#stuffie postcards | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

infernalodie · 10 months

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 || 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐳

Inspo: Emile Mosseri - Jacob and the Stone

Pairing: Maddy Perez x Gn!reader

Summary: The stone that stood tall and would never full leave her memory...

Warnings: Angst throughout with mentions of suicide.

Words: 1770

DNI IF YOU’RE YOUNGER THAN 18!

There was this stone Maddy used to go to.

Somewhere in the density of a forest right outside of Highland. Practically resting near the long breaks of the open countryside, this place resided.

It’d been a complete chance that she came to this location. Her car broke down with her friends and their goal to live the night up was still on the list of plans. So, they ventured into this forest and found this large stone.

She remembers Cassie being a ruckus and being the emotional drunk she was. Lexi was reserved and just talked with Kat. Rue and Jules were holding one another. But Maddy found you staring at this stone, perplexed or fascinated by it.

Maddy remembers you dragging your hand across the texture of the rock. Lips twitched faintly as the tips of your fingers gently caught the grooves; scars of its past and present. And something about it made you say, “It’s beautiful.”

Everyone knew you found beauty in the strangest of places. If it is some random obscured painting or one of those poems you would write in your free time–there was nothing you couldn’t find positives in. It had been what made Maddy fall in love with you in the first place.

And she remembers how you looked back at her. A look in your eye that was almost contentful. Like something had been decided the moment you saw this large stone. You had said, “If I ever die, I want to be buried here. I’ll even write it in my will.”

She punched your arm for saying something like that. Warning you that she would be the one to do the job if you brought something like that up. You smiled and laughed. And she remembers your arms curling around her and holding her against your chest tightly. Your face tucked in her hair where you pressed gentle kisses.

That had only been a week before everything happened. That was the last memory she had of you before you were gone. Swept up and taken wherever was after this life. And now, even after all these years, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back to that forest–to relive that moment all over again in a place that she imagine still had your lingering presence.

Today, it was the anniversary of your death. So, with the urging encouragement of Lexi and Rue, she drove up to the forest. She walked amongst the trees that the further she got, blocked out the sun that had been beating down on her since she got back from Highland. It left a massive veil between her and the outside world that hoped hadn’t desecrated this sacred land.

Then she finally arrived at the stone. It stood tall- maybe even taller than she had once realized. Its exterior was jaded–chips having fallen off from years of weather conditioning. And in a traditional fashion, your initials were etched into its face. Your name, your birthday and the day of your passing. Each letter and number is rough around the edges, but perfect as its own; much like you.

Flowers were scattered around the marked grave. Much of them came from friends that had specifically come down to visit and pay respects to you. There were postcards from Jules; she believed that in some way, they might make it to you somehow. There were stuffies from Rue who knew of your unhealthy obsession with said items. Lexi left some of your favourite books from your guys’ friendship being built from that.

But Maddy had nothing to offer. Perhaps she thought her visit was enough considering the time she’d pushed to avoid the inevitable.

Exhaling heavily, she forced a smile. “Hey, baby.”

She sat beside the grave with the faint outline of where it had been dug. She clasped her hands together, saying, “I would ask you how you were doing, but I think we both know that would just be stupid of me.”

Painful silence. She didn’t know what to say. What was there to honestly say? You had given up. Maybe you lost sight of the beauty in this world. Lost all hope for society and decided to clock out before you saw anything get worse. Or maybe you had been depressed the whole time but she was too blind to see it. People wore masks–some of who no one would expect. Maybe you were a part of that few.

But since you left, she tried to keep to what she had been before you left–be the person that you loved. So, she wasn’t going to try and beat around the bush with any fruitless questions or statements. “I want to say you left because you couldn’t handle living anymore. But somehow-” she laughed, shaking her head. “-something tells me your sick mind thought that becoming one with the earth was beautiful, huh? I mean, we both know that’s how your mind worked.”

In some way, with your passing, she felt like she had finally grown as close as she could get to you. With your family left in shambles from your death, Maddy had taken it upon herself to be the one to pack your belongings up. Place your clothes in boxes, trinkets in boxes, and all the little handwritten notes that lined your walls. And on the final day, there was only one poem left and she just sat in the center of your room and stared at it. Then she cried. Harder than she ever thought she could. She screamed and fought against the harsh grasp of reality that was; once she took that final paper, you were officially gone. You would be gone from her life forever.

But from time to time, when she came down to Highland to visit her parents, she stopped by your family’s house. She had dinner with them, talked about life, made plans for future holidays and then she would ask to look at the boxes.

There would always be a silence that fell over the kitchen. The uneven breaths from your mother who would purse her lips, forcing a broken smile that could crack as she grabbed Maddy’s hands and hold them tightly. Which would always be contradictory because of the tears in her eyes. And your mom would always say, “Honey, don’t ever feel like you need to ask.”

And your dad would sit there quietly, avoiding eye contact that could betray the tough exterior he had to keep. When, in fact, the wound of your passing was still fresh and it would always stay that way. No child is supposed to go before their parents.

But you did. You defied every expectation; good and bad. You believed in most people who didn’t deserve it. You found lessons in situations you had labelled, “misconstrued control”. Each of those lessons made you grow and in any way you could, you tried to pass this knowledge on to others. But you gave up and in Maddy’s mind and that substituted everything else out. Your action to leave so soon was unforgivable to her.

You gave up when things were getting good for the two of you. When your guys’ story was starting to pick up make things interesting.

“I started reading some of those poems you had taped up on your walls.” A faint smile twitched on her lips. “They almost looked like etchings of thoughts you never said to me.” Maddy’s lips trembled. She remembered clearing out your room and spending hours sitting in the center of that room. Unable to take her eyes off of all the deep and meaningful quotes that you were so infatuated with. If she’d known that she returned to your house in her dreams, finding you standing and staring at each poem with a smile, she would’ve never laid a foot inside that room.

Bowing her head slightly as she swayed. Sniffling harshly, she said, “If you must die, I’ll envy even the earth that wraps around your body.” Her tearful eyes lifted to the inscription of your name carved meaningfully into the boulder. Face twisting with her voice giving way. “And I fucking miss you, Y/n. I hate knowing something else will give you warmth when I could’ve filled that spot for you.”

Her voice cracked. A sob fell from her lips. “I shouldn’t be sad. You fucking left me!” She fell to her hands, slowly lowering herself where blades of grass brushed across her rosy cheeks that kissed the earth. Her body trembled as she sought the feeling of your arms once more. Fingers delving into the dirt, hoping to find your hands interlocking with hers the further she reached. “But I want you here. Even in my dreams, I just want one more day with you.”

It was a distant and unforgeable wish, she knew that. But she was desperate. She had to wake up most nights and cry herself back to sleep because that would be the only way to reunite with you once more. Through the pain, she was healed by your smile. And she trying to find a middle ground between acceptance and refusal.

But that was the thing–no one can have both. When someone is gone, we can’t do anything to bring them back. And with time, we will heal. It’ll hurt like hell and it’ll feel like that wound will always be open, but that’s what comes with acceptance. And when we least expect it, when we find someone that makes our hearts skip a beat like the person before once did, we’ll realize how far we’ve come. How much pain we were able to take and keep moving forward.

It's a sign to try again.

And it hurt Maddy to admit it, but she wanted to keep going. Keep you close to her heart, but far enough that she was allowed to think about the good times instead of the worst.

And what helped was for her to think about how your mind worked–your beliefs that she never could wrap her head around. With time, she learned more about herself and where she stood on the unappreciated qualities of life and the world she lived in. Maddy believed that in some alternate reality, the both of you were still together and thriving. And acknowledging that was beautiful in its own way because she got to experience it for some time–a small sliver compared to a counterpart, but still a gift. But a different version of her would feel it until her last breath.

Something like that was poetic, wasn’t it?

#maddy perez euphoria #alexa demie #maddy perez x gn!reader #maddy perez x gn reader #maddy perez imagine #maddy perez fanfiction #maddy perez angst #maddy perez x reader #maddy perez #euphoria #euphoria fanfiction #euphoria imagine #euphoria maddy perez #x gender neutral reader #x gn!reader #x gn reader #x reader

292 notes · View notes

duckprintspress · 8 months

Text

You find a store that has the most YOU aesthetic you've ever imagined, like, you'd happily buy anything in the entire place. They have stickers, bags, cups, shirts, pins, key chains, so many different categories of Thing In A Style You Adore. AND. The owner says everything costs the same amount, and you can afford it! BUT! You can only get ONE THING. OH NO WHAT DO?

