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ashdumpsterpile · 3 years

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ASH’S TMA HURT/COMFORT/FLUFF REC LIST

For the gays. (And @damcrows who’s been dead for the past 24 hours. Rest in peace babe. Read some gay fic. Deny the inevitability of canon. <3)

___

the end, but the start (of all things that are left to do) by @ajkal2

Jon wakes up.

aka. mag200 tore out my heart

(Very smol, very short, very spoiler. Def recommend for anyone who just finished the podcast.)

remind me how to smile by @tamerofdarkstars

Jon is probably fine, just hiding out somewhere while the whole murder thing blows over and that's... fine. Martin is fine with that explanation. Really. He's got plenty to distract himself - like listening through the entire What the Ghost episode library, for example. Or watching Georgie Barker's Instagram livestreams.

(Yea this was in the last rec list, but you don’t understand THE ADMIRAL GIVES CUDDLES)

Chamomile by Dribbledscribbles

Whatever the ex-tea was, if it really had ever been that last bag of chamomile Martin claimed he’d found tucked in the back of the cupboard, it was fast now.

Martin had tried catching it, chasing it, blocking its way with shoebox lids and plates and an upended footstool, but the thing was just too quick. Jon knew as well as Knew that he might have left off the attempts completely if not for the creature’s preferred game.

The game was, See How Many Times I Can Push Martin Towards Cardiac Arrest Before He Comes at Me with The Broom.

(Scottish Honeymoon Era. Adorable and weird. A vampire gets harassed.)

hey stranger by @ennuijpg

It’s a late night Tesco run, how eventful could it be? It’s not like Martin is going to run into his boss who’s wearing something absurdly different from usual and get the most acute form of whiplash possible from seeing him, right?

(Martin runs into Jon at the grocery store and has an existential crisis.)

roses roses, roses. by @judesstfrancis

Rose scented laundry detergent. Running into Jon in the breakroom. Running into Jon on his way back to his desk. Rose scented detergent. Running into Jon. Roses. Jon. Roses, roses, roses.

(Canon enemies to friends to lovers au-ish. Martin POV. Very pining much sweet.)

go softly by doomcountry

And there is nothing else besides this.

(More hurt/comfort than fluff. Scottish Honeymoon Era. Mild eye mutilation.)

Not Alone by @backofthebookshelf

After the coffin, Daisy and Jon are both fragile. They hold each other up.

(Post-buried Jon&Daisy starter pack. Very hurt/comfort.)

trust my love by antlsepticeye

“you… you’re real, aren’t you?” jon whispers, the fog slowly dissipating from his mind. “it is not a trick?”

“i’m here,” martin says softly, reaching up to grab jon’s hand that was resting on his cheek, intertwining his fingers with jon’s and squeezing. he moves jon’s hand to martin’s chest, resting it over his heart. “you’re alright. i’m alright. take your time, love. let’s just take some deep breaths, okay?”

(TOUCHSTARVED JON HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.)

reaching out by Athina_Blaine

By the time things settled, when Martin had finally managed to crack through his cold shell, feel some of his old self returning to him in bits and pieces, they had found their little routine.

One that had the two of them sleeping in the same bed, making breakfast, going to the mart. Where Jon reached for his wrist while they slept, and Martin luxuriated in the gentle warmth of his fingers.

But not one where Martin reached back. One that had Martin kissing Jon awake or taking his hand over the breakfast table, because ... Martin never had the courage to try. And then it never became a part of the routine.

And Martin desperately wanted it to be.

Martin and Jon have an important conversation.

(More Scottish Honeymoon Era for the soul. Hurt/comfort/fluff.)

Belabor by @janekfan

Jon's given the position of Archivist and is falling apart at the seams. Tim and Sasha are upset and playing games. Elias is overbearing and manipulative.

And poor Martin is stuck cleaning up the mess.

(THEE first fic I ever read for tma. Season 1, hurt/comfort/fluff, and hints of Jmartin. janekfan is the absolute master of seasons 1-3 hurt/comfort. This is my favorite, but pls check out the rest of their fics.)

tea, blankets, and a damnable stubborn attitude by ivelostmyspectacles

“Are you really gonna stay here and pester Jon all evening?”

“I’m not pestering him,” Martin retorted, sounding vehement if not busy going through the cupboards. “I’m heating up soup.”

“Oh, you might as well make him another cup of tea while you’re at it.”

“Oh, good idea.”

Jon shot Tim a withering look.

(The one where Jon is ill, Martin makes tea and they watch doctor who together. Fluff 1000%.)

A Kind Hand by @voiceless-terror

Jonathan Sims was adjusting just fine, thank you very much.

In which a minor workplace spill causes Jon to realize that he might have friends.

(Ah yes, the other master of seasons 1-3 fic aka voiceless-terror being my other fav author in the fandom. This one is also season 1 hurt/comfort/fluff.)

A Weather In The Flesh by @cuttoothed

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

(More touched starved Jon! Much hurt/comfort!)

Something Old, Something New by @cirrus-grey

Months have passed, and everyone is doing better than they were. Daisy and Basira are getting married, Melanie is feeling her old self, Georgie is as much herself as she has ever been, and even Jon has stabilized on his wild fall away from humanity. Everyone is doing better.

Well. Almost everyone.

(Daisy/Barsira wedding! Melanie is a bitch and we love her! Jmartin dance! Post-canon (almost) everyone lives!)

The Weight of Love by @voiceless-terror

Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust.

(The fic where Jon is literally me and Martin attempts to sleep for 1k words.)

The Art of Conversation by @voiceless-terror

"Do you ever stop talking?"

Jon has a complicated relationship with words. Difficulties come and go.

(Jon has adhd and Martin is in love.)

Novelty by @backofthebookshelf

Jon experiences A Sexual Attraction; Martin has A Concern. They figure it out.

(Any fic that explores the ace spectrum is a 10/10. We stan all ace interpretations of jon on this blog.)

Half a Hug by Dathen

I know you weren’t going to hurt me, I trust you, he said again and again. And then a different kind of fear shone through, hollow and echoing: “Please don’t stop touching me."

Or: Life is hard when you're touch-starved but have trauma related to your closest friend. Spoilers through TMA 132.

(Honestly bless every author who saw jon&daisy and was like. They’re siblings. No I will not elaborate.)

the loneliness never left me (but i can put it down in the pleasure of your company) by Athina_Blaine

It was about Martin making Jon feel safe, treasured, and loved. And it had been so, so long since anyone made him feel that way.

And, in the face of it all, Jon was starting to flounder.

(At this point I just need to make separate rec list for Scottish Honeymoon Era.)

you can watch me corrode by scarletfish

"So, how long have you been pulling this shit then?"

"I… excuse me?" Jon’s indignant, certain she can’t mean what he thinks she means.

"When was the last time you ate?"

(Georgie decides Jon and Melanie need a normal day off. Jon learns that he and Melanie have more in common than he thought.)

(Look, Melanie isn’t my favorite person in tma, but she and Jon are like THE SAME PERSON and I adore fics that elaborate on their relationship.)

Out of the Wind, In From the Cold by @ostentenacity

There are two bedrooms in the safehouse, and two beds.

For a moment, Jon considers asking to share, but decides against it with a wince. “I really loved you,” Martin had told him. Loved. Past tense. And Martin doesn’t exactly have a lot of choices right now in terms of company; it would be cruel to demand he play at feelings he no longer has just to make Jon happy.

(For a moment, Martin considers asking to share. But he dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. Jon has already done so much for him. Martin isn’t about to ask for more, especially not when it’s something he doesn’t really need. He has his right mind back, and he has Jon’s friendship. That should be enough for him. It’ll have to be.)

---

Jon thinks that Martin doesn’t love him. Martin thinks that Jon doesn’t love him. They do not, of course, discuss this. Unrequited love is already awkward enough, right? No need to dwell on it.

(THEE SCOTTISH HONEYMOON ERA FIC. IT’S ABOUT THE PINING, BEING MUTUALLY OBLIVIOUS AND FALLING IN LOVE. 10000/10.)

I Do by @voiceless-terror

“I, um- this was supposed to be a lot more romantic, I swear.” Martin looks down at the dirty bar floor. “I had it all planned out, I-I was going to take you somewhere nice, and then we’d go for a walk in the square- I’ll still do it!” He hurries to explain, as if that’s the most pressing part of this situation. “It’ll be really nice, I’ve already hired a photographer-”

In a fit of protectiveness, Martin proposes to Jon.

(Everyone lives, Martin accidentally proposes and Jon is crying in public.)

________

#lmao follow for more fic recs #ash recs #ash's rec list #ash recs fics #tma fic list #tma fics #jmart #jmartin #jon sims #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma fic recs

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arhvste · 4 years

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001 MIYA ATSUMU X SHUT UP AND DRIVE SERIES

++ MSBY GARAGE

❝ i've been looking for a driver who is qualified, so if you think that you're the one step into my ride ❞

dt — @rintaroll

“so, what’s it gonna take for ya to praise me a little more?”

you rolled your eyes and huffed, brushing the setters hand off your shoulder.

“shouldn’t you be more concerned about, oh i don’t know, your fans, interviews, your teammates?!” you snapped back as atsumu held both his hands up in defence.

the crowd was loud and still bustling as the black jackals most recent victory continued to stir excitement through the mass of spectators in the high stands. fans were still yelling and chanting as interviewers scrambled to grab the attention of any player they could. multiple had pried for atsumu in fact, alas, all his attention was solely focused on none other than his teams promotional manager; you.

you were chatting to the teams photographer and uploading updates and playbacks onto the teams twitter at the time the blond had bounded his way over to you and here you were, faced with the famous setter leaning on the advertisement boards lining the court diving you from him.

“miya,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as you shook your head. “go and talk to some interviewers and get yourself back over to the others, i’m begging you at this point.”

“beggin’ huh?” a boyish smirk tugged at his lips and his eyes stayed locked on your own.

“not in the way your disgusting little mind is thinking of.” you shot back, stepping back from the board and looking back down at your phone where the teams twitter was currently blowing up.

atsumu snickered before standing up straight.

“whatever ya say doll, just hold up a little longer and i’m all yours again yeah?”

you scoffed and shook your head at him before shooing him away.

“i’d prefer you weren’t.”

“lyin’s a bad habit.”

“would you just go already?”

atsumu laughed as he turned to make his way back to the rest of his awaiting team. waving a hand back at you, he turned to face you before shooting a wink your way as interviewers and photographers flooded the scene.

this was a typical exchange of interaction between the two of you. ever since you had been introduced to the team as their promotional manager, atsumu had fixated his interest outside of volleyball onto you. 7 months later and nothing had changed despite his never faltering persistence.

you sighed as the photographer laughed softly before turning to his own laptop to import more photos for you to upload.

“he seems to have a soft spot for you.”

you groaned and switched your phone off, leaning back on the advertisement boards atsumu himself was previously leaning against.

“he’s such a handful.” you stated as the photographer chuckled.

“looks like he wants to be one for you though.”

“i wish he didn’t” you muttered back as the photographer smiled earnestly at you.

“i think we both know that’s a lie, we’ve been working together for a while and i don't think this dread to spend time with him is as evident as you make it out.”

you whined as you sent a soft frown his way.

“trust me, it is.”

“whatever you say.” the man teased back before clicking on the last images to send your way.

thanking him and making your way over to the teams manager and coach, you stood beside them in front of the msby boys and watched them as outlet interviewers shot questions their way.

multiple flashes went off every few seconds as each player flashed a handsome smile to the camera. you scanned over the team and bokuto was excitedly chatting and laughing with the interviewers. you smiled softly to yourself as you let your eyes wander from bokuto over to sakusa who was trying his best to avoid contact with his sweaty teammates and ‘annoying’ interviewers. it was clear he wasn’t as thrilled to be there as the others so you sent an apologetic look his way and mouthed to him he only had to put up for roughly 10 minutes more. he silently wallowed in self pity at that, but that quickly turned to agitation as atsumu dominated your vision.

slinging an arm over sakusa, (much to the latters disgust), atsumu grinned at you and flashed a smirk for a brief second before turning back to give the cameras a toothy grin.

your face dropped back into a frown as atsumu feigned hurt from a distance.

the team manager laughed as she elbowed you gently.

“interviewers might have a little more luck keeping him focused if you were the one interviewing him.”

you raised an eyebrow as you turned to face her.

“he’s like a puppy.” you stated bluntly as the manager laughed.

“a lovesick puppy.” she corrected as you faked a gag.

“why you all think he’s head over heels for me is way beyond me.”

the manager smiled before nudging for you to look at the attractive setter.

“because it's obvious. you break the boys heart every week.”

you watched as atsumu happily chatted to interviewers and forced sakusa to begrudgingly pose for photos and join in with him.

“he’s not my type.” you said as your eyes stayed focused on the blond.

“right.” the manager teased before smiling over at the team's captain, meian, her own boyfriend.

you smiled at the pair’s interaction as the team dispersed after thanking interviewers and fans for their support.

meian wandered over to the manager who happily placed a kiss to her cheek before guiding her off towards the back of the stadium, hand lingering on the small on her back.

you sighed as your own thoughts invaded your headspace. it wasn’t that you didn’t want a boyfriend. you just hadn’t met anyone worth the time yet.

well, that was your go to excuse to tell everyone anyway. the truth was, you didn't even know the limits to your own standards, you just knew they were high when looking for a potential partner.

the feeling of a heavy arm slung over your shoulder forced you back into reality as your eyes flickered up in surprise.

“miss me?” the hot breath and familiar voice teased the shell of your ear as you scowled.

“you wish.” you snapped back as you attempted to duck out of your offender's grip.

“ah-ah, yer coming home with me today.” atsumu smirked confidently as you hissed at him to get off.

“says who?” you argued as the setter looked down at you smugly.

“me.” another voice joined the conversation as you turned to face the owner of it.

your eyes met the coach who was looking at you slightly sympathetically.

“huh?”

“sorry,” the coach began, hand holding the back of his neck. “i know i said i’d take you home, but my wife has some errands she needs me to pick up before getting home and i’d hate to have to drag you along with me this late at night.”

you groaned but nodded understandably.

“luckily, atsumu here was kind enough to offer to be your ride back home.”

“lucky me.” your voice dripping with thick sarcasm as atsumu ignored it.

“yeah, lucky you indeed. do ya know how many girls would kill to be in yer position right now?” atsumu teased, arm still firmly made at home around your shoulders.

“let them kill me.” you glared at him as he gasped playfully.

“ya don’t mean that.”

“i do.”

“you don’t.”

“just take me home already i’m tired!” you threw your arms up as atsumu grinned.

“sure, give me a few minutes to grab my stuff and i’ll meet you round the back of the building, yeah?”

“whatever.”

you made your way towards the back exit of the stadium and were met with other members of support for the team who were waiting for the boys to grab their things from the locker rooms. some players opted to shower after matches while others waited til they got back home. atsumu fell into the category of players who waited until they got home. this was both a blessing and a curse. you wouldn’t have to wait for him for too long, but you would be met with a sweaty atsumu.

this wasn’t technically a bad thing, atsumu had a habit of getting rid of the smell after each match with an expensive cologne you’d never even attempt to pronounce, but he happened to somehow be a little more attractive when he looked worn out and disheveled. you hated yourself for thinking such a thing but you just couldn’t help it. he was annoyingly attractive and it made his personality a little more dislikable in your opinion.

you waited for around 10 minutes before you were met with boisterous laughter ringing through the spacious lounge by the exit.

atsumu and bokuto came striding out from the hall directing towards the locker rooms, gym bags in their hands and ruggish hair that would need taming again eventually.

you sighed as you waited for atsumu to approach you. he bid his goodbyes to everyone and sent a look at bokuto's way. the ace held a thumbs up at atsumu as the others in the lounge looked at each other giggling and smiling smugly.

you raised an eyebrow but shrugged it off as you felt a hand find its way on your waist.

“let’s get going then.” his voice strumming chords through your body as you shivered slightly.

atsumu led you out and down towards the underground garage used by players and staff members whilst at the stadium. you’d never actually seen atsumu’s car before so you had no idea what to be looking for, but atsumu’s hand remained firmly on your waist as he led you over to an array of expensive cars. mentally trying to guess what car belonged to the setter, atsumu watched with a small smirk etched on his face as your eyes scanned along each car. keys hooked around his finger, atsumu pressed the unlock button as your jaw dropped slightly.

of fucking course.

miya atsumu was the proud owner of a jet black 2021 chevrolet corvette with the number plate gracing it in all its glory ‘MIY4 13’.

you scoffed as atsumu’s smirk widened.

“so, ya gettin in or what?”

“into what? my one way invitation to death?”

atsumu snickered as he led you over to the passengers seat.

“i won’t kill ya, i promise.”

you looked back at him, handsome and sharp features making your eyes soften.”

“well, it’s not like i’ll be able to yell at you if you break that promise.”

“exactly.” atsumu grinned as you climbed into the luxury vehicle. the soft leather padding of the seats welcoming you as your weight shifted onto them.

you glanced around the interior as your eyes were met upon. various lit buttons caught your attention as a screen switched on as atsumu opened the drivers door. you were certain the car had way too many features but that’s what made it a luxury vehicle you guessed. the sleek black and red complimented interior was admired by you as atsumu watched your eyes dance around the car. his eyes softened as you visably relaxed a little more. your hand hooked across the firmly threaded seatbelt as you pulled it around you.

you looked at atsumu who’s smirk seemed to have faded. instead, a soft grin was painted across his face as he helped you click the belt securely in place.

“don’t kill me miya.”

“i’ll do my best.” he winked at you before pressing the start engine.

mentally chanting your last prayers, you accepted the position fate had put you in and did your best to stop the stirring of butterflies in your chest as atsumu placed his hand on the back of your headrest and pulled out.

well fuck.

as if he wasn’t attractive enough before, he sure as hell was now. your eyes widened and heart picked up it’s pace as the scent of atsumu’s signature cologne flooded your senses.

his sharp jaw and focused eyes, pointed in the direction of the rear window as he successfully pulled the car out the space. moving his hand back onto the wheel, atsumu turned to smirk at you as you gave him a pleading look. before you could open your mouth to speak, the setter slammed on the accelerator and the engines picked up its volume as your head was thrown back a little as the car sped out the garage exit.

“you little shit!” you cussed out as atsumu laughed as you sped onto the highway through the city.

“ya love the thrill don’t lie.”

“i’m not lying!” you protested as the flashes of bright lights flew past the window.

atsumu smiled as his right hand found its place on the middle of your thigh.

“miya!” you hissed as atsumu tilted his head momentarily your direction.

“ya can call me atsumu ya know?”

“i don’t want to!”

“for such a genuine person, yer so full of shit sometimes.”

you huffed as you gave up letting atsumu’s touch encourage the stir inside of you. you turned and glared out the window at the passing scene as atsumu hummed in satisfaction.

a few more moments of comfortable silence went by, nothing but the sounds of cars zooming past and the soft hum of atsumu’s own car’s engine.

you frowned and bit the corner of your lip as you peaked towards the blond whose eyes were fixed on the road.

“so,” you began, resulting in the player's eyes to flicker your way for a millisecond. “why are you so hooked on me?” you questioned.

you held your breath as you finally voiced the concern that had been playing on your mind for a while. you rarely had moments of privacy with the man despite his infatuation and demand to be around you.

“am i not allowed to be?” he challenged teasingly as he sqeezed your thigh slightly.

you wanted to force his grip off of you, you really did, but something about it felt so natural you just couldn't.

“miya.” you sighed and shook your head.

“atsumu.” he corrected as you turned to face him properly.

“look, you’re just my type. that’s all there is to it.” he replied simply,as if it was no big deal to him.

“and just what exactly is your type?” you quizzed as you pulled up at a traffic light.

slowing the car to stop for a while the light was red, atsumu turned his face to look at your own before he flashed that boyish grin you’d unknowingly grown rather fond of.

“you.”

and with that, the world threw you back into fast motion as the green light flashed, highlighting his face before he hit the acceleration again making your eyes widen.

“atsumu…” you sighed quietly as the adrenaline brought more life into his eyes.

it wasn’t that you hated atsumu. it wasn’t that at all. he was just someone you didn’t see yourself seriously with. someone so out there and demanding of the world. you had always envisioned yourself with someone a little more down to earth, someone with a stable job with a lowkey personal life, a person who took life at a comfortable pace. you had never seriously considered being with someone like miya atsumu. someone who demanded the world's attention, dominated every scene he was put in, who took life at the speed the highest the accelerator would go. someone so big, so bright. you never imagined someone like miya atsumu would take interest in someone like you. you were opposites stuck in an entanglement of professional lives.

out of every person in the world, the universe had decided miya atsumu would become the man who ticked the boxes to your unknown standards. you just hated to acknowledge it.

pulling off the highway, atsumu drove through the less busy roads as your apartment complex came into vision. half of you wanted the ride to be a little longer, but the other half of you couldn’t wait to lock yourself in your apartment away from the man who caused turmoil inside of you.

atsumu hummed as he pulled around the back of your complex. the roads were quiet and the soft lights of other buildings gleamed off the vehicle as the golden light flooded through the tinted glass of the windows, pulling attention to the boyish, but charming features of his face.

you sighed as he pulled the car to a stop and let the engine settle down. you stayed like that for a moment as the two of you sat there packed in the quiet parking lot.

“listen, I meant it, i really do like you.” he said as you studied his eyes for any signs of him being ingenuine; you couldn't find any.

your eyes softened as you leaned on the headboard.

“miy- atsumu.” you began quietly as his eyes admired your form. “it’s not that i don’t like you or anything, it's just- i don’t know if you’re my type.” you confessed as your heart hammered against your chest.

“well, you just called me by my first name, that’s gotta count for something right?”

you looked up at him and locked your eyes into his honest ones. you sat up and turned to face him as he took both of your hands into his.

“look, i get it, i’ve been annoying since day one-”

“-annoying is an understatement.” you cut in as atsumu playfully glared at you.

“rude. anyways as i was saying, i might’ve come across as a little too strong from the start, but there's just somethin’ about you. i just can’t seem to leave ya alone.” the blond confessed honestly as his warm, calloused hands held yours tightly.

“atsumu, i just don’t know.” you shook your head as he held onto your hands tightly. “i just don’t know what i’m looking for.”

“let me help ya find it in me then.” he pleaded softly, a small grin tugged at his lips.

you cast your eyes down to where your hands were being connected by him. the stir in your chest sped up as your heart was slamming against your chest at this point.

“atsumu i just-”

cutting you off, atsumu pulled your hands away from each other as he moved one up towards your jaw to cradle your face gently. dark golden eyes melting at the sight of you close up, atsumu pulled your face in closer to his and your heart just wouldn’t let you pull away. his lips finally met your own after what felt like an eternity and it was if yours were made to fit against his.

his hand moved towards the back of your neck as he encouraged you to move closer. you leaned closer letting your own hand find its way against atsumu’s broad chest.

the kiss deepened as you gave access to the setter’s tongue as he dominated your movements. small gasps and whines were heard in the silence of the parking lot as neither of you had it in your to pull away. atsumu’s hand was securely at the back of your neck with the other gripping your waist as you groaned at the slightly uncomfortable position.

pulling away, the two of you breathed heavily as you leaned back in the expensive leather seat as atsumu stared at you softly.

“what the fuck was that?”

“our first kiss as a couple.” atsumu teased but failed to stop the wide smile spread across his face.

“who said anything about being a couple?” you shot back as atsumu found your hand once more, lacing your fingers together tightly.

“your body language. you kissed back.”

