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navegandoaciegas · 4 years ago

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Little doll

Pairing: dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: stockholm syndrome, manipulation, controlling!Bucky, unhealthy relationship, mentions of violence in the past (no graphic description), smut, vaginal sex, oral sex (both male and female receiving), vaginal and anal fingering, slight praise kink.

Summary: You used to be a strong-willed independent woman, but after a whole lot of training, you’ve finally become Bucky’s perfect little doll for him to own, love and take care of.

A/N: I had this idea in mind today and wrote this in a couple of hours for @jtargaryen18 ‘s 4k writing challenge. Congrats! I hope it’s decent lmfao

There is no graphic violence or non-con in this story, but it’s stated/hinted pretty heavily that these things did happen in the past. Reader has no physical description. 18+ only. English is my third language so sorry for any mistakes.

7.09 am

There’s a pulsing ache between your legs and a hot breath fanning over your neck that sends tingles down your spine.

“Baby?” you mumble in a daze, still half asleep, moaning and clutching the sheets when you feel a finger tease your entrance.

“‘Morning, sleepyhead.” Bucky murmurs, peppering your cheeks with small kisses.

You can’t fight back the smile that spreads on your face and you slowly pry your eyes open, finding your husband already looking at you in adoration. He lets his lips move downwards, nipping the skin of your throat and sucking little bruises there. A moan escapes you when the hand that was kneading your breasts pinches one of your nipples while his fingers keep sliding in and out of your pussy, sending jolts of pleasure all over your body.

You’re burning up, feeling a familiar pressure build up in your core already. You’ve been together for years, but you’ll never get over how good he is at this.

His hands are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The hair on his chest and lower abdomen rubs on your sensitive skin, and you can’t get enough of all this. You never will.

His name is on your lips like a prayer as you beg him for more, for that sweet release only he can give you. He complies, spreading your legs and settling between them. He trails open mouthed kisses down your body, slowly bringing his face to your awaiting cunt. The anticipation of what he’ll do to you is killing you slowly. He licks a strip of your dripping pussy and dips his tongue in your folds, pushing as far as he can go.

“So sweet.”

He groans against you when you grab a fistful of his long hair and the vibration goes straight to your core, making the knot inside you tighter. You grind your hips against his face, fucking yourself with his mouth and crying out loud in pleasure.

“So wet, so needy, all for me.”

He draws circles on your swollen clit and crooks a couple of fingers inside of you, hitting that sweet spot that makes your toes curl and your back arch even more.

You’re writhing underneath him, desperate for a release.

“Please, faster.” you moan, bucking your hips wildly.

“Beg for it.” he demands, jerking four fingers inside of you.

His bruising touch, the vibration inside your cunt, his soft kisses. It’s all too much and still not enough.

“Please Bucky, please let me cum all over your face, please, please, I’ll be good for you.” you beg like the cockslut you are.

He sucks hard on your clit, and that’s all it takes to tip you over the edge, body shaking uncontrollably and vision going white. .

You’re spent, panting on the bed and feeling the familiar burn that his beard leaves behind on the soft skin of your inner thighs. Your walls flutter around nothing, and somehow you want more.

“Such a good girl for me.” He looks at you through half lidded eyes, lips red and swollen, face covered in your slick. You taste yourself on his tongue when he dips down and slants his mouth against yours, reigniting the fire inside of you.

“Do you want me to fuck you? Do you want to come again, all over my cock? Yes?”

You whine, feeling yourself grow hotter than before. “Yes, please, fuck me.”

He thrusts inside you, slowly at first, faster once he can sheathe himself fully without feeling any pain. You’re still sore from yesterday, but the familiar stretch of his thick cock is so good that you ignore the burn. You only feel him and the pleasure he’s giving you.

“So perfect, made for me, my sweet girl.” he grunts in your ear, and the praise sends jolts of electricity directly to your cunt.

Your hands are roaming over his hard muscles and your walls are clenching down on his cock, impatient for another orgasm to wreck you.

The room is filled with the lewd sounds of him fucking you, his balls hitting your ass, the squelch of your arousal, and he’s so vocal with his moans and grunts that you could come hard just listening to him.

His pace is more frantic than before. Your walls are milking him as he pounds into you relentlessly. Just when you thought you couldn’t feel more pleasure, Bucky dips his hand behind you, fingers covered in your slick teasing your back entrance and pushing inside you, finding no resistance in your relaxed state. His pubic bone hits your clit repeatedly and you’re so full of his cock and fingers and him that you see stars.

“Cum pretty girl, cum all over my cock. Show me how good you are.”

He snaps his hips harder against you and you cry out when the pressure in your core releases, jolts of pleasure shooting from your cunt to the rest of your body, vision going blank.

He swallows your cries with his mouth, and the feeling of you clenching around him is enough to send him over the edge too. His thrusts become sloppier and he cums hard, holding onto your waist with a bruising grip and biting down on your bottom lip.

He collapses on top of you, and you relish in the feeling of his hot release filling you up.

“Love you.” he mumbles, caressing your cheeks.

“Love you more.” you whisper with a smile, scratching his scalp the way that makes him purr like a cat.

You stay impossibly close for what feels like hours, Bucky still inside you, encompassing your whole body, until the alarm clock goes off and he lifts himself up with a grunt. He stares in fascination as his cum slowly drips out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Don’t wanna go to work today, doll.” he whines, clinging onto you again and pouting like a child, “Wanna stay in bed with you.”

You chuckle, because he’s always so needy in the morning, and push him off you.

“We’ll stay like this all weekend, I promise. Now go get ready.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee invades the kitchen and your senses. You love the fragrance, even though you aren’t allowed to drink it. Bucky says it’s bad for a dainty doll like you. You remember you used to be addicted to caffeine before; it was the only thing that kept you going during your long, strenuous shifts at the hospital you worked at as a nurse. Bucky provides for you now, so you don’t have to worry about that exhaustion anymore.

You drink loose leaf herbal tea these days.

You smile when a ray of light shining through the window hits the diamond ring on your fourth finger, projecting a kaleidoscope of colors on the walls. The eggs are sizzling in the pan, the bread slices are toasting in the oven and you can hear the faint noise of Bucky taking a shower.

You arrange the table the way he likes it: buttered toast and scrambled eggs on a plate, yoghurt and cut up fruit in a little stained glass container, a steaming mug of coffee, a tall glass of ice cold water and fresh flowers in a vase; the paper towel goes to the right side of the plate, with a fork and a knife with the sharp side that faces left on top of it. You nod in satisfaction at the spread and remove the strainer from your teacup.

Bucky greets you with a peck on the lips and a bright smile. He pulls the chair back for you, ever the gentleman, and sits on the other one, “Any plans for today?”

“The usual, y’know. I may go for a walk at the park, if that’s okay with you?” you hesitate on the last part, giving him a hopeful smile. You love to collect the wildflowers in the meadow and feed the ducks at the pond. Plus, walking is good for your health, and Bucky has you exercise at least once a day anyways.

“Of course you can, princess. Do you have enough birdseed or do you need more?” he asks, chewing a mouthful of eggs and toast, “I’ll give you extra money if you want to get it.”

You’re grateful he agreed. Truth be told, he hardly ever denies you anything now that you’ve learnt to behave. “Thanks, but it should be enough to last me another week, I think. Is Steve coming for dinner tonight?”

He shakes his head and sips on the coffee you made him, just the way he likes it: two sugars, one splash of full fat milk, a sprinkle of chocolate powder. “No, I think the punk’s staying home with Sharon tonight, ‘member her?”

You nod. You do remember Sharon. They’ve been dating for a while. She is a nurse like you used to be. Would Steve make her keep the job?

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice your pensive mood and checks his phone as he finishes the last of his strawberries. “God, it’s 8.35 already. I gotta hurry sweetheart, don’t want to be late again like yesterday.” he says with a mischievous smirk.

You feel warmth creep up your face at the memory of the reason why he was late, and you clench your thighs shut as you recall the image of you bent over this same table you’re at and him pounding into you from behind. He wouldn’t leave unless he gave you one more, and then another, until you were shaking and crying in pleasure.

You both get up. He grabs his jacket and backpack, you hand him the lunch you’ve packed for him. He pulls you in for a sweet kiss, holding you by the waist. You taste the coffee lingering on his tongue and it reminds you of another life.

He pulls away and nuzzles your hair, hugging you tightly. “I’ll miss you.” He mumbles in your ear, inhaling the calming scent of the lavender shampoo he’s chosen for you.

“I’ll miss you more. Have a good day at work.”

“Thank you, have fun at the park. Behave.”

You wave him goodbye from the front porch and stand there until his sleek black car disappears in the distance. You sigh, missing him already, and get inside, ready to start your day.

9.00 am

Bucky is a business manager at Stark’s IT company and his job is a 9-5, Monday to Friday, which means every week day you start your chores after he leaves.

He likes the house spotless and you never want to disappoint him. You shudder at the thought of what happens when you do. Thankfully, it hasn’t occurred in a while. Only bad girls get punished, and you hate punishments too much to be one.

You start downstairs: you open all the windows to let the fresh morning air inside and get to work. You vacuum and mop the floors, disinfect the kitchen counter and empty the dishwasher, sanitize every surface in the bathroom until it’s squeaky clean and smells like Bucky’s favorite lemon scented detergent. Then you move upstairs: you wipe down all the furniture, scrub the ensuite, change the soiled sheets and sort through the hamper, separating whites and colored.

You hum as you work, proud of yourself because you’ve perfected the cleaning routine in your time with your husband, so now it only takes you an hour and a half now to do the entire house.

You grab the basket of dirty linen and clothes and head downstairs to do the chore you hate the most: laundry. The basement where the washer and dryer are makes you quiver in fear when you think of it, but you haven’t found the courage to ask Bucky to move the appliances upstairs yet. Sometimes you still have nightmares about your time there, and Bucky has to hold you and rock you all night to calm you down.

It’s where you spent the first six months after he took you, locked up all alone. He’d visit you every night, but you didn’t appreciate that. You feel guilty now for all those times you fought him, especially the one time you managed to break his nose with your elbow and sprinted upstairs. He caught you just one step before the front door. God, you were so stupid. You’re lucky he got to you in time. What would a girl like you do without a man like him?

As punishment, you spent a week locked in a wardrobe, with no food and barely enough water to survive. You stopped fighting after that, and when he got you out you sobbed on his shoulder and let him hold you and bathe you. You slept in his bed that night, and all the nights that followed in these 3 years.

Bucky never meant to hurt you, only take care of you, but you were too stupid to understand that back then. You understand now.

12.55 pm

It’s a beautiful spring day, the sun is bright and there’s a light breeze blowing from west.

You think of how you weren’t allowed to leave the house until a year and half ago. You missed the outdoors. But Bucky is a fair man and he lets you go wherever you want now that he can trust you. He even takes you on weekend trips wherever you desire. Maybe if you’re good enough, one day he’ll buy you a car, so you won’t have to walk everywhere.

You still have a tracker implanted in your forearm, but that’s for your own safety.

You spread a blanket underneath your favorite tree; from your position you can see both the water and the meadow, and that lovely wooden bridge over the pond too.

You’re basking in the sun as you reflect on all the new hobbies you’ve picked up now that you don’t have to spend the better part of your days in a hospital.

You embroider, you try out new recipes, you read, you do yoga, you paint and draw, you collect flowers and leaves and you dry them up in your botanical journal. You’ve become quite good at taking care of the garden in these past few months, and the roses you’ve planted are growing nice and strong. Sometimes you go for a swim in the ocean, some others you go shopping. The house is entirely decorated in your paintings, and you often give them to Bucky’s friends and family too.

You don’t have friends or family anymore. You only have Bucky.

You never thought you would enjoy these activities so much, just like you never thought you could be so free. Of your job, of so much pain and sorrow, of the hardship that comes with free will, of the choices you make that weigh you down until you can’t sleep anymore.

Who knew having your freedom taken away would be so liberating. Not you.

You have Bucky to thank for that. He always knows what’s best for you.

5.29 pm

Bucky’s been thinking about you all day and as soon as he’s clocked out, he couldn’t come back home fast enough. He smiles when the front door opens and he’s hit by the smell of freshly baked cookies. You really spoil him too much.

You run into his arms as soon as you realize he’s back, hugging him tightly, mumbling about how much you’ve missed him.

You’ve made dinner for him, just like he expects of you. Homemade basil pesto pasta, grilled salmon, oven roasted vegetables, white wine for him, tonic water for you because alcohol is bad for little dolls, white chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

You chat about your days over food, and when you’re both done you clean up while he changes into more comfortable clothes.

He has a reward for you, since you’ve been so good lately, but he wants you to earn it.

“On your knees.” he commands, and like the perfect doll you are, you comply.

You look up at him with your innocent doe eyes and Bucky knows he could come at the sight of you so beautiful, so obedient alone. His hands work swiftly as he pulls down his sweats and gets his already hard cock out.

“I want to fuck your mouth.” he says, tracing your lips with his red tip, “Open up, doll.”

You do as he says. You take him in your mouth and his eyes instinctively roll back at the feeling of your wet tongue licking a strip from base to tip; your cheeks hollow around him, sucking him off, one hand pumping his length and the other massaging his balls.

He aches for more, so he grabs a fistful of your hair in what is probably a painful grip, judging from the way you gasp, and he takes that as an opportunity to slant himself inside your mouth until he hits the back of your throat. He shoves himself deeper and deeper until you can't breathe, your face is red and your eyes full of tears. You steady yourself holding onto his thick thigs as he keeps fucking your mouth harder, balls slapping your chin.

Saliva is dripping down on your face as you’re choking on his cock, and those gagging noise you make vibrate against him, making this all the more pleasurable. He knows you won’t complain anyways, no matter how much he abuses your mouth or your cunt.

He knows you’ll always comply. He’s made sure of that.

With a last thrust in your mouth he pulls out just in time to paint your face with his hot spurt. You look perfect with tears streaming down your cheeks and his cum all over you.

“You did so good princess.” he praises you, and you smile up at him, “Go get cleaned up now, we’re watching a movie. You choose.”

You beam, and he knows you’ll choose one of those Disney movies you like so much.

Good girls always get a prize.

11.00 pm is your bedtime. Little dolls need their 8 hours of sleep.

You’re already fast asleep, and Bucky looks in complete devotion and adoration at your form. You’re so pretty, so perfect, so completely his.

You’ve been so good lately that he hasn’t had to punish or discipline you in more than six months.

You’re no longer the stubborn woman you used to be, the one that broke his nose and resisted all he’s put you through for months. You’re finally a little doll for him to own, love and care for. His little doll to dress up and play with. He’s especially happy tonight, because he knows you’ll love the reward for being so good this time.

It’s only taken Steve two years, because Sharon wasn’t as strong as you, but he’s done now.

Bucky knows how lonely you can get. Tomorrow you too will have a friend, another little obedient doll like you to play with.

read my other dark!bucky fic here

I hope you liked this! If you did, please reblog and let me know what you thought of it. 🥺

#jtargaryen18s4k #bucky x reader #dark bucky x reader #dark!bucky x reader #dark!james barnes #bucky x you #james barnes x reader #james barnes x you

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veeples-archive · 3 years ago

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the sea that receives

|D hi i wrote a lil something for @ockissweek with the prompt: greeting for my OC fiona rosario and @lilas's OC kai, who are best friends.

word count: ~800. no warnings. just schmoop.

***

Kai gives a small nod of acknowledgement to the pristinely dressed airline employee wishing the passengers a good day, too exhausted to manage more than that. Twenty hours of plane travel with spotty rest during it has rendered him with the kind of intelligence he might expect from an exceptionally sharp sea sponge. He rubs the stiff muscles of his neck in a feeble attempt to alleviate the crick there.

Next time he’ll triple check to make sure he packed his neck pillow.

Mindlessly he shuffles with the rest of the gray faced, weary passengers through the rest of the terminal. Though his memory of the Osaka International Airport is returning to him sluggishly, it at least allows him to navigate through its expansive corridors with some ease. Glancing at a few of the gaping, uncertain looking American travelers who were on the flight with him, he’s thankful he’s not completely lost.

In the main thoroughfare, the noise of the airport is more prominent. Chattering crowds, the sounds of hundreds of feet moving this way or that, the pleasant voice on the PA system delivering news and updates. Kai shies away as much as he can, making quick note of the signs directing him to immigrations, and prays he ends up in a smooth moving line.

Despite working his way through the winding line to immigration taking a near half hour, Kai makes it through with relative ease. He stumbles his way through his rough, but passable Japanese. Chatting with his mother or with Fiona over the phone usually keeps him conversational between visits, but between writing up proposals for grants and staying late hours at the marine research facility, Kai’s hardly found time to fit in doing much else besides keeping himself afloat.

Picking his way through the throng of people at baggage retrieval, watching the revolving carousel until he spots his own bulging suitcases and bags, and one more long line through customs sets him back another half hour. Kai breathes a sigh of relief as he slips his papers, wallet, and passport back into his backpack, thoroughly exhausted now with a headache singing at his temple to match.

All he needs to do now is meet up with Fiona and her husband Yahiko.

That thought alone is enough to put an excited pep in his step.

Past a hallway lined with restaurants selling baked goods, bowls of steaming noodles and curries, a dining area with neatly lined tables filled with dining customers, Kai approaches a waiting area with people clutching handmade signs and anxious faces. He sweeps his eyes along the crowd, looking for a hint of curly hair, a flash of brown skin.

Kai doesn't need to look for long before he catches a glimpse of a familiar round face cresting around a pillar.

"Kai!" Fiona calls as recognition lights on her face.

And then she’s running at him– no, she’s sprinting. Weaving through people, ignoring their annoyed looks, glossy curls bouncing around her face.

He's got just enough time to let go of his bags and ground himself to receive Fiona's launching hug without being knocked over from the sheer force of it.

Kai spins her in a half circle, laughing, heart swelling as he holds her close. He buries his nose into the mass of hair tumbling over her shoulders, breathing in deeply. Sweet orange and fresh grass. Salt of the sea. The smell of a never ending summer’s day.

Nearly a year since he’d last seen her.

They finally break away from their death grip on each other as if they both share that thought at the same time. They look at each other, wordless and grinning. Appreciating the beaming face staring at him, face aglow with all of her open joy, cheeks rounded and pink. Honeyed eyes wet with tears.

Still the same Fiona.

Same radiant, welcoming warmth. Same reckless decision to nearly tackle him to the ground in the middle of a bustling airport. Same disregard for the uncomfortable looks Kai knows they must be receiving for this rather gregarious display of affection.

He doesn’t care.

Kai thumbs away a curl that’d fallen across her freckled face. Immediately she tucks her chin to her chest, forehead presented, and he kisses her in the direct center. The hands she has balled into fists at his back tighten further, tugging him closer. He hears her snotty sniffle, feels her turn her lips to press her own fond kiss to his cheek.

Fiona.

His closest friend.

Silly, wonderful Fiona.

Home as much as his mom his home, as much as his apartment is home, as much as the sea is his home when he wades into the water and feels received.

“It’s so damn good to see you Fi.”

#oc kiss week 2022 #fiona rosario #kai matsui #sobbing yelling throwing up #ockiss22

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mellowswriting · 4 years ago

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Settled - A Sequel to The Future

pairing || Din Djarin x fem!Reader

summary || A glimpse into domestic life with Din.

word count || 4,238

warnings || soft smut, food consumption, pregnant reader, domestic fluff, Din Djarin is the best dad in the universe but we already knew that, Uncle Paz Vizsla bc I’m shameless

a/n || Listen... soft domesticity with Din was something I didn’t realized I needed in life until writing this, so I had so much fun. Thank you to the anons who sent the requests that inspired this!

Main Masterlist | Join the taglist!

Translations: riduur - spouse buir - parent mesh’la - beautiful kurshi’ika - little tree cyar’ika - darling, sweetheart

It was the kind of morning people wrote poetry about, line after eloquent line about how the sun broke over the trees in brilliant streaks of orange and pink backed by the symphony of cheerful bird chatter, how the steam from your coffee mug curled through the air in a lazy pirouette, how each sip you took as you read by the open window filled you to the brim with a warm peace that rivaled any other. That kind of tranquility was something you had craved, but never thought you could actually have for yourself.

You were never more glad to be wrong.

Every promise Din made to you, he followed through on. Ma’ira was small but beautiful, covered with lush forests and dotted with turquoise colored lakes, and the second you landed on the planet you just knew. Something about it all felt right. It didn’t take long to find the home you now lived in with your riduur, an almost cottage-like home on the outskirts of town, far enough away that Din felt comfortable enough to strip away his armor more often than not.

It had been a strange adjustment. Din wasn’t used to the possibility of being so open. You weren’t used to the possibility of staying put. But the biggest adjustment of all was the swell of your stomach when you first moved into the house that the two of you had turned into a warm, happy home. Din, being the overachiever of the century, somehow managed to knock you up right on the first try. To say that the both of you were surprised would be an understatement. You expected to have more time, to be able to spend however long it took to find the absolute perfect place to settle down.

In more ways than one, you were beyond glad that your lover was such an overachiever. You would have overthought it all; which planet was the best to settle down on, whether or not the house you chose was the right one, if your town was safe enough. The kiddo growing in your belly like a weed forced you both to make a decision in a timely manner and now you had an incredible husband, a perfect daughter, and another warrior growing strong in your belly.

At two years old, Willow was a bright, vibrant little girl who also managed to create mischief anywhere her little feet could carry her. And with all of that endless bounty of toddler energy? Yeah, you needed those calm mornings as a reprieve from her energy, as much as you loved her

It was the rumble of her bare feet on the wood floors that drew you from the novel in your hands, her wild mess of brown hair the first thing you saw as she clambered in your lap. Her arms wound around your neck as she pulled you into a bear hug, practically choking the life out of you in her excitement.

“Good morning, Willow,” You said as you shifted her weight away from the swell of your belly before brushing her curls out of her face. “How about we go wake up your buir, huh? I think he’s gotten to sleep in enough this morning.”

Willow’s eyes lit up at the mention of her father and she nodded emphatically, already ready to poke at her father until he woke up like she did every morning. You made your way into your bedroom with her on your hip and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight your husband made. Din was still dead asleep, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, the stark contrast of his tan skin against the white sheets made even more striking by the sunlight flooding through the windows. Just like his daughter, his hair was a curly mess atop his head.

You gingerly set Willow down next to Din and she crawled over to kneel at his side and pry his arm away from his face. It woke him up immediately, you could tell by the slight curve of his lips despite his still closed eyes - a game he played almost every morning with his daughter. Next came the poking at his cheeks, then his eyebrows, and then his lips - where Din grabbed her hand and pretended to gobble her up.

“Papa!” Willow squealed, devolving into a fit of giggles as she tried to squirm away. “Mama, help!”

The second you leaned over to try to scoop her up, Din pulled you down onto the bed on top of him and pressed a kiss to your lips, always careful not to put pressure on your stomach. You shifted to lay next to him, propping your baby bump on his side to relieve the tension. Sat there in that bed, your husband rubbing your belly with one warm hand and your toddler jumping and tumbling around the pillows, her peals of laughter echoing off of your bedroom walls… well, it brought you more peace than any early morning sunrise or good book could ever bring you.

“Good morning, mesh’la.” Din murmured against your temple where he pressed a kiss, his voice rumbling low and sleepy. “How’s the book?”

“About halfway through, it’s a good one.” You loved the interest he took in your little hobbies. The newest book in particular was the fourth in a series Din had gotten for you. He knew you liked to read while you breastfed and was more than happy to provide you with as many books as possible. “The little one is kicking up a storm, though. He’s killing my bladder.”

Din hummed as he slid down to speak right into your belly. “Be good to your mama, little one.”

He kissed your baby bump, leaned up to kiss your lips, and then stood to stretch his arms high above his head with a strained groan. “Come on, kurshi’ika, let’s get your hair fixed.”

You smiled at the nickname, watching Din carry his little girl to the bathroom. He may be an intimidating Mandalorian, a big and bad ex-bounty hunter, but he was the softest, sweetest dad you had ever seen. With a low groan, you eased yourself onto your feet and busied yourself with preparing breakfast, and by the time Din emerged from the bathroom with Willow, you had yogurt and a pile of sliced strawberries ready for her.

Sitting down to eat meals together was something you cherished. It felt like a completely different life, back when you and Din would have to sit in separate rooms to eat to protect his creed, back when everything was so complicated. Now Din would share small bites of his own meals with Willow, he talked through mouthfuls of food hidden behind his hand, he cleared the table once all of you were finished. Yet another new side of your soulmate that you had the privilege of seeing.

It didn’t take long for Willow to finish her breakfast and ask to be let down to play. It amazed you how much energy such a small kid managed to contain, watching her zip around the living room without pausing to take a breath. You couldn’t help but laugh as Din tried to keep up with her. Not long ago, you would’ve been right there on the floor with them, but now that pregnancy had shifted your center of gravity and had your back and feet aching constantly, it was too damn hard.

While Willow was lucky to have a dad who had no qualms with crawling around on the floor with her, even he couldn’t rival her energy. Din dropped onto the couch next to you with a long drawn out sigh, watching with raised eyebrows as his daughter shot around the room.

“How does she do it?” He chuckled, shaking his head. You hummed in lieu of an answer and leaned your head against his shoulder. Just like with your first pregnancy, you were tired more often than not and Din’s warmth was like a heavy blanket that could only lure you closer to sleep. Din pulled you closer to rub your belly. “How are we going to do it? With two?”

“If we can handle bounty hunting, we can handle two kids, my love.” You murmured, your eyes falling closed as you relaxed against him.

