#i'm never drawing this many men again in a row

[op3ra]

rusty roundup (pls pls pls click for quality)

design credits, left to right:

@honey-dont / @commander-spaceboy /@tabooiart / me! / @animatronathon / @nauticaltrainofthe80s / @green-planets

two more rusties + a starlight rusty under the cut! check them out!

design credits, left to right:

@captainmvf / @savs-avvy / me!

[dxwnfxll]

HIII it me again(I’ve been really hyper fixated on saints row and them being dads😭)I was wondering if you could do a platonic relationship with Troy Shogo Maero Johnny with a child!reader that’s like a totally a daddy’s girl just looks up to them so much and and follow them everywhere and how would they feel about it 🥹🫶(you don’t have to get it done right way take your time and take care of you self❤️❤️and get more sleep!!)

Omgg super sorry I never got to this but yeah!!

These will all probably be that child!reader is related to them just fyi!

••Saints row dad's••

Troy

It had always been just you and your dad since you could remember, he was a police officer and as you heard many of his colleagues say 'a damn good one'

You always looked up to him wanting to walk in his very footsteps, but..

Troy wasn't so keen on that idea, the cop had seen how evil Stillwater could be. He'd watch many of his own men die and even criminals he had gotten attached to.

He put his foot down a lot on you being a cop but you always persisted, he couldn't get mad at you wanting to be like him though.

You were his little girl always right at his hip and making a fuss when you couldn't be there.

He'd always read you to bed and ruffle your hair, he enjoyed taking you to school before he had to go back to the Saints.

He framed your drawings, let you do makeup on him and he cried once he finally saw you grew up

Once he sat in a crowd watching as you graduated police academy, even though you wore the uniform you always still looked like the little girl with messy pigtails and skinned knees to him.

He'll always be proud of you

Shogo

You were conceived from one of his ex's, the only reason at the time he kept you was because of his father.

'Take some responsibility!' His father would yell while he bounced you, at that moment he thought he'd hate this and hate you eventually

But one day he saw you take your first steps towards him and he was so..proud.

Ever since then you were a spoiled princess, anything you wanted you got!

He has his own parental issues and tries his hardest to not be like his own father but sometimes it happens

Even then though you still love him and still looked up to him with those big [e/c] eyes of yours

He'd always be doing 'work' while you sat in the same room either playing with blocks or your other various toys

He couldn't ever go anywhere without you, not cause he couldn't stand it but because you'd attach yourself to his leg and beg to come with

You never did find out where he went

Maero

You were such a small thing compared to him, this tough ass dude was scared to hold you for the first time.

He had you with a ex he's still friends with, the two of them sharing custody. But you always seemed to like him more

Your first word was 'dada', your first steps were at his place and you always bugged him whenever you could

He was extremely protective of you, if someone even made you cry that person would never be seen again (unless you count the news)

He wasn't the best dad though, he did a lot of messed up shit and he didn't even try to hide it from you.

Always stating it was some 'family business' type thing, that one day you'd be just like him

Also y'know that meme with Peter holding a shot gun going 'i'm just gonna talk to him' yeah that's him if you ever even get a crush on another person

Yeah he's one of those dads def sorry LOL

He's almost always carrying you around too and if anyone looks at him funny he sends a nasty glare

He cares a lot about you, you were the last thought in his head after he died

Johnny

Johnny is honestly probably the second best dad in the list (not including extra), he did his research before you came in the world

Obviously you're his and Aishas lil girl, and Aisha almost had to get up and fight him to finally hold you. He just didn't wanna let you go

It was sad that he got locked up soon after your third birthday, but he always wrote you letters and coloring pages he colored sometimes drawings

Once he got out you were the first person he hugged, you were playing in the yard when he pulled up

He calls you various nicknames Tater tot, Baby doll, trouble maker, thing one, and cheeseball

He takes you with him (much to Aisha's disapproval), don't worry though he only takes you on safe jobs

You'll be in your car seat as the boss jumps in 'hey johnny the fu-' instant head smack 'hey there's a damn kid in the back seat'

He's got the spirit at least

You follow him around everywhere even once you get older and your dad is famous

And of course Johnny would burn the world to protect you especially after what happened to Aisha

Extra

Carlos

Of course once Carlos joined the Saints you also technically joined

He'd call you 'lil Duck' because you'd always be following him around like one

He'd mess your hair up or put his beenie on you, and laugh as the beenie was too big and would fall over your eyes

He was a great dad, he tried his best to shield you away from all the bad stuff but he was a single father and there was little he could do

He'd be one of those dads that would let you sleep in his bed if you had a nightmare

And he'd always hold your hand whenever y'all were in public

Of course you looked up to your dad while having little knowledge in what he actually did

You still wear his beenie even as an adult

Donnie

Donnie was a scared for life dad, instant panic as soon as you were placed in his arms

He thought he'd be an awful dad and that you'd hate him but the complete opposite happened

Sure he made a few mistakes here and there but you never hated him, you always followed him around and stayed in his shop when you weren't at school

Hell you even tried to go against the damn boss of the saints themselves after they busted into his mechanic shop and started wailing on the poor guy

To which Donnie immediately spilled everything fearing they'd hurt you (they wouldn't)

You'd always beg him to play princess with you or to do his makeup

He isn't that terrifying or strong as Johnny or Maero but he'd do everything in his power to protect you

You're his only hope in life at the moment < 3

Sorry if these seemed rushed or not what you requested i'll be happy to redo them and i'll try to get any other requests done

Hope you enjoyed!

[ella-the-fella]

New OC hehe

This is Binguz!!! A lesser vampire that only likes O- blood. They're a gremlin and they bite people because vampire but also because yes. They're also Omnisexual with a preference for m e n. And they think zombie/ghost/demon men are H O T. (Damn right some of them are/hj)

They're not a child btw. They just look like that because gremlin.

The drawing on the bottom right corner is a drawing my bestie made of me pointing a sign at her that says "simp". Which she is. So am I. And my taste in fictional characters is more concerning than how many characters I simp for. If simping was a crime I'd be on death row.

Simping is like a deep pit that I constantly fall in. Every time I think it stopped it simply forms more deep pits. Not really endless, unless I simp again and I'm always simping. It goes on and on. Too much space, yet never enough to store my love for fictional characters.

[cherrycheridarling]

tic-tac-toe | mcu

marvel cast x actress!reader

warnings: one swear, fluff, no plot

summary: you play aphrodite in the MCU and it's time for the press conference for infinity war. based off of this press conference

wc: 2.7k

"Tom Hiddleston!" Jeff Goldblum introduced the man who was sitting on your right.

Everyone applauded before Jeff moved onto you, "Y/N Y/L/N!" more applause rang through the room.

"Sebastian Stan!" you looked to your left where Sebastian waved to the crowd as you clapped with everyone else.

"Anthony Mackie!"

After Jeff finished with the introductions, he explained how the panel would work. He would pull a ping pong ball out of a container and it would either have a name or category. The audience would be able to ask a question to that person or a person in that category after Jeff called on them.

As he pulled RDJ's name out of the container, Tom leaned over towards you.

"Does your water taste funny, too?" he whispered making you stifle a laugh.

You nodded, "Kind of like lemon, right?"

He shook his head, "Mine tastes like mint. Can I taste yours?" he held his hand out as you passed him your water bottle. He took a sip and spent a moment analyzing the taste, "Yours does taste like lemon! Why does mine taste different? Here." he passed you his water.

You took a sip and were hit with a strong mint flavour, "Woah. I think they're trying to drug you." you joked making him laugh.

"As I am answering this question, Tom Hiddleston and Y/N Y/L/N are discussing the flavours of the water behind me." Robert exposed you and Tom to the audience making the room burst out into laughter.

"They have fancy water. Mint and lemon." Tom spoke into a mic drawing more laughs. "Sorry. Carry on!"

As Jeff pulled the next name, you adjusted your dress. A white, long sleeve, blazer dress with gold buttons down the middle, the dress ended mid-thigh. The v-neck cut showcased your subtle gold necklace. Black stiletto heels covered your feet.

You unconsciously began bouncing your leg up and down in a fast motion. Sebastian placed a hand on your thigh, stopping your movements, "You're gonna drill a hole through the floor, Y/L/N." he chuckled.

"Sorry." you laughed quietly.

Sebastian pulled out a notepad and pen, "You need a distraction. Tic-tac-toe?" he offered.

You smiled with a nod before making your move.

"You absolutely suck at this." you chuckled as you won the third game in a row.

Sebastian scoffed, "You can't suck at tic-tac-toe."

"And yet, you do." you smirked.

He rolled his eyes playfully before you continued playing.

After two more rounds, your attention was back on Jeff as he pulled a new ping pong ball. "Ooh! You can ask a God or Goddess." Jeff announced, "So, Tom Hiddleston, Chris Hemsworth or Y/N Y/L/N." he reminded the crowd, "Okay, yes, you!" he picked a woman in the front row.

"Hi, I'm Alexis with Forbes. My question is for Y/N." the room applauded as Jeff tossed the ping pong ball at you and you caught it with one hand.

"See, Robert! It's not that hard!" Jeff exclaimed making everyone laugh.

"Screw off, Goldblum! You chucked that shit at my head." Robert joked back. "Sorry, Alexis, go ahead."

"Um, I wanted to ask about Aphrodite's powers. We all know that she is the Goddess of Love and can seduce anyone with her beauty. We see in the trailer a small clip of her seducing men. How many people did you seduce in the film and were there any funny moments filming those scenes that you can share?"

Her question drew a mix of reactions from the cast. Some laughed, some furrowed their eyebrows and others were just confused. You took in the question before opening your mouth to reply, until you remembered that you weren't wearing a body mic. The cast laughed again before Sebastian passed you a mic.

"Sorry. Um, how many people did I seduce in the film? None." you stated drawing more laughs, "How many people did Aphrodite seduce? All of them." you chuckled, "I'm kidding. Although, I'm not sure what I can share because I don't know what's in the trailer." you confessed, "Kevin, Joe, Anthony, what's in the trailer?" you asked them making everyone laugh again.

Kevin picked up a mic, "I believe it's you seducing Spider-Man, Starlord, Drax and Iron Man."

You nodded, "I do have a funny moment that I'm sure Mister Holland will kill me for sharing, but it's too good to not tell." you smiled thinking of the memory.

Tom immediately grabbed a mic, "You wouldn't!" he exclaimed making the audience and cast laugh.

"I would," you retorted, "We were shooting that scene and, as you know, they have to act like they are falling in love with me. Like I'm putting them in a trance. Well, Tom took that a bit too seriously." you paused at the laughter that your sentence caused, "They're all on their knees in front of me, looking at me as if I'm their queen, because I am." you joked, "And then Anthony calls 'cut' and Dave, Chris and RDJ all get up and start chatting, but as I'm turning away, Tom doesn't move. Still on his knees, looking at me as if I hold the world in my hands." the room filled with amused laughs and chuckles as Tom covered his face with his hands.

"No, it was so bad because I just looked like a creep that couldn't stop staring at her!" Tom laughed at himself.

Robert grabbed a mic, "Very true. I was watching and it honestly had me convinced that Y/N had real powers."

"I have to say, I understand the kid's reaction. Y/N's costume for Aphrodite and the way they transform her only enhances how gorgeous she already is." Anthony Mackie spoke up causing the crowd to gush and clap, "I'm pretty sure we all had the same reaction when we first saw her while filming Civil War." he looked around as the cast nodded.

Scarlett picked up a mic, "Yeah. I remember her walking on set in this stunning white dress which made me extremely jealous," she confessed, "Because, one, it's so gorgeous and she looks absolutely amazing in it," the crowd and cast applauded again, "And two, it's made of the softest silk while my suit is leather and spandex!" everyone laughed at her comment.

Benedict picked up his mic, "Although, it wasn't Tom's first time seeing Y/N as Aphrodite. He was in Civil War and still could not contain himself." he teased making the audience and cast laugh again.

Robert spoke again, "Yeah, he did that during the filming of Civil War, too." the room hollered with laughs.

Tom's face was bright red, "I'm just a very committed actor. I really give all of myself to my work." his comment drew more laughs.

"That's why Sebastian despises Tom. It all started when Tom couldn't take his eyes off of Y/N." Chris Hemsworth added making everyone double over in laughter.

"I feel so loved," you held a hand to your heart as the room chuckled, "These are genuinely the best people in the world and I guess you could say I seduced one person during filming." you joked as the crowd continued to laugh, "Sorry, Tom. I'll buy you some juice, don't be mad." Anthony and Benedict laughed loudly. "Thank you for your question!" you thanked the lady as the cast clapped before Jeff picked out the next ping pong ball.

Next was Scarlett. You sat back and silently judged the man who asked about fashion. Scoffing with Sebastian at his question and laughing at Scarlett's sarcastic and witty responses.

Sebastian leaned over again, "I have to piss."

You stifled a laugh at his abrupt confession, "Go to the washroom, then." you nodded your head towards the exit.

"We're not allowed to leave." he frowned.

You chuckled and reached over, patting his thigh with your hand, "Don't piss yourself."

He rolled his eyes playfully before Jeff called out the next name.

"Anthony Mackie!"

"Hi, I'm Tiffany with Times Magazine. With such a star studded cast, do you find it difficult or any obstacles in developing your character with all theses amazing stories being told and struggling for screen time? Like, are there any obstacles or special difficulties or is it all just amazing?"

Before Anthony could answer, Joe Russo picked up his mic, "Are you asking Anthony Mackie if he has a hard time getting attention?" his comment caused the whole room to erupt in laughs.

Anthony nodded slowly as the laughter died down, "Touché, touché. Uh, well, Tiffany, a wise man once said that some men need an hour to make their presence felt and some need thirty seconds." there was an uproar of laughter and hollering at his comment as he dramatically dropped the mic on the table.

"Who are we asking next?" Jeff squinted at the ping pong ball, "Ooh! Back to the Goddess of Love herself, Y/N Y/L/N!" the room applauded for you as Jeff threw the ball to you.

Sebastian intercepted the toss and caught the ball himself with a smug smirk. You rolled your eyes, but smiled as Jeff picked a lady out of the dozens who had raised their hand.

"Hi, I'm Amy with Esquire and I wanted to ask about the relationship between Bucky and Aphrodite. We see in the previous films their awkward tension from their past history. They have a very special romance and their love story is a fan favourite in the Marvel fandom. What was it like building that bond and relationship on screen? And what do you think of the choice to match the two characters together, how did you react when you found out? Did the pairing of the two help build your bond off screen?"

Jeff spoke again, "I said 'one question', that was at least twenty." he teased the lady drawing laughs from the room.

You chuckled and nodded slowly as the laughter died down, "Excellent questions. Umm, I honestly really like the pairing of the two. I think it gives a great dynamic to both characters and reveals sides of them that we never would've seen without their relationship. It's a very 'good girl falling for the bad guy' trope. And if I'm being honest, I've always wanted that." you confessed causing the room to chuckle, "Their relationship is, without a doubt, one of the most complicated ones in the MCU, but I think that's what makes it so loved by the fans since there's not a dull moment between the two. It's nice to see Bucky have a sentimental side, in his own awkward way of course. And you get to see Aphrodite fall for someone who's not a God or a Titan." you turned to Sebastian, "What do you think?"

You offered him the mic, but he didn't take it, letting you hold it up for him, "Yeah, I agree. I never thought Bucky would have a love interest, if I'm being honest. But I'm glad he does because Aphrodite brings out the soft side in him and he brings out the fighter in her. They really balance each other out and Y/N portrays the character in such a unique way, it really brings a whole new fresh persona to Aphrodite and it's amazing having her as a partner on screen." the audience applauded at his words, "When I first found out about Bucky having her as his love interest—"

"—He called me screaming about how hyped he was." Anthony Mackie cut him off making the room laugh. "Anthony! Anthony! Bucky is gonna be with Aphrodite! That's gonna be sick!" Anthony mocked his voice as you were hunched over with laughter.

Sebastian nodded with a smile, "I did. Won't lie, I did. It's a really refreshing relationship and I'm glad that the fans love it as much as I love playing it. Back to you, you haven't talked about the development and our bond." he gave you a lopsided grin.

