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sapphim · 1 year

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Another multiwarden worldstate post. Previously on! Duncan conscripted Rafael at Kinloch Hold and the two of them made for Orzammar where the other wardens, Alistair included, await Duncan's arrival.

It's about a (here I take some time to squint wearily at my old-ass travel time spreadsheets before giving up) fuck it, I dunno, it's about a ~several days~ trip from the shores of Lake Calenhad up through Gherlen's Pass to the gates of Orzammar, and since Rafael was up all night in the escape attempt and since Duncan had to drag him out of the Tower in the wee hours of the morning, and since he does not sleep well out on the road in the elements, he's absolutely dead on his feet for a few days.

They finally arrive (and Rafael is able to collapse in a bed in their spacious Diamond Quarter accommodations, thank the Maker) and find that Orzammar is making a big deal of their arrival, with a week's worth of Provings and other festivities on the docket before a joint venture into the Deep Roads. Several concurrent ventures, to be more precise, one of which will be lead by the ruling family's second child and only daughter.

Raf'll have his tits blown clean off with culture shock once he wakes up.

Proving Loyalties

Micah [Brosca], in her late 40s or early 50s, is Kalah's elder sister and Rica's aunt. She's been working for the Carta her whole life (while taking care of first her and Kalah's ailing parents and then, after that, her nieces). Her role in the Carta is as something of a fixer. She's smart, experienced, and can be trusted to operate under her own agency. She'd be on a level akin to Jarvia, if Beraht and Jarvia didn't kind of fucking hate her (and the dislike is entirely mutual).

With Rica beginning to work as a noble hunter and her youngest niece of a teenaged age where she too is looking into picking up Carta work, Micah is starting to worry for them. The girls are good and bright and want to contribute to the household and take some of the weight off of Micah's shoulders, but Micah doesn't want them to feel pressured into the sort of life that she's had to lead.

Her latest ongoing job has put her in charge of rigging the Provings for the Carta. In the process, she's been investing her own earnings, with an eye toward building a nest egg which would allow her to retire and still see the girls provided for. Jarvia catches wind of this and, taking offense and feeling threatened, sabotages her operation, forcing Micah into fighting in the provings herself to maintain the grift.

Quite dangerously for her, the Princess Aeducan has quite a penchant for battling in the Provings herself, and the bracket pits Micah against her. Micah DOES knock her flat on her ass. This might actually have saved her, in the end. When Micah's identity is revealed a few fights down the line, the powers that be see it prudent to sweep her under the rug rather than see her publically executed and draw further attention to the ignomious spectacle of a duster defeating a royal in combat, and so she is instead turned over to the Carta to quietly dispose of.

She, of course, refuses to go down quietly, and in the aftermath of her escape, Duncan steps in to recruit her. This is reluctantly allowed under the condition that the Wardens take her and leave the city IMMEDIATELY and not return.

The Wardens' preparations have all been made and Duncan wasn't too hot on the idea of wasting more time than necessary when a literal Blight is starting so he's like, okay, see ya, and they go ahead and head into the Deep Roads ahead of schedule. Damn. Sorry Raf in particular. The Deep Roads are definitely the wrong kind of culture shock for a baby mage fresh out of the Circle who just discovered the concept of parties.

So they go to make contact with the Legion of the Dead. But right before they go they send word ahead to Highever to update them on their timeline because, guess who also wants to host a Tournament in honor of the Wardens~~ A literal Blight is starting and everyone wants to throw parties, goddamn.

My first playthrough with an (intentional) Alistair romance, I happened to trigger Alistair's love confession with the rose when the party was standing around in the Deep Roads absolutely caked in darkspawn blood, and it was so funny that I'll never, ever let him live it down. So Alistair speedruns his bisexual awakening by falling head over heels in infatuation with Rafael immediately after meeting him while they're all fighting desperately for their lives in dank tunnels underground. Really, Alistair? Really. That's my son and he's a fucking mess, god bless.

A Noble Expedition

The festivities continue unabated but now they're all for the glory of Royal House Aeducan yay~~ Eydis Aeducan (late 20s) is, a huge bitch! High on her own farts, and absolutely fuming after the Proving situation. Let's just say that if Bhelen hadn't beat her to Trian and framed her for his death, she might very well have killed him herself. She strongly considered it, anyway. She's pompous and ruthless and very well acclimated to the bloodthirsty game of Orzammar politics.

Aeducan Thaig is, I don't want to pull up the spreadsheet again, it's not far, it's a couple days round trip, especially since they already sent the shitkickers in ahead of time to clear the way, and her triumphant return will kick off the final evening of glorious festivities. She's not about it. She doesn't want ~parties~, she wants to show up her shitheel brothers, secure her place as future Queen of Orzammar, and engage in w4w (warrior4warrior) fingering in the hot springs, in that order.

When she's exiled into the Deep Roads, she knows her only remote chances for survival are to either find and join the Legion of the Dead or find an exit to the surface, so she makes for the latter, based on her memory of the maps she studied prior to her expedition. This sets her on a converging path with the Wardens, who have wrapped up their business in the Deep Roads (Blight's started!) and are making their own way out, and she begrudgingly presents herself for recruitment. She's not hot on the idea but she's also not going to tag along in their wake for safety like some charity case, and she certainly can't go back to Orzammar. It's not like any of her other options on the (blech!) surface will be any better. And besides, she's a real catch.

When they do reach the surface it does take a gentle amount of time to coax the dwarves out under the open sky (it will be another week at the very least before a still seething Eydis even deigns to so much as look at Micah). Meanwhile Alistair and Rafael immediately collapse in the grass in open relief that they're not in some awful fucking darkspawn infested tunnels anymore. They're crying a little bit but in a very adult and manly way, it's fine.

Next up! A tourney at Highever, a wedding in Denerim, and a mystery in the Brecilian.

#oc blab #rafael #micah brosca #eydis aeducan #worldstate writeup

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bluefuckboy · 3 years

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vampire!Dabi x m!reader

A/N: not enough Dabi x m!reader out there so here’s a contribution with a twist. Reader works at a bloodmobile donation center and receives a late night visitor...

WARNINGS: blood (obviously), non con elements, body horror, very brief references to homophobic slang, implied virgin reader, implied death,

Word Count: 4,276

“Thanks again man!”

“Yeah no problem.”

Except it was a problem. Or rather more of an annoyance, even if you were on the end shift anyway. Protocol was two people for transport back to the hospital, but your coworker was very adamant that if he didn’t get to his girlfriend’s right at 9pm then they were over. You’d neglected to ask how he “forgot.”

You were more than capable of managing the bloodmobile by yourself. It was just a little lonely since the drive back to the hospital was close to an hour. Not to mention the time it took to double check donation storage before you could even head back.

You were midway through the A- donations when you heard a knock at the door. It had been at least twenty minutes since your coworker left. It was past 9pm now and everyone at the donation event had left around seven, so you were slightly wary to go to the door.

Upon peering through the window on the door you saw nothing initially. Just the parking lot illuminated dimly. There were shadows from the trees that made strange shapes on some of the parking spaces. It made you slightly anxious, so you turned to go back to the donations when another rap sounded on the door.

This time there was a man in front of the door. He was tall and lanky, his messy black hair was tousled by the slight breeze. A cigarette was perched between long, pale fingers with black nails and what looked like tattoos that came up to the wrist. His other hand was tucked into the pocket of a trench coat, black of course, which almost reached the heavy duty combat boots he was scuffing impatiently on the pavement.

He tapped on the glass of the door with a knuckle, but didn’t look up, opting to take another drag of the cigarette while casting a bored look in the direction of a streetlight.

Your hand hovered over the door handle. You knew opening the door was probably a terrible idea, but for some reason this guy had piqued your interest. You were curious to find out what the heck he was doing in front of a mobile blood donation center at this hour of the night looking like the long lost member of My Chemical Romance.

You slowly unlocked the door to the bus and opened it a crack. The man turned around and looked up at you. His face was pale, and eerie. There were multiple piercings studded across his cheeks, and up to his ears. The lower half of his jaw was heavily tattooed, the ink winding down to his neck and disappearing below the collar of his shirt.

You cleared your throat.

“Can I help you?”

“I dunno, can you?”

The question was mocking and he ended it with a toothless smile. His tone irked you and you informed him that you were done taking donations.

His brow lowered and he mused, “Donations? I thought this was a late night food truck. I even brought my crazy straw.”

He produced an impossibly twisted black straw from the trenchcoat, holding it up for you to see. You stared at it as you tried to come up with a response.

“Sir, this is a mobile blood donation center, not a food truck.”

The man tutted his tongue and peered past you slightly. You moved to block his view of the inside of the bus. He pursed his lips and crossed his arms, taking another long drag of the cigarette and blowing the smoke a little too close to your face for it to be a mistake.

When he spoke it was almost to himself, mumbling, “I don’t know why I even bother to make conversation.” He chuckled. “And what a waste of a clever joke.”

He laughed again and then sighed, letting the cigarette dangle loosely between his fingers. You were thoroughly confused now. Your confusion turned to disgust and slight horror as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. Instead of taking another puff, he drove the still lit butt into the center of his tongue, putting it out without even batting an eye.

You gaped at him, speechlessly watching as he tossed the butt aside. He was unfazed, despite the fact that he had surely just severely burned his tongue. He was merely stretching now, as though he were getting ready for a workout.

After coming back up from a deep toe touch he quipped, “Nothing like a nice palette cleanser, hmm?”

You blinked at him, and then suddenly he was making his way up the steps casually. You put out an arm.

“Excuse me, sir, I can’t let you in.”

The statement made him laugh.

“Letting me in. How 18th Century. You’re cute.”

He made to come into the bus. You tried to stop him, but suddenly found yourself unable to move. It was like the muscles in you body were cramping all at once.

The man easily slipped past you and there was a strange sense of foreboding building as you tried to move again. Pain shot through your legs and you grit your teeth. You were able to move your eyes and found yourself staring into the face of the man as he stood in front of you.

Up close you could see the dark circles under his eyes, heavy bags that accentuated his gaunt features. His eyes were unsettling, cerulean and dangerous. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away. As you stared at them they seemed to flicker between a darker color momentarily, but it could have been a trick of the terrible lighting within the bus.

You watched as the man shut the door behind him and strolled slowly through the bus. He had his hands clasped behind his back, casually peering at the equipment as though he were looking through a library.

Upon finding the open intake box you had been sifting through, his eyebrows went up and a smile crept across his face. He knelt down in front of it and picked up an A- donation packet. He tucked it under his arm and then shuffled through the other packets as though he were looking through a collection of vinyl records.

“Any AB-?”

The question was directed at you and you were suddenly able to move your tongue again, which had felt like it was stuck to the roof of your mouth.

You tried to keep my voice steady as you said, “Sir I need you to put that down and please leave.”

He looked over at you with an amused expression, then turned back to the donations.

“I’ll take that as a no then. At least you’ve got a couple O-‘s. Always a safe bet, if a little bland.”

He sighed and then did something which would have made your jaw drop if you could have. He stabbed the crazy straw into the bag and then took a long sip of the blood. He swallowed, smacking his lips.

“Decent enough I suppose.”

He took another sip and emptied the bag, tossing it aside before moving on to the one he had tucked under his arm. All you could do was stand motionless and watch as he picked out a few more bags and sat casually on one of the donation chairs.

He propped his boots up on the chair and leaned back, sipping form a bag of B+ plus. You could feel sweat dripping down your back. Your muscles were painfully tense and you could feel fatigue setting in, but you couldn’t relax.

You tried in vain again to move and the man’s unusual eyes flicked up to you. He wiped a bit of blood clinging to his lip and sucked his thumb into his mouth. It was overtly obscene and clearly done to annoy you as he knew what he was doing was not only illegal but downright disgusting.

You could feel your legs starting to shake and were worried they might go out and send you flat on your face. Instead, you found yourself suddenly released from whatever strange force had been holding you hostage.

It was so sudden you just fell to the ground in a heap. The man laughed.

“How graceful.”

Despite the feeling of utter exhaustion that was washing over you, you were somehow able to get up and spin around to face the man. You were a bit larger than him and you needed to get him restrained before making a call to the authorities and figuring out what inventory he had decided to drink.

You moved to grab a strap from the chair he was in, quickly buckling it over the wrist that was by his side. His eyebrows went up, but he didn’t make a move to try and fight as you put the straps at the bottom of the chair over his feet so he was bound by all but the hand that held the bag he was still sipping from.

He swallowed and said, “Do I need to give you may safeword?”

Before you could snap back at him for the sexual comment, he lifted the bound arm up. The restraint broke like a piece of dental floss, snapping in half. The restraints on his feet were broken just as easily and you backed away slightly as he swung his legs over the chair and stood up.

He inspected his wrist, even though there were clearly no marks on the tattooed skin. The bag he had was tossed aside and he looked at you.

“I don’t usually prefer to play with my food, but I suppose if you want to have a little fun we could. I prefer fresh anyway.”

Before you had time to react he was grabbing you by your lab coat, swinging you onto the chair as though you weighed nothing. He practically threw you onto it and you felt you head hit the wall of the bus behind it.

“Whoops,” the man said, cracking a smile.

Your own blood went cold as he parted his lips for this smile. His canines were abnormally long, pressing into the soft flesh of his bottom lip. As you looked into his eyes, you saw they had a reddish tint to them, almost staining the blue, glinting as he leaned closer to you.

Your mind went to the tales of blood sucking monsters you’d heard growing up. But those were just stories and fairytales. This had to be some psychopath or sexual deviant who got off on a kink that had to do with bodily fluids.

The man was inches from you face and you found yourself unable to move again. You were stuck sitting in the chair sideways, your legs dangling over the edge. Your heart was racing, making blood pound in your ears.

You felt a chill run down your spine as the man leaned forward. His breath against your skin as he spoke was almost unnaturally hot.

“Sounds like a marching band, doesn’t it?”

Somehow you knew he was referring to the pounding of your blood in your ears. You felt something wet on your neck and the marching band was a cacophony of sound. His tongue was right at your pulse point.

His voice was almost a whisper.

“I’m sure you say this daily, so hopefully you won’t be too surprised. This may sting a little.”

Your eyes went wide as he suddenly sunk his teeth into the column of your neck. You could feel the two points of his canines drive deep, puncturing your skin easily. Your body spasmed as he pulled the fangs out. Blood oozed from the wound, but it was lapped up before it could drip over your collarbone.

The man went back to the gouges and this time you felt yourself jerk violently as he began sucking. A hand was suddenly on your upper thigh, then another on the opposite side of your neck, holding you there. It felt like receiving the world’s most painful hickey.

You shuddered and the hand on your thigh tightened. The man had a strong grip, and was putting just enough pressure to give a warning. Not that you could move if you wanted to. You weren’t in control of my body anymore.

You were hyper aware of each area of your body he was touching. The skin of his hand against your neck was cold, but his mouth on the other side was warm and damp. You could feel his tongue press into the holes. The sensation was like nothing you’d ever felt before.

For some reason it wasn’t pain you were feeling. There was a strange warmth spreading over the back of your neck and down your shoulders. The man pulled away from your neck for a moment. You could hear him swallow as you felt saliva and blood begin to drip onto your shirt, staining the collar of your lab coat.

He put his mouth on you again, but this time there was no sucking. Just the feeling of his tongue laving over the broken skin. It made your stomach drop and your mind began to feel foggy.

You didn’t know how much blood you’d lost. You could still hear the pounding heartbeat in your ears, but your body felt off. You must have involuntarily jerked again because the hand on your thigh slid upward, almost pressing into the dip of your pelvis.

The man must have been trying to keep you from jerking. But the feel of his thumb at the jut of your hip combined with the pressure of his long fingers around your side was making you feel strange in a different way now.

His lips against your skin was now sending heat to other areas of your body. You felt panic begin to rise in your chest. All the sensations were too much for you to handle and the lack of control over your body led to a response you hadn’t anticipated.

The man pulled back and you were mortified as he glanced down at the obvious bulge in your jeans. He raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose that explains the poor flow.”

He sighed and you could feel cold air rush into the space between him and you as he backed away. There was red at the edges of his mouth. He did a circular swipe with his tongue to lick it away and you felt your pants get even tighter.

Your cheeks were burning and you wanted to cover yourself, but you were still unable to move. The man had put a finger on the side of his face, tapping it in thought. You inhaled sharply as he suddenly swiped his thumb over the twin punctures on your neck, gathering a thick glob of blood.

He put the digit in his mouth and sucked on it in thought briefly before saying, “You humans never change.”

You were able to move your eyebrows down, relaying a confused expression to which he replied, “You’re all driven by libido. Just the slightest stimulation arouses you. It’s rather annoying actually.”

He tutted his tongue and your eyes widened as his hands were suddenly at your belt, unbuckling it deftly. He pulled you toward him, yanking off your pants. You felt your breath quicken even more. You could see your cock tenting your boxers. You wanted to disappear.

However the man had other plans. You nearly jerked off the table as he put the tip of his pointer finger on the head of your cock. He rubbed at the fabric of your boxers. You could feel they were damp.

The finger was moved to the waistband of your boxers. The man tugged them off, not being gentle as he dragged them over your flushed cock. You inhaled sharply and desperately wished you could do something, anything, to stop him as he took you in his palm.

He gripped you, musing, “I’ll never understand the hype over drinking from you virgins.”

The blush on your cheeks spread down your neck and chest and the man laughed.

“I suppose there is the thrill of seeing you come undone at the slightest touch.”

He moved his hand up slowly and thumbed over the head of your cock, which was practically dripping now. You shuddered and let out a pathetic noise as he dug the nail of his thumb into your slit.

“You’re particularity responsive,” the man said, rubbing in a slight circular motion, “Do you perhaps, hmm, what do they call it these days? Bat for the other team?”

The man gave you a ornery smile. You couldn’t say anything. Your tongue was stuck pressed up against your bottom teeth. Even if you could speak it was a subject you didn’t want to talk about, especially with some random psychopath.

However said psychopath was now bending down, pushing your legs further apart, saying, “If you swing that way then perhaps you haven’t found yourself a catcher.” His hooded eyes glanced up at you briefly before he continued in a lower voice, “Or maybe it’s a pitcher you’re looking for, hmm?”

Your whole body spasmed violently as he brushed the pad of his thumb over your asshole. His slang was outdated and embarrassing, but it was obvious he was experienced. The thought excited you more for some reason.

The man grinned and suddenly you were able to move. You gasped loudly as your mouth dropped open. The spit that you hadn’t bee able to swallow dribbled down your chin and you grabbed the edge of the chair to keep myself from tipping over.

You glanced down at the man and was met with a sultry gaze, combined with a vulpine smile. You tried to bring a hand up to push him off, but you had no strength. It was taking nearly all of your energy to try and lean forward and close your legs to try and cover yourself.

He brought the hand not on your cock up to your torso, pushing your shirt up. His fingertips were like ice against your heated skin and you couldn’t resist him as he lightly pushed you so you were lying on your back, legs parted, completely exposed.

You gasped as you felt the man take your cock in his mouth. There was no warning, no tongue teasing beforehand, just the tightening of his throat around you as he took all of your cock in.

Your nails dug into the cheap leather of the donation chair as he pulled off, switching to sucking on the head of your cock while chilled fingers made their way down to cup your balls. You shuddered and then cried out as you felt a finger ghost over your entrance.

The man’s wet maw was on you again, saliva dripping down your shaft as he teased you. You whined slightly as he leaned back after sucking half of you for a brief moment. He was looking at you with lewd curiosity.

You were surprised as he leaned forward so your faces were inches apart. His eyes were definitely tinged red now and his features seemed sharper, the angles more prominent. You gaped at him and then cried out in pain as he suddenly bit you again.

It was a different spot, closer to the junction of your collarbone and neck. The bite was harder, but for some reason the pain was arousing now. He pulled back and you didn’t have time to react as you felt his mouth on yours.

His lips were cold, but everything else was hot. You could taste the copper tang of your own blood in your mouth as he snaked his tongue sinfully past your lips. His fangs tested your bottom lip for a moment before he started kissing you so forcefully it felt like he was trying to devour you.

When you finally parted you were gasping for air. Blood and spit were dribbling down your chin and you could see saliva dripping from the man’s fangs as he gave you a feral smile. Then his hand was cupping your chin, his thumb dragging your bottom lip down.

His voice was husky as he said, “It seems you’re enjoying yourself.” He yanked your face toward him. “Unfortunately I can’t finish eating until we can take care of this it seems.”

As he spoke he pumped your cock a few times, making you squirm under him. He smiled and then you were gagging as he stuck two fingers into your mouth.

“I’ll let you do the sucking for a while,” the man said.

His expression made you nervous so you obediently began sucking, despite the humiliation you felt each time you heard the squelch of spit. When he was satisfied with the amount of your spit he’d gathered on his fingers, he pulled them out abruptly.

He moved his hand below your waist and you jumped as a slicked finger nudged at your hole. The man’s mouth was back on the new bite and it felt like your body was going numb. You could feel him suck at your neck as he pressed a finger into you.

You’d never tried any anal play before, so the feeling of someone pushing their finger into your asshole was so foreign you instinctively jerked away. The finger slid out and the sensation made you shudder.

You shut your eyes and hoped that you might have lost enough blood to pass out. But you could feel every sensation as the man’s finger entered you again. He was relentless in his sucking and now you were beginning to feel dizzy.

