miggleverse

[miggleverse]

OUT OF ACTION

Over the last couple of days, life has got incredibly stressful, so I'm going to be MIA for a while (fingers crossed, hopefully not too long!)

Massive apologies to people still waiting on either prompt asks or message responses, I will try and get around to them when I can (I just don't want people to think I'm ignoring them/ dropped off the face of the earth)

[miggleverse]

Fake title game : "There you are".

@lostgirl88, thanks for the title! (Also thanks for being patient with me and my slow writing!) Please have this, whatever this is my mind decided to concoct!

CW: undead/slightly demonic Eoin, possible hint of mild future dub-con (maybe? depends on how you interpret it, but thought I should mention anyway)

It had been following him since Egypt.

Not closely, sometimes Paddy would even forget it existed (rare) until he would catch a glimpse of it slipping between buildings or scaling the terrain near where he was stationed. Just hovering, always, in the background of his vision, his mind.

The few times Paddy slept he had no respite, the creature plaguing his dreams, ensuring he remained with Paddy all the time.

Now, as he wandered the streets of Berlin, the day the war was declared over, Paddy knew his time was also up. He manoeuvred past a bunch of rowdy soldiers, half-drowned with rum, celebrating. It's what he should be doing right now, he thinks, with Reg and the rest of the lads. But no, he couldn’t risk them seeing the devil that’s coming to collect Paddy.

He turns a corner and catches movement in the corner of his eye. Ignoring it, he finds he’s stumbled into the entrance of a church. Catholic, if the name is anything to go by.

Fitting, in a twisted, ironic sense, really. He steps in, getting swallowed up by the emerging shadows, little cherubs and angels, the witnesses to the last chapter of his life.

And also, a solitary priest, it seems, who comes out a side door to greet Paddy as he reaches the altar. Starting to shout something in German, Paddy doesn’t care to translate, even if he’s picked up a fair bit in the last four years.

The shouts don’t last long. Paddy watches impassively as the creature blurs past him, snapping the priest’s neck and crouching over his corpse to the sound of harsh slurping noises. When it has taken its fill, the creature turns to look at Paddy, blood dripping down its chin and black voids where the eyes should have been.

“Hello Eoin,” is all Paddy says, “finally come to take me.” He called it Eoin, for undoubtedly that’s who the creature was, many years ago. It had the same uniform, the same body, the same face as his sunshine boy. Now black scars twisted and pulled at his features, nails too long to be anything other than talons, curls unkempt and wild with sand still falling out of them.

Eoin laughed, deep and rusty, like his lungs were not used to sucking in air. It made the hair on Paddy’s arms stand up. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was dark, revengeful, unnatural. “You said Berlin Blair, said you would get to the gates and let God judge you then. Well, there’s no God, only me. And I’m not letting you get any further.”

Eoin scuttled towards him, bad leg sticking out at an odd angle. Paddy met him halfway, sinking down into a kneel as cold hands wrapped around him, vice-like. He wasn’t afraid of his death; in fact, he had been half in love with the idea of Eoin killing him since the creature crept into his tent in Jalo and promised vengeance for what Paddy did to him.

They stayed like that for a while. Paddy waiting, Eoin holding, hands running up and down Paddy’s body. Growling and purring in equal measure.

“You are not going to kill me,” Paddy stated, when too much time had passed, his brain was horrified when the thing before him grinned, rows of sharp teeth glinting down at him.

“No, no, why would I kill you, Blair?” Eoin crooned, mocking as if Paddy wasn’t in on the joke. “My wanting for you brought me back, unfinished business, you see. Now I have you again, nothing will kill you, not until you’ve suffered me and repaid my death.”

A hand clasped around Paddy’s neck, nails sharp against the soft of his throat, Eoin twisting his head up to place a shadow of a kiss upon his lips. Tasting of decay and rot and sand.