You chuckled, "I feel like I'm rambling, but yeah. Their development is definitely," you paused, trying to find the right words, "A development?" you settled on drawing more laughter. "Well, as I said, it's very complicated, but awkwardly adorable at times. Since Seb complimented me, I feel obligated to say something nice about him," you joked making them laugh again, "Kidding. He really does play Bucky with such passion and commitment, it's truly inspiring. And working with someone who loves what they do as much as Seb, it definitely motivates you tremendously and yeah. Um, I won't lie, I honestly was dreading working with Seb," you confessed drawing laughs and a gasp from Sebastian.

"Why?!" he exclaimed making you laugh.

You sighed, "Not because I think you're a bad person or anything, but you come off as very intimidating to people who don't know you very well. And I knew nothing about you before filming other than the films you'd already done, so you scared me." your confession caused everyone to laugh loudly.

Sebastian smirked jokingly, "I am extremely frightening. I understand." he shrugged.

You scoffed with a laugh, "I caught you sleeping with a stuffed turtle and whale noises playing." the room roared with laughter again, "That's when I knew you were a big softy."

Sebastian rolled his eyes playfully, "She's joking. I am the toughest man alive." he deepened his voice.

You shook your head with a chuckle, "Sure. Thank you for your questions." the room clapped for you as you set the mic down and relaxed back into your seat.

"Nailed it." Sebastian held a hand out for a high five and you chuckled before hitting your hand against his.

For the rest of the press conference, you sat back and listened to your friends answer questions. Laughed at jokes made and clapped when appropriate. Small tic-tac-toe games went on between you and Sebastian. Your attention was fully on your nails when Tom Hiddleston got called on.

"Hi, I'm Samantha with Daily Mail and I was wondering, since Loki is a very closed off and mysterious character, we never explore the aspect of him having a love interest. So, if you could choose anyone from the MCU for Loki to end up with, who would it be and why?"

You turned to look at Tom as he pondered on the question, crossing his arms and rubbing his chin, "Very good question. Umm, who would I choose for Loki? Let's see," he paused again and looked around the room until his eyes landed on you, "Ah, I'd steal Aphrodite from Bucky." he answered making the room laugh and Sebastian chuckled with a nod.

"Why Aphrodite?" Jeff asked.

Tom chuckled again, "Well, it's Aphrodite." he simply answered drawing more laughs, "They are so different yet similar in so many ways. Loki is never fully evil nor fully good, but I think Aphrodite has the best chance of turning him good. And who wouldn't want to end up with the Goddess of Love?"

The cast nodded understandingly before Chris Pratt grabbed a mic, "If you were to ask any person on this stage that same question, I guarantee the answer would be Aphrodite." the whole cast nodded.

"They're all trying to steal Sebastian's woman." Jeff teased.

Sebastian scoffed jokingly, "They're all jealous." he wrapped an arm around your shoulder.

You chuckled with a shake of your head before Robert spoke up, "Adding onto the conversation. Miss Y/L/N, who would you want Aphrodite to end up with?" his question drew excited reactions from the crowd.

You let out a bark of laughter before looking from Tom to Sebastian, "Hmm, excellent question, Mister Downey." you rubbed your chin, "Stop doing that, Holland." you chuckled as you saw Tom point at himself in the corner of your eye.

He raised his hands in surrender before Anthony Mackie spoke up, "Spidey is five years old, kid." everyone laughed at that.

"I'd have to stick with Bucky. He is her true love." you shrugged as the crowd cheered.

Sebastian smirked from beside you as the men of the cast faked disappointment.

As the panel came to a close, you looked around at the family you were surrounded by. Friends you love more than anything. Hundreds of memories with the most amazing people you'd ever met. Your home.

[doyelikehaggis]

Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Johnny Taylor x Bailey Wharton (The Dumping Ground)

Requested by @theshslshipper

The's game final score is announced on the giant board above the pitch. Brightly-lit green numbers along with a loud horn indicate the home team as the winners. Cheers erupt all across the stadium, a sudden sea of scarves, flags, and banners.

Johnny can admit he's one of them. Some people give him curious looks as he stands well taller than most, clapping and whooping loudly for one player in particular. The stares are probably drawn by his uniform. Not many military men at football matches, he guesses. At least not while still kitted out in full camo.

'YES, BAILEY!' he shouts, and finally draws the attention of the star player of the night.

Bailey's head swivels, eyes widen, searching in disbelief for the voice. When he finally finds him in the stands, his face drops only briefly before it's cracking into a wide grin.

It's a shock to Johnny's system for only a second. It's been over a year since he last saw him, and his sixteen-year-old self briefly forgot that so much has changed. Then his heart is doing somersaults and his stomach is settling into a familiar spiral of longing and relief.

Uncertain of if he would be dragged off of the pitch, he stays where he is despite wanting to be down there with him right this second. Instead, he claps harder, cheers louder, and smiles wider.

Bailey doesn't care about possible rules. He clambers down from his teammates' grasp and uses his footballer's speed to cross the pitch in seconds. He takes the bleachers practically two at a time, winding his way through the crowd of people all trying to reach for him.

Johnny only has to take two single steps to meet him before Bailey's throwing himself at him. Not even a greeting or a pretence of hatred like they used to play up just for the fun of it once they grew out of their actual loathing of each other.

Now, Bailey grabs his face and kisses him hard. Every single missed call and text is in the kiss. Every night they spent in separate countries. Every terrifying thought of whether or not he's even alive.

For a split second, Johnny only feels pure panic; two years ago, he would never have kissed another bloke in public. Never mind in a stadium where all eyes are on him and the star player of the biggest football match in the country. Not to mention that it's televised.

But with Bailey holding onto him like he thought he was never going to see him again, Johnny can't help but melt into him. He kisses him back. He's aware of the people all around them; he can hear the whispers, the shouts, the gasps, the extra-loud cheers for them.

He doesn't care.

'This is how you choose to tell me you're back?' Bailey breathes, refusing to pull back properly. Instead, he hugs him tightly.

'Thought you'd enjoy the surprise,' Johnny replies with a light chuckle. He closes his eyes, letting himself bury his face in his shoulder for a moment and just inhale the scent of him. It's mostly sweat. 'Was I right?'

Bailey laughs into his shoulder. 'Damn right.'

'Then you'll be thrilled to know that's it,' Johnny says, and finally pulls back to look at Bailey properly. 'My deployment's finished. Honourable discharge.'

Sucking in a sharp breath, Bailey says, 'You're staying this time? For good?'

Johnny nods. His hands slip up to cup Bailey's neck. 'I'm staying.'

Bailey laughs, head tipping back, then he surges in once again and kisses him harder than before, with all of the relief flooding through both of them. His hand grasps the dog tags around Johnny's neck tightly. Never is he letting go again.

Neither is Johnny. To prove it, he detaches from Bailey and sinks down onto one knee. He pulls the ring he's kept secure in his pocket after meeting with Tee first, and looks up at Bailey.

'And since I'm staying, I can finally ask. Will you marry me?'

He wasn't going to do it here. Like this. But it feels like now or never, he doesn't want to waste another second. He's already wasted so much time with the army.

Bailey shakes his head slowly, tongue poking into his cheek as a grin curves his mouth. 'You're a prick, you know that.' Not a question but a statement. 'Obviously, I've gotta say yes now.'

'Well, you don't have t--'

Bailey cuts him off to say, 'Yeah, I do,' then pulls him up into another kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he curls a hand around the ring in Johnny's hand.

[pilmik]

No better way to start a writing blog than by writing something completely self indulgent lmao college students this might hit too close to home but in my defense the new sem started and I'm. Mess

Gen: angst ig???some fluff? hurt/comfort? Quite literally just me writing what I want to hear

CW: insecurities, negative thoughts

Wakatoshi loves volleyball

Everyone knows this

Ever since he was little, he's lived and breathed for the sport

There's nothing better to him than the feeling of the ball hitting his hand, the adrenaline rush of a scored point, the satisfaction of a game well won

He didn't get this far on enjoyment alone though

As his s/o, you know this better than anyone, save for his coaches and teammates of course

You know the effort he's put in, you know that for every second he shines on the court in front he's spent hours practicing alone or with his teammates

And he shines on the court

Watching him play will never fail to make your heart stutter and your lungs feel like they're not getting enough air

After being with him as long as you have, you know enough about volleyball to know that Wakatoshi is something special

His speed, his strength, his reliability

No matter how many times you see that spike, the sound of the ball hitting the floor stays deafening

Wakatoshi was made to play Volleyball. It's an objective fact. Sometimes you think that the sport loves him just as much as he loves it

Sometimes, you get so jealous you could scream

one of the perks of being the volleyball captain's s/o is that you always get the best seats

You watch front row as your boyfriend leads his team to victory, and he always leads them to victory.

You watch, time and time again, as he scores the match point, that sharp wham of the ball hitting the court that sings triumph

Wakatoshi isn't the most expressive person. When his team wins a game, most people would write off his impassive face as nonchalance or as vanity, thinking maybe he's won so many times it doesn't feel like anything for him anymore

But you know him. You know that if you look hard enough at the end of a game, you can see a gleam in his eyes. A gleam that somehow means both satisfaction and hunger

Because while at the end of every game means victory, the end of every game also means the start of a new one, a new challenge, a new opportunity to be on the court. He loves every second of it

You know you're probably the worst person on the world for feeling this way about someone you love, but every time you see that gleam in his eyes, any pride and happiness you feel on his behalf is stained with resentment and an envy so bitter it stays on your tongue for days

You've never had that gleam in your eyes. You've never loved something so entirely, so completely as Wakatoshi loves volleyball

You honestly doubt you ever will

It's not like you're talentless or you don't have hobbies, you have the things you're good at and you have the things you like to do but it's not the same

You want so desperately to know what he feels like, to be doing something and to think, I could do this for the rest of my life and die happy

on your worst days, you wonder why he stays by your side at all

You watch him play, surrounded by his court and his team (no the court or the team, his.) And you wonder what he could get from you that he couldn't get from the sting of the ball on his palm, or the squeak of his shoes on hardwood

He's brilliant, wherever he goes be burns so brightly you swear he leaves scorch marks. What could a forest fire possibly want from a candle?

You watch them play a game against some college team, they win straight sets and Wakatoshi dominated the court, scoring a majority of the points. you're quiet on your way home, and he asks if you were bored by the game

You immediately tell him no, because on most days you love seeing him play, and you try and explain how you feel

He doesn't understand what you're talking about, obviously

Contrary to what most people think, your boyfriend isn't stupid or dense. He has trouble understanding different social cues and conceptualizing some of the more complicated emotions other people feel, but he's not an idiot

But these specific insecurities are something he's never had to face. For him, it's been volleyball since the start. His earliest memories are of his father in the yard, tossing a blue and yellow ball into the air while he sits on the engawa, chubby hands holding tight to a pink vabo-chan plush

It doesn't make sense to him, if you don't have anything like that, then all you need to do is find something you're good at, correct? Then you'll be happy

He tells you this, in his usual matter-of-fact way. (you can imagine how that went)

He doesn't understand why your eyes go glassy, or why you tell him you'll be fine walking by yourself for the rest of the way

But he does understand that he's made you upset, and he knows that he never wants to look into your eyes and see tears that he's put there

As he walks back to his dorm, he's wracking his brain trying to make sense of how you told him you felt, and what he said in response

He's still thinking as he enters the doorway, ignoring Tendou's greeting as he neatly removes his runners and puts them away

This, of course, alerts his redheaded friend, knowing Wakatoshi was taught to mind his manners

He leaves whatever he was doing to see him at the entrance, taking in his pinched expression. He knows that Wakatoshi walks you home after every game, and it doesn't take a genius to connect the dots

He quickly presses the pad of his thumb between Wakatoshi's furrowed eyebrows, smoothing the lines there

"trouble in paradise, Wakatoshi-kun? You can't keep frowning like that you know, you'll get wrinkles! Everyone already thinks you're an old man"

Wakatoshi trusts his best friend, even if he teases him constantly. Besides you, Tendou is his main confidant

He explains what happened much like someone would explain a mission report, in perfect unbiased detail. He tell him what you said, how he thought and responded and your reaction. Tendou is always patient with him, giving him his full attention.

After he finishes his story, his friend sits on his haunches in the middle of the hallway for a few minutes, pointer finger to his chin, head cocked and eyes to the ceiling, hmmmmmming thoughtfully

Wakatoshi waits at the entrance of their dorm room until Tendou snaps his eyes away from the ceiling and onto him

"Wakatoshi kun, I'm going to need you to imagine something for me"

His eyebrows pinch together again, but he nods

"Imagine you never played volleyball, you're exactly the same in every way, except your dad never showed you so you never learned how to play. Try and imagine who you'd be"

Wakatoshi tries his best to imagine, he replaces the blue and yellow ball in his memory with a red one, the bouncy kind they sell in bins at the grocery store. He replaces vabo-chan with some kind of stuffed animal wearing a bow

He thinks about school, about going straight home after class is over, and going to the gym only on weekends

He finds he's skipping parts of his life in large gaps, empty spaces he doesn't know what to do with, his future completely blank. It's terrifying.

Tendou must see the dawning horror on his face because he jumps up quickly with a flourish, clapping his hands together once to draw Wakatoshi out of his daydream

Tendou looks at him, smiling and says "y/n-chan doesn't have their volleyball. Most people aren't as lucky as you, finding your volleyball so early Wakatoshi-kun. Some people never find their's at all"

He stands at the entrance quietly for awhile after Tendou returns to his room, thinking about how scary it felt to imagine, even for a few minutes, his life full of the blanks that his sport filled

He wonders how it would be like to have those blanks empty all the time, with not even a clue how to complete them

Swallowing his pride, Wakatoshi realizes he wouldn't be able to live like that. Wouldn't be able to go forward into such unknowable territory, under such impossible odds

He thinks about you waking up every day, seeing your life full of blanks, and still pushing forwards despite it

He doesn't get much sleep that night.

You wake up in the morning to Wakatoshi's text ringtone

7:10am Toshi <3: Call in sick for first period.

7:10am Toshi <3: I am going to pick you up at 8.

7:13am Toshi <3: I will bring you breakfast.

7:27am Toshi <3: Wear a light jacket, it's chilly.

The half of you that's still hurt over yesterday wants to tell him to shove breakfast up his ass, but then you realise something

You stare at your phone, deeply confused

Doesn't he have volleyball practice before school?

You get ready quickly, and sure enough, when you walk out of your door at exactly 8:00, Wakatoshi is there.

He's wearing his tracksuit and runners, and he hands you a paper bag from the conbini. There's an apple, a bag of grapes and onigiri. In his other hand he's holding a warm drink, written on the lid is your favourite, exactly how you like it

"I am taking you to the park."

You tilt your head up at him, confused

"don't you have volleyball practice?"

"I'm skipping. We are going to feed the ducks."

The idea of Ushijima Wakatoshi skipping volleyball practice stuns you into silence, and you simply follow his lead to the direction of the park, you walking and him doing some sort of ridiculous exercise thing that looks like it'd make you puke

When you get there, you're happy to find that your usual bench is empty.

Wakatoshi pulls a water bottle out of his ridiculously-deep men's tracksuit pockets while you take the bunch of grapes out of the bag, neatly dividing it in half. You decide to take the big half of the grape bunch for once, because he was being a jerk yesterday and you deserve to feed the ducks more than he does. You give him his half and you both start feeding the ducks in silence

After awhile, he decides to speak

"Tendou made me imagine something yesterday"

You turn to face him, but he's still looking at the ducks

"he told me to imagine my life if I'd never played volleyball"

He frowns

"he said to imagine everything about me was the same, except I never started playing. I found that it was difficult"

"there were many things I found I couldn't fill in, both in my life and in myself"

"but the worst part was imagining the future. I couldn't imagine a single thing to put in it"

"I wouldn't be able to live like that. To live every day and see blank spaces and uncertainties. It sounds terrible"

He pauses for a moment and you're like :/ wow king thanks for the pep talk

But he takes a deep breath and he continues

"I think, for a person to face that uncertainty and keep pushing forward, they would have to be exceptional"

Your head snaps to look at him so fast you almost get whiplash

Exceptional

There's a word that you've never used to describe yourself

"I think, that if I knew someone like that, I would tell them that they are strong in a way that I doubt I will ever be"

He finally turns to look at you, and you try your best to see him through the tears distorting your vision

"after awhile of thinking, I finally thought of something that I could put in that blank future. Would you like to know what it was?"

