#ive never made an edit before but i was violently gripped by the need to express this parallel

[saturnsuv]

Green Wheat Field with Cypress Tree, 1889 / Starry Night over the Rhone, 1888 / Café Terrace at Night, 1888

[we-are-inevitable]

love me sober // javid

ive ALSO posted this one before but i just made a BUNCH of edits and changed the ending, so, here we go!!

Love Me Sober

some things for this fic: -Sad Jack -there’s a lot of feelings in this one -idk if there’s anything else. just Sad -but reconciliation at the end !

WARNINGS: alcohol abuse, arguments, cursing, descriptions of withdrawal symptoms. please don’t read if you aren’t comfortable!! take care of yourself!!

"Jack, tell me you aren't drinking again."

The shakiness. The mood swings. The incoordination. All of it is painfully obvious, and Jack knows it. He knows he's struggling. He knew he isn’t hiding it as well as he should have been, and now he's made David upset.

“Jackie, answer me.”

How pathetic is that? There he is, staring at his boyfriend, unable to even speak. David has probably known for a while. Right? No- if David had known, he would have left. He would have called Jack an idiot and cursed him out for ruining his life. Jack didn’t deserve anything else.

“Jack!”

David has always been so, so pretty. He has sharp features. An angular nose, one that Jack had drawn over and over, in addition to those gorgeous eyes. David’s eyes are so beautifully blue, and Jack had spent countless hours slumped over a sketchbook, trying to accurately portray that look of adoration that David always gives him.

That look was certainly not the look he was giving Jack now.

“Why- Why are you just staring at me? Answer me!”

“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers, his throat closing up. Not good enough.

“You- You’re sorry? God damn it, Jack, I-- You promised you were okay!” David is running his hands through his hair. He had gotten a haircut a few days ago, and Jack thinks it looks perfect. Not as long as before. David has started pushing it up so it isn’t in his face while he works. “I knew it was a bad idea for you to stop going to meetings, I knew--”

“The meetings didn’t fucking work!” Loud. Jack is being loud. He stands from his spot on the couch, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. “They didn’t fucking work, okay?! I went for /you/, David, and- and I hated it! I hated it but you always looked so fuckin’ proud when I came home and- and I-- Fuck! Fuck, Davey, I couldn’t do it anymore! Do you know how hard it is?! All'a those fuckin' people in there were fine and I was fuckin' shaking the entire time! I can't function, David!”

“That’s when you fucking talk to me, Jack! I could have helped! I /want/ to help you get better! I'm not trying to be your enemy here! I love you, you just... You need to be honest with me." David takes a step toward him, and Jack takes a step back. They do this dance until Jack feels the wall against his back, but David doesn’t dare move closer- he’s still positioned about three feet away to give Jack space.

Usually, Jack would be grateful for the space, for the opportunity to initiate the touch.

Now, though, all he wants is for David to hold him and tell him he’s alright, instead of looking at him with that desperate disappointment.

“How long, Jack? How long have you been drinking again?”

Jack can’t ignore the look on his face. “Two months.”

“Two mo-- Jesus, Jack, I knew something was going on, but I just thought--”

“Thought what? Huh?” Jack is defensive. Defensive is never good, but he feels anger coursing through his veins and there’s nothing else to say. “What, you- you thought I wasn’t fucked up anymore? You thought I was normal again?”

David takes in a deep breath. “You aren’t fucked up, you’re just struggling right now. Stop talking about yourself like that.”

“Then stop fuckin’ talkin’ to me like a child, Dave!” Jack shakes his head. “Please, just- just stop! I don’t need your fuckin’ help, because there’s nothin’ wrong with me!”

“Which is it, Jack?!” David raises his voice. He’s not screaming, but Jack has never heard him like this. “You say you’re fucked up, you say you can't function, and then you say nothing is wrong with you-- What am I supposed to do?! You say you’re sorry, but you don’t let me try to help you, and you say that the meetings weren’t helping but you don’t want to try something else, and- I just- I don’t know what to do here! I love you, Jack, and I want to help you, but you're so- you're contradicting yourself again! I need a straight answer, Jack. What are you doing right now?!"

A deep breath. Heart pounding in his ears. Shaking hands and tears clouding his vision. “I’m leaving.”

Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but he can’t backtrack now.

“What?”

“I’m leaving,” Jack repeats, squaring his shoulders.

David stares at him with a critical gaze. He looks confused, then angry, then sad, then… numb, all within three seconds. Jack has never seen that expression on his boyfriend’s face. “Of course you are. That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it?” David laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. There are tears welling in his eyes and he looks so hurt and Jack knows he fucked up, but all he can do is nod.

“Just--” David cuts himself off by ripping his gaze away from Jack, taking in a deep, shuddering breath as he clenches his fists next to his side. His face is red. A tear rolls down his cheek. “Just go, Jack, if you think- if you think that’s the best choice for you right now. I trust your judgement.”

Jack swallows. “Just for a few days.”

David nods. “For a few days. Sure.” He turns away, walking toward their bedroom.

They’ve been together for nearly two years. Lived together for six months. And Jack was fucking it up.

David stops just in front of their bedroom door, gripping the doorframe. “Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me until you’re sober." With that, David walks into the bedroom and slams the door behind him.

Jack stares at the door, takes in a deep breath, and exhales in a sob as he gathers his keys, phone, and wallet. He looks back at the door, whispering a broken, "I love you," before walking out to his car.

***

Two weeks.

It takes two weeks for Jack to work up the courage to go home.

He's been with his mother the entire time, who he knows has been sending David updates every few days. Medda had taken care of him. Helped him through the shakes and the urges, the mood swings and the violent anxiety attacks, and he still isn't out of the clear, but he feels calm for the first time in months. He feels stable, even if the stability will only last a few hours at the most.

And that's why he decides to go home, because the calm he feels has brought along the realization that he misses Davey. He misses his boyfriend, the love of his life. He misses him so, so much, and he... He wants to prove that he's better. That he will be better.

When Jack walks up the steps to their apartment, he feels as though he's going to lose his lunch. None of his shit is sitting on the curb, so at least he hasn't been kicked out or replaced, but that still doesn't do much to ease his anxiety. With a deep breath, Jack takes the plunge and knocks on the door, staring down at his shoes while he waits.

The door, surprisingly, opens almost immediately. "Wow, sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be here so fast," David says quickly, and Jack looks up, seeing David fumble with his wallet. "It was, uh, $19--" He cuts himself off as he finally notices Jack standing there, and his face falls. "...You... You're back..."

"And, unfortunately, I'm not the pizza guy," Jack whispers with a nervous grin, then takes a step back. "I-- I went to Mama's for a while. I ain't had nothin', you can- you can ask her, and I went to a meeting, and I-- I am so, so sorry, Davey, for everything, and I don't expect you to forgive me, but I-- I want to get better, and I want us to get better, and I--"

"Jackie," David whispers, reaching out to take his hand. "Just... just come inside. It's okay, Jack. You're home now, and that's all that matters."

Jack squeezes David's hand, takes in a deep breath, and crosses the threshold. Instantly, he's pulled into a protective hug by David, and Jack can't help but relax into his hold. The first of his tears spill over as David kisses his forehead, and he's soon sobbing, apologizing, whispering against the fabric of David's hoodie. And David lets him get it all out. David allows him to get everything out of his system.

Because they both know that this, right here, is rock bottom. And they both know that the only way to go from here is up.

[muchadoaboutbucky]

Old Wounds, New Scars (oneshot)

PAIRING: Bucky x Reader WARNINGS: brief description of injury, surgery-related ptsd, comfort fluff, talk of therapy, smut NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy​. Do not save or repost my work without my consent. Image credit. 18+ only.

Bucky’s terrified of doctors. Anything that comes with the smell of antiseptic and the glare of bright lights on white walls and metal tables is a significant trigger. He’s a little more comfortable when you go with him, but his fight-or-flight instincts skyrocket regardless.

This appointment is a little more invasive than usual. When he’d had his old arm, he’d apparently fought to claw it out, gouging deep into his own body around where it was attached to his shoulder and pectoral. The injuries had left him with deep scars that, over time, healed into long, raised marks that he hates to touch or even look at. To add to his discomfort, the battle with Thanos two years before had resulted in his vibranium arm taking a bad hit from an explosive. The metal, of course, was unaffected, but the bone joint of his shoulder has gotten too painful for him to ignore. 

The only option for remediating both of his afflictions is surgery. That means doctors, which means Bucky’s scared.

He’s in a private room at New York Presbyterian, pacing back and forth with his arms folded across his chest. The doctors have given him a gown to dress in, but he feels too exposed, especially with the four security cameras constantly monitoring him. The room is reinforced, meant to house enhanced individuals with various abilities. Knowing that he’s trapped in a room he can’t escape only makes him more anxious.

“Buck.”

He glances towards the sound of your voice, sees you perched on the edge of the bed. You’ve been watching him the whole time, barely able to do anything but brace for an explosion of panic. It’s three forty-eight, and the doctors are due to collect him for surgery promptly at four. The minutes are ticking down and he’s only getting more scared.

“Yeah?”

You pat the bed next to you. “Come here.”

“No.” He shakes his head, glancing up at the clock for the upteenth time. “I need to walk.”

“You need to settle down.” Your tone might sound firmer than it needs to be, but Bucky’s reached the point where simply being his kind, gentle wife isn’t going to work. “Come here and sit. Hold my hand.”

He shuffles over, lowering himself onto the stiff mattress. The restraints hang from the steel posts, thick cuffs reinforced with iron buckles. They’re strong enough to hold him, and he flinches at the idea of being tied down.

You gather his vibranium hand into yours and reach up to thread your other fingers through his hair. He leans in, resting his cheek on your shoulder with a deep sigh.

“I hate it here.”

“I know.” You kiss his forehead soothingly, tone growing softer. “But this isn’t HYDRA, baby. They’re good doctors who wanna help you.”

He swallows. His flesh hand fists in the rough fabric of his hospital gown. “How long will it take? I forgot.”

