#He comes home with a flat cap and face covered in soot

[corrodedcoughin]

I’m sorry but the thought of Eddie putting on a TERRIBLE cockney accent is the funniest thing to me. Imagine he speaks with one for a solid MONTH when he’s involved backstage with the community theatre production of Oliver Twist. Wayne and Steve tearing their collective hair out because Eddie is scream singing ‘I’D DO ANYFINK! FOR YEW DEAR ANYFINK!!!’ And ‘FEWD GLORIOUS FEWD!!! HOT SAWSAGE AN MUSTA’D!’

Eddie pretending to steel from everyone ‘I’m just a li’tol pick pocket ain’t I sir?’ As he he’s caught with his hands in Dustin’s backpack looking for snack.

In the middle of the night steve thinks eddie is asleep when he hears a little reedy voice ‘awrigh guvna, shine ya shoes? Penny a pair!’ Steve hits him with a pillow but then Eddie is pulling him into his arms and Steve is hiding his laughter in Eddie’s neck.

Eventually Oliver Twist wraps up, everyone is grateful for the end of cockney Eddie. Until one day Gareth almost knocks down Steve’s door and shoves the poster for the next community play: Mary Poppins. Of course Eddie makes it a personal goal to create an accent more obnoxious than Dick Van Dyke as he works on the costumes for the cast

[amonrawya]

The Greatest Gift of All

(Inspired by^ for the people who asked :D hope it was worth the wait!)

*

Long before the war, before Captain America or the Winter Soldier, there was simply Bucky and Steve. At least, that's what history says. But they missed out one very important person, a girl called Y/N.

Women in those times often found themselves with little opportunity, and only two easily attainable pathways in life: wife and mother. But Y/N carved out a life for herself that defied all expectations, and it all started in Brooklyn.

She dived headlong into scuffles, usually next to Bucky in defence of Steve. Regardless of the opponent, Y/N stood by them both, and often held her own quite impressively.

Her dress style borrowed from more masculine cuts, and Y/N was never seen without her cap. A lot of people had a problem with this, but she shut them up fairly swiftly.

Everything about this girl drew Bucky in, a battle he fought with little effort. They reveled in each other, flaunting their love at every opportunity. More than a few were jealous that the rough and tumble girl got the best looking boy in town. 

In a way, before even coming of age, they started an adult life together. The three of them moved into a flat. Y/N and Bucky took hard labour jobs, or anything they could get. They had little room to be picky. 

Both managed to hook steady summer jobs at the local docks. They used most of their money to keep a roof over their heads, buy food, and pay for Steve's medical needs. He attended art school, and sold his work every now and then; but physically, he was in no condition to work.

The war appeared on the horizon, just as they started to pull themselves an inch above the poverty line. Y/N saw it coming, the inevitable. She treasured every second they spent together, and dreaded the day when the draft came.

A lot of the older women she worked with were disrespectful, looking down on her pre-marital relationship with Bucky. They claimed she couldn't possibly understand their grief, despite the fact Y/N had seen Bucky off at the docks that very morning. 

In truth, they already planned on being married, but at the time, they simply didn't have the funds. Bucky promised, once the war ended, that ring would be on her finger.

Except, he never came home. Not properly. The person Hydra gave back to Y/N was damaged and jaded, angry at the world, angrier than she ever saw. But still, they loved each other. Though she never forgave them for stealing away his innocence, for trying to snuff out the light in his soul. A part of him would always belong to them, and she hated it.

Refusing to stay home while they risked their lives, never knowing, Y/N trained as an army nurse, working specially with the Howling Commandos unit.

Then one day, she went out to welcome them back from a mission. Every face looked devastated, but none more so than Steve. His eyes, red-raw and streaming, seemed incapable of rising from the ground. At first, the realisation didn't process, the idea simply incomprehensible. He promised.

Dugan was the one to finally break through and catch Y/N as she fell, holding her as the tears poured. Once he shook off his daze, Steve took his place, sharing in her grief.

Her world fell apart so quickly, with no warning and no mercy. Their commanders celebrated the capture of Arnim Zola, while Y/N and Steve sat, staring at an empty place at their side.

Everyone mourned Bucky, and swiftly after, began to mourn Y/N, too. The loss took a part of her...the sparkle, the happiness, the laugh that lit up her face. It all vanished. She worked hard, looked after them all, but only Steve was able to make her smile. Even then, it looked pained.

So when Steve went down with the plane, the very last shred of Y/N died with him. No tears left her eyes, no screams ripped up her throat. A cold numbness took over, freezing the woman from the inside out. 

V-Day came and went. The Commandos stood and drank to their lost comrades, and Dugan silently drank another...for the loss of a bright, fiery girl who had virtually nothing to lose, and still lost everything.

She spent her days as a robot, doing nothing but going through the motions of badly imitating life. The flat was empty and quiet, yet somehow, bursting with the ghosts of her loved ones. Nightmares plagued her, terrible images of Bucky's body, forever trapped in a freezing hell, nothing but food for the birds. And Steve, his body...was it cast adrift in the ocean? Or destroyed, burnt to ash in the belly of a metal beast. 

They were simple folk before the war turned them into soldiers, into weapons. Before symbols and flags stole away their names, driving them to sacrifice their lives for a greater cause.

Y/N knew their fight against Hydra was important...knew the honour behind their sacrifice. But when it's you left sitting at an empty dinner table, it's much easier to be angry and bitter.

She never married, never settled, bouncing around countries working as an army nurse. The Commandos slowly died around her, each one fading to grey as the curtain drew the show to a close. Each death, each funeral ripped open her wounds, bigger and deeper each time. Until eventually, Y/N let the blood flow freely.

Or at least, that's what would have happened. But one choice, one decision, made by a boy she thought dead in the far future, changed it all.

*

Bucky Barnes struggled to find himself again. His memories were mostly all returned, if a bit hazy and fragmented. He had Steve there to right any wrong recollections, and connect with on their shared experiences. But something always seemed to be missing, a piece of the jigsaw that hadn't been found.

He remembered Y/N. He remembered her clearer than anything. She was glowing like honey in the sun when Bucky closed his eyes and brought her back to mind.

Face covered in muck, hair tousled and streaked with grease from the boats, soot on the very tip of her nose and a cap perched jauntily on her head; wearing the deepest expression of concentration as she aimed a hanful of rotten fish guts at the sleezy Connell boy from Fifth, who decided his opinion on her backside mattered. The image shone crystal clear. Her laughter, rolling out from between curved lips, beautiful and full of mischief. 

It never failed to make him smile. Or cry. Or sometimes, both. He missed Y/N than he thought possible for a human being. 

Bucky often wondered about her life, whether she went on to marry, or maybe even have children. Was she happy? Did she bury him and move on? If they met today, would Y/N even recognise the man he was now? 

More importantly, in his mind, something he both feared and longed to know: would she still love him?

Unbeknownst to Bucky, Steve saw all this. Understood, to a degree, his pain. But he and Peggy never got the chance to bond so strongly. He knew Bucky needed him, but Steve also knew he needed Y/N more.

So once his goodbyes were said, he looked one last time at Bucky, and smiled beneath his suit as he vanished into time.

*

The living room looked exactly the same as he remembered. Bucky's coat, slung over the back of the chair, his sketchbooks strewn around the desk. Every rip and chip. His heart swelled with nostalgia, and pain, thinking of the life they were supposed to have.

What must have been in their heads...running off to fight, so eager to throw everything away. And who was left to stare at empty beds and eat breakfast alone every morning? Y/N.

His chest constricted, hearing the keys in the door, the lock rattling three times before letting her in. His nerve faltered for the briefest second, wondering if he was ready to see her again.

"Who the hell are you?!"

Time's up.

Slowly, he turned, and watched as Y/N's eyes widened, all the bags in her hands falling to the floor with a crash.

"...Stevie?" The name came out as a whisper, nearly inaudible.

He grinned, laughing as tears stung his eyes. "Hey, spitfire. Long time no see."

"Steve!" She launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck and clinging on for dear life. 

Catching her by the waist, he swung Y/N around, burying his face in her hair. They held onto one another as if they might vanish if they let go. But after a minute, Steve gently pushed her back.

"How? How are you here? What are you wearing? I don't understand, Steve, they said you died! Your plane went down in the ocean," she stammered, hand on his forearm with a grip like a vice.

"I survived. The serum kept me alive in the ice for seventy years," he said, questioning his own sanity momentarily; standing in the flat again made everything that happened seem like a distant dream.

Y/N frowned, brows knitting together. "What? Did you hit your head? Steve, this is 1945."

"I know, I came from 2023. I'm alive," he said, and saw her mentally backing away, so added, "I'm alive, and so is Bucky."

Her head snapped up, eyes immediately filling with tears. A dozen emotions whizzed through them in a second; disbelief, pain, hope. It shone clearly in her face as she stepped closer.

What did you say?" She asked, voice choked as she brought her shaking hands up to her mouth.

"Bucky's alive," he repeated softly, "and I can send you to him, in the future. But we don't have a lot of time. You need to listen to me, carefully, and do what I say."

She spluttered, struggling for words. "I, but...what about you?"

"I've made my decision," Steve said, and gently took her hands in his, "now, please, listen."

*

Bucky watched the machine, feeling a wave of numbness wash over his insides. Nothing was a better deal than the pain, the cruel sting of betrayal fighting to be felt. But he beat it back, unable to allow those thoughts validation.

Steve gave up so much for him, he fought for years to get him here. Steve deserved this. And no matter how wrong those words sounded in his head, he resolutely stood by them. 

The seconds ticked by, noted by Bruce's countdown. A flash of guilt almost made Bucky explain what was going to happen, explain that Steve left them. Left him. But he possessed no energy to speak, they'd see in a second, when no one appeared-

Zap. A blinding flash of light.

