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absolute-snzaster · 2 years

Note

49 for the sick prompt list, pls! ^^

@stormyweaver thank you so much for the ask!! And uh. Whoops. Trust me to take a four word snz prompt and turn it into 1.8k of gay fucking yearning.

49. "Not with that cold."

W/itcher fic. G/eralt with a cold, J/askier with so many feelings oh gods he just has all of them help. Content advisory for vague descriptions of mess. Thank you SO MUCH to @sniction-fiction for beta reading this and just generally encouraging me to write my gayass snz content. This is the first time I've actually posted fic to snzblr! Hope y'all like it!

...uh, don't reblog to non-kink blogs I guess? idek why ya would 😅🤷🏻‍♀️

Not With That Cold

The inn door thumped open and Jaskier, working his audience up to the climax of a song, almost dropped both his lute and the note he was holding at the sight of the man who walked through it. His Witcher was positively bedraggled, water pouring off him from his hair to his boots, an icicle actually clinging to the tip of his prominent nose. He looked pale, too, paler than Jaskier had ever seen him, and—was he shivering? That couldn't be right. Geralt of Rivia did not shiver.

Fuck me, the bard realized, he is shivering.

Jaskier tacked a hastily strummed final chorus onto the end of his song and bowed, one eye still following the drenched man who was now plodding his way up the stairs at a rate of what seemed to be one per minute. "Well now, I'm afraid that'll be all for this chilly winter night, good people of this… particular… village! I'll be back tomorrow evening, do come 'round again and enjoy another show." He turned surreptitiously to the barkeep, clacking some flamboyantly-earned coin onto the counter. "And a hot bath for my friend tonight, if you wouldn't mind," he said in a quieter voice.

Geralt grunted as Jaskier scurried up the stairs behind him. "We're–snnnffff–we're not staying another night."

"That, dear Witcher, is a matter of opinion," Jaskier returned. "By the gods, Geralt, you look like you fucked a particularly frigid water witch. What's happened to you?"

"Contract was a drowner. The lake was frozen."

Jaskier spluttered. "You–?! You fell into a frozen lake? Geralt!"

"Didn't fall, I was dragged."

"That! Is not! Better!"

Geralt grunted again and returned to hauling himself up the stairs.

—

Jaskier fussed disconsolately as Geralt sunk into the bath, laying out all his wet things before the fire in hopes they'd dry sometime before the year turned. "A frozen lake, Geralt, really, a frozen lake… of all the stupid, stubborn, bullheaded things you could have…"

"Fuck off and let me bathe in peace, Jaskier."

"If you think I am leaving you alone for one more—"

Geralt groaned and rubbed at his brow. "Fine," he conceded, "but if you must be a pain in my ass, do it quietly."

Jaskier turned to him with an offended retort at the ready before realizing Geralt was still rubbing uneasily at his temples. "Dear Witcher, is your head troubling you?" he asked, lowering his voice to a near whisper. Geralt grunted quietly in response. "Well, that won't do at all," Jaskier tutted. "Come, then, it's time that hair of yours had a wash, in any case."

Before Geralt could protest, the bard was massaging his scalp with nimble fingers, rinsing the icy lake water out of his hair and replacing it with the heat of the bath. He uncapped a vial of his own hair oil and combed it through the silver strands. Geralt sniffed.

"Why does my hair smell of bard."

"Because once in a while it ought not to smell of sweat and old monster blood, dear Witcher."

The Witcher sniffed again, harder this time. "It–huh–it'll make me–HUH'AHSCHOO!"

The sneeze overpowered Geralt in a way only his own body could, spraying thick, messy droplets into the bath and leaving his teeth chattering in its wake. "Geralt!" Jaskier exclaimed, sounding almost personally affronted. "You're sick!"

"It's m'by bathwater, I cad s'deeze id'to it if I wa'dt to."

"No, you blithering fool, you're actually sick! Unwell! Feverish! Taken with cold!"

"It's just the sce'dt." Geralt folded his arms across his chest beneath the water, trying to contain the shivers that still wracked his body.

"Bullshit, Geralt, you don't sneeze when I wear it! And it certainly doesn't make your teeth rattle around like that." Jaskier huffed. "Unbelievable! You are absolutely unbelievable. Starting a cold, oh, and don't tell me you didn't know, you must have known with all your fancy Witcher senses… starting a cold and you walked out into the thick of winter and got your leather-clad arse dragged into a frozen fucking lake." The bard sighed deeply, as theatrical as he was sincere. "Oh Witcher, Witcher, what ever am I to do with you?"

"You could–sdf!–you could shut up, for a start," Geralt grumbled, sinking deeper into the bath.

—

Jaskier lay awake on the shared mattress with his mind adrift. He meant to be concentrating on the crackle of the fire, determined not to let it burn out overnight, but the sounds coming from his immediate left were holding his attention far more effectively. His Witcher was curled on one side with his back to him, coughing weakly—a sound that felt absolutely wrong coming from the sturdy, powerful Witcher—and sniffling every few seconds.

"You should sleep," Geralt murmured, without turning over.

"You should sleep," he retorted quietly. "I'm worried about you, you know."

"You've–snff–you've seed be catch cold before, Jaskier."

"Not like this," the bard fretted. "Not pale and shivering and having gotten dragged into a frozen lake by a fucking drowner."

"Are you going to bring up the frozen lake thing every—"

"Yes!" Jaskier hissed.

Geralt snuffled. "Go to sleep, bard."

"Fine. I'll try if you do."

"Huh."

Can't even "hmm" properly, and he thinks I'm overreacting, Jaskier scoffed to himself, but he lay back and tried to keep his end of the bargain all the same.

It didn't last.

"Huh! Hh!"

Jaskier turned his head as subtly as he could toward the sound. What on earth was—

"Hh'KGNx't!"

Oh.

"Hd'SCHgn'kt! Hn'KXt'ch! Hdd-tCHMpft!"

Jaskier rolled over and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Well, don't hold back on my account, dear Witcher."

As if he had only been waiting for permission, Geralt's nose obeyed. "HURRASSSHHOO! HUH-TCHOOO! HNNGH-CHOO! HUT-SHOOOO!HUH-USSHHOOO! HURSSHOOO! HUR'UTSCH'SCHOOOO!" The massive sneezes tore their way out of him at gale force, followed by a deep, wrenching spasm of coughs that the poor Witcher must have been holding in all night. He sniffled, thick with congestion, and groaned miserably. "Sorry."

Jaskier gave his shoulder an awkward little squeeze. "Blessings, dear—." The usual title caught in his throat. Just 'dear', then.

Geralt's only response was another thick snuffle. Jaskier sighed. "You haven't got so much as a handkerchief, have you." The Witcher grunted, triggering a stifled cough. "Here," he murmured, wrestling his own out of his sleeve. "Go with my favor, or whatever it is those courtly ladies say."

"You'd k'dow," Geralt sniffled, but he took the handkerchief all the same and blew his nose so hard Jaskier thought he'd tear the fabric. "Guh… oh, fuhhck… huh-hhuh-HRRMPTCHOOO! HRMPHTCHOO! NNGH'TSCHOO! huh-huh-huh-HHURASCHHOOOO!"

He blew his nose again, sounding absolutely exhausted, and Jaskier decided he hadn't liked that handkerchief much anyway. "Blessings, my dear–oh, you're trembling again."

Geralt said nothing, only tensed a little, as if trying to belie Jaskier's words. His effort failed.

Oh, this stupid man is going to break my heart.

Jaskier inched toward the shivering Witcher until there was nothing but a hair's breadth between them. Slowly, hesitatingly, he pressed his whole body into Geralt's broad back.

Geralt didn't speak, didn't move, didn't give the slightest indication to acknowledge that the bard had touched him. But he didn't pull away.

Jaskier laid his arm over Geralt's and pressed his cheek to the Witcher's shoulder, his heart full with all the things he couldn't say.

—

"H'nGXsch't! Huh-tCH'mpt! HR'EGSCXHT'CHOOOO! Fuck!"

Jaskier woke to the sound of sneezes too strong to be stifled. "Blessings, Geralt," he mumbled sleepily, rolling toward the other man's warmth, and promptly finding himself flat on his face in the spot where he was certain the Witcher had been only moments before. "Where the hell—Geralt?"

The Witcher was standing at the foot of the bed, tugging on his still-damp boots. Jaskier huffed like a matron. "And just where do you think you're going?"

"I've got a'dother cod'tract," Geralt rasped. He swore under his breath at the sound of his own congested voice and emptied his nose into Jaskier's already-ruined handkerchief, wincing and groaning quietly as if he didn't think the bard would notice.

"Not with that cold, you haven't." Jaskier sprang up from the mattress and ran to the door, valiantly attempting to block it with his slender frame. "You're not going anywhere but back to bed. Or–or you'll have to go through me."

Geralt lifted him up like a ragdoll and set him aside.

"I mean it, Geralt!" the bard cried, catching the Witcher's wrist with exasperated insistence. "You mustn't go out like this! You're going to get yourself killed, and then I'll–I won't—"

"Won't what, Jaskier?" Geralt turned on him and snarled, his own frustration boiling over. "You won't have anyone to turn a pretty profit writing songs about? Won't have someone to keep you fed and warmed and protected, since you can't seem to do any of those things for yourself? Well, never mind me, bard, I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding another nobleman's wife to take up with when I'm gone."

"I'll never have done this," Jaskier said, and kissed him.

Well. Fuck. This certainly is a gamble, Jaskier mused, savoring the taste of the salty slickness on Geralt's lips for as long as fate would allow him. Even odds it'll capture the great idiot's attention properly, or he'll walk out that door and never speak to me again and probably get himself killed after all.

Geralt kissed back.

Jaskier melted into him, hands grasping blindly, overwhelmed with the prodigious need to touch every inch of him at once. And just as quickly as it started, it was over, Geralt was pulling away exactly as Jaskier had feared—but no, the expression on the Witcher's face wasn't disgusted, it was—

"huh-HURSSSCHHOOOO!"

Geralt heaved to the side and unleashed a sneeze that spattered the floorboards. "Sorry."

Jaskier caught him by the shoulder, steadied him. "Blessings," he breathed.

Geralt's fever-dimmed eyes were searching him with as much focus as he could muster, looking at him as though he'd never really seen him before. "Oh," he said, finally.

"Oh?" the bard replied.

"So that's what you've been following me around for all this time." It was a question, even if he didn't pronounce it as one.

Jaskier shifted, dithering. "Well. And the profit."

"Huh."

"And the food. And the warmth. And the… protection," he finished nervously, twisting under the Witcher's gaze.

"Uh huh." It was hard to tell when his mouth was occupied with breathing, but Jaskier could swear the bastard was smiling at him. Actually smiling.

"And the point is, I don't get any of those things if you go off and catch your death out there, so please, for the love of all the gods in all their special little godly places, you beautiful, stubborn idiot, will you please come back to bed!?"

"I—HURRRSSSHHTCHOOOO!" Geralt started, buckling at the knees and grasping Jaskier's shoulder for support. "Sdffff. I suppose I will."

#snz #snz kink #sneeze kink #snz writing #coldfuckery #mess #g/eraskier #snzfic #snz fic #sneeze fic #sickfic #my fic #wow finally a post I can tag 'my fic' ahaha #oh man y'all protective j/ask is So Much #he wants so badly to be soft and calm and nurturing #but he also wants to Yell

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Not on my boat

Pairing | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary | whilst helping Sam fix his boat, during the midst of its progression, Bucky corners you within the old Wilson heirloom, leaving your friend and future captain, rather disgusted in the both of you.

Warnings | tfatws spoilers, mentions of death, some angst, smut, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, bit of choking, swearing

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Hearing the waves crash against the side of the boat brought a smile upon your face, as you felt the breeze brush against your face. It was peaceful, fixing something rather than leaving it broken in order to save lives. If you weren’t swarmed with the government on your tail about how you were not allowed to use your powers, you’d be living out a free and happy life with the man you loved.

You were enduring a break from your assistance on the old Wilson vessel, your legs plodded around its platform, as you surveyed every piece that was in progress. Soon it would be in tip top shape, and when Sam and Bucky’s relationship was on par with that, that was when the two of you had planned to leave. There were plenty of things the two of you had to make up for before you could reside in peace; one of those things was that list of his.

It was a ledger of the amends that he had to make, a reminder of all the lives that had either taunted his own, or he had stolen from whilst he was not himself. James did not deserve the grievance that he was pardoned with, he was struggling, that much was clear. He had lost Steve, and then he was forced to watch as the shield had been handed off to some wanna be cap. To say he had been furious at Sam was a deep understatement, but as said, he was making amends.

Sam was a good man, you had learnt that much from the time that you had spent avenging to him. You had yet to tell him, but you weren’t planning on going back to that life after Karli was stopped, you wanted to continue working in the small shot bar slash grill, where Bucky and Youri would visit during your hours for lunch, and remain in that partition of worlds. Having Bucky and normalcy was a fine balance, which was a deep seated structure that you deeply needed.

If you did not have that then you were sure you’d explode, and hurt someone, or break something. That was no longer your duty, the fighting that you had spent most of your life giving into was coming to an end, and you were more than fine with that. A civilian life sounded good enough, and something that you could definitely settle for, though, you weren’t sure that Bucky would do the same, you hoped that he would.

That gleam in his eye was far too noticeable every time that he looked at that star striped shield. It had brought him much pain, but it had been there in the corner of his sight everywhere he had went. And now, Sam Wilson, the man that his best friend had entrusted with it, finally accepted the mantle, holding it in his firm grasp, ready to become the next captain to walk the earth, and both you and him knew that he would do far better than Walker could.

He was already a hero, he’d been fighting the Sam foes as Steve for some time, that was enough to know that he was ready. His hesitancy had been understandable, more so after listening to Isiah, though, it was nice to see Sam take his own path on this one. There were pictures of his younger self assembled upon the wooden walls, he was with his sister Sarah. She seemed like a nice woman, a part of you wished that you get to know her better, but she wasn’t a buyer into the whole superhero get advantages agenda, and nor were you.

From what you could tell, Sam had his advantage right here; his family. Sarah was supportive of him, always aiding him necessary, whilst she simultaneously raised to young boys, that looked admirably up to their uncle, and feeding the kids that they went to school with because their parents had no intention to. If you could, you’d buy a replica of her life, her head was above water, although the boat almost wasn’t.

The boat. It was an heirloom, something that you did not have of your own family. Everyone was gone, the only person you had was Bucky, and thinking of him caused a light chuckle to fall from your lips, he made you endlessly happy. But neither of you could have the picture perfect life, and that was why the pair of you worked, you were each well aware of the restrictions that taunted you both, and had both been down dark roads on more than one occasion.

Things were turning brighter though, as the sun glared through the old glass, casting luminosity to stroke the high points of your face. A gently creak had your head diverting to the door way, where no other than James Barnes was leant up against, his metal arm pressed to the frame as he adoringly swept his oceanic pools over your form, slowly stepping closer.

“What are you thinking about doll?” He asked you, his tone genuine, as you sighed from his words, rubbing your eyelid as you felt a small itch. You puffed your cheeks, as you placed your hands on the super soldier’s waist, rubbing small and vigilant circles through his grey shirt.

“Too much.” It was an honest answer, everything was rattling around like pins in your mind, sinking in and letting loose to their own will. They could not be organised, they would only tumble about again, until the box was empty, though, for now, you had nowhere else to put them.

“Sarah said we could spend the night.” At his words, you hummed, taking note once more of how generous the woman indeed was. “We get the couch, so you best be on your best behaviour baby girl, nothing dirty goes on inside.” A small smirk crept its way onto his handsome face as you gasped at his spoken intention, lightly hitting the vibranium of his arm.

“Why do you blame me for not keeping it in my pants?” You interrogated him, glaring up at the man with a furrow between your brows. “You’re the one that corners me, a lot like this actually, so that you can get your own way and fuck m- oh, that’s exactly what you’re doing now, isn’t it?” You scoffed, crossing your arms and stepping away due to the man’s hormonal impulses. “Why am in not surprised?” You asked yourself, shaking your head at the behaviour of your partner.

“Hey, I’m doing us both a favour. Sex in someone else’s house is not exactly appreciated, and there’s kids, that i would rather not risk getting caught by.” He moved towards you, grabbing an ass cheek in each hand, as he pulled you closer by his grip. “At least then, there’s a chance I can survive the night, without being woken up by you sucking me off, or riding me.”

He was pushing your buttons, and he far well knew that, almost too well. It was his technique to get you riled up, that way, there’d be no dismissal of his current proposal, though, you continued to wear that adorable frown that he loved so much, and so, he gave your ass another firm squeeze, causing you to gasp against his chest. “Fucking on their dead parents’ boat isn’t exactly respectful either.”

“We’re helping fix it, may as well take our break on board, let loose a little, release all that’s clouding your mind.” He shrugged, knowing that his words were tempting you into complying with his lustrous whim, and so, to put another step in to helping his cause, he stepped back, reaching behind him to pull his shirt over the back of his neck, leaving his muscular torso bare, and free for your eyes to roam.

“That’s not fair.” You whined at him, not stopping yourself as you moved closer, and smoothed your hands down his stomach. “You’re such a tease Barnes, why couldn’t you have just fingered me in the public bathroom and waited until tomorrow?” A groan slipped from your mouth, as you peppered kisses over his warm flesh, tasting the sweat on his skin as your tongue swiped over the ridges of his six pack.

“Where would the fun have been in that?” He watched you roll your eyes, but continue to work your way down to his navel, stroking his v line with your fingertips. “We’ve had sex on a plane, might as well add a boat to the list.” Bucky remarked, groaning as you put your weight down onto your knees, looking up at him with your pretty eyes, as you palmed him through the denim of his jeans.

He could feel his cock stirring beneath the material, wanting more, eager to breach the layers that were keeping your tongue from rotating around him. But he remained still, as you swept your hair out from your face, the noise of your pulling down his zipper audible, as you sent him a naughty grin. The man above you licked his lips, breathing a sigh of relief when you tugged his jeans and boxers down, his erection swiftly bouncing up, the leaking tip pointing rudely at your face.

With a quick hand, you grasped his length, rubbing over his veins as you pumped him, spreading the moisture of his precum over his rigid skin, aiding you in your movements. As you proceeded to jerk him within your grip, your mouth moved forwards, your breath fanning over his balls before your tongue slipped out to stroke them, swiping up the droopy skin, as you suckled one into your mouth, contently moaning from the flavour of his skin.

Your eyes had shut as Bucky opened his own, watching you through a hooded gaze as you happily assisted his genitals, sending him into a crusade of pleasure as you used your well adversed skill set upon him. Your bottom lip ran up his shaft, slowly dragging along his reddened skin, until your reached the tip, your hands fleeing down to fondle with his sack, as your mouth stuffed itself full of his cock.

“Baby girl.” He breathed, his chest feeling tight as he stood there, practically naked aboard your friend’s boat. James gritted his teeth, watching as you effortlessly bobbed your head up and down half of him, lazily grinning as gagging sounds eventually emitted from your throat as you had him down the back of your throat, saliva slipping down your chin as you shook your head from side to side with him choking you with his dick.

Though he worried not for your struggle, not as you moaned against him, your lashes fluttering though your eyes were shut. He reached his vibranium hand down, stroking the side of your face with the cool metal, a high whine whistling it’s way out of your nose. Your spare hand reached up, cupping it against you, as you hollowed your cheeks, steadily breathing your nostrils.

A light frown covered your face as you focused on smoothing your tongue on his underside, causing Bucky to throw back his head, his stomach sternly clenching as he felt his balls twitch; and then, before he could fathom it, he was filling your mouth, cumming down your throat, as he pulled out, the last of his seed falling upon your tongue as he manhandled himself, feeling sensitive as he watched you fumble your tongue around your mouth, swallowing the mix of your spittle and his cum.

“Taste so fucking good.” You spoke, laughing lightly as you stared up and saw his dazed expression. Bucky pulled you up, his hand cupping your ass again, as he backed you up against the dash, your back lightly hitting against the window as he pulled at your shorts, whisking then down your legs, rubbing you through your underwear. His tongue explored your mouth, tasting himself as he located your clit, your arms grabbing at his shoulders to push him down, to which he complied.

His noises echoed through your mouth, as he pressed kissed along the top of your thighs, his fingers surpassing the seams of your panties, swiping at your entrance, until his prodding ceased, and he sunk his middle finger into your pussy, feeling you clench around him instantaneously. His teeth bit into your skin, emitting a squeal out of you as you harshly tugged his hair, making him rut his loose cock against nothing but the air.

“So wet.” He mumbled against your skin, as his vibranium snapped the sides of your underwear, letting the damp material fall to the floor, as he licked circles around your clit with his tongue, pulley airy sounds of pleasure of of your lungs. He slipped in another finger, his nose being pressed against your mound as you tugged him even closer, feeling as though you were almost there. Then you came, his fingers quickly exiting you as his tongue plunged in your entrance, cleaning up all your juices.

“Need you to fuck me Buck, please honey”. The man stood, stroking his hard cock as he teased your entrance. He swiped it through your slit a couple of times, before slapping his head against your clit, making your mewl against his lips, as you licked your essence from around his mouth. “James...” His cocky demeanour returned, as he watched you glance down at his cock, pressing your lips together in desire.

“Thought you didn’t want to fuck me on the boat.” He sneered dominantly, gripping your throat with his vibranium fist, giving it a tough squeeze, finding it endlessly hot as needy tears pooled in the corners of your eyes. Your lips pouted as you sputtered to speak, but you were just so hungry for him. “Guess I’m just gonna have to take pity on you doll, aren’t I?”

With that,he wedged his way through your folds, filling you to the brim as he bottomed out, gently releasing your throat to paw at your tits through your shirt. “Move baby, move.” You mumbled, your head feeling dizzy as your nails dug into the back of his neck, pulling him closer so that you could place tender and supple kisses across the front of his shoulders.

And so, he began to thrust into you, keeping a grip on your hips as he raised your leg around his waist, driving into you deeper, your head tiredly lulling as you chanted his name in soft and delirious pants. “So damn tight angel.” The soldier muttered, biting down onto your chin as he kissed his way up to your lips, abusing the swollen flesh a little more. The kisses were sloppy and downright needy, his vibranium hand held your chin up so that it would tip in rhythm with his movements, making access to the inside of your mouth easier.

