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acidicbarkbeast · 1 year ago

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prompt: wings wordcount: 5.1k wordcount rule: any cw: dialogue of self-sacrifice and self-worth issues tags; angel!steve, pre-steddie, first meeting

Ao3

And I pray the supernova of death takes no one but myself.

...

There was never enough tension beneath the surface of his skin to truly break through.

A part of him, of fear and an opposition to change, was grateful for it. Another, one that shouldered the weight of bodies with legs growing weaker by the year, still naively believed that his mere presence could have made a difference, could have impacted the lives around him like a meteorite would, crashing into a planet.

Instead, he hovered more like a comet; beautiful but useless and far away. He would jump in to take the hits when needed, be the impenetrable wall that he’d grown to be known for, and then veer off when the danger died down. He would return to his natural course of orbit, watching, waiting, the loyal sentry that he was.

Still, he felt it bubbling underneath. On the outside, he was a dusty trail to follow and admire, maps of constellations printed down his back, a bright twinkle in his eye, something old and knowing beyond his age. His gravity would steal those around him like fish to a shiny lure, enamored with his unnatural charm.

On the inside, he was painted midnight blues and shimmering golds. He was unimaginable, purely abstract, something that could burn you blind. He ran so hot he felt cold, searing white like the sun. He knew all too well that he was dangerous, knew all too well how easy it was to hurt others if he really wanted.

But he didn’t.

Like a lion who let the mice pass him by, he got his face caved in year after year, an aching reminder of his painful mortality. Hurting people was hard because it was so easy. He could melt flesh from bone with the warm palm of his hand, pummel craters into all-too-delicate skin, cut with words sharp like the arms of a flame.

His existence alone was a walking contradiction. In the same way he never should have been born, he wasn’t supposed to know all of these impossible things. None of it made much sense, but to Steve Harrington, that sentiment wasn't at all new or surprising.

Which was why, floating in the endless expanse of voidless sleep, it was unfortunate he had to lose so much of what little he already had. Hurtling through the merciless planes of frigid space, it was inevitable for one to crack under the sheer velocity of flight. Pieces would fracture and drift, disappear into the lit black.

He dumbly stumbled upon danger around every corner, and yet avoided the mass destruction he was capable of. Another contradiction. Why, if he was so intent on protecting the vulnerable, would he contain his greatness? His gift born from the cosmos, which could tear reality from its very hinges?

It was fear. It always came down to fear. Cowardice. For all a willing martyr he laid himself to be, he feared the decided end that came with death like the sharp of a knife.

What did it speak of him, guilty of not wanting to die so soon?

But guilt and fear mattered not in the true face of death’s mockery, a twisted mess of anger and revenge, once a person, now a vessel for ruthless violence. Nothing mattered actually, not when so many lives were at stake, and certainly not when he would outlive the end of the world anyway. And an empty world was worse than dying young, he had found.

Death was fair, this was not. Simple as that.

In the end, the choice was clear and obvious, both easy said and easy done, a small, quiet mercy in the middle of all the noise and chaos. He wasn’t worried about the aftermath, or of the emotional downfall that, in his life-long spiral, didn’t seem possible. Above all else, he wasn't worried about his own future, if he ever had one to begin with, solely focused on the red hell unraveling before his eyes.

In the end, they won, and they lost.

He lost so much, shot to the far corners of the universe, telling himself over and over again, there was no need to worry.

...

The sweet caress of the dream was forgiving, motherly almost, in soft touches and whispered lullabies. Feeling was an afterthought, a distant memory not to be bothered with. In a dream, there was no whole being, only mirror fragments reflecting onto each other, an echo chamber where everything was everything else in return.

It was an immaterial world, a wash of color, pale and waterlogged. Something that flowed into every small crevice, flowing through all matter itself, an encompassing rich, amber warmth like honey in the summertime. Though liquid, the bright body was alive with chatter, the mutterings of kings and queens long lost to the fabric of space and time.

He had no such voice, silent in his aimless drifting. He had no thoughts to ponder, no fears to worry, no faces to remember, and no names to forget. Another screw in the machine of being, a single diamond in a crown of many, a ghost, a soldier: simply an idea.

But his whirling mosaic of a heart that wandered and longed, that never sat still enough to capture the nebula in painting, must have caught the ear of some goddess, for his next breath flew stars from his mouth into a blue ocean where once was black void.

“Aren’t you peculiar?” The giant exhaled in old, out-of-practice wonder “Singing so wantingly and mournfully that your song has reached the depths of my throne.”

Her eyes were swirling pits of sun-warmed onyx, smooth and cutting, as she twinkled into corporeal existence, crinkling around the edges with amusement. Her spectral presence surrounded him wholly, cradling his blurry form forever twisting with unrest.

“This isn’t your home, hm? You’ve swung out of alignment, dear,” She cooed, and the low croon was like a humid, august breeze on his invisible flesh, flashing in his mind honeyed curls and sun-kissed freckles, bronze-brown feathers soft with downy. The goddess soared away from him suddenly, the halo of galaxies crowded behind her rocking with the movement, “Or maybe… Is it everyone else who’s gone a bit crooked?”

Tracing his skin still tender from the collapse of his implosion, she smiled something small, like fleeting knowing glances shared between friends, “You’ve made a tremendous journey, but it would be cruel to keep you here.”

Her slender fingers pressed into his wax exterior, digging like at wet sand on spanning beach shores, to reveal his mottled body underneath, bruised from war. He writhed in the momentary, excruciating pain, crystalline branches of light convulsing in fear. It was a feeling new and old, lost but now found, as he was molded into something habitable by a soul.

The fluttering limbs protruding from his back were the last to be shaped, as the merciful goddess blew stardust into his hair and laughed something loud and breathless, leaning closer to whisper into his ear, “Go on now, young star, and find the paradise that settles that beating heart of yours.”

Flung from heaven, his plummet to earth was artless and turbulent. Tears would've been shed if not for the fire of his falling. Misty clouds cleared for his torrid arrival like curtains parting for a grand show, leaving a tail of white smoke in his wake. The ground below came at impossible speeds, so fast he braced to punch through to the molten core within.

The next he opened his eyes, it was to the unfurling of mighty pine branches, their needles singed black in the catching of his fall. Charcoaled grass haloed his angelic form; sacrificial. His first lungful of air was greedy and sharp, dragging on the phantom stitching of his throat. Faint seams melted into the flesh of him, until his fabrication could no longer be seen. One deep exhale, and he was settled into his body.

He rose on shaking legs, having grown used to the weightlessness of the world between life and death, as peanut butter brown wings instinctively spread behind him to keep his balance. In the cold, the feathers hugged his body close, shivering at the new feeling. He began his trek out of the woods as the sun set in orange and purple rays, casting the trees in a postcard fog. His bare feet soon found the gritty pavement of a road, and he followed it down in a direction that felt right. He couldn’t name where it was taking him, but it felt familiar.

By the time he reached the second house that he couldn’t knock at despite wanting to, the soles of his feet were bloody and beaded with rocks. It was the most he’d felt since the fall, and he couldn’t find it in him to be bothered, not when any sensation at all was a blessing. He kept walking, gazing longingly at dark windows and bikes strewn on lawns. His chest ached for things lost, but they were just that: lost.

And lost things could be found.

The last house led him back into the forest, down a dirt path and to a rickety deck of old wood. Sparing the quiet residence a glance, he continued past it, letting the trees tell him where to go. Deeper in, he came upon something smaller, a tent of sorts, and the letters swam as he deciphered them: Castle Byers.

Each location slotted itself in his mind, and the emotions attached to them sang around him, hanging on the air and flowing through his veins. They were all homes in their own right, but they weren’t his home. That, at least, he knew very well.

As the sky grew dark, and the white moon slowly soared overhead, his eyes drooped with growing fatigue. A fear buried within himself made itself known, that it would be unsafe to sleep in the woods, not without the light of the sun, so he kept himself moving. There was something on the cool, night breeze, like smoke and mint. Something about it told him that it would keep him safe in the darkness, and he trusted the feeling wholeheartedly.

What other choice did he have?

The thumping of the music could be heard on the wind, indiscernible and unimportant. His charge was closer than that, somewhere nearer than the smell of cheap alcohol and the sound of people cheering in whooping successions. Whatever had pulled him here was stumbling toward him all on its own, so he decided to wait.