There are so many more than 11 categories of THING, so if you vote others, tell us what your OTHER is in the tags or comments! <3

(and before anyone asks, I left "book" off on purpose, cause this is about aesthetic/looks, so like, that doesn't really apply to books...)

#poll #polls for merch lovers #i'm gonna try to start posting polls once a week #cause polls are fun y'all #and i'm always curious what merch people love #for me it's probably sticker

97 notes · View notes

mywingsareonwheels · 7 months

Text

1974.

Morse is interviewing witnesses to a murder at one of the colleges, and one of them is strikingly familiar. He's a man in his early twenties, a recent medical graduate back visiting friends before heading off to move into a totally different career. He has a posh accent, a friendly smile, warm brown eyes.

Oh he's truly, desperately familiar, and Morse isn't looking too hard into his own motives when he lets the younger man talk him into a drink out, and then a one-night stand, and then something rather more like a friendship played out over Scotch and crosswords and literary quotations.

[More behind the cut....]

He does mention, briefly, that his new friend reminded him of someone else on first meeting. And somehow that turns into a discussion of ancestry, and the young man discusses with some glee the skeleton in his family cupboard: the fact that his paternal grandmother when barely eighteen had a dalliance with a working-class ruffian of the same age from Mile End, of all places. That she'd got pregnant, but her parents wouldn't let her tell the lad, but instead got her engaged to a somewhat stuffy friend of theirs called Richardson.

"Dad hates to talk about it," says Morse's friend, "he's rather a stuffed shirt, especially for a surgeon. But Granny used to love telling me stories. She did come to love my Granddad, I think, but she missed that boy from Mile End all her life." He chuckles, but a little shakily, because he has yet to learn the effortless-seeming confidence he'll spread before him one day. "I'd give anything to meet him."

Morse swallows, heart suddenly in his mouth. And something in his face makes the young man carry on, more intensely.

"Granny told me that she named Dad after him, though he doesn't know. So that's what I have: Frederick, from Mile End. Fathered a child around 1930 when he was just a lad and doesn't even know he did." He laughs, wryly. "Not much to go on, is it."

"Douglas," says Morse, and his voice is shaking but there's a smile in his eyes. "I... I'll need to look into this, but I think. I mean. I think I can help."

The postcard is of York Minster, which is only a half hour drive from where three exiles from Oxford have settled. On the back it reads just:

"Sir,

Un bel di, please could we talk? There's someone I think you should meet. Bring 2 rounds ham and tomato sandwiches. --"

At the day and time thus ordered, Fred Thursday finds Morse standing admiring the rose window, and follows him out to a bench in the Minster gardens. He's torn between confusion and shame, though above all trying to hide how overjoyed he is to see the rusty curls and those haughty, sea-green eyes again. When Morse explains, and introduces the young trainee pilot with a face Fred remembers from his mirror as a long-lost grandson... well, it's good he's already sitting down, is all.

The years past, and they are gentler than they might have been.

Fred lives to see his grandson a captain, to meet his great-granddaughter. To introduce his grandson to his uncle and step-grandmother and eventually even his aunt. To become friends with Morse again, even if quietly, and for the most part only by letter. To relish that Douglas and Morse, despite occasionally enraging each other beyond reason, seem to be friends for life. (He suspects that they might once have been more than that; if they aren't going to tell him though, he's not going to point it out.) Something healed in him that day in York, and it never breaks again.

When Captain Douglas Richardson puts down the bottle, in an attempt to salvage something of his career and his relationship with his daughter, perhaps it's partly because he's still grieving for his grandfather, dead some ten years now, but most of all because he's still grieving for his friend and one-time lover, and doesn't want to die so young himself.

When First Officer Douglas Richardson meets his new captain at MJN's portacabin in Fitton, he's a little strikingly familiar too. He's shorter, and more pompous, and vastly less good at word games, but there are rusty curls and haughty sea-green eyes.

He's no relation of Morse's at all though, it turns out. This is, eventually, rather a relief.

#ficlet #itv endeavour #e morse #endeavour morse #cabin pressure #douglas richardson #fred thursday #martin crieff #well this rather ran away from me but hopefully someone else will have fun with it too ;-)#ridiculous crossover time #endeavour #roger allam #long post #tw alcoholism mention #tw canonical character deaths #tw complicated family history mention

45 notes · View notes

samwinchesterslostshoe · 28 days

Text

-Denouement-

“Was there any meaning to life or to war, that two men should sit together and jump within seconds of each other and yet never meet on the ground below?”

-David Kenyon Webster-

David Webster x Female OC

Word count: 4,7K

Notes: In the book: “Parachute Infantry” by David Webster. He tells the story of what happened after we saw him get shot in episode 5, Crossroads. How he had to walk several miles across muddy fields to find safety in a farmhouse, where he was later picked up by two soldiers from F company and brought to an aid station. The first chapter of this fic loosely ties into that. Making some small changes to fit the plot better and tie in the main character Marie.

This story is based on the tv shot Band of Brothers, and the fictional portrayal of the actors playing the characters in the show.

Part 1

The Island – Holland.

October 5th, 1944.

Kenyon.

With the shock, confusion and the rush of adrenaline slowly wearing off, Webster could feel the hurt in his leg growing. His before almost numb calf was now throbbing with pain. The blood on his pant leg, having mixed with the mud of the ditch made it hard to tell just how bad his wound was.

Blankly staring at the field that lay ahead of him, he found himself faced with two choices. Stay in the ditch, safe between the side of the small dike leading up to the road, protected from possible enemy artillery, - but no medics would pick him up here. Or make a run for it across the open field, - where it would be just a matter of time before he would be spotted and shot down., -Dying in a muddy field in the middle of Holland, surrounded by nothing but barbed wire fences and the remains of heavy artillery fire. But Death didn’t bother him, at least not anymore. What he wanted more than anything in the world was to get out of here. To eat something other than K rations and to sleep in a real bed again.

To some it might have even seemed selfish. - not caring anymore about what happened to the men in the trench next to you, who not even an our ago you were fighting alongside with. Both trying everything you had in you just to make it through another mission. But if he wanted to stay alive, ever see home again, then wasting time thinking about the others might cost it his. So a decision was made.

Limping across the open field. - clutching the Kraut poncho he had come across, a piece of fabric that almost cost him his life. By God if he got back home empty handed, he could never forgive himself.

Panting heavily, he stopped for just a second in the middle of the mucky field to inspect the silhouette of a large farmhouse. Under different circumstances, the barn would have been lovely, picturesque even, - with its white picket fences, stained glass windows and painted shutters. The kind you would see on postcards and bring back with you to the States, so when people asked him, “So what was Holland like?” He could show them that picture. But now the once lively home lay cold and barren. No animals grazed outside, some of the colorful windows had shattered and the shutters were now nailed shut.

To him it was nothing more than a temporary haven. Slowly stumbling up along the dirt path leading up to the house, he was met by a middle-aged Dutch farmer. The men bore a stern look on his face. Just for a second, looking the man straight in the eye, he was afraid the man might shoot him. He must have seen his allied uniform because soon, the man was next to his side, putting his arm over his shoulder and slowly carrying him into the house.

Marie.

The house was stuffy and held air filled with fear and anxiety, making it difficult to think straight. For almost a month now people had come in and out of the house seeking help and shelter. Some she knew. Some she didn’t. Not that it mattered much anymore since it was best to not get attached to these people.

Ever since the Allied forces had jumped into Eindhoven, and the battle over Island had started four days ago. There was nothing she could do anymore. Being stuck between the Lower Rhine on the north, and the Waal on the south. All contact with her both her friends and her connections at the Dutch underground resistance had been lost. Leaving her completely powerless and in the dark. There was no feeling worse than knowing the people you love and care about so deeply are being unjustly taken, tortured, and murdered for the simple act of existing. Nothing more but a name you just so happened to be born into. And all those who choose to help right the wrong were met with a similar faith.

All these thoughts however quickly disappeared when the loud bangs of German artillery fire exploded close by the house. They couldn’t have been more than a few kilometers away since the old stained-glass windows dangerously rattled in their frames and dust fell from the ceiling. Still, she tried to ignore them as best she could. Explosions had been going of regularly for the past few days. She was sure it was nothing. It was strange how quickly one can become accustomed to these things. Explosions now being as common as a barking dog or Sunday’s church bells.

Awakened out of her thoughts by another string of loud thuds. The explosions seemed to slowly creep in on the farmhouse. Trying to shrug it off became harder and harder when the smaller children in the house began to yell out and run to their mothers for comfort. Her dad now bore a concerned look on his face and softly muttered something she couldn’t quite make out when another loud Bang got the whole house shaking. “Naar de kelder!” screamed her father as he urged her younger siblings, along with everyone else in the house to get into the basement. ‘Just to be safe..” he muttered.

