#mud hen bars

[fullcravings]

Rhubarb Mud Hen Bars

[hearthstruck]

mud hen bars by cookiesandcups

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarkey

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Chapter four: Heat of the Moment

Masterlist

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By pub eight, Y/N is starting to question every decision that’s led her to this moment—specifically the one that resulted in her standing outside a Camden dive bar, belting Wonderwall with a man who smells like weed, tambourine in hand, and absolutely no concept of pitch.

But she’s also… kind of thriving?

The man throws a soggy arm around her and howls the chorus like it’s a football chant. ArthurTV is filming through tears of laughter, nearly dropping his phone.

“Alright,” Bach wheezes, clutching his knees, “That’s challenge five complete. Again?”

“Oops,” Y/N giggles.

“Sing with a stranger— double check,” ArthurTV confirms between giggles. “And possibly lose all credibility online—also check.”

Y/N wipes a strand of damp hair from her forehead, offering the tambourine man a fist bump. “I’m not even drunk enough for this to make sense.”

“You will be by pub ten,” Bach assures, waving his phone with the ever-smudged bingo list like it’s a sacred scroll.

“So far we’ve got:

* New outfits? Done. The pink is blinding and iconic.

* Selfie with a wild animal? Shout out to Pickle the ferret and his confused owner.

* Stranger shot? Our guy Sandy in the cowboy hat—absolute legend. Cost me that fiver though.

* Shoe swap? Y/N’s now proudly wearing size elevens and mild trench foot.

* Sing with a stranger? Grammy-worthy.”

Y/N looks down at the muddy trainers now occupying her feet and grimaces. “These better be haunted by good luck or I swear.”

“They don’t even match your shirt,” ArthurTV notes, pretending to be offended.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she deadpans. “Do my clown shoes clash with my Hot Bitch Ready To Party shirt?”

“You’re offending fashion as an institution,” he says solemnly.

Bach is howling. “The internet’s gonna eat this up.”

Despite the squelching in her socks and the ache creeping into her ankles, Y/N’s smile lingers longer this time. Something’s shifted.

Somewhere between the tambourine guy and Bach trying to harmonize with a stranger who didn’t speak English, she doesn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

She’s still anxious—of course she is. It pulses quietly beneath her skin, the way it always does. Not loud, not debilitating, but there. A background hum, like a buzzing fridge. Constant. Easy to ignore in daylight, harder at night.

But for now, it’s quieter than it used to be. Drowned out by laughter and chaos.

They’ve just convinced a hen party to join them for a round of tequila (not a challenge, but still very on brand), when Chris’s team appears like a sitcom cutaway.

“There she is!” Chris crows from across the street, arms open dramatically. “Y/N! Have you been ticking off bingo boxes, or just making heart eyes at George all day?”

Y/N nearly chokes on her shot.

George, of course, looks completely unfazed. Amused, even.

“You wish,” she shoots back, voice still hoarse from the off-key Oasis performance.

Chris gasps, hand to chest like she’s wounded him. “Excuse me, I’m merely an observer of undeniable chemistry.”

“Observer or instigator?” Arthur Hill asks, sipping from what looks suspiciously like his eighth Guinness of the evening.

Y/N pulls a face. “Chris made the bloody bingo list. He’s hardly impartial.”

Chris beams, completely unbothered. “Guilty. And if I didn’t make it mildly humiliating, what’s even the point?”

“You made me swap shoes with a man who just finished a 12 hour shift at Greggs,” she says, holding up a mud-smeared trainer like evidence in a murder trial.

“And now you carry the soul of sausage rolls with every step,” Chris says solemnly, raising his pint in toast.

George chuckles beside him, the corners of his mouth twitching. He hasn’t said much, as usual, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. Y/N tries not to notice.

Fails.

“Nice shoes,” he offers, gaze flicking to her mismatched mess.

“Oh shut it, Hobbit,” she fires back, grinning.

There’s a pause.

Then: “That’s Chris,” George corrects smoothly. “I’m the one with the large head, remember?”

Y/N winces. “Shit. Right. My bad.”

George leans a little closer as he passes, just enough for his voice to reach her ear. “At least you’re paying attention.”

Her breath stumbles. She rolls her eyes too late to hide the smile forming, but ArthurTV notices.

“Someone’s flustered,” he sing-songs, already pointing the camera in her direction.

“I will eat that camera,” Y/N warns.

“Y/N!” Bach calls suddenly, waving the phone like a flare. “We’ve got two left—skulling a pint with a stranger, and the swim.”

“Skulling?” Y/N echoes, eyebrows raised. “You do realise this isn’t Freshers’ Week, right?”

“Which is why we’re doing it in Soho,” Bach says brightly. “The locals live for this kind of energy.”

ArthurTV groans. “I swear to God, if I end up in a viral TikTok titled ‘Millennial Man Dies Doing Pint Challenge’...”

“You’ll get at least 200k likes,” Y/N offers helpfully.

They move on, weaving through Soho’s Friday night crowd, dodging kebab wrappers and trailing glitter from the hen party. The buzz of the city carries them forward, pulsing with possibility.

Eventually, they find a willing pint partner—a bald man named Gaz who insists on racing Bach in a Guinness-downing contest. It's over in seconds. Gaz wins. Barely.

Challenge: complete.

“I think I’ve got a bit of head trauma,” Bach mutters, clutching his forehead. “From the beer or the shame, I can’t tell.”

“Alright,” ArthurTV says, checking the list with exaggerated flair, “We are one swim away from glory.”

Y/N eyes him warily. “Where exactly are you planning this aquatic adventure?”

“Trafalgar,” he replies instantly.

“Oh brilliant,” she says, “Can’t wait to get chased by a security guard named Gary in high-vis.”

“I’ve got a towel,” Bach adds, like that makes anything better.

———————————————————————————

I might post the next few chapters so the bingo video is finished and we can move onto streaming with Georgie xxxxx

Tags

@madforgeorge @wherethezoes-at

[t1gerlilly]

Um. Yeah.

freddie diaz

[a-secret-garden00]

ᴘᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛᴛᴏɴꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 1

| Next |

| Masterlist |

| Word Count | 1.1k |

Why the All-Father had extended an invitation to a giant was something he couldn't understand. Just looking at Loki made his blood boil. The boy's eagerness was dangerous. He could practically see Asgard crumbling every time that chaotic teen smiled. 

And then there was her.

She was a walking disaster, and more of a shadow than an actual person. Following that stupid boy around like a lost puppy. She was a fish out of water—out of her element, out on a limb, and desperate to keep her head down. Try as she might to hide behind her comrade and his intentions, she stood out like a sore thumb. 

"Your skills with a bow are pitiful. And walking in a straight line is a personal challenge in and of itself for you," The Aesir jeered, waltzing up to one of the training fields with the full intention of humiliating her. She had taken aim at a target, only to hit the outer edge. It was a complete and stark contrast to the giant next to her, who had a cluster of arrows already embedded within the center ring.

