#tim thatcher imagine

[laura-elizabeth91]

Philip May's face was almost as inscrutable as his wife's as he watched Britain's Government suffer the biggest parliamentary defeat in history from the public gallery.

By avoiding eye contact throughout the exchange in the House of Commons, which saw Theresa May's Withdrawal Agreement beaten by an unprecedented 230-vote majority, many assumed the Prime Minister might have broken down had she exchanged glances with the man she calls her "rock".

In fact, as a Downing Street insider later revealed, quite the opposite was true. Inadvertently giving a telling insight into her 38-year marriage, the source said the real reason she couldn't bear to look up at Philip was not because he would spark tears - that's not the way they operate. It was more a case that he'd give her that "look" and she'd start a fit of nervous laughter.

While she shies away from discussing her private life, Mrs May has always been candid in discussing her relationship with the man she met at a Conservative dinner dance when they were at Oxford.

Speaking about the death of her parents, she told BBC Radio 4's Desert Island Discs that she had "huge support in my husband and that was very important for me". She added: "He was a real rock for me - he has been all the time we've been married, but particularly then, of course, being faced with the loss of both parents within a relatively short space of time."

Yet with reports that the mild-mannered financier has caused a rift at Number 10 by thwarting the idea of winning Labour support for a customs union, just how much power does Philip May actually wield?

Although Downing Street has dismissed as "utter bunkum" claims that Mr May's actions have sparked a row with Gavin Barwell, Mrs May's chief of staff, the rumours do raise intriguing questions about who really wears the trousers in Downing Street.

Of course, this is nothing new. One Cabinet minister once pointed to Samantha Cameron, saying she was the driving force behind many policy decisions. Known for her socially liberal views, ministers joked that Samantha was such a strong influence on her husband David that she "will have a more liberalising impact on Cameron than Nick Clegg". According to Tim Montgomerie, the political columnist, Samantha also had a "huge influence" on the decision to soften the Government's hard-line approach on the Syrian refugee crisis.

And one can't imagine Cherie Blair ever holding back in Tony's self-styled "kitchen cabinet" meetings. Denis Thatcher famously said the role of a political consort should be "always present, never there" and, according to insiders - that's precisely how Philip, 61, plays it.

One former aide described his "ninja like" ability to be ever present without anyone taking "the blindest bit of notice". "Philip wields power, but only when the PM wants him to. He's always there but never in your face. I've never once seen him angry.

"He's cool, he's calm, he's clear - he never waffles. Everything he comes out with is useful and worth listening to. I remember at conference once he was running around making everyone tea. As a consequence, he hears everything that's going on. That way, when everyone has left the room, the PM can turn to him and say: 'Well, what do you think?'"

Although he has worked as a relationship manager for the financial group Capital International for more than a decade, Philip has become an ever more visible presence at Number 10. When his wife took office, his employer issued a statement insisting: "He is not involved with, and doesn't manage, money, and is not a portfolio manager. His job is to ensure the clients are happy with the service and that we understand their goals."

Indeed, workers based near his London Belgravia office had grown used to the sight of the Prime Minister's husband popping into the local Pret a Manger for a sandwich. But not as much since the last general election - a political move, incidentally, that Philip was vehemently opposed to.

According to one impeccably placed source: "In the early days, when Theresa May had Nick and Fi [her former joint chiefs of staff, Nick Timothy and Fiona Hill], you hardly saw Philip. He wasn't really needed. But since the snap election he's been on the scene a lot more, especially since Nick and Fi left. He goes on foreign trips now because she doesn't want to do them without him. It's ironic really because he was fiercely opposed to the idea of having another election. He literally said to Theresa: 'We've only just got here, we've only just unpacked the furniture, why are you doing this?'."

Having served as chairman of the local Conservative Party Association in Wimbledon, it was Philip who was tipped to go into politics. He took a step back when Mrs May, 62, was elected as the MP for Maidenhead in 1997, but has remained committed to the Tory cause.

Hence that rumoured Number 10 intervention last week. By reportedly siding with party chairman Brandon Lewis and Chief Whip Julian Smith in encouraging his wife to reach out to the Brexiteers in her own party - rather than the Opposition - the alleged ruckus serves as a reminder that Philip's allegiances lie to the party as much as the woman running the country.

As one source put it: "Philip would have been as capable a politician as Theresa. You could swap them out and he'd be just fine. He's very knowledgeable and committed to the party. He would disappear for a few hours during the election campaign, and when you'd ask him where he'd been he'd say: 'Just out canvassing'."

While it has long been said that Theresa May "doesn't have any friends" inside or outside politics, in fact the couple enjoy what one insider described as a "typically Tory social circle".

"They will meet other couples for dinner. They are quite close to Simon Dudley, the leader of the council in Windsor and Maidenhead, and his wife. It's all very old-school, blue-blooded Tory. You know, the sort of people who buy NZ$950 of raffle tickets and run supper clubs and enjoy cream teas. For them, the Conservative Party is their life. And they wouldn't have it any other way. They love going out and meeting people together."

Theresa also enjoys cooking for her husband - a small semblance of normality in her somewhat surreal world. As one aide revealed: "I remember the PM once delaying an important conference call because she had forgotten to make Philip his lunch. It was really rather touching, seeing how dedicated she is to him, even with everything else on her plate."

Another insider described how the "homely, cosy" decor at the Mays' home in Sonning provided an insight into their private suburban world, where they enjoy gardening, watching quiz shows like The Chase and Eggheads and listening to Test Match Special on BBC Radio 4.

Former grammar schoolboy Philip, who was brought up in Liverpool, also enjoys supporting the Reds - leading to another intriguing anecdote about the couple. Recalling a lunch she had arranged with the Prime Minister and her husband, the hostess went to great lengths to ensure Philip was sitting next to a Liverpool fan, revealing: "I told the guests, if you want the PM to enjoy the lunch, keep Philip happy. If Philip's happy, then the PM's happy - it really is as simple as that."

The Telegraph, London

from 2019

[grantgoddard]

Born to be hired : 2006 : the new boy, Enders Analysis

“How is it that jobs just seem to fall into the laps of posh people?” my daughter asked the other day.

A rhetorical question? A truism? Both? Those of us who work in industries populated largely by posh people whom we do not resemble may have observed two phenomena. Posh people are often appointed to posts for which they appear to have no relevant experience; and posh people are regularly promoted effortlessly without apparent need to demonstrate above-average talent or previous successes. Obviously not ALL posh people, but enough for such occurrences to be more than random chance.

Recently, I switched on BBC Radio Four mid-programme and heard a posh woman explaining her lengthy career. “I could have been anything,” she said confidently.

That single phrase encapsulates the social divisions so evident in Britain. If you are posh and your parents invest a small fortune in your private school education, it is drilled into you from an early age that you CAN and WILL do and be ‘anything’ in life. Meanwhile, the rest of us have to endure soul-destroying verdicts from state schools, careers services, Jobcentres and potential employers telling us of things we are not good enough to do and be in our apparently second-class lives. ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ proves not so entertaining a system when you have to make do in life with the scraps of opportunity that institutions occasionally chuck your way.

It used to be that posh offspring would join their families’ businesses or spontaneously be appointed ‘captains of industry’, as if managing a British industrial conglomerate was no different than taking daddy’s yacht out for a jaunt on a weekend. However, Britain’s post-war, post-colonial de-industrialisation (hastened during the Thatcher years) considerably narrowed such straight-ahead career opportunities. For a while, only politics, government, medicine, law and accountancy were considered suitable professions for posh people, whereas now those ambitions have had to be diversified into occupations such as … the media.

In 1973, Jenny Abramsky had joined the BBC as a lowly programme operations assistant, following an education at a London comprehensive (state) school and the University of East Anglia. After 26 years progressing through the ranks, she was finally appointed director of BBC radio. Following her retirement in 2008 from managing the largest radio operation in the world, it would be difficult to imagine a job description for her successor that would not have demanded similarly extensive experience in radio broadcasting. It is a sign of how times have changed that the BBC’s choice for the job was Tim Davie who had never worked in radio, but had attended private school, Cambridge University and was deputy chairman of Hammersmith & Fulham Conservative Association. It was transparent even then that the radio job was merely a stepping stone for Davie’s ambitions … and so it came to pass.

Occasionally a glitch in The Matrix does occur, maybe once in a lifetime, when mysterious forces within the universe collide to produce a job opportunity that would not normally appear on the precarious, non-linear career timelines endured by the non-posh. In 2006, I was unexpectedly offered an unadvertised post as a ‘media analyst’, a job title I had to search for on the internet to understand what it entailed. As the salary offered me was greater than any previously earned in Britain, it proved hard to resist.

On my first day of work at Enders Analysis, I was invited by my new colleagues to join them for lunch in a local ‘greasy spoon’. I had already spotted some clues: the office was located in Mayfair, a London district too expensive to even window shop; and the water cooler chatter was about made-to-measure suits by a tailor in Hong Kong.

“What school did you go to?” one of my new colleagues asked.

Decades had passed since I had last been asked about the school I had attended. I was now 48 years old, but I did not want to appear reticent to my peers on the first day.

“Strode’s College,” I replied.

My colleagues looked at each other as if I had mentioned a rarely-visited, faraway Pacific Island populated by savages.

“What sort of school is that?” one of them eventually followed up.

“It’s a sixth form college,” I replied.

This response evidently did not satisfy them. There was a more critical question they were burning to ask, a question that normally was not required of a new recruit. One of them dared to raise it with me.

“Is that a public school?”

