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figthefruitfaeth · 2 years ago

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Mail, Murder, & Other Mysteries

From the Nancy Wheeler Files

Chapter Two: The Anonymous Letter(s) (prev chapter) (ao3 link)

Eddie wakes up to the shrill ring of the landline and stale taste of sugar rotting his teeth. A weak ray of mid-morning light streams in through the windows. The ringing stops. The faint sound of traffic and city life drifts into the quiet of the apartment. He breathes, in, then out.

Just when he starts to relax, the ringing starts up again. He groans, rolling over and shoving his face into the back of the couch.

Eddie knows what he’s doing is stupid. Not just stupid, but a fool’s errand, because trying to avoid Chrissy Cunningham is about as easy as avoiding sunrise. Bright, blinding, and only averted by the machinations of the solar system or God himself. He should write that down…

The ringing stops. Then, a click and—

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

Christ, she’s leaving a message.

Looks like we’re unavailable at the moment, so leave your name and number at the tone and we’ll get back to you when we can—BEEP.

Eddie! It’s Chrissy. I know you’re there, unless you’re checking the mail again, which I guess means you’re not there. Well, if you’re actually busy then give me a call back when you can! And if you’re not, I’d really appreciate if you’d stop avoiding me. I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but most people would consider that rude! Alright, well I’ll call back later, we’ve got a lot to talk about. Byeeeee!

He sighs, rolling himself flat on his back. This wouldn’t be so hard if she wasn’t so nice about it. For their five years of friendship, he’s never seen her get mean, not even when her shitbag ex-boyfriend showed up at her house drunk and calling her every name in the book (Eddie keyed his car for that, because of the two, he’s the mean one). Worse than that, Chrissy knows it too, using her sweet small-town charm to weasel him into meeting his deadlines. He works best under pressure, and guilt is a motivating pressure alright.

The ceiling is the same ugly off-white color that dominates the rest of their apartment, but it’s also got a popcorn design, which he knows Nancy can’t stand, but he likes it. Maybe not like—intrigue is the better word. It’s a bit like TV static, in that if he stares at it long enough, his brain will drift past himself and the answers to all life’s problems will sail in. It’s how he figured out the twist ending of his last novel (that the Queen’s guard had survived after all) and what to get Nancy for her birthday (a lock-picking kit you could only get at specialty stores).

He lingers in a patch of sunlit popcorn near the edge of The Board. It’s not like he wants to avoid Chrissy’s calls and it’s not like she deserves it either. She’s a good friend and she’s good at her job, which means she won’t let him sulk around in his writer’s block no matter how much he wants to. And God, does he want to.

His latest work, the next in the series, just won’t come together. Nancy had balked at his villain’s third name change, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. His plot is all over the place, the dialogue stilted, motivations out of character. His editor keeps saying it’s fine, that it’s exactly what the readers (all six of them, he’s not exactly flying off the shelves) want, but it feels wrong. It’s overplayed conformist bullshit he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

The phone rings and Eddie is suddenly very aware of the gnawing pit in his stomach. So much for those answers.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment—

He shoves a handful of store-brand cereal in his mouth, washing it down with the rest of the milk straight from the carton. He ditches the takeout containers in the trash, wipes down the table, and starts a load of dishes.

I’m trying to contact a Nancy Wheeler. This is John from KX News. Like I’ve said before, we don’t have the capabilities—

He sits at his keyboard for five minutes, then makes himself a sandwich.

Eddie, it’s Jeff. Can’t make the next jam sesh, does Thursday work?

The couch would look better against the windows, actually. Or if he moved the coffee table—

Ms. Wheeler, please stop calling me, I don’t know—

You’re not happy with it, I get it, but I can’t help you fix it if you won’t talk to me about it—

You’ve reached Nancy and Eddie’s apartment—

2:30 pm, his watch beeps. He breathes a sigh of relief, throws on a pair of jeans, grabs his keys, and heads downstairs.

Though Nancy may tease him for it, to Eddie, the mail is serious business. Though his fanbase is small, they’re a dedicated bunch, and he gets a nice little chunk of fan mail. He’s particularly fond of the ones he gets from a local group of high schoolers, who send weekly letters with theories about his newest novel or asking for his opinion on movies they’d seen recently. The highlight of his life had to have been when he dedicated, The Battle of Starcourt, to them, and received a 20pg letter in all caps from the group.

It also gives him the chance to get out, or close to out, of the house during daylight hours, which is apparently important according to Chrissy. When he eventually calls back, he can at least give her that.

On the second floor, he passes Mrs. Romero, a withered old woman only ever dressed in floor length floral nightgowns. He waves, she rolls her eyes.

It also, also gives him the chance to, outside of Nancy which apparently does not count according to Nancy herself, engage in more regular social interaction. If maybe one of those interactions includes seeing the cute guy from 3B, would that be so wrong?

He jumps the last few steps, landing against the black and white checkered tile with a satisfying slap. The lobby, which is really just a long hallway with a few signs and a wall of mailboxes, is empty.

Eddie tries not to pout. It’s not like he sees the guy from 3B every day, but when he does, it always seems to be about now. If Nancy’s Nancy Drew act is anything to go by, which, it usually is, then he doesn’t have a reason to check the mail anyway because he’d already picked up everything he’d end up getting for the week. Not unless he’s actually flirting with him, which after yesterday’s fiasco, isn’t likely anymore.

Maybe it’s better this way anyway, Eddie reasons, jamming his key in the lock when it won’t budge open the first time. No 3B, so at least he won’t have to face his humiliation so soon. Big boy? He couldn’t have gone with something a little more casual? And the guy’s face—

He lets his head fall against the mailbox, cold metal biting against his forehead.

“Bad news?”

Eddie’s never been a particularly lucky guy. He failed his last year of high school twice, been arrested for weed that was actually his friend’s, and always dies in campaigns he isn’t DMing. Today, however, luck definitely isn’t on his side because the voice behind him is none other than 3B.

3B saunters up next to him and leans against the mailbox, a hand at his hip and an eyebrow cocked, like he knows just how good he looks. Which, Eddie bites back a groan, is particularly good today—snug in a pair of the world’s tightest Levi’s and a yellow sweater brighter than the sun. It’s just a tad dated—something he’d see the popular kids in high school wear rather than the loose fit everyone’s starting to sport now. He can’t tell if that means 3B is trying to hang on to the last vestiges of his high school glory days or is sticking to his guns despite the popular opinion, and more concerning, knows the answer wouldn’t change much.

It’s actually really unfair how much Eddie is into him.

“No news, actually,” he swallows, tugging on his key for effect. “I can’t get the stupid little door to open—” he tugs again, and the door swings open, and with it all of his mail.

“Oh shit—”

“Here, let me—”

Together they collect the mail, which isn’t even a lot this time around, but spread out across the hall it takes an awkwardly long time. Eddie can feel his face flush red, and while he hopes it isn’t noticeable, the look 3B is giving him suggests otherwise.

“Well, that’s a newsflash for you,” Eddie mutters more to himself than anything.

3B tilts his head.

“Cause, you asked if I had news…”

“Oh,” he nods. “Right, yeah.”

If the ground could open up and swallow him whole that would make the situation a lot better.

“Well, thanks for the assist, I guess—”

“Oh, hold up,” 3B stops him, a hand clutching his forearm. He lets go just as quickly, but Eddie stays kneeling in his black square, struck still by the other man’s order and the ghost of his palm along the soft of his arm. 3B leans over to the far side of the mailbox, sweater riding up just past his hip, revealing a thin strip of scarred skin. They’re relatively new, still pink and shiny near the bone, but they must feel fine if the way he’s twisting is any indicator. Eddie thinks back to Nancy’s observation, and desperately hopes it’s not true.

“Here we go,” 3B smiles, pushing a few loose strands back with one hand and flashing Eddie his bounty with the other. It’s the latest edition of Fangoria, one Eddie had finally managed to get an article in. “My kids love these.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine!” He scrambles, cheeks tinting a rosy pink. “Not that I don’t want some of my own someday. Or, they don’t have to be mine mine, adopting is just as good, better sometimes in fact, actually. But I’m not ready for kids now, obviously. I mean the apartment is way too small and Robin—” he winces. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“No, go on,” Eddie grins. Getting his terribly hot neighbor to fall apart on him, well, it’s certainly a confidence boost that’s for sure. “You got names picked out yet?”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Oh, I haven’t heard those before. Family names?”

3B pushes him, but laughs as he does it, the sound a bright and clear echo in the hall. Eddie falls over with little resistance.

“God, this floor is disgusting,” and then there’s a hand in his face. Eddie grabs on and is heaved up with a surprisingly little effort on his part, bringing him close to the warm, sunny chest of 3B. He’s got a soft smile, one that pulls at the corner of his mouth and leaves a crinkle at his eyes. Eddie’s solidly on his feet now, and still, 3B is holding onto him.

“I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Buckley.”

Steve. It’s exactly the kind of name a yellow sweater wearing prep would have. Steve, a guy’s guy, who plays sports and flirts with pretty girls and who lives a nice, normal life. It’s such a cliché it should turn him off.

“Eddie Munson.”

“Ah, so now I know who’s name to yell when Metallica comes on at 3 am.”

“I thought you didn’t know who they were?” He squints, desperately ignoring the part of his brain playing the idea of Steve yelling his name on a loop

Steve shrugs, “I might’ve picked up a CD yesterday on my way home from the center. Not really my thing, I think. Too much noise.”

“Too much noise? What are you, sixty?”

“Fifty-nine, actually,” he smirks, drawing another laugh from Eddie.

Steve is leaned in close enough that Eddie can get a good hard look at him. He’s got a few dark moles dotted across his face and trailing down his neck, almost black where they meet the collar of his sweater. There’s a whisper of a mustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face, like maybe he forgot to shave this morning. And although Eddie can’t imagine he’s actually any older than himself, Steve’s already got a few lines along his forehead. Not a lot, and they mostly fade when he relaxes his face, but enough to make him think he spends a lot of time frowning. Or laughing. He hopes it’s the latter, he wants to be the latter.

“Well,” Steve says after a few moments, finally letting go of his arm and pressing the long-forgotten magazine into Eddie’s unoccupied hand. “Try to hold onto these this time.”

Steve leans back, like he knows he should go, but expects Eddie to say something else. Maybe even, Eddie hopes, wants him to say something else.

“So, the Buckley twins are fans of horror?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s leaning back into his orbit.