Paddy didn’t mind; he would happily suffer Eoin for eternity to make up for what he did to his boy

~~~~~

[miggleverse]

ANOTHER PADDY X EOIN FIC I WROTE IN LIKE AN HOUR?????

yeah. sorry.

--

title: terrier

rating: t-m

pairing: paddy x eoin

summary: modern au: paddy is a professional rugby player, and eoin is his wag (wives and girlfriends) -- or in this case, life partner. i've interpreted this prompt as, 'paddy and eoin is a power couple'.

for @miggleverse -- i hope i did your prompt some justice. some.

also on ao3.

--

paddy groans as he lies on the massage table.

coming off the ice bath, in recovery.

he waits for jim, who's gone off to find another bottle of lotion, leaving him lying facedown on the table, waiting, waiting.

the door creaks open; a shuffle of footsteps.

the sound of the lotion bottle-top being opened, and closed. click-click,

and skin against skin, palms rubbing against each other, slick;

and paddy says, 'make sure your hands are warm, jim,' which comes out as 'mfsureurendserwermmm', voice muffled by his lips being pressed against his arm.

a chuckle, then, a palm slides over his left calf, then the right. thumbs pressing against his gastrocnemius, moving up, up and down. his soleus. up his thighs, his biceps femoris, his gracilis.

digging, digging.

paddy hisses when a thumb; a knuckle, digs deeper, nearly flinches from the pain-pleasure of it. jim's too silent, he thinks, and he wonders why jim hasn't said anything since they've started.

jim? he asks, shifting his head, turning to see the man behind him,

above him.

'not jim,' the reply comes, and paddy shudders.

the hands wander upwards, upwards.

just hovering over the openings of his shorts, fingertips barely sliding underneath the fabric. a threat. a promise. a tease.

'eoin,' paddy whispers, 'you fucker.'

then he hears a deep chuckle, and eoin does, indeed, follow through on what paddy's just said.

--

if i can't walk straight after this, paddy says, i'll know who to blame, he complains.

eoin uses paddy's shorts, discarded in haste, to wipe at stains on their skin. leans over to kiss him.

you'll still love me anyway, eoin says.

--

paddy remembers,

their boyhoods, of training in the different XVs. remembers watching him, the talent, the star, the lithe, graceful boy with the wild curls and the wide smile. remembers bodyslamming into him, at training, and how his skin has tingled from the sensation, how he hisses at the bruises that forms afterwards. then he looks at him, and the rosy-purple blotches that have bloomed on eoin's high, regal cheekbones. thinks, i did that to him,

and,

i wanted to taste the haughtiness of those lines and colours on my tongue.

remembers watching his pert arse, taut and firm in the showers. his cock, long and veiny and pink, uncut. proportionate to the length of him, though more slender, when compared to himself.

he remembers fisting himself at night and remembers wondering what it would be like to fist him, how large and hard it would grow in his grip.

he remembers speaking to him, about rugby and tactics, and he's clever. his mind is as pretty as his face, and his soul.

he's kind.

and friendly.

paddy remembers not wanting to sully this friendship.

--

eoin was out for the whole year, after the accident.

then he learned that eoin was out for another year, to complete his rehabilitation.

--

sometimes paddy wonders if he's only become this successful because eoin hasn't been able to play competitively, ever again.

they had been rivals, in the past. some of the boys had come up to him and said, so, with eoin gone, the captaincy will surely be yours, as if he'd always wanted eoin to be gone, out of the way.

how wrong they were.

he's suffered, those years that eoin wasn't there. he misses eoin so much that he's become grumpier. his reputation's grown. if he was cranky before, he's crankier now, and people have put that down to him being a mad irishman.

the rugby version of roy keane.

when eoin comes back, with a crutch, and tells him that he will never play again, paddy thinks he could have cried -- but he didn't.

instead, he asks, please don't leave rugby completely. please don't leave me. you're clever. you can still be part of the coaching team. right? you could be in charge of tactics.

you could be in charge of me, he's wanted to say.

eoin's smiled, then.

only if you'll have me.

--

and so paddy does.

he does, have eoin.

keeps him close, and never lets him go.

--

back then, people used to say that eoin used to hang around paddy like a loyal dog; paddy's terrier.

they've got it all backwards, he thinks.

eoin's the one who's always been holding the leash, from the beginning.

--

eoin's terrier, he thinks.

this is his nickname now. people have used it pejoratively, when they announced that they're together.

it was all in the tabloids. how eoin's the one managing him, the one making all the deals with sponsors and adverts and manages the profits. manages his career, his image. the man who cleans him up after each brawl, clears the damage; and some unkind people have said that eoin's been wiping his arse, too, the way paddy's been taking it up in the arse.

fuck them all.

fuck them all, because the truth is, he doesn't mind being managed by eoin. loves being patched up by eoin, being dolled up by eoin.

eoin, who cages him up in his loving arms, to protect him from the unkind world that says unkind things about them. eoin, who then lets him loose on the pitch, lets him attack.

eoin, who still knows his stuff. but he couldn't do the physical things that he used to be able to do, without hurting himself. so paddy works harder, on and off the pitch, in order to do it for him.

i'm doing this for us, he thinks.

but the rest of the world continues to imply that paddy's a mindless creature, who doesn't have his own thoughts; a stereotypical view of a burly sportsman, like he's a neanderthal.

eoin' says, we need to make this right. we need to reclaim that term -- eoin's terrier. dogs are clever things. they bark, they bite. but they're clever, he says.

i know, paddy agrees.

and they're loyal.

--

in the tv interviews and newspaper articles, they make sure that eoin's always in the background. wearing an enigmatic smile, in addition to the designer clothes he's been wearing. zegna and thom browne suits, christian louboutin shoes.

subtle, but noticeable.

that's eoin, through and through.

paddy's the one who speaks for them. and although he rambles on, and on, one thing is clear --

paddy mayne has his own mind, and it is a sharp mind.

he quotes poetry, and when people think that he's only been quoting by rote, someone makes a snide comment and paddy responds by another quote, and another, during a press conference.

he's not a neanderthal. he's a learned man. this is what he wants the world to know, and this is the image that eoin has helped cultivate for him. because eoin, too, amplifies this part of himself -- this poetry;

and he thinks,

'if i sit up barking and howling at night as i sometimes do, he takes me for a walk and throws a stick for me.

when i find myself a devil, he reminds me that underneath i am a poet,'

and he wants the world to know this, too.

--

sometimes they fight, and they fight big.

eoin can be cutting, with his words, when he's angry. he doesn't say much, but he's always been economical. this is why eoin's the one managing their assets, and finances -- what paddy says in a hundred words, eoin can say them in three and an arch of an eyebrow.

sometimes he will shout at eoin, and eoin will shout at him, over silly things; a silly argument that they couldn't even remember how it started.

sometimes they say things that they don't mean to each other, when emotions run high.

but they make up, every single time.

and if someone else says one bad thing about one of them, the other will become a terrier, set loose upon the offender. paddy will bark, and bite. eoin will slaughter them with the sharp curve of his smile, like a fang.

eoin is much more fearsome when he is angry, and paddy doesn't wish it on anyone to see eoin angry.

and paddy thinks,

'whoever strays within your street, it is your eyebrow's curve that he will pray before,'

as they should be.

--

ireland tours the six nations and paddy gets injured, out for the rest of the games. he's angry at himself, and he's irritable. he thinks, he's the reason why ireland's losing, why ireland's at risk of getting the wooden spoon this year.

it's eoin who heals him, with his words, with his touch. rallies him, rallies the team around him. and maybe eoin's not even part of the ireland rugby coaching team, but he's so embedded in their lives that none of them bat an eyebrow when eoin's the one who gets into the changing room -- who gives the other boys a speech before a game, or at half time, or even after each match is done.

--

this is how they've ended up here, now -- after everyone else in the team has left,

after an ice bath, and a massage,

and being held in eoin's arms,

he traces the long, massive lines of scars running down eoin's back, down his thighs -- raised bumps like smooth pearls, shimmering white and pink. like fronds of a leaf of a palm tree, like a bolt of thunder. a reminder of the accident. of what's brought them here, to this point. what would have happened, how their lives would've been different, if eoin had continued to play.

would they be lying here, like this?

in reverence, paddy kisses down the lengths of those scars, then kisses the tops of eoin's arse. smooth, soft, beautiful. and to think that he's only dreamt of them, of doing this, many years ago, when they were still training together. as he kneads and paws on them; spreads eoin apart,

and kisses him there, too.

eoin sighs beneath him, in contentment, before rolling them over.

gazes down at him, with those dark bedroom eyes; with those long, curved lashes.

with gentle adoration.

cheeks burning, paddy looks away and complains,

'if i can't walk straight after this, i'll know who to blame.'

eoin only chuckles, then. uses paddy's shorts, discarded in haste, to wipe at the stains on their skin.

leans over to kiss him.

you'll still love me anyway, eoin smiles.

--

.end

--

*poetry by hafez

[miggleverse]

For the made up fic title: 'give me rest' ? / -@anxiouslowercase

@anxiouslowercase, thank you for this!! actually managed to turn it into a scenario I've been thinking about for a while now!