In the 1984-ish world of British language, the phrase ‘public school’ means a private school where parents have to pay for their children’s education. What Americans call a ‘public school’ is known in Britain as a ‘state school’ because it is funded by the state. Although every child in Britain is entitled to a free education, a tiny proportion of parents choose a private schooling that they confidently expect will propel their offspring into an elitist trajectory.

It might have been my first day communing with my new ‘colleagues’, but my patience was already starting to be tested. I decided to respond obliquely.

“It used to be a grammar school,” I replied.

“So had it been a private school then?” one of them asked.

This question itself betrayed a flawed understanding of Britain’s school system viewed from the perspective of someone who graduated from private education. Grammar schools can only be state schools by definition. It was up to me to explain such fundamentals in the most black and white terms.

“No, it was a state school as a grammar school, and then it was a state school as a sixth form college,” I replied.

The fact that this humiliating Q&A was the first conversation with my new work colleagues turned out to be indicative of how my future in this job was going to proceed. I was not embarrassed about my education, a state-funded experience I shared with 94% of Brits. What I found difficult to process was my colleagues’ apparent belief that, thirty years after my departure, the status of my school continued to merit far more concern than anything I had done since.

Once the horrifying truth had been extracted from me that I was not ‘one of them’, their lunch chatter switched to other topics. Although I was employed as a media analyst, there were no follow-up questions about my relevant experience for the job, about employers I had worked for previously or about any successes I had achieved. It seemed as if my long career in radio counted for absolutely nothing with them. Of more importance was the type of school I had attended, a fact that certain colleagues were quick to remind me of later in this job.

Despite this rather rude introduction, I continued to join my colleagues for lunch in the same diner on following days in order not to appear unsociable. The cooked food was consistently terrible and caused me diarrhoea. Why did they go there? It soon became apparent from their chatter that one of them, my line manager, lusted after an East European waitress employed there who was probably a third of his age. Instead of castigating him as a ‘dirty old man’, his colleagues appeared to enjoy indulging his fantasies and encouraging his unwanted attentions by spending most lunchtimes being served food by this poor servant girl. I soon chose to duck out of their pantomime and went my own way to Eat or Pret A Manger for a cheaper, more wholesome takeaway sandwich.

During my first week, I had to ask my line manager’s advice about a paragraph I had written for a report. A quick visit to his adjacent private office should have lasted no more than a few minutes. Not so. I exited more than half-an-hour later, reeling from his account of sexual abuse suffered at private boarding school. One moment we had been talking about my punctuation, the next he had drifted into dark memories of bullying from many decades ago. I had not asked a question that might have prompted him to regale me with these horrific stories. Why had he considered it appropriate to burden the ‘new boy’ with such accounts?

Some months later, the whole team was required to attend a seasonal lunch at a basement restaurant in Mayfair. I hated these affairs as my colleagues would get drunk and talk even more loudly, but it was impossible to avoid such ‘team’ occasions. Sat facing each other along a long bench table adjacent to the kitchen, mid-meal I noticed under our table a liquid had started to flow around my shiny black shoes. In my lone sobriety, I raised the alarm with my colleagues, but was ignored until a chef appeared and shouted that a pipe containing used cooking oil had burst and was flooding the restaurant. Suddenly all us customers had to negotiate an extremely slippery floor, climb the stairs and exit onto the street.

On our way back to the office, I was walking alongside my line manager when he suddenly said: “Would you mind if I asked your advice about a personal matter?”

Considering some of our previous, scary conversations, I was half dreading what I might be about to hear. Why did he consider me to be someone suitable to share his private thoughts? His life experiences and his concerns seemed light years away from mine.

“The problem is my mother,” he explained. “She is spending money like water and nothing I say can seem to stop her. I am extremely worried that, when she dies, my inheritance will be insufficient for me to live on.”

“And how much do you think you will inherit when the time comes?” I asked with a great deal of trepidation.

“About one million pounds,” he replied without a hint of embarrassment.

[angelic-writer]

After giving Keith a pat on the back (which he saw as more patronizing than anything.), he knocked on the door. Seconds passed before a man answered. He was a well dressed man with a shaven face and combed hair. He looked more like a bank accountant rather than the military person Keith made him out to be. He stared at his son for a few minutes with a glare only a disappointed father would have. Eventually, he straightened his glasses, clearing his throat before speaking.

“Officer Davis. I’m really sorry you had to deal with my son again. He’s always been a troublemaker.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Boseman. We both know how teenagers are these days.”

“Yeah, I can imagine you, Ruth and Ezra had to deal with them quite a lot.” Felix Boseman said as he took out his wallet. After a bit, he handed him two hundred dollar bills. “I would appreciate it if things like this don’t happen again. My wife is about to have our second child and this whole thing is already stressing her out.”

Thatcher looked to see Felix’s wife sitting in the easy chair, looking at them with her arms crossed. He could see that she was about six months pregnant. “Don’t worry, sir. If I catch him outside again, I’m taking him straight to the station.” He said.

“Heh, maybe a jail cell would straighten him out.”

Felix grabbed Keith by the arm and led him to the living room. “Now you sit here and wait. I’m gonna have a talk with the sheriff. Don’t go anywhere.” He sternly spoke, sitting him down on the couch across from his mother as she looked at her son with a tired face. Keith looked away from her as Thatcher and his father went into the kitchen, chatting up a storm. He couldn’t even be bothered to listen to what they were talking about.

Why did this alternate thing have to happen? And right at the beginning of summer too! Ugh, this sucks! Why can’t we go outside and party like we used to?!

“Well, it’s good to see that Ruth and Dave are doing well. Having to deal with someone that died that young must’ve been hard...”

“Yeah. I just want to make sure everyone in this town is safe.” Thatcher said.

Felix took a sip of his coke. “Look, I know it seems like I’m overbearing with my son, but I just want him to be safe. And after Tim, I’m just worried about him. It’s hard enough for me and my wife to have to deal with shapeshifters, but add Keith being a rebel and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.”

Since Tumblr is not letting me respond to the post, here is a continuation of chapter 2.

"Um... yeah, let's do that." Keith said quietly, deciding he would rather be caught by Thatcher than Ezra.

@angelic-writer

[inastrangerskiss]

sleeping in new beds

Timothy Thatcher x Reader

content warning: just thatcher talking trash about himself per usual

summary: you always found it difficult spending the night at someone else's place

This hadn’t been planned.

It started with coffee and a walk in the park and now it was late and you were standing in the middle of Tim’s bedroom. Morning felt like it had only just faded when the moon began to rise and the sky began to darken.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me?” He had asked you over the phone, a mere few days ago,

You heard him collapse onto his couch with a sigh as he waited for your response. After three months together you had thought he might stop being so formal in the way he approached taking you out but he continued all the same.

“Hmm… where to?” You had asked.

“Wherever you want.” He responded, a smile echoing through the receiver.

“When?”

“Whenever you want.”

You laughed.

“So if I said in an hour I want to get on a flight to Tokyo you’d do that?”

Tim let out a gruff chuckle of his own. It was a sound you relished hearing because it was a sound you didn’t hear often.

“Whatever you want.” He chimed.

“God, you give me too much power.” You shook your head. “How about Saturday? We’ll go into town and see where that takes us.”

“That’s hardly Tokyo.” He had teased.

But you didn’t want Tokyo. You wanted Tim’s gloved hand wrapped around your mittens. You wanted to kiss the tip of his nose as it became red from the cold. You wanted just to be next to him. Nothing more and nothing less.

So he met you at the public parking lot and when you suggested getting coffee first he had hardly declined. You were both desperate for something to keep your bodies warm in spite of the freezing temperatures. He paid for yours with a wink and a smile. You teased him for only ever carrying cash as he stuck a couple of bills in the tip jar and he stole a sip from your paper cup.

He guided you to the park, his arm firmly wrapped around your waist.

“How were your holidays?” You had asked.

He shrugged, explaining how he had enjoyed seeing his family but had been desperate to get home. You asked him why that was.

“So I could call you and ask you on this date.” He grinned.

You rolled your eyes, pretending to gag at the sappiness of his words.

“I mean it!” He laughed, his voice growing in volume as it always did when he got excited.

“Just to see me?”

He nodded almost bashfully.

“Well I was excited to see you too.” You murmured, equally as shy as the man you were talking to.

“Nah.” He brushed your words off. “You’re just saying that.”

“I am not!” You insisted.

“No one is rushing their holidays just to see this ugly mug.”

His words were spoken with a sort of humor attached to them, as though he were accustomed to talking down to himself. They made you stop in your tracks.

“What in the world makes you think you’re ugly, Tim?”

“The nose, the teeth. You know. All of this.” He circled his finger around his face.

You stared at him for a moment before smiling. On your tip toes, you reached up, kissing his nose before trailing down to his lips.

“Well, I don’t think you’re ugly. I, for one, love your crooked nose. I love your chipped tooth.”

The sun had already begun to fall in the sky and the golden light had begun to cut through the shade of the trees, casting fractal shapes over Tim’s face. He looked away from you but you could see a tiny grin beginning to shift his cheeks. It was the prettiest smile you had seen in the longest time.

“You just say things.”

“You think I’m just here? In the freezing cold? To pay you lip service?”

He studied you for a second before curling a finger under your chin and raising your lips back to his.

“I think you’re too nice.” He whispered as he parted.

You only shook your head, taking him by the hand and marching forward. His fingers fit perfectly between yours as you pulled him along. Had you turned your head you would’ve seen the way Tim was beaming as he watched you walk ahead.

The sun dropped past the horizon and it became dark. He held you close as you sat on a park bench, keeping you warm, warding off shivers and chattering teeth.