There's someone there.

Bucky frowned, hands falling from his pockets. Did Steve change his mind? Did he...

All the thoughts in his head stopped as the figure stepped down. Too small, too lithe for it to be Steve. Bucky's heart rate quickened, something in his unconscious already registering his recognition. 

The suit fell away, and if he weren't frozen in place, Bucky wouldn't have been standing. A quiver shot through him, nearly buckling his knees. Shock, fear and pure disbelief all delayed his reaction.

Y/N looked around, amazed, but turned to stone as she set eyes on him. Her face went utterly blank, a strangled sound leaving her lips.

Wearing her yard slacks, with a small bag on her shoulder, her face covered in dirt, hair streaked with grease, cap perched on-top, slanted to one side...she was everything he remembered, and his heart tried to leave his chest to go to her. To be whole again.

But fear held him back. She didn't know the things he'd done, the person he became after the train accident. What if-

"Who is she?" Sam asked, glaring as he stalked towards her, an accusation rising on his lips.

Bucky answered without hesitation, or thinking; the question had been asked countless times over the years. It always recieved the same reply. "My doll."

Sam stopped short, glancing between them, the way neither took their eyes off the other. He nodded, brows still closely knit, and backed off.

Slowly, Y/N approached, encouraged by the sound of his voice. She reached out carefully, when she got close enough. Trembling fingers brushed his cheek, and a shudder ran through her. 

"My Bucky..." She said quietly, eyes roaming over his face, a small smile tugging at her lips, "...you're here, in front of me. Alive."

He swallowed dryly, heart thundering away beneath his skin. "I'm different...you don't know..."

No sooner had the words left his mouth that her eyes found the cold metal where his flesh used to be. In reaching to hold it, she'd been taken by surprise.

Gently, Y/N took the hand in her own, examing the limb with a careful gaze. Moments passed, and she met his eyes again. Bucky steeled himself for rejection, for the disgust and horror.

Her hand went back to his cheek, and he involuntairly leaned into it. The warmth seeped into his blood. She stood on her tip toes, the smile on her lips blossoming into a bright beam of sunlight. "You've always been my Bucky, and always will be. Metal appendages and all."

He fell apart and dove down to capture her lips, clutching her to him with the hunger of a starving man. She pulled herself in, hands tangling in his brown locks, and both tasted salt on the others' lips.

So filled with joy his heart could burst, Bucky revelled in the feeling of holding his girl again. Laughing through the tears, he buried his face in her neck.

Thank you, Steve, for the greatest gift of all.

[owillofthewisps]

beckoning light - part four

notes: in a classic writer move, i knew exactly what i wanted to do in this chapter and just couldn’t get it out of my head. in some ways this is the fic that takes the most out of me, because i can see it so well and i want to get it down as i see it. life, of course, rarely works that way. hopefully the next chapter will be faster!

anyway this is my thousandth post on this blog. it feels right that it’s beckoning light. and yes i may have stopped posting just so that could happen, i’m just like that.

rating: light mature? (just some dirty thoughts, really. some brief descriptions of wounds.)

pairing: geralt of rivia/fem reader

word count: 3.5k

part one ∙ part two ∙ part three

the wisps have never led you astray, but you hadn’t expected them to lead you to him. 

The sun pools over you, a warm pond of golden light.

It warms the house despite the breeze stirring through your open shutters, a cool lick of wind that plays over your skin like a soft kiss. The forest breathes, the leaves fluttering with each exhale, sending the dappled sunlight dancing over the ground. You can hear the pulse of it, the forest song fading into a heartbeat as familiar as your own.

You hum to yourself. The gaps between the trees are still shaded, dark maws of space, the little saplings rising like teeth, sharp with growth. The forest will swallow you whole one day, you know.

There is the faintest hint of movement in that velvet night space between the trees, and your hands slow, the knife heavy in your grasp. Asha nudges you, calls you back, her blocky head solid against your hip. “Nuisance,” you tell her, but you trail your fingertips over the velvet slip of her ears. The grumble that leaves her resonates like a summer storm thick with thunder. She nudges you again, her nose smudging cold through the thin fabric of your shift.

“Nuisance,” you say again, but you are betrayed by the honeyed warmth of affection that lines your voice. She huffs and you relent. You slice off a small hunk of sausage, smeared greasy with slick fat, and give it to her. “Satisfied?”

Her tail thumps against the floor, a whip crack of noise, and she licks at your fingers before nosing at you once more.

“I suppose not,” you say. You bump her with your hip. “But that’s quite enough. Go on then.”

Asha grouses, a rumble of a sound, but she obeys. She pauses just long enough for you to lean down and press a kiss against the crown of her head.

You dip your fingers into a nearby bowl of water to rinse them before returning to your task. The breeze trickles in through the window, tugs at your sleeves with playful fingers, but your knife is steady as it slides through the rest of the sausage. You pluck a bundle of fresh thyme from your shelves and crush the delicate leaves beneath the flat of the knife. The woody, earthen smell of it wafts up, a forest all its own. You breathe it in, this hint of the wild, and feel Geralt’s eyes upon you.

You don’t think you have words for it, for the sunscorch of his amber eyes and how they’ve burned themselves into the marrow of your bones.

“Tell me, Witcher,” you say, “is breakfast so fascinating that you can’t look away? I know that food on the road leaves much to be desired, but this seems excessive.”

“It’s not breakfast that I’m looking at.”

You glance over your shoulder.

In the daylight, even ensconced in the cradle of your bed and your worn, rumpled blankets, Geralt brings to mind the statues that stood proud in the summer-scented courtyards of the marquess’s estate. The breadth of him is mesmerizing, the slope of his shoulders a mountain range of muscle.

Your gazes meet. Geralt’s eyes are tinder sparks, a flare of heat catching against the kindling of your desire, and the air thickens, goes syrupy at the edges. It’s the breath before a storm, the sultry promise of something on the horizon drawing near. You swallow. His golden eyes dip to the play of your throat, drag a trail of phantom touch across your skin.

He stops cleaning his sword, his grip tightening around his broadsword’s hilt - your piece of the bargain struck, a trade for him remaining abed until Hadrian arrives - and you shift. You think of how his fingers would press indents into the plump of your thigh as he pulls you to him, as he settles the heat of your slick cunt against the thick line of his cock. The kindling catches alight low in your belly.

Geralt inhales, his jaw sharpening as he grits his teeth. 

The sun glistens against him, catches on the thin sheen of sweat on his chest, and you focus on the swath of bandages across his chest. Miniscule blossoms of dark crimson have sprouted in the cotton, tiny clusters of ruby flowers.There are not many of them, but they are there. It dampens the edges of the heat.

“Funny,” you say lightly, turning back to the cutting board, “because you look hungry.”

“I’ve no doubt you can sate my appetite.”

“Then I’d best finish making breakfast.”

Geralt grunts.

His eyes linger as you work. The pan nestled into the hearthfire spits as you drop the sausage into it, the thyme going crisp, the small leaves furling back onto themselves in a last bid of protection. Asha moves closer to the hearth, ever hopeful. You crack the dove eggs into the pan. She snuffles at the shells when you discard them, heaving a mournful sigh that has a smile flirting at your lips.

“Here,” you tell Geralt, handing him a plate piled high, “eat.”

You wave off his thanks. As is your habit, you clean while you eat, stepping around Asha’s massive frame as she trails after you forlornly.

“I feed you,” you tell her, ignoring the way her velvet ears perk up at the sound of your voice. “Stop acting as if I don’t.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see the faintest flicker of a smile on Geralt’s lips.

It is not long until you are taking back an empty plate from Geralt. The sun has risen higher, the shadows shifting as it treks across the deep blue of the late morning sky. It glints off of Geralt’s broadsword, and you take a moment to appreciate the way his forearm bunches as he glides the cleaning rag against the flat of his sword, his thick fingers deft.

You eye him meditatively. “I don’t suppose you’ll stay abed if I go tend the garden?”

He grunts.

“That’s not an answer,” you tell him, scooping up a basket. You should change, likely, but your chemise covers enough, and hearth has already spit soot-streaks onto it.

He keeps at his sword, keeps those long, rhythmic strokes.

You sigh. “Keep to the bed,” you tell him. “It will help with the pain, as I understand it.”

“Witchers are used to pain.”

“That doesn’t mean you should suffer it needlessly,” you say mildly. It is an assumption and overstep in the same breath, but you are not always kind enough nor wise enough to curb yourself. “Used to pain’ differs from ‘deserves pain’, and you do not deserve it, no matter what they tell you.”

His hands go still for a breath, his knuckles curving into hard peaks, whitening like snow-capped mountains.

“I do not know if you are punishing yourself,” you say, “but if you are, consider who you are doing it for.”

Before he can respond, you dart out the door with Asha romping wild at your heels.

                                            ---------------------------

“Careful,” you say absently, tugging up another ruby red radish and shaking the thick loam off of it. The soil is still laden with the morning dew’s touch, sweetly damp and cool. You let your fingers sink home, curl them into the soil like roots to anchor you in the earth. You pinch the radish stem between your fingers and tug. “There’s cow parsnip nearby, it’ll give you an awful rash.”

“I suppose I should be used to that.”

You raise a brow. “To having an awful rash?”

Jaskier makes a deeply offended noise. “That seems uncalled for!”

You laugh, sitting back on your heels. You wipe at the sweat on the side of your neck. The dirt smears there, but you leave it for now. “What else was I supposed to think?”

The bard sputters. “Not that!”

You pull up another few radishes, twisting their leafy greens through your fingers. “What should you be used to, then, Jaskier?”