~~~~~~~

“C’mon Pads, the doctor said you need them.”

Eoin waved the spoonful of jam menacingly in front of Paddy’s nose, which is to say, not menacingly at all. The jam was strawberry, Paddy’s favourite, but now polluted by two great big painkillers his lovely boy had so sneakily stuck in them.

Paddy, determined, kept his mouth in a tight line and shook his head. Despite the waves of pain in his back, causing spots in his vision when he did. Fuck the doctor, fuck the meds, he didn’t need any of that. His back was always in pain, just some days it was worse than others. He’d got by for years perfectly fine until Eoin had put his foot down and got Paddy an appointment for it; now there was even some talk of surgery later down the line. Plus, they made him sleepy, and he hated feeling anything other than alert.

“Don’t need them,” he said, or tried to say while still keeping his lips sealed tight, knowing full well Eoin was not above shoving the whole spoon in his mouth at the first opportunity. So really, it just came out as a muffled mpffmpf noise.

Eoin, easily able to translate most Paddy-noise, stopped his jam lead attack and stared down consideringly. He had his frustrated face on, not unfamiliar when dealing with Paddy. But his mouth was set in a hard line that betrayed his thinning patience.

“Blair.” Shit. “You are going to stop this right now,” Eoin said in a tone that brooked no opposition. “You will take these meds, and you will rest.” The last three words were accompanied by Eoin gently tapping the back of the spoon against Paddy’s lips, making the jam wobble alarmingly on top.

Paddy, in too much pain to start quibbling with his boyfriend, and smart enough to know he wouldn’t win anyway, acquiesced. Crumbling the meds between his teeth, and swallowed down the whole sticky mixture. He even stuck his tongue out after in some sort of twisted defiance.

He was rewarded for his efforts with a glass of water and an Eoin cuddling up to him under the duvet, nose to nose, hands gently carding through his hair as he drifted off.

~~~~~~

Inbox still open for the Fake Fic Title Game, if anyone wants to zip one over!

[miggleverse]

Oooh what about "Love Me Anyway" for a made-up fic title? <3

@hisbelfastboy Thank you!! Have finally found time to work through these, and honestly can't resist a PaddyEoin origin story! Hope you like :)

~~~~~

December, Belfast, 1939.

December was Eoin’s favourite month for many reasons. First: Christmas, for all the obvious reasons (presents, mince pies, carols and the multiple glasses of brandy he would swig before his parents caught on) and then: his birthday, also for the obvious reasons: his favourite dinner, the present Paddy would gift him, getting his own way.

He was nineteen now, officially more than a newly minted adult, no longer called the family baby (well, his ma still does, but that’s what they do). One term of university and the taste of independence under his belt and Eoin was feeling every inch a grown-up. Not just in life experience, though. These last months, he had finally grown into his height, gangly limbs broadening out and baby face slowly melting away.