“Buck.” You mumbled against his lips as your eyes rolled, your own hand circling your clit as you jutted against his exceeding administrations, one hand crawling up into his scalp as you let our small screams. You were indefinitely close, and as Bucky swerved his head around your own, moving his lips to nip at your earlobe, you came, coating his cock in your wetness, as he continued to hit his hips against your own.

It wasn’t long until he followed after, your clumsy hands trailing down to roll his balls in your palms being the last thing to push him over the edge. Bucky remained standing between your legs, each of your heads resting over each other’s shoulders as you felt each other, eyes closed, and smelling how the aroma of your sex wafted around you, like a personalised perfume.

“Hell no.” And the peace was broke, as Sam’s voice broke it. He had his hands on his hips as he shifted his gaze away from the two of you, unimpressed by what had happened. “The two of you get a break and you - not on my boat!” He practically screeched like a falcon at the pair of you, his arms flailing about like a bird’s flapping wings.

Although he was maddened, it didn’t settle well with you. You were too far out of it to acknowledge what he must have thought about the on deck dick that you had gotten, you were too lost in Bucky, the feeling of him still inside of you, and the falling of his cum out from beneath you both. “You know what, I’m outta here.” Sam left, quite glad to do so.

“You alright doll face?” Bucky asked as he pulled out, making you wince from the feeling of emptiness. You nodded as he reached for your underwear , leaving them be when he registered he had torn them, and instead opted to picking up just you’d shorts, pulling them onto your legs, redressing himself afterwards.

“I love you Buck.” You smiled tiredly, humming as he pecked your lips a few more times, combing his hands through your sex hair, as he returned the facial expression, seemingly calm. It looked good on him, the pair of you had momentarily forgotten your traumas, and it was bliss.

“Love you too darling.” He pecked your nose, staring lovingly into your eyes as he helped you down, and abled you with support to stand. “Unfortunately I think our breaks over beautiful.” He spoke, his hand upon your waist as the pair of you walked from the scene, going to fetch a bottle of water from Sarah, whom you hoped had not learn of your oversea adventure .

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dontloseyourpants · 3 years

Text

Stripped on Stage

A commission I received from @gaystripstories! You can also find him on Twitter here. And you can support him by buying his stories on Amazon here.

I'll out the actual story below the cut. It's about a cocky young Broadway bound hunk who has an embarrassing incident on stage during his big debut. Hope you all enjoy it as much as I did!

Before the Show:

Hey, just wanted to stop by and wish everyone a great show!

A sea of blank faces stared up at him, but he kept plodding on to get the reaction that he desired. Walking further into the crowded dressing room, he finally stopped right behind me.

I miss the camaraderie of being packed down here with everyone… it’s so lonely having that dressing room upstairs all to myself. I usually just spend time before shows lying on my couch until first call.

Looking up, I saw his face forcing itself into what he thought was a genuine smile. For someone who was apparently a much better actor than our poor little show deserved, he really had such a hard time hiding his true emotions.

Roger Stilton had quickly made a name for himself on Broadway. A Julliard grad just like his rich father, he headed straight to Broadway and began booking any role he wanted. With leading man good looks, his slicked back dark hair, and a jawline that could cut steel, Roger actually could have earned his roles without daddy’s donations.

As I continued looking up at him, I realized two things. First, his blush was much too heavy for a theater as small as this one.

Roger, sit down- let me help you out a bit. Quickly standing up in my boxers and undershirt, I let him plop into my chair before wiping a makeup wipe across that beautiful face. Here’s a tip when you’re not sure how strong to make your blush- you have to see what it should be naturally and then add two swipes.

Quickly taking hold of the bottom of his t-shirt, I ripped it over his head to expose that chest to the whole room. His perky pecs and six pack abs were to die over, but for some reason, even with all of that narcissism, he didn’t like showing off his body.

See- that’s the color you want.

I saw his eyes connect with his reflection to see the blush covering his cheeks, and I added a bit of my powder onto his face to match. Grabbing his shirt, he just awkwardly held it in front of him before walking back out of the room with his parting words flung over his shoulder.

Well, let me let you get back to getting ready… I just love having a great ensemble behind me on stage.

I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. At least not for another week. He’d joined our show after workshops, and even if I wouldn’t admit it, he was the reason we’d gotten our residency at our off-Broadway theater. He was already booked for his next role in a few weeks in one of the larger theaters, but if I had anything to do with it, I wanted to put his name in the news for another reason. It was time to confirm the second thing that I realized once Roger walked in here.

Listen up. Every head turned back towards me this time, but unlike Roger, I could tell that they wanted to hear what I had to say. I had a couple of decades on all of the younger actors

around me, and they looked up to me since I’d give them actual advice. We’re a go for tonight. Raise a hand if you’re in.

Smiling to myself as I saw every hand quickly raise into the air, I knew that this would be one show that Roger or the critics in the audience would never forget. I don’t know if Roger knew that we’d picked up on it, but there was a lot of info that he gave away. He was using us as a launch pad for some serious acting cred, and we were using him just as much. And for weeks of workshops and performances, we existed together, but the last month had been different. He’d starters treating us as disposable ensemble members even if the small cast all had named roles. So, tonight, on the most important night of his run, we decided to get back at him. Looking up at the timer on the ceiling above us, I realized that it was almost time for our first phase of the plan.

Act 1:

Look at him- if he wasn’t such a huge ass, he could really be the next big thing. Sorry- all I heard you say was huge ass, and I got distracted.

Playfully slapping Sam on the arm, I kept watching Roger act as we waited for our cue. Our show was a new take on the classic murder mystery, and each night, Roger dramatically died on stage. The twist, the reason that we’d made it out of workshops, was that a new killer was chosen each show. The audience could return night after night and still get a new experience since we improved a lot and only kept core scenes consistent.

This was one scene that was always the same, so Roger felt confident enough to ham it up as he looked at the two women in Row 2: The New Yorker and New York Times. They of course had names, but Roger only knew them as the critics that he needed to impress. And he truly was acting his ass off… and that was quite a challenge. Those dark gray slacks were barely

stretched over that ample peach of a bottom, and I was reminded again that I was happy with the game plan. And as he placed his glass of water back on the table, it was time for round 1.

Natasha and Joslyn entered from stage left as Sam and I appeared from stage right, and in a flurry of motion, we began bombarding him with questions.

Sir, would you like the dinner menu?

Please.

Sir, would you like a wine list?

That’d be delightful.

Sir, would you like your water glass to be topped off?

Certainly.

Bending down, I poured the contents of my pitcher into his glass and across his chest. Oh monsieur, I am so sorry- let’s get you out of those wet clothes immediately.

Patting him down with the hand towel, Sam walked behind him and began unbuttoning Roger’s shirt. In utter shock, Roger just sat there staring at the pitcher that I’d laid down in front of him- the one that looked completely normal. In every other show, a special prop had been used that only held half a cup of water, but tonight, it looked like I’d grabbed the wrong pitcher from the props table accidentally.

There we go- we’ll have this dried and steamed before you even get the dessert menu… not that it looks like you eat dessert often.

He tried to cover his exposed chest as we left stage, but the tiny menu couldn’t cover much. If he pulled it down, he exposed his perky pecs with his dark brown nipples shining under the harsh lights, and if he pulled it up, you could see the happy trail disappearing into his pants. As we all stood offstage in one giggling group, we watched the switch flip over in his head. He

had just made the choice- he could either be embarrassed about being half naked on stage, or he could continue acting so that the critics would write about how he powered through adverse conditions. And he chose the second option… at least for now.

Act 2:

After improving some line about remembering that he had a spare suit in his car, he quickly walked off stage with his muscular back facing the audience. Once he disappeared into the curtain, he began quietly yelling for the prop master, but he was nowhere to be found. Also gone was the random rack of clothes that had been hiding in the wings for decades, so as he rushed around, Roger only had time to grab someone’s suit coat and walk back on stage.

Darling! Is it my birthday already? I thought I wouldn’t get my present until tomorrow.

With her quick change successfully completed unlike her costar, Natasha was in a skin tight dress and now playing Roger’s girlfriend. Walking circles around him, she began to massage his tense body, and it seemed to be having an undesired effect on his lower half.

Can I unwrap my present early?

I’m so sorry love, but the weirdest thing happened at dinner earlier. I had time to grab a spot of food before coming here, and then…

As he began to sit down, the small blazer completely ripped down the middle, and the ruined fabric fell in two pieces down each arm. Natasha was really hamming it up now as she jumped up from the prop bed to kneel in front of her blushing boyfriend.

I was joking before, but what else is about to come off? Did you somehow trade outfits with a stripper?

That time in the gym must have really filled out my shoulders.

Then flex for me, Romeo. Let me see that body that’s all mine.

Doing as told, Roger stood up and began to flex his muscles as he faced the audience. His tanned chest seemed to glow under the lights, and I heard the audience getting into it more now. If there were any repeat customers here, then they knew what normally happened here. Natasha would have her birthday party, and in the commotion, Roger would meet his demise. But that always happened fully clothed.

Roger’s biceps were glistening in sweat, and his trimmed chest hair was as well. He was breathtakingly gorgeous, and if only he wasn’t so cocky, we would have all adored him. As I saw that blush spread further across those beautiful cheekbones, I wondered if there was something more human under there. Just maybe…

Oh, I just can’t resist anymore- come ravish me!

With strength that I didn’t know she had, Natasha pulled Roger towards her as they fell into the throes of passion on top of that bed. The audience was losing it as Natasha’s legs comically kicked into the air before wrapping around Roger’s ample ass. She was kissing him all over as Roger tried to break free for his cue.

Oh honey, that special suit jacket wasn’t the only birthday surprise that I had planned. In fact…

And this is where everything went so, so right. Roger lunged into a standing position without even feeling Natasha’s fingers hook into the two small holes that had come undone on each side of his tearaway pants. I don’t know how he hadn’t noticed earlier that we’d swapped them out before the show, but they’d stayed together right until they were needed.

In comical slow motion, the back half of his pants fell to the floor as the front stayed gripped in her hands.

You got me exactly what I wanted!

As Natasha jumped to meet him, we all started streaming on stage, holding balloons and shooting party streamers into the air. The only one that was still was Roger who was somehow so very, very visible in the middle of all of this chaos. With his pants gone, he was now standing there in only his shoes, his nylon socks held up with leather garters on those strong calves, and an impossibly tiny pair of baby blue bikini briefs that were trying their hardest to stretch over his large frame.

We all took a cue from the audience and focused on Roger as he stood petrified on stage. His hands hung limply at his side, too embarrassed to even move them to cover up his impressive bulge and thick pubes that were showing over the stretched waistband. You could have heard a pin drop in the eerie quiet before one camera flash went off from the audience followed by several more. I saw our one underpaid usher try to stop the cameras, but it was too late.

Finally urged into action as he saw how many photos of him would soon end up online, Roger finally spun around to try to find his pants, his jacket- just anything to cover himself up with. Seeing the bed sheet that had been flung into the floor, he reached to grab it, but I was too quick and stepped onto it to keep him from getting it.

Standing back up, he had rage in his eyes as he looked at me, and he had no idea that even more photos were taken now of him. From the back, his tiny briefs had been wedged between those glorious cheeks, and he was exposing almost every inch of skin that he could.

It was you- you’re the one that did it!

He was about five minutes early with that line, but Roger’s embarrassment had finally taken over his need to impress the critics. That was usually what he said when he discovered who the killer was right before falling to the ground, but now, he was saying it to me even though Joslyn was the one who’d dropped the ‘poison’ into his pasta in the previous scene.

What are you talking about? It’s me- your best friend!

A best friend wouldn’t do this on the most important night of their life!

Reaching forward, he grabbed onto my shirt and yanked it apart. Buttons went flying as my own chest was exposed to the crowd. My mouth was trying to hard not to break into a smirk behind my trimmed salt and pepper beard as I backed away from Roger. Following me back under the lights, he just kept going.

You’ve always been jealous of me- my career, my body, everything! Do you know how hard I’ve fought for this? Do you?

He truly believed the words that he was saying even though he’d never had to go to an open casting call in a crowded building downtown. He’d never had to squeeze into a borrowed pair of LaDucas and dance for hours just to be told that they’d gone in a different direction. Oh no, Roger had never felt rejection like that which is what would make what happened next even sweeter.

He lunged at me, and we fell in a heap on the floor. The audience, even the return viewers, probably had no idea that anything had gone wrong. Everything we’d done had been in character, and only one thing would be able to prove to them that this show had gone off the rails.

Roger’s body was gyrating around on top of me, but he never landed a punch. He wasn’t angry enough for that, but he was too flustered to even know what to do. He couldn’t handle this humiliation, and he was just lashing out. And then, it all stopped. As we tussled, we both heard the pop and froze. It could have been anything, but we both knew exactly what it was.

The Final Bow:

And the award goes to Roger Stilton!

The cameras all swung towards him as he tried to duck down into his seat. This is not how he wanted awards season to go. He had just lost the Best Actor award for his starring role in Thoroughly Modern Millie, and he was about to go to the bar until he heard his name called again. Looking up at the big screen, he saw the category that he didn’t even know that he was nominated for- Best Quick Change.

With the DramaDesk award in hand, the late-night talk show host who had no business being here walked on stage. I was sitting on the side in the cheap seats, but I could still see everything. The last time that I’d seen Roger was when I’d been lying shirtless beneath him. I watched as he sat motionless in his chair, and he only got up once the screen started playing a video from that night.

He was kneeling on top of me, and as we wrestled, the tiny strap on the right side of his bikini briefs popped right off. With his ass aimed right towards the camera, his pendulous cock fell into view between his legs, and he tried to cover himself unsuccessfully with his hands. As he moved, the rest of his underwear fell apart and landed on my chest leaving him completely

naked.

Standing up, he kept spinning around, turning one way and then the other to hide his embarrassment. His hands were clasped over his manhood which left that ass completely exposed. His tight waist made his bubble butt even more impressive, and the untanned skin acted as a beacon for everyone’s eyes and cameras. I’d watched this scene dozens of times from the comfort of my own apartment, but as Roger walked on stage to confront the host, I realized that he probably had tried to forget this ever happened.

When Audra Macdonald won earlier, she serenaded us with a few bars. Roger, what do you plan on showing off to this crowd?

The crowd was going wild, but unlike that fateful night, the crowd was over five times bigger and full of people that Roger wanted to impress. He tried to put on a fake laugh and grab the award, but even from this far away, I could see how strong that blush was as the host kept going.

No seriously, I think we need you to show it off! What does everyone here think?

I let my cheer join the crowd as we egged him on, but he still wasn’t budging. And then, the host looked right at me, and I pinched myself to see if this was all a dream.

Do we need your old costar to come help out? He knows his way around this stage since he’s performed here a few times. Come on up!

The spotlight hit me, and now it was my time to feel a little shy. I’d been a background dancer here in a few awards show opening numbers, but I’d never been up there individually. Would my big break come decades later than it should have?

Stepping on stage, I saw Roger’s heart drop, and my nerves suddenly vanished. He let the host turn him around, and I realized that he was petrified again.

Make me change my mind, Roger. Why shouldn’t I expose you again for how you treated us on that show?

Tommy, please, don’t do it.

I could have been nice and joked around with him as we walked offstage to pretend like this was a planned bit. But, he messed up.

Roger, you didn’t even learn the names of your costars. My name is David- Tommy worked the sound board.

And before he could react, I grabbed onto those tuxedo pants and yanked them to the ground. The button ripped off easily, and they gave me no resistance before sliding down to his ankles. He’d learned his lesson from earlier and was wearing a pair of black trunks, but I still had a little bit of humiliation left to give him. I could and should have stopped there, but I didn’t. Grabbing onto his waistband, I pulled his undies to the floor and stepped back to let him have the spotlight all to himself like he desperately wanted.

His half-naked body was projected onto the big screen again but in real time now. His ample, untanned ass still jutted out from his athletic body, and as he tried to bend down and grab his pants, it jiggled with every movement.

Looking down into the audience, I somehow made eye contact with Jan, the critic that Roger always referred to as The New Yorker sitting not too far from where I’d been seated. As she began typing onto her phone, I realized that Roger would get that big headline after all.

#story

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

Text

MOONLIT DUNES. ; boba fett / reader ; 1 / ?

summary: you’ve found many things in the dunes. a gravely injured mandalorian is a new thing to add to the ever growing list. set directly after return of the jedi.

word count: 3.5k

pairing: boba fett / scavenger!reader

tags: some body horror, injury mention, boba loses his leg, reader does first aid, the great pit of carkoon really did one on our man

a/n: my hand slipped i swear.............. (this has been in the works since may)

In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.

Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient and otherwise.

Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever changing tides of glittering sand.

However, never in your life — in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns — have you ever found someone alive in the dunes.

Until today, that is.

You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the space port were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual disposal runs.

Ah, Jabba.

Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.

You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.

Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.

Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...

The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.

You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.

No use in dwelling. You’re already here.

“Hup.”

As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.

There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.

No give.

The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.

For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.

The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.

Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.

There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.

The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s left of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.

You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.

There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?

In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.

Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was other sentients.

If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.

Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d tried to apologize for your trespass.

That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.

If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.

Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.

The smell is wretched, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.

Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure was very dead.

The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.

“Gods above,” you heave, coughing loudly.

That’s when you hear it.

A weak sound.

A strangled moan.

Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.

For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?

Then, you see him.

It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.

Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.

You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, a man.

Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.

That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.

Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.

He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.

You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.

Confusion.

His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.

Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.

His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.

The jetpack would explain the escape.

You toss the pack down the hill.

You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?

Gods above.

The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.

You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.

“I am going to help you.”

You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.

There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.

And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.

You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.

With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.

If only you knew.

You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.

It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms through the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.

It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled downhill — and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.

“Koochoo,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. This is stupid.

Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.

With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.

It’s been a hot day.

Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.

You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.

The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.

You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.

That earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.

The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.

The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…

It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.

A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.

Away from this wretched wreck.

By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.

There was certainly a first for everything.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.

The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.

Is he dead?

Where is he?

What in the hell happened?

This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.

His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.

Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.

Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.

Headscarf.

The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.

… Gods damn it all.

The Hutts.

Jabba.

Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.

Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.

Sleep takes him easily.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.

You must have been watching over him.

Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.

Call it a habit.

The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.

The commotion summons you in a flash.

This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.

There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.

“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”

Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —

Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.

You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.

When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.

“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”

“I found you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”

The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.

And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.

#moonlit dunes #boba fett x reader #boba x reader #boba fett imagine #boba fett x you #boba fett reader insert #star wars imagine #mandalorian imagine #I CANNOT HELP MYSELF

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fellulahh · 4 years

Text

Diavolo finds out MC had his baby

Fluffing her cushions, MC began to dread the day she was about to have. Two years had passed since she left Devildom and she’d stayed in regular contact with everybody; even Simeon and Luke. While the brothers often visited her in the human realm, there was one particular demon who could rarely get away from his duties to see her: Diavolo.

He was the one demon she wanted to see most, and yet he was also the one she’d avoided for all this time. MC held a colossal secret from him. For when she was still in Devildom, the Prince and her had a short lived romance. While their relationship blossomed almost immediately, it ended just as quickly as it began. It was inevitable that they’d have to end it though - MC wasn’t going to stay in Devildom forever. Although it only lasted a mere few months, those closest to Diavolo knew MC was the only being he ever truly loved.

And even though she loved him with all of her heart, she could never find it in herself to tell him the day she left what she knew: she was carrying his baby.

MC bit her lip as her body froze. All day anxiety had filled her body as she anticipated the arrival of Diavolo. All of the brothers knew about her son. There was no way she could hide him from them all given how half of the time when they visited her it was without warning.

While the majority of them were happy for her new family, there was one brother who just had to be rational about it all. Although Lucifer was supportive of MC and her baby boy, he couldn’t help but be insistent that she tell Diavolo. He knew it wasn’t his place to say, but deep down he knew MC agreed with him.

She had her reasons for not telling the Prince that she was pregnant. In fact, she had a whole list that she had conjured. The news still hadn’t even settled in for her when she left Devildom; she only found out a week before leaving. Part of her wanted to tell Diavolo everything but she knew it would break both of their hearts. The exchange program was over; there was no way she could stay.

She’d managed to hide their son from Diavolo for over a year but after a visit from Lucifer alone, MC finally decided it was time she told him the truth. The eldest brother had confided in her about how hung up Diavolo had been since her departure; especially after seeing the brothers visit her constantly. Although MC and the demon lord spoke daily through her D.D.D, it was not the same as seeing each other face to face. Realising she couldn’t conceal her secret from him any longer, MC called him one night.

Usually Diavolo wouldn’t be able to leave his Kingdom because of his responsibilities as Prince, but after hearing the desperation in MC’s voice, he knew he couldn’t say no.

While she waited for him to arrive, MC cleaned the whole house twice to try and distract her mind while also watching her baby boy. She let out a sigh as she realised how frantic she’d become. Her heart had been beating hard all morning knowing she’d finally see Diavolo again.

While distracted by her thoughts, she hadn’t realised her son had plodded into the room.

“Mummy.” He babbled, clutching onto her leg.

“Hey little man!” She smiled, picking him up and resting him on her hip.

As soon as she held him in her arms, he rested his tiny head on her chest. He was incredibly needy and loved attention...just like his Father.

MC’s heart felt like it had stopped in her chest when she heard a knock at the door. Biting her lip, she carefully set her baby boy onto his play mat, quickly planting a kiss on his head before making her way to the door.

She could see his silhouette through the blinds. Just knowing he was standing on the other side made her want to cry with happiness. Letting out one last breath, she gripped the door handle and pulled it open.

As soon as her eyes fell on him, tears pricked in her eyes and a huge grin spread across his face. He mimicked her expression as he immediately engulfed her in his arms. “MC!” He gushed, picking her up. Diavolo buried his face in the crook of her neck as he relished how good it felt to hold his human in his arms again. “How I have missed you.”

She was still smiling to herself as her arms gripped him tightly. “I’ve missed you too!” She breathed as he slowly let her down.

As soon as her feet hit the floor, Diavolo’s face grew concerned as he gazed deep into her eyes. Cupping her cheeks with his large hands, he tried to see any sign of distress in her expression. “You sounded worried on the phone.” He spoke softly, “are you okay, my love?”

