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keeper0fthestars · 4 years ago

Text

recrudescent (i’m right here)

Din Djarin / gn!reader

1.6k words

warnings: angst / comfort, repressed memories, heartache, nightmares (and the panic that follows), mentions of death / violence

summary: ‘the past beats inside me like a heartbeat’ - John Banville

a/n: please heed the warnings and do not read if you are affected by things like this.

the prompt for this came from this post

The explosion knocks you back into the dirt. Smoke and ash fills your mouth. Sticks to the back of your throat, stings your eyes. You will yourself to sit up because this time, you tell yourself, it will be different. The ringing in your ears makes you lightheaded, the heat of the billowing smoke gets in the way, but you don’t need to see, you know these winding streets in the dead of night.

You run.

You don’t have to tell your feet which way to go; you know all the shortcuts, avoiding the white helmets with their flamethrowers. You’ll beat them this time. Your heart pounds twice for every stride you take in the packed dirt, the smoke gradually thins the farther away you get, and they don’t even see when you dart across the main path. Climbing the wall, the familiar chase stars and you’re ready for it. Narrowly missing the jump over the ledge, climbing up to the next roof, higher and higher, until your boot catches on a loose edge. You hear rubble fall, knocking the helmet down with a grunt but you can’t look back, there is nothing there for you anymore. There will be nothing ahead of you either if you don’t get there soon. And warn them.

The burn in your muscles doesn’t come as soon as it did before, but you’re older now, stronger. You’re through the trees by the time it hits and like last time, you push even harder. They’ll still be there. They have to be. You will get there in time. You’re older now, faster. You’re getting close, the taste of hot coals once again thick in your mouth and you try to call their names, to warn them, but your voice doesn’t carry. It’s dry as parchment, singed and black.

The house glows orange from inside and no one is here. No no no. Not again. Where are they? There is nothing left of your mother’s curtains in the summer kitchen. The blue enamel flowers on her pottery blister in the heat and no longer match the embroidery on her linens. You smell the scorch of thornwood as the flames lick along the beds and doorframes.

Eyes burning with smoke, the rubble bites into your knees. They’re gone. Everything is gone. Where are they. Clawing at the gravel, every breath scorches against a raw throat, you wish the flames would swallow you too. The grief that comes is like an old friend.

From some hazy distant place, you hear your name; a gloved hand touches your knee.

In a rush of fear, you don’t look to see who it is, your instinct is to kick it away but your feet feel like they’re stuck in mud and it takes an enormous effort to get away from the looming figure beside you. Wiping the sweat and soot from your eyes, you try to focus on the reflective round head beside you. He’s speaking but you can’t understand the words. Something familiar tugs at your memory but you don’t trust your memory because familiar means grief and heartache and misery. And familiar doesn’t matter anymore because you couldn’t save them.

You never will.

The hand won’t let go; no matter how hard you push on it. Please. Where are they?

In your desperation, your foot finally connects with a plank of metal so hard you cry out, sitting up, scrambling away.

“You’re okay,” he says again, his hand still on your knee, “it’s just a dream.”

He’d been startled out of a light sleep; the sound of choked sobs echoed from the other side of the hull, filled his stomach with panic. Detecting your frantic pulse and he’d scrambled over to you. A broken name falls from your mouth, a name he doesn’t recognize, sounding slurred like you were underwater. Under the soft light from the panel over your head, sweat and terror shine on your forehead.

“Hey,” his soft voice blankets your senses with calm. “It’s me. You’re okay… you’re okay.”

The voice tugs at your brain again, the blurry figure is still here and your body reacts to his soothing words. You stop struggling and sit up against the wall, hugging your knees to your chest.

The sharp pierce of your own fingernails digging into your palms brings you back to the Crest.

Just a dream.

Face wet, your lungs are no longer burning from ash and dust, they burn from exertion. In your exhaustion, you make out the beskar helmet through wet eyelashes. It was just like all the other ones. The same explosion, the same suffocating panic, the same fire.

Cool air fills your head as you struggle to catch your breath but your muscles droop like lead, you start shaking.

But that’s ok because he’s holding you up.

With his broad chest and solid arms. You weren’t alone.

No matter how many times you relive it, you would never get home before they were taken away. You’d never get a chance to say goodbye. You turn your face against the fabric of his worn shirt to quell the hurt in your chest but the piercing shock of fresh grief claws at your throat, your mouth starts trembling unable to stop.

“I tried but I couldn’t get there.” They were innocent. “Why couldn’t they take me instead.”

Stomach heaving, the agony of memories spills down your cheeks. It’s the kind of sobbing that leaves your heart ragged and hollow, as if you were a child, bawling on your knees. You cried for all the things you’d never get to tell them, you cried for the years you didn’t dare let yourself grieve, for the years you’d spent fending for yourself.

There are no words in Basic that comfort demons like this. His other language snags inside his mouth and he almost whispers the mantra he knows for protection. Does it still count if he didn’t say it aloud?

Taking your trembling hand, he places it flat on his chest, holds it there. He feels your fingers curl into his shirt over his heart, clinging to the fabric. Your head sags against his shoulder.

“Hear my heartbeat?” the gentle vibration of his voice curls in your chest. “Just… focus on that.”

He knows dreams like this. He wonders what else you’ve kept hidden for so long. You’d not had a nightmare like this the whole time you’d been flying with him, he would have known if you did. Vicious memories can resurface without warning, but he still finds himself wondering what brought this on.

Your day together had been uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary: a stop for supplies and fuel, a quiet couple of hours at one of the markets. The only uncharacteristic thing that stood out in his memory was when something had caught your attention that afternoon and you’d backtracked down the alley, your eyes on one vendor in particular. Like a pinhole, his memory zeroed in on that little cart where it stood behind everyone else on the corner. Two young girls were selling soft-crusted loaves and baked sweets and you’d dropped enough credits on their table to pay a small army. He’d noticed the looks of awe on their dirty faces when they saw the pile of credits, way more than what the Quinn cakes and spiced rolls were worth. He didn’t understand why you’d decided to purchase the contents of the entire cart, but he’d noticed the tender longing beneath your smile when you crouched down and spoke to the smallest one, pulling wrapped candies out of your bag and giving them to her.

When you’d rejoined him, arms full on the way back to the crest, you spoke before he could frame a question. There’s a children’s shelter on the other side of town, and I’m going to bring it all there tomorrow before we leave

Something bites painfully into his heart, swallows his stomach whole. His shirt is tear-stained and soaked and your breathing has evened out but he has no intention of letting go of you anytime soon.

He wonders if you were that young. When you got left behind. He wonders if you were as young as he was, by the time everyone you’d loved was dead and gone.

He pulls you closer to his chest, carefully tucks your forehead against the soft fabric of his cowl under the edge of his helmet. You don’t object to the closeness, exhaustion quickly takes over and you curl yourself into him.

“I’m sorry,” your voice scratches, a lonely sob still hitching in your throat, “didn’t mean to wake you-.”

His chest expands under your head; a deep breath crackles through his helmet. The soft brush of his palm on the back of your head, he murmurs. “Don’t be sorry.”

Maybe you won’t remember this in the morning, he thinks, as he reaches over your head and taps off the light panel. His visor adjusts to the blanket of darkness and the faint glow of emergency lights. Eventually, he breathes a sigh of relief when his newly emitted readings finally tell him you’re in a deep sleep.

You’re oblivious to how he carefully shifts himself and lifts your knees, bringing your limp body down on the cot with him, giving you a soft place to sleep, cocooned inside his arms.

In your sleep, you’re unaware of how you turn towards his touch when the backs of his fingers trace feather-light along your cheekbone. You don’t know that his breath catches in his throat when a soft contented hum slips from your lips. You don’t hear the whisper of his voice from the modulator. ‘I'm right here.’

The soft home-y scent of fresh pastries fills his nose, but that was because the lot of it was currently piled in the Crest’s galley.

He’d go back there tomorrow and buy more.

Thank you for reading!

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#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian #tw: panic #tw: nightmares #din djarin #i just really want to be held after a nightmare #fic: i'm right here #*mine: writing #i've had to reformat this so many times i'm not sure if anything will stick

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screamting · 4 years ago

Text

Winter in Kansas [80s AU] 2/2

previously: Bruce managed to sit on the bed for a full five minutes, hands held carefully in each other and breathing slowly, heart steadying, before he locked it in place.

And he left the room, footsteps quiet as he could make them on the carpet, and went back downstairs.

Clark wasn't there, but his parents were. Jon was in front of the TV drinking a cup of coffee while Martha hovered behind him, both talking about expected snow before they saw Bruce

“Hey honey, can I getcha something?” She asked.

Bruce’s mother had been dark-haired, like him, not blond and graying like Martha. It helped. Even if he'd been hoping to catch Jon.

“...I was wondering if I could ask some stuff outside?” he said softly.

Snitches get stitches. But these two knew. He was just entering the circle. Just confirming.

The two of them shared a look. Like they knew exactly what this was about.

Jon sighed and set his coffee down before getting it of his chair. “Sure, Bruce. Lemme just get my shoes on.”

Bruce nodded, waiting patiently and not making more sound than he absolutely had to for the few moments it took.

He saw the look. He knew what it meant, too.

At the very least, he wouldn't have to ease into this.

Once Jon had his dirty, mud-caked boots on and a thick jacket, he stepped outside and held the door open for Bruce to follow.

“So whaddya wanna ask about, son?”

Bruce followed, and stepped out into the field behind Jon.

He waited until they'd walked a little before speaking, hoping the crunch of his boots and the Kansas wind might hide his words from someone else.

“...how much can he hear?”

Jon turned to face Bruce and hesitated, his face hard to read.

“Pretty far last he told me. I don’t know the specifics.”

His voice was low too.

He gestured for Bruce to follow him. Lead him to one of the tractors, climbed on, and started it up, but then climbed right back down. He talked only loud enough for Bruce to hear over the constant rumble and shake of the machinery.

“More noise makes it harder for him as far as I know.”

The tractor was loud, but it didn't have the same bite as cars flying past on the freeway when trying to walk down the street. He could bear it.

“...so that's the only way to get privacy? Clutter the sound?”

“I wouldn’t think of it like ‘getting privacy’, Bruce. Clark isn’t trying to hear everything for the next mile. It’s just background noise for him. He tries not to pay attention to it. It’s only when he hears things that worry him that he pays attention, or his name.”

“... Think of it like… standin’ in the middle of a freeway. Your friend is right next to you talkin’, but not raising their voice. You can’t really make anything out unless you hear something like your name, or maybe ‘help’. Words you pay more attention to without even thinkin’ about it.”

...he listened, and nodded, but all the same--

All the same.

“...you called me a big name out east,” Bruce said. “When we met.”

“Yeah,” he shifted a little on the tractor to get more comfortable. “I know about Wayne Industries. Know what happened to your folks. Was all over the news.”

...he nodded, then. Okay. Jon had some context, then--

“I asked a girl out last month and three gossip rags picked it up,” he said. “...my friends tell me private stuff.”

And Clark could hear through walls.

Jon sighed, “Are you worried he’s gonna go around telling everyone everything?” He asked, sounding like he had this conversation before. “Before you knew about it, did he go around doing that?”

“He keeps everything he hears to himself.”

“That doesn't mean they trusted him with it,” he said. Looking down.

He wasn't… angry. And it didn't come out angry.

But he couldn't stop sounding tired.

Everyone, always listening in. Always hearing about him without him being the one to say it.

Even in Kansas. Jon knew. No chance to say things for himself.

Jon sighed, “No. You’re right.”

“... But it ain’t fair to blame Clark. He never asked for any of this. When it first started he used to lock himself in closets or hold his head underwater for… way longer than anyone was comfortable with. Don’t think he slept for at least a week.”

“I'm not trying to blame him,” Bruce said, and… he wasn't lying.

It almost surprised him. He wasn't trying to spare this man’s feelings.

“...I'm trying to find a work-around.”

“You know what the best work-around I’ve come up with?” Jon said, looking down at Bruce.

“Askin’ him when not to listen.”

Bruce looked up at him, expression confused.

Did Jon announce when he had private conversations?

Jon just shrugged down at him.

“Sometimes you just gotta take someone’s word.”

Okay. He would.

“That include taking his word he can't control it?”

Jon nodded, “I know you weren’t around to see it, but my boy went through hell just trying to deal with it. He’s a lot better, and I imagine he’ll keep getting better, but right now… that’s all you can really do. Take his word.”

The sharp parts of Bruce’s reply seemed to sail right over Jon’s head. Maybe the tractor’s noise hid the edges in his words. He didn't know.

If there wasn't any way to do it, though, then Bruce had… no other questions to be answered like this.

Or maybe Jon just didn’t have the energy in him to respond to it. He looked tired, like this song and dance had happened one too many times.

“That all?”

...he nodded. But still, he asked, “could I make a phone call?”

“Sure,” Jon said, and reached to turn off the tractor. But first--

“Bruce?”

Bruce looked up at him.

“... You could do my boy a whole lotta harm with the power you have. And while I can’t force you to do anything, I will ask that you keep this to yourself.”

And then he turned off the tractor.

“Mr. Kent,” he said, eyes and voice too steady for a sixteen year old. “I knew he was weird two months ago. I take care of my friends.”

He climbed off the tractor with him.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Jon said, and climbed off after him.

He lead him back inside and to the phone that hung on the kitchen wall.

Bruce thanked him quietly, and took the phone off the rack to dial.

He didn't have a tractor or anything else but the TV to hide his conversation, but still, he spoke softly into the receiver, enough that the Kents on the other side of the room wouldn't get more than a few snatches of conversation.

“...have the address already? ...okay. Thanks. Bye, Alfred.”

Hung up again.

Shuffled towards the couch.

“...I realized I forgot something, so Alfred’s going to send it in a few days,” he said, assuming that was fine but informing them out of politeness all the same.

“Okay.” Martha said, and did pass a look to Jon, who just gave her a nod.

They had a talk.

It was fine.

… There was still no sign of Clark.

Clark, he figured, was probably still in his room. He hadn't heard or seen anything to suggest otherwise.

So there was only one thing to do, in the handful of hours left before dinner.

He went to the guest room and dug through his bag, pulling out a clasped wooden box, folded with hinges, and headed to Clark’s bedroom door. And knocked.

It took a moment, but Clark did open his bedroom door.

The light was off and his eyes were a little puffy, like he’d been crying but stopped a short while ago.

He hesitated, but did step aside a little to let Bruce in.

“Hey.”

Bruce stepped in.

“So,” he said, skipping through pleasantries. “You are: stronger, faster, and have better hearing than me. And you can fly and reportedly burn people with your eyes.”

He sat on the floor without ceremony, and unhooked the box to let the game pieces all fall out, and reveal the pattern underneath.

“So, the next question is: do you know how to play chess?”

Clark flicked on the light out of habit whenever someone came inside.

“... Kinda?” He said, watching Bruce plop down on the rug. Like the question confused him.

Bruce nodded, starting to set up the chess board. “Kinda? You know how each piece moves?”

“Yeah.” He said, and sat down across from him.

“Cool. You fine if I take black?”

“Go ahead.” Clark shook his head.

Bruce took black and made the first move.

And they played chess.

Clark knew enough about chess to play, but he was by no means any sort of champion.

Eventually though, he did ask; “Are you mad at me?”

“Did you do anything I should be mad about?” Bruce asked, mostly focused on going easy on Clark and playing at his level.

He wondered if he could get this game to a draw.

“Be a freak.” He said bluntly.

“...” Bruce moved one of his pawns.

He has secrets bubbled up inside of him that he doesn't need to pour out. They aren't his to give. If he can find distaste in Clark overhearing secrets accidentally, he can't console himself in spilling them full-knowing.

So instead, he says, “I've met worse people.”

Clark just sighed, like what Bruce said didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t say anything and continued to half-heartedly play chess. After each move he would pull his arms into himself, hugging them, like out of the two he was the most vulnerable even if it was anything but.

...Bruce watched. Saw Clark tugging his arms in on himself. Saw him curled between moves.

“...what are you so scared of?” he asked. Finally. When it was clear things weren't getting better.

“Everyone,” he said.

“... After the- the shooting, and whenever I’d do something that no real person should be able to do, Ma and Pa would sit me down and remind me that I needed to keep it to myself. That I had to be a ‘normal human teenager’, even if it was just an act, because what if someone told the wrong person. What if they came swooping down in helicopters to drag me out of the house and go seal me in some secret underground bunker somewhere to stab me with needles.”

“And I try. I try but it’s hard. I run too fast and hear too much. It’s like I’m constantly holding my breath and I can never breathe because if I did someone will hear and drag me away.”

….

Bruce nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “...that's…”

God.

He hadn't expected to hear that.

Hear that fear out of Clark’s mouth. The same raw level of fried nerves that knotted in his shoulders and let him wanting to scream, but unable to.

“...I…” God. Fuck. He's spent one day in Smallville, away from Tommy and the pap, and he's falling apart like Gotham was a mould desperately trying to help him hold his shape. “I'm scared of everyone, too.”

Clark was trying not to cry again. His eyes were glazed over. He wiped at them before anything could come out and looked over at Bruce.

“Why?” He asked, confused.

He didn’t know of all the things his friend was scared of.

To be fair to Clark, it was a very long list.

“Everyone in Gotham knows me,” he said, face the same carefully controlled expression he usually had when he was trying to explain something on their homework, or when speaking to the teachers and adults. “...and they know what I'm worth. I wasn't kidding about kidnappings. They've happened before.”

“...I bribed someone when I was ten. To stay with Alfred,” he continued. “...they wanted to take me away. There's a lot of people who are counting down until I'm eighteen and have access to the money. A lot of people want it.”

“...I just want my family back. And to not feel like every street I walk down’s going to have a mugger with a gun on it.”

...he looked up, and met Clark’s wet eyes with his own, darker, exhausted ones.

“...it sounds nice. To have a friend I don't have to worry about being shot.”

Clark finally managed a little bit of a smile.

Friend.

“... Sorry. I didn’t realize having so much money would be such a problem. But it makes a lot of sense. To me that whole… life… just, they show it on TV like it’s anything but a problem. Don’t have to worry about the crop doing well or the cows dyin’ to depend on whether you’re gonna have to cut corners and stuff.”

“I try ‘n do what I can with what I have to help out. Heavy lifting. Lookin’ for engine problems where Pa can’t see. That kinda stuff. I tried to convince them to just let me fly to Gotham too, to cut on bus faire, but they said no.”

He made his move and swallowed.

“I wanna help people, Bruce. That’s why I went to that house and ended up…”

Clark didn’t finish his sentence.

“But whenever I do I just get scolded. And I’m scared that someone will find out it’s me, and then that’d be the end of it.”

Bruce listens.

He's still watching Clark’s eyes, and his mouth, and he can't imagine this boy doing what they say he's done.

“Kent,” he says, with steel in his tone. “I would've given anything for someone to get in the way and burn the man who killed my family’s arms off.”

Clark smiled a little.

Validation.

…

“I don't regret it. At all. If it happened again I'd do the same thing. Even though I'm scared of being taken away. It'd be worth it, I think.”

Bruce picked up one of the chess pieces he'd captured and threw it at Clark’s head.

“Don't be stupid.”

It connected but Clark just let it.

“Huh?”

Bruce gave him a glare, though it wasn't a particularly intense one.

“You can't do it one time and get taken away so the next guy has a clear shot,” he said. “So next time, don't get caught.”

Geez.

He blinked, “So like… do it and run? They'll still see me though and tell the cops.”

“No, like don't do it so they know you're an alien,” Bruce said, like it was obvious. “As much as they deserve their arms burned off, it might get suspicious.”

Clark gave him a look. “As soon as they shoot me and I don't die they'll know something is messed up.”

“Then wear a mask,” he said, leaning forwards, an odd light in his eyes. “Be so alien they can't imagine you're who you really are.

Clark looked a mix of shocked and excited. “Like… a comic book hero?”

Bruce wasn't sure what the expression on his own face was. “Sure?”

… He made his move and didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“I used to pretend I was one when I was little. I think that’s why I learned to fly before, y’know, all the other stuff.”

What kid didn’t want to fly?

...Bruce looked down at the board and quietly moved his piece, too.

“...I lied to you before. About where I'm going when I'm eighteen.”

Clark looked up at him but definitely wasn’t mad.

“... You know where you wanna go?”

“...I wanna learn how to hunt people down,” he admitted, head low.

“... Like… a detective?”

That didn't seem bad or even a little out of character for Bruce.

…

“Maybe,” he said. He didn't really have a word for what he wanted.

But Clark used to pretend he was a comic book hero…?

Bruce dropped his gaze again.

“...I found a cave, when I was a kid,” he said. “I fell inside while walking. I used to pretend I lived inside it. A monster. Who would come out and hurt the people who deserved it.”

…

“It's stupid, now.”

He was stupid.

But he was still going to go.

Going to find someone dangerous and powerful, and say teach me how.

“That's not stupid.” Clark said, taking his turn.

“... Well, maybe the eating part. But wanting to track people down and make them pay isn't stupid. It's what we're doing now kinda. Looking into the Court of Owls.”

“...yeah,” Bruce said. Nodding. “...do you think we’ll find them?”

“... I’m not sure, honestly.” Clark admitted. “I feel like we’re finding something deeper but I dunno if it’s the Court of Owls.”

“Just gotta keep diggin’ to find out.”

...Bruce nodded.

He took a breath.

“....you're in check, by the way.”

“Oh.”

He made his move.

…

“You’re going easy on me.” He smirked.

“Yep,” Bruce said, moving a piece on the opposite side of the bored and giving Clark time to escape. “Don't feel bad. I've been playing Tommy for years. Only recently started to give him a run for his money.”

Clark huffed, “I don’t feel bad. I know you’re way out of my league.”

It took him a few seconds, but he made his move.

...he moved another piece.

“...does that bother you?”

‘Maybe a little,’ Clark thought.

But Bruce didn’t even like guys. He knew that after seeing what happened with Tommy.

“Nah,” he said instead with a smile. “I’m just glad you put up with the redneck from Kansas.”

Bruce huffed.

“What's that got to do with chess? You guys not play board games out here?”

Clark gave him a look.

“Do Kenny ‘n Pete look like they’d play chess?”

“Kenny ‘n Pete look like they play tic tac toe,” he said.

Clark let out a laugh that could have melted a room.

“Yeah, basically.”

…

“God. I’m sorry about them.”

Bruce gave him a confused look.

“...that they have big mouths?” He said. Because, yeah. He was sorry for that, too.

Or was it a flawed intimidation tactic? Hazing?

Not speaking to him for half the day?

“Yeah. Big mouths and I think they were just trying to throw you off. Maybe they were kinda mad I made friends back in Gotham and then brought them with me? They’ve been my friends for a long time. Probably know more about me than my parents in some cases.”

“They shouldn't have thrown you under the bus like that,” Bruce said, and that was all he could say about them without saying anything cruel.

He moved the chess piece.

“Yeah I’m-- I’m pretty pissed at them right now.” He sighed, watching the board.

“Really thought you’d hate me.”

“...” yet again, he found himself asking, “why?”

...Clark kept saying that. ‘I thought you'd hate me.’ Why was he so certain? Why…

… Clark shrugged.

“I dunno. I’m not a super interesting person or anything and then you throw the whole ‘alien’ thing into the mix. It’s just-- it seems easier to just… hate? I dunno.”

He made his move.

“I’m dumb.”

….yeah. Bruce nodded. “Yeah. You are, huh.”

He moved in kind.

“...I take care of my friends.”

Clark smiled.

“Me too.”

Made his move.

“So just let me know if you need to move something really heavy.” He joked.

Kinda.

Bruce nodded.

“I'll get you renovating the manor grounds in no time.”

“Check, by the way.”

He scoffed and watched it happen.

“That a job offer, Mr. Wayne?”

“...I can pay ya under the table, but it might damage my reputation,” he said.

He looked confused, “Why would that damage your reputation?”

Bruce looked up. “...it's black market activity,” he said. “Which is fine on a small scale, but if I was paying someone I’d have to report it.”

“Oh, I see what you mean.” He snorted.

…he managed a smile about it. “Yeah. I don't exist on a small scale.”

Clark didn’t say much to that, and made his move.

… Eventually their game would end and it would be time for dinner.

Bruce would go downstairs, and eat with the Kent family for dinner. And--

...and try to not feel strange. Or an outsider. But… it wasn't impossible, in a strange way.

...he knew Clark’s secret, too, now. And it made it easier to slide into a place like this.

Insular.

Maybe things were easier for now. They did certainly seem easier for Clark’s parents, and as they started to sit down around the dinner table Jon would ask; “Everythin’ good now, gentlemen?”

And Clark would look over at Bruce and then smile a little and nod.

Bruce nodded, “yessir,” and…

It was nice. Even with knowing Clark might hear anything.

Somehow, he still felt a little more free.

They had a nice dinner. Jon asked Bruce things occasionally, mostly about how Gotham was, how he liked it. He didn’t ask about parents or business. Just typical kid stuff like school and how it was going. They avoided talk of Clark’s incident completely.

Things around the Kent house were extremely ‘normal’ considering. It was like… bizarre interlaced with normal, and now that Bruce was in on it they didn’t need to worry.