“Want to stop by mine for a bit? It’s getting cold.”

You deliberated before nodding quickly.

“I could’ve said anything if it meant you’d be warm, huh?” Tim asked.

You nodded again.

“Want me to drive you? Or do you want to follow me?” He continued, his chin tucked against the crown of your head.

“I’ll follow you. I don’t want to leave my car here.”

He agreed and you parted ways for only a moment. Your car found his and you followed him back to his apartment. It was small enough but it was cozy. He waited for you at the front door, keys in hand. When he unlocked it you were greeted with a wave of warm air that seemed to melt the frost from your bones.

He helped you out of your jacket and your shoes. He made you tea and popped popcorn and you curled up on his couch, immediately treating yourself to a blanket that rested on one of the arms. There were two small pillows on either side of you and both looked like they had probably been pilfered from a grandmother’s house. You didn’t understand how he could possibly find anything resembling comfort while resting here.

All the same, when he came to sit beside you, he offered you the second pillow.

So you flipped through the television channels, one hand on the remote and one hand wrapped up in his. Snow began to fall as you nestled your head into the crook of his neck. You weren’t paying attention to the way it accumulated on the window sill. You weren’t paying attention to the roads freezing outside or the temperature dropping on the little digital thermometer Tim kept propped up on the television stand. Instead, you focused your attention on Tim’s knee brushing yours and the warmth radiating off of his skin. You focused on how you had only known him for a few months but somehow it felt like a few years.

“You gonna be okay to drive home?” Tim asked, nudging you as you began to drift off.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You can stay here.”

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re only a few minutes away from my place.”

“C’mon. Let’s get you on the road before the weather gets too bad.” He murmured into your hair.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“I enjoyed today’s date a lot. I’d like to have many more and, in order to do that, I need you to get home safe tonight.”

You spared a look up to him but you knew he was right. Time had passed quickly while you had relaxed by his side. So, you stood and stretched and he found his feet beside you. His hand met your hip and you smiled to yourself.

He helped you back into your jacket and shoes and walked you to the door.

Then you walked outside and you saw the snow.

And it certainly was beautiful. But it was beautiful in the “five inches of snow has suddenly accumulated” sort of way. A plow was running somewhere in the distance, the yellow hazard lights reflecting off the winter weather, but you and Tim pretended not to hear it.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to back my car out.” You gestured to your beat up sedan, barely capable of front wheel drive let alone all wheel drive.

“Yeah. I’d shovel you out but I’m not sure what good that’d do.”

“I guess I could just stay here for the night. I’m sure the snow will be dealt with in the morning.”

“Yeah.” Tim responded a little too quickly. “Let’s head back inside.”

You walked back to the comfort of Tim’s apartment and, once again, removed your shoes and jacket. Tim offered you a pair of his sweats and a worn out punk band’s t-shirt. When he saw the goosebumps rise on your arms he offered you a sweatshirt in addition. And he made sure to give you space to change in private while he found you a toothbrush.

You were worried about how the night would go. You were never good at sleeping in another person’s bed. You were prepared for an evening of tossing and turning and questioning every strange sound that might emanate from his fridge or his vents or the joints of the house.

But Tim brought you the pillows and the blanket from the couch, seemingly trying to mitigate the fact that he had just one pillow on the entire queen sized bed. You thanked him and he offered you a glass of water, a pair of socks, anything to ensure you were comfortable.

“I’m fine. I think I’m just going to go to sleep.” You smiled.

“I’ll get you a glass of water just in case.”

You couldn’t say no. He was halfway to filling up a glass before the words finished falling free of his mouth. You grinned as you found your way under the duvet. In your presence, he transformed from a serious, almost scary enigma to a doting caretaker and it was the sweetest thing you’d ever witnessed.

He returned with the glass and put it on the nightstand beside your head.

“Thank you.” You chirped.

He kissed your forehead in response.

Soon, he too was ready for bed, crawling under the covers beside you. You felt your heart rate increase. You felt his hand lingering near yours. You felt him laying impossibly still. You felt him roll towards you, his eyes scanning your face in the dark.

“If you need anything you can wake me up.” He yawned.

“I don’t think I want to know what you’re like at three in the morning.” You murmured.

“If it’s your face I’m waking up to, I'll be on my best behavior.”

You laughed quietly, as though you were at a sleepover and were scared to be overheard.

“Get some rest, hon.” He spoke as he leaned towards you, kissing your cheek for just a second.

You leaned into the affection. When he pulled away you pulled closer, resting your head on his chest, draping your arm over his body. He chuckled softly, wrapping a strong arm around you.

The room was dark, save for the glow of a streetlight shining through the window. A branch, laden with ice and snow occasionally brushed the glass but you weren’t scared. His fridge ran a bit loud and the vents groaned from time to time but you hardly noticed.

And then it was morning.

What you had expected to be a restless night became one of the most peaceful sleeps you had had in a very long time. You woke to the smell of breakfast being cooked and coffee being brewed and the sounds of music playing from a phone’s speaker in the kitchen.

You walked to find Tim busy over a stove, hardly paying attention to your emergence.

“Having fun?” You teased.

Startled, he turned towards you, a blush rising over his cheeks.

“Sleep well?” He asked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

You smiled.

This hadn’t been planned.

Not by any means.

But the next time you went back to his place he had more pillows on the couch and bed. He had gotten more blankets and placed them in a basket for you to choose from at will. He had picked up your favorite coffee at the grocery store and a bottle of the face wash you told him you liked to use.

It was only a few days later when you ended up back in his bed, back in his arms.

It hadn’t snowed at all, this time.

But you both knew you hardly needed an excuse.

[southwalessubculture]

17. “Are you jealous?” new list with Timothy Thatcher

General #17: “Are you jealous?”

gotta give something to the thotchers too since i'm 80% sure they're half or more of my audience alone

"Why are you treating me like a child?"

Tim scoffed a bit at your tone, throwing his keys on the counter next to his flip phone.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You call me at 2 in the morning to pick you up from a date because you got ditched and you're expecting me to be all excited and happy about it?"

"No, but you haven't said more than three sentences to me, and all of those were some variation of 'I told you so.' I get it, you were right, but you don't have to rub it in. I was legitimately excited about this date, and you picking on me because he left with someone else isn't exactly the kind of thing I'm super cool with right now."

"Look, I'm not trying to make fun of you-"

"Then what are you doing, Tim?" You stepped closer to him, fingers tensing from the stress of the moment. "Because it seems like you're reveling in the fact that the first date I've went on in seven months was a total failure."

He sighed, stepping back a bit until he was standing by the wall. He looked as if he was about to let something out, reveal something substantial, but he closed back up as soon as you noticed it.

"I won't deny that I'm not exactly upset about this, but-"

"But what? You're happy that I got ditched? What is it that makes you so happy about this? The fact that you watched me fail, getting to revel in the fact that you were right, you just not liking the guy?"

"It's none of that, it's just-"

"Are you jealous of me or something, then?"

"Maybe I am!"

His voice raised in a moment and you stepped back, startled by his raised tone and confession alike.

"Maybe I am jealous. Not of you, for going out and trying it out with someone new, but of him. Because he wasn't me, because you weren't talking with your friends about going out with me, asking my opinion of what to wear on a date with me. Maybe it's because tonight he had everything I've ever wanted. And yeah, I'm a little happy that this means I have another chance, but do you know how much it crushed me when you called? Knowing that not only had it not worked out, you weren't happy, but that the ass had left you alone at a bar? It killed me to see you like that, standing outside, looking so beautiful and yet so upset about what happened to you."

You finally had heard enough to be convinced that he was telling the truth, not just spinning things so he didn't look like a total ass for gloating to you. You pushed yourself forward again, time slowing as you reached up and finally kissed him.

He pulled back for a second, studying your eyes with a kind of intensity that made your heart stutter, before reaching up and cupping your face in his hand, pulling you back to his lips again. He kissed you like it was the only thing he'd ever wanted to do, like you were his first love, the first sunset he'd ever looked at, the only thing he'd ever cared for. Like you were the most important thing in the world to him.

"What do you think now, doll?"

"I think if you don't kiss me again I'm gonna lose my mind."

He laughs but complies regardless, tangling his fingers in your hair as he steals your breath yet again with how gentle he is to you, how clearly you can see that he truly loves you.

[milfzatannaz]

Hiiii do you have any headcanons about Zatara II?

yeah I have some! Idk if you’re the same anon from months ago, but if you are, hiiiiiii lol! If not disregard hehe

- idk where John fits into all of this. Mostly I believe he’d be comfortable as more of an “uncle” figure and let his son know he’s his dad when he’s older. he does stick around often enough that Z2’s favorite phrase in kindergarten was “fuck thatcher”

- He was a really mischievous toddler. you cannot have the genes he has and not toddle around being as sneaky and charming as possible

- I think it would make the most sense that he was raised in shadowcrest as the next Zatara. Zee currently either lives in Vegas or San Fransisco depending on the writer, but I think she’d choose to raise him there. Cheaper than buying a bigger apartment in this economy, lol

- speaking of money he’d definitely grow up wealthy but I think traveling with his mom and being raised as a hereditary magic user, I don’t think he’d be very materialistic

- his hair was very curly as a kid, bc honestly I think zee‘s hair is naturally curly. John’s has been known to wave when he grows it out (adorable)

- I think he’s characterized a tad weird in his few panels in KC bc a child of a stage magician and his fucking dad would not be shy

- every time he exhibits a negative trait someone goes “just like your dad”

- his entry in kingdom comes companion book says he sees ghosts like his father. I think he could see his grandad as a kid, which would be very sweet

- he was raised around all of Zee’s show animals and probably had a favorite bunny

- I think zee would be one of those moms that smothers their kid in good food. she always cooked for Tim when he crashed at her place, and she’s Italian, so this boy was spoiled on the food front

- he’d probably love Tim. Like follow him around like a lost duckling love. In turn Tim teaches him to curse backwards

- he loves his Italian roots but every time he visits England he hates the food :(

- he was definitely trained by his mom, so imagine a widdle copy of zee running around backstage in the kid version of her performing costume (yes I already drew this shhhh)

[theartistknownaslymond]

A playlist for the equivalent of the sequence where Francis thinks Richard and Sibylla have drowned (through to the revelations at Calais if you want) please.