Waiting proved fruitful, and in only a few minutes, he heard approaching footfalls, and the coughing of a not-so-strange stranger. His wings fanned out on either side of him, expectant and eager, excited.

Out from a pine’s shadow, a boy stepped from cover of trees, revealing a pale face of shock. Something about him struck the fallen star as slightly off: soft cheeks too round, night-black hair too short, big, brown eyes swimming with wonder and curiosity and lacking that sharpness of fear. He was drawn to him entirely and helplessly.

“Holy fucking shit. Dude.” The boy muttered, lips parted and dumb with disbelief, “Who spiked my fucking drink, no way those are real.”

The newcomer’s rings and chains caught moonlight in their divots, twinkling in ways he’d only assumed the vast cosmos could. The leaf litter beneath his bleeding feet crinkled as he shifted his weight from the nerves. Impossibly wide eyes, deep as ocean trenches, were locked onto him and him alone. It was both terrifying and thrilling: it felt like power.

"What are you?" The boy asked, dropping his solo cup, and spilling the rest of its contents in the grass. He didn’t seem to notice, closing the space between them in an awestruck daze. That’s not to say the star wasn’t equally as enamored, endeared by the stranger’s gangly limbs and messy, shoulder-length hair. He would do anything to run a brush through the tangled strands, or better yet, his fingers.

“I'm—” “An angel.” He was interrupted with a breathless whisper, and the boy took up his hands in his own calloused ones, examining them. It tingled where their skin met, like their very molecules were excitedly greeting each other, “You gotta be. Holy shit, oh my fucking god— I mean! Am I even allowed to say that?”

“I don’t—?” “Angelic, indeed.” He bit his lip, shoulders slowly hiking up around his ears, his intense gaze flitting from the shooting star’s fluffy hair, to his big, honest eyes, the freckled moles on his face, his neck, his arms, “You’re… You are… Hm.”

The taller’s pale complexion flushed a sunburnt red, seemingly stunned into frustrated silence. He dropped their hands in favor of hiding his face behind a lock of dark, shaggy hair, huffing a long, suffering sigh, brows furrowed and mouth thin. He was worth pitying.

"I'm Steve," he said, finally, and the boy lit up instantly with newfound mischief.

"Steve… Steve," he drawled, drawing on the syllable almost melodically, "Steven. I don't think I know of any angel Steven in the Bible." He stuck one ring-clad hand out then, grinning enough to show teeth and crinkling his eyes along with it, "I'm Eddie! Eddie Munson. You have a last name, Steve?"

He didn’t, not that he knew of. There had been a house, a mansion, a cold cavern of a home, situated at the top of a hill, at the end of a street. It was as lonely as it was detached from the neighbors. It was a husk as much as he had been before the goddess granted him new life, though the empty building, he thought, would never have that same chance. He felt that there was a name once, attached to the house and to himself, but that name was lost with his sacrifice: a casualty of war.

Steve shook his head, smiling innocently, “Would you give me one?”

Whatever composure Eddie had gathered before completely disappeared as he stammered, newly flustered, “You want—? You cannot just, just—!” He let loose a single, startled laugh, the nervous and uncontrollable kind, like the ringing pop of a firework, and then covered his face with his hands, “Forget it. Steve: Single name, like Cher.”

Burning, that was what it was. Eddie’s face was burning, the apples of his cheeks glowing with the exuberance of a cherry’s skin. Steve was alive with the bright hue, finding it alluring. He wanted to fan the flame and watch it roar, blow onto the wick, and cup the maplewood smoke between his palms. In that very moment, he knew, without much room for deliberation or error, that he would not be able to forget a boy like Eddie. Not ever again.

And that was a sudden revelation, something rocking like calm ocean waves, subtle, excusable. He had forgotten once before, a time he could no longer remember now. It disturbed him to think that he could lose a face like Eddie’s.

What else was he missing?

“You know,” Eddie said, “It seems a little counterproductive for God to send one of his prettiest angels to someone so… How should I say, prone to sin?”

“I wasn’t sent by a god.” Steve corrected simply, large wings fluttering proudly behind him, thinking of what a privilege it was, to live as a gift from the goddess of the abyss. He saw how Eddie’s eyes followed their swaying movements, and he only felt the urge to further preen, hoping to relieve some unknown feeling in his heart.

“But you were sent?” Invading his space, Eddie was enjoyably close to him again, and Steve held himself from concealing them both under cover of long feathers. It went unnoticed, “For what, pray tell?”

For paradise, he thought. That is what he was sent to find, a small heaven of his own to claim, to settle him, as the goddess had instructed. He almost saw a paradise of someplace in Eddie's sparkling eyes, practically radiating mirth and childlike curiosity. But it was more an island, small and submerged, something to grow and be discovered with time. Steve reasoned, that is what love must be like.

“To find someone.” He condensed. It was easier than explaining the invisible light that drew them together, a fickle but everlasting thing, beyond them both. Steve couldn’t explain it to himself even if he tried, he simply understood.

Eddie nodded, turning away. He snatched his forgotten cup from the ground as he spoke, “Maybe I can help you find this someone?”

Steve smiled sweetly, “I would like that.”

Blushing, Eddie gingerly took his hand and started leading him away from the noise of the party. His palm and fingers were cold in his own, but Steve could be warm enough for the both of them. He could be warm enough to heat a home, a whole town, and to keep her people from the harm of the outside. He will be a respite to the weary and tired, the bright stars above bringing night, and the peaceful allure of sleep.

“You’re not gonna find any person out this late, not unless this person was at that rager,” Eddie quipped, screwing his mouth to the side distastefully, “And I sincerely hope they weren’t, no offense to whoever it is you’re looking for.”

“Why’s that?”

Eddie huffed something unamused, mocking, “They’re all halfwit jocks looking for a quick, good time. Not the kind of people who’d deserve— who you’d want to hang out with.” The dark-haired boy’s cheeks reddened at his near-slip, and Steve had half a mind to guess what he was going to say. Steve was smitten, to say the least.

“But you were there.” He teased.

Spluttering, Eddie straightened up, “Yeah, yeah, I was. I was, uh—” He coughed into his fist, and Steve watched his throat bob with the audible gulp that came afterward, “I was selling to the hungry masses. It’s just this… New, modest business I’m trying out, flexible hours and all.” He became more serious, tone growing contemptuous, “I’ve gotta make a living somehow, and no one’s hiring the sixteen-year-old devil worshiper.”

Steve wasn’t all too aware of what the devil was, and what being associated with such a figure could mean, but he wasn’t too pressed about it. After all, he trusted himself more than the judgment of others, and if danger were to face him, the light that lived within his chest would burn all that threatened him. For some reason, the thought and feel of phantom flames was a comfort in the dark, keeping him safe from otherworldly monsters that no longer walked this earth. He would be sure to keep it that way, as well.

“Next time,” Eddie continued on a lighter note, “I won’t get so shitfaced, messes with my head. I’m… Still trying to decide if you’re real or not.”

Steve found Eddie’s breathless and nervous show of teeth charming. He squeezed his hand in reassurance, “I’m real.”

“Yeah…” Steve’s hand was squeezed back, “Yeah, you’re real. All of you is real.” Eddie glanced at the set of wings trailing behind them, at the way one hovered slightly over his jean-clad shoulder, as if protectively, “Do you have a place to go? To stay?”

He couldn’t very well return to that cosmic heaven, now could he? At least, not through any practical means. He shook his head minutely, “No. I fell here.”

“Right, right.” Eddie nodded, “Fell. Angel. Duh.” Laughing a little, he knocked the heel of his palm against his forehead. It was cute. He looked at Steve then, painfully earnest, “You should stay with me. I mean— Would you like to stay with me…?” His voice deepened into something of a rumble, “Many unsavory folk lurking at this late hour of night.”

“What does that say about you?” Steve laughed, and to save Eddie from any more embarrassed stumbling, simply agreed, “I’ll follow your lead.”

With the moon to guide them, they trekked quietly through the woods. He would catch Eddie’s eye a few times, not that he wasn’t also sneaking glances at the boy when he wasn’t looking. He enjoyed the game, almost as much as he enjoyed the blush high on those round cheeks whenever Eddie was caught staring.