“Bounty hunting was less scary.” Din said with a huffed laugh and yeah, he wasn’t exactly wrong. But as terrifying as parenthood could be, watching Willow grow and learn made everything worth it. You could see pieces of both of you in her; she had Din’s hair and your eyes. She had her father’s attitude and your perfected puppy-dog eyes. She had her father’s grumpy face and your laugh.

Even so, she was becoming her own person the more she grew. Every annoyed huff, every little pout, every time she jumped out from behind the couch or bed to ‘scare’ one of you, it became more glaringly obvious just how lucky you both were. The little one growing strong in your belly would only add to that luck, you just knew it. Even when your bladder was being used as a trampoline, when the exhaustion got so bad you had to nap in the middle of the day, when the nausea overwhelmed you, there was an underlying tone of luckiness.

Three quick knocks had you easing yourself off of the couch despite Din insisting he could get it. If you stayed on that couch curled up next to him any longer, you would fall asleep and you knew it. A warm rush of air flooded against you when you opened the door and you smiled brightly at the man in front of you.

“Paz! It’s good to see you!” You said as you pulled him in for a hug. “Come on in.”

The second Willow saw him, an excited cry of “Uncle Paz!” echoed through the living room as she scrambled to give him a bear hug. Paz was the one who made you realize that your husband wasn’t an anomaly among Mandalorians - you knew they cherished children, that raising them to be strong and healthy was the foundation of their culture, but you hadn’t realized just how gentle they were with the littlest ones. If anyone had told you before all of this that you would see Din Djarin and Paz Vizsla sitting on the floor and happily playing along with a tea party for a two year old and her stuffed bunnies, you would’ve laughed at the very idea.

But now it was a weekly occurrence, one that you would cherish the memories of for the rest of your life, and you couldn’t imagine life any other way.

“Are you sure she’s ready, cyar’ika?” Din murmured as he watched Willow debate which stuffed animal she should bring with her.

“I definitely think she is. Besides, Jaina and Paz are only a few miles away. If she changes her mind, we’ll go pick her up.” You rubbed his arm reassuringly. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Just nervous.” He grunted.

Willow’s first overnight away was something you both agreed on, but that didn’t mean neither of you were anxious about it. Paz and his wife were the only ones you trusted enough and Maker knows that they didn’t mind helping. You were all family, after all.

“She’s going to be with them while I’m in labor, she needs to be comfortable if she has to stay overnight. But we can put this off a bit longer if you want.” You offered, but he shook his head. No matter when Willow went to spend the night with her Uncle, it was going to be nerve wracking and you both knew it.

You knelt next to Willow and helped her zip up the bag she had stuffed full of toys. “Okay, Willow. Are you excited to stay with Uncle Paz and Aunt Jaina?”

Willow nodded emphatically, bouncing on her toes and struggling to keep her attention on you in her excitement, especially when she saw her dad walking over to crouch down next to her as well.

“Be a good listener for Paz, okay kurshi’ika?” Din reminded her gently and Willow nodded again before hugging him tightly. The worry on his face eased as he held her close.

“Bye, Papa.” Willow chirped before turning to hug you as well. “Bye, Mama. Bye, Baby.”

The kiss she popped against your belly choked you up and you almost wanted to wrap her up in your arms and never let her go. Oh, your sweet, precious little girl. So excited to be a big sister, already so loving to a sibling that wasn’t even born yet.

You watched her hop along after Paz and as he strapped her into the seat of his speeder, always overly cautious about the strap placement of her harness, but Paz was a quick learner. All it took was that one time of showing him exactly where the chest clip was meant to be and stressing the importance of it, and the man had it down expertly.

You expected the house to feel smaller, empty without Willow’s high peals of laughter and exhaustive energy, and while that thread of nervousness at being away from your child still held true, the idea of getting to relax with your husband without any real obligations was… nice. Different, but nice. You sat down heavily on the couch, that heavy exhaustion creeping over you to weigh down your eyelids the moment you met the cushions.

It was the feeling of Din’s hands rubbing the tension from your feet that woke you sometime later. His attention was on the television across the room, some rerun of a trashy holodrama playing at a low volume. You smiled sleepily at him. So handsome with his fluffy, unkempt hair and the stubble he hadn’t bothered shaving in the past few days. You reached out to graze his arm with your fingertips and Din smiled before he even looked away from the screen.

“How was your nap?” He asked quietly, a soft fondness on his face.

“Good,” Your voice was rough with sleep. You wiggled your toes against his hand. “This is better, though.”

Din chuckled but complied, those strong fingers of his digging into the arch of your foot and pulling a pleased hum deep from your chest. The man had hands like magic. It was something he loved to do, taking care of your body aches and tense muscles, especially when you were pregnant. He was the one who put you in that state after all. He felt it was his responsibility to take care of you, however you needed.

The tightness of your muscles slowly relaxed with each kneading pass of his fingers, his hands slowly making their way up past your ankles, working through your calves and your knees. He pressed feather light kisses to your calves as he worked his hands, shifting so he could lean over you and slowly work himself up your body. Din knew exactly what he was doing, could tell by the way your contented little hums morphed into pleasured moans.

A grin found your lips when your heady whine was met with a low, needy groan. Din nipped your inner thigh playfully and looked up at you with those bright eyes. “What do you need, Din?”

“You.” He leaned up to press his forehead to yours. “Just you.”

“You have me.” You whispered, your heart pattering faster in your chest. It had been far too long since you could just let loose with him and enjoy each other without having to think about anything other than the feel of each other’s bodies. “You always have me.”

Din kissed you, one hand propping himself up next to you and the other gripping your chin to tip your head back. A shudder rocked through you at the feeling of his tongue dipping to lick at your lips. You pulled away to pat his cheek, a breathless laugh falling from your lips.

“Not on the couch,” You said. “Take me to bed, riduur.”

Your husband helped you to your feet, ushering you ahead of him with one big hand smacking and grabbing at your ass as you laughed at his antics. Before you were showing, Din would’ve had no issue shoving you down on the bed and going to town on you, and while his touch was still firm, he was gentle. Beyond careful.

He had you stripped in no time, your shirt and shorts flung somewhere unknown and uncared for. The warmth of his hand at your waist made you shiver and press closer; the skin on skin of his chest pressed against your back was addictive, left you keening for more, for any other gentle touch he would grace you with. It was a kiss to your neck that came next, followed almost immediately by the drag of his teeth against your pulse. His fingers knotted in your hair, angling your head to give him better access to the corded muscle of your neck that he loved sinking his teeth into.

The stuttered cries he managed to pull from you were like music to Din’s ears. Every single sound you made for him… fuck, they were just as pretty as you. He pressed you forward onto your hands and knees, grinning at the way your fingers immediately curled into the sheets, and ground his clothed cock against your ass in a slow circle, relishing in the desperate cant of your hips in your search for more friction.

“So needy, cyar’ika.” Din murmured as he leaned down to kiss and lick and bite at your shoulder blades, his hand coming down to cradle your belly, feeling his child close and safe inside of you. “Such a good girl, huh? Always so good for me.”

“Please…” You arched against him with a whine, seeking his touch where you really, desperately needed it. The look you tossed at him over your shoulder was almost enough to break him. “I need you.”

Din popped the hems of his briefs with how quickly he ripped them off. He moved to kneel at the edge of the bed, ready to open you up for him, spread you out with his tongue and his fingers and let your pretty little moans soak into his ego and stroke his pride. Your foot shot out to stop him, damn near catching him in the ribs.

“Fuck, Din, I’m ready. I promise, I just need you, please -”

He eased your desperation with a hand at the base of your spine, shuddering at how much you needed him, his touch, his cock buried as deep as possible in your wet little cunt. Din’s fingers brushed your core gently, barely touching you to hear that needy whine one more time, before tracing your clit in practiced circles.

The arch of your hips deepened as you relished in the pleasure your husband sparked through your body, unable to curb the needy sounds you made. Sex with Din was always a good time, but sex with Din while you were pregnant was next fucking level. The doctor had told you it was because of higher blood flow and blah, blah, blah, but you had a sneaking suspicion that he was also just that good. You didn’t even realize you were begging at first, crying out a high, ‘please, please, please’ until you felt Din’s cock notch at your entrance, the hand he had at the base of your spine sliding down to grasp firm at your neck.

He pushed into you in one smooth, devastating stroke, not stopping until his pelvis was flush against. The groan he gave was one you heard time and time again, his voice reverent as if you were the goddess to absolve him of all of his sins, the one to save him and bring him to salvation. It broke you down and built you up in the same second, pride swelling in your chest at the pleasure you brought him, at the pleasure he brought you. Just the full feeling of his cock stretching you was enough to have you trembling beneath him, so that first slow stroke, the roll of his hips as he pulled away only to push back into you, it was devastating.

“Fuck…” Din’s head tipped back, his hips setting a steady, slow pace that still had you almost too full but still needing more. “So fucking wet for me, so ti-ight.”

You wanted to praise him, to tell him how good he felt inside of you, how his thick cock made you quiver around him, but your voice had disappeared, fizzled out with that first thrust. But you could show him. You pushed back against him to meet his thrusts, a cock drunk grin spreading across your face when Din’s pace stuttered at your enthusiasm. The muscles in your thighs and back were starting to ache with the effort of holding yourself up, but before you could find your voice well enough to tell him, he was pulling out of you despite your whined protest.

“Hush, sweet girl,” Din said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he eased you onto your side and settled behind you. “I’ve got you.”

Your leg was lifted to brace against his hip and then Din was thrusting back into you, his bare chest pressed firmly to your back. You leaned your head back against his shoulder as he slid his hand up your thigh and over your hip, desperate for the electric feeling of his practiced fingers against your clit. Instead, those teasing fingers trailed over your belly and up your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake to flush across your sensitive skin.

“Din…” You whined, sounding every bit like the needy, debauched little thing you felt. Din’s hand snatched yours up when you reached between your legs, only making you whine more.

“Use your words, cyar’ika.” Din murmured low in your ear. He didn’t miss the way his voice made shivers dance down your spine. “Tell me what you need.”

“T-touch me,” You managed to stutter out as you arched against him, angling your hips so that he hit even deeper and the head of his cock pressed against your g-spot. That tension ratcheted tighter in your belly and drug your desperation higher with it. “Fuck, please!”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Din teased and finally dipped his hand between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open and gathering up your slick to circle your clit.

A loud cry ripped from your chest, your orgasm quickly approaching under Din’s touch, combined with the stuttering breaths coming from your lover. He wasn’t lost on the pleasure he brought you, the feeling of your already tight cunt tensing around him, growing more wet to ease the way for him.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” You huffed, hovering on the edge of ecstasy only driven higher with each stroke.

Din captured your ear lobe between his teeth and hissed one word. “Cum.”

You broke. Keened and trembled and gasped as he rocked you through your orgasm, only shoving his hand away when it became too much for your sensitive nerves. Three more thrusts into you and Din’s pace stuttered, his hand coming up to brace against your hip and hold you in place to bury his seed as deep as your body would allow him. You let out an exhausted, breathless chuckle - if he hadn’t already had knocked you up, that certainly would’ve done it.

The two of you took a moment. Soaked each other in as you caught your breath. Din barely moved, only shifting slightly to pull out as you whined at the loss, but he peppered lazy kisses on your shoulder in apology. In those moments, those hazy post-sex moments where you were both sweaty and sated and beyond in love, your hands wandered as did Din’s. It was almost instinctual, a need to check each other over and soothe any aches, any bites that were a tad too rough.

Din pulled at you with insistent hands, guiding you to roll over and face him so you could use his side to rest your belly on. As much as that helped to ease the ache your growing baby put on your back, it was just as much for him as it was for you. He loved supporting you, feeling you relax against his side, running his palm over your belly and tracing the stretch marks that signified all you did for him, for the children you bore and nurtured both as they grew inside of you and at your breast after their birth.

“Shower?” Din asked after an eternity of peaceful silence.

You hummed your agreement, shivering at the idea of those strong hands massaging your scalp and aching muscles. “In a minute. Just wanna feel you.”

And feel him you did. Din wasn’t the only one who loved to aimlessly trace his lover’s skin. His muscles twitched under your gentle touch, something that never failed to make you smile; he was so strong, so firm, yet a single caress was enough to have him shivering with a small delighted smile on his face.

The shower could wait. The rest of the word could wait. All you needed was Din.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x y/n #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando smut #din djarin smut

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rmg91 · 3 years ago

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Zoe Week; Day 6-A Night Off

AKA Comfort Zoe Night

So, this was the first prompt I actually wrote cause it spoke the most to me (the fluffy potential) but then the muses decided to be difficult and I struggled with it until like 2 days before Zoe Week began. I also wound up scrapping my partial first draft and re-writing the first bit to be slightly based off some wonderful Teny art because I realized it could still fic with my idea! (Gotta love great art that inspires) (The art in question is those wonderful pics of Zoe and Douxie as he meets her after a shift at Hextech and then precedes to be a little shit) Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this one and hopefully it doesn’t end too abruptly, like I said the muses wanted to be difficult with this one.

AO3

~*~*~*~*~*~

The night was clear and cool, something that would usually bring calm to the pink haired witch as she walked home from another busy day at Hex-Tech but not tonight. The day had been absolutely brutal. First she'd had the early shift, which was never fun, then she'd been assigned to the bar for almost the entirety of her shift which meant dealing with all sorts of customers. The irritable, the entitled, the ones that just wouldn't listen, it had almost driven her insane by the time her lunch break arrived. It was only after slurping down a cup of noodles and sending a curse heavy text on how crappy her day had been so far to Douxie that she got the wonderful news that she had to work a double shift. She was so going to curse Dave the next time she saw him, she always got his shifts whenever he didn't come in. And of course that extra shift came with, you guessed it, more bar duty! So Zoe had dealt with double the awful customers! Including two absolute Karen's. Why her managers kept putting her in the front when her talents lay better with the tech itself, she'd never understand.

At least she was finally off for the weekend...

Coming around the last corner before her apartment building, she spied her longtime partner and lover, Hisirdoux, leaning against the chain-link fence, waiting for her. She paused for a moment, taking in the rare relaxed air around him and admiring his bare biceps for a moment before sighing, knowing why he was waiting for her. And usually she'd be ready to go hunt Niffins and take on whatever else they might encounter on a Friday night, especially after the day she had, but she was too beat to do anything more. So shifting her bag in her grip, she made her way closer to the wizard, not looking forward to canceling their plans.

“Ah! The fair lady approaches!” He exclaimed, noticing her first with a smirk before his face soften, “Rough day, Love?”

“Uuugg!! You have no idea!!” She groaned, knowing her text had said as much but now she could rant in person about just how bad it actually was. Stopping next to him, she ran her fingers through her hair before rubbing at her temples, trying to push down the migraine that had been brewing since two o'clock, “Not only did fuckin' Dave not come in, we had two, Two, Karen's come in! I was almost certain we'd have a third but thankfully her husband calmed her down. Of course then that entitled Spanish teacher had to come in, again, who, of course, I had to deal with! Not to mention all the other sorts that came in today... And! Because the universe's law apparently decided to hate me today, someone calls right before closing!” She groaned again, feeling annoyed anew rather than relieved after her rant. “Anyway, as much as I'd like to go Niffin hunting, I'm just too beat-!”

Distracted as she was with her rant, the hedge-witch hadn't noticed Douxie's arm sneaking around her before he wrapped it around her shoulder and laid a kiss on her head. He hummed into her hair, nuzzling her softly, “I'm so sorry your day sucked, Darling.”

“Yeah, well...” Zoe felt her cheeks heat up, sinking into the hug he started to give her and feeling most of the fight leave her suddenly. You'd think after almost five hundred years of being together romantically this sap wouldn't cause such a reaction but you'd be wrong. “It's over now, I guess...And I have the weekend off thankfully.”

“That you do~” Douxie sang into her ear before suddenly rubbing his hand over her head vigorously and messing up her hair, “And I'm sure you'll feel much better after a good nights sleep!!”

“Aaarrgggg!!!” Zoe cried out in surprise and anger, “Hisirdoux!!” She pushed him away, glaring at his grin before marching away, “Jerk! Why do I like you again?!”

“Because without me and Arch your life would be dreadfully boring~?”

She huffed and flattened down her hair, “Hardly.” She then glared over her shoulder, “You are so sleeping on the couch tonight, or better yet, your own apartment when you get done.” She honestly wondered why she put up with his antics.

Douxie merely laughed some more, catching up to her and wrapping his arm around her waist, “Actually, Love, I've decided we're all taking the night off.” When she looked up at him with a disbelieving look he responded, “Really! Wards are already in place around town, so if there's any trouble, Arch and I can go take care of it but otherwise...” The wizard shrugged, “We're all off for the night and you have a little surprise waiting for you~”

“A surprise? Really?” She glared up at him, still annoyed, “I doubt whatever it is will make up for that stunt you just did...”

“I think it will~!” He sang.

Zoe huffed and crossed her arms, muttering a 'whatever' and allowing him to escort her to her apartment building and up to her home. Entering, she dropped her bag and kicked her shoes off by the door, striding over to where Archie was laying on the back of the couch and greeting the familiar with a chin scratch. Glancing around she saw nothing out of the ordinary with the exception that her sink was now empty of the few dishes she'd left there. If that was her so called 'surprise' than it was going to take a lot more than him doing her dishes for her to calm down from that surprise noogie. Lifting an eyebrow at the wizard, silently asking just what exactly he had planned, she watched him grin again before he offered up his arm to her.

“Come with me, Milady~ Your surprise awaits~”

Looking back down at Archie, the black cat merely stretched and stated, “I've been sworn to secrecy.”

Right, of course. Rolling her eyes, the pink hair witch allowed Douxie to guide her down her own hallway, stopping in front of the bathroom. Usually she could sniff out an idea on what he liked to surprise her with but tonight between her exhaustion and the fact that she was still a little annoyed with him, made her question just what he could've set up in the bathroom of all things.

Grinning down at her, Douxie gently pushed the door open and snapped his fingers. A dozen candles lit with the small pulse of magic, illuminating the simple space with a soft orange light and revealing the steaming, bubble filled bath. The light aura of blue magic indicated a warming spell, keeping it the perfect temperature for when she got home. Zoe let out a soft breath, feeling most of her annoyance leave, and leaned against him, letting him wrap his arms around her and nuzzle the top of her head. Trust this wonderful sap to fix her up something like this after she'd rough day at work. Sometimes Zoe wondered just what she did to have someone like Hisirdoux Casperan in her life but she certainly wasn't going to be ungrateful about it. She was even willing to let the whole noogie thing go...mostly.

“I want you to know I don't completely forgive you for that stunt outside but this...is a nice surprise.” She could even make out the light scents of tangerine and patchouli wafting from some of the candles. “And you can't always get away with something like that either.”

He chuckled low, placing a soft kiss on her head, “Of course, Love~” He carefully stepped back, bowing in an exaggerated manner as he gestured to the bathroom, “Now, do please enjoy, Milady, and once you're are done a meal will be ready for you.”

She snorted, “You can't cook.”

He clicked a pair of finger guns at her, “No but I can work an oven!” He then left her to her own devices with a final grin.

Zoe rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly. Gods he was a dork.

~*~*~*~

Twenty minutes later found Zoe happily relaxing in her bath, feeling better after the day she'd had, eyes closed as she listened the soft tunes playing from her small radio. She had to hand it to Douxie, he had thought of everything when setting all this up. The candles were the right amount of light, the radio was already set to play and the bath was filled with her favorite brand of bubble bath. There had even been a rolled up towel for behind her head as she leaned back in the tub. Humming along softly to the music, Zoe only wished for one last thing to make this perfect.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the door opened slowly just enough to allow a wine glass surrounded by blue magic to float in. Laughing lightly, she grabbed it out of the air, taking a sip before calling out, “Thank you but you could've given me it in person.”

“A gentleman never intrudes on a lady.” Was her response before she was left alone again to enjoy her bath.

~*~*~*~

Zoe eventually emerged, having stayed long enough for her fingers to prune slightly and for the water to grow cold, plus her stomach kept protesting the lack of food. So she made her way into the living room wrapped in one of Douxie's old bad shirts and a hoodie she had stolen, breathing in the scent of a freshly cooked frozen pizza. She was passed a plate with two large slices of her favorite kind, three meat with extra mushrooms, and had her glass refilled before being pointed over to go recline on the couch. Shaking her head, she followed the silent order and sat down, digging in before her boys were settled. Archie was passed a plate of salmon and sardines before Douxie joined her, his own plate balanced in a hand.

“So, what does the lady wish to watch tonight?” He asked, reaching for the remote and flipping through channels.

“Hmm...” The pinkette hummed, tucking her knees under her before taking a large bite of her pizza, “Don't really care. Just find something we can zone out to or make fun of.”

“As you wish~”

“Oh gods, no! Do not put that movie on!” She exclaimed, “I will kick you out if you do!”

Douxie laughed, almost spilling his dinner, “Very well! Not in the mood for it tonight.” He continued to chuckle as he flipped through more choices before settling on another horribly inaccurate film of a time they've lived through.

Later, once food was eaten and their movie had changed to something else, Zoe was snuggled against Douxie's side, on the verge of sleep. Archie was a ball of purring warmth on her lap and Douxie kept running soothing circles on her arm as she listened to his heartbeat. The witch was once again grateful to have these two in her life, not knowing just where she'd be without them. They made the bad days better. Wither it was helping her with a sprained ankle from running from goblins, helping her fight of a demon hellbent on kidnapping all the girls in a village or having to deal with crappy customers all day, they were always there beside her. Even if Douxie loved to take cheep shots that ultimately pissed her off even more. Zoe knew she'd always forgive him. And so, full, relaxed and loved, she fell asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Aaahhh, Zoe loves her dork~ And gotta love cheesy endings lol! Hope you enjoyed and aahh!! Zoe week is almost over!

#ZoeAppreciationWeek #Zoe Week #Zoe #Douxie #Zouxie #Archie #ToA #Tales of Arcadia #Tales of Arcadia Wizards #Wizards #Fanfiction #Fluff

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selfwriting-sugarquills · 4 years ago

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70 George Weasley headcanons in celebration of 700 followers!

A/N: I hate to repeat myself but I do still love and appreciate all 700 of you! Thank you for reading my stuff and here’s to 700 more! <3

Find the 70 Fred Headcanons: Here

George is well known to be the brains behind the twins’ operations. He sorted out finding the location for the shop in Diagon Alley, he came up with most of the names for their products, even if Fred came up with the idea for the product itself, and for the longest time, he was the one who sorted out sales and orders for stocking their wares as well as overseeing the owl post-service while Fred sorted the more practical parts.

It might sound crazy, but if you ask George, he didn’t actually like Fred very much until they were about eight or nine years old. George was a lot more quiet and emotional than Fred and frankly, probably feared his mother more than his twin, and so George always thought Fred was too brash for his liking. Eventually, as we know, Fred’s crazy ideas rubbed off on George, and he started liking his twin more and more until they became the inseparable duo we know and love today. Mostly this was because the two found out how well they complimented each other, which meant that whatever they got up to turned out a lot better than when they’d attempt the same alone.

Fred added an extra oomph to their escapades, daring to aim just a little higher, and George was sensible enough to make sure that a little higher wasn’t too high.

It’s only their older siblings who noticed this change and remember the times where Fred and George didn’t get along as well as they did, which is why Bill, Charlie and Percy tend to treat the twins more as individuals whereas Ginny and Ron are more likely to see them as a duo.

Since George is more sentimental, he’s also the bigger worrier. Did they like that joke? Did that prank go too far? Is this worth it and what are we going to do if it isn’t? He’s usually also the twin who’s more likely to step back and apologise to anyone they’ve pranked or teased, not liking the idea of upsetting someone.

This also means he’s incredibly considerate concerning relationships, he’s not afraid to voice his concerns and worries. If his s/o is struggling with something, he notices, worries and tries his best to support them.

Essentially, if their s/o is upset: Fred is more likely to make a joke to make them laugh and take their mind off it, George is more likely to take them aside and talk to them about it, letting them let their feelings out for as long as they need, he’ll listen for hours if that’s what his s/o needs.

Speaking of letting feelings out: It’s been pondered if the reason George is the better beater, despite Fred being the more brash and extreme of the two, is because he uses the quidditch pitch as an outlet for his aggression and considering his anger doesn’t just involve beating bludgers but also resorting to elbowing people in the face (or beating Malfoy up) I’d say that this is incredibly true for him. Most people share the opinion that if something angers George, he’d let it build up until he explodes (myself included) and playing quidditch is a good way to let off steam without it being directed at anyone in particular, making him extremely violent on the pitch, though after every game he plays, he’ll probably be in his most zen and relaxed state of mind.

I do also like the idea of George being very emotionally mature in the sense that he knows how his feelings tend to build up, and since George is also a worrier, he probably doesn’t like the side of him that explodes in people’s faces and yells until he’s done being angry, so: He does try to confront his feelings as soon as he feels them so they don’t get a hold on him. If he’s angry with you, he’ll tell you, if he’s upset because of something that’s happened he’ll tell you. If he doesn’t and seems all quiet and broody (cause he’s not a saint and sometimes he doesn’t confess his feelings) then it’s probably a good idea that you ask him about it.

George is also not afraid to cry, or at least he’s not as afraid to show it as Fred. He actually cried quite often as a small child, as Fred will happily remind him. The only times George will hold his tears back is when he doesn’t want to make the people he loves the most worry, like when he lost his ear.

He was so close to crying he thought his throat would split open but he kept it in while his parents and Fred were there; he couldn’t bear to worry his mother more. Not to mention Fred for that matter. Instead, he waited until he was allowed to take a shower and let it out as quietly as he could, though little did he know Fred was standing guard on the other side of the bathroom door, crying as well.