Helping her father get smaller children and elderly get down the stairs into the danky basement first. Marie caught a glimpse of something through the window out of the corner of her eye. Just for a split second she could have sworn she saw someone walking towards the house. But just as soon he had appeared he was now gone again. Alerting her father about the possible danger seemed like the best thing to do. Except the place where he stood just a second before, the top of the stairs leading to the basement was now completely empty. “Pap?!” Marie screamed into the basement. No answer. Panic seared through her body quickly making place for concern when suddenly hushed voices and clattering could be heard coming from the kitchen.

Kenyon.

The farmer took him inside, taking in the sight of the wonderfully big, old timey kitchen. Cutlery, plates, and pans filled with food still on the table. “Enough to feed the whole platoon,” he thought. A wave of resentment washed over him. What have these people done to deserve to eat fresh, cheese and bread? While he, alongside with the rest of the men in his company must fight on nothing more than canned meats and powdered lemonade while fighting for their freedom? While deep in thought, he had failed to notice the slowly growing audience that had begun to form alongside him in the kitchen.

Most noticeably, the eyes of the young woman, leaning against the door frame of the kitchen entrance. The way she looked at him made him feel uneasy. Her pale skin and hollow cheeks showed signs of malnourishment. A wave of guilt washed over him for having resented these people just seconds before. Beneath her furrowed eyebrows lay tired green eyes that felt like they pierced right through him. He couldn’t quite make out if the look she was giving him was one of concern or one of pure hatred. Despite all these things Something about her seemed to captivate him. Feeling very unpresentable in her presence. He must have made quite the sight. His uniform was covered in a mixture of blood and caked up mud and dung. The fabric tattered and ripped, exposing the filthy skin beneath.

The elderly men who had helped him inside, who he assumed was her father, helped him into an old kitchen chair, shoving a glass of water into his hands. Giving him the opportunity to take a better look at the other people in the room with him. Some children who looked at him with big eyes, clutching to the skirts of their mothers. Young boys excited and curious as to who this filthy stranger was sitting in front of them was, and elderly couples trying to show their compassion as best they could.

He didn’t know any Dutch and the little German he had picked up didn’t prove very useful. Luckily, and to his surprise, the Dutch seemed to be very well spoken in English and communication went easy. He tried explaining to the father that he was an American paratrooper and needed help. The man nodded and spoke something in Dutch to a little boy. Who nodded, and before shooting just a quick glance at him, ran out the door. With having the important information out of the way, his attention could now be focused back to the girl. She stood with her back turned to him, ushering all the other people out of the kitchen along with her father, who scattered back into the other parts of the house with disappointed looks on their faces. Turning to him and closing the kitchen door behind her now left just the two of them in the room. The air grew thick and tense. Making his heart beat at two times a pace.

Or maybe it was just him. Maybe he had lost to much blood on the way over here causing to have irradicle thoughts. Her back was now turned to him yet again as she filled up some bowls with fresh water at the small kitchen sink. Hastily looking through various cabinets and drawers.

“What’s your name?” her voice was soft. It didn’t seem to carry any hate or annoyance, making him feel a bit more at ease. “Webster, David.”

“David...,” she repeated quietly, before giving him the chance to ask for her name she responded.

“Marie.”

“It’s Marie. Short for Marieke, but please just call me Marie.”

Marie. the name suited her well.

Marie.

David. Kneeling in front of him to put down the bowl of clean water and some torn bed sheet linen, gave her an opportunity to take a closer look at the man’s face. Icy blue eyes stood out against his unshaven and dirty skin. Despite being obviously worn out and exhausted, he looked at her with a nervous eyes that made her wonder if she might have come off as too harsh. A thing that these days seemed to happen more and more frequently. With a loud rip she tore off the fabric off his blood soak pant leg, making him shift uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s alright, I am a nurse,” she reassured him, “I’m just going to have a look at your leg.” “Okay?”

“A nurse?” When she looked up at him a slight grin had appeared on his face, making it hard not to smile a little too. “Well, a nurse in training at least.”

“Oh great, he huffed. Making her want to hit herself for saying such a stupid thing and wanting to hit him for giving her such a stupid response. Ungrateful bastard, she thought.

Having almost read her mind, he responded, “Well, I would much rather have a nurse in training then those boys back at base who stick three needles of morphine in you and call it a day,” he said while smiling.

Letting out a deep breath and focusing her attention back down at his leg, she could feel his eyes prying at her, following her every move, making it hard to stay focused and take in a proper diagnosis. The bullet had torn clean through his calf, missing the main artery thus making the bleeding non-fatal, but still being bad enough to buy the man a ticket home.

“You’re in luck,” she said looking back up at him. “It’s nothing more than a flesh wound but still bad enough to get you back to your family.”

“You call this lucky?” He grinned.

Christ, she thought. Here we have another G.I Joe who is so full of himself, thinking he is above everyone else. In her eyes, Americans were all the same; obnoxious, rude, and loud.

Even though she knew he was just joking, trying to get on her nerves a little, his sarcastic tone and manner of speaking made her stomach turn into a tight knot, making her pace quicken while still trying to clean the ripped and torn flesh to the best of her abilities.

“All Done,” she said, quickly tying of some makeshift bandages around his leg. Standing up to have a closer look at his face.

Reading people had always been one of her strong suits. Knowing what people’s true intentions were just by the way they looked at her. Knowing when someone was stressed or nervous by the way they fidgeted with objects around them. It was what made Marie one of the best nurses in her class. But with him it was different. She couldn’t make out what he was thinking, and that frustrated her. His mouth so vulgar and sarcastic, but bearing a profound sadness in his eyes. Or was it admiration?

Before she even knew it the words were out of her mouth. “Christ you look horrible.”

For a split second her heart stopped, and her face turned to stone, afraid of having offended the soldier. Did she really say that out loud? But before she even had the time to think of an apology a laugh appeared on David’s face. Suddenly all the sadness and exhaustion seemed to disappear from his body.

“I’m sure I do,” he said still laughing.

“I really didn’t mean to offend you. I just meant to say I am sure you have been through a lot,” Marie responded in a breathy voice.

“I know.”

“Good.”

An awkward silence fell between them and she found herself frantically looking around for something to focus her attention to other than David’s eyes. Finally settling on getting some more clean water and a towel.

“The other people in the house, are they all family of yours?” He asked her.

“Some of them, most of them are neighbors, some family friends. Most of their homes were taken by the Germans, the rest destroyed. I returned home as soon as I heard word that the allied forces were moving into town.”

Kenyon.

Conversation was never his strong suit, around Marie the air felt dense, and the words seemed to choke in his throat. On a happy note, however, focusing his attention on her had made him completely forget about the gaping hole that had once been his calf. Clumsily getting up from the chair to lean on the sturdy wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, he took off his helmet, raking his hands through his muddy curls. His stomach growled at the sight of what had been the family’s dinner still standing on the table. Hopefully she didn’t hear it.

“Hungry?” she asked him.

Crap. She did.

“Let’s get you cleaned up a bit first.” Suddenly she was standing in front of him, a wet washcloth in hand. “May I?” she asked him.

He nodded in approval. She brought the cloth up to his face and very gently began at wiping away the build up sweat, mud and blood he wasn’t even sure was his own caked on his skin. The warm water tuning out all his thoughts. This must be what heaven was like, right? Closing his eyes wishing he could stay like this forever. When he opened his eyes again, he was met by a green pair staring right back into his. A blush must have appeared on his face because the corners of her mouth had moved upward, repressing a smile. He tried to find something else to turn his attention to, away from those praying eyes of her. Settling on her dirty blond hair that before he arrived, must have been pinned up into a neat hairdo. But now hang loosely around her face.

The silence seemed to grow louder with every passing minute. Not being able to bear it anymore and wanting, craving to hear the sound of her voice again, he asked her, “Why did you become a nurse?”

Her face formed into a tense frown, and he wished he had just kept his trap shut.

“It’s allright if you don’t want to tell me,” he quickly spoke.

“No, I do,” she responded.

“It’s probably for the same reason you joined the army. The airborne is made up of volunteers, right?”

He nodded.

“How can you stand back and do nothing knowing the people you love are slowly being taken away from you. Being a nurse just seemed like the right thing to do”

He looked her straight into her eyes: “I know the feeling”

Her small hands still cupping his cheeks. No words where said. No word needed to be said.

He knew the feeling all too well.