“i-”

“msby setter miya atsumu as yer boyfriend, wow, arent’cha just the luckiest!”

you playfully hit his chest as he laughed.

“keep it up and that’ll be ex-boyfriend.”

atsumu’s eyes lit up as he grabbed your hand again and held it tightly.

“so ya admit it! i’m yer boyfriend!”

you giggled seeing how genuinely excited he was over it.

“for now.” you hummed as he pouted slightly.

you cupped his jaw and leaned to press a soft kiss to his cheek causing heat to rise to his face.

“let’s just, take this slow though okay?”

“don’t tell me that while sittin’ in this car.” he joked as you groaned against him.

you leaned back looking back into his bright eyes as his gaze softened.

“i’m kiddin’, we’ll go as fast as ya want, and i promise not to kill you on the way.”

you snickered as the blond beamed at you.

“i’m holding you to that.” you smiled as atsumu pulled your face in closer once more. leaning forward to better prepare yourself, you allowed yourself to melt into another deep kiss with the man you would now call your boyfriend.

you never saw yourself being with someone who took life at a fast pace. someone who demanded the world’s attention without verbally calling for it. you never saw yourself falling for someone like that.

but here you were, with the man who ticked all of those boxes easily. the type of man you insisted wasn’t your type, turned out to be the blueprint for your exact type; you just weren’t aware of it until miya atsumu insisted you did.

++TAGLIST! @crescenttooru @miss-angel-ash @sarahvvictoria @babierin @fxncyoomi @s0utien @toobsessedsstuff @omibaby @kenkodzu @sugabeaniee @lovesunas @slutawara @bunny-on-crack @shouyouorange @memorableminds @whootwhoot @yikes-buddy @sweetsamus

#miya atsumu #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #atsumu imagine #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #hq #hq x you #shut up and drive series

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heyitsani · 3 years

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A Dream Ripping at the Seams

@damianwayneweek fic Reverse Robins

Word Count: 5024

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: Referenced past child abuse, canonical character death mentioned

Pairing: None

Summary: He had planned the whole thing out. The moment he had seen the notes in Richard’s file on the computer, he had known he needed to get him out of there and away from Batman as soon as possible. He refused to lose another brother.

Saving Richard because he failed to save Todd was his only priority.

Notes: Guess what! IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! And it also happens to be Reverse Robins day for Damian Wayne week! So to celebrate, I wrote this fic to give to all of you lovely people. But especially those in the RR Discord who are always willing to encourage me to run with an idea that comes up last minute.

Also, this fic ends abruptly and that’s the point. I might continue it, I might not. But it’s supposed to feel sudden and full of questions.

To clear up confusion: Dick was 10 when adopted, Jason died when he was 15 and Dick 11, Dick is 12 (nearly 13) when the story starts, and 13 when it ends.

You can also read it on AO3 here

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Damian waited until he had the opportunity to get Richard away from the manor for the afternoon before he approached the subject with the boy. He hadn’t been certain he would need to, at first, but the longer Richard was in the house with his father the more he saw the signs he had seen with Jason. And that meant he needed to act.

So he had asked Richard if he wanted Damian to pick him up from school one Friday in February so they could go for ice cream before dinner. Richard had, unsurprisingly, agreed enthusiastically like Damian had known he would. With the kid’s sweet tooth, he never turned down things like ice cream. Especially since it wasn’t something the circus really got much of apparently. Traveling in trailers didn’t allow for too many luxuries like freezers.

“Richard,” Damian started once they were seated on a bench in a local park, not far from a playground that the child was eyeing. When the sapphire eyes turned on him, Damian took a deep breath and looked directly at him. “I know you have figured out what Father and the rest of us do in the night.” Richard nodded, smiling as he licked his cone. “Has Father approached you about training yet?”

The boy nodded again, and Damian pressed his lips together. Twelve years old. Twelve. None of them had been that young outside of himself, but his situation was different. Being born into the League of Assassins made for a different upbringing. “Is that bad?”

Shaking his head, Damian made sure his face was neutral before speaking again. “No, but I have concerns.” The boy blinked at him, but remained silent as though he was waiting for his brother to tell him what it was he was concerned about. “You do not know of my childhood, but it was far from…pleasant. I was raised in a place called Nanda Parbat that trains people to be the kind of people Batman fights against.”

“But you were a kid?” Richard sounded confused; ice cream forgotten as he tried to sort through what Damian was saying. And what he wasn’t saying. “Why would you train a kid like that?”

“Because that was the way things were done there.”

“Then they were done wrong.”

Damian let out a soft laugh, corner of his mouth raising just slightly at the thought of this twelve-year-old child telling him that he had been raised wrong. “Be that as it may, you are correct that I was a kid and that should not have been my childhood.”

Richard hummed and went back to his ice cream, looking out at a pair of dogs playing in the grass. Damian observed him as he watched the dogs, wondering what he was thinking. He wasn’t sure how to ask the boy to do what exactly he was thinking, but he just hoped Richard would go along with it. That he would agree to leave because this was not the life he should be living.

“Dami?” Richard looked back to him, and Damian raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want me to train with Batman.” Damian shook his head. “Ever?”

And wasn’t that the real question?

Damian wasn’t sure if he wanted Richard, the purest of them all, to be exposed to how ugly the world was the same way the rest of them had been. It would ruin him. It would steal the innocence that Damian found himself desperately wanting to protect. It would tear out everything good in him and leave him a shell.

“Never,” he admitted quietly. Richard dropped his gaze again and chewed on his lower lip. “I want you to understand why. My childhood aside, I do not want to see what happened to Todd happen to you. I do not want you to lose yourself the way I have seen Drake do. I do not want you to realize the ugly truths of the world long before your time the way Cain or Brown have. I want to protect you from all of that.”

With brows drawn down, Richard looked at him again. He was looking at Damian with that look, the one he had seen Cain look at him with too many times to count. The look that penetrated all the walls and shields he had put around his mind and heart.

“You want me to leave.”

“I want to take you away from here and hide us both until you are able to stand your own against Father on the subject,” he quickly corrected, not wanting Richard to think he wasn’t welcome in the Wayne family. “I want to protect you from a fate I wish we all could have been protected from.”

Richard took a lick of his ice cream and Damian waited, worried the boy would tell him no and then tell his father everything Damian had planned. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Richard nodded. “Okay.”

And Damian released his held breath, relief washing over him. He could save one of them, the best of them. He could do one right thing in his life, a life filled with so many wrong things.

“We leave in a week.” Richard’s eyes turned determined, and he gave a firm nod before looking over toward the playground again.

“Can I play after my ice cream is finished?” Damian laughed and nodded, too relieved to deny him anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who is she?” Richard asked, tugging on the black chuba Damian had selected for himself the moment they had touched down in Tibet. The weather was fairly cool, and he hadn’t thought to purchase the proper wears before he had put his plan into motion. But thankfully he had anticipated needing to switch enough money into Yuan to get them by for the first couple of months. It had made purchasing weather friendly clothing for himself and Richard much easier.

Looking down at Richard, Damian frowned and followed his eyeline to the familiar statue that stood at the top of the mountain, guarding over Nanda Parbat. “She is Ruma Kushna,” he told Richard, who couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the beautiful stone statue. He couldn’t blame the kid, he had been fascinated with the goddess when he had been younger. She had been formidable and even his grandfather had spoken highly of the goddess. “She watches over all of those in Nanda Parbat.”

Richard frowned and looked away from the statue, blue eyes skittering over the various people wandering around the market they were making their way through in an attempt to find lodging. “She is not kind then,” the boy said, looking up at Damian with a fierce look.

“What makes you say that?”

Richard shrugged and looked away, curiosity stealing the boy’s attention once more. But Damian couldn’t forget that look for stubborn protectiveness that had covered Richard’s face in the moment. It had been breathtaking if he were honest. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like that when they weren’t preparing to fight him for one reason or another.

Pausing at a stall with various spices that smelled familiar and distant at the same time, Damian gave the older woman a friendly smile. “Tashi delek,” he greeted her, giving a small bow of his head. “My son and I are looking for lodging, do you know of anyone with vacancies in their home that would spare space for us? We are willing to pay.”

The woman seemed to consider him closely, glancing from him to Richard and then back again. He knew his excuse of Richard being his son was flimsy when someone considered their age difference, but it was the story he needed to stick to for the time being. He couldn’t risk someone looking too deeply into their relation if they thought they were merely brothers. And Damian would be drawn and quartered before someone took Richard from him and returned him to Bruce.

“I have a spare sleeping quarter if you could spare your strength,” the woman finally replied, kindness heavy in her old eyes.

“Tuchi che!” Richard exclaimed, smiling brightly at the woman who almost looked surprised at his enthusiasm. Damian struggled to hold back a smile of his own as he gave the woman a firm nod, silently agreeing to her terms.

“I am Damian and this is Richard. We are grateful for your hospitality.” The woman chuckled and waved them off, telling them to scout the market for anything they might need since their packs were small and probably did not hold much out of the bare necessities. “What should we call you?”

The woman’s smile warmed, and she leaned back. “I am Amala,” she responded. “Now go find you both some clothing that is not of the city but of the mountain.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You are al Ghul,” Amala stated as she handed over the cup of tea. Damian froze, eyes wide as he looked at the woman who still looked at him with that same kindness she had since that first meeting almost four months ago. But he couldn’t figure out how she could possibly look at him that way if she knew who his family was. “The League is well known in our village, as small as we may be. They look after their own on the mountain. But there were whispers of the Heir refusing to return and the Demon Head demanding justice.”

Looking down at his teacup, cradled in both hands to warm his palms from the cool night air coming in from under the door, he sighed before glancing back toward the corner where Richard was sleeping. Confirming Amala’s words would put them both in danger of being discovered. He had picked this village because it meant they were right under his grandfather and mother’s noses. They would never look for him here.

But if he lied, he risked having to run with Richard again. And the child was finally settling nicely in the village. He had made friends with some of the other children and he was catching up on his studies. The last thing Damian wanted to do was uproot him yet again. His life had been disrupted enough since the death of his parents.

“I am he,” Damian admitted, looking back to Amala. The woman smiled knowingly before pressing a finger to her lips in a ‘shhhh’ motion and Damian let out a sigh of relief. “How did you figure it out?”

The woman shrugged. “You have your mother’s eyes,” she said, as if that was enough to give it all away. “And your mother used to bring you down here as a babe, just learning to walk the mountain. I recognized you the moment you approached my stall at market.”

“Has anyone else?”

“Not that I have heard.”

But that didn’t mean they hadn’t. If someone told his mother or even one of the footmen, Damian would need to pick Richard up and run. He wouldn’t have a choice. He probably should do it now before anyone had the chance to come after them.

“Thank you, for trusting us then.”

Amala waved a hand. “I could see in your eyes that you were running from something. That you were protecting your son from something.” Damian held back the cringe at the word son, knowing she had to have figured out that Richard wasn’t his. “You are safe in my home. I will not bring harm upon you. No matter if it is from up the mountain or from far away.”

Damian swallowed, bowing his head against the onslaught of emotion that hit him from her words. “Thank you,” he whispered, unable to look at her just yet. “Protecting him is all I am after.” He looked over at Richard again and blinked away the tears. “It is my only goal.”

“And that is what makes you a good father,” she said softly, “blood or not.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Baba!” Richard called out; voice distorted as it came into the house from outside where he had been helping plant some new seedlings. “Dami!” That made Damian pause. It had been a while since Richard had called him by his name, out of habit or fear Damian couldn’t be sure which. But it made a small sense of panic arise in his chest and had him dropping the piece he had been sketching and immediately run out the front door.

He froze when he saw a man kneeling in front of Richard, black cloak and hood pulled over his head, hiding his face from Damian but not from Richard. But when the man looked up, Damian felt his stomach drop.

“No,” he whispered, hurrying forward and pushing Richard behind him as he glared at Timothy Drake, his father’s second eldest but first adopted child. “You are not welcome here, Drake,” he said lowly, English rusty from lack of use since coming to Tibet.

Drake held up his hands and took a step back, but Damian held tighter onto Richard who tried to move out from behind his legs. “I am not here to cause trouble, Damian,” Drake offered. And Damian knew him well enough to know the man was being honest. But it didn’t mean he could let his guard down. “He doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know I found you.”

“Trackers.”

“Rerouted.”

Taking a deep breath, Damian glanced around before giving Drake a nod and herding Richard into the house, knowing Drake would following them. “Richard, go work on your schooling.” Richard looked up at him, frowning at the order, before glancing over at Drake. “Now, Richard.” And though Damian knew the child didn’t want to, Richard walked away with a pout to the table where his schoolwork sat waiting. “How did you find us?”

“It wasn’t easy, you covered your tracks better than any of us expected,” Drake said, eyes watching Richard as he took his seat and began writing in the notebook. Damian could tell he was curious, but Damian needed answers before Drake got his own. “I looked at footage we had searched through a million times and got lucky.”

“And Father doesn’t know? I’m meant to believe you simply didn’t tell him? You?”

“He thinks I’m off world with the Titans.”

“That doesn’t answer why you didn’t tell him.”

Drake seemed to consider his answer for a moment before shrugging both his shoulders. “Dick didn’t seem to be in distress in the footage I found. He looked like he wanted to be with you.”

“I explained it to him before we left. He agreed to come with me on his own.”

“Why did you take him?”

A familiar anger built in his core and Damian had to push it down with a few deep breaths before he could answer Drake without yelling. “Because I would not let him sacrifice Richard the same way he sacrificed all of us. Because since losing Todd, he has lost sight of the true mission and we have become nothing but soldiers to him. I would die before I let that man turn Richard another glass case bearing a bloodied suit of armor,” he growled, fists clenched tightly.

Drake watched him with those eyes, the ones Damian had always hated because it always felt like he was a risk and Drake was calculating how dangerous he was in any given moment. As if Drake was just like his father, with a file of ways to put an end to Damian because part of him was too dangerous to be trusted.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Drake finally said, looking back to Richard with a nod. “I didn’t believe you could have taken him for anything other than his own good.” The cool blue eyes looked back to Damian and had lost some of the calculating look. “B won’t stop though, Damian. He’s desperate to find you both even though it’s been over six months. I don’t know how long until he realizes that you hid both of you in plain sight of the League. Does Ra’s or Talia know you’re here?”

“Not that they have revealed to me,” Damian admitted. “Our patron, she knows of my heritage and has sworn an oath of secrecy. But she is League loyal due to their protection.”

Damian watched Drake fully take in the appearance of the home they were in, the simple nature of it all and Damian couldn’t help but wonder what the man thought of him now. What did he think of the haughty Wayne heir who had loved to shove that fact in every ones faces, telling them that he was the heir to one of the richest men in the world. That he was heir to Batman, the Dark Knight. The Damian standing in front of Drake was far from that person as Damian could probably get.

“This has not only saved him,” Drake finally said, looking directly at Damian. There was no lie that Damian could see and though he wanted to deny what his brother said, his eyes glanced over to Richard and knew it was the truth. He was not who he had been before they had left Gotham. He had been losing himself in his own grief and it was only the deep seeded fear of losing yet another family member that forced him to pull out of it and take action.

But he couldn’t admit that to Drake, could he? “I wouldn’t lose him the way we lost Todd. I did what I had to do. He never would have listened.”

“No, he wouldn’t have.”

“And has anything changed?” Drake frowned; eyebrows furrowed. And that was enough of an answer for Damian. “He’s just become obsessed with finding us instead.”

Drake nodded. “It’s been bad enough that Superman watches Gotham from afar to keep B from doing something he might regret.” And Damian knew, yet again, that he had made the right choice in getting Richard away from that. “Can I give you a burner that only I know about?” Damian’s eyes snapped back to Drake, having drifted back to Richard yet again. “I want to be able to give you a heads up if he comes your way. It might not be much of one, but maybe enough for you to get a head start.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, having that option, but Damian also knew it might give his father access to the pair of them without Drake even knowing. But Drake did know technology more than anyone else in the family. Perhaps it was a risk he could take.

“All right,” Damian relented, giving a nod. Drake’s features looked relieved, to the point where Damian wondered if he had made the wrong decision. But he could work on the device later and see if it had been bugged or tampered with in any way.

Drake dug into his small pack and pulled out a small phone, probably a prototype that Wayne Tech had decided wasn’t worth the trouble. He quickly showed Damian how to turn it on and use the basic features before it was turned off yet again and Damian was tucking it into the pocket of his pants.

“I need to go, I can’t reroute much longer. But if you need anything, please call me. I have your back.” Damian gave a nod before watching Drake walk over to Richard and kneel down to talk quietly with the teen. He didn’t bother listening in, knowing Richard would tell him what was said later, but he did watch. He watched Richard listen and nod, responding with his own words before reaching out and hugging the man around the neck.

When Drake stood and turned to leave, Damian was fairly certain he saw a sheen of tears in his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian knew something was different the instant he walked into the small house, even if he couldn’t immediately tell what. It caused him to stop short in the doorway, Richard smacking into him because he had been too absorbed in the book of mathematics one of the men of the village had shared with him.

“Baba, what…?” The child complained but Damian’s eyes focused on the figure in the corner of the room instead, not answering.

“Mother.”

The woman moved forward, like a serpent seeking prey, into the light with a smirk on her face. “Son,” she greeted, eyes looking over his ragged appearance from his day of labor with a hint of distain before stopping on Richard. “You really do have too much of your father in you.”

Rolling his eyes, Damian shuffled Richard into the house and nudged him toward their sleeping corner. And though he didn’t think his mother meant them harm, he still kept his body between the two of them and coiled his muscles to prepare for a fight.

“What are you doing here? How did you even know?”

“Oh please, Damian,” Talia sighed and came closer before lounging in one of the chairs near the fireplace. “Do you honestly think we weren’t aware the moment you landed in Tibet? That we weren’t tracking you from the very start? You have forgotten your roots.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Then why did you wait so long to approach me?”

“Because we did not need you.” That made Damian tense further. The League needing him would lead to nothing good, he knew that deep in his core. “I have something in Nanda Parbat that requires your attention before it can be dealt with. And no,” she held up a hand to stop his question, “it is not your father. But it does have a link to him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He couldn’t trust his own eyes in that moment. It wasn’t possible. Was it? No, he had seen the body. He had been there as the coffin had been lowered into the plot and covered with dirt. He had laid his hand on the tombstone and apologized for not being able to get to him in time.

But that was definitely Jason Todd in front of him.

“How is this possible?” Damian asked, glad he had put Richard in his old rooms while he handled this. Richard had known Todd for only a year before he had died. This was not something Damian wanted to expose the teen to before he knew what the point of all of this was.

“We are not certain. We can’t even say how long he has been like this. He has been dead for nearly 18 months and we have had him here for the past six.” Damian frowned, walking closer to Todd, trying to catch the teen’s eye. “He is alive and everything is in working order, but it is as though death stole his soul.”

“Of course it did! He died!” Damian snapped, looking back at his mother who stood a ways back watching but looked bored. “We buried him. We…” Breathing heavily through his nose, Damian looked back to Todd and shook his head. They had mourned him. And now he was there, living and breathing but lifeless. Everything that had made him Jason Todd seemed to have been stripped away. “What do you intend to do with him?”

His mother’s heels clicked on the marble floor as she moved closer and stopped once she reached the pair. He watched a slender hand reach out and pet the side of Jason’s face. Annoyed, Damian’s hand shot out and grabbed his mother’s wrist to stop the obscene gesture. “What do you intend to do with him,” he growled, gripping her wrist tightly and turning to fully face her. He narrowed his eyes and stared her down, not willing to let her brush him off. She had brought him here for a reason.

“We will put him in the Pit, of course,” she said, unaffected by the grip he had on her or the look on his face. “We just wanted to see if a familiar face might wake him up first.”

“Mother,” Damian gasped, releasing her and stepping back. “We do not put innocents in the Pit. It is not done.”

Talia raised a brow and Damian glowered. “There is no ‘we’, Damian. You made your choice.”

“You cannot do that to him. He had anger before his death. He was murdered brutally. These are all things the League has always avoided in resurrections.” Damian looked over at Jason’s empty eyes and frowned, shaking his head. “You cannot sentence him to that Madness. He is a child.”

“He is no more a child than any of you were. My Beloved has only had one true child in his home and you stole him away in fear of him turning your precious Richard into the same monster each of you fight off daily.” Talia tilted her head, considering him. “You most of all, my son.”

“You created the monster long before he got his hands on it.”

A slender shoulder rose and fell gracefully. “Perhaps, but you have Demon blood in your veins and you have always been destined for so much more than this charade of a life you have taken up.”

Damian clenched his jaw and looked away from his mother, unable to deny her words. He knew this farce he and Richard had been living would not sustain them forever, but he knew it was what the teen needed at the moment. If he returned Richard to Gotham, his father would rip the child away from him and Damian would lose him to the fight he desperately wanted to protect Richard from. The Bat would get into his head and Damian would lose.

No, returning to Gotham would never be an option until Richard was old enough to stand on his own.

“You could remain here. Take up your title again and we could train and teach the boy to be the very best.” Damian immediately shook his head. That wasn’t any better than the fate that awaited them in Gotham. “It is only a matter of time before he finds you. He will exhaust all resources and then call upon me. He will come to Nanda Parbat and hear the tinkling laughter that reminds him so much of the boy his own son had stolen away from him. He will follow the sound to a yard where a teen with black hair and sapphire eyes kneels in the dirt, pulling weeds from around the plants that have just begun to sprout.

“He will watch in wonder at the change a year, perhaps two years, has made in the boy. And then he will see the man who is responsible for the heartache and fear he experienced over that time, standing in the window watching the teen just as he had been. And he will take him back. He will threaten them both with everything in his itinerary until there is no choice but to return.”

“And then he will ruin him,” Damian whispered, closing his eyes because he knew his mother was right. It was the fear that kept him up each and every night. His father would never stop searching and he would eventually get desperate enough to turn to Ra’s for help. And he would come himself to plead his case because otherwise Ra’s would laugh in his face and behead whoever was foolish enough to come in his stead.

Opening his eyes, he stared into the familiar one watching him closely. “You win.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian hated that his mother insisted on Richard being in the room with them when Todd was placed in the Pit, but he wasn’t in any position to argue. He just hoped that nothing happened that would require him to use the sword strapped to his back in order to keep Richard safe. The last thing he wanted was for the teen to see that side of him, the side that would require him to take up arms against another of his brothers.

But Richard stood just behind him, stubborn look on his face as he watched Todd over near the Pit. The green glow of the waters within gave the room an ethrial look but made Jason look sickly. With that blank look on his face, Damian felt his heart ache for the boy he remembered. He had tried harder with Todd than he had with Drake, but it didn’t mean he was the best of brothers. He hoped the teen knew he had tried.

But emotions had never been his forte.

Thankfully, he was doing even better with Richard than he had with any of the others. The teen had taught him much more than he ever thought possibly while he had taught the boy what little he had to offer outside of self-defense. Which, he had taught him as well. Just not to the same effect that training to be a Cape would have done.

“Are you ready to witness true magic, Richard?” Damian frowned over at his mother when she entered the room and moved over to stand with the two of them. He looked back and down toward the teen, who he found watching his mother with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Good boy.

Damian had made sure that he always questioned his surroundings and stayed wary of those he didn’t know. Apparently, Talia al Ghul fell in that category.

The woman simply quirked an eyebrow at him before she walked over to where the footmen were getting ready to move Todd to the platform. Reaching out, Damian tugged Richard closer to him in hopes to shield him from the coming disaster. His mother might be certain this was a good idea, surely for her own gain, but he knew this was not something that should be done. But as good of a fighter Damian was, he could not take on the entire League. And he would need to do just that if he wanted to get Todd out of there before he was manipulated and twisted into a shadow of the teen he had been.