Biting her lip, MC’s eyebrows furrowed as nerves filled her body. “I think you should come in.” She spoke quietly as her mind returned to their son.

Nodding, he followed her into the house. Stepping inside, he began observing his surroundings as MC shut the door. She couldn’t help but smile after noticing how he had to duck as he entered. Now that he was standing in the human realm, his true size showed.

“Come.” She spoke quietly, leading him into the lounge.

As soon as his eyes fell on the toddler, his face lit up. “Oh hello!” He cooed, “you must be MC’s nephew that she told me so much about.”

MC pulled an awkward face to herself. “Can I get you a drink?” She asked, making her way to the kitchen. If she was about to break the news that the baby sat in front of him wasn’t her nephew, she needed a coffee. A strong one too.

“I’m okay thank you!” He insisted as he was unable to take his gaze of the small toddler. Sitting down in front of him, Diavolo grinned. “Hello little guy!” He gushed, holding up a little teddy bear, “is this yours?”

“Yes.” The toddler nodded with wide eyes as his chubby little hands reached out for the toy.

Diavolo had an amused look on his face as he studied the baby. There was something odd about the child; his hair was an usual shade of auburn and his eyes had a flicker of yellow in them. The Prince had seen a picture of MC’s brother and knew that he looked similar to her, so he assumed that the baby got his Mother’s looks.

Entering the lounge again, MC got more and more nervous as she watched Diavolo and their son become acquainted. How he had not realised already was beyond her; now that they were sat next to each other she realised what a spitting image their toddler was of his Father!

Standing beside him, MC placed a hand on Diavolo’s back as her face sunk. Feeling her touch, he turned his head. “What is it you needed to speak to me about?” He asked, not standing up.

She smiled sadly at his ignorance. “Him, actually...” she whispered, nodding toward their son who was busy chewing on his teething toy.

“Is he okay? Has something happened to your brother?” He asked quickly, growing worried.

“No, Diavolo.” She sighed, shaking her head.

Bending down, she picked up the toddler in her arms before walking over to the sofa. Sitting down, she plopped their son on her lap. Immediately, sensing his Mother’s warmth, he snuggled into her.

Concerned, Diavolo moved across the room to sit beside her. His mind began to grow suspicious after seeing how natural she seemed with the baby. Even if she was his Aunty, the human and the baby seemed to have a different dynamic. Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Diavolo glanced around the room, noticing how many pictures of the toddler decorated the walls. There was one in particular though that caught his attention. Before he could properly study the photograph, MC distracted him.

“Do you remember what I said when I called you?” She asked quietly.

“You said there’s something you needed to tell me, something important.” He recollected, turning his attention back to her.

Diavolo became unusually serious as their conversation began.

“Yeah...” MC sighed, as she held their baby close to her chest. “Just before I left Devildom I found something out - I was scared...frightened about what it was.”

As her voice filled his ears, Diavolo turned back to look at the photograph that had caught his attention across the room. He was intrigued by it as soon as he first saw it but couldn’t quite make out who was in it. Narrowing his eyes, he finally saw clearly what was in the small framed picture: MC cradling a newborn baby wearing nothing but white.

“I wanted to tell you what it was but I could only think of reasons not to - there were too many factors not in our favour. You’re the future King and I was merely a human on an exchange program.” She continued. As she spoke, her eyes remained on their son; MC hadn’t realised that Diavolo’s focus was elsewhere. “And then after I left Devildom, there was no way I could ever find the courage to tell the truth. Not until Lucifer made me see sense...”

Widening his eyes as he realised what was happening, Diavolo let out a shaky breath. The likeness to him, the abundance of photos, the picture of MC in a hospital gown cradling a baby... “My son...” he whispered in complete shock.

MC felt tears prick at her eyes as the truth was finally revealed. She didn’t even need to tell him; Diavolo had already worked it out. Her heart felt like it was in her throat as she anticipated his reaction. Fear filled her entire body within seconds as her stomach felt queasy.

Diavolo turned his head quickly to face her. He’d lost all colour from his cheeks as his eyes remained wide. “Is he?” He asked quietly.

“He’s not my nephew.” MC shook her head, biting her lip to stop herself from whimpering. With those words she confirmed his suspicions. “He’s your son.”

His watery eyes then flickered to the toddler who had now fallen asleep in MC’s arms. Remaining speechless, he knitted his eyebrows as his heart adjusted to this new flutter that filled it. He felt like he was gazing at his whole life in this small bundle of joy.

“How could you not tell me?” He whispered, heartbroken that he hadn’t been there for every moment of her pregnancy and their baby being born.

“I’m sorry.” She admitted, “I only found out a week before I left...words can’t even begin to describe how terrified I was.”

Reaching out, Diavolo delicately held his son’s tiny fist in his huge hand. He felt ashamed that he didn’t recognise his own blood when he first laid eyes on him. How did he manage not to? The baby’s hair was the exact same shade as his, albeit shorter and that unusual amber glow was prominent in his iris’.

“I have a son...” Diavolo breathed, trying to comprehend the revelation still. “We have a son.”

Finally turning to meet MC’s eyes, he looked completely overwhelmed with love. “We have a son, MC!” He repeated, absolutely mesmerised.

“We do.” She whispered, still anxious about the confession.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Diavolo sulked, still holding their baby’s fist.

“I wanted to.” MC admitted. “But with the circumstances...”

“If I knew I would have never let you go. I never wanted you to! I always wanted you to stay but couldn’t allow myself to put the pressure on you by saying so.” He confessed. “I only wish you told me, MC. I don’t care what the circumstances were or still are.”

“I couldn’t think straight.” MC spoke, feeling ashamed of her actions, “you and I were barely together for a few months.”

“So? That doesn’t matter to me.” He insisted, “I loved you, MC. And I still do. I would have done anything for you and our baby had I known.”

MC was silent as she was left to think about the past two years. Diavolo turned his focus back to their son who was still sleeping peacefully. “He’s wonderful.” He whispered, feeling himself welling up.

While completely in love with the fact that they’d made a family together, he hadn’t quite comprehended that the baby MC held was his. This tiny toddler was the heir to the throne. Not taking his eyes of his son, Diavolo’s face turned serious. He would give his whole life to protect their child.

“I’d like you to come back with me, MC.” He stated. “There’s no way I will ever leave you now. I made the mistake of letting you go once; I’m not about to make the same mistake. Especially now.”

“But Diavolo, I have a life here now.” MC whimpered, “my family...”

“And ours?” He questioned, referring to the three of them. “Please MC, you can’t deprive me from him.”

Diavolo’s pleading eyes gave MC no choice. There’s no way she could reject his offer after seeing him beg so desperately. Gazing at him with worried eyes, she bit her lip. “Okay.” She whispered, “we’ll come back with you.”

A huge, relieved grin immediately appeared on his face.

“But I need time to say goodbye.” She spoke quickly, placing a small hand on his muscular arm.

“Take as long as you need.” He breathed, unable to contain his happiness. “I’ll stay with you until you’re ready...if you’ll allow it.”

“What about Devildom?” She asked concerned.

“You expect me to go back so soon after discovering this?” He questioned, “no, my priority is here now.”

#obey me #obey me shall we date

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ramonadecember · 2 years

Note

Prompt list #3:

58, 59 for Jed and Theo 👀

taking prompts.

these are perfect for them. ngl, really excited to write something for them that other people will see because I love our boys so damn much. for those unaware, Jed Blackwood and Theo Hawkins are Chaos and my's RDO characters. anyone who follows me on Twitter has definitely seen them before, haha (god it was hard to limit that to just three tweets worth of pics, I have SO MANY of them).

also, i'll have you know that I did in fact have to check, and people did in fact refer to each other as 'hot' in the 1800's lmfao (as if that would've stopped me anyway).

58. “Why do you always convince me to do the stupidest shit?”

59. “How is it that you’re so stupid and so hot at the same time?”

Theo was skeptical about the plan for the day—Jed’s plan for the day—from the start. Jed was far too elusive on Theo’s requests for details for it to amount to anything good. Written all over this were the makings for this to be like the time Jed insisted they were going after a hardened criminal only for them to show up at a goat farm where the ‘master thief’ ended up being a billy who’d rammed Jed so hard it knocked him feet before then claiming Jed’s hat as its prize—and lunch.

“Why do you always convince me to do the stupidest shit?” Theo groused as he plodded along behind Jed. As much as Theo liked a day spent in the forest, they’d been wandering for too long for comfort with no clear destination in sight, at least not one Theo was aware of. “How?” he amended.

Despite Theo’s strong aversion to the cold, in the past he’d let himself be swayed into heading out past the Grizzlies with Jed on some lead Jed got about a herd of horses seen roaming around the more remote areas up there, horses that they could sell if they could wrangle. Theo didn’t think it was worth the effort for the money they could possibly get, saying that if the herd even was there—and Jed’s source gave Theo doubts—they still couldn’t be certain they could find the horses, and Theo didn’t really fancy freezing his ass off for no guarantee at a payout. But with a few sweet words about Theo’s great tracking skills, and promises of how Jed would keep him warm, Theo had relented. They ended up seeing neither hide nor hair of any horses, but they did find themselves between two bull elk during rutting season, and that was a fearful experience Theo never needed to experience.

Happenings like that were common with Jed, and that wasn’t even the worst example of how Jed seemed to excel at getting them into trouble. Theo didn’t even want to touch on what it said about him that he kept allowing it to happen.

“Only a little bit further, I swear,” Jed said instead of entertaining Theo’s grumbling.

Not the first time he’d insisted as much, and he was pretty sure that Theo had noticed they’d gotten a little turned around and had to backtrack at one point, but this time Jed really meant it. Jed still breathed a sigh of relief when they finally broke through into a clearing and their ultimate destination. “Told you,” he said, unsure if he was convincing Theo or himself more.

Theo stopped and looked around him, hands on his hips. “I don’t get it,” he confessed, asking Jed if they were waiting on something, if maybe Jed knew a bounty target would be coming through the area and this is where they would ambush them. Jed’s reaction was to laugh and take Theo by the hand to pull him further into the clearing, toward the pond that sat in the middle.

“No job,” Jed told him. “Not today.” Hopefully they’d buried themselves deep enough in the woods that not only would there be no work, but no other people at all. Today was just supposed to be about Theo. It was no secret that Theo had been a little… higher strung than usual lately, and Jed was trying to ease some of that tension before Theo snapped.

It took Jed a while to put his finger on what was wrong, but what it boiled down to was that Theo was feeling homesick.

A handful of months ago, Theo had tried reconnecting with a family he’d spent years only having as much contact with as was necessary for them to know he was still alive, only to have it blow up in his face in the form of a heated argument with his mother over the way he was living his life—or namely, how he was living it with Jed. Theo had acted like it didn’t matter, but Jed saw how it weighed on his mind and heart, even as they put time and distance between them and Theo’s family. And maybe it was getting less painful, but what brought the feelings back full force was the approach of Theo’s birthday.

While they’d been staying at the Hawkins residence, Theo had picked back up with one of his sisters, Tess, like no time had passed at all, and how in sync they were really had Jed wondering if it was true, what people say about the eerie connection between twins. Leaving her behind again had been the hardest part for Theo, and as their shared birthday drew closer, he drew all the more closed off and crabby.

He knew it was silly, Theo ended up saying, but he thought for the first time since they were kids, he’d get to spend his birthday with Tess. They always used to disappear for the whole day, leaving the rest of the family to only wonder what type of mischief they’d gotten up to. Theo was hoping to recreate something like that with his twin this year, but now it just… wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t go back to that house right now, not even for her.

It broke Jed’s heart, and he vowed to himself he was going to something to make it better, even though Theo had told him to forget about it when Jed asked what he could do. He knew he was no replacement for Theo’s twin, but he still thought he could do something, and lucky he knew what ‘something’ might work as a just the distraction.

When Jed first stumbled on the area while trying to pull his weight with the hunting, he’d immediately thought of Theo. It may be no bayou like Theo was missing, but it was lush and green, if not a little overgrown, and it had two of Theo’s favorite things—a pond to fish in, and a sense of solitude.

“I know you said you weren’t wantin’ any fuss over your birthday,” Jed said, “But I didn’t think a little change of scenery counted as much fuss.”

Theo made a noncommittal noise before walking to the water’s edge, surveying the area further, but Jed knew him better than to think this plan was a miscalculation. Sure enough, when Jed approached, Theo slipped an arm around Jed’s waist and craned up to kiss his cheek. “Starving,” is all he said. “Someone’s been marching me through the woods all day with no rest. Let’s eat.”

Theo’s version of expressing his approval, this Jed knew too. It had Jed breaking into a grin. “Alright, but after you’re teaching me how you go about catchin�� all those frogs.” Lord knew there were enough of them hopping around the pond.

One side of Theo’s mouth pulled into a small smile. “Alright,” he agreed.

After a quick lunch, they did just that. Jed was just as miserable at it as he thought he’d be despite Theo’s deft demonstrations of how to snag the frogs right out of the mud, but it was hard to be too discouraged when all his fumbles kept Theo smiling and laughing—even if it was mostly at Jed’s expense.

Theo retired back to sit in the grass and watch as Jed kept trying, determined. Jed ended up lunging for a frog at the same time it jumped at him. Startled, he took a stumbling step backwards only for his foot to get sucked into the mud, and no amount of windmilling his arms would keep him upright. He splashed ass-first back into the water to a peel of laughter from Theo.

All Theo had been able to do was stare as the scene unfolded, impressed by the near-slapstick levels of failure, but he was distracted from making a snarky comment and his laughter petered out as Jed picked himself up out of the murky shallows, because then Jed peeled off his sopping wet shirt and it didn’t matter how many times Theo had seen the sight by now, it still had the potential to render him a little tongue-tied. Theo couldn’t pull his eyes and thoughts away from broad shoulders, the flex of Jed’s arms as he wrung out his shirt, or the rivulets of water running down his taut stomach long enough to make words.

“What?” Jed questioned when he noticed Theo’s staring. “Got somethin’ to say?”

“Nah, nothin’.” Theo shrugged casually, refusing to acknowledge or be embarrassed by the fact he’d been ‘caught.’ “Just wonderin’ how is it that you’re so stupid and so hot at the same time.”

For a beat, all Jed could do was stare back in return. He knew he should probably be offended, but instead a grin split his face. He had no retort, only to start slogging out of the water towards Theo, who realized too late what Jed’s intent was and wasn’t quick enough to avoid being hauled up and chucked into the pond fully clothed. A wrestling match ensued that was more splashing and trying to drown one another than anything else until they pulled themselves up onto the bank, breathless and laughing.

Jed propped himself on one elbow so that he could lean down and kiss Theo. “Happy birthday, sweet,” he said against Theo’s lips.

For the first time in years, Theo could truly say that it was shaping up to be.

#what do I tag this as lmao #red dead online #red dead redemption #oc: theo hawkins #oc tag #my writing #prompt fills #dumb and done #I should maybe make jed a tag even though he's not mine #jed blackwood #others ocs

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armageddon-generation · 3 years

Text

Articulating Why His Dark Materials is Badly Written

A long essay-thing with lots of specific examples and explanations of why I feel this way. Hopefully I’ve kept fanboy bitching to a minimum.

This isn’t an attack on fans of the show, nor a personal attack on Jack Thorne. I’m not looking to ruin anyone’s enjoyment of the show, I just needed to properly articulate, with examples, why I struggle with it. I read and love the books and that colours my view, but I believe that HDM isn’t just a clumsy, at-best-functional, sometimes incompetent adaptation, it’s a bad TV show separate from its source material. The show is the blandest, least interesting and least engaging version of itself it could be.

His Dark Materials has gorgeous production design and phenomenal visual effects. It's well-acted. The score is great. But my god is it badly written. Jack Thorne writing the entire first season damned the show. There was no-one to balance out his flaws and biases. Thorne is checking off a list of plot-points, so concerned with manoeuvring the audience through the story he forgets to invest us in it. The scripts are mechanical, empty, flat.

Watching HDM feels like an impassioned fan earnestly lecturing you on why the books are so good- (Look! It's got other worlds and religious allegory and this character Lyra is really, really important I swear. Isn't Mrs Coulter crazy? The Gyptians are my favourites.) rather than someone telling the story naturally.

My problems fall into 5 main categories:

Exposition- An unwillingness to meaningfully expand the source material for a visual medium means Thorne tells and doesn't show crucial plot-points. He then repeats the same thing multiple times because he doesn't trust his audience

Pacing- By stretching out the books and not trusting his audience Thorne dedicates entire scenes to one piece of information and repeats himself constantly (see: the Witches' repetition of the prophecy in S2).

Narrative priorities- Thorne prioritises human drama over fantasy. This makes sense budgetarily, but leads to barely-present Daemons, the Gyptians taking up too much screentime, rushed/badly written Witches (superpowers, exposition) and Bears (armourless bear fight), and a Lyra more focused on familial angst than the joy of discovery

Tension and Mystery- because HDM is in such a hurry to set up its endgame it gives you the answers to S1's biggest mysteries immediately- other worlds, Lyra's parents, what happens to the kids etc. This makes the show less engaging and feel like it's playing catch-up to the audience, not the other way around.

Tonal Inconsistency- HDM tries to be a slow-paced, grounded, adult drama, but its blunt, simplistic dialogue and storytelling methods treat the audience like children that need to be lectured.

MYSTERY, SUSPENSE AND INTRIGUE

The show undercuts all the books’ biggest mysteries. Mrs Coulter is set up as a villain before we meet her, other worlds are revealed in 1x2, Lyra's parents by 1x3, what the Magesterium do to kids is spelled out long before Lyra finds Billy (1x2). I understand not wanting to lose new viewers, but neutering every mystery kills momentum and makes the show much less engaging.

This extends to worldbuilding. The text before 1x1 explains both Daemons and Lyra's destiny before we meet her. Instead of encouraging us to engage with the world and ask questions, we're given all the answers up front and told to sit back and let ourselves be spoon-fed. The viewer is never an active participant, never encouraged to theorise or wonder

Intrigue motivated you to engage with Pullman's philosophical themes and concepts. Without it, HDM feels like a lecture, a theme park ride and not a journey.

The only one of S1's mysteries left undiminished is 'what is Dust?', which won't be properly answered until S3, and that answer is super conceptual and therefore hard to make dramatically satisfying

TONAL INCONSISTENCY

HDM billed itself as a HBO-level drama, and was advertised as a GoT inheritor. It takes itself very seriously- the few attempts at humour are stilted and out of place

The production design is deliberately subdued, most notably choosing a mid-twentieth century aesthetic for Lyra’s world over the late-Victorian of the books or steampunk of the movie. The colour grading would be appropriate for a serious adult drama.

Reviewers have said this stops the show feeling as fantastical as it should. It also makes Lyra’s world less distinct from our own.

Most importantly, minimising the wondrous fantasy of S1 neuters its contrast with the escalating thematic darkness of the finale (from 1x5 onwards), and the impact of Roger’s death. Pullman's books are an adult story told through the eyes of a child. Lyra’s innocence and naivety in the first book is the most important journey of the trilogy. Instead, the show starts serious and thematically heavy (we’re told Lyra has world-saving importance before we even meet her) and stays that way.

Contrasting the serious tone, grounded design and poe-faced characters, the dialogue is written to cater to children. It’s horrendously blunt and pulls you out of scenes. Subtext is obliterated at every opportunity. Even in the most recent episode, 2x7, Pan asks Lyra ‘do you think you’re changing because of Will?’

I cannot understate how on the nose this line is, and how much it undercuts the themes of the final book. Instead of even a meaningful shot of Lyra looking at Will, the show treats the audience like complete idiots.

So, HDM looks and advertises itself like an adult drama and is desperate to be taken seriously by wearing its big themes on its sleeve from the start instead of letting them evolve naturally out of subtext like the books, and dedicating lots of scenes to Mrs Coulter's self-abuse

At the same time its dialogue and character writing is comparable to the Star Wars prequels, more childish than media aimed at a similar audience - Harry Potter, Doctor Who, Avatar the Last Airbender etc

DAEMONS

The show gives itself a safety net by explaining Daemons in an opening text-crawl, and so spends less time showing the mechanics of the Daemon-human bond. On the HDM subreddit, I’ve seen multiple people get to 1x5 or 6, and then come to reddit asking basic questions like ‘why do only some people have Daemons?’ or ‘Why are Daemons so important?’.

It’s not that the show didn’t answer these questions; it was in the opening text-crawl. It’s just the show thinks telling you is enough and never shows evidence to back that up. Watching a TV show you remember what you’re shown much easier than what you’re told

The emotional core of Northern Lights is the relationship between Lyra and Pan. The emotional core of HDM S1 is the relationship between Lyra and Mrs Coulter. This wouldn't be bad- it's a fascinating dynamic Ruth plays wonderfully- if it didn't override the Daemons

Daemons are only onscreen when they serve a narrative purpose. Thorne justifies this because the books only describe Daemons when they tell us about their human. On the page your brain fills the Daemons in. This doesn't work on-screen; you cannot suspend your disbelief when their absence is staring you in the face

Thorne clarified the number of Daemons as not just budgetary, but a conscious creative choice to avoid onscreen clutter. This improved in S2 after vocal criticism.

Mrs Coulter/the Golden Monkey and Lee/Hester have well-drawn relationships in S1, but Pan and Lyra hug more in the 2-hour Golden Compass movie than they do in the 8-hour S1 of HDM. There's barely any physical contact with Daemons at all.

They even cut Pan and Lyra's hug after escaping the Cut in Bolvangar. In the book they can't let go of each other. The show skips it completely because Thorne wants to focus on Mrs Coulter and Lyra.

They cut Pan and Lyra testing how far apart they can be. They cut Lyra freeing the Cut Daemons in Bolvangar with the help of Kaisa. We spent extra time with both Roger and Billy Costa, but didn't develop their bonds with their Daemons- the perfect way to make the Cut more impactful

I don't need every single book scene in the show, but notice that all these cut scenes reinforced how important Daemons are. For how plodding the show is. you'd think they could spare time for these moments instead of inventing new conversations that tell us the information they show

Daemons are treated as separate beings and thus come across more like talking pets than part of a character

The show sets the rules of Daemons up poorly. In 1x2, Lyra is terrified by the Monkey being so far from Coulter, but the viewer has nothing to compare it to. We’re retroactively told in that this is unnatural when the show has yet to establish what ‘natural’ is.

