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aliwritesfic · 4 years ago

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Our Black Hearts (F!Reader x Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels)

Summary: Jack Daniels had long given up on avenging his murdered wife, instead choosing to travel west through the ruins of the United States to a small town called Deepwell. It's a fresh start, where nobody knows him. The thought of vengeance was almost out of mind until he found out about the towns book club and the gossip trade that happened there. So he joins, and figures it can't hurt to keep an ear out for news of the man who killed his wife.

Overall warnings: Death, violence, a lot of swearing, drinking, trauma, PTSD, angst

Warnings for this part: Drinking, mention of dead loved ones, smut, P in V sex, oral (F & M receiving), somewhat rough sex

Wordcount: 2.4k

Tags: Post-apocalypse AU, casual lovers, revenge

Part 2 (coming soonish)

The book club was a group of the only twelve people in the town who could read more than the few basic words that were usually taught. It wasn’t like an old-world book club, were people would gather to discuss the books they read – it was more of a book exchange, but the members preferred the word club. Of course, there were discussions, but they were seldom about books. They met once a week, usually on a Wednesday but sometimes on Fridays, and mostly talked about news they had heard from passing traders, letters given by couriers from family. This was how Jack got most of his information.

Jack Daniels was the newest member of this club. He was the newest resident of the Deepwell township, having come through one scorching hot Tuesday afternoon on the back of a trader’s caravan. He had taken one look at the dingy little town with its long-abandoned homes and decided that this was as far as he was willing to travel. Of course, he had to speak with the self-appointed Mayor, Lucy Jonas-Green, so she could assess his “suitability”. The interview had been a short one, consisting of only four questions, the grizzled old woman glaring at him through narrowed grey eyes.

“You good at shootin’?” Question one.

“Best I know.” It wasn’t a brag if it was true, Jack reasoned.

“Got any skills?” Question two.

“I’m good at buildin’ shit, I can stay awake for two days if I need to, I can read and write some stuff . . . I’m pretty good with a whip.”

“Why here?” Question three.

“Got sick of travelling.”

“What’s your name?” Question four.

“Jack.”

Lucy Jonas-Green had deliberated for exactly one minute, during which time Jack grew increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze. He felt like she could see directly into his soul, like she was deciding exactly how shit-stained it was. The only indication of her approval was a slight nod of the head. At that, a young boy, probably no older than thirteen, rushed over to greet him. The kid was chatty, but harmless.

It was through this kid that Jack first found out about the book club. He hadn’t been interested at first – just because he could read didn’t mean he liked to read. But at the mention of it being the towns main source of news from across the Fallen States, the chance of hearing something about the group that attacked Black Ridge was too good to pass up.

So now, he sat with the book club, a yellowed, mouldy copy of 1984 in his hands, ears pricked for any mention of a merc group led by a man with one eye and eleven fingers. A few months before he had finally settled in Deepwell, he had given up on his search and his quest for revenge. There had been no mention of him anywhere along the eastern townships, so Jack had headed west, deciding to leave the cruel memories of his wife behind. Now, he figured it couldn’t hurt to just listen.

But for weeks now, nothing. Whatever hope had rekindled itself in his chest was dying away, making room for cruel acceptance. Another meeting concluded, and Jack tucked the book carefully in his jacket. As much as he didn’t enjoy reading, he had a healthy respect for the leader of the book club and the threat of slitting his throat should something happen to the books she shared with the group.

The sun was low in the sky as he stepped outside, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. People were beginning to move as the sunset, the harshest of its rays now dulled by the horizon. Electric streetlights slowly flickered on; the entire town was powered by recommissioned solar panels that someone much smarter than Jack had rigged up a decade ago. Jack considered his options for the night: either he could go back to the house he shared with a small family and scrounge up a meal of whatever was left in his room before a trader came through town tomorrow night, or he could go to the only bar in town, order several of whatever alcohol was in stock and a bowl of the ‘stew of the day’ which was usually just a root vegetable and some unidentified meat. Jack chose the bar.

The bar was the largest building in Deepwell, three stories tall and enough beds to sleep the entire population of the town twice over. The place smelt of stale booze and dust, a smell that seemed to be common over the entirety of the Fallen States. A jukebox in the corner played old world tunes on a loop.

“Evenin’, Jack.” The owner of the bar, Marcus, nodded his head in Jack’s direction. Jack nodded back and took off his hat – an old-world style that someone had once called ‘cowboy’. “Just the usual?”

“Yep, and keep the drinks coming,” Jack sat down at a small table close to the exit, his body always slightly angled to run at a moment’s notice, an old habit that he couldn’t seem to shake. A bowl of steaming stew was set down in front of him, along with a glass of murky amber liquid.

That’s when he noticed he was being watched. A woman sat in the corner, staring at him over a half empty glass of whiskey. Jack raised a brow and realised his recognised her. She was in the book club, too, but he didn’t remember her name. Everyone seemed to call her Chase. Jack was surprised she didn’t break her gaze when his eyes met hers, and against his better judgement, he put his hat back on, picked up his bowl and glass and walked over to her.

“This seat taken?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he set his food down on the table and sat.

Something about Jack Daniels intrigued you. Maybe it was the hat, or the facial hair he somehow managed to keep contained to a thick, neat moustache. Or maybe it was just the most annoyingly handsome person to ever come through Deepwell. Now he sat across from you, sipping on bathtub whiskey.

“Chase isn’t it?” he said after downing his glass.

“That’s what they call me,” you said. “What do they call you?”

Jack smirked. “Depends who you ask. Some like Dirty Bastard, others Motherfucker. For a while I was known as Whiskey. But you can call me whatever you like.” He finished with a wink.

“Jack it is,” you said with a roll of your eyes, but you would be lying to yourself if you weren’t a little charmed. “So, what brings you to book club, Jack?”

“Why, my love of old-world literature, of course.”

You leant back in your seat and tilted your head. He was lying, that much was obvious. But why? What was the point of lying? You looked into his eyes, a deep brown, and wondered if he was worth the trouble. He might be worth it for the night, you thought.

“Let’s pretend for a moment that I believe that,” you said, and Jack looked mildly surprised. “What’s taken you so long to come up and introduce yourself? You’ve been in town what now? Three months?”

“Two and a half,” Jack corrected, “and what gives you the impression I don’t care for literature?”

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours,” you countered. Was this flirting? You hadn’t done it in so long, and the most practice you had was when you were working in the town garden, daydreaming about the heroes of the romance novels you kept in a safe in the corner of your room.

“Well, well, well,” Jack leant forward on his elbows, his gaze unreadable underneath his ridiculous hat. “I don’t have a reason for you, doll, but if it makes you feel better, I haven’t introduced myself to most people here.”

You settled for this explanation, knowing that Jack had been somewhat of a recluse around town since he had arrived. You decide to answer his question. “I know you don’t give a shit about books. It’s obvious you care more about the goss. Your ears practically twitch. What are you listening for?”

Jack deliberated for a moment; you could see on his face that he really was conflicted about telling you. He finished his mystery stew and finally speaks. “I’m looking for a man, have been for a few years now. He killed my wife, and I wanna kill him.”

“A simple revenge,” you said. “What makes you think you think news will turn up in Deepwell?”

“I didn’t,” Jack said, “I’d given up when I first came here. Figured it was best for my soul to do so – but then I heard about this club, and I guess it can’t hurt to keep an ear out for rumblin’s of a man with eleven fingers and one eye.”

“Eleven fingers?” Your stomach dropped, but you kept your face neutral.

“And one eye,” Jack nodded.

“Did you find out his name?” You asked. Maker don’t let it be Elijah. Don’t let him be alive. Jack shook his head.

“Naw, but eleven fingers and one eye, how many people could be runnin’ ‘round the Fallen States like that?” Jack shrugged, something akin to grief flittered briefly across his face, and you realised he was right. Having only one eye wasn’t unusual, a lot of people were missing some body part or another, but eleven fingers . . . you couldn’t deny the coincidence.

“Anyway,” Jack smirked at you, “you haven’t asked the most important question of all.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Are we takin’ this back to yours or mine, doll?”

~ Jack’s body is hard against yours, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips. His shirt is off, discarded on the floor of your small bedroom. He kisses hungrily down your neck, his tongue darting along your collarbone. A moan escapes your lips as he slides his calloused hands along the bare skin of your stomach, roughly tugging at the frayed waistband of your jeans. His fingers find your wetness, easily finding your sensitive clit with his thumb. You groaned, head lolling forward into his sweaty neck.

