardio usually ends up being done in the bedroom).

On Wednesday, Valentino pulls Marc towards the garage to show him the impressive bike selection he keeps. Valentino has spent years (and a lot of money) amassing his collection, including a few of his old MotoGP ones. Marc looks awed, his fingers trailing over handlebars and pausing on the bright ‘46’ of Vale’s 2005 Yamaha. Valentino watches with adoring eyes.

Marc is holding back a million questions, crouching to inspect each machine before moving on to the next. He appears at home among the bikes. Even so, Vale can tell Marc is antsy without one to ride. He desperately wants to appease Marc and show him around the track but also recognises the history here. Marc won't ask to ride, not after last time, and Valentino's pushing won’t go down well.

Valentino pretends to fiddle with a bike, tuning it up a bit, watching as Marc becomes more impatient. He hopes to time it perfectly, waiting until the last minute to ensure the younger man will agree.

“We can ride, if you’d like?” Vale asks quietly.

Marc’s answering grin is wide.

Valentino hurries to pull out the bike he’s been tuning for Marc, unable to contain his excitement. The deep red ‘93’ is already in place.

When he turns back, Marc is half undressed, always so eager. But he has stopped still at the sight of the bike. He inches forward, running his hands across the throttle, a questioning look in his eyes. Valentino laughs uncomfortably, suddenly embarrassed.

“Well, you know- you need it for the weekend. And I was hoping you might need it again a bit more regularly going forward.”

He scratches his neck awkwardly, regretting his decision to be so forward. What if Marc doesn’t want to come back, or it is too much too soon?

Marc nudges against him, drawing Valentino’s attention back to reality. The smaller man pushes onto his tiptoes and presses a kiss to Vale’s lips, effectively wiping out any other thoughts.

“Thank you”, Marc whispers. It’s so painfully honest that it hurts.

Valentino kisses him again.

He brings his hands to Marc’s waist and is momentarily distracted by the bare, warm skin he finds. Of course, Marc is still half undressed. He pulls back to look at Marc shamelessly.

There are miles of tanned skin on display, unblemished other than his arm. Marc’s been somewhere hot over the break, Valentino saw the photos on Instagram. Marc with his friends, shirtless, his built chest and abs on full display as he laughed to the camera, golden sand and the crystal ocean behind him. Valentino is not ashamed to admit that he practically salivated when he saw them. It is no different now, with Marc standing in his garage. He doesn’t think Marc’s beauty will ever get old.

Marc looks amazing like this, slightly dishevelled, glowing with happiness. Valentino wants to keep him here forever.

He kisses Marc firmly one more time and pushes him in the direction of where their leathers are hanging up side by side.

“Come on, let’s ride” He suggests, knowing that if they don’t go now, Vale will become sidetracked. Marc is all too happy to oblige.

It’s a good day to ride - clear and a little cold, but bright. Marc takes a few laps to settle into the track, evidence that it has been a long time since he was last at the ranch. Guilt churns in Vale’s stomach, maybe if he was kinder, less bitter, that would not be the case. The thought is cast aside soon enough as they’re chasing each other around the track, just like old times. The sound of laughter is loud and bright; it can be heard above the familiar two-stroke engines as they roar around the circuit.

The unbridled joy of riding is only slightly dampened by the undercurrent of fear radiating off Marc. Valentino observes the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how he holds himself back, just a little, pulling the angle of his bike a smidge more upright than usual. Marc is scared he will fuck it up, push too hard, and send them both toppling into anger and misery once more. Valentino wants to put a stop to it.

He can practically see the memories flashing behind Marc’s eyes and he hits each apex. Vale tries to be a comforting presence, to show Marc that he’s safe. But Marc only fully relaxes when Valentino pulls him into a tight embrace after they finish their first quick laps. After that, they’re off, racing wheel to wheel like they were born to do.

Valentino quickly discovers that he no longer cares when Marc edges him across the line, content to kiss him thoroughly when they pull to stop, wiping any residue of worry off the younger man’s face.

Later, Valentino takes Marc back inside, pushing him towards the shower and grinning when Marc tugs him along too.

He has never been one to deny Marc what he wants.

He nudges the younger man into the bathroom, grabbing two of his fluffiest towels from the warmth of the airing cupboard en route.

By the time Valentino has locked the door Marc is already half out of his clothes, a pretty flush spreading from his cheeks down his chest. Valentino trails his eyes up and down Marc’s body, saliva pooling under his tongue.

He gently pushes Marc up against the marble-countered sink, the smallest hint of pressure on his hips. Valentino bends down to reach Marc’s lips, making the younger man push up into his touch.

The kiss isn’t gentle, it’s deep and wanting, yearning for more. Valentino pushes his hands under Marc’s legs as he hops to sit fully on the counter, his fingertips searing the soft skin there. In return, Marc wraps strong thighs around Valentino’s waist, grinding up to seek friction. By the time they pull apart, they are both achingly hard.

Valentino regretfully breaks away, leaving Marc panting on his countertop so he can reach into the lavish shower and turn on the taps.

He knew that the ungodly amount of money he spent on this bathroom would be beneficial one day.

Once steam has filled the room, he pulls Marc to his feet, letting the younger man strip off his underwear before pushing him into the warm spray.

Valentino watches for a moment, wondering how he got so lucky, before he too steps out of his clothes. He brackets himself in behind Marc, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s waist as water pours over them. Marc leans into his hold.

Valentino chases a water droplet which rolls down Marc’s neck, sucking a mark lightly onto the juncture of his shoulder as his hands trace patterns onto his hip. Marc’s head falls back, his eyes fluttering as he groans quietly.

Valentino keeps going, following the trail of the water, spinning Marc around and pushing him against the wall. He sinks to his knees, fascinated by the way Marc’s eyes screw shut, his face scrunching. Valentino spends a long time laving his tongue across Marc’s abs, admiring Marc’s reactions as he licks across the younger’s hip bones and bites. Valentino could stay here for years.

(He couldn’t, his knees already hurt)

Marc’s quads tense as Vale sinks his teeth into the delicate flesh, strong muscle bracketing Vale’s head. Marc leans his weight against the wall, slightly boneless as Valentino continues to nibble on the soft skin, sucking until there’s a line of pretty purple bruises from mid-thigh to his groin.

It’s one of Vale’s favourite things to do, leaving blemishes on Marc’s tanned skin, like blots of ink on paper. Staining Marc and making him Vale’s own, after so many years. The added bonus is that Marc is always so pliant when Valentino does it. He goes limp and far away, his eyes dazed when they’re not rolling back in his head. He is reduced to a mess of whining and pleading.

Valentino is not immune.

Marc is above him, his legs shaking and whining as Valentino mouths everywhere but his dick, which is hard against his abs. Precum smears across his stomach, washed away by the spray of warm water sluicing over them.

Valentino takes pity on him, slipping one hand around his thigh and putting his mouth where Marc so desperately wants it. He licks a strip up Marc’s dick, revelling in the way his moans shift up a pitch. Marc releases little hitching breaths as he finally, finally, takes Marc all the way, sucking without hesitation.

Marc’s hands are scrabbling for purchase on the tiles. His moans get louder as he loses himself to the feeling. His brain is mush as he slips into another headspace, floating, the only thoughts are more and Vale. He can’t produce any words apart from Valentino’s name which he whines out. Marc brings a hand to his mouth, trying to stop the needy whines from slipping out.

Valentino taps his hip, “No, no. I want to hear you, Bambino”.

Marc groans, long and low, his hips bucking into the warmth of Vale’s mouth. The older man pins his hips against the wall. Marc’s knees damn near give out as Valentino begins to suck in earnest, laving his tongue over Marc’s head and drinking him down to the hilt.

The only sensations Marc registers are the wet heat around him and the finger biting into his hips. The rest of the world is static.

He’s getting close far too quickly, only spurred on when he looks down and sees the older man looking back up his blue eyes steely, almost engulfed by his blown pupils. Marc tries to gulp down the whimper in the back of his throat, his hips bucking of their own accord. Valentino hums around his dicks before pulling off with a wet pop. He smirks up at Marc.

Valentino loves Marc like this, whining, fucked out, and desperate.

He pulls himself to his feet, ignoring the way his knees pop and protest, instead pushing himself against Marc and kissing him soundly. Marc can taste himself, bitter on Vale’s tongue. He groans pitifully.

Valentino breaks the kiss, only to trail his lips across Marc’s jaw, sucking more bruises into Marc’s neck until there is almost no space left unblemished.

(Marc will pretend to be annoyed later, complaining as he secretly examines the bruises in the mirror, a pleased smile on his face.)

Marc pushes on Vale’s head.

“In me? Please?” he whines.

Valentino chuckles, “Later, Carino. We have no lube”

“I don’t care, fuck me, please Vale” Valentino groans, the temptation rising as Marc pleads.

“No, Tesoro. I don’t want to hurt you. We do it like this for now, okay? Come on Gattino, show me how pretty you are.”

Valentino is quickly learning the best way to get reactions from Marc, to cause the younger man to become dazed and pliant like he is now. He punctuates his request by rolling his hips into Marc, gripping his ass and encouraging him to grind against Vale.

Marc does so readily, rutting them together until he is almost sobbing, squirming under Valentino’s hands. They’re both getting close. Marc makes a glorious sight in his arms, his eye wide and doe-like, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he chases release.

Vale wraps his hand around both of them, gasping at the added friction. He connects their lips again, more panting into each other’s mouths than actually kissing.

“Come on, Bambino, come for me” Valentino whispers, bucking up to chase the pleasure.

In the end, that’s what does it for Marc. He shakes and whines as he comes, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his eyes screwed up. Valentino follows soon after, pushed over the edge by the vision of Marc falling apart.

When he comes back to himself, Valentino gently washes them both, soothing hands against Marc’s body as the younger man drifts. Marc is always quiet afterwards, his head blissfully empty.

Valentino steers Marc out of the shower and deposits him onto the ledge, fetching one of the towels and wrapping it around him, watching the way the younger man curls into warmth. Vale tenderly helps Marc dry, kissing the exposed sections of skin. Once Marc is changed, Valentino focuses on himself, perfunctory, already thinking about what to cook for dinner, considering what Marc likes.

The younger man looks warm and content, wrapped in one of Valentino’s hoodies, too long in the sleeves, clinging more to Marc’s chest and shoulders, where it’s loose on Vale. It settles somewhere inside of Valentino, a place he’s beginning to associate with home.

They were right, back in Aragon, it hasn’t been easy, not by any stretch of the imagination. It took Marc two months to feel secure that Vale wouldn’t just up and leave. Even now there are moments when they both tense, waiting for the other to land a blow. Moments where it threatens to blow up in their face, a bated breath when a sharp-edged comment slips out.

Every time though, one of them stops back, unloads the gun, and lowers their fists. They use words now, communicating in soft-spoken apologies and reassuring touches.

“you’re the one who left last time”

“And I said I’m sorry amore”

“Sorry doesn't fix everything, Vale.”

A soft sigh and a light touch on the back followed.

“I know, I know. A sorry does not even begin to cover half of the things I have done. Yet I am still sorry.”

Marc looks away.

“Marc, please”

A sigh, “It is okay. I am just hurting, not angry, just a fresh wound Vale”

Valentino holds him close until it gets better and doesn’t let go, even after.

The childish avoidance from before is gone; hindsight has shown them that was not a good strategy. They still have their squabbles, occasionally digging too far, but it is better now, less vicious.

Still, Marc has to text his mum twice on the first day, just to confirm that they haven’t killed each other yet. His parents were reluctant for him to come to Italy; they are still wary, unwilling to trust Valentino as easily as Marc does, or is learning to. They cannot resist the occasional jab at the older man, comments designed to stir up guilt; Marc is dreading the day that they all have to be in the same room. Alex is just about coming around, albeit reluctantly. For now, he is content to watch on suspiciously, waiting for even a slight slip-up from Vale. Ultimately though, they just want Marc to be happy, and if that is with Vale, so be it.

As Valentino promised, they have taken every second slowly, catching up on everything they’ve missed. Valentino refused to sleep with him until Marc won in Phillip Island. Even then Marc had begged and begged until Valentino laid him carefully onto the bed in his hotel room and took him apart slowly, carefully. Until Marc was drooling into a pillow, crying.

Afterwards, Valentino wrapped him up in his arms and held him until he came back into his body. He had picked Marc up, and washed him in the shower, taking care to press kisses against any part he could reach. He wrapped Marc in a soft fluffy towel and slept next to him until dawn broke on the following day.

It's odd for them, to take it slow when they are so used to 300kph. But it’s good. Different, but good. Soft and unhurried as they have all the time in the world. They both knew if this was going to work, it had to be different. They couldn’t make the same mistakes as before.

They owed it to themselves to at least try.

So now they spend their days in a sort of bubble; a world which other people aren’t privy to – not yet. In this world, Valentino fucks Marc gently on his bed and kisses him breathlessly in the kitchen. He whispers, ‘I love you,’ against Marc’s lips mid-kiss, his neck when they hug, and his hair as the younger man sleeps in his arms. Valentino has a different version of Marc from the rest of humanity - one who is soft, pliant and sweet. He loves both versions of Marc and all of him, so long as they’re his.

On Thursday, people begin to arrive for the race.

Marc doesn’t know why he agreed to this plan; he has basically treated himself to an undercurrent of sick nerves in his stomach for the whole day, possibly the weekend. His heart beats faster and louder every time he hears a new car pulling into the drive.

Valentino keeps Marc tucked into his side for as long as he can before he is swept up in the duties of being Valentino Rossi. Marc is embarrassed that by 9 am he is still hiding in the house. By the time Luca finds Marc, he’s a mess.

Intuitively, he knows that he’s safe, but a part of him can’t quite let go of the anxiety. His therapist warned him that this may happen, his brain playing tricks on him, convincing him that something bad will happen. She said that it stems from what happened last time, their eventual ruin. Marc hates it.

When they eventually have to leave the safety of the house, Marc keeps his chin up, shutting down any hint of nerves or anxiety. Outwardly, he is the picture of calm indifference, inside he’s a mess. His only reassurance is Luca’s presence and the knowledge that Alex will be here soon.