“Let us begin,” Ra’s said as he took his place on the opposite side of the Pit.

#damianwayneweek2021 #damian wayne #dick grayson #reverse robins #anikah writes #happy birthday to me

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howdoyousleep3 · 4 years

Text

Kinktober, 10/18: In the Kitchen

Hello yes hi. I wanted to bring this mf back and here he is in all his glory. Shoutout to @maddiewritesstucky for hyping me tf uppppppp. Hope you love. 💕

Pairing: Mr. Barber and Male Reader (This is a continuation from my last work on these two, which you can find here or here. The reader is not underage.) Tags: Intercrural Sex (aka thigh fucking), Kitchen Sex, Secret Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dom/Sub Undertones, Age Difference, Grinding

“Jacob, you alright going to the store while we finish cleaning up from dinner? You know what I like—mint chocolate chip!”

The words bounce around in his skull like a marble, rolling around aimlessly without sticking any sort of landing, lacking comprehension. His hand stalls under the running faucet, fingers weakening on his grip on a plate, all at the seemingly cheery suggestion Mr. Barber gives his son.

Jacob’s going to leave? Leave him alone with Mr. Barber? His name being spoken rips him from his few seconds of sheer panic.

“What kind of ice cream do you want?”

He doesn’t even remember what he says, doesn’t care. All he can think about is being alone with Mr. Barber for the first time in… weeks? Surely it hasn’t been that long, he thinks, but it has felt more like months, years, and he can barely stand it. He’s never experienced such desperation before, has never been at the mercy of someone else’s touch the way he is with Mr. Barber.

They have done their fair share of exchanging heated glances, of discreet flirting, of frantic handsy makeout sessions. The thought of Mr. Barber’s capable hands on his body, his demanding lips on his own, his voice in his ear; it all never leaves. He’s consumed by the thoughts, by the ghost of lingering touches on his own skin and under his fingertips.

He’s always hard. He finds himself saving his pent-up energy for when he’s jamming his fingers into his mouth in the shower when his fist flies over his dick as he thinks about Mr. Barber fucking him.

“You gonna take it? Yeah you are, gonna show me you can handle it, c’mon—be good for me.”

He feels good when Mr. Barber touches him, feels good when Mr. Barber fucks him. He tries hard not to think about all the bad that he’s doing and tries even harder to not think about how good being bad makes him feel.

His hands tremble as he places the plate he just finished rinsing into the dishwasher. He hears the rattle of keys, the door to the garage shut, feels his chest constrict. He will not, under any circumstances, be the first one to make any sort of move or implication of so. He takes a few forks, rinses them under water that is steaming but that his hands don’t recognize as being hot, places those into the dishwasher as well.

Even when he can sense Mr. Barber behind him, can hear his shaky breathing and feel the goddamn heat of his body, he does not turn around. It’s only until a hand, not his own, reaches forward and turns the faucet off. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, to lowly whimper out, “Fuck’, but he does just that as he shuffles on his feet. He feels lips on his neck first, but hands quickly follow suit, two large palms that sweep up his torso, squeeze at his pecs.

“Wish I had enough time to fuck you,” Mr. Barber rumbles, wet on his neck as an arm goes taut around his waist, the other hand coming up to cup the front of his throat. So direct, almost abrasive, but it has his sigh turning into a whine of relief. Mr. Barber’s lips are hot on the side of his neck, wet and loud, and in just ten seconds their shared energy is almost chaotic.

“Can fuck me, want it. Miss it,” he breathes as he is pulled away from the sink and he moans when the line of his back gets pulled against Mr. Barber’s front. God, the older man’s cock is already hard against the small of his back, the top of his ass, and he wants. He no longer has to wonder why Mr. Barber put on sweats for the evening; it’s much easier to tease and feel this way. He wants so much his own hand flies back to try and touch, to reach, but he ends up pawing at Mr. Barber’s hip with a wet hand instead.

“Not enough time, not with what I wanna do to you,” Mr. Barber states, teeth tugging at the shell of his ear. He retaliates, doesn’t like that, grinds back into Mr. Barber with a swirl of his hips and a huff.

“You haven’t fucked me in weeks,” he pouts, digging into Mr. Barber’s crotch so that his cock slots right between his ass cheeks, right where they both want him. There’s a low noise, the press of teeth against the hinge of his jaw, the hand around the front of his throat going momentarily and thrillingly tight. Through the sensations, his hips never stop moving. He takes the time to revel in the feeling and brief familiarity of that cock, also takes the time to whimper once more in disappointment of not having it inside of him tonight.

“Yeah? You upset about that?” Mr. Barber asks, a slight tease to his voice. Bastard. Before he can respond, Mr. Barber is pushing him chest-down into the counter, hand tight on the nape of his neck. He hates how good it feels to be in such a position, bent over with a cock heavy on his ass.

“Yes,” he bites out, hands moving to grip the edge of the countertop. He bites his lip to prevent himself from gifting Mr. Barber with any whimper when the older man rolls his hips forward more than a bit suggestively.

“Yeah, show me. Show me what you’ve been thinkin’ about.”

Mr. Barber’s voice is deliciously eager, both hands running down to squeeze at his waist, tight and yummy. He tugs on his hips, implies he moves, and with a heavy exhale, he’s grinding and rolling back into a sturdy torso, a firm cock. He lets himself get a little lost, lets himself feel. He stands up on his tippy toes to make the arch in his back count, making it easier to roll up and down. He mewls between his clenched teeth, wanting more while still trying to savor what he has in this moment.

“There you go, this what you’ve been thinkin’ about? Takin’ me like a champ?”

He is a fool for forgetting that Mr. Barber’s mouth is the filthiest fucking thing within the city limits, maybe beyond. It isn’t like anything he’s ever experienced with anyone else before and it has him agreeing and nodding his head immediately, stupidly.

“Yeah, fuck yeah, please.”

“More,” Mr. Barber demands, hands running up to his shoulders, and oh that bit of force makes his dick throb in his shorts. “Tell me more, get specific. Come on, baby.”

The demand makes his grumble, but the addition of the baby makes him turn his cheek sweetly into the countertop. A squeeze to his shoulders, a pull on them, and he’s melting underneath the hands and touch of Mr. Barber.

“God, fuck. Think about you every night, wake up hard every morning. I… I t-touch myself thinking about you.”

“That’s sweet, do ya now?”

“Mhmm, yeah think… think about you fuckin’ me,” he explains with a flush of his cheeks, and he has no control over the way his voice goes whiney, gets a bit breathless. His breathlessness continues, amplifies, when Mr. Barber’s hands run roughly up his sides to take hold of his neck. He whimpers, mewls, when Mr. Barber takes his turn to roll his hips, to grind in tight to the curve of his ass. When Mr. Barber doesn’t interject, he continues.

“Think about… about how good you felt inside’a me. How… how you felt so good you made me cry.”

The groan Mr. Barber lets out is one that has a heavy presence, is one that he swears he can feel within his own chest. It has the hands forcefully wrapped around his neck scrambling down to his shorts. When they catch the waistband, they tug, pulling his bottoms down his hips and over his ass. When the cooler air hits the heated skin of his backside, he can’t help but gasp.

His gasp turns into a purr of his own when Mr. Barber’s hands squeeze at the meat of his ass.

“Been thinkin’ about you sobbin’ around my cock for weeks,” Mr. Barber mumbles, voice like gravel against his ear, in his belly. He’d cry if Mr. Barber wanted it. He thinks he could cry without forcing it. With another whimper, he nods his head in agreement, in… something. He’s already forgotten.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ too, thinkin’ about the way that boy cunt looked all stretched around my cock, so hungry. Y’still hungry now, kid?”

With a luxurious stretch of the line of his back, a push of his ass, he’s moaning out, “Yes, sir so hungry.”

His briefs are next, a tug and an almost tear before they’re joining his shorts around his ankle. This move makes a blush rise to his cheeks, makes him whimper a bit in humiliation. His whimper appears to be pointless though, because Mr. Barber’s noise is so appreciative and gluttonous it takes the worries right out of his thoughts.

“There he is, fuck that’s sweet,” Mr. Barber purrs, not wasting precious seconds and immediately pressing his clothed erection tight against the curve of his bare ass. Oh, it feels good, feels so fucking good. The way that cock feels, all warm and solid against the middle of his ass, has him spreading his legs, pressing up onto his toes again to feel.

“Mr. Barber…wanna feel, wanna—”

A sharp hand coming down on his ass cheek has his words dying in his throat. Mr. Barber does it once, twice more, grabs at two palmfuls of his ass, and squeezes roughly.

“Wanna feel what? Wanna feel me?” the older man inquires in a gruff voice and all he can do is nod his head dumbly into the countertop with a whine. Mr. Barber doesn’t give him a chance to answer verbally though, instead exhales heavily himself before a hand leaves his ass for just a moment before—

“That what you wanted? What you fuckin’ missed?”

He thought backing himself and his ass into a cock inside of sweatpants was erotic. He hadn’t yet felt the hot skin of Mr. Barber’s cock smack down onto the top of his ass though. Nothing is better than skin on skin and it makes his own heavy dick twitch where it hangs between his spread legs. Mr. Barber keeps one hand on his waist, tight, the other he uses to slap his cock down onto his ass a few lewd times.

“This what you fuckin’ missed, boy?” Mr. Barber hisses, losing some self-control and guiding the head of his dick between his ass cheeks, pushing it right against his hole. It’s right where he wants Mr. Barber. Energy shifts, franticness takes over. There are the fingers of one hand taut in his hair then, tugging, and with a pained mewl he tips his ass up in response.

“Yes! Yes, sir yes. Fuckin’ missed that… that cock. Missed you!”

“Atta boy, there you go. Show me what we don’t have time for, come on, pretty.”

Pretty makes him shout. Pretty combined with the feeling of Mr. Barber’s fat cock resting against his circling ass makes the fire in his belly burn hotter. If he presses back just right, he can feel Mr. Barber’s balls perfectly, can feel the way they hang hot and push up against the bottom of his ass. He wants them in his mouth.

The more he moves, gyrates, grinds, the more he gets to feel Mr. Barber’s cock on his bottom, his backside. And the more he feels it, the more he grows to want it inside of him. Mr. Barber is behind him purring, making all sorts of rumbly noises in agreement and appreciation, and a moment’s realization of where he is and what he’s doing makes his dick turn achy, makes him hurt for any kind of release.

Everything mounts when Mr. Barber moves, when he leans down over his backside, hand reaching for the decorative container of olive oil in front of them. The pressure of Mr. Barber on his back, draped over his much smaller form, has him gasping. Watching Mr. Barber fumble with the bottle of oil makes his mind go fuzzy.

“Push your thighs together, come on. Tight. Tighter. There we go, that’s it.”

He feels like he’s wading through syrup, that heavy, sticky-sweet sensation he had not forgotten about filtering through his head, down his neck. He makes dull connections in his brain. Yes, olive oil is slick and messy. Yes, his thighs pressed together would make the perfect spot for Mr. Barber to fuck into. No, they still don’t have enough time to properly fuck before Jacob comes back from the store and they have to pretend that this wasn’t happening.

Teeth are the first thing to drag him out of his embarrassingly prematurely fucked-out brain. A dig of them into the nape of his neck, a hand pressing between his legs, Mr. Barber chuckling when his hand comes in contact with his sensitive dick. A burly arm wraps tightly around his waist as the other hand smears oil on the inside of his thighs, wets it up to get fucked.

He feels taken, feels overwhelmed, claimed. He gives Mr. Barber a throaty groan of confirmation as he’s slicked up and prepped to be used. He drags his arms up the counter, gives himself over to the moment entirely. When Mr. Barber presses a sloppy kiss against his cheek and makes space between their bodies to get his hand between them, he whimpers happily.

“Fuck, you must’a missed it. One time and that’s all it took to train this sweet ass, ain’t that right?”

He hadn’t realized he was presenting for Mr. Barber, even given their position.

While the space between them is for Mr. Barber to get a hand on his cock, it isn’t to slip inside of him. But while it isn’t to press inside of him, that doesn’t stop Mr. Barber from indulging himself and nudging the head of his cock against his hole. He almost thinks Mr. Barber is going to do it, is going to press into him without any prep and with this oil only. But with another sigh that turns into a groan, he presses down instead and slips his cock in the slot under his balls, between his thighs.

It’s different, something he isn’t used to, but it’s delicious nonetheless. To have Mr. Barber so close to where he desperately wants him, all pressed and snug up against his own balls, has him breathless damn near immediately. To feel him on almost every side, slick between his thighs, against the line of his own dick, has incoherent noises spilling from his mouth at the same rate.

“Fuck, that’s good, yeah. Keep yourself tight for me. God, you’re sweet.”

He feels like he’s getting fucked. It sounds like he’s getting fucked, slippery and lewd, the hot length of Mr. Barber’s cock sliding tight against his own achy dick. The most overwhelming part though, is the way Mr. Barber takes control of him, commands him and his body. There’s an arm tight around his waist, locking the two of them together, lips and a beard rubbing against his ear. When he goes to moan again, a bitty mewl, Mr. Barber is huskily shushing him.

“Shh practice, boy. Gotta be quiet. You don’t wanna get caught fuckin’ your best friend’s daddy, do you?”

He won’t last. He chokes on his noise, such a desperate one. Mr. Barber reaches forward and clamps a hand down around his mouth as he continues to messily fuck his cock between his thighs. With the hand around his mouth, his noises are muffled. He can’t stop them, doesn’t try to.

“Don’t want anyone knowin’ about how easy you are either, can’t have them knowin’ I’ve got a little slut on my hands.”

His moan is almost drowned out by the sound of Mr. Barber’s hips smacking up against his backside, by his own growl as he bends his knees and digs in tighter to his bent body. The constant stimulation of his balls and the underside of his dick is making him a bit delirious, is making his breaths hectic behind Mr. Barber’s palm. He thinks he might be able to feel his own spit on his chin.

“Shh, shh gotta practice, baby. For… fuck, for later when I crawl into your bed. Gonna fuck you later, gonna fill this fuckin’ ass up, give it what it wants.”

This time his noise is louder than anything else, a sob behind a hand, his own hands coming to grip at the edge of the counter. He moves with the momentum, finds himself fucking back into Mr. Barber’s body with a whine, wants more. It makes the older man groan, almost a growl, has him scrambling and pulling the hand away from his mouth and reaching for the bottle of oil once more.

“Please, god please, want it, want—”

A sloppy wet hand on his dick has him gasping, has him lurching in a strong grip. Mr. Barber’s grip is persistent, focused. The arm around his waist doesn’t falter, goes tighter to accommodate for his thrashing. Mr. Barber’s mouth runs as his big hand fucks itself over his dick and he’s left panting, holding back his whimpers, as he listens to Mr. Barber tell him all the things he is going to do to him later that night.

“Want your mouth on my cock, want you fuckin’ gaggin’ as I get some fingers in that boy cunt. Yeah? Y’like that? Gonna drag this one out, gonna put you face down just like this. You want me to fuck you face-down? Easier for you to stay quiet, better for me to get balls-deep. Think you can come more than once? Huh? Wanna find out?”

When he comes, he is unable to give Mr. Barber much of a warning. He’s almost certain that his noises give him away, the way his breath hitches and the way he spits out messy words. He shatters under Mr. Barber. There’s no other word to describe how he comes apart. He shakes and shatters and comes as Mr. Barber milks it out of him, tugs on his cock in long pulls.

The older man fucks himself to his own release, adding to the mess between his thighs with a series of guttural groans and a few pumps of his own hands to prolong his pleasure. It almost feels as if a few waves of fiery pleasure in his body are reserved for feeling Mr. Barber’s come land between his thighs, dirtying him up.

He’s a mess. He’s panting and his mind is foggy. Mr. Barber kisses him on the cheek, squeezes at his sides as he sighs. He wants to crumble to the floor and fall asleep there. He’s supposed to be young, spry, but Mr. Barber takes it out of him without even fucking him.

“Gotta get a move-on, kid. Go clean up,” Mr. Barber tells him with a pat on his stomach before a hot set of lips are on his ear. “I’ll dirty you up all over again tonight.”

#jbbkinktober2020 #andy barber and male reader #andy barber #smut #fanfiction

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 years

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BY ANITA SIRCARAUG. 17, 2021 9:28 AM PT

My patient sat at the edge of his bed gasping for air while he tried to tell me his story, pausing to catch his breath after each word. The plastic tubes delivering oxygen through his nose hardly seemed adequate to stop his chest from heaving. He looked exhausted.

He had tested positive for the coronavirus 10 days ago. He was under 50, mildly hypertensive but otherwise in good health. Eight days earlier he started coughing and having severe fatigue. His doctor started him on antibiotics. It did not work.

Fearing his symptoms were worsening, he started taking some hydroxychloroquine he had found on the internet. It did not work.

He was now experiencing shortness of breath while doing routine daily activities such as walking from his bedroom to the bathroom or putting on his shoes. He was a shell of his former self. He eventually made his way to a facility where he could receive monoclonal antibodies, a lab-produced transfusion that substitutes for the body’s own antibodies. It did not work.

He finally ended up in the ER with dangerously low oxygen levels, exceedingly high inflammatory markers and patchy areas of infection all over his lungs. Nothing had helped. He was getting worse. He could not breathe. His wife and two young children were at home, all infected with COVID. He and his wife had decided not to get vaccinated.

Last year, a case like this would have flattened me. I would have wrestled with the sadness and how unfair life was. Battled with the angst of how unlucky he was. This year, I struggled to find sympathy. It was August 2021, not 2020. The vaccine had been widely available for months in the U.S., free to anyone who wanted it, even offered in drugstores and supermarkets. Cutting-edge, revolutionary, mind-blowing, lifesaving vaccines were available where people shopped for groceries, and they still didn’t want them.

Outside his hospital door, I took a deep breath — battening down my anger and frustration — and went in. I had been working the COVID units for 17 months straight, all day, every day. I had cared for hundreds of COVID patients. We all had, without being able to take breaks long enough to help us recover from this unending ordeal. Compassion fatigue was setting in. For those of us who hadn’t left after the hardest year of our professional lives, even hope was now in short supply.

Shouting through my N95 mask and the noise of the HEPA filter, I introduced myself. I calmly asked him why he decided not to get vaccinated.

“Well, I’m not an anti-vaxxer or anything. I was just waiting for the FDA to approve the vaccine first. I didn’t want to take anything experimental. I didn’t want to be the government’s guinea pig, and I don’t trust that it’s safe,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “I can pretty much guarantee we would have never met had you gotten vaccinated because you would have never been hospitalized. All of our COVID units are full and every single patient in them is unvaccinated. Numbers don’t lie. The vaccines work.”

This was a common excuse people gave for not getting vaccinated, fearing the vaccine because the Food and Drug Administration had only granted it emergency-use authorization so far, not permanent approval. Yet the treatments he had turned to, antibiotics, monoclonal antibodies and hydroxychloroquine were considered experimental, with mixed evidence to support their use.

The only proven lifesaver we’ve had in this pandemic is a vaccine that many people don’t want. A vaccine we give away to other countries because supply overwhelms demand in the U.S. A vaccine people in other countries stand in line for hours to receive, if they can get it at all.

“Well,” I said, “I am going to treat you with, remdesivir, which only recently received FDA approval.” I explained that it had been under an EUA for most of last year and had not been studied or administered as widely as COVID-19 vaccines. That more than 353 million doses of COVID-19 vaccine had been administered in the U.S. along with more than 4.7 billion doses worldwide without any overwhelming, catastrophic side effects. “Not nearly as many doses of remdesivir have been given or studied in people and its long-term side effects are still unknown,” I said. “Do you still want me to give it to you?”

“Yes” he responded, “Whatever it takes to save my life.”

It did not work.

My patient died nine days later from a fatal stroke. We, the care team, reconciled this loss by telling ourselves: He made a personal choice not to get vaccinated, not to protect himself or his family. We did everything we could with what we had to save him. This year, this tragedy, this unnecessary, entirely preventable loss, was on him.

The burden of this pandemic now rests on the shoulders of the unvaccinated. On those who are eligible to get vaccinated, but choose not to, a decision they defend by declaring, “vaccination is a deeply personal choice.” But perhaps never in history has anyone’s personal choice impacted the world as a whole as it does right now. When hundreds and thousands of people continue to die, when the most vulnerable members of society, our children, cannot be vaccinated — the luxury of choice ceases to exist.

If you believe the pandemic is almost over and you can ride it out, without getting vaccinated, you could not be more wrong. This virus will find you.

If you believe I’ll just wait until the FDA approves the vaccine first, you may not live to see the day.

If you believe if I get infected I’ll just go to the hospital and get treated, there is no guarantee we can save your life, nor even a promise we’ll have a bed for you.

If you believe I’m pregnant and I don’t want the vaccine to affect me, my baby or my future fertility, it matters little if you’re not alive to see your newborn.

If you believe I won’t get my children vaccinated because I don’t know what the long-term effects will be, it matters little if they don’t live long enough for you to find out.

If you believe I’ll just let everyone else get vaccinated around me so I don’t have to, there are 93 million eligible, unvaccinated people in the “herd” who think the same way you do and are getting in the way of ending this pandemic.

If you believe vaccinated people are getting infected anyway so what’s the point?, the vaccine was built to prevent hospitalizations and deaths from severe illness. Instead of fatal pneumonia, those with breakthrough infections have a short, bad cold, so the vaccine has already proved itself. The vaccinated are not dying from COVID-19.

SARS-CoV-2, the virus that causes COVID-19, has mutated countless times during this pandemic, adapting to survive. Stacked up against a human race that has resisted change every step of the way — including wearing masks, social distancing, quarantining and now refusing lifesaving vaccines — it is easy to see who will win this war if human behavior fails to change quickly.

The most effective thing you can do to protect yourself, your loved ones and the world, is to GET VACCINATED.

And it will work.

Anita Sircar is an infectious disease physician and clinical instructor of health sciences at the UCLA School of Medicine.

#op-ed #Anita Sircar #vaccination #global pandemic #COVID-19 #LA Times #the plague #get vaccinated #science #medicine

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valkyrieofsmut · 4 years

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So... that last ask was too pure! (Shhh, I LOVED it. But I'm in a mood) I think I'd like it if you turned up the angst a little. What if, just after s/o and skelly were positive that the pregnancy was not a scare, s/o had a miscarriage?

Trigger warning for miscarriage! ... graphic paragraph...

Good lord, you are in a mood! Here I go, ruining all that happiness I just spent weeks slaving over...

Graphic stuff starts here!

I read this and it takes me back- years ago... makes me remember how it felt to be a very confused, very traumatized young woman... who didn’t even know she’d been pregnant... and after bleeding nonstop and not being able to get help for (10) months, and also having to work (at a call center with a boss who hated me for some reason...?), being in the middle of helping a customer and sneezing- and ruining everything between my bare ass and the bottom plastic of the chair. Shock, panic, embarrassment- I thought I’d just gushed blood everywhere... I was wet the chair was wet, it was all wet. I had to basically force my boss to let me go to the bathroom- no I can’t wait until break, or until I’m off this call- and I go to check myself out to find... tissue (partial placenta)?! Yeah, I freaked the fuck out for a bit. And then had to force my boss to let me change my pants (luckily I had a pair of yoga pants in the car), and yes, she, SHE wasn’t going to let me change my soaking pants. The insane part about all this is, I remember it happening, but I kinda dissociated during the panic in the bathroom and blocked most of it out, didn’t realize what it was until about two years later because I had no frame of reference; I didn’t know I was pregnant in the first place, I’d never been before, and I wasn’t trying or anything.