George doesn’t want a lot of children, he’s so used to the large family dynamic. It’s not that he disliked having many siblings but he’d prefer to have a few kids, three at most and be able to spoil them rotten.

George has only broken one bone. It was his collarbone from a bludger. Besides that, he has dislocated his arm once due to hitting a bludger too forcefully from a wrong angle and sprained his ankle from landing too quickly more times than he can count. He’s also been concussed from taking bludgers to the head twice.

George is actually a bit of a neat-freak. He likes having things in order and in the right place so he doesn’t lose track of things. He can’t put too many things in cupboards because if he can’t see them he’ll forget he has them and buy more and more (cause ADHD, baby), so instead he keeps things where he can see them, though in racks and specific orders which Fred often messes up.

Generally, once they moved out, George was better at doing the housework and he didn’t mind at all. Doing all the housework means it gets done the way he wants it done.

His favourite season is winter and his favourite holiday is Christmas because it’s “a time for family”.

George prefers Molly over Arthur (though it’s a tough pick), and he especially loves spoiling her once the shop takes off. He’ll buy her gifts often and always writes to remind her how much he (and Fred) appreciate her.

He’d never admit it but he also does this as a way of proving himself to her. It really hurt him in those years where Molly would disapprove of his and Fred’s plans and even when he found success he still grappled with the feeling of his mother not being proud of him, despite her telling him that several times. All this just added to his disliking of Percy when he was at his going through his insensitive-git-phase.

George’s favourite time of day is the evening. When everything’s quiet and still he can concentrate better. He wrote most of his essays and came up with most products for the shop during this time.

George loves intimacy. He’s not big on PDA. Cuddling alone together, being all tangled up in each other and having whispered conversations when everyone else is asleep are more his thing.

He does love being close to you in public though, he’ll sit next to you, hold your hand, have an arm around you, lean his head on yours, bump his knee against yours under the table if you’re in a lesson or at a meal together. Small yet intimate touches are George’s romantic love language.

George’s favourite sweet is chocolate. Anything with chocolate is good. If there’s caramel or coffee involved too then even better, mint is also accepted (his favourite flavour of ice cream is mint chocolate chip and he will fight you on why it’s the superior ice cream flavour)

George prefers tea over coffee and drinks AT LEAST two cups a day but can easily have up to four or five depending on how long his day is.

George takes a lot of naps. He’d occasionally nap at Hogwarts, like most students. He really started after he lost his ear because Molly kept fussing over him and forcing him to go lay down and rest, then it became even more of a regular thing after the battle of Hogwarts when he’d stay with Fred at st. Mungo’s, while he got better, and then when Fred forced him to go back to work because “sitting here, is not going to make my leg work, now go make us some galleons you git!” he’d work the shop mostly by himself, well, actually completely by himself beside his employees, which was still a small team at the time and he’d often just have to excuse himself to go upstairs and take 30 minutes to nap before he’d pass out from exhaustion.

George struggles with some sensory problems since losing his ear, he gets a faint ringing sound in his ear every now and then, and though he can hear out of his missing ear, it’s less than his other one and he struggles determining where sounds are coming from which is distracting sometimes. He also got a bit of vertigo every now and then as well as some nausea for the first few years after he lost the ear, it got better and better and today it barely bugs him, though he gets dizzy easily.

On the subject of the ear: George enjoyed telling his nieces and nephews (and heck his own kids too) these wild stories of how he lost his ear: he paid it as a toll to an ancient spirit to gain superpowers, it froze off on a particularly cold camping trip with their uncle Fred, a bludger blew it right off, he was possessed by the spirit of van Gogh…. the list goes on.

George was also slightly self-conscious of his ear for a while, he often worried if people were grossed out by it, though with time he forgot about it more and more until he hardly noticed it himself. Now he doesn’t notice if others notice and frankly, he couldn’t care less if they do.

Fred and George mention in OOTP that they took turns testing products, George tested puking pastilles and ended up taking several days off because of what Madam Pomfrey thought was a bad case of the stomach flu, nosebleed nougat (he said himself how it kept bleeding and at that point he let Fred do more testing because Madam Pomfrey was starting to get wayyy to suspicious of him having some terrible disease that was thought to be long gone) and fever fudge though Fred also tried that one.

George takes after his mother as a parent, his platonic love language is definitely cooking for his kids, making them hot cocoa and baking with them during Christmas breaks.

Does he fuss over his kids as Molly does? Noo, absolutely not no. no way. no. no. (yes)

George’s boggart is being left alone.

Despite that, he hates it when people assume that he and Fred are interchangeable and incapable of being without each other. He loves his friendship with Fred, he’s very happy to be his twin but he’s still his own person and it would be nice to be seen as such and not just “one of the Weasley twins”

Mostly his hatred of being seen as “one of the Weasley twins” stems from the fact that people always assume Fred first, meaning George has been mistakenly called Fred more times than he can count.

George is very timid, to begin with, in any relationships because he’s worried his s/o wants him to be like Fred, and that they don’t really care about him as a person but see him more as an asset or “the next best thing to Fred” Which is also why he’d never marry Angelina after she’d dated Fred, even if it was just for a while.

George spent his first salary from the shop on a gift for his mother, a necklace, and a mixed bag of sweets from Sugarplums'...He knows it’s stupid but he just wanted to buy as much candy as he wanted without feeling guilty about spending money for once.

George is not squeamish what so ever. He has got a stomach of steel. It’s almost kind of freaky how unfaced he is but then again, he did invent and test puking pastilles and a product called you-no-poo, so he’s seen a lot.

George’s favourite dates are movie nights and going for ice cream.

George (and Fred) regularly attends quidditch matches, they also love to go back to Hogwarts to watch their kids play (you know at least one of their kids would be into it, considering the Weasley’s history with the sport) and they always yell out their support v e r y loudly.

George really likes wine. The older he gets he appreciates it more and enjoys talking about it without any knowledge on it at business dinners, he’s impressed quite a few potential clients and business partners by giving them a long tirade about wine, without a single thing of it being necessarily true.

George (+Fred and Lee, lol) experimented with eyeliner for a short while, they stopped because it was quote-unquote: “too much work” which made a lot of their female friends roll their eyes because, oh you’ve no idea, do you, Weasley?

I mean someone had to test the wonderwitch products, right?

George is a very light sleeper, and since Fred is anything but that- what with his sleepwalking and tossing and turning- George rarely got a lot of sleep, meaning there’s a large percentage of his detentions in school that were solely from “inattentiveness” aka “falling asleep in class.”

George always thought that if he really really couldn’t work with the joke shop, he’d be a healer. He doesn’t know if he’d be any good at it but it’s a nice thought and he does have a caring gene from his mother.

George’s first sign of magic was when he was a year old. He summoned a blanket into his crib, so it wasn’t much. His first noticeable thing he did was three years later by blasting Fred off him when they were play-wrestling, he basically shocked him with a defensive charge which sent Fred flying onto his back. Fred’s reaction was sitting up, looking shocked, rubbing his head and then whispering: “cool!” They spent days trying to recreate it but to no avail. The story of the event has been greatly exaggerated by both Fred and George to their nieces and nephews.

They still joke that George has a secret superpower that can only be unlocked by play-wrestling him.

As George gets older, he requires glasses like his father, though mostly for reading and sometimes for working on products.

George’s favourite genre of music is soft rock, he’ll belt out an 80’s power ballad any day (and preferably while cooking)

Oh, cooking. George gets super into cooking and baking after the twins move out, he tries his best to recreate his mother’s recipes and is still to this day attempting to perfect her cornish pasty (a personal favourite of his) and every Christmas, George and Molly practically never leave the kitchen in the burrow, as George desperately tries to learn everything he can.

George is the godparent of all Fred’s kids as well as Albus, Dominique and Lucy.

George buys the best gifts, I’ve already touched on this, but he has a weird ability to get you not only what you wish for but what you really need.

Also, his gift wrapping skills are out of this world (his kids + nieces and nephews will never not receive those gifts that are wrapped in like 100 layers of paper)

George loves pet names, he loves the overly sweet, cliché ones and the simple, common ones. His favourite to call his s/o is darling, sweetheart and, weirdly, pumpernickel (he just thinks it’s a funny word).

George’s favourite dates he’d take his s/o on is: museum dates, cooking for them at home, picnics and going to the beach.

George actually kind of liked the Hogwarts uniform. It was easy to keep track of and it meant he could spend minimum time in hand-me-downs that rarely fit perfectly.

George would love to have (and probably has already got) a dog, he doesn’t care what size or breed (but personally I can see him getting on well with a cavalier or a Stabyhoun)

George (also) has a small size kink: He loves wrapping his arms around his s/o from behind, enveloping them in his jacket when it’s cold and resting his head on top of theirs.

George is either full of energy and wants to do five things at once or wants nothing more than to lay flat on the nearest soft surface he can find and watch movies until he falls asleep.

He often takes his s/o on random adventures, he does it as a way to escape boredom or if he’s lost his inspiration. He finds it helps to come up with new ideas if you throw yourself off your rhythm (if you get it you get it) by doing something random you don’t normally do.

George has big John Mulaney energy and if his s/o ever showed him his shows, he’d probably never stop quoting them.

George’s favourite body parts on his s/o: Neck, hands, lips (and butt) (this is where it gets steamy just fyi)

George is very respectful in bed, he’s the type to ask “are you ok?” and “is this ok?” a lot, at least the first couple of times he’s together with his s/o until he gets to know them better.

George def. has a praise kink, he loves giving praise but he also loves feeling like he’s appreciated and loved and doing a good job, you know?

We all know George has a thing for lace, we’re way beyond that at this point. Consider silk, though. He’d totally be into silk over the lace, it’s a light fabric, pretty and really easy to tear away…. *wink*

George is surprisingly good at opening bras.

Generally, he’s really good with his fingers…

He has a pretty dirty mind when it comes to sex but is also super embarrassed about it so he’d only admit his kinkier thoughts when he really trusts and knows his s/o.

I think he’d be pretty two-sided in bed, he loves the intimate, sweet sex but also the rougher, tearing-your-lingerie-off-you sex.

He prefers receiving more than giving oral but it is by such a small margin, he’ll happily give.

He can only last one round (maybe two if you give him a long break) but he’ll absolutely make it count.

George’s fav position is missionary. As much as he likes trying other positions, he prefers the intimacy of missionary. Plus he thinks being able to see your face as you unravel under him is really hot.

#700 follower celebration #george weasley #george weasley headcanon #george weasley x reader #george weasley fanfic #hp headcanons #harry potter headcanon #weasley twins x reader #weasley twins headcanons #weasley twins #selfwriting-sugarquills 700 follower celebration

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rein-ette · 4 years ago

Note

A cleaner version of my previous ask 😅

Engport, babysitting (catsitting, plantsitting etc) or fire, please?

Oooookayyyy, so. I wrote...something. It's for the engport + fire prompt, but if I'm going to be completely honest it doesn't have anything that much to do with fire, though I swear I did come up with it because I was thinking about things related to fire. And this first part of it doesn't have much engport either, though there's certainly a lot of Port. It does have a cute small animal in it, if that's any consolation.

I do also have another idea for plantsitting, so I might write that at some point, but I didn't want to keep you waiting much longer so -- please accept my apologies and this fic that I can almost guarantee is not what you thought it was going to be.

Warnings: abuse of Greek mythology and one scene from Spirited Away. Also skulls. One skull. And I guess, death? But not really.

The realm of the dead was turning out to be a lot less crowded than Gabriel had expected. Since many mortals died every day, he had imagined that the banks of the river Styx would be crowded with souls, screaming or writhing or whatever spirits did in agony as they waited for their passage to the Underworld. Instead, Gabriel stood alone on what appeared to be a train platform, in the middle of a river so still he could easily see his own reflection in it, and so wide it might as well have been an ocean. Gabriel only knew it was a river because he could sense that the water was drawn to him like a curious child to pretty flower, responding to his immortal parentage. Unconsciously, Gabriel flexed his fingers and wondered if the steaming waters of the Styx would listen to him if he tried to command it. Probably not, and seeing as he was going to be knocking on the door of her master momentarily, Gabriel did not want to be introduced as that nephew who had angered the Goddess of Hatred the moment he had woken up in the Underworld.

Fat lot of good his powers had done him anyways, since he had died at sea.

Hadn't mother always told him the Oceanids were bad shit?

Sighing, Gabriel looked around again at his surroundings. He realized with no small amount of surprise that, while he had just been alone, now several shadowy figures stood with him on the platform, the edges of their figures melting in and out in the thick fog that rose from the waters around them. He tried to examine their faces to see if any of them were the spirits of his crewmates, but whenever he thought he could make out a feature their faces dissolved back into the fog. Exasperated, Gabriel glanced back at the river, noting with another jolt of surprise that now he could see the dark outline of a set of train tracks beside the platform, about half a meter underwater and stretching away into the blackness. Not long after he registered that, he heard the rumble of a train in the distance.

I suppose that's my ride, he thought to himself. The old myths said that Chiron ferried people on a boat across the Styx, but apparently the Industrial Revolution had come to the Underworld as well. Snorting at the thought, he dug in his pocket for his gold coin, which any good sailor always kept in case the ever-capricious ocean claimed them — even semi-immortal sons of river goddesses. Clearly, this was a good habit, because being semi-immortal had not saved Gabriel from that torpedo, which had reduced his poor ship to a lump of floating scrap metal before Gabriel could call up enough power to fill a water bottle, and, oh, all those poor soldier boys who would now never get a chance to die in a gruesome war and fulfill their heroic fates —

Gabriel could not find his coin. Frowning, he searched the front pockets of his admiral's tunic as well, even though he knew he had not kept it there. When that yielded nothing, he moved on to his back pant pockets, then his boots. For the first time since he had drowned in the icy cold Atlantic (which, admittedly, was not that long ago), Gabriel felt a shiver of true panic run through him. How would he board the train without his coin? How would he enter the Underworld? How would he join the ranks of the heroes in the Elysian Fields, where he belonged? Had he perhaps lost his coin when he had rushed to the railings to survey the damage on deck and was promptly dropped into the roaring Atlantic when a stray bit of flak from the exploding engine room tore clean through his right leg?

Now that he thought about it, that seemed likely.

At least he’d gotten his leg back.

The train slid to a rippling stop into front of him. With a soft swoosh, the doors opened, and Gabriel found himself staring at a man who, despite his smart train conductors uniform, could not have been anyone but Chiron, given that his face was a gleaming skull and his eyes literally balls of hellfire. It seemed the god had tried to update his aesthetic for the 20th century as well.

Chiron proffered to him a small wooden box, in which Gabriel could see several gold coins. Desperately digging through his pockets one last time, he finally shook his head. "I’m sorry, I don’t have the fare, I —"

The doors slid closed in his face, and immediately the train began to pull away.

Muttering a few choice curses, Gabriel stumbled a step away from the edge of the platform and watched as the train picked up speed and swooped away into the darkness.

Somehow, he doubted it would be returning to this station.

In the ensueing silence, Gabriel weighed his options. He could sit on this platform and mope, possibly for eternity. He could jump in the river and hope that his aunt either saved him or tore his soul into shreds from the agony. He could try walking along the rails in the direction the train had left, also possibly for the rest of eternity, in the hopes of reaching the entrance to the Underworld eventually.

Gabriel took off his shoes and chose the last option, despite feeling that sulking for the rest of eternity held a certain amount of appeal. He was very good at sulking. Nevertheless, he waded into the water at the end of the platform and found immediately that Hatred was lukewarm, not freezing cold like he had imagined — a nasty, suffocating lukewarm which swirled thickly around his thighs with the collected resentment, broken promises, lurid thoughts and heavens knew what else of millions of miserable souls.

He had feared the water might send him immediately into convulsions of unbearable pain or suck his consciousness right out of him, but as he continued along the track nothing remarkable occured. Perhaps the Styx had sensed his godly parentage and was protecting its kin. Or perhaps Gabriel had collected so much resentment in his long life that the river didn't even recognize him as a foreign body. Whatever the case, Gabriel held his shoes gingerly in one hand and sloshed on.

Quickly, he lost all sense of time, distance, or direction. It felt like he had barely taken two steps before the platform he left was swallowed by the fog, and the tracks underneath his feet curved and meandered like a small stream itself, without rhyme or reason. Gabriel realized that even if the water had not immediately destroyed him, he could not walk forever, and when he finally collapsed from exhaustion he would either be eaten by whatever dwelled in this wretched river or drown over and over in its depths until it dissolved him like a piece of wet toilet paper.

Still, he could not turn back. There was no hope even if he managed to return to the platform, and while a lesser man might have cowered in fear on dry land anyways, Gabriel had spent most of his twenty one centuries of life fighting and wandering across the oceans anyways. Wading through an infernal river until even his immortal soul crumbled into the waves — it seemed somehow like a fitting end.

To distract himself from his happy thoughts, he began to sing. At times it was just a wordless tune, but when he felt inspiration hit he added lyrics. He sang of his birth on the sun-kissed banks of the Douro, the eldest son of its beautiful immortal gaurdian and a local Roman nobleman. He sang of his siblings, not all of whom had inherited his mother's immortality, and he sang in particular of the one brother who did and accompanied him through the aching, bittersweet years that followed. He sang of the lands he had travelled, some bursting with life and colour, others stunning in their harsh, barren beauty. He sang of his lovers, the princes and the ladies, the soldiers and the nymphs and the humble farmhands whom he had courted, bed, and occasionally wed — but never to last, for mortal lives were but a flicker in the endless night and even the immortal ones could not tether down his heart for long. The stars called him, the waves called him, and Gabriel always, always answered.

He suppposed now, though, he had finally found his last resting place.

This thought was immediately followed by a less melancholic one: I didn't know polecats could swim.

Gabriel stopped singing and instead stood and watched as the little furry animal approached, paws paddling furiously as it slipped through the water. It stopped when it neared him and splashed around for a bit, before lifting its snout and looking pointedly at Gabriel, its dark eyes gleaming and intelligent.

Gabriel hadn't known that polecats could give pointed looks, either.

He cupped his hands and extended them to the animal, which immediately scrambled on and promptly snuggled up in his palms, curling into a little content ball. Unable to hold back a smile, he stroked its slick, midnight fur with a thumb, marvelling at how soft and warm it was and how docile it seemed.

Well, he thought, at least I still sing well enough to seduce a polecat.

"You've seduced more than just a polecat, that's for sure," someone muttered.

-- part 2 is here --

#hws portugal #engport #hws england #i swear he's in it #i swear #if the last one was barely a drabble this one definitely isn't #i'll post the second half when i'm done and the whole thing on AO3 when i have a title #speaking of which please suggest titles if you have them #sorry again needcake this...has no fire #not in this part at least #it actually has a lot of water now that i think about it #why can't i follow instructions smh #anyways #fic

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 4 years ago

Text

Spells and Sneezes

I needed to try some Fantasy sickfic, and also practice my “stuffy talk”, so have ~3700 words of a very sneezy, stuffed up sorcerer. This post was inspired by a prompt I saw from this site long ago about a tall, thin, sneezy warlock, but I can’t find that post again to link it to save my life. So generic thanks to whoever came up with the prompt!

“Hehhtt’SSCCHHEEEWW!!

The tickle he thought he’d stifled exploded out of him unexpectedly as a massive, wet sneeze. The tall, young sorcerer groaned and wiped his dripping nose wearily with an already sodden handkerchief. His entire workbench was now covered in the spray. He sighed dejectedly, glancing out the window, the weak afternoon sunlight offering little comfort.

He had been stuck on this spell for days now, and the deadline was fast approaching. And this wasn’t just any order, this was for the KING. He was preparing to wage war and was looking for chainmail woven with a defense spell for 3,000 of his top officers. The king had chosen him to fill this order because defense spells had been his specialty during his apprenticeship, but for some reason this powerful chain was toying with him. If he could get just one prototype together, making the rest would be the work of a day. But he had not been able to make even one yet.

He groaned again, wincing as he continued to wipe his raw, dripping nose. His head hurt. His throat hurt. His eyes hurt. His chest hurt from all the coughing he’d been doing. But he couldn’t rest until this was done.

He summoned the chair he had shoved aside a few minutes ago. Neither sitting nor standing seemed to help him concentrate better, so he kept going back and forth. He leaned his head in his hand and picked up his quill again, scratching sigils fruitlessly.

A merry knock startled him and he leapt to his feet, his lithe frame quivering. For a moment he imagined it was the king’s advisors coming to collect the spell a week early. Instead, his younger sister poked her head in, waving cheerily.

“Brother, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost! Did I startle you? I’m sorry. It has been some weeks since I’ve seen you, and I wanted to check on you.”

She bustled in, her cleaning cart clattering behind her and parking itself by the door. Elliamina was a kitchen witch, and renowned throughout the land for her cleaning abilities, especially for never having an apprenticeship of her own. She had helped her older brother with his studies, being the more studious of the two, and had picked up some knowledge of her own, enough to make her own way in the world without formal training.

She danced over, wrapping her arms around him warmly. She was almost a meter shorter than him, but otherwise they were nearly identical, though there was a 5 year span between them. The length of their hair was the only difference. Elmrador weakly returned her hug, his heart still pounding.

“Good to see you, Mina. I have missed you. I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you, but I’ve been quite busy with orders of late. I can’t visit long today though. I have much work to do.”

“Well, at least let me give your cottage a quick tidy while I’m here.” She stepped back and surveyed him, cocking her head. “You are ill, brother.” Her mouth immediately quirked down sadly.

It was a statement, not a question. He also frowned. “I am fine.”

As if only to betray him, a hoarse coughing fit snuck up on him, leaving him red and breathless. He rubbed his chest ruefully. “Or at any rate, I don’t need you fussing. I need to finish this order. It’s for the king.”

“Hm.” She looked at him skeptically. “I have the supplies to make a tonic for you. Let me give you that at least. You look miserable.”

He grunted his approval. “As long as you don’t mix it with a sleeping draught.”

“If that's what you want,” she said, rolling her eyes. She flitted back to her cart and began to mix up a simple potion. Meanwhile, he seated himself again and resumed his scribbling. Another dratted tickle was growing in his nose though, which was streaming in earnest. He mopped the drips, to no avail.

“Ah… ah… Ahhkkt’shoooooo!” His handkerchief caught only part of the spray due to how sodden and crumpled it was, and his workbench was once again covered. Mina was at his side in a moment, rubbing his back.

“Poor dear! Elm, you sound awful. You should be in bed.”

“As soon as I work this through.”

She sighed and shook her head, handing him the steaming tonic. He took it with a grateful smile and gulped it down before taking up his quill again, rubbing his hands together to warm them before he did.

Seeing he didn’t intend to chat further, she began to clean his one room cottage. It was all he needed, just the right amount of space. He kept it cozy and neat for the most part, but when he was busy, cleaning was the last thing on his mind, which is one of the reasons she liked to visit often. She genuinely loved cleaning, especially for people she cared about. She began at the ceiling, sweeping down cobwebs and dusting the corners as she sang to herself. Elm personally thought her singing was a big component of her magic, though she denied it.

After the ceiling, she moved to the walls and cupboards. Elm found himself watching her idly rather than working. He turned back to his papers, shaking his throbbing head, trying to clear it. The tonic seemed to be affecting his fever. He had previously been shivering in the warm room, but now he was starting to sweat. The congestion seemed to be leaving his chest but was streaming out of his nose in earnest.

He didn’t know where his other handkerchiefs were, so he kept using the current one, but it was getting less and less effective as his sniffles got wetter and wetter. It wasn’t long before he started sneezing, both from his overactive nose, and the dust his sister was creating.

“Errr’sssHUUH! ErrrRIESSH’shew! Ehhhkxxt’SHEEEWW!”

Mina threw down her duster in exasperation. “I don’t know how you can stand to keep working. *I* can hardly work with you like this!”

He shrugged petulantly, rubbing his red nose. “Well, if you weren’dt kickig ub so mbuch dusdt…”

“Oh! Is the tonic not helping? It shouldn’t make you sound like that.”

“Idt helped the cough. Bud idt mbade mby ndose worse,” he mumbled weakly.

She rolled her eyes. “That tonic works on everyone else, except stubborn sorcerers. I bet your magic is going haywire and counteracting it. Especially without the sleeping effect.”

“Thadt’s ndot mby fauldt.” He shivered and coughed softly, summoning a blanket to wrap around his shoulders as he was suddenly freezing instead of sweating.

She sighed and moved to his side again, rubbing his back some more. He leaned against her wearily.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Ndo. I worgk best adt ndight.”

“Poor dear. You’re exhausted. No wonder you’re ill. What has got you so worked up?”

She glanced at the papers spread before him. “Chainmail woven with defense? Clever. Lucky you, getting an interesting project like this.”

“Idt’s driving mbe to distraction. I can’dt quide sordt it oudt.”

Her sharp eyes roved over the parchment quickly. “Your writing is terrible when you’re ill. I can hardly make it out. Ah, but here’s one of the reasons you're having trouble--half of these sigils appear to be reversed. See these here? They’re meaningless. Don’t tell me you’ve been working with them like this?”

He groaned pathetically. “They weren’dt like thadt whend I wrote themb! I ndo they weren’dt!”

She reached out and tried to feel his forehead. He batted her hand away before she could. She frowned.

“You know your magic is unpredictable when something is wrong with you, brother. My guess is you sneezed on these and they reversed themselves. You’re positively crackling with stray mana. Not to mention you’re probably feverish. You need to take some rest.”

“I can’dt. I have to deliver 3,000 of these in a weegk’s time, and I haven’dt even godden one yedt.”