The guillotine blueprint in 1x2 (‘Is that a human and his Daemon, Pan? It looks like it.’ / ‘A blade. To cut what?’) is idiotic. It deflates S1’s main mystery and makes the characters look stupid for not figuring out what they aren’t allowed to until they did in the source material, it also interferes with how the audience sees Daemons. In the book, Cutting isn’t revealed until two-thirds of the way in (1x5). By then we’ve spent a lot of time with Daemons, they’ve become a background part of the world, their ‘rules’ have been established, and we’re endeared to them.

By showing the Guillotine and putting Daemons under threat in the second episode, the show never lets us grow attached. This, combined with their selective presence in scenes, draws attention to Daemons as a plot gimmick and not a natural extension of characters. Like Lyra, the show tells us why Daemons are important before we understand them.

Billy Costa's fate falls flat. It's missing the dried fish/ fake Daemon Tony Markos clings to in the book. Thorne said this 'didn't work' on the day, but it worked in the film. Everyone yelling about Billy not having a Daemon is laughable when most of the background extras in the same scene don't have Daemons themselves

WITCHES

The Witches are the most common complaint about the show. Thorne changed Serafina Pekkala in clever, logical ways (her short hair, wrist-knives and cloud pine in the skin)

The problem is how Serafina is written. The Witches are purely exposition machines. We get no impression of their culture, their deep connection to nature, their understanding of the world. We are told it. It is never shown, never incorporated into the dramatic action of the show.

Thorne emphasises Serafina's warrior side, most obviously changing Kaisa from a goose into a gyrfalcon (apparently a goose didn't work on-screen)

Serafina single-handedly slaughtering the Tartars is bad in a few ways. It paints her as bloodthirsty and ruthless. Overpowering the Witches weakens the logic of the world (If they can do that, why do they let the Magesterium bomb them unchallenged in 2x2?). It strips the Witches of their subtlety and ambiguity for the sake of cinematic action.

A side-effect of Serafina not being with her clan at Bolvangar is limiting our exposure to the Witches. Serafina is the only one invested in the main plot, we only hear about them from what she tells us. This poor set-up weakens the Witch subplot in S2

Lyra doesn’t speak to Serafina until 2x6. She laid eyes on her once in S1.

The dialogue in the S2’s Witch subplot is comparable to the Courasant section of The Phantom Menace.

Two named characters, neither with any depth (Serafina and Coram's dead son developed him far more than her). The costumes look ostentatious and hokey- the opposite of what the Witches should be. They do nothing but repeat the same exposition at each other, even in 2x7.

We feel nothing when the Witches are bombed because the show never invests us in what is being destroyed- with the amount of time wasted on long establishing shots, there’s not one when Lee Scoresby is talking to the Council.

BEARS

Like the Witches; Thorne misunderstands and rushes the fantasy elements of the story. The 2007 movie executed both Iofur's character and the Bear Fight much better than the show- bloodless jaw-swipe and all

Iofur's court was not the parody of human court in the books. He didn't have his fake-Daemon (hi, Billy)

An armourless bear fight is like not including Pan in the cutting scene. After equating Iorek's armour to a Daemon (Lee does this- we don’t even learn how important it is from Iorek himself, and the comparison meant less because of how badly the show set up Daemons) the show then cuts the plotpoint that makes the armour plot-relevant. This diminishes all of Bear society. Like Daemons, we're told Iorek's armour is important but it's never shown to be more than a cool accessory

GYPTIANS

Gyptians suffer from Hermoine syndrome. Harry Potter screenwriter Steve Kloves' favourite character was Hermione, and so Film!Hermoine lost most of Book!Hermoine's flaws and gained several of Book!Ron's best moments. The Gyptians are Jack Thorne's favourite group in HDM and so they got the extra screentime and development that the more complicated groups/concepts like Witches, Bears, and Daemons (which, unlike the Gyptians, carry over to other seasons amd are more important to the overall story) needed

At the same time, he changes them from a private people into an Isle of Misfit Toys. TV!Ma Costa promises they'll ‘make a Gyptian woman out of Lyra yet’, but in the book Ma specifically calls Lyra out for pretending to be Gyptian, and reminds her she never can be.

This small moment indicates how, while trying to make the show more grounded and 'adult', Thorne simultaneously made it more saccharine and sentimental. He neuters the tragedy of the Cut kids when Ma Costa says they’ll become Gyptians. Pullman's books feel like an adult story told through the eyes of a child. The TV show feels like a child's story masquerading as a serious drama.

LIN-MANUEL MIRANDA

Let me preface this by saying I genuinely really enjoy the performances in the show. It was shot in the foot by The Golden Compass' perfect casting.

The most contentious/'miscast' actor among readers is LMM. Thorne ditched the books' wise Texan for a budget Han Solo. LMM isn't a great dramatic actor (even in Hamilton he was the weak link performance-wise) but he makes up for it in marketability- lots of people tried the show because of him

Readers dislike that LMM's Lee is a thief and a scoundrel, when book-Lee is so moral he and Hester argue about stealing. Personally, I like the change in concept. Book!Lee's parental love for Lyra just appears. It's sweet, but not tied to a character arc. Done right, Lyra out-hustling Lee at his own game and giving him a noble cause to fight for (thus inspiring the moral compass of the books) is a more compelling arc.

DAFNE KEENE AND LYRA

I thought Dafne would be perfect casting. Her feral energy in Logan seemed a match made in heaven. Then Jack Thorne gave her little to do with it.

Compare how The Golden Compass introduced Lyra, playing Kids and Gobblers with a group of Gyptian kids, including Billy Costa. Lyra and Roger are chased to Jordan by the Gyptians and she makes up a lie about a curse to scare the Gyptians away.

In one scene the movie set up: 1) the Gobblers (the first we hear of them in the show is in retrospect, Roger worrying AFTER Billy is taken) 2) Lyra’s pre-existing relationship with the Gyptians (not in the show), 3) Friendship with Billy Costa (not in the book or show) 4) Lyra’s ability to befriend and lead groups of people, especially kids, and 5) Lyra’s ability to lie impressively

By comparison, it takes until midway through 1x2 for TV!Lyra to tell her first lie, and even then it’s a paper-thin attempt.

The show made Roger Lyra’s only friend. This artificially heightens the impact of Roger's death, but strips Lyra of her leadership qualities and ability to befriend anyone.

Harry Potter fans talk about how Book!Harry is funnier and smarter than Film!Harry. They cut his best lines ('There's no need to call me sir, Professor') and made him blander and more passive. The same happened to Lyra.

Most importantly, Lyra is not allowed to lie for fun. She can't do anything 'naughty' without being scolded. This colours the few times Lyra does lie (e.g. to Mrs Coulter in 1x2) negatively and thus makes Lyra out to be more of a brat than a hero.

This is a problem with telling Northern Lights from an outside, 'adult' perspective- to most adults Lyra is a brat. Because we’re introduced to her from inside her head, we think she's great. It's only when we meet her through Will's eyes in The Subtle Knife and she's filthy, rude and half-starved that we realise Lyra bluffs her way through life and is actually pretty non-functional

Thorne prioritises grounded human drama over fantasy, and so his Lyra has her love of bears and witches swapped for familial angst. (and, in S2. angst over Roger). By exposing Mrs Coulter as her mother early, Thorne distracts TV!Lyra from Book!Lyra’s love of the North. The contrast between wonder and reality made NL's ending a definitive threshold between innocence and knowledge. Thorne showed his hand too early.

Similarly, TV!Lyra doesn’t have anywhere near as strong an admiration for Lord Asriel. She calls him out in 1x8 (‘call yourself a Father’), which Book!Lyra never would because she’s proud to be his child. From her perspective, at this point Asriel is the good parent.

TV!Lyra’s critique of Asriel feels like Thorne using her as a mouthpiece to voice his own, adult perspective on the situation. Because Lyra is already disappointed in Asriel, his betrayal in the finale isn’t as effective. Pullman saves the ‘you’re a terrible Father’ call-out for the 3rd book for a reason; Lyra’s naive hero-worship of Asriel in Northern Lights makes the fall from Innocence into Knowledge that Roger’s death represents more effective.

So, on TV Lyra is tamer, angstier, more introverted, less intelligent, less fun and more serious. We're just constantly told she's important, even before we meet her.

MRS COULTER (AND LORD ASRIEL)

Mrs Coulter is the main character of the show. Not Lyra. Mrs Coulter was cast first, and Lyra was cast based on a chemistry test with Ruth Wilson. Coulter’s character is given lots of extra development, where the show actively strips Lyra of her layers.

To be clear, I have no problem with developing Mrs Coulter. She is a great character Ruth Wilson plays phenomenally. I do have a problem with the show fixating on her at the expense of other characters.

Lyra's feral-ness is given to her parents. Wilson and McAvoy are more passionate than in the books. This is fun to watch, but strips them of subtlety- you never get Book!Coulter's hypnotic allure from Wilson, she's openly nasty, even to random strangers (in 2x3 her dismissal of the woman at the hotel desk felt like a Disney villain).

Compare how The Golden Compass (2007) introduced Mrs Coulter through Lyra’s eyes, with light, twinkling music and a sparkling dress. By contrast, before the show introduces Coulter it tells us she’s associated with the evil Magisterium plotting Asriel’s death- “Not a word to any of our mutual friends. Including her.” Then she’s introduced striding down a corridor to imposing ‘Bad Guy’ strings.

Making Mrs Coulter’s villainy so obvious so early makes Lyra look dumber for falling for it. It also wastes an interesting phase of her character arc. Coulter is rushed into being a ’conflicted evil mother’ in 2 episodes, and stays in that phase for the rest of the show so far. Character progression is minimised because she circles the same place.

It makes her one-note. It's a good note (so much of the positive online chatter is saphiccs worshiping Ruth Wilson) but the show also worships her to the point of hindrance- e.g. take a shot every time Coulter walks slow-motion down a corridor in 2x2

The problem isn’t the performances, but how prematurely they give the game away. Just like the mysteries around Bolvangar and Lyra’s parentage. Neither Coulter or Asriel have much chance to use their 'public' faces.

This is part of a bigger pacing problem- instead of rolling plot points out gradually, Thorne will stick the solution in front of you early and then stall for time until it becomes relevant. Instead of building tension this builds frustration and makes the show feel like it's catching up to the audience. This also makes the characters less engaging. You've already shown Mrs Coulter is evil/Boreal is in our world/Asriel wants Roger. Why are you taking so long getting to the point?

PACING AND EDITING

This show takes forever to make its point badly.

Scenes in HDM tend to operate on one level- either 'Character Building,' 'Exposition,' or 'Plot Progression'.

E.g. Mary's introduction in 2x2. Book!Mary only listens to Lyra because she’s sleep and caffeine-deprived and desperate because her funding is being cut. But the show stripped that subtext out and created an extra scene of a colleague talking to Mary about funding. They removed emotional subtext to focus on exposition, and so the scene felt empty and flat.

In later episodes characters Mary’s sister and colleagues do treat her like a sleep-deprived wreck. But, just like Lyra’s lying, the show doesn’t establish these characteristics in her debut episode. It waits until later to retroactively tell us they were there. Mary’s colleague saying ‘What we’re dealing with here is the fact that you haven’t slept in weeks’ is as flimsy as Pan joking not lying to Mary will be hard for Lyra.

Rarely does a scene work on multiple levels, and if it does it's clunky- see the exposition dump about Daemon Separation in the middle of 2x2's Witch Trial.

He also splits plot progression into tiny doses, which destroys pacing. It's more satisfying to focus on one subplot advancing multiple stages than all of them shuffling forward half a step each episode.

Subplots would be more effective if all the scenes played in sequence. As it is, plotlines can’t build momentum and literal minutes are wasted using the same establishing shots every time we switch location.

The best-structured episodes of S1 are 1x4, 1x6, and 1x8. This is because they have the fewest subplots (incidentally these episodes have least Boreal in them) and so the main plot isn’t diluted by constantly cutting away to Mrs Coulter sniffing Lyra’s coat or Will watching a man in a car through his window, before cutting back again.

The best-written episode so far is 2x5. The Scholar. Tellingly, it’s the only episode Thorne doesn’t have even a co-writing credit on. 2x5 is well-paced, its dialogue is more naturalistic, it’s more focused, it even has time for moments of whimsy (Monkey with a seatbelt, Mrs Coulter with jeans, Lyra and Will whispering) that don’t detract from the story.

Structurally, 2x5 works because A) it benches Lee’s plotline. B) The Witches and Magisterium are relegated to a scene each. And C) the Coulter/Boreal and Lyra/Will subplots move towards the same goal. Not only that, but when we check in on Mary’s subplot it’s through Mrs Coulter’s eyes and directly dovetails into the main action of the episode.

2x5 has a lovely sense of narrative cohesion because it has the confidence to sit with one set of characters for longer than two scenes at a time.

HDM also does this thing where it will have a scene with plot A where characters do or talk about something, cut away to plot B for a scene, then cut back to plot A where the characters talk about what happened in their last scene and painstakingly explain how they feel about it and why

Example: Pan talking to Will in 2x7 while Lyra pretends to be asleep. This scene is from the 3rd book, and is left to breathe for many chapters before Lyra brings it up. In the show after the Will/Pan scene they cut away to another scene, then cut back and Lyra instantly talks about it.

There’s the same problem in 2x5: After escaping Mrs Coulter, Lyra spells out how she feels about acting like her

The show never leaves room for implication, never lets us draw our own conclusions before explaining what it meant and how the characters feel about it immediately afterwards. The audience are made passive in their engagement with the characters as well as the world

LORD BOREAL, JOHN PARRY AND DIMINISHING RETURNS

At first, Boreal’s subplot in S1 felt bold and inspired. The twist of his identity in The Subtle Knife would've been hard to pull off onscreen anyway. As a kid I struggled to get past Will's opening chapter of TSK and I have friends who were the same. Introducing Will in S1 and developing him alongside Lyra was a great idea.

I loved developing Elaine Parry and Boreal into present, active characters. But the subplot was introduced too early and moved too slowly, bogging down the season.

In 1x2 Boreal crosses. In 1x3 we learn who he's looking for. In 1x5 we meet Will. In 1x7 the burglary. 1 episode worth of plot is chopped up and fed to us piecemeal across many. Boreal literally stalls for two episodes before the burglary- there are random 30 second shots of him sitting in a car watching John Parry on YouTube (videos we’d already seen) completely isolated from any other scenes in the episode

By the time we get to S2 we've had 2 seasons of extended material building up Boreal, so when he just dies like in the books it's anticlimactic. The show frontloads his subplot with meaning without expanding on its payoff, so the whole thing fizzles out.

Giving Boreal, the secondary villain in literally every episode, the same death as a background character in about 5 scenes in the novels feels cheap. It doesn’t help that, after 2x5 built the tension between Coulter and Boreal so well, as soon as Thorne is passed the baton in 2x6 he does little to maintain that momentum. Again, because the subplot is crosscut with everything else the characters hang in limbo until Coulter decides to kill him.

I’ve been watching non-book readers react to the show, and several were underwhelmed by Boreal’s quick, unceremonious end.

Similarly, the show builds up John Parry from 1x3 instead of just the second book. Book!John’s death is an anticlimax but feels narratively justified. In the show, we’ve spent so much extra time talking about him and then being with him (without developing his character beyond what’s in the novels- Pullman even outlined John’s backstory in The Subtle Knife’s appendix. How hard would it be to add a flashback or two?) that when John does nothing in the show and then dies (he doesn’t even heal Will’s fingers like in the book- only tell him to find Asriel, which the angels Baruch and Balthamos do anyway) it doesn’t feel like a clever, tragic subversion of our expectations, it feels like a waste that actively cheapens the audience’s investment.

TL;DR giving supporting characters way more screentime than they need only, to give their deaths the same weight the books did after far less build up makes huge chunks of the show feel less important than they were presented to be.

FRUSTRATINGLY LIMITED EXPANSION AND NOVELLISTIC STORYTELLING

Thorne is unwilling to meaningfully develop or expand characters and subplots to fit a visual medium. He introduces a plot-point, invents unnecessary padding around it, circles it for an hour, then moves on.

Pullman’s books are driven by internal monologue and big, complex theological concepts like Daemons and Dust. Instead of finding engaging, dynamic ways to dramatise these concepts through the actions of characters or additions to the plot, Thorne turns Pullman’s internal monologue into dialogue and has the characters explain them to the audience

The novels’ perspective on its characters is narrow, first because Northern Lights is told only from Lyra’s POV, and second because Pullman’s writing is plot-driven, not character-driven. Characters are vessels for the plot and themes he wants to explore.

This is a fine way of writing novels. When adapting the books into a longform drama, Thorne decentralised Lyra’s perspective from the start, and HDM S1 uses the same multi-perspective structure that The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass do, following not only Lyra but the Gyptians, Mrs Coulter, Boreal, Will and Elaine etc

However, these other perspectives are limited. We never get any impression of backstory or motivation beyond the present moment. Many times I’ve seen non-book readers confused or frustrated by vague or non-existent character motivations.

For example, S1 spends a lot of time focused on Ma Costa’s grief over Billy’s disappearance, but we never see why she’s sad, because we never saw her interact with Billy.

Compare this to another show about a frantic mother and older brother looking for a missing boy. Stranger Things uses only two flashbacks to show us Will Byers’ relationships with his family: 1) When Joyce Byers looks in his Fort she remembers visiting Will there. 2) The Clash playing on the radio reminds Jonathan Byers of introducing Will to the song.

In His Dark Materials we never see the Costas as a happy family- 1x1’s Gyptian ceremony focuses on Tony and Daemon-exposition. Billy never speaks to his mum or brother in the show

Instead we have Ma Costa’s empty grief. The audience has to do the work (the bad kind) imagining what she’s lost. Instead of seeing Billy, it’s just repeated again and again that they will get the children back.

If we’re being derivative, HDM had the chance to segway into a Billy flashback when John Faa brings one of his belongings back from a Gobbler safehouse in 1x2. This is a perfect The Clash/Fort Byers-type trigger. It doesn’t have to be long- the Clash flashback lasted 1:27, the Fort Byers one 55 seconds. Just do something.

1x3 beats into us that Mrs Coulter is nuts without explaining why. Lots of build-up for a single plot-point. Then we're told Mrs Coulter's origin, not shown. This is a TV show. Swap Boreal's scenes for flashbacks of Coulter and Asriel's affair. Then, when Ma Costa tells Lyra the truth, show the fight between Edward Coulter and Asriel.

To be clear, Thorne's additions aren’t fundamentally bad. For example, Will boxing sets up his struggle with violence. But it's wasted. The burglary/murder in 1x7 fell flat because of bad editing, but the show never uses its visual medium to show Will's 'violent side'- no change in camera angle, focus, or sound design, nothing. It’s just a thing that’s there, unsupported by the visual language of the show

The Magisterium scenes in 2x2 were interesting. We just didn't need 5 of them; their point could be made far more succinctly.

In 2x6 there is a minute-long scene of Mary reading the I Ching. Later, there is another scene of Angelica watching Mary sitting somewhere different, doing the SAME THING, and she sees an Angel. Why split these up? It’s not like either the I Ching or the Angels are being introduced here. Give the scene multiple layers.

Thorne either takes good character moments from the books (Lyra/Will in 2x1) or uses heavy-handed exposition that reiterates the same point multiple times. This hobbles the Witches (their dialogue in 2x1, 2 and 3 literally rephrases the same sentiment about protecting Lyra without doing anything). Even character development- see Lee monologuing his and Mrs Coulter's childhood trauma in specific detail in 2x3

This is another example of Thorne adding something, but instead of integrating it into the dramatic action and showing us, it’s just talked about. What’s the point of adding big plot points if you don’t dramatise them in your dramatic, visual medium? In 2x8, Lee offhandedly mentions playing Alamo Gulch as a kid.

I’m literally screaming, Jack, why the flying fuck wasn’t there a flashback of young Lee and Hester playing Alamo Gulch and being stopped by his abusive dad? It’s not like you care about pacing with the amount of dead air in these episodes, even when S2’s run 10 minutes shorter than S1’s. Lee was even asleep at the beginning of 2x3, Jack! He could’ve woken from a nightmare about his childhood! It’s a little lazy, but better than nothing.

There’s a similar missed opportunity making Dr Lanselius a Witchling. If this idea had been introduced with the character in 1x4, it would’ve opened up so many storytelling possibilities. Linking to Fader Coram’s own dead witchling son. It could’ve given us that much-needed perspective on Witch culture. Imagine Lanselius’ bittersweet meeting with his ageless mother, who gave him up when he reached manhood. Then, when the Magisterium bombs the Witches in 2x2, Lanselius’ mother dies so it means something.

Instead it’s only used to facilitate an awkward exposition dump in the middle of a trial.

The point of this fanfic-y ramble is to illustrate my frustration with the additions; If Thorne had committed and meaningfully expanded and interwoven them with the source material, they could’ve strengthened its weakest aspect (the characters). But instead he stays committed to novelistic storytelling techniques of monologue and two people standing in a room talking at each other

(Seriously, count the number of scenes that are just two people standing in a room or corridor talking to each other. No interesting staging, the characters aren’t doing anything else while talking. They. Just. Stand.)

SEASON 2 IMPROVEMENTS

S2 improved some things- Lyra's characterisation was more book-accurate, her dynamic with Will was wonderful. Citigazze looked incredible. LMM won lots of book fans over as Lee. Mary was brilliantly cast. Now there are less Daemons, they're better characterised- Pan gets way more to do now and Hester had some lovely moments.

I genuinely believe 2x1, 2x3, 2x4 and 2x5 are the best HDM has been.

But new problems arose. The Subtle Knife lost the central, easy to understand drive of Northern Lights (finding the missing kids) for lots of smaller quests. As a result, everyone spends the first two episodes of S2 waiting for the plot to arrive. The big inciting incident of Lyra’s plotline is the theft of the alethiometer, which doesn’t happen until 2x3. Similarly, Lee doesn’t search for John until 2x3. Mrs Coulter doesn’t go looking for Lyra until 2x3.