After dinner Jon asked Clark to come help him get one of the tractors out from a mud hole it was stuck in, and if Bruce watched he would see Clark lift the front up and simply back the whole thing up.

...and Bruce would watch. From the porch, regular, hot tea in a mug. And he would watch Clark lift the tractor and say nothing.

His friend was an alien. And he wasn't sure, exactly, why he was taking it so well.

...when they came back in, they watched TV and got ready for the night. And… Bruce wondered, faintly, if Clark would hear if he had a nightmare tonight.

But he didn't.

Not tonight.

Clark could, but… Bruce had nightmares semi-frequently. It wasn’t polite to encroach on that or bring it up, so he didn’t.

Trust that he’ll give you privacy.

That morning the sun would rise and the day on the farm started even earlier. Jon was up and out of the house before the sun was up and when it did finally rise breakfast would start to be made.

Bacon and eggs with toast.

…

When Bruce came down Clark wouldn’t be there.

Bruce found he hadn't been given a time to wake up, and so he woke on his own--fatigued still, but only in the way of waking up in new places--with the clock saying an hour earlier than when he usually woke at school. It was still a dark, and he lay in bed, enjoying the ability to not have to get up immediately. He started his way downstairs when he began to smell food and an unusual amount of sun (in other words: any amount of sun) hit his windows.

“Good morning, Ms. Kent,” he began with, obviously. “...Clark sleep in?”

“No I think he’s up already.” Martha said. “He likes to sit on the roof when the sun comes up. He’ll come down soon now that you’re up.”

“How d’you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled dry,” he said, and… didn't have to question how Clark would know he was up.

“Okay.”

Martha nodded and cracked open the eggs for his breakfast. “You sleep okay?”

There was a small thud on the front steps before the door opened and Clark came inside wearing little more than pajama pants. It would be the first time Bruce had seen him in less than two layers.

It became obvious why.

He was… kind of jacked.

He didn’t look cold either despite the temperatures outside.

...what the fuck.

But Bruce kept his mouth shut. His heart sped a little, but slowed again a moment or two later.

“...morning.”

“Mornin’.” Clark mumbled, scratching his stomach and instantly rooting in the fridge.

Two cups.

“Y’want OJ or milk?”

For eggs?

“Orange juice,” Bruce says, watching him.

Clark shook up the OJ and poured Bruce a glass before handing it over to him, but he went for milk.

“Mind puttin’ some bread in for toast? ‘N get the butter out, please.” Martha said, and Clark did as he was asked without complaint.

Martha plated Bruce’s eggs and handed them over, then pulled the towel off the plate in the middle piled with bacon. “Help yerself.”

“Thanks,” he said, startled out of his observations for a moment, and--

He was watching two things, a little lost in them both, but at least they were all in this one place. Just--on one hand, caught in the mundanity, in a mother asking her son to pull out the toast and bread, and on the other hand, a small thing in the back of his mind which informed him that Clark’s stomach muscles twisted every time he moved his arm.

He waited until he was joined at the table to even think about eating.

Clark made some toast and put it on a plate for them to grab from and by the time he sat down too his eggs were finished.

Sunny side up.

He thanked his mom as he sat down and started to dig in.

“Just cover the bacon back up when you’re done, I’m gonna run out and help your daddy.” Martha said, taking a sip from her coffee before leaving the two eating on their own.

Bruce started to eat as Clark joined him, thanking Ms. Kent again, and…

…

“You always sleep without a top here?” he asked, losing his shit completely with a straight face.

Clark was busy shoving a strip of bacon in his mouth. “Uh-” He chewed and swallowed.

“Yeah. I like the sun on my skin when I get up.”

Oh. Okay. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, so he just--nodded and got his own piece or two of bacon.

And kept eating.

“...plans for today?”

Clark shrugged a little and put some ketchup on his eggs before breaking them up. “Dunno. Usually I hang out with Kenny ‘n Pete on my days off, but…” he glanced up at Bruce.

“Not feelin’ that anytime soon.”

…

“Thought about just… flyin’ around for awhile. Haven’t been able to do that in Gotham. But that’d leave you here unless you’re fine with coming.”

Bruce was ready to tell him he was fine with just reading a book for a while, but--

“...with coming along for flying?”

“Yeah. I’d carry you. Like, it’s fine if you’re scared though. It’s pretty weird. But figured it was impolite not to offer.” Clark said, pushing runny egg mess on his bread and eating it.

Bruce stared at him like he was crazy.

“Take me flying,” he said.

… Clark grinned with a mouthful of toast and a bit of ketchup on his lips. “O-kay.”

He was stupid and (buff, and Bruce wanted to lean over with a napkin and shove it on Clark’s lips to get rid of that dumb ketchup) absolutely intentionally being dense, because who didn’t want to fly, even if you had to be carried?

But instead, he said, “Shut up and eat faster,” and started shoveling his breakfast down in kind.

Clark grinned and did just that, shoveling his food down and eating toast and bacon before standing up and chugging his milk.

Shirtless.

He put the plate in the sink and wiped his mouth with his hand.

“Dress warm, it gets cold.”

Bruce felt something in his stomach flip, and he nodded, running back upstairs to tug on his winter boots and add on another layer and his heavy coat. Clark’s borrowed winter hat. His good gloves.

And he was ready.

Clark got dressed too and then met Bruce back downstairs a moment later. He opened the door out to the porch, stepped off the front step and… float there, spinning around as if in water to face Bruce with his hands in his pockets.

“Piggyback or in my arms?”

“Arms,” Bruce said, not wanting a piggyback--he was sixteen, not a kid, after all. It didn’t matter if Clark could carry him fine.

“Okay.”

Clark hovered close again and reached out, hand going around Bruce’s waist and pulling him close. He pressed himself against Bruce and locked his hands around the small of his back. Waited for Bruce to position his hands how he wanted.

… He might have been enjoying this a little too much.

“Ready?”

...somehow, Bruce didn’t realize he was going to be held like this in Clark’s arms. He knew they’d go around him, but--face to face, he guessed he hadn’t expected, and found his face close enough to smell Clark’s neck as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders securely.

Even through his heavy layers, he could feel Clark’s body, unusually warm against him.

Despite having just drunk orange juice, his mouth was dry. He told himself it was nerves.

“Ready.”

Clark smiled at him and then looked up.

And they started to rise, slow at first. Clark kept his grip firm and make sure Bruce didn’t slip, and soon they were over the roof of the the farmhouse. He started to fly away from it, legs angling as if to ‘push’ away from the farm.

Over the empty fields.

Once they were up in the air, Bruce… forgot.

He forgot about a lot of things. About how he was sort of uncomfortable being this close to anyone, or how he was fully clothed and Clark was half undressed in his PJs, or what was going on back home.

There was nothing under his feet. It was just-- a moment. A moment of disorientation, and realizing the air was cold and sharp with wind, and how empty the air was around him. That flying was just falling interrupted.

And Clark’s firm chest against his own was the only thing the world that felt stable at that moment.

He wanted to see the fields. The farmhouse. The long shadows, stretching over the yellow, frost-bitten fields.

But before that, before getting lost in wonder, staring-- he tightened his grip on Clark, and held himself close against him.

It was nice to be held so tightly by someone who wasn’t his mom or dad. He couldn’t even recall a time that had ever happened before. He kept people at an arm’s length for his own safety, and even when he did let them in there was still that fear of rejection. But last night Bruce had insisted and insisted that he wasn’t mad, that they were still friends, that it didn’t change anything.

When he got to the point he wanted and started to fly backwards gently, to really get in the whole view of the farm, he looked back down at Bruce with that award-winning smile.

“Whaddya think?”

“It’s big,” Bruce called back over the wind.

But he couldn’t… think of anything else to say about it. And maybe the new-day sun in his eyes said enough. The way it hit his ghost-pale face in the way it never could reach in Gotham.

There weren’t skyscrapers here. The long shadows ran only along the ground, far, far below them, cast by regular-sized objects, not buildings made by giants.

And the sky was in every direction he looked.

Big.

Blue.

Beauti--

Maybe looking back on this day when he was older would be when he said he started to love Bruce Wayne, but right now he still didn't quite realize it. Even as he looked down at the other boy rather than the scenery, watching how the light illuminated his pale skin and tired, sharp eyes. There was a fierceness to Bruce he had never seen from anyone else. Fierce and ironclad in everything he wanted to be.

“Yeah, it is.” Is all he said though, and would slowly continue to hover backwards, getting further away, then go a little left towards the trees that marked their property.

You could see the roads. The buildings in the distance. Cars driving along. Birds flew beside them a safe distance away.

And somehow Clark shined just like the sun, curls blowing in the wind and arms secure around Bruce's waist.

Bruce didn’t say much while they were up there, focusing on breathing in the cold wind and staring down at all the world below in a way he’d never really been able to before.

Not like this. Alone and secure, without airplane walls around him.

(Even if he wasn’t alone at all.)

...but Clark would still be able to hear his heart beat, strong and excited with the world below, pressed against his bare chest with just the coat between them.

...but Gothamite he might’ve been, Bruce still could only stand the cold against his face for so long before his cheeks started turning pink and windburnt.

Clark might not have been able to feel the cold like Bruce, but he could see it.

“Gonna start going down.” He warned, and did just that. A slow descent left and down…

… and they were back on the porch, feet touching down.

A little wobbly, Bruce pulled away once his feet touched the floor-- not because of anything bad, but because as soon as the wind wasn’t rushing him anymore, he realized he desperately had to wipe his nose, or it would drip out everywhere.

“Tissue,” he mumbled.

Clark was… a little hesitant to let go, but as soon as Bruce pulled away he let him go.

“... Oh! Yeah, c'mon.” Clark said, arm leading Bruce back inside.

There was a tissue box right by the door.

Bruce hid his nose in his face until he was able to get to the tissue box and snatch one out, blowing his nose.

“Danks,” he said.

“No problem. I forget that's a thing that happens.”

Clark's skin hadn't changed even a little.

Chalk that up to another power; resistance to cold.

Bruce noticed Clark’s immunity, but didn’t say anything about it really. He just focused on blowing his nose, and once he was done, rubbing his cheeks to warm them up again.

“...you never get sick or stuff, either?”

“Uh,” Clark began as he walked to the kitchen to make something warm for Bruce.

“Not since I was little. Mom says when I was a baby I struggled a lot. Like I couldn't breathe. But I don't really get cold anymore. I can't get burnt. Can stick my hand right in a fire and nothing. Can grab hot pans.”

“It's like--” he shrugged. “Invulnerability?”

...Bruce had honestly just been wondering if Clark was affected by bacteria at all, but… that was a lot more than he’d asked for.

“...not anything?”

It was nice to just… talk about it with someone. Sure his friends knew, but… they always asked him weird questions about it. Like if he looked at people naked.

“Well getting shot hurt, but other than something like that? Nope.” Clark put on some water for tea.

...Bruce didn’t question it, even if he did watch Clark a little longer, lingering.

...he realized now that he looked at Clark, that… he didn’t have any marks on his skin.

Not a mole. Not a freckle. Not a paper-thin scar.

And he’d been shot.

“...I can’t tell at all,” he said, maybe a little breathless, watching Clark’s back as he filled the water.

“Revolver hit me here--” he said, turning and pointing at his face. “Shotgun hit me here--” he pointed at his arm and chest.

“Gave me a black eye and broken nose and a lot of cuts. But they healed pretty fast. No scars or anything.” Clark shrugged. “Worst anyone's been able to do too me. I've fallen out of trees and moving cars and jumped out of two story windows and mostly been fine.”

He gave a sheepish smile.

Bruce found his arm going up to his neck, fist tight, and tried not to think about the hole that he’d seen punch through his mother.

He had scars on his arms right now. He had cuts healing right now. And Clark had jumped out of buildings and been shot and leapt out of moving cars--

“Why did you jump out of a moving car and a two story window??”

Clark laughed, “Well the car thing was I saw a dog and I was like… five. Really gave my folks gray hair for that one. And I jumped out of my bedroom window when they grounded me once and didn't quite have flying down yet. But I landed okay!” He gave Bruce a dumb grin and thumbs up.

Bruce buried his face in his hands.

Clark just laughed again and pulled the kettle off the stove to pour them both some tea.

“Genius alien from beyond the stars.” He joked.

“Really though I’m just…” he shrugged. “Just a kid on a farm who can’t get a date or pass his driving test, or… y’know.”

He didn’t know. But he nodded anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. And he wanted to say he was just normal, too.

But he could get a date, and wasn’t a farm kid, and could drive, just not legally.

…

“...wanna be lazy normal and just watch some TV?”

“Hell yeah.” Clark grinned and handed him his tea.

...the first day or two had been rough, but it grew easier with each passing day.

The Kents didn’t ask him about his family. They just… brought him to the table. Clark did alien things, and human things, and mostly reading-and-TV things.

They had a Christmas tree, and bit by bit presents appeared under it as the Christian Holiday grew closer. And, to Bruce’s relief, one such present arrived in the mail with a little bit of time to spare.

He’d been invited to Christmas parties before, but he’d never really celebrated with his family that he could remember--what he did remember was mixed up with Chanukah somewhat, with how young he’d been at the time. And though he was fairly sure the Kanes celebrated both, they only really invited him for things like Pesach and Sukkot.

So it was… the first time he’d really seen a family Christmas in person, rather than through every movie and pop culture magazine in the world.

...it was much quieter than he’d been led to believe, when the day finally did come, and he wondered, briefly, how the Kents had managed to tell Clark about a magical flying man in the sky when he was a child, or if they’d let him know Santa Claus was a fictional character to avoid accidental alien imprinting.

The day Christmas arrived there was a bit more of a set time to get up, but things still moved the same as they had been.

The sun rose and Jon tended to the cows, but then would be inside for the remainder of the day unlike his usual sparse appearances throughout. They made pancakes for breakfast and waited until everyone was sat around the table together to eat.

After breakfast was time for presents, a few under the tree for Clark, some for his parents, and…

Martha handed a little box to Bruce too.

...it was nice. It was still approximately like a regular day, which was a little strange, but it was nice. He ate the breakfast with his usual appreciation and followed to the livingroom around the tree once it was done, watching.

Bruce took the little box with a quiet ‘thank you,’ and smiled. Most of the gifts around the tree were for Clark, but that was fine.

...After a bit of confusion, Bruce had brought his presents down a day or two before. One for Jon. One for Martha.

Two for Clark--one of them being the little package that had arrived in the mail a few days earlier.

The first three presents Bruce had picked out while in Gotham, asked Alfred to purchase and wrap, and had brought them on the train himself on the way to Smallville.

He hoped they were fine.

...for Ms Kent, before knowing her name, he’d gotten a blue sapphire necklace with matching earrings. Not especially expensive, so it wouldn’t feel condescending or she couldn’t find things to wear them with. Not so cheap it looked bad coming from him.

For Jon, it’d been a little easier.

High quality black leather gloves with a matching sidebag.

… and for Clark, he’d… for the first present, he’d simply gotten him an autobiography of one of the muckrakers who’d lived through the mob wars of the 20s and 30s.

...it was the second present, in a much smaller box, that had Bruce anxious.

Jon and Martha kept insisting that he didn’t have to get them anything of course. They were very impressed by the gifts though, Jon giving a rather genuine smile and Martha leaning over to give him a hug in thanks.

Clark really liked the book too, and it actually took him a moment to put it down and pick up the second present that Bruce had given him.

“Another one?” He asked, a little surprised while pulling off the wrapping.

Bruce nodded and… looked down a little.

...inside the box, there were what looked to be hearing aids. Pale, thin, and mechanical.

“...they’re sound blockers,” he said softly. “...you said Gotham was too loud for you. And what you said about three miles, I figured…”

…

“You don’t have to use them.”

Clark clearly didn’t know what they were before Bruce said anything, but then the realization hit him.

“... Oh. Wow, Bruce.” He said, pulling them out. “That’s… really cool.”

“How do you put them on?” He asked, already trying.

Oh.

Bruce brightened a little, and shuffled closer, sliding until their knees knocked together.

“Here,” he said, taking the first one from Clark’s hand and brushing away his hair to get a good view of his ear.

He slid it in carefully, looping the hook that made it appear so much like a hearing aid over Clark’s ear.

“No one should question it, since it looks like a regular thing.”

Clark leaned in closer to help him and… maybe kinda stayed there a little longer just so he could be closer to Bruce while he helped put them in.

“This is really cool.” He said again, voice quiet.

“Finally gonna be able to sleep.” He laughed, a little joking and a little not.

Bruce smiled a little, glad Clark liked them so much. “They working?”

He went quiet and focused, a smile spreading over his face. “I can’t hear the cows.”

Martha looked like she might start crying.

Bruce grinned wide, something warm spreading through his chest.

“You like them?”

“Yeah. I really do.” Clark grinned.

…

He leaned over and pulled Bruce into a hug.

For a moment, Bruce was startled, freezing up in the sudden hold.

...then, he leaned into it, closing his eyes, and finding himself melting into the hold.

… Clark found he really didn’t want it to end, but… his parents were right there. So it had to. But while it lasted he held Bruce tight and whispered out another ‘thank you’ before pulling away.

“Wish you woulda had those when you were younger.” Martha smiled and Clark laughed.

“Yeah, really.”

Bruce smiled and edged away from Clark again, opening his own present quietly while the others talked.

...he felt a little better, now, knowing the gift was well received. That it wasn’t a bad idea.

...soon enough, though, January would come, and the hearing aids would be really put to the test as their return to Gotham grew closer.

Bruce’s gift was… less impressive, but…

“I know it ain’t your style, but…” Clark grinned.

It was a baseball cap.

A baseball cap with ‘SMALLVILLE’ embroidered across it.

“Least it’s somethin’ to remember us by.” Jon chuckled.

Bruce sighed deeply, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, and flipped the hat up to destroy his hair style by putting it on.

“You know what, Kent,” he said. “At least it’s not John Deere.”

Clark grinned and roped his arm around Bruce to give him a side-hug.

…

January would come eventually though, that was for sure. Clark would hug and kiss his parents goodbye and they would tell Bruce they loved having him, to come back any time. He was always welcome in their house.

Then it was a bus ride back to Gotham and Clark definitely packed his new hearing aids.

...he wasn’t sure why he was the one struggling to not get emotional once the Kents drove away, and he found himself in the bus seat, staring at the seat in front of him.

...but he was. For the first few minutes as the bus pulled out of the station, Bruce just… curled up in his seat and worked to keep his breathing steady.

And they headed back to Gotham.

…

He wouldn’t wear his ‘Smallville’ cap with him as they reached their destination late the next day, though. He’d return to the borrowed snow cap, and hide the ‘smallville’ one deep in his bag so that it couldn’t be seen.

...and as they returned to the dorms, he had a weight of dread in his chest that he wasn’t unused to, but…

It hadn’t been there the last two weeks.

And knowing Clark could hear his heartbeat just made him more anxious, now, about keeping secrets.

#aka the gay awakening #superbat #80s gay superbat #clark kent #bruce wayne

23 notes · View notes

crybabyjam · 4 years ago

Text

ship: todochako

rating: g

length: 3k

summary: Todoroki picks up hitch-hiker!Uraraka.

c/w parental death (past), joking about murder

deleted from twitter, written for a former friend

---

The sun beats down heavy as Ochako tightens the straps of her backpack. In it was three changes of clothes, some stale bread, her dead phone.

It was only mid-morning but already she was sweating her absolute ass off.

She runs her fingers through her choppy hair, uneven on one edge because she hadn't had a mirror when she'd taken a rusty pair of scissors to them. Now she wishes she'd just shaved it all off, if only to save herself from a sweaty, overheated neck now.

Her parents had loved it when she'd had long hair.

Ochako remembers how her mom would wash the long strands for her every weekend, even when Ochako huffed and puffed and said she could do it herself.

Her mom always took the time to wash it gently, and condition with something sweet smelling— "Because a sweet girl like you deserves sweet hair, too."

And how her dad would braid it every time she visited, even when Ochako would have to undo it the next day. He would take his strong, worker's hands and lift each length of hair carefully so that he didn't tug on her tender scalp.

Now that they were gone, Ochako didn't see the point in keeping her hair long. It just slowed her down. It just made her /sad/.

She sighs, and steps out of the way when a car plows through a puddle right beside her.

Her legs get soaked, but it isn't anything worse than the day prior, when a truck had soaked her from head to toe.

Ochako just sighs and brushes the muddy water droplets from her already dirty legs.

It's a good thing she was out of socks, or else she'd have to start worrying about her shoes molding at this point.

She's just begun kicking her shoe off, to finish the rest of the trek up to the next city barefoot, when a car pulls up to a stop beside her.

"Are you alright?" A low voice asks, to her left. Ochako startles and twists on her heel.

She almost ignores it, because cars like that didn't stop for hitch-hikers like her.

But the car follows her a few more feet as she slows to a stop.

When she looks over her shoulder, confused, the man in the car tilts his head at her and nods.

"Are you alright?" He repeats. "I saw you get wet."

"Ah!" Ochako yells, and then lowers her voice. Geez, where are your manners, Uraraka? "I'm fine! Sorry."

The man blinks, and Ochako belatedly notices that he has the most stunning, grey eyes. Like darkened silver.

"Why should you be sorry?" He asks with a frown.

And then, he shakes his head.

"Do you need a ride? It's dangerous to get in a stranger's car, but you shouldn't walk around barefoot. Glass would hurt." He pauses, and then adds. "Probably less than murder, but I promise not to murder you."

Ochako is speechless.

But not speechless enough not to /laugh/ at the absurdity of the stranger.

She feels it bubble up in her chest like boiling water, and it floats out of her ugly, like when a pot spills the water and burns on the stove burner.

The man just watches, silent, as she wipes tears from her eye and keeps on laughing. He just leans against the steering wheel and waits patiently, face completely deadpan.

He's /serious/, and that just makes it funnier.

She gasps for breath as she leans against his car, one shoe falling to the pavement and skipping beneath the undercarriage, shit.

Ochako's laugh starts up again as she drops to her knees to retrieve it.

When she comes back up, knees blackened by sidewalk dust, and hands darkened by asphalt, the man is smiling. Just barely.

"I guess murder /would/ hurt more than stepping on glass." She agrees. "Depending on the type of murder."

He murmurs the words underneath his breath, eyebrows furrowing.

"You're right," he says, troubled.

She leans into the rolled down window, arms crossing to hide the ripped hem of t-shirt.

"You sure you /promise/ not to murder me? I kind of need my life."

Well. All things considering, it was pretty much all she had left. She couldn't exactly afford the house after her parents died. They hadn't been able to finish the down payments, and none of them (including Ochako) had enough savings to keep her afloat.

So, hitch-hiking. Walking to nowhere and hoping for more.

A few miles in an air-conditioned car was more than what she had, so she'll take it.

The man turns serious, though. The smile wipes off of his face— not replaced with a frown, but replaced with another deadpan look. He nods his head, making eye-contact the entire time, and says,

"I promise not to murder you."

Well.

He promised, at least. Ochako still had a little bit of mace in her pocket, if she needed it.

So she gets in the car.

---

His name is Todoroki Shouto and he has an open duffle bag of yen, two pillows with embroidered pillowcases, a shattered phone, and a half-full photo album in his backseat.

Ochako stares at the photo album instead of the other three things, because she definitely does not want to get murdered, thank you very much.

He was a cute baby. Two-toned hair from birth, and big eyes that only had one expression: wide. Ochako traces her ragged thumb nail across one of the pictures, where he's covered in cake frosting at his second birthday, and accidentally creases the polaroid image.

She hurriedly flips the page.

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm fine," Ochako mumbles, ignoring her tummy which immediately begins to grumble in argument. She flips another page to muffle the noise, and comes across more empty pockets than full ones.

From the way there's the edge of one polaroid still caught in one of the slots, Ochako assumes that they used to be just as full as the rest.

She flips to the back, and a roll of film flops into her lap.

"Do you even still have a camera for this?" Ochako asks, holding the strange, almost novel-looking thing up to the waxing light of the returning sun. Then she brings it back down to the shadows in case that might ruin the film inside, oops.

"At home," Todoroki says, low. Her shoes are in his lap, because he wanted her to have more room to look at the photo album. Ochako had tried to just place them on the floor of the car, but he looked so earnest in his offer that she hadn't been able to say no without feeling bad.

Besides, she had a feeling he was pretty harmless. Weird, but who wasn't?

"Oh, are you moving or something?" Ochako asks, and then immediately grimaces at the invasion of privacy. "I mean… 'cause of the stuff in your backseat."

"Moving…" Todoroki repeats, focusing on the road. They're driving slow enough that almost everyone passes by them, but Ochako got pretty motion-sick so she appreciated it.

Todoroki leans back in his seat, both hands at the very apex of the steering wheel. It's outlined in a leather cover and is so shiny that it almost looks metallic. Expensive as fuck, probably.

Everything about him looked pretty expensive, actually. The car was brand new, from this year. Still had the new smell and everything.

Ochako was actually pretty glad he insisted on the shoe-thing, if only to prevent mud stains.

Although his pants /did/ look pretty designer. Ah, fuck.

"Yes," Todoroki says, after the long moments of silence. "I'm moving."

"Oh! That's… fun. That's fun!" Ochako nods.