"And here I thought the jötnar were hopeless." Heimdall continued to taunt, pacing behind her as she readied another arrow. "Yet you've managed to set the bar even lower—" Her arrow missed again, and he was practically grinning ear to ear, "Ditzy."

"Just ignore him," Atreus grumbled, "He's just trying to get in your head."

"I know." 

She was a very good pretender, or so Heimdall assumed. It was still rather frustrating to him that looking into her eyes produced….nothing. There was no insight as to what was going on inside that scatter-brained head. No visions of her future intentions or those secret truths that she kept tucked away. 

It was jarring and even a bit alarming at first. He couldn't name the last time someone had thwarted his abilities. Any who had met a bitter and violent end rather quickly, or were conveniently never heard from again. Whether it was some sort of protection spell conjured up by queen mistletoe, a trick of the Norns, or merely a fluke, he was determined to poke and prod until her secrets came spilling out.

"Don't tell me the retired God of War and his half-breed son allowed you to tag along because they felt sorry for you?"

There was a twitch in her stance, but she continued to ignore him and readied her bow again. Regardless of how minute the reaction, it was fuel to the fire all the same. "Don't call Atreus that," was all she said. But as she took aim, a kick to the shin had her face planting into the mud. 

He laughed, circling her like a cat playing with a mouse. "You're really trying to sell that selfless act, aren't you, Ditzy?" 

"Hey!" Abandoning his own training, Atreus had turned his weapon onto the Aesir god. "Leave her alone!"

Bifrost eyes turned to Odin's invited guest, though beneath the mocking smile, Heimdall was seething at the mere sight of him. "Do you really expect to shoot me with tha—" He leaned out of the way and caught the arrow midair. Jaw clenching and lips curling into a taut line, he snapped the projectile over his knee and discarded the pieces. Oh he was itching for a fight—to teach this stupid boy that neither he nor his kind were welcome here. He stepped forward, but a hand around his ankle temporarily curbed his anger. He looked down.

Muddy fingers had curled into the fabric of his boots. While her eyes were firm, her strength was almost comical. He scoffed. "Was that really meant to knock me off my feet, Ditzy?"

"Don't do it, Atreus," She warned her companion instead. Her hand slipped from his ankle, and she pushed herself back up, head held high. "He's not worth it."

"Yes, yes listen to your loyal pet, Loki," Heimdall agreed with a cynical chuckle. "After all, mother hen knows best, doesn't she?"

Nothing was ever off limits in Heimdall's eyes. So long as he wormed his way into someone's head and thrust those nasty little hidden truths into the light, he was thrilled. Pushing every button he could find was a talent of his. From servants, to his opponents, and even his own kin, no one was free from his provocation. Especially persistent headaches who tried to hide or ignore him. So it was only natural that when he had found the one button that absolutely drove her up the wall, he abused it to no end.

"You can place a crown on a paper's head, but that doesn't make you a queen, Ditzy."

"Drink in Asgard's splendors while you can! Knowing your luck, you'll croak tomorrow!"

Her insecurities were easy to prey upon. Whether it be the impending doom of her own mortality, her inferiority in comparison to the gods she kept in her company, or her pitiful combat skills. Her negative reactions were genuine, but they never surpassed a glare or a swift "shut up". Push, push, push, he would keep pushing until she snapped—showing her true colors to the world and finally convincing herself that she didn’t belong.

"Run home little girl," He taunted during her usual attempt to ignore him, "Run home to mommy and daddy! Oh, wait...there's nothing to run home to, is there?"

She stopped. Her hands had balled into fists, knuckles popping and turned white from the restraint to keep her emotions in check. But with a quick turn of her heel, she threw a punch. Then another, and another.

He laughed, dodging each rage-filled attempt, "What happened to 'He's not worth it', Ditzy? If all I had to do was bring up your dead parents, I would've done it a long time ago." Her hits grew more random and wild, yet he blocked each one, the taunting smile never fading from his face. 

Perhaps it was this strategy, or just plain dumb luck that she actually managed to knee him in the stomach. But it was his reflexes that ultimately created an opening for her to make contact with his face. 

The resounding slap seemed to echo off the walls. Warmth began to flood the stinging area, but more than anything, he was stunned. He lifted a hand to his cheek, feeling the heat and red mark that was undoubtedly forming.

She hit him. She actually hit him.

Her chest heaved and her shoulders shook. Fury had clouded her eyes. But gradually, it began to fade. She stood up straight and took a deep and trembling breath. There were no words spoken, though her unapologetic eyes said everything. 

"I hate you."

[reincrimination]

who were you expecting?

9-1-1 | eddie diaz x evan buckley

content warnings: hurt/comfort, injury

collection: buddie week 2021 (reposting sept '24)

read on archive of our own

Eddie twists to see the bruises better in the mirror, hands coming down to frame them as if they were a piece of art. He tugs his turnout gear past his waist and over his hipbone, trying to see how far it extends. The bruising ends abruptly at the top of his hip. Already, the edges are turning a sickly yellow, unflattering against the tan skin of his torso. It looks like a sunset, but maybe more like the type you’d see in a zombie apocalypse. The door creaks open and he turns with a start, exhaling when he sees Buck. “Oh, it’s you.” “Who were you expecting?” Buck hazards, but his gaze has already turned to the marred mess of Eddie’s side. “Hen, I hope?”

It’d been a rough shift.

It hadn’t been the kind of shift where Eddie would keep seeing a dying person’s last moments on the backs of his eyelids, or when the ride back to the station would be silent with everyone’s heads bowed in bone-deep exhaustion. Where the feelings in his chest hurt more than his muscles.

It’d been the kind of shift where the hits had kept coming, and coming, and coming. Call after call after call, with no casualties, but maybe some that would’ve been better off dead. When closing his eyes on the way to another scene was the most rest he’d had all shift, when the only thing he’d eaten was half a granola bar that Buck gave him. When Eddie had to shower not once, not twice, but three times, to scrub mud and soot and dirt off of him in-between calls, just for the last one to slather him in layers of concrete dust, anyways.

When a parking garage collapse had led to him, two stories aboveground and yet feeling like he was in the deepest cave imaginable, pulling a woman and her children from their crumpled car, he had expected to need another shower, but not to need medical attention, too.

He supposes he remembers it, now that he thinks back. He’d been leaning in to pull the youngest out of her car seat and a chunk of the roof, resting on top of the car, had shifted enough to pin him where he was hanging down into the sunroof. In seconds, Buck had moved it off and he had gotten the kid up and out. He doesn’t remember it hurting.

As he stands in the shower room, turnout gear shoved down and hanging off of his waist like a lumpy skirt, he figures it must’ve hurt when it happened. It certainly does now.