Graphic stuff ends here!

Classic- He’s not doing well at all- he’s looking for causation, and... he finds it in himself. Did he cause this- he was panicking- he definitely put stress on his S/o! He’s in his skull filling it with self blame. He holds his S/o close and keeps apologizing. His S/o needs comfort, too, so it works out, but neither are leaving the room for a bit...

Creampuff- OH NO-! NO- THAT’S-! He holds his S/o tight against him, silently, a rare occasion where he doesn’t know what to say... He eventually tries to bring them out of the gloom, trying to get them back out into the world and smile again, just like he’s done so many times before for his brother.

Red- He’s devastated. His child- his S/o- he couldn’t protect them! Why couldn’t he protect them?! He didn’t even know what happened!! He’s in a foul mood, he won’t let anyone near his S/o. Even his brother seems to get on his nerves. They’re not going anywhere for at least a few days. He’s holding them close, even if he’s distant mentally, blaming that he couldn’t stop whatever had happened to hurt the ones he loves.

Edge- He shuts down. He did this. He brought this upon them... His S/o would be better off if they’d never decided to accept his proposal to be his datemate... He’s distant, always looking like he’s on the edge of saying something, but never quite able to bring himself to do it. He holds his S/o close when they’re asleep and whispers apologies into their hair, tears running down his cheekbones.

Blue- He’s shell shocked. How- How Could This Have Happened...? He tries to keep a mask of his usual happiness up, but it’s slipping, badly. He’s miserable, but he tries to keep up a happy face for his S/o, trying to be strong and unaffected for them- they find him crying alone, but he tries to brush it off. An argument ensues about him acting like an asshole, when his S/o needs his love and support, and to talk about it and not pretend like nothing happened! Then it’s a tear fest to rival any chick flick.

Stretch- This boy is on dangerous grounds. He’s broken inside, but all he can manage to say is, “well... i... guess that solves that...” His S/o 9/10 leaves his ass there, but he thinks he deserves it, anyway. Doesn’t even put up a fight. Blue is the one who, again, smacks some sense into him. He talks to his S/o, trying to explain that his brother is an idiot who doesn’t know how to express himself, so instead of admitting that he’s hurting about the miscarriage and them leaving him, he’s sitting alone in the dark, torturing himself better than any enemy could in the silence. Whether they get back together is... going to take a while to figure out...

Black- Others have noticed his sudden change in mood. He hasn’t been able to concentrate, and is silent, which generally only happens when he gets serious about things... Where is his S/o... has anyone seen them lately? Black has taken on all of the outside responsibilities so that his S/o can stay home and mourn. He will pay all the bills, he will attend all of the functions, he will take care of everything, just so they can take the time they need. He often comes home and just holds his S/o close.

Mutt- He... doesn’t have anyone to kill... this happened, and he doesn’t have anyone to kill for vengeance! There’s no rhyme or reason! Except that- after the initial flash of pain and anger, he knows that human bodies are run by chemicals, and he knows intimately how chemicals can react with each other, things can set them off balance and cause things to go haywire and end. He’s there for his S/o, over all the most stable of all the Skelemens. He’s the rock they cling to through everything and he’s there when they get past it.

Axe- He goes silent. He knows what this is; not all pregnancies made it through in the Underground... He knows that there’s nothing he can say, and that his S/o isn’t 100% responsible for the things they say, do, and think right now, but he’s there... As much as he can be. He dissociates a lot more than normal, and needs extra time to try to get tasks done, but he does his best. He also tries to ply his S/o with food. Food was a luxury, luxuries are comfort items, right? He’s doing his best to comfort them.

Crooks/Bun- He is a big sad cuddle bug. He only wants to hold his S/o close and stay somewhere cozy and comfortable, with a pile of snacks to comfort them- and these ones aren’t healthy; he raided his brother’s horde of sugary snack cakes and things. He wishes there was more he could do.

Dusty- He’s pretty much useless... He’s numb and doesn’t know what to do, or how to comfort his S/o- dear gods, someone help him! Papyrus- what is he supposed to do?!

How’s that for angst, Anon?

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sleeplessincairo · 4 years

Text

[ three ]

pairings: james buchanan barnes x reader

warnings: undescriptive smut, ptsd, anxiety, sobbing.

summary: 3AM encounters with bucky barnes and the presence of the number 3 in your growing relationship

a/n: this was inspired by my love for cristina & owen. considering making a part 2.

tell me what you think. would be greatly appreciated.

///

James Buchanan Barnes was a ghost.

He was only seen when he wanted to be seen. One minute he was there and the next, he was gone. Vanished. It made you question science and your sanity, it was as if he was able to dissolve into the very air itself and move with the wind-Or maybe he was never there in the first place.

Bucky was alert and vigilant like he was waiting for an attack or a sign of danger, never showing weakness and ease. He was precise in his movements; never faltering, swift and quick as if he was 10 steps ahead of you and had you beat in every possible outcome. He was self-sufficient; he could infiltrate bases and extract information without the help of his fellow teammates nor any arising problems-You could see why HYDRA wanted to create more of him.

Even in the safety and comfort of the compound, Bucky’s distant and guarded demeanor never wavered.

‘Hellos’, ‘Good mornings’, and well, talking were as foreign to Bucky as the first air that slipped into his lungs when he came out of cryo sleep. It was a luxury he had grown to live without many years ago in a place where the only sound he could ever release was one so agonizingly loud it pierced the air even through the cloth the HYDRA doctors stuffed in his mouth. And now, he was left in the hollow shell of the man he used to be. All he could bring himself to do was observe, never participate.

Bucky refused to train, spar, eat, and hell, even talk to the rest of team-Other than Steve and Sam-during the previous weeks since he had joined, he never attended meetings or briefings, and he rarely left his room-And when he did, you never saw him despite being in the room across of him. You never heard the squeak of his door as he slipped out of his room at 3 AM to train alone, you never heard the sound of his footsteps as he walked down the corridor to sneak food out of the fridge, you never heard the muffled screams he let out at night as he felt familiar spirits of leather-bound around his wrists and ankles and white-hot electricity surging through his body, which is why you were startled when you heard the sound of glass breaking coming from your ghost of a neighbor’s room.

You took your gun with you. Just in case.

You knocked on his door three times, each knock harder than the other while the sound of your voice, uttering his name in a persistent and questioning manner, slipped through the crack of his bedroom door. Your mind started to run with worst-case scenarios that included kidnappings, intruders, murder, HYDRA agents, and many other things that should not be thought of at 3 AM.

Nonetheless, those thoughts pushed you into taking a deep breath and wrapping your hand around the cold metal door handle, and opening the door.

You don’t know what you expected to see, but it sure as hell wasn’t the former HYDRA agent in a fetal position, head dug deep into his knees and surrounded by shards of mirror and a small pool of his own blood.

You cussed lowly under your breath and rushed to him, careful not to step on any of the shards and press your knees to the ground to get a closer look at him.

“James, I need you to look at me.” You examine your surroundings. There are no signs of a break-in or assault-Other than what was done to the mirror, which you deduced was probably done by James himself judging by the force it must have taken to completely break the mirror and the blood leaking from his flesh hand.

“James,” The repetition of his name made no effect or change in his position, and you contemplated touching him and shaking him out of this trance, before mentally waving it off.

“You need to come with me to the medbay, that’s a pretty nasty cut on your hand,” You pursed your lip at the lack of movement or response and came to terms that he was not leaving this room.

God, Steve chose the worst day to go on an undercover mission in another goddamn continent.

You let out an exasperated sigh, weighing your options before deciding to walk towards the bathroom and take out a first aid kit.

Looks like you had to do this yourself.

“James, I need to clean your wound. I’m going to touch your hand, okay?” You searched his body for any signs of consent, “Look, I’m just going clean and bandage it, then I’ll be out of your hair. I promise.” You sucked in a deep breath and closed your eyes for a few seconds.

“Please.” Maybe it’s the way your voice was laced with exhaustion and impatience, maybe it was the realization that dawned on him where you’d probably end up bringing the team to his room or calling Steve, or maybe it was because he knew you’d never give up even if it took all night. Because that’s who you are. You were always known for caring too much.

Bucky looks up at you, glacier cold eyes red and puffy as salty drops cascaded down his cheekbones and off his chin. Despite the tears on his face glistening in the light, sadness bouncing into the atmosphere, his facial expression was still hard and cold, his eyes were the palest blue glass, too soft to be turquoise, too bright to be baby blue. An innocent shade.

But oh, innocence was nothing but a stranger to him.

You cleared your throat, “I’m going to touch your hand, is that okay?” He licked his lip, tasting the saltiness of a stray tear before reluctantly placing his flesh hand on your knee. The bleeding had already stopped so you picked up the rubbing alcohol, the smell tickling your nostrils uncomfortably, and poured a decent amount of it on the wound.

He didn’t even wince.

You cleaned and bandaged his wound, even cleaned up the broken shards of glass and blood surrounding him while Bucky remained still throughout it all, keeping his eyes fixated on the marble floor tiles and leaning his back against the wall.

“Hey,” You said softly, sliding your back against the wall and sitting next to him, staring at the spot he’s looking at, “It’s okay. When I say, ‘One, two, three.’ forget it. Erase all the sad memories. Just hold my hand and smile. Even if it’s temporary, okay?” You give him a weak smile that he probably doesn't even see.

But he does. From the corner of his eye.

You inhale, “One.”

You exhale, “Two.” He slips his hand into yours.

“Three.”

____________

It was a particularly bad mission. You had lost 2 SHIELD agents that accompanied you and the team, barely making it out with your lives and almost all of you coming back with injuries that your body would throb with for the next weeks. It was supposed to be a simple extraction mission, in-and-out, but there were more enemy agents than you had originally expected and it ended up being a trap set by HYDRA, and before you knew it, you were ambushed.

The whole thing was a blow.

The Avengers were fatigued and lethargic, they wanted nothing more than to crash on their soft beds, but the mission left more than a few physical injuries, and sleep seemed to be the furthest thing from all of your minds. You all ended up in the kitchen, drowning your sorrows in alcohol and shwarma in silence-Except for Wanda, who had the stomach flu, and Bucky, who hadn’t joined the mission per Steve’s request due to still-fresh wounds that hadn’t quite healed yet.

“Hand me a shot of tequila.” You groaned to Tony, leaning your head on the cool marble exterior of the counter and sitting on the stool that accompanied three other empty ones.

“I’ll take one, too.” Sam trudged his body onto the stool beside you, wincing once he sat down-Poor guy was captured and tortured during the mission before Steve and Nat managed to get to him.

Steve followed him and sat on the stool next to him, rubbing his temples before mumbling a ‘Me too’ eventhough alcohol did not affect him.

Tony was about to retort with something about financing the team and being the bartender, before Bucky came inside the kitchen, stopping slightly at the sight of The Avengers all wide awake in the kitchen instead of in your beds at 3 AM.

Bucky usually tried his best to avoid spending time with more than 2 members of the team, even so, that he made sure to leave his room after midnight so there'd be a less likely chance of running into too many people. He had been avoiding group training sessions, parties, and eating out of his room for the past month, and so he couldn’t stop the feeling of anxiety creeping up his throat and regret coming into the kitchen.

This is why Bucky never ate outside of his room.

“Hey Buck, thought you’d be training room right now. Join us, will ya’?” The blond super soldier said, smiling fondly at the ex-assassin before motioning for him to sit on the last remaining stool next to you.

The previous encounter between you and Bucky remained unspoken of and neglected, but not forgotten, it was a wordless agreement made between the both of you that you both wouldn't dare mention.

He didn't even tell Steve.

“Lucky for you, we’re all sulky and grouchy tonight so you'll fit right in.” Tony chirped, taking a swig of vodka and turning towards Natasha and Clint for a change of scenery that did not include the man that murdered his parents.

Bucky cleared his throat and contemplated turning around, and walking out of the room but the sad and tired look on Steve’s face expelled the need for the company of an old friend-Even if he wouldn't talk-and dragged himself over to the stool next to you.

It didn't take long for the three of you to get lost in a meaningless conversation while Bucky observed, often pausing to laugh at something that wasn't really funny, then stopping himself short, bobbing his head down, eyes moving quickly from one side of the corridor to the other. He would smile swiftly in a way that was sadder than tears, his true age starting to show in the way he slouched and the lack of light in his blue eyes.

The hum of conversation in the room did nothing to block the sound of Bucky’s heart beating, accelerating at a faster rate each second, and buzzing in his mind as they started to race, his thoughts scattering like there’s an electrical storm, too many short-circuits to make any sense.

You take notice of the frozen panic that settles in his chest in the way his breathing turns ragged as he restlessly continues to glance at the door, thinking about making a run for it.

“James,” You say in a low voice, careful for the others not to hear you, “You need to busy your mind, you need something to ground you.” You start looking around the room for anything he can focus on, anything he can hold on to mentally, anything to keep him from the panic creeping up his throat.

“Alright, look, count the inner pads in your hands,” You slowly hold his hand, placing it on your thigh and start moving his thumb to touch the inner pads separated by the wrinkled lines of each finger, and start counting. You smile to yourself when you feel his hand relax on your thigh and his breathing slowly settling into an almost steady rate.

The night continues in a blur of lowly uttered ‘threes’, soft breathing, and grazed fingers transforming into fingers entwined together in a gentle holding of hands.

Bucky decides to stop eating in his room.

__________

“Hey,” You smile, leaning against the wall of the training room admiring the view of Bucky as he hit the punching bag, each punch falling rival to the previous one. The dim lights in the training room made him look like a shadow, each muscle on his body flowing from the light into the dark and each time he moved, a bead of sweat trickled and glistened in the light.

Bucky turned to look at you, narrowing his eyes at you but letting the smallest tug of a smile play on his lips. You took notice of his bleary eyes, slightly bloodshot, resulting from days of not being to sleep, eyes that grow with the stars in the night sky, accompanied by dark crescents under his eyes, and stay until the light of day. The stubble on his face had grown longer and rougher, the hairs scattering from his jawline to the middle of his neck. His stance was loose, less alert, more rash, like he was trying to tire himself out rather than actually train. It was obvious he hadn't had a good night’s sleep in a long time.

“Let me guess, nightmares?” You inquired, smiling sympathetically when you saw his head move in a slow vertical manner.

On good days Bucky'd get three hours, on bad days two. He'd wake up as soon as sleep came, always as fast as if a gunshot had sounded, heart beating fast and breathing as if he'd just surfaced from deep water.

Today was a bad one-The past few days really. His mind was plagued with thoughts that he had tried so hard to push down, only for them to sink into him completely.

“C’mere,” You motioned to the cushioned bench on the other side of the room, “So,” There was a slight hesitance to which you wondered if it would sound silly to an ex-assassin before waving the thought away, “There was this thing my mother used to do when I was a kid.”

He follows you to the bench, his focus on your words unfaltering, “It was to keep the nightmares away,” You let out a light chuckle, leaning your back against the wall as your mind filled with bright memories of your childhood.

“It was like this...I don't know this hymn or chant that she’d repeat three times.” You turned to look at him, searching for any sign of mockery and grinned when you found none, “Maybe it was because I was a child, but it seemed to do the trick and what have ya’ got to lose?” You shrugged.

“She’d be so disappointed if I at least didn't try, so,” You paused, pursing your lips into a thin line, “Do you mind?”

Bucky wiped his hands in the material of his shorts and nodded before looking down and taking a deep breath. You put your hand on the sides of his head, making him look at you and giving him a reassuring smile before dragging his head onto your lap and putting your hands a few inches in the air above it.

You took a deep breath and moved your hands in a motion that resembled digging a hole in the air before he grabbed your wrist tightly, his eyes burning. He’d seen that move multiple times, he'd seen Wanda do it when manipulating opponents, he'd heard of how she manipulated Tony into creating Ultron, how she managed to bring Natasha Romanoff, one of the Red Room’s best assassins, to her knees, how Wanda triggered the Hulk into destroying a city and killing hundreds. Bucky’s mind immediately wandered to a futile tussle of conflicting thoughts, to the manipulation and brainwashing he experienced, the feeling of his mind-

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Your pained voice snapped him out of it, making him dart his eyes to your wrist and how it had turned red in the steel grip of his metal arm, “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” Your eyes pleaded with him and he reluctantly let go of your arm, silently cursing himself when he saw your rub it in pain.

You cleared your throat, going back to your original position and started the tune, “Bad dreams, bad dreams go away,” The digging movement started momentarily before replacing it with throwing the air over your right shoulder, “Good dreams, good dreams,” The movement of your hands switched from digging to smooth pushes that resembled a wave hitting the shore, “Here to stay.” You sighed, flattening the air with your hands and repeating the tune and movements another 2 times.

And maybe its the fact that all the memories he had of you so far were all so bright in the darkness of his mind, maybe it was the fact that your voice was so damn soothing and reassuring the kind that was made for lullabies and soft laughs, or maybe it was the fact that it was 3 AM and he’d been living on 7 hours of sleep in the past 4 days and his body just couldn’t take it anymore but he can’t fight the way his eyes lids get heavy. Bucky feels the shuttering of my synapses, the quite lure into sleepiness. His head lolls and the muscles of his face relax as each limb becomes heavy and his heart slows to a more peaceful beat, releasing the tension of the past 4 days.

___________________

Bucky doesn't remember how it happened or how he let it happen, but one minute he was fighting HYDRA agents, and the next he felt thousands of bolts of electricity flowing through him and the feeling of him being dragged into a vehicle before everything went black.

Luckily, Natasha had intercepted one of their walkie talkies and the familiar Russian language talking about Prisoner #56898 being moved for transport and commed the rest of the team. Sam flew to the sky with Steve in his arms before spotting the truck and intercepting it.

Bucky was safe, but he was not okay.

The trip back was quiet and troublesome. It had been 2 hours since Sam and Steve had brought Bucky back to the helicarrier, and he still had not woken up. You all considered the possibility of him being drugged or poisoned, but you wouldn't be able to tell until you reached the compound-You couldn't even touch him, in case he was infected with something so he was kept in the cell Loki was kept in when the Avengers first assembled.

“Still not awake?” You walked up to the blond super-soldier who monitoring him from the other side of the glass.

He gave you a small nod, slightly wincing which made you notice the blood seeping from his forehead, “Woah there Rogers, you're bleeding.” As always, Y/N, stating the obvious,

You reached up to touch the garish red staining his sun-soaked hair, “You’ve gotta get that checked out. You might have a concussion.” He looked at you, his eyes conflicted but still settled for a quiet, “I can’t just leave him.”

He runs his hands through his blood-stained hair, “Sam and I almost didn't make it in time, he could've been taken and-”

“But you did, and he’s still here.” You put your hand on Steve’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, before he winces once more and raises his hand to hold his shoulder in an attempt to soothe it.

“Steve, you have multiple injuries. It’s 3 AM, we won't land for another 3 hours. You’re exhausted and injured. Standing here won't make him wake up any sooner. Just go get checked out, maybe take a nap or eat something. You look like shit,” You joked-In all seriousness though, he did look like shit-earning a chuckle out of him, “I’ll keep watch him until you get back, alright?” You give him a reassuring smile, and a silent ‘I promise’ with your eyes.

He hesitates, weighing his options and whether or not he should just push through the pounding in his head but realized he had to go check on Clint anyway, who had also suffered from a few injuries. Steve mumbles a low ‘okay’ and trudges out of the room.

You lean against the wall facing the glass separating you from Bucky and take out your phone to type in the mission report. You didn't have to turn it in until tomorrow, but you thought you might as well start it now.

You had just about made it to to the part, that people at SHIELD always loved to see, where you type ‘Despite complications that the team eventually surpassed, the mission was successful’ and suddenly, you heard a scream pierce the air in an uproar of pain from behind the glass, jolting you up from your sitting position and towards the source.

Bucky’s eyes split open. At first all that surrounded him was silence, a misty haze upon the horizons of his mind until memories of what happened came rushing in from falling off the freight car to the white-hot electricity that shot through his body more times than he could count. And before he knew it, he was plunged into scattered thoughts, replays of horrors once forgotten, and suddenly his breathing goes shallow and wheezy, lungs unable to move against suddenly concrete-heavy ribs. The panic starts like a constriction in the chest, as if the muscles are trying not to let another breath in, but instead to die.

The scream tore through Bucky like the shard of glass that pierced his hand not so long ago. He felt my eyes widen and pulse quicken, his heart thudding like a rock rattling in a box. The blood drained from his face before he was even aware of making a conscious decision his legs were pounding furiously against the cool pale floor and towards the monster he saw looking straight at him in the glass wall in front of him.

Himself.

You yelled his name like your life depended on it, pounding on the glass as you watched him scream, punch, scratch, and claw at the wall with his head, hands, nails in a massacre of blood, shouting, skin, and metal.

Bucky heard the sound of a pair of feet against the floor, the sound of a passcode being entered, the sound of shouting-The throat-scratching yelling of a familiar voice, or maybe that was just him. He couldn't tell. Not when the world turned into a blur of color that melted into red, like a sunset. All the taste, the smell, the feeling, the sounds melted into nothing but a fiery, sizzling hot, flaming, scorching hot, bold, garish scarlet red.

He felt his heart play push-and-shove in the deepness of his heart. It pulled back in like a yo-yo. Over and over. In and out. Until he was hollow, his life crumbling in his fingertips and rumbling into an earthquake with every punch against the glass-Now stained with his blood.

And then, suddenly, Y/N was there, wrapping her arms around him, restraining him and reaching into his hollowness in a series of mumbled ‘You are okay’s, ‘Everything is fine’s, ‘You are safe’s, ‘Breathe, James, breathe’s, ‘I got you’s, ‘Hold my hand’s, ‘Look at me’s, ‘I am here’s, and other three worded sentences as you squeeze him tighter, ignoring his thrashing body and waiting for his oxytocin levels to increase.

Bucky's last remaining thread of strength unraveled before completely tearing, sending him plummeting over the edge and into the darkness. Hysterical sobs shook his once-so-rigid frame, threatening to rip him apart from the inside. The sobs punched through, ripping through her muscles, bones, and guts as he fought to reclaim control over his body, shocked by the howls of misery that escaped from deep within his chest.

You held him in silence, rocking him slowly as he sobbed into your chest unceasingly, hands gripping at your arms like you were the only thing gravitating him from flying away, whispering a prayer-like mantra of ‘three, three, three’ over and over again.

It’s the first time you ever heard his voice.

__________________

It’s 3 AM when you knock on his door the next day three times as you did oh, so long ago, but instead of letting yourself in, you’re welcomed by the familiar face of James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s 3 AM when you inquire about whether he’s feeling better and he gives you a warm smile and small nod, before inquiring if you’d like to come inside. He had a box of pizza that he hadn’t yet finished.

It’s 3 AM when the pizza’s all finished, and there’s a thrum and purr of friendly conversation-Mostly you talking and him releasing a few words and comments here and there, still getting used to the sound of his voice-but beneath the talk was the gentle, admiring gaze of their eyes and the relaxed nature of their faces.

And then its still 3 AM and he’s kissing you, parting your lips when he brushes his tongue against your bottom lip, wordlessly asking for an entrance. It’s a slow, sybaritic dance of lips and tongue, your lips are 2 dancers, moving against each other like they’re sashaying through the melody. It’s a slow and soft kiss, comforting in ways that could never be verbally shown.

