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lady-o-ren · 3 years

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The Dig

You can read this on ao3 // HERE //

Suffolk, England

1939

“What's going on in Sutton Hoo, then that has you in such a hurry?”

James Fsaser reluctantly looked up from where his head had been braced on his leather satchel, clutched atop his knees, and gave the old ferryman a one-eyed stare.

“I've a job. Digging,” he swallowed, trying mightily to keep himself from retching as the wee boat he was in bobbed up and down like a mad carousel.

“You came all the way from Scotland to dig like a dog?” He laughed hoarsely, hawking up a wad of phlegm into the murky river water as he swung his oars.

“Ipswich,” Fraser muttered, turning a bit more green.

Ipswich Museum to be exact.

He'd been hired to help excavate a centuries old burial site located at a rural estate in Sutton Hoo, overseen by the archeologist, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. A woman much admired (or envied depending on the man) for her keen mind and boundless curiosity (and unrivaled stubbornness that often spiraled into outright defiance according to those same particular men) that had her uprooting half of Great Britain in pursuit of the secrets hidden beneath the mossy plains. And more often than not her instincts were right and another antiquity would be dusted off to be reborn again.

Fraser wasn't sure what he'd done to earn the right to work by her side but Christ, he wouldn't question how lucky he was.

The boat then suddenly coasted to an abrupt stop against the rivers side.

“Here we are, Mr. Fraser. All in one piece. And I thank you for keeping me boat and boots tidy,” said the old ferryman with a wink.

Fraser didn't bother with a retort, he was just happy that the world had blessedly stopped spinning and hopped onto wonderfully solid land.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his attire and fixing his father's old grey cap atop his head (taking special care to tuck in his dark ginger curls that always peeked out from just under the rim), he made his way down the brambled path that the old man said led to the big house. After a brief introduction with the owner of the estate, he was then directed to where he'd be working, and trotted past the trees and sprawling country green to an open field.

From afar, Fraser could see three burial mounds jutting from the earth, grassy topped with yellow dandelions sprouting all over.

But what made his breath catch was the sight of the woman he'd been so eager to meet.

She was surveying the site with her hands on her trousered waist looking like a general on the cusp of conquest. Sensing his approach, she turned away from her prize and future glory, her short curls bouncing and gleaming a rich shade of earth in the dewy sunlight, and met his gaze with her own.

Sharp with intelligence. Kindled with mirth. Shimmering like molten gold.

"A Dhia," Fraser whispered to the fragrant spring air, and took off his cap, twisting it between his hands that ached to trace and memorize every curve of the archeologist's face.

She waved him over seeing him linger and a terrible heat sprang to the young lad's face at having been caught staring at the beauty like a halfwit, and forced his legs to move. Prayed he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Hullo there," she greeted, and clasped her small hand to his, but there was nothing dainty about its grasp. Fraser could feel the years of hard-earned experience chiseled in her palm that held his hand firmly, letting him know exactly who he'd be working for.

It sent a thrill down his spine.

"I'm Dr. Claire Beauchamp. And you must be the very late Mr. Fraser I've been waiting for."

"Aye, and I beg yer pardon for that, ma’am," Fraser replied in earnest, detecting a subtle spike of irritation in her voice, seeing the annoyed flick of her brow. "The morning train was running late.” By three hours! “ Then I had to wait for the ferryman to take me across the river -" He'd been taking his "tea" in the pub " - all a lousy excuse, I ken, but I promise ye it willna happen again."

Beauchamp crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side giving Fraser a scrutinizing once over that made his throat bob and the blood in his heart to palpitate.

"Good," she smirked, nodding her approval from his noticeable discomfort. "If you're anything like how the stiffs at Ipswich Museum described we'll get along well."

He clenched his jaw at the mention of the museum, the cantankerous men who worked there. Especially a certain Dr. Randall, who valued a good cigar over the work of a “farm boy”.

"And what do they say of me, if I may ask?"

Beauchamp bit her full bottom lip (wonderfully pink Fraser bashfully noted), quirking wryly.

“Quite a lot depending on who you ask. From what I've gathered you're hardworking, painfully intelligent and have an innate knack for reading the earth. But that you're also highly unorthodox, difficult and the most insufferable Scotsman ever to step foot in Ipswich. So naturally I had to work with you."

He let out a tightly held breath and chuckled softly.

"Weel, who am I to argue wi' a reference like that. I'm passionate about my work and little else, apart from food and kin. And while I've never been disrespectful to reason, I haven't the patience for men who think a title is deserving of my unquestionable fealty."

"And why should you? The conviction of a Viking is something to be admired not belittled,” she praised, making Fraser glow. "I only wish I could've been there to witness how you earned the ire of half the museum.”

“I'm merely in the right and they the wrong, more often than not,” he shrugged.

“I'm just as terrible,” she proudly grinned. ”But I know we'll make a good team. We'll have to if we want to tackle this lot.”

She motioned her head at the site looming tall, brimming with excitement that spoke to Fraser's own spirit.

"If that's so then it'll be an honor working wi' ye, ma'am."

He shook her hand once more and thought he felt her thumb move against his knuckle, light and curious as a brush stroke.

Working with two assistants from her previous digs (the studious Jeremy Foster and the wide-eyed youth Elias Pound), Fraser and Beauchamp made great strides in plowing the core of the mound that was the larger of the three, even when logic argued that the dip in the middle meant thieves of the past had already plundered it's horde.

But Fraser's gut and bones told him that there was something different about this one.

Beauchamp had thought so too.

"There's something grand and marvelous here begging to be found. Don't you think? Can't you feel it?"

The deeper they dug only intensified that feeling.

As had his attraction to the irrepressibly brilliant Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

However, after a fortuitous streak of good weather, the air started to blow with the sweet scent of rain and the leaves of the oak trees that dotted the lush clearing turned toward the skies, parched and longing.

"We have some time, I think, before the rain comes," said Beauchamp, gauging the skies westward still clear of thunderclouds.

Fraser leaned against his shovel in the hollow of earth he stood in, his dirt stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and could see the mad impulse to defy mother nature flash in her eyes.

"Usually I'd agree wi' ye, ma’am, but yer hair -" his mouth flicked upward in unbridled appreciation. "Is curling like a tumbleweed."

She pressed a dirt-flecked hand near her temple and felt the wild frizzy pushback of flyaway curls fallen loose from her twisted bun, springing around her face like a mane.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she huffed. “Have I been like this all morning, Fraser?”

"Pretty much," he grinned, enjoying how her usual regal self pinked across her freckled cheeks and the wee scrunch of her nose.

But Fraser's smile faltered, catching himself for a fool, and averted his attention down to the soil where his heart had fallen. Writhed. Burrowed with the worms and roots.

For what use was it for a man like him to yearn for a woman like her?

He swallowed the hopeless lump in his throat.

"Shall we go for lunch then, wait for the weather to clear?"

Hearing the word lunch, Foster and Pound looked up from their own end of the excavation with hunger in their eyes.

"Did that on purpose did you?" said Beauchamp, throwing an accusatory glance at the ginger lad while trying to gather her wayward curls back to partial respectability.

He gave her a half smile.

"The Almighty is the one making it rain, ma’am. Take it up wi' him."

She sighed and her hands fell to her waist as she took one last disappointing glance above.

"I would if He ever bothered to listen,” she frowned, then gave the other men a nod that made them hoot and holler.

“Numpties,” she mumbled, though did so fondly, and puffed at a rebellious forelock flirting with the wind.

After covering the ditch with a tarp secured to the ground, the men headed for the local pub raucously singing an old drinking song with a few choice words changed.

Our Lady must have been an Admiral, a Sultan or a Queen

And to her praises we shall always sing

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp who fills us up with cheer

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp . . .

Their lady laughed and rolled her eyes, before waving the lads off with a promise to catch up to gather her things, and headed to the shepherd's hut that had been provided by the estate.

Fraser glanced back watching her go, and after a moment's hesitation where he reasoned it would be rude to leave without her, he too told the others he'd forgotten something and went after Beauchamp.

Cursing himself an "EEJIT!" every step of the way.

Inside the hut was a small curtained window softly lighting the room from the back and two wooden scuffed chairs positioned along the side wall with a table snugly fit between them. Beauchamp herself was crouched by the table legs where Fraser had left his satchel but it was now laid open on its side, contents spilled over.

At his unexpected appearance that shadowed the doorway, she turned his way with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, I was just grabbing my bag when I tipped yours over and . . ."

She held up his small green fieldbook opened at the first page.

And white-hot panic flooded Fraser's veins.

"The writing caught my eye," she continued on, seemingly unaware that the poor lad was gripping the doorway for support. "I didn't know you spoke gaelic beyond the odd phrase here and there. That you can even write it too is something of a feat,” she said, impressed by the words secreted on the page.

“Aye,” he managed to breathe, relieved that she hadn't seen a thing. Not a thing! “I don't get much practice living away from home so I speak it in my mind and heart, write letters to my family when I can.”

“You've spoken of a sister, if I'm not mistaken. Older or younger?" She prodded, as if he were a new discovery, and he answered in hopes to distract her from what she still held in her hands.

Felt a fluttering warmth overtake him that she recalled him having a sister.

"Jenny,” he said, as he moved to kneel down beside her to stuff his scant belongings back in his bag. “She's older and feels the need to remind me of that fact whenever we see one another.”

“And you're the brat aren't you?”

Despite his predicament, Fraser couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I was the devil's spawn, aye, but Jen was no angel. We once got into a terrible stramash about our chores on the farm, the way wee bairns do, and I ended up telling her she had a face uglier than a coo, smelled worse than one too. Next I knew, I was being tackled to the ground wi' my face shoved into a ripe pile of coo shite and my sister above me laughing her wicked wee arse off.”

Beauchamp broke into laughter and it made his stomach do a flip.

“I'm sorry, that must've been awful for you, but I think I may love your sister for that.”

“Everybody says so. Not sure it was worth it in the end myself . . .” said Fraser, his voice suddenly trailing off at the end seeing her attention turn back to the page.

His mind spiraled into action.

"But we really should get going before the rain catches us. It looks to be a downpour, a terrible one.”

“Well it's a good thing we're under a roof then isn't it?” She countered, eyes sparkling through her long lashes. “ Besides I'd rather have an impromptu lesson in gaelic on what,” she paused, squinting down at the book opened on her knees. “Baa-mia-’bruu -” means.”

“Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr,” he begrudgingly corrected, wondering how rude it would be to just snatch his own fieldbook away. But then Beauchamp smiled as if charmed by his voice and echoed back his words with near perfect silky inflections, looking pleased as punch as she did so.

Endearing herself even more to the young Scot's already smitten heart.

“Verra good,” he hummed softly.

“Absolute luck,” she grinned, tapping her fingers atop his writing. “Now tell me what does it all mean?”

He shook his head embarrassed. "You'll think me daft, ma’am."

"I promise I won't."

She said it in such an earnest way, Jamie knew she spoke true. But then a deep rumble of thunder sliced through the air, enough to give Beauchamp a jolt that made her forefinger on the page slip and Fraser's stomach to rip and plummet to the old wood floor.

There, drawn on the page, was Beauchamp's face staring back at her.

“It’s nothing but some wee scribbles,” he stammered to explain, reaching for the book only for her to angle it away.

“You're right about that,” she agreed, her fine brows furrowing as she traced a slim finger to her pencil drawn cheek. “You've made one of my eyes bigger than the other, my nose a dash too long and -"

Her eyes went comically round as she pressed the pages to her chest, a sudden thought coming to her.

"You don't have anyone posed in the nude here do you?"

"O-Of course not! I'd never. I- I'd -"

"Breathe Fraser, I was only teasing you," she nearly giggled, but then her face softened with regret seeing his own face take on the horrible color of a split beet left to shrivel in the sun.

“But really, why bother with me?”

He had no answer but the one that pounded from his heart, a noise like a thousand drums that all struck the same adoring note. She could see it beaming from his face and a hushed silence fell between them as the rain finally came down, hitting the rooftop in a pitter-patter that enveloped her quietly spoken -

“Oh.”

That single utterance had Jamie wishing the rain would flood and swallow him up but it was now or never to speak his heart. No matter that hers would never be his to cherish.

Looking down at his hands, anxiously wringing the strap of his satchel, he spoke.

“There was never any helping it, me liking you. I'd never seen a sight sae fair as you, stubborn as you, nor wonderful as you. And I could never get ye out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried, but ye were always there like the sun and air."

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on the page.

"And then I just started filling my fieldbook wi' pictures of you if only to have something to remind me of you for when the job ends and we part ways. But I'm none so good as ye can see. I never could capture the grit and fire of yer spirit, the way yer curls bristle in excitement or the way yer eyes glow like a match to a candlewick . . . "

His heart tightened as his words faltered while Beauchamp remained quiet. Then like a blow to his chest she flipped through the small book once more, her face unreadable as stone. She looked through his sketches, one of her curls drawn like the ripples of the tide, another of her hands digging through the earth, and of her lush determined mouth curved into a beaming smile, bitten with impatience, beneath a perfect speckled nose.

And threaded between her gestures, her features were more bits of gaelic.

A bòidhchead . . .

Tha pian orm . . .

Tha cho teann sa tha a ’bhriogais gam iomain

"I told you I was no good. I ken I should just rip up the pages -” Fraser began to miserably say, but Beauchamp hushed him by taking his hand in hers and softly stroked her thumb against the work-hardened skin.

"You have a fine hand, Fraser. Especially for making my nose look as delicate as Garbo’s,” she smiled, cheeks touched lovely in pink.

Then in a moment that made it hard for Fraser to breathe, she simply said . . .

“Ask me for a drink.”

He blinked, thinking he misheard her, mouth agape. But there was no mistaking what brightened her eyes to shine like whisky.

“Ask me,” she repeated impatiently, almost laughing, as she squeezed his hand.

Fraser inhaled sharply and tentatively squeezed her small hand back.

“Will ye join me for a pint, ma’am?”

“Claire,” she grinned, and coyly tilted her head . “And of course I will. Took you long enough to ask,” she winked, making Fraser stare at her in charmed disbelief.

And then Beauchamp closed the distance between them, hand light as a feather against his chest.

“But first you ought to kiss me, Fraser. It's still raining and I might catch a chill from all this waiting."

Still staring at her mesmerized, with questions that could wait another day flitting through his mind, Fraser wove an errant bonnie curl around his fingers and smoothed it behind her ear. Letting his thumb drag against her cheek.

“It's Jamie,” he murmured, in a brush of his lips to hers.

And on and on it went.

Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . .

I dreamt about the mourning. The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us. They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave. But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

A/N: This had a ton of notes and explanations so you can read all those on ao3. But for sure I’ll say here this is very loosely based on the movie The Dig.

#jamie x claire #Outlander #outlander fic #outlander fanfiction

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karlyfr13s · 3 years

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Oathkeeper Chapter 2

It was supposed to be a CS one-shot, but then the CSMM crew got ahold of me and now we’re in multi-chapter mode. Thanks to the ladies for their inspiration, enabling, and cheering me on. Looking at you @teamhook, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @gingerpolyglot (tell me if you want added, and coach the newbie in where these actually belong).

A HUGE thank you to @veryverynotgood who is the most radiant beta and gives me flails that keep me going through the self-doubt.

Links in case you missed Chapter 1 or prefer to read on ao3

Note: the rating is now M due to violent imagery.

Killian’s first week in Storybrooke was unconventional and more than a little confusing. Everyone in the whole bloody town seemed related, or at least so interconnected there may as well be blood involved; it drew attention to him and he spent most days certain he was being watched.

Certainly there were fewer eyes on him than on the young Lost Boy, Felix, and for that Killian was grateful. He observed the woman everyone called Granny as she put the lad to work with a nearly endless list of chores, always under her watchful, scrutinizing eye. In want of conversation one evening, he’d inquired about the choice to take on someone such as Felix. That had earned him a derisive snort and an eye-roll that rivaled Emma Swan’s when Granny explained in no uncertain terms that she was well-equipped for the job.

“Listen, Captain,” she leaned on the bar as he sipped a rum, “if I can raise Ruby through puberty as a damn wolf, I can handle one scrappy Lost Boy. What he needs is a strong guiding hand, and a good dose of responsibility--that Pan let those kids run wild.” Killian tipped his glass to her at that assessment, knowing all too clearly how the lads were deceived and used throughout their time in Neverland. “Structure, Hoo--it’s Killian, right?” she amended quickly. “Kids need structure and routine. You’d do well to remember that.”

Not for the first time, Killian wondered exactly how much Granny overheard and knew as she watched her patrons come and go. In fact, she was the only one in town who referred to him by his given name, most simply opting for Hook or Captain if they were being pleasant. Or ‘the pirate’ if they happen to be Emma’s father, he added. His ponderance was abruptly interrupted when the door crashed open and an exasperated looking Emma quickly crossed to the bar and sank down one stool from his own.

“This one calls for a whisky on the rocks, Granny,” she huffed, casting a sidelong glance at Killian’s own glass. “You too, huh? Must be going around today.” He watched as she shucked her red leather jacket, tossing it aside on the barstool between them and he gave her a moment, offering a quick clink of his glass once her own libation arrived.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Killian kept his voice light, noting the tension in the set of her shoulders and jaw.

She heaved a sigh and he made a valiant effort to focus on her stunning green eyes rather than the assets her movements showcased in that moment. “The short version? I’m sick of my mother,” she tripped on the word, “trying to be my life coach. I’m tired of inane ‘loitering’ reports from the surliest dwarf, and I cannot seem to get--” her momentum was immediately interrupted by the door and a sudden call across the diner.

“Ems, there you are!”

“--a single minute of quiet,” Emma finished lowly while Neal sauntered over and leaned against the counter, placing himself between Killian and her.

“So, I was thinking we could grab dinner. You know, you, me and Henry? Or maybe just you and me if Regina has--”

“Neal, I’ve had a long day. I am going to enjoy this drink, maybe a second, and then I am eating whatever I rummage out of the pantry at Mary Margaret’s since she and David are out on a date.”

“So you have the place to yourself?”

Killian understood the insinuation and clenched his jaw. He started counting backward from ten while he listened to Emma try to redirect Neal’s plans, and when he heard the other man’s second attempt to garner an invitation he reset the clock and started the count at twenty. Perhaps she cares for him, he reminded himself. She is tired and had a difficult day, but that does not mean she has chosen not to be with--

Her voice was suddenly raised and Killian felt like he was about four steps behind the conversation as he snapped to attention on the words she spat at the man across from her.

“Just go-- go, Neal. This isn’t happening. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. It is not happening .” Whatever expression she held in that moment must have been truly glorious to earn Neal’s melodramatic scoff as he stormed out the diner and slammed the door behind him.

Granny simply poured a healthy splash of whisky in Emma’s glass in reply before shuffling back to the kitchen as she had witnessed the whole interaction mere steps from Killian, who just now was actively working to control both his expression and the thoughts wheeling through his mind at her parting shot. What exactly was not happening between them? Where did that leave him?

Killian glanced over at Emma, her eyes ablaze as if challenging him to comment on the interaction. “Darts are quiet,” he offered congenially, smiling what he considered his most winning grin.

That earned him a quick bark of laughter. “And a little violent,” she smirked.

“Aye, that too, Swan.”

She held up her glass and they shared their second silent toast of the evening. “I could use a little of both,” she added as she got up, glass in hand and the beginnings of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“I hear rumor they even sell food at this establishment,” Killian pressed his luck a bit as they collected the two sets of darts and set up.

“You don’t say?” She shook her head at him and he watched her consider the offer. “Loser buys?”

“Of course, love.” He sketched her a bow, flourishing his hand and making a show of it to cover up his surprise.

“Not your love,” she retorted, sinking a bullseye on her first try while Killian considered how grateful he was that Granny accepted doubloons. Where had she learned to play like this?

...

Granny hollered last call only moments after Emma bid Killian goodnight, a lightness to her steps as he watched her go. “Looks like that went well,” Granny called over as she wiped down the last table.

“Aye,” he tossed Granny a wink, “and she stayed for three games. And dessert.”