His ribs are painted a mural of blue and purple, bruises echoing from his flank to his ribcage, and stretching down to his hipbone. Small abrasions litter his torso like cat scratches, and they’d stung as the fabric of his shirt had peeled away from them. Eddie twists to see the bruises better in the mirror, hands coming down to frame them as if they were a piece of art. He tugs his turnout gear past his waist and over his hipbone, trying to see how far it extends. The bruising ends abruptly at the top of his hip. Already, the edges are turning a sickly yellow, unflattering against the tan skin of his torso. It looks like a sunset, but maybe more like the type you’d see in a zombie apocalypse. 

The door creaks open and he turns with a start, exhaling when he sees Buck. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Who were you expecting?” Buck hazards, but his gaze has already turned to the marred mess of Eddie’s side. “Hen, I hope?”

Eddie shakes his head, fingers quickly dancing along the length of his ribs. He doesn’t need to be checked out. “Nah. Nothing’s broken.”

“What about bleeding?” Buck’s already standing beside Eddie, so close the latter can feel his breath ghost along his exposed shoulder and collarbones. “When was this?”

“Parking garage,” Eddie mumbles, losing his focus as Buck’s palm comes to rest over the very center of the bruise. His palm is scorching hot. It soothes Eddie’s aching chest.

“The slab?” Buck hisses in sympathy, pressing in gently with his fingertips along the lines of Eddie’s ribs. He tracks down to the swell of his hipbone, palpating the expanse of blue and yellow. “Shit, I’m sorry, man- I tried to get it off as quick as I could- I didn’t notice it caught you this bad.”

“Don’t,” Eddie shakes his head, putting a hand over Buck’s forearm, stilling the man’s movements on his torso.

“Right. Not about me. Sorry.” Buck gently smooths along the rest of the bruise, tugging down Eddie’s gear like he had to see how far down it extends.

“Not what I meant,” Eddie murmurs, so softly that it makes Buck stutter in his movements. He looks up, finding Eddie’s gaze waiting. His eyes are tinged red, probably from exhaustion, and Buck wants to pull him into his chest and hold him until he falls asleep. “Not your fault.”

“Okay,” Buck breathes, unable to tear his gaze away from Eddie’s. His fingers still rest on the abstract art coloring Eddie’s skin.

“Broken? Bleeding?”

“No, I don’t think so. You should still get it checked-.”

Eddie’s turning away and shaking his head, then. Buck looks away as he strips out of the rest of his gear, now just in his nylon uniform pants that he’d worn underneath it. A thin layer of gray dust litters his hair, face, and neck- whatever had been exposed during the rescue.

“Let me,” Buck mumbles, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it before nudging Eddie towards the bench. He looks like he is going to protest, but the tiredness weighing down his bones is so profound he doesn’t, he just straddles the bench so he’s facing Buck and lets his head hang.

Buck does the same facing Eddie, scooting forward and gently cupping his chin with his own bruised, scraped hands. Eddie’s eyes flutter closed as Buck carefully wipes the dust off of his cheeks, his jawline, his forehead, under his eyes. He wets the towel more and starts on Eddie’s hair, trying to avoid having to rinse it again. Eddie’s completely pliant as Buck works on him, breathing slowing as he finds a moment to relax.

Buck gently rests Eddie’s forehead against his shoulder, letting the man sag against him as he moves onto the back of his neck and shoulders. He falls into the rhythm of swiping and blotting the dust off, wringing out the towel, and then re-wetting it and repeating. Eddie’s breathing is slow- not labored, Buck notes, as he listens carefully- and he thinks he might be falling asleep. When Buck is done, he cups the back of Eddie’s neck with a dry hand and rests his own cheek against the top of his head. He smells like cement and soot and a little bit of sweat, but underneath there is still the coconut of his shampoo that he shares with Chris, and the cinnamon pine of that nice cologne he buys himself.

Buck doesn’t know how long they sit there, one hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and the other resting gently over the bruise on his side, like his touch alone can heal it. The warmth from his palm seeps out onto Eddie’s cold-to-the-touch skin. Eddie is floating in that space between sleep and awareness, where his thoughts are slow like honey and incoherent, and he’s aptly aware of the sensation of Buck’s hands on him- but also feels like he’s floating in warmth.

He feels safe and he never wants to move.

Except his shift has been over for half an hour and his kid is going to be back from school soon.

Eddie groans, a pathetic noise, as he pulls himself away from Buck. The hand on his neck releases, fingertips dragging across the raised goosebumps that have sprung up like spring flowers across his skin. The hand on his side pats gently and then is gone, too. 

“Thanks.” Eddie’s voice is gruff and weary. Buck wants to smooth down the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb until it is gone, paint over the dark of his under-eyes with a color light enough to help him look alive. “Better get going.”

“Yeah,” Buck rubs the back of his own neck, fingers still tingling like he’d dipped them in lidocaine. “You have, uh, Chris waiting.”

“He’ll be home in a bit,” Eddie mumbles. “And you have, uh. Taylor.”

Buck looks like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. 

“Can I-?”

“Do you want to-?”

They stop at the same time, huffing twin laughs before tiredly meeting each other’s gazes again. There’s a new weight to it, now. 

“Come home with me?” Eddie asks, quick, before Buck can say anything else.

“Read my mind, Diaz.”

[onthewaytosomewhere]

Omg Mel I can finally ask for Buddie fic 😂 or Bucktommy for Spa Day! Your choice for either of the pairings lol

alright so this would have been done yesterday but as you know i got a lil bit distracted yesterday lolz

so here ya go luv 💚 this can also be found on ao3 if you'd rather

(no cut cuz it's just smut adjacent)

Tommy proposed the idea a couple of months ago, and it’s taken this long to sync their schedules to make it happen. Buck books them a room at a resort that comes highly recommended (by Hen and Karen), and it has what is supposed to be a fantastic spa, so killing ‘two birds with one stone’ really. They get the vacation they both want, and Tommy gets the spa day he’s been wanting. Buck doesn’t realize that means he will be wrangled into said spa day until the day arrives, and Tommy asks if he’s ready to go.

“Go where? Did I forget we had plans? I thought today was your spa day?”

“Today is OUR spa day. Did you miss the part when I said I wanted us to do a day together?"

“Oh … well … I’ve never done a spa day. I really wouldn’t know where to start. What to choose.”

“It’s alright. I booked us massages and the mud bath, which comes highly recommended. With the packages I picked up, we can decide on some other options while we’re there and see where the day takes us.”

Buck isn’t sure Tommy will appreciate that he thought the day was going to take him to the poolside bar or the lounge chairs out by the beach. “Okay, that sounds good, I guess. You’ll have to be my spa day guide.”

Tommy chuckles, and Buck thinks he’d do damn near anything to hear that carefree sound coming from him. So he lays on the bed naked except for a tiny towel while some person kneads the hell out of knots he didn’t even know he had. And while this is wonderful, he’s laying next to Tommy, whose masseuse is pulling sounds from him that sound damn-near-pornographic and make him want just to take him back to the room.