Bucky’s hand rests below your ear, his thumb caressing your cheek as your breaths mingled. You ran your fingers down his spine, tugging him closer until the space between the both of you was eradicated and you could feel the beating of his heart against your chest. Your bodies molded perfectly against each other like you were made for each other, made to sink into one another, made to drown in the thick air filling his room with pure longing, expelling from the both of you-So lost in the moment, you don't even notice when you knock the clock off the table, shattering it,

And before the both of you can realize what’s happening, you're naked and you’re exhaling a gasp when you feel the cool exterior of his Vibranium arm venturing your body, his hands working their way, feeling each crevasse, taking their time to map every curve and dip your body as it moves, slow and sweet like honey, against his body. You feel his hand enter from below, skin and metal colliding in an earth-shattering sensation, moans and sighs exhaled into each others’ mouths, your hands tangled in his hair playing a game of push-and-shove, and suddenly, he can't get enough of you.

You were intoxicating.

Bucky drinks you in, he drinks in your scent, he drinks in the sounds you make, he drinks in the softness of your lips on his skin, he drinks in the warmth that radiates off the soft-kissed spots that slowly spread throughout the rest of your body, he drinks in your body’s response as picks you apart with his tongue, fingers, and the stretching of your walls as he enters you, changing your breathing with every thrust, hearing your moans timed to his body until he feels you tremble underneath you and in a breathless howl, his brain lighting up in places he thought were abandoned years ago and his body is shaking with sheer bliss.

____________

You awake to hands, that held you so tenderly and savoringly mere hours before, wrapped around your neck tightly, robbing the oxygen from your lungs-No doubt leaving scars more permanent than the ones that would stain your skin in the coming days and remind you of the way your body thrashed and writhed in his hands, the way you gasped out his name continuously no longer done in euphoria, the way your hands pulled and pushed and scratched at his hands, hair, face, and back no longer done in pleasure, the way his body fell limp beside you no longer done in the result of the comedown of a groundbreaking high, but instead because of a nearby lamp being pulled from its socket and smashing it against his skull three seconds before you pass out.

The shattered clock on the floor stuck on 3:53 AM.

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thedreadvampy · 4 years

Text

so I understand you like Historical Mechs Fandom stuff

anyone wanna read this unfinished fanfic I wrote in 2013 about Bertie from the Gunpowder Tim backstory???? it is my Bertie Lives AU that was my baby for like six months and then I gave up because once I tried to write non-joky Mechanisms dialogue I was Incapable.

it’s pretty much just 10 pages of Bertie bumbling around having PTSD and then 5 pages of Bertie having a FULL ON NIGHTMARE BAD TRIP ON THE AURORA

[oops I put this up during my lunch break and I forgot to put content warnings - cw for alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts and self-harm (plus all the usual Mechanisms stuff)]

_____________________________________________________

The night before the battle, Tim had a strange dream. At least, he decided on reflection, it must have been a dream, because it was far too odd to have actually happened, and the alternative was that he was going mad.

In the dream, he opened his eyes in darkness, and it took him a moment to work out why. Outside, someone was whistling a jaunty tune. It drifted down from above into his consciousness, and it occurred to him that he half-knew it. Humming along under his breath, almost inaudible, glory glory hallelujah, Tim crept out of his bunk and picked his way surefooted to the ladder out of the dugout, pausing only to pick up a shuttered lantern.

Up above, the dim light picked out the vague silhouette of the whistler. His back was to Tim; the young soldier could just about make out that the stranger was wearing neither Lunar or British uniform, but a long non-military trenchcoat. His long dark hair billowed in the stale cycling of the tunnel air, but he was otherwise motionless, whistling his tune repetitively out to the darkness.

Dragged by the strange compulsion of mystery, Tim drew closer, holding his breath. He was mere feet away from the stranger now, and the other man showed no sign of recognising his existence, just stared ahead and whistled. His soul goes marching on...

Caution gave him pause for a moment, the nightmare fear of the unknown, but the tension of the moment pulled Tim forward. Slowly, with eyes wide, Tim raised a hand to touch the long-haired man on the shoulder, but a fragment of a second before he could touch him, the whistling abruptly stopped. In that awful frozen moment, Tim's heart stopped in terror, and the other man turned, looked him in the eye.

With a strangled noise, Tim dropped his lantern in the mud. It flared as it fell, flashing reflections off metal and strange, unknowable materials embedded in the other man's skin.

He had such eyes, and that wasn't the worst of it. Paralysed with horror, Tim gaped, and his own ruined face stared unblinking back at him, pale and marred by those inhuman, mechanical eyes.

And in the darkness, the Other-Tim whispered to him, told him his future. Told him what he had to do.

-------

They land in the north of Scotland a few hours before dawn, a ragged, wounded band of half-men more pain than thought, and sunrise finds Bertie on the train south, a weary soldier on his way home at last. He clutches Tim’s dogtags like a rosary and rocks freely with the motion of the train. Not for the likes of them the heady luxury of the airships, nor even the smooth skytrain built not so long before the war that stretches around the coast. The common soldiery are crammed unceremoniously into commandeered civilian trains, and there’s little complaint because while it may be slow and loud and shaky and cramped, while they may be granted little more thought than freight, the trains are taking them home. The war is over, the years of hell behind them, and they are going home.

Still, tight-packed, the carriage is airless and steaming, and encrustations of dirt and blood and worse on the demobbed soldiers’ uniforms fill the train with the stench of war. Sitting next to Bertie is a boy who looks half his age, and the war so fills Bertie’s past that he wonders that it’s possible for someone so young to even have been alive when he and Tim enlisted lifetimes ago. He’s missing an arm, and the half of his face on Bertie’s side is a shattered, bandaged mess, collapsed jaw, empty eyesocket visible through the dressings. Bertie feels sick, miserable, and the pitching of the train does nothing to ease his nausea. The claustrophobic airless heat, the smell of men and misery, all of it’s too close to the tunnels for him to bear. Tim’s tags bite into his palm. He’ll have to tell Tim’s parents about what happened, when he finally makes it back. He wonders if they’ll be surprised. He wonders if they’ll remember him.

He presses his face to the mud-speckled glass and feels the vibrations running through his skull, tries to ward off the panicking part of his mind that tells him that what he’s feeling is the rumble of approaching Lunar vehicles. He shuts out the train, the sweaty warmth, the shattered bodies, and watches the familiar half-forgotten landscapes rush past. He longs to be out of here, out there. He wants to just fall down in the gorse and the heather below the enormous openness of the dawn sky, he almost convinces himself that he can smell the fresh sweetness of bruised leaves and rain-moistened earth, feel the rain on his face. Rain! It’s been so long he reels from the strangeness of it all, from the heaviness of normal g that sets his weakened body to buckling, from the greens and yellows and blues after the colourless landscape of the moon, from the improbable lack of echoing and the solid ground beneath his feet after years of tunnels and sinkholes and muck.

When he gets off the train, though, holding himself steady on his crutches in the crush of men, once the paperwork’s done and the stamps stamped and he leaves the station, his kitbag on his back, his legs wobbly and weak, once he’s off the train and out in the open, it’s all too much. The sky is too wide, a great, sucking emptiness above him, the air fills his lungs in strange ways, there’s nobody to tell him what to do or where to go, and he gropes for Tim’s hand but of course Tim isn’t there, won’t be there, and he finds himself losing the fight to stay standing. There’s too much air, he gasps it in and out and it can’t get through, and he’s crying in a shower of spit and tears as he drops his kitbag and crutches, curled on all fours, grabbing and gasping for breath that won’t come and he can’t do it, he’s left the tunnels but he’s still stuck there in his mind, and the more he tries to calm himself the worse it gets, until gentle hands lead him back into the station and push a tumbler of brandy into his hands and make soothing noises, and over the roaring of blood in his ears he can hear ‘poor old bastard’ and ‘shellshock’ and he thinks bugger that, it’s not the shells that shocked me, it’s getting away from them that did the damage. The brandy burns, makes him cough, but the effort of drinking it slows him, calms him, and the world comes back into focus.

He has to admit to himself he can’t get back to Roseburn Street by himself. He calls home from the station. His mother’s in hospital (he didn’t know, nobody told him), so his sister Sophie comes to pick him up, and he almost doesn’t recognise her. She’s grown, become a sensible, careworn woman since he left, though she’s barely twenty, and he almost comments on how much she’s changed from the laughing child he left behind until he catches sight of himself in a darkened window and sees himself through her eyes, his cavernous scars, his weakened frame, his aged face, his haunted eyes, his awkwardly dragging leg, his round cheeks turned hollow. There are lines gouged in his brow and around his mouth, lines of pain and misery and anger, and he struggles to align that Bertie with the person he knows he is. That Bertie looks middle-aged, looks worn, a veteran of a nightmare war, but he doesn’t understand because he knows he’s not yet twenty-five and the man in the window looks more like fifty.

He holds Sophie’s hand like a child on the tram back to the flat. He doesn’t speak. Neither does she. They are worlds apart. She isn’t fourteen any more and he doesn’t know who she is. One hand is in his pocket, turning over Tim’s tags, twining the chain endlessly around his fingers as if it could bring him closer. Outside the window, the city’s shifted to alien strangeness. Rails and tracks have been ripped up in the name of the war effort. New buildings have sprung up, old familiar facades fallen into disrepair. He doesn’t belong here. He is conscious that the other passengers are staring before he becomes aware that he’s weeping openly. Sophie’s hand tightens around his. He can feel blood oozing from his cracked palm, running over the warm metal dogtags in his pockets. He wants to disappear.

The tenement building of his childhood is at once too big and too small. The stairs take him an age to navigate, pausing at each landing to catch his breath, Sophie hovering concerned at his elbow. His shoulders scream with the effort, his lungs burn. The flat is on the fourth floor. Every pitted step of the stairwell is an aching return to childhood that his ruined leg drags over and scuffs to nothingness.

The flat seems to have shrunk since he left for Oxford an eternity ago. The walls close in around him. Exhausted by the journey, he fights to smile as his siblings and old family friends welcome him home with fanfare and homemade cake and childishly painted banners and balloons, but there are tears streaming unstemmed down his face. A balloon pops like a grenade and he finds himself crumpled on the floor. Someone screamed deafeningly in his ear; he decides it was probably him. He feels weak and selfish and fragile. His body weighs several tonnes. His aunt and his sister carry him to his room. He can’t stop apologising and he’s still apologising when they leave, Sophie’s mouth twisting as she holds back tears.

His room is starched and washed and cosily clean, little changed in all these years. He struggles into the pyjamas laid out on the bed, crisp and smelling of laundry, and hurls his hateful uniform across the room with what little strength is left in him. It lies there, watching him balefully. He throws a crutch at it. The little heap is miserable, muddy, alien in the childish comfort of his room. The wet fabric leaves a little puddle where it lies. He is seized with a sudden urge to be rid of it all, and despite his exhaustion, he struggles up on one crutch and hauls the filthy bundle to the bathroom across the hall, to shove it wilfully to the bottom of the laundry basket. Sudden realisation strikes him, and he digs back down to rescue Tim’s tags. Now his beautiful clean pyjama sleeve is wet and muddy, and there’s a brownish grey patch damp down his white-and-blue-striped side where he held the uniform to him. Angry and hurt and shaking with exertion, he tears that off as well, and shoves it too into the laundry. Then he sits on the toilet lid until the shaking subsides.

He doesn’t get up, because he can’t, but he reaches over to the cracked sink and drops the dogtags next to the tap. Then he scrubs his hands under the hot tap until they start to bleed again, until the water runs clear past his hands, trickling and dripping down his bare arms onto his chest. If there’s pain, it doesn’t reach him, but his hands are lobster-red when they emerge. He still doesn’t feel clean, but the room is spinning and the walls are closing in and he needs to sleep before he passes out. He brushes his teeth slowly and haltingly with a new toothbrush left by the sink, and realises he’s not been clean in years.

Before he goes to bed, he puts Tim’s stained and bloody tags around his neck, to hang there with his own. He wraps himself, like a small scared child, around a threadbare teddy bear his mother gave him when he was young. He has a vague feeling it ought to smell like childhood, but it doesn’t, it smells of age and dust and cleaning products.

He blacks out almost immediately, curled on top of the neatly made up, crisp sheets. He does not dream, and he awakes confused and lost, crying out and reaching for Tim in soft tangled strangeness that takes minutes to make sense to him.

It ought to be better, being out of the tunnels, being home. It is better, he tells himself, but he’s not convinced. At least on the front, he knew he had a use, he had orders, friends, Tim. Now he lies here, a pallid, broken thing, watched by faces pale and concerned, afraid of his own shadow. Bertie never learnt how to do nothing; for as long as he can remember he has been a comforter, a worker, a student, a soldier, a protector. Now the days stretch endless before him and crush him with their weight, closing in like tunnel walls.

For weeks, he barely leaves his room. His siblings bring him food and clothes and sit with him, try to talk across a gap of half a decade to the stranger wearing their brother’s name and an old man’s face. He lies in bed and reads and fingers Tim’s battered tags and tries not to think. Slamming doors and backfiring cars make him jump out of his skin. He cries without knowing why. There is a dent in the wall where he punches it in his sleep. He feels useless, empty. He’s forgotten how to be normal, and the world’s moved on without him.

He tries to take his kitbag and his uniform down to the yard to burn them, but Sophie stops him with a desperate hug and a comforting hand to guide him upstairs. The uniform is taken out of his unresisting hands and he is glad, but like a bad dream it returns in the end, freshly cleaned and folded, lurking like a predator in his wardrobe. He doesn’t complain, but he feels its baleful presence. There are stains in the fabric that will never come out, even if the uniform is washed to bleach-paleness. He hates it with a fervent passion.

A fortnight after he gets back, Bertie summons up all his courage and peels himself out of the comforting shell of the flat, struggles down the stairs to see Tim’s parents. They sit, awkward, three people all broken in their own ways by his death, and Bertie sips tea, unsteady hands slopping it into the saucer, as they stoically don’t talk about what hurts. In their conversation, Tim is still a brilliant child, and he and Bertie play in the sunshine, and nothing bad can ever happen, and though Bertie remembers that there were bullies and beatings and the sunshine was never as bright as it seemed, he imagines himself into that world. He doesn’t have anything to say that won’t hurt. He just wants to keep his mouth shut and lose himself in the rosy past they paint, but they ask about the war and though his teacup clatters in his hands and he can feel himself twitching, he calms himself as best he can. He tells them that Tim fought very bravely. He tells them how Tim’s experiments helped win the war, he talks about nights spent in camaraderie around their meagre heatstrip in the dugout, how Tim’s battered guitar had kept their spirits up night after night. He tries to gloss over the worst of it, but watching their faces he realises how far the boundaries of normal moved for him in the last few years, how the smallest things that had been everyday life in the tunnels were unthinkable to civilians.

He tells them that Tim died saving him. His face stays unmoving. He tells it as a stranger’s story, detaches himself. He wonders absently, as he tells them how Tim’s death allowed him to escape what should have been his death and crawl to safety, whether they hate him as much as he hates himself for stealing their son’s life for his own. He tells them the way Tim had lied to him to save his life, the way he’d forced him to leave him behind, the way he’d understood the situation better than any of them, willingly and actively given his life for Bertie. He wonders if they believe him. It’s too hard to explain. Even he doesn’t believe it, and he knows it’s true.

When he goes, he leaves the little bundle of Tim’s personal effects with them. His regimental mug, his notebooks, his favourite fountain pen, the two books he read and reread during the years in the tunnels. He doesn’t give them the dogtags, or the creased and bloodstained picture of himself and Tim that he recovered from the body. They are his and they are all he has.

Time eddies around him and he stands outside it, or so it feels. But he is healing. It’s slow and it’s painful and it’s almost unnoticeable but now he walks without cringing, he cries less often (though always at night, and the nightmares haven’t stopped). And now, after four months, August is shading into September and he remembers that he had a life once. He remembers why he enlisted. He tells his mother he ought to go back to Oxford and finish his degree, because he is sick of shadowing around the house like a ghost, because the hole Tim left in his life is more sucking than ever when he’s a cripple stranded with nothing to do.

The train takes him south-east, moorlands and industry fading into flat green farmland under the golden sunlight and the still-strange wide blue sky. He is almost enjoying the journey, until they begin to pass through tunnels and the hot darkness envelops him, panics him. He closes his eyes, tries to pretend that the darkness is an illusion, but the change in the air defies him; once again it is tight, sweaty, closed. His breath comes harsh and fast. By the time the train explodes back out into bright sunlight, Bertie is huddled against the seat, barely holding back the urge to scream and cry.

The journey is soured. Children complain about the intermittent darkness. Bitterly, Bertie wishes they understood just how bad it can be to be truly afraid of the dark. At the same time, he is glad they don’t. By the time the train pulls into London for his connection, he’s a nervous wreck. The way to Oxford is spent gnawing his nails to the bone, and he worries. It’s so unpredictable, what can set him off, and Oxford is full of memories and ghosts.

Unlike home, Oxford hasn’t changed a bit. It never does. Hell, there are buildings here going on for four thousand years old and still standing (heavily scaffolded and supported, naturally, but still). The streets are still strangely tranquil yet swarming; buses and airrails rattle past as he walks the old familiar ways back to Wadham, after half a decade away. Even after all this time away from the blasted Moon, the normality of it all still strikes him as disingenuous.

But things are wrong. Subtly, slightly wrong. There’s a strange feeling in the air. The students who pass him all seem ridiculously young. A memorial to Wadham students lost to the tunnels has risen up inside the quad, and once again Bertie sees Tim’s name and smells cordite and death and chokes back nausea. He sits outside his tutor’s office, resting on his crutches with his useless leg stretched across the corridor, and looks over at the girl next to him who has to be at least six years younger than him, and he feels old and weary and lost on familiar ground.

Of course, there is little to no trouble with him coming back to university. After all, he’s far from alone; all across the country since the end of the war, people pulled away by the draft have been coming back to pick up the pieces of their old lives. And now, with his savings and his soldier’s pension and his disability allowance, he can afford his tuition, and a small ground-floor flat not too far away to boot. All according to plan. Except that his flat is so empty after a lifetime of sharing rooms and housing, and at least at first he’s disorientated by not living in the place he and Tim had been occupying in their first year.

It all falls together. Which isn’t to say, of course, that it’s easy. He finds that distances he used to run in minutes exhaust him, and so to start with he turns up late to lectures almost every day. His fellow students are younger, fresher than him. They understand what he, scientific mind atrophied by years away from the concepts, struggle to grasp. He has few friends, and his frequent panic attacks alienate him more; the others view him with mingled admiration and pity, always from afar. He cannot go out on nights out with them; crowded pubs make him panic, long nights wear him out. Worst of all, in his absence the field has changed almost unrecognisably; the war forced such advances on technology and engineering understanding that suddenly, unexpectedly, he finds himself left years behind, a relic of a bygone age. He cannot work hard enough to regain his place at the head of his class, nor is he sure whether he has grown stupider or this new generation of engineers are unreasonably intelligent. It isn’t fair, he curses again and again, to be obsolete and old at the age of twenty-four. He can feel his chance of earning a scholarship once more slipping between his fingers.

But worst is the loneliness. Though slowly he gets better and better, begins to gain once more a handle on this new and alien form of engineering, walks with more strength, answers with more conviction, still he wakes screaming to an echoingly empty flat and Tim’s photograph eyes laughing behind the glass, trapped in time. He had hoped that regaining his university life might help him recover, but he has fallen far enough behind to never pick himself all the way up again, and lost friends’ names watch him whenever he walks around college, and the ghost of Tim haunts their favourite spots. And he is still so lost. His savings trickle away on cheap food and cheap rent and enough whisky to knock out an elephant, and sometimes he goes through hours of work without noticing that he’s crying into his glass. He barely sleeps, because his sleep is haunted. He awakes in the night and sees phantom soldiers in the shadows of the empty rooms and shivers under the covers, he hears noises in the hallway and drowning in paranoia, lies awake contemplating going outside to reassure himself that there’s nothing there, unable to build up the nerve to reach for his crutches in case there is.

He stays in the library until the morning, works late in the lab, does everything he can to avoid going home to the flat and his nightmares. He develops a habit of sleeping flopped on desks or leaning on walls in cafes, trains himself to operate on half-hour snatches of naps for weeks on end and to sleep during the day and work at night, forestalling the moment he has to lie in the darkness which makes every shadow and every creak into a horror story. He finds himself in this strange life where he needs people around him, their presence comforts him, but his eccentricities and his nervousness, not to mention the antisocial hours he keeps, leave him practically friendless. It’s strange to him. His whole life, he was always the one who everyone liked, who was easy to get along with and easy to spend time with. Now he finds himself taking a new role on the outside of everything, and it’s strange and uncomfortable.

But then, sleepless and uncomfortable, though he is learning to cope with work and to manage cramped places, the madness begins to leak into daylight. He wakes from naps in coffee shops with an uneasy feeling of being watched. He sees shadows following him for streets on end as he walks the city in the evening, but turns to see nothing. People pass him in the streets, people who he glimpses with a strange sense of familiarity but whose faces are never in view, people he knows he knows but can’t place. One day he gets home to find things in his room have been ever so slightly moved. Logically he knows it’s ridiculous, paranoid, that he’s misremembering, but he can’t shake the feeling that someone’s been in his home. People give him strange looks in the street. He is, he realises, definitely going mad. Not a-bit-of-shell-shock mad, gibbering in the corner, paranoid delusions mad.

He thinks about seeing someone about it, but what if they take him off the course again? What if they lock him up? He can cope. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the feeling of being followed.

Exams come and go, not as good as he hoped or as bad as he feared. He goes home for a couple of weeks, and while he’s in his family’s flat he feels less watched, although there are still moments when he ventures off Roseburn Street where he hears someone walking behind him for turn after turn, always gone when he looks around. When he gets back to Oxford, he advertises for a flatmate. He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea, with his night terrors and the odd hours he keeps, with his nervousness around people, but he hopes that it might make the nights less terrifying and the flat feel more secure. Still, he’s oddly relieved when he gets no responses; the life he’s living might be tense and operating on the slow and steady road to total insanity, but it’s become familiar and the idea of a change to his hard-won routine, even a positive one, is terrifying. Around the start of Trinity, the visitations abruptly stop. He can walk the streets without feeling followed, the feeling of being watched gives way to the usual loneliness. Life goes on.

He’s surviving. That’s the best he can say. Struggling day by day to keep his head above water, focusing on lasting the day. He isn’t doing badly. If you watched him, you’d barely know how hard it is. He does his work competently if not with his former brilliance, he responds with ghostly smiles when people speak to him, he has friends, both on his course and in the society he found by accident, the little drinking community of Lunar vets. But his colleagues don’t see the exhaustion in his eyes or the drag in his step; when he takes days in a row off sick they just take it as a given. And perhaps the other veterans can see it, but they’re all fighting the same war in their heads. Like in the tunnels, this is just what normality is for them all now.

He wonders what he’s living for. Under his clothes, where nobody can see, his upper arm bears a bloody tally of the times he’s come close to wasting Tim’s gift. The skin is rough and livid with criss-crossing scars.

He wants to die. He can’t die. Around the city, bridges and trains, high windows and passing cars, remind him how easy it would be to stop fighting. But then who would remember Tim? Then, what would Tim have died for? It’s useless. Ridiculous. If he’d been shot, if he’d been killed in the war, all would have been well, it would have been nobody’s fault. All these years he’d thought that the war was hell, but at least he’d known what he was doing. Now he drifts through a grey haze of lonely days, and it is with a palpable shock that he realises it’s a matter of days until the anniversary of Tim’s death.