For the life of him, Killian couldn’t decipher Granny’s laugh at this simple observation until the double-entendre dawned on him at last. He was tired and perhaps he’d imbibed one too many glasses if he was the one missing the joke...it was then he noticed Emma’s jacket still laying across the barstool where she’d first dropped it.

“Seven hells,” he took off to the sound of Granny’s whooping call as she warned him the sheriff walked fast and he’d better work for it. Work for what exactly? Killian mused as he jogged out into the night, no easy feat in full leathers with more than a bit of drink in him. He spotted her golden hair in the lamplight down the street and called out, thinking it the better option than startling her.

She spun on her heel, wobbled slightly, and burst into laughter as she leaned against the lamppost for support--clearly he wasn’t the only to enjoy one too many this evening. Ever the gentleman, Killian held her jacket out and ignored her comment about being chased down Main Street by a pirate.

“Princess,” he began, calling far too loudly given the hour, “chivalry demands I return your cloak, lest you catch a chill on this dark night.” She shushed him less than successfully as she giggled and fell into step beside him-- Emma Swan can giggle, he mused. “As well,” he continued, voice full volume and bordering on a bellow, “I must see you safely to your door. No doubt there are ruffians about, and all manor of unsavory ne’er-do-wells, all seeking mischief against such an elegant,” he chuckled as she staggered slightly, “and graceful lady as thee.”

“You’re such an idiot, shut up! Do you want the whole neighborhood awake?” Her scolding was half-hearted at best considering her idea of a whisper could likely be heard across the street.

“Do you think they’ll call the sheriff, love” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she swatted his chest. “Surely you wouldn’t throw a man in the brig for an act of noblest courtesy,” at that he draped her jacket over her shoulders while she led the way and proceeded to spin a tale of his own unimpeachable valor as a young sailor. When they reached her dwelling, she turned to face him before heading up.

“Why do you always get it? Nobody gets it.” He raised a brow at her question. “Gets me. Like Neal,” she slurred the name and rolled her eyes. “I have a shitty day at work and he decides to make some weird pass at me through the kid ? But you,” she leaned in and poked Killian in the chest, keeping her index finger pressed against his sternum. “You’re the...the flirty pirate king and you just...throw sharp shit at a wall with me and buy me drinks. You didn’t even check out my ass more than once.”

He absolutely had, but far be it for Killian to correct the lady when this seemed to be going somewhere rather interesting.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she slurred.

Before he could suggest this was likely a bad idea as she would potentially regret whatever her next words were to be, she pulled him down by one of his coat lapels and whispered loudly, “My mom is Snow White, right? So she’s all about ‘true love’ and ‘happily ever after’,” her whisper became what he thought was an imitation of her mother, though he doubted that Snow White had ever been six whiskies and two rums deep.

“So she thinks that Neal is like...my Prince Charming, but here’s the secret: he’s not a prince! He’s a con-man, and he sure as hell isn’t charming. So whoops, Mom! Wrong bet!” She laughed and let go of his coat, poking the end of his nose and whispering something that sounded like the noise boop in the most infuriatingly impossible-to-understand gesture he’s witnessed yet. She gave him a glassy-eyed smile, and in a parting shot that left him speechless, she cupped his cheek and in a much softer tone murmured, “Goodnight, Killian.”

---

The morning arrived after less rest than he’d like, but Killian snapped awake as the sky first began to turn a dusty rose on the horizon. This was very likely the best mood he’d found himself in for quite some time, and he mused on the past twelve hours as he fiddled with the magic hot-water dispenser until he got the temperature just right. Unlike the Jolly , Granny’s provisions in terms of hygiene were lavish and he assumed they cost her a small fortune if Ruby and the guests enjoyed them as much as he did, but Granny assured him the soaps and amenities were provided, so he took great joy in letting the warm water run over him as he lathered up, breathing in the herbal and lemon scent so unlike the harsh lye soap he was accustomed to. This world without magic had its charms, and hot water on demand was his latest favorite.

He arrived downstairs for his other new-world favorite - coffee - and Killian was pleased to see Emma already at the counter, though she looked a great deal less chipper than he felt. “Good morning, Swan,” he sauntered up to take a seat at her left. “Beautiful morning, don’t you think?”

She grumbled something about a headache and before Killian could reply, Granny swooped in and all but insisted she sit and have breakfast. Despite her protests, Emma wound up delayed in her arrival to her post that morning as she was cajoled into a substantial pile of eggs, bacon, and toast. “Complain all you want, Sheriff,” Granny eyed her as she set a matching plate before Killian, “but you two need to soak up some of last night’s fun. Now, eat.” After obligingly refilling their mugs with steaming hot coffee, to which Emma added more than a bit of cream and sugar, Granny retreated to another table as the morning rush filled in around them.

They ate in companionable silence until Emma glanced over and opened with, “I beat you at darts, didn’t I?”

“Aye, two wins to my paltry one, Swan. I’m only grateful we chose not to wager more than dinner and drinks on the game, or my pockets would be a great deal more empty.” She smirked at his comment, and the two chatted as they worked through their breakfasts, both seeming to come alive as Granny had predicted.

He should have known it was all going far too well.

The bell above the door chimed, and the bustle of the patrons picking up coffee and pastries on their way to work or leisurely enjoying their breakfasts fell to a whisper. Killian stayed perfectly still as he heard the man limp toward the counter, the gentle thud of his cane giving him away. From the corner of his eye, he saw Emma roll her eyes at his clipped “Miss Swan,” and Killian stayed frozen to the spot, not trusting his reaction in front of the woman who not only was increasingly important in his life--a thought he’d sort out, or studiously avoid, later--but also represented the local law enforcement.

He heard few of the words exchanged between the Crocodile and Granny, though neither appeared pleased to be having the conversation. Instead, his pulse pounded in his head and his vision clouded as he clutched the edge of the counter. Killian had the distinct image of grabbing that gold-topped cane and flipping it, beating the man about the head until nothing recognizable remained. Until the gold handle dripped red. He could leave him on the floor of this place, twitching as the last impulses of his brain forced him to dance to a soundless tune; Killian could simply walk to the Jolly and set sail, free of the memory of this vile excuse for a man.

Except that he could do no such thing. He sat next to the sheriff in a small town diner surrounded by people who already distrusted him to varying degrees. He was trapped in a land that was not his own and had no way-- nor will --to return to his own. He was a captain without a crew, and as his mind raced through the numerous ways he could rid himself of this loathsome creature he knew now was not the time and certainly not the place. Simply put, Killian refused to put Emma in a position where she would be forced to see the darkness that lurked within him. So he let it pass, and let the Crocodile go for today.

It wasn’t long after the disruption that Emma took her leave, and Killian lingered at the counter as he mulled over what to do with his day. Most days he helped Granny with the more physically demanding repairs around the place, but he felt caged and in need of something more challenging.

“Appreciate you not taking his head off in my diner,” Granny remarked banally once the place emptied. “You have any idea what it takes to get blood out of white grout? Oh, don’t look so surprised; nothing smells quite like fear and rage rolled up in one, and I could smell yours from across the damn room.” She waved dismissively and filled two mugs, sliding one to him and keeping the other for herself. “It’s hot chocolate, and you need it. Little liquid comfort never hurt anyone, so drink up and tell me about it.”

He sipped hesitantly, but the woman was certainly right about the comforting power of the elixir before him. Killian thought about his next words as he breathed in the sweet steam from his mug, letting the cup warm his hand as he held it. “You could...smell my emotions?” He felt it best to begin with the obvious inquiry and prolong the tale of his darkest day.

“I could also hear your heart-rate skyrocket the second you knew who came through that door, so I’m guessing there’s some history there. You don’t have to tell me everything, Killian, but I need to know if I can trust you when you’re in here. Gold comes in to collect rent monthly, and every now and again he has lunch as well. I need to know you’re not going to take a kitchen knife to the bastard while I’m serving sandwiches.” She levelled a scrutinizing gaze at him and waited.

Killian set down his mug and scrubbed his hand over his face, realizing he was in need of a shave, then realizing he was further delaying the conversation. He sighed, knowing there was only one right way forward. “I will not spill his blood on your grounds, Granny, not unless he spills mine first. You have my word.” She nodded once, waiting for him to continue. And so he spent the sunny morning explaining how he lost his hand to the Dark One. While Killian left out much of the story of Milah, he could not entirely avoid her role in the tale, explaining simply that the man she knew as Gold had killed the woman Killian loved right in front of his eyes. Granny was sympathetic and asked few questions, letting him choose how much to reveal. It was cathartic, in a way - a chance to tell someone this piece of truth. A chance to be heard.

When they were finished, Granny spoke briefly of her wolfish nature, a truth which Killian enjoyed as it made her acute hearing and perceptiveness make far more sense. “I know your heart-rate also picks up around a certain sheriff,” she added as Killian slipped on his greatcoat, readying himself to find busywork on the Jolly . “And I know hers does around you.” She eyed him closely then, searching for he knew not what. “Be careful with her, Killian. I don’t know everything--I’m not sure anyone does--but I can see enough to know she’s been hurt, and that hurt hasn’t fully healed. In fact, I’m damn sure the source of it just waltzed back into her life.”

He nodded his understanding and left her to her work. Given the woman’s preternatural understanding of her patrons, he was not about to argue. He chewed her words over in his mind repeatedly as he spent the rest of the day checking that everything aboard his beloved Jolly was in tip-top shape. While his life may be constant chaos in this world, at least he could be assured his ship was as perfect as ever.

#cs au #captain swan #cs ff #csmm #killian jones #emma swan #captain swan au #karly tries her hand at writing

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frustrated-writer-skyeknight · 3 years

Text

One of you guys

Whilst Jack went about distributing weapons, Hiccup had been considering his options, which dragon to take down as he took care of sharpening weapons.

A Nadder head is sure to get me at least noticed. Gronckles are tough. Taking down one of those would definitely get me a girlfriend. A Zippleback? Exotic. Two heads, twice the status.

The Viking catapult operator dodged and went for cover from another fiery blast, "They found the sheep!"

"Concentrate fire over the lower bank!" Stoick called out.

"Fire!"

A Monstrous Nightmare growls and alights itself as it climbs up the catapult.

And then, there's the Monstrous Nightmare. Only the best Vikings go after those. They have this nasty habit of setting themselves on fire.

"Reload!" Stoick hollered at his people, moving front line to buy them time. "I'll take care of this." he fights the Nightmare, which takes a few hits before retreating.

But the ultimate prize is the dragon no one has ever seen. We call it the-

"NIGHT FURY! GET DOWN!"

A high-pitched whistle is heard from the sky. The Vikings panic. From out of nowhere, an explosion tears the catapult apart.

"JUMP!"

This thing never steals food, never shows itself, and... never misses. No one has ever killed a Night Fury. That's why I'm going to be the first.

"Aight boys," Gobber called, putting his apron up. "Man the fort, you two. They need me out there!" He attaches an axe to his arm and begins to run out, but turns around at the doorway. "You." He pointed at Hiccup, "Stay. Put. There. Jack. Watch..."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Gobber. Yes. Sir." he mimicked, before making shooing gestures.

"You know what I mean." The blond Viking made a battle cry before charging in and joining everybody else.

Jack wiped at his forehead, as he moves to put out the fire from the forge. "Hic, would you pass me the..." he turned around, to see himself alone at the stall and whatever contraption, which hit that Viking from earlier, had disappeared too. He face palmed, "Hoo boy, not again..." he sighed, "I looked away for one second..."

Hiccup runs through the village, passing Berkians hurrying on their way, bringing his bolas launcher. The villagers snarls at the passing by, no strangers to the young boy's clumsy tendencies.

"Hiccup, where are you going?!"

"Come back here!"

"Yeah, I know!" Hiccup called back, "Be right back!" he's pushing a cart with the automated catapult on it.

Stoick captures several Nadders in a net and wrestles them. One tries to blast him with fire. "Mind yourselves! The devils still have some juice in them!"

Meanwhile, Hiccup gets up a high slope, overlooking the village. He sets up his bola catapult on an empty hill and looks towards the night sky, scanning for a target.

"Come on." The brunette huffed, gripping on the triggers. "Gimme something to shoot at, gimme something to shoot at."

Silence from the night sky is the response to his request. It seemed as though this was going nowhere. Until he hears a swift movement. catches on a shadow, which starts visibly blotting out the stars. The silhouette fires, and an explosion illuminates it, showing a visible shadow. Hiccup shoots, the force knocking him away from his invention

A loud cry is heard as the shadow is seen plummeting down into a forest.

"Oh, I hit it!" Hiccup gawked, caught in disbelief for a moment, then a wave of delight followed as he got up and cheered. " YES! I HIT IT!" He turned around, "Did anybody see that?"

A growl is heard behind him, followed by the tell tale signs of something being knocked away. Stiffening, before turning around in resignation, Hiccup comes face to face with a monstrous Nightmare.

"Except for you."

Jack was running around town, with the Berkians barking at him to find cover. He, however, was out on a mission; to find his best friend before he gets himself into trouble. A shrill cry sounds from the hill, and Jack had a feeling he was already too late for that.

The cry also catches Stoick's attention. He turns to see the Monstrous Nightmare chasing Hiccup, and he growls in frustration.

"DO NOT let them escape!" The chief tells another Viking, Spitelout, before heading off.

The Viking gave him a salute, "Right!"

Hiccup runs behind a torch pole and hides, just as flames reach around the corner. He looks behind it and on the other side, the Nightmare reaches to get Hiccup. Stoick punches the beast and jumps back to defend himself. The dragon tries to breathe fire, but coughs up only a few drops of flaming liquid instead, having exhausted its shots.

"You're all out." Stoick sneered at the beast.

The chief of Berk charged, taking on the dragon single-handedly and nearly overpowering it. Nearly, because the Nightmare went on the defensive, and once it had the opening, it turned away to retreat along with the rest of the dragons that weren't captured. The torch pole collapses, and it tumbles down into the village, leaving ruins in its wake.

Oh, and there's one more thing you need to know...

"Sorry, Dad."

The torch rolls onto the Nadders Stoick netted earlier, freeing them. The dragons manage to escape, hauling off most of Berk's food and livestock. The villagers looked upset, Jack looked chagrined even though he didn't have anything to do with it. Stoick huffed in annoyance, before looking down at the younger brunette, crossing his arms in disapproval.

Hiccup pursed his lips, before speaking again. "Okay, but I hit a Night Fury."

Stoick rolled his eyes before he moves to grab Hiccup by the back of his shirt and drags him away from the carnage of a crumbling burning house. Jack runs up from the gathering of Berkians forming as they look at father and son. Hiccup continues to ramble on excuses as he, really, had no choice but to let himself be dragged.

"It’s not like the last few times, Dad! I mean, I really actually hit it!" Hiccup stressed, "You guys were busy and I had a very clear shot. It went down, just off Raven Point. Let’s get a search party out there, before it–"

"STOP!" Stoick shoved him to stand at his front, and Hiccup does just that. "Just… stop. Every time you step outside, disaster follows." He huffed irritably, "Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter’s almost here and I have an entire village to feed!

The boy shrugged awkwardly, "Between you and me, the village could do with a little less feeding, don’t ya think?" he mumbles lamely.

"Well," Jack gestures vaguely and speaks to no one in particular. "he’s not wrong I guess..."

A viking at the back rubs his stomach as if to say: Are you calling me fat?

"This isn’t a joke, Hiccup!" Stoick snapped at his son, before giving Jack a pointed look. "And don’t you encourage him, lad." Jack kept his mouth tight lipped, and move a bit to the side so that half of his body was concealed by a larger Viking next to him. "Why can’t you follow the simplest orders?"

Hiccup clears his throat, and tries to sound convincing. "I can’t stop myself. I see a dragon and I have to just…" He makes a sad attempt of hitting a fist into an open palm, kill it, you know? It’s who I am, Dad.

Tried as he might, Jack couldn't help but groan, as he face palmed with both hands this time and doesn’t believe a word his best friend said. But wished he still did sound a bit more convincing since he’s saying it in front of his dad and the village.

"You are many things, Hiccup." Stoick sighed, "But a dragon killer is not one of them. Get back to the house." He instructed Gobber, who was already on it, smacking the boy behind the head slightly. "Make sure he gets there. I have his mess to clean up." The chief grunted, before looking for someone in the crowd and called out, "Jackson, you start out by taking that contraption back to the smithy."

Jack starts frowning, and looking after Hiccup longingly to give him some companionable comfort before doing as he was order and goes gathers up Hiccup’s invention.

"Yes, sir."

Jack started to cart away the ruined contraption back to the general direction of the smithy. Along the way, both Hiccup and Jack hears the jabs coming from their fellow youth group.

"Quite the performance."

"I’ve never seen anyone mess up that badly. That helped!"

Hiccup rolled his eyes, as he waved a dismissive arm. "Thank you, thank you. I was trying…"

Jack makes sure to shove Snotlout as he passed by on his way to the smithy, excusing himself by saying he didn’t see the guy due to his focus being on heading back towards the Smithy.

Along the way back to the Haddock hut, Hiccup vents his frustration to Gobber. "So…I really did hit one."

"Sure, Hiccup." Gobber drawled.

"He never listens."

"Well, it runs in the family."

The brunette ignores the sass, and goes on. "And when he does, it’s always with this… disappointed scowl. Like someone skimped on the meat in his sandwich." he does his best impression of his father. "'Excuse me, barmaid! I’m afraid you brought me the wrong offspring. I ordered an extra large boy with beefy arms. Extra guts and glory on the side. This here, this is a talking fish bone!'"

"Now, you’re thinking about this all wrong." Gobber said, "It’s not so much what you look like, it’s what’s inside that he can’t stand."

Hiccup narrowed his eyes, "Thank you for summing that up." he deadpanned. "Jack was right about being good with pep talks, huh."

"If it makes ya feel better," The older Viking shrugged, "Jack likes ya no matter how you look."

Hiccup raised a brow, "It’s comforting," he granted, "but he is my best friend. Kinda expected that he would."

Gobber blinked, looking incredulous for a moment, then he remembers how old the boy actually was and rolled his eyes, "Oy, Valhalla help the lad. Poor Jack…"

Hiccup looked all the more confused.

"Look," Gobber gestured with his hand, and hook. "the point is, stop trying so hard to be something you’re not."

Dejectedly, Hiccup entered his hut. "I just want to be one of you guys."

Gobber makes an empathetic expression before turning away and heading back to the center of the village.

And that was the moment Hiccup took the back exit, to go into the forest.

