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headkiss · 11 months ago

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maybe this christmas time

pairing: steve harrington x sunshine!reader

summary: working as an elf during the holidays (which he isn’t a fan of) is not how steve would choose to spend his time, neither is doing a bucket list of your creation. you end up changing his mind.

word count: 9.5k

warnings: use of she/her pronouns for r, some grumpy steve (he’s still a softie underneath it, i can’t help it!), some family issues (a phone call from steve’s mom), a rude customer, christmas activities/themes, fluff, and a first kiss!

a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays from me to you!!! i hope u guys enjoy this one, i had a lot of fun writing it!! big big thank you to @bcyhoods for sending the request that inspired me to write this fic and to @bruisedboys who helped me out when i was unsure about things <333 ily guys i hope u all have the happiest of holidays!

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Starcourt Mall is decorated to the brim. Fake snow and garlands, giant ornaments hanging from the ceiling, a Christmas tree that stays lit all day long.

And, in the middle of it all, Santa’s Workshop.

That’s where you are, where you’ve been for a couple of Decembers now. Every other month of the year, you work at the movie theater, scooping popcorn and scanning tickets. But, for December, you trade in your cinema t-shirt for an elf outfit, striped tights and all.

“It’s really not so bad once you get past the itching,” you tell Steve.

“Great,” he says, the sarcasm clear in his tone.

“Great,” you repeat, cheery enough for the both of you.

He wasn’t sure how it could get any worse than the sailor uniform. That is, until he saw what he had to wear for this gig.

It’s Steve Harrington’s first year at Santa’s Workshop, and you’ve been tasked with training him, though the job is mostly self-explanatory.

But unlike you, Steve didn’t volunteer for this.

“I can’t believe they picked me to do this,” he sighs. “Don’t even like elves.”

“Well they had to pick someone, Steve.” You shrug, “who knows, you might end up having fun!”

“Not likely.”

“At the very least, you’re getting paid, right?” You nudge him once with your elbow, “plus, if you’re extra nice, some moms give pretty good tips.”

You and Steve went to school together, but he never really spoke to you then. It was only after graduation that you had any sort of conversation with him. They mostly consisted of him bribing you with free ice cream to let Dustin and the gang into the movies for free.

That was after you caught him letting them into the back rooms to sneak in.

Now, Steve’s wearing a pair of slippers that jingle with every step just like yours, and in the only two shifts you’ve had together so far, you’ve spoken more than ever. Even if it’s mostly been instructions from you and an unenthusiastic comment in response from Steve.

“Do I really have to wear these fucking shoes?” He asks, following you out of the staff room.

“Yes. It’s part of the uniform.” You turn around to face him, walking backwards while he walks forwards. “Don’t worry, you’ll tune out the jingling soon enough.”

“I’ll hear these jingles in my nightmares.”

“At least you look cute!”

You spin back around, and Steve only rolls his eyes as he trudges on behind you.

Steve’s not quite sure how he feels about you, whether he finds you a little annoying or endearing. At the moment, with an elf hat squishing his hair, he’s leaning a little more towards the first.

He didn’t know you during school. Admittedly, he was an asshole for most of his time at Hawkins High, so that explains that. Even still, he doesn’t know much about you, only that you’re kind enough not to snitch on him for sneaking the kids into the movies and that you seem to seep sunshine all the fucking time.

And your sunshine seems to be dialed up during the holidays. Like you really believe in ‘holiday cheer.’

Steve knows, deep down and buried somewhere he’s not quite ready to face yet, that he’s mostly just jealous. Because if you like the holidays so much, if you’re smiling the way you do so often, you must have it pretty good at home.

To him, nothing else makes sense. Not when Christmas at the Harrington household has been absolute shit for years. First, it was the gifts he never wanted, things his parents didn’t care enough to know he didn’t like. Then, they dwindled until, eventually, Christmas did, too.

There’s a travel discount during the holidays, sweetie. We’re visiting dad’s boss’ cabin. Next year, we promise. Excuse, excuse, excuse.

So yeah, Steve’s never really understood the appeal. Walking behind you in a pair of jingling shoes and a scratchy outfit, he’s not sure he ever will.

You lead him towards the area where Santa’s Workshop has been set up, right by the fountain. There’s bright red carpet rolled out over the usual tiled floors, an area set up for the cue of families, and of course, a bench where some guy playing Santa will sit.

“Since we’re opening today I’ll show you the whole set-up routine.” You step over the rope with the sign that says ‘Gone to feed the reindeer!’ with Steve in tow. “Easy peasy.”

Steve steps over the rope behind you, shaking his head at the sound his shoes make when he lands. He chooses to listen to your voice instead.

“First, we count the props,” you nod over at the bin that’s tucked away behind a small tree, “there should be four sets of antlers, two santa hats, a red nose, and some extra elf hats.”

He stares at you—because why on earth would you have that memorized—and raises his eyebrows. For a moment, as he watches you grab the clipboard that sits atop the prob bin and start counting, Steve wonders if maybe he should be more like you. The kind of person who seems to see the good in everything.

Then, he remembers what the outfit he’s got on looks like and shakes the thought away.

“Why would anyone want to be a clown in these pictures?” He says.

“The red nose is for Rudolph, dummy.”

You say dummy with a smile, like it’s something to admire. Steve huffs.

“Rudolph’s a loser.”

“Aw, come on, he’s got his own song and everything! I’d say that makes him the opposite of a loser.”

“Of course you would,” he mutters, cursing the tiniest twitch of a smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’s next?”

“Right,” you grab the bag that you brought from the staff room and set it on the ground by the tripod that’s already set up. “Next is the camera. Here, I’ll show you.”

The only knowledge Steve’s got of cameras comes from whatever Jonathan has told him, which hasn’t been very much, considering the pair’s history on the topic despite them being friends now.

So, he steps closer to you, watches as you pull the camera out of the bag.

“You just have to switch it on and make sure the battery’s full, right there,” you say, pointing at the small symbol that lets you know if the camera’s charged or not. “And don’t forget to take the lens cap off. I did it once and this dad yelled at me, so...”

You pop the lens cap off, putting it in the bag. Steve’s standing close to you, right behind you, his chin hovering over your shoulder, the warmth of his chest just shy of brushing against your back.

“Finally,” you continue, ignoring the little skip in your heartbeat, the way you breathe just a tiny bit quicker. “Set it up on the tripod, and you’re good to go.”

He watches your fingertips move easily, securing the camera to the tripod. When you’re done, you turn around to face him, and it’s only then that Steve realizes how close he’s gotten.

Close enough that you stumble and land against his chest, his hands on your upper arms to steady you as you pull back quickly, like you’d been burned. Steve, however, doesn’t let go just yet and he’s got no idea why.

He doesn’t let go until the music in the mall is switched on, the opening notes of some Christmas song startling you both. Steve steps back and releases you, dropping his hands by his sides and ignoring the twitch of his fingers.

“Alright,” you say, trying to brush the moment off. “That sound means we’re open. You ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope!”

Your lunch breaks at Santa’s Workshop feel like a luxury, because no matter how much you enjoy the job, it’s nice to get away from the rowdy children it forces you to deal with.

Unlike your job at the theater, where your breaks are staggered, the workshop closes for an hour every day, meaning that even during lunch, Steve’s stuck with you.

The sign by the line for Santa is flipped, and parents groan whenever they see the festive font saying you’ll be back in an hour.

You take the hour spent in the staff room as a time to ask him questions, what his hobbies are (“does driving a pack of 13-year-olds around count?”), if he likes his job at Scoops (“I’m starting to appreciate it more. The lesser of two evils, or something”), if he’d introduce you to Robin someday (“I’m afraid of what that might do to my sanity.”)

Today, you’re trying to tackle the subject of his Grinch-like tendencies.

“What’s your favorite Christmas movie?” You ask.

Steve doesn’t know why he continues to answer your questions whenever you throw them at him—which is often—but he does. He thinks it might be like being mean to a puppy, ignoring you. Unnecessarily cruel.

“Don’t have one.”

“Ugh. Come on, Steve! Everyone has a favorite.” You slump in your seat across from him at the small table in the break room. Steve stares at you blankly as he takes another bite of his lunch. “You can tell me.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your foot with his when it comes close. “They’re cheesy.”

“Aren’t you secretly a rom-com fan?”

“How did you-”

“So, you actually enjoy cheesy movies!”

“Okay, well you don’t have to say it to the entire mall. Gosh.”

Steve wonders how you know that about him, how you’ve been able to guess a lot of things without him telling you. Briefly, just for a second, he wonders if that might mean something.

Like, if maybe you’re in his life now for a reason.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, Steve.” You smile what you hope is an honest, reassuring smile. “So, the cheesiness isn’t the root of the issue.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’m gonna take a guess here,” you start, “and say that you’re not a fan of Christmas.”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Steve, I’ve never heard someone complain about jingle bells so much in my life.”

“We can’t all behave like we’ve been injected with sunshine.”

You don’t think he means it as a compliment, but you decide to take it as one nonetheless. But you suppose he’s right, there’s always gotta be a balance. Dark and light, happy and sad.

“Thank you,” you give him a quick grin. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

He’s silent for a moment, twisting his fork around between his fingers. “My parents never really did Christmas.”

Your heart squeezes a little in your chest at his words, at the way his tone goes quieter, at the way he looks at the table to avoid catching your eye.

Immediately, you feel guilty for prying, because the last thing you’d ever wanted to do was force him to tell you something he didn’t want to. It’s not your place, no matter how curious you are, no matter how much you’d like to give him a hug or something right about now.

It’s not your place, but you find yourself wishing it could be.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Steve.” You reach for his hand that sits on the table and give it a quick squeeze before pulling back. “You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have bugged you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve had a lot of time to accept it.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t affect him. But from the scrunch in his brows, you can tell it does, at least a little bit. “The Harringtons have better things to do than sit around cleaning up wrapping paper.”

Steve feels embarrassed, his cheeks warm and his head bent. He doesn’t like scraping this wound open, doesn’t like to think about what he was missing out on while everyone thought his life was perfect.

He especially doesn’t want you looking at him like he’s injured or something after this.

Surprisingly to Steve, you don’t. You actually do quite the opposite. You smile brightly at him, like you’ve just had an excellent idea, like you can inject a bit of your sunshine into him with it.

“How about this: I’ll teach you how great Christmas can be.”

“I think it might be a little late for that.” Steve tries to shake his admission away, to clear the room. He points at the elf hat on his head, “this outfit has ruined any last shred of hope I had.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you make a cute elf? You pull it off better than I do.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not!” Steve raises his eyebrows at you. You ignore that look. “Whatever. I cannot in good conscience, let you keep disliking Christmas. Think of how fun it could be. Plus, you owe me for all of those movies I let your children into.”

Steve already finds it difficult to say no to you, because of how kind you remain even when he’s snarky with you, because of the same kindness you seem to offer to everyone you meet.

So, even though he’s not sure what your plan entails, he sighs and says: “okay. Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

You cheer, clapping a little in your seat. “Oh my gosh, we can go skating, and go to one of those Christmas light festivals, and make cookies-”

“What did I get myself into?” Steve mutters, while you’re still rambling off ideas.

“-I’m gonna need to make a list.”

Even after your break ends, you seem to have an extra pep in your step, if that’s even possible. Your smile is a bit wider, your eyes brighter, and Steve can’t help but feel a little special for being somewhat responsible for that.

Really, what did I get myself into, he wonders.

In the time between him agreeing to your Christmas plans a couple of days ago and now, at yet another shift, Steve has realized that he actually likes you quite a bit. Even though your seemingly constant optimism drives him a little bit crazy.

You treat everyone with an attitude that’s so rare, he finds that his previous annoyance for you is slowly becoming overtaken by the endearment.

He won’t admit it, not when bantering with you seems to be the highlight of his days lately, but Steve is starting to be sort of grateful that he got selected for this job.

And that has absolutely nothing to do with the outfit he wears. He still fucking hates that.

“It’s alright, cutie,” he hears your voice say, all soft and understanding. He finds you, crouched down to talk to a little girl who seems to be wary of Santa. “I bet Santa will give you something extra from your list if you smile for the picture.”

The girl nods, like she’s determined. But, when you stand back up, she grabs onto your hand by your side.

“What is it?” You ask her.

“Can you do it with me?”

You look over to the girl’s mother where she stands to the side, and she nods, eager to get the picture done. So, with that, you say, “okay, then.”

Steve’s standing behind the camera as he watches you help the girl onto the bench beside Santa. Then you’re sitting beside her and telling her to look at the nice boy behind the camera.

It takes him a second to realize you’re talking about him, but when he does, he forces himself into action, bending to look through the viewfinder.

“Say cheese,” he says.

The click of the camera sounds, and then it’s done. You help the girl down, who goes over to her mom quickly and they head over to grab their picture.

Once they’re gone, the line dies down, giving you and Steve a rare pause from the pictures and overenthusiastic welcomes to ‘the North Pole.’

“I hope that family’s okay with my face in their picture,” you say, coming to stand beside Steve by the camera. “I mean, I know the mom nodded, but maybe they’ll cut me out of it.”

You’ve become more comfortable with Steve the more you’ve worked with him, getting to know him in how his grumpiness is more related to the holidays and early mornings than anything else, in how he turns the same grumpiness down when he talks to the kids.

You think he’s grown more comfortable with you, too, because he’s started bringing you a coffee in a festive cup in the morning, leaving it in your cubby without a word.

From Steve, you think that says a lot. His actions have always spoken louder than his words, you think. Like the free ice cream he gives you from Scoops, or the small nod he’d give you whenever he’d pick up the kids from a movie.

And now, there’s the small tug of his lips, the hint of a smile that has you saying, “Steve Harrington are you smiling right now?”

“Shut up,” he shakes his head at you. “That was sweet. What you did for that girl.”

Steve lets himself say what he thinks for once, because there’s nobody else around, because he wants you to hear it.

You hide your shy smile by looking down at your feet. You know that underneath everything, Steve is probably one of the best boys you’ve ever met, because even with his attitude, he’ll never say anything to truly hurt you, and with how little you know about his family, you also know that it’s rare for someone in his situation to remain so good.

Any resemblance of a compliment from Steve feels extra special, like its own gift in itself.

“Ruining her picture, you mean?” You ask, trying to cover up how you feel about him calling you sweet.

“You didn’t ruin that picture, sunshine.”

Sunshine. That’s new.

“Well I’m glad someone thinks so.”

Before Steve has the chance to respond, the line picks up again, and it’s back to business as usual. The routine click of the camera, the sound of parents telling their kids to smile nice and big.

You and Steve catching each other’s eye when a particularly entertaining family rolls around, laughing at the way he does an impression of a mom after she leaves. With work being sort of like this every day, you wish it could be Christmas all year round. You much prefer this to the theater, you think.

Steve can't say that he likes this job more than Scoops—Robin might call him traitorous—but he finds that you’d been at least a little right when you said that it would get better when he got used to things, when he hears the sound of your laugh rather than those stupid bells on his shoes.

He finds that he sometimes has to remind himself that he doesn’t like the holidays, that they aren’t like this all the time.

At the end of your shift, as you and Steve grab your stuff from the staff room, you turn to him, leaning against the wall as he shrugs on his coat.

“So, I made a list,” you say. “We are going to have the best Christmas ever, Harrington.”

“My standards are very low, so it wouldn’t take much.”

“Don’t care. I have plans. We can make gingerbread houses and get Christmas pajamas-”

“Absolutely not.”

While Steve already agreed to letting you show him Christmas your way, he thinks he can only take so much at a time. Small doses of your jolly spirit are plenty.

“Steeeve.”

“I am drawing the line. No Christmas pajamas. Not happening.”

“But the gingerbread houses are a yes?” You ask, hopeful and smiling like it’ll persuade him.

“I’ll get back to you on that one.”

That’s what Steve decides to say, instead of simply agreeing because he finds that he’d like to spend time with you outside of work, to see if you’re really so bright all the time, to see if he can soak it up a little better when he’s not dressed as a damn elf.

That’s what he decides to say because it’s easier than spilling the rest of it out there. Much, much easier.

“But you already agreed!” You pout at him a little, exaggerated dramatics on your part. “You can’t just tell me I can teach you Christmas and then back out, I mean, I made an actual bucket list. With glitter and shit.”

“Oh no, not the glitter,” Steve places a hand on his chest, sarcastically scandalized. “That makes it serious.”

You blink at him, giving him a blank look. “Don’t diss the list. By the end of it, you’re gonna be jolly as fuck, trust me.”

“Jolly as fuck,” he repeats, shaking his head on a laugh. “You’ve got a way with words, sunshine.”

“Thank you.” You push your tote bag onto your shoulder, fishing out your keys, they clink in your palm when you find them. “I’m not letting you back out of this, by the way. The list is binding.”

“Well in that case…”

You give Steve a little smile, the flash of a sunbeam, before heading out, and he’s left standing in the break room wondering what you’ve got on that list, why you seem to care so much about it.

Huffing, he supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

Steve definitely should not have told you that he’d never been ice skating before.

It all started when you’d been talking about that damn list at your most recent shift, a couple of days after he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t back out of it (did he really want to?).

“Hey, you have a change of clothes in your bag, right?” You’d asked him in between families.

“Um… yeah. Why?”

“Because, Steve, our festivities begin today after work!” You clapped your hands together softly, excited and encouraging, yet delicate. “I haven’t quite decided what we’re starting with yet.”