“Again, I don’t actually have any kids. I’m a Big over at Big Brother, Big Sister. Technically, I’m only a Big to Dustin, but his friends are clingy so I end up driving all of them around when we hang out. They love all this kind of nerd shit,” he points at the cover, featuring a sickly pale Dracula leering over the title, “and apparently their favorite author’s in it or something. An Edwin something?”

Eddie sighs. Of course, this would happen, of course—

“Edgar M.W.?”

Steve snaps a finger, “There you go. Yeah, they go crazy for those books, won’t shut up about them. You know him?”

He bites down on a panicked laugh.

Edgar M.W. His pseudonym. His publishers had thought ‘Eddie Munson’ wasn’t a right fit for his brand, which was bullshit, and almost made him keep it just to piss them off. Ultimately, he’d wanted the anonymity a little more than that, so he’d made up Edgar and added the ‘W’ for his Uncle Wayne.

He’s got six fans, and they’re definitely not adults. They don’t sign their full names off, but he’s got more than a sneaking suspicion that the letters he’s been getting, always signed Yours Faithfully, D. and Company, may in fact belong to Steve’s children. Of course—

“Yeah…we, uh, run in similar circles. I’m a writer, too. Fantasy horror.” It’s technically a lie, but it doesn’t feel like one since he’s not legally Edgar M.W. It’s also not a lie in the way he really hasn’t felt like Edgar M.W. in a long time.

“No way,” Steve’s eyes light up, honey brown in the dead of winter. “Publish anything I’d know? Or, that the kids would?”

“Nah, not lately.” The last work he’d published under ‘Eddie Munson’ had been in high school. Not to mention his work in progress, Untitled (1), which he hadn’t touched in the New Year.

“Why’s that?”

It, or, some variation of it, is the question that’s hounded him since he first started writing it. Where his work was, when was it going to be ready, why couldn’t he pull it together. The question he can’t avoid try as he might, what sends him running, because at the end of the day, Eddie’s only brave in stories.

That’s what should be happening now. He should be giving Steve a polite answer and excusing himself back to avoiding his responsibilities. But…

Steve is watching him. He’s not flashing a smile, but the crinkle around his eyes is still there, still happy talking to him. He’s only an inch taller, if that, but he’s got his head titled down the way tall guys always do when they’re trying to listen—trying to catch what Eddie’s going to say, the same way he had pointed at his bleached-out tour t-shirt yesterday. The t-shirt he’d asked about, and then went and bought a CD just to understand what Eddie meant.

Eddie feels…maybe not brave, but less like a coward.

“Cause it’s shit.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow.

“It is! Grade A, 100% bullshit, as my roommate would call it. It’s overwritten and predictable, it’s got absolutely no heart. And the worst part is, I mean, I’ve written something that could be published. It’s a pile of garbage, but it’s ‘sellable’,” Eddie laughs bitterly.

“My editor loves it,” he continues, everything that’s been rolled up tight in him all pouring out at once, “and the guys who sign my checks really love it. Forget making a statement or art, forget trying to wake people up and do something for a change. Sellable is good! Sellable means the readers get to enjoy a nice bedtime story and we all get to pop champagne. It certainly shouldn’t be a problem, because I do like being able to afford more than canned meat and cold showers, but, uh—” God, he sounds stupid, doesn’t he? He could still be stuck in the trailer selling poppers to high schoolers. He could be Munson Senior, behind bars for a rap sheet longer than his IQ, and he’s worried about selling out. Back then it was easy to talk about artistic integrity when he didn’t have shit to lose.

“Sounds hard,” Steve nods sympathetically.

He rolls his eyes, “Thanks, but it’s really not. I mean—”

“Give yourself a break man,” Steve jostles him, the arm just barely grazing his stomach a shock down his spine. “It sucks, trying to live up to expectations and shit and not getting to be who you are. It’s not fair. And maybe it’s not the biggest deal in the world, but uh…it still hurts. Just, quietly.”

Eddie nods.

“Well, whoever said life was fair, huh?”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re not wrong,” Steve hums, eyes still on him but looking past Eddie to something painful. He wonder if Steve would tell him what he’s thinking, which lines in his face hurt and which he’d wear with pride.

Just when Eddie thinks he’s really brought the mood down just after salvaging yesterday’s mess, Steve comes back to him. He smirks, and he can tell it’s a little put on, but not disingenuous.

“Shame though, I was looking for something new for my bookshelf.”

“I thank you for your artistic integrity, but honestly, if I’m selling out, I’m gonna need you to buy a copy,” Eddie grins at the laugh the bursts from Steve. “Maybe even ten. Something to sandwich between all those Sports Illustrated and the high school copy of The Catcher in the Rye I know you’ve got squirreled away.”

He casts Eddie a wary eye. “How’d you know about those?” He asks, leaning back just slightly, a razor thin edge to his tone.

“Just look the type,” Eddie shrugs, uncertain where he’d fallen off track. “I’ve met a lot of jocks and they’ve all got the same library. And you, Steve-o, with the polos, and the hair, and the clear lack of fine musical sensibilities, well. You fall right into that sweet, sweet preppy jock stereotype.”

Quick as it came, the tension melts from his shoulders, and Steve is back on him again.

“Ouch. I’ve got layers, you know.”

Eddie gives him a considering once over. He’s not exactly the tough guy he’d expected, but there’s something in Buckley he wasn’t prepared for. The flat, small-town plain he’d anticipated had suddenly turned off into a forest without a clear path. Deep, winding, and though perhaps not frightening, something to tread through with a clear mind. An adventure.

“Oh, I’m not saying you don’t,” he smirks, pocketing Steve’s little moment for further inspection. “I’m sure there’s a lot under there I’d like to see.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve breathes, eyes dark and focused. “And what would that be?”

Eddie swallows, throat dry and wanting. Steve’s eyes dart with the movement, before slowly trailing back up to meet him, a smug smirk playing on his lips. The distance between them is barely a foot, just a few inches at most. They’re not touching, but Eddie can feel every carefully measured breath between them, the warmth emanating from Steve seeping into his usually freeze-numb fingertips.

“Well—” he starts, when there’s a beeping, and Steve is out of orbit in a snap. Eddie blinks, the temperature drop an unwelcome wake up call.

“Oh shit—I gotta go,” Steve resets his watch, other hand buried in his hair. “It’s my day to pick up Dustin and his freeloaders, and the last time I was late I got chewed out for an hour.”

“Right! Can’t delay the esteemed royal court,” Eddie says, still dizzy.

Steve snorts. “Royal somethings alright.”

He takes a step back, then stops, and before Eddie can think of anything cute to say, Steve’s tugging at his mail. He pulls out a thick white envelope, one of the square ones that always means someone’s in trouble, and he’s got a cap between his teeth and he’s writing—

“I’m usually home after seven. If Robin answers, hang up. She’s being the most right now,” he presses the letter into Eddie’s chest, keeping his hand there.

“You can throw it away if you want, but if you need someone to talk to. Or see what’s underneath,” he winks.

Eddie blinks. He blinks again, mouth dropping open for a response he simply no longer has the braincells to muster. This is—

He looks down, and he notices three things in an order of increasing despair. The first being that Steve’s got nice handwriting, and he signed it ‘Stevie’ with a little heart over the ‘i’. It’s cute for someone who just technically committed a federal crime, so he’s going to be obsessing over that for the next few hours. Second, the number lands directly over the mailing address, which isn’t Eddie Munson. The means Nancy’s letter, an official looking document spelling only trouble, has been scribbled over by his crush. She’s going to yell at him. Or laugh. Probably both.

And thirdly, Eddie notices Steve’s hand. Pale, with those same dark moles just lightly dotted along the smooth skin and up his well-manicured nails. He hasn’t had a life of hard manual labor, but there’s strength there. The fingers spread wide across his chest, keeping the letter pinned in place, are holding back. Eddie knows he’s also going to be thinking about those fingers later, when he sees it. A little flash of gold gleaming cruelly in the thin winter light.

Steve takes a step back, snapping a finger gun at Eddie.

“See you later, big boy.”

He trips a little on the outer door, then exits with a wave.

Nancy was right. Steve Buckley is definitely flirting with him. Steve Buckley, who is also married.

—

Eddie trudges up to the apartment one stair at a time, letters heavy in his hand. He walks in, slips his shoes off, and slumps into the seat by the window overlooking the alley.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He tosses aside a few credit card offers, and sets Fangoria to the side for himself, same with the letter from the kids, which is particularly heavy today. Star Trek VI must’ve been good. D. & Company. Steve’s Dustin. Steve who’s good with kids and cheats on his wife.

Eddie groans, letting his head fall onto the tiny side table. This, this is why he didn’t want to see the signs. Because just his type is also code for unavailable. From ‘straight’ boys wanting to experiment in high school to sleazy one-night stands in the city, he has a knack for attracting the worst guys. So of course, his cute, flirty, kind and considerate neighbor is legally spoken for and less than morally upstanding.

Why else would a guy and girl move in together? Why else would he mention wanting kids?

If Robin answers, hang up. He’s met Robin before, mostly in passing and never for a terribly long conversation, but she’s funny and a little weird the way he likes his friends. There’s also something distinctly not-straight about her. She’s got a pink triangle pin on her bag and she manages to bring up Nancy in every single one of their five-minute conversations. Maybe she’s just a great ally, a true feminist, but it’s more than that. It’s the way she carries herself, the carefully placed confidence along her shoulders, like she’s not used to being loud and proud but fighting for it anyway.

Steve didn’t have those shoulders. His spoke confidence, a lightness to them that detailed a life of things being handed to him, of smiles and pats on the back and the easiness that came with being blissfully unaware of slurs thrown out car windows and nightmares of hospital rooms.

Just, quiet. The lines in his forehead. The tender pink of his hip bone. The CD he bought and the book he wanted to read.

He shoves his hands into his hair, rings knotting up in the greasy roots, and pulls hard, hissing at the sharp pain along his crown. He’s being stupid, he’s acting desperate. Sure, Steve’s hot and good to kids, but at the end of the day, he’s like every other guy. He’s a straight guy bored with his happy marriage. They’ll hook up and maybe it would be fun for a weekend, but he’ll always get The Look. A sneer of disgust and shame, a blank stare when Eddie mentions breakfast. No, Steve’s nice, so he’d get a pitying smile and a pat on the cheek before he leaves to pick up Robin for t-ball practice.

No. Fuck. He’s not going to be another repressed guy’s outlet. He’s not going to call, he’s not going to think about the little heart, and he’s not going to get the look.