#ChildOfSolace plotbunnies #HiJack #FrostCup #HiJack AU #Hiccup Haddock #Jackson Overland #Jack Frost #Ao3

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faecaptainofdreams · 4 years

Photo

Story time! The start of this story has a bit of a theme song, because i just always think of this: www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyGSe7… Sad and awful as it looks, this actually has a majorly happy ending! Major thank you to my friend Sumi-Sprite for collaging this for me! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When Walter is 22, he goes on a very dangerous mission with Lance. While they wait for backup (which Lance is willing to accept most of the time now on account of personal growth), the duo storms a chemical lab, where the "final battle" takes place. I don't have a lot of details worked out, but long story short, they succeed in their mission (with several casualties as a result of what comes next), but fire and blow-outs in the lab lead to a very terrifying situation. The men find themselves in a space with only one oxygen mask for emergencies. Lance forces Walter to wear it, but even after being taught compromise, the latter is very stubborn. As Lance begins to lose consciousness from being stuck inhaling smoke and various chemicals, Walter takes advantage of this. He shoots him in the neck with his own tranquilizer (a familiar scene, no?), and as Lance is passing out, Walter gives him the mask instead. Lance passes out from the tranquilizer, and Walter slowly begins to suffocate until he too, is rendered unconscious. Lance wakes up in the medical bay at the H.T.U.V. Delirious but suddenly remembering the mission, he starts to panic and call out for Walter. Not a few moments later, the younger of them reveals he's in a bed right beside Lance's, groggy with an oxygen mask strapped to his face, an IV in his arm and an EKG hooked up to him, but he's smiling and reaching out for Lance. Lance takes the boy's hand firmly and says "You scared me." Walter answers with "You scared me first...!" He sleepily explains that backup came and rescued them and brought them back to the agency, where they've apparently only been for a short while. In better shape than Walter on account of the latter's sacrifice, Lance gets up and lays beside him, jokingly threatening a "quadruple fire" if he ever does something like that again. Walter very softly smiles and says "I'm not sorry." When Marcy eventually shows up to visit them after hearing the news, she finds them laying there in the bed together and jokingly asks if she's interrupting something. "Nope, just two grown men cuddling after they almost died, nothin' to see here," answers Lance in a similar tone. Marcy informs them that most of their targets were saved and are in custody (some of them being in the hospital), but a few of them died from the fire and chemical blast. Walter is sad to hear it, but accepting of it, and glad that not every life was lost. About an hour or two later, he's stable enough to be off of the oxygen and other attachments. With all the smoke and chemical inhalation, the medical staff advises giving Walter a bronchoscopy to check for potential damage to his lungs. Such a procedure often only requires conscious sedation with a numbing of the nose and throat, but when they get him to the operating room, Walter panics at the thought of being awake while having a scope down his throat; after having nearly suffocated to death just hours ago, the thought of being awake and the fear of suffocating again is too much to bear (even though he would be fine). So instead, they decide to give him a general anesthesia and put him under for the procedure. It's just safer for everyone this way. When it's over and he's beginning to wake from the anesthesia, Walter is wheeled back to his room on the bed, and is happy to see Marcy and Lance waiting for him. But anesthesia is a funny thing, and as he's wheeled in, he's singing the Disclaimer Song in a very loopy fashion. Once settled, he chooses not to finish the song. This conversation ensues: ------- "Lance: You're not gonna finish the song? Walter: *mildly sassy* Ffffhhh, youknooww... I sing...ALLLL the tiiime, anndiiiffinishh all of them, anndd it'ssfuunn, buut... Whyy issitt aalwaayys me...? Why'd's WalterrBeckkett onlyy siing??? YOUU finishth'sonng... Lance: *"well shit" face* Wow, all right then, I'll finish the song. ♫Don't try this at home, if you do, you might--♫ Ey, aren't you gonna sing? Walter: ...Mmm givinng youaheadd starrtt..." ------- He joins in eventually. There is a lot of talking about various things, and lots of Marcy and Lance laughing to themselves at the rambling and singing. Oh yes, more singing. Lots of singing. Lance records some of the rambling, including an entire conversation that begins with Walter casually asking if they'll have to "take his lungs out." After being told no, that he's perfectly fine, he says it would be hard to breathe without lungs, and then regales his company with the thought of the lungs being replaced with balloons. Specifically, the left one would be blue, and the right one would be red. Why? He doesn't know, it's not his call, apparently. At the thought of them popping if he took too deep a breath, a laughing fit on Walter's part ensues. A little while later, this conversation happens: --- "Walter: Whenn I'mmbetterr, 'm gonna drriiveyou'round in the e-tron... Lance: You wanna drive me around? Walter: Yeaaah... Ohh, waait... Imight craash... Lance: Naaahhh, i think it'd be worth the risk. You can drive the car. Walter: Buutt youuloove that carr... Lance: Yeah, well... I love you more. Walter: Hmm..... Whaat...? Lance: *softly* I said I love you, Walter." --- Lance has told him this before, but in his drugged up state, the blatant expression of love swiftly turns the tide of the mood from funny to pitiful. Walter bursts into tears and tells Lance he loves him, too. And Marcy. And Killian, and Joy, and Lovey and Jeff and Crazy Eyes, and Terrance even though he ignores him, and August (OC) and Ramsey (OC [sorta]) and Shannon (OC) and that he thinks it's mean that people nickname Joy "Joyless," all while bawling his poor eyes out. Endeared, Marcy and Lance try to calm him down. But Walter reveals that he hasn't forgotten his conversation with Lance when they first woke up in that room together. He says he's sorry for scaring Lance, that he just didn't want him to die because he "doesn't want to be alone again," but that he understands Lance has the same fear and he just couldn't win. Somewhere in the rambling mess of emotions, he mentions fear of Lance "dying like his mother." Basically, every subconscious or pushed-down negative thought and feeling he's had since the mission comes blubbering out in a heap of drunken tears and sadness. Seeing how very real his distress is, his company is quick to try and ease his mind and offer him comfort. Walter asks if Lance really is going to fire him again, to which Lance says no. He then asks if Lance is mad at him, which earns another "no." Lance says no one is mad at him, that he just needs to close his eyes and try to take a nap. After a few minutes of quietly crying to himself with his eyes closed, Walter comes to a terrifying conclusion... What if he never stops crying?! Of course, Lance almost bursts out laughing, but a death glare from Marcy forces him to keep it to himself, lest he risk further upsetting Walter. It may sound ridiculous, but for someone who's been anesthetized, every feeling is very real. Marcy comforts him, tells him no, he's not going to cry forever. It's not long before the tears slow down. They don't stop, but they slow down. [fun fact: crying is reported in 40% of patients who wake from anesthesia, be it for a presented reason or for no reason at all. Very little is known about why this occurs, though it's suspected that the stress and fear from whatever they had to be put out for manifests itself in that drugged-up state. This is referred to as "the boo-hoos."] But it's late, and Marcy must go home. She and Lance talk off to the side, and the lady gives her man a kiss to remember her by for the evening.~ After Marcy's departure, Lance decides that after everything they've been through and with how upset Walter's been, he will sleep in the bed with him. He reclines him, crawls in, and holds him tight until morning. Walter wakes up around 1 in the morning, mildly confused, but Lance tells him to go back to sleep. Happy that Lance stayed with him and choosing not to question this unexpected all-night cuddling party, he submits without a word. By morning, everything is fine, and the anesthesia has worn off. Before the lad can even put his clothes on, Lance just HAS to show him the video he took of him while he was all loopy. Walter is embarrassed and cringes through it, but also laughs at some parts. It's a happy ending. "Okay but for real, don't ever do that again." "No promises." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------- This movie is something else. Lance, Walter and Killian have all experienced trauma and loss, but in different ways. Walter and Killian are the extremes; one copes with loss through love, wanting desperately to let people in and let others know they aren't alone. Killian has no way to cope, and expresses his pain through hatred and a desperate longing to make the one who hurt him feel what he's felt, and then end it all in his own death. Lance is right in the middle. He has acquaintances, he talks to people, he cares, but he holds everyone at arm's length. He pretends everything is fine, he acts cold and aloof, "too cool" for playing on a team or working with others. But really, it's a fear of letting others in, because life could take it all away again. He still bears a lot of empathy, but also exercises carelessness on criminals. He and Killian are not so different, but with Walter's help, both men learn to open up (we can see Killian's expression for redemption in his final scene in the movie, we know he was a little touched that Walter saved him. Also consider, Killian didn't know Walter survived that fall at the time). So now that they're partners and each have someone in their lives to love -- multiple people now, in fact, it means feeling desperation to keep them close. It means taking a bigger risk, it means work. After everything they've been through, no, Lance is not ashamed to hug and hold and love on his little nerdy white gay son. He's not afraid of intimacy anymore, no matter the form. He'll take what he can get, because tomorrow is never a promise. Would you die for the ones you love...?

#Spies in Disguise #Walter Beckett #Lance Sterling #Marcy Kappel #Unus Annus #kind of #i mean i meme their song all the time #disclaimer song

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fuckingthefictional · 4 years

Text

Being Ada’s best friend and falling for Tommy would include.

Becoming friends with her after the boys go off to fight

Some much older lad was trying to flirt with her and Ada looked uncomfortable. So...

“Oi you stupid cunt! Can you fuck off before a bullet gets put into your head by yours truly?”

The man scarpered off after being confronted and publically humiliated

Ada recognises you from the first aid church hall thing

“Thanks for saving me back there”

“no problem us small heath girls have to stick together”

“You’re Y/N right?”

“The one and only, And you’re Ada Shelby”

The old bloke returned with some of his friends I guess not liking the idea of being humiliated by a girl

You just took the pistol from your thigh holster and aimed it at them

“Are you bloody deaf? I told you to leave, so off you fuck!”

They didn’t move so you shot the cap off of one of their heads

“I’m giving you 3 seconds you fucking bastards and not a second more.”

They fled of course

“Christ almighty i need a whiskey.”

“I know just the place.”

After that you became fast friends and became super close.

You both go to the Garrison more than you care to admit.

Ada being surprised at how well you can hold your liquor

The only time you were both pissed out of your minds was on your 18th birthday and you just ended up walking around the streets giggling and singing at the top of your lungs.

You both couldn’t look at a bottle of vodka without gagging slightly

You’re the first person who Ada properly opens up to

She talks to you about her family and boy issues she has because she feels like nobody takes her problems seriously or would be willing to listen to her

“I get so worried about my brothers. I feel like there’s a part of me missing without them here. I’m worried that they might be killed over in France.”

“They won’t.”

“Howd you know”

“Because anyone who shares blood with you, Ada Shelby, would: a) never willingly leave someone they love alone and: b) would never go down without a bloody good fight.”

You always knew what to say to make her feel better again.

You both felt like you were each other’s sisters that they never had growing up.

Like you have sleepovers all the time

“If you expect the unexpected then doesn’t that technically mean that the unexpected is expected?”

“Y/N it’s 4am go to sleep!”

One time you’d woken up a bit earlier than Ada had and you were looking at her thinking

“Damn I’m so lucky to have her as my best friend!¡”

Then she rolled over in her sleep and smacked you in the face

The first time you met Polly you nearly shit yourself

Ada has gone to the bathroom, leaving you alone at the kitchen table

“And just who might you be?”

Polly was stood at the entry way, stern, cold look on her faceface, hand by her hip ready to grab a weapon if necessary.

“I’m- um, I’m”

“Bloody hell aunt pol put the gun down, if you must know this is Y/N she saved my arse from getting raped by an old bloke.”

“Let her speak for herself Ada”

“I’m Y/N, I scared an old guy off after he tried to feel her up in a back alley.”

“ScArEd hiM ofF, you shot the cap off of his head and they bolted.”

“Why did you do that, did you think if you scared a man off then the Shelby’s owed you a favour?”

“Nope my life is just a mess and I instinctively take care of other because I don’t know how to take care of myself.”

Polly was a lot more happy to have you around after she found out about what you risked to help her niece.

It started becoming a regular occurance to have you over for dinner or a cup of tea everyday.

You just sort of walked into the Shelby house now.

“Hey- Jesus, stop screaming for fucks sake. We’ve ran out of whiskey!”

You’re an honourary Shelby girl™️

Like you would willingly help out around the house.

Whether that’s cooking breakfast, tidying Finns room, or doing the laundry.

Always being there for Ada and being her biggest support

“Y/N I’ve done something bad. Really bad.”

“Put the corpse in ice, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“WhaT nO?! WhY wOulD I HavE a CoRpsE?”

Obviously being close to Ada meant you got close to Finn and he became a younger brother figure.

He comes to you for advice when he’s too embarrassed to go to his aunt and sister.

This family dynamic yoooooo

You began to help the Shelby ladies to run the betting shop.

You did all the numbers and you could read and write.

You also started to teach Finn how to read.

“What does that say Finn?”

“hoo-agh”

“nO”

If you get that reference then ily

You’d get dating advice from Polly too.

“Remember as ladies it’s all about being A-B-C. Always-Be-Classy”

“And a little bit slutty!”

“Ada’s right be a little bit slutty too.”

You’d help Polly look after John’s children on Sundays when she went to church

They seriously love you. They call you Aunt Y/N/N and they look forward to seeing you every weekend.

When the boys come home from France they found the family dynamic had shifted

They obviously weren’t the same after the shit they went through.

But Ada, Polly and Finn we’re happier than they’d ever seen them be

They were having a family meeting around the kitchen table

And you walked into the house as you normally did. carrying groceries

And as you walked into the kitchen

“Who the fuck are you?”

The shelby lads are aiming their guns right at you, ready to blow your head off.

You just looked at Ada, rolling your eyes, “What is it with your family and trying to shoot me on site?”

“They like to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Aye I can bloody see.”

You just walked around to the kitchen counter and plopped the bags of shopping down.

Polly casually gave you a glass of whiskey which you downed.

“I’m sorry but who the fuck is this random girl standing in the middle of our kitchen drinking our whiskey?”

“Y/N Y/L/N, pleasure to meet you- I assume your Arthur judging by the attitude you’re giving me.”

Polly and Ada full on snorted

“And you must be John, you look just like Katie. The kids have told be a lot about you.”

“All good things I should hope.”

“Shit there were meant to be good things?”

Polly and Ada crying with laughter

“Boys this Y/N, my best friend, the person who did all the numbers for the shop while you were away, John’s kids’ babysitter, Finn’s teacher and honourary Shelby girl.”

Tommy is just in awe even if he hides it

“Welcome to the family Miss Y/L/N”

“You can call me Y/N”

Sexual tension

“GEt a RoOm!”

“Shut it Arthur”

After a few weeks the boys got used to seeing you around the house more.

Whether it was you sat at the table with Finn giving him advice on his spelling.

Or cooking dinner for John’s little ones on a Sunday (which meant you usually had at least one child on your hip)

Or even just lounging on the sofa in a heap with Ada while you gossiped.

Your qualification in nursing often came handy when one of the Shelby men would turn up battered

“That fucking hurt”

“Aye- you should have thought about this before you got into a fistfight.”

Out of all the Shelby’s it was of course Tommy that took the longest to start a full conversation with you

When it happened it wasn’t under the best circumstances

You went to the pictures on a date with a guy you had fancied for ages and the guy in question was snogging someone else- leaving you in the rain for an hour

You banged on the Shelby’s door looking like an absolute mess.

And Tommy opened the door

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do

Ada was not there *cough* at Freddie’s *cough*

And the house was empty apart from Finn, John’s kids and Polly (who was putting the children to bed)

So you just pushed past Tommy who was stood in the doorway dumbfounded

At this point you were shivering from the cold rain and the tears had stopped.

“Now what’s got you knocking on our door this late ‘ey Y/N.”

“Date went wrong, fucker stood me up.”

You were downing whiskey.

Tommy as much as he didn’t want to admit it hated seeing you upset and he knew you deserved better

It took a while for you to notice that Tommy had draped a blanket around your shoulders and had lit the fire to try and get you warmed up

“Forget the fucker. He don’t deserve a gal like you.”

“Thanks Tommy.”

In the morning Polly came down the stairs to find you and Tommy curled up on the sofa together.

She lowkey rooted for yous to get together

Honestly you found yourself constantly covering for Ada saying she was staying at your house when actually she was with Freddie

Because ur a great friend

“has anyone seen our Ada today?”

“Aye she slept at mine last night and we were up most of the night so I let her sleep in.” Definitely not at Freddie’s

“Up all night, that sounds kin-OW”

“If you must know Johnny boy- we were chatting shit about people- mainly you.”

“Uncalled for.”

“Why there’s so much to talk about?”

You were always involved in covering for Ada

Because your cared about her happiness- which was heavily influenced by her love life.

But actually Ada and Polly paid close attention to your love life too with Tommy

When you Polly and Ada were sat in the kitchen having a catchup- they raised the question.

“When are you going to realise that my brother’s in love with you?”

*que tea being spat out* WHAT

Polly just rolled her eyes and smiled, “dear Y/N, its almost obvious that Thomas is falling for you.”

“What the fuck?”

I think you may have been in a constant state of shock after that.

“We broke Y/N.”

Like you couldn’t quite pinpoint when you started to fall for Tommy

But Tommy definitely remembered the time he knew he was in love with you

You were in the kitchen, with John’s youngest child on your hip- making dinner for all the kids.

While Finn was sat at the table trying to read out bits of a book you’d lended him.

Tommy was stood in the entryway watching as Finn struggled to pronounce some of the harder words and you’d just wander over and explain how to do it.

Like to Tommy family is the most important thing in his life.

You’re not blood related but you still gave up your spare time to look after John’s kids, teach Finn to read or even just comfort Ada after a fight with Freddie.

And Tommy admires you for that- you sacrificed a lot in order to care for his family.

So he’s just leant on the doorframe, cigarette between his lips, watching as you got everything ready for dinner.

And he just thought “she’s gonna be my wife and mother to my children someday”

#peaky blinder headcanon #peakyblinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #john shelby #arthur shelby #polly gray #ada shelby #finn shelby #shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #ada shelby x bestfriend!reader #cillian murphy #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader

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itsybitsylemonsqueezy · 4 years

Note

Oh gosh i literally LOVE your analysis thank you. And what about Majima??

Awww, thank you very much ^^; I’ve been having a good time writing these, I”m glad people are enjoying them. And everybody’s free to ask for seconds too, if interested. *breathes deep* Hoo boy, you pulling out the big guns there. Okay lads, settle down, it’ll be awhile.

character: hate them | don’t really care | like them | LOVE them | THEY ARE MY PRECIOUS

I would give my life for Majima Goro. But I won’t because that would trigger him to fuck and back. Best boy, golden son, I am mad fucked up about him. I don’t even have time to explain all my feelings about Majima fucking Goro. You can tell because I can’t go a single fucking post without mentioning him. *whispers* I love him.

ship with: Y’know how sometimes things are popular and you don’t get why? This is not one of those times. It’s cliche, but Kiryu Kazuma is the popular option here For A Reason. Like, I started Zero not knowing a fucking thing about Yakuza, as I think many do. And I wasn’t at all sure how Majima and Kiryu were going to be with each other, I had heard that they were the going ship and that seemed legit enough. Kiryu’s a nice boy, Majima’s a nice boy, they’d probably get on. But you make it through Zero and they don’t meet, not even once. They vaguely hear about each other and if they thought enough about it, they’d probably figure out that each other was holding the other half of their story, but there’s only that 5 second meeting in the epilogue, after the entire game is already fucking over and... Oh Shit.

That, my many gendered gentry, was an imprinting in live time.

But first, let’s back up a second, because I bet you’re all wondering about the Other important love in Majima’s life. So Makoto, Makoto... As I discussed in my Saejima post, after Anagura, Majima is living to die. That’s it, that’s his only goal in life, to get back into Tojo and wait there so his brother knows where to find him when he comes to kill him. He’s not looking for any other attachments in life. Because that’s the way Majima loves, body and soul, his whole existence dedicated around one thing. And he’s already signed himself up for sacrificing himself as repayment for Saejima’s sins and wasted years in prison. But then this... tragedy happens. This hit that isn’t a hit, this villain that’s really a victim. Everything goes wrong and Majima is left with do I commit the unthinkable to shorten my wait for my brother or do I forgo my brother’s rightful revenge to save this innocent? And Majima can’t. He can’t.

He could never kill and he can’t turn his back on someone who needs help. And she does need him, specifically, there’s no one else. Anyone else couldn’t be trusted, or if they can be trusted, they’re dead. Majima is the only person he and Makoto can trust so he’s just here, doing his best, trying to keep her alive in the face of everything he wants and all the power and hate the underworld of Japan can offer. He would sacrifice his one goal of staying alive for his brother if it means keeping Makoto safe. Is that love? Oh yes, but not the livable kind. You don’t come back from that kind of dedication. Majima loves Makoto as gods love: completely. It is without judgment and without reason. That’s not the love of one finite person to another finite person, admitting, exploring, and cherishing all the flaws and limits therein, it’s not even the love of a parent to a child or vice versa. It is infinite love, all-consuming and all-destroying. It is not cognizant of personality, worthiness, or risk. It just is. In many ways, Majima does not know Makoto, he doesn’t see her, neither, ironically, does she see him. These are not two equals of mutual interest enjoying who each other is. This is a far less personal and far more profound experience. It’s like a calling, a quest. And it’s not something a stable relationship can be built on because it doesn’t actually have anything to do with who Makoto is in her day-to-day life or who Majima is in his embodied, finite experience. This is love as a philosophical point, as a moral decision.