He hasn’t forgotten. He just wants to hear it coming from you. “The doctors said two hours, tops,” you reply. “And when you wake up we’ll be going home, okay?”

He nods slowly, closing his eyes as the clock continues to tick down the seconds. Finally, just when he’s relaxed into you with his nose buried in your hair, the buzzer on the heavy metal door creaks open and he jerks his head over his shoulder so fast you’re sure he’s given himself whiplash.

“Easy.” You reach out to steady him with a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Two hours and it’s over, Buck.”

He eyes the doctors as they ease into the room with a surgical gurney. Restraints identical to those on the bed hang from the handrails. 

“Don’t leave me,” he says, voice low and quaking. 

“I’ll go as far as they’ll let me,” you assure him. “And when you wake up I’ll be right there.”

You hold his flesh hand as he climbs onto the gurney. His eyes never leave yours as the doctors fix the restraints around his wrists and ankles. It’s just a precaution, just to prevent him from trying anything between here and the O.R.. With your hand still clenched in his, you walk by his side towards the doors to the operating room. He heaves a quick sigh as the attendants come to a stop, and you bend low to kiss him. 

“Two hours,” you remind him, “and then we can go home.”

He swallows thickly and closes his eyes as the attendants wheel him through, and the moment he’s out of sight, you hurry back to the recovery room, tugging your phone from your bag. 

You’re going to need backup.

***

Sam gets down to the recovery room an hour later. He’s got two cups of Starbucks with him, and you gratefully take yours when he extends it.

“How long has be been in?” He asks, lowering himself onto the bench next to you.

“Just since I called,” you reply, sipping your drink and closing your eyes. “He was terrified.”

Sam nods in agreement. “I didn’t expect it to be easy for him. You afraid he might snap?”

“I don’t know.” You sigh heavily. “The doctors said the anesthesia could affect his memory slightly, but it’s Bucky… he’s a strong guy, but all it takes is the right triggers and he’ll…”

Sam rubs a palm against his jeans. “He’ll be all right. It’s been six months, he’s been goin’ to therapy, he’s been doing everything right.”

You remain silent, unable to do anything but swallow the emotion that wants to break free.

True to the surgeon’s word, Bucky’s out of surgery in just an hour and thirty two minutes. The scar tissue was an easy cosmetic fix, and the injury to his shoulder only required a simple adjustment to fully realign his shoulder joint with the vibranium socket of his prosthetic. He’ll have to take it easy for a couple of weeks, but overall, he should be just fine.

He’s placed back in the recovery room to wake up from the anesthesia on his own. You and Sam watch him sleep through the thick panes of glass as the doctors work around him, checking his vitals and recording notes in their logs. He looks peaceful, but you know that when he wakes up, it’ll most likely be a different story.

You’ve just reclined back on the bench when a loud crash echoes from inside Bucky’s room, closely followed by an anguished yelp. 

“Who are you!? Get off me!”

He’s writhing on the bed, straining at the heavy restraints that bind him. One doctor is clutching his wrist to his chest; Bucky had evidently caught it in his vibranium grip. You reach for the doorknob, but Sam pulls you back. 

“Y/N, he’s not balanced,” he warns, “let them calm him down—”

“He won’t calm down,” you protest, tugging out of his grip, “they’ll only hurt him more.”

You storm through the doors, kicking a stand of instruments out of your way as you rush towards his bed. One nurse attempts to hold you back.

“Ma’am, we have this under control, you need to stay back—”

“I’m his wife, damn it!” You shove past them as Bucky lets out a panicked yell, his struggle growing more and more violent. “Bucky! Baby, hey…”

He jerks away from your touch, eyes lit with a combination of fear and rage, but when you bend low, holding his face against your shoulder, he freezes. He can smell your jasmine perfume and feel the texture of your hair on his face. 

It’s not HYDRA. It’s just you.

The sob he lets out almost breaks your heart, and you reach down to grip his flesh hand in yours. His breathing is heavy and ragged in his throat, and you can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes at the sound of his distress. 

“Shhh,” you soothe him gently, fingers running through his hair. “It’s okay, baby, I’m right here. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

You lift your head, nodding at the doctor with a syringe full of sedatives. Quietly, she steps forward and injects the medication into Bucky’s IV. Within seconds, he goes limp, head falling back against the pillow. Gently, you wipe the tears from his cheeks and press a kiss to his forehead.

“We’ll be home soon,” you promise quietly.

***

Bucky wakes up in your bed at home. The sun’s shining through the sheer curtains, casting shafts of light onto the light bedspread. He’s been redressed in a pair of gray sweats, and the bandages from his operation lay thick and heavy on his left shoulder. He can’t move his vibranium arm without feeling an ache. 

“Hey, he’s awake.” 

He glances to his right. Sam’s sitting in the heavy chair, a Men’s Health magazine in one hand. “Hey,” he croaks back. “What time is it?”

Sam checks his watch. “Just past nine. You’ve been out a long time. You feelin’ okay?”

Bucky gives a tentative shrug. His shoulder aches, and he feels a taut well of emotion filling his throat. “Where’s Y/N?”

“Kitchen,” Sam replies. “Told her I’d keep watch while she made breakfast. She’s been up all night makin’ sure you’re good.”

Bucky swallows. His throat’s dry, and he’s having a hard time keeping his voice steady. “Can you get her, please?”

“Yeah. I gotta head out, but I’m just a phone call away, you got that?” Sam waits for his friend to give a short nod before he pats his uninjured shoulder and walks out of the room. A minute later, Bucky hears your light footsteps on the carpet. You slip into the room, not bothering to close the door as you beeline for his side of the bed. 

“Hey.” You cup his face gently and peer into his eyes.

At the feeling of your smooth palms on his cheeks, Bucky gives in to the knot in his throat. Tears blur his vision, and he wants nothing more than to pull you into bed with him and hold on tight forever and ever. “I don’t want to do that ever again.”

You let him cry, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair. “You don’t have to. It’s going to be okay, baby, you’re home.”

Bucky wraps his arm around you, fingers clenching tight into the fabric of your tee-shirt as he lets go of a shuddering breath. You feel his tears wet on your shirt, and all you can do is hold him and allow him to show this sliver of emotion.

You wait until he’s calmed, his breathing resuming its usual slow, deep rhythm. “Do you want to call your therapist?” 

Bucky swallows thickly. “I can’t leave the house.”

“You can do a video call.” You pull back to run your thumbs over his cheeks, wiping away the tears that fall. “I’m making breakfast, do you want me to bring you something? We can find something to watch and just stay in bed.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

***

You spend the rest of the day in bed. He’s calmed by the scent of jasmine and the feeling of your body tucked against his. Around five, Bucky’s stomach growls, and you break away to let him finish an episode of The Great British Bake-Off to whip up something for dinner. When he’s able to stand, he shuffles slowly into the bathroom to relieve himself and splash some water on his face. He’s just turned the tap off when he looks up into the mirror.

God, he looks awful. Dark circles under pink-rimmed eyes. Pale skin. He’s let his hair grow long again, and it looks wild and scraggly… he needs a trim, and soon.

He starts the shower and lowers the wooden bench. Ordinarily he’d stand, but he’s still tired and it’s easier to reach the handheld showerhead. It only takes him a few minutes to lather his hair with shampoo and scrub as much of his body as he can with his good arm. Luckily, he manages to avoid getting his bandages wet, and he dries himself off before retreating back to the bedroom. 

By the time you bring dinner, he’s dressed in a simple pair of boxer briefs and gotten back under the covers. He sighs appreciatively at the smell of spaghetti and tomato sauce, and he cradles his larger bowl (he still has a supersoldier appetite) on his lap, biting into large forkfuls of pasta until only a few swipes of red sauce remain. 

“Good?” you ask jokingly, setting both your dishes on the bedside table. 

He smiles. “I feel much better. Thank you.”

“Mm. I love cooking.” You lean in to kiss him. “Especially for my husband.”

“I thought women didn’t like doing that stuff anymore,” he jokes.

You giggle against his lips. “Women like to do whatever they want.”

Bucky smiles and loops his arm around your waist, dragging you closer. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You can’t help but blush when he scrapes his teeth over the pulse point on your neck. It’s something he only does when he’s craving intimacy. “Baby, are you sure?”

He nods slowly. “It’s been a rough couple days. Could use the release.”

With a soft sigh, you slide one leg over his hips. Bucky lets out a soft huff against your mouth; due to your schedules, it’s been a few weeks since you’ve been intimate, and he’d be lying if he said it hasn’t been bothering him. 

He’s dragged from his thoughts by the feeling of your warm hand sneaking into his briefs, stroking his shaft until he’s hard and throbbing. He lifts his hips enough for you to get the thick waistband down, and you slip your panties off before reaching up to strip your shirt over your head. 

“Damn.” Bucky traces his thumb over one nipple and gazes up at you. His eyes flutter closed when you rub the tip of him against your warmth. His hand floats down to hold your waist, fingers digging into soft flesh. 

“Just relax,” you whisper, “lemme do the work.”

Bucky hums, sucking in a deep breath as you lower yourself down. His lips part, and when he feels your slick, wet heat fully wrapped around him, he can’t hold back a loud moan of pleasure. You watch, palms braced on his chest as he gathers himself, cheeks flushing pink. 

“Feel good?” you ask playfully. 

He nods quickly. “Yeah… God, you’re so warm.”

He gives a little push with his hips, and you take his hint, settling into a slow, steady rhythm. He follows the steady rocking of your body, emitting little gasps and groans as waves of pleasure swell and recede. You don’t ask for more, just give him what he needs in silence. 

When he decides that the simple teasing isn’t enough, he slips his hand down between your legs, pressing his thumb over your sensitive nub. You tense, squeezing around him, and he smiles when you let out a soft whimper and grind against him a little faster. 

You climax together in a single explosive moment, bodies shuddering and clenching as Bucky pours into you, a low moan leaving his throat. He clutches at you, holding you down tight until he’s given you everything and your rapid contractions have subsided. 

“Hey,” he pants, gazing up through half-lidded eyes. “You all here?”