Eventually, the trees broke into soft porch lights and yellow-lit windows. It wasn’t the kind of silence of the woods or the far-away singing of stars, but Steve liked it all the same. It was proof of life, in musical chimes and mutterings and barking dogs. He thought, with time, he would learn to fall asleep to this new, lively ambiance.

Eddie ushered him into the trailer three porches down, his wings catching on the doorframe in their haste. Apologies were thrown his way as Eddie skipped into the tiny kitchen pulling two mugs off the adjacent wall and setting a pot of water on the stove to boil.

“Do you like hot chocolate?” The boy asked him, “Better question; Are you cold? I can see why wearing a shirt might be difficult for you, but I feel like the weather warrants a little more than an old pair of sweatpants.” His eyes moved over him, coming to his bare feet, “Christ! Are you bleeding?”

“Oh, your floors,” Steve realized, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry!” Eddie waved him off, “You’ve been walking barefoot for God knows how long. Why didn’t you just fly or something?”

He couldn’t say the thought hadn’t crossed his mind at some point, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Why would he fly when the people he cared about were all stuck on the ground?

Taking a seat on the worn-soft couch as Eddie fetched a box of aid supplies from the bathroom, he took a moment to observe the trailer’s interior. It was homey, close, comfortable in a way where everything was in reach. The lights were yellowed, and the walls cluttered with color, and on the table was a framed photo of Eddie and an older man, each holding up silvery fish under a bright sunny day.

“Hey,” Eddie breathed, sliding to his knees in front of Steve, “‘You okay?”

He didn’t think he could be any more okay, “Mhm.”

“This is going to sting,” The older teen warned, padding the down cuts with an alcohol wipe. He winced in sympathy, saying, “I’ve gotta make sure there’s nothing wedged in there.”

While it did hurt, it was less than what he was expecting. His remaking at the hands of the goddess had been excruciating, terrifying, tearing into the core of his very being.

By contrast, these cuts were nothing more than a silly nuisance.

In pleasant quiet, Eddie wrapped his feet in gauze, securing the bandages tight so they couldn't budge. He pulled a pair of orange, cat-eared slippers from behind him, holding them up like his younger self did the fish in the photo.

"I got you these," He said seriously, "And don't laugh. I know they look absurd, but they're a gift from my uncle."

"Your uncle," Steve repeated, pointing, "He's the man with you in the picture?"

Eddie made a noise of confusion, looking behind him. A soft smile grew on his face when he realized, "Oh, yeah. That's good ol' Uncle Wayne. He takes me fishing in the summertime."

He looked at Steve then with that same softness, if a bit inquisitive, "Hey, did you want a blanket or something?"

"What for?"

"Well, you never got to answer my question earlier, if you were cold?" He tilted his head, "The trailer gets a bit chilly at night, especially this time of year, and I don't think I have anything that'll fit over your wings, sweetheart."

The pet name seemed to involuntarily fall from Eddie's lips, both of the boys turning red. For his sake, Steve didn’t mention it, instead concentrating, “I think I can— Let me just,” As his focus narrowed to the muscles of his back, he almost imagined tucking his large wings under cover, like folding them onto themselves again and again. There was a faint swooping sound, overshadowed by Eddie’s gasp, and his wings disappeared in the next second, leaving behind only a few stray feathers fluttering idly in the air.

“What the hell was that!?” The metalhead exclaimed.

Steve peeked over his shoulder, marveling at the empty space. He could still feel them, pressing under his skin, waiting patiently for when they’ll next be needed.

Eddie looked at him incredulously, “You could do that the whole time?”

“Could I have?” Steve asked with mock-innocence, “I don’t know.”

“Steven, in my home no less—” He was interrupted by a loud, sudden onslaught of popping. His head shot up at the sound of the angry bubbling, “Shit. Shit, shit—”

Cursing, he scrambled to the kitchen, quickly taking the pot off the burner. He poured two sweet-smelling cups of hot chocolate, carrying them gingerly to the main room’s low table. Steve took his in his hands and contendly breathed in the wafting steam.

"Woah, Woah! It's still boiling, buddy—" Eddie called in alarm when Steve brought the drink to his lips. It was scorching, and he hummed happily as the intense heat flowed throughout his limbs like slow-spilling magma, tingling at the tips of his fingers.

He smiled appreciatively, "It's good."

Mouth agape, Eddie stared at him, until he shook himself out of it, saying absently, "Yeah. No problem, man."

Unconsciously, the star’s eyes drifted to that photo, considering the older man again, Uncle Wayne. He couldn’t help but wonder, worrying for the first real time that night, if the stranger would allow him to take refuge here, in his home. He had no connection to this man, not like he did Eddie, and so, Wayne would have no reason to let him stay.

“Hey,” The dark-haired teen said gently, now back in front of Steve, though this time with a navy, wool sweatshirt in hand, “You went somewhere. ‘You okay?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Will your uncle be okay with me being here?”

“Wayne?” Eddie tilted his head, something Steve noticed he did a lot, “He won’t mind. Not unless you bring any trouble home, that’s what he tells me. If you get into trouble, leave it at the door,” He seemed to mime the clearing of a table with a sweep of his arm, chuckling quietly to himself. Steve tried to focus on the sound, and not the little worm in the back of his brain, whispering some riddle of irony and tragedy.

He couldn’t understand it, not anymore, not that he wished to, anyway.

Absently, he shrugged on the sweatshirt, but it wasn’t quite enough.

Eddie must have read the off look on his face as doubt, and tried to remedy the situation, getting up in Steve’s space as he spoke, “Hey, why don’t we watch a movie or something? Get you settled in, relaxed…?” For a moment, he trailed off into his thoughts, then returned to the star with wide, sparkling eyes, “Oh, I know exactly what we’re watching. I’m gonna get you hooked on all the good shit, Stevie.”

He raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but Eddie gave no further explanation as he excitedly hopped off the couch. Steve wasn’t so keen on getting hooked on anything a person with Eddie’s… Particular reputation had to offer, but then he had to stop and think about what such a reputation might be. After all, they’d only just met, hadn’t they?

The television buzzed to life, humming some whining frequency that only Steve seemed to hear, and effectively distracting him from the muddy puddle of his memories.

Clamoring back onto the cushions, Eddie pulled a blanket over the both of them, bashfully excusing their consequent closeness. Its material threaded the line between soft and itchy, dark, autumnal stripes criss-crossing over a lighter background. The colors reminded him of fallen leaves set ablaze by the morning sun, the worsening nightly chill, and rows of dirty, orange pumpkins carved into a myriad of frightening expressions.

His skin crawled at the image of vast pumpkin fields, as a phantom rot pervaded his nose, and he shivered.

Eddie noticed, had probably felt it from where they brushed arms, looking over with a radiant smile, “‘You excited? You’re gonna love The Hobbit, I just know it.” Then he tilted his head again, his face morphing into something closer to an impish grin, “And if you don’t, well, we’ll sit and watch it a million times over until you do.”

“I don’t know why, but I believe that,” Steve said, the corners of his lips turning up on their own accord. Eddie cackled, and the star’s heart basked in the hot glory of it.

Still, Steve only had half a mind to watch the film, bothered by the ghostly touches that breathed down tanned flesh, the niggling, nipping thoughts that begged him to remember, to live a life having been led in someone else’s shoes. His wings pressed against their cage of bone and muscle, itching to be free. He held them back.

Hopefully, there would be answers shed in the light of day, where the lives of these people would walk from shadow and slumber. Steve’s eyes flickered, twitched, blinked into some other world which was bathed in red and smelled of loss, for just a second.

The vision left him as quick as it had appeared, and he was thrown back into his body, sitting next to Eddie as he talked about the little characters moving around on-screen. From under the covers, Steve found the other boy’s hand, holding it tight. The chatter died with a short stutter, as a warmth blossomed between them.

He knew from that moment on that he would never let go of Eddie’s hand, not if he could help it, for fear of ever losing him again. Even with him however, Steve did not feel whole, and he knew instinctively that the missing pieces of himself were both close and so far away, both a neighbor and a journey’s distance from this small town.

Tucking his legs to his chest, he kept his gaze fixed onto the television, not turning to Eddie, who he could feel was undoubtedly staring with blushing cheeks.

