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winter-fox-queen · 3 years

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Small Gambles

Ezra (Prospect) X I pronoun character

I wanted to get this done before tomorrow, my unread – oh Lord – attempt at my second Writer Wednesday.

I might come back and edit it tomorrow. It’s supposed to be stupid busy for me tomorrow so I might not have the brain for it, and I am so sorry.

Summary: Ezra gets his new arm from a black market fixer. I THINK it is a gender neutral reader…my writing tends to be from the female viewpoint so it is possible I messed up. But I tried to keep it neutral.

Warnings: Some violence. Some pain? Blood assumed. Ezra talking should come with a warning.

“It’ll hurt,” I say to him. “You should get this done by one if the top siders.”

Ezra, his name was, gave me a wry smile. “While I am aware that the pain will be exquisite, I am most certainly assured that getting back the use of my arm, be it a mechanical one, will be worth these moments of misery.” He paused, and said, oddly and without any embroidery, “Besides, it can’t hurt worse than when I had it cut off.”

“Kevva.” I whisper.

“Indeed.”

I’m on the third floor of a tenement in the Downsides. We’re on my balcony, looking out at the rain soaked streets. He asked to come out here “So I can day dream of petrichor and the soft lights of the stars while you work your magic” and after several moments of negotiations – where I let his words flow over me like a beautiful, over complicated waterfall, we struck a deal, and I pulled out the best black market arm his money could buy.

Actually, that’s a lie. The arm on my work table was actually a little better than his money could buy. But I liked his smile. I liked how he embroidered the air with his words and made the silence gentler. A person could sit and listen to that voice forever.

“First, the cap. That’s the part that will hurt.” I examined it carefully under the light. I suspected that this was not the first man this cap had been attached to, but you ask questions in the Downsides, and you die. “This will cover the stump…I mean…”

“You are a being of most direct and forthright language, which, despite my loquacious nature I do appreciate. It is kind of you to try to make a bad situation sound less dire, but it is not needed, I assure you.”

“Tell me how you lost your arm.” I start preparing the cap. The cap was (almost) the best I had, and the part I encouraged him to splurge on, because the arm attachment could be switched up.

There were two jars on my worktable. One of them was conduction gel which would basically melt the skin to the cap. The other had nanites who would much more gently and finely unite man and metal.

One had been paid for. One had not. Which one do you think I grabbed? I shoved the cap on, gave him a couple of shots to numb the pain and make the nanites work. He gasped softly, interrupting his story about someone named Cee.

“So, you know, you can get attachments to switch out that will make prospecting easier…”

“I am afraid that you have quite emptied my pockets, dear sparrow.” His voice sounded strained. I sat in front of him, put my hands on his knees.

“Look at me Ezra. So. You killed this girl’s father…”

“He was stealing my…”

“Oh, no, I get it. I’d have shot him, too.”

He gave me a look. “I have not always been a good man.”

I looked back at my workshop, crowded with junk parts, a bed in one corner. Rent overdue. “I’ve not always been good, either. I think you can’t be good and desperate at the same time.”

“Perhaps.” He managed to give me a smile, “Is that why there has been a – I do think it is a man – sitting on a motorcycle type conveyance, watching your domicile all this time? I thought at first he was here for me, but to be honest, I am not that well known around these parts and have not been here long enough to cause offense.”

My eyes flicked up, met his. I didn’t want to look. “Is his helmet silver, with a blue star? Doe he have a jacket with a star, too?”

“Indeed he does. May I take it that you are familiar with our watcher?”

“He thinks I cheated him. He used to bring me salvage. He brought me some bad parts and I refused to pay what he expected. And I told others,” I leaned forward, took his arm in my hands gently. The cap was almost set. “They refused to buy the parts. Some of them were…well. I recognized the logo. They came off soldiers. Upside guards. People who put tracking chips in everything. People you don’t want to catch the eye of. SO…he wants to hurt me. So far all he does is watch, but.”

“This is not the most secure of locales.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Please rest assured, I did not mean to apply otherwise. However. Everyone must fall into the sweet embrace of slumber sometime.”

I picked up the arm. It was a good model – strong. Made of metal that was light, but durable. “I wish I had a sleeve for it. Something that would make it look like…robotic.”

“I am not a man given to vanity, my pet.” He was staring out at the road, watchful but not looking directly at the man on the motorcycle.

I started attaching the fine connections. I did it with the arm on so I could do some of the work by feel…I could feel the thrum as each bit of the arm started to come online, the metal tendons and gears coming to life.

“Why does it feel so cold, up my shoulder and into my head?” He asked.

“Is your head starting to hurt yet?”

He shook it.

“It will. The nanites are making pathways, reconnecting your mind to your arm.”

“I did not pay for that.”

“No,” I say. “You didn’t.” Three more connections to go.

“And what am I to do, in exchange for your generosity?” There was a slight edge to his voice. The voice of the man who had shot a girl’s father, who had fought and gotten plenty of blood on his hands. It didn’t frighten me, though I suppose it should.

When you go, I want to say, Two things will happen. Either I will run, and manage to flee and find safe harbor. Or I will flee, and I will die, either by the hand of the man below, or by some other desperate Downsider who wants to sell my bits and pieces. I might as well give you the best I feel I can. Because I’m probably not going to live to serve another customer.

“You have not told me the whole tale, I believe.”

“No,” I say, and give into the temptation to rub his back gently, to trace the blonde gash of hair at his temple as I stand up. “I have not. But. I’m done. Let your arm rest best you can over night…that’s why I gave you the sling. If you can let it rest two days, you’d be even better off.” I grab some pills off a shelf. “Blue bottle. That’s more nanites. Your system is killing those little builders as we speak. There should be five pills…” I check, nod, “Take one a day. And practice using your arm in a few days. The more you practice, the better the connections will be. Take it slow and build up. The last three days of the pills are the most important.”

He took it without a word, strangely quiet. His eyes flickered to the now empty road.

“Red, for pain. Take when you must. And now…” I smiled a little. “How would you say it? I bid you a fond farewell, and safe travels as you leave my place and rejoin the great mortal coil?”

He smiled at me softly, and with great, great effort and probably greater pain, made his new arm take my fingers in his, and lift them to his lips. His good hand clenched into a fist as he shook with the effort. His new fingers were very, very cold…and his lips were soft and very warm. A coil of longing like a snake twined around my heart and squeezed painfully, fangs singing deep.

“Take care of yourself, Ezra.”

“And you.”

As the door closed, I grabbed my go bag. It was already mostly packed with things I would need, and I finished packing. I slipped my most expensive arm out from under my bed – it was state of the art and came with attachments. I also had some eyes and other smaller parts I threw into the bag with the last of my tools and nanite cream and pills. I didn’t intend on fitting the arm on anyone, but I could sell it. Maybe I can get off world. Maybe find my way to where the prospectors hang out when they look for jobs. Listen for a deep voice like brocaded velvet spin tales with seven words when one would do.

I ran down the stairs, out the back.

My watcher was waiting for me. I should have gone out the front. Now I was alone, in an alley, with someone who would enjoy hurting me.

“Trying to run out on us?”

“I owe your boss a lot of money…I was hoping to sell this…” I raised the case “And with the money I made tonight maybe make a payment. You know. Show my good intentions.”

He sneered at me, but I never knew what he meant to say because a silver arm wrapped around, silver fingers gripping his throat, crushing him. Ezra held him tight as he struggled, the new arm making little whining sounds of displeasure as he lowered the man to the ground.

“I told you not to use your arm!”

“I am afraid…” Ezra panted, “That it is not allowing me to let go of this unfortunate fool’s throat.” He gave me a slightly panicked look. Not because he (probably) killed someone, but because he lost control.

“I’ve got it.” I approached gingerly, pressing the arm in a few places to make it relax. “The cap’s messed up. I’m going to have to reset it…Ezra. Why did you come back?”

“I thought I could repay your generosity by making certain that you had at least one night of relative safety. If I had known you were about to flee…”

We rolled to body against the wall. I frisked it for useful items before covering it with trash.

“Your hands are shaking, dear doctor…I am afraid you will not be able to assist me in fixing the problems I so egregiously caused by using my new arm. May I propose that you take safe harbor with me? I have a small ship…she is not much but she will get us somewhere else. Anywhere is better than here, I do think you will agree, and there are many who would value your talents greatly.”

I finally ask one of the many, many questions I had been wanting to ask him, since he showed up at my door. “Ezra, do you always talk so much.”

He draws himself up a little. “I assure you, I can be silent when the need arises.”

“No. No.” I stand in front of him. “I want you to promise you’ll never stop.”

I struck him silent, again, I think, for just a moment and he just gives me that slight, curious smile. “I think I can promise that.” I liked that. I liked the idea of his words wrapping me in soft comfort.

“Then I gratefully accept your generous proposal.”

“Right this way,” he bowed.

I didn’t look back, as I followed Ezra down the alley and away from everything I’d known, and feared.

There was too much to look forward to.

#Ezra (Prospect)#Pedro Pascal #ezra x reader #fanfic #writer wednesday

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oh-i-swear-writes · 4 years

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so i say the stuff you wrote about bucky and steve and the slick stuff and i raise you this... pre-war boys. and bucky just little getting his first heat and super embarressed? and steve being a good buddy and like taking care of him. and then them living together when they're older?? and buck has to miss work? or in-heat bucky during the war? and steve like not wanting to share his lover...? have a lovely lovely day!

Well, hey there Nonnie, back for more of this? I’ll do my best to help out...

Especially as the good news is that I certainly have thoughts on how pre-war Alpha!Steve and Omega!Bucky might be….

So Steve and Bucky have been friends pretty much forever, growing up in Brooklyn and neither family having an awful lot of money - Steve because his father passed away and it’s just him and his Mom, and Bucky because he’s the eldest of four pups and his Dad might like the liquor bottle just a little too much, as well as the fact this is the Great Depression.

Of course, despite being nearly the same age, Bucky has always been bigger and broader than Steve’s skinny stature. He’s forever having to fight Steve’s corner (even if Steve is convinced he “had ‘em on the ropes” every time and is adamant he can do it himself) and pull him out of places a little guy has no business being, and naturally with all of that combined, everyone assumed that when they present, Bucky would be the Alpha and Steve would be the Omega. They also naturally presume that Bucky will present first, Steve’s skinny, weak body unable to sustain a proper heat or rut anytime soon.

But actually, it doesn’t end up working out that way.

Usually, a family would notice a change in scent first, the Omega parent scenting the subtle changes in their child before anyone else does but for Bucky, whose mother is busy working all hours god sends and running around after three children smaller than him besides, it’s Steve.

“You alright there, Buck?” He asks, when they’re slumped together reading over some book on science Bucky’s managed to get his hands on because actually, he’s a giant nerd and is fascinated with the subject.

Bucky glances up and licks his lips. “I think so, why?”

“Your scent.. It’s a bit different today.” Steve replies, leaning just a little closer, and Bucky doesn’t even notice he’s more aware of Steve’s scent in return because he’s always been so goddamn aware of Steve as a whole that this is his normal anyway.

“I don’t think so,” he replies, shrugging, and that’s that.

Or at least, that’s that until later that night.

Bucky has always run warm, far warmer than Steve whose fingers and toes turn white during those New York City winters that make the shitty windows in the tenement rattle and that icy breeze push through the place soaking into everything - but this is different. Tonight, Bucky is beyond warm and everything seems overwhelming, and his scent… it’s sweet. It’s seductive, and Steve realizes that he really can’t get enough of it.

Usually with any sort of a temperature going on or anything else that might be medical, Steve would go running for his Mom, but Sarah Rogers was working a night shift on the TB ward because it paid better, and waking Buck’s Mom when she’s probably had a right day (and risking the ire of George Barnes) isn’t worth it.

Besides, Steve knows what was happening instinctively.

“Buck, you’re going into heat,” he whispers, and Bucky nods, knows already because it’s so obvious now.

“I know, Stevie,” he said, those storm blue eyes wide, and Steve knows right there that it’s his turn to take care of Bucky now and he’s gonna.

As things progress, Steve brings every goddamn spare blanket he can find into the tiny bedroom he has, letting Bucky do what he needs to to make himself comfortable. He knows that nest building is important, knows that Omegas need to feel safe and right now Bucky’s probably freaking out because he’s an Omega like Steve, not the Alpha everyone thinks, and there’s still that stigma against Omegas, especially atypical ones.

“D’you need space, or…?” he offers once he’s got everything he can and has made sure that there is water available to drink when Buck needs it and knowing that he will when he’s in full heat.

“I… need you here,” Bucky replies, and oh, he’s offering space in the pile he’s created, in the nest and Steve feels honoured - of course he does - but also a little confused. Another Omega scent is probably somewhat soothing, especially one so familiar to Bucky, but this isn’t normal. Then again, their friendship has never really had boundaries, so perhaps he shouldn’t be too surprised.

When he climbs in, being careful not to disturb things too much, Bucky moves to him, Steve enjoying the warmth from his friend’s body soaking into his skin, but being completely surprised when without any preamble, Bucky tucks his nose into the crook of his neck.

“S’almost like your scent’s a bit different today too, Stevie,” he murmurs, though Steve isn’t sure what he means.

Or at least he isn’t until Bucky’s heat breaks.

Steve has always struggled to get a boner, and then to keep it up. Of course, he’s managed it, has managed to come into his own fist on a fair few occasions - he’s a teenage boy and despite his defective body, he still has urges.

But the moment he wakes from a doze and finds his best friend panting next to him and smells what he instinctively knows is the aroma of slick, he’s almost instantly hard.

He turns to Bucky with wide eyes, wondering if he should be embarrassed. Bucky shouldn’t; he can’t help his heat, but Steve doesn’t have that excuse.

Reaching a hand down, he goes to adjust himself, trying to make the hardness in his pants just a little less obvious, tilting his hips away from Bucky even if it is probably too late with the way their bodies are pressed together, and there he finds something else.

Where there wasn’t before, there’s a ridge at the base of his cock.

Steve glances up, trying to see if Bucky’s noticed anything, and realizes then that his friend’s wide eyes are on him completely.

“You doing okay there, Steve?” he asked, voice shaking a little, biting his lip a little in a way Steve can’t help but watch.

“I…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say.

“You’re an Alpha,” Bucky confirms, before nuzzling into Steve’s neck. “And trust me Stevie, your scent.”

Steve feels the mouth against his mating gland and moans out, staying stock still and rigid, not trusting himself to move.

Bucky sighs a little against him, part happy and part frustrated. “Stop trying to hide from it Steve,” he breathes. “We are what we are, now are you gonna help m-both of us, or what?”

****

Anyway, I must dash and go to work - perhaps I’ll come back for the rest at a later date - hopefully this works for you and thank you for the ask <3

#anon asks #thank you nonnie #pre-war Steve & Bucky #Stucky #alpha beta omega #omega bucky #alpha steve #abo au #my writing #ficlet

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arrow-guy · 4 years

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Broken Flock (6/??)

Summary: It’s been two years since you uprooted your life and left to figure out who you really are, leaving behind Bucky and Clint with little more than a note as a warning. Now, New York is calling your name and it’s time to go home. How will Clint and Bucky react to your return, and how will the time have affected your relationship?

A/N: Please understand that the end of this chapter will be quite heavy and potentially triggering for some people,. Please read at your own discretion and forgive me for the ending. That is all.

Page dividers by @carryonmyswansong

Pairing: WinterhawkxReader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Heights, falling, drugging, passing out

Part 5

“(Y/N),” Clint mumbles. He shakes my shoulder and I groan. “(Y/N), there’s someone at the door.”

“Hmm?”

“Someone’s knocking,” he mumbles.

Clint rolls over and goes back to sleep. I sit up and glare at him before rubbing my eyes and shoving myself up from the bed. It takes a moment for the knocking sounds to reach my ears and I scrub my hands over my face in frustration. I suddenly find myself wishing I hadn’t taken down my “No Solicitation” sign.

They knock harder and louder and I can’t stop myself from yelling, “Knock it off! You bang any harder, you’re gonna have to marry the fucking door, or some shit.”

The knocking doesn’t die down and I swing the door open only to immediately freeze. Steve stands out in the hallway with Natasha at his side.

“(Y/N),” he says.

“Aw, fuck.”

I slam the door closed and immediately run back to my bedroom. Clint still hasn’t moved and stirs slightly when my wings brush against him as I race past. I grab my bag from the chair in the corner and yank the window open. Clint sits up and blinks against the afternoon light, confused.

“Why’re you climbing out the window?”

“Steve and Nat were at the door.” I flatten my wings against my back, but can’t seem to fit through the window. “Gonna fuckin kill me if they catch me.”

“Why?”

“Slammed the door in their faces.”

Clint covers his face with his hands and flops back down onto the bed with a groan. “This is it. This is the day I die.”

“Not yet.”

I whip around to find Natasha and Steve stepping into the room. I sigh heavily and drop my bag to the floor. Steve folds his arms across his chest and Natasha follows suit.

"I'm surprised Bucky's not here," Natasha continues.

"He got stuck at the tower last night with work. Otherwise, he would be," Clint explains. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks directly at her. "What're you doing here, Nat?"

"You weren't home, figured we'd try the one other place you've been known to disappear to." She looks very pointedly at me and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why didn’t you tell us you were back?”

“Because I’m not,” I answer. “I’m in town. That’s it.”

“We know you were up near the Compound last week, (Y/N),” Steve says. “Why were you anywhere near there if you’re not back?”

“Bucky took me upstate to stretch my wings. It’s harder to do so unnoticed in the city.”

“Why were you near the compound?”

“What is this with this interrogation?” Steve simply raises his eyebrows, silently telling me to answer the question. I sigh and shake my head. “I got a little off course and didn’t realize where I was until it was too late. I redirected as soon as I saw the first building, but even then I was probably half a mile away, maybe more.”

‘I see.“

“How’d you know it was me anyway?”

“Asked Sam what got picked up on the scanner. He said it was just a big bird,” Steve explains. “But, you’re way too big a blip to just be a big bird.”

“No, she’s a big ass bird,” Clint corrects. “Massive difference.”

“Clint, you’re not helping,” I say. I perch on the bed beside him and he reaches out and places his hand on my knee. “Still doesn’t explain why you decided to make the trip out here to see us.”

“We just wanted to see you for ourselves, (Y/N),” Natasha says. “It’s been two years. You can hardly blame us for needing to double check.”

“Could’ve just asked.”

“You say that like you would’ve actually answered.”

“You wouldn’t have to ask me. Clint and Bucky are more than capable of giving you the information.” I press my lips together. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell anyone I was coming back.”

“Then why did you come back?” Natasha asks.

“Because I missed my idiots.”

“Aw,” Clint squeezes my knee. “You’re so nice, (Y/N).”

“Nah, I’m an asshole. Everyone knows it.”

“Mm, yeah, but we’ve always hoped for better from you,” he says, dumb smile on his face.

I snort. Everyone’s head turns when the door opens and shuts. Keys clatter against the kitchen counter and I sigh in relief.

“(Y/N)? You here?”

“In the bedroom!” I call back.

Bucky wanders into the room, yanking his sweatshirt over his head. Clint laughs when he nearly crashes into Steve. He just barely misses, but looks around in confusion when he can finally see again.