It is the greatest thing I’ve seen in my life that he lets her go. That sort of love will destroy you if you let it, it crushes your existence, your personality and sense of self, entirely into that of another. And you can’t live as a part of someone else, you cannot actually live for someone else, not sustainably, no matter how badly you want to. It’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen done that Majima has the power to walk away from her and walk away from that sweet, blinding death. To choose a finite, flawed, embodied, but his own individual existence rather than let himself be consumed in an idea. And that they walk away from each other where they can both survive it. Where the idea of what was and what might have been doesn’t drive them into despair of all earthly, finite joys. Because who would choose to have a normal, dirty, working life where you are required each day to be an individual with your own wants and desires that are spurned and rewarded by turns of luck rather than the pure, golden existence of perfect moral agape? And I’m so glad that they walked away before they could be blinded by it, again, ironically enough.

But the fact that Majima is capable of that level of love is truly terrifying. And then how fascinating that he walks away from it. That he chooses a harder, darker life that will have the normal range of joys and disappointments. The restraint it takes. The incredible, unbending sense of self and to decide that there are selfish, individual things worth caring about, even if you had the chance to become selfless for the rest of your life. I don’t think we talk about or think about that Majima walking away there was a moral choice. He wasn’t walking away from happiness, he was walking towards a different happiness. And, most importantly of all, even though he is still waiting to be killed by his brother, the fact that he walked away means that Majima is much healthier and much less self-destructive than he was at the beginning of Zero. He could have escaped it all if he went with her. But he doesn’t. And that fucking blows my mind.

I love that Majima grows after Zero. That his absolute nihilism changes as he allows himself to care about people again, maybe even care about himself again. Especially after Shimano’s death, he starts to develop relationships and things that he cares about as soon as it is safe to do so. He decides that he isn’t going to waste away waiting for his brother, he will live in this time, even if it has an expiration date. He will build something he cares about. And I think, in no small part, knowing Kiryu gives him the courage and the will to do so.

Because Kiryu is this shooting star in the dark night of Majima’s world. He is this mighty pillar standing amidst slag and waste. Kiryu does things that are right because they are right, with no thought to his own gain or risk. Kiryu does things that are right at tremendous personal risk and will fight through people trying to stop him. And Kiryu will win. Not only does Kiryu agree with the way Majima thinks and feels but, mother of god, eh actually has the power and strength to survive.

Think about that. You’re Majima Goro and every day since you became yakuza, you have been kicked down, tortured, and abused just because you wanted to do the right thing. You have watched countless friends, allies, and enemies be shot and killed in front of you because they were trying to do the right thing. You have no choice but to do right in the secret places of your heart, to do good only in ways that can never be traced back to you, in ways no one would confuse for being good, kind things. Because it will get you killed, or worse, it will get the people around you killed. It’s not paranoia, you’ve seen it happen, your nightmares are filled to the brim with the blood and horror or good people dying just because they were good and it’s your fault, it’s all your fault because you didn’t warn them, you let them get close, you let them see you were a good person and you can NEVER. EVER. let that happen to anyone again.

And then there’s Kiryu. Stupid, mutton-headed freak with the arms of a lumberjack and a heart as white as lilies. He’ll be dead tomorrow, you know it. He’s too good, he’s too kind, and he’s not afraid. He’s not damn near afraid enough. He has no idea what’s waiting out there to snap him to pieces. But he’s there tomorrow. Not even a scratch on him, still standing, still strong. You try to warn him, you try to beat him in a way he can survive so that he learns to never try to be good again. But he beats you. He actually fucking beats you and what the fuck are you supposed to do with that? He’ll still die anyway, there’s no way he’ll live where so many have been slaughtered. And he’s still there tomorrow. You pester him, you follow him, you watch him closely, to see what he does, who he is, how is it he’s still alive? It must be some trick, he’s either not as good as you think he is or not as strong or, or... something! Because it’s impossible, it’s impossible that anyone could, that anyone could...

And he smiles. He smiles at you, like he can see right down to that tiny, beating, pure heart you’re trying every second to wrap in barbed wire. And you’re done. You’re fucking done for. He smiles and... it’s all fucking over. Whatever happens now, whether he dies or lives, it’s too late. He’s everything you ever wanted and it breaks you that he, somehow, wants you too. Because who would smile at you if they didn’t know you? Oh, he’s dumb as rocks still, but... the way he looks at you, in those moments when you fuck up, in those moments that if someone was watching, they would see you. And he sees you. And worse, he thinks he likes it. And... oh god. You love him. This will all end in tears.

But it doesn’t. Kiryu’s alive and the same and that’s... that’s wonderful. And that’s the love of two people, two people who see each other and know each other and, god help them, like each other. Despite it all, the risk and worry and the problems, they just... get along. That’s why I ship it.

(I also ship Kiryu/Majima/Tachibana sometimes and we’ll save my essay on that for an entirely different post.)

brotp: Saejima Taiga, obvs. I will not repeat my sentiments on why that’s the brotp here, there’s the Saejima post for that. But I also put Nishida and Kage right up there as Majima’s best bros. You got Nishida out here doing his best to keep his boss from dying and facilitating Majima’s ridiculous courtship ploys and trying to articulate Majima’s feelings for him when Majima Won’t because Nishida cares So Fucking Much about Majima. And he knows that Mjima hates it when people care about him, he knows Majima actively does tno want you to like him but... Nishida’ worked with him for too long not to know what a good, kind person Majima really sis, even if he’s trying his best not to show it. And god damn it, but Nishida’s not going to let him live in misery when he’s got a heart of gold like that.

And Kage too, he and Majima look out for each other. They enjoy the odd cage match and a morose drink of fine liquor. They’ve both seen tragedy in their lives and Kage tries his best to convince Majima not to give up all hope. That Kiryu boy, he really likes him. Even Kage can see it. He’d be happy to... no, no, alright. Just thought he’d say.

Because Majima has that effect on people. He makes friends wherever he goes because he’s a good time, he’s generous and kind and has a knack for picking up people who are down. And he’d do anything for you if you didn’t have a friend in the world. He has so much love to gives and slowly, slowly, with time and healing, with the death of Shimano and the return of his brother, slowly Majima is allowed to feel safe in loving people once more. And it warms everyone’s heart to see him happy and whole with a family and friends. Everyone he’s touched just wants him to be okay, after all he’s done for the world, please, just give him this little bit. It’s all he ever wanted.

general opinions: I Am Love. I LOvE HiM. I lOVe. I LOOOOOOOOOOOVE. I Love HIm. *sobs*

#Majima Goro #There's more to say. There always is. But I'll cut it there for today #Yakuza #ask Lemon #blurred-voices

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tiphansia · 3 years

Text

long and negative post under the cut that’s just a giant wall of text with no breaks lmao

ah lads now i’ve really done it, accidentally left myself unmuted in the voice chat of a discord server of online friends to whom I never said a word about being trans. In fact I lied about it, when asked earlier I said I was a cis dude. I even played up being a little homophobic/transphobic as a joke to reinforce the perception of cis-ness. But now they’ve found out I’m actually trans which is the most wildly humiliating thing that could happen to me on there. This sucks ahah god now they’re going to think of me differently and accidentally misgender me sometimes like they do with the other trans people in the server which i don’t mind in principle but the big problem is that it means they aren’t perceiving me as male anymore which. Really sucks. God it’s really my fault for lying to them but all I wanted was to be treated as normal. That’s not a crime, right? All I wanted was to be one of them and not a weird outsider like how they treat the other trans dudes. I feel like I’ve betrayed my own kind in some way. I even have an irrational hatred towards everyone who heard me, which is completely stupid given that it’s my fault for leaving myself unmuted. I wish they would hate me because it would make me feel a lot better if they did, but no one is mad at me and it’s making me feel sick. Hmm. Privileged problems, right? I know people out there have it worse than me and that I don’t even deserve to feel sad about this because nothing bad has ever happened to me in my entire life but still. I can’t help but be sad, and it makes me feel better to post this into the unfeeling void. Might get hate for this, but I really wish conversion therapy actually worked and was legal, I’d be the first in line to sign myself up. To me, the thought of becoming a woman makes me absolutely scared and sick, and therefore I am scared of conversion therapy in this hypothetical scenario, but just like dying, once it’s over I won’t care anymore. So it’s the most logical thing to wish for out of all my stupid fantasies, even though it’s the most painful one. My other fantasy is to go back in time and mess with my dna so that I’d grow up a cis boy, but of course that’s impossible. I once saw a post about how any religion that touts the idea of suffering as a virtue is one to be wary of, but I subscribe to that idea myself. Even though I don’t really have much real pain in my life since it’s not like being trans is actually the worst thing in the world (to me it is the ultimate shame), the idea that my being trans (very minor pain compared to others I know) is somehow a test of my character comforts me. I don’t know what scares me more, the fact that I’ll be like this my entire life, or the idea that it’s temporary, I’ll detransition, and all this pain was just made up for nothing. I also don’t believe in god logically, but whenever I’m in pain it’s comforting to think that there’s someone I can talk to, even if no one is actually listening. I think the most use that could come out of my life would be as a murder victim of a trans hate crime, so people can use my death to advance the cause. At least I’d be doing something useful for once. I think I’d make a fine martyr, too. I feel subhuman a lot of times, like everyone around me is looking at me and speaking to me without noticing that I’m a cursed and rotten creature to be crushed under their shoes. I almost wish people would hate me more so I wouldn’t feel like such a liar all the time, even though really I’m not lying about anything. I feel though that even by attempting to pass as male, I’m deceiving people. I’m a man inside I know but it’s so hard to even say the words or even think them because of this stupid shell of perception. I look and sound like Minnie mouse, anyone I told would burst out laughing if I told them: “I’m a man.” God, it even sounds so stupid here. I get by by presenting as ambiguously as possible, and saying nothing about pronouns unless directly asked. I’m such a pussy, not strong enough to stay female-presenting, too weak to correct pronouns and perception, and not even man enough to kill myself when I should have. It’s been 3 or 4 years since I was severely suicidal, and still I think life would not have changed for those around me if I had died then. I still wish I’d killed myself then, or at least tried. It’s kind of my life motto at this point: “Too pussy to do anything”. Even now as the grand landmark age of 18 draws near, all the hopes I placed on it in years past are evaporating. I told myself, “When we’re 18 we can get on hormones, we can change are name, we can finally live a full life”. And now, life’s realities are becoming clear. Transition with what money? And how are we going to deal with the family? I’d rather die than come out, but I’d also rather die than not transition. Real sticky situation we got here. Looks like I won’t be able to transition until my late 20s, which is horrifyingly far away to me. I thought I couldn’t make it until 18, but here I (almost) am. I know I can make it until then, but it makes me so unbelievably sad, and I can already imagine the amount of suffering in my future between now and then. Plus, I was on track to have a beautiful and privileged life. Was a 4.0 student, in multiple honors societies, great standardized test scores, the works. Now I’m none of that except the test scores due to me being a dumb piece of shit this entire school year and letting my half a decade of hard work swirl down the drain along with my life prospects. Hell, it’s starting to look like I’m gonna be a highschool dropout. Me! It’s unthinkable. I’m gonna end up working in retail or at mcdonalds or something and while all work is honorable work, I’m not going to be making enough to fucking live off of, much less transition. I was set up for greatness, man. I let everyone down cause. Well, I don’t even know what happened,w as probably depressed or something but I can’t remember most of this entire school year so I’m not sure. Being trans ruined everything for me. I wouldn’t have ever even been depressed if I wasn’t trans. I’d be in the qualifying race for the cross country junior olympics if it wasn’t for being trans. To be honest I miss track, but guess what! You’re trans, no sex-segregated sports for you. You either have to come out and do sports with your chosen gender, or stay closeted to your parents and out yourself as a tranny to your entire fucking high school. I mean sure the whole world’s probably thinking, “Boo fucking hoo tumblr user tiphansia, let me play you a song on the world’s tiniest violin, those are first world problems” and yeah they certainly are but it doesn’t make it any less upsetting to me. Just let me have my little pity party in my little corner of the internet. I miss my online friends. Normally my response to anything painful that has to do with my being trans is just denial denial denial until even I forget the event, but I’m pretty sure my brain can’t take any more forgetting. I’ve forgotten this entire year I can’t do this anymore. I have to be strong and face it and stop being a pussy. I hope it turns out well for me. and for whoever made it this far reading hope your life goes well too. Thanks for listening. Goodnight.

#q speaks #tip speaks #hatred and negativity #delete later

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ticklishraspberries · 4 years

Text

A Day (Or Six) in the Life

Note: This is from Richie’s POV sorta, so fair warning, there is some vulgar language from time to time. Hope you like it!

Sometimes there’s just too much shit going on in Richie’s head.

And like, don’t get him wrong – he loves the weird crap his brain comes up with. Makes things entertaining, a little spicy, a little zesty. The only problem with it is that he can’t find the damn remote that turns off the six different brands of Looney Tunes going on up there.

(He’d once spent an entire lecture assigning different Voices to the markers his professor used on the whiteboard, to the point that he hadn’t retained a single iota of anything the man actually wrote down.)

Man, that red little minx was pretty sexy though.

He snorts to himself as he comes out of his dozing, shoved back into the real world for the present. He can feel the hot line of Eddie at his back, leg hooked over his hip like a seat belt. His lil jet pack.

Richie reaches blindly for his glasses and pushes them onto his nose, sniffling. It’s still fairly early by his standards, but he doesn’t glance long enough at the digital clock to tell for sure, choosing instead to take one of Eddie’s hand and squeeze like it’s his own personal communications device. “Ground control to major Eds, come in, major Eds?”

No response.

Richie huffs, squeezes harder. “Psht. Major Eds? What’s your mission status, major?”

Maybe Eddie understands what he’s saying, maybe he doesn’t, but Richie receives a huff of hot breath at the back of his neck for his efforts, followed by what feels like a cheek smushed against his head. “S’too early, Rich.”

Flabbergasted, Richie turns over completely to grip a disgruntled, squinting Eddie by the front of his sleep shirt. “It’s never too early in outer space, Eds! Did the academy teach you nothing? I’m ashamed.”

And Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing Eddie so ruffled in the morning. Slow, blinking away sleep from his eyes with those impossibly long lashes, yawning around perfectly white teeth that look like little moon rocks, and - and it definitely seems like there’s a theme going on in his head today, doesn’t it?

“What are you even talking about?” The question sounds irritated, but that’s never stopped Richie before. If anything, it means that he has to go and run his mouth harder, because that’s his default reaction to any indication that someone might be upset with him.

(Except they both know that if Eddie really felt like it, he could just pick up his hot little self and go back to his own bed across the room. Hasn’t happened yet, so. Free game.)

“What am I -? I’m talking about the great race, major!” He pokes Eddie’s side, smiling knowingly at the resulting yip and defensive curl. “Space ain’t some pre teen with a secret collection of skin mags, babe-be, it’s not gonna explore itself.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose but can’t bury his smile in his pillow fast enough for Richie to miss it, sighing a long-suffering breath. “You’re so gross.”

“I try.”

“Where am I going, anyway?”

“Hm?” Richie kinda shifted out of the moment there, it’s gonna take him a second to catch up.

“You know,” Eddie yawns again, gesturing to the ceiling with a limp hand. “Space. Tell me where I’m going.”

“Oh, yeah. Uncharted territory, actually. Forgot to mention that.”

“Mmm…”

A moment of silence passes between them, which is really fortunate for Eddie because it gives Richie an opening for just about the best joke ever.

Gathering him in his arms slowly, he kisses his cheek, nuzzles up to him, and whispers, “To infinity… and your mom!”

Eddie, who had resettled peacefully in the crook of Richie’s arm, stiffens instantly and snaps one angry eye open to glare at him something fierce. Before Richie even so much as smirks, he finds himself pushed down into the squeaky mattress, two hands digging into any spot they can reach.

“Wait- W-wait!” Richie tumbles back with the force of it so hard he thinks he might get whiplash, but it doesn’t matter because he’s laughing around his next breath, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut.

Eddie’s like a freight train when it comes to this, hands jumping from sides to ribs to neck to armpits to stomach - it’s all Richie can do to hold on to his wrists, tickle-weak and letting it happen.

“Yeah, laugh it up, Trash mouth.” Eds hisses, though Richie can see through a few tears that he’s grinning, biting at his tongue in concentration. Richie loves it, loves how Eddie can just reach into his head and jumble his brain until his thoughts whirl around like confetti in a snow globe.

At any rate, those insistent little fingers wring every last one of them out of him by the time he stops, looking down at Richie’s flushed excuse for a face and beaming like he won a prize. Always a competition with him, hoo-wee. “You done yet?”

Richie blinks, drudging through the mud pile that is his brain for a witty retort. “Uh… I…”

Eddie leans down and kisses his nose. “Good. Let’s go get breakfast, I’m starving.”

——————————

“Oh. My. Fuck.” Richie pulls off his hat and tosses it aside the moment he’s through the door. He stops only to kick off his shoes, one landing near the rack and the other hitting the wall. He doesn’t care, though, limping into the living room. After an eight hour shift, he has no fucking business being vertical and wants no part of it, no sir.

He collapses face first into the cushions of their couch and breathes in. It smells like Bill’s cologne. Richie’s back fucking hurts.

“Owchie mama, that’s sore.” He complains out loud as he stretches to the full length of his gangly limbs, feet nudging the arm of the couch. He doesn’t expect his legs to get lifted up though, hello?

“What’s sore?” A voice asks curiously as the couch dips under his weight, Richie’s legs falling back down across a certain someone’s lap.

Mike. A godsend, for sure. “Oh Micycle, is it really you? It’s been decades since I’ve heard that macho voice, I almost forgot what it sounds like.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Rich. How was work?”

How was work? How was work?? Richie’s gonna combust, but he’s too tired to go all out, so he settles for a small tantrum, flailing. “Never mention that word to me again. If you do, we’ll have to get a divorce, and then who would look after the children? The traumatized little lads, fuck.”

“That bad, huh?” Mike chuckles, and it’s deep and fond and warm, and Richie looks over his shoulder just so he can picture it better. Mike’s holding a book in one hand, and the glass sitting on the table means that he was definitely sitting there before Richie got back, but now he’s sharing his seat like the fine friggin Georgia peach that he is, holy shit.

Richie whines. “I thought being a barista would be sexy! Like, a wet dream soccer team of sweaty Brazilians asking me for juice and my number, but instead - pardon my French - I get a bunch of douchebaguettes complaining how I spelled their names wrong. I’m gay and illiterate and I didn’t fucking ask them, did I? Stop laughing at me, Mike n Ike, this is serious business.”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles again, chest shaking with it. “Douchebaguettes?”

“You’re making fun of me. I’m wounded. Way to kick a man when he’s down, M- ah… never mind, I love you. Keep laughing at me.” He groans outright when a warm hand wraps around his foot and squeezes, eking out the ever-present ache that Richie had gotten used to ignoring.

“I love you, too.” Mike snorts, and Richie doesn’t have to look to know he’s shaking his head. Fine by him, as long as he keeps touching him like that.

“Mm, your hands are the best,” he slurs into the couch. He will abso-fruitly say anything to encourage him at this point, not that Mike seems to want to stop anyway. His palm pushes delicious friction along his arches, pulling satisfied purrs from Richie with each pass until he’s a good and proper puddle. He might actually be drooling, a little bit.

It’s only when his touch lightens that Richie jerks, and the hand pauses. “Is this okay?”

Bless Mikey’s farm boy heart, asking for consent. Richie’s heart’s gonna burst. “Y-yeah, m’good.”

And he is. Mike’s fingers trace, feather-light, and it’s like there’s shivers buried underneath Richie’s skin, waiting for Mike to pull the trigger. It feels good.

It also really, really tickles.

He snags a cushion to bury his smile in, the muscles in his leg going taut every time Mike’s fingertips venture down towards his toes. More than a few times, Richie’s foot twitches away from the tingly zaps before he can stop himself, choked off mirthful noises tightening in his throat until a few burble out.

Each time Mike waits patiently until Richie resettles his foot back in his lap, and then his drifting touch returns, slow like tree sap and unbearably electric. It’s an awful game that forces Richie to expose how much he really wants it, but then again, Mike never plays like that intentionally. He just does what seems right because he’s perfect and a gentleman.