“I thought you had a list.”

“I do! But it’s not in order,” you shrugged, “I’m more of a mood-based decision maker, anyways.”

“Of course you are,” he’d said, his usual sarcasm lighter, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“So I’m thinking we go skating-”

“Nope.”

“You can't say no to every idea I have. Then how will you get the Christmas experience?”

“I won’t say no to everything.” You looked at him like you didn’t believe him, so, quietly, he added, “it’s just, I’ve never been skating before.”

“Steve, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” you reassured him easily, your voice honest in a sort of natural way, like you couldn't lie even if you tried. “All the more reason to give it a try. The point is to have fun, not to be good at it. I’m really not that great, myself.”

“If I hate it, we’re leaving.”

“Deal.”

And that’s how he’d ended up here, standing next to you at the rental counter at the ice rink, telling some teenager his shoe size so he could get a pair of skates.

Steve looks at you as you talk to the teenager, paying before he even gets the chance. He looks at the hat you’ve got on your head, the way your jeans are cuffed just enough to let your snowman patterned socks peek out of your boots.

He realizes that he’s only ever really seen you in uniform, at the theater and as an elf, and he thinks, quickly, like a car driving by, that you look really pretty like this. With snowflakes stuck in your eyelashes and all.

Though he’s never said it, barely let himself think it, he’s always found you pretty in a sort of undeniable way, like it was just a fact. Now, he finds you pretty in a way that makes him feel it.

His heart beats like it feels it, too. The traitor.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing both your and Steve’s pairs of skates. You turn to him, smiling like always, Christmas lights reflected in your eyes, “ready to go?”

“As I'll ever be,” he says, letting you lead the way to the benches by the rink.

He watches the way you tie your skates, copying your movements on his own pair, double knotting the bow at the end. When you stand, he stays seated for a moment, suddenly more nervous than before, because the last thing he wants to do is embarrass himself in front of you, in front of everyone around.

Like you can read his mind, you say, “it’s okay, the first step is only standing. It looks harder than it is, promise.”

“I feel like you’re lying to make me feel better.”

“Why don’t you just stand up and find out, then?”

He rolls his eyes, more at himself than you, and pushes himself up from the bench. It takes him a second to get used to the feeling of the skates, of balancing on them, but eventually, he nods at you, eager to get it over with.

“‘Kay, so it’s gonna feel weird when you step on the ice, but you can just hold onto the side until you get the hang of it.” You start walking ahead of him, turning back to say, “I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.”

“Sure you do,” he mutters, shaking his head.

The rink is outdoors, the walls surrounded with string lights of all kinds, twinkling and colorful. In the middle, there’s a big tree, a shining gold star sat on top. There’s a hot chocolate stand to the side, the smell mingling with the freshness of the cold.

There are Christmas songs playing over the speakers (of course), and Steve thinks that if he hears one more rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock,” he’ll have to invest in a pair of ear plugs. On top of that, there’s the sound of laughter, kids with their parents, friends, couples, everyone seems to be having fun.

Everyone seems to be at ease except for him.

You step onto the rink first, skating a couple of steps forward to give Steve room to get on. He holds onto the side like you told him to, lifting a foot and stepping forward slowly, his foot slipping a little when it hits the ice.

You don’t say anything, don’t pressure him, only stand there with a kindness in your eyes that tells him you won’t be anything but patient.

Still, he doesn’t take too long to get the other foot on the ice, too, his feet carrying him forward a little bit, his hand gripping the side tighter.

“See? It’s not so bad,” you skate to his side, leaving space between you as Steve holds out his arm for balance. “Now all you gotta do is push yourself forward.”

“You make it sound like it’s easy.”

“It’s called being encouraging, Steve. Let me be encouraging!”

“Fine,” he stares down at his feet, his hair falling over his forehead. “So what do I do?”

“Use one foot to push, and then let yourself glide, switch feet, and repeat. You can do it.”

He gives it a go, and finds that it isn’t awful, but he moves slowly, and looking around at the other people skating, he’s not an impressive skater at all.

Steve has always felt the urge to be good at everything he does, basketball, driving, even fucking babysitting. He’s always tried so hard to do things well, like maybe, if he was talented enough, his parents would care more, would finally be proud of him for something.

He swallows that thought down and pushes forward again.

You follow his speed, gliding easily beside him, “look at you go!”

“I look like an idiot,” he says, his arm outstretched beside him, the other gripping the side, his knees bent.

When you look at him, though, all you see is the pink of his cheeks and nose from the cold, the way his hair brushes against his forehead, the focus in his eyes, the determination. No, you don’t think he looks like an idiot at all.

“You look like you’re trying, and that’s a great look on you, Steve.”

This time, it isn’t only the cold that pinkens his cheeks.

He doesn’t have time to muster up a reply, because the next time Steve skates ahead, he stumbles, his balance wavering until he feels your hand grabbing onto his arm to help steady him.

Then, your hand moves to hold his, and even through the layers of both of your gloves, he feels the warmth in his fingertips, some sort of tingling.

“This way, if you fall, so do I,” you say, squeezing his hand once, winking at him like the thought of falling doesn’t scare you one bit.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Super sure.”

You hadn’t been lying on that one, because eventually Steve does fall, and you fall right along with him, landing on the ice with a little, “oop!”

On his back, Steve turns his head to look at you, your hair a mess around you, some on your cheeks. He reaches out and brushes it away.

“You okay, sunshine?”

The response he gets is the sound of your laughter, a single loud cackle that has your eyes widening and a hand smacking over your mouth.

Your laughter fades into a fit of giggles, one so infectious that Steve—surrounded by all kinds of Christmas-themed things he swore he hated—laughs along with you.

And for the first time, maybe in his entire life, Steve thinks that the holidays might not be the worst thing ever.

Steve’s in a bad mood today, that scrunch in his brows you'd thought had been easing away back in full force.

It’s your first shift back together since you’d been skating only a couple of days ago, and you can’t help but worry that maybe it was too much, that you’d pushed him too far.

Even though, at the time, he’d been smiling more than you’ve seen him smile maybe ever, and you really thought that you had a shot at making Christmas better for him. You worry that he wasn’t as happy as he seemed, that he was pretending to have fun for your sake.

Steve, on the other hand, is actually glad to be at work for once, glad for the distraction it gives him. He’s unaware that his emotions are so visible on his face, that you think an ounce of his annoyance and anger is aimed at you.

All he knows is that after the morning he had, he needs this distraction.

This morning, it wasn’t the beep of his alarm that had woken him up, but the shrill ring of the phone on his bedside table. Groggy, with his eyes still half shut, Steve picked up the phone.

He wishes he didn’t.

“Hello?” His voice was almost a groan, scratchy from sleep, irritated at being woken up earlier than his alarm.

“Steve, sweetie!” His mother’s voice made him squint his eyes shut further. “Why do you sound so tired?”

“‘Cause it’s six in the morning, mom.”

“Oh, silly me. I forgot about time zones,” she said, though she didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. She didn’t even care enough to know what time it was for her son. “Anyways, I’m calling to let you know your father and I won’t make it home for Christmas this year. There’s this banquet we just can’t miss. You understand, don’t you?”

Steve doesn’t know why he’d been surprised, doesn’t know why her words, completely devoid of any kind of empathy towards the situation, made his stomach hurt.

“Yeah, okay,” he’d said, because it was no use to do anything but agree.

This was his normal: an almost monthly phone call from one of his parents from wherever they are in the world, no matter the time, always telling him that they’re missing this holiday, his birthday (which, at this point, he was shocked they even remembered), anything.

“That’s my boy,” she’d said, as if she knew him at all. She didn’t. Hasn’t known him—or cared to—for a long time. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Right.”

“Oh, there’s your father. Gotta go.”

And just like that, she hung up.

Steve almost wishes that they’d never call at all, because maybe then it would be easier to swallow their neglect. If they’d just forget him completely, he could get rid of that stupid, tiny sprout of hope he feels whenever they call, hoping things will be different.

At least it was his mother this time, he thinks. His father is a hundred times worse, only ever disappointed in Steve, asking about his job or when he plans on ‘getting a real life,’ never about him.

So yeah, Steve’s in a bad mood today.

The two of you don’t talk for the majority of your shift, you, afraid that Steve’s angry with you, opting to give him space, and Steve, stewing in every negative emotion that comes along with a phone call from his parents.

You don’t talk until one of the last families in line for the day comes up.

Once the kids are in place, you lean down to look through the viewfinder, counting them down and snapping the picture when they say ‘cheese.’ To the side, the children’s mom looks at you with so much judgment, Steve, even brewing in his thoughts, notices.

With the picture taken, you take the camera over to the mom, letting her see the picture the way you do with all the parents, making sure they approve.

Instead of approval, what you get is, “what the hell is that?”

You’ve dealt with your fair share of rude customers, at every job you’ve had, but this woman all but screams at you, and that’s rare. “Sorry,” you say, “I can take a new one, no problem.”

“I better be getting the new one for free with how these pictures are looking,” she practically hisses at you.

Usually, you can handle stuff like this, can smack on a smile and politely agree to get things taken care of, but today, the mixture of all your self-doubt and worrying about messing things up with Steve and this mother shouting at you, things pile up, and you feel your happy mask slipping.

“Um,” you start, voice small.

“You elves get worse every year,” she says to you. “I can’t believe people this incompetent even exist.”

Steve, hearing the whole thing, is quick to step in front of you, any thoughts about his shitty parents quickly fading in favor of helping you.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but she already offered to take another picture, and if that isn’t good for you, you’re free to leave,” Steve’s voice doesn’t slip one bit, standing his ground with every word.

You’re overwhelmed with everything going on, and when Steve turns around to look at you, nodding his head towards the staff room, you take the escape he offers you quickly, eyes blurry with tears you won’t let fall until you’re alone.

“You can’t speak to me like that!” The woman stomps her foot.

“I can, actually. She,” he points in the direction you’d gone, “is the kindest person I know, and you shouldn’t speak to her that way. I understand the holidays are a stressful time for everyone, but we spend all day helping people like you take these pictures, and the least you could do is say ‘thank you.’”

Rather than respond, the woman takes her children’s hands and stomps off.

Steve turns to find that the few families that had been in line before have decided to leave, and he takes the emptiness of Santa’s Workshop as an opportunity to follow after you.

He finds you sitting on the bench beneath your cubby in the break room, head buried in your hands, sniffling a little like you’re trying to be as quiet as possible. Steve can’t think about anything other than how much he hates seeing you upset, like a cloud covering the sun.

“Hey,” he says gently, sitting beside you on the bench. “Don’t listen to any of that. She was a bitch.”

You’re both grateful and unhappy that Steve came after you. Grateful because he’s kind, because he’s showing you that he cares. Unhappy because you’re embarrassed of him seeing you like this, because he calls you sunshine and you don’t feel like that right now.

It takes a second before you move your hands, wiping at your cheeks before turning to look at Steve, his brown eyes already on your face, unbelievably soft.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” he assures you. “She was awful to you after a long enough day. You have every right to be upset.”

“You’re being really nice,” your voice breaks a little bit, fighting any more tears that threaten to spill.

“I can be nice. I should be nicer to you.” He knows he should, but with Christmas and everything, it’s easy for him to be grouchy. “You sound surprised.”

“It’s just,” you shrug, almost defeated. “I thought you were mad at me today.”

Steve’s heart fucking aches at the sound of your voice, all small and lacking of the light he’s somehow come to like so much. And when another tear slips down your cheek, he can’t stop himself from reaching out and holding your face in his hands, thumbing the tear away lightly.

“I don’t think I could ever really be mad at you, sunshine.”

“Oh.”

His hands are warm where they hold your cheeks, a thumb still tracing back and forth over your skin. Not mad, then.

“I, uh,” Steve looks at where his thumb brushes against you, like he can’t believe it’s there, like he doesn’t want to look into your eyes for the next part. “I got a call from my mom this morning. They’re not coming home this year. Again. I shouldn’t be surprised but… anyways. That’s why I’ve been so quiet and shit today. Not because of you.”

One of your hands comes up to lay over his where it sits on your cheek, tangling your fingers with his and moving your hands down to your lap.

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t take this stuff out on you just because you like Christmas and I don’t.”

You smile a little bit, a twitch of your lips, but Steve takes it as a win all the same.

“I’m gonna change that,” you say.

“Sure you will,” he replies, the sarcasm in his voice still there the way it usually is when he teases you, but this time, he’s smiling, too.

Steve told you to go home after that, assuring you that he’d take care of the few families left, and when you’d opened your mouth to tell him you were fine, you could stay, he’d pinned you with a look and told you again to let him do it.

So, you did.

You’d thought it would be a day at least until you’d see Steve again, but it’s only a couple of hours after your shift ends.

There’s a knock at your door, your apartment one of the ones built above a shop on Main Street, and even though you have no idea who it could be, you get up, sock-covered feet padding against the floor as you go over to answer it.

You’re surprised to find Steve on the other side—one, because you don’t think you’ve ever told him where you live, and two, because you didn’t think he’d want to see you more today than he already had—a bag in his hand and a shy sort of question on his face.

“Steve? What are you doing here?”

He scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand before responding, a nervous gesture that he hasn’t been able to get rid of. “I thought that maybe, after the day you’ve had, you could use some cheering up. I could, too.”

You remember him telling you about the phone call from his parents, and something in your stomach flutters a little when you realize that his plans to cheer up involve you of all people.

“Okay.” You smile, you can’t really help it, “come in, then.”

He does, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes before stepping inside any further. Steve spots your kitchen table easily, and moves to set the bag he’s holding down.

“I thought we could do another thing that might be on your list,” he says. Steve tugs things out of the bag, gingerbread house kits, to be exact. “Gingerbread houses are Christmas bucket list worthy, right?”

“Absolutely,” you search his face, a little confused because last you heard, Steve was not into your whole bucket list thing, but here he is. “And you’re doing this… voluntarily?”

“I have the receipt. I can return them, if you prefer.”

“No! Don’t do that. I just mean- I thought you didn’t like Christmas or my list and that you were just playing along to be nice.”

“I might not be the biggest fan of Christmas, but,” he shrugs, opening one of the boxes of gingerbread, “you’re a good teacher, sunshine.”

You resist the urge to pinch yourself, like you might be dreaming because Steve, who you’ve grown to like an embarrassing amount, is here, offering to do this with you and giving you a compliment like it’s nothing.

When you respond, you hope your voice doesn’t give away how you really feel. Excited, happy, your heart jumping. “Can I get that in writing?”

“Shut up.” He shakes his head, pointing to the unopened box, “now will you come build this gingerbread house or what?”

“Mine’s gonna be way prettier than yours.”

Steve simply rolls his eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile there, too. He’s happy to see that your light is back, that you didn’t let what happened at work get to you too much.

You sit down beside each other at your table, gingerbread kits laid out in front of you. Icing and sprinkles, a cookie roof and chimney. You’re sure it’ll leave a mess, but right now you don’t mind.

There’s a sort of lightness in the air, the knowledge that this thing—friendship, more, whatever it is—between the two of you is something that you’re both happy to bask in. It’s unspoken, and that doesn’t bother you.

You and Steve start by unpacking all of the pieces, yours laid out neatly, his in a leaning pile that makes you bite back a laugh.

“The fucking roof won’t stay on,” Steve says once you’ve both started to put the houses together, and he sounds genuinely annoyed about it.

“Just put some more icing on it,” you say, “there’s no such thing as too much.”

“I don’t think icing will save me now, sunshine.”

You look away from your own gingerbread house over to Steve’s. His hands are holding the roof up, pushing them together so they meet at the top, and he’s staring at the thing with so much determination that you can’t help but giggle.

“You laughing at me?” Steve quirks a brow at you, but there’s a shine in his eyes. They smile even when his mouth doesn’t.

“I can’t believe you’re taking this so seriously,” you laugh, and that smile of his spreads slowly on Steve’s face, blooming like a flower. “It’s alright to admit defeat, Steve. My house is already better than yours.”

“Woah, this isn’t over yet, alright? Mine just needs time, don’t you worry.”

“Whatever you say, Steve.”

“Someone’s feeling brave tonight,” he teases, nudging you with his elbow without letting go of the roof of his house. “Don’t speak too soon, sunshine. I could be the underdog here.”

You lean over with your icing bag in hand, piping some more into the gap in Steve’s roof. “Here, let me help.”

Steve—always reluctant to accept help of any kind, even the smallest things—lets you. While he watches your face as you pipe the icing, the focus, the way your tongue pokes out from between your lips, you take his distraction as an opportunity to move, letting your icing fall onto his hand instead of the house.

“Oops,” you shrug, your tone suggesting that it wasn’t a mistake at all.

Steve gasps overdramatically, then leans closer to you, “Oh, looks like you’ve got something right there.” His hand reaches for your face, and he spreads the icing from it onto your cheek.

“You’re done for, Harrington.”

He only laughs, bright and quick.

Before you know it, you’re having some sort of food fight, putting a dot of icing on Steve’s nose, him tossing sprinkles at you. It’s a mess, but all you can hear is Steve’s laughter, all you can see is his smile. Unguarded for once, free and genuine.

By the time it dies down, there’s stripes of icing on your cheeks, red and green sprinkles scattered about the floor and on the table, and Steve’s got his own patches of icing to deal with.