You nod and slump down on his chest, lifting your head to meet him in a kiss. “I think we needed that.”

“Me too.” He chuckles and runs his hand down your back. “Baby.”

“Mm.”

“Thanks for not…” he swallows, “y’know… thinkin’ less of me.”

You frown. “Why would I think less of you, Buck?”

“Dunno.” He sighs. “Just… for a little bit, I thought you might be getting fed up with all my crap.”

“Don’t say that.” You run a finger over his lips. “I’ve known about your issues for the last three years, Buck. When we got married, I said ‘in sickness and in health,’ you remember that?”

He closes his eyes. “I just thought… I dunno. Must be my head gettin’ away from me again.”

“I’m never leaving.” You brush a lock of hair off his forehead. “This was just a rough spot. We’ll get through it, we always do.” 

He smiles and kisses you again. “How did I get so lucky to find a girl like you, hmm?”

Your cheeks flush hot. “Guess you were just in the right place at the right time.”

If you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are much appreciated!

MARVEL TAGS: @acf2510 @beefcakebarnes​ @breezy1415​ @cosicas-cuquis​ @mariekoukie6661​ @meganwinchester1999​ 

MUTUAL TAGS (if you wanna get on my tag list or don’t want to be tagged please let me know): @suz-123​ @nacho-bucky​ 

[turtle-steverogers]

alright babe heres the first 5 I saw: "why are you covered in neon body paint?" "best not to ask" and "I cant breathe, I cant-" and "I cant walk just go on without me" and " ive had a rough day and honestly all I want right now is a drink and someone to cuddle with" and "hey guys im here and im ready to bitch"

hey guys, saph and i were facetiming earlier and she dared me to finally answer this ask she sent in like fall 2018 except i had to use all the prompts and the result is…well, i’m not sure what it is.  but its got criminal race and spot and a cryptic ass albert who makes lava lamps for his niece.  so yah. enjoy!

warnings: its pretty much crack, but there is a brief anxiety attack

ship: platonic race/al/spot

word count: 2490

editing: no

Something a Little Off-Kilter

-

Race was nine years old when his ma grabbed him by the chin, turned his face towards her and told him in all her harsh Italian-mother sternness, “We do not run from people, Antonio.  You have Mancini blood in your veins and Mancini’s do not run!”  And Race, with eyes blurred from tears and nose dripping with blood from the fight he’d just fled, nodded vigorously before trudging miserably to his bathroom to clean up (and cry a little more).

But he’d learned two things that day.  One: what a maiden name was and that his ma’s is Mancini and two: running is for losers who never want to stop running.  And he’d more or less kept up that sentiment, even if it cost him a black eye and some dignity in some circumstances.  Like that one time in eleventh grade when Spencer Reiding called him a fairy and in turn, Race had beat the living shit out of him until his little entourage had shown up and knocked him out cold.  But seriously, ‘fairy’? It’s not 19-fucking-50.

Race supposes, though, that all good sentiments meet their maker at one point or another.  Self-preservation over morals and all that, right? 

“Floor it, Christ, are you flooring it!?”  His grip on the ‘oh shit’ bar is white-knuckled and he can hear himself panting as he twists in his seat for what’s probably the hundredth time.  The blue and red flashing of the cop car that had been following them is nothing but a speck at this point, but Race isn’t really keen on taking any chances right now.  Tonight had been a close fucking call.  

“Yes, I’m flooring it, asshole!” Spot shouts, swerving around a lone subaru that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere on the otherwise empty stretch of desert highway.  Normally, Race would be surprised at the sheer lack of cars that are out, but he supposes 4 am in buttfuck Arizona is not prime time for travels.  

Letting out a little whine, Race turns to face forward again, stealing a quick glance at Spot as he does so.  He can see the faint worry lines on his face, reflected from the miniscule lights of the dash.  They’d opted to leave the headlights off for optimal covertness, but the moonlight over the desert proves to be more than sufficient.  

Spot’s anxious, Race can tell.  He remembers a year ago when the two of them had first met in that dingy bar in Brooklyn.  Spot had been nothing but a stoic mask at that time, only showing faint hints of amusement every now and then.  It had been incredibly disconcerting, especially to Race who wears his heart on his sleeve, to behold such utter passivity, but Race had since learned to read him.  Spending everyday together for twelve months is really the best lesson in a person’s tells, Race has found.  And really, when he spares a second thought to it, their situation and relationship therefore, is a strange one.  Two broke college grads down on their luck and bearing fuck all from their families meeting by chance and somehow finding themselves stuck in a loop of money laundering and identity theft in order to stay above ground.  Maybe not the best solution to their problems, but hey, Race never claimed to be smart with his choices.  And the rush of adrenaline is as much of a drug as the coke they sell on the side.

“God fucking damnit, is he still following us?” Spot says, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror.

“Dude, he caught us balls deep tryna break into a fucking bank.  He ain’t gon’ let us off that easy.” Race says, “Jesus fuck I told you we should stick to the other stuff.  We were making big cash just fine pulling paychecks from easy civvies.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can tell me ‘told you so’ when we get somewhere I can think.” Spot sounds exhausted and on-edge and Race himself is looking forward to this whole ordeal blowing over so they can find a place to ditch this car and grab a new one and maybe crash at some shitty inn no cop would think to look.  Yeah, laying low for a couple of days sounds perfect right now.  They don’t even have to leave the room.  Denny’s orders in, right?

“Oh, I will.” Race says, sighing an internal sigh of relief as the distant lights of a small town come into view.  Thank god.

Spot mumbles something that sounds like, “Fucking finally,” and eases up on the gas, turning abruptly once they enter the city perimeter.  

They’ve gotten good at this: losing tails, but Race still holds his breath as Spot loops around the backroads of the town, looking for a place to dump the car.  It’s a few minutes until Race can see the lights of the cop car reflecting off the drug store they’d passed upon first entrance and he hisses out another curse, jabbing Spot in the arm.

“Stop here,” He says, “If he finds the car, fine, but he sure as hell ain’t finding us in it.”

Spot looks like he wants to fight back, but instead, he surprises Race by pulling to a surprisingly quiet stop by an old auto-shop.  He gestures for Race to get out and swiftly grabs their duffels from the back seat, tossing Race’s to him, both pausing when the cop car cruises in front of the alleyway closest to them.  Inaudibly, they let out synchronous sighs of relief when it continues on. 

They cheat behind the auto-shop and are barely settled into identical crouches when a quiet, “Psst,” captures both of their attention.  Race jumps violently, only barely recovering in time to slap a hand over Spot’s mouth as he begins to shout in surprise.

“Over here,” the voice whispers again.

The two of them turn to look at where the auto-shop’s back door is now open and Race squints as the silhouette of a man comes into view.  He can see the man waving a hand in front of him, beckoning them closer, before exchanging a look with Spot.  A silent conversation passes between them, we’ve made bad choices before, what’s one more? And Spot shrugs a little before hoisting his duffel back onto his shoulder and tiptoeing towards the man.  Race follows behind warily. 

Now that he’s closer, Race can see that the man is about their age- young and a little rugged looking with hair that curls towards his jaw at the nape of his neck.  His face and arms are splattered with- well, Race’s first thought is that it’s blood, but upon further inspection, he sees that it’s paint.  Bright yellow and orange neon paint.

He has a lot of questions.  Like, how the fuck did you notice us lurking behind your building at four am? And, why did you think it was a good idea to interact with two obviously suspicious looking men? But all that comes out is, “why are you covered in neon paint?”

Spot drops his head in a groan and the guy laughs somewhat maniacally, “best not to ask, it’s a long story.  Well, actually it’s not.  You see, it’s my niece’s birthday tomorrow and she really likes lava lamps so I’m hand making a few for her and that includes painting the bases and she’s going through that quirky eight year old phase where everything rainbows and neon is super cool, so I’m making them neon tie-dye,” he says it all in one breath and Race finds himself struggling to keep up, “anyway, the names Albert.  You two look like you need some help.  Wanna come in?”

The whole situation’s fucking weird, but Race and Spot exchange another look, this one holding the quick debate of, what other options do we got? And a moment later, they’re hustling into the dingy auto shop.

The lights are dim on the inside, but it’s a surprisingly cozy set up.  The side dedicated to cars is immaculately organized, with a few hanging from the ceiling and others lined neatly on the ground, propped up on floor jacks where necessary.  On the other side is clearly where Albert lives, with a couple curtains sanctioning off a twin bed and desk, where sure enough, three lava-lamps, varying in color and size, are set on a few sheets of newspaper.  

Spot frowns as Albert locks the door, turning to them with a smile, “I’m assuming the cop car out there’s for you guys?”  When Race and Spot don’t answer, he continues, too lighthearted for the situation, “Yeah, figured.  Feel free to lay low here ‘til the threat’s passed.”

“If the police are clearly after us, aren’t we the threats?” Spot asks, “Wait, no, hold on, aren’t you gonna ask us what we did?  Aren’t you put off at all?”

Albert waves a hand, “Nah, I do this all the time.  Just don’t try to murder me and we’re good.  You look like nice enough people, just a little down on your luck.  I don’t mind you camping out here while ya need.” He sets off towards his desk, seemingly to finish the lava-lamps, “The door across from the supply closet is technically an office, but I stuck a mattress and some blankets there for people like yourselves.  Feel free to crash.  If the bull comes by, I didn’t see anything.”  With that, he’s gone.  Behind the curtain as if he’d never been there.

Race blinks, bemused, and looks at Spot.

“What the fuck did he mean, ‘I do this all the time’?  Who the fuck is this guy?”

Spot shakes his head, looking more lost than Race has ever seen him, “Hell if I know.”

The office-turned-guest-room turns out to be more spacious than Race had anticipated and he and Spot are sitting on the mattress, munching on granola bars that were placed unceremoniously in a bowl by the door, when they hear a knock from outside.  

Race feels a pit of dread form in his gut and he lowers his granola bar, appetite lost.  It’s the cop, it’s gotta be.  Who else would be knocking before dawn?  And oh god, they’d left the car right out front, how much more obvious can they be?