You just nod, not trusting your words. His big hands gently engulf your own and for a moment you're absolutely certain Ushijima Wakatoshi will be the death of you

"if I didn't have Volleyball, if I didn't have a single clue of what I could do with my future, if I still had you by my side, I think I would be alright"

One hit K.O.

He keeps going though, as if he didn't just kill you

"if you would have me, I'd like to be in your blank future. For as long as it takes for you to find your volleyball, I'll be there. If it's months or years or decades,"

"if decades pass and you never find your volleyball, I would still like to stay by your side. Maybe your volleyball is looking for volleyball?"

His face contorts in consideration of the idea, and you can't help but laugh wetly, your tears soaking into his jacket as you bury your face into his arm

He presses a soft kiss to your head

"I apologize for what I said last night. I didn't understand"

You only shake your head

You two sit in companionable silence for a little longer so you can eat your breakfast, then you both walk to second period hand in hand

It's only in the boredom of your math class that you realize the gravity of what your boyfriend had said to you in the park

11:08 you: Tendou

11:08 you: was I tripping

11:08 you: or did Wakatoshi /propose/ to me in the park today

Tendou is typing......

A/N: I've never posted this kind of stuff before so comments would really be appreciated! Like if there's something I could do to make my stuff easier to read or whatever I wanna hear it! Even if it's mean I promise I'll only cry a little

[ningningsplushie]

Bookstore Rivals

Pairing: Namjoon x reader

Word count: 2171

Genre: Used bookstore, cold to clueless to cocky Joon, rivals but in a cutesy way, strangers to lovers, meet cute, reader likes to tease Joon

Summary: Walking into your favourite bookstore, you don’t anticipate to come across the new, handsome cashier. To say the least, the two of you don’t kick it off right away

Warning: minor descriptions of blood, nothing intense.

Y/N’s Wednesday schedule was planned out to a tee. Wake up, attend class, work for four hours, and visit Mr. Kim’s bookstore. As organized and strict as her Wednesdays were, the rest of the week was fairly inconsistent, which was precisely why she enjoyed the middle of the week most as it allowed her to take control for once, not to mention that going to the bookstore was like attending weekly Mass, an occurrence that excited her without fail. 

Before the doors of the bus could fully open, with the energy of a thousand men, Y/N leaps through, almost getting her bag caught on the handles during the process. Y/N paused on the sidewalk, tilting her head up towards the high buildings of apartments and stores in the downtown area of Seoul, she closes her eyes and takes a deep to inhale, relishing the smell of the air right after it had rained. The walk from the bus stop to Mr. Kim’s store was only ten minutes but during the ten-minute expedition, she was skipping, flinging her arms back and forth. 

In about no time, she arrives, already pushing open the glass door and grinning upon hearing the chime of bells signaling her entrance. 

“Per Aspera ad Libros!” Y/N yells out, spreading both of her arms wide. She wasn’t sure why but she greeted the shop like this every time and it just felt right. Through hardships to the books. “Mr. Kiiiiiiim! It’s me, Y/N!” she calls out, peering through the endless rows of brown, nearly rotten shelves.

  “Y/N you come here every week like clockwork yet I never tire of your presence,” he greets, exiting from the back room, “how have you been, dear?” 

“Oh, I’ve been great, sir. Classes are interesting, I meet new people at work, and my brain is still sucking up thousands of words,” she replies, clasping both of her hands atop her head. 

The Fifty-something-year-old man chuckles, the deep-set lines of his mouth accentuating when he reveals his grin, his crow's feet growing stronger as his eyes close in joy. “Good, good, I’m glad you’re enjoying life.”

“I try my best to, but, you know, it can get hard at times.”

“That’s true enough. Just keep your head high and the things you love near.”

“That’s what I’m planning on. Oh, I nearly forgot! The store didn’t have any strawberry smoothies so I got you a mango one. I know those are your second favourite,” she acknowledges, shrugging off her backpack, bringing out two small bottles of smoothies, one for Mr. Kim and one for herself. 

“Thank you, dear. Let me just put a few more books away and we’ll get to talking.” 

Not even a minute later, he returns, and the two stand by the large window next to the entrance, talking as they usually do about books, life, and Y/N’s school. 

“I’m really glad I switched majors. Business was such a bore and-” Y/N stops in her tracks, eyes glued to the cash register when she spots a tall man sitting while reading a book with brown hair that was pushed back, revealing his forehead. She couldn’t quite tell if he was good-looking or not as his face was impassive, too engrossed in his book. From what she saw, he was easy on the eyes. Y/N frequented this bookstore on many occasions and she had never seen this guy before and she was worried that he was a suspicious character, attempting to steal. “Uhhhhh Mr. Kim,” Y/N says at a low frequency, making sure the stranger doesn’t hear, “I think that guy at the cash register is trying to steal.” 

Mr. Kim’s eyes go wide and whips his head toward the counter. He's about to yell out but then rests his eyes on the sitting figure and begins to laugh. “You had me worried for a second.” he croaks out, chest heaving from laughing too much. “He isn’t stealing or anything like that. Y/N, meet my nephew Kim Namjoon. He’s just moved here from Ilsan and started working with me while he attends university.” 

Now it was Y/N turn to laugh, hand slapping her forehead as she leans forward, shoulders vibrating. “Oh wow, I’m really stupid.” She composes herself and straightens her back, offering a bow to the tall man. “Hi, I’m really sorry about that. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

She expected the guy to close his book and smile, introduce himself, or even offer a small nod, but definitely not, “It’s Per Aspera ad Astra, not per Aspera ad Libros.” 

Mouth hanging open in shock, she finally takes a nice look at Mr. Kim’s nephew. As handsome as this guy was, he certainly wasn’t nice. He had a heart-shaped face of some sort, his cheeks being his widest features before tapering down to his chin. His eyes, best described as puffy monolids, were wide-set and made him look intelligent. If he’s trying to correct my Latin then he certainly is, she thought. Y/N tries to detect any sign of him joking but is only met with the limp rest of his plump lips. 

“Namjoon!” Mr. Kim gasps in shock. “We don’t treat customers like that.”

Y/N recovers from...whatever that was and simply questions, “Oh? Is that so?”

“Yeah, I should know.”

Nodding, Y/N takes a look at the book he was reading and ignores his answer, replying with, “How disappointing. Have fun with Fitzgerald.” Y/N then turns to Mr. Kim and says, “Alright, I won’t be here too long, I’ll just see if you have anything of interest.”

Walking towards her favourite section, she hears, “What is wrong with you, Namjoon? You choose now, of all times, to be a smartass?” This was followed by a sharp thump, which Y/N assumed was from Mr. Kim’s hand meeting with Namjoon’s head. 

Y/N browses a few sections for ten minutes before noticing Namjoon standing on a ladder from the other side of the shelf. Hearing him grunt, obviously struggling with something, she peers up from between the shelf and cracks of old books and sees him trying to push a book between a tight crevice. Y/N stifles a giggle at how different this guy looks, from the cold, impassive face at the counter to the one with brows furrowed and cheeks puffed up. He was...kinda cute. She keeps watching him from the other side of the shelf and he finally succeeds in nudging the book on the shelf. That, however, came at a price. When he forcefully pushed the novel between two other ones, it came in contact with one on Y/N’s side, sending it tumbling down, hitting Y/N on the forehead. 

“OW!” Y/N’s eyes close in pain and her jaw clenches at the sharp and immediate pain. Namjoon, meanwhile, jumps from the top of the ladder and rushes to her side. 

“Oh god, I’m so so sorry. Please, I really didn’t mean to hit your head I was just-”

Wanting to tease him, she interrupts him, whining out, “I didn’t know you hated me this much. First you criticize my Latin now you hit me with…” she bends down to pick up the fallen book and does everything in her power to not laugh at the coincidence. “Fitzgerald! You hit me with Fitzgerald! Unbelievable. I’ve been here for thirty minutes and you already have a personal vendetta against me. And here I was thinking that the two of us could be great friends.”

Namjoon tilts his head back and groans. “Great, I’ll never live up to this. I really didn’t intend to hit your head. Are you alright though?”

Y/N playfully nudges his shoulder. “Relax, I’m fine. I’m still in one piece, aren’t I?”

She wasn’t. Blood dripped down from her forehead onto her nose. “What-” Y/N crosses her eyes to inspect the drop and says, “Oh wow, I guess I’m not. You got a tissue?”

This only urged Namjoon to panic even more. “I'M SO SORRY!”

“Hey, it’s fine.”

“It hardly isn’t,” he yelps back, eyes shooting up. “My uncle’s gonna kill me.”

Faking dejection, she hangs her head down and looks up at him through her lashes. “So you’re more worried about your uncle and not me?”

“What?!” Realizing his mistake, he winces, given himself a facepalm. “Just ignore me, please. Let’s get you fixed up before he comes back,” he murmurs, gently pushing Y/N to sit on the counter. 

Y/N dangles her legs off the counter, swinging them around like a restless child as Namjoon goes to the backroom, trying to find the first-aid kit as fast as he can. A few seconds later he returns to Y/N, fumbling with the latch of the kit with his large hands before Y/N snatches the white box from him and opens it. 

“Don’t be so nervous, Doc, it isn’t life and death. Or…” she tracks off, suddenly grabbing her chest with one hand and holding Namjoon’s shoulder with the other. “Namjoon… I don’t feel so good. What did you do to me?”

“Stop that! Don’t worry me even more.” He sputtered, glaring at Y/N.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Just do your thing.” 

Namjoon starts with cleaning up her wound with alcohol, carefully applying pressure so as not to hurt her even further. Y/N winces at the burn on her forehead, causing Namjoon to flinch. “Sorry if I hurt you,” he apologizes, offering her a sheepish grin, revealing the dimples she hadn’t seen up until now. Wow...he’s really handsome. 

All the confidence that Y/N flies out the window, becoming increasingly flustered at his adorable features. “It’s alright,” she mumbled, drawing her eyes to the ground. 

Namjoon resumes wiping her wound clean and Y/N decides to tease him even further. “Did my comment about Fitzgerald sting you that bad that you had to throw one of his books at me? Or was my Latin that bad?”

Namjoon groans, clearly embarrassed at his own actions. “Can we pleaaassseeee not bring this up again? I said I was sorry. What more do you want from me?” 

“Hmmmmm,” she considers for a while. “No. My Latin wasn’t wrong, by the way. It was 100 percent correct.”

“But the phrase is-”

“I know what the phrase is. I changed it because I’m talking to the books, not the stars. Through hardships to the books. No matter what I go through, I always find myself with a book or at your uncle’s store. It’s always been that way. You’re not the only smart one here, wiseass,” she finishes, trying to contain her grin. 

Namjoon clamps his mouth shut, opens it, and closes it again, all before spitting out, “I’m really sorry, I didn’t realize-”

“It’s alright, Joonie.” He pauses his actions upon hearing this. “Hmmm, Joonie. That’s a cute nickname. I’ll call you that from now on.”

“Oh...alright. That’s-that’s cool.” He’s done with cleaning her forehead, now rummaging through the kit for a band-aid. “Wait. What do you have against Fitzgerald?” He questions, finally finding one of the appropriate size for the cut. 

Here’s the kicker. “Absolutely nothing. I quite enjoyed Tender is the Night and The Great Gatsby. I just wanted to get a rile out of you. That’s what you get for trying to correct my Latin.” She taunts, sticking her tongue out at him. 

He applies the band-aid and smirks. Now it was Namjoon’s turn to tease her.  “And look where it got you.”

“Hey! You said...wait,” she sidetracks, hopping off the counter. “Go out for coffee with me.” 

“What? Where’s this coming from?” Namjoon asks, bewildered. 

“You said, and I quote, ‘what more do you want from me?’ I’d like to go get coffee together.”

“You really are smooth, huh?” he muses, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, I try my best. So what do you say...Joonie?”

“I’m not sure. You could be a psycho murderer for all I know.”

Y/N drops her mouth open and scoffs. “Are you kidding me? You’re the one who almost killed me. Listen, You’re new in the city, I can show you around and guess what? I’ll let you pay for the drinks. As an apology for my gorgeous new bump. How’s that sound?”

 Namjoon stares at her for a few beats, basking in her features. “You’re really cute when you’re defending your case.”

“Uhhhhh, I know I am, now please, stop beating around the bush. Would you, or would you not like to buy me coffee and allow me to show you the hottest spots in Seoul?

He considers his answer and asks, “Promise not to kill me?”

“I can’t protect you from my good looks, Joonie,” Y/N quips, twirling a strand of her hair with her finger, causing Namjoon to let out a cackle.

“Alright, I’m down. Just make it worth my while, Y/N.”

“Oh, I promise.”

[suometar]

Power song of the day: Wake up by Smash into Pieces

You can not resist, like a moth to a flame -- You know it will burn, but sometimes you enjoy the pain

This is your favorite game -- But you're gonna be defeated -- And you're never gonna beat it -- Controls you like a slave -- But you gotta stop pretending -- You won't get a happy ending

(Chorus) Someday you're gonna wake up -- Gonna wake up -- From a life in fantasy -- Someday you're gonna wake up -- Gonna wake up -- And realize it's not meant to be -- You stumble in the dark cause you close your eyes -- Guided by the sweet talk lullaby -- But someday you will wake up -- You will wake up From a life in fantasy -- Wake up!

You try to cut everyone out of your life -- So no one can question how you can believe the lies

This is your favorite game -- But you're gonna be defeated -- And you're never gonna beat it -- Controls you like a slave -- But you gotta stop pretending -- You won't get a happy ending

(Chorus)

You're in the fire, what do you do? -- You wake up -- The final round is waiting for you

(Chorus)

Why? Well...

I'm coming down from mania.

Which sucks. And here's a glimpse into my 30 or so years experience of this nonsense.

But before I say more I want to say to everyone who I have been venting during the last month or so:

Please don't think that you have contributed in making my situation worse. You haven't. The fuel for all of it comes from within myself. I am nothing but crateful that I have had a chance to vent to someone because otherwise it all would've just clumped inside me and that would've made the situation worse.

And besides, not all venting has been caused just by mania. When I'm manic it doesn't remove the normal thoughts and feelings I have.

When you're stuck in a tar pit created by a certain person for who knows how many years in a row it's obvious it's not just the mania. I think you guys know what that's like :D

Coming down is like a really really really REALLY bad hangover

Except that you can remember every single thing you've done, the things you've felt, the things you've planned, what you thought of. EVERYTHING.

And you KNOW they're all just a result of the chemical imbalance of your own brain.

Coming down doesn't mean necessarily that I'm now depressed. It's just getting back to your normal state from mania.

But the bad hangover is real. If you've experienced that you know what it's like. Regrets after regrets.

What's mania like

That ecstacy of mania is an immense rush you don't really know unless you've experienced it yourself.

It's difficult to describe, but I think falling in love really hard and fast is the closest that describes it best. You have butterflies in your stomach all the time, you're hyperfixating on that one person and you feel invincible, like everything in your life is finally perfect and you're in control like never before.

Or even better: It's like being on speed, except without the drugs. Overstimulated 24-7-365.

Hyperfixation is typical for mania

In my case the hyperfixation can be basically anything from men (real or fictional, doesn't really matter lol) to any action, hobby or even work, totally depends on the situation.

What I do is I dedicate all my time to that one thing and one thing only even though I know it's not healthy.

Thank god I've learned to control it so that it won't take ALL of my time anymore, but it still is there. And I need to cater it to some extent or I won't be able to do anything.

It's like having a parasite you can't get rid of but you can make it behave if you give it some attention from time to time.

What's real and what's not? That is the question

When you're having mania it's sometimes super hard to differentiate what's a real thought and what is based on the illusion created by your own mind. And even though I am nowadays capable to tell the difference of my real thoughts/feelings and the ones fueled by mania the later ones do have an effect on me even though I try not to react to them.

The tricky thing is that your body can't tell the difference of a so called real/normal thought/feeling and one created inside my head fueled by mania.

A manic person wants nothing more than get more of the dopamine that fuels the ecstacy. Which easily can lead to a psychotic episode/period.

The saddest part is that manic person usually looks and behaves exactly like any normal person. You can't tell from outside if someone is having mania unless they choose to show it. Psychotic then usually is clearly psychotic and erratic and behaves totally out of character.

Triggers for mania

Anything can basically be a trigger for mania and they vary from person to person. For me it's usually one of the following:

an extreme negative change in life (such as death, divorce or other big things like that),

finding a new crush,

intensive concentration on some activity,

social media, or

as surprising as it might be: music. Especially any with a faster tempo.