He still felt like a kid, though, now, eagerly waiting for Paddy to walk through the doors of the pub. Resisting the urge to swing his feet as he sipped his second pint. It had been months since he’d last seen him, and their letters weren’t just cutting it anymore. The ache in Eoin’s chest had slowly been building all day, desperate to see the man he’s been in love with for the last three years, anticipating bubbling through him like whiskey. Maybe today, on a random Thursday night, would be the day Eoin finally acts on it. He was feeling brave enough, too; certainly, one and a half pints usually gave him enough courage for reckless acts.

He made an extra effort to dress nicely, like a proper little grown-up: curls slicked and held firmly in place, pressed shirt, new cologne that Paddy mentioned once in passing he liked. Ambrose teased him when he came down the stairs, whooping and asking who Eoin was trying to impress.

He fudged through an answer, not wanting to tell his brother about meeting up with Paddy. He only felt slightly bad about it; they were good friends after all. But Eoin knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had Paddy to himself for a while. Plus, he could never carry out Operation Seduce Childhood Crush with his brother about.   

He took another gulp as he peered through the frosted windowpane, spotting the honey-blond of Paddy’s hair as he ducked into the pub, hearing without turning the deep, rich tones of his voice. Already goosebumps were beginning to snake up his arm, and he hadn’t even seen the man yet. He sent a quick prayer up to the rafters, please, please let him love me, despite the fact that he was a man, despite his being Catholic, despite the six years between them.