Your mind was hazy and when you came back to yourself the man had worked two fingers into you. He curled them upward and you felt like you’d been struck by electricity. It was pleasurable and you could feel more precum drip from your cock as he moved his fingers inside of you.

The man’s other hand was suddenly on your cock, putting pressure in just the right area. He twisted his fingers as he pumped you slowly. It was too much and you cummed so hard you saw white.

Your ears were buzzing and the room was spinning. It felt like you were having an out of body experience, especially as you felt the man’s wet tongue tracing down your abdomen. You couldn’t lift your head to look, but you could feel as he swirled his tongue against your skin.

The wet sensation was gone and you heard him say, “I wonder what the police will come up with as an explanation? After all accidents do happen, but certainly they’ll have never seen a scene like this.”

You felt his nails sink into your thighs. They were abnormally sharp and you cried out. The man retracted his right hand and his face came into view, going in and out of focus as you tried to stay conscious. He caressed your cheek briefly and then the nails which were more like claws, were digging into your scalp.

The man forced your head back and kissed you again. This time the fangs that nipped at your bottom lip drew blood. It rushed into your mouth when he pulled away. There was red dripping down his chin and his fangs glinted as he licked them.

He placed an almost chaste kiss to your bloody lips. When he spoke his voice was almost a hiss, hot air just ghosting over your mouth.

“Such a shame really. A young man with his whole life ahead of him. Oh well. At least we were able to have some fun though, hmm?”

He pulled back enough for your eyes to focus on his face. His eyes were clearly red now, just like the blood that was smeared over his face. The sight was horrific and you felt sick.

Red tinged saliva dripped from his fangs as he opened his mouth to say, “My condolences.”

At those words you closed my eyes and braced yourself. Of course he was going to finish you off. There was no way he’d let you live. If he truly was a vampire like the legends of old, you knew far too much now. Plus you were nothing more than another meal.

You felt his nails rake down your thighs and then he bit into your inner leg. You could hear a scream echo in your foggy mind and you assumed it must have been your own. The man clenched his jaw with so much force, a terrible, wet crunch rang in the air.

He’d gone for your femoral artery. You only knew of it because you had studied it, browsed the pages and diagrams, reading how long it took to die after it had been severed. Was it a minute? Less?

You could feel your heartbeat becoming irregular. Blood, your blood, was seeping into the material of your jeans and your vision was beginning to go dark. What little feeling you still had in your body sent shooting pain through your leg and pelvis. The horrifying crunch must have been one of your bones.

Your vision blurred and for some reason your mind recalled the man’s question earlier regarding the blood types you’d gotten donations of for that day. AB- was what he’d asked for. It so happened that you were AB-, a fact you’re sure he found out as soon as he sunk his teeth into you. He’d gotten what he was looking for after all.

As the world faded away completely, you wondered if it was a cruel irony or almost poetic.

#dabi #dabi x reader #dabi x m!reader #vampire!dabi #vampire dabi #dabi smut #dabi x you #dabi x male reader

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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Recognition

@aspecarchivesweek Day Five: Something New

Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Season One

In which Jon and Martin are more alike than they thought.

Jon, in spite of himself, was starting to get used to Martin living in the Archives.

Offering him shelter had been almost instinctual- after listening to his story, who wouldn’t? Terrorized for almost two weeks and no one, no one noticed. There was also the matter of Jon’s guilt; Martin thought he needed to put himself in danger to be thorough, to please Jon, and now he was homeless. Jon owed him this at the very least. No matter how much Elias disapproved of the situation.

And despite the occasional trouser-less wanderings, his presence was...appreciated. Late nights in the Archives were wearing him down: the statements were getting to him, and the unshakeable feeling of being watched when he knew he was alone was putting him on edge. Now he can blame that feeling on Martin, who he’d caught staring on more than one occasion. Jon was not surprised; he hadn’t been looking or feeling his best, highly unprofessional with his three-day stubble and rumpled clothes. Not a good look.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t enjoy the cup of tea when Martin joined him in his worst bouts of insomnia. He would sit on the tiny couch in his office, nursing his own mug and chattering away in a low tone that Jon was starting to find soothing instead of irritating. At first Jon clammed up, uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion on his late night routine, but he soon found Martin didn’t expect him to respond or contribute, save the occasional grunt of acknowledgement. Sometimes Jon even craved the company, the familiar rhythms of Martin’s voice had become an unconscious comfort.

Tonight he was looking particularly exhausted, slumped in his seat with deep purple bags under his eyes. It sent an unwelcome pang through Jon’s chest; Martin should be sleeping, not entertaining him because he chose to stay late. He said as much.

“You don’t have to stay up on my part.”

“Hm?” Martin looked up from his lap, eyes finding Jon’s. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I like the company, to be honest. Unless…?”

“I don’t mind,” Jon assured him. Shockingly, he found he meant it. Still, it didn’t ease his guilt. Martin was always here, never leaving the Archives for more than an hour to get food or other necessities. He considered his next words. “That being said, I hope you know you’re allowed to have a life outside of the institute. I won’t judge if you want to have a...late night, or go out. It’s not my business what you do in your free time.”

Martin squinted his eyes as if he didn’t understand the words Jon spoke. Christ, do I really seem that out of touch? He knew he could be severe and well, a bit of an ass at times. The stress of the job got to him more than he cared to admit. But he didn’t want his assistants to think they should follow his example. He was Head Archivist, it fell on his shoulders to get this place in some semblance of order.

“I’m not really one for nights out, Jon,” Martin gave that familiar, self-deprecating laugh as he leaned back in his chair, an almost defeated-like set to his shoulders. “Well, besides the occasional drink with Tim and Sasha. And even those are sort of...I don’t know. They have their own thing going, and I feel like-”

“A bit of an outsider,” Jon provided before he could activate his ‘word to mouth’ filter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-”

“No,” Martin cut him off. “You’re right. Feels like I’m intruding.”

“Their banter can be overwhelming for the, ah, uninitiated.” On the few times he’d gone out with them in research, he’d felt more lonely than included. His awkward attempts at interjecting could make a conversation fall flat and he felt the need to accept every drink they handed in him the hopes of ‘loosening up.’ It never worked. They were never mean about it, no- or at least had the decency not to do it in his presence.

“Tell me about it.” Martin gave Jon a tiny little smirk that sent his heart stuttering in his chest for no particular reason. “I’m used to it, is all. This isn’t much of a change in routine, worms notwithstanding.”

“You, er, don’t have friends you can meet up with? Or maybe a partner?” Christ, why am I prying? What’s gotten into me? Jon felt curious, the man practically lived with him and yet he barely knew him.

The bark of laughter he got in reply was sudden and more than self-deprecating. “A partner? Are you kidding me?” Martin’s tone threw him off-balance; it was jaded, bitter, not like him at all.

“I didn’t mean to pry-”

“No, it’s- to be frank, I don’t think I’m cut out for all that.” Martin toyed with the mug in his hands, gazing into it like it held the answers he needed. “I’ve uh, tried to go on a few dates, meet people, that sort of thing. But they all expect something at the end and it just never feels right, I can’t explain it. Like there’s something missing. ”

Jon paused; the words and their sentiment were not unfamiliar to him. In fact, they resonated quite deeply, if Martin meant what Jon thought he did.

“It’s always been that way- I get a crush, I get to know them, they want to, y’know, and I-I don’t know what's wrong with me, but I can’t-” He cut himself off, sitting up straighter as if suddenly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this-”

“It’s fine.” And it was. Martin looked at his hands and Jon recognized the sadness in the set of his shoulders, the lines etched in his face. He never thought the two of them would have much in common but that- that was a feeling Jon knew all too well. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

Martin somehow managed to deflate even further, curling up as if trying to disappear. “Yeah, well- I think it’s time to admit that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.”

The words hit Jon harder than expected. His fists tightened in his lap; he was sixteen again, wondering why the kiss he stole in a backroom felt more invasive than intimate. He was reading romance novels, understanding the words but not the feelings they were supposed to invoke. He was in college, being called a ‘tease’ or a ‘prude’ when he pulled away at the end of the night. And it was all accompanied by that deep, crushing fear that he’d never be enough.

No, you’re not that kid anymore.

And Martin shouldn’t have to be either.

“What’s that look for?”

He was drawn from his thoughts at Martin’s words, looking up from the scratched wood of his desk. “Sorry?”

“You’ve- you’ve got that look on your face, like you’re const- like you’re thinking really hard.”

Jon tried to think of a way to word his query delicately, but ‘delicacy’ had never been his strong suit, according to Georgie. Come to think of it, it was never hers either. “Have you ever considered that maybe- that you’re- you’re of the persuasion, that is-”

Martin shot him a deadpan look, unimpressed. “Yeah, I know I’m gay, Jon.”

“That’s not-” He sighed in frustration, fuming at his inability to communicate. “It’s okay to not feel that way. I never have. It’s normal.”

Martin blinked. “Sorry?”

“Asexuality, that is,” he said, finally managing to get out the words. “I was...in a similar position, I guess you could say. I didn’t feel the way you were ‘supposed’ to feel, like how all the books and TV shows describe it. Zero interest in anything sexual, and I thought...well, I thought something was wrong with me.” Jon felt a lump building in his throat, much to his horror. “But being able to put a name to it, an identity, it just felt right.” Martin’s face was unreadable- had he spoken out of turn? Did he have this all wrong?

He tried to clarify. “What I’m trying to say is that I know what it’s like, that...feeling you described. But it doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for love. You...you shouldn’t have to feel that way about yourself. You’ll find people who accept you. You’re not doomed to be lonely.” Now you’re just getting sentimental. Jon wasn’t one to dole out advice. He attempted to reign it in, get himself back on solid, familiar ground. “Maybe don’t take me for an example, though. I assure you, my isolation is very much self-imposed.”

Martin didn’t laugh. For a brief, panicky moment Jon thought he might have offended him, assumed the wrong thing, taken him out of context. But Martin met his eyes and Jon saw it- a look of dawning understanding, of comprehension and knowing and as much as Jon wanted to look away he couldn’t, because for the first time in a while he thought he might have said the right thing.

_____

He watched as Martin puttered about in the break room and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Martin hadn’t said much after their conversation, just thanked him in a choked voice and mumbled some excuse about going off to bed. Jon felt a bit conflicted- he now had time to ruminate on the conversation, pick it apart and wonder if he said anything wrong. He didn’t think he had, but his instincts had been proven wrong before.

Still, the thought of helping one person, sparing them from that crippling self-doubt and inadequacy, made any embarrassment or awkwardness well worth it. So here he was, shuffling his feet and holding a stack of paper, stapled and neat and in some cases, annotated. He cleared his throat and Martin turned away from the sink to face him.

“Oh, g-good morning, Jon.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel, throwing it lightly on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

He’d gotten two hours tops on the lumpy couch in his office. I need to invest in another cot. But he nodded anyway, walking forward and thrusting the pile out for Martin to take. Martin looked down at it quizzically but took it all the same, his face softening as he flipped through the pages.

“I, um- I printed out some articles that I thought might be of interest,” Jon rambled, feeling more awkward by the second. Was this too forward of me? “I’ve always found it easier to read on paper instead of the screen. For ah, concentration purposes. This- this isn’t required reading, or anything. Just might be helpful for, uh, figuring things out.”

Martin didn’t look up from the pages in his hand, instead zeroing in on them with a more intense stare. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with sincerity. “Thanks. It uh, it means a lot.”

“Yes,” Jon replied nonsensically, having no response to the emotion in Martin’s words. “You- you don’t need to talk to me about this, if you’d rather not. But I’m available if you’d like to.” He paused. Best to keep this somewhat professional- it was almost nine. “Outside of normal working hours, of course.”

“Of course,” Martin echoed, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he finally met Jon’s eyes. He fought down the urge to smile back, instead muttering an excuse and turning to flee the room. I think I’ve filled my emotional quota for the week.

They don’t talk about it again, but a few days later a sticky note appears on his desk. Thanks- MB. Underneath the clear script he’d doodled a small flag- black, grey, white, and purple.

Jon puts it in his right-hand drawer next to an old polaroid of the Admiral, where it stays.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782318

#my writing #aspecarchives #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #cw aphobia and internalized aphobia #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #asexual jonathan sims #asexual martin blackwood #jon helps martin figure out he's ace

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inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

Note

Hi Steph! Would you happen to have any fic recs that involve John meeting the Holmes family? I always think that's such an interesting dynamic to see! Also, I think this goes without saying but I love your blog and appreciate your contributions to the fandom! Thanks!

Hey Nonny!

Ah, thank you! I’m glad you enjoy my blog!

Oooo! Yes, I love that dynamic too!! ANNNNND!!! You’re giving me the chance to make a part 2 for a REALLY OLD LIST!!! So YAY!!! I found a bunch on a text doc I haven’t posted yet, so HERE WE GO! Hope you enjoy, and as always, everyone please add your own!

PARENTS AND FAMILIES Pt. 2

See also:

Parents & Family

Meeting the Family With a Fake Relationship

Do You Love Me? by whitchry9 (K, 641 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Family, Epic Bromance) – John asks Sherlock perhaps the most important question.

Once Upon A Time by ProfessorSquirrell (T, 908 w., 1 Ch. || Family, Snippets of Life, Romance, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Implied Drug Use, Angst with Happy Ending) – There is a room in Sherlock's mind palace where nothing gets deleted. And it looks like this...

Crisis Averted by Spartangal22 (T, 2,188 w., 1 Ch. || HLV Fic, Missing Scene After Confronting Mary, Canon Compliant, Sherlock Whump / Mary Shot Sherlock, Family / Friendship, Hospitalization, Sherlock POV, Holmes Brothers) – Lying in the hospital, Sherlock receives some surprising visitors, and manages to deal with two problems he's been having lately. A missing scene from HLV about a formal introduction that was never made and a visit that was never shown.

The Only Available Transportation by blueink3 (T, 5,379 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Fluff and Angst, Insecure Sherlock, Caring John, Parentlock, Sherlock’s Birthday, Family, Misunderstandings) – It’s possibly the desperation that’s seeped into his voice despite his best intentions, or perhaps it’s just a mother’s intuition, but she knows that whatever he’s calling about is Serious, hangover be damned. “What’s happened?” she asks, tone soft and as comforting as a hot cup of tea on a cold winter’s night. “Mummy,” he begins, voice catching. “I think John may be moving out.”

On the Steadfast Approach of an Oncoming Darkness by 2bee (T, 7,772 w., 1 Ch. || Apocalypse, Minor Character Death, Sort of Parentlock) – The world is ending. Not fast, but slowly, like falling asleep with a fever.

The Name Game by ItsClydeBitches221B (K, 8,958 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Family, Platonics / Friendship, Sort-of Parentlock, John/Mary, Mary is Nice, Five and Ones, Baby Watson, Mycroft Loves Baby Watson) – The names that baby girl Watson comes up with for her extended family. Or: how everyone—Watsons, Holmes, and others alike— just learned to give up and embrace their weirdness.

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3 (M, 15,915 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Angst, Reichenbach, Parentlock, Past Jolto, Idiot John, Sherlock’s a Mess, Puppies, Fluff, Possessive / Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Matchmaker Sholto, Melancholic Feelings, Emotional Sherlock, Domesticity, Love Confessions in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, Pet Names) – After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch. || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Big Feelings, Crying, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Emotional Communication, Love Confessions) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

Dropping the Act by jadztone (T, 27,258 w., 10 Ch. || Parentlock, Fake Relationship, Mary’s Family, Post-S4, Cuddling & Snuggling, Bed Sharing, Pining, Christmas) – Sherlock and John are quite happy living together with Rosie in Baker St. They might be even happier if they didn’t act towards each other like their love is only platonic. Mycroft brings troubling news in the form of Mary’s parents wanting to know just what their grandchild’s home life is like. The boys decide to spend Christmas pretending like they are in love in order to seem more like a "normal" family. It's easy enough to pretend when all you're doing is dropping the act.

An Acquired Taste by kinklock (E, 31,059 w., 4 Ch. || Vampires AU || Vampire Sherlock, Misunderstandings, Bat!Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Humour, Magical Realism, Fluff and Angst, Blood Drinking, Holmes Family, Slow Burn) – At Montague Street when Sherlock was forced to sate his body’s needs, he was at least able to wander about the flat as much as he pleased. At Baker Street, it was mini-bags in a mini-fridge and bedroom confinement.

Chaperones by MissDavis (T, 34,114 w., 7 Ch. || 11 Years Post-S4, Fake Relationship, Parentlock, Disney World, Bed / Room Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, First Kiss, Obsessive Sherlock, Insecure John) – Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. "You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie's class and you won't have to share a room with a stranger?" "Exactly." Sherlock beamed at him. "Don't worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us."

Where The Ghosts Have Voices by HappyJuicyfruit (M, 37,691 w., 12 Ch. || Supernatural AU || Ghosts, Magical Realism, Light Horror, Fluff and Smut, John Can See Ghosts, John Whump, Emotional Manipulation, Dark Magic, Coma, Injury Recovery, Blow Jobs, Anal, Happy Ending, John’s Past, Mr Holmes, Powerful John, Holmes Brothers, Sherlock’s Past, Past Viclock, Drug Abuse, Hair Pulling) – John has lived his whole life as an outcast. It is only when he meets Sherlock, that be realizes being a freak might not be such a bad thing, and that the curse he has lived with his whole life may be a gift after all. (TO READ)

Anchor Point by trickybonmot (E, 49,856 w., 80 Ch. || Truman Show AU || Psychological Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Dark Characters / Fic, Alternating First/Third Person, Protective John, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Tender Moments, Love Confessions, Hand/Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Jealous John, First Kiss/Time) – The world tunes in nightly for Sherlock, the ultimate in reality TV: Sherlock Holmes, a real person with a legendary name, unknowingly lives out his life in a staged setting contrived by his brother. Things get complicated when a retired army doctor joins the show to play the part of Sherlock's closest friend. This fic borrows its concept from the 1998 film, the Truman Show. However, you don't need to have any knowledge of the movie to enjoy this story.

The Hollow Woman by ScopesMonkey (M, 51,335 w., 22 Ch. || Post-TRF, Major Character Death, Mystery, Romance, Friendship, Family, Angst, Crime, Reunion, First Kiss / Time, Nightmares, Doctor John, Jealous Sherlock, Jealous John, BAMF John, Angry John, Dub-Con, Rough Sex, Bottomlock, Possessive John, Villain Mary, Open Ending) – Forced to return to London sooner than expected, Sherlock falls into a case too close to home. Part 1 of the Hollowverse series

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Points by lifeonmars (E, 53,791 w., 42 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || HLV Rewrite / Canon Divergence, Married Life, Pregnancy / Baby Watson, Drinking to Cope, Boxing / Fisticuffs, Clueless John, Angst, Minor Medical Drama, Tattoos, Christmas, First Kiss/Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Doctor John, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Drugging, Blow/Hand Job, Emotional Love Making, Parenthood, Passage of Time) – What if His Last Vow never happened? This fic picks up a few months after John and Mary's wedding, in an alternate universe where Magnussen doesn't exist, but Mary is still pregnant. Life continues -- just in a different direction. And slowly, Sherlock and John find their way to each other.

The Monument of Memory by J_Baillier (M, 79,663 w., 14 Ch. || Post S4 Fix It Fic / S4 is Canon, Angst, Family Drama, Guilt, Case Fic, John Loves Sherlock, Complicated Feelings, Mentalism / Hypnosis, Murder, Grieving John, Sherlock is a Bit Not Good, Team Work, Trust Issues, BAMF John, Psychological Trauma, Protective John, Autistic-Spectrum Sherlock, Parentlock, John POV) – A genius traumatised by a past he's only beginning to recall. The psychopath sister that time forgot. A missing woman and a mentalist who may or may not be a murderer. And, in the middle of it all, stands John Watson.

Kintsukuroi by sussexbound (E, 91,823 w., 20 Ch. || S4 Compliant / Post-TLD, Grief / Mourning, PTSD, Internalized Homophobia, Therapy, Past Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Anxiety, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, Cuddling, Suicidal Ideation, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Sexting, Frottage, Inexperienced Sherlock, Rimming / Anal / BJ’s, Emotional Turmoil, Finding Each Other) – “I love you.” Sherlock sees the words hit John with almost physical force. He reels back a little, jaw twitching and eyes filling. “I love you,” he repeats, a little softer, a little more gentle, as earnest as he possibly can. Because they’ve been teetering on the brink of this thing for years, and it had become painfully obvious over the last few months that they were at a tipping point. This had to happen. Now it has. Now they can see where they end up. The tears in John’s eyes spill over, and he wipes at them angrily. “Do you even know what that means?”

