#bubbles payne imagine

[cosmicoatlatte]

────── ☆ kinktober 2024

Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne - "cheating"

content: injury and injury recovery, plane crashes, Harry Crosby's wife!reader, infidelity (or is it?), miscommunication, Crubbles crumbs, pre-poly because i said so... 2.2k

The decision to send him back stateside was made by the doctors in the English hospital they brought him to after they had dragged him out of the mangled remains of a plane, more dead than alive. 

The decision to send him into the care of one Mrs. Harry Crosby was made by one Mr. Harry Crosby some time during the third week he was laid up in the hospital, only coming in and out of consciousness long enough to cry out from pain.

It had taken over a month after that before the Army felt confident enough to move him. 

Gray clouds hung low in the sky over the airfield in England as they said their goodbyes. Emotions had been high, tears were flowing, but both him and Harry had been convinced they would be seeing each other again. They had spoken it into existence. The reality of war had set in for them long before but Bubbles took solace in the fact that they wanted to keep his friend grounded for now. He himself was healing. When they parted it was with a promise.

While he had been comatose Harry had bribed Kenny Lemmons to let him look through the scraps of metal that once had made up a fort until he found Bubbles’ lucky snowglobe, keeping it at his bedside until he had woken up. That morning he had pressed his chapped lips against the cool glass before handing it back to Harry with shaking hands, the action so similar to the first time Bubbles had gotten sick and the other man took it, swallowing all protest at the sight of the broken man in front of him.

In return Harry had given him a thick letter, not addressed but the recipient obvious. Bubbles  had tucked it away securely and then turned to his best friend one last time before they would be separated. Until he healed enough to return to England.

He let himself be hugged, ignoring the pain spreading through his ribs as Harry wrapped his arms around him. He could feel his breath against the clammy skin of his neck, close enough Bubble’s could swear he could feel a phantom brush of lips. He just brought a hand up to cup Harry’s head, pale fingers threading through dark curls, and hoped that he wouldn’t cry.

When Harry pulled away he was smiling, not the brave front he put on at times but a true smile. Just for him. “Bubbles, you’ll take good care of my wife, won’t you?” Harry asked. “Be good to her.” 

You were supposed to be the one taking care of him. He’d promised Harry anyway. 

It was only after you had welcomed him into your home that Bubbles realized how tortuous it would be.

All that to say that Bubbles loved Harry, perhaps a little more than a man ought to love his best friend.

But Bubbles also hated Harry, perhaps a little more than a man ought to hate his best friend.

You were lovely, he knew that already, attentive and sweet and bossy in the best way. There had been countless times he had teased his friend about how a dame like you ended up with him —never malicious, knowing Harry was one of the best men there was— but only after living with you did he realize just how lovely you were.

Those first few days you barely left his bedside until he managed to convince you he wouldn’t die if you left the house for a few hours. He thought about threatening to tattle to Harry in one of their letters but knowing his friend he’d probably agree with you that Bubbles needed constant supervision.

As time passed and he slowly healed the two of you fell into an easy comfortable companionship, past what society would deem acceptable. He knew he should put a stop to it but he didn’t. Selfishly.

While you had spent the first few weeks sitting on a wooden chair beside his bed reading books to him out loud in order to keep boredom away, now you didn’t bother dragging the chair across the guest bedroom anymore. Instead you sat right beside him on the bed, sometimes above the covers, most times with the blanket pulled up over your legs so close he would barely have to reach out to touch your bare skin. He could sit up by then, read his own books too, but he enjoyed the quiet time with you by his side.

You still read to him sometimes. Whenever a letter from Harry came in. There had been more than one occasion where you had flown through the paragraphs sharing words he wasn’t supposed to hear, giving him thoughts he wasn’t supposed to have, but the joy on your face was something he never wanted to miss.

The two of you started to send your letters together instead of you adding on a few lines from him at the end of yours, since he was recovered enough to sit and write to his friend himself. But even though the two of you sent separate letters in a single envelope Harry still sent his response in one long letter and you still flung yourself at Bubbles’ bed, envelope clutched in your hand.

By the time he’s well enough to get up and walk around the house, Harry’s house, there’s a tin of his favorite tea in the kitchen cupboards and a robe with ‘Bubbles’ embroidered across the breast pocket hanging from the closet door that matches yours a little too closely to be a coincidence and a quilt his mother made draped across the sofa and he hates himself because it feels like home.

The army checked in on him sporadically, wanting him back in England but not desperate enough to send half a man back. He wanted to scream that his brain is fine and that he can be useful, could have been useful if they’d kept him at Thorpe Abbotts but he knows better than to complain. He gets warm showers and home cooked meals and a pretty woman holding his arm as they take slow walks around the neighborhood.

It’s well into spring when he ruins everything. Part of him is surprised it happened, part of him is surprised that it took so long for him to throw all the kindness shown to him away.

One moment you’re walking into Harry’s the study while he’s reading up on some maps the army had delivered to your front door a few days prior, talking excitedly about something you’d heard on the radio and the next he has you pressed against a wall, lips pressed against yours in a bruising kiss. You gasp and he swallows it, hands grasping at the fabric of your skirt. It’s you that pulls him closer, sucking his tongue into your mouth and smiling when a shudder runs through his body. 

He tugs you into the hallway, you tug him into your bedroom, both of you tug on each other's clothes.

He falls backwards onto the bed, getting two breaths to worry about the scars marring his body before you straddle his lap and he can bury his insecurities in your bosom. You let him suck and bite, fumble with the scrap of fabric covering you until he could pull it down just far enough for him to get his mouth around one of your nipples.

You didn’t treat him like he was about to break and he loved it. Your nimble fingers tugging on his hair until he scraped his teeth along your flesh, nails scratching his hip bones in desperate attempts to rid him of his underwear. He kisses you and you roll over until he is holding himself up above your body, muscles aching so perfectly at being used.

He blacks out when he pushes inside of your, warm and tight and so wet he can hear every time he fucks inside. The sounds you make drive him half wild, every roll of his hips making you keen. He watches your face twist in ecstasy, your chest rocks with every thrust, fits his mouth along the line of your throat and feels your moans before he hears them. It’s maddening and he tries hard not to lose himself when you wrap your arms around him, keeping him trapped against your body.

When you come it’s with a cry, going so tight around him he can’t fuck you through it, forcing himself to pull out so he doesn’t paint your insides. Instead he reaches down between your bodies, giving his cock just a handful of strokes before he comes in pearly white streaks, all over your stomach.

Bubbles lets himself be pulled into another breathless kiss, smiling against your lips, when the realization hits.

He could feel the metal of your wedding band against his skin.

The one his best friend slid onto your finger, as he stood beside him as best man.

Harry.

He’s off the bed quicker than his aching body allows. Unsteady. Pacing. Not looking at you. Why did he do that? His best friend. What kind of man slept with his best friend’s wife? You need to tell Harry. Harry can never find out. Fuck. He needs to tell Harry. It’s his fault. You’re saying his name, Bubbles so sweet from your lips he wants to cry. He doesn’t stop pacing. He needs to leave. He needs to put on clothes. He needs to tell Harry. He—

“Joseph Payne!”

He stops.

You stand in front of him but he can’t look at you, looking past your head at the wall instead. At least he thinks he is. His eyes are burning, teary and unfocused.

“What are you losing your mind about?” Your tone is gentle, as if you’re talking to a wounded animal —a wounded man— and he breaks.

“I’m sorry. We need to tell Harry. I’ll take the blame and—”

He sees the change in your eyes before you interrupt him. Worry bleeding into confusion. “What? Joey, Harry knows.”

“What.” He freezes. Panic running through his system cold like ice, limbs locking.

You guide him to sit on the bed before taking his hands into yours and thumbing at his palms. “Harry said he told you.” At his silence you continue. “When Bing wrote to me about you coming home he said that he would tell you about an… agreement we made before you went to England. That we could be with other people. That I could be with you.”

“He told me to take care of you. To be good to you.” The words left his lips before he could stop himself and he chose to focus on that instead of the weight your confession carried. Had his best friend truly sent him here to sleep with his wife? Had he thought about it late at night in the bunks at Thorpe Abbotts, glanced over at where Bubbles himself had been sleeping and thought about his wife and best friend coming together? Had Harry himself been stepping out on you while they were in England? Even now he didn’t want to think badly about you but there was also the possibility that you weren’t telling him the truth in order to help yourself.

“Here.” You turned around to rummage through your nightstand, pulling out a novel's worth of papers, riffling through the pages until you found what you were looking for and handed some to him. What Harry lacked in penmanship he made up in prose. The pages you had handed him contained more than just his friend expressing acceptance for their actions. No. The papers before him detailed fantasies of them together, far filthier than what they had done. Harry hadn’t just sent him here to please his wife, it was clear that he had spent time imagining what they would do.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He watched as you bit your bottom lip, looking down at the floor almost shyly. “It was nice but we don’t have to do it again. Your friendship and your company mean more to me than lust.”

His thoughts were racing, trying to find an emotion to latch onto. He still felt awful about betraying his friend but Harry himself encouraged things. Wanted this to happen. The bliss he felt with you was grander than anything he felt in the past. It would be temporary, until he got his orders again or Harry came home but if all three of you were in agreement, had the same goal, was there any way he could deny you?

“Did Harry send you any other ideas?” He shook the pages with a crooked grin.

A mischievous look passed over your face as you reciprocated his grin. “Come lay down, I’ll read them to you. And in the morning we’ll write to Harry. He’s been anticipating this.”

[thatsrightice]

The real Joseph “Bubbles” Payne Jr. was born in Coblenz, Germany to a WWI Army nurse and Captain Joseph H. Payne of the Allied Army of Occupation. The couple moved to Kentucky when Bubbles was a baby.

I can only imagine how hard he tried to keep his birthplace a secret. It wasn’t like he was German, in fact, his parents were active in the fight against them, but that doesn’t change people’s opinions when they hear where he’d been born. Especially RAF officers and others who don’t know Bubbles personally.

However, I do know that his best friend, Harry Crosby, would absolutely go off on anyone who tried to talk bad about Bubbles (especially if it was over where he was born like that’s just petty).