The mud bath is, well, Buck doesn’t really know how to describe it, but the moan that slips between Tommy’s lips as he sits down in it once again has Buck thinking about taking him back to their room to reproduce those sounds. He tries to enjoy it, but it feels weird, and he just can’t quite get comfortable; the shower after is much more his speed. Especially when he realizes they’re in a private shower, and he can finally be the one to draw some of those sounds out of Tommy.

The rest of the morning passes with Buck following Tommy, and by lunch, he’s ready to be done, but holding on for the joy that is alighting Tommy’s eyes every time he joins him for something new. When Tommy has finally had his fill of spa time, and they’re finally redressed in their own clothes, it’s time for a late lunch. Buck convinces Tommy that room service is the way to go, and if he maybe gets his “dessert” before their lunch arrives, he figures they’re on vacation—that’s when you're supposed to break the rules.

[kikibridges13]

SO my current WIP went into a whole different direction that I had envisioned, which is why I haven't posted it yet. So, here, have the first part of Rumor ('Bout Me and You), which has turned into a 5 + 1 lol. ~~

…You know I've known you forever

How many nights we hung out together

Same little crowd, little bar, little town

Round this old dance floor

~

Hen

Henretta Wilson was not a naive person. 

Oh no, no, no, she was always able to tell when something was…off within the 118. She had a keen sense for the subtleties in conversation, the slight shifts in tone, and miniscule changes in body language. She would sit through their shifts, observing one person to another, catching the little quirks that hinted at something more. Like the way that Chimney always rubbed the back of his neck when he was nervous, or trying (and usually failing) to keep a secret. The way that Buck would hold onto whatever was in his hands a little tighter than normal when Eddie was talking about the insane, yet drastic tactic his parents had tried to pull in keeping Christopher away from him even longer. Bobby’s exasperated yet fond expression when they all took turns yelling at each other in a round of Mario Kart. 

These details always told a bigger story, ones that maybe they weren’t entirely privy to. 

Or hadn’t perhaps been discussed at all. 

At least not between the two that it involved, anyway. 

Hen was aware of the rumors that used to run between shifts when Eddie first joined the 118. It was hard to believe Buck absolutely hated the brunette when he first started, and she couldn't help but snort thinking back at the way Buck was peacocking around trying to make Eddie feel intimidated. How not even a shift later they were as thick as thieves, pieces of a puzzle they didn’t even know fit together. She noticed the way they always bumped shoulders, sometimes set a little too close together, and had sometimes wondered out loud to Karen if there was anything deeper in their friendship. Of course, others on shift had noticed, too. 

But then, Eddie’s wife returned and Buck started an on-again-off-again fling with Taylor Kelly, and those rumors died down. And life amongst the 118 went back to normal-ish (throwing in a lawsuit that felt more like divorce in the middle, because why not). 

The rumors returned after Eddie was buried 40 feet under mud and Buck tried to dig him out personally. 

That’s when the bet started between A and B shifts, trying to pinpoint how long it was going to take these two morons to figure out what everybody else knew. 

For the first couple of months after that particular incident, the two firefighters clung to each other, bar following each other to the bathroom or showers. They sat with their knees between each other in the fire engine, their playful banter sometimes came out more flirtatious than anything. Then the world was shut down by the Pandemic, and Hen began to notice even more. Especially when she and Chimney were rooming with the two at the loft. She noticed how the two would maneuver around each other almost in sync, unspoken words between them tying their motions even further, whether it was fixing dinner when it landed on their rotation or the way that Buck would rub small circles on the small of Eddie’s back after ending a call with Christopher, both longing to just hug the kid just as Hen wanted to cling to her own. 

And if she and Chimney ended up restarting those rumors and got more people to join in on the bet, well, that was between her and the good Lord. 

Throughout the years, between failed relationships and tragedies, the bet had become a thing in the past, a small fortune of about $500 locked in the tiny box at the bottom of her locker. And then Buck came out to them, not with Eddie, but with Tommy Kinard of all people, and the whispers began again. The whispers became louder when Christopher ended up going to live with his grandparents in Texas, though outside of the core 6 (Hen, Chimney, Buck, Eddie, Bobby, and Ravi), nobody knew the exact reason. 

After Tommy and Buck broke up, a few people who had joined the team since the bet initially began decided to throw in their own bets, believing that since Buck was on the outs at least, it would now only be a matter of time before somebody walked away with a huge payday. 

All bets stopped once more after Eddie announced that he was moving to Texas to be closer to his son. Or at least, outside of Hen and Chimney, anyway. 

It started after the shift Eddie announced he was leaving, when Buck burst through Chimney and Maddie’s front door. Hen and Karen had been over, letting Mara and JeeYun have a playdate, who looked equally surprised to see the younger firefighter looking pleased as punch, a stark difference from how he had been sulking after Eddie’s announcement. 

“Sure, Buck, come on in,” Maddie muttered sarcastically as he bounced on his heels, looking between his two coworkers. 

“I’ve got it! I know how to help Eddie!” 

“Please, Lord God, do not tell me you’re going to move with him,” Hen said. 

“What? No,” Buck replied, and Hen thought it weird that Buck didn’t even deny that could be an option for him. “You know how he’s trying to find somebody to sublet for him, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, I talked to my landlord, and he’s going to let me out of my own lease, so I can take over Eddie’s.” 

“And have you…told…Eddie this?” Maddie asked. 

“Not exactly. But I applied to his listing.” 

Hen closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to will herself not to strangle the blonde. When she opened her eyes, Karen was taking a deep sip of her wine. 

“You don’t think he won’t notice that?” Maddie’s tone was full of exasperation as she shook her head. 

“I didn’t use my name, thank you very much.” 

“Then what name did you use?” Chimney asked. 

“Freddie Fakeman.” 

There was silence between the group sitting at the dining room table for a brief moment before they all broke out into laughter. 

“Freddie Fakeman?!” Chimney howled. “Really?!” 

“What, I thought it was pretty good!” 

“I’ve got to tell Bobby,” his brother-in-law guffawed and pulled out his phone. “He’s going to think this is hilarious.” 

“What, hey - no,no, Chimney!” Buck tried to protest as Chimney bounced up from the table and took off towards the back patio, cacking as Buck chased after him. As the sliding door shut behind the two, Maddie glanced at Hen and Karen. 

“Is that bet at the 118 still going?” Maddie asked. 

“Oh, very much so,” Hen replied with a nod. 

Maddie nodded and took a sip of the water in front of her. Then, she reached behind her to her purse that was hooked to the chair behind her, and took out a $20, sliding it towards the paramedic. “$20 says Buck ends up admitting he’s in love with Eddie after he leaves for El Paso,” she said. “And for them to hook up when Eddie comes back.” 

Hen and Karen shared a knowing glance, and Hen took the bill in front of her and slid it into her coat pocket. 

“I’ll add it to the pool.” 

[renatedagmarmilada]

it is not size- it is numbers!