“The hell is this?” he asks, gesturing between Steve and Natasha.

“She couldn’t get through the window fast enough,” Clint explains.

“Clint, that’s even more confusing,” Bucky says.

Clint gestures with a flourish. “I live to serve.”

Bucky shakes his head and skirts around Steve and Natasha before crawling onto the bed and sprawling out between Clint and I. I squawk at him about having his shoes on my duvet and he kicks them off onto the floor. He shuffles up the bed and props his chin up on my calf. I comb my fingers through his hair and he sighs and melts into the mattress.

“We’re fine here, guys,” Clint says. “(Y/N) is working on her own deal, and Bucky and I are still obviously engaged with the team. Our priorities haven’t changed.”

“Are you sure?” Natasha asks.

“Nat, we spent two years looking for her and now we’re coming home to her at the end of the day. So, yeah,” he glances over at me and smiles. “I’m sure.”

“Fine.” She grabs Steve’s arm and steers him out of the room. “We’ll see you bright and early on Monday, then.”

Bucky and Clint wave to them as they leave and, only when the door closes for the final time, do we allow ourselves to fully relax. I coax Bucky onto his side and shimmy down the bed to lie beside him. He wraps his arms around me and keeps his metal arm held tight to my body while stroking one of my wings with the other to avoid pinching.

“So it seems like you guys’ve had an eventful day,” Bucky mumbles against my shoulder.

“(Y/N) slammed the door in their faces,” Clint says.

“Oh shit, really?”

“Yeah. Then she tried to climb out the window to get away, but her wings are too big and she can’t get through this one.”

“No, my wings are fine,” I correct. “The window’s too small.”

“Ah, ” Bucky hums. “Blaming windows, now, are we?”

I flick his ear and he laughs. “I am not blaming windows.”

“Then what are you blaming?”

“Myself for not finding a bigger window.”

“Oh, duh, obviously.”

I shake my head and press a little closer to his chest and reach out for Clint with one hand. Clint takes it and laces our fingers together. Clint curls himself around Bucky’s back and asks him about his day. Bucky complains about being stuck at the Tower the entire day yesterday, forced to sit in an hours long conference with General Ross, debating the viability and sustainability of the proposed Sokovia Accords. Steve, Bucky, Tony, and Rhodey had entered the call having read everything in the packets they’d been provided multiple times and had essentially been talked at and over the entire time they were in the conference. By the end of it, even Tony was starting to lose his cool, and he’d gone into the call most willing to comply with the Accords.

“So Ross acted like he wasn’t talking to a handful of the world's most dangerous people?” I ask.

“I could pop that guys head like a pimple, and he acted like I was a dumb little three year old,” Bucky says. “Steve was able to stay calm enough to get in contact with a few other people who helped draft the Accords and we were allowed to write up our own edits, but we have twenty four hours to do so.”

Clint sighs. “What time did you manage to get to sleep last night?”

“Five in the morning, I think. Can’t really remember. We worked in shifts with the rewrites, so I think Stark and Rhodes are working on it right now. Steve’s gonna have Nat go back through and see if there’s anything she’d add before we throw the damn thing at the General’s fuckin head.”

“I could help, if you want,” I offer. "I've got great aim."

Bucky laughs. "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure that'd get us into more trouble than we're already in."

“Ah, well, maybe next time then.”

Clint snorts. “You two hungry at all?”

“Eh,” Bucky responds. “I could eat. (Y/N)?”

I shrug. "I'll probably want something by the time we finish cooking."

Clint grins at me over Bucky's shoulder. "Great. What's on the menu, guys?"

Tuesday morning, the door flies open at exactly 10:35. I'm standing in the middle of the kitchen, breakfast in hand, and nearly drop the bowl at the sound of the front door slamming into the wall.

"Hope you're decent, cause I'm coming in anyway!" a familiar voice calls.

I groan and put my breakfast on the counter. “Go home, Tony!”

He appears from the entryway and grins. “That’s no way to treat a guest, (Y/N).”

“I didn’t invite you!”

“I’m happy to see you, too.”

I roll my eyes. “Why are you here?”

He walked through the apartment, looking around, his head tilted to the side. “Heard my favorite winged killing machine was back in town, and I had to see it for myself.” He frowns at my furniture before he looks back at me. “You still live in this dump?”

“It’s not a dump, it’s my home. Clint does a great job of maintaining this place.”

“It’s a run down tenement building.”

“It’s an old ass brick building in the middle of New York City. It’s holding together as best it can. That doesn’t mean it’s a dump.” I lean against the counter and silently beg him to leave. “If you just wanted to see if I was here, you’d buzz by in one of your suits, but that’s not the case. So, why are you actually here?”

“So suspicious.” He tuts and shakes his head. “What do you take me for?”

“Someone who doesn’t have a lot of normal friends.”

“Did you get meaner while you were gone?”

“Tony, you broke into my home. I’m allowed to be a little mean.”

He sighs and his shoulders slump slightly. “Fine, I need someone to talk to, and I know you won’t judge me.”

“Why didn’t you call ahead? I’m assuming Steve and Nat told everyone I’m back.”

“I figured you’d find some way to be out when I showed up.”

“Tony, I have a job and I work from home. This is the only place I’d be.”

“A job?”

“Yes, a job.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Will you at least hear me out?”

“I don’t know, Tony, I’ve got a lot to do today…” He hits me with his puppy-dog look and I cave immediately. “Fine, you can stay. But you have to let me work while you talk.”

“Won’t that distract you?”

“No, I need external stimulus when I work sometimes. Usually that’s music, but I guess you’ll do.”

Tony launches into a long explanation of the issues with the Accords while I set up my work stuff for the day. I interject where I can and he seems surprised when I manage to keep up. I simply finish my breakfast and do the dishes before starting on work for the day. When Tony starts pacing, I turn slightly on the couch so that I can face him. After a bad experience with Bruce a few years back, Tony needs to know that the person he’s talking to is paying attention.

Tony keeps at it for three hours before he stops to ask for a glass of water and starts up again when he’s hydrated. By the end, I’m starting to understand how Bruce could fall asleep while Tony talks.

“Does that make sense?” Tony asks.

“Honestly, I totally get where you’re coming from, but none of that shit in Sokovia was your fault.”

“I don’t know...”

“Tony, you did what you could when it was happening, and even more after the dust settled. There’s no going back to fix that now. But do you honestly think that the Accords are a good idea? I mean, Bucky was talking to Clint and I about them a few days ago and they sound awful. Like literal grade-A bullshit.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know about you, but if I were being attacked on the street, I’d want someone to help me right then and there, not ask their boss for permission first. What if people are in danger and your superiors decide that they’re not a priority?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. And on top of that, people like me, people with powers and shit, just minding our own business, could potentially have to sign. If we don’t we could face prison time.” I sigh. “I’m not saying you’re wrong on any account, because it’d be great if the Avengers could get help from government agencies again, but I don’t think this is the right way to do it. Especially when you’re so used to being your own boss.”

“Right, but-”

“Tony, you asked for my opinion. I’m not gonna tell you that I’m one hundred percent right, this is just how I feel. I know that Steve and Bucky are pretty on the fence with the Accords as well.”

“That’s true.”

“I know Ross sent your revisions back, but you have to keep pushing this until they give up on the document, or you get your way. Just… whatever happens, you have to stick to your guns.”

“Right. I need to trust my gut.”

“That’s not what I said.”

The front door opens and Tony and I both look to see who it is.

“(Y/N), we’re back!” Clint calls.

“Oh, so he can come and go as he pleases, but I show up and you’re mad?”

“He has a key, and he’s not breaking down my door. Yes he can come and go as he pleases.”

Clint and Bucky stop short as they enter the living room.

“Didn’t realize you’d have company today,” Bucky says.

“I didn’t realize I’d have company today,” I shoot back. “He invited himself in.”

“That’s not nice, Tony,” Clint admonishes. “You know how private she is.”

Tony scowls. “I needed her advice!”

“Call ahead next time.”

Tony shakes his head and pushes himself up from the chair he eventually settled in. “I’ll take this as my cue to leave.” He stops just before he reaches the entryway. “Will we be seeing you around at all?”

I shake my head. “Probably not, no.”

“Shame.” He waves over his shoulder as he heads for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

The front door closes one last time and I close my laptop and lie down on the couch. Clint sits on the floor in front of me and places my laptop on the coffee table.

“How long was he here?” he asks.

“Hours. Literal hours. He wanted to talk about the Accords.”

“Seriously?”

“I think he’s kind of waffling on his stance with the whole thing. Blames himself for the stuff that they’re citing as the reasons behind the Accords. But that’s bullshit, because they’ve probably been trying to figure out a way to put a leash on people like us for years, Sokovia was just the catalyst.” I turn over onto my front and sigh. “I don’t wanna be someone’s therapist!”

“Definitely not a good idea. You’re not qualified.”

“Super not qualified!” I cry.

“Well,” Bucky says. “He’s gone now, so we might as well chill out and have dinner.”

“What’s for dinner?” I ask.

“Takeout from the Chinese place down the street.”

“Ooh,” I push myself up from the couch. “I love their sweet and sour pork.”

Bucky smirks. “I know you do.”

I bound over to the kitchen and hug him tightly. “You’re the best.”

He laughs and I squeal when he hooks his hands under my thighs and picks me up. “I know I am.”

“Alright, strongman, put me down. Dinner’s getting cold, and Clint’s probably hungry.”

Bucky lets go and kisses the side of my head as soon as my feet touch the floor. We grab plates and flatware and set up the food around the coffee table. We eat and talk and laugh, and Clint eventually misses his dog and goes back to his apartment to get Lucky. Bucky leaves on a mission in the morning and has to go back to the tower. I go to bed alone.

Over the next week I see a pretty steady stream of old friends waltzing through my door. Sam drops in on Thursday to apologize again and overstays his welcome by two hours. Bruce stops by on Friday to drop off a tin of tea and a book he’d been holding onto since I left. I refuse to turn him away and ask if he wants to stay and stare a pot of tea. We talk for a few hours and I hug him before he leaves. Saturday sees Wanda, Natasha, and Rhodey in quick succession and I take to hiding in Clint’s apartment because I don’t have either him or Bucky through the weekend to act as a buffer. Bucky and Clint leave for a long mission Sunday night and by Tuesday, I’m able to go back to work in my own apartment. I finish my final project by four in the evening and let myself relax for the rest of the night.

Wednesday morning, I wake up restless and decide to go flying. I pack myself snacks and water and leave a note for Clint and Bucky in case they’re back before I am. Before I leave I drop by Clint’s apartment to feed and love on Lucky for a little bit. When I’m thoroughly covered in his hair, I say goodbye and head up to the roof for takeoff.

Flying through the city is different from the country. I have to fly higher than I’d like in order to get out of the smog, and even then I have to worry about avoiding buildings. For all it’s wonders, New York City feels like a bunch of hazards all shoved together and populated past it’s bounds. But still, it’s home. Apparently.

I decide to see how far I can get before my body forces me to turn around, and I get distracted enough while flying north that, without realizing it, I reach the field that Bucky took me to a couple weeks back. It looks just about the same as I remember it, even as the early morning fog dissipates. I take a couple of laps around the field before I decide to move on.

As I near the treeline, something hurtles towards me, and I just barely manage to dodge it before it hits me. I glance over my shoulder, and assume it was a drone or something when I can’t see what it was. I shrug and fly out over the forest. Something comes at me again, this time hitting the primary feathers of my right wing and coating them in a thick, heavy substance. I lose altitude immediately and try to shake whatever it is off. The substance won’t budge, and my left wing is soon hit with another projectile. I try to turn around and get away, but whatever’s on my wings is too heavy and I can’t seem to keep moving. I cry out as I fall to the treetops below.

I crash through several trees on my way down and my pack gets caught on a branch, nearly strangling me until I manage to unclip the strap. Unclipping my bag sends me tumbling to the forest floor and I fall flat on my face, unable to catch myself in time.

Shadows loom over me and I try to get up, only for someone to place their boot between my shoulders and hold me to the earth. I yell and struggle, to no avail and an unseen figure lifts my chin and presses a rag over my nose and mouth. I tell myself not to breathe, but something in me overrides every rational thought. My limbs grow heavy and dark patches start to creep in at the edge of my vision.

I stop moving, and everything goes dark.

----------

Part 7

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#winterhawkxreader #readerxwinterhawk #winterhawk x reader #bucky barnesxreader #readerxbucky barnes #clint bartonxreader #readerxclint barton #bucky barnes #clint barton #reader insert marvel fic

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illfoandillfie · 4 years

Text

5 Simple Rules For A Successful Fake Relationship: The Perfect Date

5 SIMPLE RULES MASTERLIST

Pairing: Ben Hardy x Reader

Summery: There's trouble in paradise for you and Ben but will the distance bring about some revelations? And what does it mean for your romantic reunion?

Warnings: The usual fairly innocent stuff, some swearing and drinking and mentions of smoking, but with the additions of PDAs out the wazoo, public make out, private make out.

Words: 8093

A/N: Things get a lil spicy in this one! Small disclaimer that I don’t drink so I have no idea what wine does to someone, or two someones who split a bottle. Also just another reminder that this was in no way inspired by rumours regarding Ben’s rl relationship with Olivia Cooke. I believe they’re legit, and I will not engage with anyone about that topic.

Taglist: @laedymoon @dtfrogertaylor @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @hannafuckingsucks @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @queenmylovely @supersonicfreddie @tenement-funstah

@coni-martina @johndeaconshands @hardforbenhardy @cubedtriangle @vicouscirce @arianabrashierstuff

You headed straight to the bathroom and threw up. Ben had called twice on your way home, but you’d let it go to voicemail, not ready to hear him admonish you for eavesdropping on him or to be asked if you felt the same. You supposed it was adrenaline or something that was making you feel nauseous. Of course, you’d have to talk to him eventually, at least to apologise for going so off book, but it could wait until you weren’t feeling so miserable. With teary eyes, you made your way to the kitchen, grabbed a drink to help settle your stomach, and then flopped onto the couch to flick through TV channels until you found something distracting enough. Your phone rang again but when you glanced at the screen it wasn’t Ben’s name you saw. “Mary?” If she heard any evidence of your distress in your voice she didn’t mention it, “Brilliant performance Y/N. The video was tweeted out about ten minutes after you left the restaurant and it’s already been shared more than you’d believe.” “Oh, that’s good.” “Better than good. People are eating it up. There’ll be articles tomorrow predicting your breakup and not just the ones we’ve organised. We’re going to ask that you and Ben refrain from seeing each other in public for the next two weeks or so, make it look like you’re taking some time apart. That’ll give the video plenty of time to circulate and allow us to get out a few variations of the trouble in paradise story. Of course, you’re free to visit each other and speak over the phone but be wary in case other paparazzi start following you in addition to the one’s we’ve hired. Chances are more people will be looking to scoop the official breakup story if all goes as well as these early numbers indicate it will. Then we’ll hit them with the romantic makeup dinner at Boucher. And after that it’s back to playing the happy couple. Of course there’ll be the press junket and premiere in a couple of months’ time and then we can break you up for good.” She kept talking about plans for he press tour, something about flights and hotels, but you stopped paying attention, already getting twitter open and searching for the video. It didn’t take long to find it, the caption proclaiming he who’d caught the footage had noticed you and Ben arrive and had pulled out his camera as soon as he realised things weren’t particularly happy. “Sorry, Mary, I’m gonna have to call you back.” “Everything alright?” “Yeah, just a small mishap with the washing machine. I’ll talk to you later.” As soon as she was gone you pressed play on the video. Filmed from a table to the left of yours and slightly behind your shoulder, the phone tipped at an angle so it wouldn’t be spotted. Your heart pounded as you watched. It was all there, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife as Ben tried to draw you into conversation. You heard the bite in your tone, the confusion in his. And you saw what you’d not noticed in the moment. The way his face fell when you said it was too much. The way his nails dug into his palm as he clutched his fork so tightly. The hurt on his face when you called him clingy and needy. He stood up as you walked away but he didn’t follow, just dragged his hand through his hair and then sat down heavily, worrying at his thumbnail with his teeth. The waiter came over, presumably with the bill but the video cut out before anything more was said. They’d got what they wanted. They didn’t need the aftermath.

The next day there was an unexpected knock on your door. You put down your phone where you were watching the video again and peeked out the window, worried that it was Ben come to confront you. Instead you saw Felicity raise her fist and knock again. “I saw the video,” was the first thing she said when you let her in, “are you okay?” “I wish people would stop asking me that. I’m fine.” “You had a straight up cat fight in the middle of a restaurant, and there are paparazzi practically camping in your front yard, you’re not fine.” “Okay, maybe not fine fine. But it’s whatever. How many are out there?” “Three. But what happened? Last week you told me you weren’t going to break up.” “We haven’t broken up.” “Well then what was that?” “I don’t know. It’s been building for a bit I guess. He’s just more serious about it all than I am.” “So I heard. Are you sure you aren’t just panicking?” “Panicking about what?” “Well, y’know, you’ve been in the tabloids a bit lately. That must put a strain on things. Maybe you just got a little freaked out by it and pushed Ben away rather than let yourself be vulnerable,” “What are you my shrink?” “Hey, I’m just trying to help.” “Yeah well, you’re wrong. The paps are kind of annoying but they aren’t the problem. The problem…” you took a breath as you considered what was safe to say, “the problem is that Ben has been on a different page to me for a while now. I think we both just need some space.” “Okay, if that’s what you want to go with,” she clearly didn’t believe you, “Have you talked to him about it?” “Not yet. Figured I’d call back sometime today when my head was clearer.” She nodded, “Well, I’m here for you. Whatever you need. Moral support when you call him or someone to bitch to afterwards or just somebody to get drunk with.” She pulled you into a hug, squeezing you tight and for a moment you felt like you might cry. All you could think about was Ben’s expression when you walked out, how wounded he looked.

Felicity stayed with you for the rest of the day which was good because her presence stopped you from doing nothing but watching the video over and over again. As it was you found it hard to keep yourself from looking at the comments people left on it. A lot of people took Ben’s side, calling you a bitch or worse, sometimes even direct messaging you their opinions. But there were also those lampooning Ben for smothering you, some going so far as to claim they were early signs of manipulative and controlling tendencies and that he deserved the public humiliation of it all. Those were the comments that made you feel worst. Being called a cunt you could deal with. Being told Ben deserved better you could easily deal with. But seeing such horrible suggestions of Ben being thrown about made your heart ache. He wasn’t mean or manipulative. He’d been nothing but kind to everyone on set and especially to you. Any lingering annoyance that hadn’t left you along with the little you’d eaten seemed to melt away, leaving you feeling cold at the thought of what you’d said. Yes he’d been stupid and selfish to agree to pretend to date you when he actually had a crush on you. But not once had he tried to wheedle a confession of love from you, not once had he pushed himself onto you. He’d always been respectful of your boundaries, warned you before he kissed you, asked if you wanted to share a blanket rather than just assume you did. Even your rules he’d mostly stuck to. The one exception being the cutesy nickname, but you’d never put up much of a fight with that. You only knew that he felt something for you because you’d listened in to a private conversation. And really, could you blame him for developing feelings? You’d literally been cast as lovers because you had good chemistry and then you’d spent weeks getting even closer, made all the more necessary by your fake romance. He was hardly the first person in history to have his on-screen feelings transfer to real life. And surely, if he’d decided to tell his friend everything, even after signing contractual documents about keeping it secret, then he must be serious about you, about how much he liked you. Maybe you had it wrong. Maybe there was something there you hadn’t consi-. “Stop wallowing,” Felicities voice cut through your thoughts, “Put the phone down and stop thinking about Ben for five minutes.” You shook your head to clear it, “I’m not wallowing.” “Are you on twitter right now?” “Maybe,” “You’re wallowing. C’mon, give me the phone.” She held out her hand, giving you had no choice but to hand it over. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make a good teacher,” “Once or twice. You can have this,” she brandished your phone at you and then shoved it into her bag, “back when you’re ready to call Ben. Until then we are getting out of the house.” “Out of the house where?” you asked, letting her pull you from your seat. “Just out. You need some fresh air. Go on, get your shoes.” “Alright, alright, I’m going,” you said, with the first genuine chuckle you’d had in days.