Determined, Eddie pops up, sorting through the remaining pile for his number and does his best to crumble it up, the thick cardstock texture unwilling to bend very far. He doesn’t get the ball he wanted, and he’s a little sweaty at this point, but the symbolism is there. He chucks the envelope out the window before realizing that one, it’s still Nancy’s fucking mail, and two, that the window is in fact still shut tight, bouncing back on his face.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He only screams a little.

Outside, a flock of birds fly over the adjacent apartment building. A car horn blares. That’s when he notices an unfamiliar face leaning up against the trash bin. Cities are big, sure, but their alley isn’t one you exactly wander into by accident. The guy’s got tight blonde curls, a gold tan unhindered by anything more than a short-sleeve button-down, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. There’s a distinct edge to his stance, one Eddie recognizes from his dad’s old buddies. This guy’s done time, and he did it well.

Unease itches along his spine. Eddie might scare easy, but there is definitely something wrong with this guy.

As if sensing his thoughts, the guy looks directly up at him. Logically, Eddie knows he’s not really looking at him, the vantage from the alley into the living room is pretty shit, but there’s a smirk on his lip more akin to a snarl than anything. Like a predator that’s finally caught sight of its prey.

Quick as it came, the cigarette is crushed under the heel of his dark boots and he struts back out to the street.

Eddie sighs. This city is so fucking weird sometimes. God, he’d kill for a cigarette.

What he settles for instead is curling up on the couch with a Lucky Light and the rhythmic flick of his lighter. He misses their TV. Not by much, but it was always a nice distraction. More than anything, he misses the old westerns Wayne used to watch, misses his gentle snores and the death grip he had on his stone-cold mug of coffee. No cigarettes, no TV, no goddamn luck. Not unless you count the bubblegum, which ain’t much.

At some point he falls into a restless sleep, tossing and turning, each time almost drifting off until another call comes in or the radiator screams randomly.

“Hey,” and there’s a short, strong tug on his shoulder. He jerks up, blurry vision focusing on Nancy setting down a take-out bag on the table. “Got Thai tonight.”

“Oh, thank God,” Eddie mumbles, digging into the first plastic container she hands him, groaning as grilled chicken and sweet and sour sauce hit him full force. “Cross that—you are God, Nancy Wheeler.”

“Jesus, okay. Did you eat today?”

“Yes, dad. Had a sandwich with bread and everything.”

She raises a brow, “That’s it?”

He rolls his eyes. It’s not his fault his brain doesn’t tell him he’s hungry till three hours later. At least it wasn’t a nothing-in-this-house-is-edible day. “Oh, yeah? And what’d you have?”

Though she doesn’t have the same malfunction, Nancy is just as bad as him, regularly skipping meals in favor of shitty office coffee. A cliché if he’s ever seen one, though he can’t blame her. He’s right too, because suddenly, she seems very interested in her spring rolls.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he smirks.

“Anyway,” she breezes through, shoulders clinched tight, “How was your day? Did you call Chrissy back yet?”

“…no.”

“Eddie—”

“I know! I was going to but—” he sighs. She’s going to get it out of him one way or the other, might as well submit to the inevitable. “I saw 3B again.”

“Oh?”

“His name is Steve. As always, you were right, he was definitely flirting with me and it was going, if I say so myself, really well. That is, until I saw the ring.” He hums a few notes, miming a piano with one hand.

The heavy pit in his stomach from earlier grows twice in size at the sight of Nancy’s face. Mouth pinched, eyebrows slightly upturned. It’s the look he gets whenever he tells her a story from his childhood, even though some of those are actually funny just in an admittedly fucked up kind of way. He shifts uncomfortably.

“It’s whatever, Nance. Life sucks, and then you die,” he shrugs, trying to play it cool. It doesn’t work, it never works with her, because she’s still got her look. “Probably better not to get biblical with the neighbors anyway. Don’t shit where you eat and all that.”

He itches under her gaze.

“Eddie—"

“Just—leave it. Okay? Honestly, it’s not even that big of a deal. I’m just sorry for Robin if anything.”

The radiator clanks.

“I told you she wasn’t into me,” she says, just as cool.

“I wouldn’t say that, I mean—"

“What would you say, then?” Her voice has the razor-sharp edge to it, the kind that tells him if he pushes, he’s getting cut, and Eddie’s had enough slashes to the heart for one day.

She goes back to her spring rolls, skipping the usual third-degree he’d be getting over his feelings and what exactly he saw. Great. Fucking great. As much as she’s the rock in this relationship, he forgets how sensitive she is underneath it all, and now he’s gone and fucked it up. He sinks further into the couch.

The rest of the meal is quiet, both of them stewing in their own take-out container of disappointment. When they’re done, Eddie cleans up, a quiet apology for ruining the mood.

Nancy’s with The Board now, back turned to him. He slouches over to the couch, burying himself in one of the pillows. It’s always easier for him to sleep with someone else in the room, something about the noise of cohabitation lulling him to sleep, but the weight of 3B presses in on him.

He turns over, still deciding between a joke and a more sincere apology, to find Nancy not where he left her. Instead, she’s by the window, opened envelope clutched in one hand and its contents in the other, brow furrowed.

“What is this?”

Panic floods over him, “Oh, shit—listen, he wrote it down before I realized—”

“No, Eddie—” she crosses the room, thrusting the letter in his face. “What is this?”

Instead of anger or frustration like he expects, her face is almost completely blank, just the slightest twitch of her lip like she’s holding herself back from firing off. She raises a brow at the mail, wiggling it for effect.

At first, Eddie’s sure he’s somehow still halfway asleep, because it won’t come into focus. He blinks, then wipes at his eyes with a clumsy hand. The first page, creased from his earlier attempts, has a row of columns with a series of numbers running down the left-hand side and dotted throughout the main text. The text itself is strange, letters he recognizes but strung together wrong, forming half a word before falling into gibberish. Some of the letters themselves don’t look right, ‘N’s that face the other way or ‘O’s with slashes through them. Wait—

“Is that—”

“Russian,” she nods, eyes shining bright as she shuffles through the pages, “And look. No sender, no return address. Just this.”

The last page has the same column structure but is almost entirely empty save for a few notes in Russian at the top. Scribbled across the center in thick black ink are two distinctly English words:

KEEP. DIGGING.

Holy. Fuck.

“Barbara Holland was murdered,” Nancy says. “We’re going to find out why.”

#stranger things fic #steddie fic #ronance fic #steddie #ronance #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #steve harrington #robin buckley #st4 #my writing #my work #this chapter got long dude #next chapter i fear will be WAY longer asdfghjkl #next chapter also heavily featuring ronance and ms buckley herself soooo look out

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kiwikipedia · 2 years ago

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Ages ago i asked the FMAB fandom which animal Chimera Kimblee would have been mixed with and I might’ve been drunk because I went back and looked and I dont remember writing any of that shit like two years ago.

Anyways

I didn’t want to cross into any other known human-chimera territory, but most of the big categories (fish, amphibians, reptiles, mammals and birds) were pretty well covered save for avians and sea-life. The former of which I couldn’t figure out how they’d work with that and the later would be nigh impossible and also useless considering how Amestris is landlocked. I also wanted to focus on mostly apex predator animals or apex adjacent.

Jerso covered the amphibians, Martel and Bido covered the reptiles (and in 03, there’s Ulchi who is a goddamn crocodile), and literally everyone else was a mammal with Heinkel taking felines, Dolcetto and Nina taking canines, Roa and Zampano representing the Artiodactyla (close enough to predator, have you seen those fuckers chase someone down? its terrifying), and Darius being quite literally the largest ape on the planet.

All of these could be considered useful for the military, even Bido and Jerso who have the Geko and toad (toad...fish?) genes, as we see Bido was a rather competent spy and information gatherer while Jerso has been seen as a more than competent fighter— I personally believe that all four of Kimblee’s team had to be considered the best of the Chimera projects, both in order to fight and get the job done but also to subdue Kimblee in the event that he decided to just fucking kill the Elrics. The Homunculi aren’t stupid enough to let Kimblee walk around without a kill switch, both in the canon and just from comments from Arakawa, Kimblee has been noted to really only be on the side of the Homunculi because a.) philosophers’ stone(s, geez Kimblee, how come Father lets you have TWO magic rocks!), b.) it’s interesting, and c.) He gets to kill for free. He has no loyalty to Father like the Homunculi do and he’s sure as hell not in it for the ‘immortality’ like the top brass seem to be. He could defect at any time, stating that his convictions were still in-tact and we do see him do that to an extent at the very end because. You know. Hypocrisy.

Anyways, I digress.

Taking into account that so far all Chimeras have been an animal that could be of use to the military in some way shape or form, that rules out any and all domestic animals (barring dogs, because both Dolcetto and also dogs are used in the military. anyway).

I looked into my previous choices and crossed out the small ones (every weasel (idk what i was doing there) and the european wildcat, leaving the Eurasian Lynx as a prime contender. But despite that, and the apparent love for catboy Kimblee, I’ve actually decided on this choice:

The Maned Wolf.

For those who don’t know, its this funky little (well, big) creature that’s not actually a wolf but some other distinct canid that had been placed in the Canis and Vulpes genera prior though has since been removed. It kinda looks like a fox on stilts with a bit of a wolfish sharpness and a bit of the body shape, which is great for the meta.

Kimblee is an alchemist, a state alchmist and soldier of the Amestrian military. He is also crafty and extremely intelligent. I believe somewhere, Arakawa even stated that he was the third smartest character in the entire series though I cant remember where that was for the life of me. Anyways, here in lies the fun little meta: A maned wolf appears to be both a fox and wolf, and yet it is neither. Kimblee is both highly intelligent representing the fox and a dog of the military representing the wolf, and yet at the same time he is extremely self-serving and not at all loyal to the military.

So yea. Maned Wolf Chimera Kimblee AU. Maybe.

#IM BACK BABYYYYYYY #kiwiki thoughts #fmab #fma #kimblee #solf j. kimblee #idk where the other Kimblee people I talked to went but I hope you’re having a time #Kiwiki Speaks

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hufflepuff221b · 3 years ago

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So here comes the boring 'love triangle' rant. 🚨🚨🚨SPOILERS FOR ST4 VOL 2 AND NOT FOR JANCY OR JONATHAN BYERS FANS🚨🚨🚨

Let's start with Nancy. Here is a girl that, apparently, her only main purpose is whoever she may be in love with each season. Girl wants college, wants to be a reporter but it always come back to whether or not she wants Jonathan or Steve? How convenient for you Duffer brothers to have a female lead that you can throw two 'attractive' guys at and watch her bite her lip as she decided on who to choose.