He peers down at you, his cerulean eyes gleaming like the sea waves beneath the afternoon sun. “The way you knew I was coming. Geralt’s impossible to sneak up on, what with his Witcher nonsense, the enhanced senses and all. Doesn’t stop him from pretending he can’t hear me when I’m talking to him, though.”

“Oh,” you say, “I hadn’t realized you were trying to sneak up on me.”

“I wasn’t,” Jaskier says, “but you seemed far away.”

You smooth the dirt back into place, covering the small divots that used to house the radishes. There are more radishes nearby, but it won’t hurt to harvest them another day. “I was, but the trees told me you were coming.”

Jaskier eyes you, rolling a brass button between his deft fingers. He seems to be honoring the burgeoning season, his fine doublet the faded burnt orange of fallen autumn leaves. “Right,” he huffs, settling his hands on his hips. “Has anyone told you that you’re hard to read, woodwife? Your face, though pretty, is a mystery to me, and I cannot quite tell if you are serious.”

You bite down on your smile. “Oh, didn’t the villagers tell you about that, the trees and their gossip?”

“Well yes,” he says, pulling you to your feet when you hold out a hand. He braces you as you stumble. He’s broader than you thought, the cut of his clothes cloaking his apparent strength. “But they also told me that you feed the forest - wouldn’t say what, which is a bit unnerving, I’d be concerned about Geralt but he’s so thorny anything that eats him tends to spit him back out again - and that you’re part tree yourself, so you can see how it might get a little difficult to sort out.”

You scoop up your basket and tuck it into the crook of your hip. “Even if I could talk to trees, they wouldn’t have needed to tell me. You’re not quiet,” you say with a smile. “I think most would hear you coming. Is Hadrian inside?”

“Yes, he said something about how I should wait because of your hellbeast.”

“He exaggerates. She’s likely running through the woods anyway.”

“Having seen the size of your hound, I thought I should defer to his knowledge.”

You nudge the door open with your foot. “Understandable, I suppose,” you say. You duck inside the house and Jaskier follows.

You pay your three visitors little mind as you put away the garden’s harvest. It’s a meager one, but that’s not uncommon at this time, too early for most fall crops to be fully grown. And meager does not mean poor; the radishes are rotund little things, gleaming under the layer of dirt, and the carrots are full bodied and the color of a setting sun. You wipe the dirt from them as best you can and then tuck some away. You glance at the bed.

Hadrian is examining Geralt with careful fingers.

The Witcher is stoic, but there’s a hint of pain tucked into the corner of his lips. You are sure he can feel your eyes, but he keeps his amber gaze trained on the foot of the bed.

Hadrian moves with quick delicacy, checking at the whitening edges of the wound, where the skin is pulling tight with the promise of a thick scar. The very center of the gash is still wine red, deeply claret, the type of color that has teeth. You think again that none but a Witcher could have survived it. You know little of wounds, but you had known it was a terrible one as soon as you’d set eyes on it, and you have never seen something so perilous lose its relentless bite so quickly.

There’s a fragile intimacy to Hadrian’s probing fingers, and you glance away. You pull Jaskier - propped up on a small stool near the bed, plucking at his lute, his wide eyes darting between the strings and the river of stark stitches winding their way across Geralt’s torso - into some of your daily chores. He protests, but it’s half-hearted.

You’ve just bundled the linens into the laundry tub when Hadrian comes outside. You’ve left Jaskier chattering at Roach as he brushes her, the horse clearly delighted by his presence.

Hadrian kneels beside you, helps you push the fabric down into the water, the cloth fading into something ethereal as it dampens, diaphanous and eerie. He hisses at the heat of it, pulling back with a curse. You laugh quietly and knead at the linens, the steaming water lapping at your wrists like waves against a shoreline. You blot your hands dry against your shift once the linens are sodden and sit back on your heels.

“What’s this?” you ask, leaning over and tugging at the ribbon wound around Hadrian’s ponytail. It slips like silk through his hair. It’s a pretty little thing, carefully embroidered, little clusters of sunshine bright calendula blossoms and bundles of sage stitched into the smooth fabric. “Are you being courted, healer?”

He brushes you away with his long, delicate fingers. “Stop that, gnat,” he says.

“I’ll consider that a yes. What’s their name?”

Hadrian ignores you, reaching past you for the washing bat. He wipes away the thin layer of dust that’s accumulated from beating out the linens before slipping it into the tub, spinning the washing around in a slow, wide circle.

“The Witcher could ride,” he says after a moment, the click of the bat against the sides of the tub a steady beat that cuts through the forest’s song. “Not far, and the wound would likely open again, but if you wish it, he does not need to stay here.”

You hum quietly, watching the wisps of steam curl into the air to fade like smoke. “All of these years and yet you know me so little, it seems.”

He sighs. “I do not mean it as a slight,” he says. “I am only offering a choice that was not there before.”

“It is no choice.”

“I suspected as much.”

He hands you the laundry bat and pushes to his feet, his lanky frame unfolding like a fan, a graceful flick of lean muscle. “I’ve left a few tins of salve inside. The way he heals is far beyond my understanding, but it is still a terrible wound, and they cannot hurt.”

“Alright.”

Hadrian studies you for a moment, pierces through you with his slate gaze, the color of the winter sea, when the whitecaps have teeth. “The forest may betray you one day,” he says.

You watch the laundry water, the swirl of fabric spectral. “Perhaps,” you say. “But not yet.”

Hadrian sighs. The sound is a forlorn winter breeze ghosting through bare branches. “Try to wait until he’s healed to fuck him.”

You laugh, the sound swelling up from somewhere deep inside. “I’ll try.”

“Where’s Jaskier?” Hadrian asks.

“Talking to the horse last I saw him,” you say, getting to your feet. “Help me with this.”

Between the two of you, it’s easy to carry the washtub to the forest’s edge. It’s the briefest taste of the wild, moss creeping high on slim tree trunks, mushrooms opening like flowers where they are nestled into the curve of roots. The last of the summer wildflowers are struggling, going crisp at the edges. The forest has little mercy.

You switch the washing to your other tub, tuck the tallow soap and washboard in with the sodden fabric.

“Do you want me to stay until you’re back?” Hadrian asks.

“No,” you say, hefting the second washtub up onto your hip as Hadrian tilts the other on its side, the water rushing out like a river, sluicing through the undergrowth and winding along networks of roots. “You can if you’d like, though. Take that back to the house.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Hadrian lilts, “right away.”

You swat at him. “Please.”

“Better,” he says, hoisting the tub up. “Be safe, gnat.”

He trots back towards your house, the ribbon in his hair fluttering behind him like a ship’s sail. You watch him for a moment more, watch the way the sun catches on his charcoal hair.

The forest sings as you step into the treeline. You weave your way across the cobwebs of roots that puncture through the thick loam, moss gleaming wet on their outstretched limbs. Sleek saplings whisper in the wind, swaying like dancers. Something chitters in the undergrowth, the sound spiraling high in agitation, a warning in a language far beyond your tongue.

Sunlight cascades through gaps in the canopy, anoints the forest floor with a golden kiss. Small flowers are speckled through the undergrowth, their blossoms turned up in worship, little faces raised to the sun. You venture deeper into the forest, the ancient trees swelling above you. They creak and groan in the wind, sleeping giants tossing in their beds.

The hair at the nape of your neck is damp with sweat. You heft the washtub higher, ignoring the moan of your muscles. You can hear the stream now, the quiet burble of it, and know it will not be long.

The glen is a sumptuous one, teeming with greenery even as autumn sets in, the ferns fat with fronds, fed by the stream’s sweet water. You kneel at the stream’s edge and get to work.

You sing to yourself as you scrub at the washing, the stream a steadfast companion. The forest murmurs around you.

You slip into the stream once the washing is done, leaving your dirty shift on the bank. The water enfolds you with icy fingers. It’s a chill bite of sensation against your sweat-slick skin, something that edges on gnawing, but it fades into something kinder. You turn your face towards the canopy and let the water flow over you like a blessing.

Something crashes in the underbrush.

You duck low in the water, scanning the edges of the glen as the rustling grows louder. Your dagger is tucked beneath your shift on the shore.

The ferns whisper in the wind, and then there is something hurtling from the undergrowth, massive and lightning quick, and as it plummets into the stream, you spit out scream that’s half curse. Just as the water surges around it, you catch sight of a familiar brindled pattern, and then the hound is on you.

“You’re the worst,” you tell Asha, shoving water at her.

She snuffles happily, ducking her muzzle beneath the water.

“Fine,” you say, “we’re going home.” You wade to the shore and put on a damp chemise, shoving your dirty one under the washboard before piling the rest of the washing in. “C’mon,” you call.

Asha trots next to you as you wind your way back through the labyrinth of the woods, through the drape of moss and the scratch of the pricker bushes.

“Should we visit?” you ask her. She pants, nudging at you to get you around a sapling. “I saw it, thank you.”

The forest opens into the cozy meadow your home is tucked into. You can see the smoke wisping out from your chimney steadily, fading into the afternoon sky. The shutters are flung wide; one of them sways in the breeze, the hinges creaking. You consider your home for a moment, and then you put down the washtub and walk back into the forest.

It is a familiar path. You think you could walk it blindfolded, twisted roots and eroding soil and sprouting trees bedamned. The ferns thicken, their fronds trailing over you like fingers, catching at your hair. You push your way through them, duck beneath their overgrown greenery, and then - they fall away.

You step into the small meadow, a little ring of wildflowers and swaying tall grass with a small copse of trees in the center. The forest prowls along the edge of it with wild roots, waiting for an opening.

The trees are humming.

It’s a slow, soft sound, rippling through you like a lullaby. It draws you near, lures you close to the copse, to the twisted trees with their wrinkled, worn bark, their branches arcing high. The soil at their roots shifts, rises and falls as if they’re breathing.