You ended up at the park a street over, sitting on a bench overlooking the duckpond. One or two of the photographers followed you, but they were easy to ignore. As soon as you stopped moving your mind was back on the previous night, but Felicity must have sensed as much for she quickly blurted out a fun fact about ducks to distract you. For the rest of the time you were there she kept your mind on other things. She gave you an extended rundown on all the gossip from her workplace. It didn’t matter that you didn’t know who Derick was, you soon heard all about his tryst with the copy boy, and when you asked if the Susie M who was mentioned was the same Susie M that made out with the boss at last year’s Christmas party you heard all about the fallout from her drunk misstep. Felicity led you on a stroll around the pond as you laughed at her stories and filled her in on what you were hoping your next role would be. “I’ve been sent a couple of interesting scripts. There’s one for a sci fi time travel thing which I’m hoping to get a call back for. And there was one for a comedy about a coven of witches causing mayhem with their potions. I’m only about halfway through the script but I’d happily play any of the three lead witches, so I think I’ll have a crack at it.” “They both sound really good. Different to your last role.” “Yeah. Different’s good though.” Eventually you wound your way towards a small coffee shop opposite the far side of the park. The slice of apple tea cake you ordered was the first food you’d eaten since the few bites at dinner and Felicity didn’t let you leave until you’d finished it, though she was subtle in her insistence. When you put your fork down with food still left on the plate she ordered a second coffee for each of you which gave you little to do but keep eating. You thanked her after but she pretended not to know what you were talking about. It wasn’t until you got home again that she returned your phone. “You should call Ben,” “Do I have to?” “Stop pouting and do it. You’re cute together and you obviously love him. Just suck it up and talk to him.” You let out a heavy sigh and then took the phone back, refraining from rolling your eyes at how wrong she was about your feelings.

You headed out onto the back patio and, with some slight trepidation, called Ben. The call rang out. With a frown you headed back inside only to be greeted by Felicity making chicken noises. “I didn’t chicken out, he just didn’t pick up. He must be busy.” “Or he’s upset. Call back. You can come in after he’s not picked up three times or you’ve had a chat.” “Okay, I’ll try again, jeez,” you went back outside and shut the door behind you. Your second attempt was as unsuccessful as your first and you were just about to hang up on the third try when he picked up. “Hello?” “Hi Ben,” “Y/N,” there was none of the joy in his voice that usually accompanied your name. “Can we talk, is now a good time?” “Yeah,” “Okay, I just, uh, I wasn’t sure since you didn’t pick up straight away.” “Well I wouldn’t want to come across as more needy than I already do.” “I shouldn’t have said that,” you leaned against the wall of the house in the same spot you’d seen Ben lean countless times after you’d told him he couldn’t smoke inside, “I’m so so sorry about everything I said.” “It’s not what you said, Y/N. I get it, we had to fight and you let loose. From an acting perspective I’m actually really fucking impressed. I, uh, I might have watched the video when I got home, just once, and it looks legit. Like, that line about pretending to love me as much as I do you.” You held your breath, waiting for him to ask how you knew. “I mean, that’s exactly what we were going for anyway, just without the details of not having met each other’s families. Everyone still heard us argue about moving at different paces and it was some really great improvisation.” “You think so?” “Yeah absolutely. I don’t think I could have come up with a line like that on the fly. Seriously, if we were allowed to tell people it was fake, that would have fit well on your audition reel.” “So you’re not upset with me?” There was a pause as Ben thought about his next words. “Not upset exactly. Like I said, I get that it was a scene. But the way you sounded when you called me clingy….it was pretty clear there were some real feelings in there too and I,” Ben sighed, “I just wish you’d talk to me about how you were feeling beforehand.” “I didn’t really know how.” “But if I’d known that I was making you uncomfortable or coming across as clingy I would have pulled back. I could have texted less or crashed at your place less often. Not insisted on buying you books on our fake dates.” You scuffed your foot against the ground, not sure whether to come clean about overhearing him. You’d expected Ben to have realised by now that you knew, not to take what you’d said as some incredible performance. “I know I got kinda caught up in it all though,” he said before you could summon the courage to admit anything, “I, um, I really like…” You could feel your heart racing, convinced he was about to confess his feelings for you, completely unsure how to react. “…being someone’s boyfriend.” “Oh,” Why was he so determined to surprise you? Why did you feel disappointed? “It suits me. I like having someone to dote on and take care of and talk to and I guess it’s been a while since I properly, seriously dated anyone. I feel like I’ve got all this boyfriend energy stored up and nowhere for it to go. It comes in handy when we’re pretending to be on a date or whatever but sometimes it slips out when we’re just hanging out as friends, without the cameras and all that. Which isn’t an excuse or anything, I’m not trying to undermine any discomfort you felt.” “No, I get it.” “You do?” “Yeah. I mean, we said it was a weird situation right back when it was first pitched to us. That hasn’t really changed, has it?” “No,” he said with a small, soft chuckle, “still weird.” “Exactly. And sometimes I think it can be kind of confusing.” “Confusing?” You had a sudden mental image of a dog with pricked up ears, “Confusing’s maybe the wrong word. Hard to keep up with is I guess what I’m trying to say. It’s different to acting in love with someone on a movie because on a movie there’s a definite time span. The director calls cut and you can stop pretending. But we don’t get that cut. Even when there’s no cameras we’re still faking it for the people we know and anyone who might see us,” you glanced inside to make sure Felicity wasn’t listening in. “Do you think that’s why you didn’t know how to talk to me? Because there’s no clear line between Y/N and Ben as friends and Y/N and Ben as a couple.” “Maybe,” you shrugged, “I don’t think it helps.” “Yeah. It’s like, obviously there are times when we have to be all coupley and I guess it gets hard to say when something is uncomfortable because then it’s like what about next time we’re out and we have to do that thing anyway. And there are things I’m happy to do with my friends that I don’t think twice about but might carry extra meaning in our situation.” “Exactly. I don’t want to say I don’t like something and make you feel bad when we then have to do it because people are watching.” “So what are you suggesting then?” “Well, we aren’t allowed to see each other in public for a couple of weeks now, right? So maybe this could be a chance for us to take a break. Not in a completely cut off way, I still wanna talk to you and stuff. But if we give ourselves some space, y’know. Try and shake….excess feelings a-and work out our boundaries better.” “Sure, yeah, I can see how that would help.” “It’s just a couple of weeks and like we can still text or call or whatever we just wouldn’t hang out together and it wouldn’t be every day.” “Y/N, I get it. It’s a good idea.” You took a deep breath, “Okay. Cool. Um, so we’re good?” “Of course we are. I-” Ben seemed to stop himself from saying something, instead sighing, “We’re good,” “Good.” There was nothing else to stay but you didn’t want to hang up. Neither did Ben, it seemed, both of you just standing in silence. You could hear faint music playing on his end, like it was coming from another room. Maybe he was in his kitchen, leaning against the bench, the radio on in the next room over. Or maybe he was sitting on his couch, the TV down low so the repetitive game music wouldn’t disturb your conversation. You could see him so clearly, sitting in his usual seat, controller abandoned beside him. You wondered if he could tell where you were. “I guess I should go then,” He said softly, “I’ll talk to you soon.” “Bye Ben,” “Bye cud- Y/N.”

“How’d it go?” Felicity asked when you came back inside. “Alright. We’re gonna take a break from seeing each other so much and sort out how we feel and stuff.” “That sounds good,” “Yeah,” you felt relieved at having had the conversation but it was mixed with a weird sadness you couldn’t put your finger on, making you feel vaguely like you wanted to be sick again. “Why don’t you go lie down for a bit. I’ll hang out and then tonight we can order pizza and watch cat videos or vine compilations or something dumb like that.” “You don’t have to stay, I’m fine.” “Hun, I’m staying. Maybe I’ll take a run to the shop, pick up some ice cream and booze and face masks. Sound fun?” “Definitely,” “Alrighty then, it’s a plan.” You felt slightly cheered by the thought as you made your way to your room and fell onto the bed, not bothering to change or move the covers, but it didn’t stop room from blurring with tears as soon as you were alone.

Keeping the distance between you and Ben was a mixed bag. On one hand not seeing each other meant there was no lingering pressure of another date or photo opportunity weighing on you. But on the other it also meant a queue of TV shows you felt unable to watch since you’d started them together. You didn’t have to worry that Ben would suddenly call you or rock up on your doorstep, unable to keep his affections to himself any longer. But you also missed out on random messages asking if you could remember that song (“you know the one it was from the early 2000s. Went something like…,”) or the way he’d chuck popcorn at you from the other side of the couch until you managed to catch some in your mouth. It gave you a chance to relax without worrying you were leading him on, or that you’d say the wrong thing, or that the rules you’d come up with would be broken. But that was because you barely spoke to him. Your communication was kept to text messages whenever something big happened and not much more. Ben sent you a message when he got a call back for one of the movies he’d auditioned for. You texted him when your neighbour’s dog had puppies, partly because they’d asked if you knew anyone who could adopt one when it was a little bigger, but partly because the second you saw the babies you thought of how much he’d love them. And yes, you were sleeping better without so much pressure and anxiety, but it hadn’t stopped Ben from appearing in your dreams and even daydreams, explicitly so more often than you were willing to admit. Then of course there was the bombardment of emails from family and friends checking in on you after they’d seen the video. It got so out of hand you’d had to make a rare post on your private Facebook account letting them know things were fine, just to get them to stop harassing you. But you couldn’t stop the harassment you were getting from strangers on all your other social media pages. You got into the bad habit of checking all the big gossip mag websites for stories about you, following them with as much fervour as any fan might. Ben must have had some paparazzi taking up residence on his street too because you saw countless pictures of Ben going about his day – out with friends, walking to Tesco, smoking outside a pub. And every time there was some story attached either about how heartbroken he was or about how he was sneaking off to meet you in private. You coped the same treatment, though sometimes with the added twist of announcing you were pregnant. All it did was make you wish you could have a hug from Ben and talk about it with him. You came very close to buying a pack of cigarettes one day, just so you could burn one and have its scent linger around your house like Ben had brought it in with him. Felicity was brilliant. She found amusement in the unfamiliar photographers, especially when an article appeared with photos of you and her hugging on your doorstep, speculating you’d moved on from Ben already. It wasn’t so surprising that she’d snuck her way into the magazines she so loved to read considering she checked in on you a lot in the first few days. But, as much as you loved her, and as much as she made you laugh, she had her own job and partner to think about and she couldn’t quite grasp what was happening the same way Ben could have. You missed him more than you thought you would, even with all the baggage from his unrequited crush. So much so that the realisation your makeup date was approaching had you grinning as you made your morning coffee, humming the song from his mug.

It was a surprise, though not an unpleasant one, to hear your phone ringing at close to nine the night before the date. You were sitting in bed playing solitaire on your laptop when your ringtone interrupted. Ben was apologetic as he greeted you, repeatedly saying sorry for calling at all. “It’s okay Ben, I really don’t mind.” You said, putting the laptop aside and relaxing back against the pillows. “Are you sure? I should have just emailed you.” “Ben, stop. I’m glad you called. I’ve missed hearing your voice.” “You have?” “Of course I have. I spent two and a bit months doing nothing but listen to you blab, you really think I’d just forget you?” You could hear his smile when he continued, “I’ve missed talking to you too. I figured this would be a good excuse.” “This being?” “Tomorrow night. Peter said he’d send you the info.” “Of course, yeah I got his email. Tomorrow night, meeting at Boucher at seven.” “Yup, that’s the info.” “I was told to dress up and be prepared to smooch.” “Did he say smooch?” “No,” you laughed, “His phrasing sounded a lot stuffier and careful not to create a lawsuit, but I figured that’s what he meant.” “Yeah, um, you’re okay with that?” “Absolutely. It’s a makeup dinner and we’re going to be together for another couple of months so we should play up the romance and the um, physicality and all that.” You tried to ignore the sudden warmth in your cheeks and the memory of your last dream. “Okay, good because I was specifically told about what happens when we leave the restaurant.” “Hmmm I think I remember something about that but again, stuffy non-lawsuit language. Kinda hard to follow at times.” “Basically they want us to make out while we wait for an Uber. Like, proper make out.” “Oh,” “I told them neither of us are public make out people but they’re insisting they need it. Something about it being an obvious indication of getting back together or whatever. And technically we agreed to it when we signed up for this whole thing.” “Thanks for the heads up.” “No worries. Glad I called now, wouldn’t have wanted to just spring that on you. But um, that’s it really, I’ll let you get back to your last night of peace.” “Wait,” you blurted without having anything else to say. “Yeah?” “Ummm, oh! Did you hear anything more about that movie?” “Not yet but Peter said they’re still in talks. Hopefully soon.” “What’s it about?” “It’s an actiony thriller thing. This guy, the role I auditioned for, witnesses a murder and then gets dragged into this revenge mission. I’d get to shoot some big guns and drive a cool car and y’know save the girl, all that stuff.” “Sounds fun,” “Yeah, what about you, any auditions?” “One or two but nothing’s come of them. I sent my reel in for this supernatural comedy about a coven of witches. Too soon to know anything though.” “Well I hope you get it,” “Yeah, likewise.” “Thanks.” You were forcefully reminded of your last conversation when you both lapsed into silence again, neither of you making any move to hang up. You wanted to keep talking but part of you was worried that if you used up all your conversation topics now, you’d have nothing to talk about over dinner tomorrow, and if that happened you were bound to blurt out something you shouldn’t. Instead you just savoured the sound of Ben’s breaths and the odd rustle of clothing as he shifted around. Once again he was the one to break the silence. “Well, as lovely as it has been to chat, I should go. Gotta get a good night sleep so I’m ready to woo you tomorrow.” “You’re not going to bed yet are you? It’s so early,” “I was gonna read or something for a bit actually.” “Have you finished that show we started?” “Which one?” “Any of them? “No. Figured they could wait.” “You wanna watch one now?” “What, over the phone?” “Yeah, we can try to time it so it plays at the same time.” “Uh, sure, why not,” You quickly grabbed your laptop and, after some discussion of which show you were more in the mood for, found the right episode. There was laughter on both ends of the line as you attempted to hit play at the same time, counting down from three between giggles. It took you a few tries but you eventually got them to sync up, more or less. It felt nice to hear Ben’s laughter again, his voice when he sang along with the soundtrack, his comments about the nitty gritty of the production side – odd line deliveries and angles of shots. He was easy to talk to. Though with everything that had happened, everything you knew, just the act of talking to him set off butterflies in your stomach.

It took you well over an hour to get ready for the date. You’d been told to go all out so that’s exactly what you did. With a little help from Felicity so you could get away with a calming pre dinner drink. She gave you a hand choosing an outfit – a dress, short but not too short, classy but eye catching. It had started life as a dress for a movie premiere but after a few years the top didn’t fit quite right so you’d had it altered, the skirt was taken up, cut off and attached to a new top that more suited your current style, leaving you with a slightly shorter and much more you outfit. Glass of Prosecco close to hand, Felicity worked on your hair and offered advice on your makeup. When you were finished and could reveal the full look to her, she squealed. “You’re absolutely going to get laid.” “Shut up. I look alright though? Lipstick’s not too dark?” “Honey, you look gorgeous. I swear, you’re gonna get dicked down in the bathroom of that fancy as fuck restaurant because he’s not gonna be able to keep his hands off you.” You burst out laughing, “Good to know. Not exactly the plan for the evening but at least I’m prepared now.” “What is your plan?” “I don’t really have one, which is not helping me stay calm. I guess just find out if he’s still interested in me. And then work out where we go from there. We talked last night and that was good but I just need to know if he’s, you know, still into me.” “He’s head over heels for you, that won’t have changed. The question is, do you love him?” You wanted to say no but obviously couldn’t so you settled for a soft, “I’ve have missed him.” She hummed with an annoyingly knowing look. “I should be going, the Uber’ll be here soon.” Felicity pulled you into a hug, “Knock him dead, Y/N,” and then, as an afterthought added, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” “You first hooked up with your girlfriend because some drunk guy told you he’d buy you both drinks if you made out. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do.” Felicity laughed, “That was just a free drink, imagine what I’d do if there was a fancy French dinner involved.”

You arrived before Ben did. A quick glance up and down the street told you he wasn’t approaching just yet, so you opened your clutch to give yourself something to think about other than the sound of snapping cameras. Phone, lipstick, tissues, compact mirror, three condoms. You laughed to yourself when you saw them and made a mental note to lie about how useful they were when you next saw Felicity. Quick footsteps caught your attention and you looked up in time to see Ben running towards you. “Sorry, I’m late,” he said between breaths, pressing a kiss to your cheek as soon as he was within reach, “My Uber got caught in traffic and I had to make a stop,” He held out a small bouquet of flowers in a variety of pinks, purples and yellows. “For me?” “No for the other girl I’m seeing, of course for you. You like them?” “They’re beautiful,” you took the bouquet and breathed in its sweet scent. “I saw it in the shop and, um yeah, I don’t know, they seemed nice, a-and I know you, um, like nice things, so,” he stopped babbling with a pained expression on his face, for once more visibly nervous than you. “It’s very sweet of you, thank you,” “I’m glad you think so because right now it feels kinda cliché and cheesy. Now you have to carry them around all night, what was I thinking? And god can I just shut up. Sorry.” You couldn’t help but laugh as he scrunched his nose up and ran his hand through his hair, unintentionally endearing, “Calm down, Ben, we’ve done this before.” “I know,” “Let’s just go inside, further away from these cameras, and have a drink, sound good? “God yes,” he nodded and let you lead him through the door up to the hostess stand, managing to pull himself together enough to give her the name of the booking. As expected, she told you to wait in the bar until a table was ready.