Race glances at Spot, who’s also stopped eating, and hisses, “If he catches us, run.  Go on without me.” 

He means it, but Spot just huffs out a bitter laugh, “As if.  Now shut up.”

They strain their ears, listening as Albert opens the door, feigning sleep they know he hasn’t gotten in his voice, “Officer.  Is there a problem?”

They can’t hear what the cop says, but Albert’s side of the conversation is fairly clear, “Hm? Oh, the paint?  I was working on a project for my niece and must have dozed off before cleaning up.  Anyway, how can I help you?”  There’s a pause, “Two- what? I haven’t heard anything about no bank robbers, that’s terrible! I- oh, that car, that’s…strange, that wasn’t here when I went to sleep.  Sure, you can check around back, but I doubt ya’d find anything.  I’da heard if someone were moving around out there and I didn’t hear nothing last night.  Yes sir, I- oh?  Nah, I’m afraid I can’t letcha search my shop.  Not without a warrant.  Mm, sorry officer.  Yes, I understand the caliber of the situation, but it is my legal right to deny your entrance to my home without substantial reasoning.  Mhm, but see, that’s a hunch.  I don’t see no warrant.  Okay, officer.  Yes. just around back.  Go ahead.  Alright, officer, okay.  Nice chat.  Goodbye.”

The door closes a second later and Race lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  All at once, the adrenaline of the night hits him.  They’d almost been fucking caught, Christ, what if they’d ended up in jail?  What if they still end up in jail?  He couldn’t survive jail, fuck, he wouldn’t even be able to afford and lawyer and shit-

His body is shaking, vibrating really, and a weight is steadily growing on his chest.  Involuntary tears prick at his eyes and he brings a hand up to the front of his shirt, tugging as if that would release some of the pressure from his lungs.  

“Race?” Spot sounds distant and Race turns to him, knowing he looks panicked, but having no capacity to change that, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Race says, voice high and pitchy, “I can’t really breathe, I can’t-”

“Shit, hey, it’s okay.  I think you’re having an anxiety attack,” Spot says, sounding uncharacteristically gentle, “I know a lot happened tonight, but we’re okay,” He places a comforting hand on Race’s shoulder, “Just breathe, it’s okay.”

Race nods, closing his eyes and focusing on Spot’s touch, allowing it to ground him.  A few moments later, he’s feeling calmer, if still a little shaken.  

“You alright?” Spot asks, not removing his hand.

“Yeah, I dunno, man,” Race says honestly, “It’s been a rough ass night and all I want right now is something to drink and someone to cuddle with,” his eyes fly open as soon as the words are out of his mouth.  He hadn’t meant to say that.  He’s not sure why he said that.  It’s not even like he and Spot have that sort of relationship, nor is he particularly seeking that out.  But now that it’s out there, Race wouldn’t say no to some good old physical comfort.

Spot seems to sense that and laughs a little as he removes his hand from where he’s still gripping Race to sling his arm around his shoulders.  It’s a little more intimate than they usually are, but friendly and comfortable nonetheless.  Race takes a deep, shaky breath and rests his head back against the wall, leaning into Spot’s side.

“Yeah, it’s been a fucked up night and I think I’m still deciding whether or not it’s real or just some weird fever dream,” Spot says, “Like, who even is that guy?  What the fuck is his deal?”

“Lord even knows,” Race says, “But I think I got my fill of crazy for a while.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They lapse into silence and Race is just starting to drift off when the door to the office opens and Albert pokes his head in, somehow covered in even more paint than before and holding up a bottle of tequila, “hey guys, I’m here and I’m ready to bitch.  The cop is gone now, though I wouldn’t recommend skipping town just yet- better safe than sorry.  Also, bank robbers, huh?  Haven’t had your kind in a while.  You’re a fun type, though the arson that I met last week was pretty spicy.  Anyway, drinks?  I know it’s early for alcohol, but I get the feeling y’all need it.”

Spot doesn’t even try to lower his voice as he says, “Yeah, I don’t think our fill of crazy is over yet.”

-

don’t ask me what that was about, i genuinely don’t know

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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[druid-for-hire]

UNSWAYED PT. III

(pt i) (pt ii) (pt iii) (you are here) (pt iv) (pt. v) (epilogue) (askblog)

this one’s got some revisions/retcons/refinings and new content. there will be some minor rehashing. this edition is more on the drama eurydice goes through on the path to find orpheus, orpheus’ deterioration in the Beyond, little bit of persephone and even littler bit hermes, finding orpheus, and finally getting to leave

thank you @supercantaloupe, @sonyalone, @unholy-boi, @s-aint-elmo, @ferretteeth for helping author this & help out w ideas and all!! sasha, u esp.

ok.

sits down and rests my old creaking bones in a rocking chair by the hearth and lights a pipe

gather round kids. this one might be a little long

one note: 

on the same night that orpheus falls, persephone, when she finally composes herself enough, marches up to hades. the fury is still present in the vitriol with which she speaks. “you can’t have done that,” she says. “you can’t have just thrown him away. he didn’t sign any papers. you can’t make him work.” 

 “there were no papers,” he agrees, “but prisoners do not get papers.”

ok jumping back to kind-of-present

it’s taking a while to find orpheus. (too much of a while)

in between work and searching for him, both of which already take up so much of her time, eurydice... makes her attempts to craft a new guitar. hades took orpheus’. he’s going to either want it back or want a new one, and right now, she doesn’t think she can manage the first. it’s going to be important to their escape, she thinks, because she isn’t planning on staying in hadestown forever

but she’s not skilled, and making a real, good, balanced guitar is incredibly hard. she’s not trained. it never comes out good enough, never remotely close to a properly tuned instrument, much less the guitar that seemed to fit perfectly around orpheus' hands. and she doesn’t have a lot of time

so as it turns out, stealing back the original is the more feasible option

problem being: it’s a trophy. hades didn’t smash it, but it’s locked away with his other little “victories,” and he’ll notice it missing eventually

(those other trophies are other relics from other daring humans he’s had to deal with in the past. no one has come as close as orpheus)

but she does have more buffer time than usual because it's also a reminder of the martyr and the fact that his marriage is in the shitter so it's been put out of sight (and out of mind), so she's got a few days or more before he'd notice it's gone

as she keeps searching for orpheus, telling her story and getting help and word of her spreading...

eurydice stirs the town as the ladle stirs in the pot; out of all the feelings her story wakes, the most dominant—and most important—is the anger.

and for the first time, somewhere in some could-be-anywhere part of Hadestown, someone says no.

the age-old, unmoving, immovable hadestown, begins to... change. there’s persephone’s crack in the wall, and then there are others, and then they join, and then there’s unrest, and then there’s the threat of riot.

(which i know i already established but shhh im reiterating my point for this:)

unholy-boi: hades was at least formerly hands on enough to give orders, to scrape down new souls, to preach about the wall

now he locks himself in his office, head in his hands, unable to handle the idea that he’s losing control, and every MOMENT he spends locked away he loses control more, but he needs to think, he needs to think, he needs to think--

The fates are at his door, they sing horrible music, things he doesn’t want to hear, lies and twisted truths to manipulate the king. except he’s not being manipulated at all. this is all him, he knows it--this is just him and his paranoia and the workers' rage beginning to boil on his doorstep.

the god is hidden away in his office and hardly lets anyone in. he isolates himself and Persephone barely even visits this winter anyway.

he wonders if the martyr boy really did fail.

(no, he tells himself--he did fail, because his goal was to get him and his lover out, and now both of them are damned here forever. all of this? an unfortunate side effect.)

hades... was very nearly swayed by orpheus, but took his “obligation” to a city (that he’s already lost) over the slightly breaking voice of orpheus, and the rumors. however when he sent orpheus away, things only got worse. but how could he just crawl to pull orpheus back now? would that not be sacrificing his iron will? his grip of steel? how can he turn to go back if he’s already made his decision? moreover- how can he trust bringing orpheus back will fix anything at all?

a lamenting reprise from hades with orpheus’ guitar would be cool. i don’t know if it’d be in character or appropriate to the story but. its been a fun thing ive been tossing between my hands

it probably starts when he accidentally kicks it over--there’s a trophy room, but he hasn’t cleared a space for the guitar yet. he kicks it over, and when it hits the ground the strings hum Menacingly at him

after the song he puts it away--out of sight, out of mind

show them a crack.

and they’ll tear down the wall.

besides the immediate danger orpheus is in and his voice failing being drives to find him as soon as possible, eurydice also has to worry about the fact that persephone won’t be there to help her soon. the hadestown debacle happens on the onset of proper spring

persephone, for once, is grateful that hades keeps her late. it means she can help the lovers. for so many weeks she sends  that boy’s voice on a wind straight for Eurydice to keep her going

but later is not never, and to the surface one day she goes, and bitter with the absence of his wife Hades drives them all to work harder

which strains Eurydice for time and energy even more

things are harder when she’s gone, as always—eurydice has less time to track him down, and without persephone’s sing-sing wind, pinpointing him is more difficult. 

Hermes is there at the station to greets her when she returns to end the winter

“how is he doing?” “not well.”