[itstheheebiejeebies]

Bubbles Payne Wallpapers

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[dustyjumpwjngs]

how the bloody 100th likes their coffee

call back to the one i made of easy company here

john “bucky” egan: i know we all saw him pour that whiskey in his coffee.

gale “buck” cleven: a good splash of cream in it. keep it simple

harry crosby: this man cannot stomach anything other than straight black

curtis biddick: not convinced he even likes coffee. i just imagine him drinking orange or apple juice in those green plastic cups from the 2000s

ken lemmons: he does not care. he’s the equivalent of an artist dipping their paint brush in their mugs. he likes it that way. yummy! a hint of oil really does the trick

joseph “bubbles” payne: get this cinnamon roll some sweet treat sugary little drink quick PLEASE

william quinn: iced coffee but the ice is all melted and it’s just water at this point

[rqsser]

anotha one @pinksiames

bellboy!john & receptionist!gale for a fancy hotel au…

john egan applied to work at the rose, a well know hotel chain owned by robert rosenthal sr. he got the job as a bellboy and has loved how energetic it is even when dealing with rude customers. at least they tip well (imagine home alone 2) plus, working with curt and brady made his shifts go by faster.

gale cleven had been working at the rose for a few months, he’d made friends with the three other receptionists, harry crosby, joseph payne who was referred to as ‘bubbles’ for an unknown reason, and bernard demarco, but they all called him benny.

gale heard about the new bellboy, but he rolled his eyes at the news because usually they flash whatever money the customers give them as they pass the front desks. they’re obnoxious and could challenge some of the hotel’s patrons lack of manners. he was surprised when the new guy, bucky he’d heard them call him, stayed out of the way of the receptionists and was respectful to them. or at least to gale.

john’s first day on the job, he was told to wait by the front desk for people with an ungodly amount of bags to help. he thought it was easy enough until he was placed right next to the most beautiful man he’d ever seen in his life. it was awkward, to john he felt, the man was busy typing away on his computer and checking people in. he stood there until he was whisked away with a cart and some extra bags that didn’t fit. who needed so much luggage?

the receptionists gossip, they talk about which customers were cute and which they’d seen before. who was coming in with some who was pointedly not their partner, and if they requested to be checked in under a different account. gale listened intently but never said anything more than someone who had been particularly insensitive towards him. those ones bucky always took, and they were nice to him the next time they saw gale.

bellboys compared tips and raced each other to whoever looked like they would tip well. they were especially kind to their patrons but extremely competitive. john definitely enjoyed the rush, he loved racing around a five star hotel as if he were staying there and not an employee. sometimes he’d even strike up a conversation with the receptionist, whose name was gale, and sneak in a few compliments that he’d probably heard before.

crosby knew about john’s very tiny crush on gale, and inevitably that lead to bubbles also knowing. some bets were made with tip money, and a good amount of john’s earnings went to the promise of gale’s number but he never received it. gale had no idea that any of this was going on.

[hlupdate]

W​​hat’s the secret to a great portrait? At 86 years old, David Hockney has a few ideas. A lifetime of looking has taught him to always start with the face. “I begin with the head first,” he says, matter-of-factly, from his home in France. “From there, I place everything else.”

That was his approach when, late last May, Harry Styles traveled to his light-filled studio in Normandy and stationed himself on a cane chair, ready to become the esteemed artist’s latest subject. Over two days, Hockney worked to capture the exact hues of red and yellow in Styles’s striped cardigan, the indigo of his jeans, the string of pearls at his neck—not to mention the unmistakable tousled fringe of one of the world’s biggest pop stars. For the artist, though, the goal was merely to capture the essence of the person in front of him. “I wasn’t really aware of his celebrity then,” Hockney says, with a shrug. “He was just another person who came to the studio.”

The pair struck up an instant rapport that was likely helped by Styles being a full-on fanboy. For his Vogue cover shoot in 2020, Styles wore a pair of hand-painted Bode cords that featured a talismanic illustration of Hockney by artist Aayushia Khowala. It’s also hard to imagine the wide-eyed wonder of a flamboyant Brit discovering the sunny thrills and spills of California—a theme, and sound, that has permeated the former One Direction singer’s solo albums—without Hockney as a precedent. “David Hockney has been reinventing the way we look at the world for decades,” says Styles. “It was a complete privilege to be painted by him.”

The unveiling of the portrait kicks off the second iteration of the National Portrait Gallery’s Hockney exhibition “Drawing From Life,” which first opened in February 2020, only to close weeks later due to the pandemic. With the addition of a new room of pictures charting Hockney’s creative impulses throughout lockdown, the show returns on November 2—a few months after a refurbishment of the entire museum—with Styles’s portrait as its crown jewel. “The whole world shut down, and the exhibition was still sitting there, in the dark,” recalls Sarah Howgate, the gallery’s senior curator of contemporary collections, who oversaw the exhibition in both phases. “So it’s nice to know it will have another life.”

The Styles painting may bring star wattage, but the unassuming genius of Hockney’s portraiture is still the main exhibition draw. What makes his images tick, you quickly learn, is their honesty: whether in the tension bubbling beneath the surface of his famed double portrait of Ossie Clark and Celia Birtwell, painted between 1970 and ’71, or the seated figures that populated his 2016 Royal Academy of Arts exhibition, which included the likes of his own sister, Margaret, and the late comedian Barry Humphries. Hockney’s eye for the human figure may be playful, often kaleidoscopic, sometimes fantastical—but it’s always, most importantly, frank.

Styles’s portrait will hang alongside those of writer Gregory Evans, Hockney’s printer Maurice Payne, the mayor of his local town Dozulé, his gardener, and even his chiropodist, or in Hockney’s words, “the dandy who cuts my toenails.”

One of his more recent subjects was the eminent music producer Clive Davis, who first suggested inviting Styles to swing by. “Clive told me about Harry’s new album, and JP [Hockney’s studio assistant] sent Harry a note and asked him if he’d like to come to my studio and sit for his portrait,” Hockney remembers. “He replied straight away and said, yes, he’d love to.” From there, Hockney’s process of painting Styles was instinctive. “Everybody just came to sit,” he says, breezily, before admitting: “Now I know Harry’s a celebrity, though: I’ve seen all his music videos.”

“He’s not a traditional portrait painter,” says Howgate. Hockney’s interest is not in what people do, but rather in who they are. “He’s not interested in fame. He’s interested in depicting people and their relationships.” It’s why his eye is primarily trained on his inner circle these days—but it also pays testament to his enduring curiosity that he’s still willing to open that up to a newcomer every so often. Styles seems to know how lucky he is, adding, with a tinge of disbelief: “I’m in awe of the man with enough one-liners for a lifetime.” As to what those one-liners might be? Styles and Hockney’s mutual silence on that question suggests that what happens in the studio, stays in the studio.

“David Hockney: Drawing From Life” will be at the National Portrait Gallery from November 2 to January 21, 2024.

[mr-styles]

When Harry Styles Met David Hockney: An Exclusive First Look At A Special New Portrait

A legendary painter and a pop lodestar? Sparks were inevitable. David Hockney and Harry Styles share a very special sitting with Liam Hess

W​​hat’s the secret to a great portrait? At 86 years old, David Hockney has a few ideas. A lifetime of looking has taught him to always start with the face. “I begin with the head first,” he says, matter-of-factly, from his home in France. “From there, I place everything else.”

That was his approach when, late last May, Harry Styles travelled to his light-filled studio in Normandy and stationed himself on a cane chair, ready to become the esteemed artist’s latest subject. Over two days, Hockney worked to capture the exact hues of red and yellow in Styles’s striped cardigan, the indigo of his jeans, the string of pearls at his neck – not to mention the unmistakable tousled fringe of one of the world’s biggest pop stars. For the artist, though, the goal was merely to capture the essence of the person in front of him. “I wasn’t really aware of his celebrity then,” Hockney says, with a shrug. “He was just another person who came to the studio.”

The pair struck up an instant rapport that was likely helped by Styles being a full-on fanboy. For his US Vogue cover shoot in 2020, Styles wore a pair of hand-painted Bode cords that featured a talismanic illustration of Hockney by artist Aayushia Khowala. It’s also hard to imagine the wide-eyed wonder of a flamboyant Brit discovering the sunny thrills and spills of California – a theme, and sound, that has permeated the former One Direction singer’s solo albums – without Hockney as a precedent. “David Hockney has been reinventing the way we look at the world for decades,” says Styles. “It was a complete privilege to be painted by him.”

The unveiling of the portrait kicks off the second iteration of the National Portrait Gallery’s Hockney exhibition Drawing From Life, which first opened in February 2020, only to close weeks later due to the pandemic. With the addition of a new room of pictures charting Hockney’s creative impulses throughout lockdown, the show returns on 2 November – a few months after a refurbishment of the entire museum – with Styles’s portrait as its crown jewel. “The whole world shut down, and the exhibition was still sitting there, in the dark,” recalls Sarah Howgate, the gallery’s senior curator of contemporary collections, who oversaw the exhibition in both phases. “So it’s nice to know it will have another life.”

The Styles painting may bring star wattage, but the unassuming genius of Hockney’s portraiture is still the main exhibition draw. What makes his images tick, you quickly learn, is their honesty: whether in the tension bubbling beneath the surface of his famed double portrait of Ossie Clark and Celia Birtwell, painted between 1970 and ’71, or the seated figures that populated his 2016 Royal Academy of Arts exhibition, which included the likes of his own sister, Margaret, and the late comedian Barry Humphries. Hockney’s eye for the human figure may be playful, often kaleidoscopic, sometimes fantastical – but it’s always, most importantly, frank.

Styles’s portrait will hang alongside those of writer Gregory Evans, Hockney’s printer Maurice Payne, the mayor of his local town Dozulé, his gardener and even his chiropodist, or in Hockney’s words, “the dandy who cuts my toenails” .

One of his more recent subjects was the eminent music producer Clive Davis, who first suggested inviting Styles to swing by. “Clive told me about Harry’s new album, and JP [Hockney’s studio assistant] sent Harry a note and asked him if he’d like to come to my studio and sit for his portrait,” Hockney remembers. “He replied straight away and said, yes, he’d love to.” From there, Hockney’s process of painting Styles was instinctive. “Everybody just came to sit,” he says, breezily, before admitting: “Now I know Harry’s a celebrity, though: I’ve seen all his music videos.”

“He’s not a traditional portrait painter,” says Howgate. Hockney’s interest is not in what people do, but rather in who they are. “He’s not interested in fame. He’s interested in depicting people and their relationships.” It’s why his eye is primarily trained on his inner circle these days – but it also pays testament to his enduring curiosity that he’s still willing to open that up to a newcomer every so often. Styles seems to know how lucky he is, adding, with a tinge of disbelief: “I’m in awe of the man with enough one-liners for a lifetime.” As to what those one-liners might be? Styles and Hockney’s mutual silence on that question suggests that what happens in the studio, stays in the studio.

via vogue.co.uk

[thestylesindependent]

W​​hat’s the secret to a great portrait? At 86 years old, David Hockney has a few ideas. A lifetime of looking has taught him to always start with the face. “I begin with the head first,” he says, matter-of-factly, from his home in France. “From there, I place everything else.”

That was his approach when, late last May, Harry Styles travelled to his light-filled studio in Normandy and stationed himself on a cane chair, ready to become the esteemed artist’s latest subject. Over two days, Hockney worked to capture the exact hues of red and yellow in Styles’s striped cardigan, the indigo of his jeans, the string of pearls at his neck – not to mention the unmistakable tousled fringe of one of the world’s biggest pop stars. For the artist, though, the goal was merely to capture the essence of the person in front of him. “I wasn’t really aware of his celebrity then,” Hockney says, with a shrug. “He was just another person who came to the studio.”