On top of missing a unifying dramatic drive, the characters now being split across 3 worlds, instead of the 1+a bit of ours in S1, means the pacing/crosscutting problems (long establishing shots, repetition of information, undercutting momentum) are even worse. The narrative feels scattered and incohesive.

These flaws are inherent to the source material and are not the show’s fault, but neither does it do much to counterbalance or address them, and the flaws of the show combine with the difficulties of TSK as source material and make each other worse.

A lot of this has been entitled fanboy bitching, but you can't deny the show is in a bad place ratings-wise. It’s gone from the most watched new British show in 5 years to the S2 premiere having a smaller audience than the lowest-rated episode of Doctor Who Series 12. For comparison, DW's current cast and showrunner are the most unpopular since the 80s, some are actively boycotting it, it took a year-long break between series 11 and 12, had its second-worst average ratings since 2005, and costs a fifth of what HDM does to make. And it's still being watched by more people.

Critical consensus fluctuates wildly. Most laymen call the show slow and boring. The show is simultaneously too niche and self-absorbed to attract a wide audience and gets just enough wrong to aggravate lots of fans.

I’m honestly unsure if S3 will get the same budget. I want it to, if only because of my investment in the books. Considering S2 started filming immediately after S1 aired, I think they've had a lot more time to process and apply critique for S3. On the plus side, there's so much plot in The Amber Spyglass it would be hard to have the same pacing problems. But also so many new concepts that I dread the exposition dumps.

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tsuumu · 4 years

Text

good intentions.

kuroo x reader

your long-term boyfriend is perfect. i mean perfect. he excels at basically everything he does. well, except one thing. at least he has good intentions, right?

based off of a request found here.

word count:

tags/tw: y/n & kuroo are uni students, lots of playful insulting, kuroo is perfect, well not really, y/n is a mess, y/n is me doing any kind of work, domestic x1000, kuroo cooking is so cute.

You know those people who just seem to have it all?

No, not literally, but it’s so sickeningly easy for them that they might as well be arms reach of anything they want.

Usually we tend to dislike people like that, mainly because... well, we’re not them (much to our abysmal dismay, too). They end up taking a spotlight of jealousy in our lives and we find ourselves constantly thinking: Man, i’d love to kick their asses, but would alternatively jump at the oppertunity to switch lives with them ‘Freaky Friday’ style.

These people are the embodiment of admiration.

Young. Good looking. Fit. Successful. Socially conscious. Killer smiles. Can always hold a drink. Never seem to embarrass themselves even a little, but on the off chance they do, everyone adores them more and sees it as a cute little incident or quirk of theirs.

Just thinking about it makes you want to build yourself a bunker, deep underground, just to sulk in for a decade or so, lamenting angrily at the dusty walls.

Yes. You know the truth is that there will always be someone better than you at simply existing, but that doesn’t stop that simmering of content from rising within. Realistically speaking, you’d avoid these people like your life depended on it because they’re so... detestable.

So who would have known that you —of all people— would end up falling in love with one?

Well, you did. As much as they repel you, you find that they weirdly attract you too.

That’s right.

The man who stole that pretty little heart of yours, who’d caught your attention indefinitely with his cut-throat prowess and charisma. He’d approached you one fine evening at some bar you’d never been to before, ordered you your favorite drink because he’d seen you order it twofold previously (vodka cranberry, heavy on the juice) and chatted you up the way you’d always wished a guy would.

The appalling epitome of cliche.

The whole encounter practically ran like he’d planned it before-hand. It’s almost infuriating, how easily he swept you off of those tipsy feet of yours.

Something bumps lightly over your head as a shadowy figure passes by. You groan lightly in response.

“Hey, cut it out!”

Somehow, you’ve found yourself on the floor, crossed-legged, pen in your mouth and both your hands. One is furiously scrawling something down, the other flicking the cap off to highlight. It’s an understatement to note that you look like a bit of a mess, brows scruched up in an untidy pile in the middle of your forehead, dead-focused on the first draft of your thesis that was due weeks ago.

Yeah, you were one of those people.

A mocking string of apologetic noises come from the figure in front of you as he chucks his keys onto the kitchen counter.

Kuroo Tetsurou. That’s your A-list Boyfriend.

A-list of what? Of life, for god’s sake.

If it were him that’d been assigned a task with this ridiculous deadline, he’d probably have handed it before it was fucking given to him in the first place! Not only is he academically adept to the point of pure indignancy (on your part, of course, you’re too prone to jealousy for your own good), but his organisation is nothing short of freakishly unnatural.

He says he’s minimalistic, you say he’s an alien.

If someone had told you that the man you loved was actually some kind of secret government- made equipment to survey you, you wouldn’t bat an eyelid. He’s that good.

He chuckles at his own jeers, slipping a hand through the fridge handle. It unlatches with ease and he takes a cold can of beer out, pulling the tab back and allowing it to hiss open satisfyingly. Your eyes flicker upwards, gnawing at your knuckle, you’re not only stressed out, but unbelievably embarrassed that you’re at it again. He’s seen you like this countless times, after promising to clean up your act and follow in his footsteps.

Following in his footsteps. Well, that’s how he described it. You were close to socking his arm.

“Shut up.”

Tetsurou tilts his head back, drinking to his heart’s content before catching your eye. You’re correct. He has seen this before, so he knows not to take your off-handed comments to heart. Instead, he’s rather bemused.

“Your scruched up nose.” He begins, setting the can down to the side, crossing one leg over the other. “That’s your classic concentrating face.”

You’re not even listening if you’re honest. You’re trying to understand what this section of the task even means after re-reading it for the fifteeth time. The responses you give are made absently.

“Hm.”

“You look like a cat that’s been forced to wait to eat. That little glare. It’s cute, kitty.”

Your head jerks up questioningly. Did he call you cute?

His head tilts.

“Oh, you’ve relaxed your face now. It’s gone back to being ugly.”

You scowl and throw the highlighting pen at him.

“Go away! I’m almost done!”

Your fingers move to your lower back, pressing on your spine in hopes it’ll crack and relieve some of the tension in your body. Kuroo retrieves the pen, sweeping the can up with his spare hand. He plods over, craning his neck down to study whatever it is that you have on your lap.

“It’s too dark in here to see that properly.”

“I’m fine!”

“Well—“ He leans back to switch the overhead lights on. “—now you’re finer.”

You turn to him, pausing for a moment.

“Oh, thanks.”

It’s like you fall into this crazed state when you’re overworked. Frantic. Snappy. Cowering in the dark like some sort of parody Dracula— that is, if Dracula were three weeks late on his university assignment worth a disgustingly high percentage of his final grading. If Kuroo came too close, or said something a little too sly, you’d probably bite him. He knows this too, opting to keep quiet from now on. Instead, he sits leisurely on the floor, just behind you, placing his hands against your propped up body and gently pressing his thumbs into the blades of your back.

“Drop it a sec, yeah?”

Your body’s stiff, but you can tell he’s shocked at just how stiff it is. For a moment, you’re caught off guard, before rolling your shoulders back forcefully.

“Can’t... gotta finish—“ and you gesture wildly at everything around you. That answer was to be expected. You weren’t as academically driven, sure, but you weren’t one to give in easily. Or fail, for that matter.

Tetsurou plants a gentle kiss onto the nape of your neck, mumbling into the ridge of your spine.

“That—“ he copies your movements. “Can wait. I know you think it can’t, but it can. And you’re going to stop now.”

Your eyes lower a little, vision blurring.

“But—“

“Nope.”

You twist yourself to look at him, giving him another sour look.

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.” It rolls off the tongue so easily for him. He’s utterly calm. But then again, he’s not the one that needs to be on bloody ‘X-Games’ mode.

He’s never the one. Damn it.

You lift yourself up a little by placing your palms under you, wincing at the twinges of pain it induces. You’d made friends with the floor for a little too long, butt totally numb.

“Fine.” You resign, suddenly falling back onto him. “I’ll email my professor for the tenth time this week and wait as he rips me apart. Shall I?” Kuroo tuts, snaking an arm around your upper-body, the other brushing at your baby-hairs so he’s able to see your face a little clearer.

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“Uh— yes he would. Would you like front row seats to my untimely demise?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

For the first time through that entire day, you smile, even if it’s just a little. And to him, he’s managed to fish you out of that downward spiral you’ve been plunging into. Job well done on his part. He softly runs a his palm down your side.

“Your professor covers mine when she’s busy.” He states matter-of-factly. “Let me email him. It’s not ludicrous to say that i’m your boyfriend and you’re a little troubled at the moment.”

You’re slumped over, at the moment, chin buried into your chest.

“Troubled sounds like i’ve lost my mind.”

“Well not like that—“ The eager boy begins sifting out your laptop from under the seemingly endless piles of paper. “Let’s think of a better excuse.” Your body doesn’t move an inch, fiddling with the cap of the pen lid. You throw it by accident and it bounces too far to reach comfortably. Shit.

“Mmm.” He buries his nose into the crown of your head. “Shall I tell him you got into a car accident?”

“What? Tetsu, that’s stupidly unbelievable. I don’t even drive.”

“I guess... maybe not a car.” His fingers teasingly splay over your stomach, body bent intrusively over yours. They move against the softness of your flesh, dipping down slightly.

You suck in a breath.

“I’m sure I can do something for you that’ll keep you from walking for quite some time.” Tetsurou hums deeply, and it feels like he’s talking directly into your brain.

Your fingers fumble for the pen he just gave back, before hitting him square on the forehead with it. It ricochets back perfectly onto your chest with a loud snap.

“Ow!”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Geez.”

“I don’t need excuses. I’ll just come back to it later.”

“Oh— yeah. That too.”

With a heave, you sit up, rubbing the side of your head as the blood rushes back.

“I’m kinda hungry.” You’d been so distracted with this work that even simple, human needs took a backseat.

This is why Kuroo doesn’t like it. At times like this, you’d barely eat, sleep, breathe. Seriously. Sometimes you’d hold your breath for absurdly long periods of time whilst reading, only to hack and gasp and apologise because you were so into it.

That’s... extreme. And he does not approve in the slightest.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm...” Your eyes sparkle hopefully. “Did you get me something to eat?”

Tetsurou scratches his neck timidly.

“Well, not exactly.”

Immediately, your face drops and he protests wildly.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

Well— well— you couldn’t help but be disappointed! You were starving and tired and ready to email your professor a string of rather unpleasant curse words instead of another half-assed excuse. Your fingernails had been worn down considerably from all the abrasive biting you’d done, aching and red.

Being a full-time student was covert self-destruction. You heavily relied on your boyfriend to bring in food because you didn’t have the time to do so yourself. This had been discussed and agreed upon prior though, since along with Tetsu’s many formidable talents, a balanced work to school life was yet another.

He ambles back to the kitchen area, gesturing to the island smack bang in the middle.

“That doesn’t mean I came empty-handed.”

Oh. You hadn’t noticed it before, but he’d come home with groceries. Um. Groceries?

“What’s that?”

“Stuff I picked up on the way back.”

“Like, ingredients?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

The both of you are quiet for a moment, and you’re eyeing the bag like it’s appeared out of nowhere with something potentially life-threatening inside it. Yes, that sounds stupid. But the truth is... you guys never really got groceries. Not actual groceries with actual ingredients. Because that is a strong indicator that they’d have to be cooked.

And god, neither of you knew how to do that.

You’re a student who’s barely stepped into adulthood, not Gordan Ramsay.

Okay. You sound ridiculous. Cooking isn’t that complex. It’s actually quite simple if your heart’s in it.

“I figured i’d be able to do something with these.” Kuroo pats the bags and they crinkle a tad.

Of fucking course he’d ‘be able to do something’ with them.

He’s Kuroo-Genius-Tetsurou!

CEO of doing things with other things and it actually working out. Building cabinates, lock-picking, gardening, guitar, skateboarding, poker. Since you’ve been together, these are a few of the varation of things he’s naturally picked up.

You? You’re a more do-it-once-it-fails-and-never-do-it-again type.

In your mind there’s literally no doubt he’d ace cooking and list it under the other fifty(billion) things he’s also capable of, just so he can mention it off-handedly to other people at parties or something.

If there’s something to criticise about your boyfriend, he’s awful at shutting up about himself. He’ll go on forever, as if he’s showcasing his entire life to strangers in some desperate attempt to sell them his excessive excellence.

Is he arrogant? Maybe. But is he able to do it in a manner that’s utterly bewitching? Absolutely. He’s not gloating, you see, he’s ‘modestly sharing’. And you find yourself wanting to praise him, you want to hear about how much better he is than you.

Let’s be honest. Kuroo and modesty were not made to be placed in the same sentence, any humble talk of his is utter bullshit.

But everyone loves it all the same.

That’s what you mean about perfect people. They spark something in others. It’s almost hypnotic. And when you snap out of it, it’s like it’s been confirmed that you’re undoubtedly inferior. Post-Kuroo-Encounter depression. PKE. You having a devastating case of it.

Maybe you have a bit of a complex about this. Ugh.

He’s lucky he’s so damn loveable.

And that you’re so damn hungry.

“Okay.” You state.

Plus, you are a little curious to see what exactly will unfold with his newfound persuit in the culinary arts.

You haul ass to get up, audibly cursing, hopping around from foot to foot to get your blood-flow back in action. Eventually, you’ve nestled yourself onto a stool, hands propping your chin up, observing expectantly.

“What are you making, chef?”

“Uhh..” He’s rolling his sleeves up, eyes glued to the screen of his phone that’s placed facing upwards. “Chicken Alfredo.” Tetsu sounds a little uncertain but you’re staring into his head and you can almost hear the cogs turning. Really, it’s only a matter of time until the bastard works his Area 51-esque magic and concocts the dish.

He takes a little more time to familiarise himself with the recipe, before looking up, giving you a wicked grin.

“I’ve got this.”

You’re sure he does, smiling back.

Whilst he’s preparing god knows what, you peek into the grocery bag to see if there’s anything you can nibble on. You recieve another gentle smack to your head. Tetsu’s holding a packet of dry pasta.

He’s hit you with pasta.

“Nu-uh. I didn’t bring any kitty treats for you, be patient.”

“Stop hitting me like i’m a fly, or a cat!”

“Don’t be silly. I’d never hit a cat! They’re precious, adorable, i’d protect one with my life. And you—“ He hits you again. “—well, you’re you, baby.”

You snatch the packet forcefully and lob it at him again.

“You have a death wish, Kuroo-san.”

“Eesh. The formalities! I’m kidding!”

You cradle your cheek in your palm, sighing tiredly. The two of you usually ordered in, or got something you’d be able to set up pretty easily. Neither of you were particularly passionate about cooking, hence its absence in your routines. Yes, it’s excessively healthier than your current lifestyle, but you weren’t suffering. And even now, watching Tetsurou fill a pan with water, muscles firm against the shy of his shirt. You know he isn’t either.

Now that you’re looking, and looking some more, it’s pretty hot, seeing a guy cook.

“You know, you should make breakfast shirtless so I can tell my friends my hot boyfriend cooks me breakfast shirtless.”

He laughs.

“You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yes. I can’t keep indulging you.”

He means that your desire for immediate gratification is your biggest weak-point. Kuroo’s recently been trying to teach you the art of patience. Abstinence. You don’t get it. Apparently perfect people believe in ‘self-control’ crap.

“Also, oil.” He adds.

“Oh, I suppose it’d hurt, right?”

“Mhm.”

Your boyfriend alternates from his phone to the actual practice in short cycles. To you, he looks like he’s on track, though you’re not quite sure what to be looking for in the first place. These things usually came ready and steaming on plates in restaurants. Even now, having to wait, it’s so difficult. But you’re enjoying the light conversation it brings, so it’s whatever.

Though, that lasting etch of confusion and concern on the boy’s face leaves you wondering if actually, this is proving slightly difficult for him.

“Is everything okay?” You pipe up.

He doesn’t answer at first.

“Think so.”

“Oh— i’ve never heard that from you before.” It’s usually straight confidence from this man.

“Shut up.”

From the stool, you slip, dragging your hand over the counter as you walk around to see it up close. You don’t really know what you’re expecting, but... it’s not this.

“Tetsu, that’s boiling a little violently, don’t you think?”

“...No?”

“Yeah. It is. That’s not a good sign.”

He bats you away.

“We can’t both stand here!”

“Why not?”

“Spaaace.” He whines. “And if we both stay crowded around it’ll—“

And it happens, exactly what you’d predicted.

You, of all people, had made an assumption your boyfriend hadn’t. Ain’t that crazy? The water rises up too high, boiling over and spilling absolutely everywhere. The gas flame heightens all of a sudden, curling up next to the fabric of a dish towel next to it. In a panic, you pull him back.

“What the fuck—“

There’s no time for you to think, your hands fumbling to close the stove, you hadn’t realised the water had seeped over it, causing you to cry out in pain in the process, hand burnt silly.

But you do it. Quickly too. And Kuroo’s utterly dazed, like he hadn’t even thought to react. Your immediate response post-injury is to suck on the wound, trying to suppress the pain with the soothing movements of your tongue. That doesn’t do much, so you flap it about like a mad man, that only instigates more irritation.

Tetsu snaps out of it when he hears your hissing, grabbing onto your wrist and pulling you to the sink forcefully, apologising profusely as he does.

Cold water hits you. It’s instant relief.

“God— i’m so sorry, (y/n)—“ He stumbles, still panicking, he seems to be experiencing everything five minutes too late. “I don’t know why that happened, I swear to God i’ve done that before but it just—“

You let out a giggle, and it shuts him up.

Another one slips. It gets louder and louder, harder to suppress until you’re full on belly laughing, hunched over. He stares at you, wordlessly surprised.

“T-Tetsu— you burnt water—“ You try and stifle your laugh but it only shakes your body more. His deep shame morphs into relief when he sees you’re okay. Tearfully making fun of him, but okay. He pulls you into a tight embrace, ignoring your remarks and still feeling unbelievably guilty.

It’s okay. You’re still chortling, holding him just as tight.

“Here, let me— let me bandage this.” In a cupboard somewhere, he pulls out a small wrap of fabric, proceeding to do just that. You watch happily enough, before turning to the boiled water that had completely stilled.

“Thanks. Let me do this.”

With considerable time and effort, you’re able to clean up the haphazard mess and start afresh, filling his place. Yeah, Kuroo is pretty humiliated, but he was more concerned about your wellbeing at the time than anything else. Seeing you unwavered was enough to make him feel like things were good.

It’s a miracle really, that you do end up filling two plates with delicious smelling pasta.

That lingering look of sorrow is still plastered all over the poor boy’s features, watching you with wide eyes.

“How did you manage that?”

You just shrug, licking a smidge of sauce off of your thumb.

“Dunno. Guess I have potential.” Your gaze moves up to his, pinching his cheek and blubbering jokingly. “Baby. What’s with the long face?”

“Feel bad.” Tetsu looks so glum. It’s adorable.

“Hm.”

The scrape of the plate against the counter is clear as bells as you urge him to eat.

“I should thank you, dumbass.” Admiring the bandage work, a grin settls upon you. This ordeal helps you to see that, actually, Tetsu wasn’t good at everything. In fact, for once, you were better.

And God. That’s— that’s different. You don’t want to be as cocky as him, but it feels nice for a change. He admires you.

“Got an excuse for that late assignment now.” You muse.

“Oh my god.”

You’re always going to be a handful.

“Ugh. Tetsu. Something good always come out of your actions. It’s sickening!”

“I hurt you, silly!”

“I’m feelin’ pretty good about it, regardless. Plus—“ You jump up, leaning over the counter to flick his forehead. “—i’m going to tell everybody this pretty little golden boy set our kitchen on fire because he tried to boil water.”

“Cruel. You’re cruel.”

“The cruelest.”

#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu #kuroo headcanons #kuroo x reader #kuroo fic #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo testuro #kuroo fluff #hq #kuroo x y/n #cool this was fun 2 make #y/n is cute #kuroo is cuter

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thequibblah · 3 years

Note

⭐️ would love some commentary on that dancing scene (or really any commentary on the various parties thrown by the marauders) from the party happening next to the Potions Club party ⭐️

WELL WELL WELL

"This is...a lot of trouble to go to." "It's the Marauders. They love trouble."

i love writing party scenes (as i'm sure you all know lol) and one of the best/worst things w the marauders parties is striking a balance between their, uh, audacious plans, and what's realistically possible at hogwarts without getting caught. (aka literally why i made up the dodgy lodgings). i went back and forth so long on whether or not they could plausibly have managed that with slughorn's dinner next door, but then was like ah whatever the party has to happen for plot reasons so.... plot ex machina??

anyway, i love using parties to establish character — what a brilliant stage of teenage performance they provide. i love contrasting the hogwarts parties to, say, evan wronecki's — for instance, how lily and co. are more at ease in the former, as seventh years, with their classmates hosting, than they were at evan's nye bash

i also love that it gives me space to establish who is and isn't popular, so to speak, but also who acts or doesn't act the way we presume popular kids will act

doe, for instance, who is by all accounts a level-headed and non-wild person, has a more exciting time on net at marauders' parties than mary (drinking game, kissing remus), though she's not a big drinker and isn't really into parties. but she's comfortable in her own little social circle at a bigger event (like with michael at evan's) and so isn't bothered at all by the marauders' do, because...

She did, in fact, trust the Marauders. Her general belief in the inherent goodness of people notwithstanding, she didn't think they would do anything to harm their friends. Intentionally.

this bit always makes me laugh

as with many things, i feel very saddened that i didn't get to make more out of the fools' olympics (although one could argue that The Dance was a pro) — as in, i wish i'd been able to squeeze more of it into the story itself. i could probably come up with a list of tasks and who completed them LOL

WAIT OH MY GOD I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT THIS it just might be my favourite part of this chapter

"How did you do that?" Gillian said, glancing between the other two girls. "Just — drink it without a second thought?" "Practice," said Mary. "Scottish — constitution," David said hoarsely. "I once drank some of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mass Remover," said Priya.

priya is all i aspire to be

can i say, too, it's hilarious to me how many people worried niamh would be a james love interest? i feel like you will not rest easy on that count until he and lily are together... but that is not where the danger lies babes

circling back to popularity/unpopularity, another fun outlier. gillian is first established, in 33, as someone with friends (we see her around sara and in the seventh-year ravenclaws' compartment) but she's not exactly at ease at the party either — recall how she hesitates when mary invites her. only later, in 38, do we realise that our opinion of her has been skewed by the narration (from doe, who naturally assumes any friendly, nice person must have a wealth of friends and be floating through life; and mary, who naturally assumes anyone she isn't bored by must have the social skills of a medieval noblewoman at court), and she's a bit of a pariah in her own house

david, on the other hand, is just flat-out not in his element. and not because of the drinking or the, er, general revelry (see: summer with mary!), even though he doesn't partake much in either. unlike doe, the company breaks rather than makes his enjoyment — he's acutely aware, the whole time, that his cooler, more liked brother is around:

"Not your scene?" "What gave it away?" said David drily. As one they looked at Chris...