Now blatant sexism aside I don't actually like Nancy. I liked her and Jonathan on first watch of season 1 but on rewatch I think he's pretentious dick and she had every right to call his bullshit for taking pervy pics of her and his reasoning. However her character went downhill from the moment in season 2 they decided to have her and Jonathan an official couple. I'm also slightly miffed that her and Steve never actually officially split up but hey she leapt into bed with Jonathan anyway 🙃after she's dicked him around for a while in a relationship that he was committed to and she was not. Now the Duffers have us believing that she may do it again with her 'resurfaced' feelings for Steve while she's with Jonathan still. It makes her a shittier character than she already is in my eyes.

Now Jonathan, ho boy where to begin? Pervy naked pics from a window, all his snide remarks about Steve even after they've fought the demogorgon together and Steve is trying to be better. Not to mention Steve taking Nancy dumping him like a fucking champ for the shifty eyed little weasel. I was actually starting to like him again in season 4 with Argyle and focusing more on his relationship with Will in vol 2 only for him to make that weak ass comment about leaving Steve in charge in episode 9. His little rat face all sniggering like Nancy would join in. Now my understanding is that she has never done that before and for once I was happy she was like 'um no he's actually matured'. But it's not the point, Jonathan clearly has such low self esteem on himself that he needs to belittle her ex and considering they got together by cheating thats probably why he suddenly asked if they were okay as a couple at the point in the episode, he's probably a paranoid wreck.

Well good he's a self righteous arsehole and while literally thee last thing I want in season 5 is for Nancy and Steve to get back together I hope she dumps his ass! (To quote the ever wise Max and El)

Finally Steve. Now as my favourite character I could be bias but I don't think I am when I say he had every right to be pissed off at Jonathan for taking those pics of Nancy and smashing his camera for it. Now I've seen a lot of posts saying it wasn't protectiveness it was possessiveness but I don't agree. Even from the very beginning of ST1 he pursues Nancy while his advice to Dustin in season 2 is keep them guessing. He's clearly already falling for Nancy hard before canon begins. The study scene when he doesn't push her shows that, only for him to act like a jealous jackass when he catches her with Jonathan later on.

The cinema scene is horrible and Jonathan had ever right to smack him for what he says about his family but as Flo says later on he smacks Steve 'for love', because he's jealous himself. Its no more protecting Nancy's honour than Steve smashing his camera.

Now Steve is a fan favourite so I get it there are a lot of bias for him even in season 1 but I don't forget that he was twat at points. However I also don't get why people vilify him for every single action either? He grows every season (within the shitty parameters of the Duffers development) where as Jonathan and Nancy never change, they are boring especially when they work together.

Look at Nancy and Robin's relationship this season, I don't like Ronancy as a ship but they were brilliant together. Which is why the weird stilted Steve/Nancy thing felt forced to me this season. Are the Duffers saying that ex's are incapable of working together without magically falling into each others arms again?

They do Steve dirty every season with bullshit story arcs that focus on his sex life and how many times they can beat the shit out of him. To the point where they gave him the cringy scene about his dream of travelling the country with a massive family. It's actually a nice sentiment but it can't be focused on the fact that he doesn't have a good home with his parents or that he's trying to plan for life after Hawkins. No no don't be silly, its focusing around the fact that he's telling Nancy so as to hint to her that he wants her to be the mother in the scenario. It's lazy writing and just makes Steve seem ridiculous.

He talked about getting hits on the head and crawling forward well the Duffers aren't allowing him to do that so I'm not sure why they wrote that in?

I basically think if season 5 even tries to focus on any kind of love triangle I'll stop watching. You did this in season 1 and 2 Duffle Bags and it was boring that time round to.

#steve harrington #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #stranger things #stranger things 4 #st4 #st4 vol2

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helnjk · 4 years ago

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By Its Cover - F.W.

Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Word count: 3k

Summary: fred knows he’s quick to act and to judge, but what happens when it backfires with the pretty healer he meets at st. mungo’s?

Warnings: malfoy!reader, mentions of hospitals, mentions of light injury, being estranged from one’s family, found family, adoption, insecurity

A/N: this is for @theweasleysredhair‘s 9k writing challenge! my prompt was ‘i love you, but stop talking.’ so sorry i took this long to churn it out, but i hope you like it 💕

prompt is in bold

–

St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was always full of healers rushing through the halls and patients with the strangest afflictions.

Y/N Malfoy donned her healer robes and walked confidently through one of the wards, on her way to deal with her newest patient. Some sort of accidental explosion. According to the file, he was a male, 23 years old, and had a history of finding himself in the emergency wing of St. Mungo’s. It was Y/N’s first time treating him, though.

Pushing aside one of the curtains to the correct cubicle, she was met with the sight of a long and lanky redheaded man, lying on the hospital bed with patches of purple across his neck and exposed chest. Other than the fact that his skin was discolored, he seemed perfectly okay.

His eyes sparkled with mischief and amusement as the nurse on duty made sure he was comfortable. Clearly, he was in no pain at all, or if he was, it wasn’t enough to stop him from sending flirty comments in her direction. Used to this kind of behaviour, the nurse simply rolled her eyes playfully and continued her routine checks.

“Ah,” she noted when she saw Y/N walk in, “I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of Healer Malfoy now, alright?”

With a soft pat on the patient’s non-purple shoulder, she gave Y/N a tentative smile and nod before exiting the small cubicle and closing the curtains on her way out.

Y/N, however, didn’t miss the way her patient’s shoulders tensed as he heard her last name. Her heart sank slightly as she saw the playfulness in his eyes dim, but she refused to let her feelings get the better of her professionalism. After all, she was quite used to this treatment from patients and colleagues alike.

“Hello mister,” she paused to check her clipboard, “Weasley. Now what can I help you with today? Could you tell me exactly what happened with the potion you were brewing?”

“Added the wrong amount of aconite,” came his curt reply.

“Right,” she said, noting it down on his file, “And what other ingredients were mixed in the potion?”

“Look, I’m completely fine. Things like this happen all the time at my workplace, the patches of color will fade away eventually. I just need you to sign the release form.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed and her smile slipped into a small frown. This was going to be a tough one. She had recognized his last name and she knew he was a pureblood. There was no doubt in her mind that the moment he realized she was a Malfoy, he created an image in his mind that was the furthest thing from what she truly was.

With a soft sigh, she prepared herself to deal with the resistance that would come from her reply, “I’m sorry Mr. Weasley, but I can’t let you go until–”

“Healer Malfoy, there you are!” said a little girl who was dressed in her own small hospital gown as she burst through the curtains.

For a moment, both adults in the small space gaped at her as if she were a ghost.

“Mattie!” Y/N said, surprised. “What are you doing all the way here, silly? You’re meant to be resting after the round of potions you took this afternoon.”

Currently preoccupied by her small ward, Healer Malfoy didn’t notice the way Fred Weasley was staring at her. As if she had grown a second head.

“But I missed you,” whined Mattie, wrapping her arms around one of Y/N’s legs. “You said you’d visit again to read books!”

A soft chuckle escaped Y/N’s lips, “Yes, but I said I’d come read books after my rounds and after you napped! Nurse Thomas must be looking all over for you.”

The pout that the small child sent up at her nearly made it past Y/N’s strongholds.

“But I want to stay with you, Healer Malfoy!” she whined, “Please!”

With a bright eyed, stubborn toddler clutching onto her legs, she couldn’t possibly say no to the request. However, her keen awareness of the other critical pair of eyes on her gave her pause.

“Oh alright,” she caved, taking a moment to glance back at her patient, “But you’ve got to be good while I just finish up with my patient here okay? He’s gotten into a bit of an accident and I have to help him out. We don’t usually have purple skin, right?”

“Right!”

For the first time since she barged into the room, Mattie seemed to notice the redhead on the hospital bed.

“How’ve you got purple skin?” she asked confidently. Fred’s eyebrows shot up towards his forehead at the direct question before a large grin spread across his face.

Working at Wheezes gave him loads of experience when it came to curious little kids, and he was quick with his response, “I was making a secret experiment and it exploded all over me!”

His tone was conspiratorial and just enough for the little girl to move away from her position clutching Y/N’s legs and to inch closer to him.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley was just about to tell me what other ingredients were in his secret experiment so that I can help put his skin back to normal.”

Fortunately for the healer, Mattie’s presence aided in softening the redhead’s attitude towards her. With the little girl firing question after question for Fred to answer, he was much more calm and receptive to whatever Y/N needed to ask or know.

Unknown to her, the reason why Fred was more compliant this time around was because he was busy trying to alter the image he had conjured in his head about what a Malfoy was, and the scene he had just witnessed. He hadn’t known any Malfoy to be as patient, considerate, and overall just kind to someone who was not their own. Yet here she was, perfectly balancing a needy-child and a patient who judged her too quickly.

“Alright Mr. Weasley, I’m just going to pop out to get you the right potions to take for this and I’ve got to get Ms. Mattie over here back to her room,” said Y/N, “I’ll be right back.”

“Bye Mr. Weasel! I hope you get to finish your secret experiment!” Mattie waved enthusiastically, turning from her position holding Y/N’s hand to get one last look at the redhead.

When Y/N returned, Fred was sitting quietly on the bed, twirling his wand absentmindedly. The sound of her pushing back the curtains drew his eyes upwards towards her figure, and he sent her a tentative smile.

Well that’s an improvement, she thought, returning the gesture slightly.

“Alright,” she said, placing a box down next to him, “Here are the potions to take, there are two, you’ll have to drink them twice a day for the next three to four days or so. Your skin should return to normal by then.”

Y/N watched as her patient’s eyes darted from the box of potions to her face then down to his hands. He seemed hesitant now, a far cry from the ease and calm that he donned the first time she saw him.

Still, her job was done. She had equipped him with what he needed to heal and she had no jurisdiction over his temperament.

“If you don’t have any questions–”

“How are you related to Draco Malfoy?”

Fred’s question came out of the blue and it took Y/N off guard. Her heart clenched at the mention of her younger brother, the one she hadn’t seen in more than a decade. Still, the question is much too complicated and there’s so much history behind it that he doesn’t know about, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she began, clutching her clipboard close to her body, “But that is a very personal question and I don’t like to share that kind of information with patients.”