“You like that?” he whispered into your ear; goosebumps raced along your body. His thumb made careful, slow circles along your clit. “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it,” you whined, bucking your hips in pleasure. A low groan escaped Jack’s throat at your words, spurring him on. He forces your pants off completely and discards them in the growing pile of clothes on the floor. He drops to his knees and pulls you closer, lips trailing delicately along your inner thighs. Then without warning, his tongue is lapping up the wetness of your clit, two fingers pumping your tight hole.

“Jack,” you whimper, the need for more sending you crazy. His dark eyes met yours over the top of your stomach, his tongue still working your clit. You’re hungry for him, the look of pure lust in his eyes spurring you to places you had never thought about. You sit up and place a hand on his shoulder, shuddering as another wave of pleasure rippled through your body. The look in your eyes must’ve told him what you want to do, because he stood and stepped back, allowing you room to get on your knees in front of him.

He undid his belt buckle with fingers still slick from your pussy and pulled his pants down. His cock sprang forward, making your mouth water with how fucking big it was. The head glistened with a bead of pre-cum. You leant forward and licked it off, before taking as much of his length in your mouth as you could. He groaned, his fingers tangling through your hair.

“Fuck, deeper,” his voice was husky with desire, and you happily obliged, taking him so you could feel him almost at the back of your throat. His fingers in your hair tightened, a pleasant pain on your skull. He groaned and pulled your head back, staring into your eyes. “I need you.”

You tugged him towards the mattress, pushing him on his back. You climb atop, feeling strangely dominant. His cock slid against the wetness of your hole, head entering before you pulled your hips away, a teasing smile on your lips. You go on like this, letting him enter a little further in you each time, enjoying the tortured look on his face, enjoying it even more when his eyes snapped open as you let him in completely. He moaned loudly, holding onto your hips tightly.

“Doll,” his word was muffled by his mouth on your tit, teeth latching onto your nipple. You rocked back and forth, clenching around his cock as an orgasm threatened to rip you from your body. Jack seemed to realise this, and flipped you both so you were on your back and he was standing, still inside you. He pulled you so your ass was off the mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist.

“Maker, you’re so fucking sexy,” he fucked you hard and rough, his dark gaze never leaving yours. His thumb was on your clit again, teasing you as an orgasm ripped through you. You moaned his name, your pussy clenching tightly around him. He grinned devilishly down at you, leaning forward to kiss you as he continued to thrust. He tasted of you, driving his tongue into your mouth. You met this eagerly, whimpering against his lips as yet another orgasm moved you.

“I can’t hold on,” Jack groaned, and before you could say a thing, he pulled out of you, hot cum spurting onto your stomach. He slumped next to you, obviously spent.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, scanning the room for something to wipe the cum up with.

“Holy shit is right, doll,” Jack said. Sweat beaded along his brow and he cracked open an eye to watch you wipe up with a shirt that was so full of holes it was unwearable. Silver moonlight filtered through the dirty window, casting shadows across his beautiful face. You laid down next to him, feeling a small shiver run through you as he curved his warm naked body against yours.

You would tell him, you decided. You would tell him you knew who he was looking for, and that you might know where to find him. But in the morning, so as not to mar the beautiful just fucked haze that enveloped your mind.

Tagging @sharkbait77 because she's lovely and I'm nervous about this one.

#jack daniels x f!reader #jack whiskey daniels #kingsmen golden circle #i havent written sexy stuff in so long was it as weird as it felt

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thunderbird-one-ai · 4 years ago

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A shoulder to lean on

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go

Rating: Teen

Characters: Scott, Alan

Alan and Scott have been caught in a building that collapsed. Apart from some minor injuries both seem to be okay. Until one of them isn't.

Finally got the second @badthingshappenbingo prompt for the wonderful @neuroticphysiologist with the prompt of ‘Doesn’t realise they’ve been injured’ with Alan.

Sorry it took so long to get the second one out I moved out of my parents out and stress levels hit the roof ha ha but I’m hopefully going to be posting some more prompts soonish depending on if I get writers block.

Alan couldn’t understand why mum never came to pick him up anymore. One day Scott showed up instead, and Alan just followed him home from then on. Dad said that mum had gone away forever but will still be watching us from above, but all Alan wanted to do was see mum and he couldn’t. Apart from John who was always looking up at the sky, he always heard Scott talk of how the sky was so different when you were up so high. Alan loved hearing about how high dad and Scott would travel up in the air. He thought that they were meeting mum sometimes they were gone for so long. Alan wanted to do the same, he wanted to see mum too! He wanted to fly just like his Dad and Scott. Alan may have been young, but he knew what high meant. That’s why he started trying to get to all the high spots in the house. One day he found that the window in Johns room lead to a higher place on the house, a place outside that he’d never seen before. He was excited, thinking he might see mum again finally. But sadly, he couldn’t find her and once his dad found him, Johns room was always closed unless someone else was in the room with Alan. Wherever Alan went he always wanted to be high up, just in case, he saw a glimpse of mum. Having a day out in the park? Alan would climb the highest playing frame. Going shopping with Dad or grandma? Alan would race to the highest floor and press himself up against the window. Alan, however, could never get high up when he walked home with Scott. He had to always hold Scott's hand when they walked home meaning Alan couldn’t climb anything and he wasn’t very happy about that. “Alan please stop tugging you know you’re not allowed to climb when dad isn’t around,” Alan looked over to his older brother. “But Scott! You climb all the time!” Alan said annoyed, slowly trying to get to a rather high looking wall. “Alan no, you know the rules. Don’t climb anything now otherwise you won’t be allowed to climb in the park later,” “But you are always so high up! Why can’t I be as high as you!” Alan pouted and he saw his older brother smile softly. “You’ll get taller…. probably,” “I want to be tall now!” Alan saw Scott sigh and move in front of him before kneeling, hands behind him. “If you want to be as tall as me then get on my back, I can show you how I see,” Alan saw Scott smile softly to him. Alan couldn’t contain his excitement; he ran up and jumped onto his big brothers back. Alan moved his arms around Scott’s shoulders and held on as tight as he could, just like he did when holding onto the play bars in the park so he wouldn’t fall. When Scott stood up, Alan's eyes widened. It was amazing! The wall he tried to climb before was now below him. He could even see over the large bushes! Alan was so excited, maybe now he could see mum since he was as tall as his brother now. He moved his head forward, pressing it up against Scott's cheek, making sure to see exactly what his older brother was seeing. Maybe they would see mum together. Once they got home, Alan was a little upset that they couldn’t see mum. Alan so badly wanted to have piggybacks more often and Scott promised that he could get a piggyback every time they walked home. Some days, Scott would run and jump, sending Alan higher into the air. They both laughed and Scott would talk about mum whilst Alan looked for her. But in the end, he never did see her.