The Summer Boy by khorazir (T, 94,706 w., 6 Ch. || Post S3/Post TAB/Alternate S4, Friends to Lovers, Asexual Sherlock, POV Sherlock, Flashbacks, Bullying, 1980′s Kid Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, Grief/Mourning, Pining Sherlock, Case Fic, Sherlock’s Past, Awkward Conversations, Anxious Sherlock) – About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock. Part 1 of the The Summer Boy series

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w., 36 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Alternate Future AU || Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Hand Jobs / Oral Sex, Case Fic, Emotional Love Making, Bath Time Fun) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It's 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn't need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

The Lost Special: Family Matters (As Do Relationships) by ShirleyCarlton (M, 144,688 w., 40 Ch. || S4 Fix It Fic, Unreliable Narrator, John’s Mind Bungalow, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending) – Sherrinford is not really the name of some high security prison. That was just a figment of John’s frantic coma dream. And Eurus is not actually Sherlock’s sister. That’s just something random she said to John before shooting him. Sherlock and John were never actually estranged. That was just their act to cover up what really happened to Mary – or Rosamund Moran, as her real name has turned out to be. Sherlock does have a secret sibling, though, and his name is Sherrinford. After finally eliminating Moran – though in a rather dramatically different way than they had envisioned – and exposing the truth about Eurus, John encourages Sherlock to delve into his past and to find out whether the reasons to keep Sherrinford away from Sherlock were the right ones, and to discover what really happened in 1981. Along the way, Sherlock and John gradually, finally, stop keeping each other at a distance, and eventually become a proper family of their own.

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #parents and families #meeting the family #Anonymous

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steves-on-a-plane · 3 years

Text

Life Hack

Written for: @star-spangled-bingo 2021! (& All Caps Flash Bingo!) Words: 1970 SSB Square Filled: Alternate Universe AU All Caps Flash Square Filled: Science Experiment Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: None, E for everyone! Summary: Tony & Steve have created a Youtube channel both as a way for the Team to stay busy & for them to communicate with the outside world. Participation is highly encouraged and when Reader finds out Bucky hasn’t contributed to a single video yet, they enlists his help in testing out some life hacks.

“What are we doing again?” Bucky questioned. He was standing next to you in the makeshift recording Studio Tony had built in an unused office.

“Making a video for the Youtube channel.” You commented. You inventoried the items on the table in front of you and made sure you had everything you needed.

“And why are we doing that?” Bucky grumbled.

“Because Tony and Steve want everyone to contribute to the channel.” It would surprise no one that the idea to start an Avengers Youtube channel had been Tony Stark’s idea. Actually, the team had always had one, as far back as the early shield days. It was more for publicity. Things like showcasing highlights from non-classified missions, charity events and press conferences were the types of clips that were typically uploaded. There were even occasional interviews from new members as they joined the team.

After the virus had struck, Steve and Tony had been looking for more ways to connect with the public. Tony wanted to have a way to talk with civilians about the real science of everything. While Steve’s motivations were a little more home grown. He wanted to give people on the outside a chance to see what life was like for the Avengers. He wanted people to know that the team was just as suspectable to the virus as the public and that the public could have as much of an impact on fighting this thing as the Avengers did.

“Peter may have let it slip that you haven’t contributed one video to the channel since we started it months ago.” You explained to Bucky. “I know cameras aren’t exactly you’re thing so I figured you could help me out with my segment today. Plus, you’re my favorite.” You said before tapping him on the nose with your index finger. “Ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” He complained beside you. You nodded to Peter who was standing behind the camera and began the video’s intro.

“Hey everyone! It’s [Y/N] here with another segment of the Avengers Quarantine Fifteen! That’s where we give you a fifteen-minute glimpse into what it’s like here at the Avenger’s Compound in Washington, DC.! Today I have a special guest with me, in his Youtube debut, Sergeant Bucky Barnes!” You paused to indicate Bucky who was standing next to you.

“Hey.” He nodded to the camera and offered it an awkward half wave.

“Okay, everyone,” You said looking into the camera. “I know we’re all bored out of our minds. We’ve been quarantining or sheltering in place for what feels like forever! I have to admit I’ve become addicted to watch those weird life hack videos; Buck you know the ones I’m talking about?” You asked him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He shrugged. He looked past the camera at Peter who tried to wave his attention away.

“Don’t worry you will very soon. For those of you at home who, like Bucky, have no idea what I’m talking about, a life hack is something that’s supposed to make things easier.” You explained.

“Like waterproofing your shoes with beeswax?” Bucky asked excitedly. “That really works!” He insisted.

“Yes, like that.” You nodded. “So today we’re going to be testing out if these internet hacks actually work in a little game I like to call Helpful or Hustle. Okay, here we go.” You pressed play on a video that you’d already queued up on your iPad.

“Is Parker just going to film us watching a video for fifteen minutes?” Bucky asked you with uncertainty. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“No.” You told him. “We’re gonna watch the hack first, then we’re going to try and recreate it.”

“But they can’t see it.” He commented pointing to the camera.

“They’ll see if after. In editing.” You assured.

“I’ll take care of everything Sergeant Barnes!” Peter called from behind the camera.

“There’s no way that works!” Bucky commented. Together the two of you watch the first hack where a woman deflated a balloon around a phone to act like a protective case. “They think because it’s made of rubber it’s going to protect…Do we have balloons?” He looked down at the table. I want to try this!”

You handed Bucky a balloon and an older cellphone that no one was using anymore. He began to inflate it immediately. At first it took Bucky a few tries to deflate the balloon like the woman in the video did. His initial attempts left him with a completely flat balloon, but after realizing he had to release the air more slowly, He had a rubber seal around the device. Bucky held the phone in his vibranium hand before letting it drop several feet the floor. You both heard the distinct sound of touch screen glass shattering.

“Well, Bucky, Helpful or Hustle?” You questioned as he bent down to pick the phone up.

“I think you already know the answer, [Y/N].” He said, holding the shattered screen for Peter to capture on camera. “I like this game. What’s next?”

“Back to the video.” You said, pointing to the iPad. You both watched the next “hack” Which involved filling a balloon with hot glue, tying it off and then using it as a sink stopper.

“I mean I guess that works.” He commented, scratching the back of his head. “But you know what else works?” He looked into the camera. “Fixing your sink so it has a stopper. If you can’t fix it yourself, hire a plumber. That’s a Hustle, next!” He pressed play again.

“I think you’re going to like this one.” You told him. You watch a video of someone blowing up a balloon using a water bottle, a funnel, vinegar and baking soda.

“Tell me we have the stuff to do this one.” He asked excitedly. “I very much want to know if this works.”

You and Bucky each picked up a balloon. You poured a cup of baking soda into each of the balloons using the funnel. You then filled the water bottle about halfway with vinegar. You had to guess with the measurements as the hack hadn’t provided them.

“Parker, you’re a science kid, is this safe?” Bucky asked Peter as you portioned out the vinegar.

“It’s what most schools use to make volcanos. Should be fine.” Peter nodded.

You and Bucky stretch the end of your balloons over the mouth of your water bottles. You nodded, and on your signal you both held up the balloon so that the baking soda dumped from the balloon into the vinegar. Almost immediately the balloons began to expand.

“[Y/N] look! It’s actually working!” Bucky exclaimed with disbelief.

“Well, I think this is as good a place as any to leave things. I’m afraid to see what happens when we try to remove these balloons. I’m [Y/N]…” You left a pause for Bucky.

“And I’m Bucky!” He said, thins time giving the camera an animated wave.

“This has been the Avengers’ Quarantine Fifteen!” You called, peering over your expanding balloon.

“Cut!” Peter said to let you both know he’d finished recording.

“That was great you guys!” Peter said enthusiastically. “Uh, [Y/N], you might want to take those things outside.”

“Good idea, Parker. I’ll take care of it.” Bucky offered. “Thanks for making me do this. I actually had a lot of fun. We should do it again sometime.” He collected both water bottles and carefully escorted them from the room.

“I have a few more things to film and then I can start editing. I’ll let you both know when it’s live.” Peter explained. You thanked him and started cleaning the room so it would be ready for the next person who needed it.

A little time passed, and you’d help some of the other team members film their own segments. You’d been staying busy doing other things too like raising a quarantine kitten. Yes, even the Avengers were not immune to the desire for new pets after being trapped inside. In hindsight trying to raise a tiny mammal in a giant military compound probably wasn’t a good idea, but you and Mittens were adjusting to each other. You’d almost forgotten about the segment you’d filmed with Bucky until Peter texted you the link one day.

You pressed play and started watching the video. You were surprised to see that Peter had been recording the banter between you and Bucky before you’d officially started filming. He kept every second of it in too, even the part where you booped Bucky on the nose and told him he was your favorite. You felt your cheeks get hot knowing the others were going to razz you about that later.

“Hey [Y/N]!” You heard someone calling your name down the hall. You poked your head out of your dorm room door. Bucky was walking towards you.

“Did you see Parker posted our video?” He pointed to his phone.

“Yeah, I was just watching it. What did you think?” You asked.

“I haven’t watched it yet. I’ve been reading the comments.” He told you. You scrolled through the commented on the video. Your eyes growing wide. It seemed the videos viewers liked seeing Bucky on the channel. They also seemed to really like you and Bucky together.

“I came to ask you, what does ‘Ship It’ mean?” He said.

“Where did you…” You assumed he’d read it in the comments and sure enough as you continued to read on there were plenty of posts with things like ‘Why and I shipping [Y/N] and Bucky so hard?’ and ‘I’m calling it, Bucky x [Y/N], I’ll go down with this ship and in this TED Talk…’

“Well, Bucky Ah…” You fumbled with your words trying to think of exactly how to explain the situation. “Shipping is an internet term for…”

“If you don’t want to tell me, I can just ask Parker or his friend…Ed?” He started to turn.

“No!” You caught him by the elbow. “Trust me, you do not want to ask anyone else about this one. Shipping is a term people use as a way to say they want two people to be a couple. Sometimes they’re already a couple or they may not be together any more and people aren’t ready to let that go. It’s usually about fictional characters but sometimes celebrities too.”

“Oh…Oh!” Bucky stared down at this phone with sudden realization. “So, when they’re saying that they Ship you and I, they’re implying…”

“That they want us to be a couple, yeah.” You nodded uncomfortably. You wished you could melt into the floor or fly away on a jet pack because the truth was, you’d always had a bit of a crush on Bucky. You never thought he’d be into you. You knew that the opinion of hundreds of people online wasn’t going to change anything, but at least someone else had seen a spark, as imaginary as it may be. “It’s a pretty common thing.” You added, trying to fill the awkward air. “Like I might say I ship Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson together because they seem really happy together. I don’t really know them, so it’s not really my place to say…”

“But I know us. So, would it be completely inappropriate for me to say that I also Ship us?” He questioned, looking up from his phone.

“Does being in a video on Youtube with the man you that gets tons of people commenting what a cute couple you’d make, so you’re both finally brave enough to admit that you have feelings for each other, count as a Life Hack?” You asked back.

“As usual, I have no idea what all of that meant, but I’m going to kiss you now okay?” He asked. You nodded ‘Yes’ in response.

#Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes Fan Fic #Bucky Barnes Fan Fiction #Bucky Barnes FF #SSB21 #Star Spangled Bingo #Flash Bingo #Bucky Barnes Reader Insert #Star Spangled Bingo 2021 #SSB2021 #SSB Spring Flash2021

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graham-cheshire · 4 years

Text

Studies & Theories of the Tricar

Hello once again dear readers. For those among you who haven’t heard of @starr-fall-knight-rise I suggest giving them a visit and reading their stories, as they're some of my favorite sci-fi stories, they provide entertaining perspectives on humanity from the viewpoint of aliens, form the basis of this post, and have evolved into an engaging series.

I'm happy to once again be writing another addition to this little series, the reveal of the Tricar was the perfect opportunity as the other species written of by starr-fall had been described with great detail & left little reason to cover them with a Studies & Theories.

As usual I shall start by providing confirmed facts and information about the physical appearance of the Tricar from their debut story 'Humans are Space Orcs, "From the Stars." ‘ by starr-fall, then I shall list what information we can infer from other provided details, and wrap up with my own theories regarding what I think is most plausible for their appearance.

Regarding the Tricar, the most notable fact about them is that their homeworld has an average temperature in the subzero range, and the story is told from their point-of-view, with several descriptions about humans from their perspective.

Before starting here are the usual disclaimers= First: I want to thank starr-fall-knight-rise for allowing me to do this & for receiving my previous speculations positively, I in no way own the Tricar or make any claim to such & I want to say that I'm doing this simply because I love starr-fall’s stories & wish to contribute in some way to the fandom. Secondly: I'm by no means a biologist & most of my research comes from the internet, if I am wrong in my information please don't bash me and simply provide clarification in the comments. Thirdly: I'll use reference images to help describe my thinking and theories and I in no way own or take credit for these images

The Confirmed Appearance Details

"gloved fingers"

"slamming the flat of her palm against the side"

"bright blue eyes"

"placed a hand on his arm"

"she kicked at it with her back feet"

"front of her jacket, splitting it open, so that thick clumps of her white/grey fur poked through."

"watching the yellow orange of her blood spill into the tube"

"tail tucked nervously up against one of her legs"

"brows knitted together over his snout"

The Inferred Appearance Details

"stepped up to the interior door & shouldered it open", "landed hard on her back", "rolling onto her stomach" = From here I believe we can safely assume the Tricar possess a human-like torso with shoulders, back, & front.

"its legs impossibly long, its arms the same, & a small head perched atop it all." = This bit is referring to a human viewed from the view of a Tricar. From this we can infer that their legs and arms are much shorter than a human's, and while we could also assume they have smaller heads it should be noted that they have snouts as mentioned earlier so that should factor into size.

"they weren't her footprints, far too large" = In proportion to the shorter legs it follows that they'd have smaller feet, though this will also be touched on later.

"her ears twitched", "ears leaning back against her head" = With these we can infer that they don’t have ears like a human & I think it would be safe to infer that they have ears similar to an animal's, which I will touch on later in the Theories section.

"dropping down to crouch on with her hands" = This one is a little more of a wild shot, but we could infer that they may have a body structure that could allow for "knuckle-walking" the form of quadrupedal walking used by gorillas, chimpanzees, anteaters, and platypuses.

"placing its long thin fingers on her friend's neck" = This is another bit referring to a human, with it we can infer that a Tricar’s fingers are both shorter and thicker in proportion to a humans, stubby in another word or possibility.

"she could hear the movement of its joints" = Here we could infer with the information about ears from earlier that the Tricar have better hearing than humans, however it can’t be ignored that they character referenced is a human known to occasionally wear an exoskeleton with joints that could also be responsible for the noise.

"she went to her knees" = This bit can be used to infer that the Tricar are bipedal in some sense, with a leg structure that uses knees.

"its fleshy hairless face" = Another bit referring to a human, we can use this to infer that the Tricar, in addition to the fur mentioned earlier on their bodies that their faces are also covered.

"its lips were thick" = The final bit we’ll use that references humans, we can infer at least that their lips are thin, possibly even non-expressive in combination with the snout mentioned from earlier.

"live on an icy planet prone to blizzards & storms" = Using this bit of info we can infer that the Tricar will need some physical traits that will make living on such a planet plausible, their fur and potential enhanced hearing would fall into this area but I’ll cover more in the next section.

"live in elaborate ice caves & surface buildings made of insulated metal" = This bit we could use to infer that the species possible inhabited caves before developing the technology for building, with the necessary traits for living in such conditions, to be touched on it the Theories section.

"average temperature on their planet is around -20 Fahrenheit to -28 Celsius" = This is a major bit of info we’ll need to use, as it infers that the Tricar need the physical capability to survive in subzero temperatures, even if their dwellings would protect them from such conditions.

The Theorized Appearance Details

Starting off this section lets confirm that the presence of fur on the Tricar means that they are almost certainly mammals, and because of that I shall draw most of my theories regarding their appearance from mammals on Earth that can survive in subzero conditions, a big trait of the Tricar.

Let’s start with their fur, which we know that is thick, which makes absolute sense but it’s likely it covers the entirety of their body in order to minimize heat loss and provide insulation to trap a layer of air and preserve body heat, a trait used by snow leopards, arctic hares, & arctic foxes.

Next let’s cover their appendages, meaning hands, feet, and tail.

As earlier stated we can confirm that they have the basic human-like hand structure with a palm and fingers, but the fingers are shorter and thicker than a humans but also are shown dexterous enough to use doors and microscopes. I’ll theorize here from the bit stated earlier that the Tricar have traits evolved from living in caves that they might have long strong claws like an arctic hare’s for digging and expanding such ice caves or carving them out for themselves, as well as aiding in traversal over ice and snow.

For feet let’s remember that they are smaller than a human’s, but as for their shape and appearance I’d theorize they’re like the hind feet of the snowshoe hare, which can spread their toes to act like snowshoes & help them walk on the surface of deep snow without falling through. The furry soles would also help with walking easily on ice and snow.

Now so far it’d be fair to assume that the Tricar could look like bipedal arctic hares, however their tails do provide a large difference. Stated earlier where a Tricar’s tail tucked against their leg due to nerves we can assume that they have some amount of length as well as at least having some instinctual movements. Now we could simply theorize that they have a tail like an arctic fox.

However I think an other interesting theory we could use is that they have tails like a snow leopard. These tails are long and flexible, which would help a bipedal species with keeping balance, but they are also thick and contain a large amount of fat that would be perfect to keep the tail warm.

Also as another note snow leopards use these tails similarly to a blanket to protect their faces while sleeping, something also done by squirrels who’ll wrap their tails around their bodies during snow storms, a useful trait the Tricar might have used before the evolved to be bipedal, or might even still use.

Moving on to the rest of the body we know that the Tricar have shorter arms and legs than human’s, the legs likely being strong for moving on the snow and digitigrade to support the foot structure from earlier. Their bodies are also likely stocky to reduce body surface area & minimize heat loss. For visualization I’d theorize the shape might be similar to an otter’s but with slightly longer arms and legs.

As stated before the Tricar have snouts that likely don’t expressive lips, so their head shape I’d theorize is less like the arctic hare and more like the snow leopard or arctic fox, both of which have short snouts that reduce body surface area and consequently exposure to extreme cold. Also note that we know the Tricar have expressive brows.

Next let’s discuss the ears, which we know the Tricar have ears that twitch and can fold back against their heads. We can’t simply theorize they have long &/or big ears as their environment means that large ears would suffer from the extreme cold, this can be seen on Earth where the arctic hare has small ears compared to the black-tailed jackrabbit who uses it’s ears to cool down.

However since it’s likely the Tricar have good hearing I would theorize the shape and appearance of their ears would be similar to the arctic hare over the snow leopard and arctic fox.

Regarding the hearing I’m inclined to theorize that the Tricar do have better hearing than humans as this would be advantageous for their environment. The blizzards & storms mentioned as being common on their homeworld means high winds and low visibility, so the Tricar would need good hearing, especially as snowy places tend to receive less sunlight & thus mean things are likely dark, even with artificial lighting in both their caves and surface buildings.

Expanding on this I’d theorize that the Tricar’s homeworld does not get much sunlight, if rarely, due to the bright blue eyes mentioned earlier. While it’s entirely possible that the Tricar could have as wide a variety of eye color as humans, blue eyes contain less melanin than green, hazel or brown eyes. Melanin in the iris of the eye appears to help protect the back of the eye from damage caused by UV radiation and high-energy visible “blue” light from sunlight and artificial sources of these rays, so melanin would be very useful in an snowy environment were sunlight would reflect directly off the snow and has been known to cause blindness after prolonged exposure (for more information look up Photokeratitis).

Further theories could be made if we knew more about the Tricar regarding their culture and diet but I will make one final theory regarding their blood, which is mentioned as being yellow orange in color. It is known that some fish blood contains special proteins in their blood that act like antifreeze, binding to ice crystals & keeping them small to prevent widespread crystallization, so this is something that could be present in Tricar blood to keep them from freezing. As for the color, it’s possible that their blood cells could contain Coboglobin instead of Hemoglobin. Hemoglobin is the protein molecule in human red blood cells that carries oxygen from the lungs to the body's tissues and returns carbon dioxide from the tissues back to the lungs. Hemoglobin contains iron which is responsible for the red color of human blood. Coboglobin however is currently a synthetic protein developed on Earth that functions like hemoglobin but uses cobalt in place of iron, and would cause the blood to be amber yellow.

With that I believe we’re finished with the theories regarding the Tricar. I hope that these theories hit close to the appearance starr-fall visualized when creating the Tricar but regardless it was fun to once again do another post like this. If you enjoyed this post you can find my previous ones in this series down below. If any readers have tips on where I can improve my writing please comment below and I hope I can do another one of these posts in the future.