Todoroki turns them off of the road, and pulls into a parking spot. Ochako blinks past the raindrops on her side of the window, and squints out at the illuminated signs.

A restaurant. Ah, /fuck/. Ochako pats her shorts for her wallet, as if she could even /pretend/ it had money in it. All it had was her ID (almost expired) and a coupon for leg waxing.

"Do you want to come in with me?" Todoroki asks, turning to her completely. The seatbelt gets caught, and it does that thingy it does where it locks and gets tighter until you take it all the way off. He doesn't seem to mind.

Ochako smiles, though even she can feel how strained it is. "Ah, I'm fine. I should probably go actually, but thank you for the ride. The rain should stop soon, so…"

"Oh."

Todoroki frowns, glancing at the arm rest between them. He's engaged the parking brake even though they aren't on an incline, and Ochako's smile relaxes to something more real.

"It was really nice to meet you," she says. "I'd give you my phone number but I kinda didn't pay the bill." (Since, uh, last year, but he didn't need to know that.)

"It was nice to meet you too," Todoroki says. "I can buy you food."

"Oh," Ochako parrots, dumbly. Her eyes dart to the yen-bag and she hurries to shake her head. "I couldn't—"

"I don't mind. It's my dad's money— and he hates me. And I hate him, so." Todoroki finally takes off his too-tight seatbelt and it rattles noisily as it smacks against the car door.

"I…"

Ochako isn't sure how to approach /that/ particular landmine. Nor is she sure how she's supposed to resist free food. When had she last eaten. Two days ago, or something? She'd kinda been ignoring it, but the walking helped.

Now that she's technically resting, she can feel her tummy about to throw a conniption.

Todoroki blinks his wide eyes at her as he waits, not making a move. His blinks are slow, like a cat, and his eyes flicker back and forth between her own.

She sighs heavily, but a grin is already parting her lips. "You're a strange one, Todoroki."

"Am I?"

"I don't have any money, so you have to pay for all of it," she warns.

"I will."

"And I eat a lot! I haven't eaten in a while."

"Okay."

"And… and I want my shoes back."

Todoroki hands her the shoes. There's mud residue on his pants and the bottom of his shirt.

But he has a small smile on his face as he watches her struggle to put her shoes on in the closed space, so maybe it was alright.

---

Shouto watches as Uraraka stuffs two donut holes in her mouth, licking away the powdered sugar that paints across her lips. It looks like snow when it dusts down to her shorts, and smears chalky residue on her thighs.

He hands her a napkin, and she blushes pretty like a sunset paints ocean water pink when it sets at night.

"Sorry for the mess," she says quietly.

"It's okay. Is it good?"

"It's good!" She wiggles in her seat, and it reminds Shouto of a really happy hamster. "Do you want some?"

She's very beautiful. Her hair is cut in a way he's never really seen before, but it frames her face nicely. He likes it more than his almost-bowl cut. Some of her hair tickles across her shoulder, but she ignores it as she holds a donut hole out to him with a toothpick.

She keeps holding it as he bites down on the warm, cooked dough. He'd never really been fed by someone before. Well, as a baby— sure. But he had a feeling this was different. Was it different?

Shouto chews thoughtfully, and Uraraka smiles at him. She doesn't seem to mind feeding him. She stabs another one with the same toothpick and holds it out for him again, one hand underneath to catch the crumbs.

"Yummy, right? Thanks for buying them! I'll…" She flinches, interrupting herself. Her smile dims a little, like she'd lost power. "I'd offer to pay you back but, uh… ahaha, you know?"

Shouto /doesn't/ know, but he nods anyway. "I can buy you more," he says, soft. "You can take them with you. When you leave."

She uses the toothpick to prod and poke at the remaining few donut holes. They roll in the leftover powdered sugar at the bottom of the box.

"I'll be alright. But thank you." Her eyes get watery at the bottom lashes, and Shouto frowns. "You've been really kind."

When she laughs next, it's thick like she's close to sobbing. Her voice is shaky. Shouto doesn't like it- liked it much better when she was laughing /happily/ instead.

"Thanks for not murdering me," she adds. "This is probably the most fun I've had in a while."

"You can stay. I can drive you anywhere you want."

"Oh!" Uraraka jumps in her seat, as if he'd yelled it. He hadn't really spoken any louder than before, but he clears his throat and speaks even softer anyway.

"We just met, but I can take you anywhere you need to go. And I have enough money for the both of us. I really enjoy your company."

They're pulled off at an empty lot near a supermarket. Somewhere off in the distance is a park. The children there are loud, voices echoing in the evening ambiance.

Uraraka looks out towards the noise, but he can see her swallow heavily.

"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it? We just met."

She says it like how she says other things that are meant to be teasing. He nods anyway.

"It is. You can drive, if that makes you feel better. Or you can sit in the backseat. I would have bought a bigger car if I knew I would meet you today."

She laughs again, starting with a snort and ending with a giggle. It makes his heart beat faster in his chest, and he isn't sure if he's nervous or happy to hear it.

"What if /I'm/ the murderer?" Uraraka stabs one of the donut holes and brings it up to her mouth. She smiles at him when he frowns, and then smiles wider when he shrugs.

"If it happens, it happens."

"/Todoroki/." She slaps her palm against her forehead and sinks down in her seat. "That's the most dangerous mindset I've ever heard."

"I'm sorry?" He glances down at her the further she sinks, but she doesn't seem particularly angry. It looks like she's fighting, but on the inside. "It's not that dangerous."

"It's pretty dangerous."

She brushes her legs clean. Sits up straight and looks out the window again. Her breath fans out across the glass, fogging it.

He rolls the window down for her, and she does that snorting laugh again.

"You're a funny guy, Todoroki."

"Am I?"

"You are." Uraraka shifts in her seat, to pull her legs cross-crossed. There's one donut hole left in the box, and she rolls it around a few more times before she pokes it with that same toothpick and shoves it in her mouth.

As she chews, she glares at him. Almost like she can't see him and needs glasses. He leans in closer so that she can find what she's looking for.

"You're funny in both ways. Weird… but you make me laugh."

She closes up the box, fitting the toothpick between her teeth so that she can absently chew on it.

"So you're… 'moving'," she says, finally. "- and I don't have a home anymore. Where would we even go?"

Shouto glances past the parking lot, at the semi-distant street that is starting to pile with traffic after a brief lull. But his eyes inevitably drag back over to her.

Uraraka stares back, cheeks pink. A small smile grows on her face. She runs her fingernail across the edge of the empty donut box. He'd have to figure out a place to recycle it if he could.

There are so many places they could go. Somewhere warm, towards a beach. Or somewhere quiet, with wide hills and short buildings. To a festival. To a shoe store.

"Everywhere?"

"/Everywhere/?" Uraraka shakes her head, exasperated. "What about when we run out of money?"

Shouto shrugs. Uraraka laughs again. Her hand drifts to the middle console, palm up, and Shouto watches it for a while.

Then she leans over to grab his hand. Her fingers are warm, rough at the tips but soft everywhere else. She would look pretty in nail polish. /Prettier/, rather- if it were possible.

He maybe had a crush on her. Was this what love felt like? Soft hands and warm smiles? He liked it.

"I-"

She interrupts by leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. It's soft, like a feather landing on snow. "Take me everywhere, then. And then I'll give you my answer."

Shouto, dazed, touches his fingers to his cheek. He forgets to stop holding her hand, so hers come along with it. She doesn't seem to mind. "Your answer?"

"On whether or not I'll stay," she says, cheeky. "So you'd better make it a fun ride."

Shouto squeezes his other hand down on the steering wheel, if only to keep his heartbeat in his veins so that the organ doesn't leap out of his chest and act a fool. He accidentally steps on the gas, and the car revs in protest.

Uraraka laughs again. She tightens her hold on his hand and pulls it back down between them. He squeezes it back.

And when they get back on the road again, fifteen minutes later, Uraraka has gone from laughing to singing loud to the radio and dancing in her seat. She's pure joy.

---

It stops raining, and the world feels brighter.

#todocha #todochako #bnha #boku no hero academia #long post #writing tag #fanfic

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years ago

Text

Grounded pt1

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, Virgil, Gordon, John

Re-watched Buried Treasure and Venom and this little muse dug its claws in - Scott took a bit of a beating in the former, and then doesn’t pilot TB1 or even the pod even though speed is of the essence in the latter. This isn’t finished - don’t know if the eventual thing will be a oneshot or multichap on AO3/FFN - or even proof read because it’s midnight and I’ll get yelled at if I don’t go to bed now, but muse wouldn’t shut up, so here’s 4k words of whatever this is gonna end up being. Title is also still a wip.

It was an exhausted Scott Tracy that dragged himself into his shower at the end of what had been a day he honestly wished had never happened. A trip into a trash mine had never been on his bucket list – and even if he’d known about the things before today, it still wouldn’t have featured on his bucket list – and after the chaos that had ensued, he would be delighted if he never had to enter one again. Somewhere in the big brother part of his mind labelled Gordon was a mental note to make sure his second youngest brother never went in one again, either. While Scott was all for his brothers making friends, he had concerns about his budding acquaintance with the woman known only as Scraps.

He wasn’t entirely sure Gordon had told the truth when he said he’d never gone scavenging himself, and he certainly wasn’t sure Gordon wouldn’t if the opportunity presented itself. After the hydrofoil, the blond had gained a ‘if today was my last day’ attitude and refused to let new experiences pass him by; it was understandable, but more than a little stressful for Scott at times.

The mission had been a success, but it hadn’t felt like it when both his accompanying brothers were stewing in angry silence over the comms on the way back, Scraps (encouraged by Gordon) had insisted he fork out the quite frankly ludicrous price of the stretchy toy, and the owners of the site were breathing down his neck about destruction of their property. Apparently they didn’t care that it was Scraps who had damaged their WRM when IR had wrecked their park and were well known to be the Tracy family – that is, known to be filthy rich. It had been a very expensive day for both him personally and the family at large, and just to compound it all he’d come home to the news that while the Mechanic was now willingly working on the engine, the price of that had been the Hood finding out about their plans.

Brains’ furious lecture about the mole pod had just been the icing on the cake. Scott had tried to save it and nearly got himself munched by the mechanical monster in the process, but apparently trying wasn’t good enough. He understood – he did. Every time Brains had to build them a new pod so they could keep functioning at full capacity was another delay on the T-Drive engine. It was just one more thing he didn’t need in a day where the only highlight was the fact that at least their rescue hadn’t failed where it counted – Scraps was alive, and being treated for shock and a fractured rib at her local hospital.

Speaking of ribs…

Four long, gruelling hours after the rescue finished, Scott finally had the chance to peel his dirty, mud-splattered uniform away from his aching body and assess the physical damage he’d sustained. His suit was reinforced and designed to protect him, but it had its limits, and Scraps’ shrill scream to stop forcing Gordon to make an emergency stop – just for the sake of a damned toy – had slammed his torso into the rigid exoskeleton of the dragonfly pod.

Just because their pods couldn’t stand up to a WRM didn’t mean they weren’t solidly built. Very solidly built. Scott had felt a sadly all-too familiar sensation of at least one rib breaking at the contact, but with their lives still decidedly in peril hadn’t had the chance to do anything about it. Their frantic flight for the surface, where he had nothing but his uniform and what shelter he could glean from the front of the pod to protect him from their forceful resurfacing, hadn’t done him any favours either.

It spoke volumes that both his brothers were so annoyed with him – one of them for reasons outside of his control, which was very unlike Virgil – that neither of them had noticed how stiffly he’d been standing. They hadn’t even glanced at him twice despite knowing that he’d been on the outside of a pod travelling at high speeds through a tunnel, and while there was always a part of Scott who hated to worry his brothers and hid injuries he found himself wrong-footed at the fact he’d got away with it.

The painkillers he’d popped the moment he was back in One, out of sight, had done their job to get him home, but after four hours they were wearing off, pain stabbing its way through his chest. He should go to the infirmary, get a scan to see how bad it was and maybe even reluctantly tell someone, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Virgil might be in a bad mood with him, but he’d instantly feel guilty for not noticing, and Grandma would not go easy on her favourite grandson for neglecting something as basic as a health check after a dangerous manoeuvre, no matter how annoyed he’d been with the person in question.

He had a stock of painkillers in his ensuite, like they all did, for minor things like bumps and bruises. They weren’t supposed to be used in relation to any unreported injuries, but Scott had already decided he couldn’t report it, and besides, he was the commander. He could bend a few rules – it wasn’t his first rodeo with broken ribs, anyway. He knew how to treat them. Painkillers, ice if he could get some without causing suspicion, and rest when he could snatch it.

This was a case of snatching some rest – it was dinner soon, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d skipped Grandma’s cooking and it wouldn’t be the last. It wouldn’t raise any eyebrows if he wasn’t there; he doubted his brothers would be if they could escape.

Looking in the bathroom mirror, it was clear straight away that he’d taken quite a hit. Mottled bruising decorated his torso and shoulders – the first from the collision with the pod, the second from breaking through the surface. Tentative probing with his fingers told him what he already knew as his chest flinched away from the touch with a spike of pain. At least one broken rib.

He’d sneak some ice from the freezer once everyone else was in bed, but for the time being he had a long overdue date with his shower and popped a fresh dose of painkillers before easing himself under the water. Ideally, Scott wanted a hot one, but the broken rib meant he kept it cool in an attempt to soothe the swelling. Brown water swirled around his feet, finally washing away the dirt he’d acquired in the trash mine, and he let himself relax as the painkillers kicked in.

The mission finally felt like it was over. He couldn’t say the day was over, because he still had the never-ending pile of reports for both the GDF and Tracy Industries to write up and there was never any telling when the next emergency call would come in, but no more trash mine, no more furious gardeners or landowners.

Just Scott and-

“Scott, sorry to interrupt your shower but there’s another situation.” John appeared suddenly and Scott jumped, muffling a curse as his ribs informed him that painkillers or not, that was not appreciated. He sighed instead.

“F.A.B.” He rubbed his face tiredly, beyond glad their bathroom cameras didn’t transmit anything below the neck so his decorative torso was hidden from his ever-attentive brother… who had apparently also missed that he’d been slammed hard into the pod. “I’ll be in the lounge in two.” He wanted to say five, but it normally only took two minutes and longer would make John suspicious.

“See you there.” John vanished and he let out another breath, turning off the water. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t fly with a broken rib, or go on a rescue at all, but as long as he took it easy it would be fine.

Two minutes later found him in the lounge, apparently the last one there. Virgil and Gordon didn’t acknowledge his arrival and he tried not to let it sting. They’d work with him on the rescue – it wasn’t the first time they’d gone on a rescue mid-row, and no doubt wouldn’t be the last. The perils of living and working full time with siblings. Alan, at least, gave him a big grin and he returned it as best he could before turning to John, who was hovering impatiently in the middle of the room. He was always impatient when they weren’t all immediately available; Scott didn’t take it personally.

“Good, you’re here,” John acknowledged. “We’ve got a collapsed mineshaft with a worker trapped inside in Cornwall, England. His colleagues all got out okay but they don’t have the gear to get him out without risking a bigger collapse.”

“F.A.B., John,” Scott replied. “I’ll go on ahead in Thunderbird One. Virgil, Gordon, follow me in Thunderbird Two.” Another underground rescue, and another mole pod needed. Typical. Still, if it was really only simple, he wouldn’t be needed for more than co-ordination. He could handle that. “Virgil, have you had the chance to replace the lost gear from the trash mine?”

“All replaced,” Virgil confirmed, heading for his launch chute. “We’re out of spares now, though, so we’d better not lose this one.” Scott winced – that wasn’t good.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said, reaching up towards his lamps and pulling them down towards his chest as always, glad that the painkillers had more or less kicked in so the movement didn’t make his ribs flare up in pain. The last thing he saw before being whisked around into his chute was Alan, looking somewhat dejected at being left behind, again.

They’d barely needed Gordon for the mission – if Scott was at full health he would have entertained leaving him behind – so there was no reason to bring Alan. Still, there was a scolding voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Grandma telling him he should have let Alan take Thunderbird One and take a rest himself.

If Thunderbird Three was needed while they were gone, Alan would be fit to pilot, he argued back. Thunderbird One would be tough, but he conceded that there was no way he could launch into space with at least one broken rib. The voice quietened but he knew it wasn’t pacified.

The painkillers diluted but didn’t entirely quash the pain of suiting up, but with no-one around to see he could gasp without fear of being caught, and soon he was scrambling into his pilot seat – still muddy; cleaning his ‘bird had been next on the priority list after the shower, because apparently his brothers had decided not to help him out on that front.

If suiting up was bad, launching was worse. He’d anticipated that, throwing his comms onto mute – John knew better than to interrupt during the launch sequence unless it was truly urgent so there shouldn’t be anyone to see him – as he gasped for breath against the stinging of his chest. Full speed was out of the question, but as it was a rescue they already knew what they’d need, he didn’t have to get there much before Thunderbird Two, so he settled for an almost bearable Mach 10 and flicked his comms back on, hoping John wouldn’t ask questions.

Presumably John had reached the same conclusion as him, as his decision of half max speed wasn’t commented on when his brother made contact a few minutes later to continue the debrief with additional information coming in from the danger zone.

It was a textbook rescue, a fact Scott was incredibly glad for as he let Virgil take the mole pod down, followed by Gordon with stabilising foam to stop the mine collapsing any further. In and out, no complications, no injuries. The trapped worker emerged from the pod shaken but otherwise fine and Scott watched Virgil check him over thoroughly to be safe as he and Gordon secured both intact pods back inside the module, where they belonged.

“I’ll see you back at base,” he told his brothers as he headed back to his ‘bird. Gordon gave him a crisp nod while Virgil gave no indication that he’d heard – as he was still checking the rescuee over, Scott hadn’t expected one. Gordon’s reaction told him everything he needed to know – the attitude was still professional-only. He wasn’t yet forgiven for whatever transgression it was Gordon was mad at him about. It was nearing midnight at home, though; they were all tired and Scott fully expected it to all blow over by morning, once they’d had some sleep.

The site supervisor was waiting for him as he approached.

“Just wanted to say thank you again,” the woman said, sticking out her hand. He took it and hid a wince at her particularly vigorous shake. It was too soon for more painkillers, but this particular dose was wearing off already; the flight home was not going to be fun.

“Just doing our job,” he returned, polite smile on his face, and carefully retracted his hand. She let him.

“Your job’s an impressive one,” she winked at him, before her gaze wandered slightly. Scott wanted to groan – he knew that look, and normally he’d play along, maybe even see if he could score if he was feeling particularly lucky, but he was physically tired, emotionally drained, and in pain. No flirting for him today.

He just nodded at her, smile slightly more genuine because regardless of the situation it always gave him a bit of a boost when he got attention of that sort – not that he’d dare admit that to his brothers, or they’d never let him forget it – and she laughed.

“I’d say another time, but I’d hope we don’t need your assistance again,” she grinned, and before Scott realised it was coming, there was a playful elbow in his ribs. Nothing hard, not even something he’d normally react to, but his ribs screamed and he gasped, instinctively doubling over before forcing himself straight again.

He fervently hoped his brothers hadn’t noticed, but didn’t dare glance around to check.

“Oh, I’m so-”

“You’re right, hopefully you won’t need us again.” He overrode her apology, sent her another small grin, and got himself back inside the safety of his ‘bird as quickly as he could without seeming like he was running away. His ribs burned and he eyed the first aid cabinet, sorely tempted, but squashed the impulse. Piloting in pain wasn’t advisable, but piloting overdosed on medication was potentially fatal. Taking a moment to settle, he opened up a link to Thunderbird Five.

“I’m returning to base now,” he informed his brother. “Rescue complete; Virgil and Gordon are finishing up with the worker, but they’ve got it all in hand and I’ve got a shower to finish.”

“F.A.B.,” John acknowledged, a small grin on his face at Scott’s mention of a shower. “I’ll see if I can get the world to wait on getting itself into any more trouble until you’re done, big brother.”

“That would be nice,” Scott grinned, settling back in his chair more comfortably and ignoring his ribs. They both knew John couldn’t control that, especially not with the Hood and his Chaos Crew running around, but sometimes it was nice to pretend. “Thunderbird One out.”

He muted his comms again – against protocol, but he doubted Virgil or Gordon would be calling him up for a chat given the way they were cold-shouldering him and he’d already addressed John – before taking off. VTOL launches were far gentler with the G-forces, but unlike earlier, he wasn’t riding high on the full effect of the painkillers, so it hurt worse as he accelerated.

Mach 8 would be plenty to get him home, he decided, unwilling to risk anything faster than necessary, and once he was cruising he unmuted his comms, confident he wouldn’t have missed anything.

“-ott. Scott. Thunderbird One are you listening to me?”

Virgil sounded furious. That didn’t bode well.

“Reading you loud and clear, Thunderbird Two,” he replied. “What’s happened?” He reached out in preparation of turning his ‘bird’s nose back the way he’d come.

“What’s happened, he asks,” Virgil steamed, hologram materialising. He was standing firmly upright, arms crossed and one hand tapping on his arm. “The site supervisor wanted to know why you’re working with a rib injury.”

Dammit.

“Virgil-” he started, not quite sure how he was going to deflect the accusation. His brother didn’t give him a chance.

“Don’t Virgil me,” he snapped. “Get back here so I can see why she thinks you’re injured.”

“It’s fine,” Scott lied. “Nothing serious. I’ll see you back at base.” He cut the call, which in immediate hindsight was stupid decision, but to his surprise, Virgil didn’t immediately call back. Still, he switched his comms back to mute and eyed his speed. If he wanted to get back before Thunderbird Two, Mach 8 would be enough, but if Virgil pushed his ‘bird, it wouldn’t leave him with much time to grab a shower and smuggle some ice. Gritting his teeth, he pushed her up to Mach 10, swallowing the grunt of pain from the additional pressure.

Almost immediately, Thunderbird One started to slow.

“Hey!” he yelped. The absolute last thing he needed was his ‘bird crashing. It might give him enough injuries to hide the fact his ribs were already broken, but wrecking his ‘bird was not worth avoiding a lecture. He tried to correct it, but her controls jammed under his hands. “Oh you’re kidding me,” he groaned, preparing himself to stand up and get to the reset. What had even happened? She hadn’t been damaged since the Icarus, and Brains and Virgil had both sworn through and through that she was fully functional again. There was no reason for-

His holographic display lit up with the icon for Thunderbird Five.

Ah. Dammit. Virgil had got John on his case.

Reluctantly, he unmuted his comm and immediately got blasted with three brothers all yelling at him. The temptation was there to simply mute them again, but instead he sighed and leaned back in his chair, waiting for them to stop.

“-t mute your comms ever-”

“-swer us you-”

“-re you an idiot-”

They didn’t, but their voices were getting more and more frantic, and he realised they were starting to panic at his lack of a response. He groaned.

“You don’t need to shout, I can hear you just fine,” he told them. “John, what are you doing with Thunderbird One?”

“Landing,” his brother said abruptly. “You’re just coming up over the Sahara so I’m putting you down there. Thunderbird Two is en route.”

“This really isn’t necessary,” Scott complained. “Can’t we deal with this at home?”

“You mean in another two hours, providing we don’t get another callout or distraction so you can slip away again?” Virgil asked dryly. “No, we’re doing this now, and if I find anything worse than a minor bruise you’re finishing the trip home in Thunderbird Two’s medbay.”

Scott groaned, having absolutely no desire to be subjected to that. “Seriously, guys, I’m fine.” Thunderbird One’s VTOLs fired as her speed dropped, and he felt her land. Looking out of the viewing window, he saw sand and more sand. The Sahara, as John had promised.

“We’ll be the judge of that,” Gordon scowled.

“Thunderbird Two is five minutes out from your location,” Virgil informed him coolly. “Stay where you are.”

Thunderbird Five’s insignia was still firmly ensconced in the holographic display, informing him that John had not retracted his override. As much as he wanted to, there was no way he was going anywhere until his brothers had satisfied themselves. He groaned again and eyed the medical cabinet once more. It was still too soon to take another dose, but he knew there was no way any of them would be letting him pilot the rest of the way home anyway.

The relief from pain would not be worth the lecture from Virgil and then Grandma. Reluctantly he turned away from it and closed his eyes, listening out for the engines of Thunderbird Two. His brothers kept the channel open, talking to each other and occasionally shooting a question his way – presumably to make sure he hadn’t passed out on them – which he answered reluctantly.

True to Virgil’s words, five minutes after John had landed his ‘bird there came the sound of Thunderbird Two’s VTOL overhead, and he jabbed at his seat controls to leave his ‘bird, seeing no point in sitting and waiting for them to descend on him when he’d be dragged into Thunderbird Two anyway. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

“Scott!” Virgil strode across the short distance between the two ‘birds, grabbing his arm as soon as he was in reach as though he thought he’d flee if given the chance. With John still controlling his ‘bird, Scott thought the gesture unnecessary. “You absolute idiot. Thunderbird Two, now.” The hand gripping his bicep didn’t give him much of a choice, forcibly guiding him towards the lowered hatch.

Gordon was waiting in the cockpit, arms crossed and eyes like fire. Beside him, the cockpit’s stretcher had been lowered.