My god you're evil Katherine <3

Nothing but the Cathartic

A band AU playlist for a six hour hungover drive through the night to confirm whether the relatives you keep trying to estrange yourself from, who you actually love beyond words, have drowned*

1) Kate Bush - Watching You Without Me 2) Joan Baez - House Carpenter 3) Jean-Roger Caussimon - La Manche 4) The Watersons - Idumea 5) John Lennon - Mother 6) Lady Maisery - The Changeling's Lullaby 7) Sily Sisters - Burning of Auchindoon 8) Anne Briggs - Lowlands 9) Justin Hayward & John Lodge - My Brother 10) Maddy Prior & Tim Hart - I Live Not Where I Love 11) Joni Mitchell [Morgan James, because Spotify] - The Last Time I Saw Richard 12) Pentangle - Lyke-Wake Dirge 13) Nic Jones - Isle of France 14) Rani Arbo & Daisy Mayhem - Crossing the Bar 15) Charles Trenet - La Mer

'Then all the more credit to you,' said Erskine, seating himself, 'for entertaining such strong family feelings. We heard of your ride. I trust you are now quite rested after it.' The young man's mouth opened. 'The ride!' He sat down. 'My dear sir, the ride was nothing but the cathartic. It was the banquet at the Hôtel de Ville that did for me.'

*n.b. for a real hungover night drive you should a) let Archie drive and b) choose louder songs to keep you awake

I know I should be posting the celebrating-Thatcher’s-demise playlist today, but that one isn’t ready, so you get a miserable mourning one instead whoops

1) This is from The Ninth Wave, the B-side of Hounds of Love about a woman lost at sea. It's her pov on her relatives waiting for her to return - so the reverse of Francis imagining Sibylla and Richard are dead, but Sibylla wants to see what he's like imaging Richard's dead, and in terms of the misunderstandings and not-hearing-each-others it seems fitting for the fmaily at this point. 2) A folk song about a woman who had an affair with some devil (also known as The Demon Lover), is later persuaded by him to leave her husband and child and then drowns at sea when he deliberately sinks their ship. Not that I think any of this applies to Sibylla, but atmospherically I think Francis, who is not currently certain of his past, would find it fittingly painful. 3) Don't @ me I couldn't find a transcript of the lyrics and my French isn't good enough to know that it fits exactly, but it sounds good for the kind of crooner FRC was, for the soundtrack to Sibylla's past in France, and obviously La Manche is the French name for the English Channel. 4) A sacred harp song re-introduced to the UK by the Watersons, it's just a great mourning song. 5) If the lyrics to this seem unfair to Francis, Sibylla and FRC, or even overly kind on Gavin, then just think about how much misunderstanding there is between everyone, how much distrust there is and how much isn't being said that needs to be said at this point of the story. 6) Ok, this is one modern folk song I allowed myself because I thought it fitted Francis' fears of what he is to Sibylla so well. Plus imagine the way this could be interpreted from Sibylla's pov, knowing who the words are actually referring to: 'Your father says you're not his own nor any child of man's, / But I think you have your father's smile, your father's gentle hands, / And I pray that you will love me like your father used to do, / So hush awhile, my darling, so I might know it's you.' 7) It's really more of a GoK song, but that's emblemetic enough of the tangled Crawford relationships anyway: 'As I came in by Fiddich side on a May morning / Auchindoon was in a blaze an hour before the dawning / Crawing, crawing, for all your crowse crawing / You've burnt your crops and tint your wings / An hour before the dawning.' 8) Drowned lover appears to woman in a dream. Another great angsty ballad. 9) Perhaps on the surface more of a 'Richard about Francis' song, but given the reference to the hand at the bridle when Francis suddenly realises his brother's not dead, it might also be a bit about Francis' idea of Richard when he was young. Plus 'So far / aross a wild and windy sea / So far / That our voices are / Divided by an ocean / An ocean.' 10) Again, technically written as a song for a lover, but I think it still fits Francis' feelings about home and family and his difficult relationship with Scotland and Midculter. 11) Bit on the nose? Mm. 'Richard got married to a figure skater And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator And he drinks at home now most nights with the TV on And all the house lights left up bright. I'm gonna blow this damn candle out I don't want nobody comin' over to my table I got nothing to talk to anybody about All good dreamers pass this way someday Hidin' behind bottles in dark cafés Dark cafés, only a dark cocoon Before I get my gorgeous wings and fly away Only a phase, these dark café days.' 12) It's another banging mourning song from the canon of twentieth century folk revival! 13) The story is of a convict washing up from a shipwreck and being pardoned - you'd imagine Francis would see himself in it to an extent, while also thinking he deserves neither life nor pardon. 14) Another slight anachronism, because Katherine mentioned another recent version (by False Lights), and this is the arrangement that inspired that one. The song, however, is a Tennyson poem, and it had been set to choral music before, so it would sort of be known to Francis. 15) Again, big French crooner from Sibylla's glamour days, imagine her recuperating with this playing in the background as Francis steps into the room to see she's alive, while thinking Richard isn't...

[domesticblisss]

Silence

Timothy Thatcher x Female Reader Rating: Mature (Minors DNI) Word Count: 1493 Warnings: Fluff, smut, one bed. Summary: Tim finally tells reader why he acts like he does. A/N: This is a continuation to this drabble. You should read it before reading Silence.

We didn’t talk that morning. When I woke up, Tim was already out of bed and nowhere to be found, so I followed through with my routine.

The cheery, blonde receptionist still sat on the front desk, happily greeting everyone that stopped by.

“Good morning, Miss. Did you sleep well?” She asked when I approached her.

“Like a baby. Do you have any news on the snowstorm?”

“It picked up during the night, the roads are still closed and they have no idea when they are opening again. The news this morning said it might get worse, actually.”

“Damn, guess I will be staying more than one night here.” I laughed. “Do you think you could do me a favour? If it’s possible, could I get an extra bed in my bedroom?”

“We are packed, but I will see what we can do, Miss.” Anna, I could finally see the name on her ID plate, said with her sickly sweet voice. God, I wanna hug her.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Breakfast was uneventful, except for the fact that I met Marcel and Fabian at the buffett.

“Where’s Tim?” Marcel asked after we sat down to eat.

“No clue, he was already gone when I woke up.”

“He didn’t text you or anything?”

“Are we talking about the same person?” I asked as I shoved a piece of hash browns inside my mouth, “you guys know Tim hates me, he only works and travels with me because the company makes him.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Fabian opened his mouth for the first time. The ironic look I had on made him continue. “He just… he has a hard time opening up.”

Yeah, right.

All of our phones beeped at the same time.

Text message from: Emily H. (NXT Prod)

The show is cancelled. Please stay safe in your hotels and send us the invoice so the company can reimburse you. I’ll hit back with new info as soon as they come out.

“Time to figure out how to have fun in a snowstorm, boys.”

Turns out, the hotel is way bigger than we thought and has a lot to do during a snowstorm. We hit the gym after breakfast and after training, we ended up finding out that the hotel has a huge gaming room, a cinema, a sauna, a big library, and they were even offering cooking classes. Marcel wearing an apron was such a sight.

It was past 7p.m. when I arrived, and Tim was already back in the room. He sat on the bed, a book in his hands and his headphones on. He didn’t acknowledge me.

It was when I left the bathroom after my shower that he finally talked to me for the first time that day.

“Didn’t see you come in.” he said, his voice a little louder as usual.

“Yeah, got back like, forty minutes ago.”

“Did you have a good day?”

I actually stopped putting my clothes back onto my suitcase to look at him before answering. He never asked how my day was.

“Yeah. Marcel and Fabian are here too, we spent the day together. The hotel offers a lot of stuff. Did you have a nice day?”

“Yeah.”

And silence fell upon us again. I had just finished getting my things in order and gotten my skincare done when I started feeling hungry. Deciding against leaving the room, it was so, so warm inside, I decided to order in.

“Hey,” I called Tim, “I’m getting room service. Do you want anything?”

“Sure, a cheeseburger is fine.”

“With fries?”

“Sure.”

We ate in silence, we watched whatever movie was on in silence, we fell asleep in silence.

The following days we were stuck in the hotel followed the same routine. I would wake up and Tim would be gone, I would chat with Anna, and save her from getting her heart broken by Marcel, him, Fabian and I would have breakfast, hit the gym and explore whatever the hotel had to offer. When I had gotten back to the room, Tim would already be there reading or watching something, we would exchange three words, eat and sleep.

Today, for some reason, I wasn’t blessed by the gods of sleep. As much as I tried not to, I kept tossing and turning, just waiting for the moment Tim would wake up and complain.

“Can’t sleep?” his hoarse voice came from behind me.

“No, sorry for waking you up.”

“You didn’t, can’t sleep either.” he got up as I turned around to look at him. “Do you want some tea?”

“It’s…” I looked at my phone to check the time “2 a.m., room service is not working anymore.”