TBTBTBTBTBTBTB

Alan groaned as he came to, his head was pounding, and his left leg was killing him. Alan opened his eyes to the same pitch-black he was starring at under his eyelids The world was black around him. He tried to move but that only sent a wave of pain shooting up from his left leg. He moved a hand up to his helmet and switched on the lights, looking around. Debris littered the immediate vicinity around him. He tilted his head down to light up his left leg. He found the source of his pain, his ankle was at a stomach-wrenching angle, no doubt broken. He blinked a few times, forcing himself to clear his head and remember the events beforehand. Soon information flooded back to him. Earthquakes, trapped civilians, helping Scott. Alan gasped as he looked around, causing his ankle to protest. Where was Scott? His brother was nowhere near him. Alan thought back to being he has been knocked unconscious. They had been making there way back up to the surface before they felt the second quake start. The already damaged building couldn’t have supported itself anymore and must have collapsed, with them still inside. “Scott….Scott, do you read me? Come in Scott,” Alan said although he just got static as a response. Alan again tried to move but it only caused him to swear quietly, god forbid Grandma ever finding out about that. Alan knew he had to move, this buildings structural integrity was already non-existent and could very likely again, he had to find Scott before he could high tail it out of there. But with his ankle the way it was, he doubted he’d get very far. He leant back against the wall, looking around taking in everything he could see, hoping to create an escape plan. He was halfway through thinking about hopping before the movement of rubble caught his attention. “Alan? Alan you here?” Alan let out a sigh of relief when he heard Scott's voice. “Scott! I’m over here!” he sat up straight again as he saw his brother run towards him. “Alan!” Scott knelt next to him. “That ankle doesn’t look good. Are you hurt anywhere else?” “Besides a slight headache, I’m okay. Just can’t walk very well…at all,” Alan knew that wouldn’t stop Scott from worrying, he was proven right when Scott started to look him over, just to make sure Alan wasn’t hiding anything else from him. “We need to move, my communicator got busted when the building collapsed. I couldn’t get hold of you so I started searching. I think we fell at least one floor. We need to walk out of the building before we can contact anyone,” Scott said, and Alan nodded in agreement. Once Alan tried to move the lights on his helmet flickered before going out entirely. Just his luck, his helmet getting damaged in all this. Scott’s helmet was the only source of light now. “Looks like that hit to the head did more damage to the helmet than you thankfully,” Scott said before moving in front of Alan, the light illuminating what was left of the room. “Alan shuffle forward and lean against my back, I’m going to have to carry you out.” Alan went to protest but he knew Scott wasn’t going to leave him here to search for help, that wasn’t something Scott did. With some slow movements and pained groans, Alan was against Scott’s back, arms around his older brothers’ shoulders. When Scott slowly stood up, Alan swore he heard the faintest groan leave his brother's lips but thought of it to be nothing more than Alan being a little bigger compared to when they were younger. Once Scott moved his hands under Alan's thighs he started to move slowly over the debris, making sure to jolt Alan's ankle as little as possible. The floor would creak and cracks in the concrete could be heard. Sometimes Scott stopped so the floor would seemingly calm down before moving again. Other times he would stop to catch his breath, Alan would offer to get off his back, but Scott would simply shake his head and continue. They were both aware that another aftershock could happen at any time and without contact from Thunderbird five. they had no idea if or when that would happen. They had to move fast to avoid more injuries. Alan could tell Scott was getting worn out, his movements over the debris were slower, almost as if it took more thinking power to know where Scott was placing his feet. He also heard Scotts breathing slowly get louder as this journey went on and yet the breaks did nothing to help. It then occurred to Alan that he hadn’t even asked if Scott was hurt. “Scott, did you get hurt at all when we fell through the floor?” Alan asked frowning. “Think I hit my head a little, no nausea though so I don’t think I have a concussion but didn’t really think about it. Was focused on trying to find you,” Scott replied with breaths between most words. “Besides, I can rest once we get home.” “Plan on piggybacking me back to the island huh?” Alan said smiling getting a small chuckle from Scott below him. “Maybe one day we can try doing that, you didn’t really get any taller so it might still work.” “Hey! I’m not that short! You’re just…really tall that’s all,” Alan pouted and resorted to lightly banging his head against Scotts, it only made his older brother chuckle again. “Al-an , Sc-tt come in!” Alan jumped as the new panicked voice of another brother. He moved an arm up to open his comms. “John! I read you,” Alan replied “Alan! Glad you hear your voice. Are you okay? We haven’t been able to contact Scott yet,” John said through comms. “He’s with me right now, his comms got busted when the building fell on us,” “Injuries?” “My ankle’s killing me and we’ve both hit our heads but we’re okay. We’re almost at the edge of the building now,” “And make sure Virgil is there waiting for us so he can get Alan sorted!” Scott butted in making Alan roll his eyes. The prospect of seeing daylight again was most likely the reason why Scott upped his pace, that’s what Alan concluded anyway. Once they were approaching a collapsed wall, it began to crumble, revealing the midday sun shining bright. Virgil and Gordon were both there waiting, Virgil looking worried but Gordon looking almost amused at the predicament Alan was in. Something which Alan would have to get him back for eventually. Once they got near Thunderbird Two Alan slid down Scott’s back, keeping his focus on Virgil, mainly to make sure that Virgil got some comfort in the fact he wasn’t dying. Alan definitely wasn’t expecting both Gordon and Virgil to gasp in horror. Alan frowned looking down at himself and realised what they were worried about. His front section was covered red. Virgil was the first to move, helping Alan onto a stretcher and into Thunderbird Two. It was strange, Alan didn’t feel any pain at all, not even on the journey to the edge of the building with Scott. That didn’t stop him worrying though, it was quite a bit of blood. Alan let Virgil work, placing a bio scanner on him, checking on the possible chest wound but Alan noticed his frown of worry turn into a frown of confusion. “Alan undo your suit now,” Vigil demanded, and Alan complied, ‘don’t mess with medic mode Virgil,’ Alan thought to himself. When Alan got the front of his suit lowered, he looked to his chest and frowned as well. His chest was clean, apart from some bruising that was probably from the fall. No cuts, there wasn’t a wound on his chest so where did all the blood come from? Alan thought back to the rescue, wondering if it was any of them who might have been bleeding, but he couldn’t recall any of the public injured that badly. Alan paled and looked up to Virgil. No words were needed before Virgil got the hint and bolted out of Thunderbird Two over to Thunderbird One. Alan was putting the upper half of his suit back on and following his older brothers. By the time he got outside Thunderbird Two, he already saw Virgil leaning over a very still Scott on the floor, he hadn’t even made it back to his thunderbird. He was lying on his front and Alan saw what the cause for the blood loss was. There was a massive gash cutting through his suit going halfway down his back. Now everything that happened in the building made sense. Scott’s slowing movements, the struggle to draw breath in properly. Scott was struggling and Alan didn’t even realise. “Come on Scott, don’t give up on me. You held on this long you idiot,” Alan heard Virgil mumble as he saw him trying to stem the flow. “Let us get him to Thunderbird two Now,” TBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTB Scott groaned softly as he moved his head slightly. As he opened his eyes, he was rudely greeted by the blinding light of the islands infirmary. Scott brought his mind to a halt. Island infirmary, what was he doing here? “Try not to sit up too quickly Scott, you’re going to collapse again,” Virgil said to Scott’s right, making Scott turn to face him as his eyes got accustomed to the light. In true Scott fashion, he didn’t listen to Virgil but the pulling on his back soon made him freeze. It was a very uncommon sensation. Something was pulling his back, that’s how Scott could describe it anyway. “Ah, didn’t think the pain killers would get rid of it completely. But now I’m glad so I can have a proper scalding at you. I mean what were you thinking! Carrying Alan on your back for almost an hour knowing full well you were in this state!” Scott physically winced when Virgil shouted. Medic mode Virgil was not someone you wanted to mess with because it normally ended with the patient spending the journey back in Two asleep. The fact that Virgil was absolutely fuming meant he’d done something, but Scott was sure he wasn’t that bad. He knew he hit his head but there was only a slight headache nothing else. The tugging sensation from his back then made him think. “I guess I got more banged up than I thought huh….” Scott said absent-mindedly. “A little more banged up? Scott, you hardly breathing when we got to you outside One! Your back needed stitches and we still aren’t sure if an infection won’t settle in yet! You are grounded until you can walk without ripping your wound open again,” Grounded? No, he couldn’t be grounded. It wasn’t long ago that brains had decoded the message sent from Dad. Everyone needed to be at their best to make sure they could find a way to get to him in time. If Scott was grounded, then he couldn’t help getting to dad. “Virgil, I know you’re angry I really do but I genuinely thought I was okay. I didn’t feel a thing! I was worried about Alan and I even told him I banged my head. But I felt fine I swear!” Scott looked up to Virgil, hoping to show how sincere he was. There was a moment of silence. “Your version of fine is much different to actually being fine you know that?” Virgil said, his voice instantly calmer making Scott sigh mentally the unspoken words clearly getting through to him. “Speaking of fine. Can I go now? Since I’m grounded, I’ve got game time to squeeze in,” Scott looked over to his right seeing Alan fashioning a bright red cast around his left ankle. “Alan! You’re okay?” Scott asked worried getting a nod from Alan. “Well Virgil said it was a clean break which is better at healing so only a few weeks off, I guess. Meaning more game time,” Alan said smiling. “More like more revision time, I’m pretty sure I heard Grandma talking about getting some more lessons online for you to complete whilst you are at home,” Virgil said making Alans smile drop immediately. “Aw man, you’ve got to be kidding me! The new instalment of crime racers came out yesterday!” Alan slumped back into his bed sulking, causing the two older Tracy’s in the room to chuckle. “He seems fine to me…” Scott smiled looking back to Virgil who sat down on his bed and spoke in a quieter tone, no doubt so Alan couldn’t hear. “I know you’ve got dad on your mind and believe me; we want to get him back as much as you do. This injury isn’t going to be a setback okay? We can do just as much on the island sitting in one position as we can in the hanger, give or take a few things. But it isn’t just up to you to help get him back. Lean on us for a bit. We can take it, even the squirt over there can,” Virgil’s comment made Scott chuckle quietly again. “Thanks Virgil…. we’ll get him back, together.”