The pair struck up an instant rapport that was likely helped by Styles being a full-on fanboy. For his US Vogue cover shoot in 2020, Styles wore a pair of hand-painted Bode cords that featured a talismanic illustration of Hockney by artist Aayushia Khowala. It’s also hard to imagine the wide-eyed wonder of a flamboyant Brit discovering the sunny thrills and spills of California – a theme, and sound, that has permeated the former One Direction singer’s solo albums – without Hockney as a precedent. “David Hockney has been reinventing the way we look at the world for decades,” says Styles. “It was a complete privilege to be painted by him.”

The unveiling of the portrait kicks off the second iteration of the National Portrait Gallery’s Hockney exhibition Drawing From Life, which first opened in February 2020, only to close weeks later due to the pandemic. With the addition of a new room of pictures charting Hockney’s creative impulses throughout lockdown, the show returns on 2 November – a few months after a refurbishment of the entire museum – with Styles’s portrait as its crown jewel. “The whole world shut down, and the exhibition was still sitting there, in the dark,” recalls Sarah Howgate, the gallery’s senior curator of contemporary collections, who oversaw the exhibition in both phases. “So it’s nice to know it will have another life.”

The Styles painting may bring star wattage, but the unassuming genius of Hockney’s portraiture is still the main exhibition draw. What makes his images tick, you quickly learn, is their honesty: whether in the tension bubbling beneath the surface of his famed double portrait of Ossie Clark and Celia Birtwell, painted between 1970 and ’71, or the seated figures that populated his 2016 Royal Academy of Arts exhibition, which included the likes of his own sister, Margaret, and the late comedian Barry Humphries. Hockney’s eye for the human figure may be playful, often kaleidoscopic, sometimes fantastical – but it’s always, most importantly, frank.

Styles’s portrait will hang alongside those of writer Gregory Evans, Hockney’s printer Maurice Payne, the mayor of his local town Dozulé, his gardener and even his chiropodist, or in Hockney’s words, “the dandy who cuts my toenails” .

One of his more recent subjects was the eminent music producer Clive Davis, who first suggested inviting Styles to swing by. “Clive told me about Harry’s new album, and JP [Hockney’s studio assistant] sent Harry a note and asked him if he’d like to come to my studio and sit for his portrait,” Hockney remembers. “He replied straight away and said, yes, he’d love to.” From there, Hockney’s process of painting Styles was instinctive. “Everybody just came to sit,” he says, breezily, before admitting: “Now I know Harry’s a celebrity, though: I’ve seen all his music videos.”

“He’s not a traditional portrait painter,” says Howgate. Hockney’s interest is not in what people do, but rather in who they are. “He’s not interested in fame. He’s interested in depicting people and their relationships.” It’s why his eye is primarily trained on his inner circle these days – but it also pays testament to his enduring curiosity that he’s still willing to open that up to a newcomer every so often. Styles seems to know how lucky he is, adding, with a tinge of disbelief: “I’m in awe of the man with enough one-liners for a lifetime.” As to what those one-liners might be? Styles and Hockney’s mutual silence on that question suggests that what happens in the studio, stays in the studio.

David Hockney: Drawing From Life will be at the National Portrait Gallery from 2 November to 21 January 2024

[sweaterkittensahoy]

I don't know why this came to my mind, but I'm imagining a world where CrubblesJean was a thing, and now the great-grandchildren of Harry and Jean are on social media and like, "Oh, ha! My grandpa found all these letters my great-grandparents sent to each other during the war!"

"Awwww, so cute! They were best friends with this guy Joey who my great-grandpa met in navigator training!"

"My dad just yelled something about polyamory from the living room??? What????"

"OMFG MY GREAT-GRANDPARENTS WERE IN A POLYCULE WITH THIS JOEY GUY AND NO ONE EVER TOLD MY DAD!!!"

comment: omg how did you not know

creator: i don't ask my family how my great-grandparents fucked. are you fucking weird.

comment (same person): i mean, like, did this guy not come to holidays?

creator: No, there's tons of photos of him. There's one of him holding me. Just everyone called him 'Uncle Bubbles' so I thought he was my great-uncle.

comment (different person #1): BUBBLES????

creator: call sign thingie, I think??? I don't know. He wasn't a pilot, so I'm not sure if it's still a call sign, but he's always talking about as Uncle Bubbles.

comment (different person #3): Wait. Is it Bubbles Payne, by chance? From Kentucky? group nav for the Bloody 100th before the role was handed to Harry Crosby, and then they worked together as co-group nav because of the intensity of the work in the 100th?

creator: ...My dad wants to know who the fuck you are.

comment (#3): I'm not weird; I just have a special interest in WW2 air battles. My great-grandpa was a mechanic on B-17s. Not with the 100th, but apparently everyone knew about them. He wrote a whole book he never published with all the info he could find. I read it.

creator: Oh. Cool. Okay. Dad says that yeah, those are the names.

comment (#3): Oh, neat! I think there's a bunch of queers from the 100th, actually. Here's a whole secret queer history of the military that names a bunch of them (link).

creator: Okay, now my GRANDPA is yelling because he didn't know some of these and is on the phone with people getting mad about not being told about "all the gays" (not in a mean way).

"Update: Turns out the extended family friend network is super fucking queer going back to at LEAST World War 2. I think I win queer history?"

comment (anon): You shouldn't use the q-slur.

creator: Thank you for giving me the reason to use a phrase I have only recently learned my great-grandma wrote in letters: If I wanted your opinion, I'd throw myself into the ocean with rocks in my pockets.

[bunny-heels]

the fact that in Max Payne 1 Remedy had to censor Microsoft's name when making a joke about the in-game company making more money than them, then they let them make a game that the creative director was so passionate about, but then didn't let them make the sequel of said game for over 10 years, making excuses that no one wanted it and that they should focus on new IPs.

and now Sam Lake is finally known as the creative writer who wrote an incredible sequel to an old game and is no longer only known as the face of Max Payne, getting the same amount or even a little more praise than Kojima, and Microsoft will forever be in their history as the company who stopped them from making Alan Wake 2 for so long.

imagine. fucking imagine being known as the company that wouldn't let Remedy make Alan Wake 2. being known as the company that could've published and funded the game with an amazing story, with great character developments and plots, with a wonderful short film in it, with an all out musical segment that got to be shown live at the game awards, but didn't even let them touch the first game for years, all because they lived in their own little sales bubble.

if i was the Microsoft CEO and was watching the Game Awards last night i would've just filed for bankruptcy.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

For the smutty one liners, 19 and 20 with Croz and Bubbles please and thank you

It was your prompt I was talking about the other day—in the post where I said I'd made the smut about grief 🙃 (But there's definitely still smut.) Thank youuu!!

19: "Stop teasing me and do it!" 20: "You're still holding back, just let go."

more smutty one-liner prompts

so I smile and say

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairing: Harry Crosby x Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne Rating: E Word Count: 2032

Summary: The night he and Sandra sit by the fire, Crosby almost cheats on Jean. It takes the voice of a departed friend in his head to help Crosby understand why he felt so close to Sandra, and which feelings really need to be resolved.

If Crosby had been one of those guys he pretended to be in the mirror, he would’ve sat brooding before the fire and drunk the rest of the bottle alone. What Crosby did instead after Sandra turned in for the night was get to his feet and thoughtlessly splash the dregs of his drink into the fire. He just about jumped out of his skin when the flames leapt. Christ. The things he was entrusted with and he didn’t even have the presence of mind not to throw alcohol at fire.

When the fire settled back into a dimming, collapsing thing that really resonated with him, Crosby sighed and shuffled towards the bedroom. His, alone, on his side of the suite he shared with Sandra. “Roommates” was misleading; he usually slept in the barracks with a dozen other men and zero walls. Those were roommates. The accommodations situation with Sandra was more like next-door neighbours. It sounded so homey, so suburban, and not like he was a bad man who’d looked at that woman a quarter of an hour ago and thought about begging her to climb on top of him right there at the hearth for a mindless fuck.

Crosby stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, then groaned, realizing he’d forgotten to brush his teeth. He dragged himself to the bathroom. While he brushed, he stared into his own eyes in the mirror. They were empty, they were red—from liquor and grief and exhaustion. He spat, then ran hot water and let it pool in his palms until it burned before splashing his face. Wake up, he thought, then, Go to sleep, Harry, because the kind of waking-up he needed could only be helped by first falling asleep.

But when he pulled back the bedding and, yawning, slid his body between the sheets to lie on his back, Bubbles was with him, and so his mind wouldn’t rest.

Hey, buddy, Crosby thought.

Hey, Croz.

After it had happened, he hadn’t found Bubbles right away. It hadn’t been until he’d read the letter Bubbles had written to Jean that Crosby had started to hear his voice. Bubbles’ words, his cadence, had come back to him reading that letter. Now, like a whisper, Crosby could hear Bubbles’ voice if the world was quiet. This meant he typically heard it at night. And he knew it wasn’t real—that was the hardest part—but if Bubbles wasn’t coming back—he knew he wasn’t coming back (that was the hardest part)—it was what Crosby had.

It's ok, Bubbles told him when his eyes overflowed, a slow, thick tear rolling down his temple. You’re just tired.

Yeah, I know.

This Bubbles was Crosby’s Bubbles, completely; because he existed in Crosby—was Crosby—he had seen all of Crosby’s vulnerable moments, felt all of his pain. He was the only one. Crosby hadn’t told Jean what war was like, not really, and he couldn’t tell the boys back at the base anything because they all needed to carry on. It was Sandra, only Sandra, with whom he had shared the guilt he felt over Bubbles’ death. It was only her to whom he’d spoken Bubbles name.

I need your help, he thought.

That’ll be good—the blind leadin’ the blind.

Crosby smiled and sniffed, wiping the tear tracks away with his knuckle.

I almost cheated on Jean.

Why was it harder to admit that to himself than it had felt to imagine Sandra’s legs wrapped around his hips in front of the fire?

Why d’you think you were tempted? Bubbles asked.

Opportunity?

That an answer or a guess?

She’s a beautiful woman.

Don’t you blame Sandra, Bubbles chastised.

I’m not! Crosby thought with a huff. At least, he didn’t mean to. The problem isn’t Sandra, it’s that she’s right here, living in these rooms with me. It’s the proximity, Bubbles.

Just the physical closeness that’s the issue, then?

Crosby sighed deeply, hands gripping the sheet as though longing to wrench it up over his face so he could hide. But you couldn’t hide from the best friend who lived inside your head. That helped keep him honest.

No, he thought sullenly. Sandra let me talk… and she listened.

I listen.

You don’t count.

Because I’m dead? Crosby thought in Bubbles’ voice before he could stop himself. He exhaled a shaky breath.