Marc nods at everyone he passes, ignoring the double takes, and pretends that he knows what he’s doing as he casually loiters at the front of the house for Alex. By the time his brother pulls up, Marc is vibrating out of his skin, only relaxing once Alex has gathered him into his arms.

The plan is to act as though Marc and Alex arrived together, so they enter the foyer together, greeted by an enthusiastic Valentino.

“Marc, Alex. Allora, it is good to see you”

Marc now understands the ungodly number of espressos the older man had this morning. Alex shoots Valentino a sceptical look, bordering on unimpressed. Marc has to disguise his laughter with a cough.

As usual, it is all being filmed; the crew are eager to shove a camera in Marc’s face, their eagle eyes focused on Valentino’s hands trailing Marc’s waist when they stand together. Valentino dutifully points out which bits of merch to sign and where. He is acting more detached than Marc has seen him in a while. It burns, sour and acidic in the back of his throat.

Marc wishes they had talked about this, where they stand and who knows. It didn’t seem important to discuss before now, with too many other things to keep on track of. Marc assumes (hopes) that they can edit anything out as needed.

When the brothers have finished dutifully signing, Valentino signals for the filming to stop, shooing people away. Marc is tugged into a side room. It’s becoming increasingly apparent that Valentino is a bit like a teenager in the way he can’t keep his hands off Marc. He draws the younger man into a kiss, pushing him against the closed door.

Marc groans when he pulls away, changing Valentino’s lips for a second before giving up, his head thunking against the door.

“Oh, come on, my brothers out there” He whines, only pretending to be annoyed at Valentino's constant eagerness. The older man laughs in delight and presses one last kiss to Marc’s lips.

“Sorry Amore, I can’t resist. You just look so beautiful and I do not want you to be nervous, you seem nervous”

“Of course I’m nervous, everyone is staring at me” Marc says flatly

“Ah well, it is probably because your ass looks good”

Before Vale can finish the sentiment, there is a loud knock on the door.

“I can hear you, you know. Please stop”

Valentino smirks, pressing one last kiss to Marc’s cheek before he opens the door and lets them out.

Alex looks mightily unimpressed.

“Now now, baby Marquez, my house, my rules.” Valentino jokes, no heat behind his tone and his eyes dancing with humour. Alex groans.

“Franco is with the boys in the garages, I hear he’s looking forward to seeing you”

The effect is immediate, Alex flushing brightly at Vale’s teasing. It makes Marc cackle. With one last tap low on Marc’s waist, Valentino is gone, back to play the entertainer to his loyal subjects. Marc watches the older man go, before turning toward Alex and dragging him toward the garage.

It is strange, Marc thinks, that only days ago, Marc and Vale were here alone, kissing in peaceful moments between riding, training, cooking, and living. Reacquainting with one another and deciphering how to fit into each other’s lives.

There is no peace now.

Whilst Valentino plays the gratuitous host and welcomes every guest, Marc and Alex are left abandoned amongst a sea of people hungry to know why. Marc holds his head high, portraying a sense of disinterest even as he feels a hundred curious eyes on him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Vale and Marc are back on friendly terms, with Valentino being complementary in interviews and talking to Marc in the paddock. But to see Marc at the ranch will be a shock for many. Many more will be upset.

Marc tries to remember whose stupid idea this was. Entering the biggest event Valentino has ever put on right at the start of their relationship. 10 years of the 100k di campioni. Marc Marquez is in attendance.

The headlines practically write themselves.

To make matters worse, they’ve reshuffled the teams. Marc doesn’t know whose idea it was, whether it was Valentino, one of the boys, or someone else entirely. But Valentino was adamant that they had to race together.

Marc wondered whether it was to prevent any issues when one of them beat the other. Even though they were both fine with that, others might talk.

Either way, the team announcement was delayed until it became public knowledge that Marc was in attendance. It is bound to cause a commotion.

Marc guesses that going from enemies to friendly enough to be teammates (by choice) is quite the leap. The sudden reshuffle means that Pecco pairs with Luca, Franky with Alex, and Cele and Marco are together.

Marco muttered something about it being unfair that one of the teams has 17 world championships – Valentino laughed at the time but Marc thinks Bez was being dead serious. He doubts many other people have considered that yet. It’s only a matter of time before they see the two of them on the track and realise it might be slightly unfair. Oh well.

Marc keeps his head down as he drags Alex toward the garage. He tries to swerve around the people he doesn’t want to see, keeping out of the way of cameras. It’s funny really. He knows that he’ll be in the clips anyway, but if he tries to make himself smaller or irrelevant, maybe people will talk less.

(It’s wishful thinking)

Marc lets out a sigh of relief when they make it to where Pecco is chatting with Bez on the threshold of the building.

Releasing Alex’s arm, he greets the boys fondly, ruffling Bez’s hair and clasping hands with Pecco. He has a moment of panic when he belatedly realises that Alex has never really interacted with the boys. He questions whether they will play nice after everything which has happened; especially due to Alex’s protectiveness.

The worry doesn’t last long; they greet Alex kindly, albeit with a little awkwardness. The tension dissolves when Franky approaches, falling instead into boyish teasing as he wraps an arm over Alex’s shoulder. It feels natural, almost easy. Marc exhales, the tight coil in his stomach loosening slightly. Alex deserves happiness more than anyone he knows; Marc would do anything to keep him content.

The good-natured ribbing continues, but Franky takes it in his stride, simply pressing a kiss to Alex’s cheek and grinning smugly when he flushes. He must be used to it, growing up in this environment with these boys who are almost like family.

Pecco nudges him, subtly so the others don’t notice, content to let them continue to throw childish barbs at one another whilst he accosts Marc.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”, he teases. Marc rolls his eyes, shoving Pecco back lightly.

“Holding down the fort I believe”

Pecco huffs, an amused tilt to his lips.

The boys have taken well to him and Valentino tentatively dating, happily including Marc on race weekends. According to Vale, they have been asking for Marc to train with them at the ranch for months.

Marc feels such a swell of love for his new friends and their acceptance. It is like he has somehow adopted the children Vale has gathered over the years, in an odd way. He knows some of the younger ones admired him when they were growing up, before he and Vale imploded. It has almost come full circle, everything falling so easily into place. If Marc thinks about it, he feels this is a long time coming.

He fits in here - another teacher for the younger ones, someone who understands the pressure of being a champion and being on a bike that doesn’t love you as much as you love it. Someone who knows what it’s like to win, to lose, and to overcome the impossible.

There is a sense of belonging that Marc hasn’t felt in some time.

While the boys mess around, joking and laughing, Marc peaks his head out to look around. Hidden in the alcove of the garage, he scouts the people who are already here. He recognises some familiar faces - riders from the grid, some of the lower leagues, and one or two from different events and classes. It’s quite the lineup.

Marc shelters for as long as he can, unwilling to go out and face the music. He really wishes that he and Valentino had thought of some answers to the inevitable questions before they dived headfirst into this.

Eventually, though, his plan is foiled by Mig, who shuffles them outside, ever the leader in the academy.

“Stop being hermits and go mingle”

Marc pouts at Mig until the younger man pats his cheek, mocking but not cruel.

“Do not be a baby, you are too old for that.”

It just makes Marc scowl, before he changes tact, going wide-eyed and innocent in the hopes of persuading the younger man to let him stay. He sees the moment Mig clocks onto what he’s doing.

“God, I see why Valentino thinks you're adorable. You have a face like a disgruntled cat, although your puppy eyes are pretty adorable”, he smirks.

Marc gapes at him whilst the others burst into rambunctious laughter.

“Ay, Mig, you were not meant to tell him that” Marco giggles

Luca smiles, “Stop flirting with Vale’s boyfriend, he will get mad, you know what he is like”

The comment confuses Marc, and he frowns. He doesn’t know what Valentino is like. It startles him, the realisation that he has no idea how Vale talks about him.

Pecco throws an arm over his shoulder, grinning as he puts on a high-pitched voice, imitating Vale.

“Allora, stop staring at him”

Cele chips in, also mimicking Vale “Marc’s so perfect. It’s so unfair”

Mig chokes out his impersonation between fits of giggles “I am definitely not jealous but I will kill you if you so much as look at Marc, even though I can’t bring myself to make it more official than the occasional coffee.”

Alex is giggling along, unaware of Franky’s awed face watching him.

Marc doesn’t know how to feel.

Bez nudges him, “We are only taking the piss, it is funny.”

“We have had to put up with the old man pining for too long,” Pecco adds

“Ah well, that is what happens when we get old. A good impression of him though.”

It comes from someone new, not one of the boys. Marc jerks, he knows that voice.

Behind Franky stands Dovi, a wide smile on his face as he observes the group, clearly privy to their previous conversation.

The boys fall silent, their gazes snapping between Marc’s shocked face to Dovi's one of amusement. Luca leaves first, excusing himself and patting Dovi’s shoulder as he goes. The others follow suit, slowly slinking away to give them some privacy.

Marc stares at Dovi in silence, stunned and unsure what to say.

It has been playing on his mind recently, the fear that he might have hurt Dovi. Even though they agreed to remain friends, he feels guilty. Dovi doesn’t deserve that pain, it isn’t fair.

“Hey, none of that. Don’t feel guilty, you two deserve happiness.” Dovi declares, tapping Marc twice on the chin.

Marc grimaces. Dovi laughs; he doesn’t look sad, or annoyed- quite the opposite, Dovi looks like he’s glowing with happiness. In fact, now that Marc thinks about it, squinting at Dovi, he does look unusually happy, less tired, brighter.

“You’re tanned,” Marc says, changing the topic, suspicious of Dovi’s

Dovi shrugs, “Australia does that to you”

“Australia?” Marc parrots back, unable to hide his confusion.

It’s then that he hears a distinctive accented voice. He lifts his head, searching and sees Casey talking to Pecco a few feet away. His jaw drops.

Casey and Dovi are here and Vale hasn’t said a thing. He cannot begin to fathom why Valentino would invite Dovi after everything between them.

Marc flicks his gaze back and forth between Casey and Dovi, noting how the latter's cheeks begin to redden. He grins slyly.

“Oh, ohhhhhh. Is this a new thing?” Marc asks. Suddenly a few more things make sense.

Dovi chuckles a little,

“Um, yes. Fairly. After everything that happened, y’know with you and Valentino. I had a lot of thinking to do. As it turns out, Australia is good for that. And maybe I have a type.”

“Oh, and what type is that then?” Marc pushes cheekily; he can’t help the wicked grin that slips onto his face.

“Crazy bastards who look good on motorbikes.” comes the response, not from Dovi but from Valentino who wraps his arms around Marc and rests his chin on his head.

“Hey, don’t talk about my boyfriend like that” Dovi teases.

Casey wanders over and cuffs Valentino on the shoulder in reprimand before he slings his arm over Dovi’s shoulders.

Huh, Marc thinks. He leans back in Valentino, unable to help the way he relaxes.

Looking at Dovi and Casey now, he can see they’re happy, both adoring. It’s sweet. Marc realises that he is genuinely over the moon for them both. Dovi deserves someone simpler, less messy than him. And Casey is the perfect mix of grounded and still a little unhinged.

Even Valentino seems happy, no longer glaring at Andrea with barely concealed jealousy.

As Casey and Vale begin to bicker, he meets Dovi’s eyes, smiling wide.

Maybe things have a way of working out in the end.

Of course, social media blows up when the official VR46 account posts videos of Marc at the ranch. Valentino’s subsequent repost goes viral. Marc is giggling at the insanity as he lays in bed on Friday night, his head pillowed on Valentino’s chest. The boys have clearly taken it as a challenge to see who can break the internet the quickest, posting pictures they have snuck of Marc and Vale from the past three months. None of them are incriminating but if you look hard enough, you can see the softness in Vale’s eyes in every photo.

(Luca unofficially wins with a photo of Valentino and Marc asleep in someone’s motorhome. Not cuddled, but close enough that their hands are touching.)

Marc is still smiling as he falls asleep to the sound of Valentino's heartbeat, their legs entwined.

The weekend continues without a hitch, much to Marc’s relief. He spends most of the time mingling with the boys, sometimes being pulled into conversations with non-MotoGP riders who ask him about Ducati next year. Marc is thankful that no one asks about him and Vale, he doesn’t think they need any more drama.

Luca wins the Americana race for another year running, dominating the field. Marc giggles when Pecco hugs him for just a fraction of a second too long, eliciting whistles from Bez and Mig. The atmosphere is pleasant - laid back rather than overly competitive.

By the time the main race rolls around, Marc is enjoying himself so much that he forgets to be nervous. He has naturally fallen into the rhythm of riding here, watching as Valentino skids through the dirt, approaching the line to hand over to Marc. It’s electric, the roar of the bikes, the screaming crowd, Valentino swerving toward him, a glimpse of wild blue behind the visor.

When Marc takes over, they are already leading. Marc bears down, grinning manically as he hears Pecco hot on his tail. He throws himself into every corner, grasping for the win, catching the bike as it threatens to slip out from underneath him. He skids too hard around one corner, wrangling the bike under control just in time, letting Pecco close in next to him. Good, Marc thinks, a real race.

They fly together through the laps, Marc edging into the lead once more, swinging his leg out for balance, his gaze laser-focused on the racing line. This is his element. He pulls away from Pecco, the speed of his cornering just too much for the younger man to keep pace.

Valentino is there, cheering as Marc thunders over the line, pulling him into a hug as he slows to a stop. The crow roars. Marc beams, flipping his visor up. He desperately wants to kiss Vale, holding himself back from jumping right here and now. He settles for a knowing look shared between them as the others begin to crowd around and celebrate.

Before Marc knows it, they are being shepherded over to where a makeshift podium has been set up. They are awarded their stupid necklaces and champagne as the others watch on.

Marc stands on the top step, gazing up at Valentino next to him.

He sees a God, the man who broke his heart and is now piecing it back together again.

He sees his past, his present, and his future.

Valentino meets his gaze, “Okay, Bambino?”

Marc grins

“Yes. With you, yes – always”

Valentino glances around quickly, and shrugs helplessly, pulling Marc in. Marc laughs, gasping slightly as Vale wraps one arm around his waist and the other around the back of his neck. Marc’s hands come to rest on Valentino’s hips.

“Vale, the cameras” Marc giggles.