“Sit,” Virgil snapped, dragging him over to it. Scott obeyed reluctantly, and scowled at the medical scanner immediately deployed. It didn’t take long to flag up amber along his various bruises, and red at his ribs. He didn’t hear what Virgil ground out under his breath, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t language he’d use in front of their grandmother. “John, take One home. Scott’s piloting nowhere.”

“F.A.B.” Scott knew his brother well enough to hear the anger in those three letters. His ‘bird’s VTOL roared to life and he watched her take to the sky through the cockpit windows.

“When did this happen, Scott?” Virgil demanded, setting the scanner to one side and tugging at his zip. Scott batted his hand away, taking over. He still had enough pride to not be undressed by his brother. Two sets of brown eyes narrowed dangerously as the bruising became visible.

Caught, there was nothing to be gained by lying. “Last mission, when the pod stopped suddenly.” A flash of guilt swept across Gordon’s face.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” the aquanaut demanded. He shrugged, then winced when his body reminded him that the painkillers were all but worn off.

“Didn’t exactly get the chance,” he said. “Couldn’t do anything about it at the time because we were trying not to become WRM food, then there was the thing with the Mechanic and the Hood, and the landowner wanted compensation for the damaged WRM and park, and-”

“And most of that could have waited for you to get checked over,” Virgil interrupted, a gentle hand lightly touching his bruised torso. Scott’s body flinched away from the contact unbidden. “Why the hell did you come out to Cornwall? Gordon and I could have handled it by ourselves.”

“It was a rescue,” Scott protested.

“Which you’re now grounded from for six weeks, minimum,” Virgil growled. “Lie down. What have you taken for the pain?”

He didn’t get a chance to protest before both brothers were carefully but firmly pushing him down onto the stretcher.

“Two Tylenol when I left the trash mine seven hours ago,” he admitted. “Two more just before this mission, three hours ago.” Virgil frowned.

“You’ll have to bear with it until we get home,” he said. “Once the Tylenol’s out of your system, I’ll give you something stronger.” Scott scowled. “Gordon, get some ice on his ribs. Scott, stay still.” Virgil had the gall to strap him down, avoiding putting pressure on his ribs. “We’ll be talking about this when we get home.”

It was a promise, but just before he turned away to head to his seat, Scott saw the one thing he’d hoped he’d be able to avoid: guilt. Virgil was well aware he’d missed the signs because of his flare-up about the topiary, and wouldn’t be forgiving himself for it any time soon.

“Virg-” he started, only to interrupt himself with a hiss as a cool sensation spread across his chest. He closed his eyes briefly, before opening them to find Gordon stood next to him, ice pack in hand.

“Not right now, bro,” the blond said quietly, and the same guilty pain was in his eyes. “Give him time.”

“Gord-”

“And me,” Gordon interrupted him. “Just… not yet, okay? Wait ‘til we’re home and you’re all smothered better in the infirmary.”

Scott didn’t like it, but he understood it – they’d find it easier to deal with once they knew he really was okay. Broken ribs sucked, but in the grand scheme of injuries, they were relatively minor. The real fear his brothers carried was what if it had been worse – a punctured lung, for example.

In answer, he pulled a face, showing exactly what he thought of being ‘smothered better’ as Thunderbird Two roared to life beneath him. A small grin tugged at the corner of Gordon’s mouth and he considered that progress, settling back comfortably as his brother’s ‘bird carried him home.

next...

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #season 3 spoilers #scott tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #john tracy #grounded

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s-oulpunk · 5 years ago

Text

Paper Rings - Reddie

Summary: Eddie doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched on the ground. His fingertips are grazing over the wood and Richie doesn’t have to look to know what he’s tracing.

“We were supposed to get married.” He finally glances over his shoulder, sparing Richie a quick look. “Do you remember?”

Richie nods numbly. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”

TW: N/A

Read on AO3

“Eddie.” Richie swallows the lump in his throat before continuing, “What are you doing here?”

Eddie doesn’t look up from where he’s crouched on the ground. His fingertips are grazing over the wood and Richie doesn’t have to look to know what he’s tracing.

“We were supposed to get married.” He finally glances over his shoulder, sparing Richie a quick look. “Do you remember?”

Richie nods numbly. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”

For a moment it’s silent.

Eddie sits, admiring the carvings of a fourteen year old Richie Tozier. And Richie stands, admiring the dirty and exhausted appearance of a forty year old Eddie Kaspbrak.

It’s a little disgusting. He’s covered in blood and filth from the sewers, mud caking his skin and dirt shoved under his fingernails. Richie can still see the puddle of blood seeping through Eddie’s jacket, where Pennywise had nicked him. Richie hates to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t gotten him out of the way in time. So he doesn’t think about it.

All in all, he’s in bad shape. But it’s not like Richie’s any better off. The only thing in the world he wants is a shower.

Well, he thinks, smiling softly at the back of Eddie’s head, maybe there’s one other thing he wants more.

Because despite all the grime and dirt, Richie still thinks Eddie’s beautiful.

“We couldn’t even get married at the time,” Eddie says suddenly. “But you were so sure. I didn’t think we’d have a fighting chance but you were so sure. I remember you tying that fucking string around my finger and telling me-”

“Spaghetti, as soon as the courts realize how dumb that all is and decide to legalize us, I’m marching right down to town hall and marrying your ass,” Richie quotes. He lets out a quiet laugh. For a moment he feels brave enough to say more. The moment passes. “How could I forget?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. How could I - How could I forget this? How could I forget you?”

Richie feels as if his heart’s been cracked in two. “It’s not your fault, Eds. We all forgot.”

“It’s not the same,” Eddie says. “You didn’t get married.”

“Eds-”

“You proposed and then I went and married someone else. How shitty is that? That’s like the ultimate cheater move.”

“Eddie, what are you talking about? You forgot everything. How could you have known?”

Richie wants to tell him how ridiculous he’s being. He wants to fucking nail it into his head: You’re being stupid. None of this is your fault. You didn’t mean to.

But all he can do is repeat the same words over and over again.

You forgot, you forgot, you forgot.

“You know I didn’t date anyone for nearly five years after I moved away,” Eddie says. He finally stands. Finally turns to look at Richie for good. Unshed tears are sparkling in his eyes and Richie wants nothing more than to lurch forward and hold him till they go away. But he doesn’t move. He can’t. “Took three years to even think about dating someone else. My first year of college someone was flirting with me and I told them I was seeing someone. I didn’t think I was, I couldn’t - I couldn’t remember. But it just felt right to say. When I finally started going on dates again I kept comparing them to you. I didn’t know it, but I was. Of course I was. The only thing I could think about was if they could make me laugh.”

“I get it,” Richie says. And he wants to say more. He wants to tell him he was the same. That every date he went on was compared to Eddie. But his throat closes up and he doesn’t say anything.

“Then Myra came along,” Eddie continues. “And she was nice, we were friends. She was my first real friend since moving. The first person I felt like I could really talk to. But my mom got in my head, convinced me I was in love with her. It all just kind of spiraled from there.”

“Are you?” Richie asks before he can stop himself. “In love with her, I mean.”

Eddie lets out a bark of laughter. “Am I in love with her? Richie, I’m gay. You should know that better than anyone.”

Richie shuffles his feet awkwardly. “I dunno. I thought maybe you were bi.”

“No,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “I just moved and immediately tried to re-oppress all my emotions.”

Richie chuckles softly. “Yeah, I hear you.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, really fucked me up.”

Eddie’s frown deepens. “I think I fucked everything up. Myra’s not gonna be happy, I forced her into a fake marriage. And you - we - it’s too late for us.”

Richie chances a step forward. “You didn’t fuck it up, Eddie. Myra’s gonna understand. You said you guys are friends, right?” Eddie nods, though he still looks miserable. “She won’t be mad. As for us,” Richie swallows down the bile rising in his throat. “I would still do it.”

Eddie looks dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You would?”

A grin breaks out across Richie’s face and he rushes to close the gap between them. He grasps Eddie’s hands in his, pulling them up to hold against his chest. A wave of relief washes over him as soon as he does, as if he’s suddenly being reminded: Oh yeah, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course I would.”

“You’ll have to get me a new ring,” Eddie says, a face-splitting grin on his face. “I lost the string one in a storm years ago.”

“I lost mine in an old apartment,” Richie admits. “I was devastated, even though I couldn’t remember why.”

Eddie giggles. “Can’t believe you forgot your own wedding.”

“Excuse you, I did not forget,” Richie says with a faux-horrified gasp. “Your mom looked very nice during our special day, by the way-”

“Shut up!” groans Eddie. “I cannot believe I agreed to deal with this again.”

“For the rest of your life, baby,” Richie beams, and he doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s cheeks turn pink at the nickname.

“We can’t just rush off to town hall though,” Eddie says, his voice serious again. “I’ll have to call Myra about getting a divorce.”

“Gives us time to plan,” Richie says. “Believe me, I am not wasting this on a town hall wedding. We’re gonna have the biggest, most obnoxious wedding of all time.”

Eddie laughs, the sound like music to Richie’s ears. “I don’t doubt that.”

And then Eddie’s kissing him.

It’s soft and sweet but also fast and needy, and it’s everything Richie’s been dreaming of since stepping foot in this hell of a town. It’s exactly like he remembers, Eddie’s arms around his neck and Richie’s hands on his hips.

“I love you,” Richie blurts, lips fumbling against Eddie’s.

His heart lurches to a stop in his chest. He hadn’t meant to say that. It’s too early. He can’t just say stuff like that-

“I love you too.”

Richie grins as he leans in for another kiss. He could get used to this for forever.

“I can’t believe you’re gonna be on the other side of the fucking country.”

Richie collapses on his bed, face buried in the mess of blankets.

“It’ll be okay,” Eddie says, gently carding his fingers through his boyfriend’s curls. “We’ll see each other during breaks. And we’ll write and call.”

“I know, but it’s not the same.”

“I know-”

“Your mom’s gonna miss me every night.”

“Fuck off!”

Richie cackles as Eddie shoves him off the bed.

“I changed my mind,” Eddie says. “I’m not gonna miss you.”

“Awe, c’mon Eds-”

“That is not my name.”

“I know you love it,” Richie grins as he clambers back onto the bed.

Eddie kisses him to avoid answering.

“You’re such an idiot,” he whispers. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”

“Not as much as I’m gonna miss you,” Richie says. He shuffles into a sitting position just so he can tug Eddie onto his lap. “Who am I gonna bother at school?”

“Everyone, I imagine.”

“Mhm, yeah, probably.”

Eddie kisses him softly. “You should just come to New York with me. We could get a shitty apartment. Maybe a dog.”

“That sounds nice,” Richie whispers. “But there’s no way we could afford it. Besides, your mom would murder me.”

Eddie huffs, his lower lip popping out in a little pout. It’s so cute that Richie can’t stop himself from swooping down and stealing a kiss.

“I can’t believe she’s following me all the way to New York,” Eddie groans. “Who does that?”

“People who know how cute you are, Eds,” Richie says, reaching up to pinch his cheek.

“Then why aren’t you following me?” Eddie says, a triumphant smirk on his face. “Huh? Does my own boyfriend hate my face that much?”

Richie just laughs, taking Eddie’s face between his hands and peppering kisses wherever he can reach. “I could never hate your face, Eds.” He kisses his nose softly. “I’m gonna miss this.”

“Me too,” murmurs Eddie. He worms his lower lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make him wince. “Rich? Do you really think this will work? I mean, what if one of us meets someone else? What if we can’t make it work? What if-”

“That won’t happen,” Richie insists, despite the fact that these same worries had plagued him during sleepless nights. “We’re gonna be alright, Eds.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. In fact-” Richie lifts Eddie off his lap, quickly scurrying to the other end of his room. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just shuffles through a drawer that Eddie suspects has never once been cleaned. Then he turns around, a ball of string in one hand and scissors in the other. “In fact, I’ll make you a promise right now.”

He kneels next to the bed and snips off an end of the string. He takes Eddie’s hand gently between his own and wraps the string around his ring finger, just holding it in place.

“Eddie Kaspbrak, will you marry me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches. “What?”

“Do you want-”

“Yes,” Eddie nods furiously. “Yeah. Yes. Yes.”

Richie grins and quickly sets to work tying the string around Eddie’s finger.

“This isn’t even legal,” Eddie says breathlessly, but picks up another piece of string to tie around Richie’s finger anyway. “We can’t - You know we can’t - Not really -”

“Not right now, maybe,” Richie says. “But someday we can.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” Richie says, a soft smile on his face. “Because the world can’t be blind to love forever.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” whispers Eddie. “All the slurs, all the laws. It feels like the entire world is against us.”

“Well, Spaghetti, as soon as the courts realize how dumb that all is and decide to legalize us, I’m marching right down to town hall and marrying your ass,” Richie grins.

And Eddie grins right back at him. “I can’t wait.”

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whattimeisitintokyo · 5 years ago

Text

Somos Familia Ch 39: It Hits the Fan

Chapter 39: It Hits the Fan

Today was the day!

Miguel's birthday!

Héctor chuckled to himself as he finished shaving and wiping off the leftover shaving cream off his face, leaving behind the little tuft of hair that was his goatee. He had often considered shaving it off completely, being too old to have such juvenile facial hair, but at this point in his life it was practically trademarked. All his official photos and even illustrations of him all had it. He was practically stuck with it.

He chuckled again, letting his mind drift over these trivial things that made him smile. Any thoughts that didn't include what this day also was. Yes, he would put items on the ofrenda for his beloved daughter, tell her how much he missed her and loved her. Even give a respectful nod to Ernesto's foto. But other than that his thoughts were only on Miguel's birthday party. All the family would be there, everyone would feast on Miguel's favorite meals, presents, games, laughter and love. If he just concentrated on that then the pain wouldn't be so bad.

He didn't sleep well last night. He never did on the days leading up to Dia de Muertos. He vaguely remembered waking up crying once last night, but he was soon lulled back to sleep by his wife's calming presence and he was fine afterwards. She didn't even say anything when he awoke the next morning, and he was thankful for that. He could pass off the dark circles under his eyes on his age, and no one besides Imelda would notice.

He stepped into his walk-in closet and pushed aside Imelda's beautiful dresses to get to his clothes. He was feeling particularly festive today and pulled out his royal purple suit jacket off the hanger. Thinking about which tie would go well with hit, he looked up and saw something gleaming in between the hanging clothes.

The golden tooth of a grinning skull.

Immediately his mood dropped as he blankly stared at the headstock of his once prized guitar. He didn't feel any pride or joy in looking at it, hadn't even played it for over nine years, but he couldn't bring himself to hate it either. Many times he had considered giving it away or, in his more depressive states, simply throw it into the dumpster where he felt it belonged.

But he never could. Because his beloved wife had given it to him on his birthday, oh so many years ago.

'Y-you… bought this for me?! I don't know what to say…'

'You don't need to say anything Héctor. Feliz Cumpleaños. Now stop saving your money for it and go buy yourself some food, tonto.'

And then she had kissed him for the first time ever. On the cheek, yes, but it had made his whole head burst into flames and his ears buzz. It was the true beginning of their relationship, and this guitar was the key. It was a precious moment in his life: a fond memory. So no, he couldn't get rid of it so easily. But it wasn't going to stay in the closet anymore either. He'd have a talk with Chente later about sending it off to Rivera de La Cruz Records to be put on display to the public if they wanted it. It would still be his, but he wouldn't have to look at it anymore.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Picking up a red necktie he pushed a bunch of clothes over the guitar, concealing it again, and walked away.

--------------------------------------

"Facundo! Don't smear icing on your sister's dress! Anselmo! Osvaldo! Stop fighting, you're in front of company, show some respect! Ay, Dahlia hold the baby for me, would you? You're the oldest, you need to help Papá."

Miguel walked into the courtyard with Victoria to absolute mayhem, with Victoria pulling him out of the way just in time before a sticky pastry struck the wall where his head was. Nodding his thanks to his niece he looked out to see Elena and Charlie playing with five other small, very rambunctious children dressed in their best church clothes. Soiled in mud, breakfast foods and sans shoes of course, but there was an effort to get Martín and Rosita's children dressed nicely for the special occasion. Martín was standing over them, trying not to be knocked down by the running, screaming children as he also tried not to drop the baby girl in his arms. Matty was also seated at the table set outside, holding Clara and looking very smug that his own children were behaving themselves properly, and Julio was looking out at the chaos with a thousand-yard stare.

Sitting down after finally passing the baby to his eldest, Martín slumped into a chair with a groan and leaned towards Matty in exhaustion. "Remember the Nazis? How easy it was with them? They were so neat and organized. Precise."

"They blew your leg off, amigo."

"At this point in my life, I wish they blew something else off."

"Papá, Papá!" One of Martín's sons came up to him, pulling on his sleeve and smiling with gapped teeth. "Charlie wants to play horses! Can we, por favor?"

"Ay, all right." Reaching down underneath the table, Martín fumbled around a little with belts and straps before pulling off and giving the child his prosthetic leg. "Don't get it dirty and do not, I repeat, do not… stick forks in it again."

Suddenly Julio sat up with a smile and shouted. "Hey everyone! The birthday boy is here!"

All the little children stopped immediately to look at Miguel standing in the doorway, before screaming again and running into him for hugs. This time Victoria didn't help, and Miguel let out a squawk when he was bombarded with seven sticky children. "Feliz cumpleaños, Miguel!" several little voices yelled out.

"Agh!... Gr-gracias… AHH! You guys are squeezing me to hard!"

"Ah, there you are mijo." Imelda swooped in and managed to pry the little ones off her son, brushing down his hair and giving him a kiss. "Fashionably late to your own party, I see. You look very nice today."

"Gracias, Mamá." Miguel said, pulling down his sleeves to cover up the wristbands that Victoria had made for him. 'I've gotta look nice for my performance tonight.' He said to himself. It wasn't a charro suit that he would have liked to wear, like a professional mariachi, but the bolo tie and shiny new boots were a nice touch.

"Well I hope your hungry." Imelda said. "We've been cooking up a storm all morning in that cramped little kitchen. And Wanda has made a delicious surprise for you."

"Cinnamon rolls!" Wanda said happily, placing a tray of pastries absolutely dripping with icing and candied nuts on the table. "My grandmother's recipe. I really hope you'll like them, but if you're anything like your brother then I know you're going to love them Miguel."

"No, I don't love them." Matty said, already double fisting the freshly glazed rolls with hungry eyes. "I'm damn near addicted to them. I crave them all day every day. But they're considered a Sunday food, and I'm forced to go without all week! It's torture, hermanito, pure torture."

"Which reminds me, since I'm making them on a Friday that means you've had them two times this week. So, we can skip them on Sunday and have them the next week."

"What?!"

"It's actually a little funny." Wanda said as Matty started to hoard as many rolls as he could in front of him. "Rosita's had three so far, but she's been pouring lime juice all over them. Lime juice! Can you believe it? How can you eat something so sour with something so sweet is beyond me!"

The others laughed a little and started to doll out the rest of the pastries to everyone else, with only Matty noticing the way Martín's face had turned pale white and he sunk lowly in his chair. "Lime juice?… Oh, no no no no nooo…"

Matty shook his head with pity, but mostly with exasperation, and ate his cinnamon roll. "Cochino…"

Breakfast was delicious, of course, and the party continued throughout the day. There were party games, cake and ice cream and even more sugary delights that threw all the little children into an even more manic frenzy until they had finally passed out underneath the shade of the tree. The ofrenda had been set up, decorated with flowers and offerings for Imelda's parents, Leti, the late Facundo and even Matty's friend Barto, while the adults shared stories of their dearly departed despite Héctor's best efforts to divert their attention to another party game or business idea he had. Even Chente and his best friend Javier had come to whish him a happy birthday to join the festivities. They always seemed really cool to Miguel, and he also felt like they understood his frustration with the lack of music.

Miguel absently kept checking the clock every so often, time seeming to move achingly slow as it creeped towards seven. He had hidden his guitar underneath the ofrenda table, somewhere he knew his father wouldn't be near that much, so it would be ready to be picked up when he left.

But for now his concentration was on opening the last birthday present, then he could go get his real gift. "Wow, sneakers! Gracias Tío Oscar y Tío Felipe!"

"Not just any sneakers." Felipe said proudly.

"But the new Rivera Freeflyers!"

"The new line of children's shoes-"

"-that goes on the market next year."

"Designed by us of course."

"But you're the first kid to wear them!"

"Feliz cumpleaños!"

Smiling, Miguel set the shoes back in the box. "That's really cool. Thanks again. Is that the last present? Aw man, that's sad. But I guess good things can't last forever. Well, if we're done I have some stuff I-"

"Atata. Not so fast, Miguel." Héctor walked up to him, smiling widely. "Because I also have a present for you."

Sitting back down, glancing at the clock again, Miguel's smile drooped a little in uncertainty. "Okay…"

Clearing his throat theatrically, Héctor stood next to his son in the center of the room spoke loud for all to hear. "Twelve years ago today, Miguel Rivera… beloved nephew, tío, brother and son… was brought into this world. A harrowing, frightful day for the whole family, especially for his dear mother, mi diosa, but one that ultimately ended in triumph. For that tiny baby was able to grow into a healthy little boy, and who has now grown into the fine young man standing before us all today."

"And since you are on the brink of adulthood, it's high time that we start thinking about your future, Miguel. Specifically what you're going to do for a living when you grow up. Now as much as we, and pretty much the whole world, loves your Mamá's shoes I get the feeling that's not where your passions truly lie. But after having a talk with Chente yesterday, we came to the conclusion that maybe your future lies with… Rivera de la Cruz Records."

Miguel noticed the way his father flinched at saying Ernesto's name, like he always did, but that didn't matter at the moment. There was a sudden bubbling of excitement and anticipation welling up inside of him, and he happily looked over at Chente for a confirmation. The former assistant, now CEO of the biggest movie and music production company in Mexico, gave him a silent smile and thumbs up. Turning back to his father with a big smile, Héctor continued.

"So your mother and I talked about it last night, and we both decided the best opportunity for you would be-"

Miguel could see it now: His name in lights, the crowd chanting his name, strumming a guitar just like, no better, than Tío Nesto's. Singing songs that he had written himself, the crowd singing along with him because they were so good, so memorable. Immortalized for all time by doing the one thing he truly loved to do: Playing the guit-

"-to start training you in business, just like your brother! And to start with that, we're going to enroll you in business management classes!"

…..

"… What?"

There was not a sound coming from anyone else in the room. Wanda, Julio and Coco looked at each other in complete disbelief and mild disgust, Matty slowly bringing his hand over his eyes in complete exasperation. The other adults in the room cringed and suddenly became very interested in their plates of leftover food and cake, except for Vicente and Javier. Poor Chente stared at Héctor like he had just condemned the man to his death, eyes wide and mouth agape in horror, while Javier was bent nearly in half in his chair. Shoulders shaking and biting down on his clenched fist, Javier was doing everything he could to not just bust out laughing at the entire fiasco in front of him. Oblivious to everyone's obvious displeasure of his grand announcement, Héctor continued.

"There's a school nearby. In San Benito. They specialize in training children for college. Mateo, you went there, remember?"

Nodding and smiling painfully, Matty said, "Yes, Papá. I remember going… I remember willingly going-"

"Well, you did so well there that we thought Miguel would too! Now, they've got a new program where they include room and boarding, and you can do your regular schooling there."

"Which" Imelda interjected, "I have already vetoed. They still have just the same smaller classes every other weekend that you went to, Mateo. I don't want our little boy to be away from home for so long."

"Right," Héctor said. "I agree with her. You'll still go to school here, so don't worry about that. You won't miss your friends or your family. But I feel like this is a great opportunity for you."

Miguel felt like congratulating himself for how well he was hiding his displeasure from his parents. No, displeasure was too light a word for how he was feeling. He felt like his face was about to break and shatter for how long he was holding the rictus of his earlier smile, and his heart and stomach freefalling down to his boots. He felt like he was slowly dying, and yet his parents were looking at him like they were doing this for his own good. And they were proud of it too!

Maybe it was his own fault: being so secretive about who he truly was and what his interests were. His parents didn't know who he was at all and thought he would be glad that they were practically dooming him to a fate worse than death.

Swallowing painfully, almost as if he felt like he was about to cry, Miguel croaked out. "W-well… That's… a lot to take in."

"It's just an idea, mijo." Héctor said gently, as if finally sensing that his son might not be totally ready for such a radical change in his life. "And you've got plenty of time to decide. We can talk about more in the morning alone."

"It's just that that- uh…" Miguel fumbled a little with his wristbands hidden under his sleeves. "I'm not like Matty was when he was my age. I mean… I'm more like a normal kid, you know. Not a nerd like him."

"…Hey…"

"I mean I not as smart as him. I won't be any good in a school like that."

"Don't worry about that, Miguel." Imelda said softly, placing her head gently on his head and smoothing his hair. "You'll have your family here to guide you. We'll help you every step of the way. You won't be alone."

"And to help you even more, here's another present!" Héctor said. From behind his back he pulled out a small briefcase, made from leather dyed in a brilliant shade of red, and the letters M.R. embedded on the front in solid gold. Placing in the boy's hands, Héctor smiled widely and clapped his hands with pride. "Look at that. Another businessman in the family! You look so professional already! Ha ha!"