“You’re not being productive like this though.”

“Ndeither are you. I thoughdt you were cleanig.”

She swatted him playfully. “See to yourself first, Elmrador, before you worry about me.”

Shaking her head, she reluctantly went back to her cleaning. The thin sorcerer directed his gaze back to his work, slowly fixing the reversed sigils, but he couldn’t get his eyes to stay in focus. They were so heavy. Everything was blurred around the edges.

His head was overwhelmingly heavy too, and achingly throbbing. He let it drop to the workbench, the cool wood pleasant on his hot forehead. He let his mouth hang open and tried to breathe, letting his nose drip gently into his handkerchief.

He must have dozed off, because Elliamina’s touch startled him some moments later. He turned to look at her, his cheek still on the bench.

“Why are you fighting yourself? You’re no good to anyone like this. The project can wait.”

“Will you mbake mbe some tea?” he asked pitifully, changing the subject.

She rubbed his back, surveying him keenly. “I’ll make you some tea if you take it in bed.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, slowly pulling the blanket closer to himself as he rose and shuffled to the corner where his bed stood. He clumsily discarded his outer tunic and boots as he went, kicking them aside before falling onto the mattress and heaping blankets and pillows over himself, dozing immediately. His sister busied herself boiling the water and preparing the tea leaves.

When it was ready, she shook him awake again and helped him sit up.

“I can do idt mbyself,” he muttered, shaking her off.

“You’re worn out enough,” she chided gently. “So let me help.”

He couldn’t argue with that. The tea was sweet and hot, the perfect temperature to start drinking immediately. But naturally, the warm liquid made his nose stream in earnest. His sister had been fussing around, fluffing his pillows and picking up his discarded clothes. When she noticed his sodden handkerchief, long past its usefulness, she quickly summoned another. He took it with a grateful smile, though the effect was somewhat ruined by his watery eyes. He blew his nose several times, but his sinuses were stopped tight, and blowing just made his head throb terribly.

Once the tea was gone and he had finally stopped shivering, he felt he couldn't keep his eyes open for another minute. He fell back into the bed as Elliamina dimmed the lights and covered him warmly.

Mina watched as he seemed to slip into a doze immediately. After a moment, she returned to her cleaning. She had made up her mind that she would stay here with him until he was over the worst of this. And since she would be here for a while, she had decided she would scour his cottage from top to bottom.

However, her brother couldn't seem to settle. He tossed and turned, coughing more and more often, the most awful-sounding fits. Finally he rolled over and opened his eyes, looking at her pitifully.

"I can'dt sleebp," he croaked. "First I'mb sweatig, then I'mb freezig. And I can'dt breathe for the coughig."

She clicked her tongue, coming to his side. She felt his forehead and cheeks, and this time he let her, leaning his head into her hand.

“You are so warm, Elm,” she tutted, brushing the sweaty hair off of his brow. “Would you like me to make you another tonic, a stronger one to help you sleep?”

He hesitated, then nodded miserably.

“Just a moment, then.” She trotted to her cart, ingredients flying to her hands before she had even reached it. She made a potion double the strength of the first one, with a strong dash of sleeping draught. Turning, she made her way back to the bed with the steaming mug as her brother once more struggled into a sitting position, hindered by another coughing fit.

He swallowed the mixture in a few gulps, grimacing, whether from the taste or his sore throat, she wasn’t sure. Then, she helped him lie back yet again, propping him up with pillows so he could breathe easier. The process seemed to wear him out. His eyes drifted closed immediately.

Elliamina tucked him in, straightening the blankets around him. He mumbled something incoherent as sleep overcame him.

“What did you say?”

“Stay with mbe,” he mumbled, his wheezy exhale turning into a snore.

“Don’t worry, I will,” she whispered, though she knew he did not hear.

Elliamina spent the rest of the evening puttering around, finishing her deep scour, making soup for when her brother woke, tending to his garden, and other domestic things that she had helped him with since they were children. She gave special attention to his workbench. She cleaned it and sanitized it thoroughly, even using a special cleansing spell on the parchment he had been working on. Sure enough, as soon as it was clean, she saw many of the sigils reverse themselves to what they should be. With a little smile, she replaced the papers where she had found them. Meanwhile, the tonic did its job admirably; Elmrador hardly moved, and he was breathing much easier. The only sound he made for many hours was soft, even snoring.

Evening turned into night. Mina was an early sleeper and early riser. As soon as the sun was down, she made a little nest for herself with extra blankets and pillows on the freshly scoured floor in front of the fireplace. She was weary from her day’s efforts, and dropped off to sleep without any effort, expecting her brother to sleep soundly through the night as well.

Imagine her surprise when she was awakened by him jumping out of bed in the middle of the night and running to his workbench, lighting candles hastily as he went. He banged down into his desk chair, picked up his quill, and began scribbling furiously, muttering to himself.

“Elm? What ails you?” she yawned, getting to her feet and wrapping her shawl around herself to go stand at his side, feeling his forehead. His temperature seemed almost normal, though his cheeks were flushed. He paid her no mind.

“The spell. It came to me in my sleep. I know what I was missing.” He sniffled wetly, wiping his sleeve under his nose, but continued scribbling away.

“I shan’t try to reason with you, since you’re so determined, though I wonder how you’re awake at all for how strong that tonic was. I don’t want to imagine the state you’ll be in in the morning.” She sighed softly. He seemed fine for now, but the tonic could only mask symptoms for so long.

With a shrug, she shuffled back to her nest. As she went, she mumbled: “Fates help you if you wake me again, though.” In front of the fire once more, she burrowed into her blankets, and was quickly lulled to sleep by the sound of his quill and his muttering.

It was a harsh cough that woke her again in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise, but not hers. She yawned and stretched luxuriously. For a moment she forgot where she was, until a wet sneeze made her turn.

Elmrador was just as she had left him the night before, hunched over his workbench. Spread out all around him were what appeared to be hundreds of chain shirts, and more were in the process of being finished. However, her brother looked more asleep than awake as he worked. Harsh, dark circles ringed his eyes, vivid against his pallor, as was his raw, chapped nose. Just as she noted this, the nose disappeared into his handkerchief .

“Hrrr’RUSH’eeww! Ahh’NNXGH’shuuh!”

“Oh Elm,” she murmured fondly. “You are in quite a state now, aren’t you?”

“Mbina… Good mornig. Loogk, I fidished mby prototype. Idt’s mby best worgk, I thingk.”

“It had better be, for you to be working as ill as you areYou look awful. You ought to go back to bed right away.”

“Id a few mbinutes. As sood as I fidish these three, I’ll have 300 done. Thed I cad automate themb to reblicate thembselves.”

Such a long speech made him cough harshly, his voice long gone. She tutted disapprovingly. “You’ll be in bed for a week after this. You’ve done yourself in, stubborn fool.

“Id was worth idt,” he said, almost smugly. “Idt’s for the king.”

“So you said,” she said, yet again rolling her eyes. “We’ll see if you can say the same in a few days.”

A hoarse grunt was his only reply. He had gone back to his work and needed all his remaining concentration to finish.

Seeing that he wasn’t moving until he reached his target, Elliamina did her own washing and grooming, cleaned up her bedding, and got coffee and breakfast going. Just as she was putting the eggs on, she saw him toss down his tools with a final flourish. However, as he said, the chain mail materials continued to manipulate themselves to form more armor even as Elmrador wearily stood, scrubbing his face and swiping at his dripping nose with a once again sodden handkerchief.

A round of rough, barking coughs made him hunch over again a moment later, a hand pressed to his chest. A weak “ow” was all he could manage as he tried to catch his breath, a hand now at his temple.

“I didn’t thingk coughig could hurdt so mbuch,” he wheezed.

“Only when you push your body past its limit. Come along, it’s bed for you for the foreseeable future, you dunce.” She moved to his side and grasped his elbow, leading him back to his mattress.

“You don’dt ndeed to help mbe walk, I’m ndot an invalid, only full of cold,” he muttered, trying to pull away. Mina was not dissuaded.

“Be that as it may, I’d rather help you get there just the same. You look as if a strong breeze will blow you over, and then where would I be?”

He deigned not to reply and instead allowed her to seat him on the edge of the bed where he swayed weakly as she helped him remove his sweaty clothes and don his nightshirt before propping him up against a heap of pillows, as his wheezy breathing was rather worrying her. She plied him once more with tea and tonic, which he accepted without a fuss. Then she brought over the plate of steaming eggs and toast. He made a face and pushed it away.

“I don’dt like eggs even whed I’mb ndot sick. I cerdainly don’dt wandt themb ndow.”

“Ah, so that’s why you have so many eggs. Well, would you at least eat the toast?”

He grunted noncommittally and took a half-hearted bite, taking a long time to chew and swallow. He only managed to finish half a slice before he pushed that away too. “Can’dt. Throadt hurdts too mbuch. Jusdt mbakes mbe feel sicker.” He gamely finished his tea though as she watched worriedly.

“You never turn down food. You’re already a beanstalk, Elm. I wish you would eat something.”

A rough cough was the only reply he could manage as he quickly coasted toward sleep once again. Mina sighed and decided to let him sleep, putting the food aside. That was what he needed most now anyway.

And sleep he did, for a long time. Yet his work was not done. He had to get up for a few hours the next day, for once all the shirts were complete he had to do the final quality review of the armor. Elliamina hovered worriedly at his elbow as he did intricate magic to test the limits of his creations. He was so weak he could hardly stand, arms shaking and face flushed as he cast. He had to sit often to catch his breath and wait out bouts of lightheadedness or coughs, but he would be damned before he delivered a subpar product to the king. Mina assisted him as best as she was able, doing whatever she could for his health and ensuring he didn't harm himself.

After hours of rigorous testing, he finally pronounced them suitable, while Elmrador himself ached with weariness. Without another word, he proceeded to crawl back into bed and bury himself in blankets, immediately beginning to snore as one deeply exhausted.

He passed most of the next several days in an illness and tonic-induced slumber. He was miserable when he was awake, every fiber of his being aching or throbbing. Mina forced him to eat and drink whenever she could, but mostly he wanted to sleep, and she let him do just that.

He was in fact asleep when the king's men arrived for the armor. A small crew of men rode up to the cottage with much pomp and ceremony. Mina greeted them in the garden, introducing herself as the sorcerer's assistant. They were immediately enthralled with her, as was everyone that met her for the first time, and she utilized this to expertly manage the transaction. Within 20 minutes the men were departing with many sacks of chain shirts in their cart, ecstatic with their purchase, while Mina carried a hefty pouch of gold, more than Elm had originally bargained for, into the cottage. Elmrador was still asleep, oblivious to it all. She knew he had lost track of the days some time ago, and she didn't see a reason to excite him until he was better.

Instead of waking him, she safely hid the gold in his stores. She then pulled up her chair once more to her place beside his bed, took up her needlework, and softly began to hum as she worked while her brother slept on peacefully.

#sickfic #sicknario #Sickness #snzfic #snzblr #snzario #fantasy #spellcasting #MY OCs #fever #everyone is hotter with a fever #story prompt

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soulwillower · 4 years ago

Text

i wanna see you but you’re not mine • richie tozier

(richie tozier x reader)

not a request, just something i wrote, lmk what u guys think

warnings: swearing, sexual themes but no explicit smut, references to sex, references and mentions of drug use, references and mentions of addiction, vague allusions to cheating but no cheating!, i think thats it! unedited haha

[based off the song undo by the 1975]

(losers + reader are in college in this.)

1.5k words

♡

the boys' house is bathed in the morning light when bill answers the door shirtless, leaning against the doorframe. birds chirp in the distance when he smiles.

"y/n. hi." he says, and you greet him with the same smile as he lets you in the door. you hand him a coffee, following him with light steps as he leads you to his room.

"did you just wake up?" you ask in amusement as you follow him down the hall, past richie's closed door. their house smells like incense, and you're about seventy percent sure it's mike's.

you watch bill's muscles flex and move as he chuckles, opening the door to his messy-but-neat room and pulling on a hoodie.

"no. not j-just, i at least had time to brush my teeth." and then he gives you a goofy grin, showing off his pristine teeth. it makes you snort, shaking your head as you shove him.

bill invited you over this morning to study for your upcoming exam together, figuring that his house that he shared with mike and richie would be better than trying to study at a busy coffee shop.

studying with bill has become a bit of a habit that you picked up back in freshman year, when you'd met in your introduction to rhetoric writing class. you'd had a crush on him at first, but when you first met his dorm roommate richie, that crush flew out the window almost immediately.

years later, and you're still studying with bill. and still harboring a rough crush for his trashmouth roommate.

an hour and a half goes by smoothly, most of your work finished by the time you get startled out of your studying by a noise.

"what was that?" you ask after a noise muffled by bill and richie's shared wall makes you both perk up.

bill shakes his head, "n-nothing. what did you get for m-model a?" he asks, leaning close enough that you smell his cologne. you frown, wondering why he seems so suspicious.

it happens again, more clear this time.

a moan echoes through the stuffy walls and bill looks almost regretful, gripping his highlighter so hard his knuckles turn white. you blanch a bit, meeting his eye.

"does richie have a girlfriend-" you start, but bill shakes his head, "no." he says quickly, cutting you off. you hum, feeling sick to your stomach. it should comfort you, but it doesn’t.

a few minutes later, another string of moans echo through the whole house, along with a, "fuck, richie!"

and then it's like that for the next ten minutes straight - the ambiance of bill's shut blinds, the smell of coffee still lovely but the taste bitter in your mouth as high pitched moans reverberate through the shared wall. one look over shows that bill looks like he may cry.

you only stay for maybe five minutes after the moans stop before you get up, "alright, i think i should head out." you rush out, feeling slightly hollow.

bill nods, stretching and then rising with you, hand falling to your shoulder gently. you stop, looking up at him. "he's... g-going through some weird stuff right now, y/n. it'll work out." he insists, voice gentle. your lips twitch downward slightly.

you think you could roll your eyes, but bill is too damn well meaning and sweet for you to take out your misplaced anger on. you pull him into a hug, and he kisses your temple. it's calming, for a second.

you're in the kitchen messing around with mike and bill when richie's door slams, footsteps echoing down the hall towards the front room.

and then a girl appears from the hallway, a small grin on her flushed cheeks and hair tangled, tank strap slipping off her shoulder a bit. richie trails behind her with a lazy smirk and you turn your head so they don't see you from behind mike.

you watch secretly with curious, self-destructive eyes as he walks her to the door, hands not even leaving his sides as she leans up to whisper something along the lines of you'll call me? into his ear.

richie barely makes an attempt to say yes, instead humming and looking up at the wall. you almost snort. but then he slaps her ass with a small smirk as she leaves out the door, making her squeal as the door shuts. your stomach drops a bit.

when the door shuts, mike and bill make lame excuses to go back to their rooms and you're stuck by yourself to face richie. fuck.

the air is stale and suffocating as his glowing eyes roam around and then land on you. it's painful the way his expression changes when he sees you.

"long time no see, y/n." richie says with barely a grin, avoiding looking at you as he crosses the kitchen to pour himself a steaming cup from the coffee machine. you feel the tension and wish that you could disappear.

"yeah, we’ve all been so busy." you say, feeling almost awkward now that bill's left back to his room. you rock on the ball of your heels, still feeling a little hurt. it's quiet for a few more moments.

you feel like you’re going to burst, so you say the first thing you think.

"i could hear you giving her head." you say abruptly, unsure if the bitterness in your voice is justified or not. you think it is. richie hums, lifting a brow at you as he lifts the mug of coffee to his lips.

"and?" he asks after a gulp of the black coffee. the sun bathes the entire house in bright morning light, giving richie a kind of sunny silhouette - a halo of sorts that you don't know if he really deserves.

you huff, resisting the urge to punch richie in the face. "it's ten in the morning." he fixes you with a look, as if you didn't just prove any point. "again, toots, i don't see the issue." he says, but it's without any of his usual teasing grins or winks.

“i thought you didn’t have sleepovers with your guests.” you say, definitely sounding bitter. richie rolls his eyes. he doesn’t justify you with an answer until he takes a deep breath.

“i don’t. but sometimes i change my mind, if someone’s special enough. remember when i told you that, too?” he quips back. you swallow.

you don’t know what to say, recalling that night when he had whispered that into your neck as you were tangled up in his sheets, his shirt hanging off your bare frame and your hand trailing on his bare chest.

“she wasn’t one of them.” he adds, “she came over a few hours ago.”

you're still frustrated.

he's searching through his pockets for something as he tosses a lighter onto the counter. despite this, he's still quite a vision in his t shirt and gray sweats, his lips red like the color of a cough drop and eyelashes long and dark behind his frames. he's still, despite the blank demeanor, the most beautiful person you've ever laid your eyes on.

"fuck." he mutters, his hands coming out of his pockets empty. "bombs have run out. you got any j’s?"

you don't want to tell him about the joint that you’d just given to bill minutes ago, just out of spite. if he's that dependent on the fucking weed, you're not going to help his habit.

you pretended not to notice the rows of pills lined up and the busted up credit card next to them in the bathroom, for bill and mike’s sake - but you can’t go easy on richie.

“no.” you say bluntly.

richie sighs, looking at you sharply with a look that could kill. “why are you acting like a brat all of a sudden?”

you both know he already knows the answer. you think he just wants to hear you admit it out loud.

you stare back, biting your lip. fine, you’ll take the fucking bait.

“just didn’t realize you seeing someone.”

richie looks exhausted, his skin pale and eyes dark. he shakes his head. "we tried this. it didn't work." he mutters, veins popping out of his hands as his palms press hard into the counter. you shake your head, "richie, we-"

"-you were the one who told me to fuck other people." he says, making you stop and take a breath.

he's right, too.

but only because you were afraid and didn't know if you and richie being together as more than just the few and far between hook ups would cause a rift in the friend group.

"only because i didn't know how much i liked you, rich." you say gently, pleadingly - desperately. you sound just as pathetic as you probably look. you just can’t do this anymore.

"look, y/n. i didn't even see you when i liked you.”

it hurts when he says that, like a knife is twisting in your gut with a frozen blade. it’s true, and that feels like the worst part.

“-you knew damn well that i was into you, and you did nothing about it." he says sharply, his warm eyes cutting through you and making your stomach drop.

"you can't just decide it's time for us to be together, just because you’re bored." he shakes his head, cutting himself off. your mouth feels dry. "i don’t have the time." he says with a shake of his head, his hair unruly in the way that drives you mad with yearning.

“richie, i want to be with you.” you say, pleading with him. he looks more mad than you’ve seen him in a long time.

"you rejected me, y/n. and i liked you." he says, rubbing a hand over his face. you've never seen him so serious, and it's freaking you out. he shakes his head.

"i really have to go to work, doll. i'll see you around." he mutters, getting up and leaving out the front door in a gust of air that smells like him and also vaguely another girl’s perfume.

you know he was lying to get out of talking to you - he wasn’t even wearing shoes, let alone clothes for work. your head falls into your hands, eyes squeezing shut. he doesn't want to see you.

the thought leaves you with a bitter taste in your mouth and an empty heart.

tag list: @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @stenbrozier @simplesammyx @brxken-heartsclub @clownsloveyou @moon-shine-baby @daughter-of-the-stars11 @trashedfortozier @oceandog13 @finnskindofwoman @kait-tozier @upamongthestarss @fiantomartell @beverlyparkerr @beauregard-s @diorbubs @leighjaenikhowell @cowbellies @deepestofwaters

#richie tozier x reader #richie tozier smut #losers x reader #losers club x reader #bill denbrough x reader #mike hanlon x reader

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myemergence · 4 years ago

Text

take me back to the start

Title: take me back to the start Author: @myemergence Rating: E (for one smut scene, later in the fic) Artist: @benjaminrussell Artwork: MAGAZINE COVER and MUSIC VIDEO Warnings/Triggers: mentions of alcoholism, mentions of OC character death, car accident Notes: Thanks to @marcia-elena for the beta on this. I so appreciate all the work you put in! Written for @buddiebigbang. And the artwork is amazing! I love them so much, Holly! Summary: Country music star, Eddie Diaz, is on a break before his US tour when he gets unexpected news: he has a son. He needs to come home to his hometown in West River, TX right away. He hasn’t set foot there since he left for Nashville nine years ago, leaving his old life behind. West River is the last place that Eddie wants to be—he needs to focus on his career, and his tour—not looking after a kid that he doesn’t even know yet.

Crossing paths with his high school sweetheart, Evan Buckley, who’s now a Deputy with the sheriff’s office just might change all of that, reminding Eddie of the person that he used to be… and the kind of person that he wants to be.

Read the whole thing here: AO3 LINK

The thing about being a musician and wrapping up a big tour is that it makes the time afterward to unwind and let loose even more rewarding. Taking the time to ground himself before hitting the road again has become essential for Eddie, an integral part of his process.

This time, there’s no unwinding. As soon as the last concert in the tour ended, he boarded a red-eye flight from Los Angeles into Houston. And he’s tired, a feeling that’s not exactly foreign to him, but he feels weary down to his bones. He’s headed back to West River, Texas, about fifteen minutes outside of Austin, where he was born and raised.

A place he hasn’t as much as set foot in for nine years.

Eddie blinks blearily as he pulls his rental car up to the drive-through at Dunkin for a much needed coffee. He’s within an hour of West River, but he’s going to need something to power through the last hour of his drive as the sun is beginning to rise over the expanse of otherwise deserted small-town Texas that surrounds him.

It’s so quiet out here that it’s almost unnerving.

“Good morning, sir. That’ll be $3.27.” The dark-haired girl at the drive-through window can’t be more than eighteen.

“Morning.” He holds out his phone so that she can scan his payment.

“Aren’t you…” She trails off slowly, eyeing him suspiciously.

Eddie adjusts the trucker hat that he’s wearing, despite the fact that the sun hasn’t become a hindrance yet. He’d put the hat on before he pulled up to the drive-through only a couple of minutes ago. He knows that he’d be nowhere without the support of his fans, but he’s exhausted. He just wants to get to his abuela’s so that he can fall into bed. He’s tempted to drag a hand over his face and beg for his coffee.

“Eddie Diaz.” He introduces himself with a winning smile. He’ll try to find time to rest later. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Rosie. I-I can’t believe I’m preparing Eddie Diaz’s coffee. Nobody is going to believe me,” Rosie practically squeals, her face flushed as she fumbles with scanning his phone. “Here, um,” she steps away from the drive-through window momentarily and comes back with a pastry bag along with his coffee. Simple like always: black, with 2 sugars. “For the road. Gone Now really helped me through a hard time, when I lost my grandpa—and you wrote it about yours.”

Eddie’s smile becomes more genuine as he takes the coffee and muffin from the girl. He’s sure he looks like a mess, with blood-shot eyes and bags under his eyes. “I think most people have forgotten about that song. That was on my debut album.” He’d written that song what feels like a lifetime ago.

Like he was a different person back then than he is now. He supposes that in some ways, he was.

“I was only thirteen when it came out,” Rosie says. “I hope you make more songs like that. Your new stuff is great, but… that’s definitely my favorite. Anyhow, I won’t keep you, I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to be.”

“I do,” Eddie confirms, reaching over into the top of his duffel bag that’s resting on the passenger seat. “It was really nice to meet you, Rosie.” He hands her one of the signed albums that he carries with him, a simple thank you that he likes to have for those truly special fans. “It’s not my debut album, but I do hope you’ll enjoy it.”

Eddie offers her a parting wave as he pulls away, and tosses the hat that was his poor attempt at disguise onto the passenger seat. He takes several sips from the steaming coffee, then sets it in the cupholder, wincing as the heat nips at his tongue, hoping that the caffeine will help keep him alert for the rest of the drive home.

Before he pulls onto the road, he scrolls through his phone, pulling up his debut album on Spotify and pressing play, a wistful smile crossing his face. He’s trying to put a little space between him and the reason that he’s coming home to West River; Rosie’s words remind him, at least for a moment, why he started making music in the first place. He hears the familiar opening chords and pulls out onto the quiet road.

There was a time when not a single day

Went by without us talking

And now I can barely remember your face

We’d spend hours weaving words

And guitar notes together

Just you and me in the music’s embrace

But you’re gone now, you’re gone

All those moments lie six-feet deep in the ground

You’re gone now, you’re gone

I keep missing you ‘cause you’re not around

He knows he can’t live in this world of make-believe for long. He can’t pretend that what matters is his connection to the music anymore—he stopped writing his own music long ago. But it’s nice to remember, even if those moments are fleeting.

Eddie pulls into the same gravel driveway that he used to skid his bike tires on as a kid. His abuela still lives in the same house she did back then, only a few doors down from his childhood home. His parents moved an hour north about five years ago. Eddie’s stomach flops a bit, and he tries not to dwell on how little he talks to them these days, or their lack of support over the years.

He drags himself out of the rental car and grabs his bag out of the passenger side, leaving the rest of his luggage in the trunk. Before he can even make his way up the short drive, his abuela steps out onto the porch.

Eddie yawns into the crook of his elbow, then makes his way up to her. “Hey, Abuela,” he murmurs, pecking her on the cheek.

“Eddie,” Abuela says. She welcomes him with a crushing embrace, and he smiles as he hugs her back. She pulls back just enough that he can see a fire in her eyes; he already knows what that means, so he remains silent until she spits it out. “You were supposed to call me back so I knew you were doing alright.”

“I told you I have you listed as my emergency contact. If anything happens to me you’ll be the first one they call,” Eddie teases with a laugh.

“Edmundo,” she scolds, swatting his arm, and he watches as her jaw tenses under his name.