#bad things bingo #bad things happen bingo #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds 2015 #Scott Tracy #Virgil Tracy #John Tracy #Gordon Tracy #alan tracy #scott whump #alan whump

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ellanainthetardis · 4 years ago

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Author Interview

Tagged by @flutteringphalanges! Thanks!

Name: Karine. Ellana-san. EllanaSan. Ellanainthetardis. That’s a lot of names lmao.

Fandom(s): Mostly I’m hayffie exclusive those days. I’m hoping to go back to Lucifer. I kinda want to have a rewatch and hopefully find my love back for this show that S3 has detroyed... I loved writing fics for this pairing. I’m also anxiously waiting for the 6oC adaptation because I’ve hold off writing kanej fanfics for now but... I love them so much I’m not sure I will be able to resist the show. I am also currently obsessed with Phryne/Jack from Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries but not writing just stalking ao3.

Where You Post: Ellana-san in on fanfiction.net, EllanaSan on AO3 and ellanainthetardis on tumblr. I don’t post anywhere else and if you see my fic elsewhere it’s like been stolen. yes it has happened before. No it’s not fun.

Most Popular One-Shot: On ff, it’s a HP called The Shadow Of Death. It’s a time travel Severus & Harry mentor story I actually was quite proud of at the time. On AO3 it’s a Lucifer story called Redeeming The Devil in which Charlotte/Mom goes after Chloe and Lucifer has to step in so basically devil reveal and all of that. I think it’s one of my fav I wrote for this fandom.

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: On ff, according to the stats, it’s Have a Drink Sweetheart but since it’s a collection of one shots I think that doesn’t really count so the next one is “Les Cicatrices du Temps” which is probably the one I’m most known for on the French side of things. It’s a HP story, again with time travel and again with Severus & Harry mentor, and it’s actually part of a trilogy. I haven’t finished part 3 yet but I don’t despair haha.

On AO3 it’s Invictus which is a hayffie story that explore a canon au in which Haymitch’s family never died, forcing him to become the puppet rather than the example. I’m not sure it’s the longest thing I’ve ever written because of the trilogy I just mentioned but it’s the longest in one setting and I’m proud of having finished it. It took a lot of work, an amazing beta, and it was a huge part of my life at one point because it covered I think... close to two years?

Favorite Story You Wrote: It’s difficult to choose because it depends of fandoms. For HP, I would say the Cicatrices trilogy for sure. For Hayffie... It’s so haaard to choose. I think it would be a tie between Invictus, Into That Good Night and April Showers for very different reasons. Invictus because of the commitment it took and also because, as I said, I associated to a specific time in my life. April Showers because I really enjoyed being able to explore post MJ in a more psychological way and it allowed me to explore more characters. I may or may not have fallen a bit truly in love with everlark while writing that one actually. And Into that Good Night because it was so out there, so full of self-indulging angst - like Haymitch being forced to kneel and beg - that I don’t think I would have ever written it if I hadn’t been in an angsty place myself and needed an out. But I’m happy with out it turned out and I don’t know... That one I do have a lot of tender feelings for, I guess.

How You Choose Your Titles: There’s no methods for me. Either I will take it directly from the work or I will try to find something like a theme in the work or I will look up quotes or I will look up songs... I don’t have a specific go-to method.

Complete: stories? I’m not sure how to see that. Everything is on ff and they say I’ve published 188 stories... I know I have two WIPs in SG and HP, 1 probably abandoned in hayffie, 2 currently being posted, HADS though that doesn’t really count does it? One Buffy I never closed but it’s also a os collection... Honestly I have no clue I would say 183? In those waters. I thought it was more haha. Though, I guess if you take HADS alone... XD HADS frightenes me okay? I try not to look at the number of chapters.

Incomplete: Well... There is part 3 of that HP trilogy I have been neglecting for a while. One chaptered story in Stargate I gave up on. The Speed Finding Soulmate story in hayffie I gave up on too although I think about that one often and never say never I might revisit it one day. And obviously the two currently being posted When It Rains It Pours and Katniss The Vampire Slayer.

I always try to have the finished product before posting because I hate WIPs. In the case of the Speed Finding Soulmate story for instance it was supposed to be a one shot and then I added more and more but if I had thought it through, I would have writtten the whole thing first. I have unfortunately a respectable WIP folder XD

If I can’t have the whole thing finished, like KTVS for instance, I try to be comfortably ahead so I never run out of chapters and I can keep a steady schedule.

Basically if I can’t keep to a posting schedule it stresses me out. If I don’t have the next chapter ready, it stresses me out because I don’t want to let anyone down. So... Yeah. I like having everything done before posting.

Which doesn’t answer the question I realize... So incomplete work, not counting os collections, I think might have 5 (2 of which are actually being posted but finished or ahead enough).

Do You Outline?: Never if I can help it. If I write down or break down a story, I will lose the will because it’s all there black on white. If the story is big or complicated I will take notes on a notebook and, maybe, maybe a loose list of events but mostly my way of writing is forge ahead and figure it out as you go. Mostly, the stories write themselves I just type. Everything ends up making sense by itself.

Coming Soon/Not Yet Started: Well, I did finish E10 of KTVS so you know that’s good haha. I plan on writing E11 soonish. Right now I’m kind of in a writing slump of sorts. I should be finished the mind wipe story but I’m a bit tempted by a modern au involving a certain tattoo artist and this former army man... There’s a lot I want to write tbh.

Do You Accept Prompts?: Yes but you have to not be afraid of waiting a long LONG times. I sometimes publish prompts that have been submitted years ago. XD I have a lot of prompts and I tend to write the one that inspire me most but I do try to post the chronologically older ones first.

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited To Write: Well.. there is this idea of a tattoo artist Effie. It would be cute mostly I don’t think lots of conflict. Also the mind wipe story which I was working on before the crack happened, which is basically an au in which they experimented on Effie during MJ and wiped her mind clean so she doesn’t remember anything at all. And there are a few others wips in my folder that might be cool to revisit so idk. I’m telling you right now I haven’t written in 3 days I’m angsty to start again but I’m not sure what to tackle. I want a a tiny break with KTVS before attacking E11... OH and there’s also a modern au inspired by a prompt about effie ptsd in a modern setting that I thikn would also take chapters but basically I was thinking bodyguard au and YEAH. Lots of angst.

#i got tagged #i had to remove the links #also when i don't write i babble #so yeah XD

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vagrantblvrd · 5 years ago

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Myan just being dads. Please, I have a craving and there's only like 3 fics about it.

I’m super behind on prompts and the whatnot – Because Reasons – but I’m still working on them. Just like. At a glacial pace. Because me.

I really, really love this?

One night when Michael’s getting off work he gets gets (roughly) a million texts from Gavin who’s his roommate in this AU, right?

Making dinner because he knows Michael will be getting home soonish or resurfacing from whatever work project he’s involved with at the time because hunger?

And Michael, Michael, they’re out of this, and that, and on and on like he’s just going from cabinet to cabinet and fridge compartment to fridge compartment and so on.

Michael doesn’t get a chance to check the messages right away – first he’s driving or dealing with paperwork or whatever before he actually gets to get out of the building and in his car.

Once he does though he’s just like SIGH because Gavin, but also oh, wow, yeah. It’s been a while since neither one of them have done a proper grocery run, hasn’t it?

Work or something else getting in the way of something so exciting, and sometimes it’s just easier to grab fast food on the way home or call a place that will deliver and so on.

But he’s not in the mood for fast food or take out at the moment, and there’s a grocery store on the way home. (Also some of the stuff Gavin texted him about are staples or something they use all the time and would super shitty to wake up the next day and remember they ran out and just. Yeah.)

He calls Gavin and asks him to come up with a list of things they absolutely need Right Now he can get on the way home. The rest will have to wait until they get their shit together and do a grocery run sometime in the next few days.

Gavin tries to tell him they need ALL the things, but he’s being a little shit and they both know it so Michael doesn’t feel guilty about hanging up on him. (Or ignoring the texts Gavin sends him as he drives to the store.)

And then!

He’s at the store – kind of late at night because work and shifts and what is time?

Just a few people there – some college kids, a tired looking guy with a baby in a cart and looking more than a little frazzled, a couple bickering over coupons? And so on.

He doesn’t think much about any of it as he goes through the aisles picking up the things on the revised list Gavin texted him.

