#do they come from entirely different walks of life and probably wouldn’t all get along? yeah

[andro-dino]

have you ever seen a grown man (19 year old) smile

[howlsofbloodhounds]

What's your opinion on Dadmare aus?

I don’t think much about Dadmare aus, or not very often. I don’t have anything against them and whenever I come across content i usually think it’s cute and like the post before moving on, but i don’t seek it out and hardly engage in it.

This is mostly because i haven’t found an interpretation of dadmare aus ive been able to get invested in, most interpretations ive come across just aren’t for me.

My biggest “issues” (but not really) with most interpretations is that nightmare is almost always portrayed as a perfect dad who can do no wrong, all the other sanses are infantilized to hell and back, and as @/signanothername said in their own post, none of the characters feel like their own people.

Their relationships to eachother and Nightmare all feel very one note and cut from the same mold most of the time. All the same reactions, all completely trust Nightmare and kiss the ground he walks on.

I don’t mind found family, but I don’t like it when the found family is shoved into little boxes and cannot differ from them.

Nightmare is 500+ years old, did not grow up with any significant parent figure in his life despite winging it on taking care of Dream, and spent his 6 early years of life being routinely abused by all the adults around him. And then he was horribly transformed and corrupted.

Why would he take on a parental role again when the last time he tried something like that he was also a child, he had no other choice, and everything went to shit despite it? Wouldn’t he also struggle like any actual parent would.

If he spent 500+ years isolated and only interacting with others when forced to, or needing something from them like negativity, wouldn’t that life experience translate into trying to care for this group of traumatized men.

And they are men. They aren’t boys. They’re adults. Unless they’re supposed to be actual children when they meet Nightmare, or one or all of them are age regressed, then I don’t see the point in infantilizing them or treating them as if they’re children. None of these guys are looking for a father figure.

Adults can be found family, there doesn’t need to be any dad or child or siblings boxes to me.

Especially not when Horror already has a brother, Killer’s concept of family dynamics is also very likey screwed to hell and back (just look at what he thinks about any relationship, there’s no such thing as “equals” in his eyes, killer in dadmare dynamics would probably just view it as another role and game he has to play and “dadmare” is his new Chara), Nightmare killed his mother and his currently trying to kill his brother after trapping him in stone for years.

Dust killed his brother and is constantly haunted by his hallucination, Cross destroyed his entire AU and also came from an entirely different AU with a completely different life from the others. (Alphys being his sister, for example. Horror having lobotomized his Alphys and Killer having likely killed and tortured his many times and Dust having murdered his.)

So tldr: I don’t mind dadmare, but it personally isn’t for me. I like found family bad sanses, but not if there’s roles assigned and not if it’s not earned.

I don’t like Nightmare being the perfect father somehow and the sanses being treated like children even though they’re 30-40+ adults and aren’t looking for a father figure.

I prefer dysfunctional found family dynamics with the bad sanses.

Also that some people aren’t likely to be overly emotionally involved or invested in these dynamics for a very long time if at all, even if he plays along as if its all a game or some elaborate test being played on him— either because he thinks he has to, or because it’s something new and he’s curious. He may even get bored of the dynamics eventually, and start asking Nightmare when it’s game over.

Which could lead to something very interesting if he realizes it was never supposed to be a game or a test.

[alfredosauce50]

Night at the Museum

[America x reader]

Rating: M Word count: 5, 887 Synopsis: You and Alfred decide to visit New York’s Museum of Natural History for old time’s sake. In a stroke of bad luck, you two get locked in overnight, unaware and unprepared for the dangers lurking within. It’s where history comes alive, and he ends up in a dangerous game of cat and mouse with a bloodthirsty warlord. The whole time, he’s also wrestling with his feelings for you, and he doesn’t know which is harder. Solipsism: knowledge of anything outside one’s own mind is unsure; the external world and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind.

“The more you know about the past, the better prepared you are for the future.” — Theodore Roosevelt

“Man, we haven’t been here since we were little kids,” Alfred took it all in as he made it inside, to where he was greeted by the skeleton of Tyrannosaurus rex in an awe-inspiring pose. With its head bowed toward the entrance, he and other patrons were greeted by a set of razor-sharp teeth grinning down with a hunger for the ages. “I wonder if anything’s changed. Probably a lot.”

“A bunch of stuff, actually. But it looks like they did a huge revamp on all the wax figures,” You lifted your gaze from a brochure you collected from the front. The museum of natural history wasn’t half as impressive as the Smithsonian, but it had a special place in both of your hearts. “They’re meant to be super realistic now. You know, the whole ‘history comes alive’ pizazz.”

“Huh. Then what would be the difference between here and Madame Tussaud’s?” He glanced at you.

“The people here are worth remembering.”

“Good point.”

As local New Yorkers, it was tradition to come back every once in a while. Yellow cabs, subway crazies, and the best pizza in the world — there was no other city quite like the Big Apple, and you two decided to swing by during your semester break to reconnect with your roots. Needless to say, it was nice to get away from the upbeat chaos of life on campus.

“You think you’re gonna go to Arthur’s Christmas party?” He asked you, peering around the room of American history. There was a shining stagecoach pulled by four black horses, mannequins in confederate and union uniforms with their guns trained at each other, a giant moose, and eagles watching over everything else.

“Well, we kinda have to. Can you imagine how upset he’d be if we didn’t? He’d probably be heartbroken.”

“Yeah, but I get crazy diarrhea every time.” He scoffed, eyes wide as he recalled blowing up the toilet last year.

”You don’t have to remind me.” You shuddered.

“I know, I was just saying. I was thinking we could go somewhere fun,” Alfred gave you an expectant look as he tried to sell you on it. “We could go skating, or just watch a movie back at my place. What do you say?”

“Hm, I don’t know. I’m really craving his scones.”

“Seriously?” 

”But not as much as our time together,” You smiled, watching him light up. Taking his hand, you pulled him along and said this with a laugh. “I’d rather go to the dumpster with you than the Met. You’re my best friend.”

“Yeah.” He softened his gaze. You said that, but the way you held his hand said otherwise. Or was it because you two were that close? Either way, he was starting to go down the pipeline he swore that he wouldn’t.

”Are you okay?” You asked.

”Yeah, I’m fine.” He adjusted his glasses.

“Wanna kiss it better?” You swung his arm playfully.

Alfred glared at you as the only diversion from the fact that he was blushing. It was so like you to say things like that. You were attractive, and you knew it. With your sense of humor, it made for a dangerous game. But he’d been playing it for a while. He covered your entire face with his hand, then pushed you down to a nearby bench in one clean movement.

”Hey!” 

“Hey yourself.” Alfred walked off with his hands in his pockets, as cool as a cucumber.

This might’ve been all fun and games with you, but you weren’t the loneliest animal on the planet here. Not that it made his feelings for you any less real. He liked you, and not because you were an idea in his head.

You were real, every strange thought and neuron of your imagination. You could be as sharp as a tack when you wanted to be. He loved your mind and the way it worked, or at least when you weren’t tantalizing him.

“Remember when we were little we used to take baths together?” You sprung up out of the blue.

”Barely.” Alfred exhaled, wildly unprepared for what just came out of your mouth. But before he reacted any further, he reminded himself just who he was talking to. “That’s probably why we did it in the first place. Why?”

You were sleeping over that time, as you always did every Friday after your philosophy class. Your things were strewn all over his bedroom, like a half-eaten cup noodle, some snacks, and the clothes you brought over.

While he browsed the rest of the displays in the room, he let himself get immersed in that particular memory.

That was when you caught up with him again, even having the nerve to smile up at him with ‘hehe’ written all over your face. He glowered down at you, but really, he was just happy that you were by his side again.

You had a thirty second rebound before doing or saying the next pain in the ass thing, but he forgave you even faster than that. And it had been that way since horseshoe crabs were the only thing roaming the Earth.

”You think we could fit in the bathtub?”

“If you’re asking if I wanna take a bath with you, it’s an immediate no. We’re way too old for that.”

“You don’t have to be such a prude,” You mumbled, rolling your head away. “I was just wondering.”

“I’m not a prude.” He grumbled.

“And it’s not like I haven’t seen your dick before.”

“Yeah, when I was little!” 

“Can’t imagine it’s grown much since then.”

He glared at the ceiling, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of seeing how embarrassed he was.

As much as he’d like to pull his pants down to prove you wrong, he didn’t. Someone had to uphold a sense of decency around here, even if that person had to be him, the worst possible example of it, if he was one at all.

“If you’re done, I’m gonna go to sleep,” He sat up and twisted around to fluff up his pillow. You were starting to drift off by then, but he didn’t let you off so easily. “Don’t let me catch you peeking or I’ll molest you.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, geez.”

And to think he used to be such a cute kid, kicking his ball over your fence just so he could come over to play. You both grew up since then, and with that, came his awful sense of humor among other things.

But if you asked him, he learned from the best.

“You know the nicest people make the best Nazis?” You asked, walking by a glass display of three wax figures. Sakagawea, a young Shoshone woman who guided Lewis and Clarke on their expedition to the Pacific.

“Do they?” He narrowed his eyes in interest.

“Nice people look the other way and just wanna get along with everybody else.” You said, towing him along. “Have the whole country doing that, plus a heap of propaganda, you could get away with anything.”

“Well, if I was a German, I wouldn’t buy into it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alfred frowned, genuinely offended. “I’m not a freakin’ racist.”

”Being scorned is your kryptonite,” You pointed out, getting him to roll his eyes. So he didn’t like to deviate from standards, and being a raving right-wing was one at the time. “And trust me when I say you would be.”

”That’s why the second amendment exists,” He smiled sagely with a hint of mischief. “If the government was to push some crazy agenda into us, the rednecks wouldn’t have it. We shape society to what we want.”

”What if the society you want isn’t the society someone else wants?” You asked, stopping in front of an exhibit of a male Algonquin warrior. “We all worship something. What’s normal to you might be crazy for someone else.”

”I guess you’re right,” He agreed, gazing upon the person who lived — and believed — in things drastically different than did. His brows came together as he marveled at the man who stood over him, a chief’s son who had been dead for well over a thousand years.

Allen was his name. He had striking scarlet eyes, dark maroon hair, tawny brown skin, and a toned body from a life of hunting and gathering. As he stared out into the middle distance, there was something uncanny about him, like he could come alive at any second, but didn’t.

“What do you think this guy worshipped?” Alfred murmured faintly, strangely captivated by him.

It was humbling to be in the presence of all of these historical figures, but intimidating to imagine them as people who existed. He was a history nut, and one thing he understood was how astonishingly cruel and violent the past could be. From the swashbuckling tales of the Wild West to the burning sands of Ancient Egypt, everything was best enjoyed from the comforts of his modern American home. Or in this case, a museum.

Where all of the exhibits were mere imitations of the long dead and gone, it would take no less than a miracle for any of them to come back to life. Little did he know, a miracle was exactly what he’d be in for tonight. 

You two poked around some more, eventually ending up in the Northern European section of the museum. Nothing really stood out to him besides the Vikings, who also caught the attention of the general public.

“This man was the greatest viking to have ever lived. Mathias Densen, the king of Danes,” A guide showed off a wax exhibit to a crowd of tourists. You and Alfred were among them, having taken the liberty to tune in.

Some took pictures, others whispered amongst themselves at the impressive lookalike made to imitate a legend out of the sagas. He had blonde hair swept up in the front in an unruly mane, and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. With his arm raised and axe in hand, he was frozen in time, suspended in a pose so natural, it looked like he’d bring it down at any given moment.

“He was the most feared warrior in all of Scandinavia. When he threw an axe at his enemy, he never missed. But all blood and gore aside, he will go down in history as one of the best leaders and explorers of all time.”

”Wouldn’t wanna get him angry, huh?” Alfred gave you a side-eye, returning his gaze to the information plate. That was when he saw a portrait of a woman who was supposedly the only one who could go toe-to-toe with his ruthlessness. “You know, she kinda looks like you.”

”Really?” You leaned over. “I don’t see it.”

”No way. You guys are like twins!” He exclaimed.

“Maybe just the eyes.”

“Maybe she’s your long-lost ancestor or something.”

After another hour of walking around and talking, you and Alfred left to get to the exit. It was approaching closing time, and you two were among the last to leave. A security guard stood near the revolving doors, bidding farewell to guests. But before he could acknowledge you two, Alfred stopped and patted around his shirt.

“Shit, I left my glasses.” He winced.

Neither of you two thought it would’ve been problem to go back and retrieve them at the time. Who would’ve thought they’d made the security so much tighter that it would end up the biggest mistake of your lives?

After sweeping room after room, he eventually found them on the ground next to a bench. Sliding them onto his nose, he picked up a brisk jog as he made his way back downstairs. But by then, it was too late.  

“Now let’s get out before we get locked in.”

”Don’t jinx us.” 

”Not gonna happen.” 

And he said that so confidently too. Because when he pushed at the revolving door, it didn’t budge. 

”What’s wrong?” You asked from behind. 

“Nothing, just give me a sec…” He rattled it a few more times, but to no avail. Then, he let out a heavy breath as he admitted the one thing he thought could never happen. “… Okay, I think we’re locked in.”

“You’re joking.” You blurted.

You brushed past him to give the door a strong shake, needing that same taste of defeat before believing it yourself. Sure enough, it was locked shut, and would likely stay locked all the way up til morning.

“Oh my God, we are. What are we gonna do?”

”Call the cops.” He suggested, pulling out his phone to dial 9-11. After a few tries, to which he stared at you tensely with it pressed up to his ear, he found that the call kept failing. “Annnnd the cops aren’t picking up.”

“Well, keep trying! Call Arthur or something.” 

For the next thirty minutes, you both paced around while trying to reach local government services, then friends or loved ones. It slowly became apparent that you two weren’t getting out anytime soon.

You weren’t the type to express it, let alone say it, but you were getting scared and uncomfortable.

So was he, but like hell he’d let it show. Not because he didn’t have the balls to admit it, but it was the last thing you needed right now. You weren’t looking at him, and he knew in an instant that you were on the verge.

“We’re not gonna make it out, are we?”

Alfred was crushed with so much guilt, he couldn’t even react when the lights dimmed, plunging the museum into a pitch-black darkness. His eyes stayed wide with remorse, even when he couldn’t see you anymore.

In that moment, he came over and hugged you as tight as he could, lips pursed in a deep frown. It wasn’t every day that he could hold you like this, but he set aside every shard of his shattered ego to do it.

Even if he had to do it in the dark.

There couldn’t be a better metaphor for his feelings. Alfred had always been too afraid to tell you how he felt, and if he did, he’d do it in a way that was hidden from plain sight. This was one of those times.

It was one thing to admit he was scared. It was another to say he was sorry. But telling you how much you truly meant to him was damn near impossible. So instead of doing any of the above, he let you sleep on him.

He had his back on a cold hard bench while you drifted away. There was no way he was getting any sleep tonight, but this was just his karma. So he stayed like that for the next few hours, to which you began to stir. 

“You good?” He asked in a soft murmur.

”Yeah,” You rubbed your eyes. “Just a little thirsty.”

”I’m pretty sure there’s a fountain outside.” He helped you up, putting on his glasses. “I’ll come with you.” 

”No, it’s fine.” You sighed, getting up to leave the room. 

”Hey,” Alfred softened his gaze, getting you to slow to a stop. He was so exhausted, all of his walls were coming down. And he couldn’t stand to bottle it up inside him any longer. “I’m sorry, okay? This was all my fault.”

”It’s okay. We can’t all be born perfect.” You cracked a smile, walking off. But the happy note only lasted so long once you got to the hallway outside. It was so dark, you could barely see the ground beneath you.

With nothing but the wall lamps to illuminate the empty halls, the institution turned into nothing but a graveyard: a dim labyrinth of the long dead and gone. And like all graveyards, there were ghosts.

The black outline of wax figures lined your peripherals, and you gazed at them nervously as you made your way to the fountain. After a few satisfying gulps, you began making your way back to the room. That was when you heard the echo of footsteps in the distance, too far away to have made sense at the time. Someone was at the end of the hall, and it couldn’t have been Alfred.

“Hello?” You called out to the source.

The shadow of a man appeared around the corner, the details of his wild, upswept hair showing up on the wall. When he revealed himself, he was covered head to toe in thick fur pelts and armor. Your eyes went wide ever so slowly, heart racing as you were struck with this realization. He was a spitting image of the viking you’d seen on display, but he wasn’t just an inanimate statue made of colored wax and glue. He was moving.

Breathing. 

He was alive.

Alfred waited patiently for you to come back, though he regretted letting you go out by yourself. It wasn’t like there was anything out there, but you must’ve been afraid under that bravado you showed him. If only he knew how wrong he’d been. As he sat on the bench, the museum slowly came to life. All of its waxy inhabitants, people gone for centuries, returned from the dead.

And the lights came back on, one by one.

The Viking’s chest heaved for the air that hadn’t filled his lungs in eons. And with eyes as blue as the oceans he sailed across, he stared at you like he had just seen a ghost. They had a light in them they never had before, a consciousness, a soul, and you stared right back. But the way he looked at you was like nothing you’d expect. There wasn’t a trace of hostility in his gaze, but something deeply emotional and coherent.

Not that any of that mattered to you.

You split, running from him as fast as you could and with more adrenaline than what you thought was humanly possible. But then again, what you witnessed was a testament to the impossible. The dead walked, and you were trapped in here with hundreds of them. Whipping your head over your shoulder, you let out a frightened cry when you saw him chasing you. 

Your screams echoed down the hall, and Alfred felt his blood go cold hearing them. But he forced himself to stand, and without a shred of hesitation, he ran outside to look for you. When you weren’t by the fountain, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. And his face, now whiter than a sheet of paper. Where did you go?

“(F/N)!” He yelled, sprinting down the hall.

But more importantly, what was it that made you scream? Whatever it was, he knew he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you. The lights were now on, and he swore he could hear the tapping of what sounded like hundreds of footsteps. There was something around the corner, or someone, he just never would’ve anticipated it beyond his wildest imagination.

“Where are you?” Once be got around the turn, what he saw put a stopper to his thoughts, derailing them with the most fantastical thing he had ever seen. His eyes flew open, and his mouth went agape so he could let out a shaky breath. “What the hell is going on?”

Swathes of people dressed in cultural adornments and even objects were out and about, talking to each other in languages he couldn’t even begin to decipher. Inuits, African tribesmen, and Edwardian socialites walked along the halls like time had just shattered upon itself. Marble sculptures, copper statues, and other pieces of art were moving about like they weren’t made of some kind of rock. There was even a Terracotta soldier, who was accompanied by a Chinese dragon made entirely out of green jade. Elephants, rhinos, and giraffes passed by in a strangely calm fashion like this wasn’t their first rodeo in the museum. Everyone did, except for him. 

“No way.” He whispered, glancing left to right as he picked up a jog. If he wasn’t wrong, everything in the museum had come to life. Was he dreaming? He had to be. In his dazed stupor, he ran into a medieval knight. There was a loud clank, and he would’ve winced from how much it hurt if it weren’t for being spoken to. 

“Excuse me. Watch where you’re going!” 

“Sorry!” He blurted. “I’m so sorry.”

”That’s alright! But you look a bit pale there, kid. What seems to be the problem?” The knight questioned, still wearing his helmet and hiding his face. Aside from his silver armor, he wore pure white garments with a blood red cross — the signature outfit of a crusader knight.

“Oh, um, where do I start?” Alfred panted, speaking in a frazzled manner. Funnily enough, this was the straightest he’d been thinking now that someone was talking to him. “Oh, I know! How the hell is everyone and everything in this museum alive right now?”

“I’d normally have a better answer, but I’ve never read anything like this in the Bible,” The other scratched their head through their helmet inquisitively. “Maybe I missed a chapter. But honestly, I’m just as lost as you are.”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“The Bible. The word of God. Haven’t you heard of it?”

”I know what the Bible is!” Alfred raised his voice into a frustrated hiss, but he instantly felt bad for it. “Sorry. I’m talking to a monk, here. I should be more respectful. But never mind that. I’m looking for my friend. I’m worried something happened to her.”

”I could help you look for her!” 

“That would be great, thank you.” 

”I’m Gilbert. Proud Templar Knight and brother from the Temple of Solomon.” They took off their helmet and held it against their hip, revealing a head of white hair and ruby-red eyes. Then, they outstretched a gloved hand for him with a toothy grin. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you too. I’m Alfred, uh, son of Arthur, and student hailing from New York,” Alfred improvised awkwardly, giving it a slow, disoriented shake. “Wow. I can’t believe I’m talking to a Crusader knight right now.”

“So where did you last see your friend?” Gilbert asked.

Mathias carried you all the way to the other side of the museum, and you thrashed the whole time, begging him to let you go. When he finally put you down, he kept a firm grip on your hand. You were greeted by other Vikings, and just when you thought you’d be sacrificed like a goat, they broke out in wide smiles.

Besides them speaking in old Norse to you, which you had no way of comprehending, they were more than pleasant to you, even offering you some plastic food, which you politely declined. From the way they acted around you, it was like being with an old friend.

It became clear that they had no intention of harming you, but why they brought you here was still a mystery.

”I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you guys are saying,” You interrupted meekly, darting your nervous eyes between them. They stared at you with blank faces before exchanging confused looks with each other. “Could you please let me go? I don’t want any trouble.”

“Where did you run off to? I haven’t seen you all week. I was worried something happened to you,” Mathias spun you to him, hugging you tightly before putting his hands all over you. “You’re speaking in tongues and acting very strange! We need to get you a doctor.”

”I didn’t understand that either.” You sighed.

”It’s worse than I thought. Somebody get Olaf,” The Dane ordered, summoning another Viking to come over. They took your arm and led you off, much to your dismay. “Look after her for me, friend. In the meantime, I have a man to hunt. He’s the one responsible for this.”

”Hey, wait! Where are you taking me?” You exclaimed, glancing back at Mathias as he left. In that precise moment, your best friend’s words replayed in your mind like a tape. You looked just like his wife, and so much that it had the actual guy fooled. “Oh no. Alfred!” 

It didn’t take a linguist to know that he was in trouble, but there was nothing you could do. Your companions kept you inside their make-shift hut, treating you as one of their own. They laid you down and spoke to you very slowly, so they must’ve thought you had a concussion. Either way, they weren’t letting you out of their sight.

You just hoped Alfred brushed up on his history, because he’d be needing it tonight.

”Where the hell could she be?” Alfred walked with his newest companion. “We checked everywhere!” 

”Actually, we still haven’t checked Northern Europe.” Gilbert corrected, getting the blonde to turn in the direction of said location. But he launched a hand out and grabbed him, pulling him back. “Don’t. It’s suicide.”

”Why?” He frowned.

”It’s occupied by Norse Pagans.” The albino warned, pulling him close for a tantalizing whisper. He glanced around before he continued, almost as if speaking of them would summon them like the devil himself.

”Norse Pagans? You mean Vikings?”

“They came here last week, and it’s been Hell ever since.” Gilbert took his collar as he whispered in a panicked hush. “We sent a missionary up there once, and he came back to us completely dismembered!”

“Oh, fuck.” Alfred dug his hands through his hair, now a nervous wreck as he envisioned the thought. But what made his stomach really churn was the unshakeable thought that it was probably where you were.

For that, he was surprised he hadn’t vomited already. And he almost did when Gilbert went off on a passionate spiel of the Scandinavian heathens and everything they’d done. That was when one appeared at the end of the hall, and it wasn’t just any Scandinavian heathen.

”I mean, he’s okay now, but it was really disturbing.” The other made a face of unease as he recalled the sight. It wasn’t something a person was meant to see in their lifetime, but at least he was in a more dubious position now. “I don’t think they care for God.”

“Dude.”

”What?”

”That’s the Viking I saw earlier today.” Alfred whispered, locking eyes with Mathias who stood no more than three hundred feet away from him. In the next three seconds, the Dane broke into a sprint, charging at him at a terrifying speed like a mad bull. He let out a wheeze, likely the sound of his soul escaping his body. “Aaaand he’s running at us. Well, this has been a good life.”