Usually though I have already been somewhat hypomanic before the real mania hits. Hypomania though is very hard to notice because I'm somewhat easily excited and impulsive already by nature.

But I've lived with this so long that I know when it's going overboard. My manic mind just usually chooses to say it's nothing and I believe it like a fool - because it feels so good.

This time the trigger for me was intensive concentrating on writing. While the writing was crucial in easing my general anxiety this time it had this unfortunate side effect.

Nonetheless, I'm not quitting writing. Because the anxiety has eased significantly from when I started. I probably need to change the subject for a while and not to write daily or limit it just for 30 mins a day.

How a new crush can happen when you're married, you ask?

Oh, easily. See, with a manic mind a marriage is nothing but an obstacle. Nothing is but an obstacle that is designed to limit you. Because you're omnipotent. And obstacles - well, they're made to be conquered or plowed through.

In my case I've chosen to keep my crushes online and physically as far away from me as possible. I've made a mistake of crushing into someone irl and that was UGLY for all parties involved.

Thirsting over someone from afar online while remaining happily married is by far a better option.

How to control mania or turn it off

Yes, you can turn it off. The problem with that is that usually manic person doesn't

feel like something is wrong, and

doesn't want to get down from the high.

But there are things you can do to get it end sooner.

Log off from all social media. Seriously. Don't just turn notifications off - LOG OFF.

If that's not enough, remove all the social media apps from your phone. You can always install them again.

Turn off your phone if it's possible.

Don't use computer unless it is absolutely necessary - like for paying bills. You don't need to find out what age Barbara Streissand is at 2:30am - or, well, ever.

Social media is by far the biggest contributor for mania. The apps are designed to give us a dopamine rush each time we scroll down any feed and see a new post. That's how they keep us stuck on them.

When you already have an issue with the dopamine rush using social media just makes it worse.

You won't miss anything if you log off for two days or a week. SERIOUSLY. But it will improve your well-being tremendously.

The absolutely best thing you can do is to create as dull environment to yourself as possible. That there's nothing artificial you can drown yourself into. Best place to be in mania is in the middle of the woods without any mobile signal - trust me.

Take up an activity where you do something with your hands. Hands-on approach is crucial.

Doing things with your hands will root you into the real world.

It doesn't matter what it is: cooking, cleaning, handcrafts, drawing or painting (NOT on a computer or ipad but with real pencils/crayons/paints/brushes/etc).

Remember not to do just that though. Go out (without your phone). Enjoy the nature. Listen to the sounds of the outside world. Don't close your senses with headphones. Read. Watch out of the window. Stare at the wall. Watch the paint dry.

LET YOURSELF GET BORED.

Just stay away from any electronic devices.

The hangover is horrible but it'll pass. And you will feel better afterwards when you're functional again.

------

It's not easy. None of us chose to live with bipolar. It's always inherited. But there are ways to work through it.

I hope this helps at least someone.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[goingsllightlymad]

Blinded By Your Light - Part 1. On Meeting

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader 

Summary: Y/N is the definition of ordinary. Studying at a medical school as far as she can get from her rainy hometown of Birmingham, she never expected to be shipped off the Flanders when the war was at it's peak. Much less to meet a handsome young patient with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes she had seen in her life who as fate would have it would fall into her lap.

Word Count: 5035 (I had to split this one up into two chapters because it was getting hella long).

Warnings: I have absolutely no writing skills.

________________________________________________________________

The sunlight on the windowsill was more depressing than it was bright. Wan and pale, you knew that you would find no warmth there in the light of that cool, indifferent sun, shining on a fate much more dire than even its own fiery glory. August had not been kind to either of you.

The last traces of summer were fading away, and everyone in the hospital knew it. Gone were the summery days when you could wake and catch the glimmer of hope that the sunshine had brought with it, the apple trees in the orchard laden with fruit and the last of the spring's bright blossom on their rich branches, the birds wheeling in the sky as though they could not hear, not far away, the rattle of machine gun fire and the sickening crash of bombs. In those clearer nights, sat upon your windowsill and gazing out at the unending sky, you could almost see the flames leaping from the wreckage of today's attack, the occasional flare shooting up into the sky in a sudden burst of bright green light, casting a lurid glow on the trees and fields below.

And now the cold was seeping in, with its grim promise of longer nights and the worst that was yet to come, and the war was far from over. Sometimes you had to wonder how many men were left, as through the doors to the hospital there came every day the steady flow of men half-dead and some already long since gone, draped in their funeral gowns of stiff brown uniform and the bloom of rich red blood like roses on their unnamed grave. This war would leave no man untouched, and you could see the poison as it crept into the eyes of those who made it out of here, chilling and colder than that false bliss that washed over the still faces of those who weren't so lucky.

It was the same routine as always - waking in the cool morning light to dress in the harsh white uniform and make your way to the dining-rooms for breakfast, eaten in silence in a crowd of sullen, sleepless faces, then working until late in the evening, all night if they needed you, as they did more and more these days. It was getting worse out there, though no one dared to mention it.

It would be an understatement to say that no day at Flanders General Hospital was without a new surprise, still today had to be an exception. Walking into the main ward at 6:00 in the morning, the last thing you expected was for the ward to be filled with bustling crowds of nurses in sharply-starched aprons and men carrying stretchers.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a? (What's going on?)" You turned to another nurse as she made her way past you, busying yourself with folding a blanket over the edge of a bed and scanning the room for clues of whatever had happened.

"Il y a eu une explosion dans les tunnels la nuit dernière.. Un gros, clairement. Des hommes de partout. La directrice dit qu'il semble que nous allons courir pendant plusieurs jours. (An explosion in the tunnels last night. Big one, clearly. Men from everywhere. Matron says that it looks like we'll be running around for several days)." she whispered quickly, raising her eyebrows and gesturing wildly at the rows and rows of narrow white beds, already filling with bloodied men. You took in the pained expressions of the wounded men and the frantic ones of the nurses, and all at once you had to fight the urge to run away. You had never seen so many patients at once, and the noise was something that you knew you could never forget. The screams and wails and sobbing drowned all of your senses, and you wondered if Hell could ever sound so bad.

"C'est affreux... Que puis-je faire? Dis-moi que je peux faire quelque chose. (It's awful... What can I do? Tell me I can do something)." You followed her as she set off briskly down the ward, collecting soiled towels from beside the beds.

"Faites tout ce que vous pouvez voir qui doit être fait. Habiller les plaies, nettoyer les lits, transporter l'équipement. Tous sur le pont, vous savez. Ne les laissez pas vous voir rester les bras croisés. (Do whatever you can see that needs doing. Dress wounds, clear beds, carry equipment. All hands on deck, you know. Don't let them see you standing around idly)."

You sent her a quick nod as she ran off with her armful of towels, then turned to the bed beside you, where a man painted with soot and thick red blood was splayed across a bare mattress. Grabbing a basin of warm water from the bedside stand, you set to work scrubbing his tired limbs gently, eyes wandering across the thin and broken form. Reaching up to his face with the now-blackened washcloth, you brushed the heavy mass of matted blonde hair away from his face, swiping at the cracked skin underneath in slow movement. He flinched, tensing up involuntarily, and the eyes that flew open to stare at you were deep and hazel and terrified.

"Tu vas bien, tu vas bien. Je ne vais pas te faire mal. Sûr ... tout est en sécurité maintenant... (You're okay, you're okay. I'm not going to hurt you. Safe... all safe now...)" you murmured to him in your stumbling French, rubbing soft circles on his stained cheek with a shaking fingertip and wetting the washcloth once more. His whole body trembled and his eyes rolled around madly in his head like the eyes of a God forgotten. You wished you would never know what it was like last night.

For the rest of that day, you were rushed off your feet with helping the patients. More and more seemed to flood in from all directions, filling the wards and drawing the nurses in like a swirling cesspit of blood and gore and pain. Grime was washed away, leaving behind faces that were somehow worse, haunting in their shell-shocked horror.

By the time dusk rolled in through the windows high in the stark white walls, the ward was only beginning to quieten, the last of the soldiers carried in almost an hour ago. In a gradual tide of hushed movement, the nurses retreated once more into the dorms and the backrooms of the hospital, the last few remaining to sit by the bedsides and wrap and rewrap the same wounds in the soft glow of candlelight.

Sitting alone on the windowsill of your dorm, you tried again and again to read, your brain dizzying in some other realm of thought that was nowhere near those bleak black letters and the story you'd read before. You'd moved here in a hurry, leaving behind everything you'd known before, and the books were no different. In your carpet-bag when you'd left had been only the three small novels you knew you could never live without, and only enough clothes to last you your journey there and back. You were meant to be home by Christmas, with all the books you could ever hope to read, but as time passed it was becoming increasingly clear that Christmas was going to be a long, long time in coming.

A knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts, making you jump slightly and slam your book shut. You opened the door cautiously, and were met with the sympathetic face of another nurse.

"De quoi avez-vous besoin (What do you need)?"

"La matrone a envoyé pour vous. Il y a un homme dans la salle, anglais. Il est agité, il parle dans son sommeil. Vous êtes anglais, n'est-ce pas? (Matron has sent for you. There's a man in the ward, English. He is restless, he talks in his sleep. You are English, are you not?)".

"Je suis. De quoi a-t-elle besoin pour moi? (I am. What does she need me to do?)"

"Parle lui. Voyez ce qu'il a à dire. Il vaut mieux qu'il parle à voix haute plutôt que de déranger les autres avec son sommeil (Talk to him. See what he has to say. It is better for him to talk aloud than to disturb others with his sleep)."

You sighed, pulling on your apron, wrinkled and creased from the day's hard work, and stepped past the nurse into the corridor. She placed her hand lightly on your arm and gave you a small smile, directing you down to the west ward, where all the British soldiers were lying.

It was not difficult to see which one she was talking about. In the stillness of the ward, one bed was rocking slightly, the patient thrashing wildly in his sleep. His cries echoed throughout the room, piercing through the whimpering and sniffing that hung heavy in the air from all the other beds. A particularly loud wail stopped you in your tracks, and you wanted to throw your hands up to your ears and block out the dreadful noise, but you forced yourself to keep moving towards his bed, biting down on your lip hard enough to taste the hot, metallic blood gathering on the tip of your tongue.

You sat in the chair beside the bed, pulling the curtains tight around the two of you until there was only the bed and you beside it, and in it the man flailing blindly in his horror-stricken fever dream. His hands dropping to his sides to clutch and tear at the bed sheets, you used the opportunity to reach out and stroke his cheek gently, hushing him and pushing the hair back from his sweaty forehead. Over his eyes there was a strip of warm, wet cloth, and you didn't even want to know what would be there should you move it back.

"Who are you." his voice almost made you jump. Low and husky, with a thick Brummie accent, it filled the enclosed space around the two of you like cigarette smoke hanging in the night air. You had not sensed him waking up, but now his breathing was steadying and his body smoothing down against the bed.

"A nurse." you soothed him, still tracing the soft white skin of his face. He made as though to sit up, trying to push up off the bed with unsteady hands, and you pushed him back down lightly, "Shh shhh... Lie down, Mr Shelby. You're weak."

"'M not weak." But his voice was broken and uneven and you could almost hear the smoke in his lungs in the slight wheeze when he breathed.

"Soon, no. But for now let's just let me do the work." He relaxed into your hands, his hands falling back to the bedsheets and you rubbed the back of one of them with your own.

"Where am I?" he croaked.

"General Hospital, Flanders. We found you out by the river, near dead." you spat out the rumour that by now everyone had heard. Five of the men half-drowned, half-suffocated, lying on the riverbank in a pool of soot and blood that seemed to spill from within them, like the war was in their very veins. Five men with no homes to go to and no way to get to them, and four without names. Only Mr Shelby, a name you could swear you had known in some distant lifetime, had been identified, and only he out of the five had survived, although no one was quite sure how.

"Should have left me there." He stiffened, removing his hand from yours and trying to turn away from you, but his ribs ached and it was all he could do not to cry out aloud at the sudden movement. He made do with turning his head to the other side, and you caught the trail of dried black blood that ran down his neck and disappeared under the stiff collar of the white hospital robe. "Y' don't know what I did." His voice was hard and bitter, sad as you had never heard sadness before, but sad at himself, as though even the war was better than what he saw in the mirror every night.

"And I don't particularly want to know. But I can't just let you die, considering my job." you joked lightly, smiling a little at him to cheer him up and then realising that he couldn't see you anyway, and your smile faded away into the evening gloom of the hospital ward.

"Why don't you go save someone who actually deserves it."

"I am, right now." you persisted, and he didn't know whether to laugh or to scream at you or to break down and cry. There was something about you, know you as little even as he did, that drove him a little insane, listening to you challenge him and contradict him as no one had ever done before, and he thought perhaps he liked it. Liked you, but that was cruel and that was weak, and that was something that Tommy Shelby would never do to another soul.

"If you only knew the things I've done-" he chuckled lowly, bitterly, and you got the feeling he was laughing more at himself than at you.

"If I only had a pound note for every man who's come in saying that, I wouldn't be washing and fixing your filth, now would I." and it was true - war was the cruellest thing you know, and it broke men like nothing else. First their bodies, then their minds, then their very souls themselves. In a job like this, it was very difficult not to think about souls, but you were sure that, somewhere within the prison of his broken body, Thomas Shelby had the most beautiful soul that you had never seen.

"Would that you wouldn't, eh." He almost smirked - almost. His lips settled back into a grimace as he tried to laugh.

"I'd have bought meself a set of uniform and be standing in the trenches as we speak."

"So desperate to get to the front line?" He tilted his head as though studying you, and you had to remind yourself that he couldn't see you from beneath his blindfold, or else you were sure you would have squirmed under his scrutiny.

"So desperate to get away from it?"

"Need a way home. 'S work for me back there, and work must be done."

"Then," you spoke decisively, smoothing out his blankets and straightening his chest onto the mattress, and he wheezed painfully at the action, making you flinch instinctively, "I suppose you ought to lie back and let me help you, else you'll never be out of here." you tapped him on the cheek softly, a motherly thing that you hadn't even thought about but now seemed too close, too patronising and at the same time too affectionate. You stood quickly, anxious to run away before he could react and tell you that you were being unprofessional, but as you turned your back to the bed you heard from behind you a quiet chuckle, breathy and honest, and the shifting of bones beneath weary skin.

"Suppose I ought."

You smiled at that, and walked away.

________________________________________________________________________________

Early the next morning, they called on you again to make up his bed linen, ladling into your arms the thick reams of bleached fabric and shoving you in the direction of the west ward. As you saw him, lying on his back and grinning at you as you approached, staring into you with those unseeing eyes as though he had known all night that you would be coming back, you couldn't help but smile. You weren't one to pick favourites but this man was really testing your morals.

"You're back." his voice was still monotonous and weak, and his words hung heavy with exhaustion and a bleak, dark emotion that you hoped you would never feel, yet still you caught a hint of amusement. His statement seemed so decisive, like he had wished you back and here you were, just as he had wanted you to be. Even broken in his bed, Thomas Shelby had a curious power over you, and you hesitated to say you didn't like it.

"Are you so disappointed?"

"On the contrary, love. I quite look forward to our little chats."

"And what's on the mind of the great Thomas Shelby today?" you laughed, snaking an arm around his back and lifting his torso off the bed a little, then pausing as he coughed forcefully to cover up the whine of pain that had slipped out.

"Well wouldn't you like to know." he shot you a trembling smile as his body settled back into your arms. A thrill of pity shot through your heart and you pulled him a little closer into you, gazing down thoughtfully into his weary face and covered eyes. Somewhere between today and yesterday, those eyes had become the most important thing in the world to you, the only thing you wished to God you knew. Something deep within you was stirring when you looked at them, trying to make out the shape through the tough white blindfold, and you knew it wasn't good at all. Men like him weren't made for girls like you, and men with pretty eyes were only ever trouble.

"Well now, let's suppose I do." you pulled back the covers and folded them over the foot of the bed. Looking back at his uncovered form, you couldn't stop your eyes from roaming. From the scars on his legs to the blood that hadn't washed away, to the tired bones that jutted out unnaturally from under withered skin, Thomas Shelby was exhausted, physically as well as mentally. Beautiful, so beautiful, and irreparably fucked up.  