You breathe with them.

They whisper to you, their leaves tracing across your cheek, across the back of your hand, fluttering over you like fingertips. The sunlight glistens against the silver sheen of their leaves, the light draping warm over you. Things go soft at the edges, like morning mist swathing the meadow when you first rise. You murmur to the trees.

The sun begins to dip in the sky, a steady downhill march. You rise from your bed of roots, skim your fingers against a hint of moss cushioning the rough scrape of bark.

You press a farewell kiss against the trunk, against the cheekbone curve of it, and the tree croons.

It is a long, lonely walk home.

taglist: @fairytale07 @whitewolfandthefox @inber @tutuwho @ambivertomnivore @raspberrydreamclouds @waitingtobeimpressed @imsoft-barnes @msgeorgiarae @ayamenimthiriel @rabenherz-blog @writingstudent @hina-chans-stuff @beautifuluniversityhoagieslime @bumblingandblooming @sageandberries-png @bucksgoat @alwayshave-faith @nonamejustshame @1950schick @riviawitch3r @yespolkadotkitty @restingnurseface @consultingdetextive @theunwantedomega

[jengajives]

Did a collection of defining moments for my Tolkien OCs a while ago and finally decided to post it. Got eight or nine different characters here depending on how you count.

When Agzil gasped, it brought nothing but a cold ash into his lungs. His limbs trembled. Even on all fours, they nearly didn’t have the strength to support him. An elbow buckled and he fell to a forearm instead, forehead hitting the dusty ground, flooding his eyes, nose, and mouth, with the same thick, grey soot that covered everything here. “You talk back again, maggot, and the Lieutenant won’t be so friendly!” The orc captain had a strong Lugburz accent. She was from here- the land of endless burning and choking and death. Made Agzil’s head spin. He obviously had done something wrong in his non-reaction, though, because the whip cracked across his back again with a blinding white-hot agony that dropped him flat to the earth. “Enough!” he heard Mirci crying, so distant he almost didn’t comprehend the words. “You’ve taught him your lesson, now leave him!” “You keep out of this, tinkerer!” Agzil breathed a lungful of soot so foul it made his lungs spasm. He coughed into the ground, and slowly raised himself to his forearms again. He could go no further. “You keep sticking out your neck for Gundabad trash, one day it’s going to get sliced!” the captain roared in the background. “Master may like your big metal beasts, but they done us no good! Done disrupted our ranks, made us look like fools- don’t you know we’re at war?!” When a voice spoke out from behind them all, somehow Agzil instantly knew it was not the voice of an orc. The Dark Master had Men in his armies, too, but as far as Agzil knew, Men didn’t speak the Black Tongue, and this newcomer used it with a natural and melodic lilt. Agzil wished he knew Black Speech. The captain barked something back in the same tongue, then Mirci spoke up in Common. “It wasn’t his fault, sir. It was my machine what went wild. Drive gears broke and the whole thing-“ She stopped abruptly. Agzil imagined this newcomer raising a hand in the way he’d never known a real general to do, and the fear that shot through him was icy and cold at the idea that this might be the Lieutenant of the Tower himself. Something sharp and cold tucked beneath his chin. Agzil felt a trickle of blood down his throat, and he worked to raise his head with the only strength he had left. His eyes met the empty, blank pits in a mask of iron, regarding him expressionless and still. He’d never seen Garavdúr before, but he knew what the War Wolf was meant to look like, and so of course he knew what he was faced with now. His entire body trembled, waiting, staring. Garavdúr did not speak for a long moment. Finally he lifted his sword away from Agzil’s throat and let his head fall, muttering softly as he did. “Pathetic creatures...” The heavy metal footfalls moved away. Agzil laid in the dust for a while before he raised his face again. Mirci’s head was there, coated now in black blood and ash, a few feet from where her body lay crumpled and lifeless. Agzil put his forehead in the dust again. The captain gave him another taste of lashing when he did not try to get up.

Thet wished her mother would loosen up on her hand so she could get closer to the extremely hot molten metal, but unfortunately, it seemed her parents were somewhat responsible. They were traders and always had been, and Thet had seen so many different types of places- dwarf-keeps and hobbit villages and little towns of Men- but never before had she seen metal being worked. It was stunning. “What is it going to be?” she asked eagerly, reaching out a hand as if she could touch the white-hot goop. The smith paused and flipped back the heavy iron mask to reveal fair golden hair and a beard done into neatly capped braids. Her face was smeared with soot. “Going to be a knife someday, little one,” she said in a kind and rumbling voice. “Maybe you’ll use it to cut up your dinner.” “Could you make it a necklace?” Thet asked instead, very eager. They had one necklace in the family; her father wore it at all times and she would recognize the dull reddish gold anywhere. There was a garnet set into the middle. She really liked the chain- how delicate and yet sturdy every individual link was. It was fascinating every time her father let her play with it. The smith looked at her and gave a friendly smile, then reached down with a pair of heavy clamps and broke one small section of the metal off. She twisted it into a crude spiral, bent a thin loop over the top, and then plunged it into her bucket of water. There was a hiss and a rush of steam went up from the boiling liquid. Quick as could be, the smith pulled the spiral out with another clamp and laid it on her table. She produced a length of thin leather from a pile nearby and slipped its end through the loop, and tied it off to create a loose circle. She held the trinket out in a gloved hand. “You be careful now. It’s hot.” Thet squirmed free of her mother’s grip and scurried forward on her crutch.  She wrapped her hand in a length of her cloak so she could accept the gift. It was tarnished and none too shiny; just a simple lump of steel crudely wrought into a pendant of sorts, but to Thet’s young eyes it was the most astonishing gift she had ever received. Something made just for her, only for her. Never had she had anything like it. She gripped it tight, pulled it close and looked up eagerly at the tall smith turning back to her work. “I’m going to be just like you someday!” The smith smiled and rustled a hand through the young dwarf’s hair. “You’ll need a good bit of beard before that, little one. Take good care of your necklace.” And Thet never let that shoddy piece of metalwork leave her side.

There was no silence after battle. Corien could only hear the groans of the dying. Flames crackling cruelly in the grass. Huff of beasts and screams carried far away from the walls of the burning city. Orcs that were not quite dead gurgled when he vaulted past. Men that weren’t quite dead begged and choked and sang in shaking, weepy voices. All of it was blurry. Smeared. Nothing real, no sound registering to his battle-worn ears. The only things he heard were the cries of bowstrings, and a clash of steel on steel and wood on stone and metal creaking and screaming and tearing apart. “Halbarad!” he screamed into the settling night. It was lost amidst the identical calls coming up from other places on the field. Other brothers and sisters found hewn, children lifeless, friend and lover ripped apart. Everyone was out to collect their dead. The ribbon tied to the haft of his spear fluttered lightly in the breeze that swept up from the river. It had been blue this morning. It was splattered now with black and scarlet, bruised and sickly beyond repair. He threw the spear aside when he at last saw the gleam of silver against a cloak of bloodstained grey. It took both hands to roll his brother face-up. The silver star Halbarad had always worn on his cloak was shiny and clean, but it was about the only thing left recognizable. Corien’s fingers trembled uncontrollably as he pushed the earth brown hair out of his brother’s face. Blood caught on his fingers and colored his palm scarlet, so he left red smears on the eyelids when he closed those familiar ice-grey eyes. “Halbarad,” he said. His voice sounded so steady it would have surprised him, had he actually believed it was he himself speaking. There was no way it could be. No way he could form the words. “Don’t.. Don’t be dead. You can’t be dead, I- I need you. Please don’t be-“ His eyes travelled slowly to the gashes that tore his brother from jaw to belly and the words broke on a sob. He thought he might have screamed, but so many others were doing the same thing that he couldn’t pick his own voice out from the roar.

Mosco sat listening to the bees. His back rested against the thick grey bark, and his legs were up on a bough, and around his head bees danced from flower to flower in an endless choreographed routine. They were right smart, bees. His ma always said so. They talked back and forth, spoke in their own special language of waltz. Ma used to say that the Greenhands were honey farmers because they had dancing in their blood, and that they and the bees were one and the same. He’d fallen asleep tucked into the branches of his peach tree. The sun was growing low, and at this rate he’d miss his own nineteenth birthday party, but the woods of the Southfarthing were beautiful at sunset in the summer, and he thought he might go for a walk. The grass felt good on his bare feet, if a little cool. His hair hadn’t grown in all proper yet, so sometimes his toes got chilly and he had to embarrass himself wearing socks, but he just chalked that up to his being a “late bloomer,” as Ma put it. He was just out of season. He’d ripen up someday. The birches that made up the part of the forest closest to the farm soon gave way to wrinkly old pines with boughs hanging heavy and dark over their beds of needles. Mosco hummed a walking song, not at all caring for a track to follow, but wandering aimlessly and contemplating his own infinite nineteen-year-old wisdom. The smell of rot stopped him just before he put his foot into it. Beneath the overhanging crypt of the pines, a deer lay dead. Its skin was drawn thin over bones that poked halfway through, and underneath he could see a red-yellow ooze that leaked out into the forest floor. This, he guessed, was what smelled so foul and attracted the bugs. Beetles crawled in and out of the dead animal’s empty eye sockets and nostrils. Worms pitted the parts of its muscle still intact. Mosco saw eggs peppering the ragged hide like white trees in a minuscule forest. His family didn’t eat much meat. They never slaughtered it themselves if they did. He couldn’t think of a time he’d seen a real dead thing. When he got home, he declined the offer of birthday cake and went right to bed, and dreamt of squirming things that burrowed down to lay their eggs in pits beneath his flesh.