She noticed him visibly swallow, “Right. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Weasley. Don’t forget to take your potions, twice a day, for the next four days.”

Y/N’s back is turned and she’s about to pull the curtain of the cubicle aside when she hears a faint, “Wait.”

When she turned on her heel to face the redhead once more, there’s a sheepish expression on his face. He was rubbing the back of his neck slowly and the tips of his ears were tinged pink, “I-er, I’m sorry about how cold I was being towards you earlier. Is there a chance that I can make a better impression over coffee or something?”

–

It’s a little awkward, Y/N had to admit. They were seated across from each other, clutching warm cups of coffee and taking sips periodically.

She didn’t know what made her agree to meet Fred on one of her days off. Maybe it was the sincerity in his request, how he seemed eager to make a plan and see her outside her place of work. Or maybe it was her curiosity getting the better of her, knowing that he was a pureblood and what her father would call a blood traitor.

Y/N had spent so many years hiding away from this part of wizard society, she didn’t know if she wanted to integrate herself back in.

“So, er,” Fred started, “Where’d you go to school? I don’t think I’ve seen you around Hogwarts, and you seem to be around my age.”

That elicited a small smile from Y/N, “I went to Beauxbatons actually. Went all six years then got a healer apprenticeship at Mungo’s.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Do you know Fleur then? Fleur Delacour? Or well, she’s Fleur Weasley now.”

“Of course I know Fleur,” she gushed, “We shared a dorm. One of the sweetest and strongest witches I know.”

At long last they had a common denominator. After the stilted small talk was out of the way, conversation between them flowed freely.

Fred, Y/N found out, was wit and cleverness all rolled up into a 6 foot frame. He seemed to have a sarcastic comeback to every quip she made. They made laughs tumble from her mouth and stitches appear in her sides. It was every bit exhilarating and charming.

Y/N, Fred found out, was absolutely brilliant. Her mind seemed to be running a mile a minute but somehow she was able to put all of her thoughts into carefully worded sentences. He was caught off guard every time she let out a laugh, entranced by the effortless beauty that radiated from her smile.

Sooner than they had liked, their coffee cups were emptied and they were both glancing at the clock.

“I, uh, I really enjoyed myself, Fred.” Y/N smiled and gathered her things.

He sent her a grin in reply, “Me too.”

She could tell he was hesitant to say something, but she knew not to pry too much. Instead, she simply hoisted her bag over her shoulder.

The next day, Y/N walked into St. Mungo’s to find Fred nervously shuffling around clutching a cup of coffee in his hand. When he caught sight of her, a smile stretched across his lips and he silently placed the warm cup in her hand. Without saying a word, he pressed a kiss on her cheek, blushed profusely, and waved.

He had gone through the Floo before Y/N could say anything. When she took a sip, she was pleasantly surprised to note that it had been her exact order from the previous day.

Slowly, Fred Weasley inched his way into Healer Malfoy’s daily routine. It didn’t surprise her anymore when she would spot him making small talk with the receptionist as she clocked into work.

Like the first day, the first thing he would do was to hand her the cup of coffee. Some days he would stay and chat for a few minutes before he had to get to work, others he would have to leave right away. What always stayed constant, though, was the kiss on the cheek he would give her before leaving.

–

“Alright, I’m sure you’re dying to know by now.” Y/N sipped her drink.

She and Fred had gone out to dinner after weeks of him showing up at Mungo’s every morning. When he finally had the guts to ask her out, she took one look at him before saying ‘took you long enough.’

He had been the perfect gentleman the whole time, showing up at her flat with a bundle of flowers in hand, opening doors for her, asking if she was comfortable. Y/N found it extremely endearing to see the cheeky, witty wizard trying so hard to make sure she had a good time.

Fred sent her a confused look, “What?”

“How I’m related to Draco,” she explained, “Remember? You asked me the first day we met.”

“Right. Right, yeah.”

Despite him trying to appear as if his curiosity hadn’t peaked, Y/N could see the spark of recognition in his eyes. She knew it was time to finally tell him everything.

She took a deep breath, “He’s my brother.”

Fred, who was in the process of taking a sip of his own drink, choked on the liquid and began to violently cough.

“I-what?!” he exclaimed, “How are you Draco Malfoy’s sister? How did I not know he had a sister?”

The absolute disbelief in her boyfriend’s face elicited a small laugh from Y/N, “Because I never went to Hogwarts. Ran away from home when I was pretty young, ended up living with Andy.”

“Andy…” Fred mumbled, mulling over the information, “You mean Andromeda? Tonks?”

She nodded, “Yeah. My house was actually a safe house during the last bit of the war, I don’t know if you remember.”

“Godric now I feel like even more of a huge dumbass for treating you the way I did when I first heard your last name.”

Y/N’s hand reached over the table and squeezed Fred’s. Her warm smile and kind eyes told him everything he needed to know. He had definitely apologized enough for how quickly he had judged her when she was introduced to him at Mungo’s. She knew that he knew who she really was, and not what her family name meant.

–

Fred watched as his girlfriend paced nervously. He wasn’t even quite sure that she knew what she was doing, but as she strode across the room, her bottom lip remained caught under her teeth and her hands were fidgeting with the bottom of her shirt.

“Sweetheart,” he sighed after letting her walk back and forth for long enough, “You’ve got to calm down.”

“I’m totally calm!” she exclaimed, turning quickly to face him. The volume of her statement startled the both of them and Fred sent her a look that definitely said I-told-you-so.

She sat down next to her boyfriend with a huff and instead of the sarcastic comment she expected to come from him, he took her hand in his. The two of them said nothing as their eyes concentrated on the way he traced her small and nimble fingers with his larger ones.

“You ready to tell me what’s wrong?” Fred asked eventually.

At Y/N’s hesitation, he squeezed her hand gently. She gave in with a sigh, “I’m just nervous about meeting your family. I know you’ve talked to them about me, but they don’t exactly know I’m a Malfoy.”

Before Fred could even open his mouth to reply, she cut him off, “And I know, I know. Your family is wonderful and the complete opposite of mine. I’m just so used to bad first introductions–”

“Y/N, I love you, but stop talking.”

Y/N let out a nervous laugh at what Fred said, despite how unnerved she felt at the sensation of the bubbles of anxiety in her chest. Still, she couldn’t help but feel the tips of her cheeks and the back of her neck heat up as well. One would think after months of dating the cheeky redhead she would be used to his ways, but hearing him say ‘I love you’ always made her heart flutter.

Fred shifted, his body turning to face her fully, “Love, my mom would adore you even if you were a hippogriff with anger issues. The fact that you make me happy and that you love me is more than enough for her. You are more than enough.”

Then, he wrapped her up in his arms, her cheek resting against his chest. She could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart, and in the calming presence of her boyfriend, Y/N was able to settle some of her nerves. She could do this.

“I love you so much, Freddie.”

“I love you more.”

–

“Mum, this is my girlfriend Y/N. Y/N Malfoy.”

Y/N knew that to have raised seven children and look great doing it, Molly Weasley had to have been some sort of super hero. What she didn’t know, and what she wasn’t prepared for, was how tightly the Weasley matriarch hugged and how gently she dragged her hand up and down backs as she was doing so.

It nearly made Y/N cry.

“Oh I am so happy to meet you dear,” gushed Molly once she eased away from the hug.

“Me too, Mrs. Weasley,” Y/N smiled, “Fred’s been keeping me from you and your wonderful cooking for much too long.”

“Please dear, call me Molly.”

Before she could respond, Y/N was ushered into the kitchen where all of the food was waiting for her under a few well placed preservation charms. Y/N turned to look back at where Fred was standing, and he had a smug smile on his face.

“Told you so,” he mouthed at her.

–

add yourself to my taglist!

General taglist: @expectoevans @george-fabian-weasley @gxthsanrio @slytherinscribbles @harpyloon @nuttytani @mesmerisedangel @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @lumos-barnes @cruciostyles @writingsomewrongs @the-unmanaged-mischief

Weasley twins taglist: @whizboingies @pineapplesandpinas @papapapadumb @mrs-g-weasley @a-castle-of--glass @hey-there-angels @leovaldez37 @pinkypurplemagic @werewolfslut @surprizeshawtyy @oldschoolkiddo @gcdric @turtletaylor98 @secret-obsessions @weaslxyss @serendiipty @kaminewman @fredandgeorgearemine5 @maddoxsmythologicalmind

if your name is crossed, that means i wasn’t able to tag you. if you can, please check your visibility settings!

#twrh9kwritingchallenge #fred weasley #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fics #fred weasley fic #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #weasley twins

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dr-lizortecho · 3 years ago

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so, my pet crack theory… (anyone reading this is in fact going to regret it) is that Max and Heath hooked up during the time jump

now we know that Max was drowning himself in alcohol and sex (something he learned from dear Jim Valenti) and trying to avoid anything that reminded him of Liz, outside of his forays into the desert with her dad’s churros to listen to her dissect his corpse. He’s dramatic at best, how else to achieve his cowboy persona? Anyways, in 3x05 a few different pieces of information are presented on screen, first being Heath texting Max from his phone. Which is a reach (everything about this is though), because it would have been easier to text Max through Liz’s. Avoid Max coming in gun’s blazing imagining a Manes man or some other government agency to be sticking their noses in his business. Furthermore, Max seems less worried about the origination of the text than it’s content. Which never says Liz is in danger, just her location and that she needs him.

also, I mean, just look at their faces when they first land eyes on each other… there’s some sort of chemistry/awe there at the very least

anyways, back on subject. Max’s first words aren’t about Liz’s safety or well being, even though she is the first thing he would see upon entering the Crash Down, since Heath was still leaving the freezer. He instead asks Heath, “who are you?” which is exactly what someone would ask their one night stand who managed to weasel themselves between them and their ex. In Max’s mind Heath went from being a fun one night bicurious experience to being mystery number one. Essentially from being a tourist he ran into at a bar to being potentially a danger to him and his family. Which only became more solidified as his connection to Genoryx came to light.