“I’m making it. Peppermint tea helps you sleep, want it or not?”

“Sure…”

He comes back from the tiny kitchen five minutes later, with two mugs in hand, and hands me one.

We drink the tea in silence, and I take it as my cue to ask him the same question I did on our first night here.

“Why do you hate me, Tim?”

He sighs and takes his left hand to his head, disheveling his already messy hair. “I don’t hate you.”

“Okay… then why do you strongly dislike me?”

“I don’t have negative feelings towards you, I think you are a nice person. Why do you keep asking me this?”

I sat my mug on the side table and turned to face him, laughing. “Tim, are you serious? You barely look at me, you don’t say more than two words to me, and when you do, you get annoyed with me and shuts me off mid-sentence. I know I’m annoying but c’mon. Have I ever done anything to you?”

“No, you have not.”

“Then why do you treat me like this? I know you are a quiet dude, but I’ve known you since your Ringkampf days, I’ve seen you around your friends.”

Tim sighed again and laughed a defeated laugh. And nothing. Five minutes passed and, like usual, he didn’t dignify me with an answer.

“See, this is what I’m talking about. You alwa-”

“I strongly like you.” he cut me off, raising his eyebrows as if he wanted to cue me in on a secret.

“Huh?”

“Since that day we met backstage at PROGRESS.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?”

“You were dating Brookes at the time and he was my friend, why would I act on it?”

“If it serves as consolation, Chris used to cheat on me all the time.”

Silence fell upon us once again, but this time it is different. Tim’s face is stony as he stares at me, his eyes are softer than usual, and I can see that he is processing what I had just revealed. Chris and Tim were good friends, but Tim is also known for his thoughts on how women should be treated.

Once again, I took it in my hands to break the silence.

“Then why don’t you do something about it now?” I raise my eyebrows like he had done previously.

Tim’s lips were on mine in no time. They are hungry, but soft at the same time, I can feel the need coming from them. His touch feels like how I had always imagined, it is strong and rough, and he cradles my face like he never wanted me to go away.

Eventually, we separate to catch some air and I see the need in his eyes. Tim grabs me by my arms and positions me on his lap. He attacks my neck, kissing and biting it, and he moves his ministrations to the skin of my chest that is exposed on the camisole I’m wearing.

I can feel his hard on poking my core, and I roll my hips around to tease him. I can feel how affected he is by it, as he curses after every shift of my hips.

It gets unbearable after he starts meeting me halfway.

“Tim, this is great and all,” I moan as he bites the sweet spot behind my ear, “but I need you inside me, now.”

We waste no time taking our clothes off, as Tim lowers his shorts down enough to take his cock out and I just shove my panties to the side.

He is thicker than I had anticipated, and it takes me some time to get used to it. We fall into a steady rhythm, his thrusts always meeting me halfway.

I could sense he was near his end, just like me, when he picked up speed. I lost it after one particularly strong stroke on my g-spot, having to bite his shoulder so I wouldn’t wake up the whole hotel. He kept going, taking a second, earth shattering orgasm from me, his own coming right after.

Tim held me closer, tighter. We laughed and kissed, and our night went on like we knew best: in silence, enjoying each other.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 26: Jon

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the speed. He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do any of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God sea shanty comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly—harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (“You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of that book.

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually be his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. I think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do something right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a little better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the best cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what I think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a boat.” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting paid for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for everything, you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if you were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like Just what I need, but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, grins—and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t just the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that exactly, but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon does look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss, according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the eventually that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there’s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not that late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim and Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would never.”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. “You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say any child would be fortunate to count you as a father or I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you, but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin made most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, his room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he did retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

Asexual. Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it. Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he knew. Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He isn’t broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels…wrong, somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of wrongness pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

And when was the last time you slept there? The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they did have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is fine. Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be…fine. He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.

[sweetdreamhellofanight]

New Kid (part 2)

Timothy Thatcher x Reader x Tyler Rust Warnings: Smut (18+) Word Count: 2,353 Summary: Part 2 because I got too excited and couldn’t wait to post it later

“You made it!” Tyler greeted you as you entered. You smiled, but looked around him at the others. Most everyone from the locker rooms were there, but you still hadn’t found Tim. 

He had agreed to meet you there separately. No one knew about you two, and neither of you were sure you wanted anyone to just yet. 

“Course I did,” you finally said, “thanks for the invite.” 

He nodded, handing you a drink. You followed him back to where the others were, mostly from your training sessions. 

Marcel stopped by, if only to flirt with you for a few minutes while you ignored him, watching as he floundered after getting no response from you. It was only then that you smiled at him, his cue to leave. 

But as the night went on, Tyler moved closer to you, his voice softening as the conversation moved from the group to just you two, until it was just the two of you at the big table, talking quietly with one another. 

“Did Thatcher give you a lot of shit for class yesterday?” he asked, finally. 

It was the first time you two had spoken about work since you’d arrived, and it caught you off guard. 

“No, why? Did he say something to you?” you asked. 

He rolled his eyes, but smiled, 

“Just that I was slowing you down,” he said. 

You frowned, but tried to play it off. You opened your mouth to speak when you felt a hand on your shoulder, and the chair beside you screeching as it was pulled out, 

“Been looking for you, doll,” Tim’s voice came, his arm settling around you. “Rust,” he greeted. 

“Thatcher,” he replied. 

“I was looking for you, I thought you weren’t going to come,” you said, turning to him. He smiled wide, 

“Saw Marcel sulking and followed the direction of his tears,” he said. You rolled your eyes, 

“You’d think ten times without a response and he’d get the hint,” you said. Tim kissed you on the cheek and made you blush. You two hadn’t had very many public dates, and even fewer public moments of affection, and part of you knew it was because Tyler was already sitting close to you, but you secretly loved it. 

Tyler moved back in his seat, focusing on his drink in hand, 

“You two were good yesterday,” Tim said, finally, looking at Tyler. 

“Too slow, apparently,” he mumbled. 

“No, she was still getting used to you,” he said. 

Color rose in Tyler’s cheeks, but you watched Tim, confused at his tactic here. 

“A few more sessions and I’ll be as good with her as you are,” he said, pointedly. 

Tim laughed, louder than he needed to, 

“Yeah I bet you will,” he said. 

“I should go,” Tyler mumbled, getting ready to stand up, 

“No!” you said, reaching out for him. 

He looked between you and Tim, just as confused now, 

“You should stay,” you said. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, eyes on Tim, now. 

“Why not?” Tim asked. 

Now he really didn’t know what to say, 

“Stay, Tyler,” you said, softly, resting a hand on his arm. He sat down, watching you through narrowed eyes, and you didn’t blame him. Even you weren’t sure what Tim was trying to do here. 

“I didn’t realize you two were...you know…” he started, pointing at you both. Tim’s arm around you tightened a little bit and you almost hated how turned on you were. 

“Only a little while now,” Tim said. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

“Don’t be. You’ve obviously got her attention,” Tim said, taking another swig of his drink before setting it down, loudly. 

You eyed him and Tim only winked at you. Next to you, Tyler’s cheeks turned bright red. 

“Let’s see you try and keep it,” Tim added, pulling you by your chin to kiss you. 

The shock of how public it was, and how deeply he kissed you wore off as you felt his hand slide into your hair. 

He tugged on it and you had to stop yourself from moaning right there in the middle of the bar, but Tim pulled back before you could go any further. 

“I’ll be in the car,” he said quietly, his hand still gripping your chin, turning it towards Tyler who sat there, his face hard to read. 

You swallowed hard, staring at Tyler now. Behind him, you could see Marcel watching you from the other side of the bar, shock coloring his face, and you smiled at him. At least he’d noticed how Tim had kissed you. 

And now you knew exactly what to do. 

You leaned forward and kissed him softly, relieved when he kissed you back, and surprised at how enthusiastic he was, at that. 

“Come with me,” you whispered against his lips, taking him by the hand. 

***

Tim made you drive back. 

Which was a mistake he realized only when you practically sped through the streets. But it wasn’t your fault because all you could think about was getting home, and getting them both inside with you. 

Your head was spinning, even in the elevator ride up as Tim held you tight by the waist, standing between you and Tyler, the tension seemingly only rising in you given the way Tim was whistling. 

He was enjoying this too much and it was driving you mad. 

Finally, inside your apartment, only after Tim took the keys from you since your hands were shaking too much, you slammed the door shut and stared at the two of them. 

Tim was calm, hands in his pockets, making himself comfortable on your couch, like most evenings. 

Tyler was trying to stay cool in front of you two, hands folded behind his back, 

You took a deep breath and got ready to speak but Tim spoke first, 

“I’ve got all night, doll,” he said, “start with him.” 

It seemed, for a moment, Tyler stopped breathing, but he straightened his posture even more, somehow, and nodded.

You smiled at Tim first. There was something new about him tonight, the way he was so ready to share you with someone else, to just watch you. He was being cockier than usual, more commanding, and all of it washed away the worry you’d been holding onto since the bar. 

You took a step towards Tyler and extended a hand to him, 

“Come here,” you said, quietly, leading him to the couch. 

You sat with your back to Tim, and with Tyler in front of you, you had to get on your knees to reach him. 

You were gentle with him. The last thing you wanted to do was scare him, so you were soft with a hand on his cheek, with your lips ghosting over his, 

“Ready?” you whispered. 

His eyes closed and he nodded, sighing into you.

You kissed him first, again, but this time he was rougher. 

Back at the bar he had been hesitant, almost scared to kiss you back but now, he cupped your cheeks and kissed you harder. It caught you by surprise how rough he was that you nearly fell on top of him. His hands moved down your sides, hands on your hips, pulling you closer to him. You brought a hand in his hair, pulling it out of the loose bun, running a hand through his soft, silky hair. 