Cypress knelt next to the crime scene and tried very hard not to cry. Stuff like this didn’t happen in the Shire. It wasn’t meant to happen. A whole crowd of people looked at her with big, terrified eyes, expecting her to lead them. To tell them what to do in this moment because she was the mayor and she was meant to know. Blood had never been spilled like this. Woodhall’s history was a peaceful one and nothing like this had ever happened before. She looked at the assembled group. It was hard to seem like she wasn’t completely out of her depth, because her voice squeaked rather loudly. “We... We should bury them, yes?” At once the hobbits broke into cries and murmurs that all laid over each other into a horrific cacophony. “They took half the year’s stock!” “How did they get past the borders?” “Why didn’t we know they were coming?” “Are we going to get my honey back?” The last voice was that of Mosco Greenhand, who looked as devastated as the rest, but with an air of determination in his eyes. Cypress raised her hands to quiet the townspeople. “Look, I know this is a lot to process and we can’t understand it yet. But the first thing we ought to do is give these three brave souls who gave their lives for the good of Woodhall a proper burial, yes?” A general murmur of agreement. Cypress looked down at the fair faces she had known, the throats and bellies split by goblin blades, and it made her feel desperately ill. This horror could not be left unpunished.

Sometimes, when Astorrel went to sleep, she had a nightmare. It was always the same one, and it always came on when she decided to rest like other creatures did and actually close her eyes for hours. So, naturally, she avoided doing so. Rested on her feet and never let her guard down while she did it. She never had liked sleeping anyway. Never had any reason to do so for the better part of an age. Lina changed things, though. Lina liked it when Astorrel was there to share her night and her dawn, sleeping and waking, both together as equals. And of course, Astorrel liked to be there when Lina wanted her, and she liked to be close to her beloved, so of course whenever she could she shared Lina’s bed. Made the nightmares come back though. In the deepest hours of the night, when Lina was still and the moonlight slanted in through the window to paint her brown skin silver, Astorrel would lie stiff with her eyes open and nonseeing, and she’d tremble. She knew that in the dream- at least, in parts of it- she was her father. She carried Mirlach, but the blade was younger and the gem hadn’t yet fallen from its hilt. The whole sword always seemed darkened and scarlet-stained to her, and sometimes it dripped. She would hold the fire of the Silmaril and scream and scream as the agony of it withered her flesh away and the stench of rotting burn rose hotly to meet her nostrils, and she would see everything that Maedhros had done to hold the heirloom of his house in his hand, and how in the end, the reward of the quest became its doom. She would feel the irrepressible heat of smoldering, burning rock, and taste the earth as it pressed in, swallowed, took her and her cursed Silmaril into its throat and entombed them there forever. And the dream let her lie, suspended there in agony, the unseen gem scorching her hand to withered bone and the rock pressing in on her, for the entirety of the rest of the world. When she woke up with her hunting knife in her hand, dangerously close to Lina’s back, she decided abruptly she would not be doing this again. She left the cottage that morning before dawn. The next occasion she saw her Lina was on the day she died.

“You’re doing it again,” Léothain said, pulling Wulfrun’s focus away from the herders leading in a group of freshly adult horses to settle in the city. “You don’t really think she’s going to be there, right?” Wulfrun flushed and went back to sharpening her sword. Behind her, Léo plucked the last piece of laundry from the line and waltzed over with his basket against his hip. He stood next to Wulfrun, who sat silent on the stone step and watched young horses and rough herders pass the house by. They didn’t come into the city much; spent most of their time in the downs and the fields tending to their herds. Wulfrun had heard they were capital horsemen, and they guided the herds well enough through the winding lane of Edoras, riding without saddle on their sturdy, gleaming mounts. The horses they were leading in were meant to be ridden in battle. She could tell from the way they moved; so confident with strength and quiet grace, heads set proudly. She’d have one someday. Her fa made enough as a carpenter, but wasn’t much for travel, and they only had one horse for the three of them. The fat little thing was functional enough, but far from the mighty steed Wulfrun dreamed of. “You’re going to be really lucky if you see her again,” said Léo in an irritating sort of singsong voice. Wulfrun scowled at him. The sharpening stone swept over her worn blade again. Again. When most of the herd had passed, she finally found what she’d been seeking. At the rear of the group, riding a tall, shimmering palomino, came the girl. She looked just a little older than Wulfrun’s proud fifteen. Her face gleamed sunshine golden, and the dark hair that should have been dyed probably yellow was grown out and black down to the ears. She wore sturdy, battered clothes like the rest of the herders, but her eyes shone a brilliant black from her regal face. She saw Wulfrun looking and waved. Wulfrun wished she knew her name. She waved back.

Riston wasn’t his proper name. He didn’t know what it was. Could be Jett. Pierson. Randy. Likely he had a family name, too, though he had no guesses as to what it could be and all the Bree names he’d ever heard seemed bizarre and strangely food-centric. He didn’t want to have a real name. He just wanted to be Riston of the elves. Riston of the Havens. That was who he was. He sat on the big smooth rock on the west side of the harbor and plucked absently at his lute strings. Nothing sounded right. Nothing fit how it was supposed it. He was meant to leave in the morning. Head east and find who he actually was. He didn’t want to go. What’s a name matter? he thought as he crossed his legs and tried to let the waves paint a tempo into his mind. Anything he tried to make manifest withered away. I know who I am. This is my home. A discordant note. He tried to retune, very aggressively. Even if I find my family somehow, it’s not like my Westron is good enough to communicate with them. His fingers clenched. It’s not fair. They can’t just ask me to leave like I’m some guest who’s worn out his- One of lute strings snapped against his fingers and on a deep-gut impulse he slammed his fist into the instrument’s wooden body. A crunch, and he’d broken his most prized possession. Riston sat for a moment, slowing his breathing, taking stock of the fist-shaped hole splintering his delicate elf-made lute, the most beautiful thing he’d ever owned. Then he put his face in his hands and started to cry.

[byorder-fanfic]

The Mechanical Dragon

Summary: Marion Qing was born with a spanner with her hand, and Arthur Shelby was born with a paintbrush in his. The two spend their youth in Charlie’s Yard, with Peaky caps proud on their heads. But what happens when war tears their lives apart?

Word count: 2499

Warnings: Mentions of racism, war, amputation, mental health

Author’s Note: This is an idea I’ve had for a while, and I hope I did alright. I have lots of Peaky Blinders OC one shots like this in my drafts, so look forward for some more! If I've said anything incorrect or offensive, please correct me. Hope you enjoy xx

Marion Qing was practically born with a spanner in her balled up fist. That's what her mother always proudly said to her friends, as they all watched the toddler graduate from jigsaw puzzles to pulling apart a clock that'd stopped ticking. Ever since she could walk, she had always trotted to where sparks flew and fires burnt as blacksmiths laboured over steel benches. Ever since she could talk, she had asked question after question about the hows and whys the mechanics worked. That was how she met the Shelbys. She had found her way through Small Heath to a little Yard that was thick in craftmanship and (although she did not know at the time) stolen bits and pieces she ached to tinker away at. Suffice to say, she had ran as fast as she could when a very surprised Charlie Strong found the ten year old sat on the floor, her grey dress thick in soot as she managed to work out how to fix the gramophone that had been collecting dust. Only, as she turned back to check that she wasn't being followed, she hurtled into the chest of a very surprised teenager, Arthur Shelby Jr, who had been sketching some horses from his Uncle's stables. After explaining her predicament, he had merely laughed and walked her back to Charlie, who was holding up the gramophone with an agape mouth that turned into a coy grin when he saw the girl slowly make her way back, holding hands with his eldest nephew.

"So, how'd you like a job?" He said. Although he'd deny it every time Arthur brought it up, the grumpy man managed the smallest ghost of a smile when Marion laughed and hugged him with her thin arms.

The rest is, as they say, history. Arthur had introduced her to the rest of his family, who had been more than welcoming to her. She and Tommy were the same age, and she was the best mentor for Ada, teaching the girl how to win fights against her brothers. Polly had been sceptical at first of the small girl with a loud voice and a joking personality to rival John's, but then Marion brought her a rose twisted from metal sheets she'd found, and her heart was taken with the little girl. The Shelbys had been her top defenders, fighting boys that made lewd comments and threatening to cut off the eyes from anyone who pulled their eyelids in a taunting manner. In response, she'd break the noses of anyone who threw slurs at the brothers and nearly killed one boy who'd gotten too handsy with Ada before the rest of them could lift a finger. Marion grew up like the boys, her skinny frame filling out into lean muscle and strong arms that proved she could fend for herself. She was a part of the Shelby siblings hand me down clothes cycle, always getting Arthur's old shirts and slacks that she'd have to cuff a dozen times to fit. She was permanently covered in oil and grease, which Tommy used as an excuse to avoid her plentiful hugs. Arthur, however, didn't care if he was in his Sunday best- he was already ready to drop whatever he was doing to hold the girl in his arms, coming away with second-hand stains and a big smile. When they joined the Peaky Blinders and rose their way to the top ranks, Marion had her very own razor blade cap that John had sewn for her (a little bit of his blood dried in the seams- he had nimble fingers, but it was a tricky project) as she paraded around Small Heath, safe and happy. Charlie was practically a father to her, since hers had died long ago, teaching her everything he knew and watching her learn things herself. As he got older, he'd just sit back and watch as Arthur and Marion slid under rusting cars, laughing along to their jokes and teasing that always occurred between the three musketeers of mechanics. When his sister died, Marion made him his very own frame with a black and white photo of the late Rose Shelby in. It was before the plague of Arthur Shelby Sr settled in her eyes, like death in the baby blue irises. She was shaking as she gave it to him, the only time she had, and ever will shake. She had been expecting a nonchalant reply or a little gruff huff, but he took her in his arms and hugged her tightly, whispering a soft 'thank you' in her ear.