Valentino grins, “They can delete it, or not I don’t care. I have the greatest treasure in the world, I don’t mind people knowing that.”

Valentino presses their lips together right there, in front of everyone. Marc beams into it, delighted, there are still purple-red hickeys sitting on his neck and Valentino’s arm around his waist. It feels like home.

Marc deepens the kiss, holding Vale by the roots of his curls. Someone hoots next to them and there is plenty of wolf-whistling from the crowd; Marc can hear Alex laughing.

Fireworks go off behind them. Marc breaks away from Vale, still smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt.

“I love you”

“I love you too, mi amore”

*End*

#motogp #marc marquez #motogp rpf #rosquez #my fics #valentino rossi #medical leak au #pecco bagnaia #andrea dovizioso #vr46 #eeeekk

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dame-zoom-a-lot · 2 months ago

Text

This is an entry for @corrodedcoffinfest's May Mayhem Bingo.

So once upon a time, I got a prompt for car sex from my Steddie Bingo board, and I figured I should ask for a new prompt because I already wrote a car sex fic I quite liked, and I didn't have much more to say about car sex. Then I talked to @fkinkindagauche about it because they're the best and fantastic at drawing out my unhinged side. And that got us thinking.... What is sex? What would sex look like if the parties aren't human? Like, salmons reproduce by fertilizing eggs outside the body. Isn't that sex? Don't they yearn? Does that mean anything with the potential for babies is sex? The Pixar film, Cars, has child cars. This implies that Cars fuck. How do they fuck? How do they give birth? How do they grow? So anyway, here's the result!

I don't think I could have written this fic if I hadn't read @oralmisery's Brick by Brick and Horny for Horsepower. Please go check them out.

ao3 link

Baby Mine

They make an odd pair -- a busted up 70s Chevrolet van and a mid-80s maroon BMW.

Anyone who looks closer would see the matching scrapes and dents along their body, and maybe understand. But it's more than that.

It's the way Steve's learned to position himself to compensate for Eddie's missing side mirrors. It's the way Eddie's learned to repeat what other people say, a little louder, so Steve's busted sonar receptors can pick them up. It's the way they can stand in silence, content, both doors open and intertwined, their soft innards exposed, as they strum soft harmonies through their radio.

They're hanging out by the lake, headlights on low to avoid disturbing the little drone flies that flit along the lake surface. Their lights mix together and sparkle along the lake surface, melding with the starlight to create their own constellation. Steve's sound system is smooth and syrupy. Eddie's is rough and staticky. They hum together and it works.

"Eddie?" Steve asks when they pause.

"Yeah?"

"I... want a baby," Steve says hesitantly.

"What?! A baby?!"

"If... if you also want," Steve falters, his voice small.

"No, I, Steve..." Eddie rocks back and forth on his wheels so hard his back bumper jiggles. "The Upside Down's been abandoned for years since we killed Creel. We have no idea what it's going to be like, or if the baby parts will still be around even..."

"Yeah, sorry," Steve mutters, looking down. "It was stupid idea. Forget I said anything."

Eddie feels a sharp pang. He remembers that conversation Steve had with Nancy, when he thought they were alone, about the babies he wanted to make once Creel was brought down once and for all. Babies made outside the Creel factory lines. Babies without purposefully shoddily built engines that needed constant maintenance. Babies that wouldn't need a subscription to keep their thermo-regulaters running. Babies with honestly scavenged parts lovingly assembled by the parents, no matter how much clumsier they might have been compared to Creel's "professionals".

Then they killed Creel and locked up the Upside Down and people just... stopped having babies. He's been ignoring the way Steve's eyes mist over when he sees the empty training ranges. The way Steve's been starting a sentence then thinking better of it.

"I'm not totally opposed by the way," Eddie lies cautiously. "But can I ask why?"

"I just..." Steve sighs, "I know it's dangerous. I've read how many people used to die in the past before Creel took over."

"But?"

"I want..." Steve whispers, more to himself. Eddie rolls a little closer, straining to hear, "I want a kid who's made of parts we picked out for them. Not because it'll be shiny or impressive, but because I thought it would work well. I want a kid who's not going to be told, every day, how much their parents paid for what part, and why he should live this perfectly plotted out life that perfectly matches with the apparently perfect parts they picked out. I want a kid who's knows, unequivocally, that it's allowed to do whatever it wants," Steve continues, looking at Eddie, "and I want that kid with you, who took one look at all of the freaks and losers in town and decided you've got to love them all. Who's been keeping himself together through sheer genius and resolve."

"I think you mean spite," Eddie says shyly. His high beam flickers with joy and embarrassment. The drone flies buzz angrily at the disturbance before settling.

"Shut up," Steve says, playfully tapping Eddie's side with his door. "But you're right," he admits, "you nearly died last time. It'd be stupid to go back when I have something perfect already."

"Oh really? What is this perfect thing you have? You ever planned to let me in on it?" Eddie teases.

"Never mind," Steve groans, lightly bumping into Eddie's front right wheel. "You're the worst."

--------------

"Munson!" Gareth's windshield wiper bounces off his head. He has another one vibrating, poised, ready to throw. "You just missed the solo you insisted on adding."

"Shit, yep, yep, sorry." Eddie stammers, lining up his speakers to get started on his solo.

"Man that is a weak ass riff," Jeff comments before he's even halfway through.

"Hey!"

"Did you practice at all?" Doug asks.

"Uh... no?" Eddie admits.

"Munson," Jeff sighs out. He always tries to be the voice of reason within the group. It's a tough gig. "Why would you not practice the solo you insisted on adding when we have battle of the bands in three weeks?"

"Err... because," Eddie stammers.

Because he's been thinking about babies, specifically, the making, and the assembling. Because he's been digging through the archives devouring all records he could find on how babies used to be made before Creel took over the process. Because he kind of really wants to give it a try and he's too ashamed and nervous to tell Steve he changed his mind.

But he's not going to tell his boys that he has baby fever. He's got a reputation to uphold.

"Err... because... I'm being a little shit?" Eddie finishes lamely.

"Did Harrington dump you?" Gareth demands.

"What? No?! Why would you think that?!"

"Because you got really drunk on motor oil and wouldn't shut up about how his high beams and back trunk are the stuff of dreams, your muse, your reason for living?" Doug recounts with a sly smile, "so if he dumped you--"

"If Harrington dumped Eddie, he wouldn't even be at practice right now," Jeff cuts in. "But I'm guessing it does have something to do with Harrington. Doesn't it? Eddie?"

"You know I'm in cahoots with some scary government goons and the chief of police right?" Eddie protests weakly.

Gareth looks at him with wilting disappointment.

"Yep, sorry, very unmetal of me," Eddie course-corrects, "I should be banished to the normie realm for a thousand years. I am unworthy of my sweetheart, and I must embark upon a quest to--"

"Eddie," Jeff says.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up," Jeff finishes.

Eddie clams up with a huff. Gareth tries out a few drum beats to fill the awkward silence before he finally speaks.

"Hey," Gareth starts. "You know I owe you right?"

"What?" Eddie asks back, extremely confused. "Why the fuck would you owe me?"

Gareth sighs so heavily his exhaust pipe vibrates. "Look, if I hadn't told Carver and his goons that Henderson was looking for you..."

"Then Chrissy's chip still would have malfunctioned in my garage. She still would have twisted herself into a steaming heap of metal and very much dead body. And the whole town would have come after me anyway," Eddie says, "and none of that would have mattered because I still would have been getting eaten alive by demobats then towed back to the land of the living by my beloved."

"Still a shit thing I did," Gareth growls.

"He was going to break your windshield!" Eddie protests.

"And I should have let him!" Gareth yells back. "You did the same for us! You gave up your front bumper and your right side mirror to keep this podunk town safe! So I'm telling you! If you don't fucking tell me what's going on, I will run you over myself!"

"Gare..." Eddie starts then stops. He's not sure what to say without risking tears.

"Same here," Jeff says. "I'm a fucking mustang. I should have been able to rev free of them."

"And I'm a truck," Doug says. His headlights swivel onto Eddie, traces along all the dents, the missing bumper, the missing side mirror. Eddie would normally rankle at being observed so closely. He still feels like a freak with all his missing parts, and not in a metal way. Doug's gaze feels like an absolution.

"So let us help," Jeff says, "for us. If nothing else."

"Alright," Eddie sighs out, "I want a baby."

"What?!" Doug gasps.

"Ok, so I know it's stupid dangerous. But..."

Eddie goes into everything. The way Steve wilted when Eddie wasn't immediately onboard with trying to make a baby. The research he'd done. The old accounts of epic baby making parties bravely descending into hell to gather parts...

He falters a little when he starts describing what it apparently felt like to assemble the baby parts. No one's assembled their own babies in years, so he couldn't really get... reliable sources. Just some niche fetish zines and one very old biology textbook. But it sounded euphoric. So good it made the whole hunt for parts worth it. The boys listen intently without judgment.

"Ok," Jeff says when Eddie finishes, "so we've got the ranger," he flicks his high beams at Gareth, "and two muscles," he says, pointing at himself and Doug. "Eddie, how much control do you still have over your speakers?"

"It's the only thing those fucking bats didn't eat, so a lot," Eddie muses. "Wait. You're serious?"

"I mean, we've got to start figuring this out or we're going to go extinct," Gareth points out.

"Right, but why is that your problem?" Eddie sputters.

"Because we can't sell our music if all cars go extinct you idiot," Gareth snarls.

"And because we love you," Doug says with a long-suffering sigh.

Eddie recoils, engines roiling with too much emotions to stay still. They don't... do this. They knock into each other and joke around and play music. They don't look at each other with affection and listen with no judgment. They don't say 'I love you's.

But apparently they do now.

Gareth looks over Eddie with a slight smirk. "I love you man," he says with unbearable sincerity.

"Yeah Eddie. Did you know we love you and want you to be happy and will happily descend into hell to--" Jeff starts.

"Uncle! Uncle! I'll do it! I'll let you help!" Eddie sputters, cutting Jeff off before he can do something embarrassing like cry.

----------------------

A vine slithers towards Gareth, trying to trip him up. Doug rushes over and crunches it into submission, using all of his truck weight to keep the vine in place. Gareth shoots down one of the demobats in the swarm that descends upon Doug's truck bed. Jeff turns his high beams on to the rest of the swarm, blinding them.

They flutter in panic. Eddie mimics the bats' screeching then directs the sound about fifty feet to the right of them. The bats hesitate, then flit off to follow the fake bat calls.

Robin is waiting with the flame thrower Nancy and Dustin designed for her. She gleefully douses the bats, cackling when they fall to the ground. A demodog chooses that moment to pounce on her, but Steve easily rams into it from the side.

"Nancy! You see any bodies?!" Eddie yells. His tank is running low. They've been lucky so far. Jeff got his right headlight smashed in, and Steve has a big crack on his windshield, but no one has any major injuries.

Yet.

They're nearly done. They've got a good engine, extra jumper cables, actual matching wheels, some windshield wipers that a demo creature bit through, but in a way that looks metal and intentional. Everyone's trunks are nearly full with baby parts. But they're still missing the most important thing -- the main shell.

"Err, yeah! I'm looking!" Nancy squeaks guiltily.

"Nance! We've got to hurry!" Eddie squawks. "Put that notebook away!"

"I know. I know. But I didn't expect their behaviors to change this much compared to the last time," Nancy says, "I'm looking now! Hard!"

"It's the biggest part. How is it this fucking hard to find?!" Steve exclaims.

"I'm running low on fuel," Doug says regretfully, "sorry. My efficiency is shit."

"No, no," Steve says, "I'm running low too."

"You think we need to give up for today? Come back?" Robin asks regretfully.

"Shit," Gareth mutters as he drives over a vine on purpose.

"Yeah," Eddie says regretfully, "I think we'll need to come back."

"Still, we didn't do too bad right?" Jeff says, trying to stay upbeat, "we even got all our replacement parts."

"Yeah, and we'll be better prepared the next time we--"

A giant vine erupts from below ground, curling around Eddie in a vice grip. Eddie doesn't even have time to draw a breath before the vine speeds away with him in its grasp.

"Eddie!" He hears Steve scream behind them.

"Steve. Steve!" Robin drives into him. Steve grunts in surprise and inhales. He realizes he was screaming the entire time.

"Eddie's--" Steve stammers.

"We're going to get him," Jeff says resolutely.

"We're almost out of fuel," Steve says miserably. There are deep gashes in the ground in the vine's wake. It should be straightforward to follow, as long as the vine doesn't...

This was a stupid idea. He should never have mentioned it. He'll never forgive himself if he lost Eddie because he wanted something more. Because he couldn't be satisfied with the only good thing in his life.

"Steve," Robin says, bumping into him again, "quit it."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Steve breathes out. "Quitting it."

"It's not too late," Doug growls. "We're going to get him."

"How though?" Steve asks tearfully.

"We'll pool our fuel," Jeff says quickly, "enough to get two or three of us to Eddie. And leave just enough for the rest of us to go get help."

It's a great idea. But when they gather together to assess their fuel situation, they realize they only have enough fuel between them for one car.

"I'll go," Steve says.

"No. That's suicide," Nancy sputters, "it would have been barely doable with three. Let alone one--"

"I'm going to follow anyway," Steve says, talking loudly over her, "so you can either help me get there with enough fuel, or just watch me speed away, knowing I'm going to run out and freeze in the middle of the upside down."

There's silence from the group.

"So which one is it going to be?" Steve demands.

-------------------------

The vine is moving so fast it creates a cool soothing breeze across his body. The ground beneath him is a blur. Purple clouds undulate above him.

Honestly, this would be kind of cool if he weren't probably minutes away from getting crushed into a metal pancake. Eddie's engine's always been utter shit. It started bad to begin with when Al Munson wasted his 'make baby Eddie' money on fuck knows what, forcing his mom to settle for the cheapest parts available. Then it got worse when Al Munson refused to pay for the bare minimum, absolutely essential subscriptions to keep the shitty engine running as properly as it could. For as long as he could remember, Eddie's always had to worry about the very real possibility that his engine would just stop working in the middle of something.

And now, moments before death, he finally gets to feel what it's like to just.. drive. Feel the breeze on his face. Effortless. Beautiful.

It's not the worst way to go.