Behind you, you could feel Tim’s hands on your waist, pulling you back, 

“My turn,” he whispered, pulling you towards him. Tyler gasped at the sudden movement, while your moans were muffled by Tim’s mouth, his hand snaking its way up your shirt. 

Tim bit your bottom lip and sucked on it, but you pulled back just long enough to say,

“Shirts off, both of you.” 

It was as though they were both competing with each other now, taking their shirts off quickly and tossing them aside. 

You stood and led both of them to the bedroom, Tim in front of you, while Tyler tried to get your shirt off. 

Tim pulled you in first, kissing you just as hard as before, with Tyler brushing your hair to the side and kissing your neck, unhooking your bra in the process. 

You made quick work of your clothes, tossing them aside as you got their jeans off. 

“Here,” Tim said, tossing a condom at you, “don’t want him thinking this is gonna be a regular thing.” 

You pouted at him, but Tim only kissed you before pushing you down onto the bed. 

“Rules are rules, darling,” he whispered. 

You nodded and handed it wordlessly to Tyler. 

Tim positioned you in front of him on the bed, on your knees as he palmed himself over his boxers, 

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, grabbing you by the chin again, “You wanted to make me jealous with him?” 

You shook your head but his grip only tightened, 

“You’re lucky I love you,” he whispered, leaning down to you. Behind you, you felt Tyler press himself against you, kissing down your back as he rubbed his length against you. 

You didn’t even have time to process the fact that this was the first time Tim had ever told you he loved you, because all you could focus on was his cock in your mouth and Tyler’s mouth on your cunt. 

Tim gripped your hair tight as he thrusted in you, Tyler’s tongue dragging over you slowly. 

The mixing sensations made you lose all coherent thought. You shut your eyes and all you could focus on was the two men on either side of you, already pushing you to your limits. 

Tim pushed himself deeper inside you, until your nose was pressed up against him, making you choke, tears running down your cheek. 

Behind you, Tyler finally pushed inside you, slowly filling you up more than you’d imagined. He stayed like that for a moment, letting you adjust to him before pulling out. Before he was completely out, he pushed back inside you, hard, making you moan against Tim’s cock. 

“Fuck,” Tim groaned, his hand tightening in your hair. “That’s it, sweetheart, just like that,” he said, dropping his head back. 

It wasn’t long before they’d both built up a rhythm over you, moving almost in sync. You found part of it funny, as mad as he made Tim, there was no denying how similar they were. 

But you didn’t think about it for long because that was a door you didn’t need to open right now. Instead, you let them both fill you up. 

You pulled back just long enough to moan Tyler’s name, but looking up at Tim you knew he didn’t like that. He leaned down to kiss you again, but this time, he pulled you towards him. 

“Does he make you feel good?” Tim asked. 

You nodded, one hand reaching out for Tyler. He pressed himself against you, again, kissing the base of your neck. 

“Did he make you cum?” he asked. 

You nodded again, having lost track of your orgasms at this point. 

Tim looked at Tyler over your shoulders, and smiled at you, 

“Then it’s time to remind him that you’re mine,” he said. He motioned for Tyler to move back, and he did so. 

Tim laid you on your back, climbing on top of you, lining the tip of his cock at your entrance, teasing you for a moment. 

You closed your eyes, a small whine escaping you as Tim moved over you, pinning your hands above your head, 

“God you’re beautiful,” he whispered, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest. Finally, he pushed inside you, but moved slower than you expected. 

You and Tim knew each other too well. 

He knew where to kiss you to make you moan, he knew where to hold you so you stayed down, and he knew how to fuck you just right. 

All it took was a few full, deep strokes from him until you came for him, but even then he wasn’t done. With another push, you felt him come inside you, hot and thick, making you cry out for him, arching your back up into him, your toes curling as he kissed you hard. 

He pulled back as you dropped back against the bed, breathing heavy. 

Tim untangled himself from you and slipped into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. 

Next to you, you took Tyler’s hand in yours, tugging at it until he looked at you, 

“That was…” Tyler started, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You smiled and pulled him down for a kiss, , 

“You were very good,” you said into his lips. 

He smiled against you, 

“Thanks for the invite,” he replied. 

“My pleasure.” 

“I should…” he started, eyes flickering between you and the bathroom door, “I should get going.” 

Your smile fell, but you nodded, 

“Yeah,” you said. “Do you need a ride?” you asked. He shook his head, 

“I’m not far,” he replied, kissing you again as he got off the bed.  

“Another time, then?” you asked. 

He laughed, and you were still struck by how sweet he was. 

“Maybe,” he said, pulling his clothes back on. “Thanks again, sunshine, you were wonderful.” 

You felt your cheeks grow warm as he winked at you, watching him until he was out of the apartment. 

When the front door shut, the bathroom door opened, and Tim leaned against the doorframe, watching you, the two of you bared in front of each other. 

He smiled softly at you, 

“New kid gone?” he asked. 

You rolled your eyes, 

“His name is Tyler,” you corrected, “and yes. He just left.” 

“Good, now I’ve got you all to myself again,” he said, coming to lay beside you. He wrapped his arms around you and kissed your shoulder.

You curled into him, and closed your eyes. 

“Tim?” you asked, after a moment. 

“Hm?” he replied. 

“I love you, too,” you whispered. 

He lifted your head up to look at him, gently this time, and kissed you. 

“You’re mine, doll,” he whispered. 

“And you’re mine,” you replied, wrapping your arms tighter around him. 

[heelwriting]

Prompt: Taking care of the other when sick or injured

Fandom: Wrestling

Pairing: Timothy Thatcher x Reader

Warnings: Injuries, blood

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 907

Masterlist | Buy Me coffee

A/N: Part 1

I’d never been so intrigued by a man this much, after taking a cab and thanking him for the millionth time, we arrived at my apartment, I took my medical kit, he sat on my couch as I wiped the blood away, the cut wasn’t deep so nothing big was needed, his face was swelling up, I had to put some balm to calm it down.

“You are set to go”

I said saving my medical equipment, Tim touched his face with his finger, taking some of the grease I left for the bloated nose he had.

“Thank you, you are really good at this"

He smiled after looking at his hand, probably realizing there was no more blood, I laughed remembering what he said earlier about his work.

“I might be, considering that’s my job"

“Oh"

He looked surprised.

“That’s awesome”

“I work on the ER, I know how to deal with bar fights"

He nodded.

“I think I should go, it’s getting late and I should leave to get some rest"

He got up and walked to the door.

“Alright Tim, thank you again, I don’t know what would have happened it wasn’t for you”

I remembered how scared I was earlier at the bar, he saved me and I would be grateful forever.

“You don’t have to think about that, and thank you"

“No problem"

He turned around looking at me directly.

“Would you give me your number?”

He asked.

“Sure"

We exchanged numbers and he went away, I was left alone as I sat on my room for a while and just wondered how I got there, I was just there for a drink and somehow I called for trouble.

Weeks had gone and he never called, I imagined he was just being polite and maybe just wanted to have a doctor on his phone records, I wasn’t angry at him, but I was disappointed, I was looking forward to seeing him again, hopefully with less bruises.

I wasn’t on call that night, I stayed home watching movies until late at night.

I was on the couch and I fell asleep for a second but immediately woke up when I heard a knock at my door, I reluctantly get up, I wasn’t expecting anyone, even less at 3am, this could only be bad news.

I look through the peephole and I see Timothy, I could see him pressing the side of his abdomen, without thinking more I opened the door.

“What happened?”

I asked scared, he entered my apartment and immediately lays down on my sofa.

“I was in a fight and the guy had a knife"

He explains, I could see blood around his hand.

“Let me see the wound”

“Go get the kit first”

I rolled my eyes and ran to get my stuff, I lifted his shirt and he was hesitant to take off his hand from the injury.

“Take your hand off"

I insisted.

“Don’t get scared"

He said with a warning voice.

“I’ve seen worse”

I said with confidence.

My mouth did open in awe, credit to whoever’s did the cut, it was deep and it still didn’t get to his organs, luckily for Tim, I took a bandage and I pressed the cloth against his skin until the bleeding stopped, I had to use all my resources but he wasn’t bleeding anymore which was a good thing.

This time I had to suture the cut, or else he would suffer a great deal of pain and possibly infections, he took it like a champ and he barely flinched, I used the last bandage to cover his waist and that’s when I realized, he had cuts in a lot of places, his abdomen, his back, even his arms, varying from sizes.

Now I was curious about his workplace.

“I’m sorry for coming here, I know it’s late but I didn’t want to go to a hospital and last time you helped me, I’m sorry"

He said as he put on his shirt.

“It’s ok”

There was a moment of silence.

“Where did you get all your wounds?”

I blurted out, I was sorry the second I said it but it was too late, he shifted beside me, to look at me directly.

“Well, legally you can’t say it but, i'm in fight clubs, all underground and I get enough money from it, I don’t have a regular job so I don’t have medical care"

He explained.

“What did you do with you cuts before?”

I asked, I was curious and couldn’t help it.

“I closed them up myself or payed off a doctor… what can I do to pay you?”

He asked, his eyes looking directly at me, it was a bad time but my mind reminded me of the kiss we shared the first night we met, my cheeks started burning and I had to look away, concentrating back, I think about a clever answer.

“Take me to your job, I’m really intrigued by it"

“It might be a lot to take in”

He warns me.

“I work on trauma I’ve seen a lot, I can handle it"

“Maybe next time, then”

He says getting up.