The sheep dog followed the sheep yapping at their heels urging them on, run, run wooly sweaters to the farm gate on the path to graze just there, by the motorway

horse sanguine and sleek, nodded over the top- that a way, neighing loudly wool caught on bramble bushes point the way, sign posts as clear as day path trodden by the many in the country mud

Bring them into the field? yapped sheepdog to haughty horse knowing full well he couldn't budge? horse shook his mane, he wouldn't sheep dog nudging for a new reaction

not sideways, not backwards not forward for trotter, blocked by the farm gate steel pipe for keeping order barred the way and showed boundaries The way to the Abattoir?

not us the sheep told the horse it's yon cow, though all like her milk twanting beef with their yorkshire puds nor you old sau, butchered then hung in the shed also a producer of a bit of handbag leather

about turn wooly girls sheepdog keeper barked and wagged straight down that path by the motorway her there, eyeballing horse, lead the way stop standing about like a load of sheep

porky pigs came up behind grunting they want the field to play stop those pigs stampeding all they'll just run into that bog that is the neighbour's border

following clucking chicks and hens making a din to win jumped on the backs of pigs for a ride bit skin into ribbons, sharp beaks, little knives pigs nudged the sheep need a way to escape

pigs became crazed blood flowing from their back charged crazily maddened, pain, path through the wooly backs to escape their fowl riders

horse watching the performance laughed loudly, proudly don't dare infiltrate my space however, slow your pace clear off, be on your way

I am awaiting a mate delivered today to my gate Came the farmer with his horse box whistled for order horse box in tow had to wait

dog grabbed a wing on the pig chickens smelt death flapped off into the horse's field porkies began to sing gruntingly with relief cows mooed and booed admiringly

--who does horse think he is, just a ride! He is one, well two with her, we are many power is ours by number not much he can do alone or with just her through the gate and bite his haunches

horse, loved by man, knew he'd lost that game too many of all sorts for any gain turned tail, flying through the air cantering diagonally across the field strong rump action, cow pushed open the gate

brawn holds the day whatever the sway..

/5 minute children's story at my Saturday Writers Group this week

[schistic]

My glorious 9 by 13 inch farberware baking pan with lid attachment (modeling Mud Hen Bars) if you can hear me I would like you to roll out of my friend’s kitchen like a chef boyardee can and come to me immediately because I need you. Badly

Have a little barbecue hosted by friend(s?) coming up and the last time I didn't end up making or bringing anything just buying something on the way with the friend who was driving me there but it could be fun to put something together HOWEVER the pan I'd like to use is currently stuck at another friend's place because I made something for his birthday party and left in a daze after being there for hours to catch a train before the day turned over to the next and he still hasn't gotten back to me with it yet... IT HAS A LID which is what makes it so great aaaghh 💢

[royal-food]

Mud Hen Bars

[eucataestrophe]

10:57am: Mud Hen Bars ✔

These are honestly divine. You'll have to look over the massive corner missing...everyone wanted to taste test before it was cool. Super simple to make! Homemade vanilla base, marshmallow and chocolate chips in the middle, and a brown sugar meringue for the top. 😍

[its--fandom--darling]

Behave

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader

Prompt: “Is there alcohol in this?”

Rating: NSFW, Explicit (18+). We got daddy kink, spanking and good ol’ fashioned smut. 

A/N this was completely inspired by @angryschnauzer​ and a conversation that I had with her. So this is dedicated to her. I also may or may not have used one of our favorite phrases from the iconic reading from the phone book video that is circulating of Henners and Hammer. The prompt is literally just a means to an end in this, lol.

You stomped your feet on the mat in front of the door, knocking some of the caked mud of your wellies. Henry came behind you doing the same as he held Kal’s lead. You push open the thick wood door, slip your wellies off and set them by the door before padding to the comfy leather couch set close to the roaring fire. You rubbed your hands together and hold them out to warm them by the fire. You’d enjoyed the chance to stretch your legs in the brisk Autumn air, however, due to the recent rains the paths were sticky with thick, brown mud.

Henry follows you, slid Kal off his lead and slips off his massive black wellies. A very muddy Kal comes and lays next to the hearth as you pull your legs up on the couch, sighing at the warmth of the fire as it seeped into your chilled limbs. You hear Henry murmur something to the bartender and soon he’s behind you holding two steaming mugs.

“Here, darling, this’ll warm you up,” he says in his rumbling voice, handing you a glass cup. You take it and lick your lips.

“Is there alcohol in this?” you ask, smelling it as you start to swirl the long stemmed spoon around the glass with slight tinkle.

              He chuckles, “Yes there is my dear. Baileys, to be exact.” He takes a sip and the cream clings to his stubble. You giggle and gesture to his lip. He smirks and licks his lip clean with one swipe of his skilled tongue.

You lick your lips as you watch his tongue move. He smiles at you. “Behave.”

You gasp indignently, “I am!”

              “I saw the way you were looking at me, you minx.”

You pout and pull your spoon out. “and how was I looking at you, Hen.”

              “Like you want to jump me?”

“Maybe I do,” you offer coyly, sucking the cream off your spoon. Henry’s eyes darken just so and then you set your spoon down to sip your drink.

              “Hence your need to behave.”

You shrug and slip your feet into his lap, brushing your toes teasingly against his thigh.

              “Stop being such a little minx,” he grumbles.

You bite your lip and run your foot over his crotch this time.

               Henry takes a sharp breath in through his nose. “Kitten, I said stop.”

You do it again, adding a bit of pressure this time and Henry gives you a stern look. With a sigh, you cross your ankles and smile at him, pausing your movements. “Fine, but all bets are off once I get a few of  these in me.”

              He smiles, “Well then, I shall have to limit you then won’t I?”

“Or we could finish these ones and you could take me home so you can fuck me six ways to Sunday?” you offer just as he takes a sip of his causing him to choke on it slightly. You smile, before sipping your own. “Something wrong, Hen?”

              He shakes his head, “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so crass about it.”

You pout, “I was just asking for what I want, daddy.”

              His face burns in the firelight. “Kitten,” he says his tone just this side of scolding.

“Yes, daddy?” you ask, licking some cream from your lips.

              “You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” he warns, setting his mug down of the side table.

“Maybe that’s what I want?”

              He raises his brow, “So you want spankings?”

You smile, lips parting in glee. “Maybe.”

              “Finish your drink, we are heading home.”

“So you can spank me?” you sass, before drinking the last of you coffee. 

              He grumbles and pushes your feet from his lap, before returning his glass to the bar. You finish yours and follow him over to the bar to return your glass as well.

              Henry pays the bartender and thanks him with a small nod of his head, he loops his arm around your waist and leads you to the door. “Put your wellies on, kitten.”

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, tugging them on. Henry whistles to Kal. The big lug stands and trots over to him. Henry scratches his chin before pushing open the door and leading the both of you outside. He opens the car door for you and then gets Kal in the back. You thank him and climb in clicking on your safety belt. The drive was filled with Henry ignoring your advances, which only got you more riled up that you were squirming in your seat by the time you neared your rented weekend house.