You wrapped your free arm under his knees and pulled him into your arms in an awkward bridal position where you could smell the sweet, metallic blood in his skin and on his clothes and he could almost taste the harsh carbolic soap from that awful night before, you kneeling in the water in the darkness, scrubbing the taste of war from your skin again and again until your very soul could bleed white blood and the darkness within you seeped out through every breath into the darkness without.

You almost threw him onto the spare bed that had been cleared beside him.

"If you must. I'm thinking about you." he murmured thoughtfully, as though those words were much deeper than you could ever see, and you longed to see the meaning in his eyes as he stared, unseeing, up at you.

"Nothing too saucy, I hope." you joked, but part of you wondered if you really meant it. You thought perhaps you wouldn't much mind it if he did.

"Never! Get that a lot here?" He tried to gasp in mock indignation, but the breath ended up catching in his throat and he hacked and coughed violently, his eyes stinging with tears at the pain in his chest. Your hand flew out to grab his, and you rubbed small circles on the back of his hand reassuringly, holding him against your chest and rubbing his back with the other hand as he collapsed into you once again.

Once the coughing fit passed you pulled yourself away, trying to ignore as best you could the empty feeling that rushed into your arms in the space he left behind, and the way he tensed up again as soon as you had parted. A trick of the early morning light, and you were beginning to get the feeling that that was a common feature of this man, with all his tricks and secrets.

"Wouldn't be too surprised. Lot of lads missing their gals, and I'm just walking sex appeal. Or so I've been told."

"Bothers you, does it?" there was a cold edge to his voice, protective, possessive even. If you didn't know better, you might say that Thomas Shelby was laying a claim on you.

"Not too much. Flatters my ego, 's all. Got a girl at home, Mr Shelby?" and now it was you that was keeping secrets, trying to control your voice in what you told yourself was a perfectly professional question. Had to know if he had any emergency contacts, that's all there was to it. Still, as he let out a weak laugh and grinned up at you, you could not help but let out a long, shaky breath that you had not known that you were holding. Well, that was one thing cleared up at least, and you thought perhaps you might be happier because of it."

"Tommy." you tested the word, let it roll off your tongue and fill your lungs with its false air, stain your lips and taint the sanctity of that unholy mind. A name you wanted to shout, to scream and to whisper and to plead and to say into the darkness in places you knew were much less professional than this white corner of the hospital ward. It was a name you wanted to keep all to yourself, and it was so much more than just a name. It was a confession, and it was holy.  Nah, nothing at home for me but cold and dark and office work."

"No family?"

"None at all." he said far too quickly and you knew not to push it any further. There was trust and there was Thomas, Tommy, Shelby, and something told you that the two didn't coincide much.  

"Must be awful lonely." you almost felt bad for him, living all alone in his cold town with his dull work and his tiny little life, and you knew that you and him were not so different after all. For a moment it felt almost like you were lying in the bed beside his, and that these two worlds were somehow one. You felt united, and you understood, because this was a secret the two of you could share, and god, wasn't it domestic?

"I shouldn't say so. Look on the bright side - I'm lying in bed with a pretty girl next to me right now. Not sure I should be so excited to go home just yet." your heart sped up a little with the last statement, aching and leaping at once with the fear of him leaving and the knowledge that while he was here there was nothing you could do but stay by his side. You almost didn't want him to go home at all.

"Aren't you just incorrigible! What must the others all think of me?" you teased, pretending to scold him as you giggled and how long had it been since someone had made you laugh like this?

"Hopefully not what I'm thinking of you, love, else we might have a bit of a fall out." his smooth, easy words and comfortable tone made your smile falter a little despite yourself, and you wondered how many girls he had told the same thing to before.

"Been here too long. Bet you're just itching for a fight."

"Told you I was no good." he said, half-joking and half-sincere, and there was an unnerving depth in his words that really should have made you turn and walk away, back to the others in their little back rooms and the laundry that really did need doing now. But you were right - it had been so long since you had seen the light of a proper day that didn't dawn on the cold grey wards and chambers in a country you had never loved before and now could never stand, and in your bones you longed for a story to take you far away, so against your better judgement you stayed, and all the more thought none the less of yourself for it.

"And I told you that was bullshit." you chastened him softly, lifting him back into your arms and returning him to his now-made bed. You laid down his limbs carefully, straightening out his arms and legs and smoothing down his hair against the pillow as he sighed into the crook of your neck, thick, hot air that burned like kisses down your jaw.

"You should really watch you're mouth while you're working."

"Why don't you watch it for me?"

"Take this bloody thing off my eyes and maybe I will." he grinned, but this time there was an earnest, almost pleading note in it that had your hands already reaching up to his face, and to the cruel blindfold that had so robbed you of the truest beauty that you had ever wished to know.

With soft, tentative movements you peeled off the strips of adhesive that held the cloth in place, pushing aside the blindfold and, cupping his jaw with the other hand, tilting his head to look at you. Those closed, scarred eyelids, and suddenly they were twitching and fluttering, lifting heavily as he forced his eyes to open. And there they were - such bright blue stars that burned your blood and sent your heart to frenzy. And time had stopped around you, arrested in their brilliance, blinded by their light, and a bolder girl than you might say that this was all that there would ever be, for he was here and so were you and didn't it seem a lot like fate?

"Beautiful. Nurse (Y/LN), you've been holding out on me." he almost gasped, holding your hand to his lips and pressing a small kiss against the back, his eyes on you like you were all that he'd been waiting for and you wished, you wished, you were.

"Mr Shelby..." you blushed against your better judgement, and he hated himself for doing this to you. He wasn't entirely sure how it had happened, but somehow and so suddenly he was holding the hand of the most beautiful girl he had seen in a very long time, and she wasn't trying to run away. This was the most afraid that Tommy Shelby had been in his life.

"Tommy." he chided gently, and your smile widened.

"(Y/N)."

"So beautiful."

Your faces were closer than you knew you should be, the hospital far away and all around and you wondered if the others were watching you two now, pressed together and so close and still too far away. It was all you could do not to bridge the gap and kiss him, and in another world perhaps you would because then perhaps there was a chance that this could be something more than just a week in a crowded hospital in the grim hell of war. But as it was, you pulled away, closing your eyes so as not to see the light in his flicker and dim as you parted, a thousand times the worse to want his light.

"I should-" you choked out, and his eyes were large and pleading and Tommy had no idea what was going on but he knew that this was the worst that he had ever felt and he could feel his very heart splitting in two a little as you stood to leave.

"Or you could stay."

"I really shouldn't."

"Please." he whispered, and you wished and wished, and you began to walk away again, bed linen under your arm.

"Sleep. I'll be back tomorrow."

________________________________________________________________________________

It was not for him to know that, later that night when the other nurses had retired to their chambers and the dimly-lit backrooms of the darkened hospital, you crept once more out of the nurses quarters and down to the west-wing, where he lay, for once, asleep. Sitting by his bedside in the gloom, you longed to reach out and touch him, and knew that you wouldn't wake him for the world. He looked so peaceful while he slept, and you ached for him as you had for no other, wished that life would bring him rest like this again as you could not seem to bring him health no matter how hard he tried. Even now, in the purplish shadows of evening, he looked so small and thin, a ghost among his fellow men. He looked a world away from when he'd boarded his train to the front line, know that man as you did not. Something in him whispered that, just as it whispered that you should leave, and just the same you pushed it back and sighed into the palms of your hands, drunk with your bittersweet melancholy and the fear with which you loved him endlessly.

And of course it would not mean anything that, when he stirred in his sleep, early in the morning and you still beside him, and began to shake and sob, you rested your hand on his shoulder gently and, for the first time since this bloody war began, you let yourself sing quietly to him. Snapshots of memories from a lifetime that had come before, softening in the blurred blue darkness and painting the world around the two of you, and for a moment you could almost believe that there were only the two of you in all the world, playing at games of war and house that were too old and too dull to tie you down. You could almost spread your wings and fly away to greener gardens where days were meant for living and nights for dreaming dreams that did not wake you colder than you began.

To the sisters who would ask the next morning, when they caught you half-asleep in the chair beside his bed, you were afraid that he would have another nightmare and disturb the other patients, but even you knew that that was not the case. You were there because you wanted to be, and you wanted to be there because he was there, and there was no where else on Earth that you could breathe as freely as you did when by his side.

But you didn't need to tell him that, because he was Tommy Shelby, and it seemed he had problems enough on his own.

________________________________________________________________________________

A/N: so here it is! This was originally going to be a really long oneshot, but then I got really into writing the plot and making it more and more angsty so it kind of became the first part of a REALLY long series plan (I have no self-control, this is a problem). Just a warning, this is the fluffy chapter. Like, one of literally three or four or whatever chapters with no heartbreaking angst (I say optimistically, knowing this is all gonna be so underwhelming I swear to God). ALSO (this is the last thing I swear), this is gonna take me so long to update I don't even know any more, I have a shit ton of exams between now and July, so any of y'all that actually like my shitty writing skills ARE gonna end up hating me for this.

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@actorinfluence @captivatedbycillianmurphy @stressedandbandobessed7771

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Hi! Will there be something new from HRH soon? I'm dying to know what Claire will do with Frank. Thank you 😘😘

Many thanks to @notevenjokingfic for walking through the bits of this that needed some help. She’s held my hand through some insecurity on this part and I appreciate her oh-so-much. xx.

Previously:

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part IX: A Queen’s Speech

It was tradition. Upon arriving in Scotland, there was to be a cocktail hour followed by adinner where Claire (as Queen) wouldspeak before the first course was served. The room would be filled withimportant people, naturally –– politicians and their wives, familiesperipherally related to her own on branches far up the family tree, somereporters, and the citizens. Among those she considered most important were thelast –– the people of her country.

Typically, her speech was a short thing, crafted by acommunications person in her staff –– how beautiful the country was, how herheart yearned for Scotland when she was not there, how prosperity would come tothe United Kingdom and that Scotland was there alongside its sister countriesas part of the deal.

Not this time, not this night.  This time, she insisted on the speech beingher own in content and form. The communications person protested, but wasproperly chagrined as she raised a single eyebrow. “Am I not Queen?” she hadasked blandly, setting the fountain pen she was using down on top of the stackof correspondence she was signing, leaning back into the belly of her chair,and crossing her legs. “Is there something wrong with the message delivered byme likewise being crafted by me?”

“Of course not, but if you would like some assistance,ma’am, I––”

Frank’s words were ringing in her head.  Dalliance.  Those bloody calendars.  The show that would make her his more thanwould make him hers. His presence in Scotland through necessity, not affection.

Raising a hand, she nodded as graciously as possible. “Asalways, I thank you, of course, but this is one thing that I cannot delegate.Not this speech.”

She thought of histouch –– the way she had allowed it, just to see if she could feelanything with him. It hollowed her out and made her see herself (really seeherself) for the first time in ages. Floating above her body, she realizedthere was no tenderness there.

Offering only the most cursory of bows, the speech writerhad ducked out of the room and shut the door a bit too forcefully behindhimself.

Stillness. She couldnot live with this stillness, the fact that did not care if Frank was withother women, just as he did not care about her being with other men.

She did not need to write the speech. She felt it singing inher veins. The usual speech would not do –– a few minutes followed by asmattering of slight applause.  It wassimply a formality –– a box to check before a meal was served.

This time it would be different. This much she knew.

And now here they were.

Scotland.

Dressed what felt like a million layers of draped, fizzyfabric, Claire ran a hand over the three rows of jewels and tiaras that had beenchosen for her. There was an admitted beauty in the pieces, despite the excessthat she found fundamentally distasteful.

“The topaz would bring out your eyes,” Frank said mildlyfrom beside her. He was straightening the lapels of his jacket and fastening hisshirtsleeves with onyx cufflinks. Ones that she had purchased.  She looked in the mirror and caught his eye,reaching for the sapphire earrings, not the topaz.

“Contrast does a better job of bringing out my eyes.”  Frank made a small sound that was at once ofdisagreement and resignation.

“Let me help?” he asked as she picked up the bracelet thatmatched the earrings, taking a single step towards her.  The click of the clasp beneath her fingertipsstopped him. “Are you feeling well tonight, Claire? You are acting very… strange.”

“Am I?” The distance in her voice surprised even her.  She had no interest in him understanding her, of letting him in.

The night before had proven that to her –– the test she gavehim (failed), the way he had touchedher (without chemistry, cold and empty),the plan he had put into action to make her his trophy (one that she had yet to dispatch).

Early in their relationship,things had been easy. Stolen touches as he opened a door.  Tea in bed from the kettle he secreted intoher suite. Smuggled moments of hushed laughter, splashing Earl Grey onbedsheets before the entire world descended upon her. Late nights when shesnuck down halls to join him in the visitors’ wing. Surreptitiously draftednotes lining the pockets of her robe when she made her way back (affections, coded promises, scribbledrecitations of his dreams or timeless poetry). In the mornings she had beenperpetually less concerned about who saw her, fingers curling around the paper.

And when Lamb died, Frank hadbeen the one to hold her and whisper comfort. He had joined her in thebathroom, smoothed away the creases left in her face by the tile floor. He wipedaway the salty tombs that her tears constructed around each of hereyelashes.  When she had admitted, vodkadrunk, that she had no family, he had hushed and kissed her full on the mouth.“No, that is not true,” he whisperedwhen they parted, breathless, her tears on his cheeks. “You have me. We have each other.”

So she had unraveled herself tohim over the years.  Purposefully, shehad shown him the parts of herself usually kept under lock and key. And he tookthem with what had appeared, at least then, to be great care.

But something shifted after hercoronation and their engagement.

At first, it was little things.

The way he said “hello” without looking up from hismorning newspaper.  

The way he shaved with the doorclosed, where before he had stood with a towel at his waist, hip cocked andwatching her watch him.

The way she was left wanting,seeking and never finding. Her fingers reaching for him in the night and findingonly stone as he shrugged her away.

The way her fingers met only theseam of the pocket of her robe, the scraps of paper becoming few and farbetween.

The way his words to her becameflowers wilting after a first frost.

The way “not tonight” was his rote response on a series of nights over anumber of months.

She had asked him if he loved herthree times.  

The first time had been early. Hisresponse had been enthusiastic, fingers drawing her close by the back of theneck and his mouth consuming hers before she could catch a breath.  When he had pulled back, eyebrow quirked, hesaid, “Madly, my dear.” Her heart hadpounded, spiraled, and plunged as he kissed her again.

The second time, he had seemedmildly offended before saying, “Ofcourse, Claire.” Her heart had skipped only a beat before resuming itsusual rhythm. His lips had been dry on her cheek; her eyes had flutteredclosed.

The third time, he had quirked aneyebrow and muttered something about how she needed not to be so silly.  Of all things the Queen was, silly was boundto be near the bottom of the list. She had felt nothing then –– neithersurprise nor disappointment, shock nor betrayal. It just was. And she wasprepared to live with it.

Weeks later, knowing her nightwould be sleepless, she had gone for her first ride in god knew how long.

And she met him.

Met Fraser.

Oh Christ, that man.

He was at once a challenge andeasier than anything she had ever known. He was the only one who had seen through the veneer and found herbeneath it. He was the moon on a clear night and the ground in a storm.  He was unreserved in a way she longed notjust to emulate, but to be.  

He was worth risking it all.

She had never asked Fraser if heloved her, but she suspected at a cellular level that he was not the type ofman she would have to ask. He would leave no doubt. He was nothing if notthorough and there would be no question about of his intention. She was certainthat she was headed into something with him from which she could never hope toreturn.

She had wondered whether she wasstrong enough to take the risk.  But shehad realized, quite acutely, that there was no risk. She wanted more–– the movement that disrupts a calm existence, excitement and danger, themere chance to sacrifice herself for love. An outlet for the superabundance ofher energy.

Love.

She wanted it.

They had a sound, he’d said. The vibrations.

She wanted Fraser’s love –– to love and in return, be loved.

The promise of that love (being a part of it) was like a horseunbridled, exploding from behind an open gate. Its muscles taut with energy, itwould find freedom in the wind that it created.

No, there was nothing that shehad to give up for it.

‘But, but, but,’ her brain had stuttered on repeat as she preparedto close the book on Frank.

The burden loving her would puton Fraser made her ache and feel wild at once. His quiet life would bedisrupted so he could be along for the ride. And for what? His wings would be clipped,as hers had been.  The mere act of lovingher would strip him bare of the things that blistered her belly and made herdizzy with wanting.  She had been deniedthe opportunity to be the architect in her own life.  She knew the same would be true for him if hewere to be with her –– really bewith her, body and soul, not as a fling or a dalliance (as Frank had put it).