Tim walked to the door and I followed him, he opened it and before closing all the way he looked at me with a confident smile.

“You still owe me a kiss"

He winked and then closed the door behind him.

Originally posted on November 15, 2020

[oldfritz]

this was surprisingly hard because half of them I wanted to throw in f, but then felt guilty about it so here’s where we are. explanations under the cut to be nice (fair warning: I’m writing this while tipsy so this is a journey)

S-tier

Old Fritz: look me in the eyes. look at me. are you looking? good. where else was I was going to put him? where? in C with the other losers? foolish. I am ruining my life for this man, I’m going to go into debt so I can be moderately qualified to write books on him so Tim Blanning and Christopher Clark don’t boo my off the stage. I sit here sometimes and I’m like ‘y’know, I would start a podcast to talk about his life’ as if I’m some straight white guy who thinks any of you want to listen to me for an hour. he’s a bastard, a smug bastard, and is the epitome of self-destructive tendencies. and, honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t so fucking misogynistic all the time. ‘oh women aren’t fit to rule’ shut up Fritz before I time travel to fuck your wife and make her have one night where life feels worthwhile. but he’s funny, I enjoy how he does foreign policy, and he’s unfortunately relatable to me. cheers, Fritz. here’s to never being satisfied from one gay disaster with anger issues to another. may we burn in hell together

A-tier

Friedrich iii: “Suzanne, he was only on the throne for 99 days!! how can he be this high up when some of these bastards refused to die?” I hear you, my friends, and I have answers. I’ll tell you two words you’ll be shocked to hear put together: liberal Hohenzollern. a rare breed, isn’t it? imagine, friends, a world where he got over his throat cancer because he listened to a doctor and we get through the 1910s, 20s, even the 30s without Wilhelm II Electric Boogaloo being in power. Prussia is still on the map, the Anglo-Prussian alliance is strong, and I live in peace. but no. this stupid man had to keep smoking. because he’s selfish and doesn’t care about my needs. you know, he actually loved his wife. rare in this family. loved her and wasn’t abusive. the bar is so low, guys. and his wife is amazing too, Victoria. the world would’ve been in competent hands if they’d been in power longer (and Bismarck would’ve been out of a job still but at least these guys are smart. their son inherited grandma Vicki’s IQ). I would sleep with both of them and would thank them for the honor (when it should always be the other way around, remember that)

B-tier

Friedrich I: if your name is Friedrich and only Friedrich, we’re buds. that’s my rule. I have to give him credit where credit’s due. he was the first. while I agree with Fritz in his proscription that he was ‘small in big ways and big in small ways’ (I may have flipped that around), he wasn’t a bad guy. he just was born into the wrong job for him. I appreciate that he rode on his father’s coattails of proving useful to the Habsburgs and did a little himself to get that sweet, sweet kingship. smart move. I also like that he saw Louis XIV and said to himself “I stan, I kin, on God we’re gonna do that’ and tried. only for have his stupid, ungrateful, unclassy son to do away with that. I, too, am a woman of luxury and self-indulgance and if I had all the riches of Brandenburg and Prussia at the time (not much), I would spend them ridiculously on outfits and music and art. now, what did he do as king? what policy legacy did he leave behind? that’s a good one :)

C-tier

Friedrich Wilhelm III: now as a king he sucks. and I stand by this because, you know, he lost to him *imagine me pretending to be short and saying ‘oui, oui’ in a bad french accent*. and as any proper Englishwoman I can’t support a monarch who goes around losing to the French unless their name is Mary I. but, he’s a pathetic little man. he really is. so indecisive, so unsure of himself. what are you doing little guy? you think because your last name is Hohenzollern, God thinks you’re a good king? well it is like 1805 and, while divine right isn’t really being used as much, it’s as good as any reason on why you’re the chosen one and my family is eating dirt in Sicily and on the Scottish border. he’s really just a dude, nothing extraordinary about him except that his wife was the only one with brains and was the first to establish that (sorry Wilhelm I). he cried when he found out that his children didn’t call him ‘papa’ and went into a deep depressive state when his wife suddenly died. he’s an average man, of average abilities, but of big heart. and the big heart is what bumps him up, for me, from his old place as an F to a C. though, his moralizing is tedious

Friedrich Wilhelm II: this man should have partied with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. everyone’s got that one ruler whose all about sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. for the US it’s JFK, for the UK it’s Margaret Thatcher Charles II, France has Louis XIV. Prussia has this guy and we should thank him. so many mistresses, so much sex, so much revelry and debauchery and sin! this guy’s personal life is like a treasure trove of political and sexual intrigue. if you’re into that - as I am as a town gossip - you’ll love him. I am constantly amazed by the fact that some STD didn’t kill him. syphilis, herpes, crabs. something, man, anything. but he didn’t. he’s a shit king though. absolutely horrible. all he did was whine that he didn’t get taught anything by Uncle Fritz and, yes, that’s not good if it’s true (but it’s not completely because the treatises are detailed but I guess he didn’t have time to read) but c’mon. actually apply yourself and learn on the job. I know that would’ve required him to not be balls deep somewhere, but unfortunately he’s not Dorian Gray. there’s work that needed to be done and he didn’t do it. boo!!

D-tier

Wilhelm I: apparently he was a good guy, unlike the other 3 who populate the lowest rungs of Prussian kinghood. so I give him that and I can respect that. but what did he do? what were his own ideas? I thought about putting Bismarck as king instead because, really, he was. Bismarck was a minister who ran around the king’s back to set things up exactly as he liked and it fucking worked because he was the brains. his wife was intelligent too, but theirs wasn’t a wamr and loving marriage. and Bismarck worked to get Wilhelm to distrust her because she was liberal and the fact that Wilhelm would listen to Otto even if it meant allowing himself to be drowned in the Rhine is pathetic. fun party at Versailles though. hope it was worth the war reparations

F-tier (bastard time) I’m going in a different order because I want to go from the ones I hate least to most xoxo

Friedrich Wilhelm IV: “I won’t accept a crown from the gutter” then you won’t accept a crown at all, stupid idiot! god, the smugness. the authoritarian impulses. I know it was the cool thing in 1848 to put down any revolts/protests with as much force as possible, but man, at least the Habsburgs were transparent. homie was like “yeah guys lol I’ll make a constitution and it’ll be epic! you’ll have so many rights! xoxo gossip girl” and then...nope. and AND he wanted the Habsburgs in charge of things too! Mr. ‘I’m Nostalgic For When HRE Was Great And We Blew Austrian Dick!’ grow up man. it’s Prussia time buddy, Austria is beginning to fall apart. don’t look to the past, look to the future, but you didn’t have that vision did you?

Wilhelm II: *banging pots and pans* I blame this man for everything! now, intellectually, does Germany take all the blame for WWI? no, that’s foolish and propaganda of the Allies only. if you’re a European power in 1914, you get to share the blame (ex: why did UK need to make this a naval arms race? Austria should’ve declared war on Serbia sooner if that’s what it wished to do. Russia, please stay out of the Balkans then and forever). but does my irrational hatred of Wilhelm blind me to this truth when I see his stupid face and that ugly fucking mustache that I wish to yank off? my god, yes. I see him and Rule Britannia and The Yanks Are Coming start playing so loud in my head and I’m like ‘yeah, the kaiser’s gonna pay.’ I’m sorry that Bismarck’s ego was bigger than yours but did you have to prove him right by getting incompetent buffoons who were playing checkers when he set the board up for chess to replace him? Did you have to prove Freud right by displacing private problems onto public life with your little tit-for-tat with George IV (VI?) because his mummy loved you more? Why did you need to fuck every naval vessel you saw like an inferior of Peter the Great who believed he was Sir Francis Drake? but that’s just the first war and he lived to see things setting up for the second. wasn’t in convenient for you to be close with the N@zis when you thought they might want a king back on the throne and you could reclaim your little tyrant. like every goddamn Prussian conservative or Junker, you thought you could play the tyrannical cockroach. sure, you figured out earlier that he was no pal, but you still collaborated and you still allowed yourself to get played like the weak man of conscience you are. cheers!

Friedrich Wilhelm I: ladies and gentleman, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! the biggest bastard straight outta Berlin, FW1! and who doesn’t love an abusive father? who doesn’t love a man, so insecure and pathetic, that he needs to terrorize children to be able to look at himself and have a little pride. I understand that it was because he wanted his kids, specifically Fritz, to be best. but being best and perfect meant being miniature versions of him and aren’t we supposed to want our children to be better than a carbon-copy of a small man? honestly, I could live with the occasional smack for this time period. it’s within the norm and, while horrible, isn’t irreparably damaging. this guy really had to beat the shit out of Fritz and Wilhelmina and I’m sure Augustus and Henry and Amalia and all the others (so many kids) didn’t get spared either because if you hit one, you’ll hit ‘em all. and I judge them for their flaws all the same but, for some of them, it gets hard to. because what fighting chance did they have when their father was telling them how worthless they were and beating them senseless and threatening death and life imprisonment on some? I’m constantly impressed by Henry and Fritz and Wilhelmina for amounting to any semblance of maturity, even though it’s always fleeting, because this man didn’t give them the tools to be functioning adults. but each of them managed to be greater than their father, as did Amalia managing a really cool coup in Sweden. and what did FW1 get? he built up his army, had a tall guy fetish, increased the treasury, and made the cabinet and executive offices more efficient. there used to be this one guy on here that would argue that that was all a good king made and that this lowlife didn’t deserve the contempt he got by some on here (an obvious vague of me) for his behavior as a father. and maybe I’m a crackpot, but I believe the quality of a man outshines all those other achievements and that that’s meaningless to me, in my personal life. and when I get to hell, before I go to any of these other men, I’ll go to him and ask him how hell’s fires feel because, if his God was real, it would never love him. and that’s beautiful

[inastrangerskiss]

in the light of day

Tim x Reader

content warning: nothin' besides a little vaguely referenced nudity, other than that its just a lot of fluff

summary: you wake up in the morning beside tim

Sunlight streamed in across the duvet. It was the early sort of light, pale and shimmering in nature, reflecting off of dew and spreading its tendrils to any place it could feasibly reach. The air was fresh and sweet, smelling of summer and your beach rose candle and Tim’s shampoo that had been washed through the hair on top of both of your heads during the shower you took together the night before.