Glancing down miserably at the briefcase, as if he were handed a live grenade instead, Miguel nodded and once more looked up at his parents with that same faked, gritting smile. "Gracias Papá… Gracias Mamá…"

"Aw, feliz cumpleaños, my boy!" Héctor said as he hugged his son happily. "And don't just thank me. Thank Chente, since this was also his idea!"

"Ohhh…." Vicente moaned, trying to ignore the way Javiar was applauding loudly next him with that stupid smug grin of his. "Please don't thank me…."

"Better watch out!" Héctor jokingly said. "One day Miguelito here will take your job out from under you!"

"…I'll do that…"

As the adults carried on with their conversation, Miguel kept looking at the briefcase in hands. It really was a beautifully designed briefcase, something that Matty probably carried around all the time and would probably love having himself, but all it did was make Miguel want to cry. This wasn't what he wanted at all. This wasn't him. And the fact that his own parents didn't see that in him, couldn't see that, broke his heart.

He would have started crying then and there until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning he saw Victoria standing next to him, giving him a look of sympathy and understanding. But also of defiance. Glancing down at the briefcase in disgust, she said, "Put that thing away and go get your guitar. Wanda and Papá will distract Abuelito and everyone else. It's showtime, Tio."

With a start Miguel looked over at the clock and gasped. All his inner turmoil had made him nearly forget about the contest! And it was in twenty minutes! With Victoria giving him an encouraging smile and a slight shove Miguel took off to the ofrenda room. Ducking underneath the tablecloth he flung the accursed briefcase underneath it and grabbed his prized guitar, feeling so much better now that it was in his hands. Glancing to his late sister's foto, and then to his Tío Nesto's, Miguel gave them a watery smile.

"Wish me luck." He whispered, and then headed out the doorway.

No one noticed he, Victoria, Matty and Coco leave the party at all.

Except for one little girl with a big mouth.

---------------------------------

Picking up a small, fried grasshopper from the bowl on the side table, he twisted it to and fro for his grandson to see. It was such a lovely surprise: Here he thought there wasn't many chapulines left for the season, and then all of a sudden Julio gifted him with a heaping bowl of the crunchy little things! Then Wanda had come up to him, saying that his grandchildren wanted to spend some time with their grandfather and to tell them stories. He was more than happy too, even if it was odd that he and the children were practically shoved into the kitchen and the door was slammed shut. But for now, with Clara babbling happily in his arm and with Charlie's rapt attention, he continued his story.

"So at the end of the day, there I was: Scratched up by dried alfalfa, bitten all over by every mosquito there ever was, and with a bag of caught grasshoppers slung over my shoulder. I took it to old Señor Perales and he would fry them up for the customers, and for my pay he would give me a handful of them on a stale tortilla. Sometimes that would be the only thing that I would get to eat for the whole day. But I didn't mind much, it was worth it for me. They're good, no?"

"They're salty." Charlie said as he crunched one with a grimace.

"Sí. Salty, crunchy and my favorite snack. And that was the first job I ever had at four years old. Your age, mijo! Grasshopper catcher extraordinaire."

"My friend Timmy likes to pick out earthworms from his Mommy's garden and eats them too, even with dirt on them! Is that the same thing, Grandpa?"

"No, your friend's just odd."

"Oh."

The sound of the door being opened caused the three of them to look, only to see Elena poking her head in. Héctor was immediately worried: His granddaughter looked very troubled, staring at the floor and lip trembling, trying to decide if she should come in or not. Shifting the baby in his arms to free his hand he held it out. "Elena? Is there something wrong?"

Nodding a little, she slowly edged her way in and closed the door. "My tummy hurts…"

"Aww, too much cake and ice cream, huh?" Héctor asked kindly, squeezing her hand when she took it. "I guess it also didn't help that your cousins gave you too much excitement as well. Well, if you want I can walk you home-"

"It's not that, Abuelito." Elena said softly. "My tummy hurts because I feel guilty."

"Guilty? Did you and your sister have a fight? Because if you said or did something to make her upset I'm sure she'll forgive you. That's what a family who loves each other does, mija. We always forgive each other with time."

Eyes widening, Elena looked up at her grandfather with a slight glimmer of hope. "Really? Family forgives each other for anything?. They don't… get really mad and hate them for it?"

"Of course not."

Elena smiled a little at that, looking like she felt a little better. Then her smile faded, and she shook her head. "No, no… Papá says that I should always do what my parents say…"

Blinking in confusion, Héctor nodded in agreement. "Uh, yes… Yes, children should do what their parents say. Your Papá's right."

"Buuuut…"

"…But?"

"But you're Mamá's papá…" Elena said slowly, nervously picking at her fingers and biting her lip hard in agitation. "So, she has to do whatever you say… right?"

Now he was growing concerned. Pulling his granddaughter close to him, Héctor made Elena look at him squarely in the eye. "Elena, if something is wrong with your Mamá you need to tell me, claro? Now, what's going on?"

"….Well…"

------------------------

"Congratulations, Señor Magallanes."

"Oh you too, Mrs. Rivera."

Chuckling and clinking their mugs of coffee, Julio and Wanda sat on the old boarded up well and each took a sip of the hot brew. They watched as the Reyes children ran around the courtyard in a wild frenzy, having woken up from their sugar comas and putting an end to their parents' moment of peace and quiet, and smiled smugly to themselves. Both because they were thankful that their own children were not as wild and rambunctious, and also for a job well done.

"Nice work on getting the fried grasshoppers so late and getting so many. I'm told they're a seasonal…delicacy." Wanda grimaced at the word.

"Gracias. And that was a nice move of giving him your kids. 'Charlie wants to hear all about you when you were his age!'" Julio chuckled at that. "It really was a nice distraction."

Wanda hummed and gave a sultry smile, gazing off into the distance. "Well, Matthew has always said that I am… a master of distraction. In more ways than one"

"…Uh, right…" Taking an uncomfortable gulp from his coffee mug and coughing awkwardly, Julio changed the subject. "So when should they be back?"

"Well Miguel is the first act." Wanda said. "So it'll start at seven, he'll sing his little song, then Matthew and Coco will bring him right back. So I guess they should be back in about half an hour? Plenty of time before anyone notices they're gone. And if they ask we'll just say he went to a friend's house."

"Thirty minutes?" Julio asked, a little downhearted at the thought. "So, he won't get to stay to see if he wins?"

Wanda nodded in sympathy. "Yes, it is a shame. But honestly do you really think he would win? I mean, I know he's very good, but he'd be going up against musicians who have been playing for much longer than he's even been alive. It seems a little unlikely, right?"

"Sí, you're right… It still would be amazing if he did, though."

"Honestly I think the poor boy just wants to be heard. Can you blame him? Especially after that… gift his parents gave him. Ugh…"

"Sí. Let him have some fun for one night." Julio nodded, bring the cup back up to take a sip. "Thirty minutes. Plenty of time. Go out, perform, come back. No one will suspect a thing."

"All will be well." Wanda agreed.

The sudden slamming of a door hitting the wall startled everyone in the courtyard. All the children skidded to a halt, the adults stopped talking immediately, and all eyes turned towards a very livid Héctor Rivera.

"MIGUEL IS GOING TO PLAY THE GUITAR IN THE PLAZA?!"

Clara started to cry in fright in her grandfather's arms, but Héctor paid her no heed as he marched up Julio and Wanda. "Elena just told me that Miguel's playing in the contest! Julio, is that true?!"

Julio stared at his father-in-law, chalk white and looking like he was about to drop dead on the spot. His mouth worked itself up and down, but all that came out was choked squeaks and croaks. "Uh-uh…uh uh…ah…uh."

With a growl, Héctor turned his glare to his daughter-in-law. "Wanda, did you know anything about this?!"

Wanda, also much whiter than usual, managed to give a nervous half smile and shrugged with a weak chuckle. "Uh… No hablo es-pan-ol?..."

"Forget it!" Héctor shouted, placing the now screaming baby in her mother's arms and turning out to the exit. "You all want to go behind my back?! Fine! I'll put a stop to this myself!"

As Héctor left the courtyard in a mad dash, Julio wilted with a moan. "No no no no! This has all gone to hell. We had one job to do and we failed even that! Matty and Coco are going to kill us!"

Wanda shook her head, trying to calm down her poor baby. "No, they won't!"

"You're right. Only Coco is going to kill only me!" Julio cried. "Elena, why did you tell Abuelito?! You promised you wouldn't!"

Elena was sobbing by now. This wasn't supposed to happen: Abuelito had said that he wouldn't be angry, that he wouldn't hate Miguel for what he did. But it was all a lie! "You don't keep secrets from family, Papá! I couldn't stand lying to Abuelito!"

"What is going on here?!"

They all turned to see Imelda, Rosita, Martín and the twins coming out of the ofrenda room, confused as to why everyone was either in shock, scared or crying their eyes out. With a sigh Wanda came up to them. "Oh, Mamá Imelda, you might as well know now. Miguel was going to play the guitar at the music competition in the plaza-"

"What?!"

"- and Papá Héctor just found out. He's going after them to stop him. I've never seen him look so mad! I think he's going to do something-"

"Stupid…" Imelda finished, hitching up her skirts to run as fast as she could in her high heeled boots. "Dios mio, Héctor! Héctor come back!"

"Oh Rosita, could you take the baby?" Wanda asked as she handed Clara to Rosita. "I need to go to! Matthew might need my help! Come on Julio, Coco needs you to!"

"Wait! Coco will need my help as well!" Rosita cried out. "Martín, mi amor, hold the baby and hold down the fort. Oscar, Felipe! Let's go!"

"Wait, what?!" Martín cried out, watching helplessly as all the adults ran out of the Rivera complex, leaving him alone with nine children all under eight years old, screaming and crying with fright. Looking at Clara in one arm and his own crying daughter in the other, Martín growled in frustration. "Oh sure! Leave all the kids with the one guy who can't run away! I see how it is! This is discrimination! I am a war veteran, I deserve some respect and a break!"

"Don't worry, Tío Martín…" Elena sadly said, taking Clara away from her uncle and holding the baby close. "I'll help you with the babies…"

"Ay, gracias Elenita." Martín sighed in relief, patting her head gratefully. "You're a good kid."

Burying her face in her little cousin's blanket, Elena tried to hide as the tears came pouring out again with her sobs. She wasn't good. She didn't deserve the praise. She deserved to be punished, not Miguel. Miguel was going to be kicked out of the family. Abuelito hated him now.

It was all her fault.

----------------------------------------

"I knew it." Miguel moaned as he, his siblings and Victoria made their way to the plaza. Clutching his guitar for dear life, as if he was afraid it would be ripped away from him, he hung is head low while Victoria guided him by his shoulders. "I knew Papá would never even consider letting me play music, he just hates it too much. I'm gonna have to play in secret for the rest of my life."

"Yeah." Victoria sighed with a pout. "I guess I'm going to have to as well. I'll never get to dance in the likes of La Scala or the Royal Opera House. I'd even settle for dancing at a rec center at this point."

"Cheer up, both of you." Matty said. "Miguel, you know Papá doesn't hate music. He just… has some hang-ups about it that is hard for him to overcome. A lot of bad things happened to him, and he attributes it to music. You understand, sí?"

"No, I don't." Miguel said. "And that's easy for you to say. Papá sang and danced with all three of you and let you play instruments. I never had that."

"That's not true, Miguel." Coco said. "Papá used to sing to you all the time, especially when he tucked you into bed. And he played his guitar for you, don't you remember that?"

"No. I was a baby, Coco."

Coco tsked and shook her head in mock sorrow. "Well that is a shame. You should remember stuff like that. I, for one, can remember stuff quite vividly all the way from when I was about two years old. It's a gift I possess."

Breaking out of his current funk, Miguel looked up at his older sister and smirked. "Gee Coco, maybe you should be the one in the talent show instead of me."

Matty barked out a laugh and nodded. "Yeah, you could tell everyone what you had for breakfast in May of 1936."

"Or recite an old shopping list you made ten years ago." Victoria added.

Coco huffed and crossed her arms with pout. "All right, all three of you can go kiss a burro."

"Well we can't do that now, because," Matty said as they rounded the corner, "we have arrived at our destination."

As they all walked into the plaza, Miguel smiled when he saw the gazebo decked out in the familiar decorations for Dia de Muertos: garlands of cempazuchitl flowers, papel picado and, most excitingly, posters for the contest. He also saw several other musicians dressed up in charro suits and practicing on their own instruments. They had probably been practicing for much longer than he ever had and were probably better than him too. But Miguel didn't care if he won or lost the contest, he just wanted to perform in front of people. To show them all that he had what it took to be a musician. And luckily for him there were plenty of people who had come to watch.

A very… large amount of people.

Practically the whole town. Even other kids from his school were there.

Suddenly Miguel felt a nauseous curl in his belly, and his breath seemed to stick in his throat. Without realizing it he took a step backwards, softly bumping into his sister, and flinched in surprise when she knelt down to speak to him.

"Miguel?" Coco asked softly. "If you're nervous you don't have to go up there."

"Wh-what?" Miguel asked, wincing when his voice gave an unexpected squeak and trying to cough it away. "Nervous? I'm not nervous!"

"You're really pale Miguel, and you started sweating bullets in less than five seconds." Victoria pointed out. "It's actually quite impressive."

"Callate!" Miguel grumbled.

"It's alright if you've changed your mind, Miguel." Coco said and rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. "We can just go right back to the museum, and Papá will have never known you were here."

The very mention of his father, how much he hated music, how he would be forced to play music in secret again if he backed away now, how this might actually be his last chance to perform before he was to go to that stupid business school, steeled something inside of Miguel. Straightening up, jaw clenched tight and his guitar held up like a shield, he shook his head vigorously. "No! No way! I'm gonna play in mariachi plaza if it kills me!"

"That's the spirit!" Matty said. "And good thing too because it looks like you're on now!"

"What?!"

"They're beckoning you over! Knock 'em dead and break a leg, gordito!" With a hearty slap on the back Matty propelled his little brother towards the stage. As they all watched the boy meekly walk to the contest coordinators, Matty leaned into Coco. "He can sing, right?"

Coco nodded. "Of course! He has the voice of an angel, you're going to be blown away."

"Either that or he's going to blow his dinner all over the stage floor." Victoria said.

Miguel took his place next to the steps of the gazebo, turning back to wave at the siblings and niece, who all returned it with a thumbs up. With his back turned to them again Matty sighed wistfully. "Papá would really love this. He would be so proud. If… you know…"

"If he was like he used to be?"

"Si…" Matty nodded. "It just doesn't feel the same without him here. Miguel is so much like how our father was: Filled with a love of music, bursting with creativity. Miguel may look up to Tío Nesto, but I see Papá in him more than any of us."

"You're right." Coco sighed. "I wish Papá were here to see this too."

"SOCORRO! MATEO!"

Coco and Matty immediately felt their hearts stop, blood seize up, insides clench and air leave their lungs as they heard their full names bellowed out from behind. Turning around they saw a sight they had never seen before. Héctor Rivera, normally so jovial and mild-mannered with all he encountered, marching towards them red-faced and glaring holes into their very souls. As he got closer and closer to them, Coco whispered, "Itakeitback, Itakeitback!..."

Placing himself in front of his sister and niece like a shield, Matty leaned causally on his cane and smiled shakily. "H-hola, padre! Qué tal? I d-didn't expect to see you come to the plaza today. They're having a music contest right now so you might want to go back and-"

"Would you both care to explain to me," Héctor said as he reached them, very close to seething like a bull. "why I had to hear from Elena that my son is going to play the guitar, on a stage, in front of an audience?!"

With a loud groan Matty turned to glare at Coco. "You told la Lengua Larga about the plan?!"

"I told you it was a bad idea, Mamá."

"So this was your idea!" Héctor growled as he glared at Coco. Distantly they could hear Imelda calling out as she was making her way to the plaza herself, but they all ignored her for the moment. "You're letting your brother perform? After what nearly happened to you? What did happen to your godfather?!"

Coco glared back. "What happened to Tío Nesto was terrible, but it was an accident that could have happened anywhere! It had nothing to do with music! Why can't you see that?"

"It has everything to do with what happened to him!" Héctor shouted. "And I will not have the same thing happen to my-"

"Put your hands together for our first contestant, Miguel 'De la Cruzito' Rivera!"

As a loud smattering of applause and cheers erupted, the family turned to see Miguel taking the small stage of the gazebo. Smiling nervously and waving at the crowd, he didn't seem to notice the brewing turmoil taking place amongst the audience. Héctor gritted his teeth and was about to make his way towards his son to put an end to this nonsense, when one of the nearby bands decided to strike up some intro music for the young guitarist. After all, the son of the world's greatest songwriter, the patron of Santa Cecilia, deserved a grand entrance for his musical debut.

And they couldn't have picked a worse song.

As the trumpets blasted the upbeat version of Remember Me and the audience clapped along to the beat, Matty and Coco moaned in dread and instantly went into damage control. Coco and Victoria shouted in vain over the crowd to get the musicians to stop, but their voices were lost among the deafening cheers and song. Imelda heard the song playing from the distance, and with a curse tried to run even faster to her husband. Matty grabbed his father by the shoulders and shook him, trying to direct his attention to him. "Papá! Papá, listen to me. Listen to my voice. It's okay. It's just a song. Come with me, we'll get you out of here…"

It had been about a year since he had heard that song last. Not intentionally, of course, but when a song is that popular people are bound to either sing it aloud or try to play it themselves. One such incident occurred when he was out with Elena for a treat of ice cream, when suddenly he had heard it. A quite lovely rendition on a violin by that scarf-wearing kid with the weird facial hair whose named escaped him. But it was enough to do the trick. Several painful minutes of him hunched low to the ground, pressing the heels of his hands into his ears hard, trying to get his breathing under control. His own granddaughter, seven years old at the time, was forced to take action herself: Swatting that kid with her shoe in order to stop him from playing, then sitting with him silently and comfortingly until the panic had finally passed. They had both lost their ice creams on the ground that day, but the two had grown even closer due to the experience.

But those same feelings were rushing back just like that last time: Nothing had changed. Immediately his heart started hammering and it became hard to breathe, his insides squirmed and clenched painfully and those awful visions flashed in his mind again. As the song continued he didn't see his eldest son frantically trying to get his attention, but his youngest daughter wheezing her last breaths in his arms. Of Ernesto walking away from him to the stage, underneath the bell that would eventually turn him into nothing but a smear. And the blood, so much blood. He could smell it, practically taste it.

He was about to try to block out the sounds like he always did and then curl up in a ball, when he happened to glance at the stage again. Ernesto was there, about to perform with the bell perch precariously over his head. But no, that wasn't Ernesto standing there. It was-

"MIGUEL! NO!"

Breaking Matty's grip on his arms he made a run for the gazebo, pushing and shoving others out of the way. He didn't hear their exclaims of alarm and pain as they were roughly shoved aside or to the ground, nor the cries of his family as they begged him to wait, to come back. No, all he heard was that damned song playing loudly in his head, now a ticking timer to the point where, at the end, his boy would be no more.

Miguel didn't notice his father parting through the crowd at breakneck speed, too busy tugging on the emcee's sleeve to tell him to make those musicians stop playing the song 'That's the song I'm going to play.' But it was too late, and as the band played the last triumphant note he turned back to the crowd with an eye roll and hefted his guitar up to begin to play the song everyone had just heard.

Just in time to see his father diving straight for him.

Imelda reached her oldest children just in time to see Héctor tackle Miguel and send them both flying to the back of the gazebo. The incident was so shocking that aside from a large gasp from the crowd, it became so still and quiet. Quiet enough that everyone was able to hear the sickening crunch once the two of them landed in a crumpled heap.

A flash of terror made it's way down Imelda and her children's spines. "No…" she breathed, and then quickly made her way to the gazebo herself, the others following her.

The song was over, put panic was still surging through Héctor as he got up and immediately started checking over his boy. "Miguel! Are you all right?! Sit up, let me see!" He patted his body up and down, trying to see if there were any injuries, thankfully finding none. But the boy seemed shocked, and frantically he cupped the boys face to look in his eyes. "Did you hit your head? Look at me, mijo-"

"Papá…"

Miguel's eyes were widened with shock, but surprisingly the wind was not knocked out of him nor was he scuffed or marked in any way from the surprise tackle. The guitar in his hands, however, was not so lucky. It had taken the brunt of the assault and protected the boy from harm, but it had not survived. Three of the strings had snapped right off and were coiled in bent angles, the body was completely caved in from the center hole and up, and the neck had broken cleanly in half, now only connect by the remaining strings. His beloved guitar was now destroyed. His father had destroyed it.

"What-? Why?... What have you done?" Miguel whispered as he gripped the broken neck and tried in vain to get it to stick back into the position. "It's ruined…"

Héctor looked down at the broken guitar in his son's hands, taking in the cheap gold paint that had been sloppily painted all over it. The crude designs done in brown, and the headstock. That same mocking skull that looked so much like his own, except for the one personal detail that he had made for his older brother: The thin mustache above perfectly white grinning teeth. His worries and concerns over his son instantly vanished. He was fine. Now what came back was more comfortable, easier for him to handle: Rage.

"Where the hell did you learn to play guitar?!"

Miguel's attention snapped back to his father, and he shrunk back at the ferocious anger meekly. Before he was able to squeak out a pitiful answer, he felt eyes on him. Turning slightly he paled when he saw everyone in the crowd looking at him with morbid curiosity. The whole town had watched as his supposed debut had crumbled to ash, his most prized possession had been reduced to kindling, and his father was now bearing down on him about to start a very public fight.

It was all ruined. It was too much for him, and the poor boy broke.

With a choked-out cry of heartbreak Miguel flung what was left of his guitar away, shot up to his feet and fled from the gazebo. The crowd gave him enough room to make his getaway and he was grateful. He didn't want to be held back, didn't want to be touched by anyone. Especially his family. He heard his Papá angrily yelling at him to come back, his Mamá pleading with him to do so as well. But he couldn't even look at anyone right now.

He just ran and ran, broken sobs escaping as he gasped and panted.

He hated his birthday.

#coco #coco pixar #pixar coco #coco fanfic #Hector Rivera #miguel rivera #mama imelda #mama coco #worst #birthday #EVER

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chokememrstark · 6 years ago

Text

Birthday Surprise // Assistant Verse Thorki

Words: 3,6k

Summary: Thor is confused when he overhears a phone call Loki makes and even more so when he later transfers a call from his bosses mother. After a bit of snooping around, he finds out that it’s actually Loki’s birthday and feels awful for not knowing and for making such an important day bad for his boss. He decides to do something to lift Loki’s mood, which doesn’t go quite as planned.

Warnings: bottom!thor, sub!thor, top!loki, dom!loki, blowjobs, smut, pwp (though actually it has plot this time!), drinking, aging (i guess?)

Notes: This was such a fun thing to write! It’s set in @thequeenoffish ‘s Assistant Verse, which seriously gives me so many thoughts and ideas that I had to write this scene. If you’re in need for some sub!bimbo Thor you have to read this, it’s absolutely beautiful!!

When Thor walks up to Loki’s office he can already see that his boss is on the phone, but he needs to pick up those papers for the new product line the marketing manager asked him to get, so he makes sure to be extra quiet to not disturb him. Loki barely acknowledged Thor’s presence, just nods at the pile of paper on the table, and continues to speak.

“No, Hela, I told you to not call me today, didn’t I? I don’t care about these things, I never did. What? Yes, thank you for reminding me I’m wasting my life. Of course I know. Do me a favor and skip the call next year, okay? Sure, you too.”

Thor doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s inevitable while he sorts through the papers to find what he needs. When he looks up Loki is massaging his temples, eyes closed and visibly annoyed. He knows better than to ask dumb questions, so he just leaves with what he came to get and doesn’t give into his curiosity.

Two hours later though, it’s sparked once more when he gets an unusual call on Loki’s line. He puts the woman on hold, pressing the button on his desk to speak to Loki.

“What now?” Loki groans frustrated and Thor frowns. “I’m busy.”

“Sir, I have a call for you on hold, from your mother?” Thor feels kind of awkward saying this because he knows literally nothing about his bosses family or private life, even more so when the first reaction he gets is another groan. “Do you want to speak to her or should I tell her you are in a meeting?”

“No, don’t do that,” Loki sighs after a few moments. “Put her through. God, this day just gets worse and worse.”

Thor does as he’s told, but he doesn’t know how to feel about it. After merely two minutes Loki rings for Thor to come to his office, which he does immediately of course. Loki sits at his desk just like before, fingers on his temples and even more annoyed than the last time.

“I don’t want any more calls today, Thor,” he says as soon as the door opens and looks up. “Tell them I’m in a meeting, tell them I’m dead, I don’t care. Unless it’s someone from the top management, I don’t want to talk to them.”

“O-of course, sir,” Thor mumbles surprised, but nods anyway. This is rare, Loki never rejects calls like this and he doesn’t remember seeing him so frustrated before either. “I can do that.”

“Good, now get out of here, I’m getting a headache and need silence.”

Thor makes sure Loki is not disturbed by any calls for the next few hours, slightly worrying about the whole situation. It gets even worse when Loki exits his office around four in the afternoon, announcing that he would leave for the rest of the day. Thor jumps up and asks if he wants him to do something, but Loki just waves his hand, saying: “Go home or wherever, I don’t need you anymore today.” He leaves without even so much as a goodbye, which is unusual even at his worst days.