And, yeah. There’s some bullshit stuff on there Michael mentally crosses off because Gavin and annoying fuck and Michael can’t be bothered to be annoyed.

When he gets up to the register the guy with the baby’s in front of him, and wow, okay, wow.

The poor bastard looks like he hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in pretty much forever.

Tired and scruffy and moving real slow like all his energy is going into not falling over onto his face.

The baby, though?

Adorable as fuck, even if it’s just staring at Michael.

Unblinking.

Little stuffed animal that Michael thinks it might have started life off as a cow, but it’s clearly much loved – or gnawed – and talk about covered in baby drool because yeah.

So Michael’s standing in line behind this poor bastard whose baby who clearly wants to fight Michael with the way it’s staring at him.

The guy doesn’t seem to notice his baby is staring Michael down, which fine. He’s got his hands full not dropping his shit all over the floor as he unloads his cart. (Usual baby stuff – diapers and wipes and formula and other such things. Food for himself – and okay, yeah, guy loves his diet coke? But not like it’s Michael’s place to judge, right?)

He makes faces at the baby and it keeps Staring, which is fine because what was Michael expecting from a baby?

But whatever, the baby’s kind of cute. (For a baby.)

Someone’s phone goes off, this horrifically obnoxious thing that sets the baby off, startles it or whatever and the poor thing bawls its eyes out.

Full-on wailing while the asshole with the shitty ringtone answers their phone and has a Loud Conversation with whoever called them and oblivious to what they’ve done in regards to baby meltdown.

The Tired Guy is like, trying to calm the baby down and not drop the carton of eggs he’s got in his hands and doing a terrible job of both, but eventually he manages to get the eggs down on the conveyor belt-thing and picks the baby up to soothe it and whatnot.

No one notices when the baby drops their stuffed animal between the crying and everything else. (Which, incidentally is Not Helping the baby calm down but everyone assumes it’s just tired baby being tired baby and expressing itself the only way it knows how.)

Tired guy manages to juggle his baby and paying for his groceries before leaving with the still crying baby.

Michael feels bad for the guy – baby’s still crying and they can see him through the front windows trying to calm the poor thing down with no success – but not like he can do anything to help, right?

He moves up and accidentally steps on the baby’s little stuffed toy (cow???) and is like, oh shit, because that would go a long way in explaining why the baby’s still upset?

He picks it up and wipes it off best he can and tucks it under his arm – ewww, baby drool – and pays for his groceries and hurries out of the store before Tired Guy leaves.

Makes it outside just in time to see Tired Guy start to make his way to the parking lot and calls out to him waving the stuffed toy. (Knows he probably comes across as a creep or weirdo and hopes the guy won’t react badly before Michael can explain.)

Tired Guy doesn’t react badly, which is nice.

Seems confused as hell before he realizes what Michael’s holding – the fact the baby stops crying the moment it sees what Michael has is helpful in that regard – and Michael’s like lol because the baby is making grabby hands for their toy.

“Here,” Michael says. “I think the kid dropped this back there.”

The baby’s getting frustrated at not having their toy back Right Now, and Michael looks at Tired Guy for permission to give the baby to little stuffed cow and gives Tired Guy this smile because the guy looks so goddamned relived the baby’s stopped crying?

Michael hands the toy over the baby is instantly happy again, making happy baby noises as they hug the little toy cow and being adorable as hell.

Michael ends up chatting with Tired Guy. (Okay, it’s more like he’s chatting at him because the guy tries, he does, but it’s pretty obvious he’s too tired to keep a conversation going no matter how thrilled he is to be talking to someone who isn’t a baby?)

And, look.

Michael gets it, he does. Has had enough family members and friends with their own kids and that thing where it feels like they’ve not seen someone who isn’t a literal child in forever or talked about anything no child-related for an equal amount of time.

(Also, maybe. On second glance Tired Guy’s kind of not terrible to look at and while he sounds tired and his voice is a little shot, it’s also not terrible to listen to. Michael knows this won’t go anywhere because come on, his life’s not a goddamned romcom, and also the guy’s got a baby. That usually implies a SO of some sort or other relationship and all, but hey, he can still talk to the guy, right?)

Right.

He finds out Tired Guy is actually new in town, staying with a friend of his until he gets his own place and doesn’t know a lot of people here yet. (Works from home or something with computers???)

It goes fine for a bit, but eventually they hit this slightly awkward silence/lull in the conversation.

And then (conveniently) Michael gets a new text from Gavin asking him where he is – Michael told him he’d be thirty, forty minutes late getting home with the grocery stop and it’s well past that by now – and the baby thwacks Tired Guy in the face with the toy cow because it wants attention or just for the hell of it, who the hell knows what a baby’s ever thinking?

They’re both like oh, right, right, better get home, and make their awkward goodbyes. Michael halfway home before he realizes he never got Tired Guy’s name or anything and man, what a shame because he actually liked talking to the guy?

He was funny and nice and Michael’s still kicking himself about not getting his name or number – its not easy being in a new place and not knowing anyone and all that, but nothing he can do about that now.

Until, you know, later.

Because Michael helps his landlord out with handyman projects around their building he gets a percentage off their rent.

Sure, it means he ends up tangled up in repair jobs and such from time to time, but for cheaper rent it’s not a bad trade-off. (Most of the time, anyhow.)

One day the landlord calls Michael and asks him if he could check things out in this one apartment. New tenant and something to do with the wiring or something?

Michael is like SIGH because he’s been pulling doubles at work and was looking forward to a long weekend to do nothing but relax, catch up on sleep and all that.

But, whatever, right?

He garbs his tool belt and heads over to the apartment in question and boy oh boy, is he surprised when the tenant opens the door and it’s Tired Guy.

:O!

It takes a moment for Tired Guy to recognize him, and then it’s the two of them staring at one another like idiots because what are the fucking odds, right?

Tired Guy looks a hell of a lot better than he did when they ran into one another at the grocery store. Still kind of tired, but not the kind that invites worry over his well-being that may or may not require an intervention of sorts.

“Uh, hey,” Michael says, when the staring is getting to be ridiculous. “I’m here about the call you put in to the landlord about a problem you have?”

And then Tired Guy (who, come on, we all know it’s Ryan) is like ??? and then !!! because, oh, yeah, right.

That.

He shows Michael over to where the problem issue is. Turns out to be some dumb problem the tenant before Ryan caused by trying to be a DiY’er or something with regards to rewiring something or other. Botched the whole thing and hid it to avoid having to pay a fine or whatever to the landlord and all that. The apartment’s been empty for a while before Ryan moved in – and Michael is like, huh, because he remembers Gavin chattering on about their new neighbor.

Nice enough guy he ran into in the hallway a few days ago, but Michael kept missing because working longer hours than usual and other typical reasons in this kind of scenario.

Now he’s keenly aware of Ryan as the guy moves about elsewhere once Michael told him the problem he’s having is an easy fix, maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes to deal with and feel free to ignore him while he does.

And Ryan takes him up on that, apologizes because kind of rude? But also he was working on something and he’s just a room away if Michael needs anything and so on.

Ten, fifteen minutes go by before Michael hears a baby crying. The loud, awful full-on baby meltdown and Ryan wanders back into the room holding the baby and doing his best to calm the poor thing down.

Michael glances over when he gets the baby to fall asleep – tired and fighting sleep every step of the way until it couldn’t anymore – and smiles at the picture the two of them make.

Ryan a tired dad and adorable kiddo drooling on his shoulder and just.

Adorable, the both of them.

“Cute kid,” Michael says, because the baby is cute.

Impressive set of lungs and all, but still cute.

And Ryan, tired and on auto-pilot as he rocks the baby he’s holding and murmurs nonsense to it speaks without thinking.

Just goes and says, “Oh, she’s not mine,” and makes another circuit of the room, passing right by Michael who is like.

Huh.

Because Ryan doesn’t seem like a baby-stealing lunatic, but who knows, right?

Watches Ryan wander past again before what he said actually registers and Ryan is like

!!!

“Wait, no. I mean - “

Michael tries not to laugh as Ryan falls over himself reassuring Michael he’s not a baby-stealing lunatic (and incidentally succeeding in making himself look like a general sort of lunatic ).

Tells Michael that friend he was staying with when he first got to town has this whole. Fostering Things going on.

Looks after kids and such whether it be short-term or long-term (They’ve got a couple of kids they’re in the process of adopting because they can’t not have them in their lives for forever after getting to know them and so on but it’s a hell of a process and legal battles and all that going on to complicate things.)