He had held you so close, your naked bodies pressed together under the running water. Steam floated throughout the entire en suite but goosebumps still rose over your skin. He kissed your cheek and trailed down your neck as he worked the soap into your scalp. Normally, you hated your hair being touched but when it was in Tim’s hands you felt all the stress melt from your muscles. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, your back pressed to his chest. No words were exchanged, the sensation of his touch against you being more than enough to fill the air. When the pads of your fingertips were completely pruned you decided it was time to reluctantly turn the water off. He wrapped you in a towel with a kiss to your forehead and gently brushed the knots from your hair. He offered to tie it back into a bun for you but you happily took the job on, not wanting him to ruin his work.

When you finally fell into bed, naked and peacefully lying against him, his fingers trailed down your back, every touch feeling new to him in spite of the years you had already spent together. He whispered how much he loved you into the crown of your head as though he were trying to connect directly with your mind. In past relationships you felt declarations of love were done for the comfort and satisfaction of the one doing the speaking. It was like a weapon to keep any hesitation from you at bay. With Tim, every “I adore you” felt less like a weapon and more like a cornerstone. It was meant to build you up, to ensure your confidence with every movement towards him, whether physical or mental.

You awoke in the early, early morning hours, sweating from a nightmare. You couldn’t remember it precisely. You could only recall the darkness settling into your mind and a familiar terror creeping into your bones. There was no one to protect you, there was no one to save you. You were alone. The way you startled to life had woken Tim as well and like a one man army he pulled you towards him, shielding you from your thoughts with the comfort of his body, imbuing you with strength through the warmth he projected onto you.

“Shh, shh.” He murmured into you. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You tried to explain what you had experienced in the throes of unconsciousness and he did his best to understand in the hazy half awake state one could only expect in the middle of the night. He nodded along with your words. Every time you cast your glance towards him his eyes remained on you, never slipping back into the sleep he craved so dearly.

“I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” He promised.

He flipped the television on, muted for his sake but the light providing you comfort. He hated sleeping with the television on but he knew how it would relax you, the entire room becoming illuminated in a light blue glow. You didn’t know it but he didn’t find rest until your breathing slowed and you were no longer awake. His arms didn’t leave your body for the rest of the night.

And now you were awake, feeling the familiar pull of those arms against your waist, birds chirping merrily in the trees just outside. You still couldn’t remember what the nightmare was about and you no longer felt the need to, your brain occupied with the coziness of a Saturday morning. You took your phone from the nightstand, scrolling through your social media, remembering the errands that needed to be run. Groceries, a trip to the gym, a trip to the mechanics. You needed to go to the post office to mail a card to your mom. Tim had purchased the stamps only days before and told you not to forget. He had remembered the stamps before you had remembered the card.

You laughed silently, remembering watching how he signed his name. His signature looked like a fifth grader practicing autographs. The envelope still sat on the counter downstairs. He had sealed and stamped it but allowed you to address it to ensure it’d actually make it to its destination.

You felt him move slowly beside you, his eyes barely open as they contended with the brightness from outside. His strawberry blonde hair was illuminated in the light, looking like gold on top of his head. The tiny freckles that were splattered across his cheeks looked like tiny constellations, the kind that only come out in the light of day. He turned towards you, squinting slightly, a smile quickly crossing over his face.

“Good morning.” You chimed.

“What time is it?” He asked, crawling towards you and nuzzling his head against the middle of your back. You couldn’t help but giggle when you felt the way his hair tickled your bare skin.

“It’s 8.”

Tim seemed displeased at the answer. He grimaced, his eyes closing firmly as he pulled you back down to the pillows and wrapped his legs around yours.

“Too early.” He muttered. “Need at least two more hours of sleep.”

You couldn’t escape the strength he possessed and decided to curl up beside him, enjoying the way your head fit against the dip between his pectorals and the feeling of his muscles against your frame. He didn’t stop smiling as you laid there, allowing laziness to slip back into your head, the desire for further sleep following it. You knew he was asleep as the corners of his cheeks fell ever so slightly into the faintest semblance of a grin.

Perhaps you had been there a million times before but it always felt new. WIth a to-do list slowly mounting in the back of your head, you relaxed. It was a moment for rest, a moment for love. The morning had only just begun and you lay there hoping it may never end.

[southwalessubculture]

Pressure

Tim Thatcher, perpetrator and master of Thatch-As-Thatch-Can wrestling, is known for his tough at best, actively damaging at worst style of teaching. That is, for everyone but you.

This does get a little suggestive at the end, nothing explicit, but there are...implications.

Big shout-out to @wresimagines for pushing me to write this, i know half of this blog is essential a fan page for Blue at this point but it's for a good reason I swear

You flinched a bit as Tim stood up, pushing the poor kid below him to the ring apron with his foot. He was nice, you thought, little twenty two year old boy just trying to make his dreams come true. Lasted longer than most of the grown folk against Tim.

"So, that's how you do a fujiwara armbar. Any questions?"

The room was silent, the only noise coming from the guy that was clutching his arm at the edge of the ring. Tim let his eyes sweep over the group before landing on you, giving a gentle smile that completely juxtaposed his actions just a moment earlier.

"Come here, your turn."

You stepped forward, and he laughed at bit at how you still seemed nervous despite your frequent attendances to his lessons.

"Doll, when have I ever hurt you before? You'll be okay, promise."

You flushed as he pulled away from you, voice raising again as he addressed the crowd around you.

"Next I'm gonna show you a single-leg Boston crab; this is pretty easy but it's all a matter of the torque you put on the leg. First, you want to get them down on the mat," he hooked his foot around the front of your leg, gently pushing you down to the ground, "and then you want to get their leg. Stand over them and lean into a squatting position, holding their leg as you lean back. You'll want to go as far back as you can, it works best if you go all the way into a sit on their back."

If you were anyone else, you'd be writing in pain, tapping out with everything in you as he yanked back on your leg. However, you weren't feeling any more than a mild stretch with how gentle he was with you, despite the circumstances.

"Why do they get treated so gently when you're out here trying to kill the rest of us?"

You could feel the change in Tim's demeanor and he let go of your leg, and you quickly stood up as he stepped over you to stand in front of the man that had dared to ask.

"What, is something wrong? Can't handle a bit of pain?" He reached out and grabbed the guy, putting him into a sleeper hold. The crowd split to the edges of the ring as he quickly lost consciousness, going from thrashing in Tim's arms to a limp body in a matter of moments. Tim dropped the dead weight, then stepped back to address the crowd at large.

"Professional wrestling is a business built on pain, on suffering and agony. If you can't handle it, you're in the wrong profession, and you need to go work at a daycare or a mattress store. You don't belong in the ring if you can't handle this. Class dismissed."

The crowd quickly scattered, trying to avoid Tim's wrath, until it was just you and Tim left. After the last straggler had carried the awakening man from the room, you turned back to him.

"It's a good question, actually?"

"What's that?"

He turned to you, confusion etched on his face, and you couldn't help but notice again how different his behavior toward you was against the scene that had just played out in front of you.

"That guy, he had a good question. Why are you so much kinder to me?"

He chuckled, stepping forward to stand in front of you. You held still as he reached up, brushing the hair away from your face, and you couldn't help but notice how close you were to him.

"You're precious, special in a way that they aren't. I hold true on my beliefs, I'll be honest about that, but you don't deserve to be hurt like that, in the name of proving a point, teaching a lesson."

You couldn't help but wonder if there was a subtext to that statement, a reason that he found you precious...perhaps one of romantic intent?

"Why?"

"Did you know that I have literal nightmares about hurting you? About going strict on you during lessons and causing an injury?"

The confession was startling, the gentle look on his face and the way that he couldn't quite meet your gaze settling into your brain in a way that reverbed and bounced, refusing to settle.

"Why, though? You don't do that to anyone else?"

He chuckled a bit, an action that seemed almost melancholy.

"I can't fathom the idea of ruining you, destroying your perfection."

"What if I want you to?"

He looked up, obviously startled by your confession, and you continued.

"Maybe not like that, like them, but it would be a lie to say that I haven't thought about being something different with you, something more. I want you to push me sometimes, you know."

You stepped a little closer, almost to the point where your chests were touching, and he looked at you with an almost unreadable expression.

"Test my limits. I don't break easily."

"Do you, now?"

He smirked at you, and you suddenly realized that everything you implied seemed to be reciprocated.

"I wouldn't like to do that here, but if you care to come home with me for dinner tonight, I have plenty of ideas about what we could test together after that."

You smiled, reaching to kiss his cheek. You smiled at the blush on his cheeks, winking at him as you turned to exit the ring.

"I look forward to it, Thatcher!"

[chicagodilfpunk]

“Tim Thatcher and I exchanging battle cries... as you can imagine his is more intimidating...”

Alexander James on IG

[luchagoth]

could u imagine if they debut tim thatcher against danielgoo or Matt Riddle