...and mary has intuited as much too, even though she has a lot more in common, superficially speaking, with chris than david

so, i think while i was writing this chapter i made a post complaining about how, as much as i love juggling the constraints of historical fiction, i hate that music from the 70s limits me in terms of tracklists. i.e., when i say a certain record is playing i can't just hit shuffle and go somewhere entirely different to set the mood shortly thereafter

this problem was because i wanted, NAY, NEEDED, to have "martha my dear" playing in the aftermath of that mary and david interaction. of course, time passes in that section break, but since "come and get it," which they talk about it, is a sirius song (though it could be a mary song), and i feel too strongly about needle drops to let that conversation go without a soundtrack. germaine even correctly guesses the white album is on because of mary:

Apparently Mary got fonder of the White Album the drunker she was.

...and of course the song itself makes me squeal with how very mary it is — not that it is something she would listen to, necessarily, or identify with (it would hold up too close of a mirror, ha), but it sounds like it could've been written about her ("hold your head up, you silly girl/look what you've done/when you find yourself in the thick of it/help yourself to a bit of what is all around you," which really sums up the entirety of her portree holiday, lol)

BUT! if "martha my dear" is to play here, then i have some Serious Chronology Concerns. i knew germeline had to kiss and jily had to dance and ideally in that order. but what would those scenes be soundtracked by!!!! i was limited to side two of the white album!!!

so i did the healthy thing and panic-listened to the white album. "don't pass me by" was, right away, an easy lock for the dance, because it's danceable, but not in a way that would've scared lily off. lyrically, it feels GREAT for jily in this moment, on the cusp of lily's realisation ("waiting for your knock, dear [...] i don't hear it, does it mean you don't love me anymore?" vs OF COURSE "don't pass me by [...] 'cause you know darling, i love only you"). i feel about "don't pass me by" the same way as NYT critic nik cohn: it's "straight ahead and clumsy and greatly enjoyable, backed by a beautiful hurdy-gurdy organ," which, if that isn't everything i wanted to evoke with the dance itself!!!!!!

ok we'll circle back to this, but onward with the musical discussion

thus i had four songs to choose from, between "martha my dear" and "don't pass me by," for the germeline scene — "piggies," "blackbird," "i'm so tired," and "rocky raccoon." the latter is on my sirius playlist, so auto-no; "piggies" is, well, like that, so also a no. "blackbird" is a certified germaine classic that was written personally by paul mccartney for germaine, but it seemed too introspective for the moment. i don't think i'd ever listened to "i'm so tired" before this panicked searching, and honestly it must be some wild luck that it is. just SO RIGHT!!!! it's so lethargic and tortured and angsty and, well, a bit of a stoner song, so.... it's THERE

AND NOW for the dance! true story, i initially wanted jily to have a real conversation, after the party. i had the dance in there and then james would catch up with lily after to be like, "hey i was wrong actually, you should write to petunia." but then i realised i wanted james and sirius to have a conversation about the bike/money, and i wanted it to strike a different chord, tonally, than the jily conversation. then i realised it would be too much to have both and i'd need to condense that conversation into the dance. VERY nearly cut the dance in favour of the conversation but wow i am glad i didn't

The tinkling piano signalled the start of the next song; she extended a hand, very matter-of-factly, to James, "Come on, this is a good one."

not pictured: james having a fucking breakdown

obviously, i could have gone the route of a genuine dramatic dance, but as previously mentioned lily would have chickened out, and i wanted to have this be an experience she could look back on and pine about because of how fun it was and james totally doesn't like her back

Loath as she was to admit it, this most indelicate of waltzes suited the plodding chords of "Don't Pass Me By." And worst of all, once they had stopped stepping on each other's feet James started to sing, in the poorest possible Ringo imitation she had ever heard in her life.

by the way, attentive readers of blink three times will recall:

He finally starts to lead — thank goodness, because she’s not the one who was forced into formal dance lessons as a child...

so in 36, this is james being drunk, but it is also james being silly on purpose because not only is he JAMES and so he must take the mick, he also knows it will put lily at ease

okay, and this bit:

"Don't pass me by, don't make me cry, don't make me blue," they both shouted rather than sang, "'Cause you know darling—" Lily broke off, laughing, dimly aware that she had done so to avoid saying I love only you while staring right at him.

from the FIRST MOMENT i picked out "don't pass me by," i knew i knew I KNEW that lily would have thoughts about this line. at this point in the story if someone questioned her about it she would probably have a full-scale breakdown about her male friends vs her female friends ("but no... i suppose i wouldn't mind saying it to remus.... but that's different!" how is it different, lily? "it's different!")

anyway, the bottom line is she could NOT abide saying it. i enjoyed writing that because 1. same girl and 2. it felt like a nice bit of close foreshadowing for her realisation, which i knew was coming soon. so that's a really circular way of saying, i knew what it meant but ideally to readers it was just oh this will mean something far-off in the future!!! which is usually true for me but SURPRISE babey it was just two chapters away!!!

note btw that lily "falls for james"

Lily spun faster than she’d intended to. The room was a brief, kaleidoscope blur. Then there was James. “Jesus, Evans,” he said, steadying her as the next track began.

>:)

and after i thought tracklists would fuck me up, i turned them into my WEAPON!!

Huffing, she stepped out of his arms. (There were some songs you could sing along to with your mates, and “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?” was not one of them.)

(so, you know, keep in mind that for the rest of this conversation, paul is in the background howling "no one will be watching us/why don't we do it in the road?")

also:

"...I’m not drinking tonight, but I’d better get the royal treatment after we win on Saturday."

and then what happened <3

wait jesus oh my god i really went hard on this huh

She only saw its result: the easy grin had given way to an expression so serious it was almost sweet.

LILY??????

and hey, remember when:

...because in chapter 26:

Dex’s measured opinions about the wizarding world seemed more the result of upbringing and inexperience than ill will, but Lily had not expected a radical change of heart.

...but then in 36:

He was right, damn it. And a part of her had known all along, had sought him out expressly so that he would say the opposite thing to her. He’d gone and proven her wrong. She broke the staring match first [...] “What brought on the change of heart?” “It’s a long story, and I expect it’ll have an unsatisfying end if I told it to you.” Lily scoffed, but James had on that maddening grin that meant he would not budge. “Oh, all right.” Softer, she added, “Thank you.” He began to back away, towards the bar. “It’s give and take, Evans.”

in conclusion, i never forget, besties

#i literally had to retype this entire fucking response #i hate tumblr #but anyway #be warned i talk about the beatles :/// in here #ask me #anon #director's cuts #36

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athenasbloodyspear · 3 years

Text

Say Something to Stop Me: Chapter 8

Writing Master List | Say Something to Stop Me Master List

Please note: This fic describes depression, anxiety, panic attacks, past/referenced non con and domestic violence. Please read at your own discretion.

Explicit Sexual Content. 18+

You wake slowly the next morning with golden sunlight streaming in your windows. You know it must be early due to the angle of the light.

Bucky’s limbs are tangled with yours where he lays on his back, your head on his chest. You take a deep breath in, savoring the smell of him and the warmth of his skin under your cheek.

It feels surreal.

You think back over the past year and all the ups and downs. You can’t believe how it all started, or that you’re going to end it tangled up with someone you never thought you’d have a chance with.

You were… happy.

You quietly disentangled your limbs from Bucky’s before plodding to your closet to put on a fresh pair of sweats. You didn’t want to leave him, but you were too restless with happy energy and didn’t want to wake him.

You quickly found a notepad to leave a message on the nightstand.

You looked too gorgeous to wake. I’m in the kitchen getting coffee.

After stepping out of your room and closing the door as softly as possible, you padded to the elevators and took them down to the kitchen.

You used your hip to bump open the door and found Steve sitting at the kitchen island, sipping a cup of coffee.

You both smiled at each other and you gave him a soft wave and a quiet “Morning” as you wandered over to the coffee pot to pour a cup for yourself.

“Late night?” Steve asked. His voice had enough of an innuendo in it that you whipped your head to look at him. He was smiling into his coffee.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Captain?”

“Nothing! Nothing.” He said, chuckling into his coffee. Your face was burning with a blush.

So, he knew what you were up to last night with his best friend.

Shit.

“I’m happy for you.” Steve murmured, smiling at you over the rim of his mug. “Both of you.”

“You are?” You questioned, snagging your cup of coffee and spinning to walk over toward where he sat on the counter.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I care deeply about both of you.”

“I don’t know. I just figured you’d think it was a conflict of interest or something. That it will distract us on missions.”

Steve laughed then, setting his coffee cup on the granite. “You’re both too smart to let it completely throw off your focus.”

You hummed in response, taking a deep gulp of coffee.

“I should thank you, really.” Steve murmured.

“Thank me?” You questioned.

“It’s been… it’s been entirely too long since I’ve seen this side of Buck.” Steve sighed, his shoulders falling a bit as he stared at the countertop. “It’s probably been since he left for the war in 1943. This fun, flirtatious and confident side of him. I didn’t realize how much I missed seeing him like that, until I saw it again that day in Croatia.” He mused.

Your heart broke for both of them. So much of their youth and friendship had been torn and twisted and warped by forces outside of their control.

“You brought him back.” Steve said, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “You found my old friend inside him somewhere and brought him back. I don’t think I could ever thank you enough.”

You both had tears in your eyes as you stared at each other for a moment. You set your coffee on the counter and walked around the edge, throwing your arms around Steve. You held each other tight for a long moment.

“You had to bring him back before I could.” You whispered into his shoulder. You felt Steve’s shoulders shake a bit and felt small pricks of water hit the shoulder of your t-shirt as he let tears fall.

“Careful Steve.” A voice crooned from the door. “I don’t think Barnes likes sharing.”

Natasha.

You both chuckled as you pulled away from each other. Both of you wiped tears away with the backs of your hands.

“Morning Nat.” You said as you went to snag your coffee off the counter. Before you could, Nat walked toward you and wrapped you in a big hug, holding you close to her for a long moment.

“Morning.” She whispered. Somehow, that one word held volumes.

“Whoa whoa whoa” Another voice called from the doorway. “Didn’t know I was going to be interrupting family therapy at eight in the morning.” Sam chuckled as he walked into the room.

“You know us.” Nat called over your shoulder. “Always mushy gushy.”

She released you as Sam walked past you on his way to pour his own coffee, but not before he leaned in and gave you a quick peck on the cheek. “I would say my offer from last night still stands, but something tells me you’re not going to get bored anytime soon.”

You just rolled your eyes at him. “Good morning to you too, Sam.”

Just then the door swung open and Peter came bouncing through. He often stayed over on the weekends.

He winced a bit as he looked at you.

“What?” You asked, putting one hand on your hip.

“Nothing.” Peter teased. “It’s just going to be a while before I get the image of you wrapped around Bucky as he hauled you through here last night out of my mind.”

Before you could even process that thought, Tony strode through the door.

Did everyone always end up in the kitchen on Saturday mornings drinking coffee or was this a special occasion to see how embarrassed they could make you?

“Hey kid. I figured you’d still be sleeping after last night.” Tony winked at you, also heading to grab a coffee.

“So you all know already?”

““It’s kind of impossible for us not to know what’s going on when Megatron carried you through here last night with your faces sewn together.” This came from Wanda as her and Vision walked through the door to the kitchen. “That, and I’ve been privy to both of your intrusive thoughts about each other for the past two months.”

You groaned, and slapped a hand to your forehead. This was so embarrassing.

“ And the fact that Barnes hasn’t been able to keep his hands off you for the past month.” Nat chimed in.

“Or his eyes.” That was Steve.

“And he would not shut up about you in that cabin.” Sam added.

“And I share a wall with you, remember?” From Peter.

“I’m going to have to add soundproofing to your room, aren’t I?” From Tony.

“Enough!” You shrieked. “Enough. I get it.”

Everyone chuckled softly. Your whole family. It made your heart squeeze in your chest, even if your face was currently burning.

Just then, Bucky pushed his way through the door to the kitchen, startling when he took in everyone sitting around the counter staring at him.

“There he is!” Sam yelled, walking over to clap him soundly on the shoulder. “Congratulations buddy. You finally got your shit together and made a move. I get that you were frozen for years, but you don’t have to continue to move at the pace of a glacier.”

Bucky laughed softly as he continued his trajectory across the kitchen toward you. “Yeah yeah yeah.” He muttered. “Whatever.”

He snagged you around the waist and hauled you to his chest, giving you a soft kiss right there in the middle of everyone, whispering “Good morning.”

Behind you, you hear Peter fake gag and Sam let out a groan as he said “This is gonna totally ruin all the joy of making fun of you on coms.”

You and Bucky both smile at each other. Bucky kisses you again on the temple before continuing across the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee for himself.

You keep beaming into your cup of coffee. You feel like you must be glowing, you're so happy.

Your whole family is still here, showing you love in the only way they know how.

Bucky just kissed you in front of anyone.

If you thought you felt superhuman before, you felt invincible now.

“Not to break up this weird spontaneous family reunion,” Tony drawled. “But I’ve got to send Barnes, Wilson and Romanoff back to Croatia briefly to tie up some loose ends. I got a ping this morning that they must have kept some information off the mainframe at a separate location. I need it.”

Bucky groaned from behind you. “Tony, do you enjoy tearing me away from my woman?”

You turned to look at Bucky, a heated look on your face as you raised an eyebrow at him.

Oh, you really liked when he called you his.

“Yes, it’s absolutely delightful to watch you suffer.” Tony said dryly. “You should only be gone for this afternoon. Surely your dick won’t fall off in the meantime.”

You choked on your coffee.

“Jesus Christ, Tony!” You spluttered.

“Just callin it like I see it.” Tony shrugs. “You three suit up and meet me in the conference room in 15. Try not to waste time sucking your girlfriends face again Barnes.”

Bucky sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “You weren’t supposed to tell him about that Friday.”

“Sorry Agent Barnes. It’s hard to keep things from the person who created you.” Friday's lilt came down from the ceiling. She sounded almost amused.

~0~

Bucky only disobeyed Tony a little. He did throw you over his shoulder and carry you back to his room where he tossed you on the mattress and went to get suited up.

When he was dressed he lingered a few minutes, placing open mouthed kisses along your neck and collarbones while you giggled and tried to push him off. Telling him that Tony was going to kill him if he didn’t get down the conference room.

He didn’t stop until Friday cleared her throat once.

He groaned and placed one more kiss on your lips before standing up, grabbing his guns and walking to the door. He spun when he reached the frame and murmured “I want you right there when I get back” before shutting the door and walking away.

You laid there for a few minutes, burying your face in his sheets and pillows because they smelled so much like him. You could almost pretend he was still laying there with you.

You refused to let yourself lay there all day though. Tony was right, he would just be gone for the day, but he’d be back late tonight.

You went to the gym and trained for a few hours. After a shower you spent some time in the kitchen with Wanda. She taught you a few Sokovian recipes and you both giggled at your poor attempts at cooking. She assured you that it got better with practice.

You were feeling really good. It was so liberating to feel like you were a part of this family again. Sure, you were still a tiny bit embarrassed that everyone already knew about you and Bucky. Especially Peter. The poor kid had heard you last night. Regardless, they were family. They were happy for you.

You were happy for you.

You found yourself wandering back to Bucky’s room around 6pm. You meandered around his bedroom for a while, running your fingers along the spines of all the books he’d amassed on his huge bookshelf, reading every title. You noticed quite a few titles you’d never read, and made a mental note to raid his shelf later.

You eventually curled back up in his bed. You figured he would be home in a couple hours, and he had requested that he find you back here when he returned.

You’d nap a bit, so you could be ready for him when he arrived.

~0~

You startled awake to Friday’s voice calling your name from the ceiling.

“You’re needed in the med wing immediately.” She said.

You glanced at the clock. It was 9:09. It was an hour after they were supposed to have arrived home.

Bucky.

Your heart thundered in your chest. You flung the covers off of you, leaving your shoes behind as you careened out of the room. You didn’t check your momentum as you made the corner and slammed into the drywall on the other side of the hall, leaving a shoulder sized dent in the wall.

“Shit.” You mumbled as you corrected your angle and took off again. Sprinting to the stairwell and hauling down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

When you tore the door open to the med wing you stopped dead in your tracks for a moment.

There was so much blood.

It lined the tiles in big splashes and boot prints. You could make out tracks of where multiple people had clearly been running through the mess, too much in a hurry to avoid the puddles.

Your throat started to close up.

No no no.

You would not panic now. If Bucky needed you, you would be there for him. You were strong. You could keep it together right now. For him.

You skidded around the corner toward where you knew the operating room lay, following the slick trail of blood.

Steve stood pacing in the center of the hallway. Tony was sitting in one of the chairs lining the walls, his head in his hands.

You walked quickly down the hall towards them, Tony lifted his head as he heard you approaching, Steve stopped in his tracks.

“They were ambushed as soon as the jet touched down. It was a trap.” Steve blurted. “Sam got shot a few times, Nat came back with a knife in her side…”

“Where is he?” You choked.

You were concerned about your friends too, but right now you needed your eyes on Bucky or you were going to lose your goddamn mind.

“Third room on the left.” Tony muttered.

“Wait, Y/N!” Steve called. “It’s worse than it--”

You didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. You took off, your bare feet slipping along the tile as you careened down the hall toward the door Tony had said held Bucky.

Your heart was thundering in your ears.

Finally you hurtled around the corner, slipping a bit on your slick feet and slamming into the door frame of the third room on the left.

Despite the image of gore in front of you, you finally released a big wave of breath. One you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Bucky sat on the edge of a hospital bed, his kevlar jacket laid in a heap on the floor by his feet. His chest, neck and face was splattered with blood. His boots were a deep red, and more blood was splattered across his thighs.

Vision was standing near his bicep, tying off what looked like that last of a line of stitches along a large gash on his upper arm.

There on his cheekbone was the beginning of a nasty bruise, and a gash along his eyebrow was dripping blood down his temple, it ran along his jaw.

But he was breathing. And sitting up on his own.

He lifted his head when he heard you hit the door frame and his cobalt eyes met yours. He looked so distraught it sent a bolt of pain straight through your chest.

He scanned your whole body, as if he was looking for injuries himself even though you’d spent your whole day safe here in the compound. He was looking at you like he couldn’t really believe you were standing in the doorframe.

“Get out.” Bucky grumbled to Vision. Vision just glanced up at him looking perplexed, before glancing over at you. He nodded his head once.

“You’ll likely need more stitches in that gash above your eye.” Vision commented as he drifted toward the wall behind Bucky, before disappearing through it.

No matter how many times he did it, it still freaked you out.

“Come here.” Bucky growled.

You softly closed the door to the room behind you and walked toward him, trying to tip toe over the puddles of blood on the tile. Likely they came from the gash in his arm that Vision had stitched up for him. You left small bloodied prints on the clean tile.

“Are you okay?” You whispered meekly. Even though he was clearly in front of you, it still felt like he might slip through your fingers or disappear. Your terror still hadn’t fully subsided.

When you reached him, he used his metal hand to snag yours and pulled you forward forcefully. You collapsed into his arms, your legs straddling his hips. You tried to keep your weight from fully hitting him, worrying about jostling his arm and opening his stitches. Not to mention, you had no idea if he had other injuries under his thin t-shirt.

His metal arm clicked a bit as it wrapped around your torso. You noticed a few dents in the shape of bullets near his elbow. You felt tears come to your eyes. He pulled you against his chest, so he could bury his face in your neck.

You didn’t care that he was likely smearing blood all over you. You had already soaked your feet and splattered it up your shins and calves.

“I am now.” He sighed. He didn’t lift his right arm from where it lay on the bed, but you reached your hand out and rubbed your fingertips up and down the soft skin of his forearm.

His chest was quivering a bit beneath yours as he started to press sloppy kisses along your collarbone.

His metal arm whirred a bit again as he moved his hand to the hem of your shirt and tugged upward. “Take this off. I need your skin.” He murmured. He sounded near desperate, like he was spiralling into panic of his own.

You snaked your hands down and lifted your shirt off over your head. You’d taken your bra off earlier to nap and Bucky moaned when he noted your bare chest. He buried his face into your chest and peppered kisses across the tops of your breasts and down the center of your sternum.

“What happened?” You whispered.

“Those fuckers lured us there with fake information.” Bucky murmured against you. He lifted his right hand just a bit so he could grab your hip. You could feel his hand tremor against you.

“Are Nat and Sam..?” You trailed off.

“They’ll live.” Bucky grunted. “Sam probably won’t be able to go out for a few months. He’ll be pissed. Nat will be fine in a couple weeks. She always is.”

You let out a huge sigh of relief. All of them were fine. Banged up, and in pain, but they’d still be here tomorrow.

“I need you.” Bucky whispered into your neck. “Now.” He was pleading with you. A desperate whine that came from the back of his throat.

“Bucky…” You started. “Your arm.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” He growled, pulling back and shoving at your hips a bit with his metal hand. “Take these off.”

You stepped off his lap. “Bucky…” You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him too, but he was clearly in pain and you didn’t want to re-open the stitches.

“Please.” He whispered. You looked into his eyes again. You saw straight through the blue to the core of him. He wasn’t kidding. He needed you. You could see it in his eyes. You could feel his desperation pour off of him in waves.

You snagged the edges of your sweats and pulled down, letting them drop to the floor. It didn’t matter if they got blood on them now, you’d ruined them the moment you’d climbed into his lap.

He used his metal hand to pop the snap on his pants.

You helped tug his pants down a bit until he was free. You tried to continue to pull them down his knees but he choked “Leave them” and grabbed for your arm, pulling you toward him.

You straddled his lap again, hovering over him.