Despite being told to leave, Thor stays for half an hour more. He feels kind of bad for following his nosiness by logging into the company’s personal files, but he needs to know if his assumption about Loki’s mood is right or not. Eventually, he finds the answer he expected, and it all starts making much more sense. It’s Loki’s birthday, his 30th to be precise, and apparently, it doesn’t go at all as he wanted it to go. Thor feels bad when he closes the files again and asks himself if he should do something about it.

Birthdays aren’t something everyone celebrates of course, but he does think this is a rather special one and he doesn’t like that Loki seems to have a miserable day. When he packs his things and makes his way out of the office, he wonders if Loki expected him to know and do something special, which is a thought that sends a cold shiver down his spine.

“Shit.”

He’s Loki’s secretary, he is supposed to know such things! How could he be so careless and not even think about this before? No, this is bad. Thor decides he needs to fix this mistake, even if it will end with Loki yelling at him for being so dumb to forget it in the first place. So, instead of going home, Thor calls a taxi to run some errands in order to make up for his lack of competence.

It’s already starting to get dark when the taxi pulls up in front of Loki’s place and when Thor gets out, he’s immediately greeted with ice cold rain right in his face. He quickly pays the driver and picks his stuff up from the back seat, before hurrying to the door. Ringing the doorbell turns out to be quite difficult, so eventually, Thor has to do it with his nose because his hands are full and he doesn’t want to put anything down into the mud.

Loki groans when the doorbell rings and actually flinches for a moment. Seriously, a visitor? Out of all days, this is surely the worst one to pick. Not only did both his sister and his mother had to call and remind him of his birthday, of course with Hela mocking him and calling him ‘middle-aged’ and ‘slowly running out of time’, he also had to come home just to find a damn gray hair on his head. He didn’t plan to get drunk originally, but this was the last straw. He’s down to his second bottle of wine within one hour and the effect finally starts showing when the doorbell disturbs his peace.

With a low growl, Loki puts down the half-empty bottle and stalks over to the door, ripping it open without even trying to hide his annoyance when he barks: “What?”

Thor didn’t expect such a harsh welcoming and is visibly startled, actually taking a step back. The two look at each other for a few seconds - Loki’s face slowly losing most of his anger and Thor drenched and still being rained on, awkwardly smiling and very uncomfortable.

“Thor?” Loki asks, blinking confused as he lets go of the door handle. “What the hell are you doing here? Did I forget to pay you or what?”

“I… well…” Thor stumbles over his own words, suddenly feeling really dumb for coming here. Loki clearly wants to be left alone, no wonder he’s mad. “I just… thought…”

“For God’s sake, Thor, speak!” Loki snaps and Thor flinches at the harsh tone of his voice.

“I… I got you some cake and wine,” Thor mumbles ashamed, stepping from one foot to the other. “For your birthday, I mean. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll just leave again, but you can still have them if you want to.” He holds out the box and bottle in his hands, avoiding any and all eye contact.

Loki is silent for a full minute, completely baffled by Thor’s explanation. He has no idea why Thor knows about his birthday or why on earth he would think this was a good idea, but he can’t deny that he’s kind of flattered.

Thor eventually steps back, lowering his head because Loki doesn’t react. Not that he blames him, he understands, he just hoped that he might appreciate the gifts at least. He’s about to leave, looking at his feet when Loki suddenly speaks and he stops in his tracks.

“Wait, I can’t let you leave like that. You’ll get ill.”

Thor looks up confused. He totally forgot that he’s soaked from head to toes, but with the way Loki looks at him, he remembers again.

“Come inside, you’re gonna freeze to death out here,” Loki says and takes the cake out of Thor’s hands finally. He turns around, jerking his head to signal Thor to come, and after a moment of contemplating, Thor follows him.

Thor fears he might leave dirty footprints on Loki’s floor and quickly gets out of his shoes before following Loki into the living room. He immediately notices the bottles on the table, no glasses, and wonders if those are all from today, but the way Loki signals him to sit down kind of speaks for itself.

“Take your jacket off though, it’s leather, but it’s sensitive.” Loki turns and leaves the room without anything else, but Thor does as he’s told because the last thing he wants is to ruin Loki’s chair. After sitting down he doesn’t really know what else to do though, so he listens to Loki work in the kitchen and looks around a bit. He has been here before, but never actually inside, only picked up a few things every now and then.

Loki’s apartment is quite big and the interior is simple and clean, but it has something comfy to it at the same time. Thor likes Loki’s taste, which mostly consists of black and white with several gold accents. It suits him somehow, he doesn’t really know why. He’s actually so fascinated by what he sees that he only notices Loki returned when he hears a noise behind him. He turns around and realizes Loki brought plates and forks from the kitchen, as well as two glasses, and for some reason, he blushes slightly at this and shifts in his seat.

“If you come here unannounced, I’m sure you don’t mind staying for some cake and wine, right?” Loki asks and Thor quickly shakes his head.

“O-of course not,” he mumbles.

Loki smirks and opens the wine Thor brought, filling both glasses with it. Thor isn’t used to Loki doing such things - not that they ever had wine together, but usually he is the one who prepares things for his boss, not the other way around - and it makes him slightly nervous when he even cuts the cake and hands him a place with his piece.

As awkward as it is, the cake tastes very good, just like the wine, and while they eat, Thor slowly begins to relax a little again. Loki is obviously tipsy and empties his wine faster than Loki can process before getting a second, but he doesn’t seem to be as annoyed as when Thor arrived anymore. By the time the cake is gone, Loki is slumping on the couch, eyes slightly hooded and lingering on Thor in a way the other can’t quite identify. He tries to ignore it for some time, but it’s impossible to not be affected by it. Not in an uncomfortable way though, which is what confuses him.

Suddenly, Loki smirks and rolls his head to the side. There is something predatory in the way he looks at Thor and it makes the blond’s loins flare up.

“Did you really just come here to bring me cake and wine?” Loki asks, curious and slightly suspicious.

“You looked really angry when you left work, so I thought it might cheer you up a bit,” Thor explains his behavior, which surely comes off strange now that he thinks about it. “That’s all I wanted, really.”

“That’s too bad, really.” Loki shifts to sit more comfortably, spreading his legs a little while watching the other’s face closely. Thor gulps inaudibly, trying to keep his eyes directed at Loki’s face instead of allowing them to wander. “I hoped you had a different reason for your late visit.”

“A… a different one?” Thor mumbles, clearing his throat that suddenly feels dry and tight. “I… I don’t know what other reason I should have. I just… think birthdays should be nice, not sad.”

“They should be, yes,” Loki says slowly, arching his back with a low grunt. “And I know something that would make this birthday a lot better than it started out.”

Thor knows where this is going and he can barely hide the fact that he wants Loki to continue. Something inside of him woke up when Loki looked at him like that as if he is nothing but his prey. He shouldn’t be aroused by this thought, but he is, there’s no arguing about it. When Loki suddenly squints his eyes at him, Thor knows he needs whatever is coming next. It doesn’t matter what it is, but he needs it badly.

At first, Loki just signals Thor to come closer by crooking one of his fingers. Confused, but still curious, Thor follows the gesture until he stands between Loki’s legs. For a moment, his boss simply looks at him like this - tongue slowly licking over his bottom lip and his eyes dark and dangerous. Then, he speaks a single word with a dark, husky voice that breaks all of Thor’s defenses immediately.

“Kneel.”

By God, this one word alone creates a firework in Thor’s head and stomach that makes him obey embarrassingly fast. It almost hurts when he hits the floor, but Thor doesn’t care, not even a bit. He looks up at Loki, cheeks flushing and eyes full of need, and he doesn’t have any words to explain how incredible he feels in this moment. The tightness in his pants that came so suddenly only adds to his internal wildfire that now burns brightly.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you?” Loki asks, bringing a hand up and burying it deep in Thor’s blond locks. Thor can’t hold back a quiet moan at this and leans into his touch, hardly able to keep his eyes open. “Tell me, Thor, how badly did you want to touch me when I had you on your knees the last time?”

“Badly,” Thor gasps, gulping down hard when his eyes brush over the bulge in Loki’s pants. “So badly it hurt.”

Loki tucks on his hair, forcing Thor to look back into his eyes. They are hungry in a way that makes Thor’s head spin. “Show me,” he orders, coaxing another moan from Thor. “Now.”

Thor’s hands are shaking when he brings them up, so much he can barely open Loki’s pants when he tries. He can feel how hard he is under the fabric and he never wanted anything more than he wants this. It takes him almost a minute before he’s able to free Loki’s cock, a sight that makes him gasp and almost drool immediately. He licks his lips when he wraps one of his hands around it, heart stammering in his chest as if he just ran a marathon.

It feels like time has slowed down when Thor closes his eyes and leans forward, licking the drop of precum off the tip of Loki’s cock like the sweetest treat in existence. He can’t help but hum at just how perfect it tastes and when he closes his lips around him, Loki lets out a loud, utterly lustful moan. Thor’s head feels beautifully light, leaving nothing but the feeling of Loki’s perfect cock in his mouth, of his tongue tasting what he longed for for so long and of the intense heat that spreads throughout his whole body.

There is nothing about this that isn’t absolutely sinful and desperate, but Thor doesn’t care. He loves trailing his tongue along the shaft of Loki’s cock, feeling it twitch under his touch and to take him in deeper slowly, just a bit more every time he bobs his head. Not even when he begins to gag Thor stops, no matter than breathing becomes difficult like this. He wants all of him, wants to choke on Loki’s cock until he passes out if he can. It’s everything he imagined it would be and so much more, he just can’t get enough.

Loki does nothing to stop Thor, he is letting him do as he pleases, moaning deeply at his eager. When Thor finally takes him in completely, he lets out a quiet ‘Fuck’ that makes the blond shudder and suck him off hard, almost sending him over the edge immediately. He doesn’t want it to end already, but damn, Thor is incredible with his mouth, he’s making it difficult for Loki to keep it together.

Thor is absolutely lost in sucking Loki off. He gives everything he has, swallows him down to the point tears build up in his eyes before letting go just long enough to take a breath before going down on him again. There is something so intense about this, about the sounds he coaxes from Loki and about the thrill of pushing himself to his limits. He doesn’t even realize when he starts rutting against the floor, searching for friction to relief his painfully hard erection somehow.

Suddenly, Loki’s hand is back on Thor, trying to push him away. Thor can feel Loki’s cock twitch harder and his hips buck, but he doesn’t want to be stopped. He digs his fingers into Loki’s thighs, hollowing his cheeks as he takes him in all the way again, humming in delight when Loki gasps and groans beneath him. There is nothing he doesn’t want and he is determined to go all the way, sucking Loki off as skillfully and hard as he possibly can.

“Fuck, Thor!” Loki moans, nails digging deep into Thor’s shoulder when he finally loses it and cums deep down the blond’s throat. Thor almost cums on the spot himself, the overwhelming salty taste all that exists anymore and causing his loins to tense up so perfectly. He swallows down every last drop, unable to stop milking Loki dry even when tears roll down his cheeks and he can see black dots bloom before his eyes. Only when he is forced to get air he pulls back, head falling against Loki’s thigh and breath hitching and shallow.

Several minutes pass like this, with Thor trying to catch his breath and yet being unable to do it. He lets out a displeased grunt when Loki suddenly moves, followed by a clicking noise and, shortly after, Loki exhaling slowly and leaning back. Thor is still so hard it hurts, but he doesn’t dare to touch himself and in a way, it’s a sweet torture because none of his arousal has disappeared. Eventually, he can bring himself to look up, eyes glossy and lips slightly parted, with nothing but bliss on his face.

Loki’s arms are spread over the back of the couch, his hands holding a glass of wine in one and a gleaming cigarette in the other. He just looks at Thor for a moment before taking a drag. Thor’s eyes are fixated on Loki’s lips, on the way his jaw moves as he inhales, of his throat muscles tensing and relaxing again and even though he is completely against smoking, it’s the hottest thing he has ever seen.

“Get up,” Loki says after blowing out the smoke. He takes a sip from his glass when Thor follows his command, eyes not once leaving his. With a wicked gleam in his eyes, Loki puts the cigarette out by dropping it into the glass and leans forward to out it onto the table. As he does, his face comes so close to Thor’s crotch that his cheek is brushing over his hard on and Thor lets out a cry of agony. He is desperate for release and Loki knows that all too well.

“Sir, please, I…”

“Shh, come here,” Loki hushs Thor when he leans back, pulling him close by his wrist. “You did so well, Thor, you deserve a reward.”

Thor shudders when Loki pulls him down, making him straddle his lap. He can barely hold himself up on his own, his legs trembling too much to support him in any way, but Loki takes care of that by holding him in place. One of Loki’s hands rubs over the bulge in his pants carefully, building up pressure slow enough to be both painful and amazing, and Thor can’t help but drop his head against the other’s shoulder. He forgot how to speak, he forgot how to do anything but moan like a needy bitch.

“Cum, baby,” Loki purrs into Thor’s ear, so close that his lips brush over his skin. “Show me that pretty face of yours when you’re moaning.”

As if he had waited for approval, Thor’s orgasm begins to build up under nothing but Loki’s demanding touch, without more than the friction created by fabric rubbing against his cock. Thor moans; he moans embarrassingly loud while cumming in his pants harder than he ever came before. It feels like forever and it’s just so good, he could pass out if Loki wouldn’t hold him so tightly and breathe down his neck.

“Such a pretty little whore for me,” Loki purrs, coaxing a soft whine from Thor, who leans even more into his touch. There is nothing about Loki’s words that would hurt him, not at all. He wants to be his whore, he wants to be his pet, fuck, he wants to be everything Loki asks him to be. Until now it was nothing but a fantasy, but now Thor knows this is what he craves.

“Only yours…” Thor whispers, almost too quiet for Loki to hear him. He does though and brushes a hand through the blond’s hair gently.

“That’s right, you are,” he murmurs, brushing his cheek against Thor’s slowly. “You’re mine.”

#thorki #thunderfrost #dom/sub elements #bottom!thor #top!loki #myfics #gift for kat #sub!thor #bottom thor office au #smut

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wrennytenten-blog · 6 years ago

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UnNamed WIP

Chapter 6 Section (Unedited)

“If we're going to stop, I'm getting something to drink,” Gareth sighed. Swiping the tail of her coat aside, she pulled a leg over the saddle. She came down too fast, bowing her head with a huff and freezing in place. Bryn grimaced, all too familiar with the jolting pain of broken ribs. Gareth still had healing to do, and dealing with Bankol hadn't helped.

Ruvyn eyed her from atop the saddle, every bit a noble first born with his lifted chin and skewed lips. He didn't like Gareth, disgusted in the least, wanting down but above asking for her help.

“I'll get the kids,” Bryn spoke up. Too much weight on her ribs would only cause more damage anyway.

“Should be able to get off on his own,” Gareth passed him a glare as she left.

“She's rude,” Maylin announced, eyeing the ground as Bryn set her down.

“Maybe its where she's from. Lots of different cultures in Eporis. It might seem rude to us but it's common elsewhere.” She helped Ruvyn get down, ushering them both to the tavern stairs.

It was signature of a small town. Empty, quiet, and filthy. There was mud caked on everything three feet off the ground or less, including the stairs. Ruvyn walked on tip toes, making a disgusted noise as he pressed the door open. Inside it was warm and well lit, oil lamps dangling from rafters with a wide fire pit at the back end of the room. Filled with the smells of broiled meat and spilt alcohol, it was far better than the dampness outside.

Few people were at the tables. All were busy in their cups with only a few of them actually eating. Gareth sat herself along the far wall at one of the longer, log tables. No one else was on that side of the room, seeming a perfect place for her. Bryn sat beside her, not wanting her or the kids picking a fight with one another. Gareth slouched on the table, one arm hooked about her middle, head faintly turning as she scanned the tavern.

It didn't take long for a barmaid to come over. Everyone noticed them come in with the place practically vacant. She was short, stocky, with long brown hair tied low on her neck. She started to say something but stopped as soon as she saw the kids. “Well, it isn't too often we get little ones. Such sweet faces,” she paused, glancing to Gareth. Hesitating she moved on to Bryn, “are you mom?”

“Not exact—”

“Careful,” Gareth interrupted, light in tone, “she gets touchy about her age. Just hit a big marker and she's liable of depressed bouts at the mention.” She lifted her head, smiling out from under her hood.

“Oh dear,” the barmaid placed a tender hand on Bryn's shoulder, “there's nothing wrong with that. You've done well for your age. I don't even have a husband yet and I'm twenty.”

“Don't rush it.” Gareth sat up, “It's not all it's hyped up to be.” The barmaid sighed, took one look at the kids, and her smile went south.

“I do need to warn you. This table is usually for other patrons. They're particular in where they sit.”

“They'll be alright,” Gareth waved it away. “We're already comfortable.”

“Alright, if you insist,” her uneasy air made Bryn nervous. “Well, what can I get for you all?'

“Dark for me,” Gareth looked down the table, “two milks for the brats, and…?” she waved at Bryn.

“Do you have any coffee?” Bryn smiled hopefully.

“I can start you some.” She winked and turned away.

“Coffee?” Gareth scowled, “by the time we leave here, we'll have to find somewhere to set up camp. We're about to bed down and you want coffee?”

“That's why I need it.”

“What is coffee?” Maylin asked. She stood on the seat, hand on Bryn's shoulder as she watched the fireplace.

“It's like tea, but strong and bitter,” she sat back as Maylin reached across her, boldly tapping Gareth's arm.

“Why do you drink so much?”

“So I don't have to try so hard to ignore you,” she answered without missing a beat. “Sit down before you manage to hurt yourself.”

“Our father made a mistake,” Ruvyn muttered.

“You bet he did.”

“He would never choose someone like you to take care of us.” Gareth slammed her hands on the table, leaning over to glare at him.

“That's just it –he didn't choose us to take care of you. Do you know what taking care of people means in my line of work?”

“Alright,” Bryn hissed, holding a hand up between them, “let's start over.”

“I want to go home,” Maylin whined.

“It's okay, hey, don't worry.” Bryn cooed, petting her hair, “We're going to go see your mom. That's nice, right?”

“I don't know her,” she started to cry, soft sniffles into her hands.

“Great,” Gareth mumbled.

“You caused this. Could you be a little bit nicer?” She only rolled her eyes.

“Oh no! No worries,” the barmaid was back, setting glasses down. She gave Maylin hers first, “there you are dear. Don't cry. Are you hungry?”

“And a little tired,” Bryn chuckled. “We're going to get the stew.” she pointed over to the board by the door. It listed the special of the day, and meat and vegetable stew. The barmaid glanced to Gareth, Bryn already able to feel her glare.

“Sure. I'll have that right out.” She reached out, patting Maylin's head and hurried off to the kitchen.

“So, let's all start over, because we've got a long way to go and we don't need it to be any more difficult than it already is.” She looked to the kids and then to Gareth, “Okay? I'll go first. My name is Bryn, from Calvalio. I'm a soldier, a King's Blade.”

“What is that?” Ruvyn was leaned over, curious, “A King's Blade?”

“Like a knight, a personal guard for the King of Calvalio.”

“You're an Independent? Do you not like the Empire?”

“Never lived there,” she shrugged. When Gareth didn't say anything Bryn nudged her.

“What do you want me to say here?” She waved towards another table of people. She huffed as Bryn continued to stare, and then leaned closer to whisper. “People pay me money to kill other people.” And then sat back. Maylin gave another whine into her glass. “Great idea.”

“Here you are! Nice and warm.” the barmaid sat a bowl in front of Maylin and Ruvyn. “I'll bring the others, one moment.” Maylin settled into taking up her spoon, sniffling over her bowl as she stirred at it. Her brother shot Gareth a glare before starting to eat.

“Maybe start telling people you do other things for a living,” Bryn turned to face Gareth, voice low. “You know, for say's sake.”

“You want me to lie? It that right, Blade? You're telling me to lie to the children.” She was having fun, angry and uncomfortable. “I thought you were supposed to be all good morals. Righteous and all that.”

“Look, I don't know how you grew up—”

“Pretty well, actually.”

“Alright, so they're children. Can you tone it down for them? They've been thrown out of their home, hidden from their family, sent across the country. They're young. Can you cut them some slack?”

“Fine,” she huffed, looking up as the barmaid returned again. The stew looked delicious, thick, brown broth with slices of potato, onion, carrot, and some strange yellow chunks. It smelt savory, broiled, making her stomach growl in anticipation. Gareth took more interest in her mug of dark ale, letting her food cool.

“So,” Bryn continued to whisper, “when you said you work to protect those who can't protect themselves, who did you mean?”

“Who I said.”

“Like…? Do you have an example?” Gareth lowered her mug, thinking on it as she wiped her mouth.

“I once had a mother hire me to kill her husband. A poor couple. Cobblers, I think.”

“And you just killed him? Just took her word and shoved a blade in his back?” Gareth paused from her next sip, eyes set across the tavern.

“You know, I did. Cut him to pieces and had him fed to a pig farm –thought it was fitting.”

“Just because she said he was a bad husband?”

Gareth set the mug back down with a clatter. She turned to look at Bryn with a precise turn of the head, their eyes meeting. Unblinking, she leaned in close, holding there for a moment. “I made him disappear because I saw their twelve year old daughter he had been raping.” Bryn couldn't move, feeling foolish as a cold sickness rose in her gut. Gareth drew back, taking a swig. “Who's going to believe the poor wife of a man who runs his own business?”

“You did.”

“Because I saw evidence. I always need evidence because I have standards. Usually its nobility, stewards, sheriffs, people with power who can get away with anything. Murder, rape, child marriages. Anything, unless they're dead. That's where I come in.”

“Like a vigilante,” Bryn whispered. Gareth was like tales she heard as a child. Shadow warriors who punished the bad, agents of the afterlife goddess, Itris.

“Vigilantes work for free or the goodness of their hearts. That, I don't do.” Her face sharpened, lowering her mug from another sip to squint at the door. A group of men entered. Dirty, armed, and slouching, they piled in from the matching village outside. Stomping boots and growling mumbles, they all looked over at their table, stopping short. The barmaid watched from the other side of the room, hands pressed to her mouth as everyone else looked on.

People turned away, stiff and jumping at any small noise. Eyes remained in their plates as if trying to stay out of the way. The leader of the group, a pale, gangly man, stared at them. He wore only slacks and tanned boots that were tied up by leather straps. He looked like someone who had just crawled out of the wilderness. Wiping a hand across his bearded mouth, he strode towards their table.

Gareth pulled a dagger from her belt, keeping it in her lap.

“Uh-uh,” Bryn grunted. She kept eye contact with the man, smiling as he stood across from them. “Evening.”

He grinned in return, “evening.” he was gruff in speech, smelling damp and sweaty. Glancing between them he chuckled, “Not from here, I take it.”

“Not really.”

“Good,” he turned to Gareth, locking stares. They reminded her of wild dogs, ready to pounce with hair hackled and teeth bare. “Otherwise, I'd kill the lot of you for sitting at our table.”

“A shame that is,” Gareth took a drink.

“You shouldn't speak to us like that,” Maylin boldly pointed her spoon at him. Ruvyn clamped a hand over her mouth, pulling her hand down. The man turned to look at them, brows falling over his sunken eyes. Maylin tried saying something else, garbled in her brother's hands.

“You the local badger?” Gareth asked with a refreshed hiss from her drink. She sat the mug down as gently as a lady arranging her tea cup in its saucer, leaning back in her seat and looking up at him. “I didn't see no mark on the door.”

“We can move,” Bryn offered.

“No, we won't,” Gareth growled. “These boys can get over their favorite spot. They should know their manners. Haven't you ever heard of ladies first?”

He swiped for the table, never reaching her mug as Gareth sprung up, dagger at his throat. She had another knife stripped, ready to throw. “Easy there, Cad. There's children, don't want them to see you bleed all over dinner. Right gents?” She called to the others. Bryn had a hand on her sword, other arm stretched across the kids. The air was thick, no one moving as Gareth kept her knives ready.

“Maybe we can talk this over,” Bryn said with care. As slow as she could, she got to her feet, giving view of her sword and blocking the kids. “No need in getting violent over a few seats. There's plenty of other tables. Besides, my friend here is a bit hasty. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty. But I don't want anyone to get hurt. We just want to eat our dinner and leave.”

Not even the staff made a sound.

“Easy enough for an outside to make this mistake. Maybe we can share.” She was partly speaking to Gareth as well. No one seemed ready to back down, too tense to move.

“I know who she is,” one of the gang members piped up. “The one in the hood –I recognize her now. She's the Silver Fox of Mazame, Queen of Cull and Crash.” Bryn stared at him, certain he was speaking actual words. She knew them, just not the order of them. It sounded like another language.

“You've got me mistaken for someone else,” Gareth answered, slow with a warning bite. “I'm too small for any mill or crash. A thimble like me is into baz and prigging at most.” Bryn glanced over at her, fumbling to make sense of their ramble.

“Priggin' here? In our territory?” Another, bald member pressed. He dared a step closer and Bryn thumbed her blade from its sheath just enough to get it to scrape. They all froze like deer.

“Surely, gentlemen, there's a misunderstanding,” She matched Gareth's cold tone, “she's working with me, on an errand.”

“And just what are you up to now?”