Accordingly, when the day rolls around (April 3rd, ten days before his birthday), Bertie skips class, skips his usual library session, and devotes the day to getting as utterly and completely hammered as humanly possible. He attempts to drink until he’s incapable of feeling feelings any more; it doesn’t entirely work out as planned. He does, however, drink until he’s incapable of feeling his fingers, and then very nearly breaks his fist trying to get in a fight that nobody else wants to have. Ultimately, he wakes up with a splitting headache, missing a crutch, on a park bench halfway across the city.

He lies very still, trying not to vomit, and then it occurs to him that the paranoia must have come back, because he feels eyes on him despite the fact the sun’s barely risen and the park is empty. A few more brain cells juggle into place and he realises he isn’t making it up. There’s a shadow falling across him. Someone is standing behind the bench, watching him.

With a shout, he erupts upwards, trying to catch the watcher off-guard. The figure is gone, but looking around frantically, he sees the tail of a long coat disappearing around the gate. His nausea and headache pushed aside for the moment, Bertie gives chase as best he can on one crutch, desperation lending him a surprising turn of speed. He runs lopsidedly through familiar streets and alleyways, always just close enough behind to catch a glimpse of his quarry, never fast enough to catch up, breath tearing raggedly, lungs and limbs burning.

Chasing the glimpses of flapping brown coat over Magdalen Bridge, eyes fixed on his quarry, Bertie doesn’t see the man stepping out in front of him until it’s too late. Knocked off balance, his head hits the paving stones hard enough to start stars dancing dizzily in front of his eyes. His crutch skitters noisily into the road. He chokes back vomit, shaking with exertion and rage, and hauls himself halfway up to give a piece of his mind to whoever ruined his chase, but the words dry in his throat when he sees who he ran into.

He gasps, shudders, stifles a scream as he tries to crawl away and encounters the solid parapet, because he’s definitely snapped. Impossible ghosts have come back to haunt him.

“Bertie!” A grin grows across the other man’s face, making the rivers of ink on his face shift and bend. At least, it’s probably a grin, although the number of teeth exposed make Bertie feel rather like a small animal trapped in the gaze of some vast predator. “Bertie, Bertie, Bertie. This is a fucking treat. Haven’t seen you since, hell, when was it?”

Bertie, gaping, chokes out, “Sea of Tranquillity. A year and a half ago. You died, D’Ville.”

“Did I?” Jonny D’Ville sticks a cigarette between his teeth and lights up, looking singularly unconcerned by that information. “Huh. Learn something new every day. Oh well, these things happen, huh? That’s life. Or not, as the case may be.”

“How are you here?” Bertie manages, struggling to his feet (well, foot) with the aid of the parapet. A thought strikes him. “Oh God, am I dead too? Is this what it’s like?”

Jonny snorts. “Dead? Fuck no, you’re just hungover. Trust me, there’s a difference. Hungover is a lot less fun.”

Bertie has had more than enough of this cryptic shit. Just about managing to keep himself supported on the parapet, he lunges forward to grab Jonny by the collar, and is almost taken aback when his hand doesn’t go straight through. Oh hell, what must this look like to people passing them by? Is Jonny really there, or has it finally happened, has he joined the ranks of the crazies who stand in the street shouting at nothingness? “Would you just tell me what the FUCK is going on?!”

Unconcerned, Jonny steps back a few steps, dragging Bertie away from his support so he loses his balance again and falls at his feet. “Where’s the fun in that? I dunno, some people just want to take all the mystery out of life. You’re alive and mostly unmaimed, isn’t that good enough for you?”

“No, it’s fucking not!” Scrabbling around for a moment, Bertie manages to reach his crutch and starts the painful process of getting back up. His face is burning with humiliation and rage, he wants to break everything, beat Jonny’s smirking face into a bloody pulp.

“Well, that’s fucking gratitude for you, isn’t it? After all the trouble Tim went to to get you out of there in one piece. How’d that work out, anyway?”

The red mist descends. Bertie lashes out upwards with the metal bar of his crutch, catching Jonny under the jaw with a satisfying crunch, and then they’re both rolling on the pavement among horrified passersby, and Bertie is straddling Jonny’s chest and punching him repeatedly in the face, and he’s not so much lashing out at Jonny’s smug comments as he is at his own insanity, at the feeling of being watched, at the country that let him down and at Tim’s ghost for being cruel enough to die for him. Jonny laughs through broken teeth, a bloodstreaked devil’s smile, and it fuels Bertie’s rage more, until his fists are bruised and torn from punching.

Something cracks Bertie in the back of the head for the third time this morning. Jonny’s laughing, ruined face swirls and swims before his eyes, and then nothingness embraces him.

-----

Blinking awake, eyes gummy, head killing him, it takes Bertie a moment to realise what’s wrong, but when he does he swings into full consciousness in an airless rush of panic. He’s lying on something hard and uncushioned, and the gravity’s all out of whack, he feels strangely weightless and buoyant, his fearful breathing echoes off tight metal walls. For a moment of impossible certainty, he’s sure he’s somehow back on the Moon, trapped again in the tunnels, but no, that can’t be, since the end of the war there have been blockades around the lunar remains, nobody gets in or out. But that doesn’t stop the bile rising in his throat, claustrophobic panic seizing him. His mind knows that this isn’t the Moon, but his hindbrain disagrees with absolute surety, and rises in revolt, and if this isn’t the Moon then where the hell is he?

He tries to sit up, and sets the room spinning as white-hot pain lances through the base of his skull. Nausea sweeps through him again, and he retches, but some time must have passed because his stomach is empty and he only succeeds in dribbling stomach acid onto the floor. His head is excruciating, and it takes him several minutes to remember why. Gingerly, he touches the sore part, trying not to move his head, and hisses between his teeth as his fingers brush scabbed swelling and bruises under curls matted with clotted blood. It isn’t too badly cut up, he decides once he can think again over the pain. There’s a lot of blood, yes, but you get that with head wounds, and the wound isn’t deep, really just a scratch. The pain and the nausea comes from the fact that someone hit him hard enough to lay him out with one blow, and bugger everything if this isn’t just about the worst day for headaches he’s ever had. Assuming it is the same day, of which there is precisely no guarantee.

Exploring his pockets, he finds with some relief that whatever else might’ve happened, he hasn’t been robbed. Among small change and keys, he finds his pillbox in his jacket; his hipflask is a comforting weight in his trouser pocket, half-empty but still full enough. With trembling hands, he tips out a couple of heavy-duty painkillers , washes them down with a big enough gulp of whisky to be a really bad idea, and then sits very, very still, his head in his hands, waiting for one or both of them to kick in enough for him to move, and trying to process what possible madness could have befallen him.

Literally none of it makes any sense. The dead walking around being very not-dead, the stranger watching him constantly who turns out not to have been a figment of his imagination…who was it that hit him, back on Magdalen Bridge? Why bring him here, and where is here? And who is the man in the brown coat who seems so familiar and so alien? Why him? He hasn’t done anything interesting, never got mixed up in anything political, never did anything huge, has no power, no heft; he’s just a messed-up veteran living in a crappy student flat with the ghost of his dead lover, like half the rest of the bloody country. He isn’t special.

He makes an abortive effort to get up, some combination of booze and drugs calming slightly the pain fogging his mind, then realises that his crutches are nowhere to be seen. Slowly, dizzily, he crawls three-limbed to the nearest decent-sized object…a cannon, it looks like, but in a design he’s never seen before, and something about it is trying to stir something up in his mind, but he’s in no fit state to make links and the thought slips away before he can get a grip on it…and hauls himself upright with a grunt of effort, hop-shuffles towards the door, aided by the low gravity and his hand on the wall.

He makes his way out of what seems to be some sort of arsenal, down long, doorless corridors, slightly curving floors, rounded metal walls, festooned with exposed pipes and wiring. Memories of more makeshift corridors well up inside him; he drowns them with the remainder of his whisky and struggles on. There are voices up ahead. He recognises Jonny’s mocking laughter, and, burning with rage, follows the echoing sound.

“You knocked him out.” He hears Jonny’s voice clearly now. “With his own fucking crutch. That’s fucking cold, Nastya.”

“Yes. And?” The other voice is female, tinged with something like and yet unlike a Russian accent, and wholly uninterested. Bertie creeps closer. He can see the change in light coming from a half-open doorway up ahead; he slows his step, wincing at the echoing drag of his bad leg on the steel floor.

“And nothing.” Now, creeping to the doorframe, Bertie can catch a fractured glimpse of the inside of the room. Jonny is sitting in a raised chair, his booted feet up on the console in front of him, his back to the door. The young woman he’s talking to, Nastya, can’t be more than twenty, if that, and Bertie can’t decide if the strange silver sheen to her skin is a trick of the light, or yet another mystery. Jonny swigs a glass of whisky dramatically. “Could’ve done it five minutes earlier, is all. He smashed in my whole face, which is a, a massive pain in the arse, and b, extremely unoriginal.”

The young woman shrugs, but smiles slightly, unpleasantly. Bertie can’t quite express why her amusement is unnerving, but it is.

Jonny ignores her. “Plus, it’s set you-know-who off again. You know it’s only a matter of fucking time before he starts talking at us, and last time it took ten years in a fucking dwarf star to shut him up.”

“He didn’t shut up,” replies another voice. Whose, Bertie can’t see from his vantage point. “But he’s whining to Ivy now, so who gives a fuck?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jonny drains his glass and thumps it down on top of the console. “Point is, we’ve got this fucker on board my ship now, so-“

“Your ship?” Nastya raises an eyebrow.

“Your creepy robo-fuckbuddy, whatever. The ship of which I am captain, how about that?”

“First mate,” says the disembodied voice, accompanied by a drifting cloud of smoke.

“Yeah, can we not fucking start this again? It gets really fucking old after a few millennia. Let’s not dwell on who’s right and who’s wrong, and who’s captain and who isn’t, especially because you all know in your heart of hearts that it’s me on both counts. Point is, we have a very mortal annoyance getting blood all over the place. Personally, I vote for seeing how long he can hold his breath in space.”

“189.3 seconds on average, not taking into account pressure differentials.” A new voice, female, with a clipped public school accent.

“But the pressure’s what makes it funny. Fuck’s sake, Ivy, learn to have a bit of fun.” He picks up his empty glass and looks at it askance. “I’m gonna get another drink before somebody, naming no beardy and annoying names, decides to stop moping and start flavouring perfectly good whiskey with nitroglycerin again.” Jonny takes his feet off the control panel and swivels in his chair. Bertie tries to peer closer, but Jonny’s face is still turned away; he can’t make out how much damage he managed to do. Standing up, he disappears out of Bertie’s blinkered line of sight, but now, Bertie can hear his footsteps coming towards the door. He freezes, paralysed like a mouse before a snake. He can’t run away quietly, not on this leg, nor is there anywhere to hide. Blood pounds in his ears, and he‘s looking around desperately for somewhere to hide, and somebody up there likes him, because there! A service hatch, big enough to crawl into fairly swiftly, and he manages it just in time, pulling the hatch closed and sealing himself into the crushing darkness a split second before he hears the door swing open and slam shut.

The space is small, the ceiling low enough that he has to sit with his head tucked onto his bent-up knee, his bad leg twisted uncomfortably under him. His hip is screaming already. He feels around in the darkness, trying to find out how deep the space is, hoping that it might be a service shaft to take him to somewhere slightly less immediately awful, and encounters something he thinks for a horrible moment is a leg or an arm, dressed in wool fabric. But it’s got no warmth, and it’s hard to the touch, and, heart in mouth, he pushes up the cuff of the fabric sleeve and feels smooth, polished wood under his fingertips.

He breathes a sigh of relief. Must be a broom closet or something. Weird, but what isn’t today?

There’s a clink in the darkness, like glass or china, the sound incongruous.

“I say, old bean!” remarks a cheerful voice, sounding incredibly loud in the small space. “What a spiffing idea! A secret tea party! What larks! Biscuit?”

Bertie jumps out of his skin, fumbling for a match. The light flares for a moment, illuminating a familiar and incredibly unwelcome inhuman face, painted moustache and all.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He scrabbles backwards, collapses out of the hatch in a clattering racket, and stumble-runs off down the corridor as fast as he can manage.

Behind him, a chirpy voice echoes from the vent. “Are you sure? They’re jolly nice. They’re the sort with little silver balls on top.” Bertie, however, is long gone.

He’s staggering down the corridor in an increasingly hellish state of stomach-churning terror, concussion, pain and overheating when he reaches a fork in the corridor. Pausing in an agony of indecision, he hears Jonny’s voice up ahead on the left. “No. Fuck right off. He’s your fucking problem, let me know if and or when he cracks up and blows his own brains out.”

There’s an echoing clang, rather like somebody’s head being smashed at breaking-speed into a metal wall, and then Jonny starts laughing in a damp, gurgly sort of way. Bertie heads down the right-hand corridor, holding himself up on the wall, until his lungs give out and, muscles screaming, blood pumping fire through his veins, he can run no more, and collapses gasping against the wall, slides down with an audible squeal of sweat on metal to sit panting on the floor, doubled over and staving off a total meltdown with difficulty. His hipflask is devastatingly empty, his body a mass of pain, his head spinning.

A noise echoes down the corridor up ahead. Whatever it was to start with, it is magnified and replicated beyond recognition, but it’s enough to push Bertie back up into all-senses-tingling fight-or-flight mode, and he scrabbles like a mouse from a cat away from the noise. Around the curve of the corridor, a few metres away, there’s a door set into the wall, and he falls through it with relief, hoping against hope that he gets lucky this time, that there’s no bloody dead thing living in here too.

It’s very dark, and very quiet, and he crawls forwards into the blackness until he bumps into what feels like a low desk, or possibly a lab bench, the sort with three solid sides reaching down to the floor. The ground underneath is cluttered; with what, he can’t decide by touch, but metal and plastic and glass shift as he inches under the table as quietly as he can. His hand goes down on glass shards; he ignores the pain, adds it to his long list of miseries, and pulls himself into the corner, huddled in the dark with only his own shaky breathing for company.

At some point, he falls asleep, and is aware of it only when he wakes in a panic, hearing footsteps somewhere nearby. He gropes for a weapon, something to defend himself with; his scabbed and stiff hands find what feels like a length of pipe. If he can’t hit with it, it might be long enough at least to help him stand. Hand resting on its comforting coolness, he keeps feeling around, but the footsteps grow closer and then Bertie freezes as a door opens on the other side of the room, and antiseptic white light flares into being, making his eyes water and his head squeeze vice-tight. He grips the pipe as tight as he can and waits in breathless tension, offering up a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening that whoever it is will just go, go now and let him be, but the footsteps keep coming.

Over the pounding drum of his heartbeat, Bertie can hear the heavy swish of a long coat now, a subtler accompaniment to the harsh leather-on-metal thuds of footsteps. A shadow falls past the side of the desk. Bertie does his level best to shrink further into the corner whilst remaining simultaneously absolutely still, which isn’t exactly easy.

Then, a glimpse of a swinging brown canvas coat hem and battered brown leather shoes, and Bertie knows he’s discovered, because the man in the brown coat has never failed to track him down and haunt his days, is hardly likely to start now. His only chance is to take him by surprise and make a break for it.

Pulling the pipe under his weight as he rises, Bertie surges upwards, a broken flask in hand, one arc of motion sending the sharp glass slashing towards the stranger’s throat, but before it can so much as graze the skin, the man in the brown coat grabs Bertie’s wrist and twists it away, turning as he does so, eyes catching Bertie’s.

The beaker falls unheeded to the ground and explodes in a shower of shards. Bertie doesn’t even notice. All his breath is gone from him as surely as if he’d been punched in the gut. His voice is thin and reedy and disbelieving. “No.”

Gripping his wrist still, not ungently, Tim’s expression is unreadable. There’s no flicker of emotion in the ruinous eyes. Bertie gapes. Slowly, Tim releases his hand, and Bertie falls back against the unyielding support of the desk, limp and unblinking as he stares at the impossible figure before him, all he’d hoped and not dared to hope, all he’d feared from the moment he saw D’Ville on the bridge.

“No,” Bertie repeats, hysteria bubbling up in his voice. “No! Fuck you! You can’t…you fucking…you bastard! You fucking bastard! Do you know what you fucking did? Do you know what you put me through? You total fucking shit!”

He glares up at the once-dead man’s unreacting face (saw his eyes dim once, saw him crumple, saw him breathe his last) and he can’t take it any more. With a frustrated yell, he flings himself into Tim, pummelling his fists into chest and face and arms, shouting unspeakable emotions as tears sting his eyes and fall hot down his face.

Tim just stands there, unflinching, and takes every blow without a flicker of his unnatural eyes.

#the Mechanisms #gunpowder tim #tim x bertie #back in the day we made our own ships out of grit and gumption and not wanting to ship our friends' characters together #mechs fic

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pomeqraniqht · 4 years

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ship headcanon memeWho? What? When? Where? Why? (Rusty & Sofia. I literally cannot remember if i sent this already asdkjfjga I feel like I did but idk)

WHO? WHAT? WHEN? WHERE? WHY?

I’m procrastinating. If you fancy it send me a ship and a number and I’ll tell you my headcanon.

1. Who makes the first move and how? - Rusty made the ‘official’ first move between them but they were eye-flirting long before wearing a mask made it cool. But now? They BOTH make the first move when it comes to each other, they aren’t shy from one another and it’s honestly such a blessing to see Sofia come out of her shell for her inked angel because... *sigh* I never thought she’d develop the way she did and these two are just.. ~ugh~ <3 2. Who is the most insecure and what makes them feel better? - Sofia Patterson/Parker is the most insecure and a smile from her favorite inked angel makes her feel better. Honestly Rusty helps her insecurities but he also adds to them; a lot. I feel like the more serious they’ve become the more pressure she is putting on herself to be ‘perfect’ but then she has those moments where she remembers Rusty doesn’t love her because she’s ‘perfect’ he loves her for who she really is, and she’s the girl who cries whenever he plays their song and falls in love with mint chocolate ice-cream while pregnant with his kids. It’s such a hot mess for her but he always finds a way to bring her back to reality. 3. Who is the most romantic? - both? Maybe Sofia more than Rusty but by a smidge? They both are romantic in their own ways and I think it’s great it’s not the typical roses and chocolate bullshit (not that that isn’t great and all...) but they’re unique. They show their love in different forms, an example would be for valentine’s day she’s going to suggest they go and get tattoos, or that Rusty picks out a tattoo for her and she gets to pick one for him (if he even has any space left by this point.) 4. Who can’t keep their hands to themselves - Literally both of them, they can not leave each other alone at all. Sex anywhere and everywhere; it does not matter anymore. So long as they can fit they’ll fuck. They don’t know how to not touch each other anymore, especially when it isn’t sex. It’s always hand holding or he’s got an arm around her or something; they’re always touching somehow. 5. Who says ‘I love you’ first? - Sofia did the day she told Rusty about the baby, on her old kitchen table... literal hours before they broke up because he cheated on her. 6. Who would they ask if they ever had a threesome? - I don’t think they would ask anyone? Sofia’s insecurities wouldn’t allow it and I’m not so sure Rusty’s possessive and jealous nature would either. 7. What do they get up to on a night out? - Depends honestly. Before Rusty got sober they would go out on the town, drink, dance, fuck, and have fun any way they could find. Now? Probably movie night, dinner, sex in the car/bathroom of a movie theatre... 8. What do they like in bed? - Everything but especially cream-pies and Rusty calling Sofia his dirty little girl because she’s only dirty for him and him only. They’re addicted to each other in ways I didn’t think could be possible. 9. What is the most embarrassing thing they have done in front of each other? - I want to say for Sofia it’s probably pushing out a baby? If that even counts? Or maybe it’s trying to squeeze into spanx so she doesn’t look like she’s just had a baby. I feel like for Rusty it was the dance of his breakdown and his relapse, his behavior at the clinic and everything.. I think that was a pretty low-point for the both of them. 10. What two songs, two books and two luxury items do they take to a desert island? - Literally any song Rusty ever wrote; two books: How to Build A Boat for Dummies and What is poisonous and what isn’t. Items? Those reusable matches and a water purifier. 11. What do they hide from one another? - Sofia used to hide her damages and Rusty used to hide his drug habit (also Sofia hid a baby from him for about 6 months because well...marriage issues). 12. What first changes when it starts getting serious? - Rusty’s drug use and Sofia’s behavior. She’s like a little clown fish finding her own, she’s obsessed in a way without even intending to. She inserts herself around him and she just needs to be with him. But mostly? It’s the way the two of them think about life after they meet each other. They both LOOK so polar opposite but on the inside? Their souls mirror one another. 13. When do they realise they should get together? - Officially? The day Rusty gets jealous seeing Sofia talking to her ex-boyfriend. But like super officially? Individually? Rusty realized it the day Sofia told him she was pregnant and left, Sofia realized it the first time he looked her in the eye and he didn’t look at her like he wanted to fuck her... He looked at her like he was a blind man seeing the sun for the very first time. 14. When one has a cold, what does the other do? - Sofia turns into a private nurse/doctor, whatever he needs he gets. Sofia? She tries to fight off Rusty because they have two kids and moms never get a day off, ever. 15. When they watch a film what do they choose and why? Who gets the final vote? - Something funny over horror; Sofia can’t stand scary movies and she will have the final vote. 16. When the zombie apocalypse comes, how do they cope together? - This is a good question and honestly? If a zombie apocalypses happens I feel like they would fight for as long as they possibly could. I’m going to say it happens before they have kids because I can’t imagine their adorable children killed by zombies. I feel like Rusty would go to any length to protect Sofia and vice-versa... I feel like they’re the type who would either go and take over a prison for safe-keeping or go into the woods and fend for themselves that way? They’re not dumb by any means so I feel like they’d have a good chance. But if someone got bitten or died the other wouldn’t be far behind them because if the world was ending and they didn’t have each other? Then what’s the point in living. 17. When they find a time machine, where do they go? - Sofia would go back to the last day her dad was alive and force him to go to a hospital, maybe somehow they’d be able to save him. I imagine Rusty would go back and stop himself from cheating on Sofia... I don’t want to say he’d go back and never do drugs because I feel like if he wasn’t an addict then maybe they never would’ve met? 18. When they fight, how do they make up? - Sex. A lot of meaningful and emotional sex. 19. Where do they go on their first date? - I think their first ‘official’ date was a carnival Rusty had taken her too. They would get together and hook up, have meals and such but... never like an official date. 20. Where do they go on holiday? - Sofia has always wanted to go to Italy, so maybe there? 21. Where do they get nervous about going with one another? - Since Rusty is a popular musician, anywhere? But before that I feel like Sofia was nervous of him showing up at her job. It’s a bad thing to admit but he’s a little scary to look at for the younger kids and to be a school teacher a certain type of look is required. But more-so she never cared... she just knew if someone SAID something she would lose it. She’s protective over how people view Rusty and the way they judge him because of his ink, she thinks its bullshit. He’s beautiful. Accept it. 22. Where does their first kiss happen? - On Dynasty’s dancefloor during some dirty dancing. 23. Where is their favourite place to be together? - In a bathroom, whether it is in the bath, shower, a sink... Bathrooms are their kryptonite. 24. Where do they first have sex? - In a bathroom in a club. 26. Why do they need to have a serious chat? - Because Sofia’s pregnant, Rusty’s using drugs, or Roman said a bad word and said his father taught it to him. 27. Why do their friends get annoyed with them? - They abandoned their friends for each other, and it’s not one more than the other. They both literally ignored their friends in pursuit of each other. 28. Why do they get jealous? - Because they see the other talking with someone of the opposite sex. It’s unavoidable at this point, they’re both tangled like vines and without each other they’d both die. 29. Why do they fall a little bit more in love? - When Rusty touches her nose and calls her ‘Tiny’ in a certain tone of voice, or when he sings lullabies to their babies at night, or when he gets that certain voice as he is talking to their babies in her tummy. For him? I wanna think it’s when she fights for him because up until they met not many, if any, people ever fought for him. she believes in him, she sees the good and light within him even if others don’t. He’s amazing. Go buy his new album now. 30. Why does it work (or not work) between them? - It works because they even each other out in ways I can’t even begin to describe to you. He makes her feel good, she calms him down. They’re yin and yang, literally opposites but somehow they just work. @rustyparker

#Anonymous

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aurora-the-kunoichi · 4 years

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The Aftermath Part Four

Here is part four of Aftermath. Angst is finally coming. Sorry it took so long!