Ben downed his first drink in one hit. It made you wonder how hard he was finding it to be around you. Had the space helped him quiet his feeling for you? Or had it just made him want you more? Was that why he seemed so out of sorts, stumbling over his words in a way that was so unlike him. You desperately wanted to find out where he stood but it was impossible without giving yourself away. What you needed was for him to make another phone call you could overhear but the likelihood of that happening was slim. You’d just have to put it from your mind for now. “Better?” You asked Ben as he caught the barman’s attention and ordered a second drink. “Getting there,” He took the new glass and drank, just a sip this time, “You look stunning by the way. I should have said it earlier,” “Thank you, you look very handsome,” He glanced down at the suit he was wearing, “Thanks.” A somewhat awkward silence followed. “So,” you said, louder than necessary, desperate to get him talking like he normally did lest you start to freak out too, “You been here before?” “No. Never even heard of it before Mary and Peter mentioned it. You?” “Same.” You looked around the room, searching for something else to talk about, “Nice though.” “Yeah, yeah, really swanky.” “Bit different from the painting thing,” “Yeah, very. Look I need to tell you someth-” “Mr Hardy? Your table is ready,” You smiled at the hostess, as he thanked her, and followed her towards a table for two, setting your bouquet down to the side. Ben smiled at you from across the table. “You were saying?” you asked, apprehensive and curious. “Oh, um, nothing, doesn’t matter. We’ve got a date to focus on.” “Wouldn’t want all these prying eyes to miss anything,” “Exactly. Cuddle bunny,” You smiled at the nickname despite its ridiculousness and leaned forward in your seat slightly, letting your fingers gently rest against the back of his hand. If he wanted to focus on the date and putting on a good show for the public then that was something you could do, “Babe.” The flush you’d seen creep onto Ben’s face before appeared again and he reached for his glass once more. “So, how have you been?” you asked, pulling your hand back towards you. He looked at its retreat and then back at your eyes, “Good. Got to hang out with the boys a few times last week which was really good.” “Beat them at any more video games?” “They won’t let me anywhere near FIFA at the moment,” “Discrimination,” “That’s what I tried to tell them!” he laughed, seeming to relax a little more, “bunch of babies.” “What about that trip thing you were organising, have you sorted that out?” “Not entirely. It’s with my friend Joe who lives in the States. He was going to come out here but we decided it wasn’t worth it since I’ll be over there soon anyway.” “You will?” “Well both of us will be. Part of the press stuff for The Perfect Match.” “Oh, right, of course,” you giggled and tucked your hair behind your ear. “He’s looking forward to meeting you though.” “I bet he is,” you said automatically. Of course he’d be keen to meet the woman his friend was infatuated with, you would be too. Ben gave you a questioning look but you covered well enough, “I mean, he’d obviously know about us dating so I assume he’d be curious to meet your girlfriend. Especially if we’re having public spats and stuff.” “Right, yeah, definitely. What about you? What’s been happening?”

From there you fell into your usual style of conversation, both of you relaxing more as the night wore on and the bottle of wine you ordered grew emptier. The only difference from normal was the romance of it all, played up as much as possible. Brushing hands as you both reached for the salt, soft smiles and laughs. You even went so far as to twirl a strand of hair around your finger like some love struck teenybopper in a soap opera. When your food arrived you let Ben feed you a bite off his fork. You offered a taste of your meal in return and he held your wrist as he leaned in. A gesture that left you breathless, blinking at him as he slowly withdrew his hand. The wine’s fault probably. You’d polished off the bottle by the time dessert arrived, on top of the drinks you’d had before you sat down. It made you feel looser and you assumed the same of Ben, judging by how different his demeanour was to the nervous, stuttering one he’d had when he showed up. Perhaps that was why, with a spoonful of chocolate mousse halfway to his mouth and no regard for the conversation you were having, he suddenly said, “Can I ask about these last couple of weeks?” “Uh, yeah, what d’you want to know?” “Was it good? The space, did you get what you wanted from it?” You thought for a moment, putting down your own spoon, “Yes. I’m not going to lie and say it wasn’t helpful because it really was. Just, having that break from everything. I think I really needed it. But I really really missed you too.” He smiled at that, looking down at his dessert like he was trying to hide it, “I’m glad. It was hard not seeing you but yeah, helped me figure some stuff out too. Confirmed some other stuff.” “Like what? If you don’t mind me asking.” “Like…um, the thing I said on the phone about enjoying playing the boyfriend. I like having someone special to share things with,” He sighed, “But that’s…not relevant right now. Do you want to get out of here?” You were a little taken aback by the suddenness of the suggestion but agreed, reapplying your lipstick for the cameras while the waiter collected your bill.

Ben wrapped his arm around your waist once you were outside, pulling you close. With the pretext on planting a kiss on your temple he quietly asked if you were ready for the next part. “Lay it on me,” you giggled, feeling warm and light. A second later his hand was sliding down your side towards your bum which set off another wave of giggles. He kept you close as you walked down the street, oblivious to the flash of cameras. Ben kept his arm around you, using the other to open the app and order a car. You stopped when you reached a quiet bus stop, Ben letting you go to sit down, tapping the spot beside him. But his hand wasn’t gone for long, instead moving to cup your cheek as he pulled you into a kiss. “I missed doing that,” he muttered but you were more focused on making it happen again, shifting yourself closer, laying your hand against him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His heart was pounding under your palm, but it matched the beat against your own chest. You’d forgotten how good he was at kissing but it came flooding back as you opened your lips for him, felt his tongue against yours. His hand was firm on your back, pulling you in but still not close enough. You whined, let him pull you onto his lap, pressed yourself against him, one hand in his hair so he wouldn’t stop kissing you. His hands were everywhere, on your arms and back and squeezing your arse, holding you in place as you arched your back slightly and kissed him harder. A car horn right beside you made you pull away, startled. “Ben?” The older man asked, looking down at their phone, “I’m here to pick you up.” “Shit,” Ben said softly, and then to the driver, “Sorry, yes, that’s us.” You let your head fall forward onto his shoulder for a second, smothering your laughter. “C’mon cuddle bunny,” he said softly, “they’ve had enough of a show.” Your legs felt unsteady as you stood and smoothed your skirt down. Ben opened the back door for you and followed you inside. “So sorry about that,” he said again to the driver. He just laughed, “It’s alright. I remember being your age and completely smitten. You’re that couple I’ve seen online, right?” “Uh, yes, that’d be us, I think” “Well if you wanna keep making out I won’t stop you. Might have to tweet about it though.” Ben laughed, “Thanks but I think we can hold off for a bit.” You looked over at Ben and had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing too loud when you saw the lipstick smudged over Ben’s face. “What is it?” Still laughing you handed ben your compact mirror and the pack of tissues from your clutch. “Christ,” he said softly, “The internet’s going to fucking love this.”

The Uber driver left you at the end of Ben’s driveway with a wink and a have fun. There were paparazzi waiting for you so you grabbed Ben’s hand and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He led you inside, refusing to let go of your hand even while trying to dig his keys from the opposite pocket. Once you were inside, you placed your slightly bruised bouquet on the hall stand, leaned against the closed door and began taking your shoes off. Normally, after being out together and winding up at Ben’s place, you’d head straight to the bathroom to take off your makeup. He’d go and fetch two glasses of water if you’d been drinking or maybe something warm if the night was cool. You’d change into the pyjamas you kept at his place and then join him in the lounge room, sometimes tucking yourselves under the same blanket, to watch TV until you were yawning and struggling to stay awake. And then you’d wish each other good night and head to your separate rooms. But this time something felt different. You kicked your shoes to the side of the hallway and stayed against the door, watching as Ben pulled his wallet from his pocket, dropping it and his keys next to your flowers. He slowly turned towards you, taking a step closer. And you knew you should move, should dodge around him, make a joke about not needing to take off your makeup since he’d already done it for you but you found yourself stepping towards him too. There was a beat as you both realised how close you were. You heard Ben swallow, watched his eyes move to your lips unashamedly. Later, when you were lying in the dark wondering what the fuck had happened, you’d tell yourself it was the wine. A brief impairment of judgement exacerbated by months of celibacy and an easily suggestable brain. Whether you believed it was another question.

You closed the gap but he was only a second behind, hand back on your waist as his other found your jaw. You wrapped your arms around his neck, let him slowly walk you through the house towards the living room you where you’d spent so many nights joking around. He didn’t stop kissing you while you stumbled through the house, not unless he had to and even then he never went far, his breath hot against your lips. You pushed him down onto the couch and straddled his lap, continuing what had been interrupted, his hands falling back to your arse, pushing up your skirt, squeezing, as you tugged on his hair, making him groan. A single rational thought was trapped in the back of your mind, trying to breakthrough but it was hard to think when Ben was holding you like that, kissing you like that, especially after so long without being touched at all. He broke away to mouth at your throat and it was only then that you had enough time to think clearly. “Wait,” you said softly and then again more insistently. “What is it?” “What are we doing? We can’t,” “Why not?” You shook your head, and pushed yourself off of him, taking a couple of steps back, “It’s rule one Ben,” “We wouldn’t even have to break rule one though, we can just stay here on the couch. No harm in making out if we’ve already done it.” A whine caught in your throat and you took an extra half step back to keep from rushing into his arms again, more rational thoughts pushing through the broken wall and joining the first. You shouldn’t, not if there was any chance Ben still had a crush on you. It wouldn’t be fair. “I’d be good to you Y/N, you know I would,” You shook your head, “You know this isn’t real, right Ben?” “Of course I know that,” “Really? Because sometimes I think you forget I’m not actually in love with you.” What’s that supposed to mean?” You bit your lip to try and stop yourself from saying what you were about to say but it was no use, the words were already half out, “I heard you talking to Joe the night you left your keys at the bar. I know you have a crush on me.” “You heard that?” His eyes were wide, horrified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear I just needed a drink an-.” “Oh my god,” He sat up straighter and ran a hand through his hair again and you wished it was your fingers mussing it up, “Maybe you should go.” “Wait, Ben, let’s just talk about it.” “Is that why you were upset before the argument? Is that why you didn’t want to see me for the last two weeks?” “I thought some space might help you stop feeling that way.” He laughed at that, “I’m – I’ve been trying to stop feeling like this for months now, since we were filming together, but I can’t, I can’t shake you. I love you. And it won’t go away.” “You love me?” Ben nodded, looking up at you from the couch but you couldn’t meet his eye. “You don’t have to say you don’t feel the same, I know.” You didn’t know what to say, just stood there, frozen in place. “That’s what I thought,” He stood up, chewing on his lip and when he spoke he had to clear his voice to make it loud enough for you to hear, “I, um, I know I just said you should leave but you can’t go yet. There are still paparazzi out there and we’re meant to look like we’ve made up. I’m going to go to bed though and you can stay until they leave or, if you can still stand to look at me, then you’re welcome to stay the night and I’ll drop you home in the morning. I’m really sorry.” You watched him walk towards the hallway, still frozen in place.

#my writing #my fics #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy imagine #i'm fully ready to cop some shit for this one lmao

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themousefromfantasyland · 4 years

Text

The Yule Man (5/7)

Told by ME

This was meant to be a short story, but it became too big, so I separated it in seven parts. I want to turn my blog in a space where I can share my writting every once and a while.

This is the first time I post one of my stories on a public space. This is the first time anyone besides my sister will be able to read, so I'm pretty exciting and anxious. I want honest criticism. I hope you all enjoy it.

On the Solstice Eve of that year Chris arrived back in Arnsberg close to the old bridge. Once again, he dressed in a long fur coat and dirty beggar clothes, carrying an old bag. He touched his face and discovered his shaggy beard hadn't changed at all. Deep down he still had hoped things to be different.

The town changed even more from the last time. Entire neighborhoods seemed to have withered away. Filthy tenements with shattered windows and people dressed no better than him. Beggars and homeless children scattered everywhere. Pain and sorrow stamped on everyone's faces.

"What happened here?"

He walked faster as he could until he reached a church in a better part of the town. Exhausted, he rested leaning on a statue of the Silver God. As soon as he saw him, the priest shoved him away as a dog. Somethings never change at all.

He wandered in those streets, until an old woman stopped him. She looked exactly like the grandmas in Sophia's picture books.

"You're the Yule Man, right? I know her." The old woman chuckled. "She told me if I saw you, I should send you to this address."

And she gave him the address and went her own way.

"Mia?" He looked to the piece of paper in his hands.

The address lure him to a small building downtown. Candlesticks illuminated the windows. Rows of holly and mistletoe were hanged through it with care. The sign in the door announced the place to be closed, yet they forgot the door open.

A huge man dressed in all black from the head to the toe stepped out of the store. On his way out he bumped with Chris.

"Happy Yuletide!" He took off his bowler hat to greet him, when Chris thought he saw all the evil of the world in his eyes.

He then disappeared in the mundane crowd. Chris entered the store, without knowing what he had saw.

Still confused, he called:

"Is anyone here?"

He saw full-body mirrors, measure tapes and cushions lying on the floor. Pieces of fabrics were scattered everywhere. Some carefully sorted and saved in shelves and cabinets. Others dropped over wooden tables. Someone had engraved dozens of needles on the heads of the mannequins. That unsettled him.

A woman in a purple dress shirt turned to him from the balcony. Seeing her face drove all his fear and worries away. In what seemed like the interval between seconds, he jumped to her arms, which closed tight around his body. He had returned to Mia.

He glared at her. She didn't look like the rich girl he had met. Her clothes showed simplicity this time. Modest and simple. A purple coat and skirt, covering a blue waistcoat.

She served him a cup of hot cocoa. She knew exactly what would fill him with happiness and made him warm. By the look in his face, she did it right again. She brought him to a small apartment over the store. The place stroked as tiny, yet still cozy and not uncomfortable at all. Chris saw a moderate Yule tree with some Yule Goats around, and he knew Mr. Hayek lived there.

They sat by her blue coach. He made a silly face that said to her. "C'mon, tell me what happened."

She took a sip from her teacup and started.

"After the Yule, I took my part in father's inheritance and left the shrew alone." She told him, and both on that room felt deep pride for her.

There was a sense satisfaction in her face. He loved finding that in her. Chris managed to smear himself with the drink and it made her happy.

"You're a tailor now?" He teased her.

"Being a writer wouldn't work out for me." She smirked.

She gave him a white blouse.

"Dress it."

From the bathroom he came as handsome as she remembered him. Mia struggled to keep her good form.

"I didn't say to shave the beard. You can keep if you want."

"I don't want!" He winked to her.

She continued telling him her year.

"I bought this place from an old woman. She wanted to retire and pass more time with her family. She actually helped a lot setting all this up."

He turned to her.

"Was she the woman who bring me here?"

"Possibly." Mia gestured with her shoulders. "I told everyone that I knew that if they saw you, they should give you the address of this place."

"And who was that man I saw getting out of the store. He creeped me out."

Mia grew quiet. She exhaled. Talking about him never brought her any pleasure.

"It would be Franz Müller, the Cat’s-eye. He's a loan shark who thinks a lot about himself. Each month me and all business in the neighborhood have to pay his fees. Don't think much about him, most of the time he just takes the money and leave us alone.

The question frightened Chris.

"What happened to the town?"

Mia shut her eyes.

"Economic crisis, and my father can't help them this time."

"What about the ball in the Hayek’s mansion?"

She raised her voice to him.

"Which ball!"

That sudden change of mood made him jump out of his place.

"Sorry, mother closed the gates of the mansion to the town. She's still rich. Made a deal with my father's business partners. She guaranteed hers but forgot about everyone's else." She said full of deep resentment.

"I kind learned this by myself because you. I don't want to brag, but I'm good at this." She continued. "I bought this place. Learned a trade. Started to work."

"So, you're a working-class woman now?" He smirked.

"It's what it looks. I still have part of my father's inheritance. And with the work I got I can sustain myself quite comfortably for quite a while."

Night had come. Chris released his bag over her terrace, filling the sky with the magical snowflakes. All the town saw the light and cold dash up into the clouds. Billions of ice crystal dancing and flowing through the air. Mia never got tired of seeing that scene.

She launched the Yule Log into her simple fireplace, and they both sat close by it.

"I want to give you something."

She gave Chris a box. A beautifully wrapped present.

"Happy Yuletide." She couldn't wait to see his reaction.

He opened the box. A tiny bottle full of shiny white sand inside, and little seashells keeping it in good company. He knew exactly where they were from. His eyes filled themselves. He started to cry, to sob even, and still laugh of happiness. He hugged her, and he didn't let her go. His first Yule present ever.

They sat on that place for hours, and still hadn't ran out of things to say to each other.

"Your mother?" He asked.

"Still angry with me. After a time, I stopped trying to save our relationship. It wasn't worth it in the end. I still get to see my siblings. Will take them to Yulesing tomorrow. Without the Solstice Eve Ball, I worry how they will spend the holidays."

Mia explained to Chris how things had got different. This year she couldn't take him to party through Arnsberg.

"I don't care. I only want to be near you."

They stayed hours doing completely nothing. They enjoyed each other's conversation and company in general. The cold was the best sensation ever and the room was as cozy as it could be.

In the end of the night Chris tasted Mia's lips. She had thought they would never come to that. She led him to her room, where she felt his body in hers. Soft, tender, perfect.

They stayed in bed hugged to each other. Through the window in the wall opposite to them they could see the snow slowly dressing the world in white.

"I love you." She said resting her head on his chest.

He felt physical pain saying that:

"This isn't love. It's just a romantic fantasy. What you have for me isn't real. I'm not real. You can't love a person you only spend thirteen days within the whole year." He forced a small laugh.

Her mouth twitched.

"I can if it's true love."

His forehead puckered.

"You don't have to put up with me for the rest of the year. We don't go through the same stuff other couples go through. When the holidays are over, I'm gone. I'm won't think, I'm won't feel, I won't remember a thing. I won't be."

"Chris!"

"Sorry. What we got are only moments."

"So, why are you so against enjoying them. In general, everyone's life is just a moment. They live, they die, and it's over. At least I can enjoy a time with you. For me it's already worth it."

He closed his eyes.

"I'm dying to go to Lichthafen City with you."

He gave her a faintly smile. The room then became quiet.

In the next day they went to take the Hayek children to Yulesing. Mia knew very well that Chris loved it more than the children. Her siblings were nothing more than an excuse for doing that. Yet, he loved her siblings. They stayed with them for half of their days together. They had fun.

In the other half they stayed alone in Mia's apartment over her tailoring shop. Cuddling in her bed, eating sweets, and watching the world through that window. Best days ever, for both of them.

The Yule Log turned to ashes. Time to go again, and again in the next year he returned, in the exact same manner. Time passed, and he left, and left, and still returned to her. Each year, thirteen days only.

Chris watched the town change and change around him, and only he stayed the same. In a wink of time, Sophia, Fritz and Thomas started to leave childhood. How much that stroked pain in him. Even Mia started to look more like his older sister than his lover.

Poverty spread through the town as if a disease. Good and respectable neighborhoods crumbled to ruins before his eyes. Organized crime and urban violence turned Yulesing a thing of the past. Mr. Müller became much more than a simple loan shark.

Everything changed, less him.

#christmas #holiday season #yuletide #my writting #writters on tumblr #my story #The Yule Man

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unikornu · 4 years

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Page 1 - Career Change - Pre-war memories of Lucy Feit,

- Hey sweetheart, you okay in there? Ian knocked softly on a bathroom door as he heard Lucy coughing a bit too much than she should.