”God hasn’t forsaken us yet!” Gilbert unsheathed a gleaming longsword, swinging it in impressive circles.  

Mathias launched an axe at him, and it spun through the air so fast, it passed as nothing but a white flash.

It cut Gilbert’s head clean off, getting it to land on the ground with a thump. There was no blood or flesh, just a cross-section of wax where he was decapitated. While he had his face planted on the floor, he said this in a muffled voice. “So that’s what that feels like.” 

But Alfred had already fled by then.

He never stuck around to see his friend lose his dignity, much less his own. He whimpered a little as he pumped his legs as fast as he could. He was running on so much adrenaline, his bloodstream may as well have been battery acid. But not everybody could outrun a Viking, and he would’ve eaten it if it weren’t for the arm that shot out from the side, pulling him into a room.

When he turned to the stranger who’d saved him, he recognized him to be the native Algonquin warrior he’d seen earlier that day. Only this time, he was perfectly canny and had an unrivaled sharpness that would end up ensuring his survival. While Mathias ran by outside with his pelts and armor clinking away, Allen put a finger up to his mouth to get him to stay deathly still.

But above all else, quiet.

There they crouched, hidden from plain sight like the watchful forces of nature. In the most tense ten seconds of their lives, they stared at each other, cerulean and scarlet eyes as wide as they could get them. For a moment, Alfred forgot he was being chased, deeply enchanted by the person in front of him. He was quite literally gazing back into history, a thousand years into the past to be precise. But once the coast was clear, he went back to hyperventilating. He was still in shock from everything that just happened, and the first thing he let out was an excited, albeit exasperated gasp. 

“Oh my God. You just saved my life. Thank you!” 

”Don’t mention it.” Allen took his bow off so he could arm himself with it. Then, he peered outside the door, making sure there weren’t any Vikings in the area. Turning back to the blonde, he pulled an arrow from his quiver without breaking eye contact. “I’ve been tracking that guy for days, and this is the craziest I’ve ever seen him. You have any idea why he would be after you?”

“How should I know? I don’t know the guy personally!” Alfred exclaimed, following him out into the hall. 

“You must’ve done something to piss him off.”

”But I didn’t do anything!” 

“Then he wouldn’t waste his time chasing you when he’d rather search for his girlfriend.” Allen remarked. “One of my pals can speak his language, and he says he’s been looking for her ever since he got here.”

“Fuck, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of it before?”

They ran to the elevator, to which he pressed the button for the basement. It had always been on the tip of his tongue, but the whirlwind of a night left his head more scrambled than he thought. And now that he had it all pieced together, he came up with a plan to save you.

“I came here with my friend, and she looks exactly like his wife. He must’ve seen us together. But it’s okay, I have an idea. They must have extra wax figures in storage, right? If she’s as important as they say, they must have her tucked away down here somewhere.”

“Okay, so we do a trade-off.”

”Exactly.”

”Smart.” Allen pursed his lips, thoroughly impressed.

The doors slid open and thus, they began their search, sweeping the entire basement for the reason why the museum had turned into a war zone. After an hour or so, Alfred heard someone banging away and calling for help from inside a tall wooden crate. A woman, and she sounded just like you. He and Allen walked up to it, then cracked it open like a treasure chest. Lo and behold, it was your doppelgänger, but dressed in the height of fashion from what was a thousand years ago.

“I think we found our girl.” He murmured in awe.

The three of you got back to the elevator. It was a given that the you from the Viking age was a little hesitant to get into such a tight box, but Allen had a way with body language. He made a few gestures to let you know where he was taking you. What more was that these two men had just broken you out of an even tighter box, so you had no reason not to trust them. 

“You know, I meant to ask, but doesn’t it bother you that there is a living, breathing, homicidal axe-wielding maniac running around the museum every night?” Alfred asked, feeling strangely calm now that he sensed that the night’s excitement was coming to an end. 

“We’re not alive the way you’re alive,” Allen told him. That was right. As magical as it was to have the museum come to life, it wasn’t real. History had done its course. He spoke with power and humility as he confronted that fact, and for that, he seemed to be at peace. “We’ve had our shot. But you still have yours.”

“I have the craziest chills right now.”

”But also because we’re made of wax.”

“Okay, that makes more sense.” Alfred laughed a little, turning to him. ”So how come you speak English?”

”I’ve been on display here for years,” Allen grinned, walking out now that the elevator doors opened. They returned to the bustling halls of the Museum of Natural History, where history had really come to life that night. “New York is my home. Always has been.”

”Explains the accent.” 

It didn’t take long to track down Mathias again, and when he finally laid eyes on the one he’d been searching for, he turned into an entirely different person. His anger, terror, and everything that made him a legend, had all but melted into a deep emotional coherence.

He was nothing but a man now. A man with his own joys and sorrows like everybody else.

He dropped his ax and ran up to his long-lost love, picking her up and embracing her after what felt like an eternity. He finally found her again after a thousand years, and the scene was quite profound to behold.

But if you asked Alfred, it wasn’t as touching as his reunion with you. He found you in the hall of Northern Europe, holed up in a tent and rubbing your eyes. They were red from crying, and the way you looked at him was something he’d burn in his mind forever. And the way you hugged him, a feeling he’d never get tired of.

”I knew you’d come.” You squeezed him.

“Of course I came,” He squeezed you back, burying his face into the crooked of your neck. “But maybe it’s time that I switch out my glasses for some contact lenses. Don’t wanna keep losing them like I did tonight.”

“No way!” You gushed. “I like the way you look now.”

”Yeah?” He smiled rosily. From that outburst alone, he knew you’d forgiven him for everything that happened. But from the sound of things, you had a much easier time than he did. On the way home, he enthused you on the people he met and his close brushes with death. 

“You ever hear of a term called solipsism?” You asked. 

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” He shook his head.

“It’s the concept that everything around you doesn’t exist and is made up by your own mind,” You explained, stopping him in the middle of the street. It was dawn by then, and the rising sun cast a golden glow over your tender smile. “But if everything around me is just my imagination, you’re the best thing I’ve come up with.”

His eyes went wide, shocked by how sweet you just were. Just like that, everything he ever pined away for didn’t matter anymore. He was worth more to you than an adventure of a lifetime because he was that adventure. But at the same time, Alfred fell even harder for you, and it showed in the way his gaze softened. 

”Right back at you, sport.” 

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Death of Peace of Mind | Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Part 1: Altitude. Altitude.

summary: life with a pilot isn't all it's cracked up to be. a/n: hi friends! welcome! entry, please! i told you i would be back :) unfortunately, it took a lot longer than i expected. i moved states this year, started a new job, found a loving and healthy relationship, traveled internationally for the first time... i.e. i have been super busy, but i'm out of my depressive slump and finally got the urge to write (and post) again. i won't say that consistency is back, as my social calendar has obviously been slammed, but i will try my best <3

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Thunderous.

That’s the only way to describe the sound of hundreds of boots pounding down the ship’s stairs toward the dock below. While Hangman had only been aboard for a few weeks, many of the crew had been deployed for months on end. He, and a few other Top Gun members, made the vessel their temporary home while they completed a brief mission. Nothing like the Dagger mission, just simple recon; but the security was top-notch, and the admiral wanted his best on the case.

Hangman rolls the toothpick between his teeth with his tongue and shrugs his duffel higher up his shoulder. He laughs at a dig Phoenix makes at Rooster and claps a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Phoenix. How I’ll miss you and your quick wit,” he sings, the sun hitting his face as his boot hits the dock beside her.

Phoenix shakes her head as she pulls her aviators from her shirt and settles them on the bridge of her nose. “And I will miss nothing about you, Hangman.”

“Ouch! Brutal! You wound me, Natasha.”

“See ya next time, Hangman.”

“You won’t have to suffer too long, Rooster. I’ll be in your dreams tonight, per usual.” He nods in the other man’s direction. “Rodeo, it’s been a pleasure.”

“I’ll never understand why you boys can’t seem to get along.”

Bob’s cousin, Rhett Abbott. Related by their twin mothers, almost identical themselves. A skilled pilot and proud country boy, with a heart of gold. Not to mention, entirely tolerable. Unlike his buddy, Bradley. Hangman and Rodeo clap hands in a firm handshake, smiling at each other. “It’s not in my blood, cowboy.”

They say their final goodbyes and are about to split up when a tiny voice shouts, “DADDY!”

Usually, this wouldn’t be uncommon. They’re on a dock, where families had come from all over Texas to welcome their servicemen and women home from a long deployment. It’s an emotional affair, albeit happy, but emotional nevertheless. However, when a little blonde girl they don’t recognize (again, not uncommon, usually) gets closer and closer, set on a path in their direction, confusion is written all over their faces. That confusion only increases tenfold when Hangman breaks into the biggest, most genuine smile they’ve ever seen him wear, and takes long strides in her direction.

“DADDY!”

Hangman drops into a squat, holding his bag in place on his shoulder, and grabs the child with his other arm. “Hi, baby!” he exclaims and fervently kisses her cheek. “I missed you so much!” 

He can’t remember the last time his heart felt so full. He understands now, why so many people have their families show up after every deployment or mission. Watching his daughter, who somehow managed to find him in the crowd, run up to him with so much excitement and love was entirely different than walking in the front door.

Although, it’s been a while since that’s happened.

He shakes the thought from his mind and scoops her up with his arm while he stands again. Her little arms go right around his neck, hugging him tight. He’s gently rubbing her leg when he asks her, “Where’s your mom?”

He’s fully aware of the absolute circus in the minds of his fellow pilots in the background. They haven’t spoken a word, silent, but he doesn’t have to look to know that they’re probably standing in the same spot. Unmoved, jaws on the floor. What Hangman does do is look around, keeping an eye out for–

“Mama!” the little girl yells, waving her hand frantically at the woman approaching.

“You found him! I’m so proud of you, Daise!”

Jake Seresin was an expert at keeping his personal and work lives separate; or he thought so, at least. Work often bled into personal, but never the other way around. Any piece or crumb the crew knew about his life outside of work, he had fed them willingly and with intention.

“Would you…want to come to port?”

“...What?”

“Only if you want. I know it’s a long drive for Daise–”

“No, no. We could fly. I’m just…surprised. You’ve never…”

“We’re docking in Corpus. The crew asked if I would show them around while we’re on leave. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to introduce you. And Daisy. Especially with…”

“That sounds nice. We’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll send you the info.” Silence. “Thanks, Red. I mean it.”

“I know. Thank you for including us.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”

“You’re fixing it. That’s all that matters.”

He thought that he had mastered work-life balance, too.

Apparently, not.

You give him a short side hug, partially blocked by his familiar duffel. His hand lingers on your arm after you pull away. 

“Hey. Thank you for coming.”

“Happy to. I wish you could’ve seen her face when I told her. Didn’t complain once the whole drive here.”

“Really? Isn’t that something?” He turns his attention back to Daisy. “Were you good for Mama?”

Jake listens intently to your daughter’s jumbled, excited retelling of your journey, and you occasionally butt in with light banter. He hadn’t been gone long, but from the speed and fervor at which Daisy was talking, you’d think she hadn’t seen him in months. This goes on for a bit until someone interrupts your daughter’s babbling. A male voice barks his callsign, and he peers over his shoulder in their direction.

He looks back over at Daisy with a gasp. “Daise, would you wanna meet Daddy’s coworkers?” he asks, his eyebrows quirked in faux shock.

“For real?!”

“Yeah, for real.”

“Yes!”

And that’s what you do. Jake nods in the group’s direction, and you follow his lead, sticking close to his side. He had obviously done an excellent job at keeping his family a secret; you can tell from a mile away that the band of pilots is trying to quietly deduce what the fuck is going on while you approach. Daisy is practically ready to launch out of his hold in excitement, giggling and wiggling like a little worm.

“Alright, don’t get yourselves in a tizzy.” He hikes Daisy up on his waist. “Daisy, this is Rodeo–”

“Like the rodeo at home?” she asks, in her curious, pitched voice.

“Just like that. Rodeo, this is Daisy Mae.”

“Pleasure.” The man holds his hand out to her, and she takes it, bursting with giggles again. The sound is like music to your ears, and you just know that Jake is absolutely reveling in her joy. Rodeo has a charming smile and a warm personality. You’ve heard just about every complaint under the sun from Hangman (and he has plenty), but he’s bitched about Rodeo the least. Although, when he bitches, that usually means he cares.

And he complains about Rooster a lot. A lot.

Rodeo then moves on to you and offers the same gesture. “Rhett Abbott. Miss…?”

“Seresin. I’m his wife,” you say, shaking his hand while you tell him your first name and insist that he drop the formality. You can sense Jake, your husband, looking and smiling down at you like you’re his moon and stars. You make a feeble attempt to avoid meeting his gaze but it’s futile. You make eye contact, and you know you won’t live the admission down.

You’ll talk about it later.

“You have a hat like Daddy’s,” your daughter says, and reaches out to touch the brim.

“Do I, now?”

“Moving on.” He turns her a little, “And this is Rooster.”

Daisy’s button nose scrunches in distaste, and her brows furrow together, before “…Ew.”

The man with a mustache, Rooster, clicks his teeth. “Seriously, Seresin?” he exclaims, exasperated.

“You know it. Up top, pumpkin.” Daisy throws her whole body into the high-five. You laugh as they smack hands in the air, and Jake shakes it off as if it were the crispest he had ever received. “Ouch. You’re gonna have a nasty right hook one day. You know who else throws a good punch?” He turns them to the next person, the sole woman of the party. “This is Phoenix.”

The dark-haired woman smiles brightly. “Hello! Phoenix is my work name. You can call me Natasha,” she says as if they’re sharing a secret. She’s very pretty, you notice, and you already like her. You hope the two of you can keep in touch, maybe even become friends.

You thought you would be more nervous, meeting the people Jake spends most of his time with, but you feel at ease. Sure, there’s anxious fluttering in your stomach, but it’s minimal. You’re in his sanctuary, his church, for the first time ever, and the magnitude of that isn’t lost on you.

“N…Tasha.”

“Exactly. Tasha’s okay too.”

It almost feels like before. Before Jake, Hangman, blew right past the hard deck of your relationship and left a fiery pile of rubble, which he was now attempting to repair.

But this isn’t before.

Then

Altitude. Altitude.

Not being selected for the mission stung; but being put on standby (babysitting duty), twiddling his thumbs on deck in favor of Rooster, stung even more.

Hangman knew deep down what Rooster was capable of. He said so during their training exercise. He had all of the skills to complete the mission just fine if he would just buck the fuck up. He didn’t have the confidence, too cautious for his own good. He hoped Maverick was right, that Roos was ready to get the job done.

“We got two minutes to target.”

“Copy. We’re a few seconds behind, Rooster. We got to move.”

“Thirty seconds to tomahawk impact on enemy airstrip.”

“Dagger, Comanche. We’re picking up two bandits. Single group, two contacts.”

They would be fine. Nothing to worry about.

“Sir, Daggers two and four are behind schedule. Time to target, one minute-twenty.”

“Rooster, where are you?”

“Come on, Bradshaw, pick it up…”

“Come on, Rooster. Bandits inbound. We got to make up time now. Let’s turn and burn.

Good, Payback. Kick his ass into gear.

“Guys, we’re falling behind! We really gotta move!”

“If we don’t increase our speed right now, those bandits are gonna be waiting for us when we reach the target.”

Hit the gas, Rooster. Do it.

And he did. By the sound of it, Roos had blown his wingmen out of the water with the way he took off. He nearly left them in the dust, to Hangman’s surprise and pride. Maybe the other pilot had taken a page out of his book.

“Dagger one is hit! I repeat, Dagger one is hit! Maverick is down!”

He had considered at least one of the lieutenants not making it back. Whether it was Rooster for being too slow, or Payback and Fanboy going down with him for his hesitation. He was fairly certain Phoenix was safe, with the legendary captain as her wingman. But losing Maverick wasn’t anywhere close to his radar. He started adjusting in his seat, checking his buckles and legroom while holding his mouthpiece up. “Dagger spare, request permission to launch and fly air cover!”

There’s a beat, before Comanche’s response. “Negative, spare.”

And like a good soldier, Hangman listened. Begrudgingly, and with great frustration, he listened. Even as Rooster disobeyed orders. Even as he located a somehow living Pete Mitchell. Even as he crashed like their leader. By that point, they were sure to be dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

That is, until–

“Daggers two, four, and spare. Be advised, a supersonic F-14 has been detected with Rooster’s headset. Unconfirmed occupants. Do not engage.”

“What?” Jake’s head whipped around and his eyes darted to Phoenix in her cockpit. She was looking between Hangman and Dagger Four just as confused as he was. “Did they say–?”

Payback lifted his mouthpiece. “Comanche, repeat.”

“Rooster headset has been picked up in the air.”

Going after Roos and Mav was a split-second decision. He knew he shouldn’t have done it the second his wheels left the carrier.

Pull up. Pull up.

And by then, it was too late to turn back.

“Dagger spare, do not engage! You do not have clearance for take-off! Acknowledge!”

“With all due respect, Comanche, not acknowledged.”

A man’s voice, likely the vice admiral, suddenly cut in. “Hangman! Stay put! That is a direct order!”

If he was going to get written up, potentially court-martialed, for disobeying direct orders, he was going to make the most of it.

“Sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”

Hangman didn’t respond to the slew of orders and cursing. He engaged the jet canopy and sat in silence with his hand over his right breast pocket, where three small photos were safely tucked away. One of you, in your pajamas with your hair up and an ice cream spoon in your mouth, eyes crinkled as you grin at him. Another of him and Daisy, and a third of the three of you.

You’d better be worth it, Bradshaw.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your savior speaking.”

“Hey, Hangman. You look good.”

“I am good, Rooster. I’m very good.”

You were standing by the door, rifling through the pile of mail from the day, when you found an official-looking letter in the middle. “Jake, baby, there’s a letter for you.”

Altitude. Altitude.

“Does it say ‘confidential’?” he hollered from the kitchen.

You turned the thick envelope over, then back again. “No, it’s just addressed to you,” you said, shaking your head as if he could see you.

“Go ahead and open it.”

The paper and adhesive tore easily around your finger as you approached the kitchen. You pulled the single page out of its sleeve and quickly skimmed the letter to give a summary. But that cursory glance sent an icy chill up your spine, choking back the first line that you had meant to read aloud.

You stood between the living room and kitchen, letter in hand, frozen; a reprimand.

“What’s it say, babe?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, let alone move. Your eyes meticulously crawled through the slip, unblinking, tears pooling helplessly at your lashes. Eventually, your body couldn’t take the stillness and your lashes fluttered. The gathered drops raced down your cheeks and soiled the paper.

LETTER OF REPRIMAND FOR FAILURE TO FOLLOW ORDERS

MEMORANDUM FOR Lieutenant Jacob Austin Seresin

FROM: Vice Admiral Beau Simpson

You are being reprimanded for violating Article 92, Failure to Obey an Order or Regulation. During the [REDACTED] mission, you, Lt. Seresin, were ordered to remain grounded. You neglected to do so. As your commanding officer, the risks and outcomes of the mission were weighed carefully. You decided, on your admission and recognizance, to steal government property and engage in air-to-air combat with an enemy force that had already shot down two of your fellow airmen.

Said action could have resulted in your death, as well as the deaths of others. As a lieutenant and military member, you are expected to be a leader and obey all lawful orders. This behavior is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. Any future occurrences of failing to comply with Navy Standards will result in stronger disciplinary actions.

After reviewing the sequence of events, and given the outcome of your actions–

You didn’t need to read the rest; the course of action Jake’s command had decided upon wasn’t important. You’d had enough. Your face suddenly felt hot. And your insides, your insides, too. The wet streaks on your face and neck suddenly burned; or was it the heat under your skin turning them to vapor? Eventually, after Jake prompted you again, an echo in the ringing in your head, you managed a quiet, “Get out.”

“Can’t hear you. What?”

Through gritted teeth, you turn to stare at him, gaze like hot daggers, and growl, “Get. Out.”

He turned to find you, the epitome of feminine rage and nearly cowered back. In the years you had been together, he had never seen you so angry.

“W…hat do you–”

His confusion only made your fury worse. And so your rampage began. Your heavy footsteps cut him off and you all but ran to your shared bedroom, and slammed the letter on the kitchen island on your way past.

“Red–” The thought died in his throat when he scanned the mail.

Fuck.

A bag flying into the living space from the hall broke him out of his stupor. Jake quickly moved toward the source, and asked, “Red, what are you do–” When he crossed the threshold, a pressed uniform smacked him in the face.

“Get out! Get out, get out, get out, GET OUT!” you screeched, lobbing clothes and other small objects at him.

His pants, his socks, his fucking underwear–

Out. Get it all out. All of it. Fuck him, fuck his shit, fuck his job–

“Baby–!”

“Fuck you! Don’t call me that!”

“Red, baby, please! Stop!”

That finally sparked a coherent thought in your mind. You were sobbing, choking on your cries, but you managed ragged breaths to string together a sentence. “We just talked about this! You promised me! You promised that you would do better, and I believed you! MOTHERFUCKER!”

A phone charger smacked the wall where Jake’s head once was; he swatted at a pillow that came in his direction when he straightened back up. “I…Sweetheart,” he stuttered, desperate sounding. “I couldn’t–they would’ve died! I’m so–”

Hearing him about to say he was sorry made it so much fucking worse. You don’t know what else to do but just…scream. Like a banshee. That was when the heavy shit started–the remote, a picture frame, a vase, a lamp. During your blind frenzy, he managed to get close enough to grab your arms when you turned your back, searching for another projectile. He pulled you to his chest, practically crushing you against him, so you would stop fighting and trying to injure him. But you were vicious; screaming obscenities and insults, writhing in his iron grip. You managed to get your legs up and kick at the bed, which sent Jake stumbling back and forced him to plant his feet. If he were honest, he would admit that he struggled to keep you contained, even for a moment.

His body, his flesh touching yours was too much, and your sleep set didn’t offer you much relief. Your skin crawled like you might just burst at the thought of having to be in his proximity any longer. Amidst all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about your toddler, sleeping soundly in another room.

“I can’t believe I trusted you! You’re fucking killing me! And you do it like it’s nothing! Like we’re nothing! I’m done! I’m fucking done!”

Pull up. Pull up.

You kicked again, and Jake let you go, instead holding your face to make you look at him. But you shoved him away before he could get the chance. “Red, you have to understand–!”

“I’m done understanding! I don’t care about them! I don’t care about the military! Why should I give half of a shit, when my husband would rather die for them than live for his fucking wife and child!”

Jake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. What could he have said? To apologize, to make it better, to prove that. He’d already groveled to get to where they were then, and he screwed it up so quickly. 

The battlefield that was his mind wouldn’t cooperate. He was barely keeping his head above water lately, let alone while trying to mitigate the damage he had done to his wife. Damage that he didn’t—couldn’t—see, and still didn’t quite understand. You brought up your feelings, over and over again, and he did his best to keep his promises.

He did his best. Why wasn’t that good enough?

“You don’t get it! And I don’t know how to make you understand. I’ve begged, I’ve made threats, and it’s not working. So I’m telling you again. GET. OUT!”

“Red!”

The neighbors called the police. They heard your fight from next door, through the hum of their TV while their family ate dinner. How your daughter slept through it, even with taking after her father with his heavy sleeping, you’d never know. Jake sat on their doorstep shell-shocked, a cop around his dad’s age hovering over him with a sad look.

“I just want him gone. I need to be left alone,” you choked through tears, wiping your sleeve across your face. “I’m always alone.”

How did we get here?

Daisy’s faint cries flooded through the doorway from her bedroom. Your husband instinctually went to get up and tend to her, but was met with a firm hand on his shoulder. The man shook his head, and Jake slowly sank back down. If he could’ve sunk into the concrete, he would’ve. What kind of man was he, if he couldn’t even tend to his daughter?