              Henry put the car in park and let Kal out, who trotted off to relieve himself as Henry rounded the car to open your door for you. “Out kitten, inside now. Be ready for your punishment when I arrive.”

You nod, “yes, daddy.”

              “Good girl,” he says patting your ass gently as you towards the house.

You unlock the place and head inside, shedding your wellies at the door and your clothes along the way, leaving them as figurative breadcrumbs. You head up the stairs and the sit on the bed, hands resting on your thighs primly. You hear the front door open, Henry mumble something to Kal before heading up the creaking stairs. He leans against the doorframe of the bedroom and looks at you before he tsks.

              “Kitten, you know how you are supposed to be sitting.” He scolds, calmly stepping into the room and tugging his sweater over his head. That leaves him in his snug grey t-shirt that hugs his torso in a way that makes your mouth water.

“How am I supposed to be sitting, daddy.”

              “Bottom up,” he says without looking at you as he slips his belt from his waist and pulls his t-shirt out of the waistband of his jeans.

A shiver runs up your spine at his order and you quickly roll onto your stomach and push your ass in your air.

              He whistles at the sight of your glistening pussy on display. “Oh kitten, is that why you’ve been so naughty this afternoon?”

“yes, daddy,” you whimper softly.

              He tsks at you against and climbs on the behind you, resting on his knees. His big hands grip the globes of your ass, kneading them tenderly in his calloused hands.

              “I’m going to give you 5 for being naughty in public and 5 for being bratty in the car, does that sound fair?” he asks, smoothly.

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, your pussy clenching in expectation.

              He delivers the first swat with annoying precision and the second with the same even tempered force. You whimper as they become harder with each set. You reach the 10th one and you’re whimpering in need.

              “Kitten, have you learned your lesson?” he asks, his hand now soothing the burning in your behind.

You blink back the tears in your eyes before answering, “Yes, daddy.”

              “You did such a good job, I think you deserve a reward.”

“Please daddy, please fuck me,” you beg, feeling your arousal drip from your core.

              “You’re so eager aren’t you?” he teases.

You whine, “Please, need you.”

              “Alright, kitten, Daddy’s got you.” He says, standing up and shucking his pants and boxers in one go before climbing back onto the bed. He teases your folds with head of his cock, making you whimper again. “I know, Kitten,” he says, pushing into you slowly to tease you.

You whimper and clench around him.

              “Fuck, kitten, you’re so warm,” he grunts, rutting into you.

“Just fuck me, please,” you beg, again pushing back against him, making him grab your hips to hold you still.

              “You’re going to take what I give you,” he growls, pulling out all the way before thrusting back in all at once.

Your breathe rushes from your lungs at the force of his thrusts, his pelvis slapping against your ass as he fucks into you with abandon. His grunts mingle with your breathy moans as he fills you with his cock over and over again. “Daddy,” you whine.

              “Want you to cum for me, kitten,” he murmurs, his hair curling from his perspiration. He leans forward and blankets you with his body. As he presses kisses to your shoulder, he reaches down to strum at your clit with his thick fingers. You clench around him as pleasure ricochets up your spine.

“Cum with me, kitten,” he orders with a pinch of your clit.

You cry out and cum hard, clenching around him. He continues to rut into you until he cums, filling you up with a grunt and grinding into you until he’s completely spent.

              “Fuck, kitten,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. “You’re going to half to misbehave more often.”

You smile as he pulls out of you and flops next you. “Challenge accepted, Hen,” you murmur, kissing his cheek.

              He gives you a cheeky grin and rolls his eyes.

“Just remember when the time comes, that you asked for it.” You say, rolling onto your side and twirling of his sweaty curls around your finger.

              “Yes, ma’am, I will.”

You smile and kiss him softly on the lips. “Good boy. Now I need a shower and you can join me if you want.”

              He smiles, “I will just let me get my sea legs again and I’ll be in.”

“Alright,” you kiss him again, “thank you for this weekend, Hen, it’s been amazing.”

              “You’re welcome, now, go shower. I’ll be in a minute.”

You push yourself off the bed and strut to the bathroom, listening to him groan as you walk. You giggle, knowing you’re in for a wonderful evening.

Tagging: @persephone-is-here-omg​ @angryschnauzer​ @soldatsaleannan​ @viking-raider​ @littlefreya​

[sloppy-butcher]

Can I request some fucking happiness like GODDAMN IM SO SAD

coming right up my friend. happiness in the form of cuddling with randomly selected killers and survivors to be listed below (sorry if it's short, I tried something different for this request) don’t be sad anyMORE <3

Seeking Comfort

The Doctor (Herman Carter)

He notices immediately when you slosh into his office after a long day of battling difficulties, shoulders hunched over, and demeanor sour, bringing with you a most depressing mood. He passes a cool eye over your shrinking form as you slowly make your way to the small bench that served as your designated station. Suddenly he calls you over, producing a sound somewhere between a cough and laugh, causing you to look up at him in confusion. Herman pushes back his laze boy from his work table, presenting his empty lap to you. Your questioning gaze flickers between the man and his offer and after only a few more encouraging nods, you crawl your way over to him. Never had he initiated affection like this, almost demanding you to be in his arms. He consumes you completely in his body, swallowing you up in his off-white lab coat and bare arms. The electrodes that protrude out his forearms would spark occasionally and tickle you until your face lightens and a smile somewhat returns. You knew it was secretly Herman himself sending you the fuzzy reminds of energy  In between reading documents and writing down his new observations, Herman often places his head on top of yours, humming and kissing your hair as you drifted off to sleep.

The Hag (Lisa Sherwood)

Lisa tries her absolute damnedest to make you leave her realm with a smile on your face. Though she can't talk and her hugs are not the warmest and her lips aren’t the best for giving kisses, she displays her affection in other manners. She beckons you over to her crouched in the swamp. She takes your hand in hers and with the faintest and gentlest movements, barely even gracing your skin, uses her elongated claw to draw small symbols on your arm with the help of fresh, black mud. You tilt your head and ask her what they mean. She gives you her best smile, a stretched-out display of all her twisted and razor-sharp teeth, and places her unaltered hand over your heart. You can see her sway her head with the ticking of your heartbeat and you realize that it was a spell of protection and repair - or rather a spell for a sad heart. Lisa makes you spend the rest of your time together searching the swamp for fireflies, a rarity in her realm but a blessing none the less. She follows you around carrying with her a dirty glass jar and whenever you managed to catch a handful of the elusive bugs, she’d make you put them inside until the glass glowed a brilliant yellow hue. At the end of the evening, when the darkness that previously sat on your chest has alleviated slightly, Lisa offers you one last gift. She asks you to lean down to her comfortable height and then places her forehead to yours. You hear her breathing steady and become as sure as the sun will rise and the night will end and you know that everything will be alright when she is around.

