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otonymous · 4 years

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Glutton For Your Flavour (Obey Me: Beelzebub - NSFW)

Description: You’re about to become Beel’s next meal Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised. Spoilers for Lesson 5 of MS (hard). Please note potential trigger warnings: dub-con (as an inadvertent result of somnambulism), cunnilingus in two flavours (soft and rough), squirting and overstimulation, slight size kink, very faint hints of tetraphilia, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it blasphemy, slight fear (monstrous descriptions) Word Count: ~2900 words (~14 mins of smut & shenanigans) Author’s Notes: My very first fic for the Obey Me fandom! I know I’m late to the party, but I’ve recently started playing this game and the story and its characters are so amusing I had to write about it. This piece may not be to everyone’s taste, so please, please, please note the potential trigger warnings listed above and skip if it’s not your cup of tea. That being said, hope you all enjoy the read! 💕😆

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“Bad luck to be sharing a room with Beel, but what can ya do after he destroyed yours while destroying the kitchen, and all for a dumb custard! Be careful — he might mistake you for a snack and eat ya in the middle of the night, hahaha!”

Mmm.

The scene fragments, Mammon’s face wavering as his voice grows faint, consciousness seeping into dark corners like sunlight cutting through fog. And when you open your eyes, you can’t quite place where you are for a moment, straddling the line between dreamscape and reality.

Ahh…

You sigh. There it was again, the sensation so pleasant it had roused you from the deepest slumber.

Further blinking off the haze of sleep, you take in your surroundings: a large bed lying empty across from yours in a room almost cavernous in size and just as dark save for a candle burning low on a desk, the glow of its flame orange like the hair that was currently brushing soft against your inner thighs—

“BEEL?! WHAT THE HELL?!”

“So tasty…not…enough…need more…want to…eat…zzz….”

Eyes still closed, the demon’s face is shiny even in the dark, slick from cheek to chin with what must’ve been a copious amount of his saliva and your arousal, you blush to realize. And when he doesn’t budge even after a swift kick to the face, you are ashamed to find the Lord of Flies’ show of strength sending yet another throb to your already pulsing clit.

He does wake though, Beelzebub’s amethyst eyes opening wide before he falls backwards onto the cold stone floor to realize what he had inadvertently done in his sleep. And as the always-famished sixth born looks from the shredded remnants of your panties to the pool of wetness on the sheets where his chin had rested, he becomes even more tongue-tied than usual.

“I…uh…I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to…I dreamt I smelled something delicious and I was so hungry…and somehow I’m here, on the floor…I don’t even know…I-I’m so sorry!”

His cheeks grow so flushed they remind you of the red spider sandwiches he packed away during dinner, stuffing them two by two into his mouth until Satan smacked his hand away for trying to take more from his plate. The expression on his face is so full of remorse that even if you were angry, you’d be inclined to forgive the demon who was currently grovelling at the foot of your bed, swearing he would hand himself over to Lucifer and Diavolo first thing in the morning to be strung up and hung upside down for a fortnight, even (gulp) forgoing food for a day or two.

“Beelzebub…Beel…BEEL!” You shout, interrupting his self-inflicted tirade. “It’s okay, you didn’t mean it. You were sleepwalking. You don’t have to go to Lucifer and Diavolo about this.”

“No, I have to. My behaviour was inexcusable—”

“BEEL! Let’s…just…try to go back to sleep, okay? We have our midterm in Devildom law tomorrow morning and I really don’t feel like failing just because I didn’t get enough shut eye. So please, can we just pretend like this didn’t happen?”

Those orange brows are still furrowed when Beel finally lifts his head and nods. But then his gaze is falling again on the wet sheets and the shiver than runs through that larger-than-life body seems to send another wave of anxiety through the demon. He makes a mad dash for the door, murmuring something about getting a snack from the kitchen and “you can have the room tonight” before it slams shut behind him.

He doesn’t return for the rest of the night.

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The exam was so disastrous even Mammon didn’t bother sneaking another peek at your paper after the first two questions. And even if you had somehow managed to get back to sleep after last night’s ordeal, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that you were still distracted by the memory of Beel’s mouth on your pussy:

His long tongue, serpentine as it delved deep between swollen folds to taste you with gusto.

The way he rolled your clit between those plush, soft lips before sucking it into his hot mouth, over and over again.

The throbbing between your legs that refused to cease long after the Avatar of Gluttony had left the room you were temporarily sharing, sleep only forthcoming once you had succumbed and reached beneath the sheets to finish the job he had started, your moans licentious even to your ears as you pretended your fingers were his.

It was a pale imitation, of course. That much you could see for yourself, stealing a glance at Beel seated two rows down — quill twirling between long, dexterous digits when he wasn’t putting ink to parchment.

But those gigantic hands were just a small part of what made Beel demonically attractive, as if the word “small” could be applied to him at all: tall and built, there were times when even you envied the ease with which he maintained that perfect physique despite his penchant for shovelling enough food to feed all three realms into his mouth on the regular.

The same mouth which brought you so much pleasure the night before.

Ahem.

Clearing your throat, you pretend not to see the smirk that spreads across Asmo’s delicate face, hoping the lusty demon sitting just to your left wouldn’t pick up on the very secret thoughts you were having about his brother.

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[Private Chatroom]: Satan, Levi, Mammon, Asmo

Satan: This is going to sound crazy, but doesn’t it seem like Beel’s…hungrier than usual? Is that even possible?

Levi: OMFG! You should’ve seen the state of the kitchen this morning after Beel decided to camp out there overnight! It was a total war zone, like that epic battle scene in Vol. 5 of TSL lololol. Soooo good XDDDDD

Mammon: Hey! He’s gonna eat us outta house and home at this rate! Shouldn’t we stop him?

Satan: You do it, Mammon. Aren’t you always saying that there’s nothing The Great Mammon can’t do?

Mammon: …..

Asmo: Please, as if anyone — angel or demon — could come between Beel and a meal.

Satan: Why was he camping out there in the first place? Was there something wrong with his room? I don’t remember him complaining about anything since he got shacked up with the exchange student.

Levi: Not like he could, seeing as it was his fault to begin with and a direct order from Lucifer.

Asmo: Maybe we should ask her. I’m sure she knows something about what’s inciting his hunger judging by the way she kept staring at him in class today fufufu 😏 She almost failed her midterm because of it, isn’t that right, Mammon?

Mammon: ‼️‼️

[Mammon has left the chat]

Levi: He is sooooo transparent LMFAOOOO

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Gasp!

Pressing a hand to your mouth, you try to contain your shock at the sight that greets you when you peek around the corner into the kitchen:

Curved, ebony horns sitting majestically atop a head of disheveled orange hair. Thick, corded muscles that ripple across a broad back — readily apparently because the creature bent over a mountain of food on the ground was wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms, loose and slung so low over narrow hips that the sharp V defining his groin is visible even from the distance at which you stood.

Because this wasn’t quite what you were expecting to find when you made your way to the kitchen in the middle of the night to search for Beel, thinking to approach him about the peculiarity of his recent behaviour: the way he now ate constantly and was less satiated than before, the fact that he seemed to be going out of his way to avoid you even though you shared a room.

In fact, he hadn’t said so much as another word to you after he gave you two dozen of his prized custards the morning after the incident, apologizing again until you had to be the one to make him swear he wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Lucifer. The demon even made a beeline for the door as soon as he saw you emerge from the bathroom tonight, fresh from a shower.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he was headed.

Even still, you tried to focus on your textbook, reading the same line over and over again as you waited for Beel to return so you could have a proper conversation with the demon you made a pact with. And when you could wait no longer, you made your way towards his favourite room in the House of Lamentation — silently, so as not to draw the attention of the eldest sibling.

But the growls coming from the direction of the open fridge this time sounded like Cerberus himself, enough so that you find yourself rooted to the ground, unable to take another step forwards or back.

You had never seen Beel like this before, tearing into whatever he could get his hands on with a savagery that made your heart stop. Teeth, lips and tongue devoured without second thought in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and…

Throb.

…arousing.

Suddenly, he stills, throwing his head back to sniff the air once…twice…and in a flash, he is upon you, towering over your head as he rises to full height — bigger and taller and much more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him before.

You should have been scared. Any person in their right mind would have if they found themselves cornered by a demon of Beelzebub’s calibre. But the hands that balled into trembling fists at his sides made you feel oddly secure, your deepest instincts telling you that not all was as it seemed.

“You need to leave. Now…please.”

“What’s going on with you, Beel? I just want to help—” You reach for his arm. He jumps back as if burned.

“I SAID YOU NEED TO LEAVE! I-I…can’t hold back…for…much longer!”

Handsome face screwed up as if in pain, Beel turns to put as much distance as possible between the two of you, squatting on his haunches with his head in his hands when he murmurs:

“I…I don’t know what’s going on with me. This has never happened before. I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been. I eat and eat and eat and it still isn't enough. The last time I felt satisfied was when…when…”

His voice dies down to a whisper.

“…when I tasted you.”

Throb.

Putting out a hand, you steady yourself against the wall, knees suddenly weak at Beelzebub’s admission. Or perhaps it was due to relief, the tension that had been steadily building in your strained relationship with the demon released to know that you weren’t the only one who desired to revisit that night’s events.

So you gather your courage, stepping softly towards the demon who crouched on the ground next to the lit fireplace, the heat radiating from the hearth warming the flesh you had deliberately left bare when you lift the hem of your night gown to expose yourself to Beel.

“What are you doing?! I told you, I can barely hold back—”

“Then don’t. I don’t mind, Beel. I…I like it too.”

Amethyst eyes darken as they look up into yours, orange flames reflecting off pupils blown wide. And when he speaks next, the deepness of his voice echoes in your body, as if its source were to be found within your own soul.

“Ask and ye shall receive. I won’t touch you until you do.”

Nipples hardening beneath your gown, the rush of heat that floods your core makes you shudder when you say,

“Please, Beelzebub…I want you to eat my pussy.”

Back hitting solid wood, you barely have time to gasp before you are pulled to the edge of a long table in the centre of the kitchen, a long tongue running up the insides of each thigh in turn before they’re propped up onto broad shoulders, Beel’s breath blowing hot on the space in between.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can hold back. I’m just…so famished, so desperate to taste you again—”

His words cut off in a low growl as he presses his lips to your folds, saliva dripping from his mouth mixing with the juices that already painted a glistening sheen on pink flesh. You fight to bite back a moan at the vehemence of his hunger, the sheer greed of his tongue — flicking at your clit until your back arched off the table, heralding the arrival of the cream that leaked only to be swept up by Beel licking from end to end of that swollen seam. And when that still wasn’t enough, you nearly swooned to feel that serpentine tongue penetrate, reaching depths that surely only a demon would be able to achieve as Beel sought out more of your flavour.

He buries his face deeper into your pussy, nose nudging your clit as arousal smeared over the entirely of his visage. The vibrations of his voice further stimulates your locus of pleasure, punctuating the lewd, wet sounds when he says:

“You smell so delicious. All the time. And tonight, when you stepped out of the shower…I couldn’t take it, not with the way your scent flooded my senses. I had to leave or else…this would happen.”

“Oh Beel…you should’ve told me sooner.”

Mind lost in a haze of lust and body boneless from riding out wave after climatic wave, you reach down a trembling hand without thinking, fingers innocently tracing along the smooth ridges of the onyx horns that lay against your abdomen.

Suddenly, his breath hitches at your touch and the Sixth Prince of Hell is throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a moan loud and deep enough to reverberate off stone walls, clattering stacks of dishes in cupboards and making you come once more — legs convulsing upon his shoulders as you feel a preponderance of fluid gush forth from your body right into Beel’s waiting mouth.

The pleasure was such that you’ve never known before, so good that surely, it must be bad in some way, shape or form. But you hadn’t the energy to ponder further.

No, the only thing you’re aware of when your vision goes black is that Beel’s mouth is still on you, feasting upon a pussy that continued to respond to the teasing movements of his lips and tongue even as you ceased to think.

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Cheddar. Pickles. Ketchup and mustard.

The smell is what rouses you, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw when you awoke in your own bed: mountains of cheeseburgers arranged on platters filling up every available surface in the room you shared with Beel.

“You can sleep for longer if you want. I told Lucifer you’d be skipping class today because you’re not feeling well. Are you…feeling well?”

Beelzebub lifts his head from where it’d been resting at the side of your bed, the rest of his body laid out on the floor as if he were guarding you like an oversized dog. Those puppy dog eyes, full of concern, didn’t help his case either.

“I’m fine, Beel. Better than fine, actually. I feel fantastic!” You smile, moving to sit up in bed. The demon springs from the ground, putting an arm around your shoulders to help prop you up, and your heart can’t help but warm at how protective he was being.

He breathes, relief flooding those handsome features. “I’m glad. I was afraid I lost control last night and had to carry you back. You were just…so tasty and…satisfying…”

Those amethyst eyes glint as they travel to the apex of your thighs, and all of a sudden, he is grabbing at those human world cheeseburgers, shoving them into his mouth two at a time.

“Have some,” he says between bites. “They’re my favourite and I thought you might like them too. Besides, you need to eat if you’re gonna keep up your energy.”

You reach towards the nearest platter, taking one for yourself. “Energy for what?”

Beel looks at you, expression completely serious when he says, “For the next round tonight.”

Throb.

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Thank you so much for reading! Check out more of my work here! 📚

#obey me #shall we date obey me #OM #swd obey me #obey me beelzebub #obey me beel #OM beel #obey me smut #OM smut #obey me beel smut #obey me fanfic #fanfiction #my writing

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

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Whether It Works Out Or Not Part One

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Eventual Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: You guys wanna' join me in yeehell? I don't know what's happened to me. I'm from New England. I shouldn't find this cowboy chicanery appealing, and yet here I am with eighty something hours in the game. So! I've only just gotten to Chapter Three and I have avoided spoilers thus far. Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the first three chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch @cookiethewriter @pedrosbigdorkenergy @thirstworldproblemss @anonymouscosmos @culturalrebel @karmezii @teaofpeach @crookedmoonsaultpunk @zombiexbody @nelba @gabrielle1776 @toxiicpop @mstgsmy

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore/graphic depictions of violence, historical inaccuracies and general peril. Stay safe!]

Irene Craft had lived as a man for six months when she first met him.

Six glorious, difficult, yet somehow simultaneously carefree months.

The fateful night she had decided to leave her husband and make her own way in the world had been a long time coming. Every book, every treatise, every pamphlet she could get her hands on, she had devoured. She had no finances to speak of, everything was in her husband's name, so she knew that her struggle would be long and fraught with peril. But she refused to endure the abuse any longer, especially once he made an idle comment about pregnancy and how it would 'bind her to him forever.'

His bone-chilling chuckle afterwards had stiffened her resolve to steel. She left as the moon waned, her mount's saddlebags full of food and the mended clothes she would need for her new life.

In the city of Saint Denis, she sold her hair. Once her mother's pride and joy; when brushed out it reached the young woman's hips. The curls were unruly and dull russet in shade, but her mother had sworn up and down they bore auburn tones if the sun hit just right. Irene wondered briefly what her mother would say about her doing this, going to be shorn like a sheep, but she quickly put the thought out of her head. Her mother had been dead for nearly five years at that point, and her father in the ground for two. He had lived long enough to see her married off to the man he deemed a suitable match, and then the good Doctor Craft had passed on.

The barber, at the very least, was sober and much more kind than she had anticipated. He didn't begrudge her the few tears she did let fall, and he gave her a fair price for her locks.

With that business settled, Irene acquired supplies with her newfound wealth and headed up into the mountains. If her luck held, no one would come looking for such a delicate, fragile lady in the dangerous climes. She would take her chances, regardless.

…

The first few months were...challenging.

There was a massive difference between having the knowledge from books and having the experience that one could only garner out in the field. Bitter cold and hunger were excellent teachers though, and she had always been a quick study. Her mistakes were not often repeated.

Irene learned how to fletch her own arrows, learned how to snare small game and how to track large prey, how to build her shelters in the lee of bluffs to fend off the howling winds that whipped through the mountains. She made her living by hunting deer and other game to sell for their hides and meat in the nearby town of Valentine. No one would look for a woman if all they saw was a man, so she kept bundled up and pitched her voice into a low rasp when she needed to interact with other folks.

Irene had decided, in a fit of petulance, that she would call herself Frank. Franklin had been her father's name, and no doubt if he had been blessed with a son, the child would have been plagued by it as well. Doctor Craft loathed it when folk called him Frank, always correcting them with a belligerent harumph. Saints preserve them if they dared to call him Frankie.

So Frank Craft she became, the soft-spoken hunter who lived alone in the hills.

It was peaceful, but more importantly she was free.

Until the day she stumbled into a trap.

...

Again, she had been living in the mountains for around six months when this particular disaster struck. It had been a long day spent tracking a bull elk, which she had managed to fell just as night blanketed the landscape. Had it still been daylight out, she doubted she would have found herself in such a precarious position.

As it was, she had debated making camp right there, but ultimately decided to lash the hulking beast to her horse and forge her way back to her previous site.

She had been leading her horse through the fresh powder, not wanting to tax the weary animal, and didn't see the bear trap before her boot landed squarely in the middle of it. A mistake that would have cost her the whole leg, had she not been wearing these particular heavy furred boots. The trap also seemed worn, not crushing her foot outright as she had feared but simply gripping her ankle like a vise.

Though admittedly, it mattered very little. She was stuck. Her horse, a skittish, ghostly pale thing by the name of Bluster, immediately panicked at the sound of the trap snapping shut and fled. Irene swore at the damn animal until her voice threatened to give out, calling him every unkind name in the book while she tried to pry the jaws of the trap open to no avail.

She sat down awkwardly in the snow, bracing her free foot and then straining backwards in an attempt to unseat the tree that the trap's chain was secured to. Unfortunately for her, it held just fine. Then, she tried hobbling over to the tree and seeing if she could shim the chain off with a wedge, but that also proved futile.

Irene growled more obscenities under her breath, flopping onto her back and hammering her fists into the snow at her sides. "Shit." She sighed, the reality of her situation dawning slowly. She was trapped in a device that would no doubt cut off the circulation to her foot. There was a high probability of her losing the foot if that occurred. If, of course, she didn't perish from the cold or lack of food first.

Irene pressed her hands to her eyes, sucking in a lungful of the crisp, pine-scented air while she tried to assure herself that she would manage to escape this mess just like all the others. She wouldn't just give up, absolutely not!

As she sat there wracking her brain and trying to see whether she could muscle the trap apart enough for her to at least wiggle her foot out of her boot, she heard the distinct sound of a horse bumbling through the undergrowth. "Bluster!" She shouted, her voice a strange combination of husky and ragged. "You bastard, runnin' off at the first sign of trouble!"

But the horse that greeted her eyes first was not, in fact, Bluster. It was an appaloosa, still shaggy with its winter coat. On its back was a man in a heavy blue jacket, shearling peeking out at the collar. And in his hands were the reins for the sheepish-looking Bluster, who peered around the appaloosa and whinnied guiltily at her.

"Howdy mister." The man shook Bluster's reins. "I reckon this fine specimen is yours?"

Irene had never been more thankful to see a huge, imposing man in all her life. "Yessir, yes he is. I know we've only just met, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to offer me a helping hand?" She gruffed out, indicating her trapped foot with a grimace.

The man's face was in shadow from his hat, the moonlight overhead throwing everything into stark contrast. She caught a brief flash of teeth when he smiled. "Oh sure." He drawled, dismounting and securing Bluster to a nearby tree. His own horse he simply left the reins to trail, no doubt trusting the creature to behave itself. That done, he sauntered over to her, crouched down and with one low grunt, easily forced the jaws of the trap apart. "There. Simple enough. You weren't in there for very long, were you?" He asked, sounding a bit worried while she vigorously rubbed the circulation back into her leg. With any luck, she would escape with nothing but some bruising.

"My sincerest thanks." Irene said gratefully, "no, it's hardly been an hour." She cocked her head curiously. "May I know the name of my rescuer, sir?"

"Uh, Arthur." He replied, shaking her proffered hand. "You sound like you've got some learnin' under your belt there, Mister…?"

"Frank Craft, Mister Arthur, and I don't know what fate would have befallen me had you not stumbled across the," Irene paused, raising her voice pointedly at Bluster, "titanic coward that is my loyal steed. I'm in your debt, my friend." She waved a hand at Bluster, indicating his heavy burden. "As you can see, I had a relatively successful hunt before this misfortune befell me. Normally I'd head into town with it at daybreak, but seeing as you've saved my life and all, it's only fair that you should have it."

"Whoa now, I ain't helped you to get your hunt." Arthur protested, tipping his head to the side and permitting the moon's illumination to reach beneath the brim of his hat. Irene was momentarily struck dumb by just how blue his eyes were, nearly missing when he continued, "too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return. If I was caught in a trap and I ain't had nothin' to give you for freein' me aside from gratitude, would you leave me?"

"What? No, that's barbaric." Irene almost forgot to adjust her voice, wincing when it cracked awkwardly.

Arthur chuckled, getting to his feet and offering her a hand up. She stumbled, her foot still numb, and the man kept a firm hand on her elbow until she regained her balance. "Now, that noble hogwash bein' said, I do got a lot of mouths to feed. So if the offer still stands, Mister Frank, I'd be mighty grateful."

"Absolutely! As long as you'll put it to use." And really, what was one day's worth of work to her? She could always find another creature to stalk and harvest. Bluster whickered nervously when she approached, the horse's ears flicking back and forth to catch the sound of her voice when she grumbled about his cowardice. "Kneel, Bluster." The horse clumsily obeyed and Irene untied the elk from his back, rolling it off onto the snow.

"Huh, that's a neat trick. I wouldn't have thought of that." Arthur remarked. "Teachin' a horse his dancin' steps and such."

"How else would I have gotten it up onto him?" Irene asked, grinning when Arthur chuckled again. "Of course, seeing as you muscled that trap open like it was nothing, I doubt you've ever had to worry about that sort of problem."

As if to prove her point, Arthur shouldered the elk up from the ground and neatly deposited it onto his own horse. The sturdy beast didn't so much as nicker, obviously used to this treatment. "You're more than welcome back at my camp, Mister Frank." He offered. "I reckon there's enough on this big bastard to warrant you gettin' a bowl of stew in the bargain."