It's not the worst way to go, he lies to himself again when the vine suddenly stops. Eddie looks up at the purple sky, determined to make the oddly beautiful sea of clouds the last thing he sees. But the vine lowers him down gently instead of crushing him into a mangled mess of metal and felt

"What--" Eddie breathes out. The vine sways above him expectantly. Eddie looks around. It's not... a comforting sight. Car shells in varying degrees of completeness are scattered around him. Cosmic irony, really, that he's going to die surrounded by the very thing he was looking for.

But the vine doesn't seem all that eager to kill him. Maybe it's waiting to starve him out so his empty husk could join the other shells in this graveyard. Regardless, Eddie's never been great at just sitting around, so he takes a gander. There's a beatle that's a little too cute. A station wagon that reminds him too much of Nancy (he's just about forgiven her for the way she metaphorically yanked Steve's valves out and stomped on it, but he doesn't want a kid that looks exactly like her). That one's too fancy. This one's more scrap than car. And...

Then he sees it.

A beautiful blue truck shell. A little dented around where the wheels would go, but with a neat white swoosh down the middle. The truck bed is nice and solid. The shell has a nice nose to it, sloped down, so it'd be able to see any little critter that might skitter across the roads. Eddie never thought he'd go for a big baby. Al had complained endlessly about how much space Eddie took up. But something tells him that this is it. This is his baby. Right here.

Shame he'll never get to put it together.

Eddie shudders out a sigh and wheels over to the shell.

"Hey, 'm sorry I was such a fuck up," he murmurs to the child, who'll never get to live, "if we'd come better prepared... more fuel. More cars. Maybe we would have made it." He clears his throat. "At least we met, yeah?"

The shell doesn't reply. Because it's a shell.

So Eddie plays his radio and hopes that something here might hear him and take some comfort

--------------------

The vine's trail stops at the edge of a cliff.

When Steve strains his sonar detectors, he can kind of hear something that sounds a lot like Eddie's voice. Staticky. Rumbly. Perfect for screaming both on and off the stage.

But he must be hearing things. The cliff is so deep he can't see the bottom even with his high beams. Steve sags back and contemplates jumping off. He'd never. Robin would kill him. The brats would never get over it. But he...

He had some hope. Enough to weigh himself down with all the baby parts they had collected just in case Eddie was alive, just mangled and in dire need of emergency repairs.

That stupid vine pokes its head out of the cliffs. Then it rises, standing taller and taller until it's swaying in front of him. Steve stares at it. He probably has enough fuel to run it over, burn it, do what he needs. But the vine isn't directly attacking him right now. It's just... standing there. Looming.

Eddie's radio continues to play.

"You want me to...?" Steve whispers.

The vine creeps around to his side, slowly enough for him to jerk away.

There are many many smarter things he could do. He could jerk away, drive over this vine, douse it with the oil he has left and set it on fire. But. But he's pretty sure that it is Eddie's radio playing in the bottom of the cliff. And that means there's the tiny chance that the vine might gently lower him down to where Eddie is, presumably, alive enough to be singing.

So he stays in place and lets the vine wrap around him.

-------------------------

There's a disturbance above him. Eddie stops singing to the shell that could have been a baby and looks up.

The vine has another victim.

Steve.

"Steve?!" Eddie screeches.

"Eddie! I found you!" Steve yells back, so giddy his wheels spin around involuntarily.

Eddie holds his breath as the vine gets lower and lower to the ground. Fortunately, it lets Steve down with a gentle thump. Steve hurries over, headlights scanning every inch of Eddie's body.

"Hey, hey, big boy," Eddie says, driving up to Steve and giving him a light bump, "I'm ok."

"I thought..." Steve doesn't get to finish that sentence before a huge sob bursts out of him. Eddie leans against Steve while he shakes, standing in silence while he gets his feelings out. It almost feels like back home. This is exactly what they'd do when one of them woke up from a nightmare. The only thing that's missing is some good kerosene fumes and salted motor oil.

"Well, I'm not dead, or even hurt really," Eddie says gently. "And look! I found a shell!"

Steve mutters something about how Eddie could be thinking about babies right now. But he lets out an impressed whistle when he does get around to seeing the truck shell Eddie picked out.

"Shit, how are we going to get it up the cliff?" Steve muses.

"How are we going to get up the cliff?" Eddie asks, "wait. Shit. Are the boys ok? Nancy? Robin?"

"Yeah, yeah they're fine. They've just gone to get help," Steve says, "shit. You're right though. This is a deep fucking hole."

"Eh, Nancy and Robin will figure something out," Eddie says, trying to feign confidence that he doesn't feel.

"Yeah, you're right," Steve sighs and looks around a little. Eddie watches him fondly as he pokes around the deep hole, moving out the jitters with the cutest little frown on his face. He looks a little more relaxed when he trudges back, though his gas tank is running dangerously low.

"So... do you want to take a nap or something?" Steve asks, looking up at the impossibly high sky. Dozens of vines weave above them, criss-crossing like some sicko's idea of a curtain. Eddie vaguely worries about how their friends are going to lift them up through these tangled plant matter, but that's a problem for future Eddie.

"We could take a nap," Eddie starts. "Or..."

"Or?"

"Ok, so how much of the assembly zines have you read?" Eddie asks.

Steve honks in shock and embarrassment then clears his throat. "Err... some," he says cautiously.

"And then well, you know, we're already here. Our friends are going to take a while to get to us, and even longer to figure out how to get us out. So I was thinking," Eddie leans in and flickers his blinkers suggestively, "we go for it."

"Right here? With all these vines looming?" Steve sputters.

"Aww c'mon," Eddie wheedles, "they're plants. They don't know. And it might spare our friends from seeing us all, like, you know, indisposed."

Steve makes that adorable groaning whine he makes when Eddie proposes something absolutely ludicrous yet unbearably compelling.

"Ok," Steve says after a long pause.

"Ok?"

"Ok."

Eddie grins and wiggles halfway out of his shell, careful not to let his engine thunk too far out of place. The cool Upside Down breeze feels amazing on his unprotected soft innards. He realizes a bit too late that he should have positioned himself better before sneaking out of his shell. He gingerly slides a few inches towards his baby shells before Steve stops him with a giggle. Eddie watches fondly while Steve gets behind the truck shell and pushes.

Steve makes sure that the baby shell is in a good position before he pokes out of his own shell. Eddie has to take a deep breath to calm himself when the golden slime of Steve's true body pokes out. They've been dating for a while, but this is still the first time Eddie's seen what Steve's innards look like. He's... breathtaking. His slime glistens even under the weird light of the upside down. He's littered in little pockmarks and folds that Eddie longs to explore with his own soft nubbins. For a minute, he's worried that Steve would find his duller, more drab colors off-putting in comparison. But Steve looks at him like he hung the moon like always.

"Uh, so, let me just..." Steve clears his trunk and gently lays out all the baby parts they had collected. The windshield wipers Jeff found. The windshield from Gareth. The matching wheels from Robin. The engine from Doug... Eddie blinks away his grateful tears. He can cry when he's back in his friends' arms. Steve gets to work, lifting up the parts and arranging them. Eddie joins in. It takes them both an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out where some of the springs go, even with Creel's assembly instructions Nancy dug out of the destroyed office for them.

But after a lot of jamming and huffing and accidentally squishing each other's little nubs, they find their rhythm...

Eddie spreads his slime over the parts, slowly, methodically, so it would all be greased and wet. Steve picks them up with his little nubbins, then slots the wet pieces into place with a satisfying swish and click. They were both so worried that since they're amateurs, since they only had books to go on, since they didn't have the platonic ideal of a baby in mind, that they might have chosen bad parts that wouldn't go together. But this... this baby was meant to exist, and Eddie's heart soars with each satisfying click, as he views bigger parts neatly slide into another, pefectly-sized little nesting dolls. The vines stay above them, swaying gently, like a canopy over their wedding garage.

And with a last loud grunt and a push, the innards are ready. Eddie takes a deep breath and leaves his shell entirely. Steve retreats into his shell and brandishes his windshield wiper, ready to drive into anything dumb enough to try to get to Eddie in his vulnerable state. Eddie crawls on top of the neatly assembled parts and tries to let himself flow free. The baby was going to need a huge influx of slime from both him and Steve. And to do that, he'd have to... actually relax. Let his fluids flow free.

"Hey, everything ok?" Steve whispers when Eddie spends an embarrassingly long time straining to relax.

"Yeah, yeah, 'm fine," Eddie mutters, "I just, I just," am a disaster who's never taken a fully deep breath in his life.

Steve turns on his radio to play some sort of a gentle barely-rock song. Then he leaves his shell.

"Steve. What?" Eddie whispers, "dude what if something comes?"

"We'll be fast," Steve says, crawling over as fast as he can on his cut little nubbin legs. Eddie stifles a giggle as he watches Steve move towards him, literally at snails pace. Steve catches the tiny shift in his mood in a blink, as usual. He grins and makes a big show of it, grunting and flexing and wiggling, as he makes his way towards Eddie.

What they're doing is very very stupid. It's bad enough for one of them to be totally exposed, let alone two. When Creel's men did this, they did the assembly in fully enclosed factories with armed guards.

And Eddie feels kind of bad for them now. That they had to take off their shells under the cold gaze of strangers, that they had to give up their slime for a baby they'd never get to meet, that they had to pump and pump and pump out slime because the goal was more babies.

Steve gets to him, all his nubbins stretched out wide. Eddie leans into him. Smarter cars would have hurried, would have tried to figure something out to get themselves to relax and drop fluids faster so they could hurry back into the safety of their shells. Eddie and Steve sway under the vines, tangled up in each other like they have all the time in the world. And for the first time in his life, Eddie doesn't have to worry about his engine suddenly giving out. He doesn't have to worry about getting busted for the illegal diesel he's been selling to Hawkins' finest young minds. He doesn't have to worry about never graduating, about the sneering glances of the townfolks as they judge the literal duck tape around his decrepit bumper. So he melts. Right along with Steve.

More slime than Eddie thought he could produce bursts out of him, mixes with Steve's, then oozes into their baby to fill out all the gaps. They eventually pull apart and crawl back to their shells with massive regret. But Eddie's pretty sure that this won't be the last time they'd do this. Maybe he should try sneaking into Steve's shell sometimes. He didn't know that's something anyone could do. But if anyone can do it, it'd be them.

"You ready for the last step?" Steve stutters out, still breathing heavily.

"Yes," Eddie says with a grin, "let's jolt this baby."

They both pop their trunk and pull out their jumper cables. Steve puts a metal tip on the ooze and gestures for Eddie to join. And Eddie can't help but intertwine his cable (completely unnecessarily) with Steve's before he jabs his own metal tip into their combined glop.

"Sap," Steve says with a grin.

"Oh I think I have steep competition," Eddie retorts. "On count of three?"

"Yep," Steve says, determined.

"We're going to have a baby," Eddie confirms, "no turning back now."

"And it'll never doubt for a day that it's enough," Steve says intensely.

Eddie nods. "One."

"Two."

"Three!" They both force all the power in their battery into the connection, jolting the primordial baby soup into life. The timing on this can get tricky and they won't have a lot of attempts with their depleted fuel tank (gotta drive to recharge those batteries).

Eddie and Steve back up, cables still intertwined, and hold their breath.

The soup shudders.

Eddie lets out his breath.

The soup shudders some more then begins to spasm. Wails. The two of the stand back. Eddie itches to drive up, to help the child find its way into its shell. But this is the most important part, and the baby has to be able to do it alone. So Eddie plays his most motivating (screamy and loud) music. Fortunately, the baby seems to dig that. Its wails grow quieter and it bobs a bit to the vocals as it starts to ooze towards its shell. Steve yells out disgustingly jock things like "you got it chief!" "you can do this!" "yeah! show that ground who's boss!" which somehow melds amazingly with Eddie's music to create one glorious wall of noise.

And the baby schlicks its way successfully into its truck shell and rolls a few tentative inches. Steve and Eddie continue to scream-sing and shout encouragingly on either side of it, guiding its way until...

It zips ahead and starts doing donuts. That's a bad idea. The baby is running only on the jolt of electricity Steve and Eddie supplied for the birth, but it's so delighted that Eddie can't help but grin. It's not like they're getting out of this hole anyway, not for a while.

Or that's what he thought...

The vines, which had all been very politely swaying at least fifty feet above them all come slithering down. Steve and Eddie position themselves in front of their newborn, windshield wipers poised and ready to throw. They have basically nothing in the tank, but Eddie at least is going to fight to his dying breath. He knows Steve would too. But the vines plunge into the ground instead of puncturing their metal exteriors. The ground vibrates. Then they're getting pushed, up, up, and up, to the sky. Eddie and Steve clutch each other and their newborn tight until they're placed gently at the cliff's entrance. The vines wave lazily then plunge back into the hole.

"What...the fuck...was that?" Eddie pants.

"Language," Steve says playfully.

"You're not... you're not gonna question all that?!" Eddie screeches. Their baby sits and giggles and pops their trunk open and shut.

"I probably should," Steve concedes, "but also, you're alive, our little Teddie Munson here is doing just fine, and the entire cavalry is on their way."

Steve leans in close to Eddie so he can give his remaining front bumper a little boop. Eddie grins and responds with his own before settling back to admire little Teddie Munson.

#steddie fanfic #steve x eddie #stranger things fanfic #zooms writes #steve harrington #eddie munson #cars au #crack fic

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danaewrites · 1 year ago

Text

Helmet Over Heels

part i: the winter of our discontent

din djarin x reader // read it on AO3

word count: 3.8k

summary: When your path literally collides with a beskar-covered Mandalorian one night, neither of you expect how that meeting will irreversibly change the trajectory of your lives.

You’re pulled into his powerful orbit, agreeing to take care of his son in exchange for adventure and freedom– when he’s not off hunting bounties and inadvertently saving villages in need, that is. It’s the perfect plan. Or it would be, if only your quiet crush on the man would stop growing into something more with every hour you spend together. There’s no way he’d ever feel the same, right?

And Din? Well, he’s been trying (and failing) to convince himself that he’s not completely helmet over heels for you since day one. But a Mandalorian can only repress his emotions for so long…

(This fic takes place sometime after Season 2. Din’s back on his bounty-hunting business with a Razor Crest that was never destroyed and an adorable green sidekick who won’t stop chewing on its wires.)