“you think they’ll make it?” “i don’t know.”

hermes asks her, “how long?” how long will orpheus last? how long will it take for them to find each other and leave? how long will it take until hades finally snaps? persephone can’t answer any of them

(hermes knows, of course. but he has a role to play)

the summer roars to life on top, but persephone can’t stop thinking about the lovers underground. she knows that orpheus won’t make it through the summer. she sneaks down below for two weeks in june and in that time, a hurricane devastates the surface without her to control it.

the sing-sing wind returns with a straining melody and eurydice wonders. she’s grateful, but she wonders

and... one day it doesn’t. she feels the breeze, but there’s nothing on it.

nothing.

i’ve fucking had enough, eurydice decides. i’m stealing that fucking guitar, hades be damned.

in the sleeping hours of hadestown she sneaks her way up to the palace, dodging searchlights and finding havens, already at an advantage because she’s scoured Hadestown so long and made allies in so many places

and when she makes it up to the palace, the... the guards, the hounds, all of them are... either missing or intoxicated to shit. which is odd, she thinks, but doesn’t question it

she makes it to the trophy room (after a Lot of searching, because she doesn’t have a map)

she walks in and marvels in awe at all the trophies

she wonders about the histories behind all of them

to be honest, she doesnt know that this is where the guitar is, but it’s a pretty good guess (and the right one)

and then there’s a sound at the doorway. eurydice freezes. there’s nowhere for her to hide

she turns, and... it’s persephone in the doorway. persephone, who should not be here.

they lock eyes for a moment, and then she points at a locked case in the back of the room and keeps on walking. whistling loudly. a very “nope, nothing here at all” move

... well, works for her

eurydice breaks off the padlock, gets the guitar, and flees

musing on kampê for unswayed because i really dont want her to just be a two dimensional villain: 

- homegirl is bitter. she used to rule the underground. she was the queen of the dark, and every god and titan knew her name, and hades did fear her too. 

until. well. 

and now she’s practically half-forgotten—a footnote. she hates it. hades and persephone are both her younger and yet they came into her realm, and she was shunted aside to this dismal little hole, and she has to answer to him and she fucking hates it. no mortal up Top or even in hadestown remembers her name. if an old dragon like her has no place out there... if she can’t make herself known in the outside world anymore, then she’ll fucking sear herself into the minds of the people she has, in the only way she knows how

(it should also be noted that homegirl is. unstable. i think kampê sort of violently switches between abhorrently vicious to weirdly sweet and manipulative and anywhere in between depending on the day/time/situation)

(also, she wasn’t always deaf. but being even older than the world, than hades and persephone, things... happen)

also, part of how she keeps everyone here is 1) working them to death and 2) telling them that they’re needed here, and that hadestown is an oasis of stability outside the chaos up Top

orpheus is not doing well.

orpheus forgets.

orpheus wears down.

(orpheus gets sick.)

whoops! That’s An Issue. but still he works, because no one can rest long, and the coal dust and ash and smoke and stifling heat do him zero favors

his focus drifts; he loses track of eurydice, of his songs. the work is first and foremost

you ever get worked so hard and pushed past your physical limit that u get like, spots in your vision and want to throw up? yeah thts orpheus

orpheus doesn’t stop sneaking off every day to the spot at the edge of the Beyond. he doesn’t sing out for help anymore, but... he sits, because he knows that it’s important. this place, where he sang out for a lover he doesn’t remember anymore with songs he no longer has

(cue Flowers but for orpheus, in quiet & faltering breathy lines)

he’s “forgotten a little thing called spring” 

kampê still comes after him to drag him back to work. sometimes it’s wordless; sometimes she yanks him to his feet by the straps of his overalls, sometimes all she needs to do is put a hand on his shoulder and he’ll get up and shuffle back into the mines and smokestacks

other times she asks why he’s still doing this, why he’s still out there. other times she tells him that there’s no need to come out here anymore. he shouldn’t have in the first place. out there--it’s no better than here.

the times when she yells--few and far between, because fetching him is hardly much of a chore anymore--he winces, since it’s not like she has the finest grasp on volume control, being deaf

the scene we see is her sing-speaking some fucked up reprise of hey little songbird, beckoning him to come back and taunting him; i didn’t write this one out but i imagine there’s some fun things to be had with the “vipers and vultures” line

and orpheus sing/saying, in this cracked, hoarse voice, “I wanna lie down forever”

he’s. so tired

(also singing his voice, long since shredded, sorta finally collapses in this one and i don’t imagine him having another sung line after that)

the canary in the coal mine isn’t dead yet but he will be

eurydice goes into overdrive after she steals orpheus’ guitar back

(she strums a few notes on it, and it hums warmly of sunlight in her hands. her chest fills with something indescribable. god, she missed this)

she takes more risks. sneaks out farther and strays out farther. skips out on work, keeps cutting close, nearly gets caught more often than she did before

eventually. finally. finally, she finds him, almost unrecognizable in the crowd masses, but she catches him alone

and she calls out to him, her arm outstretched, “come home with me.”

so i’m going w the “recognize her right away one” and following what i wrote in the first post

BUT: the callback to “come home with me i” with orpheus’ forgetting in “come home with me” “who are you?” is Too Fucking Good and I ended up writing my own lyrics to a “Come Home With Me III”

i’ll post it somewhere. i’d link the google drive link here directly but then tumblr would nerf this post off of the hadestown tag.

 you can play off of that if you want, toy around with it as a sort of small canon divergence to this au, but for the main one i’m rolling with what i already did in the first post... it’s unfinished btw there’s this small section i’m stuck on but i didn’t wanna delay this post anymore for something so minor

eurydice sees how much the beyond has ground him into the dirt—his eyes are sagging and half-lidded, dulled and shadowed and barely focused on her, miserable but too exhausted to feel

she sees this plenty in the ver. w/ Come Home With Me III before he remembers her, and for a moment in the other version before his eyes light up with recognition and suddenly it’s like some of the soot has sloughed off of him with the way his whole face lights up

also she shoves his guitar at him and he’s !! 

it’s. horribly out of tune though. he’s tuning it while they talk a little

but either way: the steam whistle blows, the signal to get back to work, and orpheus is immediately lowkey fearful and trying to get back before kampê catches them

eurydie is completely “oh hell to the fuck no i JUST got you back after MONTHS of searching you are NOT leaving”

orpheus is just afraid of what kampê’ll do if she sees them together, he doesn’t plan on leaving her -- he doesn’t hand her back the guitar, after all

again, kampê isn’t the most stable

then uhhh Whoops they spend too long there and she catches them, a la Papers

cue panic

cue tousling w/ eurydice and somehow getting kampê still enough (probably w pinning) to try and listen to Orpheus and she's just waiting to kick his ass because no music is ever gonna sway her, boy

(the dogs get placated by a few chords plucked out)

he can't sing, but he plays

and the other workers listen, and are moved

they are moved by eurydice's act of coming here after him

by listening to orpheus sing of love

by listening to orpheus forget, and deteriorate 

by having spent months listen to their love last and finally succeed with eurydice's arrival, this stalwart notion of hope

they didn’t ignore it. everybody knows the walls have ears

and they join by accompanying orpheus' song with the heavy metal sounds of the factories

they stomp, they clang, they turn grinding gears that crash and pound, in synchrony 

(where the little wheel squeals and the big wheel groans)

it’s a percussive song that they make

more than a simple tune, a steady beat, more than just the music of machinery

it shakes the entire Beyond with the force of the determination of a thousand weary souls, of the hopeless regaining hope for the first time in centuries

Forced through the percussive force of the entire Beyond, implicit in its rhythm and shake, is the old song. all of this old and rusted metal, all of this harsh machinery, all of it singularly resonant in the notion of la, la la la, la la la 

kampê feels it all through her feet and it rumbles in her chest, it shakes her to her very core and rattles her down to her bones, twists in her gut and forces in her fear and awe, and awe and wonder, and... something else

eurydice feels her loosen under her grip and backs off from pinning her and she still doesn’t move

at some point she lurches forward with her fist raised--orpheus doesn’t stop playing but he does shut his eyes, thinking oh god this is it, and eurydice rushes forward to pull her back

but she just... punches her fist into the ground by his feet

she feels everything not only through her feet but up her arm, more directly to her chest, to her heart, to her head

at last, swayed, feeling far more of something other than fear or anxiety or anger than she ever has in a long time...

she lets them all go

ok ngl there’s some blank spots here. i’m blanking here. idk how to transition

but

it's an entire exodus out from this tiny secluded part of Hadestown

The Great Beyond empties itself out and Kampê is left behind

the move is headed by Orpheus & Eurydice and the mood is very similar to the exodus from Egypt by the jewish folk in the movie Prince of Egypt

including the dark lighting, teal against the warm orange-yellow of their torches (lamps in this case), the wind, the craggy rock, everyone together, overall just the general tone

so during this walk from the Beyond to central hadestown with orpheus & eurydice more or less alone at the front is when Promises happens

it’s. a hell of a lot sadder here, but also a lot softer and more tender

orpheus’ lines are spoken like with Come Home With Me I / II coz he ain’t singin’ anymore. he can’t

and that’s the thing, he can’t sing anymore. 

all those things he said in wedding song, all his promises--that his voice would convince the world to give them everything they need

orpheus... doesn't have that anymore, or at least not nearly as strong, or traditionally lovely as it used to be

his voice was cut into pieces from the nasty shit air in the places he was sent to work

all he has is his guitar, and while he’s good at it, his real strength is in his poetry--it’s his voice and his words that makes the rivers and the trees and birds sing along

the people of the Beyond may have been inspired to percussion by his guitar, but they were more swayed by the notion of their love that was built up over the past few months ever since he got banished

so like. to walk with eurydice and be by her side for as long as he lives, is really all he can really promise her at that point anyway

it's not even that he doesn't have anything and broke the promise that he’d sing them all they needed. he can’t even do that anymore

the voice that charmed her, that said he’d provide for her, is gone

would she love him now, he wonders, if the great poet can no longer sing

and many thanks to @sonyalone for contributing this:

he offers his devotion to her. the only thing he has that’s worth anything, the only thing he can do. and when he does hes so afraid that he'll see in her eyes the understanding disappointment, the pity and "i suppose so" that he fears, but he finally raises his head and he cries because her eyes are shining with joy and love and hope. thats all she ever wanted from him. she just wants to be with him, voice or no, amenities or no, and hes never felt so loved

he weeps, and she weeps--from grief and relief and love--and they hold each other close

sheltering under each other

and they have never been more secure in their love

he walked the whole length of the railroad into hell for her, he survived in the pit for her, she scoured the underworld for him, she came for him and she's keeping him

and the return of all these workers startles everyone in central hadestown and a lot of the work gets stalled out

which, of course, draws hades’ attention.

tune in next time for more on this shit ✌️

(pt i) (pt ii) (pt iii) (you are here) (pt iv) (pt. v) (epilogue) (askblog)

[leviathiane]

SHOW US YOUR WROR RAW UNPROCESSED WHOLE GRAIN ORGANIC NOTES

this is going to be a long-ass post i am so sorry to Everyone! i take a lot of notes.