He held her gaze, his heart racing again. Taking the time to take in the features of her face. She seemed too wonderful to be in such a filthy place, surrounded by constant death and despair. It was after all just a matter of time before she too would die.

She drew in a sharp breath, “Let’s get you something to eat,” she said in a shaky voice, abruptly breaking eye contact. She immediately went to work, grabbing some ingredients left over the family’s dinner. Whatever she was cooking up it smelled delicious. Never in his life did he remember being this starved. She could serve him moldy bread and stale cheese and he would put both his hands around her face and kiss her.

While he quietly sat and admired her work, he quickly swallowed eight sulfathiazole pills to prevent his wound from getting infected. When it would be his time to go, it would be something worth dying for. Certainly not an infection.

She brought out two big plates stacked with something resembling pancakes topped with strawberry jam.

“Pannekoeken!” she said exility, “have as much as you like.” She smiled, putting down two giant plates, along with warm milk and cups of hot coffee. Not knowing when the next time would be he would get to eat again, he made sure to finish every crump. It didn’t take long until the two plates where completely empty.

“Thank you,” he said with a mouthful of food. “I mean it”

“No need to thank me, it’s the least I am able to do. After all I am just doing my job, being a nurse and all. Remember?”

While he finished drinking up the last few drops of the bitter coffee, several small children dressed in worn overalls wearing small wooden clogs had come into the room. While remaining at a safe distance from him, they started whispering to each other about something he couldn’t make out. “They’re asking what happened to you,” Marie turned her head towards him while pointing at the children. “It’s quite alright if you don’t want to answer. I can send them away if you want?”

“It’s quite the gruesome story, I’m not sure if it is appropriate for children,” he huffed.

“They can handle it,” she said to him. “Unfortunately, they have already seen and heard much worse I am afraid.”

He told her all about the battle on the island. The German platoon they had taken out and how some of their men had been wounded by their own air support. The long and tiresome way to safety. The piece of cloth he had risked dying for and the enemy artillery he had encountered on his way. All while she translated his words to Dutch to tell the children. Their looks of fear slowly changed into those of awe.

Just before Marie was about to send the children out of the kitchen back into the living room again, he remembered the German poncho stuffed in his OD’s.

“Wait, just a moment,” he mumbled while rumbling his hands through his pockets, looking for the piece of cloth.

“Here, I want to give them something if that’s okay?” A confused look appeared on Marie’s face. “As long as it’s not a weapon,” she said sarcastically while furrowing her eyebrows.

“Ah, found it!” he pulled the poncho out of his jacked and cut the fabric in two using his trench knife. The children’s eyes widened, and a wide smile appeared on Marie’s face. It was the first time he had had seen her smile since he had come in. A real smile.

The children took the pieces of poncho excitedly, thanking him eagerly and ran out of the kitchen to show their parents their newfound treasure.

She looked at him with that smile of hers still lingering on her lips. Just as she opened her mouth to thank him, two men burst into the kitchen with a loud crash making her jump and run to wall behind him for protection.

Marie.

Her heart raced as she stood pressed firmly against the wall behind her. David seemed to show no signs of fear or anger. She took a better look at the two men now coming up to them. Upon closer inspection she saw the American flag sewn onto their jackets and a red cross armband around their arms causing her to let out a deep breath and unclench her fists.

“Oh Christ, Webster, it’s you” one of the soldiers sighed. “The little boy told us a Limey soldier was dying up here.”

David laughed, “all for nothing, isn’t it? Well, give me a hand. I suppose I have to get out of here.”

A tight pang sprung into her chest. Even though she knew not to get emotionally attached to her patients. She was afraid she might have grown attached to the soldier.

Just like that he would be gone. He wouldn’t even remember her name five minutes from now, and by the time he would be back home or on the boat to England, he would have forgotten about her all together.

“I will be right outside, give me just a minute,” David said while turning to look at her.

So he hadn’t forgotten completely after all. One of the soldiers winked at David and took the other one by the sleeve of their jacket, pulling him outside to leave just her and David alone in the kitchen again.

She managed to pull herself loose from the wall and slowly inch towards him.

Despite the many things she still wanted to ask him, tell him, her mind seemed to go completely blank, and no words came out.

“Well, I guess I will be going then. Thank you, for everything. I mean it,” he said sincerely. “And please thank your father for me as well.”

He turned around walking slowly towards the door. Was this really how their story would end? with a lousy thankyou and goodbye.

No. She couldn’t let it end like this. Too many friends were lost whose last words to her were those of lousy goodbyes. Or worse, no goodbyes at all.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins and all concept or rationality and formality seemed to disappear. She walked up to him and grabbed his shoulder tightly, making him turn around to face her. She cupped his face with both hands and pressed a firm kiss on his lips. Her heart seemed to beat out of her chest, and she could have sworn she could hear his heartbeat just as loud.

He pulled his lips from off hers and looked her deep in the eyes. For a second, she thought she may have offended him. Christ what even was she thinking? He may have a loving girlfriend waiting at home, a wife even. David leaned into the crook of her neck. “If it takes getting shot for me to get to kiss you, it has been worth everything,” he muttered.

He grabbed her waist, pulling her close. This kiss was different, hungry, desperate.

“Webster! Outside now! No time to lose,” one of the medics yelled, breaking their kiss.

“Best to make this quick,” he said, pressing a hasty kiss onto her forehead.

“Saying goodbye will never be easy, will it?” She whispered.

“I have to go.” He sounded cold. The adrenaline had worn off and the sharp pain in her chest had returned.

“I know. Go.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Kenyon.

What is war without sacrifice, he thought as he sat on the back of the medic’s bike, cycling to a nearby aid station further and further away from the farmhouse, until it was completely out of sight at last. How cruel to find love only for it to be ripped away from you the second you get too close. ‘If I survive this war,’ he thought, ‘I will come back here, to this little farm in the middle of Holland. I will find you, love you, marry you. I will never have to put on a uniform for the rest of my life and you will never have to stain your fingers with blood ever again.

Thank you so so much @footprintsinthesxnd for proofreading, fixing my many, many grammatical errors, and encouraging me to keep writing:))

My taglist: @ronsparky @whollyjoly @next-autopsy @luckynumber4 @barbeygirl @dustyjumpwingz @xxluckystrike @heystovepipeboys @sweetxvanixlla @kafka-ohdear @footprintsinthesxnd @panzershrike-pretz @iceman-kazansky @bucky32557038ww2

#band of brothers #hbo war #david webster #david kenyon webster #band of brothers fic

8 notes · View notes

soulsilversprings · 9 months

Text

@kohakhearts tagged me to share 9 lines from a WIP - thanks for the tag! Leaving right where we left off with my palletshipping WIP "(he can never be honest about) how he feels" - at this rate I'll probably end up posting the entire thing in segments through fic challenges haha. (But hey, i'm not complaining!)

Back upstairs from waffles, pen in hand, Gary began his postcard-writing effort anew.

He started deliberately – slow strokes and even breaths, so that the ink wouldn’t smudge. So that he could pause between every few words, making sure he was still on the right track. Not too cheesy, not too indifferent. Just right.

At first, every word screeched and halted against the next – a delicate struggle between cliche and stuffy, between period and comma, between crossing the word out and weaving it into a less cringeworthy sentence.

On one such instance, he went to cross out a mistake, and his pen wobbled as Ash's voice sounded:

“He can never be honest about how he feels…”

Arceus, he wanted to be honest. But just admitting his feelings to himself had been a humongous step. So writing… whatever this was? That was on a whole other level.

Tagging (but no pressure): @gaycey-sketchit, @maybenow22, @deamsgirl, and @biocharlie. Anyone else who sees this and wants to join in, feel free!!

#i think technically this is 11 lines but who's counting lol #also totally not projecting my struggles as a writer onto this fic. nope #palletshipping #shigesato #ash x gary #gary x ash #wip #wip tag

15 notes · View notes

fragileizywriting · 10 months

Text

"Oh, you're a straight dumbass," she cackles, holding her sides, squeezing so she doesn't laugh any harder. "Hold on, hold— hold on, I've got to get a picture."

"Fuck off," he moans.

"And miss out on sending something to Anarka? No way."

"Don't send this to my mom."

"She'll make it into this year's Christmas postcard," she muses. "Hold still for me?"

The flash is on, because Marinette has no sense of subtlety, snapping away what feels like quite literally a dozen or so photos of him wearing the neck brace. He doesn't bother stopping her as she flits around the little waiting room like a moth, taking videos, taking photos, putting AR filters on him to make it look like he has little bunny ears. Blearly, he makes the thought that Alix will get a kick out of that one, but any thought that follows it too hard for his already stuffy, cotton brain to think past. Not only has he hurt his neck, but his pride and ego ("What ego?" he can hear Marinette say as she cackles harder). This isn't worth picking a fight with.