Could she do that to him? Knowing what it was like. Living under glass(leaving fingerprints that someone else would wipe away) or confined to a cage(seated upon a perch and seeing the world through wire). Constantly slappingconcrete walls with bloodied knuckles, screaming until raw just to be heard. Knowingwhat she knew, could she let Fraser unwittingly join her in that?

For a time, she had herselfconvinced that she was doing him a service by holding back, keeping herfeelings in check. But the very thought of him was inside of her.  He was in her lungs, mingling with herbreath.  He was in her belly, drawing hertight and making her quiver for a release. A scream, a sigh, a moment with eyes closed to anything else in theuniverse.  Just to be –– to be Claire, to know Jamie, to find the seam where livesknit themselves together.

“Are you about ready? That hairis about as well coiffed as it’s going to get.”

Frank gently placed the tiarainto the nest of curls pinned on top of her head. It a glittering, intricateweb of diamonds and sapphires and gilding. It was heavy and she sighed, herfingers adjusting it only slightly.

“I am ready,” she said,swallowing.

This speech.

The one she wrote herself.

This speech.

This was how she would claim whatwas hers.

She had no plan for what shewould do when her words ran out, when her conclusion was made plain to theentire room full of people.  And Frank inparticular –– she would not be made to suffer as anyone’s fool, let alone his.

Standing at the door to thebanquet hall, she watched him straighten his sleeves again, clear histhroat.  The production he was putting onjust to have some golf and notoriety was about to come to an end.  Of that much she was certain.

“Ready?” he asked, giving her alook from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, of course.”  She hooked a single gloved hand through thearm he stretched out to her. “I am ready.”

[allons-ymrholmes]

A Good Year - AO3 (X) FF.net (X)

Enjoy a little drunk!sanrion inspired by @socoln​ and @lannistark  Rated: M

Sansa can't handle listening to one more person praising the Dragon Queen as a savior. As if it was the silver-haired dictator who had driven the dagger into the Night King's heart and not Arya.

Wherever Sansa goes (her room, her study, the great hall, the courtyard) someone is waiting to tell her how lucky they were the Mother of Dragons was there to save them from the Long Night.

It's enough to make her sick.

The North remembers my arse, she thinks bitterly, tiptoeing into the kitchen. Let's not forget we trusted the Targaryen's before… trusted the crown before, and it almost erased my house.

Hand curved around her single candle, protecting its delicate flame, she makes her way to the pantry.

Even at this late hour she can't risk returning to her room; Jon's been trying to get her alone to discuss their fealty to his lover.

Once in the pantry she finds what she's looking for and leans against the wall, letting gravity carry her to the floor.

Tyrion can't believe how well the Northerners know how to party.

He always viewed them as such a stubborn, stoic bunch, and yet it is only after his fifth attempt at leaving in the last hour Tyrion is actually able to slip away from one of the many celebrations.

His head is killing him.

He needs something solid in his stomach, and he wouldn't say no to something other than that damned thrice fermented sour-as-piss swill they'd been serving.

Maybe a nice glass of wine, he muses, something sweet to counter all that bitter.

As soon as he walks into the kitchen a cool breeze sweeps in and blows out his candle.

"Shit," he mumbles.

It's practically pitch black in the kitchen, except for the soft glow flickering behind a half-closed door he thinks is the pantry.

Carefully, trying not to trip in the dark, Tyrion makes his way to the door.

It creaks when he cracks it open enough to slid in, and he hears a light shuffling from the end of a row of shelves.

"Anyone in here?" he asks.

Silence replies, and then…

"No. Go away."

The corner of his lips twitch in amusement and he decides to investigate further, walking to the end of the row.

Tucked into the corner, feet pulled up in an attempt to hide from view, sits Sansa holding a goblet of wine.

"Sssansa," he slurs. "What are you doing in here?"

Sansa stares up at him, blinking rapidly as if trying to see him clearly.

"I'm the Lady of Winterfell, Tyrion," she tells him, "I'm am… am… I am merely testing the vintage of our stocks."

"What a coincidence! I'm the drunken imp, and I know my wines. Care if I join you?"

Sansa hesitates only a moment, then shifts her skirt over and pats the floor beside her.

Tyrion sinks to the floor next to her with a sigh, and she passes him her cup of wine.

"How's the year?" he asks.

"Iss looking up, I suppose," she shrugs.

He snorts into the cup.

"I meant the wine," Tyrion clarifies.

"Oh, that. It's, uh, most definitely wine."

He smiles into the cup taking a deep drink.

"It's good," he says, passing the cup back. "I'd say it's Dornish, and at least ten years old."

Sansa shoots him a side eye and takes another gulp of wine.

"I must admit I can't tell the difference," she stage whispers, giving him a playful smile.

"Can I tell you a s—hic—secret?"

Sansa's eyes widen and she nods.

"No one knows the difference," he continues. "But if you say it with enough confidence people will believe anything."

To his surprise, Sansa bursts into a fit of giggles.

It's adorable, and apparently contagious, he finds, as he soon joins her.

When their fit of laughter runs its course, Sansa takes another swig from the glass, refills it, and passes it to Tyrion.

"May I ask what you're really doing hiding away in here?"

She shrugs halfheartedly.

"That I guess. Hiding."

"I never imagined you as one to hide from your problems."

Tyrion takes another drink and passes the cup back, studying her.

That neck, he thinks, letting his mind wander as he waits for her to answer. So elegant.

"I'm not hiding from my problems," she argues, cheeks flushing a delicate shade of rose. "I'm just… hiding so as not to create more problems."

"You strike me as more of a problem solver than a, er… problem creator."

"You might feel differently if I cause an incident and stab someone with my necklace the next time I have to listen to another rendition of the Dragon Queen is our savior from one of my people."

He knows he shouldn't laugh… but the image of Miss Manners Sansa Stark stabbing someone with a fanged necklace is too much for him.

She glances over and gives him a soft smile.

"Shouldn't you be—hic— defending your queen?" she asks, humor lacing her words.

"I've told you many people have underestimated you, but I will not be one of them. If you think something is the right desis—decision, it probably is."

Sansa regards him thoughtfully, taking another sip from the quickly draining cup of wine.

"Is that why you followed my lead down there… in the crypts? When I pulled out my knife? You thought fighting the undead was the wisest choice because it was my idea?"

Tyrion reaches out and takes the goblet from her, and drains the whole thing.

"I followed you for three reasons actually," he sighs. "First, yes, because it was your idea. Second, because there was no way in the Seven Hells I was going to let my wi— my former wife face those monsters alone."

"And third?" she prompts.

He looks up, his eyes meeting hers, and his breath hitches.

"And third… because if you were going out there to die I might as well follow, because without you in this world there is nothing left for me to live for."

His words hang in the air between them, their implications almost tangible.

Tyrion's not sure admitting his feelings was the right choice, but he's glad to finally have said them.

He wonders if she knows how often he's thought of her these last three years apart. How he's not able to look at another woman without comparing them to her and listing the way they fall short. How he couldn't sleep for three days straight after Varys told him she had remarried.

Neither is sure who makes the first move, but suddenly the goblet clanks loudly across the stone floor, and their arms are wrapped around one another.

Lips meet in flurry of need and clumsiness. Tongues swirl, lips tremble, teeth clash.

It's inelegant to say the least, marred by their intoxication, but they drink it in all the same, reveling in one another's touch.

Sansa leans back, pulling Tyrion with her, and they tumble into the nearest shelf, sending several things crashing to the floor.

"Perhaps this isn't the place, my lady," he pants, pulling away for air.

"You're right, come on."

Sansa scrambles to her feet and takes his hand, leading him out of the pantry.

"The candle," he protests.

"I know every inch of this castle."

He lets her lead him through the dark twisting corridors of Winterfell, and is surprised when she opens a door and pulls him into his own chambers.

"They'll look for me in mine," she explains, tugging him towards the bed.

Shock roots him to the spot as she begins to strip off her outer layers until only a thin shift remains.

"Sansa," he sighs, awe filling his gaze. "We… we shouldn't."

Gods grant me a quick death, he curses himself.

"I think we've waited long enough," she argues, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the bed.

He climbs up with her, but turns his face away when she tries to kiss him.

"I think you may be quite drunk, my lady, and though it pains me to say it more than you can possibly know, I can't do this if you're not in your right mind."

Sansa cups his cheek, turning his face to look at her.

"You are one of the kindest, noblest men I have ever met," she tells him.

And suddenly they're kissing again.

Tyrion knows he shouldn't, but gods do her lips taste sweet.

She lies back on the bed, her hand in his hair, and draws him down with her.

His hands wander of their own accord and as his thumb brushes her nipple through the fabric of her shift, Sansa moans into his mouth as she leans into his touch.

"You're wearing far too much clothing, husband," she murmurs against his lips.

If he weren't already hard, hearing her call him husband would have sent him straight to attention.

He sits back on his knees and pulls his shirt off, and Sansa sits up to follow suit.

She pulls the hem of her shift up and over her head, but gets stuck, and she struggles to pull it off.

Tyrion reaches out to help her just as she manages to loosen the garment and Sansa elbows him in the head, sending him off the edge of the bed.

Sansa gasps and jumps off the bed, stark naked, to help him.

Tyrion is lying flat on the floor, laughing hysterically.

As soon as she sees he's okay, Sansa can't help but laugh too.

Offering him her hand she pulls him to his feet.

He wipes tears of mirth from his eyes and looks up at her, seeming to just now realize she's nude.

"Sansa… you're perfect."

"And you're still wearing pants."

"Are you truly sure?"

She drops to her knees and places her hands on his shoulders.

"I am slightly drunk," she admits, "but I am very much aware of what I want. I want you. Now."

She kisses him again, her hands finding their way to his pants, unlacing them one fumbling movement at a time.

When he's divested of his clothes, Tyrion looks away, cheeks flushing.

"You're practically perfect," she says.

"Practically?"

"You'd actually be perfect if you were on the bed."

She sees his self-confidence melt away and they climb on the bed together.

Sansa lies back and opens her arms to him.

"Come to me, husband," she commands in her most queenly voice, trying to keep a straight face.

Tyrion growls playfully and lunges at her, nipping her neck as he kisses up her throat.

She squirms beneath him, giggling at the way his beard tickles her sensitive flesh.

He repeats his movements, tickling her on purpose this time, and Sansa grabs hold of his hair pulling his head away.

She kisses him gently before playfully nipping his bottom lip.

Time seems to float away from them without meaning. All that matters is the way their hands glide over one another's flesh, leaving trails of goosebumps and eliciting soft sighs and throaty moans.

He positions himself to enter her, and hesitates.

"Are you absolutely— oh, gods."

Sansa rolls her eyes and thrusts up to meet him.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul," she whispers, staring into his eyes.

She doesn't return to her room that night, and wakes up with arms embracing Tyrion and body wrapped in twisted sheets.

Her head is pounding.

She studies Tyrion's sleeping face and smiles, thinking perhaps she should have taken up drinking a long time ago.

[tisfan]

Hi, tisfan! I'm going to drop a prompt/request in here, feel free to ignore it! I know you're busy, and you have so many stories already! Anyhow, I'm reading a fic where Bucky is...well, fixing his hair (you know, brushing, blow-drying, etc), because hair just isn't that pretty without some serious maintenance. And now I really, really want a fic where Tony is helping Bucky with his hair. Like a comfort thing (or a sex thing, I like both). If you feel like it. Thank you!

justalurkr said: Headcanon: Bucky keeps his hair long because Steve's hair is still going strong with the 40s vibe. Clint' s hair sorely tests his resolve, tho!

gothgalahoy said: Are you still taking prompts? If so, here's a WinterIron one. They're both touch starved. One of them figures it out during matinance on Bucky's/James' arm. Epic cuddles and feels ensue.

A/N: So, we’ve got a three-for-one fic here; it’s about 3,000 words, tho, so I don’t feel too bad about it... WinterIron, pre-slash, pining Bucky, touch-starved, Tony helping, hair care, panic attacks, etc.

Bucky’s Bad Hair Day

There was nothing wrong with long hair, Bucky told himself. Men woretheir hair long these days, just as often as women wore their hair short.

Hydra had let his hair grow; thick and luxurious, because for thebetter part of the fifties and sixties the Asset had angry, red scars on hishead and they were both noticeable and memorable. They’d faded over time, butby the time they did, his handlers didn’t bother to look at him anymore with aneye toward fashion. As long as the Asset was relatively clean, no one seemed tocare.

The scars, when he could see them through the thick hair, weresilvery and flat, these days. It wouldn’t draw so much attention, if he cut hishair shorter.

And it wasn’t like anyone had said anything -- much -- to himabout it. Steve had ruffled his hair one time, and said he looked like a mop.But that was Steve, and he was always being a little punk, even though hewasn’t that little anymore.

Natasha had fingered the ends of his hair at one point, scowling,and then a box of hair care products had shown up in his next delivery. Oiltreatments and mend-the-ends care, and enough goo and gel and spritzes to makeup a haberdashery counter display.

So, there was nothing wrong with long hair and Bucky was prettymuch okay with that.

Right up until Barton got a haircut.

Bucky was used to Barton being a little on the scruffy side; notquite the “murder hobo” look that Bucky himself sported. (He’d lost track ofwhere the murder hobo comment started, but someone had said it, and theneveryone had said it, and Bucky just gave people his murder glare and went on withhis life. He really, most of the time, did not care what other people thoughtabout him.) Barton had a mop of sandy-blonde hair, scruff on his chin and healways, always missed a patch of bristles on one side of his jaw or the other.He was frequently unshowered, sometimes went for days at a time in the samepair of broken-string sweatpants, and often had his shirt on inside out.

Avengers… were not fastidious people, really. If you could fightwhen you were in your combat gear, you could lounge around in the common roomin a terrycloth bath towel with cucumber slices on your eyelids. No judgements.(Tony. And yeah, okay, so Bucky was totally judging that. Mostly. Excepthe had to admit it did wonders for the bags under Tony’s eyes from lack ofsleep and if Bucky borrowed some cucumber slices for himself once in a while,no one had to know about it.)

So when Barton came in with his new haircut, Bucky noticed.

He was cleaned up, his hair was gelled to perfection and the sideswere spiked and weirdly soft-seeming. Bucky… had the weirdest urge to rub hishand over Barton’s head and test the texture of that hair.

And just as he was thinking that, Tony came into the room, one ofhis unbelievably vile smoothies in one hand. He wrapped his lips around thestraw and took a deep suck from the cup. Bucky tracked Tony’s every movement --helpless against his obsession with the man -- watching the flex of hisbackside as he walked, the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled and said,“still the prettiest, Legolas.” Tony ran one bronzed hand through Barton’shair, smiled even wider, and did it again.

Barton stropped his head against Tony’s hand, practically purringlike a kitten. “You think I look hot?”

“Oh, my god,” Tony said, lowering his sunglasses to give Bartonthe once-over. Slowly. “You look like a billion bucks, and believe me, I knowwhat that looks like.”

(more below the cut, or catch the whole thing on A03)

Barton chuckled and looked down at himself. “Feel like at leastfifty-thousand, so it’ll have to do.”

“I’d totally do you,” Tony assured him. He grabbed a banana fromthe basket, rubbed Barton’s head one more time. “Save some kisses for me.”

“You got it, sugar-daddy,” Barton said.

Bucky watched, dumb-struck, until Tony was out of the kitchen andback into the elevator. What the fuck was going on?

“Maybe I should get a haircut,” Bucky mused, fingering the ends ofhis long hair, then flipping them out of his face. He wondered if Tony wouldrub his hair like that, if it were short and spiky and soft.

You cannot teach fearlessness with terror.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t… it shouldn’t have been… Bucky was notafraid.

The barber shop had a row of windows that let Bucky look insidewithout actually approaching the counters or barbers. There were shiny silverchairs that tipped backward to let a customer get a shampoo. Another row ofchairs had loud dryers where women and men alike sat, flipping throughmagazines or poking at their phones while they waited for their hair to dry, orfor various chemicals to finish processing.

Bucky’s overly sensitive nose caught the whiff of harshastringents and bleach, colors and curl-relaxers. It was overpowering, evenoutside, making his eyes sting and the inside of his nose flare and ache.