“Okay,” Eddie acquiesces. “I’m sorry, alright? I’ll be more cautious next time and call you. But Houston to West River isn’t a long drive.”

“Shannon—”

“Can we talk about this later?” Eddie asks. “I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I just need a couple of hours and then I promise we’ll talk, okay?”

“But, Eddie—” Despite the fact that he’ll probably be reamed for not turning his full attention to her, Eddie pushes the door open and steps inside. He stops in his tracks as his eyes catch sight of the figure who’s settled at the table, and his duffel bag drops to the floor. He feels abuela’s hand on his shoulder. “This is—”

The pretending is over.

“This is Christopher, your son.”

Eddie knew coming back home to West River wasn’t going to be a vacation in any sense of the word. He knew what would be waiting for him; baggage so heavy that it had the ability to destroy his entire career. The dream that he’d risked everything for, that he’d given up everything for.

This is Christopher, your son.

Abuela’s words echo in his ears.

Sure, there had been a few phone calls beforehand, warning Eddie of the kid’s existence after Shannon had shown up at Abuela’s with the boy. That hadn’t prepared him for this moment at all.

What the fuck is he going to do?

The temptation to drop by the hole-in-the-wall bar downtown to take the edge off is there. Instead, he tells Abuela he has to take care of some things and he disappears. He just needs to drive around for a little bit to clear his head. He needs to figure out what he’s going to do.

A kid will ruin everything.

How could Shannon keep this kid to herself for years, not mention a word of his existence, and then just drop him off and leave like he’s somehow now Eddie’s responsibility?

Eddie unrolls the window, letting the evening air hit his face as his foot presses down more firmly on the gas pedal.

Take care of it. You only have a few months until the tour.

Fuck all of this.

These backroads are so familiar, and there’s something comforting in driving down them late at night, when the rest of the town is quiet. It reminds him of those late nights when he and Buck would—

Eddie stops his thoughts short, the ache in his chest just as familiar as these roads. Buck.

What are the chances that in a town of a few thousand people he won’t run into Evan Buckley? That’s even if he still lives here. Eddie shakes the notion from his head, refusing to allow himself to get nostalgic about the past. A past that revolved around Buck.

Right now, he needs to focus on how he’s going to fix his life—before it becomes a public relations disaster.

Pressing down on the gas harder, Eddie gets lost in the feeling of the cool night air hitting his face, saving him from his downward spiral and memories of Buck.

Unfortunately, the moment is short lived. Red and blue lights flash in his rearview mirror amidst the otherwise stark darkness of the night. With a sigh, he pulls over to the shoulder of the road.

Buck climbs out of the cruiser and closes the door, walking up to the driver’s side of the out-of-state car. “Do you know why I stopped you tonight?” He quickly scans the inside of the vehicle, assessing if there are any passengers that he needs to be aware of before settling his sight on the driver.

Of all the people he could’ve had the unfortunate task of pulling over tonight, somehow it’s Eddie Diaz. He studies Eddie’s face, tipping his head to the side as his identity registers with Eddie.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Buck.”

It’s like he took the words right out of Buck’s mouth, because really, what are the fucking chances? After nine years Eddie somehow still has the ability to make Buck’s heart thunder in his chest merely by saying his name. His jaw tightens as he looks at the country music star in front of him.

“It’s Deputy Buckley,” Buck tells Eddie, his voice tight. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“This has to be an actual nightmare,” Eddie mutters, though Buck’s sure at this point that he’s talking to himself.

“License and registration.”

“Evan—”

“I said, license and registration. Don’t make me ask again. I’m going to suggest that you actually listen this time if you don’t want to end up in jail for the night.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut at Buck’s words. “I’m gonna grab the registration from the glove compartment.” He opens the glove box and hands over the paperwork, along with his license.

“Yeah, didn’t think you’d want that news story,” Buck mutters as he takes the documents and inspects them. He obviously knows that it’s Eddie, and he already ran the plates and knows that it belongs to a rental in Houston. He hands the paperwork back to Eddie. “Watch your speed, because next time I’m not going to be this nice,” Buck warns.

“This is nice?” Eddie actually has the audacity to laugh at him. “Seems more like you’re Deputy Dick to me.”

Buck’s lips press together into a tight line. He’s used to not being well liked while on the job—but it feels harsher coming from Eddie. “You know, I could still take you in tonight, if that’s what you want.”

Eddie shrinks under the words, and what he says next sounds sincere. “You know that’s not what I want.”

The same words that Eddie had said to him all those years ago, at the end. Buck feels his chest fracture down the middle, a reprise of the heartbreak that Eddie left in his wake.

He forces himself to school his expression despite the way he’s feeling. “Have a good night, Eddie.”

He doesn’t wait for Eddie to respond, turning sharply on his heels and walking away from the man that’s had his heart all along.

“You know, I don’t really think that this qualifies as guys’ night,” Buck says as he looks across the card table at Chimney, taking a sip of the lemonade in front of him.

Chim raises his brow a little, glancing in the direction of the living room. “You’re my brother-in-law,” Chim says, “and I’m not sure how to say this delicately, so I’m just gonna say it. If there’s one Buckley I’m trying to make happy right now, it’s not you, Buck. I’m trying to get in her good graces after the bottle rocket incident.”

Josh snorts from where he’s sitting, bringing the beer up to his lips.

“I’m not going to be the one to tell my wife that she needs to leave so we can have a proper guys’ night,” Chim adds.

“You would never say something to Maddie, and not just about guys’ night,” Josh challenges, his brows shooting up.

“I’m sorry, was that a complaint I just heard? Because I’m pretty sure that the last time you hosted a card night your mom showed up,” Chim points out.

“And Buck’s place—”

“Has constant interruption. I know, I know.” Buck rolls his eyes dramatically. “Are you gonna deal us in, or what?”

“Mads, were you gonna join us?” Chim calls helpfully into the other room, and Buck glares at him.

Maddie lifts herself off of the couch and walks out to the dining room table where they’re all situated, grabbing the bowl of chips from the counter and pulling up an empty seat. “I don’t want to play, but I’d love to talk to you guys.”

They really need to start finding different circles of friends, at least for nights like tonight. It’s not as if Buck’s going to tell his pregnant sister to go away, so instead he smiles. “We’d love it if you talked to us, Mads.”

“Really?” She grins, and Chim looks at Buck gratefully. “So, I heard a rumor that Eddie’s back in town.”

“Pick a different subject.”

“He’s back in town and got pulled over by West River’s youngest and brightest the other night,” Chim says.

Just the mention of Eddie’s name is an unwanted reminder that he’s back in town, at least temporarily. The fact that this wasn’t a figment of Buck’s imagination sends his brain into overdrive. There’s been some speculation over the reason for his return, and Buck has done everything in his power to stay squarely on the outside of those conversations.

He’s made it clear to his family and friends since Eddie left town that there is one topic that he refuses to discuss: Eddie Diaz. A lot of the locals were around Eddie growing up, and having someone that’s famous from their small hometown is something to talk about—especially when there’s a new tour that’s announced, or when Eddie is working on a new album.

But his friends? They know that it’s a hard and fast rule, and bringing it up on guys’ night is a definite foul.

“Guys,” Buck manages as evenly as he can muster. “Talk about something else.”

A tense silence falls over the room, and for a minute Buck refuses to look up, knowing the pity that crosses their faces any time that someone brings up Eddie. He’s tried to hide his heartbreak behind indifference, but he’s not naive enough to believe that any of them buy it. Most of them had front-row seats as they watched Buck’s hopes and dreams shatter to the ground around him, leaving a hollow shell behind.

Finally he looks up.

“Can we make an exception this one time, Ev?”

“Maddie. I don’t talk about— about this, and you know that.”

Maddie’s hand covers his, her touch light, her tone equally calm and even. “You know, this has a name.”

“Why are you bringing him up now? You know I moved on from him a long time ago.”

It’s as if Chim and Josh aren’t sitting awkwardly at the table, trying to avoid the line of fire. Even if Maddie is officially a Han now, nobody wants to get obliterated during a battle of the wills between the siblings.

“This is guys’ night,” Buck reminds her. “The one night of the week that I can unwind and relax. Instead you’re here and dredging up a past that died years ago.” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I was a kid. Just a stupid kid. There’s nothing else to say. We were together and then we weren’t. He has his life now, and I have mine.”

“Maybe that’s true, but you never did move on, not really. He’s in town for who knows how long, so maybe it’d be a good chance for the two of you to talk?”

“No, it wouldn’t. And, uh, thanks for ruining tonight,” Buck mutters as he stands up from the table. This is the kind of interference he’d expect from their out-of-town parents, always assuming they know what’s best, but not from Maddie.

“Buck,” Chim warns, and Buck sighs again, shaking his head in frustration. Chim’s always been protective of Maddie, something that Buck’s always appreciated, especially after all that she endured with Doug, but tonight feels like the exception.

��I’m gonna head home.”

“Buck, you really don’t have to go,” Josh says helplessly.

He attempts a smile for what Josh is trying to do—slapping a bandage on the evening, trying to piece everything back together. Buck shakes his head. “I think it’s for the best if I go.”

Buck says his goodbyes and hops into his Jeep, driving home. He knows that Maddie has the best of intentions, and that she cares about him with her whole heart, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

When he arrives home he notices there are only a few lights left on in the house, and that the porch light is on for him.

“You’re home awful early,” Carla says as soon as he makes his way inside, barely looking up from the little girl that’s propped against her side.

He shrugs a little, not wanting to get into all of the details of how the night quickly spiraled out of control in a way that was just too much for him to handle. “I couldn’t stand the time away from her.”

“Mhm,” Carla says in her knowing way, and Buck’s thankful that she doesn’t say more than that. She knows enough about his past with Eddie, but she’s always stayed out of that part of his life.

Buck toes off his shoes, crossing the room then and scooping Lucy up in his arms. “Hey baby,” he murmurs, placing a kiss on the crown of her head.

“She insisted I read her three stories out here and not in her bed because she was ‘not tired yet, Carla’.”

Buck chuckles at her words, feeling Lucy squirm in his arms before she settles again. She rests her head against his shoulder and he hoists her up higher so that she can curl into him. In a world where everything else is imperfect he’s able to come home and hold a little piece of perfection in his arms. Their lives have been far from easy, and there isn’t a day that Buck doesn’t wish he could be more for her.

He’s doing his best to make up for the huge piece missing from her life—the absence of her mother. Every day she helps him remember that there is more than heartbreak and loss, that sometimes there’s hope, too. He has to hold on to that.

“I’m gonna head out,” Carla says, kissing the back of Lucy’s head and giving Buck a sideways hug before leaving.

Buck walks down the hallway, glancing at Lucy’s bedroom door and then pivoting, walking across the hall to his own room and laying the sleeping girl down on the pillows, covering her with the sheet and comforter. He gets ready for bed and lies on top of the covers beside her. He knows he shouldn’t make a habit out of this and he won’t, but tonight he needs the physical proof.

He hasn’t lost everything, because he still has Lucy.

#buddiebigbang2021 #buddie #911 fanfic #evan buckley #eddie diaz #mywriting

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sarcasticfina · 3 years ago

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Fic Writer Tag Game

How many works do you have on AO3? 263

What’s your total AO3 word count? 4,901,188

How many fandoms have you written for, and what are they? including the fandoms on FFnet, that haven't yet been moved over to ao3, that'd be a total of 37. separating the larger fandoms (marvel, dcu) into their individual parts: Thor; Arrow; Smallville; The Vampire Diaries; Glee; Captain America; Supernatural; Teen Wolf; Iron Man; Life with Derek; Firefly; Friday Night Lights; X-Men; Fantastic Four; Harry Potter; Sons of Anarchy; Girl Meets World; Batman; Daredevil; From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series; Transformers; Lost Girl; Game of Thrones; Banshee; High School Musical; The OC; One Tree Hill; CSI: New York; Degrassi; Gossip Girl; NCIS; The Unusuals; Criminal Minds; iCarly; Secret Life of the American Teenager; Twilight; and The Listener

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. and I wonder (if everything could ever feel this real forever) - darcy/bucky - Steve tells him that Darcy's harmless. Bucky imagines, on paper, Darcy is harmless. HYDRA wouldn't give her a second glance. But he does. He can barely keep his eyes off her. He's not sure he wants to. | Kudos: 5576

2. I Climbed The Tree To See The World (When The Gusts Came Around To Blow Me Down, I Held On As Tightly As You Held On To Me) - darcy centric | darcy/steve - The path to self-discovery, including becoming Coulson's assistant-slash-liaison-slash-bff, Captain America's lady love, and rating fourth on the SHIELD BAMF scale, was like the yellow brick road; it was chaos and confusion around every bend. | Kudos: 3973

3. Take a little piece of my heart (and keep it for yourself) - oliver/felicity - A collection of Olicity prompts on Tumblr posted here for easier access/reading. | Kudos: 3498

4. You put your arms around me (and I'm home) - darcy/bucky - A collection of Darcy/Bucky oneshots, drabbles, and prompt fills. | Kudos: 3293

5. you (anchor me back down) - darcy/bucky - "I'll be right back." Famous last words. | Kudos: 2747

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? not all of them. i do try to keep up on them, especially on longer stories when there's been significant wait times in between chapters, or when a reader is asking a question or is unclear on something. and especially when someone writes a really indepth comment/review, i like to respond to those and talk about motivations and character growth.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? I've written a number of fics that either had suicide or major character death, so i'm not sure if one outranks the other in terms of most angsty... hmm... i remember "be still and know that I'm with you (be still and know that I am here)" and "light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)" both got some pretty intense reactions when they were posted. And "It's Your Song That Sets Me Free (I Sing It While I Feel I Can't Go On)" was basically just angst from beginning to end. buuuuut, i think i'll say "so you think you can tell (heaven from hell" was, only because there's a build up of everything going so right, only to pivot at the end, so it feels very bittersweet.

Do you write crossovers? If so what’s the craziest one you’ve written? i loooooove crossovers. i find writing in the marvel fandom makes things quite easy, but also smallville. as long as i can find a common thread, i enjoy finding a way to overlap two shows. i'll say the hardest one to write was "ruby red slippers (unavailable in her size)." I'm not sure why, but i found writing each personality together just felt strange. i liked the idea behind the story, but i definitely remember feeling like i was really forcing myself to keep going, like something just didn't fit right.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? oh, definitely. you cannot please everyone, it's impossible. for the most part, hate comes and i either argue back, take the criticism for what it's worth, or just ignore it when it's baseless. i think the hate that bothered me the most was a homophobic PM someone sent me re: "you know I will adore you ('til eternity)," on FFnet. i actually went and searched it up. they've since blocked me so i can't read our whole thread back and forth. but i did put part of it on tumblr so i could rant on it a bit, so you can see that here.

Do you write smut? If so what kind? ha. yes. depending on the story, it can be really detailed or really flowery. it depends on the ship, the plot, and how graphic i feel like being. i've definitely become more comfortable over the years with my writing. that said, i think everybody likes something different. i once had a reviewer tell me a sex scene was too much, just too intense. it was a stefan/caroline story and to be fair, that entire oneshot was just them fucking, lol, but it is what it is. to each their own.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Multiple times.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! for the record, i am always happy to have my stories translated and shared. i just like having a link sent to me and to be credited.

What’s your all time favorite ship? i have a list of OTPs, because interests change and as shows come and go, my love for a ship can be shelved for a while before it pops back up at random. currently, i can't get enough of buck/eddie from 9-1-1. and, historically, chloe/oliver (smallville) and felicity/oliver (arrow) have been two of my top OTPs. but i think i'd have to go with bonnie/damon. they had all the potential and the show dropped the ball by not exploring it. at the same time, that's kind of a blessing, because i don't trust those writers to properly explore what they had without eventually destroying it for the likes of de/ena. it means a treasure trove for writing where it could have gone and all the what if's.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish, but don’t think you ever will? the intention is always to finish. but given how i feel about allison mack and how that impacts my feelings re: chloe sullivan, pretty much anything with her as a main character is not something i see myself returning to.

What are your writing strengths? What are your writing weaknesses? i'm putting these together because my strength is my weakness. i love to write. when i get an idea, i go all in and i will skip eating and sleeping to just write write write. but i also eventually hit a wall and i get so many ideas that i hyperfocus on one until the steam is gone and then i hyperfocus on the next one to maintain that need to keep writing, accidentally leaving the last story in the dust for entirely too long. i also have clinical depression that comes and goes, which hasn't been super great mixed with covid and isolation, so more often recently, i find myself overly exhausted and despite wanting to write, can rarely get motivated to do so. so, pre-covid, wrote so much i left entirely too many stories dangling. during covid, i've just been reading and struggling to get myself focused enough to do what i love.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? i appreciate the authenticity when possible, but i've recently been reading more about how native speakers of other languages feel when a) their language is butchered by google translate, or b) it's just not genuine in terms of how bilingual speakers act or speak.

What was the first fandom you’ve written for? it was smallville, but i remember adopting it out to someone else because i wasn't going to finish it. so if you look at my ffnet, the first fandom i wrote for appears to be x-men: the movie, but i remember writing a chloe/oliver story prior to that.

What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written? i have a lot. i mean, on ffnet, i have 576 stories, many of which were transferred over to ao3, with a lot of oneshots and drabbles getting joined together into collections. so there's a ton to pick from that span a 14-ish year timeline.

"you know I will adore you ('til eternity)" and "let me break (the walls that surround me)" hold a special place in my heart.

honestly, each story is important in its own way. there are bits and pieces of each that i love. every time i write something new it feels like my favorite. my best. and then a new idea comes along. there are scenes i've written that i loved more than the whole of what they became. lines that stand out that are almost too good to be a part of the larger picture.

one of my all time favorite passages i've written was bonnie's thoughts on damon and herself in 'if you love me (let me go)":

He is far from perfect. He is a novel of red, corrective ink. He is frayed pages and torn binding. His life, his choices, his mistakes leave lasting effects on everyone he meets.

She is a lifeboat with a hole in it. An anchor that drowns in the sea while everyone else remains steady above. She is both the calm and the storm, and while she screams that she will not be tamed, she cries. Bittersweet tears that go unnoticed and uncared about.

there are other stories, other pieces of dialogue, that i've been proud of. that make me laugh when i re-read them. that make me cry. and i love them. there are others that make me wilt and cringe and regret. it's a process. love and pride and growth, all bound together.

Tagging: @absentlyabbie, @anonymous033, and anyone else who'd like to fill this all out, haha

#fic writer tag game #long post

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stxphxn-strange · 4 years ago

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human error/i don’t expect perfection

a/n: i started writing this, before 9am and my day was already not going to plan. my solution as always is to write hurt/comfort for my college au, so here we are. ily and i’m sending y’all well wishes♡

Stephen was hit with overwhelming relief when he finally got home, the clock singing her melodic chimes to announce the changing of the hour. It was 2 in the goddamn morning, and Stephen was just so sad and exhausted. He almost felt like a chain was tugging at his head and heart, leading him towards self loathing no matter how much he tried to resist. Stephen’s entire night consisted of trying to put on a smile, trying not to berate himself in front of others because he made a mistake. That was the problem. Stephen made a mistake, a really small error during a simulated surgery that he and Christine were using to study. It was a mistake so small and so easily corrected, but Stephen wanted to be perfect. The sheer presence of the mistake was unacceptable to him and his insatiable need to be flawless.

Some of his classmates thought Stephen was an arrogant and haughty kissass who would trample anyone in his quest to prove that he was better, smarter, and more innovative than his peers. That wasn’t true, but Stephen let them think that. It was simpler than explaining that he’d internalized every bit of criticism he’d ever received and that he was just trying to be good enough for himself. It was easier than telling people that he felt the need to prove his worth to his mother in the hope that she might accept and understand him better. That was none of their fucking business. They could think Stephen worked himself to exhaustion so he could flex about what a hard worker he was, he didn’t care.

He just wanted to be good enough.

But first, he wanted to sleep.

Stephen took his water bottle out of the fridge and made a steaming mug of tea, holding fire and ice as he headed towards his bedroom. He was hoping to find Anthony asleep and relaxed in bed, a sight that could always make Stephen smile. He wanted to take a hot shower and curl up in bed next to his boyfriend, and he wanted a lazy morning after a restful night. There were no classes tomorrow, which meant they could maybe catch up on sleep, or just spend time lounging around together with no pressure from the outside world.

But Anthony wasn’t in bed. He was pacing around in the bathroom, brushing his teeth restlessly. He’d had a shit day and was still clearly quite upset, his eyes red and puffy from crying in the shower. After harshly washing his face in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the fact that he was crying, Anthony sighed deeply.

Stephen, eager to get ready for bed, softly knocked on the door. “Hey, I’m home.”

“Oh hi, I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” Anthony replied. He pulled the door open and walked across the room to pick up a towel that had fallen. Scowling at it, he hung it back up where it belonged.

“You okay?” Stephen asked, leaning against the wall.

“I’ve been better,” Anthony said. “You?”

“About the same,” Stephen replied.

These kinds of greeting conversations were much shorter when they were tired or upset. There was an understanding that they weren’t upset with each other, but down about something.

Anthony reached out to silently ask for a hug, relaxing a little bit in Stephen’s arms. “Today wasn’t good.”

Stephen hummed and drew him close. “It really wasn’t.”

Anthony yawned, exhausted and swaying in Stephen’s safe embrace. He felt like he was going to fall, both from physical and mental exhaustion, but trusted Stephen to catch him every time.

Sure enough, he did. Stephen hugged Anthony tighter and kissed the top of his head, holding him close to his heart.

“Go to sleep, Ant,” he murmured. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay,” Anthony replied. He yawned again, begrudgingly letting go of Stephen and stumbling into bed.

He wanted to sleep and had every intention of doing so, but then he started thinking about his day. Not by choice, because Anthony could happily forget today if his mind would only let him. He replayed every conversation, memory, and action that caused him to feel as hollow and worthless as he did right now, not realizing that he was shaking as he tried not to cry. Stephen’s tiredness disappeared when he stepped out of the bathroom and was affronted with the sight of Anthony sobbing into a throw pillow. He crossed the room in long strides, laying beside his partner and hugging him close.

“What’s wrong?” Stephen asked, tracing circles on Anthony’s back.

Anthony just sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does,” Stephen replied. “Even if it’s the smallest thing in the world, if something is important to you then I’m going to listen. I’ll want to listen.”

“I’ll tell you later... can we just stay like this for a bit?” Anthony asked. His tone was so soft and passive, indicating that he’d trip over himself to redact the request if needed. He hated asking for things, always feeling imposing and undeserving of the time and attention he received.

But Stephen was already shifting into a better cuddling position, pulling Anthony into a strong hug and giving him gentle, loving kisses. Stephen was grateful for these moments where Anthony allowed himself to be vulnerable, grateful for any chance to show him the love he deserved.

They were both instinctively caring and fiercely loyal to the people they were close to, but awful at taking moments to show themselves the same kind of love and care. They both felt like they hadn’t earned love, like they couldn’t exist without owing something to someone. There weren’t enough ways to show supportive people how appreciated they are in the same way that nothing would ever be powerful enough for the couple to prove their worth to any naysayers. Stephen generally didn’t listen to criticism, he didn’t care what most people thought of him. A select few, his mother for example, could make him feel like shit 13 seconds into a conversation and leave him rattled. Sometimes when Stephen failed, he heard her voice and the negative things she’d told him. He usually dealt with these thoughts by thinking about encouraging memories or things Anthony told him, which helped to recenter him. That strategy didn’t work all the time, but enough to help Stephen get through the day.

Anthony was extremely sensitive to criticism, but great at hiding his emotions. He’d had to from a young age, Howard Stark being himself, so it wasn’t easy to tell when something upset him unless you knew what to look for. Sometimes he built a barrier to keep his emotions to the side, throwing one feeling on top of another until the foundation broke and emotions overwhelmed him. Today was one of those days, where something he thought was insignificant was the hump that broke the camel’s back. He wasn’t good at letting himself be upset and had a hard time surrendering to his emotions right now. Even as Stephen reassured him that it was okay, that he was safe, it was still hard for Anthony to let himself talk about what was wrong. That often led to nights like these, with the weary couple holding themselves and each other together with the threads of love and understanding and years of knowing each other.

Despite exhausting himself from crying, Anthony could still see that Stephen was upset. “You okay?” He whispered, caressing Stephen’s cheek with his hand.

“Just frustrated. The practice Christine and I were doing didn’t go according to plan,” Stephen replied. “It was so close to perfect, but I fucked up one little thing.”

“Did you try your best?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you fix the mistake?”

“As fast as I could, yeah.”

“And I assume you wrote everything down in that absurdly neat way you take notes?”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Absurd is a bit of an extreme descriptor, don’t you think?”

“Hmm... no,” Anthony mumbled. “It’s absurd but shows how careful and dedicated you are to doing well. You have an immensely strong work ethic, you always do as much as you can, and you try as hard as you can. We’re still learning, we’re still in school. It’s okay to mess up, and it’s okay for you to mess up.”

Stephen nodded, his eyes fluttering shut as Anthony continued to caress his cheek. “You need to take your own advice, my love. You don’t have to hold yourself to impossibly high standards either.”

They tended to say the same thing in different words, ranging from delicate and sweet to extremely blunt.

Anthony smiled sadly, leaning in for a kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Stephen murmured against his lips. “Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Stephen always phrased his questions carefully. His intentions were always clear, showing that he was inviting Anthony to talk with him rather than insisting and forcing him into a vulnerable state. Too many people had done that to both of them.

There was no consequence if Anthony didn’t want to talk, and tonight he didn’t.

“In the morning?” He suggested, still a bit too timid to directly say no.

Stephen nodded. “In the morning.”