"Kitty, you're giving me vertigo with how fast you're moving," he mumbles.

"Fine, I'll sit down. I've had my fun," she says, crossing her legs at her chair with a bright laugh. She's typing faster than anything he's ever seen, no doubt sending all of these photos to as many people as possible. How she has reception, he has no idea, but he'll just live with it for now. "I can't believe you fell for it."

It seemed "reachable" in theory. First mistake is trusting anything she says, though.

Marinette, with the powers of the cat Miraculous, has a few upsides: she's flexible, practically a contortionist, folding herself into the weirdest most uncomfortable pretzels he's ever seen. With the snake Miraculous, he's just as flexible, though he hadn't tested the limits of how far his pretzelness went until today.

Because of Marinette.

Marinette: did you know that at this point you could probably suck your own dick? Luka: What? Marinette: yeah. i mean, we're flexible enough. i can lick my own thigh. i think your dick would be easier to reach than your own thigh, though. Luka: Kitty, it's too early for this. Marinette: don't lie to me, i know you're stripping right now and you're going to try it Luka: Go away. I'll tell you how it goes, I guess?

Like an idiot, he'd tried.

Failed.

Oh, how he failed.

Marinette had come with him to the doctor's, slapping an untruthful yet very convincing "I'm his girlfriend!" when the nurse had mentioned that friends weren't allowed in; he'd grimaced, more of the pain in his neck that flared with every movement he made below the shoulders than anything else, but she didn't give up.

"And 'send'," she exclaims to herself, looking him over. "What a sight to behold!"

"You're a sadist."

"Sure am, Vai. This is just precious."

"You're the worst."

"Nawh. Well, yeah. Maybe."

"You owe me."

She barely blinks, leaning her chin into her palm she has propped up using the hand rests of the plastic, grey chair. "What's your neck worth to you?"

"A date," he punches out, completely out of thin air. The two of them freeze, unsure if that's what he meant— it's hard, he has a habit of blurting things out, and so does she because of the ADHD, and they're at a standstill.

"Wait," she says, mouth pulled into a weird line.

"You announced to everyone in the reception area that you're my girlfriend, and you know I hate liars."

"W-wait."

"Go on a date with me."

"I—"

"My neck is worth a single date with you."

"But—"

"No take-backs," he starts, but the rest of the sentence fizzles out of him when he sees her face. Heated, practically as red as Mister Bug's suit, her freckles all but disappear. A quiet Marinette is a dangerous one.

"Okay," she wheezes.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay," he parrots, doing his best not to nod. "Awesome. Cool. Uh. I didn't actually think you'd say yes, but—"

"I didn't imagine you'd ask me out here."

"Well. Today's just full of surprises," he puts lightly.

#speakizys #sharks and sugar #4am ginseng tea #not really the second one but i'll make the exception

8 notes · View notes

tieronecrush · 10 months

Note

I finished the newest chapter of hot and heavy, locked and put down my phone, and immediately started crying. Fuck I'm heartbroken for mariposa, Joel and Sarah. Such a hard situation and they're all handling it as well as possible but it hurrrrts.

I need to feel okay, so I'm just picturing Sarah facetiming mariposa and showing her all of her knew stuffies and rambling about school, and mariposa catching little glimpses of Joel in the background just grinning ear to ear watching his girls chat. Eventually Sarah flips the camera to Joel for him to say hi. He gives a little wave and says he misses her. Of course Sarah is like "posey, he does really miss you a lot. He talks about you all the time." And Joel ducks his head to hide his blush, but of course mariposa catches it.

NONNIE THIS IS SO PRECIOUS

literally squealed and sitting on my bed like this reading

sarah would be so excited to give mariposa a little update and she would show her around her room as if she hasn’t been there and show her any new little knickknacks she’s gotten. imagining posey sent her like a little postcard or like a lil snow globe of boston and sarah has it in her room 😭

ALSO PLS joel would be so shy after sarah exposed him like that…….mariposa would tease him just a little bit before she would tell him she misses him too. and joel would ask for the phone back and tell sarah to go wash her hands before dinner and he would relish in getting to talk to her and see her for even a couple minutes. it would be such normal conversation about how work is going for her or for him or what they both have coming up but it would fuel him for like weeks just having heard her voice say that she misses him too 🫠 joel is so soft for her

#I LOVE THEM SO MUCH #h&h #asks

4 notes · View notes

autoneurotic · 2 years

Text

my collections might be small but i love them..not pictured: the insane amount of elephant stuffies i have (some dating back circa 1993), all of my dollhouse/miniature furniture.

for reference, too, the van gogh postcards are the size of a thumbnail. i got a pack of normal sized ones when i was in amsterdam and the back had previews of each, so i cut them out and mounted them on cardboard/laminated them. in the very last picture, i have the full new testament (illustrations included?!) and it could fit in a matchbox.

#the beads are from when i was maybe 9-10 :)#the tiny glass blue swan (and all the mini foods/furniture) was my mom’s growing up #maybe even her moms?#very old and delicate and well crafted #the tiny gold cat above it was given to me by my best friend in elementary school #who moved back to japan at the start of middle school #and her dad would make trips to america every so often and would always make a point #to deliver a HUGE bundle of letters/candies/Small Items :’)#everything in that curio case is the size of a thumbnail roughly like i can’t stress #how fucking small these things are #mmm n all the hotwheeeeeels :’) my mama would give my sister and i each a car after doctors appointments #and that is my meager left over collection idk where they all went over the years #but when i got a therapist a few years ago she fucking gave me a hot wheels :’)#n then the one with the sticky note is from her to me and my partner for kicking ass and being wildly in love #this is also discounting my library which is. mainly patricia cornwell omfg but weweeweooo i have a lot of books #my realest and funniest worst trait is i’m an unashamed unrepentant book thief. i’ll be up front #like if you let me borrow this you’re giving it to me

9 notes · View notes

ink-herrscher · 2 years

Text

home for the holidays

— herrscher of sentience x fu hua (& lixue)

genre : fluff

warnings : none

wordcount : 1,350

summary : lixue visits taixuan in time for the holidays.

Even the falling snowflakes drifting down to her open palm is the same as it was, almost ten years ago, when she was first brought here.

The crunch of snow beneath her boots. The towering pine trees that shelter the singing birds in its branches. She passes by the tree she’s carved with her name when she was young, and fondly, she traces her gloved fingers over the shaky outline on the bark.

Lixue breathes in, and smiles.

She’s home.

The city wasn’t to her liking. She had grown with nature and flowers on the windowsill and morning birds chirping her alarm. She was used to time standing still in the waterfalls and watching the sunset stain on the golden peaks of the mountain – compared to Mount Taixuan, the city feels like a hazy dream. Every day went by too fast, and she was left dizzy in the wake of all the things that were just there. The people, the workload. The rush and the lights.

But she is home now, and Lixue can’t stop the giddy feeling thrumming in her chest at the thought.

The little cottage by the foot of the fog temple is still the same as she remembers, too. It’s a quaint, little thing, doors wide open to let the cold soak in and sweep away the stuffiness. A woman cloaked in heavy winter clothes sits against the wooden door, idly tossing seeds on the floor to feed the few birds that braved the cold for her. Lixue brightens up at the sight.

“Master!” she calls out.

The woman looks up. Clear blue eyes, like the surface of a frozen lake, blinks at her.

“Lixue?” The birds around her flap away in surprise when she stands up. “You’re here early.”

She only nods. It feels embarrassing to admit that she was overexcited to come home, and drove to the foot of the mountain earlier than she had planned.

She moves to show respect to her as her Master, but Hua pulls her to a warm hug instead.

Lixue stops functioning. Her face is burning bright.

Affection didn’t come easily to Hua than it did to her partner, and Lixue even often went on months without catching a glimpse of her around the house. Her boss was a whimsical one, and her job sent her around the world, and her introverted personality made it so she rarely sent letters or postcards when she was gone. It was lonely with her, sometimes, and hugs were rare, but that only made moments like this even more precious in her eyes.

She feels like a little kid again as she wraps her arms around her Master’s back. Lixue already towers over her by a few inches, but Hua has always felt so solid and strong, in a way that never fails to make Lixue feel secure, just being in her presence. Hua parts from her, and a bit unwillingly, Lixue steps away from the embrace, too.