“You better help me clean this, Harrington,” you say, your giggles still spilling, fizzling out softly. “What are we gonna decorate these houses with now?”

“Mine’s a lost cause,” he admits, the pieces now in a pile the way they’d started.

“So I won, is what I’m hearing.”

Steve looks at you, at the sparkle in your eyes that had been dimmed earlier at work, at the smile that spreads across your face when his eyes meet yours. Fuck. He thinks you’re completely beautiful, icing across your face and all.

His gaze snags on a piece of green in your hair, and before he can think about it, he reaches up and tugs it out for you.

“Sprinkle,” he says.

You look at his hands, messy from the gingerbread houses but never any less strong, and you remember how they felt in yours when you’d been skating. And when you flick your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you, gaze dipping to your mouth quickly, like he can’t help it.

And shit, you think. You really, really like this boy.

Before either of you can say anything more, you’re leaning towards each other, meeting in the middle and you’re not sure if you kiss him or he kisses you, but you end up with your mouths pressed together.

It’s featherlight at first, testing the waters. Then, Steve’s hands cup your jaw gently and pull you back to him, and you wouldn’t dream of doing anything but follow.

He kisses you again, still soft somehow, but more certain, his lips dancing with yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You reach up and grasp his wrists in your hands, feeling his pulse under your thumbs. His heart is racing just as much as yours, you notice. Like your heartbeats have synced to a twin pattern, like this kiss was enough to do that.

And while you’re not sure what will happen after this, you know that something has shifted, that both of you are saying things you’re too afraid to say out loud.

When he pulls back, Steve presses one, two more pecks to your mouth, his thumbs tracing over your skin so lightly you might’ve dreamt it.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever think about kissing the same way after you. Steve feels warm the way he does when the sun beams on him in summer, and quickly, he thinks, I could get used to this feeling.

Then, he gets up and finds a small towel in one of the drawers by your sink, wetting it with warm water before coming back to sit with you.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, using a finger to tilt your chin up, swiping the towel over your cheeks to get rid of the icing there as lightly as he can.

And that’s that.

December twenty-fourth is your last day at Santa’s Workshop. Christmas Eve snuck up quick, and tomorrow, the twenty-fifth, the mall will be closed.

You’ve always enjoyed the job, but this year’s been your favorite by far. Usually, you and your coworkers would get along just fine, talking during shifts and laughing but never expanding outside of work, but it’s completely different with Steve.

He knocked on your door with gingerbread houses in hand and kissed you like it meant something. You like him so much that it’s in your bones, this feeling he brings out of you, how special you feel when you think about the trust he’s shown you.

But looking back, you think you were screwed from the start. From his scrunched brows asking you if the bells on the elf shoes were really necessary, to confiding in you about his parents, that list you made that seemed to be the beginning of what things have grown into now.

Green elf hat lopsided on his head, Steve smiles at you from where he stands by the camera. You smile back without thinking, like it’s natural, an instinct.

“Alright,” he says, talking to the kids sitting on the bench with Santa. “Everyone say ‘cheese’ on three. One, two-”

“Cheese!”

The camera clicks, and then it’s onto the next, the system you and Steve have created moving along smoothly, family after family.

If someone told Steve when he’d started this job, grouchy and prepared to pout about it every day, that he’d grow to like it, that he’s realized he’ll miss it when it’s gone, he would’ve laughed in their faces.

Never in a million years did Steve think he’d come remotely close to enjoying being an elf, but he has (he still fucking hates the outfit, though). You have everything to do with his surprising not-so-hatred of the job, of his careful fondness growing towards the holidays.

It’s all because of you.

Christmas Eve is a busy day at Starcourt mall, parents rushing about for last minute presents, teenagers taking advantage of holiday sales, and families lined up for their Santa pictures they’d forgotten about until now.

You don’t get breaks between families often today, but once you do, you and Steve are next to each other, making imaginary backstories for random people that pass by, dramatically reading lips of conversations.

The next time there’s an opening, you walk over to Steve, holding up your fist as if there’s a microphone in it. “So, Steve, tell me, how does it feel to have survived December as a Christmas elf?”

“I feel like I should get an award, maybe,” he says into your fake microphone. “I’ve gotten two rashes from this scratchy outfit. Two! And I’ll never hear jingle bells the same again.”

You laugh before clearing your throat and getting back into your news anchor character, “wow. You heard it here folks, North Pole outfits are not luxurious.”

“No, they are not.”

Steve can’t help but grin as he looks at you, as he jokes around with you so easily it feels like he’s known you for years instead of a month. He supposes he has known you longer, but never the way he does now.

“Now, will you be returning to Santa’s Workshop in future Decembers, mister Harrington?”

“Well, that depends,” he says. “I think I’ll require a certain presence to be with me if I come back. Can’t survive it without my doses of sunshine.”

My doses of sunshine.

You’ve never reacted to words the way you do with Steve, but when he says things like that, how can you not react? He compliments you in these indirect ways that only you could understand, and this secret language of yours has your heart skipping, your world tinted-pink.

That one makes you break character, “really?”

“Really.”

Looking up at him, at those soft, melting brown eyes that have always told you more than anything else about him, at the fondness in them, you think about that kiss.

You haven’t spoken about it, but you haven’t felt the need to. It meant something, you know that much, and by the way Steve sneaks touches—a squeeze of your hand, a palm on your back—he does, too.

“You make Christmas better,” he tells you.

He leaves you with that as the next family walks up for their picture, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you, his gaze spreading sparkles over your skin.

It’s hard to focus when all you can think about is him calling you sunshine in that soft voice of his he’s only used when you’re alone, but you have to, so it’s back to work you go.

You don’t get to speak much again until your shift is over, the Christmas Eve evening rush swooping in and keeping you both busy.

It’s bittersweet, walking to the back room for the last time from Santa’s Workshop. You’re excited for tomorrow, because it’s Christmas and it’s one of your favorite days of the year, but it’s hitting you now how much you’ll miss seeing Steve nearly every day.

You’ll still see him, of course you will. Whether it’s him getting you to help sneak kids into a movie or maybe something more, something for just the two of you. Either way, you’re at least sure of one thing: Steve Harrington is one of the best people you know.

He’s the first to speak as you step into the staff room. “I have something for you,” he says.

Steve scratches the back of his neck, the smallest hint of pink on his cheeks. He’s nervous, and it’s the sweetest thing. He reaches into his bag, pulling out a small box, a white ribbon tied in a bow around it, a little lopsided, like he’d tied it himself.

You take it from him, smiling down at the box, because no matter what’s in it, he cared enough to get you a gift and that’s what matters, that’s what you’ll hold onto.

“Really?”

“Open it, please.”

You listen, tugging the ribbon loose and opening up the small box. Inside, you find a delicate chain, the pendant in the shape of the sun.

“Steve.” It comes out in a breath, your eyes welling the tiniest bit because this is the best gift you’ve ever received. He’s a gift himself, looking at you shyly, searching your face for a reaction.

“Do you like it?” He asks, his voice soft. “If it’s too much I can-”

“It’s perfect,” you say, and you mean it. “Put it on for me?”

He flashes you a grin, the corners of his mouth tugging up as he nods and takes the necklace from you, undoing the clasp as you turn around and move your hair out of the way.

You can feel his warmth against your back as he drapes the necklace over your collar, his fingers brushing the back of your neck as he fiddles with the clasp.

“There you go,” he says, taking a small step back to give you room to spin back around to face him.

You look down at the sun pendant sitting against your skin, touching it lightly. Steve’s actions speak volumes, and this one makes you feel so many things. But above it all, you feel like his.

He watches your face as you look at the necklace, the slope of your nose and the softness of your cheeks. The flutter of your lashes and the smile you don’t even try to hide. He’s been resisting the urge to kiss you since he’d done it the first time, but it’s stronger than ever now, with his present around your neck.

Your eyes meet when you look back up at him, his brown ones never failing to show how he feels, and your heart skips with how he looks at you. Like he cares, like he doesn’t intend on stopping.

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, fingertips gentle as ever when they brush against the side of your neck.

“I love it, Steve, really. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sunshine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t expect-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, his hand shifting to hold yours, fingers lacing with yours easily, “you’ve given me so much.”

Steve doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to get paired with you for this job, how he got lucky enough to have someone look past his slight grumpiness and really see him. You’ve given him Christmas as a whole, erasing bad memories, replacing them with new ones, and he doesn’t think any present could repay you for that.

“Oh wait!” You squeeze his hand before letting go and heading towards your bag, digging until you find what you’d been looking for. You hand Steve a folded piece of paper, “you should have this.”

As he unfolds it, he realizes it’s the bucket list you’d made for him what feels like forever ago, glitter and all. There are activities with check marks beside them, the ones you’d completed, and he shakes his head with the smile he seems to only wear when you’re around.

Very last on the list, your handwriting spells out words that make his chest feel light, his heart full.

‘Make next Christmas just as good.’

Steve finally stops holding himself back and kisses you for the second time, and you’re both certain it won’t be the last.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed, please please consider leaving a reblog or comment and let me know what you think! it would mean a bunch <3

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thatsmzbitchtoyou · 28 days ago

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A Pirate's Life for Me Chapter 2

Summary: Captain Bucky Barnes and his crew on the Armored Star are the most fearsome pirates in the known world. They’ve given the British fleet a run for their money as they try to free the enslaved and take from the rich, but they could have never guessed how the British empire would retaliate against them. When a new pirate ship appears and lays waste to all in its path, will Bucky and his crew be ready for the wrath of a woman scorned?

Warnings: piracy, pillaging, sexual assault, death/murder, blood/gore, violence, smut

*manbo: voodoo priestess

Previous chapter Next chapter

After a long few months at sea that finally ended in a successful takeover of the British trade ships, freeing the enslaved people aboard and taking the other supplies and gold, Bucky was sitting in a tavern on Tortuga, celebrating their victory with his crew and stocking up on supplies before they would head back home in the morning. He finished drinking his second pint, shooing away a prostitute before standing to relieve himself outside. When he finished he headed toward the front door when he heard–

“Did you hear about Barataria Bay?” one of the prostitutes leaning against the wall said quietly to the one next to her.

“Barataria Bay? No,” the other replied.

“The story is the British tracked down Barnes’ wifey and his crew’s families there,” the first continued, leaning toward her conspiratorially. “Leveled it. It’s still smoking to this day they say.”

“What?” Bucky barked, making them both jump at his voice. He cornered them so they wouldn’t run. “Where did you hear this?”

“At the docks!” The first said quickly, looking at him with wide eyes, the other’s mouth open wide as she stared at him. “Captain of the Jolly Sailor said something about the smoke being a thousand feet high.”

Bucky’s eyes bulged, his breaths getting faster and heavier. “What else did he say?” he demanded.

“I…I…” she stuttered.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “What else did he say?!”

“Please sir!” the first cried. “He said he was sailing by and they saw the fire and smoke and a large British ship leaving! He said he heard sirens crying. That’s all I know!”

“When was this?” he whispered, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arms.

She squirmed. “I don’t know, he mentioned passing through Dominica, so a few weeks ago?”

Bucky was going to be sick. He let go of her and thanked her quietly before running inside. He started gathering his crew and they got to the Armored Star in record time. It was still a few days trip home, and he was praying to whatever sea god he could think of to favor their sails to get home faster and prove it wasn’t true.

***

Ash. Smoking embers. Dried blood everywhere. Bucky fell to his knees when he reached his home to find it torched, one wall still standing that was riddled with bullet holes. The crew members had run through the surrounding village, calling out for their lovers, wives, and children, but no one was there. He cried heavily as he looked around. Y/N was right. She was always right. Why didn’t he listen to her? Now she was gone. Everyone was gone. The cries of his crew were too much to bear, but he sat still and listened. This was his punishment, surely, to hear the anguished cries of men who lost everything like him. He looked to his left to the cemetery just beyond the hill and saw multiple rows of freshly dug graves. His heart lurched to his stomach and he vomited profusely, the reality of it all settling in. He’d abandoned her when she begged him not to. He’d betrayed her. He screamed as he felt something deep inside him fracture. Bucky would never forgive himself.

***

“Did you hear about the pirate attack at the Brimstone Hill Fortress?”

“Yes! It was a bloodbath!”

“What about the one at Fort King George?”

“Was that the same ship?”

“I saw it! It was a deep, emerald green hull. It used to be the British fleet’s Vanquisher, but was stolen and renamed Dido’s Lament. It’s been wreaking havoc along the islands.”

“Dido’s Lament?”

Bucky tuned out the chatter around him. A new, up and coming group of pirates that had taken the islands by storm, or something like that. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered. After he and his crew left Barataria Bay they had wandered the sea aimlessly, still fighting back the British and looting, but it all seemed meaningless now. His crew’s morale was gone, all looking like shells of themselves as they went about their regular duties on board. Bucky nearly inhaled his sixth pint, unsteadily standing and heading back to his room in the tavern. He couldn’t remember what island they were on now.

“They say you can hear sirens scream before they attack.”

“The sea is on Dido’s side…”

Bucky grabbed a prostitute by the arm and hauled her to his room. She protested at first until he jingled a money bag in her face. He slammed the door behind them and sat on a chair, undoing his belt and pulling his pants down just enough for his cock to spring free. She kneeled in front of him and started to pleasure him, her mouth warm and inviting as she bobbed her head up and down. He shut his eyes tight and envisioned his treasure pleasuring him and how perfect she was at it. This woman could never compare, but it would have to do. His hands gripped the chair’s armrests as his hips trembled, his breath getting heavier. He could see Y/N now, smiling up at him as he caressed her cheek, her eyes twinkling with mirth as she sucked him just right so he was at her mercy. The way her pussy would envelop him perfectly, like it was made just for him. Her bright smile. Her boisterous laugh. Her love of the sea and the stories he would tell her of his travels and finding creatures of the deep. Her kisses…

Bucky held the woman’s head down on him as he came in her mouth, spilling thick ropes of cum down her throat, making her cough and slightly gag. When he was finished he opened his eyes and let her up. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, sir, you're gonna have to pay extra for that!” she spat at him, wiping her mouth.

“Fine,” Bucky said in a bored tone, grabbing the money bag and pulling out a handful of coins. “This enough?”

“Yessir,” she said with a wide smile. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something more?”

“No,” he grumbled. “Get out.”

She huffed but stood and nodded, quickly leaving his room and shutting the door hard behind her. Bucky tucked his cock back into his pants, standing to lock the door and then walking to the bed. He let his body fall on it with a grunt. He hadn’t fully made love since he’d left Y/N then found the Bay a year ago, and he didn’t think he ever would again. He only used prostitutes for quick relief while he was on land, then would let himself suffer. That’s what he deserved, a lifetime of suffering for his sins. He began to cry, like he did every night, exhausting himself into a fitful night’s sleep of memories of Y/N, and the harrowing cries of his crew.

#marvel #smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #series fanfic #pirate!bucky barnes #chapter 2 #siren

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assortedseaglass · 1 year ago

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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty Two

Tom Bennett x Bess Vaughn (OFC)

[Masterlist]

Volume II Summary: Tom escapes occupied Europe to find home irreversibly changed. How will Tom and Bess cope when what was once familiar has changed forever?

Warnings: Strong Language, Angst, Smut, Violence (fairly mild), Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Depictions of PTSD, Injury Detail, Era typical Sexism, Era typical Homophobia, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Domestic Abuse (very brief), Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

A/N: Characters we haven’t seen for a while? Trauma from way back in volume one? You betcha. Posted in haste, will fix mistakes later.

Fucking war.

Tom ripped open the cardboard packet of his Marlboro’s just in case. Nothing. No Rita Hayworth. No Betty Grable. Not even Vera fucking Lynn. He lit a cigarette and sighed.

A pint of pale was put on the table before him. Through a haze of cigarette fog and beer-blurred eyes he looked at the barkeeper.

“We’ve had men in here trading their old cigarette cards. Anything for something new,” he scoffed and picked up Tom’s three empty glasses. “’Waste of resources’, ‘s’what they say on the wireless. You’d think a bit of leg would do everyone good. Keep morale high.”

Tom took a long gulp of the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve. “Well, if you ever run for office, you’ve got my vote. Bring back the tart card.” He raised the half-drunk glass but the man had already walked away. “To Winston fucking Churchill!”

From their position at the bar, a few patrons looked over their shoulders at him. None could have been younger than fifty. “What?” Tom said to them, his volume a touch too loud, eyes dark over the rim of the glass. They ignored him.

“Dunkierka!”

Tom screwed his eyes shut. It had been hours, but still Grzegroz’s voice rattled around his mind.

“Dunkierka!”

How strange, incredible really, that he could be transported so quickly to the battlefield once more. One moment he was playing football with Jan in Mrs Chase’s garden, the next he was watching the man with the terrified eyes screaming at him on the beach.

“Shoot me!”

“Fuck.” Tom downed the rest of the beer. Eight o’clock. The pub was busying now. He’d arrived not an hour before, having walked from Mrs Chase’s back into town. Now, the shift’s had changed at the dockyard and the factory, and the weekend was free for these men to take.

The table wobbled as Tom used all of his weight to stand. He blinked hard. A rush of blood drained from his head and he faltered. A lifetime’s worth of bad memories did not mix with four pints and an empty stomach.