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, slow-ish burn, nicknames, touch-starved din djarin and fem!reader, canon-compliant through season 2 and then Jesus takes the wheel :P

author's notes:

hello and welcome to my first ever mando fic!! i binged the entirety of the first two seasons in a week to get me through tedious internship work and accidentally fell in love with our favorite space dad and his cute green child along the way. oops (i regret nothing)

with the outline i currently have for this fic, it’ll be around 11-12 chapters, although that’s likely to grow as we get deeper into the story. the posting schedule might be anywhere from once a week to once a month, but this wip *will* be finished.

the second chapter's scheduled to upload next week as a little treat for y'all, so if you want to catch it then hit that follow button or ask to be added to my taglist! ;)

read it all here: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v coming soon!

You watched the last of tonight’s drunken patrons stumble out of the cantina and into the bitter Nath night with a relieved sigh. Wiping your hands on the stained apron tied around your waist, you fished a set of bronze keys out of a tiny pocket and began your nightly walk around the perimeter of the bar, locking doors and pulling down rusty shutters as you went. The cantina was silent aside from your quiet shuffling– a welcome reprieve from its usual crowded bustle and chatter so hectic you could barely hear your own thoughts.

You hummed softly as you adjusted booths back to their original positions and swept crumbs off of battered tabletops, wishing that the small holospeaker at the edge of the room hadn’t been broken in a recent bar fight. Swaying to its pre-Imperial oldies throughout your long, exhausting shifts had been one of the only perks of working in this run-down cantina, but without the soothing ambience of music, a chill threatened to sink into your bones and paralyze you with the deep depression this side of the planet seemed to have succumbed to.

You never planned to stay here for as long as you had. No one really did, except for criminals who knew that no one would willingly come here to search for them and locals who had never known anything else. Nath might have been charming, once– all soft snowflakes and peaceful walks under sepia-toned streetlights– but that was before the Empire had destroyed every semblance of comfort and culture and replaced them with brutalist brick structures that were already crumbling under the weight of their makers’ crimes. The fear lingered long after the Imps had finally left the post, reflected in the sad eyes of the fishmongers’ children and the way one would be hard-pressed to find a factory worker who didn’t spend his nights nursing a bottle and the ghosts of blaster scars across his back.

You had your own scars, of course, but you still held out hope that things would change and you’d make it out of here– although that hope was gradually diminishing as off-world shuttles visited less and less frequently and the permanent winter worsened. Five years ago, you’d been unceremoniously dropped off at the town’s dingy port, forced to land after your shuttle to Corellia was damaged by an unexpected detour through an asteroid field. You’d taken the cantina job thinking you’d only stay long enough to pay for passage on an outgoing ship, but soon learned that any shuttle risking the terrible weather to land here would also charge an exorbitant boarding price– one that would take you years to afford with the meager pay you received. And your tentative plan of stowing away on a spice freighter and sneaking off once it arrived at its destination (you weren’t picky about where, so long as it wasn’t Nath) was tempered by the increasingly likelihood that you’d get blown to pieces the minute you entered space by one of the pirate gangs that ruled the atmosphere these days. So– you were stuck here, at least for now.

The smell of something burning in the back of the cantina drew you out of your thoughts. Cursing, you raced to the kitchen, where your dinner was quickly blackening on the stove. Kriff. You shut off the burner, staring at the charred mess before you for a few seconds before dejectedly scraping it into an almost-overflowing trash bin. Well, there went your plan to eat quickly and head to your tiny flat before the storm outside worsened. Your rental pod had barely enough space for your bed and a miniscule bathroom, so you had to use the cantina kitchen if you wanted to stay fed– but the stove here was so old, it took half an hour longer than usual to cook anything. You resigned yourself to another night sleeping in a booth, since the flurry outside would prevent you from navigating your way home safely.

You sliced up a few vegetables and set them to simmer in a pot with the last of the herbed broth and sandseed noodles from today’s lunch special, glancing at the bin next to you. It was probably a good idea to take out the foul-smelling waste before you were sealed in next to it all night. Wrinkling your nose at the unappealing scraps of food threatening to fall off the top of the pile, you hefted the bin up and maneuvered it through the back door of the cantina, being careful not to stain your apron any more than it already was. The harsh winds nipped at every sliver of exposed skin and dusted your hair with a pearlescent sheen of snow, making you wish you’d thought to slip on something warmer than your thin blouse and trousers before leaving the protection of the kitchen.

You navigated through the blizzard to the end of the dark alleyway behind the cantina, your path lit only by two buzzing lamps at each end of the narrow corridor. You scrunched your face up against the cold, willing yourself to keep walking despite your extremely limited night vision. Just a few more steps, and then you’d be free of your compostable burden for the night. You turned the corner, stepping to the left where you knew the trash compactor was, and immediately collided with a giant hunk of metal.

Said hunk of metal cursed loudly as it stumbled head-first over the garbage bin you’d dropped in shock after the impact, falling forward into the snow. “Dank ferrik!”

Your eyes grew wide as the glow of the flickering streetlights illuminated the very-much-alive Mandalorian lying in front of you. It was just your luck that you’d managed to potentially injure the kind of warrior you’d only heard about in hushed rumors, or at least someone who was wearing the armor of one. Okay, injure was a strong word, but all that cold, hard beskar couldn’t be very comfortable to fall on despite the protection it offered.

“Stars, I’m so sorry, let me–”

You reached forward, stretching out a hand to help the Mandalorian up when a small green head suddenly popped up out of a tawny bag slung across their side. You yelped in surprise, losing your balance on the icy road and toppling forward. You winced, bracing yourself and preparing for the inevitable impact– except right as you were about to hit the ground, one steel-clad arm shot out to grab your wrist while the other steadied your hips. You gasped at the warmth of the unexpected contact, pulse quickening as you stared at the–man? person?–beneath you, the only thing preventing you from a nasty collection of bruises appearing across your side tomorrow.

A deep baritone sounded from the helmet– likely modulated, from the slightly grainy tone. “Are you alright?”

Definitely a man, then. You pointedly ignored the butterflies that stirred to life in your stomach at the sound of his voice, praying that he would attribute your shiver to the cold and nothing more. Stars, this was getting more embarrassing by the minute. You tucked away the thought, making a note to do some serious soul-searching later on about the depth of your touch-starvation and its potential impact on your mental state.

You gave a quick nod, muttering your thanks and carefully rolling to the side as you dusted clumps of snow off of your trousers. You looked up at him to see him gently picking up the little green creature you’d been so startled by earlier and tucking it back into the bag, pulling his cloak over its head to shield it from the chill. That was… rather cute, actually. You thought Mandalorians were supposed to be scary fighters, dedicated to nothing but their Creed, but this one was clearly fond of the small thing clinging to him. You couldn’t blame him; the green creature’s big ears and bug eyes were adorably endearing.

The cold winds picked up pace, and you wondered why anyone would be out here during such a storm as you got to your feet. Anyone local would have sought shelter hours ago, and no freighter would dare to land in such conditions.

“Are you... lost?” You tentatively asked. “Can I help you find someone?”

The Mandalorian remained silent for several long seconds, helmet tilted slightly. Whatever he saw in your face seemed to have settled well with him, and he released a quiet huff through the modulator.

“I need to get food. For my son,” he eventually admitted, gesturing to the baby peeking up at you.

“Oh!” You brightened up considerably as you remembered the flavorful soup you’d started earlier. “Well– I work in a cantina back there,” you said, pointing behind you at the rusted door that led to the kitchen.

“We’re technically closed right now, but I’m sure I can work something out.” You winked at the curious child, smiling as he let out a happy babble.

The Mandalorian’s helmet hadn’t moved from its focus in your direction, and you suddenly felt nervous. Which seemed stupid, because–yeah, it felt intense, but was he even looking at you from behind the dark visor of his helmet? For all you knew, he was making the most ridiculous expression at you behind all that beskar and you’d never know. The absurd thought made you snicker softly. If no one could see your face, you’d definitely act goofy at people all the time.

The Mandalorian’s head tilted slightly, and whoops, he’d definitely noticed your little moment now if he hadn’t been paying attention before. Your face reddened and you quickly gestured for him to follow you as you unlocked the door to the kitchen, relieved when you heard the soft clink of his armor come through the doorway behind you.

You placed your hands on your hips, surveying the dimly lit cantina and deciding to lead the duo to a worn table close to the bar. It looked unassuming, but the chairs were the comfiest in the cantina and you figured the baby would appreciate something softer than the coarse bag he’d been in.

Once they’d gotten settled in, you set about finding a mug of blue milk for the kid and some water for the Mandalorian. You brought the drinks over to the pair, hiding a smile at how eagerly the little green baby reached for his.

“You’re pretty thirsty, huh?” You observed as the baby slurped up the cerulean beverage. Shooting the tall, beskar-clad man a glance out of the corner of your eye, you continued, “Must have been quite the trip. Most people don’t usually travel to this side of the galaxy for vacation.”

To your disappointment, the Mandalorian remained as still and stoic as ever. Well, that just wouldn’t do. He was your first visitor in years from anywhere outside of Nath, and you were absolutely not letting him leave without getting a bit of juicy detail on life outside of your current drudgery. You decided to go for another angle.

“You know, kids need good role models in their lives. Ones that show them how to socialize with others and communicate. Display generosity of the loquacious sort, even.” You shrugged innocently in your best attempt to mimic the overly casual air the old women at the tea shop always used before passive-aggressively attempting to set you up with their stay-at-home-nephews. “Never too late to start.”

You got the distinct feeling that he was laughing at you under that helmet. Rude. Huffing, you sat down across the table from him and crossed your arms, trying to guess where under his visor his eyes were. Once you were half-confident that you’d found the spot, you stared intensely at it with your most intimidating expression. Which wasn’t saying much, seeing as you had the firepower of a soggy Lothkitten and probably came off as more desperate than anything.

“Isn’t there some sort of honor code for Mandalorians? One that includes being noble to strangers and whatnot?”

No response. Argh.

“Well, I’d consider it pretty noble to provide a lonely soul such as myself with a bit of storytelling entertainment on this frigid evenin–”

Your final attempt at prying some information out of the armored man was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen timer beeping increasingly louder and louder until you were sure the whole cantina was vibrating with the tinny noise.

“KRIFF, not again!”

You bolted out of your seat towards the kitchen, but not before you heard a thinly disguised huff of amusement coming out of the modulator. Okay, he was definitely laughing at you.

Once you’d successfully saved the soup from imminent destruction-via-cursed-stove and somewhat regained your pride, you finally made your way back to the table with three steaming bowls of noodles. You placed the smallest one in front of the child, who cooed happily and immediately began plopping his hands in the bowl. The Mandalorian huffed in exasperation and began prying little green fingers out of the bowl. “Hey. Quit that, we talked about this,” he grumbled. You winced as broth sloshed out of the bowl, landing dangerously close to the baby’s tunic. The kid’s lower lip started to tremble, a blaring warning sign that a tantrum was going to occur in approximately ten seconds if he wasn’t distracted from his current petulant state.

“Oh– hey, bug, don’t do that,” you said as both father and son turned to look at you. You leaned closer to the wide-eyed baby and pointed to his bowl. “That’s pretty hard to scoop up, yeah? Look, there are easier ways to eat it,” you explained as you brought the bowl up to your lips and raised an eyebrow, hoping that he would do the same. The kid blinked up at you for several long seconds before turning to his father with outstretched hands. The Mandalorian sighed, but held up the dish as requested. You hid a smile behind your bowl at the sight.

“Good job! Okay, now we’re going to try something fun–” You mimed slurping up the soup with a silly face at the baby, who burbled something incomprehensible in response but finally followed your example and focused on his food.

When you were sure that the baby’s clothes were no longer in danger of being drenched by broth– and by extension, frozen stiff whenever the pair headed back into the storm–you quietly tucked into your own meal, closing your eyes at the warm memories the comforting flavours brought. Not for the first time, you missed the earthy smell and placid weather of your homeworld, a stark contrast to this icy prison of a planet.

“You are… good with him.”

Your eyes darted up to find the Mandalorian’s helmet angled directly at you. Your face heated at the observation and you gave a small laugh, willing yourself to resist fidgeting under his gaze.

“I– thank you, I’ve always liked kids. Used to volunteer in the nursery back home, actually, before the Empire stole every resource from it they could.”

Your eyes widened with sudden realization. “You’re not Imperial, are you?”

The Mandalorian scoffed vehemently, the most emotion he’d displayed since he’d fallen back in the alley. “No.”

Well, that answered a few questions at least. You were prepared to move on from the conversation when he hesitantly spoke, “My ship ran into a few… asteroids. Is there a mechanic nearby?”

You set down your spoon, thinking. The closest asteroid field was four solar systems away and almost entirely inaccessible if one was traveling through hyperspace, so the likelihood that he’d truly run into one was small. In that case, he probably had damage from some kind of fight— seeing as the average pacifist wouldn’t need that much armor— and would want someone reliable who wasn’t going to ask questions about laser-sized holes in his ship’s hull.

He hadn’t tried to kill or rob you yet, so you figured his personal tussles were none of your business and decided to give him an honest recommendation. You directed him to a small mechanical hub close to the ice huts where there were few ships and even fewer nosy citizens. “The owner, Sanna, is the best in town,” you admitted. “I haven’t had the chance to visit her personally, but she’s known for being very discreet.”

He nodded, entering the coordinates you’d given him into some sort of device on his wrist. You tried to contain your pleased expression at correctly guessing his reason for being on Nath. And it had only taken you… well, four tries, but that was better than nothing!

“What is your price?”

You blinked, confused. “My price?”

There was that increasingly frequent head tilt again. His helmet tipped forward, scanning you. “For the food. And information.” He clarified slowly.

“Oh,” you spoke, surprised. “It’s okay, I was making dinner for myself anyway. And you’d have found out the location of the mechanic from someone else eventually,” you shrugged.

You couldn’t see his face, but from the disbelieving tone of his voice you imagined his eyebrows to be raised. “Not many people would turn down credits.”