As Paddy came closer, Eoin finished his drink, needing all the liquid courage he could drain from the glass tonight.

~~~~

Inbox still open for the Fake Fic Title Game, if anyone wants to zip one over!

[miggleverse]

Someone (not me because I have at least 5 other WIPs on the go) should write the haunted house story of Christmas 1938, when Paddy Mayne goes to stay with his friend Ambrose McGonigal at the family's ancestral home in Inishowen.

There's snow, there's spooky goings on, there's Paddy constantly getting locked in rooms with Ambrose’s barely-18-year-old brother.

And even though Paddy resolutely does not believe in ghosts, there somehow is a ghost, and it seems to have its sights set on Eoin.

[miggleverse]

send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write to go with it

[miggleverse]

More Cat!Eoin headcannons from this little piece (cos it won't leave me alone)

Eoin never meant to shift back that first night he met Paddy. It's just that he was so comfy, and Paddy had already made him feel so safe and cared for that he just relaxed a little too much. He freaked out big time when he woke up, and Paddy had to coax him out of the wardrobe.

Eoin has the Puss-In-Boots Big Eyes™ down pat, as both cat and human, which he uses on Paddy with absolutely no shame and with devastating effect to get what he wants. (Usually more cuddles when Paddy is already late for work)

Whenever Paddy's family come to visit (which isn't too often, admittedly), Eoin will scurry off and emerge in cat form. Paddy's sister is not a big fan of cats, so of course, Eoin, who chronically needs people to like him, made it his mission to win her over. It took three visits and multiple head butts. (Presenting her with a dead spider was a setback, but Eoin never let failure put him off.)

Talking of showing affection, Eoin's is much more physical than verbal. Even in his human form, Eoin will absentmindedly lick Paddy's knuckles or knead his thigh or arm muscles. When he's really relaxed, Eoin will purr, a soft rumbling in his chest. Paddy finds this adorable and tries to do anything to encourage it, even if it means becoming a glorified cushion for several hours straight.

Months into their relationship, Paddy once referred to Eoin as 'his kitten' and got to watch him walk into a wall. Yes, Eoin likes it a little too much

Eoin once wandered off as a cat, got picked up by a well-meaning stranger and was carted off to the vets for an entire week before he could escape and get back to Paddy. In the same week, Paddy posted about a million lost cat posters over the town, got into four separate fights and drank enough rum to drown a small country. (He now has a rep of a crazy-cat-lady)

[miggleverse]

@bobparkhurst

have the unbeta'ed part ii of transatlanticism, the gabriel x lion fic which has now grown arms and legs...

and guess which beloved frenchman makes an appearance????

and this fic is now going to have at least another chapter.

chapter 2 now also on ao3

--

are you a fallen angel? because it's a beautiful name, gabriel.

that's a terrible pick up line, gabriel scoffs, before licking at his ice cream. are you even allowed ice cream? he asks, watching lion munch down on the ice cream cone like a man starved.

cheat day, lion grins, ice cream smeared around his mouth.

despite himself, gabriel grins back. you've got ice cream all over you, he says, and lion wipes it with the back of his hand. ehh, he shrugs, and tosses the last bit of the ice cream cone into his mouth, while gabriel's barely bitten into his.

and he thinks, there used to be a time when he was as light-hearted and carefree as this. if you could call lion 'carefree'. he's learnt from sky about what's happened to lion, beyond the news and interviews and wikipedia articles.

he wants to say, you're so strong. you're so brave.

and then, he thinks, don't be silly, gabriel. he doesn't think of you as anything, the way zara doesn't think of you as anything. beside, he's straight. he was with sky for a bit, wasn't he?

but it doesn't even surprise him that he's even thought of yearning for lion -- gabriel's always yearned for something beyond his reach.

a girl above his station. a career unsuited for a working class boy like him.

and now, a man like lion.

how could a successful boxer would possibly like him back, when he's just a silly boy from rural oxfordshire?

how could man like lion, feral and virile, would like a soft boy like him, in that way?

--

in one of gabriel's soft moments, it is him who asks lion, so what kind of poetry do you read before your fights?

lion genuinely looks surprised, arching an interested eyebrow. he asks, you're into poetry too?

i dabble, gabriel replies, not wishing to expose his true self, realizing he's asked too much.

kipling, lion says. wordsworth. brooke. sassoon.

war poems, gabriel narrows his eyes. they're english poets, he says.

gets the adrenaline going, innit? lion replies, imitating reg, eyes twinkling.

sky says you read whitman too?

'I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul,'

lion recites, and gabriel stares at him, in awe.

i didn't use to read poetry, lion adds, but then things happened, and i needed to grieve. and i grieved, and i found that the poems were easier for me to use as words than my own. you know?

gabriel nods. never assume that hicks from small town america can't read, he thinks. the way that audrey walters used to assume that he, gabriel, a simple lad from the village, couldn't read.

and suddenly, lion becomes even more interesting than just a killing machine.

then lion says, you should get that fixed, pointing at the hole in gabriel's trousers. you wear such lovely clothes at work, but you've got holes in your trouser pockets? unacceptable! he shrieks, pretending to be offended.

ah, well. i don't know how to darn holes, gabriel says. i can do many things. i can garden, i can clean windows. i can make coffee really well. i can't darn holes.

well, i can sew, lion smiles. used to work in a sewing factory, he says. send them to me, i'll fix them for you.

surely you have better things to do? surely you need to train?

what i need, lion says, is some intellectual stimulation. and you, gabriel, may be the person who i can do that with.

--

and this is how they ended up playing chess,

ended up quoting endless poetry lines at each other,

over a pint and the football and darts at the pub.

lines like,

'when someone is imprisoned for a while men ask about his fate, and want to know his crimes; if someone accidentally says my name, fear makes him beg to be excused, a thousand times,'

lion says, pumping himself up like a biggun,

and --

'i love the words that kindle fire, a verbal conflagration, not cold words used to douse the flames of friendly conversation.'

gabriel rolls his eyes and says, what are you doing with me, then?

then lion replies,

'my friend is here with me -- what more should i desire? the riches of our talk are all that i require...they're quite enough for me,'

and gabriel flushes pink. tongue frozen speechless.

he wants to say,