But they’re out of town for something or other and couldn’t take the baby too, and Ryan offered to watch the baby for them. (Not the first time he’s done it and definitely won’t be the last.)

At the end of his explanation he’s watching Michael like he’s expecting him to call the cops or something and looking even more like a lunatic.

Michael just rolls his eyes because yeah, no. He didn’t really think Ryan was a baby-stealing lunatic in the first place, so calm down idiot.

They end up chatting again while Michael works and Ryan sits down on the couch with the baby deep asleep and it’s.

Kind of nice?

When Michael finishes up he remembers to get Ryan’s name – and his number – and a promise from Ryan to give him a call if he needs help. (Handyman projects or baby stuff or whatever, you know?)

He goes back to the apartment he shares with Gavin and Gavin is like. Knows Something Happened and gets the whole story out of Michael. (He knew about Tired Guy and Crying Baby from the grocery store and cannot stop laughing when Michael tells him Tired Guy is actually Ryan, and also their new neighbor?)

Michael is like SIGH because yeah okay. Fair enough because God knows he’d do the same if he was in Gavin’s shoes for something like this.

He doesn’t really expect to hear from Ryan again, but a week later he gets a text from the landlord and surprise, surprise, Ryan’s found another problem in his apartment.

Michael heads over and finds out it’s another botched DiY shitshow from the previous tenant and sets about fixing it while they chat.

The baby’s there again, and Michael is like huh, at the way Ryan is with her. Definitely in love with the tiny baby even if he doesn’t realize it yet (None of his business, but he hopes it works out for Ryan’s sake.)

After that Ryan texts Michael about some random something that made him think of Michael and things kind of snowball from there.

The two of them being all dorks falling in love (and not realizing it) and also there’s a baby?

Like.

The baby features a lot, this sweet little girl with pretty blue eyes named Abigail.

Ryan freaking dotes on her, spoils her, and Michael rolls his eyes and tells him he’s spoiling her even as he brings over new toys or games or whatever to grab her attention or make her laugh.

Ryan is like “Do tell,” and absolutely laughing at Michael the whole time.

One night Ryan asks him over for dinner one night (it’s a thing they do, they’re just friends for fuck’s sake Gavin, stop looking at Michael like that) expecting the usual fast food or take out or something, but no!

No.

There are goddamned enchiladas, clearly homemade because no way any of the places around there could make anything that looked half as good. (Maybe Michael’s biased???)

“Oh, hey,” Michael says, this huge smile on his face. “I thought you were bullshitting me about these.”

Ryan’s all nervous and worked up about something, and just when Michael’s about to ask him what the hell is going on, Ryan blurts out that he’s going to go through with the adoption process for Abigail.

Michael is just like, even bigger smile because he thought Ryan might do something like that sooner or later, given how much he loves her.

“Congratulations,” he says, and laughs. “When I saw the enchiladas I thought you were going to ask me on a date.”

He tries to make it sound like a joke, all ha, ha, hilarious and all that because obviously that would never happen. (They’re friends and all.)

Only.

Ryan’s not laughing.

Ryan, in fact, looks confused as hell.

“I thought I already did?”

Because look.

All this time the two of them have been having dinner and watching movies and all kinds of date-things, but for whatever reason Ryan never officially asked Michael on a date.

So Michael’s been thinking they’re just friends while Ryan is like My Boyfriend is Best Boyfriend :DDDDDDDDDDDIt’s just.

Super Awkward for a moment, and then it’s hilarious as fuck because Ryan?

And also annoying as fuck because all the smooches and ~other things they could have been doing all this time? (Almost a year by that point and Ryan you moron.)

But hey, they’ve just got stuff to catch up on and what better time than now to get started?

Smooches and Michael laughing at Ryan who laughs at himself and Michael and it’s stupid cute -

So of course Abigail chooses that moment to start crying and they break away to laugh about her impeccable sense of timing.

“Jesus,” Michael says, laughing a little as they untangle themselves from the pile of throw blankets and dumb pillows on Ryan’s couch. “Can’t wait for that to get old.”

Because cock-blocking baby that’ll be a toddler and on and on and on and wow, fun? (But also that sweet little girl with the pretty blue eyes that Ryan -and okay, Michael – loves so goddamn much.)

Ryan laughs because same? But then he goes to see what Abigail’s crying about now, and comes back out with her dozing off on his shoulder and just.

Michael’s watching the two of them with this look on his face, all soft and fond and he makes room for them on the couch where he and Ryan watch something on Netflix with a sleeping baby and really, okay, really, there are worse things than this.

(And then happily ever after with shenanigans and occasional enchilada nights and Gavin and all their other friends laughing at their dumb dorkfaces for forever.)

#ragehappy #myan #dorkface dads au #anon #prompt fills #technically not a fic #vagrant fic #Anonymous

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xperiwrites · 4 years ago

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Am very tired that I do not have the urge to do any writing at the moment.

HOWEVER I do still have ideas, and some even In Progress with a very patient @doodled93, though a lot of them are Witcher themed rather than working on my original fic.

Might be the general Everything and the Public but not really feeling the sexy thoughts atm.

However read a thing that said if you have ideas, sometimes putting them out in the universe will help you with motivation, so, in no order, things that are in my WIP document:

- Modern Geraskier : Jaskier does an episode with Marie Kondo, it’s assumed in the beginning that he lives on his own except that there are drawers with oddly plain clothing that he won’t get rid of, a huge dresser that’s revealed to be full of weaponry before Jaskier tells everyone that it’s off limits, and at some point Doodle and I agree Jaskier has to hop up on a returned-from-a-job Geralt’s steel toed boots to plant a kiss to the only non-gorey part of his face and also has to take off his socks afterwards to avoid tracking in monster viscera throughout the house.

- Jaskier gets home very late, very drunk/high, and tries to sneak around the house to make a very late night snack, not wanting to wake up Geralt or bother him-- but he’s starving. Doesn’t turn on the lights while he creeps about on tip-toe, slo-o-owly opening cupboards, freezing after the tiniest of noises... Geralt watches all of this, interrupted from cleaning his equipment by his Bard creeping about, having clearly forgotten the fact that he was wearing sunglasses.

- short fic: Geralt goes to a funeral with a somber faced Jaskier, a mildly confused Ciri, and ignores the distinctly flat look from Yennefer. Jaskier: “We gather here today in memory of the life cut tragically short--” (Ciri, to Yennefer: “Cut tragically short? Didn’t Jaskier smash his lute over that mans head?” Yennefer, not lowering her voice: “Yes, and now we’re at a funeral for said lute.”)

- Witcher’verse fic where Geralt has to get used to the fact that Jaskier, at some point, decided it’s not only ok but actually necessary to drape himself or otherwise lean against Geralt at any point of resting.

There are a few other ideas percolating, but these are the ones that have more than a page dedicated to them.

Writing has been slow going, my work hours have gotten VERY inconsistent (though I have hopes that it’ll even out soonish), but it feels like things in my life are starting to make a turn in a vaguely upward fashion, so I may have the time and energy to participate in some internet socializing :)

Thanks be to the people who’ve sent me messages, and I’m happy that people are still enjoying what I’ve written even while I’ve been away.

Much appreciated my dudes <3

#xperi writes #xperi prompts #the witcher #fic #writing #life update

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weepylucifer · 5 years ago

Text

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 1

Team Folly takes a call and unearths a bit of past that everyone believed long-buried.

“Aed,” said the fae. “Please, you may call me Aed.”

It was, that much I knew from what had stuck during my leafing through the Folly’s mundane library, one of the lesser known faerie aliases, like Aisling or Myself or Nobody, something for a fae to use in a pinch, and certainly not likely to be this guy’s actual name. But it had been what he’d responded to my inquiry after his legal name - fine, A legal name for our files.

Aed looked like David Bowie and Kurt Cobain had had a lovechild, whom they then abandoned to be raised by a family of raccoons.

He was tall, pale, skinny and he gangled, and everything about him looked… dejected, is what I’m trying to bring across here. Fae have often been observed to dress according to their chosen vocation, or so one of the ancient wizards said who used to record his observations on the demi-monde within the Folly’s records. I’ve certainly also seen this here and there, like Molly’s Edwardian servant dress or Foxglove’s artist getup. This guy seemed like he was trying to play up a role of… hermit, or dumpster-diver.