“I still just want to be close to you, in your arms,” Anthony whispered.

Stephen smiled and gave him a feather light kiss. “Stay as long as you like, I’m always here for you.”

tags: @stark-strange-love2 @h3mmy @kiwidino @chocopiggy @maya-custodios-dionach @majesticnerdynerd @ocforeverything @spooky-n-spunky @doctorstephenvincentstarkstrange @thespacecryptid

#tony stark #stephen strange #ironstrange #my ironstrange college au #hurt/comfort #angst and hurt/comfort #ironstrange angst #ironstrange angst/comfort #sad bois #Tony Stark needs a hug #Stephen strange needs a hug #protective stephen strange #protective tony stark #vent fic #comfort fic #yes i can project onto both Stephen and Tony at the same time #and they said it couldn’t be done

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ricksbowen · 5 years ago

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one more time | pt. 3

IN WHICH: y/n’s parents are too much, the library’s a perfect opportunity, and ej confesses something in private.

INSPIRATION: best part — daniel caeser, hey there delilah — plain white tees

WARNING: this series will have smut in it and is pretty sexual all around ( read with caution ). there are implications of sex right off the bat, and everyone is 18+ and in their senior year. there’s also family problems mentioned.

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6

“Thanks,” you murmured, eyes never leaving your textbook as you took the coffee cup from Ricky.

Five hours of studying in the library. In any other circumstance, you and Ricky would’ve opted to study at either your house or his. But after the new step in your friendship, concentrating was harder. One minute, you’d be listening to Ricky’s thoughts on the subject at hand,

the next you’d be making out on his bed, lips needy and moving quickly.

At least you couldn’t jump onto each other in the library.

You raised the coffee cup to your lips, feeling the hot steam on your skin before you took a sip. Peering past your book, your eyes landed on Ricky’s disheveled form. His hair, wild and completely messed up, was tucked under a dark green beanie you had given to him on his birthday. His black hoodie was pulled over his head, hoodie strings falling loosely down as he wrote in his notebook.

“I got another set at the diner downtown.” You commented, eyes darting back to your book. You could hear him sit up, his chair creaking at every little movement he made.

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Apparently, they liked me so much they wanted me back,” you explained with a crooked smile.

“They’d be stupid not to,” Ricky hummed, his comment making your smile wider as you looked down at your textbook.

The words all felt jumbled up, mixed in a blender to the point where you couldn’t even read them. It was probably the exhaustion getting to you.

Usually, your study dates went like this. You and Ricky, reading in comfortable silence while a few scattered conversations occurred. To you, it was important to have comfortable silences with friends.

“Are your parents letting you go to Juilliard?” Ricky asked, breaking the silence in two and changing your mood almost immediately.

You bit your lip, shaking your head firmly. Your parents were conservative and strict and had always set your sights towards med school or law school since you were born. But sometimes the most rebellious people come from the strictest parents. You wanted to pursue music — you had told them multiple times — but you knew you couldn’t. Not with them breathing down your neck.

“What’re you doing?”

The sharp voice of your mom made you freeze, all hope of going into the school now lost as you turned to her. Your dad stood behind her, his look almost as murderous as your mom’s.

They had always been on the more conservative side.

You shut your laptop quickly. “College applications,” you croaked out despite the feeling of sandpaper in your throat. “Gonna apply for Colombia. Just like I said,” you smiled forcefully, praying that your terrible lie would suffice against their looming look.

“Give me the laptop,” your dad stated, walking into your room and holding his hand out expectingly. You stared up at him, eyes wide as you slowly shook your head. “Don’t make me take it from you.”

“But,” you stammered, eyebrows furrowing and heartbeat picking up. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Forcefully, your dad took the laptop out of your hands with one swift move. He opened it, the page not locked and protected by your password. He scrolled up, your impending doom hovering over you like an anvil waiting to fall. Then, he stopped.

“Juilliard? The art school?” he questioned, voice hard as his eyes snapped to you. Your mom walked up behind him, peering at the screen. You could see the anger dawn over her face.

You were in for it now.

“They caught me writing my application,” you mumbled, flipping the page absentmindedly. “They yelled at me for hours; nothing new.”

Ricky sucked in a breath, knowing fully well how much your parent’s words affected you. They were ruthless when it came to you. As an only child, you were their sole focus. But that came with consequences and blows to your self-esteem and your mind.

You stood up, letting out a loud sigh and turning to the shelves of books around you. The need for a yet another book pissed you off, and you cursed quietly under your breath as your scanned for a book you needed. Your fingers toyed with the spines of the various books you passed, and you paused when you came to the shelves that most likely had your book.

Hands crept around your waist, and almost immediately it sparked warmth on your skin. You could feel him kiss down your neck, and you automatically leaned your head back against his chest to allow him more access.

Light as a feather, Ricky’s kisses went down to your collarbone before climbing back up to your ear, where his breath fanned against your skin. “You need a break,” he mumbled, gently kissing at the skin under your ear.

You let out a shaky breath, feeling his hands under your shirt. You turned around, not even blinking before your lips met his. His hands picked you up, gripping your thighs and pushing you up against the tall shelves of the library.

“No one’s in the library,” you breathed, a light moan leaving your lips when you felt Ricky bite down.

“And that means?” Ricky asked, his voice sounding so sinfully innocent as he raised his face back up to yours.

“It means,” you drawled, tugging the beanie off of his head and throwing it behind him. “We can be as loud as we want,” you whispered, the feeling of your lips against his ear sending chills up and down his body.

“Or,” Ricky drawled on, grinding against you and watching you throw your head back in ecstasy. “Whoever makes a noise first,” he continued, helping you tug your shirt over your head. He took a second, mouth slightly agape as he looked you up and down. “Loses.”

You hummed in agreement, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and letting it fall behind him. You kissed him passionately, locking lips as if your life depended on it. You took his bottom lip between your teeth, playfully pulling it as you pulled away. You let go, taking in the needy gleam in his eyes as you smirked. “I’m down.”

—

Sometimes it shocked Ricky how passionate you were about singing.

You had been singing for as long as he could remember. Your love for music was once a secret, hidden behind other hobbies like climbing trees or riding bikes up and down the neighborhood streets. It wasn’t until the seventh grade, when Ricky caught you singing in your treehouse with your guitar, did he realize just how talented you were.

You had come a long way. From having Big Red and Ricky practically push you towards talent show tryouts to singing nervously in front of the whole middle school with a guitar that was a tad too big for your arms.

You had stage fright then. The oh-so-bold and courageous Y/N was always rendered into a sputtering mess in front of crowds. You couldn’t perform in front of them, for you much rather loved watching Big Red and Ricky on stage.

But as Ricky watched you play guitar for a small diner with people crowding in to see you, Y/N L/N, sing. He couldn’t help but beam at you from one of the closest tables from the stage.

Alongside him sat all your friends: Carlos and Seb, Big Red and Ashlyn, Gina, and even Ej. He found time in his busy schedule to see you sing.

“You know, I never knew she could sing. Or play guitar,” Gina commented amongst all the commotion in their table, waves of agreement rippling through the group.

“She had stage fright before,” Ricky explained, stirring his drink with his straw, Big Red nodding his head rapidly.

“We basically peer pressured her into joining,” Big Red added with a grin, making everyone laugh.

“She sang at the talent show in like, the eighth grade,” Ej added, his eyes set on you on the stage. Your eyes met his, a nervous smile on your face that you hid behind a thumbs up his way. Ej sent you one back with more confidence, and in a way it calmed you down.

“Y’know, haven’t heard her sing since then,” Ashlyn commented, chin on the palm of her hand as she looked at you adjust your microphone with shaky hands.

“Shush! It’s starting!” Carlos hissed, excitement evident as he scooted his chair in closer to the table and focused on you. Various shushes went through the group, along with childish lines of, ‘You suck at whispering,’ and ‘Shut up!’

“Hey, I’m, uh, Y/N L/N,” you began, listening to the cheers scatter around you, the loudest coming from your group of friends. You beamed at them, their confident smiles settling your nerves as you let out a shaky breath. “I usually sing originals, but I’ve been procrastinating lately,” scattered laughs erupted from your crowd. “Here’s Best Part.”

You cleared your throat, before plucking the strings on your guitar and beginning to sing. Your voice was soft, resonating in the diner like an echo.

Ricky could see the nerves fade away as you began to play, your eyes shutting in content at the ecstasy singing gave you. It was odd, how much music affected your emotions in a positive way.

“If she doesn’t get a record deal in the future I’m gonna be pissed,” Seb murmured loud enough for the group to hear, scattered sounds of agreement coming from them all as their eyes stayed on you.

How could they tear their eyes away? You looked so simple, in a black long-sleeved shirt and a skirt that made your legs look amazing. That, paired with your guitar, made you a singing enigma for anyone who didn’t know you.

As the song came to an end, claps and cheers echoed through the crowd. You beamed, smile brighter than the stars. You almost let out a laugh at how loud your friends were, their cheers trumping over everyone and their claps loud.

“How she doesn’t have all the guys after her is beyond me,” Ashlyn tutted, shaking her head to herself as she sipped her drink.

“Speaking of guys,” Ej murmured, voice low as a conversation began between them all. His voice was only audible to Ricky, who sat behind him and turned to him with a confused frown.

“What?”

“Is Y/N, you know,” Ej motioned with his hands, trying to signal subtly to Ricky. It took only a second for Ricky to understand, his eyebrows going up in realization.

Since when did Ej like you? It surprised Ricky, but as he looked back on it, Ej always did have a soft spot for you. Not that he cared much; Ej was a good guy.

“Seeing anyone?” Ricky finished with a cocked eyebrow. Since when was Ej interested in you? In retrospect, it made more sense; you had always been pretty close to him. “No, not that I know of,” Ricky answered, keeping the unholy thought of you in his bed literally two nights ago to himself. “Why?”

“I dunno,” Ej mumbled, looking down sheepishly as he scratched the back of his neck. “Just wondering. I mean after Luka, of course she decided to stay single.” His last sentences were quiet, more for himself than Ricky, but Ricky heard nonetheless.

After your performance, you bowed one last bow to the crowd before you jumped off the small stage, making your way to your friends and letting out a laugh at their exclaims.

“You’re telling me that you’ve had that voice this whole time and you still didn’t try out for High School Musical: The Musical?” Carlos scoffed, feigning hurt while you only hugged him tightly.

“My stage fright would’ve gotten the best of me,” you remarked, the smile of your face never ceasing. You hugged Ricky tightly, his smile almost as wide as yours. He opened his mouth to compliment you before Ej shyly tapped you on the shoulder.

“I was, uh, wondering if we can talk,” Ej said, his voice making the sides of your mouth turn down into a worried frown.

“Sure.” You followed him to the side of the diner, away from the crowds and from your friends. You were unaware of your friends’ eyes on you and Ej, theories already popping up in their minds.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Big Red asked, nodding towards you and Ej conversing quickly. He seemed happy; you looked unsure.

“Either relationship advice or actual problems,” Gina responded, sipping her drink as she spoke.

“Or something else,” Seb added, eyeing the conversation as if it was a dramatic movie playing out in front of him.

Ricky only watched on, curiosity bubbling in his chest as he watched you smile hesitantly and nod your head. Ej’s glowing smile grew, and he nodded to himself. You gave him another smile before turning to the group, smile falling when you saw their eyes on you.

You both walked over to them, your movements hesitant and your eyebrows furrowed while Ej wore a satisfied smile.

You all gave each other another goodbye, your hug with Ej lasting a second longer than usual before you walked out of the diner with Ricky by your side. He was always your ride when it came to your performances.

“What was that all about?” Ricky questioned nonchalantly, breathing in the fresh night air as you walked to his car.

“He wanted to tell me he liked me. He said he had liked me for a while,” you mumbled, voice blatant as you walked. You knew Ricky was looking at you, gauging for any kind of reaction, but you only kept your eyes ahead of you. “It was just something he wanted to get off his chest,” you shook your head. “I dunno.”

“Well,” Ricky cleared his throat, unlocking his car and helping you out your guitar in the back seat. “Do you like him?”

“I haven’t liked someone in that way since Luka.” You shut the door, opening the door to the front seat and climbing in. Ricky went into the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel yet not moving.

“I thought you got over him.”

“I did,” you said, glancing at him. “It’s just,” your voice trailed off, the memories you blocked out of your own head coming back in waves. You sank into the seat of his car. “I’m not over what he did to me. How much he hurt me.”

Nodding to himself, Ricky started up his car. Hey There Delilah started to play through his speakers, and you looked outside the car window as he backed out of the parking space. Your mood always deflated when it came to talking about relationships. Luka left you scarred in more ways than one.

Ricky knew the friends with benefits agreement allowed you both to see other people. But what you didn’t cover was what would happen if you met the right one while having the agreement with Ricky.

“Are you gonna go out with him?” Ricky found himself asking, eyes never leaving the road for fear of seeing you glare at him. But you didn’t glare like you usually did. You only shrugged, watching the buildings pass by. It was odd to feel so down when you felt like you were on top of the world not even 30 minutes ago.

“I don’t think so,” you said, words unsure and hesitant. “I love Ej — I really do — but I don’t wanna ruin what we have. I know it’ll end badly.” You turned away from the side window, opting to watch the dark road ahead illuminated by the headlights.

“You say that every time someone shows interest in you.”

“You say the same thing,” you fired back, turning to him with a cocked brow as if you were challenging him to continue.

Ricky shrugged sheepishly, eyes snapping to look at you for just a second before returning to the road. “Good point. But if he actually asks you to go out...” Ricky trailed off suggestively, making you snort in amusement and sink deeper into your chair.

“That’ll be a problem if it actually happens. But for now,” you looked at him, managing a smile. “I have nothing to worry about.”

—

TAGS: @tomshufflepuff, @myrandom-fandomlife, @softpeteparker, @sarcarstic-space-weirdo, @particularcth, @lifes-a-party-youre-a-boy, @paniniirae, @supersouthy, @jointherebellion215, @gabyer0309, @hannarudick, @broken-from-fandoms, @complete-trash-101, @ssprayberrythings, @raven-waheda, @timelordtardis, @chubby-cheek-calum, @nicole-lynne, @loserr-likeme, @whoseblogsthis, @stxfxniexreads, @cherrydolan, @allaroundaddict, @of-outerspace, @blueevelvt

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joezworld · 4 years ago

Text

Fools in Love (5/10)

James And The Diesel Engine

1978

When 46 040 had declared that she would become friends with James, nobody in the sheds had really believed it.

James was vain, occasionally pompous, and immensely suspicious of diesel traction. It was a minor miracle that Bear and BoCo had been accepted by him, and Gordon speculated that it was due to the fact that neither engine was in a role that would displace the red engine.

040 on the other wheel, was in direct competition with him - right down to her shiny red paint. The big diesel had been eager to prove her worth, and had gladly accepted any work that the Fat Controller had given her. This meant that for most of the past year, there had been two red mixed traffic engines on Sodor.

Naturally, James was quite upset by this - he felt that he was being supplanted instead of supported, and tried valiantly to make 040 go away.

Unfortunately for James, 040 was determined to make a friend out of him, and treated him and everyone else with an almost impenetrable level of charm and good cheer that soon ingratiated herself with the other engines.

“She is of good stock.” Gordon said when she came up in discussion.

“A hard worker” was Duck’s assessment.

“Aye, if more diesels were like ‘er, the other railway would work a treat!” This from Douglas - high praise considering his well established and totally understandable dislike of diesels.

When he first met 040, he’d growled at her to ‘stay away’, and after a moment’s reflection, she’d apologized.

“What MPD were you at?” She’d asked after he’d growled at her.

“Glasgow - Eastfield.” He’d replied after a confused moment.

“Yeah, that figures.” She sighed ruefully. “I’m sorry, by the way. They only had enough of the “I hate steam engine” bits for the 45s, so us 46s and 44s never quite understood why everyone was so eager to replace you. Well, everyone except Spamcan, but he’s an arse to everyone.”

“Aye?” Douglas was very surprised.

“Of course. We tried to make them be nice - they certainly didn’t need to be so vicious about it - but once they know you care - well, it’s said that you can smell weakness in someone’s exhaust, so we weren’t treated much better than you were.”

“I... had no idea. Do they truly do that? There’s no’ even unity amongst diesels?”

“Not a whit. At least, not in the Midlands. Don’t worry though - they’re getting what’s coming to them. All three of us Peak classes are ‘non-standard’ now, so they’ll see what it’s like to be on the wrong side of progress soon enough.” Her tone was not light, but neither was it overly dark. She clearly had private opinions on the subject that she wanted to keep private.

Douglas stared at the big diesel with newfound respect.

James soon found himself in the minority of opinions about 040. His resolve began to waver when she would cheerfully keep her composure even in the midst of a heated argument.

“You’re wrong and I can prove it!”

“How?”

“You haven’t got a boiler! You wouldn’t understand what boiler sludge feels like!”

“Ah! That’s where you’re wrong my steam-powered friend! I do have a boiler - for steam heating! I know exactly what boiler sludge feels like!”

“Cinders and Ashes you are impossible! Why are you so cheerful?!”

“I like arguing with you Jamie, it’s fun!”

“Jamie??!”

-----

One morning, the Fat Controller arrived in the sheds with some important news:

“The Thin Clergyman and his son will be visiting the island once again!” He declared cheerfully.

The engines were surprised. “I thought that he had retired from writing?” Gordon said.

“He has,” explained the Fat Controller. “But his son has decided to follow in his father’s footsteps and will be writing books of his own.”

Most of the engines were excited, but 040 was decidedly not. As soon as the Fat Controller left, her face fell into an uncharacteristic scowl. “I am not appearing in those fucking books.” She said menacingly.

This was arguably more surprising than the news of the Thin Clergyman’s arrival.

“Whyever not?” Asked Henry, who was quite pleased to have stories written about him.

“None of you know this,” She grimaced. “But the only more damaging thing than those books was the fucking Beeching Report! When he wrote about that 08 that tried to cause trouble for Duck, he might as well have thrown a bomb into every yard in the country! Everyone was either saying that we diesels were evil masterminds or that steam engines were idiotic dupes! There was zero civility between engines! Friendships ended! Lives were ruined! Locomotives were scrapped over this! I wasn’t even built then and I still have been forced to deal with it!”

She laughed at the jaw-dropped stares of the other engines. None of them had been on the mainland at that time, and they had no idea of the trouble that had gone on.

“And then there’s one-nine-nine! That nincompoop has gotten every one of us Peaks called a Spamcan! And that’s impressive considering there’s three different classes of us! I didn’t even know what Spam was before that book!”

Silence fell over the sheds for a good while.

“I had no idea...” Gordon eventually said in a small voice.

“I know.” 040 said as she slowly regained her cheery demeanor. “And that’s okay. But I really do not want to be in the books.”

“What’s this about books?” James had been out on an early stopper train, and had missed everything.

“Oh nothing Jamie, do you want to have an argument?”

“No! and stop calling me that!”

“Great! So I think we are actually having an argument right now, but what’s your take on it...?”

-----

The Thin Clergyman arrived onboard Gordon’s express, and was given a warm welcome by the Fat Controller at Tidmouth. Fortunately for 040, Gordon had been able to pass the word on with an earlier train, and she was able to flee the station before the author arrived.

The next week of her life was not unlike a scene from the Benny Hill Show - wherever 040 went, the Thin Clergyman and his son followed.

She ran a parcels train to Barrow - the Thin Clergyman was waiting on the next platform,

She hid behind the Works, only to find his Son riding on Skarloey’s footplate,

At Haltraugh she tried to hide behind Duck - with exactly as much success as one would expect,

The two men starting interviewing engines in the shed, and she was forced to hide amongst the coaches in the yard,

Thomas’ driver unexpectedly fell ill at Tidmouth, and she leapt at the chance to take his train - despite being longer than Annie and Clarabel put together! She made it as far as Elsbridge before curious trainspotters began flocking to take her picture, and she beat a hasty retreat to the main line just before the Clergyman arrived,

The engines at the Kirk Ronan branch were quite annoyed when she tried to squeeze into their shed - she was so big that the door wouldn’t shut!

Planned track work meant that one of the Ballahoo tunnels was closed, and she bluffed her way onto the work train so she could sleep in it. This was an effective hiding spot, until she told Henry, who laughed so loudly that the Thin Clergyman heard the entire story from across the yard,

She even tried sleeping in the electric branch sheds at Peel Godred, but was not only glared at by the very antisocial locomotives who lived there, but also had to hide from both the Thin Clergyman and His Son when they came to see the Culdee Fell Railway.

Finally, there was nowhere left to run - she had managed to find all of these hiding spots while still doing her jobs, but today she was the ‘relief’ engine at Knapford, which meant that she had to sit in the yard all day in case another engine failed.

In full view of the station building.

At midday, James bustled in with a load of vans for Thomas’ branch line.

“What are you so anxious about?” He asked 040 with a mixture of scorn and surprise. The annoying red diesel was looking positively frantic as her eyes scanned the station building. It was most unlike her.

“Jamie! Hide me!” She hissed as James’ driver uncoupled the vans.

“What?”

“Hide me! Quickly!”

“Why?”

“The Clergyman! He’s right there in the station!”

James looked over, and sure enough, the Thin Clergyman and his son were sitting down to lunch in the station café. “Why?”

“Because he might write something about me!” 040 was frantic.

James was baffled, but remembered Gordon mentioning something about some engines not wanting to be written about. He’d assumed that Edward was just being introverted again, but perhaps there was more to it than that...

He was tempted to do the exact opposite - to blow his whistle, attract attention, and pay back the loudmouth diesel for all of her arguments and nicknames, but when he looked back at her, he realized that 040 was frightened of the Thin Clergyman.

James was many things, but sadistic wasn’t one of them, and he ran around his train and shunted the vans so that 040 was almost entirely obscured from sight.

“Thank you!” She whispered as he backed away.

“Keep it dark,” He hissed back. “I have a reputation to uphold. And I’ll try and draw his attention to me so he doesn’t go looking for you.”

“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem for you.” She said with a small smile. “You always are the centre of attention!”

James smiled back as he backed into the yard proper, doing his best to make as much noise as he could until he came to a stop at the far end of the yard - as far away from 040 as possible.

His plan worked flawlessly. The Clergyman and his son had been so engrossed in their meal that they hadn’t noticed that any engine was there at all, and quickly made their way across the yard.

Unlike 040, James was always pleased to have someone write about him, and spent the better part of an hour answering the Clergyman’s questions.

“There was one other thing I wanted to know, James.” The Clergyman’s son said after a while. “We’ve been told that there’s a new diesel on the Island, but we can’t seem to find him anywhere!”

“Her.” James corrected before he could stop himself.

“Her?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes. She’s a girl, and she’s quite shy.”

“Really?” The Clergyman said as he scribbled in his notebook. “Can you tell me about her? Or where she is?”

“I don’t want to talk about anyone behind their back...” James said, knowing exactly how often he did just that. “But I saw her going to the works a few hours ago. You might be able to find her there and ask her yourself.”

This pleased the Clergyman and his Son, and they immediately set off in their hire car for the works. James waited until they had vanished from sight before he called out: “They’re gone!”

“Thank God!” 040 shouted from across the yard.

“Don’t thank him! Thank me!” James called back.

“Thank you James! Really, I owe you one now.” James couldn’t see the diesel, but he could somehow tell that she was smiling.

----

040′s luck finally ran out on the last day of the Clergyman’s trip. She was rostered to pull the night express, and didn’t realize that the Thin Clergyman was going to be on board. She almost jumped off the rails when she saw him climbing the stairs to the platform, she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when he entered the train, and her face fell when she realized that he was merely putting away his luggage before he got out of the train and walked up to her.

“Hello there! I haven’t seen you before!” He said jovially while admiring her paint and stripes.

“I’m new.” She said, trying to keep her tone somewhat polite. The ugly anger rising in the pit of her engine block was making that a very hard thing to do.

“I can see that - you have been quite hard to find!”

“Have I?”

“Very much so, but nevermind that. I was wondering if you would be willing to let myself and my son write about you? You see, we write books abou-”

“I know what your books are about.”

“Oh you do?” The Thin Clergyman said, not missing the sudden undertone in the diesel’s voice.

“Oh yes. And I’m not even talking about Spamcan.” She smiled viciously as the Thin Clergyman winced at that reference.

“Yes, well-”

“I’m not done. I'm talking about the other book you wrote. About the 08? The one that got more than a few engines killed?”

“What?” The author recoiled at the now-undisguised venom in 040′s voice.

“Of course you don’t know. You don’t care about diesels, just your precious steam engines.” She glared at him with undisguised malice. “Do me a favor - take that notebook and go fuck yourself with it - I will never be in one of your books.”

As she said that, the signal dropped, and the guard - who couldn’t see the Clergyman due to a porter’s trolley in the way - blew his whistle.

040 set off immediately, leaving the Thin Clergyman standing on the platform, taking his baggage with her.

When the Clergyman’s son started publishing his books several years later, 040 was nowhere to be seen in any of them.

#ttte #sodor #sodor shenangians #fic #headcanon #rev awdry #ttte james #christopher awdry #ttte gordon #OC: delta #fools in love #the RWS books did not go over well on the mainland

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punkpoemprose · 4 years ago

Text

December 1st- Lights Out

Universe: 1970′s AU (The Great NYC Blackout of ‘77)

Rating: M (Mature, Sexy times)

Length: 3077 Words

A/N: So here we are again. Advent fics, and also decades AUs! I wrote from 1900 to 1950 for last year’s advent and I did 1960 in the spring, so here we are picking up where I left off! If you can guess what company Anna works for in this fic I will give you a cookie and a sticker.