- Yes, im fine, don’t you worry. I’m probably just catching a cold after we got washed by that rain last evening. Lucy washed the blood droplets from the bottom of the sink and wiped her mouth with towel. She lied. It wasn’t a cold, but an irritation and small wounds that still remained after an incident in the cellar with court mobsters.

-There she is, all formal but still beautiful. Ian commented as she left the bathroom, putting the black leather jacket on and sweeping the dust from her pencil grey skirt.

-Have to make a good first impression at new job eh? I mean from a national court to an private low investigator office, that is quite a drop. She laughed and threw her hands around Ian neck kissing him in the lips.

She met Ian at the practice shooting center where she was having her first experience with a pistol. He was working there during day time and taking some evening shifts aswell as a bodyguard at the local club. Ian was tall, well built, with a bush of messy short black hair and always slightly unshaved, rough at the lower bottom of his face. Felt good for Lucy to brush the palm of her hand through his chin. He had a weakness for mysterious petite beauties like her and she couldn’t resist the charm flowing from his smile and shine of misty grey eyes as he offered her help that day and a coffee.

Lucy was living in a one big room apartment in tenement house. Walls were filled with red-orange bricks, a few plants placed in a corners and on the window to make it more friendly for the eye and her clothes and papers scattered all over the desk and bed. It wasn’t good for both of them to live there but it was good enough to spend a night together. At least there were never tired of seeing each other too much as both of them were busy on daily basics but at the evening they were always coming back to meet either at his or her place.

- I still don’t know why you dropped such a good position. I mean from a court office to some assistant investigator for this weird old guy. That is indeed quite a drop hon. Ian chuckled and gave her one more kiss on her forehead after she pulled off.

- Well, i hate the amount of responsibility i had there and this is gonna be more thrilling than just sitting in the office, i mean cmon, i’m gonna see the actual crime scene, not just stupid papers. She smiled and grabbed her bag from the counter shoving some papers in and hiding her worried face behind the blond hair after reminding herself why she actually almost ran away from there.

-Don’t forget, at eight at our bar. Ian poked her shoulder and winked at her before she left.

-Oh i won’t. Love you. She winked back at him and closed the door behind her.

As she arrived to slightly older building she checked double the location written on the paper for her new work place directed by the new boss before entering. She stepped up towards the big double winged door and approached a woman sitting behind the desk, all busy with a newspaper and sharpening her nails.

-Uh..excuse me..is this Mr. Harrison’s office? She asked looking around pondering if its the right place. The building looked almost like an abandoned type but still good enough for a living conditions.

-I would not call this an office but yes, Harrison is waiting for you, through hallway, first door to the right. She could only see a clump of black waved hair sticking out of the paper responding to her.

The building felt empty, almost like there only Mr Harrison and his secretary. She stopped at the door having a gold plaque with his name and knocked.

-Come in! A firm voice responded. Lucy dropped the bag from her shoulder and entered.

-Mr Harrison? I’m Lucy Feit...from the..court. I got directed by the....

- I know, i know it all, just come and grab a chair, kid. He was sitting backwards in a big black chair. As she took a sit in front of his desk he spun back towards her.

Harrison was a retired black policeman around at his 50′s dressed formally in a white crumpled chemise, hell of a good one in his career at the better days but eventually life mistakes got him thrown out and forced to continue his business on his own as a private investigator. He didn’t have any family anymore, not a one that would accept him back anyway so he took a long stay in his office and eventually called it home along with his secretary Shanice. They were taking on a small or more mysterious cases that police didn’t care much about trying to avoid a hassle with a mighty ass court as he could while still staying on their good side. At least its what they thought.

- Look kid, i know your story. Me and our Boss, we know each other for quite a while. Are you really sure u want to get yourself into this shit? It ain’t gonna be easy and i don’t want another fucking dead rookie just because he thought that being all gangsta is cool enough to keep his feet on the ground. He scanned her looking doubtfully and raising his brow. Lucy swallowed and took a deep breath before responding.

- I am sure sir. I know the risks and i fully accept them, sir. Harrison put the elbows on the desk and pressed his clenched fists to the mouth. After a few seconds of deep thought he pulled a pistol out of a drawer and handed it to her.

- Reload and shoot something. I don’t care what, just not my whiskey. Lucy took a pistol from his hand and did as he ordered. Ian taught her well on that. She shot a glass on a shelf behind his head and handed the pistol back.

- Alright, tomorrow u start. We have a murder case and u gonna go with me first. Hope you have a stomach for it. Today we will talk how the things work here and where we keep the other archives for our Boss including the evidence that we would rather keep to ourselves. So listen because i won’t be repeating myself twice and if you fuck up it is gonna be your ass to shoot or worse...

- She nodded and followed Harrison as he walked her through the office and rooms hidden behind the cabinets. It was quite impressive how many secrets this old dusty building had along with its owner. His office was legally registered, taking in any small or nasty case that the policemen didn’t care about or helping the gang to clean some shit after them occasionally. It was a new start for her life and just a first step into the shadier part of it. The evening arrived faster than she thought.

- There’s my action girl. Late as always. Ian waited outside the bar spinning a rose in his fingers.

- Sorry, there was a lot to take in and my boss wanted to be done with introduction today. She gave him a long kiss, good enough to forgive her being late.

- Harrison uh? I remember that man...quite a figure back in days. Didn’t know he is still working. Ian put a hand on her back and entered to the bar with her.

- Actually he is in a quite good shape and he is actually still working, just privately now. I think it is gonna be perfect for me. Smaller office and i might just learn a thing or two from him. She skipped all the parts that she couldn’t let Ian to know. He was the only good and positive thing keeping her mind in a proper set at the end of each day. Letting her forget the schemes and wash away dirt while melting in his arms each night. He never knew and she wouldn’t dare to tell him from fear of losing him. It was perfect set up after all.

- How did your training go? Bodyguarding and looking tough is not good enough for you anymore? Lucy smiled at him, joking as they sat at the table.

- Heh, just looking tough can be boring without throwing some punches here and there in a while. He joked back and ordered two beers.

- Cmon Ian, being a professional soldier isn’t the same thing. You will be gone out there longer than you think. Aren’t u scared? She reached with her hand towards his and squeezed it gently.

- No i’m not. I always wanted to do this. I have just one life sweetheart so not much else to lose, other than missing on this pretty face. He brushed a cheek with his thumb and pulled her for a kiss.

- We still have a lot of time so don’t worry about me. Today let’s have a toast for your new career and maybe a small treat later at your place eh? He clinked a bottles with her and grinned with corner of his lips.

- How about we take that beer outside and head there right away? She smiled back and walked towards home with Ian’s arm around her waist pushing her to him. They finished their beer at the stairs to the building talking and laughing. They started kissing already in a hallway, going towards her apartment stumbling on the walls. She loved him, the feeling of safety in his arms holding her at night in bed and a assurance that she didn’t remain alone at the end of each day, no matter what happened through it.

_____________________________________

Note: So i decided to try write some pages of my oc memories/diary from the pre-war times as the current ones i posted only mention something here and there, not very clearly. To introduce how she got into the gangs and how her work looked it and people she met. This is very first basic introduction of sort ofc, not saying much but i will be scribbling more going deeper and closer to the explosion. I skip past her job at court and brutal incident that gave her a bloodworm/leech trauma as i am not skilled enough to write such a brutal scenes. (im a total random just writing some stuff coming up randomly to my head) So ye..after the court incident the gang member who she defended before and helped her get healed directed her to work at Harrison office to put some of her skills to good use and give her a safe workplace as Harrison was also in a contact with gangs. Ian never knew what she was doing other than changing her profession to a investigator’s assistant and working with the man. After all everyone thought he is legal and no one bothered with old retired man. I will be getting later to all the night club stuff and deeper into that shit. Cheers.

#fallout 4 #fo4 #lucy's pre-war diary #lucy feit #pre-war memories #i like aesthetics so i will be using those for these pages as oppose to shots from game for current ones #source of aesthetics - well half of google ofc

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entwinedmoon · 5 years

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John Torrington: Life in a Northern Town

(Previous posts 1, 2)

What was John Torrington’s life like before he joined the Franklin Expedition? There are a few things we know for sure, a handful that we can infer, and everything else is speculation.

So what do we know for sure?

We know he was born and raised in Manchester. During his lifetime, the industrial revolution was already in full swing, and Manchester held a significant role in that. The majority of cotton manufacturing in the UK took place in and around Manchester, so much so that it earned the nickname “Cottonopolis.” Steam engines powered the cotton mills, choking the air with coal dust and smoke. People came from across the British Isles to find jobs in Manchester, causing its population to boom in the early part of the nineteenth century. I believe William Torrington was one of these jobseekers, as a later census record that I think refers to him indicates that he’s not native to Manchester. I have yet to be able to find his baptism registry, but there a few possible records that could be his, and none of the possible William Torringtons that I’ve found were born in Manchester. But what exactly was life like in Manchester at this time?

Ask Friedrich Engels.

Yes, that Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx’s BFF and co-author of The Communist Manifesto. Before he met Marx and wrote one of the most influential—and notorious—political documents in history, Engels wrote another book, The Condition of the Working Class in England. It was first published in 1845, the same year Torrington would leave Manchester for his fateful trip to the Arctic. The book was written when Engels lived in Manchester from 1842 to 1844, and it was heavily inspired by what he saw during his time there.

Engels wrote of disease and terrible living conditions in large cities such as Manchester, with mortality rates rising sharply since industrialization and urbanization had begun. People lived in poverty, they suffered from poor health and lacked autonomy, and they were at the mercy of heartless employers who exploited them. Factory accidents, pollution—especially terrible air quality due to coal smoke from the factories, overcrowding, overwork, and other deplorable conditions affected the working class while wealthy business owners profited at their expense. Basically, all the negative stereotypes of the industrial age that we think of, such as Victorian factory owners who employ child workers and pay absurdly low wages to people living in rundown tenements, who will inevitably die of disease while coughing on the ever-present coal smoke? That’s Manchester, baby!

Now, this was, of course, merely Engels’ interpretation of the situation, but one based on observations of the real conditions that many people lived in at the time. Of course, not everyone suffered thanks to industrialization. The burgeoning middle class benefited, as did wealthy people such as Engels’ own father, who owned multiple textile factories. But it’s clear that those of the working class did experience some pretty horrifying living and working conditions.

John Torrington was a member of the working class.

We know that his father, William, was a coachman, a working-class position. A coachman is exactly what it sounds like—someone who drove a coach, a type of horse-drawn vehicle. This was a position that required little education, as William was unable to write his own name as of 1823. (The fact that he could sign his name in a later document is interesting, and suggests he received at least some level of education as an adult, possibly personal tutoring from an acquaintance, an employer, or even his wife Sarah, who could sign her name.) The term often is used to refer to a private coachman (essentially, the precursor of the chauffeur), who served wealthy families and would also be responsible for overseeing the stables. But in a bustling city like Manchester, there was plenty of need for public transportation, so it’s possible William worked as the Victorian equivalent of a taxi driver.

Coming from a working-class background, Torrington would have had limited schooling, but we do know he received enough to be able to sign his name, since he signed the Allotment book for the Franklin Expedition. His signature on that document, by the way, is my favorite, because he ran out of room and his name was going to spill over into the next column, so he wrote his name like this:

John Torring

ton

He ran out of room, and on an official naval document—a now very important historical document that serious researchers pore over—he wrote his name as

John Torring

ton.

Never have I identified so strongly with a dead Victorian sailor.

But anyway…

Torrington clearly received some education, although it’s hard to say how much. In 1833, money was allocated to build schools for the poor throughout England, and there were churches that taught poor children in Sunday schools, but education for the lower classes was limited. And girls often received no education at all. Torrington’s sister, Esther, for instance, could not sign her name, so whatever education he was able to gain was not shared equally (which is a shame, since her mother had clearly received some form of education, but Esther did not share the same opportunity).

Speaking of 1833, there’s another aspect of Torrington’s life we do know about for a fact: He lost his mother.

Sarah Shaw Torrington died in 1833. The cause of death is not listed on her burial record, but in Victorian Manchester there were plenty of ways for people to die. For instance, in 1832, Manchester was struck by a massive cholera outbreak, starting in May and lasting into January of 1833. Perhaps she was one of the epidemic’s last victims. But without any records, no one can say for sure.

She was buried in Prestwich on February 3, but the exact day of death is not shown. Her age is listed in the record as 27, which means that she probably was born either in 1805 or 1806. The record lists her abode as Prestwich, the same place she was buried. Prestwich is considered part of the Greater Manchester area, but it is not within the city itself, which means the Torringtons must have moved. It doesn’t seem that uncommon for the working class to move around, from what I’ve seen of census records. However, William Torrington (and I assume, his family) lived in Manchester in 1823, 1825, and later in 1836. Why would the family move to Prestwich in the intervening years only to move back to Manchester?

I started to think that maybe Sarah was originally from Prestwich. Perhaps the family had moved in with her parents when she became sick, which is why they are listed as living there.

Looking at baptism records, there were a lot of Sarah Shaws born in 1805 and 1806. Some of them were born in or around Manchester, some outside of the area. When I searched for a Sarah Shaw born in Prestwich around the same time, I found precisely one record. There was a Sarah Shaw baptized on July 22, 1804, in Prestwich. Being born in 1804 would have made her 28, going on 29, in 1833, but as I’ve mentioned before, ages weren’t always recorded exactly. Of course, I can’t prove that this is the Sarah Shaw—and there are numerous candidates who better fit the age given on her death certificate—but it’s a possibility. We may never know if this is Torrington’s mother or not, but I’m putting it on the maybe pile, not just because Prestwich is where she’s buried, but also because of another intriguing factoid: her parents’ names were John and Esther.

Again, that’s not proof of anything and could be purely coincidental. However, this new information made me reconsider another record. William Torrington’s indictment lists two sureties, one of whom is George Calvert, and the other was Esther Shane, a widow from Manchester. After finding the record for the Prestwich Sarah Shaw, I wondered if perhaps the name of Shane had been mistranscribed on the original document. What if the name was recorded incorrectly and it should say Shaw?

This is pure speculation, of course, but if this actually is Esther Shaw, mother of Prestwich Sarah, then that would mean Sarah’s mother was now widowed and living in Manchester. And acting as surety for her indicted son-in-law. If so, did she live with the Torringtons during this time? Did she help out with her grandchildren when they were growing up? These are some interesting possibilities, but they all hinge on a name being wrong when I have no reason whatsoever to think it was written wrong. This is just me grasping at straws, trying to cram the puzzle pieces together, but it’s a fun thought experiment, even if that’s all it is.

Torrington would have been seven when Sarah died, and Esther only six. That’s a young age to lose a parent, and it must have been rough on William suddenly being the sole caregiver of two young children. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t take long for William to remarry. On June 21, 1836, William married Mary Hoyle, making her John and Esther’s stepmother and the newest member of the Torrington clan.

But Mary may not have been the only one joining the Torrington household on that day. The marriage certificate lists Mary as a widow. Hoyle is her married name, and for a while I couldn’t find her maiden name, ironically making it difficult to find her first marriage certificate and therefore her first husband—and any children they may have had. Recently, however, I found a family tree on Ancestry that says Mary’s maiden name was Warren. The baptism record for a couple Mary Warrens matches other records that I long-suspected referred to her in her later years, and a Mary Warren did indeed marry a man named Hoyle—Jonathan Hoyle—in 1823, the same year William and Sarah married. Jonathan Hoyle was also a coachman, like William, which makes me wonder if they knew each other. Were the Warren Hoyles friends of the Shaw Torringtons? Who knows?

Since this is relatively new information for me, I haven’t researched it as fully as I have some other records, and there are a few discrepancies I haven’t been able to tease out. For one, Mary’s baptism took place in Manchester Cathedral, (as did her marriage to Jonathan Hoyle), however, her marriage certificate and a later census record I believe belongs to her says she was from Ashton-under-Lyne. Ashton is also considered part of the Greater Manchester area, like Prestwich, so it’s not that far from Manchester itself. Maybe there was a lot of moving going on? Also, I have yet to find Jonathan Hoyle’s death record. He must have died, since Mary was a widow, but I can’t find the record. I don’t know how to explain these discrepancies, and I haven’t had a chance to investigate further. Still, it looks like I found the right Mary, despite the problems. UPDATE: I have since learned that the Collegiate Church in Manchester held a monopoly over the licenses required to perform baptisms and marriages during this time. This means that many people from Greater Manchester travelled to the city for these services, so their records would seem to indicate they were from Manchester when in fact they were from one of the surrounding townships. This probably explains these discrepancies. (It also raises the question, what about the Torringtons' records? Did they actually live in Manchester or in one of the surrounding towns?)

Mary and Jonathan had two children, both baptized in Ashton-under-Lyne (definitely some moving around going on). Their oldest was William, baptized January 2, 1825 (and therefore most likely born in late 1824), followed by James Warren Hoyle, baptized February 11, 1827. If I’ve found the right Hoyles (and I’m going to keep saying if because I haven’t been able to verify it), then Mary brought two sons with her into the Torrington family, giving John and Esther two stepbrothers—one older and one younger than the two Torrington kids.

How well did these two families integrate? Did John and Esther get along with their new brothers? Did Mary mind doubling her brood? We’ll probably never know.

But what happened to Torrington after this major life event? What did he do as he came of working age but before he joined the Franklin Expedition?

I have no idea.

I mean, I have some idea, based on speculation and probabilities, but no firm facts. Ideally, his occupation would have been listed in the 1841 census. Except he’s not in the 1841 census.

There are some John Torringtons in the 1841 census. In fact, there’s one that I briefly thought was him because the age was oh-so-close to Torrington’s:

FYI, the occupation listed of MS meant Male Servant, which doesn’t sound like a great career, but there are a couple problems here. One, this guy is 17 years old, while my boy should have been 15 going on 16 in 1841. One year off isn’t so bad, which is why I thought it might be him, but it’s not perfect. Two, this Torrington is living in St George Hanover Square in Middlesex, not Manchester. Torrington may have moved, of course, there’s no way to know if he lived in Manchester his whole life, but there’s something that’s not adding up here.

Wrong age, wrong place. Sound familiar?

Yeah, that’s got to be good old JT1, the Torrington born in Norfolk in 1824. Which means, my boy isn’t in the census.

There are several reasons why someone might not be in the census. They could be out of the country, or traveling overnight, or staying in part of the country where the records for 1841 are missing. Heck, the name could even be misspelled. A simple explanation would be that if Torrington were working on a ship and was away at sea, then that would explain why he’s not there. There’s just one problem with that.

His family isn’t in the census either.

Esther’s not in the census, Mary’s not in the census, even William doesn’t appear to be in the census. (Now, there is a William Torrington in Manchester in 1841, but he’s a little younger than I suspect Torrington’s father to be, and he’s listed as a laborer, which is the same occupation as JT1’s father. He’s also in jail. Considering William’s previous run-in with the law, this isn’t so surprising, but I don’t think this is the right William.)