The officers told each of you separately that charges weren’t necessary for a case like yours, which you were grateful for. Jake would never hit you, and you told them as much; you’d just reached your breaking point and needed space. The older man followed the pilot through the house as he went to fetch some clothes to last him a few days. It took everything in his being to ignore Daisy’s cries for him from behind her closed door; it was enough of a challenge that the officer had to nudge him past when he paused at the painted entryway, adorned with her namesake.

With instructions to restrict contact to Daisy’s needs for the next few days, to give you both time to cool off, your husband left peacefully. You didn’t watch as he tossed his bag into the backseat of his truck, or when he pulled out of your driveway. You simply thanked the officers and closed the door, leaned back against it, and sobbed into your palm. You don’t have long, your daughter having gotten louder with each passing minute she was left unattended. You let her cry for just a bit longer to get it out of your system before fetching her.

Even though you had just kicked your husband, the love of your life, out of your family home, you still managed to be incredibly gentle with your toddler. It felt like your soul was torn to pieces, one of them on his way to a motel or parking lot, no doubt.

You shushed her quietly as you scooped her into your arms and smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Mama’s here. It’s okay.”

Altitude. Altitude.

Copyright © 2024 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

[maccreadysbaby]

Writing 101: Characters with Medical Issues

Part One - Mobility Aids and/or Prosthetics

Aka, me doing research for you!

TW: talks about what leads to a prosthetic… obviously

Ah, yes, I get it. Having more diverse characters, more things that can go wrong, more hurdles — it’s all a nice addition to a story. But slow down! Don’t just shove an issue at a character because you like the idea! You need to research and decide if you actually want them to have that or if you just got a little excited. I’m here to provide you a bit of base research on a commonly used issue. Today: Prosthetics and Mobility Aids.

First of all, mobility aids are exactly what they sound like — things that aid someones mobility. These include wheelchairs, crutches, braces, walkers, canes, forearm crutches, etc.

Prosthetics are artificial devices designed to replace a missing body part. Most commonly, legs and arms.

How Someone Gets Prosthetics or Mobility Aids

The most common way for someone to get a Prosthetic is, obviously, for them to lose or severely damage a limb in an accident. For example, a soldier stepping on a mine, a car crash that completely crushed an arm, heavy machinery full-on chopping off a hand. See: Proctor Ingram, Fallout Four (2015) You can also lose extremities from diseases like bone cancer, where surgeons must remove it to remove the cancer. See: Leo Roth, Red Band Society (2014)

It is more common for people to have mobility aids for temporary amounts of time, for example, a broken leg or twisted ankle resulting in having crutches. For long lasting or life long mobility aids, you’ll need to look into physical disabilities, different types of muscle trauma and nerve damage, or an injury that wasn’t able to heal properly. See: Freddy Freeman, Shazam (2019)

Choosing When to Add Prosthetics or Mobility Aids

First things first — you should design your character with the mobility aid or prosthetic already in mind. They can affect the entire personality of a person, so I wouldn’t recommend creating a character and then deciding their mobility aid. For example, a child with forearm crutches due to a physical disability probably won’t like doing all the same things the other kids do on the playground, or the same sports their friends at school like. There’s also the unavoidable issue of them feeling out of place or “weird” no matter the age. So, obviously, there are some aids more suited for different genres of writing. For example, a long journey like Lord of the Rings would be tough for someone with a wheelchair or walker, but it’d be okay for a romance. That’s why it’s so important you don’t spring something like this on a character in a spur of the moment thing. Here are a few things I’d recommend deciding beforehand: 1 - What type of mobility aid or prosthetic is best for your type of story? You can choose any you like, but it’s good to consider if you want to write everything that comes with pushing a wheelchair to Isengard. 2 - Would your character have access to these aids or prosthetics, or would they have to settle with something else? If your story is post apocalyptic, they probably wouldn’t have access to the same things, or if your story is set in the past, you’d have to research aids and prosthetics from that time period. Even consider characters making their own — which is also a good way to mold it to your needs.

What Comes Along with Prosthetics and Mobility Aids

Okay, so you’ve decided you want your character to have a prosthetic or mobility aid. You’ve weaved it into their personality and your story. Now comes making it realistic… what do people with these things experience? Think about? People with prosthetics have challenges and additional baggage that comes along with having a prosthetic. First of all, if your character just got this prosthetic, it’s gonna be hard to walk on and even harder to wrap their head around. Sometimes, prosthetics hurt. There’s several different kinds and different activities each one can do. They change size as the person changes size. There are many different ways they attach to the body that suit different needs. Mobility aids have their own set of challenges as well. For example, fitting a wheelchair, walker, or crutches through a tight space. Fitting braces under or over clothes. Stairs. You have to think about enclosed spaces like cars, public transport, planes, elevators, bathrooms. These challenges will change with your story. For example, on a long outdoor journey, how will each different aid or prosthetic react to the temperature, humidity? How will the one in the wheelchair or with crutches get up that mountain? While the aids and prosthetics come with their own challenges, new ones are gained based on the genre of your WIP. This includes what your character thinks about. In a post-apocalyptic work, they might not worry about being different or out of place, but they might spend every day hoping and praying their homemade leg brace doesn’t break.

Reminder!

⚠️ DO YOUR OWN RESEARCH IF YOU INTEND TO ADD A CHARACTER WITH THIS INTO A WORK OF YOURS. STUDY HOW THESE THINGS EFFECT THE COMMON LIFE OF A PERSON. IF YOU KNOW SOMEONE WHO HAS ONE OF THESE THINGS, ASK THEM. MURDER YOUR EYEBALLS BY RESEARCHING ON YOUR COMPUTER. WATCH A SHOW WITH A CHARACTER WHO HAS ONE. KNOW YOUR STUFF BEFORE YOU MAKE YOUR CHARACTER, I BEG.

[g1rld1ary]

ode to my family ; lockwood x relicman!reader

➻ synopsis: you're a relicman, lockwood is the agent who's trying to recover your stolen sources, but you both might get more than you bargained for

➻ word count: 2486

➻ warnings: swearing, violence, no pronouns but reader is referred to as a girl

➻ wrote this for the anniversary of l+co's cancellation :(( I love this little show and all the joy its given me this year <3

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Life as a second-generation relic man (or woman) wasn’t easy. Far from it, in fact. A life of dealing with the black market, being on the run from agents and being stuck under your father’s thumb wasn’t exactly the life plan from your vision board, but what could you do? Your father had never let you pursue any training for your talents and you’d never had much education either, so you were more or less stuck in the family business.

Still, you made the best of it. You were dedicated to your job — maybe just because you had nothing else to do — and some point along the way you started to believe that your father might have been right. Why should DEPRAC get the final say on all these sources? As long as they were handled properly, why should all those beautiful old artefacts be destroyed? And as far as your father told you about his trade business, the sources only went to serious collectors with proper protection. So, you were a pretty instrumental hunter in the business, and that was the way you figured your life would continue.

Despite the popular misconceptions about your job; the violence, other ruthless relic-men, near-death experiences, your biggest nuisance was agents. Mostly the other relic men left you alone once you’d staked out a location but agents were so nosy. Like, finders keepers much? They were so aggressive too, always whipping out their rapiers the second they spotted you. You wondered if they’d surrender when they found out you were a girl. You hated the leering looks from the older men you met on missions and your skills being underestimated, so you wore a fencing helmet whenever you went out to pose as a boy. It also helped you get out of sticky situations; more than once you’d ducked behind an alleyway to stuff the helmet in your bag and walk away from the scene unharmed.

Anthony Lockwood hated relic-men, with the exception of one Flo Bones ��� but that hardly counted. All they did was make his job harder and stop him from getting back to Portland Row and a nice mug of steaming tea. He particularly didn’t like you, though he truthfully had no idea who you were. The sabre mask had given you a bit of a reputation amongst hunters and agents alike; tough, efficient, and deadly with a rapier. Plus, you had a great success rate in beating Lockwood and Co. to collecting a source, waving it around obnoxiously as you slipped out the window and into the night.

Tonight there was something different in the air. Your father had sent you for a major haul, some old source collector had recently died and left their entire collection in an old dusty warehouse. It was simple, get in, grab as much as you could possibly hold and get the fuck out. However, it seemed that you weren’t the only one who’d been alerted to the news. The area was crawling with men you recognised from other missions or auctions, and you knew instinctively the night wouldn’t go how you’d initially planned. Still, you weren’t going to let your father down and come back empty-handed — he’d probably have your head if you failed.

You trudged up the hill to where the building was, cursing the wet grass underneath your feet. In a big plot twist for everyone, it was raining in London. However, the dark clouds made it easier for you to go unnoticed, sticking to the shadows and ducking past the men hanging around. You’d made it inside the warehouse pretty easily and started packing sources into your bag before you realised it was almost too quiet inside — there should be way more collectors around. Peaking out the window you blanched, there were a myriad of agents outside scaring away other relic men (or fighting those who weren’t so easily deterred). You cursed quietly, knowing they’d soon venture inside and find you unless you could get out fast.

You were almost out, just creeping through a backdoor when you spun towards freedom, only to be met with the cocky grin of none other than Anthony Lockwood. You sighed, scanning the landscape for a quick escape route.

“So we meet again,” He said, rolling up one of his shirt sleeves. You refused to glance down and take your eyes off his, knowing he was, annoyingly, a great fighter, and you needed to stay focused. “Will this be the day you finally speak?” He all but taunted, still not reaching for his rapier. You wished he would, it would make the interaction go faster if you could skip the niceties and go straight to fighting. You wouldn’t indulge him and break your cover though, you doubted Lockwood would keep your secret.

“I suppose not,” He mused, “No matter. How about you return the sources you’ve stolen and we’ll call it even, hey?” More silence, you didn’t dare to move, not until you knew you could get away. Only when it was evident that you weren’t going to cooperate did Lockwood’s hand reach for his rapier and you eyed it slowly, hand drifting over to your own.

“I don’t want to fight you,” He tried once more, though you watched the blade slide slowly from its holder, “These sources deserve to be handled with proper care — these people deserve to be laid to rest, don’t you think?” You faltered for a moment. You’d never thought about it like that, it had never occurred to you that these sources really were the very essence of so many dead people. Your father had raised you to think of them as a means for profit, nothing else. Still, if you returned empty-handed your father would kill you, or worse. You had to succeed.

Evidently, Lockwood could tell your intentions, and brought his rapier out in a preparatory position and you did the same, slightly apprehensive for the fight to come. You knew you were good, but Lockwood had impeccable technique. Regardless of your feelings the fight began, and all you could hope was that you could hold your own until there was an opportunity to escape. Lockwood was putting up a significant fight though, which was highly inconvenient. Just when you gained the upper hand he subverted your expectations, putting a foot square into your stomach, pushing you back against the wall of the shed.

You groaned, losing your footing and smacking down against the ground, head hitting the dirt with a dull thud. You didn’t immediately recognise anything was wrong until the finishing blows from Lockwood never came. Looking up at his dumbfounded face you understood why.

“You’re a girl?” He asked, and you hastily grabbed the mask that had fallen off, then stopped when you realised there was no point in putting it back on now.

“Yes.”

“You’ve always been a girl?” You rolled your eyes.

“Yes, Lockwood. I’ve always been a girl. And if you’re too afraid to fight one then can I go?” You looked at him expectantly. He shook his head.

“Sorry, but you’re still holding extremely dangerous sources that cannot be sold. If you hand them over I’ll let you go and keep your secret?” He offered, and it was your turn to shake your head no. You used his shock to switch your positions, your back now out to the world. You didn’t run though, rapier out in front of you. In terms of the limb-to-body ratio, Lockwood had about the same proportions of a Daddy Long Legs, and you knew he’d catch up to you easily if you ran. So you fought, rapiers clanging as you defended yourself against him.

“How old even are you?” He asked and you rolled your eyes.

“Sixteen,” You said, “Why? Do you think I’m a child?”

“No, Jesus,” He laughed, parrying your move easily, “I’m hardly older, don’t be so aggressive. Why are you fighting? Don’t you have a life to live?”

“Obviously not,” You scoffed, “I’ve been trained for this, this is why I was born! I have to help my Dad’s business.” Lockwood grew more bold on the offence and you were struggling to keep up, distracted by your chatter.

“Why not run away? You’re too pretty to be stuck as a pawn for him.” You faltered for a second, stumbling backwards from the compliment, but counteracted it with a harsh hit aimed at Lockwood’s side. He let out a noise of pain but didn’t move, only coming closer to you as you grew more tired, movements becoming sloppy.

“You don’t get it, do you? If I leave I die. I have nowhere to go, and even if I did have somewhere to go my father would hunt me down and probably kill me for betraying him.” You kicked him in the knee and he swore, but he looked more enlivened by the fight than anything else. You supposed he probably didn’t actually get to fight much — with ghosts not being enthralling fencing partners and most relic men actually trying to kill him. And as much as he was annoying you, you didn’t particularly want to kill Lockwood. So here you were stuck in an endless match, blocking and parrying and him trying to convince you to leave the business you’d grown up in.

“Oh my God!” You groaned, smacking the hilt of your rapier into his shoulder, sending him stumbling back a few steps as you similarly retreated towards freedom. “Can you just leave me alone?” As much as you hated to admit it, Lockwood was making a convincing point. You had never truly realised the damage your dad’s business was doing, blissfully ignorant from the explanations he gave you. You had no choice though, no way out of the mess you’d been born into.

Lockwood was drawing closer, his years of technique and experience outlasting your brute force and passion, and you didn’t really know what was going to happen. Surely he wouldn’t kill you, but you’d be in deep shit if you returned home empty-handed, or you could very well be arrested for theft. You were deep in thought about this, as well as trying to keep Lockwood a suitable distance away, which was prohibiting you from being completely aware of your surroundings. This had been working out for you so far until you felt your foot miss solid ground. Your eyes widened, knowing exactly what was happening a moment too late. You’d hit the hill and there was no chance you were finding your footing after slipping the first step down.

Lockwood had evidently realised this at the same time as you, hand reaching out to grab you instinctively. It did little to stop the momentum you’d already gathered, instead pulling him down with you. You both gasped as you tumbled, Lockwood instantly tossing his rapier out of the way and you followed suit — no sense in you both being stabbed because you couldn’t control your limbs.

The fall itself was a blur, you only knew you’d landed because of the dull pain spreading up your back. You’d screwed your eyes tight bracing for the impact, and when you opened them slowly you were face to face with none other than Anthony Lockwood, only inches away from you and breathing heavily from the adrenaline.

For once Lockwood had nothing to say. No charming comeback, no witty remark, he couldn’t even offer one of his trademark megawatt smiles. All he could do was stare at you and breathe, which should have been creepier than it was. Maybe because you were doing the exact same thing. You didn’t know what had come over you but all you could do was look at Lockwood, held up by his forearms, droplets of sweat collected on his brow from the previous fight. You were only ripped from your stupor when you saw Lockwood’s eyes flick down to your lips, so fast you were sure it was unintentional. Still, it did the trick.

“Get off me.” You hated the way you stuttered the first word, still wanting to put up a brave front, but you were tired. And confused. And you really didn’t want to explain to your dad what had happened. Lockwood coughed, instantly rolling off you and onto his back next to you, both of you staring at the overcast sky. You were glad it wasn’t actively raining anymore, but you knew your back would be caked in mud when you stood up.

You were tired, you didn’t want to fight anymore. You got the feeling that Lockwood felt the same since neither of you moved a muscle, lying side by side in silence. You had much to think about. As much as you hated it, you couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said earlier. Your father’s business was bad, torturing those who wanted to be laid to rest and endangering others — you had a feeling he wasn’t actually checking the qualifications of his clients. And in that case, you didn’t want to be part of it anymore. You wanted to be good. You just didn’t know how. Glancing at Lockwood, he was still staring at the sky like it was a puzzle he was trying to decipher.

You broke the silence.

“Hypothetically, if I were to leave… where would I go?” He was looking at you in a flash, hope and bewilderment clear on his face. “If I leave my father will kill me, I have nowhere to turn.” Lockwood hesitated for a moment, seemingly searching for the right words.

“Well.” He scrambled to stand up, dusting off the front of his pants as if his whole back side wasn’t covered in earth. “You could come with me.” He extended a hand out to you, looking the picture of a perfect gentleman. And honestly, with the little you’d spoken to him, it seemed as if he really might have been. You sent one more cautionary look toward his hand before taking it, being pulled up to your full height before him.

Lockwood didn’t say anything more, merely giving you a smile, a genuine one that seemed to create its own source of light, before leading you away from the warehouse. Your backpack full of stolen sources sat sadly in the grass next to your mask, waiting to be collected and disposed of by DEPRAC officers, laying the poor ghosts to rest for good.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Somehow, Through the Storm

Summary:

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District, Kaz and Inej are struggling to cling on to life through a seemingly unending winter. Wrapped up in a stranger's overcomplicated marriage contract that he is convinced is key to solving the merciless weather, Kaz remains busy and distracted for days on end, putting everything else at risk. So when a storm ravages the city and sweeps Inej into danger, the offer of safety, food, and a place to stay is an overwhelming one - no matter the cost. Terrified of mounting threats, Inej signs a contract - not knowing she would land herself trapped at the Menagerie. Kaz signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District with Inej behind him, never looking back at her, they will both go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back will not be the same as journey there…

This is a Hadestown-inspired reimagining of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters and heavily featuring our beloved Crows, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with a different magic system based entirely on contracts.

Tags: @lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @iggy-gotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know <3

Warnings for this chapter: ptsd references, implied forced marriage references, implied abuse references

AO3 link:

Chapter 15 - Kaz

Two days. Just two days since he’d seen Inej, and already Kaz felt like he’d been thrown off kilter. He missed their routine, the stillness and ease of her company. He missed the sound of her voice, or hearing her laugh. Don’t go getting attached, Kaz, she’d teased him, and Damn us to hell if I do, he’d thought in the moment but - well, here he was. He hadn’t even realised until now, but apparently he was damning them to hell after all. 

He made his way along the edge of the canal slowly, in part because of the cold dampness clinging to the air, it was sure to rain tonight, that was making him lean heavily against his cane and in part because he wanted to give her time to hear him coming. He hadn’t forgotten the way she’d flinched when he found her at the market, nor the punch she’d thrown - and Inej knew far better how to fight by now. It would be quite unfortunate if he had to knock her down - or if he took her by enough of a surprise to send her tumbling into the canal. Where she was sitting, with her legs dangling over the water as she sipped something - coffee, probably - from a bottle paper cup and watched the reflections of the weak sunlight on the surface, it wouldn’t be unimaginable for a jump or flinch to lead to a fall.

She knew that he was there. He knew she did. But she just kept studying the canal below her, sipped her coffee again, kicked her legs back and forth. Kaz waited, knowing he must be visible in the corner of her vision, but she didn’t turn, and only when the silence had finally become too much did he say:

“New gloves?”

Inej still didn’t look at him, but she glanced down at her gloved hands. Kaz hadn’t seen her wear them before; dark green woollen things, an almost perfect fit starting a little higher than her wrists, curving neatly over her palms, and rising up over her knuckles before they folded over in five perfect little cuffs at the base of each of her fingers. She shrugged. 

“New enough,”

A moment stretched. 

“Why are you here, Kaz?”

He took that as an invitation, and stepped forwards to look out over the canal at her side. Above them the clouds were gathering, preparing to spill their tears over the city. It looked like it would be heavy. Soon the surface of the canal would be a twisting haze, constant disruption beneath the droplets sending ripples that wouldn’t have time to come into fruition before they’d collided with another, and the edges would turn slick and dangerous, the drop practically invisible until it was too late. But for now it was still. Quiet. Dark and maybe uninviting, but in a strange way maybe even gentle. Kaz peered down at the black waters for a moment, then tightened his grip on the head of his cane as he fixed his eyes obstinately onto the horizon. 

“Unless it’s been so long that I don’t remember what it looks like,” he told her, “I don’t believe that it’s spring just yet,”

As if in response to his words they were crossed by a strong, cold gust of wind, powerful enough to play with Inej’s scarf and for Kaz to squint into the skyline. It brought with it a faint sense of water in the air, enough of it for Kaz to feel it on his cheeks, and what he didn’t doubt was the threat of more frost or ice to come. Inej stood up, taking another sip of her drink before she said: 

“I’m not sure spring is coming,”

Kaz’s lips quirked. 

“No?” Are you staying, then?”

He didn’t know why he’d said that. He wondered if he was pushing too hard. There was a snake curling inside his stomach that had been eating him alive for the past two days: she knew. Kaz had fucked up, left the broken parts of himself on show. And she had left. Maybe he needed to push too hard, before he lost his mind. 

“You don’t want me to stay,” she whispered, already turning away. 

“Yes I do,”

“This is what I do, Kaz,” her voice cracked through the air and she spun on her heel to finally, finally, face him, her braid swishing on her shoulder, her scarf catching in the wind once more, “I run away. I ruin things and I run away, and that’s it, and if you-”

“Can I ask you something?” 

Inej stopped midway through whatever her next word might have been, studying him with slightly narrowed eyes before she conceded a short nod.

“When you run away, Inej, how often do people chase after you?”

She parted her lips. Closed them again. Kaz didn’t know where he was finding the daring, but he stepped forwards. 

“Kaz…” 

“Inej. Come home with me,”

“Kaz-”

“I need to show you something,”

A beat passed, and when it was clear that Inej had decided to hear him out Kaz pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket. It was one of the pages from the Van Eck marriage contract, and he had found something very interesting indeed. 

“I can’t read that-”

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t work unless you hear it out loud, anyway,”

Inej frowned. 

“What do you mean?”

Kaz smiled. Maybe he shouldn’t have smiled, if this meant anything - and how couldn’t it? - then it probably didn’t mean anything good, but ever since he had read these words he had felt – Saints, he almost felt hopeful. Maybe he should see a medik. 

“The Partner M.H.,” he read aloud, “will be permitted to leave the limits of the city alone once per annum, for the period of spring and summer’s length. The Partner J.V. here agrees that the spouse’s comings and goings will by definition cause dependence on the turn of the seasons, the pattern of the moon and sun, the direction of the wind-”

And then it happened. The breeze heard him. The air around them warmed, the wind gentle and flowing as it wrapped its arms around them, and in the dead earth beneath their feet grasses began to spread. Inej gasped out loud as a small sprig of snowdrops forced their way up to the surface and began to sway at her feet. 

“Wh-?”

The air snapped back again, cold and unyielding, and the grasses shrank back into the dirt as though to hide from the wind. The snowdrops wilted, fell, then crumbled into dust and vanished. 

Inej stared at Kaz. 

“How did you do that?”

“I don’t really know,” he admitted, “I’ll have to ask Nina to understand the contract’s power properly, but I think it’s fighting itself. The wording doesn’t make enough sense, it’s fighting itself overtime to try and figure out what it’s supposed to do and I think… I think that instead of Marya depending on the seasons, the seasons might be dependent on her,” 

Inej looked back down at where the flowers had been. 

“Are you telling me that if you finish that… you could bring spring back?” 

Kaz had no idea. 

“Maybe. Hopefully,” he braced himself, and then as if the words were being ripped free: “You could stay. To find out,”

Inej stepped forwards, just a little, closing more of the space in between. They were close enough to touch, but neither of them moved. Kaz felt his spine straighten. 

“I didn’t even know that I was lonely,” she breathed, “Until you… until I wasn’t, anymore,”

He nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. 

“If I came back today,” she murmured, her eyes drifting just past Kaz’s head, as though she couldn’t quite stand to meet his eyes, “I can’t promise I wouldn’t run again,”

“Then run,” he whispered, “Run, and I’ll always come after you. Please, Inej. Stay in Ketterdam. Stay with me,” 

Silence hung in the air for a moment; just them and the wind and the clouds above them. Not even the streets behind them existed anymore. There was nothing else in the world. 

“I can offer you one of those, I think,” Inej’s voice was low, softer than silk, “But I’d rather not stay in this city forever,”

“Where else would we go?”