So, as You specifically know (as well as all of my lovely Soggers) I take a LOT of notes. Obsessively. I write fucking everything bc i have very little memory and very much paranoia. This results in literal Piles of notes. Raw planning, on paper, on my phone– doodles of scenes im brainstorming, bulletpoints, entire SCRIPTS– it’s all there but scattered (I’ve got scenes planned in the margins of my goddamn anthropology notes and deciphering it was a NIGHTMARE) 

I won’t even upload all the photos of my writing notebook, because itd be like 50 pages of illegible nonesense. but heres a couple of planning phase pages. (may be hard to read, I dropped this notebook both into some tidepools, into a creek on campus, and accidentally leaked my waterbottle onto it in my backpack :/) 

if you can’t tell already, yes they all look exactly like this. Some are even more illegible, because I wrote them with the notebook half under my actual class notes. Because i wrote most of them in class. During lectures. And pretending very badly that i was not doing exactly that. (pay attention in class please i got away with this bc i was filling up elective units) 

I’m also flat out MISSING a large portion of my notes bc some of it? isnt even in the damn notebook. its on a sheet of binder paper, or on the empty back of an assignment. I’ve now lost most of those notes, but the ones i do still have are just as (even more, actually) indecipherable chicken scratch: 

Wow, how clean and tidy and easy to follow! i am in hell. 

and this doesnt mention the PAGES and PAGES of outlines that are on my laptop, and the pages of outlined scenes that are on the notes app of my phone. if i put them all, you would have entire chapter spoilers up to the very end of the story so i cant post a lot of them– and also theres just a goddamn lot of them. currently i have 16 pages of outlining. There are no spacing breaks. It is a solid 16 page block of text. Looking at it gives me a migraine. 

some assorted notes which i have dredged up from the deleted parts of the main draft google doc go all the way back to when i started Wror in June and they are Barely more readable than my handwriting on sheer account of: articulation is not my strength. These include: 

“Ch 8 plan: sabo gets trained specially, awakens his armament haki, beats ace in a bunch of spars and proves himself to be anything but vulnerable. The boys are like “we fucking recognize that technique ryu taught you before us!!” and goad ryu into finally starting them both on basic haki training, just to awaken it, since sabo already has. Also this is the chapter that ace finally confronts ryu for his devil fruit after ryu confirms that some devil fruit users can’t be hurt without haki and ace immediately catches onto that and tries to slam his pipe through ryus head. It doesn’t work, ryu catches the weapon with a haki covered hand, to avoid turning to flame with hit and ace just gets frustrated and accuses ryu of hiding his devil fruit, because he remembers what he saw in grey terminal and that now that he has seen haki he can distinguish it from what he saw and he’s sure no one could do what ryu did. He calls ryu a hypocrite for coddling them even after telling them to stop coddling sabo and ryu has to sit them down and explain that yes he does have powers and he has been hdiing it and explains his reasoning. However instead of understanding th eboys just get fired up and say they don’t wnt to be scared of fire, especially not when it means ryu isn’t taking them seriously in a spar. Ryu finally agrees to start them on desensitization training for fire trauma. Fire desensitization training happens on the beach, so that they have water nearby in case things get out of hand. At some point ace gives ryu a considering look and is just like “if you have a devil fruit that means you can’t swim either right?” and ryu is basically just like “lmao yeah” and then ace immediately attempts to drown him. Lots of murder attempts in ace’s department toget his older brother to be less of an idiot with little success lol(extra: ace tried to attack ryu earlier both to confirm that ryu has a devil fruit that would force him to use haki to hide it, and because he now knows that he CAN’T hurt ryu without haki and as thus can’t beat him and make him admit he’s awake without being good at haki.)” [chapter 8] 

“Small sabo lost his hat and goggles in the incident and while he doesn’t remember having them future sabo notices he looks uncomfortable and keeps touching his hair and head. Ace yells at him for it thinking he bandaging are bothering him and that he can’t touch them but little sabo just comments that something about it feels wrong. Luffy blurts our that he had a hat, like luffy does, But he doesn’t now ace begrudgingly mentions that they can’t get a new one in town. Future sabo doesn’t even hesitate and just plops his own hat onto his younger selves head. It clearly too big for him, and almost falls over his eyes but he grins up at future sabo and is like “wow!! Thank you! I’ll take care of it till I have one of my own” and creates a paradox like Luffys own hat. The footsteps younger sabo has yet to fill. This HAS to happen AFTER the talk where they explain that future and past sabo are both the same person, to give little sabo that pressure.” [chapter 9]

“(Right after this older sabo takes them down to the ocean so that they can play a little and desensitize themselves and immediately fucks himself over when he goes weak in the water bc he somehow fucking forgot his own devil fruit again and now even younger sabo is on his case about not letting him near the fucking ocean that little goddamn HYPOCRITE—) )” [for chapter 9]

“Ch 9 plan: they finally leave dawn island. Starts with the boys getting a haircut after training and luffy mentions how long it’s been since they’ve last needed a haircut, giving sabo and ace time to point out that it’s been 2 months now since ryu joined them, and that sabo was completely healed by now. The boys are now aware of the basics of haki, and while luffy hasnt awakened either yet ace and sabo both have a little bit of weak armament haki. (sabo won’t awaken observational haki until he gets his memories back) ryu tries to sneak off into the city to steal a boat but his brothers refuse to leave him behind and keep sneaking out after him, not wanting him to go alone and saying that since he’s been training them they’re clearly stronger and he needs to let them do this. Ryu eventually just lets it go because why the fuck not it’s a dream and they make him feel better. They get the boat out on open ocean and finally fucking sail out, cheering loudly, ryu struggling to make them all calm down but also not really trying. He’s happy as shit, and they’re all so excited and happy and sabo dips a hand into the waves and then smiles so fucking wide and tackles ryu so violently they both nearly tip into the water and it’s just very very good. “ [also for ch 9] 

** I flat out dont Have any outlining from before chapter 6, because i only started actually outling chapters after that. i tend to just sit down and Write up until i hit a plot point or writers block and then am forced to actually think it through and plan rather than letting it come naturally. thats also why the quality and editing is better in later chapters despite everything being written within the same time frame. 

besides entire chapter outlines, there are the scene specific phone notes like:

“(ADDED) Right after they leave dawn, when sabo is sure they’ve gotten enough of a head start, he calls Garp. He doesn’t say who he is, but that all of the boys are safe and happy with him and has them all talk into the phone to assure him that they’re fine. Garp is honestly just pissed off he doesn’t know who’s calling and when he asks sabo just laughs and says a disobedient brat before hanging up. “

“(ADDED) TO EXPAND ON CH 3: sabo gets offered the chance to go with dragon, and he hesitates on the offer to go through with his previous life with the family he’s made in the revolutionary again. He almost agrees, because the bought of losing them in this lifetime is near excruciating but reminds himself swiftly that it’s no place for his brothers and not what they’d really want, and he wants selfishly to be with them as long as he Can until he “inevitably” wakes up. The boys are visibly relieved by this, especially ace. (Sabo gets asked who he is by dragon, who wants to know more about the stranger with his son, but dragon has always been quicker to make connections no one guessed and he just smiled knowingly at sabo and tells him he’s sure the other will have no trouble finding them if he’s in need. Sabo in turn warns him to keep Kuma close, and to look for a slave girl named koala.)”

I have…. many of these. I have Many of Everything. 

finally, i have scene doodles. if i hit a bad writers block it usually helps me to sketch scenes or the character designs to regain my grip on what the hell is happening in the plot– Breach of Intention has character design sketches, pakcbond has MANY scene sketches, even some of my nsfw has some sketches. my wror skecthes arent Good of course, I am an art teacher for children and that means i am more often explaining the color wheel and brush techniques over drawing perfect human replicas– and i just dont really make a lot of fanart? ive never drawn sabo before but i sure have a bunch now. i wont include close ups because they genuinely suck but heres an example pic 

So… yeah thats about everything. this is a VERY long post and yet i only included like maybe ¼ or 1/5 of all the notes i have dbskhjgfkjadns lmk if anyone wants more (or notes for my Other stories, which contain NO WHERE the same absurd amount of shit that wror does.)

[thehotdagaisgood]

They both stared at each other in silence for a moment, sizing each other up. A smile crossed the short man’s face, “Fear sent you?” Tinsley clenched his jaw and nodded silently. He didn’t know anyone actually called him that. “Excellent,” He extended a hand to Tinsley across the table, “Ricky Goldsworth”. The grin on the man’s face was uncomfortable to look at. It stayed static on his face much longer than a smile of that intensity typically would. Something about it made Tinsley cringe. His teeth were white and straight like a military cemetery, yet somehow gave the impression of a shark.

C.C. Tinsley: full time detective, part time unwilling criminal. Ricky Goldsworth: full time criminal. When a serial killer appears in LA, Tinsley’s desperate to find a suspect. That is, if that suspect won’t reveal details of Tinsley’s own crimes.

This is now on ao3 with the next chapter too

ya ive never really written fic before. first chappie under the cut. it’ll be on ao3 eventually . let me know if you like/dislike, i wanna gauge interest.

               The man stared stiffly at the board in front of him, string stretched between photos of carnage and newspaper articles. His eyes were dull and glazed, hoping again that an idea would materialize in front of him. He stalked away from the board and collapsed in his desk chair. The gold nameplate on the edge of his desk read, “Detective C.C. Tinsley”.

Somehow it was oppressively hot in the office tonight, custodial must have been turning off the AC at the night in response to budget cuts. Tinsley dragged a palm across his slick face before pouring a drink from a dark bottle that lived in the deepest drawer of his desk. All the other detectives had thankfully left. The detective always craved privacy in times of utter failure.

           The scene he and his fellow investigators had arrived upon this morning left a nausea that still lingered in his stomach as the clock struck midnight. They’d found three women bound in a hotel room with stab wounds littered across their bodies, all with their throats roughly slashed.