The only members of the family who may be in the census are Mary’s sons from her first marriage, William and James Hoyle. A James Hoyle is listed as 14, right next to a William Hoyle, age 15. James would have been 14 in 1841, but William should have been 16 or so. However, in the 1841 census, ages for anyone older than 15 were supposed to be rounded down to the nearest multiple of 5 (not everyone did this, clearly, as JT1 is listed as 17), so this could still be him.

William and James are listed together at the same address, and they both have the occupation of “cotton piercer.” I can’t find information on what a “piercer” did, but a cotton piecer was a common job for children in the cotton industry, which involved repairing broken threads during spinning. The Hoyle boys are in Ashton-under-Lyne and are listed among a large number of people who don’t share the same last names. Were they living in Ashton while Mary lived in Manchester? Who were they staying with? Why aren’t they living with the Torringtons?

Which brings us back to the original question, where was the Torrington family? Were the Torrington’s staying overnight somewhere else? Were they travelling? Why was the family separated from the Hoyle boys?

We may never know the answers to these questions, unfortunately. And we may never know what Torrington did before he joined the Franklin Expedition, but there are a few possibilities based on what we know of his job on the expedition.

But that is for my next post.

<<Back | Next >>

Torrington Series Masterlist

#john torrington #franklin expedition #long post

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goddessvicky · 5 years

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Blood Stained Flashback!

Seems like a good day to re-post a little snippet of my current work!

From “Blood Stained,” a Steve/Darcy/Bucky WinterShieldShock fic!

It was sweltering. The warm summer sun had bathed the Brooklyn streets all day, and even though the sun was setting, the buildings hemorrhaged heat to the point where staying inside was impossible. The rooftops were filled with residents looking for any reprieve from the sticky fever temperature. Despite the heat, there was a flurry of activity at the top of the tenements. Children ran with sparklers in hand, trailing wakes of light as they laughed and played.

Bucky Barnes’ attention was drawn to his right when the boy sharing his sheet let out a frustrated sigh and began erasing what he’d just drawn. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I can’t get his hands right.”

Stretching so he could spy what was on his best friend’s pad of paper, Bucky’s eyebrows raised, a impressed smirk on his face. “They look great.”

“They don’t look real,” Steve Rogers said as he brought the pencil to the page, painstakingly going slow in an attempt to be satisfied. When it continued to vex him, he let out a trumpet of air and pulled the paper from the book before balling it up in his hands. He lifted his arm as if he was going to toss the ball over the edge of the roof, but was stopped at the last minute when Bucky’s fist shot out and caught it. “Let it go, Buck.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Bucky said, carefully un-crinkling the page and smoothing it with his hands, “everything you draw is a masterpiece.”

Feeling his cheeks heat at the compliment, Steve looked down at an empty page. A blank piece of paper had never sat right with him, and though he itched to fill it was something, he had to admit the sun had dipped low enough that the sunlight would be the next to go. He flipped the cover of the pad closed and carefully stowed the new pencil set that had been a birthday present from the Barnes family. He ran his fingers over the wood, feeling like he was an imposter working with something so nice.

He looked over as Bucky ran his hands over the drawing again, grey gaze focused on the half-finished image. Steve had never met anyone as unfailingly charming as James Barnes. Ever since they were children, the dark-haired boy with the charismatic smile had made Steve feel shy, unable to accept the amount of support Bucky seemed to have in spades. While Steve might carry doubt, Bucky answered back with absolute certainty and the perfect words to lift his spirit.

An errant firecracker sounded on one of the rooftops surrounding them, and Steve’s attention was drawn to the flickering lights and laughter. When the first burst of an actual firework squealed into the sky, his blue gaze directed up, watching the explosion of color in the sky.

“They’re for you, you know that, right?” Bucky held his breath when Steve looked over at him, the wrinkle between Steve’s brow taking the entirety of Bucky’s attention. He’d known the man beside him for as long as he could remember, and the feelings in his chest were indescribable. Even with all the flashing lights and screams of children to distract, he only had eyes for his best friend. “The fireworks. They’re for your birthday.”

“They’re for the fourth,” Steve said with a soft roll of his eyes, “not me.”

“Nuh-uh,” Bucky said with a shake of his head, eyes flicking up when another burst lit the sky. “Whenever I see fireworks, it just makes me think of you.”

The conviction in Bucky’s voice made Steve’s heart beat faster, and he looked down at his hands and the dark smudges on his fingers from the art pencils, needing to avert his gaze, not wanting Bucky to see the barely-veiled desire in his eyes. He was still trying to understand his own feelings about the man at his side, and the last thing he wanted to do was irreparably harm the most important relationship in his life.

“When I’m overseas, every firework I see will make me think of you.” Bucky saw Steve look over at him sharply, but he kept his eyes skyward, another burst bathing them in green light. “They won’t celebrate the fourth, obviously, but there’ll be something, I’m sure.”

“Most blasts you’ll see will be artillery fire,” Steve said, unable to keep the worry from his tone. Bucky going into the army was an inevitability, but it was one Steve hadn’t fully accepted. He’d been at Bucky’s side for so long that it felt incredibly wrong to be anywhere else, and the prospect of losing his best friend filled his veins with ice. “You’ll be careful?”

Bucky’s gaze slid to Steve, watching his eyes grow brighter when another burst filled the air with the same cornflower blue of Steve’s eyes. “When am I not careful?”

Lips lifting in response to the smirk on Bucky’s face, Steve fidgeted with his hands, a restless energy that seemed to fill him any time he remember the days of Bucky being right beside him were numbered. “Just keep your head down and you’ll be alright.”

There was a hint of resignation in Steve’s tone, and it furrowed Bucky’s brow. He still had three years before he could enlist, but it’d been his path in life since he was born. His father had fought beside Steve’s in World War I, best friends until the very end, and even though he was following in his father’s footsteps, Bucky could think of nothing but the pain he’d feel when he’d have to leave the man at his side. “I’m coming home, Steve.”

Steve sighed and leaned back against the roof’s railing, letting his eyes fall closed. “I know, Buck.”

“No, Steve,” Bucky said, reaching out to rest his hand over Steve’s, watching the blond look over at him in surprise. “Listen to me very carefully: there is not a single thing in this world that would keep me from coming home to you.” The look on Steve’s face froze Bucky’s heart, and felt his chest tighten in anxiety. There was a weight to his words, a deeper meaning that was telegraphed in his gaze. Bucky watched Steve’s eyes for any sign that he understood what he meant in the words he hadn’t said. “Nothing.”

Blinking at Bucky, feeling the air heavy with importance, Steve felt the weight on his chest, finding it hard to swallow around the emotion in his throat. He turned the hand beneath Bucky’s, carefully twining their fingers together, feeling the heat and warmth of Bucky’s hand in his.

A confession without words.

A promise without strings.

An inevitability.

Steve wasn’t sure how long they’d stayed there like that, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes, but the scream of a child startled him and he pulled his hand back, glancing around to make sure no one had seen what happened, but nobody was giving them a second glance, too concerned with the fireworks and conversation. When he looked back at Bucky, his best friend’s eyes were still on him. “I want to go with you,” he finally said, feeling the first sting of tears. “I should be going with you.”

“You are.” Again, the gravity of what Bucky revealed was in the words not being said. “Wherever I am, you are, too.”

Chest fluttering, Steve wished he could explain the terror and fear that gripped him at the thought of losing his best friend, let alone the love of his life. Because that was Bucky was. Even though it hadn’t been spoken of, and even if it was ‘wrong’, James Barnes was the only person he wanted to have by his side. Forever.

Bucky opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off when the first volley of real fireworks split the sky. As everyone on the hot and humid rooftops looked up in awe, Bucky and Steve continued to look at each other, their skin painted with reds, and greens, and blues. Stealing a moment while everyone’s attention was pointed up, Bucky leaned against Steve’s side, their bodies touching from knee to shoulder. With a quick glance, verifying that no one was looking in their direction, Bucky dipped his head and pressed his lips against Steve’s. It was only for a fraction of a second, but as he pulled back, all Bucky wanted to do was press in again, to feel the same rush at finally expressing what he’d felt for his best friend since they were children.

Rooted to the spot and feeling surprise ping through his body, Steve tasted the hint of spun sugar that they’d shared earlier in the day, a splurged expense in honor of the day. His cheeks were flaming, not from the heat of the sun but the warmth of desire, and he blinked slowly at Bucky, feeling light headed. He wanted nothing more than to have another kiss, but he knew better than to press their luck since they were surrounded. A shy smile turned his lips, and he watched it mirrored in Bucky’s gaze, too.

“Happy Birthday, Steve,” Bucky said, his smile growing as he turned his face toward the sky, the sparks in the air second-fiddle to the ones in his stomach.

Darcy Lewis laid back on the grass, arms raised and hands pillowed under her head, hazel eyes blinking slowly. Her Fourth of July celebration was the same every year, and she’d been doing it for more than a decade. The ground was soft from the rains the previous day, and as she gazed up at the darkening sky, a memory crystalized in her mind, and she let it pull her backward through time.

”Okay, how about that one?”

“It was red.”

“Mmhmmm.”

“Which means….” A nine-year-old Darcy glanced in Abigail Lewis’ direction. “… calcium?”

“Oh, so close, my little star,” Abigail said with a smile. “Calcium salts make orange fireworks. Red is strontium and lithium.”

Clapping a hand over her forehead, Darcy’s expression was exaggerated in order to earn a laugh from her mother. “Duh, I knew that. It was just stored all the way in the back of my head.”

Abigail laughed, reaching out to poke Darcy in the ribs and earning a squeal of giggles as the girl rolled away from her on the grass then returned to her side. “Okay,” she continued, “we’ll just wait for the next one. So pull all that knowledge to the front of your head.”

“Not all of us are geniuses like you, Mommy,” Darcy groused, though the smile on her face was large.

“Anyone can be a genius about something. Yours might not be science, which is alright by me. You’ll just have to discover where your genius hides.”

Darcy frowned, a bit of the light dimming in her eyes. “What If I never find it?”

Abigail clicked her tongue and turned onto her side so she could see her daughter. “You will, Darcy-love. Even if it takes you forever.”

“Forever?” Darcy said, eyes widening comically. “Forever forever?”

Chuckling, Abigail reached out and ran a finger down Darcy’s forehead, then nose, then ended by gripping the girl’s chin softly. “Maybe not forever, but you’ll find it. I believe in you.”

Darcy grinned, one of her front teeth missing and the one beside it moving enough that it was next. She scooted closer across the blanket, so she could put her head next to her mom’s, both of them looking up at the sky. “I believe in you too, mommy,” she breathed, reaching so she could grab a bit of her mom’s dark hair and twirl it around one of her fingers. “We can believe in each other.”

“Always, Star Dust. Always.”

Back in Virginia, a bright spark of green lit the sky and a smile curled Darcy’s lips. “Barium.”

Blue.

“Copper.”

Purple.

“Stronium and copper.”

Silver.

“Aluminum, titanium, and magnesium.”

When the sky turned yellow, Darcy opened her mouth to speak them paused, looking to her right for help. “I always forget yellow,” she murmured, fingertips absently tracing her mother’s name on the tombstone beside her. “Sorry. It’ll come to me, just give it a moment.”

Closing her eyes, still able to see the pops of colors through her eyelids as they lit the sky around her, Darcy thought back to the fourth of July’s she’d spent at her mother’s side, oohing and aahing at the pretty lights, the smell of sulphur hanging in the air.

“Sodium,” Darcy gasped, her eyes flying open, a smile curling her lips. “Sodium makes them yellow.”

As the grand finale began in the distance, Darcy went quiet, the soft breeze ruffling the grass around her and setting her curls to fly around her head. It was July, but a shiver traveled up her spine, heart and mind traveling back to a time before she’d experienced the bitter taste of loss. Her mother had never dwelt in darkness or sadness, and she’d instilled the same values in her daughter.

“Nothing happens to you,” Abigail was fond of saying, ”it happens for you.”

Watching the colors fade and twinkle, Darcy let out a deep breath, letting her pain sink into the ground beneath her until she felt nothing but happy at the bittersweet memories that flashed in her mind. “Happy birthday, mom.”

#Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers #Darcy Lewis #Stucky #WinterShieldShock #Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes/Darcy Lewis #Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes/Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers #ShieldShock #WinterShock #Blood Stained

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science-fiction-is-real · 5 years

Text

In which i talk about joseph stalin for a long time and also about intersectionality

You know who i’ve been reading a lot about recently?

Joseph Stalin.

And I’ve been reading, and while i’m at work all day, working mostly alone, no music or distractions, i’ve been thinking about everything i’ve been reading.

and this fucker who died before my parents were even born has been on my mind, because i just don’t fucking get it.

This idiot was a revolutionary. a god damn REVOLUTIONARY. Did hard time in siberia as a political prisoner. (I mean, probably also a prisoner for all the organized crime he was doing---to fund the REVOLUTION) That’s not the sort of thing a grifter, who is only interested in power, gets into. It’s an absolutely terrible grift. It’s a lot of risk to take if you aren’t a true believer.

And in between all the bank robberies and what not, he edited a newspaper and did a lot of writing. There’s a database online where you can read pretty much everything Stalin ever wrote (Along with pretty much every thing pretty much every other famous Marxist ever wrote). I can’t really bring myself to read too much of his stuff. Eww. Why would I want to. Gross. But also I feel like i should in the name of fact checking, and understanding what I’m talking about before I talk about it.

But the stuff i did read, was...... not terrible....? Some of it was replying to other socialist writing (because what do lefties enjoy more than arguing with other lefties, amiright???), a lot of it was old fashioned marxist stuff talking about working class vs capitalists, and a lot of it was describing legitimate complaints about the Czarist government. Expressing anger at the pogroms and the suppression of ethnic minorities and hunger and poverty. Sounds like a good reason to have a revolution to me.

Of course, those were all the same sorts of atrocities he himself would go on to do. again. eww.

But, after all of this, it’s pretty clear to me that pre-revolutionary Stalin was a true fuckin believer.

And that kept me up at night. Because how come that would change when he himself came into power?

Is it because once you’re handed power, the temptation to abuse it is just far too great? Is it because when the revolution is over, and the complexities of the ‘’Real World,’’ are obvious, and it’s all to easy to abandon idealism in order to get things done? Are all post-revolutionary periods destined to be violent and oppressive, because the new government wants to assert its power? How much blame does he get personally, and how much goes to the other founders of the revolutionary movement--Lenin and Trotsky and the like-- who laid the groundwork for how things would function? IS socialism itself just cursed to fail like my republican grandma told me?

Or is this just a classical example of the other thing our republican grandmas warned us about, radical idealists turning cranky and cruel and conservative in old age just like they did? I mean what sort of things did stalin do while in power? A lot of pretty republican things. LMAO. Banning the gays and abortion, enforcing strict gender norms, getting TOUGH ON CRIME! Beefing up the military on money that should be used to provide for people’s basic needs....

If the right gets to try and pass off Hitler as a socialist, the left gets to say that Stalin was a moderate republican. (Not full republican. I mean, he did actually react appropriately when he found out there were Nazis in his country. Just moderate republican.) LMAO!

But then i thought about it a little more.

No. He was not a right winger. No one who spends the first half of his adult life trying to overthrow a government that had been ruling for 300 years is a god damn fucking right winger. He was left wing. But..... Old timy left wing.

Because he did make good on a lot of the socialist ideas while in office. I’m pretty sure he set up a fairly solid welfare state, free housing and education and healthcare and whatnot. That was pretty new and revolutionary for the time.

But... Old timy left wing.

and if you think about old timy left-wingers. most of them are only left wing in SOME areas. The right absolutely LOVES to point this out. ‘’Sure Margaret Sanger was a radical feminist, but she was also a racist!’’ ‘’This person was a racist, this person was homophobic! All your icons are fake frauds!’’ I mean, they probably were all racist and homophobic and whatnot, but that doesn’t actually deminish the radicality of the stuff they were ‘’woke’’ on.

And that’s true for the pre-marxist left too. We can hate on Thomas Jefferson all day long for being a creepy rapy slave owner and rich asshole who should have been tarred and feathered and (sorry, i brought up thomas jefferson, i have to go take 5 and cool down before i punch something) But he still was..... left. To say ‘’all men are created equal,’’ even if you just mean straight white men, was still kind of radical in the 18th century, when the world was still divided up between the gentry and the common men, and people were presumed to have class status that was bred into them and was part of their very inner nature. The idea that you could just throw out the idea of a nobility ruling class, or the monarchy, and initiate some sort of meritocracy based system, was out of this fucking world at that point.

And you can say the say the same thing about the russian revolutionaries. You can criticize them up and down and left and right for being undemocratic, but the idea that wealth should be something everyone has guaranteed access to, that no one should hold economic power over you, that working people deserve some sort of dignified recognition for what they do, that was--AND STILL IS--radical.

Lenin, who lived in monarchical empire, saw the western countries move away from monarchies and embrace our versions of Western Capitalist Democracy (TM). He decided his revolution would go in a different direction, one of economic instead of political democracy. The western style of revolution had been tried, and now it was time to try out an eastern style of revolution.

I think he would have said something like ‘’look, ya’ll in france and england can vote, and i’ve been to france and england. Those places suck ass. You’re poor and hungry and miserable and working 10 hours a day for shit pay and going home to your crammed tenement apartments before dying of cholera at the age of 12. Hell of a lot a good DeMoCrAcY does. We need ECONOMIC democracy instead.’’

I do remember a quote from lenin, that said something along the lines of ‘’Yes, my system isn’t ‘democratic’ but if you think about it, it’s a hell of a lot more democratic than anything they’re doing in capitalist countries.’’

Of course, we modern folk who fancy ourselves so enlightened by hindsight will point out that you need BOTH economic and political democracy. A democratic government being run alongside an undemocratic economy is oppression. Anyone who lives in the United States and has read more than three books in their life can see this. It SUCKS. Likewise. An egalitarian economy being run by an undemocratic government is also oppression, because the government can do whatever it wants to the economy, like, say.... sell all the country’s food on the international market to fund various different 5-year-plan projects. Had Stalin been subjected to democratic processes, he never would have been allowed to do that.

In the early 20th century, there wasn’t really much of a concept of INTERSECTIONALITY. in the modern left, we pretty much agree that if you want to have freedom and equality in one sphere of life, you also need to pursue freedom and equality in other spheres. Oppression is contagious. If you allow discrimination against Gays for example, this leads to discrimination against the sexes because people are going to be forced into stricter and stricter gender norms. And of course, if you want political equality under the law, you also need racial equality so that one group of people isn’t disenfranchised from voting or fair treatment by the courts.

Just like how political democracy has to happen alongside economic democracy.

So yeah, I guess after the end of all this long ranting and shit. I think it makes sense why a serious revolutionary true believer like Stalin can grow into a tyrant. Because Old timy left-wing politics was underdeveloped and had lots of blind spots. People didn’t realize that it was important for movements to be led by people who were seriously committed to intersectional emancipation. Young Stalin when he would go hang out with all of his socialist dude-bro friends, planning their bank heists, wearing their newsboys hats, trying not to die of cholera, he probably wasn’t being called out on sexism or racism. They were just an economic-left movement that didn’t care much about the other stuff.