“Anywhere we want,”

“Where do we start?”

Inej smiled, and Kaz couldn’t help himself but return it as she said: 

“Take me home,”

[weresilver]

Can you feel it?

What is this? A brand new fic for @eddiemonth? And so soon after?? (shut up this feels soon)

This is day 06, crush, and is in the same continuity as day 5. Named after Mansionair's Astronaut (Something About Your Love), that like. Please listen to them. They are a whole vibe, I love their music.

Warnings: None, this is just even more fluff. Extremely sappy get together. Steddie. I should start calling this section, like. tags or smth.

Wordcount: 2968

If he were to be honest with himself, Eddie hadn't expected to keep this monster hunting party in his life, not for long. He expected everyone to go on their way, while he was fumbling just to get out of the town.

Well, some people did go their own way. Older Byers was off to college in California with Argyle, after some extensive talk with his family and with Nancy, and Nancy herself was off in Boston.

But everyone else? Well, the kids had to finish high school before going anywhere, and Robin had decided to take a gap year that was about to end. And Steve…

Between joint recoveries and sharing almost the same group of people (and eventually truly having all the same friends), they had spent a lot of time together. They had become friends, good friends, not necessarily by choice, but the truth was that Eddie wouldn't change it for the world.

But sometimes, it was nice to just… exist. To be able to not think about the feelings he’d realized that were growing not too long ago. About how, even though he’d only noticed them recently, the feelings hadn’t been really new. About how it looked reciprocated, sometimes.

Eddie expected to hear about Steve’s plans to get out of town any day now, maybe tag along with Robin, so why do anything about the something that was brewing, right?

Deep down, Eddie knew Steve wouldn’t leave before the kids’ senior year started. At the earliest. Eddie felt pretty much the same already, after knowing them for only a little over a year. According to Robin, they did have that effect somehow.

(Something about how young they all were to have been at the whole supernatural thing for years.)

After dropping El and Will back home, he’d driven himself to a secluded little clearing, having to go the long way around so he’d actually be able to drive his van into it. But it was worth it, it’d always been worth it.

Eddie grabbed a few of the blankets stashed at the back of his van and threw them on top of it before climbing up himself. Setting up his little makeshift bed up there was a quick process; a couple of blankets to make the roof a little more comfortable, and the rest bunched together into a pillow.

It wasn’t particularly good, but it was part of his summer routine at this point, so he settled down, lying on the roof of his van. He watched the clear, evening summer sky fade into night, watching the stars come out slowly and then all at once as the animal sounds faded and changed to accompany the sky.

Some birds — owls, if he had to guess — and bats were flying overheard, occasionally cutting his vision of the stars and changing the tracks of his thoughts; the song he’d been working on, the campaign Will wanted to run for Hellfire next, Robin’s entirely too chaotic packing process, and how that girl might have surpassed him in terms of organizational chaos. At least Eddie could find his shit in half the time it had taken her to find the shoes she was taking with her.

The crunch of steps on fallen branches drew him out of his thoughts, making him turn in its direction.

“Jesus, how far is this place,” Eddie heard in a very familiar grumble. Steve was closer than he probably expected to be, and it didn’t take long before Eddie could see him on the treeline. “Uh… Hi.”

“Hi,” Eddie returned, waving at him from where he lay with a grin. “Funny seeing you here.”

Steve rolled his eyes and walked closer. He was wearing some ridiculous yellow shorts and what looked like an old NASCAR shirt, color and design faded with time. It was a little different from what Eddie was used to; more relaxed, like he didn’t have anyone to impress. Which was good, Eddie didn’t need to be impressed by style.

(Eddie knew, objectively, that Steve genuinely enjoyed the polos and all that, but it was still nice to see him in something else. Something softer.)

“What are you doing out here?” Steve asked once he was close to the van, just enough to still be able to see Eddie.

“Looking for Scorpius,” he stated simply, gesturing for Steve to come up. While Steve climbed to the roof of the van, Eddie adjusted the pillow of blankets so they could lie side by side. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was expecting to find you in the trailer,” Steve started, leaning back on top of the blankets on his elbows with a frown on his face. “Wayne directed me over here.” Steve looked around, frowning even harder when he glanced at the ground. “You said you’re looking for scorpions?”

“Scorpius, not scorpions,” Eddie corrected softly, turning back to the stars. “The constellation.”

Steve let out a soft “Oh,” turning to glance at the sky before lying down and making himself comfortable.

Eddie had the vague knowledge that Scorpius was closer to the horizon line, but he’d have to drive up to Hop’s old cabin and the nearby hill to actually look for it, and he just… didn’t want to go that far.

(Didn't really want to be looking over all of Hawkins.)

“What’s the story?” Steve asked after a couple of minutes spent in silence. When Eddie turned to look, Steve was already watching him, his little smile illuminated by the moon. After a beat, he added, “Constellations have those, don’t they?”

Eddie nodded, struggling a little to find his words with the way Steve was looking at him. “It’s uh…” He cleared his throat and turned back to the sky. “It’s the scorpion that killed Orion.”

He could still feel Steve’s eyes on him, waiting for more.

“Orion was a hunter, the best one humanity had to offer,” Eddie started, gesturing to their surroundings as if it could encompass every person in the world. “But he was just a human, you know? And if even the gods of ancient Greece were flawed, imagine how bad a human could be.”

He glanced at Steve, finding all of his attention still focused on him.

“His flaws are not really the point, though.” He shook his head, continuing the story. “At some point in his life, Orion was hunting with Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and wild animals, and… Well,” he grimaced, “He claimed to be able to hunt every animal on Earth.”

“To the goddess of the hunt?” Steve questioned with that particular tone he had when he thought something was stupid. “Rather arrogant of him.”

“Yeah, but Artemis was fond of him.” Steve raised an eyebrow at that, but it took Eddie a moment to realize how his words could be taken. “Not like that,” he added, chuckling. “Artemis was a virgin goddess, none of that.”

Steve hummed, his expression betraying his surprise. “Good for her.”

Eddie blinked at Steve, at this tone of awe that he had.

“Where does the scorpion come in?” Steve asked, a little furrow appearing between his brow that Eddie wanted smooth out, though he had a story to finish.

“Right,” Eddie sighed out, turning once again to the stars. “Gaia, the personification of the Earth itself, didn’t like Orion’s claim.” He paused, then added, “She’s the mother of all life, so.” He gestured nonsensically upwards, finishing his story with as much a deadpan tone as he could muster. “She sent a giant scorpion to kill him.”

“A giant—” Steve burst out laughing, shaking his head in some kind of attempt to regain his composure. “Sorry, I’m sorry, just—”

“It’s kind of a silly conclusion?” Eddie asked with a smile on his face as well as in his voice. Steve nodded, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. “Greek mythology is kind of… Dramatic, like that,” he explained with a shrug. “Orion’s hubris got him killed by a giant scorpion—” Steve snorted, but reined himself in quickly— “And they were both raised to the sky as constellations as a warning against humanity’s arrogance.”

Steve hummed, gaze unfocused when Eddie looked at him. “Where are they, then?”

“Uh…” Eddie blinked and turned to the sky to blink some more. “Orion is not visible this time of the year, and Scorpius is closer to the horizon,” he said, raising his arm to point in the general direction he remembered the constellation being.

Steve hummed, but didn’t say anything, letting the silence and the warm evening air envelop them. Eddie expected it to grow awkward, for Steve to say something, for himself to end up fidgeting. Instead, it was easy to just exist together like this, lying side by side and watching the night sky.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, some indeterminate time later. Eddie could feel Steve move about, slowly as to not risk falling off the side, and settle on his side, holding himself up on his elbow. “El was all…” He gestured toward his face. “All frowny, and she only does that when she’s worried. Dustin also said you seemed down.”

Eddie sighed, wishing those kids paid just a little less attention. “I’m good,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Just thinking, you know?”

“About?”

“What happens now, I guess?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question. “We got a couple more practice sessions before Jeff and Arnie are going back to college.”

“Gareth’s not going anywhere out of state, though, right?” Steve asked with a thoughtful little frown that Eddie couldn’t resist smoothing out with a finger this time. It earned him a soft laugh and a smack to his hand. “You guys can keep Corroded Coffin going?”

Eddie shrugged as much as he could while lying down. He tried that once, making it on his own, but it didn’t seem as worth it now.

“Think I’d rather not split the band,” he said, grimacing and knowing that Steve would pick up the story he wasn’t telling.

“So,” Steve drawled, eyes narrowed at Eddie like he’d be able to figure out whatever was going on in his head. “The plan is just to wait?”

Honestly, Eddie hated that idea, but what else could Corroded Coffin do? “Sure.” Steve eyes narrowed further, going unfocused again. “What?”

“The kids will be starting their junior year,” he stated.

Eddie hummed to let Steve know he was listening, but he had no idea where the guy was going with this.

“You should come to Indianapolis with me,” he announced.

Eddie blinked at Steve, processing his words for a moment. The offer seemed to come out of nowhere. He expected Steve to leave Hawkins at some point, he’d been preparing for that news, and now it came with an offer to tag along?

“I don’t really have any plans yet,” Steve continued, probably taking Eddie’s silence as hesitation. “We’d have to look into places, and Indianapolis is just an hour away, but it should be enough for a fresh start, right?”

Eddie nodded, a little numbly. “You, uh…” He shook his head to dislodge his surprise. “I think Gareth’s going to community college in the city, actually.”

“Is he, now?” Steve raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed and not surprised.

“Right, you two talk a lot now.” It was still rather amusing that the two of them hung out so much, even without Eddie. “Will?”

“Of course it’s about Will,” Steve scoffed, waving a hand in a flourish. “It’s why he picked Indianapolis. But don’t change the subject,” he added with a smack to Eddie’s arm.

“Alright, alright!” Eddie laughed, rubbing his arm. He’d have rolled away from Steve if it didn’t mean rolling off the roof of the van. “I guess Indianapolis is pretty good…”

Steve beamed at him, a smile he’d been seeing more often as the time passed. Usually, Steve was being a little shit when he smiled like that, but sometimes, he just seemed… happy.

“You could, I don’t know, teach kids how to play the guitar.”

That made Eddie laugh, surprised at the suggestion. Not that he necessarily disliked it.

“Who’d even let me?” He asked. “Maybe I’ll find work at a record store, that seems more likely.”

“If you want to, I’m sure you could find something.” Steve shrugged, that grin not fading from his expression. “Who says you can’t do both, anyway?”

And… Well, Steve had a point. Maybe he could find a store that offered lessons?

“Why are you asking me to go to Indianapolis with you?” The question was asked before Eddie even processed that it was something he wanted to know. He grimaced as soon as it was out. “Not that I don’t want to, god knows I wanted to be out of this town three years ago now, but just— I thought you might tag along with Robin?”

Steve’s expression softened, a serene smile replacing the wide grin. “I thought about it. Robin’s going to Indianapolis University anyway, though, and…” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I think I’d like you there too.”

“You think?” Eddie questioned with a raised brow. It was easier to tease and joke than really look into that sparkle of mirth in Steve’s eyes and hope it meant what he wanted it to mean.

Steve shook his head, sending his hair all over the place. “I know. Got used to your noise, Munson.”

“Well, I’m making your life interesting, so you’re welcome.”

They were both smiling when Eddie finally let himself look Steve in the eye, finally relaxed enough even though he hadn’t escaped thinking about Steve, or his actual presence. It was fine. There some tentative plans to get out of Hawkins, together, and maybe Corroded Coffin would forever be a high school band that didn’t really go anywhere — Eddie was only starting to be okay with that idea, though — but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do something else with music.

Steve laid back down on the van after a moment of silence, turning his gaze to the sky. Like this, they were touching pretty much from shoulder to knee, and Eddie was trying not to move too much, conscious of the warmth radiating from Steve.

Steve, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have the same hang-ups, nudging Eddie’s hand until he could take it in his own.

“This okay?” He asked softly, not turning his head and not seeing Eddie already looking at him. Eddie squeezed his hand and intertwined their fingers as response. “I wasn’t planning on talking to you about Indianapolis tonight, you know?” His admission was soft, barely above the ambiance of the woods at night. “I was just gonna keep you company.”

“I’m glad you did.” Eddie let himself take in Steve’s face and what freckles he could see in the dark before turning away. “Easier to think I can actually get out of here when I have a tentative plan.”

“You can, Eddie,” Steve said, firmly squeezing his hand. “I meant it, I’d really like if you came to Indianapolis with me.”

He could feel Steve’s eyes boring a hole into the side of his head, and he refused to loosen the hold on his hand. Eddie sighed, turning to face Steve’s small, determined frown.

“Sometimes,” he started, hesitating before pulling their joined hands closer. “I kinda wish you were still some degree of asshole.” Steve frowned, ready to interject, but Eddie continued before he could. “‘Cause it would make getting over this ridiculous crush so much easier.”

Steve pulled their hands closer to himself this time, and Eddie could see him pursing his lips. He’d been paying too much attention, enough to know this was Steve trying to rein in one of those rare, goofy grins that had been one of the things that made Eddie fall in the first place.

“What if,” Steve started, slowly letting the grin take hold, as he started absently playing with the one ring Eddie forgot to take off before climbing up the van. “I don’t want you getting over this ridiculous crush?”

Eddie blinked at him — he felt like he’d done that a lot tonight, almost constantly surprised by Steve despite how close they’d gotten. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t seen this coming, too close to see what, eventually, might become obvious in hindsight.

“You mean that?”

Steve’s grin came out, full force, in the face of Eddie’s soft tone. He slowly brought Eddie’s hand closer and pressed an oh so soft kiss to his knuckles.

“I mean it.”

Eddie didn’t really know what to say to all that, the smooth jerk knew it and could probably see the blush undoubtedly rising on his cheeks. But there was one thing that he needed to double check.

“You know I’m—”

“Asexual?” He filled in after Eddie cut himself short. “Yeah, I do.” Steve was back to messing with the ring on his hand, looking at it with an expression Eddie still hadn’t figured out. “And I think…” He paused, frowning a little. Eddie kind of wanted to bite him. “It might apply to me too?”

Eddie rolled closer to Steve and pressed a kiss to cheek, feeling the heat rising the longer he stayed there.

“Thanks for telling me,” he mumbled against Steve’s cheek. He pressed another quick kiss before settling back down. “Feels good to know, doesn’t it?”

Steve’s laughter was light, giddy. He rolled onto Eddie this time, hugging him as close as possible.

“It really does.”

Eddie knew they would talk come morning, and they would define just what they wanted and were to each other. But for now, cuddling and laughing under the night sky with ridiculous Greek stories was all Eddie wanted to be doing.

[wenwenbittercake]

Chapter 4: False comfort🍒✨🍒✨🍒

(Tw: kidnapping, isolation, Stockholm Syndrome,)

You lost track of time doing the same ritual every day. Norman would wake you up, take you up the stairs for a glimpse to take a shower. The window that once was your only savior is now blocked up. Then he brings you back downstairs, bringing food and new clothing. Around noon he would come back down to the basement to bring you food. He waits for you to be done with your food by tending the plants. You believe your chance of ever getting attention from an outside party is unlikely. After all the mess you did a few days ago, there is no way neighbors wouldn’t call the police or try to intervene, but here you are, still in the same room, still in the same situation. Boredom got the best of you to the point you start to pay attention to his behavior around you. Now that you pay attention to it, you realize this man is probably made out of bricks. His movements never stutter for an old man and his entire body is toned with muscles. There is no way you can fight against a man like him. This only fills you more with dread.

He has been more gentle and careful of you than before, it’s probably because he cares more about the kid in you then your wellbeing. However, his kindness is seeping into your head slowly day by day. You both never had a conversation after what happened, and you are not looking forward to it either. But slowly your heart denies your rational side. You slowly long for a conversation, human touch, basic human socialization. You used to hate having to interact with people, now you can’t believe you would miss it this much.

The only human in your life right now is Norman, but you are unwilling to initiate a conversation after what he has done. It would mean to lose your only dignity left to talk to him, but you are highly aware of your desire to communicate with him. Know more about him, who he is, what type of person he is. You wonder if he feels the same. Maybe not, after all, you are just a surrogate and all the affection he had shown is just for the upcoming baby. Not you.

In the meantime, Norman is kind enough to introduce the rascal, Shadow. At first, he was a growling mess, but when Norman acknowledges that you’re his friend, Shadow immediately understands and starts getting along with you. And you get along with Shadow well too. You spend most of your time mumbling to him, playing with his belly, and patting him to sleep.

One awful morning, Norman took Shadow out for a walk longer than he normally would. This leaves you with the only entertainment around, an old TV/VCR player. You already rummaged through the drawers under neath, hoping there is something to free you. However, the only findings you get are movie tapes of different action movies. You try to get the tv working but this is a TV/VCR player. You’ve never seen one until now and you have little to no knowledge of how to open them. I thought about asking for help from Norman but subsided that idea.

Norman finally came back from his long walk, you wonder if he was actually walking around the entire town to take this long. The usual heavy footsteps can be heard from upstairs. By now you already make a note of the layout of the first floor, thanks to your daily routine. You can hear him walking into the kitchen, followed by the footsteps of Shadow. The rattling of dog food into the metal bowl can be heard, giving a sign that it’s Shadow’s feeding time, then it’s yours’. Heavy footsteps get near your basement door and the door swings open. You waited anxiously as Norman brought the tray of food besides you. Normally, Norman would feed you warm up canned foods that you dread to eat but today, oddly he brings you sweet chicken curry. Did he make this? No way, he’s blind, no way he can cook let alone go and buy groceries, right?

It’s warm and nice, the flavors melt into your mouth in delight. Your sour mood has lifted a little, you are so used to eating your own cooked food that you forgot the feeling of eating something that is specially made for you. You can’t help but smile a bit. As usual Norman waited for you to finish as he was doing his usual work in the basement. You slowly form an idea, I need to get close to him, wait until he lets his guard down and escape. This time you're stronger, far faster. You can make out of this hell hole for sure.

You pull up all the courage inside, you suppress all the rage inside you and ask.

“Norman.” Your voice is weaker than you want it to be. It’s merely a whisper but he heard it.

He pauses at whatever he was doing and asks from where he is.

“What is it?” His voice is stern but not as harsh as the first time you met him.

“Does the TV/VCR player work?” This time you are more confident with your words but still try your best to not show your unsteadiness in your voice.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure, it used to work but it’s been so long. Let me see.” He taps the walls and walks up to where you are.

He starts to feel around your direction to find the VHS player. Seems like he’s not too familiar with the surroundings of your cushion jail.

“Here.” You take his rough hands and guide him towards the TV/VCR player.

When he reaches the TV/VCR player, it was like it’s the back of his hands. He plugged the TV/VCR player to a wall socket out of your reach and pushed some buttons, turning it on. The sizzling sound appears on the white screen. You almost jumped in excitement.

“Can it play movies?” You sound excited and slightly happy.

You wish on god for Norman to not realize the smile plaster on your face but he did.

“Yes, all the tapes under there are movies Evelyn loves to watch.” His voice is now softer and gentler, compared to how he normally speaks.

You dig your hands through the drawer and find an action movie you like.

“Oh, I love this one! My favorite actor is in it.” Norman shows you how to play the tape and a few seconds later, the movie appears on the screen. This made you clap a little in excitement.

“Make sure you press that button when you are done watching.” He got up to leave but he felt something tug his sleeve.

“D-do you want to watch the movie with me?” you want to bite your own tongue for what you’ve said. You have no choice now; you need to get close.

Norman considers saying no but something inside of him wants him to stay, even if he can’t see the movie. It wouldn’t hurt so much to stay for a while, right?

“Wait Why would he do that?” You are never quiet when watching movies.

You would either ask questions that were never answered or comment on each moment of the movie. Your family would hates it and often time leaves u out of movie nights for this exact reason.But now, no family to watch with, you have no choice but to you’re watching a movie with a blind man. How ironic.

“Oh no, he got a gun.” you softly react to the movie, not daring to raise your voice.

You’re still nervous about the entire situation. You know he might be sensitive to noises so raising your voice might annoy him or worse. It’s a stupid resolution to gain his trust. Who offers a blind man to watch a movie with them? And why does he even accept it?

Norman sits besides you with an awkward distance between you two. His milky eyes look straight forward but not at the TV but at the wall. It took everything in you to suppress that giggle threatening to escape due to how he looks. You are entranced by the movie but often you turn to look at Norman. This is due to you not trusting him enough to leave him out of sight but another part of you can’t help but observe him.

The annoying white light was off and the only source of light in the basement was the TV. The different colors of light illuminated the room helping you get a picture of Norman. His face looks relaxed now, even softer than he was before. Scars littered on his left face, also acts as a proof of his harsh life. You wonder if Evelyn was the one that kept him alive after all that he’s done. His only moral compass and you took that away. No Cindy did. Not you. Cindy killed her, not you.

Norman cracks a smile at a joke that comes up from the movie. It was quick but you saw it and that caught you by surprise. You didn’t know a man like that ever smiled. The next part also makes you giggle. You observe Norman with your eyes, but he himself isn’t too innocent either.

He too was observing you with his hearing. Every sound you made; every movement wasn’t left unnoticed. However, even if he was slightly annoyed by your gaze, he couldn't help but stay. It reminds him of times when Evelyn was alive. She also would commentate on every moment of the movie, laughing loudly when a funny scene happens and she would repeat what happened on the scene to him again. He really misses those moments when life isn’t so bad. He may lose his vision but not his sight in life. When Evelyn is gone, his dark world seems even darker. His quiet life went silent, but your giggles make him feel something again. It is messed up in a sense, but he feels that feeling again that was lost. Comfort. He knows no one can replace Evelyn but sitting with you right here, watching an action movie, brings him a reminiscence of Evelyn.

The movie ended with the credits rolling in. You stare at the TV screen, not knowing what to say. You are brought back into reality, the reality where your life exists in a basement, the reality that you are paying the price for some else’s sins. This realization near makes you puke. You feel like breaking down to cry when you feel a touch.

A rough hand pats your head gently. He then combed through your hair with his fingers softly. You glance at his face. There was something warm inside those empty eyes of his. He looks content. No words were shared. You look at him expectantly, no knowing what to expect. He holds your cheek softly, that when he snaps out of his daydream. He looks shocked at what he has done, like he had done something horrible. He stands up and walks back upstairs. Leaving you in the dark.

You slump on the soft cushions beneath you. Feeling defeated. You feel your ego crushed into a million pieces. You are disgusted at yourself for not doing anything, not screaming at him for ever touching you. But the insane part of you, the part that disgusted you, finds comfort in it. His comforting eyes, and forgiving touches, you want more of it. You felt betrayed when he left abruptly. Your rational brain and your naïve heart fights inside you, leaving you broken with the accompany of the sizzling white noise of the TV.

(Thank u so much for the support guys. I'm really happy with all the support. I will be writing more in the future and apologies if the pattern of my posting isn't the same. I hope u all enjoyed✨🍒✨🍒✨🍒✨🍒✨🍒✨🍒✨🍒

Chapter 1🍒

Chapter 2🍒

Chapter 3🍒

[simmerbeans]

📩 Simblr question of the day: Choose a sim of your own that you consider your/a fave, then choose one sim from three (or more!) different simblrs, now imagine what those sims would be like in a room together? Who's walking out first? Who's staying the longest? Who would get along? Who wouldn't get along at all? Elaborate as much or as little as you'd like :) (p.s please feel free to share this to others, anon or not, and feel free to use the hashtag " SQOTD "! I love seeing everyone's answers and reading them makes my day ~ 💛 )

Oooh, interesting question! This took some brain power to answer.

Okay here we go, the following presentation is below the cut.

The first one that automatically came to mind is my one, the only, Lockhart Heir: Madeline. She would have gotten along so well with Lily Summers from @sharona-sims Summers Legacy. Both these gals have very similar lifestyles and interests. Madeline would have loved to be apart of the knitting club. They would talk all things quality produce, cute farm animals, and probably joke about wanting to be Agnes’s friend so bad.