Tom wasn’t drunk. Not by his standards at least. Instead, he was balanced on a precipice. A precipice that could turn the night into one of infinite wonder or have him fear the world by 8 o’clock next morning. Would it send him down the Palais with Bess? Hadn’t she said there was a dance on? Or would it be a night in the pub, taking on any Tom, Dick or Harry that dared, and sleeping under a bench? Tom found he didn’t care which. One drink more would do him right. Let Lady Luck decide.

Tom wasn’t drunk. However, he did not slide onto the bar stool with as much grace as he would’ve liked and a few men tittered. “Another pint please.”

“Right you are, Tom.” The barkeep gave him a wary look but poured the pint all the same. He’d seen enough soldiers and marines to know that if they weren’t drinking in his pub, they were out drinking and making a nuisance. God knows he remembered the last war well enough.

Another pint appeared before him, and Tom watched the foam settle. He leant forward, caressing the cool glass, and took a long, pleasured sip.

“How’s the navy treating you anyway, Tom?”

“The navy? The bloody navy? Can’t even steer a pedalo.”

Tom jolted and looked over his shoulder. It had happened the night before too, and that morning. Drifting off, he’d heard his father’s voice. “My brave, brave boy.” Only to wake up and have reality hit him hard, all air leaving his chest before he’d taken his first waking breath. His dad was gone.

A glass smashed in the corner of the pub and a roar of laughter rang up.

“Watch it! You lot break anymore, and you’ll be paying.” The barkeeper sighed. “Tom?”

“You what?”

The barkeeper watched him. “Ah, don’t worry about it, son.” He patted Tom’s arm and made his way to the end of the bar. Tom’s eyes followed as the man collected a sweeping brush and gathered the broken shards into a pile. One of the men in the party was gesturing wildly around, trying in vain to help. It was Fergal Vaughn.

“Sit down, man,” the barkeep said good-naturedly. “You’re a hindrance, not a help.”

Fergal flopped into his seat, the beer he held spraying everywhere. The friends surrounding him laughed. Sweat gleamed on the old man’s brow, his face red and shining. When he spoke, flecks of spittle flew from his mouth, and he laughed so hard Tom feared he might keel over for lack of breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Tom muttered into his pint. Well, at least the old bastard isn’t at home, bothering the girls.

There was a great commotion and Tom looked back to the party. Fergal had stood abruptly, his round belly pushing the table and knocking yet more glasses. He raised his near empty pint of Guinness in the air. “To my Cora, and to her Roger!”

The men cheered, raising their glasses and swigging their beers. “To her roger!” The two men nearest Tom cried and fell about laughing. Fergal swiped at them pathetically but giggled at their joke.

Tom should have laughed too. Should have joined in their merriment. But sat there, five pints deep, listening to Fergal Vaughn’s witterings while the ghost of his own father lingered just beyond reach, Tom felt his blood curdle. On the step of the stool, his leg began to bounce. The din of the pub’s patrons gave way to the swirling of blood and breath in his ears.

“Dunkierka!”

Tom slammed his fists into his eyes and tried to rub away the sound. Fergal guffawed behind him.

“You don’t think I’m genuine?”

“Are you, son?”

Bess’ voice joined the fray.

“You’ve never committed to anything or anyone. It’s not because you’re a womaniser, or because you don’t believe in the war. It’s because you’re a coward.”

“Just fuck off!” Tom shouted. He didn’t hear the way the pub stilled. Didn’t notice the way the man beside him got off his stool and shuffled away. Slowly, the noise around him picked up as everyone ignored the screwball at the bar.

He tried to calm himself and, naturally, thought of Bess. Almost half-past eight. She’d be at the dance by now. Hair rollered for once, a brush of lipstick. Tom’s body hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Who would she dance with, without himself or Albie there? Roger? From Fergal’s exclamations, it sounded like a night for celebration. Would Lois be there, singing with Connie? He hadn’t thought to ask Lois about her shift on the ambulance.

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

The last words Lois hissed at him before he crumpled and made his way back to Bess. She’d spat them at him like a weapon. She’d meant to hurt him, and hurt him it did. The moment she’d uttered them Tom saw every disheartened, disapproving and disappointed look that had shadowed his father’s prematurely aged face. Each one, directed at him.

Yet another glass was placed next to him. An amber tot of whisky. “From Fergal,” said the barkeeper. Tom glanced over his shoulder to where Fergal had another pint raised in his direction.

“To Tom,” he slurred. “No doubt he’ll be stealing another of my girls away from me.” Fergal smiled at him and the other men silently raised their glasses.

Tom pushed the whisky away. “No thanks.”

“Right you are,” The barkeeper said after a moment, taking the glass away while eyeing something over Tom’s shoulder. With a hard smack, a meaty hand landed on Tom’s back and he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy breath and stench of ale told him everything.

“Rude to refuse a drink from your father-in-law-”

“You’re not my father-in-law.” Tom continued to stare straight ahead at the optics behind the bar.

“I’m as good as!” Fergal chortled. “And don’t you tell me I won’t be one day,” he tried to lean on the bar beside Tom but stumbled. Despite himself, Tom reached out a hand to steady him. “With Cora engaged, everyone will be looking to you and Bess.”

“Let them look.”

Fergal wobbled, leaning forward slightly to observe Tom. Fed up, Tom stared back at him, watching the man struggle to stand straight.

“God, you look like your Dad.” Fergal said after an unnaturally long pause. Tom snorted.

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

“We all miss him terribly, me and Bess especially,” Fergal continued. Did Tom miss him? He supposed he did not. He hadn’t been given enough time to comprehend the fact he was dead, let alone miss him. “My favourite drinking partner.” Fergal finally found the bar and leant upon it.

“You’re doing alright, to me.” Tom watched the men in the corner watching him.

“Ah, but none were like your Da-A drink!” Fergal cut himself off. “Another whisky for me and Tom.” They appeared before them in an instant. Seemingly, the barkeeper hadn’t thrown them away. Fucking rationing.

“I don’t want it,” Tom pushed it back and Fergal made to sip his own.

“To Douglas!” The Irishman roared.

“Stop!” Tom grabbed Fergal’s hand before the drink could reach his lips. “Stop.”

“What’s gotten into you, boy? Used to love a drink with me and Albie and your Da-”

Tom stood from the bar and Fergal staggered backwards. “I’ll not share a drink with you, you fat old bastard. Not in my dad’s memory. Not when you’re like this.”

“Now just a minu-”

“You’re a drunk!” Tom spat in Fergal’s face. He was towering over the man now, and for a flicker of time, Fergal looked like a scared child. “I’ll not drink to my dad’s memory, when it should have been you in his place.”

Fergal looked like he had been struck. Tom didn’t care. A year’s worth of war, the immediacy of his grief, the way it awoke the longing he held for his mother, years of watching Fergal ruin his daughters. Tom felt every bruising blow life had dealt him, and was presented with the perfect outlet for his rage. The man before him.

“My dad fought for what he believed in. Did I agree with him? No, but I damn well do now!” Tom was shouting and the barkeeper laid a hand on his arm. He wrenched it from his grip but lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “He didn’t have much, but he did enough to make himself proud. To make me proud. Gave everyone the time of day. Grafted. Put up with me,” his voice wobbled. “And then there’s you. What have you ever done?”

Fergal opened his mouth but Tom cut him off. “Who do you think’s gonna look after you now Cora’s engaged? Do you know what?” He grabbed the whisky and raised it in the air. “Here’s to Roger. If it weren’t for him, Cora would be left to a life looking after you with not one bit of thanks.” He downed the drink with a wince. “And Dot! You’ve spoiled her beyond reason. Five minutes in the real world will ruin her, Fergal! Don’t you remember the last time!? All them battered men coming back, what they did to the women waiting for them at home? And Bess!” Tom’s voice cracked and he jabbed a finger into Fergal’s fleshy shoulder. “Do you know how many nights she’s spent crying because you said she wasn’t woman enough, like Cora and Dot? Or how you never stood up for her at school? It was Etta marching down there every day to set Frank Smith and Walter Watson right. Etta giving the teachers a bollocking because you didn’t have the guts. What did you do? Fucking nothing. Only thing you’re good for is fucking fertiliser-”

It happened quick as a flash. Fergal grabbed Tom by the scruff of his collar and hoisted him over the bar. Glasses clattered around them and the murmuring of the pub crescendoed to an excited clamour. The edge of the bar was rammed into Tom’s ribs as Fergal held him there, leaning over and growling in his face. Any trace of drunkenness was gone.

“You’re one to talk, my boy.” He shoved Tom again, and Tom felt his head hit one of the pumps. “Fucking off to join the navy was the best thing you ever did. Brought nothing but shame to your father, and now you’re doing the same to my Bess.” At the mention of her name Tom struggled to get up. “You’re only courting my daughter because I see how happy you make her, God knows why, but when you get yourself blown up, well, it’ll be all the better.”

“ENOUGH!” The barkeeper bellowed, reaching between the two of them. Two of Fergal’s friends pulled him backwards off Tom, and he slid off the bar. “ENOUGH!”

Tom straightened his jacket, stared down at Fergal and laughed bitterly. By some miracle, Fergal’s whiskey still sat unbothered amongst the debris of their argument. Tom downed it in one and, with his hands in his pockets, swaggered from the pub and into the night.

“-our Florence tailored her mam’s old dress. I suppose Bess could help you with that. And Roger will have a mourning suit, won’t he? Or will he get married in uniform? Oh, that would be best I think, that beautiful air force blue. It’ll look excellent in your wedding photograph-”

On discovering Cora Vaughn’s engagement to Roger, Queenie Warren had not drawn breath. Her curls bouncing animatedly as she spoke, Queenie quizzed Cora on everything from the colour of her bridesmaids’ dresses to whether the cake would be fruit or Victoria sponge.

Bess had tuned Queenie out ten minutes ago. Instead, she leant against the bar, glass in her hand, cigarette between her lips, and watched couples spin around the dancefloor. She wondered if the Palais would ever be as full as it was before the war.

The red lights of the room hid a multitude of sins. The floor was becoming sticky under foot, and wallpaper was starting to peel from the high ceiling. The darkness did well to hide the few couples, and the fewer men. Indeed, it was mostly full of women from the factories. There were some fellas that Bess recognised from about town, and other uniformed men she did not recognise, no doubt visiting women they had met on the front, or nurses from the infirmary.

Dancing at the centre of circle were Roberta and the teacher from the primary. With so many of the men off fighting, it was the first time Bobby had been able to step into the light with the woman, under the rouse of needing a dance partner. Hiding in plain sight, Bess had never seen her happier. Indeed, when they turned so that Bobby could look upon the bar, she caught Bess’ eye. Bess winked, and Bobby giggled. Tough, feisty Roberta actually giggled.

“-you’ll have your hands full soon I expect, Bess.”

“Pardon?”

Queenie was watching her eagerly. “A wedding dress and bridesmaids’ clothes for yourself and Dot. That’s an awful lot to be doing.”

“She’ll have to ask me first,” with a smile Bess nudged Cora, who looked up from gazing at the modest ring on her finger.

Her betrothed was not far away, sharing a drink with Frank Smith and a few other lads from the air force. He was bright and merry, and though the others congratulated him, Bess noticed the glances they cast the bride-to-be and her sisters. Namely, herself.

Bess knew what she was doing when she’d stepped out that night. Bedecked in a pinstriped suit, she wanted people to look at her. She felt deflated after Tom’s flit from Mrs Chase’s and his inability to confide in her. This did just the job to make her feel powerful again. She’d seen Marlene Dietrich where something similar in a copy of Vogue she’d read years ago at the atelier. It just so happened that they had a pattern there too.

A man cut across Bess’ vision of Bobby on the dancefloor. “Fucking dyke,” he muttered as he passed. Bess stood straight, prepared to defend her friend from the man, when she faltered. As he passed, the man looked over his shoulder at her, eyeing her suit from sharp collar to perfectly-ironed trouser.

“Don’t be jealous she’s a better dresser than you!” Dot piped up, just as Cora took her glass.

“That’s enough sherry, Dot.”

Before Dot could so much as take a breath to retort, the Palais’ double doors burst open. Even over the playing of the band, the noise caused the sisters to jump and cast their eyes towards the doors.

Bess knew that silhouette.

Against the streetlamps outside, the figure staggered sideways before moving forward towards the bar. With his hands in his pockets, he nearly fell over, and a few people rushed to help him. He brushed them off and, ascending the steps to the bar, smirked lopsidedly at the group.

“Bobby,”

“Tom.”

The enmity that lingered between Bobby and Tom had dwindled of late, and Bess tensed at the renewed hostility.

“How’s your friend?” Tom wobbled as he glanced around the old ballroom, his words dripping with intentional sarcasm. Roberta said nothing. “Suits you well, doesn’t it? No men about.” He swaggered towards her, his body a millisecond behind the movement of his feet. Bess prickled with mortification. All evening she’d been worried about him, what he was thinking, what he was doing, and it turned out he was the same as any other man; leaving their problems at the door of the first pub they came to.

He staggered a step towards Roger and Frank. Frank, having experienced Tom’s devastating right-hook in childhood, edged backwards.

“Watch yourselves, lads, she’ll be giving your girls ideas.”

He can embarrass himself all he likes, but leave Bobby out of it. In three high-heeled strides, Bess placed herself between Tom and the others. “Enough,” she said warningly. Tom eyed her. There was a hint of pride in the dark blue of his eyes. Then he glanced at her suit.

“If I didn’t know you better,” Bess could smell the beer on him. The stale cigarettes. “I’d say you were going the same way as your Roberta.” He looked her up and down, amusement evident on his features.

At this closeness, Bess’ worry returned. When he’d returned, the first thing she noticed about him was the hollowness of his cheeks. The way the skin clung his cheekbones like wax. In the red light of the Palais, his pale skin looked near translucent, and his eyes…

His brow bone jutted forward, casting them into shadow. Below, the soft skin beneath his lower lashes sagged, as though gravity was working harder to root him in one place. She’d seen this dogged look before. On her father. What a sinister concoction; grief and grain.

Gently, as though calming a wounded animal, Bess whispered in Tom’s ear. “Go home, my love-”

“I haven’t got one,” Tom slurred, blinking slowly, that ridiculous smile still plastered on his face.

“Albie’s bed is always made up, just sle-”

“In a dead man’s bed?” The sisters and their companions each took a sharp breath. “I’ll not be tempting fate, ‘my love’,” Tom tapped Bess on the nose. “Besides, I’m here for a dance.” He held out a hand, the other still firmly in his pocket as he swayed on the spot. “Come on,”

“No,”

There it was. That wrinkled brow and jutted jaw. He knew he was pushing it. Still, as he always did, he carried on.

“Why do you have to go around winding the rest of us up? That’s what you do.” Vic’s voice joined the chorus of ghosts in Tom’s mind. He shook his head.

“Come on,” he waggled the hand he held out to Bess. “Gotta dance with my best girl while I’m back.”

“I said no.”

With speed unexpected of a drunk, Tom made a beeline for Bess. Just as his arms made to grip her close to his body, someone blocked his path.

“Go away, Tom.”

His held jolted backwards before his body, and he stumbled. “Fuck,” he said. In this light, in this state, the Vaughn girls all looked the same. Steely, dark eyes were boring into his. It was only the smaller stature of the girl before him that gave it away.

“Dotty-”

“Go away-”

“Oh shut up, Dot. You’ll never get a fella with a mouth like that,” Roger and Cora straightened at the bar. Bess came to stand at her sister’s side. Frank gripped Queenie by the arm and steered her away. This was it. The showdown. The two cockiest kids in Longsight. Dot Vaughn and Tom Bennett. “Shut up and use your mouth for something useful-”

SMACK

The force with which Dot walloped Tom near gave him whiplash. Like a felled tree, he hit the ground hard. No sooner was he looking up at the three red-headed furies, was someone dragging him along the ground. For the second time that night, someone had Tom by the scruff of his collar. His feet struggled to find footing as whoever had hold of him pulled him towards the door. He looked up.

“Fuck me. Didn’t think you had it in you Rog.”

The pilot said nothing, only continued to drag Tom from the Palais. The clacking of high heels followed the pair, and as Roger hurled Tom onto the damp road outside the dancehall, Cora came into view.

Tom lay there for a few seconds, looking up at the dark sky as drizzle speckled his face.

“Get up.”

“You gonna fight me, Rog?” He received no reply and, with great difficulty, stood up. His head was beginning to pound, as though his brain was fight to break free from his skull.

Roger’s arms were folded against his chest. Tom had never realised, despite Roger’s lanky height, how imposing he was. In his uniform, he looked like the perfect poster boy for the British military. Beside him, Cora glared.

“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice was quiet, challenging him to dare to fight back. Tom rolled his shoulders and squared his jaw.

“Pub.”

Cora tutted. “I might have guessed.”

“Saw your dad there,”

“I’m sure.” Cora’s eyes hadn’t left Tom’s. Her feet hadn’t faltered. All that distinguished her from a statue were the few strands of hair waving in the cold night air.

“Gave him a piece of my mind-”

“A very small piece then.”

Tom snorted. “Was there celebrating your happy news. Congratulations, by the way.” He added as an aside. “Never seen him at the pub so happy, usually there to forget his own fuck ups. Wouldn’t catch me in that state-”

“You’ve got a nerve.” Cora snapped. “Dadda’s got his faults but don’t think for a second that you don’t have your own, Thomas Bennett.”

Cora walked towards him, her steps so slow and purpose that for the first time in his life, Tom was scared of her. She folded her arms and looked at him with disgust.