But there isn’t really a whole lot to gain by doing a character analysis on some ass wipe who kicked the bucket before color television was even invented. All the terrible things he did and all the good intentions, sincere or not, that he had, that is between him and whatever God is governing this bitch of a universe. We on the left know better than to look at individuals to answer important questions, we know to look at systems. And gather lessons so that we can build better movements in the future.

Yeah, whatever, intersectionality.

Sorry this was so long and poorly written. I shall cite no sources and do no editing. Fuck you. Thanks for reading.

#history #hot takes #politics #socialism #opinion time

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jack-kellys · 6 years

Text

thank u, next

CHAPTER THREE HAS ARRIVED IN THEATERS AT LAST THAnks tumblr for literally melting down yikes

sorry I’ve been RIDICULOUSLY MIA guys requests are coming soon after this :)

—————

chapters one (x) and two (x)

warnings: cursing, implied past NSFW things, death mention

words: 1800+ sorry not as much as I’d HOPED

—————

Three

Race woke up happy, which was bad.

That hadn’t happened in a century.

He was also tangled in someone’s warm arms and laying against someone’s tanned chest, which happened a lot, but the fact that Race regretted it in a different kind of way this time was definitely a strange feeling. And bad.

“Mornin’,” said the someone, voice groggy.

Race shifted slightly, looking at Al’s face.

This poor, poor boy.

The first thing Race noticed were his eyes—unfocused and cloudy with something, but content. His cheeks were a bit more flushed than normal, too. Al looked hazy so say the least, but he was smiling through it.

Guilt crashed down onto Race and he curled back into Albert’s chest, unable to meet his eyes. Al didn't deserve this. He wished he hadn’t gotten involved, wish he never stepped through that door.

But now here Al was anyway, much to Race’s dismay. The first person he truly felt bad for, despite the hundreds before him.

Over his years, Race had learned that most people weren’t…good. Most people had an edge to them, or such a lack thereof that they turned uninteresting, and nearly everyone he had come across were never a good balance of the two. And then Al happened. Race didn’t understand. His streak had suddenly broke like that, his heart was suddenly beating like that, he suddenly wanted to touch someone like that. Albert somehow made him want to try and be more of himself, more real, more honest, just like that.

“Hey, Albie, I...should tell you something—important—about me,” Race said quietly into Al’s chest, tracing down his side to distract his racing mind.

“Does this important something require pants?” Al sighed, starting to untangle himself from Race, who couldn’t help huffing out a slight giggle.

“No, I guess not, but get ‘em anyway,” Race shrugged, lugging himself out of the bed to put his own back on too, then flopping back down face-first.

He couldn’t just...tell Albert, right? Not everything at least. There would probably be some consequence for that. He mumbled into the mattress instead, opting for stalling, before Al moved Race into his lap.

“What’s wrong, Race? Actually,” Albert added, his expression much clearer than it was before. His brown eyes were sharp and worried instead of dazed and dreamy. They flitted around Race’s face, almost protectively, and Race could tell that it was instinct and not just Race’s effect. That made him a little more comfortable.

“It’s just really, really weird, okay? Like nothing you’ve heard before,” Race mumbled.

“Then out with it,” Al urged. “It’s easier to just get it out of you than to just sit with it, I swear. I won’t judge you or nothin’.”

“But you will. You’ll kinda have to.”

“But I won’t.”

“Well, you will.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes I do!” Race burst, “because—because I’m not…” He took a deep breath.

“I’m not like you, on a metaphysical level. Meaning, like, um…”

Al’s expression had turned slightly confused and only more worried. Race let out a short sigh.

“I’m not technically a person. A human. Anymore. Ya know?”

Race shrunk down at his own confession, not meeting Al’s intense gaze. He was putting pieces together, Race could tell.

“So, what, you’re like dead or somethin’?” Al said after a minute. Then he gasped lightly. “Race, I better not’ve committed necrophilia, oh my god, Race, this might be bad, like really bad, god...” Al’s voice grew slightly frantic, pulling himself away from Race.

“Al, hey, wait…” Race tried, but Al had drawn back, muttering ‘I just fucked a ghost’ over a few times. Race rolled his eyes and grabbed onto Albert’s hands, locking eyes with him.

“You didn’t just fuck a ghost, okay?” Race said, saying his words slowly.

“I didn’t?” Albert’s eyes were wide, and a little scared. Race winced.

“No, you didn’t. I’m not dead—anymore. Just, um, lemme explain.”

After a beat, Albert nodded slightly, looking at Race expectantly.

Oh, shit. Obviously he had to follow through. Race let himself think a moment before speaking again.

“So, um, all the way back in the late 1800s, my mom brought me and my siblings here from Italy. That apartment—when it was a tenement, I mean—was where we lived for a while. But it was really shitty, and gross, you know. Our landlord didn’t give a shit, just like everyone else. The city was really disgusting then—and now, but then was...real bad, Al. And so I got sick. And died.”

Race watched Al rest his chin in his hand, contemplating the first part of Race’s history. Race couldn’t read his expression, which was new.

“No, keep going,” Al murmured with a nod. “Can’t just stop there, right?”

He smiled, which made Race smile. “Right.

“So I died in, uh, that apartment. But my mom was...kind of a witch by today’s definition. And she put this spell on my, like, body, is what I gather. So when she died, I would be revived, and generally haunt this area. Specifically the apartment.”

Albert nodded, not speaking for a few moments. He was taking this surprisingly well for just some guy, Race thought.

“But we’re at your apartment. You own your own apartment…” Albert trailed off for a second. “Are you not... tied to the other apartment? Metaphorically?”

Race shrugged. “Haven’t really thought of it that way. Uh, I guess...only...a little, ‘cause I’ve been the realtor since...yeah. I kind of still don’t know what the hell I am, since this was all done to me when I was...dead,” Race said quietly.

“Right, yeah. Sorry,” Al added. “This just ain’t usual ghost stuff as far as I know. So we can rule that out.”

“Yeah, we can rule that out,” Race laughed softly.

“One thing doesn’t make sense—or, well. Makes less sense than the rest of this,” Al said, unsure of his words and unknowing of Race’s heart slamming against his chest as he said those words. “Why would your mom do that? Why not just bring you back to life so you could be with your family?” Albert’s nose was slightly scrunched in thought, his gaze lowered. Race could tell he was thinking; maybe too much thinking.

Race bit his lip. He knew why his mother had done this to him, but there wasn’t any way in hell he was saying that.

Quick, Race, c’mon.

“Maybe I’m here to make sure...” Race briefly lost his thought before grabbing hold of the lie again. “To make sure that anyone who buys that place doesn’t end up like me?”

Al’s eyebrow raised at Race’s inflection. “Ain’t you sure?” he asked Race.

Al looked alarmingly skeptical, making Race irritatingly nervous. He still wasn’t used to feeling outdone, not used to others feeling unimpressed by him; even if Al normally was impressed, he did have moments when he doubted things too much.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Race nodded, Albert’s expression still remaining.

“You realize that implies that anyone who buys that apartment would die, right? Without you?”

“Yeah, yeah, the place was probably cursed before me and my family moved into it,” Race tried to clarify. “I’m like a blockade. Against it.”

But Al’s expression only furrowed further. “Well, then that implies that...that supernatural people before your mom occupied that building, which...I have trouble wrapping my head around,” Al sighed. “Like, okay, whatever, you’re a mix between zombie and reincarnation, sure—long as I didn’t commit necrophilia. But the weirdest thing to me is that your mom wouldn’t just bring you back to life in your time, and instead make you stay behind for...who knows how long. You’re her family, I just…the motive is wacked out. It’s not a good enough reason to leave her own son behind...” Albert thought out loud, then he flinched at his words and muttered an apology.

Race scoffed, heart hammering. “Thought you said you were a physics major, not an investigative journalist.”

“It just so happens,” Albert said, raising his eyebrow again, “that I took a course in legal studies ‘cause my friend dared me too, and paranormal stuff was kind of, like, my shit.”

“Really,” Race said, pulling at his hands nervously.

“Yeah. Really. I don't wanna push anything, but there's definitely something you ain't telling me,” Al said quietly, his serious expression unwavering. “Don’t worry—I get it, a lot, I’m just telling you that I can tell somethin’s up.”

Race’s eyes narrowed, pulled back into business mode. He shouldn’t have told Al anything, he was too smart. Race had to control this—control him.

Race reluctantly crawled forward, Albert glancing up and down at him looking like he wanted to say something. Race sat himself right in front of Al, then placed his index and middle fingers on Albert’s temple, his ring and pinkie fingers on the corner of his jaw, and rested his thumb on his cheek, Race biting down hard on his own lip to will himself to keep to it, to stay strong.

This was just business. Always business.

“Race, what are you…” Al said, trailing off and gazing at the position of Race’s hand.

Race leaned towards Albert’s ear. “You will accept my words and only think desperately of me, my love,” he whispered faintly, kissing beneath Al’s ear gently before pulling away, feeling like his insides were eating away at themselves.

Race had always hated this part before, but it was even worse with Albert.

Al’s face had slackened, his expression an empty page on which Race had just written instructions. His eyes were glazed over, and he stared straight ahead at nothing. Race knew that the only thought running circles through Albert’s head was Race’s sickening, sweet-toned command.

“I will accept your words,” Albert murmured, his voice like a recording, head swaying slightly from the trance, “and only think desperately of you, my love.”

“Thank you, my heart,” Race choked out before removing his hand and throwing his arms around Al, crying into his shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He cried for a small while, only quieting himself when he felt Al’s arms wrap around him.

“It’s okay, Race, oh,” Albert mumbled, “I just spaced for a sec, I’m sorry. You’re okay, it’s okay.” He kissed Race’s hair, rubbing his hand up and down his back.

“I just dumped all that onto you, I don’t know why, it-it just made me feel worse..” Race breathed, closing his eyes and putting his head into the crook of Al’s neck. “I’m so sorry, you don’t even know…”

Albert shook his head gently, placing a kiss on the back of Race’s neck. “I could never be mad at you, y’know that?” Al said softly, only causing Race’s heart to break even further. “You had to let that out. It��s heavy stuff, you don’t wanna keep that inside. All I ever wanna do is help you…”

Race tore himself away a moment to look Al in the face. His concern looked so honest and real that Race nearly started sobbing again. Al’s eyebrows were scrunched together in a grimace, but smiling through it, trying to reassure Race. After all, his brain was telling him that that was his only job.

“You’re too good,” Race whispered. “So, so good.”

Albert smiled shyly, but shook his head again. He gently kissed Race’s cheek, pausing briefly before continuing lazily onto and down his neck. Race couldn’t help leaning into it.

“No one could ever be good enough for you,” Al mumbled over Race’s skin, glancing up for a moment. There was that cloudy look again.

“You’re perfect, Race.”

Race didn’t resist as Albert pulled him into his lap for a tighter embrace. There wasn’t any way Al’s arms could be more crushing than this guilt was coming to be.

And Race wished it couldn’t be any worse than it was right then. But after so much time, he knew.

Of course it would be.

It always got worse.

————

some tea huh. anYWAY IM BACK SORRY EEK

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#thank u next series #my writing #yayeet #fizz freaks #fizz wants to write #ralbert #albert dasilva #racetrack higgins #newsies au #newsies #newsies fics #and the plot.....progresses?

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the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog · 5 years

Text

Newsies’ Little Sister

Chapter 7 - Something lost, something gained

TW: Swearing, blood, beating up, not eating (not eating disorder, but not having the time or money to eat)

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre: It’s a bit of everything tbh...

Jojo’s POV

I ran over to the body on the floor as soon as the man left. They were curled up on their side facing away from me, so I rolled them over onto their back.

"Elmer! Oh my god! What happened to you? Who did dis?" There was no answer so I shook his shoulder frantically. There was still no answer. I looked at his face. It was a mess, it was all bloody and bruised; his nose was at a weird and painful-looking angle and he was going to have a horrible black eye in the morning.

He still wasn't waking up, and I scooped him up into my arms. His head rolled to the side and some blood ended up on my shirt. Thankfully, we were only a few streets away from the Lodging House.

"Jack! Jack! Help!" I shouted as soon as I burst through the front door. Some of the boys cleared off the hard couch in the middle of the main room, as they all stood up to see what was going on. I gently lowered his limp body onto the couch as Jack asked me what happened.

He pressed a wet cloth onto Elmer's bloody face as I explained.

"Hey. Hey. Slow down a bit! Where was he when ya found him?" Jack asked. "And, someone get Davey." I looked at him, silently asking him why.

"Moral support..." He trailed off. "Doesn't matter. Oh, thank god! Right, we need you to put his nose back in place properly."

Davey knelt down and thought about what to do. He put his and on Elmer's face to straighten his nose. There was a crunch as Davey did what he had to.

Amazingly, he stayed unconscious, even when we put him into his bed to rest. He didn't move at all, and it was kind of scary actually. Elmer's my best friend and I hate to see him like this. I don't know what I'd do without him...

Emmeline's POV

By the time I stopped running and found myself in Midtown East, I was so weak I could barely stand. That day, I had barely anytime to eat because I was too busy running from the bulls. I just managed to stagger into an open doorway, when I collapsed out of tiredness and hunger. That night, I didn't dream; but instead, I woke up to the sounds of shouting in the streets.

I got up and ran towards the noise. The sight that greeted me was slightly scary. The man from the day before was there. He was beating up some kid in the middle of the street and once the kid was on the floor, the man cuffed the kids hands behind his back, and dragged him off somewhere. I didn't want to know where that poor kid was going. There was a crowd drawing around them, but they didn't do anything to help.

I looked at the streets and buildings around me, seeming as I came here at night. There were quite a few tenement buildings and between them, lines of clothes hanging out to dry. There were also quite a few alcoves in the walls, and in one of them, there was a boy about my age. He was hiding from something or someone. Probably that man.

I didn't realise, but I had been staring at him, and once he realised I was staring at him, he got up and started to walk in the opposite direction. But he stopped, very sharply. He then turned around and ran towards me and grabbed my hand. He dragged me along with him and once I heard a whistle, I realised why we were running. I sped up and began to overtake him.

"Hey over here!" He shouted to me as he turned into a back alley. I followed him and we waited for a while. Neither of us talking until we saw the bulls run past.

"Thanks for dat!" I said.

"That's alright. They were going to ta take ya to da Refuge otherwise." He looked at my confused face. He had a nice accent, but it wasn't like anything I had ever heard before.

"I saw 'em lookin' atcha and pointin' atcha. And I'se Australian." He explained, reading my mind.

'I have no idea where that is!' I thought, but instead I said, "Oh, I never got ya name."

Tommy Boy

"I'se Tommy Boy. What 'bout you?" I asked.

"I'se Emmeline. But ya can call me Em." She replied.

"Whatcha doin' in Midtown?" I asked Em.

"None of ya business." I don't think she mean to, but she looked down when she said that.

"Ahh. I get it. Homeless?" I asked tentatively. I had quite a lot of experience with that.

"Possibly." She replied quietly. That was basically a yes.

"Ya got anywhere to stay tonight?" I asked. Then internal face palmed. That was such a stupid question.

"Ummm. No. If I had somewhere to stay, I wouldn't say I was homeless." She replied, slightly annoyed. Then her stomach made a really loud noise.

Emmeline's POV

My stomach rumbled really loudly and I tried to muffle it with my arms, wrapping them around my stomach and bending over.

"Sorry!" I went bright red when I said that... Then I realised that I hadn't eaten anything in...about...a long time.

"When did ya last eat?" Tommy Boy asked.

"Ummm, yesterday mornin'." I replied. To be honest, I didn't really remember, but there was a chance of free food here, and I wasn't going to pass that up for anything! I couldn't afford to spend any money.

"Come wid me. I'se got some food back at the Lodging House." He said with a slightly concerned smile on his face.

"Where's dat?" I asked nervously. Praying that it wasn't anywhere near my OLD home.

"Lower Manhattan."

"Where exactly?" I asked again.

He rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Number 9, Duane Street. Exactly!"

'Oh no. That is too close to home! Fuck it! I'm too hungry and my parents don't have control of me anymore. And I might see Nick. Then again, I might not. Also, that's ages away. It will be worth it for the food though.' I thought for about a minute.

"Ok. Sure."

"Cool. I was gettin' worried you wouldn't say yes for a sec!" He said, with a goofy smirk looking up at me. In the time I was thinking, he had sat down to catch his breath. He's kinda cute, but not Elmer cute. No one can ever be Elmer cute. Wait what!

He got up and I looked out of the alleyway to see if there was anyone lurking around. There wasn't but I heard feet scrabbling up a wall. I turned around to see exactly that, but by the time I turned around, Tommy Boy was at the top of the wall blocking the end of the alley. I walked over and he stuck out his hand. I brushed him off and got up the wall twice as fast as he did.

He nodded at me when I got up. Still smiling.

"Impressive!" I just smiled back at him. We dropped down onto the other side and began our journey back. While we were walking, I found more out about him. He is part of the Manhattan Newsies, and he is really good friends with a kid named Henry. He used to work as a messenger, but there was better money as a Newsie.

"What 'bout you? Whas' your story?" He asked.

"Ummm. I'se an orphan and I got kicked out o' my lodging house a few months ago, because I couldn't pay rent Although, I swear the guy there 'iked the price up jus' for me!" I said, lying through my teeth. I hated lying, but I didn't want to tell him what happened. We walked the rest of the way in silence.

Then we got to more familiar ground and I realised we were outside the cafe Elmer took me to when he helped me out of the docks. I turned my head to see if anyone was in there, but there wasn't. Wait no! In the corner were two boys a bit older that me. They were both dressed like newsies from what I could see, but one of them had their back turned towards me and I couldn't make out a face.

We carried on down the street until we saw the slightly faded sign of the newsies lodging house. Tommy Boy led me up the steps and we went inside. Over time, I had begun to learn to read and I could just about make out a few words, but the only reason I knew we were at the lodging house, was because I remembered the sign and the street.

Just as we went in, everything went silent. I looked around and I could only see boys. I guess they weren't used to having a girl around. Just then a boy, he looked older than me but I could barely count to 10, so I couldn't work out how old he might be. He was definitely older than me, he looked very strong and kinda scary, he was wearing a dark blue shirt and a grey cap.

Tommy Boy's POV

"Hey Jack." I started. "This is Emmeline, ya got any food goin' spare. I said I'd give 'er some." I saw Emmeline look all around the room to see why everyone was staring. But I already knew though. Because she's a girl and she's really pretty. That's why they're staring.

Jack's POV

For a second, I couldn't stop staring at this new girl. She looked really familiar, like I'se seen 'er before, but I just couldn't work out where from.

"Errr, yeah. Food. Over 'ere." I said, managing to stop staring enough to get the spare food I always kept in case of emergency.

I handed her a roll of bread, she took it with both hands, sat down on the bed and ate it so fast, I barely knew where it had gone. Her stomach growled really loudly and she wrapped her arms around her middle and smothered the noise.

"When did ya last eat?" I asked. The kid was quite thin and I figured she hadn't eaten in a while.

"Ummm. 'Bout 3 days ago. Maybe 4." She replied quietly. That would explain why she ate the food so fast.

"Jesus." I heard someone behind. I think it might've been Davey, he would be surprised 'bout that; but I wasn't because I've seen worse.