The second one that came to mind as a good match, was my generation 5 heir: Lily-Anne and The Knightstone Family from @changingplumbob rotational save. Lily loved alllll things space, so for her to have been friends with actual aliens would have made her entire life. I could see Lily asking every space-alien question possible, probably annoying the fellow aliens. She would probably wish her and her husband Ethan would get abducted so they could have a cute alien babe of their own, but since it most likely wouldn’t of happened, she’d offer to baby sit for the family (for free) because hello alien infants?

Now third, this is tough, because my current heir Astrid is so friendly and every sim she meets she gets a half relationship bar just from greeting them so I feel like Astrid would be able to become friends with most. Some that come to mind is Dulce from @matchalovertrait, Astrid was pretty fun as a teen, so if Astrid and Dulce were in the same save they would’ve been friends. I think Astrid would be fond of Tamara from @berrycactus and her outdoorsy lifestyle. She’d probably be able to influence Astrid to live off the grid for a few years and because Astrid is so adventurous she’s quit her job and do it 😆

[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 11 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 8.4k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Library

Chapter 11 - The River of No Return

You think you might have been mopping in the same place for so long you’re about to wear through the marble. In the past few days, you’ve been so uncharacteristically distracted you’d forget your own head if it weren’t attached to your body. But it’s like your entire consciousness ground to a halt—you can still feel Rooster’s lips burn on the corner of your mouth. 

You were so sure he was about to kiss you.

But the song ended, people started moving about, and the moment was lost. You felt your heart drop to your feet when he turned away, slowly releasing his hold on you. Feeling dejected, and suddenly all too aware of the searing pain in your feet, you decided it was a good time to go home. 

As you led Rooster behind you, sneaking out the back door of the building, you couldn’t look him in the face. You were once again grateful there was no room for conversation as you walked back, crossing the river, the night sky littered with stars. Nearly pushing him through the small room door, you rushed back down the stairs and home.

Embarrassment still washes over you when you think back on that moment on the dance floor - why does Rooster keep stringing you along like that? Just dancing would have been enough. Why does he keep teasing you, playing to your every weakness? It’s calculated, but he plays it off so naturally you catch yourself believing his play. 

It’s painful.

He probably perfected it over the years as his modus-operandi, you think bitterly. What was that Navy saying again? A girl in every port?

But even with that knowledge, you wish he had kissed you. Just so for that one fleeting moment, you could pretend, dream, that life had turned out differently. 

What scares you most is that one moment wouldn’t be enough for you. Once he allows you a taste of that fantasy and everything that could have been, you’d only want more. More than he could realistically give you—if he even wanted to.

Rooster has you so unraveled already; he’s making you lose sight—no, you are allowing yourself to lose sight of what is important—keeping cover and finding him a way out of here. You sigh loudly, the sound bouncing around the empty hall. 

This is neither the time nor place for romance. Why would you keep deluding yourself so much when it comes to Rooster? Why do you want to?

God, you still haven’t moved from where you’ve been mopping endlessly. You’re running in circles, doing mind-numbing tasks, allowing your fantasy to run rampant. It’s not like it matters anyway—the big spring clean is coming up. Deep cleaning, double shifts, window washing. 

Hands soaking in rapidly cooling, sudsy, and dirty water, balancing on a ladder—you shudder. There’s no chore you dislike more than that. 

Speaking of soaking, you can’t wait to get home tonight. Your poor feet really took a beating in those fancy shoes—when you finally peeled them off, it felt like your toes were on fire, blisters already forming. The next time you run for your life, you should probably just wear the lower-heeled everyday shoes you’re wearing now. Or even better, your boots.

Ideally, you’d never run for your life like that again, but somehow, you don’t think that’s in the cards for you anytime soon.

Wiping down all the desks, you ignore the rubbing of your sore heel against your shoe. These are the nights where you curse making yourself the slowest on the shift because it means you can’t actually breeze through the chore list without raising suspicion. 

If only you can keep your wits about yourself for long enough.

Finally, as the time on your wristwatch creeps closer to 11, you start lugging the heavy mop bucket full of dirty water down the stairs. You take your sweet time and hear voices downstairs, meaning not everyone has left yet. By the time you reach the ground floor, it’s empty; your footsteps and the water sloshing in the bucket echo through the hall. Not even the night guard is at his desk—he’s been skulking around the building more lately, which is part of his job, but he never seemed keen on that.

Straining to hoist the bucket to the utility sink in the dank little backroom, you stand on your tiptoes to tip the contents out. Your heel scrapes painfully against your shoe again. Just a bit longer before you can kick up your feet, you tell yourself tiredly.

Clearing away your cleaning supplies, you grab your coat. You hate how the musty smell of the room—humid, kind of old—settles into the fabric in those few hours. Exiting the small room, you look around the dimly lit hall. There’s no sound except your own breathing, but you somehow feel like you’re not alone.

It’s the stupid, creepy, cavernous building, you reason. No one is here. The night guard is either shuffling his rounds or nursing his favored gamekeeper brand brandy somewhere in a quiet corner. Either way: not your problem.

The moment your hand touches the doorknob, the loud clang of glass on wood reverberates through the hall. You close your eyes briefly, the stench of stale alcohol wafting past you. You curse. That quiet corner the night guard found seemed to be under his desk.  

Something twists in your gut, and you squeeze the door handle, firmly pulling it open.

“Hey!” The night guard’s creaky voice sounds surprisingly powerful. 

Fuck. 

You release the door before you turn around, slightly wide-eyed. Struggling to get on his feet, the night guard emerged from the darkness. Behind you, the door swings closed with a dull thud.

“I figured you’d still be here.” He croaks with a grin.

“I’m on my way home.” You reply dumbly. The night guard just chuckles dryly—it sounds like a heavy boot sinking into gravel—dry, crunchy, and uncomfortable. Instinctively you swallow, like your own throat just went dry, fighting to keep the disgusted scowl off your face.

“Did you know my shift doesn’t end until 6?” The question sounds a little too sharp for someone who was evidently just passed out in a drunk stupor under a desk. You hesitate, frowning slightly. 

“That’s… a long shift.” You respond lightly, trying to be polite but keen to end the strange conversation at your earliest convenience. Shifting on your feet uncomfortably, you regard the night guard as he screws the top back onto the liquor bottle. His fingers are bent from arthritis, but his movements are fluid and precise. 

Suspicious.

“I hear things,” He croaks again, gesturing vaguely. “Here—at night.” 

“It’s creepy here at night,” You offer kindly, hand twitching to grab the door again. Is he crazy? “Your imagination-” 

“Girl, do you think they bring in the stuff they really want to keep secret in daylight?” He cuts you off, his eyes clear—too clear for someone supposedly drunk. You bristle, biting your tongue.

“How should I know?” You shrug, forced. “I just clean here.” 

He laughs again, rasping for air, like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. It sounds painful. You don’t react; you stare blankly at the strange old man. Anything you want to say sounds like an admission, so you should keep mum. Keeping your eye on the old man, almost doubled over from age, your hand sneaks behind you, blindly grabbing for the doorknob.

You start turning around as soon as your fingers touch the cool metal. “Have a good-” 

“They found Sparta.” 

It should stop you dead in your tracks. Your heart almost stops for a beat. A million questions immediately flood your mind: when? How? Where? But most importantly: is the radio working?

But you'll lose any plausible deniability if you stop now—mid-move. And while you might have thought the night guard was nothing but an innocent old drunk, this conversation is taking a direction you must steer clear of. 

“What are you -?” You look over your shoulder with a confused smile and practiced ditziness as you pull open the door. “I have to catch my tram! Good night!” 

The moment the door shuts behind you, the smile melts off your face.

What the fuck? ***

“27 across - 7 letters, starts with a C. A rhythmic pattern.”

Bradley looks up from the crossword puzzle you’d been working on together. The afternoon sun is streaming through the small window.  Across the small table you’ve spent so much time together, you appear distracted—leaning your head on your hand heavily, staring off into the distance. You seem barely present in the room the last few days with him.

He wonders if it’s his fault—he almost kissed you. That is what makes it so incredibly painful. Almost. You played along so nicely with every move he made and followed his lead so naturally, he was really convinced you would close the last few inches of distance between you.

It’s the same song and dance repeatedly: every step you take closer to him is followed by a shooting out of his reach. Perhaps it’s better this way, he thinks forlornly. More professional. Safer. You look worried, that small crease between your eyebrows now almost permanently etched on your face. 

“Anya?” He asks, a little louder to catch your attention. You blink in surprise as if you forgot he was in the room with you. That stings a little, Bradley has to admit. He cannot remember when he ever had to make such an effort with a girl—because, be as it may—you’ve never outright rejected him. And being the spitfire that you are, if he had done anything to annoy you, he’s pretty sure you’d spell it out for him quite clearly. 

“Sorry, what—I was -” You stumble over your words, an apologetic look on your face. 

“It’s okay,” Bradley smiles. “Do you want to try another clue?” 

You groan. 

“You know, I gave you those crossword puzzles because they’re really difficult for me in English, right?” You wrinkle your nose at the admission. Actually, you’re generally pretty bad at crosswords and don’t enjoy them much. You kept these because your father bought you those expensive English newspapers every week for years, so you couldn’t ever really bring yourself to throw them away.

“And here I was thinking you gave them to me out of the goodness of your heart,” Bradley retorts jokingly. You scoff, unable the keep the grin off your face.

“And this is how you repay my kindness?” You intone mildly. “I feel like I’m being called up to the blackboard.”  

Bradley chuckles as he looks down at the crossword puzzle again, scribbling something down.

Biting your lip, you hold back a sigh. It’s hard to focus on Rooster. The kiss that never was almost feels like ancient memory—he doesn’t seem too pressed about it, either. The realization is like a boulder on your chest, but you push it away. And you have completely different things on your mind right now. 

Paratroopers from Britain brought two portable long-distance radios into the country around 1941. They had been instrumental in keeping communication lines open with the government in exile, which supplied the home resistance with intel, material, and ammunition through airdrops. The radio, lovingly called Libusche, had been destroyed in a raid after the assassination of the Reischprotektor. The other radio, named Sparta, disappeared in the chaos and was presumed destroyed.

And now the night guard, who is doing a little more than just night guarding, casually tells you Sparta is about to be brought to the Ministry of the Interior.

Even if it’s true - it makes it feel like a trap. You desperately wish you had someone to talk to - go over the plan, pick apart every aspect, lay out every eventuality. It’s on the tip of your tongue as you turn to Rooster again, but you can’t.

It would be cruel to give him that hope.

But it also makes you feel guilty. 

You’d want to know; you’d want to help if you were in his shoes. It feels wrong to keep it from him; you know Rooster is smart. He would understand. Maybe…

“Cadence.” Rooster meets your gaze, smiling. You look at him, confused, words dying on your tongue.

“What?” You force out, not comprehending. 

“27 across,” He supplies, cocking an eyebrow. “Anya, where are you?” He laughs, shaking his head as he marks the clue on the paper.

“I’m right here, Rooster, don’t worry.” You smile, turning to him fully now. Plucking the crossword away from under his nose, you scan over it. Rooster’s handwriting is neat and precise, exactly as you expected. “How about I do the writing, and you do the guessing?” 

You motion for him to hand you the pencil, wiggling your fingers lightly. Without argument, he hands it over before leaning backward in his chair, relaxed. As he stretches his long limbs under the table, his leg bumps against yours. He makes no move to retract himself from your space, and you’re unwilling to move. So you just lean your leg against his.

“63 across,” You start, eyes firmly trained on the paper before you, tapping the pencil against your lips. “Nine letters ends in double L—a narrow escape.” 

*** 

As you climb up the wobbly ladder, carefully balancing your weight against the heavy bucket in your hand, you bite your lip in concentration. The metal of the handle is cutting into your hand. People narrowly walk past at the foot of the ladder—like they only notice the new obstacle in the daily path at the last minute.

Another reason to hate the day shift, you think sourly.

Not only that, but you haven’t seen hide nor hair of the night guard since that night, which is over a week ago now. Life has been going on as usual: going to work, walks with Rooster, trying not to think about if he would try to kiss you again, doing crossword puzzles together, lunch with Eva now you’re both on the day shift and endlessly wondering if what the night guard said was true. 

If they are actually bringing the radio here…

If there was truly another chance…

You want there to be for Rooster.

Dipping your rag in the sudsy water, you start wiping away the dust and grime from the narrow window above the door to one of the offices. Some are modern, simply frosted, and rectangular. You can hear the voices and the loud typing on the other side of the glass, although you can’t determine what they say. This office houses mostly low-level personnel concerned with small matters like distributing ration booklets. You’ve spent plenty of time snooping around those desks.

Plopping the sopping and dirty rag and wiping the window dry, you glance down the hall. So many more windows to go. And those are just above the door. All office windows will need washing after that, so you’ll be spending your entire day with your hands in dirty water.

You hate spring cleaning.

It’s around lunch by the time you reach the offices of the higher-ups down the far end of the hall. The offices here are much nicer—leather chairs, carpets, gold detailing—and instead of the basic frosted windows about the office doors, they have ornate and colorful stained glass adorning their entrances. The fragile decorative elements need to be cleaned carefully. But as you are stretched out, precariously balancing on the ladder, wiping the build-up of grime, you can’t help but notice another particularity about the stained-glass windows.

They are so thin you can hear the conversation taking place on the other side. 

Working diligently and just a bit slower than strictly necessary, you hover your ear near the glass, curious. Two men are in conversation—an older one, heavy and curt, and a younger one, clearly brown-nosing. The stench of cigars hangs heavily around the door. 

“I heard it’s in mint condition - Benedikt from forensics said he saw it himself.”  Says the younger voice, cocky.

“I’m sure he did.” The other one grumbles lowly. You carefully stretch your arm out a little further so your ear is closer to the glass. The metal handle of the bucket creaks nervously as it gently swings on the hook on the ladder, just shy of bumping into the door frame.

“But can you believe it?” The younger voice gets louder as he gets more excited. “The Gestapo is bringing it here tomorrow evening.” 

“Don’t hang around here if you know what’s good for you.” The older man chortles—it is, after all, an absurd notion to want to be anywhere near the Gestapo.

“Come on, aren’t you a little bit curious?” There’s a clinking sound of a glass being placed on the table with a bit too much force. “For over two years, there was no trace, no evidence it was even real—and now we’re the ones getting it!” 

“We’re not getting shit.” The older is getting frustrated—the sound of the chair scraping and shuffling footsteps through the office is making him hard to hear. You imagine he must have turned his back to the door, the old voice now slightly muffled. Straining your hearing, nearly pressing your ear against the glass, you try to catch the droning monologue. 

Now the young man has evidently gotten up from his chair, too, mirroring his boss and pacing the room. He shuffles like he can’t entirely lift one leg from the ground as he takes a step, noisily dragging the rubber sole of his shoe over the carpet. The almost static noise drowns out large parts of the older man’s ongoing diatribe about… incompetence. Shit is rolling downhill. And cake? 

You shift your position on the ladder— you've been sitting in the same position, scrubbing the same spot, for too long now. Pins and needles are starting in your legs, making your movements jerky and uncoordinated. The bucket whines as it swings on the hook—finally knocking into the doorpost with a dull thud, the sudden stop in the bucket's momentum causing water to spill over the edge. 

You watch it clatter down on the floor in slow motion, the soap bubbles unceremoniously bursting at impact. The voices on the other side of the window suddenly stop.

You hold your breath as you busy yourself, actually cleaning and trying not to look like you were eavesdropping. The shuffling is coming closer. Hand tightening on the rag, you try to focus on your movements—breath. Relax your shoulders. You are supposed to be here.

The dragging footsteps stop.

The breath you were trying to release stocks in your chest. It’s painfully stuck, the pressure slowly becoming unbearable. Through the tense silence, you hear the low grumble of the older man. 

The shuffling starts moving away from you again. More clinking of glasses follows. Lightly breathing through your nose, you try as you might to look natural as you carefully polish the stained-glass window. The older man must still be facing away from the door at the far end of the room—his voice is still unintelligible. 

You want to stay longer, find out what the men are talking about. Something in your gut is telling you to stay, but you’ve been cleaning the window suspiciously long—even for your regular cleaning tempo—and you don’t want to get written up for being slow on top of everything else. Shifting your position uncomfortably, trying to stretch out your sleeping leg gently, the ladder wobbles, making the bucket creak in its hook. Carefully taking a step down, your head now level with the lower edge of the window, you grunt lightly as you lift the heavy bucket off the hook. The thin metal handle manages to both cut into your palm painfully while being slippery in your wet and soapy hand. You hesitate, feet unsteady, grip slipping. Fucking Spring cleaning. On the other side of the door, a chair creaks heavily, leather crying out under the weight of a body heavily falling into it. The older man grunts as if sitting down in his luxurious chair was some sort of Olympic sport.

“You know the Gestapo doesn’t like an audience,’ He croaks, voice serious. You can hear his clear as day again. “Stay away, and let the technicians deal with Sparta.” 

It’s like, for a moment, your brain is so overwhelmed by that little tidbit of information that completes the puzzle, you lose control over your muscles. Your leg, only barely recovered from the pins and needles, slips on the rung. Automatically, you let go of the bucket, without even really noticing, to steady yourself. At that moment, it feels like when you jump on a trampoline—for a split second, at the highest point, you hang in the air, motionless. The world around you has still, as you can see everything from a new perspective.

Long-distance radio Sparta was never truly lost. It was in the hands of the Gestapo this whole time. And they are bringing it here -to what? Disassemble it? Research it? Why do they need the police to do that? Doesn’t the Gestapo have resources? 

It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you have another chance. 

Rooster has another chance.

The loud sound of metal against marble tiles pulls you from your zenith back to the ground. You stumble down the ladder, shoes skidding through the sudsy water now pouring in all directions in a rapidly growing puddle. The soaking rag you used to clean the windows lays pathetically scrunched next to the tipped-over bucket. You know people are looking at you—the disapproving murmurs float past you. Head down, embarrassment rolling off you in waves; you impotently start cleaning up the mess—setting the bucket upright, wringing out the rag, and clumsily mopping it up.

You wish the ground would just swallow you up whole as the frantically shuffling footsteps hurry closer, and slam the door open in a tour de force, knocking the ladder sideways to boot. If people hadn’t already been looking at you before, they sure noticed you now.

“What the” The young man is so angry he nearly squeaks out the words. “Get a mop, you idiot! It’s running under the door!”

You don’t dare to look up at the shuffling man, scrambling up immediately as you mumble an apology and take off down the hall. 

Who cares about the stupid mop? You need to figure out a way to break into the ministry tonight.

***

Bradley hears your footsteps hurry up the stairs—you must be running. It worries him, and his hand is on the doorknob before you reach the top of the stairs. Typically your gait is deliberate, controlled, and light-footed. Right now, it’s almost as if your feet have trouble keeping up with your own momentum as you hurtle up the stairs. 

You are breathless as you knock on the door impatiently. Before you can finish knocking, Rooster has pulled the door open. He looks worried, a frown etched on his handsome face. The words are about to burst out of you, burning on the tip of your tongue. Unable to contain your excitement, you grab Rooster by the arm—his muscles tense under your touch—as you push him back into the room. He lets you move him. It never ceases to amaze you how Rooster lets you lead him, push him around almost. Being taller than you and built like that, he could easily refuse to move. But he never does.

He’s looking at you, as much worried as confused. You cannot stop yourself from grinning as you kick the door closed behind you, hand still on Rooster’s arm.

“I have great news,” You still sound breathless, eyes sparkling like you are about to divulge a secret. Rooster looks at you with rapt attention—you nervously lick your lips, suddenly at a loss for words under his intense gaze—finally, your hand drops from his arm.

“The Gestapo has Sparta—fully functional, and they’re bringing it to the ministry tomorrow night.” The words are falling from your mouth quickly—as you are almost bouncing on your heels.

There’s a beat of silence.

“I - I don’t follow,” Bradley admits, looking at you strangely. The energy radiating from you envelops him, but he can’t grasp it. You blink at him, mouth slightly open—looking both surprised and confused for a moment.

“It’s the other long-distance radio,” You explain hurriedly, automatically grabbing his arm again, squeezing. “Rooster—we have another shot!” 

You are almost shaking him in your excitement, trying to goad him into some sort of reaction. “I’ll sneak in tomorrow evening,” It feels like you are trying to convince him. “The night guard will be asleep at his desk - drunk, probably - and the cleaning crews will be long gone because of spring cleaning.”

You only pause to take a breath.

“The back stairs are isolated from the main hall and lead straight to technical forensics. No one will be there to hear me or the radio.” 

Rooster doesn’t reply but just grabs your hand off his arm, enveloping it in his palm. “Anya, you need to calm down.” He implores you, voice quiet. His soft brown eyes are searching yours. “I’m perfectly calm,” You grin incredulously. 

“No, you are diving danger head-first,” Rooster’s voice is steady, serious. “Within 24 hours, you are planning on breaking into—” “Sneaking into,” You mumble dismissively, lips pursed. “Breaking into a government building,” Rooster reiterates sternly. “Teeming with security, not to mention the Gestapo-” 

“The place is deserted at night,” You interject, shaking your head, unable to keep yourself from interrupting Rooster again.

“Anya,” The way he punctuates every syllable finally shuts you up. “You don’t have a plan. Everything you said relies on factors beyond your control and luck.”

“What I don’t have is time.” You retort seriously. 

“It’s suicide.” His hand tightens around yours.

“It’s our only chance!” You exclaim, pulling away lightly. Why is he being so difficult about this? “Sparta is going to forensics - they will take the whole thing apart, bit by bit.” You take a deep breath to steady yourself. “It has to be done tomorrow.”

Finally, he releases his hold on you, and you pull your hand from his.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” Rooster admits tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t.” The retort escapes you before you can catch yourself. Rooster’s eyes flash with anger. Biting your lip, you consider amending your statement. “Look - non of this is exactly risk-free, you know that.” You gesture vaguely around the room. “We have to make a move. It has to be tomorrow.” 

“Anya, aren’t you scared?”

“Of course I am,” You admit readily, voice earnest. If anything, you are terrified, but you’re pushing that feeling far away from your mind and heart. The mission is back on. “But that’s not the point. Rooster, do you trust me?” 

He looks at you strangely, frown still marring his handsome features. 

“Of course I do.” He replies softly.

Taking a step towards him, placing your hand on his broad shoulder. You can feel them sag under your touch as he exhales. 

“Then trust I’ll pull it off.” You smile up at him. A small smile breaks through on Rooster’s face in response. He cannot help it; every time you smile at him like that—sweetly, confidently—it’s like he sees it for the first time and wishes you would always look at him like that.

He shakes his head, chuckling lightly. “Do you still remember the code?”

Your grin broadens, and that cheeky glint returns to your eye. Bradley holds his breath involuntarily as you stand up on your tiptoes, moving closer to him. 

His eyes go wide, and without a word, you start playfully tapping the code on his nose. For a moment, he is too stunned to react.  Bradley’s brain is firing in so many different directions he can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a reaction.

You are a menace.

You are adorable.

The code is flawless.

“You’re not taking this seriously.” He finally manages, jerking back and grabbing your hand away from his face. Bradley feels the heat creep up his neck. You look surprised, lips slightly parted, the small crease forming between your eyebrows. Worry, hurt, and anger pass over his face in quick succession. 

Your first reaction is to defend yourself against his accusation. But the sadness in those soft brown eyes stops you short.

“Rooster…” You start gently, looking up at him. “If - if these are truly my last hours,” Swallowing dryly before you continue. It feels strange to admit this out loud. You don’t talk about your fear of death—speaking, it makes it real. “Then I would like to spend them in happiness and laughter.” 

You twist your hand in his palm, interlacing your fingers with his. “Why start mourning when we’re still alive?”

You search his face for a reaction. He chuckles again, a genuine smile finally spreading over his face.  