Lets see if I can finish at least the decades this time around, shall we?

Anna sighed as soon as she walked through the front door of the apartment, letting her hair fall out of the low bun she’s had it up in all day. She knew that it was probably silly to keep it up. After all she hated it being that way, but she wanted to make a good impression at work. The better she did, the quicker she could get a good reference, and the sooner she could get out of the city.

She was a bit amused though, despite the hairpin headache it had given her all day, that a coworker had compared the look to something out of the sci-fi flick that had come out some months back. She hadn’t seen it yet, but she imagined that being compared to the princess in the film was probably a good thing, she did know that it was exceedingly rare that a princess was evil or ugly. Her experience with children’s content was, of course, what she’d in part been hired for in the first place.

She shook out her hair and heard some of the little metal bobby pins fall to the floor, they clattered and skidded, undoubtedly falling into cracks and corners she didn’t have the time, energy, or light to locate. She knew that she’d find them again someday, but she hoped that it would soon be because she was busy moving furniture into a truck and her belongings into boxes. New York was interesting, to say the least, but she’d decided that she was much more of a small-town gal than a city chick.

She gathered up the rest of the pins in her hand as she raked her hair through the long and snarled mess. Those pins that hadn’t jumped ship with the initial shake had found themselves tangled in the waves of descending hair and were sometimes angrily biting at strands and taking pieces with them as she removed them. She could already feel her headache easing as her scalp tingled and readjusted to the natural weight distribution of her hair.

The worst part of her job was not the headaches, the hairstyles, or even the momentary concerns that maybe the princess she looked like was the rare evil and cruel type. No, it was much more mundane and far more upsetting, the factor being, of course, the hours. She had been working since noon and it was one of the rare days that she was able to get home before nine at night. Of course, she had expected this when she joined on the CTW’s education research and grant writing division. Kid’s television didn’t exactly make itself, much less make itself educational, but she was looking forward to going elsewhere and working for a less high-profile program and company. A nine to five, she thought, would suit her just fine, especially if it meant that she’d spend more time actually working with kids.

She kicked her shoes off and let herself breathe for a moment before turning around to lock the apartment door behind her. Kristoff has been asking her to be more careful lately with the door, and on the subway, and doing just about anything. They weren’t in a particularly dangerous area of the city and the office she worked out of was only two subway stops from their apartment, but she understood the worry. She was young and pretty in his eyes at least and there was talk in the news about some psycho attacking women. She couldn’t let herself give into the fear of it though, she was done being afraid. She had spent too much of her life being scared and lonely to let it ever happen again.

The bathroom door opened on the opposite side of the room and Anna grinned at the familiar creak of the hinges. She turned and saw Kristoff, fresh from the shower with steam rolling out from behind him, looking as happy to see her as he felt seeing him.

“There’s takeout in the fridge,” he said, looking a bit sheepish, “I was going to cook but I didn’t know when you were getting home tonight and I forgot to pick up the egg noodles on my way back from the shop.”

She wondered how he’d react if she told him that he was the only thing she was hungry for. She’d forgotten to call him to let him know that she’d had a sub at the office while finishing up on some research for an upcoming episode about astronomy, and while she appreciated his efforts at takeout, she didn’t need to eat. She was much more interested in the feast for the eyes before her. She was starving for his attention, to let her hands wander down his chest and to the towel slung low over his hips the way her eyes were traversing the same path.

They were both working crazy hours, saving up as much as they could for their dream of moving to the suburbs or to upstate or wherever they could both find jobs in their fields with a nice little starter house that they could set up a life in. Consequently, they’d both been too exhausted lately to spend their time together doing anything other than eating, sleeping, and maybe listening to the radio before falling asleep. The monotony of it was more exhausting than the workload, particularly when she spent a fair amount of her day wishing for the opportunity she now found before her.

She saw him grin when her eyes wandered back up to his. She knew that he couldn’t have planned to be just getting out of the shower when she got home given he hadn’t known when she would get home, so she called it kismet instead. She shrugged off her blazer, barely turning as she hung it up on the coatrack and returned the smile, throwing in an eyebrow raise for good measure.

It made him laugh, and that let her know that she had looked exactly as mock-lascivious as she’d meant to. She’d learned that when it came to Kristoff, she never really needed to try to flirt, he just gave her the love she needed on demand. Any flirting between them was, at this point in their relationship, mostly for the laughs.

As she stepped forward to meet him she watched as the room went from softly lit to pitch black in an instant. It caused her to jump about a foot, rush forward, trip, and encounter Kristoff who had been, in return, crossing the room to get to her. The impact wasn’t gentle, he was normally her favorite pillow, his largeness being mostly a virtue given the fact that despite his muscle he was overwhelmingly soft, but she had never run straight into his chest before. It was a bit like what she felt running into a padded wall would feel like.

“Oof.”

His grunt of discomfort was a strange comfort when compared to the more concerned sounds, shouts, and confused cries that came from the surrounding apartments and the street below. That, Anna realized, meant that they were certainly not the only ones who were out of power.

“Sorry!”

She offered the apology meekly as his arms wrapped around her. He gave her a little protective squeeze and she rested her weight against him a bit more fully, still recovering from the impact of their bodies that had her a bit shaky on her feet. Normally she enjoyed the sensation of him thoroughly wrecking her, but crashing into him unexpectedly was significantly less enjoyable.

Power outages weren’t exactly uncommon in the summer as everyone ran their fans and air conditioners, but it normally wasn’t something that lasted exceedingly long. This already felt different though, particularly as Anna heard the hollers and shouts coming from through the window from the rest of the block. Whatever had caused their power to go out was not localized to their apartment or building it seemed.

She let her eyes drift over to the window as they adjusted to the darkness they’d been plunged into. She could see past the no longer running fan that there were no lights to be seen in the park across the street from it, nor were there any beyond it.

“I think it’s the whole block,” she said quietly, “maybe even more. There’s no lights in the park and I can’t see any light past that either.”

They were both quiet for a moment as she felt him turning to look as well, turning them together to the side so that they could both look through their dark window, into the dark city beyond.

“Crap,” he groaned, “Might be the whole borough.”

Anna shook her head. That would be insane. They were in Manhattan, it was massive, and for the sheer amount of different areas it contained there was really no logical way for her to wrap her head around the power being out across it.

“If Manhattan is out, the whole city might as well be. I don’t know what it would take for it all to go out.”

Kristoff sighed and Anna’s eyes finally adjusted well enough for her to see his grumpy expression, or at least the shadowy set of his displeased jaw. They sat like that for a while, eyes adjusting to the dark, waiting for the power to click back on and for them to be proven wrong about any more than just their block being out. It didn’t return after minutes passed like hours, and they were forced to move from their standstill.

“Well… guess it’s a good thing that Elsa bought us candles for an apartment warming gift. Do we even have a lighter?”

Anna sighed, “Honestly I don’t know? I think I have a box of matches in the drawer next to the stove because we needed them when the igniter wasn’t working. One of us needs to take up smoking if this is going to become a more frequent event.”

That, she was pleased to report, made him laugh again. She stepped out from his arms to bump into furniture in her search for the drawer containing the matches. She never truly realized how many obstacles their apartment contained until she crashed her hip into the table edge, bumped into a basket of laundry she’d only half folded, and stumbled across a chair leg.

“That seems like an extreme option. We could just buy a lighter and not smoke. I know you don’t like the smell. You always complain about it when we go out to eat and someone lights up at a table near us.”

Anna hip checked the counter by accident but managed to find the drawer handle with one hand as she rubbed the now sore skin through her pant leg with the other. Somewhere on the other side of the apartment she heard Kristoff open the closet door and make a valiant attempt to dig through out-of-season coats, miscellaneous pieces of décor, tools, and sundry to find candles that, like everything else in their apartment, he couldn’t see.

For her part she was rummaging through the junk drawer, fingers making contact with buttons, patches, glue bottles, tape dispensers, and all manner of unnecessary-until-they’re-necessary items. She always told herself when she went into the drawer for something that she needed to clean it out, but it was one of those tasks that never made itself a priority.

“I don’t like it, but I’d probably have a lighter in my pocket if I did.”

She could practically feel his eyes rolling when her fingertips brushed against the rough, sandpaper-like striker of the matchbox. Her hand wrapped around the little box, and she was grateful to feel something rattle around inside. It would have been just like her to have thrown an empty box back into the drawer, and she couldn’t help but appreciate past Anna for leaving her at least a few matches.

“Found them,” Kristoff called just as Anna was about to do the same. It was a small mercy, she thought, that they’d managed to be prepared despite not intentionally preparing for anything. She held the match box up in the dark and shook it hard, the rattling heard across the apartment even with their neighbors still grumbling and shouting.

“Great,” he replied, hearing the sound or seeing the movement confirming the existence of the matches. “Though you should know… Anna I think I lost my towel somewhere near the closet.”

***

The lights hadn’t come on. They’d spent hours in the living room, reading, lazing, complaining about the heat as they read and lazed and sweated in their underclothes. The possibility of going out and seeing what everyone else was doing was offered and quashed by them both on a few occasions, ultimately with them both deciding that they wouldn’t be leaving the apartment that night, nor would they be doing so in the morning, even if the power was back on.

“I deserve a day off,” Anna moaned as Kristoff’s hips rolled into hers.

They’d went to bed innocently enough, planning to sleep in and catch up on rest. The plan had lasted all of a few moments until Anna took advantage of Kristoff spooning her to press her rear suggestively into his crotch. She thought that they deserved some sort of prize for making it into bed in the first place. She’d wanted him since she walked into the apartment, and though he’d managed to put on underwear out of the half-folded laundry basket after losing his towel, Anna had been more than willing to spend the rest of their evening on the couch in candle light.

Their current arrangement was better on their backs, and less likely to start a fire.

“You do baby,” he agreed, his voice deep as they engaged in the only agreeable activity a young couple could possibly agree on when it was late, the power was out, and there was nothing to be done about the heat.

His hands were on her waist as she moved above him, his fingers pressing into her skin as he helped her find a rhythm. She loved the way it felt to have him below her, to give him the pleasure he deserved while taking it for herself.

“You deserve a day off,” she added, “We can spend the whole day in bed.”

He groaned and she felt his fingers squeeze a little tighter at the idea of spending a whole day alternating between making love and napping. Though, she supposed that he might also be reacting to the fact that she was speeding up her pace, riding him hard and fast, trying to make up for weeks of unwanted celibacy in one night.

She was full of him, each time she rolled her hips and sank down on him brought her closer and closer to the edge. She’d spent hours daydreaming of it, feeling the stretch of him filling her, watching the euphoric daze come over his features as he let her give herself to him again and again until they were tired and sated. To see it now in the dim flickering candle light brought an intimacy that she hadn’t imagined before, the light dancing over his kiss swollen lips as he groaned and panted along with her.

“Anna, if you keep doing that I’m going to…”

She rocked her hips and his rolled in return, seeking just the right angle together and finding it as the friction of their joining brought her to her climax before he could achieve the same. She kept her pace, riding out the euphoric sensation as he panted out her name. She let him take up the lead then, letting him set the pace as she moved along with the urging of his hands on her waist.

“Kris,” she encouraged, “Gosh baby you make me feel so good. Please come for me.”

She settled her hands on his shoulders, using him for support as they sped up and worked together to find his end.

He came for her, his grip tightening and his eyes fluttering closed as she watched his face. That was her favorite part of being on top, the view it afforded her of his features softening as she felt him go pliant below her.

They stayed like that for a moment, his hands on her hips and her just holding his shoulders for support, watching him. When he caught his breath and her thighs began to shake from the effort, he pulled her to his side and kissed her lips softly, almost chastely.

“I hope the power stays out,” Anna teased as she got comfortable on the bed at his side, “I know we agreed not to go to work tomorrow, but I think I could live without electricity if it meant more of this.”

Kristoff chuckled against her ear as he pulled her back into him. It was too hot for it, too hot for what they’d just done, but a slight breeze through the window cooled the sweat on their bare skin and made it bearable. She felt him kiss her throat and she hummed appreciatively at the contact, her arm settling over his where it crossed her stomach.

“Or we could just move sooner than planned. Imagine all the free time we’ll have together when we’re on the same schedule. I’ve been looking at jobs North of Albany and I think with our savings we can live on one income for a little while if you want to move up the timeline.”

Anna smiled at the idea.

“Want to hear something crazy?”

He didn’t speak but instead she felt him nodding behind her.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing. I’ve been looking at open positions upstate too and Fisher Price is looking for someone with an education background to join their research and design team. I was thinking about calling about the position and setting up an interview, but it just seemed like it was a little fast.”

“Anna that’s not crazy… baby that’s wonderful.”

“You’re wonderful,” she teased, leaning back into him and turning her head to give him a peck on his arm.

He laughed and kissed her on the top of her head in retaliation, and as they quieted and dozed off to sleep, Anna could not help but to think that maybe the blackout was fate after all.

#kristanna #kristannaadvent2020 #frozen fanfiction #kristanna fanfiction #1970's AU #Blackout of 77 AU

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thedreadvampy · 4 years ago

Text

so I understand you like Historical Mechs Fandom stuff

anyone wanna read this unfinished fanfic I wrote in 2013 about Bertie from the Gunpowder Tim backstory???? it is my Bertie Lives AU that was my baby for like six months and then I gave up because once I tried to write non-joky Mechanisms dialogue I was Incapable.

it’s pretty much just 10 pages of Bertie bumbling around having PTSD and then 5 pages of Bertie having a FULL ON NIGHTMARE BAD TRIP ON THE AURORA

[oops I put this up during my lunch break and I forgot to put content warnings - cw for alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts and self-harm (plus all the usual Mechanisms stuff)]

_____________________________________________________

The night before the battle, Tim had a strange dream. At least, he decided on reflection, it must have been a dream, because it was far too odd to have actually happened, and the alternative was that he was going mad.

In the dream, he opened his eyes in darkness, and it took him a moment to work out why. Outside, someone was whistling a jaunty tune. It drifted down from above into his consciousness, and it occurred to him that he half-knew it. Humming along under his breath, almost inaudible, glory glory hallelujah, Tim crept out of his bunk and picked his way surefooted to the ladder out of the dugout, pausing only to pick up a shuttered lantern.

Up above, the dim light picked out the vague silhouette of the whistler. His back was to Tim; the young soldier could just about make out that the stranger was wearing neither Lunar or British uniform, but a long non-military trenchcoat. His long dark hair billowed in the stale cycling of the tunnel air, but he was otherwise motionless, whistling his tune repetitively out to the darkness.

Dragged by the strange compulsion of mystery, Tim drew closer, holding his breath. He was mere feet away from the stranger now, and the other man showed no sign of recognising his existence, just stared ahead and whistled. His soul goes marching on...

Caution gave him pause for a moment, the nightmare fear of the unknown, but the tension of the moment pulled Tim forward. Slowly, with eyes wide, Tim raised a hand to touch the long-haired man on the shoulder, but a fragment of a second before he could touch him, the whistling abruptly stopped. In that awful frozen moment, Tim's heart stopped in terror, and the other man turned, looked him in the eye.

With a strangled noise, Tim dropped his lantern in the mud. It flared as it fell, flashing reflections off metal and strange, unknowable materials embedded in the other man's skin.

He had such eyes, and that wasn't the worst of it. Paralysed with horror, Tim gaped, and his own ruined face stared unblinking back at him, pale and marred by those inhuman, mechanical eyes.

And in the darkness, the Other-Tim whispered to him, told him his future. Told him what he had to do.

-------

They land in the north of Scotland a few hours before dawn, a ragged, wounded band of half-men more pain than thought, and sunrise finds Bertie on the train south, a weary soldier on his way home at last. He clutches Tim’s dogtags like a rosary and rocks freely with the motion of the train. Not for the likes of them the heady luxury of the airships, nor even the smooth skytrain built not so long before the war that stretches around the coast. The common soldiery are crammed unceremoniously into commandeered civilian trains, and there’s little complaint because while it may be slow and loud and shaky and cramped, while they may be granted little more thought than freight, the trains are taking them home. The war is over, the years of hell behind them, and they are going home.

Still, tight-packed, the carriage is airless and steaming, and encrustations of dirt and blood and worse on the demobbed soldiers’ uniforms fill the train with the stench of war. Sitting next to Bertie is a boy who looks half his age, and the war so fills Bertie’s past that he wonders that it’s possible for someone so young to even have been alive when he and Tim enlisted lifetimes ago. He’s missing an arm, and the half of his face on Bertie’s side is a shattered, bandaged mess, collapsed jaw, empty eyesocket visible through the dressings. Bertie feels sick, miserable, and the pitching of the train does nothing to ease his nausea. The claustrophobic airless heat, the smell of men and misery, all of it’s too close to the tunnels for him to bear. Tim’s tags bite into his palm. He’ll have to tell Tim’s parents about what happened, when he finally makes it back. He wonders if they’ll be surprised. He wonders if they’ll remember him.

He presses his face to the mud-speckled glass and feels the vibrations running through his skull, tries to ward off the panicking part of his mind that tells him that what he’s feeling is the rumble of approaching Lunar vehicles. He shuts out the train, the sweaty warmth, the shattered bodies, and watches the familiar half-forgotten landscapes rush past. He longs to be out of here, out there. He wants to just fall down in the gorse and the heather below the enormous openness of the dawn sky, he almost convinces himself that he can smell the fresh sweetness of bruised leaves and rain-moistened earth, feel the rain on his face. Rain! It’s been so long he reels from the strangeness of it all, from the heaviness of normal g that sets his weakened body to buckling, from the greens and yellows and blues after the colourless landscape of the moon, from the improbable lack of echoing and the solid ground beneath his feet after years of tunnels and sinkholes and muck.

When he gets off the train, though, holding himself steady on his crutches in the crush of men, once the paperwork’s done and the stamps stamped and he leaves the station, his kitbag on his back, his legs wobbly and weak, once he’s off the train and out in the open, it’s all too much. The sky is too wide, a great, sucking emptiness above him, the air fills his lungs in strange ways, there’s nobody to tell him what to do or where to go, and he gropes for Tim’s hand but of course Tim isn’t there, won’t be there, and he finds himself losing the fight to stay standing. There’s too much air, he gasps it in and out and it can’t get through, and he’s crying in a shower of spit and tears as he drops his kitbag and crutches, curled on all fours, grabbing and gasping for breath that won’t come and he can’t do it, he’s left the tunnels but he’s still stuck there in his mind, and the more he tries to calm himself the worse it gets, until gentle hands lead him back into the station and push a tumbler of brandy into his hands and make soothing noises, and over the roaring of blood in his ears he can hear ‘poor old bastard’ and ‘shellshock’ and he thinks bugger that, it’s not the shells that shocked me, it’s getting away from them that did the damage. The brandy burns, makes him cough, but the effort of drinking it slows him, calms him, and the world comes back into focus.

He has to admit to himself he can’t get back to Roseburn Street by himself. He calls home from the station. His mother’s in hospital (he didn’t know, nobody told him), so his sister Sophie comes to pick him up, and he almost doesn’t recognise her. She’s grown, become a sensible, careworn woman since he left, though she’s barely twenty, and he almost comments on how much she’s changed from the laughing child he left behind until he catches sight of himself in a darkened window and sees himself through her eyes, his cavernous scars, his weakened frame, his aged face, his haunted eyes, his awkwardly dragging leg, his round cheeks turned hollow. There are lines gouged in his brow and around his mouth, lines of pain and misery and anger, and he struggles to align that Bertie with the person he knows he is. That Bertie looks middle-aged, looks worn, a veteran of a nightmare war, but he doesn’t understand because he knows he’s not yet twenty-five and the man in the window looks more like fifty.

He holds Sophie’s hand like a child on the tram back to the flat. He doesn’t speak. Neither does she. They are worlds apart. She isn’t fourteen any more and he doesn’t know who she is. One hand is in his pocket, turning over Tim’s tags, twining the chain endlessly around his fingers as if it could bring him closer. Outside the window, the city’s shifted to alien strangeness. Rails and tracks have been ripped up in the name of the war effort. New buildings have sprung up, old familiar facades fallen into disrepair. He doesn’t belong here. He is conscious that the other passengers are staring before he becomes aware that he’s weeping openly. Sophie’s hand tightens around his. He can feel blood oozing from his cracked palm, running over the warm metal dogtags in his pockets. He wants to disappear.

The tenement building of his childhood is at once too big and too small. The stairs take him an age to navigate, pausing at each landing to catch his breath, Sophie hovering concerned at his elbow. His shoulders scream with the effort, his lungs burn. The flat is on the fourth floor. Every pitted step of the stairwell is an aching return to childhood that his ruined leg drags over and scuffs to nothingness.

The flat seems to have shrunk since he left for Oxford an eternity ago. The walls close in around him. Exhausted by the journey, he fights to smile as his siblings and old family friends welcome him home with fanfare and homemade cake and childishly painted banners and balloons, but there are tears streaming unstemmed down his face. A balloon pops like a grenade and he finds himself crumpled on the floor. Someone screamed deafeningly in his ear; he decides it was probably him. He feels weak and selfish and fragile. His body weighs several tonnes. His aunt and his sister carry him to his room. He can’t stop apologising and he’s still apologising when they leave, Sophie’s mouth twisting as she holds back tears.

His room is starched and washed and cosily clean, little changed in all these years. He struggles into the pyjamas laid out on the bed, crisp and smelling of laundry, and hurls his hateful uniform across the room with what little strength is left in him. It lies there, watching him balefully. He throws a crutch at it. The little heap is miserable, muddy, alien in the childish comfort of his room. The wet fabric leaves a little puddle where it lies. He is seized with a sudden urge to be rid of it all, and despite his exhaustion, he struggles up on one crutch and hauls the filthy bundle to the bathroom across the hall, to shove it wilfully to the bottom of the laundry basket. Sudden realisation strikes him, and he digs back down to rescue Tim’s tags. Now his beautiful clean pyjama sleeve is wet and muddy, and there’s a brownish grey patch damp down his white-and-blue-striped side where he held the uniform to him. Angry and hurt and shaking with exertion, he tears that off as well, and shoves it too into the laundry. Then he sits on the toilet lid until the shaking subsides.

He doesn’t get up, because he can’t, but he reaches over to the cracked sink and drops the dogtags next to the tap. Then he scrubs his hands under the hot tap until they start to bleed again, until the water runs clear past his hands, trickling and dripping down his bare arms onto his chest. If there’s pain, it doesn’t reach him, but his hands are lobster-red when they emerge. He still doesn’t feel clean, but the room is spinning and the walls are closing in and he needs to sleep before he passes out. He brushes his teeth slowly and haltingly with a new toothbrush left by the sink, and realises he’s not been clean in years.

Before he goes to bed, he puts Tim’s stained and bloody tags around his neck, to hang there with his own. He wraps himself, like a small scared child, around a threadbare teddy bear his mother gave him when he was young. He has a vague feeling it ought to smell like childhood, but it doesn’t, it smells of age and dust and cleaning products.

He blacks out almost immediately, curled on top of the neatly made up, crisp sheets. He does not dream, and he awakes confused and lost, crying out and reaching for Tim in soft tangled strangeness that takes minutes to make sense to him.

It ought to be better, being out of the tunnels, being home. It is better, he tells himself, but he’s not convinced. At least on the front, he knew he had a use, he had orders, friends, Tim. Now he lies here, a pallid, broken thing, watched by faces pale and concerned, afraid of his own shadow. Bertie never learnt how to do nothing; for as long as he can remember he has been a comforter, a worker, a student, a soldier, a protector. Now the days stretch endless before him and crush him with their weight, closing in like tunnel walls.

For weeks, he barely leaves his room. His siblings bring him food and clothes and sit with him, try to talk across a gap of half a decade to the stranger wearing their brother’s name and an old man’s face. He lies in bed and reads and fingers Tim’s battered tags and tries not to think. Slamming doors and backfiring cars make him jump out of his skin. He cries without knowing why. There is a dent in the wall where he punches it in his sleep. He feels useless, empty. He’s forgotten how to be normal, and the world’s moved on without him.

He tries to take his kitbag and his uniform down to the yard to burn them, but Sophie stops him with a desperate hug and a comforting hand to guide him upstairs. The uniform is taken out of his unresisting hands and he is glad, but like a bad dream it returns in the end, freshly cleaned and folded, lurking like a predator in his wardrobe. He doesn’t complain, but he feels its baleful presence. There are stains in the fabric that will never come out, even if the uniform is washed to bleach-paleness. He hates it with a fervent passion.

A fortnight after he gets back, Bertie summons up all his courage and peels himself out of the comforting shell of the flat, struggles down the stairs to see Tim’s parents. They sit, awkward, three people all broken in their own ways by his death, and Bertie sips tea, unsteady hands slopping it into the saucer, as they stoically don’t talk about what hurts. In their conversation, Tim is still a brilliant child, and he and Bertie play in the sunshine, and nothing bad can ever happen, and though Bertie remembers that there were bullies and beatings and the sunshine was never as bright as it seemed, he imagines himself into that world. He doesn’t have anything to say that won’t hurt. He just wants to keep his mouth shut and lose himself in the rosy past they paint, but they ask about the war and though his teacup clatters in his hands and he can feel himself twitching, he calms himself as best he can. He tells them that Tim fought very bravely. He tells them how Tim’s experiments helped win the war, he talks about nights spent in camaraderie around their meagre heatstrip in the dugout, how Tim’s battered guitar had kept their spirits up night after night. He tries to gloss over the worst of it, but watching their faces he realises how far the boundaries of normal moved for him in the last few years, how the smallest things that had been everyday life in the tunnels were unthinkable to civilians.