Raphael and Reader

After Raphael had sufficiently calmed your rising panic attack and with a little convincing you were fine, they finally allowed you to walk around their home. Michelangelo most enthusiastically pulled you around their subterranean lair, pointing out every room and its purpose. You could see the other brothers follow close behind, Raphael a little closer than most.

Soon you were seeing the luxuries they still had; running water, electricity and a plethora of running vehicles.

“How did…..” you trailed off turning back to the three oldest.

“Don is a genius.” Leonardo quickly answered your unspoken question resting his hands on the tall terrapins shoulder with a squeeze. “We are very lucky. Without him we’d be living like savages like those neanderthals up there.”

“You don’t want to get into close quarters with any of them. Most of them don’t seem to know where water is located.” Mikey cut in wrinkling his beak in disgust as he brought you a glass of water which you took suspiciously.

Donnie watched you eye the liquid through the clear glass and chuckled, “Don’t worry I have a pretty extensive filtration system in place. That water is cleaner then what we had before the apocalypse.”

Satisfied with the answer you took a sip and found he was right. It was even better than your water…damn.

Leo continued sitting down at a kitchen chair ushering you to do the same which you obliged the large terrapin. “I can tell you yourself are quite smart. Your food situation, personal hygiene and that pretty slick rig you have. Along with your interest in solar power, this unfortunately makes you a very hot commodity in this day and age. We found that out rather quickly when we were exposed years ago. Now they hunt us in hopes to get Donnie boy for his brains and the rest of us for our strength. Donavan has tried to strong arm us several times to get us to work for him….well I use the word ‘work’ very loosely when it comes to that scum bag.”

“Yeah that asshole don’t have employees. He has slaves both male and female alike.” Raphael growled with discontent, spinning the red sai with expert precision between his thick green digits. “If those idiots ever wake up and report back to fuckface that you were snooping around a solar panel you’re gonna be high on his list as well.”

“Wait, you guys didn’t kill them?”

“Nah those assholes aren’t worth the cleanin I’d need to do on these babies.” Raphael half growled and laughed sheathing his weapon in his belt.

Leonardo shook his head with a smile and caught your gaze once again. “No we do not kill if it can be helped. We practice Bushido; we are not allowed to take a life unless it is unavoidable.” He adjusted his massive weight in the rickety chair and swallowed heavily. “Raphael and I are the only ones of my brothers to have taken a life.”

Turning the cup in your hands you thought about what they had said about Donavan. “So, so they hunt you? Like daily?”

Donnie nodded, “Pretty much. They have scouts all around the city looking for us. I have hidden surveillance around our exit points to make sure we conceal our comings and goings and never leave the same place in a month twice, just in case. We have been lucky enough to keep under their radar and keep our home a secret.”

“And the buddy system is always a must.” Leo added.

“Why do you guys stay here? You do know there is a massive continent ripe for the picking. You could pretty much live anywhere. If you haven’t noticed all of the human population could probably inhabit New York at the same time. “

Leo looked around at his brothers and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess we never considered it, New York has always been home. It’s where we were born, where we grew up, where our father is buried.”

“Your father?” as the question came from your lips a loud blaring sound came from high above the massive space echoing throughout.

Immediately each one of the massive turtles sprung from their seats heading towards a wall full of monitors lit up with different feeds of what looked like tunnel systems.

Donnie typed feverishly at his keyboard pulling up codes and then several feeds popped up on the main screen in front of where he sat. “The motion detectors caught movement in the east tunnels but for some reason the live feeds aren’t picking up anything?”

Leo sprang into action, his soft calming voice transitioning into a stern commanding tone catching his brother’s attention quickly and efficiently. “Raph, and Mikey on me, we’ll go check it out and see if we can lead them back out into the streets. Don’t let them see you, scare them back into the light if we have intruders. Donnie stays here with Y/N, keep her safe and see if you can pin point their location. I want radio silence, unless you have an exact location.”

And with that and without a word the other three brothers were gone out into the sewer tunnels ready to defend their home and you. Your eyes flew to Donatello who continued to work at his station eyes moving from one monitor to the next.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“No, not at the moment. Please take a seat and stay close just in case. One of them might have gotten lucky and followed us down when we brought you down.”

Suddenly the thought of their home being compromised because they were helping you made you sick to your stomach. Watching the screens you could see them for a split second as they flew by the camera. They were so god damn fast, it was just a blur.

“You guys sure are fast for how big you are?” You moved closer to the preoccupied terrapin and watched him work. Maps began to race across the screens as his fingers worked over the keyboard in from of him. Another alarm blared, this time louder.

“That’s not good.”’ Donnie mumbled pushing his chair to another set of screens. “Leo are you there?”

“Yeah Don, did you find the problem?” the leaders voice came over the com on Donnie shoulder.

“Yeah, whoever it is they’re getting closer to the lair.”

“Shell…ok Don……emergency lock down protocol, get out of there. You know what to do next. See you soon.”

The next few moments were a blur. In that instant the tall turtle leapt from his chair moving about the lair loading a few things in the bag. “Your vehicle is just beyond those big doors. Go grab a few things to last a couple days. We need to leave it here and go on foot.”

You didn’t argue or ask questions you only did as you were instructed. You moved about the trailer grabbing things you needed stuffing them in a bag along with your roll of blades. Man this was moving way to fast, you were here for solar panels and some supplies, not a potential abduction attempt. This trip was not going as you had planned.

You could run? There was a spare set of keys in the camper and you could figure out how to open those doors? Right? Maybe? But then these four brothers had saved you from those goons and brought you down to safety, probably compromising their home. You couldn’t abandon them.

When you returned Donatello was waiting at his command center and nodded typing something into the keyboard with a few keystrokes. Soon around their home large metal doors began to slide close one by one closing off the lair from the outside.

“Let’s go!” Donatello called and hurried to the final door not waiting to see if you were following. His long legs took him across the floor but you managed to catch up to him. With one final press on the tablet on his wrist the final door shut locking you away from your only form of transport.

A large hand rested on your shoulder, “Don’t worry we’ll be back in a few days. I promise, this keeps everything safe until the heat dies down. We need to get going they’ll be waiting for us.”

You nodded and followed after him as he took down the sewer tunnel.

Several tunnels and a few dilapidated buildings later you found yourself following the tall purple turtle down into a basement. He began to type on his tablet again and lights began to snap on humming with electricity. A large metal door was unlocked and swung open revealing a large well furnished space but from the dust on the furniture it looked like it had been visited in a while. A smaller command center blinked to life in the distance while Donatello quickly occupied.

“Hmmm, that’s strange they’re not here yet? I figured they’d beat us by 10 minutes.”

Minutes turned into hours and Donnie paced the floor nervously checking his com and his systems for any sign on his three brothers. “Leo? Mike? Raph? Is anyone out there?” he called into his com resting on his shoulder.

You could hear the panic rising in his voice with the number of times he tried for them and you tried your best to stay out of his way. You had taken up a space on the old couch watching Donnie as he grew more frantic as the minutes passed.

Then yelp and the sound of someone tumbling down the stairs made you both jump from your position. Donnie pulled his bo staff out at the ready and you filled both palms with the cold steal of your blades.

“Don!” the low bass of Raphael came from the outside and a steady pounding on the door shook you both from your defensive stances.

Donatello put away his bo and rushed to open the door catching the massive brute as he fell into his outstretched arms. “Raph! What happened?! Jesus Christ!!”

You rushed forward to help brace the immense weight of the largest terrapin and without hesitation Raphael slung an arm over your shoulder allowing you to take his partial weight. He had been wounded, blood pouring from several cuts and gashes that littered his body, some looked deep. How was he still standing?

“T-they…they got ‘em Don. They got Leo and Mikey.”

All of story

#tmnt raphael #The Aftermath #part four #tmnt #tmnt fandom #tmnt fanfiction #tmnt fic #TMNT TMNT fanfiction

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moroccorug · 4 years

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tabloidtoc · 4 years

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Globe, August 31

Cover: Prince William and Prince Harry seeking the truth about their mother Princess Diana’s death -- Diana exhumed again

Page 2: Up Front & Personal -- Sylvester Stallone, pregnant Lea Michele, Jason Priestley wears a mask while picking up a package

Page 3: Alessandra Ambrosio puts on shorts at the beach, Scott Baio riles up the crowd at a political rally in L.A., Sofia Richie strolls along the beach in Malibu with a wineglass in hand

Page 4: Music diva Mariah Carey is turning her back on her sister Alison who’s caught in a raging battle over revelations charging shocking sex abuse and devil worship -- while Mariah is out promoting her new bio due in stores next month her troubled older sis Alison is suing their mom Patricia for damages claiming she was forced to perform sex acts with strangers when she was as young as 10 during satanic gatherings that included ritual sacrifice

Page 5: Rachael Ray and her husband John Cusimano and their dog Bella narrowly escaped death when a huge blaze tore through her luxury upstate New York home, Lady Gaga’s sharp dance moves and killer manicure left fellow pop star Ariana Grande with a nasty scratch on her face as the pair rehearsed for a music video

Page 6: Garth Brooks and wife Trisha Yearwood were terrified when their youngest child Allie was stricken with killer COVID-19 and the girl’s chilling brush with death turned their world upside down -- it hit them hard and reminded them about the importance of health and family and taking precautions plus how precious life is, Antonio Banderas has been laid low by COVID-19 -- he took to Twitter on his 60th birthday to reveal he tested positive for the deadly disease and is keeping himself quarantined

Page 7: Nearly 4 years after her death Zsa Zsa Gabor is going on a farewell tour of Europe in a fancy dog carrier -- her last husband Prince Frederic von Anhalt plans to take the ashes of the icon to her favorite places in the Louis Vuitton pet case in which she carried her beloved dog Macho before burying her in her native Hungary -- Zsa Zsa’s former publicist Ed Lozzi slams her husband’s scheme saying she would have wanted to be buried beside her only child Francesca and sister Eva Gabor in Hollywood’s Westwood Cemetery

Page 8: Fearing she’s losing ground in her continuing custody battle with Brad Pitt Angelina Jolie is demanding the judge deciding the dispute be booted from the case -- Angie insists that Judge John W. Ouderkirk be ousted claiming he’s a business crony of a lawyer working for Brad but Brad’s fighting to keep the judge on board and he thinks Angie’s desperate and willing to do anything to trip him up because she’s backed up against a wall, Alyssa Milano claims her brush with COVID-19 has left her losing her hair -- she was struck by the dangerous disease back in April and spent time in a hospital and recently in a Twitter video she brushed her wet locks and pulled a large clump of separated strands

Page 9: Simon Cowell is facing a life of agonizing pain and possible paralysis after a horrific bike accident left him with a back broken in three places and a rod inserted in his spine -- he may be left with what’s known as failed back syndrome which is chronic back pain that remains even after successful surgery or even more chilling may lose control of his legs and arms if the rod doesn’t hold and the vertebrae collapse

Page 10: Demons do exist swears exorcist Bishop Plato Angelakis who for the first time reveals his terrifying battle with an evil fiend that possessed a granny-aged woman and gave her the strength to overpower four grown men

Page 12: Celebrity Buzz -- Billy Dee Williams out and about in L.A. (picture), there was a backstage battle between The Office star John Krasinski and producer Greg Daniels in season three of the smash comedy Daniels wigged out when John who played scruffy-haired sales guy Jim Halpert begged for a haircut in an attempt to launch a big-screen career by starring alongside George Clooney and Renee Zellweger in Leatherheads but the boss said no -- determined to nab the juicy role John recruited the show’s hairstylist and paid for a human hair wig and fooled the cast and crew, no funny business involved when it comes to Amy Schumer making sex appointments with husband Chris Fischer because without them you’re just roommates, Paris Jackson broke off her two-year relationship with Gabriel Glenn because she just couldn’t figure out who he was, Melissa Joan Hart is starring in Dear Christmas an upcoming Lifetime romance with her real-life teenage crush Jason Priestley who is playing a handsome firefighter who warms Melissa’s heart for the holidays, no baby talk is the rule for Marie Osmond’s husband Steve Craig who hates it when she calls him cutesie names

Page 13: Scruffy Jude Law in London (picture), Mindy Kaling out and about in a mask (picture), Goody Grace and Kate Beckinsale wear masks while shopping (picture), Heidi Klum is packing on the pounds during the COVID crisis confessing she can’t zip up her old clothes and doesn’t fit in her favorite jeans anymore

Page 14: Tiffany Haddish has lost 20 pounds since hooking up with boyfriend Common, Jennifer Lawrence sold her NYC money-pit apartment for $9.9 million which she bought in 2016 for $15.6 million but at least now she can stop paying the ritzy building’s ridiculously steep $5700 monthly fees and the $100,000 cost for taxes and insurance and upkeep, Fashion Verdict -- Tina Fey 3/10, Sarah Paulson 7/10, Emily Blunt 1/10, Aubrey Plaza 8/10, Olivia Wilde 2/10

Page 16: Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson has topped a list of Hollywood’s highest paid actor hauling in a hefty $87.5 million this year followed by Ryan Reynolds and Mark Wahlberg and Ben Affleck and Vin Diesel at $54 million, Lisa Marie Presley’s future looks grim as her liver problems have roared back and she faces death if the vital organ fails -- she’s been battling liver ailments and an abdominal muscle tear for some time forcing her to seek treatment in the days before the heartbreaking suicide of her son Ben Keough

Page 17: The late Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin’s daughter Bindi Irwin has made it official that she’s pregnant, scores more women have come forward to accuse porn star Ron Jeremy of rape and sexual assault dating as far back as two decades just a few weeks after he pled not guilty to sex offenses against for West Coast women

Page 19: 10 Things You Don’t Know About Alex Winter, for Grey’s Anatomy star Ellen Pompeo the show is all about the Benjamins saying she made a decision to make money and not chase creative acting roles and for her a healthy home life was more important than career, thugs robbed Alanis Morissette at gunpoint and nearly grabbed all her work for her 1995 hit album Jagged Little Pill

Page 20: True Crime

Page 23: Scandal-savaged Ellen DeGeneres wants to put her woes on pause and pamper herself with a morale-boosting plastic surgery blitz -- she’s been rocked by sinking ratings and allegations of a toxic work culture and the strain has made an ugly impact and it shows in the bags under her eyes and the saggy cheeks and jaw and she’s breaking out and her skin looks blotchy from all the stress she’s been under and even with makeup on she looks haggard, grieving mom Melissa Etheridge admits she steeled herself for the possible death of her drug-addled son Beckett

Page 24: Cover Story -- new Princess Diana death probe -- Prince William and Prince Harry have secretly arranged for the body of their late mother to be exhumed for a second time and subjected to another autopsy in a desperate last-ditch bid to learn the truth about her death in Paris 23 years ago -- the brothers suspect Diana’s death may have been ordered by the same people who forced Harry’s wife Meghan Markle to flee Britain -- William is worried his wife Duchess Kate Middleton may be in danger too

Page 26: Health Report -- miracle drug slams brakes on MS

Page 33: Debra Messing dropped from a size eight to a twiggy two while filming Will & Grace and says the extreme slim-down harmed her health

Page 38: Real Life -- Victoria Price of WFLA in Tampa gushed with appreciation after an eagle-eyed viewer pointed out a bump on her neck that turned out to be a deadly thyroid cancer

Page 44: Straight Talk -- Earth to Luann de Lesseps: quit being a boozy floozy

Page 45: Tiger Woods is set to marry Erica Herman if she signs an ironclad prenup to protect his $800 million fortune -- Tiger has agreed to wed Erica but he’s still gun-shy after shelling out a record $750 million to divorce first wife Elin Nordegren after he was caught in a sex addiction scandal

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rockofeye · 5 years

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Is there any rhyme or reason to how spiritual work is priced within Haitian Vodou? I see a lot of really high pricing for things like readings and then really low pricing for other things and I am trying to figure out what's worth my money and what's not.

Hi there,

Yes, there is some traditional pricing for things and some logical thought processes that go into that.

In traditional Haitian Vodou, divination is largely done with a prepared deck of playing cards and it referred to as a leson/lesson or fe kat yo/making or doing the cards. It is straightforward and uncomplicated; the priest prays, lights a candle (usually a small white taper), pours out some water and kleren or white rum, and lays out the cards on a laye/flat woven basket, the ground, or maybe on a table. Most priests I have sat with for a card reading start with a basic look at who you are and what’s going on, and then address specific questions or situations you want the guidance of the lwa on. It is not read as Tarot is read, in that the cards tell a story, but it is directly reaching to the lwa. The priest is the conduit/translator, and the cards are the tool.

Traditional readings cost in the ballpark of $57 in whatever currency you are working with. I charge $60 to keep it round and easy on electronic payment methods, some folks charge $55…but most keep it in that range. There’s nothing extra for the seeker to provide–no moushwa, no candle–and it’s not something that needs a lot of prep work. Like, if you call me on the phone and I am free, I will tell you to send the money over and we’ll get to it. Not a whole lot of mystery to be found.

I personally do not understand high prices for readings from folks who claim traditional or “real” Haitian Vodou. Like, when you are getting into prices of that are closing in on $150-$200+ for a reading, might as well save a few bucks and talk to a traditional priest about calling a spirit into their head to have a face-to-face chat, because that’s what you’re in the ballpark of price-wise. If you can afford that, why not do it? People are often willing to pay higher prices for what really should be basic services because the packaging is lovely or the personality is charismatic. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s important to go into things with eyes wide open; do you want a reading, or do you want a reading from This Person With A Name? No real wrong answer here because it’s about what you want and what you are looking for, but it’s generally a good practice to be honest about what you want because it will reflect what you get.

Spiritual work certainly is work and should be paid for, but let’s be real…ain’t no one in Haiti charging huge amounts for a reading. For folks there, coming up for a fee for a reading can be hard enough never mind a high fee that is more money that most people make in a month. In Haiti, spiritual work and consulting with the lwa is not a luxury item; instead, it is a means for survival. You have a problem, you consult the lwa and figure out what to do.

Outside of Haiti, I firmly believe that readings should be exactly what they are: the doorway in which to seek the lwa. As a priest, it is literally the ground floor of what I can provide for someone who needs or wants to speak with the lwa, in that I cannot do anything cheaper for someone. If you have nothing else you can do, at least you can consult the lwa, ask them for their input, hear what they have to say for you, and talk it through to see what we can do together–like, I can tell you things you can do for yourself and give you recipes and outlines of how to do it. That should be as accessible as possible for folks.

And, if I ask for a high fee for a reading upfront, what does that mean for the person who has scraped that together because they need answers and gets answers in the form of ‘you need to do bigger work that will cost money’? I would much rather they save their money and put it towards what they need, whether it turns out to be spiritual work or bus fare.

After that, it sort of comes down to common sense stuff. I wouldn’t expect to see spiritual work that costs less than a reading because it doesn’t make sense with time, ingredients, and the expertise of the priest.

An example: I make a lot of spiritual baths for clients. What does that mean? It means I pull out a big ol’ basin and start mixing ingredients that I have sourced, paid for in the client’s name, and prepared in the way I have been taught. Ingredients can be leaves/plants/roots, oils, powders, colognes/perfumes, food items, items specific to the spirits overseeing the construction of the bath, and on. Most baths have 10 or more ingredients. Many baths are prepared on the pwen/point of a spirit which requires songs and prayers specifically for them and potentially some offerings. Many baths have to be made on the correct day for the purpose or the spirit(s) associated, and, most importantly, they are made specifically for the person who has purchased the bath. Like, some baths can be made in a large batch and portioned out (and that’s a way to make things more affordable for popular baths that aren��t tailored for one person’s conditions), but most are made based on divination or dreams and instructions from the lwa.

So…a bath for $50 isn’t really possible. Like, many times, that’s not even going to cover the ingredients that go into it never mind the priest paying the spirits for their work, the time it takes to make the bath, or even paying themselves.

And then there’s the administration of the bath; if you want a priest to administer it to you (a really awesome thing if you can swing it), if you aren’t going to them you’re going to need to cover their travel to you. If the bath is being shipped, it’s the cost of packaging and shipping added in. I ship all baths ‘wet’/fully prepared (it’s important to me that someone gets the full benefit of a bath made by my hands), so it’s careful packaging to make sure it gets to someone whole, and it’s gonna be a heavy package.

So, a lot of it is both knowing what you are purchasing and what that object or service entails. Since many/most spiritual baths sold online are dry, bulk-produced baths, folks sit back a little when they hear the price for a traditionally prepared bath…and that’s totally understandable since folks haven’t seen it before. When a paket kongo is presented online as a folded up paper packet tied with twine and a cowrie shell, it’s understandable that someone might get ruffled with the price of an actual paket kongo, which essentially has a spirit mounted inside of it for the purchaser.

The bigger the work, the more the price will increase. If someone wants a spiritual treatment (alongside their medical treatment) for a severe illness, the price will reflect the severity because bigger interventions will be needed. If it is initiation, the price will reflect the 14 days or so of ceremony done for you, and all that goes with it. Most priests are able to give you a thumbnail sketch of what is needed (drummers, animals, food, people to help, etc) and, perhaps most importantly, the price is not going to change drastically at the last minute. For big stuff, most priests are not making money and often work out of pocket to make sure things are done completely. I’ve watched priests eat unexpected costs or last minute price increases (happens ALL THE TIME in Haiti…when the person who is selling the chickens knows you are buying them for ceremony, they are suddenly very expensive chickens) because it’s simply not fair to ask someone who has scrimped and saved to meet the price necessary to fork over more last minute.

Many priests will tell you the spirits set the prices, and that’s very true most of the time. If a spirit(s) has stepped forward to oversee the work, they will often tell the priest how to price it because the money is theirs…the priest is the tool, the spirits are the mechanic and the battery all wrapped up into one. Sometimes priests will negotiate with the spirits on behalf of the client, sometimes the price is just the price and the spirits can work with the person to make it happen. There are definitely traditional ‘payment plans’ of sorts (Haitians love a good sòl) and all sorts of stuff.

There’s also a lot a priest can help you with without having you buy a lot of product or services. Like, if someone is starting out with the lwa and needs to set-up a table, I can tell you how to set a table for your personal lwa. If you are in a situation where you need to do something but can’t afford work, I can do my best to give you options that you can make with your own two hands and your prayers. Not everything requires money, and most priests go out of their way to help folks who are sincerely trying to do their best.

I hope this answers your question, please let me know if I can explain anything more thoroughly.

#vodou #haitian vodou #spiritual work #travay #divination #travay lwa #leson #card reading

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stormtrprinstilettos · 5 years

Text

Chameleon - Ch. 2

Summary: Reader (that's you!) moves to London, hoping to leave her past behind and find happiness. She makes friends with her new neighbors. (Guess who?)