Yes, he would hold tight onto this nice thing that he’d stumbled upon. Come morning, he would worry about the future, but for now, he was overcome by a sudden exhaustion, the weight of efforts forgotten settling onto his young bones like fresh snow. Tiredly, he wondered if forgotten was the right word, if it fit this feeling of longing in his chest, or if taken would be better.

These efforts, the memories, which were not lost, but left behind, as a price paid in the face of restarting, had pulled and scraped on their way from his mind, like chalk dust clouding from a black board, leaving only flashes of the past that slipped from his fingers in a dream.

He squeezed Eddie’s hand, and Eddie squeezed his in answer.

He would not be alone.

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #angel wings #fallen angel #meet cute #fanfiction #writing #barkbeastwriting

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write-orflight · 4 years ago

Text

Galileo. Prologue

**Gif Not Mine**

Next Chapter

Pairings: SpencerXReader, enemies to friends to lovers trope

Rating: M

Words: 1.5K (She’s a smol Prologue)

Warnings: None right now. but will eventually be smut.

Request: OPEN/CLOSED

Summary: Y/N is an astronomer with her head constantly in the stars. But when a serial killer is threatening NASA’s top scientists, she is left in the protective custody of a man who’s gravitational pull threatens to pull her back down to earth.

A.N Hey, my children! This is an idea that’s been plaguing me for weeks and I just had to get at least the prologue out (This series is mainly just my excuse to get my pointless knowledge about space out there). I’m probably not going to update this until I finish ‘trouble’ which should be in this next coming week. I’m just really excited about this one and wanted to put it out there too. Message to be on the taglist! -Cia

Prologue: Mercury

There are 400 billion stars in the galaxy.

Some insignificant, some small, some large, and some with great potential.

Humans were the same way. Though most were insignificant to you, which is why you didn’t indulge in the trifles of relationships and companionship. The stars were far more interesting to you.

And you spent your life studying them.

Ever since your dad bought you your first telescope at age 7, you knew exactly what your purpose was. To study and find out what else was out there. And for a while that was all you did, all through school, no time for boys, friendship and trivial prepubescent things, your mind was literally in the clouds. That carried you all the way to Yale where you graduated Summa cum Laude with 3 Phds in Astronomy, Engineering, and Physics.

Getting the job at NASA wasn’t surprising to you at all.

Meeting Jonathan was.

Your first day together had been uneventful, you had been introduced and told your assignment which was to just track the movement of a comet that came every fifty years. A couple of months in and by pure accident you saw her.

It couldn’t be.

You immediately yelled at him to come over, to confirm that you were just crazy but he had seen it too. You had just discovered a planet. And not just any planet one that through your research could very well sustain human life. Jonathan, though not knowing you long, picked you up in a giant hug and swung you around. You couldn’t help the smiles and tears that had fallen from your eyes. This was exactly why you were doing this, for the art of discovery and the overwhelming feeling that came with it.

After weeks of convincing the boards and getting funding, you and Jonathan were now heads of your own department solely designed for tracking and finding new information on Gaia, the planet the two of you graciously named. Now your nights were filled with solving equations and trying to get more than a glimmer of Gaia from your telescope. Alas, as much as you loved her, she was very slow. Jonathan would play his old jazz records and sing off-key dancing around the planetarium gifted by NASA. You didn’t know exactly when they happened, but you started to feel like maybe all humans weren’t insignificant and you started to feel like that about Jonathan. You found yourself watching his bright smile as he danced and singed around, often asking you to please dance with him, which you always declined.

Now you wish you had.

If you knew it’d be the last time, you for sure would have.

But no one could’ve predicted a serial killer coming after NASA scientists.

And no one could’ve predicted you walking into work and seeing your best friends throat slit ear to ear.

—————————————————

The months following Maeve’s death were hard on Spencer. He was a man of science, he knew probability and often relied on statistics for his job. The predictability of it was what made it easy to cope.

But sometimes it wasn’t. And sometimes he hated the unpredictability of his job.

Losing Maeve had definitely been one of those days.

On one of his first couple weeks back, he’s called into the briefing room.

“We don’t have to go far for this case.” JJ says manning the slides to show the team “Four NASA scientists at the Goddard Flight Center in Maryland have been found in their offices, throat slit and hands bound with duct tape behind the back.”

“Execution style…” Morgan says with a grimace. “Brutal.”

“Obviously someone angry too.” Emily adds. “To just do it like that, no sign of remorse. But the jaggedness of it makes it look passionate.”

“The police and NASA believe they know who the next target is as well.” JJ adds moving to the next slide which showed a beautiful girl standing in front of a whiteboard of equations. Long silky hair tied up in a bun, glasses on her face and bright white teeth shown through the smile. You could obviously tell the picture was taken for an article or sort. Spencer thought she was cute but didn’t dwell on it long. “This is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. She worked alongside Victim #4, Jonathan Brewer as co-head scientists of the Terra-Mora project.”

“They think the Unsub is specifically targeting her department and people who have done work for her department. And if he’s already killed the partner...” Hotch trails off.

“He’s escalating…” Spencer adds.

“Which puts her under extreme risk. Which is why I’m putting her in protective custody.” Hotch adds. “Reid, I’d like you to do that.”

Spencer looks confused. “Why me? Shouldn’t someone like Morgan or Prentiss go?”

“I’ve been told Dr. Y/L/N is very reluctant about having security. I figured having someone as intelligent as her would cushion the blow.”

Spencer leaned back in his chair. Great… just what he needed.

—————————————

“No, Clifton.”

“It’s not up for discussion, Y/N.” Cliff says walking away from you down the hall. You speed up to catch up with him.

“I’m 31 years old! I don’t need a babysitter.” You said, angrily.

“You’re not getting a babysitter, Y/N. The FBI is being gracious enough to provide you extra security. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you people are dying.”

“You know you don’t have to remind me! I lost Jon!”

“Then you know why you have to take protection, Y/N. You know what important work you and Jonathan were doing. You’re the only one left to finish it. Please just let someone take care of you while they catch the sick man who’s doing this.” You sigh, Cliff takes that as compliance. “Now get to work. I’ll show him to your office when he gets here.”

You walk into work and look at the time, 10:30 PM, peak time for planets to be seen. And if you were lucky, you’d probably get a glimmer of her again. You were right because just as soon as you stepped up to the telescope there she was, or more like there was a sliver of her. You’ve never been able to get a full look at Gaia, but just past Saturn was the curvature of the dwarf planet you adored so much. You pick up your tape recorder, and begin to speak into it.

“January 16th, Terra-Mora logs. This is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. Dr. Jonathan Brewer has passed and will no longer be making logs.” You choke up a bit but clear your throat and keep going. “Gaia’s Southwest region is visible from earth tonight. Seems her clouds are finally dissipating, and you can see some of her icy plains, I am pretty positive it’s a lake. Hopefully with the Approval of SPOT, we’ll be able to know for sure what’s up there.” You look at your door to see your boss, Dr. Clifton and a man standing watching you. “Y/L/N out.” You say into the tape recorder.

You get up to walk over the two men.

“You know everyone does their logs into the computers now, no one uses an actual tape anymore.” Clifton says.

“I’m old fashioned.” You cross your arms.

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. He will be watching you while we figure out what’s happening.”

“This is who’s supposed to be protecting me?” You ask. “You look like a strong wind would blow you over.”

The man looks at you annoyed. “I can assure you, I’m more than capable of doing my job, Miss--”

“Doctor.” You say.

“Excuse me.”

“It’s Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. And I worked very hard and paid a lot of debt for the title so I’d prefer it if you used it.” You looked annoyed right back at him. Something about the man rubbed you the wrong way.

Dr. Clifton looks at the both of you uncomfortable. “Well I’ll leave you both to it.” He nods at you both before leaving you alone.

“I think we got off on the wrong--”

“Listen Dr. Reid.” You cut him off. “This is probably going to be hell for the both of us. I expressed heavily to my boss about not needing protective custody which of course fell on deaf ears, so I’m going to make one thing clear. We’re not here to be friends. I’m here to do important work that I now have to do single-handedly because you guys failed to do your work in the first place and my coworker had to die because of it.” Tears threatened to choke you but you didn’t let them. “And to be frank, I don’t know what exactly you’re here for besides being a pain in my ass so I suggest staying out of my way and not fucking touching anything. Keep that in mind and we’ll get along swimmingly.” You say, turning your back to him, heading back to the telescope and looking at him as if daring him to challenge you. For a second it looks like he might, he’s standing trying very hard not to look like he’s completely fuming. Then he just blows a frustrated breath and sits in a chair halfway across the room.