The Deathslinger (Caleb Quinn)

“Drink up.” Caleb slides you a hefty glass practically overflowing with burning, brown liquid. “That’ll put all yer troubles in the ground for sure.” Wearily, you try to lift the glass to your lips and embrace the blissful effects of the strong alcohol but instead, your hand starts to shake and you get hit with another wave of perpetual exhaustion. The glass clatters to the bar table with a thud and the liquid splashes everywhere. You apologize profusely to the man as tears threaten to envelop your vision. Caleb sighs and moves around the table to your side. You feel his hand place itself gently on your back - a small gesture of comfort and one you clung onto for dear life. “Ay see it’s gonna take an even stronger type of liquor to fix that troubled heart of yours.” You hear him shuffle but could not bear to lift your eyes from the cover of your hands. Something tickles your right ear and suddenly you sense him begin to pepper kisses along your cheekbone. When Caleb notices that he has your attention, his kisses deepen and he starts making obnoxious smooching noises. You couldn’t help but smile and try to pull away from the mocking man, succumbing to his game and forgetting all your worries in the shine of his love. He continues his rampage of wrecking your face with wet, sloppy kisses until you were begging for him to stop. You were laughing, the tears from before having dried up. Caleb smiles, his damaged cheek hurting from the strain. But when he sees how you look at him with happiness returned in your face, he deems it all worth it.

Meg Thomas

Meg sighs and you feel her chest compress and her head lean down to your ear level, her arms sneaking to your sides where she found warmth and structure. Since the first second she saw that slight downwards twinge of your mouth, Meg had not left your side. Right now she had positioned herself to be sitting on the log directly behind you while together you sat facing the campfire. She had her legs on either side of you, effectively making a sort of make-shift barrier between you, her, and the rest of the shitty world. You relax into her, allowing your head to fall back and land safely on her left chest. She retrieves one hand and delicately brushes hair out of your eyes. She was so kind and understanding, caring like a mother and passionate like an athlete. She was persistent even as the wall crumbled inwards and started to bury you in an impossible rumble, she was quickly there to offer you her hand. “It’s difficult.” Meg mumbles so quietly it was more directed towards herself than to anyone else. “It’s like an uphill battle and sometimes it feels like your legs are going to break and you’re not going to make it up.” You feel her hands start to shiver and you go to grasp them in your own. She stops and squeezes you, holding on like a falling child would a tree branch. “But we must keep trying.” You open your eyes again to see her lovingly looking down at you - she was so angelic bathed in the golden firelight. She lowers her face and gives your nose a quick peck. She smells like roses and fresh body wash. Meg smiles and you were infected with her hopefulness, blooming in your chest in the forms of happiness and love.

Ashley J. Williams 

 “What's up, doll-face?” Ash asks as he slides into the seat next to yours. You hurriedly suck back a cry and turn your head away from him, trying and failing to hide your miserable expression. He waits a moment, eyes dancing up and down your shivering body before he exhales audibly. “Rough day, huh?” His comment was rhetorical - it was obvious that you were upset. He runs a hand through his graying hair. He pauses and thinks for a second, a task that he never normally is one to partake in. He goes to speak but stops - no that sounds stupid. Well, what about - no that's insensitive. Again and again, his brain produced and sabotaged all possibilities he had to try and make you feel better. He just wanted to make you stop crying. Ash is very unpracticed in the field of comfort. Yet seeing you so broken, so unlike how wonderful and lively you usually were, pained him more than the awkwardness did. He contemplates another option hen suddenly he feels a small tug at his shirt. Looking over he sees you pleading for him to take you in. His heart jitters slightly but does not stop him from shuffling closer to you and offering you his arm. You grateful wrap yourself around him and soon stuff your nose into his side.  Ash’s metal hand rubs smalls circles on your back and you wonder why he was not always this hug-able. “Don’t get too comfortable, kid. This is a once-off thing.” Though your heart ached from problems unimaginable, his simple abruptness tinged with undertones of sympathy, was enough of a rude-awakening to remind you that you were alive and that you always had him. 

[kedreeva]

I have this game I play with your bird posts where I try to identify the bird in question before I see your caption/tags. Thus far, I can only reliably ID Tanner the handsome rooster; the peafowl are so eerily identical.

Well, Orion should be fairly easy to tell, since he’s the only adult male purple I have, so any big purple idiot with a train is gonna be him! And Stan is the only cameo, so if you see a completely pale brown peacock with a train, it’s Stan.

Aris and Aurora are the only two blue pied hens. Aris you can tell, if you can see her face, because she’s got a nice long, well-tapered facial structure, but also the crown of her head is white and it extends in a clean line to and over her beak:

Aurora doesn’t have that nearly as cleanly, her face kinda looks like she got sprayed by mud. You can also tell by their right wings. Aurora has a dark patch on hers, but Aris has a line of dark feathers cutting her white. You can also look at the white on their throats (Aris’ goes farther down and has 2 steps to it) and the green on their necks (aris’ goes all the way to her shoulders, but Aurora’s stops short).

There’s actually a bunch of other ways I tell them apart, but a lot of them are behavioral.

As for the BS ladies... they’re a lot harder. Eclipse is the easiest- if you look at her primaries, they’re all white. She looks nearly white, no big brown patch at the back of her neck.

Major and Minor... well, they have those names because when I got them they were basically twins and I had no idea how to tell them apart. I know NOW that Minor has a couple of white primaries buried, and that she’s got blue on her face, which is more slender/tapered. And I know that Major has a more bulbous hawk head and an attitude problem.

Helios and Io are easy to tell apart- Helios has a big white spot on top of his head, and his wings have barred feathers. Io does not have white on his head, and his wings are splotchy because they will be solid colored. Helios also has a lot of white splotches on him because his pied markings are better.

Also every picture of Helios is blurry because he is less than 3 inches from the camera at all times.

Arcana.... She has 1 black feather on her left wing, and the brown on the back of her neck goes all the way up to and onto her head, and she has a huge white patch on her throat that gives her throat just behind her jaw this really cleanly delineated brown/white border. I don’t have any good photos of her, so maybe I’ll have to try to get a few soon.

Artemis... well. She never has any crown feathers. And although she’s a blackshoulder so she’s mostly “white” looking, she’s actually not, she’s muddy colored, and then since she’s pied, she’s got the nice white angel wing pied markings over her shoulders that give her a dark saddle on her back. Also she perpetually looks like an irritated 80 year old woman that wishes you would stop doing whatever nonsense you’re doing immediately.

A lot of how I tell them apart in person is personality, especially the blackshoulder ladies. Arcana won’t come within a mile of me unless someone else does first. Artemis will come right over and scold me. Major will also come over to scold me, but cautiously. Minor will trail behind Major (thus how I determined who got what name). Callisto will come over, but she won’t accept pets the way Jupiter used to. Eclipse could not care less about me- she doesn’t run like Arcana, but she doesn’t come over either. Helios desperately wants my attention at all times and does the same thing Stan used to, running around in excitement when I come out to the pen. Io only comes over when he’s pretty sure I have treats, and reminds me a LOT of his dad in temperament- cautious but not afraid.