Richie loosens like an uncoiled spring when Mike rubs his thumb over his heel, whining his loss.

And because he’s a fucking gem, Mike picks up on it right away and huffs softly. “Sorry.” He scribbles gently at the arch of Richie’s slender foot in apology, earning him a muffled snicker and scrunching soles.

“Mihihike.”

“Mhm?”

“Tickles.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Pfft. Richie shakes his head, laughing harder into the cushion when Mike’s fingers drag down to his toes, scritching repeatedly. It’s not fair. He’s still wearing his socks with the pineapples on ‘em, and it’s worse than if he’d gone bare foot. He guesses it’s true that standing around for too long makes them more sensitive, but then, he’s always been this way.

His knees jerk far more often now that Mike’s put some gusto behind it, albeit a very small amount, but Richie thinks he does a damn decent job at keeping his feet from wiggling away, all things considered.

Still, eventually, he hears the sound of the book getting set aside. Mike stops his gentle tapping at his soles, and Richie realizes as he sags back into the couch that he’s… tired. Like, stupid sleepy. He yawns and stretches again, humming his surprise when two strong arms turn him over.

“Well hello, handsome.” Richie grins back at Mike’s amused half-smile, more than happy to be the center of his attention for a while.

“C’mon, Rich. It’s late, time for bed.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

He doesn’t fight it when Mike uses those absurdly strong arms to lift him up, despite being taller than him, wrapping his legs firmly around Mike’s hips and holding on to his shoulders. “Onward,” he yawns with enthusiasm. “Quick now yungin’, before we die of dysentery. Go on now. Git.”

Mike rolls his eyes and adjusts his grip as they head for the stairs. “Yeehaw.”

——————————

Richie tosses his controller on the couch beside him with a pout, watching the letters ‘game over’ flash across the screen. “Man…”

Behind him, he can hear the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing, and with a furrowed brow he gets up to investigate. “If you’re here to rob us, take Eddie first. He’s the easiest to carry.”

Around the corner, Ben smiles up from where he’s taking off his shoes by the rack (careful, because Stan insists). He’s beaming, actually, and still in his hot little karate outfit that makes him look like a formal dumpling. “You’re so mean to him. What if I wanted to rob you instead?”

“Everybody wants to rob me, Benny boy, get in line,” He hops up onto the counter to watch Ben’s face in the refrigerator light as he goes rummaging for a smoothie. “I’m just saying, if you’re any good at this, you gotta take the valuables first. Bottom shelf.”

Ben chuckles, leans down, and reappears, drink in hand. Richie nudges the door shut with his foot and grins back. “Who says you aren’t valuable?”

“Aw shucks.”

“Besides myself, I mean.”

“Benjamin.”

Ben laughs at him around a sip of his drink, and Richie couldn’t stay fake mad at him even if he wanted to. It’s really nice that the cheeky fuck has some confidence now, since he’s been losing some extra pounds here and there. He’s not afraid to brush past people anymore, doesn’t shift uncomfortably when his thighs touch someone else’s, and he hip-checks them on purpose with a sly look every now and then. He’s not afraid to take up space now, and all of the losers are proud of him for it, including Richie.

(He’s just, like, super jealous that he can’t have that sorta weight transferred over to himself. Just a little bit, so he’s not all jabby angles and pointy bones. Also? He’s going to miss Ben’s love handles.)

“You seem extra bold today. Care to share anything with the class?”

That happy look from a few minutes ago returns like Ben just remembered something important. “Yeah, actually - hold on…” He turns, fishing in his bag for something before turning back, fingers clutching a bundle of blue fabric. “I, uh, I got my blue belt today.”

“Holy shit!” Richie adjusts his glasses, leaning in to run his fingers over it when Ben offers it up. “You’re pullin’ my leg.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re making it up.”

“I’m not!” Ben’s voice just brims with infectious joy, like a little kid excited to show their first ever drawing from art class. He even has the little jump in his step, too.

“Benny, that’s awesome, dude!” He jumps down to punch Ben’s shoulder, smiling wide at the other’s shy but obvious pride. “And you know,” he thumbs at his upper lip and sniffs. “Not to fuck my own ass or anything, but I’m something of a dōjō master myself.”

“Really?” Ben smirks, pushing back when Richie continues to push at his shoulder with his knuckles, bouncing on his heels anime fighter style.

“Really really. Call me Sensei, ‘cause I’ll teach you to mess with me.” He dodges with a surprised bark of laughter when Ben grabs for him, ducking and bringing his hands up to defend himself as they tussle right there in the kitchen, play-wrestling – Richie’s favorite thing.

Well. Almost favorite.

“Oof!” Richie hurumphs when the quick scuffle ends with him caught in a headlock, twisting back and forth fruitlessly. “Oi! Unhand me you fiend! You scoundrel! I’ll have you nicked, I will!”

Ben, not even winded, slaps his hand away. “Admit that I won and I’ll let go.”

“I’d rather bloody perish.”

“You’d rather perish?”

“Aye.” Richie grunts, straining against the hold. It’s like trying to empty a lake with a bucket. It just ain’t happening.

“Okay.”

Ben’s free hand digs into his side and Richie collapses back into him instantly, like a buck learning how to walk, except he’s really fucking bad at it and giggling maniacally. “Ben!”

They crumple to the ground together, though Ben anticipates it, wrapping a solid arm around Richie’s waist as his other hand snakes up under his shirt to scribble at his ribs.

Richie himself is a pale pile of squirming limbs, pushing back into Ben’s chest and squeaking with each sneaky pinch to his side. He tosses his head back against Ben’s shoulder in helpless snickering, tugging at his arm. “Ch-cheater!”

“I don’t hear you complaining!” Ben shoots back, fingers darting to where his shirt rucked up at his stomach to lay ticklish waste there. They move in a constant clawing motion, gentle because Ben is always gentle, but sadistic in the best worst possible way.

Richie convulses with how hard he laughs. He’s trapped in the most backwards tickle hug to exist, socks slipping on the tile of his kitchen floor, getting tortured by the group’s designated teddy bear.

A wayward finger brushes over the curve of Richie’s hip, sending him jolting even farther into Ben’s lap, tittering.

“C’mon, Trash mouth. Fess up.”

If Ben thinks he’ll ever tap out, he is sorely mistaken.

“Never!” Richie cries, and then dissolves into cackling when Ben goes straight for his momentarily unprotected armpit.

Neither of them notice when Stanley steps into the doorway and promptly turns to walk back out, not once looking up from his phone.

——————————

Every now and then, Richie forgets that he might actually come off as attractive to the other losers. He’s always jokingly attractive, obviously. ‘Who wouldn’t want a piece of me?’ or ‘Golly, buy me dinner first!’ Are a few easy phrases to throw around, usually with a suggestive cock of his hip or an over exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes, which gets him a laugh now and then.

But like, for realzies? Richie isn’t hot hot, not like Mike or Bill with their big shoulders and mouth-watering biceps, Jesus Christ on a stick. He doesn’t have that cute allure like Eddie or Ben, either. Richie’s just a scrawny friggin beanpole, lanky, unlike the elegant way that Stan and Beverly manage.

Being so gay is hard sometimes. Everyone looks hotter than you.

“Rich?”

He startles out of his musings and comes firmly back to himself where he’s reclined next to Bill on the trampoline, reminded of how his train of thought had gone that route; they’d been messing around until they weren’t, until Bill had cupped his face and brought him into a kiss, and then a fuzzy little parasite called insecurity reared its fugly head.

Richie squashes it down around a dazed smirk, seemingly quelling the momentary unease on Bill’s face. “Yowza.”

Bill snorts and rolls his eyes, plays with the hem of Richie’s “Support Whale Sex: Use Shampoo” shirt. “I thought you weren’t in the mood, for a second.”

“Vat?” Richie cries incredulously, shifting upwards and straddling Bill’s lap. “Bullsheet. Lies.” As if Richie could ever resist a man with legs like that. Damn.

Bill’s smile is genuine when he pulls Richie back down into another kiss, their lips meeting sparking a whole new wave of something in Richie’s chest, so intense that he’s pulling back within a few seconds, “Ven you look like zat? You lift, yes? Vat kind of –“

A hand covers his mouth, and Rich realizes that Bill is furrowing his brows at him. “Why are you doing a Voice right now?”

“…I’m nervous.” He apologizes, muffled.

Bill snorts again as if to say ‘yeah right,’ but his expression softens when Richie doesn’t say anything else. “Nervous, huh?”

Richie nods, then licks Bill’s palm. He pulls it away with a disgusted chuckle, and then.

Then Richie is suddenly on his back, looking up at two dark, mischievous eyes. “Hoo shit.” He whispers. They are not in Kansas anymore.

“You should be.”

That’s all the warning Richie gets before devilish fingers attack his sides, letting loose a bout of hysterical giggles from somewhere deep in Rich’s stomach. It’s like opening the floodgates every time. A head rush and a half. He squirms immediately, laughing harder when Bill drags him back down and pins him with one forearm against his own.

“Where are you going?” He muses, fond, and Richie’s face blushes ten different shades of crimson.

“B-Bill, please!” He wriggles, fingers clawing uselessly against slick fabric. If he struggles any harder, there’s a good chance the trampoline might start bouncing them for real.

“Please what?” His fingers are skittering up his ribs now, because Bill knows Richie just can’t stand that, and he’s smiling down at him like Richie makes him the happiest he’s ever been, and Richie can’t stand that either.

He squeezes his eyes shut, laughter coming freely the more that Bill tickles up his sides and over his stomach, curling up. Bill doesn’t seem to mind his lack of answer or the way Richie’s knees jerk into his hips, content to pull an endless amount of loud snickering from his partner.

It’s only when Richie arches away with a desperate wheeze that Bill stops what he’s doing, hands rubbing firm circles into the hips he’d just been scritching at - probably a routine he knew well from getting revenge on another particularly bony little shit they knew.

“You’re so - so mean. Gah. I’m taking you out of my will, Billiam.” Richie breathes, reaching up to wipe behind his glasses.

Bill just chuckles at him and leans down, and they share a soft kiss that makes Richie’s heart flutter in his chest all over again.

——————————

Kerplunk, sploosh. Kerplunk, sploosh. Kerplunk –

“Fuck!” Richie jolts with a quiet hiss of surprise, shifting his attention from the lake to the offending pen that had just jabbed his side. Bev, sitting next to him, giggles and points to his textbooks with it.

“Focus.”

Richie sticks out his upper lip, dropping his handful of pebbles in the grass at his feet. It took him, like, a whole twenty seconds to find those. “I was focused.”

“Focus on your homework, ding dong.” She gestures with her pen again, not looking away from her own book, which she holds easily in one hand. Show off.

Richie grumbles and hunches over, scrubbing a hand over his face. He makes it through two paragraphs before he fidgets again, making to reach in his shirt pocket for a smoke before he realizes, oh, yeah, I’m giving those up. Shit.

Sometimes character development is just not worth it.

Bev appears to notice the gesture though, because she gently elbows Richie this time, gesturing to the book. “It’s really not so bad. You’ve already gotten through a few pages.”

“Yeah, with like, a bajillion more to go.” He huffs, flipping through the pages one more time before sitting up straight and slapping the table. “That’s it! I quit college.”

“Mhm.” Beverly is far too nonchalant but she can afford to be, since she’s heard the exact same statement fourteen times since the beginning of the semester. Two weeks in and going strong.

“I’m serious this time! I don’t need a degree to be funny, I’ve got that part in the bag. Also, capitalism? Who needs it.”

“Do you really hate classic mythology that much?”

Richie groans and drops his head against the picnic table. “Yes.” He’d thought that it would be cool! Gods and Goddesses and monsters (oh my), but instead he has to bear through three whole paragraphs of a list of men, all sons of other men, because any of that is just so integral to the understanding of the Trojan war. Everyone knows that Achilles was the only real bitch on that battlefield, okay? Literally nothing else matters.

He jumps again, this time snickering, when Bev scribbles at his side. “Hehehey!”

“Cheer up, Tozier. Your vibes are ruining our study date.”

Richie eyes her up, adjusting his glasses. “Are you saying that my vibes are off, Marsh?”

She nods sagely. “They’re atrocious.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never failed a single vibe check in my life.” And that isn’t going to change today, no sir. Just ask Eddie, the last time he tried to pull something.

“You’re gonna fail more than just this vibe check if you don’t do your reading.”

“Not true! I know the stuff, I just… don’t like it.” He’s of the philosophy that memorizing shit just makes it harder to remember. Richie can go over some of the professor’s notes online and be just fine.

Heaving a sigh, Beverly gets up. She pushes at Richie’s back. “Scoot in.”

“If you say so, ma’am.” Though Richie just complies because he wants to see where this is going. When Beverly slides in behind him, legs on either side of his, he can kinda feel her boobs pressing against his back. Nice.

“Oh hello.” Richie grins, feeling free to press back into her. She smells nice - changed her perfume for some reason - and her presence is a welcome warmth, inviting and –

She blows a raspberry against the back of his neck.

– and a fucking trap!

“Bev!” He jerks forward instantly, shoulders hunching. She follows, nuzzling into the space behind his ear, and Richie shivers violently. “O-oho my gawd, why?!”

“I’m just making sure you pay attention.” She teases, weaving her arms around his chest so that her fingertips rest at his sides, making Richie tense. But nothing comes, yet.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tickling him is definitely not going to make him want to read more. It’s going to make him want to be tickled. It’s like trying to punish an addict with cocain.

Bev snorts, fingertips wriggling briefly enough to get a squeak and a weak squirm out of him. “Just keep reading. If you slack off, I’ll bring you back!”

Ah! So simple! Haha! Wow. Genius.

Richie sighs heavily to indicate how much he turns his nose up at this frankly childish behavior, but reluctantly opens his book back up to where he was before. Admittedly, having Bev close might help his attention span, just slightly. He can feel her cheek resting against his back, ankles brushing his every now and then, and her arms are a soothing weight against his chest. Like the fancy weighted blanket that Eddie uses on his more fidgety days.

That doesn’t stop his attention from drifting occasionally, of course. When he takes a little too long to turn the page, Beverly tweaks his ribs or snuffles at the side of his neck until he lurches forward in a bout of giggles, holding on to the wooden table for support. And sometimes, when his leg starts bouncing of its own free will, she smooths her hand down his thigh and starts squeezing his knee, earning stronger fits of squirming and yelping that even gets her to laugh. What a meanie.

“You have your own stuff to read, you know.” He huffs after a brutal attack to his hips, having nearly torn his page in half. Richie immediately regrets it though, because he doesn’t want her to stop. He silently prays that she doesn’t move, and whoever’s listening grants him a little mercy.

“I know.” She says, nudging his head with hers. Richie reaches for her hand, thinking he might off himself if she doesn’t take his back, but she does, and they sit like that together for a while, listening to nature do its thing.

“Hey, Rich?”

“Yeah?”

She uses her free hand to get at his stomach, and Richie chokes.

“Do your fucking reading.”

——————————

They’re barely three steps through the door before Stan is on Richie like strippers to a pole, pushing him up against the wall and staring him down with so much intensity that Richie doesn’t have enough breath left to ask the obvious question: what the fuck?

He grips his bag with his work outfit inside of it and tries to remember if he did anything particularly annoying on the drive home, but nothing comes to mind other than when he tried to poke Stan’s jaw and he swatted him away. Richie wasn’t actively pursuing anything because that never works with Stan. He’s like a fucking cat that way; if he gets even the slightest bit ruffled, he leaves the room, all indignant and huffy.

Hence, his confusion at this particular stunt.

That doesn’t last long though, because Stan shakes his head slowly and pulls Richie’s hat off his head, tossing it aside without even looking to see where it goes, which is a very unlike-Stan gesture.

“Stan –?“

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

They look at each other, and Richie nearly trips over himself when Stan starts moving them both backwards, towards his room. Normally that might raise some flags, but they’ve been through scenarios like this before. Richie doesn’t really mind getting pushed around (in fact he might even like it a little bit if his first childhood crush is anything to go by) but not knowing the reason is… fishy.

Stan kicks the door closed behind them, still walking Richie backwards, but grabs a hold of his shirt before he can go tumbling back on the bed. “Here’s how this is going to work.”

“Uh –“ Richie’s already on board.

Stan’s grip tightens, and then Richie’s world goes scrambled for three seconds when he gets pushed - fucking pushed, the nerve - onto the bed, Stanley following after him easy as pie and hovering over him, predatory, focused. “I’m going to tickle you.”

Richie can’t hide the way his body almost seems to curve up at that statement. If his body was a temple, it was a temple to some very traitorous limbs. Stan deciding he wants to do anything even close to roughhousing is a special treat, but this one in particular has Richie’s name on it

He realizes after a beat that Stan is waiting for him to say something, and Richie, in true Richie fashion, momentarily forgets the English language. “Uhm - yes?”

“Good. Put your arms up.”

That’s not going to last, but Richie does it, and Stan leans in like the sexy Mr. Rogers that he is and… plucks his glasses off his face, sticking them in his shirt pocket. Friggin thief. When did everyone in this house get so bold? “Hey –“

“Can’t risk breaking them.” Stan answers, fingers already slipping under Richie’s shirt to flutter at his sides. Richie wiggles and his complaint trails off into a snicker. Can’t argue with that anyway he guesses.

Stan tickles him like he does everything else: thoroughly, and with dedication. Quick and nimble fingers drill into the spaces between Richie’s ribs, blunt nails scritching down to his sides, then pulling at his jeans just enough to expose his hips, and Stan’s ducking his head and Richie can fucking see those curls, almost, through his blurry, tear-stained vision, helpless with laughter already, grabbing at the head-board -

– And they pause. Stopping is so much than starting. Richie can feel Stan’s breath against his stomach, where his shirt is rucked up, when he speaks. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”

Through giggle-heavy breath, Richie struggles to answer. “Uhm, like, y-yesterday? Wh- fuhuhUCK!”

He squeals when Stan’s tongue joins the mix, starting at his belly button until he meets the curve of his hip, nibbling along his V-line with so much enthusiasm that Richie thinks he must actually taste like the coffee he smells like. That’s the only explanation for such an assault.

Richie curls in on instinct, hands going for Stan’s hair, but he must anticipate this because he sits up instantly, grabbing Richie’s wrist and glaring at him. Or, he’s probably glaring. He looks like an angry blur at the moment.

It’s…. pretty hot. Not gonna lie.

“I said keep your arms up.” He growls. When Richie slips obediently back into place without question, Stan moves down even further, hoisting Richie’s calve over his shoulder and setting to work again.

The sweeping motion of his fingertips is not as aggressive as before, though it’s probably because they don’t need to be. Even through the denim, that light swishing motion from his thigh to his knee and back again has him cackling, all reserve flying out the window as he scrambles, pulling at the sheets.

Stan pulls at him in response, taking a firm hold of his ankle and scribbling in a relentless, spidery motion at the back of his knee.

Richie 1. Screeches, then 2. Does his best impression of a hula dancer having a seizure.

Apparently breaking the arm-up rule no longer matters at this point, because Richie is just beside himself in the agonizingly sweet, tingly jolts running through his nervous system, spasming on the bed and doing anything within his physical power to get away from it.

Stan doesn’t let go, though, only moves with him, tickling and tickling. Yes, Richie thinks. Please don’t stop. This has to stop. Don’t stop. Don’t let go. Oh god, this is the fucking worst this sucks this is so good, don’t stop, don’t stop –

By the time Stan has thoroughly decimated Richie’s thinking capabilities, having seen to it that both legs have received proper attention, Richie is a curled ball of silent, wheezing laugher in the center of the bed. He takes a deep breath only to let out another fresh peal of laughter, shaking, as Stan lays beside him to rub his shoulder.

“Don’t.” He sighs after a few moments of cool down, as if exasperated, but it sounds fond.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh while you were killing me, I’ll take note of that for next time.” Richie snarks, sniffling and wiping at his eyes.

“No, I mean don’t whine like that.”

Richie whined? “Like what?”