Aed’s story was this: once upon a time, in some vague past, his… Nightingale says ‘tribe’, I would opt for ‘community’… of fae had had some neighbourly dispute with another one. Before they knew it, dispute became war, there had been a vicious attack, and Aed’s people had been scattered. Far as he knew, he might be the last one standing. Now, unwilling to pass back into the realm in which his type of fae actually dwelt for fear of what might await him there, Aed subsisted in a... it cannot be said any more politely, in a dank cave out on Dartmoor, far from any kind of civilisation save for a few scattered villages around and about. They barely counted, for my part; most of them could barely boast one decent pub.

Sometimes, occasionally, people from these adjoining towns would stumble upon Aed’s dwelling. Purely by accident, you understand, it wasn’t like he was luring anyone out here, or at least so he claimed. Most people, he could simply cause to forget. They would head home and not bother him out here again. But sometimes, people came to him with a wish to make. A bargain to offer. Troubled people, he said. People who, like him, longed for escape. A quiet place, to hide from something, just to get away from it all, and bliss. Oblivion. Respite.

I looked into that gaunt face framed by sad, stringy hair, those long, bony fingers fiddling nervously with the strings of his moss-green hoodie, and understood that Aed actually had thought he was helping. And the disappearances had been too few and far between as to ever rouse the suspicion of the Folly, or much of anyone for that matter. But then, about a week ago, a girl named Lucinda Blaine had gone missing and, what with her being the great-granddaughter of a bloke remotely connected to Hugh Oswald’s gossip mill, we’d gotten a call on the Folly’s ancient landline. Even ancient retired practitioners keep their eyes open, apparently, and people disappearing plus a relatively recently circulated local fairy myth about the area had warranted a call to us. So we’d headed out here because, well, obligation, missing children, all that jazz. This time, Nightingale had tagged along, possibly because he too felt an obligation towards one of his centenarian cohorts and, by extension, their families. Apparently, just after the war, he’d been asked to stand godfather to the spawn of about anyone who’d made it back to England and gotten it in their heads to start procreating. There had been guys trying to name their sons after him. These days, all the hype seemed to have died down: we didn’t often get veterans calling the Folly, and if Nightingale was otherwise in contact with any of them, I’d never noticed, and I got the feeling he preferred this.

“But she approached me with a wish,” Aed was now saying. I was taking his statement right there in the cave, seeing as he couldn’t be persuaded to leave it, and abandon his sleeping charges. “She told me her situation had become untenable. That she longed to escape the torments of her life.”

“Well, she’s eight,” I replied, maybe a bit more sharply than was strictly appropriate. “Eight-year-olds try to run away from home sometimes. Doesn’t mean adults should enable that. Yeah, her parents getting a divorce is causing her a lot of grief right now, but she’ll get better eventually. It for sure doesn’t warrant putting her into a magical sleep forever.”

I looked around the cave. Lucinda was nowhere near the only person asleep here, although we had been quick to find her. The other people resting here in their magical stasis were adults, thank god for small mercies. There were green vines everywhere, making up beds for the sleepers, growing under and above and beyond them; the ones that had evidently been here the longest were all but covered in vegetation. But they were all breathing, and none of them looked worse for wear.

“People have to go and confront their problems,” I said. “What do you think sleeping it off is going to solve? Will they really be happier when they wake up and it’s a hundred years later?”

Aed looked at me, saddened and confused. Here was a guy who had been out here on his own for too long, I thought. He had lived here in his own little world, where making people disappear was justified and good, and now he suddenly had wizards in his home demanding he stop. “Their problem would be gone,” he said softly.

“They’d have other, bigger problems instead.” I shook my head. Sometime soon, we’d have to wake up all these people and get them out of here, preferably into medical care; they would be in shock and needing to be looked at. I had no idea how the folks over in the town would cope with having everyone who disappeared here within the last couple years back at once. Mostly, though, right this moment, I was worried about getting Aed to part with his charges. He didn’t look like he had a lot of fight in him, but with the demi-monde you never know.

It was then that Nightingale tapped me on the shoulder. “Perhaps I should like to have a word with Aed here, outside,” he said. “In the meantime, you’d better start reviving the victims. Getting these plants off of them should do the trick, but try not to have them touch your skin. And see if you can call anybody at the local force, these people are going to be needing medical attention.” Then he gently, but firmly put a hand on Aed’s shoulder and steered him towards the mouth of the cave.

“Now,” I heard him say, “let me tell you, one survivor to another…”

I tried not to strain my ears to listen to what they were discussing. I had work to do, anyway. Through some minor miracle, I had a signal up here, so I called down at the station in one of those arse-end-of-the-world towns and got told that while it would be nigh-impossible to get an ambulance out here, there would at the very least be a team of first responders along soonish. I sighed to myself, already impatient to return to London and civilisation, but there was a job to do first. I put on gloves and started to unravel all the vines.

Nightingale proved to have been right, people began waking up as soon as I got the flora off them. They were fairly out of it, most of them confused, somewhat frightened, especially the eight-year-old. Apparently most of them had not come out here for a bargain with the faerie expecting to be laid to sleep in a cave. I questioned them - gently, you see. There was a group of twenty-somethings here who’d wanted to celebrate some pagan ritual (completely made up). There were some other folks who’d simply angled for a meditative moment, to honor a little local custom, to leave a wish for the faerie, expecting... well, nothing much. After all, the Good Gentlemen of the Hills weren’t real, right - until they were. Some of these people had indeed been here for years. I had my hands full, and the situation was coming precariously close to slipping from me when the first-response-team showed up, dispensing shock blankets and gently corralling everyone to where they’d parked the ambulance.

Just about then, Nightingale came back. He wasn’t terribly wordy, said he had been able to persuade Aed to return home at last, to finally check on his people. I wanted to ask what he said to him but didn’t, a slight bit afraid that he’d had to make threats of some sort or worse, give Aed the Condensed Ettersberg. I imagine suspecting you’re the last one of your people and knowing it makes a bit of a difference, and according to Nightingale, last anyone from the Folly had checked, some of Aed’s tribe had still been extant, so who knows. Maybe there was hope for that guy yet.

“You missed another one back here,” Nightingale said at last, striding deeper into the cave.

There was what remained of Aed’s camp here, a sleeping bag and futon, a portable stovetop, a few bags with odds and ends. Depressing. There was, indeed, also another buried sleeper.

The vines were thickest towards the back of the cave, a verdant green affair that didn’t look quite… real, almost stylized, like vines in a video game rather than real life plants. They were almost as thick as a man’s forearm, and the shape of the last person trapped here was suggested rather than seen. I had trouble pulling them off without potentially injuring the sleeper, so Nightingale said, “Allow me,” and disintegrated them using some at-least-fifth-order spell. I had half an eye on the other sleepers who were all slowly coming to, so I left him to it until he called my name.

“Peter,” he said, and there was a sudden tension to his voice that worried me, “I’m afraid we have another problem.”

He had unearthed the whole man - I have to assume - by now, and was looking at him with a hard-to-read expression. There was almost some disdain in it, certainly a load of dismay.

“Sir?” I asked.

“This is another sort of glamour here, some seducere variant,” he explained, “or another fae. It cannot possibly be what it looks like.”

This surprised me, seeing as I wasn’t feeling anything at all weird - no vestigia, nothing. By the looks of it, this was another ordinary bloke sleeping here, another result of a dodgy deal with the fae. But I decided to defer to Nightingale’s expertise. “How so?” I asked.

“For the sake of convenience,” Nightingale said, “Could you please describe to me what you are seeing here?” He gestured at the sleeping man and there was some undercurrent of something in his voice, something badly repressed there, and my concern and confusion mounted. Still, I obliged.

“I’m seeing a white male, early or mid-fourties by the looks of him,” I started my description. “Dark hair, sort of unkempt, sort of a gaunt look to him. He has a mole or birthmark on his neck, here.” I tapped my own thoat in the corresponding place. “He is wearing what appears to be hiking gear, pretty old, that is to say old-fashioned but well-maintained. He must’ve been laid up here for quite some time. Boots, like army boots, like the pair you have. Grey canvas jacket, or maybe it’s khaki.” Hard to tell in this light.

If anything, my description seemed to surprise Nightingale even more. “Yes, that is… that seems to correspond with what I’m seeing.” He shook his head. “I was expecting for you to be seeing… something else.”

“Like what?” I don’t get impatient with my governor often, but I have to admit I was starting to hate how tongue-tied he was being.

“Probably a woman,” he said cryptically. “Anyway, this cannot be what it appears to be, seeing as I know this person, and he’s been dead for quite awhile.”