“And I promise I’m taking this seriously,” You implore him as his free hand rests on your waist again. Suddenly you are in a very familiar position. “I don’t want to die.” You add, in a whisper, voice wavering.

He doesn’t reply but just pulls you closer to him. It feels so natural as you rest your cheek against his shoulder. Rooster leans his head against yours, breathing through his nose. The smell of your soap and your scent fill his mind. 

There’s no one here. There is no need to pretend. Yet, Rooster is gently swaying you to music only he can hear. Maybe, if you try and let yourself, you can hear it too.

“I’m not saying goodbye to you,” He tells you softly. You move to look up at him, but you are close to Rooster already; your nose brushes against the side of his neck instead. 

“Why?” Your voice sounds fragile, even to yourself. The bravado you displayed so effortlessly, not even moments ago, seems to have melted away.

“Because I trust you,” He replies simply. The conviction in his voice reignites the fire in you. “And you are coming back.” 

Fairly early, you had discerned that Rooster possessed a certain magnetism, a power of persuasion, backed by his easy confidence and effortless charm. The long weeks of confinement dulled his shine, which had made you a little too complacent. Just because Rooster allows you to move him with so little resistance doesn’t mean he is any less of a force to reckon with.

Now, Rooster could tell you the sky is green, and you don’t think you could stop believing him. You want to believe him, now more than ever. “Thank you, Rooster.” You are so close he can almost feel you speak the words. He doesn’t reply, simply tucking your head under his chin and leading through your silent slow dance.

***

Wiping your clammy hand on your skirt, you walk up to the unlit back entrance of the ministry. It’s past midnight, and you’ve been staked out in the bushes for over four hours. 

You were going just to slip in as soon as it was dark, but Rooster convinced you to lie in wait - see how many agents went in to bring the radio and how many came out. Some may stay behind to stand guard. Rooster pointed out many things to you that you hadn’t thought about. The radio is loud and could alert someone from far away. The answer might not be instant - if the receiver on the other end needed to wake up his CO, you could be waiting anywhere from a couple of minutes to half an hour. And finally, the lights - after the night shift leaves, all lights are usually turned off. 

It’s slightly embarrassing you didn’t think about that before; you were so caught up in just getting it done you completely skimmed over the details. You are grateful for Rooster. It’s nice actually finally to be able to talk details with him. He’s smart, much smarter than you had been giving him credit for, really. Bringing your own fears into the open, accepting his help—It’s suddenly like you are on equal footing.

But now it’s time. You counted five black-clad agents entering and five exciting not thirty minutes later. You wait a bit longer to ensure the night guard has plenty of time to pass out. The ministry looms darkly—its dark windows look almost cavernous.

Now that you are only a few steps away from the service entrance, you are gripping Rooster’s bracelet in your pocket so lightly, the metal in digging into your skin.  

Gingerly, you open the door, the slight creak of the door handle echoing through the hall. It’s pitch dark inside, as this part of the building lacks windows. You wait for any sounds from the inside, hinting someone might be moving around.

Nothing.

Slipping in, quietly clicking the door behind you, you lightly step into the darkness. Keep your breath steady—it’s louder than the rustling of your clothes and footfall. 

You see a small flickering light at the far end of the hall. It’s the desk lamp on the night guard’s station.  The closer you get, the louder the echo of your steps; it’s actually starting to worry you how loud it is. You still, holding your breath for a moment.

From under the desk, soft snoring sounds. You hesitate. You must pass the night guard’s desk to slip into the back stairwell. Leaning your hand against the wall, eyes trained on the only light source far and wide, you wiggle off your shoes. The floor is cold, seeping through your socks. 

Shoes in hand, clutching your purse against your chest, you tiptoe through the hall. You force yourself to move slowly, even though you’d like to escape the hall as fast as possible. Taking tiny steps, you finally reach the door. Pushing against it, it doesn’t give.

Shit.

You push harder, the lock suddenly loudly unlatching, your shoes knocking against the door as you stumble forward. You hold your breath. Behind you, the snoring stops for a second.

You have a million excuses for why you are here. That’s why you dressed casually—in a rust-colored skirt you haven’t worn in years and a light blue sweater—counterintuitively, not in black or dark colors. You just dropped in after a night out on the town. To go to the bathroom. Look for the earring you lost earlier—being drunk and thinking you missed your shift. 

The snoring starts up again. Your eyes flutter in relief to keep yourself from sighing loudly. 

When the door closes behind you, you run up the concrete stairs, keeping your footfall as light as possible. Forensics is on the second floor. 

You dig the master key you didn’t return after your shift earlier from your purse and let yourself onto the corridor. Tucking into your coat pocket, you take out your torch. It’s a bit large for purpose, as it’s meant for outside—you usually use it in the mountains and the forest.  Rooster implored you to keep it steady and aimed at the ground. Swinging it around will be visible from the outside. Forensics is not usually on your cleaning roster, so the hall feels foreign. However, the layout is similar to the other floors: offices on either side, starting with low-level employees sharing space, to fancy rooms for the senior staff.

The radio will not be left with regular engineers—it’s too important for that. If it were left anywhere, it’s either in the storage room to your left or one of the fancy offices at the end of the hall. Logically, the storage will be the hardest to search—if it looks anything like the others, it’s floor-to-ceiling boxes, binders, and precariously stacked paper. Even though the radio is not exactly small, digging around in storage is low on your list tonight. 

You’ll be working front to back, you decide as you start down the hall on your still-socked feet, your torch lighting your path. The offices of the higher-ups at the far end of the hall are closer to the main staircase, which is unlit at this time of night—it’s almost as if the darkness is radiating out—breathing, heaving. If the building looked creepy before, it’s positively terrifying now. The tendons in your wrists and ankles are about to go weak from fear.

Your fingers are shaking as you unlock the first office. Walking a small circle through the room, there is no radio, suitcase, or anything resembling either. You repeat the ritual twice more without much success. It’s making you nervous. There is one more office for higher-ups left—the moment you unlock it, it strikes you how messy it is. Tools and machines are strewn around the room, piled up on tables, and hanging from hooks on the wall - even the window ledge is filled to the brim with metal, wires, and loose screws. It smells strange—something like machine oil, metallic, almost sour. Dust flutters through the air, reflecting in the faint, pale moonlight.

You shuffle into the office, looking around. Please let it be here, you pray. You walk around carefully, taking special care not to brush up against anything. You grimace as you step on a screw, quickly pulling your foot back up and biting your lip hard to stop yourself from making a sound.

You bend down, wrapping your hand around your sore foot, desperately trying to lessen the pain. The torch rolls away from you as you put it on the floor. You sit still for a good half a minute. Not that stepping on the screw hurt that much, but the adrenaline suddenly rushing your system put you on high alert. 

Calm. You need to stay calm. The code is ingrained in your long-term memory now—you executed every test Rooster threw at you flawlessly. He drilled you like that for a reason. But you need to stay calm, panic causes people to make mistakes, and you need to be able to rely on your muscle memory. 

Sitting on the floor, not too bothered your skirt is getting dirty, you pull your shoes back on. You’re far enough from anyone you know to be in the building; you don’t have to sneak around shoe-less. Besides, you’d rather not get impaled on whatever metal scrap is around here. It’s not so much an office as it’s a workshop. Still, there is only one desk and chair, which makes you assume that the head of technical forensics is messy. 

Leaning over, you reach for the torch that rolled about a meter away from you. Grabbing it off the floor, the light beam passes over the desk. You notice the odd dark shape next to the table leg in a split second. Your heart skips a beat before taking on a frantic pace. That’s it. You know it, you feel it in your gut: that’s the radio.

You scramble over to the table on your hands and knees, unable to slow yourself down right and pull the suitcase into the beam of your torch. Tracing your fingers over the clasps, you can hardly believe it’s real. It looks exactly like the engineer’s coal cellar suitcase, except… cleaner. Better cared for. 

Clamping the torch between your jaw and shoulder, you undo the leather clasps, folding the radio open. Your hands hover over the dials momentarily as you try to level your breathing before switching it on.

No. Wait. You dig the master key and Rooster’s bracelet out of your coat pocket before shrugging it off. The key goes securely back into your purse, but the bracelet stays firmly twisted between your fingers. Quietly getting up, you take your coat to the door, where you jam it along the bottom, closing the gap between the door and the floor. It won’t stop the sound completely, but it will stop a part of the noise bleeding out. It would have never occurred to you if Rooster hadn’t pointed it out to you—and while this is not the most elegant solution, it will have to do.

Right. Okay.

Your hands still feel clammy, the bracelet digging into your palm from clenching it so hard.

Kneeling in front of the radio, you flip the switch. Just like last time, it emits a low hum as the lights flicker on. You move the dial to the right frequency—where Libusche’s dial was stiff like it was grinding its gears, this one moves smoothly. You are equal parts scared and excited. 

Hand on the lever, you take a deep breath.

Closing your eyes for a moment, you brush the nameplate of the Rooster’s bracelet against your lips like a prayer to a good luck charm.

This is it. No fuck-ups. For Rooster.

So many hours, so much sorrow, and stress have gone into sending the code, which in reality, costs no more than thirty seconds to tap out. It’s almost anti-climactic.

Not there’s nothing more than the steady hum of the radio. Every time there’s a crackle in the static, your adrenaline spikes. You’re sitting crossed-legged on the floor to take some pressure off your knees as you wait, pencil hovering a millimeter above the small notepad in your hand. It’s been a good ten minutes already. Rooster said it might take a while - so you wait, chewing on your lip, your heart beating too hard for comfort.

The minutes tick by. You’ve switched off the torch to preserve the charge - the faint light of the moon streaming through the windows provides you with just enough light to see. You glance at your watch. It’s almost half past midnight. The later it gets, the less plausible any excuse for being here you have. Whoever is on the other side of that radio better hurry up.

A sudden loud crack breaks you from your reverie. Your heart leaps in your throat as the line is suddenly alive. The reply. It’s coming back.

Sucking in a breath, you focus every part of your consciousness on the incoming message, quickly penning it down. 

The message is short and to the point. And within what feels like seconds, it’s over.

It feels so strange. Was that really all?

Carefully tearing the small paper from the notepad, you fold it tightly before tucking it into your skirt's waistband, where it sits snugly. Hesitantly you turn the frequency dial back—you should leave no trace—before switching the radio off. The soft hum that was the only constant sound in the room finally dies down. You sit for a moment, almost unable to comprehend that you did it. 

But it’s not over yet. Keep your head cool. Closing the suitcase, which is now hot to the touch, you slide it back under the table. It looks close enough to how you found it.

The pencil and notepad go back into the purse. The master key you’ll need to lock up. Rooster’s bracelet is for luck—you’ll hang on to that till the end.

Switching the torch back on, you return to the exit, pulling your coat from the crevasse between the door and the floor. 

Suddenly, light streams between the gap at a sharp angle—a light has just been flicked on. You catch yourself before stumbling backward - fuck. It’s coming from the side of the main staircase. Hands shaking, you fold your coat securely in your arms. Would it be just the night guard doing rounds?

Whatever it is, the light has just been turned on. You are on the second floor, which means you need to get moving because someone will be coming up those stairs, and you’d like not to meet them.

Clutching the torch and your coat, you crack open the door. Peeking out, you confirm—the light is coming from the staircase, and vaguely, far away, you can hear voices echoing. Quickly, you move out of the room, softly closing the door behind you. Your hands shake violently as you try to jam the master key into the lock. Shit. The key scrapes over the lock's metal several times before you manage to slide it in, and lock the door. 

You can hear people coming up the stairs now. One has a distinct gait, like they don’t quite lift their feet all the way off the ground before they take a step.

Terror dawns on you. The brown-nosing agent defied his orders and decided to come to take a look at the radio anyway. Fuck.

You start down the hall, gulping for air as you try to walk quietly as quickly as possible. They don’t know you’re here, so don’t attract their attention. But you need to be quick about it. The voices are closing in on you quickly, but you’ll give away your position if you start running now. 

The hall suddenly seems infinitely longer, the door to the back stairs miles away. You can hear the two distinct voices now—the night guard is with the brown-nosing agent. Hopefully, by some sort of miracle, he will slow them down. The shuffling is coming closer—they’ve reached the second-floor landing now.

Unable to stop yourself in sheer terror, you lunge for the door, your shoulder colliding with it painfully—the dull thud reverberating through the hall. Struggling, you push through the door just as light floods the hall behind you.

The door falls closed behind you, and it’s like the starting shot for your mad dash down the stairs and out of the building.

At the far end of the hall, the night guard and the agent blink against the harsh light.

“Did… you just see that?” The agent is bleary-eyed, squinting down the hall. The night guard doesn’t reply, simply shrugging before suppressing a yawn. But he is sure he just saw someone disappear down the hall—braid flying through the air and a rust-colored skirt slip through the back door.

***

You walk so much faster than normally, like you are about to break into a run, but you know you can’t. You can’t start attracting attention now. You ran from the ministry, down the park on the hill—but now you are far enough it would look stranger if you were running than just walking.

Trying to regulate your breathing, the adrenaline is still screaming through your veins, and you’re so excited, so energized—it must be radiating from you; everyone must be able to see. You feel it so intensely you couldn’t hide it, even if you tried.

Flying around the corner of the street, the low heels of your shoes clicking loudly against the cobblestones, the dark buildings looming over you. The empty eyes of the statues are looking down at you, judging. But you have a singular thought: you succeeded. And you want to tell him more than anything.

It’s the most alive you’ve felt in years. 

Without a second thought, you push into the building, hastily running up the steps, breathing hard, clutching your purse. The way up is long, but you have wings carrying you up every flight.

You come to a skidding halt in front of the door. Unlocking it with shaking hands, your breath shudders as you enter the dark apartment. Your steps echo loudly over the wooden floor in the eerie quiet of the hallway. The moonlight softly illuminates the abandoned rooms through the half-closed lace curtains.

It’s still like electricity is buzzing through you when you slip through the hidden side door, pad up the stairs to the servant quarters, and knock softly.

“Rooster,” You whisper. “It’s me.”

You hold your breath as you listen for any movement at the other side of the door. You wonder for a moment if he’s still awake. It’s almost two in the morning. Putting your ear up against the door, you hear the faint scraping of a chair against the floor. You almost bounce on your feet as you hear his footsteps—you would recognize that gait and footfall in your sleep—approach the door.

Bradley cracks the door open just a fraction before he catches sight of your sparkling eyes and bright smile. Opening the door further, your presence and energy nearly bowl him over. You easily waltz past him into the room, turning on your heel to face him, your skirt gracefully flowing in your twirl, as he closes the door again. You notice his state of relative undress, and it’s making you feel unfocussed. He must have been getting ready for bed. Bradley is looking at you curiously from his position in front of the door in only his sleeveless undershirt, suspenders loosely hanging over his hips from his slacks.

“Mission success.” You tell him proudly, as you produce the slightly crinkled scrap of paper from your skirt's waistband.

Bradley pushes himself away from the door, hastily grabbing the paper from your hand. His eyes roam over the dots and dashes as his heart suddenly pounds in his ears. 

This is… it. 

Message confirmed. Rendezvous at the following coordinates in 6 days.

Bradley is breathing heavily when he looks back up at you. You practically dance around the small room, swiping the pack of matches from the window ledge before returning to him.

“Burn after reading.” You tease with that same sparkle in your eye. For a second, he catches himself thinking if this is what you used to look like—if this is what you are like beneath all those hardened layers you’ve wrapped around yourself. Light and free, fluttering around like a butterfly with a mischievous sparkle in your eyes and the sweetest smile gracing your lips. It’s making his head spin.

Bradley balls the paper in his fist before discarding it in the ashtray on the table. He takes the matches from your hand, brushing his fingers against yours more deliberately than he would like to admit. He tightens his grip on the small carton for a short second, taking a breath to steady himself.

“I could kiss you right now.” He blurts out, not even really caring anymore; he shouldn’t say that, that he shouldn’t think it or feel it. Don’t bite—no, don’t fuck - the hand that feeds you. But he wants you so much it hurts. 

It’s like your fluttering energy suddenly comes to a standstill, lowly buzzing through the room. You regard him briefly, eyes wide like you’re weighing your options. Your tongue swipes along your lips almost imperceptibly. Bradley fully expects your face to pull into an angry frown, and your light waltz turns to thundering steps as you run down the stairs, slamming the door behind you. And you would be right.

Tense, he waits. You take a step towards him, expression still unreadable.

“Do it, you coward.” You challenge him instead, that mischievous smirk suddenly on your face.

note | a bit later than I wanted, but it's long?

taglist | @katieshook02 | @gretagerwigsmuse | @yanak324 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut | @notroosterbradshaw | @eli2447 | @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog | @m-1234 | @phoenix1388 | @galaxy-moon | @indigomaegrimm | @annathewitch

[sweetcocopowder]

Childlike Innocence | Shaytham | Pt. 2

Pt.1 | Pt.3

「Synopsis」 : Haytham has had enough of indoors and listening to meaningless conversations with Birch and other men. He goes off on his own to explore New York and he runs into a young boy that is very interesting.

「Word count」 : 1.5K

Genre: Coming of Age/Young Love

Paring: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway

Only a week later does it take for Haytham to wonder off again.

The entire week it’s been paperwork and walking around and talking to people that Haytham has no clue who they are, yet they seem to know him quite well. That isn’t the thing bothering Haytham though. His entire life he’s met people that know him by first and last name and they also know his father as well. Yet when his father was alive he never met them or saw them talking to his father. It seems like he knew more people than Haytham will ever know.

The thing that has been bothering Haytham though is that he has to stand and listen to Birch talk with these men. He isn’t brought into the conversation so he’s forced to stand and think about other stuff. Birch wants him learning from him but it’s very hard when the talking is just plain boring.

He wants to know how to play tag with the boys. He’s watched them from the window of his room when he can. It all but reminds him of home before father died. He did the exact same thing, staring out a window watching others play and laugh all while he had to sit around and do .

Yes, he is happy to be the man that Birch wants. But a new place only has him wanting to go off and look around. And within this week they haven’t done much of that.

So, on the Friday of the week, Haytham sneaks out of the motel. He doesn’t pay no mind to the boys out in the garden because he might be a kid, but he isn’t dumb. And if he went and joined them in the game of tag then he would most certainly get caught. He needs to wonder further.

He ventures out to the streets in his dark blue suit and frills. He tried to tie is hair back like the maids do but a good portions flops out over his face. He most definitely looks like he dressed himself and he gets a few odd looks as he passes by some. But he keeps his head down in case anyone recognises him.

He doesn’t want anyone shouting across the street, “HAYTHAM KENWAY!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON YOUR LONESOME!? YOU’LL CATCH SOMETHING BEING OUT HERE!”

If that happened, he wouldn’t know what to say but he imagines he’d be able to think up of a lie. He just doesn’t know what. So hopefully that little scenario doesn’t happen.

He comes to the markets which is along the docks. It smells strongly of fish and salt, something so different to being served fish at dinner. But it doesn’t turn Haytham away. He’s never experienced this part of living. The lower class and the grime.

But he quickly realizes that his presence may not be wanted in this part of New York. Men and woman look at him, side eyeing him and scowling at him. Haytham catches a few confused expressions as well. Probably wondering why, a first-class boy is here in the market alone.

Before he makes a scene, he finds the closest exit to the market which is along the docks where all the sloops and schooners are. He gets to the edge where a couple of crates are stacked and breathes out, not realizing he had been holding it this entire time. Maybe Birch was right. Maybe he should just stick with his class and be a proper good boy.

He leans up against the crate nearest him and watches one of the sloops slowly leave the dock. Nothing here is as grand of a ship as his father’s ship. He hasn’t seen it in person per say, but he knows it would have been the beauty of the dock here.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” A thick Irish accented voice snaps at him.

Haytham jumps out of his skin, feeling his little heart beat wildly in his ears. Might have skipped a beat if he wasn’t too sure. He spins around, coming face to face with a dark-haired man with a barrel chest. His dark eyes glare down at him like he’s a rat on the streets here. Haytham backs up a bit, his words leaving him once again.

The man steps forward and picks up one of the crates that Haytham was leaning against. He then leaves without a word, walking down the dock to a schooner in the nearest dock.

A boy passes him and comes Haytham’s way. He’s a scruffy looking kid, his long brown hair unbrushed and his clothes look too big for his body. He stops in front of the crates and looks to Haytham with big brown eyes. He looks Haytham’s age but might be a year younger. The boy glances over his shoulder at the man before he picks up one of the smaller crates.

“I’m sorry about my father,” the boy says in the same Irish accent, taking Haytham by surprise. “He can be some what of a mean one when he’s in a mood. And he’s in one of those moods today.”

“Oh,” is all Haytham can manage out.

“SHAY, GET THOSE CRATES ON SO WE CAN FUCKIN’ GO!” The boy’s father calls out from the schooner.

“Coming!” Shay calls back out as he turns and walks down the dock.

Haytham watches him curiously as he fiddles with his sleeves. Shay comes back three more times to pick up the smaller crates but he stops and stares at the biggest one there. Haytham hasn’t moved a muscle, standing and watching the entire time young Shay has been working.

“Wanna help?” Shay asks.

“Pardon?”

“Wanna help me carry this over?”

Haytham can’t help but stare for a moment but stops his stupid act. He can’t let his shyness get the best of him anymore.

Despite him putting his big pants on, his voice still comes out soft with a little, “Sure.”

The two boys grab one end of the crate each and pick it up together with a huff. The crate isn’t heavy with two of them but Shay absolutely could not of picked this up by himself. They waddle over to schooner and Shay tells him where to set it down. Setting it down on deck, Shay’s father comes over with a frown.

“Hah, and I thought you were just another prissy lil boy,” he frowns but his words feel light hearted. “Best be off before we set sail. Don’t want a lil stow away, now do we, aye!”

He pats Haytham on the shoulder before wondering off to the helm of the ship. He speaks to what Haytham assumes is his first mate. The touch on his shoulder lingers. Something he hasn’t received in a long time.  

“Are you moved from Britian?” Shay suddenly asks, popping into his line of sight.

Haytham swallows. “I’m just visiting.”

Shay’s mouth turns into a little o. “How long are you staying here in New York?”

“Around three months.”

“Oh. I come back here in five months. My father is travelling down south,” Shay answers a little sadly.

“Oh,” Haytham replies back.

“Be off boy!” Shay’s father cries out suddenly. “We’re sailing off!”

For the second time today, Haytham nearly jumps out of his skin. Without even thinking, he makes his way off the schooner. The board has been pulled back already so Haytham has to jump down onto the dock. He stumbles and falls to his hands and knees, his suit and hands becoming scuffed. He turns around as the ship’s sails are let down.

Shay comes to the railing and looks over as they begin moving. He waves goodbye with a wide smile on his face. Haytham gives a small little wave that only reaches his chest. A small swell of sadness comes to Haytham. The thought that he could of had a friend on this little trip is what finally makes him realize he’s lonely.

The walk back to the motel is slow and with his head bowed low. He kicks a rock along the street with his hands in his pockets. With a too hard of a kick it bounces and rolls into a drain, never to be seen again. That only puts Haytham in a sourer mood.

When the motel comes into sight, he heads around the back to sneak into the garden. He pushes his way through a loose board in the fence and through the bushes as well. Leaves and branches get caught in his hair and he does a poor excuse to try and brush them out. He walks across the gravel path to the back door of the motel and hopes to whatever God there is that Birch hasn’t noticed him gone.

Luckily, no one is in the back foyer or even the entrance. Haytham quickly but quietly races up the stairs and down the hallway to his room. Once inside, he takes a deep breath in.

He plucks a leaf from his hair and lets it fall to the floor. With a small huff, he steps over to the small desk in the corner of his room and opens his journal up. He must write about today and most definitely about Shay.