Studies and Theories for the Gnar’lak

Studies and Theories for the Finnari

Studies and Theories for the Gromm

#starr-fall-knight-rise #alien #fan theory #research #species #just speculating #sci-fi #Studies & Theories of an Alien Species

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jackedspicer · 4 years

Photo

a bio for my xiaolinsona! she’s a work in progress so i’m bound to come back and change it. trivia and more in depth information is under the readmore :)

continued trivia:

she’d show up somewhere near the start of season 4

she’s used a LOT for slapstick. in fact she’s mostly a comic relief character

she’s guided mainly by emotions, is right brain oriented, and is a hands-on learner

there is a running gag where she frequently has bandaids on her fingers, hands, arms, or anywhere really

she’s a massive funk junkie. LOVES disco. she’s also a great dancer

when she comes up with xiaolin showdowns, sometimes she’ll base it off of fun recreational activities or things that seem harmlessly mundane, like mini golf..... tic tac toe.....dance-off...... rock paper scissors..... the showdowns themselves obviously end up being high-stakes and lethal as they always are, except they’re based off of goofy premises

she’s probably musically accented by grunge that’s slightly funky

when it’s funny, she occasionally will use huge words or make jarringly philosophical statements, eg patrick star’s “the inner machinations of my mind are an enigma” cut to footage of milk spilling

shes a lot like charlie kelly. in general. any charlie moment is just. Her. she’s a wild card and screams every line and huffs glue and tries to get the honey out of a hornets nest outside of jacks house because she thinks hornets make honey and she likes ghouls and she genocides the rats in his basement and sleeps ass to ass with him and is illiterate

she likes to do arts and crafts but they almost always come out as abominations. she’ll occasionally borrow some of jack’s tools to construct her latest atrocity, and she’ll refer to them by a wrong/made up name while she’s at it. “the hacksaw duey”, “the electric hole puncher,” ”the automatic pizza cutter”, etc. yes the projects and the bandaids have a direct cause and effect relationship. please refer to this video (and this channel in general)

youtube

imagine her sitting at a table and just doing this in jack’s lair... this video alone can be used to sum up so much of her. the technique. the bandaids. the blatantly wrong information that’s said with such conviction. the dark turn towards the end of the video. “superfluous protrusion.” the way it ends

continued trivia pt. 2, taken from my instagram

(i’ll get into this more further down the post)

fighting style because this is xiaolin showdown:

she has a very nimble, disorienting style of combat. using pokemon stats as an analogy, her highest would be speed by far, followed by attack, with her lowest stats being defense and special attack. this combined with her unrelenting nature makes her an excellent distraction and a general nuisance, but she doesn’t fare well in prolonged head to head battle.

favorite shen gong wu:

monkey staff, mikado arms, fancy feet, neptune helmet, hoduko mouse, woozy shooter (on herself), tongue of saiping, longi kite, indigo pyramid (on jack (cause it’s funny))

*the shen gong wu she’s most skilled with in battle are ones that trip up her opponents and cause status ailments. kinda like a prankster

backstory/analysis:

at her core, she’s a jolly, optimistic, humorous person, but her unruly, isolating childhood put a blow on her psyche. much like jack spicer, she’s been virtually alone her entire life - she was rejected by peers and adult figures alike since earliest childhood, and her home life was turbulent at best.

to ease the pain, at some point, she took on resenting and judging those around her as a means to cope. she has a holden caulfield-esque defense mechanism in play where if everybody sucks for this reason, or that reason, or those reasons, then she has justification for detaching herself from others, and she can derive her only source of self esteem from being better than them. this hurts far less than the devastating truth that she cannot connect with people on account of feeling so worthless and estranged from other human beings that she could never have the chance to be cared about by anyone. deep down, she’s in desperate, thrashing need of support and genuine human connection, and she has a warped perception of how she can achieve that.

she’s taken up evil as a hobby because it nurtures her desire to be destructive and, again, just like jack spicer, she engages in it as a way to feel seen. all press is good press, and the best way to make the headline is to cause some damage. what sets her apart from him in this regard, though, is that she takes all of her pain out on her enemies (in this case, the xiaolin monks) because she can’t stand how well off they are - instead, on the basis of their acceptance of one another, she sees them as goody two-shoes phonies who ought to be knocked down a peg. while evil to jack is both a means of getting much needed attention and a convoluted way of spending time with friends, to sid it’s a way to vent frustrations and a way to, well... still garner attention, but also spend time with a friend, except the friend is jack.

the other half of the reason she partakes in petty villainy is that it’s just... fun. she only got wrapped up in all this because she’d been restlessly putzing around somewhere remote, found a neat doohicky she planned on keeping, and when one thing led to another she wound up in a xiaolin showdown against jack. experiencing the chaos unfold revealed a golden opportunity she couldn’t pass up, so she asked jack to let her come with, debuting their partnership (i talk about this in further detail at the end of the post). goofing off and doing evil with him is so much fun to her! it makes her feel alive, a sensation and state of mind she never could fully achieve before.

noteworthy relationships:

jack:

they have a team rocket thing going on. not in terms of their interpersonal dynamic, but rather their role in the story, how much of a threat they pose as, their schemes, and even their overall attitude are reminiscent of the iconic duo; they’re petty, recurring villains with hearts of gold who aren’t above occasionally siding with the good guys.

even though they both are on the same tier of comic relief and general foolishness, the metaphor i like to draw is that jack is the left brain and sid is the right brain.

their personalities have such chemistry and they’re both so goofy that they effortlessly sync up. everyone thinks it’s REALLY annoying

they’re best friends! they actually care very deeply for one another, even if they might have funny ways of showing it. they may be evil, but they’re mutually the only and closest friend the other has ever had, and with that carries a lot of weight. think of it - the first person you meet who hasn’t been nothing but awful to you likes you and wants to be around you. What a concept

while their relationship is platonic, there are several gags implying a romantic element, even though nothing is ever outright stated. kisses on the cheek, bashfulness, other characters making fun of them (“where’s your DUMB little girlfriend?” “..........she’s not DUMB!!!!!”), domestic references (“am i sleeping on the couch”)..... it’s left ambiguous because it’s hetbait plain and simple. somebody asks them what they even are and they say Partners In Crime wym. jack asks sid What Are We and she fist pumps the flat of her own chest twice, throws a peace sign and says We’re Bros

their nicknames for each other include but are not limited to “jackass, jacky-boy, jack-o-lantern, smarty pants, wiggles, spack jicer, spack, mr spack, spackle”, and “shortstack, pipsqueak, sid the kid, champ, funky monkey, foxy (in a funny way, he’ll say it like Whatcha Up To Foxy ? while she’s like making a mess doing an arts & crafts abomination or just vibing bein her weird lil self.... it comes from a place of playful sarcasm and affection) (champ, funky monkey, and foxy are courtesy of @currentlyfallingthroughspace)

to piggyback off of the left brain vs. right brain metaphor, “heart vs. brain is how they think, right brain vs. left brain is how they act, and two halves of a heart represents their natural dispositions” is how my aforementioned friend put it. they both have a lot of heart and are ooey gooey on the inside, but the difference is that sid can grasp the intricacies of emotional/psychological matters while jack can’t (actually knowing how to EXPRESS this is another topic). it’s in the same way that jack can effectively plan ahead, use logical reasoning, and know where to go and how to get there, but sid is shabby in this department. “one is aware but doesn’t address it until it’s too late, and one can’t see it and doesn’t ask until it’s too late.”

another feature of potential conflict in all incarnations of them is the juxtaposition of sid actually being more down to earth than jack in the grand scheme of things. jack has the potential to go completely overboard, and whether or not he demonstrates the ability to catch himself on the event horizon will ascertain the outcome.

deep down, neither of them are truly evil, and they bring this out in each other as they ultimately contribute to the redemption of one another. how this actually happens is a lot rockier. sid has the intuition and self awareness to become increasingly cognizant of the fact that she engages in schemes as a way to bond with her friend, and, over time, she’s able to recognize that she’s simply been acting out, and she consequently softens up over time - but jack is much denser in this regard. he doesn’t consciously pick up on the same things she does and still believes that she’s drinking the koolaid as much as he is. the crucial dissonance in what matters most that had been incubating under the weight of things left unsaid emerges in a major falling out that challenges the nature of their entire dynamic and respective moral codes. i had a lot of help from the same friend with the following series of events and it’s really something that ought to be gone into detail on its own post, but a whirlwind brief summary is that jack becomes desperate from losing over and over so he comes up with this sinister plan that’s just too far, sid tells him to stop, they get into a nasty fight, sid leaves and makes it clear she’s not coming back, she goes to the xiaolin dragons for help, jack goes on an evil rampage but also loses his grip and has this mental breakdown because he lost the one person who’s ever cared about him (or so he thought), sid has the same brutal separation pangs but it doesn’t change the fact that jack is still doing what he’s doing, sid gets a firsthand view of a fight breaking out between the monks while she’s working with them and has a moment of clarity when she observes how they resolve it in such a healthy way, as they continue to work together and help her through the whole fiasco she realizes they’re not so bad, an entire excruciating series of events that’s genuinely too large to fit on this post unfolds and it ultimately ends with jack actually having to team UP with the good guys to stop what he started, and it ends with them breaking down, apologizing, and beginning their redemption BUT not without the illustration of several lessons that arose out of the complications of the entire thing...... the overarching lesson that’d been entrenched in their entire dynamic from the start, albeit corny, is that caring and being cared for was all they ever needed, and they learn to cultivate that within each other right under their own noses. it would be fun to have them stay as recurring villains forever, but seeing how much good is in their hearts is enough to make you wonder how they were ever evil.

xiaolin monks:

she thinks she hates them, but she doesn’t really. while her opinion of them is marked by resentment and distaste, she also holds them in high regard. a part of her wishes she could be friends with them, but the mental landscape she’s paved for herself doesn’t reveal that as an option. in her mind, she’s already been rejected by them. so why try?

the way she takes her pain out on them - people who had nothing to do with her traumas - can be summed up by the spinel su quote, “why do i want to hurt you so bad? i’m supposed to be a friend. i just want to be a friend.”

she gets chummier with them upon her redemption. out of the group, she gets along best with clay and dojo :)

bonus origin episode

this would be the imaginary early season 4 episode i mentioned at the beginning of the post. it’s more of a loose string of ideas tied together with reckless abandon but hey. the episode would open with jack feeling lonely and down on his luck to establish the theme that he kinda needs a friend (”wuya’s gone, chase trained his cats to get surly with me if i show up, my evil dream team won’t answer my calls....”). his sulking is interrupted by a shen gong wu alert and he’s like. whatever. i don’t need them. i’m still gonna do this on my own. even if it’s. ˡᵒⁿᵉˡʸ. fastforward to the scene i described where sid is putzing around with her doohicky (which i’m considering might be the neptune helmet) all by her sad miserable lonesome when suddenly some flying bloke in a trenchcoat who looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in years shows up telling her she’s got something he needs. she of course responds with something along the lines of “you know what? why don’t you try to take it from me since you want it so bad, mr big stuff,” triggering a xiaolin showdown. this is around the time the xiaolin dragons show up too late - but they’re grateful for somebody having been there to fight jack in time, even if they have no idea who they are. she has no clue what’s going on, but whatever it is, she LOVES it. she goes buckwild. she has a time. jack, on the other hand.... well, understanding how badly he needs that wu is certainly throwing a wrench in it, but he can’t help but feel like he’s having a bit of fun too. well, up until he loses. post-showdown, the monks kinda count their chickens before they hatch so to speak and they rush over to this new kid with a shower of praise, thinking they have a friend on their side. instead, she cuts them off, shouts to the guy who’s gathering his bearings (or lack thereof) - “hey! jack was it?” - and playfully tosses her shen gong wu in the air, catching it. “you look like you need this thing way more than i do. tell you what! take me with and i’ll let you borrow it,” is what she follows it up with, implying she wasn’t really that invested and only saw the whole thing as a fun game. jack and the monks are flabbergasted. what’s more bizarre is she did in fact ask to join him, something nobody’s ever done out of their own volition before. she talks about how boooooooooooring it is here and how that was soooooo much fun and to pleeeeeeeease take her with. he’s really iffy about it and doesn’t know if it’s such a good idea. he tries to make himself look cool, telling her “as IF, shortstack..........im afraid The Jack Rides Alone................................................. but-” and ultimately buckling because he can’t deny that it would be nice to have someone around.

#IM PROBABLY GONNA COME BACK AND CHANGE SO MANY PETTY THINGS BUT I HAD TO RIP OFF THE BANDAID #xiaolin showdown #xiaolin showdown oc #xiaolinsona #draws #btw her last name is question marks because i havent come up with anything yet #i have utmost confidence about this i literally think of her and jack as a duo even though shes not a real character #also it's important to add that i hope it goes without saying that a lot of her qualities arent direct translations of my own #her qualities are based on my own and are in some cases translated to represent how it would manifest in this narrative #sonas are tools u know. not being like THIS IS LITERALLY ME!!! cause its a bit different #for example my own opinions of the other characters and her opinions of the other characters differ. u kno for tha story #xiaolinsonabio

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thebibliosphere · 4 years

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Hi,Joy! I’ve been following you for a while but don’t remember if you answered a question like this. I was wondering if you had any tips for staying comfy while working/studying at home. I currently am undiagnosed but we suspect a hyper mobility disorder, and I’m currently studying art online which means a lot of being seated upright if not standing and it’s killing me because I’ve been on mostly bed rest since Christmas. Advil is hardly helping. Considering getting a new desk chair???

I’m sorry to hear you are dealing with that, and I hope you’re able to get some relief and answers soon.

And this is something I’ve actually considered doing an in-depth post on, because I didn’t really realize how much my work set up was contributing to my chronic pain until I managed to fix some of it. I will say right off the bat, having a desk that is the right height for you is crucial. I honestly didn’t realize how much damage I was doing to my shoulders and spine by sitting at a desk every day that was a mere few inches too tall for me. We’re talking pinched nerves, RSI and just general pain and fatigue all day long.

You should be able to sit comfortably with your feet flat on the floor, with your back supported by your chair, and with your keyboard within easy reach so that you don’t have to overextend your arms or reach up. Magic Physio Man basically had to teach me how I’m supposed to be able to type, which is having my elbows tucked comfortably against my sides, with my forearms parallel to the desk.

This is actually a fairly good visual from ergonomic trends, which is actually full of really good info on how bad desk posture can really fuck everything up, as well as some good tips on how to fix it:

Source: http://ergonomictrends.com/proper-sitting-posture-computer-experts/

As it is, I’m hobit sized, and finding a desk I could adjust to my height, either for sitting and standing has made a huge difference. There are likely cheaper models out there, and I think IKEA has started to come out with some really good electric desks (I know there are ones you can lower and raise manually, but if you have any sort of hypermobility issues I’m not about to rec any of those to you. I injured myself trying to lower and raise one of those, and I’m not even hypermobile) but it’s been a whole year of use now, and I will honestly say that my Uplift desk changed my entire work life and just my life in general.

https://www.upliftdesk.com/

I got an absolute beast of a desk (it takes up the entire length of my office wall lol) so I can spread out all my work, of which there is a lot, and so ETD can join me at my desk and help me with stuff and we both have space to write/type, but they do have smaller setups that would work in a smaller space and are also more affordable. And actually looking at their site their January sale is now in effect, and it looks like a lot of their desks are half price.

The products are sturdy as all hell, and I fully anticipate having this desk for the next 10-20 years and possibly even longer than that if I take care of it. They’ve also been really good whenever I’ve had any issues about getting back to me, and have literally sent out replacement parts for my desk within 24 hours of me emailing them. I really can’t rec them enough from a customer service standpoint, and their desks are solid af. Not sponsored, not nothing, just really like them lol

Also if you are hobbit-sized like me and getting a desk that goes low enough for you isn’t an option, adjust your chair so you can sit at the above angles, and then get yourself a footstool or a box or something to support your feet. That’s what I did for several months and it did help a little.

Speaking of chairs, this is something else I am also trying to fix, cause my current chair is too big for me, and isn’t supporting my back because I have to sit on the very edge to keep my feet on the ground. I get around this with added lumbar supports, either a cushion or something like this:

https://www.amazon.com/Easy-Posture-Lumbar-Support-Black/dp/B00LGCWXCO/ref=sr_1_8?keywords=lumbar+support+for+office+chair+mesh&qid=1578291879&sr=8-8

This one is Amazon is $20+, but my chiropractor literally recommended one that was $10 from a local office supply store, and it does exactly the same thing. So trying to shop around locally in office supply stores, if you can, might prove more thrifty.

Ergonomic chairs can be extremely costly, especially if you are trying to find one not built with the average American male height and build in mind, so I don’t have any chair recommendations just now because I haven’t gotten around to that yet! I know Uplift Desks do sell their own ergonomic chairs, but I haven’t been able to afford one yet. Again, ergonomic trends has some really good advice about height and angle, including some tips for back pain caused by sitting positions. So that’s well worth a read :)

(And perhaps some others might be able to rec good chairs to look into!)

Angled bed desks are also a thing! But I’d need to go try and find all my research for those, and I have no idea where I put that, so maybe that will be another post.

When it comes to art studies, I’m not sure what else you might need in terms of what you’ll be doing, but if you want to give me some specific examples I might have some workarounds for you! I hope some of this was helpful. And good luck with recovering and resting again, I hope things improve and go well for you.

#chronic health tag #skyhighreading

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lightsupinthenorth · 4 years

Text

Staring at the starry ceiling

Read on AO3

Steve has a secret. On several occasions, it came close to being discovered, but he has always managed to salvage it.

See, Steve is afraid of the dark. He’s never liked it, as a child, but it gets even worse after Barbara dies in his pool. Having to fight interdimensional monsters sure as hell doesn’t help either.

His fear is not that hard to deal with, thankfully. He just keeps a lava lamp on his bedside table, makes sure he keeps flashlights and candles in every room of his house in case there is a power shortage, tries to steer clear of sleepovers, and, when he actually has to spend the night with someone, well he just stays awake and tries not to panic until the other person is asleep. Then he goes to a room in which he can turn on the lights without disturbing anyone. He makes it work.

Nancy never notices anything the whole time they’re a couple.

So, after the breakup, when Steve starts having regular sexual encounters with Billy, he thinks it’ll be the same. He’ll do things the way he always does, and Billy, like Nancy and everyone else in Steve’s life, will be none the wiser.

It works, at first. It’s easy, even: Billy can never stay too long after they’re done fucking, because he can’t risk his father finding out he spent the night away from home.

But then Billy nearly dies and, as soon as he’s out of the hospital, he gets his own flat with the government’s hush money. He invites Steve over before he’s even moved in. In fact, Steve’s the one who helps Billy carry the few boxes containing his stuff into his new place.

He starts coming over often, but it doesn’t immediately threaten his secret’s safety, because Steve goes to Billy’s, they have sex, and then Steve leaves. He figures that’s what’s expected of him, anyway. Sex is kind of what their whole arrangement is about, right? Sure, after nearly losing Billy, Steve whishes they could have more than that, but he doesn’t want to pressure him or, worse, lose him entirely by asking for a commitment Billy’s not ready to take.

It goes on like this for a while, and it’s not perfect, but it’s fine. After all the shit that happened, Steve can do ‘fine’.

But, of course, it doesn’t last forever. Nothing ever does.

One night, as Steve is getting dressed to leave Billy’s flat, Billy says:

“You know you can stay, right?”

“Oh… uh… I can?” Steve stammers.

“Yeah… I wouldn’t mind… I really wouldn’t, actually.” Billy says, looking at Steve through his lashes.

“That’s… that’s nice… It’s just that I have the morning shift, so I’d better go home you know… so I’m not dead on my feet at work.”

The excuse Steve just gave is utter bullshit. Yeah, sure, he’s got the morning shift, but it doesn’t even start that early, and Family video is always dead in the morning, so it’s not like it’s going to be very challenging. Also, Billy lives closer to the place than Steve does, so staying the night would actually have made him save time (he would have had to borrow some clothes, but he’s positive Billy wouldn’t have minded much).

Billy also thinks it’s bullshit, if the way he closes off is any indication.

“Right… I get it. See you whenever, I guess.” He says before turning around in his bed, so he’s facing away from Steve.

Steve wants to yell that “no”, Billy doesn’t get it. But then he’d have to explain he can’t stay because he’s afraid of the dark like a five-year old kid (and not even a tough one). So he just leaves without another word, trying to ignore the knots in his stomach.

However, once he’s back at the Harrington residence, he can’t stop thinking about how down Billy looked. He doesn’t sleep all night because of it, and he does end up dead on his feet at Family Video the following morning. That’s karma.

Billy’s probably a bit mad at him, but it doesn’t deter Steve from going to his flat in the evening. He brings beer and a giant pizza from Billy’s favorite pizzeria as a way to ask for forgiveness. They don’t have sex, for once, but Steve still asks:

“Does it still hold?”

“Mh?” Billy mumbles sleepily.

“Your offer to stay the night, does it still hold?” Steve clarifies.

Billy seems a lot more awake, suddenly.

“Uh… Yeah. It sure does.”

“Cool.” Steve smiles, hiding the uneasiness he feels at the prospect of the darkness awaiting him.

When they go to bed, Steve waits until he thinks Billy’s asleep, his breathing deep and regular, and then gets up to turn the bathroom’s lights on. He leaves the door ajar so some of the light spills into the bedroom. If Billy asks about it in the morning, Steve will pretend he went to the bathroom and forgot to turn the lights off when he went back to sleep. Easy peasy.

He feels a bit guilty about rising the amount of Billy’s electricity bill, but he can always contribute. Billy will most probably fight him about it, but Steve will argue that he spends a lot of time at Billy’s and therefore should help with the bills, and they’ll call it a day.

It doesn’t exactly go according to plan, though. Because Billy catches on. Of course, he does. He’s far too observant not too.

One night, before they go to bed, Billy announces he has something for Steve. He assures it’s not much but that he thinks it might be helpful. Helpful for what? Steve doesn’t know and doesn’t ask, choosing instead to tear into the wrapping paper (because, yes, Billy wrapped the gift, which is awfully cute) and open the box it covered.

Inside, he finds a big round object with a wire attached to it.

“Uh… thanks. That’s… nice.”

Steve doesn’t know if he should admit he has no idea what Billy’s just given him. He doesn’t want to look stupid for not being able to identify it.

“Give it here, I’m going to show you.”

Steve does as he’s told and watches as Billy proceeds to sit on the floor and plug the thing, whatever it is, into the nearest power socket. As soon as he does, the walls and ceiling of the bedroom are covered in luminescent stars.

Oh…

“I also got a more low-key one, if you’re not really into the whole starry deal.”