When the boys went to war, she worked in the factory, building munitions for them to fight with. When she wasn't working, she was at Charlie's Yard to help out with the odd bit of work, and distract herself from missing the laughs of the Shelby brothers. She helped teach Finn to write when Polly was busy with business and Ada was off organising Communist meetings, and had helped him write many letters to be sent off to France. Sometimes, she'd help Martha with the kids, but she was never any good at babysitting. Rather, she fixed cribs and built a cot mobile for baby Katie. It was the second year after they'd left when the accident happened. Well, the factory called it an accident, but Marion knew it was a product of purposeful neglect and tight funds. As a particularly experience blacksmith, she'd been given the more technical work of building bombs and other explosives. One faulty piece of machinery, probably taken from Charlie instead of properly bought from a proper shop, and the trigger was set off. Thankfully, she had thrown it before she ended up all over the walls. Unthankfully, the explosion had blown her very heavy table (that was supposed to be secured onto the floor) into her. She'd trapped her leg, shrieking so the whole of Small Heath could hear. They'd had to amputate. It wasn't too bad, though. With a little bit of wood and nails, Marion had fashioned her own prosthetic. As a woman, she was used to strapping her stockings up, so, with a piece of leather, she managed to attach the limb to a sturdy garter to keep it on. She didn't go back to the factory, which had received an earful of complaints from every Shelby woman, and a lot of strong words from a red faced Finn and a morally supportive Isaiah Jesus nodding in the background. Instead, she stayed at the betting shop, doing errands where she could and fixing horse shoes and the like.

When the boys came back, they were in for a shock. Not only was little Finn taller than they remembered and Polly wasn't drinking so much, but their Marion had lost a bloody leg!

"Why didn't you tell us?" Arthur demanded as soon as he put her back on the ground. He'd picked her up and swung her about as soon as he saw her, before he realised there was a limp block where her leg should be.

"Wanted to see your face," she shrugged nonchalantly as John less-than-subtlety gawked at it, earning a nudge in the ribs from Martha. "I'm glad I did- it's a fuckin' picture, mate!"

The rest of the boys sent off to France had a similar reaction. It was the funniest thing she had ever seen when thirteen year old Isaiah and ten year old Finn were reprimanding fully grown blokes from staring at her. They'd both been there as she whittled the wood, offering to help at every single moment. It annoyed Polly endlessly, wondering why all the enthusiasm couldn't be devoted for doing errands for the betting shop. It was all false complaints, as the boys were doing something other than worrying for the next letter, and learning some useful skills, like woodwork. The boys also helped her with her surplus of jokes on the matter.

"How'd it happen?" Danny had asked the first night back, as they all sat in the Garrison, Freddie and Tommy in the middle of some sort of dispute the rest were attempting to politely ignore.

"Ah, well, it's a tragic story." She said it loudly and theatrically, clutching her chest. She no longer wore Arthur's hand-me-downs, opting for her own softer shirts that smelt fresh and new, until she spilled whiskey and petrol on it. Isaiah and Finn gave each other knowing looks. God knows how the boys managed to convince Polly and Jeremiah to let them come along. But, with two glasses of tap water and an understandable amount of clinginess to their family who had left for years, they were hardly in any trouble. 

"She barely survived," Isaiah echoed as he attempted to get even closer under his father's arm (if that was even possible), who was watching him fondly.

"She's a true hero!" Finn raised his glass like he'd seen his brothers do plenty of times before, earning a scoff and affectionate hair ruffle from Tommy, as Arthur sat back in his seat, waiting to hear more. John wasn't there, instead he was spending his first night home with Martha and the kids. He was happy to be back and more than happy to babysit every day, especially with Martha feeling under the weather recently.

"Well?" Freddie asked, resting his elbow on the back of his chair.

"It was 1916," she said solemnly. Polly and Ada shared a roll of their eyes, going unnoticed by the boys. "Business was hard, me and my ma didn't have enough money for the flat." She let her face go blank, silently praying Finn could keep his giggles in for a second longer. "So I had to get money another way."

"You sold your leg?" Tommy sounded astonished, his wide eyes believing the lie she was feeding him. Then everyone started laughing, and he rolled his eyes.

"Nah," she grinned against the rim of her glass, as the rest of them shared  snicker and a sigh and cocked their eyebrows at it. "Factory had faulty parts whilst I was building some explosives, it knocked a bench onto my leg and crushed it."

"Fuck," Danny whispered, looking at her with wide eyes. The rest of them looked at her sympathetically, a look she didn't enjoy.

"Oh well," she sighed, shrugging her shoulders. "Guess I can join you idiots with one foot in the grave, hey?"

The Garrison was filled with laughter, Arthur bringing one arm around her as his booming voice carried through the room. They spent the rest of the night celebrating, instead of wallowing, something they were all thankful for.

Arthur was fascinated by it, always asking if it hurt or how did she make the joints move so well. Marion wasn't too bothered, happy to give him a distraction from his 'Flanders blues'. He was the only one she told about the phantom pains, and he confided in her about the nightmares, each holding on to the other in their struggles, each trying to help the other. When she asked him to paint it for her, he gave her the sweetest, wide-eyed look of astonishment that made her giggle.

"Are you sure?" He repeated that about a thousand times, more so when he actually set out the acrylics he got when he was younger.

"Yes, I'm sure," she'd always reply, with a roll of her eyes. The final result was beautiful. When Arthur had dragged her away from Charlie's Yard (cautious of the walking stick she'd been using whilst her leg was temporarily out of use), she felt excitement course through her, heart beating faster as she stumbled up the stairs to Arthur's little room. He'd sat her on the bed, leaving the stick on the floor as he turned around to show it off. She'd expected horses, as that was always the thing he'd draw the most. Instead, she saw red. From the ankle to the thigh, a scaly, scarlet creature coiled around the wood, intricately and painstakingly painted in a familiar fashion.

"A Chinese dragon?" Her voice was breathless. She'd grown up isolated from her culture, just like how the Shelby family had lost their Romani roots when their father forced them to settle. There were many Chinese families around Small Heath though, who spoke in Cantonese and Mandarin that she longed to understand, and wore pretty patterns that she envied. She'd told Arthur all this when they both got pissed on her eighteenth birthday, just a bit before Finn was born. That was the first time they'd kissed...and did other things, although they'd never spoken of it since she woke up alone.

"Yeah, I remember, y'know, that night..." he sounded unsure, eyes darting everywhere but in her eyes, hands twisting his cap together. "And, well, I thought it'd look pretty. So, I went to the suit shop, and asked for a pattern to copy. I wanted to make sure it wasn't...y'know, uh, offensive or nothin', but if it is, I can go over and try somethin' else, or-"

She cut off his blabbering with a rough kiss, teeth clattering and her giggles as his moustache tickled her. He hadn't had that at twenty one, but it wasn't an unwelcome addition. Her newly painted prosthetic sat between them on his bed, digging against her right knee as Arthur tried to pull her closer in his eager kiss. Thy broke apart, him blushing and her smiling. With an arched eyebrow, she pulled up her skirt (she didn't wear them a lot, but it made the process easier when she did), revealing to Arthur her knickers and the garter belt she'd fashioned after a few lessons from Polly, below the straps was the scarred stump, ending a few inches above where her knee once was. She noticed his wide eyes with a little bit of newfound shyness as she slipped the cushioned end around her scars, clasping the leather straps onto the belt with a few clicks.

"That's fuckin' amazing," Arthur whispered as she looked up at him. He started to blush again. "Listen, Mari, I...I want you to know that, when we were eighteen, right, and I...when we...well, I shouldn't have left ya." He sighed, looking down to his empty hands. His cap had fallen to their floor once his attention was diverted elsewhere, and he was attempting to replicate the twist of material with his rough hands. "I loved ya then. I love ya now. I just didn't know, still don't...how I'm supposed to be good enough for ya."

"You know," she said, admiring the dragon that flew up under her skirt (she was certain Finn and Isaiah were going to awe at the painting). "Just don't leave again, okay?"

"Okay," he breathed out, pulling her onto his lap (successfully, this time) as he kissed her again, making a silent promise to himself that he'd never let go.

[iamvegorott]

Prompt: Aziraphale is hurt when he opens a box in his mail containing a demonic relic.

Wanna help me and give me some support?|Donate To My PayPal| 

Do Not Mess With Him

“Package for a...Aziraphale?” The delivery man said as he stood at the bookshop porch. 

“Angel! Ya got mail!” Crowley called as he stepped back into the shop. 

“Oh, that’s cute.” The worker chuckled to himself. 

“Sorry about that, I had my hands covered in ink.” Aziraphale came to the door, sleeves still rolled up and a black smudge on his cheek. 

“I need you to sign here and you’re all free to go.” 

“If I would have known that, I would have kept the ink on my fingers.” Aziraphale laughed and took the offered pen. 

“Do you mind if I ask how you got covered in ink?” The delivery man asked. 

“I was working with some newspaper and well, it got everywhere,” Aziraphale answered as Crowley poked his head back out, brows scrunching at the delivery man before looking at Aziraphale. 

“Would wearing gloves help with that?” The worker offered. 

“It’d help with the ink, but I can’t hold a pen with gloves on, it feels strange.” Aziraphale shrugged. Crowley chewed the inside of his cheek with annoyance before licking his thumb and using it to clean Aziraphale’s cheek. “Crowley, dear.” Aziraphale scolded and swatted Crowley’s hand away. “We have company.” 

“I’ll leave you two to get back to work.” The delivery man gave the package to Crowley. “Seeing y’all makes me want to get back home to my Maud even sooner.” Aziraphale just giggled and waved goodbye to the man while Crowley just grumbled to himself and closed the bookshop door. 