“You’ve grown a bit since you were gone,” she murmurs, voice tender, filled with a candy-sentimentality that almost makes Lixue tear up. Hua rests her hands on her shoulders, and scans her from head to toe. Her smile is gentle and proud. “You look lovelier by the day.”

Lixue flushes brighter at the compliment. Hua only chuckles and pats her cheek. Her hand is cool against her burning skin.

“Come in, come in,” she ushers, and leaves the birds on her porch with one last scattering of seeds before the doors shut. Lixue is stripped of her outer clothes and bags before she can blink, and then she is in front of the hearth, warmed by the fire that sparks higher when Hua throws some wood inside. She’s so fast, it leaves Lixue a bit winded.

“You should tell us about the city later,” she says, and tucks Lixue in a knitted blanket. She didn’t even see where Hua got it from, but it’s warm and soft and smells like home. “But here, huddle by the fire first. You look cold. Senti’s in the kitchen cooking lunch – I’ll tell her you’re here. She’s been anxious since you said you’ll be visiting today.”

“Master Senti cooking on her own . . .” she repeats. She decides to omit the “oh no” out of respect.

Hua smiles knowingly. “She’s improved a lot since you were gone.”

Lixue isn’t sure she believes that. She thinks of the hundreds of times the two of them went behind Hua’s back and only barely managed to suppress a fire from breaking out while trying to figure out how to cook Hua’s beloved wonton noodles, and sighs fondly.

Almost nothing has changed here.

She stands up.

She came to her childhood home to drown in the nostalgia, and she is drunk on the realization that nothing has changed at all, and it was her who left this idyll childish fantasy to enter the world of adults. She finds the crayon-paintings she drew as a kid, and she remembers the way she got disappointed when her arm smudged the pastel outside the lines she was so careful to keep.

Maybe she wasn’t the only one who missed the old days, she thinks, trailing her fingertip down the drawing she made of the three of them holding hands beside a crudely-drawn house and sun. It’s a bit embarrassing to see it hanging here in the open, tucked inside a portrait like a cherished picture, but seeing it brings a rush of memories that are pleasantly warmer than the fire. She can’t believe they kept her random doodles all these years.

“Well, well! Look who finally decided to come home.”

She perks up and turns toward the kitchen, where her other Master leans against the doorway. She still looks the same, too, except she’s cut her hair shorter, and it flutters around her ears in wispy dark strands.

“Master Senti!”

She raises her hand in greeting. “Yo.”

It’s easier to hug her without flushing bright in shock. Senti has always been the warmer one, outgoing and wild: the one that stayed with Lixue whenever Hua had to go away for her job. She was closer to her, growing up, and she can’t calm her smile when she finally steps away from her.

She ruffles Lixue’s hair affectionately. “Hey, brat. Did you get taller?”

She didn’t – at least, she doesn’t think so. But Senti and Hua are the same height, and she is taller than them by a few inches now. A few inches that she can’t remember if she had before she left Taixuan. She ducks her head.

“Maybe it’s the boots?” she offers, but when she stows them away, she is still taller than her Master.

Senti makes a dissatisfied sound in the back of her throat. “I can’t believe you’re taller than me now,” she says in disbelief, and gives Lixue a look, crossing her arms. “What the fuck.”

“Xiǎo shí.” Lixue hear a distinct sigh from the kitchen, before Hua emerges, wiping her hands on her apron. The familiar aroma of noodles wafts in. “Language.”

“Oh my God, she’s literally taller than you now, old timer,” she snaps back. “Shut up.”

Lixue stifles a laugh.

Mount Taixuan hasn’t changed at all, and neither have they. It’s so nice to see them both in the flesh again – her heart is warm and full. Hua smiles at her.

“Lunch is ready,” she says. “Xiǎo shí cooked your favorite wonton noodles for you.”

“Really?” she repeats, and turns her wide eyes at Senti.

She looks away and waves her hand, but Lixue spies a pink flush on the tip of her ears. “No, I didn't. Stop spouting nonsense, old timer. I cooked it for myself because I was craving it, okay? And you, kid, stop dawdling around and set the table already!”

But that’s the same excuse she made the first time the two of them tried to cook noodles for Hua, and though she tries to deny it, Lixue already knows. Hua catches her eye, and sighs, smiling.

Yeah, she thinks warmly. She’s finally home again.

#fu hua #herrscher of sentience #cheng lixue #sentihua

6 notes · View notes

sourbat · 2 years

Text

Cakeland

Summary: toki takes magnus to cakeland

Pair: toki and magnus

Rating: T for language and sexual remarks. please read at your own risk.

The exhibit wasn’t anything like the pictures that were displayed on the website.

When Toki learned about Cakeland, read the website detailing the tour and even fawning over some of the postcards and pictures of the gift shop, he expected an art gallery that contained a wonderful mixture of things both he and Magnus could enjoy and bond over together. The introduction on the homepage had a bunch of fancy words he didn't quite understand, but it indicated that the art gallery held some higher purpose other than “art for the sake of art,” which meant Magnus would like it. The short online gallery revealing sweet chocolate whipped frosting, magnificent white cherries gored and spilling a dark syrup intrigued Toki (and who knows? There might be something sugar-free). The price of admission was fair; it was low enough where he could afford a few guards to tag along and help keep Abigail and the others content.

Perhaps that was a sign: the low cost. At the very least, Abigail bringing up the location of the event and asking whether Toki or the band had ever been to “that part” of Chinatown should have sparked some second guesses. The drabby yellow building with its paint peeling near the shingled rooftop didn’t do much to deter Toki either, nor the little sign in front of the place warning of a slight increase in ticket price on account of inflation and needing to pay for next month’s rent. The two of them walking into the well-furnished, but dusty living room completely void of employees and customers, along with the still silence culminating in the dry and stuffy atmosphere did result in nervous wonderment, and when Magnus stopped to point and stare at an incredibly gaudy pair of stilettos bejeweled in fake icing and cherries, Toki felt an unsettling turn of the stomach.

The cashier eventually showed up, and after paying for their tickets, the klokateers guided both Toki and Magnus through the curtains into a long, flashy hallway with disco balls and tacky dollar store flowers and many, many fake cakes.

Oh, the cakes were fake. Apparently, the very convincing images Toki stumbled upon were a result of (once) convincing practical effects, effects that had since faded in color and begun collecting dust. The many tiered cakes were plastic, wood or something other than dough. The delightful fondant Toki had fawned over were made of some chalky material that (thanks to previous tours) were chipping at the ends and were now revealing their sad, hollow truths. Cheap maraschino cherries and light-bleached pineapple cutouts hung from the ends of chandeliers carrying fading and dead light bulbs.

Magnus and Toki stood quietly at the pink entrance, both equally stunned and struggling to take in the entire sight. One corner of the room possessed yellow wallpaper and plain furnish, but led straight into a painted meadow. Not a convincing one either, but something more reminiscent of a dark ride presented at a fair. The klokateers Toki brought along seemed equally befuddled by the strange contrast of fast-paced disco balls seemingly racing one another and the slow recording of songbirds in the distance. Toki’s eyes were drawn to the same red velvet cake that caught his eyes once before, now old and pressed from many fingers and handling it, signaled the final nail in the coffin. This was NOT the event Toki was promised. This was not Cakeland he wanted.

This was a bad date.

A bad date. The words were a guillotine’s blade slowly lowering itself upon Toki’s neck. What to do? Toki’s first inclination was to laugh and tell Magnus this was all a joke and then order a klokateer to search and locate the closest gallery they could fint, but after hyping the event up all week, knew lying to Magnus wasn’t an option. He swallowed and watched as Magnus took the first step into the meadow containing chipped and battered walls, pausing only momentarily to gaze at a pair of black stilettos bearing a set of razor teeth at him. The look written across his face was indescribable, but it imprinted itself into Toki’s vision. For several minutes he quietly wandered the narrow hallway, always behind Magnus and hesitant to say a word while the older man ogled at severed mannequin hands displaying their plastic frosting nails and candied rings.

The rest of the exhibit proved more of the same: Magnus would walk into a room, a hall of mirrors, or secret passage and Toki would watch, humiliated and aghast at the state of things. Could the staff not be bothered to clean the cakes? Every crevice was coated in muck. And what of all the disco balls? The fog machines? And Magnus’ expressions?

How much time had passed since they passed through the curtains? The map on the small pamphlet the employee at the register handed them showed Cakeland consisted of half a dozen rooms. They couldn't have been wandering for more than five–maybe ten minutes. With no working air conditioner, and surrounded by cakes with dirt and carnivorous dentures, it felt so much longer. Toki prayed that Magnus would grow bored and come up with something to save the afternoon, but he was too entranced by a massive chandelier dripping with rhinestones and orange slices.