Irene was already shaking her head before he could finish, politely declining his invitation. "I'm afraid I'm not suitable for most company, Mister Arthur. Been out here alone for too long. Maybe once the thaw hits, I'll suss out human companionship again."

Arthur chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then spat off to the side. "Well, I am mighty grateful all the same, Mister Frank. I know the others will appreciate this. Adios until we meet again, then?"

He touched the brim of his hat and Irene returned the gesture with a smile. "Adieu, Mister Arthur."

…

Two months went by before their paths crossed once more.

Irene had located a dense thicket of blackberry bushes down in the lowlands and spent almost two entire days stripping the branches of their fruit. A house was coming together just outside of Valentine, and that meant soon enough there would be a gathering for the last push of assembly. As she daydreamed about the most recent time she had been to a party (a dreary affair for her husband's birthday, full of ah the stately beauty and oh isn't she a catch despite her age), she failed to notice Bluster growing severely agitated about something.

Now granted, the horse's name was Bluster for a reason; he was always in a twist about one thing or another. So Irene paid him very little mind. By the time she noticed the problem, Bluster had snapped his tether line and taken off like a shot.

A bear, it was a bear, oh sweet Lord. Irene froze, a handful of berries halfway to her mouth while the beast scratched at the ground not fifteen feet away from her. It hasn't spotted me, she realized, trying desperately to recall what she had read about black bears. Was she supposed to run? Was she supposed to back away slowly? Wave her arms and yell?

Shit.

The bear grumbled, glancing around and sampling the air suspiciously. It appeared to notice her and reared up on its hind legs, unleashing a deafening roar. She was frozen, her knees shaking as the creature lumbered forward. She couldn't even open her mouth to scream. It rushed her with what seemed to be the devastating speed of a locomotive and she was knocked prone, her hand darting to her side, draw your knife idiot!

Her head flew back from the momentum of the assault and struck the ground hard when she landed, the blow sending sparking wheels of color across her vision and fading everything out for what felt like a lifetime. She had assumed she was dead, but someone shaking her shoulder roughly roused her back to consciousness. Irene groaned in pain, stirring.

"Alright, he lives! Wasn't sure for a little bit there." That voice. She knew that voice. "You comin' 'round, Mister Frank?"

Frank. Frank. Right, that was her. She was Frank. And that voice… "Arthur?" She rasped blearily.

He was on one knee over her, blocking out the sun with his large form. He inclined his head, drawling, "in the flesh, Mister Frank! Looks like you hit your head real hard when you landed. Put your own lights out."

Irene grimaced, moving to sit up. "Shit," she swore, touching the back of her head and feeling her fingers grow sticky with blood. The bear. She looked around frantically, spotting the creature slumped beside her with an arrow clean through its eye socket.

Arthur seemed to notice her distress, placing a well-meaning hand on her shoulder. "Easy now, boah. It's okay. You were lucky today, I s'pose." That hand traveled up the back of her neck, the man indelicately tipping her head forward and then whistling as he examined the wound on the back of it. "Damn, you'll have a hell of a scar. Looks like it's already stopped bleedin', though."

"How did you...where did you even come from?" Irene asked in confusion.

The man nodded in the direction of a large, grassy knoll to the west of their current location, adjusting himself absentmindedly in his pants when he settled back onto his haunches. Irene still had yet to maneuver that particular tic into her 'masculine' repertoire. She struggled enough with the spitting in public, and the last thing she wanted was to be labeled a pervert or a degenerate simply on account of her adjustments being 'less than organic'. "I didn't notice you was down here until the bear did, I'm pretty sure." He remarked. "Think you startled him as much as he startled you. You foragin' for berries?"

"Yes, I...I was thinking about treats and parties and I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention." Irene admitted, her face going a little red. Whether from the frank thoughts of adjusting or the shame of being caught unawares, she was uncertain.

"Blackberry pie, right?" Arthur hummed, obviously sympathizing with her distraction. "Means summer's really here. You bake things like that?" He rummaged in his satchel without waiting for a reply, pulling out a bandanna and two bottles. One bottle she recognized as whiskey, but the other was much smaller and made of a greenish glass. "You're gonna' want this to take the edge off." Arthur informed her calmly, pressing the bottle of whiskey into her hand and then uncorking the small bottle with his teeth.

"Edge?" She asked, wary now.

"Eeyup. Take a swig and I'll get started on this."

This was, apparently, cleaning and dressing the wound on the back of her head. Which, incidentally, the lone slug of whiskey she drank did nothing for. She didn't dare consume any more than that, however. Wine in the drawing room was one thing, but whiskey out in the berry patch was a horse of a different color. Arthur was at least capable, if a little more ruthless than the average physician. She had endured worse.

"You're a real lucky boah, Frank. Ain't deep enough to need stitchin'."

"I do feel immensely lucky today." Irene replied dryly, "a dead bear at my feet, a stomach full of fresh blackberries and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. Tell me, how could my life get any better than this?" She cringed in pain but the sensation quickly dulled in the wake of Arthur's gravelly chuckle.

"Gotta' say, you did a damn fine job of distractin' that bear. Let me get the easiest shot I've ever taken." He remarked conversationally after several minutes of silence.

"Mister Arthur, should I ask what it is that you're daubing all over the back of my head? Or is that a fool's errand?"

"What, this? Some uh…" he paused, flipping the bottle over and squinting at the label. "Ginseng and yarrow. Ol' Hosea swears by it and he's been alive longer n' most."

Irene relaxed slightly. The combination didn't sound too sinister, though she was unfamiliar with herbal medicine that wasn't refined tinctures. This was more of a paste than anything, Arthur constantly stopping to coax a bit more of it down the neck of the bottle. "Well, I'm very grateful, Mister Arthur. You don't have to-"

"I know." Arthur interrupted her. "You ain't beholden to me or anythin', don't fret. Though if you'd like to stick around an' help me butcher up that bear, I wouldn't say no."

"Are you still hunting for a small army?"

Arthur sounded rueful when he replied, "feels like there's more of 'em every damn day. I'll be takin' this kill into town. The women want the essentials, their flour and sugar and such." He grumbled, "dunno' why they need so damn much flour."

"Well, how else will they make pies?" Irene pointed out.

"Huh. S'pose you're right." Arthur said after a moment, seeming surprised. "Guess I never grew out the phase of thinkin' pies an' cakes just show up fresh on windowsills."

Cleanly skinning and butchering the good-sized bear was a long and arduous process, even with two sets of hands working on the task. Bluster had reemerged from the woods after a time and now grazed peacefully alongside Arthur's mare, that appaloosa from before who had since shed her winter coat.

Arthur finally sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat off his forehead and accidentally leaving a rusty red trail of blood in its wake. "Welp, I dunno' about you, Mister Frank. But I could certainly do with a wash-up and a meal." He had taken his hat off while they worked, his tawny, sun-streaked hair curling around his ears and sticking out at odd angles from the sweat. "Join me for supper, won't you?" He requested, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the stream that flowed in a gully past the knoll. "Ain't nobody can chide me about takin' the best bits of the critter if nobody knows." He continued with a smirk. "Can I trust you not to rat me out, Frank?"

Irene hesitated. She was hungry and tired from the long day. Arthur didn't seem all that dangerous. Or rather, he obviously was, but in a way that was honest and blunt. "Absolutely." She replied firmly. "Your secret is safe with me, Mister Arthur."

"Now, I am gonna' ask for a handful or two of them berries you got." Arthur carried on as he got to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. "As rec...recompense and such."

Irene sighed dramatically. "Ah, I should have known no good deed goes unpunished. And here I thought that offering myself up as unwitting bait was more than enough to justify a mouthful or two of meat."

Arthur's laugh was raucous, the large man clapping her on the back hard enough to make her stumble. "You're a good man, Frank."

"Nowhere near as good as you, Arthur." She retorted with a grin, confused by the way his face darkened.

"'Fraid I'd never be able to claim that title, Frank." Arthur said quietly, the mirth gone from his expression. "Beardless youth like yourself ain't oughta' cast me in any sort of decent light. I ain't a good person."

"Hey, what was it you said when you freed me up from that trap? 'Too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return', right?" Irene reminded him, trying to mimic his deep, honeyed drawl. She must have done a poor job, because Arthur cracked a reluctant smile. "You've helped me twice, now! Surely that warrants a smattering of decent light, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aw hell, Frank, I just don't want you developin' any lofty notions about my character is all! Don't want you gettin' your hopes dashed." Arthur protested. "I ain't no saint or role model or anythin' like that."

"Don't worry about my preconceptions, Mister Arthur. I don't view you as a role model at all." Irene wanted to laugh at how crestfallen he looked, despite his big talk. She splashed water on her hands, scrubbing at the blood on them with some of the sand from the riverbed. "I view you as a friend. A friend with flaws and drawbacks just like myself. Just like all human beings have." She elaborated, startled when Arthur crouched beside her on the riverbank and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you." The man said sincerely, his blue eyes warm and bright. "That means a whole lot to me, Mister Frank. I'd like to count you as a friend myself, if I could."

Irene forgot her tongue for a moment, ensnared by the blatantly hopeful look he was giving her. He must have any woman within fifty miles of here falling head over heels for him! "You'll have a remarkably difficult time trying to get rid of me, Mister Arthur. I'm very persistent." She finally managed to respond. "Like a mangy mutt once you feed it some table scraps."

"I reckon it's settled then." Arthur's smile had returned, and Irene found herself oddly pleased that she had been the one to bring it back.

...

They camped there under the stars that night.

Arthur planned to head into town the following day, where he would sell off the bear and then assist in the last few steps of the house building. But for now, he occupied himself with creating a roast fit for a king. Irene watched curiously as he studded the whole cut with herbs, finally daring to ask him a few questions about cooking. He obliged her with answers graciously and freely. Despite his opinionated stance on baking, he obviously had no such reservations when it came to cooking.

"I'm always afraid my ignorance of plants will get me into serious trouble. Lord only knows how many poisonous things I could consume if left to my own devices." Irene admitted, certain that he must think her foolish.

Arthur rummaged around in his satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound journal. He tossed her the notebook, chuckling lowly when she nearly fumbled it. "I sketch a fair amount, look at the last pages. Check the margins for whether it's edible or not."

When she tugged loose the strap that held the journal closed and obediently cracked it open to the last few pages, Irene was flabbergasted. Sprawled across the pages were both detailed drawings and fleeting sketches of various plants and animals. "Arthur," she said, her voice breaking as she nearly forgot to pitch it lower. The older man glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. "These are incredible."

"What is?" Arthur asked in confusion. It abruptly seemed to dawn on him and he grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "Oh, my l'il drawin's? They're just somethin' to pass the time, mostly. Done 'em ever since I was a kid."

"They're amazing!" Irene praised, making sure her hands were clean and free of grease before she even dared to hover her fingertips over the sketched snout of a border collie. "You actually capture the motion of the creature, which is a rare talent. I've seen a lot of art in my day, Mister Arthur, but few pieces have the same amount of life in them that your work displays."

"Aw shucks Frank, you're layin' it on pretty thick ain't ya'?" Arthur protested, and his face might not have been pink from just the heat of the fire. "It's nothin' special."

"Oh it absolutely is. These are...I mean all the plants are so detailed. Easily identifiable. Can you draw people and structures as well?"

Arthur took the journal back and carefully flipped through it to a few different pages, showing her that his skill extended to more than just plants and animals. An oil derrick sketched proud and tall against the blank-page sky, a blind man who he had come across in his travels, a two-page spread of a small camp titled Horseshoe Overlook... "Like I said, though, ain't nothin' special." He finished firmly, tucking the sketchbook back into his satchel.

"You ought to make a book!" Irene suggested. "For those of us ingrates that wouldn't know oregano from our elbow."

"Me? A book?" Arthur scoffed at the idea. "Last thing I want is more attention."

"Well...you could do it under a pseudonym!"

"A what? Listen here, Frank, I ain't no good Christian man, but I ain't about to pseudo...seedo...look, I ain't doin' nothin' to nobody's nims, alright?" Arthur sounded absolutely scandalised.

"Arthur, a pseudonym is just a fake name." Irene explained.

"Oh. Oh. Shit. Well I knew that." Arthur blustered at her, huffing out a breath. "Just...makin' sure you knew, is all!"

"Of course." Irene got to her feet, dusting herself off. "So. He can cook, he can draw, he can hunt…" she trailed off, doing her best to keep her tone light as Arthur continued to mumble in a flustered manner and fidget with the brim of his hat. "Is there anything you can't do, Mister Arthur?"

His laugh in reply was devoid of humor, a bitter noise. "Sure. Can't seem to stay out of trouble. More accurately though, can't seem to avoid gettin' dragged into trouble."

Irene squatted beside him next to the fire, debating giving his shoulder a rough shove of comradery. But the concern of accidentally knocking him over into the embers was enough to make her gentle her touch to a light pat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Arthur." She said quietly.

"Ah, don't pay me no mind, Frank. I'm just bellyachin'." Arthur placed his hand over hers absently, like it was an instinctive response. "You're a good kid. Don't get yourself tangled up in someone else's woes like I have, you understand me?" He admonished her sternly.

"I'm hardly a child, Mister Arthur." Irene protested. "I am nearly twenty-seven."

"What, without a lick of facial hair and your voice still shatterin'?" He teased, grazing her bare jaw with a large hand. "Naw, you ain't. But it's okay, your secret's safe with me."

"Arthur." Irene grabbed his hand, staring him down. She wasn't sure why this of all things was what she was caught up on. Maybe it was the notion that he believed she, or rather, Frank, was some fool stripling that had just been lucky so far. "I'm not a child."

Arthur stared at her, and for a split-second Irene was certain she had sold herself out. But then the older man abruptly guffawed, clapping her on the back. "No, I s'pose you ain't. You got old steel in them eyes of yours, Frank. Seen too much for your time on this earth, I imagine."

...

The final day had come at long last.

Irene hurried to help finish the last few clapboards for the outside of the house, nearly crushing her thumb with the hammer in her haste.

Various men and women from Valentine proper had already started to gather in the yard. Tables were being shuffled together, delicious smells coming from the freshly-christened firepit. Spirits were high and laughter was loud in the sunshine of midday, and Irene couldn't help her smile as she looked around.

It was truly a marvelous thing to be a part of a community that willingly accepted anyone who would help, regardless of their past transgressions. She felt utterly at peace here, even in the midst of such organized chaos.

A heavy arm landed around her shoulders and she felt a hand nearly shove the hat clean off her head. "There he is!" Arthur announced gladly, making her laugh. "It's finally time for the fun! You gonna' be stickin' around this evenin'?"

"Maybe." Irene allowed, letting him haul her into his side with his grip on her shoulders. Arthur didn't seem to actually know just how strong he was, which strangely enough made her feel safer around him. "And you, Arthur?"

"I wouldn't miss it!" The man replied, his voice bright with excitement. "Been too long since there was a reason to celebrate. Was a hard winter. Folks need this shit."

"Absolutely." Irene ducked out from beneath his arm and straightened her hat. "I'll see you later, Arthur. Gotta' go get washed up!"

Valentine was barely a five minute walk down the road, but impatience ate away at her and she broke into a jog. She'd hatched a plan for tonight. A foolhardy, stupid plan. She still had no clear idea why she was doing this, even as she sauntered up the steps to the Valentine hotel.

Irene slapped her money down on the counter, paying up front for a bath and a room for the night. Her spurs rattled loudly while she made her way up the stairs, nerves building in her throat like frantic bird wings beating away just beneath the skin.

It had been a short eternity since she had even seen herself in a looking glass, much less worn a dress.

The dress itself was nothing like the elaborate ones she had worn during her marriage. It was a plain fawn-brown color, lacking in lace trim or cumbersome whale bone buttons. A dress for this new life she had made, one that she could don and doff unaided.

Once she had scrubbed herself pink with the provided tub of hot bathwater and lye soap that threatened to be iris-scented, of all things, Irene stepped into the dress and slowly buttoned the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front. Thankfully, the cut was modest enough that she wouldn't need a fichu to cover up with.

She had been avoiding looking at herself in the mirror until she absolutely had to, and when she finally did gather her courage she was shocked by what met her gaze. She looked older, of course, a bit more weathered, but she looked alive. She had haunted her husband's house like a ghost, gaunt and battered and seen not heard. Now though, her eyes were clear and her cheeks were pink even without pinching, a byproduct of the fresh outdoor air. Her shoulders were freckled liberally as well, though the dress hid them well enough with its high neckline and long sleeves. Her mother had always tried to dull her freckles out with those blasted rose tea treatments and lemon, but the spots had stubbornly persisted.

Her hair though…

She grimaced, raking her fingers through the sun-lightened corkscrews that bounced and sprang back around her ears. It seemed that, as usual, her hair would be hopelessly unmanageable. Mercifully, since she always wore a hat, at least her hair wouldn't be the thing to give her away. Wonder of all wonders, it did appear that there was some auburn mixed in with the brown.

Irene emerged from her room, locking the door securely behind her and tucking the key into her pocket. She paused to straighten out her skirts, smiling a little dumbly downwards at the pleats while she swished back and forth in a brief moment of indulgence. However, no sooner had she stopped to do so than a large body in a hurry nearly toppled her over. She heard a startled grunt as the person managed to catch her, and then a familiar voice apologized, "sorry ma'am! 'Fraid I'm like a bull in a china shop sometimes."

Arthur, it was Arthur. Oh Lord. Irene stared at his boots in an effort to buy herself time to collect her thoughts, noticing dimly that he too had bathed and clearly attempted to tidy himself up. Did she come clean right now? Confess that she wasn't Frank at all, but Irene? Lord, this whole plan was stupid! What had she been thinking?! "Oh no sir, I should be the one apologizing. I was so excited for the festivities I appear to have forgotten my sensibilities." Her voice was soft and she looked up at him through her lashes, wondering whether he would even recognize her without a layer of grime on her face. "Forgive my inattention, won't you?"

Arthur, for some reason, swallowed hard. "Well, ain't you just as pleasant as punch! You must be from outta' town. My name's Arthur, ma'am, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He gave her a little half-bow and Irene barely contained her relief at his blatant unfamiliarity with her. Obviously she needn't have worried.

"My name is Irene, Mister Arthur, and trust me, the pleasure is all mine." She replied, automatically accepting the hand he offered. "Are you looking forward to the party as well?"

"Oh sure, Miss Irene." That drawl lingered sinfully on the syllables of her Christian name and Irene felt herself blush. "It's a rough life out here, only makes sense for folks to take what joy they can find where they can find it." Arthur glanced down at her, his smile a bit melancholy. "House raisin's hard work, but it's less tedious if we all know there's somethin' lighthearted waitin' at the end. Good food, good company…" He trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Of that, I'm certain!" Irene dared to continue holding his arm once they reached the street, and Arthur made no move to dislodge her. "Do you think there will be dancing, Mister Arthur?"

He chuckled at her obvious excitement. "I s'pose there might be. I'm not much one for dancin', though."

"Well," Irene said boldly, "I would be just delighted if I could steal a dance with you at some point this evening."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up to his golden-brown hairline. "You sure you got the right feller, ma'am?"

"Of course! Please Arthur, won't you save me a dance?" She implored sweetly.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, which one of 'em put you up to this? It was Karen, weren't it. Woman won't stop interferin' in my personal affairs." He growled, "I ain't lookin' for pity, Miss Irene."

"What?" Irene asked in confusion. "No, I haven't been put up to anything. I...I simply wanted a dance. Have I offended you, Mister Arthur?" This could be an irreparable blunder! Her plan might be in shambles.

"Aw hell, now I feel like a fool." Arthur rubbed a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly. "Pardon my suspicion, Miss Irene. I'm used to bein' passed over is all." He mumbled.

"What?" Irene gasped theatrically, loving the way his laughter rumbled in his chest. "A fine man such as yourself, passed over? That's deplorable, Mister Arthur!"

"Shucks ma'am, I'm passable decent, but I don't know if I'd ever call myself fine." Arthur smiled, his face a bright, endearing pink. Oh, complimenting him elicited the sweetest results! Irene was enraptured.

"Would you accompany me along the path to the festivities, Mister Arthur? I'm afraid I have no chaperone this evening." She implored. It was so strange, sliding easily back into being able to make polite conversation or clinging to an arm with rapt attention while a man spoke. She supposed all those etiquette lessons had done her some good. At least with Arthur she didn't have to feign her attention.

He nodded, swallowing hard again. "Sure, I can do that, Miss Irene."

"Oh!" Irene said suddenly like a thought had just occurred to her, the young woman making a move to pull away. "I apologize, Mister Arthur. It is so presumptive of me to monopolize your time. Did I interrupt you on your way to the Mrs. Arthur? Or perhaps a tryst with your beloved? I'm afraid I've always been rather self-absorbed, do forgive me."

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. "Ma'am, there's no need for all that." He said, patting her arm in a way that he probably believed was soothing. Irene barely refrained from laughing at the knowledge that he calmed people like he calmed his horse. "All I'm headin' for tonight is some merriment with the local folk." He paused, still patting her hand absently. "Y'know, I think you'd get on real well with a friend of mine by the name of Frank." Arthur remarked, appearing oblivious to the way she froze. "He's got some real hellfirin' opinions and a noble heart. Nothin' like me at all, a genuine, sweet boah. Outspoken, but kinda' shy 'round lots of folks. If we stumble across him, I'll introduce you."

"Oh I very much doubt that we'll see him tonight." Irene muttered under her breath to herself, a little puffed up by the praise Arthur had inadvertently lavished upon her.

…

There was indeed food and drink, and Irene found herself in the midst of conversation more often than not. It was incredibly amusing to know that all she needed to do was wash the dirt off her face and don a dress to make 'Frank' disappear into the ether. But again, that had been the whole point.

The musicians were tuning up when she noticed something odd. There was an unmanned violin (or fiddle, perhaps), sitting forlorn and silent on the front steps. Irene straightened out her dress and made her way carefully over to the stairs. "Pardon me, sirs," she called cheerfully. "but where is your violinist?"

"Ah, I'm sorry ma'am, but ol' Jefferson died durin' the winter." The guitarist informed her, looking a touch morose. "Figured we'd bring out his Hyde so it could at least listen to all the hubbub. Be a shame to leave it to gather dust."