“You’re not the only one that’s suffered-”

“Tell you about this afternoon, did she?” Tom shouted. Cora raised her eyebrows and he silenced like a petulant child.

“No, Bess didn’t,” Behind her, Roger watched on. He didn’t move, flanking her like a sentinel solider. “But I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a jumped-up little shit who never put much store by other people’s feelings, BE QUIET!” she shoutedwhen Tom opened his mouth to argue. “You’re not the only one that’s fighting. That’s lost someone. Roger flies over Germany every other night, looking at the destruction we’re wreaking. Coming home to discover who he lost along the way. You know Vernon was the last to go down? Disappeared over the Channel. I don’t suppose you’ve thought for one second that Lois lost her father and her fiancé?”

Tom shifted uncomfortably.

“That we loved your father too? That we lost our Albie?” Cora’s voiced wobbled and a few tears fell from her eyes. Her gaze, however, did not waver. “I can’t imagine what horrors you’ve seen, Tom, but it isn’t plain sailing here. The fear of getting bombed every night, worrying if we’ll ever see you all again? Pretending it’s all smiles when you come home in case you see the cracks and crumble. Because what’s the point of fighting for a world that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Finally, she brushed her tears from her eyes. With a shaky breath, as if to set herself right, Cora straightened.

“It’s not the world against Tom Bennett. I know it feels like it-”

“No you don’t.” Tom said bitterly. “You don’t have a fucking clue.” And with the little pride he had left, he turned on weak legs, stumbled down the nearest ginnel, and vanished from sight.

Next morning, Bess rose as the sun crept over the brick red houses of Longsight.

Beside her, Dot and Cora were sleeping soundly, their arms cast over each other’s waists. Slowly, so as not to wake them, Bess drew back the quilt and crept onto the landing. The floorboards creaked and she stilled. No-one stirred.

Tentatively, she opened the door to her father’s bedroom.

He was slumped, half sat against the cold wall, atop his bed. Albie’ remained empty, his folded jumper and photograph sat neatly on top of the covers.

A swell of dread rushed over Bess and she felt sick. So it had been dadda stumbling around the house, not Tom.

Fergal’s misuse of alcohol was no secret about the street, and every neighbour knew his routine. His daughters knew it better. Six o’clock. If Fergal wasn’t working as an air raid warden, he would arrive home from the dockyard, ready for his supper. After reading the newspaper and listening to the girls talk about their days, he would depart for the pub at approximately twenty past seven. If drinking at The Crown, he would be allowed room under one of the tables and arrive home next morning with the milk float or the postman. If The Red Lion took his fancy, Old Arthur, for that was what the girls had always called the publican, gave him board in the small flat he kept above the pub. Only if Fergal drank at The Swan did he stagger home, for Mrs Mallory always cast him out at eleven o’clock.

On tiptoe, Bess hurried down the stairs. The hammering of her heart doubled. Tom was not slumped on the piano stool, nor was he at the table or in Fergal’s armchair.

This was it. His years of aggravating, pestering, hiding, skiving and shirking had finally caught up with him. Or, someone had caught up with him.

Terrified, worried and entirely unsure of what to do, Bess busied her hands by rummaging through the Welsh dresser drawers. Flicking through dressmaker’s patterns, ones belonging to herself, her mother and her sisters too, she pulled out a set for women’s slacks.

For Kasia¸ she thought. Well, that was that job done.

Curled up in her father’s armchair, Bess watched the world beyond the window wake up. Mrs Mason collected the milk bottles from her front step. Dennis Warley, the miserable postman, began his rounds. A few men Fergal’s age cycled to work. She looked at the clock. Half past six. At seven, she would wake Cora, and together they would hunt from Tom. What good was it now, when most of the city was still sleeping? Who could help?

A sudden wailing caused Bess to startle. She jumped up from the armchair, clutching the trouser pattern to her chest. Dot looked lazily up from the table. Cora placed a plate of bacon and eggs upon it, and hurried to the window where baby Vera, in her Moses basket, continued to cry.

“Got used to living alone and don’t want to share the bed?” Dot poured herself a cup of tea.

“Probably fed up of your snoring,” said Cora good-naturedly, the delight of Roger’s proposal radiating from her. “But Bess, love, why were you sleeping in the armchair?”

“I must have just drifted off,” Bess brushed the frizzy hair from her face. “Went to check in on dadda’s room. Tom didn’t stay last night, Cora.” Much to her surprise, Cora did not seem worried. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Bess felt the temper she inherited from their mother spark into life. “Cora?”

“Connie said she saw him last night, on her way to her shift on the ambulance. Was with Frank and some other lads.” Dot said through a mouthful of food. Cora tutted.

“He-oh. Ok,” Bess deflated, relief Tom was alright and embarrassment at her assumptions fighting for pitiable dominance. “Connie was here?” She moved forward to take the now whinging Vera from Cora.

“Mhmm,”

“Dorothy Vaughn. Don’t eat with your mouthful.”

Dot swallowed pointedly at Cora and turned back to Bess. “She brought Vera over.”

“Why?”

Dot faced her sister fully and grasped her cup of tea eagerly in her hands. After new dresses, Dot’s favourite thing was gossip. “Lois had to go to the infirmary. Was helping a family out of a house that got hit in the raids last night over in Fallowfield, and the house came down around her. She’s fine,” Bess had gasped. “Cut her head but just fine. That’s why Connie brought Cora. Lois is resting.” Dot punctuated her news with a long slurp of tea.

Bess sat at the table beside her sister, Vera now settled back to sleep. “Tom won’t know, about Lois, he’ll have no idea-”

“Doubt she wants him to know.” Dot said matter-of-factly. Again, Cora tutted.

“Dot, stop being cryptic and-”

“Well,” Dot launched herself into hurried speech. “Connie told us that Lois told her that her and Tom had an argument the day he got back-something about Douglas dying and him not knowing-anyway he got all angry with Lois saying that if she’d been there then he-Douglas that is-might not have died-”

“Breathe, Dot.”

“-and of course Lois didn’t like that and gave him a piece of her mind about working on the ambulance and doing her bit for the war effort, and then Tom-get this Bess-Tom turned round and said her job was to look after Douglas and Vera!” She took a deep breath and another sip of tea.

The anger caused by Cora’s apathy was nothing compared to the flame roaring into life now. Bess’ cheeks reddened, her eyes darkened, and a rigidity settled in her bones that God himself could not have shaken.

“Oh he did, did he?”

Three miles away, in a terraced house that edged Cringle Park, Tom Bennett woke. The bedsprings beneath his back were hard, a few pressing into his bony side, and the frame wobbled as he struggled to get up.

Bile rose to his throat and he lay down again. Above him, the ceiling spun. At its centre, the ceiling light had been draped in a rose silk scarf. Turning his head slowly so that it lolled on the pillow, Tom looked over the vanity table. Make up covered its counter, and few dresses in reds, pinks and purples were crumpled on the stool.

Beside him, the clock read just after eight o’clock. Its ticking was so loud inside his head it sounded like machine gun fire, and he groaned. The knock that came at the door was thunderous and Tom thought the sound alone would make him vomit.

“Morning, pet,” A high voice said. “Brought you a cuppa. Poor thing,” a soft hand touched his forehead, as though testing his temperature, and brushed the hair from his eyes. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Tom rubbed his bleary eyes and took the tea from the person above him. Perfectly manicured nails, ringlets, red lipstick and the overpowering smell of lavender.

“Cheers, Queenie.”

Notes: Cigarette cards (sometimes called tart cards, if they had women on) were banned in Britain at the start of 1940 because the government indeed declared them a “waste of raw material”. I don’t know about elsewhere, but in Britain “to roger” someone is to have sex, usually in a bit of a rough manner. In research, I also read a study about the increase in domestic violence post-WWI, in households with soldiers returning to civilian life. Fuck war and fuck the men that start them.

Thank you to @arcielee, who helped me unfuck this chapter more than she realises! There’s a line direct for one of our chats in here. And thanks again to @theoneeyedprince for help with the Polish. Below is the inspo for Bess’ outfit. Saw it and knew she’d wear it.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey@multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234@babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandompromptsside @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol@beiigegalx@skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools@aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs @blairfox04

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #the seamstress & the sailor #tom bennett x reader #tom bennett x ofc x oc #world on fire #ewan mitchell fandom #hotd #bess vaughn #tom bennett x bess vaughn

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ladywaffles · 1 year ago

Note

calloused hands in soft hands + Icemav

thank you for playing! :)

calloused hands in soft hands

“Hey there, sailor, has it been a long tour?”

Six and a half months.

That’s how long it’s been since the President overturned Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

He is finally free to marry his partner, openly and within sight of their family, friends, and former flyboys.

“It’s worth it when the sea brings me back to you, lover,” Maverick replies with a lascivious grin.

Ice rolls his eyes, even as he stands to greet Mav. “I’ve changed my mind—the tides can have you. You’re terrible at this.”

“What, after all this time?” Maverick drops his pack in the foyer and winds his arms around Ice’s waist, sliding one of his hands into Ice’s back pocket. “When I can finally do this in public?”

“You know, you’re still technically not allowed to do that, I’m still a superior officer.”

“Yeah but—”

“Don’t even say it, Mitchell,” he cuts him off. “It’ll be cheesy and bad, and I’ll be looking to trade you in for the newer model by the end of the year if you do.”

“Trade me in?” Maverick asks incredulously. “After I finally got you house trained?”

“Got me house trained?”

“Breakfast for dinner is nice, dear, but it’s the only thing you can be relied upon to not burn when I ask you to cook,” Maverick replies.

“You’re just mad because the laundry always smells nicer when I do it no matter what you try.”

“And who was the one who had to stick his arm up the backside of the dryer because someone nearly set a lint fire?”

“There wouldn’t have been a fire, if you’d cleaned it out the first time like I asked—”

“You know you can go more than a week without washing your bedsheets, it’s not the end of the world—”

“—put a sticky note on the fridge and everything, reminded you before I left for D.C.—”

“—and if we’d switched to the other towels that don’t give off all that fluff, the lint wouldn’t have built up nearly as bad anyway—”

“—I told you, it was one list of things to do, a very simple list of three chores around the house, and you didn’t listen the first time or the second time, so third time’s the charm, right—”

“—and then you kept insisting we use dryer sheets when wool balls work just as well, better even—”

They cut themselves off and smile. Ice sticks out his hand, wiggling his fingers until Maverick takes it.

“So. It’s been a while since I last saw you.”

Maverick laces their fingers together. “Yup.”

“Seven months.”

“Seven months, two weeks, and three days. But who’s counting?”

“Did you see the news?”

“I’ve heard a thing or two.”

Ice squeezes Maverick’s hand. It’s scarred and calloused from all the maintenance he does around the house, on his bikes, and on the Mustang they still haven’t made airworthy again. There’s a bump right where the stick sits between his thumb and his forefinger after hours sitting in the box, first in a Tomcat and then in a Hornet, and soon, maybe, in one of those fifth-gen stealth planes that go five times faster than Ice ever did.

His own scars from his days in the sky have long since been traded in for hardened ridges where his pen rests, reams of forms to fill out and files to read. There’s no flying for admirals, Viper had once warned him. Flying’s like riding a bike, but the memory of it starts to fade from your body faster than it does your mind.

Between the two of them, Maverick is much more the image of a pilot than Ice is, in his tailored suits and stars.

He runs his fingers over the back of Mav’s hand and presses their palms together.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Of what?”

“Now you’re just playing coy.”

“Well, Admiral Kazansky, if you’re asking little old me,” Maverick starts, “I think it’s about damn time.”

Ice grins. “See, I’d thought something of the same myself.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two wedding bands, made of newly minted gold.

“So, what do you think, Mitchell? Wanna get hitched?”

Maverick holds onto Ice’s hand tighter and drags him back towards the front door.

“Where are we going?”

“Where else do you think? We gotta go catch Slider before he gets too far from base and tell him to call up the boys, we’re getting married this weekend!”

send me a type of touch, a number, and a pairing!

#ask #top gun #icemav

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batfambrainrotbeloved · 5 months ago

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My take on Batfam, but Pirates- Dick's Origin

Hayleys were a group known among almost every coast, made of people still stuck in the "old ways" back when countries had no power over land of people who did not permenatly reside.

They were nomads, people who lived and breathed by the ocean and whose vessels called "barbaic" to some were some of the most skilled sailors to ever traverse the waters.

The "Flying" Graysons were the artists even among the most skilled, known for their expertise and ability to swing from ropes and rafters as if they were soaring through the sky.

But life as nomads in a modern time was far from easy. No longer were the lands free as the seas, and it seemed even the seas themselves were being claimed.

Zucco owned the docks by several major port cities, of course "own" meaning he had no papers- but if you did not pay his toll it was likely there would be grave consequences.

Tired of being extorted during one of their latest trading adventures they docked and did not pay. And they paid the price far more than gold.

The Graysons were targetted, caught on their own side vessel and shown no mercy. Even at the face of Dick, their little Kea, he was picked up by Zucco himself and thrown overboard for the seas to claim.

Despite his entire life off shore, the currents still proved too much for the boy and his strength was sapped away as he watched the dimming light of the monsters lanterns fade away as he drifted further and further from shore.

Dick gave a soft prayer to the sea, begging for her waters to calm and spare him. The waters did not calm, but Dick still believes she heard his prayer. Right as he was struggling his last breath, he saw a ship come into view, black sails, but his mind too foggy to recognize.

He slipped under the currents.

Only to come too Safe and warm inside the lower deck of Lady Gotham, having been saved by her elusive Blackcape, a notorius pirate, but one that did not pillage nor rape, but took justice out on open ocean.

Dick was nursed back to help by the captian and his older companion, but the rest of the ship was empty, not even a swabbie. It didnt take long for him to get the real story of the legand as just a boy like him, whose parents were claimed unwillingly by the sea via the hands of cruel men.

Bruce Wayne was his name, though few recognized it anymore now lost as sand drifted out. He explained Dicks rescue and insisted he would help get Dick back to Hayleys and back Home.

But of course, getting a kid back to a place that didnt exist only in people that never stayed still for long was easier said than done.

By the time they managed to track them down- they were overjoyed to hear Dick was alive, but the boy suprised just about everyone but his old family that he wished to stay on Lady Gotham.

Because to him, Home had never been a place, it was always people.

Bruce of course was not too keen at first, but it seemed his new sons stubborness was stronger than even his own, and soon enough Lady Gotham gained a First Mate.

Blackcape gained his Kea

Pt 1- Pt 2 (this)- Pt 3(WIP)

#dick grayson #pirate au #Lady Gotham #Blackcape #batfamily #batfam au #dc batfam #batfam but pirates #(offical tag)#dick and bruce #dick and alfred #the flying graysons #dc au

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fatehbaz · 6 months ago

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The rise of the European empires [...] required new forms of social organization, not least the exploitation of millions of people whose labor powered the growth of European expansion [...]. These workers suffered various forms of coercion ranging from outright slavery through to indentured or convict labor, as well as military conscription, land theft, and poverty. [...] [W]ide-ranging case studies [examining the period from 1600 to 1850] [...] show the variety of working conditions and environments found in the early modern period and the many ways workers found to subvert and escape from them. [...] A web of regulation and laws were constructed to control these workers [...]. This system of control was continually contested by the workers themselves [...]

---

Timothy Coates [...] focuses on three locations in the Portuguese empire and the workers who fled from them. The first was the sugar plantations of São Tomé in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The slaves who ran away to form free communities in the interior of the island were an important reason why sugar production eventually shifted to Brazil. Secondly, Coates describes working conditions in the trading posts around the Indian Ocean and the communities of runaways which formed in the Bay of Bengal. The final section focuses on convicts and sinners in Portugal itself, where many managed to escape from forced labor in salt mines.

Johan Heinsen examines convict labor in the Danish colony of Saint Thomas in the Virgin Islands. Denmark awarded the Danish West Indies and Guinea Company the right to transport prisoners to the colony in 1672. The chapter illustrates the social dynamics of the short-lived colony by recounting the story of two convicts who hatched the escape plan, recruited others to the group, including two soldiers, and planned to steal a boat and escape from the island. The plan was discovered and the two convicts sentenced to death. One was forced to execute the other in order to save his own life. The two soldiers involved were also punished but managed to talk their way out of the fate of the convicts. Detailed court records are used to show both the collective nature of the plot and the methods the authorities used to divide and defeat the detainees.

---

James F. Dator reveals how workers in seventeenth-century St. Kitts Island took advantage of conflict between France and Britain to advance their own interests and plan collective escapes. The two rival powers had divided the island between them, but workers, indigenous people, and slaves cooperated across the borders, developing their own knowledge of geography, boundaries, and imperial rivalries [...].

Nicole Ulrich writes about the distinct traditions of mass desertions that evolved in the Dutch East India Company colony in South Africa. Court records reveal that soldiers, sailors, slaves, convicts, and servants all took part in individual and collective desertion attempts. [...] Mattias von Rossum also writes about the Dutch East India Company [...]. He [...] provides an overview of labor practices of the company [...] and the methods the company used to control and punish workers [...].

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In the early nineteenth century, a total of 73,000 British convicts were sentenced to be transported to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania). There, the majority were rented out as laborers to private employers, and all were subjected to surveillance and detailed record keeping. These records allow Hamish Maxwell-Stewart and Michael Quinlan to provide a detailed statistical analysis of desertion rates in different parts of the colonial economy [...].