Tinsley covered his mouth suddenly, the scotch mingling with his memories to threaten the contents of his stomach. He shuddered, glancing back at his mess of an investigation spread across the wood board. The amount of carnage he had encountered on the scene was disturbing—it would have appeared to have been committed by someone the victims knew—a crime of passion. He finished his drink and immediately poured another. That is, if it had been an isolated event.

           Angelica Chirhart: 20 years old, blonde, full time college student and a mother. She’d been found the morning of May 2nd on the floor of her studio apartment in a pool of blood. Tinsley brushed his fingers across her crime scene photos for a moment. She’d only been dead for about twelve hours before the LAPD had arrived on the scene. There wasn’t a single fingerprint or stray hair found in the apartment.

           Cassidy Lee: May 18th, 31 years old, brunette. Just gazing at the photo of her body again made Tinsley’s chest ache. He hadn’t known her, but she looked far too familiar. That frizzy brown hair and those dark eyes. She’d been strangled and stabbed 18 times in the chest.

           Desiree Callahan: June 1st, 27 years old, 36 stab wounds to the chest.

           Anise Williams: June 8th, 31, 27 stab wounds.

           Janette Mackenzie: June 20th, 21, 40 stab wounds.

           Tinsley realized his hands were shaking violently. He drew himself away from the photos plastered on his case board. The killer was stepping up his game by leaving behind three bodies at a single crime scene. There had never been a case prior to this one that made Tinsley feel so helpless, so incompetent. There wasn’t a single forensic clue for him to follow. The only reason his department had been able to deduce it was the work of a serial killer was the relative proximity of the crimes to one another and their similar brutality.

Tinsley felt like if he didn’t have someone that even resembled a suspect within the next two weeks he was going to blow his brains out. Or somebody’s. But probably his own. Between swallowing the last of his second drink and beginning to pour yet another, his phone lit up on his desk. A guttural groan escaped him as he threw his head back. He didn’t even have to check his phone. There’s only one person who would be contacting him at this time.

-where are you

           Tinsley’s eyes drooped as another text appeared.

-1485 10th st we need to talk

⸫

           “Jesus Christ, Tinsley”.

A bright light suddenly blinded the man as he jerked upwards from his previous slump in his chair. Detective Holly Horsely stood in his office doorway, a disgusted look on her face. Fuck, what time was it? “Oh—I, I must have dozed off for a minute,” Tinsley said, his mouth impossibly dry. Horsely tilted her head, her long brown hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head.

“You look like shit”. The detective glanced down at himself, his tie wrapped loosely around his neck and his shirt rumpled and unbuttoned with remnants of his drink staining the front of it. His brown eyes widened in fear as he realized his glass and bottle of booze were still resting on his desk. His eyes flashed to Horsely, filled with deperation, “Holly, I—”. Her face was a combination of disgust and pity. “Please don’t say anything to the chief, Holly”. She sighed heavily and looked at the floor. “Just get the fuck out of here, Tinsley. Go home”. She grabbed the bottle and dumped its remnants down his bathroom sink.

           “Right, uh, thanks,” Tinsley breathed as he gathered his suit jacket and phone and quickly left the station. The L.A. sunlight felt like a knife through his head. His hands shook. He only swerved a little as he drove back to his apartment.

Tinsley yelled and pitched his suit coat across his living room. How the fuck did he let that happen? Getting all boozed up and passing out at the station? His bony hands shook as he opened a window and lit a cigarette, feeling like his lungs were about to collapse. The last thing he needed was the chief breathing down his neck. His phone buzzed and his stomach dropped. Fuck. Forgot about that. Tinsley winced around his cigarette as he opened the message.

-tinsley?

-i don’t know who the fuck you think you are

-take a shower

           Only the last message had just arrived. Tinsley swallowed heavily and threw his phone down onto this coffee table. He stalked cautiously to his bathroom and peeled back the shower curtain. Sitting atop the drain was a thick envelope with his name written on it. Tinsley scooped it up and immediately tore it open. Was this really necessary?

           Tinsley-

           I have a job for you.

           Go to the bar on 10th around midnight.

           There’ll be a man in a red ball cap with further instructions.

           Take these, you’ll need them

                       -F

           Inside the envelope was a small page of stick-on mustaches. Tinsley groaned. This had to be a joke.

⸫

           Tinsley’s shitty hatchback swerved quickly down the highway. The interior of the car was only lit by the occasional beam of a streetlight. Tinsley pulled a beer from the center console and took a few thick swigs. He pulled off his exit, made a few turns, and pulled into the dingy bar parking lot.

Tinsley itched at his upper lip as he tossed the empty beer bottle into the bushes behind him. Shitty acrylic hair itched back. He felt like an idiot for actually adorning the terrible facial hair that had come in the envelope, but god be damned if he was about to walk into this without some kind of a disguise. He had ditched his usual sloppy edition of a detective’s uniform, instead wearing a loose hoodie he hadn’t looked at in years with some dark jeans. Which, clearly, didn’t mix with the shitty bandit mustache glued to his face.

A bright red ball cap immediately caught his eye from across the bar. Tinsley winced at the blinding scent of sweat, beer, and cheap cologne that struck him as he entered. He kept his head down as he wound through the small crowd of patrons in the bar, praying to god that no one would recognize him. Tinsley slid into the booth opposite the man in the red hat. He was much shorter than himself, with tanned skin and beady eyes that met his own.

They both stared at each other in silence for a moment, sizing each other up. A smile crossed the short man’s face, “Fear sent you?” Tinsley clenched his jaw and nodded silently. He didn’t know anyone actually called him that. “Excellent,” He extended a hand to Tinsley across the table, “Ricky Goldsworth”. The grin on the man’s face was uncomfortable to look at. It stayed static on his face much longer than a smile of that intensity typically would. Something about it made Tinsley cringe. His teeth were white and straight like a military cemetery, yet somehow gave the impression of a shark.

Tinsley shook his hand nervously, “B-Banjo McClintock”. Goldsworth smiled wider somehow and narrowed his eyes incredulously at him, “Banjo McClintock, huh?” Really, that was the best he could come up with? Tinsley cursed himself in his head but just stared back at Goldsworth with a blank face.

“If that ain’t the fakest shit I’ve ever heard.” Ricky snickered and finished the drink that sat in front of him. “But I can work with that”. He stood suddenly, grabbing Tinsley’s arm and dragging him from his chair. He was small but, damn, he was pretty strong. He kept his grip on his arm and pulled Tinsley all the way out of the bar. Tinsley, or, Banjo I suppose, recoiled and pulled away from him as soon as they were outside of the door.

“What are we doing?” He asked pointedly at Goldsworth, as the man unlocked and climbed into a sleek black sportscar parked in front of the bar. Tinsley stooped down to look at the man through the window. Goldsworth leaned over the center console and threw open the passenger’s door for him. The uncomfortable grin was back on his face, “We’re stealin’ art baby”.

⸫

           Tinsley wasn’t certain what speed Goldsworth was driving at, but it was fast enough to make him nervous. His stomach sloshed slightly, his anxiety making him second guess whether he should have had that beer on the way over. A strange object hanging from the man’s rearview mirror suddenly caught his attention. It was an old necklace; the significant size of the pendant was almost tacky. There was a ruby in the center that was surrounded by other gems, all laid in delicately shaped gold. Tinsley wished for a moment he could steal it—it looked like it would be worth something—move somewhere new and start over.

That decoration wasn’t exactly of the caliber of fuzzy dice. Who the fuck was this guy? Tinsley’s guard was up, and rightfully so. He was uncertain exactly what kind of a person this Goldsworth was. He hoped he was just another bum being forced into this like him, but he may be a real full-blooded criminal. Part of him wondered if he knew the difference anymore.

Goldsworth handed him a sheet of paper without taking his eyes off the road.

           “Los Angeles County Museum of Art. They only have one guard on duty at this time of night”. The sheet of paper held the address of the museum and a list of the paintings they were to try and procure. Tinsley swallowed thickly. He had always wondered what prison food tasted like. “I take it you’ve already cased the place?” Tinsley posed, glancing at the layout of the museum on the bottom of the page.

Goldsworth giggled. Tinsley wrinkled his nose. That was an uncomfortable sound to come from grown man. “Yeah—Yeah, I have,” He responded, exiting the highway. “We’ll restrain the guards and then you take the second floor and gather everything you can find that’s on the list”. The car suddenly screeched to a halt, the tires skidding on the pavement. Tinsley just barely caught himself from smashing his head against the dashboard. “What the fuck?” He glanced over and saw the smaller man had already exited the car and was opening the trunk.

With a heavy sigh, Tinsley begrudgingly exited the car and walked back towards the trunk. “Put this on,” Goldsworth pitched a pile of dark clothing at him. Tinsley inspected it for a moment, realizing what it was rather quickly. “Really, cop uniforms?” All he got in response was a shrug from the other man. A dull pain manifested in Tinsley’s chest as he shuffled behind a bush to change into the uniform. He pinned the comically inaccurate badge to his breast pocket.

Glancing down at himself, Tinsley thought he was going to cry. The dark button up and duty belt dragged his mind back to a simpler time. A hot June afternoon in the sun, surrounded by his fellow cadets, the commencement speaker’s voice in his ears. Riding in his old squad, his ex-partner flashing him a shy smile as she radioed back to dispatch. Coffee and donuts at the station. They were no more than fragments of memories of a life lost. Now Tinsley really thought he was going to vomit.

“Christ, are you finished yet?” Tinsley shook his head quickly, trying to shake away his thoughts like a dusty clump of cobwebs. He grazed his fingers along the gun and knife holstered together on his duty belt. “Yeah, let’s do this thing,” he muttered as the two of them started towards the front doors of the museum.

It wasn’t hard to get the guard at the desk to allow their entrance. He was easily intimidated by police officers demanding entry. Or—at least one police officer and one imposter. Once Goldsworth had coaxed the man away from the desk, and undoubtedly the silent alarm, he suddenly cuffed the man’s hands and knocked him to the ground.