'i'd like to stay with him a while -- if he decided that i could, how would that be?'

but gabriel couldn't, he wouldn't. he's learnt not to yearn. not to hope.

and when gabriel's run out of poems to recite, he asks lion,

shouldn't you be spending time with sky and beth, instead of with me? isn't that why you've come here, to bicester?

yeah, lion shrugs, but she also talks about her friends a lot. about you. and this, he scrolls down his ig and pulls up the post of gabriel's photo reading hopkins. you don't have ig, do you? i'd like to follow you, lion says.

gabriel gives lion the handle of his private ig account, just like that. in a blink of an eye, and he doesn't even realize that he's done it until he's done it. lion's grinning from ear to ear and immediately sends a follow request.

wouldn't you worry that people see who you follow from your public account? gabriel asks, now that you're famous?

that's why i have a private and a public account, lion winks, and sends another request, this time from a different account.

did you actually press like on this post, or was that pat? gabriel asks, gesturing to the photo of him posted on the hotdudesreading account.

pat sent it to the account, and i liked it, lion explains, earnestly.

as if to say, i like you.

gabriel purposefully ignores this.

a second, then two, then:

oh look! lion roars. i didn't realize you've already been following me too! he says, beaming at his phone.

then he smiles at gabriel, and gabriel looks away.

lion's too bright, like a hundred thousand suns. too hot, it burns.

there was a time when he was like that, too. before darkness enveloped him, made him miserable, made him misanthropic.

when he raises his gaze, lion's still grinning at him, like he's dinner, and he wishes lion would stop.

he wishes lion would stop, because gabriel doesn't want to be eaten up and spat out again, like he once was.

like carcass.

--

if reg and pat have noticed how often lion's hanging out with gabriel, they haven't said anything. haven't told gabriel to back off, haven't pulled gabriel aside to say that he's just a distraction for lion, a game to chase, prey to play with.

--

when he comes to work on monday, sky smiles at him and says, here. your trousers. he fixed it for you.

gabriel traces the darned cloth; the strands of the threads woven like swirly patterns underneath his fingertips. it's a smart job, he thinks, much better than what he would've done; he thinks he would've botched it. he hasn't expected this of lion, the boy with chipped tooth and the swollen eye.

this warrior.

this poet.

--

bill says, you couldn't stop looking at him.

it reminds him of the time when krystyna used to say that he couldn't stop looking at zara.

like this is a schoolboy crush.

there is no use for hoping, because lion would crush him with his paws the way zara has crushed his dreams.

then gabriel thinks, he' probably doesn't need to blame anyone for it. he's probably done that to himself.

--

he helps sky look after bethany,

then he helps anna looks after stanley.

then eve, who's heard what an amazing babysitter he makes, asks him to look after elisha, her son, while she's on a theatre date with her husband.

he's heard a lot about david stirling, some rich lord from the highlands of scotland.

while elisha's sleeping, the doorbell rings and for a brief moment he thinks it's eve and david coming back early from their date. only when he opens the door and it's no one he recognizes.

i'm augustin, the man says. eve says i could find you here, he says.

wait, what? who? gabriel asks, perplexed. who are you?

i'm augustin jordan, the man introduces himself, smiling lazily at gabriel. and i'm a literary agent. eve says that you've got something for me to read?

--

gabriel eyes augustin warily as they sit in the stirlings' vast living room. augustin's helped himself to the kitchen to grab an opened bottle of wine from the fridge and pours himself a glass.

want one? he's asked gabriel, and gabriel's shaken his head vehemently.

tell me about your book, then, gabriel. what have you got for me?

gabriel says, how did you know? and augustin tells him about eve, about the notebook she found, and then she contacted him.

gabriel explains, reluctantly, that it's about a family and garden; what the garden means to each and every one of the family members and the community around them.

but it's a metaphor for something else too, augustin surmises.

yes, gabriel says. it's a metaphor for england, for the country and her inhabitants. gabriel talks about the formidable family matriarch and her aimless daughter. the spineless husband, the mourned dead son, the wronged daughter-in-law.

the foreign hires, always outsiders, never belonging.

the poor boy, watching from afar, always dreaming, reaching.

lion's once called him a fallen angel, he reminisces.

he had fallen.

maybe he's a fallen angel, after all.

the rich get richer, augustin comments, suddenly. takes him out of his reverie. his misery.

gabriel clicks his tongue, in response. and the poor and the meek will never inherit the earth, he says. they never do. they just toil and suffer and gain nothing in return, he says, molars grinding.

will there be a happy ending? augustin asks.

i haven't written the ending yet, he replies, but everyone leaves, in the end. for greener pastures, though it's always greener on the other side.

augustin tilts his head and watches gabriel intently. send me the manuscript, he says. i'll look it over, and i'll see what i can do for you. from what eve's told me, she quite enjoyed your prose. still rustic, she says, still needs more work -- but the way she's described it -- it's intriguing, nonetheless.

gabriel's jaw drops. he doesn't dare hope. this couldn't be true. he asks, this isn't a scam, is it? voice small and trembling.

augustin pulls out his wallet and gives gabriel his calling card. i work for penguin, he says. you can look me up. you can ask eve and david too, if you don't trust me.

thank you, gabriel says, still in disbelief. stumped at this stranger's kindness. you didn't just come here to speak to me, did you? he asks.

augustin smiles, and gabriel's heart skips a beat. his eyes are so blue, he thinks, like glowing sapphires, reflected by the light of his glasses.

i did, augustin says. eve told me you were going to be in. and i was just passing, so i thought i'd swing by, call in. he blinks at gabriel -- once, twice, then says, seriously, gabriel, i do want to read your stuff. then he stands up to leave, and gabriel stands up with him. follows him to the kitchen where augustin shoves his wine glass into the dishwasher, chucks a dishwashing tablet in for good measure. as if he's done this a thousand times, as if he's been here a lot and knows the place like it's the back of his hand.

tell elisha uncle augie says him will you? augustin grins. don't want to wake him up, you see.

sure, gabriel blinks.

bonne nuit, gabriel, augustin says at the door, just before gabriel closes it and turns the lock. and gabriel closes his eyes, thinking of the way augustin's said his name, gabriel, in a french accent. no one's said his name in that way before, like it's a melody of a song, and his skin tingles from the sudden heat that has come out of nowhere. the heat that suddenly pools in his groin.