When Britain abolished the international slave trade, new forms of indentured labor were created in order to provide British capitalism with the labor it required. Anita Rupprecht investigates the very specific culture of resistance that developed on the island of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands between 1808 and 1828. More than 1,300 Africans were rescued from slavery and sent to Tortola, where officials had to decide how to deal with them. Many were put to work in various forms of indentured labor on the island, and this led to resistance and rebellion. Rupprecht uncovers details about these protests from the documents of a royal commission that investigated [...].

---

All text above by: Mark Dunick. "Review of Rediker, Marcus; Chakraborty, Titas; Rossum, Matthias van, eds. A Global History of Runaways: Workers, Mobility, and Capitalism 1600-1850". H-Socialisms, H-Net Reviews. April 2024. Published at: h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=58852 [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

#abolition #carceral #pedagogies #ecologies #imperial #colonial #critical geographies #fugitivity #tidalectics #archipelagic thinking #indigenous

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evenshadow · 1 year ago

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Vultures \\ a tropical gothic horror

Content Warnings: Death, Bugs, Blood

Excerpt below the cut.

Desperate to be anywhere but home, recently disgraced doctor Emily Fayne arrives at the wifi-free tropical wellness resort of Monte Descanso, a renovated Spanish fortress on its own private island. Amenities include sandy beaches, guided spelunking tours, special health juices, and swarms of vulture bees prowling the jungle in search of rotting flesh.

From the first night Emily can tell that something isn’t right. She’s seeing things that can’t be there, some of the other guests are acting strange, and their signature wellness drink, the elixir, that makes her feel too good to believe. Still, it’s easy to put it all down to jet lag and stress when staying means getting to go late-night skinny dipping with the resort’s hot yoga instructor, Jessa.

When Jessa goes missing a few days later, Emily must team up with eccentric treasure-hunting divorcee Phillipa to discover what happened. They begin to suspect that Jessa’s disappearance is connected to the disappearance of sailors on the island in the 1700’s, and that the cheerful resort owner, Harmony, knows more than she’s letting on.

Excerpt

Someone was knocking at the door and she should answer it.

She got up at the third knock, hoping it would be Philippa with some of her smuggled contraband. She'd have to ask her to get her source to bring in bread and chocolate next time- the booze just wasn't cutting it. Emily threw a fuzzy robe overtop of her old oversized t-shirt, and looked through the peephole.

Jessa was standing there, wearing the purple sportsbra and leggings she had been this morning at yoga and a wide, unflinching smile.

Emily's hand went to the deadbolt immediately to let her in, but something stopped her. Before they'd gone into the cave, maybe she could have written it off, but she was tired of telling herself that her eyes and her ears and her whole body was lying to her. Something was wrong.

She hesitated at the chain.

The knock came again.

"Hey, it's me! Jessa! Come on out, there's something I want to show you."

Her voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from far away. She pulled back from the door and looked through the peephole again, only to jerk backwards. Jessa’s eye was pressed right up against the peephole, making it look wide and distorted like a whale's.

Whatever Jessa wanted to show her, Emily didn't want to see it.

She took a couple of steps back from the door, trying to process while her mind was in a screaming panic, hide-under-the-covers mode.

Jessa knocked again. "Come on, I know you're in there. You can't be tired yet. You have to come see this!"

There was no way she could actually see inside the peephole, right? Jessa couldn't see her inching backwards, going towards the phone. For all Jessa knew, she was downstairs having a midnight snack or holed up in some corner with Phillipa trading tall tales.

Emily didn't know what she would say if she picked up the phone and got through to reception. ‘Help, my friend isn't my friend and she wants me to come outside?’ That seemed useless. Unless...

The Jessa at the door knocked louder. "Emily! Emily? Emily!"

Emily picked up the phone, and dialed 0 for reception.

Sylvie's cheery voice was on the other end of the line. "Good evening, Emily. What can I do for you?"

She knocked again. Once, twice. It grew into a constant sound, her knuckles on the door without pause.

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.

"You guys have land lines, in your rooms, right?" Emily whispered into the receiver. They must have phones somehow. This wasn't a prison or a reality show where people had to be expected to stand in line and wait to talk to their mothers. "Can you connect me to Jessa? It's important. I know you're probably not supposed to do that but..."

The tapping was still going. She- it- whatever - was still there, just outside.

"I mean, we’re not supposed to…”

“Please. You can take away my phone privileges if I abuse it. It’s urgent.”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Fine, but just for you. It’s against policy. Is there something wrong?"

Yes. Yes yes yes.

"No." Emily knew she should have elaborated, but she couldn’t think up a good enough excuse while her mind was seizing in panic.

"Okay. Hold for a moment."

Some calming flute music with ocean sound effects started playing and Emily had never hated the flute so much in her life.It felt like an age, but was only thirty seconds or so, before she heard another voice on the end of the line.

"Hello?"

It was Jessa's voice, as far as she could remember. Some part of her brain was fracturing trying to reconcile the idea that she was hearing Jessa's voice from two places at once.

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.

"Are you somehow outside my door right now?"

"No."

#writblr garden #pumpkin pitch

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the-pen-pot · 1 year ago

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SNEAK PEEK! (Coming.... somewhen?)

Summary: Prince Arthur Pendragon, Captain of the Llamrei, would far rather spend his days patrolling Camelot's waters than assume his place on the throne. Yet when he finds the wreckage of a vast ship and one lone survivor on board, nothing can prepare him for the path his life will lead.

Nor the demands his heart will make.

(A 4k word first chapter to a Merthur age-of-sail fantasy AU, because I'm weak for world-building)

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The waves boomed against the Llamrei's hull: a steady rhythm like the heartbeat of the ocean. The breeze hummed through the rigging, plucking tunes upon the sheets and swelling the sails. Under Arthur's palms, the wheel rested easy, their bearing steady and sure: homeward bound, back to Camelot.

They had been at sea for two long months, patrolling the boundaries of their waters, seeing off pirates and incursions alike. Their hold lay heavy with the loot of those ships who had surrendered their cargo in recompense for trespass. All-in-all, their voyage had been a success.

He knew his men craved solid land, good company and a drink with more flavour than the mead ration or water, but for him there was little joy in his home-coming. More and more, his father expected him to put his sea-faring days behind him and take on the burden of his role as Crown Prince. He thought a kingdom could be ruled from a throne and was content to let others ride the waves.

The thought of that, of land-lock and narrow horizons, made Arthur's breath catch in his throat. He understood his duty, the one he had been born to. He would not shirk it when the time came. He only wished he were free to rule how he wanted, rather than being forced to follow his father's edicts. It was not as if the man had any intention of letting go of his power in the near future. Uther Pendragon would live forever if he could.

'You could always hope for war, Captain.' Leon Delgrace narrowed his eyes against the sun, his hair bleached bright bronze and his face scattered with freckles. 'That would see us back to sea soon enough.'

Arthur huffed. 'And with whom should we fight? Lot, fat and useless to the east, but with more ships to his name than most? Bayard, to the North, who rules his waters with an iron-fist, or Caerleon to the West, who would block trade and starve us rather than raising a finger towards our annihilation?'

'Any one of them would shit themselves to face down Camelot's fleet,' Gwaine said from where he was adjusting one of the sheets, shifting the angle of the sail to better catch the breeze. 'Lot's got more ships, but half of them are in splinters. Bayard's men are in a constant state of revolt against his admirals and Caerleon… All right, Caerleon's a swine who's got every other kingdom by the balls since he's got control of the Strait of Caerdor, but he won't hold it for long. Not against the Wildwash.'

Arthur glanced down at his bosun where he stood on the quarterdeck. Gwaine wasn't wrong. The Albion Sea existed in a constant state of teetering balance. At the moment, there was a reluctant truce, each kingdom too busy dealing with their own strife to turn their mind to war. Still, all it would take was a tiny shift to send it all plunging into calamity.

Caerleon was an obvious target. The other kingdoms looked upon his control of the strait with greed because it meant he could restrict and tax the flow of trade along the Southern Way: a rare safe route of good water. It was a ripple-road that led to the MittelMer, the sea that was encircled by the remnants of the old-lands, where the Romans had once dwelt.

They conveniently forgot, however, that he also bordered on the Wildwash, the vast stretch of open ocean to the west that brimmed with legendary creatures, roaming sorcerers, mad gods and vengeful spirits. The sailors who ventured out into those waters rarely returned, and if they did, they came back changed.

Worse, the denizens of that vast, fathomless ocean – lawless and unruled – were constantly encroaching on the Albion Sea, finding their way past the towering reefs and ocean mountains that had once protected them. They sought the relatively tranquil, warmer waters and the wealth they had brought the Five Kingdoms, and they sowed death and destruction in their wake.

'I do not envy him being so close to the frontier.'

'I fear that, one day, we will hear the news that he is overcome,' Leon admitted, raising his voice to call out an order before resuming a more normal volume. As Quartermaster, he was of almost equivalent rank to Arthur's Captain: his right-hand man and, in the event of a calamity that took Arthur's life, his successor – at least where the Llamrei was concerned. If Arthur died at sea, Camelot would fall to Morgana. Sometimes he was tempted to abdicate and let her have it. He suspected she would do a better job than he.

Except that Uther would never permit it.

'No, we pray Caerleon holds fast against the Wildwash. Let some other political strife call us back to the waves. The goddess knows my father is good at stirring up conflict when it suits. Or even when it does not. We will enjoy our time back in Camelot. I will play the obedient prince, and in a week or two, he will grow bored and we'll be back at sea.'

'Better be,' Gwaine muttered. 'Don't think there's enough beer in all Camelot's taverns to keep me happy on land.'

'Captain!' Elyan's cry was as clear as a sea-bird, carrying with ease. He had a spyglass pressed to his eye. A sextant hung from his belt and one foot was braced on the top of the crow's nest, as if he were about to take flight. Arthur hated it when he did that. A fall from that height, onto deck or into the water's embrace, would be the death of him. If the grief of that did not gut Arthur hollow, then Guinevere's pain at losing her brother surely would.

'What do you see?'

He squinted, noting the way Elyan swayed, a shift of his weight back and forth. He was too high to make out his expression, but that small tell had lost Elyan many a card game. It meant he was uncertain and questioning himself.

'Wreckage, Captain, off our port bow. Sharp turn!'

Arthur picked up the order, calling it out and watching the crew come alive as they set about their duties, tending the yard-arms and spanker as they tacked the Llamrei, altering her course in a stately sweep. The sails slackened as they turned through the eye of the wind before filling anew, the thick cloth swelling as they caught the edge of the breeze.

Almost immediately, Leon gave the order to reef so that they could slow as they approached whatever it was Elyan had seen. They could circle if they had to, scouting the area in large sweeps. Arthur would rather not bring the ship to a full stop until he was sure what they were dealing with.

'Bugger me,' Gwaine breathed as he squinted at the water. His unease was a living thing among the rest of the crew as they took in the flotsam: broken spars and tattered sails like bridal veils upon the waves. It covered a large area, yet it had not dispersed with the currents, and Arthur surrendered the wheel, moving to stand with Gwaine and Leon as they stared.

The Llamrei was a Destrier class, a medium sized warship with good manoeuvrability perfect for patrols and privateering. Whatever had once sailed the waves before them was far bigger, and the possibilities spilled from the lips of the men around him.

'Too much wreckage for even a first-class Charger,' Leon pointed out, speaking of the behemoth four-deck war ships that were the jewels in any kingdom's fleet. They carried more than a hundred cannon each: floating fortresses.

'Not much left that's bigger than that,' Gwaine muttered, folding his arms across his chest and making room for Lancelot. The ship's surgeon's hands were white-knuckled around the rail. Where they saw the carcass of a mighty vessel, Arthur knew that Lancelot would be thinking of the souls lost on board.

Arthur ducked his head in agreement, looking over his shoulder as Elyan's bare feet hit the deck. His quick stride brought him to the rail, and he took up the space to Arthur's left. The only one not with them was Percival, and that was because he would not leave the cannons until he knew he would not be called upon to put them to use. No doubt he was watching out of the hatches as the debris drifted by and the Llamrei continued her steady circling.

'A merchant Draft, maybe?' Elyan sounded doubtful even as he said it. He was fully aware that he was wrong. They knew what this was, but none of them wanted to say it out loud.

This was all that remained of A Stables – a colony ship. They were huge, used for moving large numbers of people: evacuations, refugees – that sort of thing. There weren't many left, any more. One fewer, now. The last resort of the desperate. This was all that was left of the sort of event that went down in the history books.

A Desolation: a wreck that was akin to an extinction. One that wiped out hundreds, if not thousands of lives at once.

Arthur swallowed down the low nausea of heartbreak as he stepped back, calling out commands to bring the Llamrei to a complete stop. Those who were not tending the sails and rudder instead watched the water, searching both the surface and its depths for any dangers.

'Colours!' Someone cried. There was a flurry as they reached for poles to pull the pennant from the sea's clutches. It hung, sodden and torn, squelching as it hit the deck. Immediately, the men got to work unfolding it. They clustered around, Arthur with them, the chill biting at his fingertips as he straightened out the flag.

'It was Lot's,' Leon murmured, indicating the black serpent on the white shield that represented the kingdom of Essetir. 'A long way from home.'

'In Camelot's waters.' Arthur grimaced, a trickle of horror rushing down his spine. This was a political powder-keg, and suddenly their jokes of war seemed like a poor showing. 'If we're not careful, we'll stand accused if its destruction.'

'The Llamrei couldn't take down a Stables alone, even Lot would know that,' Lancelot murmured, shaking his head. He looked as if he had aged five years in moments. 'They're too big. Base crew to manage a ship that size is more than a thousand souls.' He pressed a curled fist over his heart, this thumb pointing up towards his collarbone in a traditional symbol of mourning: a mute plea to whatever gods might lurk beneath the waves to carry them safely into the afterlife.

'Where are the bodies?' Gwaine asked, shifting back to the rail and peering around. 'That many crew, plus whatever refugees and passengers they carried… there should be some afloat. Even if the hull dragged them down as it sank, there should be some trace of 'em.'

Arthur caught the glance Gwaine shot in his direction, one grim and shadowed with fear. It was enough to make him turn his eye back to the water, reading the evidence that wrote itself in the wreckage.

Some bits of wood showed evidence of cannon-fire: round shot, the kind used by raiders. They'd disable the ship, take its cargo grab those they could to sell as slaves and kill any who put up too hard a fight. Raiders were like wolves; they gave chase in packs, and a Stables ship was a gold mine for them – a slow, easy target.

But that didn't answer the question of why it was out at sea in the first place. Many of the colony ships were in dry dock and had been for decades. There had been no conflict or boundary change that would mean people needed to move en-masse. It didn't make any sense. Not unless these people, whoever they were, were chased out of port by some threat – but what?

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. That was the problem with being at sea. As much as he relished the freedom, it left him disconnected from news of the kingdoms. Answers probably awaited him in Camelot, though whether he would wish to hear them was another matter. A Desolation was the kind of thing that would have the Five Kingdoms at each others' throat, eager to place and dodge the blame in equal measure.

'Spread those out to dry,' he ordered, indicating the colours on deck. 'We'll take them back with us as proof. Man the row boats, set up a search.'

'What are we looking for?' Elyan asked, raising his voice to be heard over the cries of the crew carrying out Arthur's orders, reaching for ropes and pulleys as they prepared to winch the twelve-man row boats down towards the surface.

'Survivors.' Lancelot did not sound hopeful, but he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin as he crossed his arms over his chest. 'Bodies, if not. We need to know where these people came from. Their families…'

'People deserve to know what happened.' Arthur rested a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. 'Anything that can tell us what fate had in store for this ship will be of benefit. A figurehead, if we can find it.'

All ships had unique carvings upon their prow, something to mark out their identity so that even the illiterate would know what vessels lay at harbour or had gone to sea. Some were panels with carved symbols, others were creatures, flowers or objects, each with its own significance. The ships of royal houses, like the Llamrei, stood out amidst any fleet thanks to the gold paint that coated their prow and flared back along the hull in sweeps and whorls: a blessing for strong winds and good tides.

The ship that had sunk here had a name, once, Arthur did not wish for it to be forgot – lost to the obscurity of the ocean depths.

'Leon, the helm is yours. Gwaine, you take the other boat. Keep your eyes peeled.'

'Aye aye, Cap'n.'

The boat eased into the waves, the oar tips pressed briefly to the Llamrei's hull to ease them away from her embrace before they set forth. This close to the water's surface, the ocean was a living, breathing thing beneath them. Brine flavoured Arthur's top lip and roughened his hair as the wind caught in the linen of his shirt and plucked at the laces of his collar like an eager lover. On a better day, he would have relished it, but he was too absorbed in the carnage before him.

It was every sailor's nightmare: a risk they all took but prayed to forever avoid. Wrecks were a messy affair, made worse by the voracious hunger of the sea. Within a day, all sign of what had happened here would be scattered, carried off by the currents or pulled beneath the waves. Death, he fancied, rode the breeze here, and he reached into his belt pouch for a gold coin before tossing it overboard: payment for the ferryman.

Behind him, he heard his men do the same, keeping one hand on their oars as they gave up whatever trinkets they may have: copper, silver or stone, it mattered not. None of them would leave a debt standing.