A/N: This is a work in progress in every single way. I’ve got two paths to take and I’m still not sure where it’s going. We’re exploring this journey together! Brian X Reader? Roger X Reader? I don’t know! I wasn’t going to post this yet, but since I have it up on AO3 already, why not? And thank you to the kind souls who have read and liked (and shared). I love that people actually like this. Also, I’m posting this from my phone and the formatting annoys me. I apologize if it’s annoying to you, too.

18+/language... Chapter 1 here || AO3 link here

The knocking on the door startles you from your sleep. You grunt as you roll over to check the clock. “2:00? Holy shit!”

Last night was a mess. A fun mess, but a mess. Freddie had come over and the two of you spent hours drinking whatever alcohol you could find, dancing along to music on the radio and making your own dialogue to go along with the terrible old movies the two of you found on television. It probably wasn't the way a typical 25 and 23-year-old would spend their evening, but you had a great time doing it. You had slowly come out of the shell you built up around yourself, and Freddie couldn't have been more pleased.

A month had passed since you moved in. You had seen Freddie almost constantly since that first day. You were extremely grateful for his friendship. He helped you unpack, rearrange some things, get rid of a lot of unnecessary things, do some shopping, and he was always there good for a talk. You had seen Brian a few times, mostly in passing, since he always seemed so busy and rushing to do something else, but the times the two of you did spend together were enjoyable. He was so soft-spoken and kind, and you couldn't help but be smitten. Freddie said his elusiveness was because he was shy. You had no reason to think otherwise.

Roger, on the other hand, seemed to be doing his best to avoid you for a week or so, probably ashamed of his “spoiled little rich girl” comment. He'd wave, give you a "hey Y/N" when you'd see each other, chat a little when the others were around, but that was about all. It frustrated you, but he eventually stopped being scared of you and the two of you got along great. You knew he was trouble, and you didn’t want to bring trouble upon yourself anymore. You knew he would be good to have for fun, but were you even looking for “fun”? Or did you want more?

“I'm coming! Hang on!" you yell out as you throw on a robe to cover up your pajamas and tie your hair up into a ponytail. You opened the door and are surprised, pleasantly, to see your visitor.

“Hey, thought you might be hungry. Did I wake you up?" Roger is standing there in the doorway holding a pizza and some drinks. "I am so sorry! I'll come back!" He starts to turn to leave.

“No! No stay. Come in." You move aside so he can pass. "I guess just right there on the coffee table. I only have one chair at the dining table that isn't broken..."

You stand there almost frozen, surprised that he popped in out of the blue, not to mention alone. "Well, come on, then. I'm not going to stand over there and feed it to you." As you sit down to join him on the sofa, he quips, "I don't bite. Not too hard, unless you're into that kind of thing," jokingly, with an over-exaggerated wink.

You jovially slap him on the shoulder. "That's the kind of thing I don't usually let out until after a few drinks.”

He starts the chatter, and keeps it going, which is a good thing because you have no idea what to do with this one. Even though Roger upset you with his comment, you didn't care about that anymore. You knew he wasn't a bad guy. You knew he was trouble, yes. You knew he was one of those guys that couldn't be contained. You could tell instantly. You had experience with people like him. Hell, you were a female version him in your prior life.

He was endearing, and cute, and had the most mesmerizing eyes. As time went on, you didn't even know what he was saying anymore. You lost track of the conversation because you were distracted by you own thoughts, mainly wondering if he was good in bed. No, no , you told yourself. You’re not that person anymore. Don’t mess things up here because you’ll have to find somewhere else to go. You snapped back to reality.

“So, tell me, Y/N," Roger started. "Why are you really here? Not that I don't like that you're here," he grinned, "but there's a part of your story I don't know. You're a mystery." You shift your gaze to the ceiling to get out of the lock his eyes have on yours and take a deep breath. Roger, sensing you are a bit uncomfortable, places a hand gently on your thigh in an attempt reassure you that it’s safe to talk to him. "Are you running away from something?" You look back down from the ceiling, and strongly exhale, looking back at him. "You don't have to answer me. I tend to prod too much and..."

“Life, Roger. That's what I'm running away from." He gives you comforting look, assuring you that you don’t have to keep going. Freddie was the only one you had opened up to, and you felt no reason to keep where you came from hidden anymore. "I know it's stupid to run away from problems, but sometimes the problems become too much, you know?" He shakes his head, understanding everything you are saying. "Not everyone has the luxury to be able to run away, but I do, so I did. Spoiled little rich girl, you know." Roger opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him. "You weren't wrong. When you made that comment? You weren't wrong. I think that's why it upset me like it did." You sigh deeply, resting your elbows on your knees and holding your chin in your hands. "I've never wanted for any material thing. I had all of it. Anything I wanted. And experiences kids wish they had? I had them. I've been all over the world. I've seen things and been places people wish their entire lives to see." You turn and face Roger. "But do you know the one thing I never had?"

“Love," Roger quietly replies, in almost a whisper.

“That's right. At least not from the people I needed it from, except for my mom. But she…” You stop short of finishing because you didn’t want to become a blubbering mess.

Roger doesn’t know what to say or do. He can’t believe you just poured your heart out to him like that. No one had ever done that before, probably because he never gave anyone the chance to do so, especially not a beautiful girl like you. And for some unknown reason to him, he, like Freddie, felt the need to protect you. He normally would take complete advantage of a girl who was as vulnerable as you were at this moment, but right now, he didn’t want to. "You're not alone, Y/N. You've got us. We're here."

You chuckle. "You met me a month ago. This is the first time we really talk. You hardly know me."

“Oh, come on, it took me 10 minutes to know that you're a great girl." You giggle while rolling your eyes while Roger gently smiles at you, not realizing that he still has his hand resting on your thigh, and the two of you share a look that seems to make time stand still. Thoughts were rolling around in both of your heads: you can’t get the naughty thoughts out of your head; he can’t stop wondering why he hasn’t made a move yet.

Then, just like Roger interrupted your sleep, the two of you are interrupted by a knock on the door and some shouting.

“Let me in, Princess! You're not going to hide away in there forever!" You could pick Freddie's voice out in a crowd, for sure. You walk over to the door and open it, not realizing that you’re still in your pajamas and your hair is completely disheveled. "You look like shit," he greets you. Normally you would be offended, but, well, it’s Freddie.

“You mean you don't love this look? I call it 'trash bin chic.'" You twirl around and pose like an over-exaggerated model. Freddie laughs, pushes you aside and walks in, and when he notices Roger sitting on the sofa, giving him a side eye look. You can tell Freddie isn’t exactly happy with your visitor and you stammer as you walk out of the room. "I... uh... make yourself comfortable. I'm going get some actual clothes on and freshen up."

After you scurried out, Freddie slowly walked to one of the chairs in the living room, not taking his suspicious eyes off Roger. He wasn’t angry. He knew he had no right to be angry. He just knows Roger's track record and doesn’t want you to become some toy that gets thrown in the basket when Roger gets tired of you.

“Why are you here, Rog?" Freddie raises an eyebrow.

Roger raises an eyebrow in response. "Why are you here, Fred?"

“I came here to ask her to come with us tonight, Rog."

"I came here to... umm..."

"No, Roger. No!" Freddie stated firmly, and a bit loudly, as if he had any kind of authority over this situation.

“He brought me pizza, Freddie," you yell from your bedroom after hearing their bickering, startling them both. "Now, what's tonight? I slept all day so now I'm awake. And I don't feel like dealing with the mess in here, so I'm counting on you guys to entertain me."

Roger grunted and quietly talked to Freddie. "This girl is going to be the end of me, Fred. That accent turns me into a puddle of gelatin." Freddie glares over, visually commanding Roger to stop. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. She's sweet, and gorgeous and that voice..." He bites on his knuckles in some silly attempt to control himself.

"What are you two whispering about like little girls?" you ask as you walk back in, hair down and flowing, wearing shorts that accentuate your legs and a tight yellow shirt that not only accents your tanned complexion, but shows how well-endowed you are. "What's tonight?" You plop down on the sofa next to Roger and cross your legs. Both guys are completely speechless. "Are we going somewhere?" Your question, again, is met by silence. "I need to get out and do something fun."

“Where did those legs come from?" Freddie breaks the silence and points at your chest. "And you shouldn't hide those!"

You squirm and try to direct the discussion back to where you want it. "Tonight. What's tonight?"

"Sex..." Roger blurts out, much to the shock and horror of Freddie. You, on the other hand, are amused, seeing Roger flustered like he is. He quickly recovers. "Six! The 606! Jazz! Music!" He covers his face with his hands.

Freddie continues what Roger doesn’t seem to be able to say. "We wanted to mix it up a bit tonight and we're going to The 606."

“Oh! The jazz club. Yes. I’ve heard of it." You look at the two of them curiously. "You don't seem like the jazz type."

"What can we say. We're cultured," Roger jokes as he shrugs his shoulders.

"I'm impressed," you say with a smirking head nod. "Next thing I know we'll be sitting here sipping on Moët and discussing fine art and literature."

Freddie playfully slaps your leg as he stands up from his seat. "Well, I do love a good Moët, but you'll have to find someone else to discuss books. This one," he points at Roger, "won't do either. Brian can help you with that."

Your ears perk up when you hear his name. You start fiddling with your rings like you tend to do when you’re nervous and you feel the corners of your mouth start to turn up. "Will he be coming tonight?"

Freddie shrugs. "He said he will, but he says that a lot and always finds a reason to stay home." A mischievous grin grows across his face. "But if you're coming, I am positive he will be joining us." As he walks to the door to leave he yells out, "Be ready for 6, love! We're going eat first!" and closes the door behind him.

Roger takes a deep breath. "You really like him, don't you?"

"Yeah, he's great. He's been such a big help and a really good friend..."

He stops you. "No, I don't mean Freddie. I mean Brian. He's got your interest."

"Well… Kind of. I mean, he's just an enigma at this point. We haven't talked too much. He's just..."

"Mysterious?"

"Yeah. I feel like I need to know more. I don't know."

Roger gives you defeated smile. "I completely understand. Brian's a good guy. I can see why you're interested."

"I'm curious, that's all." You shrug. "I mean, Freddie never hid himself from the second I met him. Neither did you. But..."

"Yeah, yeah I get it. I get it.” He put his arm on the back of the sofa, behind where you are sitting. “I think that's why I’m curious about you. Because you didn't lay it all out there right away."

"Like most of the girls you meet, you mean." The tone of your reply let him know that you knew exactly what he was trying to do, with his little defeated act and his moving closer to you.

Roger’s facial expression changes quickly from defeated to confident. "You know, I could walk out that door, talk to the first girl I see, and by the end of the night she'll be in my bed, if that's what I want. But I couldn't do that with you... You're..."

"A challenge?" You raise your eyebrow, letting him know that you want to know more. You’re very aware of the bullshit he’s trying to pull on you right now. You know because you used to do the same thing when you wanted to get in a guy’s pants.

"No, no it's not like that. Not a challenge. You're... you're not someone I want to do that to. I never call those girls like I tell them I will. I get what I want and then I move on. I could never do that to you."

"And how do I know you're not just telling me this now to...”

"To make you putty in my hands? Because, I am sitting on this sofa next to you and I haven't made a move yet." He inches closer to you and leans in to whisper, his tone changing from sweet and innocent to firm and matter-of-factly.. "I am so close to you right now I can hear your breathing. I can smell your shampoo." You slowly turn to face him. "You're sitting here, looking like you do, showing off those legs and those tits and I'm not even trying to get you in your bedroom." He gives a pause, searching your face to see if he’s crossing a line. When he sees that you’re biting your bottom lip and giving him a look that screams lust, he continues and plays with a small strand of your hair. "If all I wanted was sex, well, not to brag, but you would be on my lap right now, Y/N."

You can’t deny oozes sexiness, and the way he said your name sends your stomach into a fluttering mess. You knew this is all part of his game. At this point you really don't care. You’ve gone so long without sex you can’t deny that sitting so close to him and having him want you wasn't turning you on. You feel the tension. It's quite possible you’re the one creating it. But it kind of pissed you off having him think that all he has to do was snap and you'd have sex with him. The old you would do it just to satisfy him, to make him like you more. But you killed that girl the day you arrived in London. You’re also not used to conceding control – and you were determined to make him understand that if anyone in this situation was going to be the user, it was going to be you.

He moves his face closer to yours and smirks, quite pleased with the cat and mouse game he created, and you smirk back as you continue to bite your bottom lip, because you’re about to turn the tables and assert your control.

"You think I don't know how this works?" you snarl as you push him away, leaning him back onto the sofa, and turning your body so he knows that you’re one doing the talking from now on. His mouth drops open, shocked that this whole situation is even happening. "Why do you think you're the one who gets to make the call here, hmm?" You touch his lips with a finger. "You're not the one who gets to decide what I want." You slowly run your finger down as your eyes follow the trail, first to his chin, then his neck, before you stop at his chest. "I make my own decisions, Mr. Taylor." Your finger continues its slow journey further down and stops at his stomach. "And if I decide that I want you to have me..." you trace the path down between his thighs. "... then you'll have me." You cup the bulge that’s protruding from his jeans. "If I want this..." you raised your eyes to meet his "... then I'll have it."

He never allowed himself to submit before, but he lost all control of himself at that moment. He can't move. He can barely even speak. All he can do is look at you, running his eyes up and down your body. "Y/N... You..."

"Shhh," you whisper as you move your finger back up to his lips. "You don't get to decide, Roger. Remember that." You move your finger away, resting your hand on his chest while leaning in close, your lips almost touching his. "Understand?"

He slowly nods his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I, uh... I understand."

"Good boy." You wink as you pat his chest and smirk seductively before standing up in front of him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get ready." You turn to walk and start walking towards your bedroom. "And stop looking at my ass," you command. You walk into your bedroom and close the door.

Roger sat there for a moment, completely baffled as he ran a hand through his hair. He realized that you are not one he can toy with, and he respects the hell out of you for that, but if you weren’t a challenge to him before, you definitely are one now. He laughed to himself as he walked back to his flat, accepting the fact that he may have finally met his match.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom and held every dress you owned in front of you, none of them good enough for you to wear tonight. The black one was too boring. The red one was fun but you wanted to keep that one for a special occasion. The white one was plain. You kept going through every color, every style, and nothing was working.

"We leave in 30 minutes! Why are you not dressed?" you hear Freddie yell after he let himself in with the spare key you kept at their place.

"Probably because you're bothering me!"

Freddie rolled his eyes and peeked into your bedroom. "What are your options?" You motion for him to come in and you start to narrow your decision down to three dresses. Freddie opens the closet door behind him and grabbed a fur jacket, that was your grandmother’s. He puts it on, dramatically turns to you and says, "Oh, Y/N, you must wear this."

You laugh as he starts posing, blowing kisses and flipping his hair. You grab your large, white sunglasses from the dresser, run over and put them on his face. Imitating a posh, English accent, you throw your head back and exclaim, with one hand daintily perched on his shoulder, "you look absolutely fabulous, darling!" Keeping the act going, you both peck each other on each cheek.

"I do, don't I?" Freddie asks as he looks at himself in the mirror. "But enough about me, love. Wear the yellow dress with the flowing sleeves. That color works on you." You pick up the dress and wait for Freddie to leave the room. Instead, he opens the jewelry box sitting on the dresser and starts looking through what’s inside. "Stop piddling around! Get dressed! Don't worry, I'm not going to watch you. I'm too busy snooping through your things."

You weren't uncomfortable or confused. You knew there was something about Freddie - and you thought you knew what it was - but you didn't want to make any assumptions. You never put too much thought into it because you really didn’t care. He was who he was, and you absolutely adored him. You took off your robe and slipped on the dress, struggling to zip up the back. Freddie started laughing, entertained by your awkward maneuvering and you started to laugh in return. "Well, stop laughing and help me! We leave in 15 minutes!"

"Ah, what would you do without me?" After he finishes zipping you up, he hooks a gold choker on your neck and spins you around while smiling adoringly. "You'd be a terrible mess. But look at you. A complete vision."

You smiled and turned to face Freddie, appreciative of everything he's done for you in the past month. You’d have probably broken down and gone back home if he hadn't helped you out. "Why are you being so good to me, Freddie?" you ask. He cocks his head to the side, wondering why you’d even ask such a thing.

"Oh, sweetie, stop that shit." He guides you to sit on the bed. "I know what it's like to feel alone. I know what it feels like to need a friend." He pulls you to him and you rest your head on his shoulder. "Now you're stuck with me. I'm not easy to get rid of. Just ask the boys. They can't get rid of me either." You chuckle, your head still on his shoulder. He squeezes you with the arm that’s wrapped around you. After a few seconds of silence, he speaks again. "You deserve to be happy, you know."

You pick up your head, rest your chin on his shoulder, look at him and grin. "Just so you know, Roger wasn't here earlier to try anything.. If he was trying to get me in bed, seduction by pizza is not the way to do it." Freddie pursed his lips, trying hard to keep quiet. "It’s not the first time Roger and I have been alone, you know." Freddie's expression doesn't change. "I'm not falling for those blue eyes." Still, his expression is motionless. "Freddie!" You pull away from his grasp and smack his arm. "I established my rules with him. Don't worry about me. If I wanted him to have me we'd have done it right there on the sofa, or on your sofa, or his bed or my bed or on the bus…" Still, his expression is unchanged. "Freddie..."

He finally relaxes. "I know. You're a big girl. You make your own decisions. I know." You can tell he’s worried about Roger taking advantage of you. Not that he doesn’t trust your judgment, but he knows how Roger can charm the pants off a nun if he really wants to. "I love Roger like a brother, but he's an asshole to women, and I don't want you getting hurt."

You put a gentle hand on Freddie’s cheek, letting him know that you appreciate his feeling about the whole thing. "I know his type. I've experienced his type. I used to be his type. Just trust me. There will be no heartbreak. I mean, I know how to have fun with no strings attached..."

He quickly covers his ears, not wanting to hear another word. "Enough about Don Juan. Let's talk about..."

"No!" you yell. "We don't have time for that. We have to go." You throw a pillow at him and walk out of the room, grabbing your shoes from the floor and slipping them on as you walk into the living room. He slowly follows you out. "Come on. We're going to be late leaving." He casually leans against the wall, beaming like a proud parent. "You came in here and rushed me, now let's go!" you fuss, amused yet frustrated, and grab your purse.

"You're gorgeous, babe," Freddie tells you, admiring you like you’re his own work of art as you stick out your tongue at him. "That makes you even more attractive," he chirps sarcastically. “Come on,” he tells you holding out his arm for you to grab and he escorts you to his front door. "As much as I'd like to have you to myself tonight, we have a couple of people we need to pick up first."

As the two of you walk through the door, you see Roger sitting rather relaxed on the sofa. He clears his throat loudly when he sees you. "You look great, Y/N," he tells you as the two of you share a sneaky smile, remembering the events of a couple of hours ago, neither one of you really knowing what to make of it.

You start to walk towards Roger before Freddie cuts in. "No, no. No sitting." Freddie demands. "There's no time for that." He pulls your arm and walks you down the hallway. "Brian!" he calls out. "Brian, are you ready?"

From behind a door, you hear a muffled response. "Nah, Fred, I'm gonna sit this one out. I've too much work to do on this paper." A disappointed look flashes across your face, not unnoticed by Freddie. He holds up a finger, silently telling you to wait and be quiet.

"Are you sure you don't want to come? Y/N changed her mind and she's getting ready as we speak..." Footsteps suddenly rush to the door and it flings open rather quickly.

"She's going?" Freddie laughs loudly and looks over to where you’re standing, happy that his sneaky plan seems to have worked. Startled, and a bit embarrassed, Brian grabs the back of his neck and blushes. "He... hey, Y/N," he stutters. "You look... uh..."

"Beautiful. Stunning. Perfect. Say anything but 'nice,'" Freddie coaches. "'Nice' is so lame, and she looks way better than just nice."

"Breathtaking." Brian says quietly with a gentle smile. You’re flustered and gaze up into his eyes. "I'll be ready in five minutes." He slips back into his room, not closing the door, leaving you and Freddie standing in the hall.

Freddie keeps motioning his head and mouths the word "go" to tell you to go into the bedroom with Brian, but you keep slapping his arm while shaking your head and mouthing the word "no." "Stop it!" you whispered, much louder than you intended. Brian pokes his head out of the doorway.

"Freddie, are you annoying our guest?" Brian asks, causing you and Freddie to freeze as if you were children who were just scolded. "Hey, Y/N? Can you help me with something?"

"Of course I can.” You turn back to Freddie and give him a toothy grin. He raises up a hand and chuckles while he walks away.

You walked into Brian's room and look around. He’s standing by his closet, with his back to you, sifting through his clothes. You notice a tall bookcase against one of the walls and his neatly organized desk sitting next to it. There’s a telescope in the corner next to the window. The rest of his room is so perfect it came as a surprise that his bed is unmade. He turns around and notices you looking at his bed. He clasps his hand on the back of his neck, as you notice he tends to do whenever he’s embarrassed. "Excuse the mess. I just haven't had time to fix that. I've been busy with course work..."

You can't help but laugh. "Your organizational skills are impressive. Inspirational, even. My room looks like a tornado passed through it and you're worried about the bed?" You turn to face him and see him holding two neckties.

"I'm not sure which one I should wear. I guess I can just keep these pants on. I mean, it's not a formal place, but I was going to wear this..." He tugs at the jacket he just put on.

You walk closer to get a better look at the ties before looking up at him. The white shirt he’s wearing under the black blazer is buttoned all the way up to the top. "You don't need to wear a tie." You reach up to his collar and unbutton the top two buttons and untuck long chained necklace he’s wearing, brushing his chest gently with you hand while you do it. "There," you say as you pat his chest with one hand and even out his shirt with the other. You fixed his collar over the jacket and grin. "Perfect."

"I'm useless when it comes to this stuff," he tells you, again, holding the back of his neck as he feels his cheeks start to redden.

"You're golden," you say with a wink. "Now where are your shoes?" You look around the room, notice a pair sitting in the corner, walk over and bend down to pick them up. "Wear these." You turn around and notice his eyes hurriedly darting up so you, hopefully, won't notice that he noticed the way your dress fit your body like it was a second skin. But you notice and you feel a tingling in your stomach, saying nothing.

He’s sitting on the bed when he catches you looking at his telescope. "It's not an extraordinary one, but... you can actually see the rings on Saturn through it on a clear night. When he's visible in the sky, that is."

"Really?" You’re genuinely fascinated. "I've never seen it before." He smiles and nods. You love being outside on a clear night, gazing at the moon and stars.

"I don't know much about the complexities of space like you do, being how that's what you study, but I can point out constellations like it's no one's business. When I was a kid I’d spend hours outside on the roof learning them."

"So you know more than just Orion?" He gives you a sarcastic grin. "Everyone can point out Orion," he says with an eye roll.

"Oh please," you say, pretending to be offended. "Besides, I find Andromeda to be much more interesting."

"Ah, the beautiful princess." He looks into your eyes.

"Rescued by Perseus..." you whisper. Before you can finish your thought, you’re interrupted by Freddie who is standing in the doorway.

"Are we all ready now? Come on. Let's get to it." He claps his hands, causing you and Brian to follow your marching orders.

"You don't seem to be feeling puce today," Brian tells you while bending down to get closer to your level as you walk to the street.

Shocked that he even remembers that you tell him, "Nah. Right now I'm feeling a quite yellow." Brian ponders a second, trying to figure out if that has more meaning than the fact that it’s the color of your dress, but he doesn’t want to ask. Not yet, anyway.

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