He tells them that Tim died saving him. His face stays unmoving. He tells it as a stranger’s story, detaches himself. He wonders absently, as he tells them how Tim’s death allowed him to escape what should have been his death and crawl to safety, whether they hate him as much as he hates himself for stealing their son’s life for his own. He tells them the way Tim had lied to him to save his life, the way he’d forced him to leave him behind, the way he’d understood the situation better than any of them, willingly and actively given his life for Bertie. He wonders if they believe him. It’s too hard to explain. Even he doesn’t believe it, and he knows it’s true.

When he goes, he leaves the little bundle of Tim’s personal effects with them. His regimental mug, his notebooks, his favourite fountain pen, the two books he read and reread during the years in the tunnels. He doesn’t give them the dogtags, or the creased and bloodstained picture of himself and Tim that he recovered from the body. They are his and they are all he has.

Time eddies around him and he stands outside it, or so it feels. But he is healing. It’s slow and it’s painful and it’s almost unnoticeable but now he walks without cringing, he cries less often (though always at night, and the nightmares haven’t stopped). And now, after four months, August is shading into September and he remembers that he had a life once. He remembers why he enlisted. He tells his mother he ought to go back to Oxford and finish his degree, because he is sick of shadowing around the house like a ghost, because the hole Tim left in his life is more sucking than ever when he’s a cripple stranded with nothing to do.

The train takes him south-east, moorlands and industry fading into flat green farmland under the golden sunlight and the still-strange wide blue sky. He is almost enjoying the journey, until they begin to pass through tunnels and the hot darkness envelops him, panics him. He closes his eyes, tries to pretend that the darkness is an illusion, but the change in the air defies him; once again it is tight, sweaty, closed. His breath comes harsh and fast. By the time the train explodes back out into bright sunlight, Bertie is huddled against the seat, barely holding back the urge to scream and cry.

The journey is soured. Children complain about the intermittent darkness. Bitterly, Bertie wishes they understood just how bad it can be to be truly afraid of the dark. At the same time, he is glad they don’t. By the time the train pulls into London for his connection, he’s a nervous wreck. The way to Oxford is spent gnawing his nails to the bone, and he worries. It’s so unpredictable, what can set him off, and Oxford is full of memories and ghosts.

Unlike home, Oxford hasn’t changed a bit. It never does. Hell, there are buildings here going on for four thousand years old and still standing (heavily scaffolded and supported, naturally, but still). The streets are still strangely tranquil yet swarming; buses and airrails rattle past as he walks the old familiar ways back to Wadham, after half a decade away. Even after all this time away from the blasted Moon, the normality of it all still strikes him as disingenuous.

But things are wrong. Subtly, slightly wrong. There’s a strange feeling in the air. The students who pass him all seem ridiculously young. A memorial to Wadham students lost to the tunnels has risen up inside the quad, and once again Bertie sees Tim’s name and smells cordite and death and chokes back nausea. He sits outside his tutor’s office, resting on his crutches with his useless leg stretched across the corridor, and looks over at the girl next to him who has to be at least six years younger than him, and he feels old and weary and lost on familiar ground.

Of course, there is little to no trouble with him coming back to university. After all, he’s far from alone; all across the country since the end of the war, people pulled away by the draft have been coming back to pick up the pieces of their old lives. And now, with his savings and his soldier’s pension and his disability allowance, he can afford his tuition, and a small ground-floor flat not too far away to boot. All according to plan. Except that his flat is so empty after a lifetime of sharing rooms and housing, and at least at first he’s disorientated by not living in the place he and Tim had been occupying in their first year.

It all falls together. Which isn’t to say, of course, that it’s easy. He finds that distances he used to run in minutes exhaust him, and so to start with he turns up late to lectures almost every day. His fellow students are younger, fresher than him. They understand what he, scientific mind atrophied by years away from the concepts, struggle to grasp. He has few friends, and his frequent panic attacks alienate him more; the others view him with mingled admiration and pity, always from afar. He cannot go out on nights out with them; crowded pubs make him panic, long nights wear him out. Worst of all, in his absence the field has changed almost unrecognisably; the war forced such advances on technology and engineering understanding that suddenly, unexpectedly, he finds himself left years behind, a relic of a bygone age. He cannot work hard enough to regain his place at the head of his class, nor is he sure whether he has grown stupider or this new generation of engineers are unreasonably intelligent. It isn’t fair, he curses again and again, to be obsolete and old at the age of twenty-four. He can feel his chance of earning a scholarship once more slipping between his fingers.

But worst is the loneliness. Though slowly he gets better and better, begins to gain once more a handle on this new and alien form of engineering, walks with more strength, answers with more conviction, still he wakes screaming to an echoingly empty flat and Tim’s photograph eyes laughing behind the glass, trapped in time. He had hoped that regaining his university life might help him recover, but he has fallen far enough behind to never pick himself all the way up again, and lost friends’ names watch him whenever he walks around college, and the ghost of Tim haunts their favourite spots. And he is still so lost. His savings trickle away on cheap food and cheap rent and enough whisky to knock out an elephant, and sometimes he goes through hours of work without noticing that he’s crying into his glass. He barely sleeps, because his sleep is haunted. He awakes in the night and sees phantom soldiers in the shadows of the empty rooms and shivers under the covers, he hears noises in the hallway and drowning in paranoia, lies awake contemplating going outside to reassure himself that there’s nothing there, unable to build up the nerve to reach for his crutches in case there is.

He stays in the library until the morning, works late in the lab, does everything he can to avoid going home to the flat and his nightmares. He develops a habit of sleeping flopped on desks or leaning on walls in cafes, trains himself to operate on half-hour snatches of naps for weeks on end and to sleep during the day and work at night, forestalling the moment he has to lie in the darkness which makes every shadow and every creak into a horror story. He finds himself in this strange life where he needs people around him, their presence comforts him, but his eccentricities and his nervousness, not to mention the antisocial hours he keeps, leave him practically friendless. It’s strange to him. His whole life, he was always the one who everyone liked, who was easy to get along with and easy to spend time with. Now he finds himself taking a new role on the outside of everything, and it’s strange and uncomfortable.

But then, sleepless and uncomfortable, though he is learning to cope with work and to manage cramped places, the madness begins to leak into daylight. He wakes from naps in coffee shops with an uneasy feeling of being watched. He sees shadows following him for streets on end as he walks the city in the evening, but turns to see nothing. People pass him in the streets, people who he glimpses with a strange sense of familiarity but whose faces are never in view, people he knows he knows but can’t place. One day he gets home to find things in his room have been ever so slightly moved. Logically he knows it’s ridiculous, paranoid, that he’s misremembering, but he can’t shake the feeling that someone’s been in his home. People give him strange looks in the street. He is, he realises, definitely going mad. Not a-bit-of-shell-shock mad, gibbering in the corner, paranoid delusions mad.

He thinks about seeing someone about it, but what if they take him off the course again? What if they lock him up? He can cope. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the feeling of being followed.

Exams come and go, not as good as he hoped or as bad as he feared. He goes home for a couple of weeks, and while he’s in his family’s flat he feels less watched, although there are still moments when he ventures off Roseburn Street where he hears someone walking behind him for turn after turn, always gone when he looks around. When he gets back to Oxford, he advertises for a flatmate. He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea, with his night terrors and the odd hours he keeps, with his nervousness around people, but he hopes that it might make the nights less terrifying and the flat feel more secure. Still, he’s oddly relieved when he gets no responses; the life he’s living might be tense and operating on the slow and steady road to total insanity, but it’s become familiar and the idea of a change to his hard-won routine, even a positive one, is terrifying. Around the start of Trinity, the visitations abruptly stop. He can walk the streets without feeling followed, the feeling of being watched gives way to the usual loneliness. Life goes on.

He’s surviving. That’s the best he can say. Struggling day by day to keep his head above water, focusing on lasting the day. He isn’t doing badly. If you watched him, you’d barely know how hard it is. He does his work competently if not with his former brilliance, he responds with ghostly smiles when people speak to him, he has friends, both on his course and in the society he found by accident, the little drinking community of Lunar vets. But his colleagues don’t see the exhaustion in his eyes or the drag in his step; when he takes days in a row off sick they just take it as a given. And perhaps the other veterans can see it, but they’re all fighting the same war in their heads. Like in the tunnels, this is just what normality is for them all now.

He wonders what he’s living for. Under his clothes, where nobody can see, his upper arm bears a bloody tally of the times he’s come close to wasting Tim’s gift. The skin is rough and livid with criss-crossing scars.

He wants to die. He can’t die. Around the city, bridges and trains, high windows and passing cars, remind him how easy it would be to stop fighting. But then who would remember Tim? Then, what would Tim have died for? It’s useless. Ridiculous. If he’d been shot, if he’d been killed in the war, all would have been well, it would have been nobody’s fault. All these years he’d thought that the war was hell, but at least he’d known what he was doing. Now he drifts through a grey haze of lonely days, and it is with a palpable shock that he realises it’s a matter of days until the anniversary of Tim’s death.

Accordingly, when the day rolls around (April 3rd, ten days before his birthday), Bertie skips class, skips his usual library session, and devotes the day to getting as utterly and completely hammered as humanly possible. He attempts to drink until he’s incapable of feeling feelings any more; it doesn’t entirely work out as planned. He does, however, drink until he’s incapable of feeling his fingers, and then very nearly breaks his fist trying to get in a fight that nobody else wants to have. Ultimately, he wakes up with a splitting headache, missing a crutch, on a park bench halfway across the city.

He lies very still, trying not to vomit, and then it occurs to him that the paranoia must have come back, because he feels eyes on him despite the fact the sun’s barely risen and the park is empty. A few more brain cells juggle into place and he realises he isn’t making it up. There’s a shadow falling across him. Someone is standing behind the bench, watching him.

With a shout, he erupts upwards, trying to catch the watcher off-guard. The figure is gone, but looking around frantically, he sees the tail of a long coat disappearing around the gate. His nausea and headache pushed aside for the moment, Bertie gives chase as best he can on one crutch, desperation lending him a surprising turn of speed. He runs lopsidedly through familiar streets and alleyways, always just close enough behind to catch a glimpse of his quarry, never fast enough to catch up, breath tearing raggedly, lungs and limbs burning.

Chasing the glimpses of flapping brown coat over Magdalen Bridge, eyes fixed on his quarry, Bertie doesn’t see the man stepping out in front of him until it’s too late. Knocked off balance, his head hits the paving stones hard enough to start stars dancing dizzily in front of his eyes. His crutch skitters noisily into the road. He chokes back vomit, shaking with exertion and rage, and hauls himself halfway up to give a piece of his mind to whoever ruined his chase, but the words dry in his throat when he sees who he ran into.

He gasps, shudders, stifles a scream as he tries to crawl away and encounters the solid parapet, because he’s definitely snapped. Impossible ghosts have come back to haunt him.

“Bertie!” A grin grows across the other man’s face, making the rivers of ink on his face shift and bend. At least, it’s probably a grin, although the number of teeth exposed make Bertie feel rather like a small animal trapped in the gaze of some vast predator. “Bertie, Bertie, Bertie. This is a fucking treat. Haven’t seen you since, hell, when was it?”

Bertie, gaping, chokes out, “Sea of Tranquillity. A year and a half ago. You died, D’Ville.”

“Did I?” Jonny D’Ville sticks a cigarette between his teeth and lights up, looking singularly unconcerned by that information. “Huh. Learn something new every day. Oh well, these things happen, huh? That’s life. Or not, as the case may be.”

“How are you here?” Bertie manages, struggling to his feet (well, foot) with the aid of the parapet. A thought strikes him. “Oh God, am I dead too? Is this what it’s like?”

Jonny snorts. “Dead? Fuck no, you’re just hungover. Trust me, there’s a difference. Hungover is a lot less fun.”

Bertie has had more than enough of this cryptic shit. Just about managing to keep himself supported on the parapet, he lunges forward to grab Jonny by the collar, and is almost taken aback when his hand doesn’t go straight through. Oh hell, what must this look like to people passing them by? Is Jonny really there, or has it finally happened, has he joined the ranks of the crazies who stand in the street shouting at nothingness? “Would you just tell me what the FUCK is going on?!”

Unconcerned, Jonny steps back a few steps, dragging Bertie away from his support so he loses his balance again and falls at his feet. “Where’s the fun in that? I dunno, some people just want to take all the mystery out of life. You’re alive and mostly unmaimed, isn’t that good enough for you?”

“No, it’s fucking not!” Scrabbling around for a moment, Bertie manages to reach his crutch and starts the painful process of getting back up. His face is burning with humiliation and rage, he wants to break everything, beat Jonny’s smirking face into a bloody pulp.

“Well, that’s fucking gratitude for you, isn’t it? After all the trouble Tim went to to get you out of there in one piece. How’d that work out, anyway?”

The red mist descends. Bertie lashes out upwards with the metal bar of his crutch, catching Jonny under the jaw with a satisfying crunch, and then they’re both rolling on the pavement among horrified passersby, and Bertie is straddling Jonny’s chest and punching him repeatedly in the face, and he’s not so much lashing out at Jonny’s smug comments as he is at his own insanity, at the feeling of being watched, at the country that let him down and at Tim’s ghost for being cruel enough to die for him. Jonny laughs through broken teeth, a bloodstreaked devil’s smile, and it fuels Bertie’s rage more, until his fists are bruised and torn from punching.

Something cracks Bertie in the back of the head for the third time this morning. Jonny’s laughing, ruined face swirls and swims before his eyes, and then nothingness embraces him.

-----

Blinking awake, eyes gummy, head killing him, it takes Bertie a moment to realise what’s wrong, but when he does he swings into full consciousness in an airless rush of panic. He’s lying on something hard and uncushioned, and the gravity’s all out of whack, he feels strangely weightless and buoyant, his fearful breathing echoes off tight metal walls. For a moment of impossible certainty, he’s sure he’s somehow back on the Moon, trapped again in the tunnels, but no, that can’t be, since the end of the war there have been blockades around the lunar remains, nobody gets in or out. But that doesn’t stop the bile rising in his throat, claustrophobic panic seizing him. His mind knows that this isn’t the Moon, but his hindbrain disagrees with absolute surety, and rises in revolt, and if this isn’t the Moon then where the hell is he?

He tries to sit up, and sets the room spinning as white-hot pain lances through the base of his skull. Nausea sweeps through him again, and he retches, but some time must have passed because his stomach is empty and he only succeeds in dribbling stomach acid onto the floor. His head is excruciating, and it takes him several minutes to remember why. Gingerly, he touches the sore part, trying not to move his head, and hisses between his teeth as his fingers brush scabbed swelling and bruises under curls matted with clotted blood. It isn’t too badly cut up, he decides once he can think again over the pain. There’s a lot of blood, yes, but you get that with head wounds, and the wound isn’t deep, really just a scratch. The pain and the nausea comes from the fact that someone hit him hard enough to lay him out with one blow, and bugger everything if this isn’t just about the worst day for headaches he’s ever had. Assuming it is the same day, of which there is precisely no guarantee.

Exploring his pockets, he finds with some relief that whatever else might’ve happened, he hasn’t been robbed. Among small change and keys, he finds his pillbox in his jacket; his hipflask is a comforting weight in his trouser pocket, half-empty but still full enough. With trembling hands, he tips out a couple of heavy-duty painkillers , washes them down with a big enough gulp of whisky to be a really bad idea, and then sits very, very still, his head in his hands, waiting for one or both of them to kick in enough for him to move, and trying to process what possible madness could have befallen him.

Literally none of it makes any sense. The dead walking around being very not-dead, the stranger watching him constantly who turns out not to have been a figment of his imagination…who was it that hit him, back on Magdalen Bridge? Why bring him here, and where is here? And who is the man in the brown coat who seems so familiar and so alien? Why him? He hasn’t done anything interesting, never got mixed up in anything political, never did anything huge, has no power, no heft; he’s just a messed-up veteran living in a crappy student flat with the ghost of his dead lover, like half the rest of the bloody country. He isn’t special.

He makes an abortive effort to get up, some combination of booze and drugs calming slightly the pain fogging his mind, then realises that his crutches are nowhere to be seen. Slowly, dizzily, he crawls three-limbed to the nearest decent-sized object…a cannon, it looks like, but in a design he’s never seen before, and something about it is trying to stir something up in his mind, but he’s in no fit state to make links and the thought slips away before he can get a grip on it…and hauls himself upright with a grunt of effort, hop-shuffles towards the door, aided by the low gravity and his hand on the wall.

He makes his way out of what seems to be some sort of arsenal, down long, doorless corridors, slightly curving floors, rounded metal walls, festooned with exposed pipes and wiring. Memories of more makeshift corridors well up inside him; he drowns them with the remainder of his whisky and struggles on. There are voices up ahead. He recognises Jonny’s mocking laughter, and, burning with rage, follows the echoing sound.

“You knocked him out.” He hears Jonny’s voice clearly now. “With his own fucking crutch. That’s fucking cold, Nastya.”

“Yes. And?” The other voice is female, tinged with something like and yet unlike a Russian accent, and wholly uninterested. Bertie creeps closer. He can see the change in light coming from a half-open doorway up ahead; he slows his step, wincing at the echoing drag of his bad leg on the steel floor.

“And nothing.” Now, creeping to the doorframe, Bertie can catch a fractured glimpse of the inside of the room. Jonny is sitting in a raised chair, his booted feet up on the console in front of him, his back to the door. The young woman he’s talking to, Nastya, can’t be more than twenty, if that, and Bertie can’t decide if the strange silver sheen to her skin is a trick of the light, or yet another mystery. Jonny swigs a glass of whisky dramatically. “Could’ve done it five minutes earlier, is all. He smashed in my whole face, which is a, a massive pain in the arse, and b, extremely unoriginal.”

The young woman shrugs, but smiles slightly, unpleasantly. Bertie can’t quite express why her amusement is unnerving, but it is.

Jonny ignores her. “Plus, it’s set you-know-who off again. You know it’s only a matter of fucking time before he starts talking at us, and last time it took ten years in a fucking dwarf star to shut him up.”

“He didn’t shut up,” replies another voice. Whose, Bertie can’t see from his vantage point. “But he’s whining to Ivy now, so who gives a fuck?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jonny drains his glass and thumps it down on top of the console. “Point is, we’ve got this fucker on board my ship now, so-“

“Your ship?” Nastya raises an eyebrow.

“Your creepy robo-fuckbuddy, whatever. The ship of which I am captain, how about that?”

“First mate,” says the disembodied voice, accompanied by a drifting cloud of smoke.

“Yeah, can we not fucking start this again? It gets really fucking old after a few millennia. Let’s not dwell on who’s right and who’s wrong, and who’s captain and who isn’t, especially because you all know in your heart of hearts that it’s me on both counts. Point is, we have a very mortal annoyance getting blood all over the place. Personally, I vote for seeing how long he can hold his breath in space.”

“189.3 seconds on average, not taking into account pressure differentials.” A new voice, female, with a clipped public school accent.

“But the pressure’s what makes it funny. Fuck’s sake, Ivy, learn to have a bit of fun.” He picks up his empty glass and looks at it askance. “I’m gonna get another drink before somebody, naming no beardy and annoying names, decides to stop moping and start flavouring perfectly good whiskey with nitroglycerin again.” Jonny takes his feet off the control panel and swivels in his chair. Bertie tries to peer closer, but Jonny’s face is still turned away; he can’t make out how much damage he managed to do. Standing up, he disappears out of Bertie’s blinkered line of sight, but now, Bertie can hear his footsteps coming towards the door. He freezes, paralysed like a mouse before a snake. He can’t run away quietly, not on this leg, nor is there anywhere to hide. Blood pounds in his ears, and he‘s looking around desperately for somewhere to hide, and somebody up there likes him, because there! A service hatch, big enough to crawl into fairly swiftly, and he manages it just in time, pulling the hatch closed and sealing himself into the crushing darkness a split second before he hears the door swing open and slam shut.

The space is small, the ceiling low enough that he has to sit with his head tucked onto his bent-up knee, his bad leg twisted uncomfortably under him. His hip is screaming already. He feels around in the darkness, trying to find out how deep the space is, hoping that it might be a service shaft to take him to somewhere slightly less immediately awful, and encounters something he thinks for a horrible moment is a leg or an arm, dressed in wool fabric. But it’s got no warmth, and it’s hard to the touch, and, heart in mouth, he pushes up the cuff of the fabric sleeve and feels smooth, polished wood under his fingertips.

He breathes a sigh of relief. Must be a broom closet or something. Weird, but what isn’t today?

There’s a clink in the darkness, like glass or china, the sound incongruous.

“I say, old bean!” remarks a cheerful voice, sounding incredibly loud in the small space. “What a spiffing idea! A secret tea party! What larks! Biscuit?”

Bertie jumps out of his skin, fumbling for a match. The light flares for a moment, illuminating a familiar and incredibly unwelcome inhuman face, painted moustache and all.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He scrabbles backwards, collapses out of the hatch in a clattering racket, and stumble-runs off down the corridor as fast as he can manage.

Behind him, a chirpy voice echoes from the vent. “Are you sure? They’re jolly nice. They’re the sort with little silver balls on top.” Bertie, however, is long gone.

He’s staggering down the corridor in an increasingly hellish state of stomach-churning terror, concussion, pain and overheating when he reaches a fork in the corridor. Pausing in an agony of indecision, he hears Jonny’s voice up ahead on the left. “No. Fuck right off. He’s your fucking problem, let me know if and or when he cracks up and blows his own brains out.”

There’s an echoing clang, rather like somebody’s head being smashed at breaking-speed into a metal wall, and then Jonny starts laughing in a damp, gurgly sort of way. Bertie heads down the right-hand corridor, holding himself up on the wall, until his lungs give out and, muscles screaming, blood pumping fire through his veins, he can run no more, and collapses gasping against the wall, slides down with an audible squeal of sweat on metal to sit panting on the floor, doubled over and staving off a total meltdown with difficulty. His hipflask is devastatingly empty, his body a mass of pain, his head spinning.

A noise echoes down the corridor up ahead. Whatever it was to start with, it is magnified and replicated beyond recognition, but it’s enough to push Bertie back up into all-senses-tingling fight-or-flight mode, and he scrabbles like a mouse from a cat away from the noise. Around the curve of the corridor, a few metres away, there’s a door set into the wall, and he falls through it with relief, hoping against hope that he gets lucky this time, that there’s no bloody dead thing living in here too.

It’s very dark, and very quiet, and he crawls forwards into the blackness until he bumps into what feels like a low desk, or possibly a lab bench, the sort with three solid sides reaching down to the floor. The ground underneath is cluttered; with what, he can’t decide by touch, but metal and plastic and glass shift as he inches under the table as quietly as he can. His hand goes down on glass shards; he ignores the pain, adds it to his long list of miseries, and pulls himself into the corner, huddled in the dark with only his own shaky breathing for company.

At some point, he falls asleep, and is aware of it only when he wakes in a panic, hearing footsteps somewhere nearby. He gropes for a weapon, something to defend himself with; his scabbed and stiff hands find what feels like a length of pipe. If he can’t hit with it, it might be long enough at least to help him stand. Hand resting on its comforting coolness, he keeps feeling around, but the footsteps grow closer and then Bertie freezes as a door opens on the other side of the room, and antiseptic white light flares into being, making his eyes water and his head squeeze vice-tight. He grips the pipe as tight as he can and waits in breathless tension, offering up a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening that whoever it is will just go, go now and let him be, but the footsteps keep coming.

Over the pounding drum of his heartbeat, Bertie can hear the heavy swish of a long coat now, a subtler accompaniment to the harsh leather-on-metal thuds of footsteps. A shadow falls past the side of the desk. Bertie does his level best to shrink further into the corner whilst remaining simultaneously absolutely still, which isn’t exactly easy.

Then, a glimpse of a swinging brown canvas coat hem and battered brown leather shoes, and Bertie knows he’s discovered, because the man in the brown coat has never failed to track him down and haunt his days, is hardly likely to start now. His only chance is to take him by surprise and make a break for it.

Pulling the pipe under his weight as he rises, Bertie surges upwards, a broken flask in hand, one arc of motion sending the sharp glass slashing towards the stranger’s throat, but before it can so much as graze the skin, the man in the brown coat grabs Bertie’s wrist and twists it away, turning as he does so, eyes catching Bertie’s.

The beaker falls unheeded to the ground and explodes in a shower of shards. Bertie doesn’t even notice. All his breath is gone from him as surely as if he’d been punched in the gut. His voice is thin and reedy and disbelieving. “No.”

Gripping his wrist still, not ungently, Tim’s expression is unreadable. There’s no flicker of emotion in the ruinous eyes. Bertie gapes. Slowly, Tim releases his hand, and Bertie falls back against the unyielding support of the desk, limp and unblinking as he stares at the impossible figure before him, all he’d hoped and not dared to hope, all he’d feared from the moment he saw D’Ville on the bridge.

“No,” Bertie repeats, hysteria bubbling up in his voice. “No! Fuck you! You can’t…you fucking…you bastard! You fucking bastard! Do you know what you fucking did? Do you know what you put me through? You total fucking shit!”

He glares up at the once-dead man’s unreacting face (saw his eyes dim once, saw him crumple, saw him breathe his last) and he can’t take it any more. With a frustrated yell, he flings himself into Tim, pummelling his fists into chest and face and arms, shouting unspeakable emotions as tears sting his eyes and fall hot down his face.

Tim just stands there, unflinching, and takes every blow without a flicker of his unnatural eyes.

#the Mechanisms #gunpowder tim #tim x bertie #back in the day we made our own ships out of grit and gumption and not wanting to ship our friends' characters together #mechs fic

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