'Captain!' Pellinor's pointing finger thrust out to the east, and Arthur narrowed his eyes against the sun, taking in the section of hull that bobbed like a cork off the starboard bow. It was a fragment not much smaller than the craft in which they currently sat, but that wasn't what mattered. He knew what had caught Pellinor's eye. This debris did not bear the scars of shot that splintered the other pieces of wood he had seen from the Llamrei's deck. Instead, gouges raked the planks, parallel lines that sheared through the wood, exposing the timber beneath.

Arthur swore. Bandits and cannon-fire were one thing, but this?

'Leviathan. Keep a sharp eye.'

'In these waters?' Pellinor's voice was faint, and Arthur could not blame him. Leviathans were meant to make their homes in the Wildwash. They were huge creatures of the deep, bigger than any ship that rode the waves. According to the old salts, those few who had made it back from beyond the western horizon, they came in many shapes, but they were all monstrous in size and temper. They lived only for their hunger and sated it with neither thought nor conscience. There was a bounty, never claimed, for any sailor who could bring back the eye of one such beast.

No one had ever managed it.

'Watch the depths. Hold your tongue.' He could not risk a panic, not among the rowers nor aboard the Llamrei. Yet if there was a Leviathan that had made its home in the Albion Sea, then all Five Kingdoms needed to know of it. It would care not for the boundaries of their realms. If vengeance took its fancy, it would drag down any vessel that crossed its path.

Arthur scanned the water before him, looking for anything moving down in the murk as they rowed, slow and cautious, past the floating piece of hull. A thick silence lay over the men at his back, tar-black and gilded at its edged with the flash of fear, but they were stout souls all, and they did not forget their purpose. Not that their search yielded much to speak of, at least not until the rise and fall of the ocean pushed them closer to the centre of the wreckage, and Owain gave a bellow from the port side.

'Survivor!'

Arthur whipped his head around, scanning the flotsam until he saw it: a flat piece wallowing in the water, threatening to go under with every wave that washed over it. The figure sprawled upon it did not stir, and Arthur wondered if Owain was too optimistic. From here, the man looked dead, pale and limp, yet he had clearly had the strength and savvy to climb atop the makeshift raft. He lay on his back, insensible to the cold water that still threatened, even now, to grasp him in its clutches.

'Haul him in!' Arthur ordered. 'Be quick about it!'

Some of his men reached for hooks and poles while the others tilted the oars, guiding their boat as close as they dared. Arthur lifted a foot onto the boat's side, braced and ready to jump in if it were necessary. Dead or alive, he could not lose this soul to the seas. At least one deserved to be buried with proper rites, if that was all he was good for, and if he yet lived?

Perhaps they'd get their answers after all.

He reached out and down, tangling his fingers in the sodden fabric of the man's tunic the moment he could reach. The others joined him, half the crew shifting to counter-balance the craft as they wrestled with the suck and swell of the tide. Arthur tried to ignore the coldness of the body beneath his touch as they manhandled him into the boat, laying him on the deck as they panted from the effort.

'Back to the Llamrei. Double-time!'

Arthur's fingers pressed to the hollow of the man's jaw as the oars dipped and splashed, his crew grunting as they threw their all into skimming back towards the safety of their Destrier. It took a moment, but at last a flutter of life stirred against his skin, thready and weak, but there all the same. It seemed Owain was right. They did have a survivor after all.

'Hey.' Arthur tapped the man's cheek, noticing his youth: younger than Arthur, if he had to guess, though perhaps only by a year or two. He had the rangy, lanky look of someone who'd lived a life on the uncomfortable cusp of not enough to eat, and the wet fabric of his clothes was simple and home-spun. 'Hey, come on. Open your eyes.'

Those dark lashes didn't so much as flutter, and Arthur whispered a curse as he patted down long limbs, checking for breaks and blood. The sea could batter a person to a pulp in a heartbeat, but there was no trace of harm. Not until he pressed his fingertips to the wet, black hair and drew them away to find a crimson stain. There was an impressive knot there, up high behind his ear. Something must have struck him, though he was otherwise in one piece.

Arthur only hoped it hadn't addled his wits.

The ropes were secured to the prow and stern, the pulleys squeaking their protests as the row boat was winched back up to the main deck. Lancelot was there immediately, thrusting the spyglass back into Elyan's grasp before he reached out, helping Arthur and Pellinor get their human salvage to safety.

He wasted not a moment, checking for a pulse as Arthur had done as others hurried to find a stretcher. Honestly, Arthur thought he was light enough to carry without breaking a sweat, but on a shifting ship it was all too easy to overbalance, and he had no wish to drop the newcomer on his already brutalised head.

'Well?' he demanded.

'Doesn't look too bad,' Lancelot decided. 'Skull seems sound, though he'll probably wake with a nasty headache. He's chilled through though. We'll get him out of these wet clothes and under some blankets, see if he doesn't come back to us before day's end.'

'See it done. Come and get me the moment he wakes.'

'Aye, Captain.'

Arthur stood back, watching Lancelot and Elyan lift the man's lax body onto the stretcher before bearing him away, a strange, still figure amidst the bustle of the Llamrei's crew.

'Your orders, Captain?'

He turned, blinking his way free of his thoughts to stare at Leon. Over on the starboard side, Gwaine's row boat had just settled into its cradle. Their time here was done. The remnants of the ship that had once sliced through the waves had given up all its secrets, and in Arthur's mind, none were so intriguing as the survivor.

Questions itched at him, but they would have to remain unanswered for a while yet. Until he awoke to tell his story, the newcomer would hold his silence, and Arthur would have to bear it as best he could.

'Resume our course for Camelot,' he said at last, tapping his hand on the ship's rail. The ring he wore chimed against the hardwood, and to Arthur's ears at least, it sounded like a death-knell: a final farewell to all who had found their watery grave here. All souls, it seemed, but one.

'Let's go home.'

#Merlin #Merthur #myficssneakpeek #SighNoMore #My Fanfic

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occasionallyprosie · 9 months ago

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"Choosing Your Path"

Chapter 2: "Lives Traded"

The thing about being a hero, especially a Hero of Courage chosen by the goddess Farore and bearing the Hero's Spirit, is that no matter the cost, they will always pay the price to save another.

Febuwhump 2024 | Prompt 16: Came Back Wrong

Event Masterlist

<<Previous

Read On AO3 Warnings: Graphic Violence

"J-Just make sure my body's burned, kid."

"You're barely a year older than me you jerk! Don't do this!"

Hyrule heard Legend's voice fade out, and he wasn't wrong. Hyrule was barely older than him, but he still was older and he was considered an adult in every era unlike his predecessor, so he thought that was a win for him.

When he released his last breath, he didn't expect to inhale again and not feel the pain continue.

He shot up and the rocky terrain of his home era was gone, replaced by lush greens, tall trees, and bright colors in flowers and fruits.

Was he dead? Was this the afterlife?

If it was, then the others only just died too. Or time worked a bit differently, because the seven other heroes were also shooting up, gasping and grabbing at wherever their fatal blow had been.

"What the--Is this heaven?" Wind wondered.

"I was expecting hell," Four deadpanned, his tone not showing the clear disarray his mind and emotions were in.

"I... don't know," Sky breathed. "It doesn't feel like... it's not like the Sacred Realm, it doesn't feel like a different plane at all."

Someone else murmured their agreement. Hyrule stood.

"There you guys are."

Legend pushed a branch aside as he entered the clearing and immediately Hyrule could tell something was wrong. There was something off about his magic, about his eyes, about him.

"Vet?" Hyrule questioned. Did his spell fail? Did Legend still die? Was there a follow-up ambush?

"And you're all together, good..." he trailed off, frowning. His eyes flicked between them, clearly confused. "You guys alright? What'd I miss?"

Hyrule glanced back and, rightfully, they all did seem a little disturbed, most likely at their own deaths.

"What do you mean?" Hyrule asked. "I... Didn't we die?"

Legend stared at him, weirded but still, even the way he looked at him felt wrong. It felt like bugs crawling under his skin, it caused his ears to pop, his teeth to ache, it was like he was getting goosebumps eternally. It felt wrong.

"You... died--What?" Legend made a genuinely confused face. "Okay, clearly something happened since the last switch, so someone walk me through it. We left Champion's era, got split in the portal, I found a village and got potions. So... what'd I miss, since clearly none of you are dead despite what traveler's saying."

"Clearly," Wind said, rubbing his chest where Hyrule vividly remembered seeing a huge gash that nearly went clean through the Sailor.

Legend... didn't remember that? He'd gone so pale when Hyrule had noticed him see the scenes of their brother's deaths.

And the champion's--They'd gone to Hyrule's era right after the Champion's. Was this a... reset or something? Divine interference? Did Hyrule accidentally wish on the Triforce instead of channeling its power to save his predecessor?

Why didn't Legend remember then? And why was he so... Wrong?

"It... It's doesn't matter," Hyrule managed to say, grabbing Legend's arm and pulling him away from the others by a step. He'd protect his younger brother from those memories if that's what this was. "Just... where's the town?"

Legend gave him an odd look, and Hyrule noticed how wrong his eyes looked, they were still red, still that soft, warm scarlet, but something was just... wrong.

He couldn't think of another word, wrong was the only one that worked in the situation.

"Fine, keep your secrets," Legend finally said, pulling his arm free. "Town's this way."

Hyrule looked at the others once Legend's back was turned, his eyes wide and he rapidly cut along his throat.

They all nodded at the same time and quickly followed, some looking more pale than the others.

Wild and Twilight tucked close to each other, Warriors tugged Wind and Time close and Sky was hovering right beside Four.

Hyrule kept up with Legend, trying not to be sick himself as he recalled the gruesome images of their deaths.

He didn't know what was wrong, but something was and he didn't know what.

They got rooms at the inn and with Hyrule and Wild sharing a room with Legend, both were able to sneak out in the night to meet with the others in Time, Twilight, and Four's room.

"Okay, what happened cause last I remember I was..." Wind trailed out. "Dead."

"Yeah," Warriors agreed. "That... That was a definite death."

Time shook his head, pale and clearly upset.

"I... I don't know," Sky admitted.

"We won," Hyrule spoke up. "I... I lost track, but at some point, it was just the Vet and me left, then it was just... just fighting. I took hits but--We managed to finish them off in the end. As soon as it was over, I remember struggling to stay balanced... and I remember the Veteran calling out to me."

"You won?" Warriors breathed.

"Between the explosion and the lightning blast, there was only a third left and we managed to pull it off. Don't ask me how, I can't even remember." Hyrule stared down as he clenched his fist. "I used the last of my magic and energy to heal him, the Vet. Someone had to survive to finish this whole thing, and if I hadn't we both were going to die. Between the two of us, he was the better option."

Nobody said a word.

"I... I died. I know I did. He was... Honestly?" He looked up from his hands, clutching them to his chest as he met their eyes. "The battlefield once the monsters were gone was gruesome. Your bodies were gruesome, and I... I can't imagine how awful it must've been for him when he realized he was the last one. I know I forced that onto him, but frankly, if it had to reset or whatever, I'm glad he doesn't remember."

There was a long moment of silence.

"But that begs the question," Time spoke up, "how are we alive?"

Nobody answered. Hyrule though about it, he didn't make any conscious wish, not even anything that could've been mistaken for one, and it had to of happened when or after he died so...

"The only one who would know is the Veteran," Wild said. "He's the only one who saw the aftermath."

Hyrule felt a pit grow in his stomach. Suddenly that feeling of wrongwrongwrong he had around Legend wasn't something he could ignore.

Legend did something, Hyrule was sure of it. And whatever he did? It was... Whatever he did wasn't right.

He didn't know how he was going to figure it out though, if Legend didn't even remember the fact that they'd died then how could he remember how he brought them back alive?

He wouldn't figure it out, not for a while.

Hyrule took to keeping a close eye on their resident Veteran, he made notes of the things that were just off.

First off, Legend was spacey. He would stare at any single one of the heroes and just... check out, something pained glazing behind his eyes, and then he'd come back as if nothing had happened. It was... more worrying than anything.

Second, he ate less. More often than not, he would poke at his dinners, eat maybe half of it, before pawning the last of it into Wind's bowl. Wind always scarfed it down, the kid still growing and it showed, but Hyrule was noticing that Legend ate less and less of his dinners until this past day he didn't eat anything but maybe a third of his dinner.

Third, he hardly slept. It was hard to tell, but Hyrule had learned to notice a while ago. Legend was his younger brother after all, he eventually figured out how to tell that he wasn't sleeping and now that he did... every watch he had, Legend was awake, even if he had his own watch before or after. Even so, he didn't seem to get more tired during the days.

Then there was just his magic. His magic felt different, weird, it wasn't wrong, it didn't have that feeling of wrongness to it, but it... it wasn't right. It was stronger, to start with, Hyrule could feel it strengthening, but it also was... softening. It was becoming more... more Legend in a way magic straight up shouldn't. There was a clear difference between one's magic and their soul, but slowly, Hyrule was watching that line blur for his predecessor.

It was wrong. Something was wrong and he didn't know what.

In the end, it was another battle gone south that revealed it.

This time, they were in Time's era, but in a forest and monsters closing in on all directions.

It went south fast, Time barely blocked a spear from impaling him, Four was barely missed by an arrow that was probably supposed to hit his head, Sky was stabbed in the stomach and he shoved his attacker off and kept fighting.

A magic shield formed around Sky.

"Heal!" Legend ordered him. Hyrule wasn't sure when he learned to make shields like that, but it drew his attention to him and... well, it distracted him.

Maybe it was irony, that he survived so long last time the odds were stacked against them, and this time...

Hyrule stared at the blade sunk into his chest, the daira that chittered above him.

Oh.

Then the ground split open, it tore apart and swallowed the monsters whole. Hyrule fell but someone caught him, Legend, who threw a hand out at the remainders of the horde.

His eyes flashed pure white.

"Die," the hero snarled as the monsters exploded into smoke.

Hyrule wheezed, that was not normal. That was not--

He gasped, Legend's gaze snapping it him and his gash healing with a glance.

"Holy shit," he heard Wind whisper.

"Don't you dare die on me again," Legend snarled at him, Hyrule gasping heavily. "None of you."

His glare landed on the others.

"Wait--You remember that?!" Warriors exclaimed.

Legend didn't respond. Hyrule reached for his hand and he looked down as he squeezed it, sitting up better.

"Link?"

Legend met his eyes, for now they were amethyst and cold... but Hyrule wanted to know why they turned pure white moments ago.

"What happened to you?" He asked softly. "How are we alive?"

Legend didn't respond for a long moment, just staring into his eyes like he could see through them. A part of Hyrule whispered, the logical part of Hyrule said that Legend couldn't do that, but in that moment, he couldn't believe that. There was too much in his eyes, something different, but he couldn't quite call it wrong anymore. It was Legend, just... more, different, changed.

"Lives can be traded," is what the veteran finally said. "They can be bought back."

Time was the first to ask. "What was the cost?"

Legend stayed silent.

"Vet. What did it cost?" Time demanded, his voice growing sharp and panicked.

Hyrule couldn't help but agree with that panic. He had never known anything powerful enough to revive people to be kind, not ones that outright gave prices, not ones that made deals.

"Nothing I wasn't more than willing to pay," Legend said as he stood up, eyes flashing that new, dangerous flare. He looked over his shoulder at Time. "Nothing I wouldn't pay a thousand times over."

Time grabbed his shoulder. "What did you give them? Who did you give it to?"

Legend sort of just stared at him, Hyrule noted it was with that blank stare he's had more often lately. The silence was long, and it unnerved them all. The way he stared was... pensive, thoughtful, he was studying Time on a deeper level and Hyrule didn't like it. He had just been on the receiving end of that stare and it... It didn't feel violating, like he felt it should have, he trusted Legend, but it had been a deep feeling of being seen and not quite in a good way.

"Humanity," he finally said. "I gave them my humanity."

Hyrule felt his blood run cold. "No--Scholar, hey," Legend looked over at him, "who--Who did you give it to?"

"The goddesses," he answered easily.

As if... As if the goddesses got involved, as if the goddesses stepped in like that; as if the goddesses would care to make such a trade. Eight souls for one? Heroes too? That couldn't have been the goddesses, Hyrule was certain of that, but that meant something took a likeness that Legend associated with one of the goddesses or all of them, and when he was in a moment of weakness and desperation...

Something had taken advantage of his little brother, something had taken advantage of and taken the humanity of his little brother. Absolutely not.

He could not just let that stand.

"I can fix it for you. For a price."

Legend startled, whipping around with his sword drawn on the... young woman who stood behind him. Green hair, elegant clothing, but a bit of wildness to her. She was hard to perceive, magic wise, her soul did not end where her magic began, it was one in the same.

"Farore," he realized, and he was certain of it. She had the aura as her Oracle, the same power and air, but infinitely more powerful.

She smiled, striding to him and he lowered his blade. She brushed a hand--warm, unexpectedly, it wasn't quite feverish warm, more like she spent the whole day in the sunlight--against his cheek.

"You've grown so much," she murmured softly, her eyes meeting his in a searching stare that went straight to his soul. "You have so much more to grow into... But I'm here to give you the choice of loss."

He stared at her. How was he supposed to respond to that? Was he meant to shove her away or what? What was the choice she was giving him?

"I can bring them back," she nodded to the heroes, their bodies, the blood. "I can take you all to a new era and you can continue as you normally would... In exchange for something you give me."