You didn’t know why, and you didn’t have a real reason.

But you decided that you hated Dr. Spencer Reid.

Which you guessed was another thing humans could be.

Message to be tagged!

#spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer x you #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #bau x reader #spencer x reader smut #spencer reid x reader smut

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flygefisk · 3 years ago

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bones looks real tough & mean, but comet's much more likely to be the parent pointedly sharpening a knife while the twins' dates sit at the kitchen table and sweat

also, bones and comet aren't actually a couple. they're legally married in a flight or two (and legally divorced in a couple more), but they're platonic. they definitely consider themselves the twins' parents, tho.

the twins joined up with bones and comet's old sideshow by breaking into a cart and hiding until they'd reached the next town, then biting anyone who tried to get them to leave. hard. they eventually gave up and let her tag along, then started training them. (said sideshow has since dissolved along with the circus troupe it was attached to, with the passing of its ringleader)

the twins are very crafty! though they each control their respective arm, they're very well coordinated- they sewed their jester outfit, and they love making bracelets and such on their downtime.

bones and comet are... uncertain, about settling in one place. they've been wandering for most of their lives. but the girls are happy, and the folks at the sunset are wonderful. so... maybe it wouldn't be too bad after all.

the twins idolize dusk and dawn- another pair of vaguely sun and moon themed performers, who are so very pretty, and so very graceful. the girls have made them gifts a couple times. dusk and dawn are deeply moved by this.

comet gets along great with spark and pyrrha- spark because they're both gender??? little bastards with noodle bones and a deep love of crop tops, and pyrrha because they share a capacity for violence.

bones and sycamore gave each other stick-and-pokes after knowing each other for 3 hours. they're best friends now. also they've def fu-

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gumnut-logic · 4 years ago

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We’ll Be Home For Christmas 5.2 (Bit 2)

From here | Bit 1 | Bit 2

It took me all week to put this little bit together. Work stress messed me around royally. Fortunately I have some time off lined up in a fortnight, so there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

We’re getting there. I have a list of threads I’m tying off as the boys manipulate me along the way. I hope my stressed out writing is up to par with the rest of the fic - that is one downside of pausing mid-fic for any length of time is that the mood shifts and my writing changes. Also, the format of this fic doesn’t really lend itself to the short posts I’ve been doing of late, but it will have to do. I hope you enjoy this little bit anyway.

Thank you to all of you who have answered my little poll on what to write next. This is the result. Those of you who voted for The Hero, I will get there as well. These three fics demand ends even if it has taken me a year (yes, it is reaching that point for The Hero at least). Thank you all for your wonderful support. You guys continue to just be amazing ::hugs you all so much::

This is for @scattergraph It was last year’s @tagsecretsanta fic and it is still being written, now closer to this year’s Christmas. Apparently, it is We’ll Be Finished For Christmas :D Talk about a fic getting totally out of control. Thank you so much for bearing with me on this tome. I love this fic. It has taught me so much. I just hope I can finish it with due credit to the rest of it.

-o-o-o-

There followed an extensive rundown on a random ball of rock and ice currently traversing their solar system.

It was interesting, Virgil had to admit it, and it was great seeing Alan so enthusiastic about it. Of course, once he started on his heroic tale of his and Scott’s encounter with Halley’s Comet, Virgil found himself tuning out.

He’d heard it a few times already.

At some point he was able to drift away from his babbling brother, step out onto the balcony and grab breakfast off the remains of the buffet that had obviously been left out for him. The last of the morning was as beautiful as the rest of the week had been. He had to admit that they had been very lucky.

A glance down at the caldera as he munched on a pastry, most definitely not cooked by his grandmother, and he spotted A Little Lightning resting quietly at her dock.

He found himself staring at the boat. Her yellow stripe, ever so Gordon, her gleaming hull, their short and shared history…

“She’s a good looking ship.”

Virgil nearly jumped out of his skin for the second time in less than half an hour.

Gordon arched an eyebrow up at him. “You okay, Virg? How are you feeling?”

Exasperated. “I’m fine.” He turned away, his eyes dancing across Mateo and its petrel colony.

A bird squawked loudly as if in recognition.

Gordon snorted. “So I hear.”

Virgil glanced back at his brother. “What?”

All innocence. “What?”

“Gordon...” His tone was all warning.

His brother downed his drink. “So, we going to open that pile of presents or are we keeping them as ornaments?”

Virgil frowned. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Johnny had to discover a comet to keep Alan distracted while we were waiting.”

“Sorry.”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Gees, Virg, it’s not a problem, just c’mon. Join us.” And he was being dragged back into the house where everyone had gathered around the Christmas tree.

For the next hour or so it was simply family, friends, gifts and laughter. Scott in particular, was in a jovial mood, his grin an apparent fixture on his face. Mel was never far from him.

It became very clear that Scott, and possibly Gordon, had been Christmas shopping that morning, probably on the other side of the world, because there were presents under the tree that hadn’t been there the night before. There may have been an abuse of International Rescue technology to obtain it all, but the smiles on their guests’ faces when presented with Christmas gifts may have been worth his brothers’ transgressions.

Almost.

Virgil sat on the lounge, a brother either side of his feet peering up at him as he opened a present wrapped in green tissue paper. The material inside was also green and when he held it up, it unfolded into a t-shirt.

Written across the front were the words ‘I’M FINE’.

Behind the curtain of fabric, a brother snorted.

“Gordon.”

“What?”

Virgil exhaled and dropped his hands into his lap with the shirt. Glaring at his grinning brother, he held Gordon’s gaze for a moment before shuffling out of his seat and standing up.

Both Alan and Gordon scampered away from his feet.

“Virg…” Scott’s tone was worried.

Virgil ignored him and continued to glare at Gordon.

The aquanaut’s expression faltered a little and Virgil mentally tagged himself a point.

He then took the trophy by shucking off his shirt and undershirt in front of all of them.

The breeze was cool through the open doors of the balcony as he awkwardly dragged the new t-shirt over his head, aware of every eye in the room staring at him.

He pulled the green material down over his healing incisions and glared at his brothers, starting with Gordon, who appeared somewhat gobsmacked a moment before once again bursting into a grin, and following around the room to each of his other brothers.

He didn’t fail to notice a strange smile on Kayo’s lips as he did so.

“Now, I hope this means I don’t have to keep repeating myself?”

Silence and lots of staring.

A snort from Gordon. “Sure, Virg. We all think you’re pretty fine.” He followed it with a snicker.

There was an odd sound from Penelope’s direction, but when Virgil darted a look at her, she appeared to be smothering a delicate cough.

Her eyes were sparkling at him though.

Oh, for the love of-

“You’re great, Virgil.” Alan was grinning.

“Like china.” John was not even trying to keep a straight face.

“Whatever you say, Virg.” Scott had his arm around Mel and was grinning like a loon.

Somehow the points were being racked up by his brothers now.

His glare turned flat and he lowered himself awkwardly back onto the lounge. He didn’t miss Gordon’s attempt to reach out and help him.

Another glare and Virgil grunted, crossing his arms across his chest in an almost pout. “You’re lucky I love you guys.”

There was an outburst of more laughter. Virgil tried to hold his disgruntled expression, but a kiss by Grandma on the cheek broke his determination.

“You’re a shit, Gordon.”

“And you love me.” Still grinning.

Virgil couldn’t help himself. He grabbed the Fish by the scruff of his neck and wrangled him into a half hugging noogie, messing his hair up royally. Virgil had to admit that Gordon was likely playing along because his big brother certainly wasn’t up to wrestling with him, and as Penelope burst into laughter, Virgil found himself getting soppy.

The noogie turned into a full-on bear hug.

Chlorine scented hair caught in his nostrils.

“Virg?”

“Huh?”

A wheeze. “Need to breathe.”

“All your fault.” He let his brother go.

Gordon sat up on the lounge, straightening his shirt and running his hands through his hair. A glance of fond exasperation and he turned away. “Okay, Allie, time to see that painting.”