“Like the minute someone stops touching you, it’ll never happen again.” Stan explains patiently, like it’s obvious, twisting one of Richie’s curls around a slender finger and, for now, neglecting to mention how he needs a hair cut.

Oh, that… that – “You don’t know that.” He defends feebly, accepting his glasses when they’re pushed into his palm. Sometimes he forgets how easy it is for Stan to just look at him and see him. It’s unnerving how perceptive he can be, and possibly just as unnerving how much Richie wants to be seen, scary as that might be. He’s had killer clown dreams that terrify him less, and yet.

“I do,” Stan disagrees, making room for Richie to turn over. Neither of them are surprised when Richie ducks his head to hide his face in Stan’s button-up, cheeks burning pink from more than just exertion. “You make it painfully obvious, but it’s a ridiculous fear. There’s six other people in this house. No one’s going to stop touching you unless you ask them to.”

Richie snorts into Stan’s chest. Fat fucking chance.

Still, there’s always that lingering Voice - the one that sounds most like himself - asking him if six people will be enough. Richie Tozier has not one, but six partners and he still wonders if that attention is enough. Talk about high maintenance.

Richie closes his eyes and just enjoys Stan’s hand in his hair, trying not to think about that too much, even as he counts down the seconds to that touch stopping too. “Is it…annoying?”

“That you like tickling? No.” Stan scratches at the base of his neck and Richie hums, pressing closer. “It’s only annoying that you think it’s going to go away.”

Well fuck him, Richie can’t just control how he feels about it, okay? It’s not like he hasn’t tried before. It’s hard, he doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want anything good in his life to ever end, and he especially doesn’t want Stan to stop tracing the curve of his ear like that.

Two fingers tilt his chin up, and Richie blinks back at Stan’s surprisingly soft eyes. “It’s not going to stop.” He murmurs, then kisses Richie’s forehead.

It hits him harder than a baseball bat to the gut. How did Richie Tozier die? It was the curly twink in the bedroom with unconditional love.

That being said, it’s not like he doesn’t appreciate the reassurance, even if it makes him the slightest bit vulnerable. Just a little too open. A little too raw. Tickling allows him to be like that for a short while, and maybe that’s why Richie likes it so much. Instant satisfaction, zero commitment, and it’s fun too. No arcade game or cold shower can scratch an itch for something like that.

He smiles back up at Stan and took his hand so he could kiss the back of it. A moment of mushy, romantic weakness if you will. “Aw, Staniel. You make me blush. If you wanted to woo me so badly you could have put on some judge Judy and those cute little pajama pants, maybe with some ice cream - no, definitely with some ice cream -“

Stan sighs but indulges Richie in his rambling, fingers trailing through his hair all the while. Things have already shifted back into normal territory, but there’s this new, unspoken truce between Richie and this obsession of his - the confirmation that each of his partners knows what he needs, when he needs it, and that they’re not going to drop-kick him out of their lives for asking for it one too many times. It’s nice to have something consistent in his life.

But if those six losers think they don’t have the same exact fate lingering over their heads, they have no idea what force they’re reckoning with. Richie is nothing if not a giver, and he intends to deliver their due retribution.

In full.

#submission #submitted fic #umbrella-babies #I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!!!! UGH THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS #i love love loved it #everyone check out her blog and give her all the love and attention #fic trade #save #for me #tickle fic #ticklefic #poly!losers #poly losers #polylosers #the losers club #it #it 2017 #it 2019 #it fic

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whatacartouchebag · 4 years

Text

“Say Cart, where the hell’ve you been and what’s up with the sudden brakes on Reason updating?”

Fabulous question! Short answer: life. Longer answer: I’m going a hell of a lot of life all at once in about seven different directions, and I’m still writing, but slower.

If you don’t mind a bit of a teal deer, then feel free to jump under the cut and enjoy the rollercoaster that is my life at the moment.

So hoo boy, let’s start with the absolute doozy. My parents are divorcing, hooray! Dad finally drew the line in the sand when it came to my mother’s - frankly - rather toxic behaviour, and not one to half-ass things, has decided to sell their house at the end of August. He’s moving further north to be closer to my sister and the grandkids, whereas mum will stay here. He’s even going so far as to do the super amicable thing and set her up with as much furniture, financial support and whatnot as possible, and surface level, it looks great!

He’s kind of enjoying looking forward to the future where he doesn’t get to be constantly berated for things, or snapped at over the tiniest issue, and is pretty much optimistic about where he’s going from here.

Except for the part where it’s been absolutely blown out of proportion by my mother.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I adore her, and will continue to support and love her as my mother for the rest of my days, and I certainly feel for her in this awful time, but she is... a really frustrating person to live with. There’s a reason I moved out as soon as I could, and it has allowed me to really appreciate what calm and anxiety-free living is really like. She... has never been very good at processing any sort of emotional shocks as anything less than a complete personal attack, and combined with her rather blunt nature to begin with, well, basically this last month has been drastically stressful for everyone in the family.

She’s taken to just setting her filter to a constant off status, and whilst she’s taken a few disarming shots at everyone over things, I’ve tried... really hard not to let it affect me for the sake of moving forward. Unfortunately, she’s not really aware of what she’s saying sometimes, and it’s ended up in a couple of things that really have hurt me, which has just given the ol’ mental health status a pretty hefty punch.

I’ve been trying to help find a place for her to settle, and that’s been a mission of its own. My uncle has been at us both to keep in contact and try and take dad for everything he has, which has not helped in the slightest. And coupled with the fact that looking for anything at the moment is somewhat impossible thanks to covid and school holidays.

Which kind of slides into the next point. School holidays have made things ridiculously busy at work, and for the most part, I am utterly exhausted when I come home at the end of a day. This is on top of the usual level of busy where our work place is one of the busier offices in the entire state, and coupled with the covid reaction from people panic buying, it’s made things a little hectic to say the least.

I’ve also been given more responsibilities in my role at work, so I’m now in charge of a larger group of people than before, and my brain is kind of goo after a particularly big-ish day of numbers and planning and straight up surviving the day.

My physical health has kind of taken a slight dip here and there, and first up: it’s nothing drastic! For years and years (literally half my life lmao), I’ve had issues with damaged tendons in my knees, and where it used to be once every month or so I’d have issues flare up, it’s getting down to once every day or second day. So, it’s going to be a round of visiting doctors and specialists and setting up appointments and - eventually - surgery to fix the damage.

Which means about six or so weeks off my feet sometime within this year, most likely. I can’t wait holy shit you guys. /sarcasm

Needless to say, my writing has kind of just... plinked along in the background. I’m certainly still working on Reason, and I have a finalised list of everything left to achieve with our lads before things wrap up. To give a bit of a ballpark, there’s potentially going to be maybe another six or seven chapters out before it’s completed.

And that honestly feels really... big and heavy to say lmao.

Reason has been my biggest public outing to date, and it’s been a hell of a journey, so there’s no way I’m going to stop it. I intend on seeing this thing through to the end, as I promised way back after That Episode. Just please know that due to life being a combo hit of things, it’s going to be a little slower than usual for these final chapters, because whilst I know the first draft of my writing is suffering due to things, I still want the finished product to be good. Which means me rereading something I wrote whilst half-dead tired or kind of cottony. Which means repeated editing and revising time. Which means I need to learn to set the bar lower lmao.

Legitimately though, the one things that has kept me going through all of this round of stress and whatnot, and utterly wanting to finish this story? Is you guys. It sounds kind of corny, sure, but the support for this story, the support I’ve found in the Fair Game community, the friends I’ve made through this whole thing, it’s honestly meant the world to me. It’s kept me happy and laughing and smiling and honestly giving me something to focus on, rather than fall under the stress entirely, and it has utterly helped.

So, if you’ve made it this far through this thing, first of all congrats lmao. Secondly, thankyou.

I might be a bit spotty here and there for the next few months or so, but your support - whether it be chatting, comments, likes, kudos, whatever - honestly means so much to me and it really does wonders for keeping me sane ♥

#irl Cart #teal deer time lads #Reason #since it affects that too

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professorspork · 4 years

Text

i know I always say this, but, last night REALLY WAS the BUSIEST OF DAYS in the Reaper War

before I get into yesterday’s gameplay, I realized I forgot to react to the fact that Jacob got Brynn pregnant, which -- again, I suppose that wraps up everything about his backstory in a nice little bow, lad of the bad dad gets to be good dad, but like... it still gives like they gave his character incredibly short shrift. so. humbug to that.

but I have bigger fish to fry (ha ha, literally, see what I did there?) because ALL OF THIS HAS HAPPENED BEFORE, AND ALL OF THIS WILL HAPPEN AGAIN. I rescued Ann Bryson, and learned that -- shocker -- she had a bad relationship with her dad. I uh may have condoned her getting a bit of a nasty nose bleed in order to track the Leviathan to Despoina, where as ever I got to read a bunch of people’s weirdly specific sad diaries. my jump into the depths was very cool and scary (does no one get the bends in the future???) and I enjoyed my The First-style body swapping conversation with the Leviathan in which I tried to prove I’m ~special and this time is ~different. on the one hand, I don’t know why I expected the origin of the Reapers to be anything other than yet another story of AI gone wrong, but this whole cinematic parallels thing is starting to edge out of “everything matches up and is of a piece” territory and into the murkier waters of “we kind of only had one idea, actually.” to reveal that the Reapers’ plan is just stray AI code to ‘preserve life’ is at once very chilling and a bit of a let down; when I think back to when I talked to Sovereign for the first time and I had my initial “GOD IS A MACHINE THAT WANTS TO KILL US” freak out, I was in fact very on board for an evil plan too broad and complex for a human mind to fathom. for it to be this feels kind of predictable and pedestrian.

that said, watching the Leviathan take down a huge-ass Reaper capital ship with its pulse signal was very satisfying.

oh no this is going to get very long, now that you’ve had this fun teaser i’m gonna put the rest under a cut

then we kicked it on over to Thessia and I highkey traumatized my girlfriend. I feel like I should have seen the reveal that the asari were more advanced because they were hoarding prothean tech coming, but I didn’t. hearing and seeing all the asari commandos helping me get wiped out was a real gut punch, but didn’t hold a candle to my frustration at the confrontation with Kai Leng. I’m not mad that the game wouldn’t let me beat him, per se (though I still think it’s ridiculous that I’ve taken down a Reaper by myself and I’m supposed to be afraid of a dude with a knife), but I am pissed that it all happened with combat cut scene magic. this game has given me difficult combat before! if, in fighting Kai Leng, I’d genuinely felt outmatched, I think I would have tolerated it better -- or if the combat had been me fighting the Harvesters and then Kai Leng sneaked around me because that’s what he does, he sneaks. but to have such a relatively easy combat sequence with him that felt very much like winning just to have it snatched away from me... maddening. WHY CAN’T I BEAT THIS ONE GUY AND HIS KNIFE? I don’t want to be all “Kai Leng is a Mary Sue” but like... he got to murder Thane and then beat me in overtime, and his entire vibe is I exist to sell action figures even though that’s not, as far as I know, any part of Mass Effect’s profit model. so it’s just frustrating. and for them to then rub salt in the wound and have him EMAIL ME to be like “lol snowflake r u triggered” was just. MY PATIENCE IS THIN, ME3. DON’T PUSH ME.

seeing Shepard have to admit to failure was a gutting scene, though, and a necessary one. and watching Liara fight with Javik was highkey satisfying, too.

so anyway, because i was BIG MAD at Cerberus I tracked them first to that one N7 communications mission--

(Sample dialogue: Helen: Why aren’t you using cover? You’re going to die! Use cover! Me, jumping out of cover and rushing Cerberus goons trying to melee them to death: BECAUSE I’M MAD)

-- and then to Sanctuary, and HOO BOY WAS THAT A LOT OR WHAT. from the second I heard Oriana’s voice I had a pretty good idea of what was going on here, but seeing in in practice was still creepy af. and like. i’m just gonna go out on a limb and say INDOCTRINATION BAD. I AM NOT A FAN. shout out to that one capitalist volus on the Citadel who was like “lol sanctuary is a scam don’t waste your money” i guess

additionally, last night was significant because I picked not one but TWO ENTIRE renegade convince options, because I saw no reason to be nice to terrorist daddy the illusive man or actual terrorist daddy Mr. Lawson. after I got through all that, Helen explained to me how difficult it apparently is to keep Miranda alive by the end of that confrontation, so I got to do some WHAT LIKE IT’S HARD? preening at how Nice Sheps Finish First sometimes.

but as usual, the real highlight is getting to know my crew better and talking with them. I finally got some prime flirting in with Liara during Leviathan. it was VERY cute when she was like “man what’s with you rescuing damsels from dig sites? if you end up teaming up with her to save the world and bring down the shadow broker i’ll be very jealous. ... and concerned” and WEIRDLY CUTER when she was like “hey the only tentacled alien who gets to mess with your brain is ME” because Liara is like 115 by now considering how slowly i’m getting through these missions and she still does not know what romance is.

[no but seriously, Liara does not know what romance is. half the time I’m still going WE’RE STILL DATING, RIGHT? every time she refuses to talk to me. and even after Thessia, when everyone was like “go talk to Liara, she needs you” and even JAVIK of all people was like “you’re dating Liara, right? it’s so obvious” our interactions did not feel particularly... romantic? it’s a tricky needle to thread, obviously, I’m not looking for sloppy makeouts right after millions of her people died, but it still reads as very odd to me. anyway.]

Javik’s story about how he once had a ship like the Normandy and a crew of friends like mine and they all ended up indoctrinated and he had to personally slit their throats went way harder than I ever expected it to. even just the IDEA of having to do that as my Shep upsets me. i’m legit enjoying getting to know Javik, even though i’m still GuessWhoJustGotYelledAt.jpg every time I leave his room. I HAD ENOUGH OF THAT FROM KREIA, JAVIK, YOU’LL NEVER PUSH ME AWAY.

I was surprised by how hard Tali took Miranda’s successful challenge of Mr. Lawson, though in hindsight it makes sense -- with the geth war still happening on top of everything else, I don’t think Tali ever did get the chance to process her anger at her dad being a war criminal and all. and her whole “emergency induction port” bit about the straw was cute as hell tbh. her friendship with Garrus over the comms continues to give me life.

(in other quarian news, I AM SAD ABOUT KAL’REEGER.)

and jeff. JEFF. after Thessia i literally ran to the bridge and said aloud “Jeff, make me feel better” as I clicked interact with him, and then he made that dig about asari dancers, and i was like NO NOT LIKE THAT. (I mean, what Shep literally said was “now’s not the time for jokes” which is ironic considering she, unlike me, still calls him JOKER) but then he was all DAD ANDERSON SAID I’M SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MENTAL HEALTH, I’M SORRY, I’M DOING MY BEST and like. what a fucked up little family we are. he feels guilty that I died saving him, still! apparently he asks EDI about my stress levels and they are BAD and he feels BAD! im crey. OH AND ALSO THE FACT THAT PTSD ASARI LAURA BAILEY WAS TALKING ABOUT HIS FAMILY ON TIPTREE AND I CAN NEVER TELL HIM BECAUSE THE GAME DOESN’T LET ME DO THAT???? V UPSETTING.

and then of course EDI had to TRIPLE DOWN on all these feelings i was already having by telling me about human resistance and selflessness on Earth and how she wants to turn off her self-preservation code because she’s not about that. I’M SUCH A TOASTER FUCKER HALP.

Garrus being all “well sometimes your best friend gives you a pep talk” speech was cute as hell, and I was strangely charmed when Kaidan was like YOU CAN TELL I’M EXTRA MAD BECAUSE MY VOICE HAS GOTTEN SO DEEP grumbling.

next up: shore leave, and then going after Cerberus will trigger act 3! i may one day finish mass effect after all!

#leah plays mass effect 3

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lovinmullen · 4 years

Text

the pacific: part one, live blog because i said so

he looked so pissed when he has to make the sign of the cross to mary..... I KNOW ITS BECAUSE HES FALLING AWAY FROM HIS RELIGION but all i can think is undercover protestant????? i hate that i find myself funny stfu tom like he’s some angsty protestant like ‘this is fucking bullshit why the fuck DO THEY PRAY TO MARY’ which..... is a huge missconsperion but i’m not gonna get into that right now but hey if anyone needs an rs teacher? i got you

are you telling me i could have heard the most BEAUTIFUL monologue about the saint mary’s church and her plans for the day as well as being able to see that sweet sweet smile on vera’s face for longer but it was cut short because bobo went ‘i joined the marines’ GOOD FOR YOU BUT.....

rOBERT...... you really gonna give her THAT look...... IN GODS HOUSE is this allowed? is THIS ALLOWED???? if you don’t say it in the voice of the vine we can not be fteejssn sorry i don’t make the rules

#BOB: i wanna catholic girl that go to church AND READ HER BIBLE (is that even right??? omg i can only remember the jewish one *in the voice of ryan reynolds severely slowed down* FUUUUUCCCKKK)

on a real note this man saw her at church ONCE and his ass went finna wife up like........ take her out to dinner first. OR AT LEAST ASK HER HOW SHE IS IN THE LETTERS like we get it you’re emo, the aussie won’t shag you anymore and you keep pissing your pants. i understand it’s a hard not life or how ever that song in annie goes but bro.........(this is obviously a joke i am dumb of ass please ignore me i love you m8 and i’m sorry you’re gonna embarrass yourself in front of everyone but chuckler shifts to momma mode so you good)

can we please acknowledge jon’s acting..... sir? PHENOMENAL he’s not even saying anything??? he’s just looking at the lt yet i’m near tears

gentle reminder i love the basilones🥺🥺🥺 the way they are so supportive even though they don’t understand and they are scared for him but they accept and respect that john wants more, needs more and they’re putting their own fears aside so he can spread his wings for no better turn of phrase.

‘just get the job done, and come home to us’ the way his head falls and he has to stop his voice from breaking. i’m s fucking bitter

THE HAND HOLD MY GOD

leckie:((( look hes a bastard and he pisses me off but no matter how much i bully him i do love him a lot and the complete disregard and uncaring nature from his dad breaks my heart. a handshake then gone just like that? HIS FACE BEFORE ‘there’s a war on everybodies got to make sacrifices’ he looks so hurt and broken baby

GENE MY SWEET SWEET BABY GOD THIS SO SAD ALEXA PLAY DESPACITO. my baby just wants to do his part :( CUT THE CAMERAS DEAD ASS I WILL CRY BABY PLEASE DON’T CRY JUST WAIT A FEW MORE EPS my heart really do be looking like: <eugene3

‘gene, supper’s ready’ ma’am i’m sorry but he does not give a shit

SIDNEY MY SWEET SWEET BOY get in a pram if you’re going to be so baby. look while i love him so much and i know he didn’t mean it to be !!!!! he’s just small of brain !!! but when he says “i wish we where going together” that lowkey rubs it in man......... like he’s already heartbroken PLEASE STOP but the “yeah well you take care of yourself greaser” - “you don’t have to worry about me” IM SOFT🥺

“wOWoWOoOOO COME ON GUYS I WORKED HARD FOR THESE ORANGES”

“guadal...kenel...guadal BLEEHHH” didn’t realise hoos was recreating the audience of my english speaking exam. LOOK I REALISE NOW TALKING ABOUT STOICISM TO A BUNCH OF 15 YEAR OLDS WHO DON’T CARE WAS A BAD IDEA BUT I GOT A DESTINCTION SO FUCK YOU TO THAT ONE KID

chuckler baby..... i’m in love with a dumbass. also the hit across the head. i’m soft (lads lets take a shot every time i say i’m soft in this liveblog ITS GONNA BE A FUN NIGHT jk drink responsibly and all that jazz or be dick winters that’s cool too!! heck do a babe heffron and get yourself a caprisun you deserve it)

“professor leckie” please don’t fuel his ego HE DOES NOT NEED IT

HOLD UP I NEED TO SWITCH FROM THE TV TO MY LAPTOP TO SCREEN CAP THIS SHIT LEW MY SON HAVE YOU BEEN BITING INTO AN ORANGE LIKE IT IS AN APPLE??? I WOULD BE MAD BUT HE LOOKS SO CUTE on a real note though can you eat the skin???? will he be okay?????

okay two hoos things: 1.) he looks SO DONE and i’m living for it 2.) can we talk about jacobs nose..... IM DYING TO TALK ABOUT JACOBS NOSE

okay the boats scene give me saving private ryan flashbacks i came out here to have a good time AND I AM NOT HAVING A GOOD TIME oh wait never mind runner just went ‘i could really use a stiff one right now’ i hate that but he saved the day with his dumbassery so thank you good sir i love you with all my heart

fun fact my how co ranking goes chuckler, runner, hoos, leckie

OH FUCK I FORGOT SID SJAKSJSJ y’know for someone who talks about how much they love sid i forget about him a lot. thank you for blessing my screen with your pretty face it helped me remember you exist LMAO guys my memory is not okay i’m actually concerned...... but more importantly i’d put him between hoos and leckie in the ranking :,)

call it what it is. babyism. y’all better stop before i cuddle you LOOK AT THIS SHIT THEY’RE ADORABLE

runner is the only bitch i respect in this house he’s so fucking funny

‘they’ve? poisoned? a? billion?! coconuts?’ that poor son of a bitch BLESS HIM don’t shoot the messenger okay? he seems like a sweet bean

that shot of hoos, leckie and chuckler looking down at the camera into the bunker? my sexuality. my left brain: tomas stop thirsting it’s an intense and serious show. my righ brain: but?? they’re pretty?? me nodding smugly and in agreement: BUT THEY’RE PRETTY.