Because it’s about you, he reasoned instead. He rolled onto his side, bunching the pillow beneath his neck.

You wanted to make love to Sandra because she helped you think about me. Crosby’s other thoughts attempted to rush in, an October gust through an open window back home, but he slammed that window shut and made things quiet again so Bubbles could go on. You’ve been scared to, Croz, because it hurts you so damn much. You know I don’t wanna hurt you though, buddy. Harry. It’s ok to feel close to me.

“But I miss you,” Crosby gasped aloud into the thin, dark loneliness of the bedroom he’d still be getting familiar with by the time he had to leave Oxford.

I know you do.

And I love you, Crosby thought, because he couldn’t say that part out loud, not even by accident. He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t even be seen by himself, his hand clutching the pillow.

I know that too.

You can’t. I didn’t realize while you were alive.

You can’t pick when it does and doesn’t matter that a fella’s alive, Bubbles said reasonably, while Crosby fought not to feel lectured or defensive or simply seen far too clearly. For all intents and purposes, Croz, I’m here, and nothin’ could be plainer than the fact that you love me. Sandra knows. That’s why you wanted her, right? You wanted somebody who knew you came to them full to the brim with love you woulda spent on me.

Crosby’s chest felt like an egg that had just been cracked, a tearless sob breaking free of the brittle shell. All of it was true. None of it was straightforward. He and Bubbles had been bullets formed in the same mould, a pair of shoes issued to the same airman, two wings on the same plane. They had read the same books, danced to the same music, and never not enjoyed one another’s company. That was the kind of best friend they had been to each other, but the version of Bubbles Crosby had concocted was rightly insisting that it had been more than that. Crosby had always hung on longer than he’d felt he should’ve when they’d hugged. In his letters to Jean, he’d tended to write nearly as much news of Bubbles as of himself: Bubbles thinks, Bubbles says, Bubbles hopes. Once, when he hadn’t been able to get his hair right, Bubbles had tapped his hands away and slicked Crosby’s hair into place himself. There, he’d said with a smile. Now you look sharp.

And Crosby had looked at Bubbles’ hair sometimes, soft and fair. At Bubbles’ slightest fumble, Crosby had made a noise of exasperation and stepped in without being asked to relace Bubbles’ boot or hold the collar of Bubbles’ uniform jacket while he shrugged it on. I’m here, he’d said with his actions. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, and now Bubbles was not, and so Crosby had told their stories to the beautiful subaltern with whom he’d been mistakenly housed.

It wouldn’t be cheating with you, he thought.

I don’t count.

Only my memories of you.

Those counted so much. They counted more than the life Crosby had been watching himself live, day by day, since Bubbles had flown off and not returned.

I could be the one, Bubbles offered.

And Crosby thought, You always were.

Not drunk but softened to the world, Crosby could see Bubbles with ease. In the silence, the voice in his head was clear, and with his eyes closed, he could picture Bubbles’ head resting on the other pillow. Crosby shifted, and the rustle of sheets could’ve been Bubbles edging closer to him. He was here, with Crosby, where no one could touch him. Where bombers didn’t billow black clouds that mocked the white ones they fell through. It didn’t matter that Crosby trailed his fingertips across the back of his own hand, or stroked his own jawline, or pressed his own palm to his chest to feel the hastening pump of his wounded heart. It was all Bubbles if he said so—Bubbles whose finger traced a straight line down from Crosby’s navel and into his shorts. But not far enough.

“Stop teasing me and do it,” Crosby urged under his breath.

They’d been of one mind about a lot of things, and now they were of one hand—Crosby’s hand, reaching to grasp himself. He pumped slowly. There was something smoky in the air, the scent of the fireplace clinging to his undershirt, maybe. He ran his free hand up his neck and into his hair and got a good grip. The bite of it was the ideal sensation to balance the torturous rhythm of his fist. Crosby moaned aloud as he cupped his palm over the head of his cock and massaged, spreading slickness. His hips bucked into the feeling and Crosby swallowed as he pictured Bubbles’ fist instead, Bubbles’ mouth.

You remember me gentle, the Bubbles in his head observed.

You always were.

I appreciate that, Croz, but if you wanna feel me with you, then feel me with you.

Crosby groaned and thrust through the circle of his fingers, smearing himself with wetness, then flipped onto his back. He made his strokes short and tight.

You’re still holding back. Crosby imagined the words as a whisper in his ear, Bubbles’ warm breath on his skin, his lips skimming Crosby’s lobe. Just let go.

Panting, Crosby slackened his grip and jerked himself off. It was fast and it was rough as he raced the fading illusion he was desperate to sustain. The hand that was supposed to be Bubbles’ felt increasingly like his own.

Don’t go, he silently cried out.

Let go, Bubbles replied.

Even though Crosby’d been the one to think it, he felt sudden panic over what it might mean. He could let go like this—the fleshy slap beneath the sheet—but not of the Bubbles he kept with him, not of the Bubbles to whom he still belonged. Climax approached and it was almost unbearable, but Crosby’s hand wouldn’t slow. He was too used to submitting to the inevitable. When he came, he clamped his lips together to keep the raw yelp behind his teeth. Like a burst of light, there was Bubbles’ face as he’d seen it last, turning to profile as the truck pulled away to take the boys to their planes.

The moments of greatest intensity—a wash of hot pleasure in his groin, tension in his back as his ass lifted from the bed—passed, and only his ragged panting was left. Crosby brushed the back of his wrist across his forehead. Then, he searched his mind for Bubbles.

Right here, Croz.

You wouldn’t leave me. A statement.

Not if I could choose. Not before you’re ready.

That’s two different answers.

You came up with ’em.

Crosby had, but it was ok because neither of the answers had been “yes.”

He tossed back the covers and padded to the bathroom with a change of clothes. If he did that again, it’d have to be in the tub; he didn’t have much with him. His wardrobe was pretty limited. He wasn’t so hopeless that he couldn’t do a little hand-washing in the sink, but how long did stuff take to dry? He could hardly lay out his damp articles in front of the fire.

Clean and clothed, he got back into bed. He was impressed by the size of his own yawn. Wriggling down, he decided it was a nice bed, in a nice room. It was the only bed he and Bubbles had ever shared, and Crosby still felt him there, his best friend. His late love.

Anyone who called him unfaithful would be wrong.

[cosmicoatlatte]

────── ☆ kinktober 2024

preferences - quickie

characters: john 'bucky' egan, gale 'buck' cleven, marjorie 'marge' spencer, curtis 'curt' biddick, robert 'rosie' rosenthal, harry crosby, joseph 'bubbles' payne, james douglass, everett blakely, howard 'hambone' hamilton, john brady, ken lemmons, bernard 'benny' demarco

☆ — John 'Bucky' Egan

Oh he is an absolute menace when it comes to sex. With Bucky the one thing you can count on is that all quickies will be followed with longer proper sex in a timely manner and vice versa. If he takes you apart at night he’ll come back for more in the morning, if you two disappear during a function you’ll get a reward once you get home. He always gets horny at the most inconvenient times too. On more than one occasion he’s been late for work because he just had to have you and who are you to deny him when you crave him just as much. Quickies with John are the best distraction. Even though the two of you aren’t strangers to getting it on outside your home he absolutely hates the thought of somebody catching the two of you in the act. You're his and he doesn't share. 

☆ — Gale 'Buck' Cleven

Even though Gale is a very thoughtful lover he is quick to underestimate just how fast he can bring you pleasure. Gale acts under the misguided assumption that proper sex is the only way to go. He likes taking his time and focusing on you first and foremost and quickies just seem to prioritize a man's pleasure. To him it would feel an awful lot like he is just using you and that's just not what you want to be about. Now you can definitely try and start something, corner him in an unsuspecting moment and get on your knees for him, but trust that Gale will find a way to thoroughly pamper you like you deserve. 

☆ — Marjorie 'Marge' Spencer

Marge is a tease and she knows it. Even though she's a fan of quickies, they're almost never quick. She likes to be a little mean, get you all hot and bothered, right on the edge of bliss and then step away to watch you crumble. She'll have you on your knees so fast. If you beg nicely she might even let you eat her out. It's only fair that at least one of you gets to come. And oh how sweet she sounds when she comes around your fingers, dripping against your tongue. She takes it so well, but she gives even better. If you're lucky she'll just play with you for a day, pulling you aside for quickies throughout the day. But maybe she decides that you need to wait a little longer. Poor you. Marge won't even let you take care of yourself. Afterall, that's her job. 

☆ — Curtis 'Curt' Biddick

When it comes to making you fall apart Curtis is a lover and a fighter. So whenever he isn't hellbent on keeping you in his bed for days on end he is a big fan of quickies. There is just something about fast fucking as opposed to making love that makes his blood rush through his body. He has no qualms about his friends knowing just why exactly he disappeared during a night out, even though he's a gentleman that doesn't kiss and tell. He just sends you back out to rejoin the group with a slap on the ass and his come slowly running down the inside of your thigh.

☆ — Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal

With Rosie quickies are more of a rarity. He's not against them, not at all, but to him it just takes away a lot of the intimacy. He doesn't just love the act itself but also foreplay. If it were up to him he'd take his time, every time. Do it properly. Do you properly. But just because he strongly prefers longer moments between you doesn't mean he doesn't indulge. It's a little selfish treat, even if all he does is make you come on his tongue. Rosie could stand to be a little more subtle about it though, because he has the tendency to be in an exceptionally good mood after. His humming is very endearing.

☆ — Harry Crosby

Your Harry has the tendency to get stuck in his own head, poor thing, but luckily he has you to get him unstuck. It might be a dirty method but it works. If it were completely up to him then the two of you would take your time together but he must admit that there is something freeing about giving in when his pretty partner tries to work his pants open. For you, he’ll give in every time. Quickies come with less expectations and less awkwardness. 

☆ — Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne

If there is one thing that you need to know about Bubbles is that he likes to sneak off and get off. Quickies are just near and dear to his heart and it only makes sense that he, as a navigator, knows all the best places for the two of you to get it on. You don't always end up in lockable rooms but neither of you are all too concerned about that. Not that you have much brain left to think when he crowds you into a closet and fucks you hard enough to see stars. If some poor unfortunate soul walks in on you his pace might stutter but he'll be damned if he stops fucking you. He will yell at them to get out and then he'll make you come. 

☆ — James Douglass

To say this man is prepared for whenever you need him would be an understatement. And truly he's a genius because there's no telling when the mood strikes and because he has rubbers stored all over the place you never have to stop and get any. Doesn't matter where you want him. Closets, bathrooms, offices, random secluded corners. As long as it's with you it's paradise for him. His skilled fingers are always itching to get you ready for him. You’re his first priority, trust he’ll find a way to come even if you have to part before both of you reach your peak. 