"My deepest condolences." Irene murmured, going to turn away and then biting her lip as she paused. "Sirs, I...perhaps I could be of assistance? I have...some prior experience with violin." Nobody needed to know about the years spent learning, and the few bright moments in her marriage being her improvising quick, jaunty tunes alone in the drawing room. Leaving the instrument behind had been like leaving a piece of her heart, but it was so delicate and fragile…

"Well if you think you can keep up, you're more n' welcome to rosin the bow ma'am." The man smiled, gesturing at the fiddle. "It would do it some good to be played again, I'll wager."

Irene was scooping up the instrument almost before he had finished speaking, immensely pleased to find out that it was relatively in tune. The man that she assumed would be the step caller graciously handed her a handkerchief to pad her cheek when she tucked the violin into place, and Irene spent several minutes hurriedly tightening and rosining up the bow.

The first draw emitted a note that was clear, if a bit flat. Irene grinned sheepishly, fidgeting with the tuning pegs and then trying again. Ah, there it was. The instrument had a beautifully rich voice, no doubt facilitated by the stockier body it bore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, finish up your food! It's time for the real fun to begin!" The caller announced over the buzz of the populace. Tables began to move out of the way, clearing the front yard.

"I see you're the fiddler this evenin'?" Irene started at the sound of Arthur's voice. She had lost track of him shortly after arriving to the party, the man apologizing to her even while he was getting dragged off by a dark-haired woman in a beautiful green dress. Now, he reclined against the railing, his eyes troubled but smile firmly in place.

"Hopefully, if the good Lord is merciful. It has been quite a while." Irene admitted. "I'd still very much like that dance, Arthur, if your other beaus don't keep you occupied." She jibed. Perhaps it was a bit bold for a woman to comment on an older man's pursuits, but she did feel that she could get away with a touch of good-natured ribbing.

"Welp," Arthur drawled, doffing his hat. "I s'pose we'll just have to see how the night goes, Miss Irene. I wouldn't call 'em beaus though. Just folks that want somethin' from me."

Irene tilted her head to the side, but Arthur managed to avoid her gaze. Following his line of sight, she noticed he appeared to be watching the dark-haired woman from earlier. "Who is your friend? I must know her seamstress, Mister Arthur, because that dress is lovely."

"Mary." Arthur muttered, the name sounding like it was dragged out of him. "Uh, that is, the widow Linton."

"Oh no, the poor thing." Irene said sadly, meaning every word. There had been a time in her life where she had been utterly devoted to her fiance, believing that she had truly loved him. She could not begrudge anyone their own happiness, as wary as she had been made from her past experience. As the saying went, 'see how the bear behaves in its den before you decide to live with it.'

"Eeyup, real shame. Pneumonia got him." Arthur informed her curtly.

Irene was sure her sympathy was evident on her face, because Arthur's sharp blue eyes had softened slightly when he looked back at her. Pneumonia was so sinister in its onset, the way it settled into the chest and by the time most patients realized it wasn't a cold, they were too far gone to help. "You should ask her to dance! Get her mind off of things." She suggested.

Arthur chuffed out a breath in a manner that was so similar to his horse Irene had to chew her lower lip to stave off her laughter. "Nope." He said firmly. "Mary shall not dance with me, Miss Irene. Not if I have anythin' to say about it. I doubt I'll dance much at all, honestly."

…

Arthur appeared to be sticking to his word throughout the night. He was indeed not much for dancing, but as he drank he got progressively more mobile. It was like his body loosened up, he smiled more, laughed louder…

He seemed absolutely thrilled when she found him later that evening, saying plainly, "There she is! I figured you forgot about me!"

Irene shook her head, smiling up at him. She had politely declined her way across nearly the entire yard in order to reach him. "I don't think I ever could, Mister Arthur. May I ask for a dance?"

"Obliged to oblige, ma'am." Arthur extended a hand, drawing her in almost indecently close. "That was some fine music you played earlier." He drawled after a moment.

Irene simply let herself be swayed back and forth, one hand on his shoulder and the other still entwined with his own. "Thank you." She replied softly. "It has been a while since I was able to indulge myself."

"Fiddlin' ain't a vice, ma'am." Arthur protested.

Irene chuckled. "Some might disagree, Mister Arthur."

"Well, they're wrong. How the hell could music be bad for someone?" He removed his hand from her hip to wave over at the group of men who were still currently playing away. "Music's good for the soul. Makes everythin' lighter. What miserable fools have you had to deal with?" Arthur grumbled.

Irene rolled her eyes comically. "Lord, you don't know the half of it!"

Arthur pressed her even tighter to his body, his breath hot over her ear when he murmured, "well Irene, they're dead wrong."

"Mister Arthur…" Irene went bright red at his proximity, at the heat that flooded her. What a strange sensation! Even back when she had been newly betrothed, before she had known her then-fiancé's cruelty, she had never experienced such a fierce reaction from a simple close whisper. Was it only to be chalked up to the newness of the experience? Or was it because it was Arthur doing it?

"Irene, I hope I ain't bein' too forward when I...would you like to…" Arthur trailed off, clearing his throat. "I mean, I ain't got anythin' to offer you aside from a good time," he continued to hem and haw. "You seem like a genuine lady and I...someone like me ain't never really been allowed to touch that sort of person. I sleep under the stars and drink too much for anyone's good, never mind my own." His eyes met her own and a slow, almost forlorn smile played across his mouth.

Despite the ribald impropriety of his words he looked so utterly tender, his hat slightly tilted and his eyes drowsily gentle. Irene found herself nodding before he even managed to actually ask her. "I have a room for the night, Mister Arthur. I am…" she hesitated. "Not...very experienced, but not inexperienced."

"Thank God." Arthur replied, surprising her. "You wouldn't want someone like me for somethin' like your first time."

"Oh?" Clearly, they had careened past the point of polite or appropriate conversation. But now, she was curious. "Why is that, Mister Arthur?"

He coughed, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. "I'm just...I'm not...fit for that sorta' thing. Not worth it. Fine ladies deserve a proper gentleman an' I ain't that." He stated.

"Arthur…" Irene took his hands and tugged on them, leading him out of the yard and towards the roadside. "You're more of a gentleman than most, I can promise you that." She insisted.

"Miss Irene, wait!" The sound of her name being yelled made her pause, and Irene found herself abruptly confronted with the step caller as he thrust the fiddle's sturdy case at her. "Me and the boys, we got to talkin'. We figure you ought to keep the old Hyde, as a thank you of sorts." He said, sweeping his hat off his head. "Besides, if you leave it here it'll never be played. And there's nothin' worse than an unplayed fiddle. Believe me, I would know!"

"I…" Irene wanted to burst into tears. This was so unexpected and kind. The case settled into her arms, like an old friend already. "B-But I have no way to-"

"Not for money ma'am. Simply for liftin' folks' spirits tonight. You take that Hyde and you spread that gift of yours around."

"Thank you." Irene said sincerely, "I...you have no idea how much this means to me, sir."

"Mighty kind of you fellers." Arthur added, his grin a little sheepish when the caller turned his attention on him to express his thanks for Arthur's help in acquiring the remaining lumber for the house. He tried to wave off the praise to no avail, looking increasingly awkward the longer he was subjected to the step caller's enthusiasm.

The woman from earlier (Irene wracked her brain for a moment before remembering Mary, Mary) approached on Arthur's opposite side while he was preoccupied with the step caller. However, she didn't miss the way Arthur's posture went tight as he noticed Mary standing there expectantly. Arthur suddenly seized Irene's hand, muttered a curt, "obliged," to the step caller and set off at a brisk pace down the road.

"Don't forget that you promised, Arthur Morgan!" The widow Linton called after him, her voice sharp. Arthur just waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Irene struggled to keep up even after Arthur scooped the case out of her arms, the man's longer legs easily outstripping her own. "Arthur, can you slow down?" She implored, a little fearful now. He looked like he was stewing, his shoulders squared against some invisible adversary.

Arthur obliged her in silence. He maintained that silence until they reached the outskirts of town, where he clarified, "you had a room, right?"

"Yes, I...yes. For the night." Irene answered softly. Arthur just nodded in reply. "Arthur, you don't-"

"I ain't gonna' hurt you." He cut her off. "You have my word, Miss Irene. Ain't got nothin' to fear from me."

Irene was still more than a touch anxious as they ascended the stairs, and she almost dropped the key, fumbling to get it into the lock. Arthur hummed low in his throat, that comforting horse pat landing on her arm again and soothing her enough that she managed to get the door open.

Arthur carefully set the case against the wall, and then he was on her. He kissed hungrily, his whole body pressed to hers before the door was even fully shut behind them. His tongue plunged into her mouth without so much as a warning or a by your leave. Irene had only read about this kind of kissing and experiencing it firsthand was composure-shattering. She found herself weak at the knees, grateful for the weight of Arthur's large form to anchor herself as he boldly coaxed her tongue to reply.

Irene shyly licked into his mouth, making a soft noise that had Arthur shuddering and offering his own groan in response. He pulled away, slow, like he was being dragged, and struggled to bring her with him.

The man sat down hard on the bed, urging her close in between his spread legs. Then, Arthur grabbed two handfuls of the back of her dress and rested his forehead on the spot directly beneath her breasts.

Irene froze, confused until she felt his shoulders tremble.

He was crying, like his heart was fit to break. Deep, shuddering sobs that came from somewhere by the floorboards and ravaged his entire body on the way up. Hesitantly, Irene carded her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head. She could feel the tears seeping into the fabric of her dress, slowly dampening the material.

"It's just never enough." Arthur finally said thickly. He stayed where he was, wearily slurring into her abdomen, "I give an' I give an' I do an' it's just...never enough to make folks happy."

"Arthur..." Irene whispered. She felt silly for not noticing sooner than something was very wrong, guilt rushing her as she realized that she had been so caught up in him giving her attention that she must have missed the signs.

"It's never enough that I'm just there, still alive, still willin', even though I'm a damn fool. Never enough." He mumbled, "God, I'm a fool."

"No you're not." Irene said firmly. Arthur looked up at her. "You're brave, you're loyal and you're kind, Arthur. It's not your fault that the people around you seem to have taken those traits for granted."

"We was plannin' to be married, y'know. Me an'...me an' Mary." He confessed abruptly, not that he needed to. "Or maybe it was just me plannin'. She...I just don't know."

"What happened? Did she call it off?"

"Her daddy, he didn't approve of me. I didn't have...enough," Arthur explained, his words stilted as he recounted probably more than he meant to. "I was orphaned pretty early on and I...well shit, I hung around with folks bad and good an' to Mr. Gillis, that was worth a condemnation. Forbade it. Said I was filthy, that I'd c'rupt...corrupt her. Ruin her. Break her with these turrible hands of mine." The hands in question gripped Irene's dress even tighter and he fought back a sob. "So I...I had to let her go. Watched her fall in love with some rich feller and it made me wonder, made me scared that she ain't never loved me at all. And then tonight..." He shook his head.

"What about tonight, Arthur?" Irene prompted him gently.

"She come to me askin' for a damn favor. After everythin' that's happened, she still had the damn gall to ask me for shit. Her little brother's gone off to shack up with some cult ." Arthur cleared his throat. "So I'm too rough to marry, but I'm sure as hell good enough to ask to rescue her precious baby brother. She said she thinks of me often and I just...dammit, it ain't right for her to tell me that!" He erupted, hiccupping out yet another sob. "It ain't right, I finally thought I was--I mean I was doin' okay, I was better, an' now…"

"It feels like you just hit a patch of shale and slid your way back down into the bottom of the gorge you were crawling out of."

Arthur sniffled. "Well, yeah. Kinda'. H-How'd you know?"

"You think you're the only person in the world to have troubles with people you were trying to recover from?" Irene's laugh was soft and sad. "My situation is a bit different, but no less weighty for it, Mister Arthur."

Arthur huffed out a breath, rubbing his forehead back and forth on her stomach. "I just hate myself. Can't hate her, all I can do is hate m'self." He sighed.

"Don't." Irene admonished him, trawling her fingers through his thick hair and dragging his head back with the motion. Arthur groaned again, this time lower, his eyes half-lidding as he appeared to enjoy being ministered to. "Don't hate yourself for being kind, Arthur, and don't let the world beat that kindness out of you. There are people, so many people who will love you for it. Hell, there's probably some that already do."

Blue eyes blinked open sluggishly, still glassy with tears as he looked up at her. Liquor-honest words tumbled from his lips, "why the hell are you bein' so nice to me? Led you up here for a reason an' now I'm all a mess about another woman." He shook his head, not waiting for a response before continuing, "I just wanna' sleep. Forget about all of this. I...lay down with me? I need...I need...somethin' to hang onto." He mumbled, tugging at the back of her skirt. "Clothes on is fine. Just need to hold you. Few minutes, even." He pleaded.

Irene bit her lip uncertainly. Laying down fully-clothed? It seemed a bit strange. But she didn't have on a corset, so at least she wouldn't be uncomfortable… "Alright." She agreed softly after a moment, reaching down to unlace her boots. Hopefully Arthur was too inebriated to notice that 'her' boots were also Frank's boots. He seemed more than a few sheets to the wind, if his weeping was anything to judge by.

Arthur clumsily kicked off his own boots and laid on his side, catching her arm to guide her down with her back to his chest. It was somewhat awkward at first; Irene had never actually been held in such a manner and the bed was incredibly small. She knew she was probably too stiff, and slowly urged her shoulders to loosen a bit. Arthur draped his arm over her hips, not even holding her so much as he was simply laying his hand on her stomach.

"Thank you." He mumbled into the back of her neck, still sniffling a little.

Irene tentatively placed her hand over his own, lacing her fingers through his. "Shh, sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, Arthur." She whispered. Then, so quiet she wasn't sure he would even hear her, "thank you, Arthur. For everything."

Part Two: Friends

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kahans · 4 years

Text

(so the background behind this is basically that it’s the night before/of finnick’s 16th birthday and a week before snow held an auction to see who would get to sleep with him first. don’t ask me for that scene because it hasn’t been written yet)

title: victor’s crown book ii: lover’s war (title is a wip shhhh) status: incomplete word count: 1284 fandom: the hunger games characters: finnick odair, mags flanagan, random capitol ocs warnings: nonexplicit allusion to child prostitution other notes: don’t be expecting a whole lot from this lol it was not beta-ed and it was written in like a half hour

o-o-o-o

They come for him at midnight.

Finnick is lying on the couch with his head in Mags’ lap, doing his best to calm his unsettled nerves. He feels a little foolish, curled up next to his mentor like a small, frightened child, but he can’t bring himself to move. His proximity to Mags, the one person anchoring him to his composure in a storm of anxiety, is no longer a privilege. It is a necessity. Her hands, thin and lined with sinew, card through his hair. He tries to focus on the sensation of her fingertips against his scalp instead of the vicious whirlpool of trepidation stirring in his gut.

An hour earlier, Aurelia had come in bearing an armful of supplies to prepare Finnick for his big night. While she assembles her station of makeup, she gives Finnick a list of exercises to perform, for which he is grateful if only because it gives him something to do. He runs a couple of laps around his quarters. He does a few pushups. At Aurelia’s behest, he lugs a few weights up from the gymnasium and works with those until she tells him to stop. He isn’t quite sure what the point was if she wasn’t going to let him get in a full workout, but he suspects his first admirer won’t want to meet him smelling of and drenched in sweat.

While his flesh is still warm and his blood quick, Aurelia begins applying makeup with a swift but deliberate hand. She lines his eyes with a dark pencil and dusts his eyelids with brown. To Finnick’s dismay, she pinches his cheeks and instructs him to bite his lips. When he protests, she says, “I could apply lipstick instead,” and he hurries to comply.

Once his skin has been sufficiently prepared, she gives him an outfit to don: An elegant evening jacket dyed the deep blue-green hue of the sea hangs neatly over a crisp white dress shirt, accompanied by a pair of black pants. His shoes are equally shiny and also look brand new.

“Calliope sends her regards,” Aurelia says. Of all the outfits Calliope has stuffed him in in the past, this is certainly not the worst. Nor the best. Finnick wonders who ordered this made; surely this suit didn’t spring from her wild imagination.

His question is answered when Vesper arrives exactly at midnight. Unlike Aurelia, he is almost glowing with frenetic excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child who just won a prize. His expression crumbles when he spots Finnick curled up on the couch, suit rumpled, hair in disarray, eyes shadowed and hollow with worry and lack of sleep.

“What in the world are you doing?” he demands, scurrying over to where Finnick is sprawled. Mags’ hand moves from his head to his shoulder, innocuous to Vesper, but protective to Finnick.

“It’s late, Vesper,” Mags says coolly. Something about her countenance must warn Vesper that arguing could end very badly for him, so he rounds on Aurelia instead. “Why did you let him lie down?” He flaps a hand at Finnick. “Get up! Get up before your suit gets wrinkled!”

Finnick doesn’t obey immediately. He glances up at Mags, who looks down at him, expression ever unflappable but indubitably compassionate.

Head up, my boy, she reminds him, not with her voice but with her eyes. You are victor, and you wear the victor’s crown.

“There’s my beautiful grown up victor!” he crows at the sight of Finnick, gleaming and adorned like some kind of relic. They do not allow statues to be erected of anyone except notable Capitol figures in the districts, where their only legal objects of worship are Snow and the ideology his administration represents. But in the Capitol, Finnick has seen dozens, if not scores, of figurines and synthetic replicas of past victors, bronzed and painted and perfect, in every corner and cove of the city. “Aren’t you excited?”

It’s my birthday, he thinks somewhat dumbly. I’m sixteen years old. He should be home right now, celebrating with his family. His father should be letting him try his first taste of District 4′s prized champagne. His mother should be sewing on an official sailor’s patch onto his uniform to designate him as a full crew member of the fishing fleet. Perhaps she would make him the lovely fish-shaped cookies he once so loved, one for each year of his life.

“Well done, Aurelia,” Vesper says. “It’s just what Miss Poppywright wants, I’m sure. Is he ready? Have you gone over expectations with him?”

“Expectations?” Finnick echoes, at the same time as Aurelia says, “Of course.”

Vesper shoots Aurelia a scathing look, but her defiant expression remains unchanged. “He’s already frightened enough, Vesper. Why make him more nervous? He’ll figure things out when he gets there.”

“Yes, and have him be the laughing stock of the Capitol,” Vesper replies sarcastically. He turns and fixes Finnick with an appraising glare. “Finnick, it is your duty to make this night spectacular for Miss Poppywright, do you understand? No mistakes. Just pure charm from you and absolute enjoyment from Miss Poppywright.”

Mags makes a noise of protest in the back of her throat, half rising from her spot on the couch. “Vesper--”

“Margaret,” Vesper interjects, and Finnick coughs back a noise of surprise at the use of Mags’ full name. “I hope you remember that Finnick’s conduct tonight, and for every night after this, will reflect back on all of us.” He makes a little circle with his finger to illustrate his point.

It takes a moment for the implications of Vesper’s warning to sink in, but when they do they sit in Finnick’s gut like an anchor and do nothing to quell his mounting dread. Whatever he did tonight would have an effect on everyone from Aurelia to Mags to his loved ones back home.

A familiar sense of apprehension flutters in him now, of a weight and intensity he has not experienced in years. The last time he knew this kind of panic, he was playing for his life in an arena, where his every decision had been like dipping a single finger in surface of a still pool of water: Even though the initial point of contact was small, the ripples, the effect of the action, could still be clearly seen. From simple disquiet, alarm rises unbidden, a tidal wave gathering out to sea. He instinctively looks to Mags.

“It’s all right, Finnick,” she says, rising from the couch. She stands in front of him, and even though he’s been taller than her since before she became his mentor, he’s never felt smaller. “You’ll be all right. Just remember what Aurelia told you. Listen to what they have to say, and say what they want to hear. That’s all they want.”

Be who they want you to be, not who you really are. The advice offered from Finnick to a nervous tribute seemed to have been spoken a lifetime ago. Look at how much good it did him, a little voice in his head pipes up.

“It’s after midnight,” Vesper says, breaking Finnick’s reverie with a wave of his manicured hand. “It’s not like he’s going off to war or something. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Mags swallows, inhaling a deep breath through her nose. “Go on,” she says softly. “I’ll see you soon.”

Though it’s almost painful to muster, Finnick manages to put on a confident smile. “Don’t worry about me, Mags,” he tells her. “These people can’t help but love me.”

With a goodbye wink to Aurelia and a half-hearted salute to Mags, he turns and follows Vesper out the door.

#thg #lit #mine

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acequidwrites · 3 years

Link

Chaeyoung thinks being in love is probably a requirement for writing love songs.

Or, at least, having been in love once.

FANDOM: Blackpink (RPF)

PAIRINGS: Kim Jisoo/Park Chaeyoung, Jennie Kim/Lalisa Manoban (background)

Chaeyoung arranges Jisoo’s fingers on the guitar fretboard, and that feels like the beginning.

Jisoo is hopeless, can only make discordant sounds that hurt her ears. That’s okay, though, because Chaeyoung can play well enough for the both of them. She sings softly with the string melody and Jisoo thinks about how, in a different context, a movie, maybe, this scene would be romantic.

Jisoo thinks about Chaeyoung making music, writing songs. Love songs, sung at night, or on a date beside the Han River. It’s a picnic, it’s someone’s anniversary.

(It’s their job to sing for others, and it suddenly occurs to Jisoo that she can’t remember the last time someone sang for her.)

Chaeyoung plays guitar beautifully. Chaeyoung is beautiful.

Jisoo wonders if she’s ever thought this before.

When she was younger, just a nobody in Melbourne, Roseanne would play games with her church friends. Squeaky bike races to the music stores to gawk at all the new album covers: Big Bang, Super Junior, 2PM.

Shoving at the window: Who’s your favorite? And, No, he’s mine! And, I’d move to Korea just to—

Roseanne, slipping past, stopping tentatively in front of the wall of guitars in the back, impossibly tall. She runs her fingers over the gloss on an acoustic model, dares to pluck one string.

It’s in her, the bug, the urge to perform. An itch in her stomach nothing else can scratch. She receives the guitar for her birthday and doesn’t let it go.

Later, when Rosanne boards the plane in Melbourne and Chaeyoung steps off in Seoul, she will clutch the handle on her guitar case with a white-knuckled grip. She can feel it starting.