“Yo, what the fuck?” The man cried, his head having knocked pretty hard against the wall. Tinsley stared at the man as Goldsworth wrestled rope from his duty belt for the man’s feet. “This is a robbery,” Tinsley said simply, pointing his gun at the man. Goldsworth shot him a glance but Tinsley didn’t look in his direction to see what it was. “Just cooperate and you won’t get hurt”.

“Let’s take ‘im over here,” Goldsworth said, picking the man up by one of his arms. Tinsley holstered his gun and grabbed his other. They shuffled him into a stairwell off the main entrance of the gallery and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor. Goldsworth and Tinsley met eyes for a moment. Tinsley’s previous apprehension was gone, his face blank of emotion. He found himself numb to what was going on around him. Goldsworth gestured up the stairs, “Alright, go get the shit and be back down here in ten minutes or I’m leaving without you��.

Tinsley took off up the stairs quickly, darting through the gallery in search of the paintings Fear had placed on their “to-steal list”. The lanky man moved on autopilot, but with a sense of certainty. He sliced a Rembrandt from its frame with the blade on his belt, a Picasso, a Monet, another Rembrandt. Before he realized it, he had six paintings or so rolled and in his arms. This was far easier than it should be. He took the stairs down two at a time, passing by the security guard with barely a glance. Goldsworth was already back in the entryway of the gallery, his arms also full of paintings. He flashed him another shark grin and they made a quick exit from the gallery.

With the paintings in the back of Goldsworth’s sports car, they flew down the highway back in the direction of the bar. Ricky screamed suddenly and stomped on the gas of the car even harder, “Exhilarating, isn’t it?” Tinsley’s hands were folded in his lap. He didn’t look at the uncomfortable grin that undoubtedly occupied the other man’s face, staring blankly out the window.

Goldsworth seemed to take the hint that he didn’t feel like talking, as he didn’t say another word until they were back in the now empty parking lot of the bar. As soon as the car had stopped moving, Tinsley tried to open the car door to find it was locked. “Damn, got somewhere to be?” Goldsworth laughed, his head tilted as he gazed at the other man. Tinsley met his gaze only for a second, instead pulling off his button up and grabbing his previously discarded clothes from the footwell of the car.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve had a man undressing in my car”. Tinsley wasn’t even listening to him. He quickly slid his jeans back on and stared sharply at Goldsworth, waiting for him to unlock the door. “Not much of a talker, are ya?” The question came with an uncomfortable grin. Tinsley continued staring blankly. “Well,” Ricky cleared his throat, “It’s been fun, Banjo”. He unlocked the car door and Tinsley immediately climbed out, speed walking towards his own car.

Once back in the safety of his hatchback, Tinsley’s breath came in ragged gasps. His knuckles whitened on his steering wheel as he felt himself start to hyperventilate. His heart felt as if it was about to pound out of his chest as he watched Goldsworth’s car not move from the other side of the parking lot. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Tinsley would leave first, he didn’t want to give anyone the chance to follow him home.

It was likely no more than 15 minutes that the two of them stared at each other from their respective cars, but it felt like hours. Eventually he watched Goldsworth’s car turn back on and slink silently from the parking lot, disappearing onto the dark street. Tinsley’s head hit his steering wheel as he failed to stifle the sobs that erupted from his chest.

⸫

[mi6-cafe]

00Q LDWS Drabbles: First Week!

Here are the drabbles for the first week of the MI6 Cafe’s 00Q Last Drabble Writer Standing competition!

Prompt: Bright Genre: canon Word count: 100 exactly 

Voters–after you read, check out this form to vote for your top three drabbles! You can also leave anonymous feedback for the writers! Who can vote? Anyone who’s read the drabbles! Yes, that includes YOU!  

Writers–you may also vote, but we do ask that you vote for three drabbles other than your own.  

The voting period ends on Monday at 9am PDT / 12pm EDT / 4pm UTC.

Remember, readers--it’s up to you to decide who will wind up on top at the end of the competition! 

Drabbles are under the read-more:

#1

Title: Appreciative View Author: @jaimistoryteller​ Warning: none Summary: Q enjoys the view

How James manages to get himself into these situations he doesn't know, he thinks while entering the building of the health resort in the middle of the bright, frozen mess.

For a moment he pauses just inside the door, taking the rather lovely view presented to him. James is leaning against the counter, weight seeming to rest on his arms, legs braced wide apart. It makes him wonder if James realizes his arse is sticking out in ways that makes him want to pinch. 

Shaking his head, he closes the distances between them, ordering a shake and sassing his boyfriend.

#2 

Title: In the Afternoon Sun Author: @amottledrose​ Warnings: MCD Summary: It's early afternoon in some Middle Eastern Country James can't remember the name of. Not that it matter anymore. 

The sunlight is bright. No, it's blinding. It sears James's retinas and leaves glowing green afterimages flickering as he glances down. Green gives way to scarlet-stained white fabric, and he wheezes. A small rivulet of blood trickles slowly from the corner of his mouth. 

The earwig is remarkably still in place, and James can hear the Quartermaster ordering a status report. He pushes himself to a sitting position and stares unseeing at the landscape around him. Taking a shaky breath, James clears his throat and gets Q's attention. 

"Q... I don't think I'll be able to make it to dinner..."

#3 

Title: Medical Leave Author: @00qtpie​ Warnings: none Summary: Q wakes up in a hospital bed. 

When Q first opened his eyes, for a moment he thought he must be in heaven. There was nothing but intense, blinding whiteness.

Q tried to raise his arms to shield his eyes, only to find his movement restricted by a collection of IV tubes. Adrenaline shot through his system, and there was a strident beeping from somewhere behind him to the tune of his quickening pulse. The white walls pressed in, sucking away his air. The harsh, fluorescent lights made his headache throb.

“Relax, Q. You’re alright now.” A firm hand intertwined their fingers.

The beeping began to slow.

#4 

Title: Quiet Observation Author: @azure7539arts Warnings: None Summary: It's morning, and Bond watches Q sleep in their bed. 

Light splattered from window to walls, butter yellow and soft. The slope of Q’s exposed shoulder glowed under it, the effect tittering along his arm that disappeared under the duvet.

In the silence of the room, the sun kissed Q’s skin like a lover, caressing with such gentleness that Bond wondered if it were possible to feel jealous of something he couldn’t even grasp. (Q was horrid when woken up too early, and Bond had learnt this firsthand.)

But somehow, Q stirred, and the nestling sun rays splintered themselves in those fluttering eyes. It left Bond breathless and utterly entranced.

#5 

Title: Something New Author: @timetospy Warnings: none Summary: 'Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,  Whispering 'it will be happier'... - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Thoughts tumbled over each other as he drove like shirts in a dryer. It was an unfamiliar sensation - he’d never been unsure of himself. It made his feet restless and his fingertips tingle. Usually driving helped.

Driving wasn’t helping.

He couldn’t wait anymore. He pulled the black box from his pocket and tossed it to his passenger. Green eyes frowned, then cleared. A warm hand squeezed his as the sun rose bright orange behind them.

“Obviously,” Q said, and slipped the platinum band onto his finger.

His mind settled. Trees slid past the windows as they left London behind.

#6 

Title:  Bright Boy Author: Flantastic/@iambid  Warnings: None Summary:  If only Q knew...

In most ways he’s the most intelligent man that James has ever met, but in one respect he’s clueless.

If he only realised how truly beautiful he is, he would walk with confidence.  He wouldn’t skulk.  He wouldn’t hide behind old-fashioned clothing. One of these days James is going to seduce him.  Take him to dinner and ply him with good food and fine wine before bedding him and showing him how desirable he really is.

Until then Q will continue to be unaware of the effect he has on those around him.

No, he’s not very bright at all.

#7 

Title: Smile Author: Venstar/@1amvengeance  Warnings: violence/angst Summary:  Post-SPECTRE 

“Down, Q!”

“Whose bright idea, was this?”

“Yours, if I’m correct.”

“Ah, well, hand me another magazine.”

James dropped the requested item, sparing a glance to see Q’s fingers grip it, before returning fire.  “Leave, before SPECTRE catches you.”

“And miss this excitement? No thank you.”

“Q.”

“I’m not leaving an agent behind.  Besides, I outrank you.”

James glanced down at the grinning Quartermaster, squinting against the glare of the sun.  James spent a precious second not returning fire, pressing a hard kiss to that bright smile, before it was violently torn away, with a pop and surprised grunt.  “Q?”

#8 

Title: Sputter Author: @gwylliondream Warnings: none Summary: Q loses hope, but then he gets it back, temporarily.

The spark died in Q’s eyes that night. 

Twisted helicopter wreckage burned hot, casting light on Bond with Madeleine. Together again. 

Head down, Q resumed his work in silence, dismissing his dream. 

Eve fretted over his sullenness. 

Tanner couldn’t tempt him with an after-hours beer. 

The minions worried about their leader’s distance. 

Q began another workday in darkness. A mug of fragrant tea promised warmth. 

His heart pounded when the elevator doors opened. 

“Bond? I thought you’d gone,” Q stammered. 

“There’s just one thing I need.” 

In the silence when counting for thunder, the spark in Q’s eyes flared bright.

#9 

Title: Ignite Author: @beaubete​ Warnings: none Summary: An explosion, aftermath.

"I can't believe you--I can't.  You--"

A small smile, and Bond falls silent when he sees it.

"You can't do this to me again.  Do you understand?  You can't--I can't--"

There's a flash grenade exploding in his chest, percussive and searing, and there's no way to express the way it burns him from the inside out.  It occurs to Bond that he'd never noticed the pin being pulled--he'd have fled the blast radius.  It's too late; he's been struck.

Q curls his fingers around Bond's, brings Bond's palm to cover sightless eyes.  "I had to protect you.  And I'll heal."

From the MI6 Cafe Mod: 

Thank you to all of the writers for a brilliant start to the 00Q LDWS competition! 

Readers and writers, don’t forget that you can vote and leave anonymous feedback on this week’s drabbles here! 

EDIT: The voting form is now closed, and results will be announced shortly!