☆ — Everett Blakely

When it comes to sucking, proper vs. quickie, he is very 50/50. He's a well-balanced man that knows the two satisfy very different urges. He loves fucking you thoroughly, taking his time to tease you and make you melt but sometimes quickies are just the thing the two of you need. Whenever there's a chance to combine them he's doing so. Giving you a taste of what awaits you before taking you out or making sure you’ll be squirming all day waiting for him to come home. Because there's one thing that for certain it's that Ev Blakely makes his girl come.

☆ — Howard 'Hambone' Hamilton

He is absolutely insatiable but you wouldn't want him any other way. More often than not things with him start out fully meant to be just a quick fuck and then turn into nasty long sex that keeps you occupied and leaves your legs shaking. It's not uncommon that instead of disappearing during an event for a little bit the two of you just arrive belated. When quickies stay quick he will have you hard and fast. He has surprisingly good stamina and can keep up his pace. Ham can’t help it, you look so pretty with tears brimming on your lashes. What is a dining room table made for if not for eating?

☆ — John Brady

Johnny is an absolute romantic 100%. He loves taking his time giving you all the attention that you deserve. But sometimes he just needs you. Be it pure adrenaline rushing through his veins or some teasing taken too far, there are just times when he can't take it anymore and just needs to get it out of his system. John wants you without much care about when and where but he's always careful not to get caught. He loves you and doesn't want anybody else to see you in that situation. The way your face looks twisted and pleasure is for his eyes only. 

☆ — Ken Lemmons

When it comes to making you come Ken knows all the ways he can make you reach your high hard and fast but he prefers proper sex over quickies. It's just something he enjoys more, taking his time, making you come again and again. But sometimes the two of you just don't get the chance and have to make do. Not that it's a hardship to have your wrapped around him even for a short amount of time. He doesn't need long to satisfy you. And seeing you like that just helps build up his hunger. 

☆ — Bernard 'Benny' DeMarco

Benny would be crazy to turn down any chance to be with you but he's rarely the one to initiate a quickie. He likes to savor the moment and make love, not just fuck. Now if you were to come to him desperate for release begging please Benny please obviously he'd be on his knees before you know it, it's the polite thing to do. When there's a chance to draw things out and give you the long proper fucking you need he’ll will take it. Loves kissing you through it because he wants you to know how much you mean to him. 

[therealslimshakespeare]

I miss my girl Maureen, can I maybe have some crumbs? Last month was awful and I did not have a time and energy to interact with any fan spaces (which did not help my burn out) but at the same time my mind kept coming back to your stories (particularly towards your Sarge universe and Those Who Can -tho I saw that you have some updates on Dear John which I cannot wait to read the second I can get a breather). I hope it’s not creepy but your works really serve as an escape for me and thinking about your characters allows to me to stop worrying about other issues

Hello my sweets,

First off, let me give you a hug to wipe out this last month, I’m terribly sorry to hear it was so rough. Please hang in there and know you’re loved and that it’s made my day to see you pop in again. 🎀

I hope you enjoy the latest Dear John when you get a chance, it’s very fluffy and just a nice break from the pain I inflict on the regular with TWC! And yet I’ll also have a new installment of that universe before too long.

What you mentioned about escapism is not creepy at all to me, in fact it’s utterly relatable. I’ve done that all my life with literature and Fanfiction and I’m so touched that my little worlds provide that for you and we can scream about them together here.

As for Maureen-

There will obviously be more fics coming but since I haven’t got a good fragment to share without divulging larger plot points right now, let me babble to you about recent character progression obsession of the week for mess

Namely: Maureen and Bubbles.

Because I love Bubbles and we didn’t have him long enough and he was so excellent and a little ornery and very self effacing but so stubborn and capable and I just 🤧🥹😤😢 about him. But I also like to think about my gremlin bombardiers all together in training and then also their navs? Because yes, Maureen was a bit hoity toity about being a pleasure pilot before the war and was mighty salty about being demoted and yet, she wanted to hang in there and continue with this new purpose in life and prove to herself she could actually succeed and contribute meaningfully.

Then, her demotion to Bombardier actually her lands amongst a set of individuals that suit and match her even better, and it’s just a grand thing in many dysfunctional. But furthermore, the navigators and the bombardiers had such a close working connection and they’re both in the damn nose bracing during practice runs in hopes that their baby pilot actually lands this thang right. And also for mathematics and homework and targets, etc, so much to work on together. I theorize that she worked alongside many navs, some we know and others we never meet.

But then there’s Bubbles Payne. And he has a very big influence on her. I imagine that while she enjoys army life in those early days she’s got tons of her old habits hanging on. Some are more obvious and brazen as we’ve seen. Others are literal insecurities and coping mechanisms from her home life that come out as flirtations or provocations but they’re not, not deep down. And I think this straight shooting man would see through that and be one of the first to call her out on it in a very constructive way. Like, there’s no place for them here anymore. Which is challenging but freeing?

Maybe she comes to him needing some supplies and she’s turning on the charm and the sultry voice and Jo Payne is just: squints in honest wholesome confusion, because it ain’t like he doesn’t recognize a woman trying to get her way. It’s just, he’s used to it at a bar with a hooker who wants a wage and not an enlisted officer in his workplace, ya know?

But Maureen hasn’t ever been on a level playing field with men before. She’s never been just one of the boys, or a member of society really. She is what she can demand or wheedle or seduce out of others. So when she tries that with Bubbles and he’s just *digs in his bag for the calculator to aid in her ordinance* he also lets fly with a real kind and measured but firm sorta “I dunno where it is you come from, Lieutenant, and what sorta eye battin’ contents they held their, but here you’ve got a job. And when ya need a tool for that job, you’re guaranteed the use of it. Same as all of us. Ain’t no favor required, just -do your job. That’s what we’re here for.”

She may end up getting a tattoo of a string of little bubbles. And when she gets into the stalag at long last she asks after him, assuming that his plane got shot down.

Until she learns it did not, in fact, get shot down at all.

KIA. Confirmed. For all of them. But Bubbles’ lesson lives on, it wasn’t a matter of favors anymore in her new life, but merit. And wasn’t that a heartache and a thrill all at once?!

[itstheheebiejeebies]

Joseph "Bubbles" Payne Icons

free to use, credit appreciated but not necessary. if you have a request or want to be tagged for any of my edits send me an ask. don’t repost, reblogs appreciated. all of my edits can be found here

Taglist: @bcofl0ve @fromcrossroadstoking @inglourious-imagines @easynix @alienoresimagines @sammy-1998 @blenalela @punkgeekcryptid @wexhappyxfew @lovingunderratedcharacters @a-beautiful-struggle-of-life​ @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @vintagelavenderskies @mavysnavy @angels-fall2 @snafus-peckuh @alejodi0nysus @sydney-m @shadowsandmoonlight @mrseasycompany @gutsandgloryhere @ourmiraclealigner @johnny-martin-is-mypeanut @tvserie-s-world @serasvictoria @alyxzanderthebored @sergeant-spoons @labarboteuse @mysticaldeanvoidhorse @i-dont-like-bullies @silverspeirs @satan-incarnate-666 @footprintsinthesxnd @hopefuldreamers-world

[damn-behzinga]

Heart Pains

Ethan Payne Centric

summary - Ethan has a lot of things that he wanted to do before he hit thirty, having a heart attack and almost dying was not one of them.

warnings - heart attack, talks of death, hospitals, angst

request? - heyy if you don’t mind could you please do more angsty ethan centric fics with the boys please thank youuu i love your writing toooooo much

     -Can u do an angsty ethan imagine with the rest of the sidemen, it can be about anything x

     - the way you write for ethan has me FERAL pls do more for him !!!!!

Ethan had been feeling off all day but brushed it off, instead putting on a smile as they shot another Sidemen football video. They were all grouped round for a two hour shoot that would work out to three videos. He had been tossing and turning all night, too uncomfortable to sleep so he was overwhelmed with fatigue.

The shoot had to go over their original time and Ethan was shaking the last of his adrenaline finally wearing down. They were packing away as JJ suggested they go drinking. Ethan wanted to throw up. Suddenly, something was very wrong.

Ethan had stopped as the guys walked across the field. He reached and gripped his chest as his breath suddenly left him. He was wheezing, breath escaping as he tried to suck breaths in. Pain rain from his back, spreading across his shoulders. He let out a groan, loud enough that it caught attention from one of their cameramen.

“Ethan?” Kon called and everyone turned to see Ethan fall to his knees, clutching his chest.

“Help!” Ethan whined out in pain as the group ran over.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Josh called and their producer pulled out her phone.

“Ethan, what’s going on?” Josh asked and Ethan just let out a wheeze as a response. “Okay, okay, let’s lay you down.” Josh and JJ helped Ethan lie down.

“Can someone get some water?” Tobi yelled as Ethan groaned in pain. One of their friends started looking through one of the bags and pulled out a bottle.

“Ethan, we need to get fluids in you.” Vik instructed, holding the bottle to Ethan’s mouth.

Ethan shook his head, his jaw going slick. “No, jaw, stop.” “What-?” Vik asked before Ethan started gagging. “Hey, Ethan we’re going to roll you over so you can throw up.” The pain bubbled through him as he was rolled over. He threw up as his friends moved back, giving him space to get everything out of the system.

“The person says he might be having a heart attack, an ambulance is on the way.” Simon explained.

“A heart attack? He’s twenty five not sixty!” JJ exclaimed. “Ethan!” Harry suddenly screamed and they all looked and found Ethan had fallen unconscious. It was like everyone had just been slapped because immediately Josh and Tobi were checking for a pulse as Vik tried to see if Ethan was breathing.

“Fuck, he’s not breathing.” Vik yelled.

“I can’t feel a pulse! Tobi?” Josh looked up and Tobi just shook his head.

“Someone perform CPR!” Their producer yelled.

Simon pushed the guys out the way and started performing CPR, thankful for the training he had to do for football.

“Come on you son of a bitch. We were supposed to film tomorrow for my main channel. You can’t be blowing me off now!” Simon was continuing the chest compressions as much as he could, ignoring the tears running down his face. He reached thirty compressions and pulled back as JJ got ready to take over whilst Vik blew deep breaths into Ethan’s mouth.

JJ swiftly took over, muttering the lyrics to ‘Stayin’ Alive’. “Mate, you got this. Come on. You are one stubborn man, you could at least be stubborn about this. Fuck you, Ethan, you never make this shit easy for me, huh?” He let out a chuckle but it was thick with clear tears. Josh blew breaths in as Tobi took over, Harry preparing to breathe into Ethan by holding his head.

He was pressing deeply, desperately trying to see his friend laugh or cry or just blink. Two paramedics were running over and skidded beside Ethan, pulling out a defib and an oxygen mask. They wiped down his chest before placing the pads on his chest.

Harry was crying, small sobs escaping him as the medics performed CPR before the shock was ready. Suddenly, the defib called for everyone to stand back and the medics backed of as Ethan jolted, the shocks trembling through him. The medics continued CPR for another minute when Ethan started jerking, his arm shooting out. The medic stopped the CPR and started checking over him.