“So, it is a painting?” Alan shot off the floor and dashed over to the tree where the huge present was leaning against the wall.

There followed many exclamations at Virgil’s skill in painting Thunderbird Three in flight. Hell, even John put in a request for one of Five, so maybe he managed the stars part of the project accurately enough.

He must remember to ask Alan to grab some shots of John’s ‘bird next time he was up there. Or maybe he would hitch a ride and go up himself.

That thought led to visualising possible compositions, moving Five around in his head, whether he should include Earth in the background, which bit of Earth – Tracy Island, of course – which constellations, what time of year, whether he could lean on artistic license or whether inaccuracies would bug his brother silly. Most likely the latter, so there would be some research involved. Perhaps Alan could help him with that. Actually, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. A good excuse to spend some time with his little brother.

He eyed Alan and the young astronaut turned a questioning look in his direction. Virgil just smiled a little at him.

Alan’s face burst into a grin and Virgil found himself subject to another brotherly hug. “Thank you, Virgil.”

He returned the hug with gusto. “Anytime, Allie.”

Apparently, today was the day for being soppy because he clutched his brother tighter.

Anytime.

-o-o-o-

TBC

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Alan Tracy #kermadec fic

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allthereclists · 8 years ago

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Otayuri

Birthday Boy by Ren 1,106

Otabek lets slip that he never celebrates his birthdays. Yuri decides to fix that.

what hoodies are made of by pissedofsandwich 1,235

Let it be known that Yuri Plisetsky is killed by his first friend, and possibly, if given more time—and if he could just admit it deep down in his heart that yes, he has a crush on Otabek the size of St. Petersburg—his first boyfriend, during the exhibition gala of Trophee de France.

Oh, what’s the murder weapon, you ask?

The goddamn hoodie.

Or: Otabek dresses sexy for his EX Gala and Yuri loses his shit.

Worth The Wait by Ren 1,277

"I turned eighteen in March," Yuri says.

melt me down by ohhotlamb 2,196

“Do you remember? In Barcelona? It’s been at least three years by now.”

“Of course I do,” Yuri mumbles. “That was when we first started talking.”

Methods of Falling by stutter 2,610

"When Victor was his age - younger, even, Yuri thinks, shame blooming in his chest - he’d made the whole world fall in love with him already. The long hair, the soft smile, the way he moved like he had a secret in his skin and he couldn't wait to share it with you. Yuri’s watched the tapes over and over. He could skate any of Victor’s early routines in his sleep. But he can't - the thing Victor could do so easily, the casual, guileless charisma he threw like a shadow - Yuri can't manage it on a single person, not even some moody Kazakh with a dumb haircut whose eyes are too far apart anyway - "

(In Park Guell, Yuri takes a hard fall. Otabek picks him up.)

The Death of Golden Locks by IzzyBee92 4,505

Yurio shows up with short hair and Otabek tries to figure out what the hell happened. But Yurio doesn't seem to want to discuss it.

The Naming of Cats by unheroics 6,075

The photo gets almost drowned out in a sea of others, more flashy. It’s easy to miss, tagged only as #practice. Otabek doesn’t remember following Yuri Plisetsky on Instagram. Maybe his sister did it for him.

(Otabek, Yuri, and a relationship that develops in the margins of their careers.)

Baptism by InsominiacArrest 9,648

Yuuri Plisetsky has been waiting to lose his virginity to his boyfriend (and also take his boyfriends virginity) and on his 18th birthday, he gets his wish.

follow up: Otabek and Yuri have been apart for a couple months and finally get to reunite.

Anything But Obvious by Tessa on Ice (tessacrowley) 15,016

Yuri Plisetsky would rather die than ever be obvious.

let us be the unexpected by peachys 16,394

Yuri is used to overworking himself but Otabek helps him see everything he's been missing out on.

Extended Free Skate by Opalsong 20,420

Otabek won silver at Worlds. Yuri was going win gold at fucking domming.

(Fuck his brain and its fucking innuendos.)

Something Old and Something New by heartsdesire456 30k

When Otabek's home rink is damaged in a fire, he and his coach get permission to train in Russia from Yakov. Yuuri and Victor offer their spare room to Otabek for the duration of his stay, and in doing so, Yuuri is given a front row look at Yurio coming to understand his feelings for his best friend, as well as the subsequent panic that ensues after he discovers his feelings aren't so 'friendly' after all.

in flesh and bone by csoru 32,077

After recovering from an injury that cut his previous season short, Yuri makes a comeback with a new coach, a new country of residence, and a relationship upgrade. Still: perfection takes effort.

Panic! In the Hotel by sweatpantz 1,318

Yuri has a minor panic attack after something that happens between him and Otabek. He comes to his gay dads for advice and then he and Otabek talk it out <3

Spontaneous Combustion by kanekki 3,589

When Otabek and Yuri present at the exact same time, chaos ensues.

concerto for piano, in a minor key not yet decided by 777335 5,260

magical realism au, where yuri is a tsar of ice (which, for the purpose of this fic, is almost a demigod, of sorts) and otabek is a very sad and musical young man who has moved to St. Petersburg to deal with the death of a friend.

it starts like:

Otabek moves to the outskirts of St. Petersburg and becomes friends with Yuri slowly and then suddenly, like ice sliding across a plate. How he meets Yuri goes like this: (a memory that retains the present tense, because it feels very much like a thing that is still happening to him, not a thing that is over)

by the nape of my neck by aphhun 5,499

Everyone has a counter that ticks down the hours until you first meet your Destined; your soul mate. Yuri Plisetsky has been actively ignoring his timer for the last eight years. That is, until it's dwindled down to zero behind his back, and he has no idea how or when he met his Destined in the bustle of St Petersburg

Fire Red by Qitana 7,813

The static reaches its peak before someone says, “Hello Mr Yuri Plisetsky.”

He’s different from the first person, of this Yuri is certain. He jolts slightly when the man pronounces his full name, and he finds an absurd amount of comfort in his voice. It’s soft and warm, with a stoniness that could rival Yakov’s and Lilia’s, and his accent makes it endearing as hell. A small flame slowly starts to burn inside of Yuri for reasons he can’t possibly fathom. It’s just a man’s voice, and a stranger’s to boot, but he feels significantly better already.

When Saving Fairies by Eshli 8,064

Otabek is a knight to the Kingdom of Kazakhstan. He winds up saving a fairy from a tough spot, taking love advice from a total idiot, and losing his virginity in an unsuspecting way. Such is the life of the Hero of Kazakhstan.

Someone to Protect by DragonofFernweh

Yuri's heat happens to take him by surprise the day before a competition, even though those stupid suppressants were supposed to take care of that. He'll head to the medical wing to take care of the problem, but what if he runs into someone else? He dreads anyone finding out about his being an Omega. Still, he's just fifteen, no one would be affected by his heat. He was just a kid.

It turns out, they hurt kids everywhere. It also turns out that Katsuki Yuuri is really fucking terrifying when he wants to be.

the birth of comets takes place on the tip of your lashes by apollothyme 15,622

His second visit to an ophthalmologist occurs five months later.

Just like during his first consultation, he doesn’t understand any of the medical jargon coming from the doctor’s mouth. Only now, after he’s done explaining everything in complicated, convulsed words, the man turns to Yuri with a smile on his face and explains everything once more, this time using terms Yuri can understand.

Yuri listens. He bites down on his bottom lip and he does not cry.

My Life is Over, I Might As Well Jump by accidental-mormon (crazyhomoinspace) 20,109

Yuri Plisetsky was not expecting to go into his first heat surrounded by competitive figure skaters in a classy hotel before an international competition. He was not expecting to sleep with his roommate.. and they weren't expecting to have to deal with the consequences.

First Door On The Right by TeaLovingTooru 21,218

When Yuri turns eighteen, his brother Viktor, informs him that he has to find an Alpha suitor. Yuri is angry as he doesn't understand why he would have to get married, causing him to run into town. After a chance encounter, Yuri makes an unexpected acquaintance with a local.

Neon Pink Motorcycle by goldheart 74,720

There are certain moments in Yuri Plisetsky’s life that he likes to forget happened at all. The time they were chased from the apartment, the landlord angrily spitting and waving threateningly at them when his mother couldn’t produce enough money for rent. Babushka’s funeral. The first time he fell in competition.