pull yourself together, gabriel thinks. don't be an idiot. don't throw yourself at every man or woman who bats their lashes at you, he chides himself.

augustin is a polished, sophisticated man. a literary agent for a major publishing house. and gabriel's just a village lad, playing at being an author. why would anyone like augustin look twice at someone like him, when zara and the walters barely, and only politely, tolerated him?

he thinks, eve is only doing this out of pity. it's nice of her, though, to consider getting augustin to meet him like this. makes him feel special, even if he's anything but.

even if he's less than ordinary;

scum of the earth;

dirt.

--

anna thinks there's a slight spring in his steps, when she sees him next.

gabriel turns pink.

have you met a girl? she asks. is it sky?

gabriel shakes his head, purses his lips. for someone who's known him well enough by now, how could anna get it so wrong this time?

no, he says. i don't want to jinx it, he says. he knows what will happen when he says too much. nothing good ever comes out of it.

--

the last time he was in a pub, he was known as the local chatterbox, the boy who couldn't shut up. that was why audrey had resented him, he thinks, for talking about cheryl and anna and other things. he's older now. he's learnt to keep things to himself.

and when it threatens to spill he writes them on paper; these secrets he's held between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

he's here in a pub, now; with lion and reg and pat, with bill and sky and anna. bill and anna aren't even fans of boxing, but somehow, like gabriel, they've become part of lion's entourage, too. like groupies, following lion about. part of his pride.

though somehow lion always ends up cornering him, in one of the dark corners of the pub, always finds a way to get him alone.

lion says, you look sad. you remind me of me.

gabriel shakes his head. why does everyone say i remind them of themselves?

maybe because this place collects broken people. sky, bill, me, you, lion says. i don't know what happened to you, but i can see someone suffering.

i'm happy here, gabriel insists.

yeah, lion nods, but he's not completely convinced. you remind me of me, he says, because i can tell that you're hiding a lot of hurt. and instead of letting them out, like i did, in the ring, it's just pent-up all in there, he points, to gabriel's chest.

gabriel nearly laugh-cries from this astuteness, of lion's measure of him. is this how lion reads his opponent, before a bout?

then he recites,

'i've debts, and nothing else: endless expenses, and no money: "the world's all pleasure, so enjoy!" to me that isn't funny.

i'm talentless, or bad luck's made my talents disappear -- i've let the reins of life go slack, and now i'm sick with fear.'

it's opaque enough, he thinks. unknowable.

you're not talentless, gabriel, lion says. sky told me that eve's friend's asked for a manuscript. you've literally been headhunted by an agent, to publish your book. right?

fuck, gabriel thinks to himself. is there anything that anyone doesn't know around here? now he understands what audrey felt, when he was the one going round telling stories. some stories aren't meant to be told, aren't meant to be fodder for gossip.

it's too good to be true, gabriel says, wincing. something bad is going to happen, i can feel it.

he says,

'here, in the corner of a ruined school (more ruined even than my heart), i wait

while men declare that there's no goodness in me. i sit alone, and brood upon my fate.

and hear their words, like salt rubbed in my wounds, and tell myself i must accept my state:

i don't want wealth, and i don't envy them the ostentatious splendour of the great.

what do they want from me, though, since i've nothing? now that i'm destitute, and desolate?';

instead.

gabriel, lion sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. who hurt you?

no one, he replies, stubborn as a mule.

don't lie. i'm guessing someone's used you and left you for scraps, and you're still reeling from the hurt, lion says, words sharp and smooth, like hot knife on butter.

gabriel stares, and stares dumbly.

don't look at me like that, lion says. i've been used, too. but it's complicated for me, because it was my brother, and i love him. there's no running away from him. everywhere i go, his shadow is there. i wouldn't be here if not for him. i wouldn't have met sky, wouldn't have met reg or pat. wouldn't have met you, he says.

so tell me, gabriel my angel, lion whispers, almost pleading, who hurt you?

who hurt you, lion says, so i can hurt them too?

--

tbc

[miggleverse]

Paddy finding a stray cat on one of his night runs...he really is more of a dog person, but it was raining hard and the poor thing had twisted its leg so bad Paddy couldn't help but burrito it in his own jacket. No matter if he himself got soaked in a matter of seconds.

He goes straight to the vets. They dry the cat (a him, as it turns out.) No collar, no microchip, no one reporting a missing cat either. When the cat is finally more fur than water, they find a bunch of old scars winding up its twisted leg. A miracle he isn't dead yet, really, one of the vets says. That Paddy can relate to, too; many of his ex-army colleagues have muttered at him over the years.

They offer to keep the cat in overnight, a sprain on the leg is all. But something about the way it keeps looking up at Paddy with those big hazel eyes makes his heart twist. So at half eleven on a rainy Tuesday night, he does the unthinkable: agrees to foster the cat until it can find a permanent home.

Back in his flat, Paddy watches it. The cat didn't seem very interested in anything other than snuggling in his lap until Paddy put down a small saucer of water (he double checked on google - no milk) when it wiggled out of Paddy's hand, and its small pink tongue was now eagerly lapping up droplets. The cat's inky black fur a harsh contrast to the white linoleum of Paddy's kitchen

What the fuck am i doing, he thinks. He's barely in a position to look after himself, let alone a small animal. But as Cat (he's taken to calling it Cat in his head) rubs its tiny head on Paddy's shin, he stops worrying for five minutes, and sits in companionable silence for a while.

He makes Cat a little bed of spare blankets and jumpers on the sofa and says goodnight. But when he comes out of his bathroom, he finds Cat leisurely stretched out in his bed, already getting comfortable.

"No," Paddy says, "down," like he would a dog, pointing to the darkened hallway.

Cat blinks at him.

Paddy blinks back, unsure of what to do in the face of such blatant indifference. He picks up Cat and deposits him back on the sofa. By the time he's made it back to the bedroom, Cat has slipped back in again, now taking up residence on the pillow, letting out a reproachful meow.