Then Heath does another strange thing. He introduces them to each other by full name, which is awkward and stilted especially in the situation. Since Liz is apparently dying of a parasite right in between them. On top of that, Max’s reaction is to furrow his brows and go silent for a bit. Like he’s trying to figure out their footing, since obviously neither of them want Liz to particularly know they are already acquainted. And no one tells lies or even misdirects, since they wouldn’t have done a real name swap. Max didn’t have a contact set up for Heath in this hypothetical. And Heath was probably crossing his fingers that Liz’s Max was some other random dude also named Max. Comforting himself with the fact that the one he had slept with was a bartender.

now, the scene that made this theory come into existence. In 3x09 when Max and Liz break into Heath’s place he discovers a t shirt. One from the Wild Pony, one of the bars in Roswell which Heath would have occasion to be at when he was visiting Dallas. As well as the bar Max worked at for a decent chunk of the missing year. Almost as soon as Max sees the shirt it’s like the memories come flooding back to him, and the correlation that Heath could have alien spores making the cogs in his mind turn. Because here was a guy who worked for Genoryx, had a one night stand with him in a place he shouldn’t have been (since they didn’t know about Dallas yet), and had managed to be partners with and date Liz. The idea that Heath was using Liz was what he vocally went on about, except deep down he felt used himself. While Max claims Liz was blind sided looking for a partner it is more safe to assume he is talking about himself. Since Liz didn’t move to California to find someone, that was what Max had been doing in the gap year. As Kyle pointed out Liz hadn’t even tried, she’d been waiting for Max to come to her.

In 3x12 Heath tells Max he would rather not talk to the boyfriend of his ex, and Max drops the all familiar line of “talk to me like I’m just some guy from Roswell” which is not quite evidence except that they both seem to relax slightly at this. Like they are resetting to some way of existing around each other, almost like Max is saying forget about Liz, let’s just talk.

Bonus: that scene where Max checks Heath out…

#rnmmarchformeta2022 #this is late sorry #roswell new mexico #rnm #max evans #heath tuchman #max x heath #rnm crack #like I really do love them #their romantic potential is strange but lovely #x

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fruitcoops · 3 years ago

Note

My go to definition for Leo is “an absolute noodle of a person” but I love a weasel on stilts soooo much

Oh I adore that 🤣

#not fic

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rainreignrayn · 3 years ago

Text

Obliviate (Chapter 4: A Lesson on Subtlety)

The Slytherin common room was teeming with terrified first-years and excited second-years. Everyone else was entirely apprehensive, and the elders of the house sat in tense silence, hushed mutterings filling the air.

Draco, Blaise, and Theo sat away from it all, sitting across the way on an emerald cushioned chaise. No one said anything. Even Theo, whose default was to break tension, sat hunched over beside Draco. Pansy Parkinson and the Greengrass sisters looked just the same.

All the sixth and seventh-years in the common room were staring at the same thing: the mammoth glass wall.

No one else knew, but if anything happened to—

A fish patronus emerged from the west wall, swimming through the room. Students began to groan as Slughorn’s voice echoed in waves throughout the living area (and likely through the entire castle), “All students are to return to their currently scheduled classes immediately. Again, all students are to—”

“Silencio!”

Slughorn’s squeakish drawl cut off.

“What an awful noise, for god’s sake,” Goyle muttered, tossing his arm behind the back of the couch he slumped into.

And that was all that was said.

Draco didn’t move an inch, but he silently took note of the younger Slytherins picking up their books and bags and reluctantly leaving, the fourth and fifth years trailing behind. The remaining sixth and seventh years lingered in the common room for the next few minutes and then dispersed, a few of the stragglers heading into their dormitories. Parkinson and the Greengrasses were some of the last to leave, finding it seemingly difficult to draw their eyes off the Black Lake.

Since Voldemort officially reintroduced himself to the wizarding world, Slytherin house never fell together. The divide cracked into their very souls, and each meal, assembly, leisure time, and group mark was met with stilted silence.

Half an hour after Slughorn’s message, only Draco, Blaise, and Theo remained. Blaise was seated at the end of the lounge, perched on the back of the seat as his thigh brushed the edge of Theo’s jaw. Theo was slouched back, exhausted, and Draco was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. All three boys were still in their damp, rumpled clothing—crusted in mud, gillyweed, and whatever else found home in the Black Lake. All three boys gazed at the one-way window (before it was charmed that way, the mermen were easily aggravated by ignorant first-years). The murky green light filtered through the empty room, and Draco knew it would always be his favorite view.

Theo spoke up, gruffly asking, “Do you think he’s okay?”

Draco let out a contemplative hum as Blaise lightly knocked his knee against Theo’s face. “Now, come on, Nott,” he said teasingly. “You can’t possibly think that sad bunch of high-strung Gryffindors could do any real damage, could you?”

Theo ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “You saw the blood just as well as I did.”

Indeed.

“You know, what the fuck were those prissy Gryffs even doing, screwing around and shit?” Theo inquired in a high tone, irritated and worried.

“Bullshit as usual, I’m guessing. He wouldn’t take the Weasel for kicks. They provoked him,” Blaise remarked. “Besides, I want to know what the little swot was going on about,” he said, crinkling his brows.

“What d’you mean?” Theo asked, glancing over at Draco who was motionless and expressionless.

“Weaselby was snatched up and all she could think about were the mermen. Isn’t she supposed to be the brightest of our age? Why was she standing there accepting her death to the wave instead of fucking running, maybe?” Blaise whipped his head to the side and pointed an accusing finger at his steel-eyed friend. “And you, Malfoy, need a lesson on subtlety.”

Theo groaned in both exasperation and agreement. “Touching up on her, grabbing her out of harm’s way like the dazzling hero you are, Oh Draco—”

“Slimy fucker—”

Draco’s voice cut off sharply as his eyes shot up. Theo and Blaise followed his line of sight as a flurry of bubbles erupted on the other side of the great window, steadily moving down from the peak.

All the boys could see from the murky depths was a shadowed figure kicking rapidly as they tried to stay afloat. Not drowning, but—looking around? It was quite a big head that was twisting back and forth… No. Not a head.

Hair. Curly, wild, ridiculous fucking hair.

Staring right at him.

Draco immediately stood up, reaching the glass in six strides.

Hermione Granger was looking right at him—but she could not see him.

Draco watched her ardently, following the crinkle between her brows as she analyzed the glass in front of her, the refracted curve of her mouth through the Bubble-Head charm, the trace of her fingertips as pressed her against the window.

Two inches away from him.

It took all of his willpower to not bring his hand up to match hers. They would fit quite nicely together.

He watched the curious girl shake her head, just slightly, before turning away from the glass. The voice in his head screamed for her to look back.

She pulled her wand out and cast a deep blue flare into the depths below, and the four of them waited in silence.

Half a minute passed, and no one had moved a muscle.

What was she doing what was she doing whatwasshedoingwhat—

The tentacle exploded into sight and shot higher and higher and each sucker was the length of Hermione’s leg and Blaise’s muffliato was just a second short of failing to mask Draco’s cry as he slammed his fist against the crooked glass—

rainreignrayn on ao3

#dramione #harry potter #giant squid #hermione granger #draco malfoy #draco x hermione #theo nott #blaise zabini #dramione fandom have you read this #dramione fanfic #dramione fanfiction #dhr #rainreignrayn #obliviate #raynwrites

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ofmythsandmadness · 4 years ago

Text

stop moving | d.h

you do diego’s eyeliner. 2k words.

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NOTES: gender neutral. long haired diego. i don’t know why i’m writing this and i kinda hate it lol, i rarely write this sort of thing but y’know. i’m going to check all messages, notifs & messed gems in the morning, i’m really only posting this and ghosting again, bc i know otherwise i’ll never do it. and y’know, i want to feel productive about something. take care folks <3

BUY ME A COFFEE HERE. | CHECK OUT MY OTHER WRITINGS HERE.

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"CAN YOU PLEASE STOP MOVING?!”

Hot breath stings your trembling fingers as Diego huffs a laugh; it’s barely a sound, a mumble of a chuckle, but you feel it vibrate through your body and hit your hand and it almost does you in. You almost just give up and confess your undying attraction, right then and there. And as though you need more contact, even more of him pressing against you, egging you closer to the precipice that will surely be your infatuated doom.

“You’re the one who asked to do this, you don’t get to complain.”

“Well, you wanted it. You agreed to this!”

“I--” another exhale against your hand, another peal of laughter following shortly. You've half a mind to clamp his mouth shut with it, if it wouldn’t ignite yet another ill-thought fantasy of yours. “This was still your idea.”

Your smile buds and blooms despite your brain begging your lips to be still. You can’t help it; he’s too good at weaseling into the cracks of your composure. One look, one soft chuckle and you’re set for life. It doesn’t help that you’re basically on his lap, cradling his face in your hands like he’s a baby, and his own fingers tap-tap-tap away on your hips, creating a rhythm no one else but you can make out. Honestly, you’re surprised you haven’t totally cracked yet, this close and this personal.

“Shut your eyes.”

“They are shut.”

“No they’re not!” you poke lightly at the fluttering lids. Your lip snags on your bottom lip; a poor attempt to hide a giggle. “I can’t do this with your eyes open.”

“D'aww…” his lids shut as he groans. “So I’m just supposed to sit here? Let you draw on my face in total darkness?”

You click your tongue, half in disapproval in his exaggeration, and half because you’ve won yet again against his stubbornness. “I won’t be long. Suck it up.”

“Sure. Y’know, I have siblings; I know how long it takes them to do makeup, and-”

“-stop moving, asshole!” Your free hand tugs ever lightly on a strand of hair, one of the many that’s slipped out of his ponytail. Repressed thoughts flash in sultry red across your thoughts and you swallow, quickly letting the hair go. “I-I need you to stay still, or this will take forever.”

Diego sighs and his grip tightens around your hips. Before you know it, he’s moving you. “Then stop wriggling,” he grumbles, flattening you against his legs. You’re basically straddling him, at that point, and your mind goes absolutely blank at how much more intimate this feels. Does he notice? Or is this just another friendly motion you’re yet again reading into?

Your mouth tastes of cotton balls and it’s dry as an Arizona summer. Still, you manage an ‘okay’ before readying your pen again. All you can hope for is a steady hand, though by the way he still holds your waist, and how your mouth lingers mere inches from his lips -- well, you’re coming undone.

It’s just eyeliner, you tell yourself. Your hand rises and swipes; black begins to pool its deep colour against his lashes, low and thin. The line builds taller, thicker as you work, extending out to the corner of his eye. As he breathes, and you try to remind yourself how to, the eyeliner pen works its shaky magic and draws the slightest tinge of a wing against his skin.

“How’s it going?”

At least he’s kind enough to mumble it, though his face still shifts under your hold. Once more your tongue clicks.