“Ethan? Hello, can you hear us?” One of the medics asked and Ethan let out a groan, voice muffled by the mask. The medics were immediately on call with the second ambulance who were going to come and collect Ethan to send to a cardiologist.

When the second pair of medics arrived, Ethan was breathing on his own, his breaths still wheezy. The friends backed up as they loaded Ethan onto the stretcher and carried him into the ambulance. Josh spoke to them, explaining everything to them as they attended to Ethan in the ambulance.

After a minute or two of the medics providing basic first aid to Ethan when they drove to the hospital. The group followed in their own cars, someone was on the phone to Ruth but with the chaos it was hard to identify who was doing what.

Ethan was rushed into the emergency room a few minutes before the guys managed to get to the waiting room. After ten minutes of waiting, the camera crew and producer packed up and left, asking for a call when they heard anything about Ethan.

They sat in silence as they waited for news on Ethan. They didn’t have anything to say. Ethan was young and yet had a heart attack, why? Sure, Ethan had been overweight and had his addictions in the past but he had quit. So, why now?

“Family of Ethan Payne?” The doctor asked, her voice making them jump up. “How is he?” Josh asked, wringing his hands together.

“He’s in a very fragile condition but he will be okay. The next 48 hours are very crucial in his recovery. He did have a heart attack as we initially thought. He’s going to be forgetful and probably ask you many questions without taking anything in.” The doctor noted. “But you have to wait until after twenty four hours to see him so we can monitor his heart. You say his mum is on her way?” “Yes, she lives an hour train ride away-” Harry stuttered out.

“You were there when his heart stopped for approximately three minuets which means he was dead, but within time and some therapy with a cardiologist, he will recover fully.” The doctor explained and Tobi let out a sob of relief. “You can see him but only for a couple minutes but in twenty four hours, you can see him for longer than thirty minutes. Do you have any questions?” “Yes, um, we were giving him CPR before the medics, did we hurt him?” JJ asked.

“He has a bruised rib but I advise you not to feel guilty. Without that CPR, your friend would have died. You did what you needed to do.” The doctor smiled softly. “You saved him.” The men all sighed with relief.

“Is in room 4, he’s hooked up and it looks scary but it’s saving him.” The doctor said. “I’ll leave you alone with him.” “Thank you.” Josh whispered as they all moved into the room.

Their breaths were taken as they saw Ethan attached to many machines, his breaths laboured as a nurse wrote his vitals down.

“You only get half an hour, okay? And then I’ll have to make you leave.” The men nodded and stood in silence when Ruth burst in, mascara running down her face.

“Oh my-” She sobbed. “My boy, my poor boy. You’re okay, mummy’s here now.” She kissed his cheek and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Ruth, we-” Tobi started and Ruth shook his head.

“It’s okay. You saved him.” Ruth let out a small sob. “You saved my boo.” It went quiet, the only noise being from the machine and the cries from Ruth.

“You know.” She whispered, causing each man to look at her. “Ethan never really had more family than me. My parents died when he was a toddler, his fake dad left, it was just us. But he’s not alone anymore, he has brothers now. He has a bigger family than he ever would have believed.” She let out a small smile and wiped away her tears.

“You have raised an amazing son.” Vik said softly and Ruth chuckled.

“Please, you guys have made him a man.” She smiled.

They began talking about Ethan and whatever stories they could remember about him. After thirty minutes they had to leave, walking out the hospital they started parting ways when JJ stopped.

“Did you want to stay with us tonight, Ruth? We can give you a lift in the morning.” He asked and Ruth smiled.

“I can’t impose, JJ.” She smiled.

“Please, we want you to.” He said. “You don’t have to waste money on a hotel or anything.” “If you insist.” Ruth said and Simon booked them an Uber.

The next morning, the group met up at the same time the next day. They let Ruth go in first and after a half an hour she came out and told them to go in. As they walked in, they were met with Ethan’s beaming but tired and pale face.

“Hey, fellas.” Ethan grinned tiredly.

“How are you feeling, mate?” Harry asked.

“Like I had a heart attack.” Ethan responded as the guys chuckled.

“What did they tell you about it?” Josh asked.

“I had like a block in my artery or some shit.” Ethan chuckled. “Hurt like a bitch you know.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Simon commented and Ethan started laughing before stopping to let in a wheezy breath.

“Are you okay?” Vik asked, moving to the door as if he was going to get the doctor.

“Yeah, just - fucking breathless. It’ll get better but for now it’s just annoying.” Ethan explained. “Six weeks of rest for you.” Josh chuckled. “That’s so long.” Ethan groaned.

“And then you have to go to weekly appointments!” JJ smirked sarcastically.

“Oh my- you have to be joking!” Ethan groaned louder.

“It will make your recovery quicker, mate.” Tobi scolded lightly. “Jide, stop being a dickhead.”

“I heard you guys did some CPR, saved my arse.” Ethan winked.

“Yeah, and with this attitude, I’m regretting it already, lad!” Harry laughed loudly.

“Oh you can fuck right off.” Ethan flipped him off, blinking slowly as he grew tired.

[chaoscalled]

The Harkened Dawn

[After the Battle of Winterfell the survivors try to figure out what happened.  Gendry tries to figure out what happens next.]

Nobody moved right away. They were all worried that the second they let their guards down the dead would pop back up to slaughter them all. Gendry was panting hard.  His arms and legs trembled from exertion and fear. Tormund dropped down beside him. Gendry jumped and looked down at him.

“Ah,” the wild man rumbled, “Fuck.”

Gendry looked around the yard.  Dead bodies littered the earth.  They were everywhere.  He’d never seen so much death in one place.  He saw movement coming towards them.  He lifted his mace in preparation for another horde of the dead.

“What happened?” Podrick Payne asked.

Jamie Lannister kicked at one of the collapsed White Walkers.  A look of suspicion heavy on the man’s haggard face.  Brienne of Tarth frowned and stowed her blade on her hip.

“They must’ve got the Night King.  Jon Snow said if we killed the Night King the rest would fall.”  Brienne offered.

“Is that…?” Tormund asked, sudden spirit lifting his voice.  He sat up to look and let out a rumbly laugh.  “I knew it!  A woman like you would never fall!” He crowed.

Brienne looked up at him, surprise and alarm spread over her face.  She was splattered with blood and muck.  They all were.  Brienne let a light sigh brush through her lips.  A small smile played at her lips.

“Giants milk did you some good, it would seem.” Jamie Lannister japed.

Tormund laughed heartily. He jumped down from the rampart they were standing on.  Gendry followed suit, walking over to the trio.  Podrick stared at the dead bodies at his feet.  Gendry couldn’t blame him.  He was still expecting them to put up more of a fight.

“Who do you think got him?”

Brienne frowned up at the sky.  “I’d bet the Dragon Queen.” She hedged.

“Really?” Jamie said.

“You’ve never seen Jon Snow fighting.” Tormund argued.  “I wouldn’t bet against my little crow just yet.”

Gendry spied something on the ground a few yards away.  His stomach clenched.  He moved over to it quickly and yanked it up out of the dirt.  It was one half of the staff he’d made for Arya just hours before. His jaw was tight.  He looked around at the bodies.

“Arya.” He whispered.

He saw a small woman’s body lying face down a ways away.  He hurried over and flipped it onto its back.  He might have sighed with relief, but he still didn’t know where she was. He looked through the yard.  Had he seen her?  He wondered. Had she passed him?

“Clegane!” Brienne called.

Gendry spun and saw the Hound hobbling toward them.  He was filthy.  His hair was stringy and matted with blood.  His armor was dented and his eyes held a daze felt in all the survivors. He looked up at his name.

“Dondarion?” Tormund asked.

The Hound stared at them for a minute.  Unspeaking. Unseeing.  Slowly, he gave a small shake of his head.

“Arya,” Gendry forced himself to say.  “Did you see Arya?”

The Hound looked at Gendry then.  Life returning to his eyes.  Life and grief.  Gendry could feel his breath coming shorter.  She should have been in the crypt.  He should have insisted she stay in the crypt.  She would have been safe.  But no. That wasn’t Arya.  That was never going to be Arya.  She would die with a sword in her hand.

“I tried my best, boy. She ran off somewhere after that Red Woman told her something about the God of Death.  Right before the dead swamped the room.”  The Hound shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

Gendry’s hand clenched around the staff.  She ran off. Where would she try to go?  He spun in a small circle.  Searching.  Thinking. Where would she have gone?

“Jon did it then?” Daenerys asked from the gate.  She had a horse with her.  Jorah Mormont’s body was slung over the saddle.  Two Unsullied flanked her.  She was filthy.  Apparently not all of her fighting was done from the back of her dragon.

“We haven’t seen him.” Tormund told her.  “I’ll assume it was him alright.”

Daenerys swayed on her feet. She leaned heavily against the horse’s neck.  The battle had been a drain on everyone and they were used to the physicalities of war. The Dragon Queen had not been trained in close combat.  Gendry couldn’t imagine what she must be feeling.

“Did he get to Bran? The Night King, he was going after Bran. Did Jon save him?” Daenerys insisted.

“We haven’t seen any of the Starks.” Brienne told her patiently.

Jamie looked up, suddenly. He turned his head to the crypts. “Tyrion.” Was all he said before he rushed toward the crypt.  

Everyone followed after. Even Daenerys.

“Say, the crypt was filled with dead people, wasn’t it?” Podrick started.  “Suppose they came back with all the rest.”

Brienne shot her squire a loathsome look to shut him up.  Jamie banged on the heavy door.  There was no sound from inside.  Jamie knocked again.

“Tyrion?” He called.

“Lady Sansa?” Brienne added.

“Missandei!” Daenerys cried.

Slowly, there was the sound of the door bar being lifted.  It swung open and the lot of them were standing there.  Sansa stepped out first.  She looked from face to face, landing on Brienne.  She swallowed hard.

“Jon?” She asked.

Brienne shook her head. “We haven’t seen him, My Lady.”

Sansa let out a breath. “What about Arya?  Or Bran?”

Gendry squeezed his eyes shut.

“Nobody has seen any of your siblings.” Brienne said gently.

“Has anybody checked the Godswood?” She demanded.  Her voice was stronger now.  She was holding herself straighter.

“No need, Sansa.” A voice said from the other side of the stone archway.  Gendry turned and saw Bran in his wheelchair.  Jon Snow was pushing him along.  Gendry’s heart soared.  Arya was there.  Tripping along beside them, barely able to hold herself up.  Blood covered half of her face.  Her hair was sweaty and stringy.  She was filthy from head to toe and Gendry had never seen a more beautiful sight.

Tormund let out a laugh and barreled into Jon.  “I knew you’d do it!  I knew you’d kill the Night King!” Tormund crowed.

Jon slapped the man’s shoulder amiably.  “Wasn’t me.” Jon said.

“No?” Tormund stepped back and looked down at Bran.