This process happens a number of times. "This isn't me giving in, by the way," Paddy says to Cat as he gets into bed after the fourth failed attempt to sleep alone, "tomorrow you're back on the sofa, ya hear." Cat somehow managed to look smug as he curled up next to Paddy.

At one point in the night, Paddy woke, half suffocating in thick black fur. Cat had taken it upon himself to become a particularly fluffy scarf in the night, draped across Paddy's neck and chest like he belonged there. Paddy, too tired and too warm, drifted back off to sleep, cradling the small weight atop him.

What he was not prepared for, however, come morning, was the feel of black curls tickling his nose, or the weight of a fully grown man atop him where Cat had been. He watched in groggy horror as the man nuzzled closer to him in his sleep.

What the actual fuck. A quick pinch on the hand and a quick poke of an arm told Paddy that no, he wasn't dreaming, and yes, an actual man was lying on him.

He groaned. Bloody cats, he thought.

[miggleverse]

i have a disease called "obsessed with hands" and it's called horny. and it's terminal

[miggleverse]

a quick sketch of everyone’s favourite boy 🌟

[miggleverse]

😏 for the wip project

Did I just remember I had plenty of asks from the Make-Me-Write game that I did two months ago? Yes 😭 I apologize for the wait but here it is, I finally sat down to write after my brain decided my other WIPs weren't to his liking </3 Now, as I remember the quick summary I did for this emoji was something like "Paddy can't reconcile the man he's become with the man he believes Eoin deserves now that Eoin's back, and Eoin has a kinky way of fixing things". So. That is the plot of the fic, and perhaps you wanted the smut part but, sadly for everyone, I think we're in for.. at least 8k of more plot before we reach the smut 😭😅 So please allow me to make amends with my favorite gentleman, Jim Almonds <3 Thank you to you, @amiserableseriesofevents @air-exec @miggleverse and a kind Anon for sending more or less of this emoji ❤️ Here are your combined 34 sentences <33

Jim Almonds expected many things when he was taken a prisoner of war. Finding Eoin McGonigal isn't one of them. And yet, here he is, sat on the edge of a thin mattress in a room too small for one man let alone two, this lad that they've lost more than a year ago but whose absence had loomed larger than war itself. His hair is overgrown, and though Jim can't see him very well in the dim light of the room, it seems like he's grown a bit of a beard. Disbelief squeezing at his heart, Jim can't say a word. Instead, he steps shakily in the room, and Eoin's head snaps towards the sound, wide-eyed and pale before his face furrows.

"Almonds?"

He sounds exactly how Jim feels, confusion and disbelief wrapping tight around hope, like it's a precious resource that ought not be wasted. But hope is like sunlight, shining through the tiniest of gaps, and Jim laughs breathlessly as he steps forward again. Like a mirror, Eoin slowly rises, and Jim can't help drawing him in a hug; he may have only known Eoin for a few months before his disappearance, the man had always been a bright spot of joy and competence in their isolated corner of the desert, and losing him had been the SAS' first heartbreak. Eoin tenses for a moment, arms limp at his side before he hesitantly returns the embrace, a wounded sound that has Jim tightening his hold on him escaping his throat.

It's been almost a year and a half since the SAS had declared Eoin McGonigal missing in action. And yet, here is now, shoulders shaking as he burrows into Jim like a child seeking shelter from a storm, and Jim doesn't need to ask if Eoin's met with any familiar faces in those eighteen months. Silently, he cups Eoin's nape with his head and doesn't move, letting the younger man sag against him for however long he needs, even as Jim winces when he can feel the sharpness of Eoin's ribs against his torso. Seconds trickle by slowly before Eoin seems to regain control of himself; no longer shaking, he clears his throat once before he steps out of Jim's arms, eyes downcast as though asamed to have needed the comfort.

"It's good to see you, Eoin," Jim says hoarsely. He had always called Eoin "sir" before but it just doesn't feel right to face a man in a POW camp after you've believed him dead for more than a year and greet him with anything other than his name. A small smile twitches on Eoin's lips as he steps back, sniffling just slightly as he wipes at his eyes.

"And you, Jim." Eoin's eyes flicker up and down his face like he still can't quite believe it before he frowns, eyes lost somewhere above Jim's shoulder. "Is Paddy with you?"

"No," Jim shakes his head, almost apologetic—a POW camp might be the last place he wants Paddy to be in, but he has a feeling Paddy might disagree if he learns who's waiting for him there. But Eoin must misunderstand his tone because he pales considerably, staggering back like he's been shot.

"He's alive," Jim rushes to say, steading Eoin with sure hands. God, but he can wrap his hand fully around the man's biceps. With a soft touch, he guides Eoin to sit on the edge of the bunk before sitting on the opposite bed once he's certain Eoin won't fall over. "But we thought—," he swallows with difficulty. "We thought you were dead, lad." Eoin's shoulders drop, a defeated frown pulling at his lips. Fate couldn't have been crueler to them, Jim thinks.

"Paddy, too?"

Jim pauses, suddenly unsure on how to best word the damage grief and loss have caused.

"He's still looking for you," he settles on, because it's true. In the jambled notes of Für Elise, and perhaps in every poem he reads, Paddy's always reached out with bloody hands for a glimpse of the boy he thought lost to the desert. "He hasn't let you go."

And thank you to @johntonkin and @revolutionarybillfraser for helping me with figuring out Jim and Eoin's height difference (apparently inexistent which fits me lol) <3

[miggleverse]

Currently writing my Lion x reader fic, and I've never used so many synonyms for pain in my life. How many ways can I say he was hurt? You'll find out, hopefully soon 😂

[miggleverse]

[miggleverse]

Umberto Eco, who owned 50,000 books, had this to say about home libraries:

"It is foolish to think that you have to read all the books you buy, as it is foolish to criticize those who buy more books than they will ever be able to read. It would be like saying that you should use all the cutlery or glasses or screwdrivers or drill bits you bought before buying new ones.

"There are things in life that we need to always have plenty of supplies, even if we will only use a small portion.

"If, for example, we consider books as medicine, we understand that it is good to have many at home rather than a few: when you want to feel better, then you go to the 'medicine closet' and choose a book. Not a random one, but the right book for that moment. That's why you should always have a nutrition choice!

"Those who buy only one book, read only that one and then get rid of it. They simply apply the consumer mentality to books, that is, they consider them a consumer product, a good. Those who love books know that a book is anything but a commodity."