Anyway, I hope those help you out with your game! It’s a fun one to play lol

[tsarisfanfiction]

At The End of The Day

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Virgil, Gordon, Scott

Back for day seven of #fluffember and ‘picnic’.  More Virgil, surprisingly for me.  This is unusual - where’s all the Scott?  Although I couldn’t keep our favourite smother hen out completely...

After a long, tiring rescue, Virgil just wanted coffee, a shower, and his bed.  Gordon had a better idea.

“Viiiiiirrrrrg.”

The call came from somewhere behind him, a long, drawn-out whine of his name over-dramatised in that way only teenagers were truly capable of.  Virgil ignored it.

“Viiiiiiiiirrrrrrgiiiilllll.”

Nope.  He was having none of it.  Not at all.  Not one, tiny bit.  He didn’t sigh, didn’t lower his shoulders in despair.  Give his brother an inch and he would take several miles, just because he could.  The whining aquanaut – no, Gordon did not deserve to be regarded with any professionalism when he was trying to mimic a dog’s pleading.  The whining brat that happened to be unfortunately related to him could live without whatever it was he wanted.

“Virg, best brother, awesomest big brother in the entire wooooooorld...”

Flattery got you everywhere, except when your name was Gordon Cooper Tracy and both of you had been awake for thirty-eight hours and counting, and on the same mudslide rescue for thirty-six and a half of said hours.  In that case, it got you absolutely nowhere, and if Virgil hadn’t learnt from painful experience that any reaction at all would be treated as permission to continue, he’d tell Gordon to take it up with Scott.

He didn’t usually throw Scott under the Gordon-bus, but Scott hadn’t been on the rescue due to being grounded by an unfortunate incident involving some scaffolding, a jetpack running out of juice with terrible timing, and some ribs, and was therefore less tired.

“C’mon, Virg,” Gordon wheedled.  “It’ll be worth your while, I promise.”

That, Virgil very much doubted.  Nothing was worth his while right now except coffee – and lots of it – a hot shower and his bed.  Unfortunately, he was still an hour’s flight away from that, and Gordon was not helping the time pass any faster.

“I’ll even buy!”

“Buy what?” left his mouth before he could reign it in.  Dammit, he really needed coffee.  Or sleep.

He felt Gordon brighten up from behind him.

“Take out!  Kebabs, pizza, burgers, the works!” Gordon jabbered excitedly.  Virgil could feel the vibrations of his sudden bouncing through the cockpit floor. “All the coffee you can drink!”

He shouldn’t.  They shouldn’t.  They were muddy, exhausted, and Scott had been kicking up a fuss over the comms for the last day and wanted them home yesterday. Literally.  But the lure of hot food, the lure of coffee…

They shouldn’t.  They really, really shouldn’t.  Scott would kill them; there was every chance John – who should be taking a well-deserved nap of his own after that rescue – would be ordered to take over Thunderbird Two remotely to ensure they didn’t detour just because big brother was far too agitated by the long mission and his own inability to help.

Virgil sighed.

“Sit down, Gordon,” he ordered.  His brother, unfortunately, knew him too well and accompanied the obedient action with a triumphant fist bump.  “Where did you have in mind?”

Ten minutes later, Thunderbird Two was nestled in the parking lot outside a well-lit diner – taking up too many spaces and the parking charges alone were enough for Virgil to remind Gordon he’d agreed to buy, and that if he didn’t include the parking charges in that they were going straight home – and two exhausted, muddy IR operatives were half passed out over a table in the corner.

Both of them were nursing hot Styrofoam cups of caffeine.  Even Gordon had opted for straight black, despite often nicknaming it ‘tar coffee’, a testament to how tired he was.  Part of Virgil wondered how he was going to wake up enough to pilot the rest of the way home now that he’d stopped, but that was a problem for future-Virgil.

Now-Virgil had coffee, an order of pizza and donuts on the way, and the smug assurance that he wasn’t going to be paying for any of it.  Gordon, in a surprising show of foresight, had set up a tab immediately, waving his card at the waitress and telling her to charge everything they ordered to it plus a thirty percent tip.  Looking at him now, eyes three-quarters lidded even after half a cup of coffee, it had been the right call; there was no way he’d be awake enough to remember to pay by the time they left.

There were whispers and stares; Virgil ignored them, too used to the attention IR blue attracted. No-one approached, though, aside from the waitress with their order of hot, deliciously greasy and not at all healthy food.  Normally, Gordon would be the last Tracy to touch that; he’d never quite shaken the Olympic Champion Diet.  Even Virgil steered clear of junk food most of the time, too aware that to be at his best he had to eat at least mostly healthily.

Today, both of them fell on the food, too delighted at it being hot and edible to care about the calorie count, or the fat, or whatever else was stuffed in it. After thirty-six and a half hours of mud and cold, living on ration bars to keep their strength up (good ration bars, but still ration bars), the food was heavenly.

In the face of two hungry Tracys, the plates cleared rapidly.  Virgil was on his third, or maybe fifth, Styrofoam cup of coffee and Gordon fast asleep on the table, head cushioned on an arm dangerously close to a licked-clean plate, when his comm flashed.

“Virgil!”  Scott materialised when he accepted the call, flashing a grateful smile at the waitress carefully extracting dirty plates from around the sleeping Gordon.  “Where are you?  Your ETA home was five minutes ago!”

“Sor-”  Virgil was interrupted by a yawn.  “Sorry, Scott.  Taking a break.”

Frantic worry faded to be replaced by a dawning understanding, and more than a little compassion.

“You should have let me know,�� Scott scolded, but there wasn’t any bite to it.  “Where are you?”

Face splitting in half from another yawn, Virgil told him, and Scott rolled his eyes.  “Gordon’s ‘sleep,” Virgil added.  Scott shook his head fondly.

“Finish your coffee then head back to Two,” he ordered gently.  “I’ll get EOS to pilot you home.”

That sounded like a glorious idea.  “F-” He yawned.  “-A.B.”

“See you soon.”  Scott vanished, and Virgil drained his coffee, unreasonably cheered at the prospect of not having to pilot the rest of the way home.

“C’mon, Gords,” he mumbled, heaving his way to his feet and signalling to the waitress that they were finished.  “Time to go home.”

Short and lithe, even his swimmer’s muscles didn’t make Gordon difficult to pick up when he mumbled “five more minutes, Virg”, and tried to roll over.  It was quite frankly easier to haul him over his shoulder than try and get him to wake up enough to walk; he’d already paid for everything, anyway. Virgil swiped his own card to add a second tip, because he could and they’d traipsed far too much mud in.

Their departure drew as much attention as their entrance, if not more so with a sleeping Gordon slung over Virgil’s shoulder, but Virgil paid them no heed, staggering his way back to his beautiful green ‘bird and depositing Gordon on the stretcher so he could sleep without messing up his back.

He himself just slumped into his pilot’s chair, kicking it back into a recline and closing his eyes as EOS appeared over the console.  Behind him, the engines roared into life.

Time to go home.