Chaeyoung strums and sings in front of the panel of YG Entertainment judges, and that feels like a start. She stands at the back of the group of young, nervously shifting girls in the dance studio she will come to know like home, and that feels like a start, too.

A short, confident, older girl walks up to her with her palm outstretched and says Kim Jisoo, and that feels like something else entirely.

It’s not that sharing a room with Chaeyoung is hard.

Quite the opposite, actually. It’s easy.

Jisoo wakes up, and Chaeyoung is up. Jisoo goes to bed, and Chaeyoung is already sleeping.

Occasionally in the mornings, Chaeyoung brings Jisoo breakfast. At night, Jisoo brings her tea.

Jisoo never sets an alarm, because Chaeyoung always wakes her up if they have a schedule. Chaeyoung doesn’t need an alarm, because her body is set to what the world calls “a healthy sleep cycle,” and Jisoo calls, “freak time.”

Chaeyoung’s hair falls out a lot, the result of years of dyed and damaged roots. Jisoo will find long blonde hairs everywhere: her pillow, her clothes, her own head. Surprisingly, she doesn’t mind.

Jisoo plays games at night and Chaeyoung watches, sometimes, padding across the room to warm Jisoo’s duvet. Usually, she falls asleep there, bathed in the blue light of Jisoo’s phone, head on her shoulder.

Jisoo doesn’t mind this either.

Dieting is the worst, and not because of her own hunger. Jisoo thinks she could probably survive on rice and sunlight for like, ever.

No, dieting is the worst because when word trickles down through about seven layers of managers that they have a performance coming up, Chaeyoung shuts down.

Not all at once; gradually, as the days crawl on and the gnawing pains start to hit all of them, Chaeyoung gets quieter and quieter.

Jisoo hates it.

“Chaeyoung-ah,” she says, the open bag of chips held out, “just have some.”

It’s the look in her eyes as she considers. Jisoo hates it.

First, temptation. Maybe just one, Jisoo can see the words almost pass her lips. Then, rapidly: responsibility to the company, guilt for the thought in the first place, embarrassment at her own hunger, determination to stay strong.

“I shouldn’t,” is what Chaeyoung says instead, with a tight smile.

Fake. Fake. Jisoo wants to wipe it off her face.

Lisa, sweeping through, snatching the bag out of Jisoo’s hand before she can react: “You’re skinny, Chaengie. Eat some snacks.” A crunch, to emphasize her point.

Even Jennie watches them from over the rim of a full-fat vanilla latte.

Chaeyoung shakes her head, resolute, and leaves the kitchen instead.

Jisoo thinks about smuggling food and murdering managers.

Lisa and Chaeyoung are best friends, and Jisoo and Jennie are best friends, and Lisa and Jennie have always been something...more. And Jisoo sees this and knows what it means and doesn’t want Chaeyoung to feel neglected, so she tries a little harder. She plays pretend affection: part show to tease the others, part effort to strengthen her relationship with Chaeyoung. It’s funny and fun and light.

She learns Chaeyoung will blush at compliments, but cringe at aegyo. She prefers movies to dramas, but likes being outside over either. She cries easily but laughs easier, and believes anything anyone tells her.

Jisoo brings her a flower, and Chaeyoung presses it in a book. Jisoo buys her a guitar, and Chaeyoung physically can’t speak.

Jisoo plays pretend affection, and then one day she isn’t pretending anymore.

“What’s wrong?” Jisoo asks, because Lisa has been pacing up and down their living room for hours, sighing audibly and generally being mopey and dramatic, and Jisoo can only withstand so much.

Lisa emerges from the depths of her hoodie hood and casts a deeply miserable look to where Jisoo is (trying to) watch TV, and says, slowly, like the effort tires her:

“...What?”

Jisoo could smack her, really.

“I said, is something wrong?”

This is a mistake, clearly, because Lisa takes it as an invitation to sprawl onto the couch next to her and occupy as much surface area as possible. “So many things wrong, unnie,” Lisa whines, and Jisoo reaches over to pack a pillow over the younger girl’s face.

It’s not like Jisoo doesn’t know what the matter is.

The matter: Jennie filming a CF in Japan.

(The other, smaller, secret matter: Chaeyoung in the recording studio. All day, every day. And maybe, Jisoo is maybe getting just a little tired of it.)

“It’s so boring here alone,” Lisa cries, violently shifting position and ending with her head dangling off the edge of the couch and her feet scuffing the wall. This is code for I’m upset Jennie is gone, and, I miss her, and, Jisoo-unnie, you’re great, but you’re really not the person I want to see right now, and Jisoo knows this is the code because she speaks it right back.

“I’ll flip you if you don’t get your feet off the wall.” (I’m sorry Jennie is in Japan. She’ll be back soon. Tell Chaeyoung to stop working so hard because she doesn’t listen to me and she comes home too late and she isn’t eating enough and she’s tired all the time and she—)

Lisa sticks her tongue out. “Flip me, then.” (I miss her a lot and it hurts, I think it isn’t supposed to hurt but it does, and I miss her, and I don’t know what to do.)

Jisoo doesn't lift a finger, settles deeper into the cushions, makes a sort of scoffing sound, and turns the TV a fraction louder. “All the blood rushing to your head will make it explode,” she says, and there’s no malice in it.

We’re pretty pathetic, aren’t we?

Yeah.

Chaeyoung thinks being in love is probably a requirement for writing love songs.

Or, at least, having been in love once.

And she has no regrets about anything in her life until she sits down in a practice room with a pen in hand and tries to write, only to find that in the past ten years of training and schedules and performing, she’s never found time to meet a boy. So she caps the pen, and she uncaps the pen, and she tries to invent the feeling of love.

She watches movies. She reads books. She reads poems. She watches couples outside the window and it’s so close she can feel it. She can see the shape of it, in flowers exchanged, in smiles hidden, hands clasped, words repeated, a billion different stories and none of them hers. Love is everywhere but in her brain, in her fingers, on her tongue.

She thinks about it so much the word turns foreign, meaningless. She traces the letters over and over at the top of the page, the only scrawl on the field of white. The light overhead is dim, but bright enough to see how bad she’s failing. Love. Sarang. The paper rips and ink bleeds through onto the table.

Chaeyoung is a songwriter – or at least, she wants to be – and she doesn’t want to fake it. Sometimes, she thinks about how easy it would be: take all the words she’s found through study, rearrange them, spruce them up and make them pretty and set to music, debut.

Debut. Solo debut, isn’t that what she’s always wanted? Quoted lines bubble up in her throat. Bitter, artificial, but god, would it be so easy.

Then: Lisa will take Jennie’s hand under the dinner table. Or, Jennie will rest her head on Lisa’s shoulder after practice. They’ll smile together, quietly (and when has Lisa ever been quiet), and giggle about something no one else can understand – could possibly understand, when it’s a secret for just the two of them.

Everything Chaeyoung has memorized falls away.

She is a songwriter, and she doesn’t want to fake it.

It’s Bangkok.

Or, Amsterdam, maybe. Paris, or back home in Melbourne. Chaeyoung knows there’s a stage and an audience, for sure.

(It’s Inkigayo, 2016.)

There’s a song — several songs? — she can’t remember which. It’s not like they have that many to begin with.

(Osaka? Fukuoka?)

It’s the four of them against the world, riding the high of the crowd. It’s hot, and the crowd roars, and confetti snows down, they’re breathing it in, and Chaeyoung doesn’t think it’s possible to come down from this, and it’s enough. It’s enough.

She doesn’t need anything else. Not when Jennie is beaming and waving like nothing sharp has ever pierced her armor, not when Lisa is jumping and dancing and laughing loud enough to be heard across the stage without a mic, not when Jisoo, Jisoo—

(Gayo Daejun, 2018.)

Jisoo.

It looks like this: Jisoo, confetti in her hair — tall on heels, glittering dress — Jisoo, hands outstretched, catching paper, flowers, plushies from the fans— smirking for the picture — pose, peace sign, finger heart, pose — eyes shining, Chaeyoung has never seen that, someone’s eyes actually shine, it’s something that happens in fiction, in songs —

(Seoul. It’s Seoul, in the end.)

Jisoo catches Chaeyoung’s eye from across the stage and winks, or rather, attempts a wink and blinks clumsily with both eyes instead, an action caught by the cameras and mirrored in gigantic high-definition for the whole stadium; the crowd erupts into a frenzy and Chaeyoung hears none of it. Jisoo scrunches her nose and blows an air kiss instead and Chaeyoung finds herself laughing, expelling the butterflies beating against her rib cage, reaching out, snatching up the kiss and putting it in her pocket.

(Mine.)

She puts the mic to her lips and starts the post-performance speech and pretends a single thought isn’t winding like a ticker tape headline around and around her brain.

Jisoo is beautiful. Jisoo is beautiful.

Chaeyoung wonders if she’s ever thought this before.

#blackpink #chaesoo #blackpink fic #blackpink fanfic #chaesoo fic #chaesoo fanfic #acequidfics #blackpink fanfiction #chaesoo fanfiction #jenlisa #jenlisa fic

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the-writing-mobster · 4 years

Note

Can you gush all of them, please? Did we really miss something?😲 PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU! Is this what you want? Well you finally got it. I'm begging. Please for the love of God let us get to know more about it. Please God damnit!)

Ayyyy! Nice reference!

"PLEASE! I'm begging you Muffet! Is this what you want? Well you finally got it. I'm begging. Please for the love of God let me see her. Please God damnit."

Excerpt from 50

In the wise words of Ms. Muffet... “Get up.”

This post contains soft spoilers.

🌍 World building! 🌍

"Mhm… it's all artificial. A marriage of science and magic. Like those stars… not real. They're wishing stones. They're supposed to relay messages, times and dates… but everyone just kind of likes looking at them. Makes the nights down here not so bad, you know?"

Excerpt from 21

Trivia hour:

The fake moon and sun of the Underground was built by Dr. Gaster! Basically, there are these two large lamps that scale a glass dome at the tip top of the hollow mountain. This glass dome also has the "wishing stones" aka the fake stars that blink and relay messages via light morse code. There are entire jobs dedicated to deciphering the messages. It's mostly maintenance, nothing of any political importance.

The faux moon and sun only appear in Snowden and the Capitol. The other districts are pretty submerged in the deep caverns of the underground.

I basically created this system because when I was writing I wanted beautiful sunset imagery because nothing to me is more romantic than sunsets, and I realized— “Oh shit! They're underground!...hmmmm” and then I cracked my writer knuckles and started worldbuilding!

It also paints a clear contrast between the surface and the underground. Frisk herself is in complete awe of the inner mechanics and workings of the Underground, and she is willing to completely start over and a live a life down there. Meanwhile the monsters want... Real sunlight. They want real stars. They want the surface. They want freedom.

Freedom for Frisk is completely different to freedom for the monsters, which will be shown in a future scene.

🥀 Frans 🥀

She couldn't remember who moved first, but one second they had been trapped in a staring contest, the next, she was pressed against him, his teeth biting desperately at her lips. She melted in his embrace, her soul humming with content, as if this was where she was always meant to be.

They staggered back against the counter, and she moaned softly into his mouth as he pressed against her. They couldn't be close enough. They drove each other crazy. She didn't understand the craving they had for each other, but she definitely knew it was there. God, she needed him. For that moment she forgot that she was supposed to be mad.

Excerpt from 31

God. These two can't control themselves when they're around each other and it only gets... worse? Better ( ? ) in part 4. Like seriously guys, they can't get their hands off each other. It's well deserved in my humble opinion. Sometimes I'm a little worried that y'all will get annoyed with how much they kiss but then I'm like “why would they get annoyed??? That's like... The whole reason they're reading this...🥴”

Yeah I read WDYW for the plot.

The plot:

OOOH, Actually there's a scene in 62 between the two of them that's so sweet. I actually got the inspiration for it when I was rewatching Hunger Games Catching Fire. 😌 (God it's so good)

Also— Oh my God guys... Guys... Chapter 64. They are so powerful. That's all I'mma say. Be looking forward to it. Power couple to the max.

💀 Gasters 💀

ACK I wrote a flashback scene in Papyrus's pov and my girlfriend and I were both like 🥺🥺😭😭 because of how heartbreaking it. Soooo just be prepared for sad skeleton boy hours.

Another thing I want to just kind of joke about is this; how do the skeletons even talk? I like to think I'm at least semi realistic with my portrayal of the skeletons. One day I was literally on a hike and I was mouthing a scene to myself (as one does) and I say the word "bitch" (don't ask) and I suddenly stop and I'm like. “Bitch... Bitch ... Bah...BAH” (say Bitch slowly out loud lol) and I was like "SHIT YOU NEED LIPS TO MAKE THE BAH SOUND!” and I had an existential crisis for like the entire rest of my hike.

Anyway, the Skeleton brothers use magic for everything. That's how the undertale fandom waves away all illogical worldbuilding holes. “Oh? How do the skeletons make the Bah sound without lips? That's easy, ✨ magic ✨ ”

💅🏻 Villains 💅🏻

Ugghhhh MUFFET is diabolical, but in Part 4 she does take a step back because Part 4 is Asgore's time to shine.

"You and your skeletons would do well to remember that this is my kingdom . And if you challenge me in my kingdom, or make promises you can't keep, you will suffer. I'll make sure of it. Keep this in mind Moxie , I like to play with my food."

Excerpt from 40

And BOY does he fulfill his promises. We do get to see more of his interactions with Alphys, which I'm excited to write.

I actually really love writing him. He has this affinity for poetry so any chance I feel that it's appropriate to have a little poem, I write one or I find a famous old poem written by Lewis Carroll or Edgar Allen Poe or something like that. In fact I have it as canon that Asgore would read Asriel a shit load of poems, and their favorite was Lewis Carroll and his nonsense poems like the Jabberwocky.

Papyrus watched with an unbreaking gaze as Asgore flipped through the pages of a book.

"Ah… here's a good one. Beware the Jabberwock, my son. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch… beware the jubjub bird and shun the frumious bandersnatch… do you read poetry, Lieutenant?"

Except from 28

That's all I've got for this post! I'll do some more gushing for other asks, but thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to rant about absolutely nothing!

#wdyw #underfell #underfell frans #fanfic #underfell sans #underfell frisk #frans #guys I'm so annoyed right now #I have to hang out with my dad and all he's talking about is Trump #wish he'd shut up #but like writing these little rambles is bringing me joy #so keep them coming!#if not to keep me sane while in this stupid fucking car

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antihero-writings · 4 years

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The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch8)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: Hey! I'm so so sorry there was such a delay with this one! I was having a bit of a block with it. I hope you're still interested in reading! I'm hoping the next one will be a bit faster, as it's one I've been excited for. Cross your fingers everybody!

By the way, I changed that thing I said I would in the Snape chapter! It's towards the end, when Snape's looking into Tom's mind. It's not a big deal if you don't want to check it out, but it is related to this chapter!

I hope you guys like it!! As always, it's your comments, and interest, that keep me writing!! <3

Chapter 8: Only in Dreams

Tom stared up at the ceiling in the hospital wing, his hand behind his head, thinking about all that had happened…and some of what hadn’t happened.

Sometimes that was very dangerous thing to do indeed.

An annoying woman by the name of ‘Madam Pomfrey’ kept periodically checking on him, and offering him food and medicine. He wouldn’t be surprised if she woke him in the middle of the night just to make sure he was sleeping well.

There was also a boy in the bed beside his. He kept asking him if he wanted to play a game with a strange name. Tom made it clear the only game he was interested in playing was one in which he shut up.

When he had arrived with Snape earlier, a group of students were leaving. Apparently they had been ‘petrified.’ Whatever that meant. That made it sound like they’d been turned to stone, but they clearly were still flesh and blood—(maybe he would have preferred stone).

Snape even pulled aside one of them—a girl with bushy hair. Tom tried to subtly listen, but Snape pulled her into another room, and Madam Pomfrey had deigned that moment as one of her thousand times to ask if he was comfortable.

Which left him here, with the annoying nurse, a boy who probably couldn’t hold in his own pee…and a lot of questions.

So many things about this whole situation weren’t quite right. Waking up in that chamber with the dead girl, the way she died, the way Harry and Snape reacted to his presence, and Dumbledore’s later denial that he had killed her, or that their hatred was all that serious. And though Dumbledore had explained the diary, he wasn’t satisfied there either. Not to mention the fact that everything else in that Chamber still was unaccounted for.

There were things they weren’t telling him.

He highly doubted a teacher would be so vehement against just a bully, not to mention the fact that everyone else he’d met so far hadn’t recognized him…He had to be something more than that.

There was something they weren’t telling him. In fact, he reasoned, there were probably a great lot of things. He wasn’t going to assume they were all on the same side just because they said so.

The idea that this was a magic school, and that he was a student…He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it yet. They’d done magic in front of him, so he couldn’t deny it—not that he intended to. And the thought did send a certain energy through him…like that word was everything right in the world. And he was indeed excited to learn magic. Well, maybe ‘excited’ was too strong. But that was one of the few things that didn’t give him confusion, question and pause. Rather it create a form of what could only be called hunger within him. He wondered how proficient he had been at magic before he lost his memory. More than anything he wished he could remember the spells.

He was sure he could figure this, them, out—maybe even tonight, if he just stayed awake a little longer. But he was more exhausted than he realized and, in the midst of his pondering, fell into dreams.

“Wait, mom!” His voice sounded strange, high and young…too high, too young. Almost girly.

A plump woman with short red hair turned around at the last word.

“What is it, Dear?!” She sounded a bit put out. “Are you ready to go?”

“I’m missing my Charms book!” Tom’s voice was pained. “Have you seen it?”

She gave a forced exhale. “And you’re sure you checked your room? Didn’t miss any corners?” She inclined her head. “You’re sure it’s not sitting on your nightstand?”

“Yes! That was the first place I checked!”

“You checked under the bed?”

“Yes!”

“The bookshelves and wardrobe?”

“Yes!”

She sighed. “Talk to your father, Fear.”

“Did you say you were missing a Charms book?” A boy about his age with red hair like their mother’s came in front of him, along with an identical copy of him.

“We wouldn’t know anything about it, sure.”

“We’re just a little concerned”

“Of course, for our—” The last word got blurred.

“Boys. You didn’t take”—He was sure she said his name, but for some reason the word became murky, as if she was trying to speak through a veil of water—“Charms book, did you?”

“What?”

“No!”

“Never!

“You know us, Mom, would we ever do something so terrible as steal a poor”—Another blurred word—“—’s charms book?”

“We’re good and virtuous boys.”

Tom looked at the woman who was apparently his mother, who gave him a knowing look. “Check your brothers’ room.”

The dream turned over, and now he was standing on a platform in front of a glimmering red train engine, the words ‘Hogwarts Express’ emblazoned on the front. Steam poured out from its many orifices, and it whistled with the shrillness of a bird being squeezed…though the sound was like music to his ears.

That wasn’t the only loud noise, in fact this place was extremely loud indeed. The whole platform was full to bustling with children, parents, and as many other assorted relatives as it could hold. But the strangest thing was, he wasn’t annoyed by their presence. He was feeling many things: nervousness to leave his parents, and about what house he’d get sorted into, and if the other kids would like him, and excitement, excitement for what the castle would be like, what house he’d get into, what the classes would be like, what friends he’d make…but no annoyance.

Perhaps more than anything there was a pit in his stomach about Harry and Ron. Were they okay? Why didn’t they get through the barrier? He had been so excited to ride the Express with them. His parents tried to assure him they’d be fine, but he could hear the fear lining their voices too. He tried to let the sight of the engine distract him, and the excitement about the coming year overpower him. They’d gotten safely through crazy situations before.

He gave his parents a giant hug, and his mom kissed him many times, and he could tell she was trying very hard not to cry. They told him everything would be fine, and gave him a number of quick quips of advice. He looked towards the engine, about to take his first steps towards it on his own.

The dream crossed over itself, and though he was on the same platform, he was alone.

Well, not alone alone, it was just as loud as before, and there were just as many passersby. Not the same people, still. But this time, the sound was muffled somehow, like he couldn’t completely hear or feel what was going on around him. Just a few loud shouts would break through, and each time they did, annoyance would strike him.

There were no parents to wish him luck, or kiss him goodbye. No brothers to steal his books.

Did he like it better that way?

He looked down at his robes, and felt satisfaction run through him. They were clean and sleek and new. The first clothes he’d had that fit that description in a long time. None of the other kids got those. Well, none of the other kids could do magic either. He was special.

Just satisfaction. Not really excitement or nervousness…Just that hunger. That hunger for magic, for prowess, for a better world. Nothing compared to the bursting geysers of emotion he’d felt moments ago.

He looked up at the engine, a small smile lining his features as he stepped up to enter it.

Tom woke up to the hospital room, and went from teetering to falling off the bed.

And for a brief moment he was dizzy with unsurity; unsurity of where, or even who he was.

After he took a moment to right himself, the questions restarted themselves:

Was that just a dream? Or were those his memories?

They can’t have been, could they? He didn’t wake in a flurry of remembrance of all the memories preceding and following those. Besides, Dumbledore had told him his family was dead.

Although the final dream, or memory, was so different from the first two…Maybe that was from another year, and explained what had happened to his family?

He could tell from context they were his family, at least at some point. Yet he didn’t recognize them, or remember their names, or much of anything else about them.

Yet…

Yet, at the remembrance of their images, waves of emotion crossed over him, mostly comprised of loss, and longing. He didn’t know where those waves could have hailed from, when he didn’t remember or care for these people. But something inside himself wanted all this to stop.

It overwhelmed him. He wanted to brush it off…but stayed on the ground, leaning against the wall, digging his nails into his shirt.

He tried to feel normal…or even remember what normal was. He thought he felt normal most of the day. Right now he didn’t feel like…himself.

A line of light reached its hands out to him, and he looked up to see the door to Madam Pomfrey’s room open slightly. She must have heard him fall off the bed—(did she have owl hearing? The other kid was still snoring like a troll). Meeting her eyes was a mistake, because she gave a small gasp, and ran over to him with the speed of a rocket powered penguin.

As she helped him up, she quickly began bombarding him numerous questions, comforts, and recommendations—

“I’m FINE!” he yelled, pushing her hand away—(the other kid’s snores abruptly stopped, but he didn’t wake)— “Stop pestering me, Woman!”