Toki wondered if he should suggest an early lunch? Some bubble tea? Booze? A blowjob in the limo?

He walked over to Magnus and, after wiping his sweaty palms clean against his sides, took him into his grip.

“So, uhm.” Toki struggled to think of something to help temper the mood. “That hallway sure ams interesting, huh?”

Without parting from the chandelier, Magnus offered Toki a gentle nod. A comforting squeeze was the only indicator he wasn’t completely offended with what he was viewing.

Toki pushed some of his weight against Magnus. He needed to find something to talk about, then quickly transition to an excuse to leave. “I, uhh,” he started, his eyes nervously darting around the room for something to nab his attention. “I really likes the giant chocolate cake. Kinda makes me think of when we mets back at the camp.”

Toki internally cringed at his own comment. Really, Rock-A-Roonie camp? As if the stuffy smell and moths fluttering around the massive disco ball weren’t enough of a mood killer.

After another, more affectionate squeeze with his hand, Magnus calmly stated, “I like this chandelier.”

Toki jerked his head upright. “You do?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The overabundance of frosting, combined with mismatched fruits whose flavors clash with one another against the decaying structure all goes well with the theme.”

Toki certainly understood the words being said, but in the current context? He looked up at the chandelier hovering over the large, three-tiered chocolate cake. It was covered in a yellowish, stale-looking faux buttercream frosting, and several ends were coated in cobwebs. Leading up to the flickering lights was an array of cherries, strawberries, grapes and citrus fruits, all of which were lacking their original lustrous colors. Despite the grime collecting in its many corners and indentations, the chandelier’s outer layer still carried an unusual shine. Perhaps a varnish that, now that the product was on the mind, left a nasty aftertaste in the back of his mouth.

Still, it was the first conversation the two of them had since entering, and with Magnus appearing invested in the scene, Toki decided it was best to ask, “how?”

The question, or perhaps Toki’s genuine intrigue tore Magnus from the hanging spectacle. Toki expected him to immediately explain as he always did, but instead he gave Toki a little tug, guiding him to the exact spot where he once stood. “Here,” he began, and turned Toki slightly so he was facing one of his many reflections staring back at him. “See your reflection?” Magnus asked, pointing a finger at the perplexed Toki staring back at them. He waited until Toki gave a soft “uh-huh,” then continued: “Now look at everything behind your reflection.”

Toki raised his eyes at the eerily glowing chandelier hovering above his mirrored self. He had never noticed it before, but with the combined help of the disco balls and the dozen mirrors meticulously placed throughout the room, Toki witnessed his one of many selves surrounded by a kaleidoscope of fruits, rot, light and dust.

“All that frosting,” he heard Magnus say into his ear. “Fruit. Glitter and gold. Filth. It all comes down to the problem of consumerism and overabundance.”

Overabundance? In a room with a cake and creaky furniture?

Toki stared back at his reflection. “But it am’st not real.”

Magnus let out a mild chuckle. "Maybe not the ones in the mirror, but the threat is real.” His warm breath splashed over Toki’s cheek as he leaned close and pointed to the original cake resting before them. “Otherwise, there’d be no cake to begin with. The cake represents the allure of “having it all,” you get it? It’s there as bait. It’s a goal for you and everyone else to compete against. And once you have it you don't even use it. You hoard it and let it all go to waste…”

All this from a room decked with lights and mirrors? Toki couldn’t fathom how he and his reflections and the ugly plastic fruit amounted to such a heavy message. Magnus, however, did, and as he broke into a delighted tangent about how the exhibit could also represent falsifying wealth Toki found himself looking around the stuffy room one last time and took note of the construction and careful placement of every flower, mirror and stairway. It all looked so cheap, but maybe that was the point? Maybe the junk collected in each room had something to do with waste, or money, or politics? Maybe the flickering lights and chirping was supposed to make him uncomfortable?

Or maybe this was a stupid art gallery designed by a man with a weird obsession for shoes, teeth, the 70s and all things sweet?

Whatever it was, it resulted in Magnus talking enthusiastically about the subject. He guided Toki through the rooms, squeezing and playfully swaying their clasped hands while discussing how artists manufacture the setting to better relay their intended tone. He was so enthusiastic Toki almost believed that the stale air he was forced to breath served a purpose (it didn’t, and he made sure to ask a gear if they could send a squad to burn the building down once they left LA). They made their way out of the final room and into the gift shop, where two klokateers were waiting with two pre-purchased gift bags. Magnus was only too pleased to snatch his from one of the body guards. Any remaining doubt that hinted Magnus had been sarcastic or lying about Cakeland was disregarded at the sight of him opening the bag and happily retrieving a wick lighter.

“Not bad, as far as galleries go,” he committed as they walked out of the building and back into the streets cluttered with signs and tourist trap advertisements.

“Really?” Toki flashed a toothy grin.

Even if he still didn’t quite understand the grand connection between rooms filled with cake and isolation brought on by capitalism, Toki knew he’d somehow achieved the impossible. This was a good date after all.

“Yeah,” Magnus replied, then neared and rubbed the tip of his nose against Toki’s flushed sides. “This was one of your better ideas.”

His better ideas. Toki’s ears tickled hot with a humble blush.

“Aw, well, it was nothinks.”

#hammertooth #magtok #toki wartooth #magnus hammersmith #fanfic #unbeta'd #enjoy :)#all this is based off real events too #cakeland is totally real

5 notes · View notes

tiffany-chiba · 2 years

Photo

tiffany chiba & apartment [task #2]

@c23tasks

- Tiffany lives in the ever glamorous Belcourt Apartments, all by herself. Was that a financially sound decision? No. But when she left the Xavier Institute she didn’t really know anyone, so this was her only choice. - Her favourite part of the apartment is the walls. Not just the plain walls, but the stuff on them. Tiffany doesn’t keep a diary but when she has a good day she buys a postcard somewhere and mails it to herself, writing a bit about her day on it. Then she sticks it on the wall, so she can see all her best days up there. She’s also got some cute polaroids, an X-Files poster, and a calendar to keep herself organised. - It’s a studio apartment, so it’s all open plan apart from the bathroom. Tiffany keeps it pretty tidy in case anyone ever drops by (she lives in hope!) but she is quite a cluttered person. She loves keepsakes and trinkets, so there’s always an assortment of miscellanea lying around. - She loves having guests. Whenever she makes a friend she finds out what they like to eat and drink to make sure she’s always got something for them. She can’t cook for shit but she tries to make sure she’s got nice snacks just in case. - If her home was on fire, the three things she’d save would be: whichever postcards she could scoop up in one go, her TV with the built in video player (it’s probably an ancient little 12″ POS but she loves it), and her stuffie, which was given to her as a newborn and is worn to the point of graying fur and flat stuffing. It is a grey bunny called Thumper, and she knows it’s childish but she it reminds her of the love her parents once had for her so she clings to it.

#c23task #template in the source :O)

3 notes · View notes

djarinbarnes · 3 years

Text

me olvidarás - one

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

Pairings: Javier Peña x female reader

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Warnings for the chapter: vivid sex dream, masturbation... faceless javi. I apologize. I just want to get to the good stuff! :D

Word count: 2.1k

Summary: an undeniable warm summer vacation in Bogotá. simply trying to get away from your nosey, boring parents and live for once, you meet a man who impresses you beyond where your imagination could ever take you.

a/n: first of all, I'd like to thank @demoneyesanddamagedsouls for being there for me through the whole writing process of this story so far. With her on the side, constantly hyping me up and giving me feedback, I've written over 5 chapters of this already. The full chapter count for this story hasn't been decided yet. I'll see where it goes <3 Second of all.... enjoy <3

series masterlist

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

You hated being back. Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was his eyes peering into yours from above. The mustache resting on his upper lip tickling your inner thighs, your neck, your forehead as he trailed kisses down your nose. You wished for the gods to take you back to Colombia. Back to him.

You remembered everything vividly - his hands on your body, the way they held you and the way they warmed your skin as they made their way over your body. There was no point in hiding it. You were completely and utterly in love with him.

It’d been no more than a week since you’d left Bogotá. Since you’d left him. You knew he was busy with his job, but the little he’d called you was somewhat unsettling. You waited for something - anything to happen to let you know he still thought of you - that you weren’t just a summer fling to him.

It came on a random Tuesday evening, and the way it showed itself… Well you could’ve avoided that. You’d just gotten home from one of your daily walks, where you found the proper time and space to think over the things that had happened, when you found your mother in the kitchen, postcard in hand.