“There was no need to be like that Crowley,” Aziraphale said, following Crowley to his end table.

“I just didn’t like the way he looked at you.” Crowley placed the box down. 

“Was someone jealous?” Aziraphale sang. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Crowley moved to Aziraphale and wrapped his arms around his waist. “I know that you’re mine.” He chuckled, giving Aziraphale a quick kiss. 

“Are you sure? Because I’ve read that seeing your partner being jealous is a…” Aziraphale lowered his voice and leaned in close. “Turn on.” He whispered, getting a large grin to form on Crowley’s lips. 

“Then I was burning with jealousy, oh, my heart yearned to tear that man’s head off for the crime of looking at my angel,” Crowley spoke with his usual flair. 

“Go get some wine, and I’ll clean up down here and I’ll show you that you don’t need to feel jealousy.” Aziraphale poked at Crowley’s nose, chuckling when Crowley caught his wrist and pressed a kiss to his palm. 

“Anything for you, my angel.” Crowley winked before stepping away. Aziraphale watched with love-filled eyes as Crowley left before laughing at himself and going over to the package. 

“I don’t recall ordering anything, perhaps it’s a new book.” Aziraphale mused as he opened the box. He hummed as he worked on taking out the brown paper that protected water it was in the package and as he took out the last piece, his hand brushed against whatever was in there. 

A deep scream came out of Aziraphale’s mouth as a strong pain burned into his flesh. He yanked his hand away and held it to himself, tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to will the agony to just stop. 

“Angel!” Crowley ran into the room and caught Aziraphale before he fell to the floor, his body going weak. “Aziraphale, Aziraphale, what happened, what’s wrong?” Crowley managed to see the hand Aziraphale was trying to hide and he saw a bright red, pulsing wound on it. A wound he knew all too well. “Where do you keep your holy water?”

“I don’t-”

“Not now, angel! Where is it?” 

“B-Behind Adam’s books.” Aziraphale stuttered out. Crowley gently laid Aziraphale on the ground before rushing over to the collection of books the young antichrist had written. He pushed the books aside and saw that the wall behind them had a little knob on it. Crowley swung open the small door on the wall and saw that there was a water bottle in the cubby. Crowley miracled gloves onto his hands and pulled out the bottle. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ll stop hurting soon,” Crowley said, going back over to a still crying Aziraphale. “Just a few drops and…” Crowley removed the bottle’s cap and poured a little of the holy water onto the wound, the water sizzling as it healed Aziraphale. 

“Crowley, what happened?” Aziraphale looked over at the package. “What is in that box?” Crowley glared at the package before getting up and going to it, reaching in and pulling out a necklace with a metallic pendant with a symbol that told him immediately who it belonged to. “What is that?” 

“A demonic relic,” Crowley stated, voice going flat. 

“I didn’t buy one, did you? Crowley? Crowley, dear, you’re worrying me.” Aziraphale got off of the ground when he saw that Crowley was starting to shake. 

“I know who did this,” Crowley growled. 

“Crow-” Aziraphale stopped himself when Crowley was gone, the bottle of holy water going with him. 

x~x~x

The gates of Hell were walked through by a demon filled with rage, a green squirt bottle in one hand, a necklace in the other and gloves covering both. Lesser demons stepped out of the way as Crowley passed, his anger making the air burn more than what it already did. 

“Hatsur!” Crowley screamed when he found the room the Duke of hell was in. 

“Crowley, what are you doing here, you were not summ-” The demon that was trying to speak stopped and screamed when Crowley sprayed the bottle towards them, burning their shoulder with holy water. Several other demons took the injured one away. 

“You.” Crowley put the hand with the necklace on the stunned Hatsur’s neck and pushed him up against a wall. “Does that feel familiar? You know that pendant, don’t you?” 

“Crowley, release me, now.” Hatsur tried to sound intimidating, but the fear in his eyes as he stared at the bottle made it hard to believe. He knew it was in there this time. Crowley shoved the head of the spray bottle into Hatsur’s mouth, ignoring as the other demon screamed at the pain. 

“Listen to me and listen good, Hatsur. I don’t give a flying fuck about what you do to me. You can insult me, burn me, discorporate me as many times as you please but don’t you ever, ever hurt my angel again, understand?” Crowley’s voice was filled with hatred, enough to make the other demons in the room shrink down in fear. “Understand!?” Crowley screamed loud enough for it to echo. Hatsur could only nod. “Good, I’m glad we could come to an agreement.” Crowly yanked the bottle out of his mouth. “You got a little.” Crowley pointed at his neck before sauntering off, grinning when he heard Hatsur yelling about having a pendant in his neck. 

x~x~x

Aziraphale sat on the couch, picking at his fingers and heart fluttering with worry. Where did Crowley go? Was he getting himself into trouble? How did he know what to do? 

“I’m back, angel,” Crowley said, the soot on his clothing and the smell clinging to the air told Aziraphale where he went. 

“Please tell me you didn’t get yourself in trouble.” Aziraphale took the squirt bottle away and placed it back in the cubby. 

“There’s a chance I may be, but I made my message clear.” Crowley slipped off his gloves. 

“Message? What message? What just happened?” Aziraphale demanded, stepping up to Crowley. 

“Someone wanted to hurt you to get to me.” Crowley placed one hand on Aziraphale’s waist and the other on his cheek. “And I made sure he knew that you do not mess with my angel.” 

“Did you kill anyone?” Aziraphale asked, his pupils growing wide as Crowley pressed their foreheads together. 

“No, but I wish I could have,” Crowley admitted. “I’m guessing that me being protective is also a turn on?” He asked with a smirk when he saw the look on Aziraphale’s face. 

“Maybe.” 

“Nice.” Crowley pressed their lips together and instead of saying something like Aziraphale wanted to, he ended up letting out a squeak when Crowley suddenly lifted him up and carried him to the couch. 

“Not in the bookstore.” Aziraphale scolded. “Someone might walk in.” 

“Anything for you, my angel.” Crowley snapped his fingers and sent them to the upstairs bedroom. 

[theliterateape]

Smooth

by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

“Do it.”

“I can’t, Javi.”

 “You won’t.”

“I got people comin’ to look at me.”

“Everybody has a bad game.”

“It’s not right.”

“Right is for bobos.”

“I ain’t no chump.”

“Take the money.”

“I told you I got people comin’ to look at me.”

Eddie’d heard about scouts. Serious guys who dressed good, showed up with notebooks and stopwatches, sat high up, scattered. If they liked you, they’d talk to you after the game.

Eddie played short. He had what the scouts called the quick twitch. It made him a natural. He could pick anything behind the bag, go deep in the hole, jump turn and throw mid-air to first, in a freakin’ blur. On a pop fly, he’d go out hard, back to the infield, make the grab over the shoulder–no problem. The fans would chant los ojos en la cabeza, eyes in the back of your head!  He could get to anything on his side of the infield, had a cannon for an arm. The ball would explode into the first baseman’s glove, echoing across the field, causing aficionados to ooh and aah. Eddie was smooth.

It was called The Bush, where nobody sees nothin’, hears nothin’, says nothin’. Crammed between 79th and 95th Streets, the Calumet River to the east and the Skyway to the west. An unimportant, blue collar, close-knit Chicago neighborhood nobody’d heard of. Taco trucks and shave ice carts dotted crowded streets lined with brick four flats and soot-covered frame cottages. Steel-mill smokestacks jutted into perpetually gray skies, belching dirty smoke and lung-searing acid mist. Norteno music softened the stench of the mills and encouraged the hidden aroma of carne asada, masa, and frijoles. 

Eddie didn’t do public. His old man worked two jobs so him and his twin sister Jasmine could do Catholic. Jesus, the baby, was a surprise, so Momma worked from the house. Slapping cornmeal in yellow-stained hands, rolling out her Bush-renowned tamales; up at 3 working the masa, dicing the filling, then steaming, then bagging; out the door by 5, dragging coolers behind her; manning her corner, waving down the cars. Beef, pork, chicken, queso, red sauce or green, sold by the dozen, or half dozen, back home by 7 to send them off to school, then take care of her baby, little Jesus.

At first Eddie wanted public, but Guadalupe had a good coach, and Eddie made varsity as a sophomore. He was gangly and jumpy, always playing with the infield dirt, kicking it with his spike, patting it with his hands. Chaw was a no-no with the Catholics, but bubble-gum worked almost as good, pink, blue, even purple. At the crack of the bat, Eddie was nothing but smooth. Jet black hair curling in the breeze beneath his tattered cap, tracking the ball like a panther, he’d glide through the infield, scoop and throw in a single motion. He was pure joy and all smiles. Everybody said The Bigs were not far away. 

And now Javi was asking this. 

“You don’t understand,” Eddie pleaded, alley flies buzzing around.

Javi’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer. “You don’t understand, tonto.”   

“I ain’t no dummy.” Eddie retreated, bumping a stinking can, trembling. “Please, Javi,” Eddie begged.

Javi grabbed Eddie’s hand. He pressed the button on his silver blade, its click ominous in the quiet alley, the knife’s metal flashing in the sun. He twisted Eddie’s thumb sideways, gliding the blade over it. “If you don’t do this, hermanito.”

“Javi!” Eddie’s face contorted in pain, his eyes locked onto the knife beginning to dig into his flesh.

Javi moved closer, still pulling at Eddie’s thumb, his breath hot in Eddie’s face.

Eddie turned away, tears welling.

”Hermanito,” Javi wrenching his thumb sideways, “do this, or you’ll never play again.”