Her eyes widened, apparently so shocked a student would speak this way to her, that for a moment she couldn’t speak. And at that look, before she could scold him, he muttered.

“I’m…sorry.”

The words just came out, he didn’t really think about it. But as his tongue traced the words he tasted iron.

“My dreams weren’t very pleasant,” he added. “That’s all.”

She still proceeded to berate him heavily for his behavior, and checked more than once that his dreams really were the only problem, but he could barely hear her. He couldn’t stop thinking about how strange it was that, after all the foreignness both the day and the night had to offer, the most foreign experience of all that day, was the feeling of those two words leaving his lips.

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cuddlepilefics · 4 years

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Overworked?

Fandom: GOT7

Sickie: Jackson

Caregiver: rap-line + jjp

Jackson’s POV.:

I had been working on a solo-project today and was really excited to get back to the dorm and show my members what I had worked on. Sure, it had been tough, the hours of singing had left my throat a bit scratchy and exercising in the morning before practicing the new choreography had made my muscles burn. However, there can only be a good outcome, if I really made an effort and put all my heart into it, and so I did. Being done with today’s schedule, I had a driver take me back to the GOT7 dorm. I only realized how late it actually was when none of the members were up anymore. I guess I’ll have to show them tomorrow. Quietly, I snuck into the bathroom for a quick shower and got ready for bed. Being downright exhausted, I collapsed on my bed and the soft mattress welcomed my achy limbs. I had to suppress a sigh because I didn’t want to wake my roommate Mark but it really felt amazing to finally be able to lay down and rest.

When I woke up the next morning, Mark had already gotten up and I turned my face into my pillow to muffle a groan. I was a dozen times achier then when I went to bed yesterday and my throat was really sore now. I shouldn’t have overdone it that much. Today there was no schedule for me, since I had finished my project yesterday and I could’ve stayed in bed all day but my stomach was churning a bit and I figured going to bed without dinner last night was a bad idea. So I got up too and decided to have breakfast to settle my stomach and end the hunger pains. I met Bambam in the kitchen and we had dinner together. “Are you alright, hyung? You’re really quiet this morning”, Bambam questioned. “I’m fine, still tired and sang too much yesterday. My throat hurt’s a bit”, I replied, keeping my volume down but even so, it hurt to talk and I sounded raspier than usual. “I can tell, you sound awful”, Bambam frowned and I stuck out my tongue at the result. He got up and grabbed a mug from the kitchen cabinet. Picking up the pot of tea he had prepared for himself, my dongsaeng poured another cup and pushed it in front of me. After my whispered “thank you” we ate in silence, which I was glad about because my head had started to hurt a bit. Seems like I really outdid myself recently, but at least I’m done now and with some sleep I’ll feel like myself again soon. I was still sipping my tea when Mark exited the bathroom with shower-damp hair and grinned at me: “Good morning sleepy-head. At what devilish time of night did you get home yesterday? When you texted me, you’d finish everything up, I stayed up late to celebrate with you but you didn’t come and I must have nodded off at some point.” – “Oh my god, h-hyung. I’m soo sorry. You didn’t have to wait for me. I don’t even know when I got home, there were some last imperfections to erase and it ended up getting pretty late”, I rushed, feeling guilty that my friend had lost sleep all for nothing. My voice got progressively quitter and by the end of my explanation I had to clear my throat by coughing into my elbow. It didn’t help, the coughing just sent a stabbing pain down my throat and my wince didn’t go unnoticed by my friends. “Are you ok?”, Mark frowned. “Hyung, he sang a lot yesterday”, Bambam answered for me and I gave him a grateful smile for not having to speak again. Mark nodded thoughtfully before smiling at me: “You really need to show me how it turned out, but no hurry, if you want to get a few more hours of sleep first, that’s fine. You look like a panda with your eyebags.” I frowned before sticking out my tongue. “I’ll show you later hyung, sleep sounds good right now”, I whispered pointing to my bedroom. He nodded happily and disappeared with Bambam to play some games. I didn’t know where the rest of the group was but the two rappers seemed to be the only ones home. Rubbing my eyes, I placed my mug into the sink and went back to bed.

My plan to sleep a bit more was futile though. With the achiness weighting my body down I struggled to find a comfortable position and to add to my discomfort, my stomach didn’t get better from eating like I had expected. Quite the opposite was the case, my meal didn’t really settle and on top of the ache there was now also a hint of nausea. The headache I had developed over breakfast was slowly increasing and I groaned into my pillow. Does overworking really feel this bad? Giving up on sleeping, I sat up and checked my phone when suddenly a sharp cramp ripped across my abdomen. I grit my teeth and tried to breathe through the pain but when it subsided the nausea had increased tenfold. I was now really confused, what is going on with me? Not knowing whether I needed to throw up, I carefully got up and slowly walked to the bathroom. When I passed Bambam’s room I could hear my friends laughing and teasing each other. Oh, how I had missed this, but now that I’m home and not busy, I feel dreadful. I sat next to the toilet, leaning against the bathtub and screwing my eyes shut. Willing the nausea away, I took deep breaths through my nose and gently traced my hand in circles over my bloated belly. Bad idea. The added pressure was too much and a wet burp left my lips. Already being able to feel my breakfast at the back of my throat, I got on my knees and leaned over the bowl. It didn’t even take long till a gag tore at my abused throat and though it was unproductive, it made my eyes water. Fuck, I can’t throw up. My throat is to sore for that. I knelt there with one arm hugging my tummy and the other one gripping the rim of the bathtub next to me. I grit my teeth and tried to keep my lips closed at all costs, hoping it would keep my stomach contents in. All hope was lost when my cheeks puffed with another burp which was then followed by a strong heave. This time I had to open my mouth, as a hot stream of vomit gushed from my lips. The half-digested food burning my throat but I barely had the time to dwell on the pain since my stomach contracted again and I brought up another wave. I didn’t know what was worse, the pain it caused my throat or the fact that having just eaten, I could feel all the chunks travelling over my throat. I spat into the toilet and wiped the tears off my cheeks, trying to keep myself calm and hopefully calming my stomach along with me. To no avail. After a few held back gags into my fist, I threw up again, choking. I kept coughing and the strain on my throat brought me to tears once again. After a few knocks, I heard the door open and soon there was a hand hitting me between the shoulderblades. Slowly, the coughing subsided and I looked up at Mark, who had now switched to rubbing my back. “What’s going on?”, he asked with concern evident in his voice. “Don’t feel good”, I rasped quietly, wiping my tears away and resting my head on my arm. “Yeah, I can see that. I mean, are you sick or just really overworked? Or both?” Honestly, what should I tell him? I don’t know what’s going on with me. So I just settled for shrug. He sighed but kept rubbing my back. “Do you think you’re done, hyung?”, Bambam asked from the doorway, passing a waterbottle to Mark who opened it before offering it to me. After rinsing my mouth out, I handed it back to Mark without drinking any, not wanting to risk throwing up again even though it probably would have soothed my throat. Dropping my head back onto my arm I shrugged at Bambam’s question. Mark was still crouching behind me and Bambam took a seat next to me on the bathtub, before brushing my sticky hair out of my face. When did I start to sweat this much? The cool hand he pressed to my forehead felt amazing and I whined hoarsely when he pulled it away again. “Fever”, he commented, carding my hair back and I closed my eyes. That certainly explains some things. I never get this sore from dancing and I have sung for longer durations before, not wrecking my throat.

I was starting to nod off when Mark gently shook my shoulder: “Come on let’s get you back to bed. Don’t fall asleep here.” The thought of moving didn’t sound too appealing but I remembered how comfy my bed was earlier and let the two other rappers pull me to my feet. Being upright made my head spin and I relied heavily on my friends to keep me from falling. The walk to my room was painfully slow and felt like a marathon. When I could finally collapse on my bed, I was drained of all energy. My head pounded and I curled up hugging my pillow. Bambam had disappeared for a minute and now returned, placing a bucket next to my bed: “Do you need anything?” I shook my head. “Want to try and sleep some more?” I nodded and Mark helped me to pull the blanket over myself properly, since my sore muscles struggled to do so. After telling me to get better, they left quietly and the exhaustion from being sick and overworked knocked me out within seconds.

Jinyoung’s POV.:

Jaebeom and I just came back from buying groceries, when we found Mark and Bambam in the kitchen. Mark was cooking rice while Bambam chopped some vegetables. They explained in a hushed voice that Jackson had fallen ill and they were making soup as well as plain rice as a back-up plan, since he threw up earlier and might stomach rice better. “Why, what’s wrong with him?”, I had had a gut feeling that Jackson was working himself sick. “Seems a bit like the flu, fever, vomiting, muscle aches and he is pretty close to losing his voice”, Mark listed. Yeah, my poor hyung had clearly run himself into the ground and I now felt bad for not stopping him, having noticed the signs a while ago already. Putting my bags down, I made my way to his and Mark’s shared room to check on him, while the three remaining members stored the groceries away. I tried to open the door with as little noise as possible to not wake him in case he was asleep. It was a heart-breaking sight that welcomed me after sneaking in. Our Chinese rapper had tangled himself in the sheets, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked awfully pale with dark circles under his eyes and a slight blush on his cheeks. There was a bucket next to his bed and even while asleep, he was holding on to it with one hand, his arm hanging off the mattress. After dabbing away the sweat with an edge of his sheets, I placed my palm on Jackson’s Forehead, frowning at the heat radiating off of him. My touch must have woken him because he blinked at me disorientated. “Hey, not doing so well, huh?”, I whispered and he shook his head. Giving him a sympathetic smile, I sat down on the edge of the bed and saw how his eyes slowly got a bit damp. “What’s wrong?”, I asked sincerely. “I was soo busy and I missed you guys soo much. Now I’m finally back but I feel like death and everything hurts”, he rasped with a wavering voice and it was hard to tell whether the cracks in his voice were because of him being sick or due to suppressed tears. “We missed you too, hyung. But I think you might have loaded too much work onto yourself, ending up sick like this.”, I replied, running my hand over his shoulder. Remembering how much Jackson needed to have people he liked and trusted around him, I could only imagine how hard the last weeks must have been, working with complete strangers. Being alone in his room because he was sick, probably didn’t help him feel less lonely. “Do you want any of us to keep you company? Jaebeom, Mark, Bambam and I are free today and the others shouldn’t come back too late either…” – “I don’t want you to catch this”, barely managing more than a whisper. I could see the conflict in his eyes that told me he really didn’t want to be alone anymore, so I joked lightheartedly: “Don't worry. If I catch this from you, I will find a way to have my revenge.” Immediately tears started running down his pink cheeks and I was totally caught off guard. “Wait..” – “Nooo.. l-le-eave!! I d-don't want yo-you to be ma-mad at meee!!” I quickly started wiping his tears away and tried to calm his feverish, emotional mind down: “Hey, shh, I was just kidding, I’m staying. Relax.” It took a few minutes but his breathing slowly went back to normal and he was only sniffling quietly from time to time. I motioned for Jackson to make some space and sat down next to next to him with my back against the headboard, so he could rest his head in my lap. Running my fingers through his sweaty hair, I used my other hand to text Mark.

Shortly after, the door opened and the rest of the rap-line followed by our leader stepped in. My text didn’t explain much other than Jackson having missed us and feeling lonely. Jaebeom crouched down next to the bed while Mark and Bambam took a seat on Mark’s bed. “Hey, it’s good to have you back”, Jaebeom smiled at Jackson while patting his arm, keeping his touch light as he was aware of the soreness in his dongsaeng’s muscles. “Missed you, hyung”, the rapper forced out, making the leader’s face fall as he realized just how bad he sounded. After telling Jackson to avoid talking as far as possible, Jaebeom continued to praise him for his hard work and the effort made for the fans. I got a bit worried this speech would only encourage self-destructive behavior but luckily, my hyung ended it with emphasizing that health has to be the first priority and that true fans would want their idols to be happy and healthy instead of overworked wrecks. With a good amount of convincing, we got Jackson to eat a small bowl of plain rice so he could take some ibuprofen to help with the aches and fever. He even managed to empty half a bottle of water before lying back down with a groan. Bambam had brought in his laptop and played some music at a low volume to give us some background-noise. Mark had picked up Jackson’s Squirtle plush and placed it in the younger rapper’s arms. While I stayed seated with Jackson, the other three got comfortable on Mark’s bed. We engaged in a hushed conversation about the past weeks, telling Jackson what he missed while being away and discussing ideas for future projects and trips we wanted to take when having some time off. We didn’t expect Jackson to participate or even listen, he only needed to feel and hear us being there and including him though he was really out of it. Not even thirty minutes later, he was out cold in my lap snoring lightly. I was just glad, he was finally home and resting, my hard-working hyung.

#sickfic #got7 #jackson wang #mark tuan #bambam #park jinyoung #im jaebeom #jb #fluff #comfort

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29-pieces · 4 years

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Whumptober day 8 - The Musketeers

Day 8: Abandoned Fandom/setting: The Musketeers (BBC) - AU S3 where Aramis stayed with the others - war era Read on AO3 Read on FF.net

~*~

"Your friends have abandoned you to us, Frenchman. Comprende?"

He hears the voice, head lolling vaguely in its direction. Eyelids flutter open against the haze of whatever they've been dosing him with. Everything hurts. They haven't hurt him too badly, at least not that he can tell. Nothing worse than an acceptable level of getting a little roughed up by guards with too much time and not enough oversight. But he's been sitting or laying on this cold stone floor for- actually, he doesn't know how long it's been. How can he mark the passing of time in a windowless cell when he's spending half of his time drugged?

"No, they haven't," he slurs out loud in French. At least one or two of the Spaniards know the language; they're the ones who've been asking him questions.

A face swims into focus, offering a smile that's meant to be rendered as sympathetic but more resembles scorn. Someone grabs his hair and wrenches his head back and he can't help but hiss in discomfort and surprise. His reflexes are dulled by drugs and hunger.

"We hadn't intended on keeping you," the soldier speaking to him says, also in French but with a foreign accent. "The price for your freedom isn't much. Anything that might be helpful. How many battalions are held in reserve? Which direction will reinforcements be coming from? Who's in charge of the sabotage to our supply chain?"

His mouth clamps shut. He doesn't have much information anyway; he's not the captain. The soldiers who've interrogated him seem to know he has friends more important than himself, though, convinced that he has details to share.

The Spaniard tsks and shakes his head with artificial pity. "As you like. But I can't receive authorization to release you without something to show for it." And then he nods to whoever is gripping him.

Knowing what's coming, he thrashes, but he's manacled and fettered and drugged and he can't evade the hand that shoves a rag over his face. There's no fighting it, though he tries—of course he does.

It doesn't matter. Everything goes black.

.o.O.o.

"Why are you protecting them? Your friends left you to die."

The voice is back. It's grating. It's cold. Not as cold as the cell he's in, and he shivers uncontrollably, knees drawn up to his chest.

"They'll find me."

The Spaniard's face is full of that artificial pity again. "They aren't even looking."

He doesn't answer; his stomach growls. He can't remember if they've fed him today, isn't sure when yesterday ended and today began. He doesn't know how many todays there have been since he was taken.

The soldier in charge of his interrogation hears the sound and tuts. Waves a hand to someone in the doorway. Magnanimously hands over a crust of moldy bread.

He wants to decline but he's starving and growing weaker by the day. In his mind, he hears Porthos reminding him there's no chance of escape if he can't even move, has to keep his strength up and be prepared at his first opportunity. He grabs the bread before the Spaniard can change his mind. It's vile, almost a taunt more than a kindness, but he eats it anyway.

"Now, be reasonable," the soldier says, spreading his hands. "Surely that's worth something. A morsel for a morsel. How many musketeers remained in Paris to guard the king?"

He doesn't answer, just barely refrains from licking the crumbs off his fingertips—he's not that desperate. Not yet. He will be soon.

The Spaniard sighs. "Why carry on this way? It's been three weeks. You were never supposed to be here so long. We can't afford to keep feeding you so often. Give me something I can turn over to my capitan so he'll order your release."

...Three weeks? He turns his head in a refusal to respond, but also to hide the sudden pain. How could it have been so long... he has no way of knowing the passing of time, but it can't have been that long, surely? At the same time, it feels like it's been even longer.

"They won't leave me here," he whispers to the cold, dripping walls, the stench of sweat and waste, the rats in the corner with glowing eyes.

His captor sighs, gestures.

The cursed rag descends over his mouth and nose yet again to flood his mind with the pungent fumes.

Darkness grows darker, and hope begins to fade.

.o.O.o.

"I'm done playing games." The Spaniard is in a foul temper today, accompanied by several other guards.

He knows that's not good. He wants to climb to his feet, to have some chance of defending himself, but he can't even sit up by now, lying half dead on the freezing floor with chattering teeth and growling belly. If the sweat dripping down his face is any indication, fever has started to set in.

There's questions, but he only half hears them. Questions about troop movements and supply chains and other things he isn't privy to just by virtue of being in Athos's inner circle. Even if he had the answers, he wouldn't give them up. Perhaps they thought keeping him mostly drugged for all this time would weaken his mind and they're probably right, but not so weak that he would ever betray his brothers and his country.

Perhaps they've decided if the cold and the hunger and the drugs won't do the trick, their fists and their boots will. The blows descend and everything hurts even worse, until merciful blackness descends once more.

.o.O.o.

"You're a strong one, I'll give you that. But surely you must be hungry by now?"

Hungry? No, he was hungry before. Now he's starving, ravenous, half-mad with the emptiness in his belly. He thinks he might even sell his soul for another moldy crust of bread, but of course he wouldn't really. Not his soul. Aramis wouldn't approve. Can't disappoint Aramis.

"They aren't coming for you," he's told again and again. He wants to keep doubting but it's getting harder.

How long has it been? Weeks? Months? He's lost count of how many times he's been drugged into blackness. For all he knows, it's been years. Everything's foggy. Everything hurts. And now he barely feels the cold. It's been so long, why haven't they come for him yet?

...Are they coming at all?

"We'll let you go," he's promised. "But first some information. Then we'll release you."

But he stays silent, until his captor loses patience, lashes out, grips his jaw.

"You weren't even supposed to be here this long," he's told again. "You were only taken as a means to bargain. An exchange. But when we sent word of your capture, and our hopes of a trade..." The Spaniard grins, cruel and cold. "They declined."

He feels like this is some kind of trap, deep down, but he's weak and sick and oh God he's so hungry, and he finally despairs. Maybe they had no choice. Maybe the Spaniards wanted to trade him for someone worth far more than he is. Maybe Athos was ordered to decline. Maybe they abandoned him.

"Understand," his captor says, "that this underground prison is your life now. You will die here, today or years from now, forgotten and abandoned. Or... deny the so-called friends who left you to your fate, and help Spain end this bloody war. It's been two months, Frenchman. If they wanted you back, they would have come for you by now."

They haven't even brought out that vile rag and the awful drugs, but already his mind is starting to slip away without it. Abandoned...

A door thuds open so hard it cracks like a whip, like thunder, like his heart, but he barely hears it. Cheek resting on a cold, damp floor, he closes his eyes against the shouting and the steel. In the distance, everything soon goes quiet and then he's being lifted, sitting against something strong.

"D'Artagnan! Come on, pup, open yer eyes..."

"He's burning with fever," another voice growls, a cold hand pressed to his forehead. "Porthos, the chains."

Metal clinks, his wrists feel lighter. He's pulled up the rest of the way from the freezing stone, held tightly against something solid and comforting. Porthos, his mind supplies. His eyes blink and flutter, seeing a worried face gazing back at him. Aramis.

"Th'y said y' left me," he manages to say. "Be'n two months..."

"You've been missing for two weeks," Aramis corrects. "Athos has been out of his mind. There was no word... we thought you'd been killed."

Porthos was cursing. "Talk later, escape now."

He tries to move his feet, but two months or two weeks, he only remembers a few sorry excuses for food and he collapses instead, right into Porthos's waiting arms. His Gascon stubbornness urges him to walk out of there on his own power, but everything's fading again and he can't protest as his brother carries him out of that wretched cell.

"You're safe now," Aramis offers from somewhere directly at his side. A hand squeezes his. "You're safe, d'Artagnan."

He's slipping from consciousness, but he's safe. D'Artagnan thinks his lips are pulling into an exhausted smile.

"Y' came to fin' me..."

The supporting arms squeeze tighter.

"Aways, pup. Always."

#whumptober2020 #no.8 #abandoned #the musketeers #BBC musketeers #fanfiction #d'artagnan whump #captured d'artagnan #brothers to the rescue #poor pup

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

Link

Title: Mightier Than the Sword

Fandom: Witcher

Summary: A month after the events of "Rare Species," Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)

Pairing: Pre-slash Geralt and Jaskier

Word Count: 2,568

Where to read it: Below or on AO3

A/N: It’s a Christmas miracle! Look at me making an attempt at writing. I figured that if season one was going to leave us in that horrible place with Jaskier and Geralt’s relationship I’d just have to start fixing it myself 👍

The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters.

One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder.

“Witcher,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet.

Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall.

For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.

The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.

“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”

“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”

“Does this metal look fake to you?”

Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.

“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.

As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.

...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.

“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”

If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.

Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.

Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.

He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.

The woman smiled. “I know.”

Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.

The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.

“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.

Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”

“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”

But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.

Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.

A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.

Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.

“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”

He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.

“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”

Another sliver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.

“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”

Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.

He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.

“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”

Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”

“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”

If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vile of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.

He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.

The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.

It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.

Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.

Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.

Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him.

#witcher #the witcher #twn #geralt #jaskier #dandelion #geralt x dandelion #(pre-slash)#gerlion #witcherfic

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vydante · 5 years

Text

Restart | Avengers x Male! Reader | 9

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Avengers x Male! Reader (romantically: multiple)

Plot: Dr. Strange said there was only one possibility of winning the battle against Thanos.

But when (Name) is forced into the past and into his younger body, he’s suddenly given the chance to start over and prevent the future from happening again.

So which route are you going to take? Are you going to risk the future and take preventative measures, or live life with the Avengers for the next 4 years, knowing what will soon come?

A/N: Long- 5.29k words. Lmao did y’all miss me? Also, completely in POV of future timeline, so no actual (Name) ‘till next chapter. Granted, next chapter we get to meet someone pretty chill, so there’s that. So... yah.