[drarrypotterrenaissance]

Day 4: Bouquet

This is a continuation of this fic (on ao3 here), although each installment in the series can be read on its own. I'll be posting new chapters semi-regularly until the entire fic is out of my Finished WIPs folder - please poke me if you feel like I'm taking too long updating! 💜

CW for a bit of depression for Harry at the beginning - Spring isn't necessarily an easy season for him, but he's going to be okay

Springtime was supposed to make everything feel better. That’s what his classmates seemed to believe, at least, all swarming excitedly through the doors to get outside, still stuffing a last bite of breakfast into their mouths. That’s what Hermione had said, stretching by the fire a few nights ago and remarking how the weather was supposed to be nicer this week, and wouldn’t that be nice? That’s what all those brochures from the mind healers said, that winter and darkness might make you sad, but spring and sunlight would make you feel better.

Harry begged to differ. As he stomped around the far edge of the lake, all he could think about was how he didn’t feel better at all. The spring air was just a reminder of what the weather had been like during all the other horrible moments of his life. Warm weather had always meant the Dursleys and Privet Drive, exams and clashes with evil, the Battle of Hogwarts. Even the happy shrieks of his classmates, spread across the lawn on the other side of the lake and reveling in the first nice day of spring, closer to the castle, felt a little too close to screams for his memory to tolerate.

He had come outside to clear his head - he knew the change of seasons was affecting him, but Hermione had gently suggested that a walk might be nice, and so he had stormed outside without waiting for her and Ron, putting as much space between himself and everyone else as he could. He just wanted to not think, or, failing that, to give in to the dark mood surrounding him for just a little bit. He was doing a fairly good job of it too, kicking hard at pebbles on the ground and scowling at the grass.

But then, a splotch of yellow interrupted his glare. There was a dandelion poking out of the ground, bright yellow and looking healthier than anything had a right to look this early in the season. It was a weed, so he could take his hatefulness out on it and pick it without remorse, but it was also bright yellow and happy looking, so he tore it from the ground and clenched it in his fist to give to Draco later. It would probably make him smile, and by then Harry would probably be in a mood to appreciate it.

Unfortunately, the dandelion wasn’t the only flower that was braving the new spring air. A few minutes later, there were some snowdrops, and while Harry stomped on the long grass beside them, he left them untrampled and plucked one up to give to Draco as well. Then there were some daffodils, and he was so irrationally angry that they were already blooming, because they were far too fragile to last the week, and he snatched up three to hasten their stupid deaths before adding them to the other flowers in his hand and casting a preservation spell on them so that Draco could enjoy them before they wilted, like the stupid flowers they were.

And maybe he felt a little bad about how much he was forcing himself to hate the dumb flowers, but spring was horrible, and he was allowed to be mad if he wanted to be.

But then there were primroses scattered around the base of a tree, and purple hyacinths behind Hagrid’s hut and pink crocuses along the edge of the forest, and then camellias and anemones and bluebells, and by the time Harry made it back to the castle for lunch his arms were full of flowers and his gait was closer to a wander than a stomp.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the flowers he had picked; while he had been thinking of Draco when he saw each one of them, he didn’t really know how to go about giving flowers to someone. Was he supposed to tie them up in a ribbon? Or perhaps find a vase? That problem solved itself though, as Draco was lounging on a blanket just outside of the castle doors. Ron was curled around Hermione as she read on a blanket next to Draco’s, while Pansy and Blaise were flipping through magazines on his other side, and all of them had noticed Harry by the time he noticed them. Hiding the impromptu bouquet wasn’t an option, so he just walked over to join Draco on the edge of his blanket.

“Umm, hi.”

Draco’s smile was fond. “Hello. Did you have a nice walk?”

Harry could feel his cheeks going red, he still wasn’t used to being around Pansy and Blaise, let alone bringing Draco flowers in front of the other Slytherins, but he did his best to ignore their pointed smirks.

“Erm, yeah, it was fine.” Awkwardly, he shifted the flowers, trying to figure out how to hand them over without just dumping them on the ground.

“You know, when Granger told me that you’d gone for a walk to clear your head, I thought that you might have, oh, I don’t know, gone for a walk to clear your head. I never expected you to have set off on a mission to deforest half the countryside.” Draco’s drawl was biting and lazy, but Harry could read him well and knew that the softness in his eyes belied his tone.

“They’re for you, you git.” His own attempt at a scowl seemed to be failing, if the twitch of Draco’s mouth was any indication.

“Oh, my, how absolutely romantic!” He deftly swept the flowers into his arms, then turned to Pansy. “Pansy, do you remember how many times we would fantasize about our future paramours gifting us with flowers as children? How we would enact the scenes in the conservatory? Do you remember my insistence, whenever you played the prince who had come to sweep me off my feet, that you would get the wording just right?” And here, Draco pitched his voice slightly high and breathy, fluttering his eyelashes in what he clearly intended to be a show of romantic devotion, “They’re for you, you git!”

Pansy and Blaise dissolved into giggles, and behind Draco’s back Harry could see Ron and Hermione not even bothering to hide their own laughter. Traitors.

Harry scowled for real, crossing his arms across his chest and doing his best to ignore all of them.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Draco leaned in, kissing Harry on the cheek, and then wiggled so that he was reclining in Harry’s lap, with Harry’s arms coming to wrap around him of their own accord. Lowering his voice a little, in a tone just for the two of them, he added, “I like these quite a lot.”

Harry kissed the top of his head, feeling better than he had all day at the little up-and-down motion Draco’s body made against his chest as he buried his nose in the bouquet and inhaled. “They made me think of you.”

Beaming, Draco turned around and kissed him properly, cupping Harry’s face in his free hand and brushing an errant curl behind his ear. When Draco pulled his hand away, Harry could feel something tangled in his ear, and from the silly delight on Draco’s face, he had good reason to believe it was a dandelion.

Read on Tumblr: Part 1,2, 3

Read on ao3

[hanahaki-disease]

Haven't I Given Enough?

Hermit! Tommy DSMP x Hermitcraft Crossover

Chapter 1 | Prepare the Diving Bell

Summary: Tired from the life he's living, Tommy wonders if the grass is truly greener on the other side, though in this case at the bottom of a lake.

Word Count: 2544

Notes: Chapter title comes from the song "Diving Bell" by Starset

*******************************************************

It was strange to be sixteen, Tommy thought. Nothing changed much. He didn’t wake up feeling any different than the day before, if anything dread sunk deeper into his stomach than the realization of aging a year. But none of that mattered anymore, not from where he sat. Below him was his little campsite of logdsteshire. He could see his shack and the pit where his items would go when Dream visited.  He could see the horizon line. Where the blue sky meets the blue of the sea surrounding him, where the sun disappeared and onto the other side of the world. The side where the rest of his friends and those he considered family lived, far from his misery and the corruption he causes (as Dream would say.) 

It was easy to get lost in one’s head from that height. The air was thinner and the clouds passed around you with a soft touch that left your clothes damp and cold. It was refreshing. When everything below was suffocating and hot with everyone breathing down his neck for every action he did, the open sky was a nice reprieve that Tommy sorely needed.

Tommy wondered how his mother faired over the years. Having not seen her since he was seven years old, his mind often daydreamed and thought of all the different ways her life could’ve gone without him. He wondered if she was still alive, ten years have passed and he wouldn’t know how she passed or why. He wondered if she moved on and begun a new family, one without him. Was she happier with them? Did she love her other children more than him? Probably not. Tommy doesn’t remember much of his childhood before Philza, he does remember her bright smile and laughing. He remembers the warmth of her hugs and the taste of the sweet buns she would get for the holidays. 

He remembers feeling happy back then, an emotion that seems to never stay with Tommy long these days.

But as he stared at the setting sun on the horizon, Tommy stood on his oak pillar. The one-block-wide pillar swayed in the wind, threatening to topple at any moment. Looking down at Logdesire below and the short shore between his shack and the sea, Tommy contemplated the pros and cons of walking off the edge and plummeting to the ground. 

On the one hand, he’d be dead as soon as he hit the ground. For a fleeting second, he would feel at peace in the goddess of Death’s dimension. The warmth of the void could remind him of his mother’s hugs and Mumza would be there–his second mother. So he wouldn’t entirely be alone. However, Dream can revive him with ease, having memorized the revive book. He’d also be stuck with Shlatt, Wilbur, and Mexican Dream in limbo for all eternity.  (He doesn’t mind Mexican Dream that much, it’s the other two he has problems with.)

Sighing, Tommy turned away from the sun, letting the last few rays hit his back. It was peaceful, warm, and calm where he stood, but Tommy took one last look at the world. He looked at the world he reluctantly called home these past few years and knew that no matter what he does, Tommy would always return. He will resurface from the water below and Dream will be standing in front of him, wondering what the younger blond was doing. If by some miracle he hits the grass along the shore and the world blinked to black, Dream would just resurrect him wherever he landed, expecting everything to return to normal as if nothing ever happened. 

So, with nothing left to lose, Tommy leaned back and fell off the edge of the pillar. 

The sound of the wind rushed past his ears and left him deaf to the world. The view of the changing sky was the only thing he could see as the ground rushed to meet him. The night slowly overtook the bright day just moments before, Tommy wondered if that was some sort of symbolism for something in his life, the last little bit that was left the closer he got to the ground. But instead of landing flat on the shore, the water of the sea engulfed the teen, enveloping him in a cold rush of bubbles. 

Air bubbles escaped his mouth the further down the water he sunk. Tommy thought he was dead, yet the pain in his chest from a lack of air forced him to open his eyes and swim up. He didn't think the water was so deep so close to the shore, he was certain that it was only a block deep. 

By the time he resurfaced his arms ached and his legs were cramping. The tightness in his chest didn’t loosen when he broke the surface of the water it made him worse. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. The air was different, it was thinner, mossier–there was something in the air around him that wouldn’t let him breathe.

“Oh my god!” Tommy heard someone say as he struggled for a breath in the water. “Don’t worry, I’m coming!” He heard splashing from behind him and shortly after the splashing, two arms wrapped around his chest and dragged him toward what he assumed was the shore. “I got you, don’t worry, I got you!.”

When he felt the ground under him, the mysterious person broke a potion above him, and almost instantly Tommy gasped for air. The world was bright around him, Tommy noticed when he was able to breathe, that the sky was at its midday blue and the leaves above him were too green to be natural. As well as the blurry image of the person trying to save him, though, in Tommy’s defense, his growing unconscious mind made everything a tad bit off. 

–

With the start of the new season rush still coursing in her veins, Stress happily worked on the walls of her megabase in the Dark Oak forest just outside of spawn. Despite the sun blaring down on her, the canopy of leaves around her kept her cool while working. The wind flowing through the trees was fresh enough for her to keep her signature pink cardigan on (it also let Iskall know where she was, just in case he wanted to mess with her.) Having planned her megabase meticulously this season, Stress wanted to return to her roots. She decided to make a fairytale-like, forest kingdom; something to let the fae magic within her settle and quit being so restless.

Though a Dark Oak forest wasn’t what she planned on having her base in, it fit the theme pretty well and looked pretty in candlelight. If she had built her base last season in a Dark Oak forest, she would be the target for multiple mobs right now. Skeletons would’ve shot her from her mossy-cobble wall, zombies chasing her, and creepers–well, not much changed with the creepers, they still followed her. This season, however, with the new update mobs only spawn in light-level 0, this means the rude geezers won’t attack her as she works.

It was a blessing, but she can’t let her guard down so easily. The mobs that took shelter under the canopy during the night were safe and could still attack her. 

So when the sound of splashing caught her attention, the first thing Stress did was pull out her sword and run to the pond she had built a few days ago. Maybe a Skeleton fell in and was trying to get out, or a local cow tripped in? Reasonable guesses came to mind when she approached the source of the splashing. Not one of those was a young teen boy slowly drowning in the shallow water. 

“Oh! Oh my god!” Stress unequipped her sword and dove into the pond. Arms wrapped around the boy’s chest, tugging him up and to the grassy shore a few blocks away. “I got you, don’t worry, kid! I got you!” Try as she might, it felt like something was pulling him down into the water, magic of some kind that Stress didn’t quite know all that well. But it had a visceral grip on him and clawed at her arms, trying to pry her off.

“Iskall! Iskall!!” Stress screamed, hoping he would hear her. His base wasn’t too far from hers, just within the mountain cave a chunk away, but she begged to whatever deity listening that Iskall could hear her yells. “Iskall get over here!”

A second later the familiar bright green of his shirt flew overhead, “Stress! Wha-what's going on?!”

“Get over ‘ere and help!” 

Together they were able to free the kid from the water. Iskall’s arms were decorated with new scrapes and cuts that would take a while to heal, Stress was no better off. The magic claws dug deeper into her than it had on him, and Stress knew that she would have scars for a few years. But when they looked at the kid, their injuries seemed like mere bruises in comparison.

Despite being in the water only a few seconds ago, the kid was covered from head to toe in grime and scorch marks. His shirt which was once white had holes and hastily sewn seams as if it was the only shirt he ever owned, patches of different colors decorated a large portion on his side and back as if it was ripped away or burned off. 

“C’mon,” Stress stood up, wrapping one of the kid’s arms around her shoulders. “We’ve got to take him inside, he doesn’t look too good.”

Iskall grabbed ahold of the kid's other arm and dragged him towards the incomplete castle. Don’t get him wrong, Iskall was a strong guy, he was one of the strongest on the server and it should’ve been at least a little bit of a struggle to take the kid inside. But it was like the kid hardly weighed anything. He was nothing but skin and bones and a shirt that hung very loose on his body

“I got a bed over here,” Stress lead them to a magenta bed tucked away in a secluded corner of the castle. “Easy, easy, easy Iskall! You’re going to hurt him!”

“I barely put him on the bed!” He shot back. “How’d he even get here?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But we need to get Xisuma over here because there’s no chat message saying that he joined the server.”

“You think he glitched here?”

“Only X would know.”

“I’ll go get him.” Iskall launched a rocket and flew off, the admin’s base in mind.

Stress took this opportunity to heal as much of the boy as she could. Step one, clean the injured person. Taking the first aid sponges out of her ender chest, she began to wipe off as much of the dried blood and dirt that covered his body. The bucket of water next to her grew more and more murky and brown as she wiped him down, and it was only from the exposed skin on his legs, arms, and face. She would hate to see what would be under his shirt. 

Thankfully Stress still had clean bandages, especially the health and regen-soaked ones, void knows those will come in handy. Carefully, Stress wrapped his injuries with the bandages hoping the potion would do its magic and heal his injuries. She tried to be gentle with him but moving a dead-to-the-world body was difficult. His limp body would sway against her and his hand almost smacked her at least twice. 

“Stress, who is this?” Her admin’s voice shook Stress out of her thoughts. 

“I don’t know,” She said and placed a damp towel on his forehead, hoping it would cool him off. “I was building the roof of my castle when I heard splashing in the pond., I thought it was a mob or something that got stuck, but when I went to see what it was, it was just him.”

Xisuma walked up to the kid, crouching to see if he was awake, but was only met with slow breaths and barely audible murmurs. The admin couldn’t make out his mumbling, but whatever he was dreaming about wasn’t pleasant. Now and then his eyebrows would furrow and Xisuma wondered what was going on in his head.

“My guess is that he came from a hardcore server where a magical deity took pity on him and gave him a portal here but the other deity of his server said “no” and tried to keep him there,” Iskall joked. “And that’s why we were struggling to save him.”

The other two hermits in the room gave a pointed look to the swede. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

Xisuma searched his pockets, hoping that a certain device was with him. “Stress, did you guys know if the kid had a Comm with him?”

“You’re not gonna search through his code are you?” Stress stood up. “You know that’s an invasion of player privacy! He has to be awake for you to access that, and you know it!”

The admin looked from the boy to his hermit, she was right. A player’s code was their entire being, it was what allowed them to be them, and it was only accessible to an admin if a player allowed it. Trespassing into someone’s code without consent went against the first rule of the Admin Ordinance–rules and restrictions that must be followed precisely to be an admin. Xisuma had never gone against the rules, never wanting to see what would happen if he didn't follow them, but he had heard stories. Stories of Admins being ripped apart by their code for disobeying the laws, admins locked away in abandoned worlds for their crimes to wither away and die. He remembers learning about the first admin who broke the rules, the code that made them human was stripped from them, leaving them a husk of their former selves in a world to rot away. 

“I wasn’t going to do that, Stress,” Xisuma says. “I know better.” He brings up the admin controls, a screen of jumbled numbers and letters that made no sense to the others in the room. “I was going to inspect the firewall that protected the server and see if there was a hole that let him in. If not that, then maybe there’s a bug somewhere in your base that let him through.”

“What if none of that’s true?” Iskall asks.

“Then we wait till he wakes up so I can sieve through his code–if he lets me,” Xisuma answers. “Hopefully, by then, I’ll be able to figure out how he got here and where he came from. But for now, Stress, make sure he stays alive and wakes up.”

“No guarantees, Xisuma,” she says. “From what I can tell, he’s malnourished and severely dehydrated. His scars are from battles most of us have fought before we came here. This kid has been through some things, and if I’m right, you won’t like it.”

“Just do what you can,” Xisuma says. “I’ll tell Doc to bring some more potions on his way over here.”

*************************************************

Reminder! this is also cross-posted on ao3 if you wanna head over there instead, but I'll still upload chapters here as well!

Previous | Next

[snowbellewells]

@whimsicallyenchantedrose Okay, so first of all: BEST FIC GIFT IDEA EVER!! I love that you are allowing each other us to star in a moment from the OuaT storybook, right a few wrongs that have troubled us and meet our favorites with real fictional flair!! I can only wish you were really magic so this could actually happen!! 😊🤭

Secondly, I have already read this and then real life bogged me down and I didn’t get to comment and flail on it like I wanted. Then, I loved it so much that I almost psyched myself out, not sure I could possibly express how much I adored this gift of sing its praises sufficiently. I’m going to try though, because I do LOVE it, and however belated I am, you deserve to hear how AWESOME this is!! 💖💖💖

Right off the bat, I love how confident fic Marta is that she is right where she belongs and knows just what she needs to do (if only real life Marta could usually feel that certain!) That the idea of meeting Graham is major excitement for her is me to a “T” and the “Best. Girls’. Trip. Ever.” bit made me chuckle and think of Tangled (which I also adore!)

Anyway, you had me snort- laughing again when my fic version made her way through the Storybrooke cemetery and even saw the “Jesus Saves bears”. Granted, you probably had to be there, but that will never not make me laugh, and I loved that you worked it in!

I felt myself panicking a little right along with fic-me when it looked like Emma and Graham were just going to walk away and Regina would be able to crush Graham’s heart as she did before. Her frantic plea for Emma to listen and look once more encapsulate so well how desperate I feel for it to end differently every time I get to that part of the episode when I rewatch. (And I have to rewatch 1x07 very sparingly. It is so well done, but so devastating, and I will still cry more often than not.) I also couldn’t help nodding along that my fiction self wasn’t about to take on Regina one on one,even without her magic. But going to Henry for help? That was a stroke of perfect brilliance!

I also loved the care for Graham that Emma shows when she cradles his face and tries to convince him he’s alright, he just needs to trust her and get some rest. She isn’t trying to put him in danger, she just hasn’t opened herself to believing yet. That, and then the bits from their kiss in the station and Graham remembering, that you saved from the actual episode!! The part of my heart that really did ship Gremma early on was fluttering and swooning like crazy. Not to mention that I got to bring his actual, physical heart back to Graham!!! Dream. Come. True!!! (I am not sure which parts exactly @hollyethecurious said I would swoon at when she beta-ed, but I can say she was definitely right throughout this story- several times over!!)

And then, you let the story version of me sit with Graham at Granny’s?!? And have him smile happily when he sees me coming to join him?!? It’s so wonderful I can hardly stand it!!! I really wish someone had believed him and gotten his heart before Regina could have crushed it, and he had gotten to remember himself and be part of Storybrooke post-curse. If only! I know I’ve said this to you a lot in the course of our friendship, but I wish you were an official OuaT writer. I think you would have made many of us a lot more satisfied as time went on!

And then, oh my goodness, one of my favorite bits: “His returning smile could light up an entire room. ‘Perhaps I would.’

For several moments, Marta couldn’t speak, could barely remember her own name or why she was there. That smile was lethal.”

You seriously gave Graham and me a version of the “Wouldn’t you like to know?/Perhaps I would?” Exchange?!? I cannot handle it!

And yes, that smile IS lethal!!!

I got a chuckle at Graham having to be the sensible one and realizing that shoving a glowing red heart back in his chest out in the open might not be the best idea! (Even fic me must have been a little stunned by the whole situation and his proximity!) I loved how you turned the phrase about “him giving her his heart” —- SWOON indeed! And the kiss on the back of my hand?!? Whew!! You really do know how to make me into a puddle of goo!! 💖💖💖

I loved to that you let me look through Lucy’s storybook too before I left and see how things carried on from there for Graham. I wouldn’t have thought of Regina putting him in the Storybrooke asylum, but she absolutely would have to cover her own misdeeds a little longer. It’s horrifyingly like her actually. 😳 And I can also perfectly see Graham helping Ruby to reunite people and put things in the town back to rights after the curse’s breaking and the hysteria of the wraith. They would make “quite the team” (much like a pirate and princess we all know! 😏) I can even see them eventually settling down out of the center of the craziness in a cabin in the woods at the edge of town, visited often by his wolf brother, who absolutely adopts Ruby too. 🐺)

Okay, I think I’ve rambled way long enough, but thank you THANK YOU for this story!! I know I am going to be re-reading and enjoying it for years to come!!

The Girls' Trip Fairy Tale Ending--Chapter 3 of 5

Summary:  This is my combined birthday gift for Joni (  @jrob64​  ), Marta ( @snowbellewells ) and Krystal ( @kmomof4 ).  Happy birthday ladies! Four fandom friends are nearing the end of their annual girls’ trip when they’re suddenly visited by Isaac, the author before Henry.  He gives them an each a gift–an opportunity to jump into any scene in the storybook they want and fix it.  Large focus on CS, although other characters and relationships will be explored.  A big shoutout to @hollyethecurious​ and @winterbaby89 for betaing!

Word Count: 2897

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list): @sailormew @annaamell @flslp87 @emmateo26 @bethacaciakay @ultraluckycatnd @effulgent-mind @ilovemesomekillianjones @kat2609 @brooke-to-broch @missgymgirl @galadriel26 @the-lady-of-misthaven @charmingturkeysandwich @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma @daxx04 @nickillian  @gillie  @britishguyslover @ginnyjinxedandhanshotritafirst @kmomof4  @linda8084 @golfgirld @captain-swan-coffee @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @laughswaytoomuch  @allyourdarlingswans  @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82 @therooksshiningknight, @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree  @jrob64  @anmylica   @booksteaandtoomuchtv​ @elfiola

Other chapters:  (1) (2)

Can also be found on: (ao3) (ff.net)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Note: Happiest of birthdays to Marta, @snowbellewells! I hope you enjoy your trip into the book! (You might want to sit down when you read this; there is a decent chance you'll swoon, hehe.)

Chapter 3

The book deposited Marta somewhere in the middle of the Storybrooke cemetery as dusk settled over the town. She grinned, knowing she was exactly where she was meant to be–and because against all odds and logic, she was about to actually meet and interact with Graham. Best. Girls’. Trip. Ever.

She wasn’t going to fulfill her purpose by standing here and thinking about the surrealism of her situation, though. She needed to find Regina’s vault, and she needed to find Emma and Graham before Regina did.

She scanned the cemetery past rows and rows of completely ordinary tombstones, some with loving epitaphs and others rather nondescript.  She even saw one on which was etched three bears standing side by side. The epitaph for this stone read “Jesus saves.”

Finally, in the distance she saw the large mausoleum with its twin pillars and its circular crest, emblazoned with antlers or curved vines. Marta wasn’t entirely clear what they were supposed to represent.

Even more significantly, she saw the three figures of Emma, Graham, and Regina standing before it. They spoke for a few moments, and then Regina threw a punch, which Emma quickly returned, before slamming Regina up against the vault.

Marta’s heart sank; she hoped she wasn’t too late. 

As Emma began walking purposefully toward her cruiser, Graham not far behind, Marta knew she had to make her move.