Steve never wanted Billy, or anyone, to find out about his fear, because he’s always thought that people would laugh at him if they did. After all, what kind of grown ass man is scared of the dark? But Billy obviously knows, has known for a while, even, and he’s not laughing. He hasn’t even mentioned it directly. And he got Steve a fucking night light.

Steve’s frozen for a minute. He stays exactly where he is, staring unblinkingly at the stars on the walls.

“Right… You hate it. It’s okay, forget it. We can just sleep with the bathroom lights on.”

Billy’s quick to say, putting his hand back on the plug as if to pull it off from the socket. Steve kneels behind him and plasters himself over Billy’s back, sneaking his arms around his waist. It effectively stops Billy from unplugging the device, leaving them both under the soft glow of the artificial stars.

“I love it, babe. Thank you.” Steve whispers, beaming, even though Billy can’t see him.

Billy turns his head sideways and catches Steve’s upturned lips in a sweet kiss.

That night, under their now starry ceiling, engulfed in Billy’s heat, Steve sleeps more soundly than he has in years.

Thank you very much for reading :)

#Harringrove #Steve Harrington #Billy Hargrove #ficlet #fluff

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anthropwashere · 4 years

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deadfic: our indestructible days ch 1

More deadfic for the Good Intentions WIP Fest, though since the event’s over I’ll spare the poor mod yet more of my horseshit.

This was, in fact, the first fic I really tackled post 2017 BH watch! And boy does it show. I’m doing y’all a favor by editing it to hell and back before posting any of it, honest. Due to that however, I don’t know how many chapters there will be. At least 4, since that’s as far as I’ve gotten in the editing process. We shall see!

All you need to know for this one is: What if Kimblee didn’t stop Pride from possessing Ed on the Promised Day? :)

Title comes from Puscifer’s “Dear Brother.”

The air burns against his flaking skin, molten stone growing dark yet still radiating a dangerous heat. Everyone else has gone after Father, the rattle and scrape of transmuted stone fading. It's just the two of them now, the alchemist and the homunculus, and Pride has the upper hand.

“This container won’t last much longer,” he says matter-of-factly, leaping down to stand before the boy. In the dusty sunlight filtering in from above Edward Elric’s eyes shine, catlike and calculating. His breathing is ragged, spit between clenched teeth. He’s pinned by cords of unyielding shadow. If he struggles much harder, Pride might break something.

That thought demands brief consideration. It would be satisfying to take Edward apart bone by brittle bone, to take his pound of flesh for the damage incurred to his Philosopher’s Stone. The left arm would sever easily, if he but sharpened his shadows. Tempting, yes, but ultimately pointless.

“But still,” he continues thoughtfully, a new plan already fallen into place. “Like my father is, you are of Hohenheim's bloodline. We’re virtually brothers. Which means, Edward Elric, I can use your container. Your body belongs to me!”

It is an easy thing to invade the bloodstream, entering through a thin cut on the boy’s cheek. Pride fills every vein and artery with shadows until Edward’s heart is smothered, his blood sludge. He ignores the screams, the uptick in thrashing. This is tricky work, something only achieved twice before, and he hadn't seen either success firsthand. His Stone is too big for such a little cut. He spares a tendril of himself to stab the boy's chest, wrenching open a wound big enough to deposit his core directly against the thrashing heart within. Connective tissue regrows at a breakneck pace, sewing him irrevocably into a body a thousand times more complex than his original container.

With that taken care of Pride lashes out with a snap of white teeth, unfettering the strangled soul. The body still writhes, pain a thing of the flesh rather than the spirit, but there is less resistance after that. If it's lucky, the boy's soul will be absorbed into his Stone, its energy and knowledge assimilated, made useful. Then again it could simply burn up in the transference, an ember caught in a cold wind.

Either way, that which was called Edward Elric will no longer be a concern.

What a big fuss Wrath made of it, with his story of the man who became a homunculus who became King. A little pain suffered is nothing, when the alternative is death.

Edward’s screaming makes this all the sweeter.

Without its contents, his old container collapses to so much dust and an empty pile of clothing, and—

—ah.

There are memories, kept just beneath the surface of Edward’s dying panic. The mind is easy to parse when the soul is absent. Old night terrors, old horrors. Loneliness. What a childish thing to fear.

A heartbeat.

Another.

Waiting— dreading— the body’s rejection of him.

But it never comes. Barely a shudder of resistance, the only lash of alchemical reaction his Stone instinctively healing injuries the boy had incurred.

The silence after that's finished is a breathless, giddy surprise.

Pride tests his new container carefully, casting an unhappy glance at the automail arm he’s now saddled with. It’s an unpleasant weight, cold and heavy; the leg much the same. It'll take time he doesn't have to adjust to them. How pathetic, that humans must rely on machinery to recover from serious injury. Once he’s regained some of his strength he’ll have to do something about them.

Something shifts within him, a sensation not unlike vertigo stealing his breath. Pride hesitates, wobbling on unfamiliar limbs, but the feeling passes. He smiles. A strong bloodline indeed.

“Fight all you wish,” he says aloud. “I've won.”

Even his voice has changed. His true voice is marred, pitched deeper. Weighed down. He is weighed down by this new container. It's strange. This is all very strange. But he must adjust quickly, for the battle isn’t won yet.

He shakes unfamiliar blond hair from his new container’s eyes, looking up through the hole punched through the many underground floors beneath Central Command. Four thin stone pillars ascend through it, stretching all the way up to the parade grounds. Such a distance. Even the sacrifices shouldn't have been capable of stretching so much material so high without it collapsing. What did they do? What was that array they activated that allowed them to perform alchemy again?

The fight has shifted. He must return to the fray, now that he’s been renewed. Father would—

Father expects him to—

No.

Not yet. He’s not strong enough to rejoin that fight, yet. His Stone was damaged even more than they’d anticipated when he forced Mustang through the Gate.

Pride sniffs, tasting the air. There are humans nearby; more souls to consume. He licks his lips and sends his grinning shadows upward.

He is hungry.

Major General Armstrong kneels beside the body of Führer King Bradley, hating that she's been sideline for what is surely the most decisive battle Amestris has ever seen. Her men are up there, where that pale creature had ascended only minutes ago atop a pillar of molten stone. Bullets and mortars were near useless against the lesser homunculi; what could their Father be capable of?

Her pulse is still racing, a sour taste settled in her mouth. She knows acutely what it feels like to die, and the experience has left her feeling hollowed out in a way she's unsure of how to voice. She remembers a maelstrom of suffering, countless voices begging for release. It's not something she'd wish on a Drachman, let alone endure again. If not for the Elric brothers' father she'd still be trapped in that hell. They all would be.

Is it fear that still makes her heart pound, or cowardice?

Her lip curls. Fear is justified. Fear is the intelligent reaction. To fear something means you're paying attention. Cowardice, however....

She shakes her head. Four of the human sacrifices—Izumi Curtis, Alphonse Elric, Van Hohenheim, and Mustang—had been afraid, and yet still determined to stop that monster. Even blinded Mustang hadn't hesitated to fight on, utilizing the famed Hawk's Eye to direct his flame attacks. It's both begrudging and gratifying, to realize the man has a stronger spine than she'd thought.

The fifth, Fullmetal, is still below fighting Pride. There'd been sounds of combat, and then screaming, but it's gone quiet now. The distance and echo distorting the sounds had made it impossible to determine who had been doing the screaming. The lot of them on this level have been keeping a wary eye on the hole in the floor since then. They don't know what that particular homunculus is capable of and the only alchemist left here is the serial killer Scar, and he's in no shape to assist. The idiot boy had better not die while the battle's still on.

She eases to her feet, hissing pain despite her best efforts, and cats her sight on the blue sky above. A single blast of power had punched a hole in this underground labyrinth clear through to the surface. How can they defend against something like that?

Bah. Defeatist's talk. The alchemists will do all they can to do just that, and her men will support them. They're Briggs men. They'll do whatever it—

"What the hell?!"

"What is that?!"

She turns sharply toward where the few soldiers who'd insisted on staying behind as a protection detail are gathered. They've all drawn their weapons, aiming at the hole in the floor. Ribbons of—shadows—stretch up from below, splitting open to reveal red eyes and white jaws.

Damn! And here she'd thought Fullmetal had been left behind to fight the homunculus alone for good reason! Was the boy really so useless as to die now?

"PREPARE YOURSELVES!" She bellows, striding toward the lashing shadows. A glance is all she needs to know it would be futile to try and keep distance in a room as small as this. Better to be with her men. She may have lost the use of her sword arm but this is a fight she will not—cannot—leave for her men to fight alone. "Fire at Selim Bradley the moment he shows himself!"

The red eyes narrow. The white jaws grin. Grating laughter echoes off of the stone walls. "That container has been discarded, Major General," the mouths all say in the same mocking voice. "But are you really going to risk injuring this body?"

From out of the depths a figure rises, lifted up on tendrils of shadow to step lightly onto the rubble-strewn floor. Her men curse, guns dipping. Somewhere behind her Mr. Curtis and the frog chimera inhale sharply. She can't blame any of them.

The grinning boy with living shadows curling at his boots is Fullmetal.

"Edward," Izumi's husband says, hushed. The boy pays him no mind, eyes flat and cold as coins.

"It was wise of you to stay behind," Fullmetal—no, Pride—says, still smiling. The shadows stretch and curl, painting the room in streaks of black. "Your contributions to the war effort are greatly appreciated."

Too late, she understands what he means to do. "No! Don't you dare—!"

The shadows strike, and her men begin to scream.

"Edward Elric."

His name whispered out of the murk. A voice calling him awake. He can't pinpoint where it's coming from. Everything else is so loud. There are so many people nearby, all of them screaming, all of them begging to die. Everything is so red.

"Fullmetal."

He tries to put a name to the voice. He knows it. Doesn't he know it?

Fraying. He's being... stretched. Pulled apart. Losing his sense of self.

He's losing himself.

"Surely you're not going to roll over as easily as that, are you?"

He... he knows this voice.

A pinpoint of white, searing amongst all this writhing red. The shape of a man comes into focus. White clothes, long dark hair, the wide eyes of a madman, tattoos on his outstretched palms.

"K...Kim...blee...?"

The man smiles. "Ah, so you are still in there. Good, very good."

"Where... what is... this...?"

"We've both become a part of Pride's Philosopher's Stone now. Two souls clinging to our individuality amidst a howling mob of anguish." Kimblee rocks back on his heels, throwing out his hands. His face is a picture of bliss. "Isn't it exquisite?"

He looks away, out at the writhing, the screaming. Nothing but gaping mouths and dark eye sockets everywhere he looks, the barest suggestions of human shapes. Souls. How many died to make this Stone? "It's—loud. No. No, this. This isn't. This isn't what I...."

It's getting so hard to think.

Kimblee looks almost disappointed now. "Tell me, Edward Elric. Are you truly so weak as this? Unraveling at the first glimpse of something beyond your control?"

He looks down at himself. Two arms, two legs. No automail pulling insistently at his bones. Of course not. He's only a soul, nearly as red as the others twisting all around him. He's inside a Philosopher's Stone, which makes him only one more lost soul. Wisps of red peel from his limbs, chafed and scraped away by the chaos pushing and pulling at him from all sides. He's falling apart. Losing himself. Soon he'll be nothing but babbling energy, regenerative power for the homunculus he's become a part of. For... for....

"Pride."

Kimblee raises one curious eyebrow. "That's right."

"Where—Where is he?"

"A bit preoccupied eating to overhear this conversation, if that's your concern."

He—Edward, he's Ed, gotta stay focused, he can't slip again, his name is Edward—strains, struggling to remember what happened. How he came to be like this. He was.... There had been.... Pride. Selim had been badly—injured? damaged?—after forcing the Colonel through the Gate. His container was failing. He'd pinned Ed down—pain, it had hurt—and declared that Ed would be... that Ed's body would be....

Ed's just a soul now. He doesn't have a body, no skin to prickle and no breath to catch, but a chill runs through him all the same. "He. He took my body. He made me his new container. Didn't he?"

"That's right."

No matter where Ed looks it's all souls, no glimpse of what's going on outside this Stone. Ling—and Greed, for that matter—have always had a good idea of what was going on when the other one had been in control of Ling's body. How did they—

Hold on.

Ed looks back at Kimblee, who just smiles pleasantly back. Eating. Pride can't hear them right now because he's eating. The hell does that mean?

"I can't see," Ed snaps, shoving at a soul that's drifted uncomfortably close. His hand is paler, more defined than it was before. He's got a good grip on himself again. He really should've paid more attention when Ling talked about the meditation shit he did while Greed was refusing to share. "Ugh. Where is he? What's he doing, Kimblee?"

Kimblee chuckles and waves his hand. The tempest of screaming parts like a theater curtain; bright light spills in that leaves Ed blinking and shading his eyes. He goes to it anyway. He has to know what Kimblee meant—

His sight adjusts, and he's looking at a bloodbath.

There's red sprayed across the near wall, splashed along the floor, drips and splatters and scraps of tattered uniforms everywhere he looks. A single soldier is in view, firing wildly right at Ed only to have the bullets deflected by a shadow pitted with familiar eyes and bloodstained fangs. The gun in the soldier's hands clicks, the clip emptied, and the shadow cuts him down. Ed can hear the brutal crunch of bone, the muted spurt of spilled blood, the ragged tearing of meat. He hears someone laughing. His voice. His stolen voice multiplied weirdly through the shadow mouths as Selim's had been.

Ed hollers, twisting away, but Kimblee's white hands hold him fast. The man's voice roars out, ragged with terrible glee. "Don't avert your eyes! Don't look away! That's your body out there, cutting those men down. Take credit for the destruction your hands have wrought!"

"NO! NO! That's not—it's not me—get the fuck off—I don't want this!"

"Then what are you going to do about it?!"

"—no, no, I don't—I—w-what?"

Once Ed's stopped struggling Kimblee all but drops him, still grinning from ear to ear. "I thought about interfering, when Pride first tried to take your body for himself."

"What?"

"I'm perfectly content in here, but he decided to throw away his honor as a homunculus. So proud to be what he is, that very quality he was named for, but the moment he found himself in grave danger he sought to escape into the body of a human." Kimblee snarls. "He's pathetic. A disgrace."

Ed watches his body's left hand rise, pointing at—Major General Armstrong? Her face is a mask of blood, and the rest of her isn't much better. Sig's beside her, one arm slick and hanging heavily, the other supporting Scar who looks like he narrowly escaped a meat grinder. Behind them he can just glimpse Jerso in his frog form, lying so still it's impossible to tell if he's still breathing. The window or whatever out into the real world flickers as—fuck—as Pride looks at another soldier spring out from behind cover. He empties his clip in record time, unerringly aimed at Ed's chest. Do any of the bullets hit? Do they hurt? The soldier's cradling his rifle strangely, one hand clumsily wrapped in bloodstained cloth.

"Why?" Ed asks, weary. A shadow arcs out, bristling with teeth, and bites through the man. He goes down with a bizarrely muted scream and another spray of blood. "Why didn't you stop him? This—this wouldn't be happening if you'd stopped him!"

Kimblee regards him, eyes narrowed, face unreadable. "Führer Bradley is a homunculus," he says conversationally. "And Greed. His vessel is human as well, isn't it?"

Outside, sounds of crunching, splattering, chewing. Ed watches a clean white uniform stain almost black with gore. "Yeah? So what?"

"I started to think a little, that's what." Another little chuckle. Fuck, this guy really is crazy. He's enjoying this. "The homunculi make such a fuss out of being better than humans. More evolved, above our petty fears and desires. They're so proud to be the puppeteers of this country, the hands on our yokes as they've guided us to this Promised day."

Ed watches the shadows finish off the soldier, nothing but a smear of blood and a couple glistening pieces of meat left behind. The window flickers again as Pride turns his head to regard the last of the survivors.

"It's funny," Kimblee says. "For how much they talk, they so rarely deliver on their promises. So I ask you, Edward Elric. What are you going to do now?"

The General. Sig. Jerso. Scar. They're going to die. Pride's going to kill them. For all Ed knows they might think he agreed to let Pride take his body.

He looks at his hands. He's nearly himself again, or at least as nearly like himself as he can be without his body. He's got two arms here. Two legs too. An arm and a leg, and a body, and the whole damn country on top of it now. He's made way too many promises to fail here.

Ed sets his jaw and leaps out into the light.

#fma #fullmetal alchemist #fmab #my writing #murder #cannibalism #body horror #you know what i'm about at this point lbr

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fallenfurther · 4 years

Text

A blanket of snow

Whumptober prompt 21

Virgil is out on a rescue when he finds out that an avalanche has buried Alan and The Bear. What makes it harder is that the local rescue teams are prioritising other people. With International Rescue's resources spread thin, Virgil has to finish up where he is before he can rescue his brother, but will he get there in time?

Read on AO3 or FFN or below

It had to be Alan, Virgil thought as he climbed into Thunderbird Two. It had to be the brother with little wariness of snow. Sure, he was cautious when with them, because he fed off the atmosphere they created. The rest of them didn’t like snow, it brought back too many bad memories, even for Gordon. Alan had been so young when they had lost Mum. He hadn’t understood at the time, he had wondered why she had never come home, where she had gone. The toddler had searched the house of shaky legs, looking for his mum. He would cry when she couldn’t be found. It had been Scott who had picked him up and comforted him. Scott who had rounded them all up and brushed down the black suits the day of the funeral. It was Scott that Alan got his thrill seeking streak from. That need for the adrenaline rush. Maybe that’s why Scott was wary of his friendship with The Bear, Alan’s internet idol, and why he had closed his eyes when Alan had approached him about going on a winter break with The Bear. Alan just wasn’t wary of snow.

*****

Virgil ran down the corridor of the tower block. A major gas leak had blown up a block of flats but the city's firefighting department was already attending fires in two other locations and required International Rescue’s assistance. It seemed like the arsonists were out in the droves. John had suggested the record heatwave in the area might be contributing, but the cause didn’t matter when people were trapped. The exosuit’s electronic screech accompanied his every step as he moved towards the most affected area. Gordon was handling the evacuation of the other side of the building. According to John’s scans they only had sixteen people left to rescue. Virgil slowed as he reached blockage. The jaws gasped the beam easily and he started to shift it. It was at this point that John popped up by his wrist.

“Virgil, how clos..”

“I’m kinda busy, John. Can’t it wait?”

Virgil stepped back with a grunt. The beam was heavier than he expected. Relying on the mechanics of the exosuit, Virgil lowered the beam to the ground without damaging any more of the structure. A little debris rained down muting the blue of his uniform, but nothing large enough to cause any problems. Lifting his wrist up he met the gaze of the space monitor. There was concern hidden in those eyes.

“Yes, John.”

“How close are you two finishing up there? Another rescue has come in.”

“Half an hour and we should have everyone out. What is the other rescue?”

“Avalanche.”

Virgil’s stomach sank. They all hated avalanches. They all knew how deadly they could be, and time was their enemy. Hypothermia could set in quickly. It’ll be a shock going from the heat to the cold but they would do it. It was the subtle concern in John’s face that stopped Virgil from signing off.

“Where is it, John?”

John swallowed. Those green eyes, tinted blue in the hologram, met Virgil’s.

“Chamonix, France.”

“That’s…”

“Alan’s involved. The local mountain rescue is heading out, but there are dozens of people caught up in it. I have his and Brandon’s locations, but they are much further up the mountain than anyone else trapped.”

“We’ll finish up here as quickly as we can. You hear that Gordon?”

“FAB. Finish up quickly.”

Gordon’s voice lacked its usual joviality as it echoed through the comm line. There was nothing like a younger brother in trouble to bring out the serious side of Gordon. Alan was his partner in crime and he would never leave his buddy out in the cold to die. John disappeared and Virgil pushed on with renewed haste.

******

Forty nine minutes later and they were in Thunderbird Two and preparing for launch. The last family Virgil had rescued had been in a bad way and it had taken longer to retrieve them. He was thankful that the ambulance service was onsite and at hand to whisk away all the injured, saving them a job. Gordon plonked himself down in the seat beside him, but instead of sitting back as he normally would, his back was ramrod straight. His head turned to Virgil and they nodded in unison.

“Let’s go get Alan.”

The knot in Virgil’s stomach tightened. So much time had passed already. Even in a crash bubble Alan would be feeling the cold. Fingers flipped switches automatically. Their designated flight path to France flicked up before him as Thunderbird Two thrummed beneath him. There would always be rescues that hurt, that sank deep into the soul before they had even launched. Gordon’s rescue came to mind. The vertical launch felt slower than that subdued takeoff, but Virgil held onto the hope that the end result would be the same. That Thunderbird Two would fly Alan to a hospital where he could recover, just as it had Gordon. This was a personal mission.

“Thunderbird Two launched, course set and ETA thirty one minutes. John, what’s the current situation?”

The holograms of John and Grandma popped up between the two pilots, both with the same expression of concern on their face. There was no way Grandma wouldn’t be monitoring the health of Alan right now, having lost her husband to the avalanche. Her medical knowledge was a bonus. Despite all Virgil’s training, Grandma’s intuition and experience far exceeded his and International Rescue was lucky to have her on board.

“The local mountain rescue team has started to rescue those on the lower slope where most of the casualties are located. I informed them of the location of Brandon and Alan but they don’t have the resources to spare. They want to focus their limited resources where they can do the most good.”

“Understandable. So it’s up to us to rescue our pair.”