He cannot forget that, under the black band he wears around his wrist like a shield, his soulmark may as well be nonexistent.

Unsteady by otayuri_oh_nice 139,679

Otabek was going to kill JJ. He was going to take the next flight to Canada, hunt him down and kick his ass. Leo: I tried to stop him but he went and did it anyway, I’m sorry! (link)

- Or: JJ uploads one of Otabek's remixes of Yuri's songs to YouTube and Otabek freaks out.

- Or: what happens when you take episode 1, replace figure skaters with musicians and exchange Victuuri for Otayuri. Aka another strange AU no one asked for.

on finding your way; by crossroadswrite

When Otabek has to leave back to the dormitories, he turns to Yuri, looking slightly nervous and asks, “So, are we friends or what?”

Yuri stares at him. “Beka, I let you pet my cat.”

Prequel: on growing; by crossroadswrite

Yuri Plisetsky glares at him with all the righteousness five year olds possess, and says in heavily accented and clumsy English. “Be more gooder, stupid!”

And then he storms out in a sweep of blond hair and blue and red lights from his Sketchers.

(Or: in which everything is the same but Yuri Plisetsky is Victor's bratty five-year-old child.)

https://otayuri-ficrec.tumblr.com/tagged/yoi-fic-rec

wip

Eat Your Heart Out, Adonis by blackmountainbones

The year is 2021. The Beijing Winter Olympics are just around the corner, and Yuri Plisetsky is forced to take a break from skating in order to recover from an ankle injury. His friend Otabek comes to Russia to keep him company during his time off the ice.

soldier boy, tripping over himself to win my praise by thissupposedcrime

Yuri cannot crater down the path Victor blazed, happily forsaking Russia and his career for an international love affair. Neither will Kazakhstan's favorite son.

Or Yuri and Otabek from 2016-2026 and the competitions, weddings, and longing that define them.

Not your usual love story by arcsinx

Baranovskaya's new face, Yuri Plisetsky (22), who shot in Venice for Vogue's last issue, was seen accompanied by Otabek Altin (25) as they left a coffee shop in St Petersburg yesterday. The DJ and voted 2017's hottest musician, Altin was in the city to compose for Victor Nikiforov's (30) new movie production. The couple met at the Paris Fashion Week after-party(image) and have been appointed to be secretly dating ever since. An intimate friend claims Altin to be completely besotted with the Russian beauty, having even gifted him a $35,000 diamond collar necklace!

For more photos of Plisetsky's front cover shoot for Vogue, click here For more articles on Altin's new collabs with popstars, click here.

Let the Record Drop by BoxWineConfessions

A collection of PWP oneshots loosley based around the idea of DJ-Otabek.

#rec: otayuri

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tcarroll777 · 8 years ago

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PYRO JUNKIES GO TO HEAVEN

Tom Carroll | July 4th, 2017

I hope you don't see this until tomorrow - the 5th - or later. I hope you spent all day visiting with friends and family - attending parades. Most of all, I hope you were witness to a great fireworks show.

Here's a ramble from sometime back - a reminiscence, offering a perspective most are not fortunate to be part of. A story of The Fourth of July from a Pyro's close up view, our dance with fire. Fire destroys. Fire sustains life and brings people together. And sometimes, fire ignites imagination!

As a very young child my transcendental intuition was literally ignited by fire on Independence Day. In small town, Lakeview, perched on Oregon's high Desert, residents came together for a community picnic. Later, the fireworks displays were held at a drive-in movie theater.

I was three, no more than four years old when following the films, (most here remember that there were always two back then), I watched as an aerial shell rose into the air on a column of purple fire - a comet tail tracing an ariel shells accent until the moment it broke – exploding across the sky with such beauty that this memory continues to burn the retina of my mind’s eye. Long before I knew the word or its meaning, I’d seen the Transcendent, and with near missionary zeal, wanted others to experience what I had. Which is probably why, years later I operated a display fireworks business. When asked, I’ve always said that I believed it was all because of that purple comet.

For years, on the fourth of July I sent out crews of “Highly Trained Professionals,” loaded with all the fireworks and shooting gear needed to put on a show for towns around the area. It’s a wonder we never killed anyone. Yes, we were trained and had years of experience. But we were just a bunch of overgrown kids, thrilled by the idea of all those fuses to light – all the smoke, flame and concussion of shells lifting into the night. It’s one of those experiences that defy explanation - a great big rush and you got paid to do it… sometimes. Once a year we did it for free. And gawd… was it fun!

Early on the morning of the Forth, drivers converged from towns all around the area. After checking all the paperwork – being sure everyone had a clipboard full of it, enough to satisfy city, county, state and federal cops, even the United Nations – no kidding! Permits were handed out to the lead pyro’ and case after case of shells were transferred to this rag tag fleet of trucks and canopy protected pick-up beds.

Each truck had to display four, big bright orange placards announcing that you were hauling 1.3G Explosives. Given the time of year - the day..., they might as well have said, "FIREWORKS ON BOARD!" While on the road, the real danger faced was other drivers staring - causing them to steer whatever they were driving right at us.

It was not uncommon for people to try to flag a one of our drivers down, thinking that he would be happy to sell them something big. Something to blow up the BBQ and everybody standing in the backyard - “Ya, Baby!” Nice try. But not gonna happen!

With no shame, I reserved the largest show for myself and a group of friends.After all the other crews were "papered," packed and on the road - the storage bunker was still packed with cases of shells destined for Wallowa Lake or La Grande - sometimes both, as we often shot back to back - two shows in a row. Both over budget and each with equal enthusiasm.

With member of the crew coming from across the state, we gathered for this purpose for twenty years. Yes, we were friends. But we all knew it was really about all the fuse and powder. We were there to shoot shells!

These were the "free" ones. Throwing profit, and more in with the community fund - the result was a whopper show, far out sizing either small towns budget. Civic organizers probably never knew or understood. No matter. This was a worship offering - an attempt to satisfy the Deities of the Transcendent. Actually, it was an attempt to satisfy pyro lust. Never fully satisfied - we always wanted MORE!

Wallowa's show - being a, "lake" show - was inherently, more dramatic. With all that water to receive the fall-out - we could include long duration shells - shells who's components were likely to still be "hot" when they reached the ground. Not something we could intentionally allow to happen in the middle of a field of dry grass.

So, acres of water to extinguish fallout. High mountains for a backdrop during daylight, set-up hours also served to darken the night sky - allowing less light to spill back over the horizon after sunset. And a mirror - all that water again. An oversized reflection pond doubling the effects displayed in the air.

Shot from three massive floating platforms heavily roped together. With 4000 sq ft. of deck space and the required safe distance from the crowd, we had clearance for the big ones - shells up to sixteen inches in diameter. Even so, we never shot anything larger than twelve's.

Forgive the cliche, but if ever it were true – where fireworks are concerned, size really does matter… so, of course, the bigger the better! But the wicked witch’s of Oregon bureaucracy had pledged that we would never enjoy the ultimate thrill. True to bureaucratic small mindedness, without regard for the law or their own rules, they limited our permits to twelve inch shells. They just never got it. And as concerns The BIG one - a sixteen inch'er... neither did we.

Forget the sixteens... a twelve inch shell is nothing to sniff at. Particularly, the right shells - expensive suckers made by the gifted craftsmen at Yung Feng & Co. These hard breaking beauties - each a masterful composition. An intense performance of rising effects, rich coloration, and outrageously wide, breath-talking canopies of long duration stars.

All morning and on through the afternoon we worked to position and secure the equipment. Racks holding hundreds of mortars – the tubes that contain the lift blast and direct the flight of the shells – all had to be braced and screwed to the decking, Nothing could be allowed to move when shells began to fly.

With the equipment in place, shells were lowered individually into pipes of matching diameter. Depending on it’s location in a bank of racks, an individual shell might need a longer fuse. After adding extensions, the fusing is draped and taped safely around the mouths of other mortars – bringing each end to the front where it is securing taped to the lip of the rack. A fuse running over the mouth of a mortar can result in a shell being jerked prematurely from its tube - exploding at our feet. Always exciting - potentially lethal. We never let it happen. Shells and fusing secured - they were ready for the scorching flame of railroad torches.