You winced, reminded of your costly dream to get off-world, but there was no way you’d accept this stranger’s money for such a small favor when he had a kid he needed to provide for. “Yeah, well. Guess I’m not most people,” you laughed sheepishly.

The Mandalorian muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like no, you definitely are not. You squinted at him accusingly.

“Hey, you better not be making fun of my interrogation tactics, metal man.” You leaned forward to poke his soup bowl emphatically. Hm, that was strange– he hadn’t so much as touched it. Did Mandalorians follow some kind of special diet? You resolved to look that up the next time you had access to a datapad.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing that to a lonely soul like yourself.” He responded dryly.

You gasped in mock offense, forgetting your previous train of thought and internally groaning that he’d remembered that part of your disastrous attempt to weasel information out of him. Yeesh. Not your most eloquent moment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared,” you shot back in the most syrupy-sweet tone you could muster.

The kid grinned up at you with sharp teeth and blew a soupy bubble towards your face in response. You smiled down at him, adding, “But if you really want to repay me, then bring me back a good story about this little guy the next time you crash land through a— what did you call it? Asteroid field.” You highly doubted the duo would ever willingly return, but if making a deal gave this man peace of mind to know his imaginary debt was settled in some future way then so be it.

The lights in the cantina began to flicker and you got up with a frown, walking over to the electrical box behind the bar. The dull grey display, crammed with incomprehensibly labelled switches and flashing lights that would give anyone a headache, alerted you that the main generator had been depleted of power. You scrambled over to a window, prying open the shutters a crack only to be met with a dark swirl of snow that completely obscured your view of the street. Stars, the storm had worsened quickly— there was absolutely no chance you were making it home tonight. You slammed the shutter closed and turned around with a grimace that didn’t go unnoticed by the Mandalorian.

“What is it?” He questioned, modulated voice growing wary at the expression on your face.

“We’re running out of power, the main generator’s down from the storm so these lights are going to have to shut off soon. I think there’s enough in the emergency generator to heat the cantina through the night, though.” You hesitated, not sure how to break the bad news. “Unfortunately, the weather is— unmanageable. You’re not making it out of here to the mechanic’s until the blizzard lets up.”

He didn’t respond for a few seconds, so you continued talking. “I was.. planning on sleeping here tonight.” You muttered, trying to think of a plan. You glanced at the sleepy child resting on the Mandalorian’s beskar chest plate. “I usually keep a couple blankets here for that reason— pretty sure there’s enough to cover the baby, but you might need to be okay with sharing.”

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, searching your memory for where the emergency supplies were kept. Kriff. How were you supposed to know that you’d be snowed in, and with guests no less? Your grumpy boss really should have put instructions for this type of situation in the closing shift directions instead of the usual “sweep the floors” or your personal favorite: “if the customer creates a corpse, they gotta clean it up themselves”.

The Mandalorian interrupted your musings with a firm, “No need,” gesturing to the charcoal cloak fastened around his pauldrons. You eyed it dubiously, but supposed that the material looked thick enough. That was probably to your benefit, anyway, since you were something of a notorious blanket hog and didn’t think he’d take kindly to having his sheets ripped off him in the dead of night. That seemed like a quick way to wake up with more bruises than you went to sleep with.

“Well— alright then,” you sighed at last, tossing the smaller of your blankets to the man and tucking the other into the side of a nearby booth. “I’ll shut off the lights in a moment. Refresher’s that way, if you need it,” you pointed to the end of a dimly lit hall. The Mandalorian nodded once, then returned his attention to carefully cocooning the child in his lap. You set to work fluffing up your own makeshift bed, folding the cleanest dishtowel you could find into a pillow before trudging over to the light switch and enveloping the room in darkness.

Quietly feeling your way back to your booth, your eyes adjusted to the pitch-black little by little. You pulled your hair out of its messy updo and curled up on the seat, body slowly relaxing. It was strange, hearing the muffled rhythm of breaths coming from lungs that weren’t your own, but oddly soothing in its own way.

“G’night,” you mumbled, half-asleep already, consciousness swirled down the psychological drain by the overpowering storm raging outside. The lull-and-hitch of the baby’s soft snores echoing off of solid beskar set you drifting off to sleep faster than you had as a child, so lost to the world that you were sure you dreamed the quiet, belated whisper that sounded back to you.

taglist: @magpiencrow @that-kid143 @lilly-aliyah @itmustbegreattobecalledtheitgirl

comment if you'd like to be tagged for any of my works/fandoms in the future! :)

read on: part ii

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spidermn79 · 13 days ago

Text

Crucify Then Learn

-> Chapter 1 - 20 Hours Won't Print My Picture Milk Carton Size

Sludge Factory by Alice In Chains

Dragged to Sable, Texas– 2,500 people, two hours from the Oklahoma-Texas border, right in the panhandle– by two men in a truck is not an ideal experience, but you did it anyway. It doesn’t help that you ran a man over the night before and were more or less alright with it. (or, a slendermansion fic based in the middle of nowhere Texas, where your roommates are weird but the townsfolk are even weirder, especially that white church down the road that doesn’t stand for God anymore.) (or, x2, you and the other creeps get real close and freaky and there’s a cult terrorizing the town, and you guys have to stop it even though it’s a lot of work.)

The street is dark, wet and hot like it’s breathing you in. Wet trees and wet skin and wet tires: a human mouth, aiming for all-consumption. You can feel your sweat dripping through your clothes, pooling like disgusting and nervous puddles. It seeped through the car doors and clung to the seats.

Your hands gripped the steering wheel tight albeit clumsy; knuckles white, stretching over the leather. Oregon never got this humid– so why did you feel so sticky? Sticky, gross, porous.

You only felt the impact of it all– head thrashing forward, heart in your mouth– and the sickeningly sweet crunch of his body rolling under the car. Like shaking the earth, like rocking the boat. Your stomach didn’t even twist, either, it just laid flat.

Before you could register your actions, though, you uncurled your right hand from the wheel and grabbed the gear shift. Reverse, forward, reverse, forward– on some sort of fucked up autopilot.

He seemed to fit right under you, perfect in his place underneath the metal and oil. And, when you drove over him for the last time, he seemed to lay flat, too. Tires caked in his sinew and blood and bones, crushed beneath the ton.

There were no noises, no sounds, no comfort or anger– just quiet, and it felt like the only time he ever shut the fuck up.

–

2 AM at the gas station. Your hands– still wet, still sticky, oddly even– grasped for your carton of cigarettes in your purse. You pull one out, holding it in your mouth by your teeth while fishing for a lighter (miraculously finding it in the dark, 3 seconds). Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale (reverse, forward, reverse, forward).

Your back cools on the brick wall with chipping paint and random stains– your front facing outwardly towards the night, towards the world, towards your car parked in front of you.

Why is it that your heart has jumped back to its rightful place in your chest? Why did the sounds of a human body snapping under you not startle you as much as it should? It’s…not like you didn’t feel guilty for killing a man, but you didn’t feel guilty for killing this man. Not when his breath touched your neck late at night, hot and humid and foul. Not when he waited for you to get off of work, shoulders digging into the pillars that held your Walgreens building up. No, you couldn’t ever feel guilty for the person you killed, just the fact you killed one in the first place.

(Right?)

Cleanup wasn’t easy, either. You had to drive down the road, a half mile or so, to get on your knees with some old water bottles and wash away his insides from your tires. It did as much as you expected, draining in the cracks of concrete and asphalt a red that turned pink as the minutes went by. Then you had to go back for the body, or the parts that were still there, and wrap it in a dirty blanket from your trunk and toss it in the creek next to you.

You obviously didn’t have any sort of plan, or knowledge, on how to clean up a crime scene. You didn’t really care, either, because you knew the second you got home you’re leaving this state.

–

Maybe, you are a terrible person. Maybe, the things that unravel in the back of your mind hold some weight. But, you’re only terrible in the ways that don’t matter, right?

You killed a man. You took your car and ran him over again and again. You didn’t stop, you didn’t think that what you were doing was fucked up, because you know it wasn’t.

Though the eyes that reflect in your rearview mirror don’t feel like your own.

–

Your apartment feels worse than your stuffy car. It’s suffocating, like cotton balls and bubble wrap, squeezing against your skin to the point you want to claw out of it.

Navigating around the place, you grab your two duffle bags and put everything you’ll need inside of it. You don’t do it in a hurry– instead, you crawl around like a wounded soldier, taking your time to relish in the pain of the fact that you’ll have to uproot your life once again, and no one will be there to soften the blow of landing flat on your back in a place you will never really exist.

Even more thoughts run through your head: will the cops care, and if they do, what do you do? Will you be found immediately, in another town, and your efforts will be for nothing? Worse, were you always going to end up here?

When you finish packing– it felt like it took hours, but it only took 20 minutes– you sit down. Your couch is comfortable enough.

Sometimes, you wish you believed in God, and, if you prayed hard enough, He’ll hear you and take the pain away.

–

You’re only three hours out of the place you once called home (for a short, sweet six months at least). The sun is growing higher in the sky and blankets the ground in some sort of fog. It’s not as wet anymore, the further south you drive, and it’s a stark reminder that you are a different person now. It’s also a reminder that you need to get more gas, caffeine, and a motel.

The next small town you hit is where you decide you’ll be staying. It barely has any buildings, no fast food or chain businesses. The buildings blur together in a sea of browns and reds and greens and you pay no mind to the early risers walking down the street– they stare like they know you don’t belong.

–

The motel room is stale.

A small bed on the right of the room, facing the even smaller TV on the left, with brown blankets and brown sheets, occupies most of the space. Then, there’s a cramped bathroom at the back. These are the only things that matter to you, and any other detail is tucked to the furthest parts of your mind for another time.

It’s early morning now, probably 7 A.M. (but you’re not too sure, the skies from night to day have become one), and all you want to do is shower and sleep. Sleep, mostly, you want to curl up and sleep until you can’t because it’s been a horrendous 24 hours of waking up and working and then running a man over and hiding his body and– it’s been a horrendous 24 hours.

Your bags fall to the ground in a huff, like they’re telling you they’re disappointed in your choices, but you don’t even care– you’re kicking your shoes off and crawling under the thin, stained covers.

–

The truck is wet, coated in a layer of humidity. The windows are fogging, the torn up cushions are damp, and Tim can feel the sweat roll down the back of his neck.

They’ve been sitting here for hours– sitting, watching, groaning about their asses hurting– with not one singular sighting of you. Tim doesn’t even really know what he’s supposed to be watching out for, just that He felt something…off and now him and Brian are in fucking Oregon of all places. Why is he here, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for some small black car to show up? What’s the point? He can’t seem to give a shit when there’s been no reason to. The payoff better be worth it, because he’s quite literally sticking to the seats.

But, of course, once he’s knee deep into his internal groveling, said car shows up. It parks on the right side of the road, and after it a man comes running. He looks dirty, sleazy, and Tim’s eyes can immediately pick up on what’s happening, at least in some capacity. Brian’s eyes catch it too, Tim can tell, because he crosses his arms and turns his full attention to the scene in front of them.

The dirty, sleazy man stops in front of the car. The driver side window rolls down, your head pops out, and they can hear the sounds of yelling and pleading. You’re screaming out your window, probably telling this guy to move out of the fucking way and stop following me before I call the cops but Tim can’t quite make it out. He can just barely see your mouth moving, albeit awkwardly (considering they are parked on the other side of the road, but further behind), and it just won’t stop.

The screams fall on deaf ears, though, because the man just places his hands on top of your hood with a challenging glare. He doesn’t believe a word you say, but Tim does, and that’s when you roll your window back up and run him over (reverse, forward, reverse, forward).

Brian and Tim share a glance, not entirely surprised but confused, because they still don’t know why they’re even watching this.

…

Well, okay, that confusion lasts about five more seconds until there’s a high-pitched ringing in their ears, and with it comes the instinct to clean it up.

Tim’s hands shake in an unwanted desperation to do just that, but he holds them together instead, because suddenly you're driving off (very slowly, might he add). No way you’re just, leaving that body there? Brian’s eyes meet his again, with an understanding that they should probably take their time with this, no matter what He wants.

Tim’s unsteady hands grip the door handle and push it open, stepping out of the driver’s side of the truck with practiced quietness and heading to the bed. Brian steps out a moment after him.

On the driver’s side of the bed, Tim digs around to find the one thing that could possibly help them– a black trash bag, filled with cleaning supplies and even more (folded) black trash bags. There’s a shovel in the bed, too, and Brian is picking it up before Tim can blink. He hauls the bag out and places it on the ground next to him, digging through it for some rags and bleach and whatever else he needs.

But then the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his body tenses.

It’s like he’s been dunked in a pot of boiling water, warm and hot and hotter, crawling up his arms and legs and creeping into his chest. Never has he felt this kind of burn, not even in the nastiest of work or weather. He’s so hot he’s nauseous, stomach churning, and it brings him to his knees. The urge to rub himself raw lingers under his skin, but he knows better.

The burn doesn’t subside, and suddenly Brian is kneeling in front of him with a twisted sort of expression– even more confused, even more clueless. A firm hand on his shoulder breaks him slightly free of this pain, trying to shake him out of it. There’s a rustle of wind on the other side of the street, and Tim feels his body start to cool down.

Brian is still shaking him, but his stomach turns back to normal and he can finally meet the other’s eyes.

“Man, the fuck is goin’ on?” Brian asks, voice cutting through the leftover heat. Tim just stares, partly irritated but mostly just shocked, because he can’t even answer the question if he wanted to. His hands squeeze the denim of his jeans, wiping off the sweat, and tries to regain control.

“I got no idea,” Tim answers after a beat, strained yet honest, “but it felt like I was on fire, or somethin’. I don’t really know how else to describe it.”

–

Underneath only the moonlight, Tim sits back in the truck. They’re watching you, again– standing at the front of the convenience store, cigarette in your mouth– and he can’t help but wonder why you would show your face near any public area after all that happened. Why leave a trail, aren’t you running? From the other side of the parking lot, he stares. He bores holes into you like it’s his job (because, it really is) and feels the gears turn in his head.

You don’t seem tight, wound up, or even upset, and his hands feel for his own pack of Marlboros in his jacket pocket. In all of his years (just thinking that makes him feel…old), he’s never seen many people this composed after a first kill, accidental or not. They usually shake and reach for the humanity they lost, but you stand under the light like it’s just another stressful night of rude customers and ruder coworkers, like you belong there.