“Theon?” Sansa asked.

Jon looked at her with pain in his eyes.

“He fought valiantly.” Bran announced.  “But in the end, it was Arya that saved us.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Arya.  Everyone’s except Gendry’s whose eyes hadn’t left her since she appeared.  She wasn’t really looking at anybody.  Gendry didn’t know if she even knew where she was.  Or who was with her.  Jon touched her shoulder and she jerked away.

“It’s over, Arya.” Jon told her quietly.  “You did it. It’s over now.”

Arya blinked slowly and nodded.  She looked up and around at all the people.  Sansa moved quickly, engulfing Arya in a hug.  Arya didn’t respond at first, but slowly her arms moved up to return the embrace.

“I’ve never been happier that you are so very strange.” Sansa cried.

The Hound stepped forward next.  He didn’t hug her, he only set his big hand on her shoulder.  Arya looked up at him and tears pooled in her eyes.  Gendry saw unshed tears fresh in the Hound’s dark eyes to match.

“I didn’t want him to die for me.” She said, quietly.  “I took him off.”

The Hound nodded.  “It was him that chose to die for you.  And with good reason.”  The Hound smiled at her.  “Don’t go getting kind on me again.”

Arya nodded.  There was a numbness to it that she couldn’t seem to shake.  Gendry felt sickened.  She had suffered enough.  She had seen enough.  Hadn’t she?

Her eyes caught his suddenly.  Gendry smiled at her and raised the half of her spear he’d found. She looked at it and gave him a tired smile.

“Is that for me?” She asked.

Gendry shook his head. “What do you need a weapon like this for?”

He was aware of the stares. The murmuring.  He didn’t care.  She was alive.  They were both alive.  They had survived literal death and come out smiling.

“How many did we lose?” Arya asked, suddenly serious.  Remembering where they were.

Daenerys shook her head. “That is tomorrow’s problem.”

“Torgo Nudho?” Missandei whispered.

Daenerys looked at her friend.  “I don’t know.”

Missandei’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not sob.  She gave her queen a small nod and looked away to the mountain of bodies. Gendry felt for her.  He hoped she was as lucky as he was.

Something touched his hand. He looked down and saw Arya’s hand in his.  He glanced at Jon who was squinting at the action.  Arya tugged Gendry to follow her.  He cast his eyes nervously around the group.  The Hound was glaring at him with about as much animosity as a man could put in a stare.  Sansa was smiling softly.  A knowing tilt in her brow.  Bran met Gendry’s eyes plainly.  He smiled at him and inclined his head ever so slightly.

He followed Arya.  Not that he had much of a choice.  She was barely keeping her feet, but her hold on him was firm.  She looked up at the towers of her castle.  Some had been toppled.  Others burnt. Gendry wondered which had been her room and if it still stood.

He expected her to lead him up to a room.  Maybe even back to the storeroom they had left a few long hours before.  Instead, Arya led him down into a cavernous tunnel below the castle.  It remained mostly untouched.  A few fallen corpses were scattered here and there, but the deeper they walked, the fewer bodies they found.

Suddenly, the tunnel opened up into a steamy pit.  All around them were pools of water.  A few even bubbled with heat.  There were a few torches lit around the cavern, but the water itself seemed to glow on its own.  Curious.  Gendry thought.  He tried to recall what Arya had said about the hot springs when she’d told him about Winterfell all those years ago.

When he looked back to Arya, she had already shucked her clothes and was standing naked an arm’s length away from him.  Gendry let his eyes drink her in.  He’d never get enough of seeing her.  All of her.

Arya didn’t say anything to him.  She turned and stepped down into one of the pools.  She sighed at the warm waters and shut her eyes.  Gendry ripped his battle dirtied clothes away from him as fast as he could.  He cursed his boots when his laces snared and tangled together.  At last, he was bare and stepping down into the nice waters.

Gendry found a bucket with soap and a rag on one of the ledges.  He took the washcloth and dipped it in the water.  Gendry moved to Arya slowly.  Her eyes were still shut and he had seen how jumpy she’d been earlier with Jon.

Gendry settled a hand on the crook of her neck to hold her steady.  With the other he used the washcloth to gently wipe away the blood on her face.  Arya opened her eyes and stared at him as he cleaned her.  She blinked hard when his rag caught the split in her forehead.

“Sorry.” He murmured, trying to clean around it.

Arya let him clean her face a few seconds longer before her hand came up to catch his in hers.  She pulled the washcloth away from him and ran it over his face.  Gendry shut his eyes as she worked.  Her hand was planted on his cheek and then she was kissing him again.

Gendry inhaled sharply through his nose and pulled her against him.  Arya let out something between a sigh and a sob.  Her fingers clutched at his bare shoulders and her legs wrapped around his waist.  She slid down over him, her mouth locked on Gendry’s.  He could feel her tears on his face, but he knew better than to say anything. Some of those tears were likely his anyway.  Instead, he pretended it was sweat from the heat of the baths.  Or steam.

Gendry’s hand went between them.  He found her clit and worked at it until she shook with release.  Only then did Gendry let himself have his.  Arya gasped against his mouth and a horrible sob ripped through her immediately after.

“Shh shh.” Gendry fell back against the wall of the pool, holding her to him and rubbing her back. She shook in his arms, her head pressed up under his chin.  Her arms were wrapped around herself.

“I thought I was going to die.” She whispered.

“I know.” Gendry pressed his lips to the top of her head.  “I was scared, too.”

“I’m so tired, Gendry.” She confessed.

“I’m sure there’s a bed somewhere that’s not been destroyed.” He pulled her hair back from her face.  “If not, those grain sacks were actually pretty comfortable.”

Arya snorted against his chest.  Then she laughed.  Harder and harder until she was laughing and crying at the same time.  Gendry laughed with her.  Relieved that he was able to bring some levity to her pain.

Arya pushed away from him and dipped her head under the water.  She moved to the bucket and took the soap to her hair.  The water swirled with browns and reds until they disappeared into the fissures.  She floated on her back in the water, staring up at the black, stone ceiling.  Gendry didn’t know what she was thinking about. All he could think about was the future.

The dead had marched on her castle.  Thousands of people had stood and died.  Yesterday there had been no future.  Yesterday there was only death.  Now, Gendry could only imagine a life with Arya.  A life he was petrified she wouldn’t want.  He would follow her anywhere, but she may not want him.

She had only come to him the night before because she was certain that that was it.  She was here now because she needed someone to hold her and soothe her.  It didn’t have to be him.  He knew that. She could have anyone in all of Westeros.  Anyone in Essos, too, most like.  And Gendry couldn’t help but think of the two of them running off together.  Of a child or two that they might have together. Stark children, not bastards.  The children of a hero.  The slayer of the Night King.  The bringer of the dawn.

Gendry could get a shop anywhere.  He was a good enough smith he could plant himself wherever it was Arya saw fit to go. She didn’t mind a simple life.  At least she hadn’t before.  Would the Bringer of the Dawn expect more?  Would she prefer luxury he would be ill equipped to give?  Would she leave him for someone better?

“Are you alright?” Arya asked.  She was suddenly in front of him again.

Gendry forced a smile onto his face.  “Me? You’re the one that single handedly saved the world.  I should be asking you.”

Arya frowned at him. “I think the steam might be getting to you.”

She stood up and stepped out of the pool.  Gendry followed suit.  If he was going to have to give her up someday, he was going to be damn sure he spent all the time he could with her while he had the chance.  

Arya picked up the half staff from where Gendry had dropped it in his haste to be rid of his clothes. She had dressed in her worn leathers. She twirled it between her fingers. Gendry looked at her belt.  The catspaw dagger was still on her left hip, but Needle was gone.  He wondered if she’d left it somewhere for safe keeping.

“This was really good work. I wish I’d managed to keep a better handle on it.” Arya said, starting up the tunnel.

“I’ll try not to hold that over your head.” Gendry teased.

“Maybe you can make me a new weapon.” Arya suggested.  “I don’t really need dragon glass anymore, do I?”

Gendry wanted to touch her again, but she was twirling that staff back and forth between her hands. Gendry frowned.  He remembered how happy she had been when he’d brought the staff to her the night before.

“What happened to Needle?”

“Nothing.”  Arya gave a nonchalant shrug.  “You don’t need to make me anything else I suppose.”

No. I’m going to.  Gendry squinted at her silhouette.  The sun had risen high in the sky.  Gendry felt himself smile.  The days had been grey and overcast every day that he had spent in the North.  Today, the sky was blue.  The clouds had dispersed completely.  Vanished with the dead.

The yard was empty save a few survivors sifting through the dead for familiar faces.  Arya led them to the great hall.  Even through the thick wooden doors, Gendry could hear the cheers and chatter of the occupants.  Arya could hear them, too.  She froze outside the doors.

Gendry moved around her and grabbed the door handle.  Arya looked up at him.  Her eyes had gone to steel.  Arya passed the staff from her right hand to her left and took up his hand in her own. She took a deep, slow breath and nodded at him to open the door.

The moment the door opened, the great hall fell silent.  It was full to brimming with survivors, few that they were.  Jon, Sansa, Daenerys, and Bran all sat at the head table.  The chair in the center was empty.  Arya stared around the room, her eyes taking in everything.  Everyone.

Gendry tugged at her hand, pulling her into the room.  He got her to the middle of the room and dropped her hand, stepping away.  He saw Daenerys and the Starks rise from their seats. Gendry grinned at her.

“My good people of the North, may I present, the lady Arya Stark.” Daenerys Targaryen started.

“Bringer of the Dawn and savior of mankind.” Sansa continued.

“It was she and she alone that slayed the Night King and led us out of the Long Night.” Jon announced.

“Azor ahai.  The princess that was promised.” Bran finished, solemnly.

A cheer erupted through the room.  Arya stood in a daze amidst it all.  Gendry watched her as she struggled to keep her expression neutral.  Her smile won out.  Big and bright.  The kind of smile that made everyone smile along with her.  Gendry was no exception.

Brienne and the Hound ushered her to the head table.  Sansa guided her to the seat at the center.  Someone brought forward a plate of food for her.  Another brought drink.  Arya’s dazed look came back.  She smiled, but her eyes had stopped seeing.

A chant started up around him.  The people were all cheering, “Bringer of the Dawn.”

Someone touched Gendry’s shoulder.  He spun around toward the table.  Podrick held out a plate of food for him.  Gendry took it and sat down on the bench.  The Hound sat at his right.  Tormund on his left.  Podrick sat in front of him beside Brienne and Jamie Lannister.  Tyrion was beside his brother.

Gendry took a bite of some sort of meat without really tasting it.  He couldn’t see how anybody had the energy to cheer like they were.  Gendry didn’t think he’d ever have it in him to move again.  A cup appeared in front of him.  The Hound’s big hand slapped his back.

“Drink, boy.” The Hound told him in a voice much softer than any he’d ever heard from the big man.