It's safe to say that it's been a complete shit storm on Earth, Carol muses behind her cup of coffee.

Of course, it's not just Earth that's undergoing complete mass hysteria from the reversed blip. Other planets and societies beyond the Terran solar system were facing the after-effects of what had happened, too- and it doesn't help that Earth was so cut off from the intergalactic systems, so nearly everyone else didn't know of what had happened.

So least to say, she was quite busy trying to maneuver her way through the galaxies (with help, of course) to try and spread the word of what had happened.

Regardless though, she'd thought that after weeks and weeks, perhaps maybe the news would've slowed down a little bit. And it seemed to have, just a little bit, but for every time news slows, another wave comes in.

The first wave was about, obviously, the reversed blip. Of course, that one didn't have enough time to slow down as the next wave came around. The death of Tony Stark was announced a week after the fight- just so his family and friends had enough time to mourn in privacy. Then the next one about the sacrifice Natasha Romanoff made- though it was a smaller wave, it was one that still had a huge impact. And for a while, it seemed like that was that- weeks pass, and just barely had the craze around the reverse blip (Lord, there's got to be another name for this, Carol thinks) lessened.

And then (Name) Stark is pronounced dead.

To say the headlines erupted once again in a mad-dog-like frenzy would be an understatement. Hell- Carol would even dare say that it was almost as talked about as his father's death. Of course, it was in part due to, well, (Name) fucking Stark being pronounced dead. A man of his status was bound to capture the headlines with his passing for weeks, just like his old man.

But it was also in part credited to something else: the timing and nature of his death, or lack thereof.

Carol remembers watching the SI press conference a couple of hours ago, just as it finished broadcasting. She was a few light-years away from Earth as she heads back for check-in.

(New message, 3 hours ago: Maria R.

'Hey, I think you might wanna watch this before you come back to Earth. Just broadcasted. It's about (Name) Stark.'

Carol pauses, midway through drying her hair as she's about to put her uniform on. She'd be lying if curiosity wasn't eating at her, so she still clicks on the link Maria had sent her.)

(Name) was... A prominent figure within Earth's society. Being the CEO of Stark Industries (a massive company, so she's been told), a superhero/ Avenger, and the world's 'longest-running most eligible bachelor' (Carol scoffs- why is that one of the main things the public likes to point out so much?) definitely lands you underneath the people's microscope more often than not.

They'd pick at every nitty-gritty detail one by one and shred into it without mercy.

And even in his death, they did the same thing. Unsatisfied, they practically crucified Stark Industries and the Avengers after SI’s press conference.

She glances around her, the local tavern loud with nothing but one word on their lips: Stark.

'Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he died from like, an inside job or something.'

'Died too young, man. The kid had so much potential to be great... May God rest his soul.'

Carol shakes her head. They weren’t wrong- from what she’s seen working with (Name), he was a hard worker, that’s for sure. Sighing, she left a tip at her table and quietly left.

Hopefully, for Earth, they’ll come to find some peace soon.

"You okay, punk?”

'No,' Steve fiddles with nail absentmindedly, 'I'm not.'

That's his honest answer to the question. He wants to scream and shout to the world that no, he is not okay whatsoever, but he knows that's one of the many luxuries he'll never get to have anymore- even to the people closest to him. Too much of a burden no one would want to carry.

So, instead, he smiles at Bucky with more teeth than necessary, face straining ever so slightly.

"Sure thing, Buck'. Are you?"

The brunette offers him a small, sympathetic smile back. It's not the same as Steve had remembered- it used to be confident and relaxed, but nowadays it's always tense and careful. But then again, it wasn't like Steve was the same man either, so he'd be hypocritical to expect the same man from his memories from his old pal.

"I'm managing."

It was always something along the lines of that. Never an okay, never a not okay. Just... managing. Short and simple.

It's scary how much Bucky's reserved presence reminds him of how Steve himself used to be, back when he was wide-eyed and naive to what the world has become without him. He didn't really feel like he was actually there and knowing how separated he and the rest of the world were made him want to close in on himself.

On one hand, he'd never wish that feeling of emptiness on anyone. But on the other hand, he's almost relieved he's not the only one who's felt so completely alone in this world anymore.

Almost.

Steve doesn't say anything as Bucky comes over to where he was in the living room and sits adjacent to him on the couch. For a brief moment, they say nothing as the TV plays the news station. Steve pretends to watch the news, but he can't find the energy to care about what's going on in the news. It's all the same thing nowadays: Blip, Blip, Avengers, Blip, Starks...

Settling down in his seat, he lets his mind drifts off other places instead.

It drifts to a cramped, moldy apartment that was too small and cold for the average person, but just enough for him.

It drifts to an ugly tower, placed right at the epicenter of one of the most beautiful yet terrifying cities he's ever been in. Charming, and in every way a wonderful representation of the future.

It drifts to the loud yet comforting hum of the inside of the quinjet, sailing ever so smoothly into the night sky after a successful mission. Bruised, but satisfied.

It drifts to a sly redhead with one too many daggers slipped around her person, sitting next to a tired brunette wrapped up in blankets. Deadly, yet delicate. Open, yet intimate.

It drifts to a mystical long-haired blonde and an erratic billionaire, sitting together and joking about as if they hadn't just fought neo-nazis no less than an hour ago. He remembers a rush of fondness glossing over him as he passively observes them.

It drifts to a pair of warm, mirth filled eyes as they listen attentively to Steve ramble on and on about the war as if he had hung the moon. He relishes in the spotlight of their monopolized attention.

It drifts to the nights where life's not as unbearable as it usually is, as he sits across from a usually aggressive young adult quietly chatting about books they've read together: their own secret club. Warm, he reconsiders, comfortable. Content.

It drifts to quiet nights where he tries to focus on the ceiling rather than the erratic beats of his heart, images of his own teammate grinning tiredly at him, lips bruised, split, and inviting. Guilt courses through his veins, but so does heat.

Steve's mind drifts through lots of things before Bucky murmurs into the air nonchalantly.

"It's about Stark, isn't? The son?"

Steve holds back a flinch, praying that Bucky doesn't notice the red crawling up his neck. He wouldn't have been embarrassed if Bucky had meant Tony- of course, Steve misses him dearly- but for Bucky to go straight to you instead is mildly humiliating, to say the least. He can feel Bucky's eyes burning holes into his skull. It'd be no use trying to deny it, so Steve conceded with a reluctant nod.

"That obvious?"

"It's written all over your face."

Steve doesn't offer to say more, so Bucky continues, quieter this time.

"He seemed like a great kid."

Steve huffs with a small amused smile. He thinks back to when you two spent Valentine's Day together- not as a couple, obviously, but you claimed that the two loners on the Avengers team should have each other's backs. He chuckles absentmindedly. You two did nothing but watch movies and critique them all night.

Granted, it was more one-sided as he spent the whole night listening to you go on and on about how objectively, the Hunger Games books were far better than the movies, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. It was nice to hear you talk, especially when it's about something so trivial but important to you.

"One of the best," Steve half-heartedly offers.

"Tell me 'bout him." Bucky isn't looking at the TV anymore as his eyes are trained on Steve's.

Steve shrugs with a sigh.

"What more can I say that hasn't been said already?"

Ever since the SI press conference, countless of people came out to say great things about you, as they did with Tony. Countless of people praised you, especially with your efforts to help society get back on their feet ever since the blip. Even random people gave their one anecdote with you, whether it be a barista that had served you or folks at Morgan's daycare center whenever you picked her up.

Nothing but words of praises and kindness for you.

Bucky hums, understanding what he means. It wasn't like he hadn't looked at the news as of recently, either. For every 10 headlines that are published, chances are 9 of them have at least one mention of a Stark, whether it be the senior or junior.

They sat in silence once more, something Steve noted as a reoccurring theme between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it did make Steve's skin crawl, hoping for the other to say something just once.

"... You were sweet on him, aren't you?"

Though, maybe this was the one time he wished Bucky would've just stayed silent.

It would be horrifying to hear someone accuse him of being in love with his own (ex-) teammate if he hadn't already come to terms with it. Still, it's unnerving to hear someone pinpoint his feelings within a matter of a week or two when it had taken him up until it was too late to figure it out.

"Did it matter?" Steve runs a hand through his hair, almost as if it were a defense mechanism, but he insists it's not, "It's not like he was interested in me, anyways... Not especially after..."

Steve laughs quietly, almost bitterly so. If he thought he had any chance with you before, he sure as hell threw that chance straight in the garbage the moment he locked eyes with you at the airport. And it sure as hell didn't help when he had practically rag-tag teamed up against your own dad.

"Besides... He's a man of the future, Buck. He's so... so bright compared to everyone else. I can't- I don't have much to offer. I'm just- all I'm good for is fighting."

He sighs, and he'll deny it if anyone comments on how resigned it sounded.

"Not to mention, there're other people that he'd be happier with. People that wouldn't- wouldn't hurt him," 'Like you did,' his subconscious bitterly reminds him. And he wasn't wrong- there were other people you could be wonderful with.

You and Queens already had some chemistry, from what Steve's heard in the air. There was never anything substantial, but he'd pass by a few newspapers mentioning you and Spider-Man spotted together more often than not. You two would've been cute, Steve reluctantly admits. He wouldn't even be surprised if you two were dating.

Then there were a few others, too. Surprisingly enough, he saw you and King T'Challa, of all people, together too often in the New York Times, and even Wakanda's own news websites. His Highness' explained it was only ever about the Accords, but Steve wasn't so blind as to not notice how much more genuine T'Challa's smile seemed when you were brought into the conversation.

There was also Thor, too. You stopped talking to the rest of the Avengers save a select few after the initial blip in 2018, so there wasn't any new thing between you and Thor, but Steve reminisces when he'd catch you joking around with Thor and teasing the poor God. If not lovers, you two were most definitely good friends. Steve hates the fact that he's exceptionally happy at the prospect of you and Thor being just friends.

Not to mention the other seemingly boundless amount of people who you'd make a great couple with. Maybe it was just Steve being excessively attentive when it came to you, or maybe it was because everyone's eyes just seemingly happen to gravitate to you, no matter if there's hundreds of people in the room at the same time.

Bucky sighs and mutes the TV. Steve gives him a questioning look, but Bucky only raises an eyebrow back as he looks at him straight on.

"Those just sound like excuses. Never took you for a coward."

Steve bristles.

He'll admit that he's a lot of things. Frustrating, thick-headed, and quick to anger. And knowing other people, they have a whole list to add on to those too, whether it be positive or negative. But one thing he's never been was a coward.

"I'm not- look, I just know a lost fight when I see one, okay? He just- wasn't interested in me, and that's fine. Hell- he's probably not even into men."

Steve's mind lingers back to a picture lying in your old room, back when he used to come visit you just to say goodnight, or to ask you to join him in his morning jog. He never brought up the picture, rationalizing that it was too invasive of a question. You were with a girl- both of you seemed quite young- but it was obvious that you two were more than friends judging by the way you held her and the very obvious hickey on your neck.

His ears burn, and he's not sure if it's with embarrassment or envy.

"But you don't know that, though, do you? You ever asked him any of that? If he was into fellas? If he was into you?'"

Steve tears his eyes away from Bucky's stare, feeling his eyes burn into his skull.

Sure, he never asked you outright anything Bucky had mentioned, that much was obvious. And sure, even entertaining the (pleasant) idea that you were into men, it didn't take a genius to guess that you absolutely loathed Captain America. It was obvious, too. Especially ever since the 'scandal' of you deleting any tweets or photos you had uploaded that Steve was in.

(Of course, you deleted any photos the Rogue Avengers were in, but that didn't make the stinging hurt any less when Steve had found out.)

Bucky sighs and turns the sound back on. There was a tension in the air between them, but Bucky beat Steve from saying something as he speaks up.

"And the whole thing 'bout you knowing a lost fight when you see one?"

Steve raised an eyebrow. Bucky half-smirks.

"Not the Steve Rogers I know."

He gently punches Steve's shoulder and ruffles his hair, much to Steve's amused annoyance.

"The Steve Rogers I know would've charged headfirst into a battle, even if it was just him against the world. Oh wait- you already tried doing that."

Steve rolls his eyes and playfully shoves Bucky. The amount of razzing he had gotten from Bucky- and others, too, like Sam and Bruce (his heart curls, knowing that Natasha would've been among them as well, telling Steve off for trying to pull a 'bull-headed' move)- was more than enough for Steve to feel bad anymore at this point.

"Shut it." Steve jests.

They fall into a comfortable silence again, though this time Bucky turns back on the TV to a low volume. Steve glances at Bucky, who's got his chin rested absentmindedly on his hand.

"You know... You're taking this awfully well."

Bucky pauses, peering at Steve with a raised eyebrow.

"Taking what?"

"Me bein'," Steve pauses, trying to find the right words before giving up, "Er, into ladies and fellas."

Bucky doesn't say anything for a solid minute, and before Steve was about to start rambling, trying to just get Bucky to say anything, the brunette speaks up, but timidly so.

"It's... not somethin' I ever thought about, y'know? You bein'- bein' into guys, I mean."

He sighs and runs a hand through his shaggy hair. He keeps his eyes glued onto the TV with a soft gaze, so distant that Steve wants to know what he's really thinking about.

"We just... Never talked about it. Never... Never gave it a thought. I'd be lying if I said I was 100%, er, up to speed with it."

Bucky pauses mid-sentence. He waves his hands and flickers his attention to Steve for just a split second, almost as if he's nervous about what he's saying.

"Not the bein' gay thing, or whatever. Just... How open people nowadays are with that stuff."

Steve unclenches his jaw, not even realizing it had been clenched this whole time. It wasn't something that Steve had thought would be new to Bucky, and he almost feels dumb for not realizing it sooner. Hell, even when Steve himself had been defrosted, it shocked him that something as gay relationships were accepted now. Not that he was against it- but to see that the world had progressed like that without him made him hurt less whenever he thought too hard about the old times.

"Oh, Buck..."

Steve places an encouraging hand on Bucky's shoulders, and he almost seems to sag into it.

"Back then, you'd practically be crucified if you were caught."

Bucky's eyes are unfocused, lips pressed in a firm line. Steve doesn't say anything since he doesn't even know what to say to that.

Bucky, seemingly haven snapped out of it, smiles; though, it looks more like a grimace in Steve's opinion.

"Just- give me some time, 'kay? I'll come round sooner or later. Just... It's all still a lot, even after years of bein' here..."

'To the 21st century,' the words lingered on his tongue. Steve sure knows how that feels, to be overwhelmed by the new world. It's almost suffocating, knowing how much you've missed out on, and how different everything is now. It's like drowning, really.

Surrounded by so much, too much, and at one point it even feels like Steve's being dragged down further and further away from the surface no matter how much he tries swimming up. There's no one there to save him, either. No one to dive their hand down into the waters, no one to hold onto as they pull him back up to the surface.

It's just Steve, alone, in a bottomless ocean, drowning. And it's constantly filling up and up and up and God all Steve just wants to do is get away from there and be able to breathe.

Steve pats his shoulders, pulling him in for a side-hug as Bucky returns the gesture. He playfully ruffles the blonde's hair, much to Steve's annoyance, and gives him a lopsided smile that makes the tension in Steve's shoulder loosen.

"B'sides, you're still my Stevie. Not like you've sprouted horns and started killin' people."

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn't comment on that. Once again, they fall into a comfortable silence, though Steve's shoulders feel unexplainably lighter than it has in days.

The sun's almost gone by the time Steve gets home from the group therapy session he was at. It was the same old, same old. Go in, talk about your feelings, and listen to other people afterward. Sure, it helped, and it felt great to empower people to get back up from a great fall, but it just...

It doesn't really fulfill him nowadays.

Hell, he's not sure what can fulfill him now.

Settling in, he notes that Bucky's room is dark; chances are, he's probably out right now. Before, Steve used to be worried about him, but now it's not uncommon for Bucky to be gone every now and then. Steve doesn't really ask where he's going, so long as Bucky doesn't tell him. One day, maybe he'll ask.

Regardless though, Steve rummages around in the fridge to see what he has to work with in terms of dinner. But before he could even take out anything, his phone buzzes with a notification.

Taking out his phone, still halfway into the fridge, Steve glances at the display name.

It's from Rhodes.

Raising an eyebrow, he taps on the notification. It's rare that Rhodey texts, and it's even rarer for him to text Steve of all people. Nowadays, other than any Avenging business, they don't really talk. Granted, Steve also never finds the energy to talk to anyone these days, save a select few and those at the group therapy sessions, but that's beside the point.

So if Rhodey is texting him, it's gotta be important.

And judging by how fast Steve had bolted out the door and onto his motorcycle, it sure as hell was important.

From: Col. James Rhodes.

To: Capt. Steve Rogers, Dr. Bruce Banner, +3 others.

"Dr. Strange's back. He has new information about (Name), and it's major. He's not staying for long. - James."

Pepper doesn't want to be here.

There was no going around it- as composed as she was and had to be, she knew she could only take so much before she would snap. And sitting in the compound once again, she wouldn't be surprised if what she was about to hear would be the final straw.

She had plans today, too. She was supposed to take Morgan to go see the neighborhood fireworks festival, and she remembers distinctly looking forward to taking Morgan on the ferry-go-round, too. And yet, here she is, at the compound which once used to be lively, but only whispers of her husband and son echo in the hallways.

She had already been sitting in here for an hour before Steve had finally made it. By then, Bruce and Strange had already explained why they were here.

Just like Tony and Natasha, it seemed like your fate had already been set in stone the moment Stephen had spared the time stone for Tony's life.

But that wasn't what they were called in here for; or at least, in a way that Pepper had initially thought.

Bruce was talking, and as if he was concluding his monologue, he spares a sympathetic glance at everyone in the room, especially at Pepper. She just wishes he'd stop throwing glances at her as if she was a fine piece of China ready to tip over from the cupboard at any moment now (She knows she almost is, but she'd rather be caught dead than to have an emotional breakdown at a time like this. What was it- Stark men are made of iron?)

"And besides... We've retrieved video recording of what happened that day. From DAHLIA."

The only thing in her vision is red. But she doesn't raise her voice. ('Am I going to have to watch it?' She thinks) She doesn't move from her spot as she stares at Bruce, eyes dilated ('Yes, of course, you want to know what happened,' her subconscious betrays her). Her ears are pounding and she doesn't know whether she wants to laugh or cry.

"And why did it take you so long to get the recording?"

She watches like a hawk as Bruce and Stephen grimace. They glance at each other with uncertainty, but it's Bruce who bites the bullet and speaks up.

"Because, ah... We didn't think about it...?"

Suddenly, all she wants to do is scream. Lifting a shaking hand to her head as there's now a pounding at her skull, she clenches her eyes shut.

Breathe in, breathe out.

She opens her eyes and boy, does she hate the way that everyone's avoiding her gaze. Even the ever so elusive Sorceror Supreme (In her head, she knows he's not at fault. In her heart, she wants to spit on his name.) pretends to be busy, but she knows.

She knows.

She sighs, ignoring the tremble of her lips, and dismissively waves her hand at Bruce.

"Just play it. Please."

Bruce silently nods and pulls up a recording. It's dated back to the day of the reversed blip, a quarter past afternoon.

Pepper crosses her arm, praying that no one sees her hands quake as the recording starts.

It's dark and decrepit, with a good portion of the screen glitching out. There are charts and tables everywhere, and Pepper now recognizes them as his health stats. The walls all blur together as she tries to bite back the tears.

There's rubble everywhere. In the distance are lights from fires, but you're so far down there's barely any light at all. Your face isn't in view, and rather what she sees makes her heartache even worse than before.

A gleam of metal jutting out of your stomach is front and center of the camera. It's huge- about the width of her thigh- and it's stained red. Your breathing is labored and short, obvious signs of a panic attack as the sounds of you gasping echo in the room. No one says a thing as an Australian voice speaks up in a frantic.

"Doll! Doll, I need you to breathe! You're going into shock!"

There's no response from you as you continue to hyperventilate. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Steve's jaw clench and Bruce covering his mouth. She doesn't react to Rhodey's hand squeezing her shoulder as they all watch on.

There's a weird sound coming out of you. Pepper's heart clenches, and at this point, she doesn't even care that she's crying now- because she knows what that sound is.

That's the sound of you hiccuping.

You're crying.

You- one of the strongest men she knows, an Avenger, a hero, her baby- are crying, alone, and she was none the wiser to your suffering.

You're moving- oh God, your arm- and the video feed pick up scuttering and growling. Her stomach drops even further. Chitauri.

Your other arm grasps all over your lower body, barely gliding past your wounds (oh God, please tell her that's not a steel beam) and into your pockets. There's an orange tint, barely there, but in your hands as DAHLIA speaks up again.

"Don't move! You've been impaled by a steel beam and your prosthetic arm has been dislocated- any more movement will result in an increased blood loss! I am attempting to contact Mister-"

There's the sound of glass shattering before the video camera shuts off. The charts suddenly spike unnaturally, going practically haywire as the only thing left coming from the screen is the sound of DAHLIA's voice glitching.

"-er-er-er!"

It was a horrific way to go if Stephen's being honest.

Of course, as both a doctor and Sorcerer Supreme, he's seen- and even experienced- his fair share of gruesome injuries and deaths. It was par the course, so it wasn't enough to make him want to empty his guts.

But he'd be lying if he said that he didn't at least feel his stomach curl in when he had to witness your 'death' the first few times.

Seeing you crushed under debris, your prosthetic arm hanging by a few strings, and literally impaled by a steel beam wasn't a pleasant sight whatsoever. Add on watching your scared form hyperventilating and hearing your A.I. trying to calm you down with heartbreakingly real panic in her voice, and it was downright unbearable.

And that was the best of it: there were ones where the steel beam had sliced through your skull or where you had been straight up mauled by the Chitauri as you didn't have your suit on hand, for whatever reason. There were other scenarios where the chitauri had mobbed-up your decapitated head, and Thanos had presented it to the older Stark, just as he was about to grab the stones. That one move proved fatal for everyone, as even Stark had lost his composure at the sight of his dead son.

As much as Stephen doesn't want to say it, he knew that what had actually happened to you was the best possible route that had been chosen for you.

The video ends, and the Captain leans away from the wall he was positioned on.

"What the hell happened? One moment- he was trapped under rubble, the next, nothing? Suddenly we lose all contact with him? What- did he just- pop out of existence?"