THIS MAN AND HIS GUM I CAN’T why is that me. i am the gum man at my school that sounds so weird ajsksjsj i just always have gum. ALSO spearmint is superior to normal mint. NORMAL MINT BURNS LIKE ITS SPICY BRO. bubblemint is superior superior but that’s more expensive rip😭😭😭😭😭😭

‘it’s like the fourth of july’ nice to my boy sufjan getting some rep he is king of the gays after all mr i can’t explain the state that i’m in the state of my heart he was my best friend. we all owe him EVERY parallel on this goddamn app. jk there’s one other king of the gays and that is demon! shane (bfu). no this is not up for debate

the shot of the ships is phenomenal. that’s one thing i do have to credit hbo on. the special effects and cinematography are beautiful and so fucking impressive like???

‘we’re killing them’ - ‘where’s the navy?’ / ‘gone we lost four cruisers’ GOD I HAVE SUCH A LOVE HATE RELATIONSHIP FOR FORSHADOWING LIKE SOMETIMES ITS SO SEXY AND OTHER TIMES IM LIKE PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GO AWAY

WHY DOES SID LOOK OVER HIS SHOLDER BEFORE TAKING THE WINE SIR NO ONE IS GONNA TELL YOU OFF AT WAR FOR DRINKING UNDERAGE like???? i don’t think an 18 year old having a swig is their biggest problem bless his heart

‘can’t fight em drunk don’t fight em at all’

bill if you are reading this i’m free on thursday night and would like to hang out. please respond to this and then hang out with me on thursday night, when i am free😌😘🥰😳🥺👉👈😤💘💓🙄🥴

FUCK I FORGOT HOW LOUD THE GUN SHOTS WHERE THINK I JUST WOKE THE WHOLE NEIGHBOURHOOD JC

‘skipper? skipper are you okay?? goddamnit he’s lost it come on’ :(((((

god the shots in this show really are phenomenal. i know it’s very gory and very hard to watch at times but it definitely has the best shots of the three en mi opinion. i’m a slut for the close up of dick screaming ‘move out’ with rounds flying. like who’s ever call that was? outstanding but like that’s just one? the pacific has so many emotive and excellently shot scenes.

JOG ON. STOP. IM SO SOFT IM GOING TO CRY THIS IS NOT OKAY. MOMMA CHUCKLER I CAN’T🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

how seemlessly the scenes flow one after the other despite being opposite ends of the spectrum i DID NOT GIVE TP ENOUGH CREDIT like yeah it makes me sad as fuck but from a production point of view the writing? the acting? the cinematography? DAMN

how visibly torn and pissed off hoosier looks over the other marines tormenting the japanese soldier, stringing out his death when he’s obviously in a lot of mental as well as physical pain? the only bitch i respect in this house.

okay so like? while the shot is scarring both for him and the audience to see that kind of effortless murder it was the right thing to do? it’s better then have him be tormented and it will help leckie in the long run? how broken he looks though? like the distance is his eye and the way he swollows....... WHO IS CUTTING ONIONS HUH???? brilliant james BRILLIANT

the way i just said ‘if biology would have permitted it i would be asking you to have my babies’ at the sight of a man shoving smokes up his nose....... now ladies theyzies and gents, a prime reason to show why you should do your work. this is tom. tom didn’t do his work. with nothing to do all day tom became bat shit..... don’t be like tom. okay like it is cute though COME ON

HOW PROUD AND SMUG AND HAPPY HE LOOKS AT HIS PREMOTION ‘yes ma’am i am a corporal’ HE IS SO BABY AND FOR WHAT. oops sorry lads looks like i dropped this:

the shot of leckie swimming in the water fading off to the shot of the dead bodies mirroring his movement but obviously a life less version OOOH IMMA SUE

god love me some men with black lungs LECKIE DO BE LOOKING GOOD LIGHTING THAT CIG DAMN

“i have a girlfriend lucky me” HOOS IS LIKE MY GAY ASS YOU SURE????

“you guys step aside the real marines are here now” “AND I’VE BEEN HERE FOR SOME TIME” that shuts iconic even i said wahayyyy

also runner..... i am looking RESPECTFULLY👁👁

you’re not special leckie we all want hoosier

sister👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

baby gene :,( YOU GINGER LIL BEBE I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH

can you really call yourself a hbo war an if you don’t sing along at the end... ITS A TUNE also hoos’ voice...... its about the drawl.......

#god ive missed these idiots #im so glad i rewatched #im a bit scared for the rollercoaster that is the rest of the series however asjsksjks #enjoy me being an idiot #thank you to the beauties that told me how to do the keep reading thing you da best xxxx #the pacific #hbo war #eugene sledge #bill hoosier smith #lew chuckler juergens #robert leckie #sidney phillips #wilbur runner conley #john basilone

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thepilgrimofwar · 4 years

Text

Pure of Heart

Solendis waited in the guest wing, seated by the fire in the common room. He waited, not for the usual staging of a diplomatic talk, or to speak about strategy from the war room. He waited for something more important than any of that. He waited for the boy, who seemed to be dragging his family off-track.

“Evening Mr. Bladeborn,” he said when Vissehn finally appeared. The Steward had heard him and his son laughing on the roof tops, drunk and high off Bloodthistle. Thankfully, only the House Huards had been around to bear witness to this. Lest his son’s reputation be besmirched.

The hallways seemed smeared with light; his pupils blown wide, Vissehn wondered if he touched one, if perhaps his hand might also become so brilliant and glowing. His laughter chimed through as he ambled-- staggered-- towards the guest wing.

It had been a bloody success; he had brought down the cold and sad walls he had seen springing up around Stenden’s heart and head, crashed into them like a meteor of bawdy songs and pilfered liquor, and now the boys laughter played over in his mind, shining like a new coin. If he’d been robbed of a boyhood, well, he would lend some of that to another; find the kindred spirit beneath the stuffy layers of velvet and linen and silk, bear it and bask in finally not being alone.

Neither of them needed any more years being alone in their youth.

He careened into the common room, he wasn’t even looking to the crackling flames. Vissehn had only eyes for windows, and stars. In that candid moment, before he knew of the other man, his youth revealed like so much bare skin, he was every inch the vagabond he had espoused-- wind tousled hair, cheeks freckled and high in color, the acrid scents of liquor and thistle a cloud around his shambles of an outfit.

When he heard the voice, he turned hard on a heel, spinning almost comically towards his chosen surname. “Oi, Steward Emberheart?” Vissehn saluted breezily, squinting a moment to make sure he had the right man. “Cor, you look like yer brother in this light, almost thought I was seein’ ghosts!” He grinned, his good mood taking even the barbs out of his jests.

Solendis folded his arms, taking measure of the man- no- the boy in front of him. He did not like what he saw. This was Stenden’s agent of choice. True, Vissehn was a capable killer, a proven agent that had served greater names than theirs in the past, but all in all, the boy in front of him was a bad influence. He made Stenden forget his station, the decorum that separated nobility from the commoners- and possibly the only thing that held the Emberglades together.

“Enjoying yourself?” He spoke firm, arms folded, ears flat against his skill and a gaze that only disapproving parents could muster. “You may have free run of the house as my son’s agent, but don’t for one second believe that you’re free to do as you please- without consequences.” Solendis rose to his feet, towering slightly over Vissehn. “I understand that you believe you are helping Stenden by…” he made an offhanded gesture at the roof. “Relaxing. But you are doing the complete opposite.”

Vissehn looked up at his friends father as he rose, one brow lifting to that jaunty arch that made the youth look puckish and fey. Solendis was a tall man; taller than Vissehn and certainly bore down with the paternal disapproval that had likely cowed Stenden in his more playful years. The light of his evening was dimmed in the derision he heard in Solendis' tone, but not with shame. "Yeah, you got good liquor down in the cellar and bad locks to go with them. Sounds like a mighty enjoyable evening to me."

Eyes glittering with that cold mirth, he let his lips curl up in that wicked grin. "Naw, see, the plans to let him get all cozy comfy an then ruin th'Emberglades by exposing that their Lord is--" he gasped theatrically. "A fuckin' lad who wanted to live a little! Gods an' ghosts, whatever'll everyone do? Carry on with all their lives cause it don't fucking matter if a boy has a moment to hisself?" He snorted and tossed his name of golden hair. "Consequence, hoo M'lord I'm just a peasant brat what didn't get that stirling education, you'll have to use smaller words than that." He feigned a poor imitation of woe, the light never leaving his eyes as he already turned to walk off.

Solendis maintained his composure, sticking to his condescending gaze of disappointment. But as Vissehn began to walk off, he raised his voice. “You’re a smart boy, educated or not, so listen to me. Stenden cannot afford to be a boy, not now, not ever. I’m not sure where you’ve lived exactly, but the entire system that holds the Emberglades together is predicated on the ideas of nobility- exclusivity- the right to rule because we are a cut above the rest. Let the people see him the boy he is and not their Lord, and you’ll have what we have now, only ten-fold.”

The bark of authority in Solendis words made Vissehn straighten-- though perhaps not for the intended reason. Hackles raised and blood thick with liquor and assurance, he turned and closed the distance faster than his stumbling in the hall had would indicate.

This close to the man, Vissehn could see the weight of years in the lines around his eyes, the necessities he had born in the name of the Emberglades; he’d been illused and run up by wars and ledgers and lost causes. In other times, Vissehn might have sheathed his bladed tongue and let the man go on with his platitudes and his conceptions, but alcohol made truth out of anger and the commonborn youth had so much truth in him.

“Cut above?” His grin pulled sideways. “Oh, fancy that, cut above. See, even piss drunk an’ half blind from thistle I shoulda never mistook you for Sederis, cause there was a bloke that knew the truth in it, didn’t he?” Vissehn’s words were sharp with laughter. “Ain’t a single soul of us better than the dirt we’ll die in, save by the deeds done on it, not the blood we’re born of.” He canted his head and let his gaze streak over Solendis.

His following snort showed how much he thought of the inspection. “Your father seems to have ‘predicated’ that he was right to rule by sowin’ more graves than any other fucker; how his get carry on is on them, I figure.”

“My father sowed those graves so he could reap almost three centuries of peace!” Solendis responded to Vissehn’s snort. “And there is more blood that has yet to be spilled to let Stenden enjoy three hundred more. Leave it up to people like you and we’d still be a wartorn backwater, stabbing each other over better plots dirt. Content to accept your lot, and do as you please. No ambition to change things for the better! Nothing beyond what can be touched and felt on the morrow!”

Solendis threw his arm out to his side, gesturing at the manor and everything that surrounded it. The fields, the villages, and for now, the soldiers that were fighting on their behalf from all over Quel’thalas. “So yes, we are a cut above the rest. Because building a better tomorrow is more important that the price we pay today. That was something Sederis understood, before the end. It is that, which puts Stenden a cut above the rest.”

“Which includes you.” He brought his arm back round and pointed his finger at him, the distance now close enough to bring his fingers inches from his chest. “You more you remind him that he’s a boy, free to do as he pleases, the more you drag him down to your level. Keep it up and he’ll be back to square one- No one will bear an ounce of respect for him. His words will carry no weight as they did at the start. And I’d sooner be damned before watching him get humiliated- and underestimated like that again.”

Sobriety was the better part of wisdom, and even when not a bottle or more in, Vissehn could not be called wise. “Like me, eh?” His voice was low and soft, a shadow coming to those bright eyes. “And what the fuck do you think you know about me?”

He was in Solendis space then, closing that distance so that the finger extended pressed against the fabric of his tunic. “I know your lot-- a merchants lad’ll break your bones, a lords son’ll bury the lot. I know how many of my cousins had long ears after their mums spent a spell as maid in a manor. That’s how you shape your tomorrows-- kill the kind that don’t match, or if you’re feelin’ charitable, just fuck it into them. You all pretend to some greatness, somethin’ pure and noble of the blood, but I seen what your lot do when no one important is lookin, and your kind is as base as mine. Leastwise we don’t have the gall to claim ourselves any mans betters.” The deep hate in him seeped out into his words, and he pushed forward so the finger jabbed hard against the fabric. “That you think Stenden’s greatness has got anything to do with Mereded, or you, or this bloody manor and name-- that’s where you’re wrong.”

Vissehn grabbed Solendis’ wrist, his lean and long fingers gripping tight enough to show the strength of the boy but not yet painful. “I’ve bled and killed for better tomorrows-- cut enough short for others to know the weight of a future and how little it really is. Stenden’s got a greatness to him, but it’s not been inherited from warlords or passed on by cuckolded politicians. He’s got vision, a heart big enough to carry the burdens of his ancestors an’ a mind canny enough to know when to hold fast or when to fold.”

He released Solendis, shaking his hand as though he had touched something filthy. “Everyone ‘round here got their heads so full of shite, Emberheart, Illithia, sayin’ names like they got weight behind the letters somewhere. You want a son at the end of this? Stay out of my way. Elsewise Emberglades’ll get a Lord, for certain-- one without a soul. I’ve looked into the eyes of the livin’ dead, and I’d take on a scourge and a legion afore I have to see another home lost to a man whose got more nobility than soul.”

Solendis rubbed his wrists, “Then I’m afraid to say that such horrors await you.” The Steward spoke evenly, knowing better to test the patience of an impulsive drug addled youth- With a body count to his name. “Maybe not now, maybe not for a hundred more years. But when Stenden is a boy no longer, you’ll find that he’ll sell his soul on his own accord. Because you are absolutely right. You are right. Stenden has greatness to him, he’s growing into it right now, but all great rulers understand that a soul must be sacrificed to rule-.”

He let his arm sink to his sides. “To rule well with kindness, and justice. To put his people first. That leaves no space for himself or the baseness you seek to encourage.”

Then his hands clenched into fists. “You claim I know nothing of you? Well, touché Mr. Bladeborn- or whatever your namesake truly is! I am not those men who inflicted misery upon you and yours, they are not my lot!” He thrusts a finger at Stenden’s office, still glowing with candlelight within. “HE is my lot. Stenden, Riah, even my brother, THEY are my lot. We live, trying to undo the sins of our fathers, to make the blood they spilled and injustices they wrought WORTH it.”

Solendis pushes himself forward, folding his arms once more. “So, you tell me to stay out of your way? Let my son live a little? Indulge in his desires? Your way will turn Stenden into one of those Lordlings you hate.”

“He doesn’t have to sell shit!” Vissehn roared, losing the thin threads of control he had on himself. His hands shot forward, clawed to grab Solendis by his tunic but at the last moment he jerked his hands back as though burnt. “You can be kind an’ good an’ still have power-- The High Cleric, The Knight Commander-- you can take lives an’ still be good, and real. Don’t need a title, don’t need a-- a legacy to protect. You’re gonna kill him an’ not even have a body to mourn!”

He ran his hands through his hair manically, laughing roughly. “You’re offering your fuckin-- your fucking son-- for a future that you can’t even see is all going to shite! You’re layin’ him on an altar and lettin’ the world go in with the knife. Gods, I might as well be fuckin’ trying to reason with Her!”

The eyes that turned on Solendis were thick with undisguised disgust. “He ain’t your lot. You might have gotten him on his mother, but he’s got more of Sederis in him, an’ that means he can be more than you’re giving credit for.”

Vissehn turned away and rubbed his face, exhausted from the anger he’d let fly. He was a tall youth but he was so lean, hungry in every sense and it showed in the way the light flickered over the sharp edges of his cheeks and the faint hollows beneath. His head pounded, the lights were all too much, and he’d thought of Her for the first time in-- in too long. “You’re not my employer, an’ until the time Stenden sends me off like th’nothin I am, I’m his. However long he’s got a soul burnin’ in there, he’s got me.” The weight of the declaration settled in his soul, and he realized he meant it. “You want to know the ilk who is swearing themselves to your lad?” The words tumbled out before his reason and self preservation could stop them.

“Vissehn, once of the Hawk.” He shrugged and let his grin return, still wicked but dimmed. “My deals-- my vows-- are good.”

Solendis gives a moment for his confession to sink in. “Ah, so,” he speaks after taking in its meaning. The rumors were true. He had heard whisperings after looking to Zarannis’ background and the tribe of Tel’dorei that she had spent the best years of her youth with- The Hawk Tribe. The boy was Unwelcomed- Exiled- Dead in the eyes of his clansmen. “We could never confirm if you wore the mark that all Exiles of your kind wear. But I see where all that spite comes from.”

His arms unfold, reaching for his chin, a calculating look flashing in his eyes. “Very well. I think there’s no point on harping-on on what’s already been said. You belong to my son’s retinue. You say you’re good on your promises- Then good. Serve him well. Just know that Stenden, like Sederis before him, understood the meaning and value of sacrifice. It’s only a matter of time before he offers his soul to the Emberglades.”

Vissehn did not look back as he left Solendis in the common room, the stifflegged walk to his own rooms too long by far. Solendis had no answer from the youth to that parting volley, only the seething quiet of rage contained poorly behind clenched teeth. Vissehn slammed his door, knowing it would only cement whatever the man thought of him and finding he wanted to prove every base thought true this time. Let them think him a roustabout; a good for nothing witches get. He was and worse, for all they would ever know of him.

When the door closed, though, he slumped against the wood, hand rising to catch at his collar.

In the dark spanse of his suite, he stared. He stared until the shadows held no mystery, until the ghosts and monsters summoned with just Her thought had dissipated into vapor and paranoia. Only when he was sure, only when the lock slid I to place and the windows shuttered against the night, did he settle on the overstuffed coverlet.

Vissehn pulled up the tunic, palm grazing the fabric of the binding beneath. His fingers pushed between the layers of bandage, and he twisted until his breath came short and his vision swam.

People like you.

You’re the first real friend I’ve had Viss.

He threw himself down on the bed, eyes closed as he tried to find the moment under the stars, the burn in his belly.

Instead, the press of Solendis finger seemed to burn instead, the judgement lingering long after the night and sleep claimed Vissehn, once-of-the-Hawk.

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel

#Epilogue #Solendis

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wainwrightjakobshammerlock · 4 years

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finally. i decided to do this. anyways hello there, i am jake and today i want to talk about something; you see, if you are in the tf2 fandom, you probably know about heavymedic. Wherther you are a hardcore gamer who resents f2p’s or a person that never played the game but has trillions of notes on their art- you know heavymedic exists and most of all you probably ship it.

And I find that weird. In the few fandoms in my life I have been in I had never seen a single ship be so widely if not shipped, then accepted. Sure, maybe everyone in the GF fandom knows what Billdip is - for better or for worse. Sure, maybe the HS fandom is 70% shipping.