The look on your mother’s face let you know exactly what was written on the postcard. “So that was what you were doing all summer, huh?” you felt the redness blooming in your cheeks as she waved it around. “Or should I say this,” she pointed to the scribbles. “Was who you were doing?”

Your eyes widened. Under normal circumstances your mother would’ve never addressed you like that. But you could see she was furious. She had been on your toes every day during your stay in Bogotá about the mystery guy who had drawn you away from them. “Who is he, then?”

You swallowed past the thick lump in your throat as you came to the conclusion, she had no business going through your stuff or reading your mail. “Mom!” You easily snatched the postcard from her hand, much to her dismay. “You can’t just…” you sigh before hiding the postcard behind your back. “He was… just a guy.”

The truth couldn’t be further from the words that had just left your lips. He wasn’t just a guy. No, he wasn’t a guy, he was a man. A man that had shown every crevice of your body pleasure like no one had ever done before. You felt your body react to just the thought about him, and it made you shudder.

You knew your mother would never believe any of the words you were currently trying to defend yourself with. You gave up with a sign and turned on your heel, walking through the house you called home and into the bedroom.

With the slam of your door, you finally looked properly at the postcard in your hand. You recognized the city of Bogotá easily.

Turning the card over in your hand you suck your lip in between your teeth, recollecting every feeling that flowed through your body with his lips against yours, his skin against yours, your bodies moving together as one.

You knew who had sent the card, even though there wasn’t any sender on it. The scribbled Spanish let you know, and boldly enough.

Parece que el destino nos ha juntado aposta. Yo sueño que estás cerca, tan cerca, aquí en mi camita durmiendo contigo, porque estoy pensando en ti otra vez

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

a month earlier

Summer break. God, how you dreaded summer break. Your parents had finally decided to leave the state for vacation, and you were excited to go somewhere you hadn’t been before.

When they had told you about the vacation, you had been overjoyed. Finally, your parents had decided to be a little lively, to go somewhere that wasn’t just safe and sound.

You felt excited when they told you the duration of the vacation as well, and you just couldn’t wait to get going.

Three weeks in Bogotá. It was like a dream come true. You knew some things about Colombia, and the whole corruption of the police and the drug trading from college. It had caught your interest then, and it still intrigued you to get to know more about the city. And since you possibly got to explore some of the city yourself, you were even happier.

You started packing right after your parents told you, to make sure you had everything you needed when you had to travel. They had let you know that the hotel had a pool, so one of the first things in your bag was, of course, your favorite bikini.

You were definitely going to suck up some rays to fill your cells with the D-vitamin. You knew the air was going to be stuffy, humid and warm, but that didn’t make any difference for you at all. You would say you had prepared yourself from home, but there were just some things you never could prepare for.

You were slowly counting down the days until your departure, and you felt more and more excited as the days passed. At the same time, you were nervous. Nervous about the people in general, nervous about meeting new people.

The whole people thing wasn’t really you, and you silently prayed that your parents wouldn’t force you into meeting people you didn’t want to, like they usually did when you were out and about.

Come and meet our friends, they have a son about your age. Maybe you could grow to like each other.

Sure thing.

What your parents didn’t know was, that boys your age didn’t turn you on in the slightest. Quite the contrary, though. There was no legitimate reason for you to be into older men, since you had barely even spoken to men. But from what you had seen in telenovelas to practice your Spanish, the men over 30 definitely spoke to you in another way than younger guys did.

There was something flawlessly sensual about men with stubbles and slight wrinkles encapsulating their eyes, and right now Rafael Novoa was occupying your mind a little bit more than necessary. The whole idea of meeting an older man, an experienced man made your toes and fingers tingle.

You often dreamed about a faceless older man, coming to rescue you for whatever reason your subconsciousness decided to make up, and you loved and cherished those dreams so much. It was wild - your body being able to make you soaking wet, bringing you on the edge of orgasms by just imagining a man in between your legs, often causing you to wake up, startled by an orgasm.

It was an all new feeling, and it kind of scared you. You didn’t really know why you suddenly imagined such raunchy and vivid sexual encounters with men you never saw the face of - but you weren’t one to complain. You secretly hoped - prayed - that your dreams would come every night.

On the very last night before you were due to leave for Colombia with your parents, you had yet another dream. One that left you wanting more, one that left nothing to the imagination. You didn’t remember how it started, but you did know exactly how it ended. And god, if you weren’t seeking that out if you got the chance.

Fingers tangled with someone elses fingers, pressed into the grass above your head - you’re moaning wantonly as the unfamiliar face hidden in the dark leaves lingering, deep kisses against your neck, their hips pressing forcefully into yours, a thick cock deeply imbedded into your core.

Your leg is drawn around their hips, urging them closer and closer, impossibly closer as you breathe out into the night, the soft squelching sound from between you filling your ears along with deep groans, letting you know just the effect you had on the person above you.

Their hips grind into yours, their pelvis grinding forcefully right into your clit, drawing sweet, sweet pleasure into your abdomen, an unfamiliar coil tightening in your belly. You whimper out as the faceless person brings their mouth on top of yours, pushing their tongue into the warmth of your mouth, searching out yours in the darkness.

Then everything turns white - and you wake up in cold sweat, your pussy forcefully convulsing around nothing as you sit up in your bed, brought back to reality, even though you weren’t ready to leave your fantasy just yet. You wanted to see the person your mind had made up, wanted to see who brought you so much pleasure you could come from just imagining it.

You tried closing your eyes, desperate to see something - anything - yet the face never showed itself. Your sheets felt clammy as they stuck to your sweaty thighs and you quickly threw them off yourself before you fan your hands in front of your face, let down by what just happened. God, you wanted to feel that again.

You dart out of bed and into your bathroom, taking in the blush creeping up your neck before you quickly discard your pyjamas, taking a hurried shower to wash the sweat off your body. You don’t want to spend much time in the bathroom that morning, simply wanting to get out into the fresh air outside.

Yet your fingers find their way between your legs as you close your eyes, imagining the same thing you had dreamt just minutes before, as you dip your finger into your wet pussy, your other hand bracing yourself against the wall. You can feel the slick that had come from your dream, and you bite your lip as another finger joins the first easily, and before you know it, yet another.

You had no idea you were able to fit three of your fingers inside of you, yet here you were, and you found yourself quickly approaching the edge where you were sure you were going to fall off. Your thumb circled your clit rapidly, causing your legs to shake as you came on your fingers, your lip tugged in between your teeth to stifle the noise. You quickly cleaned yourself and your fingers before finishing your shower, eager to get going.

The whole drive to the airport, the waiting and the stuffiness of the plane had caused your head to throb, and you silently counted down the hours until you were free of other people. The hours felt excruciatingly slow as you braced yourself on the armrests of the plane, trying to get in an hour of sleep to ease your head.

Nothing worked though. The sound of screaming from a small child had your ears ringing, and even though you felt bad for both the kid and the parents, you had no surplus energy to allow yourself to feel bad. You just felt annoyed. And your ears had popped upon ascend - that didn’t make anything better.

When the plane finally touched down on Colombian ground, you silently cheered while others clapped. Who the fuck claps on a plane? You rolled your eyes as you found your bag in the overhead storage, desperate to get out of the plane quickly. You sighed as you remembered you had to wait for your luggage inside the airport as well.

The whole waiting for your luggage thing went quickly, and within an hour you were unlocking the door to the rented apartment your parents had taken care of. It was small but charming - a tiny kitchenette, a small living room and another room where you suspected the bedroom to be. The bathroom was also tiny, but you didn’t mind. It was a beautiful place.

You pulled your luggage into your bedroom, digging through the suitcases for your sunscreen and a cardigan, pulling it on quickly before leaving your parents to settle in as you ventured out into the bustling streets of Colombia. You don’t know how much time you spent wandering around, but you found something to eat along the way before you made your way back to your apartment as it started to get dark out.

You quickly grew bored in your own company, so when you remembered a bar you had passed on your way home, you quickly went over the options you had before you decided to prep your face in the bathroom, switching your ordinary bra out with a bralette and throwing a silver, sequined top on along with a black skirt. You paired it with some flats - it was Colombia after all, and you weren’t that good at running in heels if it came to it.

You pushed a few things into your handbag before you snuck out of the dark apartment, noticing the darkness of your parent’s on the opposite side of the small garden that separated the two. The door locked easily, and you quickly ventured out into the night, desperately hoping for some adventure to find you.

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

next chapter

#me olvidaras #javier peña #Javier Pena #javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you

150 notes · View notes