He's frustrated, angry. Stephen would be lying if he didn't feel an inkling of the same emotions as him. Stephen runs a shaky hand through his hair.

"You're not entirely wrong, Captain. What happened to him was similar to that of St- Tony," He corrects himself prematurely, "and Romanoff."

"You telling me he was meant to- to die too? Like Tony and Natasha?"

Stephen shakes his head, ignoring the seething anger in the captain's voice. In the corner of his eyes, he sees Rhodes wrap his arms around Pepper, who's sat still in her chair, staring blankly at Stephen. It's almost as if she's seeing past him for a split second as if she's looking at someone else behind him.

There's only a wall next to him. He ignores her, skin prickling at her unwavering attention, yet eery silence.

"It's a means to an end. I can't pick their fates, Captain. That's not how my powers work."

'Though, it would've been better for the sake of everyone had it did work that way.' Stephen bitterly remarks.

"Besides that, I never said he's dead, Captain. Or, shouldn't be, anyway." Stephen carefully avoided answering if it was a necessity that you were to go.

Stephen internally sighs, knowing immediately that wasn't the right thing to say judging by the 'oh God' Pepper just muttered.

Rhodes speaks up with a clenched jaw. He had been silent this whole time, but Stephen wasn't foolish enough to not recognize how even he had been bothered by the film. Whether it was because of the gore, emotional connection, or both, Stephen doesn't care enough to ask.

"Then what exactly are you saying?"

Stephen, once again, ignores how confrontational his tone is. He doesn't blame Rhodes for his frustrations; being a doctor, it's inevitable that he'd come and get used to people like this.

'They're mourning,' he hears imaginary Christine chiding him.

Stephen sighs. He's not even sure how to break it all to them, as even he's not too sure of what has become of you after the film. But regardless, Stephen reels himself back in and composes himself.

He pulls back the need to add any fluff words and says what he's been inching to say ever since he had attended Tony's funeral.

"Stark's traveled back in time; the only problem is, is that we don't know when and where."

Masterlist

Tagged: @unsolvetheheckoutofit

#avengers #avengers x male reader #avengers x reader #male reader #male reader insert #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x male reader #male!reader #stephen strange x male reader #bucky barnes x male reader #carol danvers #pepper potts #james rhodes #rhodey #bruce banner

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maaaaarveeeeel · 4 years

Text

Marvel Story

Title: I'll betray all of you in the Hunger Games

Summary: Steve read The Hunger Games, then found out there were movies. Peter brings them over and the Avengers spend a Saturday binge watching all four movies.

"So there's a movie that goes along with these books?"

"Yes Steve, for the fifth time, there is a movie, and before you ask, yes they are all out." Tony sighed, placing his head in his hands. "Who let Cap read The Hunger Games?"

"Nat." Clint mumbled, picking up the book and flipping through the pages. "Did you really make notes in the book?"

"All of them." Steve answered snatching the book back. "Do we have the movies?"

"I don't know. Probably. The kid brought a bunch of movies over the other day. Ask him." Tony looked up and sighed again at the giant smile that spread across Steve's face.

Steve then turned from the counter and quickly walked towards the elevators to find Peter. Clint and Tony just laughed. They'd never seen him so excited about watching a movie before.

Steve found Peter in the gym with Wanda and Natasha. The two were teaching him a few basic fighting moves. He watched for a few minutes before approaching the three.

"Hey Cap, what's up?" Peter asked panting on the floor. Natasha had thrown him over her shoulder as Steve approached them. "Here to spar?"

Steve chuckled and helped Peter up. "No, I was wondering if you had the Hunger Game movie series?"

Peter smiled and nodded his head. "Yeah I do! Wanda said you were reading the books, so when I brought the movies over the other day I made sure to bring over all the movies!"

Steve smiled like a kid in a candy shop. "Thank you Peter! That was very thoughtful. I just finished the last book."

"Oh cool, maybe we could movie marathon this weekend then?" Peter looked at the two women who had giant smirks on their faces. They nodded their heads and mumbled their agreements. "Awesome! Think Mr. Stark will let me invite Ned over?"

"I'm sure we can convince him. Now come on, back to your lesson. Goodbye Steve." Natasha shooed Steve and flipped Peter over her shoulder again before he could wave at Steve.

Steve just chuckled and left the gym. He headed back to the living room area to find the movies and set them by the DVD player. He then sent out a group message to everyone to let them know Saturday was movie day.

-Saturday-

"Hey Mr. Stark, thanks for letting me come over for movie day!" Ned said as he settled in his seat next to Peter.

Tony just rolled his eyes and handed the two a bowl of popcorn. "Of course kid. You're Peter's best pal, and we don't leave best pals behind. Even if they're ex-assassins or destroyed New York. Do we Cap? Thor?" Bucky and Loki flipped Tony off while Steve sighed and Thor laughed. "Thought so." Tony smiled and plopped down between Pepper and Bruce.

"You know I saved your ass from a dessert right? Or did you forget that?" Rhodey asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I-"

"Don't start that up again Stark." Thor growled.

Tony closed his mouth and crossed his arms.

Ned looked at Peter for an explanation and Peter just mumbled he'd explain later. The pair jumped when they heard Steve mutter under his breath and looked towards the DVD player. Steve was pressing buttons and muttering under his breath about technology. The pair laughed and Peter picked a remote up and pressed a button to open the DVD player.

"Here Steve. Just put the DVD in and I'll play the movie."

"Thanks Pete." Steve mumbled standing and falling into his seat between Sam and Bucky.

"It's okay Cap, at least you know it runs on some form of electricity." Tony laughed as Steve threw a pillow at him.

"Shut up Stark." Steve laughed.

"All of you shut up, the movie is starting." Natasha hissed from where she was laying on the floor.

The group fell silent as the movie started. About halfway through the movie Clint paused it to make himself popcorn. When he returned he sighed as half the group was missing. Bucky, Loki and Sam went to the restroom. Thor and Steve went to make popcorn and get drinks for everyone else. Peter left to call his Aunt and Ned went with him, not wanting to be left by himself. After about ten minutes everyone had settled back into their spot and they started the movie back up.

Once the first one ended Steve jumped up to put the second in and everyone sighed. He frowned and sat back down and watched Peter open the DVD player with the remote as Clint put the second movie in.

"Before we start the second one, is anyone getting hungry?" Bruce asked, looking around the room.

Everyone nodded.

"We should get lunch!" Peter sighed.

"Pizza?" Bucky asked looking around.

"Yes!" Thor shouted pointing at his friend.

"I'll order it." Tony said pulling his phone out. "I've done it enough, I know what everyone likes by now."

Peter hit play on the movie as Tony ordered the pizza. A half hour later FRIDAY announced that their pizza was there. Peter paused the movie and watched as Steve and Thor got up and disappeared down the hallway. A few minutes later the two emerged both carrying five pizza boxes topped with bags of other stuff.

"Geez Tony, did you order the restaurant?" Bucky asked running a hand through his hair.

"You try feeding two teenagers, two super soldiers, two gods, two still assassins, two scientists, an enhanced being, a Rhodey, whatever the hell Sam is and my wonderful, smart beautiful lady on two pizzas." Tony deadpanned at Bucky.

"Did you just say 'whatever the hell Same is'?" Sam asked as he walked over to set everything up. "Really dude?"

"Yeah, yeah, be happy I added you in at all bird-man." Tony laughed following behind.

"What about Vision?" Thor asked grabbing plates.

"I don't eat." Vision yelled from the couch.

The four men laughed then set the food up. Once it was done they called for the others to come get it. Soon everyone was gathered around the giant counter grabbing plates, pizza, salad, wings, chips making mini sandwiches and getting a drink. Tony always went all out when they all got together. After they all attacked the food they were soon back in front of the TV. Peter hit play and the group munched on their lunch and enjoyed the second movie.

When it ended Steve once again got up but was met with glares and sat back down. Peter and Clint went through their little routine of putting the movie in. Before Peter hit play Steve cleared his throat and everyone looked at him.

"Before we continue, I want to ask everyone something."

"What's up Cap?" Sam asked, shoving a piece of pizza in his mouth.

"Who all has read the book?" Everyone but Bucky, Rhodey, Loki and Sam raised their hand. "Alright, so everyone else knows what's about to happen then?"

"You sound like you're preparing us for a battle Cap." Clint chuckled looking over his shoulder from where he was laying on the floor next to Natasha.

"Well, it's gonna get pretty intense." Steve laughed. "Just wanted to warn anyone who hasn't seen it."

"No spoilers!" Peter and Ned yelled in union. "Number one rule of fandoms Steve."

"Of what?" Bucky asked raising an eyebrow.

"Fandoms. Ya know-"

"Just know that if you read a book or comic or watch a movie or show before anyone else you can't talk about it." Tony explained. "Because if you do you're spoiling it for them, and that's not nice."

Steve's face turned red and he bit his lip and nodded his head while mumbling an apology. Everyone laughed at how red his face turned. Loki and Bucky rolled their eyes and yelled at Peter to just play the movie.

Peter chuckled and hit the play button. Before anyone knew it the movie was over and Clint was quickly putting the last one in. As they waited for it to start everyone was mumbling amongst themselves. Once it started everyone immediately went quiet and turned their attention back to the screen. Tony reached for the remote and paused it, earning annoyed groans from the group.

"Yeah, yeah shush." Tony rolled his eyes. "If anyone wants food, bathroom break, or drinks go now. Once we start we aren't pausing."

Everyone looked at one another then quickly jumped up and ran to either the food or bathroom. Once everyone went to the restroom or got food they settled back down to finish the final movie. Tony looked around to make sure everyone was ready then hit play.

As the movie went on those that read and had already seen the movies knew what to expect, but the few that hadn't seen the movies yet frowned a few times at the changes. The few that neither watched nor read the book watched with wide eyes as the movie played.

As it came to the conclusion Pepper, Thor and Peter were wiping tears from their eyes. Bucky looked over at Sam and laughed.

"Are you crying?"

"What? No." Sam sniffled wiping his nose. "I got something in my eyes.

"Why'd ya wipe your nose then?" Bucky laughed.

"Shut up man!" Sam said punching Bucky.

"Hey, cut it out you two!" Steve laughed pushing his two friends. "It's a sad, yet happy ending Buck."

Bucky rolled his eyes and sighed. The rest of the group started to laugh and discuss the movie with the people around them.

"So Steve, was it how you imagined it?" Peter asked smiling.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck in thought for a moment before replying. "The movies are definitely good, but the book is definitely better."

"Don't read Jurassic Park then watch the movies then." Clint said sitting up to face the group. "Book is nothing like the movie."

"Hey, spoiler!" Steve whined. "I'm in the middle of Jurassic Park!"

Peter and Ned smiled at Steve's use of the word spoiler.

"Does that mean Jurassic Park marathon when you finish the two books?" Ned asked hopeful.

"I mean I wouldn't call that a marathon, aren't there only two books?" Bucky asked.

"Two books, but five movies." Natasha said joining Clint in sitting up.

Bucky and Steve's eyes went wide while the group laughed.

"So hey, I've always kinda wondered this, if the Hunger Games were real and all of you got picked to go, who do you think would win?" Ned asked looking around the room.

The room grew silent as each of the Avengers looked at one another.

"Well, I think that's an unfair question," Pepper said slowly, "I mean two members are literal gods and two are super soldiers."

"Plus two of us are enhanced." Wanda commented. "One being more powerful. No offense Pete."

"Uhh...none taken?" Peter said raising an eyebrow. He didn't really want to start a fight with Wanda.

"I think we'd form a group, like they did in Catching Fire. Work together to take down the Capital." Steve commented, trying to ease the sudden tension.

"I'm with Steve!" Peter said looking around the room. "I mean look at everything we've been through already. In the end we always come together."

"Yeah but that's because it was us against them. In this case it'd be us against each other." Sam said flatly.

"Yeah but…" Peter raised a finger then immediately dropped it not knowing what to say.

"Kids got a point though." Clint said. "A lot of us have been to hell and back together many times. The Capital would just be another hell to go to and come back from."

Many of the team nodded their head and voiced their agreements. Loki, Sam, Bucky, Rhodey, Natasha and Vision looked skeptical.

"May I say something?" Vision asked. Everyone nodded. "You're all talking as if we'd be put into these games in modern times, where we all know one another. However, if we were to be put into these games we'd have to be living in this world, and the likelihood of us knowing each other, and being friends, is very low." Vision explained. "Given the different districts and how few there are of us, even if we all were from the same district, given how many people lived in one place, we'd likely only perhaps bump into one another. However, to be sent to the games all together would be impossible."

The group stared at him for a moment before Loki spoke up.

"Not entirely true."

"Which part?" Bruce asked.

"All of us being in the games together."

"How so Loki?" Vision asked curious.

"The Quarter Quell in the second movie." Loki simply said.

"That would mean each of us is from a different district and won a game at some point." Wanda started.

"It would also help with the age difference, since they picked from the winners." Natasha continued.

"And there are fifteen of us here. So all the boys are covered for the districts, and three of the girls." Pepper finished.

"But that still doesn't mean we'd all like one another." Bucky said flatly. "Especially the two newer ones that year."

"Well some of us would." Steve said patting his friend on the back.

"So some of us would team up to take the Capital down?" Peter asked.

"And Captain America would be our Mockingjay." Tony said smiling as he leaned forward and raised his drink.

Everyone agreed to that and raised their drink. Steve blushed and looked at his feet.

"Well I know one thing for a fact." Natasha said leaning back on her arm and taking a sip from her drink.

"What's that Nat?" Steve asked.

"I’ll betray all of you in the Hunger Games." She said simply.

Everyone looked at her for a moment before laughing. Loki and Bucky shared a look and smiled. Out of the three of them it would probably be her anyway.

#marvel story #mcu #steve rogers #tony stark #peter parker #james rhodes #loki #thor #natasha romanoff #clint barton #bucky barnes #sam wilson #vision #wanda maximoff #pepper potts #marvel #my story #i posted it on ao3 too

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chicgeekgirl89 · 4 years

Text

Mercy is Out of Your Reach: Chap. 2

Fandom: SEAL Team

Characters: Sonny Quinn, Clay Spenser, Jason Hayes, Lisa Davis, and the rest of the team

Read Chapter 1 Here

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“I want to know where they are now,” Jason demanded, hands on his hips as he paced the room in agitation.

“We lost ISR because the drone hit a bird,” Davis said, fingers flying over her keyboard. “I’m contacting our allies to see if anybody eyes in the sky that we can take a look at.”

“Well do it faster,” Jason snapped.

“Jay.” Ray was leaning against the wall, calm as ever and it just pissed Jason off more.

“Don’t!” he said, holding up a hand in warning. “They were right there and we didn’t get to them in time and now they’re gone.”

“We’re all doing everything we can,” Ray said. “It doesn’t help anything to go flying off the handle.”

“Well it makes me feel better.” He ran a hand over his face. “I want to know why they were taken.”

“Might not be connected to the op,” Blackburn said. “Maybe they saw two Americans and thought it would be a good ransom grab.”

Jason fixed him with a look. “You really believe that?”

“I’m just trying to cover all our bases Jason.”

Things had gone to hell so unbelievably fast. One second they were listening in on a conversation, the next there had been screaming and banging and by the time Jason, Trent, and Brock had gotten into the café it had been emptied out. Clay and Sonny’s comms had both gone offline immediately and Sonny’s button cam shorted out shortly thereafter. They’d circled the whole town for nearly two hours, searching for any sign of their brothers before Blackburn had called them back to base.

It felt like they’d abandoned Clay and Sonny and it was eating at Jason’s gut. You didn’t leave your brothers behind. Not for anything. “You all should take a break,” Blackburn said.

God damn the man and his indefatigable calm in times like these. All Jason wanted to do was rip a room apart, while guys like Blackburn and Ray could just stand around like it was any other day; like having teammates in mortal danger was no big deal. “No. We’re not leaving until we find them,” he said.

“Nobody’s putting you on a plane home Jason. You all need a break,” Mandy said. “Go. We’ll call you when we find something.”

Not if; when. Leave it to Mandy to be so sure. But Jason knew that finding them was only half the battle. For all they knew their boys were already dead. And every moment they stayed missing would only make that more likely.

“C’mon Jay,” Ray said as the other guys moved slowly out of the room.

The team settled at a table in the makeshift mess, everybody eating out of duty rather than actual hunger. “You gotta eat Jason,” Trent said quietly as Jason stared moodily at his dinner.

“Yeah well they’re probably not eating.” Jason’s leg was jumping under the table and he ran a hand up and down his thigh, anxiety crawling inside him. There were two of them, they could support each other. Unless they weren’t together. And either way, with Sonny sick…

“Which is all the more reason you should,” Ray said. “Need to be on top of our game if we’re going to get them back.”

They were right so he swallowed something down, but his mind was still in overdrive. “Let’s go over it again.”

“We’ve been over it Jason, nothing’s going to change,” Full Metal said.

“We’re going over it again,” Jason ground out.

They all shot looks at one another but nobody protested further so he pushed ahead. “Ray and Full Metal were on overwatch. What did you see?”

Ray sighed. “Everything was going according to plan. We went high, rooftop across the street. View of the front of the café. I got on the scope, Metal was there with back up.”

“Clay and Sonny entered the café. Thirty-two minutes later some of Farhad’s guys entered. At forty-three minutes there was a bang and we saw smoke coming out of the front of the café,” Metal continued. “Nobody came out the front but civilians. The targets did not reappear and neither did Clay or Sonny.”

“And we were down the block in the van,” Brock said. “Eyes on the back door the whole time. Nobody came out there either.”

“Then how the hell did they get out of there?” Jason asked. “If they’d been taken on foot we would’ve caught up with them. Why didn’t we see them get thrown in a truck or a van?”

“Could have been an alley door,” Trent said. “Space between the buildings is so narrow, Davis said they couldn’t get a good look on ISR.”

“You’re telling me they took out two Tier One operators and managed to drag them down an alley?”

“They weren’t heavily armed,” Brock said. “Sonny was off his game. If they surprised them and there were enough guys…”

Jason worked his jaw. “We need another look at that café.”

He stood, intent on heading out immediately but Blackburn appeared as if he sensed his team leader about to fly off the handle. “Not tonight you’re not. Nobody outside the wire.”

“They don’t have—“

“Time. I realize that,” Eric said. “But you can’t go back in the dead of the night and start snooping around. If anybody sees you they could tip off the captors and then we’ll never find them. Not to mention it could compromise the op we came here for in the first place. Let us work the problem overnight and you can head back out in the morning.” He looked at the rest of the team. “Get some sleep. All of you. You’re going to need it.”

Jason felt the team watching him, waiting for the okay. He gave a short nod. “Go.”

His eyes stayed on Blackburn. “I want an answer Eric.”

“We all do,” Blackburn assured him. “Get some sleep. If we find anything I’ll come get you myself.”

Jason took his time heading back to their temporary bunk room, unable to stop his mind from turning over and over. All of this for some chatter that might not even be anything. They’d come here to find out when Farhad Mahmoudi was planning to arrive and who else might be meeting with him. Instead they’d ended up down two brothers.

The tightness in his chest was creeping back in and he took a few deep breaths trying to keep it at bay. He couldn’t lose it. Not now. Not with Sonny and Clay’s lives on the line.

Everyone was up before sunrise and when Blackburn saw them coming through the door he didn’t seem surprised. Davis and Mandy were both still there, Mandy looking at a map of the area while Davis had her ear glued to the phone.

“Anything?” Jason asked.

“We would have gotten you if there was,” Blackburn said.

Judging from the many empty coffee cups littering the table none of the support staff had slept. Jason felt a rush of gratitude toward them and also a smidge of guilt. Yes, Bravo needed sleep to be ready for a rescue op, but it stung to leave the work up to the rest of the group.

Davis hung up the phone, defeat all over her face. “I’ve called everyone I can think of. No one else had eyes on this area during the time Clay and Sonny were taken. France has a team in country, they said they’ll help if we need a rescue op, and everyone has promised to let us know if they hear chatter, but we have no additional visuals.”

It was clear from the silence of the group that they were disheartened. Hours of work and they were no closer to finding their brothers. Jason looked to Eric. “We good to go take another look?”

“I’ll authorize it,” Blackburn said. “But I don’t need to remind you to keep things quiet.”

“It’ll be like we’re not even there,” Jason told him, already halfway to the door.

They all piled into a trucks, choosing to leave Cerberus behind rather than attract attention with a domesticated dog on a leash. “Ray and Brock are going into the café,” Jason said as they drove. “Metal, Trent and I will scout the outside. Be on the alert. They took our boys once, let’s not give them anybody else.”

Ray met his eyes. “We’re going to find something.”

Jason nodded. They had to. There was no other choice.

Ray and Brock headed inside cafe while Trent, Metal, and Jason began casually scanning the street. Jason immediately walked to the back of the café and then around the side. Sure enough there was an alley. It was narrow, but just big enough for a man to walk through. Further inspection in the dirt showed him drag marks, making his chest feel tight all over again.

“Jase!”

He looked up to find Metal and Trent beckoning him further down the alley. “There’s a door here,” Metal said, nodding toward it.

“The drag marks go right up to it,” Trent said. “If they took them into this building and came out further down the block or around the corner, could explain why we didn’t see anything.”

Jason nodded. “Let’s take a walk.”

They left the alley and continued their walk up the street. Crisscrossing tire tracks covered the road making it impossible to tell which might have belonged to a vehicle carrying two Navy SEALs. He was just about to suggest they move on when a shop on the other side of the street caught his eye. “Hey,” he nodded toward it.

“That a camera?” Metal asked.

“Looks like.” Jason thought for a moment. “Let’s get Ray and Brock over here.”

It didn’t take long for Bravo Two and Bravo Five to rejoin them. “Anything?” Jason asked.

“Lot of the same faces we saw yesterday,” Ray said. “Definitely a spot for locals. D’you find something?”

“There’s a shop across the street that looks like it might have a camera,” Trent said. “If we could get a look at that footage…”

One hastily constructed plan later, Ray and Brock wandered into the store, making sure to go as far from the door as possible before Brock “accidentally” smashed something very expensive looking. Jason snuck in the front door and slipped behind the counter unnoticed as the owner went back to yell at the two tourists who were destroying his merchandise. He felt a wave of relief when he immediately found the connections for the camera and an even more relief when it turned out to be an extremely old model with a tape. Hopefully the owner wouldn’t notice it was missing for a while. He pulled it and hustled back the truck, waiting anxiously for Ray and Brock to settle up and head on back.