His ear caught the delicate sound of scissors, metal against hair,snip snip. The buzz of clippers, the harsh burr of hairdryers. The clickand hiss of flatirons.

One stylist thumped the chair’s pedal a few times. Another leanedher client back into the sinks and the woman under the cape and towels moanedwith almost sensual pleasure.

Bucky shivered all over, his flesh crawling.

Too many people. Too close to him.

Sharp blades; Bucky could identify dozens of potential weapons.

He… could not do this.

There were too many risks; not to himself. If it was just his ownsafety, his own comfort, maybe he could manage it. He’d done so much worse,allowed it to happen.

You couldn’t teach fearlessness with terror. But you could become numb to fear. There was nothing else thatHydra could have done to his body, to his mind, that was half as terrible aswhat he’d already experienced.

It wasn’t what it would do to him. Bucky could lie to himself ifit gave him comfort. But it was also what Bucky might do, if someone came tooclose to him with those scissors. If they tilted him back. If… if…

He…

He might hurt someone.

Bucky clung to that idea. And then turned away.

The one time, Bucky thought, that he wanted to get into theelevator, go straight up to his floor and take refuge in the back of hiscloset, would be the one time that Tony would stick an arm in between the doorsbefore they closed and cram himself in the elevator, a whole horde of paparazzinot inches behind his heels.

“Hey there, Ghost in the Shell,” Tony said, punching the buttonfor the common floors with unnecessary force. “What a day, don’t tell me, I’lltell yo-- are you all right?”

And Bucky was just weak enough to admit the truth.

“No.”

Tony blinked at that, brown eyes full of worry, that subtle flareat the corners. He opened his mouth, maybe to make some sort of smart-assedcomment, and at this point, Bucky would welcome it. Would welcome the spark ofheat, the frisson of anger. Instead, what he said was, “Is there anything I cando?”

“I… need a haircut,” Bucky confessed. He shook his head, lettingthe long tresses swing, illustrating the need. “An’ I can’t… I jus’ can’t. Getin one of those chairs.” It hurt, confessing. Like pulling out his fingernails.Admitting it. He was the goddamn Winter Soldier and he couldn’t fuckin’ sit ina chair and let some harmless little gossipy woman cut his fucking hair. Heatbloomed over his cheeks, across the back of his neck.

“I couldn’t take a shower,” Tony said, apropos of nothing. Ormaybe it wasn’t quite nothing. “After Afghanistan. For months. Couldn’t… havewater in my face.”

“How’d… how’d you cope?”

“Badly,” Tony said. “Wouldn’t ask for help. Knew I needed it,but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “Thought I could do it on my own.” He gave Buckya direct look. “And I know you can. But the thing is, you don’t haveto.”

Jesus fuck, did the guy mind-read, too, on top of everything?

“All ears,” Bucky said, “if ya got a suggestion.”

Tony flicked a quick look at him. “You trust me?”

Bucky shrugged. He didn’t not trust Tony, which was more than hefelt about most people. He and Tony, well, they’d already seen the worst ofeach other, hadn’t they?

“Come on,” Tony said. “Come up to my place, I have a set up from--well, it’s what I do, isn’t it? Change my environment to suit myself.”

The whole reason this had become a thing for Bucky was because hewanted Tony to touch his hair, to joke and flirt with him, the way he had withBarton, right? He trusted Tony not to hurt him. Trusted himself to not to hurtTony; never again.

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded.

Tony’s bathroom was some sort of miracle; huge, larger than thefreaking house Bucky had grown up in, nearly. There was a deep jacuzzi pool, asauna, a few different showers. One of those chairs that tipped back into asink and Bucky was frozen at the sight of it, until Tony lifted it, bicepsstraining, and moved it out of the room without even asking what was up withthat. Bucky loathed himself, mocked himself for being afraid of a goddamnchair, but he wasn’t about to deny that he felt worlds and away better with itgone.

Tony reached out, hesitated. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, roughly.

Tony fingered Bucky’s hair, rubbing one lock together. Tipped itup to inspect the ends. Peered at his scalp. “You’ve been taking pretty goodcare of it,” he said. “Bet Nat sent you one of those boxes of hers; I have onefor skin care. She seems to think my hands need to be soaked in moisturizertwice a day.”

The way Tony’s fingers felt, running over Bucky’s scalp, he wouldagree. Tony’s skin was like velvet, heavy and soft at the same time.

Bucky shivered, goosebumps scrawling over his head and down theback of his neck. Tony pulled back and Bucky reacted without thinking, grabbinghis wrist. “No, don’t…” he said. “That… feels good.”

Tony chuckled. “Well, I’ve been told I have magic fingers, in moreways than one. So, what are you looking at doing to your hair? I mean, rightnow it’s just kinda ragged. We could trim the ends up, make it all one length,just kinda get your toes wet, as far as the hair cutting business goes.”

“Do you know how to cut hair?”

Tony gave him a flat stare. “I built a new element in my workshop,I think I can give you a trim, Edward Scissorhands. I might not be able to getreal fancy, but if you can handle this, I have a hairdresser, and she doescall-ins.”

“Start slow,” Bucky said, nodding.

“Yep,” Tony said. “So, you can wash your hair, or just get it wet,or I can help you with that, whatever you need.”

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip. Tony had been so, so kind, andBucky wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask any further.

“My… back when I was a kid, my Ma washed my hair, bent over thesink,” Bucky said, hesitantly. There weren’t any bolts of fear or apprehensionwith that, just the faint, old buzz of annoyance when she got water in hisears, or sometimes it would drip down his back. And, of course, the oldimpatience for being a boy of eight or nine and having to be clean, some sortof anathema to his normal way of life. Stickball and paper-waxed horehoundcandies.

“I can do that,” Tony said. His hand was still in Bucky’s hair,fingers soothing on the back of his neck. “Might want to lose the shirt, and…yeah, suit’s probably not the best for that, gimme a minute.”

Which was how Bucky found himself on his knees in front of TonyStark, the back of his neck horribly exposed and vulnerable.

Except he kept waiting for the panic to rear up -- how was itpossible to have a panic attack about the possibility of having a panic attack?-- but it didn’t.

The water was warm, soothing, and Tony’s voice was constant andcalm in his ear. He didn’t talk about anything urgent, or even anythingimportant. A little bit about Edwin Jarvis, his father’s butler who’dpractically raised him, a couple of pranks he’d pulled in high school. Some ofhis past with Jim Rhodes, back at MIT. Good stories. From a simpler, happiertime.

The shampoo Tony used on him, working it through the long locks,smelled like Tony.

By the time Tony rinsed him out and tied a towel around thedripping mess, Bucky was almost completely relaxed, just the soft, warm feel ofarousal -- not even urgent, just a bittersweet thread of wanting that ranthrough his contentment -- keeping him awake.

Tony brought him into the dressing room, a huge showcase with afew dressers and clothing racks, but mostly mirrors. “I thought you might bemore comfortable if you can see me the whole time I’m near your head with apair of scissors.”

Bucky nodded, took the chair that Tony offered. He was shiveringminutely, and Tony kept a hand on his shoulder until he calmed.

Tony ran a comb through his hair, the various conditioners anddetanglers making that task ten times easier than it had been whenever Buckytried it. His hair was stupidly thick.

“I’m just gonna even it out here, okay?” Tony said, parting it alittle to the left, and then checking the length by running his fingers downit, standing just in front of Bucky and leaning back a little to look. He wasshirtless, as Bucky was, but Bucky hadn’t noticed the scarring on Tony’s chestbefore, where his arc reactor had been. The source, Bucky knew, of everythingthat had come after; Tony’s own missile that had nearly killed him, that he hadused to rise from the ash. Becoming Iron Man.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to rest his ear against that scar,listening to the heart underneath, feeling the heat of Tony’s skin. He didn’t.

Tony showed him a pair of scissors, sharp as they had to be forcutting hair, let Bucky feel the weight of them. They were a weapon, althoughit hardly mattered. Bucky’s entire body was a weapon, it wasn’t like one pairof blades was going to make a difference.

“You ready?”

“Go ahead.”

As a supersoldier, Bucky could hold his breath for about elevenminutes. He was pretty sure he stopped breathing as soon as Tony opened thescissors and remained in that state until Tony was done. He exhaled in a rushas soon as Tony stepped back, vision flecked with speckles of black and red,head spinning. Tony put the scissors down and was back to standing in front ofBucky, one hand on either shoulder.

“You okay?”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to do; he was… he thought he was okay, but…“Yeah,” he said, “but… stay?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for. It wasTony’s room, if anyone would be leaving, it would be Bucky.

“Touch-starved,” Tony said. “Check. You know that’s a thing,right? Neurologists have discovered that skin-to-skin contact is vital tomental health.” The whole time he was talking, Tony’s fingers stroked downBucky’s shoulders, raising trails of gooseflesh in their wake. “Physicalcontact is necessary to being human, almost as much, if not moreso, than food.There’s nothing wrong with it; that you can even miss it shows that you’restill a person inside.”

Bucky found himself suddenly on the floor, arms around Tony’swaist who was sprawled, undignified. “It’s okay,” Tony repeated, and Buckypressed his cheek to Tony’s belly, listening to his heart racing under hisskin. “It’s all right.”  

They sat that way for a good twenty minutes, Bucky letting hishand wander, touching as much of Tony’s skin as he could reach, his back, hiship, across his shoulder, let his finger trace the lines of Tony’s face. Whenthe pad of his index finger brushed Tony’s mouth, his lips pursed and hepressed a kiss gently to Bucky’s fingers.

Finally, Bucky was able to get himself under some sort of control,some semblance of sanity. He was blushing, furiously embarrassed, ashamed ofhimself and his weakness. “Tony, I’m…”

“Don’t say sorry, honeybunch,” Tony said. “Consider it doctor’sorders. We can make it part of your recovery. One hairwash and cuddle sessionevery few days. Do you a world of good.”

Bucky ducked his chin. “You don’t gotta take care of me.”

Tony put his finger against Bucky’s jaw and gently and lifted hisface. “It’s good for me, too. Helps me, knowing I’m making a difference. If youneed it, I’m… honored. To help.”

Bucky considered that for a long moment. “Okay… okay.”

“Then I’ll see you in --” Tony glanced down at his wrist, whichdidn’t contain a timekeeping device at all “-- tomorrow, same time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice rough. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

[rxbxlcaptain]

Sooo… If you're not too busy, maybe Jyn saying "I'm going to take care of you, okay?" (#5) or Cassian saying "I might've had a few shots" (#10). But there were so many to choose from it was hard to decide… (no tumblr account but I'm TinCanTelephone on AO3)

Have y’all heard of @dailyau​? They’ve been saving me recently because basically every time I see one of these prompts I’ve been turning over there and seeing if there’s any good AUs that could apply to this (because apparently I’ve recently forgotten how to write within the Star Wars universe I need to get back over there oops). Today’s one shot is based off one of their prompts: “You’re my favorite writer of all time and I’m so so pleased to finally meet you and OH MY GOD I’M SORRY I DROPPED MY TEA ON YOU” AU

I mean, read that. That’s just too good to pass up on. I combined that with Cassian saying “I might’ve had a few shots” to create this. I hope you enjoy! :D 

AO3

“What exactly are youdoing?”

Cassian startledslightly at the voice. It spoke to how distracted Cassian was by today’s eventsthat he missed Kay’s traditionally loud approaching footsteps. With thebartender quietly cleaning the counter being the only other person in the room,they should have echoed twice as loud.

Cassian wasn’t certainif it was alcohol or embarrassment that clouded his brain.

Motioning to the cheaphotel bar, Cassian said, "Imight've had a few shots."

“I leave you alone forhalf an hour,” Kay mused while shaking his head. He called the bartender over,requesting a glass of water. “May I ask whyyou felt the need to take, ahem, a fewshots?” His voice sounded skeptical and, based on the number of glasseslittering the bar in front of Cassian, he had fair reason to be so.

“It’s been a long day,”he groaned, rubbing his hand over his face.

“The meet and greet wasn’tall you expected? The award-winning authors turned out to be only human, whoneed sleep and coffee and nutrients just like you?” Kay offered. “Or perhapsthey were complete snobs with their collective noses in the air, glancing downupon the mere mortal who has only published two novellas, neither of which wereeven nominated for a Pulitzer?”

“You’re one to talkabout snobs,” Cassian snorted. “You’re one of the most elitist people I’ve evermet.”

“And yet for some reasonyou continue to associate with me.” The bartender appeared with the glass ofwater, which Kay shoved towards Cassian. Rather than drink it, Cassian simplyswirled the contents around and around. “Cassian, the story.”

Cassian resisted theurge to groan again. If he told no one else what happened today, only thethirty or so authors attending the conference would know it ever happened. Andthe waiters passing petite hors d’oeuvres. And anyone who watched the securityfootage. And…

“Cassian.” Kay clearedhis throat. “I am not asking.”

“I did the stupidestthing, Kay.” Cassian’s hands flew to his hair, the dark strands coming away awayward mess, much like Cassian’s thoughts. “I was just so eager to talk to her…”

“Talk to whom?” Kayraised his eyebrow.

“Jyn Erso,” Cassiansighed. At the blank expression on Kay’s face, he sent him an exasperated look.“The author of Stardust? And Look Up? The author who I explicitlycame to this conference to hear speak?”

“The name vaguely ringsa bell,” Kay said, waving one of his hands to dismiss the notion.

“You should. I’ve beengoing on about her since she was only publishing short stories rather thanfull-length novels. Those never received the recognition they deserved…”

“Cassian.” Kay’s voicewas sharp, drawing Cassian out of his tirade (the type of which Kay had becomequite familiar with over their years of friendship) and back to the issue athand.

“Right.” With a deepbreath, Cassian centered himself and focused on the story. “She had finishedgiving her seminar – a brilliant speech on not allowing the events of yourpasts to affect your actions of the future. You would have loved it, Kay, ifonly you had been there – Yes, yes, all right, I’m getting on with it.” Cassianrolled his eyes as Kay started tapping his fingers against the bar top as asign of his impatience. “Well, the audience filed out into a reception withfinger foods and coffee and that sort of thing.”

“Yes, you writers have apeculiar need to always have a warm beverage in hand.”

Cassian ignored theinterruption. “I grabbed a cup of tea – if only I hadn’t grabbed that tea! –and waited until Jyn joined the group. She didn’t come out for five minutes andwhen she did, everyone flocked to her immediately – really, you’d think they’dhave more dignity – so she was simply surrounded by people, which is when Irealized that if I ever wanted to speak to her, I’d need to be just as pushyand naturally that’s when everythingwent wrong.”

Kay stared at him,blinking. “I’m not sure you’ve ever talked so quickly before in your life.”

Cassian didn’t doubtthat. His words flowed in his writing, not in speech. Where he would trip andstumble while – the sheer amount of “ums”and “ers” that appeared in his speechmade him cringe – his writing flowed out of his fingertips smoothly, withoutpause or hesitation.

But if Kay wanted tohear this story, the only way Cassian could bear to repeat it is if he told itas quickly as possible. Ripping it off like a Band-Aid.

(Cassian doubted itwould hurt less to hear his humiliation repeated.)

Finally swallowing someof the water, Cassian shook his head. “What happens next is within the top fivemost embarrassing things I’ve ever done.”

“Now you sound like aclickbait article,” Kay said, rolling his eyes. “Continue, without thedramatics, please.”

“I had it all plannedout in my head,” Cassian sighed. “Tell her I’d enjoyed her seminar, point out afew of my favorite ideas, tell her my favorite of her stories. Maybe ask herwhere she gets her inspiration and then excuse myself by saying I won’t takeher away from all her other fans.” He looked towards Kay with desperation inhis eyes. “I had a plan, Kay.”

“Yes, the best laid plansof mice and men and all that.” Once again, Kay dismissed Cassian’s words with aflick of his hand. “Cassian, I grow impatient. Get to the point.”

“I spilled my tea onher,” Cassian blurted out. “I attempted to shake her hand and spilled tea alldown the front of her dress. Her whitedress, Kay. Her favorite dress is likely ruined because some stupid,hopeless fan wanted to slobber all over her and tell her how amazing she is,which she has to already know. And Icouldn’t get out a proper apology, I was just sputtering and standing therelike an idiot while the people around me got towels and actually be useful.”