Ah. Well, shit. And here I’d been so glad already that this situation had gone over without any fighting. I wanted to ask Nightingale who it was, but he beat me to it before I could so much as open my mouth.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s get it over with. Stand back, I’ll try to wake him.”

Before I could think to argue, or even make up my mind about what alternative action to argue for, Nightingale gripped his staff tightly, got down on one knee and used his free hand to shake the sleeper by the shoulder.

The man was slower to rouse than any of the others we’d found; he murmured something, a hand coming up to swat in the vague direction of Nightingale’s, but after a minute, his heavy eyelids fluttered open.

Voice thick with sleep, the stranger slurred, “Thomas?”

Nightingale straightened, took two steps back and huffed out through his nose. “Don’t even attempt it.”

The stranger blinked, evidently confused, and then, with surprising speed, he lunged to his feet. I admit I flinched.

The stranger’s legs were trembling, he was shaky with the effort of keeping himself upright after laying prone here for god knows how long. Hair fell into his eyes as he leveled a wild-eyed gaze at my governor.

“Get away!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “You’re that fae again. You’re a shape-changer, aren’t you? How dare you appear to me like this?”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “I should be asking you these questions.”

“You’re not Thomas. Thomas fell at Ettersberg.”

“What?” Nightingale crossed his arms; it was almost funny how indignant he sounded. “No, it’s you who died as a result of Ettersberg.”

Jesus Christ, I thought, Ettersberg again. It’s always fucking Ettersberg, isn’t it? Unbelievable, really, how much my life was being affected by a place I’d never been to and had no desire to visit.

“Nonsense,” the stranger ground out harshly. “We… we had no word, there was, there was no way anyone on the ground got out.”

Nightingale was drumming his fingers against the tip of his cane, as much proof of his pique as I’d ever seen him exhibit. “And yet here I am.”

“That’s… no. You’re not Thomas.”

“It is you who isn’t what you profess to be.” I was seeing just how tired Nightingale was growing of this back and forth. Whoever, whatever this was pretending to be one of his old war buddies, it had him careening towards the end of his tether.

“I am exactly what I profess to be,” the stranger claimed. He took a deep breath. “In 1930, in November, I was visiting you while you were staying at the consulate in Lahore. We sat in the gardens, under the stars, and you said to me that you wouldn’t mind if–”

Nightingale cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “You could easily pluck that from my memories.”

I had been watching the exchange, I must admit, with my mouth slightly agape. Now I saw an opportune moment to cut in. “Sir,” I said. “He claims to be someone from the old Folly, right?”

“That’s right,” Nightingale replied at the same time as the stranger asked, “Who’s that?” like he was just now noticing me for the first time.

“My apprentice,” Nightingale introduced me. “Whatever you have to say to me can be said in front of him.”

I found that a little bit of an odd thing to say in the moment, but I was also flattered at the show of trust.

“An apprentice?” The stranger snorted. “Yeah, bullshit. My Thomas doesn’t have an apprentice, and no desire to take one either.”

I ignored him for the time being. “Sir, as for proving his identity, one way or the other,” I suggested, “could you recognize his signare? Is it possible to fake that?”

Nightingale looked at me in the way he does when I hit on something he hasn’t considered before. “Not that I know of.” He beckoned towards the stranger and demanded, in one of his rare militaristic tones, “Right. Werelight, please.”

“You too,” the stranger said through clenched teeth.

“While we’re at it,” Nightingale said with a nod and they both held their palms out, and conjured a werelight each.

Now, I’d like to say I’m familiar enough with Nightingale’s signare from all this time spent around him watching him work his magic. The stranger’s was entirely new: like a gust of fresh air through a recently opened window (I thought I could even feel a hint of the curtains blowing in the sudden breeze, white and starched), a hand skimming over cool tiles, the sound of something bubbling in a beaker, and a hint of pine that weirdly seemed to correspond with a component of Nightingale’s own signare, like two pieces of something coming together.

The stranger gaped. “It’s really you. You’re really here, you… you’ve found me.”

I glanced from him to Nightingale, who seemed to have frozen solid. His staff clattered loudly as it hit the ground. And I swear, I have never ever seen this purely indescribable look on my governor’s face.

“David.”

“Hi, Thomas.”

I kind of stared. David is a common name, but somehow I knew exactly which one this was. I knew approximately two things about David Mellenby with a certainty: he’d been very into science, and he was definitely dead. No wonder Nightingale was suspicious. Apart from that… not much. Nightingale had brought him up maybe twice.

“This isn’t possible.” I barely recognized this as Nightingale’s voice, but it was coming out of his mouth, so what else could it be? “You’re… dead, they told me, Hugh Oswald found your body. It about gave his nerves the rest.”

The stranger - David, apparently - twisted his mouth into a discomfited frown. “Hugh Oswald found a body. I’m so sorry.”

“But how…” Nightingale shook his head. He looked as if a train had hit him, and it was a disquieting sight. I was used to Nightingale in control, see, I was used to him being the guy who, well, might not always know right away what to do, but will reliably find out. “What are you doing here?”

“I left… I ran. I had to get away. It got... too much, being in the Folly, with that damnable library there. I don’t know, I barely knew what I was doing. I just wanted to disappear. I had no idea you’d made it out of Ettersberg, Thomas, I would never let you believe I was dead. You must know that. I ran into this fae out here and… I’m not sure what happened then, but I must have talked myself into a right mess.” Mellenby tried for a smile. “But it can’t have been too long, can it? You look good. Did you just get home? You seem to have recovered rather splendidly. Are you… are we alright?”

Nightingale seemed to unfreeze at that. He stepped forward, and then, with unfailing precision, he punched Mellenby in the nose.

Mellenby, still unsteady on his feet, reeled back, stumbled and landed flat on his arse clutching his bloody nose. “Thomas! What on earth–”

“You…” Nightingale was breathing heavily. “You were here the whole time, alive, you ran away, is what you’re telling me? How could you do this to Oswald? How could you do this to me!”

I was seriously starting to worry for everyone’s continued safety here. Nightingale stood rooted to the spot, trembling fists white-knuckled at his sides and let’s be frank, he’s not a guy who hauls off and punches people. I’d thought I’d known what anger looked like on him but boy, did I have no idea. I’d seen him more controlled while actively in a fight with Chorley.

Mellenby stared up at him, his eyes wide. “My songbird…”

“No. You don’t get to… no. I’ve been alone with it all for - eighty years have passed, David!”

There was a dreadful little silence in which Mellenby just blinked. “I… are you saying I slept for eighteen years?”

“Eighty,” I piped up. The both of them turned towards me as if only just remembering I was there.

“Peter.” Nightingale’s voice was leaden. “Hand me my staff, will you? I seem to have dropped it.”

“Sir, may I suggest not doing anything you might regret,” I posited, because ‘my songbird’ was still kind of echoing, if not in the cave then certainly in my mind. I was closest to where his staff had rolled off to, so I did pick it up, but made no move to hand it over.

“Allow me to judge this for myself,” Nightingale said through clenched teeth. He beckoned in my direction without looking at me, his eyes still boring holes into David. “And give me my staff.”

I didn’t know if he wanted to use it for its intended purpose or just as a blunt object, but I couldn’t in good conscience enable either. “Sir, I don’t think–”

“I shan’t repeat myself.”

“Thomas, please, you know I love your little pranks, but this is not the time–” Mellenby started to say, but Nightingale waved his hand in the sharp downward motion that accompanied his more theatrical spells, and Mellenby’s mouth clicked shut.

He stared up at Nightingale in complete disbelief, eyes wide and shining with the onset of tears, unable to get his mouth open. I had seen this once before, and yet again I felt the vast and smooth click-clicking of Nightingale’s magic at work. But it felt different than the usual, disordered, the myriad little gears grinding.

“Sir,” I said, more sharply than I perhaps had intended. Nightingale finally turned to look at me, and slowly, gradually, he slipped back into the 21st century, where we have rules against using our magic on people in anger.

Mellenby crumpled to the floor when he was released from the spell, his head lowered, eyes leaking, cheeks glowing from the strain of trying to open his mouth earlier, some blood still smeared below his nose. Nightingale looked from me to him to me again.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly, to the room in general, and strode for the exit.

#i never started in media res before #david mellenby lives AU #idk if this is... wise to post like idk if this is good and this chapter is mostly exposition and scene-setting but #eh you know what i added some of the drama originally intended for chapter 2 bc hey it felt prudent right this second #posts by me

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