“It goes better when you don’t speak.”

He swallows his laugh; you know, because you feel his throat work as you hold his head steady. It’s strange and exhilarating, to be so close and still so far away. You want to cradle his cheeks gentler, to hold his face with the heart of a lover, but you’re terrified he’ll recognise your touch and realise your feelings. So you barely touch him and remind yourself to be professional about this.

It’s eyeliner, not a rom-com.

“I’m bored,” he whisper whines.

“Shh.”

“It’s too quiet.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, patting his cheek gently. “M’working.”

“Y/N...”

You pull away and sit back on his thighs. His left eye doesn’t look half bad, but if he keeps talking… “You can’t talk, ‘else it’s gonna look bad!”

“Then you talk!”

You baulk. “What?”

“I’ll be quiet,” he swears, pouting up to you with eyes still shut, “but please, say something before I lose my mind.”

“Well, I-I-what about?”

“I don’t know. Anything.” He smiles softly. “I like hearing you talk. Don’t care what about.”

You could die right then and there. It’s a simple compliment, it’s really the bare minimum, but you’re already head over heels. And just a couple of soft spoken works are all you need to do you in and nearly keel you over, still straddling his muscular thighs.

“Uh…” you cough, forcing out the giddy tremble that threatens to take your voice. No lovesick teen voice today, thank you very much. “Okay. I don’t have much to...well, the other day, I saw my coworker totally wipe out leaving work.” You pause, expecting some reply, but he stays silent. “And he... he ate so much shit, he might as well dunked his head in a gas station toilet. And - and you know, normally I’d try to sympathise, but when you always make a point to park in my parking spot, I don’t care. Brett’s such an ass. And I don’t blame him, cause he’s got an asshole name -- Brett can’t be anything else but an asshole. So it's his parents fault probably but still, I…”

You continue on, slipping from the topic of your coworker to the free muffin you got with your coffee last week, to the prospects of buying a pet to keep your apartment less lonely, and to what probably felt like a thousand and one things ranted at him. All the while your hands continue, making neat work of a task that had just felt impossible.

And miraculously, aside from a chuckle thrown now and then, Diego stays silent. Maybe he actually means it. Maybe he does like your voice -- or he’s so bored he’s falling asleep, you don’t know. But it’s okay, you don’t let yourself linger on that, too content with taking in his relaxed features and the gentleness of the afternoon sun on the two of you.

“Aaaand….there!” With a triumphant shout, you throw the eyeliner to the side and your hands plunge towards the sky, fist-pumping like you’d just won the lottery. Your body bounces up and down on his lap like a child meeting Santa; in your excitement, you barely notice. “You’re done!”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.” You grabble for a mirror, looking away from him for a moment as you reach for the handle. Wiping it off, you’re focused solely on making sure the glass is clean enough for him to see himself in, and your brain is distracted enough to totally forget what you’ve even done, enough so when you look up, all you have is,

“Oh.”

Look, you know Diego is an attractive man. You’ve known since the day you met; he’s a beautiful guy, a handsome asshole who wormed his way into your befuddled heart before you could even learn his name. He’s pretty enough that if he wasn’t so set on his weird vigilante career, he could probably shoot for being a damn supermodel. He’s a catch! But all those years of knowing that and feeling like that could not prepare you for the sight in front of you.

Diego squints at you, cocking his head. “Is it okay?”

“I…” Delicate black lines his upper lash line, making his deep brown eyes stand out even more. He’s smiling still, full lips curving up to only make your heart pound faster. A strand of his hand falls across his face, painting the gentlest of shadows but it doesn’t bother his pretty face. “I...no, no, yea-ah…”

“Wow,” he laughs, jabbing a finger into your side. “Eloquent.”

“I-I-shut up,” you stammer. You force the mirror into his hands and look away. You’re still on his lap, still straddling his lap and the logical part of your brain begs you to get it together and fall off, already. But the stupid, foolish, absolutely idiotic part leaves you paralysed. “Just look for yourself.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for him in the silence. There’s nothing, though, for achingly painful seconds, until the mirror shifts down. “Huh.”

“Huh, good? Or bad?”

“I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Really? What’s wrong?”

“It’s not bad,” he assures you, his smile evident in his tone. “Just different. Don’t know how to feel about it.”

“O-oh...well, if it makes you feel better, I think it looks great.”

“You do?”

Oh, dammit. That came out with way too much enthusiasm, didn’t it? Your legs are concrete as you shift, face angled towards the floor. Hopefully he’s strong enough to push you off him when your body literally catches flame from humiliation.

“You look good man,” he mocked back to you. But he’s grinning, egging you on like a child who knows he’s got you twisted around his pinky finger. “Come on, say it like you don’t have a gun to your head!”

And maybe you do, maybe you’re holding the revolver to your temple, just asking to get screwed if you dare speak beyond the most stilted compliment you’ve ever extended to someone. He’s a friend, you remind yourself; friends are allowed to compliment the other. They’re allowed to say they look good and not make it a thing, even if they wish it was a thing, and--

“--hey? You in there?”

“Sorry,” you say to the floor. You swear a thousand curses before looking back to Diego. And, yeah -- he still looks impossibly good. The ageing afternoon sun falls just perfectly against his skin, flushing him into the being of a god, standing in your apartment while you, a mere mortal, remains stuck to his thick thighs.

You gulp in air desperately, trying to catch your gaze on something, anything else -- but nothing sticks. He’s still there, inches from you, desperately aching for you to stare at.

“No, uh, yeah. You look - you look hot.”

Wait.

That wasn’t--

“-I look hot?”

That isn’t what you were supposed to say.

“I,” you have literally nothing to save yourself. This is the end! You’re young Leo and Rose is shoving you off the door and into the icy waters, and you’ve just got one last look at pretty Diego to satiate the freezing burn before you succumb to it. “I...wasn’t...that wasn’t what I meant.”

He has no right to look so smug. But he does it anyway. He leans away from your hands as they flutter through the air on their own accord, looking at you through half-lidded pools of caramel. “You don’t think I look hot?”

“Don’t,” you warn, with little strength behind it. “Don’t twist my words.”

“I’m just asking.”

He leans back in. You’re almost touching again.

Is this weird? This is definitely weird.

You swallow back the lump in your throat and stare back at him. This all feels like fifth grade all over again -- awkward, sticky and like every move is the wrong move. But you can’t stop yourself from playing into his hands, because that sly, shameful part of you wants this more than will ever be admitted. You want him to look at you like this, like you could hang the stars if he asked you to...and you want him to pull you closer, as he does, and mean it.

Could he?

“Would you hate me? If I thought you looked hot?”

Diego head cocks to the side as he seemingly contemplates your words. A nudge meets your side; you look down to see his hands once again reaching for you. Though it's on their own accord this time, gently landing on your left hip, then the right. You shiver.

“That depends,” he says slowly. His eyes narrow, black wings just barely crinkling in. “D’you mean it like, ‘oH, that’s so-oo hot, woW-’”

Your laugh is hardly a whisper. It cracks even before your lips. “Come on.”

“Or, do you…” his fingers dig in a little more. They nudge at the fabric of your top, daring it to move enough so they could cradle the flesh hidden underneath. “You mean it the other way?”

Heart in throat, all the courage you can possibly muster with it, you mutter, “the...other way, probably.” Then a second later, “is that okay?”

“Mm…” His fingers finally reach your skin. You shiver under his touch, warm and unflinching as they brush against the soft curves. Diego’s face comes towards your own and you force yourself not to move. But he doesn’t stop, instead he goes past you, brushing his plush lips against your earlobe. “I would say...that if all this took was making you do my eyeliner, I shoulda asked years ago.”

“I, okay...don’t play with me, here--”

“--I’m serious,” he protests lowly. His lips leave your ear but they don’t run far. Instead, you find them a brush away from your own, just as you were minutes before. Only this time, you don’t try to clamp your mouth shut and skirt away from the touch. You nudge your nose against his own, exhaling softly as more skin meets the heat of his own. “You think I just let anyone sit on my lap like this, without thinkin’ it could be more?”

You shrug like this is normal. Like you’re perfectly at peace with the universe and the way you’re wondering how his tongue would taste, pushing back against your own. “I mean...do you?”

“No,” he chuckles low. “No, I’m...not into friendly lap dances, actually.”

“O-oh. Mm.”

He pulls you closer. He wants you closer.

“Diego…” You’re unravelling. You’re fucking unravelling, unnerved by his voice and his hands and you’re putty in them, all inhibitions sliding away like you’re three drinks in. His hands by your sides leave their marks against your skin; you can feel the pads of his fingers, burning into your skin like they were molten iron and not just mere brushes. “I...”

“Tell me.” He sounds cocky. He has a right to be, even if you’re damned to admit it. “Tell me what you think.”

Your hands shiver up his forearms, clinging to his bare shoulders as he pulls you impossibly closer. Your mind’s going a mile a minute and you refuse to listen to a single thought. You’re only feeling him.

“Y/N…”

“Fine,” you huff, with a smile. Your noses brush again; your eyes flutter shut with his image imprinted against their lids. “I think you look...hot as hell, Diego.”

“Yeah.” He’s grinning; you can hear it in his voice, that smirk that makes your gut flip like a damn rollercoaster ride. “S’what I thought, baby.”

And then he kisses you.

A/N: i normally hate writing oblivious characters but this wasn’t even intentional really. every time i try to write something remotely sexual i just lead the reader into ‘oH tHiS iS jUsT wHaT fRiEnDs Do’ and ‘iT’S wEiRd rIgHt’. to my defense...i doubt you’re on this page reading this expecting good sexual tension. i’m not the tua writer for that; let me know if you want recommendations for that because trust me, there are better authors for that. for now, you get this. <3

#diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves #hargreeves x reader #tua x reader #my writing #this is so random #I just saw a fanart of completely different ppl doing eyeliner and i thought #why not put diego in eyeliner he deserves it

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chews-erotically · 5 years ago

Photo

Waxing Gibbous

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

Warnings: Angst/violence/gore/blood/mentions of prostitution/SMUT(eventual)/veryinaccuratesurgicalprocedure

Honestly words have been fermenting in my brain for many moons. I am new to this, so please be gentle. I have written before, however never for a fandom. Special thank you to @yespolkadotkitty and @rzrcst for their support and encouragement, it truly means the world to me.

Summary: You are a nurse on the Green moon contracted to care for a group of prospectors. An act of violence forces you to flee your camp. Ezra finds you.