Tim’s shoulder’s lock up, so he cranks his window down and lights his own cigarette.

–

Your apartment is small and blends together with the rest of the buildings on the block. They’re still in the goddamn truck, waiting for you to start your getaway, but it’s like you’re taking your sweet time gathering your shit. Tim is really wishing for you to pick up the pace, at least a little bit, so they can get back to Utah (with you in tow) without raising suspicion– the longer you take, the quicker the cops will come.

The back of his neck is still warm, and he really doesn’t know if it’s some sort of lingering affect from whatever the fuck happened earlier or if it’s just the Oregon weather (but, he knows that doesn’t make too much sense). It’s grinding on his nerves, cracking down on his bones, more than tonight even warrants.

–

Brian’s driving now.

They’ve been following you the last couple hours, trying to see where you’re going to end up. It has felt like one, long, straight line down the state through small towns and empty roads. Where are you going? Where do you think you can go? There’s no escaping what you’ve done, so Tim doesn’t know why you’re even trying– it’s useless.

Maybe, when they can finally get out of this truck, he’ll think about it some more.

–

Brian leaves Tim in the motel parking lot to grab them a room. He watched as you practically barreled into your own room, exhaustion heavy in your features. They’ll let you sleep, because they need it too. The drive to Oregon took only a day but it was long and tiring and they would rather not have to drag your ass back when none of you have really rested. Better to avoid a disaster, he guesses.

He takes another cigarette out, lights it, and smokes. Leaning against the truck, his back loosens the tiniest amount– no longer hot, no longer looking over his shoulder, no longer checking the cars behind him. He feels far enough away from the mess you (unknowingly) pulled them into to breathe in the morning air and tobacco. No masks yet.

He still doesn’t really understand why they had to clean up your hit and run, or why now they have to bring you all the way back to Texas. Your actions were fairly common, boring, and there’s nothing that sticks out to him besides the fact you moved weirdly naturally in what should’ve been chaos. He can’t read your mind, no, but he can read body language like there’s no tomorrow and the oddest thing you gave away was normalcy. Maybe he missed your hands shake, maybe he missed some long inner monologue about what you’ve done and what to do now, but other than that, you’re like an innocent person.

Brian walks out of the small lobby, keys in hand, so Tim flicks his cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his boot. It’s not like he won’t ask you about this, anyway, so why think so hard about it?

–

You wake up at 7 P.M. A whole 12 hours have passed, just by your sheer tiredness, and you don’t regret it.

Actually, you can’t seem to regret much, right now– like your consciousness was lightened during your makeshift coma. You don’t feel guilty over what you did last night, and it strikes something sharp in your gut, because what kind of person are you? Someone who kills without shame? Who steals life with their bare hands? When did you turn into something so vile and disgusting? Certainly not just last night…but when else? You had never done something this depraved before (and, now, you don’t know what you’re capable of).

The guilt over not feeling guilt eats at what’s left in your stomach, starving you of any energy, and you have the subdued realization that you actually need to get out of bed, shower, and eat. Oh, and probably check out, and keep driving until you reach someplace comfortable, and you know that’s a foolish dream, and you’re really just driving until you outrun your sins. You don’t even know where you could go, but that’s a worry for later.

You peel off the thin sheets you buried yourself in and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

–

Tim wakes up before Brian, heart thumping fast and neck cold with sweat (he pays no mind and gets out of the bed, showers, changes into some blue and white and red flannel that was thrown into his own bag: he has better things to worry about.)

By the time Tim is dressed, Brian is already packing his things back up and heading out the door to put them in the truck bed. He goes out after him and throws his things in the bed, too. The bags land with their special kind of annoying huff. Across the way, back to the passenger’s side, Brian checks his watch– 7:45 P.M. exactly. He shows it to Tim, and he just nods and makes his way to your motel door.

On the short way there, Tim realizes that, honestly, he has no idea what to even say to you to make you come with them. He could always, just, hit you over the head and stuff you in the bed with the rest of their shit, because he knows he has that power (and acknowledging said power makes him nauseous) but would that be wise? No, that’s messy and will lead to more trouble than he needs down the road. Fear like that never ends in any respect. You’ll beg and cry and scream and it’ll be for nothing.

Instead, he shakes away his doubts and raises a closed fist– knock knock knock.

–

You’re packing away your toothbrush and dirty clothes when there’s a knock on the door, and it startles you so much you drop everything in your hands. They fall to the floor, forgotten about, because who the fuck is knocking on your door right now? Who has any reason to be trying to talk to you? This small town and smaller motel shouldn’t even have your presence memorized but there’s still a relentless thud on the wooden door.

This is it, you conclude, and the cops are here to drag you away. But, you suck down your never-ending fear deep into your lungs and walk up to the door anyway. You lean against it, closing one eye to peek in the peephole and– oh, okay, that’s definitely (probably, hopefully) not a cop, but some man with sideburns and a thick jacket. This actually feels a bit scarier than what you expected.

Why is there a random ass man knocking on your door like he knows exactly who you are?

You suck that fear back down though, because you’ve gotten oddly good at it in the past couple seconds (and minutes and days), and call out.

“Who is it?” You’re still staring through the peephole, watching his face. He certainly looks the part of a cop, like he stepped out of a very cheesy 80s TV show.

Tim’s face reels back, only for a moment, before responding, “Just open the goddamn door. It’s important.” His eyes meet your own through the peephole, because he knows you’re looking back, and you step down fast.

What does he mean, important? Why is this stranger speaking to you like this? What in the ever loving fuck is going on? You dig your feet into the carpet below, trying to ground yourself back into this reality where you killed a man and were probably being followed by this man and now you’re gonna be killed, too. That’s what’s happening, is it not?

“The fuck do you mean ‘important’?” Your muffled yell goes through the cracks in the door, “And who even are you?”

Tim’s eyes threaten to roll back into his skull, even though he understands exactly where you’re coming from because, yeah, this is definitely crazy out of context (and maybe, even with context. How do you tell someone yeah, my boss wants my friend and I to kidnap you and drive to Utah with us, where we’ll then be teleported to Texas because teleportation is a thing now and you just have to accept it. Oh, and when we get to Texas, you have to live with even more crazy strangers and probably kill more sleazy men. Also we know basically everything about you now, at least the important things).

He doesn’t linger on the absurdity of it all any longer than he should.

“Well, if you just opened the door, maybe I could tell ya,” he settles on instead. The irritation slips through anyways, because he understands why you’re scared but your fear is making things harder than they should be.

Your head tells you he’s scarily calm about it all, and that’s what’s making you so hesitant. What could he say anyway? That the police are coming for you unless you listen to him, or go with him, or something weird like that? Why would you trust a man to not do that?

(You’ve never had an actual reason to relinquish your autonomy. The limbs that make you whole shake for their own kind of control despite how hard you try to suppress it.)

…

But, honestly, what other choice do you have?

“Y’know, if you don’t open up, I’m gonna have to open it up myself, alright?” Tim scoffs quietly, digging his hands into his jacket pockets. “So how ‘bout you open the door and we can talk?”

Oh, so now he’s threatening you? Basically, right? Your palms, slightly sweaty, reach for the doorknob, because you really don’t wanna die a painful death if he kicks the door down. No, no, you would rather go out quietly and swiftly. Hopefully he just takes a pocket knife out and stabs you through your throat.

(No pressure to scream or cry or press a hand to your wound– just the understanding that you were to bleed out and stain the fibers an even darker shade of rusty brown.)

But you grab the doorknob and twist it open. Tim pushes himself inside, and the sheer confidence of it all has you frozen in place. He struts in and pushes the door closed but you’re still standing there, glued to that dirty carpet.

…

Okay, Tim doesn’t really know what to say now, now that he’s finally in your room and taking a seat on the foot of the bed. His hands reach for each other (because he isn’t going to just pull out another cigarette in here), fingers laced in between his spread out legs. He’s hunched over, refusing to really look at you, because all you’re really doing is standing there.

(Yeah, he could’ve done that better, but there’s no point in regretting it– totally.)

You turn, facing him– he sat down like he owned the place, like this isn’t incredibly creepy and dangerous– and your now useless hands curl into your sweatpant pockets. You really can’t believe what’s happening, what’s happened, and what’s going to happen.

Tim clears his throat before speaking. “Alright, I’ll get straight to the point– ya killed a guy, and now you’re running, right?”

Straight to the point, indeed.

Images flash through your practically empty head, like the crushed up dead body and the roads that led you here. If he knew this all, and is sitting down on your bed without any sort of honest hesitation, is there even a point of delaying the inevitable (aka, being swept up into a bigger mess than the one you made and fighting the man who witnessed your atrocities)?

You think, maybe, you should just get straight to the point too, because this guy’s presence isn’t setting off any real alarm bells yet. Y’know, despite everything else he’s just done. His approach right now is better than a violent one. So, you nod.

“Ok, well,” he pauses for a beat, contemplating the next words off his tongue, “ok, if you’re runnin’, you can hop in my truck and we stop in Utah, then get to Texas. That sound good to you?”

There’s something else he’s not telling you, you can tell, because he’s still fidgeting with his hands and glancing out the window. And, you really think you should ask about it, right? No one would agree to this absurd proposition without asking a few questions.

“As…convincing as that sounds,” you bring yourself to take just a small step closer, but his eyes immediately lock on the action, “I don’t think you’ve explained yerself enough for me to really wanna do that. Can you, like, give me anything else?”

Tim sighs and it comes from somewhere deep within him, like it’s crawled up his chest. Why couldn’t you just agree already? Why can’t you make this easy on yourself? He thinks he can give you just a bit more, and that’s it, before he takes the gun out of his jacket and cracks you over the head with it.

“Alright, well, you come with me and my friend, we get to Texas, and you can have a place ta’ call home. No– no new identities every couple months, no new credit cards or cars, just a home in Texas,” he clears his throat again, because he really doesn’t know what more he can tell you without escalating this or outright lying to you.

You get ready to ask him, what friend? when he keeps going.

“...You’ll just have to work for someone, yeah? Carry out jobs, far outta town, but come back to a place to sleep and food to eat.”

You have a feeling that now, he won’t give up any more, and it’s either go with them willingly or go with them with a bag over your head and your hands bound. It’s the only option you have, the only hope for salvation, and you’re not in any position to turn it down.

Besides, what’s so bad about a road trip with men you don’t know? Maybe you can kick your feet up on the dash, maybe they’ll even let you pick the music. Maybe, they’ll slit your throat the moment you get to the car and dump your body in a river, maybe they’ll take everything you own and turn you in to the cops.

Yeah, right? Not so bad. You’ve done worse without that promised sort of comfort to fall back on. Hopefully your missing poster never gets back down to Texas.

(Would you even have a missing poster? Would anyone notice enough to report you missing? Honestly, it’s probably the least of your worries.)

Your eyes meet his when you’ve finished your (very short) contemplation of plans. Though he breaks it, taking a real chance to look around the room with your fallen possessions and two duffle bags filled with your entire life. “Fine,” you finally respond, and Tim feels his body loosen (just a little), “but we gotta stop at a store soon. I’m very hungry.”

gawdddd I finally got around to getting this on tumblr, sozz for the delay (if anyone was waiting...). hope u like this, chap 2 will be up when I fully finish chap 3! "Yeah, Hey-Yeah/I Want To Travel South This Year" - I Stay Away by Alice In Chains. stay tuned!!

#crucify then learn fic #creepypasta x reader #tim wright #brian thomas #nina the killer #clockwork #toby rogers #jeff the killer #ben drowned #eyeless jack #nurse ann #just wanted to add the basic tags here cuz i had a lot on ao3 lol

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diy-fire-water-pups · 10 months ago

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Heya, guys! Just an ask for you guys, especially for Rocky. What do you guys feel about those cyber trucks? To me, I get salty because people drive a frickin TRAPEZOID!! it looks like an oversized microwave with four wheels! Even raccoons are attacking those trucks because they think they are dumpsters. But hey, that’s just me. What do you guys think?

If only the problem would be ONLY that this truck looks like a trapezoid… Someone once joked it’s Lara Croft in her first game - I had to look that up - but to be very honest, I think she has more polygons than a Cybertruck. And that’s saying something for sure.

As the Paw Patrol’s pup who’s specialized in medicine, I'd like to say that this truck is literally a menace on wheels for both passengers and pedestrians. Have you seen the crash tests? The truck doesn’t crush when colliding with something! It’s supposed to crush so the force of impact won’t go fully on the passengers inside. Without it, if it hits against something full force at top speed, people’s organs will practically become puree against their ribcage. And if it hits a pedestrian, even at lower speeds, the chances of major injuries is insanely high because it doesn’t have any smooth lines on its frame to soften the impact against the person! Only sharp edges! It’s absolutely deadly!

It looks like something you'd see in an Atari game, of course there are people who would be a fan of it but that's a very small percentage of a specific public; as Marshall said, the very frame design makes it extremely dangerous; I absolutely DO NOT trust anything that's entirely dependant on a touchscreen to function, once the screen is out, you won't be able to do anything anymore; If you need to look away from the road for more than 5 seconds to do something on that tablet, it should be considered already a failure of programming and danger inducing; a lot of them came out of the factory with already rusty components so THAT SHOULD SAY SOMETHING; oh yeah, you can't even take it to a car wash or it'll come out a huge useless brick on the other side and if you can't wash it, you'd at least want to coat it but guess what, you can't do that either; a bunch of the panels are literally GLUED to the frame...?; every time you go recharge it you need to do it as correctly as possible to not risk the charger getting stuck and eventually breaking it; if you drive in the rain, water will leak in through the edges; you can't even haul stuff or help another car because you'll be risking to snap the back frame - it's not in one piece with the chassis, but connected by a sort of plastic piece to it...???? I swear I've seen Chase's cruiser hold and tow heavier stuff with its winch than what a Cybertruck can ever dream of doing; if anything happens to the back of this truck, you can kiss goodbye to its bed, even though it's not as big as they promised either; they basically made a fool of a lot of people by making them pay a lot more for a "Foundation Series" promising a full self driving feature that, as far as I know as of now, is still not available; the truck just has so many problems someone drove it out of the factory and not even two minutes later it bricked completely and has been at a repair shop ever since; the list goes on and on...