The set-up ran the length of both sides and down the middle of the barge. Both ends were left open, these being our access to the fire extinguisher – a lake full of cold water! With float jackets squeezed under our coveralls and a fast little boat manned and ready to pull anyone from the water, our bulky looking crew worked from end to end of the barge, repeatedly flicking glances at watches, willing the minutes to tick by faster.

By late afternoon I’d personally offended every crew member – it was part of the ritual - me telling and re-telling them things they already knew. Repeating safety instruction until everyone was totally fed up. Having done my part, everyone executed their jobs perfectly – no one ever got hurt.

When set-up was complete, I salved bruised egos, making time for everyone to tell their funniest - "Tom's an Idiot," story, They had plenty of material to work from. Now we're a tribe regathered, bonded by years of experience. No year - no show exactly the same. All the old story's were re-told and we grinned like idiots, riding a river of adrenaline in anticipation of the semi-controlled madness soon to erupt around us.

On board, we had a huge amount entertainment grade explosives – everything the budget allowed and like I said - a bunch more we’d paid for personally. Having put heart, soul and more than a few of our own dollars into the mix – everyone benefited. The sponsors were skeptical. Up until we took over the contract, they had endured a half hear-ted effort supplied by competitors. With only a few mortars - each tube was re-loaded between shots. The shows were slow and attendance dwindled when local residents began to here about our shows in La Grande.

Having assured them that by hiring our crew this would change, I suggested that they, 'bill it" - advertise the show as, "SHAKE THE LAKE!" The name stuck and year after year - safe to say... we shook the lake! Back to that first year - the committee chairman met us after the show, check in hand and tears of relief in her eyes. One of the few times I've made a woman cry and felt good about it.

Long before dark, the park had filled with thousands. Having believed the advertising - late comers now lined the highway and rocky shore. Blankets, coolers and kids filled every flat and almost flat spot for as far as we could see from the deck of the “SS Fire Island.” Including the lawns of hill-side and waterfront homes - the concept of private property was ignored - shattered, really. And all with a remarkable minimum of in-civility. You made lots of new friends if you owned a house near that lake!

8 PM. Heavy ropes straining, the tow boat eased us away from shore, beginning the slow trip to “Shoot Central,” where anchors were lowered into one of the most beautiful, glacier cut lakes I’ve ever seen. With the barges positioned and secure we began the process of checking and re-checking fuses and equipment. The main barge held the smaller stuff – ground effects and shells up to six inches in diameter. This was the part of the show that we lit by hand with those railroad fusee’s. It’s safer to do it all with an electric, now computer driven system. But we were there for the rush – a proximity thrill. Meaning that more than approximately, shooters stood next to the action. When you hand fire a show, you’re standing in a shower of sparks and burning debris - nose to nose with towers of flame. Over and over, the body absorbs the shock as lift powder ignites, accelerating each heavy cylinder to a couple hundred miles an hour in fractions of a second. Did I already tell you it was a rush?

Yung Feng shells deserved particular attention, and that’s what we gave them. With a heavy throat-ed, low note, the larger of those special shells lifted. This was a signal for the crew to stop everything and watch. In silence, eyes following the orange glow of an ignition fuse tumbling, end over, as a shell rises to altitude. What happened next varied according to the specifics of the shell in the air. But it was always great, These were the ones we remembered and talked about later and the year after that. Particularly if it happened to be a Nishiki Kamuro. We’ll talk about them later too

The big shells were on a smaller floating deck anchored an extra hundred yards away – an eight by ten foot platform dense-packed with racks and stand-alone, steel mortars – hold overs from the bad old days, back when everything was shot from steel pipes. Over the course of twenty years we got smart and fabricated light weight, high-density, polyethylene mortars. But for the big shells – anything with a diameter of eight or more inches, steel was still the material of choice.

Even this small barge was an awesome sight. Particularly for those who knew what they were seeing. With ropes attached, each heavy shell was lifted to the lip of its mortar and gently lowered into place before attaching it’s fire wires to the panel. Comets fans and low altitude, finale boxes ringed with racks of four and six inch mortars - an assemblage of pyro pave’ rigged and ready fire with radio gear – each shot just a button push away – we towed it into position and dropped anchors before inserting the arming key on the firing panel. Watching the indicator lights - feelings of relief settled over the crew as the ready signal - a green LED began to flash.

Propelling a heavy shell requires a lot of black powder, creating a tremendous recoil. So tens and twelve’s were positioned as close to middle as possible to prevent flipping the whole deck. More than once we watched as lift energy shoved the small barge completely underwater - leaving us staring helplessly... wondering if the electrical system would live to ignite the next shell. Amazingly... It always did.

Ten pm - with that one-last look at the "clock," the show begins. The hands or numbers on a watch mean little with that much adrenaline surging through the body. Working our way up and down the rows of mortars – fast burning fuses flashing – shells lifting – surrounded on all sides by a fiery hot rain, concussion and dazzling light. We were transported. Fire dancers in Carhartts and heavy boots – a ballet for daemons.

As the last flights of shells lifted from the big barge, it was time for the finale. Reaching for the transmitter, I prayed that the key hadn’t fallen out somewhere in the middle of all the mayhem. Twisting the key to final arming position, a finger poised above firing switches… But wait! We need to revisit the whole sixteen inch shell thing.

Those really big shells – the ones that got away? Like I said... forget em! We’d doubled down for the finale. Crowning it with two eight inch Kamuro’s – 8 + 8 there’s our 16! We followed these with the last of our ten inch shells – a single Yung Feng Chrysanthemum – a single, gigantic red flower. Following it were two more Yung Feng’s. Both Nishiki Kamuro’s. Both Twelve inch! Bureaucrats – you can’t fire them, but you can screw'em with the math. 12 + 12 = 24! Surrounded, as described with racks of smaller shells - add pre-fused finale boxes and a-hundred salutes... now you have a nice finale shot.

A push of buttons and their away. First the eights framed by multi-tubed, finale boxes.Then the Ten preceded by flights of smaller shells. And with one final flick of a switch, the twelves lifted with a roar. Beginning a long ascent – they gracefully arched away from each other before a perfect, simultaneous break. Whith shells of this size performing at altitude, time goes side-ways again, component stars spreading to some eminence diameter in apparent slow-motion as a result of the altitude.

Kamuro’s are different, their primary components being huge, long duration, glitter comets. After the initial break they develop to spherical perfection - the canopy... no gaps, no ragged, deformed edges before beginning a slow motion decent. The glitter composition, microscopically porous charcoal infused with chemical wizardry, continues to burn - near weightless particles hang in the sky motionless to the eye as the remaining comet bodies descend, an umbrella now, still perfectly uniform – hundreds of feet in diameter – glittering, drifting to earth. Each thick, fiery tendril still vibrant and full from top to bottom. Finally, all that remains is a single ring of stars that wink out simultaneously only to reappear as a last red flash a few feet from the surface of the lake.

These big shells are accompanied by fusillades of salutes… Heavy concussions just before that last mesmerizing performance of Kumuro glitter... and It's over. Totally, K-I-C-K Ass!

Burning embers, smoldering bit of paper littered the deck and mortars continue to smoke. Occasionally, a shell, having failed to fire but still smoldering, will lift with no warning. Nobody wanted to be near when that happened so we’d all sit somewhere out of the way, mixing the last of the adrenaline sloshing through our systems with cans of beer - the first anyone's had all day - and cigarettes - whether you were a smoker or not. Nothing could have felt more satisfying.

The tow boat guy took his time, slowly guiding the barge to shore as we floated our way back down from pyro heaven. No body stayed up there – no one got hurt. Ever. That’s the really perfect part.

At some point the father of a kid who had seen one of our shows related how his boy reacted to a particularly nice finale shell that we’d shot during some other show. “He fell over backwards with his mouth hanging open when that thing went off” his dad said. As the man continued to tell the story I could see the boy in my mind – leaning and leaning farther, brilliant stars spread as only they can from a really big shell, ever wider until they've filled your field of vision. Finally, his dad told me, gravity caught up with the kid and he fell over backwards - though never for a moment breaking focus with that huge ball of fire. “All he said was,"Wow!”

His dad and I smiled – thinking of his boy and remembering our own “Wow” moments. Remembering a purple comet - I’m pretty sure I know exactly how that kid felt.

#pyrojunkies

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