“Having dinner,” Gareth snarled.

“She's right. Having a bit to eat between jobs. We've ben hired for different work. I assure you, neither of us have been taking part in, er, cull and crash.” With a slow tilt of the head, Gareth glared at her.

“Who you pulling for?” The leader asked.

“Grand Prince—”

“The Grand Prince of Buckles, the Son of Fog, the Jack of Crows,” Gareth announced with dangerous strength in her voice. “I may be just a prigger, but anything happens to us, and you'll have the Son of Shadows and Queen of Cull herself at your doorstep.” She let the blade bite into the man's neck, just enough to draw blood. “Your next move is going to depend on how long you want to live.”

#UnNamed WIP #Bryn Amaury #Gareth Fawkes #Bryn & Gareth #Maylin of Malvor #Ruvyn of Malvor #Fantasy Writing #My Writing #My Wip #Excerpts from My Writing

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kinetic-elaboration · 6 years ago

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August 9: The 100 2x01, The 48

Okay, settling down to rewatch 2x01, the start of my favorite season...

I love this Clarke so much. Badass Clarke, sneaky Clarke, a Clarke who will fearlessly do what she has to in order to escape and to get to her friends. A Clarke with convictions and guts.

How DO they know everyone’s names lol? Is that ever explained? (ETA: Monty was obviously the informant.)

Mount Weather is one of my favorite parts of this show, honestly. I love that their mission is in part to preserve the beautiful things humanity created, like art; they gave their prisoner Starry Night. The ORIGINAL Starry Night. I just find that very moving. All of these non-essential parts of being human... the show has abandoned them and that’s part of why it’s so hollow for me now, I think.

Level 5: where it all begins and it all ends.

The Clarke/Maya relationship could have been so much more, tbh. Like they had their good moments, like threatening to kill each other etc., but they could have gone deeper.

Surprise! Underground executive branch family dinner! This is the sort of twist I can get behind.

Haha remember when actual delinquents still existed? I joke but truly the later canon has ruined parts of this show for me.

I forgot Tristan survived into 2x01. Not for long. Such Grounder hypocrisy: “That’s one. I lost 300.” He makes it sound as if Finn marched into a village and killed 300 people--they were fucking soldiers on the attack you dum-dum.

“Only our warriors speaking English.” Well that sounds like bullshit based on literally everything we see after this point.

The statue of Lincoln is “the place we go to settle disputes.” First, please don’t say they settle disputes to the death or some nonsense, and second, that’s his namesake... Significant? I mean, objectively, no, but can I make something out of it somehow?

I disliked Luna but she COULD have been so interesting and she and Lincoln COULD have had quite a dynamic. I headcanon them as exes. I want to know their whole backstory tbh. When they met. How. If he wanted to go with her to the sea. If he did perhaps and then came back.

Drink every time someone cauterizes a wound.

You know what else they should have done? Story line about the meeting of Grounder and Sky People medicine. Oh wait that would have taken away from the repetitive war story lines never mind.

That dropship is so fucking impressive. WHERE ARE THE AWARDS FOR THE SET PEOPLE?

And the costume people for those awesome masks.

Am I supposed to feel bad for this Grounder and his charred friend? I do not. Next time, don’t attack the children for no reason and you won’t get burned to a crisp. Easy.

The thing is I can never get behind the Raven + Murphy friendship 100% even though their S5 dynamic looked interesting because he literally fucking shot her and that’s just not a bygones are bygones thing. But they do have personalities that mesh well together so in that way it’s sort of a shame. Also he 10000000000000% had a crush on her don’t even try to argue.

She fired that gun at him. I forgot that. She fired but was out of bullets, that’s the only reason he didn’t die right there. “Yeah I would have shot me too.”

I’m p. sure that’s the real Mount Weather?

I know the Mount Weather people have no leg to stand on when it comes to the Grounders and that they’re...pretty obviously racist, but in their defense--the Grounders were written to be pretty savage, so “savages,” while unforgivably racially tinged, is a fair descriptor of them.

I know I’ve harped on this before but Mount Weather has a judicial system of some sort and it’s possible to press charges there. Somehow. The world building on this show sucks balls.

“They also said you were their leader” is like some retconning, okay. Because you will not convince me that for most of S1 BELLAMY wasn’t the leader in the eyes of the delinquents.

“Kiddo.”

Fucking love Dante. Where are my Dante + Clarke mentor/mentee or ex-mentor/mentee or different-gen-rivals fics?

“We prioritize safety over sentimentality.” As Maya takes blood she absolutely doesn’t need but is having just in case and that she knows comes from someone else’s tortured body because she’s accepted this as something they do, because she’s not sentimental. But she already feels guilty.

Clarke is already using the word “capture.” I had a discussion with someone once about Clarke’s vision of Mount Weather versus, say, Jasper’s, and why it was different and I said some poorly phrased stuff that didn’t really reflect my thoughts and opinions and it still haunts me but I feel like this is...relevant to that. How she immediately feels ‘captured,’ trapped.

Clarke’s devotion to her friends and her people was still so pure and right here.

Dante really does believe he “saved” them. I wonder what his thought process was... I really hate the “savages” so I must save these children? These children look interesting, let’s meet some new friends? She’s right of course that if they were really guests, they could leave.

Multiple crash sites over 100 square miles = I should go on google maps to confirm my Pennsylvania/Farm Station theory but I’m too lazy.

GOD THOSE CLOTHES. I love that Clarke picks the pants and the high heel shiv.

There’s no way there’s actually time for natural selection to work that fast in 97 years and also I’m pretty sure the Sky People are genetically modified because their original pool was way too small for the process Dante is describing but whatever this show is all la-di-da science.

Also: this is how you run an underground Bunker OCTAVIA.

Dante was the only rival/antagonist/whatever Clarke has ever had that rivals her instincts and intelligence yeah I said it; fight me. I know she needed to be on the outside for this season to work but he should have been her mentor. He basically set her up to be mentored and then she ran off and into L who basically destroyed her and she’s never recovered.

THAT REUNION. Heartwarming. Though hard to watch too because this show did both Jasper and Monty so dirty. (Yeah I said that too WHAT OF IT.)

“Dying. Same as you.” Murphy gets all the good lines. That’s why people like him, forget this “redemption arc.”

The Grounder Raven killed was Murphy’s guard and honestly--hilarious. He abandons his post, realizes all his friends are skeletons, pickpockets one, then is shot by what he must initially assume is a dead body. Better character than almost anyone introduced from S3 on.

This cake scene is the most iconic. Jonty were scene stealers stfu. They’re children--basically. They get to act their age. They get to be happy and silly and they loved each other so much.

“Pretend like you’re happy to see me.” / “We are happy to see you.” See? Adorable. I know he’s no cinnamon roll but gosh, adorable.

And then Clarke comes in like secret espionage time and they just look so Tired TM.

I feel like Monty knew, or suspected on some level, that Jasper wasn’t just ‘bummed out’ by Clarke’s suspicions, he was panicking a little.

I can’t believe Jasper and Maya have known each other for like 10 seconds and she’s already seen his O face.

“Clarke’s the only reason we survived.” Um ex-CUSE me but I know you didn’t forget Bellamy’s existence, Jasper.

Clarke’s so smart!

Maya brings out the big guns, literally.

“I’m the one who fired the rockets. Should I not have done that?” is so heartbreaking. Mostly because of the delivery. I love this entire scene. There are like 8 different scenes I love in this episode, like whole-heartedly and truly love.

Clarke’s suspicions really do look like paranoia. Like I see what she’s picking up on, saw it even the first time I watched this ep, but there’s a sense in which she does appear irrational.

There’s actually something kinda funny about Bellamy running out with a spear in one scene, looking around blankly, and then getting chained up as a prisoner in the next scene. At least he inspired his little protege Monroe. Scenes like this are the reason she joined Pike in S3.

Tristan’s like “Who are these fucking children running at me and screaming?” Then he gets shot in the head. Goodbye Tristan you won’t be missed.

“We’re here now. Everything’s going to be okay.” This sounds like Kane playing out a hero fantasy he’s had since he was a child. Except he’s talking to two mud-stained kids who are looking at him skeptically instead of, like, a captured heroine or something.

I feel like they set up this conflict where the adults/Sky People elite come in and, like Kane says explicitly, assume they’re in charge and everyone will fall in line, but then the delinquents don’t see it that way or want that: they have their own priorities (their friends) and their own relationships (Finn and Bell don’t even LIKE each other but they’re still communicating by look) and their own knowledge (the pipes that allow them to move through the dropship camp quickly and without permission). But then... it sort of plays into the rest of the season...but not that much?? Not as much as I would like.

“You are not animals. There are rules. Laws. You are not in control here anymore.”

This show sacrificed a lot of complex relationships to just either make people buddy-buddy who had no reason to be or just arbitrarily assign relationships to scenes or episodes without regard for continuity at all.

Raven took Jasper’s goggles.... never over this.

How was bringing Octavia to TonDC faster than collecting some beetles for her to eat?

“Loss, pain, regret. Time eases these things.” I’d say this is the sort of line the show should be repeating but God when it gets a line in its teeth it never lets the fuck go so I guess it’s better this one remains pristine.

I find Dante very sympathetic but also so creepy.

They weren’t really patrolling for other people, were they? Because like...surely they would have found them. They’re at the dropship and close by. He was just bullshitting here. But why don’t they want to make even more new friends?

Dante’s stationery is presidential themed lol. Glad we stocked up the bunkers properly with the important stuff.

The crashed Alpha Station is beautiful. I believe this was the first time it was shown on the show? Ugh, this whole sequence with the music, it’s perfect and so touching.

Jaha is the most tragic and heartbreaking figure on this show. He also doesn’t get the appreciation he deserves. Just...the image of a man alone in space, talking to his loved ones, hoping they can hear them, not knowing if they can... I almost can’t handle it. I used to be very unsure if I liked where his story line went after this (seeing it in its entirety, I defend it) but surely he could not have died this way.

....I really gotta sleep now.

#the year 2018 #2018: fandom thoughts #2018: the 100 s2

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geminimoonbeamx · 7 years ago

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Sweet Tooth: Part Three

A/N: I’m a little addicted to writing this and while I have the time to update frequently, I will. Don’t get too used to it though, my sweet babies. I’m about to be really busy coming up here soon. Oh and I forgot to mention this last time, but I actually got the name of Lance’s sister from a fic I read a while ago! Brooklyn just fits so perfectly, I feel like it should be cannon! So kudos to that author because I now think of Brooklyn Tucker as a real character lol.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: All the cursing and Yonce listening in this one.

Summary: Lance Tucker has come back to his hometown with his ego bruised and his look on life more tainted then ever. When he runs into Y/N; a vibrant plus size woman he went to high school with at her bakery ‘Cake Faced’, he leaves the shop with the taste of sugar on his lips and a hunger that has nothing to do with the cupcakes.

💘💘💘💘

You wake up the next morning, still fuming.

A bottle of wine, six hours of sleep and a scalding hot shower later and you still feel like you could swing on that mother Tucker.

You try to push it our of your mind as you brew a pot of coffee and prepare for work but you just cant. You cant stop the thoughts that are sharp and assaultive.

How dare he?

Who did he think he was?

Who the hell did he think you we’re?

Some sad pathetic fat girl, an easy fuck? That he could ask you, rudely, to drink with him and you would just accept because, what? He was the only man who ever made any advances, and you should take his pity attention. You audibly scoff as you slide into a pair of pointed toe loafers and shrug into your camel coat, flicking your hair out of the collar as you do, assessing your appearance in the mirror by the front door mindlessly.

Yeah, you weren’t a supermodel. Yeah, you we’re over weight. But you actually liked your self, something that had come with years on years of hard work. You liked your fat ass and your curvy waist. You liked the way your eyes looked when you lined them with sharp eyeliner and the way your hair tumbled after you doused it in smoothing oil.

You stomp down your porch steps, irately slamming the door of your jeep after you get in. As you make the drive to the shop, you have to remind yourself that life is short. And you’re not going to let an asshole like Lance ruin you entire day. Because yeah, you liked all of those physical aspects of yourself, but what you liked most about your life; is that you had worked damn fucking hard. You owned your own business. You we’re your own boss.

Boss ass bitch.

So you crank up your Beyoncé playlist and let Queen Bey serenade your morning drive. By the time you get to work, belting out the lyrics of ‘Flawless’ you feel better, and you unlock the store and start morning prep- the stones in your stomach all but gone.

“You look good today Mrs. Thang” Shane, whose opening with you comments as he enters and you just hum and lick a bit of frosting from your knuckle.

“Why thank you, kind sir. You’re looking good today, too. I like the new hair” gone was the beach blond and in was a pretty lavender shade that highlighted his cheekbones. It was almost sad to think that it probably wouldn’t last long. Shane went through hair colors faster then the then the changing seasons, never keeping the same tone for more then a month at a time.

You loved it. Encouraged it. Because you weren’t one of those cunt-y bosses. Yeah, you had rules but mostly they we’re enforced with friendship and mutual respect. Not fearmongering and superiority.

You think that’s why most of your employee’s had worked for you for so long. A couple, like Shane, had been with you from the very start.

“Really, it was an accident” Shane shrugs, running a hand through the fluffy purple locks as he does the chores, straightens and preps before flipping the open sign over just as Ashleigh, one of your girls runs in- whimpering “sorry’s” as she hurriedly grabs her apron from the back and clocks in. You make her explain it to you, obviously, why she was a half an hour late and she goes into a frantic story about having to drop off a sister somewhere.

“Ash, it’s okay” You place your hands on her shoulders, placatingly “Just give me a call next time”

Your firm, and warm at the same time. She wasn’t known for being a flake, and everyone deserved a break sometimes. You weren’t going to bust her balls for her first offence. She looks so grateful it’s almost comical.

“Thank you, I love you, thank you”

“Bitch, go set up the display up front. I’ve done everything else this morning” Shane snaps playfully at her and you chuckle, clucking about language(even though you had the WORST mouth) before going to check on your cinnamon rolls.

It was going to be a good day, you encourage yourself…

And it was.

Even through the intensely busy hours that came with breakfast and lunch, your shop frequented at least thirty-forty people at any given moment at those times. But you couldn’t complain, how could you? Your business was booming. So you were on your feet all day. Boo hoo, the price of success was never promised to be cheap. Luckily you have a near full staff today so you can focus on things behind the counter.

Which def isn’t as much fun. You’d rather be baking, or working the register, but the books aren’t going to balance themselves and you have some business calls to get done. You also may or may not text Courtney and bitch about the night befores endeavors.

-I told you, he’s total piece of shit. Fucking dick-

She messages you about Lance and your nose crinkled. Yeah, he was. Which is sad, because you hadn’t always believed that.

“Hey, Y/N” Your head rises to look at one of your girls, she’s peeking her head into your office “There’s a problem with the corner mixer again”

You sigh through your nose, you’d just had maintenance in a couple weeks ago “Okay, I’ll be right out”

Still, you think, it had been a decent day.

Even when you get splattered with batter as you help fix the mixer. You agree to take Shane’s place at the front counter because he’s better at tinkering with the machine then you are and your only there for what seems like five minutes when your heart drops into the pit of your stomach. There’s a tall head of dark hair, and broad shoulders that have just walked in.

And bright blue eyes that meet yours.

You feel a flash of heat spread through your body and you probably would have told him to get the hell out- but of course Lance Tucker never played fair.

At his sides are two young girls, who you know are his nieces because you’d seen Brooklyn around with her kids before.

You meet his stare, determined not to back down. Your eyes are scowling harshly at him as he approaches you, and really, you wished you hadn’t left your office.

As much as you dislike Lance in that moment, those girls didn’t do anything to you and their giggling excitedly as they get up to the glass, looking at the extensive display of sweets with eyes bigger then their stomach’s.

“Hi” You grin at them, genuinely. Brooklyn Tucker really had reproduce well because her two daughters are gorgeous, some of the prettiest children you’ve ever laid eyes on. The younger one even has those hypnotic baby blues you figured must run in their family line.

They both chime their hello’s at you, the older girl holding the youngers hand in a way that makes you ache- missing your own sister dearly at that moment in time.

“Hi” That’s from Lance, but you don’t even acknowledge him.

“Do you guys see anything you like? Just point out anything you want to taste, okay?”

Both girls press even closer to the glass at that, their foreheads all but plastered to it. The little one seems to be having trouble though, she’s on the very tips of her toes and she’s still not quite tall enough to see all of her options. Lance doesn’t warn her, he just scoops her up in his arms and she squeals as he lean’s her down haphazardly so she can get a peek at all of the pastries.

“Thanks, Uncle Lance”

Your eyes meet his, just for a moment before you quickly divert them again.

So he did one cute(ass motherfucking) thing?

That didn’t pardon last night’s…and all the nights before that’s sin’s.

“I never know what to get when we come in here there’s just soooo many options. I’m going to have a mental break” The older girl blabbers and you chuckle. How old was she? Ten? Oh, sweet child, you want to tell her. You don’t know anything about mental breaks yet.

“Why don’t you ask, Y/N. She really knows her stuff” Lance chances a peek at you, but your still refusing to look at him.

“Really? Please halp me” The young girl balks and you laugh out loud.

“Okay, kiddo. what do you like? Are you into fruity flavors or are you more of a chocolate girl?” you start the process of helping her choose, one you’re well acquainted with.

“Give me all of the chocolate”

“A girl after my own heart, I like you” You smile as you start collecting samples for her to try.

The Mud Slide, the Dirty Old Man, and finally the Cookie Monster.

You knew she’d like that one, it was a hit with kids.

“What about you, sweet pea?” You ask the little one in Lances arms.

“Well I was thinking I would just take another one of those one’s I got last time” Lance answers you cockily, with a playful glint in his eyes.

“I wasn’t talking to you” you say at the same time that his older niece says “She was talking to Lula!”

Lance’s gives her a pointed look “Don’t team up on me now. You’re supposed to be on my side”

Again, ignoring him you ask “Lula, do you see anything you want to try”

You can tell she’s quieter- maybe not as bold as the other Tucker’s in the shop and you don’t want her to feel left out. When she points to the Strawberry Crunch Bar you smile and give her the little tester spoonful, your eye brows wiggling friskily at her. She giggles and tells you that, that’s the one she wants.

“Well I’ll try it too then” Lance decides and you hand him a tester, not nearly as nicely. He wraps his lips around it, his eyes glued to yours and smiles.

Fuck.

Why is his smile still so gorgeous?

“Mmm- it’s okay”

You glare at him and he chuckles and holds his hand that’s not occupied by holding the child up “I’m kidding, jeeze”

“Will that be all for you guys?” you’re not trying to rush them- but you really are. He was already getting on your nerves.

Lance wants to sigh, and reach over the counter and shake you because obviously he was throwing up a white flag, couldn’t you give him a break? He’d spent the entire morning, with a gnarly head ache(because he, in fact, had finished that case of beer) and an itch he couldn’t scratch. An annoying one that had led him back to this shop. Luckily, he was babysitting the girls while Brooke was at work so he knew you wouldn’t turn him away.

But that didn’t stop you from being really damn difficult.

“No, actually. It wont. Le'mme try that one” He points to a swirling green cupcake with chocolate sprinkles. And then five more after that. It get’s a little ridiculous because you can tell he’s not even really into it. He’s just doing it to annoy you.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” You ask tensely after his sixth taster, your really trying to be professional but he’s really getting under your skin.

“I don’t know you tell me”

You huff at his answer. Why was he tormenting you?

“Uncle Lance I want to eat my cupcake!” The older girl pulls on his arm, hurrying him.

“And you can, when my friend here tells me that she’ll join us”

Has he lost his damn mind?

“I’m working” you instantly snap.

“Well isn’t one of the perks of being your own boss being able to take breaks when you want to?” Lance pushes “Just a quick one, we’ll eat in the store”

“No”

“Come on”

“Please miss- it’ll be really fast I promise” The older girl begs and you could hit him for doing this to you. The store was quiet enough that you couldn’t use that for an excuse…and really, you owned the place. You had no superior to look out for.

“Fine. But I cant hang out for long, It’s almost four, it’ll start to pick up again” You bend with a sigh as you ring them up and Lance stands a little straighter. The shit eating look on his face makes you want to puke. You sit at one of the tables with them and watch with fond amusement as the girls begin feasting on their cupcakes animatedly.

You learn that while Lula isn’t much of a talker, her older sister Zoey is. The girl, who tells you that she’s nine and a quarter, is maybe the most talkative child you’ve ever met. You cant even really absorb all that she’s giving you.

“Jesus, Zo. Give the woman a chance to breathe” Lance teases her, wiping a stray bit of frosting away from her cheek with his thumb.

“You don’t mind, do you Y/N?” Zoey asks around a bite “We’re friends now”

You smile widely at that but very seriously tell her “Of course we are”

“See?” Zoey shoots at Lance “You’re just mad because she’s my friend and not yours”

Lance covers his grimace with a smirk as he looks down. The kid’s not wrong.

“Maybe your on to something”

“Don’t be weird” Zoey alerts at the sound of his gruff voice “We can all be friends, right?”

She looks at you with a child like innocence that renders you speechless for a moment, grasping for the right words.

This was so unfair,

“I don’t make friend with boy’s. Their gross” Lula is a godsend you decide as she breaks the silence with her comment.

“Live your entire life by those words” You advise the younger girl and Lance chortles.

“That’s a little sexist” Zoey is something else. The girl spoke like she was far older then her nine years.

“I promise that when you get to be my age you’ll understand”

She just goes back to her cupcake and idle chatter after you tell her that.

“What if the boy really wanted to be your friend?” Lance asks lowly as his nieces debate something between themselves, not paying attention to the two of you.

He’s leaning into you a little bit, his shoulder is nearly touching yours and his knee brushes your thigh.

You knew what he was doing. And you weren’t amused in the least.

“I don’t think the boy knows what friendship is”

“C'mon Y/N. Don’t be like that”

You snap your eyes in his direction warningly.

“I’m not being like anything. Like I told you last night-”

“You don’t give a shit about me. Yeah, I remember”

You chew on his words, they taste sharp and bitter and ugly.

“I didn’t mean it like that” your voice is softer, softer then you’d meant it to be.

“Then be my friend”

The way friend rolls off his tongue is suggestive and almost sinful and even though you refuse to look at him, his eyes bore into the side of your face and you attempt not to squirm in your seat. Hating that he was getting this kind of reaction out of you.

“Y/N!” Saved, once again by the bell. Or fate. Or Shane. You scoot out the chair to stand instantly, extremely relieved to have an out.

“It was really nice to meet you guys, I hope you liked your cupcakes” You bid fare well to the girls.

“It was nice meeting you too. We’re friends now, so I’ll be back” Zoey informs you, matter of factly and you bite a laugh.

“I’ll be waiting” you salute her as you prepare to leave.

Your not expecting Lance to be so…bold. Which is stupid. Because bold is pretty much who he is. He reaches out to block your path with his long, toned arm and your thighs bump into it.

You look down at him, irate.

“Thank you” He looks up at you, that insanely pretty jaw tensing and his eyes literally cutting holes into you.

You shake your head, trying to banish the feeling.

Really, it just looks like your shaking your head at him being a total ass hat.

“Your welcome” You mutter, but his arm doesn’t drop. He’s still caging you in, in a way that’s making your chest flutter uncomfortably. It’s like he can sense it, because he grins and his voice comes out smooth as butter.

“It really was delicious”

Was he fucking with you?

He had to be fucking with you.

“Yup. It’s my job, now move” if the children weren’t there you would have been a little more…colorful, but the way you say move is enough for his arm to retreat.

He cant decide whether he wants to smile, or glare. Whether you’re actually annoying him by being so stubborn or turning him on. As he watches your hips sway he thinks it might be the latter.

“I like her” Lula announces, as she licks at the cupcake wrapper for any remaints of icing and Lance’s mouth twitches as you toss your head back and laugh at something someone said to you. He did too. He thinks he always had.

Part Four

——————–

@huntressxtimelady @i-had-a-life-once @zombiewerewolfqueen @spookyscaryscully @adyseesbeauty @geekyweed @peacefulwriter88 @pegasusdragontiger @yslbucky @iamwarrenspeace @maximum-effort-minimum-life @booklover2929 @ultrafangirl000 @sophiealiice

Okay, what did we think about this one? I know their relationship is slow burning and for all intents and purposes Y/N still isn’t his biggest fan but isn’t that realistic? Lol he’s sooooo full of shit and I think the woman that finally caught Lance Tucker would def know that. Please leave me some comments, some feedback about what you think. Even if it’s constructive criticism. I really like this story and I want to know if you guys do too!😭💛

#lance tucker #lance tucker x reader #lance tuckerxreader #Lance Tucker smut #the bronze #bucky barnes x plus size reader #plus size reader #reader #chubbyreader

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marvelousaddiction · 7 years ago

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The Dating Game- Part 1

“Thank you sweetheart, that was some good pie....” The man who was visiting your diner gave you a smile. You happily returned it. “Thank you, anything else I can help you with?” “Actually yes....could you tell me which way I head from here to get to Lebanon.....and I might need your phone number, in case I get lost again, or hungry” he smirks just a little bit from his dark scruffy beard. You chuckle, you could tell he was much older than you. “Lebanon is east of here, if you make good time you may make it there by supper time, my number? Mr, I am flattered, really, but I don’t even know your name” You return a cheeky little smirk and he smiles to his lap before glancing back up to you. “I’m sorry sweetheart, where are my manners? My name is John.....” “Nice to meet ya John,I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt anyone if you had my number.” You say taking your pen from your waist apron and writing your number on a napkin and sliding it to him,with your name and a little heart. “Thank you again Y/N” “You’re welcome, so what’s out in Kansas?” You ask just as your door swings open and two tall men come in, they are bickering loudly as they come in and take seats in one of the booths.