“You shouldn’t call him that, you know.”  Jamie Lannister said.

“Fuck’s it to you, Lannister?” The Hound growled back.

Jamie nodded at Gendry. “He’s a soldier, you know.  He fought in the Vanguard.  He held his own.  One would think he deserves a bit more respect than to be called ‘boy.’”

“Makes no difference to me.” Gendry said.  His voice was a lot heavier than he expected.

“What would you like me to call him, Kingslayer?” The Hound growled as if Gendry hadn’t spoken.

Jamie stared at Gendry now. Stared and squinted.  Gendry picked up the cup of wine the Hound had so generously poured for him and drank.  If only to avoid Lannister’s stares.

“Gods, you’re one of Robert’s.” Jamie uttered.

“Hm?” Gendry said. “What?”

Jamie narrowed his eyes at him.  “Don’t play innocent with me.  You’re a soldier.  And a Baratheon.  I’d bet my house on it.”

Tyrion was staring at Gendry now, too.  “Now that you mention it, I do see something of dear King Robert in the lad.”  The Imp added.

Gendry pushed his plate back and stood.  He wasn’t ashamed of his parentage.  There may have been a time when he was, but he could hardly remember that time now. Still, he’d be damned if he sat at a table with the Lannisters that once tried to have him murdered discussing his resemblance to a father they did kill.

“Prince Gendry, then?” The Hound ground out.  “That what you suggest I call him?”

Gendry gave a start. He’d never heard an honorific set before his name before.  Certainly not one with so high a rank.  He didn’t think he liked it.  But heard amidst the fray of survivors chanting, ‘Princess Arya’ the effect was overwhelming.

Gendry rushed out of the great hall.  Princess Arya.  Azor Ahai. Bringer of the Dawn.  Killer of the Night King.  The princess that was promised.  Warrior of legend.  He leaned against the wall and tried to pull his thoughts together.  He slumped down into the mud.  A corpse lay next to him.  Its neck was twisted unnaturally so its head sat upright against the wall. Arya was a warrior from prophecy. Songs would be sung in her honor. She would be hailed with honor for the rest of her days.  And who was Gendry, but a king’s lowborn bastard?

He knocked his head back against the wall and shut his eyes.  It was cold, but he barely felt it.  The sun was warm on his face.  The sun he only lived to see because of Arya.  He shut his eyes.

He loved her.  He knew that from the first moment she appeared in his forge.  He loved her.  And he could never have her.  It had been what stopped him all those many years ago.  She wanted him to come with her to Winterfell.  She wanted to be his family, but he knew he would never be allowed to stay with her.  She would be married off to some highborn lord and Gendry would be alone again.

Being King Robert’s bastard son had given him hope.  He could prove himself.  He could get legitimized.  Become someone worthy of marrying her.  No one could stand in their way then.  He flirted shamelessly with her in the weeks past.  And she’d flirted back.  And then when she’d… gods.  

He’d been so glad he had the forethought to bathe before taking her staff to her.  When he’d gone, he had a mind to confess himself to her. To explain why he’d turned away from her all those years ago.  That it wasn’t because he didn’t care for her, but because he had cared for her too much. He couldn’t bear the thought of one day becoming nothing to her.  She had other things on her mind.  And Gendry was all too happy to help her get them off.

He couldn’t help but feel like they were right where they had been with the Brotherhood all over again. No matter how high Gendry fought to climb to a level worthy of her, she was always going to be just out of reach. Princess Arya.  He was no prince.

Gendry didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep.  He absolutely didn’t remember moving from the wall to a bed.  Certainly not one so soft.  So warm.  Gendry snuffled and rolled.  His hand touched another body and for a moment he was still fighting.  Gendry searched for his weapon, reeling backwards out of the bed.  He let out a shout when the shadowy body on the bed began to move.

“Come on, Gendry.” Arya’s tired voice said.  “Get back in bed.”

Gendry sat on the floor, squinting through the darkness.  When had it gotten so dark again?  He wrestled his legs free of the blankets and stood up.  He had no weapon.  He had no clothes.  Only a new undershirt covering him.

“Hey,” Arya’s voice insisted.  “They’re gone.  The battle’s over.”

“Arya?” Gendry breathed. Gendry shook his head slowly.  “Princess Arya.”  He corrected, remembering.

Something sailed across the room and smacked him in the face.  He caught it as it dropped.  She’d flung a pillow at him.  He looked up at her, his eyes adjusting to the darkness at last.  Arya was glaring at him.  The way she had the first time he’d ever called her ‘M’lady’ when they were traveling the King’s Road with Yoren.

“I’m not a princess. Don’t call me that.”  She bit.

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Gendry said seriously.

Another pillow came soaring at him, but he dodged that one.  He laughed at her for a half second before she pounced.  They went down in a tangle of limbs.  Arya jabbed her little fists into his sides.  It hurt more than it used to, but he still laughed.  He wrested Arya’s wrists into one of his hands, unsurprised when she brought her knee up in response.  Gendry twisted his crotch away at the last second.

“Is this how you killed the Night King, then?” Gendry laughed.

“I killed him with a dagger.  Don’t you make me use it on you, too!” She howled.

Gendry dropped his head back and looked up at her.  The wound on her forehead had been stitched up.  Her hair was messy.  She’d never tied it back up after the hot springs.  Gendry slipped his hand from where it was holding her knee back and cupped her face.

“I saw the Red Woman.” Arya blurted suddenly.

Gendry dropped both hands, releasing her face and hands.  Arya sat up, she was still straddling his belly and looking down at him, but the moment was gone.  Gendry set to memorizing her face.  He didn’t know how many more opportunities he’d have to do that.

“I hope she left the leeches at Dragonstone.”

“She’s dead now.” Arya announced.

Gendry frowned.  “You?  Or…?”

“Neither.  The way Ser Davos tells it, she just blew away in the wind.”

“That’s unsettling.”

Arya shifted over him. His cock twitched eagerly in response. Gendry clenched his jaw. Determined not to make a fool of himself.

“We have to go to King’s Landing.”

Gendry squinted at her. “We do?”

Arya nodded. “Cersei’s still on the iron throne.  She won’t be staying there.”

Gendry sighed.  Didn’t they deserve a break?  “Suppose you’ll be killing the Mad Queen next.  Really giving the Kingslayer a run for his money.”

Arya barked out a short laugh.  He grinned. “You don’t have to come.” She told him.

Gendry’s smile fell. He sat up, knocking Arya back into his lap.  “What do you mean?  Do you not want me to go?”  Anger appeared in him out of nowhere.  “I may not have killed the bloody Night King, but I held my own just as well as anyone out there.  You think I’d be here if I weren’t a fighter?  I was on the frontlines.  I stood and fought in the Vanguard.  I was among the first to have to deal with those fuckers.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to Storm’s End?  Restart your family line?”

Gendry pulled back. “What are you on about?”

Arya smiled at him. “As far as I know, you’re the last Baratheon.  Sort of makes you a lord, doesn’t it?”

Gendry was shaking his head. “I’m a bastard.  That doesn’t make me anything.”

Arya wriggled her hips down against his growing erection.  Gendry sucked in a breath between his teeth.  His hands gripped her hips.  She knew exactly what she was doing.

“Ramsay Bolton was Ramsay Snow before his father legitimized him.  He was Lord of Winterfell before my brother and sister killed him.”

“Mm…” Gendry was trying to focus.  Her hands were petting over his neck and chest.  “I’m not legitimized.  My father’s dead.”

“I happen to be good friends with a few high lords and ladies.  I don’t know if you heard about it.  I sort of saved the world.  Turns out, any one of them would be very much inclined to give me anything I ask for.”

“Why would you do that?” Gendry moved a hand down to her thigh.  She was wearing only her undershirt, same as him.  It made it easy for him to find her sex.  She was already wet.  It made Gendry’s cock impossibly harder.

“Why else?” She asked, her eyelids fluttering at his touch.  “I want to call you My Lord and see how you like it.”  Gendry dipped a finger into her warmth.  She moaned low.  “Or maybe My Prince.  You’d be next in line after Daenerys and Jon.”

“You aren’t first in line now?” Gendry teased.  He set his other hand at her breast, teasing the nipple through the thin fabric.  “Thought saving the world would give you the best seat.”

Arya let out a breathy laugh.  “Iron Throne isn’t the best seat.  My father said it was the most uncomfortable chair in the realm.”

“Hm.  Melt it down.  Make something cozier.” Gendry suggested.

Arya’s breath grew shakier, her hands clenched at his shoulders.  Another moan slipped through her sealed lips.  “If… if only I knew a smith.”  She sighed.  “T-to melt it down for me.”

“Oh, no.  I’m going to be a Lord.  The Illiterate Lord of Storm’s End doesn’t have time for melting down iron thrones.” Gendry teased.

Arya let out a gasp as her whole body shuddered over him.  Gendry pulled his hand away and tilted his head to find her lips.  Arya gripped his face between her hands and kissed him hard.  She reached between them and her hand gripped Gendry’s stiff cock.  

“The Illiterate Lord has time for whatever I say he’d got time for.” Arya said, her voice strong.

Gendry kissed her again. “As M’lady commands.”  He agreed.  Although he would have agreed to have his eyes pecked out by crows in that moment.  The way she was working her hips was sapping away any and all of his sense.

He gripped both her thighs just before he came and hoisted her off of him.  He spilled himself onto the stone floor, gasping against Arya’s mouth. He lay back on the floor, panting. Arya was frowning down at him.

“What did you do that for?” She asked.

Gendry had no idea what she meant.  He honestly couldn’t think about anything at the moment.

“What’d I do what?” He mumbled.

Arya pointed at his mess on the floor.  “You didn’t do that last night.”

Gendry hummed.  “Wasn’t worried about fathering any bastards last night.”

“None of my children would ever be bastards.” Arya said solemnly.

Gendry shut his eyes and nodded.  “I suppose any child born of Azor Ahai would have to be legitimized.”

Arya was quiet.  Pensive.  She used to talk all the time.  Anything that popped into her head she would blurt out.  Now, she thought quietly.  A part of Gendry wished she was still that chattering little girl he had met. Back before he knew her true name.

He sat up again, suddenly. “Do you want children?”

Arya looked at him, her eyes cool and steady.  “I have a few names left.”

Gendry swallowed, his heart quickening.  “But after. When you finished?  You want a family?”

Arya rolled her eyes at him. “I have a family.”

“Arya….” He needed her to say… something.  

“I do.  I have Jon, Sansa, Bran, and you.”  She said.  “But a pack can always get bigger.”

Gendry felt himself smiling. Then he felt himself crying.  Was he really so happy?  She touched his face tenderly.

“You want to be my family, right?” She asked more hesitantly.  “Because you didn’t before.”

“I did.  I do.  I always have.  Always. But I wasn’t a wolf.  I didn’t think I’d be allowed.”

“Anyone can learn to howl.”