Bucky spit into his metal hand, before bringing it down to your body and spreading it over your core. He was looking between you, even his metal hand trembling now as he lined himself up with you.

You placed both hands on either side of his face. “Are you okay?” You whispered.

When he was lined up with you, he brought his eyes back up to meet yours. The color of his irises was deeper than usual. Full of pain, and fear as he looked up at you.

He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against yours and grabbed your hips with both hands, wincing a bit as it jostled his right arm.

“Bucky!” You yelped as his face twisted slightly at the movement. It morphed into a moan as he sheathed himself in you.

“I thought I wasn’t going to make it back to you.” He whispered then. So softly you barely heard him.

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes. You rolled your hips against him softly, so he wouldn’t have to move his arms again to lift your hips. He took a shuddering breath.

“I was terrified.” He continued, voice still in a barely audible whisper. “But not of dying. I’ve been waiting for that forever.”

Your throat closed up at that. A man who’d lived so many years alone. More than anyone should have. He had come to terms with the danger of his line of work a long time ago. There was likely a time that he prayed for death.

“I was terrified of what would happen to you.” He choked, his chest heaving. You continued to slowly and softly roll your hips against him. Pulling up and sinking back down as gently as you could. “I just kept imagining the look on your face when Steve told you.” He was crying now. Tears silently streaming down his face and off his jaw. The ones on the left side of his face turning pink as they mixed with his blood. “I fought harder than I’ve ever fought in my life because I refused to let that look be real.”

“Bucky.” You whispered. It was caught between a sob and moan as you continued to grind on him. There were tears in your eyes now.

He lifted his head, snagging your chin with his metal hand so you looked him in the eye.

The blue ensnared you. It whirled with so many shades and feelings. You felt like you were plunging headlong into the clearest sea.

“I love you.” He whispered.

Your breath caught in your chest. You squeezed around him as a bolt of arousal shot through you.

“I’ve loved you for a long time.” He said, his voice a little stronger now. “I almost said it to you over the phone when I was stuck in that damn cabin, but I’m glad the phone cut out. I wanted to see your face when I said it. I wanted to be able to memorize what your eyes looked like.”

You were weeping in his arms now. The pace of your hips speeding a bit as your heart started to thunder in your chest. You couldn’t take your eyes off of his.

“I was planning on saying it today. Maybe taking you on a walk around the lake or just saying it to you when you were curled up in my bed.” He was moving his hips with yours now, matching you for every stroke. “I fought because I refused to go out without saying it to your face.”

“I love you” He repeats “And I’ll be damned if any bastard tries to take me away from you.”

You choked out a sob. Your whole body felt light as air. The adrenaline that had been coursing through your body amplified your relief and your joy as you stared into his eyes.

He rests his forehead against yours again, a few soft moans escaping him as he continued to roll his hips into yours, somehow finding that spot inside you even with everything else around you being a total mess.

“I almost said it the other night.” You whispered.

He whips his head up to look at you. He clearly hadn’t expected you to say anything back to him.

“I know it’s really soon and you’re still working through things--” he started.

You cut him off.

“I love you.”

A broken moan is torn from his chest as he thrusts hard up against you. The sudden jolt causes you to come fiercely and abruptly as he covers your lips with his, swallowing every sound pulled from your throat.

He comes shortly after, still kissing you and nipping at your lower lip.

You both hold each other then, foreheads resting together, silent tears still falling as your heartbeats steady.

Bucky picks his left arm up to wrap around the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair. He pulls back to place a soft kiss in the center of your forehead.

You bring your hands up to either side of his face to gently wipe tears off his cheeks and jaw.

“I’m sorry I got blood all over you.” He chuckles then.

“I’m sorry you’re all bloody.” You respond, giving him a small smirk.

“Excuse me” Friday’s lilt comes from the ceiling. “But Dr. Cho and Tony would like to know when it is safe to come and inspect Agent Barnes injuries. I recommend you make yourselves presentable, as they are heading down the hallway now.”

Bucky groans and rests his forehead against your chest then. “When they see what you look like right now, I’m never going to hear the end of it from Tony.”

You let your head fall back and release a small giggle. “I love you.”

He pulls his head back up to look at you again. There’s a little more sparkle in his eyes this time. “I love you, too.”

Tag List: (I’m new at this so hopefully this is how you do this!)

@vicmc624

@austynparksandpizza

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky #bucky fic #bucky barnes x female reader

31 notes · View notes

thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

Have you seen the post going around about the zoom class with one guy and his full streamer setup vs the guy whose just in the middle of the woods? I know you have a prompt list rn but I’m just saying there’s a sternclay fic in there somewhere...

It is! Here you go!

Life is better with order. Or, at the very least, with some attempt at patterns, organization, or consistency.

Which is why Stern has carefully arranged his desk, his chair, and his equipment in the background. Streaming as a hobby and a side hustle means he has some (okay, a lot) of practice making his digital self look just right. He needs to make a good impression on the first day of the semester.

Unlike some people.

“Holy shit man, are you in the woods?” Duck, the guy in a “Monongahela National Forest” shirt, grins as he asks this of another student whose screen consists of a forest clearing, a log, and the name “Barclay.”

“Yeah. Hang on, lemme finish getting the phone balanced.”

“Dude, that’s like, way better than my background” this comes from Jake, in front of a poorly rendered half-pipe.

“Can’t really take credit for it, just where I ended up.” Barclay sits down, and Stern gets his first look at a man so tall he barely fits in the frame, with a short, coppery beard and an honest-to-god man-bun.

Damn west coast schools.

“How is your battery going to last long enough for class?” Stern leans back in his chair, certain Barclay will have “battery trouble” halfway through as an excuse to cut out early.

Barclay smiles, lifting up a small green and black rectangle, “solar battery. Not everyone needs fancy gadgets for school.” He aims a pointed stare at Sterns set-up.

“It’s important to have the right equipment.”

“Whatever you say, man.” He lifts a cup of iced coffee into the frame, sipping it through a straw. It’s the picture of relaxation, as if nothing is wrong in the world. As if this is all totally normal.

Stern wants to reach through the screen and slap some sense into him. Preferably while he’s shirtless.

He chalks that thought up to not having gotten laid since last December and pulls up his note taking software as Professor Chicane enters the room.

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

Private Chat 9/20/20

Duck (he/him): I timed it, we’re already at ten minutes of arguing.

Indrid (he/him): I know Ned enjoys their demonstrating the different modes of rhetoric, but this is a bit extreme.

Duck: To be fair, Joe does seem kinda uptight.

Indrid: Yes, but Barclay should know by now that zeroing in on him during our practice debates only results in this.

Duck: Yeah. Oh shit, are they for real wrapping up you think?

Indrid: We can only hope. Skype me tonight?

Duck: Of course, sugar.

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

What is Joseph’s problem? He’s got a set-up that would make a pro-vlogger jealous, what looks to be a well-lit apartment with some houseplants and the kind of coffee-cups that are weirdly lacking in personality. His clothes are immaculate, his hair slicked back as if he;s in a business meeting rather than an online class in the midst of a chaotic world. So why is he acting like everything is terrible? And why is he always arguing with Barclay, when there are plenty of other people in the class to disagree with?

“Now” Mr. Chicane’s voice booms through the tiny speaker on his phone, “if you all had a chance to read over the instructions, we will begin the first mock debate. Do we have any volunteers?”

He and Joe raise their hands at the same time. Mr. Chicane raises an eyebrow.

“While I appreciate your eagerness, gentlemen, I would like two other volunteers this time.”

That’s fine by him. It’s not like he likes listening to Joseph get all wound up and passionate, making everyone on the call sit up and take notice of him. It’s not as if he enjoys being the center of his focus.

Nope, not at all.

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

Private chat 10/11/20

Jake (he/him): Dudes, did you see who got paired up on the final project?

Aubrey (she/her): Chicane must be getting them back for all the times they’ve hijacked discussions.

Duck (he/him): Man, for their sake I hope it works out.

Indrid (he/him): This is going to be a disaster.

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

“Are you out of your mind!” Stern is talking before Barclay’s video is fully on.

“Nope. And you don’t have to yell, my speaker works just fine.”

“You’re outside, for all I know there’s a ton of ambient noise.”

Barclay, phone obviously in his hand as he walks through the trees, groans.

“And don’t try to derail this; how can you possibly suggest I come out there so we can do the project in person? We’re supposed to be limiting travel and gatherings.”

“Look, Joseph, we both agree that trying to generate our own cryptid hoax is the best way to demonstrate all the techniques Ned wants us too, right?”

“Yes” he hides his answer behind the rim of his coffee mug.

“We’ll do a way better job if we work in the same space. And if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t had any human contact in three weeks; all quarantined up, unlike whatever you’ve been doing in the city.”

He sets the mug down with a thunk, “I haven’t been out in a month. And before that was only for one grocery run and a hospital visit.”

“Uhhh-”

“I cut my hand cooking. So. Yeah.”

Literal crickets chirp, courtesy of Barclay’s end of the line, as the silence stretches on.

“If it helps, it’s real easy to stay isolated here, and I’ve still got utilities and everything.”

“And you’re not subsisting only on MREs or granola or something?”

A deep chuckle, the kind that makes his skin prickle, “Nope. That much I can promise.”

Stern glances around the studio apartment, clean and empty.

“What’s your address?”

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

Look, all Stern is going to say is that he’s seen and read plenty of stories that start with a cabin in the woods and none of them end well. Which is why he’s still sitting in his car, parked beside a beat-up Subaru, rather than knocking on the door.

Breathe in, five counts. Out for four. Repeat four times.

Waiting for him on the door is a note.

Joseph,

Key under mat, make yourself at home.

Barclay.

He brings in his bags (a matching set of three, a gift from his aunt last year), placing them in the tiny guest room. It’s not much more than a bed, a dresser, and a tiny table. But there’s a heating unit below the window looking out into the woods, which is pretty pleasant. He’ll be keeping the blinds closed at night, though; he hates the thought of something being able to look in.

Stern’s busy evaluating the laundry closet when the front door opens.

“Hey, glad you found the place okay.”

Barclay stands in the doorway, a basket full of fruit in one hand. He’s remarkably kempt for a man living in the woods and that, combined with the deep voice being even richer in person and the fact Stern has to actually look up to meet his eyes, has him stumbling for words.

“Your directions were very thorough. Thank you. Um. I put my things in there, should I, um-”

“I can give you the grand tour.” The taller man sets the basket on the dining table, notices Sterns puzzled expression “there’s a piece of property about a mile thataway that has orchards they don’t really use. They let me come and pick whenever i want, less for them to clean up.”

Barclay keeps up a steady monologue as he shows him the cabin. The lower level is the living room and dining area, a kitchen which leads onto the back deck, Sterns room, and a bathroom. As the cabin is A-frame, the upstairs is Barclay’s room, all dark wood and pine colored plaid. It’s as Barclay is telling him about the woodpecker that sometimes nests in the eaves that he realizes why he’s talking so much.

He’s nervous.

Neither of their nerves improve when he gets to his last point of order.

“Uh, so, the bathroom downstairs is only a half-bath.”

“So...if I want to shower, which I do, I have to come up here.”

“Yeah.” Barclay scratches the back of his neck, “sorry. I don’t, like, sleep naked or anything so we should be fine.”

“Disappointing.” Stern sighs, only to sail past sarcastic and land face first in sincere.

Barclay blushes, then shrugs, “Trust me, after the first night, you’ll see why.”

Stern does. He’s warm as long as he’s in bed, but the moment he ventures into the bathroom in the middle of the night he’s cocooned in cold.

The morning brings cinnamon and coffee on the draft coming under the door. He plods into the kitchen in search of caffeine, finds Barclay in an pron, the counter covered in trays of dough.

“Morning!”

“Morning. Coffee-”

“Right there, sugar and stuff’s in the cabinet above it, cream and such is in the fridge.”

Blessedly, there’s heavy cream to be found, and soon he’s sipping from an enamel mug emblazoned with a UFO made of veggies.

“Is this all for your job?” Barclay mentioned he was a cook during an icebreaker.

“Yep. Way it works is I bust my ass baking once or twice a day, and Thacker, who works with Mama at the Lodge in town, comes and takes them over there. Normally I’d just be there but, well, y’know.”

“Everything is on fire? Figuratively, I mean.”

“Sometimes literally too, but yeah.”

As he’s turning to grab his clothes and head showerward, Barclay adds, “You a scone man, coffecake man, or a cinnamon roll man?”

“Coffeecake?” It comes out hesitant.

“There’s no right answer, man.” Barclay sounds amused, “what do you want?”

“Cake, definitely.”

“Cool. I’ll save you a slice.”

Once he’s showered and on the wi-fi, his day runs like normal; one lecture, reading, a research paper, his initial half of their project, and working either his copy-editing or transcription job in between, and planning his next stream. Barclay comes and goes, stops now and then to see if he needs anything, leaves a sandwich in front of him around dinner time. Then it’s time to crawl under the covers and dream of a less-stressful world.

The next day, just before one, Barclay taps him on the shoulder.

“Ready for class?”

“Yes…” He gestures to his laptop and notebook.

“C’mon, join me out here, it’s way nicer, and we can share the phone.”

“Barclay, it’s a nonsensical way to attend class, just stay in here with me! Even this set-up has to be better than the woods.”

“This set up. You mean my house?” All the friendliness leaves hi voice.

“Yes. Look, I agreed to come out because you’re right, if we want to ace this thing that’s worth sixty percent of our grade, this is the place to do it; I don’t have to go along with the whole self-sufficient woodsman aesthetic while I’m here. “

“Yeah, I’d say you’re pretty far from self-sufficient. See you in class.”

Stern stews through the entire session, but where he’d usually find something Barclay says to latch onto, he instead gnaws on himself. Why didn’t he just go with him? Why snap at someone who’s been nothing but nice since he got here?

Whatever the answer, how can he fix it?

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

Barclay tromps back through the twilight, done with his second class of the day. If Joseph is in the main house, he plans to ignore him until tomorrow morning. That all goes out the window with the clank of dishes from the kitchen.

Peering in reveals the other man bent over, pulling a casserole from the oven. He waits to announce his presence until Joseph is out of the danger zone, enjoying the view as he does.

“Smells good.”

Blue eyes flick over to him as Joseph opens drawers, “it’s mostly cheese and chips, so I’m not surprised.”

“Servers are in that one.”

“Thank you. Nacho pie?” He scoops some into a bowl, holding it out.

“Sure. Uh, look, Joseph I-”

Joseph holds up the server, “Wait. Before you apologize I, um, I wanted to say I’m sorry for my comments. And for being so...me-ish.” He sighs, staring at the utensil in his grip, “I’ve always been a little bit tense, tried to be polite and effective and friendly in spite of it. The last six months made that harder to do. I don’t love it when I can’t be organized, when normal systems go out of place. But that’s no excuse for being rude to you, even before you invited me here. You’re just so...you’re always so calm and relaxed, like nothing was wrong and I just honed in on that way more than made sense. I’m sorry.”

“If it makes you feel better, I kinda did the same thing. You’re always so put together, it looked like you had this organized life in the midst of this whole shitstorm. I feel lik everything is slipping away, like my world is just this cabin. I mean, I assumed you were seeing friends in the city, while I haven’t seen Mama in person since April. So” he sets the bowl down, rests his hand on Joseph’s shoulder, “I’m sorry too.”

Joseph laughs, softly, “turns out we both had failures of imagination, huh?”

“Yeah” he runs a hand over Joseph's back, “now come on, this dinner’s not gonna eat itself.”

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

“You sure you don’t wanna wear the bigfoot costume?”

“Positive. Besides, it suits you.” Joseph finishes styling the fur on the head of the costume to look more realistic, “I just hope we get this done before that storm comes in; as mush as the rain would add to the mood of the scene, that’ll be hell to dry and you’ll be miserable. So, go lurk over there while I finish up getting the camera settings where they need to be.”

“Yes sir” Barclay pops the head on, leaves crunching as moves to his appointed tree. He smiles as he watches Joseph fiddle with the camera; things have been so much better between them these last two weeks. They trade off cooking dinner, study side by side, and watch movies or play games in the warmth of the heater. They have a similar sense of humor and taste in books, and are tidy to boot. Joseph’s even come with him to listen to lectures in the woods, the pair sharing a thermos of coffee under the astonished gaze of their classmates. There’s just one problem.

Barclay’s buried crush is now blooming in every direction. Animated, argumentative Joseph was attractive. Joseph, in all his moods and mannerisms, is devastatingly enchanting. He’s come close to telling him this, but the other man is his guest and also only here for another two and a half weeks, so a confession is setting himself up for heartbreak at worst and awkwardness at best.

He almost blew it last night when they were washing dishes (Joseph scrubs, Barclay dries and puts away).

“Last one.”

“Thanks, blue eyes.”

“What was that?”

“Uh, blue eyes? Like a, uh, a nickname?”

Joseph laughs, “Sounds like something from a Raymond Chandler book. I like it.”

On the plus side, if Joseph thinks it’s just a nickname and not a pet name, maybe Barclay can keep using it.

“Are you ready?’

He sticks up a hairy thumb and calls, “you know it, blue eyes.”

That same laugh as Joseph takes up his position. Maybe it’s the weird film over the costume’s eyes, but Barclay swears he sees a blush.

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

Stern trawls through the search results. Their video is getting some traction, with two cryptid hunter sites claiming it’s credible footage. He’s making note of how the information spread, which threads lead to belief and which to doubt, when Barclay calls from upstairs.

“Joseph? Little help?”

The other man is in the bathroom, and when Stern knocks he says, “Think the pilot light on the water heater went out again, all I’m getting is cold water. Can you go relight it?”

“Sure.” He gets to the stairs then, stops, “where’s the key to that closet?”

“Huh? Oh, shit, right, hang on” Barclay says at the same time as Stern’s “don’t worry, I can find it.”

Which is why the instant he turns back into the bedroom is the same instant Barclay steps out of the bathroom, blue towel around his waist.

Any blood that doesn’t head south goes instantly to Stern’s cheeks.

“You okay there, blue-eyes?”

“It’s completely unfair how good you look without a shirt.”

He clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Idn’t ean to ay at out oud” The mumbled explanation makes Barclay smirk.

“You like this, should see what’s under the towel.”

The unusually bold statement from Barclay kindles his own confidence.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, big guy.”

“Who says I won’t.” Barclay sits down on the edge of the bed, nonchalant and leaning back on his hands, “got plenty of time to make good on them.”

“We literally don’t. I go back in a week and two days.”

Barclay toys with the lint on the towel, “you could stay. Through break, through next semester, for however long you wanted.”

“Do you mean that?”

A shy nod, “I like having you around, Joseph. Even beyond the huge fucking crush I have on you I...everything is a little better when you’re around.”

“I, um, I guess it could work. We know next semester is online too, and so is work, so…” there must be variables missing, something he’s not seeing, some reason this is too good to be true.

“You want some space away from shirtless me to think about it?”

“That’d be great.”

Barclay stands, hesitates, then plants a quick kiss on his forehead, “take all the time you need, blue eyes.”

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

Private Chat log 1/11/2021

Barclay (he/him): Did you see the look on Duck’s face when we turned up in frame together.

Joseph (he/him): Yes. Pretty sure Aubrey yelled something about him needing to pay up. I wonder what the bet was.

Barclay (he/him): Whatever it was, pretty sure I came out the biggest winner.

Stern snorts, trying not to blush on camera, and leans over to kiss his boyfriend on the cheek.

#agent stern/barclay #sternclay #taz amnesty #college AU

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eternalstrigoii · 4 years

Text

Haunt-ober Night #8: Lantern

There’s a monster in those woods,

It will get you, if you’re not good.

Ulstead’s children sang that rhyme, still. They had when he was young, and he imagined they would when he was as old as the king; the young man had been repeating it to himself since his brother flinted their lantern under the cover of the dense canopy. Their dinghies rested, overturned, beneath the first tree across from the fishermen’s bridge – somewhere they hoped would be easy to find once they ensured they would be paid for their trouble.

Drag you under leaves and sticks,

Punish you for all your tricks.

It seemed like a simple prospect until they were engulfed by darkness. They grew on stories of the wicked and tricky fey who would lure children into the woods and spin them in circles so they would never find their way home, yet he had the nagging suspicion that it would not be Their fault if they lost their way. When the leaves rustled overhead, he looked up out of the corner of his eye to spy the squirrel or the possum that made the sound, but his eyes did not linger; it’s a wood, he reasoned with himself, that is what woods do. Things live here.

A nest for hair and claws of bone,

You are never, ever coming home.

They had to have passed plenty, by now. They just weren’t looking hard enough.

He had thought the glowing mushrooms might be fey, but they were simply glowing mushrooms – they did not struggle when plucked, and they did not provide enough light to pocket more than the one. If it was not for the chirp of the insects and the scurrying of night-animals, he would’ve believed them entirely on their own.

The darkness of the canopy had given way to open fields of summer’s wildflowers, and the young man plod through them with no regard for what might be occupying the earth or the safety of the tall-grasses where he stepped. His brother moved more lightly, barely more aware of nature’s intricacies.

“Where would they go?” he whispered fiercely.

“I don’t know – to a fairy ring,” his brother replied.

“A fairy ring?”

His brother’s cheeks ruddied. He threw an angry glance over his shoulder and held the lantern higher. “What do you expect, to reach out and just—?” Find one? His brother reached out, swept his hand over the tops of one of the wildflowers, and “pulled the flower from its stem” –

Except no flower came away. His hand closed around the body of a sleeping petal sprite, whose abrupt awakening came with a soft, gentle cry of pain at the crumpling of their fragile wings.

The young man nearly threw them to the ground.

A heart’s beat of silence passed between them, and then the boy dropped his lantern to rifle through his bag. There was a cork-topped jar that they’d stolen from their mother’s kitchen, and he hurried to pry the top loose so he might stuff the little creature inside of it. His brother snatched another off the top of the tall grass, bent down like a stem beneath the weight of their round little bodies, and the small creature yelled out in fear as they were disturbed. He reached for another, who ran; grabbed at another, still. The other sprites were quick to rouse, and their high, panicked voices rose above the tall grass like a song.

A fleeting darkness blotted out the moon’s pale light. The young man’s eyes lifted, but he saw nothing pass; his eyes were still raised as his brother pocketed the half-sealed jar, and a heavy thump landed upon the earth behind them.