“Exactly. From the inventory list I can see you’ve got two heat cones in the module. Considering the time since the avalanche I suggest making the most of this and slip the job.”

“I agree with this plan. I’ve been monitoring their vitals through the crash bubbles sensors. Both have severely reduced core temperatures and will be hypothermic when you reach them. Both are currently responding to my verbal communications.”

Virgil noted the data tab that popped up on his tablet. Scanning the crafts sensors already confirmed that she was at top cruising speed. Manual override could make her go faster, but there was only so much stress her engines could take and Brains was still annoyed at his various underwater manoeuvers. Was it a risk he wanted to take? Five extra minutes could make all the difference.

“What about Scott?”

“Scott’s still stuck trying to safely rescue the stranded climbers on Everest. He’ll be straight there when he’s finished, but his ETA will be after yours. I’ll send him to help the locals unless the situation changes.”

“Right. I’ll prepare the medbay ready. Gordon, fancy taking her off autopilot?”

“FAB.”

Virgil pushed up his controls and started rummaging through the supplies for the hypothermia kits. It would be best to treat them in the module, where the air would be cooler, to avoid shocking their bodies. The vibrations beneath his feet increased as Gordon coaxed Thunderbird Two to go faster. Carrying the two packs, Virgil headed into the belly of the craft to the module. He set up a stretcher on each side with the required equipment secured down but in easy grasp. He threw a thermal blanket onto the back seat of each pod. He sighed before pressing the data tab on his tablet. Brandon and Alan’s stats came up side by side. Both were suffering, but Alan, despite the high tech thermal clothes he was wearing, was smaller and his stats were slightly worse than Brandon’s. They needed to get there fast. Heading back to the cockpit, he took over control, checked the readings and pushed Thunderbird Two that little bit harder.

Virgil had managed to cut seven minutes off the flight time to France. John had already marked a suitable landing site for him and as soon as Thunderbird Two was stationary both he and Gordon were out of their chairs and racing towards the module. Gordon was straight on the mechanism, lowering the module before configuring the pods. Virgil used the time to check Alan and Brandon's vitals. Both were critical but Alan's had deteriorated further than predicted. Virgil jumped up into the pod and yanked the top closed.

"I'll get Alan, you get Brandon."

The look Virgil gave Gordon quelled any arguments. Instead Gordon revved the pod's engine as they waited for the hatch to open completely. They raced out into the snow, heading first in the same direction before Gordon veered off to the left. Brandon was further down the slope. Virgil climbed, watching the little blob that indicated his brother get closer and closer. He had to slow to get the positioning right but the moment it was all lined up he whacked on the heat cones and let the pod do its job. The sensors knew when to stop and Virgil trusted them despite the shake in his hands as he gripped the controls. The pod stopped and slowly the red of Alan's bubble came into view. Virgil activated the arms and grabbed one of the holds on the bubble. Slowly he backed out of the hole and onto the surface again.

The pod clicked back together and rolled back, moving the bubble well away from the newly made hole. Hitting the brakes, Virgil threw the hatch open and jumped out. His fingers grabbed the zip and yanked. The bubble opened to reveal Alan. Relief tried to slip in but Virgil knew better. Alan's skin was pale, his lips had a blue tinge and he wasn't shivering. All bad signs. Reaching in, he unclipped Alan, grabbing him as he fell. The bubble deflated completely but it had done its job. Carrying Alan, Virgil carefully climbed up into the pod and lowered his brother into the back seat. Slipping a hand beneath Alan, he retrieved the thermal blanket, which he unfolded and wrapped around his brother. Alan's eyes flickered, catching his for a moment.

"Virg…"

Alan's voice was weak, but at least he was just about conscious.

"It's me, Alan. I'm here." Virgil rubbed his brother's arm. "I'll get you in Two and warmed up in no time."

Alan's eyes closed but a small blue smile came to his face. Virgil twisted in his seat and grabbed the controls, turning the pod in the direction of Thunderbird Two.

*****

Virgil spent the flight to the hospital dashing between his two casualties. Brandon was more alert but wasn't doing much better than Alan. He had needed help to strip off his many layers. Although the top layers were dry, thanks to the bubble, his bottom ones would contain sweat which wouldn't help his condition. Virgil wrapped the foil blanket around the now bare man, he then piled on a couple of blankets. Once sorted he went back to Alan, who he'd already given the same treatment.

Alan's skin was still a sickly pale and those blue eyes were closed. Virgil placed a hand on Alan's head. Alan's body temperature was still dangerously low, however it had stabilized. Virgil's finger stroked the cool skin of his brother’s forehead and wished there was more he could do. He knew Scott would be beside himself with worry, and that John would be preparing to come down from space when everyone had been rescued. The whole family would be around Alan soon. His brother's eyes flickered open, the blue irises shrinking against the light before finding Virgil.

"Hey Alan."

Alan's lips shuddered as he tried to say something. Worry and fear filled those young blue eyes. Moving his free hand to Alan's arm and giving it a squeeze, Virgil fixed his gaze with Alan.

"We've got you."

The worry slipped from Alan's eyes as they started to water. Virgil wanted to wrap his arms round Alan, to pull him close, but knew he shouldn't. Instead, he squeezed Alan's arm again, letting his brother know it was okay.

******

Virgil sat in one of the seats in Brandon and Alan's room. The hospital had put them together for security reasons, but Virgil had to admit it was good for the friends to be together. They were supporting each other through their recovery. Brandon was almost back to his excitable self and already planning his next extreme adventure, much to the displeasure of Scott. Scott had coped surprisingly well, considering, though Brandon seemed intent on testing Scott's nerves. The Commander of International Rescue could only take The Bear in small doses. Virgil had a feeling he was going to have to encourage Scott to have lunch with him soon. Alan was cheerful again, though still feeling the effects of hypothermia, even if he wasn't saying it out loud. A few more days and these two would be discharged. Grandma had signed Alan off International Rescue duty for a week post discharge, subject to extension if required. Virgil was sure Alan was looking forward to the warmth of their island and the comfort of home. With John scheduled for downtime at the same time, Virgil couldn't wait to have the whole family back under one roof.

#whumptober2020 #no.21 #hypothermia #thunderbirds are go #fic #Virgil Tracy #alan tracy #Gordon Tracy #the bear #brandon berrenger #snowboarding #avalanche #brother in trouble

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trifoliate-undergrowth · 4 years

Text

This year I lost my dear husband, James (QUIT TELLING EVERYONE I’M DEAD)

Putting this on Tumblr too bc it’s a oneshot (~3,000 word?), and I know Tumblr eats links, but if you want it on AO3 the link to my account there is in my blog header.

It was a perfect day for the Lonely, damp and cold and foggy, and he knew Peter would be doing something interesting now that he was back on land, but he hadn’t thought it would be this.

Elias had expected to find him lurking outside the Institute, looking searchingly at everyone who left until he got some sign of recognition (okay, maybe Elias had fantasized about that a bit, and about coolly ignoring him for a few days before pretending to meet him for the first time, pointedly asking if he was lost). Or, if he felt like doing something sensible, maybe trying to identify the new Head of the Magnus Institute, not that Elias thought his nonexistent research skills and horror of human interaction would get him far there. More likely he’d pretend nothing had changed and simply go about his usual lonely business, waiting for Elias to contact him, too proud in his carefully cultivated self-sufficiency to seek him out at all.

But none of this had happened. Instead, he had scared the new tenant at James Wright’s flat half to death by appearing suddenly in her living room (she was convinced he was a ghost and had come to the Institute to give a statement, hilariously enough), and then, after a few hours of frenzied attempts at figuring out where his husband had gone, he’d finally found his obituary in a newspaper and disappeared into the Lonely to… sulk, or whatever it was he did in there. It took too much effort for Elias to watch him in there, and besides, it was impossible to do without making his presence felt, and he wanted to maintain the element of surprise, so he left him alone.

The next time he was able to find him, Peter was sitting on the still-bare mud of James Wright’s grave with a bottle of whisky, the mists clinging to him like the hands of ghosts.

Huh. Well, that was new.

Pothead filing clerk Elias Bouchard did not have good clothes, and the new Elias was still working on replacing his entire wardrobe with things more suitable for a Head of the Institute, but he could manage. He had his suit, and he’d kept one of James Wright’s long black coats. He flung it over his shoulders at the entrance to the graveyard.

He couldn’t see Peter from here, at least not with his human eyes, and that was all he was using.The fog thickened around Peter. But he Knew where he was, so he started walking. The grass squelched under his shoes when he stepped off the path, and he grimaced, placing his feet carefully to avoid slipping, trying not to get any mud on his shoes.

Slowly, as he walked deeper into the mist, a human figure appeared, slumped against one of the headstones.

He Knew that if he hadn’t had preternatural sight he wouldn’t have been able to find him at all, so it wasn’t surprising that Peter, who would usually hunch himself a bit deeper into the mist and will himself to be unnoticeable, looked up, confused by the intrusion.

Elias made a conscious effort not to Look at him, but only to meet his eyes and give a brief nod. Not a trace of Beholding. Just a man wandering the graveyard, intrigued at finding a drunken sailor sprawled across a fresh grave.

He couldn’t stop himself from staring a bit at the place where Peter’s legs slumped against the wet earth, mud soaking into his trousers. Why would he sit there. Sitting on the wet grass would have been bad enough, but right in the mud, really? And since when did Peter own a black dress shirt? Was he… he was. He was wearing all black. He was wearing all black, crying on James Wright’s grave. He was crying. He’d been almost certain he’d Seen it wrong before. After all, it was a wet day, he’d assumed it was rain. Peter would never let himself enter the real world in such a state. But here he was…?

Peter scrubbed his cheek with a muddy hand and screwed the cap off his bottle, clearing his throat with a distinctly dismissive sound. Elias, disregarding his implicit plea for solitude, walked closer.

“Friend of yours?”

Peter glanced at him briefly, coldly, before tipping the bottle back. Probably cursing himself for not noticing when someone broke through his shroud of mist, for not isolating himself better. But that was just a guess. Elias couldn’t look into his mind; the mist made it a gamble at the best of times and anyways Peter knew what it felt like. He couldn’t give himself away yet. The mystery was so exciting.

“I knew him,” Elias commented, looking at the fresh new headstone, granite shining under a pale coat of water. Peter was leaning against it, obscuring most of the inscription, but he knew what it said.

“Lots of people did,” Peter grunted. “Think I’m the only one who didn’t hear about it when he died.”

Ahaha! Was Peter Lukas lamenting his lack of connection to the rest of humanity? That thing he so carefully cultivated and was so very very proud of. That thing? Hilarious. Or, maybe he was just malingering to feed the Lonely. That was probably it.

“No?” Elias prodded. Peter sighed.

“I was away. No one took the trouble to contact me.”

Had he assumed that one of the more socially-integrated Lukases would have gotten in contact with him if something important happened? Funny. He was pretty sure the Lukases expected Peter to give them updates on Elias, if anything.

“That must have been hard. When did you find out?”

“Yesterday. What do you want?”

Elias considered introducing himself as Head of the Institute. Seeing his reaction would be lovely, but he wanted to drag it out a bit more, see if Peter could figure it out himself. If not, he could mock him later for not being able to put the pieces together.

“Some privacy,” said Elias, leaning one arm against the headstone, “but it seems you had the same idea as I. How did you know him?”

Peter considered this for a moment. “Work,” he said.

Hah. That was amusing. Did he really see it like that? It had been a long time since they had dropped that pretense. Not that the Institute didn’t still rely heavily on the contributions of the Lukas family, but their last several marriages had been private, more for personal reasons than for, as he so eloquently put it, work. Even when they were estranged, he and Peter stayed on decent terms, and after so many years he trusted Peter not to cause problems for him with his family; especially as he continued to offer them any useful information (and any lonely statement-givers) that came his way. The Institute and the Lukas family were allies. That didn’t mean that the two of them had to be married, yet they kept doing it anyway. It was stupid but Elias had long ago resigned himself to it. They both had a weak spot for the other, and like good allies they’d silently agreed never to talk about it. But here Peter was lying in the mud and grieving.

“Interesting, so did I,” said Elias. “Best place to meet him, I believe. The man hardly left the Institute.”

Peter chuckled softly. “Sounds about right.”

Elias thought about interrogating Peter about where he worked and how he’d supposedly met James, but decided not to. If he made him too uncomfortable Peter might just disappear before he could reveal himself, and that would be a shame. And he hadn’t come here to catch him in a lie, he’d come to ask him about James Wright.

“Did you know him well?” asked Elias.

Peter stared into the mist.

“Pretty well, yeah.”

“I think I did too,” said Elias, tracing the headstone’s inscription with his fingertips. “We… yes. We were close.”

He’d hoped to get some reaction with that. Peter considered for a few moments, then silently offered him the bottle. Elias, who’d tried Peter’s whisky before, knew better.

“Thank you, no.”

Peter took the drink himself, and Elias was… concerned about the amount of liquor he was consuming.

“Not planning on joining him, are you?”

Peter just grunted. “…You liked him, huh?”

Elias laughed softly. “Anyone would,” he said sappily, and was pleased to see him carefully not react. He was getting the message, and oh, how he wished he could see how he was reacting to it under that mask. Surely he wouldn’t keep the stoic act too long, he was already daytime drinking on a fresh grave, there wasn’t much lower he could fall. Elias let his voice drop. “I… loved him.”

“Mm,” commented Peter. He placed one hand on the mud beside him, gently pressing into the earth, and kept it there. “I wasn’t around much,” he said quietly.

Well what on earth was he supposed to make of that? He was trying to make Peter jealous and he had very rarely failed at something so completely.

“Do you know, was he alone when he died?” asked Peter.

“Yes.”

“Pity. He was terrified of death.”

“Isn’t everyone?” asked Elias, perhaps a little sharply.

Peter shrugged. “It scares me enough, I suppose, but it doesn’t bother me the way it did him… it seems restful. Resigning yourself to the way of things. I’m not rushing to meet it, of course, but there’s a kind of unflinching beauty in death. No one’s immune, much as we might pretend. In the end, we all face death alone.” He stretched one leg out in the mud, pressing his hand deeper into the earth so that his fingers started to disappear. “And frankly it would solve a lot of problems. Wouldn’t have to turn in budget reports, for one thing.” He chuckled. “yes, it seems peaceful.”

“Not to me. Have you seen people die?” said Elias.

“I have. Many times. The fear is felt by those who are left watching, the dead are beyond it.”

“Because they’re gone. Doesn’t that scare you?”

Peter tilted his head back, let it rest against the headstone, and looked at the dimly-visible silhouette of bare branches against the pale sky. His hair lay in damp strands across his forehead, and Elias Did Not think about brushing them back.

“In the eyes of death I’m already gone. Aren’t we all? We exist for a moment. Like bubbles in the stream. Here a moment, then breaking; always in motion. I’ve always known how… transparent it all is. You can’t really touch anything without falling through,” Peter said.

Well that was new. He was babbling, words starting to slur. Elias decided that he’d have to reveal himself soon, before Peter drank himself so deeply into incoherence that he wouldn’t be able to react to the surprise. That would be a waste.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter after a pause, “I doubt others see it the way that I do. But death has never held any particular terror for me. I’m more afraid of pain, or sickness. Being deceived. Those are things that happen when you’re alive.”

Especially that last one, thought Elias. Peter started to set the bottle down (thank goodness), thought about it for a moment… and started to unscrew the top for another swig. Elias, acting on impulse, swiped it out of his hands. Peter turned to glare at him.

“Listen, I know we’ve only just met but I’m not watching you drink yourself to death over some man you barely knew.”

Ah, finally, a reaction. A spark of rage appeared in Peter’s face, but passed before it could translate into motion. Elias, who’d been tensed for a fight, slowly relaxed.

“You’re right,” said Peter quietly, looking off into the mist. “I didn’t know him. No one really does.”

“What?”

“Know each other. You just… see the outside of someone, and you guess about what they’re really like, but you’re never quite right. People exist apart from you. And that’s very lonely. Almost as lonely as death.”

Elias muffled an exasperated sigh.

“Well, if that’s your belief, surely it can’t be hard to replace someone who’s left you. One person must be as good as another if you can never really—”

“No. I still miss him.”

A warmth spread through Elias’ chest. There, he had it loud and clear in plain words. He was going to hold on to this memory and the next time Peter tried to pull that “oh I’m an emotionless avatar of Forsaken incapable of human bonds” he’d beam it directly into his brain so hard he got a fucking nosebleed from the sheer amount of raw, human, embarrassing grief. Elias wondered if this would be useful blackmail material.

“I know that smile.”

With a start, Elias realized that Peter had leaned back and was looking up at him, frowning. Ah, he’d blown his cover. Well, this was as good a time as any.

“Do you?” he smiled. Peter looked intently at him. At his eyes.

“Jonah?” he said in a small voice.

Elias laughed.

“Took you long enough.” And as proof, he showed him a memory; James Wright’s stilled body with empty eye sockets, image blurred with pain as his new body adjusted to him. Elias Bouchard’s eyes, bloodshot, in his hand. Placing them in James Wright’s body and washing his hands, vision slowly clearing.

Peter sighed, closing his eyes. “Jonah. Were you trying to make me jealous of your narcissistic crush on yourself? I mean, it’s accurate; I’m just not used to that level of honesty from you.”

“Oh, “Jonah”? You must really be angry at me.”

“No, you just haven’t told me your name yet, handsome stranger.”

“Elias. Elias Bouchard, new Head of the Magnus Institute. Pleased to meet you, sailor.” Elias walked around the headstone to crouch closer to Peter, who was almost laughing.

“El-lie-as,” he said slowly, as if tasting the name syllable by syllable, and a chill ran up Elias’ spine. Huh. Very sensitive new body. Yeah, that was it. “It fits you,” said Peter. “Musical, pretentious, has the word lie in it.”

“Oh, shut up.” Elias leaned in for a kiss and Peter stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Elias, dear, why does this body smell like weed?”

“I’m… still airing the flat out.”

“Why does your body’s flat smell like weed?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Hm! Didn’t have you pegged for a stoner, Jonah. I’ll have to introduce you to some of my crew…”

“Don’t you dare.”

“You’re right, I don’t remember anyone’s names. You’ll have to introduce yourself.”

“Listen, I don’t think you have any right critiquing the habits of my body’s former inhabitant when I just found you lying in the mud trying to drink yourself to death.”

“Shut up. I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, that’s cute. Me? Really? You thought I was dead?”

“You’re not immune to heart attacks, Elias! They said it was a sudden heart attack, I thought you really died!”

“What, you think a little heart attack could kill me?”

“That is exactly the kind of attitude that makes me think your hubris is going to catch up to you one of these days.”

He was right, but Elias didn’t want to admit it. He tried to pick healthy bodies, but the thought that despite all his centuries of care and planning, one might just… break down on him…

“C’mere,” said Peter, tugging on his tie. “I’d better start getting used to that smell.”

“I’m not joining you in the mud, Peter, get up.”

“Too drunk. C’mon, you’re already muddy.”

Elias remembered that that was the hand Peter had gotten all muddy before touching him. Looked down at his shirt. Groaned.

“Oh, for—”

Peter chucked him under the chin, deliberately smearing mud on him, then grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him down in the mud while Elias was busy glaring at him. Elias swore.

“Oh, shut up. I think this is a very lenient revenge for letting me think you were dead.”

“Well that’s your fault for not being smarter.”

Peter pinned him against the solid cold of the headstone and kissed him and oh he could not let him know how much he was enjoying this or he’d never live it down. Peter was cold and smelled of grave dirt and whisky and still, faintly, of the sea. It was a new experience, but still Peter.

“You’re a mess,” said Elias, resigning himself to his muddy fate with a sigh. At least he’d fallen on top of his coat, and it was keeping the worst of it off him.

“And? I’m assuming your new flat has a shower,” said Peter.

“It does. Only a shower,” Elias complained. Peter laughed.

“Oh, noooo, no bath? You’ll survive, you spoiled Victorian. I’ll even show you how it works.”

“I know how to take a shower!”

“Turning down the offer?”

“…No.”

“Good.” Peter traced the shape of his face with a muddy finger. Elias grabbed his hand and pushed it away.

“Could you at least use your other hand? The one that’s not caked in mud?”

“No, I don’t think I will. This mud was the closest I thought I’d ever get to you.”

“And that bothers you? Really? Mr. Lonesome, Eternally Alone Lukas?”

Peter got an odd expression. He didn’t like Elias calling him out on his many contradictions. He could argue quite convincingly if he was in the mood, but he apparently wasn’t. “Shut up,” he said, and kissed him again.

This little experiment had gone well, Elias decided.

#fanfiction #lonelyeyes #lonely eyes #elias bouchard #peter lukas #the magnus archives #personal #Elias is far too dramatic to just TELL his husband he's transferred to a body #much funnier to just let him come home expecting James Wright. who is deceased

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tisfan · 4 years

Text

May I take Your Coat?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288321 For @livewire28

Bucky is a selkie, headed into the human world to find a potential mate. He has no intention of staying very long... until he does.

Wanda is closing up the tiki bar for the night and wishes this last-minute customer would hurry up and go... until she doesn't.

Inspired by several tumblr posts I’ve seen where the human offers the coat back after knocking it down, or whatever.

Bucky flopped up on shore, scratching his belly over the sand and wending his way up to the rocks. There was a cave there, long since used for such purpose. Human things were stored there, neat and tidy. If he was lucky, the rain barrel would be full and he could take a bit of a bath.