"Do ya have any more food?" She asked nervously. I heard someone search around for some more food and then Buttons passed it forward.

"'Ere ya go!" She just nodded back. She didn't eat that piece of bread as fast, but when she was about half way finished, she snapped her head up.

We all heard the sounds of two doors opening at the same time, and he turned around to see who it was...

#newsies little sister #ginger writes #elmer newsies #newsies elmer #jojo newsies #newsies jojo #davey newsies #newsies davey #davey jacobs newsies #tommy boy newsies #newsies tommy boy #jack newsies #newsies jack #jack Kelly newsies #newsies jack kelly

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fibula-rasa · 6 years

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September 2018 in Review

You should all be proud of me this month, as I actually watched MORE than one movie made in this decade. There was little rhyme or reason to the films I watched this month. I was pretty scattered honestly and my viewing habits show it. I keep a full diary on letterboxd and IMDB.

A major highlight of September was TCM’s month-long series hosted by the African American Film Critics Association (AAFCA) The Black Experience on Film. I only caught a few of the films but went out of my way to watch the introductory conversations. TCM’s Trailblazing Women series with Illeana Douglas was a favorite feature of mine and I’d love to see even more hosted series for marginalized groups in film history. It might be too much to suggest Disability on Film… But I’ve been considering doing a blogging series on that myself!

The reviews below the jump are essentially transcriptions of the notes I took right after watching the films. They’re presented in the order in which I watched them.

Brigsby Bear (2017)

23 January 2017 | 97 min. | Color

When Brigsby Bear came out there were a number of people, in real life and online, who gushed about it non-stop. I was pretty wary to see it. In the past, often when people around my age pick out a new darling film or TV series, I’ve been burned. Sometimes it’s something cynically violent in a way that’s disturbing to overlook. Sometimes it’s something with too much ironic detachment for my taste. Or it’s something straight-up ableist, sexist, or bigoted. (How are we still traumatizing all “Strong Female Characters” in the 2010s. Come on.)

BUT, Brigsby Bear was really good!? I honestly wasn’t expecting such a heartfelt and humanist film. A modern comedy movie that has faith in the good of all people? Amazing. I hope that the success of this film can be the beginning of a new chapter of millennial comedy so we can wholly move on from calling cynical intellectualized bigotry humor.

I got emotional as the friendship between Spencer and James developed. Maybe because I’m a clinically strange person myself. I don’t always have the energy in social situations to keep my neurotypical mask on and when I show my actually autistic self to people it doesn’t usually go all that well. That’s why it’s a special, joyful moment to find acceptance. Brigsby captures this so well. That feeling where people suddenly like you for your weirdness, rather than getting aggressive over it, is like a psychological hug. Kyle Mooney’s portrayal of James in those moments of acceptance is very true to life.

It’s refreshing to have the tension of a comedy film built around a feeling that misunderstandings might make everything fall to pieces. And then the tension releases because everyone is trying so hard to be their best self and things get sorted. I’m used to this dynamic in quite a few old romantic comedy films, but it’s a strategy not employed all that often today. If this is where millennial art is headed I’m ready to take out the trash marketed to us in the last decade.

At first I was worried that this was going to be another early 1980s throwback nostalgia piece without the spirit of media it was referencing (yes, I’m already fatigued by this). That thought was dispelled quickly.

The casting is great. The use of Mark Hamill is particularly ingenious.

Where to watch: it’s currently on demand through Starz.

Perfect Blue (1997)

28 February 1998 | 81min. | Color

Perfect Blue is a must-see for giallo fans, I think. It was very cool to see a Japanese filmmaker create a giallo-inspired psycho-detective thriller and specifically to see Satoshi Kon’s take given his skill in weaving tales about identity.

Perfect Blue is a harsh criticism of Idol culture (and, more broadly, fan culture).

This film requires a huge content warning for sexual violence and assault. If I hadn’t been watching Perfect Blue in a theater, I absolutely would have had to pause the film and take breaks a few times. Which is why, if you haven’t seen any other Kon films, it might be best to start elsewhere–even though Perfect Blue was his first feature. My first exposure to Kon was a few years back with Millennium Actress (2001) and then Paprika (2006). Both are great for newcomers to Kon. Paprika is usually the easy to find. Tokyo Godfathers (2003) is also worth watching, but pretty far afield from Perfect Blue.

Now I’m not suggesting that Perfect Blue isn’t good. It’s great. It’s simply that it’s such an intense and potentially triggering film that it might put some people off Kon’s other work. That may well have happened to me if this had been the first Kon film I saw rather than my last of his filmography.

As with Kon’s other films, the animation is fantastic and imaginative. I don’t want to give too much away about the story, so feel free to ask if you need more specific content warnings.

Where to watch: This one’s not so easy to get your hands on. Your local library or video store might be the best place to look. But, GKids does have some theatrical screenings upcoming.

New Orleans (1947)

18 April 1947 | 90min. | B&W

I watched this film on TCM as part of the aforementioned Black Experience on Film series with AAFCA.

As it was a month-long series in September, I probably should have mentioned it sooner, but the whole series was fantastic. The critics offered useful context for all of the films. Given that the films elicit mixed responses and have complicated roles in cultural and social history, it was very cool to see people debate and disagree on the films. It was valuable to witness even the disagreements that weren’t all that complicated and more about personal taste than politics. With New Orleans for example, one of the hosts liked the film and the other disliked it, though both held an appreciation for it. More civil disagreement about films, please and thanks.

I liked New Orleans and am disappointed that I hadn’t even heard about it before. Although, I do agree with critic/host Jamaal Finkley that it’s a disappointment that New Orleans doesn’t provide any insight into the personal trials of the Black characters.

It’s always a treat to see Arturo de Cordova, but that goes double when it’s an American film where his role isn’t informed by Latin/Mexican stereotypes. This is actually one the more refreshing aspects of the film. The Black characters lack interiority and their struggles are left out of the film, but Louis Armstrong’s and Billie Holiday’s characters are average people and don’t hew to stereotypes. It’s not exactly a victory for representation, but it’s still an improvement.

That said, the music is great and I wish there were more of it. It’s well established in the film that New Orleans’ problems largely come from badly-behaved white people, which I appreciate. (Is that too real?) Arturo de Cordova is great as the romantic lead of the film. I only wish Dorothy Patrick had the charisma to seem like a better match for him.

New Orleans is definitely worth checking out if the progress of Black representation in film is of interest to you or if you have a special interest in jazz or New Orleans.

Where to watch: It looks like Kino’s DVD release might be out of print, so libraries & video stores might be your best bet. OR, you can wait until TCM plays it again.

The Boy (2016)

22 January 2016 | 97min. | Color

Sooooo depending on how long you’ve been following the blog, you may or may not know that I love horror movies and ghost stories and whenever those things meet. When I first saw the trailers for The Boy ahead of its theatrical release, it did pique my interest. However, that’s mostly because they made me laugh. I am not someone who’s creeped out by dolls though. If you are, I suspect this film actually might be scary to you.

The Boy has a solid premise. At first it reminded me of the story “Baby Doll” by Larry LeClair from the radio show Nightfall. (”Baby Doll” is a better story, FYI, and creepier.) Unfortunately, the execution of The Boy’s story was disappointing. The film drags when it shouldn’t and the flow of the lead character warming to the doll felt stilted. The Boy’s big reveal ended up feeling a bit cheap as a consequence.

That said, I had fun watching it. I got some good laughs from Brahms’ ghostly antics and the middle part of the film is chock full of them.

The house from the film is so beautiful. I can’t believe it’s in Vancouver. Or that it’s a location for Little Women (1994)? I somehow didn’t recognize it.

Whether The Boy is worth a watch is debatable. If you like Haunted Doll stories, the execution and ending might be unsatisfying for you. Maybe if you like the odd modern horror film that can’t embrace its own camp, The Boy would be perfect for you?

Where to watch: It’s currently streaming on Netflix.

Street Scene (1931)

5 September 1931 | 80min. | B&W

This movie was a good old kick in the pants.

Street Scene an adaptation of a Pulitzer-Prize-winning stage play by Elmer Rice. It depicts the problems of New York City tenement residents and their relationships with one another. Though this is a pre-code film, I still imagine there would have been notable changes for censors. That said, the film is still very… mature. Additionally, I’ve seen suggestions that the film we know today is a re-edit of the film for post-code re-release. Hoo boy, what that source material must have been then.

One challenge a lot of filmmakers have when adapting stage plays to film is avoiding static staging–as if someone simply recorded the play. Street Scene doesn’t fear this and I think it works out. Almost all of the film takes place on the stoop of the tenement. The building facade is a truly impressive setup for filming. The camera work livens up the visuals with tracking shots and unexpected angles not commonly seen in early-sound films. (Unsurprisingly, Gregg Toland worked on the film!)

The acting is fantastic and, as someone who has spent the lion’s share of her life in cultural melting pots, the atmosphere the actors create is very authentic. Frankly, after living in Brooklyn for five years (four years ago), some neighborhoods still feel like this–only the voices are Puerto Rican and West Indian instead of European. It’s fascinating to see those veins of permanence in a city that’s changed as much as New York has.

The story primarily focuses on one family. The matriarch (Estelle Taylor) is bored with her unhappy marriage and takes up with the man who collects payment for milk delivery. The eldest child, Rose (Silvia Sydney), is pursued by seemingly every young, eligible man on the block and her not-so-young and not-so-eligible boss. The only one Rose shares feelings for is her downstairs neighbor, an unemployed student, Sam (William Collier, Jr.), who also happens to be Jewish. There is plenty of external resistance to their relationship for anti-semitic and/or financial reasons. Rose’s misgivings are a little more complicated. She feels trapped by the neighborhood and is wary to tie herself down to her current status at so young an age, regardless of how she feels about Sam. In the end, Rose’s mother’s fate cements her own. You can’t help but feel for both of them.

In case you haven’t already gathered this, the film calls for a content warning for anti-semitism and the use of anti-semitic slurs. [Note for clarification: the film is not anti-semitic, a few of the characters are.]

Street Scene takes social issues head on and is a pre-code through and through. It’s absolutely a top recommendation if you like pre-codes. It’s also worth watching if you’re into New York City history or have an interest in film adaptations of stage plays.

Where to watch: This one is pretty easy to see, but I haven’t sussed out the distribution rights or home video releases.

I also watched the film Sanatorium pod Klepsydrą / The Hourglass Sanatorium (1973). That left me with too many feelings to put in an amalgam post. Once I sort through how personal I want to get in discussing the film publicly, you can be sure it’ll get its own post up here.

Last Month’s Review

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southboundhqarchive · 6 years

Photo

MEET JACOB,

FULL NAME › Jacob Maxwell “Jake” Thomas AGE › thirty six GENDER › Cis male (He/Him/His) FROM › London, England RESIDENCE › Silver Spurs Tenement (Midtown) OCCUPATION › Trainer at Iron Fitness NOW PLAYING › Way Down We Go by Kaleo

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: death, ptsd

He doesn’t remember his father – never really has. Russell Thomas was a bitter man, or so the story goes when told by Jake’s mother, Marie. He couldn’t handle his drink, and hated everyone around him, not exactly family material is it? But Marie loved him, always had, high school sweetheart and all, so she’d ignored his flaws as best she could and pretended life was normal. Russell had stuck with Marie through the entirety of her pregnancy, and murmurs were starting to pass in the family saying that maybe he was a changed man, maybe he would be a good father after all… Of course he had to prove everyone wrong when he up and left two years after the birth of his first son.

It had been a shock, to say the least. Russell Thomas had looked like a changed man from the day Jake was born, but something had happened inside him to make him revert back to his old ways and vanish back into the night. Marie never told her son what had happened that night, and it was a secret she would take to the grave if need be.

So Jacob Thomas had grown up without a father figure. Marie had never seemed to bother to look for another partner, too determined to raise her son to become a good man and to focus on her career to have any time left over for anyone else anyway. She was content, they both were. Marie loved her son more than anything in the world, his sweet smiles and warm hugs were all she needed to keep going in life, even if he was a bit of a mischievous soul, but he meant well. Jacob Thomas was loved, and he loved greatly in return.

His mischievous streak bled into his academic studies. His mum and teachers soon realised that he had to real interest in the sit-down, knowledge based classes, but art and physical education was something that he loved. It wasn’t that Jake was a bad student, he just didn’t have the patience or the focus to be sat in a classroom all day. He would spend his breaks sprinting around the gym fields with his friends, quickly becoming one of the best in his year at football, and other sports that they would pick up. During educational classes, however, he quickly became the class clown, telling jokes that would even make the teachers laugh, and smiling widely at the response he would get. Jacob Thomas did not hate school, he would just much rather be spending time running about in the great outdoors where he felt truly free.

He started playing rugby when he was eleven years old and absolutely loved it. London wasn’t a city with a lot of open spaces, so being able to mess about on the pitch for a couple hours a week brought some relief to the child’s pent up energy. He was always much more calm after training as well, being able to sit down and actually work on his homework without getting bored or distracted – that’s when Marie prayed that her son would continue with the sport, hoping that it would help him going forward in his life.

High school was a big change for Jake. He could choose to spend more time with Physical Education and classes that he actually enjoyed, and as he grew older the training got more and more intense for Rugby, leading to him train three or four times a week. He loved it, he truly did, and he couldn’t imagine his life without it. Once it came time for him to choose his electives he of course focussed on Sports Science, starting to realise for the first time ever that he could maybe make a career out of his passion. He wasn’t nearly anywhere good enough at the actual sport to go professional or anything, but there were so many job opportunities in sport beyond that – he finally thought he could have a focus.

College, however, ruined his hopes for that. The classes were more dreary, and required more coursework to be completed meaning more time he had to spend actually focussing instead of doing what he wanted to do. To top it all off, an injury to his shoulder from a game of Rugby meant he had been sidelined ‘til it healed. The months that followed were the worst he’d experienced in a long time. He was no longer able to focus properly, his drive for getting through the day was completely demolished, and his grades started dropping intensely. He didn’t know how to explain it to his mum, couldn’t face her when she asked what had happened, so instead he locked himself in his room and refused to come out again ‘til the next day. His emotions were frayed and scattered, he felt angry and sad all at the same time, and he couldn’t believe that it was all because he had injured his arm. It didn’t make sense, and slowly he began to realise that he wouldn’t be able to deal with this going forward should it happen again… he needed a career that would fit him better.

The military had almost been a spontaneous decision, but after his goodbye to his mum he’d gotten on the coach that would ship him off to training camp and something had settled deep within him. Training went by in a flash, and soon enough he was being deployed on his first tour. He couldn’t believe the amount of stress, physically and mentally, that they were being put under every day, but he was thriving under it and maturing beyond belief. Marie had said she almost couldn’t recognise her son after he first returned back from the tour. It was surreal being back home after the days in the desert, but it was nice to hug his mum again and see his mates. He was prepared to shift back into civilian life again, but he didn’t realise that it would become harder and harder the more tours he did.

Then came the second and the third, each longer than the one before, and before anyone knew it, little Jake Thomas had grown into a man, now known as Sergeant Jacob Thomas. He was almost a distant ghost of the mischievous child who had barely been able to sit through a single class, but still held the same warm smile and kind tone his mother had taught him to use. There was a little less spark in his eyes, but to anyone but Marie Thomas it was unnoticeable. She had been reluctant to let him leave on his fourth tour to yet another far away country. He’d survived his first three with barely a visible scratch, but she could see the soul of her son vanishing every time he came home… she also knew it was inevitable that something would happen eventually.

He was only two months into his tour when his convoy was hit by an IED. He remembers nothing of it, not vividly, but the memories of the sounds and bright flashes and screams haunted his memories for months – sometimes still do. Jacob Thomas was one of the lucky ones, escaping the wreckage with wounds that would lead to an honorable discharge and his soul in pieces, but alive and well in the eyes of the press. No one else in his truck had survived, he found out weeks after the incident, and had spent the next 3 days staring out of the window from his hospital bed back in England refusing to say a word.

Recovery was a slow process, and had Jake been any younger he probably would have been raring to sprint right out of the recovery room at any moment, but through his years and hi9s experiences he had mellowed off quite a bit. The memories that haunted his nightmares exhausted him beyond belief as well, leaving him in a semi-trance like state whilst his body healed. His entire upper right side of his body had been peppered with shrapnel, some too small to remove during emergency surgery to try and stop his bleeding. Two larger sheets of metal had ripped through his upper arm as well, leaving huge gauges that spanned at least ten centimeters and ran deep. Some of the muscle and ligaments had been torn in the blast, leaving his right arm much weaker than his left, and none of the doctors could guarantee him ever regaining full strength in it. The scars would heal though, they didn’t bother him that much, what hurt the most was the constant ringing in his ears and the flashes of bright light he’d get when he closed his eyes. He’d been taught a method to stave off the tinnitus, but it was a lot of effort, and only offered him a small time of reprieve.

“Maybe when you’ve got more energy back,” the nurses used to say, “then you’ll feel more like yourself again.” It was hard for Jake to believe them in that moment, his sense of self so far away it felt like it would take a lifetime to find it again, but as many nurses tend to be, they were right.

It took a while, years in fact, but Jake started to finally heal emotionally, long after his physical wounds had closed. What helped him the most was the physical therapy he was going through with the veterans hospital. Being back in a gym and exerting himself over and over again brought him back to his teenage years, remembering the joy of the burn in his muscles that always left him hurting but calm. It was something for him to grasp onto, cling to for dear life as he managed to pull himself out from the depths that he’d fallen into after returning to civilian life again, and for the second time in his life, Jacob began to see a career in sports yet again.

He was thirty five when he decided a bit of adventure would do his heart good. He’d started working in physical therapy himself after learning so much from the years he’d participated in it himself. He had still yet to regain full strength in his right arm following the blast, but the harsh ache he felt after trying to build it up always reminded him of how lucky he was to be alive, how much could have gone wrong had he been sat ten centimetres to his right…

America was where he went, having grown up watching movies about the great american dream and adventure and action, all packed into one massive country. He was only planning on going for a month of two, not wanting to do a full roadtrip but at least getting to see the big cities like New York, Dallas and LA. He would head back home to England after that with a new lease of life, he told himself, and he’d be ready to grow up again.

But Boot Hill got in his way. Not that he remembers much about his earlier life now though. Jake has called the small town home for just over a year now, soon coming up on his second year anniversary. He remembers his mum back in England, but nothing about the plans to return home. He’d let her know he’d found a place he liked and was planning to stay a little longer when he’d first gotten to the Arizona desert, and he’d just never left. Here, it felt like the pain from his past was less. He still has nightmares occasionally, but they’re duller than before, the bright lights less harsh and the ringing in his ears just a little bit quieter. Jacob feels like Boot Hill is trying to heal him, the longer he stays and the more friends he makes, and he can’t help but smile at the idea that this dusty old town would love him as much as he loved it.

❝ how fragile we are, between the few good moments. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Tom Hardy AUTHOR › Kasper

#tom hardy #rp #rpg #town rp #oc rp #{ all. }#{ local. }#{ m. }#{ over thirty. }#{ kasper. }#death tw #ptsd tw

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