For a heart’s beat, neither moved. The petal sprites did not soothe, and yet their cacophony did not detract from the certainty that accompanied their shared apprehension. His brother dared begin to turn, slowly raising his head, and then his eyes, to look over his shoulder at whatever creature’s landing claimed the advantage of familiar territory.

He did not take the time to look for himself. He saw the fear that seized his brother’s face, and he surged forward without regard for the sprites that had not fled.

He ran.

The petal sprite struggled and chittered and screeched when the pressure built upon her fragile wings. He did not understand a word of the language she spoke, but he should’ve understood raw panic when he heard it – help! Don’t hurt me, please!

He did not have the time to dig his heels into the soft earth when the shadows themselves descended from the blackness of the tree-line. The light of will o’ the wisps fluttering in practiced coordination had been snuffed out by the sheer breadth of your wings.

He dropped the petal sprite.

There’s a monster in those woods.

The tender, fragile little thing hit the dirt face-first. He did not once look down at it, for his eyes were fixed upon the seemingly back-lit, demonic gold of yours. The blood rushed away from his already-pale face. Oh god.

It will get you, if you’re not good.

Low. Guttural. The sound you made – the snarl that left you – could not have come from you, yet it had. Faintly human. Your shape was faintly human, but your wings. Your horns. He backed away. He could not take his eyes off of you; he would’ve been a fool to.

One. Measured. Step. Forward.

Drag you under leaves and sticks.

That was what happened to his brother. The roots had turned to prehensile branches with unnatural sentience, guided by the hand of the other wingéd creature. God in Heaven, it wasn’t just you. How many—?

Punish you for all your tricks.

His back collided with something solid. Be a tree, he thought, though an involuntary shudder passed through him. Trees are not warm.

Another languid, measured step. He could see you in the light, now. Cheekbones like a jagged cliff-face, broken-glass webbing over your cheek, talons…claws of bone.

You are never, ever coming home.

From not far above his head, a low, coarse voice hissed, “Boo.”

Thankfully for the flower sprite, her petal-wings were bruised, but otherwise unharmed. You loved the way their fat, alien little bodies fit in your palm – her fuzzy moth-feelers brushed over the sharpness of your talons as you examined her delicate, curling tails. Satisfied that she was in sound physical shape, you set her down on one of the many beds of flowers and apologized – again – under your breath.

Confused, but pleased, the little creature chittered something that sounded kind, and crawled off of the flower into the thicket of overlapping leaves beneath.

“How is yours?”

“Hm?” Borra had been watching his rather intently for a time, and you would’ve been concerned, had you not seen the little thing kick their feet several times when his thumb brushed over their fat little belly. A little one, you figured, and were likely right. They had thinnish, white-tipped-blue petal wings and much sparser antennae – long and curved like reverse forest-horns with little, brush-like tufts on the ends. “Fine.”

Fine, shorthand for, they’re unharmed and relatively unscathed.

Your back cracked when you stood, and you fanned out your wings to help crack it again. Thumb-claw to thumb-claw, they nearly stretched as far as four of the moors’ old trees.

“Her wings were bruised, but she’ll recover.”

One of his sparse, fair brows lifted. “You can tell them apart?”

“Women’s intuition.”

His jaw flexed. The pad of his thumb ran over the little creature’s belly again, and the little thing kicked its tiny, gentle legs with a merry peal of laughter. They were insufferably cute.

He released them onto the flowers without a word, and the little thing flared and flapped their inverse-morning glory wings. You thought they might disappear into the foliage too, until you realized that, by holding still in a given place, their flared wings made them totally resemble flowers – as useful of a skill as the feathered bases of a jungle fey’s horns, blending their bright horns in with the foliage.

“Goodnight, little one.” You patted their delicate back with the pad of your index finger, and their gentle, fragile wings fluttered once more.

You did not need to watch the smattering of sprites settle on their stalks to sleep, yet you lingered for a moment longer; every night on the moors was a beautiful one, and the gentle, stirring breeze fanned strands of your dark hair over the front of your shoulders. They – and the will o’ the wisps you’d loosed the last time poachers sullied the sanctity of their homes, the willow sprites before them, and the one, unfortunate wallerbog who had once been cornered only to spend the night on your lap like a child, squishing their wet hands around your horns and trailing pond-slime through your hair while Borra pretended not to smile in your periphery – needed protection. They needed the wall of thorns, at least on along the river-border. If only you knew who created them and why they’d finally lowered. If only you didn’t suspect that someone else had once protected this land as you did.

He nudged you. The incline of his head proposed that he might go ahead to push the boats back into the river without you, if you liked; you shook your head and fell back into step with him, already considering where, along the banks, you might next land.

High up in the trees, well beyond where the moorland fey flit and pattered about, an unkindness of ravens picked at the carcasses of the men cornered by the pair of you. The guts within their open bellies had not been too badly mangled by their mounting, and were uncharacteristically whole. The eldest of the ravens plucked one of the unseeing eyes from its socket as he watched, cocked his head, and swallowed the morsel whole.

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

Tag List: @fateischosen, @madlenfireknight, @boxxyass, @mor-ranr, @blacksirenswolf, @swim-reaper, @thetempleofthemasaigoddess, @deathonyourtongue, @squishy-jellyfish Message me if you’d like to be added to the tag list for future fics! Looking for more? Click my icon; there’s a masterlist!

#Borra x Reader #pre-MoE #Your Own canon; U.W. canon take your pick #how do I tag the end for a cw - body horror? Mild gore? Ravens are scavengers?#No Beta We Die Like Men

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lostcybertronian · 3 years

Text

Ego Christmas- Day 6

Prompts from this list by @huffletrax

Prompt taken from my inbox, requested by @itsjustkyss: Damien and Celine angst, 34: “will you miss me at all?”

Prompt: Snowball

---

The air seemed almost too bright for how shockingly cold it was; the snow glittered a blinding white, forcing Damien to squeeze his eyes shut for a few moments as his driver opened the door for him.

“Thank you, Walter,” he said, when he could finally see again, blinking against the overwhelming, electric-cold sunshine. He retrieved his pocket watch from his overcoat pocket and flipped it open: a quarter to one. He had a little time. “I shouldn’t be long.”

“Very good, sir.” Walter, ever the gentleman, tipped his hat and shut the car door behind Damien before moving to get back into the driver’s seat.

The Mayor, meanwhile, started toward the paved path, kept clear by the city maintenance crew. This was his favorite park, and he came here whenever he could manage, slipping away from City Hall and deskwork and endless, droning days. It felt good to get some fresh air, no matter how cold.

Suddenly something wet and hard and cold smacked him in the back of the head. Damien yelped and spun, just as another snowball struck his chest, spraying snow everywhere.

“Got you!” Celine crowed, lifting her skirt and plodding across the snow-laden clearing, clearly unbothered by her soaking shoes.

Damien frowned and leaned his weight on his cane. “I wasn’t aware we were on speaking terms, Celine.”

The grin fell from her face, but nonetheless she continued trudging through the snow toward him. “I wanted to see you, before I leave.”

“With William.”

“With William.” Celine confirmed, with a small nod. “We’re leaving the city, and going-”

Damien held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I told you I’d keep your little secret from Mark, but that doesn’t mean I want to be a part of it. How is Mark doing, anyway?” He asked, just because he could. Because he wanted to see the color drain from her cold-flushed cheeks, and the guilt pull at her lipsticked mouth.

Celine emerged from the knee-high snow, finally, and came to stand in front of him, effectively blocking the path. “Will you miss me at all?”

“I don’t think you should be asking me that question.” Deciding, abruptly, that his walk wasn’t going to happen that day, Damien turned, and began the short trek to where his car still waited. “I assume I won’t be seeing you after this, so, goodbye, Celine.”

“Damien-” but he was already beyond reach. Anger fizzled white in his veins, white as the glittering snow. He could only imagine how Mark felt; betrayed, most likely. By his friend, by his wife.

“Time to go, Walter,” he announced, when his chauffeur got out.

“A very short walk today, sir,” Walter replied, coming around to open the door for him.

“I found my mood quickly soured,” Damien agreed, and started to get in. He was just dipping his head below the door’s rim when, smack! one more snowball splatted the back of his head.

#egochristmas2020 #yuletube #yuletube2020 #mayor damien #celine the seer #wkm #markiplier egos #writersofmark #fanfiction #lostandwandering #my writing #lost writing tag #writing prompts #angst #humor #itsjustkyss

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snowdice · 4 years

Text

Birthday Gifts (Part of the Road Trips and Everything In Between Series)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Janus & Virgil, Janus & Remy

Characters: Janus, Virgil, Remy

Summary: Janus visits his 10-year-old brother before attending his sweet 16 party.

From the GRUMPY AFFECTIONATE STARTERS prompt list. @fudgingheckdudarino prompted “Listen, I enjoy this hug and all, but can you stop?” and “Hey, stop looking at me like that– I don’t like how cute you look.” I hope you like Road Trips and Missing Persons, but even if you don’t I think you’ll still be able to enjoy this one because it has little to do with that story.

Notes: Secret Agents AU (but not even subtly mentioned), implied child abuse (emotional)

This is set in the same universe as Road Trips and Missing Persons and is a prequel. You can read what’s done of that story below.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 My Master Post

Janus knocked on the door to the small house. It took a few seconds for the door to open, revealing a man who looked like he’d likely just rolled out of bed despite it already being 9am.

“Haven’t had your coffee yet?” Janus asked. Remy grumbled something in response and moved out of the way to let him in. It almost made Janus want to smile.

“Virgil,” Remy called up the steps on his way to the kitchen, “your brother is here!”

Almost immediately there were footsteps on the stairs and the next thing Janus knew, there was a 10-year-old flying at him. Virgil crashed into his side, pining one of his arms and almost bowling Janus over as his arms came around him. “Janny!” he said. “Happy birthday!”

Janus managed a half smile. “Thanks runt.”

He got a happy smile back and another squeeze.

“You going to let go now?” Janus asked after a few more moments.

Virgil shook his head. “16 years old means 16 minutes of birthday hugs.”

“I don’t think that’ll be happening,” Janus said dryly.

“But it’s the rules!” Virgil insisted. Janus started to try to squirm out of his grip, but he was strong for a 10-year-old, and Janus didn’t want to hurt him. He ended up wrapping his entire body around Janus’s leg like a vise. Janus gave up and attempted to move into the kitchen dragging him along. He did not get far.

“Virgil, would you…” he said. “Hey, listen, I enjoy this hug and all, but can you stop?”

Remy plodded back into the room, hand around a cup of coffee. “A little stuck there Janus?” he asked, amused.

“Remove your spawn from my person,” Janus growled.

Remy thought about it for a moment. “Nah,” he replied.

“It’s the rules,” Virgil repeated.

“Ugh, you’re both horrible. At least move to my arm so I can walk you leach.” Virgil complied, hanging off Janus’s arm as they moved into the kitchen.

“Want breakfast?” Remy asked.

“Is breakfast overly sweet cereal?” Janus asked.

“What else would breakfast be?”

“I want Coco Puffs!” Virgil said.

“…I’ll have Coco Puffs too,” Janus said. Remy went about ‘cooking’ them breakfast as Virgil continued to squeeze Janus’s arm just a bit too tight.

“So, what are you doing here this morning, Janus?” Remy asked.

“Well,” he said. “Since my birthday party is this afternoon and evening,” A whole painful 10 hours. “I figured I would come and visit Virgil in the morning.” He grimaced thinking about the imminent birthday party. He was already exhausted from planning the stupid thing. Or, more accurately doing his best to pick whatever options mom wanted for the party, so he didn’t get berated.

“Ah, yeah,” Remy said knowingly as he placed the bowls of cereal in front of them. “The Sweet 16 Party. Is there going to be a horse?”

“Mom’s paying for it. Of course, there’s going to be a horse.” Janus had never liked horses. He’d been forced to ride one and not allowed to get off when he was 4 or 5 and though it had been a docile animal, it had been far too big, and he’d been afraid he’d fall. He’d had nightmares about falling off things for months.

“Speaking of,” Remy said, seeming to think. “Did you drive yourself here?”

“Just noticed?” Janus asked.

“A bitch needs coffee in the morning.”

“Bad word,” Virgil identified through a mouthful of cereal.

Remy shrugged. “Emile’s not here.”

Virgil nodded. “Fuck,” he commented seriously.

“Good boy.”

“You’re parenting strategies are awe inspiring,” Janus informed Remy.

Remy just winked at him. “Well anyway,” he said, moving to grab something from the cabinet. “The two of us got you something that will go well with the car.”

Janus blinked at the honestly horribly wrapped flat present that was laid in front of him. “Oh…” he said. “Should I open it now?”

“Go ahead,” Remy said.

Janus easily was able to tear the wrapping paper off the present and looked at it. “An atlas?” Janus asked.

“For your car,” Remy said.

Janus looked up at him dubiously. “GPS systems exist,” he pointed out.

“You should always have a physical map with you. You never know when you might need one.”

Janus rolled his eyes, but he did smile. “Thanks,” he said.

“And I decorated!” Virgil said excitedly. He grabbed the atlas and opened it so Janus could see the inside front cover. He’d drawn all sorts of squiggly lines over it in crayon. “They’re snakes!” Then he turned to the next page. “And that’s me and you! And that’s dad and Uncle Emmy! Dad didn’t let me color on the map pages, but he let me on all the unimportant parts.”

“Oh,” Janus said, touching the purple stick figure that was meant to represent Virgil. “Now it’s a much more useful present.”

Virgil beamed even as Remy glared at him.

“Mark my words, Janus.”

“Marked, Remington.” A rouge Coco Puff was shot across the table to hit Janus on the forehead.

Virgil giggled and finally released his arm. “Hey Dad,” he said excitedly. “Can Janus take me on a car ride?!”

“I don’t see why not,” Remy answered.

“Yay!”

“I’m a pretty new driver I’m not sure-” Virgil turned to look at him with a wobbly lip. “Don’t,” Janus choked. “Stop that.” Virgil placed his smaller hands on top of Janus’s over the table. “Hey,” he tried and failed to scold. “Stop looking at me like that-I don’t like how cute you look.”

“Please?” Dammit.

“Fine,” Janus relented, “but only around the neighborhood.

“Yes!” Virgil said. “I’m going to go get dressed!” He shot off towards the stairs.

Janus and Remy watched him go. “Come for a movie tomorrow night,” Remy suggested.

“Why, so I can fall asleep on your couch? I’ll be exhausted.”

“That’s exactly why,” Remy said. “I’ll even let you pick the movie.”

“Fine,” Janus agreed, “but only because I have nothing else better to do.”

Remy chuckled. “Sure kid.”

Now with a follow up:

Birthday Cuddles

#sanders sides #janus sanders #virgil sanders #remy sanders #platonic anxceit #implied/referenced child abuse #adriana writes #road trips and everything in between

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fallenfurther · 3 years

Text

A break in the clouds - Part 5

Finally gotten round to writing up and reading through the next few chapters of this one. It’s almost finished (I might actually get this off my WIP list soon!). I hope you all enjoy the next island resident’s interaction with Scott’s son.

Scott, Virgil, Gordon, Grandma

*********

Jeff

It had been an emotional rescue. Jeff had tried to help as much as possible. John, though more accurately EOS, had fed him tasks when they came up, but the feeling of helplessness had still settled within him. He had relayed information to the local authorities, reviewed visual data that required human eyes, and second checked all her communications. It had been scraps, leaving Jeff plenty of time to watch the drone footage and listen to his boys communicate to one another. They were professional, continuing on despite the harrowing sights they endured. It was an aspect of the job he wished he could take away. They weren’t always keen, but Jeff had made a counselling service available to the whole family, fully vetted and qualified to deal with their circumstances. It was always there if they needed someone to talk to and help them process the events of any rescue. He hoped at least one of them would be using it after what had occurred today.

Slipping the stylus from its place, Jeff signed off on the mission report, then sent it to the GDF and local authorities with a sigh. His head fell into his hands and he closed his eyes against the world. Taking deep breaths, he tuned into the world around him, letting the sounds take over his mind. The gentle hum of the air-conditioning unit, an electrical buzz from somewhere to his left and the soft padding of bare feet. Eyes still closed; Jeff zeroed in on the familiar sound. Only one of his sons would creep around the place barefoot and no matter how much Gordon tried, he hadn’t been this light-footed in years. It was a sound that transported Jeff back years. Before he could open his eyes, the clatter of metal hitting the wood of his desk filled the room.

“Vroom! Vroom!”

A smile crossed Jeff’s face as he raised his head, putting the stylus down in the process. A small head bobbled along his desk, just ahead of the toy plane that was being forced along the table by a small hand. There was a small pause in the plane’s taxiing.

“Vroom! Vroom!”

Jeff pushed his chair back as he stood, allowing those young blue eyes to meet his. A glance at the clock confirmed Jeff’s suspicions. A small guilty smile crossed the boy’s face as he continued to roll the plane down the makeshift runway. A few quick strides around his desk, and Jeff slipped his hands under the boy’s armpits, scooping his grandson up into his arms. There was a small grumble from the child.

“You should be asleep.”

“Fly plane.”

“It’s naptime, young man.”

“No.”

The boy shook his head vigorously, taking Jeff back to a very similar time in Kansas, when a similarly aged Scott had refused to nap. If his grandson was anything like his father, then it was not going to be easy to get the boy down again. The slight shift in time zones never helped the child either. Carrying the boy to his room, Jeff placed him on the plane covered bedspread. Immediately, his grandson went to climb down. Jeff grabbed the boy and sat in the bed with him, only to be given a pout when the plane was removed from the child’s hands.

“My plane.”

“We can play with the plane later. Now, we sleep.”

The little boy was having none of it, and started wriggling away from Jeff, who just wasn’t quick enough. A small knee landed in a sensitive area, stealing Jeff’s breath with a groan.

“Careful there, boy.”

Jeff wheezed as his grandson paused in his escape for a second to peer at the older man. Twisting to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing the mild throbbing to the back of his mind, Jeff made a grab for the boy. He caught him, but not before the plane was back in the toddler’s hands. He looked down on the child.

“You aren’t going to go to sleep, are you?”

“No.”

Jeff sighed. His grandson would be a pain later on, having not had a good nap, something Scott really didn’t need right now. The least Jeff could do was give Scott some time to rest.

“If you’re not going to sleep, why don’t we play planes quietly in here?”

At least Scott wouldn’t worry about his son’s whereabouts if he came to check on him. The lad grinned as Jeff let him wiggle out of his grip. He watched as the child pottered over to the box of toys and dug into it for another plane. Jeff had had a similar box of planes as a child, a passion his mother had a hand in, even if it was only a hobby for her. Scott had shared the interest, which he was now sharing with the next generation. Not that Jeff could blame him. With the most technologically advance machines taking off around him, it would be surprising if his grandson didn’t pick up even the smallest interest. Carefully Jeff lowered himself to the floor, finding a comfortable position against the bed. A plastic GDF flyer was brought over and placed in his hands before his grandson darted off to start circling the room. A few energetic laps later and the boy finally realised Jeff hadn’t moved. Pausing mid-flight and pointing at the flyer, the child made his demand.

“Fly Grampa. Fly.”

Jeff responded with a serious face and a nod. Carefully repositioning the plane’s engines so they pointed down, he slowly made the plane rise in a hover. This seemed to be exactly what the boy wanted as he continued his loop around the room before turning and heading straight for Jeff.

“Fire!”

The boy blew raspberries, which had Jeff biting his lip to stop from laughing. His grandson could be so damn cute. As his grandson approached, Jeff played dutifully, pretending to dodge all the bullets being fired at the flyer. He swung it this way and that until it was time to admit defeat. Jeff spiralled the flyer and crashed it into the floor.

“Bang!”

His grandson’s face lit up with glee as her flew his plane away at a slower pace than before. A yawn stretched across the child’s face and Jeff smiled. He knew it was just a matter of time now. His grandson continued, rolling the toy along a chest of draws before slowly plodding back to Jeff and falling to his knees. The boy was visibly fighting to stay awake now, the last burst of energy ebbing away. The flyer was retrieved and both planes were wafted about in a slow dogfight. Another large yawn stilled the boy’s body. His arms fell to his sides and the toys clicked as they hit the ground. Large sleepy blinks broke the boy’s gaze, and the flyer was released so he could rub his eye. Jeff opened up his arms.

“Come here, son.”

His grandson shuffled forward, and Jeff guided the boy into his lap. His grandson leant against his torso. Wrapping his arms around the boy, he took the plane from the child’s hand and held it up before him. It was an old Spitfire. Jeff spoke softly into the boy’s ear, whispering all the facts he could recall about the plane. He pointed out the guns and explained the colours and symbols. The child’s head had slumped before he had finished the explanation. Quietly placing the toy to the side, Jeff peered down at his grandson. The closed eyes and gentle rise of the chest confirmed he’d fallen asleep.

With the utmost care, Jeff lifted the boy and tucked him into his bed, slipping the blanket up and over his small body. He knelt for a minute, taking in the peaceful form on his grandson. He heart was full of love, not only for his grandson but for the sons he’d put to bed so many times, so many years ago. Brushing his fingers through the child’s hair and away from his eye, Jeff leant forward and planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead.

Jeff’s body complained as he stood, age and time in deep space taking its toll on his joints. Turning to leave, he paused at the sight of Scott leaning against the doorframe. There had been no sound of footsteps that Jeff could remember so he had no idea how long he had been observed. Scott just nodded and Jeff headed out, turning on the forgotten baby monitor so they would be alerted when the child woke. It was only after he had softly closed the door, that Scott spoke.

“Thank you, Dad.”

It was barely a whisper, but the relief in that man’s exhausted eyes was clear. Jeff placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The man was a great father. Jeff was so proud of him.

“No problem, son. I suggest you have a nap also. He’ll have a new bout of energy once he’s awake.”

Scott sighed as he ran his hand through his hair. Jeff knew how tiring parenting could be, and Scott had a demanding job on top of all that. His son had struggled to sleep before he’d become a father, so Jeff was happy to see Scott nod and head towards his own room, yawning and stretching with each step.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #jeff tracy #tracy baby #scott tracy #scott's son #naptime #not wanting to sleep #pilot in training

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