Long gone were the days that a half-dressed, scruffy stranger could walk into a seaside town and not immediately be run out by the local coppers. There were standards. He couldn’t look like a vagabond.

Humans were weird.

Bucky made his way to the cave and then shrugged out of his coat.

It always took him a moment to find his land legs again, and he was glad enough that there weren’t people looking at him. Not even his own kind.

The cave was cool, and well laid out, the earthen floor long since cleared of stone and debris, flat and firm under his feet. A few human style chairs were set around a flat surface. Tabul, Bucky thought was the word, or close enough.

The rain barrel was full and he drew a few buckets into the tub to wash the salt smell from his skin, to scrub out his hair. Things they didn’t really worry about during their day to day lives.

He checked the gift box; trophies from past loves and gifts for new courted mates. Never stolen. Selkies weren’t thieves. Take one, leave one.

A fine string of black pearls, intermixed with a rose pearl every five beads. That should be well enough. Human women preferred jewelry, men preferred weapons. Or gold. There was some of that in the chest, too.

Bucky took his own offering, a handful of pirate treasure that he’d gotten from one of the wrecks nearby. The sea was hard on things from the land, aside from treasure. Eventually, someone would come, check the box. Gather up that which could be crafted. Everyone contributed because the system benefited everyone.

If you wanted a child, or a mate, you went through the cave.

Bucky found clothes there, sealed in a zip locked bag. He knew about those, too. Plastic. It filled the ocean, no matter how much the selkies tried to gather it up and toss it back on the shore. But it kept clothing dry and free from dirt and stains while waiting for someone else to be able to use it.

He dressed. Finger combed out his hair, gently untangling the strands. He looked well enough to pass for a local, he guessed.

Slinging his coat over his arm, Bucky put on loose-fitting shoes -- he hated shoes, all selkie hated shoes, but the humans got mad if you weren’t wearing them.

Stupid human rules.

But it was the only way to be sure.

If a selkie mated with another selkie, they could birth seal pups, which was tolerable, or a selkie, which was ideal. Or a human child, which was not ideal at all.

Humans no longer looked at a child left on the beach or the docks as a blessing. The child would end up in the human foster care, sometimes adopted out, sometimes neglected, but often taken far away from the sea, too far for their parent to find them, so they would never know… until some years, or even generations later, when they had their own child.

Who might be a selkie.

But any selkie who took a human as their mate, the child would be selkie.

For the women, it was easier; come ashore, spend a few days with a relatively tolerable human, come home and have the baby. The only time that went wrong was if the human found and stole the selkie’s coat.

For men--

Well, there were a few options. Selkies weren’t thieves.

But the cost of a child was high; the cost of living a half-life among humans was high.

Many selkie men chose to raise a child not of their blood, help provide for a child with a selkie mate, adopt the offspring.

It wasn’t a bad plan, not really.

But Bucky wanted his own child.

Was that too much to ask?

Wanda sighed as the man walked into her bar. There was no dress code, aside from yes, please wear clothes. It was a beach bar, tiki themed and tacky, but it meant no one expected the floor to be swept. It was almost closing time, though, and she’d already shooed the rest of the locals and tourists out.

“It’s already last call,” she said. “I can get you one drink, and anything that’s left cooked in the kitchen, but that’s all.”

“That will be well enough,” the man said, and he was beautiful, really. Dark, windswept hair that looked like he’d been swimming most of the day. Blue eyes, cleft chin. Cheekbones that would worry the TSA, they were that sharp.

The clothes, not so much. A tourist tee from one of the shops up on the strip and ugly shorts with pineapples on them. Sandals, which wasn’t typical. But he carried a brown silk sport coat tucked over his arm. Gorgeous, almost golden. Glittery, reflecting back the light from the imitation tiki torches. The shop owner didn’t like smoke from real torches, so they had ugly fake electric things. And light up palm trees. It was tacky as shit.

Which meant, at least, her customer mostly matched the decor.

She wished she didn’t have to work the night shift -- she was always cranky during the evening -- but school was in the morning. One of these days, she was just going to collapse. Trying to do two full time gigs, and her side-hustle where she consulted for people doing gardening and helped them lay out and select plants. She barely got any time to breathe. Certainly relaxing was all the way out of the question.

Which didn’t make her the best host to a customer coming in to eat a plate of cold fries and drink a beer.

“Long day in the sun?”

“Something like that,” the man said, sitting down at the bar, moving gingerly. He didn’t look sunburned. Maybe he was just sore. Too much swimming.

“Well, we’re closing soon, so you enjoy your food. Yell if you need something, but I gotta start clean up. I was supposed to have help today, but both the other girls called out,” she said.

“Is there anything I can do to assist?”

Wanda didn’t quite scoff. Like a tourist would want to help do the dishes or put the stools up. “It’s just basic stuff. Put the seats up on the table, rake the floor for trash, empty--”

The man got up, drained his beer, and Wanda half expected him to leave without paying, saying he was going to leave a bad review and would be back to talk to the manager, because honestly that was what she was used to. Tourists were people with money, and most of the time, they were entitled pricks.

Instead, he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, and then-- got to work putting up the stools.

“Thank you,” Wanda said. She probably shouldn’t let him help; Thaddeus Ross, her boss, would not be pleased with her if something happened to the man. Or even if he complained-- or if someone else complained. But she was so tired, really, what could it hurt, just this once? “My name’s Wanda.”

“Bucky,” the man said.

“Thanks, Bucky,” she said. “If you can do that, I’ll get the kitchen shut down, then take out the trash.”

“Will do, Wanda,” he said, and he stressed her name, like a caress.

She suppressed a shiver, headed into the kitchen. She didn’t have time or energy to worry about some guy.

Loaded the dishes into the industrial washer and started it. Sometimes she wished she had one of those at home. Once the dishes were in the rack, it took about four minutes to clean them. She had to be careful unloading because the dishes would be hot as hell, but it was nice.

And then she’d look at the space it needed and the cost and decide if she needed a plate in four minutes, she could just wash it in the sink.

By the time Wanda came back out to wipe down the bar, Bucky had put all the chairs up except the one he had been using, stacked all the trash bags by the door, and was raking the floor to get up all the random cigarette butts, spare change, and cruft that gathered around the tiki bar.

“Wow,” she said. “Nice job.” She took his plate back into the kitchen and left it by the washer. There was no point unloading the whole thing to wash one plate. Opening shift could get it tomorrow. “Here--” she snagged his jacket, flipped up the last stool, and then offered it to him. “Thanks for your help.”

Bucky reached out his hand tentatively for the jacket, as if he were shocked that she’d touched it. Or given it back. Or something. She couldn’t help petting it. The material was so soft.

But when he reached for it, his fingers brushing the fabric, a jolt of heat, of desire, of-- something passed from her to him and back.

“You-- want to go to one of the all night pancake houses up the way and buy a girl a cup of coffee?” her mouth said before her brain engaged. She never asked anyone on a date, even if she was interested.

“Yes,” Bucky said, and his voice was husky and seductive. “I would like that very much, I think.”

#winterwitch #bucky barnes x wanda maximoff #selkie AU

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detectiveguapo · 5 years

Text

Breathe

Summary: The unbearable loneliness of loving a bad guy takes its toll.

Pairing: Miguel Galindo x Reader

Words: 2744

TW: mild language, mentions of depression and addiction

---

“Let’s go for a drive.”

The rough voice breaks through your thoughts, and your immediate reaction is to grind your cigarette on the pool edge like you’re trying to hide a dirty habit. You release a nicotine-laced breath you’ve been holding and look up with guilt stamped all over your face. The owner of the voice looms over you, hands on his hips and an eyebrow raised. The blue glow refracts off the planes of his face, casting deep shadows under weary eyes. You hate that your insomnia is disturbing his sleep; you know how busy his days are and how stressed he is juggling his work on both sides of the border.

“Where are we going?” You take his offered hand, pulling yourself up so you’re face-to-face with him. He keeps his hand on yours. The water drips down your bare legs as he leads you back into the house. “Miguel.”

“You can’t sleep.”

“Let’s go back to bed,” you offer as you tug on his hand. He stills and looks over his shoulder, his expression soft and apologetic. “I can try.”

With a solemn shake of his head, he squeezes your hand and leads you through the side door into the garage. He reaches for a set of keys with an enamel racehorse.

“Should we get Paco or Nestor?”

“No,” he says. He opens the passenger side door to the red Ferrari convertible — his first car gifted to him by his father when he was barely old enough for a learner’s permit. He’s kept it all these years for its sentimental value; but you don’t recall the last time he used it (or the last time he drove — he always gets chauffeured). “We won’t go too far. Promise.”

When he gets into the driver’s side and starts the engine, you can’t help but feel like you’re at fault. You hate making him feel like he has to worry about you when he’s already got so much on his plate. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He asks with a soft smile before he kisses you. “You’ve done nothing wrong, my love.”

---

Somehow you feel like every other thing you’ve done to lead you to this man has been the wrong decision. Sure he’s made you the happiest you’ve ever been. He’s made you believe that you can love someone so much you’d be willing to sacrifice your world just to be a part of his. And yet, here you are overwhelmed with guilt over the fact that you’ve isolated yourself from everyone else you’ve ever loved just to be with him.

Once you’re on the road, Miguel leisurely drives through the bends and curves of the Santo Padre hillside. A long stretch of road opens up and he revs the engine before he bolts through at breakneck speed. As your back presses into the seat, you glance sideways to see the smirk on his face and the concentration in his eyes as he changes gear. Looking at him like this — genuinely happy — brings you a sense of calm. When it’s just the two of you, it reminds you of how much fun you have when you’re with him.

He’s the hand that pulls you out of the deep blue waters.

---

Miguel drives for another fifteen minutes before you stop at a lookout point overlooking the border wall. It’s a sight to behold to see the agricultural side of Santo Padre set in opposition to the vibrancy of light over in Santa Madre. In a way, it parallels the state of your life right now. Isolated up in the hills with just Miguel to keep you sane, while the life you once had continues beyond the metal gates of your new home.

“We need to talk,” Miguel says as he parks the car and leaves it idle. The ensuing silence is like fog — so thick and ominous. You want to wait it out, wait until it lifts before continuing on this conversation. “At some point, you need to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

You smile weakly in his direction.

“Babe.”

You swallow hard, parting your lips like you’re ready to divulge every self-critical thought contributing to your depression. But the words halt at the tip of your tongue. You can’t tell Miguel you’re losing yourself by being with him. You love him too much to hurt him like that. “I need some air.”

---

November in the desert is really no different from the rest of the year, only the nights are colder. The moment you step outside, your body wants to retreat back into the warm leather comfort of the Italian sports car, but you surge on. The ivory silk robe flutters in the breeze. Your bare feet hurt from the jagged surface of the earth. Standing on the edge, you look down below at the rocks — their flat surfaces lit by the pale glow of the moon. It’s a long way down from here.

“Come back.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls you from the edge and into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace. Your arms fall limply at your sides only prompting him to squeeze a little tighter. “Miguel, you’re hurting me.”

“I — I’m sorry.” He pulls away but still keeps you within arms reach, and he presses a long kiss to your forehead. “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong here. Please tell me because it’s killing me to see you like this.”

“Like?”

“Sad,” he says then chews on his bottom lip. “I don’t know. Depressed?”

Tears — the kind that burn — well up in your eyes.

He kisses one closed eyelid after the other, then he sighs.

“I’m sorry I’m like this,” you say quietly. Memories of the last several weeks enter your brain, and you’re reminded of those sleepless nights, the surface-level conversations over dinner, the lack of motivation to go into town to get anything done. Apart from your job, which you don’t even find to be a refuge anymore because you’ve noticed how everyone treats you differently, you’ve holed yourself up in that mansion on the hill. “This is probably not what you had in mind when you asked me to move in with you. But this is me, Miguel. This is who you get.”

He presses his lips together in a tight line and looks up at the night sky. He shakes his head, refusing to believe you — wanting to believe the honeymoon version of you. The girl who was falling in love and who could pretend that nothing else mattered, that it was just the two of them against the naysayers. But she’s gone. You left her down in the valley when you chose him over your family. When you chose the cartel over your own brother who died of addiction. When you chose love over principle.

---

Miguel walks back to the car and sits on the hood. He leans forward, resting his palms on his knees, his head hanging low. You can tell he’s pondering whether or not he’s made a mistake taking this huge step with you. It was easier when you started; no one else had confirmation you were dating the leader of the drug cartel. It was all rumours and whispers. Now, you essentially belonged to him.

As your friends and family found out, they began to stay away from you. A lot of them warned you not to fall for his charm. A few, who were never really your friends to begin with, used your connection to try to get something for themselves. If they weren’t using you to get to Miguel, they were leaving you in the dust.

The worst was your family. But who could blame them after the hell you all went through when your brother died from a heroin overdose 15 years ago? Miguel had been in the East Coast at the time, and wasn’t even involved in his father’s cartel business. He didn’t kill your brother, but to your family, he might as well have.

It’s fucked up. You know how fucked up it is to fall in love with him with your family’s history. It’s selfish and weak. This whole relationship is a ticking time bomb, and once it inevitably explodes, you’ll have no one else. And for what? Because he treats you like the queen in his castle? Because he fucks you so good you forget the terrible decisions you make?

Your mother once told you that you’ve given up everything just to be Miguel’s puta. You stay awake at night and tear through an entire box of cigarettes, thinking about what she said and always coming to the conclusion that she’s right.

How can you love and resent him at the same time? The push and pull takes a toll on the heart, and you’re just so fucking tired of it. You just want to go home, curl up in your mother’s arms where no one ever questions the context of that love.

---

If you were to take away the fact that he is the Galindo Cartel, it changes the context of your love. A businessman recruited your help in offering refuge to the children of one of the men in his payroll — a man working legally as a sub-contractor for the development of the agricultural park. However, ICE caught wind of the fact that the man was not a US citizen, ambushed him on his way to dropping his kids off at school, and imprisoned him in a cage along the border. He was a single dad of two young daughters; his wife had died of cancer only a year prior.

Miguel’s hands were tied as Lincoln Potter and the rest of the DOJ prevented him from getting involved with affairs that concerned immigration. But Miguel wasn’t a heartless man. He used his resources to find you and ask you to help him secure a place of refuge for the man’s daughters. “I heard you were the best at what you do,” he told you upon first meeting you. “So can you help me?”

A man in his power and position asking you to help him caught you by surprise. But it wasn’t the humility that left you speechless; it was this desire to be the best leader he could be by protecting his people and treating them well. It was his heart.

And after that, Miguel just never stopped surprising you.

---

You suppose it’s easy to think of a cartel kingpin as completely heartless. A sociopath who has nothing to contribute to society. And for people who see the world as black versus white, good versus evil — you can see where they’re coming from, but you refuse to take such a binary approach. You don’t want to come across like you’re idealizing Miguel, because everyone who’s been critical of you throughout your life has said you have the tendency to romanticize your partners. But you strongly believe there’s more to judge in people than the worst acts they’ve done. It’s true he’s all they say he is, but he is so much more.

He is darkness and light, and all the shades of grey in between.

---

Standing in front of him, you place your hands on his hunched shoulders. He stares up at you — sadness swimming in those brown eyes. It isn’t fair. He only wants to be with you, but you’re making it so hard to let him do that when you’re closing yourself off. He’s the reason everyone else abandoned you. He’s all you’ve got left, and you can’t abandon him. You’ve made your choice. As awful as it is to be disowned by your family and to be judged by people who know so little about you and Miguel, you would persist through it all if it means you can continue to love and be loved by this man.

“Te quiero mucho, Miguel.”

He takes your hand and presses it firmly against his lips. “Yo también te quiero, cariño.

You begin to take a seat beside him. A brow raised to ask the unspoken question if it’s okay to sit on the hood of a car that costs more than what most people make in a year. He laughs a little and pats the space next to him, then he drapes an arm over your shoulder. You lean into him and stare out at the night sky — a gradient of black to amber from the lights below.

“My sister asked me not to come to Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house,” you say. “She asked me not to come for Christmas or holiday or birthday parties as long as I’m playing house with you.”

Miguel runs his hands over his face and sighs. “Jesus. I’m so sorry it had to come to this.”

“Me too.”

“Is there anything I can do?” He turns to you, eyes pleading for answers. He’s a man of action, who can’t sit idly by as people hurt you and make you feel terrible. But he knows better than to fight back against your family, even though you can tell it’s the equivalent of putting him in restraints. “I don’t want you to lose them.”

You breathe out that last tiny shred of hope. “I already have.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits.

“You won’t.”

“But —“

“— I choose you.”

“You shouldn’t have to make that choice.

---

As the quiet settles, you think now is the time to tell the truth.

“My brother didn’t drown in the Salton Sea,” you tell Miguel for the first time in your relationship. The drowning was a story your family made up because of the shame associated with addiction. Your neighbours knew the story of your brother going to the beach on a summer weekend, and not waking up hours after a swim because of secondary drowning. “He was at the beach that weekend, but he bailed on his friends to try to score heroin. He got caught up in this bad crowd that pressured him into injecting more than he was used to…”

Realization dawns upon Miguel. He knows why people avoid him and don’t like him; it doesn’t phase him anymore. But the unyielding hatred he’s gotten from your family has been a source of confusion for him. Until now.

“You didn’t cause the overdose that killed my brother, but to my family, it’s like you handed him that needle.”

“I’m sorry.” A tear falls to his cheek and he quickly wipes away the evidence.

Wrapping your arm around his waist, you tuck your head under his chin. “It’s not your fault. I would never blame you for what happened. My family can’t understand that. I can’t make them understand that — no matter how hard I’ve tried. And I’m done. I’m so tired, Miguel. I’m so tired.” The sobs start to come out and you’re shaking. He wraps his arms tight around your body, his steady breath soothing the back of your neck.

“I understand now why you need to push me away sometimes,” he whispers softly against your skin. He strokes your hair and rocks you gently against his body. “And I’ll give you whatever you want — the space you need, the time it takes before you’re better. But please don’t leave.”

“I couldn’t.” You look up at him with tears streaming down your face. “The thought of losing you kills me more than the reality of having lost everyone else.”

Miguel holds your face in his hands and presses his forehead to yours. His eyes are sealed tight as he breathes against your parted lips. Something about sharing the air he breathes makes you feel like you’re enveloped in the comforting thought that you’ll be fine. You’ll make it out of this dark hole and find the light, and Miguel will be on the other side waiting patiently for you. You feel safe in his arms. You know he believes in you. Not this shadow of your former self, but you. And even if you can’t be that person tonight, he’s still here. He’s not going anywhere and he’s not letting you go. He breathes you in and that’s all it takes for you to feel enough. The thought settles you and you curl up into him, letting the steady beat of his heart lull you into sleep.

This love has been worth all the sacrifice.

#mayans mc #mayans fx #miguel galindo #danny pino #mayans mc imagine #mayans mc fic #mayans mc fanfic #fyna #100% angst #100% soft!Miguel

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

The Whole Truth - 5

(As promised - some answers this time, as well as angst, and fluff, and a bit of sap. It’s a long one, so get comfy, here or on AO3. Enjoy!)

Thursday

Aziraphale paced the shop, wringing his hands.

What on Earth had he been thinking yesterday? With any of it?

Crowley would think he’d gone mad. Probably already did.

Had he actually touched Crowley’s arm during dinner? Repeatedly? Let their knees brush together under the table? Ordered a shared dessert? His stomach hurt to think of it.

Not that the cake hadn’t been lovely, but he’d insisted on feeding Crowley a bite and, oh –

He pressed his hands to his mouth, wanting to remember every moment, wanting to forget entirely.

What if Gabriel had come to check-in? He’d said Friday, but it was always a possibility, always. He would have caught them, sharing a table, laughing over cups of coffee about humans they’d known through the ages, leaning close, so very close. Or walking back to the Bentley, hands brushing against each other, smiling like…

He picked up the telephone for the third time this morning, desperately dialing Crowley’s flat. He needed to tell the demon not to come. Needed any excuse to keep him away, or he…he didn’t know what he’d do.

But again, the line rang, and rang, and the foolish machine picked up, asking him to leave a message. He waited for the tone, then snapped, “Crowley. It’s me again. Do not come. Don’t – you need to stay as far from me as possible. I can’t—”

The roar of an engine, the muffled sound of Queen, and he looked up just in time to see the long black car stopping in front of his door.

A moment later, Crowley stepped out, another bag from the bakery. And…were those flowers?

It was worse than he expected. Aziraphale backed away in horror.

“Angel?” Crowley called through the door. Was it too late? Could he hide in the back room? “My hands are full, could you…?”

This shouldn’t be hard. Open the door. Tell him you don’t want to see him today. Don’t accept the lovely flowers. Don’t thank him for the pastries. And whatever you do, don’t pull him through the door, slam him against the wall and –

Oh dear.

He opened the door a crack. “Crowley. I. Oh, did you…change your hair?”

Crowley tossed his head, and now all his hair was loose and free, gleaming in the sun, and of course one strand got caught across his face and Aziraphale wanted to tug it free, to set it in place, to run his fingers all through that dazzling mass of red until—

“Just a bit. Thought I could use a change. Do you like it?”

“I do, I really do.” He slapped his hand over his mouth.