Some Tesla vehicles at least look good and have decent features, though they also have a lot more problems than they should, which could have been solved already by now, but they don't even try, all because the company owner is just... A bad person, let's put it like that. He's got a temper worse than Sweetie's, he thinks he's above everyone else and won't ever take a "no" or "don't". I've heard a lot of other EV companies are making better AND affordable EVs literally by looking at what's wrong with Tesla cars to not repeat the same errors on theirs.

Oh, and one last thing! This guy also went against regulation laws against hate speech in our Mod's country, which resulted on his social media website and app getting banned there. Not satisfied with that, he double-crossed the ban to make it available there again although totally illegally, by using the same IP servers that hospitals, public services and even the very Brazilian government websites use, so... Triple crime? Not gonna lie, it's funny to follow how it's going down there.

#shadzdrag234 #Paw Patrol #Paw Patrol Zuma #Paw Patrol Marshall #Paw Patrol Rocky #Tesla #Tesla Cybertruck #(( Imagine someone going through the Tesla Cybertruck tag on Tumblr and finding PAW PATROL DOGS SHIT TALKING IT too LMFAO ))

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aneurinallday · 10 months ago

Text

Green Eyes

Chapter 7: A New Life

By the time doubt began to creep in at the edges, it was too late - the promise had already been made, and Thomas Shelby had no intention of breaking his word.

As they departed Birmingham City on a cloudy afternoon in early April, Alec cradled the baby in his lap and stared out of the car window. He watched as the factories and terraces turned into semi-detached houses with little gardens, then into farmhouses and crops - urban rot giving way to suburban tedium and finally into open country.

“Look, Clara,” he said, lifting her up, “There are cows.”

“Ever been out of the city before?” Thomas asked.

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Maybe my parents took me when I was a child and I don’t remember.”

“Who were your parents?”

“Nobody worth remembering.”

“Dead, then?”

“Maybe. I don’t even know.”

Onwards they drove. Alec rested his head against the glass, and looked on as the only life he’d ever known disappeared out of sight, a new life beginning to creep in at the edges. Thomas was silent at the wheel. Nothing needed to be said.

At some point Alec dozed off, Clara fast asleep in his arms, until a bump in the road jolted him awake and he found himself surrounded by the wide fields and rolling hills of Warwickshire. He glanced in the rear-view mirror as if expecting to see the city in the distance, but saw only more sky. They were in the true countryside now.

“Are we almost there?” he asked.

“Need to piss?”

“No, but she will soon.”

“Just as well. Look to your left.”

Alec obeyed. The wild hedgerows turned into well-kept hedges, and the asphalt into gravel, and soon they turned a corner to see their destination awaiting them: a red-brick manor-house with a symmetrical facade of stone accents and mullioned bay windows, its roofs punctuated by neat rows of chimneys.

“This is your home?” Alec exclaimed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure what, though.”

Thomas parked somewhat carelessly - he knew a manservant would come and take the car to the garages - and they stepped out into the breeze. Alec breathed deep of the country air.

“It smells different,” he said, “It smells clean.”

“There’s not a steel foundry for miles,” said Thomas. “Just some rich people’s summer homes.” Relieved to be out of the car, he lit a cigarette and began to puff.

Holding the baby with one arm, Alec reached for his meagre belongings in the back seat.

“Leave it. The servants will bring everything up to your room.”

“My room? Not yours?”

Thomas wasn’t sure if Alec was teasing or not.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, and led the way towards the porch, gravel crunching under their shoes.

Alec turned to look back the way they’d come, admiring the colourful flowerbeds and carefully curated topiary. He wasn’t sure where the property ended and the surrounding farmland began.

“All this land - it belongs to you?”

“That’s right.”

“And those fields too?”

“Two-thousand acres,” Thomas confirmed.

Realising Alec was no longer behind him, he glanced back. Alec was lingering at the flowerbeds, trying to get Clara to pluck a blossom.

“Come on,” Thomas summoned him, “Let’s get inside.”

They passed through the stone-columned porch and into the main hall, over which loomed the grand staircase.

“Welcome to Arrow House,” Thomas sighed, “I’ll show you around, but I don’t have all day. Come on.”

He guided Alec around the downstairs in a business-like manner, unable to hide his disinterest in the trappings of his own wealth.

Alec followed him in awe, craning his neck to marvel at the high ceilings and glittering chandeliers. By the standards of the rich, it was a home like any other. But to him, it was a palace to rival Versailles. He soaked in every detail: the wood-panelled walls and gold-framed paintings, the fur rugs and patterned carpets, the figurine lamps on pedestals and little ornaments on mantelpieces. Despite its lavishness, it wasn’t gaudy like the Arcadia - these things had been chosen for their elegance, not for their shine.

“Look at that, Clara,” he cooed, “This is our home now. Mister Shelby is going to let us live here. Isn’t he kind to us?”

The baby was less concerned with their new residence and more with her father’s shirt. Oblivious to the opulence surrounding her, she grasped at his lapels with tiny hands, and attempted to put the buttons in her mouth.

“The building is from the 1830s,” said Thomas as they entered the parlour, “Or the 1840s, I can’t remember. You’d be better off asking the housekeeper, she knows more than - ”

“A piano!” Alec interrupted.

With the giddy eagerness of a child on Christmas morning, he hurried past Thomas to admire the grand piano that stood in the middle of the parlour. He reached for the black-and-white keys with one hand, but stopped himself before touching them.

“Do you play, Mister Shelby?”

“Not for the life of me. I bought it for my son.”

“I can play. Not very well, but I know how. The pianist at the club was giving me lessons, but Mister Cobb made him stop. He said my singing was hard enough to listen to without me subjecting people to an instrument too.”

“Sounds like an excuse. He probably didn’t want you learning another skill. Too many skills and you’d be able to find another job.”

“Maybe. He also said I looked better standing up, not sitting down.”

“Well, that’s Cobb’s business. You can play as much as you like.”

“Thank you.”

“Now come on, let’s go. I’ve got work to do.”

They continued onwards. Thomas pushed open the door of the library which served as his study. Alec gaped at the carven bookshelves which towered all the way up to the ceiling, stacked with antique classics.

“Here’s the library, and that’s where I do my work. You can read all of the books you want, but don’t go near my desk.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Good.”

They’d circled back around to the main hall, reaching the foot of the grand staircase.

“It’s so big in here,” said Alec, “I feel like I can finally breathe. We could go days without seeing each other, if we wanted.”

“Already avoiding me?”

“No, but you might get tired of having me around.”

Ascending the stairs, they passed a large family portrait: Thomas, Grace, and a baby boy.

“Is that your wife?”

“Yes.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“She was,” Thomas agreed curtly.

“How did you meet - ”

“Don’t talk about her.”

Alec was silent the rest of the way up the staircase. They passed the master bedroom - the door of which was firmly shut - and several guest rooms before reaching a south-facing suite.

“This is you,” he said, and watched as Alec stepped into what must’ve felt like a dream.

Like the rest of the house, it was richly furnished in dark rosewood and mahogany, with elegant lamps and floor-length embroidered curtains. There was a chaise longue where he could sit and read, and a soft rug to greet his feet in the morning, and a bed wide enough for two.

“All of this is mine and Clara’s?”

“All of it.”

“It’s twice the size of my flat in Saltley.” Alec ducked into the bathroom, and let out a wordless exclamation as he discovered the large porcelain tub, complete with hot and cold taps. “And there’s proper plumbing! Look, Clara! I won’t have to put water on the stove any more.”

Thomas snorted with amusement.

“Next door is the nursery,” he said.

“Nursery?” Alec re-emerged from the bathroom with a confused expression.

“She’ll need her own space, and so will you.”

“Oh.” Alec hadn’t even considered the prospect. With Clara in his arms, he sat down on the edge of the bed. As he looked around the room, the glow of excitement seemed to fade, and the overwhelming reality of the situation - that he was going to be living here for the foreseeable future - seemed to set in. He looked lost.

“Are you hungry?” Thomas asked.

“Yes. But tired too.”

“Get some rest. I’ll send food up for you, and fruit for the baby.”

“Thank you. Will the servants care about…you know…us?”

“No. They’re used to it by now. And I pay them too well for them to care.”

Glad to be done with the awkward business of the tour, Thomas retreated to his study. He attempted to lose himself in his work, but was unable to shake Alec’s presence from his mind. He tried not to consider the gravity of his decision, opening his doors to a near-stranger. The grand promises of a better future he’d made because he was rich enough to indulge himself in fleeting fantasies.

If things turned sour and he was compelled to eject Alec from his home, there was no question that Clara would have to go too - separating the pair was unthinkable. But why should a baby be punished, simply because its father had failed to stay in Thomas Shelby’s good graces? Even if Thomas let them go with a generous sum of money, the emotional toll it would take on Alec - having a good, safe home within his grasp and then losing it - would be cruel.

The potential for this arrangement to turn into a mess made Thomas wonder if it was even worth the risk. But then he remembered the chandelier-light falling on Alec’s upturned face, and the happiness overflowing from the young man in that moment, and his doubts subsided. Joy like that, even if it proved temporary, was worth any risk.

Thomas was so absorbed in his business that he didn’t realise the room had grown dark until a maid tapped on the door.

“Shall I turn the main light on, Mister Shelby? You’ll strain your eyes.”

“Hm?” Thomas glanced up at the grandfather clock, disorientated to find that he needed his glasses to tell the time. “No, no. I’m about to turn in. Thanks, Mary.”

He retired for the night, but along the way, stopped by Alec’s guest room. He found it empty. Alec’s belongings had been unpacked and were strewn haphazardly about, as if he hadn’t decided where to store them yet. Shirts with mended elbows, combs with missing teeth, a flapper dress whose tassels were fraying at the ends. Thomas took stock of how inadequate the inventory was, already half-planning to replace these tatty things with tailored suits and expensive perfumes, before remembering that he’d done plenty already.

On the spacious bed was a cold, half-eaten tray of food: fruit salad, Duchess potatoes, blanched and seasoned vegetables, and a game pie containing venison, hare, partridge, pigeon, and pheasant in a rich gravy, the pastry decorated with a braided design of leaves and flowers. The unfamiliar luxury of it must’ve sickened an already anxious stomach. Alec had probably never eaten deer in his life.

“I’m in here, Mister Shelby,” a soft voice came through the wall. Alec must’ve heard his footsteps.

Thomas found him in the nursery, standing over the curtained crib where he’d placed Clara, gazing down at her while she chewed toothlessly on her old teddy bear’s paw. Toys were everywhere: on the shelves and on the dresser and on the floor. Painted dolls with real hair, and carved soldiers with red coats. Wooden dogs and horses on wheels, with strings for pulling them around. More toys than Alec could’ve ever imagined buying for his daughter. By the window was a rocking chair, where he could sit with her on picturesque afternoons and look out across the gardens.

Without raising his head at the sound of Thomas’s entrance, he said:

“It’s lovely in here. Was this your son’s room?”

“Yes.” Thomas’s gaze fell on a folded blanket on the shelf - a crocheted baby blanket with Charles’s initials worked into the pattern, probably a gift from one of Grace’s friends. He quickly looked away. “Most of these things were his. Some are new.”

“I always…” Alec began, but then hesitated. “I always dreamed, but I never thought…Thank you for everything, Mister Shelby.”

He swayed on his feet, and gripped the side of Clara’s crib to steady himself.

“I don’t deserve her,” he said, “I don’t any of this. I’ve done nothing but bad things in my life. How could so many good things happen to me?”

“You’re tired,” said Thomas. “Go to bed.”

“I’m not sure if I should.” Alec didn’t take his eyes off the sleeping baby. “I don’t like her sleeping alone. What if something happens?”

“Nothing will happen. She’ll be fine.”

“I know. I know, it’s just…We’ve always shared a room. Always.”

“You’ll only be a door away. You’ll hear her if she cries.”

“What if you hear it too? I don’t want her to disturb you. You might get…irritated.”

“I’ve lived with crying babies before. I’ll survive. Go to bed.”

“I will,” Alec promised, “I’ll wait ‘til she’s settled.”

“Suit yourself.”

Thomas left him standing there with his thoughts, and went to bed with his own. As he undressed in the lamplight, he felt - if only for a moment - a strange discomfort that he couldn’t define. Perhaps a sense of shame, but he wasn’t sure why. What did he have to be embarrassed about? His age? His wealth? His line of work?

He brushed off the feeling, dimmed the lamps, and climbed between the covers. As he usually did, he turned his back to Grace’s side of the bed. The darkness settled over him like a blanket.

Through half-asleep ears, he heard the door-knob turn and the floorboards creak softly. Grace, he thought. Then a voice whispered:

“Mister Shelby?”

Thomas jolted awake, reaching instinctively for the pistol in his bedside drawer, but stopped himself before he touched it.

Alec was standing over the bed in a white night-shirt, his curls tousled from a failed attempt to sleep.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Thomas was scanning the young man’s hands, searching for a weapon. Alec was unarmed. Of course. Thomas sighed at his own reaction. “What do you want?”

“Can I sleep with you?”

“You don’t need to.”

“But I want to.”

“Alright. If you insist.”

Alec eased under the duvet, and drew himself close until their bodies were pressed together. His feet were cold from crossing the floorboards that separated their rooms.

“You’re warm,” he murmured. “I’ve missed this. Have you?”

Thomas said nothing. ‘No’ would’ve been a lie, but ‘yes’ would’ve been an admittance of weakness he wasn’t ready to make.

“You can come to my room whenever you want,” Alec whispered, “Or I can come to yours - ”

“Just go to sleep,” Thomas interjected.

Alec dutifully fell silent. The gentle puffs of his breath against Thomas’s shoulder became slower and steadier, until he was fast asleep.

Thomas stared into the dark. The sensation of another body in his marriage bed was so familiar, yet so different it was almost disconcerting. The empty space where Grace had once lain had been filled, but by someone who didn’t belong there. It felt wrong, and yet…

The darkness grew heavier, or perhaps it was just his eyelids. Sleep came without warning and almost against his will.

#fanfic #aneurin barnard #cillian murphy #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #smut #gay #romance #TW prostitution #TW abuse

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