                                                                               ***

Guadalupe vs. Bratislava. Chicos vs. Polskis.  Guadalupe was home. The field pristine, glistening green grass in the vast outfield was perfectly-outlined with brilliant white stripes, and lots of room to roam. The batter’s box circumscribed as if by a draftsmen. Raul Estevez, a local landscaper, was the artist; not a weed blemished his grass, nor a stone to create a bad bounce. Each line was perfectly straight.

“We can do this, hermano,” the chubby kid said, tossing a ball in the air, chewing a wad of gum that would have choked a burro.

Eddie knew Nacho his whole life. They shared a crib and a playpen, and even a jumper. Nacho and Eddie’s mothers did their Quinceaneras together. They watched each other’s kids.

Eddie scanned the stands, looking for Javi.

“What’s wrong, bro?”  Nacho pounded a dirty ball into his glove.

“Looking.”

“The scouts? They’ll be here. They want you, man. You’re smooth.”

Eddie saw no scouts, no guys dressed good, no stopwatches or notebooks. And no Javi.

Nacho tapped his spikes with a pine-tarred bat. “I wish I was you, bro.”

Eddie didn’t. He was in a jam, with no way out.

Reynoldo Lopez boomed over the loudspeaker, announcing the lineups for each team; first, Spanish, then English. He butchered the names of Bratislava’s Polskis adding hyphens and syllables where there were none, and serenaded the aficionados with his melodic renderings of Gonzalez, Alvarez, Ramirez, and Rodriguez.

Bratislava had a big right-hander on the mound who was ready to sign. Undefeated the whole year. 9-0, ERA less than 1, with more than 2 Ks per inning. Guadalupe had Ricardo, a quiet, angry kid who threw bullets. But was wild. If you weren’t a K, he’d hit you or walk you. In the semis, on the way to this championship, he’d struck out 21, walked 8, and hit 4.  A no-no with 9 left on base and 3 runs scored. Eddie saved the game with a back-handed over-the-shoulder grab, a Howitzer throw to first, doubling off the shocked fat kid who Ricardo had plunked in the gut, trying to scramble back to first, after admiring, for too long, Eddie’s catch of the year.  

                                                                                ***

As predicted, it was a pitchers’ duel. Ricardo had 15 Ks, 4 walks, and hit 3, after 6 innings, a season low for him. The Polski hadn’t let Guadalupe get the ball out of the infield and Eddie had looked at strike three twice. 

Bottom of the sixth, two out, Nacho up. He couldn’t hit his age. Coach had him in there because he was a good kid. Worked his ass off, patted everybody on the back, and his old man Raul Estevez, the landscaper, took good care of the field.

The big right hander made carne piccado outta Nacho the first 2 times up. Six weak-ass swings that made him look like a nino.

Nacho tapped his spikes and rubbed his stick with the tar rag. He dug in. The first pitch whizzed by Nacho’s head. The aficionados went nuts, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Culero! Pandejo! Cabron!” The Polskis yelled back in their thick Polish accents sounding like tortured human beings. 

Next pitch, a heater, inside and high, deflecting off Nacho’s bat. He dove back, terrified. The big guy had him. He was scared shitless.

“Nacho,” Eddie yelled, “don’t let this salchicha spook you! Hang in.”

One and one. Next pitch a curve that started at Nacho’s head, then broke hard, down and away. Nacho dove outta the box, flailing at the ball like it was a big-ass wasp with a stinger that had his name on it. Strike two.

Polski dug his spikes into the mound. He wound up and slung a dart towards the outside corner. Nacho flinched. Eddie could see the fear as Nacho bailed again, his foot bolting for the bucket. He threw his bat wildly at the pitch clipping the ball on its very tip, causing a right field spin that made it look like a bird diving into the sea after a wounded fish. A squibber. It skimmed the first base bag’s top corner and ricocheted high into the air angling away from the entire Bratislava team. Now, Raul Estevez kept a good field. No weeds, no rocks, long straight lines. And it was a big field. A big fucking field. Nacho’s slice picked up speed as it spun dizzily away from every Polski chasing it. Nacho chugged with thick legs around first, the aficionados cheering him loud and wild like a bullfight. The right fielder motored towards the ball as it skipped, slid, juked, and jagged away from him. The first baseman had no chance at all. Nacho turned and churned in slow mo past second, and as the right fielder continued to chase the ball Nacho surprised everyone. He barreled into and around third, ignoring Mendoza’s pleas to stop. He was going to make his mark. Finally the right fielder got to the ball, stupidly, just before it went out of bounds which would have kept Nacho at third. The Polski picked it up and slung it towards home. Mendoza now begging for Nacho to stop. Nacho was having none of it.

The collision was a thud, a short, sickening thud. Nacho hit the catcher full on, his shoulder burying into the catcher’s chest protector. The ball flew up in the air and onto the pristine dirt that Senor Estevez had prepared for this championship game. The ump waved his arms parallel to the ground, his hands flat as pancakes. 

Nacho was safe.

The crowd was on fire. Aficionados sang their anthem; Mexican flags filled the dirty air, chants in Spanish rose over the rooftops. Nacho had scored!

1-0 Guadalupe.  Still two outs. Next batter Alexi Mendoza. Polski threw him 3 straight curves. One-two-three, over and out. He kicked the dirt, threw his bat, called the pitcher a puto, grabbed his glove, and trotted out to right.

Ricardo was gassed. Coach Hebron asked him if he had anything left. Ricardo lied and said yes.

He grabbed the ball and went to the mound for the last three outs.

His first pitch flew over the backstop. The next bounced 10 feet in front of the plate, and his third pitch hit the Polski in the head.

Ricardo’s tank was empty.

Man on first.

Ricardo didn’t come close with the next batter. Four straight balls that Juan Gomez, the half-Mexican, half-Chinese catcher, needed to throw his skinny body in front of, to ward off giving an extra base to the man on first.

First and second, no-outs, 1-0 Guadalupe. And Ricardo, scared shitless, was tired as a dog after a day at the beach.

Stanley Briczcinski was up next. He was noted for rockets. Everything he hit, he smoked. Hits flew off his bat headed towards people, places, and things with a velocity that made the ball whistle.  

Ricardo dug into the mound, trying to look as mean as he could. But his left knee gave him away, it shook, rattled, and rolled. First pitch, in the dirt. Gomez made a nice stop. Next pitch, same thing, a worm killer. Again Gomez saved it. Third pitch, Ricardo gave in and just laid it in there, a lollipop. Briczinski’s eyes lit up like a 100-watt bulb in a dark room. His forearms bulged. His fingers gripped tight. His left foot rose. He ripped a liner that sounded like a blast from a 357. The ball, a rocket, screamed to Eddie’s right, a mean downspin tailing fiercely away. Eddie catapulted airborne, angling to where the ball was going, not where it was. A soft sound came from his mitt, not the smack of a ball reddening flesh, but a flutter, a web catch, with a snow-cone, peeking from his glove. Eddie scuffled to his feet, chasing the Polski towards second, who stumbled then Eddie clipped the bag for the second out. The kid on first had taken off with the hit and was now caught 20 feet off the bag. It was a race, as the first baseman was out of position backing up home. Eddie charged towards first, the Polski running for his life to get there before Eddie. Eddie dove, arms outstretched. The Polski dove. The play was a blur. Dust rose in the air. The first base ump’s thumb shot into the sky. The dust cleared. And to the aficionados delight, they heard what they’d prayed for.

”He’s out!” 

A triple, fucking, play. Eddie had pulled off an unassisted triple play. Guadalupe had won the championship.

Aficionados leapt from the stands. Little children sang songs. Mariachis blew horns. Nuns and priests hugged. Kisses were asked for and given. Eddie, Nacho, Gomez, and Ricardo yelled wildly in Spanglish.

                                                                                   ***

Eddie sat on the hot metal bench, peeling off his dusty spikes, picking at the scab oozing from his arm. A man dressed good approached. He had a notebook and a thin cloth strap attached to a stopwatch. He handed Eddie his card. “You’re smooth, kid. Real smooth.”

Eddie studied the card. Its logo, in ornate scroll: an S, then a little below and off to the right, an o, and then at the bottom and further to the right an x. The card read Billy Bryk, Midwest Scout, Chicago White Sox.

Eddie’s body electric. Tingling. He sat silently studying the card, ignoring all around him. His years of work, his dream. Coming true.

“I’ll call you, kid,” Billy said, spitting his chew on the ground.

                                                                      ***

“No thanks,” Eddie responded to his father’s offer to drive him home before the festival celebration. “I’ll walk.” He needed to think.

He cut through the park, and turned right on Avenue L, taking the shortcut through the alley, home. 

His thoughts on ball. The scout. His way out. His dream.

To be somebody.

“Tonto!” He stepped from a gangway into the alley.

Javi.

“You dummy! Tonto!”

Fear, then anger, charged Eddie’s body.

Javi moving swiftly towards Eddie, the shiny object glistening in his hand. “You could have made it easy on yourself. But you wanted to show off. Be the man. Make the play. Win the game! Pandejo!”

Javi lunged, the knife flashing towards Eddie’s face. He side-stepped Javi, gracefully, just like turning a double play. Javi flew by. Eddie snatched the blade and drove it deep into Javi’s throat.

Javi looked shocked, then terrified, unready for what was happening. His eyes begged mercy. Eddie twisted the blade, Javi gurgling in panic, clutching his throat. Eddie drove it deeper, ripping the blade sideways, sliding easily through tender skin.

Eddie wiped the blade clean, folded the knife, and placed it in his pocket.

Javi, crumpled on the ground, tiny gasps, leaking from his throat.

Eddie studied the man who tried to take what was his. He shook his head with disgust.

Javi should have known better.

No one took what was Eddie’s.

Eddie was smooth, real smooth.