Crowley smiled, and it wasn’t sarcastic, it was genuine and heartbreaking. “Good. I – I thought you might. I, um, I got you these.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the white-and-yellow bouquet. “Daisies? Oh, I adore daisies. So bright and warm…”

“Yeah, I know. And they, um, remind me of you.” Crowley shuffled his feet, still on the doorstep. “I thought, if we’re going to be poring over that book for two more days, might as well brighten the place up a bit.”

“I.” Send him away. “I thought.” Send him away right now. “I don’t believe I…invited you.”

If the smile had been heartbreaking, the way it fell nearly destroyed Aziraphale on the spot.

“You. Aziraphale. You never invite me, I just…come.”

“I know.” He tried to keep his face straight, his resolve firm. “And that’s…that’s very much the problem, isn’t it? You just show up whenever you wish, unannounced, regardless of how I feel, or what I’m doing or – or who might be visiting!”

“Is someone there now?” Was Crowley even aware of the way his whole body tensed when he worried, coiled, preparing to spring into action? He wasn’t a fighter – he always preferred to flee and hide – but somehow any time his mouth pressed into that line of resolve, Aziraphale just felt safe. “Do you need me to cause a distraction? Just say the word.”

It was the perfect out. Tell Crowley Gabriel was here, that he had it under control.

“No. I’m alone.”

“Then what’s the problem? I told you last night I’d swing by as early as I could. Yes, I should have called first, but it’s not that big a deal, is it?” He moved as if to step through the door, though Aziraphale still stood in the way.

“Yes, it is!” Aziraphale pushed the door almost completely shut, so he could see nothing but Crowley, and the flowers. “It is very much a ‘big deal.’ You never think about these things, Crowley, and I have to worry on my own. You never change. What would you have done if Gabriel were here? Hmm? Do you even remember the time you almost walked straight into him, or did you conveniently forget that as well?”

“Of course, I remember.” Crowley’s voice was a low growl. “But you just said he’s not, so it does not matter.” He took a step back at least. “What’s he going to do, anyway? Put a bad comment on your quarter-century review?”

“He might! He might do a lot worse than that! Do you think anything like this—” he gestured between them “—this has ever happened before?”

“I don’t know, Angel. What is this? Tell me that!” But under the anger there was a note of desperation, and Aziraphale had to gnash his teeth to keep from saying something that would make the situation worse.

“Crowley,” he finally managed, sounding half-strangled even to his own ears. “I don’t want you to come in.” There was a strained silence, broken only by the crinkle of the paper around the flowers.

“Angel. Just tell me—”

“No, Crowley. Don’t ask me any more questions.” He was terrified of what answers he might give. “Just leave. Go – go far away, and do not contact me until I ask you to.”

“Fine.” The bundle of daisies tumbled to the step. “Fine.” Crowley strode back to the Bentley faster than Aziraphale had ever seen him move. “And don’t think I’ll be standing next to the phone when you call. I have better things to do with my time than wait for you.”

“I doubt that!”

But he was gone.

Aziraphale let the door drift open, as the flowers scattered and blew away in the wind.

He glanced up from the book, blinking blearily at the light. It must be afternoon by now.

Aziraphale didn’t remember much after the fight with Crowley – he rarely did, not for the serious fights – and the cup of ice-cold tea and stack of notes four centimeters thick were the only real indicators that time had passed at all.

He folded his arms across the book, leaning against them, breathing in the spicy smell. Tried not to think about how much he missed Crowley’s jokes and snide comments, the way he would bend over Aziraphale’s shoulder to look at the page, breath warm on his cheek.

“Don’t think about that. He wasn’t helping.” He scolded himself. But, really, for all his notes, he’d contributed as much to this translation as Crowley. Aziraphale was getting nowhere, and he only had another day.

What would Crowley do, if he were here?

Terrible question. Better to ask what Gabriel would do, or one of the Scribes of Heaven. They would surely have some wonderful idea for a new angle to attack the text from that would force it to reveal its secrets, and not a moment too soon.

But Crowley would suggest going for a walk. Feeding the ducks. Getting something to eat.

It took ten minutes of searching to find a satchel, just the right size for the book. He slid the heavy tome inside and headed out.

“Seven, huh?” Eliza smiled, sliding the last tiropita into the customer’s bag. “Guess you like these.”

“Oh, yes, they’ve been my favorite mid-afternoon snack for the last two millennia.” The customer – she recognized him as the old man from the bookshop down the street, the one that was never open – seemed startled by his own joke. “Only they’ve been rather out of fashion in this part of the world until recently, so it’s nice to have them available again.”

“Right,” she smiled, punching the order into the till. “Well, I hope they’re as good as you remember.”

“Oh, the modern recipe doesn’t use nearly enough honey, but I find I enjoy them nonetheless.”

Weird bloke, she thought, fighting to keep her customer-service-smile in place. Probably harmless, though. “Going for a walk?”

“Yes, I’ve been rather caught up in a project, but I’ve made no progress on my translation for several days. I’m hoping a change of scenery will help.”

“Oh, translation, huh?” she showed him the total, and he handed her a few notes. “I’m taking German this year. Supposed to help with the grad program I want. What’s yours?”

“It’s a text of no known language that foils every attempt at decipherment,” he said as she counted out the change. “Furthermore, there is a curse upon it which could destroy half of London if tampered with.”

“Yeah.” She handed over the coins and bag, trying to make sense of that one. “My sister said the same thing about her Latin class, but she’s always been a bit mad.” Eliza glanced out at the sunny street, wishing her shift would end already. “Enjoy the weather.”

“I hardly think that possible, as I had a terrible fight with a very dear friend this morning, and I don’t believe he will talk to me again for quite some time. I would much rather it were raining, to suit my mood, but the nearest storm clouds are over France. Summoning them now will almost certainly have unforeseen consequences to the regional climate. Good day.”

He backed out of the shop and hurried up the street. Definitely weird. “Can I help who’s next?”

Up and down the streets of Soho he walked, unable to stop himself from talking.

Waiting for the light to change, he told a family how the Trojan War wasn’t entirely his fault, but things had gotten rather out of hand. “I never should have let him tell me the apple would make a good prank. My word, did everyone take it so seriously.”

Wandering past the duck pond, he explained to a confused group of students that, had he really known who Dante was, he never would have given the job to Crowley. “I just thought, poor chap needs a vacation, he’d had a terrible century, might as well spend a few weeks in Italy, all he has to do is go drinking with a poet and cheer him up a bit. And, frankly, if my orders were just a bit less Ineffable maybe I would have seen this coming!”

Sitting on a bench with an older couple, he tried to describe the outfits he and Crowley had worn in that church in 1941, though the couple seemed confused and kept interrupting to ask questions about the flowers or guests. “No, there weren’t any guests, just these awful people I thought I knew. But Crowley arrived and got me away from there, oh it was really something. Dancing all down the aisle.”

Leaning against the wall outside a bar, he pleaded with every passerby: “I wasn’t really thinking, I just – they didn’t have any way to protect themselves, it was going to be dark, and raining, and the lions. So, I handed over my sword. I didn’t mean to disobey. I didn’t mean to, I just – it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”

He didn’t pay attention to where he walked. But it was no surprise at all when he found himself in Mayfair, staring at a long black Bentley and a tall, modern block of flats.

His fist pounded on the door. “Crowley? Crowley, please.” Aziraphale knocked again. “Crowley, I just – I need to talk to you, please, I know you’re here.”

The door opened so suddenly, he nearly toppled in. Crowley scowled at him, blocking the entrance, hair slicked back once again. “Oh. Aziraphale. I don’t remember inviting you.”

“I know. I know, please, I – I need your help.”

“Oh, now you need my help? Is that how it’s going to be? I just sit around waiting until you need me—”

“Crowley, this is serious! Will you just listen?”

The demon leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. “Go on then.”

“In…in the hallway?”

“Yes, in the hallway. Seems fitting.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching his own hands twist and wring against each other. “I deserve this, of course. After the frightful way I treated you, and not just this morning. So many times over the years—”

“Oh, spare me the passive-aggressive speech,” Crowley groaned. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I am, Crowley. This is what’s wrong. The – the curse. It’s started to affect me, quite – quite frightfully.”

He glanced up, just in time to see Crowley swallow. “Are you dying?” His voice was painfully neutral.

“No, nothing like that.” Yes, it was easier to address this whole conversation to his shoes. “I just…can’t seem to stop talking.”

“Well. It’s a terrible curse, but I’m sure you’ll survive somehow. If you’ll excuse me, Golden Girls is coming on—”

“It isn’t just that, Crowley, I can’t – I can’t lie.” Icy silence. “I’m compelled not just to speak, but to say the truth, the absolute truth. I’m finding it nearly impossible to conceal anything at all.”

He waited for the door to slam in his face.

“Get in, you idiot.”

Head jerking up, Aziraphale found that Crowley had stepped aside and opened the door wide. Nodding his thanks – knowing if he tried to voice them out loud, he’d say something he truly regretted – Aziraphale entered the flat.

He looked around in every direction, trying to avoid Crowley’s gaze. The demon was still tense, still leaning against the wall with arms crossed. “I say, this is the exact opposite of cozy,” Aziraphale commented cheerfully. “You seem to be missing nearly all your furniture. The walls are very white, aren’t they?”

“It’s called minimalism,” Crowley grunted. “You should try it.”

“Oh, is this the modern style of decorating?” There was a black sofa facing a television, a broad plain desk, the top of it a thin plate of glass, and an oddly shaped chair. A few pieces of sculpture were scattered around, though they didn’t seem to fit the general look of the place.

“It was. Bored with it now. Maybe go retro next, I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale bit his tongue. He pulled off the satchel holding his book, placed it on the floor next to the sofa, trying to find something polite to say. He failed. “Only, it seems a very strange color choice, as it makes your whole flat rather look like—”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley snarled, pushing off from the wall.

“I can’t help it! I told you, I can’t seem to stop talking. Half of Soho now knows things about me I’ve never said before, and I just…I can’t stop.”

“Really?” he stalked forward. “So, if I asked you a question right now, you wouldn’t be able to lie, or avoid the subject or any of those other things you do?”

“Crowley, your expression right now does not at all make me feel safe.” He stepped back and closed his eyes. “But I suppose…yes, that’s fair. You can ask.”

“Oh, thank you for the invitation. Tell me, did you lie when you said you like having me around?”

“No, I…I think it had already begun to affect me.”

“Interesting.” Crowley’s voice was coming closer, but Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly shut. “Then you lied when you told me you wanted me to leave this morning?”

“No, of course not. I was quite incapable by then.” He stumbled back another step. “I knew letting you in the shop would be disastrous – not that I was fully aware what was going on – so it seemed the best thing was—”

“The best thing was to get rid of the demon, not to tell me that something was wrong? Bless it, Aziraphale, even when you tell the truth, you’re so – so twisted!”

“I didn’t – I don’t—” He stepped back and collided with the table; nowhere else to go. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open, and Crowley stood so close, towering over him, teeth bared, and the angel trembled like a mouse before a serpent. “It’s not that I like deceiving you, Crowley. I don’t. But I’m not – I don’t feel safe without them. My lies. I feel…exposed…naked…” He closed his eyes again. The words cut deep wounds across his heart.

“So, that’s why you didn’t trust me this morning? You don’t feel safe around me? What, do you think I’m going to take advantage of this? That I’m going to hurt you?”

“Of course not! I’m not afraid of you I’m—” He struggled to hold on to the one secret he had left. “Crowley, if I can’t break this curse by tomorrow, I’ll – I won’t be able to stop myself from telling Gabriel—”

“Telling him what?”

“That I love you!” The words tore through Aziraphale’s last layer of defense, shredding him, leaving him open to the world. He sobbed, leaning against the desk behind him, practically sitting on it as his legs gave way. “I love you, Crowley,” he repeated, much quieter. “You’re my best…you’re my only friend. And I love you so very dearly. And I can’t…can’t ever let anyone know…not even you...”

He heard something click onto the table beside him, and looked up to see Crowley, glasses gone, eyes brighter and wetter than Aziraphale had ever seen them. “There. Now we’re both naked,” he said softly.

“I’m…I’m sure this comes as – as something of a shock…”

Crowley chuckled. “What, that? I’ve known for centuries. Millennia, Angel. I just…I didn’t think you knew.” His hand slid up and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, and the angel leaned against it, drawing on Crowley’s warmth and strength.

“I…I hid it, even from myself, for so long. I never let myself acknowledge…but, no, I’ve known since…the church. The bomb. Couldn’t really deny it after that.”

“And you know I…I feel the same.” His serpent eyes almost blinked. “That I have…for so long.”

“I hoped so?” Aziraphale’s voice was tight, straining. In Crowley’s movies, these conversations didn’t hurt. They were always full of laughter and smiles. Instead, Aziraphale felt torn to shreds, he felt raw, and he saw the same pain reflected in Crowley’s eyes. “I worried, every time I lied, that this would be the last straw, the thing that sent you away for good.”

“I’m not going to leave—”

“Sometimes I wished it would be. That you would just – just go. Because it would be…so much easier…”

“They would punish you, if they knew,” Crowley said slowly. “Hurt you. Make you Fall.”

“I don’t care about that.” Aziraphale felt the first tear slide down his cheek. “It’s not – I don’t lie, and hide, and shut you out to protect myself. They would destroy you, Crowley. And I would rather die than…than see you hurt…”

Suddenly, Crowley’s arms were around him, pulling him into a surprisingly strong embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head. “Oh, you stupid, stupid Angel. Don’t worry about me.”

“One of us has to.” Aziraphale pressed his face into the curve of Crowley’s neck, felt his arms slide across Crowley’s back. Pushed himself fully onto the desk so he could wrap his legs around Crowley’s, pull him close, keep him safe. “I will protect you, my dear Crowley. I will. Anything to keep you safe.”

“Aziraphale. I don’t – I just want you to trust me. Talk to me. Let me help you." The angel shook his head, burrowing deeper into Crowley's embrace. "We can keep each other safe. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

“I…I don’t…I don’t want to be alone,” Aziraphale managed.

“You never will be. Let me be there for you.”

“Crowl—” he tried, but all that he managed was a throttled squeak. He nodded, face still buried in Crowley’s shoulder, and let himself be entwined - engulfed - absorbed in that love.

“Aziraphale,” his demon whispered after a moment. “I want to kiss you.”

“I…want you to…” Crowley’s hands cradled his face again, pulling him back until their eyes met, and oh, that look on Crowley’s face now hurt even more than the sappy, hopeful smile this morning. “But you can’t,” Aziraphale ground out, despite his raw throat, his heart straining to burst free.

“Why not?” He leaned closer, until Aziraphale could feel his warm breath.

“Because…my dearest…if you kiss me, I’m never going to stop.” Crowley chuckled. “No, I mean it. I love you. So much. Every moment that I’m not kissing you is a lie. It’s why I’ve been so blasted affectionate the last few days. I need - I’m compelled - to express my love. To say it. To show you, and it hurts to stop.”

“I can stop us.”

“We can’t risk it. I can’t. Not when it’s your life at stake.”

“That’s my choice.” The lips were so close, he could practically taste them already. If he just leaned forward the tiniest bit…

“Please,” Aziraphale begged. “Don’t.”

The hands holding Aziraphale’s face tightened – and tipped his head down, pressing his forehead against Crowley’s. “Alright, Angel. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale tried to find his breath again. He didn’t think his heart would ever stop hammering.

“And we will find a solution to this, Aziraphale. I’m not going to lose you now.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have much choice in the matter. I will betray us both. By tomorrow I won’t be able to resist telling everyone I’m madly in love with a gorgeous, kind, wonderful demon, whose soul sings like the sweetest music, whose heart burns with the passion of the stars, and – oh, there I go again.”

Crowley growled, playfully. “I’m not any of those things.”

“Well, I hardly could have lied, could I? So, it must be true.” Aziraphale sighed. His heart and head ached, he just wanted to sit here leaning against Crowley forever, but there were things to take care of. He let go, allowed Crowley to step away. “I’ve had no luck with the book at all.”

Crowley pressed his lips into a line. “I…I told you I asked around Hell. Not one word about this raid.”

“Well, it’s entirely possible they’re keeping it from you.” Aziraphale stood, stretching. “No offence, darling, but you’re not exactly a high-ranked demon. According to Gabriel, your side was quite soundly defeated. Perhaps they’re covering it up.”

“Yeah, maybe, but,” Crowley backed away, pressing a hand against his hair, smoothing non-existent fly-aways back into place. “Even then, they’d never keep it a secret for long. Any time one of the lords of Hell weakens, the others swarm like…like…some sort of…blood-thirsty insects…”

“Sharks.”

“Sharks aren’t insects,” Crowley reminded him.

“No, but they do swarm. Quite ravenously. You remember that film we saw.”

“I don’t think Deep Blue Sea is a documentary.” Crowley frowned, but without his glasses, Aziraphale could see how his eyes danced. “Anyway. Maybe someone low-ranked was trying to organize a coup but…doesn’t feel right.”

“Perhaps it was some sort of ruse,” Aziraphale considered. “Pretending to lose in order to get the book captured. That would mean,” he realized with alarm, “the text itself is false, entirely untranslatable. Just a way to lure a researcher in, while the curse takes effect. But who could it be intended for?” He began to pace, struggling to focus through the whirl of emotions. “It might make sense for the target to be one of the Archangels, but they don’t do their own research. And how did the demons plan to capture the angel, once the curse was fully developed?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “I, uh, I have an idea, but I…need to be sure first. I need to see the book.”

Aziraphale picked up the bag, but hesitated. “Gabriel told me not to let anyone touch it. I gave him my word.” His fingers brushed down the leather spine. “What if…being touched by a demon sets it off?”

“It won’t,” Crowley soothed, but didn’t reach for the book. “I know how to handle cursed objects. Do it all the time for Hell. And if I’m right…” He glanced down at the bag. “I’ll be careful, I swear.”

The book felt heavy in Aziraphale’s hands – heavier than any book had a right to – heavy enough to drag them both to destruction.

“I trust you, Crowley.” He held it out, letting the bag fall to the floor. “But. Be careful.”

The moment Crowley touched it, his golden eyes went wide. He quickly placed it on the desk, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Well, that’s…” He glanced at Aziraphale. “I’ll know by morning. Why don’t you get some rest? When was the last time you slept?”

“1941. The ride back from the church, remember?”

Aziraphale never slept, usually. But sometimes, on particularly thrilling days, days fraught with too many emotions, his mind would buzz, overstimulated, until it felt numb. Then, he would lie down and drift away, and wake in the morning feeling himself again.

He’d felt that edge of over-exhaustion as they walked out of the church fifty-eight years ago, terrified by the newly recognized emotion that had bubbled under the surface for so long. Crowley had brushed a finger across his forehead and invited him to sleep, and he’d dozed off in the passenger seat of the Bentley, feeling warm and protected in ways he’d never known, not in all the long eternities of his existence. He woke the next morning on the shop sofa, bag of books resting on the floor beside him.

He felt it again now, that exhaustion, and knew it would only get worse the longer he fought it.

“Come on. This time you can use a bed.” Crowley put an arm over his shoulders and steered him, past a room full of vibrant green plants, and into another as empty as the first. A single bed pressed into a corner, white duvet and black pillows; a plant in a white pot on a black bedside table. That was all.

“Honestly, Crowley, this is where you sleep? It’s so infernally drab I can’t imagine how you manage.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes off.

“Eh, it’s fine. All bedrooms look the same with your eyes closed.”

When Aziraphale was comfortable under the thick duvet, Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing his forehead as they had in 1941. “Sleep, and dream of—”

“I’ll dream of you,” Aziraphale said. “Damned honesty curse. I always do, though.”

“Well, then.” Crowley leaned forward and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s hairline, just for a fraction of a second. “Too much?”

“No, dear. Never.”

Crowley stood beside the bed in the dark.

He’d found his answer just before midnight. He knew who Aziraphale’s enemy was. A solution had already started to form in his mind, but it was a terrible thought.

Would Aziraphale believe him? Would he agree to what needed to be done?

Could Crowley go through with it?

No choice, he reminded himself. Aziraphale needs you. It was all he ever needed to steel his resolve.

“Angel.” He reached out and gently shook Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Time to wake up.”

“Crowley. C’m to bed.”

His heart rattled in his chest like a busted engine. “No, Aziraphale, we need—”

“Need you.” One eye opened just enough to reveal a gleam of blue. “Just…few hours. Let me have that. Please.”

Crowley wasn’t in the business of denying Aziraphale anything.

He lay down on top of the duvet, curled on his side to watch Aziraphale sleep. “Like this?”

The angel struggled a moment, until his arm came free, groping weakly in Crowley’s direction. “Can’t find you.”

“I’m coming.” Crowley wiggled closer, turning around until his back was pressed as close to Aziraphale as he could get it. The angel’s arm looped around, crossing his chest, pulling him closer, until his breath brushed warm on the back of Crowley’s neck. Until their hearts beat together. “How’s that?”

“Love you,” Aziraphale whispered. “Safe…” but soon he was asleep again.

Not long after, Crowley drifted off, into the best night’s sleep he’d ever had.

Aziraphale woke the next morning with Crowley in his arms.

He held Crowley and cried, quietly, his heart overflowing with love.

(Alright! One more long chapter to come, and it’s going to be another emotional rollercoaster. Look for it on AO3 or comment “tag” so I’ll tag you here!) @black-velvet-roses-tea @witchingwhovian

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