“Graham was right,” Marta said quickly, catching up to Emma. “Regina is keeping his heart in the vault!”

Emma stopped and stared at her for a long moment. “Is there something in the water today? Have I dropped into some bizzaro world where I’m the only person who hasn’t lost my mind? Do you realize how you crazy you sound, Marta?”

“Yeah, I’m sure I sound insane,” Marta said, “and normally I’d give you the opportunity to figure all of this out on your own, but right now… it’s literally a matter of life and death. We can’t let Regina get to that heart!”

Emma closed her eyes for a moment, growling in frustration. “Okay, say I believed you,” she finally said, encompassing both Marta and Graham in her glance, “we searched the vault. There’s nothing there but a coffin.”

Marta didn't know how much she should or could intervene. It was probably best to be a little cryptic and circumspect.

"It seemed like you were interrupted in your searching," she said. "I'm sure there's more to be discovered there than you realize."

"She's right, Emma,"  Graham insisted. " I can still feel it. It’s there somewhere."

"Look, Graham,"  Emma said gently, taking his face in her hands and looking into his eyes. "It’s been a difficult and emotional day for you. Please just take a breath and trust me. Everything is going to be alright."

Marta saw the moment Graham conceded, and she began to panic. “You have to listen to me!” she tried again. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true!”

Emma shook her head. “Look, we already tried searching for it, and that led to an encounter with Regina that I don’t think either of us is ready to repeat anytime soon. If there’s something there, we can always come back and look for it another time, but until then, there’s a first aid kit in the sheriff’s station that’s calling my name.”

“But–” Marta tried one last time, but they were already gone.

Now what?

She considered heading back to the vault and confronting Regina herself, but she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to go up against the Evil Queen–even in the Land Without Magic. What she needed was an ally.

And then it clicked. Henry. Who better than the truest believer, who had been working so hard on Operation Cobra, to help her stop his mom from doing something irreversible?

She needed to get to Henry now … wherever he was.

She’d no sooner had the thought than she was at the front door of the mayor’s mansion. She could really get used to traveling at the speed of thought like this! Knowing she didn’t have a moment to lose, she rang the doorbell and then waited impatiently until Henry opened the door.

“Marta?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s an Operation Cobra emergency!” she said. “We have to get to your mom’s vault A.S.A.P.”

Without a word, Henry grabbed his coat and followed her out the door. As they rushed back to the cemetery, Marta filled Henry in on what was happening–being careful to heavily edit the situation, not entirely sure it was suitable for ten-year-old ears.

“And so,” Marta finished, just as the vault came into view, “I thought you could distract your mom, and then I’ll grab the heart and take it back to Sheriff Humbert.”

To Marta’s profound relief, the plan went off without a hitch. When they got to the mausoleum, Marta hid behind a nearby tree while Henry called out for Regina. She came rushing out, and Marta slipped in behind her just as Henry started in on a tale of how he didn’t know where Regina was and he’d been worried.

Thankfully, Regina hadn’t had time to push her father’s coffin back into place before rushing out to her son, and Marta ran down the cold, stone stairs, heart pounding, fearing to find a pile of dust instead of a heart, but to her relief, she saw it right away, bright red and glowing from inside the small box in which Regina had kept it. Marta took a moment to peer into the box to make sure she truly had her prize before closing the lid and making her way back outside. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next thing Marta knew, she was standing in the doorway of the sheriff’s station just as Graham leaned in and kissed Emma. No sooner had his lips touched hers than he pulled back with a gasp, his eyes blown wide.

“Emma,” he said in wonder, “I remember!”

“You remember … what?” Emma asked carefully.

“Everything,” Graham answered. 

Marta stepped forward. “Then I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see this again.” She extended the box toward him.

Graham gasped. “You got it? You really found it? How?”

“Let’s just say…” Marta said, “I knew where to look.”

For a moment, Emma merely looked back and forth between the two of them, her confusion and unease plain to see all over her face, and then she threw up her hands and headed for the door.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t know what the hell is going on around here tonight, but it’s just … too much. I forwarded the station phones to my cell; I’m going home. Graham just … take care of yourself, okay?”

He smiled at her gently. “See you tomorrow? Maybe we can talk.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Promise you’ll get some rest?”

“You have my word.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Marta blinked again, she found herself just inside the door of Granny’s diner.  She glanced around, confused.  She didn’t remember this scene from the show.  Maybe it was something new created because of her changes?

Marta noted that it was dark outside, so it must be evening.  Was it the same evening as her previous scenes had taken place?  What was she meant to do here?  Just as she considered stepping out the door, she spotted Graham sitting alone at a booth near the back of the diner.  He slowly brought a porcelain cup to his lips and took a sip as he looked pensively down at the wooden box in which Regina had kept his heart.

With no idea what she was intended to do, Marta decided she might as well join Graham.  He looked up as she approached the table, and a smile lit up his face at the sight of her.  He gestured to the opposite seat of his bench, and she took the offered seat.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude, Marta,” Graham said.  “If you hadn’t been there, hadn’t believed my wild tale, I shudder to think what might have happened.”

Marta felt a shiver go up her spine, remembering what really HAD happened in the original storyline.  “It was no trouble,” she assured.  “I knew you were right, and I didn’t want anything worse to happen to you.”

He reached over and squeezed her hand with another gentle smile.  “Thank you, nonetheless.  I know the things I’ve said and done over the past day have been–difficult to believe–but you’ve had faith in me even so, and I appreciate it more than you know.”

“Well,” Marta said, “I … know more than you think.  I believe you.  On all of it.”

“Do you?” he asked, surprised.

Marta nodded.  “And I know that you’ve been controlled entirely too long.  You need to get your heart back in your chest.”

Graham sighed, and glanced sightlessly out the window.  “Then you know I need a magic wielder to make that happen.  The only ones currently in this town are Regina and Mr. Gold, neither of which I trust to help me.”

Marta thought for a moment and a specific scene came to mind: Mulan returning Aurora’s heart in Rumplestiltskin’s cell.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s true,” Marta said.  “I’ve, well, I’ve seen a non-magical person return a heart.”

He glanced at her quizzically.  “Just who are you, Marta?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked with a small, secret smile.

His returning smile could light up an entire room.  “Perhaps I would.”

For several moments, Marta couldn’t speak, could barely remember her own name or why she was here.  That smile was lethal.

“Anyway, that’s … not important,” she answered, still more than a little flustered.  “The point is, I think it can be done.  I could try, if you’d be willing to let me.”

He was silent for a moment, considering it, and then he nodded.  “It’s worth a try.”

Graham got to his feet, and Marta gave him a questioning look.  “I’d assume you shoving a red glowing object into my chest might attract… attention.  I thought it would be best to go somewhere a bit more secluded.”

Nodding at the wisdom of that, Marta got to her feet and followed Graham to the back hallway of Granny’s, where he gave her his heart. (Marta was sure for the rest of her days she would never forget the warm fuzzy feeling that gave her.)  Holding it carefully, she hesitated for a moment, before quickly plunging her hand into his chest.

Graham gasped, closing his eyes and grimacing in pain for a moment.

“Are you okay?” Marta asked quickly.

After a moment, he opened his eyes, and the smile that came over his face would put the sun to shame.  “I’ve never in my life been better,” he said, “and I have you to thank for it.”

Taking her hand in his, he brought it to his lips, placing a quick, grateful kiss on its back.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marta was fairly certain she’d swooned after Graham kissed her hand, and this time when she came to, she found herself in Mary Margaret’s flat. Emma sat at the kitchen table, pushing around the cereal in her bowl rather listlessly.

Breakfast time, then–must be the next morning.

“Emma?” Marta asked, taking a seat on the other side of the table, “I just wanted to make sure you’re doing alright. Last night was kind of a lot.”

Emma snorted.  “Yeah, you could say that.  I have a knock-down, drag-out fight with the mayor, who also happens to be my son’s mom. My boss kisses me and then has some sort of … break with reality.  All in a day’s work in Storybrooke, right?  I’ve only been in this town a few weeks, but already I realize things are just … weird … here.”

“Well that is one way to put it,” Marta replied. “But … maybe try to keep a bit of an open mind about Graham.  Obviously he was going through … something … yesterday.”

Emma rolled her eyes.  “Not you too!”

Marta’s brows furrowed.  “Not me … what?””

“Mary Margaret’s already been all over me this morning about closing my heart to love and not giving Graham a chance, and being afraid, and, well, whatever other crap she mentioned.”

“So I take it you told her about your kiss,” Marta prodded.

“Yeah, and she jumped all over it,” Emma said with a frustrated huff.  “Got all excited, talking like I’d just started dating my true love or something.  It was just …way too much for this early in the morning”

Marta chuckled.  “Knowing her, I can imagine.  She means well; just wants you to be happy.”

“I know she does,” Emma sighed.  “I just wish she’d back off a little sometimes.  I’ve been a loner for a long time.  I’m not used to… friends.”

“Well you have them now,” Marta said, “and that’s a good thing, right?”

“Yeah,” Emma said slowly, “except when they're jumping to too many conclusions about my love life.”

“Okay, I could see that,” Marta conceded. “So what are your thoughts about Graham and what happened last night.”

“I don’t know,” Emma said, looking down at her bowl of cereal and continuing to drag her spoon through it.  “I do have, I don’t know, feelings of some sort toward him.  I do care about him, but … well, for one thing, he’s clearly going through something right now.  I don’t know if he’s sick and delirious, or something else, but all that crap he was saying back at the office–”

“Yeah, I know it strains credibility,” Marta said carefully.  This was harder to navigate than she’d anticipated.  If she said too much would she change the future?  Was Emma even ready to hear it?  “Maybe he just needs a little time.  You probably do too.”

Emma barked out a laugh.  “That’s for sure.”

For a few moments, the two were silent, thinking about the conversation and the events of the past day.  Finally, Emma spoke up again.

“It’s not just Graham’s … issues, though, to be honest.”

“What else is bothering you?” Marta asked.

“It’s just … those feelings I feel toward Graham? I don’t think it’s love.  I just don’t think I feel for him what I should feel for the man I’m in love with.  I don’t want to start something and hurt him later.  I know I’m the last person who should have this, I don’t know, romanticized view of love, but I just feel like there should be more to it than this.”

Marta smiled gently, thinking about a certain leather clad pirate Emma was only weeks from meeting for the first time.  She thought about their epic love story that even death itself couldn’t stop.  “Emma,” she said, “I have no doubt that epic, passionate, all-consuming true love is out there for you, and I have a sense that it’ll find you sooner than you think.  Until then, there’s nothing wrong with keeping things with Graham at the friendship level.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emma thanked Marta for the talk and then headed for the station.  Left alone in the loft, Marta wondered what else she was meant to do.

Then she noticed the storybook–the storybook Lucy had at the start of season 7, the one that contained all of the events of canon along with the past fairy tales.

Maybe she was supposed to flip through and see what changed thanks to her ministrations?

She paged through until she found the events of the past day, and then she moved forward.  Regina, angry with being thwarted and concerned with how much of the truth Graham might know, came up with a creative–and particularly cruel–way to solve her problem.  After convincing the town that Graham had suffered a mental break and was no longer fit for duties as sheriff, she had him committed to the Storybrooke mental asylum in the hospital basement.

It appeared the rest of season one continued largely the same as canon.  Curious what would happen following the breaking of the curse, Marta kept reading.

After the curse, Graham was freed from the mental hospital and went on to team up with Ruby to head up the task force to reunite people with their missing loved ones.  Working together brought the two of them closer, and it wasn’t long before they began dating.

Through the seasons, Graham continued to help the heroes as various villains showed up and were subsequently defeated.  Eventually, he and Ruby decided to pull back from the craziness and enjoy their life together, even as the world continued to crash around them.

It was all Marta could have hoped for her favorite first Storybrooke sheriff.

She’d no sooner closed the cover of the book than she felt a tug in her midsection, and the room around her began spinning.  She closed her eyes against the sudden dizziness.  When she opened them again, she was back in the living room of her cabin, looking at the eager faces of her friends.

“I can’t wait to tell you what just happened!” she said excitedly.

“Well, you’re gonna have to,” Isaac said irritably.  “Come on; I don’t have all night.  Who’s next?”“I think it’s my turn,” Krystal said, a blood-thirsty gleam in her eyes, “and I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

Notes:

--I hope you enjoyed your birthday gift, Marta! Your affinity for a certain handsome Storybrooke sheriff who deserved so much better is well known to all of us. Since we got so little of him in canon, I thought I'd give you more one on one interaction with him!

--Up next: A bit of a longer hiatus. The next chapter will be posted on October 15, Krystal (@kmomof4's) birthday. We'll be moving on to the missing year between 3a and 3b, and Krystal will get a chance to give Neal the ending he deserves. (Cue evil laughter)

[genshinrail]

An Apple A Day

Il Dottore x Reader

Word count: 2435

Summary: You are sick, but try to avoid a certain doctor. You can't hide from him, however.

-

Cough.

It was who knows how many coughs of the day. You have no idea where you caught this sickness. It probably wasn’t life-threatening, but it was definitely irritating.

But you didn’t know what to do with it, it’s not like you could just go to any doctor in Snezhnaya. You would more likely die before you even got to one. Well, there was one man who called himself ”the Doctor”.

Il Dottore, the second Fatui Harbinger.

But you weren’t sure if he even was an actual doctor, sure he had done some ”operations”, however, those were not so helpful, at least not for the patients. So it wasn’t entirely clear if he knew how to treat illnesses. Therefore you didn’t trust him in that aspect, so he and his clones were out of the question. Even if you had some sort of relationship with him, you didn’t want to talk to him or his clones at all for now. You were going to hide from them.

Or so you thought.

“Hey, are you ok?” You turned your head to see a familiar fluffy blue hair. It was one of Dottore’s clones. He looked genuinely concerned, which you found odd.

“Yeah I am- *cough*”.

Dottore’s clone narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Your coughing must’ve been heard through the whole Fatui headquarters.

“You should let me check on you”, he said.

“You?”

“Well… first me”, the clone looked away for a moment. For some reason, it was a clone who was more insecure about himself as a doctor. An earlier clone.

“No, really. I am fine”, you said with a reassuring smile. 

But before the clone could say anything, you quickly made up an excuse that you had to leave and then turned around and walked away, leaving him standing by himself.

-

You walked away fast, hoping not to see any Dottores along the way. And so far, there had been none. You coughed more while walking. Maybe you would go to Snezhnaya city tomorrow to get some cough medicine.

Ahem.

You stopped in your tracks. Turning around, you saw the familiar light blue hair again. However this time the hair was styled differently. It was him. The original Dottore. He was standing there, wearing a white lab coat and blue shirt underneath, his right arm on his hip. You would be lying if you said you didn’t think he looked handsome wearing the coat if he only wouldn’t be wearing his mask.

“A little clone told me you’re sick”, he said.

You rolled your eyes. “He was exaggerating.” Then you had the heaviest cough yet.

“U-huh”, Dottore crossed his arms. “Because that is not a sign of sickness.”

No words. You couldn’t say anything. There was only a minute of silence, but it felt like an eternity, staring at the man with light blue hair staring at you behind his mask. Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you felt nervous.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re sick?” he finally asked, taking a step closer.

You remained silent.

Dottore stared at you, waiting for an answer. But he didn’t get any, making him frustrated. You couldn’t even look at his mask, because you could feel his eyes looking at you, and you were not the best at eye contact. So you looked anywhere else but at him.

“Dear, they don’t call me ‘The Doctor’ for fun”, he noted in frustration.

You finally looked over at him. “But are you an actual doctor?”

The so-called doctor stood there in silence, but you could feel the confusion coming from him.

“Do you even know how to treat a normal sickness?”

“You don’t trust me?”, he asked. There was a clear hint of insult in his tone.

“Well…” How could you tell him? How would he react if you were honest? You took a deep breath.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you… you’re smart”, you muttered. “But I only know you’re good at doing big operations. I’ve never seen or heard of you treating normal sicknesses.”

Dottore tilted his head to the side very slightly, his arms crossed. He seemed very confused now. You couldn’t help the nervousness creeping in and you looked down at your feet, lightly fidgeting.

“First, thank you?” that sounded more like a question. “Second, you then don’t talk to many people. I may be better at dismembering subjects and doing experiments-” Your head snapped up to look at him, he said that last part so casually. “- However, I have done research on human anatomy and how to treat various illnesses.”

Your eyes narrowed and you crossed your arms. “Really?”

A smile crept onto Dottore’s lips and he nodded once. It was honestly a little cute, but you’d never admit that to him. You sighed in defeat.

“Okay then ‘doctor’”, you took a step closer to him. “Can I have a check-up?”

Pride was oozing from him as he put his hands behind his back and straightened his spine, making him look taller. “Of course, dear. Follow me to the lab.”

He headed in the direction of his laboratory, a place you had spent countless hours in, and sleepless nights, it was like your second home. You walked behind Dottore while he took calm steps forward, his lab coat flowing lightly.

When you arrived in front of the room, Dottore opened the door and turned his whole body to look at you. You could feel your cheeks heating up and you snapped your head down. He held the door open for you, gesturing you to go in before him. With quick steps, you entered the lab.

“Take a seat”, Dottore said while he walked up to a counter to pick up latex gloves. 

You didn’t have to be told twice and were sat. The only thing you could focus on was the way he put his gloves on, the sound of the latex snapping on his skin, then his head turning in your direction.

He walked close to you, pulling a chair for him as well. A cough escaped your throat. Dottore picked a wooden stick, then directed light at your face which blinded you for a second

He leaned in closer to you, and you tried to fight an urge to tilt your head back.

“Open your mouth”, he demanded.

With no hesitation, you did as you were told. He placed the wooden stick on your tongue and pushed ever so slightly, tilting his head up to see better.

“Looks okay”, he noted.

Then he picked a stethoscope and placed it on his ears.

“Could you take your coat and shirt off?”

You swallowed, very slowly and hesitantly getting up and removing your thick Fatui coat. But you stopped at your shirt, somehow it felt too embarrassing. Of course, Dottore noticed your sudden change, or maybe he read your mind. He let out a light and humorous chuckle.

“What’s the matter, dear?” He asked with a teasing tone. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

You felt as if all of the blood in your body rushed up to your face, even if that was true, small, not sexual moments like this were the worst. It took so much of your willpower not to slap the smug doctor across his face.

“I- I’m just cold!” You muttered.

Another annoying chuckle.

“Alrighty then. Could you lift your shirt up at least so I can hear your breathing?”

A sigh. You sat down on the stool and lifted your shirt up just enough so he could place the other point of the stethoscope on your chest. It felt cold and you got tiny shivers through your body.

“Breathe deep in,” he told. “Then slowly out. Again.”

After a few good in-and-out breaths, he backed away and removed the stethoscope from his ears.

“I could hear some raspiness,'' he nodded. 

Suddenly he took one of his gloves off reaching up to your face. This time you leaned back panicking. Dottore stopped for a moment, but then the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile.

“I am just going to feel your body temperature”, he spoke with a gentle tone. It was something only you had heard, he wouldn’t dare to show a soft side to anyone else.

You relaxed from his gentle tone, almost leaning into his touch. He held his hand on your forehead for a while and then pulled away. You pouted from the lack of his touch. He didn’t seem to notice though, as he looked at his hand, nodding to himself.

“I know what’s wrong”, he said proudly. “Hold on a moment.”

Patiently, you waited on the chair as he walked up to his desk. He returned with a small vial of… something in his hand. It was dark liquid, almost black. He held it at you, waiting for you to take it. You raised your brow and narrowed your eyes in suspicion.

Dottore tilted his head to the side, waiting.

“What is that?” you finally asked, the suspicious tone in your voice very clear.

“Do you really not trust me?” Dottore asked, pouting slightly. “It’s medicine.”

“Medicine for what?”

Dottore sighed, the vial in his hand shaking. “For your cough. I am diagnosing you with the common cold.”

Your face felt hot once again and you let out a soft “oh” before you took the medicine from him. With a hesitant glance at him, as if to ask permission, to which Dottore nodded, you gulped the medicine dose. It tasted like licorice, his favorite candy. You tried not to show any reaction, but this particular taste wasn’t the best. Dottore smiled, making you smile back shyly.

“There you go”, he said. “The medicine will reduce the coughing. I’ll write you down a few days of rest and then you should be healthy again.”

“You’re going to let me have some free days?” you raised your brow, a smirk forming on your lips.

“I have to”, Dottore leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t want my darling assistant to work while sick.”

“Wow thanks”, you said sarcastically which did not amuse the man in front of you.

You couldn’t help the smug grin that formed on your lips, which resulted in a slight groan from Dottore.

“I mean if you want to work while sick-”

“No no no”, you said quickly before he could finish. “I’ll take the days off, thank you.”

Dottore flashed a smile. “That’s what I thought.”

He got up from the chair and then walked over to his desk. The little glass vial went to its right place, and it was replaced by a pen. Dottore wrote something on a paper, then turned around and gave it to you. It was a doctor’s note for some sick days off, with his signature.

“Show that to any other Harbinger who may want you to work”, he said.

“Will they even care?” you looked up at him behind the paper.

“Unless it’s Pierro or Pantalone, they will.”

I guess that was one of the benefits of being the second Fatui Harbinger, only the man above him and the rich man would dare to oppose him.

“So I still have to work for Lord Pierro and lord Pantalone?” You raised your eyebrow.

Dottore simply shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that he didn’t know or perhaps didn’t care. You sighed but decided not to push further. 

“Your cough is already better”, Dottore suddenly noted proudly. “It seems my medicine worked better than I imagined!”

You nodded, then swiftly stood up from the chair you were still sitting on. He looked so proud of himself, which was honestly nothing new. What did you even see in this guy? Is something you asked yourself often.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” he asked out of nowhere.

“Oh”, you shook your head. “Nothing, nothing.”

Dottore shrugged. “If you say so.” He then walked next to you, leaning in. The beak of his mask touching your cheek. 

“Uh, sir?!” you leaned back in panic. “What are you doing??”

“Hm?” Dottore sounded surprised. “I wanted to give you a kiss. Is this not what couples do?”

Your cheeks heated up once more. Even if you had been in an unofficial relationship for some time, you never really got used to him showing sudden affection.

“B-but I am sick!” You stuttered, your back still arched. “I wouldn’t want you to get sick too, my lord!”

The man let out a charming chuckle. “I won’t get sick”, he reassured you.

He gently placed his hands on your arms, holding you still while he leaned in again. This time, you didn’t back down, though your back would’ve probably snapped if you did. The beak of his mask hit your nose and you let out a soft “ow”.

Dottore leaned back a bit. “Oh sorry, is my mask on the way?”

“Maybe a little…” you shyly sifted your eyes.

He then let go of you for a moment, bringing one of his hands to his mask. He grabbed it and slowly pulled it away. Oh no, your eyes met his crimson-red ones. It was a rare sight. He was truly beautiful. You felt nervous staring at him for too long, so you quickly looked away.

“That should be better”, he said while placing the mask on the nearest surface.

And there he went again, placing his hands on your arms, leaning in closer to your face. It felt so long, like an eternity. You closed your eyes. Then finally, you felt his lips on yours. They felt a little dry, but that’s okay. The kiss was still gentle and sincere. You simply melted under his touch and wished this moment would last forever

However, unfortunately, Dottore pulled back, leaving your lips lonely. Your eyes opened and were met with his and immediately you looked away again, your whole face hot.

“Was that okay?” he asked a little teasingly. He knew exactly how good it really was.

“It was alright…” you spoke unconvinced.

He let go of you, then reached up to pick his mask back again and placed it on his face.

“Okay, well I am busy right now”, he said. “So you can leave.”

You blinked a few times, then pouted. “You can’t just… do that and tell me to leave!”

The little tease chuckled amusingly, placing his slender finger over your lips after, a grin framing his face.

“Don’t you worry darling”, he leaned in next to your ear. His words made your body shiver. “There’s more where that came from for you later.”