“Did you get it?” Brock asked when he and Ray slid into the back.

Jason nodded as Metal floored it and took them back to base.

God bless Davis who had somehow managed to procure an appropriate player for the tape by the time they returned. “What did you have to do to get this so fast?” Ray asked as she inserted the tape.

She smiled. “A magician never reveals her secrets.”

“Listen, it’s going to take time for us to go through this,” Mandy said. “And it doesn’t help to have you breathing down our necks. Go take a break. We’ll get back to you.”

“We’re not leaving,” Jason said. Why did everyone keep trying to kick them out of this?

“Mandy’s right,” Lisa said. “Having all of ya’ll standing around watching isn’t going to help. Get outta here.” She locked eyes with Jason. “You’ll be my first call.”

He nodded. He didn’t like it. But he trusted Lisa and Mandy. If anybody was going to find their boys, it would be them.

#SEAL Team #Mercy is Out of Your Reach #Chapter 2 #Sonny Quinn #Clay Spenser #Jason Hayes #Lisa Davis #Savis #Whump #Clay Spenser Whump #Sonny Quinn Whump

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sheliesshattered · 4 years

Text

Fic meme

I was tagged by @primarybufferpanel -- thank you darling, this was a ton of fun to do!

This got a bit long, so I’ll put the people I’m tagging here at the top: @claraaoswald, @ambitious-witch, @someillplanetreigns, and @junoinferno, if you feel like playing!

My AO3, my old non-updating fanfiction.net

Fandoms I’ve made fanworks for: Oh lord. I’m only going to count fanfiction that has actually been posted, but if I tried to count up every fandom that I’d started writing for and left unfinished fragments languishing on various harddrives and googledocs over the years, it’d be at least double this list. I have two pseuds on AO3, with the fics roughly organized by fandoms that I post about on this Tumblr account (sheliesshattered) and fandoms that pre-date my time on Tumblr that I don’t post about very much (glasscannon). Putting all the fandoms together in one alphabetized list:

Black Sails - 5 Doctor Who - 8 Firefly/Serenity - 1 Game of Thrones - 1 The Hobbit - 1 The Hunger Games - 1 Iron Man - 2 Law & Order: Criminal Intent - 1 Mad Max - 2 Once Upon A Time - 1 Poldark - 3 Star Wars - 3 Twilight - 7 The West Wing - 1

Number of fics: 38, including a big unfinished epic that I never moved over from ff.n, and don’t plan to unless I finish it someday.

Fics I spent more time on: I’m not even quite sure how to measure this. I’m a slow writer, and a single story can easily hold my attention for years at a time, or be something I return to when there isn’t a newer fandom temporarily consuming me. I don’t tend to keep track of how many hours I put into a fanfic, though. The unfinished epic I mentioned is probably near the top of that list, and was a huge part of my life from 2009 to 2013. Other contenders would be the All Hands series (written with PBP!), and Truth Universally Acknowledged, particularly if you include all the massive world-building that went into that one.

But really probably the one I’ve poured the most hours into, between research and writing, is a Doctor Who epic that hasn’t yet seen the light of day, called Home The Long Way ‘Round. Because I have such a habit of starting long stories and then not finishing them, I’m making myself get that one completely done before I post any of it to AO3, so I don’t have anything to show for it yet, but I’ve put a ton of time into it over the last five years or so. Hopefully someday I’ll actually get to share it. :)

Fics I spent less time on: Like I said, I’m a very slow writer, so any time I can turn out a story in a matter of days I’m just absolutely shocked. I wrote The Message over the course of about 24 hours, which is probably the fastest I’ve ever finished anything in my life ever, lol.

Longest fic: The All Hands series is sitting at 126,800 words, and PBP and I have more finished for it that we’re hoping to post soon-ish. The unfinished epic made it to almost 119,000 words before I ran out of steam. Truth Universally Acknowledged racked up about 54,000 words before my co-writer and I took a break from it, and probably triple that in world-building bibles and timelines, etc. On the works-in-progress side of things, Home The Long Way ‘Round is sitting at about 40,000 words currently and only about a third of the way done, and the For As Long As We Get series is at 21,000 words between what I’ve posted and what I’m still working on, and will definitely continue to grow.

Shortest story: 10 Seconds, at 208 words. Also one of the very first fanfics I ever finished and posted online.

Most hits: Truth Universally Acknowledged, by like a factor of 20 vs anything else I have on AO3. It’s the only time I’ve written for the main pairing in an active fandom (tho my purview in the co-writing was more on the secondary pairing), and that translated to a stupidly large number of hits. Fanfiction.net doesn’t count hits the same way, but the unfinished epic is sitting at about 3500 favs.

Most kudos: Setting The Stuns’ls, the first in the All Hands series -- which is SHOCKING considering that’s a tiny rowboat of a fandom, for a non-canon background pairing that has literally about 30 seconds of shared screentime, and the two romantic leads don’t so much as kiss over the course of 94,000 words (longing looks, significant hand-touches, mutual pining, definitely, but kissing, not so much).

Most bookmarks: Truth Universally Acknowledged, by a long shot.

Fic you want to rewrite or expand: I don’t tend to edit a story once it’s been posted, beyond correcting a typo or adding a missed word. Once it’s published, it’s finished and I don’t change it significantly. I do have quite a few (so, so many) unfinished stories that I would love to finish up at some point.

Total words combined: Counting only published fics, including the unfinished epic (and a companion piece for it) that lives only on ff.n, I’m currently at 376,542 words total.

Fav fic you wrote: How can you make me choose between my children like this, honestly?? Siiiigh. I’m with PBP, whatever I’m working on currently is usually my favorite. I’m having a ton of fun with For As Long As We Get, and can’t wait to publish the next part of that, hopefully sometime this month. I’m incredibly proud of All Hands, and that occupied such a specific time in my life that I’ll always think of it fondly. I’m exceptionally happy with the character voices and use of language in both Breathe Again and Upon This Rock Will I Break Myself, Until It Shows Me Your Beloved Face, and tend to feel like they don’t get enough love vs how much I love them. But my one true favorite is and will always be Home The Long Way ‘Round, and hopefully I’ll actually be able to finish it and post it someday.

Share a bit of your WIP or idea if you have anything planned: Again, how can I possibly choose just one?? Even just within the Doctor Who fandom, I currently have more than half a dozen stories actively in progress. But since I’ve talked it up so much without being able to link to it at all, and just declared it my all-time fav, I’m going to break one of my own rules and post the whole first chapter (eek!) of Home The Long Way ‘Round behind a read more:

Chapter 1: Orange Dreams

The sound of the wind is whispering in your head Can you feel it coming back? Through the warmth, through the cold, keep running ‘til we’re there. We're coming home now, we’re coming home now. —Home, Dotan

The winds shrieked and howled around her. Clara had never been in a tornado, but she imagined it would feel like this to stand in the eye of one. She could see gusts lifting the tops off the sand dunes in shimmering ribbons, gold against the orange sky. The waves of airborne sand dissipated a few feet from her, leaving only a jagged grittiness in the air.

A woman with long blonde hair was yelling at her, her words ripped away by the wind.

“Tell me again!” Clara called back to her. “Tell me how to find home!”

“It’s just physics!” the other woman shouted, taking a step closer; they were nearly the same height. “No information can ever be lost! Start from zero, and run the math! We’ll be waiting on the other end of that equation!”

There was something Clara desperately wanted to tell this woman who looked at her with kindness behind the steel of her eyes, but in that moment, the words wouldn’t come.

“Look!” someone yelled behind Clara, and though she didn’t want to take her eyes off her, she instinctively looked up, following the line of the other person’s arm up into the gathering storm-whipped dusk. There, silhouetted against the last of the light, was the unmistakable blue boxy shape of the Doctor’s TARDIS, spinning quickly as it flew away—

Clara jerked awake, her heart hammering against her ribs, already sitting up and pulling off her sleep mask before she realised what had woken her was the sound of the TARDIS materialising in the sitting room of her flat. She took a moment to catch her breath, trying to hold onto the details of the dream. In the other room, the TARDIS’s familiar wheezing and groaning came to a stop with a soft thud, followed by the squeak of the door.

“Doctor?” Clara called, not bothering to hide the sleep nor the annoyance in her voice.

He poked his head around her bedroom doorframe, grey hair awry and his most innocent expression plastered on — which meant he knew he was waking her and felt at least marginally bad about it. “Hello, Clara. It’s Wednesday,” he said pleasantly, by way of explanation.

“Is it?” she asked, deadpan.

“Technically.”

“You do know that I have to work today, don’t you?”

“Not for another six hours. So come on, up-and-at-‘em, plenty of time to go out and save the universe and still be back in time for your morning coffee. I’ve an adventure that simply won’t keep, so come on!”

His excitement was infectious, as he must have known it would be, but Clara clung to her annoyance a little longer, mostly for show. “You have a time machine: everything can keep,” she replied, but waved him off before he could launch into a lecture on all the ways that statement was false, at least from a temporal physics standpoint. He lectured anyway, hovering outside her bedroom door as she dressed, though Clara expected it was mostly to keep himself from pacing in anticipation. She followed more than half of it, and worried a bit over how often she let him babble on about the minutiae of time travel these days.

By the time the universe had been set to rights — or at least one small blue world, home to a race of sentient seahorses, that had been facing imminent extinction in the form of a rogue exoplanet — she had nearly forgotten her unsettling, vivid dream.

Given the recent events on Skaro, Clara was unsurprised when bits of her experiences there began to filter into her dreams. Truthfully, she had expected to dream of it more often than she did, but in the weeks that followed, more nights than not her sleeping mind instead conjured up the strange orange landscape. She revisited that screaming sandstorm so often it became almost comforting, and before long, other dreams joined it.

Clara was leaned against a railing on a high balcony, overlooking a large city coming alight as dusk crept on, a rusty sunset that stretched the width of the horizon bathing the world in amber. The woman with the serious eyes and long, straight blonde hair stood beside her, in the middle of a conversation, as happened so frequently in dreams.

“Alright, but what about the last stage?” Clara asked, elbows resting next to hers on the railing. “That bit depends on us actively doing something, and you know we can’t rely on my knowledge. I can’t take any of the engineering or navigation with me, so it’ll be down to him.”

“And he loves a good puzzle,” the other woman said confidently, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a twitch of her head. “He’ll want to find us. He’ll figure it out.”

“Before I die of old age? Are you sure? My mother was one of his professors at the Academy, I’ve seen his test scores. I think we need a fail-safe.”

“He did graduate,” she pointed out reasonably.

“He passed his exams with a fifty-one percent on his second attempt! No, we can’t assume he’ll have all the baseline information to even consider such a solution, much less actually accomplish the maths. We have to find some way to hide it with me,” Clara said. “Or in his TARDIS.”

The woman was silent for a long moment, her mouth set in a thoughtful line. On the distant horizon, the sun had finished its slow descent, but below them the city was coming to life, the light not so much fading as changing sources, becoming ever so slightly more golden.

“By that point in the timeline,” the blonde woman said, speaking slowly, still thinking it through, “you’ll have been exposed to his timestream and to the crack in the universe, so some of your memories will probably start leaking through. If we structure the extraction the right way, we might be able to embed a particular thought or moment into your consciousness before you go into the Schism.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Clara asked, turning her head to look at her.

“This conversation?” she suggested, laughing, her broad smile transforming her face. “No, a phrase would be cleaner, I think.”

“‘Run the math, you idiot boy’?” Clara suggested, also giggling.

“Oh yes, that’d go over well! No, if you want him to do something, call him clever. Works every time!” she laughed, leaning her shoulder into Clara’s.

“The horrid thing is that I know the temporal physics for this is part of my mother’s coursework,” Clara groaned. “If he hadn’t slept through so many of her classes, this would be a non-issue!”

“Ah, but a Doctor who was always responsible? What a boring universe that would be!”

Above them, the stars were beginning to come out, though the glare of the city obscured them. Through the haze of the dream, Clara couldn’t find any constellations she recognised. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I was the one who helped him steal that box in the first place.”

“And if he could take half a moment to remember that,” the blonde woman said seriously, “he might realise the role of his TARDIS in all of this, and start to think of the solution that way.”

“‘Run the math, you—”

“Clever.”

“—boy, and remember when you met me’?”

The other woman nodded, considering. “That could do it. Your chronodeterminate conjugation won’t work until you come into contact with at least a little regeneration energy. Assuming you choose regeneration on Trenzalore, it might start kicking in then, in plenty of time for the last stage.”

“Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me,” Clara whispered up to the distant stars, cradling her chin on her arms against the railing.

The woman mimicked her position, the golden light of the city and the silver light of the stars catching in her long pale hair. “It’s just physics,” she murmured back. “Start from zero and run the math. I’ll be waiting at the other end of that equation. We’ll all be waiting.”

As unsettling as they were, at least the orange-tinged dreams were better than nightmares of Daleks, of being locked in the Dalek casing, unable to convince the Doctor that it was her, it was her, she wasn’t a Dalek, she wasn’t a Dalek! Dreams of the Doctor peering at her down an eyestock, this face or the last, or any of the others buried deep in her subconscious, hearing her but not knowing her, seeing her but not saving her.

Clara grasped for that orange sky, let it carry her away in bronze sandstorms, golden cities slowly coming to life, and starlight caught in tawny hair.

Monday morning third period found her Year 10 students taking an essay exam while Clara doodled on a scrap piece of paper, trying to pull images and phrases out of the orange haze that had taken up residence in her slumbering hours since Skaro. There were bits that tugged at her memory, like a song she couldn’t quite place but whose tune was intensely familiar.

She’d written Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me across the top of the page, and her eyes strayed to it every few seconds. The phrase had stayed with her after she woke, and had been on the tip of her tongue ever since, as though it was a message she was meant to deliver. Below it she’d rewritten the phrase, but crossed out six words: Run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me.

It was too close for comfort to the phrase that had, in retrospect, changed her life, sent her on her current course. The Maitlands’ mnemonic for their wifi password, which she’d said out loud during that first phone conversation with the Doctor, had caught his attention somehow, and it wasn’t until she jumped into his timestream that she understood. It was the last thing she’d said to him before sacrificing herself to save him. Every fragment of her scattered through his timestream had said it to him at some point as well, the words reverberating endlessly up and down his timeline.

Why her dreams would dredge it up now, and in such a strange context, Clara had no idea. They didn’t feel like random images, but more like memory-dreams, like the bits of echo lives that filtered through to her sleeping mind from time to time. It had to mean something.

Half way down the scrap paper she’d written: It’s just physics. Start from zero and run the math. Below this was the very helpful ??? and Clara idly traced over the question marks again. Physics was still a foreign language to her, despite how much the Doctor prattled on about it at times. She could bring this to him, she mused, but what was it, really? Her subconscious doing backflips in the wake of Skaro, that was all. No grand mystery to solve, no universe-altering secret code, just her. She wouldn’t bother the Doctor with this quite yet.

Besides, she was certain she could tease this apart on her own, follow the clues to their logical conclusion without his assistance. The dreams were insistent, and felt familiar, but Clara was sure she’d never dreamed of the blonde woman and the orange sky prior to Skaro. That was the next clue, then, and she jotted it down on her scrap paper. Something had changed after Skaro, something that caused her subconscious mind to dredge up these particular buried memories.

She needed more information. Dreams about her echo lives were always stronger when she was aboard the TARDIS travelling in the Vortex, sharper and easier to remember. Maybe these orange dreams would be, too. And maybe the TARDIS itself would have some answers for her.

Of course, she didn’t sleep aboard the TARDIS very often, with her insistence on returning home for a week of Real Life in between their Wednesday trips. But the Doctor was never adverse to her sticking around longer than she’d planned, and in the end it didn’t take much to convince him:

“I’ve a staff meeting at work that I’m dreading,” Clara told him on that next Wednesday, when they returned to the TARDIS after their latest outing. “So what do you say I have a little kip and then we squeeze in another adventure before you take me back to face my workday?”

She thought for a moment that the Doctor might question the change in their routine, but he seemed thrilled about the idea. When he announced that he had some tinkering with the engines he’d been putting off that should keep him occupied while she slept, Clara made an excuse to linger in the console room — “just going to finish reading this chapter, then off to bed” — until after he’d gone. Once he’d disappeared down the corridor and around a corner, she quietly set aside her book, then slipped out of her armchair and down the stairs towards the console. The rotors hummed overhead, and somehow Clara knew the TARDIS was aware of her, and was curious to see what she would do.

Carefully clearing her thoughts, she made her way over to the telepathic circuits, pushed up her sleeves, and slid her hands into the strange interface. Focus was the key, she knew, and she was nothing if not focused. She closed her eyes and held two very specific thoughts in her mind: the sand-whipped orange sky in her dreams, and the clear question, Where, please?

She hoped the please would help.

It was a long quiet moment with the circuits warmly cradling Clara’s fingers, and then something on the console beeped. Her eyes flew open and she carefully extracted her hands from the telepathic interface before pulling the monitor down to eye level.

Gallifrey the screen read in English, below an image of a startlingly red-orange planet. Immediately prior to the Time Lock.

Clara felt her heart thud painfully against her ribs as she read the brief text again. She’d been dreaming of Gallifrey? She knew she’d had an echo life on Gallifrey, but she remembered that interaction with the Doctor, and it happened indoors. She had never before dreamt of the Gallifreyan sky. Had it been buried somewhere in her subconscious with the rest of her memories of that life? Why surface now?

More confused than ever, she clicked the screen back to the desktop, unreadable Circular Gallifreyan floating idly across the display. Perhaps she should bring this up with the Doctor — it was his home world, after all. But the whole point of this had been to dream while they were in the Vortex, and if she didn’t get a move on, he’d be ready for their next adventure before she’d even managed to fall asleep. She could talk with him about it later.

And if things worked tonight as she hoped they would, maybe she would even have a bit more information to bring to him when she did.

“Fire suppressant in Pod Four!”

The frantic call was quickly overwhelmed by the sound of the requested suppressant dispensing from the ceiling. When it ended, the speaker, dressed in the dark red uniform of a technician, brushed soot and foam off his shirt.

“It hates me, that one,” he said, nodding at the unassuming gray cylinder in the open pod in front of him. It was devoid of features, even its doors invisible now in the wake of the fire, two meters tall and one meter in diameter, just like all the other patients in the workshop. But somehow it did seem to be glowering at him.

“And it always will, stop wasting your time,” his coworker said flippantly. He was perched in front of a console on the other side of the room, deep in his own repairs. “Just get the Impossible Girl to do it, she’ll have it eating out of her hand by lunchtime.”

Their conversation occurred in the time it took Clara to enter the large oblong workshop and make her way to the far end where the two were working. “I heard that,” she said seriously, earning a guilty-looking jump from the man who had spoken most recently. She continued over to Pod Four and leaned against the outer casing, arms folded over her uniformed chest, one booted ankle crossed over the other. “What did you do now?” she demanded of the first technician.

He looked at her with wide eyes, more out of genuine fear than mock innocence, in her estimation. “I just told it—”

“You what?” she snapped, in a tone she usually reserved for misbehaving students.

He wilted a little but started again “…I told it to—”

“Told it?”

“…to give me access to the logs,” he mumbled, dropping her gaze.

“Told it to give you access to the logs?” she asked, voice harsh. “Well first off, Number Four here prefers male pronouns, respecting that might put you on better footing. And secondly, as with all TARDISes, you’ll get a lot further if you ask rather than tell.”

Behind her, the other tech scoffed. “They’re machines, we shouldn’t have to baby them like that. An access request is an access request.”

Clara turned her head to pin him with an icy glare. “Some days I cannot believe I let you work here,” she told him bluntly. “They aren’t just machines, as you very well know. Yes, there’s hardware we need to be able to work with, but that’s nothing more than a radio, at some level — only instead of radio waves, we’re using oswin waves to talk to pan-dimensional beings so large, they can’t have a physical form in this dimension. Who, with a little extra energy, can take us and an infinite amount of folded space to nearly any point in spacetime. Just think about the massive intelligences that speak to us through each of those machines!

“But more to the point,” she said, turning back to the tech still covered in soot, “you have to understand their viewpoint of the universe, and their understanding of time. A Time Lord telling a TARDIS what to do is akin to creating a fixed point in spacetime. It’s in their nature to want to avoid fixed points. Ask instead, let him find his own way ‘round to it.”

Before the beleaguered technician could reply, there came a polite knocking from the far end of the room, and Clara turned to see a soldier standing in the doorway of the workshop, looking a little out of his depth. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a message for—” he paused to glance down at the datapad in his hand, “for the Oswin. From the Lady President. Top priority.”

Clara was moving towards him before he’d finished speaking, curious and concerned, her attention focused on the message in his hands. But the dream faded out before she reached him, her mind moving on to something more abstract, more difficult to hold on to.

When she woke in her bed aboard the TARDIS, she stared at the ceiling with fond frustration. “If that was your attempt at help,” she whispered to the ship, “then I do not understand the message.”

It still wasn’t enough to bring to the Doctor, she decided later that day, watching him spin around the console room in the afterglow of a successful adventure, people saved, the universe bettered. So she was dreaming of Gallifrey, what of it? Many of the details in that last dream matched up with what she remembered of her interaction with the Doctor in that life. And while he occasionally enjoyed comparing memories of all the times her echoes had met him, she’d found he wasn’t especially keen on discussing the one in which she’d helped him steal the TARDIS and leave Gallifrey. Susan continued to be a point of pain for the Doctor, all these centuries later, and Clara understood him well enough to know better than to pick at that particular scab.

Still. That phrase was on a loop in her head: run the math, you clever boy, and remember when you met me. The emphasis on their meeting hadn’t been part of the original phrase, and now she was dreaming of the life in which they’d met face to face for the first time, from the Doctor’s perspective. Clearly they would have to discuss it at some point.

Eventually, but not yet.

#long post #about me #my writing #like seriously all of it #fanfiction #fandom life #AO3 #Home The Long Way 'Round #For As Long As We Get #All Hands #Truth Universally Acknowledged #et al #if you read that chapter let me know what you think!#❤️

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