Kay stayed silent for amoment, staring at Cassian with his eyebrows slightly raised. Then, he burstout laughing, a sound so unlike Kay that Cassian took a moment to remember heshould be offended.

“Kay,” he growled. “Thisis not funny.”

“Oh, yes, yes, it is,”Kay contradicted between laughs. “This is perhaps the funniest thing I’ve heardin years.” He continued, ignoring Cassian’s glower. “’Her favorite dress is likely ruined. I’ve ruined my reputation as awriter and she’ll never know how much I love her.’ Honestly, Cassian, doyou hear yourself? You’ve been driven to drink by spilling tea on a woman youwere trying to compliment. She must have been attractive as well as talented.”

Cassian ignored the wayhis cheeks flamed. “That’s not relevant at all.”

“Ah, there it is. The realreason you’re so embarrassed. Jyn Erso is not only one of the most talentedauthors you’ve ever come across, but also a young beauty. Did plans for atropical honeymoon and three lovely, dark eyed children feature into your planof how that conversation should have gone?”

Cassian wished he hadsomething to throw at the man. “And you claim to be my friend.”

“I am being your friend,”Kay reassured him, standing from his bar stool. “Friends tell friends when they’rebeing ridiculous. And, right now, you’re being ridiculous, Cassian. You’vestill got two days left in this conference. Perhaps tomorrow you can find Ms.Erso and laugh the whole ordeal off.”

Groaning, Cassianfollowed Kay off the stool and towards the hotel elevators. “I’ll never be ableto speak around her again.”

“You managed to rallyafter being denied from publishers thrice before being published,” Kay noted,pressing the up button twice in a row. “Somehow I imagine you’ll manage torebound from this.”

[ecotone99]

[SF] Addiction (part of a series I'm working on...critique welcomed.)

No one paid any attention to the ragged old man on his hands and knees vomiting in a corner of one of the numerous dark corridors of the Dredges. If they had, they may have noticed that he wasn’t so old, perhaps in his mid-thirties, and that he wore the stained and faded uniform of a vice captain of the Inter-Solar Exploration Agency beneath his tattered long coat. But his unkempt hair and over-grown beard, along with the condition of his clothing gave off the impression of both old age and bitter hardship, so no one bothered to take further note of him.

Gregor Thames picked himself up off the ground slowly, the churning in his stomach subsiding for the time being. He slowly made his way down the poorly lit hall, using the metallic wall to support his trembling legs while trying to avoid stepping on the other denizens that lay slumped over on the floor. They were either in the throes of a drug-induced paralysis, the welcome abyss of sleep, or dead. Here in the Dredges, deep in the bowels of Salvation, life was about oblivion, and whatever brought it on was far better than the cold reality of the waking world.

As he stumbled along, Gregor couldn’t help letting his mind wander back to his past. Indeed, it was due to his past that his mind would often take off on its own, to times when his name and position had meant something more.

He was one of the first explorers to ever cross the Outer Quadrant, beyond Pluto, reaching into the darkness of Void space to find what lay beyond the solar system. He had been an ace pilot, able to skim through the Void with the ease of one born for the task. He had earned commendations and medals, exalting his bravery and dedication to the furtherance of mankind’s ambitions.

That last thought made him angry. All the medals in the known galaxy wouldn’t do him the least bit of good now. He, like so many before, had become addicted to Irellium-9, the drug required for quantum-space travel. Without it, humans would go mad in the Void, their brains unable to process the absence of time. After so long, the mind became so dependent upon the drug that without it, a person’s perspective would become permanently altered. It would sometimes take seemingly hours for a drop of water to fall from a leaky faucet into the bottom of a sink. At other times, days would pass in the blink of an eye, and the one experiencing it would sometimes die of dehydration without even realizing it.

After his symptoms became too evident to hide anymore, the Exploration Agency had thanked him for his service and discharged him with a moderate severance. The credits spent faster than he imagined they would, and before long he was homeless and wandering around Salvation, doing odd jobs that didn’t pay much, but allowed him to purchase black market rations of I-9. As the months rolled by, his condition grew worse, so much so that those that had been willing to offer him work finally began turning him away. He had turned to theft, robbery and at times, murder, to acquire the drug he needed.

He had been without it for days now, if his mind could be trusted (it couldn’t), and his withdrawal symptoms were reaching an unbearable state. He was out of money, and here in the foul Dredges no one had anything worth stealing. He was going to have to make his way up to one of the main decks to see if he could find any way of obtaining more I-9.

He worked his way up the various corridors and stairwells till he reached the sub-level of the cargo deck. His stomach had begun churning again, and time distortions were threatening to overtake his mind, so he moved as fast as he dared, lifting a deck plate and climbing out onto the loading floor before anyone could notice him. Staying out of sight behind the various shipping containers and storage units, he snuck around to where he knew ships would be offloading illegal cargo to sell to the highest bidder. He had to be careful; these were pirates and smugglers. They’d kill him without hesitation if they caught him trying to steal from them.

Stepping behind a stack of metal crates he almost ran directly into a tall man wearing what appeared to be an exo-suit. He began to stammer drunkenly about being lost, in the hopes this stranger wouldn’t decide to end his life right there and then, when the man shushed him and pulled him in close to the crates.

“Who are you?” The man asked, his voice somewhat muffled by the breather on the exo-suit’s mask.

“My name’s Jon.” Gregor lied. “I was just lookin’ for a place to sleep.”

“Well, Jon, this looks like it might be your lucky day.” The muffled voice replied. “I need some help, and by the looks of you, you need a fix. I think we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Gregor tried to back away, not wanting to have anything to do with whatever this guy planned, when the man reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a hypo-pak. Gregor’s heart almost leapt from his chest. It was I-9!

He instinctively reached for it, and the man pulled it back away. “First, you help me. Then, I’ll see to it you have enough of this to last you a long time.” He said, wiggling the pak between two fingers.

It only took a second for Gregor to make up his mind. He nodded at the man in agreement.

The figure in the mask nodded back, and then turned his attention back to the storage units. “See that unit there, number four-twenty-one?” He asked. Gregor peeked around the stranger’s shoulder at the small building. It looked to be about ten meters square with a typical coded lock door. Two men armed with plasma rifles stood next to the door, talking quietly while casting searching glances around the dock.

“I need to get inside that unit, and to do that I’m going to need a diversion to get those guards away from the door.” The man said. He turned back to look at Gregor.

“Jon, I need you to set a charge back towards the loading area. The explosion should get their attention long enough to let me get past that door.”

“How are you going to get past that lock?” Gregor asked. “Those aren’t easy to bypass.” He should know, he’d tried several times to get into a storage unit in this area, and had never been successful.

“Don’t worry about that,” The man replied, “just take this and set it off where I told you.” He handed Gregor a small pulse charge, nothing that would cause much damage on its own, but would make a loud enough noise to bring the whole dock running to see what had happened.

“How am I supposed to get away when they come looking?” Gregor asked. He wasn’t comfortable about being someone’s stooge.

“You look resourceful. You’ll figure out something.” The man said. “When you get clear, meet me back here and I’ll make good on my word. Now go!”

Gregor hesitated for a moment, then started making his way back toward the loading areas. He felt queasy about this whole deal, and he was sure it wasn’t the withdrawal pains. He didn’t even know what this guy looked like under the exo-suit, but the thought of landing a nice stash of I-9 drove him. He hoped the stranger would keep his word and not leave him empty handed.

He reached the loading area and squatted down behind several skids stacked high with barrels. He fumbled around with the charge, trying to recall his military training on how to set the timer. After a few minutes he managed to get it set for one minute. He set it down behind a barrel and slipped away to find a hiding spot before it went off.

He had just ducked under a plastic tarp when the charge went off. It was louder than he had expected, and when he heard several more explosions go off he realized something hadn’t gone as planned. Peeking out from his hiding spot, he saw the reason for the additional explosions. Apparently, those barrels had contained something volatile, and the charge had ignited them. There was a huge fire burning on the dock, and several people were running around trying to save their goods from the flames. Auto-drones came whizzing in and began spraying flame-suppressing foam on the fire, but it would take some time before they would have it out.

With everyone distracted by the fire, it seemed like a good time to vacate his hiding spot and make his way back to the stranger. He was able to get back to the storage unit without drawing any undue attention. He saw that the guards had indeed left their post to investigate the disturbance, and the door to the unit was standing open.

He thought about going back to where he and the stranger had agreed to meet, but curiosity got the better of him and he decided to go have a look at what was worth all this trouble. Looking around to be sure no one was coming, he made his way up to the open door to peer inside. What he saw was the man in the exo-suit loading up a pack with small metal cartons out of a fibresteel crate on the floor. There was nothing else in the room.

He started to enter the room when the man spun around, a small pistol appearing in his hand from seemingly nowhere. “Hey!” Gregor whispered harshly. “Take it easy, man!”

The stranger lowered the pistol. “I thought I told you to wait for me back behind the crates.” He said. “What did you do out there? It sounded like you tried to blow up half the station!”

“Hey, I got you your distraction, didn’t I?” Gregor retorted. “Now give me what you promised, so I can get the hell outta here!”

The stranger chuckled through the mask, “Ok, pal. You’re right. Here.” He tossed one of the small cartons to Gregor. “Take it easy with that. It’s not your average stuff.”

Gregor opened the carton to reveal at least two dozen hypo-paks neatly arranged into three rows. It was easily worth a couple of thousand credits on the market. He’d be set for weeks on this.

He turned to leave and a voice barked out, “Who the fuck are you?!”

The two guards had returned, and were taking aim at Gregor and the stranger inside the unit. Reflexes took hold and Gregor dived to one side of the door just as plasma bursts came screaming through the doorway. The smell of burnt ozone quickly filled the room as Gregor watched the man in the exo-suit duck behind the crate and begin to fire back.

Realizing that he was most likely about to die, Gregor pulled out one of the hypo-paks. If he was going to be killed, he’d be killed while riding a wave of I-9 to the afterlife. He stuck the needle into the carotid artery just beneath his right ear, closed his eyes, and squeezed the injector. Instantly, the sensation of transcending time and space engulfed him, and his consciousness soared with a euphoria born of the quantum stimulant. It was powerful stuff, like the stranger had said, and his mind reeled at the potency of the drug.

It was some time before he realized that he could no longer hear the gunfight taking place. He opened his eyes and looked around. What he saw, he simply couldn’t believe. Time had been frozen. Blazing ribbons of plasma energy hung motionless in the air. The combatants were as still as statues, poised in fighting positions on both sides of the doorway. Even the smoke from where the bolts had burned into the walls behind the stranger wasn’t drifting away. All around was absolute silence.

Gregor had a wild guess of what had happened, but it defied logic. He’d been here countless times, but never like this. Before, he was always at the helm of a ship equipped with a powerful rift drive capable of punching holes in the sub-quantum field and traveling great distances in an instant. Time would stop, and he would be left alone to pilot the ship through the dimensional rift while periodic doses of Irellium-9 were administered by an automated system. Still, even though he lacked a ship, or a rift drive of any sort, he knew where he was.

He was in the Void.

He slowly stood up, his mind trying to make sense of what had just happened. It took an enormous amount of energy to open a rift. Yet here he was, outside of time with nothing more than a dose of I-9.

The drug! He looked at the drained hypo-pak still in his hand, then at the fibresteel crate it had come from. On the side were printed the words:

EXPERIMENTAL USE ONLY IRELLIUM-13 PROPERTY OF CENTAUR CORP

Irellium-13? What the hell was that? Centaur? That was the biggest pharmaceutical company in the solar system. They had invented I-9 back during the solar expansion. It seemed they had been working on improving their formula. But this? How long was this going to last? Would it be permanent?

Gregor shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He was on the verge of a panic attack. He needed to calm down. He walked over to the door and stepped past the two armed men. Walking across the dock was as eerie a sensation as anything he’d ever experienced. The silence was palpable, and the scenery around him was beyond surreal. People were frozen in place, rushing to fight a fire that was unmoving. Waving his hand through the flames he could feel no warmth at all. He walked to the lifts and pressed the call button. Nothing.

He was wondering what to do about his current situation when a thought occurred to him. He walked back to where the crate containing the Irrellium-13 was located. Taking the pack the stranger had been filling, he emptied the rest of the contents of the crate in the pack and slung it over his shoulder. If and when this stuff did wear off, there was no sense in just leaving it laying around for someone else, he figured. He headed back down into the Dredges with his stolen goods.

There was no way to tell how long he was under the influence of the drug. Time held no meaning in the Void. He had hidden the pack, and then went around the station, taking food, clothing, and other valuables as he came across them. He even went as far as to give himself a clean shave and trimmed his long hair into a more manageable length. In the back of his mind was the fear that he would never leave the Void, that he was doomed to an eternity of being alone in a dimension where there was no sound, movement, or anything. He tried to keep his mind occupied and not think of it, but it was difficult.

He was in the process of rummaging through a cabinet of fine wines in the Paramour Club when suddenly it felt like everything shifted. His equilibrium was thrown off and he almost fell down. Suddenly, the air was full of sounds. Music was playing, people were talking, and the smells of cooking food filled his nose. He stepped back away from the cabinet just as a burly man in an apron came through the door of the room he was in.

“Hey, what are you doing back here?” The big man demanded.

“Sorry,” Gregor apologized, “I was trying to find the restrooms.”

The man fixed him with a suspicious look. “Well, they’re not in here. Get out!”

As Gregor left the club, he stopped and reconsidered his situation. He now knew the effects of the drug weren’t permanent. Relief washed over him, and at the same time the knowledge struck him as unbelievably humorous. He could escape time at will! He began laughing, first to himself, then out loud. Passers-by gave him odd looks, but he didn’t care. He could do anything he wanted! Anything!

He walked along, still laughing at his fortune. Salvation station, hell, the entire solar system, was his for the taking!

In an opulent office, high up in a skyscraper overlooking Mars City, a meeting was taking place between two powerful men.

“Mr. Lions, I assure you that the agent we sent was of the highest caliber. If I had any doubts of his skills, I would never have sent him.” Said the first, a younger man in his late twenties with short dark hair and wearing an expensive suit.

“I believe you, Mr. Drake, but nonetheless, the samples are missing, your man is dead, and I am at a loss of approximately two and a half million credits. This must be rectified.” Replied Mr. Lions, a gentleman whom most would consider being in his late sixties, but in fact was much older. He wore an even more expensive suit of clothes. “I’ve had reports that at the time of the gunfight between your man and the smugglers, several people on the station noticed certain items missing. Some items were of value, and some were rather mundane. Though Salvation is well known as a den of thieves, this particular rash of thefts were carried out, in some circumstances, before the very eyes of the victims. One instant the items in question would be there, and the next, they were simply gone. This lends one to the possible conclusion that a third party has become involved, and is using the samples in a most irresponsible way,” He finished.

“I’ve had those same reports, Mr. Lions, and I already have agents scouring the station looking for anyone who may have been in the vicinity of the loading docks at the time of the incident in question.” Mr. Drake responded. “Have faith, sir, we will find and deliver your property, as promised.”

Mr. Lions rose from his seat. “I do hope so, Mr. Drake. I do hope so.” He turned and began walking toward the door. “If this person continues to abuse the samples in the same manner they have already demonstrated, we may end up with a much larger problem than we face now. You know of what I speak.”

Mr. Drake waited until his guest had left, and then opened a comm unit on his desk. The holocron display lit up and a dark-skinned man wearing a visor came into view.

“Yes, Mr. Drake?” The man asked.

“Leon, we will need to commit more resources to finding the thief. I want two more units dispatched at once to Salvation.” Mr. Drake ordered.

“Yes, sir.” Leon replied. The holocron blinked out.

Mr. Drake sat back in his chair. The situation had spiraled out of control, and now someone had a chemical that was potentially the most dangerous substance in the galaxy. The fool couldn’t possibly realize the catastrophe using the Irellium-13 could bring about. If this went wrong, and his and Mr. Lions’ worst fears became reality…

He got up from his desk and walked over to the window overlooking Mars City. Its gleaming lights and towering buildings stretched all the way to the horizon. Millions of citizens lived here in a splendor never thought possible a scant few decades ago. The three mega corporations that had built the Inter-Solar Union were headquartered here. Wealth, power, and ambition radiated from the very streets themselves. It was the shining jewel of the solar system; a living monument to the greatness of all mankind.

And one ignorant thief was on the verge of destroying it all without even realizing it.

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