Legend inhaled sharply. He glanced to the side, at Hyrule's bloodied form, at Wind's nearly bisecting body...

"What do you want?" He asked, voice shaking as he looked at her. He wasn't sure but how was his life worth enough to exchange for eight others? He didn't know what else she'd ask for--

"Your humanity."

"Deal," he said before he put any thought to it. Why she'd ask for that? He wouldn't say no, of course. He'd give anything to bring them back. But why? What did she mean by that?

"All questions would be answered in due time," Farore told him softly, he wondered if she could read minds. "But just so you know, you will never be the same and those attuned to you will notice. You will lose your humanity slowly, you will feel it slipping away from you gradually, then at some point, your decisions will begin to fall into categories and it will be decided."

"What will?" He asked.

"What you will become. A deity, a demon, a protector, a warrior, a guide... it all depends."

A deity--or a demon? She...

"I am glad you accepted though," Farore said and he froze as she placed her hand on his forehead. "Breathe, my dear. Exhale the life I gave you and let's see you forge one of your own."

Legend raised an eyebrow at Time, whose hand still gripped his wrist tightly.

"Why didn't you say anything?" The man asked. "Making deals like that-- How do you even know it was the goddesses?"

"You'd be surprised how well acquainted I am with the golden three's magic, first of all. Secondly, because I didn't want to. Things were fixed, it was easier to feign ignorance than to come up with an explanation that wouldn't be blown out of proportion with such high emotions, and I can deal with the consequences of my actions myself."

"Consequences--" Hyrule grabbed his shoulder and all but forced him to look at him, jostling Time's hand off him. "You traded away your humanity! Do you even realize--Vet, you’re not human anymore."

Legend brushed his hands away. "Actually, I am, for now. It's a gradual loss. I'm less human than I was before, and I will continue to be less until it's all gone."

"That's not okay!"

"How."

"It's--You can't just trade lives like that!"

"And you didn't?!" Legend snarled and he felt his magic--now more volatile and harder to control than he was used to--lash out. "I choose my path, Traveler."

Hyrule reeled back as if struck.

"T-That's not the same thing!"

"Isn't it?! You traded your life for mine, and that's fine, but when I do it for all of you it's not alright?!"

Nobody spoke, they were all shaken by the revealed information, but to be honest? Legend couldn't care.

He cared about the fact that they were alive. He cared that he was slowly ceasing to see their dead, bloodied, chopped forms in their place. He cared that Warriors wasn't soaked in blood with arrows protruding from his body whenever he turned around. He cared that Wind's smile wasn't tainted by the huge gash in his chest.

He cared that they were alive, consequences to his own life be damned. He may become a demon, or a deity of some sort, he honestly couldn't care about that right now. What he cared about was making sure his brothers were alive and keeping it that way.

End Note:

What does Legend eventually become? Who knows! The Fierce Deity, unrestrained by time and eventually trapped inside a mask? Maybe! the Lord of Satori Mountain, slowly losing his humanity to protect the vulnerable (blupees)? Possibly! The next Demise, bitter and angry at all he's endured and lost? Also possible! Maybe he's just an old man in a cave, maybe he takes the form of a fairy to guide a too-young war captain, maybe he's a sheikah painter accompanied by a just as ancient wolf spirit, or maybe he's a dragon flying over the southern tropics of Hyrule with his humanity long lost and forgotten. It's his choice. It's his path to choose and follow, and he doesn't have a map to follow either.

#febuwhump 2024 #linked universe #lu legend #linkeduniverse #legend lu #fanfic #lu warriors #lu hyrule #lu wild #lu wind #lu sky #lu time #lu twilight #lu four #lu fanfiction #linked universe fanfic #linkeduniverse fanfiction #prosie writes

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silverwings22 · 6 months ago

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Song of the Sea: Chapter 48: When You Come Back to Me Again

Series Warning: explicit smut, alien anatomy (it's a monsterfucker fic, guys), major character injury, grief, canon typical violence, autistic meltdowns, and my terrible attempts at Mando'a Chapter Warnings: mind control, extreme injury, disability, the final chapter

Previous chapter:

She sat on the platform on Kamino, looking out over the gently rolling sea. Her hip didn’t hurt, and her leg wasn’t stiff and immobile. She must have been dead, if she felt so free.

Melody and Harmony sat on either side of her. “Did Tech make it home?” She asked softly.

“Is he all you ever think about?” Harmony asked, rolling his eyes. She might have had her feelings hurt, if she wasn’t so used to Crosshair. Now it made her smile, understanding how the weight of grief and responsibility sat on people.

“Are you jealous?” She answered automatically, like she would have with the sniper. Her cheeks flushed when she realized she was addressing a god, but he made no move to punish her. Instead he rolled his eyes.

Melody snickered at her brother’s expense. The gods were still siblings, of course. They reminded her of the Batch, in the fondest . “He is with his brothers now. He’s watching over you.” The goddess patted her back.

“So I’m dead now?” The siren looked out over the water. “Where do I go? The Shallows or the Deep?”

Harmony looked at her. “Why do you keep wanting to die? First you ask us to trade him for you, now you want to know what realm to go to.”

“I don’t want to die… not anymore. But if I died to save Tech, then that’s okay. It was worth it.” Her eyes softened over the waves lapping at the support struts here. “The family can take care of him now, if I can’t.”

“You love him very much.” Melody noted.

“I do.” Shiani nodded.

“Lucky for you, then.” Harmony looked up at the starry night sky above them, and the constellations looked different than Shiani remembered. More like the ones that hung over Pabu, that she and Tech used to lay under and watch. “You’re not dead, Princess.”

“I’m not?” Shiani frowned. “Then… why are you two here? I thought you’d come to take me.”

“We came to see you. It’s not often we meet a mortal soul who tries to bargain… you’re interesting.” Harmony shrugged. “Right now, you’re asleep in a sickroom on Pabu. A siren healer and a medical droid are fighting to save your life.”

“One of your hearts was damaged when you were shot.” Melody nodded. “But we didn’t come to take you. We came to see you.”

“Who am I to get visited by the gods?” She frowned. “I’m not special…”

“Oh?” Melody chuckled. “Star sailor, first of her kind. Princess who faced the Imperial Senate, and the Way-Maker who saved her people from the poisoned waters. Chainbreaker, who led her people off of Tantiss. The Bride who saved her mate from a mind thief.”

“I’m just a mechanic.” Shiani shook her head shyly.

“Well, just a mechanic, you’re not dying today.” Harmony snorted. “When it’s your time, you’ll know.”

“Can I see him?” Shiani asked, looking between the two gods. She wondered if this was how Omega felt now, in the company of the siblings who both cared and protected her. If she wasn’t dying, she could see Omega again. She could see Crosshair, and Hunter, and Wrecker again too. She could kiss Tech, help him find who he was after Tantiss when everything was fuzzy and muddled under the CX conditioning…

The two gods held their hands out and the water below them shimmered. Shiani leaned out to look at it, eyes wide.

Her own body, limp and broken looking, was under the care of AZI and one of the siren healers. She was bandaged now, skin so pale she looked gray, as they took care of cleaning her up. When AZI floated to the door and opened it, he was roughly shoved out of the way as Tech barreled in and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He scooped her limp hand into both of his, wordlessly staring at her, as the rest of the family looked in from the doorway. They all looked anxious, Omega and Wrecker’s eyes red from crying. Crosshair was crushing a toothpick to pulp with his teeth, and Hunter’s foot was tapping on the floor.

Tech swallowed hard, thumbs rubbing against the back of her hand. There were tears watering up in his eyes, dripping down his scarred cheek.

On the platform, Shiani bit her lip. “He looks so scared…”

“He is. He has always been afraid to lose you.” Melody smiled.

Harmony put a hand on her back. “Not that you’re possible to lose, stubborn thing.” He pushed her off the platform, sending the siren tumbling into the middle of the image they had conjured. “We’ll see you when it’s actually your time, Princess!”

AZI said she was in a coma and she might not awaken. The siren healer said she was with their gods, body empty, and only time would tell if she came back to it. Omega said sirens healed while they slept.

None of these were comforting to Tech, who hadn’t left Shiani’s bedside for the last two weeks, trips to the fresher excluded. He had a pounding headache from not having corrective lenses, which Omega had promised to try to solve for him. He was grateful to his younger… no, not younger but little, sister. His memories was still disjointed and fuzzy, but she was trying to help him. He’d managed to recall everyone’s names after about a week, and they would occasionally come in to check on him. Wrecker talked about any and everything, though Tech couldn’t bring himself to engage beyond a few nods. Hunter was more direct, telling him what he’d missed and trying to jog his memory. Crosshair didn’t say much, just sat with him. He found the sniper’s silence comforting.

He looked up as someone tapped on the door. They were in Shep’s house while Hunter made arrangements for them to find a home of their own. Tech had been sickened to realize he’d blown up his own ship, though Omega had tried to comfort him. It hadn’t been his fault, any more than his actions under the inhibitor chip had been Crosshair’s.

Omega poked her head in with a smile. “I brought you some lunch. And AZI found a previous medical scan and was able to recreate the lenses in your glasses.” She held up a bowl of fruit and a pair of goggles. “It took me forever to pop that dent out.”

Tech set the bowl aside and took the goggles when she handed him both, examining them. “These are familiar…” he said quietly.

Omega nodded. “Shiani kept them on the console… I’d hear her talk to them sometimes, like you were there.”

He nodded, slowly pulling them on. They fit comfortably, and covered most of the scarring around his face. The galaxy returned to a yellowish tint that seemed familiar, and for a moment his mind flashed to Shiani’s fingertips stroking under them against his cheek as she admired his face.

“Her favorite color is yellow.” He said softly.

Omega nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed. The siren’s color looked better, which was relieving. She’d been so close to death’s door when they arrived back on Pabu, Tech cradling her in his arms the whole way back while Echo tried to treat her and the other three brothers finally collapsed from their injuries and subsequent torture at Hemlock’s hands, and Omega flew the shuttle like she’d not only stolen it but committed several felonies in front of police droids at the time. “She’ll wake up soon, I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so.” Tech reached up, grazing his knuckles against her cheek. “... I remembered something yesterday.”

“Yeah?” Omega smiled, watching the way he was so gentle and careful with the siren. Her brother Tech was coming back to them bit by bit, and all of them were trying to encourage him in their own ways.

“Before Bracca.” He furrowed his brow. The details were difficult, but he could plainly imagine Shiani sitting in front of him at a table, looking at him sweetly. “We were discussing the inhibitor chips… I think Rex had just spoken to us? I made a mistake, did not consider the danger… And she told me that she would never stop looking for me if something took me the way the chip had taken Crosshair.”

“She kept her promise.” Omega leaned back. “She always said she’d follow you anywhere. Kamino, Eriadu, Tantiss… it didn’t matter.”

“She always keeps her promises.” Tech breathed. Even with fragmented memories, he knew that much was true. Shiani was honest.

“Hunter found us a house. We can move her there soon, if she doesn’t wake up by then.” Omega offered. “It’s got a really pretty balcony upstairs, with lanterns strung up already. And enough space for everyone to have their own bedrooms.”

Tech smiled faintly. She’d like the lanterns… “That does sound appealing.”

“There’s a garage too. Crosshair said she could build stuff in there, and the living room has built in shelves for you to collect books if you wanted. Real flimsi books.” Omega tried to get him excited about the future. “Hunter says we can do anything we want now. Anything at all.”

“The only thing I currently desire is for her to wake up.” Tech sighed.

Omega patted his shoulder. “She will, Tech. I know it.”

He nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. He wouldn’t be, until he saw it.

Omega slipped out of the room to let him have some time, and Tech rested his head atop his folded arms on the side of the bed. “Please come back to me.” He said softly, closing his eyes.

He was just starting to doze off, the edges of consciousness sliding out of focus, when something ran lightly through his hair. He leaned into it, slowly coming back to himself as he recognized it as sharp nails delicately scratching his scalp. “Mn…?”

There was a soft, raspy laugh and the fingers flexed against his head gently, three times. “Tech…”

His eyes snapped open and he shot upright, finding himself looking at Shiani’s face. She had turned her head, eyes open and sleepy looking, and it was her hand that was now falling down to cup his cheek. “Shiani.”

“You got your goggles back…” She smiled. “You look like you again.”

Tech was on his feet in an instant, leaning over the bed to wrap his arms around her torso and pull her to his chest. She snuggled immediately into his neck, holding onto him with all her admittedly shaky strength. “I thought… I thought I had lost you.”

“You know you can’t get rid of me, Tech.” She smiled, tapping his chin with two fingers until he pulled back enough she could lean up for a kiss. “I missed you.” She mumbled when they broke apart.

He smiled weakly, easing down to sit on the edge of the bed with her still in his arms. “My apologies. I did not intend to leave you…”

“I know.” She tucked her head against his chest. “But you’re home now…”

He nodded, wrapping her up tight to his chest. The anxiety of the unknown and change melted away in the comforting familiarity of her presence. He was no longer concerned he’d never remember everything, or what direction his new life would take on Pabu. All that mattered was Shiani was there.

They’d figure out the rest, like they always did.

Shiani peeked up at him, smiling as she pressed her forehead against his. “I’m going to make your brothers so uncomfortable when I tell them I fucked the Empire out of your system.”

“Don’t you dare.” He couldn’t help but laugh.

Ten years later

Shiani was sitting on the balcony, watching the lights of Pabu with Tech like they did every night, when Omega stepped out and sat quietly in the chair beside them. “You look upset.” She noted.

“I… had an argument with Hunter.” Omega sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Can I ask you two something?”

They exchanged looks. Ten years had changed some things, though not enough to change who they were. Tech’s hair had gone gray, and though he never quite managed to grow facial hair to save his life he did look distinguished. His memories had eventually returned, though he preferred to pretend what happened between Eriadu and returning to Pabu be politely not mentioned. Shiani had started wearing her headtresses down and they were starting to discolor around the sides of her head, the purple of her skin turning lighter every year. She had accepted her fate in a hoverchair with grace, though it sat empty now while she was comfortably in Tech’s lap with her back to his chest.

“You arguing with Hunter is unusual. He cannot bring himself to say anything harsh to you.” Tech said mildly.

“Unless… this is about the rebellion?” Shiani cocked her head to the side.

Omega sighed. “... It is. Are you two going to get upset with me too?”

“It is only logical you would want to join.” Tech shook his head. “We have been preparing ourselves for this for a while.”

“Why do you think I helped you build that ship?” Shiani laughed. “But Hunter’s having a harder time. He’s your father. You’ve always known that.”

Omega smiled sadly. “Yeah… but you guys bought my safety from the Empire. It’s only fair that I return the favor to the rest of the galaxy. And the rebellion needs pilots more than ever.”

They both smiled. “The skill I taught you.” Tech looked exceptionally proud.

“What did the others say?” Shiani asked, reaching out and grasping Omega’s hands in her own.

“Wrecker cried and hugged me, but he said he was proud of me. Crosshair was a little upset he couldn’t go with me, but he says his eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

“None of us are who we used to be.” Tech nodded agreeably. “What about Echo?”

“He’s already got me coordinates of a base to come to, and says he can have me a position as soon as I tell him I’m on the way.”

Shiani chuckled softly, rubbing Omega’s hands with her thumbs. “You’re a better pilot than either of us now. The Empire won’t know what hit them. But promise you’ll check in every once in a while, and that when the war ends you’ll come home? At least for a little while?”

Omega nodded, shifting her leg to show them her bag sitting beside her chair. “Will you cover for me with Hunter?”

“You should say goodbye.” Shiani shook her head. “It’s hard for him to let you go, but… raising you is the best thing he’s ever done. The best thing any of us have ever done.”

She and Tech had never had kids of their own, biological compatibility being what it was, but Omega was their kid. All of their kid.”

“I thought you were my accomplice, not alibi.” Omega grinned.

Shiani laughed. “It’s a lot harder as I get older.” She squeezed Omega’s hands, three times firmly. “I’m so proud of you.”

Tech nodded, reaching around Omega to put his hands over hers as well. “We both are. Hunter will be, once he comes to terms with it.”

Omega smiled, a little tearfully, and squeezed back.

Squish squish squish. I love you.

Shiani smiled as the girl they’d watched grow up slowly pulled her hands out of theirs and picked up her bag, climbing over the balcony rail and dropping to the ground. She headed for the beach, not turning back to look again.

Shiani leaned back into Tech’s chest. “I’ll miss her so much…”

“As will I. But we still have Shion to spoil.” He rested his chin on her shoulder. “And if she ever gets into trouble our training cannot get her out of, we are only a call away. I can mount a weapon on your chair, and you did add all those upgrades to Crosshair’s prosthetic hand.”

“He would have bitched at me if it was any less advanced than Echo’s.”

“He will do so regardless.” Tech kissed her cheek.

She smiled, closing her eyes. The warm air and his arms wrapped around her, and she couldn’t resist lifting her head and letting a few notes hang in the air as a goodbye salute to the brave little resistance pilot.

Clone Force 99 had never been dead, even when things had been their bleakest. It lived on in one blonde little girl who’s very existence defied everything the Empire stood for. They all knew it.

And soon enough, so would the Empire.

#explict #original character #clone force 99 #the bad batch #fanfic #star wars #tbb tech #tech is alive #tech lives #song of the sea

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