Words: 2376

PART ONE

The first time Ezra fell, it was with the Saters. You’d been hunched in a cordoned-off section of tent, dust motes waxing and waning against the haze of thick, dank air. At least you could breathe, a small mercy it was to remove your helmets and sit unfettered in the musty inner folds of the makeshift barracks.

The Sater stank. When he sneered at you, his grey lips parted to reveal the jagged tombstones of his teeth. When you had first sat down and dispelled with the perfunctory greetings, choking down the offering of what always reminded you of unsweetened Turkish coffee mixed with engine oil, his eyes made no attempt to hide the way they had raked over you as if you were some shiny toy. Or a bag of meat. You were under no delusions when it came to the fact that you, by nature of being female, were going to be ogled. Still, it left you no less disgusted as you fought to keep your face impassive while his eyes honed in on your chest.

Ezra sat beside you on the narrow bench, hunched forward with forearms balanced on knees that were spread to allow for his head to clear the sunken canvas ceiling. His expression was equally neutral, the only hint of tension showing in the tight bunch of muscle at his jaw. He knew as well as you that if the sater did not accept the barter, things would turn dark.

Ezra had been here longer than you. Stranded with no transport after the crew he’d arrived with turned on each other over dig locations and payload disbursement. The pod they’d arrived in had been burned, irreparably damaged and left no more than a husk in the Green due to the short-sighted fury and bullheaded ire of his hired compatriots. In the fracas, he’d sustained an injury to his right arm from a rogue thrower shot. In retrospect it could have been much worse, but the spores of mold that made the air so toxic had worked its way into his flesh the same way selfishness and suspicion had seeded the demise of his partners.

You were hired as a nurse to tend to your own hired prospecting crew, lured in with promises of adventure and treasures beyond your wildest dreams. You had known there had to be a catch, you were not so naive to believe that consequence could elude you, but you had signed the contract anyway hoping for more than the dreary clinic you’d worked in for the past five years. You were alone, you were lonely, you had no family. Your few friends had steadily drifted away from you as they met their own partners, started their own families. You were left to the ether. So you signed almost without thought when the recruiter came, signed before you had time to think it through, because you were aware that if you thought too much you’d talk yourself out of it. You knew all too well how adept you were at talking yourself out of things.

So, you’d arrived on the Green and things had proceeded as planned, uneventful for the most part. The others on the crew were respectful, if a bit distant. Nothing untoward had happened until a contractor by the name of Jorin began to take a particular interest in you. At first you’d been able to politely deflect his advances. Showing up in your tent unannounced, he feigned all manner of illness and injury to get your attention. Over time he became more aggressive, invading your space until you had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not welcome. It was not until he’d followed you back to your cot and tried to push you down that you’d snapped. You hadn’t meant to kill him, but the scalpel you had hidden in your fist had found its way to his carotid artery nonetheless. So you left, and you were blank and in shock and covered in someone else’s blood when Ezra found you.

He’d stood, imposing and straight-backed, hand on hip while his head followed your shambling approach. Your adrenaline was waning, and you shuffled forth on trembling legs, hands held aloft in supplication. When you reached his clearing in the midst of dense vegetation you noted his mouth moving at light-speed, the hand on his hip twitching toward the thrower he had slung across his back. As you got even closer you noticed his eyes were wide. You were not on the same transmission channel so you could not hear him. Your hands gestured as if underwater, left hand tapping your transceiver while your right held up three trembling fingers. When Ezra understood he switched the channel and immediately his animated drawl was filling your helmet.

“.....cannot fathom how you are standing in my sights looking like you’ve been baptised by Lady Bathory herself, alone? Please do tell this lonely old prospector how in Kevva’s name above you’ve found yourself in such a state of affairs?”

You noticed immediately that he did not seem at all frightened or wary of your appearance, just confused, and….excited? You gazed up into the visor through a constellation of blood spatter and freed your tongue from its bone-dry cavern, swallowing thickly.

“I didn’t mean to kill him. He tried to, to…..he came after me.”

Ezra stepped forward in what seemed a conspiratory move. You froze. Taking note, he’d immediately stepped back, but his dark eyes fastened to yours with an intensity that made you feel as though he could see through you into your very essence, every shameful childhood memory, every flaw and triumph as readable as prose on paper.

“Intention rarely informs the realities of snuffing out the flame of mortality. Between intention and action there lay an endless array of variables, something I know as well as my own name. In all my time on the Green the one thing that continues to ring true is that people here take. If you have nothing to offer, they will find something to take.”

He straightened before continuing, “Given that you are appreciably female I can imagine what it is he believed himself entitled to. You have none of that to fear from me, little stranger. I am but one lost soul amongst this verdant hellscape.”

You were still processing the events of the past several hours, and it took you some time to accustom your ears to the man’s mellifluous cadence. The people in your previous company had been stilted, blunt, mostly monosyllabic. This man before you spoke as if convinced his words would alight and manifest whatever sacred force or unimagined color the universe deemed fit to spew forth. It was incongruous. You considered your next words carefully before you spoke.

“Do you have a dwelling? A tent? I hate to impose, but this is my only suit and I’d like to get as much blood out of it as I can.”

That was how you’d become acquainted with Ezra. You’d exchanged names as you walked to his tent, and all the while Ezra pontificated. The tent was modest, two cots arranged across from one another. Equipment stacked along one canvas wall, while texts and notebooks spread across a folding table toward the front entrance. Ezra explained where the water source was located as you both disconnected your helmets and stripped your suits. The blood splashed across yours had dried to a dull rust. Almost as if it could be something other than blood. Almost.

You’d set the suit to soak in cold water and truly noticed the man in front of you for the first time. He was tall and broad-shouldered, thick locks jutting chaotically from the dome of his head and curling around the lobes of his ears. A shock of blond colored the seam of his hairline. His brow was lined with years of tension and unrest. Wide, dark eyes below pronounced brows. A prominent aquiline nose. His mouth, still moving. Always moving, as if he were trying to get every thought he had out of his head before the hourglass ran out on him.

Your eyes were next drawn to a dirty bandage circling his arm. You’d been so lost in your head over the strange turn of events that you did not notice the barely perceptible wince as he inventoried what appeared to be dried ration packets.

“What happened? To your arm, I mean?”

Ezra sighed deeply before answering. “Merely a flesh wound from an errant thrower blast while my crew and I were in the midst of parting ways. It was a most unsavory affair, I’m afraid. I don’t believe the weasel wielding the staff even meant to shoot me.”

You stepped closer, eyeing the torn, worried cloth. “You have to be careful. The spores in the air will seep into everything, especially an open wound. Your bandage is filthy. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“You have experience with dressing wounds?”

“I’m a nurse.”

You were wholly unprepared for the brilliant smile that split his face. Suddenly you could see the younger, roguish man that he had undoubtedly once been. You were suddenly overwhelmed, you could not understand how the heart in your chest fluttered as desperately as a bird beating its wings against the cage of your ribs. You felt close to panic as you realized that you were reacting this way to a man you did not know.

Careful.

“Kevva above, I must have done something right in a past life as I’ve done nothing in this one to deserve such a fortuitous gift! A nurse! An angel of mercy, a dove of benevolence!”

You felt heat rush to your face, and you cursed your feeble emotions as you turned quickly away from him. Please, ignore my abject idiocy.

“Med kit?”

“Ah, of course. My apologies, Dove, I forget myself.”

You pointedly ignored the unprompted endearment as any further contemplation on this new development would lead to literal hysteria. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Ezra sat at the table near the entrance, sweeping the array of notebooks and papers to the side. You pulled up a crate once taking the med kit and unwrapped the soiled bandaging. You understood how awkward it had to be to dress a wound with one hand, and so you were able to forgive the haphazard application. He hissed and winced again as you revealed a very red, open and angry wound bed assaulting the meat of his right bicep. Black had begun to settle in around the ragged edges. It did not look good. Your gut sank as you noticed the purplish pucker of skin surrounding a crater that oozed and tunneled, purulent drainage saturating the underlying gauze.

The mold had done a spectacular job of decaying what would have normally been a straight forward traumatic thrower wound. You were shocked that Ezra was not screaming in pain.

You kept your face studiously blank as you set out supplies: a vial of Ancef, sterile saline, bandaging, gauze, antimicrobial foam, hydrogen peroxide, a basin, and the scalpel you’d kept clutched in your fist as you’d fled. There was an injectable narcotic preloaded, you offered this to Ezra and he shook his head, his eyes still and worried. He knew it was bad, and he was scared. A wave of melancholy slammed into you and without thinking, you reached out and laid your fingers gently on his wrist.

“Hey.” He met your eyes, and they were old. Ancient, and filled with what was akin to an existential weariness. You had to dig the toe of your boot into your calf to keep your eyes from filling with tears. You cleared your throat. It did not sound like a noise you’d make. You wondered who you were, really, before speaking.

“I’m going to do the best that I can. It won’t be pretty. Your wound is badly infected. The black bits are necrotic, and if I don’t debride your wound it will spread. I’m going to try my hardest to save your arm. This is going to hurt, so I really think you should take the injection.”

Ezra’s solemn gaze swung to fasten on yours. After a pause of internal debate, he simply nodded. You filled the basin with hydrogen peroxide and placed the scalpel in. You picked up the preloaded syringe and sterile gauze and quickly discharged the narcotic serum into Ezra’s left deltoid. His eyes soon took on a haze of detachment, pupils constricting to pinpoints.

You picked up the scalpel and got to work, and Ezra finally screamed.

He kept his arm impressively still while sweat cut rivulets down the planes of his face. His jaw clenched so tightly you feared his teeth would crack and splinter- you’d finally and wordlessly paused your work to place a length of spare leather strapping between his teeth, which he clamped onto like a feral dog.

You worked quickly and wordlessly, cutting ribbons of spoiled flesh from the blessedly granulating bed of tissue and muscle beneath. Your mind worked in circular prayer, asking forgiveness from the universe for killing, for hurting. Ezra’s flesh was a sacred scroll and you were inscribing your texts upon it, begging for deliverance. It was not lost on you that the same scalpel you’d used to snuff one life was carving death out of another.

When the deed was done, you reconstituted the Ancef and injected it into the meat of his buttock. You did it quickly, too wrung out and disturbed to feel impure. There was nothing prurient about what had just happened, nothing sexy in his agony. For all of its intimacy it was brutal and ugly and traumatic. At that moment you were inextricably bound to one another.

#Ezra Ezra Prospect

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