They were filthy, covered in what you really hoped was mud.

“Nothing now.....excuse me” John says, he stares at the other two for a minute.

You look at them all, confused but decide to shrug it off and go on with working, of-course after sensing something was up you keep your ears open to listen in.

“Sammy! Don’t talk to me right now! I’m going to go try to wash some of this ACTUAL CRAP off of me....good they have pie....I want apple” you watch as the shorter of the two men marches to the restroom,despite being so dirty and angry you can’t help but notice his beautiful green eyes when he passes his by you. A girl/guy has to have to have something to do while she works busting and waiting tables to keep from getting too bored. Your attention goes back to the other one. “Dean! Dean...I’m sorry!” “Sorry!?” “You are still wanted it was either I pushed you in, or-” Dean raises his hand to stop Sammy there as if to say he were done then goes in the bathroom. Sammy takes a seat.

You go over to take his order. “Hi, what can I get ya hon?” “Oh, I’m sorry about my brother and I.....” he has a awkward smile and looks embarrassed. “Please don’t be” you can’t stifle a laugh. “It is good to finally have anything happen around here, it’s like I am stuck in some kind of rut, the same thing happens every day, same people and faces, same orders,the only thing that is different is what is what I am getting yelled at by the owner, who I have the privilege of calling mom,y’know?-oh, I am sorry. What did you want, I have a apple pie for the green eyed devil in the men’s room, Dean?”

Sam and you share a smile. “Actually I do...know....you have no idea. Yeah, Dean wanted a apple pie and he may want sausage too. I’ll have uh....actually no, he may want a burger, I’ll have just a coffee and some hot cakes?” “Sure thing, no problem. Is there a reason that man John over there has been staring at you guys? I mean...everyone is, but, he is looking at you I don’t know weird...” you point to John with your pen. Sammy, at least you think that is his name turns to look.

He looks shocked, like he sees a dead person as John walks over smiling.

“Sam.....it is really good to see you again...really son...”

“......” Sam is silent, for quite a while. “D-Dad” he slowly steps to John and hugs him. They wrap their arms around each other.

“Dad......” You all turn, Dean had stepped out, slightly cleaner now.

“....hey son....hey Dean” and Dean does the same, the three share a group hug and John looks at you. “This is what was in Kansas, boys this Y/N.....”

“Yeah, we kinda already met, Dean, John, Sammy-” “Sam” “Right~ well, I will go get your food. Dean, Sam said you would want apple pie and a burger?”

“Only if it comes with cheese and your number sweetheart” Dean answers, his face can only be described as cheeky.

“Cute son John” you roll your eyes as you spin and go towards the kitchen.

“Sure is good to see you boys” “Dad....how-” “Cut the crap,I am tired of all the beating around the bush with all that has happened lately. How the hell are you back from Hell? How long have you been back?”

You see John shrug. “I have been back about a year.....honestly, I don’t know how I’m back or how I am still....me”

“Y/N!” Your attention to your mother yelling at you as you were helping her get the order. “Yes ma’am?” “The hell are you doing?” “What? I never said I wouldn’t listen in” you shrug. “Stop. They are obviously having a family moment” “Well, the eldest one, and the short one asked for my number” you respond, taking the food out to them.

“How the fuck do you not know?” You hear Dean ask. “Dean, I wish I had a answer, but I don’t. I was in Hell, then I was out....”

These people are insane you thought, but if John were to ever call you, you wouldn’t mind. You may even give Dean your number. “Okay, your coffee, sausage, apple pie, and pancakes.....want some syrup?”

You broke into their awkward conversation as you sat the food at the table they had sat at, finally.

“Yes, thank you” Sam and Dean speak together, you roll your eyes and go get them a bottle of syrup. “Here ya go oh, how can I help you baby?” you look up seeing another customer come in a news boy hat, he had a golden-ish red beard and blue eyes.

Sam and Dean looked up with you.

“Benny!” Dean’s face lit up and he got up, walking over to the other man, not hesitating to hug him tightly, they looked like two bears.

You raise your brow, placing your hand on your hip and pretend to not notice John checking you out. “Let me guess, your brother?”

“No!” Sam says angrily and glares at you and the Benny guy; at the same time Dean gave a proud “hells yeah”. “Chill dude~” you say to Sam, raising your hands “calm your dick”. Sam flashes you a bitch face and you flash one back, rolling your neck. “What, wanna say som’p’um?”

John and Dean seemed very amused by this. John mostly, “Sweetheart, I may fall in love with you” he teases.

“Okay I’m confused” you admit, looking to John for a answer.

“Don’t look at me sweetheart, I don’t know him” he answers, raising his hands in defense.

“How are you back?” the brothers ask the other man, using completely different tones.

“Same way as before, hitched a ride....” Benny answers. Sam looks pissed and sits back with his dad.

“Hitch a ride back.....” he mummers. Dean points to Sam. “Damn it! Shut the hell up Sammy, I don’t want to hear shit about it. If I have to deal with Jack then-Jack!” Dean’s eyes widen. “Where is Jack?” he asks his brother in a panic before storming outside. Benny comes over to the table. “May I?”

“sure, have a seat, John, I take it you know my boys” they shake hands.

“Okay~ soooo~.....back to my original question, what will it be baby?” You look at Benny with a smile. He smiles back, it was so warm and sweet. “a coffee and some grits, thank you darlin’“

“Aww~ you have the sweetest little accent~” you fangirl for a second. “The grits will be a few minutes because we got the real shit and not that instant crap, that okay?”

Benny once again has that bright warm smile with a little giggle. “That will be fine....we have time right?” he asks Sam and John.

“I was wanting to catch up...” John answers but Sam doesn’t.

Just then Dean comes in with a guy who looks about your age.

“Hey, Jack, want anything honey?” you ask him.

His brows furrow in confusion. “Yes, a burger.....how do you know my name?” he asks you.

“Don’t ask” you, Benny, Sam and John all answer together.

Poor confused little Jack joins the three in sitting at the table and Dean just stands there.

“So.....what the hell do we do now?” he asks

Sam looks at the food, then everyone at the table, then Dean. “We eat I guess......”

“And what, pretend nothing is going on? Like he wasn’t in Hell, he isn’t a nephilim, and`”

Sam looks unsure.

“.......Dean, I don’t know.....yeah, just sit and eat.....catch up with dad, you catch up with Benny.....”

“So...so we have a normal.....’family outing”?” Dean asks.

“Anyone got any better ideas?” Sam asks the others at the table. They all say nothing. Except Jack, who you find adorable. “Who are they?” he asks about John and Benny. “John, Sam and Dean’s old man” he shakes Jack’s hand. “Benny.....me and Dean have history” He shakes Jack’s hand as well. Jack smiles “Nice to meet you”

Dean seems at a loss of words. so he sits, and you watch them eat their meal. They had moments of tension and laughter and watching it, you really did see a family dinner. Your mom was yelling at you but you ignored her until you saw them all leaving, you ran out behind them.

“Y/N! Get back here!!” She called but you weren’t going back.

“Wait!” All the men stop getting into three different cars. “Y’all are all kinds of weird,seriously. I don’t care.....I want to go with you, I don’t care where you take me, Kansas, anywhere but here. Please? Because, I just met you guys but....even though you said it wasn’t a “family dinner” back there, that ain’t what I saw. So, what do ya say?”

“Alright, Y/N, you know too much now anyway.....” Dean answers getting in the drivers seat of a 67 Impala. “Nice car~” you give him a nod. “I know~” he and John say together as Sam and Jack get in.

“Who you wanna ride with?” Dean asks.

“She’s riding with me” John escorts you to his truck and he and Benny follow behind Dean to where ever you all were going.

#supernatural #benny x reader #john x reader #dean x reader #samwinterchester #jack kline

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dinoswrites · 8 years ago

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Little Arrow Chapter 1: The River

Solavellan, Post-Trespasser Kidfic. Ongoing.

Standalone Sequel to Aravel.

Masterpost | Read on A03

Evie is four and a half years old, and Mamae loves her very much, but has to go away lots.

She knows this because Mamae tells her, and because her brother reminds her when she forgets and starts to cry.

“She will come back,” he tells her, patient and soft, every time. “She is thinking of you now, and wants to be with you so badly.”

And she wants her Mamae now—but her brother is very good at giving hugs, and petting her hair and telling her that he knows, he understands.

And when she has stopped crying, sometimes he takes her for a little walk around the campsite. They can’t go far—she’s not allowed past the big white rocks by herself—but when her brother is with her, they can walk into the forest a little bit, and go catch frogs by the river.

Her brother is very, very good at catching frogs. He’s teaching her! So she can be just as good as him. Although, he never seems to get dirty like she does—he stands in the mud, same as her, takes his boots off and kneels down, but his clothes never get dirty. No one ever sees him coming back from the river and says, “Oh, Cole, you’re such a mess! Time for a bath!”

“That’s because I’m a spirit,” he tells her, when she complains about it.

She pouts, trying to wipe mud off her elbows. It’s dried a little in the heat, and it’s so itchy. “I wish I was a spirit,” she says.

“You have one,” her brother says instead. And then he gestures for her to be quiet, and takes her hand again.

He leads her a few steps down—and she is so careful to be quiet like him. He barely splashes at all, so she walks where he walks. He doesn’t leave any ripples, even, and she tries her best, but she can always hear her steps, and, as always, she gets little splashes of mud on the hem of her dress.

She doesn’t like dresses much. Mamae never wears them, so neither does she! But the rest of her clothes are hanging to dry, because she’s gotten them all covered in mud, so she has to wear the dress that Aunt Vivienne gave her a few months ago. Everything else is apparently too small, even though she thinks they fit just fine.

She thinks Aunt Vivienne would probably scold her, if she saw Evie wearing the special dress she ordered for her, all covered in mud.

“I won’t tell,” her brother whispers.

It’s kind of weird, how no one but Cole ever seems to know what she’s thinking. Kind of nice too, though. Because then they’d know for sure she took another handful of blueberries than she was supposed to last night, after dinner.

Except Mamae. Mamae always knows.

Her brother crouches in the reeds, and points to a spot in the mud. He gestures for her to be very quiet, and then lets go of her hand.

She creeps a few steps closer to the spot he pointed at, narrowing her eyes as she focuses on moving very, very slowly—and she moves so slowly, so carefully, that when she finally crouches down right next to the spot, she is rewarded by a tiny little frog poking its head out of the mud, right between her hands.

She catches it quick and gentle, like her brother taught her. Not too hard, so she doesn’t hurt it, because that’s mean and you’re not supposed to hurt people or frogs. She makes a cage with her fingers, so that there’s room for the frog to breathe, and then she lifts it out of the mud with a grin.

“Look!” she says, turning around. “Look! I caught one!”

Her brother is not looking at her, though. He’s half-turned, one hand on a knife at his belt, and the other reaching for her.

“Evie,” he says, his fingers brushing caked on mud off her elbow. “Behind me.”

There are so many rules she has to follow, that sometimes she forgets them all—but Listen to Cole is the most important, and the one she never ever forgets. So she does as she’s told, making sure to hold the frog very gentle so it doesn’t get scared.

When she looks where Cole is looking, there’s a person she’s never met before, standing in the trees.

He’s an elf, like Mamae or Sera, and he’s dressed a little like the messengers that come and go for Mamae when she’s here—but there’s only two of them, and this stranger doesn’t look like either of them.

He’s staring at her. And he’s smiling a little, but it’s not a good smile. It’s weird and creepy, like when Uncle Varric is telling her stories, and he makes the Bad Guy voice.

She remembers another rule when they take her.

If you see anyone you don’t know, scream and don’t stop.

And she tries, really—she does. She bites their hands and when that doesn’t work she screams into them so hard that her throat hurts. But the sound doesn’t carry, no matter how hard she tries, and they don’t drop her no matter how much she kicks and squirms, so they take her, and no one can stop them.

They take her past a place where she feels something weird tingle on her skin, like walking through a curtain but the curtain’s not real. And then they walk for days, and days, and she remembers another rule—don’t eat or drink anything a stranger gives you—but she is so hungry and thirsty that she has to break it on the second day.

There are two people—the second one had done something to her brother, made it so he couldn’t move, and then they grabbed her and took her.

They haven’t told her if he’s okay or not—but she thinks it’s like with the frog. He’s a little uncomfortable because he can’t move, but they didn’t hurt him because it’s wrong to hurt people. Right?

Except they hurt her arm when they grabbed it. And they hurt her when they tied her wrists up, or when they put something in her mouth so she couldn’t scream—

Maybe they never listened to their brothers, when they were told that hurting people was wrong.

After the fourth day, they take her to a big mirror. And they say something that’s in elven—Mamae’s been teaching her a little—and then they walk her through it.

That tingles, too.

And then there’s a lot of steps, and a lot of running—and pretty flowers, but her eyes are all puffy (she wasn’t crying, she has all-er-gies) so she doesn’t really see them all. And more mirrors, which is annoying because she’s thinking that maybe there was a rule about always pay attention to where you’re going so you can find your way back but it’s a little hard to do that with mirrors, isn’t it.

Then they get to a place where there are more elves, and some of them are wearing very shiny armour like Uncle Thom or Aunt Cassandra do (except they look kind of silly), while some of them are not. She doesn’t get a good look at anyone, though, because the people who took her just rush her through, even though they’re panting for breath.

She has tried to tell them that if they put her down, they wouldn’t have to get tired from carrying her all the time. She thought that was very clever, but they didn’t buy it.

They take her into a big, big aravel—building, she thinks, and then she remembers Uncle Varric’s stories and thinks crumbling ruin instead—and they shout a lot in elven, which is annoying because she doesn’t understand it, but it sounds very fancy (which is a word her aunt Sera taught her, and is one she’s actually allowed to say without a scolding but it means something like mean people who dress up and think they’re better than everyone else.)

They finally stop in a room with a big table, and a bunch of people standing around it. They’re all wearing the shiny armour, which still looks silly, and there’s one in the middle with his back turned who has a big, white pelt over his shoulder. She’s not too good at guessing yet, but she thinks it’s from a wolf—it’s way too long for halla hair.

The man who’s holding her says something, and she knows it’s about Mamae because he says Inquisitor, and then he says da’len and the man with the wolf pelt stiffens.

The whole room goes very quiet, and everyone looks at her very quickly. And then they all start to talk again, quicker, faster, louder, so loud that it makes her ears hurt.

Except for the man in the wolf pelt, who lifts his hands from the table and turns around very slowly—like people do in Varric’s stories, when something scary or exciting is happening.

The man holding her puts her on the floor, and she almost falls over—they haven’t fed her today, and they’ve been running all night. She can definitely handle it, she’s four and a half, but she thinks anyone would be a little shaky, under the circumstances.

She looks up at the man in the wolf pelt as he looks down at her.

He looks very, very surprised, she thinks. And maybe a little sad—or happy? He’s looking at her like Mamae looks at her sometimes, when she thinks Evie’s not paying attention. Cole says that she’s overwhelmed when she does that, it’s not Evie’s fault.

She thinks of her brother, then—of him being frozen in place, trapped by magic—and she thinks that she’s hungry, and thirsty, but she already broke a rule when she took food from the strangers who took her and she knows she wasn’t supposed to and she didn’t mean to break the rule about screaming but she got so tired of it—

She wants her brother. She wants her Mamae. She wants someone to take this thing out of her mouth and untie her wrists and bring her to her Mamae, right this instant.

The entire room goes silent when she starts to cry.

All of a sudden, the man in the wolf pelt kneels, and takes the cloth out of her mouth.

She nearly chokes on it, she’s so surprised—maybe he’s like Cole and Mamae, he knows what she’s thinking—and he hushes her as she does, hiccupping and sobbing loudly into the emptiness of the room. Not trying to get her to be quiet—no, he just makes soothing noises, whispers gently, “It’s going to be alright,” over and over.

“I want—I want—”

“Your mamae,” he says, gently, when she can’t finish. “Of course. I will take you to her as soon as possible.”

He pauses, though, when he unties her wrists. And she feels his fingers touch the big ugly bruise that’s left over from them grabbing her.

His hands glow a little, like Uncle Dorian’s or Aunt Vivienne’s. And she remembers another rule too late—don’t let strangers use magic on you—but all he does is make the bruise go away, and her wrist doesn’t hurt any more.

His eyes glow, too. But she doesn’t feel any different from that, so she doesn’t worry about it. Elf eyes get all shiny in low light sometimes.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks, and he sounds so nice that she answers honestly. She shakes her head no, and he smiles so nicely when she does that she feels a little smile of her own, answering him back.

“Good,” he says. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? It’s a long trip back to your Mamae, and I want to make sure you’re feeling well.”

She sniffles a little, rubbing her arm where the bruise was, and nods.

He smiles again. “Would you like to walk with me, to get something to eat?”

That breaks a rule, she knows. But she’s very hungry, and this stranger said he’d take her to Mamae, so she nods.

He stands then, and reaches down, holding out his hand for hers. He kind of has to bend over a little, to make it work, but she reaches up high and his hand is very warm and gentle. He begins to lead her out the door that she came in—and there are two statues there that she didn’t notice before, so she cranes her head up to look at them.

“My name is Solas,” he says, and she looks at him instead. “What is yours?”

She knows it’s breaking a rule, but she tells him anyway, in between sniffling and rubbing at her eyes. “Evie.”

It doesn’t take anywhere near as much time to get home as it took to get to Solas.

Maybe it’s one of those funny time things, though, where when you’re having too much fun it goes fast. Because Solas is fun—a little sad sometimes, but most adults are anyway. He asks her lots of questions, and shows her magic just like Uncle Dorian, and he tells her all about the plants and animals that she doesn’t know very well yet.

He gets overwhelmed sometimes, just like Mamae. And Evie has to be patient with him when he does—she pretends she doesn’t notice, when his eyes get all shiny or his smile goes sad or he looks frightened. Sometimes he forgets how to talk, she supposes, because he goes all quiet for a while. That’s when she tells him about catching frogs with her brother, or about playing pranks with Aunt Sera, or playing pirates with Uncle Bull.

She notices really quick that he always goes quiet when she talks about Mamae, so she doesn’t do that a whole lot.

It only takes two days—maybe three, because she’s asleep when they get there. Woken up by the sound of her mother’s voice, calling her name.

“Evanura! Evanura!”

Solas has been carrying her in his arms, but he always lets her down when she squirms so she doesn’t mind. He does so now, but she’s still sleepy so she holds his hand as she walks, rubbing her eyes to wake up faster.

“Mamae?”

Her mother swoops in and gathers her up in her arms—and Evie clings to her neck, because Mamae can’t hold her so good if she doesn’t have her left arm on. But Mamae does, and she holds her so tight that Evie thinks she’ll never ever let go.

Evie doesn’t mind so much. If Mamae never put her down, she’d never have to go away.

“I broke a rule,” she says, sniffling into Mamae’s hair.

“Oh, da’vhenan,” her mother says. “It’s alright. You tried your best. It’s alright.”

Mamae pulls away eventually—puts Evie back on the ground, and looks at her all over. Mamae’s cheeks are all wet, and Evie reaches up to touch them, frowning.

“I’m just so happy, little heart,” she says, laughing. “Did they hurt you?”

To be honest, she and Solas have been having so much fun that she’s almost forgotten all about it. But Cole always says it’s important to tell the truth, especially to Mamae, so after a moment’s consideration, she nods. “Yeah. But, Solas made it better!”

Mamae stills. Evie can feel her fingers digging into her shoulders, just a little.

Eventually, Mamae looks up at Solas. Very, very slowly. And then she just… stares at him, over Evie’s shoulder, for so long that Evie half-turns to see what’s the matter.

Solas is standing a few paces back—his mouth hanging open, just a little, like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to interrupt. He’s looking right at Mamae, as she looks at him, and Evie thinks they both look overwhelmed.

No one moves, for such a long time that Evie begins to worry that there’s another bad person behind one of the trees, and Solas and Mamae are frozen like Cole was. But then Solas breathes, suddenly and sharply, and he turns a little, as if to go—

“Stay,” Mamae blurts into the silence.

For a moment, the only sound is the air rushing through the leaves above them. But then Solas’s shoulders relax, and he looks back to Evie and Mamae with one of those sad smiles adults have all the time.

Behind Evie, Mamae stands. “For the night, at least,” she says, gently. And then, so softly that Evie’s not sure Solas can hear, she adds, “Please.”

And he kind of laughs a little—just a little huff. But he sounds like when Uncle Dorian broke a rib, and came to stay for a while, and Uncle Bull would tell funny jokes like he always does but Dorian would complain, because it hurt too much.

“Are you certain?” he asks, after a while.

Adults are so weird sometimes.

“Yes!” Evie shouts, annoyed, and breaks from her mother to go back to Solas. She tugs at his arm until he follows after her, wide-eyed, and she starts dragging him in the direction of the river. “I wanna show you where we catch frogs!”

“Evie!” Mamae calls. “It’s the middle of the night!”

But she’s laughing, a little, so Evie knows she’s not really mad.

Cole meets them at the usual place by the river—smiling a little, under his broad hat, and he kneels down so Evie can hug him when she runs to him, splashing through the mud.

“I’m alright,” he tells her as she buries her face in his shirt. “They didn’t hurt me. I’m alright. Small, swimming—there are tadpoles, now. Want to see?”

She nods into his shirt—and then sniffles a little, before she pulls away.

“You should come too, Solas,” Cole says, without looking, as she takes his hand and he walks with her towards the water.

It takes a moment, but after a while she hears Solas’s footsteps as he follows—the space between each growing smaller and smaller every time.

After Mamae tucks her into her furs, and kisses her goodnight, she waits until she thinks Evie is asleep to slip from the aravel.

It’s too warm for all those furs, though—and she’s not tired, she’s had an exciting couple of days. She gets up to open the aravel door a little, to let the breeze in, and when she glances out she sees Solas sitting by the fire. Staring into it, his expression blank.

Mamae sits near him—leaving enough space for Evie to sit, but not anyone bigger.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

He jerks in place at the question—blinking rapidly, like he’s been staring too long and his eyes have dried out.

It takes him a long time to answer. “When I told you she was safe.”

“Solas…”

Evie swallows. There’s something… different about the way her mother says that. She doesn’t know if it’s good different or bad different. Overwhelmed doesn’t seem to be it, though. A little bit like when Evie gets mud on her clothes, but sadder.

They don’t talk for a while after that. Her legs get tired, so she kneels on the aravel floor, peering out through the tiny crack she’s made in the door and hoping they don’t look this way.

They don’t, though. They just sit near each other, and stare into the fire.

“How old is she?” Solas asks, so suddenly Evie jumps a little.

Mamae sighs. “I think you know how old she is, Solas.”

Solas closes his eyes. Takes a deep, deep breath—and then stands, suddenly.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he says, in a kind of voice adults use when they saying something boring or important. “Forgive me. I will not intrude on your peace again.”

As he starts to walk away, Mamae says, “I won’t.”

He stops, but does not turn around.

Mamae is still looking into the fire. “I won’t forgive you for coming here, because—” She closes her eyes, opens her mouth and shuts it again. Her fists are balled in her lap. “Because you saved her.”

His answering laugh sounds far away. “For a time,” he says, like it hurts.

“I should be the one—” She bows her head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I want you to come back and visit whenever you like.”

His shoulders straighten. “What do you want in return?”

And that’s when her mother turns to look at him—so Evie can’t see her expression. “We have some rules, here. No one talks about the war. About Fen’harel, or the fighting, or what might happen. You can come and go as you please, but you can’t bring anyone I haven’t approved, and—and her nameday is in Guardian, it’s nice if as many people she knows can be here as possible so if you can just… I don’t know…”

All at once, Solas smiles, and half-laughs, and starts to cry.

And—and Mamae’s crying too, Evie realises. Her shoulders are shaking and her voice starts to waver. “I wanted you here so badly,” she says. “I—I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you but I couldn’t stand the thought of her being used against you—I wanted you to come back because you wanted to, not because I blackmailed you—”

“Tel’abelas,” he says, all of a sudden rushing back to her.

She stands, and they embrace before the fire. Crying, both of them—and Evie thinks that maybe she should go out and make them stop, it’s all very weird.

Then she feels a cold hand on her shoulder, and she knows without looking that it’s her brother.

“It hurts but it helps,” he whispers. “Go to sleep, Evie. They need to talk.”

She takes one last look out the door—looking at her mother, arms wrapped around Solas, his face pressed into her hair—and Evie wonders, because she’s never seen Mamae act like that around anyone else.

But Cole whispers again, and she lets herself be led back to bed.

#solavellan #dragon age fanfiction #post trespasser #post trespasser secret kid #surprise solas you're a dad #ill advised post trespasser hook up baby #child pov because otherwise it's too sad

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