But I have never ever seen such a phenomenon in a prominent multiplayer game fandom. A fandom, sadly, oftentimes filled with toxicity. Overwatch is very similar here - yet ships are either a hot topic of discussion or straight up ignored. But TF2? In here for whatever reason we ship these two mercenaries. And in this essay I will try and find a reason or two why is that.

Apologies for any mistakes or incoherency. English is not my first language, I need to ramble, and my vocabulary is all over the place.

Content warning: mentions of homophobia, blood, death, mentions of WLW fetishization, nsfw mention. Also MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR THE TF2 COMICS.

Part 1: Canonical Evidence and Interactions

Let’s be honest: I could ramble about this one for days on end. But I’ll try and keep it short.

First and foremost we have the official videos. And of course the first thing that comes to mind is Meet the Medic.

At the very start of the part where Medic himself appears, we see him telling a joke about a particularly gruesome situation to Heavy.

He laughs along with him, visibly enjoying his company. He even smiles as he waits for another joke. Heavy only shows genuine fear a lot later.

And of course this damn scene always cracks me up. Medic slightly pinches Heavy’s cheek and strokes his lip gently (the other part is almost not noticeable unless you play the video at slow speed).

Of course we all know about the Hand Hold that happens somewhere halfway in the vid. I don’t think I have to explain the gayness in that. The fact their hands stay interlocked even after Medic helps Heavy up. The deep breath Medic takes because even he cannot handle the emotions. That few seconds is unresolved sexual tension manifest.

Overall the short shows a strong feeling of trust between these two. Medic confides in Heavy and reverse. Yeah he puts a baboon heart into his friend’s chest cavity but the fact (as proven at the end of the video) that Heavy was the first one to have an Ubercharge implanted into him shows that Medic at the very least considers him a lab rat.

I treat End of the Line as non-canonical, as do many others, and as such won’t discuss it here. But it will forever crack me up that Valve endorsed such levels of homoerotic subtext.

These two have some short moments in other videos, like for example in Invasion Heavy helps Medic up (CINEMATIC PARALLELS) but it’s nothing major so I guess I’ll skip forward.

Second is their interactions ingame. You might call me a weirdo for trying to find stuff in there but holy shit I have things to say and I’m going to say them.

You thought I was going to fanboy over the “i love this doktor” voiceline huh? Well not really. I wish these two had unique lines if they assist one another.

Heavy is literally listed on the official wiki as the “ideal medic buddy” and multiple pages on that exact wiki say some pretty interesting things.

I have to say something about the Gentleman’s Ushanka and/or Pocket Medic. They are both community cosmetics - but the fact they both got accepted by Valve says a lot. Above is text snipped from the actual wiki.

Last but not least: The Comics. Darned comics. The pair of mercenaries has basically no interaction - unless you count issue 6.

Heavy getting absolutely PISSED when Medic is killed by Ch*avy. Their reunion. Medic referring to Heavy by “my friend” in a totally straight way. Kind of sad Valve wasted an opportunity for them to hug. Maybe they knew their comic artist ships them and wanted to avoid having to answer the Question™.

Part 2: Dynamics

This part’s a bit trickier, mostly due to the reason that I’m new to this whole dynamic analysis thing. Yeah I’m good at spotting canonical evidence but very specific shipping dynamics often escape my gaze.

The most obvious one is Big Guy, Little Guy. Quoting the TVTROPES page:

[…] This trope describes a pair of guys who always fight together, are best friends forever, and quite often have a very obvious hierarchy: The little guy is often in charge […] The little guy is usually listed first, since he’s the leader, and they are always listed together, as if they are one entity. In fact, some episodes may center on the fact that they can’t live without each other. […] If this is a case of Brains and Brawn, the Big Guy is usually the Brawn, and the Little Guy the Brains. It’s almost never the other way around, but in some cases the Big Guy can be rather smart too. […]

A sub-type of this, a common favorite here on Tumblr is known as “small chaotic big calm” and hoo boy if that isn’t these two. I don’t really have much to say here - again I am not an expert.

Part 3: Fandom Impact

So you don’t think Red Oktoberfest (as Heavymedic is sometimes called) is super popular on anywhere else than Tumblr? Wrong.

It’s hard to find TF2 fics on Archive of Our Own not tagged with Heavy/Medic. Of course most of them only contain hints to their relationship but go in the main tf2 tag and I can guarantee you, you’ll gonna see “implied heavy/medic” all the time.

But these two go further than AO3 or Tumblr or Instagram or whatever. They are recognized even within the wider circle of the fanbase. Take this SFM, for example. (I am using the Saxxy Awards version of Secret Lives here mostly due to the fact that the Heavymedic moment is much gayer. In the normal version, the dialogue isn’t changed, but they simply hold hands.)

youtube

But it gets deeper. (WARNING: THE GAY MOMENT IN THIS ONE IS NSFW. NOT EXPLICITLY SO BUT JUST A HEADS UP TUMBLR PLEASE DO NOT FLAG ME)

youtube

And the best part? The comments are extremely positive. You’d expect hoards upon hoards of homophobes screeching but no, the comments are supportive. Even on places such as Reddit or Youtube, comments like “yeah they’re gay and in love” do not get downvoted/disliked to hell; in fact the opposite.

Part 4: Canon Status

Let’s be real. Most ships are shipped because people want to explore the dynamics in fanfic, fanart or something else. But Heavymedic is shipped because… well, I have no idea.

Actually, I kind of do - but only theories. You see, while the canonical evidence is here, the creators have never said anything about them. No confirmation, no disproval, no hinting, nothing.

But the ship is so prominent! There has to be something causing this!- you say. And to that I present you 2 theories on why Heavy/Medic is so popular.

Theory number 1 states that we simply all choose to interpret their interactions as homoerotic. And this is very easy to disprove - there’s simply no way we just collectively agreed on these matters out of nothing. There has to be something bigger.

And theory 2 states that, well, our interpretation is the desired interpretation. But this is even more ridiculous than theory 1 for a number of reasons. If they are in fact gay, why hasn’t Valve made them canon yet?

A Theoretical Scenario

I am going to ramble big time on this one, so buckle up lads. I’ll discuss a theoretical scenario in which, well, if that was not obvious, Valve confirms Heavymedic as canon. Maybe then we will see why they will probably never do so.

TF2 is considered by typical capital G, alt-right Gamers as a “non-political” game. This means no women (in the game itself, at least, and if even, sexy women only), no queer folk and no minorities (for some reason they accept Demoman but throw a fit if someone draws any other merc as not being pearl white). Team Fortress 2 was around before Gamergate and other things like Gamers Rise Up. It’s a classic and Valve is regarded as the good guy to Epic Game’s bad guy. If Valve did anything to confirm doubts, wherther it be clearing up popular fanon or confirming ships, these people would throw hands. (Although they seemed to ignore when one of the writers confirmed Miss Pauling is a lesbian. Huh.) Even those that don’t play TF2 would come to the aid of their bros.

Let me illustrate with two very similar examples. In both cases these confirmations were the first made by the company as a whole, both are fairly recent and both confirm a character as gay.

First we have the confirmation of Tracer from Overwatch as a lesbian. It was done in one of OVW’s comics. Tracer is the FACE of Overwatch as a whole and while most of the fanbase accepted it (thankfully the Gamers are reluctant to infest ow), some people threw what I can only describe as a hissy fit. At least her girlfriend’s a background character.

Second is Neeko from League of Legends. Unlike Tracer she was added a while before it was confirmed she was gay. LOL is much more toxic and filled with Gamers than OW and holy shit people smeared LOL so much.

Of course these are not accurate to Heavy/Medic. In both of the cases I listed it was girls being wlw and we all know how much cisgender heterosexual gamers LOVE yuri porn. Apparently only girls can be gay because they can jack off to it - if it’s two guys then it’s disgusting. Nevertheless I think these are good approximations - in every case the company gets “shat on” on social media and other sites. With the community that Valve has, I think even if they wanted them to be gay, they would never ever confirm it.

Conclusion

I’m sorry for that ending. I had to theorize a bit. Regardless I’d love if you shared this on other sites, reblogged or whatever - I wasted at least 1 and a half hours of my life on it. Feel free to cite this as a source if someone asks you why you ship the big heavy weapons expert and the feral battle medic.

#my post #text post #tf2 #medic #heavy #heavymedic #long post

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littlejeanniebean · 4 years

Text

Ep. 3 | The Marauders: Riddle Records

A/N: “Come to the dark side. We have a solo career.” - Tom Riddle Jr., probably. On a lighter note, I can just see them backstage like this by the lovely artist @theimpossiblefifth. Read on AO3 :) Enjoy! - J xx

One look in your eyes

I can read your mind

You're naughty, my type

Care for a good time?

You could be just like all your high society friends at high tea

You could get with a football player

But there’s nothing like a shot of adrenaline in the morning

You know you want a dragon slayer

“Like me,” James mouthed seductively to the camera and winked.

“I’m Alice Fortescue, these wonderful lads are The Marauders, thank you for joining us this Saturday Night Live!” the actress grinned widely as the camera backed away.

The boys all gathered around her in a group hug.

“Holy shit! That was incredible!” Obviously, this was Sirius speaking.

“You were wonderful, honey,” a low voice whispered.

A smiling man with sweet eyes and a mop of dark hair put his arms around Alice.

“Oh, everyone, this is my boyfriend, Frank!” the bubbly actress grinned widely, “He’s a photographer for GQ.”

“Sick!” James shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Frank; lovely working with you, Alice; hope you’ll both come to one of our shows sometime, ta-ta!” Sirius practically dragged the band away before anyone could say anything more.

“What was that?” Remus tutted at his boyfriend.

“Yeah, ta-ta?” the bespectacled boy wiggled his nose to adjust his glasses that had gone askew, “Who says that?”

“Not what I meant,” the pale, mousy-haired boy shrugged off his suit jacket in their shared dressing room.

“Look, I’ll explain later!” Sirius pleaded, “Just hurry up and let’s get the hell -”

“Yoo-hoo! Siri!” a warbling, high-pitched voice giggled on the other side of the door, “This is their room here, Tommy...”

“Christ,” the dark-haired boy covered his face with his hands.

“We’ll deal with Bella,” James set his jaw and turned to the other two, “Ready?”

Remus and Peter rolled up their dress shirt sleeves and nodded.

The trio filed out of the dressing room, forcing Bella Black and her friend backward, and immediately shut the door behind them.

“He doesn’t want to see you or any of your family again, Bella,” said James sternly, giving the show's new cameraman the stink-eye for good measure.

Bella stuck her tongue out childishly.

Her guest grimaced and offered his hand to the boys, “I’m sorry about her. She overheard I was interested in speaking with you young talents and… well, it got a bit out of hand. I’m Tom Riddle, of Riddle Records.”

Really, the man with chiseled features and dark slicked back hair wasn’t much older than they were. But he was dressed more expensively than they could ever be comfortable with, even with the fresh success of their debut album.

“You’re Senior’s kid,” James nodded, his mother being an agent in the industry. He noted just the smallest flinch at the mention of the man's father. “With all due respect, we already have a label.”

“A label that has you locked into a contract as a group,” Tom gave them each his card and presented James with another one for Sirius, “We would pay any fees associated with breaking your current contract, then we would launch your solo careers - James as the pop prince, Sirius as the rock and roll bad boy, Remus as the R&B god, and Peter as the jazz legend!”

“We’re better musicians together,” said Remus.

Tom leaned in, “Your success now, quadrupled. Plus the potential for high-engagement collaborations among you. The freedom to create in your own style on top of that. Imagine it. And give me a call.”

"Ta-ta," Bella blew them each a kiss in a way that could only be described as menacing. When they were out of the boys' earshot she simpered, "You're such a clever businessman, Tommy."

"Don't call me that," he yanked his arm away and pressed his phone to his ear irritably, "I found us some new business and laid the groundwork. Can I have my allowance now?"

The Marauders flew back to Scotland that night and rehearsed for months until they were ready to drop before flying back to LA for Night One.

“Nervous?” Sirius whispered while they waited for their opening act, DJ Dedalus Diggle, to finish his set.

“Why would you ask me that?” James huffed, adjusting his bright red tie for the umpteenth time.

“You need more glitter,” Molly patted his cheekbones lightly with her pointer finger, which was covered in the golden stuff.

“Five minutes, boys!”

“Thanks, Arthur!” Remus spoke for them all.

“We’ve got this, Jimbo!” Peter bounced excitedly on his heels.

“Easy for you to say. You’ve been performing at recitals since you were big enough to reach the keys from the bench.”

“The jitters never get old,” his baby-faced friend told him, “but we’re all going out there. And with everything we do together, we always have fun.”

James nodded to himself and made sure to check on their drummer for the tour, “You good, Kingsley?”

The man in a rose-red disco suit twirled the sticks deftly in his hands, “Let’s do this.”

“... and now, Los Angeles,” Diggle hyped the crowd, “give it up… for The Marauders!”

The lights went up and the boys looked out at the incredibly emotional fans who’d come to see them.

“Right,” James whispered, reaching for the microphone with shaking hands, “A-one, two, three.”

I don’t have a lot of time

I’m running for my dear life

Can’t breathe without you by

Aye aye aye

It’s a full house

But I’ll seek you out

It’s a wild crowd

But I’ll seek you out

I don’t know how

But I’ll seek you out

James couldn’t help grinning ear to ear as Sirius broke out into his guitar solo.

Remus pointed out a sign that said, “Marry me, James Potter!”

The lead singer laughed and spoke into his mic, “Well, will you buy me dinner first, at least?”

The girl promptly fainted.

Arthur was by her side immediately to make sure she was alright.

“Oh, dear, you’ve hit your head,” Molly crouched down beside him and handed the young girl an ice pack.

The red-headed manager got his first good look at the videographer and her multi-pocketed fishing vest and cargo pants.

She noticed him staring, “I’ve known these boys a long time. You never know what you’re going to need.”

“Good advice,” he helped her and the fan back up in one go, “I’m Arthur.”

“Molly,” she grinned, hoisting her camera back onto her capable shoulders and focused back in on James.

Under your spell, I like how you play it

Keeping it cool is so overrated

Waiting on you, every breath bated

Hey hey hey

They played LA two more nights before moving on to San Francisco. Then Vegas, then Seattle, and across the rest of the continent, all the way to New York.

“Madison Square Garden,” James swallowed, taking in the iconic jumbotron above their heads and the entire stadium, really.

Just three hours later, he was up on that very stage, sweat trickling down his back and the bridge of his nose as he sang his heart out about a funny story the designer, Lily Evans once related about her sister via Instagram post.

There’s a little house on Privet Drive

Where nothing ever happens

Little curtain twitcher of a wife

And a little boy and husband

But when they leave for their nine to five

And the little boy goes to school

The little old lady with cats ninety-nine

Does what she wills to do

Living next to ordinary no. 4

So much to do, so much to explore

The grocer down the street from me

His daughter left for university

And he needs the comfort of my tabbies

Yessiree, that’s what I’m here for

Your neighbour next to ordinary no. 4

After that, they went all over South America. The streets were typically too narrow to drive a tour bus around, so they often jetted from one country to another and rented a little convoy of minivans to take them to the arenas from their hotels and back.

“Shit, Petey’s got food poisoning!” Remus fussed over the poor boy.

“I’m fine! Really!” the blond insisted before doubling over and retching once more.

“I can fill in,” DJ Diggle adjusted his signature flat cap, “I have all your songs pre-recorded -”

“We have half an hour to get it out of his system!” Sirius declared determinedly, “We’re not going on without you, Pete!”

“I’ve got the doctor!” Arthur came in, followed closely by a middle-aged woman with apple cheeks and curly hair.

“You need to replace your fluids,” Molly handed Peter a bottle of electrolytes.

“Yeah, it’s a common bacterial infection going around among tourists,” said the doctor, giving him a dose of antibiotics, “He’s not in any shape to perform, you lot, so you might as well let him rest.”

“I can - oh,” Peter ran to the bathroom.

“How soon can you give him another dose of that?” Sirius asked anxiously.

“Not any time in the next half hour,” she narrowed her eyes at him, apparently having overheard his earlier proclamation.

“Poppy’s right,” said Arthur, “Peter’s health comes first. Dedalus, isolate the keyboards in every track and queue the set list.”

“Try to keep in time,” Sirius added.

“No improvising for tonight, lads,” Arthur warned the regular band members.

“But -”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I!” he could only maintain a straight face for two and a half seconds after he said this.

James sighed as they waited for the DJ to introduce them half an hour later, “It’s not going to be the same without Peter.”

“We’ll make the best of it, Jimbo,” Remus assured him, “and he’ll be back with us for the next one.”

The frontman set his jaw, pushed his glasses up his face and pulled the microphone to his lips.

Do you remember

The games we used to play

Mermaids underwater

Aliens in outer space

Do you remember

The sticks we’d raise aloft

We called them swords and never

Lost the battles that we fought

Peter was back on stage the next night, to much celebration and all too soon, they flew back across the pond for their European leg. Of course, their first stop was Scotland.

“It’s so good to be home,” James sighed happily, pausing to wipe his glasses on the hem of his shirt and winking at a girl who lost it at the sight of his abdomen, “This is our last song. Please join in if you know the words. Or make them up. Just have a good time. Be as loud as you want to. We love you all, thank you for everything you’ve done for us. We’re the luckiest boys in the world.”

Is there a risk to it?

Is it a challenge?

If there isn’t, if it isn’t, I don’t want it

Yeah, I wanna do some damage

I feel lucky tonight

I got you by my side

Seven days in a week

And you spend them with me

So hell yeah, I feel lucky

"That sounds really good, Pete," said James from where he lay on the floor of their stage after the arena emptied, "We could use that."

Peter chuckled, "It's Chopin. A waltz."

James ambles over and his friend makes room for him on the bench.

"It's a split C chord, then F, A flat..." he guides him through the song. It's out of time and messy, but they're having fun. "James…"

"Yeah, Pete?"

"What are we going to do about Tom Riddle's offer? I mean, his dad’s label practically owns half the music industry. And Castle is just this little independent… He could make our lives more difficult than he already has."

"Unless we join him, you're thinking?"

"We could ask Arthur to negotiate a group contract just the same. I doubt they'll dislike the idea of paying less upfront."

"But what about loyalty to everyone at Castle? McGonagall? Urquart?" James shook his head, "We're having a successful tour in spite of the ticket bots Riddle set on us. We're looking out into seas of fans all wearing our merch in spite of his shipment hijacking. And we're having bloody good time because we're not letting any of the homophobic slander he's fueled the press with get to us."

"Here, here!" cheered Sirius, clinking his beer bottle with his boyfriend's.

"Right, rest up, lads! You deserve it with all the work you put into this show," James stood and ambled back to the tour bus, where Shacklebolt was already sleeping soundly, being the earliest riser of them all.

“Goodnight, all!” Peter loved his friends, truly. But he was convinced their stubborn sense of the meaning of courage would do them a great disservice.

As always when confronted with a decision to make, he visited the only jazz bar in Scotland, the Leaky Kettle. Immediately upon stepping inside, he let the smooth piano carry away the stress.

“The usual,” he told the bartender.

“Put it on my tab,” Tom Riddle swivelled around on the bar stool, "Fancy meeting you here."

"You mean you didn't expect to? Didn't plan it?" Peter received his drink with barely more than a sideways glance at their adversary.

"It's just business, Peter. I know you understand that."

"Then why go through all this trouble for one act? There must be thousands - hundreds of thousands - of talented artists who could make you rich."

Tom rolled his eyes, "My father was always… a bit single-minded. He wants to put me through my paces before handing me the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. But don’t worry about that. Just know this: I think your group is talented and I can see that you’re the musical glue holding it all together. You’re the only one with any formal training, after all. And I really can see to your career’s longevity. If you stick with this boyband too long, though…”

Peter raised his eyebrows, “Then what?”

“Well,” the label executive leaned in, “then you’ll need to think about what that does to your image as a real, serious musician.”

The blond boy finished his drink.

“Another one for my friend,” Tom told the bartender, took his jacket, and left.

His calling card sat heavy in the keyboardist’s wallet.

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